#tales from the metro | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jaythes1mp · 1 month ago

Text

Shallow

Yandere Batfam x Merfolk Reader ♧romantic♣︎

Aquaman, Aqualad, Mera, and any other underwater hero’s and creatures don’t exist in this.

||-→ I tried to make each pov a different style of writing ||

There was something so captivatingly beautiful about observing the humans from below the surface, as they went about their daily lives, traversing the Metro-Narrows Bridge. The elders had always warned you to keep your distance from the world above, but you couldn't resist sneaking glances at the peculiar, moving metal boxes zooming across the streets, or the striking figures donning vibrant spandex who soared through the skies at night.

The bridge, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, cast an ethereal light across the water of the river. This sight, enhanced by the night, would always catch your attention, especially when they appeared. Moving in and out of the shadows, darting around or simply standing on the railing, lost in their own worlds.

You had grown fond of observing them as they soared through the night sky, reminiscent of the graceful movements of swans. Their elegance was effortless, seemingly defying gravity as they traversed the air. It was in those moments, watching the sky people glide past, that you were struck by the rawness of their beauty.

You never dared to come too close to the surface during the day, the haunting tales from your pod serving as a constant reminder of the horrors that existed above the water. But the night was a different story; it’s when you were more willing to take risks. The darkness provided the perfect cover, shrouding you in obscurity as the humans slept.

Though you supposed that the real reason you continued to venture up to the surface was because it was the time that they emerged, gliding through the air and gracefully traversing the buildings. Their shadows, illuminated by the silvery light of the moon, seemed to dance in perfect harmony with the night. Always seeming to captivate your attention in a way that no underwater creatures could.

However, on this particular night, you noticed something out of the ordinary. One of the usually lively land creatures was sluggish and listless, moving with none of the fluid grace that you had come to admire. A deep crimson liquid seeped through the fabric of his suit, spattering across the spandex and staining it a dark, ominous hue.

You cautiously approached the surface, swimming closer than you had ever dared to before. Slowly, you emerged, peering just above the water's edge.

You couldn’t see the human clearly, obscured as he was by the sizable drop between the bridge and the water below, but the scent he carried was undeniable. There was something utterly alluring about his aroma. It was a stark contrast to the familiar scents of salt and oil you were used to underwater. You haven't come across anything even remotely similar to it before.

The land dweller was undeniably beautiful.

A loud crash shattered the silence, jolting your attention back to reality. Your gills flared out in alarm, and in your surprise, the soft bioluminescent glow of your tail dimmed down, a natural response to the potential threat.

You backed away, submerging yourself down into the safety that the depths of the water provided. Your gaze fixating on the figure in the distance, decorated in his familiarly vibrant red and yellow attire. This one hastily making his way to the blue-clad human's side, concern decorated across his face, his actions imbued with urgency. Mask torn from his face.

With a heavy sigh, you turned your back from the scene unfolding above, releasing a flurry of bubbles that rose to the surface. Your pods stern warnings echoing in your mind, a constant reminder of the dangers that lay in the world above.

You make it no more than fifteen feet before a thunderous splash shatters the silence, the seawaters ripples rolling across your skin and triggering an involuntary shiver, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your tail instinctively sprung into action, propelling you back with a rapid, powerful flick.

With a sudden movement, your arms encircled the man's sinking frame, securing a firm grip on his sides. Your eyes widening in shock at the contact, your webbed fingers digging into his flesh, anchoring him in place.

For a moment, you paused, studying him. Your eyes absorbing every little detail. From the man's soft, almost spongy flesh under your touch, how soft and almost squishy his land dwelling arms were, how they seemed to just give way to the touch of your webbed fingers. Then to the way the baby blue suit of his that clung to him, was torn and tattered, ripping away underwater. Your gaze lingering on the deep red liquid seeping out of his torso, staining his skin and leaving a trail of ominous scarlet. And then, your gaze travelled to the two bizarre, elongated limbs extending from his waist. A stark contrast to the streamlined grace of your own tail.

His lips parted, releasing a stream of bubbles, each one ascending to the surface before vanishing from sight. You watched as his body suddenly went limp in your arms, reminding you of the dire situation you had inadvertently involved yourself in. With a powerful flick of your tail, you swiftly propelled yourself to the surface, bringing him up so that he could breathe. Your gills flared out, working overtime to filter oxygen from the water while you waited, your hearts hammering in your chest.

When the human made no attempt to improve, limp and unresponsive, you couldn't suppress the deep hiss that escaped from the back of your throat. Your grip tightening around his frame, your tail coiled tighter around his legs, an attempt to stabilise and bring some form of response from him. Your eyes grew large in desperation as you shook him back and forth, each movement growing more frantic with the passing seconds.

You directed your attention to the deep red liquid that was oozing out of his abdomen, its thick, almost oily consistency spreading out in little waves around you in the water. Coming out in shallow pulses. You tilted your head slightly, noting that the fluid's flow didn't seem natural. It felt wrong, a gut feeling of sorts. You hastily reached for the pouch tethered to your hip, pulling out a woven bundle of seaweed and a salve prepared by the elders of your pod.

You delicately began to layer the salve over the gaping wound, taking care to press the woven seaweed into the lesion. The salve, a rich green and purple, had a cooling effect as it made contact with the human's skin. A crucial aspect due to its high iodine content, which helps to close the large gash. As the ointment came into contact with the blood, it began to congeal and bind the tissue together, halting the bleeding.

However, you were acutely aware of the human, who remained unresponsive. His chest, which should've been rising and falling with each inhale, lay still. A sudden panic clutched at your hearts, threatening to overwhelm you. You weren't sure what the proper human anatomy was, but it was abundantly clear that he needed to breathe.

You placed a webbed hand on his chest, the flesh there surprisingly firm. You pushed down, then up again, attempting to mimic the breathing motions you had seen him and others do. Your heart pounded in your chest as you pleaded for him to respond, a silent mantra running through your head. With urgency, you placed a firm grip on the back of his neck, tilting his head back, the gills on your neck flaring out to pull in as much oxygen as they could. Your tail coiling tightly around his waist to keep him afloat.

Despite the pressure you exerted, there was no response from him. His chest remained still, no signs of life. Your breath hitched at the sight, a sense of desperate desperation washing over you. You were frantically trying to keep his head tilted back while the water was washing over his face, the cool liquid creating small ripples that mirrored the urgency of the moment. His body remained motionless, unresponsive to your frantic attempts. You could feel the pressure building in your own chest, your gills working overtime to extract oxygen.

In a final, desperate attempt, you lean in closer, positioning yourself to allow your webbed fingers to forcibly pry open his parted lips. You took in a deep breath and expelled it through the opening, pushing every ounce of air you could manage into his unresponsive lungs.

You repeated the action multiple times, exerting every ounce of effort to force air into his trachea. Each breath, heavy and laboured. You finally pulled back, allowing yourself a moment of respite. Your breaths came out ragged and sharp, a stark contrast to the steady, undisturbed water around you.

As he remains unresponsive, his body frighteningly limp, your body goes slack, a wave of disappointment washing over you. Reluctantly, you release your grip on him and let him go, his body now floating eerily close to yours. You close your eyes tight, trying to swallow the lump in your throat that was rapidly forming.

You flinch at the sudden and unexpected contact, your eyes fluttering open. An alarmed hiss escaped once again through your lips, more out of surprise than anything else. Just as you were about to submerge yourself underwater, a firm hand grasped your shoulder, its grip strong and unwavering.

"Y-you're...alive.", you stuttered out, a mixture of disbelief and awe laced in your raspy voice. The hand on your shoulder felt firm and real, a stark contrast to the nightmarish scenario you had just been a part of.

“Nightwing?” Red Robin's voice cuts through the quiet night, bouncing off the empty alleyways. Frustrated, he takes off his comms, readjusting them to try again for the sixth time in the last ten minutes.

"Dick, come in," he practically growls out, tapping on his device with a little more force than necessary.

“Where the hell are you?” he mutters, staring up at the tall buildings. Dick’s always late, but this was getting ridiculous. With a sigh, he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms as he waits.

A low, familiar voice crackles on the other end of the comms. “Stalker.”

Tim rolls his eyes, recognising the voice immediately. It was too late in the night to put up with him. “Jason.” he sighs, “What do you want. Have you heard from Dick?”

“Not a word.” The response is curt, and the annoyance in Jason’s voice is obvious. He rarely joined in their patrols, preferring to stick to his own methods of dealing with things.

Tim lets out a frustrated huff, tapping his fingers impatiently against his arm. Of course Dick would pick now to go radio silent.

He ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes for a moment to let out a frustrated groan. He was stressed enough as it is, none of this was helping.

“You’re patrolling the Narrows?” Jason’s voice breaks through Tim’s thoughts, pulling him back to reality. He looks around, taking in the surroundings with a frown. The Narrows was never a good place to be alone.

“Yeah.” he responds, not taking his eyes off of the shadows. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know, Dick’s nowhere to be seen. In or out of uniform.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and Tim can practically hear the smirk in Jason’s voice.

“Need backup?” he offers, amusement clear in his tone. The elder boy mocking him.

Tim scowls, shaking his head even if he knew Jason couldn’t see him. “No.” he replies curtly. “I’m not a child, I can handle this myself.”

“Sure, kid.” Jason’s response is just as dismissive. “I’ll come check on you in a bit anyway. Make sure you haven’t gotten your ass kicked.”

Tim’s scowl deepens at Jason’s reply, not appreciating the offer of help — or the nickname. “I don’t need a babysitter.” he grumbles. “I’m going to find Dick, and I don’t need your help.”

There’s a pause, and Tim can practically hear the eye roll from Jason. “Whatever you say, Replacement. I’ll be there soon.”

“No—” Before Tim can protest, the comms go silent. Damn it, Jason.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, biting at the inside of his cheek. The last person he needed to see right now was Jason. The last time he’d come face to face with the man, things didn’t go so well.

Tim grits his teeth and pushes himself off of the wall. He had better things to do than get into a fight with his older brother. Like finding his other older brother.

With a huff, Tim starts walking, making his way through the narrow alleys of the Narrows. It’s quiet, eerily so, and his instincts are on high alert.

Everything feels off. The air is still, and he can’t shake the feeling of being watched. His breath stutters in his chest, but he pushes the feeling down. He had work to do.

“Dick?” he calls out, his headset’s blinking green light signalling the message going through. He glances around cautiously as he moves. “Nightwing, come in. Can you hear me?”

There’s no response, and Tim tries again. Nothing but static. His shoulders tense, the unease growing in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t like Dick. The man was always on top of communication.

Tim continues forward, his footsteps quick and light. He keeps his eyes scanning the shadows around him, but the silence is deafening. Where the hell is he?

A muffled crunch breaks the silence, and the boy freezes, his breath hitching. It was faint, coming from somewhere off the alley in front of him. His heart rate quickens, and he carefully shifts on his feet, trying to pinpoint the source.

There was something across the street. Someone.

Tim squints, his eyes trying to make out what it was. It was too dark to tell. Damn it, why can’t Dick be here to deal with this..

He’s too used to working in a team, having the security of someone else there to watch his back. The someone’s in question usually being Batman or Nightwing.

He steels himself, slipping into a fighting stance and taking slow steps forward. He can’t let his guard down, not now.

As he moves, the shape across the street shifts. It’s still far away, but from the size and height, he could tell it was definitely a figure.

His comms device beeps, startling the boy and nearly causing him to stumble. He quickly scrabbles to check it, hoping for some sort of answer or communication.

“Red.” Jason’s voice comes through, static breaking up some of the message. The device was clearly reaching a limit. “Can you hear me? Dick’s in trouble.” The voice, as crackling as it was over the broken comms, sounded dishevelled and panted. Jason rarely called for help.

With a final glance at the figure across the street, Tim’s eyes flicker back down to the comms in his hand. Jason found him.

“Where are you?” he asks, not wasting a second as he sets off at a sprint. He didn’t care what kind of trouble Nightwing had gotten into, he just needed to get there.

“Don’t worry about me. Get to Metro-Narrows Bridge.”

The urgency in Jason’s voice has Tim’s heartbeat racing. He doesn’t question it, just continues sprinting. He knew the bridge, and knew it was far.

“...” he grits his teeth. “I’m on my way.”

Tim hits the wall with a pained gasp, eyes squeezed shut as he doubles over coughing at the impact. His vision swims. Shit.

He lets out a sharp gasp, the breath knocked out of him as he’s smashed against the hard bricks. The pain doesn’t have time to register, as his mind is sent into a panicked frenzy.

He sucks in a low breath, trying to clear his head and figure out what the hell just happened. There’s a shuffle of feet, and the distinct sound of metal being unsheathed.

The attack was too precise, too sudden. He grunts, trying to push himself back away from the wall, but a large hand keeps him pinned.

His head finally stops swirling, and he can focus on the large figure in front of him. Not good.

He’s a towering wall of a man, arms bigger than Tim’s head. He’s muscular, clearly built like a brawler. The metal that had unsheathed was a knife, the sharp, gleaming blade being held firmly in the man’s large hand.

“No more running.” the man growls, his other hand still keeping Tim pinned against the wall.

Tim glared up at him.

He’s been in situations similar to this before. He’s fought and won against opponents bigger than him, more experienced than him. He needed to stay calm, and assess the situation.

With a pained grunt, he pushes against the man’s arm, struggling to break free. The man just leans closer, his breath hot in Tim’s face.

The smell of smoke and old alcohol fills Tim’s nose, making him want to retch as the man sneers at him. “Struggle all you want, kid.” he drawls. “You’re coming with me one way or another..” Tim clenches his jaw.

He analyses the situation quickly. His equipment was in his belt, but pinned tight against the wall left him with very little mobility. He had to find a way to get away swiftly, before the man could do him any serious harm.

Tim’s mind races, trying to work out a way to get himself out of this. He’s too close quarters to the man, and any attempt to get away would lead to him getting a knife in his gut.

The man’s grip tightens, making him gasp as the knife is held closer to his skin. His eyes darted around, searching for anything useful. He would have to time this right. “Stop squirmin.’” The man’s gruff voice rang out.

Tim ignores him, grunting as he struggles against the hand pinning him. There had to be something he could use to—

A gleam of something metal catches his eye, and he glances down, spotting a metal pipe sticking out of an open garbage bin. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.

Tim takes in a shallow breath, his mind racing for a second. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, trying to keep the man talking and distracted.

“Don’t try any shit, sidekick.” He tightened his hold on the boy, using his other hand to get out a walkie-talkie from the pouch on his chest.

Sidekick? Tim’s teeth gritted, a spark of anger flaring up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t just a sidekick.

Tim’s eyes glance down again at the pipe, trying to calculate his next move. He watched as the man brought the walkie-talkie up to his mouth, his heart rate increasing as he prepared to act.

“I got a bird out here,” the man grunted into the device, keeping his eyes fixed on Tim. “Found him in the-“

He barely had time to react before Tim acted. With a sudden burst of strength, he jerks forward, wrenching himself free from the man’s grip. He immediately drops down, grabbing the metal pipe and brandishing it like a weapon. Flinging it into the man’s hand that held the radio. The impact caused him to drop it, as he let out a cry of pain, stumbling back.

Tim didn’t hesitate. He quickly used the momentary opening of shock and pain to his advantage, striking the man hard in the stomach with the pipe. The man grunted, his hand instinctively going to where he’d been hit.

He wasn’t about to give the thug any time to recover. He brought up a leg and kicked out fast, nailing him hard in the knee. The man yelled out again, staggering back.

He raged, stumbling forward and landing one hard punch against Tim’s face.

The younger boy’s head snapped to the side from the hit, the force of it knocking his mask askew, cracking and splitting as he reeled back. His vision swims from the impact, but he can taste the distinct taste of blood in his mouth.

He stumbled back, bringing a hand up to his face and cursing, blood seeping down his face.

His head hurt. A lot. That one hit had left him dizzy, and his cheek stung like hell.

The pain is enough to clear his mind though, and he refocuses on the man in front of him. His lip is split, and his cheek feels like it’s on fire. His mask hangs half off of his face.

Tim grits his teeth, glaring at the man with a new found fire in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let some random thug take him out.

The perpetrator lets out a huff, spitting out a glob of blood onto the floor next to him. An ugly sneer plastered his face, and he stepped forward, reaching down for the knife that had been discarded on the ground. “You little shit.” he spat. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

His eyes flickered down to the knife held flimsily in his hand. He needed to get out of this. The man was bigger and definitely stronger, but obviously nowhere near as experienced as Tim was. He’s surprised that the thug had even managed to get in a decent hit to his face.

His mind is too preoccupied, caught up in the whirlwind of thoughts, and he fails to notice the man’s approach until the moment he's already upon him. The thug's fury makes him careless and ill-prepared, the sound of his stumbling footsteps betraying his presence due to the injury on his knee.

Tim quickly raises his arm instinctively, attempting to shield himself as the man’s towering frame comes charging at him. He’s tackled to the ground in a single swift move, the impact crushing his ribs against the concrete floor.

His back hits the ground, the air getting knocked out of him for the second time that night. The man’s weight pinned him to the ground, the air leaving his lungs in a loud gasp as he struggled.

The man had the knife clutched in his hand, the gleam of the blade reflecting the lights of the city as it was raised up, aimed to strike.

Drake nearly sneered at the sight. He’s an amateur. Over confident in himself and relying solely on force.

Tim’s eyes darkened, his glare locked on the man above him. He was not going to be defeated by some two-bit mugger.

He kicked out at the man, aiming for his still injured knee. The man grunted as he took the kick, shifting off balance for just a second.

It was enough of an opening for Tim to react. He pushed up on the man, using the momentum to roll them both over, switching their positions and taking the top. He wasted no time in smashing the man’s head against the ground, knocking him out stone cold. Blood pooling down against the pavement.

He paused, breathing heavily as he stared down at the man. His lip stung as blood still trickled down his face, the adrenaline in his system beginning to wear off.

Tim sat there for a moment, letting out a hiss of pain as he lifted a hand and gently touched his split lip. He gingerly moved his fingers through his hair, grimacing as he felt the beginnings of a bruise on the side of his face.

Dick was still in trouble. That was the thought at the front of his mind, the reason he was out here and why he had to get to that bridge.

With a wince, Tim pushed himself up, staggering for a moment as a wave of nausea passed over him. He was pretty sure he’d developed a minor concussion from being thrown into the wall.

Everything ached, and his body was screaming at him to just stay down. He ignored it. Nightwing was his priority.

He swayed for a moment, his vision going white around the edges as his head spun, before he managed to stay standing and start moving again.

He didn’t think, he just ran.

He’s still panting as his feet hit the concrete, his body protesting the movement. The nausea from his concussion was becoming very real, and he had to stop to take a deep breath to steady himself.

Fuck, he was going to throw up, wasn’t he?

Tim bit his tongue and started running again, forcing himself to push on and ignore the pain. He had to keep moving.

The cold, night air hurt his lungs, but he didn’t stop. Not even as the pain from the beating began to make itself known with each hard footstep against the concrete. He had to get to the bridge.

He kept going at a brutal pace, ignoring how his vision swam and how every breath he took just made him feel like he needed to puke.

He’s not sure how long he had ran, his mind focused entirely on just moving. One foot in front of the other, he just kept going.

As he rounded the corner, he noticed the bridge in the distance. His eyes widening, watching Dick stagger back against the railings edge.

Tim stumbled for a moment, but pushed himself back up, keeping himself moving forward. He could barely see straight, but nothing else mattered. Nightwing’s tall and dark silhouette was leant against the night light of the bridge. Even from a distance, he could see the blood on Dicks skin, staining the side of his face, his suit’s front ripped open, a large gash in his abdomen pooling out onto the ground.

Tim’s speed quickens, every muscle in his body crying in protest but he continues on. All he could focus on was the sight of Nightwing. In the low light, he could see Dick’s shoulders moving with each heavy breath, looking seconds away from collapsing.

In a desperate attempt to save his mentor, Tim lunges forward and grabs onto Dick's arm. However, the fabric of the torn and damaged suit simply tears further under the force, causing Dick to slip free from Tim's grasp and fall into the dark, ominous water below.

"NO—!" The cry escapes Tim's mouth in a choked rush, the sound filled with anguish and fear. With a desperate burst of energy, he lunges forward, his hand reaching out in a desperate attempt to cling to Dick's suit, to anything that would keep him from falling.

But it was too late. He was too late.

His heart hammers frantically against his chest as he gazes down into the dark depths below, his eyes wide and searching desperately for even a glimpse of Dick in the river's deep murky water.

His breath hitches, a silent sob wracking his frame as he slumps over the edge of the bridge, his hands shaking as he brings them up to his face. His blood-slick fingers thread through his hair, his eyes wide as they stay fixed on the dark water where Dick had fallen.

The sound of a vehicle approaching in the distance catches his ears, but he doesn't acknowledge it. He doesn't turn to see who it is or check to see if it's a threat. He just keeps staring down into the water, the sound of the river below the only thing he can hear over his panicked breathing.

Jason came to a crashing halt at the side of the bridge, the panicked urgency in his voice clear. He stumbled off his bike, nearly falling as he yelled out.

"Where is he--” His hollow eyes darted around at their surroundings. "WHERE IS HE?!"

Dick.

Tim's eyes widened as Nightwing's head broke the surface of the water, his body floating limp against the current. He's alive.

His shoulders tense as he quickly scrambles to his feet, his body protesting in pain with each movement.

The relief he feels is quickly drowned out, however, as he notices the large bioluminescent tail wrapped around his older brother's lower half, keeping him from crashing with the harsh currents.

Jason quickly approached the bridges railing, his heavy boots thudding loudly against the concrete, his heart racing thunderously against his chest, deep sapphire eyes following Tim's wide gaze down into the water. As he saw the sight in front of him, his eyes widened in disbelief.

He gripped the rough stone ledge, leaning over to get a better look at his brother. "What the fuck is that?" The older boys voice cuts through the ringing in Drake's ears.

Tim couldn't respond, his eyes glued on the large tail, his jaw slack. He took in the sight of the long powerful appendage wrapped around his brother's waist. It was beautiful. The long black scales seemed to glow a soft purple even in the dim moon’s light, as if the creature attached was glowing itself. The bioluminescence was something that one could only describe as ethereal.

Tim's heart raced as he took a step closer to the edge of the bridge, his eyes darting around, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature. He couldn't believe his eyes. Neither of them could.

Tim's mind reeled, trying to comprehend what they were seeing. His heart was pounding, his breath coming in short gasps as he tried to process the situation. He knew that he should be scared. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt heavy and thick as he finally managed to speak, his voice low and shaky. "I..I don't know." He croaked.

A ragged breath escaped his lips as the sea creature met his gaze.

He was frozen as he locked eyes with the creature. His mouth went dry, everything around him seemed to disappear into the background. The only thing he could focus on was the deep piercing eyes peering up from the darkness of the river.

Everything about the creature was attractive – its long shimmering scales, bioluminescent glow, and even the large dorsal fin along its spine.

The flutter of the creature's gills when its eyes met theirs didn’t go unnoticed by the brothers. Jason's lips parted into as much of a smirk as it could given the situation.

The Mer's features slowly disappeared under the surface, as it made a sudden exit. Both of the boys' eyes flicked towards the water, but the sudden gasping from their elder brother drew their attention away once more.

Dick was struggling, coughing up water as he attempted to pull himself up and out of the water. His large hand was grasping desperately to the creature's shoulder, as he pulled himself up.

Tim's heart leapt into his throat as he watched Dick gasping for air, his body shivering as he struggled to grapple himself out of the water. He was so focused on his older brother's struggles that he almost missed the flicker of glowing purple as the creature’s tail disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Tim moved forward to help Dick, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to see Jason with a grimace on his face.

"What are we going to do?" Tim asked, his voice filled with worry.

Their conversation was cut short, however, as Dick's coughing subsided, replaced by a strangled gasp for air, his eyes wide and frantic.

"I'm fine," he rasped, his hands trembling as he tried to pull himself up onto the bridge, his body shaking violently. His sharp ocean eyes focused on the crushed seaweed-looking salve used to treat his wounds.

Tim was about to respond when they heard a shuffling from the water, the faint sound of something scratching against the concrete. Tim's gaze snapped down to the water, his heart starting to pound against his chest.

Jason had already stepped back and drawn his weapon, his eyes fixed on a spot in the water a few feet below them. The sound of sloshing water echoed around them again, the dim light from the moon making it difficult to see anything except the faint bioluminescence.

And then, you were gone.

This is the result of the poll -> link.

Don’t judge my random fighting scene with Tim I was trying something out🦖🦖

All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated and encouraged!

I rewrote everything, so I apologise that this took so long to come out💚

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runariya · 2 months ago

Note

🥸🤫☠️ : JK

He wants something 🤫 as down payment before he lets u inside safe haven (a place where survivors go to seek refuge)

(yandere+smut+apocalypse) part of the prompt game pairing: metro inhabitant!Jungkook x survivor!female reader genre: apocalypse!AU, S2L, yandere-ish? warnings: survival after nuclear fallout, dark creatures, denied prostitution for safety, Jungkook is whipped from the start so that should suffice for yandere, foul language, smut, oral (f. receiving), squirting, JK comes in his pants, fluff, lmk if I forgot smth (still hate writing warnings) word count: 3.239 (upsiiii)

a/n: I couldn't rly make JK more yandere without it feeling a bit too dub-con, so I hope that's alright 💕 also it's heavily inspired by the trilogy '2033' by Dmitri Gluchowski (and to my Russian readers: Московское метро выглядит так круто на фотографиях в интернете, надеюсь, однажды смогу его посетить☺️)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You’ve been wandering for what feels like years, though it could be months, or perhaps just weeks; time’s an abstract notion now, in this world broken to pieces and baked under a nuclear sun.

With each step you take, the weight of exhaustion and your protective suit presses harder against your bones, but you don’t let it stop you. The world may be a dying beast, choking on its own ash and poison, but you still walk through it, a lone ember that refuses to snuff itself out. The remnants of cities whisper ghost stories to you as you pass, their bones twisted metal and crumbling concrete, charred earth for flesh. The wind sometimes hisses through the ruins, carrying tales of survivors—others like you, fighting, scavenging, enduring—and sometimes it’s silent, as if even the air is holding its breath for fear of what’s out there in the deep silence of the aftermath.

The black creatures—those twisted silhouettes of the apocalypse—roam the earth like shadows unbound from their hosts, moving through the poisoned fog with an unnatural grace that chills your very marrow. They are things of nightmares, remnants of the old world, perhaps, mutated beyond recognition by the fallout or born anew from the hatred that festers in the radioactive soil.

Their eyes, if they have any, are voids, consuming light and hope in equal measure, and their movements are barely perceptible until it’s too late, until they are upon you, whispering your end in a language only the dead would understand. They hunt relentlessly, not for sustenance, not for survival, but as if driven by some primal force deeper than instinct, a desire not just to kill but to erase, to wipe away the last remnants of humanity like dust from the pages of a forgotten book.

And you—battered, exhausted, teetering on the edge of oblivion—cannot rest, not here, not ever, because even in your sleep they find you, crawling into your dreams with their inky tendrils, reminding you that peace is a luxury no longer afforded to the living outside of shelter.

Your gas mask, an old friend now, covers your face like a second skin at this point, the filters clogged and heavy with days of dust, radiation, and fumes. You’ve noticed the way it pulls in air with more effort now, as if it’s trying to remember how to breathe.

You check the filter again. It’s nearly gone, the little red marker ticking closer to empty with every breath you take. You’ll have to find something new soon or you’ll suffocate on the very air that should sustain you.

This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to find shelter. In those early days, the optimism hadn’t yet drained from your veins and the desperation to belong somewhere, anywhere, had clouded your better judgment.

There had been men—those ones with teeth like wolves, eyes like death, always leering, always demanding. You’ve had to pull your knife more than once to remind them that your body isn’t for sale, that safety shouldn’t cost that much. That death, perhaps, is a kinder alternative to what they would have asked of you.

You can still hear their laughter sometimes, echoing in your skull—mocking, cruel. You had fled from them, from their dark gazes and cruel hands, from the taste of fear that licked at your throat when their eyes lingered too long on your body. Better the damnation from outside than their promises of protection.

But today… today you find yourself at the mouth of the metro. The entrance yawns wide like a secret, and the shadow of it draws you in, as though it’s reaching out for you. Your steps falter, but only for a moment—just long enough to recognise the hesitation in your chest, the uncertainty gnawing still on your mind. The thought flickers briefly across your consciousness—what if the people down there are like those others? What if all you find is more violence, more degradation, more proof that humanity has shed its last skin and become nothing more than base instincts and brutality?

But the mask is running low, and you can feel that desperation is creeping back into your bones, burrowing deep. You tighten your grip on the strap of your pack, pushing the fear down, burying it beneath a layer of resolve. You’ve come this far; you won’t turn back now.

The entrance is quiet—eerily so, as you push the tall hermetic door open and step inside, closing it quickly after. You glance around, eyes scanning the wreckage for signs of life. There’s nothing at first, just the silent exhalation of wind and the low hum of the distant, underground world. Then, movement.

You hear him before you see him—a soft shuffling of boots against stone, the faint click of a weapon being cocked. You freeze, instinctively tightening your grip on your knife as he steps into view.

Tall. Taller than most of the men you’ve encountered in these forsaken times. Muscles sculpted from necessity, sinew and strength coiled beneath his clothes like a waiting beast. He’s staring at you through the mask, gun raised, the barrel pointing at your chest. For a second, neither of you move. Then his eyes flicker downward, just for a moment, taking you in, assessing, like all the others. You brace yourself for what’s to come.

But it doesn’t come.

“Take it off,” he commands, voice low, barely more than a growl. His weapon doesn’t waver, and his expression is hidden behind a mask, eyes glinting through the cracked visor.

You hesitate. There’s a moment where you think of running, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s only the metro behind him, and the world ahead, both full of uncertainties, both as equally capable of destroying you. You suck in a breath, let it fill your lungs like a final goodbye to the stale air in the mask, and then you reach up to peel it away from your face, your skin sticking to the rubber for a moment before it falls loose.

The air tastes strange on your lips—metallic, sharp, almost alien after all this time behind the mask. You lift your eyes to his, half-expecting some sort of reaction, maybe disgust, maybe lust. But instead… there’s something different there, something you hadn’t anticipated. His gaze softens, though his grip on the weapon remains steady. He stares at you as though you’re something out of place in this hellscape, something fragile, a curiosity more than a threat. His gun lowers, just slightly, but his eyes don’t leave your face, as he too rids himself of his mask.

He’s younger than you thought. Ink spills across his skin—tattoos that ripple over his arm, dark lines twisting around muscles. You catch a glimpse of two piercings through his lip when he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out, and then his lips curve, ever so slightly, not quite a smile but not quite hostility either.

“Shelter,” you say, your voice rough, the words like stones scraping against the back of your throat. You cough once, clearing the dust away. “I need shelter.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, his gaze wandering down your frame, but it’s not like before—not like the leering stares of the men who sought to take more than they were willing to give. This is different. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, as though the mere fact that you’re still standing here, after all this, after the end of the world, is enough to stir absolute disbelief in him.

“Alright,” he says, after a pause that seems to stretch out longer than it should. “We’ll see.”

He gestures with his head, motioning for you to follow him into the metro. You hesitate for only a heartbeat before stepping forward. The air inside is cooler, the shadows deeper in the few flickering candle lights, and for a moment, you think you can almost breathe easier.

“Wait here,” he says, nodding towards a bench half-buried in dust. “There’s a process. Need to fill out a form.”

You blink. A form? The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh—almost. But you’re too tired for laughter, too worn down by the world to even consider the possibility of joy. So, instead, you sit with an exhausted plop. You watch as he disappears for a moment, hear the soft scrape of papers being shuffled, and then he’s back, clipboard in hand, a pencil poised like a weapon in his grip.

He doesn’t sit down. Just stands there, towering over you, his presence impressive but not oppressive. You glance up at him, and there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel exposed—not in a dangerous way, but in a way that makes you feel seen for the first time in a long time. It’s unsettling.

He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the clipboard. “Name?”

You give it to him. He writes it down, slow and thoughtful.

“Age?”

Again, you’re honest, coughing right after. He writes again, his eyes lifting to your face between each question as if checking to see if you’re lying, or maybe just to remind himself that you’re real.

“Where did you come from?”

You answer, though the place you once called home feels distant, like something from a dream you can’t quite remember. His pen scratches the paper, and you almost lose yourself in the sound of it, that soft, repetitive scrape, the only noise in the otherwise still part of the metro.

“Any medical conditions? Injuries?”

You shake your head, your body numb to the aches and pains that have become part of you, the exhaustion that’s settled into your bones as permanent as the sorrow for the destroyed outside world.

He writes.

The questions continue. And all the while, his eyes keep returning to you, scanning your face as if he’s trying to commit every line, every shadow, to memory. You can feel his gaze lingering on your skin, not in a way that makes you want to shrink or hide, but in a way that makes you want to ask why he’s looking at you like that, why his lips keep twitching into something that almost resembles a smile, sometimes a pout.

After what feels like an eternity, he finishes writing, his pen stilling against the paper. You think he’s done, that maybe this bizarre interaction will end and you’ll be allowed to rest, to sleep, to breathe for just a moment.

But then he clears his throat again. And this time, when he looks at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Something you can’t quite place.

“There’s one more thing,” he says, and the air between you feels too much like outside, chocking and not fit for you.

You stiffen. You feel that old familiar dread curling up inside your chest again, clawing at your ribs. You’ve been at this stage before, the formality of it, the false promises of security, of kindness. The moment where it all comes crashing down, where the mask slips and you’re left standing there, alone and defenceless against the greed, the hunger that always lurks just beneath the surface of those too desperate to remember what it means to be human.

He sees the shift in you. You know he does. You see it in the way his brow furrows, the way he toys with his lip piercings as though he’s searching for the right words, something to say that won’t make you bolt for the hermetic door. He takes a breath, and for a moment, you think you might run, you think you might grab your mask and take your chances with the toxic air outside because anything—anything—might be better than this.

But then, he speaks.

“I—” His voice falters, and you see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows. His grip on the clipboard tightens, the knuckles going white. “I want to… I want to eat you out.”

The words hit you like a shockwave. You blink, stunned, and for a moment, you’re not sure you heard him correctly. Did he really just—?

You stare at him, your mind racing, trying to process the absurdity of it, the strangeness, the unexpectedness.

He’s looking at you now, eyes wide, almost pleading. There’s no threat in his posture, no demand. Just… want. Raw and unfiltered. Like he’s asking for something he shouldn’t even be allowed to ask, but he can’t help himself. His breath is shallow, and you can see the way his hands tremble slightly, the tension in his body like he’s bracing for you to reject him, to walk away.

And maybe you should. Maybe you should get up, leave this place, leave him behind, leave all of this strangeness and vulnerability and run back into the wasteland where at least the dangers are known, where the air is poison but the intentions are clear. But instead, you sit there, frozen in place, your mind spinning, your heart pounding in your chest as you look at him.

He’s not like the others. That much you know.

He’s so painfully handsome, a rare sight in this broken world, and it’s been so long—too long—since you’ve felt the heat of another body, since before the fallout turned everything to pure survival.

So, when the chance arises, when you catch the hunger in his dark eyes and feel the thrumming ache in your own bones, you seize it like a lifeline in the endless wasteland. Your fingers tremble as you pull the zip of your protective suit down, the rough fabric parting like a sigh, and you free your legs, peeling it off your lower half. You shift on the bench, boots still clinging to your feet as you raise them to rest beside you, and open yourself to him, your legs spread wide, exposing your cunt like a silent offering, need pulsing through your veins.

Jungkook barely hesitates. The clipboard thrown, clattering to the ground behind him, forgotten, his focus now laser-sharp on the sight before him, his eyes flickering wildly between your face and the growing wetness glistening between your thighs. He steps forward with a pull that feels almost sacred, falling heavily to his knees as if the ground beneath him is the only place he belongs. His warm, calloused hands trace their way up your bare legs, the roughness of his skin sparking something primal under your own.

He leans in close, close enough that you can feel his breath ghosting over your slick skin. He takes a deep breath, inhaling you, and the word falls from his lips like a prayer, “Fuck,” and then he’s there, tongue pressing into you with a hunger that’s suffocating, lapping at your cunt as if he’s desperate to prove himself worthy of it, as if he knows exactly how lucky he is to be granted this wish.

A moan escapes your throat, unbidden, as his tongue forces its way into the tight heat of your hole, your hand reaching instinctively for his dark hair, fingers threading through the strands as you push your hips into his eager mouth. The sound that rumbles from deep within his chest vibrates against you, a groan of raw pleasure that seems to send waves of newfound pleasure coursing through your body, arousal dripping from you, coating his tongue.

“Taste so good,” he rasps between breaths, his voice rough and broken with want. “Fucking angel sent from heaven.” His gaze flicks upward, catching yours, his eyes wide with disbelief, adoration simmering beneath the surface despite the fact that you’re strangers, despite the fact that the world outside has crumbled to nothing.

You find yourself moving against him, riding the flat of his tongue, his fingers dancing over your clit in a rhythm that feels almost divine. His other hand grips your thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh with a kind of desperation, as though he’s terrified that if he lets go, you’ll disappear, that this will vanish like a dream.

“Yes,” you cry out, breathless and shaking, as he finds the perfect pace, the perfect pressure, his mouth and hands working together with an almost agonising precision. And neither of you can tear your eyes away from the other, locked in this frantic, desperate exchange of need and lust and something deeper you can’t yet name.

He gives you everything—every ounce of affection and euphoria you’ve been deprived of for months—and you can feel it in the way his own body trembles, the way his hips move mindlessly against nothing, rutting into the air as though he’s just as desperate to be filled with pleasure as you are.

“I’m close,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair, pulling him harder against you, urging him on, desperate for more, for him to push you over that edge.

And he listens, his tongue working with relentless skill, circling your clit with a pressure so precise it almost drives you mad, and then you feel it—your orgasm tearing through you with an intensity that leaves you breathless, shockwaves rippling through your body as you squirt onto his tongue, something you’ve never done before, the surprise of it lost in the haze of pleasure. Jungkook groans beneath you, greedily lapping up everything you give him, cleaning you with his mouth like he never wants to stop, his hips stuttering forward as he spills into his pants, caught in his own silent climax.

“Fuck…” he moans thickly and long, collapsing against your stomach as your legs tremble and fall to the floor, muscles too weak to hold them up any longer.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the silence between you filled only by the sound of your ragged breathing, the disaster of the world momentarily forgotten. But eventually, he pulls himself together, straightening up with a sheepish grin, adjusting his pants which are now damp with his own release, his expression cringing just slightly.

You quickly dress again, pulling your suit back into place, feeling a flush of heat creeping into your cheeks. There’s an embarrassment there, sure, but not disgust—not even close. If anything, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction, of relief, and you catch yourself hoping this won’t be the last time you see him, that he isn’t bored now that his hunger has been sated.

But as you reach for your pack, Jungkook’s voice breaks through the quiet, and he gestures for you to follow him deeper into the metro, his arm draping casually around your shoulders as if he can’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he says, a grin spreading across his face, his eyes bright with something that looks almost like joy—something you haven’t seen in anyone since the fallout. “You can stay with me if you want.”

There’s a pause, your heart skipping a beat at his offer, and you hesitate only for a second before whispering, “I’d like to stay with you, if that’s okay.”

He beams down at you, stars shining in his dark eyes like you haven’t seen in months, and he takes the opportunity to press a gentle kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Good,” he says softly. “I’d like that too.”

PART 2

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mindmelter · 4 months ago

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A Body Stealer Tale: At The Metro

"He's perfect, look at the bulge in his shorts. I want you to wear him, Pres," Luke said to his boyfriend, Preston, referring to the muscular sleeping hunk in front of them.

"I was thinking the same, the guy is packing," Preston said with a smirk. He stood up and suddenly everyone inside the car stopped moving, leaving only Luke and Preston unaffected. Time didn't stop, as the car was still running, Preston had only frozen the people inside it.

He glanced back at his boyfriend, and Luke responded with a reassuring nod. Preston started to undress, when he was completely naked, he stood in front of the sleeping hunk and with his two hands, started to stretch open the hunk's mouth, opening it in an unnatural way as if the man was made of elastic.

Preston looked at his boyfriend, who was watching everything behind him with a huge smile. "I will try to make it sexy since I know you love watching this part," Preston stretched more of the hunk's mouth and slipped his right foot inside. The hunk continued looking peaceful even with a strange man with half his leg inserted into his body.

Luke was hard as he watched his boyfriend forcing his body inside the unsuspected hunk, he loved watching this part, it was the most erotic thing for him. After a few minutes, Preston finally slipped the hunk's handsome face over his and smirked at Luke, who had his pants down and his hard cock in his hand.

Luke watched as the muscular hunk stood up and walked over to him with a grin, kneeling between his legs. "Did you like watching your boyfriend wearing my muscles like a fucking shirt? You fucking freak," The hunk said, his voice was deep and powerful.

"You look so good wearing this guy, Pres"

The hunk smirked, he grabbed Luke's throbbing cock and started sucking him, making Luke moan loudly. The only sounds he could hear were the car's engine running and the slurping noises coming from the hunk deep-throating him.

"B-babe... I'm gonna cum, let me cum on his face," Luke moaned, pushing the hunk off his cock, aiming it at his face and starting to cum, coating the hunk's handsome face with his thick powerful cum.

The hunk just smirked, he cooped some of the cum and sucked his fingers clean. "I like this one, I can't wait to test out his ass," The hunk said, standing up and giving his ass a hard slap, he then turned to look at Luke. "Now is your turn, who are you're gonna pick?"

Luke glanced at the passengers' faces and noticed a handsome young man, frozen in motion like everyone else around him, as he stared at his phone.

Luke walked to the handsome young man and lifted his unmoving head to give his face a proper look. "I will wear this one."

"Good choice, the kid does have a nice package,"

Luke didn't have the powers of a body stealer like his boyfriend had, Preston had the power to turn everyone around him into a wearable bodysuit for a short period, right now everyone inside the car was a bodysuit, but in the end, when Preston turned off his powers, those who weren't worn would go back to normal.

Luke stretched open the young man's mouth and started sliding inside. When he finished putting on his new body, he sat back and pulled down his white shorts to reveal his new big cock. He gave his new shaft a few strokes and soon was spotting a massive throbbing cock, he swung it proudly to his boyfriend.

"You better get on here and ride me, I will destroy your new tight straight hole with this lad's cock," Luke ordered, his voice now a lot more juvenile.

Preston walked to him, his bodysuit being bigger and taller than Luke's bodysuit. Preston pulled down his shorts and slowly sat on Luke's bodysuit's throbbing cock. Preston started to fuck himself with the strength that came with his bodysuit, his ass pressing against Luke's bodysuit's smaller thighs.

"Oooh fuck yeah, babe! Fuck this tight straight ass on this lad's cock! AAARRGHH FUUUCKKKK...." Preston's new massive cock started to shoot cum all over the car's floor, Luke also came right after him.

They both were panting, with Preston lying his back on Luke's body, they both shared a long and sloppy kiss while Luke's cock was still inside Preston. Suddenly, they heard the automated announcement come through the speakers.

"Attention passengers, we are now approaching Lunar Bay Station. This is the final stop on this line. Please make sure to take all personal belongings with you as you exit the train."

Luke and Preston sat back to where their bodysuits were originally sitting, and suddenly everyone in the car started moving again, completely unaware of the loss of time. When they arrived at the station, before walking out of the car, the muscular tattooed hunk winked at the handsome young man. The young man followed right after him with a visible hard-on in his tight white shorts.

The car's door closed behind them; four men had walked in, but only two walked out.

#mind control #bodysuit #male bodysuit

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satoshy12 · 10 months ago

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A whole new World! Date

Danny had been dating Cass for a few months already and wanted to make this date very special. He invited to meet at the top of the Wayne Tower in costume, and there Cass saw what he planned; no wonder he wanted to watch the movie with her! Danny brought a magic carpet from the Ghost Zone and wanted to show Cass it, but he first had to make sure she knew about it. So as they were both on a magic carpet ride, They flew through Gotham, Metroplis, Metro City, Coast City, Star City, Blüdhaven, Central City,

It became very fast something the people talked about and saw out of the window, like a fairy tale; was the date of Black Bat with Phantom.

Phantom didn't even try to hide it, he made it known to world he is dating Black Bat and this is his date with her!

But this was newspaper titles already!

"So this is how heroes date!"

" + For few of the heroes in question. Kid Flash Wally:" Stupid Phantom! He makes the standards too high!" Robin is sarcastic:" So tell me, Where should I find a magic carpent to go on a date? Around the Whole World. "

Yeah, Phantom set the standards for a date very high.

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tamamoarts · 3 months ago

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Ever since watching Randomalistic's 2 hour analysis on Wreck It Ralph and Turbo, I've since fallen in love with the movie, and the horrid grey goblin all over again. So I present to you, a Wreck It Ralph OC I spat out in like a day. Circuit! He's a brand new Turbo from a remastered version of his game and everyone side-eyes him for obvious reasons (he's literally just hanging out)

More detailed story idea under the cut!!!

About a year after Turbo's final defeat and the liberation of Sugar Rush, the arcade gets a brand new addition to the family: and a chillingly familiar one at that! The rights to TurboTime was bought by a more modern company, which results in a reboot of the franchise: SUPER TURBO CIRCUIT! Featuring a reworked version of Turbo and a few other characters to play as! This Turbo is a brand new person, and has absolutely no clue about the horrible tale behind his own name in the arcade. So obviously, you can imagine his surprise when everyone gasps in horror upon seeing him in the metro station. Despite his namesake, he's actually a pretty decent guy- I mean, at least better than the OLD Turbo was. Like, besides his base personality of being cocky and competitive of course. [Like, he'd never think of torturing a kid for 15 years.] He manages to at least get most others to TOLERATE his presence, but the stigma around him haunts his mind like a GHOST. It actually chips away at him really bad, so he starts going by Circuit instead of Turbo to help differentiate himself. Things play out pretty well... until ONE dark night in the arcade, there's a large spark in the wires near the metro... and something enters Super Turbo Circuit. Ever since then, STC's machine has been acting... strangely. And Circuit hasn't been feeling like himself. But surely, those yellow eyes he has now MUST be a mere graphical glitch.

TLDR: the Turbo is haunted

#wreck it ralph #wreck it ralph oc #wreck it ralph turbo #wreck it ralph fanart #doodle #fanart #digital art

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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The moral injury of having your work enshittified

This Monday (November 27), I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.

On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."

This week, I wrote about how the Great Enshittening – in which all the digital services we rely on become unusable, extractive piles of shit – did not result from the decay of the morals of tech company leadership, but rather, from the collapse of the forces that discipline corporate wrongdoing:

https://locusmag.com/2023/11/commentary-by-cory-doctorow-dont-be-evil/

The failure to enforce competition law allowed a few companies to buy out their rivals, or sell goods below cost until their rivals collapsed, or bribe key parts of their supply chain not to allow rivals to participate:

https://www.engadget.com/google-reportedly-pays-apple-36-percent-of-ad-search-revenues-from-safari-191730783.html

The resulting concentration of the tech sector meant that the surviving firms were stupendously wealthy, and cozy enough that they could agree on a common legislative agenda. That regulatory capture has allowed tech companies to violate labor, privacy and consumer protection laws by arguing that the law doesn't apply when you use an app to violate it:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

But the regulatory capture isn't just about preventing regulation: it's also about creating regulation – laws that make it illegal to reverse-engineer, scrape, and otherwise mod, hack or reconfigure existing services to claw back value that has been taken away from users and business customers. This gives rise to Jay Freeman's perfectly named doctrine of "felony contempt of business-model," in which it is illegal to use your own property in ways that anger the shareholders of the company that sold it to you:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/09/lead-me-not-into-temptation/#chamberlain

Undisciplined by the threat of competition, regulation, or unilateral modification by users, companies are free to enshittify their products. But what does that actually look like? I say that enshittification is always precipitated by a lost argument.

It starts when someone around a board-room table proposes doing something that's bad for users but good for the company. If the company faces the discipline of competition, regulation or self-help measures, then the workers who are disgusted by this course of action can say, "I think doing this would be gross, and what's more, it's going to make the company poorer," and so they win the argument.

But when you take away that discipline, the argument gets reduced to, "Don't do this because it would make me ashamed to work here, even though it will make the company richer." Money talks, bullshit walks. Let the enshittification begin!

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/22/who-wins-the-argument/#corporations-are-people-my-friend

But why do workers care at all? That's where phrases like "don't be evil" come into the picture. Until very recently, tech workers participated in one of history's tightest labor markets, in which multiple companies with gigantic war-chests bid on their labor. Even low-level employees routinely fielded calls from recruiters who dangled offers of higher salaries and larger stock grants if they would jump ship for a company's rival.

Employers built "campuses" filled with lavish perks: massages, sports facilities, daycare, gourmet cafeterias. They offered workers generous benefit packages, including exotic health benefits like having your eggs frozen so you could delay fertility while offsetting the risks normally associated with conceiving at a later age.

But all of this was a transparent ruse: the business-case for free meals, gyms, dry-cleaning, catering and massages was to keep workers at their laptops for 10, 12, or even 16 hours per day. That egg-freezing perk wasn't about helping workers plan their families: it was about thumbing the scales in favor of working through your entire twenties and thirties without taking any parental leave.

In other words, tech employers valued their employees as a means to an end: they wanted to get the best geeks on the payroll and then work them like government mules. The perks and pay weren't the result of comradeship between management and labor: they were the result of the discipline of competition for labor.

This wasn't really a secret, of course. Big Tech workers are split into two camps: blue badges (salaried employees) and green badges (contractors). Whenever there is a slack labor market for a specific job or skill, it is converted from a blue badge job to a green badge job. Green badges don't get the food or the massages or the kombucha. They don't get stock or daycare. They don't get to freeze their eggs. They also work long hours, but they are incentivized by the fear of poverty.

Tech giants went to great lengths to shield blue badges from green badges – at some Google campuses, these workforces actually used different entrances and worked in different facilities or on different floors. Sometimes, green badge working hours would be staggered so that the armies of ragged clickworkers would not be lined up to badge in when their social betters swanned off the luxury bus and into their airy adult kindergartens.

But Big Tech worked hard to convince those blue badges that they were truly valued. Companies hosted regular town halls where employees could ask impertinent questions of their CEOs. They maintained freewheeling internal social media sites where techies could rail against corporate foolishness and make Dilbert references.

And they came up with mottoes.

Apple told its employees it was a sound environmental steward that cared about privacy. Apple also deliberately turned old devices into e-waste by shredding them to ensure that they wouldn't be repaired and compete with new devices:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

And even as they were blocking Facebook's surveillance tools, they quietly built their own nonconsensual mass surveillance program and lied to customers about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Facebook told employees they were on a "mission to connect every person in the world," but instead deliberately sowed discontent among its users and trapped them in silos that meant that anyone who left Facebook lost all their friends:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

And Google promised its employees that they would not "be evil" if they worked at Google. For many googlers, that mattered. They wanted to do something good with their lives, and they had a choice about who they would work for. What's more, they did make things that were good. At their high points, Google Maps, Google Mail, and of course, Google Search were incredible.

My own life was totally transformed by Maps: I have very poor spatial sense, need to actually stop and think to tell my right from my left, and I spent more of my life at least a little lost and often very lost. Google Maps is the cognitive prosthesis I needed to become someone who can go anywhere. I'm profoundly grateful to the people who built that service.

There's a name for phenomenon in which you care so much about your job that you endure poor conditions and abuse: it's called "vocational awe," as coined by Fobazi Ettarh:

https://www.inthelibrarywiththeleadpipe.org/2018/vocational-awe/

Ettarh uses the term to apply to traditionally low-waged workers like librarians, teachers and nurses. In our book Chokepoint Capitalism, Rebecca Giblin and I talked about how it applies to artists and other creative workers, too:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

But vocational awe is also omnipresent in tech. The grandiose claims to be on a mission to make the world a better place are not just puffery – they're a vital means of motivating workers who can easily quit their jobs and find a new one to put in 16-hour days. The massages and kombucha and egg-freezing are not framed as perks, but as logistical supports, provided so that techies on an important mission can pursue a shared social goal without being distracted by their balky, inconvenient meatsuits.

Steve Jobs was a master of instilling vocational awe. He was full of aphorisms like "we're here to make a dent in the universe, otherwise why even be here?" Or his infamous line to John Sculley, whom he lured away from Pepsi: "Do you want to sell sugar water for the rest of your life or come with me and change the world?"

Vocational awe cuts both ways. If your workforce actually believes in all that high-minded stuff, if they actually sacrifice their health, family lives and self-care to further the mission, they will defend it. That brings me back to enshittification, and the argument: "If we do this bad thing to the product I work on, it will make me hate myself."

The decline in market discipline for large tech companies has been accompanied by a decline in labor discipline, as the market for technical work grew less and less competitive. Since the dotcom collapse, the ability of tech giants to starve new entrants of market oxygen has shrunk techies' dreams.

Tech workers once dreamed of working for a big, unwieldy firm for a few years before setting out on their own to topple it with a startup. Then, the dream shrank: work for that big, clumsy firm for a few years, then do a fake startup that makes a fake product that is acquihired by your old employer, as an incredibly inefficient and roundabout way to get a raise and a bonus.

Then the dream shrank again: work for a big, ugly firm for life, but get those perks, the massages and the kombucha and the stock options and the gourmet cafeteria and the egg-freezing. Then it shrank again: work for Google for a while, but then get laid off along with 12,000 co-workers, just months after the company does a stock buyback that would cover all those salaries for the next 27 years:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/10/the-proletarianization-of-tech-workers/

Tech workers' power was fundamentally individual. In a tight labor market, tech workers could personally stand up to their bosses. They got "workplace democracy" by mouthing off at town hall meetings. They didn't have a union, and they thought they didn't need one. Of course, they did need one, because there were limits to individual power, even for the most in-demand workers, especially when it came to ghastly, long-running sexual abuse from high-ranking executives:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/25/technology/google-sexual-harassment-andy-rubin.html

Today, atomized tech workers who are ordered to enshittify the products they take pride in are losing the argument. Workers who put in long hours, missed funerals and school plays and little league games and anniversaries and family vacations are being ordered to flush that sacrifice down the toilet to grind out a few basis points towards a KPI.

It's a form of moral injury, and it's palpable in the first-person accounts of former workers who've exited these large firms or the entire field. The viral "Reflecting on 18 years at Google," written by Ian Hixie, vibrates with it:

https://ln.hixie.ch/?start=1700627373

Hixie describes the sense of mission he brought to his job, the workplace democracy he experienced as employees' views were both solicited and heeded. He describes the positive contributions he was able to make to a commons of technical standards that rippled out beyond Google – and then, he says, "Google's culture eroded":

Decisions went from being made for the benefit of users, to the benefit of Google, to the benefit of whoever was making the decision.

In other words, techies started losing the argument. Layoffs weakened worker power – not just to defend their own interest, but to defend the users interests. Worker power is always about more than workers – think of how the 2019 LA teachers' strike won greenspace for every school, a ban on immigration sweeps of students' parents at the school gates and other community benefits:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

Hixie attributes the changes to a change in leadership, but I respectfully disagree. Hixie points to the original shareholder letter from the Google founders, in which they informed investors contemplating their IPO that they were retaining a controlling interest in the company's governance so that they could ignore their shareholders' priorities in favor of a vision of Google as a positive force in the world:

https://abc.xyz/investor/founders-letters/ipo-letter/

Hixie says that the leadership that succeeded the founders lost sight of this vision – but the whole point of that letter is that the founders never fully ceded control to subsequent executive teams. Yes, those executive teams were accountable to the shareholders, but the largest block of voting shares were retained by the founders.

I don't think the enshittification of Google was due to a change in leadership – I think it was due to a change in discipline, the discipline imposed by competition, regulation and the threat of self-help measures. Take ads: when Google had to contend with one-click adblocker installation, it had to constantly balance the risk of making users so fed up that they googled "how do I block ads?" and then never saw another ad ever again.

But once Google seized the majority of the mobile market, it was able to funnel users into apps, and reverse-engineering an app is a felony (felony contempt of business-model) under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a crime to install an ad-blocker.

And as Google acquired control over the browser market, it was likewise able to reduce the self-help measures available to browser users who found ads sufficiently obnoxious to trigger googling "how do I block ads?" The apotheosis of this is the yearslong campaign to block adblockers in Chrome, which the company has sworn it will finally do this coming June:

https://www.tumblr.com/tevruden/734352367416410112/you-have-until-june-to-dump-chrome

My contention here is not that Google's enshittification was precipitated by a change in personnel via the promotion of managers who have shitty ideas. Google's enshittification was precipitated by a change in discipline, as the negative consequences of heeding those shitty ideas were abolished thanks to monopoly.

This is bad news for people like me, who rely on services like Google Maps as cognitive prostheses. Elizabeth Laraki, one of the original Google Maps designers, has published a scorching critique of the latest GMaps design:

https://twitter.com/elizlaraki/status/1727351922254852182

Laraki calls out numerous enshittificatory design-choices that have left Maps screens covered in "crud" – multiple revenue-maximizing elements that come at the expense of usability, shifting value from users to Google.

What Laraki doesn't say is that these UI elements are auctioned off to merchants, which means that the business that gives Google the most money gets the greatest prominence in Maps, even if it's not the best merchant. That's a recurring motif in enshittified tech platforms, most notoriously Amazon, which makes $31b/year auctioning off top search placement to companies whose products aren't relevant enough to your query to command that position on their own:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/25/greedflation/#commissar-bezos

Enshittification begets enshittification. To succeed on Amazon, you must divert funds from product quality to auction placement, which means that the top results are the worst products:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/06/attention-rents/#consumer-welfare-queens

The exception is searches for Apple products: Apple and Amazon have a cozy arrangement that means that searches for Apple products are a timewarp back to the pre-enshittification Amazon, when the company worried enough about losing your business to heed the employees who objected to sacrificing search quality as part of a merchant extortion racket:

https://www.businessinsider.com/amazon-gives-apple-special-treatment-while-others-suffer-junk-ads-2023-11

Not every tech worker is a tech bro, in other words. Many workers care deeply about making your life better. But the microeconomics of the boardroom in a monopolized tech sector rewards the worst people and continuously promotes them. Forget the Peter Principle: tech is ruled by the Sam Principle.

As OpenAI went through four CEOs in a single week, lots of commentators remarked on Sam Altman's rise and fall and rise, but I only found one commentator who really had Altman's number. Writing in Today in Tabs, Rusty Foster nailed Altman to the wall:

https://www.todayintabs.com/p/defective-accelerationism

Altman's history goes like this: first, he founded a useless startup that raised $30m, only to be acquired and shuttered. Then Altman got a job running Y Combinator, where he somehow failed at taking huge tranches of equity from "every Stanford dropout with an idea for software to replace something Mommy used to do." After that, he founded OpenAI, a company that he claims to believe presents an existential risk to the entire human risk – which he structured so incompetently that he was then forced out of it.

His reward for this string of farcical, mounting failures? He was put back in charge of the company he mis-structured despite his claimed belief that it will destroy the human race if not properly managed.

Altman's been around for a long time. He founded his startup in 2005. There've always been Sams – of both the Bankman-Fried varietal and the Altman genus – in tech. But they didn't get to run amok. They were disciplined by their competitors, regulators, users and workers. The collapse of competition led to an across-the-board collapse in all of those forms of discipline, revealing the executives for the mediocre sociopaths they always were, and exposing tech workers' vocational awe for the shabby trick it was from the start.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

#pluralistic #moral injury #enshittification #worker power #google #dont be evil #monopoly #sam altman #openai #vocational awe #making a dent in the universe

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glaciertea · 6 months ago

Text

Masterlist here

Tales the Songs Weave

Ch.14<< >>Ch.16

Notes: Miguel is having a bit of a comeuppance within the society.

CW: Morning sex, fingering, penetration, PinV

Chapter 15: You Let Me Fall First...

Word count: 6.3K

An alarm began to beep, rudely awakening you from your comforting dreams. Groaning out, you rolled over, only to groan even louder.

“Man, I am sore.” You snuggled up closer to him, locking your arms around a bit of his torso.

“Means I did a good job.”

He kissed your shoulder, and then the marks from his fangs lingered on it.

“Mm, is that going to be permanent?”

“Depends. It's going to remain for a good several days, but I can make it permanent if that's what you prefer.”

His voice dropped, tightening his grasp on your waist, spinning you on your back, and squishing his body mass on yours.

“Miggy! Bleh! You're too heavy!”

Your head was buried in his chest, swatting anything your palms could. “Off! Off, I say!”

Ceasing your attack when the rumbling from Miguel's laughter juddered your body, you flopped your hands down in defeat.

Taking in his scent, you closed your eyes. The cedarwood and the smell of your union attacked your nose as you drifted into the future.

Waking up to him every morning to him spooning you, or you spooning him, dallying in bed for an extended period, aware that work or household chores have to be done, yet you neither bother to budge.

Knowing that you're able to be by his side, engulfed in a warmth so prominent, you would never ask for anything again if it meant you got to be by him.

All you would want is to stay in that moment. At this point, at this instant, nothing would wedge you two. Nothing could break this or the future that will bestow.

“Mi Luna? You okay?” Miguel himself shifted off to give you some breathing space, until you shoved yourself back in-between his pecs, muffling.

“I can't hear you, mi corazón.”

“Why do you have better boobs?”

“Huh?”

“Better boobs! They are just so mesmerizing! Impeccable!” You giggle at the pun causing him to groan out.

“I swear… but I don't know about that; I think yours are pretty amazing. If not better.” He hauled you up, eyes on yours.

Entrancing. That was one of the many words to describe whenever he admires those glistening eyes. He admired you, and for the first time in years, he faced sincere peace and authentic love. Dawning how much he pined and ached for this.

Knocking your forehead on his, you joyously grinned. “Let's say it's a tie, with you slightly closer.”

“Deal.” He grazed your lips with his.

You stayed that way for a minute. Your alarm goes from the irksome beeps to the relaxing notes of rhythm and blues. Dulcet breathing is shared between you.

“I have to get up for work.”

Miguel gruffly scoffs, turning you both onto your sides and holding you more firmly.

“Miggy, don't you have work as well?”

“Si.”

“So we have to get up.”

“No. Let's stay here.”

“You know we can't, mi Estrella.”

Caressing his forearm, you slightly turned your neck to peek behind, and you were met with that endearing pout and baggy, pleading puppy dog eyes.

“Come on now; don't do that. You know I can't…”

They seemingly got bigger.

“Damn it, Miggy. Fifteen minutes, but that's it. If Ronnie finds out I'm late because of canoodling, she'll have your body as a display mannequin.”

“Now why am I the one going to be punished?” He smirked, lapping the base of your neck.

“Because she says you're a bad influence on me. And you know, maybe she's onto something.”

“Aw, do you really believe that, corazón?” His tone is harsh and gravelly, yet he holds every bit of that sexy hold that you don't bother to escape.

"I—ah—I think you are. Fu-fuck, Miggy. You have too much- ah, too much ascendancy on me.”

His long fingers found their way in between your thighs as he glided his pointer and middle digits up and down your already dampened sex.

“Mm, I feel as though I don't have that much. But we both know I can strive to add a lot of… guidance on the matter.”

He teased your clit, gently tugging and pinching it, his finger barely pushing into your entrance, evoking a whimper.

“Wha- ah! What more could you want–fuck!" You cried out when Miguel gradually drove his sheathed finger into you.

“I'm a very selfish man, mi Luna.” He emphasized your nickname. “I will find a way to get what I want.”

He propelled in and out, spreading your legs to provide better access, and plunged another deep into you. Your walls cling as he brushes against your g-spot repeatedly.

A strangled cry broke free when he began to scissor. Your slick was dripping down, and the noises emanating from you overpowered the music.

“And from the way you're reacting, I think you like me being a bad influence on you.”

“Miggy!” You drawled out, fidgeting under his touch, ashamed of how you could crumble under his touch so easily.

His palm rubbed against the stiff nub, twisting with each push. His length was pressing against your inner thigh.

“Tan agradable y húmedo sólo para mí. Mi hermosa Luna haciendo esos sonidos solo para mi.”

He frantically pumped, biting down on your neck and leaving fresh, new hickies. You rolled your hips with him, adding more stimulation. Throwing your head back, you covered your mouth to prevent any loud sounds from leaving.

“Luna mía, no los escondas. Hay ocasiones en las que quiero que otros escuchen quién te hace desmoronarse una y otra vez.”

He fingered you faster, his appendages working in a hasty motion, your muscles feeling every satisfying breach, juices smearing and coating his fingers with every stroke.

Slamming both hands over your lips, your head was in a full whirlwind of ecstasy.

“¡¿Qué dije?!” He barked, tugging his fingers out. “Let them hear you!”

He grinded his cock against you before burying himself to the hilt, your wetness melding. His ragged breath sent sparks down your spine. Taking tantalizingly slow bucks, you sob out.

“Mm! Don't do this! Please, please, faster.” You tried to press down against him, only to have him grip and hold onto your waist.

“Will you scream?”

“I-I can't be lou- aah!" His clawed hand wrapped around the sides of your throat as your breathing picked up.

“Will. You. Scream?” He snarled, fairly squeezing.

“Ye-yes! I will!” You garbled out, hot tears streamed down, your vision foggy from the immense burning passion.

“Bien.”

He thrust at an intense pace, your back dragging up and down his hard abs and chest as you wailed out.

His balls slap against your folds, adding more to the already noisy orchestra of thrills. The engorged tip strikes the top wall as you flutter around his length, feeling every vein and drive.

“Oh Miguel! So big! So good with your fat cock!”

His ego shot up. Gripping your neck tighter, your mind began to race.

He could easily snap you in two if he wanted; in a split second, you could be broken into nothing. How exposed you were. Yet he's so rough, but gentle, that he's holding back so much just to bring you these fleeting experiences.

And that aroused you further.

You shrieked his name, begging him to go faster, and Miguel happily obliged. He pulled out, briskly moving you into your stomach, shuffling around until he was behind. One leg planted on the ground, the other perched and bent up next to your leg.

Propping you up until your ass was in the air and spreading your legs, Miguel grunted at the sight of the glistening streams of your shared fluids.

“Oh, mi Luna, I will devote and admire you and your body until the end of days. And even that wouldn't suffice for my needs and wants for you.”

He started to handle himself, pumping a few times, and began to slip back into your tight entrance. His hands massaged your back, sliding down until his talons groped your rear, making you whine out.

Sweaty and disheveled, you awaited in anticipation when he penetrated, filling and stretching you back up.

You sharply inhaled at the suddenness, shouting as Miguel rolled his pelvis into you, watching your behind bounce back whenever he rocked forward.

“Such a nice ass that only papi gets to see.”

“Miggy, you are so–fuck–so untamed!”

“That's right. Take it, mi Luna, take it all.”

Clenching onto the sheets as tight as your heat, the bed lurched against the barrier, embarrassed at how you would have to really apologize to your next-door neighbors now.

Pushing you down even further, he found the right spot that had you screaming your head off. Your heart pulsed, your brain was heavy, and your body was flaming hot.

Your eyes rolled in the back of your skull, your tongue flopping out as saliva ran down your chin and onto the pillow. Miguel strummed your stomach, hips, and thighs, stopping right over your clit and stroking it with figure eights.

“I love hearing you scream; everything about you is so good, mi corazón.”

“You're so wonderful to me–Mmm! Fuck, fuck! Right there!”

The tandem syncing of each push drove you two delirious. Your words were incoherent, with every slap and squish holding that daze deep in them.

He was drunk on you. Drunk for it all. The pooling from the sweat and your slick as he smelt your heady release was edging its way up.

You eyed the clock and internally winced. Your little rendezvous spilled into overtime. Ronnie would survive.

“Close! I'm close—mi Estrella! Cum in me! Fill me up! Give me every drop!”

Miguel moaned out, the fuse ready to explode from your needy cries. Digging into your hips, he sank in as much as possible, nearly slipping out from his violent thrusts and your drenching cunt.

“Take–take it. So tight for papi, so good; such a good girl, mi Luna.”

His mind floated back to his kids. A vivid scene of them jumping on the bed, wanting you two to wake up and make cinnamon waffles for breakfast, as you try to scold them but end up laughing at the silly situation.

You'll turn and kiss him, rolling out of bed to put your house slippers on, as he’ll carry the little ones as they crawl and swing all over his body.

“Mmmph!”

Miguel spilled out and bent forward. You felt his hefty chest on your back, convulsing madly and milking nearly every spurt and every drip. There was so much shooting deep in your core.

You whimpered as a certain set of fangs found their way back into your neck. Miguel held you securely when realization snuck up on him.

“Fuck. Luna, mi Luna, corazón, stay awake. I didn't mean to bite. Mierda, shit, shit.”

He pulled himself off you, shoving some of the stray strands of ejaculation back into your opening, satisfied with the result. Flopping you on your back, he stared at the stickiness of your body and your glossy, fulfilled eyes.

Leaving the room before coming back, he began to dab you with a clean, damp towel, sheepishly grinning at his interim paralyzed partner.

“Call… Ronnie… gonna… late…”

“Do you think I'll look good as a mannequin?”

A shiver of a curved smile appeared on your numb face before Miguel kissed you tenderly.

He did get an earful from Ronnie, nagging and demanding to know what he did to ‘her girl,’ and how she was going to stuff him to be a display dummy. Luckily, Ronnie had a severe hangover and had a special guest over, so the shop was closed for the day.

Taking advantage of that, he assisted you in striving to reduce the immobilization timeframe. While ordering breakfast and cuddling you, you eventually regained your voice and chatted about everything and nothing at the same time while awaiting the meal.

“You know, I was wondering why I didn’t scream; you caught me before it could come out. And my poor neighbors. I hope they’re cool like the downstairs one.”

“What was that thing they told you?” Miguel scratched feather-light touches with his claws along your back.

“That you were stirring my meals all in one pot.”

“I still don’t understand what the hell that means.”

Stifling your giggles, you exhaled a content sigh. “Also, thank you for calling Ronnie. Sorry she cursed you out like that.”

“I’m used to her diablerie behavior by now; she is basically your version of Peter. And speaking of Peter, you met him the other day? I'm surprised you didn’t tell me that.”

“Oh yeah! That was an hour of… irrefutable absurdity. I was tempted to call you and beg you to come over, but I held my own.”

Miguel rearranged the positions so you were eye level with him, interested in hearing your side.

“What all happened? What all did you talk about? Peter didn’t harass you, did he?” He glowered his eyes, nearly awakening a new wave of desire from you.

“N-no. He was fine. Though a bit overzealous, he was very sweet. And that Mayday is such a sweetheart, but you can definitely tell that she is his daughter.”

“Did you show her around?”

“I did. We played with some of the toys and read some pop-up books together. We had a grand time.”

A quiver of a smile nearly glinted on him. “I would’ve come by, you know.”

“I know, just didn’t want you to experience Ronnie and Peter under one roof yet. I was the guinea pig for us. And it went entirely as we expected. It was a R-rated Ronnie and PG-Peter story; one was more brash and the other modest. But one day you will succumb to the eccentric extravaganza.”

You simultaneously grimace at the thought of all four in the same room.

“I also heard you talked about me.”

“Of course, why would I not? You are amazing and deserve to be gushed about. Even though I have moments of me being a bit selfish and wanting to hog you all for myself, I know that at the end of the day, I’m yours and you’re mine, and that I will always get to be around you. Well, not always around, but you know what I mean. But yes, I do want to shout from the rooftops and yell, ‘hey! That’s my handsome Renaissance marble sculpture on the runway lover. Let me give a bazillion reasons why he’s the best!’”

His pulse raced, and his cheeks crimson like his eyes. The compliments and unfeigned love from you still shocked and bemused him after all this time. You never saw him as this tainted figure; you accepted his flaws and the mistakes that he wanted to better and mend with open arms and patience. And you didn't uphold any ridiculous standards or expectations for him.

Thud.

He dropped his forehead down for that welcoming sign you both knew, and pushed his lips into yours. He was hungry and ardent for you. He would devote his time to you at the drop of a hat, and he wouldn't let anything or nothing hold him back from it.

“Me traes muchas cosas que pensé que nunca podría volver a sentir.”

“I love you too, Miggy.”

Interrupted by a buzz from the doorbell, Miguel scowled and stumbled out of bed, ready to tear apart whoever was at the door. After inadvertently frightening the delivery person, Miguel helped you sit up against some pillows and mostly fed you.

“Hey.”

“Yes?” He held up a fork of eggs and brought them to your mouth.

“How is–this is yummy–how is Jess doing with her pregnancy? How far along is she?” You swallowed and opened up for another bite.

“Jess? Well, she's okay. She's going pretty smoothly, I think.” Miguel picked up his toast and chomped down on it before turning back to you.

“It's okay to say you don't know, Miggy.”

“I don't know. Is that a bad thing?”

“I wouldn't necessarily say bad, but they are still your workers who have feelings and probably suffer copious amounts of pain. It'll be good to check in on her. Especially if she's working so hard, it could be taking a toll on her.”

“But she's a spider; she can handle it.” He took a sip of your orange juice before leaning toward you.

“Thank you. And not exactly the external aspects; I'm sure she is a strong woman, but the internal ones as well.”

Trying to lift your arm to point at your brain, it promptly plopped back down. “Gosh, your venom is strong. Back to the matter at hand. Pregnancy is a tough thing. Well, I wouldn't know, but I've read the stories. You're carrying another being in you, creating a new life. A baby deriving one's energy is a lot to handle.”

Another bite. “So simply see how she's doing in general, deal?”

He smiled and munched the rest of his bacon. “Deal, mi corazón. Also, I see you eyeing my potatoes. I'll give you some in exchange for your strawberries.”

“You know, potatoes aren't even that delicious. They're the weakest of all the vegetables.”

“¡Oye! Weak?! You know, I take offense to that. You're making my ancestors weep.”

“Ah yes, I don't want to upset the potato ghosts, do I now?” Your voice was innocent, but the outspread grin was crafty.

“How very stereotypical of you. For that, you will be disciplined.” He plucked one of your strawberries up and ate it, leaves and all.

A rasping stutter of squeaks and other noises came out of you, causing you to full-stop at the sounds you somehow managed to produce. Staring at one another, Miguel began to choke on the fruit as uncontrollable howls of laughter escaped.

“Oh my God! I can't even hide! This is clearly the worst punishment. The worst timeline!”

You bickered frivolously as Miguel gave in and fed you some of his potatoes, much to his amusement.

With the sliver of sunshine on your bed, dust particles suspended in the golden pigment, the soft melodies from the alarm clock, and your beaming smile and snickers, Miguel completely forgot about his straining life. His taxing “job.”

You were really good at doing that.

He thought about how he'd be prepared to trade nearly everything to preserve these moments with you forevermore. And it wasn't the first time these convictions came to light.

“Miguel… Miguel, where are you? We need—hey. Hey! Be careful with that! I said, be careful! He'll kill us if it's- Miguel! We need you here at the headquarters. We caught two Electros, and they are trying to mirror each other's attacks, but they're messing with th- put it down! Hey, hey, no! Miguel, please hurry!”

His watch blared from the floor. He forgot that he threw it off last night in the heat of the moment, but he didn't turn it off.

“Tienes que estar bromeando, ¿por qué estos idiotas no pueden hacer nada?” He sneered before tidying up the area.

“I'm assuming it's a big danger?”

“Doubtfully. They're sadly too incompetent to get anything done for themselves.”

“Hey, there are some days we need extra help. I mean, you literally had to feed me.” You gave a lopsided smile.

“Yes, but there's a difference. I don't mind doing that. In fact, I would do that all day, every day.”

“So you'd rather shove spoonfuls of eggs down my throat forever than fight electric people?”

“That's exactly right. Especially shoving more than eggs down your throat.” He winked, gathering up his underwear.

“Hey! No! Stop that!” You were flustered by the accidental innuendo you made and his cocky response.

“You brought that upon yourself, mi corazón.”

You blew a raspberry at him and tried to cross your arms, but to no avail. He smirked, grabbing his devices as his suit began to materialize. Your eyes glanced down as the digital outfit hugged his general buttocks area nicely.

“Even got a better ass; now how is that fair?”

“I heard that.” He perched himself on the edge of the bed and stroked your face.

“Good.” You puckered out your lips as he inclined inward, giving you a sweet kiss.

“How did I get you? Me of all people.”

“Simply by being you and this handsome Renaissance marble sculpture on the runway, but mostly you.”

Those genuinely compassionate eyes had him in that trance. If given the opportunity to become trapped in them, he would purposely avoid the exits.

“Do you want your shirt back?”

“No, leave it on. I don't want mi Luna to get cold.”

“It's almost summer.”

“Right. You justifiably look cute in it, and I now have a newfound obsession with seeing you in my formal clothes.”

“Leave your clothes; I'll wash them. I may even be wearing that blazer when you come back. Just the blazer.” Your eyes were heavily hooded at the thought.

“Don't tempt me, mi Luna.” He tilted your head back and growled down your neck, obtaining a hushed moan.

"Ah- ye-yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” He simpered, appearing pleased at the response.

He settled you back in bed, making sure you were comfortable. Ready to doze off, you quickly halted him before he climbed out the window.

“Miggy?”

“Si, mi Luna?” He phased his mask on and turned back to you.

“Do you have a thing for Peter? I'm validly curious; I wouldn't even be mad. So is it on the down low or…”

You blink as he narrows his eyes. You couldn't exactly see them, but his mask did it for him.

“Ay dios mío. You're lucky I find you wonderfully beautiful and amazing.”

“I love you too!” You yelled out with the last bit of strength and fell right to sleep.

Miguel shook his head at your ridiculous Peter comment, flinging himself around his city. If you were going to start joking about that, he wouldn't mind. He imagined him chasing after you as you teased him, wiggling your cute bottom and sticking your tongue out, taunting that he couldn't catch you.

He'd take that challenge, catching you off guard with his speed, and begin to mercilessly tickle you. Your shrieking laughter will fill the room until you'll cry out for mercy before catching him off balance, attacking him into submission, rolling around, and play-fighting before one thing may lead to another.

He never wants this to end.

Down goes a string.

The arrival of summer was a welcoming one this year. The leaves are now a richer green, the air is heating up, and above all, the skies have been fair.

You decided to take advantage of this day and scroll down to a certain park, especially since you got an extra thirty minutes added to your usual hour break.

“I wonder if it'll be crowded. I hope not. School should still be in session for the next couple of weeks or so.”

Arriving at the spot, there were a few picnickers, joggers, and a couple of teens probably skipping classes.

“Well, I'll have to make do. I can't have this lovely day all to myself.”

Scoping out for a place to lounge, you caught wind of a certain person in everyday wear, whose head was thrown back, body stiffer than a metal pole, likely due to the quantity of people, and seemed more tired than usual, despite the shades disguising his eyes.

Bounding your way over, you made sure to stand a few inches aside to not be caught immediately.

“Is this seat taken?” You shrouded your voice, trying to bring it down as deeply as possible.

“¡Ay dios mío! ¡Sí, este asiento está ocupado! ¡No! I'm not interested in-”

Miguel frustratingly snapped himself up, ready to tell off whoever was harassing him this time, when he caught himself.

“Luna? Mi Luna!” His strident tone instantly dropped as a zealous perk drifted out instead. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working around this time.”

Wriggling yourself next to him, you took up any room, sitting arm to arm. “Usually, but Ronnie allowed me to take my break early today and gave me extra time, so I decided to use it wisely. And boy, did I use it well or what?”

“Or what?” He smirked and gruffly chuckled, receiving an eye roll and a jab from your elbow.

“Haha, so funny. I'm shocked to see you out here. From the way you flared up and nearly barked at me, I'm assuming others have been taking an interest?” You roamed over potential scouters who made an effort to play their hand with him.

“No creerías la cantidad de personas que no aceptan un no por respuesta. Es increíble, si te digo que no me interesa, déjalo pasar, ¡¿por qué los idiotas insisten en ir más lejos?!” He spouted out so fast that you got lost in a vortex.

“One of these days I will learn all of that. Mark my words. Mark it!” Your finger aimed at the sky in determination.

“Ay, sorry, mi Luna. And yes, you will. I just don't understand why people can't leave me alone! Why must they persist in any sort of advancement? And it's worse when I tell them I'm taken and they still try.” He jeered out, nearly grating the bench.

It was difficult for him. There were even points where some would try and hit on him when you were right there. They were very seldom, but when they happened, it was never fun. Miguel would shut it down, but in the most Miguel way possible. His towering stature and that unnerving presence he seemingly always has.

And it really shows when someone tries anything with you. He's a formidable person, but it seemingly ramps up to the point of no return.

Nonetheless, you could imagine how much worse it must be when he's by himself.

“They probably have this idea that you're saying that just to say it. The ‘well, I don't see them here,’ thought. Or some genuinely don't understand.”

“More likely the latter.” His snarkiness jumped out at no one in particular. “Tengo momentos en los que quiero darles un espectáculo. Inclínate y-”

Your eyes flickered to his face, cocking your head to the side.

“Nevermind. Ranting at this point.”

“Alright, what's going on, mi Estrella? You gave yourself a sporadic moment to recuperate, so something is bothering you, somebody made you upset, or the mixture.” You swirled yourself so one of your legs was on the wooden seat and the other swayed, your attention all on him.

You've been able to pluck up details about him effortlessly over time. With his usual stoic attire, many have a strenuous time depicting what exactly could be wrong with him, to the point that they eventually give up. Yet he allows his barricade of stoniness to partially crumble around you, so you don't face as much strain from getting a reading as much. He doesn’t feel the need to only sanction his two main emotions, stern and militant, toward you; he can express a handful with zero inconvenience.

And he plans on leaving it that way.

“Jess’s little rookie. She's been testing my patience as of late. Very, very thin ice she's been skating on. Les dices una cosa, pero siguen insistiendo, siguen intentando insistir en un punto que no se tendrá en cuenta, pero persisten.”

His knee hastily jittered, nerves and aggravation coursing through his veins and blood. All over. Your hand hovered over it and waited for the signal. It took him a minute to pacify and decrease the jerkiness, but he felt that hand massaging his joint.

“The ghost teen, right? What has she been doing exactly?” You spoke in that serene way that soothed him temporarily.

“She’s been wanting to see this ‘friend’ of hers. She’s been pestering me non-stop about it, but she knows she isn’t allowed, yet keeps fucking insisting!” He impaled his talons into the bench, overextending his very little patience from stripping any wood off it.

“Ah, yeah, teenagers don't take it kindly when third parties tell them who they can or can't hang out with.”

“But I gave her a reason! That should be enough, and I talked to her without yelling. So I don't understand!”

“It can go a bit deeper. If she has a strong, established bond with this person, reasoning and logic can sometimes be thrown off the table. Yes, they may understand what you're saying and may see your point, but when emotions get involved, it can be a bit finicky.”

You mindfully removed his claw from the seat and took the other, rubbing your thumbs over his knuckles.

“Take us, for example. If someone were to forcibly tell one of us to break it off, even with or without reason, would you do it?”

Miguel furrowed his heavy brows in deep thought. “Yes? No. Maybe? No. Yes? No. I don't know.”

“Mhm, there it is. You know the logic is still there, but it's on the floor, out of sight. The emotions are still on that table.”

His hidden eyes observed your gentle hands. “Would you?”

“No. Maybe? Well, honestly, no. It depends, but I'm pretty obstinate about what I care for. It takes a lot to dissuade me, but once I have that vice grasp, you'll need an entire brigade to move me.”

Miguel smiled, but it faltered just as fast. “I don't know what to do. I had Jess try and discuss it with her, but that fell flat. I tried to listen, but she would try and pick an argument when I gave her the known causes. It's never good enough.” He didn't bother to mask his scathing crabbiness.

You licked your lips when an idea struck. “How about you have a compromise?”

“What?”

“Compromise with her. Maybe have someone watch over her, a parental figure or guardian, when she visits him.”

“What if she gets too engrossed when we need her? Or try to do something more?”

“Keep her preoccupied, so she isn't that distracted, even though she's a teen. Well, it can help her learn balance in a way. Maybe have her sweep the area; uh, are they from the same universe?”

He shook his head.

“Well, tell her to keep an eye out for suspicious activities and document tabs to immediately give to you. She could still see him and be kept busy as well. Also, like with any teen, give her a curfew. She can dwindle and hang, but not for too long.”

The cognitive gears in Miguel's mind began to bustle and turn. “I could—I think I can work with that.”

You watched the inquisitive thinking process take over before he feverishly nodded his head. “Yeah, I can do something like that. I can work something around it. Are you sure you aren't a spider with that beautiful, smart brain of yours?”

He swamped you in a strong embrace. A sign of affection and a sign to make sure others stay the hell away from you two.

“Miggy! Nooo. I try to see what can fairly work, if it could work, and hope that it makes sense.”

“Well, whatever it is, don't get rid of it.”

“That's the plan. And also, you're conflicted about wanting to keep me around?” You mischievously hummed out, nestling your head in his chest.

“No, no, I'm stubborn. And even if I were to say yes, I'd still find a way back to you. You have this magnetic hold that if I were to pull away, I would come flying back right to you.”

“Now that's very sound and reassuring. And I'd say you're more iron-willed. You don't back down at all.” You smiled so largely that it seemed as if your mouth took up most of your face.

“I certainly don't. Well, maybe there's an expectation.” He stroked your hair, scratching and massaging your scalp.

“And what's that?”

“I wouldn't mind giving in for you. You, the commander, and me, the lowly, humble subordinate. Whenever you tell me to jump, I'll question it at first, then immediately do it mid-sentence. Tell me to rollover; I may. Tell me on my knees… you know, I wouldn't mind that one at all.”

Blowing a raspberry, you covered your face from the sheer implications. “Oh my gosh, Miggy. I swear you are so indecorous, I wouldn't know what to do with you!”

“I can think of many things.” He pinched your inner thigh, making you yelp and playfully chastise him as a few shifty and nosy eyes cast their way towards you two.

You wasted some time mindlessly rambling back and forth about how the day has been treating you two, from people to unremarkable tasks. The normality that he adores so much. Eventually, you both had to get back to your respective jobs. To Miguel, it was his penitentiary. He posed innocence, asking if he could take you back to your job, but you insisted that he go back so he wouldn't get in trouble.

Then he strained his eyes by giving that endearing puppy-dog look, and somehow, it ended up with him walking you halfway back.

“How are you doing, Miggy?”

“Huh? I'm fine. My mood hasn't changed in the past five minutes.”

“No, I mean in general. It's been a minute since I asked you that, so I'm just interested. How are you feeling?”

Peering up at the partly cloudy blue sky. The moon was slightly visible, but still enough to be seen by many.

“In general?” He had to really think.

Things have been seemingly off-putting for the past couple days. With Gwen being so keen on visiting him, the sustainable mass of anomalies surfacing frequently, and more random hounding from Jess and other spiders, he evidently cannot catch a single break. More so than before.

Even with himself, he’s been feeling weirdly skittish as of late.

“I’ve been busy, to say the least. There is more frustration dealing with missions, as you know, and things have been... abnormal. I can’t exactly explain it.”

“Right. One of those occasions where you can’t pinpoint the exact emotion. I had many moments like that, even some that came at the most inconvenient of times.” You swung your arms back and forth, jumping over some cracks in the sidewalks.

“That’s the thing, mi corazón. I feel the usual annoyance and tiredness, but there is still an unspecified emotion that I know is there. Maybe I can’t pinpoint it like you stated, but what I do know is that it’s bothering me to no end.”

You faltered a bit in your steps. You wish you could understand what he does slightly more. Being on the outside and only allowed peeks from shreds of slits in the wall isn’t the most instructive and fortuitous way of receiving information. Especially when that tall crack only opens up so much to be viewed. Maybe you could ask for him to go further into specifics or get a personal tour of the teeming headquarters itself in the near future.

That would certainly help out a lot more. However, knowing him, would he even dare to allow it?

Miguel is very acute when it comes to separating the workplace from you. Well, not fully. He purposely makes sure to not let many things slip. He's particularly precise about what he gives away to keep you in a loop and still out of it for your safety.

“If only I were more helpful to you. It sucks hearing you have to deal with all that and have so much fallback on you.”

“Ay, mi Luna, you already do so much for me.” He halted in his tracks, lightly grabbing your arm. “You bring me serenity and this sense of openness whenever I'm around you.”

He still saw the self-inflicting guilt on your face when Miguel bent down until his forehead plopped on yours.

“Want to know how else I'm feeling in general? Happy. A scarce emotion that I haven't felt since mi osita, Gabi. I honestly thought I wouldn't have ever gotten to experience it again, but here I am. So trust and believe me when I tell you, mi Luna, you have done and do so much.”

Wiping away the tears threatening to form, you smile, kissing him with tenderness and love. “You big, loveable, gorgeous oaf. Don't make me cry before work, or Ronnie will think you made me upset.”

“Ronnie doesn't scare me. I'll show her the true reason why that'll make her recoil deep into her office.”

You share an earnest laugh before leaning in for one more deep kiss.

A string snapped.

“I love you, mi Estrella.”

“Y te adoro, mi Luna.”

When you reached the midway mark, he slyly tried to escort you all the way, but you caught on and ordered him to go back to work.

“At this moment, I'm the commander, and you are?” You folded your arms and tapped your foot, throwing back what he proclaimed at the park.

“Ay dio—I'm the lowly, humble subordinate.”

“Mhm. And as your commander, I am commanding you to go back to work before they harass you any further, and that I will be okay.” You grinned; the patience and affirmation in your pitch said it all.

“Yes ma'am. I will go.”

“Good boy.”

That definitely stirred something in him.

“I'll see you later on, Miggy. Bye, mi Estrella!” You blew a kiss and strolled away.

He hated to watch you go, but he knew that at the end of the day, you'd always be there waiting. He turned and began to trudge back.

Back to that place. Back to the hellscape. The plague that never ceases. The turmoil that will never stop. Just like this itch brewing deeply. What was it? What was this incarnation dwelling inside?

The fact that he had no control over it or any logical insight into it drove him insane. Was it a guttural reaction? Was his own body betraying him, refusing to gift his mind with information that loomed on his already pressurized shoulders?

He can't sense much. No spider sense. So why was he so hunched over this? Why does it seem that there's an arbitrary danger lurking somewhere?

Did the room become faintly... dimmer?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ella-janehaven @prozacgooble @sanguwuxyoonbummy

#Spotify #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #tales the songs weave #miguel o'hara #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #atsv miguel #miguel fanfic #miguel spiderverse #miguel x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #atsv #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara x you

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lisbeth-kk · 6 months ago

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May Prompts (23) Apology

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter23)

Summary: Rosie shares a surprise with her parents and uncle. All of them have different thoughts about this unexpected development, and silent negotiations are carried out.

Twenty-Three Years Old

I knew that Papa not fully understood my reason for studying international politics and data, but to his credit he didn’t for one second try to convince me to give it another thought and opt for something science related instead. Dad was just relieved that I’d finally had found a path to walk, after several failed attempts. Uncle Myc, well he tried to hide how utterly pleased he was with my choice, but by now I knew him well enough to read the signs. Truth be told, said signs weren’t that subtle.

“Bien choisi ma chérie,” he beamed at me, while Papa scowled at him.

“Merci oncle,” I retorted. “I can’t wait to start this and go to Paris.”

The three-year BA degree was taught by The University of London Institute in Paris. We would be taught in English, but if we had an A level in French, we could also take French courses. I’d learned French in school for years, and uncle Myc and I often conversed in French when uncle Greg wasn’t around.

I think it’s needless to say that my security and comfort in France was well taken care of. Papa and uncle Myc had a conversation using their eyes only when I spilled the beans. Dad knew exactly what was going on and went to make tea while negotiations were carried out. Once the brothers were satisfied, uncle Myc took out his phone and sent several texts or emails. By now, I knew it’ll be futile to pester any of them of what was going on. I was just relieved that no one had tried to talk me out of it, making me feel uncertain or guilty for leaving the country; actually, moving out of my childhood home.

My reasons for choosing this subject were multifaceted. I’d always enjoyed learning facts, obscure and otherwise, about different countries and cultures. Having had a relatively unorthodox upbringing, containing all sorts of people, played a big part too. The cherry on top was that the school was abroad. Nana’s tales of her experiences overseas and how educating it is to have lived some time in another country and society, had always seemed enticing to me.

***

The university was situated close to the Invalides and the Seine, while my lodgings were in the Charonne area in the 11th arrondissement on a cosy cobble street, with a nearby metro station. My landlady, Marguerite Vachon was one of uncle Myc’s acquaintances, from where, I still have no idea.

Marguerite preferred that I used her given name instead of the formal, Madame Vachon.

“Je ne suis pas ancient,” was her favourite line and reminded me quite a lot of Nana.

“I am not ancient, dear,” was a statement Nana had used every so often.

Marguerite was a petite and elegant woman. Her hair was cut in a bob, coloured black with a few red stripes. I never saw her without lipstick or makeup. She always wore bespoke dresses and high heeled shoes. I deduced that she was far more than a landlady. When I left for school in the morning, I could hear her sing or talk on the phone, and when I returned, she always opened her door and inquired about my day.

“She’s clearly spying for Mycroft,” Papa’s voice told me.

And there was something about her, which I couldn’t put my finger on. Something mysterious, secret, perhaps even dangerous.

***

It seemed like Marguerite had my schedule memorised. Not that I’d given her the information, but when she slipped, I got my suspicions confirmed. To be fair, it wasn’t slipping per se. She couldn’t have known that class was dismissed early that day.

Luckily, I spotted her and was able to hide behind a wall before she saw me. I’d almost missed her, because she wasn’t wearing her normal dress and high heels, but red trousers, a white and blue-striped jumper, and white trainers. Instead of one of her posh handbags, she had a dark blue canvas bag diagonally draped over her chest.

Papa had taught me a few tricks when it came to the fine art of following people without being discovered. I’ve never had much use of them obviously, but now I saw an opportunity. How I would explain this and apologise if I was caught, never crossed my mind.

I was sceptical when Marguerite walked to the metro station, but I was able to get into the same carriage as her, and it seemed that she had no idea she was being followed. She got off three stops later and walked in the direction of the big Père-Lachaise cemetery.

A fitting location for obscure and shady affairs.

Marguerite knew where she was going, walking briskly but not hurried. I had walked the premises several times before and knew where she was headed when I saw the grand tomb of Sir Richard Wallace, the British baronet who contributed millions to the Parisian poor during the Siege of Paris in the early 1870s.

This reeked of another posh Brit I knew.

When Marguerite had placed a folder by the tomb and another woman picked it up five minutes later, I had a hard time keeping myself composed. The woman picking up the folder was the French equivalent of Anthea.

I sent uncle Myc a text when both women were out of sight.

Thanks for keeping track on me, but this thing is like being part of a French noir film. You can tell Papa I think you’re both growing sentimental, and I demand an apology!

Also available on AO3

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies

#may prompts 2024 #may 23: apology #sherlock fandom #rosie watson #sherlock #john watson #mycroft holmes #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #ao3 fanfic

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parasolyaa · 6 months ago

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give me rtc character hcs for being in the subway for the first time

i love how this implies that they’ve never been in the subway before. well, since most of them almost never left uranium, this checks.

ocean — she always advocated for public transportation (and for some reason believed it wasn’t widely used, probably because she assumed everyone could use a car and subway was for noble people who cared for the environment), but if she ever went to a big city, she never stayed there for long, and usually walked by foot. when she actually used the subway for the first time, she decided to hand out flyers that said something like “thank you for choosing public transit! here are some other ways you can help the planet (…)”. ended up absolutely overwhelmed and in a taxi, wiping tears with the flyers no-one seemed to like. wonder why.

noel — romanticized the shit out of paris metropolitan, said he researched all about it and prided himself on being more knowledgeable of it than a local. when he got to go to france (probs a family/school trip when he was a teen) he bought an overpriced graphic t-shirt with the metropolitan map and confidently entered the underground. immediately got disappointed it wasn’t all gothic catacombs, and accidentally sat on a wrong train. had to take off his t-shirt and figure out where he was, and after two hours of being chest naked in the french underground and hopping from one wrong train to another even wronger train a kind passer-by pointed out that the print on his tee was of marseille, not paris. he spent an extra hour figuring out the correct map and asking for directions in broken french (the locals despised him). he entirely missed the drag show he waited for, and ever since then grew to hate the french underground.

mischa — is in on a ukrainian inside joke about metro in odesa. successfuly convinced all choir that there’s metro in odesa. there is no metro in odesa.

there’s also a ukrainian book called toreadors from vasyukivka, where two boys want to build a metro in their village, so they dig a big hole in their yard and a cow accidentally falls into it. safe to say their idea doesn’t stick. at some point these boys get to kyiv and immediately get lost in metro there. that’s 100% mischa. he did this i was the cow.

also he always finds ways not to pay for his ride: jumps over the tourniquet’s, crawls under them, squeezes in with a person in front of him etc. sometimes gets extremely bored and hides in a train wagon when it reaches the final stop, and stays in it when it goes to depo.

ricky — his parents drove him everywhere by car, and told the tales about toronto subway being inaccessible, dangerous and full of freaks. he never believed them. at some point (maybe in a trip with the choir) he got to travel by subway himslef. it was, in fact, a bit of an unpleasant experience, but he found out that it sucks on his own terms and was lowkey proud.

also he was listening to some cringefail furry music (i do not know if furry music is a thing but it will be now) and realised his earphones disconnected and he was blasting it to everyone only after he got home.

penny — had a secret hiding spot in toronto subway where she could keep her things and return to see them intact. she and ezra hid there often and spied on people, sometimes picking up what fell out of their purses — like pieces of candy or pennies (get it? penny? pennies? penis?). they never stayed there for long tho cause it was too overwhelmingly loud.

one time she went to that place and realised some construction workers occupied it. she was emotionally devastated.

constance — always saves the seat for the elderly, disabled and other people who might need it, and people always thank her plenty when she does so. actually never ever sat on a train seat unless the wagon was mostly empty. however, one time she had a horribly tiring + devastating + bad day and decided to sit down for once. got called 10 slurs by an old guy who didn’t see there was another free seat and ocean then told her she should have thought about others first. when she got home she wrote an angry vent in her musical diary (yk, the ones that open with a password and then play a one direction song or smth) with a fluffy pen.

+ talia — she is a subway rat. has a love/hate relationship with obolon station. has beef with pochayna station. she herself is from solomyanka region of kyiv where there is no subway. considers it her curse.

thank you folks for reading this, feel free to send me asks for headcanons!

#ride the cyclone #rtc #ocean o'connell rosenberg #ocean rosenberg #noel gruber #mischa bachinski #misha bachinskyi #ricky potts #penny lamb #constance blackwood #talia bolinska #talia moruska bolinska

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not-poignant · 4 months ago

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Sorry this is so long I literally cannot help myself:

I’ve been a reader on ao3 for a long time. This year, for the sake of giving my brain something new and in order to be a mysterious hottie on the metro, I’ve challenged myself to read some published books. It has been a really fun and very interesting experience. I could write essays of personal and literary reflections.

But, favorite author mine, one difference I did not expect, and in hindsight it should have been obvious, was the vast, essentially ideological difference in what is called smut.

I started reading the Court of Thorns and Roses series and it’s good, I’m having a good time. But the thing is, everyone calls it faerie smut. And I guess it must be. When I heard faerie smut and decided to give the series a try, my faerie smut background came from ao3, namely fae tales and the ice plague.

“With each thrust I felt his love and saw the stars” really has nothing on “my entire family burnt and now my lover has his hands in my mouth and up my ass while he heats me up so thoroughly I’m basically delirious and then our sex mentor wine aunt was hungry and told me I was doing good while he drank my blood and his lover who is also the king casually reads nearby likely with bits of flesh stripped off him as an act of sacrificial love.”

The thing is, the sex scenes I’ve read in Sarah J. Maas’s series don’t really… do much. Regardless of crazy scenario, essentially every of the many erotic scenes in the fae tales verse either moves the plot forward, is essential to character development, or showcases emotional intimacy. (Which, tangent, is why you’re more recent works that generally showcase way less sexual content still feel so similar because the plot is still moving forward, characters are still developing, and the emotional intimacy is still so delectable.)

So anyway, reading book books has been really nice and a surprisingly reflective experience. I kinda forgot how little is considered scandalous by so many.

(And also, compared to ao3 which I usually read on my phone, it’s very difficult to read physical books while horizontal. Another plus for ebooks?)

Hi hi anon!

I'm glad you're enjoying the experience of reading 'book' books! :D I've heard many good things, and while I'm not likely to read it (I don't read cishet m/f if I'm not being forced to), I think it's awesome that it's going so viral and getting lots of folks into fantasy :D

As for the ACOTAR sex scenes, I haven't read them, but I feel like they fall into a certain kind of spicy sex scene being written right now that falls under 'explicit' for readers not used to seeing this stuff in fantasy, but absolutely kind of doesn't for people used to reading smut on AO3.

I find for myself, I can't handle these kinds of sex scenes because they're often over in like one or two pages and they feel very empty to me. They're not empty to many readers and I'm not trying to say they're empty overall, I just need a lot more emotionality, meatiness, and often character-based stakes.

Or I think about it this way: I've written sex scenes that are easily 6,000-9,000 words long. That's a tenth of a written standard-length novel. That's too long for novels. This is why you never see these kinds of sex scenes published anywhere except for erotica, and in erotica there's pressure to make the sex scenes shorter anyway. The only place where I know I can safely write sex to the length and breadth I want to is in serials, on AO3.

Authors in the mainstream book-writing world are kind of forced into a shape that fits the length of the book they're writing. If they write three very deep/lengthy sex scenes of the length that I write at, firstly they'd be thrown into the erotica dungeon (can no longer be searched for on most distribution websites), and secondly, that means they lose a lot of space for writing story, which for many of these writers does not happen during or because of sex scenes.

Authors can still sometimes write very hot sex scenes in a few hundred words, or one or two pages, don't get me wrong! But the vibe is different. I've never really liked sex scenes in anything published except for erotica, because it often feels... idk, like for example this line:

"“With each thrust I felt his love and saw the stars”"

Idk if this is canon to the book, but for me this means nothing. Why is the character feeling this way? What is it about the thrusts? What is it about the pose? Is it about eye contact? (And is this innately comfortable? How neurotypical is this character?) Undulation? Does he linger at the end? Is it because he circles his hips a certain way? Because that's not love, that's just talent.

I suppose for me, as a reader, I need explanations that let me understand why emotional shifts are happening in a sex scene. In the same way that I would need them in any other character change.

Other people I think can suspend their disbelief better and think 'wow that sounds amazing and hot.' I'm like 'I don't get it.'

And that's very much a me-problem! It's just a me-problem that I think I share with quite a lot of other readers, which is why we're all out here enjoying much longer sex scenes and then realise we can't really find them anywhere except for like... AO3, and some manhwa and manga and published erotica lmao. (I do think you're actually also more likely to find it in like f/f and m/m of any genre).

Anyway, on the flipside, some people find my sex scenes way too long and don't see the point. So all this stuff needs to exist for everyone! I just yeah, really like sex scenes where character stuff is happening. I can't write them otherwise, likely because I'm ace, and don't really find 'look at hot body = want to have sex' a thing that's relatable.

#asks and answers #personal #pia on writing #pretty much everyone i know just about has read ACOTAR at this point #like i know some of the character's names #it feels very much like the new 50SOG or Twilight #but i haven't read those either #i'm always missing out on the zeitgeist #because the zeitgeist is always so painfully heterosexual

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octobersociety · 4 months ago

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Arts et Métiers, Paris

This unique metro station was designed by Belgian comics artist François Schuiten, drawing inspiration from the steampunk aesthetic reminiscent of the science fiction tales of Jules Verne.

#steampunk #transportation #paris

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peterrefur · 7 months ago

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The days we knew ⅏ Wilbur Soot x GN!Reader

Summary: Wilbur returns from Limbo. Reader reminisces about L'Manberg. Wilbur visits Reader's restaurant, and they recognize each other. Notes: Hey Mate!!! I’m Peter and I say right away that English is not my first language. I’m curious to hear your opinion about this work in the comments! Enjoy!

I am trying to get back to writing after a long break. This story is not the pinnacle of my abilities, but it is the beginning of my return to writing.

𝒲hispers and rumors spread like wildfire about his return from hell. A hell that he referred to as Limbo .

𝒜ccording to tales, this was where every soul must journey after departing from the mortal world, each Limbo tailored to the individual's experiences and memories. Some say his Limbo took the form of an endless underground metro system, with never-ending tunnels and trains that always arrived at the same station no matter how many times he boarded them.

𝐻is screams were said to be so deafeningly loud and relentless that they would echo through the night and linger for weeks, until he inevitably started screaming anew upon waking. Each scream was like a violent eruption from his chest, tearing at his vocal cords until blood filled his throat and spilled from his lips. His cries were like a tortured symphony, haunting and unyielding, they painted a picture of his anguish as a tortured symphony, echoing through the corridors of his mind long after reality had fallen silent. His knuckles, once sturdy bastions of strength, now lay bare, stripped down to the bone by the unyielding assault against the harsh concrete wall. The bones beneath threatened to breach the surface, a grim testament to his unwavering resolve. Deep furrows marred his palms, etched by the relentless barrage, a stark reminder of his unending battle. Deep grooves crisscrossed his palms from the repeated beatings, leaving behind a permanent reminder of his struggles. His nails, once neat and trimmed, were now jagged and torn off in places from desperate attempts to claw his way out. They bent backwards, painfully pulling away from the fleshy tips of his fingers.

𝐹or years, he had drifted in and out of sleep, unsure if he was truly awake or trapped in the never-ending purgatory of Limbo. He had grown accustomed to the unchanging landscape of darkness and despair, where hunger and pain were constant companions. But eventually, he came to the realization that this was an eternal torment - a hell without end. No matter how much he struggled or what he did, death would not release him from this cursed existence. His only escape was to endure and hope for some sort of redemption beyond this bleak realm.

𝒩o respite, no escape - just an unending abyss of torment.

𝒜t least that's what they say in town when Reader goes to get groceries from their quaint little restaurant. They fondly remember the days when their establishment was nestled within the borders of L'Manberg, a place where soldiers sought refuge after grueling battles and found comfort in the hearty soups and flavorful dishes they cooked up. Aromas of savory herbs and spices wafted through the air as customers eagerly awaited their meals, their spirits lifted by the warm atmosphere and delicious food.

The memories flood back to them as they recall the prestigious guests who frequented their restaurant. The elegant President of L'Manburg himself had made special visits for diplomatic meetings, seeking the comfort and privacy of their establishment. And they always made sure to serve him their nationally famous dish - Noodles with meat. The aroma alone was enough to make mouths water - a rich, savory broth simmered for hours, perfectly cooked hand-prepared noodles that they could tell were ready just by the color and texture, tender pieces of pork carefully placed on top. But it wasn't just about the taste - the presentation was just as important. Carrots, chives, and other fresh garnishes adorned the bowl, along with a sprinkling of sesame seeds and a dollop of fiery chili paste for those who dared.

𝒯his dish had become synonymous with significant events in the history of this young country, and the Reader couldn't help but feel proud knowing their humble restaurant played a part in shaping its culture and identity.

A very pleasant past that Reader misses. They remember those times with a smile.

𝐻owever, amidst the comfortable thoughts in their mind, there are also haunting memories of Pogtopia. They can still feel the weight of poverty and fear that shrouded their daily life like a thick fog. The memories of living in the canyon for what seemed like endless months flood back to them. Yet, as they try to recall the time frame, it all becomes a blur, the days and years blending together into one hazy period of turmoil. Such is the impact that time had on their memories of that place.

𝒯he unrelenting grip of poverty, the constant gnawing fear of death, the monotonous routine of preparing potatoes day after day. They had so many potatoes that they ate them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, struggling to find new ways to cook them - boiled, roasted over a fire, mashed into a purée.

𝐵ut in the end, they always seemed to give up and serve them simply boiled. The bland aroma of boiling water filled their small ravine 'kitchen', as they resigned themselves to yet another meal of plain potatoes.

𝐼t was a reminder of their meager existence, a symbol of their struggle to survive.

𝒟espite not having a large customer base, they relish every opportunity to cook for someone and bring joy to their day. The thought of someone not having to worry about food at home and being able to come to them for a satisfying meal fills there with a sense of purpose. For a small fee, they serve up bowls of steaming noodles or simple dishes that they customize to each person's liking. The aroma of herbs and spices wafts through the air, enticing passersby to stop and sample their cooking. Their humble kitchen is filled with warmth and welcoming energy, creating a haven for anyone in need of a comforting meal.

As they enter the kitchen, their arms laden with fresh produce, they quickly tie a crisp white apron around their hips. They waste no time in placing the vegetables on the counter and rinsing them under a steady stream of cool water. With practiced efficiency, they pull out a large mixing bowl and various containers to store the ingredients. The cutting board is carefully wiped down, its surface gleaming beneath the bright kitchen lights. They run a hand over its smooth surface before grabbing their sharp knife and getting to work.

𝒲ith a practiced hand, they reach for their favorite knife, its blade catching the sunlight and gleaming as they slice through the ripe tomato with precise movements. The crisp skin gives way easily and the sweet scent of the fruit fills the air as they carefully carve an even chunk and place it into the container. Moving on to the cucumbers, they expertly cut them into perfect strips, each one identical to the next, before adding them to the growing collection of vegetables in the container. Each ingredient is selected with care, from the vibrant red peppers to the deep green kale leaves and bright orange carrots. Finally, they add to earthy mushrooms their spongy texture completing the colorful array of ingredients that will soon become their customers' daily dishes. As they work, a sense of pride and satisfaction fills their heart, knowing that these fresh and carefully prepared vegetables will bring joy and nourishment to those who eat them.

𝒲ith the grace and ease of someone who has spent years perfecting their craft, they carefully wash their sharp knife before deftly cutting into the succulent meat. Every slice is deliberate and precise as they expertly remove any unwanted bones and gristle. The stray cat that frequents their restaurant in the evening is the only customer who doesn't have to pay, so they always set out a small plate for it in appreciation. It's become a familiar routine, just like the comforting scent of freshly cooked meat that lingers in the air of their cozy establishment.

𝒜s the ten o'clock hour strikes, Reader interrupts their preparations and goes to the front door and pulls down the wooden covers that protect their glass window, with a sign that Tommy, one of the former members of L'Manberg, painted a few years ago. Reader opens the door wide and lets fresh air into the small room, which seats less than ten people.

𝒜s the clock strikes ten, Reader pauses their preparations and strides to the front door with determination. They slide down the wooden covers that protect their glass window, adorned with a hand-painted sign by Tommy, one of the former members of L'Manberg. The aged paint peeling off reveals glimpses of vibrant colors from years past. With a firm grip, Reader pulls open the door, allowing a gust of cool air to sweep inside the small room. A cozy space, barely enough to seat ten people comfortably. The scent of fresh air intermingles with the comforting aroma of food and freshly brewed tea.

𝒯heir days pass, every so often consumed by thoughts and doubts of the rumors swirling about the resurrection of L'Manburg's President. Memories flood her mind- of the ravine where he had stood, surrounded by his people, pleading for them to stop calling him President. They remember the look of despair and desperation on his face, a stark contrast to the once hopeful and confident leader he used to be. The transformation he underwent is etched in their mind, from a man filled with eager ambition and hope to one broken and desolate by the loss of his country. It's a haunting image that lingers in their thoughts, a poignant reminder of what once was and what could have been. As they reflect on these memories, they can't help but feel a sense of sadness and disillusionment for the fallen leader and his shattered dreams.

—

𝒜s the time for cleaning up arrived, Reader moved with swift and precise efficiency. Their movements were like a choreographed dance, each step executed with perfect control and purpose. Without a moment of hesitation or uncertainty, they sorted through the items on the table, placing them carefully on the cat's plate or in the rubbish bin. It was as if they had been programmed for this task, carrying it out flawlessly like a well-oiled machine. The clink of dishes and rustling of paper filled the air as Reader worked, their focused expression never faltering. They were masters at their craft, turning chaos into order with each calculated movement. With a sense of accomplishment, Reader stepped back from the neatly organized items in front of them. Their duties were complete, each task executed with precision and attention to detail. A satisfying feeling of completion washed over there, leaving a smile on their face as they surveyed their flawless work. It was as if each item had found its rightful place, creating a symphony of order and efficiency.

𝒲ith a poised and graceful step, the owners of the charming restaurant emerged from their kitchen, their faces glowing with a warm smile. In one hand, they carried a delicate plate, its contents arranged in an artful display that could rival any high-end eatery. The scent of spices and herbs wafted through the crisp autumn air, drawing in any nearby feline companions. Each carefully selected ingredient had been placed with precision, creating a feast not only for the senses but also for the palate of any fortunate cat.

As they walked towards their favorite spot outside the restaurant, a small cat curled up under their legs and wrapped its tail around their thighs in grateful contentment. It was clear that this furry companion held a special place in their heart for providing it with nourishment every evening.

𝒯he frigid and forbidding darkness of the night hung heavy, engulfing everything in its path. The cold air prickled at their skin, heightening their senses as they gazed upon the lone figure standing in front of their restaurant. His silhouette loomed large against the dimly lit street, casting a daunting shadow that seemed to swallow up everything around it. The glowing moon above served as a watchful guardian, its silvery light bathing his features in an eerie glow. His intense gaze locked theirs, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still as they stood alone in this deserted city.

𝐻is voice cut through the silence, sharp and forceful. "Are you open?" he demanded, his words like shards of ice in the stillness of the night.

The man's appearance is strikingly unkempt, emitting an aura of poverty and potential homelessness. His hair, a mass of shoulder-length brown curls, appears tangled and greasy, with strands protruding in all directions. Among the chaos, a solitary white strand stands out conspicuously, almost luminous against the disorder. It's as if he's aged a decade overnight. His eyes, bloodshot and encircled by a rim of red, convey a sense of sleeplessness that spans days. The profound, dark circles beneath his eyes surpass any exhaustion I've witnessed, even among the most fatigued hybrids or humans.

𝐻e dons a tattered yellow jumper, its fabric worn thin and punctuated by tears. Draping loosely over his shoulders, a patched coat, once a lively brown, now bears the weight of dirt and grime, concealing any semblance of its former vibrancy. Wrapped around his arm, a bandage, tainted with a red hue, poses a mystery—blood or perhaps wine? Despite the neglect evident in his attire, one detail stands out: his trousers, meticulously pressed, hint at a pride in appearance amidst adversity. Yet, they're juxtaposed with scuffed and grimy shoes, evidence of a journey endured with little regard for appearance.

"Unfortunately, it has just closed," Reader says with a warm smile, their gesture directed towards the now darkened restaurant front. "But fear not, for I will be open again at 10 tomorrow morning." As they speak, they absent-mindedly pet the purring cat perched on the counter, savoring its meal of freshly prepared food. "The only customer being served now is this cat. You don't look like a cat, I'm sorry," they add, their hands gently stroking the animal as it enjoys its feast.

At this, the man chuckles and responds, "I may not look like a cat, but I wouldn't mind meowing or snuggling up to your leg if it means getting some of that delicious food," he laughs. "I wish I could help you," Reader says with a chuckle, "But I'm afraid my only clients after hours are of the feline persuasion."

𝒯he man's hearty laughter echoed through the street, blending in with the soft purring of the cat. The tension from earlier seemed to dissipate, replaced by an ease that felt strange but also comforting. "Fair enough," he said, smiling at the Reader. "I think I'll have to find another place then." "Just down the road there's an all-night dinner," they offered. They pointed towards the end of the street where a neon sign flickered intermittently. "They should still have something warm for you." "Thanks," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. He turned to leave before hesitating and turning back towards Reader "Do you remember cooking noodles with meat in L'Manberg?"

𝑅eader paused, a flicker of surprise passing across their face. Their eyes, which had been warm and inviting, cooled as they studied the man before there. "Why would you ask me that?" they said, their voices betraying a touch of guarded curiosity.

The man gave a rueful smile. "It's a memory I've carried for years," he admitted with an odd sort of vulnerability, his gaze never leaving their face. "A chef who cooked the most delicious noodles with meat in L'Manberg." Their faces softened as they listened to him, their initial wariness fading into curiosity. "That was a long time ago," they finally said, more to themselves than to him. He nodded slowly. "Yes, it was," he conceded. "But for some reason, those noodles have always stuck with me. I suppose...I've been looking for them ever since."

𝒜 silence descended upon them then, as they each absorbed what had been said - and perhaps what hadn't been said too. The cat finished its meal and hopped off the counter, brushing against Reader's leg before slipping out into the night. "Have we met?" Reader said finally. Their voices were soft but resolute. "Yeah..." he says and puts his hands in his pockets "I'm the one who let you open the restaurant and was the first to eat those noodles." says the man, at which Reader takes two steps backwards and only now in the man does they recognize the former President of L'Manburg.

"Mr President..." whispers Reader.

The man's expression softened at their recognition, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. "Please, just call me Wilbur," he said, his voice carrying a note of sincerity. Reader's mind raced with memories of their time together in L'Manburg, the moments of camaraderie and hardship they had shared. They couldn't help but feel a surge of emotion at the sight of him standing before them, a stark reminder of the past they had tried so hard to leave behind. "I never thought I'd see you again," they admitted, their voices barely above a whisper. "Not after everything that happened."

𝒲ilbur's face took on a serious expression; his eyes seemed to be searching the ground for answers. "I understand," he spoke in a hushed tone. "Being brought back to life is just as shocking for me as it is for others.”

Reader paused, gazing at their small restaurant with its quaint decor. "If you'd like, Mr. President - Wilbur, I believe I can whip up some delicious noodles with savory meat for you. However, it may take a bit of time." A small, genuine smile graced Wilbur's lips at Reader's kind offer, the corners of his mouth turning up as if pulled by invisible strings. "I would be delighted," his bright brown eyes shone with gratitude, reflecting the warmth in his voice as he replied, a hint of nostalgia woven into his words.

𝒲ith a graceful sweep, Reader disappeared into the kitchen to prepare their meal. Wilbur followed, sinking into a plush chair at one of the empty tables. His mind wandered back to the days when L'Manburg was a bustling nation, overflowing with life and possibility. Memories rushed in like a powerful river, each one bringing a flutter of nostalgia and longing as he waited patiently for the mouth-watering aroma of food to permeate the air once more. He could almost taste the rich flavors and feel the warmth radiating from the kitchen as Reader worked their magic.

𝒯he kitchen was alive with a symphony of sounds, as Reader moved with dancer-like grace and purpose. The clinking of pots and pans echoed through the air, each utensil playing its own instrumental part in the culinary orchestra. The scent of simmering broth, infused with aromatic spices, filled Wilbur's senses, wrapping him in a warm and comforting embrace that made his stomach growl with anticipation. It was like being enveloped in a cloud of savory goodness, beckoning him closer to the source of its alluring aroma. After spending years in the desolate realm of Limbo without any sustenance, the mere scent of these noodles sent a wave of hunger crashing over him. He could practically taste the savory broth and chewy strands as if they were right in front of him. The aroma was so enticing, he felt like he could devour liters of it without hesitation.

𝒜s Reader emerged from the warm, bustling kitchen with a steaming bowl of noodles in hand, Wilbur's eyes met theirs with a mixture of admiration and longing. The aroma of savory broth and freshly cooked noodles wafted through the air, enticing his senses. As he took the first bite, the flavors exploded on his palate, each mouthful a symphony of tastes that transported him back to simpler times. With every swallow, he could taste the heart and soul that Reader had poured into the dish. "You have truly outdone yourself," Wilbur exclaimed between bites, his eyes never leaving Reader's face as if trying to convey his gratitude and appreciation through their locked gaze.

𝒯he words hung heavy in the air, thick with disbelief and awe. "I was at your funeral," Reader's voice trembled as they took a seat in the chair next to Wilbur. "And now I'm serving you noodles." The steam from the hot meal rose and mingled with their breath, a surreal scene unfolding before them. "You really have been revived," Reader marveled at the miracle of Wilbur's return from death. "Believe me, you're not the only one having trouble adjusting to this." Wilbur says between mouthfuls of steaming noodles. He pauses to take a deep breath, then continues with a tinge of gratitude in his voice, "But thanks to my hero I am back alive. Dream." He lifts his bowl up in a gesture of gratitude towards Dream, who is now behind bars in prison. Reader can sense the tension and unease between Wilbur and Dream.

𝐼t's clear that something has changed between them, something that Reader doesn't quite understand or enjoy witnessing.

𝒯he word fell from Reader's lips with a bitter tone, carrying with it the weight of past struggles and disappointments. The mere mention of "Dream" conjured up a flood of negative memories - the root cause of L'Manberg's seemingly endless problems. "Dream? Eh, Wasn't he perhaps enemy number one in L'Manberg?” Reader asks.

𝒲ilbur's gaze darkened at the mention of Dream's name, a storm brewing in his eyes. "Yes, he was," Wilbur admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and betrayal. "But he was also the one who brought me back from the Limbo." The conflicting emotions within Wilbur were evident in his tense posture and furrowed brow. Reader could sense the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface, the unresolved issues and complicated history between Wilbur and Dream hanging heavily in the air. "I know it's hard to understand," Wilbur continued, his voice softer now, laced with a hint of sadness. "But things are never as black and white as they seem, especially in a place like L'Manberg." He took another bite of noodles, the warmth of the broth offering a momentary distraction from the weight of their conversation.

𝑅eader watched Wilbur closely, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together in their minds. Despite the tension between them, Reader couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Wilbur. The weight of expectations and responsibilities had taken its toll on him, leaving behind scars that ran deep.

𝑅eader smiles and refills the broth in Wilbur's noodles.

"It's good to have you back."

#wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot x you #mcyt wilbur #mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #wilbur mcyt #wilbur soot fic #wilbur soot #wilbur x you #wilbur post #wilbur soot x y/n #Reader #revivebur x Reader #revivebur x you #mcyt x Reader #revivebur fic #revivebur

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silvermoon424 · 1 year ago

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My manga collection (October 2023)

I did a post detailing my manga collection back in 2021, but it's grown a lot since then so I figured I'd make a new post! It was also a good time to do so because we're repainting my room and while there's usually a ton of anime merch in front of the books on my shelves, now it's all been packed up. So there's a clear look at the books without me having to move anything, lol.

Anyway, without further adieu, here we go! My manga collection is largely shoujo (specifically magical girls) and horror manga.

Pet Shop of Horrors by Matsuri Akino

Pet Shop of Horrors: Tokyo by Matsuri Akino

The Clique by Yishan Li

Frozen II manga by Arina Tanemura

Dark Metro by Tokyo Calen and Yoshiken

Yokai Rental Shop by Shin Mashiba

Confidential Confessions by Reiko Momochi

Pichi Pichi Pitch (aka Mermaid Melody) by Michiko Yokote and Pink Hanamori

Magical Girl Site by Kentaro Sato

Reiko the Zombie Shop by Rei Mikamoto

Les Miserables (manga adaptation) by TszMei Lee

Nightmares for Sale by Kaoru Ohashi

Presents by Kanako Inuki

Mail by Housui Yamazaki

Dark Water by Meimu

Tale of a White Night by Tooko Miyagi

Goth by Otsuichi and Kendi Oiwa

Beautiful People by Mitsukazu Mihara

Attack on Titan: No Regrets by Gun Snark and Hikaru Suruga

In Clothes Called Fat by Moyoco Anno

A Girl on the Shore by Inio Asano

Bride of Deimos by Etsuko Ikeda and Yuuho Ashibe

Limit by Keiko Suenobu

Helter Skelter by Kyoko Okazaki

Dolls omnibus (in Japanese) by Yumiko Kawahara

Ibitsu by Haruto Ryo

A God Somewhere (Western comic) by John Arcudi and Peter Snejbjerg

Beauty (Western comic) by Hubert and Kerascoët

Ah! My Goddess by Kōsuke Fujishima

Only One Wish by Mia Ikumi

Higurashi When They Cry: Festival Accompanying Arc by Karin Suzuragi

Chronicles of the Grim Peddler by Lee Jeoun-A

PTSD Radio by Masaaki Nakayama

Elfen Lied by Lynn Okamoto

Ikigami: The Ultimate Limit by Motoro Mase

Happy Sugar Life by Tomiyaki Kagisora

JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Phantom Blood by Hirohiko Araki

An Ojamajo Doremi artbook (in Japanese)

Mermaid Saga by Rumiko Takahashi

Dolls by Yumiko Kawahara

Maid-sama by Hiro Fujiwara

Franken Fran by Katsuhisa Kigitsu

Hell Girl by Miyuki Eto

Gurren Lagann by Kotaro Mori

Doll by Mitsukazu Mihara

Mantis Woman by Senno Knife

Various Sailor Moon artbooks from the anime, manga illustrations by Naoko Takeuchi, and fan artbooks

Sailor Moon Eternal Edition by Naoko Takeuchi

Sailor V Eternal Edition by Naoko Takeuchi

Puella Magi Madoka Magica by Hanokage

Puella Magi Madoka Magica: The Different Story by Hanokage

Puella Magi Madoka Magica: The Wraith Arc by Hanokage

Puella Magi Madoka Magica: The Rebellion Story by Hanokage

Puella Magi Oriko Magica by Kuroe Mura

Puella Magi Oriko Magica: Sadness Prayer by Kuroe Mura

Puella Magi Tart Magica by Golden Pe Done

Magia Record: Puella Magi Madoka Magica Side Story by Fuji Fujino

Assorted PMMM and Magia Record artbooks

Pokemon Adventures (aka Pokemon Special) by Hidenori Kusaka and Mato/Satoshi Yamamoto. I own the complete set of the RBG, Yellow, GSC, FRLG, Emerald and HGSS arcs as well as a few volumes from the RS, DP, and Black/White arcs.

Various Pokemon 4koma (in Japanese)

Pokemon: I Choose You by Ryo Takamisaki

Phantom Thief Pokemon 7 by Miho Asada

The Rise of Darkrai by Ryo Takamisaki

Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure by Shigekatsu Ihara

The Electric Tale of Pikachu by Toshihiro Ono

The Art of Pokemon Adventures by Satoshi Yamamoto (both English and Japanese versions)

Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Ginji's Rescue Team by Makoto Mizobuchi

Pokemon Ranger and the Temple of the Sea by Makoto Mizobuchi

Various Junji Ito Manga:

Dissolving Classroom

Fragments of Horror

The Liminal Zone

Sensor

Black Paradox

Gyo

Uzumaki

Tomie

Deserter

Tombs

Lovesickness

Smashed

Shiver

Frankenstein

Remina

Venus in the Blind Spot

No Longer Human

Twisted Visions (artbook)

Uzumaki coloring book

Uzumaki (original printing) by Junji Ito

Museum of Terror by Junji Ito

Soichi by Junji Ito

The Drifting Classroom by Kazuo Umezu

JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Battle Tendency by Hirohiko Araki

Orochi by Kazuo Umezu

Be Very Afraid of Kanoko Inuki! by Kanoko Inuki

Wonderland by Yugo Ishikawa

Shadows House by Somato

I Had That Sane Dream Again by Yoru Sumino

Is Love the Answer? by Uta Isaki

Nightmare Inspector by Shin Mashiba

The Ring by Misao Inagaki

Wonder House of Horrors by Miyako Cojima

Puella Magi Suzune Magica by GAN

Puella Magi Kazumi Magica by Masaki Hiramatsu and Takashi Tensugi

Magia Record: Another Story by U35

I also have some manga in storage like Inuyasha and Kitchen Princess, but that's about it!

#my collection #manga collection #manga collector #manga

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quickspinner · 9 months ago

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This is Crazy

Hey @haphira I'm your @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers secret admirer! I hope you enjoy this! The prompt I picked was "0 to married - blind date or one night stand turns into a three day date and married at the end." I also threw in a touch of Alya gets into Marinette's love life, just for fun.

Summary: Marinette's tired and frustrated. Work isn't going well, her social life is dead, and she doesn't believe in fairy tales anymore. When Alya insists there is someone who wants to meet her after the concert tonight, she figures at least it's a distraction from her boring life. She's not expecting the hottest rising rock star on the planet to walk through those doors--or anything that happens after that.

Rating: M for fade-to-black sexytimes and language

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | AO3

She felt ridiculous, now that she was here. Alone in this fancy lounge with its dim lighting and collection of fancy backlit bottles, dressed like—well. Like herself, but a version of herself that was maybe trying a bit too hard. Marinette adjusted her bustier top, checked for the thousandth time that the zipper that ran up the front was still snugged up at the top and not about to fall down.

She wished she had worn a longer skirt. The knee length ones restricted her movement more than she liked, and full-length wouldn’t have been appropriate for this venue, but she was constantly checking to make sure her miniskirt hadn’t ridden up a little bit too much.

But these were the kinds of clothes one wore at a rock concert—and it had been a good concert, Marinette had to admit. She’d had a lot more fun than she expected, and if she could have been riding the metro home now with her girls, chatting about the music and the hot musicians, she would have considered the outfit a low price to pay.

She wasn’t, though. She was standing here alone in a private lounge, waiting for…someone. She didn’t know who. Alya had insisted it was a surprise, and that the person really wanted to see her, and had heavily implied that whoever this— male , Alya had made sure she knew—someone was very much interested in Marinette. You know, in that way. That all Marinette had to do was be hot and sweet and she was guaranteed that this mystery someone would… insert eyebrow waggle .

Well. Marinette hadn’t had any eyebrow waggling in long enough that she let herself be talked into it. Even if this mystery someone wasn’t someone she could see herself with long term, maybe she could get some much needed…stress relief. At least Alya’s insistence on setting her up could be good for something.

If the mystery man ever showed up. Marinette was feeling more and more stupid by the moment. Waiting always felt longer than it was, she reminded herself, but she was also starting to feel uncomfortably like she had been stood up.

She eyed the self-serve bar at the back of the lounge and went to investigate, unsure if she was looking for liquid courage or something to drown her disappointment in. There had sure been a lot of disappointments for her lately. Most recently, she’d had a hugely important order canceled at the last minute, which was the only reason she had time for this concert. She should have been at home being her workaholic self, and the gut-wrenching disappointment she’d felt when the client told her they had changed their mind and decided to go with someone else wasn’t easy to shake.

Marinette sighed and poured herself a drink.

She was leaning back against the bar, sipping a small glass of gin, when the door opened, and she started.

She recognized the man who entered immediately, and her mouth dropped open a little. Was that—it couldn’t be. Her whole body flushed hot with the thought no way, this can’t be happening .

He was imminently recognizable, though, and even if he hadn’t looked just like his posters, she had just spent two hours staring at him on stage.

“Oh, sorry,” he said reflexively as he came in, and Marinette smiled.

“It’s okay, I just needed a quick drink.” She set the gin glass down on the bar. “I’m, um. I’m Marinette.”

“Marinette,” he said, advancing into the room and glancing around like he was expecting someone else. Marinette swallowed and tried not to look down. God, this was embarrassing. Well, he was the one who supposedly wanted to meet her, right? Though, knowing who he was now—an internationally famous rock star, well…who knows what Alya told him. The real thing was guaranteed to be a disappointment.

He approached the bar, finally, with an air of resignation, but clearly determined to at least be polite. “Nice to meet you. I’m Luka.”

Marinette giggled nervously. “Well, obviously.”

He blinked at her like he was finally focusing on her, and smiled. “Right.” His eyes swept over her, and she didn’t miss the appreciation there. That perked her up a little. Luka had changed from his stage clothes into a faded ripped shirt and equally ratty but comfortable-looking pants. She might have been offended that he hadn’t put in more effort for her, but he had just been on stage for hours under those awful lights, so she didn’t blame him for wanting to be comfortable.

Besides, he was really, really, hot. Not necessarily conventionally handsome; some of his features took a little getting used to, but he was interesting, as well as being tall and very fit. One had to be, she supposed, being on display the way rock stars always were.

Oh shit he was talking to her. “Mind if I join you?” he was asking, gesturing across the bar between them. “I’m parched.”

“Oh, of course,” Marinette said, moving sideways instinctively even before he came behind the bar. Ugh, she sounded like an idiot. The space wasn’t very wide and she had basically backed into it instead of coming out, so she leaned back against the bar, trying to arrange herself in a way that was casually attractive instead of unbearably awkward or brazenly sex-starved.

Luka, meanwhile, examined the backlit bottles, and then with a slight shake of his head, turned towards Marinette again. She liked the way his eyes flicked over her and then away, like he was trying not to stare. She wasn’t doing such a good job keeping her eyes to herself either, so she decided to just brazen it out.

“Don’t see anything you like?” she dared to ask, with a slight quirk of her eyebrow.

Something in his stance shifted, like her attempt at flirtation had put him on firmer ground. “Actually, I think I see exactly what I need.” He advanced towards her and Marinette’s heart jumped into her throat. She hadn’t expected him to take the bait that quickly.

He stopped just short of her, and gestured at the glasses hanging above her. “May I?”

His voice was rough, which she supposed was to be expected after the performance he had given. God, he was even hotter up close. If conversation was going nowhere, at least she wanted to get something out of this. What difference did it make what he thought of her after tonight, anyway? “Of course,” she said, putting her hands on the bar and leaning back. She watched his eyes follow her, flicking down at the suddenly very low neckline of her bustier once before he looked up again. He took another step forward, so that he was brushing up against her as he reached over her to snag a glass and bring it down. He didn’t back away as he set it on the counter, and Marinette couldn’t help grinning at him. He leaned in a little more to reach behind her for the carafe of water sitting there.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, still not backing off as he poured his glass of water.

“Very much,” Marinette said honestly. “To be honest, it was the first time I’ve heard your music. I’m definitely a fan now.”

“Are you?” he murmured, meeting her eyes for a moment, and she watched as he lifted the water glass to his lips and took a long drink.

“Definitely,” she said a little breathlessly, aware that she was ogling him shamelessly.

He made a thoughtful noise in his throat. “How many of those have you had?” He asked, before drinking again.

Marinette lifted her own glass. “Just this one.” Out of habit, she turned it so that the existing lip print on the glass matched where she sipped. It was Luka’s turn to swallow and stare, and then he set his water glass down decisively. He put his hands on the bar at either side of Marinette’s hips, and leaned down a little.

“Just to be clear,” he murmured, looking down at her with heavily lidded eyes. “Are you coming on to me? Because,” he continued, as a hot blush flooded up her face, “you are gorgeous and I’m horny as hell after that,” he tipped his head back to indicate the show he had just finished. “So assuming you are, I’d really like to continue this somewhere more private. As soon as possible.”

Marinette couldn’t help a grin, and she looked over her shoulder to eye the completely empty room. “It’s looking pretty private here,” she suggested, mostly just to buy time to figure out if she was really doing this.

“It won’t be for as long as I plan to need privacy,” he told her, leaning his hips harder into hers, and she bit her lip and made a sound in her throat that made him shiver. Fuck. Okay, she was definitely doing this.

“Well, if you insist,” she said breathlessly, and then his hands were on her waist, pulling her hard into him for a moment before he turned her to guide her out of the room.

***

Luka left Marinette in the bed, with a kiss and a whispered promise to be back, and went to shower. He sighed when he stepped into the warm spray, and smiled to himself. Despite the exhaustion now dragging at him, he felt good . The show had been amazing, and Marinette had given him exactly what he needed to top off the night. Shows always left him either feeling so drained and worn out that he wanted nothing more than to go to bed, or else put him on a high that made it impossible to sleep without some kind of release.

He’d actually thought tonight was going to be the low kind until he ducked into the closed lounge, too desperate for a drink to mind the ‘closed’ sign on the door. Then he saw Marinette leaning against the bar, illuminated by the backlighting like a work of art in a museum.

He hadn’t even had enough blood left in his brain to wonder why she was hanging out in the dimly lit, supposedly closed lounge. He was suddenly thirsty in an entirely different way.

It was an impulsive decision to invite her to come back to his room, but those were often his best, and he definitely had no reason to regret it now. His smile turned into a self-satisfied grin and he tilted his head back to wet his hair. Definitely no regrets there.

He shouldn’t take too long, though, or she might think he was trying to get rid of her. He cleaned himself up quickly. He almost wished he’d invited her to shower with him, but he needed this quiet moment after everything that had happened that night, and the hotel shower wasn’t really big enough for two. That was one thing he was looking forward to for the next leg of their tour; American hotel showers weren’t nearly so cramped.

Even as he thought it he found himself wishing then that they were staying in Paris a little longer. He wouldn’t have minded seeing Marinette again. She had this mix of sweetness and sexy that was very appealing to him and he could think of a few more things he’d enjoy doing with her. He felt a little shiver at the memory of her moans. He could listen to her sweet little whimpers for hours, and the beautiful crescendo had been satisfying in more ways than one. Her dazed smile afterward…he wanted to make her smile like that again.

The band was scheduled to leave tomorrow afternoon, though. They’d both known this was only a night.

Luka frowned. She had known that, right? Normally he made sure anyone who was with knew whether he was looking for temporary or long term, but he hadn’t really taken time for much more conversation than was related to the business at hand. He’d have to let her down gently if she’d been expecting more. Luka wasn’t exactly in a position to commit to anything else right now.

He sighed, turning off the water. He didn’t really want to have that conversation, but he didn’t want to string her along with a long-distance promise either…

Dumbass, he scolded himself as he dried off, and prepared to roll with whatever he found when he got out of the shower.

What he found was Marinette, sitting on the edge of the bed in a pool of soft lamplight, and biting her lip as she played with her fingers. She tried to smile at him, but she pulled the edges of the sheet wrapped around her a little tighter. Honestly, that just made her more appealing, with her shapely legs bare and just the important bits of her covered up, like one of those marble statues in the Louvre, only better, because she had color and breath, warmth and softness. He felt a song tickling at the back of his mind as he took in the line of her neck and shoulders, her mussed hair, and…her eyes. Her eyes turned up to him and his breath caught. He swallowed, and looked away, aware that his staring was making her uncomfortable. Her body language was closed and nervous, and he could imagine that she was feeling pretty vulnerable, in his room with no clothes on and clearly not sure what she should do next.

Luka picked up her unzipped top and miniskirt from the floor, and laid them over a chair with a small smile at the memories they conjured. “These are beautiful, on or off you,” he winked at her, and she blushed and ducked her head a little, which he found unreasonably charming, “but I can’t imagine they’ll be comfortable to sleep in. Hang on, I’ll grab you something.”

He found a clean shirt and sweatpants to pull on before he turned back to Marinette with another one of his t-shirts and a clean pair of boxers in his hands. He came to sit on the bed next to her and offered her the clothes, smiling at her whispered thanks.

“I should, um,” she paused to pull the shirt over her head, and Luka couldn’t make himself look away from the sheet that slipped down her body as he did so. That was definitely going in the song too, he decided. “I should probably go, though, right?”

“Do you have a room in the hotel?” he asked, and she blinked in surprise, and shook her head, sliding his shorts up over her legs.

“No, I live—I live in Paris. I can just take the metro home, or—”

Luka frowned. “At this time of night?” He reached out and stroked her hair back, and she relaxed a little at the tender touch, smiling at him. She definitely felt more confident now that she was covered, and she turned towards him a little as she answered.

“I’m a big girl,” she said. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“If you really want to go, I’ll call you a cab, but I’d be happy for you to stay the night here with me,” he offered. “This bed is plenty big enough for two.” He rested his hand on her back, resisting the urge to pull her against him.

It turned out he didn’t need to, because she scooted a little closer, and leaned into him, glancing up shyly. “I don’t—are you sure?”

Luka nodded, nuzzling her temple without thinking about it. She giggled.

“I wouldn’t have figured you for a cuddler,” she teased, and he grinned, glad to see her more comfortable, and put his arms around her.

“It’s a secret,” he teased back. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image.”

Marinette laughed, and impulsively he kissed her, and she leaned into it, humming softly.

“You’re shaking,” Luka observed, when they parted.

“Cold,” she admitted, squeezing closer to him. “And my whole body feels like jelly. In a good way,” she assured him, with a cheeky smile, and he couldn’t help grinning back.

Luka leaned back and snagged the comforter they had long ago kicked off the end of the bed, and wrapped Marinette in it. She giggled in the puffy cocoon. “What about you?” she asked.

“I sleep hot,” he told her. “I don’t use it anyway.” He stood up and scooped the Marinette cocoon into his arms, laying her down on the bed and climbing back in beside her. He pulled the sheet Marinette had dropped back up over himself, and wrapped his arms around Marinette in her blanket cocoon. She squirmed until she was tucked up under his chin. He found himself drifting off almost immediately. Somewhere in his fuzzy mind he realized he hadn’t talked to her about his intentions, but he was so tired and comfortable that it was barely a speed bump on his way to dreamland.

***

Marinette woke to gentle kisses along her neck and shoulder, and shivered before she was even fully awake. She felt warm breath along her ear and lips pressed into her cheek.

“Good morning, beautiful. Are you a tea or a coffee person?” She rolled onto her back, partially undoing the cocoon of blankets she’d been wound up in. A pleasantly rough hand slipped under the blankets and her shirt—his shirt—to caress her bare belly, and she shivered again, blinking fully awake.

“Hmm,” she sighed, finally processing the question. “Coffee?” She smiled shyly up into Luka’s blue eyes, suppressing another shiver at the look he was giving her. “At least this morning.”

“Cream? Sugar?” he asked, his voice even rougher than the night before, and Marinette bit her lip.

“Please,” she finally managed, and Luka leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth, a long, slow kiss like the ones he had given her as they wound down from their lovemaking. She really liked those. He might be a playboy rock star but he somehow had a way of making her feel like she was the center of the world.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, stroking a hand through her messy hair, and as he pulled back and stood Marinette realized he was already fully dressed, in black ripped jeans dangling with chains, topped with artfully ripped and layered shirts. She swallowed, both appreciating the look on him and suddenly afraid he was about to ditch her or throw her out. He looked ready to get on with his day. What time was it? He hadn’t struck her as an early riser.

Never mind, she told herself as he left the room. She didn’t want to know. Her blanket cocoon was warm and comfortable, and he was bringing her coffee instead of telling her to go home, so he must not be sick of her presence yet. She pulled the wiggled herself at least partially upright, tugging the blanket back up over her shoulders. Luka’s shirt was big enough on her that the collar left a lot of skin exposed to the cold. And his lips, as he’d proved. If he was already dressed, though, he probably wasn’t planning on an encore this morning. She hadn’t been either, but found herself disappointed anyway.

She tried not to pout. Reluctantly, she wiggled herself out of the comforter long enough to find her phone and purse, but the battery was dead. Marinette felt a pang of guilt; she probably should have at least let Alya know she had met up with her mystery man and was fine, but it was too late now. Some investigation proved that while Luka’s charger was on the nightstand, it wasn’t compatible with her phone.

Oh well. She tucked the phone back in her tiny clutch and set it on the table, then went to cocoon herself in the blankets again. She felt really good; more relaxed than she had been since that cancellation call. Even if Luka was done with her, she definitely got the stress relief she was looking for.

Then again, he had supposedly told Alya he wanted to meet her, so maybe…

That was just stupid though. No expectations, no disappointments, Marinette reminded herself. If all she had was a good night—a great night—that was plenty. She felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. Months. She tucked her legs up in the blankets and sighed, leaning back against the headboard. This was a really nice hotel room. Suite. It was a suite, they’d had to navigate past the sitting room to get to the bedroom last night. The rock star life, she thought, a smile quirking her lips.

Might as well enjoy it while she had it.

***

Luka sent his assistant for better coffee than the hotel could offer, and ducked into the gift shop. It took longer than he would have liked, just like everything did since he became famous, but he was able to get out with his purchases just as Emilio returned with the coffee. Luka refused help, hanging the gift shop bag on his wrist and taking both cups of coffee. He let Emilio push the elevator button, and smiled acknowledgement of his reminder about the flight that afternoon.

Marinette didn’t look anything like an art piece when he shouldered his way back into the room, and Luka laughed at her cute face peeking from the pile of coverlet she was once again wrapped in. “You look cozy,” he told her, setting the coffee on the uselessly small table in the room. He set the bag from the gift shop in front of her. “I got you some warmer things to wear if you can bear to come out of there.”

He looked away while she wriggled out and changed into the sweatshirt and yoga pants he’d managed to get for her.

“I’m done,” she said, and he looked back, breaking into a grin at the slightly oversized “I heart Paris” sweatshirt. The sleeves threatened to creep over her hands as she cradled her cup of coffee, inhaling the scent before she took a careful sip.

“Good?” he asked, once again completely charmed. He liked the way she took time to savor things. Her pretty eyes darted around the room, and he wondered what she was thinking. It seemed to him like her mind never stopped. He remembered the way she had looked over him when he came into the lounge last night, the slight tilt of her head and the sense of being…analyzed in some way, before she decided to make her move. It clashed a little with her sweet softness this morning, and he found himself chuckling. It wasn’t the first time he had hooked up with a groupie, and somehow he always seemed to pick the soft ones, no matter how brazen they seemed in the moment.

“You’re up early,” Marinette commented, and then frowned. “Actually, what time is it?”

“Coming up on eleven,” Luka said, glancing at his phone. “But yeah, I had a business meeting this morning.” He rolled his eyes. “Corporate sponsors have no respect for rock star hours. They were pitching to take over our merch sales.”

“What company?” Marinette asked curiously. “If you can tell me,” she added, and Luka smiled. He whispered the company name in her ear. It wasn’t really a secret, he hadn’t signed an NDA yet, but he felt like teasing her a bit.

She wrinkled her nose, but said nothing. Luka quirked an eyebrow, curious about her reaction. “What?”

Marinette shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. “Nothing. It’s none of my business.”

“Tell me anyway.”

She sighed and gave a little pout, then put her coffee down. “Their quality is terrible. Which isn’t necessarily a negative for you , I guess. If the shirts fall apart faster then fans will just buy more.” Luka frowned at the cynicism in her voice. “If it were me, though, I’d rather pay more for something that will last a little longer. If I’m going to pay to put my logo on something I don’t want it to fade out after a few washes. Of course, you could always work out some kind of split production, so the younger fans can buy the cheaper stuff and the die-hards that have the will or the money can pony up for the quality stuff, but that—” she paused, seeing his gaze on her, and blushed. “Like I said, that’s not really my business,” she finished, picking up her coffee quickly again.

Luka wasn’t even sure what kind of face he was making, caught in a tangled net of feelings he couldn’t quite figure out. He was surprised, he was impressed, he was chagrined, and kind of embarrassed that he hadn’t given anywhere near as much thought to the issue, which had come up several times in the last few months, as Marinette had in five minutes.

Marinette set her coffee down and hopped off the bed, mumbling something about needing the bathroom, and Luka just watched her go, mouth open slightly.

***

Marinette felt better after a shower, and dressed once again in her tourist trap giftware with a sigh. She needed to apologize to Luka, she decided. She shouldn’t be butting into his business. It wasn’t like she was his girlfriend. She didn’t have any right to be grilling him on his business practices.

He was sitting in the suite’s little living room, sipping his own coffee while he scrolled through something on a tablet.

“Um,” she began, shifting nervously, and he looked up, setting down the tablet. “I’m sorry. If it seemed like I was criticizing you earlier. I wasn’t, it’s really none of my business, I know I said that already, but, um. I know you probably have a lot of decisions to make, or you have people that make those decisions for you, and you probably know a lot more about the s-situation than I do, so, I just. Sorry if I—” She trailed off, as if not actually sure what she was sorry for.

Luka beckoned her, and she walked slowly towards him. When she was close enough, he took her hand and pulled her close, wrapping her up in his arms. After a stiff moment, she relaxed into him and sat on his knee to lean her face into his neck.

“I wasn’t offended,” he told her quietly, “and I will definitely ask for samples before we go any further. It’s not something I thought about, and I should have. I’m not out to rip off my fans.” Her head shot up but he put a finger across her lips. “I know. I’m not offended. Actually I really appreciate you being straight with me. It’s hard to find these days.” He smiled, looking fondly up into her shocked face. “You’re—” He stopped, because he couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound trite or overused. Special. Different. Not like other girls. He’d sound like a pickup artist.

He suddenly found himself wishing he’d met her in a more casual way.

She was still blinking at him, and he realized she was still waiting for him to finish his sentence. Since he couldn’t, he leaned up and kissed her, softly, in a way he hoped conveyed reassurance and affection, and not just lust.

“You keep doing that,” she murmured, when their lips parted.

“Should I stop?” he smiled, a little crookedly.

“No, I—I like it,” she admitted, blushing faintly. “Just. Um.” Her gaze flicked to the bed behind them and then returned to his with something like guilt. “I didn’t expect it.”

“I didn’t expect you,” Luka replied, without thinking. Marinette blinked in surprise, and Luka bit his lip, feeling his own color rising. “I really like you, Marinette.”

She looked down. Her fingers at the nape of his neck twitched, and twined though a strand of his hair. “I like you too,” she whispered, and Luka grinned. “But you…” she trailed off, and met his eyes again, looking…sad.

Reality came crashing in on Luka and he sucked in a breath. Right. He was leaving. Soon, in fact, he realized, as he looked at the clock.

“Come with me,” he blurted, and was immediately convinced it was the best idea he’d ever had.

Marinette looked confused. “Where?”

“To New York. To start with, at least.” Luka slid her off his lap, and then moved to squat in front of her so they were facing each other. “I want—” he stalled, words again getting tangled up in his head. “I have a sense about people. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and right now they’re telling me I shouldn’t let you just disappear. I want you to come on tour with me.” He swallowed and tried to grin. “I know it sounds crazy. ”

“It’s completely crazy,” Marinette cried, voice gone squeaky and breathless.

“I’ll make it work,” he insisted. “Worst case scenario, we have some fun, you can hang out at the hotel while I do my shows, we see the sights, and I buy you a plane ticket home when you get sick of me.” His tone softened. “I’m just not ready to tell you goodbye, Marinette.”

She gave him a smile that twitched, like she didn’t want to but she couldn’t help it. “That sounds like a song.”

“It absolutely does,” Luka agreed fervently. His whole body was thrumming with—something. Adrenaline or anticipation or fear or— “Please come with me, Marinette.”

Marinette took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Setting aside that the whole idea was fucking crazy —could she do it? She knew she could, even before she went down a mental list of commitments. Wasn’t that the whole reason she had been out on this stupid scheme to begin with? Because she was in a work slump with no immediate obligations to fulfill, no responsibilities at the bakery with her parents in Shanghai for the month. No one to hang out with, no one who needed her. And she hadn’t known what to do with herself.

So…why not do something crazy? Something no one would expect boring little Marinette to do?

And…the way he was looking at her, eyes intense and shining, practically vibrating with—she wasn’t sure what. Suspense? Excitement? Was this just a…thrill seeking type thing for him?

He saw her hesitation and fidgeted a bit on his heels, licking his lips. Preparing for rejection.

She unconsciously licked her own lips, and then offered a trembling smile. “Okay.”

Luka’s eyes lit up and he leaned in, placing a hand on hers and squeezing tightly enough to give his excitement away, even though all he said was, “Are you sure?”

And she was. “Yeah,” she grinned. “Let’s do it. I-if you really want to.”

Luka grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her hard. “I definitely want to. Let me make some calls. Do you have a passport?” He drew up short, as if just that moment realizing that that might be a dealbreaker. Even rock stars needed passports.

“Oh, mm-hmm.” Marinette turned towards her purse on the table and pulled out her wallet and passport to show him.”

Luka laughed. “You have it with you?”

“I like to be prepared,” Marinette defended, blushing. “Though this thing is so small I can’t carry half of what I usually do.” She couldn’t help smiling as Luka leaned forward and kissed her cheek again.

“No complaints here. That’ll make things easier. I’ll buy you anything else you need.”

“Luka, you can’t—” Marinette began, growing alarmed as the practicalities of the situation began to set in. Plane tickets, clothes—she didn’t even have anything comfortable to wear on the plane, she didn’t have her phone charger—the hotel could probably give her a toothbrush, but—

Luka’s finger on her lips interrupted both her protest and her spiraling thoughts. “Trust me, it’ll be the smartest thing I’ve spent money on since the band took off. I’m dragging you to a whole other country on no notice. Let me at least be a gentleman about it.” He flashed her an incongruously wicked grin, caressing her lips with his fingertip before he drew it away and turned to find his phone.

The bounce in his step made her smile despite her worries. Well, he was a good guy. Or at least she thought so, based on…nothing at all. This was insane. She was crazy.

Marinette took another breath, fighting down another wave of panic. No, it was fine. She had friends in the States that could help her out if she really needed it, humiliating as that would be, but it wouldn’t come to that anyway. She had her own money saved, after all, and if Luka turned out to be a complete douche and left her stranded somewhere once he lost interest, she’d be able to get herself home just fine.

He wouldn’t though. Something inside her was sure of it.

Marinette sighed, burying her face in the pillow to let out a quiet little scream.

At least no one would ever be able to call her boring again. Are you happy now, Alya?

***

Luka’s hands shook and he paced as he dialed Lucille’s number. He was reasonably confident that she could do what he was about to ask, but he wasn’t so sure about how she was going to take this. He had a fair number of one night stands, sure, but wasn’t that much of a playboy as rock stars go and he had certainly never asked to bring a hookup along on tour with him before.

Still, this was going to be hard to explain. He didn’t want to have to pull the “you work for me ” card. That wouldn’t be fair to her with all that she did for him.

When he explained the situation, though, all he really got was…silence.

“I know this sounds really crazy—” he began, but shut his mouth when Lucille cut him off.

“Your personal life isn’t my business,” she said briskly. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen.

Luka winced at the implied disapproval, but decided it was best just to roll with it.

“Hey, can you—can you get her a room in the hotel in New York?” he asked. “I—” He paused, not sure how to put “I don’t want her to feel pressured to fuck me every night” in professional terms.

“Will do,” Lucille said, still in that clipped, matter-of-fact tone. “Do you want it near you or farther away?”

“Near is good.” Luka cleared his throat. “Next door would probably be fine.” He paused. “Can you find us a good place to eat one night while we’re there? Something fancy but not too touristy. Maybe some broadway tickets? She’d probably like that.” Not that he really knew anything about what she liked, but surely someone on the crew would take the tickets if Marinette didn’t want to go.

“Um…” That seemed to throw Lucille. “I can probably do that.”

“I know we’re on a really tight schedule in Chicago, but what about LA, is it whale season there? Can we book a whale-watching cruise?”

“I don’t really know, I’ll check. Whales might be farther north than LA proper.”

“Okay, well see if we can make time to get up there if so. See if we can schedule some beach time in between rehearsals, too.”

“O-okay. I can do that.”

Luka frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lucille said quickly. “You’re just not usually interested in that kind of stuff.”

“I don’t usually have time,” Luka replied, and then bit his lip. He didn’t really have time on this trip, either. “Just see if we can make it work. I don’t want to cause any problems for anyone.”

“It should be fine,” Lucille told him firmly. “I’ve told you before you work longer hours than you need to on tour. I’m…glad you’re thinking about taking some time.”

“Yeah,” Luka said lamely.

“Make sure your lady friend has all her documents in order. I can’t negotiate immigration and customs rules.”

“I will,” Luka promised. “What’s the absolute latest time I can get to the airport? Can we make a stop at her place before?”

“It’ll have to be a short stop or we’ll lose our departure slot,” Lucille sighed. “Your car’s already on the way to pick you up. Where does she live?”

“Uh—” Luka went back to the bedroom of his suite, and cracked open the door. “Marinette?”

***

They darted from the car to the back door of the bakery, neither keen on advertising Luka’s famous face following her inside. Marinette had asked if he wanted to wait in the car, but Luka found he really didn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid Marinette would panic if he let her out of his sight or because of the intense curiosity he had been feeling about her since she agreed to this mad adventure.

“Don’t say anything,” Marinette warned him as they went up the stairs. “I know it’s really childish looking, and I’ve been meaning to redecorate for years, but then I kept thinking I was moving out, and…none of it ever happened.” Marinette looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her messy bun was adorable, but it didn’t look very stable.

“Don’t apologize for liking what you like,” Luka told her sincerely, looking at the very girly pink room. Not what he would have expected from the girl he saw leaning on the bar last night, but now that he’d spent time with her, it fit. Another bit of that song he’d been thinking about clicked into place as he squeezed Marinette’s hand. “We’ve got ten minutes,” he told her. “Just grab the personal stuff you really need. We can pick up anything you forget Stateside.”

“Right. Okay.” Marinette hesitated for a moment, making abortive moves in several different directions before committing to one. Luka chuckled, but once she got moving, she moved like lightning. Before he could blink there was a pink polkadot hardshell suitcase open on the chaise, and Marinette’s distractingly perfect lips were silently moving as she pivoted and ducked and grabbed items to throw inside. Despite his offer to buy her clothes, she threw her closet door open and snatched things off hangers to stuff in the bag. She pulled something red and sparkly out of a drawer that absolutely piqued Luka’s interest, but it was in the bag before he could get more than a glimpse. He started to take a step forward but had to step right back when Marinette rushed by him, muttering under her breath. He could feel the manic energy spilling out of her and his hand twitched with the urge to grab hers, to pull her in and get her to breathe for a minute—but they really didn’t have much time, so he clamped down on the impulse and let her do what she needed to do.

He couldn’t help glancing around curiously, taking in the different types of sewing machines, the cones of thread, several poster boards of color swatches and pictures. Mood boards, he realized. “You’re a designer?” he asked, and Marinette paused, turning to look at him in surprise. He nodded towards the mood boards. “My sister’s a model,” he explained. “I’ve seen a designer’s studio before.”

“Oh—well—I mean, yes, but—it’s complicated,” she said, and Luka nodded.

“Sorry, don’t let me distract you,” he said, waving her on. They were on a schedule, after all. He shouldn’t have interrupted her flow, it was just…He let his eyes rove over the pictures and clippings on the walls and resisted the impulse to poke around on her desk.

She paused in the middle of the room, silently ticking off her fingers as if going through a mental list. Then she did one more quick spin, eyes roving over the room. She turned to her suitcase and shut it, leaning on the lid as she reached down to snap the clasps. She pulled it off the chair and set it on its wheels on the floor. She looked up at him with a delighted grin. Her eyes were bright and her hair had come loose from all her sharp turns, and her beautiful eyes were huge and bright with excitement.

I love this girl, Luka thought giddily, and then had to choke on a laugh. What? Where did that even come from? Spending the night with a girl and then standing in her apartment for less than ten minutes—who decides they’re in love after that ?

Me, apparently, he thought, feeling the grin growing on his face as he looked back at her. Don’t be stupid, Luka. You’ll get overinvested and end up breaking the girl’s heart, if you don’t scare her off before we even make it to the airport.

He was already reaching to offer his hand, though, and she took it, dragging her suitcase behind her as they headed for the staircase.

Marinette was still going through things in her mind as Luka carried her suitcase down the stairs, trying to make sure she had everything she needed and reassuring herself that they weren’t traveling into the wilderness, and she could probably buy anything she had missed as long as she had her important documents with her.

The driver was leaning against the car, frowning at his phone and obviously anxious to leave. Luka gave him Marinette’s suitcase to throw in the back, and then opened the door. Marinette almost tripped in her hurry to get in and keep them from being delayed any longer. She rubbed her ankle as Luka slid in beside her. Marinette lurched against him as the anxious driver pulled sharply into the traffic.

“Sorry,” she gasped as he helped her right herself. She groped for the seatbelt, and jerked it across herself, snapping it into the buckle as they made another sharp turn.

Luka let out a breath as he finished doing the same, and leaned back. “Gotta love Paris traffic,” he sighed, and added under his breath, “and Paris drivers. Not that New York is much better.”

Marinette smiled a little shakily, twisting her hands together in her lap.

Back in the car, Luka took her hand, gently curling his fingers around it. “How are you feeling? Still sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” Marinette smiled, surprised to realize she meant it—the little voice screaming in her head that this was crazy seemed to have given up for now. She was absolutely doing this. Impulsively, she leaned in and curled her hand around the back of Luka’s neck, pulling him into a kiss. He made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and opened his mouth for her as his hand left hers to squeeze her thigh.

The kiss was hot, and it sent shivers down her body, but it was different from the desperate, hungry energy of the night before. Softer, longer, not so rushed or single-minded. This was kissing for the enjoyment of it, not as a rush to something else. Luka’s hand on her thigh came up to cup her cheek, and he managed to wiggle his other arm between her and the seat to wrap around her waist, his fingers kneading gently into her lower back.

She pulled away sooner than she wanted to, conscious of the driver in the front, though he was so busy swearing under his breath at the other cars that she hoped he hadn’t taken too much note of the spectacle she was making. Luka let her break from him, but kept kissing her cheek, her jaw, up near her ear, until she scolded him quietly and put a hand on his chest to stop him from leaning in again. He grinned at her and settled back against the seat with his arm around her shoulders. Marinette smiled and leaned on him, breathing in his clean scent and light cologne.

She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew was Luka quietly calling her name. She had just enough time to register that before the car door opening made her jump, and Luka helped her out of the car as she tried to bring herself fully awake.

“Sorr—” she began, but Luka hushed her.

“There will probably be reporters,” he told her, putting his arm around her waist. “Don’t say anything and don’t let anyone separate us. If the cameras bother you just hide your face on me. I’ll handle the rest.”

Marinette nodded, still feeling a little confused. “My bag—”

“My staff will handle it. Ready?”

She wasn’t, but she nodded anyway. Luka kept her hip pressed tight to his as they walked into the crowd of reporters. Figuring it was better to look shy than bewildered, Marinette turned her face into Luka’s arm. She peeked just enough to see where they were going and to see black-clad security making a path for them. Luka just walked straight forward, answering no questions and keeping a calm, disinterested expression. This must be normal for him, she figured. He was used to it.

She wasn’t exactly used to it, but Luka’s calm made it easy to keep her own, and she just concentrated on not tripping on her own feet or Luka’s.

“You all right?” he asked, once they were inside. “You handled that well.”

“Y-yeah,” she said, and tried to smile up at him.

“Sorry, I should have warned you about that. They’ll probably pop up a few more times until we get through security, but then we should be clear, at least for a while.”

“It’s all right.”

It wasn’t Marinette’s first introduction to the lifestyles of the rich and famous, but they’d never been up in her face before. She was, she admitted to herself, a little shaken, but not too much.

Everything went fast after that. Despite her cadre of famous friends, Marinette was still caught off-guard at how much easier everything could be when people knew your face. In some ways, at least.

Luka did stop in the airport for pictures with fans, and to sign a few autographs, but a short, stocky young man turned up before they were halfway to the security desk and began hustling them along.

“Oh good, you made it,” he puffed, a little out of breath and a little red in the face. “We need to get you through security and then you can schmooze if you want.”

“Marinette, this is Emilio,” Luka said dryly, giving her an apologetic grin as he lengthened his stride a bit. Emilio was only a little taller than Marinette but he set a brisk pace. “He’s my assistant. It’s his job to make sure I get where I’m supposed to be before I’m supposed to get there.”

Emilio rolled his eyes. “He’d never get anywhere on time if it weren’t for me.”

“That’s not my fault,” Luka protested.

“You’re just too nice to say no to fans without me to be the bad guy,” Emilio shot back.

“That is why I hired you,” Luka admitted.

Emilio rolled his eyes, and then offered Marinette a flustered grin. “Nice to meet you, miss.”

“Marinette,” she put in.

“Marinette. Sorry to rush you both along—”

“You know we’re just going to end up sitting in the lounge waiting on the crew to get the plane ready,” Luka complained.

“—but security doesn’t care how famous you are,” Emilio finished pointedly.

Luka rolled his eyes, but kept pace with Emilio, Marinette’s hand clutched in his own.

***

“I hate the hurry up and wait schtick,” Luka complained, reaching to open the door to the private rich-people lounge. “But it’s so much better than it was when we were flying commercial. At least it’ll be quiet in here.” He hesitated, and pulled his hand back, taking Marinette’s arm and moving her a few steps away.

“What’s wrong?” Marinette asked.

“I just figured we should get our story straight before we go in there,” Luka replied with an embarrassed smile that Marinette found rather sweet. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” Marinette said, blinking. “That makes sense.”

Luka seemed to hesitate for a moment, licking his lips as he tried to decide what he wanted to say. She had noticed that it sometimes took him a moment to think through his words, and she found she liked it—both that he was so careful and thoughtful about what he said, and the reminder that, famous or not, in some ways he was still just a regular guy.

“Would you be comfortable with me introducing you as my girlfriend?” he finally asked. “That would probably be simplest.”

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?” she asked slowly. “Or if I’m okay with being called that?”

Luka shrugged, and she was amused to see the high points of his cheeks turning pink. “Either. Both. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” He hesitated again, and then said quickly, “Yes, I’m asking you to be my girlfriend. For however long this lasts, at least.”

Marinette wasn’t sure if she was more thrown by the request or by the corollary.

Luka sighed, running his fingers through his hair, and let his bag slip off his shoulder to the floor. “This is why I hate labels,” he muttered, and then tried to grin at her. “We can talk about what all it means when we get to New York and have some privacy, I promise. Right now I just mean that I’m with you and only you, until you—or we, I guess—decide we want something to change. Does that work?”

Marinette considered that for a moment, and then nodded. It would make things easier to have a title that people understood, and it came with a set of assumptions that would benefit them both for now. He was right, and they could work out the real meaning of what they were to each other when they got to New York. Worst case scenario, we have some fun, you can hang out at the hotel while I do my shows, we see the sights, and I buy you a plane ticket home when you get sick of me. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder what he considered the best case scenario.

The quick flash of his smile, a real smile, and the excitement in his eyes as he picked up his bag and took her hand, made her smile too, and she let him lead her into the lounge.

There was a group of people lounging in and around chairs, most of them sporting earbuds amongst the glint of their piercings. Luka called out to them, and they all smiled, turning towards him.

“Guys, this is Marinette, my girlfriend.” He grinned at her like the word delighted him, despite his grumbling about labels. “She’s going to be hanging out with us for the next few stops.”

The reactions were all surprised to some degree, but then friendly as they nodded, smiled, or gave a small wave. Marinette made a self-conscious little wave of her own. “Nice to meet you all,” she said. “Sorry if I made Luka late.”

She got a few chuckles at that. One green-haired girl rolled her eyes with a good-natured smile, and said, “We’re always waiting on somebody or other, it feels like. I guess it’s Luka’s turn. We’re not on the plane yet so we probably have at least another hour before we can take off anyway.”

Marinette smiled back, and tried to pay attention while Luka gave names and roles. Then he tugged her away, pulling her towards a separate group of chairs.

“Don’t you want to sit with your friends?” Marinette asked.

“Later,” Luka told her, squeezing her hand. “I have some things I want to work on, and I need a little space.” He gave her hand another little tug before she could offer to leave him alone. “You can stay, I don’t mind. And I’m definitely not leaving you with those maniacs by yourself.”

Marinette laughed, and sat down in the seat he indicated.

“You want a drink?” Luka asked, and when she nodded, he went to the lounge’s little bar and brought back two bottles of water. Marinette was already digging in her capacious purse.

“I need to call Alya,” she sighed, pulling out the phone charger she had stuffed into it during her packing frenzy. She plugged her phone and charger into the port in the table next to her as Luka set her water down on it. “She’s probably frothing at the mouth by now. How do you know her, anyway?”

“Know who?” Luka asked, settling back with a notebook balanced on one knee and the other water bottle in his hand.

“Alya.” Marinette watched him throw his head back and drink, and had to look away.

“I don’t know anyone named Alya,” he said when he lowered the bottle.

Marinette frowned at him, twisting open her own water. “Alya Cesaire? She said you wanted to meet me last night. That’s why I was in the lounge. Security let me in and everything.”

Luka’s eyebrows raised slightly. “I didn’t know you were going to be in the lounge. It was supposed to be closed off to the public.”

“It was. I had to get Security to let me in.”

“They just let you in?”

“Well, I had to give them my name at the backstage door, and then they took me to the lounge and let me in. Because you asked to meet me.”

Luka shook his head slowly. “I don’t know who you were supposed to meet there, but it wasn’t me. I’m glad you were there, but I definitely didn’t ask to meet you.”

Marinette stared at him for a full three seconds, not even blinking, before she could get his words to make sense. “O-oh. Oh. Oh, um.” She put a hand over her mouth. “S-she didn’t tell me who I was supposed to be meeting, and when you came in I thought—oh my God. Oh my God. ”

Luka frowned, studying her face. “Does it have to change anything?”

“Yes! …No. No, I guess it doesn’t. Shouldn’t it though?” She moved her hand to her forehead, feeling almost dizzy from the sudden change in her perspective.

“I don’t really see why.” Luka picked up her other hand, rubbing his thumb across the back of it. “We met. We had a good time. We liked each other and we want to see where things go.” He hesitated. “I mean, if you really wanted to meet this mystery person then—”

Marinette shook her head weakly. She hadn’t really cared that much, and had only gone to make

Alya happy, and because she was bored and depressed and any kind of escape from her daily life seemed appealing.

Well. She sure got that much, didn’t she? She was shaking, and could barely meet Luka’s gaze as he continued, “Then…it seems like we should be okay?”

“I guess we are, I just…” Marinette shrank a little, grabbing a handful of hair and tugging sharply. “I feel stupid. I thought—I mean I thought you wanted me, all that time, and—”

“I did,” Luka cut her off, squeezing her hand. “From the moment I saw you leaning against that bar.”

“Not like that ,” Marinette groaned, and then amended, “Well, not just like that. I mean—” She stopped, her thoughts hopelessly tangled, trying to figure out what she had been thinking last night—was it only last night? It seemed like so long ago.

“It’s not just like that,” Luka said, pulling her knuckles to her lips. “Not anymore. I promise, Marinette. So let’s just roll with it, okay?” He cupped her cheek to turn her face towards him, and she took in the worried look on his face. Her breath hitched a little, and then she put her hand over his.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” She smiled at him. He smiled back, and leaned forward to kiss her softly.

“Anytime you want out, you just tell me,” he whispered. “I’ll send you straight home, no hard feelings.”

“I don’t want out,” she blurted, almost before he was done talking. “I don’t, Luka. I’m sorry, it just…it startled me.” She studied him. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“A little,” Luka admitted. “I don’t really love the idea that you only—” he glanced towards the band, but no one was paying attention to them, “—did what you did because you were expecting—” he paused. “What were you expecting?”

Marinette groaned, putting her face in her hand. “I don’t even know. Honestly, Alya’s setups have never worked out before. I just thought—well, when I saw you, I thought…” She felt her face going redder and redder.

“You thought, you might as well hit that?”

“No!” Marinette said, horrified, but when she looked up she saw that Luka was grinning.

“Hey, I’m not going to pretend I was thinking anything different,” he teased. “But I think it worked out.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and Marinette burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it, he looked so silly.

“It did,” she giggled. “And now I’m running away with the hot rock star.”

“You’re the first groupie I’ve ever kidnapped,” Luka teased. Despite his light tone, she felt the way his grip on her hand softened. Not like he was letting go, more just a release of tension. She’d worried him, she realized.

“I’m glad things turned out the way they did,” she told him, making sure to meet his eyes and squeeze his hand back. His shoulders relaxed a little, and she smiled at him with genuine fondness. She was learning to read him, she realized. He kept a lot behind that laid back attitude, she was beginning to see.

Still.

“I really need to talk to Alya now,” she groaned.

“You need me to give you a minute?” Luka asked, and she shook her head, picking up her phone. It had enough battery now to power on and sure enough, there were a bunch of messages waiting for her. One was just a check in from her parents, and she sent them back a quick, mostly-true reply. She didn’t bother with the ones from Alya, just hit the button to call her. She held it away from her ear until she heard Alya’s voice screeching her name—her full name, of course, and then brought it back to her ear when Alya’s voice dropped to a more normal volume.

“Where have you been ?” Alya demanded. “I almost called the police and reported you missing. Adrien said you never showed up and—”

“ Adrien ?” Marinette demanded, and Luka glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “The mystery man you wanted me to meet was Adrien? ”

“Yes, and you blew it!”

“There was nothing to blow, Alya!” Marinette exclaimed, and then scowled at Luka when he choked on a laugh next to her. She flailed her hand in his direction, smacking his shoulder a couple of times, while he tried to smother his chortling. “Would you please just let that whole thing go? Why on earth would you think I wanted to meet him?” Dressed like that, she thought, slapping a hand on her face. What a disaster that would have been, she was sure.

“Oh, come on, he said he wanted to see you, and he’d been missing you a lot, and I just knew he’d finally gotten a clue and you were so hot last night I thought for sure—”

“She’s not wrong,” Luka muttered, and Marinette whipped her head around to glare at him. He shrugged. “Sorry, she’s loud.”

“Anyway,” Alya said, finally taking a breath, as Marinette turned her back to Luka. “Never mind all of that, where were you? You stood him up and—”

“I thought he stood me up!” Marinette broke in. “He was late ! I almost left, I decided to just have a quick drink first, and then L—and then someone came in, and I thought he was who you were setting me up with, and—and we went out. For a while.” She wouldn’t turn and look at Luka. She wouldn’t. She was sure he was laughing at her again. “My phone died. Alya, I can’t believe you tried to set me up with Adrien again. And you didn’t even warn me!”

“Adrien’s always late these days, it’s the cost of fame. He can’t walk to the bathroom without getting stopped for autographs and selfies, and he’s too nice to say no.”

“Well, you should have warned me about that too then.”

“I just thought you’d be less of a spazz if you didn’t have time to overthink it first!”

Marinette closed her eyes. “Alya, when has that ever worked.” Especially with Adrien.

“Okay, okay,” Alya groaned. “I just thought, it would be so romantic, one last chance after you both thought that it was over for good—it would have made such a story!”

“I’m not a story, Alya,” Marinette folded her free arm and pouted.

“Well there must be some story. Spill it, Marinette, who’s the guy you ran into? Please don’t tell me you blew off Adrien Agreste, Supermodel Actor, for some pathetic roadie who bought you a drink.”

Marinette’s eyebrows raised, and she glanced over her shoulder at Luka. “I definitely did not do that. I’ll tell you about it later, I’m—” about to get on a plane with a guy I just met “—busy.”

“And we’re back to the same old refrain,” Alya groaned. “You need to live a little, Marinette.”

“I’m hanging up now, Alya.”

“Marineeeeeeeeeette,” Alya whined, but Marinette rolled her eyes and ended the call.

She dropped the phone on the table and folded her arms, sinking into her chair as she pouted.

“You okay?” Luka asked, draping his arm behind her and letting his fingers play with her loose hair.

“Yeah.” Marinette rolled her eyes. “She’s just determined to make me the main character in one of her screenplays, I swear. You’d think a writer would know better how unrealistic that all is.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Marinette closed her eyes as Luka’s fingers moved to the back of her neck, massaging gently.

“Well, if you want,” he said slowly, and she looked at him. “We can absolutely give her a story. Maybe not the one she was hoping for, but…”

Marinette tilted her head curiously. “What do you mean?”

Luka leaned toward her, a wicked grin on his face that made her insides melt a little, and whispered a plan in her ear.

Marinette’s mouth twitched as she tried to keep in her smile. “I’ll think about it.”

***

The band’s private jet made her jaw drop in spite of herself.

“Wow,” she muttered under her breath.

“Yeah, it seems a little extravagant,” Luka confessed, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. “But commercial travel just got too difficult with all of our gear and the band and the staff. Not to mention the fans and the reporters. It’s just easier this way, and I have to admit, way more comfortable for an 8-hour flight. We use trains here on the continent but it’s hard to get around the US that way.”

“It’s really nice,” Marinette said, smiling at him. It was, too, with large, plush single seats on each side and a matching couch beyond. There was a sliding wood-panel pushed aside so that she could see the same type of single seats lining the cabin beyond.

“It keeps us from killing each other at least,” he said lightly. “Pick a seat. We’ll stay up here so you—so we can have some privacy.”

Marinette sat a little gingerly in one of the plush seats. There was a wooden rail at her elbow with drink holders in it

“Need anything else?” Luka asked, and Marinette smiled at him, and shook her head.

“I’m good.”

“Do you mind if I leave you for a bit?” he asked, tilting his head towards the couch behind the forward-facing seats. A slightly battered looking black-and-white guitar was strapped into a stand there. “I have some things I’d like to work on while we’re in the air.”

“Of course. I don’t want to get in the way of your work.”

He smiled at her. “Come and get me or call Emilio if you need anything.”

Marinette pulled her own notebook out of her bag. She curled up in the plane seat and looked out of the window, idly sketching random shapes as a warmup.

Luka also warmed up behind her, playing scales and other short ditties she didn’t know well enough to identify. Eventually he segued into another tune that she recognized from the concert, and then another.

Then he started playing something she hadn’t heard before. The melody inexplicably made her heart beat faster. It was new, but also…familiar. Not the tune, but the way it made her feel. It reminded her of…

Marinette peeked around the side of her seat and watched him for a moment. Luka was electric on stage, charged up and full of energy, but his face now was thoughtful, his brow slightly furrowed, his eyes closed even though his fingers were moving unerringly across the strings. Occasionally he would stop and go back, replaying a piece he’d just done but with some changes. It was a fascinating look at a process Marinette had never put much thought into.

Just then, someone—she thought it was the drummer, but she was still fuzzy on names—stuck their head in through the partition. “That a new one, Luka?” he asked, and Luka made an affirmative noise, but didn’t look up from his instrument. Apparently this was normal for him, because the person just grinned, and then grinned wider when he saw Marinette, and disappeared back behind the partition.

Marinette relaxed back in her seat, looking out of the window. The sun was setting, and she took out her colored pencils to capture the colors. It was weirdly refreshing, she found, to be drawing without a real goal, without a client or a concept in mind. Just…exploring, and recording, and letting her thoughts go where they wanted. She jotted notes on the margin or the next page any time something interesting occurred to her, but otherwise she just let her mind wander. She sketched the sunset, and then the pattern of the wood grain on the drink rail beside her, and anything else that caught her eye. Then she started sketching from memory; the backlit drink display from last night, one of Luka’s tattoos, the curve of his shoulder and neck emerging from the sheet—

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about that all of a sudden? She swallowed and turned the page.

“Hey.” She jumped as Luka’s voice came from behind her. “You still doing okay?” he asked, with a smile.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she said, unsuccessfully covering a yawn.

“I’m done for a little while,” he said. “If you want you can come lay on the couch back here and take a nap. It’s going to be late night Paris time by the time we land in New York.”

“Thanks. I might in a little while.”

“I’ve got to take a meeting with the guys in the back,” he said, stroking a gentle hand over her hair. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Call me if—”

“—I need anything.” She smiled. “I’m really fine.”

“Okay.” He leaned forward, and kissed her forehead before retreating to the back of the plane. She heard some catcalls and whistles and a good-natured, “Yeah, yeah, knock it off,” before he slid the partition shut.

It was funny, she thought, he really did treat her like she was his girlfriend, and not just a fuckbuddy or arm candy, either. The idea of that chat they were supposed to have, about what they really were to each other, suddenly made her stomach feel funny.

This whole scenario was so insane. She couldn’t believe she could possibly be so good at sex that the hottest rock star on the planet (in all possible meanings of the world) would be enthralled by her. He hadn’t even tried anything sexual since they went to sleep last night. Though there hadn’t been many private moments. A salacious thought or two crossed her mind about joining the mile high club when he came back, but she wasn’t sure she was bold enough to have sex with him with just that one little fake wood sliding wall separating them from his entire staff.

Marinette licked her lips and closed her sketchbook decisively. No more drawing in this mood. She got out her earphones and plugged them in, and turned some music on her phone. She didn’t have anything from Luka. She’d have to fix that soon. She really had had her head in the sand, Marinette thought, to have missed out on his music for this long. She put her chin on her fist and looked out at the night sky. There wasn’t anything particularly interesting out there now, the jet’s lights drowning at the stars and nothing but clouds or ocean below them, too dark to see clearly.

Before long, she felt her eyes dropping, and her head nodding, so she moved over to the couch and stretched out. It was surprisingly comfortable, though she would have liked a pillow. She folded her arms under her head, and dropped off quickly.

She woke with a start when someone touched her.

“It’s just me,” Luka said, kissing her cheek. “Can I join you?”

Marinette hummed agreement and scooted against the back of the couch. Luka somehow folded his lanky form onto the couch with her, tucking his bent legs between hers. He’d brought a pillow from somewhere that he propped under his own head, and his arms became Marinette’s pillow. Her neck was probably going to complain in the morning, but Luka was warm and smelled nice, and she was asleep again before she could overthink it.

Emilio woke them up in time to strap in for their landing in New York. Luka gave Marinette an adorable sleepy smile as they both buckled in, and he reached his hand across the aisle. Marinette put her hand in his and felt him squeeze it.

The airport wasn’t very full and all the shops were quiet and dark as they walked through. They mostly passed unremarked until they got to the door where their ride would be waiting.

“Pappos ahoy,” Luka said quietly, leaning over Marinette’s shoulder. She could see the people milling around outside of the airport doors and at least one of them had a camera. “Have you decided?”

Marinette looked up at him and nodded.

“Let’s do this then,” Luka grinned, and Marinette had to grin back. She reached up and smoothed her hair self-consciously, and felt Luka’s arm curl around her waist.

They walked out of the door that way, Marinette keeping her face up and smiling brightly. Neither of them spoke to any of the reporters that shouted at them, looking only at each other.

As the driver opened the car door to let them in, they turned to each other. Marinette put her arms around his neck, and pressed up on her toes. He met her halfway in a soft, long kiss, giving plenty of time for the cameras to catch the whole thing. The flurry of shutter clicks was still going when they parted. Luka helped Marinette in the car and then slid in after her, kissing her one more time before the door closed.

There’s your story, Alya, Marinette thought smugly, settling into the car seat.

Fiction Master Post

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