#base for artificial grass

[bonefall]

Is there beef with the Holstein cows and you or what was that joke lol

It's kind of wild It's just never come up on this blog before, but I HATE holsteins. Bottom 10 cow breeds for me. I hate how they're so common they account for the majority of milk produced. I hate that they're the "default" cow to the point where some don't even know cattle HAVE other colors. I hate their tiny horns (IF THEY EVEN HAVE THAT. LOSER ASS HORNLESS COW) and their painfully massive udders.

Legit I'm trying so hard to not launch into a No Mouth Must Scream style AM speech-- shoot my hand slipped.

(AM speech about why i dont like holsteins below the cut)

For starters, I have to give a brief lesson on what these terms mean; the "Holstein" is the American strain of the "Frisian" breed. Frisians are an ancient breed from Frisia, in the north of what we now consider the Netherlands. Crosses between the breeds are "Holstein-Frisians."

(There’s even more to this but im keeping it as simple as possible. Also one of my friends is Frisian and she is probably going to kill me for describing it like that.)

Historically, livestock was adapted to the environment they lived in. Frisians were bred by the Frisii people for hundreds of years in extremely grass-rich, lush, flat environments. The "polders" of the northern parts of the Netherlands. They're huge and eat a LOT of food.

Traditional Frisians were developed to produce as much meat and milk from a single individual as possible, without compromising the health of the cattle with constant inbreeding to get quick gains. We are talking about a breed that is over 2000 years old. They had the perfect environment to make The Ultimate Food Cow and by god they did it. I can respect that.

So, take that, drag it across an ocean to a place that does NOT have polders, and add the rapid enshittification of capitalism to it. BAM you've got a fucking holstein.

There is ONE goal for "improving" the holstein. Make More Milk. As long as the black and white milkbag leaks enough, nothing else matters. Health? Fertility? Feed ratio? Ability to not die of infection? WHO CARES. MILK LINE GO UP.

Over 90% of holsteins are inbred to start with, because Milk Line Go Up. To the tune of having an average COI of 8%-- where extreme negative effects (think Hapsburgs) start to crop up around 10%

Holstein bulls are aggressive bastards (many dairy bulls are), so no one wants to keep intact males in their herds, meaning most cows are artificially inseminated

Not being limited by the natural lifespan of a living bull means that the same stud can keep having direct offspring for decades after his death

Toystory the bull had 500,000 calves before he died, and hit over 1 million offspring in 2015. That's ONE animal and to put this in perspective, there are 9 million holsteins in the US.

DON'T WORRY IT GETS WORSE

Not only can 99% of holsteins be traced back to just two bulls-- 99% of male holsteins share one of two exact Y chromosomes with those two bulls.

The gene pool is so small that it's equivalent to about 60 individuals. Warrior Cat allegiances are larger than that. That's barely bigger than modern ThunderClan.

"Massive lack of genetic diversity" does not begin to capture the existential dread of this situation. Mark my words, WATCH, when the Bird Flu finally mutates a strain that rips through a mammalian population, it's gonna be in the USA and it's going to be through our dairy cattle.

This is not prophecy or me laying a curse on the land, this is the natural consequence of basing the stability of US milk production on the equivalent of 9 million clones of two classrooms worth of individuals, and then packing them in close quarters

And we don't have to wait for doomsday for the impacts to be apparent on the cattle themelves

Holstein fertility has also dropped by half since the 1960s when the intensive inbreeding really kicked into high gear

Because their whole body is dedicating all of their resources to milk production, they have a notoriously "bony" frame.

Show judges, however, like this because they think that's a very "feminine" look for a 1600 pound ruminant. Very normal thing to think.

Like. I don't know if i can communicate this to people who don't look at cows a lot (it's not quite as obviously dramatic as a pug skull) but here is a comparison of an "ideal" show holstein and an "unselected" holstein from a herd that's been established as a sort of "control group" for what they looked like back in the 1960s;

The way that the artery on the "modern" cow's belly runs to the udder like a big pink worm freaks me out the most ngl

The udder also bulges out from between the back legs

The show cow is so thin

And then compare these both to a Holstein-Frisian cross who leans more on the Frisian side;

Proper weight, developed legs. Its biggest "problem" is actually just the udder shape-- deep udders, which "hang" low like that, aren't optimal for milk-focused breeds because the higher away from the ground the less chance there is of infection. In that department, the "unselected" holstein clearly outclasses the holstein-frisian.

But it probably won't be surprising to hear that the "show holstein," with its massive, swollen udder, is SUPER prone to infections such as mastitis.

But it is also just more prone to getting sick generally

And, to keep up with these insane demands, holsteins need a TON of food. You aren't going to just turn these things out into a pasture and be done with it. Even its ancestor the Frisian needed premium Dutch polder grass to be such a good cow-- crank that up to 11 with these Monuments to Humanity's Hubrice

The Texas Longhorn developed in semi-feral conditions and can eat a bush to become the best thing in a 10 mile radius. The Scottish Highland was iron-forged in upland moors with a steady diet of turf and rain.

Meanwhile if a Holstein has less than 5 homemade meals a day without poland spring bottled water it will die to death.

And the WORST part? You have to use these if you want to make money in dairy farming. It's WAAY too expensive to just run a suboptimal farm. Their milk isn't great, but they sure do make a lot of it.

...so Holsteins and Holstein-Frisians (and other "super efficient" breeds) have absolutely decimated heritage cattle. The American Milking Devon is a deep reddish brown with gorgeous horns and low maintenance; rare. Randall Linebacks are painted with lines of white speckles down the back and can be used for any purpose; critically endangered. The Niata was a pug-faced cow who could fight jaguars; extinct.

And THAT'S what makes me hate them most of all. I LOVE cows, but whenever I see a reference to one, it's a holstein. It's always boring black and white splotches with big pink udders. They're practically synonymous with "cow" when their homogeniety is actually hiding much cooler breeds from you.

Did you know cows can be tiger-striped?

And that England has its own type of longhorn?

Or that cow horns can twist upwards like an antelope?

And that they can have REALLY LONG ears?

And that they can be blue?

And that's not even getting into some of the cows that have gotten a small crumb of attention lately, such as Highlands, Ankole-Watusi, and Texas Longhorns. There's so many cool cows out there! And they're all really different from holsteins! MOST of them are also a lot healthier and produce tastier milk and meat!

TL;DR yeah i don't like holsteins and I like sniping at them. For reasons both legit and petty.

[santarosaturf]

Find out how the right sub-base can improve your artificial grass installation. Achieve a smooth, stable lawn with these expert insights.

[headspace-hotel]

Things I would want to study in grad school if I had infinite energy and wasn't disabled by my disability, #2018529347248392: I was reading a paper about the role of fungal spores in human illness (esp. asthma) and noticed that the genera of fungi most commonly implicated were also some of the most common pathogens of plant crops and horticultural plants.

In my horticulture class, I am learning a lot about disease in crops, and how monoculture makes crop systems susceptible to disease. Under a monoculture based crop system, some of the most productive agricultural lands are places that receive little natural rainfall. Since moisture allows fungus and other pathogens to grow, it is cheaper to grow crops in a dry region and irrigate them artificially rather than to grow crops in a wet region where rain provides what the crops need, because in a monoculture, there is no diversity and a pathogen that is extremely infectious to one plant will be extremely infectious to every plant in the entire field, creating the worlds most explosive superspreader event.

But even beyond the monoculture crop fields, there is alarming sameness in the intentionally grown plant life of the world---nursery flowers and trees are often clonally propagated and picked out from a few species that are popular...and lawns, the lawns! vast oceans of monoculture grass!

It reminded me of another paper describing how in cities, the diversity of fungal spores is much lower than in the country.

Could plant sameness be affecting our health by affecting the variety of fungus that exists in the ecosystem?

If so...how? Could over-exposure to pathogenic fungi of plant monocultures cause allergic sensitization? Or could the absence of the other fungi associated with more complete plant ecosystems, also affect human health?

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Heartslabyul is canonically (I think) the largest dorm. I've read somewhere that Cater and Trey share a room when I feel like it's mentioned that third years and dorm leaders get their own room. We get to see this in Rook's dream where he's a third year savannaclaw (unless he DOES and I missed it... can you imagine... I don't know what I'd do if I were his roommate ��).

So since one dorm is notably the most jam-packed, is there one that's notably empty compared to the other dorms? Which do you think it would be? My first though was Diasomnia or Ignihyde, but I'm not sure? I could easily see it being any of the others... Maybe it's Savannaclaw due to Rook's dream / it being based (seemingly) on strength and stuff?

I think it could possibly be (from most to least) Heartslabyul, Scarabia, Octavinelle, Pomefiore, Ignihyde/Savannaclaw/Diasomnia?

I also thought about Scarabia being one of the smaller ones since they all seem kinda amicable? Plus we only have two members from the dorm compared to the rest of the main cast, but I'm not 100% sure that's a good thing to base any assumptions on considering that's more of a "player lore" thing rather than like, an in-universe type thing.

Plus, then the chart would be something like Heartslabyul, Diasomnia, Savannaclaw/Octavinelle/Pomefiore, Ignihyde/Scarabia

The rooming situation(s) at NRC work like this:

First years are four to a room.

Second years are two to a room.

Third years and dorm leaders get their own rooms.

Fourth year students don’t seem to get rooms since they’re all at off-campus internships; they only return to campus for the annual cultural festival and (I assume) graduation. The cultural festival is a few days long though, so I wonder if NRC has the space to house them on top of the first, second and third years, if the fourth years have to arrange their own temporary housing, of if they just head home via mirror gage every night and return the next morning.

All students use a communal washroom; not even the dorm leaders have a private one.

Correction: Cater and Trey roomed together as first and second years. Now that they are both third years, they each have their own rooms.

Rook seems to be a third year in his dream; he appears to have decorated his room half with Vil merch and half with Neige merch.

Rook was still a first and a second year at some point though, so he probably has traumatized some of his peers just by being in the same living quarters as them/j Good luck trying to sleep with the thought that Rook might be watching you rattling around in your brain 💀 Absolutely unnerving…

Heartslabyul is said to have the most students right now (200, I believe) because, thanks to Riddle’s efforts, everyone’s grades are good enough to keep them from failing, dropping out, or being held back. Round of applause for him!! 👏

We don’t have any confirmation as to which dorm has the least amount of students, but I have always assumed it was Diasomnia. Magic is very rare (only 10% of the human population are mages) and strong mages are even rarer. Diasomnia is a dorm characterized by magical all-rounders, which I’d assume would be exceedingly rare since many people—even if they are capable of magic—don’t necessarily also get formal magic training prior to formal schooling for it. Diasomnia is also the only dorm so far that seems to have fae students?? And history seems to imply fae are grossly outnumbered by the other races, especially humans (which are present in the other dorms). Their dorm just always seems so large and empty too… like there’s no one ever walking down those eerie hallways. Maybe they wouldn’t have many dropouts since everyone is already pretty gifted in magic, but I definitely feel like they get fewer students to start with every year.

I think Ignihyde only seems empty artificially because everyone in that dorm is basically a hermit that holes up in their own room and barely touches grass 😭 (including the darn dorm leader). No idea how many students are actually in it relative to the other dorms, but I think they wouldn’t have many dropouts because they seem generally smart and tech-savvy.

Brief aside: Ignihyde and Scarabia having two members apiece seems less like a sampling of its population based on overall dorm size and more like “these are the villains and concepts we wanted to twist”. Ortho shows us that the main cast can expand its student roaster, so I think this opens up the potential for new Scarabia and Ignihyde boys down the line. Again, not an accurate showing or indication that either dorm is lacking in membership.

I never got the sense that Pomefiore was empty either??? There seems to be plenty swarming us in book 5 on our way to meet up with the other SDC/VDC picks. Epel’s Ceremonial Robes vignettes also implies a fancy banquet for the entire dorm. They also have a large ass ballroom for the students to use, which implies a substantial volume of people. Vil also strikes me as someone who would whip his students into shape (similar to Riddle) if they’re not performing at their best.

I think Scarabia’s a decent size as well, since Jamil seems so stressed out by things like having to cook for banquets (albeit this number is inflated because Kalim invites students dorms other dorms too) or to carry the souvenirs Kalim bought for the entire dorm. I’m not sure if amicability can really help us determine a relative amount…? Being generally nice on the surface (we barely get to know Scarabia mobs) doesn’t mean you aren’t also arrogant, prideful, or two-faced beneath that. These are the same mobs who tried to keep us hostage to avoid being punished by (mind-controlled) Kalim, no? Scarabia is also one of the dorms known for their smarts, so I don’t see there being many dropouts, but there definitely could be some under Kalim’s lax leadership. I feel like Jamil would intervene to support those students though, or else this might reflect poorly on the Asims—and he has to make Kalim look good.

Octavinelle I feel is in a similar boat as Scarabia? It seems like Mostro Lounge is mainly staffed by Octavinelle students so they seem to be doing fine in terms of numbers. With them also being a smart dorm, I don’t think Octavinelle would have many dropouts. Even if there were some in danger of failing, Azul would do something to fix it because having students struggling is a Bad Look for him, the business owner and leader.

Lastly, there’s Savanaclaw! I don’t know if Rook’s dream is an accurate reflection of reality? It’s true that he remembers things with a frightening amount of detail, but it’s possible that the game assets are limited in showing us how populated Savanaclaw is in Rook’s mind since the story already has to balance so many main cast characters at once. Guesstimating the dorm’s capacity based on physical attributes doesn’t seem accurate either? Physical education is a credit requirement for all mages and good health + exercise is encouraged to help them spellcast and maintain normal levels of blot. Just because Savanaclaw has many athletes doesn’t mean they’re short on students. I do see them maybe having some students dropping out due to grades (since they’re not an academically aligned dorm), but surely it can’t be that huge of a number if Leona’s tutoring could help Ruggie (who didn’t seem to have an education prior to meeting Leona) get passable grades.

[silkenwinger]

natural predator

ghost x reader, shifter x shifter. strangers to friends to lovers with a little push. based on this and this. MDNI. cw: stalking, implied manipulation, scent kink, mating cycles/in heat, the slightest dubious consent, biting, implied knotting (it's still rather vanilla). dividers by @/strangergraphics

There are many ways to pass the time. 

You can walk around the block once, twice, until the winter frostiness gives out. Clean your one room apartment from top to bottom, taking care in picking soft scents not to overwhelm your nose. Enter the same shop every Wednesday, never buying anything because it is expensive. It’s a way of living. Perhaps not the best. You wouldn’t know any other, now.

It wasn’t always like this. You used to have parents and friends. Shared dinners. Warm faces by your neck and vice versa. It was scary, seeing it all change. And not being able to do anything about it but flee, thinking it’d be fine somewhere else. A space for your kind doesn’t exist anywhere. You make one by picking a corner and sitting there. And you’re fine here. These past months have gone by smoothly, if a little lifeless.

The one light from the canopy outside keeps flickering beat by beat through the glass doors as you check the register.

“Real issue, that one,” says your manager, Joe. Joe is nice. He lets you do as you please as long as you do the bare minimum. It’s just the two of you, most evening and night shifts in this gas station, and he takes frequent naps he calls resting his eyes.

“When did the repair man say he’d come?”

“Between tomorrow and Friday.” It’s Monday. “I swear my eyes are about to pop open. It’s always just behind them.” He says, making a gesture towards his head.

You close the register. The shop’s jingle plays while you bend over to fix the leg of your pants. When you rise to your full height again, you see him.

Imposing. Dressed in black. Silent and overbearing. He’s wearing the usual surgical black mask, and a cap. Outside, he wears the sweatshirt’s hood on the latter, but he has the sense to take it off inside.

“Good evening,” says Joe, throwing the man a suspicious look. Joe is wary of anyone he can’t get a full report of age and provenience out of, not to mention someone who doesn’t entertain his small talk. Bar you, since you’re a great listener.

The man doesn’t answer. Just lingers on the “sports and health” section for a minute, before grabbing a powdered protein bottle and taking it straight to the counter. You grab it without even looking at him in the eye. Scanning it, you chance a look. His black eyes are focused on your hands, a scar runs on his temple, jagged. His hair looks almost white in the cold, artificial light, his hands in the sweatshirt’s pocket. His eyes leave your hands and meet yours. A sensation crawls on top of you: the need to run. You ignore it and unlock your elbows. Prey instinct isn’t well received in human society.

There’s no nicer way of saying he has a smell. It’s not unpleasant, not at all. But it’s not quite a scent you can name either. Not vanilla, nor a spicy breeze. Not even a heavy musk. It’s just… odd.

You drop the bottle on the counter and tell him his total. He pays cash. Always. His nails brush against your palm as he drops it in your hand, and your breath is quivering. You snatch off your hand in a rush. In the corner of your eye, you can see Joe glaring at the both of you. He must be thinking you’re loony. You more than him, since you’re neglecting basic customer service pleasantries. 

He leaves. Your shoulders relax. But you can still smell him all around. 

You take a walk to the storage room. 

—

You skip around, the limited space hindering your jumps. In the distance cars speed and drive away, the sound muted by the rustling of foliage around your legs. The full moon shows your way through the arms of the trees, silver rays making a stone path on the green high grass. Your ear tickles to the left when you hear a sound, some sort of raspy screeching that has you raise your head. Unsettled, you turn back from where you came from, the meat in your thighs turning sour.

Joe is still asleep, his shiny head falling over his chest. When he wakes and sees you sitting at the counter, he makes an off comment about your hair being messy, voice still slurred by sleep. You fix yourself through the metal reflection on the fridges’ handles and clean the dirt from your nose.

—

Two teenage girls keep shoving their phones in your face. So far from their conversation and monologue towards you, it seems they’re on the lookout for something they call a “dupe”— a lipstick or something. You tell them all the makeout you hold is by the register, on their left. Their expressions clearly show their dissatisfaction with the selection, hands slapping to their sides when they let go of something. 

“Girls! We have to go!” Yells the children’s mother from near the exit, and the twins huff in perfect synchrony. They give the makeout shelf a final disparaging look and exit the store, not minding you one bit. You finish stacking up the bandaids, the sunset outside flooding the enclosed space in orange. You go back to the register when you hear someone entering, so used to the shop’s jingle it’s not annoying anymore.

When the hooded man comes to stand before you, you don’t even think twice. There’s something weird in the air, and he hasn’t come in two days. Maybe he was busy. But the eyes and face you find aren’t of the blonde man, and the fabric covering his mouth isn’t that of a surgical mask. The startling blue colour of his irises freezes your mind. The barrel of a gun is pointed straight at you, an extension of the man’s long arm. 

The first instinct is always to run. But you find yourself stuck to the place, the thump of your heart resounding in your ears. The man is yelling at you, demanding you to open the register, the glossy finishing of the weapon almost blinding. Your right hand twitches, flexes. You’re sure he’s going to shoot you in the head. The muzzle of the gun is moving side to side, diagonally, shifting lightly enough that it would be almost imperceptible to less acute eyes. The man is shaking. The scent is that of fear.

He shifts as if hit by a train. An unstoppable force. The robber falls to the ground, his body making a loud thunk, the gun dropping from his hold. The spell broken, you lean over the counter, your sweaty hands holding the edge of it. On the ground, the man is on his belly, a bigger body over him. You recognize the cold shine of blond hair.

The police come after you finally call them. You think the blond man might have knocked the robber out, because he’s still prone on the ground while he sits on his legs. He hasn’t said a word to you. Just sent you a glare that said call the cops. While the police take the man away, you call Joe and tell him everything, still looking at the mystery man through the glass doors. Joe says you can close the shop, his voice worried. 

You find him still smoking outside. Shifting on your feet, you take his appearance in more carefully. The scent is less intense now, covered by the smoke and dispersed in the open air. The only lights are that of the canopy and the lit cigarette. He’s regarding it as if it’s an ancient book worth revering, the stick looking dwarfed in between his fingers. Tapping your heels, you tuck your nose inside the neck of your coat.

“Thank you,” you let out.

He looks at you like you’ve told him to go jump off a bridge. The blood in your vein chills. 

“Common where you’re from?” He asks, his voice even more rough than you’ve expected. You swallow and take a step back. 

“Excuse me?”

He makes a vague gesture towards the station, the woods behind. You follow his hand with your eyes and tilt your head to the right, confused.

“Putting your smell all over. Calling everyone to come here.” He then takes a long look, up and down your body, that makes you want to crawl back inside your skin. “Don’t look like the type to enjoy the attention.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, offended, but don’t move from where you’re standing. He is smelling you, as well? That can’t mean… His expression is annoyed, like he’s had this conversation with you a hundred times and more. Your nose twitches. He doesn’t reply to you, choosing instead to put out the cigarette on the ground and walk back to his car. You’re left, speechless, looking at his back.

—

It’s your free day. You can do everything you want during your free day.

You go running, of course. Choose a little spot off the running track, a clearing with tall grass. You take a few bites, but you’re never really satisfied when you eat in this form. It’s only instinct that makes you do so. 

All of the sudden, the air changes. The needles on your back multiply, as do your look backs. At some point, you’re certain you’re being stared at. Your hind legs kick, the jump propelling you inside the trees, and you disappear among the foliage.

—

“You should use this.” 

A green container is dropped in front of you on the counter. It’s not something you sell in the shop. You look up to the blond man with a dubious face.

“To hide your scent.” He says nonchalantly. You scrunch your face and ignore the unasked gift. You get to the heart of it.

“What’s your name?”

“Simon,” he answers flatly, while his eyes shift to look at the blue plate on your chest. “That your real one?” He says pointing to it with a long finger.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“These,” you say, taking the container in your hand. It’s full of white, small pills, “work… for our kind?”

“Yeah. More for territory issues than anything else.”

“But you still smell.” You shake the bottle in front of him. From above the mask, one of his eyebrows shifts.

“Better than nothing.” His tone is ironic. Ugh, no one wants to be told they reek all the time. You pout, but pocket the pills. His eyebrow is still quirked.

“Just like that?” He says, surprised.

“Uh? You told me to take them.”

“You don’t know me.”

You roll your eyes. You can’t read him at all, but you suppose he’s made you a pet case of his, a new shifter who needs help in his turf. So why preach stranger danger now?

“You already saved me once.” You lower your eyes. “Does that mean there’s a lot of us here, in this city?” You try to keep your tone neutral, but you fear it sounds more hopeful than it ought to be.

He looks uncomfortable now. Like a mother who promised her son a new toy and can’t buy it for Christmas.

“I know a couple of people,” he scratches the back of his neck. “John Price, good man. Big.” He pauses. “I’ll give you my phone number. If anyone else but him pops up here, or at your house, you call me.”

That’s when Joe makes his entrance. His face tells you that he’s not thrilled you two are having this conversation. 

“Everything alright here?” He asks you as he spreads his hands on the counter, and you realize he’s worried Simon’s bothering you. His figure, small and round, pales against the solidity of the taller man’s body, but he holds his head high. And Simon, maybe now conscious of how he’s coming across, shrinks.

“Yes, don’t worry,” you smile shyly to Joe, happy he’s worried about you. But Simon is not necessarily bothering you. You enjoy having someone to talk to about that. Someone who is just like you.

—

He offers to take you home when your car won’t start one rainy night. You tell him you can wait for the tow truck beneath the canopy but he’s unremovable. You don’t question why he was waiting for you to finish your shift. In his car, you just keep your hands in between your thighs, the warmth of the heater thawing your toes. He fiddles with the radio, big fingers turning the dial, the slightest amount of light hair on them. His face is neutral, but you wouldn’t call it relaxed.

“You've been taking them? The suppressants,” he adds, while he turns for what seems the tenth time.

“Yes. Does it not seem so?” You ask, now self conscious.

He doesn’t answer your question. A bit put off by his lack of politeness, you cross your arms and look outside of the car window, limiting your indications to one word replies. He doesn’t seem to need them anyway. When he stops at your house, you put a hand on the door handle and look at him. Something is missing.

“... Do you want to come upstairs?” You ask, voice trembling less than you’d expect from yourself. Again, he doesn’t answer. He just exits the car, long limbs getting out the seat and into the drizzle. You scramble to get out as well. He feels even bigger at your shoulders as you guide him up the stairs. When you enter your apartment, you’re embarrassed by the state you left it in that morning. Simon doesn’t seem to mind, still looking around the space like it might reveal some great conspiracy. Then, he lifts his gaze at you, implicit question in his brown eyes. You look down, biting your lower lip in anxiety.

“This is all I could find on my budget,” you try to justify your living situation, like he’s owed an explanation. He shakes his head.

“It’s nice,” he says, maybe not completely genuinely. But you’re so surprised by a compliment coming from him you almost stutter.

“Please sit,” you say, gesturing to the small table. You make tea in your electric kettle, feeling his eyes behind you all the time. Uncomfortable with his staring and the silence, you try to make small talk, the way Joe has taught you makes customers feel at ease.

“Does it always rain so much here?” You ask, while bringing the mugs to the table. Simon grabs his by the main part instead of the handle, uncaring of the heat. Probably just to do something. He looks huge at your table, the size of the apartment not matching the size of his body.

“Yes. The whole region is rainy.”

“Alright.” You fiddle with the teabag in your cup by its string. Unprompted, you attempt to find the answer to something you’ve suspected for a while.

“Have you been watching me while I’m changed?” You ask, the words flowing out of your mouth like a river in full. He doesn’t answer at first, his whole figure completely still, and you think he’s going to start yelling at you. Maybe you’ve offended him greatly, and the way his kind goes about it, he’ll tear your throat apart. But you don’t even know what kind he is, really. Then, his lips part.

“Just keeping an eye on you,” he says, looking you in the eye, the warm light of the ceiling fan casting shadows on his face. His voice is earnest, and honest, and you want to ask a thousand questions but you think you might already know the answer to some. You tilt your head to the left.

“Worried I’ll commit a crime?” You joke, remembering the way he subdued the robber.

“Worried about others, more like.” He answers flatly, and a flame stokes in the center of your chest. 

“Come say hi next time,” you whisper, the blood in your cheeks scorching hot.

He really does scowl at that, as if he’s tasted something rotten.

“Don’t think that’s wise, pet.”

—

He digs a place for himself in your life and sits there quietly. Always in the vicinity.

The days he comes to the station are more than the ones he does not. He buys mundane stuff, necessities he could easily get when he gets groceries, and starts even getting his gas from you. Requests your service specifically. Joe only looks at you with knowing eyes nowadays, and you’re victim to an unstoppable rush of implicating jokes once you leave Simon.

“You’re the only client I’ve gotten the whole month for gas, you know,” you tell him while he sits in the car, the window lowered. His face is even harder to read with sunglasses on.

“Pity. I find myself well serviced,” he says, and your hackles rise at the friendly, even flirting tone of his. You smile to yourself as you pump the gas, tapping your nails on the black varnished trunk.

With the gas in his tank, he drives you around. Actually, he helps you buy a new table. He says the other one makes his back hurt, so you pick a taller version and he pays. He sticks to your side even when the majority of your time together is spent in silence, or with you recounting your shift at work. He points to you clearings nearby you can shift in more covertly, big places where hunting is always forbidden. The itch to know more about him is always at the back of your throat, but you never ask Simon anything that would stab in too deep.

You meet John Price. He’s been itching to see you, Simon says– and they’re ex coworkers, too, so Simon trusts him implicitly. The moment you see him, you think he must be a bear, his long moustache, the slope of his brow bone. He tells you as much himself, freely, after taking a big sip of his beer.

“You’re a deer, right lassie?” You nod demure at the question. “Only ruminant of the area. Can’t say the green spaces are ample, but,” he smiles, eyes crinkling, “it’s a quiet city thanks to us.” He shoves at Simon’s chest, the latter staying still. The shadow of a smile plays on Simon’s mouth.

It’s not like you don’t know there can be animosity between shifters. You remember there being scuffles back home too– but it’s just little old you here. You doubt anyone would even notice you. When you say as much, the look you receive from the two men is focused and sharp, and it tells you all you need to know. No more of that talk.

You start smelling the others in some parts of the city, and immediately draw back when it happens. When you tell Simon as much, that you’re being careful after his and John’s advice, he smiles a full smile, his canines sharply white, his hand coming to pat your head.

In this idyllic moment of your life, when things aren’t just fine but great– a small sense of community again, a stable good job, and a budding link–

Your heat comes.

It’s not your first. Back then, you had your options. Taking care of each other was the norm. But lately, as stressed as you’ve been, you’d forgotten that this, too, is part of your nature. And you didn’t prepare accurately– including having some relief the days before the actual heat comes. Before you pass out, you have the sense to call sick at work. After that your finger hovers on Simon’s name, but you abandon the idea. He can’t always come to help you.

Hazily, you think back on the pills Simon gave to you. You ran out some weeks ago, but didn’t think about asking for more. After all, you’d lived for long without, and he couldn’t even tell the difference himself, as shown by his silence on the matter. Maybe he grew too dulled to your smell. 

Maybe he knew that they were finished. Maybe he did it on purpose.

You cough. The slick between your legs doesn’t have time to cool down before a new fresh wave comes, and you curse your animal side as you writhe on the bed. Through the sound of the blood rushing in your ears, you hear your door opening. Panicking, your eyes cross to watch the entrance, the tall, dark figure making its way inside with familiarity.

“Simon,” you pant, “what are you doing here?” You ask, voice rough, when you recognize him. How did he even open the door? You try to stand on your elbows, but fall back over your face in the pillow. You hear his footsteps coming closer and closer to you. He sits on your bed, hand coming to pet your hair, and you muffle a groan, fabric between your teeth.

“Y-you need to leave. I’m not well–”

“Shh,” he just says, still petting your hair. When you raise your head again and turn to look at him, he’s looking at you curiously. You swallow your saliva and try to keep your eyes straight, but it’s growing incredibly harder.

“Why didn’t you call me? I had to ask around…” He says, voice quiet and reproaching. You lean your head into his palm, hands covering your face.

“Didn’t want to bother you…” you whisper, eyes peeking from behind your fingers. “Did you bring the pills?”

He doesn't answer your question. When you’re about to ask again, you feel his body move, his chest coming to press against your back. His arm stirs, makes contact with his head, which then moves. You hear an inhale, his big chest rumbling.

Is… Is he smelling you?

“Simon… I’m really unwell, but I’ll be alright, so you can-” Your voice trembles, but you get interrupted. The tone of his voice is harsh enough to make you cry.

“No. I’m staying here. I know how to handle this,” he says, decisively, but his eyes soften when he sees your scared expression.

“Hey. It’s alright. You know me, right? And I know you. This is just what happens to our kind. I’ll take care of you,” he whispers, hand holding your neck and face buried in your hair. 

And just like that, you surrender. 

He takes off your clothes calmly, with clear intent, lays them orderly on your chair when he’s done with each part. The moan that comes out of you when he takes off your pajama pants is almost vulgar. Before you turn your head in embarrassment, you see a flash of something else but determination in his eyes. An hunger, even.

“Come. All fours,” he orders, and you follow his words blindly. You’re in no state to oppose him truly, and anyway, this is what your body wants. And the mind is not far to follow. He guides you, rough hands on your waist and hips, and positions you the way he wants.

“Look at that,” he remarks, once he has the full view of your aroused cunt in his face. You mutter an offended remark in your elbow that turns into a yelp when he starts spreading your lips, examining you to his heart’s content. One of his fingers comes to brush at the edges of your hole, bringing some of the wetness lower, on your clit.

“Built for it,” he hisses, fiddling with it, your hips grinding against his finger with their own mind, chasing that limb numbing feeling. Once your moans are getting high enough for his judgment, he adds two fingers into your pussy, his reach far better than any you could have by yourself. You move in tandem, a wave of power that starts from him and crashes into you. He starts curling his fingers into you, his palm still grinding against your clit, that’s the moment you let go. You come with a muffled scream into the pillow, your back arched, your pussy trying desperately to milk his fingers. You fall prone, momentarily exhausted, and catch your breath for about ten seconds when you feel Simon’s arms encompassing your waist. 

“Up. C’mon now,” he says, and you let yourself be manhandled. His arm brushes against your stomach. Has… has his arm hair always been so long?

You hear rustling and movement behind you, but you’re still in the aftershocks of your orgasm that you just keep your eyes shut and enjoy the closeness with Simon. When your thigh comes into contact with something, though, your eyes open wide. You try to turn your head to look at his body, but he won’t let you, he just keeps your head firmly into the pillow. At least he shifts it a bit so that you can breathe with your mouth.

“Just enjoy this,” he says, a bit peeved, but with an undertone of shame. What could he possibly be ashamed of, when he’s helped you so much? 

“Thank you, Simon,” you let out breathlessly, and he groans, the sound reverberating through your whole body. The blunt head of his cock breaches inside, finds a clear way from your previous orgasm and the hormones. He starts fucking you with with a punishing rhythm, the snap of his abs against your ass resounding in the room, your slick rendering his shoves almost liquid. Whenever you try to shift a bit you’re hurriedly moved back against him, no chance of moving somewhere else. His mouth moves against your ear, muttering something intelligible, more groan than speech. More animal than human. The sounds, the smell of Simon, the warm air, it’s all getting to your head, filling it with foam. When you start moving back against him, a second climax descending upon you, his thrusts become more sloppy, and you feel his legs tensing, shifting in preparation.

“Take it all now,” he grunts out, and you feel a rush of heat by your entrance, and– and– 

With a snarl, long teeth bite into the meat of your shoulder, breaking skin. You moan in pain and pleasure both, the heading sensation going straight to your pussy, a trickle of blood running down your flushed breasts and on the mattress. You feel twitching and an unmistakable wet sensation inside you, and the feeling is so overwhelming you try to twitch away from his imposing body but find yourself stuck to him. Simon retracts his maw from your shoulder and licks the wound he caused with long, careful swipes, an apology of his own. Once he’s satisfied with his care, his tongue licks the salty residues of your tears on your cheeks, leaving a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. 

“You’re mine,” he whispers huskily, just as you pass out.

When you wake up again, to the warm and damp touch of a towel, you whimper in pain. The movement stops then, and you open your eyes to Simon pondering what to do next, his hands on his hips. You cough out a laugh at the sight in front of you. When he sees you are awake, Simon’s mouth quirks down in mock scorn, but you read the implicit laugh behind his lips. He bandages your wound and you fall asleep again, worn out by your vulnerable state.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a wolf?” You break the silence later, leaning on your good side while he spoons you from behind. His sharp nails brush against the skin of your stomach.

“You never asked.” He says, almost bored, but it’s a farce, and you both know it. You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see you. There’s probably an ancient taboo regarding shifters of different species being together, but then again, you hold the very human belief that you can do what you want as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else.

After all, being in the middle between animals and humans means you always have two ways to approach things.

taglist: @rafaelacallinybbay

[veltana]

Buy my heart - 1

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Fem!Reader

✦ Word count: ~1,2k

✦ Rating for this part: Mature

✦ Warnings/tags: Alpha!Bucky, Omega!Reader, slow burn, eventual smut, omega auction.

✦ Summary: Bucky buys you

✦ Note: Due note that this is a drabble series, the parts will be short but I still hope you enjoy it! Don't forget to come back and read Lloyd's series, set in the same verse! 😉 Bucky's scent is based of my favorite perfume of all time ÆTHER XTRÆM 🤤Reblogs, comments and asks are much appreciated!

Series masterlist

Masterlist | AO3

Everything is numb. As you stand on the podium in front of the faceless crowd with the lights in your eyes, you don't feel a thing, except the uncomfortable sensation of scent blocker on your skin. As soon as you pulled the thin dress on for the auction you decided that the only way you would survive this is if you just turn every emotion off.

Paddles go up. Paddles go down. The man beside you rambles fast but you don't listen. It's not irrelevant how much you sell for, since your family needs it to pay off their debt, but you can't take it in.

Instead, you focus on your breathing. The mask-covered mass in front of you is grass on a meadow on a windy day. Breathe in. They sway towards you. Breathe out. They sway away.

You don't want to look at who raises their paddle the most, and even if you did, you wouldn't be able to identify them since everyone's face is concealed by the same black mask. But you'd find yourself scrutinizing their hands and build, trying to guess if they're old or young. Honestly, you dread both: a young pup with an overly cocky attitude who knows nothing about caring for an omega, or an old lone wolf who is too frail to do anything himself and would require constant care.

The sharp crack of the club startles you from your self-induced meditation. That's when you finally hear the sum you've been sold for and some of the tension in your shoulders drains away. It's enough. Your family will be fine.

An attendant leads you away through dark corridors before leaving you in another changing room. They've brought your old clothes but you don't touch them. They smell like home. Like your family. And you can't go into this new life with it, you have to leave it behind.

If the attendant is confused about you still wearing the sheer dress they provided when they come and collect you, they don't let it show before walking you out.

The air is cold against your skin but there is a car idling just outside. Well, it's a limo. The driver opens the door and gestures for you to climb inside. Guess this is your ride. Time to meet your alpha.

Pressing down every feeling of panic and dread you walk on bare feet the short distance. The door shutting just behind you makes you jump. A moment later, the car starts moving.

The first thing you notice is that it's dim in the back of the limousine since the tinted windows don't let the streetlights in. The only illumination comes from small spots in the ceiling.

The second thing you notice is him. He's at the other end of the seat. Maskless with a glass of something in his hand that he swirls before taking a sip, staring at you over the rim. He's tall, broad-shouldered, short hair that looks soft with a neatly trimmed beard framing his face.

Then the smell hits you. It's easy to filter out the artificial notes of his cologne from what is his pure natural smell. It's a woody musky scent with a light tone of florals buried beneath that is not sharp or strong. It just fills your lungs with a warm, sensual feeling. For the first time in your life, you think you understand what other omegas rave about when they say that the smell of alpha is unlike anything else. The omega in you wants to slide up to him and rub yourself all over him, but you resist.

“Hello, little darling,” his rich voice fills the compartment. “Hello, sir,” you respond and is pleased when your voice doesn't waiver. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I prefer if you call me Bucky.” “Bucky,” you try, and nod, although it feels odd on your tongue. You've never addressed an alpha by a nickname before.

He doesn't ask for your name and you don't offer it, the less personal this is for you, the better. Bucky might have bought your body but your mind is still your own and he can never take it away from you. If he never calls you by your name, the better.

“Why do you still have that dress on?” he asks. You pluck at the fabric. “I couldn't take my old clothes with me.” “And no shoes?” “No, sir. I mean, Bucky.”

He picks up his phone. You hear the dial tone and then a woman's voice answers at the other end. “We need clothes, all types, but for tonight just get some underwear and something to sleep in. Then he directs his attention to you. “What size are you?” After hesitating a second, you tell him and he passes the information along before he hangs up.

The car slows and sounds as if it's driving on gravel. Bucky finishes his drink and studies you. There is a tick in his jaw as if he's irritated. Without a word, he starts taking off his suit jacket.

The blood in your veins turns cold and you press yourself back against the door. You don't want him to touch you. The dress might be sheer but the thought of being naked with him in the back of the limo is not appealing in the least.

But his actions surprise you. He holds out the jacket for you. “Wear this. My men are loyal but I don't need them to ogle you and get distracted.” There is no hiding the way your fingers tremble as you take it from him. After putting it on you realize that in a way, he's marked you with his scent now, but without touching you. It shouldn't make you pleased, but it does.

When the car comes to a stop you reach for the handle but with something very close to a growl he instructs, “Wait there,” before stepping out. You pull your hand back quickly and place it in your lap. Moments later the door opens. “Since you don't have any shoes, I'll carry you,” he explains, reaching for you, but you shuffle away. “I'll be fine, I promise, you don't need to do that.” His jaw ticks again. “No, you will hurt your feet, darling. Come here, now.” You hesitate still, but you're not prepared to find out what the next tell of irritation might be, or if the twitch in his jaw is the only warning you're going to get.

You move closer to him and hardly have time to process what happens before you're in his arms. He carries you near his body with your face pressed against his fine dress shirt. It's dark outside but the mansion he carries you towards is well lit. There is no doubt James Buchanan Barnes is a very rich man.

After stepping inside he still doesn't put you down. You want to object but decide against it as he carries you up a flight of stairs and into a room, where he puts you down on a soft carpet, then steps back.

“Clothes should be here in about twenty minutes. When was the last time you ate?” “Uhm, this morning?” “Allergies?” “No, but I really don’t like tomatoes.” “I'll inform the chef,” he nods, before continuing, “This is your room. Mine is across the hall. For tonight, stay here, I'll have food brought up. Tomorrow I’ll give you a tour and we'll talk about what is expected of you going forward.” You nod. “I suggest you take a nice long bath, before eating and going to bed.” “Yes, Bucky.” Your obedience seems to please him because the lines between his eyebrows disappear. “Have a good night, little darling.” And then he leaves.

next

[lothcat-lothcat-lothwolf-run]

something about Kallus (born on Coruscant, currently living in a glorified hallway) seeing lothal for the first time. there’s grass! And mountains! And a lot of big empty space! The sky is so big! How? Is this possible??

but he’s not allowed to go near it. The local wildlife (there’s wildlife!! And it’s cute!!) are considered too much of a hassle. He doesn’t even get to feel the landscape rush by him when he’s in a speeder. No, he’s always inside, a sort of cage of his own making.

when he’s on the ice moon, it’s one of the first times he really feels the pull, the call that nature holds out to him. It’s cold and freezing and miserable, but it’s still something real. And zeb almost seems to embody it, a wild that cannot, will not be contained. He wants to push it away almost as much as he wants to embrace it. Embrace him.

when he gets back, the artificial lights hurt more than before. The walls seem to echo every footstep with a metallic clang. Every moment someone makes feels robotic, even the air feels stiff and rigid. He lays the meteorite down on the plasteel shelf, and the contrast between the two feels as loud as war. It somehow reminds him of himself.

When he turns off the lights, he could almost imagine the grass under him, the midnight breeze and the smell of flowers. As if that rock of unknown properties is a star, as seen from on a planet, not a ship. The mountains in his mind hold him close, and he whispers a name for the lone star. “Garazeb”

Kallus often wonders what atollon is like. Seeing it, being there would be selfish of him. How could he continue to serve from afar if he is close by? When he does get glimpses, it makes him long for the things he never knew. When the wind blows into you, does the sand travel with it and scrape your skin? What does the ground feel like when the sun warms it? The animals there, do they cry out when they fall asleep as he so often does? It’s perhaps one of the cruelest tortures that Thrawn inflicts on him. How he wants to be down there, alongside everyone and everything he’s never gotten the chance to hold.

The first thing he noticed about Yavin 4 was how the vines seem to snake up the side of whatever desolate structure the rebels are using as a base. They infiltrate the lines between the stone tiles that make up much of the landing zone. He asks zeb if he could touch one, just for a moment and is surprised when the lasat laughs. The plants feel warm to the touch, as if they were secretly a type of lizard who basks in the sun. There’s a corse grain underneath it all, a pattern and a rhythm, different than the strictness of the Empire. It flows, similar to a wave. It extends and encompasses the base, but still pulls back to shore. It reflects them all.

on lothal, he once again sees the grass ripple in the wind as the ship he spent years chasing returned home. he steps out of the ghost and into the infinite field, transported back to the moment he saw this place for the first time. And he loves it no less.

[solalunar-eclipse]

Sonadow Snippets #2

In which Sonic returns the favor.

| One |

Shadow’s eyes were carefully trained on Sonic as the blue hedgehog raced through the forest, jumping over roots that sprouted out from the ground and spin-dashing whenever he could in an effort to gain momentum. Of course, Shadow was right by his side, the jets of his skates hissing in rhythm with his strides…but this particular time, the more serious of the two never pulled ahead.

For once, this wasn’t a race.

Instead, Shadow was following Sonic on a path only he knew, waiting to see exactly what lay at the end. After the time when Shadow had invited Sonic to come watch him skate atop a lake out in the middle of nowhere, it hadn’t taken long at all for him to receive an offer in return. Sonic had come up to him one day while he was out picking up some odds and ends for Omega as a favor (apparently his friend had gotten himself temporarily banned from his favorite hardware store but couldn’t handle going without his usual supply of materials to tear apart). Sonic had been his usual direct self, just asking “Hey, do you want to go somewhere with me this Friday?”.

Of course, Shadow had requested a few more details, preferring to know such things as “When, exactly?” and “Why?” before he agreed. Sonic’s response to the latter had more or less made up his mind, however.

“I really appreciated you showing me your skating spot the other day, and…I wanted to show you something too.”

After that, how could he say no?

Of course, this had all come after Sonic offered (seemingly out of nowhere, at the time) to take part of the massive stack of various wooden boards, pieces of plastic, and a strange number of PVC pipes currently threatening to fall out of Shadow’s arms. As an artificially engineered lifeform, he might have been stronger than most, but even he couldn’t hope to win a fight against gravity with a haul that unwieldy.

After that, Shadow had agreed to show up to Sonic’s proposed meeting place, but insisted that “you’d better not be late”, which of course set off a lighthearted argument over whether or not the famously titled “fastest thing alive” was in fact ever late to anything. (Sonic said no to preserve his pride, Shadow said yes based on testimonials he’d heard secondhand through Rouge.)

But Sonic certainly hadn’t been late for this. He’d shown up at the appointed meeting spot even before Shadow had, something that was quite impressive considering the alien hedgehog’s tendency to be almost frighteningly punctual.

And now, the two were running through the forest together, as Shadow awaited the place Sonic considered so important.

All of a sudden, Shadow saw brighter sunlight up ahead—and then burst out of the tree line just behind Sonic into an open field. His momentum sent him tearing past Sonic, as a matter of fact, who had stopped in the middle of the field, apparently having reached his final destination. Shadow quickly turned into a wide arc, slowly decreasing his speed as he looped out, around, and back towards Sonic, before finally kicking his skates forward and coming to a stop himself.

“Pff, show-off.” Sonic teased, smirking.

“I just needed to find a way to burn off my speed,” Shadow insisted, not mentioning that he did generally prefer to do so in an artistic way when possible. “It’s not my fault you stopped without saying anything.”

“I did so say something, you must not have heard me.”

Shadow sighed, before letting it go for once. “So, what did you want to show me, anyway?”

Sonic gestured out to the field, which Shadow hadn’t looked at properly yet, first blinded by the sun and then focused on stopping himself. He turned in the direction Sonic had moved, and…

…it really was a special place.

This was the kind of field he’d begun to suspect only existed in storybooks and paintings of days gone by, after several years getting used to life down here on the planet. Most fields were filled with grass so tall he could barely see, or were patchy with dirt and mud amongst the green. This one, however, was covered in lush green grass, among which grew a veritable bounty of wildflowers.

It took him a long moment to think of what to say, and even then, it didn’t feel like much. “It’s beautiful.” he said, and then tried to add something more. “I…appreciate you bringing me here.”

Sonic beamed at him, leaning forward eagerly. “And this is just the beginning! Come on, we gotta get further out!”

Shadow followed Sonic as he walked further into the field, occasionally spinning around and walking backwards just to get a better view of everything. He’d always shoot Shadow a smile whenever he did that, too, and Shadow would dip his head slightly in response. It became almost comforting after the first couple of times, a silent little call-and-response.

You still liking it?

Yes.

Hey there!

Hello.

Glad you came.

I am too.

Eventually, they found one particular spot (Shadow knew it was specific because he saw Sonic lining up his position with a couple of landmark hills and rocks), and both stopped right there, at the top of one of the low, rolling curves in the earth. Sonic sat down cross-legged, before falling backwards and lying down, kicking his legs out as he did so. After a moment where he looked expectantly upwards at Shadow, the alien hedgehog lay down delicately, easing himself into it a little more than his companion.

For a while, they just lay there together in silence, staring up at the vibrantly blue, cloudless sky. Shadow sighed, feeling the warmth of the sun as it rapidly soaked into his dark fur.

Soon enough, he closed his eyes, just basking in the heat and letting his breathing slow down. It was sometimes difficult for him to stay grounded in the present moment, always ruminating on the past or trying to plan ahead for the future. Whenever he could feel his thoughts starting to wind up, though, he would just open his eyes again, tilt his head to the side, and try to count all the different colors and flowers that he could see in the field.

After a few more moments, Sonic spoke up. “I knew you’d be the perfect guy to do this with.”

“Did you?” Shadow asked, his voice hushed. He didn’t want to disturb the stillness of the moment.

“Yeah. I know we hang out a lot because we can keep up with each other…but that goes for the slow times as well as the fast ones.” Sonic answered.

Shadow let out a slow exhale. “Indeed. It’s more difficult to slow down mentally rather than physically, but when I can, it’s very much appreciated.”

“Is now one of those times?” He heard a shifting over to his right, and turned to see Sonic’s eyes looking at him, somehow a more vibrant green than the grass beside him.

“I’m doing my best. It’s a lovely place.” Shadow said softly.

Sonic smiled, much more peacefully than his usual grins. “One of the best parts of saving the world is getting to enjoy it after. You made this place possible, just as much as I ever have. I appreciate that.”

Shadow felt his face soften and relax slightly, and though he wasn’t sure what it looked like, the way Sonic’s eyes widened told him that it was a rare sight. “Thank you, Sonic. For bringing me here, and for your words.”

“Anytime, Shadow. Anytime at all.”

[multiheadcanons]

WHAT THE MERCS CONSIDER WONDERFUL WEATHER

scout: scout is at his happiest when he first sees snowfall. and he is at his saddest when he watches winter leave. scout loves the snow. he feels like a kid again, and he acts like one, too. running and diving headfirst into snowbanks, dipping his bare feet in icy cold water. standing outside in a tshirt and shorts, big smile on his face. the snow will have him ready to face the day. he’s okay until the wind starts blowing. then he is immediately ready to go back inside. and his affinity for snow does not translate to rain.

soldier: soldier is an optimal fighter in all weather conditions. but he likes when it’s muddy. this man is a pig. he will strip to his skivvies and go lay in mud. especially if it’s hot outside. he also likes hurling mud balls at the enemy team. it’s funny when they slip on it and fall. and then he’s coming in with the shovel. soldier has one (1) designated mud pit that he is allowed to put water in from the base and roll around in it. the team even turns a blind eye during the summer months, when it’s absolutely wretched outside.

pyro: pyro is only hype for one weather event— rainbows. spring is their favorite season with the amount of precipitation, and the absolute bounty of prismatic light that comes from it. and with the grass seeming so lush after a fresh pour, pyro is incredibly pleased with their surroundings. the rainbow is just the cherry on top of a beautiful picture. they absolutely do not like the fact that the rain is one of the only ways to get a rainbow. it makes their job very hard.

demo: anything that is marginally wet and between 52 and 73 degrees fahrenheit is the optimal weather. you will absolutely see demo outside, enjoying the chilly air. and he likes the air palpable. the kind where you can taste the oxygen around you, when it’s tangy and it hangs thickly on your tongue. where moving through it feels like pushing through brush. he’s out there. he’s living in it. rain or shine, he’s out there, soaking in the moisture of his environment. makes him feel like a fish.

heavy: heavy loves a cold, clear day. not just chilly, cold. no higher than forty degrees fahrenheit. days where the sun feels fake because it's just so cold. cold, clear days that turn into icy, clear nights. sometimes he can convince engineer (and usually they get pyro in on it, too) to start a bonfire, and they'll sit out there in the cold, and drink a beer or two, and stare at the sky. sometimes other members of the team will come out, and toss something in the flame, and sit in the heat for a moment. but it's usually just them three. and they thoroughly enjoy themselves in the ice of the night, artificially warmed by the booze, and thoroughly warmed by the flames before them. they can stay out there until two in the morning before they're willing to put the fire out and return to the base.

engineer: the literal nanosecond that the radios start talking about storms and tornado warnings, you know this country bumpkin hick ass backwater ass flamin-hot-cheetos-neck ass yeeyee down the I-40 ass man is out there, beer in hand. we all know this, right? we know that he’s out there with a camera looking for the formations, right? this man is literally getting blown sideways by the wind. he’s clinging to a porch pole trying to keep himself grounded. and every time the lightning strikes, he’s whooping. until it gets too close. when he was younger, he used to hop in his truck and chase the storms. he’s a little too old, and a little too smart for that now, but he’s certainly not gonna go “shelter in place” either. he can look death in the eyes and come out of it unscathed. he’s not scared.

medic: in the early spring, when you're not quite sure if it can even be called spring yet; he wakes up early enough in the morning, and he walks outside with a cup of coffee, and he stands in the chill of the dawn, and he looks up at the sky, absolutely crystal clear, and he can still see the stars as the sky begins to glow a dim pink... he gets a feeling. a feeling in his knees. and he knows from the feeling in his knees that there will be precipitation. and, in about three hours, he is proven right, as the temperatures plummet, and clouds roll in, and a light mist begins. this dreary, wet, almost muggy if it weren't for the consistent chill running down your spine, miserably dogshit weather... is the doctor's favorite weather to be in. he's wearing just enough layers that he doesn't have to add anything, the misted rain feels good on his skin in the heat of battle. he is, in general, enjoying himself in this weather.

sniper: sniper thoroughly enjoys the dry heat of the summers in new mexico. it's lovely. almost reminds him of home. it is greatly beneficial that sniper has an insane heat tolerance. sniper doesn't start making comments about the heat until the weather is in the triple digits. then he lets out a long sigh, and starts fanning his face with his hat. otherwise, he just starts shedding layers until he feels better. he will not complain if there is any form of a wind blowing, as long as it's consistent. his tolerance for the heat will be even higher if he has wind and some shade. he just loves sitting under a tree on a hot, sunny day. he can fall asleep easily.

spy: it is not often that he gets this kind of weather, but there are days. in the transitions of the wetness of the ground, and the chill of the air, a fog begins to descend. and this fog is thick, and disorienting, and it’s perfect for spy. these are his ideal fighting conditions, hell, his ideal living conditions. in the brisk air, he can simply cloak and disappear in the clouded thicket. and he never seems to be frightened, or nearly as disillusioned as his teammates in the moist grey haze. he moves in silent confidence through the fog. and you just won’t know he’s there until his knife is in your back.

[yunaversalluv]

೯⠀⁺ ⠀ Floodlights ⠀ᰋ

American Football player!Abby x Cologuard!Fem!Reader

೯⠀⁺ Synopsis⠀ᰋ

In the quiet moments following a game, Abby and the reader find themselves drawn together in a shared silence. As the rain taps gently against the windows, unspoken emotions linger in the air, leading to a connection that neither fully anticipated. What begins as a simple interaction gradually unfolds into a deeper, more vulnerable exchange, marked by tentative gestures and a mutual understanding that transcends words.

content warnings// explicit sexual content, adult themes, pining/slow-burn tension, strong language, emotional vulnerability and intimacy, sensory and physical exploration, consent-based intimacy, not proofread (i apologize for any mistakes)

word count: 9.6k

yuna's note - I made this for the fact I just wanted to, and I love Cologuard and Abby sooooooo I mixed them together!!

Masterlist `` ~ ୨୧ ♡ ·

(here you go @lesoulew <3)

The crowd’s roar swelled like ocean surf — crashing, rolling, relentless — deafening and distant all at once, as if Abby was submerged underwater and the noise only barely breached the surface.

Abby Anderson stood tall on the line of scrimmage, knees bent in a perfect crouch, breath sharp and fast through the metal of her faceguard, palms slick inside worn receiver gloves. Her fingers flexed in anticipation, knuckles popping faintly beneath the strain. Dirt streaked across her forearms and clung to her jersey like old battle scars — number 89 stretched tight across broad shoulder pads, smudged at the edges, dulled by sweat and grit. Under the stadium lights, the turf shimmered slick with evening dew, each blade of artificial grass catching the glow like glass.

“Watch the blitz, Abby!” Jesse’s voice came sharp behind her, barely cutting through the hum in her ears.

She didn’t nod. Didn’t glance back. Just breathed. Just held her stance. Eyes forward. Shoulders squared. Legs coiled like springs, ready to detonate.

And yet —

— she was listening for something else entirely.

Behind the home stands, beyond the clamor and chant of student sections, she heard it: a faint ripple, the soft whisper of fabric slicing cleanly through air. Crisp. Rhythmic. Intentional.

Then came the muffled thump of wood against turf. Someone cursed — low, muffled — and the voice hit her like a live wire.

You.

Abby knew your voice like breath. Like gravity. Like muscle memory etched into the marrow of her bones.

Another toss — she heard it. The flutter of silk, the distinct zip of wind moving with it, the spiraling arc that followed. She didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to see. She knew it landed clean — you never missed a catch like that.

Her heart thudded once. Hard. A punch from inside. She rolled her neck, tried to shake it off, shake you off.

The ball snapped.

She exploded off the line.

The clash was instant — her shoulder met the opposing right guard's ribs with a satisfying crunch of pads. His cleats skidded backward, helpless under the sheer weight of her drive, two full yards of stolen ground. Abby’s hands shot up, tangled in fabric, and shoved again. The guard stumbled.

The running back cut inside.

Too late.

She was already there — a freight train of muscle and fury, cleaving through bodies like water around stone.

Boom. Hit. Grunt. Collapse.

The kid barely got a yard before his helmet kissed the turf.

The ref’s whistle blew shrill and final. Abby stood, chest heaving, lungs burning, steam rising off her shoulders in the floodlights like smoke off a forge. She flexed her right shoulder, checked for ache, shook her gloves out.

And still — her eyes drifted.

There you were.

Midfield. Flanking the 50-yard line. Marching in perfect time with the rest of the colorguard, flag rolled tight beneath your arm. You wore the royal blue and gold sequin tunic with one sheer sleeve, sleek and dazzling under the lights like a second skin, catching every glint and shimmer. Nude-colored gloves clung to your hands, molding around your grip with practiced ease. A line of rhinestones glittered across your cheekbone — delicate and deliberate — winking every time you turned your head just so.

Abby stared.

Like a starving woman.

Halftime.

The front ensemble started low — a steady heartbeat rising from the sideline, humming through the soles of her cleats — before the drums took over. The full band poured onto the field in organized chaos, a tidal wave of brass, woodwinds, and sheer theatrical momentum.

Abby sat on the bench, forearms braced over her knees, chin ducked low. Her helmet sat beside her, scuffed and mud-smeared. She didn’t hear the coach barking about coverage. Didn’t hear Jesse jawing at Manny about the fourth-down conversion.

She was too busy watching you.

You spun into view from the left, leading a diagonal block of color through the south end of the field. Twelve of you — evenly spaced, synchronized, purposeful — moving like one living creature with a dozen hearts.

The silks burst open — navy and gold waves slashing through the air in unison — and your flag caught wind like a sail at full tilt. You tossed it — double forty-five, full height — the pole flipping twice in the air, a white-and-gold blur against the night sky. You caught it behind your back, effortless, like you’d been born doing it.

Then came the rifle.

White-painted wood, its stock dark at the edges from constant use. You spun it, sharp and fast — a flourish that made the guard ripple outward like a cracked whip — then launched it skyward. The stock flicked past your cheekbone, inches away, a near kiss.

Abby’s breath hitched.

You weren’t just pretty. Not just graceful. You were a weapon in motion — all precision and pageantry, strength hidden beneath sequins and stage-smiles.

No one else seemed to see it like she did.

Another toss. Full extension this time. A rainbow of silk caught the light like flame. You stepped into the movement with a sweeping lunge — one leg extended behind, arms wide — and your whole body moved as though the fabric pulled you forward. The lines of your form — the tension in your quads, the flex of your shoulders, the strength in your core — it all burned itself into Abby’s vision like an afterimage.

“Jesus,” she muttered, barely audible.

Manny leaned in, grinning, sweat streaking down his temple. “You whispering to God or to her?”

She didn’t answer.

He laughed. “That’s what I thought.”

The show ended in perfect formation, with you at center field. Your flag unfurled like a banner, held steady above your head, chest heaving under the sequins, cheeks flushed from exertion.

The crowd roared. The band froze for the final note, then scattered off the field in a tide of movement.

And you?

You looked over your shoulder. Eyes scanning the sidelines — slow, deliberate.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t need to.

Abby could’ve sworn your gaze paused. Just for a beat. Just long enough. Long enough for her heart to feel like it had been speared straight through.

The locker room was chaos after the game — a narrow win, snatched in the final minute thanks to a forced fumble Abby caused in the red zone. Someone hoisted her up. Someone else dumped a bottle of water on her head. Jesse shouted something about MVP.

She barely heard it.

She stood under the hot spray of the showers, water hitting her spine like needles, and let the steam drown the noise.

Later, she moved through the corridor in silence. Past trophy cases and peeling posters for school dances. Her cleats clacked against the concrete, the sound hollow and echoing under the fluorescent lights. The music wing ahead glowed faint and warm, bleeding light onto the floor like a sliver of moon through cracked blinds.

She paused in the shadows near the old display case. Crossed her arms. Waited.

And then — there you were.

Hair down now, damp at the ends and sticking to your collarbone. A duffel slung across your back, hoodie bunched at your waist. The school crest stretched across the oversized fabric like it barely clung to your frame. Your flag bag thumped gently against your hip with every step. Earbuds dangled from your collarbone, swinging slightly with your motion.

You paused mid-step.

Saw her.

Abby straightened instinctively, like a soldier caught off duty. Pretended she’d just been sitting there. Like she wasn’t memorizing the rhythm of your footsteps. Like her whole body hadn’t gone taut the moment she heard your gait.

“Hey.” You smiled — soft, tired, real. “Nice game, Anderson. You crushed that sack in the fourth.”

She blinked, caught off-guard. “You watched?”

You shrugged, casual and cool, like your heart wasn’t beating in your throat. “Hard to miss. You kinda body-slammed the guy. It was very WWE.”

A laugh sputtered out of her — surprised, unfiltered. “Yeah. Well. He was asking for it.”

Your smile lingered, smaller now. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Abby nodded. Tried to keep her cool. Failed.

You walked past. The swing of your ponytail nearly brushed her arm. That scent — floral shampoo, fabric softener, sweat, wind — it clung to the air behind you. She caught it in a breath, deep in her chest, and held it like it meant something.

She sat there after you left, grinning like a fool in full pads, a helmet at her side, bruises blooming on her ribs, wondering how the hell a girl who spun rifles could hit harder than any linebacker she’d ever gone up against.

Abby Anderson never believed in clichés. Until you became hers.

You weren’t the first girl she’d crushed on. Not the first to make her blush in the locker room showers with a single offhand smile. Not the first to make her look away too fast in the hallway, or freeze up when your fingers brushed hers at the vending machine — just long enough to short-circuit her brain.

But you were the first one she watched. Not like a creep — she hoped — but like an artist staring too long at a masterpiece they couldn’t recreate. Like she was trying to commit every detail to memory, afraid of what might slip through the cracks if she blinked too long.

It had started slow.

Freshman year, you were just there — one of the dozens in the sprawling, awkward army of new band kids, clinging to their gear cases and trying not to get steamrolled by linemen cutting across the commons. Abby had barely noticed you then. Her world had been two-a-days and weight room rotations, maxing out lifts while the scent of rubber mats and iron coated her skin. Her focus was tunnel vision. Football. Always.

But sophomore year? You changed.

You showed up to the first pep rally with your hair braided tight and a brand-new flag, spinning it with a kind of casual control that made the crowd fall quiet. Even Abby. Especially Abby. She’d nudged Jesse — mid-bite of his granola bar — and nodded toward you, her eyes fixed. “Who’s that?”

“Guard,” he’d answered, distracted, mouth full. “Why, you into glitter now?”

She’d rolled her eyes and shoved him off the bleacher, but her attention hadn’t wavered.

By junior year, you were captain. First on the field. Last to leave. The kind of leader who didn’t have to bark commands — you led by example. Your movements were crisp, deliberate, magnetic. You held yourself with quiet command, spine always straight, even when you laughed. And your laugh — it traveled. Light, bright, a little scratchy at the edges like you didn’t laugh nearly enough.

When you spoke during practice, you didn’t yell. You kept your voice low and clipped, calm and even, and people listened.

And by senior year — Abby was gone.

Not gone from the field, or the weight room, or the locker room. No, physically she was more locked in than ever. But mentally? Emotionally? You had wormed your way under her skin and into her bloodstream. You were a song on loop in her head. An image behind her eyelids. She was haunted, and she liked it.

She knew your schedule by heart. Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays — back field behind the gym. Flag first. Then sabre. Then rifle. Rain or shine, you were out there, drilling for hours after the sun dipped behind the bleachers.

Abby caught glimpses in stolen moments — between sets during line drills, over the bleachers during water breaks. You always wore the same pair of black compression shorts, the ones with the subtle rip at the hem that fluttered when you pivoted fast.

She noticed when you got a new flag — a deep crimson one with gold trim that you saved for ballads, always folded just so in your bag. She noticed how you stitched your name inside the tab with silver thread, the letters tiny but deliberate.

She noticed everything.

And you? You didn’t seem to notice her at all.

The Monday after the game — the one where Abby forced a fumble with thirty seconds on the clock — she lingered by the water fountains outside the band hall like she wasn’t doing it on purpose.

Her hoodie was on, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Bag slung casual over one shoulder. But her gaze kept drifting toward the heavy double doors where the percussion tech was propping them open with a sandbag.

Band kids filtered out in loose groups, talking over each other, flag poles clanking, mellophone cases banging against their shins. But you weren’t with them.

You never were. You always packed up slow. Stayed behind to help re-wrap flags or reset drill. Sometimes you practiced something one more time, even if it meant walking across the field in the dark.

Abby’s heart kicked when you finally stepped out, alone.

You looked tired — the good kind of tired. Like your whole body had earned it. Like you’d wrung yourself out and didn’t regret a second of it.

Your duffel thumped against your hip with each step, and the flag tube strapped to your back bounced with its own rhythm. The tail of your hoodie — one of those faded ones with the old-school school crest — caught the breeze and rippled behind you.

You didn’t see her at first.

So Abby stared.

She took in the mismatched socks — one navy, one white — and the ink-stained tips of your fingers, probably from labeling show equipment or adjusting the set list in Sharpie.

She watched your lips — parted slightly as you sipped from your dented plastic water bottle — and remembered the sound of them saying her name.

Nice game, Anderson.

It haunted her. The easy way it left your mouth. Sweet. Casual. Friendly.

God, she’d wanted more.

In the locker room, the noise was deafening. Pads slamming. Someone blasting music through a Bluetooth speaker.

Manny tossed her a protein bar from across the aisle and raised his brows. “You see her today?”

Abby didn’t even try to play it cool.

“Did you talk to her?”

She peeled the wrapper with agonizing slowness. “Nah.”

“You’re hopeless, man.”

Jesse chimed in, still lacing his cleats. “Seriously. You hit dudes like a runaway truck, but one little flag twirler smiles at you and suddenly you’ve got the tactical awareness of a cactus.”

“She’s not just a flag twirler,” Abby said quietly.

That shut them up. For a second, at least.

Manny leaned forward, eyes sharper now. “You’re in deep, huh?”

Abby exhaled, her breath puffing out through her nose. “I just... she’s different.”

And she meant it. You were.

You didn’t scream in the hallways or angle for attention. You didn’t flirt with half the offensive line after games or shove your way into yearbook superlatives.

You were quiet. Steady. Funny in a way that took people a second to catch. Kind without sugarcoating it. You moved like someone who didn’t need to be seen to matter.

And yet — Abby had never wanted to be seen by someone so badly.

Tuesday, she skipped the weight room.

Made some excuse about her knee — old injury flare-up, nothing major — but really, she just wanted to take the long way to the lot. Past the practice field. Past the chain-link fence and the cracked asphalt of the back corner where the guard worked toss drills against a sinking sun.

There you were.

Your rifle cut through the air, a smooth arc that spun three times before dropping back down. You caught it — then flinched. Fumbled. Dropped it with a thunk that made Abby wince instinctively. She could feel that sting from where she stood.

You shook your hand out, grimaced, muttered something.

Then — you laughed.

To yourself. Like a private joke shared with the sky. Like the mistake was nothing. Like it didn’t define you.

You picked the rifle up again. Tossed it higher this time. Caught it with both hands and flowed right into a drop spin sequence so smooth it looked rehearsed a thousand times — which it probably had been.

Abby’s lungs stalled. Her mouth went dry.

She wanted to walk over. Say something. Anything. Hey, that was a clean catch. What’s your PR on rifle height? Want a Gatorade? Can I marry you? Something chill like that.

She took a step.

Then froze.

Because your best friend jogged up right on cue, handing you a water bottle with a practiced grin. You both laughed at something, bumped shoulders, and then dropped onto the grass to stretch — lying back, limbs sprawled, the two of you silhouetted in the golden light.

Abby turned. Walked away.

That night, she lay on her bed in full darkness.

The ceiling fan spun in lazy loops, casting soft-moving shadows across her walls. Her phone buzzed. Messages. A Snap from Manny. A TikTok from Jesse.

She didn’t answer any of them.

Spotify played low from her speaker — some indie-folk playlist she wouldn’t admit to liking — soft guitars and breathy vocals meant for heartbreak she hadn’t even earned yet.

And all she could see was you.

Your ponytail swinging behind you when you marched off field. The half-circle bruise on your forearm from a tough rifle block. The way your spine elongated when you caught a toss overhead, like you were reaching for something only you could see.

She wondered what it’d be like to spin with you.

To stand behind you, arms wrapped around your waist. To adjust your grip. Steady your form. Feel the twitch of your muscles under her palms.

You’d tease her — relax your shoulders, Anderson, you look like you’re bench-pressing the wind — and she’d roll her eyes but lean in anyway.

And maybe — just maybe — you’d let her kiss you.

It was raining. The kind of rain that didn’t fall straight — but sideways, sneaking under the overhangs and streaking the floor tiles by the door.

You were the last one in the band hall. Again.

Drill sheets fanned out around you, each one marked with choreo notes, tempo arrows, and sweat-streaked fingerprints from hours of revision. Your hair was up, and strands had already escaped their once-perfectly-wrapped ponytail, sticking to your forehead. Your fingers were ink-stained, the smell of Sharpie clinging to your skin. You didn’t notice when the light outside shifted. Didn’t hear the double doors close. Didn’t realize someone else was still inside.

Abby did.

She’d walked past on her way to the locker room, her cleats slung over one shoulder, hoodie damp from the sprints and drills she’d just finished. She was exhausted, muscles sore, but she always felt a pull toward the band hall, like something about it settled her — or maybe it was you that did. She didn’t know. But when she saw you, there, hunched over the floor in front of a mess of drill sheets, she froze.

You were humming.

Quiet. Under your breath. Nothing rehearsed, just some familiar ballad that sounded like home. Something soft. Maybe an old song — a tune that didn’t need words to feel like a secret.

Abby leaned against the wall, careful to stay out of sight. She didn’t mean to stay. But your mouth moved in that careful way when you counted in silence, “five-six-seven-eight,” and your arms followed, twirling an invisible flag like muscle memory had more say than thought.

There was something hypnotic about it.

You moved differently when no one was watching. Softer. Less polished. It hit her like a punch: this wasn’t performance. This was you.

So she watched. She couldn’t look away. Every step you took, every twist of your wrist, was so purposeful. So graceful. The way your body followed the rhythm of something only you could hear. It was beautiful. Abby’s chest tightened, her pulse quickening, like she was seeing something she wasn’t meant to. Something private.

You didn’t hear her until she stepped closer.

The floor creaked.

You spun — startled, eyes wide. Your breath caught in your throat, chest rising and falling quickly, slick with sweat. Abby froze.

“Oh—shit. Sorry,” she blurted, stepping back as if the words could somehow erase the moment. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blinked, still caught in the aftershock of being caught. But then you smiled — not wide, but real. Something about it made Abby’s heart race. “It’s okay. Just… zoned out,” you said softly, your voice a little hoarse.

Abby scratched the back of her neck, trying to recover. “Didn’t know anyone was still in here.”

“Same,” you said, eyes flicking toward the door. “Thought I locked it.” You hesitated, then lifted a drill sheet. “Lost track of time.”

Abby gestured to the chaos on the floor. “Choreo?”

You nodded, looking down at the mess of papers. “Rewrites. Coach wants new transitions before Saturday’s comp. But nothing’s working.”

Abby stepped closer, her boots tapping lightly against the tile. She was careful now, not to crowd you, but her body still felt drawn toward yours. “Can I see?”

You raised an eyebrow, a little amused. “You care about drill sheets?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I care about you.”

The words slipped out before she had a chance to think. The air between them thickened immediately. Abby’s stomach dropped, and for a second, she regretted saying it. But then she saw the shift in your expression.

You blinked, a slow, hesitant smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. “Oh,” you said, your voice quieter now. “You noticed me.”

Abby’s throat worked, her heart hammering. “I’ve always noticed you.”

The silence stretched. The rain intensified outside, pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the tension that hummed between them.

You dropped your gaze, fingers twitching with something like nervous energy. “I thought… you were just polite. Or like… band adjacent,” you laughed a little, but there was an edge to it. “You never say much.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Abby admitted, her voice quieter now. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time.”

And just like that, something cracked in your expression. Your mouth parted, and your brows lifted in surprise. Then they softened, and for a moment, you just stared at her. The moment stretched long, too long, and Abby felt her heart race even faster.

Abby knelt beside you.

The floor was cold against her knee, the chill seeping through the thin fabric of her shorts. The paper crinkled beneath her hand as she picked up a stray sheet and studied it — not really reading, just stalling, trying to hide how desperately she wanted to close the distance between them. The smell of your shampoo hit her then — clean, fresh, a little citrus. It made her head spin, and her stomach did a somersault that she had no idea how to control.

“Your hands are shaking,” you said softly, your voice gentler now.

Abby set the page down, meeting your gaze, her fingers still trembling. “Yeah.” She didn’t know what to say after that, so she let the silence hang between them, thick and heavy.

You reached out and touched her knuckles, just barely, like you were testing the waters. Abby’s breath caught in her throat. It was the lightest touch, but it felt like an electric shock, and she almost flinched from how badly she wanted to hold on. Her heart pounded louder now, each beat making her want to close the space between you and her.

The rain intensified, turning into a steady pounding that echoed through the room like a slow snare roll. The room dimmed further, the soft amber light from the overheads flickering, leaving the rest of the school in darkness.

You shifted closer, just a breath. The warmth from your body was a shock after the chill of the room. “Want to help me?” you asked, voice soft, a little shy now.

“Help?” Abby asked, her voice hoarse.

“With the transition,” you said, stepping away from the scattered papers. “You’ve seen our show, right?”

“Every second of it,” Abby replied quickly, her voice thick with an emotion she couldn’t quite place. “It’s… amazing.”

You smiled at her, that soft, knowing smile that made Abby feel like her insides were on fire. “Good,” you said, then motioned to the open space between the brass lockers and timpani cases. Abby followed, her breath catching as she tried to focus on what was happening.

You didn’t grab a flag — just stood in front of her and counted out the eight count. “Okay. So right now, we’re moving from rifle to flag here,” you demonstrated, slow and fluid, your movements seamless. “But the tempo drops, and the toss gets weird.” You stepped closer, pressing your chest near hers, so close she could feel the heat radiating off you. “Here. Can you just — pretend to catch my hand like this?”

Abby froze.

Her palm was flush with yours.

Your fingers were warm, and it felt like the world stopped for a beat. Her pulse quickened, her body responding to the soft pressure as she followed your lead, holding her breath, waiting for what came next.

“Good,” you whispered, your breath a sweet rush of warmth against her ear. “Now… turn this way.”

Abby followed, eyes locked on your face, breath caught in her throat. Every move was choreographed by your breath, your hands guiding her with precision. Your fingertips traced the path of the motion up her arm, over her shoulder, down her ribs.

“Now stop.”

And just like that, she was standing too close to you. There was no room between you anymore. She could feel the heat of your body, smell the faint citrus scent of your shampoo, hear the soft rasp of your breath. She knew you felt it too — the way her pulse thrummed, the way her body tensed when your fingers brushed against her side.

Abby stared at you, eyes darting between your mouth and your eyes, unsure of what to do next. She felt exposed, vulnerable, like she was standing on the edge of something — and if she moved, she might fall.

You stared back, your eyes searching her face, and Abby felt the air crackle between you.

And then —

Footsteps.

A door slammed somewhere down the hall.

You pulled back, stepping away quickly, heart in your throat. You grabbed your bag, eyes wide, the reality of the moment crashing back in.

“I should—” you started, but the words felt wrong.

“Yeah,” Abby said, her voice a little breathless, a little strained. “Me too.”

But before you reached the door, you turned. Just for a second.

And said, quieter than before, softer than Abby expected:

“You coming to practice tomorrow?”

Abby nodded, her heart still racing. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The rain outside continued, steady and unyielding, but inside, Abby felt like the storm had only just begun.

The stadium was dark. The real one, anyway — locked up, waiting for Friday night. But the practice field behind the band room still buzzed with life.

Floodlights painted wide swaths of gold across the turf, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the darkened expanse. A metronome clicked from a Bluetooth speaker somewhere near the 50-yard line, steady and hypnotic, a rhythm that hummed beneath the cool night air. And you — you were in the middle of it. Alone.

Twisting. Spinning. Dropping into a deep lunge as your practice rifle sailed overhead, the whir of air rushing past the barrel. Your body moved fluidly, your muscles taut but controlled, like a well-oiled machine.

The rifle caught cleanly in your hands. Snap. Slap.

Then silence.

You held there for a breath. Frozen. Eyes narrowed, breath ragged. Your chest heaved, the taste of sweat lingering on your lips, the sting of exertion in your muscles. The wind kicked up around you, a late summer breeze carrying the smell of fresh turf, faint sweat, and the remnants of an afternoon rainstorm still lingering on the air.

The rest of the school was long gone. The buzz of chatter and the clatter of lockers were a distant memory. This was your ritual. After everyone cleared out — after the chaos and shouting and missed sets — you stayed. Just you, the yard lines, and the aching perfectionism in your chest.

Except tonight, you weren’t alone.

Abby was leaning against the chain-link fence that separated the practice field from the parking lot. She had come to the locker room to grab her gear after the football practice wrapped up, but she’d paused when she saw your silhouette against the glow of the lights. You hadn’t seen her yet. Not until now.

And God, she didn’t want to interrupt.

You moved like water. Controlled. Fierce. Every motion deliberate. Every spin and toss executed with a precision that took Abby’s breath away. You weren’t smiling. You weren’t performing. This wasn’t a show. This was something else. You were releasing — whatever it was, it owned you.

Each toss was higher than regulation, and with each catch, you sank deeper into the rhythm of your body, your mind locked in a perfect dance. The rifle cracked against the turf on every landing step, the sound sharp, like thunder.

Abby felt her heart hit her ribs. Her hands curled into fists, a knot of something tight and unfamiliar forming in her chest. She should leave. She knew that. She shouldn’t be watching you like this, shouldn’t be drawn in by the way you lost yourself to the movement. But she couldn’t tear herself away.

You were mesmerizing.

Her throat felt dry, and she forced herself to exhale slowly, willing her body to calm down, to not do something stupid. She didn’t mean to speak, but she did anyway.

“You always practice this late?”

You turned fast, your eyes wide. A flicker of surprise crossed your features, your heart skipping in your throat. “Jesus, Abby.”

“Sorry,” she laughed, holding up her hands in mock surrender, stepping closer to the sideline. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You wiped the sweat off your brow, glancing at her as you caught your breath. “It’s fine. Just didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t wanna interrupt,” Abby said, her voice soft as she stepped onto the field, the soles of her sneakers making no sound against the grass. “But... I didn’t wanna leave either.”

You eyed her skeptically. “You’re not in cleats.”

Abby glanced down at her worn sneakers, smirking a little. “I won’t mess up the grass.”

You tried not to smile. “Sure.”

After a beat of silence, a thought occurred to you, one that made your heart race in a way you didn’t expect.

“Want to learn a toss?”

Her eyes lit up, a spark of excitement flashing in her gaze. “You serious?”

You grabbed a practice rifle off the turf, tossing it to her underhanded and slow. Abby caught it awkwardly, the weight unfamiliar in her hands.

“Easy,” you said, stepping behind her, your voice warm and reassuring. “Start with your grip. Dominant hand on the bolt, non-dominant on the butt.”

Abby adjusted her hands, but the rifle felt too small for her fingers. Her hands were large, strong, and the plastic of the rifle seemed to dwarf in comparison.

“Now...” you stepped closer, barely a foot behind her, your presence looming. “Lift it chest-high. Elbows out. You’re gonna push with your bottom hand and twist with your top.”

Abby tried, the rifle wobbling in the air before it crashed to the ground near her feet with a soft thud. She looked down at it in frustration.

You laughed. “It’s okay. Everyone drops it the first time.”

She bent down to grab it, a sheepish grin tugging at her lips. “Show me again.”

You nodded, stepping back to give her space, then performed the toss once more. Slow. Fluid. Your arms rolled like waves, the motion effortless. The rifle spun high in the air, twirling through space before landing cleanly in your palms.

Abby stared at you, wide-eyed.

“You’ve got strong arms,” you said absently, your gaze flicking over her frame. “You just need control.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, curiosity blooming in their depths. “You’ve noticed my arms?”

You flushed, a slight heat rising in your cheeks. “Kinda hard not to,” you muttered, suddenly aware of how close you were standing.

The silence that followed was soft but charged. The air between you both felt thick now, like a thin strand of tension stretching taut, about to snap.

You offered your rifle to her again. “Try it with me?”

Abby hesitated for a moment, then took it. The rifle felt heavy in her hands again, but her fingers wrapped around it with more confidence this time.

You stepped behind her again, this time your hands sliding over hers to correct her grip. Your fingers brushed her skin as you guided her arms, the contact brief but enough to send a ripple of warmth through you. She tensed beneath your touch, but didn’t pull away.

“Good. Now hold it steady,” you whispered. “One... two...” You counted the beats, your voice low, soothing, yet deliberate.

Together, you pushed.

The rifle spun, not perfect — but better — and it thudded softly into the grass just ahead of you both.

“Nice!” you beamed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You’re getting it.”

Abby looked at you, her expression wide and proud. Her chest swelled with something unspoken, and her eyes lingered on you — on the way you moved, on the ease with which you shared this moment with her. And it hit her then — you wanted to share more than just the skill. You wanted to share this part of you, the part of you that came alive in the field, the part she’d never seen before.

She swallowed, her voice barely audible. “Do you ever stop moving?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“You’re always in motion,” she said softly, her voice a whisper beneath the hum of the metronome. “Always thinking. Planning. Rehearsing.” Her words trailed off, and she looked down at the rifle still clutched in her hands, her grip tightening slightly.

You paused, the weight of her observation settling in. You hadn’t thought about it much, but now that she’d pointed it out, it made something inside you shift.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat. “It’s... easier than stillness.”

Abby nodded, the sound of the metronome ticking away the silence between you both. “Yeah,” she murmured, her voice soft, understanding. “I get that.”

She stepped closer, her body brushing against yours as her shoulder made brief contact with yours. The simple touch, fleeting as it was, set your nerves on fire. You could smell her — a mix of fresh sweat, faint grass, and the detergent from her practice clothes. It was grounding. Familiar. And yet, it made your heart race in a way you weren’t prepared for.

You looked up at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were steady, unwavering, as they held yours. Blue, bright in the floodlight glow, filled with something unspoken.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“I like it when you’re still,” Abby murmured, her voice soft and almost reverent. “Even if it’s just for a second.”

Your lips parted, your breath catching in your chest. You wanted to say something — anything — but your throat tightened, and no sound came.

You turned away, quickly. Not out of rejection. Not out of fear. But because you were afraid of how close you were to doing something you couldn’t undo.

Abby let out a slow breath, her voice fragile. “Sorry. That was—”

“No,” you said quickly, cutting her off, your voice quieter now. “Don’t be.”

You looked back at her, the vulnerability in her expression making your chest tighten. Your voice softened. “You just... caught me off guard.”

Abby rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly, taking a step back. “Can I walk you out?”

You hesitated. The tension hung heavy between you both, but it wasn’t the kind that felt uncomfortable. No, this was different. This was something else entirely. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to deal with yet.

Then, with a small smile, you nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

As you both left the field, the metronome still clicked behind you. Abby held the practice rifle in her hands — awkwardly, but with care. Her fingers brushed yours once, twice, until, finally, you let it linger.

Neither of you said anything about it.

But you didn’t pull away.

The stadium was full.

The kind of full that pulsed. Students shoulder to shoulder, parents craning necks, fans screaming as they filled the air with excitement. The smell of popcorn, Gatorade, and churned-up turf thickened the atmosphere.

But here, on the sideline, you were separate from the chaos, preparing for the performance. The crowds’ noise was muffled, a low rumble that barely touched you.

You stood there — uniform crisp, practice rifle already in your hands. Glitter shimmered on your cheekbones. Your braid was tight. Your boots polished, the reflective surface catching the stadium lights. You were a vision of focus and readiness.

But your heart?

It hadn’t stopped pounding since the warmup. Your nerves buzzed like static electricity, and despite the rehearsed routine, the familiarity of the moment, something about tonight felt different.

Your eyes flicked to the field.

There she was.

Abby.

Helmet off now, dark brown hair sticking out in messy strands, pacing near the bench, jaw clenched tight in determination.

She hadn’t looked at you yet. Not really. But you could feel her. Like gravity. Like heat.

She was all motion and tension — her shoulder pads rising with each inhale. Sweat soaked through her uniform, the black eye black smeared across her face. One hand flexed open and closed as if itching to hit something, to release the pressure building within her.

You knew exactly what it was. The same thing burning in your own chest.

Last night’s moment hadn’t left either of you. The way her voice had dropped, the way your body had wanted to lean in — the way her eyes had traced your face like they were memorizing it.

God, you couldn’t forget it if you tried.

Abby’s gloves tightened again, fingers moving with force despite already being snug.

The stadium’s noise began to dull into the background as Abby yanked off her helmet. Her eyes scanned the sideline.

And then they locked onto you.

You.

Standing in line. Tall. Proud. Arms rippling as you twirled your practice rifle with a precision that didn’t even look human. You made it look effortless — no hesitation, no fumble. Fluid. Every move sharp.

Abby’s breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes stayed fixed on you for a moment too long, her pulse picking up.

She didn’t breathe.

You were dazzling.

She hated that word. Thought it was too cliche. But in this moment, in the golden stadium lights, it was the only word that fit. You looked stunning. Sweat and glitter caught on your cheek, your mouth tight in a line of focus. But there was something else in your face — something that made her think of that almost-smile you’d given her yesterday.

The one that almost broke the air between you.

“Walker!” the coach barked. “Snap outta it!”

Abby blinked, shook her head. The next play was forming in her mind, fast-paced, like a river threatening to pull her under. She had no time to think about your face. No time to get lost in how badly she wanted to see you after this game.

The first half felt like a battle of wills.

Abby played like something was chasing her — like if she could just hit hard enough, block fast enough, maybe the ache in her chest would go away.

But it didn’t.

Even after a sack that rattled the bleachers. Even after her name echoed in the cheers of the crowd.

Because every time she looked to the sideline, there you were. Watching. Sweaty. Breathless. Radiant.

And not hers. Not yet.

Her chest tightened.

She couldn’t stop glancing at you.

And every time you caught her gaze, you didn’t look away. Neither of you smiled — but there was a recognition there, a quiet understanding that ran deeper than the noise of the game.

Then, the announcer’s voice rang out through the stadium:

“Please welcome your marching band and colorguard to the field!”

You stepped onto the 50-yard line, nerves buzzing like static through your limbs. The adrenaline hit your bloodstream in a wave, your body primed and ready to perform. This show was choreography-heavy, all rifles and sabers for you. You’d drilled the opening tosses until you could do them in your sleep. But tonight?

It felt different.

Tonight, Abby was watching.

And somewhere deep in your chest, you wanted her to feel what you’d felt last night. You wanted her to see you — truly see you — and know that every move, every flick of your wrist, every turn of your body was for her. It was your way of showing her who you were.

The music started.

You moved.

Everything else — the crowd, the lights, the field, the world — fell away as you hit your first toss. Your rifle spun effortlessly into the air, light catching on the metal like a flash of silver. Your steps were sharp. Precise. Under the floodlights, your body felt weightless. Every spin a perfect extension of the next. The tosses landed sharp. Your arms cut through the air like they had been made for this. No fumbles. No falter.

And when you hit that dramatic drop spin — right in front of the home bench — your eyes found Abby’s.

She was standing.

No helmet. No words.

Just watching.

Like the rest of the crowd had gone silent. Like the lights were no longer shining on the field, but on you and her.

She was art.

That was the only way Abby could describe it. The way you moved wasn’t just athletic — it was emotional. Every turn of your wrist, every whip of your hair, every breathless step said something she didn’t know how to translate. But she felt it. God, she felt it.

And when you caught that rifle without breaking eye contact — that was it. The feeling that had been building inside her from the moment she saw you again was too much to hold back.

She wasn’t going to make it through the second half.

The win barely registered.

The crowd was screaming, hugging, throwing water bottles into the air. The cheerleaders formed a tunnel, everyone chanting. Abby barely high-fived anyone. She was still searching, eyes scanning for one person.

You.

She spotted you on the track. Your body flushed with exertion, sweat dripping down your neck. You were laughing with a clarinet girl, wiping the sweat from your brow, looking so… radiant, so alive.

When you turned and saw her, your eyes meeting hers across the field, it felt like a punch to the gut.

Neither of you smiled. But neither of you looked away either.

Your gaze held, steady. Knowing.

Abby’s heart stuttered in her chest. The adrenaline from the game had made her blood rush, her pulse thudding in her ears. She didn’t think about it, didn’t pause to question it.

She just started moving toward you.

But just before she reached you, someone tugged on your sleeve. The band director, probably. You nodded, said something, and then turned to follow them toward the loading dock.

Abby slowed. Stopped.

You looked over your shoulder. Eyes soft. Lips parted.

You mouthed it. Just for her:

“Later?”

Abby nodded once.

Later.

11:39 PM

The showers were still running. Steam ghosted through the locker room as Abby sat half-dressed on the bench, her cleats off, one sock still on, hair dripping onto the back of her gray tank top. The stadium had emptied over an hour ago, but she hadn’t moved much since.

Her teammates had already left, calling out half-sarcastic “MVP!”s and “Walker, you beast!” as they slammed lockers shut. She’d nodded, maybe smiled — but barely heard them.

Her head was elsewhere. Her chest, too. Still on the track. Still staring at you.

Her mind replayed every moment. The way you moved on the field. The way your eyes met hers. The way her heart skipped a beat when your fingers brushed against hers during that final toss. She couldn't shake the feeling that something between you two had changed tonight — that there was more to this connection than she'd been willing to admit.

Her phone buzzed, snapping her from her thoughts. A Snapchat from Jordan. She opened it, thumb hovering over the screen, but quickly swiped it away. She wasn’t in the mood for distractions.

Instead, she pulled up your contact. Her fingers hovered over the keys, and for a long moment, she stared at the blank text thread as if it might magically offer her the right words. She typed, then deleted, typed again, and deleted.

Finally, with a deep breath, she sent the message.

11:47 PM Hey. You still awake?

You’d just peeled off your uniform jacket when your phone lit up on the desk. The sudden brightness of the screen made you squint, and then you saw the name. Abby Walker.

Your stomach did a quick drop before it soared. There was a flicker of nervousness in your chest, but you grinned anyway, feeling the heat of your face flush. You hadn’t expected this — a message, at this hour, after everything that had happened on the field.

You flopped back on your bed, rifle callouses scraping against the sheets, and answered quickly, trying to play it cool.

11:49 PM Barely. Long night.

A beat passed before the little bubble appeared. You stared at it, heart pounding in your ears, wondering what she’d say next.

11:52 PM – Abby Didn’t get to say good job. You were unreal out there.

Your grin spread wider, and you felt a flutter in your stomach. Your heart did this strange little flip. You chewed on your bottom lip, momentarily stunned by how easily she’d slipped into your thoughts.

You blinked a few times, re-reading her message, before tapping out a quick reply.

11:54 PM You too. I saw that sack. Crowd lost it. You looked good tonight.

That last part made your fingers freeze for a second. You almost deleted it, but then you let go, pressing send before you could second-guess yourself.

Back in the locker room, Abby ran a hand over her face. Her heart thumped once, hard — not from the game, not from the cheers, but from the words that had just hit her phone screen. She swallowed, feeling her breath catch.

11:54 PM – Abby You were looking at me. During the drop spin. You held it.

You stared at the message for what felt like an eternity. Your heart hammered against your chest. You quickly replied:

11:54 PM – You You noticed?

11:55 PM – Abby ... I was hoping you would.

Abby let out a breath through her nose, her thighs bouncing with nerves. Her fingers hovered over the keys before typing again. She could feel the pulse between them, thickening. Her words came slower this time, deliberate.

11:56 PM – Abby I couldn’t stop noticing you. You know that, right?

You swallowed hard. There was a rush of heat, a tingle in your fingertips. You bit your lip as you stared at her message.

12:01 AM – You I’ve been trying not to stare at you all week. It’s not working.

Abby cursed softly under her breath, her body buzzing from the admission. The post-game high shifted into something deeper, something far more dangerous. She slumped back against the locker, her eyes fixed on the phone screen, wondering if this was real. Wondering if she was finally allowed to feel this — to reach for what she wanted.

She typed slowly, carefully, her heart racing as she expressed something she’d been holding in for months.

12:01 AM – Abby I keep thinking about your hands. How you touched mine on the field.

Her breath was ragged. She closed her eyes, imagining the way you felt under her touch.

Your reply came so fast it startled her.

12:03 AM – You I wanted to do more than touch your hands.

Abby shut her eyes. She exhaled hard, feeling a knot in her stomach. The air between them — charged, taut with the weight of unsaid things.

12:05 AM – You You want to catch me? What would you do if you did?

There was a long pause. The silence in her locker room felt heavy, like the world was holding its breath. Her heart pounded in her chest. Finally, she answered.

12:06 AM – Abby Can I show you tomorrow? I’ll come to your place. If you want.

You read her message twice, trying to process it. Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nervousness. You bit your lip, staring at the screen, your fingers trembling slightly as you typed back.

12:06 AM – You Come over. I want you to.

And just like that, everything changed.

12:36 AM

The knock on your front door pulled you from the warm daze of your thoughts. Your heart kicked into a quick rhythm as you made your way to the door, each step like the beat of a drum that matched the sudden fluttering in your chest.

You opened it slowly, feeling every nerve in your body light up the second you saw her standing there.

Abby.

Her tall, athletic frame seemed to fill the doorway, her hair damp from the rain, her muscles still alive with the burn of the game. Her presence was overwhelming — yet there was a softness in her posture, a vulnerability that made your pulse quicken. She stood there, looking uncertain for the first time since you'd met her, like maybe she wasn't sure if she was invited to this moment, too.

You swallowed hard, still caught off guard by the pull you’d been fighting since the first moment you laid eyes on her on the field. You smiled, stepping aside to let her in.

"Hey," you said, voice slightly shaky despite your best effort to sound casual.

Her eyes softened when they met yours. “Hi.”

The world outside felt like it disappeared, leaving just the two of you standing in the dim hallway, the air thick between you. For a second, neither of you moved. Her hand brushed against her damp hair, fingers tugging at the strands in a nervous gesture that made you ache with empathy. You could feel it — the tension, the quiet hope that something would finally give way between you two.

She stepped inside, moving like she was unsure of her place in your space, but that only made her seem more real, more present.

"You’re wet," you said, your voice a little too soft.

She glanced down at her hoodie, which clung to her like a second skin. "Yeah, it's been raining."

You raised an eyebrow. "You should get out of those clothes."

She caught your gaze, and for a moment, it felt like time slowed down. Abby’s lips parted slightly, her gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth. She didn't say anything — she didn’t need to. The air between you was enough of a question.

The tension stretched thick, and your heart pounded in your chest. You took a step toward her, the distance between you now nothing more than a whisper.

“Stay,” you murmured. “I want you to stay.”

Her chest rose with a deep breath, her eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, she nodded, then pulled off her damp hoodie. The action was slow, deliberate, the fabric scraping over her skin in a way that made the heat between you spike.

Your fingers itched to touch her, to feel the muscles of her body beneath your hands. But you stayed still, waiting. Watching.

When her hoodie hit the floor, Abby stood there in a tight black tank top, fitted joggers that hugged her legs, and her athletic form that seemed to glow in the dim light of the apartment.

She was so goddamn beautiful.

You stepped closer, your breath catching in your throat. You raised your hand, fingertips barely brushing over her forearm, feeling the warmth of her skin. She shuddered slightly at the touch, and something deep in your chest twisted.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but instead, her gaze dropped to your lips. A silent invitation — and you didn’t hesitate for a second.

Your lips met hers in a soft, tentative kiss. It started gentle, like the first drop of rain on a dry day, but the moment your lips touched, everything in your body seemed to ignite. You cupped her jaw, deepening the kiss, your other hand moving to her waist, pulling her closer until you could feel the heat of her body, the firm muscles of her stomach pressing against yours.

Abby’s breath hitched as she kissed you back, her hands trailing up your sides, touching you with an urgency that matched the growing hunger inside you. She let out a soft moan, and you couldn’t stop yourself from pulling her flush against you, feeling the way her body molded to yours.

When you pulled back, your breath came in shallow bursts, your forehead pressed against hers. Abby’s chest was heaving in time with yours, her lips swollen, glistening, her pupils blown wide.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” she whispered, her voice husky with desire.

You swallowed, the confession making something stir low in your belly. “I know.”

Her fingers slipped to the hem of your shirt, hesitant for only a moment before she pulled it off over your head. The cool air hit your skin, but you didn’t care. You were so focused on the way Abby was looking at you — the heat in her eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly as they traced the curve of your body.

Her touch was electric.

Slowly, you stepped backward, leading her toward the bedroom. Abby followed you, her hand never leaving your waist. You could feel her fingers brushing over the skin of your back, the subtle pressure of her touch making every nerve come alive.

When you reached the bed, you turned to face her, but Abby was already there. Her lips crashed against yours again, but this time, there was no hesitation, no shyness. It was pure need. The kiss was deep, messy, filled with the taste of something unspoken. You felt the weight of everything that had been building — months of stolen glances, quiet longing, the way her voice had sent shivers down your spine, and now, finally, the reality of her hands on your body.

She pushed you gently back onto the bed, her body following in perfect sync. You gasped as her weight settled over you, her skin warm against yours, her chest pressing against your breasts. The heat between you two was overwhelming, thick and heady.

Her lips trailed down your jaw, her breath hot against your skin as she moved lower, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the tender spot just below your ear. You shuddered under her touch, your hands finding the muscles of her back, pulling her closer.

“Abby,” you whispered, the word slipping from your lips like a prayer, a plea.

Her hand moved between your bodies, her fingers lightly grazing your waist before she slowly slid them lower. You gasped at the touch, the fire of her hands igniting every part of you. Her fingers found the edge of your waistband, and she hesitated, as if asking for permission.

You nodded, your body thrumming with anticipation.

Without another word, she slipped your shorts off, her eyes dark with desire as she took in the sight of you beneath her. Her gaze flicked up to meet yours, searching for something — for confirmation, maybe, or for reassurance.

You gave it to her. Your fingers brushed over her face, your touch soft, tender, before cupping the back of her neck, pulling her in for another kiss.

Abby’s hands slid over your body once more, this time with more purpose. She traced the curve of your hips, the swell of your chest, exploring every inch of you like you were something sacred. Her touch was gentle, reverent, but also eager — as if she couldn’t get enough.

And you couldn’t either.

As she kissed down your body again, her lips leaving a trail of heat and sensation in their wake, you let out a soft moan. Abby’s hands slid to the curve of your thighs, pulling them apart slowly. You gasped, the anticipation thick in the air as she settled between your legs, her breath warm against your skin.

The tension was almost unbearable.

“Please,” you whispered, not sure what you were asking for but needing it all the same. You wanted her, every part of her. You wanted to feel everything.

Abby’s lips quirked into a soft smile, and for a moment, you thought she might tease you. But then she kissed you again — slow, deep, her hands cupping your face, tilting your head just enough to make the kiss feel even more intimate.

“I’m here,” she murmured against your lips. “I’ve always been here.”

And in that moment, you knew that everything — every hesitation, every doubt — had led to this. This moment. This connection.

Abby’s hand slipped lower, and you gasped as her fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The feeling of her touch, gentle and sure, made your pulse spike. She took her time, savoring every inch of your body, her lips following the path of her hands.

Your breath hitched as she kissed down your chest, her lips leaving hot trails of fire on your skin. You arched into her, every nerve on fire as she moved lower, her touch both soothing and electrifying.

The anticipation was unbearable, but the way she looked at you, the way she made you feel — it was all worth it. Every touch, every kiss, every breath felt like a promise, a slow unraveling that was only just beginning.

note - this was my awakening that I actually could not write smut that well... (there was gonna be smut but it was stracthed :( )

[timdrakesuperspy]

dc omegaverse scents

alfred is a post menopausal alpha but his top scent is like cleaning product/flowery/clean, followed by mid notes of ozone, gun powder, and leather, and base notes of mint and musk so a lot of people mistake him for an omega (and mistook past tense, which he def used to his advantage as a spy)

bruces top scent is leather and expensive woody whiskey, middle scents are very basic salty, sweet, and bitter, and the base is musk, mud, iron, and more leather/kevlar. he wears it way too much to jot have it. obviously when hes omega (correct choice), the sweet is stronger/more wine-ish than whiskey, when hes alpha the bitter and woody/whiskey is stronger

dicks top scent is kettle corn (sweet and buttery) and salt, middle scents are leather, chalk, wood shavings, and clean straw, base scents are rain and fig/musky fruity. i do think dick is an alpha but i also think scent is probably the same no matter his designation because he’s very flexible (lol) and has a very neutral and even mix

cass’s smell is top notes of citrus, middle notes of musk and salt, and base note of iron. very very basic but very strong and very well-controlled scents

jason’s top smell is paper, ink, and fruity wine, mid notes are flowery, base notes of expensive leather and musk. he is also an omega of course but i think his scent could go either way, which he def uses to his advantage

tims smell would have a top note of energy drinks and ozone/electricity/storm, middle notes of wet concrete and chlorine, and base notes of iron and salt. if hes omega the energy drink is the sweeter part, alpha then its the sour part, and beta its a mix of just plain old average energy drink. when tim gets passionate he smells like an incoming gotham heat storm

kons smell is top notes hibiscus and ozone but in the thin air/top of a mountain type way, middle notes of petrichor, cut grass, and river, and base notes of chemicalness, bleach, peroxide, plasticky, and just artificial in general. very hard to describe but the base smells are very lab-like. for a while the base was all he had, but as he grew and spent more time in hawai’i and kansas he developed more. instead of that milky baby scent most people had, kon just smelled like the tube. when in the womb, pups take on first the milky scent obviously and then their mothers most base scent, and as they grow they develop more complicated ones, typically from the parents and whatever they grow up doing/caring about. kon did not get that because he was designed scentless on purpose because lex wanted him separated that way and the scientists figured he’d never need one because he’d always be a cadmus tool, but as kon got older he developed more because he did have regular scent glands, they were just purposefully left underdeveloped. lex’s base scent is also very chemical/metally because of his fuckass dad and also the kryptonite and cancer and stuff, so in a fucked up kinda way kon did end up inheriting his mother’s base scent

i think probably base notes inherited from the parent slowly age out into top or middle notes. as a baby, damians main scent is metal from his mom, as he ages with bruce its leather and metal, and then as he gets older and more mature he develops his own personal scents

stephs top smells are wet grass and grapes, mid smells are woodsmoke and iron, base smells are cedar and vanilla

damian’s smell as he is twelve is of course that milky baby smell, but ill delve into it anyway. as an adult his top smells are leather and metal, mid notes are paper, heat smoke, animal fur, and spices, following by a base note of turpentine and linseed oil. the only change between designation is what kind of spices—sweeter for omega, spicier for alpha, etc

in this au in particular, clark was given shots and engineered as a baby to be very adaptable to his environment so when he landed on earth he was basically human (as far as scent goes) but as he grew older he developed scent glands and thus more scent. the weirdest part about him is he never actually had that milky scent, because ma never produced any milk so there was never anything to pick it up from. his base note his whole life was fresh cut grass and old wood, which developed top notes of paper, metal, and smoke, and mid notes of ozone, hay, and animal musk

lex’s smell is top notes of musk and expensive vodka, mid notes of money paper, cold, and wind, and base notes of chemicals and metal. very cool and unfeeling smells, which clash drastically with clark’s warm, homey smells.

cassie sandsmark has top notes of leather and wood smoke, mid notes of ozone, and base notes of apple

bart has top notes of fruit and grass, mid notes of cinnamon, and base notes of ozone and electric heat

anita has top notes of sandalwood and jasmine, mid notes of incense and candle wax, and base notes of frankincense

greta does not smell until she gets humanized again; before she had sweet, candy and fruity scents with mellower base notes, and now her top scent is ozone, her mid scent is Neapolitan ice cream, and her base scent is dust and clay

cissie’s top scent is leather, mid notes of grass and tea tree oil, and base notes of vanilla

slobo is an alien and doesnt have a real scent but everyone agrees he smells like space dust, blood, and leather

[salparadiselost]

Just something I wrote up. I had this scene in my head and I couldn’t not write it. It’s based on a New Gods AU which I’m not sure I’ve talked about but it exists in the group chat.

*****

“Fetch your brothers. Return to the Manor immediately.”

---

Dick hummed all of the top 40 tracks under his breath as he walked along the edge of a highway. He believed he was somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, given the trees, the mountains, and the slight tinge of magic that wasn’t his. There were old beings sleeping under him, older than humans and the concepts that they had used to create godlings like him.

They weren’t the reason he came here, though.

He was here for a much newer god.

He sniffed the air like a hunting hound and stopped abruptly.

A truck clattered past him, not stopping, not seeing.

Dick searched along the grass and found his telltale, a small roadside memorial in the form of a white wooden cross was tipped over to the side. Its paint was peeling off, sloughing off in fat chunks. The wood underneath it was molding into black. The forgotten husk of a teddy bear decomposed into the ground beside it. Artificially coloured flowers that would never get the blessing of decomposure lay partially buried in the dirt. A faded picture of a girl, brown-haired and big-smiling, was nailed to the cross, and it fluttered slightly when another car passed. Written on the photo, in faded pen and running ink, the second half of a sentence could just barely be read: “-was last seen here”.

Dick snorted.

Tim was nothing if not predictable.

He turned off of the road and went into the forest beyond it.

He doesn’t know what happened here; it wasn’t his jurisdiction. Tim could probably tell you. Talk to you about how that girl’s car had been broken down, or maybe she had stopped to help an ‘innocent’ bystander, or maybe she had met a secret boyfriend for a drive. He could tell you about the days before, how she was in life before it was cut short, what innocuous things were the dominoes stacking up before the whole thing tipped over.

It was a conversation that Dick had had with Tim before, but not one that interested him much, given that she hadn’t become the center of America’s media circus. Instead, her story ended here. In a forest, with a wooden cross and a cold case sitting in some podunk town somewhere.

Dick’s gaze flicked through the foliage, across a tattered piece of fabric caught in a bush’s branches, across the loose threads from torn clothes that would have been too small for the human eye.

Around him, the forest chattered and whispered, quietly saying what had happened in a way that he couldn’t quite hear. It told the entire story if you knew how to listen. Tim did. Bruce did. But Dick didn’t. He only knew the clues enough to follow them to the edge of a lake.

The bright blue lake was like a hole in the forest’s coat. Trees parted to make room for it, and it reflected the sky back on itself. It was a pristine blue, except for a blotch out in its middle.

There, amongst the endless sky water and the sparkling ripple of waves, was a body.

It floated in the suspended reality of the water, bobbing with restless motion despite the stillness in its limp form. It was completely naked, revealing pale and pasty skin to the world. The colour was greyer than any living human should be and unnaturally mottled with green and blue. All the warmth of life had been leached out by its watery grave, leaving only a grisly shadow of what it had been. The knobby ridges of its spine jutted into the air. Its neck stuck at an unnatural angle, and there was an occasional peek at a slash of raw, exposed flesh. Little chunks of meat, bitten and pulled off by fish and birds, floated next to the corpse.

Dick waited, his foot tapping against the shore of the beach.

The body kept floating there, buoyant from the bloat of gasses captured in its stomach. Long hair rippled with the waves.

He sighed, put two fingers up to his mouth, and whistled. The sound pierced across the lake and hung in the air for a few seconds.

Then, the body twitched, limbs locking back into physical control. It shook and then moved its arms to sit itself up, raising up on the water like someone awakening from a nap. It sat up, and Dick could see the remnants of her face. It was torn, like someone had dragged it, and let pieces of it come off like ribbons to then be eaten by the water. Skin hung. The eyes were gone. Her jawbone was visible through a large gaping hole in her cheek. Flesh had been picked apart by fishes and other creatures. It was a portrait of a death. Her death, he supposes.

The face of her stared at him until suddenly it wasn’t her’s anymore.

In between two of his breaths, the figure on the lake had changed into something Dick recognised much more.

“What?” Tim snapped from his seat on the water, legs tucked close and looking very much like a teenage that had been interrupted from his twin bed. Waves lapped at the edges of him, but they might have well been blankets and sheets. Dick is pretty sure he’s seen Tim in this exact position at the Manor, comforter knotted up all around his legs with his laptop balanced on his lap.

He gave Dick the same annoyed, haughty, ‘you’re bothering me’, look that every younger sibling seemed to have mastered.

“I’m here to pick you up,’ said Dick, his tone bouncing. “Dad wants us. It’s time to come back.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, and the temperature of the air turned down a few degrees. “I’m not a kid that needs to get fetched from his room.”

Dick snorted and shrugged. “Trust me. I’ve been trying to use that argument for centuries. A millennium before you were even thought up. It doesn’t work.”

Tim stayed staring for a few moments before he groaned and collapsed back into the water. The movement exposed a weeping gash on the body’s side, the flash of her ribs was poking out from the meat. There were bruises on her belly and up her chest. Tim laid on his back, staring up at the sky and rocking with the slight ripple of the lake.

“I guess telling him I’m busy won’t dissuade him?”

“Nope.”

Tim sighed and rolled to hop off of his makeshift bed. His legs splashed into the water, but only raised halfway up his thighs. He trudged his way towards Dick, and as he did, the memory of the dead girl shed off of him. His body healed over the gashes. His neck clicked into the right place. A baggy hoody and jeans manifested onto himself. His hair dried, shortened, and any caught leaves or twigs fell out of it. By the time he reached the shore, the only remnant left of the girl was the slight corpse tinge on Tim’s skin. It was a little too pale to be alive, a little too blue and green not to suggest decomposition, but even that was being erased away.

“You figure out your little mystery?” Dick asked, watched Tim shake the last of the lake and the girl off of him. ‘You’ve been out here for a few weeks.”

“Not really,” said Tim, as he grabbed an Airpod out of his hoodie pocket and shoved it into one of his ears. “Finding the body is easy. Filling in the holes in the middle is always harder.”

He also drew a maroon beanie from his hoodie pocket and stuck it on his head.

“And floating out there in the middle of the lake is essential?” Dick teased and Tim gave him a venomous frown. It wasn’t the first time Dick had found him in a rather deathly position despite Bruce trying to ban it multiple centuries ago.

Tim drew a beat-up white sneaker from the hoodie pocket and then another. “Living through the last moments is very informative.”

Dick grinned and Tim’s glare dropped. “Wait, you’re not telling Dad are you?”

Dick hummed with a smirk, and Tim looked like he wanted to throw something at Dick’s head. “I hate you, you know.”

“Alright, alright, maybe I won’t tell him.” He raised his hands in surrender and gave Tim a smile that usually made people fall in love with him. Usually. But Tim wasn’t people, and he sure as hell knew that behind all the pretty grins, Dick’s teeth were sharpened and his tongue could give the most beautiful lie.

His gaze remained suspicious, but eventually he shook his head and changed the subject, apparently done with Dick’s game.

“What the hell are you wearing anyways?”

Dick blinked, taking a second to remember exactly how he was appearing at the moment. It was his normal body in its normal shape. He double checked to confirm he was male, and yep, in the male configuration. All of this was stuff Tim had seen a million times before, so it wasn’t something with the body.

It must be the outfit.

It took a second but he remembered he was wearing a glittery, blue sequined leotard that cut high up on his hips and had large hearts emblazoned on it. Matching the leotard, he wore a glittery cowboy hat and a pair of heart-shaped glasses that did little to hide the bright blue shadow on his lids. He also had on gold cowboy boots that went to his thigh and gloves that stretched toward his elbows. A row of beaded tassels hung from the leotard and this shimmered when he breathed.

He had been at a concert when he saw the text from Bruce to retrieve Tim.

Concerts were more his speed than all of Tim’s moody floating in the woods. Modern concerts were a spectacle and he lived for spectacle. He didn’t really care about the music or the artistry; he always found those to be the most boring parts, but he loved the sheer grandeur of their shows. He adored the way the pulse of the crowd rocked into his bones and filled his lungs. He reveled in how the thrum consumed you into a part of itself. He drank the fizzy pop of power that came from a thousand people all chanting the same sounds. It was intoxicating. It was thrilling. It was a vestige of him.

How he was.

Back when humans filled coliseums and circuses were the center of the world.

It came close to satisfying the vicious yearning he still had for blood sprayed across Roman sands and the clatter of chariot wheels.

No more though. He had to get his fill from a different type of spectacle now.

“I was at a music thing,” Dick said with a waved hand. “Some little Missouri girl is calling herself a princess and people are eating it up.”

Tim raised a curious eyebrow, eyes going over Dick’s outfit. He knew the rules of Dick’s god hood, generally the bigger, the flashier, and the more flash in the pan, the better. “That seems like a boon for you.”

“It’s fast,” said Dick with a shrug. “It’s fun. But it's music, which always means it's only half a meal for me.”

After all, he wasn’t a god of music. He didn’t care about the melody or the words, if anything it was competition for what he truly wanted. He wanted something much more primal. Much more ancient.

Ironic that most of it lived in the moments and flashes of social media. The newest technologies to satisfy the most basic of needs.

He had to adapt if he wanted to live, and this is where that got him. He knew Tim understood because he wanted something similar. Something that was ugly to most of the modern world, and yet survived with each new revolution.

Sure enough, Tim nodded and walked towards Dick’s side.

“Are we going straight to the Manor?” He asked, eyes looking forward and momentarily tabling the mystery in the lake. His mind was already turning on something new, trying to figure out why Bruce had called them all back.

It wasn’t… unusual for Bruce to call them all together back to the Manor but the timing was odd.

They had mostly recently been called back a few months ago and Bruce usually let them have a couple years in the field before he was itching to have them back again. It was a deviation of their pattern and given that Bruce was an ancient god with ancient habits, it took a lot to break their patterns.

Something was up.

Something that required all of them to be home.

“We have to go get Jason,” said Dick, the world already changing around them. “Then we will go home.”

[ceramicrambles]

SVSS GOD AU prequel:

Proud Immortal Demon Way was a world made by a creator God.

Specifically, Proud Immortal Demon Way was a beautiful world subjected to the whims of a hack God, who really could benefit from more shame.

There are some things that gods, as a monolith, tend to be. They’re tall, beautiful. With an effortless manner not afforded to the baby ilk of their kind. They do not tend to be monster sympathizers.

Shen Yuan (the baby ilk in question) has these traits, too. But shifted a little to the left. He’s tall, yes. He’s…pretty, in the way a mountain is pretty. It’s something that’s meant to be appreciated on an objective, far-away basis. And there are things to his appearances that, maybe, if he were less superficial he wouldn’t notice. He is a monster sympathizer.

But— here’s the thing—

It’s a bright, sunny morning. In the world he’s revising. The world is pretty. It’s nice. Landscapes like this, in general, aren’t meant to look like they’ve been touched. So, it’s pretty, in that unloved and un-lived in kinda way. It’s just that—l—he feels like he’s been here before. Even though he’s still young, actually. He’s been to very few worlds. Inexperience licks at his heels, and manifests in the form of the things he really shouldn’t say. The things that slip out of his mouth anyway. Unbidden.

“This isn’t a bamboo stalk, and that isn’t a stone.” He tells the next god who asks for his revision. She hovers over his shoulder the whole time. And all he’s done is revise a leaf resting poetically on the sidewalk, “This is a decoration. One you designed. To be hollow.”

When he turns to see the look on her face, he feels a bit of schadenfreude: “Much like its master,” he says, “The leaf is unimpressive.”

And— he gets fired— which…is probably fair. It’s not like he wanted to revise what was essentially her vacation pagoda. But, as time moves forward in an endless climb, the truth of it all rears its ugly head.

Bamboo stalks tilted this way or that— is this revision? He wonders. A God complains about how he shifts a rock, forcing him to change it back with a strong hand. Seconds tick by like days. He makes artificial decisions. Nothing ever really changes. The gods throw him around, pushing him into reverting his choices. Forcing him to call them master— and they grab him, hand marks scattered across his wrist like he’s nothing— like he’s not a landscape.

Shen Yuan takes the long way up the sculpted Jade stairs to the heavenly Emperor’s pavilion. He’s ready to retire, has a whole speech and everything.

But then, he bumps into something. A god half his size, who yelps as they both go tumbling down a few stairs. When they finally rest at the bottom, he mentally lights an incense stick for his poor back.

“Watch where you’re going!” Whines the nameless God. From this angle, he’s a little pathetic with his cheeks puffed out, his hair all ruffled. He looks almost like—

“A hamster?” Shen Yuan says, the god he’s draping over opens his mouth. In shock. Oh man, he is glaring.

“What the hell bro!!! I do not look like a hamster!” The god thrashes, in a pitch so unpleasant Shen Yuan’s eyes start to water. Then, noticing the chopstick hairpin in his brown hair, and the grass stains on his knees. Shen Yuan feels something click into place just right into the base of his hindbrain.

“You’re so pathetic!! We should make a world together!”

That’s how he meets Shang Qinghua— The creator of Proud Immortal Demon Way— for the first time.

★彡★彡★彡★彡★彡★彡

So that’s the prequel! The fanfic will be posted when I finish, so sometime next month? Because my beta reader also needs time to read it and then make changes etc etc. but yeah!

I made a separate tag for my fanfiction announcements if you want to follow that it’s #ceramic rambles fic tag

Yayayayay okay thanks guys have a good day

Also bonus excerpt from the god! Au fic I’m writing:

[tswhiisftteedr]

ANYTHING Lute x Reader, i just need to see more of this perfect gal whose had like 3 minutes total of screentime

Girls ☆ One Shot

☆ Lute x Human Soul!Fem!Reader:

After having met you on your first day in heaven, your life and lute’s would change for the better as you had found your other half despite your original predicaments.

Words: 4228

Warnings: Mature Content, Explicit/Graphic Language, Honestly Nothing Kinky, It’s just plain girl on girl smut. Homophobia. Lute might be ooc. NOT PROOFREAD.

Notes: Okay right off the bat, some bullshit logic about angels being able to tell if someone is queer, also lute is gay but has some major internalized homophobia so for a good chunk of this she’s rude to the reader just because they’re gay.

☆ more under the cut. ☆

Frankly, the scenario felt weird, especially given the fact that both of you were, well, 'you.'

From a logical standpoint, it didn't add up, not in the slightest. However, in the grand scheme of things, ‘does love really need to make sense?’

The response to that question was unquestionably, no, when observing your relationship with Lute.

It all began when your seemingly stable life abruptly crumbled. While crossing the street, mind you, at a red light, fate took a dark turn as a truck with faulty brakes struck you, ending your life on the spot.

There was no reincarnation into another world after this encounter with truck-kun; you were flat out dead.

In the blink of an eye, you found yourself standing before the gates of Heaven, where Saint Peter meticulously inspected his book, akin to the VIP list of an exclusive nightclub – or so it seemed.

However, instead of the typical club scene with artificial lights, drugs, unpleasant odours, drunk individuals, and a sense of desperation, you were enveloped in a heavenly realm. Fluffy clouds, savoury food, sweet fragrances, joyful company, and an overwhelming sense of acceptance surrounded you.

This was truly paradise, and you were relieved that your life wasn't too problematic. After being shown your potential residence—a beautiful house with a spacious garden—and touring 'Heaven city' with a friendly Angel couple, you enjoyed exploring your surroundings.

However, the perfection took a turn when you accidentally encountered the first unfriendly 'individual' in Heaven.

"Watch it," the woman with white hair warned you, and after scanning you from head to toe (much like her golden-winged companion), she remarked, "I guess they really let anybody in these days, even people like you."

With those words, she walked away accompanied by the non-human-looking 'man,' which seemed to be the norm in this place. However, you couldn't shake off the unease caused by her reference to 'people like you.'

Soon, you discovered the meaning behind her comment. Apparently, angels here could distinguish between cis-straight and queer individuals.

The reason of ‘why?’ remained unknown to you, but what became clear was that, in her opinion, you didn't deserve Heaven—not based on your actions but solely due to your sexuality, ‘and that pissed you off.’

You had planned to confront her the next time your paths crossed, and that moment arrived three months later, long after you had moved on from the incident;

Now, you were patiently waiting in line to sample drinks at the recently opened smoothie bar. The atmosphere was serene and heavenly, as expected.

Just as it was about to be your turn to order, you were rudely jolted by the announcement, "Move it, bitches, Adam’s in the houuuse."

You found yourself pushed aside, forced to witness the obnoxious Angel now placing his order.

Midway through his order “Pineapple smoothie with extra pineapple, tapioca, grass jelly, make it an extra-large with extra sugar, then she’ll have-“ it suddenly dawned on you that he was the guy with the white-haired companion from last time. Before you could fully process it, you turned around to find the white-haired woman right beside you.

Upon noticing you, she shot a disgusted glare and 'tsk' your way. Frustrated, you thought, 'That rude bitch- Not only did she cut in line, but she also gave you a look like you were a turd on the incredibly clean streets of heaven!'

This time, you were determined to speak your mind to her;

"Whats your problem?" you question her with frustration evident in your tone.

"Excuse me?" she retorts, disdain dripping from her voice.

"I'm asking, what's your issue with me? Our first encounter, you flat out implied I didn't belong in heaven. Seriously, for what, for being gay? Firstly, that's bullshit because my worth as a person shouldn't be based on my sexuality. Secondly, it's just plain homophobic. Isn't heaven supposed to be all about accepting thy neighbour? So instead of treating me like I'm beneath you, how about an apology for our last interaction, Miss off-brand Kanade?" You lay it all out, determined not to let her disrespect slide this time. She was to blame before, but allowing it again would be on you, ‘and that wasn't going to happen.’

"Oooooh, cat fight!" remarked the golden-winged Angel, treating your dispute as some form of entertainment. Also 'cat fight', was he fucking serious?! That term left you thinking, 'misogynistic asshole!' in response to his words.

"Do you even know who you're speaking to?" the woman questioned, exuding a sense of superiority.

"Yeah, tear that bitch a new on, Lute!" the golden-winged Angel chimed in.

"I don't 'lute,' and if you were truly that significant, I would’ve. But it sure as hell doesn't seem to be the case!" you retorted with a touch of spite, placing extra emphasis on her name.

The shop as a hole gasped at the mention of the ‘H word’.

"I’ll have you on that I hold the title of Lieutenant of— in the Heavenly Army. And as one of God's warriors, I deserve respect from someone of your, let's say, slightly above dreadful mortal soul status," she declares, almost slipping up and inadvertently revealing the existence of exterminators.

"Sure thing, 'heaven warrior.' Firstly, when did we ever need an angel like you? It's been peaceful here. Secondly, I couldn't help but notice that slip-up. I don't know your real occupation, probably still military judging by your mannerisms, but certainly not some simple member of this 'heaven’s army,'" you respond, now sure that she's concealing her true job from most of Heaven's population.

"You insolent, miserable, lower life form! Consider yourself fortunate that your meager good deeds in your pathetic human life landed you here. Otherwise, I would have had the pleasure to—" she began, but was abruptly interrupted by her 'companion' or perhaps 'boss.' "Chill out, danger tits," he calmly stated in a tone vastly different from his earlier goofiness. The shift in his demeanor was genuinely unsettling.

And her attitude swiftly transformed; she composed herself and turned to face him. "I apologize, Adam, sir. I allowed my emotions to take over and stepped out of line," she said, directing her apology not to you but to her boss.

With that, the two individuals departed, leaving you to independently apologize to your fellow angels for the disturbance.

Was that the final occasion you heard or saw them? No, because not even a month later, here you were;

Another fun aspect of heaven was its schools, designed for souls who aspired to study on Earth but lacked the opportunity or had their lives cut too short to complete their educations.

Another facet of this scenario allowed the souls of teachers or individuals aspiring to aid in unfulfilled dreams to volunteer for assisting with the children's education.

That's why you found yourself present today, supporting Miss Asiimwe with her fourth-grade anglophone class during a spelling bee. Just as the classroom door swung open, an unmistakably loud and obnoxious voice rang out, "What up turds, big bro Adam's in the house!"

Your day took a turn from a wholesome one contributing to kids' education to a shitty one, because if that ‘pompous jerk Adam was here, she sure would also be—‘ "Oh, it's you again," Lute remarks to you, her voice less harsh than the last encounter but still carrying a hint of bitterness.

Truly, ‘It was a waste for her to be so beautiful with that kind of attitude’. Despite her rude remarks about your sexual orientation, you may or may not find her attractive—perhaps not the wisest choice, and you were aware of such. But hey, after all, dominatrix existed, and they get paid handsomely to insult people. So, ‘is it really that unconventional to be into her?’

Yes, it very much so was. However, before having the chance to delve into those thoughts, Lute abruptly snapped her fingers right in front of your face to divert your attention.

"What are you doing here?! And a quit staring at me like that!" she demanded, replacing her fingers with her face, now uncomfortably close, and you could feel her breath on your face.

"Um, well— I'm assisting this classroom's teacher, something I've been doing since week one in heaven, so you're not kicking me out," you replied with a defensive tone, slightly taken aback by her question but drawing from your previous interactions.

"I never claimed I would, chill out, mortal soul. You shouldn't project the stress of your inadequacy as an inferior being into this classroom's atmosphere. Stress spreads easily, and you wouldn't want it affecting the children," she declares with authority, though her tone and gaze had some gentleness in it.

Truth be told, she might have found herself drawn to you. It was a difficult pill to swallow, given her blatant homophobia and the fact she found the thought of ‘her’ being attracted to a woman absolutely absurd.

Upon initially glimpsing your figure and sensing a certain fire within her, her instinctive response was to be rude to you.

"You mentioned you've been assisting here since your first week. How frequently do you come by?" she inquires, attempting to initiate casual conversations with you. By now, she had acknowledged that you weren't to blame for her attraction. While you might be the source, her draw toward women wasn't dependent on whether she found you hot or not.

"Well, I try to stop by at least twice a week. I believe having familiar faces during learning helps children feel safer and more supported," you admitted, surprised that she's engaging in small talk.

"I completely agree. Having a trusted adult present during learning builds a strong foundation for children's education, especially for the younger ones," she adds, gazing ahead at the classroom where the children have transitioned from spelling to playing with Adam.

"Leave it to the man-child to get along with kids," you joke to yourself, watching how effortlessly Adam bonds with the children. They're engrossed in a game involving knights and kings, with Adam, of course, playing the role of the king.

To your surprise, Lute chuckles at your remark before quickly composing herself. "Well, he is the father of humanity," she states, a faint smile appearing at the corner of her lips.

"I guess I can't argue with facts," you reply, your own face lighting up with a smile at the sight of the joyful children.

After that day, your meetings with Lute became a regular occurrence. Whether it was the joyful atmosphere of children immersed in learning or something else, she grew quite friendly with you over the course of two months. Your interactions even extended beyond the school, evolving into outings to cafes and amusement parks.

Today was one of Lute's off-duty days. You weren't exactly sure why heaven required an army, but you refrained from probing too much, especially during your hangouts, which were focused on enjoying each other's company rather than discussing work.

Currently, you were at CheeLand, the largest amusement park in all of heaven, offering rides for both the faint-hearted and adrenaline junkies alike.

You leaned towards the gentler side when it came to this type of amusement, while Lute embraced the thrill. That's why you found yourself anxiously gripping your seat’s restrains as the cart ascended the rails, anticipating the impending drop.

Your white-haired friend had successfully egged you on, convincing you to join her on the ride. Despite calming yourself in line, once the ride began, all your anxiety rushed back;

Lute, growing excited as the carts continued to climb up, remarked, "This is going to be so fucking fun! Can't believe you were such a baby about it in line." Her teasing tone shifted as she noticed your terrified expression.

Softening, she grabbed your hand and reassured you, "Listen, you'll be alright. The rides are completely safe and secure. Plus, I'm here with you." Her last sentence was emphasized by a comforting squeeze of your hand, prompting you to turn and look at her. "And worst case scenario, you're already dead, so there's nothing to be truly afraid of," she joked, easing the tension slightly.

But then came her next words, reigniting panic. "Okay, get ready, we're almost there." Glancing forward, you realized, "Oh, shit." She was right, and in an instant, the drop arrived. Both of you screamed at the top of your lungs throughout the entire ride…

You emerged from the ride, your head still a bit foggy and your voice hoarse from screaming, with Lute holding your hand.

As you both walk towards a nearby bench for a moment of composure, she remarks, "See, wasn't so bad."

"The fuck it wasn't!" you retort. Just as she's about to tease you for your reaction, you abruptly pull her into a tight hug in a serge of emotions. "But thanks for being with me. I doubt I could have even mustered the courage to join the ride lineup if you weren't here. I'm really grateful you're with me," you whisper softly.

She was startled by the contact, causing her to freeze momentarily. Although her initial instinct was to pull away due to nervousness, she recognized this as a vulnerable moment for you. Awkwardly, she hugged you back and gradually melted into the embrace.

After 5 minutes, the reality of the position hit her, and nerves kicked in. "You're welcome, now get off me, you weirdo," she insists, pulling away from the hug. However, all you can do is smile at her. Despite her attempt to maintain a front, she can't help but crack a smile too. 'She actually enjoyed how close you just were,' but that was something she kept to herself.

At some point in time, you had even overheard her referring to you as her friend to her boss, Adam, who questioned her sudden shift from his side to yours. Her face turned beet red as she defended you—a sight you wouldn't have expected from her at all.

However, that flushed look she harbored became increasingly frequent over time. You had become accustomed to her mannerisms and the way she expressed emotions, often lashing out due to difficulty in self-expression.

You had grown familiar with what brought a smile to her face, what upset her, and especially what left her flustered. By then, you had realized she liked you based on her behaviours, yet it seemed she hadn't recognized the romantic nature of her feelings.

Aware of her confusion, especially considering her upbringing and training, you knew the absence of romance in her education left her clueless about such emotions. Despite this, you chose to let her navigate these feelings on her own. It wasn't your place to impose that you were better aware of her own emotions than she was.

Yet, you played a role in guiding her toward this realization by incorporating more physical gestures, of course, always within her comfort boundaries: holding her hand more often, offering more frequent hugs, ensuring there was some form of touch between you two.

A common occurrence was when you walked together, either with your arm around her or your pinkies linked.

Her flushed face became so habitual that seeing her without it seemed unusual; the red tint became her typical expression when spending time with you.

Take, for instance, that day when you visited the newly opened restaurant on 'Holy Avenue.';

Opting for a Caesar salad, Lute aimed to play it safe in case the other offered dish didn't appeal to her taste. However, as she munched on her food, her gaze kept wandering to your dish, which seemed quite appetizing.

She attempted to deny her desire for a bite, but after spending so much time together, you had become adept at reading her emotions.

Acknowledging her unspoken request, you picked up a small portion with your fork, gesturing for her to join in. Initially embarrassed, she hesitated to refuse, but a single pleading look and she relented.

Her face flushed from the intimate gesture, the question of ‘why was she getting so worked up over your friendly act’ lingered in her mind as she finally took the bite-size food portion. The fact that she found you visually pleasing wasn't the answer she sought. Her feelings were deeper than mere physical attraction.

This realization was further confirmed as she spent the entire night unable to sleep, her mind consumed by thoughts of your hangout and the fact that you had fed her.

Tossing and turning, she found herself questioning the nature of your relationship: were you friends? Yes, that was obvious. Were you a couple? No, definitely not. Did she want you to be more than friends, an item perhaps? "Uuh, fuck," she groaned into her pillow as the realization hit her that she had developed feelings for you.

By now, it seemed like everyone and their mothers were aware of Lute's feelings, evident in her actions toward you. Not only had she begun reciprocating your physical advances, but she also initiated some herself.

Whether it was greeting you with a warm hug after a week apart, including you in her imposed outings with Adam, or playfully wrapping an arm around your waist during these occasions, her actions spoke volumes.

She'd whisper sweet jabs about her boss into your ear, leading to fits of laughter. Adam, in response, would roll his eyes at your intimate gestures, teasing Lute for being too obvious about her affection.

Despite her embarrassment and denials of any romantic feelings, you knew better than to take those at face value.

Yet besides the deep connection you shared, she struggled to express her feelings toward you. Accepting that she liked you had already been a significant challenge. Therefore, the idea of asking you out was currently off the table.

She needed to communicate her sentiments without uttering a word, and that's where today came into play—Valentine's Day.

Lute had dedicated the entire previous day and night to baking the perfect sweet, chocolaty treat for you. Not being accustomed to baking, she faced numerous trials and errors before getting it just right. Now, the moment had arrived for her to present these treats to you.

Having texted you to meet her at 'Wings Caffe' around 10, she patiently occupied a table since 9:30 a.m. following your confirmation text.

Initially, her plan was to simply hand you the chocolate, letting you make assumptions and agreeing when you eventually concluded that she liked you. However, things didn't go as planned, and nerves took over;

"Aww, that's so sweet, Lute. Thank you, really. I didn't get anything today, since y’a know, single as a Pringle," you remarked, pointing to yourself. "These chocolates mean a lot. By the way, they look fantastic. Where did you get them? I'd love to buy more for a snack," you inquired, holding the heart-shaped box.

"Made them," she mumbled, visibly embarrassed by your compliments.

"Really? Wow, I didn't know you baked. Maybe I'll come over to your place more often and have you whip something up for me," you begin. The implication of spending more time together tugs at Lute's chest, but your last sentence hits her hard. "I'm so grateful to have a friend who's skilled at baking and willing to make me things," you say as you start munching on the treats.

'Friends'—that's right, nothing more. It appears she couldn't rely on the heart-shaped box or the chocolate with words of affirmation in pink sprinkles to convey her feelings. If she desired more than friendship, she would have to be honest about her feelings this time.

However, true to her defensive nature, instead of clarifying the true reason behind giving chocolate on the day of love, she merely went along with your characterization of it as a friendly gesture.

"Yeah, I guess you're lucky to have a friend like me, someone so good at everything," she boasted, her voice proud, yet her expression betraying a hint of sadness.

Noticing the inconsistency, you set the box down on the table to free your hands and gently took hers. Meeting her gaze directly, you squeezed her hands for reassurance. "I wanted to let you work things out at your own pace, but we're not making any progress," you began, and she looked at you wide-eyed.

"I like you, Lute, and I know you like me too," you stated frankly. Before she could employ her defense mechanism, you added, "I'm not saying we have to start dating right away. I understand if you're not ready for that. But please keep in mind, as long as you don't outright reject me, I'll keep trying to pursue a relationship with you."

Upon hearing those words, Lute sensed the release of all the built-up stress and fear of rejection.

A newfound confidence surged within her, making her bold enough to grab your face and plant a bold kiss in plain sight for everyone at the café to witness. "Fuck yes, I'll be your girlfriend," she declared as she pulled away.

With a simple "Now, let's get out of here," the two of you stood up from your seats, leaving the café behind as her apartment became your new destination.

Upon reaching her place, things escalated rapidly—like, really rapidly. Mere seconds after stepping through the door, she was all over you.

Passionate kisses, hands exploring every inch of your body, fingers grabbing at whatever they could find. Nails scratching and digging, teeth occasionally biting at your skin when her mouth left yours.

Given the speed with which she undressed you, it seemed like she had envisioned this scenario for quite some time.

Before you knew it, you were lying on her bed, completely devoid of clothing, and that's when she began to work her magic;

Squirming within her grasp, she held your thighs down while eating you out. Breathless, you questioned, "I thought you were a homophobe before we met. How are you so good at this??" The overwhelming sensation of her tongue left you in awe.

You can practically feel her grin against your lips as she responds, "Yep, I was. But after developing a crush on you, I did my homework. Figured it be useful at one point or another. Though, ‘didn't think I'd be that good on my first actual trial.”

"Please don’t stop" you croak out between pants.

“Don’t worry, I won’t." she promised, increasing her rhythm and pressure.

As she continued to please you, you couldn't help but wonder what changed in her. This was way different from her usual flustered self. ‘Was it the time spent together? Or maybe the touch? The combination of both?’

Regardless, you decided to focus solely on the present moment, losing yourself in the sensations coursing through your body. Lute showed no signs of slowing down, proving her dedication to satisfying you.

Eventually, you reached climax, shouting her name as you finally released, your wings fluttered and your essence coated her tongue. Her response? She swallowed it down greedily, moaning around your pussy. When you finally fell back onto the bed, panting heavily, she climbed up beside you, her breasts pressing against your chest.

"That was... intense," you managed to utter between breaths.

"Glad you enjoyed it," she whispered, nibbling on your earlobe.

As you settled down together, Lute traced gentle circles on your stomach before trailing her fingers along your inner thighs. Her thumb brushed against your sensitive folds again, teasingly circling your tight entrance. "Do you want more?" she asked softly, her voice husky with desire.

You nodded weakly, unable to speak coherently yet.

Without further delay, Lute positioned herself between your spread legs again, positioning her own pussy just inches away from where she had been earlier. Lowering herself slowly, she began to rub your clits together, creating a new wave of pleasure that reverberated throughout both of them.

With each thrust of her hips, she increased the pace until you were moving in sync, your moans growing louder as you neared another orgasmic peak.

Your bodies intertwined, united in shared ecstasy, leaving neither wanting nor regretting your decision to explore the concept of a sexual relationship together.

Lute's hands grabbed onto your hips, holding you steady as she picked up speed, driving them both closer to climax. Your nails dug into her shoulders, leaving shallow crescent marks in the soft flesh; evidence of your shared intensity.

You could feel the familiar buildup starting again, your entire body tensing up in anticipation. With one final powerful thrust, Lute groaned loudly, her orgasm crashing over both of you like waves crashing onto shore. In response, you let out a high-pitched cry, joining her in blissful release.

Breathing heavily, you stayed in the same position for several moments longer than necessary, savouring the afterglow of your passionate union.

Eventually, you separated, both panting heavily. Lute rolled off of you, lying next to you on the bed, her chest heaving rapidly.

"That was... incredible," she panted out, reaching over to grab a nearby water bottle and handing it to you.

"Yeah, it was... Although I have to admit, having sex on the first day of making it official is pretty needy," you playfully tease her.

"Oh, shut up," she retorts before planting a kiss on your lips once you've swallowed your sip of water.

This relationship was going to be wilder than what you had anticipated…

Thanks anon for requesting!

©tswhiisfttedr. dn translate, or plagiarize.

Tip Me (Ko-Fi) & And support my art account @maviscarlettie

You can now commission me!

Tag list for Lute: @sunflower-lilly @charlott30045 (I still used your request because it was one that fit with what I had already received)

Reblogs help!!! (Request Are On Pause)

[raccoonfallsharder]

✩࿐࿔ i'm damn proud a' you, kid. [new 3/27]

✩࿐࿔ take what you need masterlist | NEW: take what you need queue fanfiction masterlist | navigation

fluff | gn reader | no use of y/n | anthology one-shot | word count: 1,639. read ✩࿐࿔ i'm damn proud a' you on ao3

when you're questioning your path, when you're disappointed in yourself, when you're feeling lonely, try to remember: the captain is proud of you. and he hopes you're proud of yourself, too.

i got two requests under different names for this scene. it was a hard one, because everyone feels the need for this kind of reassurance, but in different ways. to the requester(s): i hope that you feel seen by this. i hope that it moves you and reminds you that you are amazing, not just in what you do, and not only in how hard you try - but also, simply, in who you are. and i hope it brings you some peace, and reassurance, and contentment. ♡♡♡

It’s early morning when Rocket finds you. You’re not always up at this hour, but you’ve got a lot to do today — and something had moved you to steal an extra hour of peace and quiet before the city starts its quiet morning hustle. So you’d made your favorite cozy-warm drink with the electric kettle on your tiny countertop, and you’d gone up to the roof — leaned out over the edge with your elbows propped against the low bone-concrete wall, and gazed down on the strings of twinkling plasma orbs, slowly fading like stars in the lavender-rose glow of the manufactured sunrise. The orloni peddler sets up their cart, and someone wanders down the street to the laundromat with a brimful basket propped on their hip. A lone, lazy Terran bull — liberated from the Arête, you assume — pulls a mouthful of grass from a crack in the walkway. But otherwise, the skull is still and tranquil, and everything seems oddly pastoral in the pearly light of artificial dawn. Even with Rocket scuffling around up here. He makes more noise than he needs to — more noise than he normally would, too: pushing open the door to the roof, and making sure to drag his boots on the gravelly surface. You appreciate the gesture, since it keeps you from startling when he finally swaggers to your side and hoists himself up on the ledge next to you. “Hey, kid.” “Hey,” you murmur back. Both of your voices are hushed, like the sleepiness of the world has stolen its way into your lungs, making everything soft and gauzy. “You heading out?” He drops into a seated position, legs dangling out over the street four stories down. Frankly, you’re surprised to see him this morning. Usually when he has to leave for a mission this early in the wake-shift, he heads straight from his apartment to the Bowie. “Yeah,” he grunts. “Just wanted to see how you were doin’ before I left.” Your mouth curves. You lift your mug to your lips and breathe in the steam, keeping your eyes carefully averted so he can’t see too much affection in them. “Checking up on me, Captain?”

read more on ao3 ✩࿐࿔ for a requester (or two) on ao3 ♡ ✩࿐࿔ take what you need masterlist | NEW: take what you need queue

need more reminders from rocket?

the world is hard, and sometimes it's difficult to complete daily tasks & take care of yourself (aka rocket bullies you for your own damn good).

feel free to ✩ request reminders ✩ via reblogs, asks, and tumblr or ao3 comments if they would be helpful for you. it may take me a hot minute to get to them depending on life n stuff, but i will do my best. ♡ view the take what you need queue to see upcoming installations & the current backlog.

this is about as wholesome as it gets (for me) i think. can be read platonically or romantically. mcu-based anthology, meant to take place post-volume-3, but headcanon however you want ♡

✩࿐࿔ take what you need masterlist

eat somethin. (wc: 576)

go to frickin bed already. (wc: 737)

get outta bed & get your shit done.(wc: 925)

take a damn bath. (wc: 1,375)

leave your frickin skin alone. (wc: 1,579)

take a fuckin study break.(wc: 1,020)

drink some goddamn water. (wc: 1,209)

stop destroying your frickin clothes. (wc: 1,609)

just buy the damn thing already. (wc: 1,271)

it's frickin laundry day. (wc: 1,923)

get some sunshine, sunshine. (wc: 1,614)

did you take your damn meds today? (wc: 1,288)

schedule your fuckin' appointments.(wc: 1,222)

do your goddamn dishes. (wc: 994)

brush your frickin' teeth. (wc: 1,774)

nobody fuckin hates you (wc: 1,231)

stop biting your goddamn nails (wc: 2,920)

take a frickin' shower (wc: 1,359 )

take care of your fuckin injury (wc: 2,102)

cook some goddamn food. (wc: 2,707)

clean your frickin room. (wc: 2,465)

stop hittin shit. (wc: 1,862)

do your frickin homework. (wc: 2,121 )

chill the fuck out. (wc: 1,499)

i'm damn proud a' you, kid. (wc: 1,639)

if you find any of these at all helpful, they're meant for you.

teacup and teal line dividers by @/saradika-graphics | support banner by @/saradika-graphics | raccoon divider by @/thecutestgrotto. total wordcount: 39,062.

[otherworld-aromas]

| It’s been 800 years! Jellyfishes are walkin’ naked, sea turtles climb trees, sharks are eating grass for free- and finally, finally, you remember me!? |

I was so glad to release our 'Love and Deepspace'-inspired scent line on our favourite Lemurian's birthday, so I figure it can only be fitting for him to be our first product spotlight of the line of fragrances! In creating Rafayel's fragrance, I kept returning to the 'Your Fragrance' memory card. It was a memorable one for me, being an individual who, like Raf, has a bit of a particular sensitivity when it comes to sense of smell, and it was ever in the forefront of my mind during testing for him. He can be seen in the card saying that artificial scents are too harsh for him, and irritate him to too great of an extent, so I knew anything too heavy on the aldehydes or chemical side of perfumery would be completely out of the question. Ultimately, the final combination came quite naturally; for what would a yearning, olfactory-sensitive Lemurian smell like other than home? That provided the idea of a good base of sea salt, seaweed, and driftwood to act as fresh heart notes to keep the fragrance from feeling too heavy, lifted up by the addition of a little amber to provide that subtly refined feeling Rafayel always has hanging around him; all of it topped off with some grapefruit, reflecting the sweetly tart bite of Rafayel's pouty possessiveness.

I hope you enjoy our LaDS-inspired line, and I look forward to hearing all about what you think of them if you decide to test them out!