#casting rain snippets

[lampseb]

GRILLSTERTEMBER DAY 4:,,. WARTIME. y’all already know i had to draw casting rain

[reveryfics]

Motel

Sam Wilson x Male Reader

Summary: Having just finished a mission, Sam pulls into a motel, problem is there's only one bed.

A/N: The trope of there only being one bed is a classic and I'm surprised I haven't done it yet. Requests open

You sighed, curling into yourself in the passenger seat of Sam's car. Even bundled in your heavy suit, your jacket, and Sam's generously-loaned jacket, a shiver snaked its way down your spine. The chill wasn't just from the late autumn air; it was the kind of bone-deep weariness that only a grueling mission could inflict. Your eyelids felt heavy, each blink a monumental effort. You were running on fumes, fueled by adrenaline and sheer willpower, and all you craved was the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Sam was talking, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the car. You caught snippets of his words – motel, room, late – but your mind was too foggy to fully process the information. He’d pulled into a dimly lit motel parking lot, the neon vacancy sign casting an eerie glow on the rain-slicked asphalt. You watched him get out of the car, his silhouette disappearing into the office, and a wave of relief washed over you. He was taking care of things, as he always did. A small smile touched your lips. You were lucky to have him.

It wasn't long before Sam returned, a mischievous glint in his eyes and that familiar, heart-melting smile playing on his lips. He flashed a room key, the plastic tag catching the dim light, and gestured for you to follow him. He looked like a knight returning from a quest, bearing the treasure of a warm bed and much-needed rest. You fumbled for your bags in the backseat, your fingers clumsy with exhaustion, and trailed behind him, the gravel crunching beneath your weary feet.

The room, when he finally unlocked it, was small and smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener. But the sight that greeted you made your heart sink. One bed. A single, double-sized bed that looked barely big enough for Sam, let alone the two of you. "Oh," Sam muttered, his smile faltering slightly as he closed the door behind you. "That's…an issue."

"I'll sleep on the floor," you shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, though the thought of the hard, unforgiving floor made your back ache in protest. You tossed your bags aside, the thud echoing in the small room, and headed towards the dingy bathroom, the promise of a hot shower a beacon in the darkness of your fatigue.

Sam, ever the gentleman, muttered something about getting more pillows and blankets, a frown creasing his brow. He disappeared again, leaving you alone in the quiet room. You knew what he was thinking, knew he'd insist on taking the floor, and you were already formulating your counter-argument. He returned not even ten minutes later, a small stack of extra bedding in his arms, only to find you already on your knees, busily constructing a makeshift bed on the floor.

"Come on, let me take the floor," Sam insisted, setting the extra pillows and blankets aside. He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze fixed on you, a mixture of concern and exasperation in his eyes. He knew you, knew your stubbornness, and he braced himself for the inevitable battle of wills.

"You need the bed more than me," you grunted, pulling the thin blanket taut. "Old man," you teased, a playful glint in your tired eyes.

Sam's expression shifted from concern to mock offense, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I'm the old man? Says you, who couldn't go up two flights of stairs without being winded," he retorted, his voice laced with affection. He was right, of course. The mission had taken its toll, and your stamina was definitely not what it used to be. But you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

"Winded? I'll have you know I could run circles around you," you scoffed, though your lungs protested even the small exertion of arranging the makeshift bed. You puffed out your chest, trying to project an air of confidence you definitely didn't feel.

"Oh, is that so?" Sam raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe, a picture of relaxed amusement. "Prove it."

"I would," you retorted, "if I wasn't currently engaged in a highly important mission of floor-bed construction." You tugged at the blanket, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. "Besides," you added, lowering your voice conspiratorially, "you're the one who snores like a chainsaw. I'd never get any sleep."

Sam chuckled, the sound warm and comforting. "I do not snore," he protested, though a sheepish grin betrayed him. "But even if I did, you'd be too tired to notice."

"Oh, I'd notice," you insisted, though the image of Sam snoring did bring a smile to your lips. The thought of sleeping on the floor, however, was less appealing. You sighed, giving in. "Fine. We'll flip for it."

Sam's grin widened. "You're on." He pulled a coin from his pocket, flipping it in the air. "Heads, I take the floor. Tails, you do."

"Deal," you agreed, your eyes glued to the spinning coin. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet. "Tails!" you exclaimed triumphantly, pointing at the coin.

Sam groaned dramatically. "Fine, fine. You win," he conceded, though his smile suggested he wasn't entirely disappointed. He flopped onto the bed, stretching out his long limbs. "But don't blame me if you wake up with a crick in your neck."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your pillow and settling onto your makeshift bed on the floor. The floor was indeed hard, and your back already ached, but you were too tired to care. You closed your eyes, the sound of Sam shifting on the bed a comforting presence. It wasn't long before sleep claimed you, dragging you down into its warm embrace.

Sam woke up in the middle of the night, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. He saw you on the floor, curled into a tight ball, shivering slightly. He watched you for a moment, his expression softening with concern. Without a word, he scooted over in the bed, lifting the sheets. You didn't argue, too sleepy to even register a protest. You crawled in beside him, turning your back to him and shivering. He hesitated for a moment before gently wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. "You'd freeze to death down there," he mumbled, his breath warm against your neck.

You grumbled something unintelligible, too tired to fight him. The warmth of his body was comforting, chasing away the chill that had settled in your bones. You snuggled closer to him, your back pressed against his chest, and finally drifted back to sleep, curled up to Sam.

The first rays of dawn crept through the gap in the curtains, painting the room in a soft, golden light. Sam stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked a few times, his gaze landing on you, still nestled against him. A slow smile spread across his face as he remembered the events of the night. He tightened his hold on you for a moment, enjoying the warmth of your body against his.

He chuckled softly, a low rumble in his chest. "Well, that was certainly… intimate," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. He was about to launch into a full-blown teasing session, probably involving snoring and ice-cold floor dwellers, when you stirred.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. You blinked sleepily, your mind still foggy from the remnants of a dream. You registered the warmth of his arms around you, the closeness of his body, and the lingering remnants of sleep-induced comfort. You also registered the mischievous glint in his eyes, the tell-tale sign that a teasing barrage was imminent. Deciding to nip it in the bud before it even began, you reached up, your hand cupping the side of his face. Before he could utter a single word of his intended jest, you leaned in and kissed him.

It was a soft, lingering kiss, a silent "good morning" that spoke volumes. It wasn’t a passionate, fiery kiss, but rather a gentle, sleepy one, filled with the quiet comfort of shared warmth and the lingering traces of sleep. It was enough to effectively silence him.

Sam's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then softened as he melted into the kiss. His teasing grin vanished, replaced by a look of pure contentment. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, the lingering taste of your lips.

You broke the kiss gently, your eyelids already feeling heavy again. You snuggled back against him, your head resting on his chest. "Mmm," you mumbled, closing your eyes. "Five more minutes."

Sam chuckled softly, his arm tightening around you. "Of course," he whispered, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. He knew better than to argue. He was quite content to stay right where he was, with you in his arms, the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the curtains. He closed his eyes, drifting back to sleep, the memory of your kiss a sweet, lingering sensation. The teasing could wait. For now, there was only the quiet comfort of shared sleep and the promise of a new day.

[styllwaters]

KNIGHT DEITIES

It's been a hot minute since I posted Vivere 44 art. Been intensely busy with school for the past few months but now that I've graduated I've got a lot of time to kill! Since the Knights post surpassed 1k notes I figured I may as well elaborate on them more. I'm so blown away by how much love they're getting already! Thank you all <3

I'm gonna talk a bit about Mountain and Plains Knight religions, mythology and a snippet of evolutionary history. I will cover Polar Knight religions in another post. The focus is on two gods in particular, Uwet-Jana and Kiraiarik.

_______

Uwet-Jana is the demigod of good health, vitality, and inner balance. In some regions they are also the god of fertility. The name of their Host is Uwetsil, and their Helmet is Serrjana. Mainly worshiped by Mountain cultures, Uwet-Jana takes the form of a Knight whose Host and Helmet are physically merged into a singular being.

Kiraiarik [pronounced ki-rai-ah-rik] is the personification of the host-helmet symbiotic relationship. They are the god of symbiosis, rebirth, and love. Kiraiarik was the name given to two immortal partners, a Host and a Helmet, who began as a singular being born to the sea in Ettera’s prehistoric era. Ettera decided to make them Two, one half (the Helmet) ruling over the sea and the other (the Host) having domain over the land. The story goes that in every form they take, they try to find each other - for their body remembers being One.

Both gods have lots of lore to their name. Further information below!

UWET-JANA

Uwet-Jana's Host body has long spines and red stripes like a Pike, and long fingerlike paws like a Helmet's manipulators. The Helmet section sports two long horns and elegant facial markings. Uwet-Jana has an iridescent sheen on their golden fur, catching the rays of the sun in a shimmering glow.

The story of Uwet-Jana is as follows: Both Uwetsil and Serrjana were born as runts, in a dark time when sickly Knights were seen as curses and not worth caring for. Their Order, believing them to be bad omens, cast them out to wander the tundra alone. They believed that the natural forces of Ettera (the Knight’s homeplanet) would quickly end them. However, Ettera took pity on the castaway, sending them three blessings. The first gift was a bone with marrow inside that ensured one is never hungry or thirsty again. Then, Ettera sent a warm, sweet wind into Uwet-Jana’s lungs which warded off all sickness and disease. Finally, a sun shower fell, the rains cleansing them and blessing them with a coat made of ivory and gold.

Transformed into a demigod with a hybrid body, Uwet-Jana was offered a place among the deities in the sky - but they refused, preferring to stay on the ground to share their gift with the mortals. Unbeknownst to them, their Order who had exiled them was struck by three curses from the Gods to mirror Uwet-Jana’s blessings: all the rivers in the area dried up and all their hunts were unsuccessful, leaving them with no food or water. Infections and diseases picked them off one by one, and a great storm ravaged the land, destroying their home and all remaining survivors. Uwet-Jana now blesses Knight Orders who take care of their sick and ailing members, and ignores those who don’t, leaving them to the wrath of the Gods.

Although they are nomadic and always on the move, many Mountain Orders will refuse to leave any sick members behind. They may also keep ivory statues of Uwet-Jana in their bags as a token of good fortune. Sometimes these statues are filled with bone marrow, or have holes which make a whistling sound as wind passes through it as a reference to Ettera’s gifts. Occasionally Pike Helmets are born with an extra long ‘horn’ spike, and are considered a child/reincarnation of Uwet-Jana. Additionally, whenever it rains while the sun is still shining, it is seen as a blessing from the demigod.

_______

KIRAIARIK

Kiraiarik's Host is depicted as a small creature with a striped pelt to mirror its ancestral form, and the Helmet as an aquatic beast with long, trailing red fins. It is frequently shown twisting around the Host, sharing its blood. Kiraiarik is also often simplified as two disembodied eyes looking at each other. (And yes, the artstyle is a nod to medieval depictions of heraldic beasts!)

To understand Kiraiarik, one must be aware of how much Plains religions are intrinsically tied to concepts of evolution and paleontology.

Digression on the origins of Etteran symbiosis: 

Large stretches of Plains Knight deserts and scrublands were once submerged beneath the sea. As a result, there are countless fossil hotspots which have been unearthed over the centuries. These high concentrations of fossilised remains have lead to Plains cultures basing their religions around said discoveries. Although many features have been warped, the general timelines are strikingly similar.

For instance, a mass extinction event occurred on Ettera millions of years ago, caused by a series of catastrophic volcanic eruptions on a worldwide scale. This event is known in Plains culture as The Remaking, traditionally interpreted as the planet shedding its skin. Many species were decimated, but some groups survived; these happened to be phyla who possessed an exposed ‘Interfacer’ organ, a precursor to the specialised Integrator organ which connects the Host’s brain to the Helmet’s. Before The Remaking, there was no prior record of the deep symbiotic connection which Knights possess (scientifically deemed ‘Hyperadvanced Mutualism’). The Interfacer organ was used in the phyla for species to communicate simple stretches of data to each other, such as health and reproductive status. After the extinction, populations of these species were dwindling. To ensure their survival, an odd phenomenon occurred in which many individuals began to interface with different species who possessed the same organ - strangely enough, some were able to successfully exchange information. These individuals survived and passed on the practice to their offspring, eventually culminating in what would be discovered as a very primitive form of mutualism. Host and Helmet ancestors (pictured above) were some of the first species to achieve this.

As the planet recovered and populations increased, the relationship continued to solidify and become more complex, with symbiotic species sharing memories, emotions and complex thought. In modern times there is now an entire class of organisms on Ettera which possess an Integrator organ for Advanced Mutualism, including Knights.

Kiraiarik is said to be a manifestation of this relationship. After The Remaking, their two halves finally managed to find each other again, eternally locked in a joyous dance of love. (Side note: the love in question is not platonic nor romantic, but a deeper kind which is indescribable and not easily understood. Due to their intricate nervous systems, Knights have a higher degree of emotional intelligence and can experience sensations we would consider alien). When a Plains Knight is experiencing inner turmoil, they will often pray to Kiraiarik to restore a healthy connection. The god’s blessing is also called upon when an infant Host and Helmet first Assimilate.

Note: Many Plains ‘saints’ and deities have palindromic names which can be read both forwards and backwards, an indicator of holiness. Fun fact, the word Kiraiariku means “Your heart and mine are very old friends.”

Thank you for reading! More Knight content coming soon ;)

[colonelarr0w]

Here's a little Nanami snippet to munch on while I write a much bigger piece.

“Ah, there you are. What are you doing out here my love?” 

You lift your head, turning just enough to cast a glance over your shoulder — then met with the sight of Nanami standing in the open doorframe of one of Jujutsu Tech’s many buildings. In his hands is one of his jackets, one that you no doubt would have draped over your shoulders the moment that he approached you.  

You don’t answer him, opting instead to listen to the soft patter of the rain that you had been so attentively listening to just moments before.  

“Jus’ admiring the rain,” you answer after a beat of silence, turning back to stare out at the outdoor grounds of Jujutsu High. Your lips turn upward at the sight of a few students walking about, their jackets tugged over their heads to prevent themselves from getting wet.  

Nanami hums, taking a step forward. Just as you had predicted, he lays the jacket over your shoulders, then lowering himself to sit down at your side. 

Your body shifts closer to him, like a magnet drawn to its opposite. Your cheek leans against his shoulder, with his arm lifting and coming to rest over your shoulders, holding you against his side.  

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Nanami inquires after a pause, tilting his head so that his cheek rests comfortably against the top of your head.  

You chuckle breathily, eyes fluttering shut as your body soaks up the warmth that radiates off of Nanami.  

“Nothing, just thinking of how pretty the rain is,” you murmur in response. Now it’s Nanami’s turn to chuckle, a deep rumble that brings a light pink tint to your cheeks.  

Not nearly as pretty as you, he thinks, still holding you tightly against him.  

[kingkruell]

THREE NIGHTS AND FOREVER | GOJO SATORU

SYNOPSIS - three nights in tokyo. a stranger with rain in his hair and a crooked smile. shared umbrellas, bad jazz, pancakes at midnight. and now, sometimes, when it rains—you still think of him.

CONTENT - gojo satoru x reader, reminiscent of before sunrise, brief encounters, strangers-to-something more, melancholic, fluff, angst.

WORD COUNT - 4.550

A/N this is purely self-indulgent. not really satisfied with how the writing turned out but this is quite literally my way of coping with something similiar, probably the same, that happened to me lol (HELP ME. i am yearning, i need him back).

listening to surrender - suicide

01 —

the first night, it was a mistake—or rather, a coincidence. you hadn’t meant to bump into him on the quiet side street just as the rain started to pour, your umbrella uselessly tucked in your bag. he looked down at you, almost bemused, the rain dripping from his stark white hair. then, with a little tilt of his head and a crooked grin, he offered to share his umbrella.

and that was how it began. 

the thing about being in a foreign city is that it’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. the air felt different, dense with the most unfamiliar scents. tokyo loomed around you, towering buildings draped in lights and adorned with billboards in a language you couldn’t quite grasp. the sounds too, were unfamiliar, snippets of conversations in rapid japanese mingling with the distant hum of traffic. faces passed by, each one a stranger, and you couldn’t help but feel like a tiny, misplaced puzzle piece in this sprawling metropolis. you had to remind yourself—this was what you wanted. you’d spent months dreaming of this, convincing yourself (and your parents) that you needed this break, that you wanted to see more than just the streets of your hometown. 

still, it was daunting. the sheer size of the city made you feel small. you clutched your phone a little tighter, the map open, your location marked with a blue dot that felt so isolated among the dense web of streets.

thankfully, you weren’t alone. the thought of traveling on a budget, navigating public transportation, and eating at hole-in-the-wall restaurants all by yourself would’ve been too intimidating. you and your friend had spent weeks planning the trip, pinning places to visit, calculating train fares, and mapping out hostels. you had watched countless travel vlogs, trying to absorb every piece of advice, but nothing could really prepare you for stepping onto tokyo’s streets for the first time.

the morning you landed was a blur of heavy eyelids and aching muscles from the long-haul flight. you navigated the airport in a half-dazed state, shuffling through customs and baggage claim, your friend grumbling about needing coffee. once you reached the hotel—a compact room with twin beds squeezed together and a narrow window overlooking the street below—you didn’t bother to unpack, just dropped your suitcase, splashed water on your face, and tried to shake off the fatigue. the city was waiting and you couldn’t sit still. 

so, despite it all, the excitement was enough to get you propelling out the door and into the bustling streets of the city. you walked through the nearby neighborhoods, narrow street lined with vending machines, an old record shop tucked between modern boutiques, a shrine hidden behind an iron gate. you stopped at a convenience store like it meant something, and maybe it did, because you were miles and miles away from home, and even the mundane felt important here. the fluorescent lights flickered as you picked up a canned coffee, examining the unfamiliar labels before tossing it into your basket just for the novelty of it.

you took pictures of everything: the uneven cobblestoned path, the gnarled trees casting long shadows, the sky shifting from soft orange to deep indigo. 

by the time you and your friend made your way back to the hotel, the sky had deepened into a rich navy, dotted with scattered stars just barely visible through the city lights. 

your friend trudged in behind you, barely managing to kick off her shoes before flopping onto the bed face-first. you raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe.

“that’s it? you’re tapping out already?” you teased, trying not to sound too disappointed.

hhe mumbled something into the pillow that sounded vaguely like “comatose” and then turned her head just enough to give you a halfhearted glare. “we’ve been walking for hours. my feet hate me.”

you laughed softly, tossing your jacket onto the other bed. “i did warn you about the long walks.”

she groaned, rolling onto her back and waving a dismissive hand in your direction. “yeah, yeah. worth it, though. but seriously, i’m done for the night. Wake me up if you find somewhere to eat.”

you looked at her, sprawled out with one arm draped over her eyes, and you knew she wasn’t moving anytime soon.

“you sure?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

she just hummed in response, already halfway to sleep. you watched her for a moment, considering. maybe you should just stay too, let the tiredness catch up. but then you glanced out the window, catching a glimpse of the neon signs flickering on the next building over.

grabbing your phone and jacket, you moved quietly to the door. iI’ll just go for a walk,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her.

she didn’t respond, already breathing softly in that deep, dreamless way. you couldn’t help but smile, pulling the door shut gently behind you.

stepping back outside, the air was cooler now, brushing past your cheeks as you walked, your steps echoing softly on the pavement. Tokyo at night was different—a bit calmer, but still pulsing with life. you passed late-night eateries with their warm glow, groups of friends spilling out into the street, laughter bubbling over.

you hadn’t noticed the clouds rolling in until the first raindrop hit your cheek. you stopped, looking up just in time to feel a few more drops dot your face. within seconds, the drizzle turned into a full downpour.

"fucking hell." you cursed under your breath, rummaging through your bag, but of course, your umbrella was neatly folded between the notebook and paperbags you carried out of habit–useless at the bottom. you were contemplating whether to make a run for the nearby convenience store when a shadow fell over you.

“didn’t bring one, huh?”

you turned, blinking the rain from your lashes, and found yourself staring up at a tall figure holding an obnoxiously bright, polka-dotted umbrella over both your heads. His hair was stark white, drenched from where it peeked out from under the umbrella, and his eyes—pale, crystalline blue—crinkled with amusement.

“uh—” was all you managed to get out, and he chuckled, the sound low and almost teasing.

“figured you’d need some rescuing,” he said, his tone breezy as if he did this all the time, saving strangers caught in the rain.

you swallowed your embarrassment and managed a small smile. “i, um… yeah. I wasn’t expecting it to rain.”

he tilted his head, considering you. “tourist?”

“is it that obvious?” you asked, more sheepish than you intended.

he hummed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “a little. you’re lucky i was around. you’d have been soaked.”

you glanced at his own wet hair pointedly. “you don’t look much better.

“he gave a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. “yeah, well, the hero always gets a bit messy, right?”

you couldn’t help but laugh at that, tension easing out of your shoulders. the rain kept falling, steady and relentless, but you didn’t feel rushed to move. he just stood there, holding the umbrella as if time didn’t matter.

“i'm satoru,” he introduced, leaning closer so his voice didn’t have to rise over the rain.

“i”m y/n.”

“y/n” he repeats, as if testing how it sounds on his tongue

“where were you headed?” he asked, glancing around as if he could read your thoughts from the streets themselves.

“nowhere, really,” you admitted. “Just… walking.”

he nodded, “best kind of walking,” he said. 

the city around you glistened under the rain—reflections of red traffic lights stretching like ribbons across the wet pavement, the hiss of tires, the hum of a vending machine trying to outlast the drizzle. You weren’t sure why you stayed there under his umbrella, or why he made no motion to leave. but something about him—his ease, his presence—made the silence feel less lonely. satoru shifted slightly, tilting the umbrella more toward you. you noticed he was getting wet, his shirt clinging just slightly at the shoulder. you opened your mouth to say something, to suggest maybe he should be more under the cover too, but he beat you to it.

“let me guess,” he said, grinning, “you packed the umbrella, but it’s at the very bottom of your bag. under, like, three novels and at least one completely useless souvenir.”

you squinted at him. “close enough. how did you know that?”

“because you look like someone who overthinks what to pack, then forgets the important stuff.”

You feigned offense, but laughed again. “okay, that’s… disturbingly accurate.”

he shot you a proud look, and for a moment, he looked younger—boyish, carefree. not like someone who should be wandering Tokyo in the rain rescuing lost tourists. you wondered where he came from. what he did. why he was here.

“come on,” he said suddenly. “there’s a 24-hour café down this street that sells pancakes the size of your face. warm drinks. bad jazz”

you raised an eyebrow. “and you’re inviting me to get pancakes... with a complete stranger?”

“i’m offering you shelter, nourishment, and potentially life-altering conversation,” he said solemnly. “some might say I’m a guardian angel.”

you snorted. “some might say you’re a guy with a ridiculous umbrella trying to lure a girl into a café.”

his grin widened. “and yet you’re still standing here.”

you were.

you hesitated. He was a stranger. you didn’t even know his last name.

you didn’t quite know why, but maybe it was the way he spoke, half-mocking but never unkind, or the way his eyes didn’t try to look through you, just at you, like you were interesting just for existing. maybe it was the way tokyo looked with him beside you, less like a place to get lost in, more like somewhere you were meant to be.

“okay,” you said, surprising yourself. 

the café was just as he promised, quiet, glowing softly with yellow light, a bell chiming as you stepped inside.iInside was mall, with steamed-up windows and soft yellow lighting. it smelled like coffee and something sweet, and the jazz was, indeed, bad. some ti   trumpet over a scratchy speaker, but it worked. the warmth hugged your skin, chasing away the chill. Satoru shook the rain from his umbrella like a dog, nearly whacking a decorative plant by the door, and you laughed again, your hand covering your mouth too late to hide how easy it was to enjoy this.

he ordered pancakes and hot chocolate for you both, without asking. you didn’t mind. He sat across from you like he belonged there, like you’d done this before—like this was just one of many rainy nights you’d find yourselves tangled up in each other’s company.

he leaned back, his arms spread comfortably along the back of the booth, his legs stretching out beneath the table. he looked relaxed in a way you weren’t used to seeing in strangers. like he wasn’t trying. like he never did.

you wrapped your fingers around the ceramic. It was hotter than expected, and comforting. outside, the rain blurred the city into a watercolor, and you took a sip.

“so, what brought you here?” he asked. his tone was casual, but his eyes were too focused for it to be small talk.

you hesitated, then answered honestly. “restlessness, I guess. I needed to be somewhere else for a while.” he nodded like he understood. “the city’s good for that. It doesn’t care who you are. It just lets you be.”

you hummed as your fingers nervously tap on the ceramic glass holding the hot chocolate, “what about you?” you asked. “are you from here?

”something like that.” he didn’t elaborate. 

he looked out the window for a moment. “more or less. i come and go.”

with that, you let it rest. some things didn’t need to be unpacked right away. Instead, you talked about little things; your favorite convenience store snacks, the weirdest souvenirs you’d seen, the way tokyo felt like it belonged to a different world at night. he told you about a bakery that only opened after midnight, and a cat that lived near the train station who hated everyone except him. you didn’t know what was real and what was embellished, but you liked listening. you asked lighter things. favorite food. best childhood memory. the last movie that made him cry.

“the wind rises,’” he admitted. “don’t tell anyone. gotta protect the cool guy reputation“

you laughed. "i won’t. as long as you don’t tell anyone I cried at a toothpaste commercial once.” 

“deal.”

the rain had stopped by the time he walked you back to the hotel. the streets were slick, shining like glass, catching every amber streetlight in pools beneath your feet. mist clung low, softening the edges of everything—cars, buildings, even the distant clatter of closing cafés. it felt like the city was exhaling.

you walked in silence for a while. not awkward, not heavy. just full. like neither of you wanted to break whatever spell the night had spun around you.

he didn’t offer his arm, but your hands brushed once, then again, until your fingers found each other without thinking. his hand was warm. steady. you held on like you’d been doing it for years.

the hotel came into view too soon.

outside the door, you turned to him.

“this is me,” you said, like it wasn’t obvious.

he nodded. “i know.”

neither of you moved.

you wanted to say something. about the night. about how strange and lucky it felt.

“i’m glad we met” he said. quietly. honestly.

you swallowed the knot in your throat and nodded. “me too.”

“goodnight,” he said.

“goodnight,” you echoed.

he turned and walked back with his hands in his pockets, head down. you watched him until the fog swallowed him whole. and then you went inside, heart pacing ahead of you like it already knew what this night would mean.

and even then, even as sleep finally pulled at you—you could still feel the shape of his hand in yours.

02 —

you didn’t expect to meet him again, but there he was. 

he was waiting in front of the steps to the hotel. he stood there like he’d always been meant to stand under that awning. this time, he held two convenience store drinks and a bag that smelled suspiciously like fried food.

“ I have brought offerings,” he said, holding out a piece of curry bread.

you raised a brow. “what if I hadn’t come?” you asked, accepting the bread he offered without question.

he looked mock-affronted. "then I’d have to eat  two breads and drink two disgusting convenience store coffees.”

tonight, he led you toward the quieter streets by the river. the city softened there—lights dimmer, footsteps slower. You walked in companionable silence for a while, sharing stories in between bites,

“so,” he asked, once the city faded to river sounds, “what did you want to be when you were a kid?”

you smiled. “an astronaut. I used to read random astronomy books in the back of the class in primary”

he laughed. “that’s adorable. i wanted to be a superhero“

“and now?”

he paused. “not now. just want a soft kind of life.”

you wanted to ask what he meant, but something about his expression made you pause and that honesty, the honesty startled you. he hadn’t said much about himself, not directly. but every answer carried a weight. Like he’d lived too much.

he bought you another canned coffee before the walk back, despite your protests.

“i like taking care of people,” he said, half-joking. “don’t get used to it.”

you were already starting to.

and just like the night before, satoru walked you back to the hotel. You lingered near the front steps hesitantly. the lights from the lobby painted his profile in amber as he turned to you, eyes thoughtful, lips parting like he wanted to say something.

“hey,” he said, almost like he was changing his mind as he spoke. “wanna meet again? tomorrow night. yoyogi park?”

you blinked, “yoyogi park?”

“It’s nice at night,” he said. “quiet. there’s a little bench under the trees that no one ever sits on. it’s kind of mine.”

you tilted your head. “and you’re inviting me into your secret territory?”

he gave a faint grin. “only because you’re special.”

you looked at him for a beat too long, searching his face. there was something about the way he stood there—unguarded for once, a little shy in a way you hadn’t expected.

“okay,” you said quietly. “i’ll be there.”

“ten?”

“ten.”

03 —

the park was nearly deserted. only the faint rustle of leaves in the dark and the occasional distant bark of a dog accompanied your footsteps. the moonlight draped over everything in silver, and streetlamps cast halos of soft orange on the path.

he was there first. sitting on the edge of a fountain, head tilted back to watch the sky like it might offer an answer. he didn’t move when he saw you,just gave a lazy wave without looking away.

you sat beside him, close but not touching. The air between you was cooler tonight, filled with something unspoken.

“stars are clearer tonight,” he murmured. “tokyo doesn’t give many of them.”

you followed his gaze. “they’re still there. just hidden, i think.”

“yeah,” he said, and you weren’t sure he was talking about the stars anymore.

you stayed like that for a while. he asked about your childhood. you asked about his travels. slowly, the details began to paint a picture. He’d been everywhere and nowhere at once. teaching, he said. but not the kind you imagined. he spoke of students with reverence, but there was always something behind it.

“there’s risk in what I do,” he admitted. “but I chose it. doesn’t make it any easier.”

You turned to him. “why tell me?”

he was quiet for a beat. “because you listened. ”

the wind stirred. you tucked your hands into your coat.

“i didn’t expect to meet anyone like you here,” you said.

his gaze dropped to you, and for the first time, he looked genuinely unsure.

“i don’t know what I can offer. i'm leaving here tomrrow.”

“i know.” His voice was soft. you swallowed, heart ticking a little faster. “then don’t promise anything. just be here. tonight.”

he looked at you like he wanted to memorize you. then, slowly, he leaned in.

the kiss was soft. hesitant. his hand came up to cradle your face, fingers brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. it wasn’t rushed—it wasn’t about urgency or passion. it was the kind of kiss that asked, Is this okay? and gave you the chance to say yes without words.

when he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. you could feel his breath.

“this doesn’t last,” he whispered.

“i know.”

“but it’s real.”

you nodded. “it is.”

you exchanged numbers. and for a while, you talked. voice notes. random photos. one-line jokes. you told him about the barista at your regular café who misspelled your name three days in a row. he told you about a crow that stole his entire sandwich. 

there were nights you fell asleep with his voice still echoing in your ear, a half-finished voice message paused on your screen. other times, he'd call when you least expected it, his voice bright even when he was clearly exhausted.

did you eat yet?

text me when you get home.

it didn’t matter that it was two a.m. on his end. He called anyway. He never said why, but you didn’t need him to. the warmth behind his voice was answer enough.

you learned the rhythm of his days, or the ones he allowed you to see. sometimes, he vanished for twelve, fourteen hours. yhen he’d return with a blurry photo of a skyline or a vending machine or a cat on a motorbike.

still alive, he'd caption. barely.

you got used to waiting. But never too long.

until one day, he just stopped replying.

you’d sent a photo of your dinner, captioned You’d hate this, because it was drenched in mayonnaise and he had strong opinions about condiments.

no reply.

you checked the message again the next morning. still delivered. still unread.

the next day. still nothing.

you waited a week before trying again. a soft message. a half-hearted joke. a photo of your cat looking unimpressed by your playlist.

then the check sign beside the message, as you had realized, only showed one. it wasn’t delivered. 

blocked.

you stared at the screen. closed the app. opened it again. tried from your laptop, in case it was a glitch.

but it wasn’t.

you didn’t cry. not right away, at least,

you sat on your bed, the last voice note still sitting there, unopened. his last words were something dumb and sweet, something about seeing a dog wearing shoes and thinking of you. the screen stared back, blank and final, and for a while, you just sat there in disbelief.

you told yourself it was fine. you barely knew him. three nights. Some messages. a few hours of shared breath. that was all. hell, he was a stranger. you told yourself all this in the mirror.

but then days passed, and the habit didn’t fade. your fingers still hovered over your phone when you were walking home. you still found yourself typing his name into the search bar, knowing you wouldn’t find anything. you still opened the messages, scrolling up slowly, watching the screen load his jokes, his questions, the little audio clips where his voice was soft and tired but always there.

and then one night, somewhere between one a.m. and a glass of wine too many, it cracked.

you started rereading your replies. the way you’d laughed in text. the pictures you’d sent him: your coffee, the bookstore cat, a sunset that reminded you of that last night in tokyo. you remembered what it felt like to sit across from him. how light your body felt when he was near. how safe.

and slowly, the logic of it all dissipated.

he was a stranger, yes. but he had seen you—really seen you—in a way no one else had for a long time. and you had let him. willingly. easily.

that was when it started to hurt. sharp, slow, and deep. like a bruise blooming in your chest.

you didn’t delete the messages. you couldn’t. so you did the only thing you could do.

you stopped looking at it.

you taught yourself to stop waiting.

or at least, you tried.

....AND REPEAT

It was 11:03 p.m. when your phone buzzed.

you were curled up on the couch, an old hoodie draped over your knees, the television screen paused on something you weren’t really watching. outside, the night hummed quietly, the kind of silence only small towns knew. You hadn’t been expecting anything—least of all a message from a number that had been long deleted but never quite forgotten. it has been exactly a year, the exact same month, may.

a message.

just a photo.

you blinked, stared, breath stalling somewhere in your chest.

the bookstore. your bookstore.

the one on the corner of your street, where the green awning had faded in the sun and the sleepy white cat had made the windowsill its permanent throne. the light was on, casting a soft yellow pool onto the sidewalk. the street was empty, silent. familiar in a way that made your heart ache.

you stared at the photo for a full minute, maybe longer. It felt like memory and dream and disbelief all at once. your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

then you typed,

where are you?

his reply came seconds later,

outside. want to walk?

your heart kicked into a pace that was at once wild and steady.

you slipped on your shoes, barely remembered to grab your keys, and stepped out.

when you turned to the street, he was there.

leaning casually against the lamppost across from the bookstore. hands deep in his coat pockets. that same ridiculous umbrella—the bright polka-dotted one—looped lazily over his wrist. His hair was longer now, tied back messily, and he wore glasses tonight. But his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet curve of his mouth, and those eyes, impossibly pale even in the dark—hadn’t changed.

for a beat, you just stood there. watching. trying to understand.

“hey,” he said.

that was all.

and somehow, that was enough.

you didn’t ask why. you didn’t ask where he’d been, or why he’d disappeared, or why it had to be like this. because some questions—when they finally get their moment—don’t feel like questions anymore.

instead, you walked.

for three nights, he stayed.

you showed him you.

the river path where you used to run when you needed to breathe. the noodle stall tucked between two faded buildings, where the old man behind the counter still remembered your favorite order. yhe tiny bookstore where you’d once spent hours reading poetry in the aisle. the hill behind your childhood home where the city lights blinked in the distance like stars trying to reach the earth.

he didn’t speak much the first night. but he listened—really listened. like the space between your words mattered. like he’d missed even the silence of you.

you talked, eventually. about life after tokyo. about how it had felt like waking up from a dream you didn’t want to end. you told him how your job kept you tired but steady, how sometimes you still walked late at night hoping for something to stir in the air. you told him how you tried to forget. tried not to check your phone at two in the morning. failed.

he told you about the places he’d been. the people he couldn’t name. the nights that bled into days. the weight. the solitude. how there were moments he wanted to reach out—more than he could count—but didn’t.

“i wanted to protect you from it,” he said on the third night.

you sat side by side by the lake just outside town, the water catching the light in soft shimmers, your shoulders brushing with every breath.

“from what?” you asked, even though you knew.

“from me.”

you turned to him. really looked at him. there were new shadows around his eyes. new lines drawn into his expression. but there was still a softness, buried under the weight. a familiar one.

“you didn't have to come” you said quietly.

“i know."

“but you’re here.”

“i wanted you to know i came back.”

you reached for his hand. found it already reaching for yours.

the kiss wasn’t dramatic. It was just… soft. familiar. the kind of kiss that belongs to memory but lives in the present. his lips were cold from the night, but his hand was warm where it held your jaw, thumb brushing slow and careful. you kissed like people who knew it wouldn’t last, but still couldn’t help needing it.

when he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. breathed you in.

“thank you,” he whispered.

“for what?”

“for making it real again.”

then he left before dawn.

you didn’t ask him to stay. you stood on your porch and watched him walk away, the polka-dotted umbrella swinging gently in his hand. you didn’t cry. not this time.

some stories loop. not perfectly. not endlessly. but enough.

maybe for now.

[anxiouscr0w]

Celestial Scales - Umbranara [Eclipse]

[Fic Snippet] The creature looms over you like he’s sizing you up, long sharp rays decorate his head, slowly moving the way Sun’s do. They’re black as coal, tipped with a shiny, almost metallic gold, like daggers dipped in gold leaf. In fact, most of his body is similar in colour, abyssal zone black with accents of gold. He would be invisible to a diver. Each scale seems to glow golden as the sparse sun rays hit them like a chunk of pallasite meteorite in the light, the scales only interupted by scarring, the deepest and most prominent one being a ‘#01’ on his tail.

He is massive, 18ft at least, he looks almost alien. Large spiny dorsals and amber sclerites decorate his entire body, no part of him looks rounded or soft. His frilled shark-like gills stand out as a dull red, almost like ribbons.

A peculiar feature catches your attention - not too far beneath his arms is another pair, moving independently from the others as they hold your ankles in one, the top pair of arms at either side of your head. His claws are bony and sharp, digging into the sand inches from your face. His hands are so big they could probably hold both your ankles and both your wrists in one hand…

As you blink, the golden rings of his eyes seem to have almost burned into your retinas. Similar to Moon, his sclera are voids, but unlike the other two, he has two pupils, looking almost like cursed rings cast to the bottom of the lake for eternity. The smile upon his face is too human for comfort, although his lips are pulled upward in one corner. Similar to most of his body, his gums are grayish, the colour even seems to bleed into the tops of his teeth as if decayed.

“Umbranara…” You manage to squeak out.

[No rain version under the cut :3]

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Black Metal and Bourbon (III)

AU MASTERLIST || THE FINAL PART

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Depictions of injuries, blood, gore, abductions, death, talks about bike crashes, violence, guns, intended harm, past toxic relationship, murder, protective!Simon, suggestive content, (1) dirty joke, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember the long nights when you would sit in the empty bar and wonder why you’d never left. Why you couldn’t up and disappear like you wanted to—a bird taking flight and choosing any direction at all to travel, just as long as you didn’t stay on this branch. It wouldn’t have been hard. There wasn’t anything here that mattered to you. 

This invisible string was holding you back, waiting; tying you to something that you would never understand for as long as you lived. You had dreams and aspirations. 

So why hadn’t you grabbed them by the throat and dragged them along with you?

Maybe there were larger powers in that old town, a mischievous spirit that played a game of chess with the lives of its inhabitants. It certainly felt like it.

Especially when you’re flying through the air, the rain falling in slow motion as hands slash past wind to grab at your body. You recall flashes of that day. Snippets. 

Even now, you feel like you see it in the third person, your form getting tossed by the momentum of the flipping motorcycle and cutting the storm—Simon’s hands reaching out and grasping you. He had dragged you into his chest, his back taking the force of the ground as you slid along the wet streets, pained grunts echoing into your soul as your panic resulted in a shocked muteness. His hands had been gripping you so tight that veins had burst, the view of the sky above you as your back conformed to his chest. 

And then you’d both tumbled, rolled over and over as the screech of metal grated your ringing eardrums and pain flared like fire. Your head slammed into the front of the helmet with a smack, and nothing else is recalled. 

Until now, of course. 

You try to move your fingers, the tight hold of a cast over the entirety of your left forearm—the action brings a wave of weakness with it, making you grit your teeth. You’d woken up in the hospital with black dots in your vision, your body so unresponsive your mind had panicked thinking you wouldn’t be able to move at all. 

And Simon? 

Where was Simon? You’d been so loud with your hoarse calling that the nurses had rushed in and had to put you back under, letting you drift and brushing their hands over your head as you babbled on failing breath. Never once had your brain left you void of the mechanic’s brown eyes—his hands grabbing you, keeping you safe at the risk of his own flesh. 

He hadn’t been wearing a helmet.

But now…now you were fully conscious. 

“Where is he?” Your face is perhaps one of the few parts of you that was unscathed. Your legs were skinned—wrapped so tightly you couldn’t move them. While Simon’s leather jacket had saved your arms, they were still battered and bulging with blisters as big as your hand. Your forearm was broken.

The nurse shushed you, and your voice snapped. “Loralie, I’ve known you since middle school,” she pauses, lips thinning as she messes with your IV drip. “You’re going to tell me where the hell he is, or I’m going to scream that you made Braylan Holt forge your high school diploma.”

Sizzling eyes meet yours, but not even that will deter you—your heart is heard, rapid on the screen to your left.

“You’re a damn horror, Bartender.”

“You’re acting like I give a shit,” you growl and the nurse slightly moves back, never hearing that venom from you before to such a degree. “Where the fuck is Simon before I get up myself.”

It’s like a dog with fear aggression—you can’t comprehend the man you’d formed such a bond with hurt, much less here in this hospital with you and…and…

Your heart rate increases even more. 

He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“That’s not gonna happen, Sweetheart,” Loralie grits out. “You won’t be walkin’ for another week, at least. Not with all that damage—your legs were so bloody the EMTs couldn’t tell where the hell the blood was even comin’ from.”

Your working hand curls into a tight fist, teeth snapping together as you restrain a flinch. You don’t want to think about that right now. 

“Simon,” you grunt, shaking. 

The woman stares for a moment before sighing. 

“You’re something strange, Girl. How the hell you managed to be stuck here is some mystery I can’t fathom. Fine,” she glares before a fast whisper. “But you best forget about that stint with Holt, alright? You never mention that again—”

“Already forgotten,” you grind out, impatient. Even the muddled agony from under the sheen of the pain meds couldn’t stop you. “Speak.”

“The man’s in rough shape. Hasn’t woken up yet.” Your jaw clenches tight, blood pumping like a river. A finger is leveled at you, moving in an accusing motion. “He’s lucky he didn’t die, by all accounts the shape he was in he should have. Had to go into surgery to get the bike shrapnel out of his legs.”

“Surgery?” Your eyes go wide, your voice frantic. “W-what about his head—did he hit it, or…or is he—”

“His brain waves are active.” The nurse tidies the blankets at the end of your bed. “Can’t say that about his body.” 

Your throat sinches violently, and you have to look away to hide your tears. Moments later, the woman lets out an aggressive sigh, her hands moving to cross over her chest. 

“That man must fucking love you,” you blank, blinking quickly as you sniffle and try to shift your expression back to fake anger.

“What…?” You ask, your tone defeated.

Loralie stares, her eyes moving to the IV only to waft back when she can gather her thoughts. 

“If he hadn’t grabbed you, you would have gone right off the edge of the road into the rocks.” In the bed, your body goes as still as possible, your ears twitching at the confession. “In the middle of getting road-burned to all hell, he still grabbed you. If you would have gone over, we’d only be having one of our intensive care rooms filled up…you hear?”

You can’t say anything, only watch as the nurse finishes up her work and exits with one last look of exasperation. 

Alone, your brain finally tries to comprehend what you’d just been told. 

“...Simon,” you whisper to dead air long minutes later, the machines all around you beeping. 

The tears come easily.

—

When your legs finally started working again, it didn’t bring you any comfort. Only Simon could do that, and seeing the looks from the other staff, they knew it as well. You couldn’t keep your full weight on your limbs, only bend the toes and knees in small intervals. 

The doctor said it was a fantastic start, but you felt helpless. 

You wanted to see him, yet first came the interview with the Sheriff to explain what had happened. After the details started coming back, a larger picture was formed, and when you had been able to get ahold of a phone—your own shattered and little more than a box—you’d heard a case had already been opened. 

Simon’s bike had been tampered with. 

After you’d given your statement, you had been surprised to find three mechanics at your door, walking in quickly and throwing over concerned looks at your busted forearm and hidden legs. 

“Christ,” Soap says, a flash of anger crossing like lightning over his eyes. “You don’t hurt much, do you?”

“No,” you lie easily. “Could be worse,” your words were whispered. 

John sends you an indiserable look as Gaz sips off his hat and keeps it in his grip as he frowns. 

“We’re happy you’re alright, Love. Scared us half to death when we heard the news—thought the worst,” Kyle commented, the Brit’s hand running over his neck slowly. 

They could all tell that you weren’t in the right mindset. 

“He’s alive,” you look over to Price sharply. Those blue eyes don’t waver. “That’s all that matters. He’s alive.”

“Aye,” Johnny agrees, nodding his head and crossing his arms. A stubborn expression was on his face. “Never known someone like Simon. The man’ll push through without a doubt—just needs time to rest up.”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to go out,” you mutter, rubbing at your cheek, thinking about a man with a mangled body and skinned bones. Jesus, he needed to be alright. He had to be. 

“No one could have thought that would happen,” Kyle comes over and puts a firm hand on your shoulder. “Hey, c’mon,” you look at him with a guilty face; fear under your tiny pupils. The man smiles, but it’s shaky at best. “We all know who to blame for this, yeah? Don’t go taking that from the person who needs to carry it.”

“We’ve been keeping up with it,” Soap adds, frowning. “Still no trace.”

“They haven't found him yet?” Your brows turn in with concern, a sudden paranoia entering your head—if they hadn’t found Graham, what’s to stop him from doing something like this again? Hell, if he was unhinged enough to commit attempted murder, what was stopping him from pushing those boundaries now that he’s already gone through with the former?  

“We’re not going anywhere,” John seems to sense this. You look at him quickly. The man grunts, lips moving as he speaks. “Not until he’s found.”

A piece of your heart eases at that, thankfulness flooding your veins.

“...Do,” your voice pauses, and you swallow down saliva slowly before you continue. “Do you know when they’ll let me see him?”

Soap and Gaz share a glance, the Scot going to ease into the chair on the other side of the room with a low sigh. 

“They’re not letting anyone in,” Kyle utters. “Not until his condition improves a bit. We tried.” 

“Two weeks,” John nods to you. “They’re only giving estimates.” 

Fingers twitching, you look down at your lap, the hospital bed hard under you. The words come out, and you find they’re met with a hard certainty from the men around you.

“What if they don’t find Graham?”

“...Then we will.”

—

The mechanics had all looked over their bikes for any tampering and had found none when they reported back to you—the bolts had been loosened only on Simon’s. Soap was the one who had mentioned that you might have never been the target at all, and that Graham had been a spiteful man who just wanted to make a point about his past relationships’ new attraction. The thought didn’t settle you.

All of them were undeniably worried about their friend.

You’d tried to get what you could out of the other nurses��any signs of waking or getting better, but there were only stiff looks as if it was taboo to talk about him. Like an inside joke with the devil. 

The staff had finally said they would tell you themselves if there was any change in Simon’s health. It didn’t stop you from asking, though. It currently didn’t stop you from sneaking out in the middle of the night after visiting hours, either. 

Your legs were still weak, sometimes going numb entirely as you dragged them over the floor. Inside your eyes, black dots swirled as you effectively dodged the front desk by taking the far back hallway; the lights above your head were too bright and too loud. 

Your arm burned something awful.

Eyes blinking rapidly, you pant as you go from room to room, not stopping even to breathe before room fourteen makes your soul pull in on itself like a crow holding a bell. The bit of metal jingles, attached to a red string that flutters in the wind—reaching back to the wreath it was stolen from. 

Not understanding the instinctual feeling, you grasp the handle and push open the door with more force than you’re able to push out of you; your working arm quivering violently. 

But the sight behind the door is something you would cross mountains for. 

Simon lies still on the bed, attached to so many machines he seems more like a cyborg than a man. Over his face, an oxygen mask takes the place of a balaclava, and the right side of flesh is patched with so many bandages the bulk makes your stomach drop. 

“Simon,” you whisper, stuttering as your blood falls internally to pool at your feet. 

Walking over as quickly as you’re able, you pause at the side of his bed, nearly falling over as your knees buckle. You lean your weight on the frame and take a deep breath. 

This man saved your life. 

You look at him, unable to say anything—unable to utter a sarcastic quip. Your hand stutters in its course through the sterile air, but at the very end of it, your skin settles over Simon’s hand; the limb on his chest. 

“Simon,” you say again, licking your lips, fingers squeezing his tattoos as if to bring the images to life. “Can you hear me, Brown-Eyes?” 

You needed him to wake up—needed to speak to him, see that October gaze lock so numbly with yours. Dead eyes had never meant so much to you than when the man that wore them wasn’t blinking so softly. Where had he gone?

“Simon,” you plead, getting choked up when nothing happens beyond the flicking of the light on the ceiling. The beeping of his pulse didn’t change, not even when you intertwined your fingers together to lock them like a knot—a promise. “I need you to be okay,” your voice stutters. 

“We have to get through this together…I…” Tears splatter his tattoos, his lovely, beautiful, tattoos, you hiccup. “We need each other.”

Maybe it was cliche, two people who relied on one another in a town of nobodies, but it didn’t make it untrue. And maybe it was a partial lie—after all, you didn’t know what Simon thought of you exactly, but the way he looked at you, how he cast his shadow above yours, was a well enough guess in the right direction. But you needed to say it, and your heart ached to see him like this.

Simon doesn’t move, his hand is cold and his lashes stuck to his cheeks.

“Simon,” you hiss, sniffling. 

The hours pass, and you stay there for as long as you’re able before your body is about to give out on you. You reluctantly kiss his forehead and leave with a crushing weight on your shoulders, so much so that the flashes of broken metal and rain don’t even bother you at this point.

A rage grows in your breast.

But when you sneak back to your room, you don’t go to bed. You can’t. The smell in the space is something that leaves your eyes stuck wide until your legs actually do buckle. Your eyes stare at the far wall blankly.

Cigarette smoke lingers in the air.

—

“He woke up last night.” Your blank eyes stare, expression stuck firm. Loralie gives you your lunch, setting it down on the bed tray. “Around three. Said your name and then passed out again.” 

“Why didn’t you get me?” You’re already pushing off the bed, your lips letting loose a grunt. The boys had to be at work today—a Thursday—so that left you alone and bored until they took a break and walked over to keep an eye on things. 

Wincing when your feet touch down, you’re quickly, and very easily, pushed back into bed with a scoff. 

“Loralie,” you growl, venom in your throat like a rampaging bull. 

“Sit down and let me finish.” The both of you glare before she rolls her eyes and points to the food. “Acting like a damn teenager. Eat.” She doesn’t start until you pick up the fork just to shove a single piece of the lunch into your mouth to spite her, slowly chewing it with a scowl. Loralie rubs at her temple. “He’s getting better, but it’s still a long road. Activity’s peaking every now and again—fingers been twitching, too. Some of the bandages have been able to come off.”

“Thank the fucking lord,” you breathe, running both hands over your face as you sigh out slowly. “Any estimate on when he might fully wake up.”

“God knows,” the nurse huffs. “He had brain bleed. Man was all kinds of messed-up.”

Your chest tightens, but you say nothing. You’d suddenly lost your appetite. 

As the afternoon rolls around, you take down your pain medicine and fight the blurriness of your eyes. Healing was a very long and very tiring process—it seemed like no matter how much sleep you got you still woke up tired. And you suppose that was why you fell into an uncomfortable nap and woke up to the window still open, the moonlight rays like sheer fabric cascading down to the tile floors. 

Groaning, your head lifts from the pillow; your first thoughts are always of Simon and how he’s doing. It was time to see him again. 

Your TV-static mind reruns how he looks over and over again—the bloody bandages, the wrappings around his face. Even the machines now seemed to sneer at you as your guilt grew harder to ignore. He’d saved you at the cost of himself…without even hesitating. 

Why would he do that?

“You really had to go and make me love you, huh?” You ask into the cold air, a breeze shifting through as you slowly sit up on one arm. “Simon, if I’d known you would have gone and done this, I would have never looked at that sold sign. At least then you’d be okay.”

“You love him?” Your body twists up, large patches of gauze pulling at dried blood and mixed plasma as your body keeps itself upright. The shadow in the corner of the room moves as your fatigued brain wakes itself back up in no time at all. 

Graham. 

Eyes stuck to the far corner, the phantom of your Ex stands tall—his eyes beady. Your entire being freezes as your lips part in horror, yet, you can’t make a sound. 

He’s disheveled looking, but those eyes of his have never been more rageful. Like walking through the hospital and coming face-to-face with a grizzly bear of all things. It’s strange, but your thoughts immediately go to Simon as he steps forward, sneering at you. 

“The first man that comes into town and you love him? I didn’t think you were so easy, but I guess I was wrong.”

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is hushed, panicked—adrenaline spikes in your veins. 

If you screamed, who’s to say he wouldn’t just pounce on you? 

Graham runs a hand over his hair, his scent taking up your nostrils until you feel the need to nearly gag at ash and tobacco. “I needed to see you—explain,” he stutters, emotions swiftly flicking from anger to fake remorse. 

Your hand slowly inches to the nurse-call button attached to the wall near the bed, the cord leaking out like a snake as your fingertip catches against it. 

“You weren’t supposed to be on that bike, okay? Celina fucking messed it up—she was supposed to keep you workin’ until he went out on his own.” He’s coming closer, and you push back up the mattress in distress. 

He doesn’t stop.

“What the fuck, Graham,” your voice rises slightly, cracking in the middle. 

The man growls. “It wasn’t my fault! J-just forget about it, okay? You’re fine now, it all worked out.”

“You tried to kill us!” You shout, and Graham’s instant hiss makes you flinch back and scamper as you slam the wall behind you. 

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Do not…do that. Keep your damn voice down!” 

“And if I scream?” You tilt your head, shaking violently. “What then, huh? You lousy son of a bitch.” 

“You’re lucky I don’t pay that Simon of yours a visit, yeah?” Your lungs tighten, a wheezing inhale stuck in your throat. 

“You wouldn’t, Graham,” you whisper hastily. “Not with all of this shit you’ve gotten yourself into—turn yourself in and fix this.” 

The man spays his hands and your hand shifts to the bulk of the nurse’s button, running over the top until you find the correct one to press. 

It moves in with a slight pop of plastic, the darkness of the room giving you extra coverage as you slowly drop it back down. 

“It’s too late for that.” Graham shakes his head, and his stench overtakes you as you gag lightly, casted hand coming up to hide your nose. He pauses near the side of the bed, and you push to the opposite side and hear your feet slap the ground. The size of your makeshift barrier doesn’t fill you with confidence. “You need to come with me.”

“What,” you laugh in exasperation; fear coating the hoarse noise. “No! Leave!”

It was obvious that your usual sarcastic tone had slipped to a fearful one, your heart making your voice palpitate with every thump of the veins in your neck. 

The door opens and Graham’s hand darts to the back of his pants. 

Loralie’s body comes into view. “What’s happened now—”

A great ear-shattering boom leaves you screaming as blood splatters into the air.

—

Simon woke up to the world spinning. 

He grunts heavily, the oxygen mask over his face tight before he can slap a weak hand to the plastic and pull it back. The man coughs, spine curling before a bone-deep pain makes him stop with a firm inhale. 

Blinking sluggishly, he grinds his teeth together and lets the mask slip to his cheek. Movement at his slide makes Simon pause—trying to gather his bearings.

What was going on?

“Simon, easy with it.” Scottish. Johnny. “Christ…how am I going to explain this?” More shuffling and fast feet over to the side of the bed. 

“Johnny,” Simon grunts, vocal cords tight. He needed water. 

“One second, just wait. Let me…” A pause before a sloshing of water. Above the man in the bed, the ceiling moves and swirls—dancing. Simon remembers water…the bike…

“Can you hold it, then?” He doesn’t answer the Scot, instead slapping out a hand to curl the body of the glass, bringing it to his lips and downing the liquid as it slips from the side and dribbles down the side of his face. 

Johnny grumbles, “Alright.”

You. 

Simon choked on the drink, moving it back before his arms slammed to the bed, the glass bouncing off and shattering against the floor. 

“Fucking hell!” Johnny shouts, rushing forward to put a stiff hand on Simon’s chest, trying to push him back down and avoid the glass that now litters the tile. “Stop it, you’ll destroy all the damn work they did, ya idiot!”

“Where is she?” Simon garbles out, glaring forward even as his body screams and peels back healed flesh. 

“Stay the fuck down and I will!” Blue eyes sear downward, meeting brown as they battle for a moment. 

Simon clenches his hands, but compiles, top half moving back to collapse to the pillows once more. Not once do his eyes stray from the Scot, ordering him mutely to continue as his heart pounds in his breast. He remembers grabbing you and then nothing else—the scream of sirens in his ears like a distant call from a dream. But his body ached far too much for this to be a dream. 

“Where,” Simon forces out through his accent, throat like gravel. His chest was filled with dread at the nervous sheen over Johnny’s face.

“Ah…” The Scot begins. “She’s fine, Simon. She’s alive.”

That didn’t give him any reassurance. 

Simon hisses, quickly trying to get back up again and succeeding in straining his body enough to sit halfway upward. All of the wires and cords attached to him rip and pop off, frantic beeping emanating from the room. 

“Take me to ‘er. Now.”

“I can’t do that!” Johnny hisses, hands out and failing to keep him stationary. “Would you just calm down?” 

The man doesn’t answer, not until the nurses rush into the room due to the noise and tell him false words to try and get him to lay back down. Simon knew something was wrong—instincts going haywire. 

Were you…dead? No, you couldn’t be. That wouldn't be possible. Johnny knew better than to lie to him. 

“Johnny!” Simon shouts as loud as he’s able; raw authority in his mouth. Even the nurses freeze at that. 

The mohawked man’s twisted face is wracked with guilt, and there calls to the fact that Gaz and Price are nowhere to be seen. 

Simon says it slowly, wounds bleeding and his face opening the long scrapes of road-burn on his left side. It burns like a fire—itching like no other. But it’s secondary to the pure adrenaline keeping him awake. 

“Where.”

Even Johnny can’t fight that tone. 

“Graham has ‘er.”

—

This was a hunting shed, you knew. One out in the middle of the trees—about three miles from town with its rot-infected walls and a chipping wood fireplace. The floor is nearly covered in cigarette butts. 

You stay stuck in the far corner—hands and feet zip-tied together. Your head had been covered by a bag that you had grabbed and ripped off when the world stopped jostling from the trunk of a car. From then, you had been dragged at gunpoint through the hell portal of the front door. 

Graham is watching from the single chair across the room, itching at his scalp with the barrel of a .44 Magnum and using his other hand to rub along his thigh. 

“Shit,” he mutters as you watch, silent and as still as a stake in the ground. “Shit, shit, shit.” Loralie’s blood is still splattered along your face. 

He’d shot her through the stomach. You’d seen her body drop: dead in an instant.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Graham stands suddenly, and your body recoils with a slam of your shoulder into the wall. The frame shakes. The man quivers as he glares at you. “It wasn’t my fault she came in through the fucking door!” 

You only nod tinily in frantic agreement, looking around the room in search of anything that might help you. But there’s only so much you can do against a man holding a gun—a man who finds himself wanted for a slough of crimes which now just got incredibly long.

You had heard the sirens bouncing over the hills hours prior, but no one knew you were out here unless they happened to be the best-trained tracker of all time.

It should be morning now, but the threat of rain outside obscures the tiny slivers of light that try to pierce the leaves of the forest. 

“Fuck!” Graham screams, foot kicking out to connect with the chair and sending it flying backward before it splinters and clatters—all termite-eaten legs and cracked seat. 

Your mouth releases a squeak, panting breath a sharp gasp. 

You needed to figure something out. Quickly. 

The single window is smashed in, glass sprinkling the ground in large shards, and you don’t care if it’s the result of some teenagers smashing property or anything else for that matter—you had to snap these bonds. 

It wasn’t like the termites could help. 

“Graham.” You’d never call yourself stupid, and heaven help anyone else who tried to. You didn’t work at a bar without learning more and more about the human psyche than all the years in school and adult life combined. Everyone had games they played inside of their head, a series of tic-tac-toe boards or grandiose plots of fanatical sagas; it just so happened that Graham fashioned himself the hero of every single one of them. Every line was his chicken scratch signature. 

“Graham,” you raise your voice and say again, forcing past the quiver in your tone to a lake’s calm waters.

The man’s panicking—restless as he paces the front door, guarding it from you. It wasn’t too far-fetched to believe he could kill you now to put an end to this shit-show. He’d always taken the easy way out, after all. 

But his eyes snap to yours regardless, and you have to not scream at him as he does. 

“What?” He hisses, motioning to you with the gun with a limp arm. “You wanna weigh in, then? I did this for you and you went and ruined it!” 

“I know I did, baby,” you breathe, alarm bells blaring. “I’m sorry—I just wasn’t thinking. I wanted you to fight for me.”

Your throat simmers with bile.

What were you saying? You had no idea, but it played into Graham’s weaknesses. Maybe Simon had rubbed his casual strength over to subjugate your brash sarcasm and brutish aggression. 

Simon.

God, thinking about him made you want to cry. 

“What are you talkin’ about?” Graham intently listens, the gun shaking. “Don’t….Don’t fucking play with me right now,” he warns, growling. 

“I’m not playing,” you raise your hands up, the cast protecting one wrist, but the other had the harsh plastic suffocating your veins like it was a supple neck under a cougar’s jaw. “I’m not. I got with Simon because I wanted to make you jealous—at that party?” You suck down a fast breath. “I wanted you to swing on him, yeah? I know you could have made an example out of him.”

“Course I would have,” Graham mutters, pushing his hand up over his face to clear it of the sweat and crimson droplets. “Lousy no good mechanic with a shitty bike.” 

“Graham, can you cut off the zip-ties, please?” He laughs and shakes his head immediately.

“I’m not that stupid there, Sweetness.” Your jaw clenches, anger spiking. 

“I never said that you were,” you snapped desperately, hospital gown all dirty and your bandages hanging off of you like you were a mummy trapped in a tomb. It didn’t sound that far out of place. “You’re hurting me.”

The floors creak as you shuffle, moving your body forward trying to stand on bound ankles. It doesn’t work. Your ears twitch above the rumble from the clouds far above, past the hole-filled roof, to the sound of an exasperated scoff. 

“You’ll live. Now be quiet and let me think—you’ve made a mess of everything.” Adrenaline gives everyone a high like no other. It happens fast and can start up from the adrenal glands in mere moments when under stress or danger; when it leaves, it can result in lightheadedness, and trembling. Go long enough to where you can get it out of you entirely, it can even lead to tiredness. 

Three hours pass, and it’s storming outside as Graham is sleeping near the door. Curled like a wolf, the silver glint of the magnum is still clutched in his hand, fingers loose like worms as his face twitches. You had waited the past hour to see if he would wake up. 

Now it was time to act.

As you slowly hobble to your elbows and knees, dragging yourself along the cigarette-coated floor, you collect dust like the knick-knacks in your home. Taking small and quick breaths, your eyes lock with a sharp piece of glass as your agonizing injuries pull and break open. Blood is so heavy in the air that it’s able to be tasted on your tongue—coated so thick even the deluge of rain can’t get rid of the stain. 

Graham mutters in his sleep, and your heart beats far into your mouth; body locking up as your gaze flashes over to the twitching shadow. Lightning flashes outside as you slowly start back up again—one eye always to the side and the pupils smaller than a spec of dirt. 

You lick your lips, creeping onward until you can reach out your fingers and slice them on the side of the glass. Your lips hold tight a whine of pain, hand clenched over the material as you twist it around and line the edge up with the zip-tie. 

Your breath is all you can hear—loud inside of your head before the sawing motion makes the cuts over your hands grow deeper the more you press into the plastic. Welts had burst by now, puss seeping to the ground as the zip-tie around your wrists popped with a snap of hard material. 

A yell of achievement is kept inside of your sputtering chest as you shove your leaking palms to the wood, rolling to your back and bending your knees to bring your ankles upward. 

The second tie snaps just like the last, and your limbs roll themselves in circles to get the circulation back as quickly as possible, gaze jerking back and forth to Graham as your pulse roars. 

Run. Run. Run. 

Every rush of your blood sings the same order. 

Lose him in the storm. 

Your legs wobble as you shove yourself up, the glass still held in your hand—an infectious thought entering your body as you stare at the magnum. Stumbling, your bare feet steady themselves as your shoulder knocks the back wall, face contorted inwards. 

How hard would it be to steal it? He was sleeping. 

Blinking away the black fireworks in your vision, you look from the broken window to the door, remembering the bike crash as the rain seeps in from the roof. Water splashes as the minutes spread like crimson pools. 

Graham’s troubled face shifts as he groans, and you’re already out of the window with a slide of glass and a slap of wet grass. 

You’re running through the forest as if a deer, crashing through undergrowth and slipping down ravines. The gown and the trailing bandages have long been soaked, heavy in their own right—a second skin hanging off as your blood gets washed away by the rain. You don’t know when you started crying, but the sky’s tears bled with your own exceptionally well. 

There were multiple times when you swore there were footsteps behind you—right on your tail as your blurry vision finds phantoms in the bushes and the leaves as they fly up behind you at a kick of your mud-covered feet. 

You didn’t have a destination, and as far as you cared, you could die in these woods happily as long as Graham never had the chance to make a decision. In the end, his own ability to fuck himself over never had the chance to change—thank God.

A hand slams on your shoulder. 

Half a scream is stifled, as another is leveled to your mouth—your body is yanked to the side. Dragged behind the bark of a tree, lightning flares overhead as if as shocked as you were, arms and legs kicking out. 

There’s a stiff grunt, and large biceps that curl your waist. Words are about to be uttered into your ear canal before your teeth chomp down on the thick material of padded gloves, eyes wide with blurry panic. 

“Sunshine!” You don’t listen over your muffled curses, nails clawing into a forearm as your casted limb aches. 

Whirled around, your spine finds a trunk, and you snarl before, once more, “Bloody hell, Sunshine, it’s me!” 

Finally able to see who was keeping you hostage, your struggling halts with a knee halfway up and ready to send full force into a crotch. You blink multiple times, panting into the palm before the hand drops entirely and you can take down fragmented breaths.

A skeleton-painted balaclava is only a glimpse before those October eyes suck you in. 

Simon and you stare at one another as the storm rages on.

He was in all black—straps and holsters clipped onto his thighs and chest above a combat vest that you’d seen in military documentaries on TV; a compression shirt under a water-resistant covering rolled up to his elbows. And guns.

Guns at his thighs, a rifle at his chest, a knife at his belt. 

Simon Riley was dressed for war. 

You stutter, eyes beady as you open and close your mouth. 

Wasn’t he supposed to be in the hospital? How did he find you?

“How…” You blink as the man’s concerned eyes scan you over, rage shimmering in his expression as water saturates his mask. His gloved hands settle at your shoulders and squeeze before they move once more. “How did you…?”

“Let me look,” he mutters, touching your wrist and bringing it up. Your mouth shuts tight, flinching. Simon halts and quickly glances back up with a simmering gaze. He doesn’t move, and when he blinks, whatever anger that was mounting is re-hidden back behind the void of his irises. You stare as his browns melt. 

“Can I touch you, Love?” Water slaps your head but the barrier of trees helps slightly. The question was one of the most important he could have asked. 

You nod, but he still waits. 

“Yes,” your voice pushes out. Simon’s large hand recaptures your flesh like a precious object, twisting it around. 

He tenses at the blood, and, just like the realization outside of the vandalized shop, he tells you quietly, “You’re shaking.”

“Simon,” your lips wobble, sniffling. 

Your body is shielded in an instant. 

“It’s alright.” He breathes into your scalp—you feel his pulse, his hard surety; this wasn’t a hold that was quick to leave. “I’m ‘ere, I’ve got you. We’ll be alright. Focus on me, Sunshine. Focus.” 

It wasn’t soon after that those arms separated for a moment, the velcro of a vest in your ears before a rain jacket is carefully, yet quickly, pulled through your arms and zipped up. The rifle is leaning against a rock as the hood is pulled to protect your visage from the downpour. But the rain is the last thing on your mind. 

Screaming echoes out over the night and you gasp, head jerking up to the trees as the yowls vaguely take the incorporeal shape of your name on the battling wind. 

Simon growls, hand coming up to rest beside your skull on the trunk as he leans over you, gazing off into the night. 

“Stay still,” he utters into your ear, the compression shirt tight enough to make the bulk of bandages easily visible all along his arms and shoulders. A pistol is held loosely from his free hand—his fingers twitching around it as numb eyes move along the open spaces of forest. 

Not about to muster a response, your fatigued and addled mind begins to blank of all else but the scent of muddled oil and metal; tattoo ink. 

Simon grips you closer to his chest as the wrathful calls bounce on air-waves like arrows right to his building fury. The man’s jaw clenched tightly—body shaking not from the chill but from restraint. 

He’d broken out of the hospital with one goal: track you down and get you back. Anything else was an added pleasure that the veteran had mulled over as he busted out his old gear and strapped himself with whatever he might need. 

Everyone’s only concern was with how he was still shaky on his feet after the crash, but in reality, Simon barely noticed. The minute he’d heard you were gone, all bets were off. 

No one had clung to military life more than him, not even Price. 

No one messed with someone he cared about and got off scot-free, even if it ended in a life sentence in jail. Eating a meal was too good for Graham Whitaker—breathing was too good.

But before all of that dark work, first came you. 

Nothing else was touching you. Ever. 

So the rushing feet weren’t much of a concern to the man, truth be told. Simon clocked the fool a mile before his huffing was etching like a point through the storm, cheek to your scalp as you shiver and shake, fingers curled into his shirt as your eyelids flutter.

He needed to get you medical attention—clean those wounds. 

But Graham. 

“No!” His screaming continues, stumbling through about ten feet away—the glint of a gun at the fool’s thigh unmistakable. “No! I was asleep for five minutes!” 

Brown eyes don’t blink as they watch, feeling you tense and tighten even at the phonics of the man’s speech. 

“Don’t look, then, yeah?” Simon utters softly. The sound of the safety being flipped off on his gun was drowned out. Your mind barely comprehends the words, all of it slurring together as Simon’s hand curls your skull and covers your ear above the hood. An oil painting smeared by blood-coated fingers that hold you so sweetly. “Easy. It’ll be over soon.”

You get drunk on it as you nuzzle your face into his neck. Simon’s focus threatens to give way before he blinks at the scene ahead of him.

Graham twists in a circle, nearly sobbing as he yells even more and grips one hand into his hair, pulling harshly. It was like watching a toddler having a tantrum, though this was far more serious. And deadly.  

But all of that searching wasn't for nothing.

Simon lets his eyes lock with Graham Whitaker only once, and even then it was a mere glance. A Ghost deserves nothing more before it disappears back into smoke. 

Panicked widening, an arm seizing up. 

It had been for more of the mechanic’s benefit than anything else—torture in its own right as a rabbit stares down a wolf and its foaming maw. Simon was never reckless; never eager to kill even back then. It had been his job, and he’d done it tactfully—resourcefully. A dance of instinct and sheer nuance to get the ques down that had taken him decades to perfect. Training like that didn’t just go away.

People only saw him coming if he wanted them to.

And Simon desperately wanted this man to look into his eyes as he pulled that trigger. Not even the maggots would want the body he gives to them.

—

You both lay in bed, silent. 

The sheets are warm with body heat, and the cast around your arm had only come off two days ago—the flesh sore and the muscles weak. Around you, hard limbs are anchoring you to a chest filled with scars; scars you’d memorized easily as you traced over them like a painter with her favorite brush. 

He wouldn’t tell you the stories behind them, and you have to admit you were relieved about that. It was the past, after all. 

This moment was for the future.

“Want you to work with me in the shop,” Simon mutters as he stares into your eyes. You blink, brows lightly furrowing before his hand comes up and his digits brush your cheek softly. Your lashes flutter at the scrape of calluses as he continues in a low grumble. “Custom detailing.”

“...And will I be paid for this?” You ask him, teasingly—delicately. 

“As much as you want.” Simon isn’t joking. “More than what the fuckin’ bar can give you,” his breath moves over your pulse, making you shiver.

Your half-lidded eyes stay locked into those endless voids, his slow blinking waiting for an answer as the bulk of his belongings sits in the corner of your room. 

“Haven’t even finished the mural yet,” you huff. “Eager to get me next to you?”

“Yes.” Simon moves forward, and, without the need to hide himself from you, presses his lips to your chin, head dipping to tilt your face and allow him access to your neck. You hear him nearly purr when your fingers card his hair, nails set into his flesh.

“I make pretty good tips, Brown-Eyes.” Fingers pulse at your hips, slipping over flesh. 

There’s no reason to keep talking about this—your answer is already obvious—but the both of you enjoy this endless chase. 

Something new and, for you, something to make your feet stationary.  

Simon had taken out his CB1000R for the first time for your date yesterday, his eyes avoiding yours as you’d asked why he’d been five minutes late. He’d said it was because he’d been checking the motorcycle over all day—re-checking it once before coming over with a knot in his intestines. 

There was the very obvious change of two helmets, as well. You had thought you’d be hesitant to get on a bike again, but the feeling of Simon’s body in front of yours was more of a comfort than anything that came before. The wind at your sides as he’d driven far slower than ever—glancing back nearly every minute to make sure you were alright. 

Big teddy bear, you thought affectionately.

“Can give you a better one,” Simon jokes crudely in your bed, grunting like a beast. Your lips let loose a snort, head flopping down to rest on the top of the man’s skull. At his back, your fingers play with the brunt of his old scars as well as the new ones that are still and an angry red; barely closed.

“That was horrible.” Simon shivers under your study when your lips mutter your amusement.

“A bit.” He smirks. “You givin’ me an answer, Sunshine?”

This would be the last chance to get out of this town—say no and disappear, never to be seen again just like the hundreds before you. What life could you have out there? What could you build differently—build like a pack of wooden blocks and poke at before they fall down?

What could you nurture what you already had blooming?

You sigh, arm moving back to perch under Simon’s neck. Pulling him back, you tilt his head to meet yours as he hums, kissing him on the lips and taking his freedom as your own. Simon’s hand spans your spine as his fingers spread; the stretch of his tattoos corrupting your soul one atom at a time as he opens his eyes to watch.

A loyal sin had never tasted better. 

You ease back and whisper over his open mouth, “Yes.” 

October eyes consume you whole.

—

This town is small—it talks. Everyone knew what happened to Graham Whitaker; everyone knew who killed him. 

But small towns always have big secrets that no one ever discusses. 

They never found his body, and the boys had all made sure they never would. So, to this day, the bastard is still listed as he should be:

MISSING: GRAHAM WHITAKER

Dangerous individual believed armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to approach.

Information? Contact your local police force at the provided number below. 

Celina and the rest of Graham’s goons never showed their faces again, and even then, there was no evidence to directly tie them to anything beyond the loose connection to the vandalism.

Of course, the bar was always bustling, eager to speak about it even when ivy had crept over the telephone post flyers and hidden them from any eyes. That one cold case that was ingrained into its history until something else came along—told on long nights to ease the bored atmosphere of passing folk and crumbling buildings. Grumbled over the raw scent of black metal and grunted at the rim of a Neat Kentucky Bourbon.

The twitched smirk over those lips is always a staple, though, and so is the brown-eyed look passed your way as you sit content under the stretch of his arm, art journal open to yet another page as the appointments piled up. 

You haven’t shown him yet, but all of your sketches are of him.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @aldis-nuts, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[itsgoldleaf]

💋Codywan First Kiss Bingo #1!💋

Why not banish those Sunday Scaries with some warm, gentle and loving codywan vibes! This is my first fill for @codywanfirstkissbingo and is for the prompt: loving kiss.

Galaxy-sixed appreciation to the mods/creators of First Kiss Bingo for pulling together this amazing event - I can’t wait to get stuck into all of the lovely content over the next two weeks (and beyond, because I’m sure I’ll be spoilt for choice!)

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

Click the title below to enjoy Cody and Obi-Wan’s first moment alone together after the war on A03:

✨ Give Me A Moment ✨

Rating: Teen & Up

Tags: post-war good timeline, no order 66, no plot just vibes, I cannot stress to you enough that this is just several paragraphs of codywan being in love, reference, first kiss, getting together, to lingering memories of the war but nothing explicit

Snippet/Summary: He, Obi-Wan, stands in a pool of light cast from the lamp by the window in his temple rooms. Outside, the rain hangs in sheets, the sky a damp smear of grey over the false-constellations of the city windows below. Skyscrapers jab the underbellies of the clouds. The traffic is constant; nothing cuts off the bloodstream of Coruscant, least not some inclement, weather. Least not two men by a window, about to begin their lives.

Or: Cody and Obi-Wan finally get a moment together, and decide it should last for the rest of their lives.

(Bingo card under the cut!)

[theblueflower05]

Mini Bjorn blurb because today was unbearably long and I just want to crawl into bed with him

Also I love writing short little snippets like this! Send in any request or ideas you guys wanna see about our Romulus gang. I’m actively writing for Bjorn, Tyler and Rain rn!

🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐🪐

It’s been an unbearingly long day. The exhaustion has seeped deep into your bones and you feel stiff and uncoordinated as you exit the shower.

If you hadn’t been covered in 16 hours of mine grime and sweat, you probably would’ve just collapsed into bed. But the feeling of it under your fingernails and in your hairline had made you crawl.

You walk into the small dark room.

The light from the holo-tv casting an eerie green glow, reflecting off the dusty singular window. The space is a bit cramped, but in a homey way, which is fine. You know where everything is- even in the dark you’re able to shed the towel and rummage in a drawer for a pair of panties and an oversized shirt that you’ve stolen so many times, that at this point it’s yours.

There’s a bed in the corner. Piled with blankets, blankets that move up and down softly as the person underneath them slumbers.

You crawl in as gently as you can, trying so hard not to wake him-

“Baby?” Comes the gruff voice of your boyfriend and you sigh.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up”

Bjorn turns to you, hair untamed, his eyes are sleep crusted and slightly unfocused. You feel so bad, he’d pulled a double to make sure the two of you weren’t behind on rent.

He’s supposed to be resting.

“None’a that. C’mere” his arms twine around you and he pulls you close. He’s always extra cuddly when he’s just woke up. “Missed you, you smell so nice. When’d you get home?”

You smile wide as he buries his face in your neck, nose pressed into your still damp skin. He’s so tactile, all touch and smell and taste. You’ve been at the mercy of it since you’d met him.

-

Might continue this when I’m running on more than 4 hours of sleep and an unholy amount of caffeine. I just know once you wifed this man up he’d be the cuddliest mf to ever live

[emkayewrites]

Lukola snippet from my imagination. One cold night, Nicola and Luke are rehearsing their most intimate Season 3 scenes in his trailer when they get a little carried away...

(Excerpt taken from my fanfiction 'Curtain Fall')

2nd November 2022 – Salisbury (UK)

Nicola stepped out of the make-up trailer and onto the sludge that had once been a green, well-kept field.  Several days of non-stop rain had not been kind to the grounds of Wilton House and wellies had become essential wear for the cast and crew.  It was a bitterly cold night with a bright moon hanging overhead. Nicola pulled the big brown fleece she was wearing more tightly around herself and made her way determinedly towards his trailer.

She was equal parts exhausted and frantic.  It was a strange way to feel.  It had been a very long day of filming so she should want to do nothing more than go to bed but her mind would not let her rest.

After all, she had spent several hours on set with Claudia, filming some very emotional scenes that occurred between their characters.  Several takes had been needed because of lighting problems and because Claudia was struggling with a chesty cough.  They had finished their night seated in front of their respective vanity mirrors as the make-up team helped them scrub off the layers of foundation and lipstick, and they had talked about how desperate they were for the warmth of their beds.  Nicola had not entirely lied; she was eager to be warm.  Yet, sleep was the last thing on her mind. 

In less than two days, she and Luke would be filming the most exposing and intimate of all their romantic scenes together.  For several weeks, they had been meeting discreetly in their trailers to rehearse kissing, touching and even tentatively exploring the idea of seeing each other naked.  This had been done without the knowledge or involvement of anyone else even though Lizzy had made it clear to them that the production team would not support the rehearsal of intimate scenes without a coordinator.  Regardless, Nicola had felt that their extra rehearsals were giving her confidence but as the big day approached, she had been losing sleep.  It did not help that since Ezra had arrived less than a week ago, she and Luke had had no time together to privately rehearse.  It also really did not help that she had not seen any part of Luke under his clothes until just a few days ago.  The sight of his tight abdominal muscles, the way his jeans hung just low enough for the revealing V-shape of his obliques to be visible – she shook her head as if to try and shake the image from her mind.

How am I going to have that body on top of me and act?  She thought.  It was not just his body.  It was the fact that she already found his personality attractive – so to find him physically appealing as well would be torturous.  She reasoned that exposure would help.  She was just overwhelmed at seeing him in such great shape for the first time but repeatedly seeing him would surely dull the effect.

So, she had been grateful for the exchange of texts that had happened between her and Luke as she was having her hair and make-up undone for the day.

Luke N: Plans for tonight?

Nicola C: Staring at my ceiling for four hours before my alarm goes off. You?

Luke N: Wow, same.

Nicola C: Rehearsal would probably be a good idea.

Luke N: Definitely.  When do you finish?

Nicola C: Being de-Peneloped in make-up right now.  Can be with you in 10?

Nicola stared at her phone.  She had sent him that message over half an hour ago and there had not been a response.  She tapped out a message as she approached his trailer door.

Nicola C: You better not have fallen asleep.

“BOO!”

She was so engrossed in her phone that when the noise came, she squealed and jumped several inches off the ground.  Her phone slipped from her hand and into the mud. 

Luke was stood behind her in a black button-down t-shirt, carrying a small Styrofoam takeaway box and laughing.

“Jaysus fucking Christ!” Nicola snapped, and immediately bent down to rescue her phone.

“Oh shit, is that your phone?” The smile disappeared from his face.  “Is it OK?”

Nicola peeled the phone off the ground using only the tips of her fingers.  It was completely covered.

“Why would you do that?” She glared at him.  The intensity of her own anger took her aback.  Perhaps it was the very long day of filming or maybe it was the heightened adrenaline she had been experiencing since Ezra had arrived – either way, she was not able to do what a well-rested, clear-minded Nicola would do: laugh.

“It looks alright.” Luke spoke softly and carefully, recognising that a line may have been crossed on his part. “See, the screen’s still lighting up and there’s no cracks…”

Nicola narrowed her eyes at him.  Before she was able to fully form a thought, she found herself thrusting forward, grabbing him by the arm and then smearing the gloopy mess that covered her phone across the cotton fabric of his top.  He let out a shocked yelp and jumped back, pulling his arm away from her but it was too late, the front of his shirt was completely covered.

This time, Nicola laughed.  He looked down at his clothes in disbelief and then at her.

“Happy now?” He sighed.

“No.” She replied, holding her phone up. “My phone is still disgusting.  You’ll have to do the recording tonight.” 

It was true, her phone did not look any cleaner, instead it looked like the mud had just been more evenly spread across the phone’s surface.

“Peace offering?” Luke gestured to the box in his hands. “I got us some chips.”

“You remembered the vinegar?”

“I would throw myself down in the mud right now if I hadn’t.” He attested, leading the way up his trailer steps and inside.

Nicola stepped inside and was hit with the blast of warm air from the space heater that stood by the paisley patterned sofa.  Opposite this was a small kitchenette area with a sink and work surface where Luke placed the box of chips. 

“Oh my God, I feel like I’m melting.”  Nicola sat down, pulling the fleece off herself to reveal a black vest underneath.

“That heater only has two settings – on or off.”  Luke apologized.  “It’s better on then off right now.”

She watched him as he pulled out his phone from his trouser pocket and started to stage it on the work surface before him.  He propped it up against a cup so that it was stood upright with the camera lens facing her on the sofa.

They had taken to filming their rehearsals so that they could watch them back together to see how their performance looked.

He started to unbutton his shirt, trying to avoid touching the dirt where possible.

Nicola watched him, hawk-eyed, as he pulled the shirt off his shoulders to reveal the very sight that she had not been able to get out of her mind.  

How did he still look that ripped at the end of a day?

“I’m sending you the dry-cleaning bill.” He joked, balling the shirt up and pushing it into a laundary bag.  He grabbed at a white t-shirt that was hanging off a hook behind him.

“No.  Keep it off.” She noticed herself gulp as she said the words.  He froze and looked at her.

“I mean… for the scene.” She continued.

“Right.” He let his arm drop away from the hook and he moved towards her. 

Why was her heart racing so fast?

Jesus, he was beautiful.

He has a girlfriend. You have almost got a boyfriend. A very hot boyfriend.  A boyfriend with abs. She repeated in her mind, trying to remind both her mind and body of the facts.

He sat inches from her and a mischievous smile spread across his lips. “If I remember right, we’re both topless in at least one of the scenes.”

Nicola laughed; she knew he was joking but she could not resist commenting: “These are coming out once and once only.  When I’m being paid a crap-ton of money for it.”

“Should I be charging for this?” Luke looked down at himself.

“I think you should be paying me for this.” She quipped and placed a hand on his chest.  She felt him shiver a little at the coldness of her touch, which amused her.  They both stayed in that position for a moment, sat on the sofa, leaning towards each other, her hand on his heart.  He felt warm and his heart was racing.  She looked at him in surprise.

“Nervous?” She found herself asking.

“With you?” He half-smiled. “Always.”

She was not sure how to take his words.  She was sure a look of confusion was spreading across her face.  His heart seemed to thud even faster under her hand.

I make him nervous?  She thought.

What happened next felt natural.  

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers, one of his hands was on the back of her head, holding her face against his.  It was the epitome of a closed mouth acting kiss.  

They had gone through these very movements so many times, it would have been odd for it not to feel natural.  Yes, this was what regular rehearsal and being in your comfort zone with your costar felt like, she was sure of it.

She was not sure how other than the fact that every part of her mouth longed for it to happen but suddenly, her tongue was in his mouth.  Tentatively at first.  He did not pull back.  In fact, his tongue seemed to greet hers with glee.  His hand gripped the back of her head even tighter, and he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her so close to himself that the hand she had placed on his chest was now squeezed between their two bodies.

Wait - what scene was this even?  The question swirled very faintly in some corner of her mind that was easy to ignore. 

All she cared about was how ferociously hungry he seemed to be for her.  He held her so tightly it was almost as if he was afraid to loosen his grip for fear that she might slip away.  His lips left hers so rarely that taking in oxygen was not the easiest thing.  She didn’t care.  Oxygen no longer mattered. Barely being able to breathe felt too good.     

She could hear his breathless panting as he pulled the strap of her vest down and she felt the warm air of the room against her naked breast.  It was the wake-up call she needed to come back into her own body.

What are we doing? 

You should not be enjoying this.

The voice in her head was louder now.

What scene is this even?!

She found herself prying her lips away from his, her hand still on his chest, his heart still beating furiously.

He pulled back, breathless and looked at her.

“I-um, I…” She was at a loss for words.  She knew what she wanted to say but she did not know how to say it.  She wanted to ask him what he was thinking.  She wanted to know what he was feeling.  She wanted to ask him if he felt as crazy as she did right now?  She did not say any of this. 

Instead, she took a breath and pulled her vest back over her breast.

“Boobies out, time to stop.” She gave a chuckle that came off nervous when she had wanted it to come across nonchalant.

“Sorry. I, uh, I got caught up in it…” He trailed off. 

The energy between them was weird.  She knew it and she knew he knew it too.  They had never discussed a line that could not be crossed in rehearsal.  They had only agreed to try to be comfortable with each other and to try to portray the intimacy of their characters with authenticity.  That was the problem though.  This felt too authentic for her.

He has a girlfriend.

He has a girlfriend.

“I actually – you know, the night is just hitting me.” She sounded like a bumbling fool, but it was the best she could do in that moment. “I think I should just go to bed.”

She saw a mixture of emotions cross his face; upset, surprise, concern. 

“OK.” He had settled on agreeing with her, although she could sense he had wanted to protest. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just – exhausted.” She reassured him. “Are you?”

“I could keep rehearsing but… I didn’t have a ten-hour shoot day.” He gave her a smile. “I’ll walk you to yours.”

“It’s fine, Luke.” She was already on her feet with her fleece wrapped around her.  She stuck her mud-encrusted phone into her pocket.

As she headed to the door, she suddenly remembered his phone.  She turned and looked over at the work surface where it stood.

“Luke – I would delete this one.” She iterated to him.  He nodded. 

Moments later, she was back out into the night.  She was still exhausted.  And her mind was still racing.  In fact, it was worse now. 

I really fucking like him.

And that was a problem.

[disasterbuck]

tease tidbit tuesday

tagged by @steadfastsaturnsrings @dangerpronebuddie and @inell

Here are two snippets from my trapped wip. Buck and Eddie are in a building collapse, both get injured, and Eddie ends up pinned.

Sitting there, Buck found his thoughts cast back to one of the worst nights of his life: when Eddie had been buried beneath forty feet of earth and he could do nothing but dig uselessly at it with his hands. He remembered his heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, trying to launch itself out of his throat, and the constant stream of rain blurring the world before his eyes.

I should be with him, he remembered thinking as the thick mud beneath his hands barely shifted and Bobby tried to pull him back. I'm supposed to be down there too.

This time he was.

-

"Don't worry," Buck said, stumbling over to him. "I'm gonna get you out."

"Buck," Eddie said, shaking his head once. "Stop."

Gripping the edge of the concrete slab, Buck heaved on it with all his strength. He felt the bandage around his waist slip and swore as a spurt of hot blood dripped down his leg.

"Evan."

Stepping back, Buck blinked rapidly against the tears which were suddenly welling up in his eyes.

"I'm okay," he lied weakly. "I just need to fix the bandage and–"

"Stop," Eddie demanded. "You're gonna kill yourself."

-

Tagging:

@dluoser @taketheplanspinitsideways @loudenthusiastic @wallywise @mxrcjqckspnchqsc

@i-am-married-to-my-fandom @therosesaredying @stillfuckingtired @classtrialguru @speggle

@awesome-igi @natnuszsstuff @olliesrants @crazyfangirlallert @delirium1995

@brah3280 @meanceclosetohell @anythingeverythingallofthetime @izzysbeans @sunflower-eddiediaz

@darkrose6578 @veronae-buddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @loveyouanyway @inell

@spicyrottingbrains @gnoeltop @idealuk @donationwayne @lemotmo

@smilingbuckley @realpersonwithrealfeelings @superlock-in-the-tardis @mjthe14thdoctor @strxwbereee

@idontknowwhatimdoing777 @ashleigh2658 @mari-lwyd-fannibal-blog @mineyneedsmoney @faithhopeandmisery

@spotsandsocks @unlifeira @tofanasmuse @pirrusstuff @buddiedaydreamer911

Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed 💕

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy thedas weekend!! I was very intrigued to see Lucanis/Bellara on your list, I'd love to see them with the lyric 'But the monsters turned out to be just trees.' from the Taylor Swift prompt list! (Are they out of the woods yet? 🤪)

I love your username! XD I have written a lot of these two this weekend (apparently it was their turn with my brain XD) so I hope you enjoy a little snippet of fluff for once!

Bellara Lutare/Lucanis Dellamorte, camping trips, cultural exchange, fluff

@caughtnyact | @thedasweekend

the woods are lovely, dark and deep

The idea of a camping trip to Arlathan seemed a good one, at first. Bellara had, after all, shown every enthusiam for his tours of the markets and cafés of his beloved Treviso, but he had never given her beloved forest as much time or attention as it deserved. A part of it, of course, was Rook’s refusal to take them out on the same missions for some time. Yearning doesn’t help me in a fight, she’d said, hypocritally, given that the rest of them had to put up with her flirting with Neve at every opportunity. Then again, he could not describe her as ‘yearning’ — she was, if nothing else, far more active in her pursuit of her detective than Lucanis had been for Bellara.

Not that his Bellara was not a treasure worthy of active pursuit, but she had decided he was worthy of her long before he could admit it to himself, and it was far easier for her to come up with excuses to join him in Treviso than it had been for him to contrive reasons to visit Arlathan. And when they had visited her home, there had always been something to show up his city-bred roots, whether it had been tumbling into a pit trap so obvious Bellara had forgotten to remind him of it, or failing to pay sufficient attention many rains of floating rocks that scattered the skies of the forest. The second, at least, he was fairly sure was not an experience common to all forests. Bellara had assured him of that, as she’d smoothed healing potion over his broken arm, her brow furrowed in tender concern.

“I swear, it’s not always like this! Or- okay, no, it’s like this a lot of the time, but there are amazing things too, I promise!”

“I believe you, bella,” he had replied, cupping her cheek in his uninjured hand. “At some point, you must show me them.”

Which had, of course, set her and Harding into a flurry of excited planning from which he had been roundly excluded.

“It’s meant to be a surprise!” she’d scolded, cheeks flushing pink, when she caught him eavesdropping on their scheming.

“I do not typically deal well with surprises!” he pleaded, and she’d folded her arms, immovable:

“You’ve dragged me into plenty. Let me treat you for a change.”

And it had been a treat, at least in the daylight, for all that her first response to seeing him that morning had been: “Are you sure you want to get those clothes dirty?”

He had thought he’d selected an appropriate combination of aesthetically pleasing and practical pieces, but then, both of them were, according to Harding, unforgivably hard on their clothes.

“How at risk will they be?” he replied, and she scrunched up her nose, considering:

“I guess it depends on how real the ground is today. But it’s usually more likely to get quicksand-y around a waxing gibbous moon, so we should be OK today, I think?”

It always amazed him, how she could keep such complex and varied information in her head, and yet ever sound like she doubted her own knowledge, especially in Arlathan. When he saw her in the woods, moving swift and graceful as a halla down paths he would never even have noticed, she truly did seem closer to spirit than mortal, ethereal and lovely, with an understanding of the forest it had taken her a lifetime to attain. She knew when to jump, when to run for cover, and when it was safe to simply stop and admire the beauty that surrounded them: the elegant arches of some long-fallen great hall, framing the setting sun that cast rainbow light around them in brilliant, crystalline sparkles.

“I told you it was beautiful here,” she said, and he replied: “I have never seen anything sweeter,” but they both knew he was looking at her.

And that was true, at least until the sun had set, but once it was dark… once it was dark, the forest was a different world altogether, one of creeping shadows and noises a little too close to human. He tried to relax, to trust in Bellara’s honed instincts, but when he heard something too close to a scream, he bolted upright, and scrabbled for his blades.

Bellara leant up on her elbow with a yawn. “Bad dream? Spite need something?”

“A scream.” He was already shrugging on his jacket and peering out into the dark, cursing his too-human eyes.

Smell nothing, Spite complained at his shoulder. Tricksy forest.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, tugging him gently back towards their bedroll. “A fox, vhenan. Come back to bed.”

A rushing like great wings above them sent him ducking for cover, feeling the shadow of the archdemon pass over them.

“And that’s the trees,” she said, still far too calm, far too patient.

An eerie, rasping rattle that echoed off the rocks.

“And- okay, I’m not sure what that was, but it shouldn’t be able to break through the wards. Spite says I have the best of any of the Veiljumpers, and Neve helped me tinker them to be a little more efficient against mortals as well as monsters.”

He stared at her, baffled by her confidence, her impossible calm. “How do you have so much faith that there is nothing terrible out there?”

She rolled a shoulder in a shrug, and pulled him back towards her until he lay with his head in her lap. “It’s not faith. It’s a job, just like one of your contracts. Or- I guess not really, given that if I do my job right, nobody dies at all, but- as long as you’re pretty sure you’ve got contingencies for most of the things that could go wrong, you don’t need to worry until you need them.”

“So if that sound turned out to be some unknown and terrible form of darkspawn?”

“I’ve dropped some little packages of eau de Assan around the edges of our campsite, and if that doesn’t put them off, I have a couple of firebombs Davrin leant me in my pack.”

“And if that was Elgar’nan and his archdemon flying over just now?”

“Well, I don’t think I could stop an archdemon in its tracks with anything I’ve got in my bag, but we’re under cover, and a forest fire would trip the wards well before we were in any real danger.”

“And if that scream was a hapless victim of the Venatori?”

She smirked, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. She smelled of woodsmoke and something green and herbal, and he wanted to bury his face in her neck and breathe nothing else forever.

“It’s lucky I have the leading cause of death for Venatori in my tent, isn’t it?”

He pulled her down to kiss her, then, partially because he could not resist, and partially because if she was wrong, it would be better to keep them both awake. Of course, he felt a bit of a fool come morning, when the monsters turned out to be just trees, but Bellara’s swollen lips and flushed cheeks told him that she did not mind.

[ablazenqueen]

Prapaisky Actor AU?? Hmm?? Hmmmmmm?????

Yes! Co-written with @fairlylokai (who gave their blessing for me to present a lil snippet)! It’s literally one scene from finished so this one should get posted… soon-ish! I hope! (Maybe not until I’m back from my holiday trip… 😅)

“Pai will be there too!”

That’s so much worse. But he can’t admit it out loud. Not without Rain poking and prodding at him until he’s forced to explain why. And especially not when Rain thinks the only relationship between Sky and Prapai is through their respective connections with Rain and Payu.

Which is true.

It remains true, even now. That is the only relationship between them. That’s all they are. Friends of friends.

The fact that two weeks ago they… Well. Everyone has off days, right? It was a one time thing and it doesn’t change anything. It’s not a mistake Sky will repeat.

So yes, friends of friends who fucked once. That’s all.

Basically, the concept is that Prapai is a really big name actor and Sky is up-and-coming actor Rain’s manager. They’re friends of friends (more acquaintances, really) through Payu (Prapai’s manager) and Rain (the actor Sky babysits) who are dating. Except also they slept together one time and then Prapai and Rain got cast in the same series and now they see each other pretty much every day and Prapai keeps flirting with Sky and maybe one time becomes more than one time, but it’s definitely still strictly physical.

[areseebee]

are we going to get a Someday update soon 🥹

if anyone wants to start a prayer circle or like cast a spell or something for a someday update, please know that i am very open to that and i would be very grateful and i am not joking.

but really, i would like for it to be soon, but i don't know. life has been challenging, and engaging, and exciting, and all kinds of adjectives that mean that i haven't been writing nearly as much as i wish i could be. but, if it helps, when i saw this it was because i was opening tumblr while also logging into my google docs so that i could work on it. so i am working on it, sometimes consistently and sometimes intermittently, and am very happy with what i have going. that's all going to add up to something i can finally share over time, but i'm not there yet.

anyway, in the meantime, here's a snippet from the start of the next chapter.

It had, unsurprisingly for a late June morning in Derry, started to rain. It was only a pathetic sort of drizzle, but James still sent a glum look up to the cloudy sky and its layers and layers of grey, and rucked the collar of his jacket close against his neck.

“Can’t we wait inside?” he grumbled, turning his back to the riverbank of the Foyle just outside Derry Station to find Orla stretched out along a bench. “Michelle’s train is gonna be here any minute.”

“You’re not made of sugar, are you? It’s just a wee bit of rain, like,” Orla said, plucking a bonbon out of her jacket pocket and popping it into her mouth. “Want one?” she asked, her mouth clumsy around the sweet.

“All right, go on then,” he said. She tossed him a white one, which he eyed dubiously. “It’s caramel, isn’t it? Come on, Orla. Give me one of the good ones. I think I deserve it after you nearly killed me.”

She sat up and gave him an affronted look. “Ach, James, are you ever gonna stop bringing that up?”

“Well, seeing as it’s not even been twelve hours, I hardly think I’ve exhausted the subject! I could’ve died.”

“Aye, but you didn’t die, did you. And, sure, but who hasn’t had a wee bit of hair singed off now and again?”

“I can still smell it, you know,” he said, running a hand against the burned hair in question.

Despite Orla’s mishandling of a rogue firework that had missed his head by inches the night before, his hair honestly hadn’t looked too bad when he’d later checked it in the mirror. He’d even nearly forgotten about it that morning as he readied himself to pick Michelle up from the train station – at least until he’d caught sight of the now crispy, straw-like curls at his temple. His mood had been rather sour since.

Orla’s face darkened. “Sure, I thought you’d be better than to brag about it.”

“Brag – Orla, what –” he started, only to be interrupted by the melodic tone of the station intercom sounding the impending arrival of the 9:22 train from Belfast.

Orla jumped up from the bench. “Thank God,” they said simultaneously.

They exchanged a glance of mutual chagrin before Orla shrugged, said “jinx!” and skipped off to the station entrance.

“Hey!” James whinged, trotting behind her.

“Shh. You know the rules,” she said over her shoulder, plaits swinging.

Five minutes and one jinx negotiation later, the low rumble of the idling train was making the concrete of the station platform vibrate beneath their feet when Michelle finally appeared in the train car doorway.

“Motherfuckers!” Michelle called triumphantly down the platform, her voice amplifying against the awnings that covered Platform 1. An older couple who’d departed the train two cars ahead shot her a dirty look.

“Hi. Good morning. Hello,” James said, smiling and nodding politely at the couple as he passed by them down the platform. Orla had already bounded ahead by several metres and had practically jumped into Michelle’s arms, who’d caught her easily in a hug. “Don’t you think it’s a little early to be shouting profanity in public?”

“Never too early to greet a dickhead properly,” Michelle said brightly, letting Orla go so she could grasp his cheeks in between her hands.

“Get off –” he said, trying and failing to twist away from her as she held on tight.

“All right, where’s the damage?” she asked, tilting his head first left, then right. “I see you’re not disfigured. More’s the pity – could’ve done you some favours. You gotta aim the firework at his nose next time, Orla.” She double-tapped his cheek with the flat of her hand a little harder than necessary, and he finally wrenched away.

“Can we go? Please?” he asked, shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets as the rain began to pick up.

“Wait a goddamn second, I need to get my –”

But she was interrupted by an all-too-familiar, and profoundly peeved, voice rounding the corner of the train vestibule: “Jesus Michelle, are you not gonna take your bag? I can hardly lift this thing and if you don’t lend a hand I’ll end up in Castlerock with all your knickers, and then what are you gonna – oh. Hi.”

James blinked, his hunched shoulders slackening in surprise as he took her in.

“Erin?”

Erin – at the top of the steps. Erin – here, in Derry. Shirt wrinkled and eyes smudged and rather overladen with bags. Erin. Here. In Derry. Looking just like herself. Just how he liked her.

[deliriouslyshipping]

Snippet with nowhere to go

“Jan,” Carlos speaks, and Jannik feels his body tense in a shiver that never finishes. Hazel eyes find the Spaniard, which isn’t hard considering the man is hovering over him. Carlos balances on one hand planted by Jannik’s head, the other one holding Jannik’s cheek, brushing into his curls. Jannik blinks, his mouth parting in expectation for a kiss. It doesn’t come. “Jannik,” Carlos repeats his name, not to call his attention, but like his name is a reminder for himself. Jannik doesn’t understand - wishes he could read his mind for just a moment. This moment, specifically, under the man, he wants nothing more than to know exactly what runs through his head. 

It’s unfortunate that he cannot. They’re normal people, or as normal as they can be. Beating hearts, now faster than their resting rates, and heated skin, though Jannik’s hand is cold in comparison to Carlos’ cheek as he mirrors the man. His thumb brushes imperfections of the skin, watching in awe as Carlos tilts his head into the palm like it brought him comfort. 

“Carlitos,” is Jannik still mimicking, but the name is elated, praiseworthy. Carlos is praiseworthy. Air is no longer needed, but this moment… It’s an eternity before their lips meet, the infinite distance between their faces shortening by the milliseconds until there is nothing else but them. Crash. Collision. It should feel like breaking apart, like losing yourself, yet it feels anything but. 

Carlos’ mouth feels like coming home. It feels like the smell of soft rain while you are cuddled into bed, ready for sleep. It is not falling. Sinking - willingly, happily. 

The glides of their mouths are mindless, a feat repeated so often it is second nature. Jannik’s hand no longer feels cold. Carlos no longer feels hot. A beautiful meeting of the two. Carlos stops supporting himself, applying his weight onto Jannik. The change is welcomed, his legs parting to make more room, inviting him further into his space. He can have all that he wants. Jannik will give it freely. 

There isn’t a rush to get to where they are going. The end point will be the same: naked, not vulnerable, and hearts full. How they get there, how long they get there, doesn’t need to be determined hastily. They have all of the time in the world. The world can wait for them. 

Jannik eases his hand on Carlos’ cheek, jumping to the collarbones, his fingers catching on the hem of the collar. It journeys past the shoulder to the sleeve of the shirt where Jannik wraps his fingers around the buff muscle of his bicep, sliding slightly under the shirt. Carlos’ body is something he is familiar with intimately and professionally. Their bouts across the net have always lit a fire underneath him, a flame he squashed so often to remain cool and levelheaded. Carlos brings out the hidden parts effortlessly. The man is so strong in all regards, and only growing stronger. Jannik must work harder to remain. The muscles flex under his touch and for a moment, he wishes there were no clothes between them so he could see the way light casts a shadow over his build. The shadows of his muscles or how much easier he can imagine the shape if there were minimal light in the room. What a shame it is broad daylight and they are still covered. Jannik releases a meager sound, his hips shifting of their own accord to move into the man. They’re connected in all ways that matter, yet he wants more.

[dandelion-wings]

Someday I hope to actually write the Ludi Harpastrum fic, and then someday, after that, I may write the 'second half' that I have mentally split off into a sequel. (Way too much tonal whiplash. The Ludi Harpastrum fic is a goofy cheerful fake-dating romp. The sequel is political intrigue and action-adventure with bonus relationship angst, because Kaeya is *waves vaguely* both a sad wet cat and a self-sabotaging little bitch.) But today I was cold and wet and miserable at the barn for far too long this morning, which reminded me of a scene from that theoretical distant sequel in which my principals are also cold and wet and miserable, and I decided, I can just write that scene. If I want to. And I did!

This is at the opposite end of this theoretical fic as this snippet, though perhaps you can see how they connect.

---

"We won't make it to the Dawn Winery tonight," Jean says, weary and dispirited, watching the clouds above them growing darker and darker grey. Rain is pouring down the whole of Old Mondstadt.

If it was only her and Kaeya, they might be able to push past the exhaustion and blood loss and go on. She can almost hear Barbara scolding her for the thought--*'You can't *push through* blood loss!'--but there is a trick of pulling energy out of their Visions, not through a weapon and into the air but directly into flesh and bone, that can keep one going well after the body is desperate to give up. It's a trick Lisa hates, though, one she won't use and always tells them isn't worth the price. Even if she would, she doesn't have Jean and Kaeya's conditioning, so it might not be enough.

Though right now it might not be enough for Kaeya, either. He'd nearly drowned only two days ago. Jean sheers hard away from that memory, and she turns her thoughts firmly to looking for possible shelter instead.

"Here," she calls at last after they've all three cast around a bit, waving at the other two through the driving, near-blinding rain. It had been a hilichurl camp once, tucked into the tiny space where one fallen stone wall leans against another, and it's sheltered enough to be one for them too.

She and Kaeya break barrels for the fire while Lisa gathers some of the dried grass spread on the floor for tinder, then lights it with a bolt of Electro when Jean finds she's lost her flint somewhere in their headlong flight. Even if their pursuers have followed them this far, there's no chance of seeing this fire through the rain. They huddle around it, stripped down to underclothes with everything else laid out in the faint hope it might dry, and eat what's left of the provisions they'd managed to grab. Lisa produces a bag of macarons, damp but not yet molding, and passes them out.

"As a treat for making it home," she says, and Jean does her best to return her smile.

They're not home yet. Not for Lisa, at least, who surely considers 'home' the city and not Mondstadt's outermost borders. But Jean appreciates the effort.

By the time they've finished, the fire has burned low. There's no wood left to feed it; they just have to hope the embers last into the night. At least none of them are shivering any longer.

"We can pile the rest of this grass up in that back corner and sleep on it," Lisa says, rising and starting to do just that.

Jean leaps up to help her gather it into a pile. Kaeya sits a moment longer, staring blank-faced at nothing, then pushes himself to his feet and joins them. Once they have it piled up, though, and Lisa has plopped down atop it and pulled Jean down beside her, he takes a step back and settles down on the floor a good foot away, leaning against the wall.

It hurts. It's a familiar pain by now, but it *hurts*. Jean looks at him curled against the stone with his knees pulled to his chest and wants to cry.

"Join us," she tells him instead, keeping her voice level and even, her trained-in commander's calm, to keep from letting that show. "We'll be warmer that way. None of us can afford to get cold."

"I already am," he says, his voice as blank as his expression, without a trace of even falsified emotion. No, he wouldn't have made it if they'd kept going. "There's no point in making you two colder."

"You don't even have your Vision on you. You're not well. The cold will only make that worse."

"If you make Jean have to carry you home tomorrow, I'll make *sure* you'll regret it," Lisa adds.

Her sweet-voiced threat moves him where Jean's persuasion hadn't. Kaeya scoots the foot over to join them on the piled grass and settles down again in the same position. He's an inch away from Jean still, not quite closing the gap, but she doesn't have the energy to argue further.

Lying down on the hay, she lets Lisa curl into her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder to pull at least the person who *wants* her beside them close, and is asleep as soon as she closes her eyes.

***

In the dream, Kaeya is falling. No glider, no Vision, just the long, long fall, slipping out of the cube of water and plummeting towards the water below. Jean yanks Lisa the rest of the way back in, then kicks hard and plunges out of it herself, reaching for her glider's cord and preparing herself to pull it as soon as she's called her Anemo.

She reaches for her Vision, reaches for the wind, for Barbatos' blessing to send swirling out and slow Kaeya's flight so that he can hit the water at a speed he'll survive.

In the dream, it doesn't come.

Jean drops until she can't any further, hand on her Vision, reaching frantically for the power that isn't there. She's shouting, pleas and prayers and imprecations, and finally pulls her glider's cord almost too late, slowing her own descent if not Kaeya's. All the way down, all she can see on his face is that horrible blank look of resignation.

***

She wakes up sobbing his name.

Lisa is shaking her, and he's answering, "Jean, Jean, I'm here," over and over again at her side. Jean reaches out blindly to grab at him, eyes fuzzy with tears, her breath catching in her throat as she pulls him close and squeezes his arm and blinks until she can look at him and make sure, absolutely sure, that it's him beside her and alive.

He looks concerned. He has the *gall* to look concerned.

"I'm right here," he says again, his thigh still that careful inch away from her own even though she's pulled him down nearly on top of her, and she's possessed with the sudden urge to bite him.

He's cold. Not the way he'd pretended to worry about, not the chill of his Vision, but *cold*, skin chill beneath her fingers, his movements sluggish as he reaches up to pat her hand. Just because his Cryo gives him more cold tolerance doesn't mean that he's immune. The Sheer Cold of Dragonspine can punch right through it; she's not surprised that near-drowning and blood loss and three days on the run can do the same. Only angry that he hadn't come any closer however many hours ago she fell asleep.

"Why do you do this?" she asks him, her voice choked and thick beyond all her ability to hide. "Why can't you believe us when we say you want you here? Do you think I am *lying* to you? Or are you lying to me when you say you want to be with us?"

Kaeya makes a sound like she's punched all the air out of him.

Then he shifts his weight, just a little, and draws breath. Jean suddenly doesn't want to hear whatever he has to say. The little laugh, or the dismissive false reassurance, or the self-deprecating joke that doesn't actually answer any of her questions. Or the confession of the lie.

Lisa must sense that. She must, because she intercedes like the blessing she is before he can actually speak. "Don't answer that tonight, cutie," she tells him. "Just think about the answer before you say anything to us. And get a little closer, no matter what. I'd expect the captain of a field company to have a better idea of the risks of hypothermia."

Kaeya sighs, letting out the breath, and finally, finally pulls closer. He wraps his own arm around Jean's back, if a little awkwardly, and presses his leg against hers, and lies down and curls in to press his face against her shoulder.

At that Jean sags, all the anger running out of her. The hurt is still there, and she may be angry again in the morning. Right now she's too tired and too sad. She squeezes both of them, kisses Lisa's hair in silent gratitude, and then closes her eyes and lets sleep take her again. This time, at least, she doesn't dream.