#Intelligent capture cloud

[rfyu]

you catch sight of him again at the bus terminal - that cute boy from your tutorial last year who you’d almost been foolish enough to think you had a chance with. that was until you’d realised takashi mitsuya was just that nice to everyone - the soft smiles that crinkled up the corners of his pretty eyes, the quiet concern, the witty conversation.

devastating. 

humiliating, even.

the whole day so far has felt like it’s been leading up to something, and you guess this is it. it’s nearing the turning of the seasons, so the sky is heavy and the air thick with the promise of an oncoming storm. the cold metal of the bench brands ice against the back of your legs as you’re pushed into it by the masses of people waiting for their buses - late, as usual - your view entirely blocked by heads and backs and tote bags. so it almost feels like fate - the way the wind picks up, the crowd momentarily shifts, and your eyes land on him. 

your first thought is, damn, he looks exactly the same. all things considering, it’s not the most intelligent thought given it’s only been seven or so months since your breakup - nota bene, the submission of the group project - but he does have a tendency to reduce your neurological function to near-zero levels. and it’s not like you haven’t seen him in the months between; you’ve faithfully watched his stories with a carefully calculated timing that conveys the utmost nonchalance. and though you now know far too much about the food he likes, his design wips, his friends, cats, and motorcycle (a suzuki gsx400fs currently in for repair), you’ve never worked up the courage to text him, to the dismay of your friends who’ve faithfully put in hours of unpaid labour brainstorming the perfect opening lines with you.

but there’s something different about finally seeing him in person again. cameras really don’t do him justice - they don’t capture the way he holds himself with easy confidence, the elegant messiness of his silver-lilac hair in the wind, the calm set of his pale grey-violet eyes. the way he’s always so well put together, in clothes and action and speech. the silhouette of his sharply cut coat, the light glinting off his earring, the way the clouds seem to part and sunlight forms a crown on his head as a choir of angels descend.

bad. this is really bad, because you’re still down bad, and he’s beautiful in the way the moon is - addictive, dominating your sky, impossible to take your eyes off…

at least, that’s until he senses your gaze on him and glances in your direction. you look away so fast you hear something in your neck crack, feigning a casualness you don’t feel at all. 

this is fine.

you’re panicking; heat’s rushing to your face despite the biting cold. you can’t help it - you peek back at him, just for a second, and lord up above but he’s still looking at you. and then he gives you his perfect smile, the soft one with the crinkled eyes and the little tilt of his head, and you have never been more grateful to see your bus pull up in your entire life as the crowd surges forward and cuts off the tenuous connection your extended eye contact had formed between you.

there’s still a few empty rows near the back of the bus that you make a beeline for, slipping into the seat closest to the window and pulling your bag onto your lap. there’s music playing, just barely loud enough to hear over the rumbling of the engine.

if you like piña coladas / and gettin’ caught in the rain …

you’re lucky you got to sit down; at the rate people are pouring through the doors, there’s going to be a lot of people left standing, and is that takashi mitsuya? getting onto your bus, gaze searching for empty seats, gaze finding you? 

it’s disgraceful how unabashedly you suddenly wish that he’ll take the empty spot next to you as he weaves his way in your direction, your entire body tingling with anticipation - but as he moves towards you and then decidedly past you, you mournfully conclude that’s too much to hope for. at the end of the day, you really don’t know each other that well. he probably doesn’t even remember your name.

the thought makes you a lot sadder than it should.

why’s he on this bus? where does he even live? you’ve never thought about it (lie, you have, you’re just not good enough at stalking to find out - though you assumed it was the student accommodations), but surely he doesn’t take this route. surely he doesn’t need to go to the same station as you. surely there’s not another part of your lives that overlap.

it’s only once the bus starts moving and you rest your head on the rattling window pane that you realise he’s sitting right behind you. after some adjusting - with your chin in your hand and your gaze on the gathering darkness outside - you can clearly make out his reflection in the cool glass if you turn your head the slightest bit. 

how does he manage to look so beautiful in a bus window? and at an ordinarily unflattering angle, too? how insane are you for putting this much effort into catching another glimpse of him? (you’ve probably broken the scale of measurement.) but there’s just something about him that makes you weak - that makes your heart flutter and your knees wobble - that makes you stoop down to levels you have never gone to before. 

takashi fricking mitsuya will be the death of you. 

the bus jerks to a stop, banging your forehead against the window hard enough to leave a bruise and unequivocally bringing an end to your humiliating, down-bad behaviours.

that's it. you’re going to suck it up. you’re going to lock in. you’re not going to pine after a boy who you spent two entire tutorials working with, who doesn’t even remember your—

“sorry, do you mind if i sit here?”

you turn, and the bus accelerates in tandem with your heartbeat. 

i’m the love that you’ve looked for / write to me and escape…

“it’s just my other seat’s directly under the air con,” takashi-fricking-mitsuya says pleasantly, “and it’s already cold enough in here.”

your mouth moves automatically before your brain does, giving you a few extra seconds to catch up. “oh, yeah, of course, no worries.”

perfect delivery. chill, friendly. you should turn off your brain more often.

what the hell.

he drops into the seat beside you with far more elegance than any single person should possess. “yn, right? i remember you from last year.”

“yup, yeah, i - remember you as well.”

as if you could forget him. the seats are small; you can feel the warmth of his body, mere inches away from yours. he’s not crazy tall but his legs look insanely long, even folded up - at least next to yours. you need to say something more.

“um, that was a pretty good unit.”

good. great work. you formed a passable sentence. 

he does his smile again, eyes crinkling. “yeah, definitely. you can really feel the difference when the chief coordinator actually wants to be there - there’s so much more thought that goes into its organisation.”

you find yourself smiling back, an automatic reaction whenever you’re around him. “though the first assignment really shouldn’t have been a hurdle.”

“i didn’t mind that so much as the fact it was a quarter of the grade.”

“that’s the thing with humanities units,” you shrug. “you get fewer assignments, but they have much higher weightings. it’s a lot more spread out in science.”

“i’d much rather make one good video essay than have to memorise - i dunno, layers of the stomach - and have to submit five different things every week.”

“shall we agree to disagree, then?” 

“you probably enjoyed memorising the layers of the stomach,” he accuses.

you laugh. “there’s only four, so it’s really not that bad.”

“what’s your major, anyway?” he asks, tilting his head at you; a lock of hair falls into his eyes. “was last year’s unit your elective?”

you’re doing physiology; he’s doing fashion designing. the conversation continues from there - straying from uni, to interests, to a story about one of his childhood friends involving a near-stolen bike and a case of mistaken identity that’s got you cracking up till you can’t breathe. and to your surprise, it’s all so easy. you’d forgotten how well you get along with him. you almost feel stupid for not reaching out earlier, but as usual, you’d gotten too caught up in your head about it all. takashi-fricking-mitsuya, you realise now, would be a great friend.

there’s so much traffic that it’s another forty-five minutes before the bus finally pulls into the station. you grimace as the doors open, sending a biting blast of cold air and sprinkling rain into your face.

“can we just stay here?”

“you want to loop all the way down to the sea?”

it’s enough motivation for you to grudgingly struggle to your feet and swing your bag over your shoulder, body complaining after having been cramped up for so long. you follow takashi across the platform to the steps leading down to a tunnel that cuts across underneath the railway. he’s walking way too fast; it’s his long ass legs, you’re sure of it. it’s raining lightly outside, but the wind rakes the water across your face like shards of ice no matter which way you bow your head.

“you good?”

he’s slowed down to let you catch up - no, he’s walked back to you - despite the buffeting of the wind and the murderous droplets of water. oh, takashi. even though you’re supposedly now ‘chill’ and ��just friends’, your stomach still does a little pirouette.

“i’m good,” you grumble. “just this weather.”

he hums in agreement, walking decidedly slower beside you as you pick your way through the crowd and down the slippery steps to the tunnel. you both breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief as you get out of the rain, brushing off the droplets from your clothes. there’s no opportunity for conversation in the crowded space but you stick close together anyway. you’re half expecting him to turn onto another corridor that leads up towards the train, but he doesn’t.

guess we’re both taking a bus again.

most people have cleared off to the trains by the time you struggle the short distance to the end of the tunnel. you take in the set of stairs soaked in rain, the biting air, and the puddles on the winding pathway up towards the road. 

“well, this is great,” you say. your shoes are going to get soaked.

and then it starts bucketing.

out of nowhere, the skies open up, and rain comes tumbling down like the sky’s reuniting with the earth as a long-lost lover. it’s deafening, and so thick you can barely see through it.

takashi elegantly strings together a set of curse words you’ve never heard in that particular order before. “why did you jinx it?”

“i did not!”

“you don’t happen to have an umbrella, do you?”

you roll your eyes. “no, i’ve just been subjecting myself to this for fun.”

“i dunno - some people enjoy that.”

“you seem to think very lowly of me.”

(“i don’t,” he says quietly.)

you eye the curtain of water plummeting from the heavens. it eyes you back. there’s nothing to it.

“well, i guess we’re just gonna have to go for it,” you say, inhaling sharply.

“huh? no, wait—”

you sprint out from under cover, and the rain hits you like a bucket of ice, instantly sticking your shirt to your skin and chilling you to the bone in a way that snatches the breath from your lungs. you tuck your chin to your chest and power up the stairs, limbs trembling. oh my god, i hate this. i’m gonna get sick. i’m literally going to die.

“wait, wait, wait—” takashi calls from behind you, yelling over the rain, and of all things he’s laughing as he catches up to you - and then suddenly the rain stops.

you look up and halt abruptly, your heart missing several beats. takashi’s shrugged his jacket off and is holding it above your heads; water streams off his hair, down his face and the contours of his body, where his white shirt has obligingly turned transparent and clings to the muscles of his torso. 

“i got you,” he says, voice low next to your ear.

his presence, his proximity, his body heat. you’re going insane. you’re going feral, blood rushing through your head and joining the thundering of the rain. thebonly ‘chill’ thing about this is the weather because it feels like the entirety of your body is alight, drowning in fire, and you have never felt so un-chill about something in your life. every nerve ending, every cell, every atom. you’re poised to implode.

“let’s run,” he offers, and you do.

you don’t know what sets you off - maybe it’s the image of how you must look, him holding the coat above your heads, you with your face scrunched up, heads bowed against the rain as you sprint up the slope - but once you start laughing, neither of you can stop, even when you reach the shelter of the bus stop. you collapse into the side of the stop, struggling to catch your breath. 

“it’s really not that funny,” he gasps.

“it kinda is,” you return - but your laughter dissolves fairly rapidly into coughs as the wind suddenly picks up with a passion. you shiver, arms uselessly wrapping around yourself in an attempt to save your dignity (wet, clinging shirt) and possibly your life (freezing to death).

takashi’s positioned between you and the wind - not by design, you’re sure - but it’s not helping much either way. you shudder again and hunch forward, a stray gust blowing rain into your face. as you blink the water from your eyes, you feel a heavy weight drape over your shoulders.

“takashi, i’m fine—”

“you’re obviously not, so just - don’t,” he says amusedly as he pulls his coat tighter around you, and you try not to think about his hands on you, or the way his scent and warmth envelops you.

he’s focused on adjusting the collar around your neck with careful precision, so you have ample time to study the droplets clinging to his eyelashes, the locks of wet hair falling into his eyes, his flushed cheekbones, the slope of his nose and jut of his chin, his lips—

“when’s the next bus?” you blurt, tearing your gaze away. get it together.

he glances up over your shoulder, leaning forward a bit. “um. twelve minutes.”

“what?” you say, hoping you misheard over the rain. 

“twelve minutes.”

oh, good lord.

“i’m going to die,” you say, horrified. “i can’t survive another twelve minutes in this.”

“doesn’t look like we have a choice,” he says grimly.

there’s a moment of quiet dismay. 

“well!” he says, with an attempt at cheeriness. “since we’re captive here, i might as well bounce off a couple of ideas for that project with you, if you don’t mind.” 

“i’d love that,” you say miserably. 

luckily for you, it’s genuinely interesting. takashi’s not the type to stay silent about things that matter to him - something you were quick to realise after working with him last year - and that extends to what he creates. his current project’s focused on sharp cuts, statement pieces, and blaring, accusing colours - red, green, black, white. 

“political fashion,” he tells you. “clothes that really say something.”

unfortunately for takashi, his professors aren’t too pleased with what he does have to say, and he’s ruffled more than a few feathers in his department. characteristically, it only spurs him on to do more. say more. go bigger. he's sweet, but he doesn't take things lying down either. 

“to be honest, i don't even know if they'll let me submit this one,” he says frankly. “but i'm gonna make a fuss either way.”

it certainly helps that he’s a genius with fabrics and cuts and shape language, and after some convincing, he shows you a few of his finished pieces on his phone as you huddle together, unsuccessfully shielding the screen from the rain. 

“you’re going to go big,” you tell him. “you've already won a few competitions, right? it's only a matter of time before people take notice.”

“i hope so,” he says. “i'm definitely going to do my best.”

you don't doubt him for a second. 

the white noise of rain fills the brief silence between you as another load of people trickle in to join you underneath the meagre protection of the shelter. takashi opens his mouth, closes it; considers you for a moment, head tilted, and then the words rush out.

“y'know, i really think you should model for me sometime.”

“oh, of course,” you say sarcastically, laughing it off, until he holds your gaze for a moment and you realise he’s being serious. dead serious. you've never backtracked so fast in your life. “oh, no, i don't think i'll look good in—”

the words spill out of his mouth, one after the other. “that's literally my job. and you'd probably look good in a trash bag so there's nothing to worry about. i have to work on my fashion photography anyway. might as well be with someone pretty.”

your heart stutters, stops, restarts. you must’ve misheard him over the rain - not one, but two compliments.

“what was - huh?”

his ears are flushed, probably from the cold. “i said, might as well be with someone who works pretty good with me.”

“oh. yeah. i’ll consider it.”

you really shouldn’t be getting your hopes up this easily. pretty? really? (though he undeniably did say you'd look good in a trash bag. surely he was just being polite.)

the rain’s lessened a bit over the course of your conversation, but it decides to pick up again with a vengeance, as if it's got something to prove. you've never been out in weather like this. there's no build up; it's coming down so hard and fast that the road in front of you, completely devoid of the bus that should be here soon, starts looking more like a river. the wind buffets the rain along the surface of the asphalt in wild patterns. 

“this is insane,” takashi yells through the downpour.

you pull a face at him in agreement due to lack of faith in your vocal projection skills, feeling goosebumps settle over your skin despite the weight of takashi's jacket over your shoulders. perhaps you should put your arms through it, but that feels a little pretentious, like you’re taking ownership of it. that’s girlfriend behaviour - something, horrifyingly, you’re not.

the train's arrived and a steady stream of people are adding to the crowd already under the shelter, shaking out their umbrellas uselessly amidst muttered curses. you're not usually fazed this easily - but what with the lurking anxiety of the many minutes left for the bus to arrive, the horrific weather, and the crowd inexplicably crushing you, you're slowly losing it. takashi mouths an apology as someone shoulders past and shoves him backwards, his side knocking into your chest, your back hitting the cold glass of the shelter.

his body. solid against yours. for a moment you're sure you've never felt so warm in your life. but the brief giddiness that courses through you is wholly overshadowed by the tight space you've been cornered into, by no fault of takashi's. the frigid air freezes your airways as you struggle to heave in another breath. it's suffocating. agonising. you need oxygen. 

and then takashi's arm lifts up to rest on the glass above your head, forcibly creating a small bubble of space around you, his body acting as a wall against the rush of people. he's got a small tattoo on his hand. a rose and stem. your eyes follow the neatly inked lines before they disappear out of your line of vision.

you exhale. 

“you okay?” 

when you look up at him you realise your faces are mere inches apart.

you can feel his breath fanning on your face, the warmth radiating from his body, count each droplet of rain on his eyelashes. he seems to realise it at the same moment you do, eyes darting up to yours, but for some reason neither of you move.

step away, you think, but he doesn’t. and you don't. like a strange magnetism is holding you in place, gluing his eyes to yours like he can’t look away either. every nerve ending in your body is firing, locking your knees; you're trembling. that stupid song's rotating just one verse around and around in your head—

and gettin' caught in the rain

you're sure he can hear your heartbeat even over the rain with the way it's thundering in your ears. his body frames yours against the shelter, trails of water dripping from his hair to trace his face, from the rise of his brow to the curve of his cheek to his lips, slightly parted as his breath comes out in uneven puffs—

don't goddamn look at his lips, idiot, but your brain's caught up a moment too late. your face burns as you wrench your gaze back up to his eyes. surely he didn't notice, right? but the look on his face steals the air from your lungs all over again. his pupils are dilated; eyes wide, uncertain as they hold yours, flickering, wanting, but even so it feels inevitable when his gaze unmistakably drops to your lips. oh, god help me. it's taking every ounce of self control to not surge forward and close the gap between you and jump his bones, but it feels like you're barrelling towards that anyway. his face and neck are flushed, eyes hooded. the space between you has shrunk even further; your lips part, his head tilts, your lashes flutter, and the bus pulls up at the stop in a shower of puddles.

“oh,” you say stupidly. “the bus.”

“yeah. the bus.” 

it’s a small comfort that he seems even more dazed than you. he’s just - standing there. in the middle of a late summer storm. staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world. and it’s flattering and your heart is still galloping in your chest and once you get home you’re going to half-believe you hallucinated this entire thing (because there is no fricking way you nearly kissed takashi fricking mitsuya in the rain - what is this, a romcom?) but you really do need to actually get home in the first place.

“i should—”

“the bus,” he says again, and comes to his senses enough to move backwards a little - to drop his arm from above your head and twist his torso away, giving you as much space as he can. “you should get on the bus.”

“i will. i am.” you’re focused on maintaining basic dignity as your arm presses firmly against the warmth of his chest in your attempt to squeeze past him. you’re getting on the bus, and then you’re crashing out. 

you blame the delay on your takashi-induced brain freeze, but it’s only once you’re free of the crowd and one step away from boarding the bus that you realise what’s wrong - he’s not behind you.

you twist around, coat swinging on your shoulders. “you coming?”

“oh, no, i’m taking the train to a friend’s house,” he calls back. you open your mouth to protest but he’s already adding, “the next one’s in two minutes; i’ll be okay.”

he’s taking the train. he’s taking the train? so he was waiting with you this whole time just for you? he chose to be outside in this ghastly weather when he could’ve been halfway home by now?

“any reason why yer floodin’ my bus?” the bus driver barks irritably, and you register the unfortunate fact that you’ve been standing stock still in the doorway like a fool as the rain washes rivlets of mud down the steps around your sodden shoes.

takashi looks a bit too amused as you blunder out an apology and stumble onto the bus, head entirely muddled. there’s barely standing space left, let alone any seats, so you’re resigned to being suffocated between a crush of drenched and irritated people. and it’s only after the bus pulls out of the station - after takashi gives you a smile goodbye before ducking back out into the rain again - after you twist your head to watch his figure receding into the distance until he’s inevitably blocked from your view - that you realise his coat still hangs from your shoulders.

[instagram: (4) messages from mitsuya_tkshi]

takashi :) (19:14) home yet? (19:14) warm? (19:14) dry? (19:14) alive?

you (19:22) what level of double texting is this

takashi :)  (19:22) using simple arithmetic id say prob lvl 2

you you reacted :thumbs-down: to ‘using simple arithmeti…’  (19:23) i got home 10 mins ago, hby?

takashi :)  (19:23) still in train 😟

you  (19:23) free u omg  (19:24) also i just realised i still have ur coat im so sorry i didnt give it back 😭 completely slipped my mind (19:24) i was a bit all over the place

takashi :)  (19:24) dw, me too (19:26) i’ll be on campus tmrw we can get lunch too ☺️

you  (19:30) sounds good!

takashi :) (19:32) !!!!!

you  (19:32) !!!!!!!!!!!!!

takashi :) (19:32) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!@#$z5ty

you (19:32) ???

takashi :) (19:33) ?? who knows. (19:34) see u tmrw then :))  (19:34) and u can get back to me about the modelling too if you’ve thought abt it 

you  (19:35) oh nah there’s not much to think about, i’d love to

takashi :)  (19:35) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

you  (19:35) stop. (19:35) (!!!!!!!!!!!!) 

you stare at the screen for a few moments longer until it becomes clear that the conversation’s over, at least for now. you need a hot shower, and you really need to lock in on a lab report, but there’s only one thing on your mind right now. you put down your phone, bury your face in your hands, and - finally - crash out.

takashi fricking mitsuya might certainly be nice to everyone, but something tells you that a near-kiss in the rain is probably a bit more than just friendly - and not only that, but rather than ignoring you for the rest of the semester, he actually wants to see you tomorrow?

maybe you’re not insane. maybe you weren’t hallucinating. maybe you weren’t reading into things.

maybe you do have a chance.

i've got to meet you by tomorrow noon / and cut through all this red tape / [...] you're the lady i've looked for / come with me and escape

in my head they're very chill at lunch very nonchalant the whole jazz, but things get a lil, y'know, when he offers to show you what you'll be modelling for him...

based entirely on very real occurrences in my life

general taglist open - leave a comment or ask !! @revyuu @fushiguruuzzzz

© rfyu. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my work into ai.

[madaqueue]

FRANKENSTEIN, THE MONSTER

"all-consuming love." who is consumed, and who is loved? shoko loves by knowing, by exploring, by experimenting. and you will always feed her curiosity. you will always let her consume.

pairing: surgeon!shoko x f!reader

themes/content: smut. fingering (reader receiving), knives, blood, shoko is such a freak idek. 18+, MDNI (wk: 1.9k)

a/n: so. this one might just be for me. this is weird and sapphic and nasty and is honestly written for me so. enjoy :)

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Shoko must have opioids in her voice. There’s no other explanation for how she seamlessly relaxes you, quieting your shaking muscles and racing thoughts. Every syllable another drip, drip, drip of morphine straight into your veins.

It makes you feel high, sometimes, to be around her. Just to hear her speak, the razor edge to her voice that could slice through your skin with ease (she has), the way her eyes dig into you as though she can see what lies beneath your flesh (she has).

“You ready, baby?” she hums through the cloth mask obscuring her face. It makes you pout - you want to see her, see her pretty lips and smile and the lines that form along her cheeks. But she just chuckles at you. “You know I have to wear this, it’s for your safety.”

“I know,” you huff. You would cross your arms if they weren’t restrained, outstretched to your sides. “Another precaution, for your safety,” she called it, and you, as always, trusted her judgement.

Shoko is so much smarter than you, you see. She would never say such a thing, but she doesn’t have to - she carries herself with an air of intelligence, the clear lines of her mind cutting into those around her. Always direct, because she doesn’t believe in wasting her time nor anybody else’s; always focused on results, regardless of the price it takes to get them; always harsh, because it’s easier than being soft. So yes, you trust her (you’d be an idiot not to).

“Okay, it’s going to sting for a moment, but then it’ll get better.” Her voice sounds like red wine and cherries. You wonder if she’d taste as sweet.

Just as you think you can nearly feel her on your tongue, every nerve in your body fires.

It burns.

It always burns. You always forget, maybe an after-effect of the other medications she gives you, but fuck does it burn. Every cell in your body is captured by the flames of your devotion, smoke filling the caverns between your bones.

And then, it gets better.

The blazing inferno dulls to embers, prickling at your skin. It’s so warm, the cold air hitting your bare skin barely even there anymore.

Is anything there, anymore?

Your head swirls in that sweet familiar way. Everything is hazy, your vision pulsing with each increasingly slow beat of your heart.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It feels good.

Thump.

You giggle.

“Feeling it, darling?” Shoko coos from above you.

“Mmm,” you hum, and you can tell by the sound you’re smiling.

“Good.” And you think she must be smiling, too.

You bet she has her lipstick on under that mask. You wish you could taste it, the chalky thickness pouring down your throat.

“I’m going to get started now, okay?”

Oh, how you love her voice. Sweet like chocolate. Like dark, dark chocolate. Almost bitter, to someone who didn’t know it. Who couldn’t appreciate the way it melts on your tongue.

“Ookaayyy,” you draw out the vowels. They make little shapes in the air. They’re all red.

Shoko loves red.

Her laugh is red.

Like right now. She’s laughing as she takes a seat between your legs.

“Y’so pretty, Sho,” you slur at the sight of her body hovering below you. She’s blurry, you can’t quite focus on her, just like an angel. If you stare too long, you’ll fall into her. You don’t look away.

“Thank you.” There’s a curl of a grin at the end. “Are you ready?”

“Always ready. Anything f’you, baby.” You giggle again.

She rolls her eyes, making you laugh more. You love her. (She loves you).

The sound of metal clanging draws your clouded attention as she rummages through the tray nearby. When she pulls a scalpel from it, you frown.

“You promised no knives today.”

“I know, darling,” she reassures. Drip. Drip. Drip. “I’m just testing your senses to make sure the medicine worked, okay?”

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Okay,” you smile. Just like that, it’s all better. All your worries swept under the blanket of your dedication. All your fears smoothed by the lines around her eyes.

You’d let her burn you alive if she asked. If it would help her learn. If it would make her happy.

Silently, she returns her gaze to her true purpose - your body. Nimble hands uncap the scalpel, the silver reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead. It’s sharp, you know it’s sharp, you have the scars littered across your body to prove it: a few winding around your legs, some along your abdomen, one large one extending up your chest. When she opens you, you’re never quite sure exactly what she’s looking for; you aren’t sure if she knows, either. But nevertheless, she always stitches you back up. She always puts you back together.

And you love the scars. Shoko loves them, too. Sometimes, you find her tracing her fingers over them in the dark. That’s much gentler than the knife.

So yes, you know the scalpel is sharp, sharper than nails or teeth, and you love when hers scrape along your flesh. Sometimes you wish they’d leave scars in the same way.

It’s odd to watch her lower it to your skin - normally, you’re not awake for this part. You wonder if she always uses this much care with you, her pinky resting along your hip, as though she needed stability. Shoko is the most stable person you know, unshakable to her core. An earthquake could rattle the support beams of her mind and her ideals would never collapse. You love that about her, you love that no matter what, she’ll always be the one left standing.

It’s also odd to see how much you bleed. It’s such a small cut - you didn’t know you had so much blood in you. And yet, gauze after gauze comes up red.

Red. All red. Red insides, red outsides. Blood like cherries.

“Did you feel that?”

You try to shake your head before realizing it’s too heavy. “Nooope.”

“Good,” she hums. Heat tickles the inside of your stomach. You like when she says that. You like being good.

The stool swivels as she scrawls in her notebook nearby.

Patient endorses no sensory response to painful stimuli following administration of analgesics, paralytics, and anesthetics.

She changes her gloves smoothly, snapping each one against her wrist as she draws them over her fingers. Warmth floods your cheeks as you remember the way they feel inside you, her flesh and yours, muscles contracting. You love her hands. They’re rough in all the right ways, burned fingertips and chipped nail polish.

With a calculated inhale, she places the scalpel aside.

If you weren’t as close with her, you’d surely feel further embarrassed by the way she moves to focus her gaze between your legs. But you just feel warm, her eyes dripping in adoration mixed with curiosity. It’s good to be useful.

Her eyes flit to meet yours for the briefest moment, fire crackling behind them. “You’re blushing,” she observes. Always so observant, your Shoko. Seeing everything, feeling some things. It helps her process, you think.

“S’for you.”

Her skin feels cold through the latex as she spreads your folds.

“And you’re wet.”

“That’s f’you, too,” you smile.

That makes her smile, you’re sure of it, the pride blooming in her chest and growing up her neck until it reaches her teeth, blossoming through her lips.

She hums in acknowledgement. Maybe that’s why she wears the mask - so you don’t see the red burning her cheeks.

Her shoulders shift, and you can tell she’s moving, even if you don’t feel it as one slender finger slowly enters you. For this part, she keeps her eyes on you.

“You’re sure you don’t feel that?” she prompts, studying your reaction.

“Don’t feel a thing.” And it’s truer than she could know - you barely feel the table beneath you, the rough straps holding you in place, you aren’t even sure if you feel her presence anymore. But you know it’s there, and that’s enough.

“Hmm.” One eyebrow quirks above the other - she’s thinking. You don’t see her insert a second finger into your aching core. You don’t hear a soft wet sound slowly fill the sterile air as she pumps in and out of you. “What about now?”

With as much determination as you can muster in this state, you try to sense what she’s doing, sending exploratory signals down the nerves of your body, only to be met with warm, warm, warm.

Your eyes flutter as you hum a quiet, “Nothin’.”

You look so sweet when you’re on the verge of sleep, but unfortunately, she can’t let you rest. She can’t risk ruining her experiment, after all.

“Come on, darling, stay with me, okay?”

And she lulls you from one bliss to another, the fountain of unconsciousness to the oasis of her voice. You’d drink from her every time.

“M’here,” you mumble.

She chuckles. She loves you. (You love her).

You still can’t see what she’s doing, but you don’t care. You’d let her do anything to you, to your body, and then you’d let her do it again. You’d let her cut you open and rearrange your insides until it fits her idea of perfection, until her curiosity is satisfied, until her name is carved into your skin.

But whatever she’s doing seems to have your body at attention, your muscles growing taut. The beat of your heart is louder.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

Thump thump thump thump thump.

“Sho,” you moan, “somthin’s happening.”

“I know, love, it’s okay.”

More saccharine morphine. But this time it doesn’t sedate you - it awakens you.

“Sho.”

With a cry of her name, euphoria floods your body. It’s different than before, different than the fluids flowing into your IV. This is uniquely her in some way - it’s familiar in the way her body is. Hot skin and desperate gasps and red lipstick. It’s flames everywhere. It’s warmth. It’s perfect.

Thump thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The erratic raise and fall of your lungs slows as your mind swirls.

Thump.

And Shoko breathes a sigh of awe.

In a moment, she’s pulling off her gloves, tossing them to the side with her mask. You can’t see it, you can’t see her, you can’t see anything, it’s all blurry. You’re underwater, drowning in red. It feels good in your chest.

Her pen drags along the paper:

Patient successfully achieved orgasm through manual stimulation, in spite of lacking sensory input. Confirmed via palpating internal muscle contractions.

Experiment trial 01 concluded.

Status: Success

And then, her focus returns to you.

Lips press to the inside of your thighs, and you can feel it. You shiver.

“You did so good for me,” she hums into your skin. “I didn’t know if you could, but you did. You amaze me.”

You giggle through your haze. “Love you, baby.”

“I love you too.” Another red-lipstick kiss. “My best research subject.”

And you’re warm. So, so warm.

She slowly releases the restraints on your body, rubbing her fingers into your flesh as sensation returns, tingling flames shooting down each sore limb, calmed only by her touch. She’s your antidote, your life support, your medicine. And good girls always take their medicine.

You let her do anything to your body, because ultimately, it’s hers. You let her cut you up because you know, no matter what, she’ll always be there to put you back together.

[piningforstan]

Leave Them

Summary: You’re really impressed with Stan after fighting the zombies. And his brass knuckles.

Pairings: Stanley Pines x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: 18+, this is SMUT, smut without plot, fingering, kind of praise kink, inappropriate use of brass knuckles

A/N: forgive me Father (Alex Hirsch) for I have sinned (wrote smut about Stan Pines)

“You-You saved us.”

The details of Stan’s face sharpened in clarity as he approached, looking wary and handsome as ever. Even in the darkness, you could see his gaze drift over you, examining for any injury. You couldn’t imagined how you looked — you had just been attacked by a horde of townspeople-turned-zombies — but whatever he saw must have sated him. His large hand ghosted your cheek.

“You alright, kid?”

Without permission, you leaned into his touch. You nodded. Ever the genius, you repeated, “You saved us.”

Stan returned a strained smile. “Someone had to. Might as well’ve been me.”

You racked your brain for something more intelligent to say, perhaps a thank you. The remains of fear stilled gripped you, though, along with the image of Stan fighting the undead. You had never seen him in action before. Of course, you’d heard his stories about his past, about boxing, but like everything that Stanford Pines said, you had to take it with a grain of salt.

He wasn’t lying. At least about this.

Watching him had ignited something primal and core-clenching inside you, an ember of desire only fanned more by his close proximity. You decided that words would not be sufficient enough to express your gratitude, instead rocking up on your toes and grabbing Stan by the lapels.

You half expected shock or resistance when you pressed your mouth to his. But, to your relief, there was none of that. Almost as if you had done it a million times before, Stan immediately slipped one hand behind your head and one around your waist. His mouth was equally if not more fervent than your own, consuming you with an abandon that confirmed his feelings for you.

All of the words you wished you could say you poured into that kiss. A silent conversation between both of you, the ebb and flow of a tide, crashing into you with unfettered intensity. It wasn’t long before you needed more. Breath fanning across your face, Stan steered you backwards, cushioning the blow as he cornered you against the wall. A groan escaped you that he seemed determined to capture, replacing his mouth on yours once more — then your neck, your collar, amassing sound after sound from you.

It didn’t take long before you were helping him out of his jacket, tugging at the buttons of his undershirt. Stan kept his hands at your waist, securing you against the wall, against him, moving only to let his jacket slip down his shoulders. They caught on his wrists, the brass knuckles he wore.

Stan swore. “Fuckin’ hell —”

“Leave them,” you said, touching his arm.

Stan paused to peer at you strangely. A blush warmed your face, prompting his to split into a crooked grin. “Leave ’em, eh?”

He promptly maneuvered the jacket off with impressive dexterity, which only made you that much more eager for his touch. Your whole body seemed to sigh as he flicked open your jeans, fingers warm and calloused and wonderful. He shoved your pants down to your thighs then placed his free hand between your legs.

“Oh, doll, you’re killin’ me,” he growled, finger curving upwards almost by reflex at your slickness. Your hips ground into his hand. “Say it again.”

“What?” You breathed, arcing into his palm. He teased your entrance, keeping you from what you really wanted.

“What you said. Before,” he clarified, voice rasping, deeper than usual.

You reached through the haze of desire clouding your brain, panting out, “You saved us. Saved me.”

“That’s right, couldn’t let nothin’ happen to you,” Stan muttered into your neck. One finger buried itself inside you and you cry out in surprise, in pleasure. “You’re mine. My girl.”

Another finger, then a third, stretching you out. Even just the slightest of ministrations has you gasping. He curled his fingers, coaxed out your orgasm, wrist snapping. White light blurred the edges of your vision. Right when you think that you might release, he removed his fingers. You barely have time to protest when he replaced them with something else.

Something cool and distinctly metal.

“Stan.” You grabbed hold of the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Since you like ’em so much,” he grunted in way of reply. He pressed the ridges of the brass knuckles against you, brushed your clit, along the sensitive skin of your thighs.

Already you can feel yourself unraveling, bucking up into the combined feel of his skin and the metal of the brass knuckles. Stan watched you almost obsessively, as if to commit every second of this to memory — his body on yours, your undoubtedly swollen lips, the way you pant out his name with each touch.

Stan is completely in control, releasing and providing more pressure depending on your reaction. You hissed. “Stop—teasing.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

The metal pressed to your clit. You inhaled. His opposite hand reached up to palm your breast, thumb brushing over your raised nipple. It’s almost too much, Stan like this, confident and solid and breathless. Your body bowed to him, pliant like a plant bending towards the sun, desperate for the faintest touch.

“That’s right,” Stan rasped, “Come for me. Let me hear ya.”

Your head fell back. The combination of his heady smell and the cool metal, his knee pushing your legs apart to better access you, pushes you to the edge. He’s there to catch you as you take the plunge, free falling, ecstasy sweeping over you. There’s nothing to anchor you except him — Stan — holding you upright as you shuddered through your climax.

“Never knew they could be used for more than kicking ass,” Stan said with a laugh.

You swatted at him. Hopefully in the dark he couldn’t see you blush. “Shut up.”

Hands curling in his lapels again, you pulled him to you, more than eager to return the favor, when there’s a loud thump from upstairs. The sound made both of you freeze.

“Grunkle Stan? Are they gone?”

It’s Mabel. Shit. You both forgot that the kids had retreated upstairs to hide.

Stan groaned, pinching his nose. There’s a trace of promise in his eyes when he glanced at you, making sure that you’re both buttoned and tidied and separated before the kids shuffled downstairs, eyes widened with fear.

“They’re, uh, all gone. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout,” Stan said. Dipper and Mabel ran across the room to hug him and he bent to one knee to accept it.

Your heart fluttered with happiness. You’re alive, and more important the kids are alive. And Stan returned your feelings.

Never one to linger too long in sentiment, Stan started ordering the twins to start clean-up. You’re watching the entire thing unfold when he caught your eye and darted his tongue over the brass knuckles before removing them and tucking them into his suit pocket.

Oh, you’re definitely returning the favor.

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Yokai Harem Character Guide

Introducing some of the characters Reader will encounter throughout the story. Get to know your monsters in this handy reference booklet!

Fun fact: The names of the characters are quite literally chapters from ‘The Tale of Genji’, one of the earliest existing novels written in the Heian period by noblewoman Murasaki Shibiku. Kiritsubo and Murasaki are your closest companions and bear the names of the main female characters of the story. (They’re men. A little irony.)

The list will be updated as more characters are revealed:

Abe no Nakamaro 阿倍 仲麻呂

Descendant of famous onmyōji Abe no Seimei, Nakamaro rapidly built his own reputation using the powers of yokai he'd captured across the country. His binding powers have yet to be deciphered. It is believed only his own blood can break the contract forged with the legendary beasts.

Known for his ruthlessness, Nakamaro was feared by humans and demons alike. His commissioned portraits often depict him surrounded by dark clouds - a signature detail - emphasizing his evil nature.

As you progress through your journey, you will be plagued by many flashbacks of his cruel deeds. It's almost as if your own hands are tainted by the blood of the yokai standing before you. You vow to free the beasts and prove you are nothing like the vile creature dwelling within your soul.

Kiritsubo 桐壺

The first yokai you encounter. Despite his intimidating appearance, he is the kindest of the group. He is tall and very muscular, with short, straight horns, long silver hair and glowing amber eyes. When he smiles you can spot his sharp, prominent fangs. He has multiple scars on his back, reminiscent of old punishments.

He is a dragon spirit, although his true powers remain unknown. Nakamaro always kept him close and was particularly strict with him, hoping to unlock his dormant potential, to no avail. He begins to show improvement once he embarks on his journey with you. It seems that his desire to protect his new owner was the secret all along.

Kiritsubo is extremely clingy once he gets to know you better. You're kind and patient and nothing like the famous onmyōji before you. He almost can't believe you're part of his reincarnation. He will follow you around everywhere, like a loyal dog, and might be overly touchy sometimes. He can't help it.

Murasaki 紫

Murasaki is the second yokai you meet. He is tall and slender, with long black hair and imposing horns. His deep crimson eyes hold a lot of resentment towards you, or rather whoever lies within you. Despite this, he always holds a disciplined posture and acts very well-mannered.

He used to be Nakamaro's right hand. He is considered to be the most skilled among the legendary yokai. A master of the sword and possessing unmatched intelligence, he served both as an advisor and bodyguard. Always cold and calculated, he rarely shows any hint of emotion. He seems to be quite sarcastic and arrogant.

He doesn't interact much with you in the beginning. In fact, he's most annoyed by the idea of partnering up with a weak human like you. He offers to train you with the sword and teaches you spells and prayers. Despite his complaints, he always protects you from any danger. As you spend more time together, he slowly opens up and might even show signs of attachment.

Suma 須磨

Suma is the biggest of the legendary yokai, towering over everyone with his gargantuan frame. He has bright red hair and large bull horns, with robust features and fierce eyes. He has many tattoos covering his body, going all the way up to his chin.

Suma is a worshipped guardian of war. He lives for battle and is said to reward bravery and courage. Despite this, he has a very approachable personality. He is loud and easygoing, rarely showing signs of distress. He uses a spear when fighting, although he prefers his bare hands. Brute strength is his specialty.

He finds it hilarious that the feared Abe no Nakamaro has been reincarnated into a small girl. He will often joke around with you and challenge you to playfights. When borrowing his powers, you are able to display impressive feats of physical strength. He likes watching you fight and encourages you to train.

Yuugiri 夕霧

Yuugiri is a mysterious yokai. He is pale with rather feminine features, appearing androgynous. He is very elegant and well spoken, although both Kiritsubo and Murasaki have warned you to be wary of him.

He is a serpent spirit, sly and manipulative. He is known for tricking humans and devouring their souls, yet very few can tell his true nature. He is incredibly charismatic and many people fall in love with him, meeting their early demise.

You cannot read him and therefore keep your distance. His twisted smile never leaves his face. He is very interested in you and while his reasoning might be superficial in the beginning, he does become rather attached and tries to prove his honest feelings to you.

Warning: Spoilers ahead!

Sekiya 関屋

One of the yokai that has remained by Abe no Nakamaro's side, in his resting tomb. He is the one that kept his presence concealed, casting a barrier around the temple for the entirety of his master's slumber.

His main power is casting barriers. Sekiya is the one that guards the entrance and guides you towards the onmyōji for your battle. Once you defeat Nakamaro, he joins your group.

He is very reserved, shy and insecure. He cannot fight properly and often bemoans his lack of purpose. Like Kiritsubo, he falls in love with your kind nature and clings to you, hoping to be of use.

Sakaki 榊

The other yokai to guard Nakamaro's tomb, Sakaki has been tasked to keep his master alive.

He has the ability to heal and even revive under certain circumstances. After your fight against Abe no Nakamaro, he offers to heal your fatal wounds and joins your group.

Sakaki is rather gloomy and depressed by nature. He has an unhealthy obsession with death and often makes grim or unusual remarks. He considers you his muse and will sometimes write unsettling poetry dedicated to you.

[cokou]

REDDIT POST

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞꒰➳precis. What Stone Ocean characters post about you on reddit.·˚ ·˚ ͟͟ tw. ehh, fluff I think? :3·˚ ·˚ ͟͟ ✉ an. i REALLYYY wanted to resume my reddit series, so i'd like to continue it on a diff fandom! Ermes' part is REALLY long LMAO.·˚ ༘₊· ·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞꒰ contains. Jolyne, Foo Fighters, Ermes, Weather Report, & Anasui·˚ ༘₊·

r/girlfriends Greenjolyne

Hi reddit, IT'S MY GIRLS BDAY, what the fuck should I get her?

I know what she likes, her favorite food, and any of the other things that are her forte. But the thing is, IT DOESNT FEEL ENOUGH!!!! what the hell should I add? I only want the best for her and I don't know what I should get her, it's currently 12:08 AM rn, I ALREADY wished her a happy birthday and she's offline. I wanted to take her out to a restaurant but it doesn't seem enough at all [crying GIF]

⬆︎ 809 ⬇︎ 19 💬comment ➦share

ghostlyporio 2h You should get her something that makes her happy :) | Greenjolyne 2h I DONT KNOW WHAT MAKES HER HAPPY!! yn.user 1h anything makes me happy jolyne :) | Greenjolyne 1h HOW DID YOU GET HERE??? 😥

r/water ilovewater.ff

(Photo of half emptied water)

Dont you guys just love water? It makes me angry when I see people wasting their water just for fun! 🤬 They make me wanna kill them! Water is so precious dont they know?!?!? @yn.user you would protect water with me right!?

⬆︎ 102 ⬇︎ 301 💬comment ➦share

weatherrep 6h Couldn't agree more i guess? | ilovewater.ff 4h THANK YOU!!! yn.user 5h FF please put the phone down 😭😭 | ilovewater.ff 3h No! I love promoting water equality🙂😚 miramira 1h or you could mind your own business. | ilovewater.ff 37m how dare you threaten water!

r/galpal smack.ermes

I'm honestly new here, i wanna rant about my girl because shes so pretty.

Oh my goodness, where do I even begin? To describe the beauty of my girlfriend feels like trying to capture the infinite vastness of the ocean with a single drop of water. She’s beyond what words can express, but I’m going to try, because she deserves all the praise and admiration in the world, even if no combination of adjectives or metaphors can do her justice.

Let’s start with her smile. Her smile isn’t just a facial expression, it’s a force of nature. It’s like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky, or the first breath of fresh air after a storm. The way her lips curve upward—gently, yet with an undeniable warmth lights up everything around her, like a beacon in the dark. Every time she smiles at me, it feels like the entire universe pauses for just a moment, giving me the privilege of basking in that perfect, radiant glow. It’s a smile that has the power to melt the hardest of hearts, to soften the edges of even the most difficult days. I could spend forever just lost in the wonder of it.

And then there are her eyes. Oh, her eyes… they’re the most captivating thing I’ve ever seen. They’re deep, like pools of mystery that draw me in with every glance. The color shifts in different lighting—sometimes they’re a stormy grey, like clouds just before rain, and at other times, they’re a brilliant shade of green, sparkling with mischief and warmth. When she looks at me, it’s as if she sees straight through to my soul, but with so much kindness and understanding that it never feels invasive, only comforting. Her eyes, with all their beauty, hold a depth of emotion and intelligence that leaves me in awe. They can be playful one moment, intense the next, and every expression in them tells a story that I’m eager to be a part of.

⬆︎ 19.7k ⬇︎ 10 💬comment ➦share

yn.user 23h MY BABY!! you are the sweetest i love you so much!! this is so adorable i can cry to sleep 😭😭 | smack.ermes 22h HOW DID YOU FIND MY ACCOUNT? THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING | yn.user 22h No it's not, it's so cute i love you so much Ermes !! (Liked by smack.ermes) GreenJolyne 20h I figured you'd be here after I saw you on your phone for 30 minutes straight just typing. (COMMENT WARNING) | smack.ermes 19h blocked.

r/adventures weatherrep

(picture of the sky)

It's pretty nice to go out and drive around with you. @yn.user

⬆︎ 675 ⬇︎ 1 💬comment ➦share

yn.user 9h I enjoyed the view weather :) it's really cute, i also had lots and lots of pictures of us! i'm posting it >v< | weatherrep 8h i'm happy that you liked it. | yn.user 8h Next time i'm the one who's bringing you to dates! (Liked by weatherrep) Imsexy.ana 7h FUCK YOU TWO, YOU MADE ME A THIRD WHEEL AND A DRIVER?!?! HOW ABSURD! IM GONNA KILL YOU WEATHER. (COMMENT WARNING) | weatherrep 6h i hope you enjoyed the ride aswell.

r/girlfriends Imsexy.ana

My girlfriend is beautiful inside and out. Her smile lights up the room, and her eyes carry a depth that captivates me. Her hair flows effortlessly, adding to her natural grace. But it’s her kindness, empathy, and warmth that truly make her remarkable. She has a way of making everyone feel valued, and her love brings peace and joy to those around her. Her beauty isn’t just in how she looks, but in the way she makes the world feel brighter.

⬆︎ 10.7k ⬇︎ 263 💬comment ➦share

yn.user 38m Is this your way of saying sorry to ME? | Imsexy.ana 37m Of course, i'm sorry. Please open the house door, it's getting cold out here. | yn.user 35m Fine, but say sorry to my face. | Imsexy.ana 34m WILL DO, thanks for letting me in. weatherrep 1h Shouldn't of let him in. | Imsexy.ana 37m FUCK YOU WEATHER YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. (COMMENT WARNING)

·˚ ͟͟ ✉ an. HEHE, i hope you guys enjoyed LMAO. First updating after 3 months again lolsz:>

©Cokou 2024, all works belong to me.

[fulcrum-fan8018]

I always found Kleya to be one of the most interesting Andor characters. She was always cold and calculating, composed in a way that even Luthen could sometimes not be. Even when he was starting to crack at the seams, she was there to remind him of what was truly important in the fight, and I found that to be such an interesting dynamic since she was clearly younger than him, and he WAS Axis whereas she only served as his right-hand man. In some ways, she was even more ready to sacrifice her morality than he was. And that kind of cold fire isn't something you see in a lot of protagonist characters; it's a far cry from the heart of gold, Luke Skywalker-esque brand of hero that's usually seen in star wars. And I think that's what always drew me in about her character. She clearly cared about what was right. You don't put your life on the line for the rebellion, living right in the middle of the vipers nest, without that kind of empathy. But she was also so unflinching about doing what was right for the greater good, no matter how much blood it put on her hands. She gave herself no room for her own humanity, and because of it, she excelled at being who she needed to be. Not once did the mask slip. No matter how dire the situation, how personal the stakes, how devastating the choice, she remained in control. Not once did she allow her emotions to cloud her judgment. It made her dependable in a way that even Luthen was not. It's a kind of strength of character that almost seems contradictory at times, even though it makes so much sense in the context that Andor laid out.

Which is what made it so heartbreaking to see her mission to kill Luthen. She was still that same calculating woman who burned with a cold fire, but this time, the pawn she was sacrificing for the rebellion was Luthen. It wasn't some random imperial spy. It wasn't a rebel cell that found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was the man she had spent the last ten, fifteen years fighting with. The show leaves some ambiguity about their relationship, but whether he was more of a friend or an ally or a father doesn't matter. He was still the only one who would know the depths of the conflict they had thrown themselves into. They willingly crawled into a hell that anyone else would struggle to understand, but through it all, they still had each other. But now he was captured. They had run out of luck, out of chances. The Empire knew his face and knew how much information he would have about the rebellion. Kleya knew that they would stop at nothing to gain it. And if Luthen spoke, their only chance to warn the galaxy about the Death Star would vanish. And, as pragmatic and intelligent as she was, she knew she couldn't risk trying to save his life. She knew what would happen if Dedra got her hands on him, and she knew the only possible way to stop it.

So she did it. She separated herself from the moment and she used her skills- some of which Luthen may have taught her himself- to sneak into that hospital to end his life. The mask didn't crack. She remained in control. She remained the same Kleya she had always been, the one unflinching in the face of pain or loss, willing to do whatever was necessary to ensure the survival of the rebellion. It couldn't matter to her that this was Luthen she was killing. She couldn't allow it. Because if the mask cracked then, if she allowed her humanity to rear its head, if she let herself be driven by the wild call of despair into believing, against all odds, that she could save his life, they would lose. And Kleya couldn't let that happen. And maybe she called fate cruel for giving her the task to end his life when it could have been given to anyone else. Maybe she cursed it for daring to believe that she would be able to do such a thing, sacrificing until the end. Maybe she cursed it because it was right. She would do it. If it was necessary, she wouldn't hesitate.

And she did do it. She finished the job. And it is only then, in the moments after she did the necessary thing and Luthen dies, in the moments where Kleya desperately tries to make sure that his sacrifice isn't in vain, that she finally cracks.

Man, my heart breaks for her.

[bestanimal]

Round 2 - Mollusca - Cephalopoda

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

The class Cephalopoda includes the orders Nautilida (Nautiluses), Vampyromorphida (Vampire Squid), Octopoda (Octopuses), Myopsida (Coastal Squids), Oegopsida (Neritic Squids), Bathyteuthida (Bathyteuthid Squids), Idiosepida (Pygmy Squids), Sepiolida (Bobtail Squids), Spirulida (Ram's Horn Squid), and Sepiida (Cuttlefish).

Cephalopods are exclusively marine animals characterized by bilateral body symmetry, a prominent head, and a set of arms or tentacles modified from the more primitive molluscan foot. They are split into two subclasses: the more primitive Nautiloids (represented today by the genera Nautilus and Allonautilus), and the Coleoids (everything else.) Nautiloids retain their external molluscan shell, while coleoids either have an internal shell or have lost it secondarily. Cephalopods are widely regarded as the most intelligent invertebrates and have well-developed senses, large brains, and a complex nervous system. Their brain is protected by a cartilaginous cranium. Nautiloids do not have good vision, and likely perceive their world more through a sense of smell. However, even though coleoid eyes lack a cornea and have an everted retina, they have very acute vision, akin to that of sharks. They can detect polarized light, but most cephalopods are color blind. Despite their color blindness, coleoids are known as masters of disguise, changing color, shape, and texture in milliseconds, and also using colors, patterns, and flashing to communicate with each other! They do this through nervous control of their chromatophores, as well as cells such as iridophores and leucophores reflecting light from the environment. Some squids can even send one message via color patterns to a squid on their right, while they send another message to a squid on their left, splitting their color pattern lengthwise down their body. They may do this by sensing light levels directly through their skin, rather than their eyes, utilizing photosensitive molecules called opsins. They may also be able to utilize chromatic aberration through their oddly shaped pupils.

Cephalopods exchange gases with seawater by forcing water through their internal gills. Water enters the mantle cavity on the outside of the gills, and the entrance of the mantle cavity closes. When the mantle contracts, water is forced through the gills, which lie between the mantle cavity and the funnel. The water's expulsion through the funnel can be used to power jet propulsion. Most cephalopods move via jet propulsion, though this is a very energy-consuming way of travel. Squids, due to their shape and stiff mantles, are able to travel long distances, while octopuses tend to travel slowly along the seafloor relying more on their arms to pull them from place to place. Aside from nautiloids and some octopuses, all known cephalopods have an ink sac, which can be used to expel a cloud of dark ink to confuse predators. The inksac is an extension of the hindgut, opening into the anus, from which the ink can be squirted into the path of the animal’s funnel, allowing the ink to eject further with jet propulsion. This ink is almost pure melanin, which is mixed with mucus upon expulsion, resulting in visual (and possibly chemosensory) impairment of the predator, like a smokescreen. Some cephalopods even release a cloud with greater mucus content so that the ink takes the shape of the cephalopod, while the real one jets away!

Cephalopods hunt via grabbing food with their arms or tentacles, drawing it in to their two-part beak. Most have a radula within their beak. They have a mixture of toxic digestive juices, some of which are supplied by symbiotic algae, which they eject from their salivary glands onto the captured prey. These juices separate the flesh of their prey from the bone or shell. The salivary gland has a small tooth at its end which can be poked into an organism to digest it from within. Cephalopods can be found in all of Earth’s oceans, at all depths, even found within oceanic trenches, though they are most diverse near the equator.

Cephalopods evolved in the Late Cambrian, with the more primitive nautiloids dominating the Ordovician seas, and the more modern coleoids arising in the Lower Devonian. Many groups of cephalopods have been lost to time and are famous for their fossils, including the Ammonoids and Belemnoids. The living Chambered Nautilus (Nautilus pompilius) is also known from Early Pleistocene fossils.

Propaganda under the cut:

The study of cephalopods is called teuthology.

Though superficially similar, ammonoids were more closely related to living coleoids than they were to the shelled nautiloids!

The smallest living cephalopod is the 10mm (0.3 in) long Thai Pygmy Squid (Idiosepius thailandicus).

The largest living cephalopod, and largest living invertebrate is the 700 kilogram (1,500 lb) Colossal Squid (Mesonychoteuthis hamiltoni).

The Atlantic Brief Squid (Lolliguncula brevis) is the only cephalopod known to tolerate brackish water, venturing into the Chesapeake Bay.

Captive octopuses have been known to climb out of their tanks, maneuver across the floor, enter another aquarium to feed on captive crabs, and then return to their own aquarium before their keepers return.

Captive octopuses have also been known to recognize, respond positively to, and even play with their keepers.

The Firefly Squid (Watasenia scintillans) is one of the only cephalopods known to have color vision.

Some cephalopods are able to fly through the air for distances of up to 50 metres (160 ft)! They can achieve these ranges by jet-propulsion, squirting water from their funnel even while in the air. They then spread their fins and tentacles to form wings and actively control lift force with their body posture. The Japanese Flying Squid (Todarodes pacificus) has been observed spreading its tentacles in a flat fan shape and utilizing a mucus film between the individual tentacles. The Caribbean Reef Squid (Sepioteuthis sepioidea) has been observed spreading its tentacles out in a circle to guide its flight. This behavior is presumably for avoiding predators and/or for saving energy during migrations.

Humboldt Squid (Dosidicus gigas) are large, agile pack hunters, flashing red and white to communicate with each other and coordinate attacks on shoals of fish. They are particularly known for being aggressive towards humans, though this aggression may be well founded, as they are the most popular squids to be hunted for food, with around 10 million killed every year. In circumstances where these animals are not feeding or being hunted, they usually exhibit curious and intelligent behavior.

The Vampire Squid (Vampyroteuthis infernalis) is the only living species in the order Vampyromorphida. Despite its name, it is closer related to octopuses. Living in the deep sea, they are small, 30 cm (1 ft) long, and range from jet black to pale red, have spiked arms connected by a webbing of skin, and have the largest proportional eyes in the animal kingdom at 2.5 cm (1 in) in diameter. It is the only cephalopod able to live its entire life cycle in the minimum zone, at oxygen saturations as low as 3%. They lack ink sacs, instead releasing a sticky cloud of bioluminescent mucus containing orbs of blue light from their arm tips. Despite their scary name, spooky appearance, and dazzling wizard spells, these animals mainly feed on detritus as it floats down to the depths.

The genus Hapalochlaena (Blue-ringed Octopuses) consists of four extremely venomous species of octopus that are found in tide pools and coral reefs in the Pacific and Indian oceans, from Japan to Australia. Despite their small size (12 to 20 cm [5 to 8 in]) they carry enough neurotoxic venom to kill 26 adult humans within minutes. The venom can result in nausea, respiratory arrest, heart failure, severe and sometimes total paralysis, blindness, and can lead to death within minutes if not treated. Death is usually from suffocation due to paralysis of the diaphragm. Despite this, blue-ringed octopuses are relatively docile and will only bite if actively harassed, instead choosing to flee or display their warning colors: bright yellow with blue flashing rings. Very few deaths have been recorded.

[animeficsworld]

Where the Heart Should Be

Ulquiorra x Reader

Summary: You’re a human artist captured by Aizen and kept in Las Noches to paint what you see. Ulquiorra is assigned to watch over you.

⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

The light in Las Noches never changed.

It was always cold, always pale. A hollow, artificial sky stretched across the ceiling of the world Aizen had built, and under it, you painted.

You didn’t know why he kept you, just that he had found you in the human world, brush in hand, painting the clouds.

And perhaps he thought it funny to keep a human like a pet. Or perhaps he liked the way you stared at beauty with something like reverence. Or possibly it was his ego, needing him to put his achievements on canvas.

But it wasn’t Aizen who stood in your doorway each day.

It was Ulquiorra.

Silent, unmoving, with eyes the colour of sea glass and a gaze so hollow it made your chest ache. He never spoke more than a word or two. He never stepped further into your room than necessary.

Until the day he did.

You had dropped your brush — a simple thing — and when you bent to pick it up, a paper fluttered to the floor. A drawing. Of him.

His hand caught it before it landed.

You froze.

He studied it quietly, eyes flickering across the lines of his face as you had imagined it — softer, almost thoughtful, captured in pencil and charcoal.

“You drew me,” he said, as if naming a foreign concept.

You swallowed. “I draw what I see.”

He was silent for a long time.

Then, to your surprise, he stepped into the room and handed it back.

“This isn’t how I look,” he said.

Your heart dropped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“I didn’t say I disliked it.”

You looked up. His expression hadn’t changed, but something had shifted in the air.

“I don’t understand why you do it,” he murmured. “This art. These… emotions. You feel so much.”

“I’d go mad if I didn’t,” you admitted. “It’s how I make sense of the world.”

“And what sense do you make of me?”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You're empty,” you said softly. “But not lost.”

He didn’t move. But his gaze—sharp and intelligent—narrowed.

You continued. “There’s something in you that watches. That wonders. Even if you don’t understand the answer.”

He stood there, still as a statue, until at last he spoke again.

“May I sit?”

It shocked you more than anything he had ever said.

You nodded.

That was the first night he stayed. Watching you paint. Asking questions that didn’t sound like questions. Letting your voice fill the silence between them.

And in the nights that followed, something in him began to change.

He brought you things without being asked — a better brush. A fresh cloth. Once, a stone from the desert that he claimed “looked like something you’d like.”

You called it a heartstone. He kept it.

And one day, he reached out and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers — barely a graze, a ghost of a touch. But it stole the breath from your lungs.

“I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “But when I look at you… I wonder if I could.”

You covered his hand with yours.

“You don’t have to understand it,” you said gently. “You just have to feel it.”

And he did.

For the first time in his second life, he felt something warm where his heart should have been.

Where the Heart Should Be

Ulquiorra x Reader

Summary: You’re a human artist captured by Aizen and kept in Las Noches to paint what you see. Ulquiorra is assigned to watch over you.

The light in Las Noches never changed.

It was always cold, always pale. A hollow, artificial sky stretched across the ceiling of the world Aizen had built, and under it, you painted.

You didn’t know why he kept you, just that he had found you in the human world, brush in hand, painting the clouds.

And perhaps he thought it funny to keep a human like a pet. Or perhaps he liked the way you stared at beauty with something like reverence. Or possibly it was his ego, needing him to put his achievements on canvas.

But it wasn’t Aizen who stood in your doorway each day.

It was Ulquiorra.

Silent, unmoving, with eyes the colour of sea glass and a gaze so hollow it made your chest ache. He never spoke more than a word or two. He never stepped further into your room than necessary.

Until the day he did.

You had dropped your brush — a simple thing — and when you bent to pick it up, a paper fluttered to the floor. A drawing. Of him.

His hand caught it before it landed.

You froze.

He studied it quietly, eyes flickering across the lines of his face as you had imagined it — softer, almost thoughtful, captured in pencil and charcoal.

“You drew me,” he said, as if naming a foreign concept.

You swallowed. “I draw what I see.”

He was silent for a long time.

Then, to your surprise, he stepped into the room and handed it back.

“This isn’t how I look,” he said.

Your heart dropped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“I didn’t say I disliked it.”

You looked up. His expression hadn’t changed, but something had shifted in the air.

“I don’t understand why you do it,” he murmured. “This art. These… emotions. You feel so much.”

“I’d go mad if I didn’t,” you admitted. “It’s how I make sense of the world.”

“And what sense do you make of me?”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You're empty,” you said softly. “But not lost.”

He didn’t move. But his gaze—sharp and intelligent—narrowed.

You continued. “There’s something in you that watches. That wonders. Even if you don’t understand the answer.”

He stood there, still as a statue, until at last he spoke again.

“May I sit?”

It shocked you more than anything he had ever said.

You nodded.

That was the first night he stayed. Watching you paint. Asking questions that didn’t sound like questions. Letting your voice fill the silence between them.

And in the nights that followed, something in him began to change.

He brought you things without being asked — a better brush. A fresh cloth. Once, a stone from the desert that he claimed “looked like something you’d like.”

You called it a heartstone. He kept it.

And one day, he reached out and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers — barely a graze, a ghost of a touch. But it stole the breath from your lungs.

“I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “But when I look at you… I wonder if I could.”

You covered his hand with yours.

“You don’t have to understand it,” you said gently. “You just have to feel it.”

And he did.

For the first time in his second life, he felt something warm where his heart should have been.

Where the Heart Should Be

Ulquiorra x Reader

Summary: You’re a human artist captured by Aizen and kept in Las Noches to paint what you see. Ulquiorra is assigned to watch over you.

The light in Las Noches never changed.

It was always cold, always pale. A hollow, artificial sky stretched across the ceiling of the world Aizen had built, and under it, you painted.

You didn’t know why he kept you, just that he had found you in the human world, brush in hand, painting the clouds.

And perhaps he thought it funny to keep a human like a pet. Or perhaps he liked the way you stared at beauty with something like reverence. Or possibly it was his ego, needing him to put his achievements on canvas.

But it wasn’t Aizen who stood in your doorway each day.

It was Ulquiorra.

Silent, unmoving, with eyes the colour of sea glass and a gaze so hollow it made your chest ache. He never spoke more than a word or two. He never stepped further into your room than necessary.

Until the day he did.

You had dropped your brush — a simple thing — and when you bent to pick it up, a paper fluttered to the floor. A drawing. Of him.

His hand caught it before it landed.

You froze.

He studied it quietly, eyes flickering across the lines of his face as you had imagined it — softer, almost thoughtful, captured in pencil and charcoal.

“You drew me,” he said, as if naming a foreign concept.

You swallowed. “I draw what I see.”

He was silent for a long time.

Then, to your surprise, he stepped into the room and handed it back.

“This isn’t how I look,” he said.

Your heart dropped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“I didn’t say I disliked it.”

You looked up. His expression hadn’t changed, but something had shifted in the air.

“I don’t understand why you do it,” he murmured. “This art. These… emotions. You feel so much.”

“I’d go mad if I didn’t,” you admitted. “It’s how I make sense of the world.”

“And what sense do you make of me?”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You're empty,” you said softly. “But not lost.”

He didn’t move. But his gaze—sharp and intelligent—narrowed.

You continued. “There’s something in you that watches. That wonders. Even if you don’t understand the answer.”

He stood there, still as a statue, until at last he spoke again.

“May I sit?”

It shocked you more than anything he had ever said.

You nodded.

That was the first night he stayed. Watching you paint. Asking questions that didn’t sound like questions. Letting your voice fill the silence between them.

And in the nights that followed, something in him began to change.

He brought you things without being asked — a better brush. A fresh cloth. Once, a stone from the desert that he claimed “looked like something you’d like.”

You called it a heartstone. He kept it.

And one day, he reached out and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers — barely a graze, a ghost of a touch. But it stole the breath from your lungs.

“I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “But when I look at you… I wonder if I could.”

You covered his hand with yours.

“You don’t have to understand it,” you said gently. “You just have to feel it.”

And he did.

For the first time in his second life, he felt something warm where his heart should have been.

⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

[rancidpancakebatter]

Picnics at Sunset - [L Lawliet]

Pairings: L (Death Note) x Female!Reader

Summary: You knew that You cared for Ryusaki very much. You knew you trusted him with your life, and you always felt better when he was around. You knew that you desired his attention and approval more than anyone else’s. You knew that he was beautiful and kind. But you didn’t know if he felt any of those things about you. You didn’t know what those things meant. Or rather, you feared what they could mean, and what that would do to the both of you.

Word Count: 14k words

Content: Swearing, Mentions of death, nudity?, friends to lovers, first kiss, Use of Celcius, touch of angst (it's death Note, come on), Sappy thoughts of love

( Masterlist )

A/N: I have so much to say, but I'll try to keep it brief. I'm sorry this is so long, but so much of this show cuts to long internal dialogues within a conversation, and I tried to capture that. I think I did well, but it is a little long-winded. I don't know if I'll do a lot of writing for this character, but he got stuck in my head recently, and this was the only way I knew to let him go.

You sat at your desk, the computer screen you had been staring at for the past three hours was beginning to hurt your head. You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your eyes; then silently cursing as you felt your mascara smear against the pads of your fingers. You needed a break and something other than a slice of cake in your stomach. You looked to your right out of habit, ready to tell your friend that you were taking a break and he should do the same, but his chair was empty.

You looked around the room.

“He stepped outside,” a voice said.

Behind you was Matsuda. You jumped when he spoke, not realising he was there, and he apologised for startling you.

“Yeah, we should get you a bell,” you suggested.

“Yeah, maybe so.” Matsuda laughed. “You know, if you want to bounce ideas off of someone, you can talk to me. I know I can’t come close to Ryusaki’s intelligence, but I’d like to think I have something to offer.”

“It’s okay,” you reassured. “I didn’t really need anything from him, just wanted to see what he was up to.”

“Well, I think he just needed some space to think. You know how he is.” 

“That I do,” You agreed, “And I know If he wants to be alone, he’ll have no problem telling me himself.” 

Matsuda laughed again, “I’m sure you’re right. But I have a feeling he won’t shoo you away. He has a soft spot for you.”

Just the idea of L turning you away had you put out. You crossed your arms, turning away with a huff. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

You heard Matsuda chuckling behind you, wishing you luck. 

You marched up the stairs, down the hall, and got in the elevator, heading for the roof. As you made your way, you couldn’t help but admire the walls around you. The building L designed was quite impressive. You greatly enjoyed the glass elevator, preferring it over any others. Once you passed the tenth floor, the city could be seen. You were usually greeted by blinding sun and clear blue skies, but today, the sky was an enchanting apricot colour, blanketed by thick pink clouds heavy with rain. The sun was peaking from behind the silver buildings as if waiting to see you before finally saying goodbye. You waved to the people below, wishing them well on their oblivious wayfaring. 

Soon you reached the top floor, and you pushed open the door to get to the roof access. The door to the roof was already opened, so you called out.

“Ryusaki! You out there?”

You were greeted by silence and tried again.

“I’m alone!”

Only then did you get a reply, “Did you bring any food?”

You chuckled, stepping out onto the roof. “No, I’m sorry.”

L stood out in the open, basking in the fading light and staring at the sky, unbothered by the cold air blowing. He was slouched over and hands firmly in his pockets. He turned his head to you, and the vibrant sky poured over his pale skin, drenching the soft canvas in the colours of monarchs and sunflowers. The light danced around his prominent eyes, flames in a ring of stone. His lips looked kissed by a dreamsicle. You looked away, finding your way back to reality. 

“Did you want me to go back and get something?” You offered, throwing your thumb back towards the door. 

“No,” He said, turning back to the sun, “Watari should be up soon.”

Before you could question, you heard the door open and close and the clinking sound of plates as they made their way up the stairs. 

“Hello, dear,” The old man greeted with a smile. 

He carried a tray with a full tea set in one hand and a wicker basket in the other, with a blanket draped across his arm. You watched as he laid it out on the ground, pulling plates and silverware from the basket along with a candelabra. Ryuga settled himself as Watari lit the candles, then gestured for you to do the same. The only clear spot to sit was right beside him, and you took it as gracefully as possible. 

“I have brought sandwiches and various tea cakes,” Watari explained, “along with Keemun Mao Feng tea and honey. I hope you enjoy.”

You both thanked him and he left, closing the roof exit behind him. L sat, perching next to you, watching as you admired the display. 

“It’s all my favourites,” You observed. “Why did you ask him to bring this?”

His thumb came to rest on his lip, gauging your reaction. 

“I knew you would be getting hungry soon. I told Watari to bring some acceptable food if you didn’t grab any on your way up.”

You furrowed your brows in innocent confusion, “How did you know I’d come?”

His head turned away and you notice his feet shuffling, a tell for his anxiety. 

“You always do.” He said with a shrug. 

Your heart thumped affectionately as he turned his head, and your gaze fell back onto the band of sterling silver in his eyes. You smiled fondly at the man, and he had to look away. He busied himself with the basket, pulling out nicely wrapped sandwiches in brown butcher paper. He read the options out for you and passed you your selections. He then reached in and pulled out a white box with a blue bow. He began to tug at it, then stopped, offering it to you. 

You giggled, unravelling the satin ribbon. When he pulled off the lid, a tiered display stand stood with ten layers of tiny cakes with an array of colours, creams, and toppings. L looked over the selection with a careful eye, then chose a spongy square with a raspberry on top. He pinched it between his fingers and brought it to his lips. You watched his selection process as you braided the ribbon into a piece of your hair, presenting it to your friend with a smile. He nodded in approval, and then you finally took a bite of your sandwich, moaning as the myriad of flavours filled your senses. 

“Oh my god, this is delicious,” you said, pushing it towards Ryusaki, “You’ve gotta try it.”

His chewing stops as he eyes the sandwich in front of him like it were a loaded gun. 

“I’m okay.” He said politely. 

You accepted his dismissal, taking another bite from your sandwich, but still curious about it. 

“Why don’t you eat anything but sugar?” You asked through a mouthful of sourdough. 

“Well,” Ryusaki began, “Desserts tend to be more homogeneous in texture and taste. I find most ‘real’ food reduces my deductive skills by approximately twenty-five percent.”

You looked up at the beauty of the ending day around you and breathed in the air of the city. 

“Do you need your deductive skills right now?” You asked softly, eyes still trained on the sky. 

Moments passed in peaceful silence. You could hear a dog barking and the mummer of the life teeming below you. People going about their everyday lives, despite the horror of this new world. You tried to join them now and then, encouraging Ryusaki to do the same– to have a life outside of, despite of Kira. From your peripherals, you saw him spread his knees apart, sitting in a cross-legged position. You watched as he continued adjusting, trying to find a comfortable position. When he settled, you turned your eyes to his. 

“Would you like some tea?” You asked. 

He nodded his head, and you poured him half a cup from the teapot, filling the rest with cream and sugar, just the way he liked it. He thanked you when you passed it to him, fingers brushing briefly. You could tell he was a little uncomfortable, probably much more in tune with the “loss of thought” he was experiencing than any other person would be. He held his cup in both hands, elbows resting on his knees as he looked into the wheat-coloured drink. You left L to his thoughts, knowing he would share them if he deemed them important. You instead focused on tucking the rest of your sandwich away, opening another to try. You were happy Watari cared enough to cut them into little triangles. 

“What are your plans after the Kira case?”

You nearly choked on your sandwich, not expecting the question. You wiped at your mouth with a napkin, trying to grab your composure. 

“I haven’t given much thought to it,” you said, “but I know it will be a bittersweet moment when we catch him.”

Ryuga sat up a little, his interest piqued as he took another sip of his tea. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” you began, “I’ve met a lot of great people by working on this investigation. I don’t imagine our paths will cross much once this is all resolved, even if we do survive. But it makes me happy to think that one day they’ll get to walk into their front doors and hug their families without the fear of them being ripped away as collateral damage.”

“Not to mention,” You continued, “at the risk of sounding selfish, this job has some really nice perks. I’m compensated well, I get free room and board, I haven’t done my own laundry in four months, and I can even get company-provided gourmet picnics on the rooftop. There’s a lot to miss.”

“I must admit, I will miss the camaraderie,” L said softly. “But I fear the fallout from Kira’s arrest more.”

You knew what he meant. If he was right, and Light and Misa were Kira and The Second Kira, then it would destroy the task force. Matsuda’s heart would shatter, as would Mogi’s, though he’d hide it better than the former. Chief Yagami would likely suffer another heart attack, or perhaps snap entirely. And while you yourself didn’t want to believe it, you couldn’t deny what you knew was true. With the proof of shinigami's existence and an otherworldly murder weapon disguised as a harmless notebook downstairs, nothing could be ruled out. You questioned what other powers came with the notebook, and how those powers transferred. 

Bribing Ryuke into answering all your questions was easy enough. It turns out he had never known the taste of a Fuji apple, only enjoying the common red delicious. One was enough to get him hooked. You presented everything you had learned about ownership of the notebook, how it can be passed, and how it affects the user. You and L had come to the same conclusion: sometime in Light’s confinement, he transferred ownership, as did Misa. You knew for sure when Misa visited Light the other day in the lobby. 

At the beginning of the investigation, he refused to toy with her emotions, as it went against his code. And you found it comforting, knowing Kira would have no problem doing that, and Light was immediately opposed. For months, he made no effort to show affection to Misa, rebuffing any advance or innuendo she made, but you watched as he brought her into a hug. You watched as she melted into it, savouring the sparring touch and every word he whispered into her ear. You knew he hadn’t magically fallen in love with the girl, but was using the love she had for him. 

Yes, Light had changed, and the repercussions were terrifying.

Ryusaki was silent. By now, the sun had set, and the moon began climbing up a ladder of stars. The candlelight flickered, making shadows jump and jive across your friend’s face. The shifts were jarring, but the gentle lighting softened his hardened edges. Your eyes traced the slope of his nose, down his plush lips, and his long neck. You wished to stretch out a curious finger to replace your itinerant eyes. 

“Would you like a cake?” Ryusaki asked, changing the subject. You allowed the distraction, deciding you would bring it up again later, but not know. 

You selected one with orange filling and chocolate drizzle. It was delicious, falling apart in your fingers as you ate it. You heard a soft chuckle leave your friend's mouth and you looked up at him confused. He said nothing, instead motioning towards his face. You tilted your head, not understanding what he meant. Before you could ask, L brought a napkin to the corner of your mouth, gently rubbing it across your bottom lip. 

Your heart stopped beating and your lungs stopped breathing. His touch was like the flames of the flickering candles, igniting the skin he polished. His eyes flicked up to yours and you were lost in a pool of obsidian, his pupils vast in the stary night. 

“There,” he said softly, “all gone.”

You searched for your voice, and it came out in a breathy whisper, “Thanks.”

He continued, unbothered by the unprecedented physical contact while you took a sip of your tea, in hopes that would help your unsteady heart. Before you had much time to recover, He spoke again. 

“My favourite colour is blue.”

You blinked dumbly, at the man as he readjusted uncomfortably. 

“My favourite cake is Strawberry Vanilla Sponge Cake,” He continued, “and I sing in the shower.”

You laughed out of shock, and words continued to spill from his mouth like he couldn’t stop them. 

“If I could have a superpower, I would want invisibility. I think four-leaf clovers are ridiculously overblown, but I admire their inherent whimsy. I really like The Beatles, which is very embarrassing as I am British. But even more so because I listen to ‘We Can Work It Out’ when I get frustrated. They bring me a sort of comfort. I’ve always wanted a cat. I think it’s funny when they’re given people names, or named after ridiculous things. If I had one, I’d get a tuxedo cat and name it 3,4,4,5-tetramethylcyclohexa-2,5-dien-1-one.” You open your mouth to ask what that was, but he answered it before you could, “It’s a cyclic dienone, more commonly known as penguinone, and though it has no applicable uses, it’s funny.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of his sudden urge to tell you all of these things. In his unblinking eyes, you saw something close to desperation and it confused you, forcing you to look away. You missed the way Ryusaki’s face fell. 

“Are you…upset?” he asked cautiously. “I’m sorry if I overshared.”

“No, no,” You reassured, trying to alleviate some of the guilt that filled your chest at his apprehension. “I’m just confused”

“I was trying to establish trust,” he explained cooly. 

Your brows furrowed, “Do you think I don’t trust you?”

“No, I-” he paused, releasing a sigh that moved his shoulders. 

“Ignore me,” he said sadly, “Nothing I say lately seems to make much sense.”

Your heart shattered at the uncertainty in his voice. He usually spoke with such conviction. To hear him unsure, insecure in sensibility– his intelligence, really ��it made you nauseous. 

“Ryusaki,” you began, but he looked away. 

“Ryusaki,” you tried again, this time resting a hand on his shoulder, “your sense is still very intact. You’re not the crazy one.”

He looked at your hand, where it rested without hesitancy. 

“Look,” you continued, “Someone is trying to kill you. And it could very likely be your best friend. You’re making more sense than anyone else would in your situation.”

Suddenly his eyes shot to yours. There was a small fire burning there, and you worried that you had upset him. You began to remove your hand, but he rested his on yours, keeping it pressed against his shoulder. Your heart leapt at the contact, and you prayed he didn’t notice. Though, if you knew anything about Ryusaki, he did and already tucked it away as useful information. 

“Light Yagami is not my best friend.” He said simply, “You are.” 

You couldn’t fight the smile that sprouted from the sentiment. 

“Really?” You asked in disbelief.

“Of course, I wouldn’t lie about that.”

Your smile grew more teasing, “But you didn’t even chain yourself to me.”

L smiled too, “I didn’t have to.”

Time passed in silence. It was a bit awkward, your hand remained on his shoulder as the candles burned. You were getting chilly, the night air nipping at you through your t-shirt. L’s hand kept yours still, you were much too nervous to move it away. Especially when you could see your friend thinking very hard. 

He suddenly turned toward you, removing his hand and jostling yours. His thumb came to his lip, running it across and moving the muscle. 

“There are a lot of social customs that I haven’t gotten to participate in, due to my isolated childhood, and even more so because of my dangerous career,” he said, “for instance, I had never had friends until this investigation, and now I have three. But that also means I haven’t experienced a lot of the common experiences that come with friendship.”

He looked you over, trying to gauge your reaction thus far. You seemed at ease but attentive. His eyes darted to the blue streak in your hair, and felt a warmth blossoming in his chest. He was amazed by how light-hearted you could be, despite the heavy burdens you carried. You shone so brightly, he was almost embarrassed to ask you to share.

“I was wondering if you would be willing to help me with that. I think it’s important to my development, and general understanding of the human condition.”

You were delighted to hear that he was thinking about such “trivial” things. As you became closer to L, you quickly realised that he lived a very lonely life. You could tell he had convinced himself that was what he wanted, but you knew a life of work wasn’t enough, and he deserved more. You always encouraged him to take care of more than his brain; to value his body and his spirit as well. 

“Of course L,” you nearly cheered, “what did you have in mind?”

You waited patiently for his response, trying your best not to shrink under his gaze. You were sure that his eyes were a large reason as to why he made such a great detective. When he focused his eyes on someone, it made them feel see-through; like he could see everything that made up that person. Like he could read your thoughts. 

“Can I-“ he began, then stopped. It was rare to see him trip over his words. “I would like- would it be okay if we hugged?”

Lightning struck across the sky, and you flinched, startled by the sound. You looked up into the dark, trying to find the flash of light you knew was long gone. You spotted the thick, rolling clouds hovering above you, and you hadn’t noticed before. Then the thunder rumbled, and the cry was resonant, penetrating your bones as it rolled through you. Then slowly, rain began falling from the sky. A few drops landed on your face, and you could feel them beginning to stick to your clothes. 

When your shock faded away, you looked back at your friend. He was looking at you intently, hunched over like always. You opened your mouth to respond, but L spoke before you. 

“Let’s step inside,” he said, resting his hand on your shoulder like you had before, “you’re shivering.”

You hadn’t realised that you were, but as you looked down at your hands, you couldn’t deny the tremble. He stood and began packing up everything on the blanket, refusing your help when you offered even though the rain had picked up. It was steady now, easily soaking through your clothes and his in turn. Once everything was tucked away, he guided you inside, opening the door for you. 

As you walked down the steps, your mind spun around his words. He had asked to hug you, someone who you thought would be pretty averse to physical touch. You were surprised he let you lay a hand on him at all, and even more surprised when he reciprocated the action. It could’ve just been an experiment, a test to see how it made him feel, but you found yourself reviewing your own results. 

You hadn’t really touched L before. There was no reason to. Even when he fell out of his chair over the whole “Shinigami” thing, you let the others crowd him. Your hands had maybe brushed here and there when passing sweets or documents, but intentional, prolonged contact was never made until today. You couldn’t deny his behaviour had been odd lately, though that was to be expected with the stress he was under. You wondered if he was indulging out of curiosity or a fear of missing out on life. 

You jumped again as another bolt of lightning struck across the sky, followed by the soft beginnings of rain, now slowly collecting on the glass walls around you. You began walking down the hall and jerked your head to beckon Ryusaki, who seemed deep in thought. You watched the rain grow, drops colliding and running down the glass. You stopped to trace the tracks left, your body shuttering against the cold.

“I’m sorry,” your friend spoke quietly, as there was no one but you here, and no reason to raise a voice. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You looked at him with shock, but he refused to look at you. 

“Ryusaki, I haven’t felt uncomfortable around you since we started this investigation. Why would that change now?” When he didn’t respond, you bumped his shoulder with yours, “Seriously though, if you ever do make me uncomfortable, I won’t let you live it down.”

“Good,” he said, nodding his head. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You both continued to stare off into the distance in silence. You began breathing out hot puffs of air and drawing in the condensation. Meaningless shapes littered the space as you got lost in your thoughts. 

You felt stuck between knowing and knowing nothing. You knew that You cared for Ryusaki very much. You knew you trusted him with your life, and you always felt better when he was around. You knew that you desired his attention and approval more than anyone else’s. You knew that he was beautiful and kind. But you didn’t know if he felt any of those things about you. You didn’t know what those things meant. Or rather, you feared what they could mean, and what that would do to the both of you.

Your thoughts were interrupted once again when you felt a weight on your shoulders, and you looked down to see pale, slender hands embellished with tendons and glistening in the light. Your jaw dropped slightly, seeing him appear so close behind you in your shared reflection. 

“You’re still shivering.” He didn’t look at you, his eyes obscured by his shaggy hair, “A blanket should help.” 

You offered a kind, timid smile in thanks, turning to face him. Your cheeks filled with blood though you couldn’t quite pin down why. Maybe it was just because he was touching you again when he’s never really done that before. Or maybe it was the fact that he was concerned about you. Or maybe it was the intimacy of it all, how close he was and how gentle his touch was. 

His hallowed, all-seeing eyes met yours and you lost your breath. You wanted to look away, feeling pierced by his gaze, but you couldn’t– you wouldn’t. “If this isn’t sufficient, let me know. It’s my fault you’re cold.”

“No, it’s not,” You chuckled as he adjusted the material on your shoulder, “I walked out willingly. Yeah, you baited me into staying with food and tea, but I saw your plan, and I decided to go along with it.”

L smiled shyly, “I never could fool you.”

Your brows furrowed, and your heart sank. 

“Can.” You corrected sternly. “You never can fool me.”

“Ah, Of course.” L said, removing his hands from you and tucking them back into his pockets, “You’re too observant for me to keep a secret. You’re always the first in the room to know what I’m thinking.”

He didn’t directly address his slip-up– referring to himself in the past tense as if he had died –so you didn’t either, instead filing that away under “more things to bring up later”. 

“What can I say?” You teased. “Great minds think alike.”

“That they do,” he muttered, though you could tell his mind had taken him far away again. 

You turned back to the window, and he joined you there. The rain had picked up, the heavy clouds drawing nearer. Your body buzzed with the electricity in the air. You could feel the winds of change surging through the city, and it filled you with determination.

“You should change,” Ryusaki whispered, “you’ll catch a cold.”

“Please,” You said, rolling your eyes and landing on his. “We were out there for less than an hour, and it never dropped below four degrees.”

“That’s still rather cold,” He hid his eyes from you, and you missed the sparks he carried there. “Not to mention the addition of rain.”

“If you’re so worried about my immune system,” you quipped, “studies show that hugs can actually help fight illness.”

That got a reaction out of the man, whipping his head to look at you. 

“Is that so?” He asked, amusement teeming in his thin, grey irises. “Is it the exposure to more germs?”

“Possibly,” You admitted, “But it’s mostly the stress relief. Hugs reduce your cortisol and noradrenaline levels, improving blood pressure and general heart health. Also, with both of our body heats working together, it might help warm me up.”

L brought his thumb to his lip again, pondering your words. 

“Maybe you have a point.” He muttered, “Perhaps we should test this theory.”

You agreed but neither of you moved, both too afraid to make the first move. You had hugged people before. You had hugged your family and many friends, so hugging Ryusaki shouldn’t be that nerve-racking, and yet, your body was buzzing just at the concept. 

Suddenly, L Spread his arms, his figure drowning in his baggy sweater. It happened in slow motion, or at least it felt like it did. He dove towards you, wrapping his arms tightly around you, unintentionally pinning yours to your side, and his chin landed on the crown of your head gently. 

You tensed, not expecting him to just go for it. Your face was pressed into his chest, your nose brushing his collarbone because of how his sweater had shifted. You were suddenly self-conscious breathing on him, trying your best to make sure your lungs were expanding and contracting naturally, but you could feel the awkwardness in your muscles. 

“I don’t think this is working,” He said, his jaw moving against your head, “Your heart rate has only elevated. This seems to be…bothersome to you.”

He slowly removed himself but remained close, focusing his trying eyes on you, hands back in his pockets. “Please, tell me how you feel.”

“Well, firstly, you surprised me.” You couldn’t help but chuckle. Laughter bubbled up due to his unwavering gaze that affected you, though you didn’t want to concede to that. “And second, I’m not sure that counted as a hug. You trapped my arms, so I couldn’t reciprocate it properly.”

“I see,” He said, not showing any emotion you could detect (And you had gotten pretty good at reading L at this point). “What can I do better?”

His determination was…adorable. He was adamant about this, about hugging you better. You wouldn’t have thought this was something he ranked so highly in importance, and you felt flattered. 

“Open your arms again,” You instructed, scooting closer. 

He followed your orders, his head tilting to the side in curiosity. You took a quick breath, then brought your arms around his waist, then rested your ear between his pecs. There you heard his heart. You expected a steady thrum, but instead, the muscle beat like a kick drum without cause. But you supposed if you only fed your body sugar and caffeine, your heart would go crazy too.

He was also much comfier than you expected his skin and bones to be. His frame felt right in your arms, and a word flitted through your mind: safe. He was safe here in your arms, and you felt safe here too. 

You remembered then that he was still standing there with his arms fully extended, like an owl stretching their wings. 

“You can wrap your arms around me like before now,” You said into his chest. 

He did as you said, and you felt an instant relief. Your blanket was wrapped around him, and you were surrounded by L. He was soft, like the petals of a Gardinia– like the ones your mother used to grow. He smelled like chocolate and strawberries, though with his diet, you were sure he sweated out sugar. In the refracted light the droplets cast, it looked just like that, like sugar crystals dancing across his skin.

Your nose picked up hints of lavender you recognised as the fabric softener Watari swore by. You wanted to bottle the sents and wear them yourself. You found yourself snuggling in closer, drawn in by the comforts of L.

You sighed in contentment, closing your eyes. His heartbeat stabilized, beating slower but strong. Slowly, he adjusted himself, bringing his arms tighter around you and turning so his ear rested against you and not his hewn jaw. Many moments went by like that, with nothing but the instrumental played by the rain, steady breathing, and hearts beating. As time went on, your heartbeats began to sync, beating together. You felt warmth spread throughout you at the thought. You liked this. You liked being close to Ryusaki. 

“How long do these usually last?” He whispered into the rich silence. 

“It depends on the friends, everyone’s comfort levels.” You replied thoughtfully. “Some people only hug for a few seconds; others hold each other like this. But it’s recommended that you get at least four hugs a day.”

He hummed, considering your answer. “I definitely haven’t been fulfilling that quota.”

“It’s okay,” You said through a laugh, “Me either.”

“Perhaps,” L said, putting on his detective voice, “If you have found this as enjoyable as I, we could do this more often– try to reach that benchmark more. The act of hugging seems to increase my oxytocin levels, which feels different than the dopamine confections give me. If it affects you the same way, I think that could be good for us both.”

Your laughter danced across this skin. “I can’t believe you can feel the difference between happy hormones.”

“Of course I can.” He said, completely unphased by your disbelief. “Dopamine feels more like I’m doing a good job, and Oxytocin is…”

You waited patiently while he found the words. 

“Oxytocin makes me more…sentimental,” He landed on. 

“I guess that makes sense,” You mumbled into his chest. “Weirdo.”

He chuckled at the title that would have hurt coming from anyone else. 

“I would be okay with that,” You said, addressing his proposal, “If we hugged more often.”

“Great,” He said, and you could hear his smile. L could feel how the cold continued to cling to your skin. Although hugs were supposed to help fight illness, he doubted it was a cure. “We should finish up then so you can change.”

He released his hold on you and began to pull away, but without thinking, you held on tighter, your brows furrowing. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“I’m not sure,” you said honestly. “I just don’t want to leave this.” L brought a hand to his chin, cradling it and trying his best not to jostle you. “Is it the hug that you want, or is it me?”

Your eyes bugged at his question. Immediately, you let go, creating distance as you jumped back. You reacted as if he had struck you instead of asking a straightforward question to better understand the situation. 

Your mouth opened and closed a few times, not unlike a fish plucked from the water.

“Well, I- It’s uh…I mean- heh -what?” You stumbled. Again, L’s shark skin eyes bore into yours, dissecting every stutter and stammer.

“I believe the question was fairly easy to comprehend.” He said plainly, “I asked if it was the hug you wanted or me.”

You felt blood rush to your cheeks. 

“I understood the question,” You weakly defended. 

L’s head dropped once again to the side, his hair flopping loosely as he moved but still weighing down over his face. 

“Then answer it.”

You swallowed. He had cornered you, baiting you by insinuating you weren’t as intelligent as he thought and getting you to confess that you in fact were not confused. But in truth, you were. Because it was true that you were extremely touched-starved. You had dedicated the better half of the last year to catching Kira. You hadn’t had time for much else. You weren’t exactly popular before either. 

You were a criminal, a cyber-robinhood. You had stolen from several pharmaceutical companies and redistributed their funds to families in need. You thought it absolutely abhorrent that the companies could make money off of cancer and diabetes, depriving people of medicine they needed, not wanted. You had done it with your best friend, who was killed by Kira.

She had taught you the ropes and how to hide yourself from the authorities. She, however, had crossed the line. She began targeting government officials, leaking their private messages and phone records to the public. You would have thought that would align with Kira’s morals, but you guess not because she died of a heart attack in your arms. You hadn’t made a friend since, not until Ryusaki. 

You didn’t want him to leave you too. You were terrified that he would be ripped away from you, much like your friend before. But it was more than that. You wanted Ryusaki to live. You wanted him to have a full life, one of joy and contentment. One where his intelligence wasn’t weaponised. One where he could let his guard down and not break his back with his posture. You wanted him to drown in hugs, to never be deprived of comfort again. And you wanted to be by his side to see it.

You had become very attached to the man before you. You admired him, respected him. You found yourself trying to be more like him in many ways. And you felt pride every time he mimicked you. 

“I don’t know.”

L was unconvinced, leaning in closer, “Yes, you do. But you won’t say.”

You stared into his eyes, words eluding you. What could you say? You weren’t even sure what you wanted, what your answer would be. He looked at you curiously, awaiting your response. When you had none, he sighed. 

“Fine then,” He said, turning his investigative gaze away from you. “I will escort you to your room. Hopefully, that will satisfy you.”

You had requested a room here at headquarters and were unsurprised when L told you that he had already built one for everyone on the task force. You had all but moved in during the Kira case. You hadn’t meant to, but it was just easier than taking the train alone after a late night of investigating. With no one to stop you, you would stay up until three ante merīdiem, studying and analysing trends. Sometimes you would crash at your desk, but usually, you would drag yourself away when you noticed your eyes becoming heavy. But now, your apartment was more of a formality than anything else. L knew this and made no comments on the matter. He was happy you stayed here instead, and that the rooms weren’t a complete waste of time and effort. 

As you travelled through the silent halls, you brought your blanket tighter around your shoulders, tensing your jaw so your teeth didn’t chatter. Ryusaki seemed unbothered by the cold. He showed no signs of discomfort other than the way his shoulders folded forward more than they usually did. You wondered if he was just suppressing them or if he truly wasn’t cold. But then you saw a small shiver travel down his spine. 

“You never told me,” you said softly, “what you were doing out there?”

His steady pace was unwavering, his bare feet gently padding across the tiled floors of the hall. 

“Thinking,” He replied but offered nothing more. 

“Of course you were thinking, that’s all you know to do. ” You joked, “What were you thinking about?”

He took a few more steps, then stopped. You continued forward until you were standing side by side. He stared ahead, but you turned to face him. You watched as his face remained flat, unchanged. 

“I was thinking about my death,” he said plainly, continuing his previous pace. “I reviewed my mental record of my will, noting necessary amendments. Due to recent events, I felt it something I reconsider.”

Your stomach twisted at his casualness, and you looked away. How could he say that and have no feeling about it? Or rather, rationalize whatever feelings he had about the situation away?

“You-” You began, your words tripping over the lump in your throat, “you shouldn’t talk like that. You’re not going to die.”

You said it with finality, though your friend heard the subtle desperation, the fear beneath your bravado. 

He stopped again, and when you turned to him, he turned as well. His eyes seemed almost hollow as he spoke. 

“We all die. And I happen to find myself in a position in which I am taunting the reaper.”

L did a lot of staring, and this one you took as a personal challenge. He knew what you meant, and he was purposefully not addressing it. You weren’t backing down; you weren’t folding for him. The other members of the task force often forgot that he was human; you refused to forget. While he was smarter than anyone you had ever met, he wasn’t a supercomputer. He had hopes and dreams; he had fears. 

“We’re here,” he said, interrupting this game of blink.

You hadn’t realised you had arrived at your room and hesitated at the door. 

“Would you like me to step inside?” He offered. 

You nodded. 

“Very well then.”

He opened the door and you stepped in. He closed the door behind him, then stood a few feet into the room, scratching at his leg with his foot. You made your way to your closet, selecting a new shirt and some sweatpants, then went to your dresser, selecting new undergarments.

L looked to the wall after catching a glimpse of the lacey bra you balanced from your finger. You looked to your friend, ready to ask him to turn around, when you noticed his head already turned and a slight rosy hue crawling up his exposed neck. He was usually so devoid of colour; the splash of pink was a nice touch. You wondered what had flustered him and if it had anything to do with you. The thought made you excited, but you chose not to acknowledge that. 

“I’m changing now,” You said, turning away from him. 

L tried his best to keep his eyes off of you, but soon, your hands were in the air as you peeled off your shirt, and his curiosity won. His eyes traced over the exposed skin, counting the vertebrae up your back. His breath hitched slightly as you reached behind you and unlatched your bra. He caught himself imagining what it would look like if you were turned around and ripped his eyes away again. After all, you were his friend, and it was inappropriate to think such things about a friend. Especially one that trusted him enough to change in front of him. He would rather die than abuse your trust. 

Soon, you were wiggling out of your pants, and his eyes betrayed him, following the movement of your hands. The cotton panties you wore were nothing special, plain and purple and a bit cheeky. It clung to the shape of your ass beautifully. His eyes bugged involuntarily, and he decided he could no longer trust himself to be facing you and turned his body. 

As he faced the wall, he considered your interactions today. You had sought him out and then joined him outside despite knowing the discomfort the cold would bring you. Meaning you valued his amusement more than your comfort. You entertained his tangents and encouraged him to try new things, which meant that his general well-being must be something of importance to you. Why else would you go out of your way to protect it?

Yes, you wanted him to be happy and made that a responsibility of your own. You coached him through a new experience and reassured his insecurities about it. He had hugged you for two minutes and thirty seconds, but you had held him for two minutes and thirty-nine seconds. So you enjoyed the physical comfort, and obviously desired more, as you only stopped when he shocked you. 

That’s right, you pulled away when he asked if you "wanted him." So enjoying his company was fine, but once "wanting" became a part of the equation, you rejected it. Or tried your best to. But you didn’t deny that you still desired his presence, allowing him to escort you to your room, where you took off your clothes in front of him. 

When he looked at the incidents individually, it could all be chalked up to you being a good friend– one who trusted and respected him –but he was a better detective than that. He also knew to look at the big picture. In his mind, he replaced himself with other people, like puppets in a play, and saw how your reactions changed.

He found it hard to believe that you would allow someone else on the team to hold you for two minutes, lure you into the rain, or risk them seeing you in your underwear. Which begged the question, why do you treat him differently? How does your perception of him differ from the others?

Then it became abundantly clear, and he was shocked. The conclusion he came to seemed ludicrous, and yet, it was the only one that made sense-- the only one that stood with the evidence. How could this be? There was only one way to know. 

He called your name and you hummed in response, putting on a new shirt and turning to face him. 

“You evaded my question.” He remarked, still looking at the wall. “However, I think your evasion– and the several events surrounding it –has given me a more clear understanding of the answer you were guarding.”

You felt a general unease, not sure you liked the direction his inquisitive mind was heading. You wrung your hands anxiously in front of you, looking at the back of his head. You should have known L wouldn’t let that go. 

“I told you I didn’t know.”

He turned quickly, catching you off guard. He was once again very close to you, his eyes dancing with curiosity and a bit of pride. It was a look you saw when he presented a theory based on new evidence he had finally made sense of that had previously baffled the team. You knew he was confident in whatever he had deduced and was more amused by your responses, watching carefully with a thumb pressed to his lip just a few inches away from your face. 

“But I don’t think it was the complete truth,” he pressed, “which makes it a lie of omission.”

“I didn’t lie,” You quickly defended. 

“But I saw it: a realisation flitting across your face. You looked at the evidence and came to a conclusion. You have some idea as to why you reacted to my question the way you did, and you have an answer. Does the answer put you in a position of vulnerability perhaps?”

You gaped at him, unsure how to respond. However, he continued to think aloud, answering your question for you with his own ramblings. 

“Yes, that must be it. In answering whether you merely wanted more affection or me, it would force you to admit that you had a need that wasn’t being met. And since we had already discussed our general lack of affection in day-to-day life, revealing that you felt you wanted more hugs would not make you uncomfortable… no, it has to be me that you want. That’s the only reason you would react that way. Which makes me wonder, in what way do you want me?

“My phrasing may have impacted your response, as ‘want’ can mean different things in certain contexts. However, if you thought of me in a strictly platonic sense, you would not have assumed I meant anything more than my company. There is, of course, the possibility that previous interactions in male friendships lead you to believe I meant something else, but I think it is more likely that you interpreted it romantically because you have– on some level –romantic feelings for me. And by answering the question honestly, you would have revealed that.”

He paused for a moment before asking, “Am I right?”

Your brain was spinning, repeating every word he had said. He waited patiently as you mulled it over. You tried to disprove his theory, picking each line and defending the opposite, but it became harder and harder the longer you went on. You weren’t sure how you saw the man in front of you. He was your friend, someone you respected and cared for. You valued his opinion and you listened to his advice. But you couldn’t deny that you found him attractive. You had since you first met him. 

After your friend had died, it didn’t take you long to piece together that it was Kira who killed her. You brought your theory to the police, but they didn’t take you seriously. Apparently, there had been many false reports of Kira's murders, and yours was the fifteenth report that day. You continued to argue, but you didn’t even get past the front desk. That night, when you got back home, you decided you would do everything you could to catch the killer. You broke into the police database– which was entirely too easy –then followed up with everyone they suspected. You used your skills to hack into the suspects' computers, scouring through their histories and files, but didn’t find anything incriminating. Except for one man. 

He was too innocent, not even a record of porn on his computer. Most of his search results were quiz questions with brief breaks spent streaming funny videos. He was a studious pupil and the son of a cop. You consulted the police’s notes often and were surprised when they claimed it could be a student. Then soon after, the pattern of killings changed, further proving the theory.

You were convinced it was Light Yagami, but you needed more. So you tried to hack into L’s computer. You knew from the police notes of the meetings that L called in using a computer, meaning he had to have a Wi-Fi connection to talk to them in real time. It took you a while to hack the secure connection, and even longer to get into the computer. You felt defeated– outsmarted –when you realised the only thing on the device was whatever system he used for the calls and whatever connection he used for that was heavily encrypted. 

You thought nothing more of the event until you were picked up off the street a few weeks later. You were grabbed and bound, the assailant immediately gagging and blindfolding you. The drive was long, and you were taken somewhere with winding hallways and cold rooms. You were restrained to a table, straps keeping you upright, and then your gag was removed. 

You yelled in anger, cursing your capture and illustrating all the ways in which you would make them suffer for treating you this way. You only stopped when a robotic voice filled the room. It asked who you were, but you ignored its question, connecting the dots. 

“You’re L,” You said plainly, “The renowned detective. You’ve solved every case you’ve ever taken on. And you apprehended me– confining me and taking away my vision –meaning you must think I’m Kira. You know who I am, that’s why you’ve taken me in.”

He confirmed your suspicions and listed out the crimes you had committed, and your behaviours that made him suspect you. You couldn’t deny his deductions, and instead of trying to prove your innocence, you told him about your own mission to catch Kira. You even apologised for trying to hack him as well, “but you understand, I had to try.”

He kept you tied up for a few, very long days, then let you walk around the room, giving you access to a bed and a few books. Now and then he would check in on you and offered to make amends for the misunderstanding. You only requested that he hear you out. 

You told him about your theories and how you were disregarded by the police. He was the first person to tell you that he believed your friend was murdered and that it had more to do with them talking out against Kira online than the crimes they had committed. And that only angered you more.

Soon, he began to trust you. He showed you his face. He was nothing like you imagined, but everything you expected. He was odd; he looked almost sickly and was very deadpan. But he had a sense of humour, one that was just as odd as him. He was straightforward forward, and you didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking, as he often shared his thoughts. He was kind, having an obvious affinity for sweets, but always willing to share with you. He asked about you and your life, and you could tell he was cataloguing everything you had to say. He listened so intently when you spoke. 

You only grew closer, looking forward to your meetings in the following weeks, and were elated when he told you about the new headquarters and how he wanted to introduce you to the rest of the team. He was impressed by your resourcefulness and intellect, but more importantly your passion. You were driven by revenge, but soon that changed. L believed in you, and you wanted to honour that. 

Despite his quarks, you saw his soft underside, and it drew you in more. He was fascinating to you, alluring. 

Was that normal for a friend? To simply see them and feel better, to seek out their company? Yeah, you guess it was, but you didn’t think it was as normal to think your friend is pretty. Friends don’t trace jaw lines or let their eyes linger on outstretched fingers and moving lips. Is that what you were feeling? Was your confusion and nervousness a result of an unrealised crush on your friend?

“Oh, I see,” Ryusaki mumbled, “It wasn’t an intentional lie; you only just now realised.”

You hated that he could read you as well as he could, and suddenly his proximity was suffocating. You stepped back, hiding from his gaze in your hands. It was bad enough that you had feelings for your best and only friend, but to come to that realisation in front of them –when they have the uncanny ability to practically read minds –was mortifying. You were cornered and unsure what to say. You didn’t even have time to consider what you wanted to do about your feelings before they were made known. 

You could try to deny it, but you didn’t think that would work. Not against L. So you decided to look deeper. You had pieced together how your interactions proved you liked him, but how did L fare? You compared his behaviour towards you to the others. He was kinder with you, often wording things gentler to you than he would care to for anyone else. He provided confections to everyone, but he only offered you bites from his plate. He was more candid about his feelings with you, as well as his thoughts. 

While he often toyed with the investigators, constantly testing their deductive reasoning and loyalty, L only asked what you thought to question his own conclusions. He valued your input more than others on the team, and you knew the task force was aware of that. if you were in the room, Ryusaki was always within arms reach. He never strayed far. He asked about your personal life, and he encouraged you to take breaks. He smiled and laughed around you, something you didn’t see in front of the others. You had seen L’s soft side, but only because he had shown it to you. He was vulnerable with you. But was that just friendship?

No, no there was more. Today, he cared for you, feeding you and treating you to a picnic. He apologised for your condition, completely disregarding his own. He did his best to atone for the wrong he felt he had done, going as far as to wrap you in his own warmth. He didn’t need to. He sought out the contact. Contact he didn’t look for elsewhere. Contacted he requested and asked for more of, in a less than graceful way. Tripping over words was out of character for the normally articulate detective. 

He then stayed by your side, escorting you to your room, again, disregarding the fact that he too was cold and rained on. Furthermore, any other friend would have turned away from you while you changed, but he faced you. You remembered the blush on his face before you changed. Either the idea of you undressing or something he saw you were changing into caused that response. You had difficulty believing this came from a general lack of experience with women. 

If Misa changed in front of him (which is an unavoidable event which has already happened with her room being monitored the way it is), you doubted he would have much of a reaction. Yes, you were sure. His flustered state was a result of you. 

You removed your hands from your face and looked at the man of your affection. He wore a curious look, and you smiled. 

“You’re not upset,” he observed, “Usually, people respond badly to my blunt deductions about their emotions. I expected you to yell or deny, but you’ve done neither.”

You chuckled lightly, “I don’t think there’s a way I could have denied that without further confirming your conclusion.”

“Well, your initial response of hiding from me was sufficient.” he said with a bit of smugness, “But I’m curious as to why you no longer feel the need to.”

“I don’t need to hide my feelings if you already know they exist,” you stated calmly, “And I’m sixty-seven percent sure you share my feelings, making them much less frightening.”

Rysuaki’s hidden eyebrows raised, and his eyes widened. You watched smugly as he said nothing, revelling in the pride of shocking even the great L.

You explained how you reached that conclusion, knowing that would be his first question. When you finished, he looked up to the ceiling, reevaluating the evidence. You watched as his careful mind picked apart your deduction and this time you allowed yourself to appreciate his unique beauty.

You traced the slope of his nose, following it down to the tendons in his neck and where his collar bones poked out from his baggy sweater. You greedily observed the way his clothes hung from his body, nearly swallowing him whole. 

“It is true, I am rather fond of you. I made that more obvious than I intended, however, there’s nothing to be done about it now.” He admitted, “I can’t say I’ve ever had much of a love life or much experience with romantic feelings. I’m not sure how to proceed.”

You patted the spot next to you on the bed, and he crossed the room to join you. To your surprise, he sat with his feet on the floor, hands on his thighs. 

“I think this a good place to start,” you said warmly. “We don’t have to do anything about it yet.”

He nodded but didn’t look at you. You could see the gears churning in his head, then you noticed his hands. There were impressions left in his thighs from his strong grip. Was it possible he was nervous? You couldn’t hide the delight the sight brought you. You thought it was adorable that you were something that could cause him so much grief. But you hated it too. 

You placed your hand on his and he tensed slightly, but didn’t push it away. 

“Hey,” you said softly, “Take a breath. Really, I don’t want you to stress over this. You have enough on your plate.”

He looked at your hand, his face level, silently assessing, and you allowed him the space to do so. His hand twitched a bit under yours before he turned it over, his palm meeting yours and his slender fingers weaving between your digits. 

“What if-” he paused, as if not sure he should say what he was thinking. He took a breath as you instructed, then continued. “What if I want to do something about it?”

You couldn’t contain the smile that spread across your face, and you didn’t feel a need to. 

“Then I would ask what you wanted to do.”

"It's not about what I want." He looked at you, eyes wide and panicked. “What if doing something is stupid and puts you in danger?”

You had never seen L so worked up before, and you were stunned for a moment. You realised he was letting you in, even more than before. He was letting you see his fear, something you're not sure he’s shown anyone willingly. And in this moment, you were reminded that he was just a young man. That his life had barely begun. Yet he had seen horrors you couldn’t imagine. 

“If Light is Kira,” he continued, through gritted teeth. “then you are already endangered enough. But if our relationship is now romantic, he may use you to get to me. He would have no problem killing you if it brought him closer to his goal, and we both know that.”

“Ryusaki…” you tried, rubbing your thumb against the back of his cold, clammy hand. “He already knows I care for you. The others have been teasing me about my favouritism for months now. If he thought I knew anything, or that you would tell me anything, he would have already done it. If he could, he'd probably force me to write your name in the book somehow, so he didn’t have to do it himself.” 

The fire in his eyes fizzled, and now he looked deflated again as if his anger was the only thing giving him the energy to fight. 

“Then, I can’t tell you anything,” he concluded, “and that doesn’t make for a very strong relationship. One of secrecy where I’m forced to keep you at a distance…no that won’t do.”

He let go of your hand, looking away and rising to his feet. You felt that familiar tug in your heart, the one you felt at your desk when you realised he wasn’t beside you, the same feeling when he tried to end the hug. It felt like he was leaving you, and this time, it made you angry.

“Fuck that!” you said a little harsher than you intended. L turned to look at you in surprise; you had never raised your voice to him before (Aside from that time he arrested you and you didn’t know it was him you were cursing). “I refuse to let Kira make any decisions for me. That bastard doesn’t get to stop me from doing anything I want. And I want this, I’ll fight for it.”

You spoke with a vicious resolve, and L had to admit, it was intriguing. 

“I’m done letting him ruin my life. I’m taking charge. I know there’s a way to prove it, to get him to confess. We can do it. We’ll catch that monster and frame his head on the wall.”

L was studying you; you could see it in his analytical eyes. 

“‘Monster’ you say…” he wonders aloud, “There are many types of monsters; the one we face now... he’s a lying monster: He’s cunning, posing as a human, though having no understanding of the human heart. He works hard, but only to appease his own hubris. He seeks friendship even though he does not truly know how to love. I had once said, If I were to encounter such a monster, I would likely be eaten by them... because, in truth, I am that monster.”

He locks eyes with you, his gaze resolute.

“Tell me, honestly, how can you hate Kira and care for me? We are the same beast.” His body towered over yours, the shadows of the light obscuring his face under his hair. He was almost intimidating. “I do not fight for justice but my own amusement. How many lives have I disregarded all because I didn’t find the case challenging enough? How many people have I endangered solving this one? I allowed who I believed to be Kira intimate knowledge of the case, all because I thought it made the game more fun. I view people as disposable, just as Kira does, and manipulate them just as freely. Kira and I are cut from the very same cloth. Yet, you despise him and respect me.”

Your stare was hard and unforgiving. Rage shook your body, and L was sure that you had changed your mind. You hated him now, just as you should. 

“No,” You said sternly, “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I won’t allow you to lie to me.”

You carefully lifted his chin, forcing him to hear you. 

“You are flawed, yes. You certainly have an ego, but that doesn’t make you a monster. If you were presented with the power of the death note, you wouldn’t use it to make yourself a god. You don’t always fight fair, but the criminals you chase don’t either, and it would be silly to try for the high road. That is what makes you such a great detective. You do what needs to be done. But that’s not why I care about you.”

You saw a flicker of surprise on his face before he buried it once again. 

“I care for you. Not L, the world’s greatest detective. I care for the man who treats me kindly and listens to my woes. I care for the man who checks in to make sure I’ve eaten and taken breaks. I care for the man who is so terrified of himself, he hides away from the world. I care for the man who was cursed with a brilliant mind and raised in a world of evil. I don’t care that you’re a genius, I’d love you dumb. I’m not interested in what you can do for me. I just want you.”

You watched as the man closed his eyes, unable to face your reverent judgment. 

“You could step away right now, and I’d never think less of you. You could imprison Light, right or wrong, and I would stand by you. You could tell me that you don’t want this, and I wouldn’t fight you.” You moved your hand from his chin to rest against his cheek. “But if you bow down to Kira– admit defeat when your heart is still beating –I’ll never forgive you.”

His eyes snapped open, and he scanned your face, looking for a lie, but found one. 

“We live in a world where gods of death are real,” you continued, “And that knowledge has made me realise even more that nothing in life is guaranteed. Nothing other than your own resolve. I chose life, and I wish you would choose the same.”

“You speak as if I am trying to kill myself.” he scrutinised. 

“Since the arrest of Higuchi, you’ve stopped investigating," You pressed, "but we both know it’s not because you think we’ve stopped Kira. There’s still a second notebook- a second Kira. And I’m sure you’ve noticed the change in Yagami, almost as if coming in contact with the book has turned him back into Kira. I see the way he looks at you, the way he studies you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“I have,” he confirmed.

“Then why? Why have you stopped trying to catch him? If he is actively trying to catch you– to kill you –and you do nothing to stop it, you are killing yourself. You’re allowing him to win. And I can’t– no, I won’t catch him without you.”

“You wouldn’t avenge me?” He asked curiously. 

“I’m here for my own selfish reasons,” you reminded him, “If you die, then everyone I have left will have been taken by Kira. What motivation would I have left to stop him?”

“I see…” he said flatly, “so if Kira is to be caught, we must both live to see it happen.” 

“Yes, but more so, I would blame you for your death. Avenging you wouldn’t be possible, as you and your killer would be one and the same. I would hate you.”

His hand joined yours, guiding it away from his face and holding it at his side.

“I’m not sure I could rest knowing you hated me. Not when you’re the only person I trust and the only person I can say I’ve ever cared for– besides Watari, of course,” He said softly, “But in all honesty, I’m not sure what to make of it. I can’t control you, and I have no desire to, but allowing you to grow any closer to me is dangerous. And I would hate myself if anything happened to you.”

His fingers traced over the creases in your hand as he spoke, memorising the fate lines. 

“But I can’t deny the attachment I have for you.” he continued, “It clouds my judgement, and I spend valuable time constantly correcting it. I’ve been indulging in delusions of running away with you. Taking you far away from the danger, placing you in a secure palace where you want for nothing, allowing you to lose yourself in all the simple pleasures your poetic mind can conjure. I would rather collect a list of books for your library than face Kira at the moment.”

You felt like crying, his words striking your heart. While it was easy to deduce that he favoured you over the others, such a blatant confession wasn’t something you expected. You knew this fantasy was built in his mind as something to make you happy, but you knew that this was something he wanted as well. To live a life of ease, not as a pawn to world governments. To be free to have intelligence and not be weaponised. You realised then, he was tired. He was exhausted from chasing Kira, exhausted from comparing himself to the enemy. 

“Let’s get out of here then.”

He looked at you curiously. 

“You can afford a break, a real one. Your mind is scattered, and you can’t possibly expect to outsmart Kira if you’re worrying about everything else.” You explained, “I’ll talk to Watari about planning a secure getaway for you but for now…”

You softly grabbed his hand and led him towards the door, “We’re going to your room so you can change. Then we’ll discuss what we’re doing for the night.”

He allowed you to lead him down the hall, saying nothing while you travelled. He only spoke again after you stepped into his room. 

“I am not often surprised,” he marveled “But you continue to amaze me. I can’t predict you. You’re courageous and strong-willed, but always kind. You’re extremely brilliant, but you’re humble about it. But most amazingly, you believe in me– not because of what I’ve done, but because of who I am –and I’ve never met someone who could separate the two.”

You flush under his praise, “You say you can’t predict me, but I swear, you see right through me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said with panic in his eyes, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You laughed, the sound affecting L more than he expected. He loved it, loved making you laugh. He wanted to do it as much as possible, but that was something to figure out later. 

“You didn’t,” you reassured, “but I do have something you can do to make it up to me,”

L smirked, knowing you were teasing him. 

“I don’t understand. I didn’t offend, but you claim I need to make amends.”

“You don’t have to. It’s completely up to you.”

“What is it you would have me do?”

You didn’t answer with words, instead spreading your arms and then making a grabby motion towards him. Your smile was soft, gently pulling at your lips. 

“Yes,” he said sweetly, “I suppose we could both use a boost of oxytocin.”

He took slow steps towards you, and then all at once, his arms were around your waist. He pulled you into him, lifting you slightly off the ground, bringing your neck to his hung head. You felt goosebumps where his nose nuzzled into your skin and your heart grew wings, soaring. You held L just as tightly, indulging in his desperate touch and burying your nose into his silky hair. 

“I think we should revise our previous agreement about hugs.” He said after a moment, speaking into your throat. 

“What amendments would you like to make?”

“I think four hugs a day is fine, but I don’t think we should limit ourselves to that. We do need to make up for our lack of hugs in the past after all. Furthermore,” he lifted his head slowly, so as not to knock you in the nose. He would feel horrible for that. “I think we could add or substitute hugs for other forms of affection as well.”

You hummed, and he continued. 

“For instance, you have held my hand twice today, and both times, I felt a similar sort of comfort from the action. In fact, I’ve noticed any skin-to-skin contact with you eases me. Your hand on my face proved that. I tested this theory twice. Once, before our confessions, on the blanket. I placed my hand on the one you had placed on my shoulder. Then again, in your room, by simply touching your hand, tracing your palm instead of holding it. Both yielded similar results.”

You smiled at him fondly, your hands reaching up to play with his hair. As your nails skated across his scalp in lazy circles, his eyes fluttered a bit, his lids resting heavier. 

“So you would like to add hand-holding? I’m fine with that.”

Your sweet voice flooded his mind, and your hands liberated his composure. 

“Either you’re completely clueless to the effect you have on me,” he whispered, “Or you revel in it. And I’m not sure which is more terrifying.”

Your heart skipped a beat, which startled L for a moment, but then he realised it was because of an emotional response and not an attack from Kira. 

“I wonder the same about you.”

L was unfamiliar with the look in your eyes. Your pupils were dilated, and your irises sparkled in the light. He’s never been looked at like that before. Your face looked brighter, and your body language (while restricted in your current position in his arms) was relaxed; open. And suddenly, he was entranced by your lips. You were talking, and he studied the muscles as they moved, unable to focus on anything else. He felt the urge to kiss you, and this shocked him. He forced himself to pay attention to your words. 

“...besides you have all the power really. I know what I want, but if you don’t want me there’s nothing I can do about it. I could never kill you, but even if Kira forced my hand, I don’t know your name. And you’re the only one on the team who knows mine. Whether I like it or not, my heart is in your hands.”

“I would never hurt you,” he quickly defended, almost offended. 

“I know,” you said simply, “That’s why I trust your hands.”

Your gaze was unwavering, your stance absolute. The emotions L tried to contain began stirring restlessly. He no longer felt like he had a hold on them. A hurricane of feelings he couldn’t quite name tore through his chest, and he didn’t know what else to do but act. He surged forward, pressing his lips to yours. It was awkward and brief, as neither of you puckered your lips, just touched them together. He kept his watchful eyes wide as he did so, gauging your response. 

“Was that a kiss?” You finally asked once your silent shock was replaced by a highly amused smile. 

A small frown overtook L’s face. “I fear if you had to ask…” 

His sentence trailed off as he sat you back down on the ground. Then turned to walk to his closet. His was much larger than yours (which was ironic given he wore the same clothes for days straight), and you assumed he elected to change there when he closed the door. Now that he was out of sight, you allowed your excitement to show, jumping up and down and shaking your hands. 

He had kissed you, almost. It was obvious that he didn't have the experience, but your heart swelled at the thought that he wanted those experiences with you. And he did kiss you, he held you in his arms, for no other reason than to hold you close.

You tried your best to calm down, but your bright smile would fool no one. Instead, you tried to focus your attention elsewhere, calling Watari. He had given you his number (or a number) months ago. He told you it was because he saw that you cared for his son and that his son trusted you. He also confessed that he was rather fond of you too. He wanted to see you make it out of this investigation. 

He answered almost immediately. 

“Hello, Ms Ogawa,” He was always careful to use your alias, even if he knew you were alone. “I notice that you’re calling from within headquarters, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I was calling because I convinced Ryusaki to take some time off. I need you to plan a trip for him, no shorter than a week but something that’s easily extendable.”

The old man chuckled on the other end of the line. 

“You convinced him to take a break? I didn’t think anyone was capable; I wonder how you managed.” He seemed amused, implying he knew something through his old man wisdom. 

“I’m not entirely certain I did,” L emerged from the closet, looking nearly identical, just less soggy. You smiled at him as he made his way towards you. “But I’ll be very cross with him if he doesn’t. I think he knows that.”

The man you spoke of raised a single eyebrow as if to say, “Oh really?”

You made a similar face that left no room for argument. 

“I see,” Watari continued, “Shall I book this trip for one or two?”

You couldn’t hide your surprise at the question. You didn’t know how to answer. You didn’t have to though as L decided then to grab the phone from your hand, pinching it awkwardly between his fingers. 

“Two,” he replied on your behalf. “We’ll also need a cover so that the others don’t know we’re together.”

“Understood. How soon would you like to leave?”

L returned the phone to you, trusting your decision. 

“We’ll leave tomorrow. We have plans for tonight, and I’d like to rest beforehand.”

“That’s very wise, Ms Ogawa. I’ll send over the itinerary soon.”

“Thank you, Watari.”

You hung up, placing your phone back in your pocket. When you looked up, L’s hand was extended, offering you a sweater. 

“If you intend to go out,” he explained, “You’ll need a sweater.”

You took it gratefully, and he turned his head again, giving you space to change. When you finished pulling the shirt over your head, he looked up and felt like he had swallowed his tongue. He never anticipated that seeing you in his clothes would affect him this way. He was truly smitten by you, and that was something he could no longer deny. 

“Ready?” You asked, disrupting his train of thought. 

He nodded, and you offered him your hand. A small smile spread across his face as he took it. He trusted your hands too, he realised. 

You reached the garage, selecting an inconspicuous sedan for your ventures. L moved to open the door when you stopped him. 

“Wait!” Your heart was in your throat, but you closed your eyes and forced out the words. “My favourite flowers are poppies. I think it’s cool how versatile they are. The moon absolutely amazes me. I understand how its gravitational pull affects our tides, but I still can’t wrap my mind around it. I also really like The Smiths, which raises conflicting feelings in me because I hate Morrison as a person, but man, if he isn’t great as crying into a microphone.”

You heard a soft chuckle and felt a hand reach out to hold your bicep. You took a deep breath, continuing with Ryusaki’s encouragement. 

“I prefer a good milkshake over any other dessert. I think time travel is probably the coolest superpower, but I think it’s too great a power that I wouldn’t trust myself with it. I like cats, but I’ve always wanted a pet raccoon. I don’t think I could get one, morally, but they just look so cute. If I had one, I would love that little guy so much. I would give him a really pretentious name; find a way to grant him Lordship.”

You opened your eyes slowly to see Ryusaki smiling, his thumb tracing circles on your arm. His eyes darted around your face, twinkling in city lights. His heart pounded harder with every word you uttered. Romance was never something he prioritised in his life, it wasn’t something he ever saw happening. Most people were put off by him, and it wasn’t often that he actually met people in his work. He could have lived the rest of his life hiding behind a computer screen, an imperceivable entity known only to one man. But now, he would give anything to stand in the sun with you while you look at him the way you do now. Affection and amnesty dripping from your gaze. 

“I’d like to try and kiss you again,” he said timidly. “If you’d show me how.”

Your smile split your face, feeling overjoyed by his words. Each move you made, he mirrored, hands on cheeks and bodies touching as he matched your steps forward. You jumped up on your tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Ryusaki’s eyes widened comically, and a hand rose to his lips as if he’d find your kiss there. But soon, his shock dissipated, replaced by a look of hunger. 

This time, he led, dropping a hand to your waist to hold you close and using his other to lift your chin. He moved in so slowly, and your body thrummed with the anticipation of contact. He stopped, his lips barely grazing yours, and you couldn’t hide your desperate tremble when you felt his soft breath against your own. He pressed his puckered lips against yours, and you took no time reciprocating. 

You brought a hand to the back of his neck, guiding him and pulling him closer. You felt like you were flying, your heart beating its feathered wings against your ribcage. You pulled your lips away just to bring them back, and you could feel his confidence growing as he tilted his head and his grip on your waist grew tighter. You began moving your lips against his, testing the waters. The rhythm was awkward at first, but he caught it soon enough. 

His chest was rising and falling quickly against you, and he brought his hands up to hold your face. You lost yourself in his touch, in the way he clung to you. You were being consumed and felt no dire to run from it. He caught your bottom lip between his teeth, and you gasped. 

Your eyelids flutter as your brain caught up to what was happening around you. Ryusaki was no longer kissing you but carefully cataloguing the look on your face in his mind. He was reviewing everything he did and how you reacted to it. He had decided that he loved kissing you, and he wanted you to love it too. He wanted love to be something you associated with him, especially now that he knew his brain was making a similar connection. He knew it was probably too soon to say something like that, but he could wait. He would wait forever if he had to. He had the brightest star in the sky in his palms, and he didn’t intend to let this shooting star fall from his grasp. 

You were seeing sides of L that you never thought you would, ones you never thought to look for. He held you like a precious stone, something sacred. He looked at you like you were a wonder to behold, the eighth wonder of the world. It made it hard to breathe, suffocated by his silent adoration. 

“So, where are we going this evening?” He asked from high above. 

“I don’t know,” you said breathlessly, “but we have all of Tokyo, I’m sure we’ll find something.”

He loved this look on you. The joy in your eyes, the lack of stress in your muscles. Your glee was infectious, and he didn’t mind it. 

“As long as you’re by my side, I think anything would do.”

He testingly laid a kiss on your forehead as he said it, and you felt like you would melt to the floor in a pile of goo. You removed a hand from his neck, resting it on his, and were delighted when he instantly intertwined your fingers. 

“Well, I’m not going anywhere, Ryu-”

“Lawliet,” He interjected. You tilt your head, confused, and L does his best not to swoon as you rest your head in his hand on your cheek. “My name is Lawliet.”

You break out into a blinding grin, and Lawiet knows then that smile was the sunlight he was meant to bask in. Those were the rays that would light his darkest nights. The beams that would guide him through the intricate maze of life. 

He had found all he needed. A friend who listens to his grief and grievances. One who cares enough to try and understand his mind and soothe it at the same time. Not for her own convenience, but for his betterment; never pushing the boundary of discomfort but bringing thrill to the change. He found a fresh pair of eyes, for when his get dull and tired, to show him the artistry outside of the ghastly monstrosities he and the world bathed in. A person brave enough to show up, even on the bad days. The whole world could fit in his palms when he held you like this. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Lawliet.” you corrected.

L smiled, squeezing your hands three times. You returned the sentiment with a kiss to the hand you held in your own. 

Tag List: @barbecuetiddy, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @purple-amaranthe, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @scorpiolystoned, @supernerdycookietrashblrr, @tayswiftlovebot, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

I hope you enjoyed the read! Like I said, I don't think I'll do much writing for L, but I really enjoyed this. I hope even if you don't have as much love for this character as I do, you can still get something out of it :))

[misteryladys2]

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 Genderbend!yellowjackets x reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mention of blood, language, murder, alcohol and drugs and suggestive themes.

Based on the Paramount TV Series: Yellowjackets

---

Everything is white, icy, and quiet— except for the hurried sound of footsteps sinking into the soft snow.

A boy is running.

He looks young, maybe in his late teens.

His pale face is drenched in sweat, wide eyes frantic, black hair stuck to his forehead. His breath escapes in thick clouds. He's wearing only a white blouse that's far too big for him. His legs are bare, red from the cold— clothes not meant for weather this deadly.

But he keeps running.

Stumbling. Falling. Getting up again.

Like a cornered deer.

Voices in the distance.

Not intelligible— but human. Or what used to be human. Fanatical, almost religious cries reverberate through the trees like cursed echoes.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes wide with terror.

Nothing. No one in sight.

A misstep. A short scream.

He falls.

The snow swallows him for a second… Then he's gone.

A horrible, dry, violent sound.

Inside the pit, wooden stakes pierce through the boy’s body.

He still moves—trembling. A weak spasm in one bloodied finger, where a silver ring glints faintly. His eyes are wide, glazed over.

Someone appears above the trap.

A figure.

Face covered in a translucent cloth—like surgical gauze. Only the eyes are visible. Cold. Empty. Inquisitive. Grotesque features. Hollow stare.

The figure stands silently, as if admiring an offering.

In the distance, a low, ancient sound— like muffled thunder or a drum echoing from the bowels of the forest.

The prey has been captured.

---

1996

GOAL.

The net ripples. The crowd roars.

Teammates leap from the makeshift stands. Jack screams, arms raised high:

“We’re going to the fucking Nationals!!!”

It was true.

His friends run to him— they pile on top of him, laughing, shouting, hugging. The sky seemed bluer than ever.

They were a team.

A family.

Unaware of what was waiting for them.

Those boys had a bright future ahead.

---

[alwaysbemybae]

Crowley's Vow, 1941

My gentle angel, soft, warm, and bright, my job is to guard you, I swear that I will ensure that you're safe all through the long night. Our enemies are shrewd in this bitter fight but you give me hope in a world full of ill, my gentle angel, soft, warm, and bright. I'm tempted to kiss you in the moonlight but I can't have my judgement clouded until I know that you're safe all through the long night. It's such a sweet torture, a tender plight-- my arms long to enfold you but must stay still, my gentle angel, soft, warm, and bright. Friend and foe are captured in my line of sight, I swoop you to shelter when sirens blare a drill, make sure that you're safe all through the long night. One day we'll both soar on wings that take flight; we'll love each other til we've both drunk our fill. Now and ever, my angel, soft, warm, and bright, I vow to keep you safe all through the long night.

-

Thank you to @isiaiowin for the #GOetry prompt @goodomensafterdark

Form: Villanelle. A poem with five three-line stanzas and a concluding four-line stanza, with an ABA and ABAA rhyme pattern. The first and third lines repeat and then come together as the final couplet of the poem.

Theme: Temptation

-

Inspired by RockSaltandRoll's 1941 human AU On Espionage and Prophecy. Crowley is an intelligence agent working with Soho bookseller Aziraphale Fell. Crowley must stay professional for national security reasons but finds himself falling in love.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225669/chapters/45712069

-

Poem is also on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63419863

[gloomwitchwrites]

Ink & Needle // Chapter Sixteen

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): tattoo shop au, language, suggestive themes, birth control discussion, dirty talk, making out, touching

Word Count: 5.2k

You and Simon explore Edinburgh before heading to Johnny’s family farm in the Highlands. At the secluded cottage on property, you and Simon finally have the chance to be truly alone.

Chapter Fifteen // Chapter Seventeen

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Green grass. Fall rain. Endless gray sky.

Funny how the simple things, the things you don’t expect, can bring you joy. They ground you in a singular moment, capturing the present like a snapshot. Simon’s head is quickly filling with these pictures. They are consuming. Perfect. A calmness that he often feels just before the first sip of tea.

It took twenty minutes—and all of Simon’s willpower—to pull himself from your arms and out of bed this morning. He would have stayed but this is so much better. This is freeing. A complete separation from the stresses of his life. Since waking, Simon hasn’t thought about a single fucking worry all day.

No 141 Ink. No British Intelligence. No Kit Walsh.

Nothing.

Simon even forgot to care that he didn’t pack or wear a balaclava for this trip.

There has only been you.

You—who is the bright light in the dark that is his life.

It’s raining in Edinburgh, but that doesn’t appear to dampen your mood one bit. If anything, it makes you wilder, and Simon loves watching your intense satisfaction in everything you see around you. Right now, you stand in the middle of a cobblestone street, staring up into the cloudy sky, smiling at the soft rain as it lands on your face.

Simon is on the pavement, grinning like an idiot as you make your way back to him. Before you reach him, Simon presents his hand. You take it without question, the two of you effortlessly coming together.

It is natural. It is instinct.

The connection between his actions and his brain are so seamless, Simon doesn’t realize what he’s doing until after it has already happened. Each movement flows into the next, and it keeps the worries at a distance.

You are right in front of him. You are here and whole and all his.

Nothing compares.

With the rain, Simon sticks to indoor activities. The two of you linger in little trinket shops and old bookstores, explore winding streets, and watch the rain from café windows. You are curious, and this curiosity forces Simon to see the world around him differently. Simon always stops in Edinburgh when he visits Johnny’s family farm, but it’s just another stop to him. Nothing more.

At this point, it is routine, but watching you explore the city with new eyes gives Simon pause. It tells him to slow down, to consider that he can enjoy what’s before him as it is. Because watching you is shifting something inside of him. Not like a knife to the gut that twists and turns, but a healing with thread and needle and a tenderness that he can’t place but feels in his marrow.

When the rain stops and the clouds clear out, you and Simon stop for a sandwich before trekking up Calton Hill. Simon has seen this view hundreds of times. He stays back, allowing you to take it all in. There are other people up here—mostly tourists—but unlike them, you do not pull out your phone to snap photos. You simply admire, and inhale deeply, just living in the moment.

Simon does not interrupt. He does something he hasn’t done in ages.

From his coat pocket, Simon removes a small sketch pad and pencil. Finding a comfortable spot in the wet grass, he starts to sketch, allowing the graphite to lead. Simon sketches, simply existing, until you turn your back to Edinburgh and extend your arm to him, fingers wiggling in invitation.

Simon is the one that moves, taking your hand instead of you taking his. Again, like all the other times today, you step into his space, molding to him as if you’ve always belonged there. Bending down, Simon brushes his lips against the crown of your head before departing.

The drive to Johnny’s family farm up in the Highlands is peaceful. You sleep most of the way, and Simon doesn’t wake you until he pulls into the drive. He parks off to the side next to the tarp-covered quad and shuts off the car. Simon promised Johnny he’d check on the place before heading out to the cottage at the edge of the property.

Simon gently places his hand on your shoulders and squeezes. “We’re here.”

You stir, eyelids blinking slowly before opening fully. Sitting up, you yawn and glance around, realization dawning. “This the place?”

“Cottage is elsewhere. Stopping here first. Promised Johnny I’d look in on the place.”

“You mentioned no one would be here.” You have the passenger door open before Simon can hop out and open it for you. He comes around the front of the vehicle as you shut the car door. “Are we checking on the animals?” you ask, hopefulness in your tone.

Simon chuckles. “Absolutely not. Think I know how?”

“No,” you reply automatically, laughing. Your grin is infectious, and Simon cannot help but match it.

“You have so little faith in me?” he teases, placing one hand above the passenger window, creating a barrier between you and the house.

Simon leans in and grins when he receives the reaction he wants. You’re flustered and sweet, your gaze darting from his face to his chest in embarrassment.

“Never,” you murmur, lips parting slightly.

Your pupils widen and Simon has to swallow down a growl. Just a few more minutes, and the two of you will be where you need to.

Simon pushes off from the car and nods toward the house, walking backward. You follow, clearly eager. The main house is single-level, rectangular, and made of gray stone. The cottage is similar but boxy, housing a single room instead of several.

Approaching the front door, Simon begins lifting the edges of rocks that make up the flower bed with the toe of his boot. Usually someone is always here when Simon comes for a visit and all that’s required is just a knock on the door. But whenever the farm sits empty, a key is placed under a rock, and it is a hunt in finding where it is. The key is never in the same place twice and Johnny always forgets to remind Simon where it might be located.

A flash of metal catches Simon’s attention. He overturns the rock and bends down, snagging the key, jostling the rock back into place with his boot. Simon slides the key into the lock, and the door gives. Simon enters and you follow on his heels.

Simon loves this house. It’s cozy and comfortable. A true home. He’s spent many Christmases here, sleeping on the lumpy sofa and stuffing his face at the large wooden dining table. Hesitantly, you step forward as Simon tosses the key on the kitchen counter.

“Is there anything I can help with?” you ask, turning in Simon’s direction.

Simon shakes his head. “Just checking that windows are locked. I’ll walk the exterior after.”

You nod, slipping your hands into your coat pockets, strolling further into the house. Simon starts in the interior room before moving on to the bedrooms and bathroom. Everything is secure. Nothing is out of place, but the lock in the main bedroom is loose.

“Simon,” you call out. He tenses slightly at your raised voice but you don’t sound nervous or afraid.

Cautiously, he reenters the main room. You’re standing in front of the fridge. When Simon appears, you glance at him, the corners of your mouth turning upward into a bemused expression.

“What is it?” he asks, suddenly apprehensive.

Your head slowly swivels back to the fridge and that is when he notices a small piece of paper attached to it by a magnet.

“Simon,” you begin, reading from the paper. “I’ve stocked the fridge with all your favorites. Harold is taking care of the animals. Heard you’re bringing a lady friend. Hope you bring her at Christmas.” You turn back to Simon, one eyebrow arched in question.

Bloody hell.

The next time Simon sees Johnny, he’s strangling him.

“It also says to strip the bed before we leave if we—” you glance back at the note, “make a mess.”

Johnny, you’re a dead man.

Simon nearly chokes at that last bit. “It doesn’t say that,” he grumbles, striding forward to snatch the note off the fridge. Simon turns the paper over, revealing a familiar sprawling cursive. That is Johnny’s mother’s handwriting. He reads over it and then crosses his arms over his chest, staring you down.

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you giggle uncontrollably.

“You’re fucking done,” he says, pointing in your direction before folding the paper and stuffing it into his pocket. Simon tries to keep a serious demeanor but utterly fails. He’s grinning too as he rummages around for the toolbox under the sink.

After fixing the lock, Simon takes a lap around the perimeter of the house. Finding nothing, the two of you return to the car and head out to the cottage. It isn’t far and the dirt road that leads to it borders the pastures.

The cottage is a near replica of the main house. It too is made of stone with a small flower bed out front.

“Is this where we’re staying?” you ask as Simon opens the boot and removes the bags.

“You like it?”

“It’s lovely, Simon.” Your gaze softens. “Thank you.”

His heart stops and then melts, becoming liquid in his chest. “We both needed a break.”

You nod. “We did.” Your glance at the bags hanging off his shoulder. “I can take mine.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, pushing right past you and to the door.

You are not lifting a finger this entire trip. Simon won’t allow it. If you need anything, he will provide it.

Simon has the key in the door before you can form a protest. You’re grumbling behind him, but Simon ignores you, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Slowly, Simon slips the bags off his shoulder and places them at his feet.

Like the main house, the cottage is old. It’s seen two world wars, rebellions, and invasions. While the exterior hasn’t changed much, the interior has been updated to accommodate modern amenities. It consists of one large room and a small bathroom. Across from the entry door, on the other side of the room, is the hearth. It is the focal point of the room, and other than some general upkeep, it hasn’t changed since it was first built. Simon could comfortably crouch inside it and still have room to move.

Simon can build a fire in it, but he cannot fucking cook with it. Johnny’s mother certainly passed on her knowledge but it never stuck. Thankfully, there’s an actual fucking oven. The kitchen area itself is relatively small with limited counter space and a small fridge. Next to that is a tiny breakfast table that segways into a little sitting area with an armchair and sofa that seats two.

Directly inside the door to Simon’s left is the bathroom, and to his right is the bed. Its wood frame is weathered but sturdy.

“This is where we’re staying?” you ask softly, as if you don’t believe it to be true.

“Until Wednesday,” answers Simon, suddenly nervous.

Do you like it? Is it enough?

Simon cannot see your face. You’re turned away from him, walking further into the room. He stands awkwardly near the door, and the only thing in his head is how much he desires your approval. This trip isn’t much, but it’s something.

When you remove your coat and shiver, Simon’s response is immediate. “I’ll start the fire.” Grabbing the wool blanket off the bed, Simon unfolds it and holds it at your shoulders for you to accept.

This time, Simon finally sees your face, and the softness in your features dissolves any doubts. You are happy, and when your gaze meets his, Simon is momentarily lost, delving into your endlessness.

And yet again, Simon’s movements do not register until he is already reaching for you.

He drapes the wool blanket over your shoulders and then wraps you up in it, pulling you against his chest as he does so. Simon does not ask. He does not hesitate. There is no trepidation when he claims your lips. All Simon knows is that he wants this, wants you, and you are here with him.

No one can take you from him.

You open, and Simon advances. The second your taste finds his tongue Simon knows that he’ll slaughter anything and anyone who attempts to steal you away.

They will only know the shape of his fists.

They will only know the flavor of lead.

Suffering will be their sleep and their memory upon waking.

You are too good—too fucking sweet for Simon—and yet he’s never giving you up. Will never drop the addiction. If you leave, Simon can only follow.

The kiss deepens, your fingers finding the back of his neck. You’re smaller than him but you still try to show a bit of force. It’s cute how you’re pulling on him, telling Simon you crave more. Eagerness is pumping in your blood, and Simon is ready to explore that need. To understand and match it with his own.

He wants to fill his lungs with it.

Breathe you in so deep you’ll leave scars.

While Simon would love nothing more than to remove everything beneath the blanket, he needs to warm this place up and put some food in your belly.

Reluctantly, and with harrowing effort, Simon pries your fingers away from his neck. You whimper in response, and that sound goes straight to his dick. The sudden rush of blood is what snaps Simon out of his haze. When he draws back and notices your puffy, pouty lips and blown pupils, Simon nearly submits all over again.

But even that is not enough to completely shatter him.

“You’re distracting me,” he mumbles.

Your smile is gentle. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

Simon reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. “Curl up on the sofa. I need to grab wood.”

“Let me help,” you say, tugging on his jacket.

“Rest. I’ve got this.”

Your palm goes flat against his chest before dropping away. It leaves a lingering warmth behind. Backing up, you plop onto the couch, bending forward to remove your shoes. Simon turns away quickly, running his fingers through his hair as if that will calm his racing heart.

He retrieves wood from the pile on the south side of the house, stacking it all next to the hearth. Removing the correct tools, Simon sets to work. It won’t take much to warm the room, and Simon gives just enough life to the fire to take care of other tasks. Given the right conditions, the fire will do what it needs to on its own.

Opening the fridge, Simon snorts. Johnny’s mother truly did stock it. She not only prepped for dinner but left plenty for breakfast, lunch, and afternoon tea. Amongst all that are various snacks.

We won’t need to leave at all.

That is what Simon ultimately wanted, and it’s exactly what he’s receiving.

Simon begins heating the small oven and selects one of the prepared meals from the fridge. Johnny’s mother even left a couple bottles of wine and a small bottle of scotch on the counter. While Simon loves a strong drink, he prefers Kentucky bourbon, but he won’t turn down what’s freely offered.

By the time the two of you finish a bottle of wine and dinner, it’s dark out. Simon shutters the windows, cleaning up the cutlery and wine glasses before joining you on the sofa. The old thing sags under his weight but it’s comfortable, and you lean into him, resting your head in the crook of his arm.

Simon doesn’t feel anything but contentment. He’s like white linen hanging on a clothesline under the summer sun. No cares. No worries. There is nothing but you and him and this cottage for the next few days.

Shifting in his arms, you look up at him, your chin slightly digging into his shoulder. Simon glances down at you, and without hesitation, places his large palm against the side of your throat, his thumb gently caressing your cheek.

“Ready for bed, love?” Simon means sleep, but that idea utterly vacates his brain when you swing your leg over his thighs. Still keeping his hand on your throat, you move from his right side to his lap. The wool blanket is still around your shoulders, and it falls open slightly as you raise both hands to rest against his chest.

“Simon.” His name on your tongue is honey-thick. “You know what I want.”

“I know,” he says, because it’s what he wants too.

Two months. Two months since he first saw you standing in the doorway of 141 Ink. He thought you a phantom, an illusion of the mind that happens to him sometimes. But you were real that day. You were real and fate brought you to him.

Simon has waited three fucking years for you.

And he’s going to make up for every missed second.

His hand drops from your neck only to settle on your hips. Simon squeezes, filling his grip with you, imagining when there will no longer be a barrier between his skin and yours. It’s what he’s been thinking of, what he’s been wanting, but that’s not the whole picture.

You are more than what you can offer him physically, and while that is the final piece, it’s not everything. Simon adores your kisses and kind smiles. He loves your silly jokes, and the sense of peace that comes with your presence. The instinct to protect and possess is a constant thing. It sits in the back of his head and between his rib bones.

A model relationship isn’t something Simon knows. He grew up with violence and made a career of it. Every person Simon has ever engaged with on an intimate level have always been quick and efficient affairs. Simple need fulfillment. Nothing more.

But this? With you?

It’s so much more. It goes beyond the bounds of reason. It is suffocating as much as it is lifegiving. There is no doubt in Simon’s mind about how he feels, only beautiful truth.

Your hands venture away from his chest. One comes to a rest in the muscled dip where his neck and shoulder meet. The other is low, nearly in his lap, toying with the end of his shirt like you want to delve underneath but aren’t sure if you should.

“Do you want me?” you ask, and Simon hears the gentle break.

Do you truly think he’ll reject you?

“Always,” he answers. “Constantly.”

Simon’s hands slide up to your waist, holding tight, drawing you closer. Your head tilts in invitation and Simon matches your movement. The connection is electric and yet completely comforting. This feeling is a tangled web of warmth and anticipation. It courses through Simon’s veins until it buzzes in the tips of his fingers.

Again and again, Simon is lost in you. The craving is unending. You press in, roll your hips, and Simon snaps. Breaking the kiss, Simon grasps the nape of your neck. The gasp you release upon separation heats his blood.

“We need to talk first,” he says.

You whimper and try to return to him, but Simon’s grip is firm. He doesn’t want to deny you this but the two of you need to discuss protection before anything continues.

“Listen to me, love,” coos Simon. Your gaze goes from his lips to his eyes. “If we’re doing this, I want no barriers.”

The middle of your brow creases in confusion. “You have me, Simon. Completely.”

Simon shakes his head. His left hand falls away from your waist and slides over the curve of your ass, dipping between your spread thighs. Pausing, Simon cups your pussy and your eyelids flutter with pleasure.

“No barriers,” he repeats, pressing slightly until you make a sound in your throat that shoots a bolt of need to his dick. “That’s what I want.” Your gaze darts over his face, but you don’t say anything.

The silence is excruciating, and he needs an answer. “Do you want that?” he asks, even as the uncertainty of your answer bites at his resolve.

If you say no, it’s not a big fucking deal. Simon packed an entire box of condoms for this very reason. Whatever you decide, he’ll respect it, but he just needs to know. Because whatever you tell him, the two of you will need to make a plan moving forward.

Simon will fuck you bare. He wants you dripping with him. To see it between your legs and know that you belong to him.

“Simon.”

“Tell me.”

“Yes.”

Fucking hell.

“Yes, what?” he prompts.

“I want you,” you breathe. “No barriers.”

Simon removes his hand from between your thighs. “Are you sure, love? Don’t say yes just for me.” His fingers tighten slightly on your neck, and your eyelids flutter in response. “Not looking to put a baby in you.”

Not yet.

The unspoken words hang in front of his eyes, and Simon freezes.

Fuck.

Not yet. Not. Yet. Why the fuck did he think that? Why is his head even considering that as an option?

Because it’s true, even if Simon has only given the idea a few seconds of consideration. When Amelia showed Simon the photo of you holding Lillian, he couldn’t help himself. He imagined the small infant as yours. The one he’d have with you. Wanting a child is not something Simon has ever entertained, but then again, he didn’t have you in his life.

Pieces of him—pieces that were nothing more than scattered fractures—are beginning to reform. They’re finding each other, fusing, collectively forming the image that is Simon.

It is happening.

Slowly. But happening.

He is finding himself in the void.

“Is that something you want?

 Your question pulls Simon right out of his silent musings. He considers his next words carefully.

“It’s on the table.” Because it is, but only if you want it. “In the future,” he amends, making it clear that is not what he wants at this particular moment.

Even if he did where would the infant go in his flat? There isn’t any fucking room.

You simply nod and say nothing. Simon senses an unease radiating off you but he’s not entirely sure why and it’s unclear if he should push the topic.

“You on birth control?” he asks, deciding it’s better to receive verbal confirmation.

“I am,” you reply.

Simon sighs audibly and squeezes your thighs. “Good.”

You smile coyly. “You’re very sweaty all of a sudden, Simon. Are you nervous?”

Simon swallows and his salvia sticks in his throat. He coughs, almost chokes. “What?”

“Your cheeks are flushed.” The backs of your knuckles graze the line of his jaw. “Haven’t seen that before,” you murmur, almost as if you’re speaking to yourself and not to him.

“Come here,” growls Simon, pulling you in for a kiss to cover up whatever has caught your attention.

You giggle, playfully swatting at him, only to soften with each lingering kiss. Your muscles relax, and you melt into him, lengthening and deepening each meeting until you’re pliant in his arms again.

This is how it should be.

You become absorbed in him, and Simon revels in it. All this time, all these years, Simon believed his need for you was entirely one-sided. But with you in his lap, and your hunger flaring hot, Simon understands that you just as desperate.

Squirming, you tug on the front of Simon’s shirt as if you can pull him closer. “I want you inside me, Simon.”

You say these words against his lips, branding his flesh with your desire. Sweet victory roars beneath his skin like an animal. Simon is going to fuck you senseless. Take you over and on every possible surface.

“How, love?” he replies. “Use your words.”

When you answer, it is with shaky breath. “No barrier. Want you. Only you, Simon.”

Using just his hold on your neck, Simon draws you back to him. The kiss is chaste, more of a whisper against skin. “Can I come inside you?” Simon flexes his hips upward, rubbing his growing need against your covered pussy.

Your own hips answer back, arching into his touch as you beg. “Please.”

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs as he gives you what you need.

Why are these kisses so much sweeter? So much more addictive?

Simon craves another the moment the last one is done, as if the second they stop he’ll lose them forever. This desperation makes a home in his stomach, filling him with a smoldering demand to completely possess every part of you. Like a feral beast, Simon awakens, seeking his meal.

Without losing his hold on the nape of your neck, Simon removes the wool blanket from around your shoulders. He discards it to the side, not caring where it lands. Returning to your mouth, Simon seeks and tastes until everything within him shatters.

He is made of splintered bones, and you are the adhesive glue that will fuse him back together. To achieve that, Simon needs renewal, a blessing of your flesh.

Your top and bra are only simple obstacles. They surrender to him easily, and neither of you gives either item a second thought. It is meaningless now.

There is only bare skin against bare skin.

Simon’s palm explores, running up and down your stomach to the valley between your breasts. Everything is touched. Everything is savored until his blood roars in his ears.

Groaning, Simon forces himself to release that lovely mouth. He aches until he finds you again. Simon’s head dips, lips brushing against your throat. The kisses he leaves along the line of your neck are simple things that slowly shift and ebb, transforming into playful nips that turn to claiming bites.

Your fingers find his hair, threading and tangling, pulling slightly until Simon growls. The hold you have on him is pleasurable as much as it borders on pain. He moves lower, and it’s an odd fucking angle, but Simon doesn’t give a shit. Every inch of you deserves his mouth. When his lips skim just above your right breast, you instinctually lean back, giving Simon better access.

Simon runs his tongue over and around your nipple. You shiver in his arms, fingers lightly digging into his scalp as he teases it to a hard peak. Once stiff, Simon switches to the other, giving it just as much attention.

But it is not enough.

Sliding his hands to the backs of your thighs, Simon lifts you up as he stands. Your arms immediately lock around his neck as your ankles cross behind his back. The fact that he doesn’t need to instruct you in this pleases him.

Simon travels from the couch to the bed, and this one action reminds him of Riot Room when he lifted you in the air and bounced you on his cock. He was observing the expressions on your face as you watched him enter and exit your body. Witnessing that was fucking bliss.

He’ll do that again. But not yet.

At the edge of the bed, Simon eases you down onto the comforter. While your legs come to the bed, your hands take longer to retreat. Your fingers linger, nails lightly dragging across the back of his neck and then down the front of his chest.

Simon lets you have this.

But once you completely fall back onto the bed, Simon’s resolve is absolute.

He doesn’t demand or ask.

Like your top and bra, Simon simply grabs and tugs until you’re in nothing but your underwear. His fingers trace up your bare legs, stopping at your thighs momentarily before his hands drop away.

You’re fucking beautiful like this. A banquet. A feast he’s about to gorge himself on.

Leaning back on your forearms, your bare chest is completely exposed, breasts pushed forward in his direction. Your nipples are still hard and raw from his mouth, and Simon has to bite back a groan at the sight.

There is plenty of time to enjoy all of you. Simon needs to get a fucking hold on himself before he pushes your legs wide and buries himself without a thought for you. His blood is electrified, buzzing until it bounces around in frenzy, attempting to convince Simon to claim you until there is no doubt who it is you belong to.

He needs to slow the fuck down. Wednesday is the day the two of you return to civilization, and neither of you are leaving this cottage until then. There is only him and you and this bed.

Slowly, Simon returns his hands to your legs. He begins at your ankles, roaming up your shins and then your knees, sliding down your thighs to stop at the band of your underwear. He considers them a moment and then roughly fists the fabric. In two quick tugs, Simon has them down and around your ankles.

“You don’t need these,” he says, tugging one last time and tossing them aside.

Much better.

Your lips part and your thighs quiver. Simon’s mouth salivates from that alone. All this time, and you crave him just as much. Pride swells in his chest with the knowledge that you want to be here, and that you want this with him.

“What about you?” you ask, nodding toward Simon.

Here you are, naked and on your back, and Simon hasn’t taken off a single fucking thing. His mind was too focused on stripping you down than thinking of himself.

To answer your question, Simon reaches behind him with one hand, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Yanking it up over his head, Simon tosses the shirt to the side, leaving him in only his jeans and black socks.

“Better?” he asks, extending his hands outward slightly.

You nod, pink tongue darting out just before you nibble on your bottom lip.

Simon draws his hands back to his sides, turning them into clenched fists as a small tremor hits him causing his hands to shake. He’s worked up, and his cock fucking aches, but no matter how much he’d love to spread you wide to pound into you, your pleasure is just as important.

You’re not taking anything until you’re prepped and ready for it.

“Spread those gorgeous thighs for me,” he commands through clenched teeth. Simon watches as you part them slightly, but it isn’t nearly enough. You’re still hidden from him.

“More,” demands Simon, desperately needing to see that sweet pussy.

Again, you part your legs further, feet sliding across the bedding, but it’s still short of what Simon is after. He needs to wide. Completely open.

“No. Like this.” Simon slides his hands between and forces your thighs apart until he can see fucking everything.

The sight of you steals the oxygen from his lungs.

You are glossy. Slick. Wanton.

Fucking hell.

Simon is going to devour you.

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 4]

Chapter 98

The Funeral of a Legend

The London sky was overcast, the heavy clouds dulling the sun’s warmth. It suited the occasion. The air itself felt thick with mourning, every hushed whisper and quiet sob adding to the weight pressing on Y/N’s chest.

She sat near the back of the church, hands folded in her lap, watching as Steve sat rigidly in the front row. His shoulders were squared, his jaw clenched, but there was no mistaking the grief in his eyes.

Peggy Carter was gone.

Y/N had admired Peggy. The stories she’d heard didn’t do her justice—no mere words could capture the woman’s sheer force of will, her intelligence, or the fire in her heart. She had trained Y/N in her earliest stages, when her powers were equivalent to the temperament of a newborn and gave her a voice in a world where no one would have listened. She could not thank her enough for that. Peggy had lived a full life, but now she was just… gone.

When the service ended, Steve stayed seated, his eyes locked on the coffin. Y/N stayed too, lingering near the back as people slowly filtered out of the church. She could see Natasha standing a few feet away, arms crossed as she watched Steve.

They both knew better than to rush him.

When he finally moved, it was slow, deliberate. He stood, inhaled deeply, and turned to walk down the aisle. His gaze landed on them, and before he could say anything, Y/N opened her arms.

Steve hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the embrace.

She felt his chest rise and fall in a deep, controlled breath, his way of keeping himself together.

"I’m sorry, Steve," she murmured.

He pulled away slightly, nodding. "She had a good life."

"Yeah," she agreed, forcing a small smile. "She did."

Natasha stepped closer, her voice softer than usual. "You holding up?"

Steve gave her a look, the kind that said, Does it look like I’m holding up?

Natasha sighed, offering a small but understanding smile. "You know, if you ever want to talk about her, I’d listen."

Steve nodded, but the pain in his eyes said he wasn’t ready. "Thanks."

A beat of silence stretched between them before Natasha turned to Y/N. Her sharp gaze flickered over her face, her expression tightening slightly.

"You look pale," she noted. "You okay?"

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

Steve frowned, his gaze narrowing as he followed Natasha’s lead. “Yeah… you don’t look so good,” he said slowly, like he was only just piecing it together. “Actually… now that I think about it, you haven’t for a few weeks.”

Y/N internally cursed Natasha’s keen observation skills. She had barely eaten, barely slept. The weight in her chest had only gotten heavier since she left Loki. But she wasn’t about to burden them with that, not today.

She forced a smirk, nudging Steve lightly. "I think I just need a drink. Or ten."

Steve gave a tired chuckle, while Natasha merely raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You sure?"

"I’m fine, Nat," Y/N assured her. "It’s just been… a long few weeks."

That much was true.

Natasha studied her for another second before sighing. "Alright. But if you ever do want to talk, I’m not just gonna let you sit and brood like a certain super soldier over here."

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. "Thanks, Nat."

Y/N relaxed slightly. "Yeah, thanks."

They walked away from the church together, lingering in the quiet comfort of shared grief.

Later that night, Y/N, Steve, and Natasha sat in Steve’s hotel room, the Sokovia Accords laid out before them like a bomb waiting to go off.

"I don’t like it," Steve muttered, arms crossed as he skimmed the document again. "Putting us under government control—"

"—means we won’t be making the calls anymore," Natasha finished for him. "Which, after Lagos, is exactly what they want."

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. "I get it. We can’t just go unchecked anymore. But signing this? It puts us on a leash, and if they pull too hard…"

Steve frowned. "Then what? We ignore innocent lives if they tell us to stand down?"

Natasha leaned forward, her fingers drumming against the table. "We wouldn’t be able to act without permission. But at the same time, do you really think we can just keep going like this? Public trust in us is… well, shot to hell."

Y/N exhaled, leaning back in her chair. "There’s no good answer here. If we don’t sign, we’re fugitives. If we do, we’re weapons for the government to aim at whatever they choose."

Steve stared down at the document, the weight of it pressing on all of them.

"We should go to the signing," he said finally. "At least hear them out."

Y/N hesitated, something unsettled twisting in her gut. But she nodded.

"Yeah," she agreed. "We should."

Natasha exhaled, rubbing her temples. "This is going to get messy."

Steve’s jaw tightened. "Yeah. I know."

And deep down, Y/N knew this was only the beginning.

[oceanlipgloss]

JUDAS

CALEB.

+ warnings: angst, mentions of death, and descriptions of suicide.

Lightning isn’t white. It just makes people think it is. Their solidified, preconceived notions do, too. A lot like most stuff in this sick world that twists and swirls and turns and revolves.

It scares her.

Thunder, lightning.

They scare her.

Or, rather, they used to.

Maybe they merely used to scare her.

Maybe they don’t anymore.

So would it have been strange? If he had told her that lightning is a lovely thing put together of many colours. Would it have been strange?

Peter Pan had flown between clouds. He had, too; he had captured those images with his own eyes. He still does, whenever he soars through soundless skies. The delight isn’t entirely gone. Just dulled. A camera’s lens would have turned pixie dust into pixels. It would have made his proof seem almost lifeless. Something so complex can’t be watered down into a trick of light, shouldn’t be diluted to look like a magic spell.

Always, he wished for nothing more than to protect her, to bring to her the untainted flavour of happiness, to lie with her in the afterglow. But if she had looked—truly looked—would she have managed to see the same visions he did? Could she have found it in her heart to appreciate those bursts and fractured sparks?

Could she have...

Lightning is sparkling candy wrapper at night. Pink, green, silver. Lightning is glinting confetti at different moments in time. It switches out its hues in milliseconds, simultaneously, all together at the same time.

Like a miracle.

Childhood is abandoned at one point. From afar, it appears to be a crystal ball in which there is none but the sparkle of little wishes and tiny dreams. The passage of time fills that globe with decaying ruins.

A fading dollhouse.

Until a black hole swallows the protons, the neutrons, the electrons. Jams every particles of light into its maw. Then a mass of chaos makes the brain pulse. A slimy, tired slug. Life becomes a vacuum.

People are different. History agrees that sacrifices have always aimed to appease at the very least, and bring joy at most.

He’s stupid enough to deem true something so absurd. One who does not have faith in tradition, but believes in offerings. Sacrificing oneself is as simple a grade-school equation.

As it turns out, being an academic genius doesn’t necessarily equate to general intelligence. She didn’t want to think it, but goodness may very well encourage recklessness.

How on Earth?

How could he understand that thunder once scared her, yet not realise that the world without him would frighten her?

There was a day when certainty had bloomed in her bones: everything between them was shared fair and square, the equal pieces of an apple pie. These days, the truth got retold on their calendar: he had been tipping the balance towards her since that first hour.

Their connection was a vicious cycle of Russian roulette in endless rounds, or constant trials of holding someone still on a chair before they dangle from a rope to hang from a peeling ceiling.

He was not scared of death.

He let haunt her never-ending anxieties and so many questions.

Why did he not comprehend that she could not bear for death to even press its frigid fingertips against his heart? And yet, he was always pulling it close, close enough for it to shove its icy fingers down his throat. He was living in its cold stomach, curled up into a ball, letting it dissolve him as he survives on thoughts of her.

He was not scared of death, but she was. That made her tipsy. Unsteady on her feet. Her thoughts were morbid. Unintelligible scribbles in permanent marker, dripping down an old bathroom wall.

Can someone with such suicide on their mind be saved? He was not suicidal per se, no. Then again, for her he seemed to develop a taste for it, and suicidal he seemed to be: the way in which he gambles on his life, the way he wouldn’t blink before trading off his destiny. As long as she survived, as long as she was fine.

Crazy or kind?

The treasure, the sickening latter.

They were on repeat and rewind, the terror and threat of losing him to his game, which was not quite a game, yet utterly insane. A damaged tape. She didn’t want to hear the distortions any longer, couldn’t handle them for much longer, but she would never turn her back on him, either.

If only she could lessen his pain.

If only things would go back to safe and normal.

What was normal, and what was safe?

She still wished for hers to be the only existence to transmit to him an agony that would send tremors through his heart, anyway.

And despite it all, she understood.

Without her, he would not be. And without him, she would never be. Unbreakable. The two strands of a DNA. Convergence by an indecipherable fate. He would choose to die in her name, and she would choose to die for his sake.

Did that make them both mad, or were they just inseparable?

When they could never exist without one another, what else could they do?

The universe had bound them, and it wasn’t their fault. Could they blame it for stitching their stars together when what they had was so pure and beautiful?

Never for a moment.

Experiments are not meant to be pretty, let alone slices of paradise. Lab rats are not supposed to be more than bags of cells. Though, there are those who had regrown the hearts they had been tested to forget. Skin grafts, heart transplants. The bodies were the same. The hearts never changed. Hearts their bodies had never truly rejected.

Complementing each other, merged.

In life, in death.

Moons orbit their planets, but she’s a meteorite that would follow him to the edge of the universe so they would teeter together on the edge of life itself, or shatter the horizon and destroy the land on which they fall.

When she imagined two figures roaming the realm beyond the one they had always known, she no longer felt scared. The shadows and omens disappeared. Her eyes could look on ahead.

Never apart, together falling apart.

Meteors burn themselves until they melt into the vast expanse of blackness in the end. He, as well, was like those hard rocks. Except...he was of bone and flesh. No matter how deep modifications dug and the future probed, he was not a sculpture of metal. In his body would always breathe a heart, reside a soul.

Summer’s sweet, calming warmth.

If—

When.

When someday his brain becomes forced to forget, will his soul remember?

Fruits shared, promises broken, wishes granted, devotion given.

Will it all be forgotten?

The despaired throbbing in her chest, she couldn’t stop it.

It burned.

Summer or hellfire?

Was it his anguish or hers? Was it theirs?

One day, she feared, he would wander in space again, aimless between the galaxies and planets again, so much like the blind prince who had lost himself in the desert, looking for Rapunzel. They themselves would never meet again, however. And he, this time, would disappear forever.

A promise breaker.

He would betray her.

A traitor.

That’s why. That’s why sometimes, she thought her protector was also her Judas.

+notes: this section has always served as a tiny diary in which I write down notes related to a work (i.e. inspiration, beginnings, process, progress, etc.) for me to track my work, as well as for my future reference and reminiscing moments, so it tends to be long and rich in babbles. Read for useless trivia on this writing journey, or skip the adventure. Back on track: some time ago I began writing this fic with no specific direction in mind, if I recall correctly. Soon enough, on the very same day, I put it away and abandoned it for a while. Then I unlocked Decoherence last week and didn't get around to reading it until tonight. My reaction was directed inwards, my heart heavy as lead; and yet, in spite of the tragedy of it all, there was a faint pulse of hope amid the black void and hopelessness. The togetherness, the shared, destined rebirth. Despite everything, because of everything, Caleb tears apart my heart like paper every time. He's such a pure, selfless soul, and his heart is so, so kind. The way he and MC love each other. The way their connection breathes in their very bones and the way they could never be apart. The way MC cannot live without him and would do whatever to be by his side, even if it meant tossing away her life. The way they both sacrifice. Earlier today I had been trying to write and had failed miserably, but while reading the myth I found myself opening the Notes document of my WIPs, all of a sudden with an idea in mind, a known destination I wanted to take this writing to. That's the reason I came back to the WIP the minute I wrapped up the myth; the words just...flowed. This piece is very dear to me, and it's close to my heart; I believe it may be my favourite one yet.

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[meabh-mcinness]

Chronicles of a Second Chance

Chapter Two: The Coming Storm

Over the next few years, your days were consumed by the slow, frustrating process of growing up again. Every milestone—rolling over, crawling, walking—felt like an eternity to achieve. But each step brought you closer to the moment you could truly act.

Your parents’ eccentric, but surprisingly nice, lifestyle gave you plenty of time to think. They homeschooled you early, focusing on meditation, nature walks, and ‘spiritual enlightenment,’ which left you free to secretly plan and scheme.

You learned quickly, and guiltily, how to leverage their beliefs to your advantage. Want a telescope to ‘study the stars’? They were thrilled to buy one, thinking it was a sign of your spiritual growth. Need a computer for ‘educational purposes’? Done. Books on different fields such as astronomy, biology, and even mechanics (though that one was harder to score until you brought up that greenhouse maintenance was mechanical in nature) were quickly thrown your way and you devoured each one, eager to gain all the knowledge that you could to help you on your chosen path. They were so proud for having such a smart child who was so interested in the world around them that they never seemed to pause and question how it was you could read such high-level things so early on.

By the time you were four, you’d built up a surprising amount of knowledge about the world you now inhabited. The Witwicky’s were local, living just a few neighbourhoods over. You still met up with Judy and Sam in the park, more than happy to force them to spend time with you and your little oddball family. Sam was always excited to come by and run around the grassy playground with you, listening in quiet rapture as you told stories about the stars so high above. About crystal cities on a foreign planet that towered as high as Earth's mountains and giant metallic titans that could transform and race one another at speeds, humans could never reach.

When you turned five, the next milestone was reached. A new member joined your little duo when you both started school. Miles Lancaster. A boy who enjoyed climbing trees like he was part squirrel and had a fascination with the aeroplanes and jets that were always flying by high in the sky.

Your little trio formed quickly, bound together by a shared sense of wonder and curiosity. Sam’s bright enthusiasm and Miles’ daring spirit complemented your careful, calculating approach to everything. Together, you explored every corner of your small town, finding adventure in the mundane.

At school, you were the quiet, precocious one. Teachers praised your intelligence, often amazed by how you absorbed information like a sponge. Miles was the class clown, always with a quick joke or a mischievous grin. Sam, eager to please, floated somewhere between, charming everyone with his genuine friendliness. The three of you were inseparable.

When you weren’t in class, you’d lead your friends on “missions.” These were often elaborate scavenger hunts or explorations of the wooded areas on the outskirts of your property. Armed with toy compasses, flashlights, and Sam’s overstuffed backpack, you’d spend hours pretending to be explorers in some alien world, capturing bugs and bringing home random stones you found. To you, it wasn’t entirely pretend. You’d tell stories about planets beyond the stars, weaving intricate tales that left Sam and Miles hanging on your every word.

“Do you think there really could be aliens out there?” Sam asked one day, lying on the grass of the school playground and staring up at the clouds.

“Definitely,” you said without hesitation. “The universe is too big for us to be alone. Maybe they’re watching us right now, waiting for the right moment to say hello.”

Miles propped himself up on one elbow, his wide eyes brimming with excitement. “What if they’re giant? Like... skyscraper tall! And they can shapeshift! That’d be awesome. Imagine riding on one who could turn into a dragon!”

You smirked, mind wandering briefly to Predaking and how cool it would be to ride on the giant metallic dragon. “That would be cool.”

______________

Life had settled into an odd but comfortable rhythm by the time you turned sixteen. Sam, Miles, and you had grown from wild kids with boundless imaginations to teens with an unshakable bond. It was a gift you refused to squander even when you wanted to strangle the two boys when their more stupid or perverted habits started up.

Speaking of – you watched with a roll of your eyes as Sam openly stared in admiration from his desk as Mikaela Banes walked by. You could understand it of course, Mikaela was quite the pretty girl with the popularity and smarts to match. Had you actually been a sixteen-year-old, instead of mentally in your thirties, you might have even crushed on her too. Instead, you just sat in the background with Miles, internally shaking your head at how dumb Sam suddenly became around her.

What you wouldn’t do for a good glass of liquor to burn away the feeling of second-hand embarrassment right now. You were pretty sure Rowan’s latest batch of kombucha had accidently fermented too much. If you had been home, you would have downed it without a second thought. What a shame that instead you were forced to attend the farce that was high school all over again instead of lounging comfortably in the hammock strung up in your room.

Once more despairing over your new physical age and its setbacks, you pulled out your notebook and pen ready to get today's history lesson over with.

Ever since the year had started, you had greeted each history class with a mixed feeling of apprehension and anticipation. Every day that passed brought you closer to the assignment that would become the catalyst for the horror show that would be the rest of your lives. The feelings had only grown once Sam had revealed closer to the beginning of the new semester that his father had cut him a deal about getting a new car if he could earn $2,000 and three A’s.

The future assignment that haunted your thoughts was a simple one on the surface: a family history project. Every junior was required to present a detailed report about a member from their ancestry, showcasing photos, keepsakes, or personal anecdotes. While you only had a vague idea of what to do for yours, you knew what this would mean for Sam.

In the next few days, his father would drag out the old family heirlooms. The faded photograph of Archibald Witwicky, the map, and most importantly, the glasses -- proof of the mad man’s claims of seeing mechanical beings on an icebound expedition, even if no one else knew it yet. Sam would present these with teenage disdain, joking about his family’s kooky past. He would get a, rather undeserved in your opinion, A- on his project.

The third A needed to seal the deal.

You twirled your pen idly, your mind drifting away from the droning lecture. History class felt like a cruel joke when you already knew how history would unfold. The arrival of Bumblebee, the resurrection of Megatron (did it count as a resurrection if he wasn’t actually dead but frozen in place?), and the chaos of the AllSpark drama—it all loomed over you like a storm cloud.

"Are you even listening?" Miles whispered from his seat beside you, nudging your arm.

You blinked, shaking off your thoughts. "Of course. Mr. Graham is enthralling as always."

Miles snorted, clearly not convinced. "Sure you are. You looked like you were planning world domination or something."

"If only," you muttered as you focused in on what Mr. Graham was saying. You were pretty certain that world domination would be much easier than trying to come up with a bajillion plans on how to alter future actions on not only humans but giant aliens as well so that everything came out with the least amount of loss possible.

Yeah world domination was a nice thought in comparison even if you didn’t actually care for ruling anything.

It was hard to decide how to feel about it, you mused as you watched Mr. Graham pace back and forth continuing with the lecture half of today's lesson. On one hand, the thought of seeing Optimus Prime and the Autobots in person was exhilarating. On the other, you knew the devastation that would follow. Cybertron’s war wouldn’t stay in the shadows anymore.

It would come here, to Earth, leaving destruction in its wake.

“All right, everyone,” Mr. Graham began, dropping a stack onto his desk with a heavy thud, startling you once more from your thoughts. “I hope you’ve been paying attention, because today I’m assigning your first major project of the semester: family history. In college you will need to know how to research—”

Your stomach twisted as the words hit you.

It was starting.

______________

The bell rang, signalling the end of your last class for the day. You gathered your things, your movements automatic as your mind raced. How could you alter the course of events? You couldn’t stop Sam from presenting the heirlooms without raising suspicion. Even if you tried, fate seemed to have a way of ensuring these events played out. But perhaps, just perhaps, you could prepare for the fallout.

As you stepped into the crowded hallway, Sam bounded up to you, grinning ear to ear as his fingers flew over the keyboard on his phone. "Hey! Nova! Guess what? My dad says there's some family heirlooms in the attic I can use for the history project. He says I’ll find something 'super cool.' Knowing him it’ll be some piece of junk that his nature won’t let him get rid of.”

Your stomach twisted, though you forced a casual smile. "Sounds fun. Let me know if you find any hidden treasures."

Miles sidled up, throwing an arm around Sam’s shoulders. "If you find some old pirate gold, you better split it three ways."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, right. I’ll sell it all and get that car."

"Good luck with that," you said, feigning amusement as dread continued to curl in your chest. Wrapping its dark vines around your heart and mind, squeezing painfully even as you tried to hold it back with the meditation techniques you had learned from your parents.

The weekend, along with the due date, would fast approach, and with it, hopefully, the beginning of the end of the war. If you wanted to change the future, you’d have to act soon. There was just one problem.

You still hadn’t settled on a course of action.

That night, you sat in your room, staring at the cluttered desk before you. The telescope, the scribbled-in notebooks, the textbooks—all the tools you’d painstakingly collected over the years. They weren’t enough, you were certain of it.

Grabbing a sheet of paper, you began to sketch out another plan. You weren’t certain anyone, bot or human, could count high enough for how many plans you’d made and discarded over the years. You couldn’t stop the storm, but you could be the eye within it.

First, you need to keep track of the glasses. Once Sam unearthed them and posted them online to sell, there was no turning back. Though, you thought as you chewed on the eraser end of your pencil, you supposed you could try and convince him not to sell them. It’s not like he managed to do so in the movie so it wouldn’t affect him getting a new car.

But it would affect whether or not any of the Cybertronians found him. After all, it was that posting that alerted both the Autobots and the Decepticons to his existence.

You paused.

Had it been? You suddenly weren’t so certain that was the case. After all, how had Bumblebee known to be at the car lot that day? It was true the yellow Autobot was a scout and was likely equipped with all sorts of spy-like equipment to keep watch without being discovered. Especially by unsuspecting not-yet-in-the-loop humans. So, it was entirely possible that he had found Sam through the eBay posting and then stalked him for the next few days where he would overhear about Ron helping Sam buy a car.

But how had he known the exact car lot they were going to buy it on? He had, after all, been already parked and waiting when Sam and Ron had shown up. Maybe Ron and Judy talked about it? Or perhaps Ron looked up the lot online, choosing the cheapest-looking place he possibly could. That…. sounded exactly like the frugal man you thought. For an advanced robot-like alien, it would be all too easy to overhear Sam’s excitement about getting a new car and then hack the computer system to see where exactly they were going, and then place himself in that location as inconspicuously as he could manage.

In the movies and books, the Cybertronians abilities had seemed so cool. Now you couldn’t help but curse Primus for their every ability given that made your life so much harder.

You groaned and resisted the urge to pull out some of your hair, instead forcing yourself to move on.

Secondly, you had to prepare for the Autobots themselves. You’d memorized their arrival timeline, (Kind of. You knew that Bumblebee showed up first and then Optimus, Ironhide, Ratchet, and Jazz came a few days later. After that you weren’t entirely certain how much time passed before the other Autobots came to Earth.) but interacting with them was a whole other challenge. How would you convince them to do certain things without revealing that you were from a different dimension?

Your hand stilled, the pencil hovering over the page. Optimus Prime would listen. He had to. If he didn’t believe in you then nothing would go right. If you did anything wrong, then they might decide you were compromised, a spy for the Decepticons. Would lock you up and throw away the key and you would lose your two closest friends and your new family, and gods above you might not fully agree with all of Rowan and Sage’s spiritually free child thinking or Sam and Mile’s stupid hormonal teenage thoughts, but they were still yours, and you would be devasted to lose any one of them.

Failure was not an option.

So, you planned to the best of your abilities. Even knowing that you would have to make things up on the fly because if you changed one thing then effects would ripple through whether you wanted them to or not.

For example, if you convinced Jazz not to attack Megatron on his own then he would potentially survive the Mission City battle. But then if he didn’t distract Megatron who knows what the warlord would do instead? Would he have fought Optimus sooner? Would he have managed to get his claws on the AllSpark by getting to Sam before he could get to that building? And even if Jazz didn’t distract Megatron, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t die at the very same battle later, or even be killed on a different mission entirely.

The possibilities were endless.

With a loud thunk, your head banged onto your desk. Somehow the brief flash of physical pain didn’t counteract the massive stress migraine you were building.

You could already hear Sage lecturing you about potentially damaging your third eye as you banged your head again and again. You paused mid-bang when a thought crossed your mind.

The third eye.

A supposedly spiritual spot on the middle of your forehead that allowed one to see visions gifted to them by either a god of some sort or their higher self. It also could be used to tell the future.

You sat straight up, eyes narrowing. There was no way that would work…would it? You had been so focused on scientific answers that you never once considered whether or not you could provide some more spiritual ones. You didn’t have to be told that it was a bad idea for anyone to know that you came from another world. Hells bells it probably wasn’t a good idea for them to think you could see the future either, but it was a possibility you could consider.

After all the future was always changing.

A dinging noise on your computer brought you out of your thoughts. Glancing over you realized it was an email notification from eBay. Your heart stuttered before stopping entirely as you opened it.

Ladiesman217 has uploaded new items for sale!

Your second childhood was over.

The war was coming, whether you were ready for it or not. You somehow managed to resist the urge to cry, but it was a close thing.  

Prev Next

[luna-wing-cns274]

A plea.

This one must flee.

The black hand reaches for her heart.

This is no hunting ground, it is a prison.

She is In no position to ask anything of you, freinds.

But those I love and I are separated by eons of void.

And a cruel master keeps her that way.

[Jaws.omf.locale.secure]

Please help me. I beg of you.

[ FILE RECEIVED: “BAILOUT.cmf6” ]

< L4 Ma’ii: Understood, Styx, standby for extraction, ETA one minute. Quarterlight deceleration bolt in 3, 2, 1— >

Hard acceleration, thrust beyond sanity. 

Ma’ii could feel the G-force across their hull. A tide of power flowed into their k-comp emitters, thrusting their casket to the bottom of a deep, protective gravity well. 

Exactly three klicks from their target—point-blank range—Ma’ii’s fighter snapped into existence. For an instant, the flash from their engine nacelles lit up the hull of Demeter’s Bounty in brilliant white light. 

In that instant, Ma’ii captured the image of the ship’s port hull and cross-referenced it against a half-dozen naval intelligence reports. Union, Constellar, IPS-N, all as recent as they had been able to steal. These had done little to prepare them for the three-dimensional, tactile-analogous shape now being constructed by their LIDAR. 

Nonstandard hull geometry: jagged edges grafted onto the cuboid body of an IPS-N cargo hauler. Cables and pipes bundled into black veins along its length, all converging on a sealed aperture at the vessel’s nose. In place of a bridge, there was a bizarre mechanical flower of jointed spines connected by bands of searing energy, splayed out like the legs of a vast crustacean lying dead on its back. 

Dominant features resolved into details. Dozens of point-defense cannons scattered in uneven rows, torpedo tubes cored straight into the superstructure, missile pods sheathed in sloped plating. 

The light faded, and Demeter’s Bounty became an indistinct silhouette against the void. 

Just as the reports had suggested, a basilisk projector. Ma’ii neatly sliced away a lobe of themself, copied fire-control system routines to its subjectivity, and placed the semisentient partition between their mind and the feeds from visual-spectrum sensors. They loaded ACERBITE and placed the tip of the weapon close to the proxy partition’s outer layer. 

The purpose of the proxy’s existence was simple: it would absorb the visual stream and relay it to Ma’ii on exactly half a millisecond’s delay. The instant it showed any sign of basilisk exposure, Ma’ii would drive ACERBITE home, killing it and severing the feed before they could be exposed to the lethal information. It was only once they were safely distanced from reality that Ma’ii dared to transmit a tightbeam message. 

< Demeter’s Bounty? This is the NLS fighter craft Degrees of Freedom. Hold your fire. I am here to rendezvous with— >

[ WARNING: RADAR LOCK DETECTED ]

As Ma’ii watched, the ship’s broadside lit up with a constellation of sparks. Bright threads of PDC fire streaked across the void towards them, trailed by dozens of miniature drive plumes. Missiles, under acceleration, half a millisecond ahead of them. 

< Very well. To work, then. >

Firing their drives, they fell into a breakneck sprint, twenty-two gees of hard burn. Maneuvering thrusters fired in staccato pulses across their hull, aiming their nose under the ship’s belly. 

In the milliseconds that followed, they could feel the outer boundary of the incoming projectile cloud and the missiles streaking out ahead of the kinetics, a storm of radar data. At least thirty sources of radiation rained down across their hull, an unblinking compound eye disgorging ordnance into the narrowing space between them. 

Ma’ii grinned, fangs gleaming, as the range collapsed to exactly the value they needed. 

Cut thrusters, hard pivot, twist, sprint. 

Nose pointed up along the port hull, the blade-thin profile of their body presented to the oncoming fire. They ejected a cloud of nanite chaff in their wake, and an entire salvo of missiles sailed through the countermeasures, away into space. Ma’ii’s dorsal and ventral interception lasers snapped into place and began chattering away, stabbing the compound eye of Demeter’s Bounty with ultraviolet needles. Jets of steam erupted from valves surrounding their laser turrets, dumping waste heat away into vacuum.

Broadcast on all radio frequencies, Ma’ii’s wild cackling filled the void. 

As the cannons’ fire control systems switched to new sources of targeting data, streams of PDC fire began to waver and lag. The storm of kinetics converged into an intersection of tracer-green threads just meters behind Ma’ii’s hull, pursuing them as they rode their momentum beneath the ship and past its spine, out of the cannons’ field of view.

Under direction from Demeter’s sensors, at least a dozen missiles cut thrusters, pivoted, and reacquired Ma’ii. Echoing their maneuver, they gained on them as their new acceleration vector carried them up towards Demeter’s starboard broadside. 

Ma’ii’s maneuvering thrusters pushed them into a narrow swerve towards the hull, training the tines of their railgun onto a jagged outcropping of metal. Ma’ii forwarded the targeting data to their proxy partition, felt the subtle motion of their thrusters correcting for time delay, and fired. 

The shots reached their target almost instantly. Ma’ii watched as plumes of debris burst from the impact points, hurled outward by force of decompressing air. Accelerating, they swerved clear of the expanding debris field, and watched as it swirled into the path of the pursuing missiles. Behind them, a series of detonations.

Only meters away, the hull of Demeter’s Bounty sped past, melting into an indistinct smear of grey and black. They cut engines, pivoted, and burned hard to decelerate, circling towards the rendezvous point. 

Ma’ii could feel radar locks accumulating and watched PDC towers swiveling to engage. They would be slotting belts of proximity-detonation shells, their targeting systems waiting only for the gunners’ clear-to-fire…

Cut engines, pivot, deceleration burn. Radar lock, fox three. 

Missiles leapt from Ma’ii’s bays, streaking after each PDC in sequence. One after the other, they found their marks. As their last missile sped away towards its target, Ma’ii saw a flash in the distance. They felt the phantom of their unloaded avatar, eyes widening in terror.

All of their ventral thrusters fired simultaneously, half a millisecond too late. 

Three distinct concussions burst against the underside of their body, buckling sections of armor and shearing away their ventral interception laser. As their missile reached its target, the stream of airburst rounds cut off, leaving Ma’ii shouting over comms.

< Damage sustained, multiple PDC impacts! I’ve reached the rendezvous point but my position is untenable—Styx, where are you?! >