#but he will hurt someone if they hurt his family

[tojisrealwifey]

Crybaby — f. toji (pt. 4)

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Synopsis: When you realize your husband might still be hung up on his ex-wife.

・❥・requests : rules

・❥・characters: fushiguro toji.

warnings: mdni, 18+, themes of divorce, brief smut, angst but kinda fluff, slight comfort, sad gumi, toji's ex-wife's name is rei.

・❥・wc: 2.7k

・❥・masterlist

・❥・crybaby masterlist

"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

Megumi sat slumped in the living room, his mind in turmoil as he tried to process his parents' impending divorce. Toji approached him with furrowed brows, a mix of concern and frustration etched on his face.

In a swift motion, he slapped the back of Megumi's head, gently but firmly.

"Why'd you do that brat?" Toji asks in a scolding tone, his fingers rubbing his forehead to show visually how fed-up he is.

"What?" Megumi snaps, rubbing the back of his head, he turns in his seat to reveal his red and slightly swollen eyes to his father.

Toji takes a look at him and sighs, feeling regretful for taking a harsh approach.

"I know you're mad, but you shouldn't talk to your mother about the divorce that way. She's also hurting." 

Toji had returned home and overheard your conversation with Megumi. He waited for you to leave the kitchen and observed as you headed to their bedroom, likely to freshen up in the bathroom. 

Knowing that you would take a moment, Toji took the opportunity to approach his son for a talk.

"I was being honest." Megumi retorts but fails to conceal his guilt, likely feeling ashamed of how he addressed the issue.

"Megumi, it's not your mom's fault. I messed up years ago, and that's why she's acting this way. I made her feel like a stranger in her own home, and I can't undo that pain.

Megumi sat in silence as his father spoke, his gaze fixed on a distant point, but his attention fully focused on his father's words.

"Whatever went down between us, it's not something you need to worry about. But just so you know, even if your mom and I split up, we'll always be there for you."

Megumi's lips downturned as a gesture of doubt, the air heavy with uncertainty.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because she's your mother. The world can end but that fact will never change."

Megumi's eyes gloss over, prompting him to shut them close.

"Your Ma and I can't stay together because it's just breaking her heart more. "

"So you think she deserves better?"

"Yes." Toji answers without a moment of hesitation. Megumi looks taken aback by his quick response but isn't all too surprised.

"...But...what if she actually meets someone and starts a new family? Why would she bother with us after that?"

"Brat, do you really think your Ma would forget you once she meets someone else?"

Megumi falls into a contemplative silence, his thoughts carrying him away for a few fleeting seconds.

You wouldn't do that, he was sure of it. But he had also believed that his parents would never grow apart.

"I know your mom better than anyone else, and I know that you're her top priority, even more than me." There was not a hint of dishonesty in Toji's words.

As Toji gazes up, he notices your arrival in the room. Your eyelashes were still wet, whether from washing your face or crying, he didn't know.

Megumi takes the opportunity to offer you an apology.

"...Sorry Ma, I'm being so selfish. It's just, everything is gonna change now."

You and Toji stared at each other for a moment before you shifted your focus to Megumi. As you walked towards him, you wrapped your arms around his head while he pressed his face against your stomach, silently sobbing into your dress.

"You're allowed to be selfish, Megumi. You're our son." Your voice is so soft that Megumi couldn't help but hug you tighter.

The conversation ended in a heavy silence, with each of them grappling with the weight of their emotions and the changes in their family dynamic.

You and Toji made sure not to let it affect the atmosphere. The two of you cooked lunch as Megumi stood near the kitchen counter, lending a hand every now and then.

The three of you chatted, mostly about Megumi's college journey and eagerly anticipating his upcoming 18th birthday in less than half a year.

He enjoyed the atmosphere, letting the sadness be pushed to the back of his mind. He savored every single bite of the lunch that afternoon.

It was dark outside as your husband and son wordlessly prepared for bed. After the confrontation less than a week ago, you and Toji hadn't been sleeping in the same room. He opted to stay in Megumi's room for the time being.

But with him back, Toji was forced to move back into your shared bedroom. You had just finished brushing your hair and braiding it, as you do every night. Toji walks in wearing his sweatpants, bare on top.

"You don't mind, do you?" He asks you, walking over to his side of the bed. 

There was another pang in your heart, knowing your actions led to this. Your own husband was asking if he could sleep in his own bed. Your husband, who rarely gave a fuck about anyone telling him what to do, was asking for your permission.

"I think we're way past that phase, Toji." You joke, trying to lighten the heavy air. But no laughs follow, so you just nod in acceptance. 

"You don't have to ask, Toji." Taking the brush off your lap, you place it on your nightstand. 

Fuck, he missed you.

The two of you were living under the same roof, yet he missed you. He wanted to pull you in and place a kiss on your forehead like he did every night, but he held himself back another day.

"I'm just gonna go check on Megumi. Do you need anything?" You ask as you get off the bed.

'Yeah, you.'

Toji almost says the words on his mind, but refrains, shaking his head instead. Walking out of the room, your steps slowly lead you to your son's room. Knocking a few times, you wait for an indication to go in.

When Megumi verbalizes his permission, you open the door, watching him fluffing his pillow a few times. Just like his father, he too only wore a pair of sweatpants, choosing to go bare from the waist up. 

"What is it?" Megumi asked, confused as he took a seat on his bed. You shake your head at his direct tone, sighing once.

"Can't I check on my own son?" You ask, hands in fists as your knuckles pressed against your hips.

"You can, it's just I'm really tired." Megumi says, getting under the blanket and pulling the fabric up to his chest. His arms folded under his head, acting as a pillow while he closed his eyes.

You 'aww' at his tired face, walking up to him and sitting down beside his outstretched figure. You place a hand against his forehead, stroking it up towards his hair.

"I know, honey. Your alarms are all off, right?" You ask, your fingers running through his hair comfortingly. Softly massaging his head, you felt him relax under your touch.

"Y-yeah..." He answered, but his hesitation was clear to you, making you question him.

"Hm? What's wrong?"

He falls silent momentarily, before turning to his side, still facing you. His eyes remained closed as he spoke.

"Could you...stay here for a while?" He asks timidly, pushing his head into the pillow. You chuckle at his sudden shyness, giving a noise of approval.

Shifting yourself, you get under the blanket as well, lying down and embracing him with no hesitation. 

He softly fights against your tight hold, but you don't falter, instead attacking his face with small kisses.

"I missed you so much, baby 'Gumi." You cooed, pushing his head into your chest, pampering him with kisses.

Megumi stops fighting back, admitting defeat as he eases into your hold. Although he felt like a child again, he didn't complain anymore, easily lulled to sleep due to your warmth.

You pat his head just like you used to when he was 11 and had trouble falling asleep. Unconsciously you start to admire his features, noting what a beautiful boy he had grown to become.

He was handsome just like his father, although his face was a lot more delicate as compared to Toji. You had no doubt he took after Rei in that aspect.

You sigh, closing your eyes as you think about this irritable situation.

Was Rei watching over Megumi, even in her death? You were sure she was. This felt so unfair, yet so inevitable.

Your mind could no longer distinguish between what was right or wrong, who to blame or forgive.

'I'm sorry, Miss Rei.' You whispered in your thoughts, a heavy weight settling in your chest. 

'I know you wished to be here, to raise your son.' Your head swam with unspoken apologies to the late woman, regrets you could never voice aloud despite never meeting her.

"You're probably cursing me for hurting your son like this. Especially after Toji trusted me too," Guilt seeps into every corner of your heart.

You held Megumi tighter, feeling his form against yours. Your eyes closed, shutting out the world as you sought refuge in sleep, a brief escape from the pain.

'I won't let Megumi feel like this again.' You vowed silently. 

"Nor will I ever blame Toji for something he has no control over. That's my promise to you, Miss Rei. So please, rest easy."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, unseen in the darkness, as you clung to Megumi, hoping your love could somehow fill the void left by his mother's absence.

"Toji...~"

Toji starts to stir, warm breath wafting against his cheek. He doesn't startle awake, but when he does open his eyes, your silhouette greets him.

It was dark, yet he could make out your features. Toji moves his arms almost on instinct, placing his hands on your waist, only to be met with your bare skin.

Toji, coming to his senses now, could feel your nakedness against him, breasts pressing against his chest, legs on either side of him as you lay on top of him.

He lets out a hiss, finally becoming aware of his sensitive cock that touched your folds. You let out another quiet moan against his cheek, placing a wet kiss to wake him up.

"Fuckkk [name]...It's so fuckin' early Ma." His hand smooths over your lower back, urging you to push your cunt down on him.

"Hahhh~ missed you, Toji. Mhmmm~ m-missed this..." You placed kisses against his jaw making him shiver. The coldness of the room finally hit him, realizing his sweatpants had been removed, as opposed to just taking his cock out like he had originally thought.

You slide back slightly, the tip of his cock prodding at your entrance. You sit up, ass meeting his lap as you sink down on his length.

"Ohhhh~"

"Shiiiit~ You're so warm, babe." Maintaining your movements, your hips grind against his occasionally. Your thighs were already aching from lifting yourself and settling down.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Keeping up this pattern, knowing when to clench, fingers toying with Toji's chest, playfully pinching his nipples, his fingers in your mouth, biting down to contain your moans, pussy snug around him, taking him raw in the middle of the night.

Fuck.

You were perfect.

The jiggle of your breasts, flushed face visible in the moonlight, drool spilling from your mouth and down his arm, his other hand gracing your waist with its warmth, your slick forming a ring around his cock.

It was perfect.

But not real.

Toji didn't jolt awake, but his hand came to hit hard against his head in frustration. Wiping his face to get rid of the accumulated sweat, he sighs in defeat.

Eyes still closed, he uses the same hand to feel the area beside him. Opening his eyes, he noticed your side of the bed still empty.

You didn't return?

He checks the small digital clock on his nightstand, eyes glancing over the blaring white numbers.

2:14 AM

He sighs. He caught himself early tonight.

This was the fourth time this week he had woken up after a wet dream about you. This started the day he walked away from you that night and camped out on the couch. 

It wasn't like he had never had a wet dream that consisted of you, but it was never consecutive, and...you were always there to take care of him.

After the confrontation that night, he fell asleep in distress, thoughts revolving around you and only you. He wasn't surprised to have a dream like that.

That was night one.

After having to clean himself up in his son's bathroom (since you were there in their shared room) he decided to just sleep in Megumi's bed, considering it was better for his back. He wasn't getting any younger

On night two, he had the same dream of you riding him, and although he woke up immediately, it was too late as his sweats were already soiled.

They say the third time's the charm, right?

Wrong.

After dreaming of taking you in their car, he climaxed instantly and almost punched himself after he woke up.

However, by today, the fourth night, he had become aware of his consciousness, forcing himself awake.

Turning on the lamp, he spares one look at his sweatpants, just in case, before going on the quest to locate you.

One leg follows the other in getting out of bed, his feet making a subtle 'thud' against the floor with every step. The soft sound was loud in the quiet night, but he continued, making his way to the only place you could be. Megumi's room.

He turns on the hallway lights and notices the door to Megumi's room slightly ajar. He softly pushes the door open wider, the yellow lights of the hallway flooding into the room in the form of a beam.

The beam of light was directly painted over his wife and son's sleeping figures. Your and Megumi's breaths were synchronized, snoring simultaneously. 

The two of you were clinging to each other, and Toji almost had the urge to chuckle at his son's actions, arms wrapped around your waist tightly.

If Megumi knew of this, he would likely dig a hole and climb in, hoping to vanish from existence. 

Something like this was so unlike Megumi, and this is what made Toji realize how his careless words were probably going to ruin this.

Because of bringing up a divorce, his son might never feel the love of his mother again. And nor will Toji.

"I'm sorry, Megumi. But there are complexities... things you're not aware of." "Tell me! Maybe I can help!" "No. It's something only I can fix. But, my heart just isn't ready for it."

No. It wasn't something only you could fix.

He made a mistake. That much was obvious to him, but he underestimated just how many people this could affect, where initially his intention was to be the only one hurt by this.

Instead of walking away, he should have comforted you properly. 

Instead of giving you 'freedom' in the name of divorce, he should have assured you.

Instead of wanting you to find someone better, he should have been the one to better himself.

Rei. He missed her. He loved her. Rei was a part of his life that could never be changed. She showered him with love, gave him a son, and showed him light in the sad dark he thought he could never escape. 

But she was gone, leaving Megumi in her place to keep him out of the darkness that threatened to drown him every waking second. 

So, He held on. For Megumi. He held on when he was shamed by his family. He held on when his family threatened to take Megumi away. He held on when he was on the brink of living on the streets. He held on to provide for his son. 

He held on when he didn't understand how school admissions worked. He held on during parent-teacher conferences where he had no idea how to respond. 

He held on when his son's friends were over and he had no idea how to host. He held on when he was around other parents, him being the only single parent. He held on as he saw couples walking happily with their children when he stood alone with Megumi, missing Rei's presence.

He held on. Until he found you. Because you were there to take him in your arms and hold him close, making sure he never fell back again.

And now he failed you.

Rei was a memory that he would never forget, even in his death. He was sure that memories of her would flash before his eyes as he would lay on his deathbed.

But you...

You would be there to hold his hand, letting him know that he died being loved.

He has to show you what you truly mean, but he doesn't know how.

If only his grunt nature allowed him to speak his heart. Well, he'll work hard to prove his love in any other means necessary.

Smiling softly, he steps back and closes the door to its entirety.

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a/n: how tf do you do the gradient text on here?! i'm crying in html someone please helpppp!!!!

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[luxeslore]

husband & wife | simon riley

word count -> 2k

content + warnings -> 18+ CONTENT, MDNI. REGENCY ERA / ARRANGED MARRIAGE!AU, f!reader, angsty (hurt + comfort), societal pressures, talk of having babies + mentions of motherhood, suggestive but no smut.

notes from yours truly — huge thank you to my friend for giving this a read for me! bridgerton / the queen charlotte series has officially made me lose it. on that note, please enjoy viscount riley and his precious wife in all their glory.

Six months. That’s how long you’ve been cooped up in the Riley estate— you’ve been keeping track with the help of your lovely maids. 

The majority of your time is spent in the library. You wake up after Simon has already started his duties for the day, have your breakfast, and then bury your nose in romance novels. Simon has told you to put them down several times, not wanting you to fill your head up with schemes and fairytales. To which you promptly roll your eyes once he’s out of the room. 

It’s not your fault there’s a surprisingly fair amount of them on the shelves; you assume his mother enjoyed them in her time.

There’s little you truly know about the Riley family for someone who’s living in their home. Aside from the common knowledge that Simon’s father was a cruel man. A man that single handedly ruined the reputation of his wife and children through debt, spirits, and an overall cruel disposition. Up until Simon became old enough to truly cease his title of Viscount after his father’s death, they understandably remained in the shadows and out of the ton’s line of sight. 

Your chest had always ached for them whenever something vile was spread around town. Having the same status but a completely different upbringing, you couldn’t even begin to imagine what they went through, especially when society can already be so cruel. 

Sometimes you imagine Simon as a boy. Completely different from the man you married. With full cheeks, surely no sprouts of gray hair hidden in the blonde shag on his head. All of those sweet and innocent qualities you’ve seen in their family portraits. If you had known each other growing up you would have offered him companionship in a heartbeat. 

You can’t help but wonder what your own children will look like… If you and him ever get that far in your marriage. You don’t believe Simon wants children, and you’re not so sure if you can blame him for that. However that isn’t enough reasoning to bat the feeling that’s bubbling in you away. You want a baby. Terribly so, given it’s all you’ve been looking forward to since the idea of marriage and having your own family popped into your pretty head. 

Perhaps bringing a child into an affectionless union would be cruel on your part, but you’d be less lonely. Your heart would be abundantly full hearing little giggles, or the pitter patter of small feet running down the grand hallways to find you. To even just see a piece of you and Simon together that isn’t as forced as your marriage was, but made out of love instead. 

You sniffle once, without even realizing there’s a tear rolling down your cheek. Used to the feeling, you suppose. You toss your book to the side, adding it on to your growing pile before uncurling yourself and getting up from the reading nook. The sky is a deep navy, the stars dazzle through the windows as the moon glows along with them— it’s late, you conclude whilst blowing out the candles in the library.

The bedroom is empty when you arrive. There’s only a few traces of Simon here and there; he spends most of his time in his study. You find yourself getting ready for bed all alone again, with no lover to crawl under the linens with and tuck into. 

You’re having a peaceful morning. You’ve opened the windows in the drawing room, allowing some fresh air in while you enjoy your tea and a slice of pound cake. A breakfast on the sweeter side to lighten your recent mood. You drop a sugar cube into your tea, swishing a small spoon around in your cup until it dissolves.

There’s a bundle of letters from back home. Absolutely one from your mother, asking if you’re with child. And if not now, then when. It’s always snuck in there— you puff your cheeks out in what feels like defeat, ready to ask your maid to fetch your quill as you undo the twine binding them all together. 

However before you can open your mouth, you hear Simon. You’ve gotten used to how the floorboards creak here and there under his steps, yet your heart still jumps. Lord Riley isn’t necessarily a morning person, or sociable with anyone in the early hours. His voice is grumbly, “Good morning, my lady.” 

“Good morning, my lord.” You don’t look up from the letter in your hand. 

A few moments pass. He pours himself some tea, paces around the room a bit ungracefully, and then finally sits across from you in the opposite chair— “Are you feelin’ alright?” 

Your eyebrows furrow, yet you finally grace him with your gaze. “What makes you ask, my lord?” 

“Well,” he pauses, “you’ve been quiet as of late.” 

You simper, “You’d rather have me gabber on to you over nothing all day?” 

Simon laughs, although he appears to be struggling. He’s never been a conversationalist and that has been apparent from day one, but there’s a difference between his inherent awkwardness and the way you make him awfully nervous. If he had to explain, the way he finds himself undeserving of having a living angel from the Heavens under the same roof as him, let alone sleeping in the same bed every night.

While he seems to be lost in his own head, you take in the state of him— the bags under his eyes from being up far past midnight, scars on his chest peeking out due to the undone buttons of his blouse. You’re aware that you're staring, but you’re married after all. And your fingers twitch, eager to glide through his somewhat disheveled hair and provide any kind of comfort he’d allow you to. 

He’s handsome. More delectable than he knows. If you two were an actual love match you’re sure you’d be properly smitten. Swooning left and right knowing such a man is yours alone to share the kind of honeyed kisses and naughty whispers you read about with. You snap out of it quickly, refusing to upset yourself. 

“Not quite,” he mutters just loud enough for you to hear. You’d forgotten you asked him something in the first place. You’ve nearly forgotten how to breathe at this point, too. He continues on as he gets up from his seat “Wait for me tonight.” 

He takes a step closer, and you’re not expecting him to place a large hand on either armrest of your chair, leaning over you with warmth in his amber irises. You naturally shy away, being unfamiliar with this kind of attention from anyone… not to mention him. You clear your throat and shuffle in your seat upon realizing how warm you feel all of the sudden. 

“You mean,” you begin at the risk of sounding daft, “In our chambers, correct?”

He jests, “Unless you’ve other plans.” 

“No,” You breathe out, “I’ll wait for you, Simon.” 

His eyes widen at your use of his name. Not a title but his given name, something that’s meant to be spoken by you only but rarely comes out. Your husband nods once, bidding you a good day as if you won’t spend the rest of your time twiddling your thumbs and waiting for nightfall. 

Looking back on it, the earlier months of your marriage were bleak. 

Simon insisted on sleeping in different rooms. You only saw him for your shared meals and balls you were obligated to attend. You had no choice but to nod along and listen to him. To smile and pretend when other ladies and wives attempted to pull details about your love life out of you. No matter how deep they tried to dig, it was futile. 

You were alright with this arrangement at first, despite how hard you cried some days. 

It’s only that the nights got colder and darker, so much so that you found yourself tiptoeing to his room one night. Kicking yourself for failing to keep your facade together. There were tears pooling at your lashes as you hesitantly knocked on the aged wood making up his door. And while half asleep, Simon took you in when you least expected him to. You don’t know that in the moment, it dawned on him that he can’t deny such a sweet girl like you a single thing, but you do know something changed. 

That’s all you can think of as you smooth your hands down your nightgown. 

You eye yourself in the mirror while the silence in the room takes over. You relieved your maids of their duties only moments ago, realizing you couldn’t keep them there all night and awaiting Simon with you. You wish you had any kind of company now. Someone simply sitting in the corner while you fidget about would be enough.

Until you hear the door open. Your ears perk up; you consider nose diving onto the bed and pretending to be asleep before Simon fully enters the room. Yet you hold yourself up with pride and the little energy you have left, looking over your shoulder as he saunters in. 

“I know our union hasn’t been… satisfactory, given the circumstances,” his voice shakes despite how sturdy and resolute he is day in and day out, “I know there are certain things I cannot give you at the moment. However, I—” 

You whip around. Unable to hear him prattle on about things you’re already aware of. If this is what he had you waiting for, you would have much rather forced yourself to go to sleep at this hour. 

“My lord, this is unnecessary.” You’re blunter than he ever could have expected you to be, “I was raised to be a good wife no matter what the circumstances may be, and an even better mother whether I’m blessed with children or not. There’s no use for your theatrics unless they’re leading us somewhere.” 

“My theatrics?” Simon scoffs, now carrying his usual strong conviction. He wraps a large hand around your wrist, but there’s nothing threatening about his grip while he tugs you closer to him, refusing to let you petulantly stomp away. “I believe you’re confused, darling. I don’t waste my breath babblin’ words that aren’t sincere.” 

For the second time today, his body is close to your own. But never close enough to give you what you need. 

“Right, although what you’ve been missing all these months is… I want you to show me instead of telling, Simon.” You whisper, your pleading eyes meeting his own, “Show me that we can both be satisfied in our marriage… please.” 

Simon wraps an arm around you in an instant. Your chest is pressed to his, and his size compared to your own forces you to feel helpless in a new way entirely. He builds up the courage to kiss you. It’s nothing like the chaste pecks he places on your forehead in the morning. His hot mouth presses against yours until your lips part with a gasp and he’s able to roll his tongue into your mouth. You melt into him, desperately clawing at him for more. 

You whimper his name, puffy breaths escaping you with the rise and fall of your chest. Simon bends down, only to grab you up and lift you. You’re tossed onto your shared bed. The grin that tugs at your lips is cheeky to say the very least and Simon looks gorgeous when he matches your expression, already trying to get your gown out of the way by bunching the cotton up. His lips trail along your jaw, down your neck, along your chest. His nose drags over where your cleavage begins and peeks out, and you tremble beneath him. 

“I’ll show you,” he nearly moans, “I’ll show you what it means to be husband ‘n wife.” 

Simon may not give you a baby tonight… and your marriage may not be as bountiful as the gardens outside or as sweet as the marzipan he keeps in the kitchen for you to snack on right now. But he’s determined to change that. To be a better man— a giving husband and a tender lover, healing you and himself by extension. Starting with worshiping every inch of your soft skin that he's been depriving himself of, and you’re blissfully content with that. 

OTHER PARTS:

earl price

duke garrick

baron mactavish

©LUXESLORE 2024 — 18+ CONTENT, MDNI ♥︎ copying, modifying or reposting my work is not permitted.

#⌨️.luxe's writing #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #cod x reader #cod x you

[chaldeanu]

taste of home ノ aventurine

ꕤ ₊ ˙ ⊹ . requested by @yinyuedijun ノ i slightly changed the prompt as you said you’re okay with it. i couldn’t come up with any inspiration for an avgin dish, and anything else would require many many more words hehe so i just kept that “homemade” part. i hope you will enjoy the read! ♡

ৎ୭ ₊ ˙ ⊹ . 0.6k ノ gn reader — established relationship . soft bickering . making dinner ノ mostly domestic fluff but it’s aventurine so obviously a sprinkle of hurt comfort ノ vague mentions of his past

“you never eat at home.”

home sounds distant. aventurine is not used to hearing that word; he’s baffled at how easy it is for you to mention it in any conversation you spark with him.

“why should i? i have enough money to—”

“why shouldn’t you? just once in a while?” an offer, all you can muster with a shrug of your shoulders, knowing well that he would only get more defensive if you were to push him any further with a stern tone. “don’t you want at least to try?”

he doesn’t remember how the food he used to eat with his family tasted like. its memory mingled with the taste of blood, dirt, and dry rations he had to live on for some time. now that he thinks about it — now that you forced him to think about it — maybe that’s exactly why he wants to eat only fancy full-course meals at the finest restaurants. correct, he should get over this irrational fear, but it is so deeply ingrained in his core. an inseparable part.

“for someone so cocky, it’s almost weird to see how often you’re scared of trying new things.” you say it gently, holding his hand in between yours and caressing his knuckles with the soft pads of your thumbs.

“aww, don’t say that,” he chuckles. “you’re usually the one that runs away behind me when something startles you or asks me to do something for you, haha!”

“no?! i’m not. i’m doing fine on my own!” you huff, crossing your arms on your chest.

he grins and shakes his head at you. but it doesn’t look mischievous, not this time. even if you want to continue being stubborn, there’s no point in dragging out this silly argument that, frankly, is completely unrelated to the main topic. to which you return, with your gaze almost pleading.

“we barely used that table in the dining room since moving in here. i can make you something.”

he blinks a few times, tilting his head slightly to come up with a witty answer. but you ignore it, patting him to sit on the chair and yourself going into the kitchen.

to kill the remaining time, he plays with the cuffs of his shirt, picking off nonexistent lint from the silk, before he drops his shoulders down with a sigh. it feels good to just let the day pass, eyes unfocused at the glimmers of the afternoon sun dancing through the windows; he’s glancing at his phone every few minutes, ignoring replying to the messages from work despite them occupying his mind more than he would like to.

not even noticing when he hears your voice calling for him as you come back. the food smells great, and it makes him more nervous as he keeps staring at the dish you put in front of him.

you’re trying not to smile at the sight of him mouthing something under his nose, not sure what, but if you’re not mistaken, something along the lines of being too good for him or making him uncomfortable — or both. for whatever reason, you expected he would take it worse than this.

“you like it?”

“it’s fine.” there’s a pause when his throat ties into a knot, tears threatening to gather in the corner of his eyes.

unsurprising reaction. you sigh and get up from your seat, moving to the other side of the table to put a hand on his shoulder. with each reassuring rub, you take little steps until you’re behind him and your fingers slip into his hair, massaging the scalp in lazy circles.

“let me get my coffee. i will join you in a moment.” you kiss the top of his head and walk away.

and he’s thankful that he can swallow that unexpected surge of emotions without you sitting in front of him.

#—writing. #aventurine x reader #honkai star rail x reader #star rail x reader #hsr x reader #aventurine x you #star rail x you #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you

[bynott]

anything for you. theodore nott.

in a universe where voldemort won, you and theo risk everything.

warnings: graphic death

pairing: theodore nott x ron weasley's twin sister!reader

“You can’t possibly love him, y/n. He’s a bloody Death Eater!” your brother had jeered at you. Hot tears ran down your face but you refused to wipe them. You wanted everyone in the room to see how deeply this was hurting you.

“I have never been more sure of something in my life. While you were gone – while everyone was gone – he was the only constant. He isn’t who you think he is.” The room broke out into a chorus of repulsed sounds. The Order of the Phoenix wasn’t much these days, the predominant members being the Weasley family. Harry Potter’s death loomed over everyone. Numerous other deaths piled on: those who died at the beginning of the war, but those who have died recently like your older brothers, Percy and George, and your father, Arthur.

“He thinks we’re scum! He would kill Hermione on the spot. How can you stand there and say this shit?” another brother had chimed in. Voices were starting to overlap the more trapped you felt.

“You’ve never given him or myself the chance to prove that’s not true! If you remember, Theo was the one who told me about everything Draco was doing back in school. He has already given us so much information. He’s climbing the ranks, but he is doing it for us!” you fell to your knees, exhaustion and frustration getting the best of you. “Can’t you see that even if he’s not doing it for all of you, he’s putting his life on the line trying to help secure a world that I feel safe in? You know how my beliefs align!”

“Has he stopped killing innocent people? Does he still partake in Voldemort’s plans that don’t necessarily target us? If he’s climbing the ranks, I can’t begin to imagine what he’s doing to do so,” your mother inquired, shooting daggers at you. You couldn’t look her in the eyes.

“He’s doing what he can to survive, too. If he dies, we will lose so much.” Without missing a beat, you added, “If he dies, I am as good as dead.”

This conversation, over a year old, still rings in your head every time you meet Theo. Your current setup in an old warehouse allowed these thoughts to amplify. The only sounds keeping you from spiraling were the rhythmic tapping of Ron’s foot and Bill’s pacing. You never got to see Theo alone, but that wasn’t a horrible thing.

Though you wanted nothing more than to have one evening alone with him, as selfish as that sounds given the climate of the world right now, the positive came in the form of the people who joined you on these exchanges and started to see through the cracks in Theo’s character. This hardened soldier who bears the Dark Mark turns into someone else in your presence. He is more patient and gentle, as compared to the man that numerous members of the Order have seen slaughter people in cold-bold, just to laugh at their frozen-in-death facial expressions.

You had noticed changes in Theo throughout the last few times you’d seen him. He was much more focused on you than the information they were there to exchange. He’d almost become frantic – dark circles that got darker every time you saw him circled his eyes, and his face had become much more caved in. He was starting to look as though he were actively being tortured. He didn’t look better this time around.

You sprang up from your spot when you heard the metal door grind against the floor, opening quicker than anticipated. Ron and Bill quickly put their wands up and took aim at Theo, refusing to put them down even when you yelled, “It’s just him!” Theo didn’t respond much better, raising his wand and aiming at Bill, who you knew Theo saw as more of a threat than Ron.

“Are you being followed? What made you come in here like that?” Bill growled, eyes flickering between Theo and the entrance. Theo narrowed his eyes at the older man.

“You think I would lead them straight here if I was? If it was just you two, sure. But, I would never do that with her here. Consider yourself lucky,” Theo spit.

“That’s enough. Are you alright?” you stated, briskly walking to your lover. Up close, you noticed faint bruising around his neck, as if he’d been choked. Theo didn’t say anything and instead, kept his eyes locked on the two men standing behind you. “Theo,” you trailed off, putting one hand on his cheek. You searched his eyes for any type of response, but you couldn’t find one.

“You don’t have much time,” he said, only loud enough that Ron and Bill were barely able to hear. You took a slight step back, still close enough that you could hold his hand – the hand that he couldn’t even bring himself to grasp in return.

“What?”

“The Dark Lord knows there’s a mole in his closest circle. He knows you are not dead, despite me telling him you were,” Theo said, finally making eye contact with you. Your mouth fell open and you held his hand tighter.

Theo lost his will to fight at that exact moment, letting his hand holding his wand fall to his side. He pulled you into him and rested his forehead against yours. “He knows you’re the mole?” you whispered.

“Not yet, but I can’t imagine it taking much longer. His eyes are set on Berkshire – thinks he’s gotten scared now that his mother died. I was able to ward him off me for the time being. I told him that I wasn’t the one to kill you, I just saw you get hit with a nasty spell.”

“Come with us before it’s too late, Theo. How many times do I have to beg you? Turn your back on it all. We can keep you protected.” you pleaded, looking back at your brothers for reassurance. Bill shook his head before Ron chose to speak.

“He is not coming back with us. Do you know what kind of target that would place on us? It would be a death sentence,” he spit. “With that Dark Mark, I’m sure Voldemort could summon you back to him at any given second,” he added. You spun around to confront him but Theo was quicker – he grabbed you by the arm and pulled you into him.

“I wasn’t planning on it, Weasley,” Theo said with such spite behind his words that it made you want to cower away from him. He looked down at you, asking you a silent question. You bit your lip in thought, looking over at your brothers. 

“Could you guys give us a minute to ourselves? Just stand guard at the door.” With a few grumbles, you were able to convince them to leave. As soon as the door shut, you wrapped your arms around Theo as tight as you could, reassuring yourself that he was here with you and still alive. For how much longer he would be alive, no one was certain.

“You can leave them. Even if you don’t take refuge with us, you can escape,” you pleaded. Theo softly shook his head and pressed his lips to your forehead.

“No, y/n, I can’t. I’m bound to him until one of us dies. I…” he trailed off. You frantically started shaking your head at him and he sighed. “We knew this was going to happen.”

“You might have known. I held out hope,” you cried. Theo grabbed your chin gently, using the other hand to wipe away the stray tears. “Promise me you won’t die.”

“Y/n…”

“Promise me, Theo.” 

His response never came. Theo pulled you into him and kissed you so tenderly, that it was beyond out of character for him. You knew this was the end. He softly ran his hands down your sides, over your back, anywhere they could grasp. It felt as though he was trying to remember the exact shape of your body. He eventually tried to pull away, but in return, you softly bit his lip and pulled him back in. 

Theo couldn’t bring himself to let go of you. You were intoxicating in a way that no drug or drink could replicate. Not breaking the kiss, Theo hoisted you onto a table that was just behind you. Laying you down on it, he kept kissing you. Along your jaw, down your neck – Theo kissed you anywhere with an exposed bit of skin. You couldn’t stop yourself from crying, to which Theo then kissed away your tears. When he was finished, he pulled you up into a sitting position.

“Love, you are the only thing in this short existence of mine that I’ve ever been sure of. When I die, I can die happily because I knew you. I got to love you.” Theo whispered, his voice cracking as he professed to you. You leaned your forehead against him, looking him straight in the eye.

“Try to survive, Theo, please. For me,” you pleaded. Theo nodded briefly but was interrupted by a banging on the door. 

“Hurry up, it’s getting dark. We need to leave,” Bill’s voice called out. Bill and Ron both reappeared in the room, looking at the two of you expectantly.

“We need to leave, and you still haven’t given us what we came for,” Bill sighed. Theo tensed and pulled himself away from you, putting his facade back on as if it were a costume. Part of you wished he didn’t, just so they could see the real him.

“The Dark Lord plans to raid Hogsmeade, again. You need to make sure everyone is evacuated. He doesn’t plan on ever having to raid them again. In two days, if you don’t create a plan, everyone still living there will be dead.”

“And will you be one of the Death Eaters killing those people?” Ron inquired.

“If it means that it keeps me alive, and keeps a steady stream of information coming to you, yes. I have never been unclear with my intentions.” Theo said. He was significantly taller than Ron, forcing the redhead to look up at him as Theo walked closer to him, slowly.

“We don’t have time for this,” Bill said, getting visibly anxious. “We’re leaving,” Bill added, grabbing you and Ron both by the arm. 

Everything happened so fast after that – you reached out for Theo, but he backed away from you and you could’ve sworn you saw a tear run down his face. Just like that, you were whisked away, Bill choosing that moment to apparate. You didn’t get to say goodbye; you didn’t get to tell him you loved him for the last time.

Three days later, after their failed attempt at raiding Hogsmeade, you and your family watched in horror as Voldemort was broadcasting yet another round of executions. This wasn’t the first time this had happened – the first time being with his son, Mattheo, a boy you had known in school. You can’t recall the exact reason for his death, but it set a standard. If Voldemort would kill his child in such ways, what would he do to others?

You held your breath as the camera view panned down the small row of people awaiting their death. You felt the wind get knocked out of you when you caught sight of him.

The boy you loved was there, his eyes already dead. His appearance was, somehow, much worse than when you had last seen him. The bruising around his neck that had almost been healed was now back in full display, accompanied by bruises all over his face. He had blood dried around his mouth and nose, and his left eye was so swollen that it looked completely closed. Something told you that death was merciful compared to what he had been put through.

Voldemort rambled on about the first three men, killing them quickly. His smile never failed, especially when he turned to the last victim: Theo.

“Theodore Nott, what would your father say?” He teased. He pulled a wand out of the box that a servant of his carried at his side. Raising it, you recognized it to be Theo’s. Voldemort snapped it in half, causing a slight flinch to radiate off Theo.

“Stupidly fell in love with a dirty blood traitor, one of those Weasleys. He’s acted as an agent for them this entire time, but of course, I knew from early on. We’ve played a brilliant game of cat and mouse, haven’t we, Nott?” Voldemort, again, laughed. Every muscle in Theo’s body was tensed up and he never lifted his face to look at the crowd that had gathered or the cameras broadcasting the event.

Noticing Theo's aversion to looking at the crowd, Voldemort ran his fingers through Theo's hair before yanking it back, forcing him to look up. Theo grimaced but finally looked straight at the camera. His good eye bore through you, sending your heart straight to the bottom of your stomach.

You started sobbing, sliding off the couch and crawling towards the hologram showing the entire scene. “Please,” you gasped. Hermione sat behind you, pulling you into her, but you fought her off. 

“You were special to me,” Voldemort sighed and raised his wand. You grabbed whatever was closest to you – in this case, a plate someone had been eating off of earlier – and threw it through the hologram. The sound of your sobs and the plate exploding against the wall ricocheted around the hideout.

Another one of your older brothers, Charlie, moved Hermione aside and restrained you. Without doing so, you would’ve hurt yourself or someone else. “Get off me,” you repeatedly screamed, thrashing around on the ground.

Charlie was able to hold you in place on the ground, holding you facedown on the carpet with your arms pinned behind your back. To your horror, you turned your head to the side just in time to see a green light encase Theo in its grip. 

The cry you let out was movie-worthy. Using all of your strength, you burst out of Charlie’s grip and jumped up, turning on your surviving family members. “He died for us. He died for us and our cause. You never gave him a chance and never wanted to offer help in return,” you sobbed. Hermione came back to your side and held you in her arms. 

You didn’t fight back this time. You sat in her arms and sobbed. You couldn’t stop sobbing as you looked back at the hologram and it was panned to Theo’s dead body. It zoomed in on his face as if to hurt you even more. You watched as Voldemort whispered a simple charm, and flames consumed Theo’s body.

“I hope the Weasleys watching this enjoyed the show. While you watched this we have surrounded your hideout. Even Nott’s Occlumency he worked so hard on for you couldn’t keep me out. Perhaps it’s good that you never trusted him with your exact location, or else this would’ve happened long ago.” Voldemort smiled, and the hologram shut off. There was no noise in the room other than your silent sobs. 

Then, the first window exploded.

#theodore nott #theo nott #slytherin boys #theo nott imagine #theo nott x you #theo nott x reader #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott au #harry potter au #voldemort wins #theo nott angst #mattheo riddle #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys imagine #slytherin boys angst #theo nott fanfiction #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott scenario #slytherin boys scenario #the weasleys #weasley!reader #theo nott x weasley!reader

[deeva-arud]

Deeva Årud - Tsumsted Wonderland Voice Lines

Summon Line: Pointy ears, wings, freckles and blue marks under its eye… it really looks like me. What a strange situation.

Groooovy!!: Apparently, this tsum feels relaxed when I cover it with my wings.

Home: By some unexpected turn of events, there’s two Deevas now. It’s okay, we won’t cause you any trouble.

Home Idle 1: You want to hold my tsum? That’s going to be complicated… Don’t worry, you won’t be hit, but it’ll fly away if you try to approach it. Until it warms up to you, I’m afraid it won’t let you touch it.

Home Idle 2: When I was about to start my violin practice, I looked back at my tsum and found it holding a tsum-sized violin. It took me by surprise. Where did it get that from? And how could it play with those tiny arms?

Home Idle 3: My tsum was helping me convince my club members to practice a song together, but then Kalim brought out a box of pastries his family gifted him. I can’t believe its curiosity also succumbed to those delicious foreign snacks…

Home Idle - Login: Back at the dorm, someone thought my tsum was just a regular plushie because of how still it is. As soon as he stretched his hand towards it, it took flight. The shriek he let out hurt my ears but I still find the scene amusing.

Home Idle - Groovy: Hovering over a salmon dish and hopping around my cup of jasmine tea… well, it’s supposed to represent me, I wouldn’t have expected less. Unfortunately, I doubt it can eat any of that.

Home Tap 1: Even if tsums can’t talk, Sebek’s does a spectacular job at showing its loud personality using just body language.

Home Tap 2: Cater’s tsum constantly follows my tsum to show it photos and music on its phone. It seems his tsum also took a liking to mine, huh? It reminds me of when we were first years… Not that he stopped doing that now, though.

Home Tap 3: It seems my tsum and Jack’s bonded over cacti. It was heartwarming seeing them quietly observing plants together.

Home Tap 4: Floyd’s tsum went on “bored mode” while I was doing my shift at Mostro Lounge. I spent several minutes picking it up from the chairs so the customers could get a seat.

Home Tap 5: Tsums are cute. But the fact that they came down from the sky, looking and acting like us is a bit eerie. It sounds like the plot of a horror movie.

Home Tap - Groovy: I can’t help but think about the place tsums come from. Is everything made of round and squishy materials? Stacking can also scare away predators? Wait, do you even have predators? …Hm, no reaction, I may be wrong.

#After a year I can finally release this into the wild!!! #she was supposed to appear in the first tsum event tho :'] #twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #deeva twst #my art

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 2

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Words Count: 2,143

Warning: Angst, Tragedy.

Chp 1, Chp 2 , Chp 3 , -

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

The one person who turned your school life into a nightmare will take over your father's business.

You never had any interest in following in your father's footsteps. Tom had told you from the beginning that you weren't fit for this work. And you hated the business; you wanted to burn it to the ground.

Even though you had never come home for several years, you kept sending your father monthly money. That money was enough for him to move and buy a new house in a big city. Last Christmas, you called your father and told him to sell the house, but he said nothing.

Something never changed: your father would put work before his own happiness.

Now you know why he didn’t want to sell the house. Because he had found someone to continue the business. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky is the popular kid from the wealthiest family in town. Everywhere he went, people followed him. His entourage echoed his every move.

When Bucky said something about you, his followers echoed his sentiments. If Bucky said A, his entourage would cover B to Z, and he never stopped them.

You once thought that he looked down on you because he was rich. But after moving to the city with Ransom and meeting many influential and wealthy people in the business world, you realize that Barnes' fortune was nothing compared to the 0.1%.

Now, you see him as just a regular person.

You sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. "This is a big mistake. I shouldn't have come back here." You walked past them, not even glancing in Bucky's direction, and headed upstairs to grab your things.

Tom followed after you. “Y/N, please, we can talk about this. I didn’t know how to tell you.” He knew he had been an absent father. After you left for college, your relationship worsened.

You only called him on holiday, and he was afraid to call you first. He didn't know how to start the conversation when he had the chance to talk.

You stayed silent, slinging your bag over your shoulder and holding your laptop.

“Where are you going to stay?” Tom asked, desperation in his voice. “From what you told me, you don’t have much cash.”

He was right. Your bank account was blocked. But you still had some cash and your Rolex, which you could pawn. You glanced at your watch as you headed down the stairs.

Distracted, you missed the last step and started to fall. “Ahh!”

You braced for the impact, but instead, you hit something solid.

“Did you hurt your foot?” Bucky asked, holding you steady. His voice was worried. He had been about to leave, not wanting to cause more conflict between you and your father.

You looked at his face, searching for the smug expression he always wore when he tormented you with his “silly pranks.”

Quickly, you pulled away from his grasp. You didn’t want to be near or share the same air with him.

You walked past him, treating him like he didn’t exist. Before opening the door, you grabbed an umbrella—a habit of always being prepared.

As you opened the door, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You rolled your eyes, turned around, and saw Bucky stopping you.

“Please, listen to your father first,” Bucky said softly, sounding anxious. Your father stood at the top of the stairs, speechless.

At this moment, you felt like an outsider. They seemed more like father and son than you and Tom ever had.

You pushed Bucky's hand off your shoulder. "Keep your hands off of me!" Your voice was filled with years of pent-up anger and pain, each word like a knife stabbing into Bucky.

You slammed the door and stormed off, your heart pounding with a mix of rage and betrayal.

Back at the house, Bucky and Tom stood staring at the closed door.

Tom sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Give her a moment. She's been through a lot."

Bucky, still shaken, asked softly, "What happened to her?"

⌚

At the pawn shop, you tapped your fingers anxiously on the glass counter, awaiting Mr. Rogers' appraisal of your Rolex watch. His gaze met yours, and he inquired, "Do you know how much it's worth?"

You nodded, a sense of unease creeping over you. "I bought it three years ago for around $25,000. With the current market price, and since I didn’t bring the box and certificate, the price will be lower. I would say it’s around $8,000."

Mr. Rogers's eyes widened in surprise at your precise evaluation. Clearing his throat, he mumbled, "Ahem, you're right. And because you’re Tom’s daughter, I will give you that price."

You quietly sighed. You had just arrived at one shop, and he already knew you. But what could you do? This was the only pawn shop open this morning.

"Wait a second, I'll grab the money for you," Mr. Rogers announced before disappearing into the back room.

Taking a seat, you fidgeted with your phone, searching for the nearest hotel or motel.

Just as you began to scroll, your phone rang. It was Maya, your lawyer. You had chosen to work with her because she was your assistant's friend. Money was tight, so you couldn't afford a well-known lawyer.

“Hello?” you answered the call.

“Hi, are you alright? You have arrived in your hometown?” Maya asked.

“Yes, I have. By the way, is there any progress?” you inquired.

“Yes. They already looked through it. I guess you could hear good news in 3 days,” Maya replied.

You sighed in relief. “I’m glad. Thank you.”

After a brief conversation with Maya, you ended the call. Then you heard someone clear their throat.

“Ahem.”

You glanced up to see that the person behind the counter was no longer Mr. Rogers but his son, Steve Rogers, who was also Bucky’s friend.

Back then, Steve didn’t say anything when you were made fun of. But he didn’t do anything to stop the silly pranks either. So his name was also written in your black book.

But now you weren’t the same person anymore. You were a 'female Midas'. You were supposed to be confident. Steve used to look at you as if you were invisible. Now you should do the same.

You got up from your seat and walked towards him. There was a stack of cash, probably $9,000, in front of you. Mr. Rogers was quite a generous man.

You picked up the money and stuffed it into your bag. It was enough to live here for 3 days before you went back to the city.

Steve noticed that you didn’t even look at him. He cleared his throat. “It’s been a while. Are you staying?”

You continued to ignore him. As you exited the door, you clapped your hands, making Steve jump. Then you muttered, “Oh, it’s just a fly,” as you walked away.

🏨

You left the pawn shop and glanced back at your phone to find a cheap hotel or motel nearby. As you walked, sweat poured down your back, making you feel uncomfortably sticky. It was the most strenuous workout you had in a while, just trying to find a place to rest.

Eventually, you stumbled upon an interesting hotel on the booking app. The hotel was located inside a big building that sold outdoor equipment. It was cheap and conveniently close to your location.

Sweat dripping down your forehead, you kept walking until you finally reached the building. You were impressed by the natural surroundings, with shops surrounded by nature. The building was named Bronze Adventure Gear.

Upon entering, you were greeted by an employee.

“Welcome to Bronze Adventure Gear. How can we help you?” they asked.

You were taken aback by their energy; it was still 10 a.m., and they were already bustling with customers.

“I’m here for the hotel,” you replied. “I know it’s early, but I just need a place to rest.”

“No worries. It’s off-season, and there are many empty rooms. We’ll guide you to the receptionist,” they said, leading you further into the building.

Grateful for the hospitality, you thanked them as they left you at the receptionist.

The hotel was called Bronze Lodge.

“We’ll leave you to our friend,” the employee said before departing.

“Thank you,” you replied, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as you tapped the reception table and waited.

“Welcome to the Bronze Lodge. How can I help you?” a friendly female voice greeted you. However, to your ears, it sounded like venom. It was Natasha Romanoff, the popular girl in town.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, a sensation far different from when you had encountered Bucky and Steve again.

“Y/N? Is that you?” Natasha's voice cut through the air.

You tried to compose yourself. “Yup.”

“Goodness. It’s been a long time. And you're so beautiful. Ah, where are my manners? Are you staying at this hotel?” Natasha wore her trademark smile—the same one you hated seeing back in school, where her girl gang would always talk behind your back.

"You know what-?" You were about to say, but then second thoughts about leaving crossed your mind.

That's when you heard the most enormous thunderclap of your life.

“Are you surprised? The weather is quite unpredictable,” Natasha remarked casually.

She glanced at your belongings. “Oh, and you brought your yellow umbrella. Such a nostalgic touch. You never changed,” she continued, her words like needles pricking at your skin.

You clenched your fists, your frustration bubbling up inside you.

“You’re lucky. There’s a room ready for you. Here’s the key. I hope you enjoy staying with us,” Natasha said, offering you the card key with a sweet smile.

You snatched the key from her hand. “I’ll try.”

Turning on your heel, you made your way to the elevator. As you left, Natasha's smile faltered, and she quickly grabbed her phone to make a call. “You won’t believe who checked into the hotel today,” she said eagerly.

*********

The moment you entered the hotel room, you threw yourself onto the bed, exhausted. You turned around and stared at the ceiling.

The rain and thunder outside seemed oblivious to your desire for peace. You starting to regret coming back here.

Closing your eyes, you tried to ease your racing mind. But four hours later, what was meant to be a short nap turned into a longer one.

'Knock. Knock.'

You were jolted awake by the sound of someone knocking at your door. Lazily, you left the bed and peered through the peephole, wondering who it could be since you hadn't requested anything.

You gasped when you saw Bucky standing outside. What on earth did he want? Wasn't it enough that you had already encountered him and his friends earlier today?

Taking a deep breath, you hesitated before opening the door.

When you did, you remained silent, not wanting to converse with him.

Bucky said, "Tom is looking for you."

"I see. Thanks for the info," you replied, moving to close the door, but he stopped it.

"What do you want?" you sighed in frustration.

"You have to talk to him," Bucky insisted.

Closing your eyes, you responded icily, "I'll talk to him when I'm ready. But I don't need you hovering around. I certainly don't want to see your face."

His expression seemed to reflect grief when you said that, though you dismissed it as your own emotions. Why would he feel guilty towards you?

"And how did you manage to find me?" you asked.

"It’s easy," Bucky replied nonchalantly, "since my family owns this business. I can access anything I want, including information about guests staying here."

There it was, the smug face finally making its appearance, accompanied by that cocky explanation.

You gritted your teeth. Somehow, the idea of being in prison didn't seem so bad anymore.

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[wandascrush]

Breath of fresh air

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy, kissing, small hurt, mention of injuries

It was so nice to finally get outside and have some fresh air. The last few days you were stuck looking out the bay window as it poured and poured. Natasha, your wife and soon to be mother of your child, was extremely overprotective and made sure while she was gone that Laura watched over you from time to time.

The Barton’s only lived less than one acre over, on a small but beautiful farm of their own with their 3 mini Barton’s. They had actually given you and Natasha the idea to live off the grid, and who better to have as neighbors than the people who had become your guys’ family.

Especially Laura, she was one of your closest confidants and you loved causing chaos with her. Being a recent agent-out-of-commission due to your pregnancy was different, especially not training as hard and sleeping in, but as your symptoms really kicked up, you were grateful for the break. Recently entering the second trimester had not been easy. It was nice having someone like Laura to talk to, who really understood.

Natasha was scheduled to come back next Wednesday, and God were you ready for her to be home. It was hard to sleep without her soft touch, the Russian lullabies she sang you and the baby every night, and the way she'd gently rest her hand on your back throughout the day as a reminder she's there for you. Sometimes she'd come home with baby clothes or an extra teddy bear she'd seen for the baby's nursery, and in those moments there was no doubt in your mind that she’d make the most beautiful mother.

As you were drinking your tea and reading your favorite piece of poetry, an extremely loud whirring sound caught your attention. Using your book as a shield from the sun, you looked up to the sky to find the Quinjet making a rocky landing in your field, swaying the grass in waves. Almost immediately, Laura came out of her house with her kids trailing behind, worry and confusion written all over their faces. You went to each others sides, "What's going on Laur? Are they okay?"

"I'm sure their fine, relax, it's gonna be okay," but you heard the breathlessness in her voice as she held you close and away from the unpredictable helicopter in the middle of your flower field.

The door to the jet slid open and revealed a group of ruffed up, exhausted Avengers. The whole pack was there from first glance: Tony, Steve, Clint, Fury, Maria, Thor, Bruce, but no- oh there's Natasha. You and Laura exhaled at the same time, half walking and half skipping to Natasha and Clint. Finally, landing in her arms again. Her hold was tender but tight, tighter than ever as she closed her tired eyes and breathed in your scent and held the back of your head. The team gawked at you and Laura like alien specimens in your lovers arms.

"I'm just gonna say it- who the hell are you two?" Of course, Tony was the one to break the sweet moment.

Natasha let out a mix of a sigh and a chuckle, before sharing a glance with Clint. "This, Tony, is my wife Y/N. Y/N  - the Avengers, Avengers - Y/N. There, the formalities are over."  Clint soon did the same with Laura.

The sound of leather could be heard crunching as Fury walked toward you and Laura, embracing you two too hard, nearly making you cough. You gently reached up to give him a hug, "Nice to see you too Nick." 

"HOW DO THESE TWO KNOW NICK?" Poor Bruce, he looked like he was trying to solve a math problem.

"We're agents with Shield, dipshit. I'm just on leave due to-," you gestured down to your visible pregnant belly, "and the fact that Nick is my boss so technically I have to listen to him. But Laura and I have actually known all of you for years, which is how we met Clint and Natasha...unfortunately."  You chuckled when Nat lightly shoved your arm.

Good ol' Steve Rogers was the first to stick out his arm, "It’s a pleasure, Miss." His grip was firm, but not too hard. You smiled up at him kindly, "Nice to meet you too, Rogers. And call me Y/N, are you boys hungry?"

A few hours later you were in the kitchen, freshly showered and bandaged Avengers sitting at your dining room table, causing a ruckus and playing poker. You loved the sound of a full house and conversations mixing together to make one babble of laughing, foul mouthed heroes. It was music to your ears.

A gentle figure hugged you from behind while you were over the sink, placing their soft hands on your belly, you closed your eyes for a second and sighed happily.

“Missed me much sweetheart?” 

“You know I did,” you craned your neck to give her a gentle kiss on the temple.

That night, as the worlds mightiest slept in your spare bunks and sleeping bags, you fell asleep safe and sound with Natasha’s arm around you and your baby-to-be.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff blurb #natasha romanoff au #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x fem!reader

[nebuliias]

— hope is a thing with feathers!

ft. sunday and robin as your older siblings (headcannons)

cw: youngest sibling in the fam, gn! reader, family fluff, reader is between ages 12-14, PLATONIC, i went silly on some of them, reader is a halovian but no specified appearance other than halo and wings

a/n’s note: sunday and robin’s relationship mean sm to me its not even funny like HOYO PLZ MAKE THEM REUNITE I WILL SCREAM IF THEY DONT :((( honestly wish i had them as family yk

SUNDAY:

— even though he’s the leader of penacony and doesn’t have time to always spend time with you, sunday always makes up for it when he can.

— if you ever need help with an essay or math homework, he’ll assist you with it. even if it’s fucking 2+2, bro would still help you. heck at this point, he’ll do the whole worksheet for you. sunday loves you that much dawg.

— sunday would be rlly supportive for you, no matter what!! he’d encourage you to pursue your dreams, whether that’s becoming a nameless, a performer for the iris family, or something else entirely, he’ll be there alongside you every step of the way :3

— he’d be a bit strict with you, since you’re still young. would probably give you a curfew for when its night, like making you go to bed at 9pm at least. maybe a little later on the weekends. (does time even exist in the dreamscape i dont remember.)

— if you ask sunday VERY politely, (he’ll still oblige), he’ll sing you a lullaby for when you have trouble sleeping. tuck your blanket under your chin too while he’s at it, hehehe.

— LMAO IDK WHY THIS IS SO FUNNY TO ME but imagine you’re dating someone and introduce sunday to your significant other, I FEEL LIKE HE’D BE POLITE AND ALL THAT BUT AS SOON AS YALL DILLY DALLY OR WTV HE’D BE GIVING THEM SIDE GLANCES EVERY ONCE IN AWHILE.

— like i said, he IS protective of you and will go on a rampage if they’re toxic or hurtful to you. :)

— btw, if you watched robin’s trailer, you can catch a glimpse of sunday polishing her halo. and yes, he would polish your halo too, since you’re also halovian, sometimes even preen your wings too if he’s not too busy.

— if you take band or theatre arts in school or figure skating, acrobatics or just SOMETHING that includes performances, sunday doesn’t give a shit if he has something to do, he will find a way to go to every single one bc he doesn’t wanna disappoint you as an older brother :(

— pats your head. a lot. literally a mom-sibling, you can’t tell me otherwise. will occasionally pick your outfits and asks for your opinion before you go out or make sure your school uniform is crisp and unwrinkled. (if your school has uniforms.)

— overall, sunday is a doting and compassionate older brother. he loves you with his whole being. <3

ROBIN:

— the best, nicest, loving, caring older sister you will ever have in your entire lifespan.

— like sunday, she would help you in any way possible. but she’s not the best when it comes to math homework :(( if you want, she’ll give you a pep talk though!! and trust me, robin gives out the best ad most encouraging pep talks ever like..

— if you do something hella devious, even if its 101% your fault, she’d side with you no matter what. this girl hardly gets to be silly due to her superstar reputation but when she has the chance, plz just let her be. (yall can be devious together.)

— would brush your hair for you!! it doesn’t matter whether you have short or long ass rapunzel-looking hair, she will somehow find a way to style it.

— definitely sang you songs during your childhood, and she still does! robin would hum a tune when you can’t sleep, or you simply just wanna destress and don’t feel like doing anything else. <3

— also like sunday, since she travels a lot, she’ll always make up for the lost time by brinking trinkets and gifts, maybe even bring you along with her during her one of her tours!

— also incredibly supportive in your passions! want to become a performer like her? she’ll be there rooting for you on the sidelines! wanna learn to sing and follow in her footsteps? sure, she’ll gladly teach you for free! (not like you had to pay anyway teehee.)

— robin would be somewhat protective of you as well, just not too strictly. after all, you should experience as much of the outside world as you can. 🎀

— i feel like she’s a horrible money spender.. (same..) if robin sees you glance at a piece of jewelry or smth hella expensive for 0.00001 nanoseconds, suddenly it’s in a gift bag at your desk when you get home from school with a little note from her along with some pastries she thought you’d like.

— if you gift her something, whether its handmade or you bought it with your own money, chances are she’ll keep it for the rest of eternity and repay you with a gift of her choice as well!!

— overall, robin is a sweet and soft older sister and is always there for you, no matter the distance that separates you!

#sunday x reader #robin x reader #sunday hsr #hsr sunday #robin hsr #hsr robin #hsr sunday x reader #hsr robin x reader #platonic love #hsr platonic #robin and sunday #robin and sunday hsr #i love sunday and robin sm yall dont understand how much they mean to me

[pitchsidestories]

Promise me II Ona Batlle x Lucy Bronze

masterlist I word count: 1274

a/n: hi, this was inspired by the current transfer rumours, we hope that you still like it despite the topic.

Lucy was on the phone with her agent while Ona was napping in her lap on their sofa. They had a tough training session in the morning and untypical for Barcelona it has been raining the whole time, one could hear the rain drops falling against the windows.

This sound has been a constant background noise for the entirety of this afternoon. The weather seemed to know which news were about to break into this peacefulness.

“But..”

 “I’m sorry, Lucy. They don’t plan to extent. Not with Alexia staying.”, he apologized with such sincerity that it hurts the English woman even more when he said it the first time a couple of seconds ago.

“Two old players are too expensive, right?”, she hissed.

 “That’s what you said.”, the man responded cooly.  

“Yes, because that’s what everyone is thinking!”, Lucy answered enraged. The player’s body turned tense. Even in her sleep her girlfriend noticed that change, struggling to find the comfortable position she was in before.

“It basically is.”, he admitted.  

“Fuck.”, Lucy cursed under her breath.

“Luce?”, Ona stirred up from her sleep.

“Sorry, love.”, the older defender bit her lip guiltily.

“What’s wrong?”, the Spanish woman asked big eyed, sounding deeply concerned.  

“Keep sleeping.”, Lucy tried to reassure her, pressing a kiss to the forehead of her girlfriend.

“But you said fuck.”, Ona gave her a mildly amused look.

“Yes, because they won’t extend my contract.”, the English defender explained, sadly.  

 “What?!”, the younger woman exclaimed furiously.

“I don’t have the Alexia bonus.”, Lucy added.

“We’ll find a solution, I’m sure.”, Ona shook her head stubbornly.

“Sorry, little one.”, the older player whispered unhappy.

“No, you can’t leave.”, she stated firmly and stood up from her sofa.

“Ona where are you going?”, Lucy raised an eyebrow. The Spanish woman mouthed an apology before she went to get her sneakers and left to meet someone who might help them.

Meanwhile Lucys mood was almost as bad as the weather outside, but Ona’s optimistic smile chased her sad thoughts away when she returned to their shared home.

“I talked to Alexia. I think she can help.”

“Oh, Ona. I’m not sure about that, but I appreciate your effort.”, the older woman was in awe of her girlfriend’s unshaken optimism.

“Of course, it’ll work.”, the younger defender replied confidently.

“We’ll see, okay?”, Lucy responded.

“Okay. Just promise to not go too far away. “, Ona nodded, although letting her girlfriend gave her a comforting hug.

“I promise it won’t be the USA.”, the older player joked.

“I was hoping you’d say that you stay in Spain. But that’s something.”, the younger woman remarked, the sadness was still lingering in between them, but that silly reply of the English defender made her smile again.

“I’ll tell my manager that I won’t take any clubs that are too far away from you.“, Lucy half-joked.

Ona bit back a small smile: “Thanks.“

“You’re welcome.“

“That calms me a bit.“, Ona admitted, unsure if she felt better because of Lucys words or the lightheartedness she brought back into this conversation.

Lucy smirked: “Anything else I can do for you?“

“Hug!“, Ona yelled and immediately bridged the gap between the two football players to jump into Lucys arms. The English defender had to react quick to catch her and not lose her balance.

Laughing, she looked her girlfriend that clung tightly to her body: “Better?“

“Yes.“

“Agreed.“, Lucy grinned.

“Thanks, Luce.“, Ona said, relaxing into her girlfriends embrace.

Carefully, Lucy set the Spanish football player down and asked: “What do you want for dinner?“

“Something Portuguese.“,Ona ordered in hopes that Lucy would treat her with one of her delicious family recipes.

The older defender just gave her a nod of approval: “Alright.“

“Thanks.“

“No worries. Sit down, I’ll start cooking.“

Lucy disappeared into the kitchen, Ona following close behind her. The Spaniard sat down at the kitchen table and watched attentively as her girlfriend started to cut some vegetables.

“You don’t need any help?“, Ona asked.

“No, thanks.“

She shrugged: “Fine, I’ll watch then.“

“Good.“ Lucy continued to focus on the food. Ona, however, chose to focus on Lucys backside while she was busy.

“Nice view though.“, she remarked, her head propped up on one hand.

“Oh, yeah. I was pretty proud, the market still had this amazing fish.“, Lucy continued to talk about her cooking, completely ignoring what Ona had meant.

The younger defender smiled to herself, Lucy always was in her own world when she started to cook. So she decided to let work in peace.

Only as the ingredients started to simmer and fill the kitchen with a mouth-watering smell, Ona sniffed once: “This smells so good.“

“It’ll taste even better.“, Lucy promised her.

“Can’t wait.“

“It’s almost ready.“

Ona took this as her cue to jump up and set the table in the meantime. “I’ll get the wine.“

“Perfect.“

Lucy placed the pan on the table while Ona filled their glasses. “Here, we go.“

“Cheers.“, Lucy lifted her glass to clink it to her girlfriends.

“Cheers.“, she echoed.

Both of them took a sip of their wine before Lucy started plating the fish. For the time they sat there in the kitchen, having dinner, the conversation they had earlier seemed far away.

“Don’t be sad.”, the English woman stated after noticing that her girlfriend had stared absent minded at the wall.

“I’m not. I would just miss this.”, Ona quickly replied in a sincere tone.

“Me too.”, Lucy admitted seriously.

“Even though I do ask myself, who’s going to cook for me if you’ve to leave.”, the younger player only half joked.

“Maybe Olga?”, the older defender suggested smiling mildly.

“No. I don’t want to be third wheeling. It’s going to be alright, because I can cook.”, Ona reassured her girlfriend. She recognized the sceptical risen eyebrow by the woman sitting in front of her. That was why the Spanish player added:” I’ll survive.”

“I hope so because I’ll leave my heart here.”, Lucy told her earnestly. Hearing her saying this out loud made Ona’s heart sink.

“Oh, Luce.”, she muttered.

Immediately the English defender’s hands went up.

“Don’t say anything more, that was embarrassing.”

“It was the cutest.”, the younger woman responded, giving the older one a kiss to her temple. With a cheeky grin she continued:” I’ll get that tattooed.”

“No, it doesn’t go with the rest of your pretty tattoos.”, Lucy protested, while pulling the smaller player onto her lap.

“But it means a lot to me.”, she confessed, looking into the green eyes of the woman she loved and hoped her glance would transfer her feelings which run as deep as the tattoos on her skin.

“Ona, I love you.”, the English defender muttered in a raspy voice.

“I love you too.”, she said, while her girlfriend started to kiss the many freckles on her face to highlight what she was saying only a couple of seconds earlier.

“No, matter what happens.”, Lucy remarked in between the kisses.

Under the touches of the older woman Ona felt something like hope fluttering in her chest.

“We’ll make it work somehow.”, the Spanish player answered optimistically.

“Yes, we did it before too.”, the taller defender reminded her.

“Exactly.”

“Let’s enjoy this while it lasts.”, Lucy murmured.

“Hopefully longer than until summer.”, the smaller woman whispered into the ear of the older player while holding on to her like Lucy personified the little hope that was left of her staying and hopefulness always dies last.

There was the reassuring feeling that no matter what happened over the next months that they were going to be alright.

pictures are from pinterest.

#ona batlle #ona batlle imagine #lucy bronze #lucy bronze imagine #ona batlle x lucy bronze #lucy bronze x ona batlle #woso x reader #woso couples #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso oneshot #woso one shot #woso #woso community #barca femeni #espwnt #engwnt

[syoddeye]

reminiscent

my entry to @glitterypirateduck's ghost challenge. ~8k.

prompts used: #83 caught in the rain/#54 omegaverse/brother's best friend replaced with #100 you are soap's sister

tags: two POVs, societal bullshit (omegaverse), brief mentions of Catholicism, angst, vomit, hurt/comfort, negative self-talk re: asexuality and medical condition, medical inaccuracies, crass/mean Simon then protective Simon, Simon in glasses, kind of being someone's beard, brief mention of suicidal ideation, sibling loss, grief

one line summary: When your brother Johnny dies, a man named Simon buys your life out from underneath you.

a/n: this jumps around throughout time. i gloss over some a/b/o elements. banner from @/cafekitsune. ✨

A nudge to the toe of his boot, and Simon flexes his fingers over his sidearm. The vest’s buckle dangles, unfastened and limp. There is no grip to pull, no trigger to squeeze, just the painfully blue eyes of his superior, dim and unflinching.

“Ghost,” Price glances at the empty holster. “We’re back. You have ten minutes.”

It takes a second. Simon shoots a look at Soap to silently convey incredulity, but he might as well take a blade to the neck. The seat across from him is empty. Before memory strikes, he’s on his feet, bursting through the van’s doors and parting the reception committee. He doesn’t register faces or sounds, shutting out all distractions to carve an efficient path to his target.

God help anyone bold enough to try and stop him. Ten minutes is a courtesy, not for him, but for whatever unlucky officers tasked with the cleanup.

The walk eats three minutes.

Beneath a percentile of pressure, the rake pushes in place and the lock yields. He catches the door before it slams, and the moment it clicks shut, his nose twitches. The room reeks of damp earth and pine, a hearth in a lonely, snowed-in cabin. It gathers the force of an avalanche, pummeling into him and stealing his breath. It settles an invisible weight on his chest and limbs. Buried to his neck in memory, he forces himself to move. He’s dug himself out of the ground before. He’ll do it again.

There is no time for reverence. The proper personnel will arrive shortly. Price can only distract them for so long. Simon empties the contents of the bedside cabinet onto the neatly made bed and takes what he’s looking for—the spare dog tags, a sketchbook, and any traces of them. A photograph flutters out, dated two years earlier. Johnny and a slightly younger woman with the same grin in front of a Christmas tree. He hears his sergeant’s lilt as he pockets the picture and other goods.

“Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Simon doesn’t think of himself when he slips into his quarters. He thinks about the sister, and his own family. 

The days pass, surreal yet sharp and excruciating, as if he’s a surgical patient and the anesthesia didn’t take. Attends the debrief. Doesn’t hear it. Shrugs off the offers and orders for assistance and counseling. They’re given a week to sleep and heal, time Simon spends studying Soap’s sketchbooks and scouring public and private records to learn more about the younger MacTavish. It strikes him on the drive to the cliffs, Johnny’s ashes in his bag, that he’ll never see him again. That the sister will never see him again.

He goes for a drink alone, walking across town to avoid Price and Gaz, and plants himself at the end of the bar. A few beers in, and a vaguely woodsy smell turns his head. The ghost of Johnny at the edge of his vision dissipates, leaving some scruffy man in his sights. He finishes his drink, eyes locked with the stranger. His designation doesn’t matter. He’ll do.

Until he doesn’t. 

Simon barely touches the man on the walk to the park. Doesn’t bother committing his name to memory or looking at his face. One thing leads to another, and eventually, the man’s on his back in the grass. He paws at Simon’s chest and whines, baring his neck pathetically. It turns Simon’s stomach, and before anything really happens, he wretches into the bushes. The stranger sputters and stumbles into the dark.

He sits beside his mess until dew forms. 

The following day, he beats Price to his office. The old man doesn’t insult him by walking on eggshells, he listens. Asks if Simon is sure.

“That isn’t what we heard in his will.”

“No, but it’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Price stares long and hard, then acquiesces. “I suppose you’d know.” He raps his knuckles on the desk with a heavy sigh. “I’ll start the paperwork.”

In hindsight, it is a mistake to believe your teacher when he says the forms are anonymous. How feeling nervous or scared is okay and that the answers will guide discussion in the coming weeks. You faithfully believe him and answer honestly. When he turns up for a home visit, you’re shocked, and your parents are mortified.

The three of them quickly align. They emphasize how normal this is, that they all took the test when they turned sixteen, and that you still have a few years to learn more about it and to come to terms. Pamphlets are shoved into your hands before you’re excused to your room so the adults can speak privately.

Whatever he tells your parents lands you in a stale, uncomfortable counselor’s office. This time, you know better when she tells you the sessions are confidential. It takes three months of careful lying to mollify your parents adequately.

At a family gathering, your aunt proudly announces that an older cousin finally completed presentation, a whole three years after her test. A year later, that same cousin shyly admits she dropped out of university, a hand on her round belly and a baby on her hip. It’s only then you start truly seeing your omega relatives. How they stick to the sidelines, huddle in the kitchen, and fuss over everyone else’s comfort. Docile and pliant.

For years, you pray to God to turn out differently. To be nothing. And if not nothing, please, make you a beta like your father or an alpha like your mother or brother. Amen.

You cry for hours after your results. Your parents do their best to convince you it’s a blessing, but you see the results for what they are—a countdown. 

School automatically splits your class into new health electives, fracturing years of relationships in one fell swoop. New social hierarchies form over the course of an afternoon, and you find yourself on the outside of old circles. It gnaws and bites like flies to see former friends turn their noses up at you. Cracks and shifts your insides, uncovering anger as old and boiling as a deep-sea vent. You let your grades slip to the bare minimum because what’s the point? Won’t some alpha take care of you anyway? Barf.

Your parents weather the fallout. They invite that cousin for tea with all four whelps in tow. It’s hard to hear her proclaim the wonders of life as an omega through shrill cries and fussing. That night, your mother’s patience snaps after you declare your life over. The fight goes nuclear, ending with your banishment to your room when she asks if your cousin’s life is over, and you say ‘yes’. While you may be sorry, you don’t regret it.

The next morning, you find Johnny at breakfast. Just like the test, you see his sudden, surprise visit for what it is—an olive branch. You wonder when your parents called and begged him to request a short leave. Parents know their children’s weaknesses. You’re thick as thieves. Before your results, the last time you cried was when he left for basic.

Johnny drags you around town to tackle a list of your favorites, dismantling the defensive wall you're hellbent on building. Anger festers under your skin, begging him to say the wrong thing.

Yet, if anything, your hissing and snapping amuse him. He ruffles your hair and dodges your fists, and you find chances to throw an elbow into his ribs. However, you're both far from the even playing fields of childhood, and punching him is punching stone.

"What's eatin' you? Somethin' happen?" He jeers, goading you on the walk home.

"You know what happened."

"Yeah," he admits with the sharp edge of a laugh. "You turned into a thin-skinned cretin just 'cause of a test."

You see red, and Johnny humors you. Takes a few desperate kicks and slaps before grabbing you by the forehead and stiff-arming. Stocky, but a reach longer than yours. You’re hissing and spitting when tears spring to your eyes, and a frustrated sound heralds a break in your voice.

It all comes out. How it’s like your future is a foregone conclusion. That you don’t want to undergo presentation, bonding, or, most of all, have an alpha dictate the rest of your life.

For perhaps the first time, your loudmouth brother shuts his trap. Doesn’t say a word. No snarky comments or unserious answers. He just lets you wail. In retrospect, it’s clear that he swapped a cudgel for a knife. Dissected your rage with a mind trained to defuse explosives.

That Sunday after mass, he hugs you and makes a promise before he leaves. Years later, half-listening to an officer who asks if there’s anyone they can call for you, you wish you remembered what it was.

In the hours following the officer’s departure, you go through the motions—numb and shell-shocked. The tide’s out, and you stand on shore, waiting for the crushing grief.

Aunt Marion sits on the sofa, going through the address book to inform people, one by one, of Johnny’s passing.

You’re in the kitchen fixing her supper and creating a mental to-do list when you overhear her tell someone, “I’m filing for change in guardianship in the morning. John never did have the time to find that girl a proper mate. You still have that matchmaker’s number, right?”

There’s no time to process the first loss with a second snapping at its heels.

Your brother’s headstone is not standing for more than an afternoon when a suitor shows interest. He circles like a vulture, the disgusting creature. You wish you could say you weren’t expecting it.

The portrait of your best friend bears witness from atop the mantle. In uniform with a buzzed head and a serious expression, it’s him, yet nothing like him. The Johnny you know—knew—would be grinning ear-to-ear, greeting folks, lightening the mood, and scolding your relatives for not footing the bill for a proper venue. He’d be angry they’d put it on your shoulders or invite this many people.

You hadn’t wanted any of this, either. You knew him best, but nobody listens to you. As Johnny followed your parents into death, you’re left alone, subject to the whims and mercies of an aunt who sees only your designation. 

The court swiftly transfers power to your aunt. Omegas cannot roam about without anyone to account for them, after all. Johnny was declared your ‘guardian’ following the crash that took your parents. Didn’t matter if you were an adult, a whole twenty years old. The title always amused you with its inherent pompousness.

Guardian. You don’t find the archaic term funny anymore, not when a neighbor cuts through the room, intentions clear. Your nostrils flare at his vinegariness, the feeler he sends to test the waters. It sets your teeth on edge, encouraging the oncoming migraine. Why the foulest-smelling alphas think they can go without scent blockers, you don’t know.

God grant you the audacity.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Johnny was a good man.”

“John,” You swiftly correct. ‘Johnny’ is reserved for family. “John was a good man. Who are you?”

The man smiles, and his pupils unnervingly dilate. “Alan. I live three down.” His gaze briefly flits to your neck.

You bristle. This is why you opted for a turtleneck that morning. The awful gut feeling some boorish idiot would seek you out now that you changed hands. To act so bold at a funeral reception. “Well, Alan, from three down, you can–”

“You can find refreshments through there.” Aunt Marion interjects, the older woman floating into view, reeking of powdery florals. She does not need to posture. A slight tilt of her head and intrusion into your personal bubble banishes the man into the next room, with her eyes fixed on him until he disappears.

"Good riddance," she mutters. “Alan Findlay. The gall. Like I’d let that cur have you or this house.” She sniffs, grimacing. “Go take another blocker. Now. You’re distracting the guests.” 

You knew your aunt’s intervention was not for your well-being, but you still wilt. This is how things are and always have been. Johnny simply shielded you from it. Unbonded omegas are bargaining chips. Hares set loose in front of sighthounds. How foolish, thinking you could outrun centuries of tradition and deny nature. Aunt Marion is entitled to the house, your future, and the money that comes with both.

You trudge upstairs, and on the landing, you swallow a hard lump in your throat. Steady now. You start toward the bathroom but freeze at the sight of Johnny's door. There's a sliver of light beneath it.

No one should be in there. No one has been in there since he last deployed. Your heart lurches against your ribcage, anger curling your fingers into fists as you reroute automatically, marching to catch the trespasser. Another greedy relative with sticky fingers, no doubt. You turn the knob and push, and the curse on the tip of your tongue promptly fizzles.

A colossus stands in front of Johnny’s wardrobe, clutching one of his shirts. You do not so much as enter your brother’s room as you run face-first into the wall of the man’s scent. It bludgeons the olfactory with leather polish and tobacco, cedar and amber. Familiar, somehow, and powerful.

“You’re the sister.” His free hand hovers beside a cloth mask tucked beneath his chin. He’s clad in black like a mourner, though you don’t recall him. The deep voice prickles, snagging on something sharp in your chest. Pink and pale scars etch over his chin and mouth. You briefly study them before your eyes dart to the shirt and then his face.

“Yeah,” The hairs on your neck rise at how his scent and facial muscles relax in tandem. 

“Were you smelling John’s shirt?”

“Yes.” He says without hesitation or a shred of shame.

And it’s the lack of shame, the nerve to enter a dead man’s room, that does you in. The last straw. You flatten against the open door and gesture into the hallway. “Right, okay. Get the fuck out. Now.���

To his credit, he complies. The shirt remains clenched in a fist. 

“Leave it,” You snap, but he closes in. Citrus wrinkles your nose, beckoning you to relax. What have you accomplished by antagonizing a man this size? An alpha? This is not your brother, not someone likely to entertain your irritation. Your neck cranes, head hitting the door with a quiet thunk, and you stare into eyes the color of pitch, ringed by dark circles. Instincts like cicadas, buried to avoid that which would exploit them, dig their way out of the ground. “Stop–”

“Your aunt. She’s in charge of the house and you, yeah?”

Your mouth dries. You don’t answer.

His nostrils flare, and a chill runs down your spine. Apparently, he finds whatever trace of your pheromones agreeable enough to hum. Then he hooks a finger in the mask and drags it into place over his nose and mouth. 

“You don’t smell like him at all. Blockers or no.” He tosses the shirt onto Johnny’s desk as he lumbers past.

You’re left adrift, clutching the door for dear life. The earthy smell lingers. How long had the stranger been in here that he’d gone and stunk up the room? Your hands shake hanging up the shirt, and you avoid looking at anything else as you slink out, proverbial tail tucked.

In the bathroom, you knock back a second blocker and a pain reliever, drinking sink water cupped in your hands. You glance at the prescriptions on the shelf. Blockers and suppressants. They look different, equally distressing, and comforting now that you’re alone. You close the medicine cabinet, and something slips into the sink. A frown forms instantly at the sight of the stupid, ugly Kevlar bite guard. Johnny brought it home one leave, swearing up and down it was safer than commercial. An extra layer of protection to be worn during the weeks bookending your seasonal heats. Humiliation accessorized. Downstairs you go.

Aunt Marion waits in the living room, flitting about, excitedly chittering to her husband. The moment she sees you, she brightens further, aglow with a sense of accomplishment. Dread calcifies your stomach.

“What have you done?” 

Undeterred, your aunt smiles and pats your hand. “Only what John would’ve wanted.”

Cedar and myrrh, stone and soil—a burst potent enough to cow the eldest member of your family, forcing her to retreat a step. You feel a presence at your back and slowly turn to face a wall of muscle wrapped in black. This close, your nose finds the word it was looking for. Sepulchral.

“This is Mr. Simon Riley. He served with John,” Aunt Marion nervously chirps. “He’s made a generous offer for both the house and your bonding price, pending the validation of his bloodline and such.”

It’s a knife to the gut.

As far as you know, the various blood work and lineage reports come back satisfactory. However, their contents are a mystery, as you’re not allowed to request copies without his permission, and you’re not about to ask. You don’t even know how to reach him. He said a dozen words to you at the house, then vanished after speaking to your aunt.

The following week, you nearly wear a track on the floor with your pacing. No announcement regarding an impending bonding appears in the paper. It isn’t required, but it isn’t out of fashion. You suppose more modern rituals are exclusive to immediate family nowadays, without the need for public acknowledgment. You shudder at the thought. If you’re to be humiliated, you’d rather have as few witnesses as possible.

Another week passes. You receive letters and packages in his name, ‘S. Riley’. Hard proof that despite his absence, this is his home, not yours. Then, a deposit appears in the house account Johnny opened. You don’t touch it. You won’t legitimize a thing if you can help it.

You return to work. Everyone expresses their sympathies, and you call the omega representative in human resources to apprise them of your status. Their smile is tight on the screen when you dodge their questions and ask to simply update the paperwork from ‘J. MacTavish’ to ‘S. Riley’. Every day, you listen for his return and wonder if you’ll find him sitting in Johnny’s chair. It sets your teeth on edge.

A month turns over in limbo. You briefly wonder if you’re the sibling who died, now cursed to languish where you only glimpse your brother in the periphery, with a monster stalking the fenceline.

Christmas is a date that happens. You refuse an obligatory invitation to your aunt’s home and donate the gifts you already purchased. New Year passes the same way; miserable and isolated like any other. And then, thirty-three days after he buys your life from underneath you, Simon reappears on the second day of the year.

“Gonna let me in?” Simon grunts, toting two bags and car keys.

“Not gonna command it?” You sneer, confused over the delay, certain of his tricks. He’s going to try and bond you, sooner or later.

Simon stares. There’s no malice, only exhaustion. Sweat and musk batter your nose, acrid and disgusting, masking his usual spoor. It’s strange. Perhaps you’re noseblind to him already. You step aside.

Simon removes his shoes and jacket, rolling his shoulders with audible albeit muffled pops. He grunts at the packages, turning one over in a single broad hand before evidently deciding to deal with them later. He starts upstairs.

“First on the right”

He pauses halfway.

“My old room. It’s for guests now, but you can have it. Just. Don’t go into John’s room.”

He grunts again, but he listens.

Simon cloisters for two days. His scent returns to normal, slowly rolling over the house like a thick fog. It doesn’t seem to be an early rut, as he’s made no noise or sudden moves. Nothing to suggest a return to a bestial nature. You force yourself to continue your routine.

One morning, you find dishes in the drying rack and the paper on the table. Outside the back door, a half-smoked cigarette. It’s him, obviously, apparently skulking about in the small hours. As if the house needs another ghost. 

His presence, no matter how spectral, frays your poor nerves. You forget a quarter of the shopping list one day, cursing through the door with arms full of bags. 

“You didn’t use the money.”

You whip around to find Simon with a book tucked under an arm. He moves practically undetected between his light feet and pervasive scent.

The deposit. Right. Simon is joint owner of your accounts now.

You return to the groceries, jaw working at the irritating flatness of his tone. “I don’t need it. I earn my own wages, and I intend to continue working.”

“Didn’t tell you to quit. I said you didn’t use the money.”

“I don’t want it.”

The floor creaks under his foot, but he stops the second you tense. “It’s for you. For bills and expenses.”

“I don’t. Want it.”

“Johnny said you’d be difficult.”

“And he never fuckin’ mentioned you.” Regret immediately rises in your throat, demanding that you apologize, but you choke it down. You do not know this man. Law or not, he is a trespasser.

You do not hear him leave, but he gives you a wide berth. The next day, he’s gone again, but he leaves a note with his number.

Back to work. Use the money. - S

A couple of weeks later, after running out to collect your holds at the library, you return to Simon’s car in the parking space, a pair of mud-caked boots inside the door and a hastily half-unpacked bag on the table. The previously weak musk of Simon’s is refreshed and intense, drifting through the house. Begrudgingly, you put your stack aside and tidy a little. You pluck a knit hat beside the bag and squeak at the smell of rust and iron. The garment plops into the bag, unfolding into a skull-print balaclava, the bulk of which carries a red stain. Dry, thank the Lord.

You heave his bag to the floor with a huff and find another note.

Went out. Back late. - S

‘Late’ is generous. Hours pass. You fix dinner, stow the leftovers, finish your laundry (in case he needs the machines), reorder suppressants, and cozy up to crack the spine of the latest installment of a horror series. The patter of rain against the windows and the mountain of blankets ensconces you into a state of languor.

The key turning the lock startles you from sleep. Bleary-eyed, the back of your hand wipes drool from your lip, and the other leverages you off the sofa. Your vision gradually clears to reveal Simon’s hulking shape, filling the front door. Dripping and soaking wet, a puddle of rainwater pools at his feet. Without a word or acknowledgment of your presence, he peels off the paper mask adhered to his nose and chin and drops it alongside his flooded shoes. His socks and anorak go next, and before he discards any more articles of clothing, you make yourself useful.

You march past, movements automatic, into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

A minute later, he shuffles in, dressed in sweats and a dry shirt. You deduce he swapped clothes with whatever’s in his bag. An aborted ‘welcome home’ sits on your tongue, but your nose catches something metallic. Blood.

Simon leans over the sink and promptly shoves a hand under the running water. From what you can see, his knuckles look bad, but he doesn’t appear injured elsewhere. You grab a bag of frozen peas.

“Pat it dry and give it here,” you grumble, dropping a towel by his arm and wrapping the peas in another.

His hand is a mess—knuckles raw and bloody, skin torn in places where he clearly punched something or someone. It’s ice-cold but not actively bleeding. You hold the makeshift cold compress in place and apply pressure. Another stilted silence passes, and you catch a whiff of citrus.

“Were you drinking? Are you drunk?” It sounds more accusatory than you intend.

“Yeah.”

“So this isn’t from work?”

“No.”

“Is it from–” 

“Scrap.” 

“Oh.” You squint. “So you got in from a work trip. Went for a pint. Made a new friend.“

Simon’s eyes snap to you. “She’s cracked the case,” his hand creeps toward yours, giving you time to let go before he steals the compress and pulls away. “Needed to blow off steam.”

“That’s idiotic,” You snap, traipsing behind him to the living room.

In response, he chuffs once like a warning shot. You keep your distance as he sinks into Johnny’s chair, groaning, and throws a heel onto the ottoman to drag it closer. Head rolling against the high back, his eyes flutter close as he relaxes into the cushion. He grinds his molars as he appears to forcibly unclench his muscles. You fetch the first aid kit. 

The slight curl of his lip makes you almost regret being nice. You set the tea and the kit on the side table, perking at the sound of him mumbling something suspiciously close to ‘thanks’.

Part of you considers retreating to give him space and go to bed. Johnny always spent the first several hours of leave decompressing alone. Yet you return to the blankets and book. This is still your house, even if your name will never appear on the deed.

Simon breaks the not-quite-companionable silence by dropping the wrapped peas on the table and exchanging them for the kit. Over your book, you grimace at how he uses his teeth to tear open an antiseptic wipe, then silently gag at the sharp bite of isopropyl in the air.

“You didn’t use the money. Again.” Simon finally says, smearing antibiotics into his split skin. 

“I told you–”

“It’s not my charity, if that’s what’s keepin’ you. It’s the survivor’s grant.”

The tension in your jaw could crack a tooth. Labdanum and firewood billow from the armchair. Scowling, you slap the book shut. “Stop.”

His face is expressionless, voice goading. “What? Not doin’ it for you? That not a nest for me?”

You straighten, shoulders rising to your ears and lip pulling into a sneer. He’s saying it to get under your skin, and it fucking works. 

“No, it’s not a fucking nest and no, I don’t find your stench comforting, thanks.”

Simon tosses the ointment and leans forward to drape his thick forearms over his thighs. The purpling bruises on his knuckles glisten in the lamplight. His studying agitates, his pupils like needles on your face. Then he asks the question that makes you hit the ceiling.

“You broken?”

At nineteen, you go to bed on Beltane and wake to a bombardment: sharp, needling botanicals of lemongrass and mint tempered by frankincense and lavender. Eye-watering and suffocating. You slip out to the nearest clinic, and the sickly-sweet smelling nurse beckons you to sit so she may deliver a killing blow.

“Hyperosmia is uncommon during early presentation, but it should mellow.”

Her words run together, drowned out by an internal doomsday clock striking midnight. Milennia’s worth of inherited horror and fear knitted into marrow catch up all at once. She holds your hair while you vomit and updates your chart as you wash up. She tells you to return if it doesn’t resolve in a month or two.

It doesn’t. It never does.

Hours of appointments, dozens of scans and tests, and enough paperwork to rival the holy book. You know the ENT by name, but she never provides a conclusive answer beyond ‘genetic lottery’. Certainly doesn’t feel like a win.

It’s a cruel twist to be repulsed twice over.

“What’s wrong? Are you broken or somethin’?” A greasy-haired man sneers, chest puffed out with a hand planted above your head. Of course, a nitwit corners you the one time you leave the house. All the scent blockers in the world cannot deter the repugnant or unscrupulous. His proximity pushes a pungent, sulfuric acid reminiscent of a leaking battery on you, flaring in offense when you visibly recoil. He repeats himself, teeth bared and foul.

The bastard assumes you’ll fawn. Assumes you’re alone.

It’s difficult to keep a straight face as Johnny scruffs the stranger, bringing him to heel. Your brother compels the miscreant to apologize and then sets him loose, satisfied he’s neutered the man. He scolds you all the way home and curses himself for letting his sister out of sight.

On his next leave, he brings a bite guard. You cringe at the ugly device, but Johnny insists. Spouts some nonsense about not always being around to save your hide, reminding you that you can’t arm yourself. His near-mythic anger leaks into every word. He forgets you’re a mirror.

“I’m not wearing this. This is fucking medieval.”

“Just when, y’know, ‘round those times. ‘Til you find someone–”

“I won’t find someone. I don’t want to find someone. I don’t want anyone.” The admission slips out so quietly you don’t think he hears it.

“–I can try to smuggle some of the blockers they give us, but ‘til then, when it’s, y’know–” “Christ, Johnny, save it, I’m not gonna listen to my brother–”

“Then fuckin’ listen to your guardian, because I’m only gonna say this once.”

It stops you like a slap to the face. He’s never lorded his appointment over you. Never.

“So you don’t want a mate. That’s fine. I’ll support you, like I always fuckin’ have. I’ll sing it out in the streets if you’d like. Hang a sign on the gate. But has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone? That maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

The two of you putter on the corner in silence. He rakes his nails over the stubble on his cheek. He murmurs a c’mon and herds you home, cutting his leave short by absconding the next morning.

“You broken?”

Two words to dredge up the ugliest parts of your life, your twin irregularities. You suppose you could distill it simply as you’ve had to counselors and doctors throughout the years. Yes, actually. My nose makes it difficult to leave the house without a migraine, and nobody’s ever stirred my loins. Aren’t you lucky? A terrible two-for-one special you handsomely overpaid for.

“Coulda just said that.”

Embarrassment shrivels your tongue. Of course, you spoke aloud. The impulse to apologize and flee attempts to puppet you, limbs twitching involuntarily at the idea of running for hills and leaving civilization altogether.

Simon rises before you formulate a response and takes the makeshift compress to the kitchen. On his way back, he fishes something out of his bag. The floor creaks when he stops to loom over you, offering a closed fist.

Your palm opens, and he rewards your compliance with a flash of steel. A single dog tag threaded with a thin ball chain. Your brother’s name reflects the light, and you grind the heel of your hand into an eye socket.

“They told me there was nothing left.”

“There isn’t. Found that lyin’ around.”

Your throat constricts, and a weak ‘thank you’ sputters out. The shadow of a massive hand lifts your head, and you press into the cushions, away from Simon’s reach. 

“I just told you I’m not into that.” You hiss, brow furrowing.

He pauses. The smirk on his face doesn’t match the ​​doleful look in his eyes. “You’re not my type.”

“Been thinkin’, Lt, what if after this, we take leave together?”

Simon rolls off the mattress and grabs his shirt off the floor. Should’ve known it’d come up again. Soap’s a glutton for punishment. The drama. The angry, desperate make-up sex. No other reason he’d keep stirring the pot. The man’s piss-poor pillow-talk and refusal to keep things simple detract some, but not enough to make Simon move on. Knows the other alpha too well for that, got him living in his head and bedroom most nights.

“Could go to mine, meet my sister. Told you she’s a bit like you, remember? Surly, introverted, a menace.” Soap sprawls into the forfeited space. “She’s an omega, but—”

Simon pokes through the shirt, face blank and mouth shut. The way ‘omega’ comes out of Soap’s mouth, a letter at a time—the reluctance, the glint in his blue eyes—he’s sharing something special. He’s talked about this sister before, but this is different. Despite all the times he’s had Soap on his back, it’s rare for the mutt to willingly show his underbelly. It’s too intimate, incongruent with his nature. Simon course corrects.

“Yeah? Tryin’ to set me up with your sister? Dirty dog.”

The effect is instant. Soap pushes upright to sit at the edge of his bed, posture shifting to broaden his shoulders, chin tucking a fraction. His lips pull back as he barks something like ‘not a fuckin’ joke’ and that Simon is a ‘disgusting bastard’. Touchy subject, this sister.

He goes to leave, swiping his balaclava from the desk.

Soap staggers after him with one leg in a pair of shorts and grabs him. He’s got tenacity, but Simon’s all mass. In seconds, he removes his sergeant.

Simon listens to Soap’s ragged breathing, studying the flicker of genuine anger in his eyes. Storm clouds over the ocean, barely restrained. He shouldn’t rile Soap like this, not with everything else going on.

He doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna tell me she’s special?”  

“No, she’s not—she’s normal. Different, but normal. Sensitive, is all.”

Simon releases him, unimpressed. “If she’s half as sensitive as you, she must be a crybaby.“

“Not like that.” Soap taps his nose. “Chronic pheromonal olfactory acuity. Rare genetic thing. Could pick you out of a crowd.”

“Shame. Laswell could’ve recruited her.” Conditions like that have their uses, but with her designation, it must be hell on earth. He says as much.

“Aye. It is. I’m careful about who I introduce.”

There it is, Soap skirting the issue again. Thinking if he meets the rest of the MacTavishes, it’ll legitimize their screwing. Convince him to throw their careers into the shredder. The brass looks the other way when alphas relieve stress; it prevents incidents, but they care if it becomes something else.

“Think about it?”

He does.

Soap’s chewing on something. Rather, something’s chewing Soap. Could be anything. Mexico. Graves. Hassan. Well and out of danger, his good knee bounces incessantly, the tap of his boot louder than the radio.

“Soap.”

“Lt?”

“Out with it.”

Soap opens. It doesn’t take much these days. The stress of the last couple weeks is still burning off, especially with Shepherd in the wind. Their world’s constricted, pressurized, a few bad days from implosion. People like his sergeant need talking space to alleviate it, among other things. 

“I put in for leave,” He starts. “Goin’ home in a week.”

Simon glances at the men playing cards on the other side of the room, then jerks his head to the door. Soap falls into step, tea abandoned, and waits until they’re outside Simon’s quarters to continue. 

“Said you’d think about it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Inside.”

He’s got him trained. In Soap goes, shirt halfway off before the door’s locked. 

“Ghost–”

“Not Ghost right now,” Simon tosses the balaclava across the room and reaches for Johnny. He cuffs him by the nape of his neck and reels him in. Soap shudders into the kiss, holding Simon’s hand in place with his own, almost giving in, but—

“Simon,” He pulls away. “Don’t do that.”

“Not doin’ it for you?”

“No, you’re shutting me out. Goin’ away.”

“‘I’m right here.”

Soap frowns tiredly. “Why don’t you want to come? Meet my sister?”

“Couldn't possibly intrude.”

He slowly shakes his head. “I’m askin’. I want you to meet her. She’s all I got left. Besides you.”

Simon’s nose twitches. Could make this easier on himself and enforce the pecking order like old times. But he doesn’t. What he does is worse. Meaner.

“And what am I?” Simon closes in, crowding him to the wall. He roughly reclaims Soap’s throat, chest rumbling at how perfectly it slots into his grip. He knew Johnny was his the first time he took him apart. Saw how the other alpha leaned into it. Offered his neck. Renounced nature itself in the heat of the most natural act.

“You know what you are.”

Simon tuts. “I know what you want me to be, and I told you my answer before, didn't I?” He adjusts to cup Soap’s face and drags his nose over the other cheek. “Say it. Tell me what I told you.”

“We aren’t–”

“Go on.”

Soap slackens in his hold. “We aren’t mates. Can’t be.” 

“Can’t be,” Simon repeats, grazing his teeth over the thrum of his sergeant’s carotid. A pulse like gunfire. “That’s right.” 

“I want to be.” It’s not a whine; it’s hardly a complaint. It’s a statement of fact delivered with resignation.

So do I, he admits privately, before pressing his lips to Soap’s neck, then sinking to his knees.

Soap tries again after the dam, persistent as a dog after a bone. Simon lets him crawl into bed, thinking they’ll celebrate Graves and Shepherd eating each other alive, getting one in while they can. Instead, he receives a tired earful.

“It’s fucked, sir.”

He toys with the brown hair flopped over his shoulder and breathes deeply and slowly. Relishing the subtle undertones of the man on his chest, he grunts. “Gonna need to be more specific.”

“Could’ve wasted the bastard years ago. Now we’re stuck chasing him.”

“It’s the job.”

Soap’s stubbly cheek presses to Simon’s pec, eyes closed. “Haven’t been home in months.”

“This about the runt MacTavish?”

“Don’t call ‘er that.” He slaps Simon’s stomach. “She’d bite your head off.”

He snorts. “Sounds like a ray of sunshine.” His gaze slips to the door. They’ll need to dress soon. Laswell works fast. “Miss her?”

“Missed her birthday. Way things are going, I’ll miss Christmas, too.”

Simon shifts beneath Soap’s weight. Here it is, the shit pillow-talk. Another blatant attempt to manipulate the impossible. He huffs dismissively. “Put in for leave anyway. Makarov’ll be down for a dirt nap within the week.”

“You’re confident, Lt.”

“Gloves off, Johnny. Old man won’t stop you this time.”

That seems to do the trick. For a few easy minutes, his sergeant remains silent. Simon admires the droop of Soap’s dark eyelashes on his skin and even breathing. Closest thing to heaven he’ll ever see, he thinks. 

Soap’s arm tightens its hold as he slightly flares his scent, a plume of woodfire as inviting as his words. “Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.” His eyes open as he drags his chin to rest it on Simon’s pec. Soap can’t pin him on the sparring mat, but he can with a look. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

To you. Doesn’t have to mean anything to you.

“Think about it?” 

A faint waft of tobacco and musk leaks into the room, and Simon nudges Soap off as Price pounds on the door.

“Kate’s got something. Briefing room, three minutes.”

By the time Soap pries himself off the bed, Simon’s half-dressed. He avoids the mirror. Knows what he’ll see. Disappointment.

“You’re not my type.”

It’s maddening, the Escher staircases his admission builds in your head, each step a question that may go nowhere. He’s been anything but forthcoming. Didn’t introduce himself at Johnny’s funeral, didn’t explain a thing.

Before you can interrogate him, he disappears. It’s past midnight when you lumber to your bedroom, and out of habit, you glance at Simon’s door. It’s shut, not a flicker of light beyond, but Johnny’s is open a crack. You hesitate. It’s different this time. Simon is no longer a trespasser. He’s not doing anything illegal. Just wrong.

You tiptoe and peer inside. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but you smell him. Leather and tobacco. Cedar and amber. Myrrh, tilled soil, and poppies. How on the nose for a soldier to smell like death itself. But poking through the thick, funereal brume is juniper and pine. The hours preceding heavy snowfall. It’s an odd combination, grounding and sharp, petrous and serene. A graveyard in the dead of winter.

His breathing is too controlled for him to be asleep. It’s a standoff, and you’re not keen to see it through, so you turn around and go to bed. Between four and five in the morning, realization strikes. You knew Simon long before you met him.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone?”

The wool is hooked from your eyes. For years, your brother marched home reeking of blood, iron, and something else. Someone else. From what little he shared, you knew his task force was small and covert, close quarters a given. You assumed the military dispensed provisions for their alpha-dominant population. It didn’t occur to you that their solution was in-house.

You grimace in revulsion, but the feeling drops away into guilt.

“Maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

A near decade under your brother’s custodianship, and you thought you made it easy by becoming a near-recluse. You weren’t so naive to think it’d last forever. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. Eventually, Johnny would’ve co-signed a lease, and you’d start the quasi-independent life you dreamed of. He’d have the space to start his own family. All planned out. You didn’t want to be a lifelong burden, but with his early death, that’s all you ended up being.

Now you’re somebody else's problem, assumed out of pity.

Your gaze wanders to Simon in the living room. There is no delicate way to ask. He probably wouldn’t appreciate beating about the bush.

“So you and Johnny, you were, uh, an item?”

Simon’s focus breaks from the book in his lap, peering over a pair of wireframe glasses. His cheek bulges, seemingly chewing his response before spitting it out. “Yes and no.”

Insufferable man. Patience isn’t something you’ve historically possessed in spades, and with him, less so. “I’m assuming ‘no’, considering your neck.”

He snorts and slaps the book shut. “Like I’d let that mutt bite me.”

“Jesus wept,” you drop the baking tin onto the counter, head shaking. “You’re incapable of holding a serious conversation.”

You fiddle with the baking paper, face heating in frustration. All you want is honesty. To get to the bottom of your situation, to his situation with Johnny. You stew in exasperation and pour the lemon filling. You don’t notice Simon until he’s at the edge of the kitchen.

“Johnny said you were all he had left.”

The bowl nearly slips from your hands.

“And Johnny was all I had left.”

“So you—”

“So I did what needed doing. You need looking after,” he says, working his scarred lip and continuing, his voice a hair thicker. “And Johnny’s gone. It’s that simple. Nothing more.”

You need looking after. You noisily set the emptied bowl on the counter and disregard the instinct to make nice. Comfort him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon coughs. “Law says you do. I reckon I’m the best suited for the job.”

The confidence startles an incredulous laugh out of you. “I must’ve missed that in his will, the one where it states my aunt ought to be the one ‘looking after me’.”

His eyes narrow. “Want me to return you? You’d prefer her to match you with the nearest alpha with half a brain? Bonded, wed, and bred by Spring?” 

You angrily sweep the dirty dishes into the sink, a blistering anger coursing through your veins. “You’re disgusting.”

The mirth bleeds from his eyes. “No, I’m realistic. Something funny in the MacTavish line. Fucking dreamers, the two of you. Wanting things you can’t have.”

The remark causes your invisible, primordial hackles to rise. “What is that supposed to mean–”

Simon cuts you off with a single step into the kitchen. “Fuckin’ hell, do I need to spell it out?” He closes in, pointing a finger. “You aren’t interested in nobody, and I’m not interested in nobody but Johnny.” 

He towers, chest expanding, using every bit of his mass to intimidate and keep you listening. To pacify you. “You can’t do a whit without a guardian’s or alpha’s say so, and I happen to be in the business of not giving a shit.”

You lock into a brief staring contest, and the beep of the oven breaks it. He wordlessly moves so you can slide the lemon bars into the heat. You inhale deeply, drinking in the tart citrus as a palate cleanser, and shut the door.

“So, what, I’m your cover story?” You ask carefully.

“Whatever gets it through that thick skull of yours.” 

It’s not enough to stop the alarm bells ringing in your ears, but it quiets them. “And you’re not going to—You don’t want—”

“Already had a mate, not interested in another.”

There it is. “So you and Johnny were mates.”

Simon swallows, his thick neck contracting. He rubs his neck, hand skimming the slight protuberance on his neck. “Need a smoke. C’mon.” He turns, apparently certain you’ll follow.

You do.

A tiny ember lights his crooked features, and bluish-gray smoke curls into the air. He settles against a bare patch of stone some paces away downwind. It tests your self-control to not spout a line of questions. His silence obliges you to settle beside the frame, arms crossed in thinly-veiled agitation. 

The paper’s half-charred, a neat cluster of ash in the tray when he finally speaks. He clears his throat, dipping his chin to gaze into the garden. Each word pushed out grudgingly as if evicted from some deep part of himself. “Johnny and me…We didn’t bite or bond. Surefire way to get discharged.”

You do him a mercy and stare into the cloud-heavy sky. “So when you said me and him wanted things we can’t have, that mean he wanted it? To be official?”

“She’s cracked the case.”

It’s stupid, his selective sentimentality. Still. It crowbars a smile out of you. Reminds you of Johnny. “He was always strong-willed.”

“That’s a generous way to put it.”

“How long were you together?”

“Off and on, four years.”

Thick as thieves, your foot. It eats you, your brother’s lack of faith. Your emotions must plume because Simon’s head swivels in your periphery. You need to increase your dosage, regardless of his claims.

“Can’t blame him for not tellin’ you. Probably thought it was for the best. You, however,” Simon stubs the cigarette with a dry cough. “Couldn’t shut up about you. Called you the ‘runt MacTavish’.”

“No he fuckin’ didn’t.” You wheel instantly, and his shoulders shake in a laugh. It looks almost wrong coming from him, yet you snicker. Your nose lifts in the air mid-giggle, and the breeze carries a clean scent. You relish it while you can.

It doesn’t escape Simon’s notice. 

“He told me about your condition.”

You frown. “You knew and made me say it anyway? Prick. What else did he tell you? I’d like to set the record straight.”

“Once told me when you were twelve, you stuffed the neighbor’s postbox with garlic because you thought he was a vampire.”

Through time and space, your mother’s bony hand pinches your ear. She had dragged you, sputtering and whimpering, over to Mr. Stewart’s doorstep to apologize all those years ago. 

You defend yourself, a smile tugging at your lips. “Because Johnny said he’d shave my head in the middle of the night if I didn’t!”

Simon chuckles. “I’m sure she had it coming. Don’t need to justify it to me.”

But you do. You explain how, to your childish mind, someone who only ventured out of their house at night and a severe widow’s peak was a bloodsucker. Johnny took the idea and ran with it, convinced you the garlic was a foolproof test. ‘Course he’d tricked you,

The cold evening air moves you indoors. The pair of you settle into your respective places, Simon in the armchair with a glass of bourbon and you nose-deep into a cup of chamomile. The night passes through swapped stories, mainly about Johnny but some about the rest of the MacTavishes and, reluctantly, yourself. With no alcohol in your cup, you can’t blame your unburdening on a drink.  

It’s not lost on you how Simon pointedly avoids the openings you leave for him to talk about his family. It leaves your brain to hatch all sorts of theories, yet for the first time since he arrived, you don’t feel inclined to grill him. 

On the landing, when you both wander to bed, you stop him. “You can move into Johnny’s, if you’d like. I imagine it’s, ah, comforting.”

He exhales. “You sure?”

“I was gonna sort out his things eventually, but that’s probably best left to his mate.” The words rush out in an embarrassed rush. Humiliatingly mushy. You don’t make it a footstep before a giant mitt ruffles your hair. The animal in you freezes, then jerkily flees. “Yeah, yeah, big oaf.” You mutter as you duck into your room, listening to him chuckle, then do the same.

“She gonna show or what?” Garrick asks, craning in his seat, subtly sniffing. “Came all the way here to pay our respects.”

“She’s just late.”

“Like Soap, then.” Price‘s posture is confident and easy. He’s handling this better than the sergeant.

“Better.”

“And you’re sure she’s alright with us paying a visit?”

“She trusts I’m careful about who I introduce.”

Price hums. “Trust’s good. Been nearly a year. It get easier?”

Easier’s a choice word. Things are smoother, Simon guesses. He and Runt got a good routine going, a decent dynamic. She’s no longer petrified whenever he’s within arms reach, doesn’t stare at him like she’s expecting the worst. She uses the money, cooks for two, and puts him to work on leave, keeping up the house. 

The night in the park, he thought about eating lead for breakfast. He trudged back to base with the intention to do it but clapped eyes on that stupid photograph. Heard Johnny’s voice again. I don’t want you to be alone.

Even in death, his sergeant’s a solid bridge. The foundation of a fucked up home. 

A familiar blend of heather and rain draws his attention to the entrance. In his chest, something settles.

“It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

#Ghost Challenge #GhostChallenge #mind the tags #punny title #ghost #ghost & reader #ghost & f!reader #simon ghost riley #posting this before i lose my mind #running away byeeeee

[cringecompanionapologist]

I Swear I Thought of This Months Ago: Different Doctors in Midnight

The thing with Midnight is that shit goes wrong because it's a companion-lite episode. The two people the Midnight Entity singled out to possess where the two people traveling alone. They were easy to isolate from the group. If the Doctor's not traveling alone here, and there's this human who came in with him just going along with whatever he's doing, it's going to seem less suspicious. So, what would happen to any Doctor in Midnight is based more on their companions than the Doctor. Donna took the day off of adventuring to enjoy the spa. Not all companions would do that. First Doctor: He may get on everyone's nerves, but he's going to have a granddaughter with him and people will judge him less harshly because he has a family. You've got a couple with their teenage son there. They see an old grandpa with a granddaughter the same age as their son, they're going to see him as someone like them. As for the granddaughters, Susan wouldn't want to leave her grandfather and Vicki canonically is more interested in adventures than relaxation. I'm less sure about Dodo, because nobody is sure about Dodo. She's a wild card.

Second Doctor: A group of people in a small space menaced by a monster? Might as well be a base under siege. He's in his element here. He also tends to be better at understanding human nature than most Doctors, so even if he was alone, he might not end up quite so isolated. And he wouldn't be alone. Out of a combination of loyalty and discomfort with spa environments, Jamie would definitely be with him.

Third Doctor: Following the Doctor around on his adventures is literally what Jo was hired to do. She'll be the one telling everyone that the Doctor is an expert on basically everything and she trusts him so they should too. If they try to throw him out she'll try to either take his place or go with him and nobody will want to hurt her. Nobody wants to hurt Jo. Even the Master didn't want to hurt Jo.

Fourth Doctor: When Four shows up somewhere, being weird, acting like he owns the place, and having way too much fun in a crisis, people tend to sort of roll with it. It's a superpower he has. But, if we want to turn the superpower off, we've sort of got three eras to consider. Sarah Jane would probably follow the Doctor, since she's still a holdover from Three's "companions are literally the Doctor's assistants" era. Leela would not understand the appeal of a spa and would threaten people into listening to the Doctor. As for Romana...Okay, we've got another Time Lord. I actually don't know. She'll probably go with him and might have slightly more luck with the locals.

Fifth Doctor: Really depends on the TARDIS team. Tegan's going to take the goddamn spa day and will talk Nyssa into going with her if she's around. If it's just Nyssa, she'll go with the Doctor and everyone loves Nyssa, so everything will be fine. Turlough is going to enjoy a pleasant day off. He can relax, do a bit of sketching, and not have to deal with yet another traumatic incident. Adric would not understand the idea of a spa, call it stupid, get into a fight with Tegan, and if he wasn't going with the Doctor before this, the Doctor would insist purely to separate the two and restore order. Adric has no social skills, so he wouldn't exactly make the Doctor look better, but like with One and his various granddaughter companions, the family on the train would be more comfortable with a family man.

Sixth Doctor: The classic Doctors have done well so far but Six is probably fucked. Peri would probably like a day off from him and the violent shit that happens around him. Mel might try to get him to stay at the spa for health purposes. I don't know the EU well, but Evelyn might have a chance of coming along and getting him to behave, but no promises for anyone else.

Seventh Doctor: Of course Ace is there. Yet another Doctor passes as a family man and it's easy.

Eighth Doctor: I don't know the EU well and Eight is the Whoops All EU Doctor, but he seems to pick up companions that would follow him around here, being all human and convincing the humans not to bully him. But, considering Eight's luck, they'd probably try to throw him out of the train anyway and he'd end up traumatized again.

Ninth Doctor: Might actually consider just spending the day at the spa, but if he gets bored and goes on an adventure, Rose probably gonna follow him. The day is saved with the Power of Love or something.

Eleventh Doctor: Amy wants to go with the Doctor despite Rory's protests. There's a lot of bickering but they get out fine.

Twelfth Doctor: Clara is his carer who cares so he doesn't have to, so preventing Midnight incidents is sort of what she's there for. For Bill, this would be an educational experience. Twelve gets on everybody's nerves a bit, and he gives a speech about how stupid everyone's being, which doesn't actually help, and he'll probably end up getting punched in the face, but not thrown out of the train.

Thirteenth Doctor: She tells her companions to just enjoy themselves and wanders off alone. If they insist on following her, and Yaz probably would, we're fine. If she successfully ditches her companions, she's in trouble. She'll openly admit to being socially awkward, but I'm not sure if that would actually help in this situation.

Fourteenth Doctor: He's retired. He's probably staying with Donna. If not, everything mainly goes the same as it does with Ten, but it feels more cruel.

Fifteenth Doctor: Ruby would go with him and he's actually pretty good with people anyway. I'm guessing the Fourteen remembered being Ten and regenerated into someone unlikely to be thrown out of a train on a death planet just in case.

#doctor who #midnight #this is way longer than it needs to be oops #first doctor #second doctor #third doctor #fourth doctor #fifth doctor #sixth doctor #seventh doctor #eighth doctor #ninth doctor #tenth doctor #eleventh doctor #twelfth doctor #thirteenth doctor #fourteenth doctor #fifteenth doctor

[tofics]

The Other Side to The Coin

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

Part 2 to Almost Like You Need Someone (Dean's POV)

Summary: You, Dean and Sam are fighting America's monsters together. Coming from a long line of hunters, you fit right in with the Winchester boys, despite having been raised entirely different from the two. Where you were brought up with love and care, John raised Sam and Dean with rules and obedience. Seeing what Dean does for the world, you decide it's time that he gets his own share of love...

A/N: Almost Like You Need Someone was supposed to be a one-shot but was so well received that I decided to continue it! There will be a part 3, which both part 1 and 2 are leading up to. A ✨finale✨, if you will. For now, here's the reader's POV, sprinkled with Sam's POV. I hope you enjoy! PS: Thank you to @deans-spinster-witch for the idea of Sam deliberately losing to Dean so Dean could share the bed with the reader 🥰

Living with the Winchester boys is easy.

Granted, you get along with almost anybody due to your good-natured spirit. You have a smile that radiates warmth and kindness, a two-lipped greeting that promises the receiver that they are truly welcome. In return, you've been welcomed pretty much anywhere you went.

So it's no surprise that you've bonded with Sam and Dean as easily as you have. You knew of them only by name before you went on a case with them. Despite being a long-time friend to your family and theirs, Bobby Singer didn't speak much about the Winchesters. Two boys raised on the road by a single dad, out for revenge on the demon that took his wife and their mother. That's all you knew.

When he sent you to help out with a case, you arrived with no expectations. "I told 'em not to underestimate you. Don't let those two idjits undersell you. They do good work, but they can be a lil' wary of strangers," Bobby had warned you, but they'd given you no trouble. To your delight, the brothers were not only easy to work with, they were also very easy on the eyes. Not a requirement when it came to who you chose to work with, but it didn't hurt either.

Three months later, you've become a regular passenger in the Winchester's Impala. Despite being an able-driver, you tend to leave the driving to the boys, preferring to take up residence in the backseat. Back there, you're free to pass the hours by entertaining the brothers or getting some shut-eye. It beats fighting with Dean over who gets to pick the music or having Sam snore in your ear from behind you.

You're good to them, and they're good to you. No matter how many times you argue that if you can sleep in the backseat of the Impala, you can definitely take the sofa now and then, they refuse to let you sleep anywhere but the beds of the hotel rooms you secure for a night or two. It would be patronizing if you didn't know any better. You have your love-languages, and they have theirs.

One of Sam's is bringing you back books from the library that he thinks you'll enjoy. Dean always cleans your gun along with his own, making sure it's well-kept and in perfect condition for when you need it. In return, you make sure the boys are fed, getting something healthy for Sam and yourself while picking up a pastry for Dean's breakfast instead.

You find that it's a little easier to get on Sam's good side. In comparison, Dean is a little more closed off, a little more reserved, but you can tell it's got nothing to do with yourself and everything with how they were raised. Over time, you learn about their dark past, about Mary's death and John's need for revenge that led all three of them on the hunter's path. It's mostly Sam who shares these stories with you, although you sometimes manage to get Dean talking too. When he does, it's earnest, albeit short-worded. He often turns the conversation around and instead asks you about your past. He seems fascinated with the way you were brought up and you can hardly blame him. You grew up in the hunter's life alright, but your childhoods couldn't have been any more different.

For starters, both of your parents are still alive and well. You never had to endure the loss of a parental figure, not as a child, nor in recent years, thankfully. But it's more than that. From Sam's tales and what little Dean shares with you, you can't help but feel a tinge of resentment towards the Winchester father. As a child of parents who made sure to equip you with all the necessary tools needed to survive in a world full of monsters, it's beyond you how John drilled his boys to be hunters, yet seemingly neglected the mental aspect of it. For as long as you could remember, your parents had sat down with you and talked you through the emotional turmoil that inevitably came with the field; the bloodshed and the death. From what you could gather, talking about it had never been part of the Winchester schedule. Instead, it looked like Dean in particular had taken on a coping mechanism that was rather popular in the hunter's field, the tried-and-true method of D&D: denial and drinking.

Your heart aches when you see how the job sometimes eats at him. Where you allow yourself to feel for the families of the victims you come across, he rarely gives in to the sympathy he feels for those left behind. On one particular case, a boy is left without his mother after a vampire gets to her before you can. You hold the boy as he weeps for his mother, smoothly rocking him back and forth as tears roll down your own cheeks, unable to hold them back. All of that terror and grief in such a little body; it's heart-wrenching. When you look up at Dean, you see your own feelings mirrored back in his eyes and you can't help but also cry for the little boy who lost his own mother in 1983.

You develop something of a soft spot for the older Winchester brother. It's less out of pity and more out of determination to ensure that the young man gets what he deserves. At not even thirty years old, he's encountered thrice the amount of terror that an average man faces in a lifetime. Beyond his own loss, he continually fights what lurks in the dark so that others don't have to face the same fate as he did. Unlike yourself, he was never given the choice to step into the role of a hunter. John assigned it to him and he dutifully slipped it on, accepting the burden without any questions asked. He shows an unwavering devotion to giving protection to those who need it without ever stopping to think about what he needs. Having been raised with a keen sense of justice, the imbalance of this set-up doesn't sit right with you. And so you quietly decide to embark on your own little mission: Give back to Dean Winchester what he gives the world.

It's easier said than done though. You soon learned that Dean is a natural flirt. Where your charm is mostly kindness, his is saturated to the brim with flirtatious banter. You see waitress after waitress fall for it, witness young women at the bar turn their heads when he walks by and swoon when he winks at him. Sometimes, when he's in a really good mood, you're at the receiving end of his allure. An approving glance up and down your body before the three of you venture out to the local pub turns into attentive gazes throughout the night, served with a sly grin. It makes your stomach flutter when you feel his eyes trailing you through the crowd. Heat seeps into your cheeks when he shimmies past you at the pool table, the skin of his arm gently brushing against yours. "S'cuse me, sweetheart," he'll say and the use of the nickname will tug at something so delicious in your tummy that you have to bite down on your lip to contain your smile. On these nights, it seems impossibly easy to get close to Dean if you wanted to, although it's not strictly the kind of close you intend for. To say you're not attracted to Dean would be a lie, but it's not your mission to give him seven minutes in heaven. Your mission's goal is long-term happiness, not a brief one achieved with both of your pants down around your ankles.

The Dean of those nights stands in contrast to the day-to-day version you're usually travelling with. Where he's not afraid to brush up against you in a full pub, he'll tense up when you cuddle up against him in your sleep. It's noticeable enough for you to register in your sleepy-state and you try to stay on your side of the bed afterwards. Naturally being a touchy person, you try to keep your body contact to Sam, leaning against him on the couch as the three of you are watching a movie. Much to your surprise, Dean nudges at your leg that's tucked under you. "C'mon," he says and cocks his head to the side. "Get comfortable." You search for his eyes, a silent question of 'Are you sure?' but he just cocks his head again and gives you a small smile, so you comply and stretch your leg out over his lap. You don't fully relax into the position for a few minutes, unsure if he's truly comfortable with it, until he rests an arm on your knee and shin while his other arm props his head up on the armrest of the couch. From that day on, this arrangement becomes your standard for movie nights: Sam to your left, Dean on your right, a head on Sam's shoulder and one or two legs stretched out over Dean.

It's small wins like this that make you feel like you're slowly working your way through the outer layers of Dean's shell. What you belatedly realize is that in the process of working through his exterior, he worked himself through yours with ease. It only becomes apparent to you when, during another night at another bar, you suddenly feel a little sting at the sight of Dean talking to another woman rather flirtatiously. The sensation is so out-of-the-blue for you that for a moment, you're more surprised than anything else. How did you fall in love with the older Winchester brother without even noticing it? Sam notices the puzzled look on your face. "You good?" he asks, amusement showing in his voice. You quickly shake yourself to rid yourself of your trance and give a little laugh. "All good," you say and take a sip of your drink before glancing over at Dean again. What you don't realize is that your glance doesn't go unnoticed by Sam, who smiles knowingly to himself.

Having known his brother for all his life, he's noticed the shift in his brother way before you did. He'd had his suspicions, but it took a particularly rough case for Dean's intentions to become clear to Sam. The detour Dean made you guys take so you could have your spirits lifted by a litter of puppies was all Sam needed to have his suspicions confirmed: love has sprouted between his two travel companions.

He gets first row tickets to the spiel that unfolds itself in front of him in the following weeks. It's comical, the way you and Dean dance around each other, afraid to give too much away, unaware that you're both on the same page. The two of you steal glances at each other, but it goes unnoticed by either of you. Sam purposely chooses the seat diagonally from either you or Dean, leaving the space opposite and next to whoever sits down first open, so that the both of you are forced to sit across or besides each other. He can see the math both of you are doing in your heads, not wanting to appear too eager to sit beside each other, painfully unaware of the shared wish of closeness that lingers between the two of you.

As much as he's rooting for both of you to become aware of each other's feelings, he doesn't say anything. He figures they're not his words to say, that inevitably, the penny will drop eventually for one of you. Instead, he aids the process in any way that he can. He suggests you and Dean talk to a victim's friend while he'll speak to the professor you guys think could help you on your case. When it comes to the nightly routine of 'rock, paper, scissors' to decide which of the brothers gets the other side of the bed, he purposely loses to Dean now and then. Other times, he offers to go and get dinner while you two remain at the motel, working on the research.

Weeks pass, and you carry your love around with you like a little secret, a hidden necklace that you tuck back into your shirt when it accidentally slips out. You're oblivious to the fact that Dean's wearing the counterpart to your necklace, his tag molded to fit yours seamlessly. Sometimes, you think you get a glimpse of it. A hand on your lower back that lingers a little too long in place when he squeezes past you. A line of concern on his forehead, deeper than warranted by the small wound on you that he's patching up.

Sam sees these things and watches you write them off as platonic affection. He watches and waits, silently waiting for either of you to realize that in your case, both sides of the coin are one and the same.

Feedback is always appreciated! If you have any requests, feel free to send them my way. I'm always happy to practice my writing! :)

Masterlist

#dean winchester one shot #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester imagine #dean x reader #supernatural imagine #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural one shot #supernatural

[chaewonshoney]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ—SUMMER SCENT.

୨𓏲̼ pairing: enhypen hyung line x fem!reader.

𓇻𓈒ㅤㅤ about: a summer-themed collection of Enhypen hyung line. all the fics will contain individual stories.

status: upcoming. update: slower than a sloth.

release date: hopefully this summer.

taglist: open. send an ask or reply in this post to be added.

ARCHIVE FOR MORE....

LINE-UP:

001. AND JUST LIKE THAT MY HEART STARTED FEELING THE HOME. – 박성훈

𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ— pairing: ex-military!park sunghoon x journalist!fem!reader genre: high school frenemies to friends to lovers, slice-of-life, fluff, hurt/comfort, small town au, “healing” au. inspo: (kdrama) doctor slump x summer strike.

synopsis: after living your whole life fulfilling other's expectations towards you, you felt the urge to actually live the life, love yourself. moving into your hometown to "do nothing", you reunite with park sunghoon as the certain bright plot twist in your solemn life.

warnings: swearing, reader and sunghoon both are in their early 30s, mental health issues such as– severe depression, anxiety, insomnia and ptsd. mentions of meal skipping, fainting, eating disorder, insecurities, alcohol and family issues. (more to be added....)

w/c: tbd.

release date: 23rd June, 2024.

READ HERE

002. YOU(TH) – 이희승

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ—pairing: popularboy!lee heeseung x outcast!fem!reader. genre: high-school romance, neighborhood romance, summer break au, small town romance, he fell first she fell harder, quiet x quiet, slowburn, fluff.

synopsis: being the most “inattentive, spoiled and weird” kid ever since you've entered this criteria called society has certainly led you here... in the teenagehood where you were no one to anyone, at least that's what you knew before meeting the lee heeseung’s eyes in yours more often?

warnings: swearing, reader is in a obscure mental state, slightly philophobic reader, mentions of cheating (not reader or heeseung), blood, food. (more to be added...)

w/c: tbd.

release date: 10th July, 2024.

READ HERE

003. LOVE UNFOLDING OF SUNSHINE AND SIGHS – 박종성

𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ—pairing: coworker!park jongseong x fem!reader genre: enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, fluff, crack, flickers of angst, she fell first, he fell harder, grumpy x sunshine.

synopsis: ever since you stepped into the office entrance, jay's gaze has been drawn to you. well, totally not because you were beautiful and careless in his eyes, but because you were annoyingly captivating. how could someone combine such annoying charm with such striking beauty? to you, he was a fascinating puzzle to unravel, an intriguing complex code that you wanted to decode anytime soon. but falling in love with him wasn't part of the plan, you reckon.

warnings: suggestive, swearing, profanity, lots of kms and sexual jokes, getting drunk thousands of times, reader is head over heels for jay, mentions of food. (more to be added…)

w/c: tbd.

release date: tbd.

READ HERE

004. DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS – 심재윤

𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ— pairing: veterinarian!sim jaeyun x psychologist!fem!reader genre: strangers to lovers, exes to lovers, angst, romance, slowburn, hurt/comfort, mutual pinning. inspo: death by a thousand cuts by Taylor Swift.

synopsis: when you fell in love with him, both of you were young and in love, yet knowing you're gonna part away soon, but could you care less? saying goodbye to him was death by a thousand cuts. that's why flashbacks still woke you up. but something you didn't know was reuniting with him after eight years in that familiar place...

warnings: swearing, teenage romance vibes, breakups, depression, mentions of alcohol, food, family issues and mental health issues. (more to be added...)

w/c: tbd.

release date: tbd.

READ HERE

© all rights reserved for the user chaewonshoney, please don't plagiarize, copy or translate any works. reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated.

#enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen x female reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x y/n #enhypen oneshots #enhypen hyung line #heeseung #lee heeseung #jay #jay enhypen #park jongseong #jake enhypen #sim jaeyun #jake sim #sunghoon #park sunghoon #enhypen drabbles #enhypen imagines #enhypen soft hours #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon drabbles #sunghoon oneshots #park jongseong x reader #jay oneshots #jay soft hours #jake x reader #heeseung x reader #heeseung oneshots #jake oneshot

[neo--queen--serenity]

I’m still not over this conversation from the most recent episode. Yes, we knew that Tanjirou would be able to get through to Giyuu, due to their shared loss of family and loved ones at the hands of demons. And yes, we knew that Tanjirou still carried immense amounts of grief and sorrow when it came to these (still fairly recent) deaths.

But this is the first and only time Tanjirou has ever admitted to wishing that he had died instead of someone else. This is a huge and devastating thing for him to acknowledge about himself.

With his family, his survivor’s guilt was about not being there when Muzan attacked. Even though, realistically, he wouldn’t have stood a chance against Kibutsuji at the time, it doesn’t matter to him. This fact still constantly haunts him.

Rengoku’s death, though—this is the only time Tanjirou’s survivor’s guilt takes this shape, that his confusion and grief is so severe that he wishes that he had died instead.

Tanjirou tells himself that it’s because he believed Rengoku was capable of defeating Muzan someday. And there is some truth to this rationalization, but deep down, it’s an excuse. Rengoku didn’t survive against Akaza, a demon who—though incredibly formidable—was ultimately bound to have only a fraction of Muzan’s full strength.

Once the viewer understands this excuse for what it is, it hurts even more to understand why Rengoku’s death impacted him so heavily.

Tanjirou only knew Rengoku for a short period of time. And in that brief window, Rengoku managed to leave one of the greatest, deepest impressions on that him that few other characters were able to match.

There are many reasons why, but I think a huge part of it is because Rengoku was everything Tanjirou wanted and needed in his life at the time. He had other mentors up to this point, yes. But Rengoku was so similar to him, and his communication style was easy for Tanjirou to follow. He was affectionate, kind, morally sound, and near incontestable in a fight. Due to this, I think Tanjirou inadvertently saw Kyoujurou as the ideal demon slayer. The ideal fighter. The ideal person.

It doesn’t diminish his love for anyone else, not by a longshot. But Rengoku was, in ways Tanjirou may or may not have understood at the time, the perfect mentor for him. And that perfect person—someone he was desperate to learn from, someone he came to love so quickly and so fiercely—was snatched away from him before he could fully understand what he’d lost.

That’s why Tanjirou cried when Giyuu told him about Sabito. That’s why Tanjirou understood, without being told, that Giyuu was suffering from survival’s guilt. He heard and witnessed Giyuu’s despair firsthand, saw his loss and his struggle to live on and immediately empathized because it reminded him of how it felt to lose Rengoku.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #tanjirou kamado #giyuu tomioka #kyoujurou rengoku #kny spoilers #demon slayer spoilers #hashira training arc #tanjiro kamado #kamado tanjiro #kamado tanjirou #tomioka giyuu #water hashira #flame hashira #rengoku kyojuro #rengoku kyoujurou #kyojuro rengoku #kimetsu no yaiba spoilers #neo queen serenity’s posts #tomioka giyu #giyu tomioka #could also be seen in a shippy light but i support all versions of tanjirou’s love for rengoku #rentan #kny rengoku #kny tomioka #kny tanjirou #sabito

[brucewaynehater101]

I'm so glad you like it and I love all your feed back. Tim would 100% have plenty of trauma that he just. Is *refusing* to address due to starting that identity when he was likely still a teen. Tim having the identity if Jane Doe is also 100% going to help him with coming to terms with all the shifty stuff his family did.

As for Jason, I think he would see Jane refusing to be near him as Jane being skittish, likely due to the many guns he is visibly wearing. He knows he has a reputation as a protector, but he also knows that part of that reputation is that people do fear him. He'll just. Need to give Jane time to relax around him, yeah?

Though I do have a version that ends much worse for everyone. The Bats aren't the first to find out who Jane Doe is. No, Tim makes a mistake. To calm down someone he's friends with after they almost got mugged and he saved them as Red Robin, without thinking he made a joke referencing an inside joke which made the two ladies laugh. Only one problem. Only they and Jane Doe understand that joke because no one else was there. It was just those three. Meaning Jane Doe is Red Robin. Which would logically put N as Nightwing, H as (Red) Hood, and R as Robin with B as Batman.

This also means these two now "know" how the Bats treat Red Robin and they spread word *fast*. Within a week all the Sex Workers who were worried about Jane know and help Jane sneak away whenever they know a Bat is going to be coming by. This also means that almost over night all of the Sex Workers, Bar Owners, and most of the homeless (at least the ones in Jane's area who know him) are refusing to work with any Bats but Red Robin.

They are full on *scared* of Robin because they know he carries a sword, they know he uses it on criminals, and if he's willing to use that sword to nearly kill his own older brother multiple times? Whats stopping him from hurting them if he thinks they're up to something? Batman? The guy who they now believe either used to or still does beat up his own kids? No, they saw what happened before Tim became Robin they *remember*. The ones who flirted with Nightwing are suddenly shunning him or full on sneering at him. They believe he stole his own younger brother's first time (Tim only said N stole something precious that he could never give back and that it hurt very badly. He meant Robin but he couldn't tell them it was Robin) after tricking his younger brother into falling in love with him (Tim told them that Dick was the first person to make him feel truly loved and adored, because this is 100% bad parents Jack and Janet who told him "do whatever it takes to succeed")

There is so much miscommunication in this AU. It's funny and devastating at the same time.

Them finding out before the Bats reminds me of the fics that explore the street kids finding out that Red Hood beat up Robin (a child) even though he promised to never harm kids and to protect them. This causes them to instantly distrust him, and Red Hood is never able to earn their trust again.

I imagine that the sex workers would probably react similarly to Red Hood. Instead of being greeted warmly, suddenly everyone is treating im with caution. That's so much fucking angst for Jason (especially if he finds comfort/support from sex workers due to them helping him when he was homeless).

Also, there might be a time when the sex workers are mad at Red Robin (and some probably stay mad). They see taking a persona of a sex worker as insulting and making light of their situation. Some of them would never do that work if they had choices, which RR obviously has.

Then they start to logic how old he was when he started (he was doing this when he was Robin), how he is actually still selling himself because he performs the work, and that he probably does view it as a necessity. I wonder if there's any misconceptions that Batman knew/knows about RR's activities and whether they would compare that to pimps.

But yeah. They would become almost hostile to all Bats and RH.

#dc comics #tim drake #dc universe #thank you for the ask!!!! #dc au #jason todd

[justporo]

Back Under the Weeping Willow

Brimsterton | A Staevstarion Regency AU

A/N: So we kind of all had a collective feverdream on a Discord server and what came from it was this Astarion x Staeve Regency AU - namely Brimsterton. Much of this originated when we went ham on the server and ping-ponged ideas around. So, many of these ideas were a collective effort with credit specifically going to @somewhatclear @silmaryel and @astarions-pervert-goth-wife. Thank you guys, mwa! That was so much fun. And ofc also big thanks to @velnna who keeps letting me play with his blorbo. Staeve is my favourite barbie doll! <3 Will I ever come back to this? We will see... ~~~ Summary: Astarion Ancunín, only heir to his family's estate and name, finds himself back in his hometown. Suddenly Duke after his parents untimely demise duty demands he takes matters in his own hands and goes towards an unsure future. But back home is still the same: the same old people, the same old fields. The same old memories, the same old yearning as he meets his childhood friend Staeve again - the reason why he left in the first place all these years ago.

Pairing: Astarion/Staeve Wordcount: 1,7k Warnings: mention of character death

The message about his parent’s death had reached Astarion through a courier letter as he had been attending a social gathering. A disease had withered them away more quickly than anyone could’ve had believed. He was duke now. He now owned the estate.

He’d read the words. And a second time and a third. Then he had excused himself without further words and had gone home to pack.

Had someone observed him they would have probably only thought he’d encountered a mild inconvenience. Nothing of consequence really.

And Astarion would have preferred it if had been nothing but a minor inconvenience. That he didn’t have to return to his hometown, to his parents’ - no his - estate now.

But duty demanded it. And duty, in the end, had always been the master that the young duke had bowed to.

On the inside though, conflicting emotions had been wreaking havoc: a certain sadness about all of this, surely, but more than that fear, concern, lodging below his ribs.

But deeper another thing entirely had reared its head: a spark of yearning suddenly being reignited, that he thought had gone cold a long time ago. Almost ten years ago, to be exact.

But as he had quickly arranged for everything to be packed up, a carriage to be sent and for a message to be delivered to a friend to hopefully accompany him on this trip that was bound to become a disaster, he felt his mind preoccupied not with thoughts of mourning. He had barely remembered to request for his all black attire to be laid out for him as visions of forest green hair, teal eyes and that wicked grin flashed through his mind - long past, but surely not forgotten. Never forgotten.

And with memories of old clouding his mind, he had begun his journey towards home - and an unsure future.

Coming home had hurt.

Not merely because of the harsh reality of Astarion’s parents' untimely end. Because this was obviously all very tragic and unfortunate of course.

But in truth he had been estranged from his parents for as long as he could remember. And it had gotten worse over the ten years he had been spending apart from them - and there. Scarce letters had been his only bridge to a past he usually tried to forget.

The real pain though, as the carriage rattled down the rough roads to his past home, had lingered in how everything was still the same.

The same flower fields being turned into grassy seas of green speckled with colour by the wind rushing through them. The same rocks the carriage’s axle struggled not to break under. The same sky painted grey with a storm that might or might not come. The same small town, the same houses, the same ancient weeping willow up on the hill.

The same people.

The same memories.

The same pain pestering him as his hometown came into view after the same final turn of the road.

The same ache he had felt when leaving all those years ago.

Not even Jenevelle accompanying him and laying a calming hand on his knee as Astarion had kept staring out of the carriage window, with his arm propped up and his hand pressed to his cheek, had been able to soothe this particular pain.

Stoically, he had carried on, just the same.

He’d been welcomed at the Ancunín estate with everyone of the staff wearing black and sullen faces. All of them had waited in a line before the manor. Awaiting the new duke with heavy, grieving hearts.

And word of the young duke returning home must’ve had travelled fast because almost immediately after he had received the staff’s condolences, shaking everyone’s hands and exchanging the customary friendly words and sad smiles, people from town had made visits.

There had been more handshakes, eyes full of understanding, even some tears had shed and Astarion’s shoulder patted more often than he would have liked. And even a few confused glances as people noticed his company of a young fair haired woman without the accompanying rings on either of their hands. But at least the shock about his parents’ untimely demise and the grief laying on the whole place like a sheet had spared him the judgement.

It hadn’t spared him of people coddling him though.

So now here he was at a small get-together at someone else’s estate. Having been pushed to attend because visitors had felt guilty about leaving the mourning man alone at this giant estate where everything must be reminding him of the family he had just lost.

Astarion would have much rather stayed at the Ancunín estate. But he couldn’t have exactly told anyone that. Not when polite and caring invitations had been made - and duty demanded of him to kindly take them up on it.

Unfortunately, the small get-together had also turned out to be a not small at all ball. People were dancing and drinking. And then quickly hiding their smiles behind their hands, putting on masks of sadness and concern as soon as they spotted him.

The evening had been filled with more people crowding around Astarion, grabbing his hand to offer him words of support and understanding or a story about his parents he had to pretend he hadn’t heard a million times yet.

Finally, after Astarion had badly mimicked almost breaking into tears after having been told the same story of how his parents had organised that one particular ball, everyone in town still remembered, for the fourth time in a row, he had been left alone. And thankfully even Jenevelle had, after throwing him another asking look, just went to explore the event on her own.

Now the young duke was sitting in a corner alone, holding on to what was now his third cup of wine, as he observed the couples turning on the dancefloor. He watched through people passing by and obnoxious, incredibly pretentious and tasteless low hanging palm leafs from trees that had been placed everywhere. At least they also provided for a nice and rather hidden corner where Astarion had fled so as to not be approached by griefing townsfolk anymore.

Cheerful dance music drifted through the air and the sweet smell of spring flower bouquets filled the massive room as gauzy skirts in all kinds of pastel colours swished over the floors with young ladies smiling coyly and young men nearly falling at their feet for just one of those smiles.

Even as Astarion found himself not as closely moved by grief as people expected him to be, he found it all abhorrent.

It were the same tasteless people with their same tiny mindsets only reaching from here to the next bigger city and their same annoying and boring soirees.

There had only ever been the one person who had made this place interesting.

Astarion downed the rest of the wine in one big gulp and got up to grab another one while wondering how much longer he would need to stay for it to not be considered rude. 

He spotted a servant with a silver tray carrying new drinks in crystal glasses - unfortunately almost on the other side of the room. With a curse under his breath he began moving through the crowd, his head held low to avoid eye contact and more people feeling the need to talk to him, reach for him, console him.

As he passed the edge of the dancefloor he made the mistake of looking up and across the dancefloor where couples were still happily moving in endless twists and turns.

And found the sight he’d been fearing most for. Or yearning for. Astarion really wasn’t quite sure.

On the other side of the dancefloor stood the inspiration and source for those pictures and memories plaguing him since he had sat down in that carriage travelling here. And that ache. And that longing.

The trillering joyful music drifting through the air suddenly seemed muted, time almost slowed down as all those images suddenly came together all at once.

He looked almost like he remembered - the only thing he was not mad about for being the same.

Long dark green hair messily tied back, clothes fine but just a tad dishevelled as to let everyone around know that he wasn’t just like everyone else around. That he didn’t fear to be a little rough around the edges. Teal and black eyes were glinting just as vividly as in Astarion’s memories as he was talking to some lady and lazily holding his cup of wine by the rim.

And then there was his smile. That wicked smile curling up the corners of his lips as he listened to his companion talk.

The freckles on his dark skin had gotten a little more intense and plenty, Astarion could immediately tell. They suited him just as nicely though as they had back then. There were a few lines around his mouth and eyes now and his face just a little leaner, having lost the softness and immaturity of youth in the flesh. But  - as Astarion kept being transfixed by watching him - not his manners or his mind it looked like.

Staeve.

Almost all the same.

As were Astarion’s emotions, finally having torn themselves free from below the worry and the fear. The twinge of longing setting his chest ablaze, threatening to let him burn up right on the spot. His heart began to thunder and his hands still clutching the goblet started to tremble as he stood there rooted in place and beholding the sight of the man that had made him leave his home so many years ago.

Then Staeve’s expression changed. Eyebrows drew together and his eyes darted to the side. As if he had caught on that he was being watched. His head flew around, probably rudely interrupting his date’s words and immediately spotting Astarion.

The young duke immediately felt the heat spread to his cheeks and he hastily tried to turn away as if nothing had happened.

But Staeve didn’t even waste a heartbeat to smile at him, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes even further. The moment drew out between two heartbeats, feeling endless, as they laid eyes upon each other after ten years apart.

Then Staeve lifted his cup in greeting - as if it had only been yesterday.

And only then did Astarion feel that he had returned home.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #fanfiction #astarion x tav #staeve #astarion x staeve #drabble #bg3 #brimsterton #staevstarion