#maybe it’s the alabama in me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hcneymooners · 2 months ago

Text

⋆ i was young and sweet, and then something happened.

truck driver!sevika x female!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: you're back home after burning out your new york dreams. mississippi has been waiting for you and comes with the old and new—including the delivery driver that frequents your mother's boutique.

cw: truck driver!sevika, female!reader, age gap, older woman/younger woman, reader is in her twenties, modern!au, unresolved sexual tension, slow burn, strangers to lovers, returning to the hometown you worked to escape from, complex mother daughter relationships, non-sexual intimacy, mentions of grief and loss of a loved one, open (but very positive) ending.

notes: i hate this, just a bit. but please, please tell me what you think. send long asks, even. i love them. i love you.

It's the rat that skitters over your foot that sends you home.

You'd just climbed out of the endless well that is the New York subway, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with the man rocking back and forth right outside the stairwell. You feel a sense of shame as you refuse to look at him, a horrible aching feeling that speaks to you losing sight of your roots and where you came from.

Your most recently created playlist was blasting—aptly titled "songs that are what's wrong with me"—when you'd felt it. A heavy brush against your ankle and across the top of your foot. You looked down, almost in slow motion, and watched as the plump body of a well-fed city rat finished its travel across the top of your square-toe black flats.

You resist the urge to scream, cautious of seeming just as crazy as the man you keep refusing to look at. You hear him laugh and it makes you press your lips together until there are only two thin lines on your face. You contemplate dragging your heels out of your bag but you still have at least three blocks to go and you're tired and so sick of it all.

A billboard flashes across from you as you turn the corner: a woman's bright face with bleach-white teeth advertising a new aesthetic clinic that just opened approximately two streets away from where you live. You feel insane.

You open your phone and buy the plane ticket.

On the plane ride home, you dream of Talladega County.

You haven’t been in years. The last time was when your mother took you on a “girls’ trip” where she told you that she didn’t love your father anymore, that she was leaving him. You had started crying, begging to go home because you could feel somewhere deep in your gut that he’d be gone by the time you came home. She told you he wouldn’t, promised you.

You stared into her face, her features shadowed by the halo of the sun behind her head. She was tanned and beautiful—and everything you believed in. You’d calmed down, called him to tell him you loved him. He had said it back, his voice weary.

He was gone when you got home, somewhere out in the thickets of Alabama where you had been only moments ago.

In the dream, you stand in the fold in a tiny triangle bikini. It’s blue, but sometimes pink, and you have long black wet hair streaking all over you. Behind you, there's a field and dilapidated shacks—or maybe they’re houses only broken down by shame and time.

In front of you hovers a buck with tall antlers. He's come and found you, pushes forward until his face is against your stomach and your upper body is in between his antlers like a sun. It's only this close that you can see the other antlers trapped on top of his, dripping blood off the bone.

He's killed something. One of his own, maybe he’s gutted you. You begin to twirl in a circle as he herds you, Ethel Cain's throaty vocals invading you spiritually through your wired headphones until you settle your chin on a shotgun (when did that appear?) and look back at the buck.

But beyond him now. Someone is looking at you. Come to me. You don’t know which of you is asking, including the animal.

When you land, you text your mother about your dream. She tells you to go see her psychic, that you can drive there straight after she picks you up. You’re not here yet? You text her. She doesn’t respond. You don’t check her location. You were never one for seeking answers.

Welcome to Mississippi, the flight attendant tells you as you step out of the door. Her voice is chipper and bright, someone who clearly doesn’t see anything past the palm trees and pale Marlboro Lights. Thank you, you respond, for getting me here. You wonder if it's a little too intense to say thank you in this manner to someone who hasn’t talked to you for the entire flight.

But her eyes soften and maybe she sees something, maybe she knows that in your blood runs the waters of the Gulf Coast. Her mouth parts and out comes, welcome home.

🪽♱

Your mother is waiting outside baggage claim, leaning against her faded blue Cadillac—the one your grandmother always said would be the death of her. Her hair is different now, lighter where it used to be the same shade as yours, cut in a bob that frames her face and makes her look younger than her fifty-three years. You feel a sense of irritation at the change in color as if she’s taken something away from you. As much as she could annoy you, you loved that the resemblance between you used to be uncanny.

When she sees you, she straightens, takes one last puff of her bubblegum pink vape before tucking it into her denim shorts’ pocket, and bounces on the tips of her white sandals. You can see slight redness along her brow this close to her, and needle marks from where she’s gotten her “preventative” Botox. It’s only a matter of time before she starts suggesting you join the club.

"Look what the Gulf dragged in," she says, arms outstretched.

You let her sweep you into a hug, her perfume a perplexing mix of caramel and cinnamon. Maybe it’s the tightness of her hug, the silent admission that she missed you (because you never spoke about your feelings to one another) that causes your face to crumple and your body to shake. Your mother coos, the sound throaty from years of smoking, and rocks you back and forth. You’re blubbering about that fucking rat in New York, but she just knows you need this.

Somehow, she gets you into the car and stuffs a stick of celery into your mouth, depositing a tiny tub of ranch and breaded chili wings into your lap. The drive from Gulfport to Bay St. Louis takes you along the coast, windows down despite the July heat. Salt air whips your hair around your face as you stare out at the water. It's different here—softer somehow than the aggressive Atlantic you'd grown accustomed to. The Gulf looks like it's breathing, with gentle rises and falls that match the rhythm of your chest.

"Angels is doing well," your mother says, referring to the boutique as if it's a third person in the car. You nod to show your listening, your front teeth break apart the body of another piece of celery. "Tourist season's good this year. The snowbirds are spending money."

You nod, watching pastel-colored houses roll by, their wrought iron balconies and weathered shutters telling stories of hurricanes survived and summer loves forgotten. Spanish moss hangs from live oaks like old women's hair, swaying in the breeze off the water.

"Shit, we need to stop for gas. I knew I should’ve filled her up before leaving," your mother announces, turning into a station that looks like it hasn't changed since 1975. The sign—Silver Cove Gas & Grocery—flickers in the late afternoon sun, neon just beginning to glow against the darkening sky. "Get me a Diet Coke, would you? And whatever you want." Yeah, you think, on my card.

As you step out of the car, the humidity wraps around you like a blanket, familiar in its weight. The feeling makes you think of your childhood best friend Ella, a broad-shouldered girl who used to come up behind you and hug you with a quarter of her true strength. Last time you checked (you’re always checking) she was a professional athlete, free from this town.

The concrete beneath your feet is warm, and for a moment, you stand still, feeling the heat rise through the soles of your worn down ballet flats. It's nothing like New York pavement, which always feels cold somehow, even in summer. Maybe this is what makes you unlock your phone, find Ella’s Instagram, and send her a message. She probably won’t even see it, given she’s verified and has over two million followers.

The bell above the door chimes as you enter, and the cashier—a teenager with braces and freckles—nods in recognition. "You're Nina’s girl," she says. Not a question. It doesn’t need to be. You have her face.

You're picking up your mother's Diet Coke from the cooler, and grabbing a Cola Lacaye for yourself, when you hear it—the deep rumble of a diesel engine pulling into the lot. Through the window plastered with faded beer advertisements and fishing tournament flyers, you see it: a massive black truck, clean despite the dusty roads, commanding the space around it like it owns the whole town. Maybe it does. It’s been a long time since you were back anyway.

The driver's door opens, and a pair of heavy boots hit the ground first. Then legs in well-loved jeans, and finally, her—tall, with arms corded with muscle and dark hair pulled back in a short, practical braid. A scar runs down one side of her face, but it doesn't diminish her beauty; instead, it feels like a warning. This woman has survived things you can't imagine.

She walks steadily toward the store, and as she reaches for the door, your eyes meet through the glass. For a second, neither of you moves. Something passes between you—recognition, maybe, though you've never seen her before. Or perhaps it's just that you both seem out of place here, returned to a world that's both familiar and foreign.

The bell chimes again, and she's inside, the small space suddenly feeling smaller. She nods to the cashier—"Evening, Annie"—and heads straight for the cooler where you're still standing, Diet Coke clutched forgotten in your hand.

"Excuse me," she says, her voice lower than you expected, rougher. When you don't move immediately, one corner of her mouth quirks up. "Unless you're planning to buy all of those."

You step aside and say, “I was thinking about it.”

She smiles fully as you continue watching as she reaches for a Diet Coke of her own and a package of cream-filled cookies in a blue wrapper. As she moves past you toward the counter, you catch a whiff of diesel and something sweeter—maybe vanilla, maybe just the sea.

"You're new," she says over her shoulder.

"I'm home," you correct her, surprising yourself with how right it feels to say it.

She smiles again, and this time you smile back. You stand in line behind her, your mind following the thick lines of her back as she reaches for her wallet and counts out some bills. Soon enough, she’s finished, and you pay for your own things before slipping out the door. Your mother waves giddily from the driver’s seat and you laugh a little, slightly touched at how glad she is to see you over and over again.

“You’re Nina’s daughter?” that gravelly voice asks and you turn your head to look over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you say, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Your mom’s shop just got added to my delivery route. I see her every Thursday evening,” the woman says. “Guess I’ll be seeing you too.”

“Um, guess so,” you push out, your chest warming at the way she’s gazing down at you. She’s taller by a few inches, but the inches matter. You’re used to being the tallest around.

She eyes you for a minute longer before making her way back to her truck. You watch until she’s back in the cab, then walk quickly to the Cadillac. As you slide in, your mother presses a kiss to your temple in thanks for her Diet Coke.

“I see you’ve met Sevika,” she comments. “Strange little woman.”

“Little is not the word I would use to describe her.”

Your phone vibrates with a notification and you check it. It’s a rather sweet response to your Instagram DM. Hey, wow! This was a pleasant surprise. I’m doing great, how are you? You still look the same.

Sorry? You type back without thinking.

Lolll, don’t apologize. It’s not a bad thing. You always had a timeless face.

Maybe you aren’t forgettable. At the same time you receive the message, your mother laughs.

🪽♱

"Absolutely not," your mother says, setting down her wine glass firmly on the kitchen counter. "You're supposed to be resting, [Name]."

You tilt your head, watching the condensation gather on her glass. The kitchen is the same as you remember—blue and white tiles with little anchors, ceiling fan that clicks when it spins too fast, the refrigerator covered in magnets from places neither of you have actually been.

"I need something to do, Mom. I didn't come back to sit around and count the ceiling tiles."

"What you need is to recover. Work is what made you break down and come back in the first place."

You sigh, picking at the label on your beer bottle. "That was different. That was sixty-hour weeks with a boss who thought weekends were a suggestion." You look up at her. "I’m afraid despite my best attempts, I’ve been corporate-pilled. I will collapse without any work. Just let me take the opening shift. You know you hate mornings anyway."

She narrows her eyes, looking so much like you it's unsettling. "Only mornings?"

"Only mornings," you agree. "I'll have the place ready when you come in at noon. Or one."

Her eyes narrow at the extra hour you’ve added on, but she looks away as she considers.

"Fine," she relents. "But if I see those little crease lines between your eyebrows coming back, I'm firing you."

“Harsh,” you quip, but you squeeze her shoulder as you get up to begin washing the dishes.

Angels by the Sea sits at the corner of Harbor Drive and Magnolia Street, a converted Victorian house painted the palest shade of pink, like the inside of a seashell. The sign—written in your great-aunt’s handwriting and preserved all these years—hangs from wrought iron brackets above the porch. Two white rocking chairs flank the entrance, inviting passersby to sit and watch the Gulf waters in the distance. You think they shouldn’t sit down. People tend to get stuck here.

You unlock the front door at 8:15, earlier than necessary, but there's something about the morning light filtering through the stained glass transoms that feels sacred. Inside, the boutique is a carefully curated treasure trove: whitewashed wooden floors, antique display cases salvaged from a New Orleans department store, and clothes hanging from driftwood racks your grandfather made decades ago.

Nothing has really changed and the way the store seems to be waiting for you lances through your chest like a harpoon.

The inventory is eclectic—sundresses in gauzy fabrics, handmade jewelry from local artisans, vintage-inspired swimwear, and the salt scrubs your mother makes in her kitchen. Everything smells faintly of spice and sea salt.

You feel the urge to break down again, but you refrain. Instead, you slide off your converse and socks, let your bare feet rake in the unswept gravel from travelers’ boots as you flip the sign to "Open" and turn on the small record player behind the counter. You sort through the stack of vinyl until you find it—A dusty handmade pink vinyl, titled “Unreleased.” As the needle drops and "Dust Bowl (Demo)" fills the space, you can't help but sway, your hips finding the rhythm naturally.

Ethel’s rich voice singing about blood-stained blondes feels right for this moment—this return to something that feels like yourself. You let your arms drift above your head, spin once in the empty shop, bare feet sliding across the whitewashed floors. No one's watching, and there's a freedom in dancing without worrying about looking graceful or composed.

You twirl and twirl until you stop with a hand clutching over your stomach, dashing madly to the small employee restroom in the back to vomit into the rusted sink. You scrub it for the next twenty minutes with bleach, humming along as the record still spins. For the first time since stepping off the plane, you feel your shoulders drop.

Your outfit today—a simple white spaghetti-strap tank and low-rise jeans you found in your old closet—feels like a revelation after years of pencil skirts and blazers. You'd forgotten what it feels like to have your collarbones exposed to the air, to feel fabric that moves with you rather than constrains.

When the song ends, you're slightly breathless and barely smiling. You can't remember the last time you danced in New York—maybe at some corporate happy hour where movement was performative rather than joyful. You try not to think about it for too long, lest the sadness finds you again.

The morning passes quietly—a few early tourists browse without buying, a regular picks up a special order perfume, and you rearrange a display of sea glass earrings, picking a few out in between to try on. It's mindless work, but it's yours, and there's something satisfying about the way your hands remember how to tie the perfect bow on the pale green gift boxes.

The bell above the door chimes just before eleven, and you look up from the sales ledger you've been updating.

"We don't usually get deliveries until—" The words die in your throat when you see who's standing in the doorway.

Sevika fills the frame, a clipboard in one hand and a small package tucked under her arm. Today, her hair is loose around her shoulders, dark waves that catch the sunlight streaming through the windows. She's wearing a faded black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing more of those arms that seem designed for gripping steering wheels and lifting heavy things. You notice one of them is a prosthetic, and your gaze caresses it, tracking the graffiti-like doodles alongside it. It’s as if she’s allowed a child to paint all over it.

"Usually Thursdays, I know," she says, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Had to reroute today. Accident on the causeway." Her eyes move from your face to take in the rest of you, lingering for a moment on the strip of skin visible between your tank top and jeans. "Nina usually signs for these."

"Mom’s still in bed," you reply, moving toward the counter. "I'm covering mornings while I’m around."

She nods, crossing to you and laying the clipboard down. "Signature on the bottom line." As you sign, she glances around the shop. "Nice place. Never been inside before."

"Seriously? You deliver here every week."

"To the loading dock in back," she clarifies. "Never through the front door."

You hand back the clipboard and accept the package, your fingers brushing hers in the exchange. Her skin is warm and slightly rough.

“God, that’s awful. When I was younger, we used to give the drivers something sweet for the road, sometimes savory.”

“Yeah, well,” Sevika sighs. “People got creepier, meaner. Women got wiser. I’m fine without a treat if that means my customers feel safer.”

Your eyes soften minutely at that, and she notes the way you look down, your lashes brushing your cheek gently as if not to spook yourself.

"You settling back in okay?" she asks, and there's something in her tone that suggests genuine interest rather than small talk.

"It's... an adjustment," you admit. "But this helps." You gesture around the boutique. "It's quiet here."

"Too quiet for some," she says. "That why you left in the first place?"

The question is direct, almost intrusive, but she asks it without judgment. Just curiosity.

"Partly," you say, surprised at your own honesty. "I wanted to see what else was out there. Had dreams for a big life."

"And did you? See what else was out there?"

You think about the rat, the subway, the billboard with the too-white teeth. "I saw enough. Then life got…too big."

She nods as if this makes perfect sense to her. "Well." She taps her clipboard against her thigh. "Guess I'll be seeing you mornings now instead of your mother."

"Guess so."

She turns to leave but pauses at the door. "You know, there’s nothing wrong with trying something and it no longer being what you want."

"I wish someone told me that before now," you say quietly.

"I’m saying it now." Her eyes flick down to your outfit and back up. "Have a good day…"

“[Name],” you supply.

“[Name],” she repeats. “You seem like a sweet girl. Those big places? They tend to lure you in, then swallow you up. From the looks of it, you gave it all you got. And in some ways, you won the fight. You made it back home.”

Before you can respond, she's gone, the bell announcing her departure as clearly as it did her arrival. Through the window, you watch her walk back to her truck, the confident stride of someone who knows exactly who she is and where she's going. Maybe she could keep you on the path.

You look down at yourself—at the simple clothes that feel more like you than anything you've worn in years—and breathe in. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you didn’t fail. Maybe this was the true mission.

Or maybe, you think as you watch Sevika's truck pull away, there was no mission. Only the decisions you made.

🪽♱

It continues the same way for a while.

You see her in the mornings, and when you do, you talk more. Spend less time inside of yourself. The days bleed into one another like watercolors on damp paper—pink sunrises giving way to white-hot afternoons, then purple dusks that settle over the Gulf like a bruise. Through it all, Sevika arrives with the steadiness of tides, her presence an anchor in your drifting days.You feel more alive, less like a child with their face toward the wall.

You start collecting moments like shards of glass: the way morning light catches in the joints of her prosthetic. How she smells like motor oil and salt air and something sweeter underneath. The low rumble of her laugh when you say something unexpectedly sharp. You hoard them, these fragments, turning them over in your mind at night while ceiling fans spin shadows across your childhood bedroom. Sometimes you start crying, not understanding why its so difficult to allow yourself to want this.

There's something almost holy in the ritual of her arrival—the bell above the door, the heavy tread of her boots, the weight of her gaze finding yours across the shop. You're twenty-something and already tired of a world that promised more than it gave. She's forty-something—maybe you should ask—and somehow both weathered and unwavering, like the cypress trees that survive hurricane after hurricane.

You learn she lives out past the old lighthouse in a boathouse painted midnight blue. You ask her if she’s lonely. She takes a long sip of her Diet Coke, looks at you for a second too long, then says no. That the prosthetic came after an accident offshore—something with machinery and poor timing and the sort of pain that changes a person forever. That she keeps a three-legged cat named Commander who sleeps on her chest at night. That she has nightmares about drowning despite knowing how to swim since before she could walk.

You learn about her makeshift family, about Jinx and the way she and Sevika sort of fell together after some job they’d done in the military had blown out. We were mercenaries, she lets slip and you raise a brow in surprise. Are you supposed to be telling me that? You ask. Nope, she says, popping the ‘p’. You laugh.

She talks about Isha, the little runaway they found rooting around in their shed. Isha, who they adopted. Isha who got sick. Isha’s who’s gone.

“Jinx didn’t take it well,” Sevika says and you hold her hand. “She left, went somewhere. Called me to tell me she couldn’t come back. Told me—told me loved me. Took on some job and…”

You know what she’s about to say next, and you brace for it. You still flinch.

“Blew up. That’s what they said. I think she gave herself a way out.”

You tear up but manage to tell her about your dad. She strokes your back as you cry about the way he left, about how he’s well and alive and newly married. How the two of you are Facebook friends but never speak.

She learns about your failed escape, about the way New York chewed you up and left you hollow. About how sometimes you wake with your heart racing, convinced you're back in that cramped apartment with the subway rattling your windows. About the recurring dream of the buck with blood-soaked antlers, how he's started appearing with Sevika's face, her dark eyes watching you from between points of bone.

It's a Thursday in late July when something breaks open between you. The air hangs heavy with coming rain, pressing against windows like something desperate to get in. You've spent the day rearranging displays, moving in slow circles to music that feels like church—Ethel's voice coating the empty shop in honey and ash.

The day has stretched too long, customers sparse in the gathering storm. You're supposed to be closing, but instead you're dancing alone, barefoot on whitewashed floors, arms raised toward the ceiling fan as if in supplication. "American Teenager" fills the space, and you're spinning with your eyes closed when the bell chimes.

You stop mid-turn, eyes flying open to find Sevika standing in the doorway, rain-damp and beautiful in her severity. Water clings to her eyelashes and the sharp line of her jaw. Behind her, lightning splits the sky, illuminating her silhouette in electric blue.

"You're late," you say, breathless from dancing or from the sight of her, you can't tell which.

"Roads are flooding." Her eyes track over you—bare feet, tiny jean shorts, hair wild from spinning. Something in her gaze feels like hands on skin. "Should've been closed an hour ago."

"I got lost in it," you admit, gesturing vaguely to the record player, to yourself, to the empty shop that feels suddenly too full with her in it.

She crosses to you, boots leaving wet prints on the floor. Places a small package on the counter, but doesn't pull away. "You’re always lost in it, honey" she says, voice lower than usual.

"Yeah. I think it’s my way of staying alive." The words slip out, heavy with meaning you didn't intend but don't regret. Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn’t respond.

Thunder crashes outside, close enough to rattle the windows. The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely. In the sudden darkness, all you can hear is the rain, the needle skipping on the record, and Sevika's breathing, closer than you expected.

"You can say," you whisper, the words a prayer in the dark. "The streets will be underwater."

Her silence stretches long enough that you think she'll refuse. Then her hand finds yours in the darkness, flesh against flesh, warm and rough with calluses. Foolishly, you think of asking her to go swimming.

"I'll stay," she says, and the words feel like a covenant.

You find candles in the storage room, arrange them in a circle on the floor. In their glow, Sevika looks carved from shadow and stone, all sharp angles and dark depth. You bring out the emergency bottle of bourbon your mother keeps behind the counter, two little shot glasses because there are no proper glasses. Your dad got them from when he’d served back in Vietnam.

"To all the light going out," you toast, and she echoes it, eyes never leaving yours as you both drink.

The bourbon burns sweet down your throat. Outside, the world drowns, but in here, you're closer to floating.

"Tell me," she says after a while, voice rough with liquor and something else, "what are you running from? Really?"

You stare into your cup, watching amber liquid catch candlelight. "I’m not sure. I guess mainly the feeling that I've already used up all my chances," you admit. "That I'm in my twenties and already failed at the only thing I tried to be."

"And what's that?"

"Someone who matters. Someone who left a mark." You look up at her, finding her closer than before, drawn into your orbit through some gravity you don't understand. "I thought New York would make me real. Instead, it made me into a ghost. Everyone could see right through me."

She reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, tucking hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Her prosthetic catches the candlelight, metal warmed to gold.

"I think a lot of New York is faking it. You’re real, and it’s hard to recognize the disingenuous when you only ever are real," she says, and the words feel like truth.

You feel something fall away inside of you, and you put down your glass before leaning forward. When her lips find yours, it's like breaking the surface after too long underneath a lake. You gasp against her mouth, hands reaching to hold yourself in the solid reality of her—fingers digging into her shoulders, sliding into her rain-damp hair.

She kisses like she does everything else: with absolute certainty, with a focus that makes the world still. Her prosthetic arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you're nearly in her lap, the heat of her body burning through your thin tee.

"I've been watching you," she confesses against your throat, words pressed into skin like secrets. "Since that first day."

“Me too,” you murmur. “I watched you get in your car.”

It’s an intimate confession, and the candles gutter around you, wax pooling on the floor like offerings. Outside, the storm rages, but it's nothing compared to what’s been building inside of you. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, so you shift until you lie beside her on the floor, your head on her chest, listening to the steady drum of her heart.

"Are you ever going to stop driving?" you ask, voice small in the vastness of night.

Her fingers trace constellations on your bare shoulder, connecting beauty marks like stops on a roadmap. “I don’t know if I could.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of her—rain and metal and skin. “Would you take me with you?”

She says nothing, and then,

“I’m not sure, baby. Will you ever be happy right where you are?”

🪽♱

Eventually, your mother asks you about her. Well, she more so asks you what’s wrong.

You weren’t aware something was wrong with you, and tell her as much. She gives you a look as she sucks a cloud of apple from her pen.

"I'm not stupid," she says, exhaling sweet vapor that curls around her face like morning mist over the bayou. "You've been floating around this house like someone cut your anchor. One minute you're singing in the shower, the next you're staring at the wall like it's showing you visions."

“Maybe they are.” She lets out a dry laugh, and you was more time picking at a loose thread on the couch—the same floral pattern that's been there since you were fifteen, though faded now where the sun hits it through the blinds. "It's nothing."

"It's that Sevika lady." Not a question. Your mother has always seen through you like water, clear enough to count the stones at the bottom.

"I don't know what we are," you admit finally, the words tumbling out like shells from a broken net. "I don’t know what I’m doing. I always know what I’m doing, Mama.”

Your mother shifts and brings you to lay your head against her chest. You close your eyes and sink inside of her skin to the best of your ability.

“She's rooted here but always moving. I came back home because I couldn't survive out there, but I don't know if I can stay forever either."

Your mother sets her vape down, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you had night terrors. "Baby, there's a difference between running away and moving forward. One's about fear, the other's about growth."

The ceiling fan clicks above you, marking seconds with metallic persistence. Outside, cicadas scream their summer chorus.

"When your daddy left," she continues, eyes fixed on something beyond the window, something maybe years away, "I thought I'd never breathe right again. But then I realized I'd been holding my breath our whole goddamn marriage."

Her accent slurs around the admission, and you think about Sevika's truck disappearing down lightly flooded roads, about her callused hands on your skin in candlelight. About her question: Will you ever be happy right where you are?—that's been haunting you like a malevolent spirit.

"I think I could be happy with her," you whisper, more to yourself than to your mother. "Maybe even without her. But I don't know if it's fair to either of us that I’m unsure."

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. Sevika's name appears—no contact photo, just her name in plain text. Delivery tonight. Meet me at Silver after your shift?

Your mother watches your face change as you read it, catches the slight upturn of your lips you can't control. "Go," she says with a sigh that's half exasperation, half fondness. "Figure it out. But remember, staying isn't the same as giving up."

You stand, watching the smoke haze around her face as she blinks up at you. It forms a murky halo around her head, so you bend and kiss her cheek. You stay there for a minute, tilting your head so that your cheeks press together and share their warmth. This close, you swear you can hear her pulse. You hope she never dies.

“I love you, Mama,” you whisper, like its some great secret. In a way it is.

She says nothing, only kisses your temple and cradles your head. You know what she’s thinking.

🪽♱

Silver Cove glows neon against the twilight sky when you pull in, your mother's Cadillac purring beneath you. The same teenager mans the register, barely looking up from her phone as the bell announces your arrival. You still tell her hello and call her by name to let her know that you see her. You grab a Diet Coke from the cooler and add a package of the cream-filled cookies you've seen Sevika buy before and a Mountain Dew.

When you step outside, her truck is there, massive and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She leans against the hood, arms crossed, waiting. In the harsh overhead light, the scar on her face looks deeper, the lines around her eyes more pronounced. Sometimes you forget she carries a whole life before you in her bones—years of things you'll never touch or understand.

"Thought maybe you wouldn't come," she says as you approach, voice graveled with something that might be hope.

You hand her a Diet Coke, fingers brushing hers in the exchange. "Why would you think that?”

She smiles for some reason. You continue.

“I've been thinking about what you asked me. During the storm."

She takes a long sip, eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. "And?"

"I don't know if I'll ever be completely happy anywhere," you admit. "New York was crushing me, but sometimes I still wake up missing the noise. The possibility. I don’t think this could be my life forever. It couldn’t sustain me."

The night air wraps around you both, thick with moisture and the scent of gasoline. A moth batters itself against the nearest light, desperate for something that could destroy it.

"I'm not asking you to stay forever, honey," Sevika says finally. "Just asking if you can be present while you're here."

You step closer, until you can see the flex of muscle in her jaw, the pulse at her throat. "What if here doesn't have to mean one place? What if it just means wherever we both are?"

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. She sets her drink on the hood of the truck and reaches for you, prosthetic arm cool against your skin as she draws you between her legs.

"I have routes that go to Mobile, to New Orleans. Sometimes farther," she says, her breath warm against your temple. "Doesn't mean I don't come back."

"I could go with you sometimes," you suggest, fingers tracing the tattoos that wind up her flesh arm. "See places without having to leave for good. Or you could find me halfway. Like a long-term scavenger hunt."

She laughs, the sound vibrating through your shared space. "Never thought about it like that. Being alone for so long…staying or going were the only options I saw."

“Me too,” you tell her.

Above you, stars punch through the darkening sky, more visible here than they ever were in New York. You think about constellations—how stars can be millions of miles apart but still form a picture when viewed from the right angle. You think about how scientists have heard black holes sing. Sometimes, your heart feels like a black hole. Sometimes, you sing.

"I'm scared," you confess, forehead pressed to her collarbone. "Of getting it wrong again."

Her hand—her real one—tangles in your hair, holds the back of your head like something sacred. "Getting what wrong?"

"Life. Love. Whatever this is. My daddy was a carpenter. I don’t do well without a plan, a blueprint."

Sevika tilts your face up with gentle pressure, studies you with eyes that have seen oceans rise and machinery fall. "There's no wrong way to build a life that lets you breathe, baby."

When she kisses you this time, it feels different from the thunder-charged intensity of the boutique floor. It feels like an option, a detour, rather than an escape. Like coming home to a place you're still building.

"So what now?" you ask against her lips, tasting hints of her soda and what feels like mint.

"Now…we could get in my truck and drive somewhere. It could be down the coast, could be to my place. Could be just around the block until we figure out the next step." Her prosthetic arm traces your spine, sending shivers despite the summer heat. "I'm not promising forever. Just promising to keep showing up as long as you want me to."

You think about what your mother said—about staying versus giving up. About the difference between running away and moving forward. About how sometimes growth means finding new ways to be rooted.

"I can work with that," you say, and it feels like the truest thing you've said since coming home. “But I don’t want to leave my mom just yet. We need each other right now.”

Sevika lifts you easily, sets you in the passenger seat of her truck with a gentleness that belies her strength. As she rounds the hood to the driver's side, you watch her move through the gauzy light of Silver Cove—solid and certain and somehow yours, at least for now.

The engine rumbles to life beneath you, vibrating up through your bones like a second pulse. Through the windshield, the Gulf Coast stretches dark and infinite, full of places you might go, places you might return to.

"Ready?" Sevika asks, hand on the gearshift, waiting for your answer before putting the truck in drive.

You reach across the console, lace your fingers through hers—flesh against flesh, blood against blood.

"Yeah," you say, and as the truck pulls away from Silver Cove, you feel something inside you flatline—not with the finality of death, but with the quiet understanding of choice. “Take me home, please.”

⚚ wife tag: @s-4pphics

#mine ; 🐎.#arcane.#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #sevika x female reader #female!reader #fem!reader #arcane x female reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane x reader #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #arcane fanfic #sevika fanfic #sevika x oc

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wonderjanga · 4 months ago

Text

Stuck

Billy has been Captain Marvel since the middle of April. It’s the beginning of July. And that’s not how long Billy’s been Marvel as a whole, no, he’s been a hero for nearly two years. That’s currently how long Billy’s been in his Marvel form.

This all happened because of a, quite frankly stupid mistake. It wasn’t even a magical mistake, just an ignorant and naive one.

Billy: *walking past an alley and hears the sound of someone hurt*

His first mistake was even stopping because of that voice.

Billy: *hesitantly walks into the alley* “Hello? Is someone hurt-”

Thief: *stabs him and pushes him over before realizing he just stabbed a little kid* “Holy shit! A kid!?” *sounds horrified*

The thief then fled the scene, not even bothering to try and actually steal when he realized what he had just done. When Billy finally broke away from the fuzziness of his mind and came to it, he was laying face up on the ground and feeling a sharp pain blossom from his side. His hand moved and he could feel some blood seep past his fingers. Uh oh.

So, on the verge of death and partially delirious from the worsening blood loss, he said his magic word and was lightninged into Captain Marvel. Even as the Captain, he continued laying on the ground. The reason being that he was replaying what happened in his mind and trying to ignore the leftover blood that had been left on the alley floor. It was definitely seeping into his cape, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to get up. Why he was too busy thinking about how absolutely fucked he was over the all the concerned yelling from the DTC.

Marvel: ‘Oh my Gods. I’m going die.’

Mercury: “BILLY, WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU EVER GO IN A CREEPY ALLEY???”

Solomon: “He thought someone was in trouble, Mercury. Calm down.” *actually sounds the slightest bit panicked*

Zeus: “Calm down?! Solomon, the boy got STABBED!”

Hercules: “Solomon, what do we do? Is the Batson boy going to die?”

Solomon: “No. Not if he stays in his godly form at least.”

Achilles: “You hear that, Batson? Don’t you dare utter that word until we find a way to fix this!” *if Billy could see him, he would be wagging his finger*

So yeah. Thats why he’s been Marvel for a little over month and a half. See, it turns out that he can’t really do anything. His body was in stasis, completely frozen in time. That meant the wound wouldn’t heal or disappear like he prayed it would. No, it would just be there until he maybe switches back and dies from blood loss, which is something he’d rather not do. You can see his dilemma.

So what did he do to combat the impending feeling of dread that he’ll never get to be Billy again? He threw himself into hero work because to be quite frank, he needed a distraction. And that’s how you could see Captain Marvel in fucking Oregon, then South Dakota, and then Alabama helping whoever. He literally expanded his patrol to cover the entire country aside from cities that were already protected by heroes. After about two of doing this, of course, this caught the attention of others, but the last person he expected was Amanda Waller. She came to him alone after he stopped a car crash in Washington.

Amanda: “Captain Marvel.”

Marvel: *looks over* “Aren’t you Ms. Waller? Is there a problem, ma’am?”

Amanda: “Yes. You’ve been seen going around the entire country. I thought you supers only stuck to your cities.”

Marvel: “I… Well, most of us do. I just have a lot of free time on my hands lately. Do you need me to back off?” *really doesn’t want her to want him to back off because running around the country has actually been a really good distraction*

Amanda: “No. Not for now. Tell me, what do you mean by free time?”

Marvel: “Uh…” *confused as to why she cares* “I guess you could say I switched to heroing full time.”

Amanda: “Interesting.” *stares at him intensely*

Marvel: *starts to get nervous cause her stare reminds him of Batman a little* “Y’know, Miss Waller, Supes tells me your bad news all the time. Something about you hating us?”

Amanda: “He’s right. I don’t respect your kind and the slightest.”

Marvel: “My kind?”

Amanda: “Superheroes. You’re a threat to national security but you can also be useful if you’re on the government’s side.”

Marvel: Is this you proposing that I join up with you guys again?

Amanda: “Unfortunately, yes. Before the 60s, superheroes used to practically work for the government. So, I have a proposal for you.”

She wanted him to do some contractual jobs for the government. Which was no biggie. He remembers doing a few with the other Fawcett heroes and even some with the JSA.

Marvel: ‘Do you think we can trust her, Solomon?’

Solomon: “Just barely. I don’t believe she’ll stab you in the back, not yet anyways. I assume you’ll be working with that so called ‘Suicide Squad’ so she’ll likely want someone to keep them in line. That and aside from the shark man, they probably want another heavy hitter.”

And with that, Marvel shrugged and said “sure, why not?” It was more work for him to busy himself with anyways. Now, he won’t admit it to any of coworkers, but those Suicide Squad guys are actually pretty fun if you ignore that half of them are psychopaths and murderers. Captain Boomerang especially. The man was really funny when he cursed out people. There was also Harley Quinn, or Harley as she asked him to call her, who was also pretty funny too. Also, there was a lot of killing that occurred on these missions. Like, a lot.

Harley: “Geez, Cheese! I didn’t think I’d ever see a super so blood lusted before!”

Marvel: “Ah… my bad. It’s been a long while since I’ve been allowed to do something like this without having to worry about Mr. Batman Sir kicking me out the league for it.”

Captain Boomerang: “Huh…? Mate, are you saying you’ve killed people before?”

Marvel: “Yes?” *honestly surprised they didn’t know* “Back in the olden days when your parents were maybe kids, heroes were allowed to kill. That included me. Though I only stuck to murderers and rapists and all the junk. *wipes a bloody hand on Deadshot’s back*

Deadshot: “Wha- don’t wipe your fucking hand on me!”

Marvel: *stares for like three seconds before wiping his hand on him again*

Deadshot: *takes out his gun as if that’ll do anything* “I just said stop that.”

Though, his contracts for the missions ended after about a month and he said bye to them about a month later.

After his relatively short time with them, he went back to basically patrolling the country again. Which, although it wasn’t mentioned before, made his popularity as a sensational hero increase because this man wasn’t just protecting his city, he was protecting his country.

Now, left to his own devices once again, Billy let his mind wander as he was rescuing people from a burning building in California.

He thought about Fawcett. About his job at Whiz. Gosh, he was probably- no, definitely fired due to the month and a half of absence. (He wasn’t. Mr. Morris and the staff were all worried sick about what happened to him.) There was also Freddy. He’d only see the boy every now and then when he looked down to the crowds in the city. He wondered if he was upset. He’d hoped not. At this moment, Billy really really wished he had told Freddy about him being Captain Marvel. That way he wouldn’t feel so alone.

Oh, but you can’t forget the Justice League. Don’t think any of this behavior has gone unnoticed. They have been thinking about ways to bring this up to Marvel for a while. The team finally hit its breaking point when Batman shared that Marvel had been seen talking with Amanda Waller, and working with the Suicide Squad. How they found out? On one of the missions, the Squad had gotten caught and taken into a secret organization’s base. (They weren’t actually. They were mostly pretending so they could just get inside.) This was an organization Batman had been monitoring for a while. As a result, the man had obviously hacked the system and made sure to get updates on anything new. Imagine his surprise when he sees the pictures of each Squad member, including Marvel, all rocking the organization’s prison uniforms. So yeah, not Billy’s best moment for Bruce to catch him in.

Supes: “I just don’t understand! Why would you work with them?! They’re villains!”

Marvel: “I’m sorry! I just needed something to do. They’re really not that bad once you get to know them.”

Supes: “Not that- NOT THAT BAD?!”

Marvel got yelled at for like 20 minutes and only after making numerous promises about, never working with them again, did they finally let up.

Another month later, and that brings us to the present. It’s still the beginning of July. Billy didn’t know how much longer he could take this. He was growing restless because he might have to be Marvel forever. His villains were growing restless due to the fact that he kept leaving Fawcett and was barely around anymore. And unbeknownst to him, Freddy and Mr. Morris were already restless looking everywhere for him.

Thankfully, the Wizard finally came up with a solution that might actually work. It involved the Rock and a whole bunch of complicated magic. Billy wasn’t willing to explain. Anyways, the first thing Billy did when he finally was allowed to be Billy again, was go find Freddy.

Freddy: *walking down the sidewalk, keeping an ear and an eye out for any news of Billy*

Billy: *looking around for Freddy and spots him from behind* “Freddy…?”

Freddy: *pauses and whips around* “Billy!?”

Billy and Freddy: *stare at each other for a bit*

Billy didn’t even get to register what was going on before Freddy rushed over as fast as he could. The other boy dropped his crutch in favor of crumpling against his friend in a tight hug. They ended up sobbing together on a bench after that.

#billy batson #shazam #dc captain marvel #captain marvel dc #fawcett city #fawcett #fawcett comics #freddy freeman

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cleolinda · 5 months ago

Text

Reporting from Birmingham

HOLY SHIT THE LINE

I’m in a blue oasis so this will probably not hold true for the rest of the state, but holy shit. This line wound through a hall in the library, around a big outflow room, and doubled back into the hall again. My mom said that when she drove past early this morning, the line was ALSO down the block. Later, she saw three buses from a senior living facility pull in on her way to our house. And then she and I went at lunchtime.

People were there to VOTE. I saw—well, on second thought, I’m gonna cut out some people-watching detail here, but I saw a lot of things that struck me about ages, health conditions, personal responsibilities. A number of people had clearly gone to a lot of effort to be there. Some of the voters looked young enough that this might have been their first chance to vote. Somewhere behind me, I heard a man say something in part like “…what a turnout like this…,” and the woman who must have been with him reply, “Well I think we know what it means.”

In other words, a big turnout for Kamala Harris. I’m sure there were Trump voters in that line, but this is, on the whole, not a Trump town. We always go blue. I haven’t seen many yard signs in my neighborhood at all, but I’ve only seen Harris/Walz. My mom has seen exactly one Trump sign this year. (This is why I say my observations will not hold for all of Alabama.) So this is what I expected, but at the same time, THE LINE. I know I’ve stood in line out on the street before, but I do not recall the line ever winding around and doubling back like that. The observation that women over 50 who remember what shit was like before Roe v. Wade are turning out to vote with a vengeance—I think I was seeing that as well, yeah. There were some seniors on a mission in that library.

The thing is that a lot of people are pissed off for a lot of different reasons this election, and then on top of that, there’s a lot of excitement. It’s like the thrill of 2008 plus the urgency of 2020. And everyone in that line still knew that Alabama’s nine electoral votes will go red anyway. Sure, we have downballot races—I just chose the “straight party voting” option, you make one mark and that’s all you have to do, plus one (1) Walker County measure we were voting on—but we all knew that we couldn’t do much to help in this big generational event of a presidential election. Run up the popular vote a little, maybe. But we were all still there by the hundreds on people’s lunch hours, not missing out on this.

Imagine what the enthusiasm’s like in states where it’ll make a difference.

#us elections #us politics #my mom was shocked by all of this #and I was like nah I’ve been telling you #yes it’s gonna be wild #yes here #she now wants to watch election tv coverage and see what it’s like everywhere

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gpcwsl · 26 days ago

Text

Leah Williamson x Reader

Hey, rockstar!

WC: 4.2k+

MasterList

Warnings: kissing, teasing, mentions of death (brief, kinda), very long.

Song: I found you - Alabama Shakes

It was a crisp January morning in London, the air sharp with winter’s bite. The Arsenal Women’s squad had returned from the break, with the transfer window officially closed. Among their newest additions was Y/N Y/L/N, a 25-year-old Australian signing that had come with high expectations.

You were still settling in, getting used to the cold weather and the rhythm of a new club. Wanting to make a good impression, you had arrived early for training, hoping for some quiet before the rest of the squad trickled in.

Dressed comfortably in an oversized black hoodie with the Arsenal crest embroidered on the chest, baggy grey sweatpants, and a pair of well-worn black Converse, you looked effortlessly relaxed. A silver chain peeked out from under your hoodie, glinting in the soft lounge lighting. Your dark brown wavy hair was slightly messy, curling at the ends as it framed your hazel-brown eyes. You had a ring or two on your fingers, one of them spinning absentmindedly as you settled onto one of the couches.

Placing your foot on the coffee table in front of you, you propped your guitar up on your thigh. It was an old acoustic—scratched and well-loved. Letting out a breath, your fingers skimmed over the strings before you began strumming the opening chords of a song.

��Can you see me? ‘Cause I’m right here,”

“Can you listen? ‘Cause I’ve been tryin’ to make you notice,”

“What it would mean to me,”

“To feel like somebody…,”

Your voice was smooth, rich yet soft, carrying through the empty lounge. You weren’t just playing—you were lost in it, each note sinking into your chest like second nature.

What you didn’t realize was that you weren’t alone.

Leah Williamson had arrived early too. She’d come through the doors expecting silence, maybe a quick coffee before training. What she didn’t expect was the warm, mellow voice filling the space. Stopping in her tracks, Leah’s eyes locked onto the figure on the couch.

You, completely unaware of your audience, were lost in the music, your fingers dancing effortlessly along the frets. Leah leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, letting herself listen. There was something about the way you sang—like you meant every word. It was different from the usual dressing room chaos, different from hearing someone sing along to the radio. It was raw. Real.

And then there was you yourself. The hoodie slightly oversized on your frame, the way you absentmindedly bit your bottom lip between verses, the way your fingers plucked the strings with a confidence that told Leah this wasn’t a hobby—it was a part of you.

Leah found herself smirking slightly. Talented and attractive. Interesting.

As you sang the last words, letting the final chord ring out, you finally glanced up—only to see Leah standing there, watching you.

Your heart stuttered. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, sitting up straighter.

Leah chuckled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You—how long were you standing there?” you asked, shifting awkwardly.

Leah pushed off the doorframe, stepping further into the room. “Long enough.”

You felt your face heat up. You’d expected to come in, play a little, and go unnoticed. But here was Leah Williamson—England captain, Arsenal legend—watching you with an amused expression.

“You’re good,” Leah said casually, nodding towards the guitar. “Didn’t take you for a musician.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool despite the way your heart was still racing. “Just something I do on the side.”

Leah smirked. “Well, you might want to be careful playing like that around here. Some of us tend to arrive early too.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head. “Noted.”

Leah gave you a wink before walking past, leaving you sitting there, gripping your guitar a little tighter.

You hadn’t even been at the club a week, and somehow, you’d already caught Leah Williamson’s attention.

Training was in full swing. The crisp January air did little to cool the intensity of the session as the team moved through drills, preparing for their next match. You had settled in well so far, blending into the squad, but there was still the unspoken pressure of proving yourself. New signings always had something to prove.

Now, you were lined up for set-piece drills, standing just outside the box, waiting for the ball to be whipped in. You steadied your breath, focusing on the movement in front of you, watching as the ball was sent into the air. You took a step forward, preparing to time your jump—

And then a hand landed lightly on your waist.

You stiffened for a second as the warmth pressed against you, and then you felt the slight pull from behind. A voice, low and teasing, brushed against your ear.

“Let’s see how good you are at this… better than singing, yeah?”

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening into fists at your sides as you turned slightly, catching Leah Williamson’s smirking face beside you. She was standing close—too close. The scent of her lingering cologne mixed with the fresh air, and the way her fingers ghosted over your waist sent an involuntary shiver up your spine.

Before you could even react, she leaned in just a little more, voice softer this time.

“You still look pretty playing on the field… just like behind a guitar.”

Your focus wavered. Just for a second. The ball was coming in, but for a brief moment, all you could think about was the way Leah’s breath tickled your skin, the way her presence wrapped around you so effortlessly.

Then, as quickly as it happened, you snapped out of it.

Shoving her lightly off you, you pushed forward, planting your feet and timing your jump perfectly. Your head met the ball cleanly, sending it straight into the top corner of the net. The sound of it hitting the back of the goal was satisfying, and when you landed, you heard the sharp whistle of approval.

“Good job, Y/N!”

You turned to see Rénne Slegers, Arsenal’s manager, watching you with a satisfied smile. Her arms were crossed, her expression pleased—not just because you won the header, but because you hadn’t let yourself get distracted.

As you jogged back to your position, you caught Leah watching you, that familiar smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. But this time, there was something else there. Something… proud.

“Not bad,” Leah said, nodding slightly.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past her with a small smirk of your own. “Told you I wasn’t just a musician.”

Leah chuckled, jogging after you. “Guess I’ll have to keep testing that, then.”

Something told you that wouldn’t be the last time she tried to distract you.

Training had ended, and the sun was beginning to dip behind the training ground buildings, casting long shadows across the fields. You had worked hard, and despite Leah’s teasing distractions, you had proven yourself. The praise from Rénne Slegers still echoed in your head as you made your way through the corridors, the adrenaline of the session finally starting to wear off.

You walked into the lounge room, expecting the usual post-training silence, maybe a chance to grab your things and unwind for a moment.

But as soon as you opened the door, a familiar sound filled the air.

Strumming.

Your guitar.

Your eyes immediately landed on the figure sitting casually on the couch, legs stretched out, fingers effortlessly plucking at the strings of your old acoustic. Leah Williamson.

She looked up at you, that damn smirk already in place. “Oh, hey, rockstar.”

Your jaw clenched. “Leah.”

Her fingers stilled slightly, but she didn’t stop completely. Instead, she let out a playful hum before strumming again. “Gotta say, she’s got a nice sound. No wonder you sounded good earlier.”

You marched forward, irritation bubbling under your skin. “Get off my guitar.”

Leah grinned but didn’t move. Instead, she strummed again, this time actually singing along. And to your dismay… she was good. Really good.

“Can you see me? ‘Cause I’m right here…”

Your eyes widened slightly. Was she seriously singing your song from earlier? Mocking you?

You lunged forward, but Leah was quick. She jumped to her feet, still holding the guitar, stepping back with a laugh. “Relax, Y/N, I’m just borrowing it.”

“Give it back,” you demanded, stepping closer.

Leah grinned, taking another step away, still strumming. “You chase everyone who touches your stuff, or just me?”

“Leah—”

She laughed, trying to step around the coffee table, but you were faster. You grabbed her by the hoodie, yanking her back toward the couch. Leah stumbled, losing balance as you pushed her down onto the cushions. Before she could move again, you snatched the guitar from her grip.

You quickly checked it over, your fingers running along the wood, making sure nothing was scratched, nothing was broken. You turned it over in your hands, checking every part.

Leah sat up, watching you with a curious expression. “Y/N, I didn’t do anything to it.”

You ignored her, running your fingers along the fretboard, double-checking. Only when you were completely sure it was fine did you let out a breath, gripping it tightly in your lap.

Leah tilted her head. “Seriously, I was careful.”

You swallowed hard before muttering, “It was my mum’s.”

Leah’s smirk faded.

You kept your eyes on the guitar, fingers gripping the edges a little tighter. “It’s the only thing I have left of her,” you added, quieter this time.

Silence settled between you both.

Leah’s playful demeanor shifted, her smirk replaced with something softer, something more understanding. “I didn’t know,” she said, her voice quieter now.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Yeah, well. Now you do.”

Leah watched you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I’ll leave you and the guitar alone, then.”

You finally glanced up, meeting her gaze. She wasn’t smirking anymore. She looked… sincere.

You nodded slightly before looking away, shifting the guitar back onto your lap. “Good.”

Leah didn’t push, didn’t tease. Instead, she simply stood up, stretching slightly.

But before she left, she gave you one last glance. “For what it’s worth… she’d probably be proud of how good you are.”

And with that, she walked out, leaving you sitting there with your guitar still clutched tightly in your hands.

The next morning, you walked into the training ground with your guitar case slung over your back, your grip on it noticeably tighter than usual. After yesterday, you weren’t taking any chances.

Leah hadn’t meant any harm, but it still stung. That guitar wasn’t just an instrument to you—it was the last piece of your mum you had left. And having someone else’s hands on it, even if it was Leah Williamson, had sent your emotions spiraling.

As you made your way toward the changing rooms, fully prepared to put yesterday behind you, an arm suddenly reached out, grabbing you by the sleeve. Before you could react, you were pulled to the side—straight into the lounge room.

The door clicked softly behind you, and when you turned, Leah was standing there, a small, almost hesitant smile on her face.

“Leah, what the hell?” you muttered, shifting the guitar case on your shoulder.

Leah raised her hands slightly in surrender. “Relax. I just—” She exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck before motioning toward your guitar case. “Can I?”

Your grip tightened automatically. “Only if you’re careful,” you said firmly.

Leah nodded, taking it gently from your hands and setting it down on the couch with an almost exaggerated delicacy. “See? Careful.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want, Leah?”

She hesitated for a second before shoving her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “I wanted to say sorry. About yesterday.”

You studied her, a little surprised. You hadn’t expected her to bring it up again.

Leah rocked on her heels slightly, glancing down before looking back up at you. “I didn’t know how much it meant to you. I should’ve realized—I mean, it was obvious when you practically tackled me to get it back.” A small smirk flickered across her face before fading again. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

You crossed your arms, shifting your weight. “It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.”

Leah nodded, but there was something else in her expression—something lingering. Then, with a casualness that felt almost forced, she said, “Let me make it up to you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Leah’s smirk returned, but this time, it was softer. “Come out with me. Tonight.”

Your heart stuttered slightly, but you kept your expression neutral. “Like… a date?”

Leah shrugged, playing it cool. “Nah, just a ‘sorry.’” But the glint in her eyes told you otherwise.

You let the silence stretch for a beat longer than necessary, watching the way she shifted slightly under your gaze. Then, finally, you sighed.

“Alright,” you said, pretending to be reluctant. “But if this is actually a date, I’m making you pay.”

Leah’s smirk grew. “Deal.”

And with that, she grabbed your guitar case from the couch, holding it out for you with extra care. You took it, shaking your head slightly as you walked past her.

Leah Williamson had just asked you out. Well—just a sorry, as she put it.

But deep down, you both knew the truth.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of training, recovery sessions, and the occasional Hey, rockstar from Leah every time she passed you.

At first, you’d rolled your eyes, brushing it off as just another one of her teasing habits. But as the day went on, you caught yourself waiting for it—anticipating the smirk that always came with it.

By the time the evening rolled around, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, adjusting your hoodie and brushing a hand through your hair as if you weren’t about to spend the night with Leah Williamson.

It wasn’t a date. Just a sorry.

You repeated it in your head, but deep down, the nervous energy twisting in your stomach knew better.

Then, a knock at the door.

Taking a steadying breath, you opened it—only to be met with Leah’s signature smirk and an outfit that somehow made your breath catch in your throat.

She had opted for casual-comfy, but somehow, she still managed to make it look effortlessly good. She wore an oversized grey Essentials hoodie, the sleeves slightly pushed up to reveal her forearms. A pair of well-fitted black joggers sat low on her hips, tucked slightly into white Nike Air Forces, looking perfectly broken in. A small silver ring adorned her right index finger, and a simple chain peeked out from beneath her hoodie. Over her shoulder, she carried a black Nike backpack, the strap hanging loosely in that relaxed way only she could pull off.

Her hair was slightly messy, the kind of messy that looked unintentional but perfect all the same. And when she smiled—soft this time, not teasing—your stomach flipped.

“Hey, rockstar,” she murmured.

You huffed out a small laugh, stepping aside. “You gonna keep calling me that?”

Leah shrugged, stepping in past you. “Suits you.”

You closed the door behind her, turning back—only to find her already rummaging through her backpack.

“I got something for you,” she said, pulling out a small box and holding it out toward you.

You blinked, hesitating slightly before taking it. The box was light in your hands, simple but carefully wrapped. You glanced up at her, eyebrow raised. “Leah—”

“Just open it,” she said, her tone softer than usual.

Curiosity won over, and you carefully pulled at the wrapping before lifting the lid.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, was a delicate silver necklace. A small, finely detailed guitar charm hung from the chain, catching the dim lighting of your apartment.

Your breath hitched.

For a moment, you just stared at it, fingers running lightly over the charm. “Leah…”

“I figured,” Leah said, shifting slightly, “since your guitar means so much to you, you should have something you can keep with you all the time.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly around the box.

Leah stepped closer, voice quieter now. “Want me to put it on?”

You hesitated, then nodded.

Turning around, you lifted your hair, exposing the back of your neck. You felt Leah move behind you, the warmth of her body so close it sent a shiver down your spine.

She was slow, careful, as she unclasped the necklace and draped it around your neck. The cool metal met your skin first, followed immediately by the warmth of Leah’s fingers as they brushed against you. Her touch was light—almost too light, like she was testing the waters, gauging your reaction.

You held your breath as she fastened the clasp, her fingers lingering for just a second too long.

And then—before you could even register it—her lips pressed a feather-light kiss against the side of your neck.

A shiver ran through you, your hands gripping the front of your hoodie as every nerve in your body came alive. Leah stayed there for a second longer than necessary, close enough that you could feel the ghost of her breath against your skin.

Then, just as smoothly as she had come in, she pulled away.

The air felt charged, the tension so thick you could almost touch it. You turned slowly, heart hammering against your ribs as you met her gaze.

Leah was watching you, something unreadable in her expression—something deeper than her usual teasing smirk.

“You good?” she asked, voice lower than before.

You swallowed, nodding once.

She smiled, reaching out to lightly tug the charm of the necklace. “Looks good on you, rockstar.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

For now.

The night had passed in a blur of laughter, conversation, and the occasional lingering glance. Leah had been easier to talk to than you expected—casual, laid-back, effortlessly charming. And maybe, just maybe, you had let your guard down a little.

Now, as she walked you back to your place, her hands shoved into the pockets of her hoodie, you found yourself hesitating at the door.

You weren’t ready for the night to end.

“You wanna come in?” you asked, keeping your voice as nonchalant as possible.

Leah’s smirk was immediate, but there was something softer beneath it. “Obviously.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you pushed the door open. She stepped in behind you, and the warmth of her presence filled the space instantly.

“I was thinking of ordering takeout,” you said, toeing off your shoes. “You want something?”

Leah leaned against the wall, tilting her head slightly. “Depends. What’s on the menu?”

You pulled out your phone, already scrolling through options. “Pizza?”

Leah grinned. “Solid choice, rockstar.”

Rolling your eyes at the nickname, you placed the order, tossing your phone onto the counter before heading into the kitchen to grab some plates. Leah followed, perching herself on the counter like she belonged there.

She watched as you moved, her gaze lingering a little too long when you turned to grab the forks and knives from the drawer.

The moment your back was to her, she moved.

You barely had time to react before Leah’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind, her body pressing into yours. Her voice was low, right against your ear.

“You looked good tonight,” she murmured.

Your breath hitched.

Leah took full advantage, her lips brushing lightly against the side of your neck—soft, teasing. Her hands splayed across your stomach, holding you in place.

“You’re bold,” you muttered, forcing your voice to stay steady.

Leah hummed in amusement, her lips barely ghosting against your skin. “You like it.”

You hated how your body reacted to her—how easily she got under your skin. Slowly, you turned in her hold, facing her. Leah didn’t move back. If anything, she leaned in closer, her eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes like she was already planning her next move.

And then—

The doorbell rang.

You blinked.

Leah blinked.

Then, with a sharp breath, you pushed her away. “That’s the food.”

Leah sighed dramatically, rocking back on her heels. “Terrible timing.”

Ignoring the way your heart was pounding, you cleared your throat, straightening your hoodie before heading to the door.

As you pulled it open and exchanged cash for the takeaway bags, you could still feel Leah’s gaze burning into you from behind.

This night was far from over.

The soft hum of music filled the room as you and Leah sat across from each other at the dining table. The plates were now empty, the meal long finished, but there was still a quiet energy between you. The conversation had ebbed, leaving behind a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the background music and the sound of you both cleaning up.

You stood up from the table, gathering the dirty dishes, and made your way to the kitchen. Leah stayed where she was for a moment, watching you with a quiet intensity, before following you in.

As you began washing the dishes, the familiar motion of scrubbing and rinsing gave you a sense of peace. The water was warm, the rhythmic sound of the sponge against the plates grounding you.

The song changed, and Play Pretend by Alex Sampson started to play softly in the background. The gentle strumming of the guitar combined with the soothing lyrics, and before you knew it, you found yourself softly singing along. You weren’t trying to, but the lyrics just slipped out, natural and effortless. It wasn’t loud—just a quiet hum as you moved around the kitchen, more focused on the task at hand than on the words coming out of your mouth.

What you didn’t notice was Leah watching you, her expression softening as she listened. The vulnerability in your voice caught her off guard. You hadn’t even meant for her to hear it, but she did—and something about it made her heart skip a beat.

Leah remained silent, the tension building between you two without a single word spoken. Her eyes never left you. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile, but there was something else there too—something more intense, more determined.

The song played on, and as you finished washing the last dish, Leah slowly got up. She moved toward you with purpose, stepping quietly so you wouldn’t notice until she was right behind you.

You didn’t have time to react before she gently took the dish from your hands and set it aside. You froze, her body so close to yours now that you could feel the warmth radiating off her. Leah’s fingers gently cupped your face, her touch surprisingly tender as she turned you toward her.

For a moment, everything went still. Her breath was warm against your skin, her eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver through your body.

“Can I?” Leah asked, her voice low, almost hesitant, but the sincerity in her tone was unmistakable.

You nodded without thinking, your heart racing as you stared up at her. The space between you two was so small now, the air thick with anticipation. Without another word, Leah leaned in.

Her lips brushed against yours softly at first, testing, as if she were waiting for you to pull back. When you didn’t, she deepened the kiss, her hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss was slow, deliberate, each movement filled with a quiet urgency. You could feel her breath, warm and steady, against your lips as she kissed you again—deeper this time, with more confidence.

Her hands moved to your back, fingers splaying across the fabric of your shirt as if she wanted to pull you even closer, to feel you pressed against her more fully. The kiss was sweet at first, but the longer it lasted, the more the tension between you two built. You felt the weight of it, the spark that had been there all night, now igniting with every second.

Leah’s lips were soft but insistent, the kiss growing more passionate as you both gave in to it. For a moment, you forgot about everything else—the dishes, the music, the world outside. All that mattered was the way Leah held you, the way she kissed you with a hunger that had been building for far too long.

When the kiss finally broke, both of you were left breathless. Leah’s forehead rested against yours, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

Her voice was quiet, but you heard the smile in her words. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. You couldn’t remember the last time a kiss had felt so right.

The music played softly in the background, but it felt like nothing could interrupt the quiet, lingering moment between the two of you.

You had no idea what came next, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

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bunbun-mochi · 4 months ago

Text

One Sided Arguement - Queen of Onychinus

Sylus x MC (slight angst, mostly fluff)

Warning: Just a small miscommunication, MC tends to overthink. Sylus is very husband material.

Word Count: 1037, no proofreading

Preview: MC and Sylus got into an argument, a one-sided argument. In fact, it's not even an argument. Just MC got upset and gave Sylus a silent treatment. Also, Sylus is only gentle to his wife and no one else.

A liar is what describes me, I said there's only gonna be 3 parts of Queen of Onychinus. Well, I'm gonna add more. Cuz why not.

"Did you hear? Sylus is seeing another women!"

"Oh yea, I heard. I knew that his so called wife wouldn't last long."

I should've picked somewhere else. After the news that Sylus has a wife, the entire city is gossiping about me. They said that I am also a demon from hell, because, well, demons are destined to marry demons. Some say I married him for money. Some say that I was his sister and he married his own sibling, while others argue that I am his daughter. Talk about sweet home Alabama.

The whole reason why I'm here is because I want to get information. On whether Sylus is meeting someone else.

Originally, I was upset. Upset that Sylus doesn't trust me. Upset that he doesn't tell me everything. Upset that he is dealing with issues all by himself. It made me feel useless. Like I'm just a trophy for him to display and nothing more. However, Sylus seem too busy to realize that I'm upset, and overthinking got the best of me. I started to think the worst.

Did he fall out of love? Did he actually meet someone else? I wonder who won the bet on how long I last?

"Look at that man," I heard a girl whisper beside me. I looked over and a beautiful blonde hair was sitting beside me.

"He looks so hot. Stacy, he's looking at you!" Another girl exclaimed, perhaps the friend of "Stacy".

Confused, I looked to where she is talking about and that's when I suddenly saw him. Sylus, of all people. And he is looking. At me. Well, at my direction. Maybe he could be looking at the Stacy.

Talk about bad timing. I really shouldn't have come here. I quickly looked away, hoping he wouldn't see me.

Should I just walk out and leave? Should I jump out the window? Should I crawl myself out?

While pondering, a pair of shoes clicked on the floor. With each click getting closer to where I am sitting. I already felt nervous.

"He's coming closer! Quick, do I look ok?" Stacy asked, using her fingers to comb her hair.

"You look fabulous!" Her friend encouraged her. "Remember, don't sound desperate."

The footstep stopped behind me. I heard a small huff then a deep voice said, "Hello, sweetie."

Completely ignoring him, I shakly took a sip out of my drink.

"Hi," I heard Stacy called out. "How are you?" Her voice sounded so much like a pick me girl. I cringed out of second hand embarrassment.

"Is this the so called silence treatment that I heard about from other people," Sylus asked, completely ignoring Stacy.

If I don't see him, he can't see me. If I don't see him, he can't see me.

Suddenly, my bar stool moved. Sylus had picked up the bar stool and turned it around so I had to face him. "Is that what you have planned all day? To ignore me?"

I tried to look away, but Sylus hold onto my chin and gently guide me back to look at him.

And before I knew it, I felt tears rolling down my face. God, I hope I don't look ugly.

Sylus looked concerned as he gently wiped the tears. "Sweetie, please talk to me. Why are you crying? What did I do?" His voice is so gentle, I nearly forgot why I was upset in the first place.

At this point, I was a crying mess that I couldn't even talk.

"Hey, in case you didn't hear, my friend said hi to you. It's only polite to say hi back." Another women's voice said next to me. Right, Stacy and her friend is still there.

"And in case you don't know, I do not care." Sylus glared at the two women. He then turned back and faced me, said in a very gentle voice, "Come back home to me."

I sniffled and nodded.

"This girl seems to have some issues. You should dump her," Stacy's friend spoke again. Wow, what a way to ruin a moment.

Sylus straighten up and looked down at her, "First of all, fuck off. Second of all, she's my wife. You insult her, you insult me. Third, the moment I put that ring on her finger is the day I vow that I will take care of her every need. Bother me and her again, I will have my henchman cut you both in pieces and feed it to my pet crow."

Without a second glance, Sylus picked me up, walked out of the bar., and walked toward his car.

I'm not sure if I was emotional or the drink was getting to my head because once we were out of the bar, I was babbling nonsense.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" I cried. "I felt useless because I wasn't able to help you with anything and I got upset. And I thought you had someone else and I thought you don't love me anymore and... and..."

"Sweetie, I cannot help but to love you. Don't ever doubt this. I will always love you. There will be no one else. You're my everything. If you leave me, I'll lose everything." Sylus' voice is so soft and gentle, that it made me cry again.

Sylus sighed, "When did you become such a crybaby?"

"I felt useless! I couldn't help you with anything! You refused to tell me anything and I was kept in the dark the entire time!"

"I was worried that my line of work would be too uncomfortable for you so I thought-"

"But you never asked me!" I wailed. "I hate you."

Sylus stopped walking and scowled, "You don't mean that."

I sniffled, "No, I don't. But you made me very upset."

Sylus lowered his eyes as if to apologize. "Should I take you home and watch a movie together?"

I nodded, "But next time, tell me where you're going and when you'll be back."

"I can work with that if you promise to tell me if I have done anything to upset you."

I wrapped my arms around his neck and nodded, "I'm sorry."

"It's alright, sweetie. I love you."

"Hmm, I love you too."

Thank you for reading

dividers, templates, headers, and banners are from @uzmacchiato

#lads sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus fluff #sylus fic #qin che

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aguineapigcouldntdothis · 4 months ago

Note

As a fellow rural Jew who grew up on a farm in Kansas, lived in Alabama for some time, and is now living on the east coast for the first time: just wanted to commiserate with you that holy shit do Jews who’ve always lived in a Jewish community need to experience being Jewish and isolated in a rural space. The bubble needs to be popped.

The accessibility to kosher food and in-person community alone is so drastically different, but the feeling I hate the most is that I just don’t feel Jewish enough in highly Jewish populated areas. I simply don’t have the same experiences. Jewish representation in popular media looks absolutely foreign to me. I didn’t have access to Hebrew school growing up; we had a traveling rabbi that drove 2-3 hours for special life events only. Shul looked like a community led service in a run-down community building, but never enough people for a minyan. I never went to summer camp, my Hebrew pronunciation sounds different because everything was self taught and internet access was spotty and often times nonexistent- it wasn’t really until I went to college that I met other Jews my age, and even then, our campus Hillel had like, maybe 10 people because it was a rural state public agriculture university in Kansas.

The Jewish American experience is so vast and different but it really is frustrating to listen to those in the bubble believe that their experience is the universal experience.

Also! You may enjoy a documentary I helped with that is available on PBS now to watch or on Amazon called Jews of the Wild West :)

its nice meeting other people who have had similar experiences! it's definitely worth it and I love being jewish it's just hard when there are absolutely no resources around. plus ik a lot of small town/rural jews have gone through a lot of trauma from antisemitism. not sure if you've experienced that either. a lot of the things you've mentioned sound so similar to my experiences, especially not relating to the "jewish experience" at all.

I think every jew is aware that we are a minority but some have no idea what that actually feels like. experiencing it, even if for just a little bit, is really important because it teaches us to appreciative what we have and how to get creative. people should see for themselves how hard it is being jewish in non-jewish places as well as how joyful it can be. like I cant express how much fun it is meeting another jew when there's maybe 10 in the whole town.

also I'll totally check out that documentary! I love jews and also cowboys so it sounds awesome to me

#answered #jewish #jumblr

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thefusioncelestial · 5 months ago

Text

Mix 3: One Path, One Us.

Look at me:

You would think I am some teenager still in high school. I am 22, about to graduate university. I am old enough to drink, but I get carded every time. Can't do adult stuff without second looks. Girls won't date me because they think I am a kid, and no one understandably wants to risk that. The short stature & lack of facial or body hair doesn't work either. Puberty is finishing up soon if not already. Constantly going to the gym just kept me cut. What am I going to do? Am I going to be stuck like this like those baby faced actors like Tom Holland?

"Bro, you okay?" A voice loudly echoed. It was my best friend Jason. He was in a similar boat as me but as least he was tall. I am 5'5 and him 6'3. If only I could snatch that from him. A tall baby faced actor who stayed in shape would do gang busters in Hollywood.

"Diego, SNAP OUT OF IT". he boomed. Luckily the dorms were mostly empty during the day, so he alerted no one but me. I quickly rise out of my mental funk. Why did I get into such a negative Nancy mood? Oh yeah, because Jason said he had a solution, like he did every month since the moment we stepped into university. We grew up together, same neighborhood, born in the same year 3 months apart. Our fathers thought we were dating at some point, but were just close like blood brothers. So what is his hair brained idea this time? I hope he isn't going to suggest steroids or something he cooked up in chemistry. He's a top student among the chemistry department, but he decided to not pair that up with a human body science like major like Sports Medicine or Pre Med.

"Sorry, so what is failed solution #2312?", I quipped sarcastically.

He frowned at me and then rolled his eyes. He whispered to himself after turning around, "It will be forever if it works, hopefully whatever we become will be a more positive person."

"Stop talking to yourself, how your butter face ass has a better dating life than me is beyond reason."

"It's called confidence & a positive attitude. But before this day is over, you will see my side of things...and I yours."

He went to a small brown box on a dresser and pulled out an bead necklace. "We put this on & let the magic work. If this works, we will be reborn...literally as one."

I was dumbfounded, his answer was a magic item he probably found on clearance at some costume shop? The suggestion of magic from a chemist. Chemistry was born from Alchemy by removing the superstitious & supernatural elements from the field. Now here is one Chemist suggesting going back to magic. Where is he hiding the chemicals, because I am sure he is pulling my chain.

"Are you high?"

"What! No!"

"You are suggesting we rely on something with no concrete evidence, like magic, for its existence for our solutions. You know what, explain and I might go with your voodoo."

"Its not African magic, it's German, call it Zauberei or Greek so maybe Mageía." He said in an upbeat but serious tone.

"I'll call it The Hot Nuts of Alabama if it works. Again, explain."

He pulled out an old brown leather book from within the drawer where the same box was resting on. He turned and walked towards me and gave it to me.

"What is this?," I asked.

"Evidence of what I am going to say, future Nuclear Physicist. Yeah I know the truth, you got an offer from NASA. Guess what, so did I. We are stuck together for life, lets make that for real."

Whatever, I thought, we grow old together nothing new. Though if his offer was like mine, he will have to stay for grad school. They want mastery, not just knowledge, of the subject.

"Go on."

"You know how Royal families around the world tend to inbreed? Cousins to cousins, neice to Uncle, ect.?"

"Yeah."

"Well for all tense & purposes, they should have died out, like the Spanish Haspburgs did. But suddenly, they are everywhere now. Clean mostly of genetic disease, and looking run way ready in some cases. Their solution was fusion."

"Was what?"

"They merged with others. Assimilate a few unknown servants or knights that history didn't record & they slowly repaired themselves."

"So they gobbled other people up and kept it in the family still."

"Yep, in some cases they were incredulous about it like you and refused the procedure. The Spanish Hasburgs said no because they feared it was devilry, the British were mixed, they got back on board after Queen Victoria's generation."

"Where did this "procedure originate from?"

"Greece. Look up the story of Hermaphroditus afterwards if this fails. Pretty boy like us merged with a Naiad named Salmacis. They merged in a pool of water, and that pool became a fountain, reportedly still had the power to merge things. At first they just mixed animals for sport, but soon generals & politicians were merging to create someone more effective. Once Rome conquered Greece, you start to see an uptick in "warrior poets" and military generals who can talk their way out of an 5 v 1."

"What, we got to go to Greece and bath together? Wait, you want to merge with me?," I asked in confusion.

"Yes, and no. Well Yes, I want to merge, and no we do not need to go to Greece, but if we merge, we can go take a trip down there as thanks."

I am dumbfounded at what I am hearing. I open the book and see an listing of royals & nobles who merged with others or proposed mergers that never came to be. I go to the Tudor England section and see that Henry VIII was going to assimilate Charles Brandon, but that failed after Brandon secretly married his sister Mary. There were a host of knights who lined up afterwards, but he never settled on a choice.

I see a section for France, Charles the Mad went mad after doing the procedure with the court fool. There was a slew of witch hunts after that in France. Not tried again until Louis XIV, who used it to extend his lifespan.

"There is one problem."

"What?"

"These mergers were one sided. One person stole traits from the other and walked the earth as themselves. Are you trying to gobble me up?"

"No.

"Admit it, you want my beautiful face."

"And you want my height. "

We both burst out in laughter. Will this work? Am I going mad? He is rich enough to commission a work like this after all.

"So what happened to the magic water?"

"After the fall of Western Rome, the water was drained and placed somehow into these stones and turned into jewelry, hidden beneath the armor & clothing of Europe's elite. Initially, it was used to create stronger leaders. A few rounds of warriors & wise men fusing, and you got a charismatic leader who starts a royal line or two. Many many generations later, its used to fix fertility problems. and then later genetic diseases. It's a factor in how hemophilia has disappeared in the European royal circles."

"Wait, are you royalty? Am I about to get a royal upgrade?

"No."

"No?"

"No."

I frown. "How did you get your hands on this?"

"The spoils of war, WW2 in particular. My grandfather served in the war and found the contents in an German castle. Germany was once so many kingdoms, so I guess there was a high chance of finding one. The only pair found, my guess is that the nobility there had a bad hiding spot. Then again, grandpop was good at finding shit. That is how we got rich: finding gold in exhausted mines, discovering treasure hoards and getting paid by governments to shut up about it."

"Is this what he gave to you as your inheritance after he died?"

"Part of it, if this works, yours is mine and mine is yours. Our merger will be mutual. A true blending. When this is over, a new being will be born. Either this ages us up or form a new babyface."

This was a lot to take in. I closed the book & sat down in an chair near the door. He went outside to the dorm balcony. He stared at the sky, took a deep breath and nodded. He took off his shirt. And turned to me after putting on the necklace.

He smiled, I forgot he still had braces.

"Bro, you still need mouth work?"

He pulled them off. It was a set of fake dentures.

"There's a the jester I know."

He was cut but lanky. My arms were bigger than his while his were longer.

It's like we are two halfs of a whole. Where he falters, I succeed. Vice versa.

"Its either we do this, or I go gobble up Tim."

I got up and walked towards him. "That meathead?"

"Tell me I wouldn't look like a men's health model after taking him in."

"You would be dumber." I was a few inches away from him. He blushes. I take the necklace and stretch it around my head and pull it down to me neck. It's very tight now, like egging us to move closer. I do. I start to float, my chest lining up to his and then pressing up against each other. I blush as well and we both are aroused.

"Ha...."

"if this is a marriage proposal, I say yes. If we are walking the same direction, lets do it officially." We kiss.

As our bodies are mushed together we take our arms and embrace each other. The necklace hums and disappears into our necks. It has begun.

We press harder against each other. My shirt phased through him and came out the other end. The same happened with the pants & underwear. Despite being made of denim, the jeans were able to stretch out and accommodate us both. ~Magic~

We were both naked inside this Frankenstein cocoon of our clothing. We were naked and pressed up against each other. And then it happened.

Where our skin was touching, they just simply gave way and merged and then stretched. This exposed our bloody insides to each other. And as our blood, flesh, and muscles touched, they broke down into a liquid slurry. The sounds started as moans, somehow being broken down to our basic materials & being unraveled felt so good. Those moans turned into wet rattles once our necks touched and went through the same process. Our bones broke down as well & if you had ex-ray vision, it look like a grey slurry. Then that slurry of skeletal matter moved towards the skin & turned our fused skin into an hardened vaguely human shaped cocoon made of skin wrapped in stretched clothing. It didn't matter what it was, brain, eyes, lungs, it was soon goop.

The moment our brains gooped, they swirl around and within each other. This meant that the first aspect of this new person being created was their mind. For Diego & Jason it was like entering a wild lsd trip, and when it was done, someone else would emerge. From their perspective, memories & personality traits were being taken and smashed together like two movie scenes being placed on top of each other, somehow blending perfectly to create new ones. For the personality, it was less of a mix and more of a battle for dominance. Some of Diego's aspects won, while some of Jason's did instead. There were some cases of traits just mixing but it was more of an either or. But by the end the process stopped, and this new self was born.

At the same time their dna mixed & merged. The result was a new traditional helix structure that was built using parts from Diego's & Jason's dna. At this point, there was no going back as the unused parts were broken down as energy, that life spark that would jump start this new person's existence.

With the new genetic instructions, their combined mass began to consolidate. The nervous system was already built and the skeletal system formed almost immediately afterward. The boney shell broke down and gave its contents to build it.

With the bone shell gone and no longer absorbing sound & impeding movement, you could hear the humanoid shaped bloated mass pulsate and almost shake a little.

The broke down organs reformed and moved into place, and the blood that was free floating began to enter the newly formed veins and do their tireless work. And second to last, the muscular system began to take shape almost at the same as the vascular system.

While this was going on, the fused skin started to shrink, with another fire from the newly minted dna, the muscle arranged themselves to their proper place and the skin backed up the placements through tightening.

And while the muscles & and skin were doing their jobs, the new being began to moan. It had no facial features yet, but sound was coming out where the mouth will be. Its arms were stretched at an 45 degree angle, and once the fingers formed, you can see it move its fingers randomly at different speeds as it tried to process the pleasures being felt from its creation, but give way to the sensations. It was a combination of moans and ahs.

These jolts of pleasure also activated it's reproductive organs. Diego had the longer member, while Jason was girthy. But this new being would enjoy both traits. Long & Thick. The skin tightening around that area made it moan even loader, a veiled threat that it would lose its mind with the new sensations. But it didn't.

Its body shape formed and its internals done, there were two more steps to go.

From front it had Diego's skin color, while the back half had Jason's. As if conceding to Diego, the Diego's skin complexion took over. And it was similar with the face. It started off with Diego's facial features, but used Jason's to refine them. Jason felt that Diego was more handsome, and so this reflected on a genetic level. Diego's hair color also took over, but Jason's traits gave them more volume. Diego had a near constant dark bags under his eyes. But that was gone for this being.

Looking at this new being, one would say that Diego gobbled up Jason. But that was not so. Essentially, what they admired in each other, the new being expressed it. There was no hiding things from each other now. They are each other.

The clothing snapped back into place. It had a white shirt & denim jeans, but it would have been a mixture had Jason decided to have something on beyond two layers of underwear.

With its newly formed mouth, this being let out a deep exhale and low sound that indicated that it had calmed down from all the moaning which indicated that the process was over.

It opened its eyes, the pupils shape and size where more from Jason. It didn't care, Jason is the past. These are his eyes. Who was he?

"I am Diego, no Jason, no..."

It walked back into the dorm. There was a large, human sized mirror. About 7 ft. He stood in front of it. He was 6'5 now.

"Christian, I am Christian now."

Diego + Jason = Christian.

Christian lifted up his shirt, place them behind his neck.and checked out his features.

He had Jason's abdominal insertions & shape. His chest too. These nips definitely came from him. His arms & shoulders were bigger than both Diego's & Jason's. Years of gym workouts finally showing up. He unbuttoned his pants to let his family rod breathe, it would shrink down over time, Christian was of the grower variety, he can access its full potential in the future when needed. The neck was a mixture, Diego's thickness with Jason's length. He had Diego's nose. The biggest change was the eyes, he had Jason's but darker and curvier. The ears were a combination of both. He looked older, mature, and yet had perfect skin. They achieved their goals. They merged into a someone who looked like a fully grown man.

More of his new memories flooded in. He was not a purely a chemist or a physicist, he double majored in Materials Science & Chemical Engineering. He had a choice departments at NASA. And soon, he'll have a house full of kids, once he finds the right one. But first the internship at NASA & grad school.

With a new sense of belonging & togetherness, the two best friends continued their life journey, together as one, forever.

Oh, wait, the necklace. Christian grasped at his neck and looked around. It was sitting on his bed. Hmm, I can make a fortune using this. This university is about to see an uptick in nerdy jocks. He thought to himself.

He knows the perfect pair. Shun & Tim. But first that trip the Greece, and then the work of bridging worlds begins. For a select few who can afford it or give me a good enough reason.

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