#this is south of a reservation just barely outside of it

[aisling-saoirse]

Petroglyphs in Utah - May 20th 2023

[corollaservant]

(18+ mdni) ☆ corp. hcs

projectmanager!nanami who calls you exhausted in his office to announce that you will be leaving for a business trip in two days. He huffs in annoyance but can’t help but notice the way your skirt rides up when you exit, he should scold you for violating dress code policy.

projectmanager!nanami who hosts a boring meeting and talks nonstop, your mind is drifting somewhere else. You observe (and silently drool over) his firm jaw, muscular frame and veiny hands as he points to the presentation on the wall, his eyes meet yours and squint, he can tell you didn’t listen to a word he said. 

projectmanager!nanami who tries not to look as you sit across the conference room, the rest left and you lean absentmindedly on the table, chest plush from being pushed on the glass, your perky boobs spill inside the unzipped white button up. ‘’Did you hear what I said about him? He needs to be fired, he’s holding the team back and his KPIs are terrible, write that down.’’ he orders and you sit upright and scribble furiously.

projectmanager!nanami who is informed that the hotel you’d be staying for one day has mixed up his reservation and can only offer you either one of their cheapest rooms with two single size beds or a king size suite (out of all options! it was an urgent booking after all). It’s not about the money, he has plenty to spend, but he can’t sleep in the same bed with a company worker. Especially not when that is you. He eventually opts for the suite regardless, he can’t listen to your continuous and childish complaints about how uncomfortable a single bed feels. 

projectmanager!nanami who’s tucked in bed as you exit the shower – droplets falling from your hair and he looks down; the towel barely covers your boobs, since it's about the size of a hand towel; due to the sudden inconvenience the staff had not properly equipped the room. He’s feeling the blood rush south and shuffles as his aching dick annoys him between his legs.

projectmanager!nanami who stays up until 3, you sleep soundly next to him and he rushes to the bathroom, his cock still up. He wraps his hands around it, tip is flushed and smeared with his precum as he moves his fingers up and down his shaft, your image exiting the shower carved into his mind. He can’t help but picture you under him, cock between your folds as he pushes deep and you whine, same voice when he tells you to do something you don’t want to. The film frame in his mind switches to you in the conference room, white button up too tight for your tits (you also never wore a bra no matter the shirt color) and your strict pencil skirt, which always somehow managed to ride up your plush thighs, the skin soft and delicate. He pumps faster as he bites down his shirt to silence his groans, your name slips out and he cums hard on his greedy palm, some of his load splatters across the bathroom — it’s dark and he can’t see much, body jerking and eyes shut with bliss. 

projectmanager!nanami unaware you woke up the minute he hastily rolls out of bed and caught up on his guilty act, thighs pushed together and a finger teasing your wet core, you can’t believe he’s jerking off to you, just meters outside and ready to take him but you hesitate to enter the bathroom, the situation hot as is. 

projectmanager!nanami in the same suite next day, opening his work laptop, the team leaders of the company cancelled the office meeting and he’d have to inform your company back home, possibly gossiping and bashing their unprofessionalism. Little does he know, you have no plans to listen to meaningless banter, as you crawl under the hotel desk and start caressing his thighs, he's on Zoom, camera and sound on as he hisses. ‘’Everything alright, sir?’’ the worshiping leeches call out to him, as you move your hands to palm his semi hard cock. You know you are bold, you just can’t deny him any longer, the previous night a confirmation of both your desires. 

projectmanager!nanami muting himself, as your mouth bobs up and down his length, tongue swirling around his blushed tip as he grabs your tight bun and pushes your head all the way down; his expensive wristwatch accidentally scratches your cheek as he gradually loses constraint. He feels himself close and removes his hand as he covers his mouth to "cough", sound muted as ropes of his load spurt in your throat. You grin satisfied for anything he offers.

projectmanager!nanami seeing you plant a soft kiss on his tip, smiling and standing up behind the camera as you wink, he unmutes and continues—ragged breath and a slight pink decorating his face, he’d been holding his breath too much.

‘’Excuse me sir, what did you say we should do about …?’’ someone shouts from the meeting, the back office noise too loud. ‘’I’ll call you later’’ he hangs up and follows you to the bathroom.

He just can't let that slide.

[actuallysaiyan]

YAAAAAAAY you’re back! 😃

May I please request headcanons for Gohan, Goten, and Trunks reacting to their female singer S/O performing on stage with a male singer that they have a ton of chemistry with?

warnings: smut, oral sex(male receiving), spanking, jealousy, unprotected sex, possessiveness pairings: Son Gohan x Fem!Singer!Reader, Son Goten x Fem!Singer!Reader and Trunks x Fem!Singer!Reader

smut under the cut

Gohan

Look, he’s so insanely proud of you. You’ve come such a long way in your career. He loves watching you on the stage as well. He’s your biggest supporter.

He also understands that at times, you may look like you’re getting really close to fans or other performers, but he knows it’s just all an act.

Until that night, when he sees you practically grinding up against the guest performer. His blood begins to boil. This isn’t what you two agreed upon.

He’ll watch the performance, not wanting to cause a scene. But just know that things will go south when you get home. He’s got no patience for this kind of shit.

Once you’re done with your concert, he grabs you by the wrist and tells you there’s an emergency at home. You truly believe him somehow so you go along with it.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, his voice strangely calm. When you two get home, he’s pinning you to the wall. Your wrists are above your head and he’s kissing you so hungrily.

If you try to protest and argue, things will only get worse. He will pull your panties off, tug your dress up over your hips and he’s going to spank you until you’re crying.

“It’s not funny, babygirl. I warned you, I didn’t want to see you with another performer so close like that.” He says as his big hand soothes over your red ass. “Don’t forget it.”

Goten

More jealous than his older brother. Definitely is the type to keep a hand or his arm wrapped around you during afterparties and things like that. Wants everyone to know you belong to him and only him.

Probably spies on you from time to time, but he’s so goofy and sweet on the outside, he’s always got some sort of excuse for this behavior. And you believe it.

The night that you decide to dance so close and grind on the guest performer, he’s so jealous. He’s fuming and ready to pull you off stage.

He doesn’t let you have an encore. The minute you come backstage after your performance, he’s taking you away from everyone. The crowd is disappointed but he doesn’t care.

Goten is going to be fucking you in the backseat of the car while your driver drives you home. He’s feral and angry, leaving lots of marks on you.

“Fuck…do you have any idea how much that kind of shit pisses me off?” He asks, pressing his face in the crook of your neck while he fucks into you hard and deep.

You can barely think straight, clinging to him to keep yourself grounded as his cock rams into you over and over, bullying your sweet spot and cervix.

He’ll have you stuffed full of cum, disheveled. If there are paparazzi outside your apartment when you get home, he’ll proudly parade you around so that they get the pictures of you full of Goten’s cum and you look like you got your world rocked.

Trunks

He’s a jealous man, but it’s a bit different than Goten. He’ll be possessive at times, but he can also be a bit more reserved and watch you from afar. He saw first hand what jealousy does when it comes to his parents, so he’s got different tactics.

He’s got connections, so he always has tabs on you. He makes sure you’re okay, even when he can’t be with you on every part of every tour.

When you excitedly tell him you’re touring with one of your favorite performers, he’s a bit wary of this. But like a good boyfriend, he is excited and he supports your decision.

The only problem is that he is not happy with the chemistry you have with this performer. He wasn’t expecting this at all. He keeps a close eye on this man.

Then one night, you’re grinding and dancing with the performer, and Trunks grows so angry. His blood is boiling, he’s so close to going Super Saiyan. How could you do this to him?

The minute you’re done with your concert and you’re done with the meet and greets, Trunks has his hand on your shoulder and he’s guiding you towards the limo that’s waiting outside.

“Wait, there’s an afterparty!” you try to coax him, but he’s not hearing any of it. He has you in the limo with ease and you’re seated on his lap.

“What the fuck was that, princess?” He asks, tugging on your hair to make you look into his eyes. “Do I need to punish you?” But you already know he’s going to for the stunt you just pulled.

Trunks has you gagging and choking on his cock, watching as you try to catch your breath. Just know that if you pull that shit on him again, the consequences will be worse.

[starsupontharss]

silly little kevaaron drabble for you all as promised, please be nice <333

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

Kevin’s eyes have always gotten him in trouble. Glances that lingered too long in the nest were a small form of suicide growing up, Riko ever present to punish him for staring at anything other than his racket or his brother. His gaze has always been steely, determined, laser-focused on his opponent. When in interviews, Kevin has trained his eyes to be polite and restrained, but the intensity in them never dropped. Nicky chastised him for his glare when he first arrived in South Carolina, comparing him to a cheetah about to pounce on his prey. Kevin has never seen a problem with it. If his gaze is determined, it’s because he is determined, and if it discourages conversation, then Kevin doesn’t really mind. If he has his thoughts to himself for a second more then lucky him.

In this moment however, with his deepest darkest secret 3 rows in front of him, he wishes his obvious, lovesick staring could be less noticeable. He fears any observer will, rightfully, label him a sociopath with the way his pupils bore in the back of just-past-the-chin straw blonde hair from across the bus. His secret’s name is Aaron Michael Minyard and Kevin thinks that straw blonde must be the most beautiful hair colour known to mankind. Aaron sits, silent and peaceful, next to the window on the right of the bus, with his headphones on his mind off, nearly asleep as he leans against the glass. Kevin stares from the far left of the back row and aches to be closer. To see every hue in every strand on his head. To memorise the delicate bouquet of his damp locks. To engrave every hex code into his soul. Nicky’s absence from tonight’s game because of a sprained ankles leaves aaron with a seatmate, and Kevin with a heavenly view.

Andrew stares up from his phone and Kevin looks away, lest his schoolboy crush turned undying devotion for the goalie’s twin be revealed. Kevin remains unaware of how Aaron has become so integral to his breathing in such a short span of time. It snuck up on him, gradual but considerable, until Aaron occupied nearly every thought in his mind that wasn’t exy related.

Kevin’s eyes dart to outside the window. He can see the roads he recognises, can feel the light at the end of the tunnel approaching. 10 minutes. 10 minutes at most is all it will take for Kevin to be home, to be able to slip out of his shared dorm and into his and Aaron’s spot, where the wall obstructs the barely-big-enough-for-two space in the stairwell and he can gather Aaron into his arms, feel his warm enveloping embrace.

The desperation is the hardest part of all this, Kevin thinks, just barely beating out trying and failing to avert his gaze away from his beloved boyfriend. The wanting to be with Aaron in front of the world, wanting to shout about his love from the rooftops and not being able to us slowly but surely killing him. Every conversation steers them in circles, endless cycles of fear and internalised homophobia and repression. His apprehension is just as great as Aaron’s, his childhood necessity to be perfect in the master's eyes conquering his meek courage anytime he toys with the idea of opening up about their relationship. and so they stay, trapped in a love confined to the dark, kept away from the prying of Andrew or the press or the Moriyamas or anyone who could possibly ruin their peace.

Aaron jolts awake as the bus jostles over the speed bump that signals their arrival into the Fox Tower car park, and as he yawns and stretches and adjusts, he spares a glance back at Kevin where he sits uneasy at the back of the bus. His smile, reserved, barely noticeable, and utterly dazzling, reassures Kevin in a way he didn’t even know he needed. Whatever happens, whatever secrets they need to keep, Aaron will always be there, with his gorgeous face, and quick wit, and unbeaten sarcastic humour, and he will always be there to smile at Kevin’s lovelorn eyes. Kevin looks, unashamed.

[lainiespicewrites]

The Atreides Era Part 2

A/N: HI. this was supposed to be posted like 2 weeks ago! but I was finishing school and then my BEST FRIEND HAD A BABY! Life has been kind of crazy. But here is part 2 of my series for @hey-its-roseaurum ! for my dedicated followers my normal content will also be resuming soon as well! Enjoy guys!

Warnings: Death? Kinda?

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

By dawn, the masses had gathered. Or what was left of them. About 3 days earlier some of the camp had accompanied Lady Jessica. They had already gone south. Stilgar was at the center of the gathering along with Paul Atreides. Stilgar was giving a speech. This seemed to be his mantra. Matar and Chani exchanged an exasperated glance. The two lingered outside the group. 

“There is no turning back from this, Matar,” Chani Says. Matar nods at her friend. Her body is rigid but the glassy look in her eyes barely shields the hurt in them. 

“He says, it is for our protection. For my protection. But…” Matar pauses and looks at her friend. Chani tears her eyes away from the circus happening in front of them and gives Matar her full attention. She continues. “If he follows through with this. I fear it is him who will need protection.” She glances back at Paul. He looks like a leader. He is building morale with the soldiers before they make the move to head south. He looks… so sure of himself. But Matar sees right through it. She and Paul had, against her better judgment, become friends. Close friends. He may have a plan. But he has no idea what he’s doing. If he was so sure, so brave. Then why had he come to her? Why did he need Chani? If he was the fearless leader Stilgar claimed him to be, then why could she see the certainty wavering in his eyes when they met hers across the crowd of people around him? 

“Protection from who?” Chani’s question broke through Matar’s thoughts and her full attention was once again brought back to the girl standing next to her. Matar inhaled deeply, her eyes dropping to the sand beneath her feet. It was only months ago they had taken Paul and his mother in. Against her will, she was training him to walk so he wouldn’t get himself killed. Was he really strong enough to lead a war against the emperor? Was it even his choice? He was just a puppet on his mother's string. He made the choice. But it is Lady Jessica who laid the path. Matar paused still. Trying to choose the right words. Finally, she met Chani’s eyes again. 

“Himself,” she spoke. “He is a danger to himself.” Before Chani had the chance to respond the soldiers were beginning to move. Following the two men up the sand dune. Reluctantly the girls followed. A silence fell over them as they watched the young Atreides place the thumper in the ground. About 50 feet away Stilgar repeated the same process. Naturally, the Freman soldiers split off into two one to follow Stilgar and the ones that would travel with Paul. As they started to hear the rumble under the sand in the distance Matar once again caught Paul’s gaze. Without a word, she nodded at him and she and Chani joined Stilgar and the others waiting to jump. She did not look back at him. Nor did she see the brief expression of pain on his face as she had denied him. But it was short-lived.

The rumble was now only mere feet away. The head lifted up from the sand. Not one of them flinched. They all took their cue hopping onto the creature's back digging their hooks in for balance. Whatever reservations Matar had about this decision would have to be put to rest. Any chance to turn back was long gone. 

The ride south was long. And for Matar, quiet. A time to reflect. No matter what outcome she could not picture this move having a positive ending. Paul believes power is the answer. He’d once told her he would give anything to be equal to her. He seems to contradict himself often. More than anything. Matar could not shake the feeling that  Paul’s choice would tear them apart. He promised her it was to protect her. So he could keep her safe and keep them close. But in her eyes. His choice to give himself power and trying to rise above everyone else is doing the opposite. 

When their journey came to an end Matar took the time to get her bearings. She pays no mind to Paul as he sets off toward the temple. Or the shrine, as Lady Jessica had called it. She watched as the other Freman set up camp. Readying themselves for Paul’s instruction. Paul had refused to tell Matar how he planned to attack the Emperor. However, she knew he had a battle plan. Only time will tell. 

Matar found a quiet place on the outskirts of their new camp to set up her tent. She stares at the business of the scene around her. Everyone seems so frantic. Haphazardly setting up their new lives. Eager to play their part in this ridiculous game. Yes, She thought, she was losing him. Losing him to his own greed. The man she saw this morning already seemed vastly different from the man she was with last night. The man who spoke of oceans as deep as her eyes. The man who had plans to take her there. She wanted to believe he was still her same friend. But he made no effort to prove it. 

She was lost in thought. Settling into what felt like a foreign land. Matar did not notice that she was now alone. The other Freman had gone off to follow the young Atreides. Even Chani who had been setting up nearby was now gone. Still, Matar did not notice. Not until her friend’s voice rang out across the way from inside the shrine. At first, she thought she was mistaken. Matar quickly turned around from her tent. It took her only seconds to realize she was alone. And then again… unmistakable this time. It was a cry of her name coming from her best friend. 

Her heart races. Mind going a mile a minute afraid for her friend. Her family. Everyone she knows is inside that building. What has happened? Are they hurt? She took off. She ran from camp and across the sand to the shrine. Throwing open the doors, she runs inside. She follows the sound of her friend's screams but is stopped dead in her tracks when she finds her. As she takes in the sight in front of her feels as though the air in her lungs is depleted. 

Paul is lying on the ground motionless. Chani is kneeling next to him grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him trying to break whatever spell he’s put himself under. The Freman are scattered around the room. They’ve dropped to their knees in devoted prayer. And her… of course her. Lady Jessica stands aside watching the madness. Unphased and waiting. 

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” She hears her friend shout. She watches as Lady Jessica only continues to glower at Chani. 

“It had to be done.” She said. Chani looks back to Paul and shutters through a sob.

 “He’s dead,” Chani states. Matar can no longer stay in the shadows. She runs to her friend kneeling beside her. Her hand quickly finds Paul’s. Her Mouth goes dry when she finds no pulse. No. this isn’t real. Her body starts to shake with rage but she forces it down. She turns her head fixing her glare on the boy’s mother. 

“You killed your own son, and for what?” She seethes. But she’s not done. “That is low Lady Jessica, even for you.” Matar opens her mouth to continue to berate the woman but her words are cut short. 

“SILENCE,” Lady Jessica uses her power of voice to shut the girls up. “It is not your place to tell me what is best for the future of my family. And for your planet. You will thank me. And if you would let me finish… he is not dead.” Matar looks back to Paul’s lifeless form squeezing his hand in hers. 

“You did this! Fix him!” Chani shouts. Lady Jessica shakes her head remaining stoic. 

“The prophecy must be fulfilled …desert rain.” She states. Chani lets out a frustrated groan but Matar stills. She looks at her friend. 

“She is right,” Matar says as the girls lock eyes. 

“Matar,” Chani begins to protest. From behind them. Another vile of the blue liquid is being brought out. 

“I hate to agree with her. With any of this. It’s all bullshit. But we’ve always known about the prophecy. Chani if you don’t do this, Paul will die. You did not force his hand, but you can save his life.” Chani’s shoulders shake from the sob she’s trying to hold in. Finally, she can no longer hold it back and she lets her tears fall. 

“DO IT,” Lady Jessica’s voice rings through the room. Causing Chani to jump. 

She quickly wipes the tears from her cheek, dips her fingers into the blue liquid that has been presented to them and presses them to Paul’s lips. The room falls silent as everyone waits. Matar once again feels like she cannot breathe. She feels a twitch. And realizes she’s still holding Paul’s hand. His fingers slowly start to curl around hers. Then seconds later. He awakens. 

“Usul!” Chani lets out a relieved breath. “I’m here,” She looks back to Matar “We are here,” she caresses his cheek her face no full of concern. “Are you okay? Do you feel okay?”

The room erupts into chatter and Matar feels like her heart is being squeezed inside her chest. He is alive. Her friend her…Paul. He is alive. She looks at him and finds he is staring back at Chani. And for some reason, this causes more of an ache in her chest. Slowly he lets go of her hand and starts to sit up. 

“I’m okay, I feel okay. “ He assures her. His eyes shift to Matars and he gives her a gentle smile. But it feels forced. Matar nods at him, standing back up. Paul turns back to Chani. “Thanks to you.” He says. Matar quickly starts to feel as if she’s over stayed her welcome. Really she never felt as if she was welcome here. And she takes her leave. As she’s walking out the door she hears it. Chani slapped Paul hard across the cheek. Saying nothing else she stands and follows Matar out of the shrine. 

The doors close behind them and Matar stops for a moment to let out a shaky breath, showing any emotion at all for the first time since she entered the building. 

She feels Chani’s hand on her shoulder.

“Matar, he’s okay,” she says her voice soft. This is supposed to be comfort. But Matar’s body goes rigid, and what feels like jealous burns in her stomach. 

“I know,” she bites out. She takes another breath. This isn’t Chani’s fault, she tries to reason with herself. Chani hates the prophecy as much as she does. But she cannot help that she was apart of it. “Thanks to you.” her words come out more bitter than she means them to. She turns to face Chani, letting her hand fall from her shoulder. 

“And what does that mean?” Chani askes, her voice still calm. However, her eyes were sharp staring back at Matar. 

“It just means,” again Matar stopped herself. Chani was her friend. Paul was her friend. She was thankful that she saved his life and surely paul was too. That is all this is. “You were there, and I am glad you were. Usul would have died without you. I’m greatful that you saved his life Chani.” Matar says to her. Chani’s eyes begin to water again. She’s still emotional from the events that have just taken place. 

“I don’t know if I could have done it if you we’ren’t right there with me. Thank you. You are a good friend Matar. And an even better fighter. I can’t believe you spoke to Lady Jessica like that.” she chuckled softly. Matar cracked a soft smile. 

“It was nothing she didn’t deserve.” 

Just then the doors flew open again. There stood the man himself. He looked as if he was still in pain but he was fighting it well. 

“There you are,” He said to them. “C’mon, we have to prepare. We attack  tomorrow. The three of them exchange glances. Matar and Paul lingering for only a moment before she nods. 

“Lead the way Usul.”  She states.  Paul turns walking back into the building and the girls follow. 

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

As always let me know what you think :)

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[kay9leo]

It's hard being the new kid...

Sort of "modern" HL AU

Meet Iñaki "MC" Martinez Cariaga! She's the new transfer student from the United States. She was late for the sorting ceremony so she's currently houseless right now, hence the gray tie. Unfortunately for MC, her ancient magic is a magnet for attracting trouble and getting her into situations she rather not be in, sort of like Percy Jackson.

Fun Facts:

Normally her eyes are brown, but ever since she ended up in the UK, if she's around the presence of high Ancient Magic activity, her own ancient magic activates, turning her eyes a magical blue. They also turn that color when she's using it. At the advice of Prof. Fig, she tries to keep a small flow of it running consciously if she's not at a nearby ancient magical source.

She's also big runes fan! Since her family comes from both Central and South America, she has a big love of studying Mayan glyphs and Incans quipus (they use that instead of runes to conducting their magic). She also knows some indigenous words in Kaqchikel and Quechua; some for fun and some for spell casting. Seeing Norse runes in person was the one thing she was definitely looking forward when going to Hogwarts.

While she doesn't originally goes by MC back in the States, it became her deferred nickname/shorten version of her double surname Martinez Cariaga to use at Hogwarts. She's gotten tired of both professors and peers taking too much time to say it or have them accidently butcher her surnames (or first name even). Her nickname of MC is used so often that it gets to the point that barely anyone remembers that her name is Iñaki 🤣

Ancient Magic & Hogwarts Castle

I headcanon that the Hogwarts Founders were ancient magic users who build Hogwarts and never told anyone about their abilities. Since the place is humming with Ancient Magic, MC's eyes are always a constant magical blue. It's when she leaves Hogwarts grounds that she has to focus on maintaining that magical flow.

The Big Move, Fourth Year & the Reserved New Girl

Unfortunately, Iñaki's dad lost his job during the first layoffs of the Great Recession in early 2008. Thankfully, he had a buddy who hooked him with a new temp job in London, causing the Martinez Cariaga family to move across the pond from New York to London during the end of summer. While she loved the idea of traveling and going to Europe (and maybe even learn more about the different ancient runes used there), she wasn't too pleased at the idea of moving abroad and leaving everything she knows and loves.

Instead of starting her freshman year with her close friend group at Excelsior (NYS magical school system, Ilvermorny is the New England private magical prep school - the most famous, oldest and only school most people know outside the US), Iñaki is starting 4th year at Hogwarts.

Note: The words between "< >" is spoken in Spanish. MC comes from a Spanish-speaking Latino household. If the words are not in between "< >" assume she's speaking English.

6: At the end of MC's first week:

MC:

<¡Hola Mami!>

< I'm fine. ¿And you? >

< Nothing interesting happened this week. >

< ¡NO! ¡It wasn't like I fought a dragon or a troll this week. >

< ¡Just because I faced the Jersey Devil in 6th grade or the Headless Horseman in 7th OR befriended Champ at Lake Champion in 8th doesn't mean weird things always happens to me! >

<¡I'm fine Mami! Nothing happened...>

<¡I had to Mami! ¡He told me he wanted to give me a "proper Hogwarts welcome" before we started! I told him "That's how we say 'Hello' in New York." Made it too easy for me by saying his spells out loud. The prof said I was a great example of how magical duels are different in the New World with our non-verbals...>

<He was cool with losing. ¡Sebastián even gave me a tour of the magical village nearby and introduced me to the "dueling club" the school has! >

< We dueled together…¡It was fun! I almost forgot how much I miss home… >

8:

MC:

< I still want to go home. >

< No Mami. I don't mean visiting you guys back in London. Home as in New York. >

< ¿Why should I make friends if we're only going to be here for a year?>

< ¿It's only a year...right? >

< ¿Right? >

< I gotta go...I promised my classmates I'll study with them for our exam next week. >

< I love you too. >

"Bye."

*Flips phone closed*

*Ends call*

......

MC's trying...but she is rather homesick.

She's now stuck in Hogwarts and isn't too keen on making friends since she has no clue whether she'll be there for a year or not - it all depends whether if they extend her father's work contract and she's isn't keen on making friends if she's only there for a few months in her mind. It gets to the point where Sebastian trying to friend her is like an unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object. (He ends up winning though when she accidently slips up and calls him her friend later on in the year).

For now though, MC is a very angsty teen right now and had her world flipped upside down.

At least she can take out her angst in dueling club 😅

I want to thank @myokk for listening to my ideas about my MC and to my sibling who needed to borrow my laptop for work (leading me to doodle and actually make a digital drawing on my tablet -that I use as a second monitor for work- since I couldn't edit some papers on those days). Without them this drawing wouldn't have happened.

I'm never doing this ever again because I a bit too perfectionist for art and I hated the number of layers I needed. It was supposed to just be a SIMPLE digital doodle!!!! Instead I made this 😭. Never again. I'm sticking to my pen doodles. I was bored out of my mind and I was either reading or doodling while my sis was testing out her new laptop and I was on stand by in case she needed me.

[rotworld]

11: Slither

(previous)

something strange is going on at the university.

->briefly suggestive. contains gore, drugging, mentions of child neglect.

.

.

.

You can still smell it.

Death. Blood and snow. Stiff corpses left in purposeful poses, waiting for you to open your eyes. Bits of brain on the pillow next to yours. Heads like roadkill. You barely eat all day, too sick to your stomach. 

He was in your room. He stood at your bedside, watching you sleep. One by one, he dragged their bodies inside and arranged them like old friends sleeping off a party, close and intimate. And then he just left. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Rushing from place to place, fleeing the snow? Can you go anywhere? Can you stay with anyone? How many chances do you get before he finishes the job? You wish you’d asked more questions. But if anyone knows anything, you’ll find them at the University. 

You’ve driven for hours without stopping, afraid of the weather changing. You adjust your route, taking the road east. The scenery becomes strange as the sun goes down. A clock tower looms just off the shoulder of the road, red brick and Verlinda-touched by strangling vines. An oak tree grows clumps of green-tinged parking tickets instead of leaves. A patch of wildflowers grows in the shape and colors of a University sweatshirt. This is a good sign; it means you’re close.

Macbride University used to be located in Bevin, a small town torn to shreds by a particularly vicious shift in a time before anchorware. Those disparate pieces still exist throughout the Drift. Several of its hiking trails landed in the Stillwoods back when it was Green Valley, albeit with noticeable spatial and temporal distortion, and the art museum was excavated in the south end of Primsville. None are more remarkable than the University which emerged along the highway, fully intact, still containing a bewildered student body and faculty who were oblivious to the sudden relocation. 

Today, it’s a city of its own. A costly, meticulously maintained perimeter of anchorware has given it an unusual amount of stability—you can almost always find it towards the east of the Drift. Still, the shift that ripped it from its foundations from Bevin left a mark on the fabric of reality and the University has a tendency of shedding like a thick-coated dog, each relocation lodging bits and pieces of town into the surrounding highway. They make for useful landmarks, and you’ve never been quite so relieved to see them as you are now.

Soon, you’re passing beneath streetlights and blending into campus traffic, flanked by stately lecture halls with stone columns and arching doorways. “WELCOME,” the artsy metal sign on the overpass says, “TO MACBRIDE UNIVERSITY.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: PAPAOUTAI BY STROMAE]

You’re familiar with the University. It’s one of your preferred destinations to make deliveries. Navigation is simple. Every building is named and labeled by black stone plaques, every district easily found by following a network of blue road signs. Every section of the city, from the tidy bureaucratic buildings of the Administration District to the picturesque Tudor manors of the Residential District, have reserved courier parking spaces and dedicated exchange offices.

The campus is beautiful. Blushing autumn trees line the cobblestone paths. Cloister gardens are tucked inside the labyrinthine sprawl of college buildings and canopied walkways, quiet corners flush with greenery. You can smell the cloying earthy sweetness of the egg gardens. The College of Medicine stretches across a hilltop overlooking the rest of the campus. You pull into your designated spot outside one of the libraries and pull your deliveries out of the trunk.

The box from Compass Hill is slim but heavy with anchorware, wooden lit stamped with the old textile factory logo. The Stag gave you something the shape of a small glass jar but wrapped in layer after layer of protective coverings; newsprint, bandage wrappings, some kind of thick, glossy leaves.

The library is modern but cozy, earthy colors, tall arch windows and wooden furniture. Students flit through the shelves and crack open thick, dusty tomes beneath warm table lamps. The woman at the reference desk calls Dr. Loyola down to take your delivery. You’re invited to help yourself to tea, coffee, or any of the books while you wait. Most of what’s on the shelves is too dense and dry for you, seventh edition treatises on acute shift sickness and investigations into anomalous anchorware radiation. You sit down with a drink and your map, considering where you’ll go next. You scratch out the motel with a giant X.

“Is that painsilk, by any chance?” 

You look up and find someone leaning over your table, resting one hand on the lid of the wooden box. He—or she, perhaps, beautiful and androgynous in a loose knit sweater and black jeans, wavy brown hair just long enough to tie into a low ponytail with a red ribbon—is young but not as young as some of the others milling about the library. A graduate student, maybe, or a new professor. 

“You can stop guessing. I’m not a man or a woman, and would rather not be referred to as such.” You quickly apologize but they seem unbothered, waving off your tension. “You didn’t know. Now you do.” They pull out the chair across from you and sit casually, an elbow resting on the table, chin set against their hand. “Ah, I haven’t gotten to ask this in a little while. Where are you from? And where will you go after this?”

You hadn’t expected to meet a child of the road here, but there’s no reason why you wouldn’t. People come to the University from all across the Drift. “I’m from somewhere to the northwest. Not sure where I’m headed next, depends what I get to deliver.” 

“Oooh, cryptic,” they say with a grin. “I like that. Mind if I see your map?” You pass it across the table and they flip it around, dragging their finger over your hasty scribbles. “You’re not from any of these, then? Compass Hill? Rivermouth?” You shake your head. They hum thoughtfully. “Have you not marked your ‘home’ due to physical constraints, such as the size of the paper, or is it simply irrelevant information?” 

You don’t like the flippant way they say “home,” like it’s nothing but a mirage. “Does it matter?” you ask. 

They seem surprised by your hostility. “Ah, my turn to apologize,” they say, hands raised in a placating gesture. They slide the map back to you. “I’m asking from a place of genuine curiosity. I’m studying children of the road for a research project. For all the hearsay and rumor, there’s not much reliable information about people like you and I. My current hypothesis draws on the fundamental mechanics of micro-metaspatial alignment, so I’ve been trying to get better geographical distribution data. Physical birthplace versus metaphysical point of origin, the birthplace of parents if applicable…”

“What about you?” you ask. “Where are you from?” 

“Hm? I have no idea.” 

You pause, waiting for elaboration. They offer none. “Okay, but where is it?” you press.

“Now who’s being belligerent?” they say, but they’re grinning as if they’re enjoying the banter. “I just told you, I have no idea. I have no inner compass, no little tugging sensation in my chest. I don’t dream about it.” They shrug, as though they didn’t just tell you the most horrifying thing you’ve ever heard. “Anyway. This is painsilk, right? The Department of Paraphysics is expanding and we need a few specialty construction materials. I don’t suppose I could ask you for a ride that way? The last bus ran an hour ago.” 

“I don’t mind,” you say. “But I can’t leave yet. I’m waiting for someone to pick something up.” 

“I’ll wait with you, then, if you aren’t sick of me yet. I’m Jamie, by the way.” 

After your rocky introduction to one another, you reassess Jamie as blunt but friendly. They introduce themselves in a rapid bullet point list: paraphysicist, avid science fiction reader, tea snob. Their graduate thesis was about the reproductive behaviors and cycles of a coffin shroudweed colony in the Stillwoods. 

“I actually lived with the colony for two years. They were incredibly open with me. Gave a few…hands-on demonstrations,” they add with a wink. “But in all seriousness, I was there in the first place to settle a dispute. The Stillwoods municipal government had come up with this frankly abhorrent development plan for new luxury housing where the shroudweed live. It was fine to bulldoze everything and douse it in pesticides, they said, because shroudweed are aggressive, mindless and invasive.” They scoff. “Aggressive? Not in the least, unless you disturb the mycelial creche where their young grow. Definitely not mindless, either. Communication was difficult but completely possible, we worked out a system of shared symbols. Invasive, then…” They laugh bitterly. “What a useless word in the Drift. You and I are invasive, by that logic. They won’t say it out loud, but they will say it in all sorts of quiet ways.” 

Dr. Loyola is still wearing his University staff lanyard when he arrives, photo ID dangling from his neck. You hand him the jar and tell him it’s from the Stag. He looks understandably alarmed and rushes off with the strange thing cradled in both hands, careful not to shake it. You decide you don’t want to know.

Jamie follows you out to your car, sliding into the passenger seat when you move the egg box on the floor behind you. You notice them looking around with interest, studying the interior, the food you have stashed away, opening your glove box to glance inside, but they don’t disturb anything. “I envy couriers,” they say. “The grass is always greener, I’m sure, but still. Perhaps I do still have some trace of that wanderlust instinct we’re all supposed to have.”

You shrug. “It’s different for everyone. I’ve met children of the road who can’t imagine ever leaving home again, wherever they find it. For those of us who keep moving, it’s the same. I can’t imagine sitting still.”

“Do you remember your parents?” 

The sudden shift in topic makes you pause. “No,” you say. “I might’ve been abandoned. Or maybe they’re the ones who left me in Compass Hill.”

Their gaze softens. “I see. Rejection is unfortunately common. The lucky ones will find new families, but I know that’s not the norm.” 

“Is that why you’re not a courier?” you ask. “You’re one of the lucky ones?” 

Jamie gets quiet. You glance over and their smile has turned stiff, not quite meeting their eyes. “Oh, yes,” they say. “I was very lucky.”

You take a winding path back down the hill, following the signs guiding you to the Paraphysics Department. This isn’t a part of campus you’re familiar with. These buildings are much newer, designed with an unpleasant mix of hard Gothic angles and bizarre alien curves. Cathedral towers curve and twist. Windows are misshapen, squished ovals as though melting in their frames. Halls are joined by spiraling aerial walkways. Jamie directs you to Lyman Hall, a building shaped like a frozen wave. A new section is affixed to one end, skeletal scaffolding that bends and twists in ways that don’t seem possible.

Jamie sets their hand on your shoulder as you take your keys out of the ignition. You’ve noticed in just a short time that they’re very physical, walking close, frequently touching your hand or back to get your attention. “I should warn you before we go in,” they say hesitantly. “A lot of my colleagues are…eccentric.”

You ask, “More than you?”

“A courier and a comedian? Come on.” 

You tuck the box under your arm and follow Jamie through the front doors. Lyman Hall is just as confusing on the inside. You feel like you’ve somehow found yourself in the old, majestic building of another department with grand, ornately framed church-like windows and antique decor, but everything is just ever so slightly off. The angles are strange. The hallway looks lopsided and half-sinking. A spiral staircase rises into nothing, abruptly ending just short of the rounded ceiling.

“They used to run artificial shifts here to study their effects,” Jamie explains. “It’s done some odd things to the architecture.” They gesture for you to follow, leading you down a hallway that’s much longer than it looks. “Do you know much about shifts? What happens during one, and why?” 

“Not really,” you admit. 

Their eyes light up. You get the feeling this is something they don’t get to explain often. “Think of it like this: this is us.” They lift their hand, bent at a ninety-degree angle with their palm facing the floor. “This is our home and all the rules that hold it together. We’re so small and so deep inside that it’s all we know. It’s hard to even imagine that there could be more. But there is.” They raise their other hand parallel. “This is another plane. It might be like ours with similar rules, or it might be completely incomprehensible to us. Now, different planes normally exist at different frequencies. They’re like ghosts to one another, invisible. They would pass right through each other without any interaction, any knowledge of one another whatsoever. But, rarely, those frequencies might change. They might start to harmonize, you could say. And when they do…”

Jamie brings their hands closer, fingers lacing together. 

“They run into each other?” you guess.

“That’s one type of shift, yes. But it’s not always a collision. Sometimes it’s more like a merging. The technical term is a ‘superposition event.’ Two or more cosmic planes occupying the same location, existing at the same frequency, at the same time. In most of the world, this phenomenon is incredibly rare and incredibly brief. Thirty-four have been recorded throughout all of human history, most lasting between one to six seconds.”

“That can’t be right,” you say. “We have one at least once a week. They last hours.” 

“Those numbers only apply outside the Drift. This place has always been especially prone to them. We’re not sure why.” 

You’ve heard that the world outside the Drift is “much more stable” but never truly understood what that meant. Thirty-four, for the whole world, for as long as humans have been writing things down? Does anything change out there? Is it all the same for centuries, for millennia at a time? How do they plan trips if everything is always the same distance away and never any closer? What grows on their trees if not eggs?

Jamie turns suddenly into an open doorway and leads you into what looks like an old laboratory. The floor is scuffed, stained wood, tables and workstations wooden with polished stone counters. A diagram of a fringed, worm-like creature has been partially erased on a blackboard.  Chemicals and labeled specimens in glass jars line the shelves along the walls. Jamie flicks the lightswitch by the door and you realize there are several people huddled around one of the tables near the back of the room, heads lowered, muttering to each other, apparently standing around in the dark prior to your arrival. 

They all look up at the same time, still as statues and staring right at you. A moment passes in tense, terrifying silence, and then they all relax. 

“Silk’s here,” Jamie calls.

“Ah, excellent!” one says. It’s a woman in a lab coat and small, oval glasses, her dark hair cropped short. She regards you with a smile, coming over to take the box. “Oh, you have no idea how much we appreciate this. Superposition-affected structures aren’t easy to repair, or remodel, or really do anything with. This should do just the trick. Ah, where are my manners?” She offers a handshake. “I’m Olivia Higgs.”

You blink. “Higgs? As in…?” 

“Pioneer of modern paraphysics and paraphysical biology? Yeah, that Dr. Higgs,” Jamie says wryly. 

Dr. Higgs is a household name. Your current understanding of the Drift is almost entirely thanks to her. Her approachable, layman-friendly books on shift safety and Drift wildlife are required reading for couriers who want to survive their job. You have an old, dog-eared and partially rain-soaked copy of Drift Eggs and You: A Beginner Forager's Guide in your car. 

“Oh,” is all you can think to say. 

“And I see you’ve already met my…” Dr. Higgs pauses for an uncomfortably long time, her enthusiasm wavering. “My, ah. My child. Jamie.” She tilts her head slightly as though listening to something, her gaze vacant. “My…Jamie? Jamie?” 

Jamie wraps their arm around you quickly, tugging you back a step, closer to the door. “Well, I’ll get them all settled in.” 

“Wh—settled in?” you ask.

They turn their arm, checking their watch. You see three needles moving at three different tempos across the clock’s face, none of which seem to be measuring conventional time. “The next shift hits in a couple hours. You can stay at my place tonight, I have a spare bedroom.” 

Dr. Higgs shiver. “Jamie? What’s—? Oh my god. Oh my god!” She starts to scream. Jamie’s hand tightens on your shoulder and they draw you back another step, urging you to leave the room. Dr. Higgs claws at her own face, nails raking over her eyes and nose, leaving long, bloodied scratch marks all the way to her chin. She shrieks in thoughtless terror, throwing herself to the ground and curling up into a ball. The other researchers rush to her side, keeping her hands pinned far away from her face, but you see a gushing wound where she tore her forehead open, a rough, circular hole she gouged into herself in desperation.

“GET IT OUT!” she screams. “GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT—”

Jamie slams the door to the lab shut, leans back against it, and lets out a long sigh. You can still hear Dr. Higgs shrieking. “I didn’t want you to see that,” they mutter. 

You nod numbly. You have no idea what to ask, if you should even ask anything. There’s a loud thud, the sound of chairs scraping, sprinting footsteps up to the door and something pounding against it. 

“Open the door, Jamie!” she shrieks. “Open this door right fucking now and HELP ME!”

Jamie stays where they are as the door jolts and rattles against their back. They close their eyes and take another deep breath, letting out slowly. The banging stops and you hear dragging, Dr. Higgs still screaming, still calling Jamie’s name, sobbing and cursing, as she’s pulled away. “My mother has…fits,” Jamie says. You can’t help but notice they say “mother” not unlike the way they said “home” earlier. “It’s some kind of paranoia. She’s amassed a broad body of work over the course of her career, but her specialty is actually Drift parasites.” 

“So she thinks she’s…infected with something?” you say. 

“Something like that.” 

You stand there in silence for a while. The weeping in the lab gradually tapers off. You hear movement. A gentle knock at the door. “Jamie? I’m so sorry. I’m fine now,” Dr. Higgs says. “Is the courier still there? Did you tell them—”

“Yep,” Jamie says. “We’re going to go now. Don’t stay up too late tonight.” 

“Alright. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Mom.” Jamie smiles at you, as if there’s nothing to worry about. When you don’t move, they clear their throat and step away from the door, gesturing back the way you came. “Why don’t we head home? It’s late, I’m tired, I’m sure you’re tired.” They start moving and all but drag you with them, a hand on your back to keep you heading for the exit. 

“Is she okay? Are you okay?” you ask. “Are you sure she’s not—?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” they say, their smile strained. They make you walk a little faster.

Jamie lives in a small cottage in the Residential District. There’s a fence at the front with a latching gate and flowering shrubs growing beneath the windows. The interior is cluttered but cozy. Papers with handwritten margin notes are strewn across the kitchen counter. An unfinished jigsaw puzzle is scattered across the living room table. All the pillows on the couch are pushed into one corner, a tasseled blanket hanging across the back. They make you tea, fragrant and slightly sweet, and some eggs to go with it.

“It’s really good,” you say.

“Rosemary peppermint,” they say proudly, sipping their own generous helping from a University mug. “There’s just a pinch of salt and honey in there, a little bit of milk. I’ve always wanted to show it off to someone, but, ah. I never have company.” They glance at you a few times, tapping their fingers on the counter. 

You’re escorted to a guest room upstairs that looks significantly less lived in, the bed neatly made, the decor sparse save for a house plant on the window sill. Jamie lingers in the doorway while you settle in, going through your backpack. “Would you…” They trail off, not looking you in the eye. “Would you be willing to take me with you in the morning, when you leave?” 

You look up in surprise. “I could,” you say cautiously. “If you’re sure. Where would you wanna go?” 

Jamie leans against the doorframe, smiling bitterly. “Ah, of course. This looks bad, doesn’t it? Like I’m abandoning my mother when she needs me. It’s not like that, I promise. I’ve been planning to do some field research for a while now.” They cross the room quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. Their hand finds yours, settling on top of it. “Maybe I can explain it better in the morning,” they offer, shifting closer. “I just…don’t want to think right now.”

The kiss takes you by surprise. They’re gentle at first, almost shy. Their lips are soft and their hands are wandering restlessly, one cupping your cheek, the other smoothing down your chest. They swallow your quiet, startled gasp and it seems to embolden them. Quick, fleeting kisses grow longer and hungrier, more forceful. They’re pushing against you, a hand on your shoulder easing you down onto the bed. 

“Jamie?” You barely manage to get the word out with their mouth moving against yours. “Hey, wait—”

You push against their chest and they pull back with obvious reluctance. Their hand lingers under the bottom of your shirt, fingertips ghosting over your bare stomach. “You don’t want to?” 

“That’s not…” You trail off. Suddenly, you don’t feel good. You feel yourself breaking out in a cold sweat. The room is spinning. The room is spinning. You try to sit up but Jamie pushes you back down easily. 

“You’re alright,” they murmur. “Shhhh, you’re alright. Close your eyes. You’re going to sleep really, really well tonight, I promise.” They lean in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and then their weight lifts from the bed. The lights flick off. You hear gentle humming. The door, gently pulled shut. You fight to stay awake but it’s a losing battle, your limbs too heavy to lift. Jamie’s footsteps go back down the stairs and the noise is distorted as you drift in and out of consciousness, too loud, muddled like you’re hearing them underwater. 

You think you can hear them talking to someone in hushed, excited whispers.

(next)

[theonlymanintheskyisme]

this has been lurking in my head since the mirror bed stuff came out. i think i have maybe a few other things lurking in there with the mirror as a focus.

i'm hoping to also get cravings pt 4 out at some point this week.

this is nothing more than just good ol' homie solo smut.

The mirror above his bed was either visible or hidden behind a cloth depending on his state of mind. Sometimes he couldn’t look at himself. Didn’t want the ridicule of the other part of his mind. More than that, he was the Homelander. The greatest superhero of all time.

To watch himself struggle and cry in a place that was supposed to give comfort broke his brain. It was too hard.

But other times?

He couldn’t get enough of himself. Watching his body, how it reacted to his own touch, those little parts of him he couldn’t quite see, or just how he looked to others.

Or how he looked as he fell apart by his own hands.

And sometimes, driven by that other part of his mind. Driven into a frenzy. Those were the glorious times. Three, four orgasms, riding his own high. 

Tonight?

With a nine point rise in ratings, he deserved this. Pulling the cover aside and climbing onto the bed, gazing up at himself.

Lean. He was lean. And sometimes that bothered him. It was impossible to put on muscle when your muscles never tired, never ripped, never got to the point where they could grow. But tonight?

This was the body of a God.

Bare hand slid down, watching as he twitched in anticipation as he gripped his cock. Instantly flexing into his own hand. His first stroke was slow. Gentle, almost.

Teasing.

Dragging the skin above the head, letting it sit there, before taking it back down at an agonising pace.Watching the rise and fall of his chest up in the mirror. As his skin became flushed, as the arousal painted a clear picture on his face.

Then, as his hand worked faster, how his body tensed. Seeking something it wasn’t going to get just yet. Releasing as he hit the edge, watching how his cock twitched and throbbed. The entire thing, bouncing free in the air, before falling to rest on his stomach.

Fingers dragged through the mess that had dribbled out, and up into his mouth. They were sucked clean.

The man in the mirror was absent tonight. Clearly he thought he deserved this time alone. Or, maybe he was enjoying himself just as much as he was.

A pause.

And then he rolled over, pulling a bag outside of the cabinet beside his bed. This? This was reserved for these special times.

And, maybe some other times, but the thought of self-punishment wasn’t in his head right now. He was high on pleasure, high on success.

Messily squirting lube onto a sizeable blue dildo, he watched as it ran down the silicone. And then, then he was leaning onto his side, watching the man above tease his hole as he pressed in. And then, pushed it in. 

Full.

He liked to feel full.

It was an added level of stimulation. He was so touch starved, so desperate to feel that pleasure and pain (not that there ever was much pain) mingled together.

Hand back on his cock, working himself into a frenzy. The position was awkward, one hand trying to fuck himself, the other stroking himself, and his neck twisted so he could watch.

As that edge approached for a second time, both hands stopped what they were doing, and he rolled onto his back. Gazing up. Watching his cock leak from below, knowing he was full. It was the most beautiful image.

One day, somebody else would see him like this.

Hair messed, dropping onto his face, his breathing heavy with need, his hips thrusting at the air, trying to get that friction back, and his hole clenching against the intruder, feeling it, wanting more.

Somebody would appreciate the sounds he made, too. All the whines, whimpers and deep throaty moans when he finally let himself come.

This was threatening to go south. Couldn’t think like that. Should stick to how good and glorious he was. And how better to do that than to fully distract himself?

Cock in hand, and fingers running through the pre-come that had leaked out, and then, back into his mouth. Two fingers being pushed all the way into his mouth, sucking them hard, tongue teasing the tips. And with his hand back on his cock, stroking furiously now, the muffled sounds around his own skin were positively filthy.

But he looked so fucking beautiful.

It was with reluctance he closed his eyes as the pleasure became too much. Warm liquid hitting his stomach. His chest. Two. Three. Four times. 

Until he was done.

Fingers removed from his mouth, he took one last, final look at himself. The world’s greatest hero. With his legs spread, full, and covered in his own come.

Yes.

He was beautiful. 

[thoughtsandbones]

Revelations and Misconceptions

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc OC (codename: Blue) 💀💙

WARNINGS: Mention of alcohol, war, profanity, medical inaccuracies and just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

Plot: Doctor Ruhari Hari Kaur (OC is South Asian ☺️) joins the 141 again, but this time as their doctor. After the betrayal of Shepherd and Graves, Task Force 141 begins their hunt on his whereabouts and locating Makarov.

PLEASE reblog and like! Hope folks are enjoying the series, I am building up characters and plots, cos I have a lot ideas and just been enjoying writing :D

Song inspo: Sonne - Rammstein

A/N: Flashbacks are getting messed up when I am indenting them and I am getting lots of errors when publishing the work, please bare with some mistakes and spelling issues.

RAMC - Royal Army Medical Corps

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

All rights reserved to the rightful owners of Call of Duty Modern Warfare.

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic! :D

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7 and PART 8

Part 9

LIABILITY?! FUCKING LIABILITY!! The thought rang through your head as you walked back to the training course and hand in the pistols and the cleaning kit.

You head back our from the base and catch Price and Ghost walking out from the garage, you hear Price call out your name but you don't respond, you just keep walking ahead to Building 2, quickening your pace to trying to increase the distance between you and Price and that masked menace.

Once inside you sprint up to the infirmary and see Soap waiting outside, leaning back against the infirmary door, head lowered with one leg bent against the door. Soap lifts his head up as he hears you approach. You take the key out of your pocket and Soap moves away from the door, giving a smile to you.

"Hey lass-" He begins

"It's Dr Kaur" You snap at him unlocking the door giving him a cold stare. Ghost reignited the diminished anger and you felt like you were on fire with rage.

Soap was shocked. Did I really annoy you that much last night?

"I'm sorry about last night" Soap said, following you into the infirmary, watching you go round the table and sit. The same look on your face that you had earlier in the mess hall. Soap felt nervous for first time in a long time.

Leaning back in the chair you take a deep breath. You look back at Soap with regret. You didn't mean to snap at him.

"No, I'm sorry sergeant." You say "I've been in a shit mood and I should not have snapped at you like I did just now" You add, sighing leaning back further in the chair.

Soap stepped closer, your face now relaxed. You gesture at the empty seat opposite you, and Soap sits, leaning close to you over the desk.

"Yer alright Doc- tor Kaur?" He stammered

You smile, "Doc is fine" you say. "Just a shit day."

Soap nods.

"How's the head" You ask

"Been better" Soap responded

"Still drinking water?"

"Aye" he says, pulling out a steel flask from his pocket of his fatigues.

"Good"

"I did not mean to say those things or offend you you last night Doc" Soap said

You smile, huffing a small laugh. The rage simmered down within you.

"So you don't think I'm pretty?" You say, widening your eyes, leaning forwards resting your head on your right hand.

Soap felt his cheeks flush has he washed your expression change to this doe-eyed look.

"I err-- what?" Soap said stammering. Seems like Gaz, Price and Ghost missed out a crucial piece of information from the events of last night.

Laughing aloud at the flustered look taken ahold of Soap.

"Last night you said:" you clear your throat

"Yer real pretty" you say mimicking Soap's Scottish accent. You laugh again, the rage now washing away.

"Ah Jesus" Soap says burying his head in his hands.

"It's all good, don't worry. We all say shit when we're drunk" You say reassuringly.

"It was the first time I tried sambuca since I was a young lad" Soap chuckled, lifting his head up. You were beaming, your smile showed off a slight dimple in your right cheek.

"Also, I don't want you to think I'm er..." Soap said, struggling to say the words correctly. "homophobic" he whispered

You looked at Soap shocked. "Soap, you are not. Most men are surprised when they find out I've been with a woman"

Soap was still looking at with concern in his eyes.

"How yer feeling after that Dr Jones fella?" Soap asked

You shrug your shoulders.

"Target course helped" You say, omitting the details of what Price and Ghost said. You didn't want to get angry again.

"Aye, you're a good shot" Soap said nodding at you. "Been impressed with your skills, even after all these years" he adds

You look back, pondering if he also thought you'd be a 'liability' in the field.

"Hmmm" you mumbled

On your desk, lies the black notebook. Suddenly you remember the tasks that lay within, mostly importantly, the 141 were going on a mission in two days and you needed to make sure their med kits and that they were fit enough to be deployed.

"Sergeant, you leave in two days right?" You say

"Aye, to Urzikstan" Soap says

"How's your med kit?" You ask

Soap lifted his head, pondered at the thought.

"Think it needs re-filling" He responded.

"Is Captain Price calling a general meeting before deployment?"

"Aye, along with Laswell"

You nod along. "When?" You ask, reaching for the black notebook, and flicking to a new page.

"Tomorrow afternoon I believe, Laswell gets in tomorrow morning so guessing sometime tomorrow." Soap says. "You comin' with us?" He asks, raising his eyebrows.

At that same moment, Price walks in, followed by Ghost who stood by the door.

"No, apparently I am a liability" You say coldly, staring straight at Ghost. Soap turned around and saw Price and Ghost and gave them a nod.

"Hari" Price said "That was a suggestion" He added

"That I'm a liability or getting the active duty status?" You ask, flickering your eyes between Ghost and Price.

"Yer allowing her to be on active duty?" Soap quipped turning to Price

"No.." Price said sternly, looking at Soap and then to you.

Ghost stood in the doorway, staring at the ground whilst he could feel the daggers you were giving him. A part of him regretted what he said, but knows that it is for the best.

Soap looked at you and then at Ghost, the looking tension flickered and began to rise within the atmosphere.

Your eyes met Ghosts. Was he even going to say anything at all? Briefly looking at your watch then back to Ghost, who continued to stare back, he finally broke his gaze, looking at his shoes. You look at your watch again. 21 seconds..

Price sighed heavily, noticing the staring contests, turned to Ghost and gave him a stern look. Soap smirked slightly; something happened between you two surely..

"Soap says Laswell is coming in tomorrow, I'd like to part of the debrief prior to the mission. I also need to check the med kits." You say whilst jotting down the notes in your notebook.

"Debrief is at 2pm in BR.04" Price said finally easing the tension. "You will meet Kate Laswell, Station Chief" Price added

Looking up, you nod and smile "Looking forward to it sir"

"Do yer need to do medical overviews Doc?" Soap says

"In what sense?" You say looking up to Soap, witnessing a sheepish grin appear.

"Check our vitals and all? Mission prep eh?" Soap glees

"Good shout Soap, routine health check ups tomorrow morning" Price concluded nodding to Soap, who nods back and then turns to Ghost, who was still in the doorway.

Ghost glared at Price and Soap, he then looked at you, continuing to write in your journal.

"Right then. Let's go lads, we as a team, have lot to do before our debrief tomorrow" Price says looking at the three members in the room.

"I shall send an email to you all this evening at what times I'll do these.. health checks.." You wearily say looking at Price and Soap.

Price smiles at you, turns to leave, Ghost swiftly left as Price moved towards the door. Soap sat in the chair looking at you.

He leans forwards and lets out a sigh, you look up from your notebook and weakly smile at Soap.

"Hope yer alrigh' Doc" Soap asks, eyes gleaming with concern. You could tell he was being genuine, and not at all cold and glacier cold like Ghost...

"Yeah, I'll be good Soap" You say, trying to smile.

Soap looks back and nods, he finally gets up.

'For the record, I don't think yer a liability, I think yer'd be great, being with us on missions" Soaps says and grins and gives a wink.

A light laugh leaves your lips. You watch on as Soap leaves the infirmary, the door remaining open.

You flick through to the end of your notebook, beneath a set of numbers, you jot down 21 seconds. You scan the column, ranging from 56 seconds to 14 seconds and to 1 minute. The amount of time Lieutenant Ghost has been staring at you.

It's understandable this guy has trust issues, but surely he has to have a valid no bullshit reason for not wanting you on missions.

You look up, and as the thought flashes through your nerves within the grey of your brain, eyes widening at the revelation.

Unless he knows about what happened in Siberia ...

[simply-whump]

Oh my gosh!! I'm so excited for you about your trip! I know you won't see this until you get back but I hope it was wonderful :) I'm actually participating in a study abroad to south korea for two weeks in the summer - any tips or recommendations would be so greatly appreciated!

It was wonderful ! Everything I hoped for and more. It made me want to go back as soon as possible.

I hope your trip will be as good as mine. I don't know if you'll stay in Seoul or go to other smaller cities like I did but here are a few things that might be useful to know, from my limited experience there.

A few apps that can be really helpful :

Naver Map : Google maps isn't the best in South Korea so to go around easily, you should download Naver map.

Papago : if you go outside of Seoul, people often don't or barely speak English. So if like me you only know a few words in Korean, you should have this app to communicate easily.

Kakao T : even though there is an extensive transportation system in South Korea, sometimes talking the taxi (which isn't that expensive) is easier. For that, download Kakao T ! If you're in Seoul, be careful, the traffic can be horrible.

Kakao Talk : almost everyone communicate using Kakao Talk so if you want to interact with people and make friends, having a kakao talk account is a must.

A few things I would recommend :

Try all sorts of Korean food, it's so delicious and so cheap (at least compared to where I'm from). If you go outside of Seoul, try to know the local specialties. If you have a local with you, he can point you in the direction of the good stuff, often less touristy. But be careful of the spice level !

Take a break at a coffee shop. There are so many of them everywhere and they're often really nice.

Cars WON'T STOP for you. Be careful when you cross the streets, people drive fast and don't care.

Have a T Money card with you ! This will allow you to travel freely by bus or metro. You can buy one and recharge it at any convenience store and it works in all of South Korea! Also bus driver don't have time to waist so enter fast and get out fast. Never sit in a spot reserved for old or pregnant people and hang on if you're not seated, the ride can sometime be a little rough.

Be sure to have enough cash on you. My card was supposed to work but I had problems with it in lots of places.

If you are in Seoul for your whole stay, try to go elsewhere, even for just a week end. I would recommend Gyeongju, this place was magical.

And lastly have fun and enjoy !

This was a bit long but I hope it can be even just a little bit useful !

[scalamore]

Lari's memories of TL1 with House Belois

Not spoilers as this is a nice summary of the pieces that were revealed so far in the manwha

Up to age 12, Lari was routinely sent to the “room of repentance” (nice name….) for “acting bad”. This includes defying parents, not studying, not wanting to do something etc. They would lock her in the dark room - which she hates even now - by herself for an unknown amount of time (early chapters). (Psychological discipline)

When they felt Lari was being particularly stubborn and defiant, they would bring out the whip/cane to physically punish her. It’s implied it happened relatively often, because Lari cursed at Lehan for not even resisting and just easily going to the next room to grab it. Even Trash dad says “it’s not serious enough this time to cane her” - again, suggesting she was physically disciplined a few times.

When the kidnappers in chapter 47ish were beating her up, she made a strange comment of “I’ve never been beaten up this badly before” ….. if she had never been beaten up at all, wouldn’t she say something like “I’ve never been beaten like this before??

In the novel, when Arnulf’s maids beat her up, Lari made a strange comment of “She wasn’t sure why, but she knew that she needed to protect her head and stomach, so she curled up into a tight ball to protect those areas” This sounds to me like she doesn’t remember getting hurt, but her body remembers instinctively on how to protect herself when it happens

Lari ate the bare minimum, and didn’t go outside so she can be “thin and pale” Iike a proper lady. She was ridiculously thin where she easily fit into corsets, and was shorter than her TL2 self by a few inches.

She never went shopping by herself, all her needs were given by House Belois (Ch 27?)

She never left the south by herself; she only went to Champagne with family - she was always under the watchful eye of her family ALL THE TIME

In ch 82(?) Trash dad said he wanted her to be under his protection at all time, in his fenced-off area, not knowing anything for her safety (yup for sure this happened in TL1)

Lari admits early on in TL2 that she’s scared and just wants her father to guide her and tell her what to do, but after she felt he didn’t believe her regression, she chose to take matters in her own hands - but yes, she really wanted her father to solve things for her but lost faith in him in chapter 58.

didn’t get along well with Lehan, they were very distant

Killing her self esteem because they destroyed all marriage offers for her, making her think she was undesirable both in appearance and personality. They allowed some gross baron to ask for her hand in marriage, and of course she rejected that. IT messed with her self esteem that literally, her option was to be alone or with a gross baron??? (early chapters)

Killing her self esteem x2 because she was gloomy, quiet, and reserved, and wore a pathetic brown dress that covered her up like a nun with no accessories. she didn’t know how to socialize and was a wallflower during her debutante. She was excited that Prince Rupert introduced himself to her, but got really sad when she realized that he introduced himself to “Lariette Isabelle de Belois” because he had an eye on House Belois, not because he was introducing himself to her as a person (early chapters)

Trash dad didn’t even sponsor her Debutante; Lari had actually was very excited for it in TL1 and resorted to Aunt Amelia for help, and scraped together the bare minimum…. And that led to disastrous results. It was so disastrous that she didn’t even WANT a debutante in TL2, because she’s so afraid of repeating the results.

Lari has NEVER defied or went against her parents, because they knew what was best for her and the family (mentioned multiple times)

In TL2, the unchanging Trash dad continues to gaslight her in saying she was rebellious, bad child, upsetting Lari because she’s trying her best and they don’t acknowledge it at all. (mentioned multiple times)

Again, it’s interesting how all the memories she’s revealed to us there’s literally NO HAPPY MEMORIES.

I really think that during her isolation in that dark jail cell for months, she did some serious repression of her memories of the negative and only clung to the positives because that was the only way she could cope with life at that time. Her words are telling as well, from the novel version of Ch 84 - “The moment I lost my family, i realized how precious they were. The things most precious to us are usually so close that you wouldn’t realize how truly precious they are until it’s lost.” She lived a comfortable, ignorant life guided by her family the whole time. Without them around, she, as a very sheltered, ignorant girl, could not cope with the stress of the situation, and clung to all the happy memories to try to survive another day… and also placed unreasonable hatred and blame on Rupert in the meantime.

On a side note, the in real-life example of Lari’s situation is if she were raised by helicopter parents that dictated her every move, stunting her own growth and development and maturity, and when left on their own, the kid would fail at everything and be a nervous, anxious, and depressed mess :(.

[theoakandthemistletoe]

Name: Sophie / Zazka

Race: Human / Hobgoblin

Age: 28 / 28

Class: Cleric (Peace Domain) / Monk

Alignment: Neutral Good / Lawful Good

STR 8 DEX 12 CON 16 INT 10 WIS 18 CHAR 14 STR 14 DEX 18 CON 14 INT 10 WIS 14 CHAR 8

Background: Although born in the northern county of Tirynn, Sophie's family moved south when she was a young girl in response to war and famine. Why they thought Scrantz, a county notorious for its jingoistic nobles situated on the edge of a desert, would be an improvement is something of a mystery. Perhaps they couldn't afford to live in the wealthier central counties, or perhaps, having travelled as far as the desert in their search for a better life, they were unable to go further. Perhaps there were other, deeper reasons, although Sophie has never elaborated.

Regardless, once settled in Scrantz, her life was comfortable and uneventful. She was educated in the local temple, like most lower class children, and when she came of age she chose to repay her debt to them by continuing her studies as a cleric. She worked hard but never quite reached the level of the paladins, whose devotion she admired from afar. As much as she wished she could emulate their passionate worship, a cynical voice in the back of her mind, which she tries to ignore, kept her from throwing herself fully into the service of the gods and made her unpopular with some influential members of the clergy, who don't appreciate having their faith questioned even if it is done with the best of intentions.

Zazka, meanwhile, barely knows where to begin when people ask about her history, not least because hobgoblins are rarely shown such personal interest. After growing up in the wild desert borders of southern Scrantz, where her clan was frequently involved in clashes with the militia, she travelled around the country seeking to prove herself more than just a tall goblin, living without a permanent home and finding herself frequently harassed by adventurers looking for some evil to righteously slay.

Witnessing a monk in action in the marketplace inspired her to seek out a cloister, with mixed results. As a fiery, opinionated individual, she struggled with the philosophy of the monks, who finally suggested she return to the outside world and learn to control her temper before she focused on controlling her magical energies.

Still in pursuit of enlightenment and understanding, Zazka next tried the temple in Scrantz, hoping for a refuge from the prejudice her race faces from the general public and, perhaps, to learn something from the peace inside its walls. There she met many of the same problems. Although she respects authority and the law, she does so almost to a fault, and she believes that the slightest transgression of rules deserves swift retribution.

She met Sophie after being made to clean the temple as a punishment for arguing with a fellow theological student. The pair quickly formed a friendship and continued to find excuses to work together, until that friendship blossomed into a deep, loving partnership. Through Sophie's gentle example of patience and tranquility, Zazka finally began to understand the basics of the monks' teaching.

Their comfortable life together was turned upside down one summer when Maggie introduced them to a group planning to deal with a fey creature known as the Firefly Queen. At the time, Maggie reasoned that Zazka's life on the road and the fey ancestry of her race might prove useful, and Sophie wouldn't let her partner go without her. Since then, they have been the (occasionally reluctant) cornerstones of a group which typically includes some combination of the druid Morris, the barbarian Toz, the bards Vynlan and Fria, and the fighter Skullduggan.

Personality: Sophie is calm, friendly, and polite. Whether she likes it or not, she frequently acts as the group's mediator and therapist, able to see both sides of most stories, and she has deep reserves of patience. She doesn't like talking about herself much, but since the majority of people she travels with don't like asking, that works out quite well. She is curious and questioning, which annoys even Zazka at times, but usually knows when to refrain from further prodding. Skullduggan once described her as "destined to be somebody's grandmother", presumably intended as an insult -- Zazka certainly took it that way -- but Sophie only smiled and advised her against wasting her ki.

Where Sophie would have made an ideal monk, Zazka, in contrast, struggles to contain her emotions, wears her heart on her sleeve, and isn't very diplomatic in the way she speaks to others. She can focus her mind and body in a fight, but in her personal life, she is awful at showing the restraint and self-control expected of her class. As mentioned before, she strongly believes in rules and hierarchy, and does not take well to those who undermine the system. At her heart, however, she cares about people, especially those she's loyal to, and only gets herself in trouble because she has such passionate faith in her beliefs.

[anniemika]

Take care of you

Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

NSFW CONTENT!

Summary: Eren knows how to exhaust your body in more ways than one.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: unprotected penetrative sex, oral sex F receiving, slight choking, creampie, suggestive language

.....

Going on a ski vacation with Eren and your friends was something you’d both wanted to do for a long time, and this year, you took it upon yourself and got on with the planning, finally making it happen. You’d reserved this big villa with separate rooms for everyone, with each bedroom having its own bathroom, a huge jacuzzi outside of the house, and an enormous living room with a fireplace at the center of it. It was all just how you’d imagined it, even better, and you were more than happy to start your little getaway from your daily lives.

After your first day, however, what you’d come to realize was that your boyfriend wasn’t one for staying still and just relaxing. Oh no, he was the type that would wake you up at 8:00 o’clock sharp, get your ski equipment ready, and spend the entire day on the most dangerous slopes without taking so much as a 5-minute break. It was like he wasn’t even human, and you could spend endless hours wondering where he got the energy from, but you’d never really find an answer.

So needless to say, after an entire day with him, you were pretty much exhausted. After making dinner with your friends and almost falling asleep on the table, you decided to go take a bath and just lay in bed with a good book in hand until you fell asleep. You somehow succeeded in convincing Eren in letting you go, turning down his proposition of falling asleep on his lap while you all watched a movie together because you really needed a bed.

As you laid in the comfort of the incredibly soft mattress after taking the most relaxing bubble bath, you were just beginning to doze off after reading “The Prisoner of Azkaban” for the 100th time, until you heard the showerhead being turned on in the bathroom. You looked at the time, realizing Eren probably got tired after all because it wasn’t even an hour since you got to bed. Remembering that you forgot to brush your teeth, you put on your fluffy slippers and ambled towards the bathroom.

Now, maybe it was because you were still sleepy, but the way you absolutely ignored your fully-naked, incredibly hot boyfriend while he washed his body like he was in a shower gel commercial was something he did not expect. You were moving your hands like a robot, scrubbing at your teeth with your toothbrush as he watched how his favourite “Nirvana” T-shirt, that you so shamelessly stole from him to be your new nightgown, barely covered your fine, fine ass. All kinds of thoughts came rushing into his mind, and he really, really tried his absolute best to stop them, because he knew you were worn out, but in the end, he couldn’t help it. His blood went rushing south, and when you bent over the sink to remove some leftover mascara from your eyelash, exposing what was left of his imagination, he couldn’t just stand and look at you from afar.

That’s why when he got out of the shower, he didn’t even wipe the droplets of water off his body, his big arms instantly finding their place around your smaller frame. You jumped, his sudden appearance stunning you.

“Ren, you scared me.” You turned to give him a lazy peck on the lips, the bit of foam you had left from the toothpaste coloring his pretty mouth.

“Sorry” you barely heard him, because what you felt next was his rock-hard member pressing against your bare ass.

“Babe, I’m so tired.” You almost whined out the words, leaning your head back against his uncovered chest.

“I know” he kissed the side of your head “let me take care of you.” He grabbed his length and began pumping it between your ass cheeks, with you gasping from the way his tip brushed against your entrance.

“Eren..” your hand went to the back of his neck, fingers curling around his loose hair and pulling him closer so you could kiss him again. It was true that you couldn’t even stand up straight, but no amount of exhaustion could make you resist him fucking you with that big cock he had on him. You weren’t one to miss opportunities.

After sharing a fervent kiss with his tongue sliding in rhythm against your own, Eren slipped his hand under your shirt, his fingers playing with your hardened nipple as he spat on his other one, dipping two digits inside your heat. His mouth found yours again as he began thrusting them inside you slowly, feeling your slick and spreading it around your pussy, applying a bit more pressure on your clit. Your muffled moans echoed throughout the small space you were in, your body instinctively moving back and forth into his hand.

Then, while your lips were still interlocked with his, you felt his whole length fill you up at once, with you letting a deep cry of pleasure, the feeling of fullness making your whole body tremble with excitement.

“Shh” Eren’s big palm covered your mouth “be quiet.”

And that you were, for a total of 5 seconds. It wasn’t your fault that with every rock of his hips, you felt him kiss your cervix over and over, and it sure wasn’t your fault that he was doing it as fast as he was, either.

“You want everyone to hear us?” You caught his breathy voice “Hear that tight little cunt?”

You couldn’t care one bit if you had to be honest, but you didn’t mind the way he talked to you, nor the way he put his rough fingers inside your mouth, making you gag on them, nor the way he roughly pinched your nipples every time you got a little bit louder. No, you didn’t mind any of that at all.

“You feel so good baby” Eren’s strong hold around you made every thrust that much harder, your eyes shining in pure bliss as he moved his fingers from your mouth to the little pearl between your legs. “I bet if you cum you’re gonna feel even better.”

The moment his fingertips landed on your little happy place, your mouth fell agape.

“Sloppier.”

Oh how good he knew you, how perfectly he moved his fingers around your clit, knowing exactly what to say and do to you to bring you over the edge in seconds. Sometimes you wondered if you really were this easy to please or if he was the sole reason for you losing your mind every time he fucked you. You kind of knew the answer, because even you couldn’t bring yourself that much pleasure no matter how horny you were. It was like your body wasn’t even yours, reacting to him in ways it never did before you met him. It was his.

Your orgasm was just around the corner, heart hammering inside your chest and nails sinking into the side of his thigh, demanding more. Unluckily for you, the exhaustion from the day began to catch up with your legs, not being able to hold yourself up as he mercilessly rammed his cock inside your little hole.

“Eren, my legs are shaking” you blurted out and he groaned, biting your shoulder and turning you around, lifting your plush ass so you could sit on the sink. He immediately spread your legs apart and kneeled to latch his long tongue on your bud.

“Oh my god, oh my god-“ you came almost instantly, his fingers having pretty much done the job just seconds before, and his tongue only finishing it. You were so glad though because it was so different cumming on that experienced muscle of his, increasing the intensity of your orgasm to new extremes.

Your moans were so loud, Eren couldn’t keep his chuckle in, giving your thigh a harmless slap. He then came up and kissed your mouth with your juices still dribbling off his chin. Never breaking the kiss, he slipped his dick inside you again, moans falling from him from all the wetness, his big palms landing on your ass-cheeks to steady himself and slam inside you even harder.

“Do you want me to cum inside you?”  He grabbed your jaw, intense green eyes staring at your fucked-out face. His thick eyebrows were knitted together so beautifully, plump lips parted, with the sexiest possible grunts escaping them.

A breathy “yes” escaped your mouth between all the other incomprehensible sounds, just the thought making your pussy clench.

“Say it.” His palm moved from your jaw to your neck, squeezing it gently.

“Please cum inside me” you knew that the little “please” would make him lose what was left of his mind, his thoughts becoming incoherent as his animal instincts took over.

“Yeah?” He squeezed your throat a little tighter, slamming himself inside you until you felt him in your tummy.

“Please” you circled your arms around him as he fastened his movements. “I want to feel you fill me up.” You greedily moved yourself forward, meeting his hips halfway, just waiting for him to paint your walls.

“Faster” you choked out, not even sure if it was possible, but of course it was because this was Eren, and he’d be damned if he didn’t listen to his girl’s requests.

Your lips parted in a muted “oh” with him mimicking that same expression as his orgasm hit. You pulled him in a kiss, tongues clashing together as he softly moaned into your mouth. His sounds were so pretty, you just wanted to stay like this and listen to them forever.

When his high died down, he slowly pulled out, eyes exploring the mess he made of your pussy.

“You know baby” he cupped your face, planting a cute little kiss on your nose, “I think it’s better if we stay in tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” You grinned.

“Yeah.” And he returned it.

Needless to say, with all the dirty looks you got in the morning, it was better not to risk someone pushing you off your ski.

.....

A/N: I’m on a ski trip with my boyfriend rn and let’s just say it gave me a lot of scenarios for vacation sex🥰 maybe I’ll post another one soon, who knows

[therealvalkyrie]

exactly the spring

Pairing/setting: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem!Reader, college!AU

Summary: Reserved biology student Ushijima finds himself falling in love when you, an adorably disorganized art student, wander into the greenhouse.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: fluff, kissing

AN: Hi!! So, the inspiration for this one sprang from the beautiful, sexi brain of Emme ( @doinmybesthere ) way back in MARCH ahem anyway, it's done! I hope it's just as soft and intimate as you envisioned<33 Also, big shoutout to my beautiful friends Arobi ( @daqueenobooty ) and Cee ( @spacelabrathor ) for being wonderful betas and giving me such kind comments:) I hope you enjoy, and as always don't be shy about leaving comments or coming to chat! Be kind to yourselves and others.  ~valkyrie

p.s. check out this amazing art that @/54prowl made of plant boy ushi!! :D

Plants don’t talk back, Ushijima learned as a toddler. He’d babble to them in nonsensical phrases as his mother worked in the garden, and they’d only sway in the wind and listen, waxy under his chubby fingers.

A volleyball doesn’t talk back, either, not even through its bounces and echoes on hands and hard surfaces. It doesn’t listen as easily as plants, but can be herded and shaped like putty into a winning thing if you touch it right. This, Ushijima learned at his father’s hand and carried with him through childhood and adolescence.

The joy and puzzlement of you is that you do both. You listen so intently and openly with your steady eyes and soft body as the words pour out of him. And then, you reply. With your clear voice and new perspective, you offer something new. You offer companionship.

It was the second week of spring semester that you wandered into the greenhouse, eyes lit by the sun and sketchbook under one arm. Ushijima was repotting a large fern, dirt up to his elbows as he kneeled on the floor. He barely gave you a second glance, preoccupied with nestling the plant’s root system comfortably.

You settled a short distance away, crossing your legs to sit on the tile floor in front of an orange tree to sketch its still-closed flower buds with charcoal pencils. He kept working as you did, the sun sliding across glass, shadows shifting into the early evening of winter. When the sun was threatening to set over the city skyline — even with the greenhouse where it sits on the roof of the biology building — he turned to tell you he was closing up, only to find you gone. In your place, sitting on the wooden table that held newly planted basil and sage, was a drawing.

It was a single branch, detailed in shades of charcoal down to the last dewdrop. At the bottom, looping handwriting scrawled, “thank you for the peace.”

That night, he tacked it up above his desk in his dorm next to the postcard from Tendō and hoped you’d come back.

And you do, a couple of days later, on a Saturday. He looks up from where he’s filling in the logbook, this time, catching your gaze and holding it for a moment before you break away to survey the room. Today, he thinks you looked breathtaking. You’re wearing a long, flowing skirt and a sweater that makes him want to feel how soft it is, and how soft you are in it, and by the time his brain catches up with his thoughts, he’s been staring too long and your eyes have wandered back to him. It’s raining, today — it never really snows in this city, he’s learned — and shadowy droplets play across your face as they drip down the greenhouse’s arched glass ceiling, highlighting the curve of your cheekbone and making your eyes glow softly.

He clears his throat and looks back to the thick spiral-bound book on the table before him. Sometimes, when he meets people for the first time, he knows he can come across as intimidating. That worked out for him in high school and on the volleyball court, but in his adulthood, it’s been more of a hindrance than a help. It makes it… difficult to make friends here, where he doesn’t already know anyone.

And the last thing he wants is to scare you away. The last thing he wants is to break the peace you’ve apparently found here.

Which is why he barely dares to breathe when he looks up to find you approaching him where he’s perched on a sturdy wooden stool.

“Hi,” you smile and lilt, and god if it isn’t the most beautiful word Ushijima’s ever heard, if it isn’t the prettiest smile he’s seen.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t want to scare you away.

“Uhm,” you start again, when the silence makes it clear he’s waiting for you to speak, “I have an art assignment,” you start digging around in your shoulder bag as you speak, “to draw a, um, what’s it called?”

“I don’t know.”

You pause in your rifling and pin him with such a sunny smile it makes his knee start bouncing. And you laugh, too, which officially replaces your “hi” as the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Ha, you’re funny,” you resume digging, “it was um, pretty leafy and... tropical, I think? Oh! Here.” Triumphantly, you produce a wrinkled paper from your bag. It’s the first imperfect thing Ushijima’s found out about you, that you’re shit at keeping your belongings organized, and he files it away for later reference. You hold the paper in front of your face and squint slightly to read in the shifting light. “Canna indica.”

Canna indica, native to tropical climates, notable as a minor food crop for South American Native populations for thousands of years.

“And I was told that you have it, here, in the greenhouse.”

Ushijima nods and finds himself relieved that this is what you’re asking him. Plants, he can do.

“We do. Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes, please,” you also sound relieved, like he’s provided the solution to every problem you’ve ever had.

He unfolds himself from the stool, setting down his pen as he goes. You take a step back and look up at him mildly, as though you hadn’t realized quite how huge he is.

“This way,” he indicates, leading you deeper into the maze that is the biology department’s greenhouse. The winding path back to the tropical room gives him a moment to sink back into the earthy peace of being here, even if now there’s someone sharing that peace.

The temperature change from the warm main greenhouse to the balmy tropical room prompts Ushijima to shed his flannel outer layer, hanging it on the nail hammered by the door while you step in behind him.

“Whew,” you exhale, shrugging off your soft cardigan as well, “it’s hot in here.”

Ushijima hums in agreement and tries not to look too hard at the patch of skin revealed by your cropped tank top. Canna indica isn’t too far into the room, so he just gently moves past draping leaves and ceramic pots.

“Here,” he stops, holding back leaves for you. He stops breathing again when you duck under his arm and end up so close in the narrow aisle that he can smell your shampoo. The moment passes, and he can breathe again when you breeze past him and squat down to peer at the bright, waxy red leaves of your subject.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, and he silently agrees.

You’re leaning so close to the plant he’s afraid you might topple over when you make a noise of realization and sit back on your butt to rifle through your bag once again. Ushijima knows he should probably leave you to it, but he’s glad he waited just an extra minute when you pull out a pair of glasses and pop them on your face. Adorably.

“That’s better.” You’re looking back at canna indica, now, at a normal distance.

He’s figured you’ve forgotten he’s there when you start to pull out pastels from your seemingly bottomless bag, so he turns to leave you.

A soft, “hey,” calls him back to you, however, and he’s met by your face glowing eerily in the shifting rain-light. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

When he locks up that afternoon, he finds another charcoal drawing waiting for him on the table near the door, this time of his favorite agapanthus africanus. No note, this time, but he attaches all the sounds he heard from you today in its place. He also finds your cardigan forgotten next to where you were sitting and carefully folds it for when you come back.

The drawing joins the orange branch on his wall-- an odd starter garden, he thinks, but all the more precious because it came from you.

The next time he sees you isn’t in the greenhouse, but instead at a cafe a couple of blocks away, two weeks later. He’s walking past, gym bag slung over his shoulder, when he hears your laugh ring out across the outdoor seating area. His eyes find you, head tipped back in sending peals of mirth into the lively spring air. It’s the first truly warm day of the season, though you and your companion are the only patrons sitting outside, and the sun catches on your glasses sat atop your head.

Your friend says something apparently hilarious, because your giggles redouble, and an honest-to-god snort pushes out of your nose. Ushijima catalogues it in his ever-growing list of sounds you make, and pauses at the crosswalk, halfway turned back to keep one eye on you and one on the light. If you were alone, he might’ve approached you and told you that he still has your sweater in the greenhouse, waiting on a shelf between succulents, but he doesn’t want to interrupt your— date?

He isn’t sure, but the person sat there with you seems like someone you might date. Clearly also an art student, judging by the carefully disheveled blue hair and combat boots. Are you the type to date someone with blue hair? Unlikely, he decides. You seem too… bright. Too floaty to be so concerned with looking like you don’t care how you look.

Ushijima’s still debating whether you find blue hair attractive when the crosswalk light begins its countdown and he starts across the street. And he almost makes it all the way across, too, when a voice calls—

“Wait! Hey!”

He turns partially because it sounds urgent enough that it might be an emergency, and his grandmother would roll in her grave if he remained a bystander to some horrific accident. But it’s you, standing up from your seat and waving him back over. He glances at the crosswalk countdown, which lights up red as it ticks from four to three, then turns and jogs back towards you, waving a hand apologetically to the cars waiting at the light. You meet him at the metal fence around the cafe seating area, and now that you’re standing, he can see you’re wearing a yellow sundress that cuts off at your calves and drapes over your hips like the fabric was spun from pure light.

“Hello.” Ushijima talks first this time because if he doesn’t refocus his brain on something else he knows he won’t be able to stop staring.

“Hi! Sorry about that, uh, and I’m sure you have places to be, but, um, did I leave my cardigan at the greenhouse? I can’t find it, and I know I have a tendency to forget things, so,” you finish with a laugh, one hand fiddling with the rings on the other.

“Yes, you did. I put it on a shelf in case you came back.”

“Oh! That’s great!” You sound relieved, and Ushijima’s suddenly very grateful he didn’t take it down to the bio department’s lost and found like they’re technically supposed to. “Is there maybe a time I can come pick it up? When you’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there all day tomorrow, opening at nine.” 

He can’t tell if he sounds a little too eager, and he’s about to soften his meaning by telling you that they’re open today, too, and anyone can hand you a sweater, but you’re already smiling big and sunny and telling him,

“I’ll see you at nine, then. Do you drink coffee?”

He doesn’t; his coaches have always told him that caffeine can only harm his athletic performance.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I’ll see you at nine, with coffee.”

Ushijima says goodbye and turns to wait at the crosswalk again while you swirl your way back to your seat and pick up your conversation with your friend. He can feel two pairs of eyes on him as he crosses the street, red numbers blinking down from ten, and can’t help but turn to look back as he steps onto the opposite sidewalk. Where your friend tactfully looks down into their cup of tea, you catch his eye with yours and wave. He lifts his hand halfway in a goodbye before an eighteen-wheeler stops at the intersection and blocks you from him.

Ushijima’s normal work attire is typical of an average agricultural biology student accustomed to being up to their elbows in dirt every day: practical cargo shorts, dirt-stained but sturdy sneakers, a “plant dad” t-shirt (a gift from Tendō when they’d said their goodbyes and gone away to college), and a soft cotton flannel. He’s usually satisfied with this for his shift at the greenhouse, expecting to be mud-covered at least up to his wrists by the end of the day.

But today… Today, he pauses in the dorm bathroom to scrub his face raw, and he clips and shapes his nails like his mother used to do for him every Saturday. He normally only does it before tournaments, now, and it calms his nerves to feel prepared for a Big Event, even if that event is only handing you your gently pilled cashmere cardigan and receiving a coffee he won’t drink in return.

The air that morning is heady with spring, earthy and alive, reminding Ushijima of lying beneath the hedge along his mother’s garden to pass notes to the girl next door. He was seven and she was nine, so naturally she knew everything he didn’t. She knew about the planets and why worms live in dirt and how to spell the word “catastrophe,” and Ushijima would’ve bet his whole weekly allowance that she was the coolest person in the world, if he knew what betting was. (She did, and once bet him half an ice cream sandwich that he couldn’t climb the oak tree in his backyard all the way to the top. He did, and then twisted his ankle on the way down, and she brought him an ice cream sandwich every day for a week as an apology.) She was all shiny, long black hair and dark eyes and fast words, nothing like the spring blooming around him.

You, on the other hand, are exactly the spring.

He stops at his favorite pastry place on the way to work to pick up two fresh cream donuts. The line is just dwindling from the height of the morning rush, so he manages to make it to the biology building just five minutes before he normally does.

Morning sun sends rainbows through the automatic misting spray as Ushijima unlocks the greenhouse door, letting a burst of humidity out into the rest of the building. The spiral-bound log book is there on the desk, a thick parchment bookmark sticking out from where whoever closed last night marked the page. 

Ushijima places his backpack and pastry bag on the desk and reaches to hang his key on its hook just when there’s a knock on the door.

“I know I’m early,” you start, edging your way into the room with a paper coffee cup in each hand. “But I saw it was already open, so...”

Ushijima smiles despite himself. In their second year Oikawa Tooru had told him that his smiles can be unnerving, but he can’t help it right now. You look so lovely today, in jeans and a silky tank top, with a certain morning tenderness in the way you hold yourself.

“It’s okay, come in. I just need to check the temperature controls and I’ll be done opening.”

“Sounds good,” you reply, smiling back.

As he makes his way to the temp controls on the Southern wall, you perch on the wooden stool and set down the coffee.

With his back turned to you for a moment, you allow yourself to slouch, planting two hands on the table and stretching your shoulders with a sigh. It’s earlier than you normally get out of bed, let alone actually leave your apartment, and you can already feel a quiet exhaustion setting into your bones.

But this is worth it, you remind yourself. Worth it to talk to the beautiful boy with broad shoulders and gentle hands.

He’d been unexpected. That first day in the greenhouse, you’d sat down with the intention to calm down from a tedious school day and nothing more. Your hands had moved of their own volition on that second drawing of the orange branch, scribbling out a hasty message that made your cheeks burn. But he was so present that day, in the corner of your eye but staying respectfully out of your space. And you’re not blind -- you saw the muscles under his shirt as he lifted an entire small tree in its pot. You saw the startling shade of green his eyes took on in the sun. You saw it all, and it drew you back, and now you’re here.

When he joins you back at the table, leaning back against it to face you, you stick out your hand and offer your name.

He looks at it for a moment, then back at you.

“I just, uh, realized we never properly introduced ourselves,” you explain, with a hesitant smile.

He smiles again and your heart thuds, then his big hand engulfs yours and he shakes it firmly.

“Wakatoshi. It’s nice to meet you.”

You learn in the following weeks of coming to the greenhouse that Wakatoshi doesn’t like coffee. But he does like tea and donuts, so that’s what you bring him on the mornings you can find it in you to wake up before nine. You sit with him in the greenhouse, talking and listening as he records data and waters plants and sits next to you on the quilt you’ve fallen into the habit of bringing. The occasional professor or student comes through, and you get to watch Wakatoshi show off his brains when he leaves you to help them.

There are several things you learn about him over those weeks. Number one: he never minces words. Two: he prefers grapefruit chapstick over anything else. And three: he kisses like it’s his last day on Earth.

You discover number three late one night when you decide to drop by after class, shooting him a text to make sure he’s still there. Today he’s closing instead of opening, and you missed spending your morning with him.

The city lights cast a different kind of glow at this time of night. They add a distance to everything that’s palpable as you drop your bag by the door.

“Toshi, are you here-- oh, hi.” You turn the corner to find him closing the door to the supply closet.

His cheekbones are highlighted briefly by a billboard outside flashing red.

“You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired. And I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

He takes a step towards you and you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep your eyes on his. They’re leaf green and unreadable.

“Yeah, uh,” you wet your lips with your tongue, “is that okay?”

“Yes.” He pauses for a long time, then, watching you carefully in the neon glow of the exit sign. His hand shakes as it reaches up to push your glasses from your face onto your head.

Without them, he looks fuzzy and soft around the edges.

He says, “Can I kiss you?” and it feels like there’s a bird trapped in your ribcage.

“Yes. Kiss me.”

Wakatoshi kisses nothing like you expected, all tongues and teeth and heavy fingers in the dip of your waist. He growls when you gasp and mewl against him, sucking on your lower lip as your hands find purchase in his shirt. He kisses you so absolutely breathless that you think you might pass out. Your knees buckle and you pull away, gasping with your eyes closed for a moment until you come back to yourself.

“Are you alright, little one?”

The endearment makes your cheeks flush with heat and your eyes snap open.

“Yes, I’m alright. Please do it again.”

And so he does it again, and again, and again until you find yourself bringing him home with you on the last bus that goes towards your neighborhood. He’s standing in the aisle, one hand wrapped around a pole and the other wound around you, who’s standing in front of him. He keeps you steady as the bus rounds a corner.

That night, you bring the peace of the greenhouse into your home, and the only thing you find yourself wishing for is that it never leaves.

[duckybarnes1917]

hi there! i saw you were looking for some inspiration for bucky fics so here i am! i was wondering a best friends to lovers bucky, where reader always sees bucky close to natasha, thinking they like each other causing the reader to avoid bucky. bucky then confronts her about it!

and i would love to be anon 🧺 if you take anon emoji assigning things hahaha!

Hello dear 🧺 anon! I really hope you like this one, it had me stumped for a bit!

Warnings: none, all fluff with a tiny bit of angst

Note about requests: I don't take nsfw requests from anons or blogs without their age listed.

This is definitely bestfriend!Bucky, yum 🥰

The door slammed behind you, louder than you had intended; your lip was trembling as you tried not to cry. Bucky’s heavy footsteps quickly approached before his fist gently knocked on the door.

“Are you alright, Plum?”

Your tears spilled over at the nickname. This was it; you swore this was your last straw. You had no one to blame but yourself. Being in love with your best friend was the stupidest cliche in the book–you knew better. Especially when all he seemed to talk about lately was your other best friend, Natasha.

“I’m fine! Just got a stomach ache.” You tried your best to sound normal, but you could tell by Bucky’s silence that he wasn’t buying it. “I swear, Buck, I’m just gonna lay down. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, okay. Let me know if you get cold.”

You held your breath as his footsteps retreated and then let out a quiet broken sob. The mission you had been on with Bucky had gone south; you were sore, exhausted, freezing, and trapped in a safe house in the middle of a snowstorm. And on top of all of that, you just had your heart ripped out of your chest. Again—your own fault for listening in on Bucky’s private conversations.

**

“I don’t want to,” Bucky whispered, sounding annoyed.

You peeked around the corner; he was sitting on the couch by the fire while you made dinner from the few scraps you could find in the cabinets. His body language screamed anxiety, which was nothing new, but then you noticed the red tint on his cheeks.

“Don’t, Nat,” Bucky groaned, “she’ll hear me. Don’t make me say it.”

Your ears picked up at that–he didn’t want you to hear. Why?

“Fine, fine!” Bucky glanced around the room nervously and lowered his voice even more. “I–I love you. Are you happy now?”

Bucky’s chuckle slowly faded as your heart pounded and tears sprung to your eyes. You always had a suspicion that they were more than friends, but ‘I love you’? That was beyond what you could handle.

**

The snow picked up outside, the wind rattled your window, and you were absolutely freezing. You stubbornly laid in the nearly bare bed, with one blanket wrapped around your shivering frame. Bucky had tried to check on you, but you didn’t let him in. You shouldn’t be mad at him, a good friend would be happy for him, but the rejection still stung. It had been you who had found him in Romania. You who had pretended that you hadn’t to give him more time to live in secrecy. You who had slowly broken through his hardened shell with nothing more than home-cooked meals and a smile. You were responsible for the social butterfly of man that he had become. When he finally accompanied you to New York, he barely spoke to anyone but you and Steve. And now he was out with Sam most nights and telling Natasha he loved her. And that laugh. A laugh that was once reserved only for you. You hugged yourself tighter and let your tears fall, crying yourself to sleep.

The next several days passed agonizingly slowly. You and Bucky barely spoke; you avoided him as much as possible in the tiny safe house. He tried to talk to you, and you could tell you were hurting him, but the pain was just too raw.

You were standing at the window, a mug of hot tea in your hands as you watched the snow continue to fall.

“It's beautiful, isn’t it?”

You jumped slightly, unaware that Bucky had been standing behind you. “Yeah.”

You tried to move past him to escape, but he caught your arm.

“What’s going on, Plum? You’re killing me, you know that?”

Reluctantly you looked up into Bucky’s eyes, they were shining with unshed tears, and your stomach twisted at the pain you saw there.

“Nothing–”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s nothing! You haven’t spoken to me since we got here. Did I do something? Just tell me, Plum. Please.”

He was basically begging you now, and your own tears started to fall because you had no choice but to tell him the truth.

“It’s Natasha,” you whispered, barely audible.

“Natasha? What happened? She hasn’t said anything–”

“No,” you pushed away from him, sitting on the couch and covering your face with your hands. “I heard you on the phone with her.”

Bucky knelt down in front of you, his hands gently taking yours away from your tear-stained face.

“I heard you say that you love her. It’s none of my business, but–” You couldn’t go on. Not when he was looking at you with so much concern, so much love.

“Plum, look at me.” Bucky gently held your face, stroking his thumb over your tears.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out through your tears. “I’m such a shitty friend.”

“Don’t say that; you’re my best friend, Plum. My absolute favorite person in the whole world. You know that.”

“Bucky–”

“Hold on, just let me say this.” Bucky waited for you to meet his eyes before he continued. “I never thought I would be lucky enough to have a friend like you. You saved me, Plum, and I owe you my life.”

You bit your lip, trying desperately not to start crying again–you knew the ‘but’ was coming.

“What you heard the other day–nosy–that was Natasha trying to help me practice telling you how I feel.” Bucky paused, waiting for your reaction. When none came, he continued. “How I feel about you, Plum. How I’ve wanted to tell you for months now how crazy, head-over-heels in love with you I am.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest again. “What did you just say?”

“Plum,” Bucky chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “I love Nat, yes, in the same way that I love Sam and Steve. But you, I love you more than I ever thought possible. These last few days of you ignoring me have been hell.”

“Are you serious?” You whispered, barely able to form the words.

Bucky’s face was inches from yours now. His soft pink lips almost caressing yours, your fingers running through his hair. How many times had you dreamt about this moment?

“Do you love me too, Plum?” Bucky’s lips just barely brushed yours as he spoke.

All you could do was nod, moving closer to touch his lips, but he pulled back.

“Need you to tell me, Plum. Been dreaming about hearing you say it.”

The tears were back as you caressed his face, pushing his hair out his eyes. “Of course, I love you, Buck–”

The rest of your love confession was cut off as Bucky’s lips crashed into yours. It was better than you imagined. No one had ever kissed you like that–with their whole heart on their sleeve.

“Bucky,” you pushed him back gently, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–”

Bucky slid you off the couch and into his lap on the floor. “Don’t apologize, Plum. I’m sorry you were so hurt; I feel awful. I should have just told you.”

“It’s not your fault; I could have told you sooner too.” You placed a hand on his broad chest; the smile on your face felt like it would never fade. “I’m just glad we’re here now.”

“It’s always been you,” Bucky pulled your lips back to his, “never anyone but you.”

[fizzyxcustard]

Illness (Armitage Summer Splash. Day 17.)

As part of @lathalea and I’s Armitage Summer Splash, I present to you, day 17. 

Masterlist of fics for Summer Splash

Prompts: "I need space away from you." / Illness trope.  

Fandom: North and South (Modern AU)

Pairings: Slight modern John Thornton x Fem!Reader, Fem!Reader x OC mention

Warnings: Migraine mention.

Summary: While at work, your boss, John Thornton, notices that you don't look well and offers to take you home.

Comments/Notes: If anyone would like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please say.

"I need space away from you," you exclaimed down the phone line. "No, I mean it...Leave me alone."

John could hear your raised voice from outside your office. He waited until you had put the phone down and then tapped on your office door, waiting for you to answer.

You sighed and rested your head in your hands. There was a throbbing in your temples and behind your eyes; it had been that way all morning, and the conversation with your on-the-verge-ex-boyfriend, has only exacerbated that.

"You don't look too good," John told you.

You looked up, wincing at the sudden burst of light. "Thanks for the compliment," you chuckled wryly.

"No, seriously. You look pale. Are you sure you're alright to be working? I heard your voice raised when I came down the hallway."

"I'll be fine. Just got a headache."

"It's not just a headache. You can barely keep your eyes open. You've got a migraine coming on. Let me give you a lift home. You can't drive like this. Come on."

John's demanding voice soothed you somehow. Even as the thumping behind your eyes seemed to gather momentum, you still silently appreciated having John there. Not only was he very easy on the eyes, but he was a damn good friend.

Kindly, John shut down your computer and tidied your desk, as you picked up your handbag and got up from the chair. A sudden wave of dizziness hit you.

John was quick on his feet and grabbed you before you fell to the floor. "You're definitely in need of some time off. And don't argue with me about it like you normally do."

You still managed to smile through the haze of dizziness.

Both of you walked out of the building slowly, John holding on to your arm and carrying your handbag in his other hand.

In the car and John leaned across you, snapping in your seatbelt.

"I'm not entirely unable to do things for myself, John," you told him.

"Shush, you," he replied playfully.

As John pulled out of his reserved space in the car park, you swayed to the side, allowing the gentle movement of the car to soothe you. The pain was still intense behind your eyes and in your temples, but the sway of the car lulled you into relaxation.

John kept an eye on you in between studying the road. His steel blue eyes would momentarily leave the traffic in front of him and flit to you. "I'll drop your car back later if you want me to," John said.

"It's alright. Don't worry about it," you said softy, feeling as if you were flying. Sleep wanted to overtake you. And it almost did as John pulled up outside your house.

Like back at the mill upon leaving, he helped you in, holding your arm. "Do you want me to get you a cup of tea or anything?" he asked. "I can make some food for you."

"Haven't you got a mill to run and get back to?" you asked, stumbling into the living room. You slumped down on the sofa, feeling a huge wave of relief wash over you.

"I also take the care and wellbeing of my staff very seriously," he replied with a grin. "Let me know if there's anything at all I can do for you; I can pop back later as well."

"Stop fussing. You've got your hot date with Margaret tonight to get ready for," you teased.

"Oh, she cancelled this morning," John replied. He was still hovering above you, looking like a spare piece of furniture.

"That's a shame. I'm sure there are lots of other things you'd rather be doing tonight, though, than looking after me."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed. You've got your boyfriend..."

"Meh, not much anymore. I can't be bothered with him. He's having tantrums again," you explained. "Could you just pull the curtains across for me, please? That light is killing my eyes."

"What happened?" John asked, pulling your curtains shut, and then sitting down in the armchair opposite you. "If you don't mind me asking."

You sighed. "He was getting a bit jealous."

"Really? What of?"

You swallowed hard. How ever could you admit that your boyfriend had been jealous of John? When you stayed over late at work, or when you gushed about your boss, you immediately saw your boyfriends jaw drop.

Eventually you sighed. To hell with it! "You," you replied. "He hated the fact that I was staying over late and talked about you a lot."

"Oh," John replied. His face fell into an expression of question. But he felt a pang of excitement. Was this his chance? Or was he seeing more into this than was really there?

"You know how some men are. They hate any competition."

"Competition? Hardly." John scoffed at that, trying to feign humility.

You chuckled awkwardly. "Well, he does have some competition, John. You're better looking than him for starters."

***

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