#but then it's???? not???? maybe only marginally better but there are flashes of what he used to be buried in there

[danthropologie]

Daniels whole demeanour and confidence at the gp though. He was absolutely walking and was feeling himself which makes me soso hopeful esp from his comments about next year and the stuff about the sim too. And him wanting himself to race, the belief in himself to go out and do what he loves!! I think the whole things with the fans and support is just a bonus tbh, like I do believe he would’ve decided he wants to come back either way with or without the huge reaction he was getting at the weekend but I like to think it shows him how supported and loved he is.

right and it was also such a nice (and interesting) progression from the launch as well, where even then he was SO excited and it felt like he probably kinda already knew that he wanted to get back on the grid, even if he wasn't quite ready to say it yet 🤧

[maimingaffairs]

HII IM DEEPLY AMAZED BY UR WRITINGS CUZ U GOT ME GIGGLING LIKE A SCHOOLGIRL AND KICKING MY LEGS. ANYWAYS!!

I would like to request angst to fluff for Aleksander where they were past lovers but reader was killed just like what happened to Luda. Eventually on the present time (Alina's timeline ig), during the winter fete, Aleksander saw reader's face as Alina was doing her magic showcase ig and Aleksander followed reader outside (maybe for fresh air) and then thats when reader started getting flash backs maybe a headache (DO UR MAGIC HERE LOVE) and maybe when whe wakes up, he's asleep by her side and she just says "Sasha?" in that sweet tone and ALL FLUFF

(SORRY IF THIS WAS A BIT LONG, IM KINDA HAVING AN ENERGY OUTBURST)

hi my anon baby <3 i worked on this for a couple of days. sorry it’s so late!!! i feel as if i’ve seen a couple fics like this and i tried to make it as different as i could while still staying within the margins of your request… i hope it’s okay.

warnings: canon typical violence, character death (kind of?) blood, angst, fluff, all of it. just all of it.

word count: 4.7k

of Wildflowers & Damnation

(aleksander morozova x fem!reader)

-

Some days were easier than others. Just as on the other side of the coin, some days were harder. Inconveniently, today happened to be one of the harder days for Aleksander. He tried to reason with himself often that after nearly five hundred years of living, that he shouldn’t be so affected by loss anymore. 

That didn’t make it any easier, unfortunately. He’d lost so much in his life, that he didn’t mourn so heavily, and then he’d lost you. 

He’d met you nearly two hundred years after the creation of the fold, and to say he loved you would be to say it was only a bit cold in the arctic, which is to say, it was a gross understatement. He loved you more deeply than he ever knew was possible, and perhaps that’s why it was so terribly hard to accept even all these years later, that you just weren’t alive any longer, while he lived on. 

He had tried to bring you back, he really did. Much to his mother’s dismay, for the second time in his life, he resorted to the use of merzost to heal you. But you never woke. 

Aleksander stood silently near his door. It was nearly time for him to find Alina, to join the festivities at the Winter Fete, to show the country’s most influential just how powerful the Sun Saint really was. He knew it was time to go, but his mind wouldn’t rest.  It wouldn’t stop replaying your last day with him. 

-

The two of you walked hand in hand through the forest that was just behind your small home. Aleksander wasn’t normally one for such plain and domestic types of endeavors, but the wildflowers were blooming in the valley at this time of year, and he wanted nothing more but to see you smile at them, as you did every year before that. 

“Do you have a favorite flower, Sasha?” You had asked him softly and looked up at him with a big grin. You better than anyone knew that he wasn’t much of a flower person, but the question was still on your mind as you walked together. 

He thought to himself for a moment as he peered down at your excited face and then he shrugged, “Oh, there’s too many to choose from, my lovely. Perhaps a dandelion.”

“Dandelions are weeds, Aleksander.” You pointed out and he shook his head and nudged your side. 

“They still bloom, do they not?”

You didn’t seem to like this answer, because you simply huffed under your breath and gave his hand a little squeeze, “Okay but I meant a real flower. Not a little yellow weed.” You insisted. 

He thought for a moment longer and then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your hairline, “Alright. Poppies.” He finally conceded and you seemed to like this answer much more than the last, because you hummed and sidled up to him sweetly, your head resting against the side of his arm. 

“Poppies. I would’ve taken you for a rose person.” You mused. 

“And why roses?” He asked, curious to hear your response. 

“Because. They’re terribly beautiful, but you wouldn’t dare just grab one recklessly. They’re covered in thorns. You have to be gentle with them, work around the thorns. Then it’s yours to have. Kinda like you. Just gotta work around your thorns.” You replied and then let out a tiny giggle, “At least, that’s what I did. Seemed to work out just fine for me.” 

Your words made his chest feel as if it was flooding with impossible new amounts of affection for you and he stopped the two of you where you walked and he leaned down to delicately wrap both of his arms around your waist. You eagerly wrapped your tiny arms around his shoulders and he moved down a bit more, closer to your level. 

To Aleksander, you were the sweetest thing in the world. Everything from your kind smile to your fiery attitude made him swell with love for you. To love and be loved in return was such a strange concept for him to grasp. Especially when the returned love was given by such a gentle soul such as yourself. He often found himself unworthy of such a love, unworthy of your kindness, your care, your acceptance. You knew of his past transgressions, yet you loved him anyways, always insisting that mistakes get made. Everyone messes up. To the world, he was The Darkling. The Black Heretic. A wicked man with a soul as dark as his eyes. That version of himself even existed in his own mother’s eyes. But to you, he was simply Aleksander. 

He held you even tighter now and he buried his face in your hair for a long time before he slowly pulled away from you and brought his hands up to delicately cup your face. He held your face so gently as if he was convinced it would shatter between his fingers and he watched your eyes, fascinated by you. 

“What a sweet little thing, you are. What did I ever do in this life to have been blessed with such a love?” He asked softly, leaning down to nudge his nose against yours a few times. 

“If I had to guess, it might have had something to do with your sympathy for weeds. I suppose they need love too.” You teased, and he didn’t even bother rolling his eyes at your teasing before he pressed a tender kiss to your lips. You kissed him back and placed your hands on top of his, letting out another little giggle into his mouth. He pulled back and watched you in amusement, a smile spreading across his own face. 

“What could you possibly be laughing at during a moment like this?” He asked and you scrunched your nose up and patted the backs of his hands a few times. 

“Your beard tickled my lip.” You replied gleefully, your eyes meeting his in a mirthful gaze. 

He slowly pulled away from you and took your hand again, pulling you into his side as the two of you started to walk once more, “Shall I cut it then?” He asked and chuckled. 

You practically skipped alongside him as the two of you walked and you shook your head, “No. I think you look handsome. But you might need a haircut soon. You’ve got bangs nearly.” You pointed out and reached up with your free hand to push a strand of hair away from his eyes, “Don’t worry. I can do it for you.” You added and laid your head against the side of his arm once again. 

He laced his fingers in between yours and gave your hand an affectionate squeeze as he led you down along the dirt path, “How have your lessons with my mother been going?” He asked. 

It was your turn to nearly roll your eyes now and you took a quick glance up at Aleksander, “Well. She doesn’t like me much, and I’m still not very good at controlling my fire so… to be continued. Maybe. I don’t know. Perhaps I just don’t want to learn anymore. I have no use for these powers.” You replied and tapped the side of his hand with your pinky finger. 

You were an Inferni, a poor one at that. Normally Aleksander would protest and tell you to embrace your gift but he didn’t this time, resigning to let you speak your mind. If you didn’t want to pursue your abilities, he wouldn’t force you, “I don’t think she dislikes you.” He replied down at you finally. 

“Oh, I think she does. She’s always got a backhanded comment locked and loaded just for me.” You argued with a little sigh. 

Aleksander knew it wasn’t you that she disliked in specific. It was just the fact that his mother disliked the fact that he was selfish enough to let himself love you. She always insisted that he’d ruin you, just like the girl he loved before you. She insisted that he wasn’t meant for you, always telling him to set you free before he inadvertently broke your wings. Deep down, he knew his mother was right. She usually was. But he couldn’t bring himself to ever make you leave. Not now. He was too far in. 

He shook his head a couple of times and sighed, “She’s not exactly inviting. But that’s not to say she dislikes you. Don’t pay her any mind, my love.” He replied and then brought your intertwined hands up to his lips so that he could place a few light kisses to your knuckles.

He lowered your hands back down between the two of you once again and he glanced up over the hill in the distance. You two were nearly to the small valley and he could tell your excitement was growing, because your steps got more hurried and you occasionally would let out giddy squeals and hums. 

A snap of a stick on the path behind you had Aleksander sweeping you in front of him as he turned around to survey the area. The two of you had stopped walking now and he looked around behind both of you, finding nothing. 

“What was that?” You asked quietly and glanced up at your lover, feeling a bit uneasy. 

“I’m not sure, darling.” He replied cautiously and turned back around to glance down at you. 

Your eyes were already fixed up on his face. You didn’t look scared, but you didn’t look like you felt too secure either, and he didn’t blame you. Something had shifted in the forest around you two, there was a strange feeling. You grabbed onto his arm tightly and you gave it a little tug. 

“Sasha, we don’t have to go any farther. We can head back home now.” You whispered, but he shushed you softly and turned back around slowly to check the path behind the pair of you. 

A small snapping sound came again, but this time it was now in front of the two of you. There was a little shuffle and another snap and he felt you yank his arm again.

“Aleksander.” 

He turned around as your grip on his arm loosened and he looked down at your face, which was now drained of color. You wobbled a bit and fell forward onto him, and he swiftly caught you with a shocked exclamation of your name. 

He held you upright and that’s when he saw the arrow that had lodged itself in your back and stuck out through your chest. He wildly looked around and had spotted two men in thick furs darting out from behind a tree. Drüskelle. He had barely a second to move the two of you before they let loose another arrow and he retaliated quickly. 

One of the men let out a yell in their native tongue and Aleksander wasted no time in quickly diving down to the ground with you as another arrow flew. He gently sat you up against one of the small trees on the edge of the path and turned around, and with zero hesitation, finished the two men off easily with The Cut. As they fell to the ground, he looked around for more. When none came, he turned to you and scooped you up into his arms as quickly as he could, not daring to pull the arrow from your chest quite yet. 

“Hey, hey. Y/n. You’re going to be alright.” He insisted. 

But the way your head lolled to the side weakly made him think otherwise. You didn’t respond to him, but you looked up into his eyes, tears beading in the corners of yours. 

“We’re going home. I’m taking you to my mother, we can fix this.” He promised and didn’t wait a single second more before he was dashing off down the path with you hanging all but limply in his arms. He could feel the warmth of your blood seeping through the sleeve of his shirt and he grit his teeth, refusing to let himself panic. You were going to be okay. You had to be. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Aleksander was going to let you go now that he had finally found you after years upon years of being alone. He didn’t notice the tears gathering in his own eyes until they were falling down his cheeks and you let out a distressed sound.

“No, Sasha. Don’t cry. It’ll be okay.” You whispered hoarsely, and the sound of your voice only made it worse.

He ran straight out of the forest and through the field behind your home before he finally ran through the back door. He laid you down on your side atop the round wooden table in the middle of the room and he yelled for his mother, who came shortly after he called. 

“Mother. We need to do something. Drüskelle, in the forest attacked us, and they-“ he started frantically, only to be cut off by the older woman.

“There is nothing you can do, Aleksander.” She said shortly and then shook her head, “We don’t have a healer nearby. We aren’t healers ourselves.”

He looked over at you, and you seemed so much smaller than usual now, curled up on the table with an arrow still protruding from your back, “Mother, there has to be a way. I will not let my lover die.” 

“There is no way. There is no natural way for us to save lives. You know this. Bid her goodbye.” She said sternly. 

His head perked up a bit and he reached out to make sure you were still alive by touching your pulse. 

Weak, but still there. Just barely. 

“But I can. I can do it, I’ve practi-“ 

“You cannot!” She protested and held her hand up to her son, “You will not! You will take whatever time you have left and say goodbye, for it is only the way of life. We see life come and go and we remain. Not even you can change that. I’ll give you space. That is final.” Baghra said sharply and turned on her heel to leave the two of you alone. 

Aleksander was at your side in half a second, and he crouched down to be level with your face. Tears were rolling across your face and your lip trembled fearfully. 

“It doesn’t hurt, Sasha. Don’t worry about me please.” You whispered and he reached out to brush tears from your eyes. 

“I’m going to fix this. Okay? You aren’t going to die today. I swear it.” He promised, but his faith was running thin. He reached out and he grabbed your arm gently and held you in place, “I’m going to remove the arrow, okay? And then we’re going to heal you.”

“You are not a healer, Aleksander. Don’t do this.” You begged softly and he looked down into your eyes again. He pursed his lips and shook his head a few times. 

“I won’t lose you. I won’t walk this earth without you by my side, do you understand?”

“No, Aleksander, no.” You protested, trying your best to sound stern like Baghra had, but your voice faltered and he knew you didn’t have much time left. 

He ignored your protests and grabbed hold of the arrow and quickly pulled it out of your back, and whatever voice you had left was spent on the wail you let out as your blood began to freely spill out over the table. He quickly threw himself over you, only to find you shaking. He looked down at your face to learn that your shaking was from your silent sobs and he frowned deeply. 

He was going to save you. It was going to be alright. 

He closed his eyes and placed his hand over the bleeding hole in your back, wracking his brain for the strength to use the magic so forbidden that had been abused by his ancestor, to heal you. To save you. 

He let out an agonized yell and finally felt the same cold, pricking sensation spread through his veins that had occurred the day he created The Fold. He felt stinging in his fingertips as he pushed out everything he could from his hand into your wound. Into you. 

At long last, the stinging stopped and subsided, and Aleksander realized you’d gone still under his touch. He felt a little splash of relief and he turned you around onto your back, only to find your eyes closed. He felt his face drain of all color and he shakily reached up to feel your pulse against your throat. 

Nothing. 

To say the days following were that of pure anguish was to put it lightly. He’d taken you to the valley of millions and millions wildflowers and laid you to rest there. At least he knew you’d be somewhere you loved. 

For weeks after your death, Baghra was full of warnings and disappointment for him, chastising him for using merzost once more. 

“You don’t know what you’ve done, Aleksander. You may have very well not healed your lover, but you don’t know what you’ve done. This will come back to you one day. You will regret it. There will be punishment.” She warned.

Not that he cared. 

“Let me regret it. Let it haunt me for the rest of my days, woman. It’s not the only ghost that hangs above my head, now.”

-

You didn’t recall much. At all. All you knew is that one day you suddenly did recall, as if it was the beginning of your life. 

Amnesia the doctor called it. You’d likely had a head injury and forgotten things, that’s all. 

Whatever you were before, whatever life you led, it was erased from your mind without a single clue as to what it had been prior. In the last few years that you started recalling, you’d worked as a dress maker in the city of Ketterdam. When one of your clients had graciously invited you to come to Ravka’s Winter Fete with her and her daughter in trade of two elegant gowns for them, you’d accepted her offer immediately. 

So there you stood, in the hallway of the crowded Ravkan palace, eyes traveling the faces of everyone who passed by. The two girls you’d attended with had gone off to greet the royal family, and you’d stayed back, opting to survey the crowd instead. You’d heard word that the Sun Summoner was going to be putting on a display in only a few short moments, and just as the thought crossed your mind, it all began. It started with a whirlwind of activity, and you watched the Grisha throughout the room showcase their abilities skillfully, and the sight invoked a strange feeling deep within your chest. You had the sudden urge to bring your hands together just as they did, feeling as if you could perform alongside them. You fought the urge back and flexed your hands a bit at your sides, shaking off the strange feeling.

Your eyes travelled to the front of the room and they fell upon a girl and a man, standing shoulder to shoulder, both wearing black. You assumed it was the Sun Summoner and who you had heard to be General Kirigan, the fierce Ravkan general who also happened to be Grisha. As the pair began their display of power, you felt your head begin to ache dully, and once the Sun Summoner’s light lit up the entire room, the pain in your head only grew sharper. 

Everyone in the room seemed to be filled with excitement, and as the display was done, the volume seemed to increase tenfold, making you clutch your head between your palms. 

The pair at the front of the room turned around and when you saw The General’s face, you blinked a few times. A thought clawed at the inside of your mind, begging to be let free. But you didn’t know how. You didn’t even know what it was. He seemed to notice you shortly after you noticed him, and you could’ve sworn you saw a look of complete astonishment cross his face as quick as a flash of lightning.  

Suddenly the room seemed to blur out as if in your periphery and you gasped as little flickers of imagery flashed behind your eyes. 

A field of flowers, the darkest eyes you’d ever seen, and fire. You furrowed your brow together and you leaned your hand up against the nearest wall, your chest rapidly rising and falling with short, quick breaths. Disorientation fell upon you and you found yourself stumbling through the crowd of partygoers and out of the room. The bustling hallway was a struggle for you to navigate, but you eventually prevailed and found the door to the courtyard. You all but went falling out the door and you stumbled clumsily until you reached grass and you held your hand to your chest as you stopped running. You felt sick to your stomach and your hands began to feel clammy and you swore that you heard someone calling your name- though you were unsure how you knew the name was yours- because you hadn’t been called by it before. You couldn’t even respond in anyway before your eyes rolled back into your head, and you were collapsing backwards towards the ground. 

-

Aleksander felt insane when he followed you out of the palace. He’d had days where all he could do was think of you, but never once had he seen your face anywhere but his mind. He called after you, but you didn’t seem to notice, and if you did, you didn’t respond. He walked briskly up to you just in time to watch you collapse, and he lunged forward to catch your falling body in his arms awkwardly. The strange angle at which he held you up at made you look so small and fragile, and he hoisted you up into his arms. It couldn’t be you. There was no possible way it could have been. He didn’t dare look down at your face for a few moments, standing there in the courtyard with his jaw set firmly. 

Finally, he did dare to look down, and when he did, he almost found himself collapsing with you. Sure, you were unconscious and your hair had become a bit tousled, but there was no mistaking the face that he saw. It was yours. His y/n. 

He looked around wildly, trying to come up with an explanation for the mere fact that his very dead lover was here. How you were here. He buried you. He reached up with one hand and he brushed the backs of his fingers across your cheeks. He refused to let himself feel relieved or happy or excited. If this was the punishment his mother had promised him years ago, he wouldn’t give in. But he couldn’t just leave you. Not out here, not like this. He stood with you in his arms for a while longer in contemplation before ultimately deciding he’d take you back to his chambers and wait for you to wake. If you woke. Then he’d proceed to ask who you were, to figure out what was happening. 

He carried you off through the night towards the nearly deserted Little Palace, and once inside, he made a beeline for his bedroom. Once he reached the shelter of his room, he closed the door fast and locked it, looking around to make sure no one was inside. He promptly walked you to his bed and laid you out on it, staring down at you. The urge to lay at your side was consuming his every thought and he ground his teeth together, fighting back a round of tears. 

Yours was the face he saw when he fell asleep. Every night. Some dreams were pleasant. You and him in the flowers, or even in bed together, happily. He’d hear your laugh, your hums, your sweet voice… all of it. Some dreams were not so kind, and these were the ones where he relived your last moments over and over again. 

His endless patience had seemed to run out and his will to remain complacent broke. He’d take the pain of having to lose you again if this wasn’t real, he’d be damned all over again to feel the emptiness of your loss if only just a moment of his time could be spent by your side one last time. 

So he kicked off his boots and removed his black decadent kefta, and he slid down into the bed next to you, his eyes not leaving your face once. He reached out across the minimal space he gave between the two of you and he grazed his fingertips across your cheekbones, up into your hair, down the side of your neck and along your jaw. Everywhere. He traced the outline of your lips and he swiped the pad of his thumb across your chin. Not a single thing had differed from his memory. If you’d told him he’d plucked you out from behind his eyes and laid you out in front of him, he would’ve believed it. 

Oh yes, if he was to be damned with the consequences of trying to save you, then he’d take them. He’d take them graciously if it meant one last night at your side. 

-

He was unsure of when he fell asleep, but he didn’t ever realize that he had until he felt hands on his face. His eyes shot open and he expected sunlight to light up his room, but instead it was dark, with only a glimmer of silver light filtering through the window. He frantically looked across from him on his bed and he reached up to push the hands away from his face, but once his eyes focused in the moonlit room, he dropped his hands and found himself lost in your eyes instead. 

Your hands stayed against his cheeks and you seemed to be at a loss for words. He knew the feeling well. It was mutual. 

The state of unconsciousness you had fallen into had been one of unrest. Memories upon memories began to flood your head all at once. Still, you were unaware of how you were alive and how you had come to be unearthed, but you assumed it must have had something to do with the merzost that you so vehemently opposed him using. 

He reached out to touch your face so gently, as if he thought you were only a figment of the moonlight and would disappear underneath his touch. When you didn’t, he let out a sigh, one that sounded terrified and relieved all at the same time. You couldn’t find your voice while you stared at him, your mouth wanting to form a thousand words all at once. 

Until it settled on just one.  

“Sasha?”

To Aleksander, this was the sweetest sound he’d heard in his entire long life, and he couldn’t help the tears that loosed themselves from his eyes. He could only nod in response as he wrapped his arms around your small form and he pulled you against his chest. 

If this was damnation, then he’d embrace it with open arms, and if this was a second chance to save you from the consequences of his past, then he’d do better this time. Whatever the case may be, he wasn’t going to leave this room until he was sure you wouldn’t evaporate into nothing. He laid his hand ever so protectively against the back of your head and he leaned his own head down until his lips touched your hairline. He could’ve whispered a million things to you at that moment, promised you everything, sung you praises and profess his love until he ran out of the breath to do so with, but he’d never been one for that many words all at once. So he leaned down to press his lips against yours, and it said everything he couldn’t all at once. He pulled back slowly and he tipped your head back a bit so that he could gaze down at your face, unchanged by all this time. 

And so he uttered out a promise, one that he intended to keep this time, no matter the cost.

“Yes, my sweet girl. It’s me, and I will never lose you again.” 

[ofsappho]

Heartless, Chapter 8

🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, (a little bit of smut this chapter)

-

You help Ghost prepare for deployment.

-

Tags: Protective Ghost, oral sex at the end, pussy drunk Ghost, tooth-rotting fluff, author has never been to the UK nor knows shit about the military so ignore inaccuracies thanks

You’ve never been to the UK before. Hell, you’ve never left the continental United States.

Yet here you are, sitting on an unmarked transporter, accompanying your husband and the team you’re starting to view as “your boys” to a whole other continent.

The details are fuzzy, most of them way above your civilian pay grade, and it’s not like Ghost would be talkative if he were allowed to. You figure it’s some sort of deployment… something, and their “home base” is now in London.

You know better than to ask those kinds of questions.

Ghost isn’t sitting next to you. You’re hanging out at the back of the plane on your own as the boys talk amongst themselves in the front. Their captain hasn’t so much as glanced your way.

You’ve got your earbuds in as you try to occupy as much time and mental energy as possible - you’re not very good on planes. There’s nowhere to go except crashing straight down.

Long car rides are marginally better. At least those involve breaks, ideally filled with greasy diner food. Do they have diners in the UK? That’s silly; of course, they do. Maybe.

Ghost has on one of his real masks. A fearsome plate of bone set over a black balaclava with streaks of white dripping down his chin. This morning, he caked his eye black so thick that you can’t see any sliver of skin.

You really do have a ghoul for a husband.

There’s nothing entertaining to look at other than stalking everyone’s body language like a creep. After half an hour of fucking around and staring at your cuticles, you resign yourself to playing armchair lip reader.

Sergeant Garrick is all business. That’s not entirely novel - he’s friendly and cheerful, yes, but always a consummate professional in a way that Soap struggles to emulate on a good day. He has a leather-bound journal open, and you watch him take notes with an elegant, expensive-looking pen as he goes back and forth with Captain Price. You can’t see what he’s writing, but the swirls of his hand tell you he’s writing in cursive.

Speaking of Soap, he’s doing… card tricks with a pack of black and gold playing cards. They occupy his hands as he chats with Ghost and Alejandro, his mouth moving constantly and his voice loud enough to hear bits of his accent. He flips cards through the air and tucks a few on the back of his hand. Now and then, the Captain directs a comment toward Johnny, and he responds with a sober nod or brief word.

Alejandro catches you gawking with a single raised eyebrow. You respond by sticking your tongue out, causing him to choke on his energy drink. His dirty look is half-hearted at best. Alejandro is the only person who seems to have any pity for your boredom, and he asks if you’re okay via a questioning thumbs up. You nod and wave your hand to say, “So-so, could be better.” He mouths, “Almost there.”

You check your phone to find that he’s right. There’s maybe an hour left before the airman in OCPs will tell everyone to put their seatbelts on and stash away loose personal items in preparation for landing. You can survive another hour.

When you look back, Ghost is watching you.

His mask, dark eyes, and coldness all send shivers down your spine and nearly scare you out of your seat. You can’t decide if it’s terrifying, or incredibly attractive, or maybe some secret third thing that is both.

For a few moments, he doesn’t move. Your only clue that he lowers his gaze is a brief flash of his night-dark eyelids. Then Ghost sits forward, and you see Soap lean in to listen to whatever he’s whispering.

Your best friend calls the airman over, who provides a polished, professional salute to the two of them before disappearing into the galley.

After a moment, the personnel member emerges carrying… a bottle of ginger ale and a granola bar—one that tastes like iced lemon pound cake. “For you, Ms.,” He says respectfully before returning to his station as soon as you take the food.

These are your favorite granola bars. Ghost knows it because you commented on it a couple of days ago after seeing them on display in the mess hall. What are the odds this transporter has them on board without your husband’s intervention? Slim to none.

Ever since the time he helped you into the bath, just thinking about Ghost is enough to make your heart feel like an overripe peach. You’re becoming soft at your center, as if a deeper rot in your chest is threatening to turn you into a pile of sickly-sweet mush.

You stare at the cheery yellow and blue wrapper on this goddamn granola bar and figure that your heart is so squishy that its collapse is inevitable. To take a page out of Ghost’s book, fucking hell.

Ghost waits until he sees you unwrap the bar and take a bite before returning his attention to Soap.

Sgt. Sanderson has hidden so well behind everyone else that you almost miss him when you take a headcount. The man is pretty cool - you’ve graduated from silent nods of acknowledgment to the occasional stilted partial wave.

After your husband thoroughly dishonored you in that shooting range, you both were pleasantly surprised to discover not a single soul wandering in your path. The day after, Ghost reported that the whole range had been given a very thorough cleaning by the janitorial staff.

It turns out that Gaz had run straight to everyone else to tell them you were fucking, which was predictable. The sexual tension was as subtle as a goddamn freight train.

What you failed to account for was that Soap, and Alejandro had allegedly taken great pleasure in causing chaos to keep everyone away, and Roach had put in the facilities request himself. They all collectively called it a belated wedding present.

Captain Price nods at Gaz, then goes to the pilot. You leave your observations at that. He continues to treat you with thinly-veiled suspicion at best, like you’re the stereotype of the predatory military spouse, and it’s only a matter of time before Ghost suffers for it.

Meh. He’s allowed to feel that way, you suppose.

Your hour is up, and everyone begins to buckle their seatbelts. You quickly finish your granola bar and close up the bottle of ginger ale. Fuck flying. By the time you get off this transport, you might even kiss the tarmac.

-

It’s not until uniformed soldiers take your fingerprints at Regent’s Park Barracks with menacing scowls that you start to comprehend what “SAS” means and why Soap never told you shit about his job.

Well, you always knew everything he did was shady, but there’s a big difference between academically knowing a thing and experiencing it for yourself.

You’d die before admitting it, but you think you’re in over your head. These guys are scary, and as you wait for them to put together your temporary ID, their harsh gazes wear heavy on your already-fried nerves from the international plane trip.

Everyone else has breezed through security. So it’s just you, standing here, trying to affect even a fraction of Ghost’s confidence and menace, and failing miserably.

The team is walking away; you watch the back of their heads get smaller and smaller, all lost in their very important conversation, and you try to control your jagged, panicked breathing.

No doubt these guardsmen can fucking read body language or some shit. They might interpret your natural anxiety as something more insidious.

“Look at me,” The soldier at the computer barks. Right. You snap your eyes back to him, your anxiety turning to fear like dropping a Mentos in Diet Coke.

You’re good. You have a right to be here. You’re not in trouble. “Sorry, uh, sir,” You say, scrounging for a tone that could pass as respectful. When you offer up a strained half-smile, the man’s scowl deepens.

He stares at the screen, then at you. “What is your… relation again?” Fucking dick would probably give a kinder reception to a stray fly on his lunch than he is currently giving to you.

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, then twist it between your fingers. The alternative is to start chewing on it or your nails; neither is preferable. What would be preferable is an act of God, like a cool lightning bolt to strike you down when you stand.

The silence drags on as you try to find the right words. Everything falls apart in your mouth before you can speak it.

Just as the soldier gears up to be even meaner, even more contemptuous, a large, warm hand rests on the small of your back.

It’s Ghost. And he’s pissed. “She’s my wife. Stand down, Lance Corporal,” He growls. It’s like music to your ears. Without thinking, you tuck yourself closer to him, seeking the reassuring shelter of his tall, broad frame.

Ghost permits it. His arm even slides tight around your waist in a public display of affection far greater than average. The only thing keeping him from sticking his tongue down your throat is that he’d have to break the death glare turning the security personnel to ash.

You shoot the soldier a smirk and mouth, “You’re fucked.”

Behind you, someone’s palm hits their face, you hear some scared eep noises.

To the soldier’s credit, he hasn’t yet dropped dead from fear-induced shock or pissed his pants. “My apologies, Lieutenant,” He whispers. It’s practically a fucking whimper.

A rotting corpse would be more personable and approachable than your husband. “Don’ apologize to me. Apologize to her.” The guardsman looks at you, his pale, sweat-soaked face screaming for mercy.

All you do is smile beatifically with bared teeth.

His shoulders hunch over, the poor guy squeezes his eyes shut in terror. “My apologies, Mrs. Riley,” The soldier stutters, then steps back. Actually, everyone takes a step back.

Yes, you are Mrs. Riley now, aren’t you?

You can’t see Ghost’s eyes from here. He has cavernous black voids for eye sockets, and you realize he’s holding completely still. His shoulders don’t rise and fall with breath, not a single muscle twitches. 

There’s nothing human there.

You’ll get him to fuck you with that specific mask on. Later.

“Apology accepted.” Your voice is sweet and magnanimous in victory.

By now, the rest of your boys have noticed. Gaz doubled back first, and then you see Soap abandon Captain Price to go after you.

Ghost guides you through the security checkpoint like you’re taking a Sunday stroll. “C’mon. That arsehole won’t do that again,” He scoffs without moving his arm from your waist.

“But I like it when you do that!” You tease, gently nudging his side with your elbow.

“Do what?” Ghost doesn’t have to turn his masked face for you to know that you hold the whole captivated weight of his attention.

You do not use this power for good. “You know. Skull face o’ doom. Protective alpha wolf. Don’t talk to my wife like that. Rawr.” Then you throw your head back and cackle gleefully.

Now you get a look, a suspicious, disgusted, yet sort of amused side-eye. “…” It’s like you’re two kids on the playground again, and you just tugged his hair in a show of affection.

Johnny’s almost within earshot. Your friend must be piecing things together, given how his gaze flits between the wreckage Ghost left behind and the unyielding embrace your husband has on you.

Before they ruin the moment, you press your forehead into the sleeve of Ghost’s black jacket. “Thanks for rescuing me, baby.”

“Mm.” You feel his gloved fingers slip under your shirt, press briefly into the bare skin of your hip, and then Ghost lets you go.

Everything is a blur after that. There’s finding your accommodations, unpacking, getting lost trying to find the dining hall, getting lost again on your way back. It’s familiar and alien at the same time; English is English, but they drive on the wrong side of the road here, and your intuition doesn’t work as it should.

You’re so used to having someone by your side that the absence of your friends and your husband aches like an old bruise. They’re wrapped up in meetings or disappearing for hours.

Back home, you could leave the base if you wanted to. You had regular cell service and dollars in your wallet. You didn’t have to do math in your head trying to remember conversion rates when you wanted to buy something.

Thank God they have wifi here. Without it, you would’ve wandered the barracks with a dead phone. And you can’t go places without Ghost, even if you have pounds, a cab, and a map.

The tea’s okay. It’s not noticeably better or worse. Your palette is likely too unrefined to tell the difference.

There’s nowhere else for you to be beside your dimly lit quarters. The walls are bare, and the plastic mattress cover pokes you through the sheets you brought. It’s impressively soundproofed; for all you know, a meteor has hit Earth, and you’re the last person alive. That’s how quiet it is.

You bundle yourself up further in your blankets, then take a handful of soft cloth and bring it to your face. They smell like Ghost. It’s almost enough to soothe the restless loneliness hovering over you like fog rolling in at night.

This is how you spend the next… million hours. Nothing you do makes the blankets perfectly right. You can’t toss and turn them into the shape of Ghost’s body next to yours. His warm, musky, clean linen, deeply human scent, that you know better than your own, has begun to fade.

You’ve become spoiled these past weeks, you scold yourself. You’re too clingy, too complacent, too attached.

Soon, he’ll be God knows where doing God knows what. It will be so pathetic if you spend the whole time moping around, pining like some love-struck idiot.

You don’t want to be pathetic, and love is for children and divorcees.

He doesn’t come in until well past midnight.

You haven’t caught a wink of sleep, thanks to the time difference. You sit up in bed with almost slavish eagerness and then pad towards him barefoot on the cold floor. “Hey-“

Ghost brushes you off with a single shake of his head. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, closing the door with a sharp snap that leaves you feeling some type of way.

He can’t be mad at you. There’s no reason - you haven’t done a single thing all day other than occupy space in this bed. But the sight of him walking away from you hurts.

You hear Ghost turn the faucet on, he’s muttering something to himself, he splashes water on what must be his bare face.

The door’s unlocked. You could go in if you wanted to. The white wood panels are just panels.

Yeah, you’re fucking pathetic.

So you sit on the bed and contemplate falling asleep just to spite him. But what if that’s what Ghost wants, and he won’t come out until he thinks you’re unconscious?

Before you can decide, the bathroom door swings open. He has his mask and gloves in one hand, and his other hand ruffles through his short blonde hair.

Ghost continues to be pretty face shy, so this is the first time in a while that you’ve gotten a good look at the frustrated wrinkle between his eyes.

He curses as he sorts through one of his duffel bags, he even tosses his mask carelessly to the side in order to use both hands.

You could ask Ghost if he needs help. Two people can find something faster than one. But you’re smarting from his rude rejection earlier, and it’s not like Ghost is incapable of asking for help on his own.

Exhaustion dogs each movement, sloshing through your veins like mud and beading at the corners of your eyes. You scrub at them with the sleeves of your sweater in the hopes that you can scrub yourself awake. All it does is unearth a ferocious yawn that shakes your whole body.

Ghost holds up an electric razor in a silent ‘aha’ before trodding back into the bathroom. This time, he leaves the door open.

He viciously rips off the conversion plug from the trimmer, then shoves it into the funkily-shaped bathroom wall socket.

With equal, if not more, venom, Ghost tries to even out his hair to regulation length. “Fuckin’…” The key word here is ‘tries.’

You watch him miss the same spot five times, give up to move to another overgrown section, and then miss that new spot five times.

In the sallow bathroom light, you can see how mangled and uneven the back of his head is. The mask is a very clever gambit to hide the hack job. “Goddamnit-“ Ghost swears, tangling his wrist in the cord in frustration.

He needs to slow down, and calm down. And if he tilts his head a little further, moves his hand back, he’d be able to get-

Ghost’s hand slips. “Bollocks!” There’s red underneath his fingers. The dumbass has gone and cut himself.

You can’t stand there and dawdle and watch him bust his scalp open because his pride gets in his way. You’re by his side in an instant.

“Stop. Stop it. Give it to me,” You tell Ghost, trying to pull the razor from his hand before he can say no.

His dark eyes flit to you in the mirror. “Wha-“

But he won’t hand the fucking thing to you, and you’re not in the mood to play tug of war. When will he realize he doesn’t have a choice and you’re helping him whether he likes it or not? “Give me the fucking razor,” You snap irritably.

His gaze goes wide even as the rest of his face remains flat. Finally, Ghost drops the razor into your palm.

A new challenge makes itself known - he’s much too tall for you to reach when he stands at his full height. In the corner of your bedroom, there’s a table with two chairs. “Here- can you just sit?” You say over your shoulder as you drag a chair in front of the bathroom sink.

He studies the razor in your hand, then turns around to examine the chair.

After a long moment, Ghost resigns himself to your care and sits down with a quiet ‘oof.’

You dust off the hair trimmings from his shoulders and neck so you can see where to start, all while ignoring the tiny shivers that travel through his muscles every time your fingers brush bare skin.

When you click the razor on, you let it hum in the air for a couple of minutes until he relaxes, and then you bring it to his scalp.

Ghost is a good patient. He lets you tilt his head as you work from his neckline and up toward the top of his head, moving in smooth, fluid strokes. It doesn’t take long before the back of his hair resembles hair again.

No one’s cleaned up his edges in forever. His hairline looks like it was drawn on in crayon by a toddler, but you elect not to say that to Ghost’s face.

It must be very difficult for him to have you this close with something sharp in your hand.

All of your frustration evaporates the instant you realize it. Before, the smudged smoke on his face distracted you from the cautious, frightened look in his eyes. But now that you can see it, you can’t unsee it. He’s a wounded, spooked animal, and you’ve cornered him in his den.

You turn the trimmer off for a second to pull the guard off.

Then you tilt his head forward to neaten that hairline, carefully avoiding the scabbed-over scratch.

Ghost clears his throat. “You’ve done this before?” He asks quietly, like there is something sacred in the air that he doesn’t want to disturb.

Your lips purse as you take the smallest bit of hair off. “A couple of times.” His veiny hands grip the arms of the chair. “And I’m definitely doing it better than you. Like, what is this? A poorly-maintained lawn?” You tease, making your voice as light and frivolous as you can.

He laughs shakily before releasing the wood.

“Who?”

You shoot him a relatively mild glare in the mirror. “Calm down. I cut Soap’s hair when he first enlisted, though I’ll admit that the Mohawk suits his weirdly shaped skull way better.”

You didn’t give a single fuck about your friend’s hairline back then. But you give many, many fucks about Ghost’s.

You want him to look good. Like he’s well cared for by a nice woman at home. Because he is. “You have a nice skull. No dents. Very proportional,” You say absentmindedly, tongue poking out as you finish the last little bit.

“…Thanks.” Ghost sounds oddly touched.

The sides of his head are next on your list. “My mom taught me how to cut my dad’s hair. Sometimes she’d do it for him.” You’ve never told Ghost anything about your past before.

There wasn’t really a point. At its core, your relationship is an economic proposition with benefits, so he doesn’t need to know about your parents to get what you agreed to give him.

But… some small part of you wants him to know, so you can pretend to have a conventional marriage.

You click the guard back into place and remember doing this same thing for your mother when you were a young girl. The three of you made an odd family; you were much closer to her age than your dad was.

Just like before, you let Ghost get used to the sound of the clippers before you start cutting.

“Your- um, he served?” He asks, coughing suddenly in the middle of his question.

“Yeah.”

“Mm.”

The top you leave longer, though still cleanly cut. You circle the chair once, then twice, comparing both sides to ensure his hair is symmetrical.

You played yourself by leaving the front of his head for last. Now you have to stand there, feeling the weight of his gaze on your every move, so close that you can count his pale lashes against his fading eye black. Your hand holding the razor stays admirably steady, though your free hand lingers too long on his stubble-marked cheek.

Without realizing it, your fingers find one of the scars arching across his skin and trace it all the way down to the corner of his mouth.

Ghost doesn’t say anything to stop you. He sits, he looks up at you, he even blinks his large, luminous eyes a few times.

Fuck. You want…

You rest your palm against his prominent cheekbone and bend closer than necessary to get the last little tuft of hair.

The razor buzzes aimlessly in the air as your eyes drop to his chapped lips.

It turns itself off. “There you go. Nice and even,” You say, straightening up with burning cheeks that appear deep strawberry red in the bathroom mirror.

Ghost hums an acknowledgment, then gets to his feet with some satisfyingly-loud cracks in his back. For a moment, you almost forgot how tall he is. He easily crowds you away from the mirror, filling the space with muscles and long limbs.

“How do I look?” Ghost asks in a hoarse, almost vulnerable voice.

This feels like a trick question. Like, how are you supposed to answer in a way that doesn’t make you sound like a fool?

“Uh- well… you look… better than before.” Wrong answer. That’s absolutely not what you wanted to say, not really.

Words flit in and out of your reach like koi fish in a pond, and each time you grab for one, you come up empty-handed. “You look very handsome, Ghost.” There. That’s respectable, even if it’s not adequate. You’re not sure an adequate sentence to describe Ghost’s attractiveness exists. “I think-“

He cuts you off. “Simon.”

“What?”

Ghost turns his face away from the overhead light and mirror.

“My name’s Simon. Sometimes,” He quips.

Right. No big deal. Be cool. Be normal about this.

You say his name in your head a few times. Simon. Simon. Simon.

Why would he turn away? Why won’t he look at you? How do you make him see himself how you see him?

You reach out and carefully tug at his elbow until he turns around, still with his eyes cast to the ground. “I think you’re… one of the most beautiful people I know, Simon,” You murmur with the gift of his name as sweet as sugar on your tongue.

Everything is quiet, other than the hum of electricity in the light fixture and drops of water trickling from the faucet.

He reaches for your face with both hands, drawing you up on your tippy toes to meet his open mouth. His nose bumps into yours a few times as he kisses you. No teeth, no biting, just sweet, drawn-out kisses, his tongue swirling against yours, the taste of Ghost’s mint toothpaste on your lips.

One hand cups the base of your skull so he can tangle his fingers in your hair as he always does. But even this, Simon does gently, like he can’t bear to be rough.

You kiss him back feverishly with your arms around his neck, breaking away only to kiss the corner of his lips, his cheeks, you kiss the tip of his nose. Simon captures your mouth again with a low growl, stopping between kisses to wipe at your cheeks with his sleeve. Your face must be covered in his eye black.

Then he bends down, wraps his arms around your thighs, and you find yourself airborne. “Don’t drop me-“ You shriek, clinging to him like a sloth on a tree branch.

Ghost laughs as he sits you on top of the sink without blinking an eye. “One of these days, I’m gonna punish you for sayin’ that.” Once you relax into your makeshift perch, he sweeps your hair over your shoulder to kiss your cheek, then down your throat.

“Not today?” You ask with a small smile, running your hands through his freshly-cut hair.

He drags his tongue along your skin, always kissing, licking, loving your neck with his lips, he tugs your shirt up so his mouth can trace the curve of your breast. “Sorry, love,” Ghost murmurs into your stomach.

His teeth sink into your hip as he struggles to get your underwear off, tugging futilely with the tiniest pout until you take pity and pull them down to your ankles. 

“Today-“ He cuts himself off to soothe the sting from his bite with more kisses. You rest your head against the mirror, eyes closed and face to the ceiling, as he dips his fingers between your bare thighs.

The faucet digs into your back, but you’d rather die than make him stop. “I jus’ wanna-“ His hand skates around the folds of your cunt, already dripping and clenching on nothing, his fingers wander everywhere except where you need him.

“Ghost…” You plead, even digging your heels into his back to make him move.

His nails dig into your plush thigh. “Simon. You’ll say Simon, or I’ll stop,” He warns, his eyes completely dilated. You watch him lick his lips, dart his gaze back and forth between your flushed face and your dewy cunt.

The opportunity is right there. It’s right there. Do you go for it?

“Simon says-“ You begin with a shit-eating grin.

Your laughter drowns out his groan. “F’ the love of God, don’t finish that fuckin’ joke,” He sighs, burying his face in your skin.

Simon’s fucking stubble is tickling you, and he starts rubbing his cheek on purpose to be annoying. You’re going to get a rash.

“Okay, okay. I won’t. For now,” You relent with one last giggle.

That giggle turns into a choked moan when his thumb circles your aching clit before he slowly eases one thick finger inside you. You whine, breathless and eager for more, shoving your hips toward his hand until he adds another.

And then he glides his tongue over you, teasing your sensitive bud with delicate licks. “Wanna make you come on my face.” You cry out as he laps at your folds, where you’re stretching to fit him, you gasp and jerk, and he encourages you. “Think you can do that for me?”

One of your hands goes to the mirror for balance, smearing fingerprints all over the foggy glass.

You feel him groan into your soaking wet pussy, the vibrations traveling through your nerves like a hot flame.

He moves his fingers faster, carefully curled to hit your g-spot with each thrust. “Ahhh- the haircut was- fuck… that good?” Your voice shudders, your stomach muscles start to hurt as your hips grind on his face for more, every time he touches you, your cunt flutters helplessly.

You look down at him buried between your legs. His eyes are half-lidded and intent, like he’s drunk, or really high, and most of his eye black has rubbed off on your skin, and he’s mindless as he takes your clit in his mouth and sucks.

“Shit, shit, Simon, slow down, oh God-“ You cry out, back arching like a string pulled taught in his wanting, covetous hands.

Simon lifts his head long enough to rasp, “You’re holding out on me, doll.” Then he gets back to his meal with your slick dripping down his chin.

You’re so unbearably hot that you think you’re about to melt, that desperate, writhing heat grows stronger and stronger in your core, and your shirt chafes your hardened nipples as you pant for breath.

He presses his fingers deeper into you, then thrusts a third digit in. “Oh my god, I’m so close, fuck, Simon, please make me come, o-oh…” You’re fucked out and completely insensible to anything other than his hot, wet mouth, cruelly working you higher and higher.

“Say my name again,” Simon orders as he strokes that ridged spot inside your twitching cunt over and over, his eyes roll back for a second when a new wave of arousal gushes out of you and into his mouth.

The tension wrenches through your insides, and if you don’t come, right now, you’re going to scream and claw and wail, anything for release.

“Simon. Simon. It’s so good, fuck, Simon, you’re ruining me-“ You shudder, then come with a long, shaky gasp. It moves through you, every nerve alive with bright, almost painful pleasure, you can’t breathe or see or hear. Just white light painted on your eyelids and the rabbit-fast beat of your pulse, your muscles spasming on his fingers.

Your nails scratch his neck, and one of his arms holds your cunt to his greedy tongue so he can draw the orgasm out even as you push him away.

Finally, you slump bonelessly to the sink. Simon pulls away the instant the overstimulation becomes too much, but not without one last kiss to your swollen, reddened clit.

Your fingers drag his face up up up until he’s standing and kissing you, his face absolutely covered in your come. He grins lazily, breathing almost as fast as you, you taste your salty, heady taste coating his tongue. You sink your teeth into Ghost’s bottom lip, and he nips you in return.

Your hands move to his shoulders, pushing until he moves back to see what you want. “Go to bed with me,” You whisper.

You missed him. A lot.

Simon searches your face, your round, doelike, beseeching eyes, for something. What he finds brings a small, sweet lift to the corner of his mouth.

He nods, kisses you again for good measure, and then carries you out of the bathroom.

-

GUESS WHAT WE'RE GETTING NEXT CHAPTER??? THE FIRST (BUT NOT LAST) APPEARANCE OF COWBOY GHOST!!!! YEEHAW!!!

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[tmntxthings]

∑一 A New Obsession 。・゜・

author’s note: I highly recommend listening to Smoke Sprite by So!YoON! & RM this song was the sudden inspiration for this little drabble

warnings: yandere tendencies, body worship, mentions of stalking, insanity, unstable mind, unedited

—————————————————————————

Now Donatello did not hold the title of the family artisan. That was held securely by Michelangelo. And yet Donnie could not deny himself the precision it took to create that titanium bust of a terribly handsome scientist. So, sure maybe he was an artist, a sculptor. He didn’t really get the spark to create something similar after that. What had fueled the mini sculpture of himself was more geared towards narcissism anyways. But mostly it was a private joke on the internal awareness of said enlarged ego. Among other excuses like he had the spare titanium, and he had needed a break from the intricacies of his inventions.

He hadn’t thought he would ever sculpt again. Actually he didn’t even realize he had started to until the piece was finished. Now as he backed away from the final result, it was not just a bust but a life size replica of someone. Someone he had never met. Unless you counted the fact that he had passed them today in the throngs of the New York night-life crowd. Have you ever been walking, minding your own business, and totally blending in with the crowd with a masterful human disguise? He had headphones on, and a song had just ended, switching to something new. He heard the beat, the guitar. Then suddenly as if his name was called, he looked up from his ever-present phone screen.

His eyes widening marginally as his gaze locked onto the person walking towards him. Not truly to him, but in his direction. People were everywhere, going in all sorts of different directions. Colors beamed from the nonstop advertisements. Flashing brilliant lights on this person, as if life had given them their own personal spotlight. The realization that he had completely stopped walking barely crossed his mind. He was in the middle of the crosswalk too. In favor of directing all his attention to the ethereal being heading his way. Donnie had never experienced anything like this. For a moment he was acutely aware of everything about this person. From their confident walk, to their regal clothes, down to the minute details of them slipping their phone into a jacket pocket. Their hands, their frame hidden behind their clothes, their face. Their eyes coming up to look at their destination, and as they passed him, their eyes met for only a split second.

His heart felt like it stopped. Underneath their captivating gaze the turtle froze even more, his breath catching in his throat. The music practically faded into the background, he could hardly focus on anything other than you passing him by. It all happened so quickly, as they passed like nothing had happened. Donnie guessed nothing really had for them. But he was left with a completely opposite feeling. He fought the urge to turn around. To follow them. His heart restarted, his breathing felt labored, his feet stumbled along the white lines. He barely made it to the other side before the traffic resumed its flow. He whipped around then, eyes searching for the person who had just bewitched him so! Only they were gone, and he felt such crushing disappointment. It was insane. Donnie chided himself as he turned back to his original destination.

He had rushed back to the lair, ripping off the layers of clothing once he entered his lab. And like a madman he went into a creative frenzy. He only came to once he had recreated the person, his person in their entirety. He felt better now that he could see them again. Even if it was just a carbon copy. They were shorter than he was. He analyzed further, wishing he had used color somehow. The grey of the titanium didn’t do them justice. He went down on his knees. Kneeling before his person. This would have to do for now. The odds were slim but he had to find them again. “Who are you?” He murmured curiously. Why had he reacted so strongly? Was he losing his mind? Was he just that lonely? No, he’d been in a crowd before. Met eyes with strangers before. This was different. They were different.

Though it was his hand that had created this sculpture, it shook now as he dared to touch now. It felt sinful. Now that it looked like an actual being. The tips of his fingers grazed the statue’s. “I’ll find you,” he promised aloud. And then he would make them his. Mine. The word rang out in his head like a mantra as he finally stood. It would be difficult, but if Donatello could be described it would be determined. And maybe obsessed but that sarcastic thought didn’t cling to him as he started hacking into street cameras..

[onboardsorasora]

Because I can't help myself...

Part 1 | Part 2

Part 3

Max felt like this was all just one big out of body experience. Daniel was hanging off of him smiling down the phone with his family. Because of course he had a phone— everyone did. But Daniel forgets about it apparently and it dies often because he doesn’t charge it. He has better things to do than be tethered to technology– unless it's like videos of animals then he has all the time in the world.

When the call had connected; Grace had been weeping and Joe had looked marginally worried. The moment they saw Max however, Joe looked apoplectic and Grace was gently replaced by Michelle who looked like she was planning to kill Max in his sleep.

“Daniel, love. Where are you?” Grace was sniffling and Daniel’s smile dimmed a little. 

“Mama this is Max! He says I’m in Monaco— its far from Perth. I’m sorry Mama.”

“Danny you don’t even have a passport…” Michelle was confused and exasperated. Her usual emotions around her brother.

“Security must be very lax at the airport.” Joe muttered which had Max snorting. They’d all forgotten about him and he'd effectively gotten their attention again.

Michelle mutters something about trusting random people and Daniel lights up because he didn’t just trust blindly this time!

“Don’t worry Chellie! The cats say he's nice! And you know cats never lie!” They were right about the birds and so far they've been right about Max.

“Well if the cats say he's nice…” Grace had all but calmed down seeing that her baby is fine, but Michelle and Joe were already in action mode. They weren't so convinced about this ‘nice Max person’.

“Danny, can you give us a moment so we can talk to Max about getting you home?” Joe smiled when Daniel sang an ‘of course’ and they all watched him get up and frolic to a daybed behind Max and curl up with the cats. Max smiled unconsciously at his humming, who could stay stoic in the face of this?

Grace eventually flutters off as well– because her boy is hale and whole so she's good– and it's just Max left to the wolves of Michelle and Joe. 

It takes a bit but they eventually believe that he's a Formula 1 driver (lots of cross referencing websites and apps. Michelle was thorough) and that he has no problems helping Daniel get home. The season doesn’t start for a few months so he’s got time. 

Turns out they’ll need to get Daniel a passport, sneaking him back into the country even on a private jet was a felony. 

Daniel was making himself comfortable during all of this, floating around the flat with Jimmy and Sassy in hand, singing to them and pointing out the window. He then started looking at himself in all of Max’s trophies, making faces in the mirrored metal, and singing the names to the cats.

“Oh! Melbourne! I know there!” Daniel excitedly pointed at a circular tray like trophy, the lighthouse on his thigh flashed a golden light and the sails of the ship fluttered.

“I’ve raced there.” Max smiled at Daniel’s delighted laugh. He continued to watch Daniel admire all his hardware and crystals with a fond smile– Michelle and Joe stared eagle eyed and tense. When it seemed like he wasn’t putting on a show, they calmed down a little. Just a smidge.

They allowed Max to go after a few more threats– which was only fair. And he went to take a cat from Daniel. Jimmy curled into Max’s hold and Sassy flopped herself around Daniel’s neck, kneading the air as if high on catnip. Daniel giggled, shrugged and scritched her tummy.

“Daniel do you want a change of clothes? Maybe a shower?”

Daniel started singing a song about showers and sunsets and Max took that to mean that sure, he wanted to shower. He found something non-merchy, a tshirt and athletic shorts, he hoped they fit because he didn’t exactly know what size daniel was.

Easily remedied, however, because Daniel took off his sweatshirt during his second chorus. Max blinked at the expanse of tanned skin that was exposed, and the new collection of tattoos that glowed and fluttered. He serenaded Sassy while she bundled in his arms, cooing and grinning when she purred back. The cherub on his forearm fluttered its wings.

He was smaller than Max anticipated, but still broader and fit. Max guessed it was because his aura was so large that he physically seemed tiny in comparison.

“Is there anything you want to eat? I can order food while you bathe.”

"Do they have pizza here? I love pizza." Daniel swayed where he stood, his inner music never stopping.

"We can get pizza." 

Daniel did a happy dance then sauntered to the bathroom confidently. Max cut himself off from saying something when Daniel pointed to the hallway door while looking down at the cat in his hand. Right…Sassy knew where everything was. It was a …strange dynamic to consider.

While that happened, Max took out his phone and texted Charles for help. He was truly out of his depth and Charles knew how to handle  weird shit. He'd gotten used to being more important than the Pope so he could help figure this out.

Charles came with Lando– because of course he did. Those two were always together nowadays. They could keep a secret– not from each other– but they were vaults otherwise. They were in the living room and Max was just about to start explaining when Daniel fluttered out of the bathroom humming. He was damp and shirtless but was wearing Max’s shorts, Charles’ and Lando’s mouths dropped open in shock.

Max scrambled up to cover Daniel off before he fully got into the living room. “Daniel, where is your shirt?”

“Oh, Sassy said it was uncomfortable so I like decided not to wear it.” He shrugged uncaringly and the skull baby on his bicep stepped forward to keep its footing. Sassy purred in his arms and he went back to staring at her lovingly.

“Do you want another shirt?”

“Max…what the fuck?” it was Lando. Max groaned when Daniel looked around him, beaming brightly. The rose bloomed a little.

“Hi! I’m Daniel!”

Part 4

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Six (Part 2)

Shane has arrived by the time I’ve pulled myself together and showered and he’s sitting in the living room scrolling on his phone with a paper bag on his lap. 

“Hello.” I say wearily. My head still aching despite how marginally better I feel after throwing up and washing myself. The sunlight glinting off the window behind him feels like it’s searing through my brain. 

“Good afternoon, you mad thing.” He says with a smile. “Heard you were pissed drunk last night.”

“Shane.” Claire scolds, appearing out from behind the open washing machine door as she unloads a pile of wet laundry into a basket. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“It’s fine.” I croak. “I was. And I’m paying the price today.”

“Nice bruise.” Shane says, looking at my shin, and I groan, remembering how I battered myself against the coffee table in the wee hours of the morning. Then I remember my encounter with Claire and I wish I could be swallowed into the bowels of the earth. “Here, I got you something on my way over.” He says, then takes the paper bag and hands it to me. The smell is so familiar that I know what it is before I even open it. “McDonalds breakfast.” I gasp. “Thank you.”

His cheeks go pink, humiliated by the idea that I might think he’s been considerate of me. “Claire told me to get it.” He clarifies. “She said you like the sausage and egg McMuffin yoke.”

“I do.” I say with wonderment and perch on the seat next to him, immediately tucking into it and feeling its greasy goodness begin to melt away my hangover. 

“We used to always drive to McDonalds when Evie had her dad’s car.” Claire tells him, coming over to me and resting my head on her hip, stroking my hair affectionately and I figure that our confrontation last night has been forgiven. “We’d get the breakfast before school, and sometimes when we stayed out late in the evenings we’d go back again for a McFlurry.”

“The Crunchie one.” I say with a mouth full of McMuffin. “I used to hop off the Crunchie one.”

“When yous were out late doing what? Smoking weed or something, was it?” Shane jokes, and Claire rolls her eyes. 

“Hardly. We were up to much worse.”

“Gossiping.” I clarify. “Vicious, evil gossip.”

“About who?” Shane says, throwing an arm over the back of the sofa. “Me, I’d say.”

I grin. “As if. Don’t flatter yourself. Sure we had plenty of juicier things to talk about. Salacious rumours to start.”

“Ye did not.”

“No, we didn’t.” Claire concedes with a giggle. “You’re right, we mostly just talked about boys.”

I catch Shane glance at me, and only for a flash there’s a look in his eyes. It’s one I’ve come to recognise as an awkward, guarded sympathy. He knows what boy I was talking about, and I wish he didn’t because now I have to endure his commiserating looks during moments that should be light and fun, like he takes some of the blame for the things his friend did and didn’t do. 

Those were fun times.” I say to Claire because I can’t look at him anymore. “I miss hanging out in the car.”

“Me too.” She admits. “It’s not like that anymore, is it? Like even though we live together it feels different now.” 

“I feel so much busier. Like there’s never time to just relax.”

She joins us on the sofa then and stretches her long legs to rest on the coffee table in front of us. “You’re getting big into the party scene, aren’t you?” She says lightly., and I shrug. “Maybe. Not really, just Marnie wants to go out a lot, it’s kind of her thing.”

“She’s the mad posh one is she?” Shane queries, and I tell him yes, unable to defend her on that one, because despite the slight mocking in his tone, I can’t really say that she isn’t either of those things. 

“She’s fun, isn’t she?” Claire says in a voice that suggests that she thinks Marnie is anything but, and I guiltily recall the things Marnie said about Claire when we were going to sleep last night, and the insolent look on her face as she asked her why she wasn’t out partying on a Friday night. It makes me feel a little ashamed of her, but still I feel a need to make excuses. I’ve chosen to hang out with her. She’s a reflection of my decisions, for better or for worse. 

“She is fun.” I say. “We actually have a great time when we go out, we always end up chatting to really cool people, I feel like she’s kind of bringing me out of my shell.” 

“That’s good.” She says with a shrug. “You should hang out with me and the girls from college sometime though, we have great fun, and it’s not just partying, like, if you ever want a break from all that.”

“Yeah they do rock climbing and roller skating and stuff.” Shane supplies. “And they were all at that Christmas market in Smithfield last week.”

I smile. I’ve met Claire’s new friends a few times when they’ve come over to the apartment for movie nights. Jaz and Serena, and they’re very nice but I’ve never really gotten the vibe that they’re that into getting to know me. I wonder if it’s because they know I go to NCAD and that automatically makes me a weird art girl in their eyes. It’s not that they’ve been rude or unkind, but I just don’t feel much warmth from them whenever they’re around. When they’re with Claire the three of them just look so perfectly matched that I’m sure I would spoil  it if I joined.

‘That sounds fun.” I say. “Maybe after Christmas.”

“Well, we’re going to Jaz’s house on New Year’s Eve if you want to come. Shane’s friends from UCD will be coming too, it’d be a good chance to meet some new people.”

By that she means: non-pretentious art students who don’t chat exclusively about politics, society and feminism, but I shake my head as she’s talking. “I can’t, I’ve already told Marnie I’d go clubbing with her that night.”

“You’re going into town?” Shane says with indignance. “Do you know how rotten town is on New Year’s?”

“No I don’t.” I shrug. “I suppose I’ll find out.”

“Come on, Evie.” Claire insists. “Come to the house party instead, it’ll be way more fun than being all squashed up in some smelly old club. Serena is going to get us to do these fun Spanish traditions that she used to do back home, and everyone is going to bring a dish and there’ll be a potluck. Isn’t that better than being in the Burger King queue at three in the morning waiting to buy a bag of soggy old chips?”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.” I say, even though I won’t. I can feel myself start to drift into a new chapter of my life here in Dublin, and I know that the person I am becoming is not the type who would favour a potluck dinner over a nightclub. I want to be out where the action is, where there’s excitement in the air and the town is alive with an electric buzz as thousands of people pile in together and scream out our countdown to midnight. I want fireworks and streamers and confetti, euphoria, exhilaration in my veins. I realise I don’t want smalltalk with Claire and Shane’s friends. 

When I’ve finished my breakfast I head back upstairs to my messy bedroom to start packing my bags for the Christmas break. Shane wants to leave for Tullamore in half an hour, so I quickly dress myself and start packing clothes and presents for my family into bags. When I go to pack my phone, it wakes up in my hand and displays a message that I hadn’t heard come in. It’s from Dean Cullen. Confused, I open it. What could he possibly want from me?

Hey so Marnie told me what you said about me. 

I read the first sentence and immediately begin feeling nauseous again. What did I say? I can’t remember talking about him last night. What did Marnie say? Why was she texting him about me? When was she texting him about me?

I’m sorry if the hand touching stuff was weird. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I didn’t think it was a big deal but obvs the both of you did, and I don’t really want to get involved in whatever drama yous are going to create out of this tbh. Have a nice Christmas. 

My heart is immediately pounding in my chest. What on earth? I check the time that he sent the message. It was twenty minutes ago. Had Marnie left the apartment and immediately got in touch with him? Sitting on that bus she paid for with the last pennies I have to my name, spreading gossip about me to Dean Cullen? It’s so strange, and I’m so confused that I just stand in the centre of the room staring down at my phone. I rack my brains to try and remember what happened last night, searching through my brain for the fuzzy memories is like trudging through molasses, pulling out drunken memories here and there, my head leaning against the wall on the second floor landing of that house and the way that the heavy music reverberated through it. The image of Dean almost falling down the stairs under unsteady legs. I remember how he touched my hand, of course I do, but I can’t remember talking to Marnie about it. What did I say? Surely it wasn’t that bad.

Hey.

I start typing with trembling hands. 

Yeah I mentioned it to Marnie, but I didn’t think it’d be turned into gossip and repeated back to you. I’m sorry about that. I hope you have a nice Christmas too. 

I watch nervously for a few seconds as the message is sent, and then sit there in the chat box for what seems like forever. I read it again and again, wondering if I should have said something better, and then watch in surprise as the chat box greys out suddenly. I freeze. Did he… did he just block me? I frantically tap on his profile, but it only shows the generic default silhouette image and the name “Facebook User”. 

I make an outraged sound and stare down at my phone in disbelief. He can’t just block me over this, that’s insane. I open up my chat with Marnie and begin to type a confrontational message to her, but then think the better of it. She’ll just have some excuse for it, I already know the kind of thing she will say that will make any message I send completely redundant. Men can’t get away with making women uncomfortable. She’ll say. I was standing up for you and letting him know where your boundaries are. I fling my phone into a bag and start shoving things in on top of it, having a furious argument with her in my head. One I will never actually have but it feels good to tell her off anyway. 

“I agree that people shouldn’t get away with being creepy.” I mutter to myself. “But if I wanted to reach out and talk to him about it, that was my decision to make. You can’t do things like this on my behalf, without my consent.” I fire a crumpled up pair of pyjamas on top of the heap. “He touched my hand. It wasn’t a big deal, and now you’ve blown the whole thing up. Everyone could have just moved on from-”

“Who’re you fightin’?” Comes a voice, and I whirl around to see Shane at my door. 

“Mind your own business!” I say in a voice I haven’t used on him since I was about fourteen. 

He rolls his eyes and mimics me “Mind your own business” I fling a slipper at him, but he catches it. Of course he does, gaelic football star Shane Healy never misses. He tosses it back into my bag with perfect accuracy. “Are you ready to go yet? I want to try and beat the Christmas traffic.”

“Yeah just a minute.” I wrestle with the zip on my bag, irritated by him watching me do it. “You can go downstairs now.”

“Alright.”

“And don’t come into my room again without knocking.”

“Don’t leave it wide open then, you dope.” He says, and then he leaves.

Prev // Next

[itmeblog]

THERE WAS LITERALLY NOTHING STOPPING ME FROM WRITING FAN FIC ABOUT MY OWN SHIT!!

FUCKING NOTHING!!!!

(Maybe because I created this world it's canon now? But that is 1001% not my concern nor my problem)

Nova was alive. The pulse that ripped between her temples and settled angrily behind her eyes informed her as much.

She groaned, reaching in vain for memories from the night before. There were flashes: a bar, a party, another bar, a man, possibly a third bar and then…nothing. The rest of the night was ash and dust. She reached out for the glass SAWA should have left on her night stand and knocked something over sending shards of pain dancing in the space between her eyes.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” She ground her face into the pillow. It smelled of something sweet, herbs the people on this planet used to keep pests away.

“Fuck.”

Please be a hotel.

She couldn’t take another morning of awkwardly running into the members of a family of someone she could only vaguely remember.

Nova gathered what pieces of herself she could manage. Her mouth was dry, her head was attempting a revolt from her neck, and spending the morning retching in whatever passed for a toilet here seemed a half-decent idea. It only got worse as she sat up.

The room was sparse, just a bed really. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, mixed with an outfit Nova didn’t recognize, all sequins and scarves. A screen sat nestled into the far wall and flickered silently through a morning report, a perky looking reporter sang the GU’s praises in the subtitles that scrolled across the bottom.

A hotel room.

Thank God.

Nova’s attention landed wearily on the woman sleeping beside her. What had happened to the guy she’d been with? Had she ditched him? Wandered off and found better company? She tried to remember but all she could recall was him pinning her to a wall, the heat of his body pressed against hers and the fleeting thought, hazed by brandy and something bitter she’d been offered to smoke, that he wasn’t enough to silence the thoughts in her head.  

Maybe the woman had succeeded where he’d failed. Nova wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember this woman at all.

That was supposed to worry her. Lulu would be concerned.

Nova shut the thought away with a viciousness that made her stomach pitch.

As it turned out, there was a proper restroom, though a prerequisite for puking was actually having eaten something in the first place, so it was really more about form than efficacy. Nova sent prayers to a porcelain alter, a thought that teased a near hysterical laugh from her throat.

God, she was tired.

She picked up her clothes, showered, and left her companion to sleep off whatever had happened the night before.

“Hey.” Nova leaned heavily against the front desk she only half-remembered approaching, rubbing her fingers against her temples as she reached for words.

“Yes?” The person behind the counter, some alien with six eyes that blinked asynchronously in a way that made the impossible task of focusing on where to look, harder still.

“I—, uh, shit, I don’t even know the fucking room.” She turned around like that might somehow make it clearer, but she distinctly remembered taking a lift. She was fucking this up. Breathe. New tactic. “I’m Nova. Did a Nova sign in a room yesterday?”

The receptionist typed something, every key stroke hit like an axe between Nova’s brows.

“Last name?” Thunder.

“Don’t have one,” except the art of opening her mouth properly had escaped her and everything had come out in a continuous nearly indecipherable donaveone. Which after receiving several blinks Nova repeated to marginal success.

“Mmm, there was a Nova NoStar.”

She cringed. “NoStar?”

The clerk nodded, well, sort of nodded. Bobbed. They had no neck or equivalent thereof.

“Goddammit,” her hands returned to her temples, her elbows to the counter, the effort of keeping herself upright just a bit too much when she had to deal with this shit. “Yeah, NoStar. I’d like to pay, yesterday and today.”

She’d have to burn this planet off the list. How fucking stupid did she have to be to give her real name? Sure, there were probably millions of Nova NoStars out there but Jeanne would find a way. Fuck.

Nova paid, the blaring of the screen as her transaction went through made her want to dash her head against the wall.

“Is there anything else you need?”

Nova blinked, waiting for the words to settle in her head and mean something. “Need? Oh, uh, yeah, fuck, is there someplace to get breakfast around here?” She glanced at the sun that filtered in through the small window by the receptionist’s desk. “Or lunch?”

The directions she’d received sent Nova to a small food stand that smelled of grease and the promise of revival. She couldn’t read the menu and simply pointed and was handed something that might have been bread and some sort of meat, along with a bottle of water. The man who ran the stand was some flavor of human, though Nova could hardly be bothered to parse his existence. Modified, maybe?

She tried not to look too hard at what he’d given her. It undulated a bit if she stared at it too long, like it wasn’t quite dead despite the steam wafting from it. The first bite reminded her that she hadn’t really eaten the day before and the thing was gone before she knew it. She licked the oil from her fingers and set on the water.

Thank god for small miracles. She felt halfway human.

The traffic of the world sang through the air above her, in large ships belching black into the skies and buffeted her from all sides in lower forms of travel, things with wheels and rails and low flying capabilities. Galactic Union banners waved high overhead. Somewhere a commercial played calling for people to sign up for positions at their embassies.

The Galactic Union: Be part of something bigger.

Nova didn’t recognize this part of the city. It was cramped and crowded, two things Nova actually liked while she was working, but now that she was simply eating and drinking her way through her savings, was simply another obstacle that teased the remainder of her headache from the corners of her mind.

That and with food and water sustaining her, what little of her mind that was able to rouse for non-essential activities busied itself chiding her for her stupidity or cycling through all the things she could have done to save Lulu.

If only she’d been faster.

If only she’d noticed sooner.

If only she wasn’t such a fucking idiot.

If only she hadn’t listened.

Nova, stay put. The words rang clear as a bell between her ears. And then she was there again, frozen. Watching.

Lulu smiled. The skin at the corner of her eyes crinkled in concern, for Nova or herself, Nova didn’t know.

Then Lulu was gone.

The air around Nova was too thin, her pulse was a thready hum. She walked faster as if that might somehow put some distance between herself and the memory. A horn blared and the world rocketed into focus as a vehicle stopped just short of ramming her full speed and settled instead for banging into her leg just enough that her palms slammed into the hood to keep her steady.

Nova stared, wide eyed at the driver, her breaths coming in pants.

Wasn’t this what she’d wanted?

Why hadn’t they been driving faster?

Why did they stop?

The curses that filtered in through her translator were colorful and fantastical. Her bottom lip quivered as tears pricked the back of her eyes.

Lulu wouldn’t want this for me.

Her hands flew away from the hood as if she’d been burned. “Sorry,” was all she offered as she hurried away, her leg protesting at her speed after enduring that abuse. The driver’s curses followed her until she turned a corner and pressed her back against the wall of some towering building. The stone dug into her back, rough and painful, and real.

Her hands shook with leftover adrenaline.

“Fuck.”

She was going to cry. She couldn’t keep doing this.

“Lulu wanted you to live, you fucking idiot,” she whispered. “How could you forget how to do the one goddamn thing she wanted you to do?”

[theapangea]

Night Out

Chapter: Girls Night Out Pt.2

Pairing/Characters: Steve Harrington x Reader, Nancy, Jonathan, Jason Carver

Summary: You and Steve have been dancing around each other for sometime now, neither of you wanting to make the first move. All your friends decide it is finally time for you both to confess your feelings.

A/N: So sorry I have been mia lately, just some super crazy personal stuff came up. I think I'm finally getting my Inso back to write. I hope you enjoy this chapter and finally some drama happens yay!!!

Also please know that my replies aren't working.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

It was pretty anticlimactic when you finally arrived at the Wheeler house. Steve, nor any of the boys were anywhere to be found. 

All the hard work that you and Nancy put into making the perfect plan. Something along the lines of you and Steve being magically locked out of the house and forced to talk, professing your undying love for each other. The ‘undying love’ part was definitely Nancy’s contribution, making you wish that’s how it actually ends. 

Nancy’s Dad grumbled something about them heading out on some “grand adventure”. The air quotes indicating that he was speaking verbatim. Probably quoting something that Dustin said, that sappy line definitely a dead giveaway. 

Smiling to yourself on how he would do anything to get you on a date. Only understanding now that most of those times were signaling you to go out with Steve. The tingling feeling of a giggle holding onto your lips as the faint memory fades.

And as much as you tried to fight off the sheer thought of Steve while you were getting ready. Everything you did and every word you spoke reminded you of him. The way he compliments the sparkly pink lip gloss you wear or the way you’d tell a story about some customer that he originally told you. The way his hair falls in front of his face while he laughs, putting his whole body into something funny. 

He was constantly on your mind. Finally realizing how much he has influenced your whole life. He wasn’t just some goofy coworker but a friend who’d you see every single day of the week. Even when you didn’t always want to. Making your day better by a large margin.

Don’t think about Steve.

Don’t think about Steve.

Don’t think about Steve.

Reminding yourself over and over again.

And the whole time you were trying to forget Steve while getting ready, he was still at the forefront of your mind. The shining star in this crazy darkness that is this night.

The butterflies are swarming in your stomach as you slump into the backseat of Jonathan’s car. Begging any god that will listen to let you sink into the folds, disappearing before you get to the party. But sadly there is no answer as Jonathan pulls off the road. 

Jason’s house was a typical middle American suburban house. Not too small and not too flashy. The music noticeably shaking the house from the outside. 

Sluggishly following behind Nancy and Jonathan. Their hands tangled around others. Your heart strings pulling, the instant thought of Steve and the way his hand would feel in yours. 

Don’t think about Steve.

It feels like the whole senior class is shoved into Jason’s house. The dancing, singing, shouting filling your ears as you enter the house. Passing by people making out, grinding on each other and giving/receiving body shots.

Don’t think about Steve.

You follow the only couple that isn’t all over each other, maybe Nancy felt like she couldn’t be intimate with Jonathan for your own sake. Nancy hands you a red solo cup full of some clear liquid. Flashing her a quick smile before bringing the cup to your lips and taking a sip. The liquid instant coating your mouth and throat. The burn sends goosebumps through your body. 

After a couple of minutes, the liquid took effect and you didn’t even care to think about what’s-his-name. Allowing yourself to let the butterflies free, letting the alcohol carry you into freedom. 

Rough hands snake around your waist while a hard chest hits upon your back. Looking up to see the blonde playboy by your side. 

“Hey you.” You giggle, the alcohol clearly doing its job. Swirling around in your veins and head.

“You wanna go somewhere quieter?” He says just loud enough for you to hear him over the speakers.

Shaking your head yes before chugging the rest of your drink. Placing the empty solo cup on the counter as you turn around to grab his hand. Allowing him to take the lead. Signaling to Nancy that you were heading in that direction with Jason.

A thumbs up shooting back from her.

Pushing your way through the crowded people, his hand squeezing yours, keeping you close. Leading you towards the back of the house, passing several closed doors before slipping into one of the vacant rooms. 

It is clearly Jason’s room. Your eyes gaze upon the blue walls lined with dozens of trophies. Making your way to the bed in the middle of the room, taking a seat as Jason locks the door. 

It is almost like a dream, your mind happy it isn’t fully present because if it was it would definitely be thinking about Steve. And the way his shirt rises when he’s pulling a movie away on the top shelf, showing a little bit of his tummy. Or the way his jeans hug his thighs, not leaving anything to the imagination.

Don’t think about Steve.

Jason clears his throat, “I’m really happy you came tonight.” His thumbs hooked into his belt loops as he makes his way over to you.

You hum in response. Desperately wish it was Steve standing in front of you.

Don’t think about Steve.

“Something on your mind?” He questions, the bed sinking next to you finally pulling you from your thoughts, pulling you from Steve.

“You can say that.” You try to play it off, forcing a smile.

“Well I think of a way to clear it.” He whispers, closing the space that separates the two of you.

His lips capturing yours, dominating the intimate moment. Sloppy and too much tongue is all you can think. The kiss is no longer what you want but you don’t stop yourself, you don’t stop him. 

Gently pushing you onto the bed as your hands grasp the fabric of his shirt. 

Don’t think about Steve.

Don’t think about Steve.

Steve.

It has always been Steve.

All the years you tried to push this feeling down and here you are tongue deep in Jason Carver wishing that it was Steve. 

Pushing him off rather aggressively, “I don’t want to…”

“Come on.” He begs, “You come here looking this hot and I can’t even get any?”

“I'm just not in the mood.” Shifting yourself away from him, exiting from under his body.

He scoffs, “You were like a second ago.”

“But not now, not anymore.” You roll your eyes, pulling your jacket back on.

“So we’re really not doing this.” 

“No.” You are firm in your words, “We’re really not doing this.”

Jason tilting his head back as you can tell her is clearly annoyed. But you didn’t care, you wanted to get out of this room, of this house, away from this party. 

Steve .

You want to find Steve.

Stepping out of the room, straightening your clothes and hair as you feel an arm rest on your shoulders. Noticing Jason is standing unusually close. 

Finally lifting your head to see Steve staring back at you at the end of the hallway. His once open mouth shuts, nodding his head as he makes sense of the situation. Turning on his heels and getting lost within the crowd.

~~~

let me know what you think!! love you so much for support me <3!!

Tags: @orphic-musings @shireentapestry @lifecanbehardbutyouarestrong @ash5monster01 @johnricharddeacy@artsyfartsytheaterkid @kennedy-brooke@graciehams

Only 1 more part. Let me know if you wanna be tagged.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

A Lesson In History {3}

Professor Robert (Hob) Gadling x f!reader Summary: You stumble across the truth and see Hob in a new light. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, oral, smut WC: 3.5k

The Sandman Masterlist || Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three ||

Hob’s pen scratched noisily across the paper he was marking, small notes filling the margin on what could be improved, and he barely glanced up from his chair as you entered the home office. You still couldn’t quite believe you lived on Birdcage Walk with him even though the evidence of the life you shared together covering every inch of the house, from the thrift shop art hanging at a slight angle in the hall to the scarf draped over the staircase to dry after being caught in a light drizzle.

It seemed funny in hindsight that you thought he had been ashamed of his own abode and that was why you had always met at your old apartment. You had thought he probably had a hefty student loan and since he wasn’t tenured he was living in a flat. You hadn’t considered it because he was extremely rich, and possibly weary and needing to make sure you weren’t with him for the money.

It took some getting used to but now the mansion felt like home. 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” you asked as you examined the creased spines of the well used books that lined his room. “I was just about to put the kettle on.”

Hob rubbed at his tired eyes and sat back in his chair, not realising how much time he had spent grading the latest exam papers. “You should have interrupted me, love.”

“The sooner you finish those, the sooner I have you all to myself.” 

He pushed his chair back, patting his thigh, and you rounded his desk to take a seat, casting your eyes over some of his notes in front of you. His arms draped around your waist and he kissed the sensitive skin below your ear. “That is a very good incentive to finish quickly,” he confessed low in your ear, “but I think I have a better idea.”

You felt him stirring against the swell of your ass and couldn’t help shifting closer despite the clothing that kept you apart. A hand was already creeping along your waistband before slipping under and you leaned back against his chest to give him the access you both desired. 

“This is not conducive to finishing your work, Professor,” you purred as the pad of his finger circled your clit.

“I’ll finish the papers after you finish on my fingers.” He dipped his hand lower and sunk two fingers into you as he palmed your bundle of nerves. Your head tipped back in ecstasy with a heady moan and your hips rocked against his hand as he quickly worked you to a frenzy. “Or maybe you’re right, I should concentrate on my work.” He moved to withdraw his hand and you felt his quiet chuckle rumble in his chest as you clung to his wrist and clenched your thighs to keep him where he was.

“Please, Hob,” you begged as the edge of release faded with each passing second. 

“Just think of this as another lesson, my love,” he teased between kisses along your jaw. “The tension you feel will only heighten your orgasm…later.”

His hand slipped through your grip and he grinned as he lifted it to his lips, tasting you on his fingers until they were clean and you stood up on shaky legs with an undignified huff. 

“Read that in the Kama Sutra too?” you asked as you straightened your clothes and eyed the cocky quirk of his lips. 

“Would you believe me if I said I saw it on Keeping Up With The Kardashians?”

A burst of surprise tore through you before laughter spilled forth and he chewed the end of his pen as he sent you a wink before sliding his chair back to his desk and focusing on his papers.

The kettle had well and truly boiled by the time you reached the kitchen and you poured the hot water over the strainer full of tea leaves and into the teapot to steep. 

Every small step around the large kitchen reminded you of the ‘tension’ simmering between your thighs and the thought of reprieving yourself flashed in your mind. Your thighs clenched together and your fingers twitched with the urge to slip them down your body but you closed them into a fist knowing Hob’s lessons were always worth the wait.

You collapsed back onto the bed with trembling legs and aftershocks quaking down them, Hob’s proud face peering up from between them where he had driven you to the brink of insanity with his tongue. Your heart was racing against your ribcage and you gasped for air, your voice hoarse from crying out in ecstasy as you panted, “Totally. Worth. Waiting.”

Hob chuckled as he rose from the bed and fisted his thick erection with long languid strokes. “I told you so.”

His knees nudged your legs wider as he settled between them and ran the head of his cock through your slick folds. His lips parted with a shuddering breath when he pressed forward and buried himself all the way until his body slapped against yours with an unabashed moan of pleasure.

You were already well on the way to another orgasm just with the fullness of him entering you and when he began to piston his hips you were writhing beneath him. Nails dragged down his back as you looked for purchase to hold onto, eventually burying them into the flesh of his buttocks to spur him on harder. 

Hob’s breath was hot in your ear and he nipped at your neck to elicit a sharp cry from you before stealing the sound as he plunged his tongue between your parted lips. He was everywhere, he surrounded you, invaded you, conquered you. And you let him.

“Harder, please,” you begged as your core began to tighten and your toes began to curl.

Hob gritted his teeth as his own pleasure threatened to spill over but he was never one to leave you undone and thrust with all his strength, the sounds of your bodies clashing with wet slaps and your heady breaths eching loud around the room. 

The pressure built until you exploded with a string of passionate expletives and Hob gave in to his own release, his spine arching as he grunted deeply. His cock pulsed as he came, filling you with his hot seed until it began to leak from your dripping cunt and he pulled out to collapse beside you on the messy bed. 

“I am meeting an old friend tomorrow,” Hob said as he drew idle circles across your skin and propped his head up on his elbow. “I want you to come and meet him.”

You hadn’t met any of Hob’s friends before, not that he ever saw them either. The only people he seemed to interact with were the other professors at the university and you. You were eager to get to know anyone he had in his life. “I’d love to.”

“I’m glad,” he said with a smile before climbing out of bed to get a warm washcloth. He gently cleaned the mess he had made between your legs before kissing your thigh and standing up again. “I still have some marking to finish. Go to sleep, love, you look exhausted.”

“Whose fault is that?” you teased with a lazy finger pointed his way before climbing under the blankets. 

Hob padded quietly across the room and spoke as turned off the lights, “I’ll happily be blamed for that.” You didn’t even hear the door click shut as you drifted off to sleep.

Something woke you though you weren’t sure what it was since the other half of the bed was still empty. Seeing it was the early hours of the morning, you went in search of Hob who you assumed had been caught up in marking papers and forgotten the time. You were often needed to remind him to come to bed. 

When you reached the study, soft snores drifted to the door and you found the small desk lamp lit and Hob’s face resting on his hands atop the desk. The marking papers were all packed away and it was an old book that was open in front of him instead. 

Curious, you reached over his sleeping form and looked at what appeared to be an 18th century journal, a primary source - not a scholarly article. It had to be one of Hob’s ancestors since it was signed by an H. Gadling but the cursive writing was remarkably similar to his.

I hast taken my friend’s words under advisement. There is no pride to beest found trading slaves and I shall beest a part of it nay more. He is correct, tis a shameful act to enslave fellow man as beast.

The date of the journal was from sometime late in July of 1789 but the exact date had been smeared and then faded with time. Skipping back a few pages you found another entry regarding his friend. It was the 8th June and noted the meeting the night before at their usual place, the White Horse. 

Every few days this H. Gadling would ponder what his friend was doing and you gathered they did not meet often, though there was no explanation as to why that was. Closing the journal carefully, you placed it back on the desk and gently shook Hob awake.

“Come to bed, babe,” you murmured when he began to stir.

“Shhh Eleanor,” he mumbled as his eyes closed again, “he’s finally sleeping.”

Obviously reading the journal in his drowsy state had caused him to dream about it and you gave him a harder shake to wake him further. “Hob, it’s me.”

His eyes flew open and he bolted upright in his chair, nearly tipping the thing over before rubbing his face wildly. It took another few seconds for him to realise where he was and that you were standing beside him before the lingering sense of the dream passed. 

Seeing the time on the clock he groaned, “I must have dozed off, sorry, love.”

He opened the drawer beneath his desk and shoved the journal in there without the usual care such an old historical book should have and you frowned at the carelessness. Hob was usually one to wear gloves when handling old pieces and moved them like delicate sandcastles that could crumble at any moment. It made you even more curious as to who it had belonged to.

When you woke, Hob had already left for work and you couldn’t shake the need to read the journal from start to finish. Deciding a little lie-in wouldn’t be a bad thing, you went to retrieve the book, planning to climb back into bed, but it was gone from Hob’s desk drawer. You searched the book shelves but there were no new additions and the journal was certainly not among them.

Odd.

With a resigned sigh, you grabbed your laptop to continue job searching in bed and went to the wardrobe to steal a shirt of Hob’s to laze around in since you didn’t plan to go out until after he came home. You dropped your laptop on your bed and went to Hob’s drawers, rifling through them in search of the old grey shirt that was your favourite of his. 

Reaching the last drawer, you found the shirt and pulled it out but some of the material seemed caught in the bottom of the drawer and lifted it up. There, you spotted the burgundy colour of the leather bound journal. You forgot all about the shirt and you pried the false bottom off the drawer and found dozens of journals in different sizes and colours, some looking even older while others were newer. 

Pulling the drawer out completely, you carried it into the bedroom and sat down with the haul. Each of the front pages were dated and signed by the same cursive lettering of H. Gadling but there had to be a mistake - the dates were from the mid 15th century to the late 19th century.

You felt as if you were invading Hob’s privacy by reading the journals but you surmised that it was no different to reading any other historical recollection which was what he had encouraged during your studies. 

Shadows passed over your lap and you realised the entire day had slipped away while you read through each of the journals, growing more confused with each one. This man, H. Gadling, had clearly been the same man across centuries of writing - which made no sense. He also mentioned his nameless friend many times, only meeting in person on the 7th June every 100 years. It was impossible.

You startled as you phone rang and you saw Hob’s name on the screen, quickly swiping the screen to answer the call.

“Sorry, love, I got caught up in a meeting,” he said as he rushed down the university corridors, the sounds of students chattering and shoes squeaking in the background. “Do you think you can meet me at The New Inn?”

You pulled the phone away to look at the time. “I’ll get ready now and catch a cab over there.”

You heard the ding of the elevator that would take him down to the underground car park and knew he would lose signal once the door closed so said your goodbye and rushed to put the journals back how you had found them.

You weren’t sure how formal to dress but since it was The New Inn you pulled on a pair of comfortable jeans and sweater to combat the changing weather. Every time you had been to the pub with Hob he had been in casual wear so you figured this wouldn’t be any different.

The black cab took you across the Thames and back towards your old apartment, a feeling of nostalgia warming you. You hadn’t been back to your local pub since moving in with Hob but there was never any reason to make the trip across town when there were dozens of other pubs closer.

Ambient music and conversation filled the air as you paid the cabbie and climbed out. Only a few of the outdoor tables were filled with brave patrons who weren’t afraid of catching a cold, or were in need of a cigarette. You, however, made a beeline for the front door with the promise of warmth even though Hob’s car wasn’t in the car park yet. 

Though Hob drank ale in the summer, he was more inclined to a red wine in the cooler months, citing that it warmed his belly on a cold night - so you ordered a house red for him before searching for an empty table. 

It was a miracle in itself that one was free but you found it at the back next to a gentleman sitting on his own. The man looked better suited to being at a goth rave and not a homely pub, with his wild black hair sticking up at all angles above a long black coat and black boots peeking out the bottom of the table. The only thing he was missing was eyeliner.

You took a seat beside him on the bench and placed Hob’s drink on the table before checking your phone to see if he had sent an update. It wasn’t uncommon to get stuck in traffic but he usually let you know. 

You placed your phone on the table and people-watched while you waited, but your eyes kept drifting to the man sitting still as a statue beside you. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” you asked politely as you felt a familiarity about the man. “I swear I have seen you before.”

“I get that a lot,” he said with a surprisingly deep voice that had you relaxing back into the padded seat.

“Oh, sorry,” you murmured before your phone lit up and Hob’s name popped up with a text message that he was outside.

You felt a presence beside you and looked up from the phone to see the stranger had leaned in closer and was looking at the device too. “Hob,” he said with a frown. “Hob Gadling?”

You jolted with surprise. “You must be the friend he’s coming to meet. I’m Y/N, sorry, he never actually said your name.”

His lips curved warmly at the word friend and he gave a small nod. “You may call me Morpheus.”

“Oh, good, you’ve already met,” Hob said by way of greeting as he arrived and slipped between the tables to give you a quick kiss before turning to Morpheus. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I can forgive a few minutes,” Morpheus said with a small smirk and Hob laughed heartily. 

“After the years you kept me waiting, you better,” Hob teased. “How have you been, old friend?”

“Old?” you asked as you cocked an eyebrow and looked at Morpheus. “You can’t be more than 25?”

“I’m a lot older than I look,” he assured you.

Hob scoffed and took a sip of his wine as he commented to his glass, “A lot.”

Your eyes darted between them and you felt on the outside of their inside jokes, something tingling in the recesses of your mind. 

Your lips parted with a gasp and you shook your head at the impossibility of it. He couldn’t be. There was no way in hell that he could be. But, your gut told you it was true. Hob was H. Gadling.

“No. Fucking. Way,” you whispered. “You wrote the journals.”

Hob’s eyes widened and he remembered how the journal on his desk had been moved when you woke him up. He hadn’t thought anything of it until now, when you mentioned the plural - journals. “You read them?”

“You told me to.”

Hob frowned. “What? When?”

“Second year orientation.”

His jaw dropped and he looked to Morpheus who was watching silently without a hint of surprise on his face. 

“This is who you have been meeting once every hundred years,” you said, staring at the goth man, barely comprehending that he too had lived for hundreds of years, before turning back to Hob who was still in a state of shock. “Oh my god. How is this possible?”

“My sister is Death,” Morpheus answered for him. “She granted Hob immortality.”

You reached across the table and took Hob’s wine, draining the alcohol in two gulps. “Who would ever want that?”

Morpheus looked at his friend with amusement. “Who indeed?”

“I need another drink,” you mumbled as you absorbed the information and stared at Hob in a new light. All those lectures on the middle ages and renaissance came with a new revelation that he had lived them, survived them, while all of his family passed away. His life had been heartbreak after heartbreak and you had read the evidence of it all in the journals. 

“I’ll get a…few rounds,” Hob managed to say before disappearing towards the bar. 

“This is just a dream,” you uttered under your breath as you dropped your head to the table top.

“I’m afraid not,” Morpheus said softly. “You are most certainly in the waking world.”

“What happens now?”

“That is up to you. Knowing what you know now, does it change how you feel about him?”

You thought about it for a moment then shook your head. You were a history major, you loved history and he was living history. In a way there was nothing more you could want in a man than someone who shared your passion and had actually lived it. 

“But one day I am going to die, like Eleanor and Robyn, while he will always remain as he is.” You sighed sadly at the truth while you picked at the chipped edge of the table, you would grow old and he would not. “It would never work.”

A shadow passed across you and you looked up to see Hob had returned with a tray laden with drinks, a forlorn expression on his face as he spoke, “I have spent many nights thinking about our future together.”

Morpheus shifted uncomfortably in his seat and wrapped his pale fingers around the pint of beer Hob had placed in front of him. “You wish to speak to my sister.”

Hob nodded and took a seat beside you so he could hold your hand. “I have found what I was searching for all this time.”

Tagging: @endlessly-entertaining @damndonner @remusismyhousewife @juxtaposeddreamer @hedwigprewett12 @depressooexxpressoo @jesllianaquilesrolon @trickstersp8 @frenchroasted-blog @poemfreak306 @myfangirlheartsblog

[e-wills-afterhours]

Pretentious Coffee, Chapter 2

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Modern college/coffee shop AU

----------

Astrid tapped her mechanical pencil against her desk, rattling the lead inside. She knew how obnoxious the clicking must be—she had nearly throttled a girl for doing the same thing during the last course exam—but a day and a half’s cram session left her feeling anxious and unprepared.

Upon reflection, she could not recall what possessed her to go to that party with Ruffnut. It was so unlike her, the weekend before any kind of test. She usually was a much better student than she had been over the past week: sleeping in, procrastinating, and spending lectures ignoring the buzzing of her cell phone, seething over everything she imagined the texts and voicemails would say. It was not her normal behavior, and it had nothing to do with her recent breakup…or so she told herself.

There was no possible way he could still get under her skin. She had excised him from her life, regardless if she was the one who had actually been dumped. If he didn’t want to be with her anymore, fine. No point in pining away or wallowing in self-pity. That kind of behavior was pathetic, and there was a perfectly logical explanation as to why her academic motivation had dwindled.

There had to be.

Burnout was perfectly normal, even if it was only halfway through sophomore year.

She stiffened as a stack of exam papers hit her desk, feeling the sickening twist of her stomach that was usually milder on test days. Her leg began to shake in addition to her clicking pencil, and she noticed the sidelong glance from the girl adjacent to her.

Screw her.

Astrid took a deep breath.

The Scantron sheet was tucked inside a dense packet of questions, stapled together. There were seventy-five questions worth of political science theory, and she ran once more through the base philosophies of Plato, Aristotle, and Machiavelli, feeling marginally better she could remember those flash cards  verbatim.

She twisted in her seat to pass back the remaining tests. For no particular reason, other than curiosity maybe, she quickly scanned the room, wondering if anyone else shared her nerves—

There, two seats behind her to the right, was a tall, lanky face she had only just committed to memory: the barista. There no mistaking him, even without his beige apron and black slacks. The dark green hoodie pulled over his head, framing that same bored, unimpressed face—not arrogant, just disinterested—only made him look more apathetic than he had been behind a cash register. It was as if all of it—school, his job, and surrounding peers—were inconsequential to him. It was as if the mundane world of what was normal and expected was merely an inconvenience.

His eyes met hers and he smiled, bright and lopsided, like he was happy to see her, but still uncertain if she was worth reconnecting to the world.

“You may begin as soon as you get your test,” the professor announced pointedly.

Astrid tore her gaze away from that oddly engaging stare, turning back to her exam and finding the nuggets of political theory growing fuzzier in her brain. Bubbling her name into the appropriate field had become cumbersome. Her attention was suddenly divided between a GPA-determining test, and the utter shock that the skinny, snarky coffee barista had been in her class for half a semester without her noticing…

Yet, his face had been deemed worthy by her subconscious to file away so that bumping into him for the first time set off frantic bells to a tune she couldn’t quite name.

Well, now she knew.

The midterm exam seemed to simultaneously drag on and speed by in some bizarre time paradox. When her mind reluctantly wandered to freckles and sarcastic wit, it was like substantial blocks of time simply evaporated. Minutes of the clock were magicked away. It was disconcerting.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she flipped to the last page. A quick glance at the remaining time confirmed she hadn’t burned it all fixating on a guy she had no business thinking about, after a break up she definitely was not still hurting over. She was glad to be unattached, frankly. It gave her the freedom to focus on what mattered—like the final three questions her pencil had been hovering over for a good few minutes

What was wrong with her?

Movement caught her eye, and she hazarded a glance at the back of that green hoodie striding to the podium. His bag was hanging off one shoulder in a manner as careless as the rest of him. The professor glanced over his Scantron to make sure it was properly filled out, nodded, and the barista was gone—off somewhere, to whatever gave him purpose.

Astrid snapped back to her own test, breezing through the last three questions with more urgency than she had felt since she started—perhaps more than was prudent. She nearly sprinted up to the front, holding her test out with one hand, purse and coat clutched in the other. She was already on her way out the door before the professor gave her answer sheet an approving nod.

It was baffling, even to herself, why she felt compelled to chase down this relative stranger who was nothing to her, if not irritating. Hiccup was his name, she remembered; and he had served her bland, over-priced coffee with complimentary sass. Jerk. He was also some quiet, distracted soul who sat behind her in her political science course, apparently. They had no connection, no real conversational starting point other than, “Hey, remember when you were a total dick to me the other day?”

Maybe she wanted an apology? Maybe she was finally alert enough to give him a piece of her mind?

Or maybe, after years of the same old thing—muscles and swagger—she was intrigued by something different. The feeling was not a willful attraction, if “attraction” was even the correct word for it. She would describe it as more of a pull, a gravity; it was something that had her rushing out into the snow, squinting against the blinding white expanse.

But Hiccup was gone, disappeared into the flurries like a phantom. She would not see him again until the next political science class the end of the week.

Or maybe she could, again, pay just a little too much for unsavory coffee, sprinkled with sass.

[simply-un-well]

this is my last concrete idea prompt that i had B) it didn't really turn out how i planned, but that's okay! also, it's relatively based on how i get on the rare occasion in cars which i literally just don't know how to describe.

-

The bus ride back is obnoxiously bumpy and the thought of committing mass murder crosses Blake's mind at the laugh Jason lets out from beside him at the movement. First person would be Jason on the sheer principle of how annoying he has been for all the years he has known him. Second would be Jesse for making them have to sit next to each other for "team bonding". Third is the Coach for approving that decision. Fourth is the bus driver for making what is supposed to be a normal drive back from their game absolutely hell.

As if whatever higher power just wanted to laugh at him further, the second the last thought crossed his mind, the bus ran over another pothole. The bump jerked everyone forward, knocking Blake into the seat in front of him. Effectively snapping him out of his thoughts as his face made contact with the scratchy fabric. As if to add insult to injury, Jason turned to look at him at just the right time to see it happen.

Jason burst out into laughter, attracting the attention of the people in front of them, as they were seated in the absolute back of the bus. Tavin's head popped up over the headrest, questioning Jason on what he found so funny.

Scowling even further when Jason eagerly jumped up to explain, Blake stared out the window as a flush crept up his neck. His head was already starting to hurt from the movement of the bus, he did not need to deal with Jason's teasing too. There were like two hours until they got back, maybe he could just sleep.

Eyes closed, Blake presses his cheek against the cool glass of the window. It’s soothing, as the coldness seeps into his skin. Maybe he can make it through this with only minimal bodily harm to his very annoying seatmate who he can hear making fun of him for what happened earlier.

Stubbornly keeping his eyes closed, Blake drifts. Not quite asleep, but not quite awake either. Faintly aware of the yapping in the bus and the weird twinge of pain in his head.

It couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes before an elbow slammed into his biceps. Blinking his eyes open at the pain, Blake’s first thought is ‘fuck you, Jason.’ Followed by ‘fuck, my head hurts.’

The bus knocks into another pothole, and he grimaces at the jostling of his head. It feels like there’s a lump in his throat, some sort of pressure pushing down on it. Squinting, the pain in his head only escalates when he looks around the bus. He makes eye contact with Jason who immediately starts being annoying.

“Why are you looking at me,” he rolls his eyes. “I know I’m pretty, but I’m not here for you to stare at.”

Swallowing thickly, Blake frowns. “How much longer?” He can’t be bothered to deal with Jason and all his self-absorbed whatever. His head hurts, but not in the typical headache way.

Jason frowns, slightly weirded out that he didn't take the bait. Normally both him and Blake can and will take every opportunity given to try to one-up each other, whether that be with words or actions. "Hour and a half, sleeping beauty," Jason scoffs mockingly.

That's…that's only thirty minutes? Maybe Blake will actually just die instead. Ever since he was rudely bright back to the present, something has just felt off. Throat tight and head pounding, looking out the window is better than looking around the inside of the bus, however marginally. He keeps his eyes trained on the horizon, trying to figure out what's wrong.

Jason has long since gone silent, looking at him strangely. As much as they hate each other, you don't go years knowing each other without, you know, knowing each other. It all seems relatively normal until one of the large signs on the highways, that lists the upcoming exits and directions come up.

The words flash by and subconsciously, Blake's eyes latch on to read them. That's…that's so much worse, something in his throat squeezes and then pulls and oh…Oh. He swallows thickly before closing his eyes stubbornly. The swaying and bumps of the bus aren't helping, but at least he doesn't have to see any more signs.

Normally, Jason might push off telling the Coach or Captain about something like this happening to Blake as payback for something he did, but seated next to him, he's actually in the splash zone if anything were to happen. Glancing over at Blake's palling face, he makes a decision.

Nudging the chairs in front of them until Tavin pokes his head up over the top again, tilting his head questioningly at Jason. "Think he's motion sick," he murmurs, nodding over to where Blake is sitting perfectly still, tension visible all over his body.

Inhaling sharply, Tavin winces at the sight. "Yeah…Let me wake up Jess, he'll probably know what to do."

A minute passes by before Jesse pops up, frowning at the sight. "Is he listening? Never mind, I have a plastic bag here that you can give him just in case. Of course, you can switch seats with me and I can keep an eye on him instead if you're not comfortable."

"Fuck, you're such a mom, Jess," Tavin teases him. "Just say you want to look after the kid."

Jason ignores him, instead contemplating it. He's honestly kind of out of his depth, never mind the fact that he doesn't really want to deal with vomit, much less from the guy he hates. Glancing over at him, Jason notes how his eyes are scrunched shut, throat bobbing with every swallow. "...you sure that's alright?"

Jesse nods, and they hurriedly switch seats. Sliding into the seat in front next to Tavin, he frowns worriedly.

"Don't worry so much about your friend, Jess knows what he's doing," Tavin tries to reassure him. "Practically a mother hen to the entire team if they'd let him."

"I'm not worried," Jason scoffs. "And he's not my friend."

In the seats behind him, everything is a lot less calm. There's a building pressure in Blake's throat. He wouldn't say it's like nausea, but he feels close enough to throwing up whatever he ate after the game that it doesn't even matter. His head is pounding, the world swaying beneath his feet.

There's a hand rubbing up and down his back, a voice murmuring something to him. He can't open his mouth to talk around the tight squeezing of his esophagus.

"Blake? Hey, kid, I need you to help me out here." The voice is from next to him, but it doesn't sound like Jason. "Can you open your eyes for me?" He really really doesn't want to, but he wants to know who this is.

Squinting his eyes open, he sees long…hair? Hm…the only person on the team with long enough hair is Jesse. He'd be a little more embarrassed about this happening in front of his captain if he didn't feel so bad. 'At least it's an upgrade from Jason,' he thinks bitterly. Jason would never let him live it down on any bus rides later in the season.

"Okay, okay, thank you, that’s good. Do you feel like you're going to be sick?" Jesse's voice is careful and soft. Somehow just parental enough to feel safe without being patronizing.

Blake nods. The tightness in his throat is worse with his eyes open. Eyes glancing around, he tries to breathe through it. Jesse passes him a plastic shopping bag, the logo written on the side of it. Glancing away before he has the chance to properly read the words.

The bus suddenly runs over a pothole and the tightness in his throat pulls up and then out. Tongue pushes forward as he jerks into a silent gag. His body convulses slightly as he clamps a hand over his mouth.

Jesse is quick to grab the bag, holding it up underneath him. "Just breathe. It's okay."

Another bump in the bus and sick pours from his mouth, just barely managing to move his hand in time. Blake can barely register what's happening anymore, stuck in a haze of discomfort. His head hurts and his stomach feels weird and there's something that feels like it's stuck in his throat. The bus is making the ground feel unstable, and he barely realizes he's throwing up again until he hears the vomit hit the puddle at the bottom of the bag and Jesse's murmurs of comfort.

The sick pools in the bottom of the plastic bag, undigested foods tainting it a disgusting beige. Looking down at that sight of it is almost enough to make him vomit again. Thankfully he manages to restrain himself, spitting into the bag before drawing back.

By now his eyes are closed, trying to block out the sight of the sick and from triggering anything even further. Groaning quietly, he slumps against the back of his seat on the bus.

"Are you feeling any better?" Jesse asks carefully. "Think you're done for now?"

It takes a second to mentally survey everything before Blake replies. "M'done." He's dizzy and his head hurts and he just wants to sleep through the rest of the bus ride. Leaning against the window, he can faintly hear Jason and Jesse talking before a water bottle is pressed to his lips.

"Take a sip and then you can sleep," a voice, likely Jesse, instructs him.

He does, the cool water washing away the foul taste, before closing his eyes. This time slipping into a deep sleep.

[intcritus]

holding your lover by the jaw to kiss them. // Zack @ Zahir

zackery often surprises zahir in a plethora of ways -- he's ambitious, skilled, worthy of any praise someone thinks and he's got an odd sense of humor. for zahir, he simply vibes with the guy. they've been on many an adventure, zahir ( like the tank he is ) always steps in to protect him, even though he doesn't have to. zack can handle himself, he's shown this time and time again, and it's not the only reason that he has zahir's loyalty. some animal instinct maybe ? it feels right to be by his side, no matter where they travel to.

today is no different, thought he's feeling marginally annoyed and petulant when it comes to the blond. the journey this week is slow and arduous, dangerous no less but it's not as if it's something the badger is going to complain about. there have been worse circumstances. his chest is still heaving from that surprise ambush. fuck, couldn't they just travel without worrying about idiots. it's a good thing that they're exploring and not delivering goods. that's not the reason why he's annoyed though.

the call of his name makes him clench his jaw, dodging the grab from the blond. in his mind, he shouldn't be upset. but zack had gotten hurt, trying to fucking protect him when it should've been the opposite ! he couldn't fucking die. stab him in the heart, he was back up within hours. liquify his insides, he's back in a day or two. there was no end to it -- so what if someone took a sword to his chest ? better him than zack ! there's a call of his name once more, sounding a little more irate. it nearly makes him smile, but no, he'd continue to ignore the man.

the third call of his name felt like a warning, something he didn't bother to heed. what was the hero gonna do ? scold him ? he nearly barks out a laugh at the thought. a flash of blond then a pale hand gripping his jaw has violet eyes looking up at zack with wide eyes. but nothing prepares him for the kiss. and truly, he doesn't know how it could be called that considering he's never had one. it feels nice ? maybe. fingers curl around the wrist of the hand around his jaw, thick lashes flutter shut with a soft grunt. why doesn't he move the hand away or push zack away from taking said kiss ? who knows.

another brushing of lips, his chest rattling with his neck breath before he pulls away, brows furrowing and a hand covering his mouth. this cheeky fucker. shoulders hitch up to his ears, not daring to face the other, pout forming on his features. this would just make him give the blond the coldest shoulder in the fucking world ! how dare he ! would he do it again ? the very thought flustered the badger and his frown deepened. of the fucker wasn't so damn pretty and easy to talk to and be around, this wouldn't be a problem.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 17: you're the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest

"Leave me alone."

2809 Words; Rewired AU

TW for mentions of violence and blood, injury, mentions of death

AO3 ver

Morris leaned back with a wince.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. The ballroom was still half-frozen, melting ice spikes covering more than half the space. Slowly growing puddles were beginning to soak into the carpet. Tables and chairs had been overturned, slashed, and smashed—and then there was the detritus from the plates and silverware and glasses that had been used as makeshift ammunition. Broken glass and chunks of ice glittered across the floor.

At least Morris had been able to find his chair, and not the random chair he’d had to grab in the heat of the moment. It didn’t magically fix everything, but he’d switched it to be self-propelled instead of levball-powered, which helped his headache. Marginally.

The sirens weren’t helping, though. The sound had been cut, at some point, but between the still-functioning lights of the ballroom and the red and blue flashing outside, Morris’ headache was not getting better. Add in the EMTs frantically trying to chip through Lizzie’s ice cocoon, all of the other first responders tending to the partygoers, and every other little bit of movement and noise—

Morris liked noise. He hated silence, hated the way it spread out and suffocated a space. The world was meant to be alive and that meant being loud—

Morris rubbed at his temples. Yeah, sure, this was better than the eerie silence of just before—

Gisu going down in a blur of motion, the automaton reclaiming its face and snapping it back on.

Those glowing red eyes staring Morris down like an omen—

But it was not helping his headache. At all. And his headache was making his stomach twist and the room spin—

What a mess.

And tonight had started out so well, too. Rolling around the ballroom, making connections, the mission going off without a hitch—

The sound of shattering glass, a scream cutting across the ballroom—

Morris grimaced. What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. He just wanted it to be over, already, so he could go home to Licorice Whip and Caramel Popcorn and Lolly Pop. Yeah. He’d go home, feed his ferrets, and maybe sleep off all of this awful bullshit that had decided to come crashing in through the skylight. It’d be so nice—much nicer than all of this.

Amidst the general bustle, an EMT made their way over to him. Morris turned to her, ignoring the way the room was spinning.

“Can you tell me your name?” They asked.

“Morris Martinez.” Easy. Like Morris could ever forget his own name.

“Age?”

“...twenty one.” Okay, that one had been a little harder. But it didn’t take that long for Morris to remember that oh, yeah, he’d stopped being twenty in the spring. Just a few moments.

“Favorite color?” They raised a flashlight to Morris’ eyes. 

“Blue.” It’d been his favorite for years—it was the color of the sky, after all.

(And the color of the Dion’s eyes, but that was less important. And not something Morris wanted to think about right now.

He didn’t want to think about anything besides his ferrets, really.)

“Can you hear any ringing in your ears?”

Morris concentrated. “Yeah.” He admitted. “It’s really faint, though.” But it was still there, and probably had been since he woke up next to a wall of ice—he just hadn’t noticed it in the chaos, the faint ringing fading into background noise for him.

“You’re likely concussed.” The EMT said, lowering her flashlight. “But they’ll have to do an MRI to know for sure—you’re holding together well.”

“I kind of figured.” Morris said. Getting hit in the head with the hilt of a sword would do that. At least Gisu was able to take up keeping in contact with Hollis after the automaton left—Morris’ headache was only getting worse as the night progressed.

“Hollis says she’ll meet us at the hospital.” Gisu’s voice floated over to him, and Morris turned to face her. “The one they’re taking Lizzie to.”

Right. Morris glanced back at the ice cocoon—and there she was, being pulled out and loaded onto a stretcher. “She better not die.” He muttered. She probably wouldn’t—Lizzie was tough like that.

“Yeah.” Gisu said. Morris wondered if she was exhausted as he felt, if that was why she was barely talking. There was certainly something, in her eyes, a sort of deep resignation that Morris had long since grown to recognize. She was tired.

Gisu’s hand slipped into his. Easily, like it was always meant to be there, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any moment. It was a familiar gesture in every way, a gesture born of years of knowing each other.

It was a small comfort. But it was still a comfort.

+=+=+=+=+

The waiting room was quiet.

Oh, sure, other people were present, many of them talking in low murmurs that Morris couldn’t really discern, and there was music playing on some small tinny speaker somewhere— 

But compared to the ballroom? Compared to the sirens?

Morris could actually think.

Well, sort of. He was still concussed—he’d gotten the scan results ten minutes ago. But at least the room wasn’t swimming around him. At least there was no internal bleeding. Just a mild concussion to go with the exhaustion.

Now he was just waiting for news on Lizzie’s condition—whatever it might be. There’d been… a lot of blood.

Morris really hoped that she came out okay. The hours had stretched on, the clock in the waiting room reading 11:38. The party had started at 7:00, and when Morris had first looked at the clock in this room it had read 9:52. Hollis had arrived a little over half an hour ago, though she’d been too preoccupied with coordinating with Truman over what details to give to the press to say hello. The vultures had already been at the gala, so it didn’t take long for even more of them to show up looking for a good story. Between that and his MRI, Morris hadn’t had the chance to talk to her yet.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. Morris needed to get out of this suit ASAP. He needed to see his ferrets. He needed to lie down in his bed and not wake up for the next seven years.

Morris needed a lot of things, if he was being honest.

Gisu’s footsteps padded across the waiting room carpet—so much like the ballroom carpet—and Morris looked up at her approach.

“I just talked to Hollis about Lizzie.” Gisu informed him. “They’re going to transfer her to Clay Ridge once she’s stabilized.” Her voice softened, her eyes glimmering with relief. “She’s going to live.”

Morris felt some of the tension dissipate from his shoulders. “That’s good.” He murmured. If Lizzie died…

Don’t think about that.

“So where are you and I going?” Morris asked. He really hoped the answer would be home. Home, with Lolly and Licorice and Caramel chasing their favorite toys around the room. Home, with his comfy bed. Home, with his radio and his favorite songs.

“You and Agent Nerumen will be coming back to the Motherlobe,” Hollis began from behind Gisu. Morris tensed at the sudden appearance, then immediately relaxed. “Since neither of you are critically injured, the medical wing there will be adequate.” Hollis’ voice remained even, cool and calm even with the worry lining her face. What Morris wouldn’t give to have that kind of suaveness under pressure.

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting a full mission report?” Morris asked, even as the idea filled him with dread.

Hollis’ lips quirked. “You’ll get time to rest first, Agent Martinez.” She assured. At once, her demeanor hardened, the steady mentor morphing into the strict Second Head. “Your transport is waiting outside.” She informed them. “Debriefing will happen at 10:00 AM tomorrow.”

Morris nodded, then started to wheel his way towards the door, Gisu walking alongside him. Her mental presence was fuzzy through the haze of the concussion, but it was there, familiar buzzing at the back of Morris’ head. Her hand nudged his arm, and it took Morris a second to realize she was offering it to hold.

Morris took it. Her hand fit in his like it was meant to, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any time. Every scar and callous was familiar, as familiar as the way her pace matched his, as familiar as the ache in Morris’ chest when he thought too hard about why.

It was familiar, and that was a comfort. Morris didn’t need to think any deeper into it.

So he didn’t.

+=+=+=+=+

The ride back was quiet, the only noise the hum of the engine and the tap-tap-tap of Gisu’s finger on the door. Between Morris’ concussion and Gisu’s sprained wrist, Hollis had decided to have another agent handle the drive—Morris wasn’t sure if he didn’t know their name, or if it was just the concussion making them seem unfamiliar. Lizzie had been their ride to the gala, anyway, and she wasn’t in a state to drive at all—though Morris really didn’t want to think about that. He instead took advantage of not being the one driving and sent a text to Clara—how his phone was still intact after everything, he didn’t know, but Morris wasn’t going to question it when he had his ferrets to think about. Clara was his designated ferretsitter, though, so at least they’d be in good hands.

By the time he and Gisu had disembarked and been shuffled over to the Motherlobe’s Medical Wing—by the time they were finally left to their own devices in one of the overnight rooms, Norma bringing over a change of clothes for the both of them before leaving for Clay Ridge—Morris had had enough.

He hated silence. And something about Gisu’s silence just wasn’t sitting right with him.

“Okay, what’s eating you?” Morris broke the silence. “You’ve been acting weird since that thing punched you in the gut.” He knew Gisu, knew her well enough to know that something was up—and not just the awful night. No, this was something else—something almost contemplative, as though Gisu had been handed a new puzzle instead of thrown into an unexpected fight for her life.

Gisu stared at him. “Weird how?” She countered, kicking her legs. There might have been something playful to her remark, some teasing demand for Morris to explain himself just because she wanted him to—but they were both too tired for that. It was just a force of habit, at this point.

“Gisu, we have known each other for too long for me not to notice.” Morris grumbled. “Something’s up, and I can tell because if there wasn’t you wouldn’t have asked Pooter to sneak your board in.” Raz hadn’t gotten here yet, but he was on his way—Morris had watched Gisu make the request as they got out of the car. He had been waiting there with Norma—Adam and Sam were on their own mission—and Gisu hadn’t exactly been subtle.

There was only one reason Gisu would ask for her board when she was going to be in a space too small to skate—she needed to think, which meant that she had come across a puzzle.

“Fine, fine, you got me.” Gisu shrugged. “I just…” She breathed in, “It’s about the automaton. Cyborg. Whatever. When I took his mask off…” Gisu trailed off. Her eyebrows knit together as she contemplated her words.

“Wait, his?” Morris already knew he wouldn’t like where this was going.

“Yeah,” Gisu said, “His. When I took his mask off, I saw his face.” It took a moment, for the meaning of her words to register to Morris. Then—

“Wait, are you saying… it’s not a robot?” But it was at least partially mechanical, if the metal arm and altered voice was anything to go off of. No wonder Gisu was acting weird—this was a big revelation. They knew so little about the anti-psychic weapon, so every little bit counted.

Morris started. “If you saw his face, you could get an ID!” The realization took longer than he’d like to admit—Morris was going to blame the concussion.

“Yeah, that’s exactly the issue.” Gisu said. She squeezed the air in front of her, sparks of electricity crackling along her fingers. Morris waited for her to continue—

“It was Dion under the mask.”

.

.

.

Six words. Six words that hit Morris like an uppercut, the room spinning around him.

His concussion must be worse than he thought. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.” He managed, even as all the air in his lungs got caught in his throat.

“You heard me.” Gisu scowled, “It was Dion. I pried that mask off and I saw Dion.” Her next words were choked out, her voice starting to wet, “He’s alive.”

Morris couldn’t breathe. His chest was squeezed too tight, his lungs threatening to pop and his heart caught in a vice. No. No no no. This wasn’t real. He was not sitting here, listening to his on-and-off girlfriend of the past six years tell him all about how the thing that just tried to kill them hours prior was their missing ex-boyfriend.

“That’s an awful joke.” Morris said, once he found his voice again.

“It’s not a joke!” Gisu argued. “Dion’s alive and I saw his face!” Her hair was starting to fizz from the static in the air around her.

“And what makes you so sure?” Morris gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. “How do you know you weren’t, I don’t know, projecting what you wanted to see?”

Gisu bristled. “You think I wanted to see Dion’s face on the thing that was trying to kill us?”

“I think you want Dion to be alive so badly that you’re ignoring the truth.” Morris shot back.

“What truth?!” Gisu leaned forwards, “I know what I saw!” The air around Morris was starting to feel greasy, now, like lightning could go off at any moment.

What a joke. What an awful joke.

This had to be a dream. Clearly, Morris had never woken up after being suckerpunched by the automaton, and everything that he remembered happening was just some alcohol-induced nightmare where the world was falling apart and threatening to crush him all in one. There was no way this was real, not when Morris had given up on ever seeing Dion again years ago—

“I know what I saw.” Gisu repeated. “You being bitter doesn’t change that.”

“Bitter?” Morris all but screeched. He threw his hands in the air, “Bitter? I’m sorry if I can’t hold onto delusion for six years!” His hands fell to his sides and he clenched them into fists. “Sorry that I don’t have the energy to keep chasing ghosts!”

Everything not bolted down slammed against the wall. Morris flinched—so did Gisu.

Morris’ head pounded. His vision swam.

His chest was heaving, his lungs struggling to draw in air like they’d been squeezed too tight. He forced his gaze off of Gisu and onto the plastic plant that had been thrown to the floor, to the shiny green leaves and fake blue petals.

(Blue, like the sky, like the stripes of the Aquatodome, like the color of Dion’s eyes—)

“Look.” Gisu said, “I know it sucks.” She pushed off of the bed and walked over, stepping over the fake plant. “How do you think I feel, seeing his face again?” Her expression softened, even as lighting continued to crackle over her knuckles. “But whatever happened, however Dion ended up like that—”

“Stop it.” Morris demanded, his voice coming out in a whisper. “Stop talking about Dion.” His voice cracked, his throat tightening no matter how much he tried to calm down—

“Morris,” Gisu growled. She reached out. Morris batted her hand away.

“It’s over.” Morris’ voice came out thicker than he wanted it to. “Dion’s dead.” Dion was gone and no amount of missing him would bring him back. Dion was gone, and there was nothing Morris could do to change that. Dion was gone, and everything that he’d represented to Morris was gone with him. Morris couldn’t continue to hold onto him. He just couldn’t.

Morris turned away. He couldn’t look at Gisu, couldn’t look at the mix of hurt and frustration and pity written on her face. He just couldn’t.

“Morris…” Gisu started. The tinge of sympathy in her voice was like acid down Morris’ back. He glared at the wall, and said nothing.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night.

The vent cover clattered to the floor. Morris turned to watch as none other than Pooter fell out, doing a flip in the air and bowing once he landed. “I got your board.” He announced, holding out Gisu’s levboard. He looked at Morris.

“What’s up with him?”

[lavampira]

collide

angel pavon/evie thierry. 821 words. cw: smoking, insinuated infidelity, and suggestive references.

Evie wishes she could say that her ex turning up to her apartment in the middle of the night is unexpected, but she’s not really surprised to see him. Because of course Angel is standing there when she opens the door—or rather, leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and a lazy smirk on his lips as he looks down at her. He’s close enough that Evie can smell the familiar cologne clinging to him and the smoke from the cigarette that he probably had before slipping into the building, the time between hearing his engine cutting in the lot and his knock on the door too long to not have, and some part of her selfishly wonders if he had to work up the nerve.

Evie gives him a once-over glance as she props the door half closed behind her, immediately regretting it almost as much as she does having actually answered. It’s painfully unfair how good he looks. Despite the ride on his motorcycle, Angel’s dark blond hair is only marginally disheveled from his helmet and tousles when he drags his tattooed hand through its waves, and he’d apparently braved the wind with a cropped shirt under his leather jacket that exposes the lower peek of Icarus on his beige waist with a languid stretch.

Only a month ago, she would have grabbed him by his jacket to tug him down for a kiss, and he would’ve kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his scuffed boot as he ushered her through the room, leaving a trail of clothes behind them. A month ago, he wouldn’t have needed to knock. He’d still had a key then, and still called the apartment his home, too.

But she hasn’t forgotten what he’s done. Nor has she forgiven him, and even if Angel had surprisingly confessed and owned up to how badly he’d messed things up between them, she had still been left devastated in his wake with the still-raw sting of a failed marriage that never even survived the first year.

Evie lets out a long sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Angel returns easily, tilting his head to see her better in the dim hall light. He bites his lip, letting his gaze drag up her figure in a deliberate attempt to fluster her before settling on her fair and freckled face. “Can I come in?”

“I’m working.”

His mouth quirks like he’s barely holding back a laugh. “Shorts and baggy tee—that’s my shirt, by the way—say you were in bed.”

She frowns and idly smooths a hand over the hem sitting at her thigh, warmth spreading up her neck and ears. “I was reading files in bed, not that I have to justify myself to you.”

“Classic Evie. Maybe I can help.”

“Oh, yeah? Then maybe you can tell me if you had a hand in any of these missing persons cases.” Evie feigns a smile, watching the way his own expression falters with the faintest flash of irritation before the arrogant mask is set back in place, and shifts her weight to block the door more fully. “Didn’t think so.”

“Please, baby?”

Anger flares through her at the desperate plea seeping through his deep voice, not only at the fact he’s trying to sway her but the way her own heart betrays her at its reaction to that name, fondness sweeping through her equally so hard that she almost feels dizzy with it. Maybe even because he knows all too well how to play her like a marionette with his affection.

She wants to close the door in his face, let Angel hear her slip the chain lock back into place so he can feel a fraction of the sting that she does at being shut out so coldly, but as she sighs again and meets those pretty hazel eyes lined in smudged kohl that are still watching her so carefully, hesitant like he knows that she very well might slam the door, the fight drains out of her and leaves exhaustion in its wake. The stack of files on her duvet still needs her attention and she’s frankly too tired to deal with his bullshit right now, too.

“Go home, Angel.” Evie runs a hand through her loose auburn hair, trying to prevent herself from doing something stupid like reaching for him. “I’m busy.”

It’s far kinder than she intends. Softer, as the words leave her lips in barely more than a whisper, and succinctly doesn’t tell him not to come back again. She’s not sure if he will. But she hears him mutter goodnight just as quietly before she pushes the door shut and leans against the cool metal with a palm pressed to its surface, not bothering to move away from it until she hears the roar of his motorcycle fade into the distance.

[americangrove]

Weymouth I

The sky held itself in a blue deportment, only slowly accumulating into dim grey, deep grey, dark gray, dense gray—so dense it fell onto on the trees, the ground and road. Up there the grays look so peaceful, tranquil, even if a bit troubled, but gravity, wind, and the heat of summer goad them into something tremendous, voice in thunder, body thick water, clouds become brutes. I had to slow the car down to speeds at which horses go faster. The water on the ground made a road on top of the road, its aqueous tracks more important to follow than the solid one. The water on the windshield made one marvel at how two transparent things can suddenly become opaque.  We were driving to Weymouth Woods. I wanted to attend a ranger’s outdoor lesson on wetlands, a designation which seemed to describe the land in its totality as it stormed. I pulled into a service station as much for fuel as for rest. Pavement, I realized, is good at turning parking lots into ponds as I stood in a shallow pool pumping gas. A warning alarm for flash floods could be heard whispering between gaps in the gale. My parents seemed tense but remained calm. We continued on, the animals in the atmosphere not so much retreating as recharging.

           At the preserve’s main building a ranger smiled as I stepped in. I said I had come for the field lesson but imagined it was canceled now. “Actually, they still went out. You can probably catch up to them.” He gave me a map and marked the path. I wondered for a moment if I should still go: I was late, it was raining. Maybe I would only a take few steps in, say at least I saw its margin and come back during “better” weather. But then, while my right foot remained on the facility’s concrete deck, my left foot touched the ground of the sandhill path. I could feel the sound of moist sand crumble as it took my weight inviting my other foot from the more indurate surface. From where I stood, I could see the trees that made this place a wood—longleaf “as far as the eye can see” as straight and orderly as the columns of a land-sized temple never to be roofed. The path descended and curved, its sides lined with swamp titi, their racemes hanging like incense to bless the walker with their scent—gentle like dappled sun thickened with humidity into a pale honey. After the titi, the path inclined and from then on I was under the longleaf, tufts of bluestem and turkey oak beneath, spread low like pillows over a carpet of sand. I took out the map to find my way, half sure of where I was going but already wholly sure any where I went would be good. Grit in my toes, water on my back, these felt like what I needed to move deeper.

           The forest at the margins of Weymouth is quite young and well managed, one of many small efforts to give ground to longleaf again after a centuries long hunger for its body and for its blood, its lumber and its turpentine, left nearly nothing, a forest from Virginia down to Florida and all the way over to the Texas chewed-up by the teeth of commerce. The remnant size of Weymouth is perhaps like a lock of hair from a departed body, a relic and recollection of someone rather than a representation (for like a loved one, how can you re-present the immensity of that body?). But relics have their power and perhaps James Boyd felt it in 1904 when he bought the woodland to become Weymouth; tapped trees remained (and remain still), but the coal and iron industrialist sought not to extract sap but leisure from them.  

           I did not walk too long through the young pines before I came to the place where the older ones dwelled. Looking at the map it seemed I had overshot the place where the group was, but if I crossed a creek twice, I could connect with them. The cumulonimbus beasts began to dance above again dropping sky as they advanced, but unlike on the open road, the myriad arms of trees caught much of it, carrying it down onto themselves. Amidst the older longleaf were many hardwood companions rooted not in sand but soil and leaf decay, moss covering nooks, ridges, and creases in their water activated greens. I smiled and laughed because I just felt good. The water ran swiftly under a small bridge; with not much more it could easily run over it, a prospect frightening in town, but enthralling here in the woods. Just when I found the next crossing of the creek to take me to the meeting place, a sign interposed saying the bridge ahead had collapsed. I went past the sign and saw the group in the distance, but unsure if the ranger would let me hazard a wade and jump, I decided to turn around before they noticed me. I took out the map to find my way again, but the rain, already nibbling on it, decided to consume it; I pressed the crumbs into a tab about the thickness of a pinecone’s scale and put it in my pocket. Free from thinking, I could just roam, which my feet decided to do by running, something which I had not done since an injury in March, but the rains and leaves and winds gave me something other than pain to hold in and let out. I stopped at the creek once more, passed three hikers and was soon near the young trees again. The spaciousness among them was accentuated now, by sight, but more so by sound, for within the understory of the old growth part, precipitation meet so many reversals, amplifications, delays and remixes, a symphony of water playing in a varied orchestra of leaf shape, bark type and ground cover. Conversely, these young stands are a minimalist’s song played on the woodwind of pine needle and the percussion of sandhills.

The sparseness of the younger forest is not due so much to the tree’s themselves as much as their capricious intimate—fire—nowhere preset but everywhere connoted along the scorched bark of pines and burnt-out chunks of wood laying sculpturally in the grasses whose wiry clumps catch, spread and regrow hastily by flame. After a fire, the forest floor is clear, longleaf seeds sown on soil go root deep first, while top side they sprout much more needle than stem looking like vintage fiber optic lamps in their “grass stage.” If fire soon returns these needles burn but not the enclosed bud—like phoenix feathers, from their ashen remains the live part continues upward entering the “rocket stage.” Tall enough to take a favorable position over grasses and shrubs, it is not yet tall enough to be above the height of moderate flames; its adolescence is its vulnerability as each tries to win height and width, a hundred feet not uncommon for the one and two feet for the other (diameter). By maturity, bark has thickened up and around the trees, when fire next comes its heat dyes more than it damages, darkening the bottoms of the trees that redden into brown as one looks up their trunk.

I did not return the way I came, but up another path in a section of the forest burned last year. Lightening does not cause the fires here; the prescribed burns of foresters do. The most recent burn dates are posted along the path. Change occurs swiftly between a place burned one versus two years ago (more rockets in the latter, more grasses too, the color of char remains similar in both). The sun broke, clouds settled. I went back to the car to get my camera thinking to take a few pictures. I asked my mom if she wanted to venture into the woods as I knew my dad wouldn’t because of his legs. As we walked, I could tell there was some strong weather in her. I asked and another kind of rain came. As I wandered in the woods, vitriol thundered from my dad’s mouth—what was the point in coming to this wood, why did I come back home, he did not need me close by, to him I have not done anything with my life. So much of what he said probably came from anger at his own aging and anger that something could have happen to his new car in storm. Nevertheless, it hurt her, and that he said these things to her instead of directly to me made the surface of my skin warm over red, though underneath I still felt the flow of the greens and greys I had just walked through. I took a deep breath when my mom stopped talking. I apologized for what she had to hear and said I would handle things once we were back home. I asked her if she noticed anything striking about all the trees we were around, some of them likely sown into the earth thirty years ago like myself. She noticed the space between them and the various grasses around. To these, I pointed out the burns—"through fire they become better.”

[soul-dwelling]

But speaking of Hero aca, I think it does feel like the discrimination thing got changed, because openly attacking "mutants" was reserved for the klan expy in the one chapter and it was even mentioned that they were a dieing breed of bigots. I think having the country side be more racist makes sense, but once you make them attack kids and try to kill them it gets a bit too much. Maybe I'm ignorant, but I don't think lynchings of foreigners take place in japanese villages often.

I didn’t think it was changed--at least, not entirely. 

If there was any change, it was a change of focus from “being Quirkless is like being marginalized” to “having a heteromorphic Quirk makes you a target for violence and prejudice.” 

It’s not that either focus is bad necessarily. And it’s not as if the “having a heteromorphic Quirk makes you the subject of prejudice and ridicule” was not already implicit in the manga and the English dub (more on that in a moment). 

And before I get any further into this discussion--which I’ll put under “Read More” due to length but also content warnings--there will be discussions about bigotry, disablism, racism, antisemitism, and homophobia, including personal experiences I’ve had contending with bigotry. Plus, a content warning for mentions of war, genocide, lynchings, anti-Black violence and Nazis. This is going to be a lot of rambling. 

When My Hero Academia started, what got my attention first was, “Oh, so this is a world where anyone can look like anyone and have any body type or any size or power--and you are accepted and get to live!” 

And yes, that thought was me missing the giant neon-flashing sign where Izuku’s first line of narration was that this was a world where people were not created equally. But that was why I thought, “Oh, a world where you can have any body type, size, power, or appearance and be accepted”: because Izuku was showing a world where, yes, there are people as large as Mount Lady, but the size of UA and its entrances accommodates anyone of that size*; and yes, someone like Ojiro can have his clothes customized anywhere (a point brought up again much later with Deternat); but when you don’t have a Quirk, now you are in the minority, and rather than being seen as a party that doesn’t need regulation for your power set, you are subjected to abuse and ridicule because not only are you different and outside the norms of medicine and day to day living, but you lack abilities that others have that they are willing to use to better their life, whether as Pro Hero, a Villain, or just in the privacy of their home. 

(*There are at least two glaring omissions I’m making when mentioning Mount Lady and the accommodations at UA: more on that in a moment as well.) 

I thought MHA was going to be about “here is a metaphor for disability, and how that discrimination persists even when people get more abilities.” And seeing the storyline for All Might, being born Quirkless, losing his Quirk, and more than all of that suffering from organ loss and a shortened lifespan, as well as the inability to do the things he used to do--all of that fed into my reading of MHA as a disability allegory. It’s not like it isn’t there--it’s just more complicated than that, and my fixation on that detail had me overlook what the series was setting up early on with regard to discrimination based on appearance. 

And it is that appearance-based discrimination in MHA, and while I don’t find it unrealistic or unbelievable or not applicable to our current situation, I do think that it’s a less realistic story and a less complicated one because it reduces discrimination to fear of appearances we haven’t encountered before--whereas a lot of discrimination in our world is more about how appearances, race, ethnicity, and cultures were made to be feared not only for being unfamiliar but because people attached so much bigotry, hate, prejudices, and baseless assumptions in order to make sense of their changing world. 

For example, I don’t think that cases of white supremacist bigotry emerge solely out of “this person looks different from me”: it’s a bigotry created out of hatred for that person, and a hatred born out of fear, yes, but fear because something is not matching this silly person’s narrow understanding of the world. It is systematic, after centuries of idiots who looked at people who looked different than them--and made up excuses to back up what they wanted to do. “I want to enslave someone--so I’ll just enslave them, then make up reasons to justify that I am enslaving because of this interpretation of the Christian bible, or this racist assumption that I claim is actually proven by science and anthropology, or this supposedly enlightened argument.” 

I don’t get that same realistic or believable complexity in MHA. It is, “This person looks different, therefore let’s discriminate against them.” Horikoshi got closer when just having the villagers fearful that Shoji can spread something by touch to the child--but when nearly every human being has a Quirk (and even some non-human animals), and you just assume the non-human looking people have those kind of Quirks and not, say, Overhaul or Shigaraki, that’s a stretch for me. It does demonstrate the flaw in these bigots’ arguments, and it is sadly realistic that there bigots just that fucking dumb. But my point is that there are also just as many people who hide that stupidity by pretending, “No, no, science or religion or human studies prove that my bigotry is actually logical, moral, and correct!” I don’t get that with Shoji’s story. I get narrowminded, bigoted, ignorant people out in the boondocks; I don’t see MHA showing how that kind of bigotry persists even in “educated” circles. 

(Those people are not educated, hence the air-quotes: they’re just dumb motherfuckers who think their PhD makes them an authority on a topic. Motherfucker, I have a PhD in literature--that just means an institution gave me a PhD, just like some institution gave that dumb motherfucker a degree. Getting the degree doesn’t mean either of it necessarily earned it, or that our opinions are reasonable enough, not without having more experts challenge our points of view in peer-review. And not when there are studies beyond my field where someone else is better adept at speaking to that topic than I am. It’d be like me saying, “I’m a doctor, so I can perform surgery”: no, I can give a lecture on Frankenstein, I can’t literally be Dr. Stein!)

So, if you wanted a quick and easy fix to this: don’t have an arc where they say that such anti-heteromorph bigotry is primarily in the rural areas. 

Forgive my limited scope, living almost all of my life in the United States and never going outside of it or Canada--that means I’m not a fair enough person to remark as well as I want to about racial and political topics in Japan. But from where I sit in the United States, having grown up and lived in primarily urban and suburban areas--hell no, bigotry isn’t primarily in the rural United States, it’s fucking part of the United States, across all parts of the country. In my college and grad school years, I wasn’t called “faggot” by homophobes in some rural area--that was in major urban cities. I didn’t see the Confederate flag just in rural areas--I had to see that fucking flag flown through by rednecks in my urban neighborhood high school, by rednecks who weren’t even attending my high school, not only because they were racist sacks of shit but because they saw that one assistant principal was a Black man (who went to Tuskegee University), and one assistant principal was a white woman, and they decided to “own” them by putting up that emblem of bigotry to stick to anyone who wasn’t white and a man. 

And that’s not even getting into having a family member around my age as a kid whose parents condoned him not only having the Confederate flag but the fucking Nazi swastika--thank fucking Christ my parents were like, “Oh, hell no, those people are no longer family, and our kid is not hanging out with a fucking Nazi.” 

(I write all of this, and I sadly realize how much groundwork was set up long before 2016 had people voting for a fucking orange Nazi for the White House.) 

It is obvious in MHA that this anti-heteromorph prejudice does extend to the urban areas. The manga sort of acknowledges that. Sure, Mineta didn’t mean anything when he said Shoji looked like an octopus--but he still said it, maybe out of admiration or fetishizing, both of which can be dimensions of prejudice. Pony may be from the United States and maybe kind of country in her demeanor--but she still made that remark to Shoji when she got to UA. In the English dub, I was so happy how the anime was handling just how much the characters accepted each other regardless their appearance--and then they have Jiro calling Tokoyami a “bird-brain,” which, at the time, no, that doesn’t fit her character or this setting at all--but in retrospect, after seeing the anti-heteromorph hostilities, and what happens to Jiro and Tokoyami in the fight against All For One, sure, fine, whatever, let that stupid remark stay in. (If that was not just in the English dub but in the original Japanese, I better hear Jiro apologize for that remark.) 

But so far that is a lot of rambling on my part, so let me get back to your actual questions: 

You point out how the anti-heteromorph attitude in the manga was reserved largely for the Klan expy in that one chapter. As I said before, this is built upon a bit more to show systematic oppression of heteromorphs in both the main manga and in the Vigilantes spinoff: size, shape, lack of standardized clothing (although immediate alterations are available for, say, Ojiro, and from Detnerat), Mount Lady largely stuck in the country in school due to her giant Quirk (and then causing property damage, losing money, losing insurance coverage due to her Quirk...), Todoroki’s awful remark to the dog-headed police chief. It is definitely ramped up in starts and stops--until Horikoshi throws in so much of it right at this chapter that, rather than feeling like a logical build up, comes across as hitting the gas to rush to all of this new information.

It’s not even like those details, like the historical events that one PLF heteromorph is shouting, were brought up in the light novels, the films, the video games, encyclopedias, Horikoshi’s end-of-volume notes--you know, places that aren’t quite the main story, but you could excuse as, “It was brought up before, you just had to look for it.” It was there, I did look for it, I mentioned a lot of it--but this is a rush of a story that does not seem as well structured as it could be. Maybe the anime could fix that in adaptation…except they did cut Spinner and those Klan expies from the MLA arc, so who knows. 

And I already know how I would have revised this arc to make all of this work better: 

Have Shoji and Koda face off against Spinner during the war arc--that starts the ball rolling on all the anti-heteromorph stuff and building up an actual link between these characters that wasn’t established until now in the manga

Have Spinner in the war arc make an unintentionally splashy presence in that fight that indeed gets attention from heteromorphs

Have Skeptic notice that--and seize upon it

Do _not_ have All For One take over Shigaraki [not just yet, anyway] and instead operate in the shadows and approach Spinner in secret

Have All For One say he wants Shigaraki to stand on his own feet, not on his “father’s” laurels--but that he wants Spinner to watch out for his “boy”

Have All For One say that Spinner just needs more confidence (public speaking skills, charisma)--and power, and that’s when he gives him those Quirks, not just to make him more confident and more powerful, but to protect those he cares about, like Shigaraki, and those like him, who are also heteromorphs

Have the new Quirks initially work out really well for Spinner: he’s more charismatic, more confident, more powerful, inspiring heteromorphs with actual persuasive arguments (even if the results are going to be unethical and horrendous) and logical arguments (including that, yes, sometimes you do break laws and fight back to protect and enforce civil rights)

But as we have with Nagant and Gigantomachia, show that All For One always has an ulterior motive, and that this deal with the devil turns Spinner into that barely cognizant brute who is now easily led around by All For One, Skeptic, and their enablers 

You get all that you deserve in this arc: actually confronting bigotry and how, to protect civil rights, sometimes people do break laws. (Not “stampeding an entire medical ward” break laws or “kill a bunch of people” break laws--good God, no, Spinner’s actions are not fucking justifiable in this arc.)

And you aren’t having All For One already subsuming Shigaraki--you save that for later and have Spinner actually convinced that he is here to protect his friend (seriously, how do you see what All For One is doing to Shigaraki and think, “Sure, I trust this guy to give me Quirks”?).

And you let Spinner actually show he has what it takes to be a leader, if someone just gave him a chance--before you take that all away from him and make it tragic. 

(And yes, my plot points are ripping off the Colonel Jupiter arc from Spectacular Spider-man.) 

Back to your question: you point out how it was already mentioned that anti-heteromorph bigots were a dying breed. I hope my responses point out how that rhetoric doesn’t quite hold up. It depends on what we mean. The PLF person shouting that argument can point to Shoji’s experience as one example: it was confined to the rural areas. And Shoji pretty much said the same thing. But what about Koda? We saw how his parents were treated--were they also in a rural environment when that happened? And while out-and-out bigotry may not be obvious, I hope my remarks about our real lives for many of us in the United States show that out-and-out bigotry doesn’t mean systematic bigotry (lack of resources, moving people out of neighborhoods because you don’t want them there, disablist civil engineering) and more covert forms of bigotry don’t still persist. The Klan and Neo-Nazis have disappeared and reappeared numerous times--because bigotry persisted, just not always in obvious ways (and now are out in the open again and now going by the name “the Republican Party”). 

You point out that it makes sense about bigotry being more persistent in the rural areas: I agree. I may have pointed out how the Confederate flag is flown far outside of the Confederacy, even up in the North, but it makes sense, whether because it’s actually happening or it’s believable, that when you have rural areas, where it is typically harder to get access to infrastructure (not just schools and Internet but also basic means), you lack education and you foster fear and anger that leads to scapegoating, superstition, paranoia, and then bigotry. 

I wish I could say that attacking a kid like Shoji and trying to kill him seems like a bit too much--but we know how many young people have been the victims of violence, due to someone seeing their appearance and thinking, regardless how young they are, that that person is a threat. (For all my talk earlier about how “appearances are not the start or end of bigotry,” yeah, I also can’t ignore how many evil dumb motherfuckers have seen a Black child, thought that Black child was a threat, and were using appearances to confirm their biases to justify violence upon a freaking child.) 

So, again, I’m here in the United States, reading a comic by a Japanese creator and set in Japan--but it is also a far distant future of Japan, and it is not as if Japan, like the United States, has not committed atrocities against marginalized people on the basis of their appearance, culture, race, and religion, whether by war or by systematic oppression. And Horikoshi knows this: there is a reason he changed the name of All For One’s doctor. 

But what I don’t know is what Horikoshi is thinking with Shoji, and whether there is a historical analogue to this, too. Like I said a moment ago, given the history of anti-Black racism, where indeed Black children and teens were lynched, I can find that horrifically believable. And given Rock Lock’s presence in this arc, that choice of including that character in this fight seems to be to emphasize that there is a racialized reading. (And, as a white person, I don’t know how to write Rock Lock’s presence here: I see arguments positing that maybe you have Rock Lock admit he understands this kind of bigotry--but that risks making the comparison too one-to-one, as well as having one of the few Black characters in your story taking on this task. And I’ve read arguments theorizing, “Maybe racism has ended by this point in MHA,” which--nah, if these fuckers are hating on heteromorphs, I’m not optimistic that human progress has moved beyond racism.) I just don’t know where Horikoshi is going with it, and while I see a common link there, reading far more into it risks doing a disservice to interpreting MHA and a disservice to discussing real-world tragedies and injustices and a disservice to the lives of actual people.