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strawberrykidneystone · 3 months ago

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Hiiiiiii I know we talked about mechanic sevika buttttt can I request gym owner sevika?

I saw THIS and I couldn’t help myself 🤭

OMFG YES

gym owner sevika!!!

(fem reader, women’s only gym sorry)

unfortunately, your new year’s resolution was pretty basic

going to the gym!

you weren’t expecting to keep up with it like most of your other resolutions

until you met the owner

the first few times you went to the gym by your house, you didn’t think much of it

it was pretty basic, had all of the machines that you needed and a bored blue haired girl who sat in the reception area who was probably working there part time just for college. she was pleasant enough and the two of you had chatted a few times while you were on your way out.

but it was a women’s only gym, so you actually felt really comfortable in the atmosphere of the building

you usually went at night, but today you had a free morning so you thought you might as well get it over with

as soon as you tapped your card onto the outside sensor and opened the door, your knees almost buckled under you as you went to greet the usual blue haired girl who was replaced by a beautiful buff woman with a short black haircut, a shimmer prosthetic arm, and the most intense eyes gray you’ve ever seen

you nodded to her awkwardly when you made eye contact and stiffly walked over to the cubbies, shoving your bag into its usual cube

you shook you head to try and clear your mind, you were here to improve yourself not to stare at beautiful women!!

jumping up in the treadmill, you couldn’t help but steal a few glances over at the welcome desk

you prayed to all of the wlw gods that she was single

once you were done with your cardio, you headed over to the weight lifting stations and thanked the gym gods that your favorite spot was open. there wasn’t anything special about it, it’s just the one you usually went to and might’ve accidentally gotten an emotional attachment to it

you slide on the weights you needed onto each side of the barbell and secured them in with the clip, adding a little more weight than you usually did this time

ducking under the bar, you rested the bar on the sweet spot down the back of your neck and adjusted it to your liking

you reached up and under the bar, adjusting your grip until it felt right and just as you were about to lift the bar off the hooks, you saw a pair of sneakers step into your line of vision

as you slowly lifted your head, you took in the entire body of the ripped woman in front of you who was wearing nothing but gym shorts and a sports bra

you had to bite your tongue to keep from drooling over her defined muscles, her bulging flesh arm that crossed her prosthetic in front of her chest made you feel dizzy as you ripped your eyes away from them

once you met her gaze, those same piercing eyes that you met at the entrance you almost didn’t catch her question

“need a spot?”

“huh?”

“while you lift, do you need a spotter?”

“o-oh yes! yes please!”

sevika walked around and stood behind you

suddenly the room felt a lot hotter

this was totally normal right? she was probably a personal trainer here or something!!!

having her behind you was definitely a comfort, usually you did your lifting on your own but knowing that she was there made you a lot more confident, especially with more weight than usual

she squatted with you as you moved and held her hands about half a foot under the bar just in case something slipped, giving you little pointers to improve your technique

you were ashamed to say that you purposefully arched your back a few times, you couldn’t see but you hoped that she was looking… (she was)

once you were done with your set, she easily helped you put the bar back onto the hook as if it weighed nothing, which to her it probably didn’t

“so sorry i totally forgot to ask you your name?” you asked with a flutter of your lashes, hoping you didn’t look to disheveled as you wiped down the equipment

“sevika, nice to meet you,” she said smoothly, giving you a firm handshake with her flesh hand

god her hand almost completely enveloped yours

you quickly told her your name and gave her your sweetest smile, “so do you come here often? i don’t think i’ve seen you here before.”

sevika chuckled and crossed her arms over her chest once again, a seemingly relaxed position for her, “i actually own the place, but my niece usually works the front desk, ‘specially when her uncle has me running errands all around town.”

“oh! well it’s so nice to finally meet you, i’ve talked to jinx a lot and she’s a super talented artist,” you recalled, seeing jinx drawing in her sketchbook at the front desk

sevika deadpanned and pinched the bridge of her nose with her hand, “has she been drawing on the clock again?”

you covered your mouth with your hand as your eyes widened, shit you didn’t mean to snitch on her

she sighed and shook her head, “i told her not to but she insists that she ‘can’t stop the creative flow when it’s happening!’” she said with exaggerated air quotes and made her voice higher to imitate jinx’s

you giggled at the impression and the two of you continued to make small talk until you had to leave to go get ready for work

sevika stepped behind the desk and waved as you were about to leave the gym, but you stopped yourself

you backtracked and stood in front of her at the desk, mustering up all of your courage, “can i give you my number?”

sevika looked up at you with an inquiring eyebrow before slowly nodding

“yeah sure, do you need some more pointers or a trainer?” she asked as she handed you a pen and paper from across the desk

“nope. well i mean yes, i’d love some pointers, but i’d also like to take you out on a date. romantically.” you said as casually as you could, scribbling your name and number down onto the paper with a little heart next to it, your own heart pounding so much you could hear it in your ears

sevika was a little in shock and numbly took the paper from you, a blush creeping on her cheeks as you waved goodbye, almost running into the door frame on your way out

she was so used to being the one initiating dates that having a woman so bluntly ask her out was new territory for her

but it felt,,, good? oh god is that what butterflies in your stomach felt like?

she immediately saved your number into her phone and added a heart by your name, just like on the paper you gave her <3

you received a text about 30 minutes later, something sevika had to rewrite at least 5 times

it’s sevika. so when is this date we’re going on sweetheart?

a/n: i’m sorry if the jargon is off yall im a pilates/yoga girlie😔

taglist: @maneskinwh0re @archangeldyke-all @fandoms-will-be-the-death-of-me @sevikasfan @lez-zuha @comfortripley @sunflowerwinds

#sevika #arcane sevika #sevika arcane #sevika headcanons #sevika headcanon #sevika x reader #gym owner sevika #arcane au #sevika au #sevika x fem reader #sevika x female reader #strawberrykidneystone #strawberrykidneystone writes #sevika imagine #league of lesbians #arcane league of legends

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prettygirl-gabi · 3 months ago

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Chapter 11: Silence and Reconciliation

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: none

Paring: Paige Bueckers x !photographer fem reader

Fandom: Women's basketball

Summary: it's all too much...but that's love for ya..

Welcome to the chapter 11 of Through The Lens. I hope you all enjoy and there is more to come...stay tuned my loveies!! 🏀💕📸

Y/N’s POV

The bus ride back from the gym to the airport was quiet—almost too quiet. I could hear the rhythmic hum of the tires on the road, the soft clinking of water bottles, and the faint whispers of my teammates as they wound down from the adrenaline rush of the game. Paige was asleep next to me, her head resting against the window, her breath steady and slow. Her hand was just inches away from mine, but I didn’t dare reach for it.

I didn’t know how to feel.

The game had been incredible—Paige had played like an absolute beast, and the team had won. But all I could think about were the comments and videos that kept popping up on my phone.

TikTok.

I hadn’t even meant to check it, but a notification had buzzed in my hand. Curious, I tapped the screen and scrolled through the videos of the game highlights. Then, there it was—the video of Paige and me leaving the airport together. The one where I was wearing her UConn warm-up jacket, and she had her Nike tech on.

The caption read: “Paige and her girl? Or just best friends?”

I clicked into the comments, and my stomach dropped.

“She’s not even her type. She deserves someone like Azzi, not her.”

“I’d rather see Paige and Azzi than this girl, sorry not sorry.”

“They shouldn't be together if she’s the one always filming her, kinda stalkerish...What’s the deal with them anyway?”

My hand trembled as I set the phone down, the screen dimming in front of me. My stomach twisted with a painful knot, my chest constricting as the weight of the words settled on me.

I glanced at Paige again, her peaceful expression making it harder to deal with my own turmoil. She didn’t deserve any of this. She didn’t deserve to be associated with me in the way those people seemed to think.

I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes, but the restlessness wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t sleep. I felt too anxious, too tight in my own skin.

Paige’s POV

I woke up a few hours later, the bus nearing Connecticut. I rubbed my eyes and stretched, glancing over at Y/N. She was still awake, eyes glued to her phone, the soft glow of the screen reflecting off her face, and her recently bought blue light glasses.

“Everything okay?” I asked quietly.

She looked up at me with a forced smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, just editing.”

I frowned, but didn’t press further. She’d always been quiet when she was upset, but I figured she’d talk to me eventually.

Y/N’s POV

I stayed quiet the rest of the ride, my mind running a mile a minute. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. That somehow, everything I had with Paige had shifted.

When we finally arrived back on campus, I didn’t feel any relief. I was physically exhausted, but emotionally drained. I spent the night in Paige’s dorm, but even there, I felt a distance between us that I couldn’t explain. She didn’t push me, and I appreciated that, but I couldn’t bring myself to reach out to her. I couldn’t pretend that things were the same when my mind was so heavy.

The next few days were worse. At practice, during games, it felt like there was an invisible wall between us. Every time Paige came near me, I stepped back. Every time she tried to touch my shoulder, or give me a quick hug after a good play, I flinched. I didn’t mean to—hell, I didn’t even want to—but the anxiety in my chest made it impossible to be close to her.

I was suffocating in my own silence, and I hated myself for it.

Paige’s POV

It had been days, and the distance between Y/N and me had only grown. She was avoiding me in the worst way. She wasn’t talking to me, wasn’t making eye contact, and every time I tried to get close, she stepped away. I felt her pulling away, and it broke my heart.

Finally, after a grueling practice the day before a home game, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Y/N, we need to talk.”

She froze, her hands gripping the strap of her camera bag. “What’s there to talk about?”

I stared at her, trying to read her. She wasn’t meeting my eyes, and the coldness in her voice stung. “This isn’t you. What’s going on? We’re not good, and I don’t know why.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, avoiding my gaze. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I pressed, stepping closer. “We’re a team, Y/N. I know something’s wrong.”

She finally looked at me, her eyes full of frustration. “You don’t get it, Paige. I’m not good enough for you. You’re this… amazing player, and everyone’s watching you, and I’m just your photographer. Just the girl who follows you around all the time. They don’t see me, they see you. They think you’re with Azzi, and that’s what should be happening. Not this. Not me. Definitely not us.”

I took a step back, the sting of her words sinking in. I never thought she saw herself like that. She wasn’t just my photographer. She was my everything.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything,” I said, my voice breaking. “I don’t care about the people on the internet or what they say. I care about you. I care about us.”

Her eyes softened, but she looked away. “I don’t know if I can handle the pressure, Paige. You deserve someone who fits in with your life. I’m just causing trouble.”

“Y/N,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “I don’t care what anyone says, and I sure as hell don’t care about fitting into some mold. I care about you. I’m not letting you push me away.”

Y/n’s POV

I opened my dorm room door to a phone call from my grandmother. I hadn’t heard from her in a few days, and I could tell by her tone that something was wrong.

“Paige’s been texting me all night,” my granny said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You need to talk to that girl, Y/N. You’re both so stubborn, but you need to fix this before it gets worse. I can’t have my granddaughter hurting like this.”

I felt tears well up in my eyes as I listened to her, but I couldn’t find the right words.

“She’s good for you, Y/N. Don’t let fear tear you apart. You can’t keep running from the love you both have. It’ll only break you in the end.”

I knew she was right.

Paige’s POV

I didn’t hear from Y/N for the rest of the day, but that night, after my team’s practice, I called her grandmother back.

“Paige, honey, you’re a good girl. You’ve got to be strong for Y/N. I know you two are struggling, but if you love her, you fight for her. I know she’s too proud to admit it, but she needs you.”

“I will,” I promised, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m not giving up on her. Not now, not ever.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

Tag list: @sayurireidotcom , @astroeliza , @paxaz535 , @0phantom0 ,.... (more to be added)

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dante2045 · 1 month ago

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Buying the wrong boxers

“I can’t even feel my legs,” Jenny complained, wincing with every step she took. Jenny was walking in the downtown area of the city she lived in with her friend Damon. Damon was a personal trainer and had just pushed Jenny through a grueling workout; he had been trying to get her more interested in fitness over the past several weeks. “Pain is a good thing,” Damon winked, flashing Jenny a grin, “That means we’re making progress.” Jenny could feel her cheeks turning red; though they’d never been anymore than friends, Damon was a bit of a flirt and Jenny found herself often flustered around him.

“Woah. What’s that?” Damon pointed, noticing an athletics store he’d never seen before. He frequently spent time in the downtown area, and was surprised that the store could have opened without him hearing about it. "Do you mind if I stop in quickly?" Damon asked, peering in through the window to take a look at the merchandise. Jenny glanced at her watch and nodded in agreement; it was getting late, but she could spend a little bit more time with Damon before heading home for the night. Once they were in the store, Jenny looked for the women’s section but was surprised to see that there was only men’s clothing on display. As she walked through the aisles to find the women’s section, one of the mannequins caught her eye. The mannequin was wearing a pair of black silk boxers; the material shimmering in the overhead lights of the store. Jenny grabbed a pair off of the shelf, feeling the soft material in her hands. She thought they’d be comfortable for her to sleep in. “Find something?” Damon asked, approaching Jenny. He had a small pile of workout clothes slung over his shoulder. “These look nice, but I’m pretty sure they’re for men. I think this whole store is for men,” Jenny frowned, sadly setting the boxers back down on the shelf. “Who cares if they’re for men? If you like them, you should get them. I’ll even buy them for you. Your reward for making it through my rigorous workout at the gym today,” Damon offered, grabbing the boxers and adding them to his own pile of clothes. After checking out, Damon reached into his bag and pulled out the boxers, handing them over to Jenny. “You down for another workout session tomorrow morning?” Damon asked eagerly. “We’ll see if I can even walk tomorrow morning,” Jenny laughed. Truth was she hated working out, but she felt like she never got to see Damon anymore with their busy work schedules. At least this way they were guaranteed to spend some time together. “No pressure either way,” Damon replied, sounding a little deflated. “Just shoot me a text if you feel like working out in the morning and I’ll pick you up on my way to the gym.” Jenny and Damon said they goodbyes before Jenny made the short walk back to her house. Feeling exhausted, she went straight to her room to get ready for bed. After a moment of hesitation, Jenny decided to wear the new boxers to sleep along with an oversized t-shirt from one of her old boyfriends. With a yawn she laid in her bed, not noticing the faint flow emitting from the boxers.

Jenny’s feet began to toughen, becoming calloused and weathered while growing to almost twice their normal size. The bright blue nail polish she had been wearing vanished as little hairs emerged from her toes. Her legs also became thicker, her calves and thighs bulging with muscle as thick brown hairs sprouted from them. Her hips narrowed while her butt tightened, losing its feminine curves and roundness. The material of the boxers felt great against her skin. Jenny felt amazing in the boxers, reaching down to stroke herself through the fabric. The feeling was incredible, overwhelming Jenny with pleasure. Jenny was so aroused she didn’t notice as her clit started to swell, bulging into a long thick shaft. The shaft formed a large mushroom head, finishing its transformation into an erect penis. A large set of testicles dropped from her pussy before it vanished, her new balls pumping testosterone through her body. Continuing to rub her cock in ecstacy, the changes continued to move up her body. Jenny lost her slim hourglass figure as her stomach bulged outwards, forming into a six-pack of abdominal muscles. Jenny moaned as her shoulders expanded, growing broader. Jenny’s large breasts started to retract into her chest, her nipples growing smaller and losing their sensitivity. Jenny’s breasts continued to deflate until she was completely flat chested; a pair of thick, masculine pecs bulged out from where her boobs had been. The changes reached her neck, her throat thickening as a prominent Adams apple bulged from it. Jenny let out a loud manly grunt, male hormones coursing through her body. Her arms and hands bulked up as they grew thick with muscle, veins coursing down her newly formed biceps and triceps. A thick layer of hair covered her arms as her fingers thickened. Her manicured nails grew rougher and lost their nail polish. Finally the changes reached Jenny’s head and she felt herself explode into an orgasm, her new cock cumming for the first time. Her smooth round face began to harden as her jawline squared and a thick stubble grew in. Her face tingled as it changed; her nose grew larger, her lips thinned and cracked, her eyebrows becoming thick and bushy. Her long blonde hair darkened to a deep brown as it retracted into her scalp, leaving it short and messy. The changes finalized as Jenny’s body elongated, growing to 6’1” from her previous height of 5’4”. Jenny, now Jensen, peacefully drifted off to sleep, unaware of their transformation into a hunky man.

------------

The vibrating of his phone stirred Jensen from his slumber. With a groan, he sat up in his bed and grabbed for his phone, reading the text that Damon had just sent him:

'Just heading out now. Be there in 20. Be ready to go!'

Jensen’s phone told him it was 6:30 in the morning; way too early to be up on his day off from work. He set his phone back down on his bedside table and pulled the covers over his eyes, not ready to get out of bed. There was a nagging voice in his head telling him to get up and dressed for work, which made no sense; Jensen’s job as the HR manager at an office was a Monday to Friday job, and it was Saturday. Still, something felt off and he couldn’t drift back to sleep. With a relenting sigh, he finally stood up and did a large stretch. He’d expected to be sore after the grueling workout Damon had pushed him through the previous night, but he felt surprisingly refreshed. He wished he’d woken up a bit earlier, then he’d have time for a quick 10K run before Damon picked him up.

Where the hell had that thought come from? Jensen had never ran a day in his life and loathed physical activity. He had blurry memories of being the star player on his cross country high school team, but that must have been from a lingering dream; after all, he was still half asleep. If he’d been more alert, Jensen would have noticed the subtle changes that had occurred to his room during the night, but in his groggy state he stumbled towards the bathroom unaware. The floor was clovered in messy piles of clothing; shirts, trackpants, boxers and socks were strewn across every surface. Posters of various video games and rock bands were plastered across the walls which had previously been vacant without decor. A weight rack with various dumbbells for lifting and curls was set up in the corner, replacing where his makeup vanity had previously been.

Jensen flicked on the light switch in the bathroom, catching a glimpse of his appearance for the first time since waking up. He let out a startled shout at seeing the handsome man staring at him in the mirror. His brain’s first response was that there was an intruder in his house, but he quickly realized he was looking at his own reflection. In disbelief, he slowly waved his arm back and forth, watching as his reflection copied the action.

“What the fuck?” He shouted before quickly covering his mouth, startled by the low tenor of his voice. Jensen wondered if he was still dreaming, but this felt real. He approached the mirror, studying his new body. It was like looking at a stranger, but a part of him felt familiar staring at his chiseled jaw and piercing brown eyes; hadn’t he always looked like this?

Jensen’s memories of his previous life as Jenny remained, but he was starting to gain new memories as well. These new milestones were similar to the old ones, with some significant differences; instead of focusing on academics at school, he had been a jock, playing and excelling in all the sports. He hadn’t gone off to college, instead choosing to become a personal trainer with Damon right after graduation. The most significant difference, of course, was in his new memories he had always been a male. Surprisingly, while there were some slight variations, the memories of his boyfriends and men he’d dated remained largely unchanged. Was he gay?

Jensen pushed these memories to the back of his mind, focusing on the task at hand. What had caused his changes? Was there a way to get his old body and life back? He noticed the black boxers hanging from around his hips, remembering the strange store he’d bought them from on the previous day. Could they be the cause of his changes? If he took them off, would he change back?

In light of a better idea, Jensen pulled the boxers down and kicked them off, exposing his new member. Though he had some fuzzy memories of it, this was the first time Jensen was seeing his dick; he’d been with enough men to know that he was well endowed, quite above average. He looked down at his impressively thick shaft, embarrassed when it started to fill with blood and harden; he was turning himself on.

Jensen watched his body carefully in the mirror, looking for any signs that he was reverting back to his feminine body after removing the boxers. The loose T-shirt he’d worn to bed the previous night was now tight against his broad shoulders and beefy pecs. After several minutes, he had to admit that he wasn’t changing back; he shouted in frustration and slammed his fist into the wall. What the hell was he going to do now? Was this his new life?

A part of Jensen wondered why he was trying so hard to change back. He couldn’t deny that he was a good looking man, much more attractive than he’d been when he was Jenny. He seemed to be happy and successful in his career as a personal trainer, and he was still best buds with Damon. So what if he couldn’t change back? This new life seemed like an upgrade in every sense of the word.

Those thoughts were his new personality trying to take over, he told himself. The longer he stayed as Jensen, the more vivid his new memories and persona would become, and the less he’d remember from his previous life of Jenny. If he wanted his old life back, he needed to develop a plan quickly; he was literally in a fight for his life against himself.

He heard the doorbell ring, bringing him out of his thoughts. That must be Damon, coming to pick him up for their shift at the gym. Jensen couldn’t bear the thought of putting the black boxers on again, so he hurried back to his room and slipped on a pair of sweatpants before heading for his front door. His mind was still racing, trying to decide what he was going to tell Damon, as he opened the door.

#male transformation #jock tf #male tf #muscle transformation #f2m transformation #female to male transformation #himbofication #jockification #video transformation #jock transformation #reality shifting

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knavesflames · 9 months ago

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hi!!! consider wandering into a gym and acting all weak so that pretty ladies will come up and offer to help you

i'm talking pretty ladies with ABS!!! dehya, clorinde, arlecchino, beidou, rosaria (take your pick, pookers)

i'm the weakest mf, i'd ask for a spotter to lift 5 lbs 😇 just to see the pretty women fr

Hi pookie!! I know you’re feeling down lately so I thought I’d try to prioritise this one for now😮 first post ever that isn’t Arlecchino based!! How crazy:0 time to give Dehya some well deserved love, I think..

Word count: 1181

Content: silly reader does not know the gym, dehya is a sweetie but also horny for reader, grinding on abs

Nsft utc!

When you walk into the gym, it’s more than obvious you are NOT a regular. Your appearance isn’t what gives it away (though it doesn’t help), it’s the fact you’re utterly adorable clueless with all the equipment. Even though you’re desperately trying to figure it out, nothing about what you’re doing is correct. From the way you struggle to lift a 4kg weight, to the way you aren’t even tall enough to reach the equipment that isn't the height of your waist or lower. You’re tiny. She feels bad for you in the beginning, and she does what no other woman in the gym does. She goes up to you, reaching to take down whatever equipment you need, spotting you even when you lift the smallest amount of weight possible. She sets the machines up correctly for you too, quietly letting you know that you’re doing it wrong. She doesn’t make it obvious, no, she knows how it could be embarrassing for you. You’re just so inexperienced.

She adores it. She’s been watching you since the day you started coming to this specific gym. Your tight clothes she knows you’re wearing to look more toned than you are. The way you struggle with every machine, the way you look around to copy other people’s motions. The way you stare at her when she’s training her muscles. Dehya is no idiot, not in the slightest, and you’re not subtle in the slightest. If anything, she enjoys the attention she’s getting from you, and she plays up to it. Lifting more than she needs to just to watch the rise and fall of your chest, grunting louder than she usually does to relish in the way your eyes glaze as you think of her grunting as she fucks you. She’s teasing you, and she loves every second of it.

So, she decides, after six long months, does she interact with you directly. Dehya, being Dehya, is just a little bored of watching you react so far away from her. She wants to hear your breathing, hear your muttered responses to her as she makes your mind go blank. You’re shy, though, she’s gathered that much, so she’ll be kind, she thinks. She’ll do it in a way that’s just as good for you both. Before she can think of what she’s doing, she’s tying her locks into a ponytail at the back of her head, careful not to put too much strain on the strands by her ears, and she’s calling out to you from across the gym.

“Hey, pretty girl,” she drawls, loud enough that your head whips around, your eyes wide at the idea of finally being noticed by the girl you’ve been pining over, the whole reason you’re going to the gym. “Come here and help me, yeah? Thanks, doll.”

You drop the weight you’re holding immediately (one you had strained to even pick up), almost scrambling over. You wait, bouncing your foot as you glance at her. You watch as Dehya moves into an exercise you’ve seen her do often, one you’ve always secretly (not so secretly, she knows) admired her doing. She lowers herself down to the floor before her eyes, blue as sapphires, focus on you again. “Sit here,” she pats the area around her hips softly, looking up at you expectantly.

“What?” You manage to splutter out words, looking at her with widened eyes almost in horror at the prospect. Only because you know immediately what’ll happen, and you already feel the coil in your stomach tighten at the idea. Somehow, though, you can’t resist from gingerly perching yourself on the side of her hip, only for Dehya to tut and shake her head with a grin.

“No, straddle me. I can’t exercise if I’m worried you’re gonna fall off, can I, doll?” She raises an eyebrow, just waiting, and eventually, you obey her, moving until your entire weight rests on her. She hums in approval, her hands finding your waist, her thumbs stroking the skin a little too intimately. “Good girl, see? God, you’re tiny.”

The words she says are breathless as she eyes you. She’s not ashamed either, the smirk on her face tells you that much, but a few seconds later, she’s using your body weight to do hip thrusts, grunting with every rep, enjoying your ever flushing face.

After a while, Dehya is past her usual rep count, and you know it, too, but she’s not stopping. She’s barely counting, and she’s more concentrated on the way her hands are squeezing ever so gently around your waist, and the way one of her hands is sliding towards your hip.

She knows it’s late at night, there isn’t anybody else here now. Everyone left a while ago, so she takes the chance. A risky move, and she does it anyway, faking innocence, like she has no idea what she’s doing. Her abs are already slick from the sweat continuously gathering, and despite you being clothed, she moves you gently towards her stomach. Her hip thrusts have slowed to a halt now, though, just to keep up the innocence she’s been feigning, she does another, but only to hide the way she ever so gently glides your clothed core against her abs.

She loves the way you gasp at the feeling of it, the way your lips part ever so slightly. So, she does the same thing. Three times, until her hip thrusts have stopped once again. No longer is she exercising, opting instead to make the pretty girl at the gym gasp and sigh in pleasure. Dehya eventually becomes more bold, one thumb tracing the band of your leggings, whispering sweet nothings about how wants to see you without them. Each word of hers, whispered with so much affection brings you closer and closer to whatever sort of cliff you’re approaching. Your hips? They don’t even need guidance from her anymore, they’re moving by themselves thanks to encouragement and praise from the woman below you.

“Good girl, just like that. Aw, you’re so tiny. So tiny you can move right across them, can’t you? You should come to the gym late at night more often.” She chuckles, moving you faster as you moan into the air. They’re stifled moans, but moans nonetheless, and her eyes light up the second she feels you trembling as your orgasm crashes over you in powerful waves. You grip her hand hard, and the hand that isn’t being crushed by your own comes to stroke your hair, her voice talking you through it.

“Yeah, that’s it. Come on, let it happen, yeah? It’s good, right? My favourite form of exercise.”

You cannot resist the abrupt, hoarse laughter that spills from your lips at her final comment. What an odd way of breaking the ice, you think, though the ice melted the second she gave you that first glance. Maybe you can employ her to be your personal trainer, or something. Maybe you can admit you only come to the gym for her, and invite her to your place.

#🐱 𝔎𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔶 #🔥 𝔎𝔫𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔣𝔩𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔟𝔬𝔵 #Dehya #genshin dehya #gi dehya #dehya x reader #dehya smut #Dehya genshin #Dehya genshin impact #Dehya x you #Dehya omg #genshin impact #genshin #genshin smut #genshin wlw #genshin x reader #genshin x you

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kamen20ghost · 3 months ago

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RWBY no more hunters au

Would love if other add to this au

We see Jaune in his dorm room at beacon humming a tune as he getting dress in some clothes as he just got a letter from his uncle that he and he a few family friends are visiting vale and that he should meet up with them to chat his up.”

Nora: *Walks into the room after some personal workout time in the gym.* Well well where are you going dress like that fearless leader?”

Jaune: *Now dress in a black and white hooded leather jacket and a plan white tee and his blue jeans.( think like nmh2 Travis but change out the collar jacket for a hooded one.) He stops humming when Nora talks to him and look at her as he hold up a letter and photo.* Oh hey Nora I got this letter form my uncle say he and few of are family friends are in vale so I thought I go meet up with them since odds are mom sent ‘em here to check up on me.*He then move to grab crocea mors and places on his hip as he notice pyrrha come in the room as she was in the library checking out books for professor oobleck class as she notice jaune.*

Pyrrha: *Sees how jaune looks and blushes lightly at how good he looks.* So I got the books will need for professor oobleck class and next test. But i guess that will study them later so care to tell me where your going all dress up jaune?

Jaune: *Chuckle as he sets the photo and letter down on his desk as he takes the books from pyrrha and also sets them on his desk.* Well pyrrha like I told Nora just now I’m heading out to see my uncle and some family friends so I’ll be out today.* Sighs as he heads to the door.* Also if I’m on the news tonight I’ll tell you when I get back so I’ll see you ladies later.* He turns to the girls gives a small bow and then heads out door as then waves and passes team RWBY as he sings a bit of the song he learned from his sisters friend Margaret Moonlightt.* Requiem aeternam Bullet right through the sternum Lullaby to hell, babe Reaper's got your name! *

Team RWBY: *A bit weirded out at the song jaune singing and surprise by his look then peek into JNPR room and see Nora reading jaune letter and pyrrha trying and failing to stop her.*

Yang: *Chcuckles at the girls of team JNPR antics.* I’ll bite what are you two doing and why dose jaune look like he ready to go a biker bar.

RWB_: *Nods as they all had similar questions.*

Nora: *who is still reading the letter despite pyrrha trying to take it away from her as it an invasion of jaune privacy.* Well I’m trying to learn more about fearless leader family since just the fact he has seven sister he doesn’t talk about his family much and what he said before he left spark my interest more.*She sets the letter down as she looks at the photo as did the rest of the girls and looks surprise.*

The photo was a younger jauen with a dark hair man wearing shades dress similar to what jaune had currently on as in the background was three Blonde hair women one in a suit and the other in a pink dress and a beer in hand as last one had red tattoos on her shoulders as next to jaune was another blond girl in pig tales and a dark skin girl with white hair and sword on her back as the three see the man weapon being a beam katana.

Pyrrha: *Blushes more at how cute jaune was as a kid but as a bit jealous as the girls next to him look like there into him seeing as the other blond girl next to him looks both amazed but also at jaune as she had a bit of a blush on her face as the other girls definitely gives off Weiss vibes seeing she not impressed.* Who do you think these people are and what their relationship to jaune?

Ruby: *Looks at the girl in pink it hits her and she gasp loudly as she looks to her sister. She then points to blond in pink.* That the lady that brings uncle crow back home when he’s passed out drunk sometimes what was her name again? *She thinks as she cups her chin trying to remember.*

Yang: *Looks at the photo again and widens her eyes and pales slight as she moves away and holds her hair shaking.* No! Why dose jaune know bad girl is she here I have to hide she can’t know I’m here! *Yang tries to run out of the room but Ruby stops her and she now trying to get out of her sister hold.*

Weiss and Blake: * Look surprise and then over to Ruby.* What was that about?!

Ruby: *Pulling her sister from the door Fram as she look to everyone for help.* Ya now I remember she *Grunt* was one of yangs teachers when she came and visited uncle qrow when we where *grunt* younger and she a crazy hunter as her main weapon was a wooden baseball bat. *grunt* Now can some one help me since she won’t stop till we calm her down.

Yang: *Holding the door as she trying to get out of Ruby grip and run. Her mind bring flashbacks of her time training under bad girl.* NO NO I DONT WANT PUNISHMENT! NOT THE BAT!! WHY IS THE BAT ON FIRE?! NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

Everyone but Yang: The hell did this woman do to her?!

Nora: *Hands the photo to Weiss as Blake, pyrrha and her help Ruby calm down Yang.*

Weiss: *Now staring at the photo notices the blond girl next to jaune and wonder as she was familiar as then she remembers and shakes her head.* Ok why does jaune know kimmy love but didn’t know me or Pyrrha?!

Nora: *Look at weiss as she and the other girls got Yang off the door and on pyrrha bed as she moves back to the photo again as she was a big fan of kimmy love.* No way why would jaune keep this from me I love her music.* Looks over to pyrrha as she struggle with Yang as Ruby is calming her down and grins.* Pyrrha looks like you have some competition and she a super star.

#rwby #jaune arc #weiss schnee #pyrrha nikos #ruby rose #nora valkyrie #blake bellodona #no more heroes

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cecilysass · 2 years ago

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Pause (5/11)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 5: Survivor

CW: references to suicide attempts

Her mother leaves to go find Scully some clothes, and Mulder has not yet returned. His apartment is very quiet. Scully slumps onto the couch and stares at all of the clutter, all of the chaos he has let pile up around him. It makes her feel closed in.

She feels desperate to be doing something, taking some kind of action. Some petulant part of her wants to make her own dramatic exit—to go for a long walk on the streets of Alexandria to clear her head, to worry and anger him.

Still, she reluctantly agrees: that’s probably not smart. She should be prudent about staying unseen until they know more. So she’s effectively a prisoner, she thinks grimly.

Some sort of physical activity might do her good. She can’t go for a run, but maybe she could lift weights. Work on building up some muscle mass. She runs her palms over her limbs, the waistband of her tight jeans. She’ll need better clothing for a workout, she realizes.

Going on a fishing expedition through Mulder’s bureau again, she commandeers a pair of his plaid boxers. They’ll work fine as exercise wear. She imagines he won’t like it, judging from his strong reaction to seeing her wear his clothes earlier, but she’s feeling rebellious.

As she steps out of her jeans and slides her legs into his boxers, she has an odd, unsettling thought pop into her mind: has he been wearing these blue checked boxers in various half-undressed states with women he brings back into this bedroom?

Imagining this scene—Mulder and these mystery women—turns her gaze over to his bed uneasily. Maybe he’s in some melancholy one-night stand phase, and that’s where the sweater came from. He might undress some beautiful woman he met in a bar right here, kiss her, some look in his eyes that she has not seen.

In the time she’s known him, she’s never really known him conclusively to have a one-night stand. She’s had her suspicions sometimes. And he can be awfully surprising.

There was the attractive ex-girlfriend who showed up out of nowhere and began sharing intimate moments with him. Diana Fowley, who was shot when they were protecting Gibson Praise. Did Agent Fowley recover? All of that seems recent to her, but it was years ago now. She must have recovered.

Scully doesn’t think she will ask after her.

This feeling she’s having now, this corrosive feeling thinking about Mulder and these women, or Mulder and Agent Fowley—this is beyond just worrying about her partner. Or feeling protective. She’s felt this feeling before. She knows what this feeling is. She’s not completely delusional.

Her thumbs run over the material of his boxers on her body. They are very soft, so big on her that they just lightly graze her thighs. She tries not to think about these boxers on his thighs. About the other parts of him they routinely touch.

Instead, she heads over to dig around in his messy closet, looking for the set of free weights she knows he keeps somewhere around this apartment—or at least, he used to, even though he more typically lifted at the gym at work. She discovers the weights in a battered plastic crate on the floor of his bedroom closet behind an untidy heap of his shoes. She drags out a few hand weights, leaving the heavier ones behind.

Thirty minutes later, when she hears the sounds of Mulder entering the front door, Scully is on her second set of bicep curls in the makeshift gym she has created on the floor of Mulder’s bedroom.

She’s tuned in his clock radio to the top-40 station, and now some empowering hip-hop song with all-female singers is playing. It’s catchy. Scully likes it.

She’s pressing the weights to her shoulders, lowering them again, concentrating on a steady, consistent pace, no sudden sharp moves. The driving beat of the song pairs with her motions, giving them shape and speed.

A few moments after he’s returned, she senses Mulder standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

She doesn’t turn to acknowledge him.

No doubt he’s annoyed that she’s now wearing both his tee shirt (knotted up around her waist to get the extra fabric out of the way) and his boxers. Likely he resents the incursion of the impostor into his apartment and his dresser drawers. She imagines he is standing there glowering at her, sulking as only Mulder can.

She pretends not to notice him, pretends to give her workout her full attention instead. To her surprise, she realizes she’s glad she might be making him angry. She’s just so angry herself—she wants him to feel it, too.

“What are you listening to?”

The tone of his question surprises her, and she turns to see him leaning his temple against the door frame, watching her.

To her shock, he doesn’t look in the least bit mad. His expression is soft and curious, almost wistful. There is something else there, too, something she can’t quite name.

“The radio,” she explains matter-of-factly. “I’m trying to catch up on the music I’ve missed.”

“You never cared about keeping up with pop music before.”

“People change,” she says, a sarcastic edge.

He says nothing, but his eyes track her as she blows the baby hairs back off her face and adopts a wider stance to transition into her set of tricep extensions. She lifts the weight above her head on the beat.

“Besides, I like this song,” she adds, glancing back at him.

Mulder’s mint tea eyes run carefully over her again. They linger on the sight of his boxers. There’s still something in his expression she doesn’t fully understand. Conflicted. Something he wants. He spends a long minute watching her, his forehead creasing as if he were analyzing evidence for a case.

“I see why you like it,” he says finally.

“What?”

“The song.” He steps forward. “I was listening to the lyrics.”

“Oh?”

“You’re a survivor. You’re not going to give up. You’re not going to stop—”

“I’m going to work harder,” interrupts Scully, pulsing the weight above her head. “Right. I see your profiling skills are as well-honed as ever.”

“Listen,” Mulder says, changing tone. “I’m sorry. I know that I was acting… well, I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

Scully feels impatient with this apology, which doesn’t even begin to get to the heart of what’s painful in their interactions. “Fine. I understand,” she says, more sharply than she intends.

He’s biting his lower lip again, his eyes moving across her, but he doesn’t say anything else. “I’m, uh, going out again now to ask around about tracking down where the rental car came from and getting the DNA checked out. I guess I trust the Gunmen most with that.”

Scully sets down her weights, dabbing sweat off her forehead with the sleeve of his tee-shirt.

“Are the X-files still closed then?”

There is a pause. “No,” Mulder says, his eyes sliding away from hers now. “They’re open.”

“Do you have a new partner?”

“I’m not on the X-files any more.”

Scully tries to process this, her mouth falling a little open. The minor key paean to the power of survival plays on in the background, voices tremulously layering “ohhhh” on top of one another.

“They’re being run by an Agent Reyes. She seems like a good agent. Different approach from us, but she’s knowledgeable,” Mulder says. “She has a partner I don’t know as well, some former NYC cop, a guy named Doggett.”

Scully is still, but she wants to let loose a scream. She wants to beat her fists on the chest of this frustrating, passive, unfamiliar Mulder. How could you let this happen? Why are you not more upset? Instead, she simply stares at him.

“They’re doing okay, I think,” Mulder says, seeming to note something amiss in her expression. “Reyes calls me for a consult sometimes. You don’t have to worry.”

“It’s not the X-files I’m worried about.”

He smiles sadly, lifts his hand. “People change, right?”

“That’s a significant change.”

His eyes drift off to the side. “You can’t have thought I’d be able to go on working on the X-files after my partner died.”

Actually, Scully absolutely thought he would be able to. She’d expected him to when she had cancer. She’d wanted him to. And if she had died the many other times her life had been under threat, she assumed he would. She thinks of the Mulder who ran into the hallway after her, trying to convince her not to quit the Bureau. He’d claimed he didn’t know if he would be able to do it without her. Even in that moment, she didn’t entirely buy it.

“Besides,” he adds, shrugging, a half-hearted crooked smile, “I had to take some leave. I was benched for a while.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say it was a rough time.”

“How rough?” Scully replies sharply. She thinks of the Gunmen’s message. No more scares, they’d said.

“Oh, you know,” Mulder says. “Hospital for the people who aren’t okay upstairs.”

Scully inhales a little. “You checked yourself in?”

“Well,” he says, “yes and no. I was strongly encouraged to do so by my employer. And your mother.”

She isn’t sure what to say. “Mulder,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“No sense dwelling on it. I’m out now,” he says. “They gave me my weapon back and everything.”

“Where do they have you working?”

“I’m teaching at Quantico. Part-time for now. Easing back in.”

“That’s good,” she says, but it seems like an empty platitude. Is it good he’s teaching part-time at Quantico? She always enjoyed some aspects of teaching, but she has a hard time picturing Mulder—at least the restless Mulder she knew—doing it for very long. And if he’s only part-time, how is he spending the rest of his hours? It’s not cleaning his apartment, that’s for sure. For Mulder, work is everything.

Or it was.

Some significant part of her also wants to scream in his face that the partner he apparently grieved so deeply is right in front of him. That if he were that upset about her death, maybe he could see a reason to show some small joy about her return. That it hurts her so deeply he hasn’t.

“Well, you know me,” he says. “I’m a survivor, not going to give up, gonna work harder, all that.”

“Right,” she says, her smile miniscule.

“So I’ll be leaving you to your workout then, and I will run over to the Gunmen’s.”

“Do you want to take some hair samples? So you can begin running DNA right away?” Scully plucks some strands from her head. “Go get a plastic bag.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking as though her helpfulness has surprised him, and he walks out of the room, returning with a Ziploc bag.

“We can always do a swab, too, if you get a kit,” she says, slipping her hair inside as he holds it open.

“Sure,” he says. His attention seems to be caught by the sight of the coppery strands within the plastic.

“Mulder,” she says, carefully. She’s not sure how he will react to this question. “What about… the other body?”

He hesitates. “Cremated,” he says without emotion. “Remember? Your wishes.”

“Right,” she says. During her illness, she had hated the idea of her mother having to deal with a coffin, selecting clothes, making all the painful palpable decisions tied to a physical body. Scully knew well the awkward liminal place a cadaver occupied: still linked uncomfortably with someone’s personhood, yet unmoored from life. Still, cremation leaves evidence frustratingly out of reach. “I meant—maybe records of a post mortem examination?”

Mulder looks very tired. “Yeah, I think so. There was no autopsy though.”

“If you get me the name, I can call,” she suggests.

“I probably can find it for you,” He shrugs. “Call, sure, why not? I’d recommend coming up with a convincing pseudonym though.”

***

Mulder leaves again, and Scully finishes her lifting. Listening, always, to the radio.

In fact, she gives the radio programming her full, careful attention, taking in information as though she is studying for a test. She analyzes the music, the tone of the commercials. She absorbs each detail of the short news breaks they include on commercial radio stations.

It seems to her that popular music has changed noticeably in three years. It’s an absurd, baseless opinion for her to form, as she would be hard pressed even to name one pop song released in 1998, so she’s hardly an expert. Still, this 21st century music just seems to have a different feeling than what she dimly recalls. It’s less angsty. More effervescent. She decides to mull that over.

There is evidently a new president, which is unsurprising, as one of her lost years was an election year. He’s a Republican, the son of George H.W. Bush, the man who was president when she started at the Bureau. She wonders if the change of administration has meant changes at work. She wonders if she still has work, as she is generally considered dead.

When she’s finished with her typical lifting regimen, her muscles twitching slightly with the good kind of fatigue, she’s unpleasantly sticky. Scully sits cross-legged on the bedroom floor, fanning herself with the neck of Mulder’s tee shirt. Maybe her mom will be back soon with some of her things, and she can take a shower and change directly into her own clothes.

“Looking forward to a sweet Memorial Day weekend,” the deejay is saying in a buttery voice. “Highs in the low 80s tomorrow and Saturday, and cooling off to mid-70s on Sunday and Monday. So go out there and barbecue and ‘get ur freak on.’ Speaking of which—here’s Missy Elliot, at number ten this week.”

A very catchy dance beat begins. Scully closes her eyes, blowing air slowly out of her lips. Mulder’s apartment feels warm and stuffy right now.

And small. Like a prison.

Rotating her head around the scattered room again, she feels irritated by the state of the place. She decides to try to get this apartment in better shape. If she has to stay here, she can at least have some control over her own environment. It can at least be tidy.

She rises, walks into the kitchen, and pours herself a big glass of cold water. As she chugs it, she looks around with an evaluative eye. Between her and Maggie’s efforts, the kitchen looks pretty clean already, although maybe the floor could use a sweep. She makes the decision to start in the living room.

First step: finding his radio and turning up the volume on her pop hits.

For the next 45 minutes, Scully gives her full attention to conquering the chaos of Mulder’s living room.

She starts just by throwing out trash—the old newspapers and magazines, the empty chip bags, the junk mail sitting in heaps—and that makes a big difference. She feels lighter already.

Then she starts to consider the piles of papers that seem to have been more purposefully organized at one point, but now are spreading out over the surface of his desk and his table.

One pile seems to be medical bills, insurance statements, and as she examines them more closely, she sees that many of them have the letterhead of an in-patient mental health facility in Bethesda.

Her eyes scan one of the statements for details. Select phrases leap out at her. “Fox William Mulder, voluntary check-in.” “In-patient services, 6/7/00-10/11/00.” “Attempted self harm.” “Active 24 hour suicide watch.”

She sinks down into his desk chair, the paper tight in her grip. Four months. Four months in an in-patient facility is a very long time.

And an attempt to take his own life... well, she had inferred something like this must have happened. “No more scares,” the Gunmen said. She feels something heavy in her chest regardless.

It’s difficult for her even to wrap her mind around, to imagine playing out. She hates thinking about it. How could this have destroyed him so completely? He has survived so much worse.

Scully stacks the papers, making the pile more manageable and uniform.

Another unruly pile seems to be a stack of random old X-files-related clippings, spilling out of a decrepit accordion file, and she begins gathering them together. As she does, she realizes that this sizable heap of papers has been obscuring a small, desiccated flower arrangement sitting in the corner of his desk.

All of the blooms have long withered and browned. It’s rotted in places. He’s probably forgotten it is even there. There is a white ribbon tied in a crushed bow, with a simple card hanging from it. She opens it.

“Agent Mulder, our hearts break for you. - Holman and Sheila Hardt”

Such an eerie feeling, reading cards offering condolences on one’s own death. Scully isn’t sure who the Hardts are, but the wording strikes her as strange. Uncomfortably intimate for the loss of a partner. “Our hearts break for you.” It sounds more like the loss of a family member or a romantic loss. She supposes people never know what to say in these situations.

Scully picks up the ancient flower arrangement and throws it out.

When she has done a passable job of organizing and wiping off the surfaces of the living room, she drags out his vacuum cleaner and begins tackling the dust bunnies, crouching down to reach fully underneath the couch and in the dark and scary corners behind his desk.

She keeps thinking about Mulder holding that flower arrangement when it was fresh, reading that card to himself. Of Mulder alone in this apartment, alone with his grief. Surely someone helped him through it. Her mother? His mother? The Gunmen?

The dust particles—or something—make her eyes smart. Is it strange that she is surprised by the depth of his grief for her? Of course she knew Mulder cared intensely about her, that she was an important fixture in his life. She just wouldn’t have been able to picture this complete devastation, this utter destruction. Imagine if it had been him, she thinks. What would you have been like after his death?

She can’t imagine it. Not really. She only has the sense that it would have unbearable. Maybe the surprise is that it was the same for Mulder.

She’s just finishing running the extension of the vacuum over his Navajo blanket when she discovers she needs to slow down. It’s more than just her eyes being damp with a few tears—she just doesn’t feel very well.

Her stomach is completely unsettled, the way it was yesterday when she was in shock.

All right. She takes a calming breath. Maybe she has just overdone it in warm weather. Or maybe her body is just still having a physical reaction to all she went through yesterday—all she continues to go through today.

As though in a trance, she sets the vacuum down, steadying herself against the couch for a moment.

Some water, perhaps, could help. She walks calmly into the kitchen and pours herself another tall glass. Drinking that down does make things better for a few seconds. But then her stomach again tilts dangerously, causing her to grab at the edge of the sink in panic.

Slowly, cautiously she walks back into Mulder’s bedroom, hands outstretched like she is trying not to spill something.

Lowering herself backwards on the bed, closing her eyes, she concentrates on trying to get the world to stop moving. The radio is playing some bouncy dance song. Her stomach, unfortunately, seems to want to bounce right along. Up, down, side to side.

She places a palm on her abdomen, trying to settle, settle, stop, stop, slow down, settle.

And then at once the movement is too much. She hops up and bolts into Mulder’s bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before throwing up.

When she’s finished, when she has wiped off her face, she creeps uneasily back into the bedroom, feeling defeated and powerless.

Sitting meekly down on the edge of the bed, she wraps her arms around herself. Questions flicker through her mind at record speed.

Do I have a stomach bug? Did I have one before my supposed death? No one mentioned her being ill.

Is nausea a side effect of whatever unknown force it was that took me and preserved me perfectly for a year? Or… is it a side effect of being a newly created clone?

She thinks of all the throwing up she did when she was going through chemo. Surely if her cancer had returned in her lost years, her mother and Mulder would have told her. Surely secrets like that, about her own body, they wouldn’t keep.

Why doesn’t she feel entirely sure about that? Her tendency to doubt, normally a strength, is in overdrive now, pushing against everything around her.

The peppy dance song seems to be winding down and another song fading in. This new song begins with some acoustic guitar strumming, which then erupts spectacularly into big moody electric guitar riffs.

“Look at the stars, look how they shine for you,” a male singer says. “And everything you do. They were all yellow.”

She runs her hands lightly up and down the sides of her abdomen. A love song. Unabashedly romantic. A little melancholy. Not at all what she feels like listening to.

It jogs loose a distant memory: Melissa walks into their bedroom to discover her lying on the floor, age thirteen, listening to a sentimental ballad on the record player and sobbing and sobbing. “Sometimes when we touch, the honesty’s too much, and I have to close my eyes and hide…”

Even back then, that kind of sentimentality was out of character for Scully, but somehow the song’s lyrics had just seemed to speak directly to her. And before she knew it, she was subsumed in some giant wave of early adolescent hormones and the tears started to flow. Melissa, after recovering from her initial surprise, had laughed so hard her face turned purple, and Scully, humiliated, had scrambled to her feet, trying to regain dignity. For years later, Melissa only had to lean over and whisper “sometimes when we touch” in her ear to tease her.

Scully isn’t thirteen now. Still, something—the music, being alone, feeling so out of control—reminds her of the memory.

She hates feeling vulnerable, and she feels it now: a longing for someone who loves her to come and tell her she’s okay — that everything is fine, that she will be taken care of.

She’s ashamed to admit to herself that she really wants it to be Mulder, a man who was never hers romantically. A man who can’t even make eye contact with her now.

Her tears are back with a vengeance. She sits there wracked by irregular sobs, listening to this unfamiliar song’s lyrics and feeling ashamed. The more she cries, the more she is eaten up with self-recrimination.

No more, she tells herself. Stop.

This time, she doesn’t notice that Mulder is standing in the door of the bedroom.

“Are you … crying?” he says suddenly.

His voice startles her. She changes demeanor immediately, sitting up straight on the bed, angling her face away from him.

“No,” she says shortly.

A thick pause. “It looks like you are.”

“The song made me cry a little, if you must know.”

“This song?” Mulder listens. He’s getting as much of an education about current music as she is, she thinks bitterly. “This song about … the color yellow?”

“Yes, Mulder, the song,” Scully snaps, trying to wipe her eyes on his tee-shirt without him seeing.

The singer punctuates that moment with: “For you I’d bleed myself dry,” followed by the cinematic guitar riffs.

Scully finds herself swallowing back aniother involuntary sob, now fixating on the lyric. Of course she would have bled herself dry. As he would have, for her. Because fundamentally that was what their partnership was, always, wasn’t it? That was the level of commitment they had towards one another. Commitment that was simple, total, devastating. At one point, anyway. Now apparently lost.

She sniffs. Why, why is she so weepy? Over lyrics to a song? She’s horrified with herself.

Mulder is stepping into the room, walking towards the bed where she is sitting, apparently at least concerned enough to investigate further. He walks to Scully’s flank, and she can’t avoid his inquisitive scowl.

When he glimpses her face, no doubt splotchy and streaked, he looks appalled, and that makes her angry all over again.

“Okay,” she hisses, “enough. Just stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking so concerned.”

“I am concerned—”

“You know, Mulder, you think I don’t understand what’s going on with you, but I do.”

“What do you understand?”

By some miracle, she is able to take a breath and find her calm, reasonable tone of voice. “You look at me, and you see a stranger. Which upsets you, so you feel sorry for yourself.” She wipes her eyes again on his tee-shirt, cursing this persistent, inconvenient fragility. “Just consider, please, that it’s very similar for me. From my vantage point you’re an impostor, too. You’re not the Mulder I know.”

He opens his mouth and closes it, suddenly stricken.

“The Mulder I know would never have given up the X-files,” Scully says in a low voice. “The Mulder I know trusts me. Calls me Scully. He sleeps on his couch, not… in some bed with some fancy sheets with some unknown woman. When it comes down to it, I don’t know you. You’re a stranger. It’s unsettling… for both of us.”

Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you.

He just stares at her, looking faintly stunned. He doesn’t speak for a moment.

When he does say something, it isn’t what she expects. “I … sleep in a bed in some fancy sheets with some woman?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. Whatever. I saw some woman’s clothes in your bed when I came in yesterday. It’s not important.”

He looks at the bed, and he seems to realize something. “You’re talking about the sweater.”

She nods, crossing her arms, more tears streaking down her face.

His eyes linger on the bed.

“That’s not really the point,” Scully says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just part of what has changed, what feels different, what seems—”

“Scully,” he interrupts her, now turning to fix her with a serious gaze. He repeats it more loudly. “Scully.”

It’s her turn to look stunned. Her name—her actual name—on his lips echoes around the room, in her ears, in her mind, everywhere.

“I don’t look at you and see a stranger,” he continues.

Somewhere, out on the streets of Alexandria, a car horn honks. There is no other sound in the room.

“You’re not a stranger to me,” he repeats. “Everything about you is familiar. Completely familiar. Painfully familiar.”

He looks like he is going to reach out his hand to her for a moment, but he drops it and looks at his feet instead. When he looks back up, she sees his eyes are red.

“But you might be right that you lost the Mulder you knew,” he says. “I don’t know if that guy exists any more.” He turns to leave the room. “I’m sorry, Scully.”

She’s left there with the sound of her name still playing back again and again in her ears. intertwining with the sound of a song on the radio.

#the x files #xfiles fanfic #x files fanfic #dana scully #fox mulder #x files #my fic #pause

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sometimesiwritetoo · 1 year ago

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The Hero Of Peace wears a 36D

Just posting this bc I started and then stopped it and kind of don't know if I'm gonna continue at some point but if ppl find it interesting hopefully it inspires some copycats.

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Katsuki found himself contemplating different words for butt. There was darrier or posterior if one wanted to be polite. Butt was straightforward, almost clinical these days. Booty was found in all of the songs that didn't want to be outright crass. It specifically called to image women with a lot of booty. Ones with very prominent booties. But that was not all. There were other mundane words like buttocks, rear, or caboose. Keister if one wanted to get a little foreign with it. Children sometimes said tush or heiny if they were raised properly, Katsuki wasn't so he'd never used those. Cheeks reminded him of Round Cheeks, and Round Cheek's lower cheeks were not on his mind when he came up with the nickname so he didn't particularly like the word. Finally there were words like ass. And while Katsuki may be an ass he did not usually find his mind occupied with them. Unless they were attached to one Keeper of the Peace hero who's arrival back into Japan came with some… transitions.

One year ago people online began to speculate. The uber fans could get quite occupied with their idols. Every appearance was scrutinized in heavy amount of detail, and heroes were no different. No matter the age. They'd all had weird theories about them floated around, but this one ended up being an iceberg problem in so far as it led down to a much deeper topic. Deku's ass had been steadily growing. The ass in question had always been great, but it was widening a noticeable amount for some months before the theory surfaced online. The first major guesses as to the cause was a new diet. Protein and squats sang the gym bros. In reality they were not wrong, Deku did enjoy squats. Not that Katsuki paid that much attention to them. But no, it was not just the exercises. It was not just a sudden influx of protein powder and egg whites. It was hormones. Estrogen to be specific. Prescribed and taken in secret, which over time gave Deku a lovely set of buns - another word for butt. Eight months after these rumors had begun to circulate Deku submitted a letter announcing not only a transition but a sabbatical. Six months out of country to transition and if everyone could please respect their hero's new identity that would be great kthxbye. Needless to say things had gotten interesting at the office. None of them had known, and Deku was long gone by the time the ball dropped and thus could not be questioned. It was genius if Katsuki said so himself, though he couldn't help but blow up a punching bag or two at the news. His poor mood was a mystery. Deku was gone for six months. And when she came back she jumped right in the middle of a villain attack without her gear, luggage at the train stop she'd dashed from. Through a mix of lack of practice and circumstance she'd been knocked, into Katsuki who'd gotten knocked into a nearby wall. A hilarious conga line of misfortune that ended with Deku's ass planted firmly in Katsuki's face. A 2/10 experience he'd have to let Mineta know. "Sorry Kacchan!" The voice said. Deku had always had a higher pitched voice, so even then it was recognizable. She reached down to help him up. She was still just a few centimeters shorter than him, making her a bit taller than most women in Japan. Before leaving her hair had been growing out, now it was cut in a shorter style with the sides faded. She wore little make up except for a very bold, red lip. Her travel clothes were just a green t-shirt and dark, blue jeans. Completely unsuited for battle. "Holy shit it's Midoriya." Shitty hair belted in his stupid, loud voice. "You look hot!" "Thanks Kiri!" She replied, though her eyes were on the gentleman with the tentacle monster quirk. "You don't look half bad yourself!"

#izuku midoriya #bakugou katsuki #bakudeku #bkdk #dkbk #mha #Trans!Izuku

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addictwoapen · 2 years ago

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then vs. now

there are two versions of my father that exist.

“you can do anything you set your mind to” dad. And “not all men” dad.

as a child I was told it doesn’t matter what other people think or feel, I can do what I want. I can be an athlete, I can be smart, I can do whatever I want and fuck everyone that says otherwise. And while the sentiment was there, two things could not be true, or it didn’t feel like it could be anyway.

When I was a kid, I loved sports. I still do. I love playing sports and learning mechanics, and I have since forever. I was the boy my father never had with two older brothers who never quite learned how to throw a ball correctly. I remember being told I had a good arm in first grade, and how I was faster than the other boys at recess. I remember, even though it’s blurry now, thinking I could not be both a tom boy or a girly girl. How I had to choose if I wanted to wear pink or be good at sports. Even at the age of six I was aware that boys thought girls sucked simply because of my double X’s. I was aware that “boys rule” meant more than a harmless us vs. them type of pride.

So I chose. I decided girly girls were dumb and insipid. I chose to be athletic and school-smart. I was praised and held to high standards. No Cs or you’re grounded, no tennis lessons unless I went to the gym. Because all that could be demanded of me was excellence. As a kid, I thought this was just strictness of my parents beliefs about education and hard work. As an adult, I’ve come to realize it stems from mom and dad’s insecurities. We are at the mercy of grandparents even when they’ve been gone for years.

I hated the color pink from second grade on, and I still do to this day. I hated being called Barbie since I was the stereotypical blonde-haired-blue-eyed white girl. I hated that all I was allowed to be was pink. It felt like no matter which side I looked at, I was stuck in a box. I couldn’t be angry because it wasn’t ladylike, I received much more punishment for swearing as a teenager than my older brother did. It wasn’t until I was 20 in a Jewel Osco during Covid that I told my father to grow up and get over it. I was an adult and I would make my own decisions about the way that I spoke and behaved.

It wasn’t until I was a bit older that I realized that girls and women had the capacity for so much more, but suffered with self-actualization and introspection much earlier than our male friends.

When explaining the waves of feminism to my dad on a bike ride in 2021, he said “I don’t know anything about this waves of feminism shit” and I replied “must be nice”. He didn’t get it.

The first version of my dad loved his daughter fiercely. I was daddy’s little girl who was a little spoiled but wasn’t a brat. We played catch together. We played HORSE together in the driveway where he spray painted basketball court lines for me on the ground to practice my free-throws in sixth grade. We went to the tennis courts to practice my serves in seventh grade. We traveled to Texas in college to watch me play at Nationals. He said I could do anything I put my mind to.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that he said “well...”.

And there it was.

The stipulation that he knew that the world would treat me different and that while it may be unfair-I had to adjust, and it shouldn’t be the other way around. When I talk of creepy men in the gym I had just started attending, it was “yeah but I don’t do that,” when I talk of 60+ year old men hitting on me and asking me out to drinks when I was 19 it was “that’s not that weird,”. It’s invalidation at it’s finest, and understanding that he will truly never get it.

I often think of a memory. I was in elementary school. My dad and I often used to go on hikes together on the weekend in the forest preserves of the suburbs of Chicago. I couldn’t pinpoint my age but I wasn’t fully self-aware yet, so it was pre-fifth grade. He would say “no matter what anyone tells you, you can do anything you want, and it doesn’t matter that you’re a girl”. This was in reference to a woman we passed who was hiking on her own, and even at a young age, I was aware of the danger she could be in on a 5am hike in the middle of a forest with no houses for miles. I remember thinking as a young girl “why would I risk getting hurt?”. It was a memory I would come back to often throughout childhood, as I reminder that I could do anything. But as I approached adulthood, I sometimes revel in my father’s naivety.

There are always stipulations.

As an adult, my dad still thinks I can do what I want, but if I have to work harder to fight prejudice because I am a woman, than that is what I must do. I shouldn’t cry about the injustice I have and inevitably will again face. I should suck it up and power through it. Because as a middle-age white man with a steady job, he has never faced discrimination or prejudice for things he can’t change about himself.

The latter version of my father makes no excuses for his behavior. He says “if you don’t like it, I don’t care”. Despite his secretly hidden desire to be seen, to be heard. He says he doesn’t care what others think, but I think he cares too much sometimes. We are the same in that regard, and it is terrifying. His lack of empathy towards others of different experiences is astounding when he raised a daughter that has an excess of it. His anger is often misplaced and rooted in toxic masculinity and the idea of a traditional family despite a certain lack of religious or traditional upbringing.

There are two versions of my father that exist.

Naïve and Jaded.

#barbie #feminism #femalerage

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hatha-yoga-gear · 2 years ago

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Women's Light Blue Seamless Yoga Set - Gym Shorts + Crop Top

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#yoga shorts #yoga top #yoga clothes #yoga

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tsivi · 9 months ago

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Also! Little note.

The perception of performance of femininity is so fucking inconsistent.

In the gym, in my pastel blue and pink Thai shorts and hot pink shinguards (above), I’m hyper feminine. I’m the most girly girl in the setting, and , to my coaches credit, I’ve only ever been embraced for it.

Outside the gym, however, I have the same amount of (no) makeup on, same exact unstyled hair, and simply pull sweat shorts over my Thai shorts and go to target? Suddenly I’m very masc in this setting. Suddenly I’m as butch as it gets. You can wear the same outfit, be the same person, and simply exist in two different places the same way and your feminity or masculinity is perceived differently.

Also! I’m still talking apparently! I don’t really have girl friends. I have afab friends, but I don’t really have *girl* friends. My hyper feminity (and raging autism) isn’t well accepted by women! Like at all! They presume it’s ??? Attention seeking, shallow, stupid, idk tbh I’m not them, and it makes it fucking hard to make girl friends who aren’t YK, in a cult. And I’m too masculine for the faction of feminine girls who are scared of queerness. And I’m too bi and ace for queer women to not treat me like a grifter and a leper. So I hang out with people who are as gender non conforming as I am, even if on paper I am fine I guess with identifying as a woman (genuinely don’t feel all too strongly about it, simply care so little I dont consider my identity at all).

also while i’m ranting about gender i always see debate about whether girls are rewarded for being tomboys or not and it’s like. actually girls are rewarded for mirroring whatever the situation demands of them. girls can’t be too prissy and refuse to play in the creek, but girls also can’t show up to girly events covered in mud. girls can’t have makeup art as a hobby or else they’re superficial, but if they never wear makeup they’re a slob and dumpy, etc. it’s not that girls are universally rewarded or punished for being tomboys, they’re rewarded for bending over backwards to always be exactly right for any given situation and punished for breaking those boundaries. so yes a classically pretty girl who cleans up nice is rewarded when she can ALSO be a tomboy. but a girl who is a tomboy all the time is definitely punished for never being able to achieve that prerequisite feminine side. this debate is over now thanks

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fashion2025store02 · 9 days ago

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UConn Huskies Women’s Basketball 12th National Champions Dark Blue T-Shirt

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This is more than a championship shirt. It’s a monument in motion, a way for fans across generations to celebrate a team that has become synonymous with greatness. Whether you're in the stands, on campus, or watching from afar, this tee lets you carry the power and pride of the Huskies' twelfth title right over your heart—and across your shoulders.

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Beyond aesthetics and fabric, this shirt is steeped in meaning. It commemorates more than a title—it honors a movement in women’s sports, a celebration of athletes who broke barriers, inspired generations, and proved time and again that the Huskies don't just play the game—they define it.

To wear this shirt is to stand in solidarity with greatness. With Coach Geno Auriemma’s legacy, with every shot made and challenge overcome, with every player who stepped onto the hardwood and left it better than they found it.

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#UConnDynasty #Huskies12xChamps #FearTheHuskies #WearTheCrown #GreatnessInEveryThread

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aperfectangelgirl · 2 months ago

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i have the weirdest sense of nostalgia around middle school. it’s weird because at the time, i was so lonely. i had a hard time making friends. i wore the same hoodie every day - an orange aeropostale zip up in sixth grade, a blue aeropostale zip up in seventh grade - in hopes that i would be invisible. i was painfully awkward, an ugly duckling, somehow already having my first thoughts of suicide before i’d even learned how to live. but on nights that i have trouble sleeping, it’s one of my favorite places to walk through in my head.

enter through the lobby and the gym doors are just ahead. go right, towards the office, and then right again. that’s where my sixth grade locker was. i had a bottom locker, so i was always having things dropped on me. go left from the office and up the stairs to the sixth grade classrooms. directly to the left was my pre-algebra class, where a classmate held a pencil straight up on his friend’s chair as he sat down and stabbed him in the nuts. he had to get a testicle removed. they remained friends. continue down the hallway and on the left is my homeroom. i would read a lot at school, and my homeroom was rambunctious; one day, my homeroom teacher pulled me aside and thanked me for being a good kid and begged me not to let the others change me. head back towards the stairs and on the right is my english teacher’s room. i remember reading a book about a boy who turned invisible due to a heated blanket, and he and his blind friend had to figure out how. that teacher was fired a decade later for exchanging inappropriate pictures with a student teacher. i was so stunned when i heard about it. you don’t often expect that behavior from women.

down the stairs, take a right, back to the gym. enter either set of double doors. the girls’ locker room is to the right, the stage straight ahead. go into the girls’ locker room. in the far back left corner was my locker. i would huddle in that corner, so embarrassed about changing around others. sometimes i’d just go to the bathroom and change there. i don’t know what instilled such shame in me so early. once dressed we would walk in circles with music playing, all of the classic pop hits of the 2000s, uncensored because we didn’t know better anyway. i always had gym on paw days, and other special classes on stripe days. we’d sit down in long lines for our respective teachers to take attendance. i remember being segregated sometimes - boys got to play basketball, girls had to do gymnastics, up on the stage with the curtains drawn shut. i remember our gymnastics teacher wearing grey sweatpants that very clearly showed his huge erection and wondering how that was allowed. for a month or so every year, the school would bring in cases of roller skates. i knew nothing about it in sixth grade, but i got pretty good by eighth. it was always my favorite time of year.

exit the gym the way you came in and head to the right. directly ahead is the pink hallway, where my seventh grade homeroom and spanish classes were. to the right, the cafeteria and the stairs to the breezeway. the breezeway was a short hallway made up of all windows, bright with sunlight. this is where my seventh grade locker was, also a bottom locker, with an even bigger clutz above me than the previous year. the breezeway was also everyone’s first choice of where to fight. close proximity to the cafeteria and relative distance from classroom doors made it the best place for kids to settle whatever they started at lunch.

past the breezeway, the stairs to the right led down to my eighth grade homeroom, and beyond that, the special class hallway. in order from furthest down the hall to closest to the stairs, and the order i attended classes each year: art, health, tech, music. the art teacher was always stoned, but i really enjoyed her class. in sixth grade i won a contest with a watercolor painting and won $100, awarded at a lion’s club dinner in town. the health teacher was intimidating but thorough, especially with hammering abstinence into our heads. i remember the birth video. it succeeded in scaring me out of giving birth, but not out of having sex. the tech teacher for the first two years was impossibly old, past retirement, and horribly bullied by my classmates. something about picking on old people really appeals to kids of that age; perhaps the impossibility of ever reaching it themselves. i felt terrible for him and was relieved when he retired. the music teacher scared everyone. i did great in her class. which is good, because i had holiday dinners at her house and saw her at family events for three years, due to her being my ex’s grandmother.

back up the stairs. turn right at the top. my algebra teacher’s room is just to the right. my best friend at the time once irritated him so badly that he snapped a yard stick and cursed at her. further down the hallway is my eighth grade english teacher’s room. she once yelled at me and my eighth grade boyfriend for holding hands. further down is my eighth grade geometry classroom. the teacher had a funny name, a short temper, and a running joke amongst the kids about her head being shaped like a lima bean. before reaching her room, turn left to go down the eighth grade hallway. my locker was down here. i think it was a top locker for once, but i can’t quite remember. at the end of the hallway on the right was one of my favorite teachers, my eighth grade science teacher. i don’t even really remember why i liked him so much. he was just cool and good at his job. i always loved science and math classes the best.

my absolute favorite part of the whole building, though? the library. and i can’t actually remember where in the building it was or how to get to it. but i remember going up the stairs, the office to the left, the computer lab straight ahead, the books to the right. i was an avid reader, so i was there all the time. i can still smell the books. i can still see the hardwood shelves and scattered tables. i always wondered how students got to volunteer at the checkout counter during school hours, but i never figured it out. i remember the way the light filtered in the windows of the computer lab. the librarian had a grating voice, a large russian woman with a hard to pronounce last name. but she was nice enough to me.

it’s funny how many teachers remain in my memories just for being nice. the kids were not as nice. i was, once again, so lonely for most of my time in that building. i spent most of it trying to melt into the background; maybe even trying to melt away completely. knowing how i felt then makes it feel nearly impossible that i made it out. it felt like it would never end while i was there. which once again, makes this nostalgia and crystal-clear memory so strange. i can see the texture of the floors. i can feel the pink hallway walls under my fingertips. i can smell the library books. i can’t sense myself, though. not there.

#thoughts #drafts #nostalgia #middle school

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ananyasme · 2 months ago

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Blue Leggings for Women: A Must-Have Wardrobe Essential

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hellfiresky · 4 months ago

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Welcome to Interstate Arms. You are safe now.

Welcome to Interstate Arms, where the sun never rises, and city lights are your only source of warmth.

I firmly pressed the pedal as I crossed the city border. The glimmering fluorescent buildings smiled at me from a distance. The sun never rises in this city, huh?

I found the map to Interstate Arms after a long night of non-stop drinking. My girlfriend of six years had left me for another man, my best friend had taken their own life, and my parents had written me out of their inheritance when they discovered I’d been selling my nudes online. I thought I’d never step foot in that little bar down the street again, but there I was, chugging my nth shot of tequila and dancing on a glass table. As I was about to leave, a woman in a tangerine skirt handed me a map of the city. “Best place to bury your pain,” she said cheekily.

Who the fuck names a city like a pub? My head was too dizzy to even think about it. I took a purple taxi home and crashed on my sofa, the cheap find I’d picked up at a garage sale across the street. The lava lamp I’d bought for the sake of “cheering up my inner child” glowed dimly in my cramped living room, as if to remind me that the 90s were over and I was nothing but a 36-year-old stuck in my childhood hometown. I rinsed whatever was left on my face that night with cold water and changed into a shirt I’d been wearing for the past week. As I tried to bring myself to sleep, the crumpled map of Interstate Arms found its way back to me. The map was a piece of worn-out brochure torn from a magazine. The sound of flapping paper filled the room as I clutched it to my chest. There was nothing but pictures of smiling models in front of skyscrapers at night.

On the back of it, there was a fading technicolour photograph of what looked like another picture of a city of skyscrapers pierced by beams of light. The picture was at an angle, the horizon never quite revealing its full length. It was a little fuzzy, and I suppose if you zoomed in and examined it further, you’d see a white line across a darker-tinted block of land. The area looked crowded with people walking and going to work, but I couldn’t really tell who was who. Maybe the women and men in yellow, blue, and red shirts, or the soldiers in green uniforms, or all of them.

There was a headline, yellowed and warped, like the pages of a newspaper you’d fold up and forget in the back seat of your car after reading. The black ink was faded and the words unreadable, the most legible parts being “City of” and “Fever”. Forming words, they were neither readable nor unreadable, but I couldn’t make out what the headline was trying to say.

I had nothing left to do in that town. It was filled with wind, and it was wet, and I didn’t want it. Nothing excited me anymore. I smelled the pills I’d been taking. They smelled like vitamins, iron, and sickness. I didn’t know what they were, but I was glad I could smell them. There was a slight scent of metal and smoke in the room. My clothes were somewhat clean and still fresh. I liked that. I liked the smell of cleanliness: mothballs and dust, old clothes and old books, stale air and rotting food, and mildewed sheets.

What should I do now? My bed was small and rattling. The sheets and blankets were torn, wrinkled, and dirty. Tired, I lay down and pulled the covers to my chest. There were folds in the pages of the map as it stared back at me. I stretched my back and got up. I reached down, my back popping with each vertebra. I languidly packed my gym bag with clean clothes, socks, and shoes. I also threw in the map and some pills I’d been taking. I set my alarm for 5 pm and slept my way through the day — hoping to sober up in between childhood nightmares.

On those days, I would wake with the birds and blush, stinking, to run around in a mad way, with frantic energy I hadn’t felt in years. Dashing and weaving to avoid cop cars, ice-cream vans, and old women pushing their overflowing shopping trolleys down the street. I was one of those lost people again, like when I was a boy. I always felt far more alive in those lost moments. I wanted to feel lost again, like that time when I was in the hospital and they gave me a whole body cast. But I was a boy then, and I wasn’t determined to get well again.

Looking back is a bitch, isn’t it? 93.6 FM of Interstate Arms will only play songs that remind you of your past while making you wistful for the days ahead. What is sadness if it’s not shared? Don’t forget to stop by our studio for an hour of music to heal your wounded arms.

My radio randomly tuned to a local station as I got closer to my destination. A city with no signs. Tucked away behind a broken road near an old petrol station. I was welcomed by a tunnel, lit with bluish neon lights. I let the radio blare upbeat dark house music—it was quite fitting. I didn’t remember seeing this city anywhere, but the entirety of it seemed far too familiar.

I sped my car through the tunnel and finally saw several other vehicles on the road. Great, I wasn’t hallucinating. I looked up at the skylights and cityscapes as I drove through the night. I rolled down my window and tasted the air. It was clean, it was breezy, it was… home.

The city was a blocky and sloped mass of brick with a downtown core of brutalist concrete buildings — some with second-storey balconies, others with no upper storeys at all. Some had been renovated, making the skyline into a jumbled “I’m a higher-up” arrangement. There were balconies on almost every building, like you’d find in Paris or Venice, except here they were made of steel, concrete, and broken iron.

I continued driving downtown. Millions of neon lights blasted my face, like Tokyo after dark. But it wasn’t Tokyo. Interstate Arms’ downtown was devoid of advertisements. It was all street signs, office buildings, hotels, bars, and restaurants. None of the names was familiar to me. I quickly found my way to a car park with no ticket machine. It was utopia, I thought. Everything was right for once, and I had everything I needed with me. I had nothing left.

I parked my battered red car on the third floor and put on my one and only leather jacket. I stuffed in my earphones and tuned into the radio again, letting it guide my way through this alien city, which I had little experience with. I found myself lost anyway. The buzzing lights and noisy streets, the skyscrapers and the midnight-blue taxis. I was in a different world.

I walked, browsing the streets for a bar. I was looking for a bar where I could be alone, where I could stare at the ceiling and tell myself my troubles, my fears. I needed to tell someone, anyone, and the people in the bar seemed like the best listeners.

Don’t roll up your sleeves just yet. The next song is about a painless life and blissful beginnings. Happy New Year to you too, listener number 86. We’ve never seen you here before. Walk slowly, you might be here for a while. The streets around you are crawling with people. The smell of their sweat and their bodies. They are the smell of your normal life, the smell of a hundred sweaty bodies filing through your route every day.

I slowed my pace, completely ignoring the fact that the announcer had just low-key referred to me as “listener number 86.” Eighty-six was the model of my car, and for some reason, I didn’t mind being under tight surveillance. Gone were my anarchist thoughts. The wet ground reflected the streetlights. People in latex and leather marched down the streets like it was an impromptu fashion show, or maybe some fetish festival?

Everything felt cold and warm at the same time. I turned down a side street towards what looked like an underground gig and showed the bouncer my ID.

“You’re new here?” His eyes were waxy and brown, but the rhythm of his voice was like walking through mud, a rhythm I could relate to, a rhythm that anyone could. He chuckled as he patted my pockets.

I carefully scanned the room. No, no familiar faces. It was a bit strange, considering the city was only a couple of hours away. I ordered a gin and tonic and stood there in silence, observing the club.

There was a mix of smoke and sweat in the air, and there were a lot of people. I could hear the music, but it was muffled, too loud for my taste. It was a young crowd. The atmosphere was suffocating, like oxygen deprivation, mixed with the smell of sweat, cigars, and body odour. The cocktail also reeked of stale alcohol, a stench that had lingered here for years. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, cologne, and cheap deodorant. It felt intimate, but not in a good way, like half-asleep intimacy, with someone blasting loud music in headphones next to you.

A woman in a flowing red dress walked towards me. Her hair was the colour of the night sky: deep blue with a hint of grey. She lit a cigarette and offered me one.

I shrugged.

“Are you sure you don’t want to blend in?” she raised her caterpillar brows. Her perfume smelled like thunder, moon, stars, and lightning. It smelled like the blackness of the sky if the sky wasn’t full of glitter dust.

“I’m in transit,” I lied.

My gym bag full of clothes was ready for a permanent move to this eclectic city.

Suddenly, everyone around me looked at me and burst into laughter. “Don’t be silly! Interstate Arms is always our last destination!” said the woman in red.

She flicked her hair before she continued. “Everyone left me last year… to that bloody disease, to marriage, to school, to work, to death.” Her pitch-black eyes consumed all the lights in that underground club. “And then I came here. Everything started to fall into place again.” There were so many people, but I couldn’t see anyone in particular. Everything was blurry as if I were seeing through a thick mist. When I blinked, my vision cleared, but the crowd was still there, just as much as before.

The lights reflected off the woman’s black hair and the flashing colours of her red dress. Her eyes glowed red like the crescent moon on the horizon, like a blazing supernova waiting to explode. She stood in a sea of dancing shadows. Her amber eyes stared straight into my soul before gazing blankly into the crowd.

The radio announcer kept talking in my ears. It was difficult to concentrate on several things at once, but I could faintly hear him talking about the heavens. About gods and life and death. About the light at the end of the tunnel.

I quickly finished my drink and paid the bill. The woman in red was no longer there. Not even her summery scent lingered.

I walked past the crowd. Everyone was hypnotised by the strobe light, which eventually blinded me. I reached out to stop my fall. I touched skin, hard as asphalt. It was like someone had grabbed me and flung me across the dance floor. I could feel the light’s rays right through my eyelids. They burned into my skin like a thousand suns, leaving it ashen and dry.

And boom, I blacked out.

I opened my eyes and found myself in a damp alley. The sound of steel and metal clanking filled the air. My vision was blurry, and my head was spinning. The figure in front of me paced back and forth, the clanking sound growing louder by the second.

Before I knew it, my body reacted on its own. I sat up immediately, only to feel a piercing headache as I crouched back down. A drop of sweat ran down my cheek and landed on the ground, reflecting the fluorescent glow of an EXIT sign.

I couldn’t help but remember the dream. It was the same nightmare I’d been having almost every other night. But this time, the dream seemed more vivid than ever before. As if it were more than just a dream—a memory.

“I’m already late. Let’s go!”

“Who are you?” I whimpered.

I could see flashes of light and tons of different hues. My eyes hurt, and my head spun. The figure in front of me was wrapped in a leather coat, their body tall and built like a Roman soldier. Red, wavy hair cascaded down their back, and they wore a black mask, leaving only their pulsating eyes exposed.

“W-what do you want?” I stuttered.

“Look at you. So much potential,” their deep voice echoed. “I’m giving you a choice. You can either come with me or burn yourself in the bar’s acid waste.”

The words hit me like a brick. I could taste the acrid sting of burning acid in the back of my throat. My lips began to swell. “And what will happen to me if I come with you?” I asked.

“That’s entirely up to you. I have a proposition I think you’ll like.” Their eyes, dark as the deepest depths of the ocean, stared through me.

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll perish. You’ll be sucked into the crevices of this flammable city, where all you’ll find is torment and agony.”

The figure pulled me up and began walking towards a red, worn-out motorcycle. Its engine roared like a symphony of rusted metal. “Eighty-six, you brought your car here, eh?”

I nodded slowly, though my head was swimming. The surveillance system in this city, I swear—

“Are you going to just stand there like an idiot? Get on the bike. We’ll get your car!” they shouted. The night air felt colder now. I had thought this neon-bathed city was home. My feet were rooted to the ground. I was a part of this city. I was trapped here, stuck like a rat in a cage.

But I didn’t know what else to do. I followed the figure in leather, climbing onto the back of their motorcycle. I grabbed the steel moulding underneath the seat for balance.

“Do you want to get thrown off this bike?”

Fuck. That felt emasculating. I put my arms around their waist instead. The figure sped out of the alley. It felt as though I didn’t exist, as if I were nothing but a ghost in this eternally dark city.

The ride was chaotic. The wind whipped past my face, neon lights flashing by in dizzying streaks. The sound of the engine roared in my ears. We drifted through the streets until we reached a parking structure. The figure parked the motorcycle right next to my now battered car.

“There it is. Get in and follow me.”

I slid into the driver’s seat. The engine sputtered to life as I turned the key. The figure took off ahead of me on their motorcycle, and I followed. It felt surreal, driving through this strange city. The streets were deserted except for the occasional shadow of a pedestrian or the headlights in the distance. Finally, we reached an unmarked building tucked away in a narrow alley. The figure dismounted their bike and motioned for me to park.

“What is this place?”

“You’ll see,” they led me through a heavy steel door and into a dimly lit room. The smell of mildew punched my gut. “What’s this proposition?” I probed.

The figure turned to face me. “Welcome to the heart of Interstate Arms,” they said. “You’ve just taken your first step into a new life.”

We’re glad you’ve made it. The lights are brighter here, aren’t they? The air clearer. But don’t get too comfortable, we know why you’re here. Everyone who finds themselves in Interstate Arms has a story like yours. A life like yours. And an ending like yours. Remember the map? The tequila? The pills? You’ve been driving through the longest tunnel of your life, but don’t worry, the headlights have been switched off. That crash, that leap, that sip was the last thing you had to do. Welcome home, to the city where the sun never rises and no one ever leaves. Welcome to the arms that will hold you forever.

The announcer’s voice trailed off into static, and the room fell silent again. The figure in the leather coat stood still, watching me as if they already knew everything I’d just realised. Interstate Arms was a place to carry it forever. The last stop. And as I stared at the neon lights outside the window, I couldn’t tell whether I was scared, or relieved.

#my fic #speculative fiction #cyberpunk #originally posted on Medium #Spotify

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