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konigbabe · 1 year

Text

like real people do

Pairing: ID!Leon Kennedy x fem!teacher!reader | single dad AU

Word count: 5.8k

Tags/warnings: no y/n; fluff; eventual smut; p-in-v; slice of life; gendered female reader; gendered female anatomy; original kid Kennedy character

Summary: He's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit; yet, he's your student's father. Handsome. Confident. Alluring. But off limits–at least he should be.

a/n: Inspired by @yeyinde’s ask. Also, canon ID!Leon is around 29 but Leon in this '"universe" is aged up to be in his 30s (age won't be specified but I imagine him to be in his mid-to-late 30s).

divider by @benkeibear [source]

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The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man hard to resist; his confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily– “So? It’s just dinner.”

The innocence of children always manages to brighten up even the darkest of days, their smiles and eagerness to learn contagious; filling your heart with positivity. It's a feeling that's hard to come by as an adult; life's challenges tend to chip away at your soul and slowly rob you of that childhood magic.

As the clock strikes five and your shift comes to an end, the school falls into an eerie silence. A lingering sense of relief washes over you when leaving the building; you've done your part in shaping young minds.

Walking out the front door, the warmth of the sun caresses your skin, its rays sliding around your bare arms like silk.

Twisting the key in the lock, your eyes catch a glimpse of slight movement from the corner of your vision. Turning your head, you see a little girl perched on the concrete steps below, her delicate features illuminated by the warm glow of the sun.

Her hair, a cascade of light brown waves, frames her chubby cheeks and the crown of her head is adorned with blonde highlights that shimmer like golden threads.

She turns to you when you address her, slowly stepping down to her level.

"What are you still doing here," you sit down, her small backpack creating a wall between your bodies.

As you sit side by side with the little girl, basking in the comforting embrace of the sunlight, she kicks her legs up; eyes up front, both of you watch the cars pass by on the street.

The Washington Spring air’s filled with the sweet scent of blooming cherry blossoms, carried on a gentle breeze that rustles through the trees. The distant sounds of children playing in a nearby park mingle with the honking of cars and the chirping of birds, creating a symphony of noise that signifies the arrival of spring in the bustling city.

"Waiting for daddy," she says with a hint of excitement in her voice.

The little girl looks up at you, her eyes full of wonder and innocence. You can't help but wonder about the mysterious Mr Kennedy and his absence; an enigma surrounding his name.

Like a forgotten toy left on the shelf, the girl's father remains absent from any involvement in her education. Despite several months passing since her admission to your class, there has been no sign of him. No parent-teacher meetings, no Father's Day celebration, nothing.

An enigma.

"Speaking of," your voice trails off for a moment, "How’s your daddy doing?" you question her. You shouldn’t; it goes beyond your job description to put a kid in situations like these. But still–

Her eyes, a vivid shade of cerulean, sparkle like sunlit water as she gazes at you; smile wide upon the mention of her father, the young kid toys with the straps on her bag.

"He’s busy."

A pang of understanding pinches your heart.

–his presence (or rather the absurd lack of it) keeps gnawing at your brain.

"He fights monsters," the girl adds after a moment of silence; her tone more serious. It's as if she's describing a mythical hero, fighting off beasts in some far-off land.

"He seems to be busy quite a lot," you smile to ease the topic; well aware that the girl, as bright as she is, surely catches on as you keep asking the same question every week, "is your mom coming to the parent–teacher meeting?"

The girl shakes her head before she speaks, "I don’t know my mom."

Oh.

You know you shouldn’t push more; well aware of the unprofessionalism you’re displaying.

"The woman who picks you up–"

"–aunt Claire," the kid corrects you, "I’m sorry for interrupting, miss teacher."

You smile, trying to put her at ease. It's clear that she's been brought up with good manners.

Lost in how to answer her, you almost don't hear the sound of a car approaching. The girl jumps up, her face alight with excitement. A low rumble reverberates through the air as a sleek black SUV glides up to the curb, its shiny exterior reflecting the warm rays of the sun.

The tinted windows obscure the view inside the car, adding an air of mystery to the vehicle. As the car comes to a stop, the quiet hum of the engine fades to a gentle purr, and the driver's door swings open.

The girl grabs her backpack at the same time a man steps out of the car; you’re able to only see the light brown hair decorating his head.

"Daddy," the girl yelps in excitement. You stand up, dusting the invisible dust from your jeans.

He stands tall, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of the crisp white shirt, tucked tightly into the blue dress pants. A single button undone on his collar, revealing the curve of his clavicles. The sun glints off his aviator sunglasses, hiding his eyes from view. He approaches the little girl with a warm smile as she runs into her father, you presume; standing still, watching the situation unfold before your eyes.

Lowering himself to her level, he extends his arms, inviting her in. She eagerly accepts, wrapping her little arms around his neck in a welcoming embrace.

"Hey there, pup," you manage to hear his voice; low and soft. Gentle. "Sorry I’m late; got held up by paperwork. Y’know the drill."

The kid chuckles before pulling away, a sound so pure and innocent it brings a smile to your face.

Standing back up, his face turns towards you. You're struck by his imposing presence, the way he commands attention without even trying. His chiseled jawline is dusted with a light stubble, giving him an air of ruggedness. He moves with confidence towards you, one hand enclosed with his daughter’s.

The girl tugs at the sleeve of his shirt, introducing you before he even reaches your standing point–to which he smiles gently.

"Well, nice to meet you," his hand extended in greeting, "I’m Leon Kennedy. Her dad," he nods towards the girl.

"Mr Kennedy," you murmur, taking his hand in yours; noting the callouses on his palm.

As your eyes travel up his arm, they catch sight of a fresh bandage peeking out from under his slightly rolled up sleeve. But it's not until you look up at his face that you see the true extent of his weariness. Small scratches mark his jaw, subtle hues of purple and yellow decorate his cheekbone like a watercolor painting.

It’s clear that he's been through a rough patch. Makes you wander back to the girl’s words–

("He fights monsters.")

–and maybe he does. In some twisted sense.

"I actually wanted to speak with you," you release his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin lingering on your fingertips., "are you free next Tuesday? Around one PM?"

"Am I in trouble," he chuckles; the stretch of his lips exposing a slight scar on his lower lip.

The girl tilts her head, eyes studying you intently. You can't help but notice the slight beauty marks across her neck, the softness of her features, the way she looks up at her father with curiosity.

"Not really; I just need to discuss some matters with you."

"Okay," he responds, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, yet he remains stoic. Posed. "Sure."

"I’ll see you then," you nod and take your leave, but not before stealing a few glances at his back as he turns away from you. It’s impossible not to notice how his broad shoulders strain against the fabric, or how his hair cascades over his forehead; tousled yet somehow perfectly in place.

The weekend flies by, the days blurring together until suddenly it's Tuesday.

Despite his daughter's reassurances from yesterday that he'll be here, the uncertainty of whether he'll actually show up still grips you tightly.

A knock on the open door disturbs your grading.

"Mr Kennedy," you remark upon his arrival. The pen falls onto the desk with a clunk; back straighten, you invite him to sit on the chair prepared for him beforehand.

He’s dressed more casual–the black, expensive looking leather jacket squeaks against the wooden chair as he sits down after a simple "Hello". The faint but distinct aroma of sharp, citrusy notes wafts from his collar; the refreshing and invigorating aroma that catches your attention before your eyes trail to the bandage on his wrist.

Clearly seeing the way your eyes subconsciously linger on the piece of medical tape, Leon puts his other hand over it, shielding your view. Silently focusing your attention back on his eyes; the same blue hues as his daughter’s.

Sitting before you, legs spread apart, the undeniable similarities between him and his daughter are glaringly apparent. The way he holds himself commands respect, his posture erect and confident.

"Mr Kennedy, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you in person."

Fingers interlocking as you lean on your elbows, his gaze following your every movement like a predator stalking its prey; almost as if he’s sizing you up. His eyes watchful.

"Okay," he responds casually, a hint of question behind the simple word.

You clear your throat before continuing. "Your daughter is a remarkable child," a small smile accompanying your words. "She's well-behaved, intelligent, and often surpasses her peers."

Leon nods, lips pressed together.

"Got that from her mother, probably," he remarks. Almost bites back. Jaw tightening.

Leaning back, your fingers drum a quick rhythm against your desk.

"But we’re not here to evaluate your daughter; but you, actually, Mr Kennedy."

Leon’s brows arch up, highlighting the soft surprise that flashes across his face. The subtle shift in his expression does not go unnoticed by you.

"Didn’t know I was being evaluated," his voice trails off.

You nod in acknowledgement, sensing the man's confusion.

"You’re aware of our school assemblies, right?"

His face remains stoic, so you continue.

"Father's Day, parent-teacher meetings, career days, sports day," you list a few, hoping to spark the idea in the man’s mind.

"So," he leans back against the chair, arms folded on his chest.

With an exhale, upon your failed attempt to make him take the hint, you resolve to explaining the school rules to him.

"Our school mandates that the child’s parent or legal guardian be present at at least three of those assemblies per school year. You haven’t been present on any of them, not even last year."

He lifts his chin slightly and raises his eyebrows, eyes fixed on you with a look that suggests he's waiting for more information or an explanation.

"There’s actually a policy within out school that allows teachers to prohibit the child from participating in certain activities or events if a parent is not present–"

"–you’re kidding," Leon interjects, his tone laced with disbelief.

Raising your hand, you stop him from continuing, "and your daughter is a great student, so I don't expect that to happen to her. But with your continuous absence, she's at risk of being excluded from certain activities."

"My job keeps me busy. And I don’t really have a say in it," Leon retorts.

Arms still folded across his chest, his brows furrow in frustration. Defence sets inside his flesh; jaw slightly twitching, his eyes bore into yours.

"Maybe her mother could–"

"–not an option," he stops you before you manage to finish the sentence.

You nod in understanding. Leaving forward, you hope to appeal to Leon’s sense of responsibility a little more.

"In that case; we’re having a sports day this Friday. If you could just show up to support your daughter, I could mark it as you being present."

Leon chuckles, his voice smooth. Looking out the nearby window, he stares into the field right next to the school for a moment, deep in thought. The sunlight filtering through the window casts a warm glow on his sharp features, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.

Silence passes before he speaks up, "Wouldn't a dinner suffice instead?"

You clear your throat and try to compose yourself, feeling your heartbeat pick up at the unexpected request. "That's not very appropriate, Mr Kennedy, " you say softly, attempting to hide the fluttering in your chest. "Let's see each other at the soccer match."

"Sure. I’ll see what I can do; is that all?" he asks, head turned to the side. You gaze upon the now exposed wound on his jawline, vaguely resembling a cat’s claw scratch. The bruise colors on his cheek faded over the past few days.

"Yes," you assure him.

"Y’know, this whole thing could’ve been an email."

You smile wryly, "Would you react to that email?"

Looking back at you, there’s a flicker of mischievous dancing in his eyes. Leon's gaze holds yours for a moment longer, and you find yourself drawn to the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes, evidence of his amusement.

"You got me there."

The sun blankets the field in gold, casting elongated shadows of the children as they scamper around in pursuit of the ball. It’s still quite early. The air’s crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and; sound of excited cheers and shouts echo throughout the surrounding area.

It’s comforting. Soothing in a way.

With a group of teachers, you watch the little girl darting across the field, her movements resembling that of a graceful gazelle as she expertly maneuvers the ball. She weaves in and out of the other players, a look of determination etched on her youthful face.

A chorus of her name echoes across the field, drifting like a wispy trail of smoke. The other kids cheer her on as she makes her way towards the goal, her tiny frame seemingly defying the laws of physics with her quick and nimble movements.

A round of applause erupts when the ball meets the back of the net. You watch as the little girl’s teammates rush to congratulate her.

"And who is that," a woman’s voice tears your gaze away from the cheerful moment, hands stopping mid-clasp.

Curious, you look at her. The other teachers already gazing to your right. To the parking lot.

Leaning against the sleek car, its design demanding attention; even from further away, he exudes an air of quiet confidence that's impossible to ignore. Eyes covered by another set of sunglasses, the same leather jacket strains against his folded arms.

Mr Kennedy.

Leon Kennedy.

Something about him always seems to draw attention; to captivate anyone who catches a glimpse of him.

It’s odd. Uncanny–

You should know better than to think in such a way about your student’s father.

–and you wonder if it’s just you who feels that way.

As the group of teachers chatter, a voice pipes up, "Is he someone's father?"

"He has to be," the conversation carries on, "or he wouldn’t be here–"

"–or he’s a creep."

Turning to face the person who said it, you scoff at the teacher before speaking up.

"He’s her dad," You nod in the direction of the girl with a beaming smile on your face, as she energetically waves at Leon. His response, though polite, is less enthusiastic, evident by the restrained movement of his hand.

Escaping the gossip, you follow the white boundary lines of the field towards your target, the soft grass crunching beneath your feet. Leon's eyes are fixed on the field, his sharp features softened by the spring glow.

But he's quick to notice your approach, turning his head ever so slightly to the left. It makes you feel naked as he shamelessly watches you coming closer.

"Mr Kennedy," you greet him.

As you approach, the warm spring breeze ruffles your hair, the sweet scent of blooming flowers mixing with his heady aroma. Posture relaxed, his broad shoulders almost blend with the darkness of the car behind him.

"Just call me Leon."

Eyes back on the field, a tinge of carelessness in his voice, a small tug on his lips. Hesitating momentarily, you put your hands in your pockets.

"I’d rather stick to being professional."

It makes him chuckle; voice rumbling with amusement–

"You’re making me feel old," he teases.

–making your chest tighten. His words brush against your ears like the gentle rustling of leaves on a cool autumn breeze.

The lightness in his tone, the hint of playfulness, stirs something deep within you.

It’s your turn to return the light laugh. The sound mingling with the chirping of birds in the distance.

"It’s good that you’re here. Your daughter seems to appreciate it as well."

Leon's eyes flicker to his daughter, still surrounded by her teammates; a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," he says, the warmth in his voice evident, "she’s been talking about this game for a week."

"She’s really talented in sports."

A cool breeze brushes against your skin as he removes his sunglasses. Eyes reminiscent of the clear waters of a mountain lake–the color seems to deepen and intensify as he looks at you, drawing you in.

"That she got from me," the corners of his mouth curve up into a charming smile. His voice deep and smooth, like a glass of well-aged whiskey. You can sense his confidence, the way he carries himself with ease, and it's hard not to be drawn in.

It's alluring. The way he exudes a sense of self-assurance.

Smiling lightly, hand resting on the cool hood of his car, you both watch the children race each other. Cheers fill the soccer fields.

Even in momentarily silence, it’s comfortable–

"Well, she certainly inherited some good genes, Mr Kennedy."

–there’s no awkward cluster around the two of you. It’s natural.

It draws Leon’s attention back to you. Arms folded, his fingers sneak around his bicep, gripping gently as he shamelessly looks at you. His face a canvas of chiseled features and sharp lines. reminiscent of a Greek statue carved out of marble. A faint scent of musk and cologne lingers around him, blending with the sweet aroma of blooming flowers in the air.

"Just so you know, miss teacher," his voice soft melody that lingers in your mind, "the dinner invitation still stands."

It’s tempting.

The words hang in the air, tantalizingly close.

A whistle cuts through the sounds of the soccer field, interrupting the moment. Leon’s attention briefly flickers towards his daughter, checking as the little girl sprints towards the two of you, before returning to your face.

"And I should remind you, Mr Kennedy, that it’s not very appropriate to ask your daughter’s teacher out."

The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man is hard to resist though. His confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily–

"So? It’s just dinner," his tone is almost conspiratorial, as if he's sharing a secret with you.

–it makes you feel alive.

(Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not strictly forbidden.

Only frown upon. Harshly.)

It's like he's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit.

"Daddy," his daughter doesn’t hesitate, jumping straight into her father’s arm; yet Leon isn’t phased at all, hoisting her into his arms, "Did you see my goal?"

"I did, pup," arm sneaking underneath her knees, you notice the bandage gone, "you killed it."

"Miss teacher," the kid addresses you, hand sneaking into her dad’s hair to hold him tightly while looking up at you with bright, curious eyes, "Did you see me? Did you see my goal?"

"Of course," you answer with a warm smile, "you did great. Seems like you got good genes for it."

The little girl beams with pride, hugging her father even tighter. Leon chuckles, the sound low and rich, and nods his head in agreement.

"I’ll see you on Monday then; pleasure seeing you, Mr Kennedy," as you turn to leave, you can't help but feel a twinge of regret.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by occasional laughter and the clink of glasses. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the wooden booths and bar, giving the place a cozy feel. The smell of fried food and beer lingers in the air, adding to the ambiance of the traditional American pub.

From a corner, a live band plays classic rock tunes, and the patrons nod along to the rhythm, singing softly under their breaths. It's a perfect spot to unwind after a long workday, catch up with friends. Or even make new connections.

Your little freedom.

Away from responsibilities. From the stress of daily life.

This is your escape, your sanctuary, where you can let loose and just be yourself.

Coming to the bartender, you order another round for the group you’re with, only to be taken back by a familiar voice saying your name.

Turning to look at the man by your right, the white stripes on his jacket contrast against the dim, warm ambiance of the room. Fingers tapping on the rim of the glass of whiskey, he takes a sip, his gaze fixed on you; the amber liquid catching the light, casting a glow across his features.

"Mr Kennedy," you exhale, almost in disbelief by the sudden situation.

Mind whirling with surprise and curiosity; the bar is chill against your exposed arm as you lean onto it, turning to look at the man by your side.

"Wouldn’t expect a teacher to be in a bar on Friday night," he smirks, the corner of his lips curving up in amusement.

"We’re not as frigid as people have us to be," you replied, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips.

Voice like a smoldering flame, waiting to be ignited, he tilts the glass towards you, "Oh, really."

The allure of his presence tangible.

A gravitational pull.

"Well, Mr Kennedy," the words roll off your tongue smoothly, "I suppose we all have our ways of letting loose after a hard week."

He chuckles, the sound deep and throaty; making your pulse quicken, heartbeat pick up. "I couldn't agree more," he says, taking another sip of his drink.

You study him for a moment; taking in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, how his hair fal across his forehead in a disheveled yet stylish way. There’s something undeniably attractive about him, something that draws you in against all odds–

–like a moth to a flame.

Life has a funny way of working out.

You should stop.

But ‘should’ doesn’t exist in the moment of impulse. In the realm of desire. Pure, unblistered passion. The temptation to follow desire is too strong–

The world falls away.

–and all thought of 'should' dissipates.

Leon's hands slide around your thighs, gripping the flesh firmly as his body pushes against yours. Pinned to the wall; his lips trail the pulse of your neck. The tip of his tongue leaving wet patches on the heated skin.

The sudden intrusion of reality makes you gasp,"What about—".

It’s Leon’s hand on your breast; squeezing, teasing the clothed flesh through the thin material, thumbing at the erect nipple, that earns him a moan. His daughter’s name spilling over into a sound so soft. Inviting.

Like a hummingbird.

A content hum echoes in his chest; pressed tightly against yours. Feeling the muscles contract beneath you, respond to your movement; to the way your hips press against the growing bulge in his pants.

"—she’s stayin’ at my friend’s," he mumbles against the curve of your collarbones, teeth grazing the firm area.

With a strong grip, your fingers entangle in his hair. The texture soft and silky, like running your hands through fine threads of spun gold.

"Isn’t she young for sleepovers?"

It makes him look at you. Eyes glazed over; hungry. Primal–

He pulls you into an embrace, arm wrapping around your back, his palm cupping your ass. The heat of his body seeps through your clothing, searing your skin with its intensity, his breath ghosting over your lips as he whispers, "I really don’t wanna talk about my kid right now."

It’s a command rather than anything else.

Followed by your clothes.

He has you bare before you make up your mind.

–causing your skin to crawl.

With every touch, every whisper, every breath, he leaves you feeling more exposed, more vulnerable.

Limbs tangled together, lips pressed against each other; there’s no beginning and no end. When one begins, the other follows, like an unbroken circle of passion and desire.

Utter consumption by the fire inside you.

Leon’s hands feel scorching. Each stroke branding your skin.

He splits your apart, fills you to the brim. The head of his cock kisses the innermost parts of you as you stay seated on top of him. Nails scratching the firm muscle of his breastplate; he grips your sides. Digs his fingers into the soft, plump flesh there.

Teeth nip at your chin. Gently nibbles accompanied by your hips circling on top of him.

Cascade of groans, grunts and moans echo throughout Leon’s bedroom; each sound building on the other to create a crescendo of pleasure. The mattress beneath you creaks and strains under your knees.

Lost in the feeling.

His words a salacious melody; sung in a sultry whisper followed by his teeth, nibling at your earlobe; securing your grip on his shoulders feeling the strength of his muscles as he guides your moves.

Up and down. Up and down.

Circle your hips when your pelvis meets his. When your ass touches his thighs; when his fingers dig into the round flesh.

The rhythm builds, the tension mounting with every breath. The ache of desire deep inside, a longing that can only be sated by him. With each movement, you feel closer to the edge, your body aching for release.

Leon whispers encouragement, his voice like a caress against your skin. Head buried in the crook of your neck, your arms tighten around his shoulder. Face buried in the top of his head, the scent of him fills your senses; a heady, intoxicating aroma that envelops you in its warmth.

You breathe him in, savoring the subtle notes of bergamot and spice, the rich undertones of musk and earthiness.

Leon’s name leaves your lips in a soft, breathless moan, a prayer to the god of pleasure.

His lips brush against your collarbone, lingering there for a moment before trailing lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Skin erupting in goosebumps as his breath tickles your chest, your body bows like a taut bowstring, a supplication to his touch. Offering yourself up to him completely.

Hands roam over your body, tracing the curves and planes of your skin with reverent fingers. As if he knows just where to touch you.

With a strong pull and push, your back meets the hard mattress. His hands move over you like a painter's brush, each stroke bringing out a new hue of pleasure. Hips grinding against yours.

Pressing your body closer to his, chest to chest, he rocks against you. The intensity of his movements leaves you gasping for air, a low moan escaping your lips as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your skin as he continues to rut into you.

Long lost is the slow motion–

Your pelvis meets his in a harsh, demanding thrust.

–now he’s chasing his own high. His own release.

His hand slides to cup your jaw, grip your shoulder, eyes boring into yours; intense and unwavering, as if he’s trying to read your thoughts through the depth of your eyes. Consumed by the heat of you.

Head thrown back, you close your eyes; unable to match the fire in his as he grinds against you; his breaths ragged gasps, the only sound in the room the soft rustling of sheets and the slapping of skin against skin.

Leon knows he won’t last long. Not with the way your mouth remains agape, nails digging into the firm tendons of his biceps; heels digging into the flesh of his ass, pushing him deeper. Demanding him to go harder.

You just look so pretty underneath him.

Fingertips trace the warm flesh of your curves. They move slowly, mapping the supple contours of your body with precision; each touch deliberate, a way of committing the curves of your form to memory.

The sensation is electric, every nerve ending on high alert.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with teasing precision, a feather-light touch. Pushing your hips into his, he obliges your silent demand – adding a bit more pressure with each pass. The slow, steady rhythm of his touch in bright contrast to the sharp thrusts.

Building the tension inside you, until you feel like you might burst. But he doesn't let up, not yet. He's savoring every moment, enjoying the way you writhe beneath him.

Your breath hitches, body tensing as he works you with an almost clinical precision. The ache between your legs grows, spreading through your entire body. He watches you, gauging your reactions, and adjusts his touch accordingly.

The way he focuses on you, with a singular, unwavering intensity, is both thrilling and terrifying.

As for Leon, every movement, every sound, is calculated. He wants to make this last. He wants to make you lose control.

His muscles tense as he drives into you, each thrust bringing him closer to the edge. His breaths come in short gasps, matching the rhythm of your moans. The heat between you intensifies, a physical force that binds you together.

With one final push, final flick of a thumb, he takes you over the edge, his name on your lips.

Clenching around him, walls fluttering, his thrusts grow slow. Leisurely.

As if he’s tantalizing himself. Savoring the feel before he lets go with a groan; a guttural sound that echoes through the bedroom; body spasming. The two of you entwined in a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

There should be some sort of regret.

Standing by the foot of Leon’s bed, still searching for your clothes amid the scattered chaos of the apartment, covered by a random shirt you’ve found on the ground (that’s definitely not the one you’ve come with), you can’t help but be drawn to the sleeping man lying before you.

The sheets barely cover the curve of his lower back, and even in slumber, the muscles of his back remain visible; the outline of his physique remains defined and sharp, even in relaxation. The memory of his back muscles beneath your palms lingers on your skin, as if he were still present with you in that moment.

There’s no regret.

Exiting the bedroom, you walk past the kitchen into the hallway. The emptiness of the space is palpable, with nothing adorning the plain white walls; no family photos or decorations to add personality. Only the essential pieces of furniture remain. The floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you open the door closer to you–

(It’s almost like he doesn’t have anyone.

A sense of desolation creeps in you.)

–and are met with a blinding contrast to the rest of the apartment. Rainbow colored sheets neatly tucked into the small bed, pillows in shape of various animals. Light furniture covered in school supplies; and a photo decorating the nightstand.

You pick it up, immediately recognized the two people. It might be the first time you’re seeing Leon actually smile, wide and bright. Happy; with his daughter tightly wrapped in his arms. Faces pressed together, smiling at the camera.

"I hope you're not trying to steal anything," Leon's voice interrupts your reverie; low and husky, still laced by the morning sleep, "I don't have much, y’know."

As you pivot to face him, you can't resist noticing how his bare feet stand out against his fully-clothed form. Hair tousled and messy, only adding to his rugged appeal.

An irresistible wave of attraction washes over you as you scrutinize his appearance, and his playful tone only adds fuel to the fire.

"Don't worry, I'm not after your prized possessions," you reply with a smirk, feeling emboldened by his proximity.

Leon's eyes twinkle mischievously as he steps closer to you, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. "Well, in that case, what’re you after?"

"I was just looking for a bathroom."

Leon's gaze lingers on you, lips curled up in a half-smile. "The bathroom’s down the hall to the right," he points with a nod of his head.

You nod back, trying to ignore the electric sensation that courses through you at his proximity. "Thanks," you say, stepping past him towards the direction he indicated.

As you walk down the hallway, you can't shake off the feeling of emptiness that you felt earlier. It's clear that Leon lives a minimalist lifestyle, but the lack of personal touches leaves you with a sense of melancholy.

Entering the bathroom, you take a moment to splash water on your face, trying to compose yourself before facing Leon again.

His voice echoes through the small apartment as you make your way towards his voice, entering the kitchen; you're struck by how immaculate it is. Everything’s in its place, and there isn't a single dish out of place. The countertop is spotless, the sink free of any debris, the stainless-steel appliances gleam in the light.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air with the morning sun streaming through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.

"I’ll pick her up in an hour," Leon stands in front of the refrigerator, two mugs in one hand, bare feet making a soft thumping sound against the linoleum floor. His hair’s still tousled from sleep, his t-shirt is wrinkled, clinging to his muscles as he holds the phone to his ear.

There’s a certain charm to his disheveled appearance that you find appealing.

Looking at you, he makes no effort to stop the call, instead a playful undertones his voice as he hands you a mug and motions towards the coffee machine, "yeah, just woke up. Had a long night."

Shaking your head at his words; he watches you with a small, amused smile, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

"See you then. Bye, Claire,” he ends the call, turning his full attention to you.

"Y’know, miss teacher," he pours himself a glass of water, "if you just wanted to skip the whole dinner thing, you should’ve just said."

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2truehearts · 9 months

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✦ — BUT DARLING, YOU ARE THE ONLY EXCEPTION.

✦ CHARACTER/S︰ijekiel alpheus & lucas from wmmap (who made me a princess).

✦ SYNOPSIS︰love can bloom and burn in any heart at the first sunlit-brindled brief—whether it be bounded by duty, ice, or disbelief; as long as that epitome of affection is you, they suppose they can make an exception and make some space—or in which they fall in-love with you first glance and sight.

✦ CONTENT WARNING/S︰nothing other than one swear word (fuck), & the general fluff and infatuation (from the character/s) + everything is proofread with the wc 200 - 300 each.

✦ A/N︰making my debut as a manhwa writer on main is not the ideal move but idk where to post it okay (side eyes the 2367838 sideblogs under this one/silly (also the title is inspired by "the only exception" by paramore <3 it's bleeping awesome go and give it a listen!!))

IJEKIEL IS NOT ONE TO FALL IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT, to have his world still for a few seconds while his heart overrides and blood races to the forefront of his cheeks—but dear heavens, were you the only exception to that rule bound by duty and a planned future in his chest. you surely weren’t the epitome of grace or as enchanting as the gods, but to him you were enough—more, than enough, truly.

he first met you in an arrangement of his father and your parents from your vague childhood—but oh, how he remembers every second of that first meeting. when the doors opened to you bowing in front of him with a barely-hidden smile of excitement curving the tips of your mouth to look at him with big, bright eyes of wonder staring directly at the copy of the sun—not once backing down to blink or burn away from awe and fluster. so ijekiel does that instead. his skin flares with the color of blooming carnations, sunlight-prickled hues wide from childish panic at the sudden increased beating of his heart. was something wrong with him? he felt light-headed and dizzy, stomach twisting, tossing and turning as if he was about to faint from merely seeing you presented before him like the finest muse of a pristine piece of art, incomparable to anything else other than itself. what should he do? should he compliment you? should he act indifferent and use a practiced smile? his mind is trying to adjust to the drastic changes of his swayed heart, but the boy just can’t seem to do just that when he’s faced with a fairytale protagonist right in front of him—and he blinks, catching something from the corner of his eye—and is brought back down to earth when he sees his father’s questioning gaze. then, bows with a smile, greeting you further in to sit down and perhaps enjoy a cup of tea with him? you said yes out of common courtesy, but that only made his smile grow wider.

LUCAS FIRMLY DOES NOT BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT, like come on—who believes in love like that these days? naive little kids? newly adolescent noble ladies? men of high and poor status? it’s simply too . . . unlikely to actually happen in his eyes. the butterflies when you meet “the love of your life’s” eyes? could be the early signs of constipation. the flush in your cheeks when there’s too much prolonged eye contact with them and the dizziness of your heart and mind? could be an oncoming migraine, headache, or a sign you're being possessed by some evil spirit, y’know? anyways, enough joking aside—the point is, he finds the subject some far-fetched fairytale that is highly impossible even with the magic he has—that is, until, you waltz into his life. the things he feels when he's around you is something that could be described as a contradiction. the first gazing into your eyes turns the world upside and back again, the first brush against your fingertips suck all the air out of his chest, the first chuckle that he manages to rouse from deep within your giddy joy paints him a shade darker than his eyes from head to toe—holy fuck were there a lot of firsts that made him experience everything and anything all at once; with most he can't even explain properly without sounding so . . lovesick. god do you make him sick to the last bone with whatever sorcery you possess. in short; when in love, lucas is everything that correlates to being stupidly infatuated and is constantly reeling himself in by a hair’s breadth back to the surface when you smile, laugh, or simply exist next to him—like, can you imagine how utterly moronic it is to see how degenerate he’s become from before you?! . . . but, if it makes you happy, he’ll gladly be idiotic for the rest of his life (though, that depends if you're gonna annoy him or not).

✦ — @khasmies 2023.

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memegetter · 4 months

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Imagine you are standing with your feet in the deepest part of the ocean and with the top of your head at sea level. As the tide rises and falls, the difference in water level is roughly equivalent to the thickness of two, or perhaps three, strands of your hair. Now let’s travel down from the surface. We first enter the Epipelagic Zone, which takes its name from the Greek epi, meaning surface, and pelagos meaning sea. The Epipelagic Zone is also known as the Sunlit Zone because sunlight penetrates the water and brings life to photosynthetic plankton, which converts carbon dioxide into energy. The Earth’s rainforests are not, as some people have stated, the ‘lungs of the world’. The Epipelagic Zone is. It produces up to 80 percent of our oxygen. It is also home to 90 percent of ocean life, including the most recognizable forms such as whales, dolphins, fish, sharks and jellyfish. As we stand in our ocean and continue down, about halfway between the top of our skull and the top of our ears, we leave the Epipelagic Zone and enter the Mesopelagic Zone. This zone, like the others, takes its name from the Greek meso meaning middle. But we are a long way from the middle, or even the average depth of the ocean. The Mesopelagic Zone is sometimes called the Twilight Zone, because the last faint rays of light from a sun high in the sky, are fading by the time they reach the top of this zone. Vertebrates and invertebrates live here in darkness, with many of them swimming upwards at night to feed. Some plant life also survives here. On our submerged body, somewhere between the bottom of our nose and the top of our mouth, we leave the Mesopelagic Zone and enter the Bathypelagic Zone. Bathy means deep. This zone is in perpetual darkness. No plant life lives here. Some, water-borne organisms are luminescent to attract prey or a mate. Many species here are totally blind, and most live on the detritus that falls from the higher zones. Just below the bottom of our sternum, before we reach our navel, we enter the Abyssopelagic Zone. Abyss means seemingly bottomless. The water is high in oxygen, but low in nutrients. There is very little discernible life and the water is cold – about 37 °F or 3 °C. Chemosynthetic bacteria thrive near hydrothermal vents in the Abyssopelagic Zone. What fish and invertebrates do live here feed on these bacteria. This, in a sense, is ground zero in the food chain. To stand in the deepest part of the ocean we need to stand in one of the trenches between the tectonic plates. In our imaginary exercise, we are standing in the Mariana Trench, located off the Mariana Islands in the Pacific Ocean. Trenches are extremely narrow. The one we are standing in, begins at our groin. In the 1950s, scientists began to notice distinct life in the trenches and started referring to them as the Hadal Zone. A Greek derivative again, but whereas the names of the zones above indicate where in the ocean they are located, the Hadal Zone was named to signify what. Welcome to hell. Let us begin our journey.

The introduction to The Frontier Below by Jeff Maynard is so hardcore!!

#thalassophobia #ocean #marine biology #im screaming like that mona lisa sapperstein gif

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ciceroandthelistener · 2 years

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If you often work on art while playing music, do you just vibe with whatever, or do you prefer to put on tracks that suit the Overall Emotion of the particular piece you're working on?

Normally I'll use one of my OC playlists, because those have a lot of songs with Feels™ and a higher chance of matching a WIP's vibes. But sometimes I can just listen to whatever, especially if I'm particularly hooked on a certain artist. Orville Peck's Bronco is one of my go-to's bc certain songs on there can really get me if the mood is right

#there's been times i've made myself cry with the Ash and Magic playlist #i don't know what possessed me when i last updated that one but someone must've put the mead of poetry in my tea bc damn.#asks #the-sunlit-earth

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daisyswift3 · 17 days

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UMM so cruel summer and a lot of other songs are making a lotttt more sense now that I’ve realized the “devil” that Taylor keeps referring to is actually the music industry as a whole thanks to @keepingsecretstokeepyoutk (see this post). “He looks up grinning like a devil” // “I would’ve stayed on my knees and I damn sure never would’ve danced w the devil AT 19” // “Dear reader if you aim at the devil make sure you don’t miss.” Do you remember the Top Global Artist vid that spotify released that had cruel summer as the background song and had a bunch of cruel summer references? Yeah go back and watch that again w this context in mind 😃 Taylor (the angel) has had enough of the games and is gonna end them once and for all which is very Katniss Everdeen of her—hello the archer 🏹 if any of you have read or watched the hunger games you know how the story ends

And you'll also remember that Katniss escapes the games twice by cheating--the first time w poison berries and the second time by destroying the arena itself (which was a clock) WITH itself using a lightning strike current at midnight that shot thru her arrow -> "And there was one prize I'd cheat to win." Not to mention Katniss was the mockingjay, a symbol of rebellion and resistance. And the fire symbolism in this trilogy was meant to represent how that rebellion can spread from a spark of hope. Snow lands on top but fire melts snow. Taylor is a huge hunger games fan so I wouldn't be surprised at all if these parallels were intentional. Also I'm not the first one to notice the hunger games connections, I saw some other gaylors point this out so I can't take full credit for that

“You play stupid games you win stupid prizes” // “Devils roll the dice” // "Baby let the games begin" // The scrabble instagram post // The mastermind chess board // "You see all the wisest women had to do it this way, cause we were born to be the pawn in every lover's game" // "No more keeping score now I just keep you warm. No more tug of war now I just know there's more"

I think it's possible Taylor knew that her masters were gonna be sold hence all the game imagery and songs abt heartbreak on lover

She's literally gonna take down the industry as a whole and expose everything. This is the reason for all the cryptic messages and meticulous planning. AND THIS IS WHAT THE ALBATROSS IS ABT TOO. “She’s the albatross she is here to destroy you.” They tried to keep her locked away in cages and towers and closets and tried taming her and pulling out her teeth but it didn’t work

“Devils that you know raise worse hell than a stranger” SHE’S the devil now and she’s abt to make their lives a living hell

“She’s the death you chose” i.e. the music industry chose to kill Taylor (which is why TTPD is a post-mortem album) so now she’s coming back to haunt them hence the ghostly Victorian attire. “We gather here we line up weeping in a sunlit room and if I’m on fire you’ll be made of ashes too.” THIS is the karma she’s talking abt that will happen at midnight!!

“You’ll see me in hindsight tangled up w you all night burning it down”

I am the APPARITION. I am the LINE OF POETRY. THAT’S TAYLOR. SHE’S THE GHOST WRITING POST-MORTEM POETRY

Literally feel like I am abt to explode from all the earth-shattering revelations I’ve just had

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starlingflight · 1 month

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Hiya friend!

Do you think Harry calls Ginny by her full name when he wants to be a little shit?

Also, just want to say that I love the way you write Ginny plus the bestie moment between Ron and Harry.

❤️

Anon, this ask did something to my brain.

Firstly, thank you so much! That's so nice of you to say 🥰

Secondly, yes, I think Harry says it to wind Ginny up, and I think he gets more than he bargained for when he does.

To demonstrate, have this unhinged one-shot (drabble? Almost) I stayed up until 3am writing, in which Harry discovers he has a certain... effect on Ginevra...

AO3 or read below:

The first time he'd said it had been at Hogwarts; not during a sunlit day, but in the peaceful hour between day and night, when dusk had been gathering around them as they sat, wrapped up in one another, beneath their favourite beech tree.

The temperature had dropped as the sun had receded behind the tree line of the Forbidden Forest. She'd protested at first, when he'd tried to give her his jumper, but Ginny's objections had been half-hearted, and Harry's determination had been absolute, and eventually she'd slipped the soft green material over her head.

Despite the rapidly lowering temperature, something warm and content settled in Harry's chest at the sight of her, swathed in the soft folds of his jumper.

She shuffled closer to him, her smile impossibly bright in the growing darkness. “I'm keeping this.”

His arms wrapped around her instinctively, keeping her near as a teasing smile grew on his own face. “If you ask nicely, I might let you.”

Her head tilted thoughtfully; her eyes were like twin pools of firewhiskey, reflecting what little light remained as she moved. “I'm not asking, though. I'm merely informing you.”

Harry tried for a severe expression but the effect she had on him was too much; he doubted there was a substance on Earth as strong as her. His smile stayed in place. “That's stealing, Ginevra.”

He watched, secretly delighted, as her lips parted slightly in surprise at the use of her full name. His blood thrummed with anticipation, eager to see how she might respond. Idly, he wondered if he might have been wise to draw his wand.

The thought was fleeting, erased from his mind, as Ginny shook her arm free of the too-long sleeve of his jumper. Her hand reached out slowly; Harry watched its progress across the small gap between them, until her fingers curled around his chin, and his eyes closed for the barest of seconds at her touch.

Her hand guided him forward. Harry followed her silent command instinctively, closing the gap between them until it was hardly large enough for air to pass between them.

“Don't call me that,” she whispered warningly, her breath tickling his lips.

She kissed him before he could see the smile threatening to break out on her face.

◇◇◇

He heeded the warning for just over two years before saying it a second time.

They'd gone immediately from Platform Nine and Three Quarters to Grimmauld Place, which had been utterly transformed from the dark, dour dwelling it used to be.

He was leaning against the windowsill in his bedroom – their bedroom – watching with utter fascination as she zipped from one side of the room to the other unpacking her Hogwarts trunk for the final time.

She was talking a mile a minute, catching him up on everything that had happened during her final term. Harry was trying to listen despite the lump forming in his throat, and the trembling in his hands, and the overwhelming sense of fragility that was threatening to engulf him in the face of such a momentous occasion.

Her hair potion joined his aftershave on the dresser. Harry swallowed thickly.

Ginny didn't seem to notice, or perhaps she was letting him reach an equilibrium in his own time, either way, she flashed him a heart-stoppingly beautiful smile as she hung her dressing gown on the back of the door, right beside his. The effect was immediate. He felt himself relax.

The blood pounding in his ears receded, and Ginny's words came sharply back into focus.

“...I skipped half of my classes the week leading up to the final,” she told him with a sly smile that coaxed him into the easy rhythm of their usual back and forth. “Hermione was horrified, but I decided the extra flying time was more important.”

The corners of Harry's lips tugged upwards, momentarily returning her smirk. “I'm disappointed to hear you weren't taking your academics seriously, Ginevra.”

The small stack of books she'd been carrying to her nightstand tumbled from her grasp to the floor. She crossed to him in three quick steps, forced to rise onto her tiptoes, and even then not matching Harry's height. Her eyes smouldered as they met his. “I told you not to call me that.”

Something about the way she was looking at him turned his blood molten in his veins. “I'm just trying to make you feel at home.”

Her fingers curled around his t-shirt, pulling him to her. “I am home.”

He kissed her before she could see the smile threatening to break out on his face.

◇◇◇

Almost another year passed before he said it a third time.

Harry was in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty bowls, cracked eggshells, and streaks of flour that ran along the counter top. The recipe book Molly had given him for Christmas was propped open in front of him.

"Something smells good," Ginny announced, breathing deeply as she entered the kitchen, still dressed in her training robes.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth in greeting, the gesture so natural now that he did it unthinkingly.

“Attempt number six,” he informed her, inclining his head towards the oven, where his latest endeavour at a birthday cake for Teddy was baking.

Ginny's eyebrows rose in surprise. “You've been busy.” He'd been on attempt number three when she'd left for practice.

“I can't get it to rise properly.”

He didn't fool himself into believing she couldn't hear the edge of frustration in his voice. Her hand squeezed his arm in silent reassurance. “Andromeda said she was happy to make it.”

“I know, but she does so much already.”

Ginny's fingers slid from his arm, moving upwards, not stopping until they found his cheek, turning his head and forcing him to look at her. “So do you.”

He nodded, unwilling to agree verbally, but knowing she wouldn't allow him to argue. Still, he couldn't stop himself from saying. “I want to get this right for him.”

“Well, I've yet to discover the thing you can't do when you set your mind to it,” she said encouragingly, her hand leaving his cheek, and heading for the countertop. She shot him a wink that had the contrary results of soothing his agitation, and making his heart rate speed up. “Besides, I have a good feeling about this one.”

Her finger ran along the inside edge of the mixing bowl, collecting a sticky coating of cake mixture on the tip.

Impulsively, Harry grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand towards him, and licking the sweet mixture off her finger before she could. “You're supposed to wait for the cake to finish baking, Ginevra.”

Her eyes darkened, lips parting around a sharp intake of breath, confirming a suspicion Harry had been harbouring since the last time he'd said it. She liked it.

“If you call me that again, I'll hex you,” her voice was low, dangerous. Seductive.

“You can try,” Harry said, in a tone that matched hers. His fingers tightened around her wrist, pulling her to him. “But it's only fair to warn you you're dealing with a highly trained Auror.”

Ginny's head tilted thoughtfully, eyes sweeping over him like she was sizing him up; his skin heated everywhere her gaze touched. “You're forgetting I know all of your weaknesses.”

Harry hummed against her lips, unable to disagree. She did know all of his weaknesses, that much was undeniable, but he had definitely just confirmed one of hers. He could tell she knew it too. It was obvious from the way her eyes sparked as they met his, silently daring him to test her.

“You wouldn't fight me though, would you, Ginevra?”

He accentuated every syllable of her name, drawing it out, enthralled by the way her whole body stiffened in response.

A beat of tension-filled silence followed, stretching for what felt like eternity, before Ginny surged forward. Their matching smiles broke free a moment before their lips met, and Harry sank into her kiss.

#hinny #harry x ginny #one shot

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hyperfixatedfandomer · 3 months

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I’d love a short story of spider at bridgehead with the recons and them teasing him after seeing his infatuated with a girl he sees. I just imagine him as a teenager who has not been around female humans before would stir up hormones.

Crush

Summary; Spider accidentally meets a human girl his age at Bridgehead, and thoughts of her refuse to leave his mind. To Spider’s misfortune, recoms can immediately tell.

Author’s note: I fully believe Spider could have a crush on a Na’vi, but the premise sounded like a lot of fun so here you have it! Just Spider being a silly kid lol 🥹

“Ow! What the—”

“Watch where you’re going you—”

The two fell silent when they caught a glimpse of each other. A neatly dressed girl, her style minimalist and regal…in front of a boy with dirty army camouflage pants and a head of poorly twisted dreads. The youth in their features was undeniable, they couldn’t be far apart in age.

“…who…who are you?” Spider asked, his previous sass gone. He’d seen old humans, and seen young children, but a teenager? That was new.

“Deliah.” She turned her gaze to her clothes, dusting them off. “And you?”

“…Spider.”

The girl smiled, amused. “Spider? That’s your real name?”

Socorro stood. “Got a problem with it?”

“Not really, it’s just kinda silly. I like it.” She brushed her curls behind the ear. “Are you native then? Thought I was the only kid in this hole.”

“Yeah, I’m Pandorian.”

Deliah took liberty to circle the blonde, her attention on the hand-crafted beads in his hair. “Are you…like, a Na’vi?”

“Culturally, yeah.”

She grinned. “Wow! I heard grown ups talk about some "wildling" found in the forest, but didn’t believe them. How’d you survive??”

Spider noticed that he had a hard time turning his eyes away from hers. They were dark like his…and beautiful, glowing in the light steaming from a nearby window. Her attention felt strange. He wanted all and none of it at the same time.

Blood rushed to his cheeks. “I…uh, I dunno. It’s not that difficult once you learn how to keep up.”

“Is it true Na’vi don’t wear clothes?” She giggled.

“What!?“

“Sorry, was that rude?”

“Kinda. We do, just not much. Jungle gets hot, wearing too much can cause a heat-stroke.”

“Oooh, right, sorry, got it. It’s like a survival thing.”

“Yeah…”

Deliah had a pleasant voice, one akin to a light rain after the storm, or a calm stream on a sunlit morning. The sound of her made something flutter in Spider’s stomach, like he swallowed a flock of butterflies.

“….so…you’re like…what?”

She giggled again, what is so funny to her? Is she making fun of me? The boy thought as his face grew redder and heart kept pounding for a reason he could not understand. All he knew is that he wanted to run as far as possible from this person and hide, as well as stay in her presence forever.

“I’m mixed, kinda like most people around here. My mom’s a vice-rep and she wanted me off Earth asap, so now I’m here…dying of boredom instead of smoke.” She rocked on her heels.

“Was it scary? Leaving it all behind?”

“I um…didn’t have many friends.”

“Relatable.” He rubbed his neck.

Deliah raised her brows, her head side-ways. “Na’vi don’t like you?”

“Kinda, but it’s not because I’m human. It’s my ancestry…my squad’s small but we tight. They’re my ride or die.”

“Oh, hope you get to go home soon then..”

Spider smiled sadly. Just as he thought; she didn’t know he was kept here as a prisoner of war. It made the boy wonder what else RDA higher-ups hid from their people to keep them in line.

“But, while you’re here…do you um…since we’re the only human kids for miles—”

“Spider, what the hell did I tell you about wandering off?” A loud voice boomed across the corridor, making both children flinch. Spider turned with a grimace, meeting a cold gaze of his father’s clone.

“Who’s that guy??” Deliah whispered, half-hiding behind the boy. Her touch on his shoulder was soft, and her hand so delicate compared to his…

“Socorro, get your ass over here!”

“Okay okay! Fine…” Spider groaned, before throwing a last look at Deliah. “Goodbye.”

“Where are you going?”

“I Wasn’t supposed to be here. I’m usually in the military block. Just wanted to explore a bit.”

“So…you won’t come back?” The girl’s full lips pursed in a slight frown.

Spider felt a sudden tug on his bicep and whipped his head to see a blue hand wrapped around it, dragging him off. Quaritch’s gaze minutely fixed on the girl, who initially shrunk under it, then tried to assert herself by crossing her arms, but Miles couldn’t be fooled; she was a child.

A girl. In Bridgehead. Talking to Spider.

Oh Lord.

“Let go! I can walk on my own!” The kid hissed when the two entered an elevator. He then noticed Quaritch throwing mischievous glances his way. “What??”

“You sly dog.” He smirked.

“What!?!”

Time in Bridgehead never passed this slow. Spider couldn’t wait to be back where he belongs; in the forest, where he could somewhat forget he was a hostage.

And forget about her.

Spider rolled over on the bunk, face in his pillow. Three days have passed and Deliah still plagued his thoughts. How? Why? He’d never know. It must have been out of boredom. That was it. Just boredom.

Not at all her beautiful voice or shining curls or big eyes or that smile…

“Missing your girlfriend again?”

“OH FUCK OFF!!”

Maybe Spider would have already forgotten if not for recombinants. He’d have to slit Miles’s throat for spinning them a twisted version of their conversation. You should have seen this, he told his colleagues. This boy was whipped, ready to propose right then and there!

“So you were huh.” Lyle chuckled, leaning on the doorframe. “Pouting won’t make it better. Get up, breakfast is serving.”

The mess had been loud as usual, but as Spider sat to reluctantly eat an RDA prepared meal, something caught his attention.

A head of dark brown curls in the crowd.

Before the kid even knew it, he stood up, then climbed onto his seat to get a better look. Could it be…

“It’s not her, Spider. That Deliah girl is high rank, but still civilian. She’d never be let in here.” Miles pressed a hand on his shoulder, forcing Socorro back down.

Zdog giggled. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

“Shut up.” The kid pouted. “We had only one conversation. I’m not like, in love or anything.”

“You sure look like it…she did too.” Miles nudged him.

The boy gasped. “She was just being nice.”

“She was twirling her hair and giggling at your every word, that’s the clearest "I like you" I’ve ever seen.”

Spider blushed. Deliah wouldn’t like a boy from the forest. Why? He was a total opposite to her, a "princess" from Brideghead, with her neat clothes and golden jewellery and glowing skin and…

“Oh great, Romeo’s off into the clouds again.” Lopez rolled his eyes.

“You’re unbearable.” Spider growled, digging into his disgusting porridge. The faster he ate, the faster he could escape this embarrassing exchange with immature soldiers who seemingly had nothing better to do than to pick on him.

“You want me to take you along next time I report to the investors?” Lyle teased. “Maybe she’d be there~~”

“Lyle I didn’t ask you—…wait…really?”

The table erupted in guffaws and Socorro’s face turned as red as a tomato. He wanted to die.

“Dawwww~!” Ja mused. “This is too cute.”

“I HATE all of you!”

#atwow #atwow spider #spider atwow #avatar spider #spider avatar #spider socorro #avatar 2 #avatar way of water #avatar quaritch #avatar recoms #miles quaritch

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