#waterproof cast

[healthstyles-blog]

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[sajidhaji]

[eowynstwin]

the rain

previous - neighbors - next

You return home, and let John do to you what he's promised. cw: cunnilingus

The moment you ’re home, I’ll give you everything you want.

There’s a dangerous cast to the sky—dark, heavy, near-splitting at the seams. It’s not a night to have rejected a ride home from the station, not with those words ringing in your ears.

But when the ride was your ex, you’d rather risk getting caught in the downpour.

The pavement is hard and cold beneath your tired feet. Your whole body is sore from the long train ride home, spent stiffly across from Ben as you’d avoided his gaze, but you’d walk twice the distance home to even halve the time you’d spent with him. His sad eyes and kicked-puppy stare had been stuck to you the whole time, as if magnetized, and they weigh on you now as heavy as the suitcase you drag behind you.

This trip was a mistake. You should not have gone anywhere with Ben, professionally or otherwise. Not with how weird the energy has been between you and him, ever since you broke it off.

“Can’t you just try to be happy with me?” he’d asked you then. “I’m a good partner, aren’t I? I just want to make you happy, sweets, and it’s like you won’t even let me.”

Objectively, Ben had been the boyfriend everyone seemed to want when they talked about romance—interested and engaged, excited about a future together, sensitive and willing to talk about his feelings. He even knew where the clitoris was. There was nothing—no red flags, no warning signs—that should have scared you off.

It was just you. There was something wrong with you, because none of that made you happy—not the lunch dates, not the weekly flowers, and not even the sex. All you knew was that when he started wondering when you would introduce him to your parents, ice had run down your spine.

A bad gust of wind slaps you from behind, followed by a crack of thunder, too close for you to make it home dry. Indeed, there isn’t much time after finishing that thought before the deluge unloads, raindrops falling heavy and cold and fat as bullets.

You come to a resigned stop in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your face up to the sky. There’s no point in rushing now—thick, late-winter clouds spread low across Liverpool, slow-moving. By all appearances intending to linger as long as possible. You’d neglected an umbrella, and your coat is nowhere near waterproof. You think of the warm interior of Ben’s car and shiver.

You want John.

You struggle to understand it. He is nothing like what you’d assign yourself for a match—there is a wide gulf of difference between you and him, too wide for you to ever expect an easy crossing. He and you should feel disjointed, incongruous, as ill-suited as a war horse might be to a hummingbird. There shouldn’t be anything you could offer each other that either would have use for.

And yet, you do. It is easy. Breathable, in a way that feels unearned enough to make you nervous.

How are you supposed to navigate something that shouldn’t be working, but is anyway? How can something feel this good with barely any effort on your part? How can you go through with this, when you’re not even sure what it means?

The rain reaches its fingers down into your collar, pools around your feet. You close your eyes and try to hear John’s voice in your head again. Soft and low over the phone, coaxing. Inviting your fears out into the open to be soothed.

You’re walking again before you realize it—one cold foot in front of the other, heavy suitcase clattering behind you, familiar with the way home even through the sheeting rain. And what feels like mere moments later, you’re walking up the steps to his front door.

The window beside it glows a soft yellow around the edges. You can’t help but stand there, frozen again as this suddenly becomes real. John, and everything he’s offered you, is on the other side of the door. All you have to do is take it. All you have to do is knock.

But John opens the door before you can even lift your hand.

“Jesus, love,” he says, the moment he looks at you.

Time slows. Warmth pours from the open portal. He looks… comfortable. Soft around the edges in blue jeans and a knitted sweater—the same one he’d worn to dinner at the pub. You hadn’t realized how much you missed him, even in the few days you’d been gone, but once your eyes land on his you don’t want to look away. The angle of his brow; the shape of his mouth beneath his old-fashioned mustache. Looking at him is like looking at your bed at the end of a long day.

“Hi, John,” you reply, smiling apologetically.

“Come on, get inside!” he exclaims, hurrying you in as thunder claps behind you.

In his flat, the lights are low. As you stand dripping on his entry, you take in an arrangement of somewhat retro furniture and sparsely decorated walls. It’s utilitarian in a way that probably isn’t meant to be; spare of anything particularly homey because the inhabitant just doesn’t have time to pay attention to it. You’ve never actually been inside before. It’s very much like John himself; tidy but old-fashioned, practical, hiding absolutely nothing.

You don’t think the candles, though, sitting on a few end tables and shelves and glowing soft gold, are his standard decor. Nor is the crystal bottle of liquor languishing in an ice bucket at the center of a small coffee table, attended by two whiskey glasses off to the side.

“When you said you were on your way I didn’t think you’d be walking,” he says, taking your luggage and setting it aside. “Why didn’t you ask me to come get you? I have a car, would’ve been happy to drive you.”

“I—” and you laugh a little nervously, magnetized to the concerned slant of his brow, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

You’re not sure you would’ve asked him for a lift even if you had known.

He draws close, so close his warmth cuts through the chill of your wet clothes, his gaze moving across you like he’s drinking you in. He cups your face lightly with one hand, thumb tracing a gentle line across your cheek. The expression on his face is almost too tender for you to bear.

“You’re here now,” he murmurs.

There’s a tremble working its way through your chest. You feel desperately seen again, recognized in a way no one ever has before. “I’m a mess, I—maybe I should go and change, come back…”

“No,” he purrs, taking your chin between thumb and forefinger. “You’re stayin’ right here.” And quite easily, John kisses you for the first time.

His mouth is warm along yours. His free hand hooks your waist, pulls you closer as he moves to cup the back of your neck. You’re so surprised you don’t react for a moment, but that doesn’t deter him; he just coaxes you into responding, sipping at your lips, teasing at the seam with the tip of his tongue.

It throws you off balance. He kisses you as if he’s known all along how to do it; as if he’s studied you, all of those mornings, noting the way your lips touch the rim of your coffee mug and the way you look up at him when he talks to you. Calculating the angles, the ways your mouths could fit together.

He shifts, angling to kiss you deeper. A wave of vertigo threatens to overtake you—your hands fly to his chest, which is broad beneath your fingers. You dig them into the cable of his sweater, a little whine escaping you, and John huffs a laugh against your mouth before greeting your tongue with his.

You have never felt as small as you do now in John Price’s hands, at the mercy of the way he holds you—like he’s planning to keep you in place until he’s finished with you.

When he finally pulls away, you have the opportunity to take a deep gasp as he chuckles again. He thumbs your bottom lip, almost playfully.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Wanted to do that the minute you walked into the pub that night.” You don’t have time to reckon with this confession—if you can even call it that, because once he says it you realize you’ve known the whole time—before he continues. “Come on, you must be freezing. Let’s get you warmed up.”

John helps you out of your coat, unwrapping you like peeling away a chrysalis. It exposes the thin, damp fabric of your dress to the warm air—and to his gaze—and you can’t help but feel suddenly naked in front of him. He’s revealed nothing that he hasn’t seen before, but irrationally, you want to cover your chest, or cross your arms over your stomach. Shield the most vulnerable parts of you from consumption.

John takes your hands in his and pulls you to an armchair—a comfortable, plush thing with a low back. He backs you into it so that your knees buckle, and you sit, looking up at him as he stands over you.

“First order of business,” he says.

He turns away from you to lift the decanter from the bucket, and pours a finger of liquor into a glass. You try to pretend your heart isn’t thrumming, like a bird’s beating wings behind your ribcage, as he turns back and holds out the drink, long fingers dwarfing the rim.

“As promised,” he purrs, “Balvenie.”

You accept it the glass; the scotch sparkles, amber-rich and glittering gold where the low candlelight catches it.

“It looks good,” you say, looking up at him.

There’s a pleased look on his face. “Give us a taste, then.”

Heat blooms across your face, spreads down your chest. You bring the rim of the glass to your lips immediately, still held by his gaze—

Smoke blooms across your tongue, heavy and soft, pricked with notes of honey and vanilla. You roll the scotch in your mouth, close your eyes as its warmth slides along your tongue, pressing it up into your soft palate, citrus appearing in a sudden, tangy splash. You let the drink flow into your throat and feel the smoke fill your head as you swallow.

You open your eyes and look up at John. “That’s really good.”

It shouldn’t surprise you, really, but it does: John bends over you, takes your chin in his hand, and kisses you again, dipping his tongue into your mouth as if searching for leftover drops of liquor. Your head swims; warmth suffuses you, waking up the nerves along the back of your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end as the world narrows to John’s mouth on yours and nothing else, the wet heat of his tongue, the prickle of his beard against your skin. It’s slow and molasses-sweet, rich and decadent. Thunder rumbles, far away.

“Mm. It is,” he says when he pulls away. Another brief kiss—like he can’t get enough of it, like he’s been saving up every moment he hasn’t kissed you, and is spending all of his chances now. “Promise me you’ll never drink Walker again.”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, taking an unsteady breath.

The ends of his beard move against your face in a smile. “Enjoy that. I’ll be right back.”

He straightens, and steps away. The tug of his gravity is so strong that you list forward, toward him, until he leaves your orbit.

You look around his apartment again, helpless, as if to find some sort of anchor that isn’t John Price—he’s going to get you drunk on his presence alone faster than the liquor ever could. You catch sight of a bookshelf, sparsely populated with a short line of books; as you stare at them, trying to figure out what they are, you realize with a start that they’re all brand-new copies of what you’ve lent him.

Actium. Nafisi. Da Vinci. McMurtry. They’re all here. The textual foundation of your relationship aligned in a tidy, even row. Living here, in the center of his home.

You take another nervous sip of scotch.

John returns with a stack of clean towels, unfurls one, and drapes it over your head. But before you can tend to your hair yourself, he lays his big hands overtop of the terrycloth, pressing down into your scalp.

Your breath leaves you in a rush, depressurizing your lungs. Pure sensation dances up your spinal cord, suffusing the space between your ears, as he kneads with an even, firm pressure, massaging the water from your hair. Your eyes slide shut of their own accord. Your mouth drops open as he digs his fingers into the tense nerves down the back of your head.

The little sound that escapes the pit of your throat is utterly involuntary.

John huffs a chuckle. “That good, then?”

“Uh-huh,” you hear yourself mumble again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, obscured by smoke, you think you should feel embarrassed, ashamed of how naked your pleasure must be. But John gives you no time to ruminate.

He tilts your face upward and presses his lips to your forehead, down the bridge of your nose, gentle, soft, to your mouth. Your mouth, over and over again, as calloused thumbs caress your temples.

It’s a gentle way of taking control. You have no need to reach out with unsure hands, or stumble your way through half-desires with no time to think about them. John has seen into you, divined your quietest, sincerest needs, and feeds them back to you now like he’s only been waiting for your go-ahead to do so.

The bird in your ribcage flutters nervously. Is this really alright? Should you be letting it happen like this? Shouldn’t you be…participating, somehow, in this, other than to take what he gives you?

“John,” you start, but you have no idea what you want to say to him. “Shouldn’t I…shouldn’t—”

“Shh,” he says. “You should let me take care of you.”

John squeezes your hair one more time, then sets the damp towel aside. With an expression you can only describe as beatific, he smooths errant strands of hair away from your face, and then lowers to his knees in front of you. He touches your ankles; nods toward the glass of scotch encircled by your nervous hands. “Don’t stop on my account.”

You hold his gaze, and take a sip. The satisfaction on his face is almost too much to bear.

“Good girl,” he says. He lifts the heel of your shoe onto his thigh, smoothing his hand up and down your shin. “You’re doing such a good job, letting me do this.”

He takes your shoes off as tenderly as he’d removed your jacket, tucking away the laces and setting them off to the side. With warm hands, he rolls your wet knee-high socks down your legs, exposing your chilled calves to his palms. After he folds them and places them by your shoes, his mouth and the warm scratch of his beard meet the top of one foot…move up your instep, and to the inside of your ankle, then to your shin…up your calf…to your knee—

“Is this—” you begin, and have to swallow the trembles in your voice, “what you talked about on the phone?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, kneading your other calf as he urges your legs to open for him.

Your breath is shallow in your lungs—as if any one too deep might startle John away from his quarry, convince him you’re not aching for this. John kisses inward along the inside of one thigh, keeping the other open with his kneading hand. The flesh molds like clay to his touch, extruding between the gaps of his fingers. He makes an appreciative sound, a hum, as he slides his hands further upward and under the damp hem of your dress, cresting the angles of your hips. Inexplicably, you go tight, anticipatory, like the skin of a grape exposed to a knife.

It isn’t like you haven’t been here before. Your sex life with Ben had been—while not particularly active—not nonexistent. And yet this feels new anyway; as if John is sweeping dust off a body long left unused. Your thighs are taut and sensitive as a yearling’s flank, ready to twitch at the barest whisper of breath.

But isn’t this new, after all? No one, not Ben or anyone else who’s ever touched you, has made you feel this way.

“Lift your hips, darlin’,” John rumbles, and for the first time you catch a hint of scouse in his accent—low, slung around his words and leaving off the hard edges. Like a vein of gold unearthed. “Bring ‘er closer to me.”

Heat blazes across your face. There’s a small end table beside the armchair; you take one more pull from your scotch glass and set your drink aside. Then you shift, edging your hips forward, tilting your pelvis—angling your pussy toward John’s face.

He kisses the crease of your thigh and groin. “That’s a girl,” he purrs, and then presses the bottom half of his face directly into your underwear, opening his mouth over the wet fabric and inhaling deeply. The panties are nothing fancy, simple cotton with a floral pattern, but his eyes slide shut in what you can only describe as ecstasy.

“It’s like you’re getting as much out of this as I am,” you say, trying to laugh, to make this feel like less than it is if only for the sake of your nerves.

“I am,” he says, rough around the edges, and pulls at the gusset of your underwear with his teeth. “I’ve thought about this every morning—” he runs the flat of his tongue along the outer seam, touching bare skin “—and every evening—” edging his fingertips into the leg hole at the top of your hip “—since I met you.”

“You barely knew me,” you whisper, trembling.

“I knew enough,” he says, lifting his face to meet your eyes—his pupils are blown wide, encased in a thin rind of blue. Delicately he takes the waistband of your panties between his fingers, eases it down. “Knew you were a good girl, who wouldn’t even fuss at mean old bastard for waking her up. Wanted to eat your cunt to apologize.”

Something flushed and hot radiates from your core, molten and liquid. “Every time you call me that I—I don’t know what to do, John, I feel…”

“Good,” he says. “Lift your hips again.”

You obey. You think you’d do practically anything, if he told you to in that voice, rough and commanding like far-away thunder. John peels your underwear from your hips, dragging it down over the swell of your bottom, closing your legs to pull them down and—you swallow—shoving them in his pocket when they’re off. Then, like opening the shutters of a window, he parts your legs again, and slots his face between them.

The first thing that strikes you is how hot his mouth. He eases a molten tongue into your folds and you watch his eyes slide shut, feel the soft groan he gives vibrate against your flesh. Your body heat blooms, sight going liquid around the edges—or maybe your temperature is just rising to meet John’s own, thermoregulating to avoid meltdown as he stokes a fire between your legs. Hot breath meets you as he opens his mouth, gets as much tender flesh between his lips as he can.

He’s slow. Exploratory. He tongues your pussy luxuriantly, indulgently, as he loops his arms under your legs to hook them over his broad shoulders, thick forearms dark with hair snaking overtop of your thighs. Holding you in place as he eats— savors . He maps your topography, delving and cresting the landscape like trying to discover every significant landmark, and finds a spot on your clitoris that makes your thighs seize up and your hips jerk under his mouth. He chuckles low against you, playfully flits his tongue across it at what you’d swear is the same rapid pulse of your heartbeat.

You look at him between your legs. The curls of his dark lashes are pretty against the pale hue of his skin, freckled with sun exposure. Fever pink spreads across his cheeks as his brow furrows in the middle, creasing as he laps at the beads of moisture pearling up from your entrance. You watch him, mouth hanging open to allow your shallow breaths to flow free—and he opens his eyes, sharp blue, meeting your gaze.

A sound escapes you, raw, rough in the back of your throat. He smiles, drags the flat of his tongue up your folds as if to show off, and strokes along the sensitive border of your mons and lower stomach with the rough callus of his thumb.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, love.” He kisses your mound and then takes your pussy, soft and slow, back into his mouth.

There’s a trembling behind your sternum. Something in you breaks open—seeps cloying and honey-gold—into your bloodstream. Your head lolls back as his tongue slips deeper into you, stoking pleasure, your old friend, your old enemy, like turning embers out of ashes. Your thighs relax over the ballast of his shoulders. They’re broad enough that even as your legs fall further open, they don’t slip off.

It’s like your body and his are dovetail joints cut long ago, yet still now slide easily into place. Your heels rest comfortably on the expanse of his back with plenty of room left over; his big hands, as they spread wide across your stomach, fit along its curves and dips like rain sliding along soft green leaves.

It soaks you to the bone, warm and deep into your marrow, filling your veins and blotting the spaces between your alveoli until John, John, John is on every breath.

You must be saying his name aloud, because John’s grip tightens around you. The flint-strike of his tongue against your clitoris, lightning-sharp, catalyzes the pleasure in your bloodstream into a tight, unfamiliar gnarl. You gasp hard, almost painfully—how long has your body been able to feel like this, somewhere beyond your reach?

Has this pleasure always lived at the end of John’s tongue, along the contours of his hands, draped over his body like a mantle?

(How can something like this be a fair exchange for books and clumsy conversation?)

Your hand flies to John’s hair as it grows—a trembling feeling that touches places inside of you that you’ve always been dimly aware of, but never have given much thought to. It loosens you at the seams, grinds the fault lines inside of you together, dislodges your inhibitions from their foundation.

“John, please,” you whimper, brows drawn together, “please, please—”

He growls against you. Grinds through your center and then sucks your folds into his mouth, grazing the hood of your clit with the edge of his teeth, teasing your entrance with the tip of his tongue—

Suddenly, it overtakes you.

Flying sparks finally catch along aching tinder. A single point of furtive, glowing heat blooms between your legs, unassuming except for that you’ve never felt it before. It only sits briefly in your folds before bursting outward, seizing every nerve ending in the immediate vicinity, blazing bright like fire spreads over paper. Then you tighten around nothing, the inside of you desperately grasping something that isn’t there, body snapping taut as you arch from the backrest, mouth hanging open as a sharp gasp dies in your throat. Sensation consumes everything. Your vision darkens; the air stills in your lungs.

The only thing spared is the heat of John’s mouth, the cords of his arms around your thighs, and the ballast of his shoulders hooked in the bend of your knees—he keeps you anchored, held together as you try to fly apart. The caress of his hands and fingers across your lower belly does not stop as his mouth continues moving over your cunt, moves until your whole body is shaking, moves as you finally gasp for air and cry out in overstimulation.

You collapse back into the chair, pushing now against John’s head even though you’re not sure you want him to stop. He resists—kissing your pussy, once, twice, three times as you come down—and then takes a wrist in one big hand and kisses your palm.

“That,” John rasps, “is a fucking climax, love.”

You swallow, throat dry and smoke-rough. Even in the aftershocks, the pleasure lingers, and you squeeze your inner muscles to hold onto it for as long as you can.

It doesn’t escape his notice. Of course it doesn’t. John’s fingers trek inward, gathering some of the wet slick between your folds and then lazily circling your clitoris.

“Look at you,” he rasps, “my poor girl needs more, doesn’t she?”

Ecstasy grips you again; you whimper as he manipulates your flesh. “John…”

“How long you been aching for it, love? Years? How long’ve you needed me, and I ain’t been there, mm?” He kisses the soft part of your lower belly. “You don’t need to worry anymore. I’m here now.”

You angle your head to look at him, running your dry tongue along your lips. What you see on his face steals the meager oxygen you’ve managed to pull in since your climax abated.

His face is flushed. Lips rosy and swollen from their work. The blue of his eyes has been eclipsed almost completely by black singularity—inescapable, unfathomable, a depth more vast than comprehension. Ready to swallow you whole.

This whole time, you’ve been afraid of John’s touch the way you are afraid of a hot bath on a cold night. There is a comfort beyond the first step into the water, languorous ecstasy waiting only for you to claim it, but the toll separating it and you—the shock of first contact, the split second of violent adjustment, makes you nearly content to remain in uncomfortable but familiar dissatisfaction.

Thunder cracks outside as you reach for him, as he reads your mind and surges forward to kiss you, hand catching the back of your neck to reel your mouth to his. You kiss each other hard and fast, over and over again, eager to end each one only so you can start the next.

Nearly content, in the end, is not content at all.

“John,” you murmur against his lips, as his hand still works your cunt, “I’m still cold.”

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[stellamancer]

prompt: peel back the layers of me, on purpose or accidentally + “i’m not stopping— not now, not ever.”

summary: in the aftermath of everything, megumi is barely surviving.

wc: 1.8k

contains: gn!reader (reader is not a sorcerer but aware of jujutsu society), canon divergent with spoilers post shibuya incident arc, mentioned character deaths (megumi is the only survivor 😭), angst, hurt/comfort

co-written by @seiwas as part of our milestone event collab: keep this love unspoken (tell me as loud as you can) [closed]

You find Megumi in the rain.

He stands from a distance, back hunched and fingers twisted in what you know calls for Divine Dogs. The moonlight lends itself to his shadows, a distant light cast upon what’s left below—illuminations over darkened silhouettes.

You know he can’t summon them anymore, their powers having trickled over to the handful of shikigami he has left. But you think at this moment, body slack and drenched in rainfall, that he looks like one right now—a lone wolf staring at the moon, searching, reaching.

(His howls are deafeningly silent.)

“Megumi!” you shout, the umbrella in your hand shaking as your waterproof jacket shelters you without warmth.

He doesn’t respond—you didn’t expect him to, anyway.

Megumi’s been different for a while. Withdrawn.

And though he’s always been hidden within layers of himself, it never used to be this many; he would always shed one off when it came to you.

“You’re going to get sick!” you attempt again.

You’ve known this secluded clearing since you were 10. It lies deep inside the training grounds of the college, hidden within tall trees and winding paths—as if it was always meant to safe-keep the memories made in them: the first time Megumi ‘trained’ with Gojo at age 7; the day when you, wide-eyed and seeing, knowing of the horrors of this world–his world–were eventually introduced as his training companion years later.

He doesn’t move.

You take a deep breath, stepping towards him.

Companion, not partner is what you are.

With your abilities limited to just seeing, you never had to fight his battles. Instead you watched, sat on the sidelines as you both grew, always around but never beside him—because, what else could you do?

Even when his world continued to take, and take, and take; Tsumiki. Nobara.

Gojo.

Yuuji.

It was (is) all you could (can) do.

Walking towards him now, with unease weighing on every press against crunching grass and sinking soil, you wonder if this is what it feels like to enter a battlefield.

The air is thick and damp, a sickening cold that seeps deep into bones—when you get close, he’s heaving, each rise and fall of his back punctuated by ripples of white cotton clinging.

“Megumi,” you say softer but not any less firm, “we should head back.”

The word rings in his ears.

(Back? Back to what?)

He turns his face to the side, droplets falling from the tips of his hair and down the slope of his nose. It’s awful how you’re reminded of a scene completely different from this—him, at 10, fighting back a smile as you play in the rain with his lone two shikigami.

“Still training,” he finally speaks, tone flat. Unfeeling.

Except he isn’t. You know he isn’t—isn’t training, isn’t unfeeling.

Eight years, you’ve known Megumi, two since he lost everything. You’d always seen it as a blessing that your hands could never bear the power to be weaponized against anything, but now you curse every twisted fate in jujutsu society that there’s no one left to carry the burden but Megumi.

You sigh, extending your arm as you step closer to cover him with the umbrella.

“I’ll keep you company then.”

That’s what you are after all—it’s what you’ve always been, throughout the past two years especially. His eyes no longer meet yours as if speaking to you without talking; the small smile he used to give you now falls flat, static. Fingers that once moved fluidly, surely, now fidget as he picks at the sides of his nail beds, skin peeling.

“You don’t have to,” he mutters tightly, the call for Demon Dogs morphing into clenched fists beside him.

Something in him feels like snapping.

How can you just always be there?

Waiting. Tending.

It shouldn’t tick him off as much as it does right now, but it does, because—

“Well,” you clear your throat, shifting your feet, “someone has to keep you dry if you’re staying out here.”

—you say it so easily, as if this is something you just do and not give.

As if he should even be here, when he shouldn’t. Especially not on the receiving end of it.

His chest burns.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he spits out, grabbing hold of the edge of the umbrella to tip it over, knocking it out of your hands.

It falls to the ground and rolls away, but you don’t move to grab it— your eyes are on Megumi.

Only Megumi.

The fire in his chest rages on, bright and hot, the flames licking at his ribcage. It hurts, it’s painful. His heart is charred, with little left to serve as kindling and yet, despite the rain, despite everything, it remains ablaze.

Just like the fire in your eyes right now.

Rather than reach for the umbrella, you take a step toward him, the rain saturating your clothes, your skin, but you don’t seem to notice, don’t seem to care.

All Megumi can think of is how it's unfair.

You shouldn’t be wasting your time on him, not with his bloodied hands and dark thoughts. He never should have survived, he didn’t deserve to survive. Fushiguro Megumi is living on time that isn’t just borrowed— it’s stolen, ripped from the hands and souls of those far, far more deserving.

Time is precious, he’s learned, but here you are trying to throw yours away.

“Megumi, please,” you say and while your words are soft, there’s a tautness there that Megumi painfully recognizes. Tsumiki would use that tone too, in her patience, in her frustration, whenever Megumi would act out. He’d always bend to her will eventually, but you are not Tsumiki.

He will not give in to you.

“Can’t you see how tired you are?” you plead. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t care, and either you don’t seem to realize, or you do and you don’t care either. “I know you want to keep training, but I really think that maybe you should turn in for the night. Get a good night’s sleep and start again in the morning.”

Megumi hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in ages, and honestly speaking, he doesn’t think he will ever again. How can he when he knows that Yuuji and Nobara will never wake up again? He starts to turn away from you. “I’m not tired.”

“Megumi!” He hears you take another step and feels the slightest tug at his shirt—

Gojo gave him this shirt for his 15th birthday. It was two sizes too large and exactly the type of thing Gojo liked to wear himself. Whenever Megumi wore it, he looked childlike and ridiculous; in fact the first time he put it on Gojo laughed so hard that Megumi swore he saw tears in his eyes. Megumi remembers snapping at him, telling him if he was going to buy someone clothes as a gift, it would be best to buy clothes that actually fit, but Gojo had merely laughed it off, telling Megumi he’d grow into it one day.

Now Gojo is gone, but just as he said, Megumi's grown into the shirt. It fits better now, even though it’s worn and fraying. Whenever he wears it he can almost hear Gojo laughing at him, telling Megumi ‘I told you so’ in that annoying voice of his.

All he hears right now is the ripping of fabric.

Megumi’s body goes completely still and you are oddly silent.

It’s almost as if time has stopped.

But then the apologies start spewing from your mouth, unending and torrential, just like the rain above. “Oh my god, Megumi, I’m so sorry, I—”

He turns around to face you, and the shirt rips even more, tearing more and exposing his chest. Any hope of the shirt being repaired is gone, but Megumi doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because all he sees right now is you, fretting and wide eyed, “I told you to just leave me alone!”

You fall silent, your words and apologies staunched. The downpour surrounding you both only seems to get louder, more relentless, and the both of you are soaked to the bone. There’s no way that either of you are getting out of this without catching a cold, but Megumi doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t—

“Why do you keep doing this?” he demands. “Why don’t you just—”

He stops short, all the words in his head trying to fly out of his mouth all at once.

In the midst of his silence, you speak up, your voice barely audible, “...just… what?”

Stop.

Leave.

Go away.

“...this is pointless,” he finally answers.

“No, Megumi it’s—”

“It is!” he argues, his voice rising. “You’re wasting your time with me, so just stop already!”

Life isn’t fair. Megumi learned that long, long ago. When his father abandoned him, when Tsumiki fell into a coma, when Yuuji died over and over, when Gojo died at his hands. Time and time again Megumi has had it beat into his head, burned into his mind that life isn’t fair.

And neither, he’s learned, are you.

“I won’t,” you say, voice firm, resolute. You take another step toward him, and it feels almost as if Megumi’s entire world is shaking, tilting on its axis and flipping upside down. The fire in your eyes burns bright and hot, the flames calling to the one raging in his chest. It aches and yearns. His heart is smoldering, but still it beats, drumming to a beat that’s at odds with the torrent surrounding you both.

You reach for him, and before Megumi can try to dodge, before he can slip through your fingers, your hands cup his cheek, gentle and firm before you bring him down so that you are both eye to eye. He sees himself reflected in your eyes, widened and bewildered. The only thing you see is Megumi.

Only Megumi.

“I’m not stopping,” you say, thumbs pressing into his cheeks, as if you’re trying to leave a mark. “Not now, not ever!”

And then you kiss him.

It’s like a shock to his system— lightning striking the ground where he stands. You’re putting everything into this, your frustration, your desperation, your love. Megumi can feel it, flowing from you to him, like electricity, like cursed energy. His hands shake, torn between pushing you away because he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve you, and holding you close because you’re all he has left.

This isn’t fair.

You pull away slowly, and Megumi only wants to give chase. He knows he shouldn’t and yet…

“I…” he begins, the words fumbling around in his mouth. “I don’t…”

“I don’t care,” you interject, cutting him off. “You can tell me that you don’t deserve this; but I don’t care. Life isn’t fair, I know, so why should I have to be?”

Megumi stares at you, speechless.

“So, Megumi please,” you plead once more, and this time all Megumi hears is you and you alone. “Please let me in.”

It seems the rain won’t stop anytime soon, and, for better or worse, neither will you.

With a deep sigh, he relents.

He gives in to you.

notes: requested by @firein-thesky

cielo! thank you so much for requesting and we're sorry it took so long, but hopefully it was worth the wait!!

um, i'm (niku) not sure what else to say regarding this piece. sel took the lead here actually and i did my best to match her in terms of writing but i think you can tell when i took over LMAO. i don't want to ramble too much but maybe i should do like sel and do my notes at the end from now on too... hmm.

[the-kr8tor]

Let’s do this again

May I request a beach day with the arachkids and Hobie

Thank you for the adorable request! I hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.2 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader, cw food mentions, FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The searing heat of the sand underneath you doesn't compare to how humid the air is. With the beach towel under you, the warmth still seeps from the thick cloth as you watch the trio play Marco Polo in the pool. You can still hear their whines when the lifeguard at the beach told them that the tides are currently too wild to be able to safely swim in. Good thing the little beach house that you and Hobie rented (With Miguel's money, courtesy of Lyla) comes with a pool complete with sand all around it for the extra immersion.

Gwen shrieks as she dodges the blindfolded Miles. He tries to grasp what's in front of him but could only yank at nothing but air when Gwen dives underneath to escape. Meanwhile Pavitr is silently laughing near the pool steps, happy that Gwen is the one getting targeted by Miles who has been ‘it’ for two turns now. Pav snorts, and you watch in slow motion how Miles turns towards the sound, ears perking up the second Pav let out a squeak.

“Oh no.” Pav softly says, quickly diving and doing evasive maneuvers to throw Miles off his scent. Gwen laughs, but doesn't make the same mistake like Pav did a second ago.

Miles grins mischievously, already running (slowly but surely) towards the splashing. “Keep swimming! I'll get you eventually!” He taunts, and Pavitr starts to panic as Miles is gaining speed right behind him.

“Psst!” You call towards Gwen, she turns towards you, still grinning widely. “Wanna help him?”

“Pav? Absolutely.” Her blue eyes twinkle in the sunlight, swimming closer to you.

“Are your webshooters waterproof?”

She sees where you're going, head peeking out from the end of the pool. “Yeah,” she mirrors your smug look as you hand her the webshooters. “You hang around Hobie way too much.”

You giggle, watching your evil plan unfold once Gwen shoots a ball of web at Miles’ head. Good thing web fluids are biodegradable and melt easily in water or it'll for sure clog the pool.

Miles shrieks, wildly twirling around to try and yank the web off his nape. “That's cheating!” Water splashes all around him while Gwen and Pav try to disorient ‘Marco Polo.’ He lets out a roar, screaming for revenge.

After the barrage of water at Miles' face, the other two scamper off in different directions to avoid Miles, who is definitely using his spider senses now. You laugh loudly when he predicted where Gwen would swim, effectively capturing her.

The sudden cold against your cheek makes you stop laughing. A shadow casts over you as you look up from your seat, you beam at Hobie, he nudges you with a can of cola on your face. “Where'd you go?”

Hobie looks immaculate in the light, bare torso shining in the sunshine, eyes soft for you, and toned muscles in full display. He takes your breath away with a simple tilt of his head, the glow from his silver piercings almost blinds you. “There was a burnin’ building a few ways away. Had to go and save the day.” He sits down on the towel next to you, opening the can and then handing it off over to you nonchalantly, as if he didn't just make your heart jump from the affectionate act.

“Really?” You take a sip, sighing at the refreshing cold. The trio's excited yelling fades into the background, now abandoning the game of Marco Polo to make whirlpools in the pool.

Hobie drops his seriousness, chuckling while he wipes at a bead of sweat off your brow. “Nah, I was buyin’ soda.”

You can't stay mad at him when he looks at you like you're a pearl he found at sea. “You ass.”

“You're welcome, love.” He gives your bare shoulder a quick kiss before turning towards the trio who are turning around in a circle while there's a small whirlpool slowly forming in the center. “Oi! There's soda inside!”

They stop simultaneously, looking at Hobie expectantly. “Are there chips?” Miles asks, and the two nod along.

“Crisps, but yeah there's some inside.” After Hobie confirms, they immediately head off towards the end of the pool, fighting each other so they could get the best ones first. Pav has his hand on Miles’ face, while Gwen webs both of their hands on the pool before cackling and leaving them in the dust.

“Not fair!” They both cry as they rip off the webs lightning quick, and then they run towards the door. You're glad they have incredible balance or else they would've slipped and fell.

Once they're inside, you hear their muffled fighting through the glass walls. Hobie takes your attention from them though. His head is tilted back, letting the sun bathe him in its light. Elbows propping him up, his legs are outstretched as beams of light shine through his long lashes. Lips curled in a content smile, you're happy that he's happy. His muscles look like they were carved on the side of a mountain, and his shoulders are completely relaxed, something you haven't seen in a while. He looks like he came out of a renowned painting.

Hobie senses your eyes on him, he cracks his eyes open to stare back at you. “You wanna take a picture instead?” He asks teasingly, index finger playing around with the string of your swimwear.

“No, I want to paint you.” Hobie rolls his eyes, trying his best not to show how flustered he is. “Now I understand why artists have muses.”

He moves to your side, facing you fully, head tilted up with ease; clearly and blatantly flirting back. His finger twirls the stray string connected to you, your eyes flick downward, trying very hard not to melt on the spot. “I'd be your muse?”

You tuck your chin on your shoulder, hiding your flustered smile. “Yeah,” taking his hand, you knead at his fingers lest he accidentally unties your swimwear. “You'd get sick of posing for me.”

With a scrunch of his nose, he fights with your hand for dominance, massaging you instead. He feels like he's on cloud nine, holding you in the sun while the sound of waves lap at the beach a few steps away; while the most important people in his life are in the same place, happy to join him, happy to make memories with him. Even for just a moment of peace. No villains to stop, no loud city noises or smoke filling his lungs, just the sea and the sun. What more could he ever ask for?

“I want to paint you too.” It's a simple sentence containing multitudes of tenderness and love.

You inhale, almost forgetting to breathe. “We'll make it a day then. I paint you, you paint me.”

To him, you've been his muse for a long time.

Hobie lifts up his hand to cradle your warm cheek, the cold condensation from the soda can soothes you as you lean in closer. “Deal.” He leans closer, you grasp his hip to pull yourself to him.

“I'm going to outpaint you, Hobie. They'll put your portrait up in the louvre after I win.”

“I didn't know it was a competition.” He whispers against your lips. You close your eyes when you feel his lips brush along yours. “I'll win though.”

“Y/N! We're out of chips!” Fumbling from the sudden presence, you accidentally knock your forehead against Hobie's nose. You two groan out in pain while the trio rushes to help. Both your portraits have to wait now, or until the bumps subsides.

[jaegeraether]

Sunsets and footballers (Part 60)

Lucy Bronze x Reader (52) / Alexia Putellas x Character (20) & Jordan Nobbs x Leah Williamson (10)

Masterlist (other parts here)

Join our WOSO Discord chat! Link in bio :)

((**6.1k**))

YFN POV

“Was that Alexia?” Lucy asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” YFN murmured, just as shocked.

“Calling you?”

She met Lucy’s green eyes – the ones that made the butterflies in her tummy do somersaults. “Don’t be jealous, Luce.” She teased, knowing full well that she wasn’t.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Is she okay?” She asked as she bent in front of the bed and patted YFN’s thigh. “Up you get, little one.”

YFN shuffled to the edge of the bed and pressed herself against Lucy’s strong back, wrapping her arm around her front and her good leg around her waist while the other stayed straight in her brace. Lucy stood and walked them to the bathroom. They had gotten used to getting around the house in all different ways, Lucy insisting on helping her everywhere.

YFN put her nose to the back of Lucy’s hair and breathed in her smell. She always smelled extra sweet after she’d just woken.

“She wants to talk… and also said Barca wants an update call with you two…” she murmured as she planted a soft, lingering kiss to the back of her neck in appreciation.

Lucy hummed happily. “Thank you for that.”

She placed her down gently on the sink in the bathroom and pulled the high stool to rest her leg on. At this point, they were a well-oiled operation.

“She’s coming over?”

“Yeah, I thought it’ll be good for her. I told her I’m interviewing you today and suggested that we can talk after it, but she said she wants to come and watch and be interviewed as well.”

“It does make sense doing hers soon as we won’t know when she’s headed back…” Lucy agreed as she removed her sling, and her shirt. The cool air of the bathroom hardened YFN’s nipples immediately and Lucy gave a smirk as she ducked down to kiss them. “Hello, friends.”

“You’re a child.”

“I hope not, otherwise we’ve got a real problem on our hands.”

YFN scoffed as Lucy put waterproof coverings over her collarbone bandage, and her arm cast. “You’re the cougar here.”

“It’s okay, mummy’s here.”

“Oh god, Luce.”

Lucy chuckled at her own joke as she usually did and finished taping the top of the soft plastic around her arm cast. She put a hand on the sink either side of her and leant it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy hearing me say that.”

YFN bit her lip instead of responding and Lucy leant in, her lips brushing over her bruising, her dimples, her lips. YFN gave a soft, agreeing sigh as she leant into her, but Lucy had already retreated teasingly with a smirk. She gave her a soft peck on the forehead before moving her attention down to wiggle the sleeping shorts and underwear from YFN. It was embarrassing for her; having to be looked after, though Lucy was so kind, so patient, and never made fun of her for it.

She was now naked sitting on the sink and trying to keep her arm still as if the sling were still on, all the while watching Lucy and blushing. The footballer was getting a large black bin bag that they’d been using to cover her knee brace while she showered which she was also ashamed to admit she was embarrassed at.

Lucy looked up at her, perhaps because of her silence, and saw her red cheeks. “Oh, little one. No need to be embarrassed, okay? It’s just me.”

She put the bag down and came close again, peppering little kisses onto her cheek. “I can’t help it. I wish I could…”

“Here…” Lucy stepped back and YFN watched as she stripped herself naked, putting their clothes into the laundry basket. She put her arms out and gave a little wiggle that made YFN laugh. “Now we’re even.”

“I think it’s less about the nakedness and more about the bin bag. But I do appreciate the view…”

Lucy winked as she came close again. “Little one, you could be in a crowd of people all dressed up in their little suits and dresses, and even wearing nothing but a bin bag, you’d still be the most beautiful.” She leant down and kissed her gently, pausing only to murmur against her lips. “And you’d be the only thing I’d see.”

They kissed slowly, loving; their tongues meeting briefly before a cold shiver from YFN had Lucy pulling away and sliding the bin bag over her leg. “Come on, we need to get you warm.”

“I still can’t handle this.”

“Calm down Bree, you’re acting like a fan,” Emily teased.

“But we are fans,” Bridget insisted as they looked out the large glass doors of the living room to where Lucy and Alexia were sitting together outside on a video call to Barcelona management. As if she knew they were talking about her, Lucy looked over and lifted her sunglasses up to flash her a wink. YFN returned a knowing smile from her position at the dining table; her work spread out in front of her.

“You’ve met Lucy before-” YFN started.

“-briefly!” Bridget interjected.

“And they’re both lovely.”

“And apparently Alexia is single too…” Emily muttered as if day-dreaming.

“Right here, Em.” Bridget groaned.

“Alright you two, less gawking and more prepping.”

Bridget and Emily had arrived shortly before Alexia and almost had a heart attack. It had apparently been bad enough for them to prepare themselves for filming an interview with Lucy, let alone la Reina herself.

YFN let them finish setting up their camera and the backdrop against the wall of the living room for the interview photos. YFN went through a few more questions she had to ask Alexia, as her interview had been a last-minute addition. When she arrived, she’d agreed to do it in English and so YFN made a note to use clear speech and simple wording. She was going to ask if she wanted Ridley there for translations, but she had chosen not to mention her just yet. She was always just a phone call away, and they could always edit it anyways.

Alexia came back inside from the video call first and YFN watched as Emily nervously directed her through how to stand and sit for her photos. A grey figure appeared suddenly next to her and she jumped, wincing at her collarbone as Chiquito rubbed his cheek against her jaw for attention.

“Hey little man,” she greeted with a kiss on the cheek. “Missing mum?”

That had been a surprise to YFN, when Alexia had arrived with Chiquito. She knew how much he meant to Ridley.

His attention turned to watch Alexia posing politely for photographs while YFN started to work again… until her phone rang. Reading a line, she picked it up without checking to see who it was.

“Hello, YFN speaking.”

“Hey YFN, it’s Leah…”

“Oh! Hey mate, how are you?”

“Yeah good, good.”

“How’s the training coming along?”

“Yeah, really good. Not fully back training just yet, I will be soon.”

“But you’re running again?!”

“It feels great to be fair. Really good being around the girls again too. I’m sick of not being able to play.” She sounded a little frustrated which was completely understandable. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. Here I am complaining about me while you’re stuck as home all bandaged up.”

YFN chuckled as Lucy now approached her and wrapped her arms around her from behind. “It’s okay, Leah. It means more time with Lucy which is never enough. She’s been really amazing the way she’s looked after me. I feel like a newborn.”

“Remember that I can help out too…”

“I will and I appreciate the offer. Now, what can I do for you? Are you just checking up or…?”

“I… look I’ll be honest, I want to talk to you about Jordan. We’re meeting up tomorrow night and you’re good to talk to about these things. Are you busy today?”

Lucy nuzzled into her hair while YFN looked around. “Uh… yeah kind of. I’m doing interviews for Lucy and Alexia today so we’re just at Lucy’s place-”

“-our place,” Lucy interjected too quiet for Leah to hear.

“Our place,” she corrected. “With two girls from Lumos to do some filming. Are you not training today?”

“No, not today. Physio today. The girls are training hard for the game tomorrow.”

“Ah… well I can let you know when I’m free after if you want? Lucy is taking Alexia to a boxing class later on.”

“I mean, I could just come over now if that’s okay? I’ll bring you all some lunch if you want.”

She felt Lucy nodding eagerly against the back of her head and she chuckled. “That would be amazing, thanks! A bit of this has been last minute, so we haven’t actually organised lunch yet.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

They hung up and Lucy’s lips found her cheek. “I fell in love with a real problem-solver, didn’t I?”

Lucy took her photos, grinning in some, almost smouldering in others and YFN had to work hard to pay attention to what she was doing.

“So just talk normally, like we’re having a usual conversation. Any time you want to pause, we can. Any time you need to find an answer first, we’ll edit those parts out. And if you need a translation, I can organise that too.”

“Ridley?” Alexia asked.

YFN nodded hesitantly. “Is that okay?”

She nodded in agreement as something crossed behind her eyes. YFN put a hand on her arm to bring her back. “We’ll talk after the interviews, okay?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I’m done,” Lucy said, joining them at the table. “Who’s going first?”

“Alexia first and then you, but I’m more than happy for you to get involved from off camera in each other’s interviews. It’ll make it feel a bit more normal and relaxed.”

“Oh, I can do that,” she grinned.

Bridget and Emily finished packing their camera away and joined them; YFN using the opportunity to discuss with them all the plan and what she expected. All five of them spoke a little more until it was time to begin the interview and they moved to the couch.

“Up you come, little one.” Lucy murmured as she picked her up and carried her to the couch. She blushed at a few looks she received but she wasn’t embarrassed. Lucy settled her down into a comfortable position on the couch, making sure her water was close by, and her notes, as Alexia settled down facing her with one leg folded up. She looked comfortable, though a little nervous which YFN was confident would disappear after a few minutes.

And it did. Alexia relaxed into the interview and YFN with it, as she was just as new to the concept as the footballer. They started off with football, mentioning YFN’s own current disabilities and Alexia able to show that comforting side of her. Lucy hopped in with a few cheeky comments of course, though stayed silent as the conversation moved a little bit more serious as they spoke about her family. Her English was easily understandable, even when she was struggling a little emotionally talking about her dad. As if he knew, Chiquito jumped up onto her lap and settled there as if he were Alexia’s pet. She paused to see if she should put him down, but YFN just smiled and segued the conversation back into the fun. Into the side of the footballer that people didn’t usually hear about like her hobbies, holiday destinations, personal quirks etc.

Leah arrived towards the end of the interview and could do nothing to avoid the camera as she came in with apologies. She pulled the sunglasses up to hold back her hair and leant over the couch to greet Alexia and YFN with a kiss on the cheek.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’ll move.” She apologised as she put the few bags of food that she was carrying, off camera.

YFN loved it, though. It felt relaxed, and real. She knew it’d be something she’d keep in the interview. People rarely saw players like Alexia and Leah interact.

The interview took about thirty minutes in total, and then they stopped for a lunch break with the food Leah had brought them.

“Did you get this from that café around the corner?” Lucy asked as she sucked some sauce from her thumb.

“Yeah it had some good reviews, so I thought I’d try it. You’ve been there?”

“One of my favourites.” She said as if not wanting to waste time talking when she could be eating.

“Are you all sorted for tomorrow?” Leah asked YFN.

“Oh, yes. I organised a lot of it from the hospital, and so everybody’s prepped for the games on Sunday… tomorrow.”

“Where are you two going to be?” Leah asked Bridget and Emily who were watching the conversation like a tennis match, almost too nervous to speak.

“We’re doing the Gunners, Hammers game at Meadow Park,” Emily said with a smile.

“They’re Gooners so I try to keep them close to your club,” YFN explained.

A piece of salad fell out of her sandwich and Lucy was quick to help.

“Let me cut it up for you, little one.”

She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as she took her plate and cut her sandwich up into smaller pieces, so it was easier to eat with one hand. She didn’t miss the longing looks that Alexia and Leah flashed their way.

“Are you going to the Lioness games next week?” YFN asked Leah, hoping the subject wouldn’t be tender.

She nodded. “I was hoping you could come with me, if you’re comfortable with it?”

“I’d be happy to go if the doctor clears me to start putting a little weight on my leg next week…”

“To Scotland?” Lucy asked, worried.

“Maybe… I know it’s important for you…”

“…and we’ll get better seats if we have you with us. And better access.”

“Not good reasoning,” Lucy said protectively while YFN chuckled.

“I think it’s great reasoning, Luce. Plus, I love seeing you play for England. You’re a maniac.”

“She’s more…careful at Barcelona,” Alexia agreed.

“She’s very good in the important games,” YFN said, enjoying teasing her as she took a cut up piece of her sandwich and ate it.

“Yes yes, very scary,” Alexia said and her accent made it that much funnier.

“Okay, is it attack Lucy day?” Lucy grumbled as she took another bite.

As the girls were tidying up after lunch, Lucy was helping YFN change her clothes and settle back onto the couch ready for their interview. She wanted to look like it was filmed on a different day.

“Little one?” She said quietly.

“That’s my name.”

“Are you okay if I go to the Arsenal game tomorrow afternoon? I wanted to ask Alexia at boxing if she wants to go…”

YFN knew full well that Lucy wasn’t an Arsenal supporter, she was a Man City supporter having had played for them, and so she knew that her objective was to keep Alexia entertained. “You’re a good person, Luce.”

Lucy smiled. They’d done that thing where they’d communicated without communicating.

“Thanks.” She gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And maybe I’ll ask Leah…”

“Not Leah.”

Lucy’s head tilted in question. “No?”

“No…”

Lucy could see she had something else in mind and didn’t question it. “Okay then. Maybe Ridley will want to come over and spend time with you?”

“Sure, if she’s back…”

“Back?”

Before she could answer, the girls were back around them and they settled in for their interview, sitting much closer than she and Alexia had been, with Narla joining them on the couch.

Lucy was such a natural in front of camera. She was so confident, cocky even and very flirty which made YFN have to hide a grin back to her, though she knew her dimples were giving her away. She gave the same attitude back, proudly drawing goofy grins out of Lucy during the interview.

She’d conducted it the same way as Alexia’s. They’d started with football, both Leah and Alexia throwing comments in off camera that she either answered or was teased with, then they moved to a bit more depth when speaking about her family and the bullying nature of the industry, and then finishing with happiness, fun, flirting, food, Spain, Narla. She’d had no idea that Lucy would be so openly flirting with her, though she didn’t mind it, it gave it more character and showed a side of Lucy the public didn’t really get to see that often. Anything more personal, she would keep just for themselves.

“Can we do player on player?” Lucy asked when they were done.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Leah and I, maybe?”

Alexia looked confused but YFN knew she was giving the two time to speak alone. She nodded. “If Leah is comfortable with it…”

“I can’t promise anything will be postable,” she laughed. “But sure, let’s do it.”

“Okay, I have a list of generic questions you two can use if you’d like.” YFN said and gave them each a copy so they’d have something to work with.

Lucy helped YFN make her way outside to their outdoor seating with Alexia where they still had a good view of the pair inside being filmed chatting away by Emily and Bridget.

“Ah, I wonder what Lucia was doing,” Alexia admitted.

“She’s pretty good at subtlety,” YFN admitted as she watched her laughing away with Leah as she pet Narla between them.

“Yes, she is. I didn’t know that until she… met you.”

YFN was aware that Alexia and Lucy had gotten much closer recently and that’s why she’d only just learnt that about her.

“You wanted to talk?”

“Si… yes… Ridley.”

“I assumed so. I noticed you had Chiquito…”

Alexia smiled at the cat who was getting attention from Emily as Bridget filmed.

“She gave him me when you said I was lonely.”

She always knew Ridley was chivalrous but that was something else. That was romance. “That’s a pretty big gesture.”

Alexia nodded. “She save me yesterday.”

“What happened?!”

“My knee was frustrating me and so I push myself hard to… to see if it can help but I overwork my body.”

“And Riddles was with you?”

“No… no she sees me and take… taken me back to the home and look after me.”

“She was just stopping by to see how you were doing and found you?”

“Si.”

“And that upset you?”

“No… it was nice. She look after me with food and my knee…” she made a gesture.

“…massaging?” YFN suggested.

“Si, massaging and… and we had nice day and dinner and she make alarm for me to wake up for Meg.”

“Meg the physio?”

“Si. She… si.”

She didn’t feel good about the way she avoided speaking about Meg. “What aren’t you saying?”

Alexia sighed and averted her eyes. “We argue.”

“Argued about what?”

“About her carry me.”

“Ah. She’s used to that, though.”

“Yes, she say that. She talk something about SERE?”

She understood where it was going. “SERE training? Yes.”

“I make her tell me…”

“Ah.” It was one thing that Ridley hated speaking about. That, and her family. “Did she tell you?”

“She say… she say they break her. Drown a…and starve and…” she gestured again.

“Tortured?”

“Si.” Alexia’s eyes met hers. “It is true?”

“It’s worse that you can ever imagine. Riddles was being kind. They make them unbreakable. They do all of that and… they even sexually humiliate them.”

“Humil…” Alexia started. YFN found the translation and showed her and watched her face pale. “This… this is why she…”

“Why she sleeps around? One of the reasons, yes. She’s very comfortable with her body.”

“She does not open to me.”

“She’s…” YFN let out a large sigh. “She’s very complicated and very simple at the same time. She hasn’t broken, I’m assuming?”

Alexia shook her head. “She… she tells me to go with Meg.”

That didn’t surprise her. Ridley would want her to be happy and from what Alexia hadn’t said, Meg liked her.

YFN wondered just how much she should say. She thought for a minute about what would be best for Ridley. Was Alexia what was best for her? She saw the way they acted around each other, and it was almost like herself and Lucy. Lucy. She looked inside and found her looking at her, still talking to Leah. She’d always wanted Ridley to find someone to make her happy, to fully open up to. Someone other than herself.

YFN reached out and gently took Alexia’s fingers in her own and met her eyes.

“Alexia… she won’t break. She won’t break, because if she does… she will lose herself.” Alexia’s eyes flooded with questions. “One of the only reasons she got through the military, through the deaths and the lives she took and the torture…” She almost choked on that word. “Was because she wasn’t doing it for herself. She told herself again and again that she wouldn’t break because of us. Me. Her brother. Her mum. And so, if she lets herself give in, then she’ll essentially be losing her anchor. The one thing to keep her grounded and sane. That love she buries so deep.”

Alexia’s eyes flooded with tears. “So… so there is no way… no way to love for her? No way to let me in?”

YFN’s heart broke for her. “She doesn’t believe so…”

A tear broke free from each eye and Alexia wiped them away with her spare hand. YFN squeezed the fingers she was holding. “But I do.”

Her head whipped up. “You do?”

“I really do.”

“How?” The question was almost whispered and YFN was worried she would feel like she was betraying her friend, but she felt the opposite. Like she was saving her.

“She needs to know you’re not going anywhere.” Alexia listened eagerly, and empathetically. “She lost her mum. Brother. Almost me. Friends. So many friends. She needs to know that you’re here to stay and that you won’t leave her. She never attaches because she thinks she’ll lose them and it hurts her too deep. So don’t try to break her. Let her pull you into her bubble herself. It will take a long time, and it’ll be frustrating and maybe feel like you aren’t getting anywhere with her, but you will be. I promise. You’ve already started and you haven’t even noticed….”

Alexia blinked and YFN knew she was thinking about the ten months she’d admired her from afar.

“She… want a home.”

YFN nodded. “She does. She planned on making us one but I have Luce now…” The thought of a home with Lucy was heart warming to her, though she felt horrible that Ridley didn’t have that same feeling. “Because Lucy is my home. She made that apartment in London for her brother… she made a home in Australia for her mum. But all of that is just material. Look close enough, Alexia, and you’ll see she’s trying to find a home, and she doesn’t even know that she’s doing it. She doesn’t realise that home is about people. Or… a person.”

Alexia fiddled with her fingers, and YFN knew she was doing it subconsciously.

“Alexia, please… please don’t break her heart. Don’t try to force her. Don’t try to break her. And if you don’t have any intention on being there for her whenever she needs then please… walk away now. I’m saying this as someone who loves her so, so much, you have no idea.” YFN felt herself tearing up. “We’ve been through everything together, and I couldn’t handle it if you hurt her.”

“You love her.”

“I do. I really, really do. And I would drop everything to pick up the broken pieces of her and put her back together again. But please, don’t put her in that situation. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever met. She deserves everything good.”

“I won’t hurt her…”

“You’re going to stay?”

Alexia nodded, as if it were the only choice. “Yes, I stay.”

“You have my number. You call me or text me anytime, okay?”

“I will.” Her voice was husky.

“You need to let her know you’re not going anywhere…” she repeated. “That you’re ‘right here’.”

After the Lionesses were done with their player on player, Bridget and Emily passed YFN the footage and left, taking the spare sandwiches and pastries upon Leah’s insistence, YFN making sure to compliment them on how well they did. Shortly after, Lucy and Alexia headed out to their boxing session in the city. Lucy had made time before they left, however, to quietly make sure YFN was okay after seeing her red eyes, ducking down next to her and letting her know just how much she loved her.

“You’re an amazing friend, little one. An amazing person. An amazing girlfriend. I’m so lucky. I love you.” She’d whispered to her; the two sharing a kiss before she went.

“Luce… come back to me,” she’d murmured in return, giving her a longing look. It felt strange to say, as they’d been inseparable the past week, but she wanted her. Always. Especially after the conversation she’d had with Alexia.

“I’ll be back before you know it, love. I’ll bring dinner home.”

“I love a breadwinner.”

She’d grinned, teasingly. “That’s mummy to you.”

“Argh,” She’d replied, disgusted, and shoved her and pointed to the door. “Go, cougar.”

“Isn’t there only three years between you two?” Leah asked as Lucy chuckled her way to the front door.

“Yes, but the maturity differences evens it out… and then some.”

She heard Lucy scoff from the doorway as it clicked shut, and then there were two.

“You must feel pretty attached to that couch by now…” Leah said.

“Oh, you have no idea. Pretty sure my body is imprinted on it.”

She let out a chuckle. “So, it appears I’m not the only therapy you’re giving today.”

“Did Lucy say…?”

She shook her head. “No, I saw you two out the window. Alexia and Ridley, right?”

“Yeah. It’s much, much more complicated than your situation.”

“Have you spoken to Jordan?”

“Yeah a bit actually. She doesn’t like Birmingham too much, I think.”

“Do you feel like you’re missing your home there?”

Chiquito launched up onto the couch, finding interest in Leah before climbing his way over a now sleeping Narla, to settle in YFN’s lap.

“Is it too corny to say that I feel like I’m missing my home whenever I’m without Lucy?”

“A little.” She agreed. “But I know exactly how you feel.”

“Like you’re missing your home without her?”

She nodded. “I’ve struggled over a year without her. I miss her and Blu and our home. She used to live with me in London and we’d see each other every day and then… then I ruined both of our lives.”

“You did it to protect her.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t. Because you should have done it with her.”

“I know,” she admitted, not able to look up from the couch. “She’s my person and I just… I fucked it up.”

YFN didn’t let that negativity sit long. “Dory said you protected her the other week from the paparazzi…”

“I told them not to approach her or harass her and they didn’t listen.”

“But you told them. That meant a lot to her.”

Her eyes came up to meet YFN’s. “It did? I was worried she’d feel like I was going behind her back.”

“On the contrary, she thought it showed how much you cared.”

Leah’s shoulders dropped, a little relieved.

“And she also said you and she had a really, really good night.”

“It wasn’t perfect.”

“Perfection isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s about the imperfections, the working together, the unknown. She was telling me in the hospital all about it and it felt like it had a year ago. Natural and stress-free and beautiful.”

“She said that?”

“In her own words. She also loves your hugs.”

Leah gave a sad chuckle. “Yeah, she loves those.”

“You know all of this already. So why did you want to talk to me?”

“I guess I feel like talking to you is the closest I can be to her… because I know how close you two have become.”

YFN nodded, understanding. “My whole life changed the day I saw her on that beach.”

“Now you have Jord, and Lucy, and because of you, she’s talking to me again…”

“Do you have another date planned?”

“Tomorrow night. I wanted to know what you think I should do... or if she’s expecting anything?”

“Dory just wants to be around you. You make her happy.”

“I was going to try and cook for her again. I’ve been taking lessons and I actually know where I messed up last time.”

“Can I suggest something else?”

“Go ahead, probably better than my ideas.”

“I think you should go and watch her game.”

“In Birmingham?”

“Yep. You’re not a sub at the Arsenal game, right?”

She shook her head.

“So go to Birmingham and show her that you’re there to support her. Show her you’re willing to go out of your way for her. Don’t have expectations because she needs time, you know that, but just go and… be. You can take her to a restaurant after the game, or go to our place and spend time with Blu and cook or order in. You’re more than welcome to use my bedroom if she’ll let you sleep there, but like I said, no expectations. Expect that you’ll be driving back that night. We both know she’d never let you, but still, just let her have all of the control, yeah? Give her that power and see how she uses it.”

“You don’t think she’ll be overwhelmed if I show up?”

“Honestly? I think it’d melt her heart. You watch her face when she sees you, Leah. In that first split second that it takes to recover her expression… you’ll see everything she’s feeling.”

Ridley POV

Ridley was staring out the window of her hotel room, unable to break her mind from her. She’d tried so hard and every time she got to the point where she knew she’d succeed, she fell back into it, because she wanted to think about her. About the way she always looked sad… because it made her happy expression that much sweeter. About the way she stood her ground and challenged Ridley like no one had before.

She looked back down at the follow notification from Alexia that she’d just received. Of course, that came with a multitude of other people following suit, being la Reina fans, and she smiled as she looked at her profile picture. Alexia in her beloved number 11 Barcelona jersey; that blonde dyed hair Ridley was obsessed with, up in her high ponytail.

She’d received the notification an hour or so after her meeting, and as she stared at it a little longer, she pressed the button to follow her back.

She found herself scrolling through her posts, unable to stop herself from pausing and admiring one particular photo of her lying face down on the front of a yacht. Her hair was in a messy bun, her tattoos stunning, her ass… was something that had Ridley wondering how she even existed. The things she’d sacrifice to be behind her as she laid like that in front of her… and then there was her hand. It laid palm up, her fingers partially curled and begging for Ridley to entwine her fingers with. She looked so… soft.

Her phone started buzzing and she tilted her head in wonder as Alexia’s name popped up on the screen, just minutes after she’d followed her back.

“Thinking about me, were you?” She murmured in Spanish as she answered.

“Hello to you too.”

“Good afternoon, la Reina. What can I do for you?”

“You can have dinner with me.” Her voice sounded like honey through the phone.

“Oh?”

“I had fun the other day and you’re right, I’ve been too much. I was hoping just to spend some more time with you.”

“You’re leaving London?”

“I never said that.”

Ridley’s stomach did a sickly thing at the thought of Alexia leaving. “Would you like to leave?”

“No, I’d like to stay and spend time with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

That settled her nerves a little.

“So,” Alexia continued. “Dinner and a swim, maybe?”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be back tonight…”

“Back?”

Ridley hummed. “Yes, I have another meeting with a client and it may push me to stay another night if it goes for too long.”

“Where are you?”

“Currently? Switzerland.”

“What…?!” It was more disheartened than shocked.

“Let me just have a look at the flights. I was originally planning to stay here another night.”

“I don’t want to put you out…”

“You could never put me out, Lex. It sounds like a great idea.” Anything to be around her. “Just let me check.” Ridley scrolled through the flights and found two potentials. One landing at 6pm, and the other at 7:30pm. Though, she knew there was more chance she’d be on the later flight given how frustratingly underprepared the clients had been. “I have one that I will most likely be on. I’ll get to the apartment around 8pm, if that works?”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

“Would you like me to organise it?”

“No, I’ve already booked a place for 8pm. I’ll call and change the time to a little later.”

“Oh, you have? How presumptuous of you.”

“I learned from the best.”

Ridley chuckled at her humour. “Are you going to dress up for me?”

“Only if you dress up for me.” Cheeky, but not flirty.

“Deal. Let’s both dress nice for each other. I’m heading into my meeting now, but I’ll see you tonight, la Reina.”

Alexia POV

She was nervous. It was 6:30pm and Ridley was going to be at the apartment in the next hour and a half. She’d barely had time to buy a dress with Lucia before picking up Chiquito and getting back to the apartment for her rehab appointment. She’d forgotten about it so late that it had been too late to cancel, and now she was checking her watch for the tenth time to make sure she left before Ridley arrived.

That wouldn’t be good, especially after the discussion she’d had with Blau about letting Ridley know she was always going to be there.

“How is it feeling today?” Meg asked as she scraped her thigh with a plastic device. It was always so painful. Alexia groaned and gripped the gym bench harder from where she sat.

“Okay until you do that…”

Meg giggled. “But it helps. You know it does.”

Alexia didn’t agree with her. She’d been very careful to not encourage her, especially with the physio’s wandering hands.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

The question was so off-topic as they’d been professional for the whole session thus-far.

“Si,” she groaned again. It felt like she was peeling her skin off. “I do.”

“Oh? What are you doing?”

“M…Meg I do not wanting to talk about this now.” Alexia said, tilting her head back and squeezing her eyes shut in pain.

“Almost done,” she giggled again and finished up, starting to massage instead. After a few more moments of silence, Meg spoke again, seeming to build confidence from somewhere. “I think you should spend the night with me.”

Alexia’s head shot up and her eyes opened to see Meg staring at her, very, very seriously.

“I have plan tonight…” Was all she could say.

“Then cancel,” she murmured as she moved close to Alexia. “We can hang out and have some fun like we always do, yes?”

Their sessions had been fun, sure, but it was bold of her to make a move. Of course, Alexia should have expected it, having led her on with her flirting the past few sessions.

Meg got even closer now while Alexia stared, wide-eyed and worried she’d hurt her feelings.

“Your session is done,” she whispered as her lips found Alexia’s.

Alexia didn’t kiss her back, she just stared, stunned and pulled away, unable to find words.

A voice sounded from the doorway then and Alexia’s head snapped to where Ridley stood with an expression that was far too neutral.

“Should I come back later?”

[aoioozora]

Simon.

Part 11

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 12 - Part 13

Character: Simon Riley / Ghost Content: Biker! Ghost x Fem! Reader, strangers to lovers, fluff, civilian au TW: Mentions of murder Note: Thank you for your patience! Here is Simon's angsty backstory.

“Simon?” 

A beacon of harsh white light appeared right under the face of the shadow, illuminating its grim face and casting ominous shadows under its eyes, nose, cheekbones, and lips like the teller of a ghost story would do. She let out a frightened squeak before finally recognizing the face of the shadow.

“You scared me!” she chuckled as she put her hand over her racing heart.

“That was the point.” He laughed as he watched her climb up to the porch. Under the ghastly, sharp light of the torch, he playfully flashed a devious grin.

“Stop it, you look terrifying!” She exclaimed, shaking her head with a smile.

Simon switched off the torch and was hidden in the shadows again. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness again and to see him a little clearer. She could vaguely see him slouched on the bench, wrapped in a thin blanket from the elements.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, now sitting next to him and placing Little Simon aside.

“Johnny’s snoring,” Simon shook his head, letting out an annoyed grumble, “Can’t sleep with such a delightful little jukebox cozied up next to me, you know.” He turned to her when she chuckled. “What about you?”

“I slept too much in the afternoon,” she sighed, “and so I sat up working on my novel, thinking I’d get sleepy soon enough, but that didn’t happen, so here I am.”

He let out a short “hmm” as he stared at the rain that was now falling a little heavier. ____ leaned forward to check on the tent.

“I hope the tent’s not getting wet inside,” she said.

“Don’t worry, it’s waterproofed. We’ve slept through many rainy nights in that tent, so it’ll be as right as rain,” he answered, smirking at his unexpected pun, and feeling quite gratified when he heard her chuckle. 

“I remember you made a rain pun the second time we met at the book cafe,” she remarked, continuing to giggle.

“What can I say,” he sighed a self-gratified sigh, now half-joking and half attempting to make her laugh again, “I can be pretty funny at times.”

“For sure,” she smiled and said with sincerity, “I really do think you’re funny.”

His eyebrows shot up slightly. Outside of his friends, he didn’t think anybody found him hilarious, knowing that he frightened most people with his massive build and dark, beady eyes, and his general serial-killer vibe. He felt a warmth build in his chest at her compliment and smiled gratefully.

“So do the three of you go camping often?” she asked.

“We usually go every weekend unless one of us is busy. Actually, it’s been a while since we went camping because Johnny and Gaz always have prior plans on the weekend.”

“And you never did?” 

Simon felt needles pricking him in the chest and he chuckled painfully at the question. “I rarely have plans with anyone except the lads. I normally spend my weekends going on long rides or I’d visit my family.” He inhaled the scent of the pattering rain, “I don’t have a lot of friends besides the lads and you.”

She gave him a sympathetic look and turned back to the rain. Feeling a shiver course through her body, she instinctively moved closer to Simon and sat shoulder to shoulder with him. “It’s cold,” she shivered and rubbed her goosebumped arms, “and I left my hoodie in the tent too.”

Simon immediately saw his chance and opened up the thin but warm blanket he was wrapped in. “We can share the blanket if you want to,” he invited, holding one of the corners of the blanket in his hand, opening it out to her.

She didn’t hesitate to move closer to him, and as she did, his arm wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her still closer, draping the large blanket over her body. Their legs pressed together, her shoulder pressed against his side, and her head found itself resting in the divot of his shoulder. His body radiated heat like a loaf of freshly baked banana bread that she couldn’t help but snuggle closer to him. Simon blushed and blushed; he was over the moon. Her closeness only increased his body heat and started revving his heart’s engines. He silently thanked the rain for being a wingman. 

As if in response to his silent gratitude, a cold wind blew, sending a spray of rain their way. Simon quickly raised the blanket over her face to shield her. 

“This man is forged by Chivalry himself,” she thought. “Oh wait, that’s a brilliant line! I should write it down.” But when she realised she didn’t bring her phone with her, she had to resort to carefully stashing it in her mind. For now, she decided to focus on how jittery and warm his touch made her feel, and wanting more of it, she moved closer again.

At her slight movement, his head turned slightly, hyper aware of how close his face was to hers. “Are you warm, darling?” He whispered, his voice carrying a slight tremor of the nervousness of a reclusive man experiencing an unknown but pleasant feeling.

“Warm and toasty like a marshmallow,” she answered, grinning gleefully at him.

His body burned at the sight of her smile. He tightened his arm around her shoulder, and she could feel his muscles tense and flex around her neck, and his fingers grazed lightly against her upper arm. His rugged shoulder was under her soft cheek. The damp air, the smell of laundry detergent and rainforest cologne from his clothes wafted to her nose, reminding her of the night she first met him. He could smell femininity from her proximity, and he inhaled sharply, pursing his lips tight and fighting the urge to lean down and kiss her senseless. 

“Simon,” she called, her voice soft.

“Yeah?” 

“You said you don’t have a lot of friends,” she began and then paused for a moment, “Were you never in contact with anyone from school or university?” 

She felt his body go stiff; she didn’t see it in the dark, but his jaw tightened too, and he answered through his teeth, “No darling, not one contact…”

His voice trailed off and a heavy silence from him followed. She sensed that there was something more hiding behind his tense answer, a hidden, brewing, twisting whirlpool in a blackened vase. She was afraid to pry, but her concern and curiosity overcame her. “How come?” she asked.

She could feel his chest expand as he inhaled a sharp, whistled breath. He cautioned in a whisper, “Darling, it’s not a pretty story.” His voice was solemn, and she understood that what was behind the reason was truly heavy and unpleasant. 

“Do you not want to tell me? She pressed gently, “I understand if you don’t want to.”

He looked at her, brows furrowed, eyes slightly narrowed, and jaw still taut. “If I tell you, you might hate me.” he thought, weighing his options. He knew that if he was to possibly date her one day, he’d have to reveal his murky past either way. And he wasn’t dating her now so, “the sooner the better. If she hates me now, so be it.” 

“Well…” he began, “As a lad, I was, to put it mildly, in bad company. And this bad company scared off any potential friends I could’ve made in school.” He paused, letting that information sink in first.

She asked, “What was this-” in air quotes, “-“bad company”?” 

No more beating around the bush when he admitted directly, “I was in a gang.” When he saw her wide eyes, he added, “Can’t get a lot of good friends in a gang, can you? Everyone and their mum would be too scared to associate.” 

She was silent for a while, and he looked at her with pursed lips and a tense brow, worried about her silence. “That’s…” she began, “wow.” She turned to look at him, and her eyes swept over his dark silhouette with a look that told him that she started to view him differently. She was both worried and intrigued by this; her opportunistic writer’s mind was selfishly curious. She shook off the feeling and chided herself to have some empathy for him. 

He’d half expected she’d get up and leave and never speak to him again, but her voice was still soft when she asked, “Why were you in a gang anyway?”

She was beginning to step deeper and deeper into the most vulnerable parts of him, and it made his stomach churn anxiously like a beaker filled with all the wrong chemicals. His knee bounced restlessly and he answered, “Didn’t have a lot of friends, darling. Johnny was my only friend back then, but I wanted more…” he inhaled shakily, “I wanted a whole group of friends. A clique. A posse.”

She looked understandingly at him, leaning a little further against his shoulder. His arm tightened around her shoulders, as if wanting more of and appreciating her support.

“I was about fourteen, right, and at that difficult age, fitting in with your peers means everything,” he sighed, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb against her shoulder, filling her with a warmth that she sadly had to ignore so that she could pay attention to him, “and I was invited to join the gang that had their turf around my school. One of the olders- that’s what the higher ranking members were called- scouted me and Johnny off the street. Johnny refused, but I accepted almost immediately.”

Her gaze never left him, even though he stared straight ahead at the now rainy lake. “And what was that like, being in a gang?” she asked.

“It was kind of fun at first to be honest, but the novelty wears off soon enough. It’s a dangerous, reckless business, especially for kids. You’re always being stopped by the police and searched for small knives, and they can even sniff out the safehouses where we stash drugs and weapons. There are always ongoing feuds between gangs, and the older, higher ranking members use the younger kids as their soldiers. The feuds can sometimes turn into turf wars too.” 

“Turf wars?”

“Each gang has their own territory, and there are consequences if you trespass. But the gang I was in was a strong one, and we had beaten down enough smaller gangs to expand our area in London, where I lived.”

There was a pause and she sat pondering for a moment. “Have you directly participated in a turf war, though?” she questioned.

“A couple, yes. As one of the youngers myself, I had to.” he nodded. He paused, pursing his lips for a moment before he admitted, “The last one I’ve been in landed me in prison.”

Her eyes flew wide with shock. “In prison?” she exclaimed.

Simon grimaced at her reaction, his worries only increasing. “I don’t think you want to know the details, darling.”

“But now I’m really curious,”

He hesitated. Well, he had come this far; there was no backing out now. He fiddled with his fingers as he continued, “I went to prison at the humble age of fourteen for… manslaughter.”

He now feared that she would definitely walk off and leave, but she sat there, still close next to him, her eyes widening further. She was frozen in silence for a long time, considering how he could have committed such a gruesome crime at such a young age. The patter of the rain and the howl of the wind filled the brief, heavy silence.

“I didn’t enjoy it,” he blurted truthfully, hoping it would keep her from seeing him as a heartless killer, “It was all an in-the-heat-of-the-moment thing. We got ganged up on in an alley, me and two other of my lads against five. It was a stab fest from there. Three were heavily injured, one of which succumbed to their injuries, and I killed the other two by stabbing them in the neck and chest,” he paused to point to his neck and then his heart. She could vaguely make out the remorse on his face in the darkness as he whispered, “I stabbed them like I was the senate stabbing Caesar.” 

Her jaw slackened and her brows furrowed, almost feeling like a cold blade had sunk into her own body upon hearing this dreadful account. Her chest tightened and her stomach and she felt a painful throb in her heart as she imagined what the situation would have looked like.

“I was stabbed too, in many places,” he said, turning his head and pointing to the curious scar on his cheek. As he pointed at a spot on the left side of his chest, his stomach, and his right thigh, he could remember how it felt to have the short, cold knives sink into his skin, how they twisted harshly enough to wring out strangled screams from his mouth and his lifeblood out of the wounds. As his fingers passed over the scars under the fabric of his t-shirt, they thrummed and tingled in response to his memories.

Her features winced as she imagined a juvenile Simon drenched in his own blood and the blood of his victims, staggering and out of breath as he remorsefully stared at the work of his hands, feeling the weight of his guilty conscience and of the heavy hand of the law that would soon follow. 

“Proper gangs are rarely in the business of killing, and they won’t kill unless they absolutely have to. As the youngers, we were instructed only to injure and never kill, because dead men tell no tales, and it’ll only start a vendetta. But I killed. And the two other lads who were with me abandoned me and didn’t want to associate,” he shook his head, “So much for wanting new friends.”

“Were you ever found out by your family?” she asked when she found her voice.

“Yeah, by my elder brother. The alley where the stabbing took place was not too far from our old residence, and Tommy happened to be taking a shortcut to go home. On the way, he caught me slinking around. When he saw all the blood on me, he was shocked. Bombarded me with tons of questions. He was furious when I told him everything and he smuggled me to our uncle John’s place.”

She grimaced slightly at the mention of her ex. Now that she thought of it, she remembered John telling her back then of his family member who was in prison, and of his visits there. To think that it had to be the same man in front of her.

Simon continued, “Tommy and I told our uncle about the whole thing and at first, he refused to shelter me since he didn’t want to get in trouble with the law. But after some convincing, he showed me some pity and let me stay with him. Of course, he didn’t do so without a price,” he paused to chuckle bitterly at the pun on his uncle’s surname, “the price being a severe lecture as he treated my wounds.” 

The lady sighed, feeling pity for him, and even a little for John too.

“Eventually,” he shifted in his seat, “the police found me, came knocking on my uncle’s door. He had no choice but to surrender me to them, and I was angry with him for it. But I guess it was for the best.”

There was a pause from him for a moment. She gently pried, “and what happened after that?”

“I was taken to court. Me and the lads who were with me,” he answered, “They got a slightly lighter sentence. A couple measly years in prison and rehab for them. But mine was pretty severe, even for a fourteen year old. Eight years in prison and rehab. Ten years if I was remorseless, but my guilt lightened my sentence.”

She gulped harshly, unable to imagine such a young boy in prison. “And your family… how did they take it?”

He let out a laboured sigh, his gaze towards the rainy lake going out of focus as he vividly recalled the reactions of his parents. “My mum was inconsolable. She cried when she heard about what I did. She cried in court and she cried nearly everyday I was in prison. Uncle and Tommy tried to comfort her, but she wouldn’t be comforted. It was only when I assured her that I was undergoing rehab and continuing my schooling from prison that she felt a little relieved.”

Her shoulders relaxed when she heard that. “What about your dad?”

She felt his body stiffen. He was silent for a moment before he answered sorrowfully, “My dad… he was deployed in Iraq when he heard of this. He was angry with me– actually, angry is an understatement, he was livid. If it weren’t for my mum and uncle, he’d have disowned me already.”

“Disowned!” she exclaimed softly.

“Yeah, disowned. Being a Colonel in the Army, he didn’t want a criminal, murderer son. He thought it was disgraceful and embarrassing.” he answered bitterly, “I can clearly remember the time he came to visit me in prison for the first and last time. He said, “having a son like you is worse than death”.”

The lady was shocked to hear this. “He said that?” Her brows furrowed and she felt a twinge in her heart. “That’s awful. How could he be so heartless and say that to a child?”

“Yeah…” his voice trailed off, “But he’s always been like that. Strict and hard on both me and my brother. I never liked him. I always wondered what mum saw in him to love.” He ran a hand through his hair wearily, “He was an absent father, physically and emotionally. My mum knew it. She didn’t want us to be without a positive male role model, so she asked her younger brother to help her raise us. That’s where uncle John comes in. I liked him way better.”

She pursed her lips, now understanding why Simon and John were so tight-knit. She then asked, “Did your dad ever get over this? I mean, it’s been years now.”

He sighed yet again, shaking his head resignedly. “Not at all. He refused to visit me in prison, refused to talk to me after I was released, and still doesn’t want to talk to me. From what I hear from Tommy, it seems that I have ruined his reputation as an officer and a father by being a criminal.” 

Her heart sank. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t have to see his face to understand that he was deeply hurt by his father’s treatment. Looking down, she saw his clenched, trembling fist resting on his thigh. She gingerly placed her hand over his fist. It took him a moment but his fist loosened, and she gently stroked the back of his hand with her thumb to console him.

“I'm so sorry, Simon,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. 

Simon drew in a shaky breath, relieved that she was still by his side after hearing about his pathetic past. Her gentle touch soothed and calmed his anxieties and fears. “It's fine,” he managed to croak out, his reassurance ending in a weary sigh, “It's fine.”

“And now there's the family reunion to go to.” 

“I didn't want to go,” he admitted, “I only agreed for mum's sake. I honestly don't want to face my dad and have him look at me like I'm…” his jaw clenched, “the scum of the earth.”

She eased her caress on the back of his hand, and slipped her hand into his, giving him a squeeze so gentle it gave him butterflies. 

“Don't worry, you won't have to face him alone,” she declared quietly, “You've always had my back, and now it's my turn to have yours. If he or anyone says anything bad about you, I’ll fight them!” 

He chuckled at her determination and squeezed her hand back, feeling relief so strong that it felt like he was a barren land being bathed in rain for the first time in years. “You are too sweet,” he said, smiling a little. 

“Only for you, because you're special,” she giggled. 

An overwhelming feeling of warmth enveloped his body at her words. You’re special. The words replayed in his mind like a broken vinyl record. A lump choked his throat, and his eyes nearly welled up and burned with tears that threatened to spill over. He blinked them back quickly and steadied his breathing, not wanting her to know or see. He squeezed her shoulder, saying breathlessly, “Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” she couldn't help but think, almost wanting to lean in and kiss his forehead to reassure him further. But she held back. 

The two then sat in comfortable silence watching the rain until Simon felt the lady's weight grow heavier against him. He tilted his head down to check on her. 

“Darling?”

Silence. 

He strained his eyes in the dark and saw that she was fast asleep. Even in the loud patter of the rain, he could clearly hear her soft breathing. His heart melted at the sight. He had just revealed to her the bloodiest stain on his past and she still trusted him enough to fall asleep on his shoulder? Simon's chest swelled with elation and joy to witness such love from her. 

Peeking over her other side, he noticed Little Simon looking cold and forlorn. Smiling, he carefully reached over and took the soft toy, and lifting her arm up slightly, he tucked the little fellow against her stomach. He then adjusted the blanket over her so that she could experience maximum warmth. 

And then, the cherry on top. 

He lightly pressed his lips against her forehead, whispering with a tenderness foreign to him,

“Good night, my love.” 

End of Part 11.

Part 12

--

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[serosblunt]

If u can, could u do showering with dekusquad?

I sure can my lovely, thank you so much for the request! I don’t write much for the Dekusquad so hopefully I don’t disappoint you x

DekuSquad: Showering with Them (Pt. 1)

DekuSquad x (Gender-neutral) reader

Characters: Midoriya and Todoroki

Warnings: Mentions of nudity and hints at spicer scenes, mental health struggles; insecurity and depression are very lightly touched on.

Description: Same as my Bakusquad showering thoughts, just with Dekusquad! Part two will feature Iida, Uraraka and Tsuyu :)

—————

Izuku believes that relationships are first and fore-mostly built on respect, and this extends to every aspect of your lives together.

Even before you were dating, his level of respect for you knew no bounds, to the point that you had to finally make the first move and ask HIM out.

He was too worried that asking you out would somehow demean the relationship or you.

In the bathroom, and bedroom for that matter, Midoriya clearly displays this inhuman level of courtesy.

Even if the door is open, eagerly inviting him in, he always ensures he knocks before entering the room. Once he does make it into your shared ensuite, if you’re nude or in the process of undressing, he refuses to let his eyes drift from yours without express permission.

You’d honestly be amazed by the amount of self-control he possess, considering Izuku’s reckless tendencies.

As a child, Inko used to always put your green haired lover in the bathtub to wash up. This was a habit he carried through to his adult life, favouring the warm embrace of the water surrounding him from all sides.

But Izuku’s hero career took a toll on him. And as he still learnt to get a handle on his quirk, your boyfriend coming home with a cast was not an uncommon sight.

Trying to navigate waterproof coverings for the plaster, and often being left to wash himself one handed, usually forced you both into the shower.

He saw how carefully you handled him when he was like that. Despite the event becoming less and less common the stronger he became, he couldn’t help but to feel guilty every time you sighed a long breath you thought he couldn’t hear.

In Izuku’s eyes, you were at your most natural state in the bathroom, both mentally and physically. He saw your walls come down as you let the spray of your shower embrace you, washing away some of your worry and his guilt.

Hearing the soft hum of the falling water became quite meditative to him. He would often sit in the next room and listen to you singing softly, healing yourself.

Izuku was your hero, he would always have your back, but he also knew there were some things he had to let you do yourself.

Midoriya didn’t really have a skincare routine, at least for his face. He was too busy trying to torture himself into being the next All Might to have a five step routine. But his wounds and injuries did regularly need tending to with any number of creams, ointments and bandages.

Perhaps out of remorse, or more likely another way to demonstrate his undying affection for you, your boyfriend would often slather you in these same products for even the tiniest of injuries you received.

A paper cut?! Oh no! He has to find the antibacterial wash, healing balm and themed bandaids immediately!

He acts like you could lose a finger, but it’s okay. Good thing you think his concern is adorable.

It would be safe to say that your ensuite was the heart of your home- it kept beating, kept repeating the same pattern, and kept you both running for each other.

He was there for you to lean on and curl into to forget the world entirely. And you were there for him to collapse into, allowing him to remember his safe haven was still a safe place.

Shoto strives to show you all five love languages each day, he could never be convinced that you don’t deserve the best of everything the world has to offer.

But try as he might, his love of gift giving quite often exceeds the other languages by some distance.

Although Shoto rejects his father, his money does come in handy when it comes to buying you all the expensive self-care products you add to your wish list, often accompanied by a longing sigh.

Little do you know.

What can he say? He loves to spoil you.

When it came to his own skincare routine, the young Todoroki was already quite rigid about this process before he met you. He had trialled product after product for years on end to aid the prolonged effects of his scar.

He had even toyed with the idea of cosmetic surgery at one point. Ultimately, you managed to convince him that his scar was something to display- a mark of his family’s impact on him, no matter how he may feel about them.

Similarly, you were very secure in the knowledge that if your boyfriend wanted your advice on the subject, he would absolutely ask for it. But in the meantime, you left him to his accumulated mix of products, knowing that if nothing else, it helped him come to terms with himself and the way things were.

Long-term Shoto chose to nurture the mark on his face, rather than to try and rid himself of it.

Now, you…

Shoto adores you entirely, with every fibre of his being. And in his mind, there is no better opportunity to worship you than in the bathroom.

He can’t help but to admire how far you’ve come and how comfortable you’ve grown to be in your skin- a journey you’ve both being on parallel to each other.

He glances around the room itself, inspired by how you’ve created the perfect sanctuary in a slice of the home you had both carved out for yourselves.

If you were ever confronted with this information, he knew you would adamantly deny it. Though he saw the growth.

He worships your beauty and the marks of your struggles and courage. He marvels at your history, his history, all bared out on your skin like a map back to the heart of the person he loved most.

Todoroki could admit that his ‘words of affirmation’ had been lacking lately. Perhaps he would present you with a bunch of your favourite flowers, and those words he so desperately wanted you to hear, carefully concealed in an envelope.

He would lead you to the shower, as was custom most nights. He would then gently kiss his reassurances and praise into every inch of your skin before he bundled you up in his arms, letting the world fade away as you became entangled beneath the mist.

In those moments, Shoto knew the meaning of heaven on earth.

—————

[discount-shades]

Contract Spouse Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Realizations

A/N: This is a sad one. I've written Chapter 9 and only one chapter left to write!

Pairing: Jake Seresin/Reader (nicknamed Pip)

Warning:  Angst, death of civilians, war, PTSD

Length: 3000ish

Summary: Jake does some thinking and we find out why he is like that.

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“What we need are those veterinary gloves that come up to your shoulder.” You have a roll of tape out and combined with elastics and a small garbage bag you are trying to waterproof Jake’s cast. After finally being released from the hospital after 4 days, Jake is in desperate need of a shower. “Then you could use your hand. I’m going to order some from Amazon.”

“Why do vets need gloves that come up to their shoulder?” Jake watches you struggle to carefully tape the edges of the bag to the skin of his arm, fighting with the extra plastic.

“You know the long gloves Ellie wears when she digs in the dino poop looking for West Indian Lilac in Jurassic Park?” Jake blinks at you in confusion, trying to remember. “Vets wear them for a similar reason.”

“Eww.” Jake checks the seal around the tape job you did. “How do you even know that?”

“Remember when I dated a farm boy in university?” Jake nods. He remembers thinking the kid wasn’t good enough for you. “Well in those two months we were together I went and helped them when they preg checked their cows.” You give him a little half grin, “I learned I am not cut out for farm life.” 

You start the shower for him before carefully helping him remove his shirt. You wince when you see the bruises crossing his torso from the seatbelt harness of his jet. The brush of your fingers, featherlight over the bruises, burns before you abruptly leave the bathroom, telling him to call if he needs help. 

Jake sighs and finishes stripping before getting under the spray. Everything hurts and the concussion makes him feel like he is in a fog. His head is a constant dull throb and what he really wants to do is lie down and sleep some more. He holds his left arm hand up at a right angle and does his best to shower mostly one handed. 

Pulling a shirt on seems too difficult so he walks into the bedroom half dressed. You've pulled the curtains, so it is dark and he collapses into the clean sheets. A water bottle and his painkillers lined up neatly on his end table, as well as a few protein bars. 

You’ve thought of everything, you always do, but you seem different since the accident and he can’t figure it out. Every time he tries to think his head begins to ache. You are more clinical, less warm. Maybe it is because he is injured, maybe he is imagining it. 

He thinks back to the morning of the crash. Remembers waking up with you in his arms, how good it felt to hold you and talk to you. The hospital had been so lonely when they wouldn’t let you stay overnight. 

He wanted you to stay in California. He wanted to come home and have you there to talk to, he could always call you before, but living with you was better. He loved watching movies together, cooking together, cleaning, and grocery shopping. Every mundane task was better with you.

He couldn’t ask you to stay. He was too much of a mess. He couldn’t sleep and the guilt of what happened was always there. You didn’t deserve to be pulled into that. He was sure that you would stay if he asked. You and your misguided sense of duty and the belief that you owed him something. But if he asked then he would have to tell you and if he told you you would never look at him the same way.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he notices is your voice calling to him gently. His eyes flitter open and he can see you sitting on the edge of the bed. You are beautiful in the light filtering from the hall, and in that moment you take his breath away. “Doctor says you should be up and moving, so come have dinner.” 

When you go to leave he curls his good hand around your arm and revels in the feel of your soft skin sliding through his fingers. When he thinks you are about to slip your hand through his fingers you catch his palm and give a gentle tug and he feels himself following you automatically. 

“This can’t be what you are used to.” You say with a grin as you grab a shirt and help him into it. “Women are probably more keen to take your shirt off.”

“I’ll do anything if it's with you, pretty girl.” The words leave his lips before he can comprehend what he has said. Your sharp inhale makes him want to kick himself. Why did he say that? He never flirted with you. It was a line he refused to cross. 

He can see the flustered look on your face as you stand to go. “Come on flyboy, you must be hard up if you are flirting with me.” He follows you down the hall to the table. That wasn’t completely fair. Why wouldn't he flirt with you? If you weren't his wife he definitely would have tried to pick you up in a bar. 

That evening as you lie down beside him in bed you turn to him. “We have our first meeting with the couples therapist tomorrow, he wants to meet us separately first.” Jake had forgotten about the marriage counseling. “I think we should just say we want to keep our relationship strong, and I don't know, talk about how adjusting to living together is a challenge or something.” He just mumbles an agreement. 

Jake has no idea how the two of you are going to sell being married to a professional. He thinks of all the ways this might go as you slowly drift off to sleep beside him. Once he can hear your steady breathing his mind starts to slow and as he falls asleep he rolls over so he is curled around you. 

When he wakes the next morning he slides his arm across the bed feeling for your warmth but the sheets are cool. You are already gone.  When he gets up he finds you making omelets in the kitchen. 

“The contractor is going to be finishing up the repairs in the ceiling of my room today,” you tell him as you add the cheese. “You will have your bed back, free of my cold toes tonight.” 

“Oh, ok.” Jake doesn't know what to think and it takes him a moment to realize he is disappointed. Last night was the last time he would sleep with you in his arms. He thinks about all the times he left you in the mornings. He shouldn't have run away. He could have just rolled back to his side of the bed and talked to you on those mornings, now he would never get the option. 

You drive to the counselor’s and he spends his time in the passenger seat fighting his motion sickness. It's your turn first and you give him a worried look as you go, as he sits in the waiting room trying to get his head to stop spinning. If he says something wrong in the counselor's office he will just blame it on the concussion. 

When it is his turn you squeeze his hand as you trade spots. He can't help himself as he pulls you into a hug. Jake presses his lips to your hairline. He should hug you more, he thinks. 

You rarely initiate physical affection more than holding hands, and hug only on special occasions. He likes the feel of you in his arms, the scent of your shampoo, and the warmth of your skin. The way you melt into him is overwhelming before you pull away.

The session went well. A mixture of the truth and agreed upon lies slip easily off his tongue. At the end of the session Jake is given the same homework that you received.  

“I want you to come up with a list of all the reasons you are in love with your wife.”

The homework is a fixture in his mind over the next few days. Jake can’t figure out why he keeps repeating the counselor's words in his head. He lists the reasons he loves you. You are smart, funny, tough as hell, your kindness, you are supportive, you are so easy to talk to and you always know what to say, you call him on his bullshit. You are capable. 

He stares at the words he has written and feels they are not personal enough to sell it. You are beautiful, your smile makes his stomach clench, your laughter, you feel so good in his arms, how you being in his life made everything better. He stares at his list as the words play over in his head, ‘reasons you are in love with your wife.’

Jake drops the pen and buries his face in his hands as the realization hits him. “Fuck.” He is in love with you. When did that happen? Was it before you moved in or is it a recent thing? Sometime during the first or second year of the marriage he noticed he loved you. But it had always felt so platonic, a love of friendship, of convenience, and connection.

You have always been beautiful, and, if he was honest with himself, he had always been attracted to you, but with the nature of your relationship he had always locked those thoughts and feelings away. You were untouchable. But in the last month with you sleeping in his bed everything blurred. It didn’t matter when he fell in love, the only thing that mattered was that he is completely and irrevocably in love with you now. 

It is weird to feel terrible about an emotion considered so positive. Jake stares at the closed door to the office where you are working from home. He can never tell you. You had only stayed married due to his inability to process his trauma. 

He felt tainted, like you being with him would somehow mark you too. He didn't deserve you, he didn’t deserve anything good. And he loved you too much to let you be ruined by him. He wouldn't let you give up your life and the love you deserve. Because you need someone who is in love with you unconditionally, someone good. 

The day he had agreed to marry you had told him that you would always be there for him and he had taken advantage of that over the years. Taken advantage of your kindness and good heart. Someone as good and kind as you would never stay married to him. He could never tell you he loved you. He wouldn’t be that guy, the man who thought he was owed something just because he had feelings for a woman. He would let you go even if it killed him. 

– – –

Sleeping next to you didn’t stop the nightmares. They always came at the same frequency, mild ones a few times a week and the bad ones every week or so. What sleeping next to you did was calm him when he woke. Your breaths and the warmth of your skin would ground his mind and bring him back to the present like nothing else could. 

Before you he would never get back to sleep after a nightmare. He would go for a run or go to the 24h gym. He sometimes would mindlessly watch tv or stare at his phone until it was an acceptable hour to get up. In the weeks after the concussion he couldn’t do that. Strenuous activity and screen time were two of the things the doctor told him to avoid. 

Most nights he would just lay in bed. He had tried audio books but he could not focus on them. So he would lie there in the dark thinking about you, and everything that he loved about you, and torturing himself. 

His post concussion nightmares were more intense than any he had before but he still hadn't had a bad one yet. He could feel it coming. Lack of sleep and anxiety tended to trigger the nightmares. Stress also played a role and the night before the second marriage counseling session it hit him. 

Jake’s heart is pounding as he sits up in bed struggling to breath. The nightmares are rarely the same and his mind alway finds ways for his dreams to be somehow worse than what had happened, combining events and reimagining others. 

You died tonight. The person he had killed was you, and even though he logically knew you were fine he needed to check on you. Stumbling, eyes bleary, he walks to your room and pushes open the door. The smell of new paint and construction is almost gone. Leaning on the door frame Jake can see you sleeping and he takes in the sight. 

If he holds his breath and listens he can faintly hear you breathing from the doorway and he can’t help the muffled sob that slips past his lips. You stir and he bites his lips to keep from waking you but it is too late.

“Jake?” You lean up and look at him. “You ok?” he gives a jerky nod, unable to open his mouth. Afraid he would begin sobbing if he did. “Another nightmare?” He doesn’t know how you can tell. Maybe it is written on his face. 

“Come here,” your voice is soft and you open your arms and beckon to him and he is moving his feet before he can think about it. Jake collapses on top of the covers and into your arms, head pillowed on your chest listening to your heartbeat. His eyes flutter closed as you rake your fingers through his hair and down his back. Your gentle movements calm him and steady his mind but soon it is not enough. There are too many layers between you. 

He sits up and motions to the covers. “Can I?” he asks hesitantly, wanting to be able to hold you without the blanket between you. You nod and he slips beneath the covers and returns to his position with his head on your chest. Your hands resume their motions carding through his hair and stroking his back.

It’s still not enough. He sits abruptly and takes his shirt off before lying back down, slotting his body between your thighs and his head on your stomach this time. He needs to feel your skin pressed against his. He eases your shirt up so he can rest his cheek against your stomach. He can hear your sharp inhale but you don't say anything and for that he is grateful. You just go back to smoothing your hands over his bare skin. He doesn’t know how long he lays there with you beneath him, his hands curl around your rib cage as his thumbs smooth over your soft skin. 

After a while of your hands moving over him he feels you pause. “If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.” He shakes his head in denial, not wanting you to know. But when he feels your nails scratch his scalp and drag down his neck he starts talking. 

“You know the military severely under-reports civilian deaths, right?” There is no change in you. Your hands keep moving in the same rhythm and your breathing is steady. “Every time we drop bombs we kill people and there is a chance we kill civilians. Mostly we don’t think about it. It is easier to drink the kool-aid. Accept the Navy’s narrative. But if you watch the news from other countries they will report it; show videos of civilians killed by American bombs.”

Jake stops talking, wanting you to respond, hoping you don’t. Looking for a clue to stop talking. You don’t give him one so he continues. “I shot another plane down, the first air-to-air kill in three decades. The Navy pinned a medal on me.'' Now that he was talking he couldn’t stop. The words he had never spoken to anyone pouring out. “No one mentioned that after I shot the jet it crashed into this community building. There were families inside. Sixteen people were killed, nine of them were children.

“They gave me a fucking medal for killing children. I saw the footage, the crashed jet and the injured people. There was this man carrying his dead son and I can’t get that out of my head.” Jake feels you shift and he raises his head to look at you but all you do is place a gentle kiss on his forehead before lying back down and resuming your motions. 

“Please hate me.” He doesn't know why he says it; why he needs you to condemn him. As if your condemnation will justify everything he feels.

“No,” you say simply.

“Why not?” he can feel a sob building in his chest. “I fucking deserve it. How can you just learn all that about me and not care?” 

“Javy told me years ago,” you confess, “actually I suspected. It was on the news that an American Navy pilot shot down a plane and what happened, I knew you were stationed in the area and you changed whenever we talked after, so I figured it was you and Javy confirmed it when I asked.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jake had been keeping his knowledge and shame bottled up away from you for so long; not wanting to change the way you saw him and to find out you had always known was gutting. 

“I knew you would tell me when you were ready.” 

“You should hate me,” Jake hates the way he sounds. Small, meek, hesitant. “I hate me.”

“I hate that it happened. It breaks my heart for those families, but I can’t hate you for it. You are responsible, but not culpable.” You say simply.

“Then who is to blame if not me?” You don’t have an answer for him, he knows there isn’t one, at least not an answer that will make him feel better. Some things you just have to live with. The tears start to flow down Jake's cheeks in ugly sobs as you pull him closer. He clings to you and finally lets himself grieve. 

[almightyhamslice]

Stinger Flynn redesign! he is a horrible fucking bastard LOL. He's kinda strange compared to the others since he has only one eye and no flocking, and mild electroconductivity-- probably a charging function so kids can recharge electronics by standing close to him. He's also able to fluctuate in size depending on how much givanium e consumes, though his mask and eyeball do not change proportionally. I rlly wanted to make him look disgusting and slimy.

Purpose wise he is probably a guardian kind of like Opila, but without her hostility towards adults. He'd use his multiple arms to keep kids from falling off playground equipment and to prevent them from drowning in the resort's pool! He is a jellyfish after all, what good would he be if he wasn't waterproof?

He is the most insidious member of the main cast I think-- he cares only for himself and thinks he is the smartest person in the room. He also has psychic powers, able to make others hallucinate whatever he desires. He's the most dangerous member of the main 6, though he's convinced everyone he's harmless.

His view of himself is incredibly contradictory-- he simultaneously believes he is the best and the smartest, comparable to a god, but also harbors a deep self hatred (from "allowing" himself to be tested on by humans?) that cannot be mitigated. His solution is very extreme-- he wishes to activate a genome cloy on himself using the DNA of the children he was once meant to protect. What's a Genome Cloy? I'm glad you asked.

A Genome Cloy is a phenomenon observed in givanium-based lifeforms where, if genomes from more than 3 separate sources are introduced to the creature's system, the most closely related DNA is flushed out, leaving the most distantly related DNA circulating within the creature's system. In Flynn's case, since he is already part human and part jellyfish, introducing additional human genomes from new sources would cancel each other out, reducing Flynn to a simple jellyfish. This would render him effectively braindead, which is what he wants.

He seems very misinformed to me-- he generally understands that if he is cloyed, he will no longer have a brain and therefore will be unable to leave the kindergarten himself, hence why he wishes to have a human helper. However, he doesn't really know what it's like to BE a jellyfish living in the real world. He thinks life will be easy and blissful that way. How would he be able to appreciate "peace" without a brain? And jellyfish are obviously not the top of the food chain, they have predators like sea turtles! I suppose that thought comforts Flynn, the idea that he can be mortal.

[iamdronegirl]

“We’re going for a run,” Voldemort announced when Hermione strolled into the entrance hallway at Malfoy Manor.

“Together? Right now? But it’s pouring outside.”

“Indeed. I need to test your running pace to gauge whether you’ve met my standards. We’ll go into the woods behind Malfoy Manor.”

There was a shortcut through Malfoy’s many gardens into the woods. The weather was stormy today, but he found that he enjoyed it like this. He led a reluctant Hermione through the manor. He opened the door to the gardens and took a deep breath, taking in the sharp scent of fresh rain.

The rain fell in torrents as rumbling thunder cracked distantly through the sky. It was both peaceful and tumultuous—the way he liked it.

Hermione casually cast waterproofing and barrier charms on herself before stepping outside with him into the garden.

His lips curled in amusement as he silently cast Finite.

Hermione’s eyes widened when she realized she was getting wet from the pelting rain.

Voldemort said, “I didn’t allow you to cast that on yourself. You should enjoy the rain.”

He could tell she was trying to hold back her temper as she drew breath into her lungs slowly and stared at him. “If it's so enjoyable, why aren’t you getting wet as well?”

“This is a test for you.”

“You mean a test for how miserable you can make me?” she muttered.

Fic: Altered State. Chapter 8. Sodden by @ginnyruin

Art: @eviedelvi

Commissioned by me

[boundinparchment]

Con Clavi - III

You serve the church of the Tsaritsa, under Father Pantalone. Faith is a gift you received long ago but a certain heretical Harbinger is determined to push those boundaries. Il Dottore/Female Reader. Eventual Pantalone/Female Reader. Reader is a Canoness/Nun. Story is rated Explicit. Minors DNI. Religious symbolism, corruption, many many liberties, eventual smut. Dead Dove applies. Available on AO3 here. Also see @/straw-bunbun's Priest Pantalone art here, as a reference!

Circumstances were never what they seemed, especially for those in service to the Tsaritsa, whether in faith or action.  You dared not think it was fate that you were on night-watch when several thumps came from the main entrance.  

In this weather, an absolute downpour guaranteed to turn snow into muddy slush, the knocks themselves weren’t a surprise.  Many sought refuge for the night and were gone by daybreak.  It was the role of the church to fill in the gaps for such people, regardless of origin.

But when you unlatched the door and a cloaked figure stepped through, you had half a mind to throw him back out into the rain.  He deserved it.  A heretic like him should suffer the punishment of poor weather and dirty boots; if you were lucky, he might even slip.

Gloved hands ran through teal locks, squeezing as they went, water rolling off of the waterproof cloak.  The stone floor was wet, a puddle forming from where he stood, as if he brought the rain in with him.  His cheeks were slightly pink, flush from the wind, and no doubt cold.

“What brings you here at this hour, Lord Harbinger?” you asked, refining the edge in your voice to a point of politeness.

What purpose did a man of such importance have at this hour, in this weather?

Then again, did you even want to know?

“I’m making a return journey to the northern chasm to finalize a hypothesis; apparently, a breakthrough is imminent.  I merely wish to warm up and wait out the storm.”

You nodded numbly, suppressing a chill from the cold that lingered in the narthex.  The pyro lantern in your hand trembled for a moment, its warmth fleeting and weak.

“The kitchens stoke their fires throughout the evening for those on night service.  It may be more prudent to simply come and go from the back entrance, my lord, given the proximity to the road.”

A smile carved across the lower half of the Harbinger’s face, teeth as sharp as a dog’s.  He let out a low laugh, notes of amusement dancing in your ears.

“But where’s the fun in that, dear Sister?”

Where indeed, you thought.

Probably the same rationale he used when he first stopped by weeks ago.  You wished your hand left a deeper mark than just inflamed skin.  Scratching him would have been more efficient but you kept your nails short for practicality.  Your grip on the lantern tightened.

“This way, then, Lord Harbinger,” you said, the corners of your mouth tight.

The walk to the kitchen was unremarkable, silent except for your matching footfalls and the shuffling of feathers from the nearby sleeping birds.  A beady eye opened, regarded you, and then fluttered closed again.  Maybe there was stale bread to leave out, you considered.

Thankfully, the kitchen was empty, the fires casting an orange glow on the flagstone walls.  

Just as he did on his first visit, the Harbinger made a direct line for the fire.  Only this time, he shed his outwear, draping his cloak over a chair and carefully undoing his feathery mantle.  Even his clothes beneath his cloak and jacket were soaked.  You could see the outline of hard biceps and shoulder muscles and your mouth ran dry at the sight of his exposed neck and collarbone when he turned.  

Was he just…going to…

You gritted your teeth and then promptly unclenched your jaw enough to speak.  “I’ll find you a change of clothes, Lord Harbinger.”

Anything to distract yourself from the column of his neck and the prospect of seeing whether he worked other parts of his body as hard as his back.  You entered one of rooms nearby, adjacent to the nave, which also functioned as extra storage for vestments, donated clothing, and various odds and ends.  There was a drying rack around here somewhere, you recalled.  And maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t distributed…

You bit back a curse as you dug through chests and wardrobes.

Seriously?

You plucked the plain black fabric from the hanger and set the collar aside.  Rolling your eyes to the ceiling, you begged for forgiveness from both Father Pantalone and the Tsaritsa.

When you returned, rack under one arm and bundle of clothing in the other, you kept your eyes averted from the bare-chested Harbinger.  He’d left his blue shirt, almost as deep as the night sky, on a chair in front of the fire and stood with his eyes on the hearth, seemingly lost in thought.  

“Here.  This was all I could find.  Even with the fires going, it’s still freezing here.  Dry clothes will be better.”

You thrust the clothing at him, your eyes catching on the faintest glimpse of a trail of hair beginning above his waistband.  Tsaritsa smite you, difficult enough to have such thoughts to begin with, let alone admiring one of her Harbingers.  

He chuckled, that icy sensation across your body returning.  When you glanced up from arranging the drying rack, you hated how your eyes caught on his throat and the well-maintained muscles of his core.  

You grew up surrounded by paintings of such figures.  The potential suitor that was the alternative to the monastic life did not have such…definition, not the discipline to earn it.

“Like what you see, Canonness?” he teased.

You openly glared for the first time all night, the last of your patience worn to bits.  “Hold your tongue and dress yourself, my lord.  Lest you forget this church observes modesty in Her Name.”

His smile was nowhere near as vicious this time and you ducked your head to return to arranging the drying rack, heart hammering in your chest.  Fire burned low in your belly, sensations familiar and frustrating dancing under your skin.  

He looked ridiculous in Pantalone’s cassock and pants (tight in areas where your leader was leaner but not ill-fitting).  But he was dry and no longer half-naked.

Which…should have eased your rushing pulse.  But somehow, it only served to make it worse.  You crossed your legs as you cut slices of bread, cheese, and cured meat, assembling a humble plate from things that would not easily be missed.

Lord Dottore was quiet as he ate, quieter than he’d been since you met him.  Perhaps that was for the best.  Every time he opened his mouth, he seemed to find your exact pain points and prodded your faith like a sleeping bear.

“No one showed much kindness to the boy who thought the world was more than it seemed.  Faith was a gift I never received, neither in the supposed blessing of a Vision nor in the sleepless nights wondering if that night was the last.”

You watched him, his gaze still on the hearth.  There was more there, you knew from years of listening to the people, but it was not the time to ask.  It never would be, not for a heretic like him.  Confession and unburdening oneself held no meaning.

And those who chose secular life had their reasons you would never fully understand, heresy aside.

“You are one of the only ones, short of your Father, who are generous with your time, Sister,” he said at last, plate long empty and hands checking the almost-bone-dry fabric.

He bundled his clothing neatly, tucking the folded clothes into the inner lining of his cloak.  You raised your eyebrows and before you could open your mouth, the Harbinger said, “Pantalone won’t mind.” 

There were few incorrect statements to ever come from his lips, you imagined.  But that was one of them.

A leather glove, warm from the hand within it, found your chin and brought your head up just enough to look at his masked face properly.  Even without the face covering, you had no doubt his expression was unreadable.  Il Dottore was the Second for a reason, no doubt one of which was his ability to give nothing away.

You found yourself pressed against the wall next to the fireplace, cold stone against your back and a firm body against yours.  Lord Dottore swallowed your protests with his tongue, his mouth on yours as if he was seeking water at an oasis.  When you didn’t respond, his tongue coaxed yours in such a way that you couldn’t help but give a small moan, so faint you weren’t sure you heard it over the crackling of the fire.

The taste of iron danced across your tongue as his teeth grazed your lip when he broke the kiss.  He sucked on your bottom lip and your mouths parted with an audible pop.  Dottore continued, mouth hot and unrelenting across your jaw.  He pushed aside your habit, and the piece beneath that hid your neck, bearing your skin.  

You writhed against him as he found a sensitive spot beneath your ear.  He traveled lower, to the curve of your neck, and sucked, another moan falling from your lips.  Teeth trailed up and down the column of your neck when he was finally pleased with his handwork.

Every part of you was on fire.  Your body wanted more, even as your soul begged for mercy.

When he pulled away, his lips were just as swollen as yours.  

“That’s for slapping me.  We’re even, my dear,” Dottore whispered, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

He left without another word.  Your thoughts were a blur, messy and full of images that could never be confessed.  Such things were not fitting of your station, and you could not give into them.  They were earthly, for the common person and for people like the Harbinger.

Not for you.

You couldn’t forget the scent of mint and antiseptic and you seemed to smell it everywhere. Even during the first few hours of the Divine Office, when the incense was heavy during prayer and you ached from the kneeler, it lingered in your mind like a parasite slowly eating at your heart.

Sometimes you felt the ghost of a sensation across your mouth and your heart lurched.

Days later, the sound of your hand meeting his cheek ringing in your mind still, you slipped out of your dormitory in only your nightclothes. The frigid air was sharp against your uncovered hair as you pulled your dressing gown around you tight and passed by the courtyard and its tree, the ravens huddled on the branches as they slept. You wound your way through to the nave of the church, the braziers burning low as your slippers padded against the stone floor.

With little thought, you approached the shrine tucked away off to the side, a single candle burning beneath a miniature statue of the Tsaritsa. Beneath it were rows of smaller votive candles, their wicks fresh; you lit one and then knelt, fingers intertwined as you asked for benevolence, forgiveness, that your student found their spouse tolerable, that She continued to watch over all under her Eye. Your thoughts were incoherent and you needed the guidance the Tsaritsa so often provided.

For how else would you continue if that moment replayed in your mind on a loop? If you were acutely aware of the way your body seemed to catch fire?

You’d enjoyed it, that kiss.  The way his lips felt on your neck.

A part of you, greedy and hungry, wanted more and all of the recitations in the world could not erase it.

The Doctor’s ideas were beyond the scope of the average person, heretical in every way. People like him in excess would be the reason Celestia ever sought retribution against the Tsaritsa. It was your duty as one of the faithful to protect Her word in the same way it was Dottore’s to exact Her will.

You rose from genuflection and sat in the first row, craning your neck to look at the apse and its vault, where a mosaic of the Tsaritsa stared back down at the nave. During the early hours of sunrise, the stained windows beneath Her glittered with images of flowers and vegetation; right now, their panes barely reflected the light from the hanging braziers, the colors dim and dull.

The Second Harbinger had not even made a proper point in any of your discussions and yet he managed to provoke a storm that never truly had an eye at its center. His presence stirred up thoughts you had not considered in a long time.

Why would the Tsaritsa let everyone suffer, why would the sick die, why would an Archon known to be so loving allow for the cruelty of death and disease?

If She did not intend to help or interfere, why would She bring someone like him into the fold to carry out such research? The plague that took root three winters ago was nearly all but eradicated because of him. To say nothing of the philosophical advancements that allowed for a technological prosperity.

Why were actions sanctioned in Her name and yet they seemed to be the very opposite of the Heavenly Principle she stood for?

Faith was not always clear in its evidence and thoughts along these veins were nothing new for someone like you. In fact, you would argue that faith was a catalyst for such discussions to uncover the dissonances of the world, of the human experience. More often than not, you took comfort in untangling such dilemmas.

Not tonight. Not when you could not rid yourself of the embarrassment and shame at how easily your body betrayed your mind and your soul.

Lost in thought, you did not hear the quiet latching of a door and the footsteps of the only other person liable to be awake at such an hour.

“Are you well, Sister? It is not like you to be up this early.”

Father Pantalone’s voice startled you, his soft chuckle resonating through your rib cage as your head whipped in his direction, towards the aisle. His smile was soft, weary in the corners of his mouth; it passed for almost genuine.  You took in his appearance. He was fully dressed in cassock, collar, and pallium, ever curated and ready for his role.

And here you were in his presence without habit and tunic.

“Sleep eludes me tonight, Father. I thought it more conducive to pray and seek guidance from Her Most Holy,” you admitted, rising from your seat. “Please do not let me interrupt you.”

You bowed, fully intending to leave, but when you turned away and began up the aisle, the priest said, “I heard the Second visited during the end of one of your lectures.  What did he say to warrant such a mark on his face, Sister?  Surely it couldn’t have been terrible, considering you provided him with refuge on a stormy night.”

His tone was as sweet as summer honey but when you turned, golden eyes lingered on your hair for a second longer than normal before they snapped to yours.  He tilted his head ever so slightly, the picture of an amenable leader.  

Did he know?

Did Harbingers share secrets the way noblemen did, behind glasses of wine and sly grins?  You wouldn’t know, for you never even saw a member of the Fatui before you gave up your position for the habit.

Father Pantalone slowly walked towards you, eyes fully open.  In the dim lighting, every spark from the brazier that caught his glasses reminded you of the sun dancing across a still lake.  His steadiness was an anchor and your heart readily latched onto it; the Tsaritsa would never answer Herself but her Harbinger could.

He smiled and reached out to push a lock of hair out of your face, finger grazing your ear and lingering for a moment as his other hand took yours.  For once, he was without gloves and you felt your skin burn in response.  His touch was gentle, cautious, but nonetheless comforting; perfect for the leader who was meant to unite so many from all walks of life.

“Our beloved heretic is a nuisance, of course, but do not worry, Sister.”

You considered the words echoing in your head, tried to push them towards your mouth and through your lips.

He kissed me, Father, and I liked it.

Confession, even informal and impromptu, felt like betrayal.  

“The Second asked if I related to Heloise when he noticed my lesson plans, that’s all,” you said at last.  “What else is to be expected of a man who claims my talents are wasted behind church walls?”

It wasn’t untrue , you reasoned.

“And the mark on your neck, Sister?”

Father Pantalone’s fingers were still holding your hair and you flinched when you realized how much of your hair he was holding.

You froze as the priest’s hand found your bare skin, traced the scratches and the purple bruise, still dark despite the days that passed.  A rush of excitement passed through you at the thought and you swallowed in hopes of pushing your unnecessary arousal away.

“You can always come to me, Sister, if he does such things again,” Father Pantalone said softly.  Golden eyes bore into yours with the warmth of the regional hot springs, comforting in their steadiness.  “You should not be burdened with such thoughts and emotions; they can be quite…the distraction, especially from Lord Dottore.  I do not wish to see my flock suffer at the jaws of a wolf.”

“Thank you, Father.”

He cupped your cheek before leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on your forehead.

“Feel no shame for what your body craves but remember that the Tsaritsa asks you to give up such desires in Her Name,” he whispered against your skin.  “If he does such things again, I will make myself available for atonement if your flesh is weak.”

When he pulled away, your eyes flickered to look behind him, at the mosaic, and the Tsaritsa’s divine image.  

The image was burned into your eyelids as you fell asleep, enveloped in the love of your Archon.

[marlynnofmany]

Invisibly Beautiful

The hot nighttime air blasting through the windows of the hovercar made conversation hard for all of us, but that didn't stop Paint. She pulled her lizardy face into the car long enough to ask "Can we make more deliveries to climates like this? It's great!" Not waiting for an answer, she stuck her snout back out into the gale.

"I'm just glad the air is moist," said Captain Sunlight from the driver's chair. She was as fond of extreme tropics as the next scaly little Heatseeker, but as least she was tactful about it. "If this was an arid climate, we'd dry out in no time."

Zhee snapped a pincher in irritation, adjusting the coldpack draped around his shoulders. He had another around his praying-mantis hips. "I," he declared, "am glad it is DARK. Sun this intense would fry us on the spot. This is not a temperature for any reasonable being." He cast a big bug eye in my direction, with what passed for subtlety.

I hadn't spoken up yet because I was busy guzzling water to replace all the sweat I was losing. "Agreed," I said when I came up for air. "There's a place this hot back home. We call it Death Valley."

Paint leaned back into her seat. "What? How could such a lovely heat mean death? It's so nice."

"For you," I said at the same time as Zhee. I would have high-fived him but didn't want to hurt myself on his pinchers. Instead I said, "I'd die of heatstroke in no time."

"But you have that temperature regulation!" Paint said, waving a hand in my direction. "I thought you were fine in hot and cold!”

"Just because I'm warm-blooded doesn't mean I'm comfortable in all temperatures," I said to my scaly crewmate. Holding up an arm, I asked, "You see this sweat? This is not fun." I was wearing the smallest amount of clothes I could stand: sports bra and shorts, and it was still too much. “At least the wind helps. I’ll want to get the unloading done as quickly as possible when we stop.”

“We’re almost there,” Captain Sunlight said, pointing at the navigation screen.

It was a good thing she had that screen, since the view outside was an endless nighttime seashore with sand dunes and rocks, but no memorable landmarks. You’d never know there was civilization here. We’d been instructed to land our ship far inland, so we didn’t risk blowing sand into a burrow when we took off again. Luckily the hovercar was acceptable. Thinking about dragging all those crates across the dunes by hand was enough to make me need another drink of water.

When we settled in to park, it was beside a boulder at the very edge of the water. Gentle waves lapped at a very flat shore. No civilization that I could see. The air gushing in the windows was oppressively hot and wet.

“The client should join us at any time,” Captain Sunlight said, getting out of the chair. “Let’s unload.”

“Aw,” Paint said.

Zhee led the way out the door while I focused on taking deep breaths. This was unpleasant.

Sunlight insisted on keeping all but the dimmest lights off, for the sake of the client’s nocturnal eyes. The many stars helped. Luckily there wasn’t much around to trip over. And the boxes were head-sized, not gigantic hassles. There were a lot of them though, and we weren’t quite finished stacking them on the wet sand when the client rose from the waves.

Captain Sunlight’s polite greeting prompted me to look up just in time to see what looked like a lobster the size of a horse come splashing toward us. I clamped down on a startled yelp. Professional calm, I reminded myself. This is entirely normal.

I did a pretty good job of pretending to be calm while I set down the box I was holding and went back for more. Sunlight kept up the small talk and handled payment, both thanks to technological aid: a translator and credit screen with some impressive waterproofing. The voice that came from the speakers was almost too deep to hear. It reminded me of my aunt’s favorite whale impression.

“Thank you for your use of time,” the client said. “Our previous delivery people arrived at high tide, leaving us with a long walk to the burrow.” A little crustacean leggie waved back at the water, where I assumed the doorway lurked. Now that I thought about it, I could almost make out a darker spot among the waves.

And that’s not so much a lobster as a huge shrimp, I decided, setting down another box. Looks like it would have some bright colors in the sun, too. The starlight didn’t illuminate much, but the faint glow from the ship’s cargo hold showed hints of red, blue, and green. And far too many legs, honestly. But you didn’t hear that from me.

“Last one,” Zhee announced, resting a box against the others. “Would the esteemed client like to confirm the count?”

The client did, waving two legs while counting. “Confirmed. I am pleased to do business with all of you.” Captain Sunlight started to say something else polite, but the client wasn’t done talking. “And it is pleasant to see such a lovely being of light.”

With the way all those legs moved, it took me a heartbeat to realize she meant me. “What?” I blurted.

The rest of the crew were confused too. “Being of light?” asked the captain tactfully.

“Yes, and with those charming stripes, too!”

It was all I could do not to ask “What?” again. I just looked at Sunlight, wondering if I was being pranked. If so, she didn’t look in on the joke.

“I, ah, can’t say I’d noticed,” she told the client.

“Your eyes are different, aren’t they?” asked that deep voice with even deeper sympathy.

“Um. Must be.”

“You’ll have to take my word for it, then. You two little ones blend in with the surroundings, while you, friend, look more like an artfully painted land-skimmer,” she said to Zhee, who looked like he had decided to take it as a compliment. “But you. You glow like a gentle moon, with all the curves of a crashing wave across your surface. My night has been enriched with the view.”

“Uh, thank you,” I managed. “My pleasure.”

“I will be sure to request such prompt and pleasurable couriers for my next delivery. I thank you.”

“And we thank you!” Captain Sunlight said. “We’ll be on our way. I trust you can get the boxes into your home without trouble?”

“Oh yes, this will be fine,” said the client with more leg waves. I wasn’t even sure which part of that complicated face to look at. “May you have safe travels!”

With more polite words from Sunlight, we re-entered the hovercar and took seats in even hotter air. The door shut, the engine started, and a very welcome breeze wafted in. Sunlight eased away from the beach at a tactful speed before gunning it toward the ship. No one spoke until the sea was out of view behind a dune.

“Glowing?” exclaimed Paint. “Stripes??”

“Did she mean heat vision?” Zhee wanted to know.

“Can’t be,” Sunlight said from where she drove madly. “She compared you to a nice paint job, remember?”

“As she should,” Zhee said. “But was that a different thing she was seeing when looking at me?”

“Hard to say,” Sunlight said. “Robin?”

“I have no idea!” I burst out. “This is the first I’ve heard of any of it! Is there a chance she’s joking?”

“I don’t think so,” said Captain Sunlight. “All the courier reviews of her behavior are top-notch. If she was the type to lie like that, then surely she would have done it before.”

“But stripes??” I asked, sticking a forearm into the aisle. “You’ve seen me! What stripes? I don’t even have that much body hair!”

“You don’t glow in the dark, either,” said Zhee, staring with the kind of intensity that only someone with truly gigantic bug eyes can. “You reflect a little starlight right now, what with all the grossness you’re exuding, but I doubt that’s what she meant.”

I laughed. “You know, people do sometimes describe sweating as glowing, but it’s really not meant to be taken literally.”

Paint leaned close, all curiosity. “Does something in your sweat fluoresce?”

“No!” I said. “Nothing about me does! This is absurd!”

“We can check the wiki as soon as we get back in range,” said Captain Sunlight. “The ship’s knowledge banks are pretty good, but let’s not kid ourselves.”

“I can’t wait,” Paint said. “My money is on the sweat.”

I shook my head and finished the water bottle. With the way Sunlight was driving, we made it to the ship quickly indeed. Paint was already out of the car and telling the rest of the crew about it while I had barely stood up. I exited to several other curious faces, immediately telling them no, I had no idea.

Normally after that kind of delivery I would have gone to wash up, but this time I just grabbed a towel to wipe off the sweat (and to wear as a shawl in the much cooler spaceship air). Captain Sunlight was calling for top speed.

And she got it. Good thing we’d be refueling soon, because I was pretty sure we’d used up a solid chunk of the reserves.

But we were back in range of easy broadcasts, in record time! Everyone who didn’t have to be somewhere else crowded into the meeting room with the big info screen.

And we all learned that humans freaking glow. Just too dim for anyone to see, unless they have extra-super-special eyes. The kind of eyes that can also pick up the seams from cell division that are usually just as invisible.

“What the heck,” I said, staring at the screen.

Sunlight had called up both topics side-by-side, and everyone was reading at different speeds. I’d skimmed enough to be unsure of what emotion to settle on.

“It’s not the sweat,” Zhee said.

“Well, it’s also not the heat vision!” Paint retorted.

“It may sometimes coincide with heat vision,” Captain Sunlight said, pointing as she read. “Tied in to metabolism, changing throughout the day. Human metabolism creates heat, right? So it could be both.”

“But it said it’s not.”

“I still win the bet,” Zhee insisted.

“Oh, you didn’t even make a bet!” Paint said.

Mur sat beside me, flipping a tentacle in amusement. “It’s a pity we don’t have anyone with those extreme eyes onboard,” he told me. “We could send the pair of you into dark areas, and she could see by your light.”

I shook my head. “This is just bizarre. I can’t believe nobody told me.”

The squiddy alien shrugged a pair of tentacles. “If you can’t see it and neither can most of the civilized galaxy, I’m not surprised that it isn’t common knowledge. What I want to know is—” he spoke louder “—Hey Zhee! Do you want to get glowing paint to decorate yourself with now, since somebody is outshining you?”

Zhee angled his antennae into a glare. “Maybe.”

“Ooh, me too!” said Paint, to no one’s surprise. “Can we do the walls too? It’ll be great if we ever lose power!”

I huffed a laugh. “Look what you started.”

“You’re welcome,” Mur said. “Care to see who can paint some nice new decorations in the highest and most creative places?”

“Absolutely. You know I can reach the top of the engineering crevices by putting a foot on each wall and shuffling upward, right?”

Mur cackled. “And you haven’t seen what a properly motivated Strongarm can do! Extra points for painting a likeness of Zhee somewhere he’ll never find.”

“You are on.” We shook on it, which is an absolutely disgusting experience when tentacles are involved, but I managed to pretend it wasn’t. Gotta be professional, you know.

~~~~~~~~~

Fact check! Humans do glow slightly, and we do have stripes called Blaschko’s Lines.

Yes I based the alien on a mantis shrimp; yes I know the shrimpvision thing has been debunked; did it anyway. They’re cool.

And if you enjoy these shenanigans, you may like the book that this is backstory for. More stories to come!

(Thanks to @theacegamingdemon for giving me the idea for this one months ago.)

[amnhnyc]

☁️Nothing to see here, just a cluster of Honduran white bats (Ectophylla alba)! 🦇This critter hides from foes by roosting beneath self-made tree tents that it builds by cutting a leaf along the midrib so that the sides fold down to create cover. When sunlight hits the foliage, it casts a green tinge on the bat’s white fur, allowing it to better blend in with its surroundings. Leaves with a waxy surface are preferred because they provide an added layer of waterproof protection. Photo: Kevin Schafer, CC BY-NC-ND 4.0, iNaturalist #AnimalFacts #bats #HonduranWhiteBat #dyk #nature #CuteAnimals https://www.instagram.com/p/CkgCr5Trs_-/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[crackedpumpkin]

Omg hiiii!!! I’m 🪁 anon and I LOVEDDDD THE FIC YOU WROTEEEEE I can’t describe how much I liked ittt!!! So here’s a big fat kiss 💋 *MUAH*

(Also I kinda like it to the point that I need a part two…)

Well hello there lovely kite anon! Thank you so much for the compliments, I really be blushin so hard rn smhsmh look what you did. I hope you enjoy this part two though!!!

|| ᴏʙʟɪᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴘᴛ. ᴛᴡᴏ || 2012! ᴅᴏɴɴɪᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ||

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞

“How long?” 

Donnie’s question leaves you speechless, and your steps slow to a halt. Your lips are parted, trying to find the right response. Your mind races with jumbled thoughts. 

“I...don’t know. It just happened.” 

You hear a sharp inhale on the other side, nibbling on your lip anxiously. 

“It just happened?” He repeats.

You sigh, slumping against the walls of the building next to you. You cross your arms, trying to hide how jittery you are. Your eyes are trained on the street filled with potholes, kicking a pebble.

“Remember how you fell for April? You were just trying to save her from the Kraang, and you just knew. You just…. knew. That’s how…that’s how it happened for me.” Your voice is barely a whisper as you reveal your innermost thoughts.

“That day in the rain, you came. That’s what started it.” You laugh bitterly, the exact moment you began to see Donnie in a different light ingrained into your very soul.

— — — — — — — — —

“I don’t know if I can make it, Donnie. It’s pouring pretty badly right now.” You repeat into your phone’s mic, shifting uncomfortably in your soaked socks. The rain had appeared out of nowhere, thunder and lightning making you flinch.

Your hair is wet, clinging to your cheeks as you brush away drops of rainwater on your forehead. You glance up, squinting at the roof of the bus stop you’re under. The rain pelts the plastic top with so much force it resembles hail, and you flinch slightly. 

Your shoes are soaked, and even the slightest breezes make you shiver in your thin shirt. You can barely register Donnie’s voice on the other end, too tired and cold from work and irritated that out of all days to forget your umbrella, it had to be the day it rains cats and dogs.

“-/n? You there? Do you-” Your phone slips out of your grip as you shift it to sandwich it between your ear and shoulder. A dismayed cry is all Donnie hears on the other end before the call cuts out, your phone landing on the ground with a clatter.

“Y/n? Are you there??” Donnie repeats with a frown, staring down at his phone when the call ends. He stands up from the dining table, grabbing his bō staff and an umbrella while Raph glances up from his comic. 

“Where’re you headed?” He asks, Donnie not pausing to give him a glance. 

“Y/n’s stuck in the rain, so I’m gonna pick her up.”

“Oh?” Raph raises a brow, a smirk on his lips as he watches his brother’s hurried steps.

“What?” Donnie slows to a stop, casting a confused glance at Raph, who merely shrugs. 

“I dunno, you seem a little more worried than usual.” 

“What’re you talking about?” 

“Oh, nothing. You sure you like April?” Raph eyes him from his seat with a knowing smile.

“Yes, in fact, I do,” Donnie responds haughtily, an idea occurring to him as he glances at the door of the garage. 

He had recently finished working on the ShellRaiser, a vehicle he had poured all his sweat, blood, and tears into. Maybe it’s time he took it for a test drive.

Meanwhile, you’re cradling your phone, a jagged crack across the screen. You’re devastated. You sink down with a sigh onto the bench that barely avoids being splashed on by the rain, wondering how you will explain this to your parents.

You press the power button, groaning in frustration when the screen remains black. You sigh, running a hand through your wet hair and trying to stay warm by hugging your bag close. Your laptop stays safe inside the waterproof bag, and you’re eternally grateful that your dad had given it to you just nights before.

You glance at the watch on your wrist. 

Eight P.M.

The rain didn’t seem like it’d be letting up anytime soon, and you really didn’t feel like trying to make a run for it.

But you look up at the sound of a massive truck that makes its way down the street, slowing to a stop in front of you. You look around, trying to determine if you’re about to get kidnapped.

The window slowly moves down with a slight squeak, and your tense shoulders instantly relax once Donnie pokes his head out the window with a cheerful smile. 

You heave a relieved sigh, standing up with an easy grin. “C’mon, I’ll drop you off at your apartment building,” He shouts over the pouring rain.

You hurry into the door that swings open with a quick hiss, shutting it behind you and barely avoiding more rain. You sit beside him, and he starts the engine, driving off.

“Like it?” He asks, sparing you a quick glance and grinning as you nod with an impressed smile. You look around the van, taking in the elaborate setup and immediately realizing which brother he had designed each station for. 

“It’s really cool,” You comment, tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear as you smile up at him. “How’d you know where I was, anyway?” 

“I just checked your phone for your last known location and decided to come to pick you up. I got worried when you didn’t answer my calls.” You pull out your phone, showing the cracked screen to him with a sheepish smile. 

“Oh, I’ll fix that up for you.” He says easily, making a quick turn down the street. You spot how his arms tense when turning the wheel, a funny feeling in your stomach as you reluctantly pull your gaze away.

“Thanks, Don. You didn’t have to come all the way out here, though. I could’ve called a cab.” You point out, though you’re thankful he had shown up to drive you back home.

“Of course, I would’ve come. I care about you.” He replies easily, eyes never straying from the road. “Oh, hold on, there’s a pothole up ahead.” He warns a little too late, and the turbulence caused by the wheels running over the pothole causes a sudden jolt in your seat, and your hands reach out for something to hold.

Your fingers land on his arm, and he’s momentarily caught off guard as your side presses against his with a soft yelp. 

“You good? Sorry about that. I’ll try to be more careful.” He chuckles, brushing it off.

You’re too stunned to respond, your face inches away from his. Your eyes rake over his warm smile and soft eyes, cheeks suddenly hot before ripping your hands away from his arm, settling back into your seat and fastening your seatbelt with a beating heart that’s running a little too wild for your taste. 

It’s silent for a while, Donnie enjoying the quiet while you’re wrestling with the conflicting emotions that start to rise in your chest. You steal another glance and avert your gaze as soon as he lights up, a thought occurring to him.

He grins toothily, keeping his eyes on the road as you peer over his shoulder. “I can’t wait to take April on a spin in this baby!” He chuckles gleefully, a pang resonating in your heart as you register his words. 

“Yeah,” You reply, your voice softer than before. You glance at him, staring at his auburn eyes that hold so much joy and laughter in them. You swallow down the lump in your throat, tearing your gaze away. 

“I’m sure she’ll love it.”