#its more than likely her assuring him that he's doing the right thing despite not believing that herself

[daycourtofficial]

Snapshots of Time

Summary: your relationship with Azriel, as shown through your relationship with Cassian.

Author’s note: this is based on this incredible request. Honestly I could do this forever I’m OBSESSED with Cassian I need to be his best friend like now.

-

The hulking Illyrian general looked down at the woman in front of him, examining her outstretched hand. Azriel stood behind her, watching Cassian with curious eyes.

No one knew how this was going to go, what to expect. Azriel never brought girls home, let alone asking Cassian to meet one of them. The moment clear in his mind, as Azriel walked into the dining room to eat breakfast with Cassian.

The shadowsinger sat down, setting his morning coffee, eggs, and bacon in front of him. Cassian looked at him, nodding in greeting as he shoveled some cantaloupe into his mouth.

His brother spoke first, “are you doing anything after lunch?”

Cassian thought about his day, he had dinner plans, but nothing for the afternoon. He shakes his head no, his mouth still full of cantaloupe.

“Good,” his brother tells him, “I want you to meet someone.” Cassian stops chewing, surprised at this. “You want me to meet someone?” Is what he tried to say, but with the cantaloupe blocking his throat, it came out more like, “boo bant me bo beat bomeone?”

Despite the confusing question, Azriel knew what his brother meant and sighed. “Yes, I’ve been… seeing someone.”

His tone conveys he doesn’t want this conversation to continue, but Cassian will not let him get away without a few answers. “You’ve been seeing someone?”

“Yes,” Azriel states, “and she wants to meet you.”

Cassian finally swallows the hunk of cantaloupe, “so it’s a her?” He asks, waggling his eyebrows. Azriel swallows his bite of eggs, disdain coating his voice. “If you can’t handle it-“

Cassian cuts him off, “Oh, I can handle it, brother. I assure you.”

He looked again at the lady in front of him, a smile adorning her face, making her look so soft, so warm.

He can see why she has Azriel wrapped around her finger - she’s been in front of Cassian for all of thirty seconds, telling him her name and offering her hand to shake, and he already finds her incredibly endearing.

But he also wants to give both of them a hard time. As nice as she may look, this is serious for his brother. His brother, who has always felt so undeserving of love, bringing someone to meet his family.

Well, to just meet Cassian. Azriel figured slow introductions was the best way to go about this, and he started with Cassian. A decision Cassian can tell Azriel is starting to regret.

“Ah,” he takes your hand, giving you a bone crushing handshake. You take it like a champ, he notes, as he calls you by the wrong name. It’s close to your own name, but not exact.

You correct him, prompting him to call you a different, incorrect name. He looks at you expectantly, the eye contact you share telling Cassian that you know exactly what he’s doing. And you don’t back down.

“That’s right, Calliope.” You respond, “nice to meet you.” You smile at him, a sweet smile that he sees through.

Wonderful.

-

Azriel had asked Cassian if it would be okay if he brought you to training. It was something you seemed interested in and, Azriel admits to Cass, if things continue he’d prefer you to have some knowledge of defending yourself.

Cassian had seen you a time or two since your first introduction, the two of you continuing to use incorrect names for each other. He agreed to let you come, as long as he could help your training.

You showed up to training the next morning, a teasing smirk making it’s way to Cassian’s face as you approach.

“Behave,” Azriel warns his brother, as he approaches you. You smile as he gets closer, standing on your toes to kiss him quickly.

Cassian’s desire to tease you both falters for a second, wanting nothing more than to make a comment about the red finding its way up Az’s neck, heating his cheeks. The general goes to say something, stopping as he watches the way you look at his brother. Your eyes show such kindness, such warmth, even from yards away.

You walk up, greeting Cassian as you come up to him. “Good morning, Cassandra.” He chuckles, throwing an incorrect name back at you. “You ready to learn?”

You beam, “yeah! Hopefully you’re a good teacher - maybe I’ll surpass you and take your job.”

You start shadow boxing around him, pretending to hit him. Cassian laughs at you, as Azriel looks at you fondly, your back turned to him.

The two of them lead you through a variety of stretches, they teach you how to throw a punch, and where to strike an opponent for the most impact.

“Can I spar with you?” You ask Cassian, both of the males eyebrows shooting up at your request. “I’d ask Azriel, but I don’t want to ruin his pretty face,” you say, cupping his face in your hands.

Cassian grumbles as you two walk towards the clearing, “I’m pretty too…”

You laugh, as he turns to face you. “Okay, sunshine, let’s spar.”

You two circle each other, and Azriel watches from the sidelines in both amusement and to ensure you don’t get hurt. Cassian throws a lazy punch at you, which you block flawlessly, the shock etching his face. You throw a piss poor punch on purpose, wanting him to lower his guard. He blocks your punch easily, and you two continue in this half-assed dance for a few minutes, until you decide to go all out.

You fake a left jab, causing Cassian to move to defend his left side, leaving the right side of his face open for your fist to collide with.

The impact creates a bone breaking sound that doesn’t come from your fingers. Azriel sucks in a breath, running towards the two of you as Cassian falls to the ground.

He looks up at you, the blood dripping down his face. “Where’d you learn that, sunshine?” He laughs, spitting blood out in the ground.

“I have three older brothers,” you smile down at him. “They taught me how to throw a punch.”

You offer a hand, and he takes it, laughing as you help him up.

-

Cassian’s wings were flapping so hard, so fast. He was exhausted, the events of the day catching up to him. Determination to get to you was keeping him moving.

He vaguely knew where you lived, Azriel mentioning stopping by to see you after going to a bakery. He lands in front of the bakery, and does the only things he knows how to: he starts knocking on doors.

Various Velaris citizens open their doors, ready to be angry at whoever is pounding on their door in the dead of night, until they see the High Lord’s General, asking if anyone with your name or your description lives there or if they know you. Eventually he reaches a door where the woman inside tells him that you live a few doors down, with the green door and flowers on your doorstep.

He approaches the door, knocking until you open the door, only allowing a small sliver to see who is there. “Cassian?” You ask, opening the door wider. He can tell he woke you up, due to your messy hair and sapphire blue nightgown.

You wake up at the realization of Cassian being at your door, immediately asking him if Azriel’s okay. Cassian shakes his head, asking if you want to come see him. You ask how dire it is, and he says you have a moment to change into actual clothes. You find some sweatpants and a shirt Azriel had left at your place, and allow his brother to scoop you into his arms as you two fly towards the House of Wind.

The flight is silent, both of your anxieties practically palpable through the air. You two eventually land, Cassian leading you directly to Azriel’s chambers.

You had been a frequent visitor to Az’s room in the other residences, but you’d only been in the House of Wind once. You’re thankful for Cassian’s lead, following close behind him.

You wind through the halls until Cassian stops in front of a door, knocking softly. He waits a moment, then enters, no response from the other side. He opens the door and Rhys is present, turning to look at the both of you as you enter the room.

You take in Azriel’s form on the bed. He’s asleep, you hope, watching his chest, watching it rise and fall slowly. You match your breathing with his, the deep breaths calming you, the only way Azriel can soothe you right now.

“How- uh- how bad is it?” You ask, unable to look away from his form on the bed. You approach slowly, taking in the injuries as you get closer. You’re a few feet away and you can see the deep bruising on his face, his chest, his arms. You shutter, his knuckles covered in blood.

Rhys grabs your shoulders softly, “he’s going to be okay, sore, but okay. He was asking for you, though.”

You nod, Azriel’s request warming your heart a bit. He always came to you after missions to help bandage his wounds. You smile a bit at the fact that whatever the hell happened to him out there didn’t stop him from wanting to continue that tradition.

Cassian is the first to move, as he moves two chairs to sit next to Azriel’s bed. He gestures for you to sit in one of them, as he takes up residence in the other one.

Rhys rubs your shoulders softly as he asks, “do you want some tea? Water? Anything?”

You clear your throat, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Some tea would be nice, thanks.”

Azriel woke up feeling incredibly groggy and like he had fallen from a balcony. He heard laughing, and he kept his eyes closed to figure out what was happening near him.

The room smelled like his room, the sheets felt like his, and he almost snapped his eyes open at your laugh.

No, not just your laugh, but the loud boisterous laugh of Cassian and the soft amused laugh of Rhys.

The three of you were talking about him.

“The morning he told me he wanted us to meet, he was shaking like a wet dog,” Rhys said, amusement lacing his tone.

“No hr wasn’t,” you say, shock in your voice. “Oh, yes,” Rhys replies, shifting in his seat. “He’s never brought anyone home before, and he’s never talked about anyone before.”

Cassian snorts, “I almost caught him with someone a century ago. I swear I heard something, but when I came in poof they were gone.”

You laugh, the sound filling Azriel’s chest with warmth. “He had told me that you two wanted to meet me!”

Rhys laughs, “he told us you wanted to meet us!”

You all laugh, as Azriel stirs slightly. He opened his eyes to find Rhys in a chair on his right, with you and Cassian taking up two chairs on his left.

“Don’t listen to anything they say,” Azriel rasps, coughing from how dry his throat was. “They’re both liars.”

Azriel closed his eyes again, but he felt your hand wrap around his, and he could see your face in his mind. Your hand squeezed his, and despite the injuries, he couldn’t help the smile on his face.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi Azzy,” Cassian responds, earning a groan from Azriel.

You want to touch his face, but you’re worried you’ll hurt him.

“Well, now that you’re awake, we’ll see ourselves out,” Rhysand told him, offering him a wink as his brothers get up and begin moving to the door.

“A woman’s love is the best medicine,” Cassian says.

“You assholes aren’t even going to see how I am? After staying all night?”

Cassian laughs, “oh, we didn’t stay here out of concern over you. We stayed to keep her company.”

-

Looking at where you and the general stood, you regretted the events leading you here. “I’m just saying he’d love this little black number.”

Cassian currently had an arm draped around a mannequin, wearing the least amount of fabric possible.

“Cassian,” you hiss, embarassment leaking out of you, “why are we here?”

“You asked for help for a gift - this is my help!” He says, gesturing broadly around the lingerie shop. You hiss at him, “this isn’t what I had in mind-“

A chipper voice cuts you off, “good morning! How are you two today?” You turn to find a pretty shopkeeper looking at you and Cassian, her eyes lingerinf on his biceps wrapped around the mannequin. You swear you see him flex a little.

Cassian looks at you with a shit-eating grin as he tells her, “great! I’m helping her find a gift for my brother.”

She looks between you two, confusion on her face. “Is it for him to wear? We have a men’s section-“

“No, no,” Cassian says,”I’ll come back another day to check out that section. We’re looking for something for her, preferably in black or blue.”

He smiles at the shop associate, and she blushes at his attention. He winks at her, as she turns around to find you some options.

“Cassian, I’d prefer it if you weren’t aware of my lingerie choices.”

He raises his hands up, “I can close my eyes if that’ll make you feel better.” He places his hands over his eyes, “just guide me around the store, please, so I don’t fondle any mannequins.”

-

“I know something you don’t know,” Cassian coos at you, swaggering into the room. You’re seated in the library, enjoying a nice book by the fire. At least, you were.

“Hi Cass,” you say, taking a sip of your wine. He plops down next to you, stretching his arm behind you on the couch. You almost recoil at his smell, clearly coming in straight from training or fighting or something.

“Ugh, Cass, can you shower before showing up? You have a smell.” You fake gag at him.

He waggles his eyebrows, “some call it a musk,” he replies, “and I know you like it when Azzie is all sweaty after training.”

You roll your eyes, moving a little away from him. “Yes, but he’s hot. It’s different.”

He gawks at you. “It’s not different!” He insists, “I’m hot!”

You sigh, accepting the turn in conversation. “Yes, but not when you smell like that.”

He waggles his eyebrows, “so you do think I’m hot?” You slap him across the chest. “Yes, you’re a very handsome boy. Now what did you know that I don’t?”

Cassian pauses, trying to remember why he came in here in the first place. Then he remembers, smiling at you. He leaned back, placing his hands together on his stomach.

“Ah, yes. I know something you don’t know.”

You huff, “yes Cassian, and I know plenty that you don’t know.”

“Yes but my knowledge is about a certain pretty shadowsinger.”

You eye him, his grin spanning his whole face. “What do you know?”

Cassian looks at his hands, twiddling his thumbs. “What’s it worth to you?”

You push him, “tell me.”

“What’s it worth?”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

“Value?”

You sigh, “I’ll set you up with my friend Varia.”

He lifts an eyebrow, “promise?”

“If your information is valuable enough.”

“Oh I can guarantee it.”

“Then we have a deal. What do you know?”

Cassian looks around the room, to ensure you’re truly alone, including the presence of any nosey shadows. Once he feels confident you’re truly alone, he tells you, “I saw him in a jewelry store today.”

You pause, “okay?”

“And your birthday isn’t for six months, solstice was two months ago, your anniversary is in 8 months, so…”

He motions his hands, hoping you’ll get what he’s insinuating.

“He’s preparing?” You ask. The general rolls his eyes. He grabs both of your arms, shaking you as he tells you, “he was looking at rings!”

You gasp, “no you did not! Did you see any? What did they look like? Do you think they’d fit my fingers?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, “well he wasn’t shopping at Jewelry for Giants”

You hit him in the chest with a pillow. “No, I didn’t see any of them, but he was there for quite a while. Pretty sure the shop assistant showed him everything he had in the store.”

You squeal, launching yourself onto Cassian in a hug. “This better be real, valid intel Cassian or I swear I’ll cut off your testicles and feed them to Bryaxis.”

He eventually leaves, having had enough of your squealing and questions about rings, opting for a glass of milk before bed. As he’s in the kitchen pouring a glass he hears from behind him, “Cassian I know you saw me.”

He flinches, but just barely, causing the shadowsinger to smile just a touch. “Saw you where?”

Azriel sighed, “stop playing dumb with me Cassian, you saw me at Winston’s Jewelry.”

Cassian’s surprised at Azriel’s forwardness, his lack of dancing around subjects a skill Cassian wishes he shared. “Yes, I did. So? I assumed you were buying a birthday gift.”

His brother doesn’t buy the fib. “You know exactly what I was looking for in that store.”

“Mm, jewelry?”

Azriel closes his eyes, counting to ten, to keep himself from leaping across the kitchen and stabbing his brother. He keeps his eyes closed as he says, “I bought a ring.”

“This is so sudden, brother, I mean how could I say yes when we haven’t even spent a night together?”

Azriel rubs the bridge of his nose, annoyance still there from the moment he saw Cassian watching him. “Not for you, for her.” He pauses and Cassian doesn’t try to fill it, waiting for Azriel to continue.

Azriel sighs, letting the truth fill the room. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Cassian cheers in delight, excitement coursing through him.

“How are you going to do it? A bunch of flowers everywhere? Oh, oh, put the ring on your cock and -“

Azriel balks at Cassian, the headache coming back. He goes to walk away, but stops. “Just - don’t tell her you saw me. Please?”

Cassian pales, but agrees, and watches his brother head towards his room. Once he hears the click of his door, he races across the house to the library, where you’re still seated.

“Don’t-“ he pants, “mention anything about rings.” He pants again, surprisingly winded. “I didn’t tell you anything.” He turns to walk away, but he hears you say, “okay?” before he walks out.

-

You were spreading olive oil across the grape tomatoes as you heard your door open. You didn’t hear movement as your husband walked into the kitchen, your back turned to him.

“You’re home early,” you say, stirring the gnocchi. “How was your day, sweets?”

“It was fine, darling,” you hear Cassian respond, followed by a chair dragging across your floor as he plops down, spreading his legs wide, taking up a considerable amount of space.

You turned around, expecting a different Illyrian in your kitchen, a quick retort on your tongue as you look down and see his shoes. “Cassian!” You scold, “I’ve told you to take off your muddy boots before you come in.”

You walk over to him, flicking him in the ear. He rubs it softly, muttering about something. “Sorry, dear,” he says, emphasizing the term of endearment, as he starts unlacing his shoes.

You begin walking back to continue your cooking. “I thought you were my husband,” you shout to him as he walks back through your living room, the door softly opening. “Well, I’m flattered sweetheart, I thought we could have had something special, too, but my rascal of a brother got you first.”

You roll your eyes at him, stirring your noodles, “We never would have worked out, Cass. We’re both too chipper, we need to share our happiness with the grumps of the world.”

Cassian snorted, opening your fridge to grab a beer, “no we wouldn’t have worked out because Azriel would have murdered me if I made a move.”

He opens his beer bottle with his teeth, chuckling.

You laugh, cutting up your cooked chicken to mix it back into the pasta. “Oh what could have been, Cass. The world wouldn’t have been able to handle us together.”

“I know I certainly couldn’t.”

You smile, feeling your husband ghost a kiss to your cheek. He wraps his arms around you, basking in your scent before he goes to get his own beer.

Cassian rolls his eyes, “you would have skulked for hundreds of years, brother.” Your eyebrows raise, “you think we would have been together for centuries?”

“Oh yeah,” Cassian nods, putting his beer down on the table. “If not out of love, out of spite.” He gives Azriel a little smirk, and Azriel slaps the back of his head.

“Why are you here, Cass, other than to flirt with my wife?” He asks, taking his usual seat at the table.

“Yeah, Cass, didn’t you have a date tonight?” You ask, placing the pan in the oven and setting a timer. Azriel stills at your question. His brother did have a date tonight, one that should have started two hours ago.

You both reach the same conclusion as you say, “oh, Cass,” turning around to look at him. “What happened?”

He shrugs, starting to rip the label off his bottle to occupy himself. “She just.. wasn’t right.” He sighs, a contemplative look overcoming his features. “I just want something real. Not a few nights, not a few months. Something real. Like you two.”

Cassian’s face reddens, his admission in the air. He’s about to apologize, but you wrap your arms around his head, placing your own on top of his.

“You deserve someone incredible, Cass. Someone that isn’t me.” He laughs, patting your arms. “I’m sorry she didn’t work out. But you’re free to stay for dinner tonight, if you want. I’m making pesto chicken gnocchi.”

Cassian sighs, deflating in your arms a bit, “I don’t want to impose-“

Azriel snorts, “yes you do. Go ahead, Cassian. Impose. We’re happy to let you.” Cassian smiles, a real, genuine smile. Most nights the loneliness doesn’t get to him, but this is a rare night for vulnerability, and as the three of you gather around the table, gossiping about the girl Rhys was under the mountain with and how she was now at the Moonstone Palace with Rhys, Cassian feels his friends help carry his burden.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #acotar writing #azriel x y/n

[balancethescales]

thinking about the specific moments where the berzatto family falls in love with sydney (because of course they do, everyone does).

for richie, it takes the end of the beef and right up till the opening of the bear to happen. he is full of contempt and grief when he meets her and all he knows is that when he looks at her face he is afraid. he doesn’t like that feeling. richie is not a man who finds himself fearful a lot, but she is everything he is not and nothing that he is and he hates himself for it. if she is what it means to be passionate, then what is he? is he nothing but an empty shell of mikey, stuck on earth to shake his fist at passing clouds, because how dare they move and continue on like mikey was nothing to them, as if he wasn’t the very point that the earth revolved around? everyone is leaving him behind, and she is proudly leading the pack. it’s not right. but then— he gets it. he talks to garrett and jess and chef terry and he sees sydney in every corner of that restaurant. the fear slowly is replaced with respect as the week goes on and he realizes that just because she’s good doesn’t mean she’s out to get him. that’s the berzatto upbringing in him doing the talking, but it doesn’t have to, because shes a berzatto now, maybe not officially (not yet, but mark his words, she will be) but she is, and that’s not how she does things. so, he lets her lead them into the future to something good and different and better.

for sugar, it’s instant. she was born to a mother who is triggered by her very existence, and it has hurt her all her life. she is full of love and the one person she wants to give it to the most doesn’t want any part of it. she was born to give but is surrounded by those who are afraid to even take it, to reach out their hand and meet her in the middle. and if they cant take then they themselves have nothing to give, so she gets used to being the one who has to force feed her love down their throats, because if no one does, if no one shows them that they are worthy of good things, then they will crumble (“if i just talked to him more—” “no, nat—” “if i had just—” “it’s not your fault, honey. it’s never been.”). but when she meets sydney, it’s like looking into a mirror. she sees her bright eyes and soft smiles and careful but strong hands and instantly recognizes her for what she is: a giver. and sugars heart swells with even more love than she thought possible, because finally, she’s not alone— there is someone else there to slowly, albeit subconsciously, take care of her crumbling family, to show them that despite what their mother may have taught them, its okay to not be okay (she tries her best not to cry when syd asks her if shes okay, but she does. and syd doesnt grab her face or yell at her or call her stupid. she makes her a meal. and sugar cries some more).

for cicero, the love isn’t instant, and it’s not even entirely love. she is strong and she is assertive, but that also makes her naive and a very expensive risk. she makes him curious for what’s to come, intrigued by the way she doesn’t back down from carmy whose voice so often mimics the berzattos that came before him (“you’re better than this, kid.” “i don’t know what i am.” “whatever it is, it’s not this.”). she's self assured and knows her place in the establishment and is unafraid to let people know it. it’s a refreshing change of pace from mikey, who often resorted to intimidation to get his way, or carmy, who’s anxiety envelopes him and distracts him from what’s right there in front of him. but she is not them. she is focused and on track and is willing to put in the work to get what she wants. he doesn’t visit the bear often, only drops by once in a while to deliver bad news or to fulfill a favour or to just enjoy some good food, but when he does, she is always there, dedicated to ensuring that carmy and michaels, and now, her dream stays alive. she is good for his family, and he trusts her to keep the berzatto spirit alive.

for michelle, it’s quite simple. she always looked out for carmy, their little bear, so when she meets her it’s a family thanksgiving party at the bear and syd stumbles out of the kitchen, obviously frazzled and a little sweaty (“carmy, im not ready, i didn’t even change yet and the turk—” “don’t worry, tina will take care of it, you look great, they’ll love you, they just really wanted to meet you—”), but she’s smiling. she’s a little awkward when she introduces herself, and michelle finds herself endeared by her nervous ramble (“it’s, uh, really nice to meet you guys. sorry, i didn’t know that i was going to be pulled out of the kitchen so soon. uh, im sydney. yeah, i guess carmy already told you guys, huh? um. im sorry, how are you related to the family again? i mean, i dont want to offend but it’s just. uh. well, you guys are just very... normal?”) and she’ll laugh and look at stanley and the two of them will think to themselves, good job carmy, she’s a good one, before telling syd something dumb and nonsensical about a genetic mutation and richie interrupts to tell michelle it’s not a genetic mutation it’s called being boring and syd will laugh and michelle will too, truly happy that their little bear found someone normal, a breath of fresh air within the smoke of their family.

for donna, it’s weird. it’s tense. they don’t meet for a long time. they don’t meet at the bear when it first opens and not at the bear even when it has found it’s footing, but by chance. they are somewhere mundane (a grocery store, a park, or maybe just the street) and there is no other family member around when syd meets the berzatto matriarch. she only knows what donna looks like from photos at sugars house because carmys apartment is devoid of any actual sentiment (although that has begun to change since she made him get an actual dresser and he dedicated one of the drawers to her stuff). she calls out to her by her name, and donna turns around startled. she doesn’t recognize syd, of course, who introduces herself and informs her of who she is to the family. when donna smiles it’s not a real one, and syd knows this, but it doesn’t deter her. she tells donna that her kids love her (“even after everything, nat?” “she’s our mother. its all that we can do.”) and that her kids are great (“carmy, you are not broken.” “im a little broken.” “no, listen to me, the fact that you are still here, means something. its something.”) and that there will always be a table for her at the bear (“chef, someones calling in for a reso for 1 but we’re all full up… except for—“ “yo, dont finish that sentence. table 7 for ms. berzatto is an indefinite booking. is that understood?” “yes, chef”). donnas smile fades and her chest fills with anger but just as she’s about to explode in typical berzatto fashion syd interrupts her. she has faced the bear many a time before and has handled herself with grace and dignity everytime, so this is no different. she smiles brightly and thanks donna for listening to her and hopes she considers coming in, because she’d really like to cook for her. she looks like she needs a good meal. she deserves one. she turns and walks away. donnas stomach growls. that night, table 7 is occupied for the first time since the bear opened its doors.

and carmy? well, there isn’t an exact moment. its a culmination of awkward partnership (“i don’t want to be shitty.” “okay, then dont be.”) and flawless teamwork (“the menu needs—” “already on it, chef.”) and nights unwinding at the bar down the street (“of course you drink an old fashioned.” “what’s that supposed to mean?” “nothing, it’s just very… tortured-chef-from-the-slums-of-chicago of you”) and spontaneous phone calls just to hear the others voice (“why are you whispering?” “i… don’t know. my dads home. its a habit.” “you’re 27.” “and you’re white, you wouldn’t get it.”) till they’re just inseparable (“cousin, wheres carmy?” “with syd, duh.” “why'd i even ask?”). and then, sydney and carmen become something else. something tender and sweet and terrifying and beautiful all mixed together into… something. there’s no word for what they have. but it feels so right; to the guests who taste their food and recognize that the hands who put it together are full of love and care; to the staff at the bear who see the unspoken communication, the lingering touches, and their soft eyes that seem to always be on the other; to the berzatto family who notice that carmy looks a little brighter, and shakes a little less. yes, its love, but its so much more. it’s syd and carmy. it always has been, and always will be.

(“can i ask you something? something corny and lame and gross?” “always.” “when did you, like, know?” “know what?” “like, when did you know that you loved me? like, not as a chef or a friend, but as... y'know.” “that’s very middle school of you to ask.” “shut up, i did warn you.” “…” “so?” “its, uh, i don’t, i don’t know.” “well, that’s rude.” “no, i mean, i can’t say its one moment because... it was all of them. together. like, one moment you’re staging and then everything happened and, and, keeps happening but the next thing i knew you were there and you always were there and i just knew that i never wanted you to not be there.” “that’s…. really, really, disgusting, and frankly, a little unprofessional.” “oh, fuck off.” “no, like, i knew you were obsessed with me, but wow, that is a whole new other level.” “fuck you, get off of me, don’t touch me.” “no no no, please—” “i let you into my family—” “let me?” “into my restaurant—” “i think you mean OUR restaurant—” “only for you to humiliate me in my own bed? how dare you.” “…are you sulking?” “…” “…carmy?” “syd?” “me too.” “…heard, chef. now come back here.”)

(and it’s unspoken, but everyone knows that michael would’ve loved her too. i mean, she’s sydney fucking adamu, she conquered the bear. how could anyone not love her?)

#this is just a love letter to sydney adamu #because she is everything right with the world #she’s got that dawg (re: bear) in her #the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #sydney adamu #ayo edibiri #carmen berzatto #jeremy allen white #richie jerimovich #natalie berzatto #cicero the bear #cousin michelle the bear #donna berzatto #michael berzatto #sydcarmy #sydney x carmy #carmy x sydney

[seresinhangmanjake]

Can't Let You Go

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader

Summary: When you and Jake broke up, it hurt both of you more than you could handle. Now, after three months of barely seeing or speaking to one another, Jake walks in on the surprise of seeing you in a wedding dress, and it brings past memories and ruined dreams to the surface.

Notes/Warnings: it's a fluffy ending (despite how the summary makes it sound). maybe a bit angsty . There might be cursing. Jake smokes a cigarette. Bradley and Nat are together for this, but there's not much focus on it (sorry to those who find that unappealing).

Words: 1800

-----

What’s the worst that could happen?

That one question was how your bride-to-be best friend got you to squeeze yourself into a wedding dress. You’d protested, heavily, but the last thing you wanted was to snuff out her excitement. So you appeased her with a nod and a false smile and shuffled into a dressing room to do as she'd begged.

What compelled you to select a gown you actually liked was beyond you. You hadn’t wanted to try one on, too afraid of the emotional toll that had the possibility of rearing its ugly head, and yet you didn’t just grab the closest dress off of the nearest rack. You roamed the store until you discovered the one that made your heart skip a beat. A dress that caused your breath to catch as you imagined yourself walking down an aisle, to him. 

As you looked yourself up and down, you felt the tears sprouting for the dream that never came to fruition. You couldn’t tear your eyes away until Nat shouted, “You have to come out. That's kind of the whole point, Hon.” So you did, stepping up onto the low pedestal. 

Her eyes widened, her fingers moving to cover her lips. She stared for a long moment. “Oh my God,” she said with a sweet smile, “You look perfect.”

“Nat,” you sighed, “come on.”

“You do!”

“Thank you, but this is—” Silly, you were going to say. But the jingle of the boutique door's bell interrupted you. 

From her seat on the suede couch, Nat’s eyes shot over your shoulder. Her face paled. A muttered ‘Fuck’ met your ears in the voice of her fiance. 

With your brow pinched in confusion, you turned, the dress swishing at your feet with your sharp twist. 

Two pairs of eyes were glued to you. One set—a rich, dark brown—was alight with shock; the other—mossy green and all too familiar—was filled to the brink with pain. 

“Jake…” you tried, but he was out the door. 

You found your hand reaching out the slightest in the direction he'd gone. As if you could graze your fingers over the fabric of his shirt and tighten it within your palm to pull him back to you.

After absorbing the moment, you hurriedly stepped off the pedestal and rushed into the changing room to strip yourself of the dress.

“You didn’t tell me she was coming to your fitting,” you heard Bradley attempt to whisper. 

“Well, you didn’t tell me you were bringing Jake along to pick me up,” Nat countered. You could practically see the irritation on her face, her arms crossed in defense and foot tapping loudly against the tile. 

“He didn’t want to be alone. Today marks three months since they—”

Nat shushed him as you pulled back the curtain, reclothed in your jeans and t-shirt. “Hon,” she started, taking a step toward you, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was coming.”

“I know. It’s ok,” you assured her before flicking your eyes to Bradley. “Which way did he go?”

“Right,” he didn’t hesitate to say, and you nodded. 

“Thank you.”

—--

The boutique stood alone on the street, nothing flanking it and thankfully making it evident with one quick glance that Jake, had he attempted to make a run for it, wouldn’t be able to get far. You didn’t see him, so there was only one other option. 

When you rounded the building, you found him leaning against the brick wall, his head tilted slightly upward, his eyes closed, as he blew out a breath of smoke. The cigarette trapped between his fingers wiggled from his shaking hand. 

Sensing your presence, like he’d always managed to do, he said, “Please tell me you didn’t get engaged three months after we broke up.”

You walked up to his side and copied his stance. “Of course not.” When he didn’t follow up with more, you continued. “I thought you quit.”

Jake finally opened his eyes to glance down at the cigarette. “I quit for you,” he said before taking another drag. 

You felt your heart squeeze in your chest. 

You’d always worried about him, long before you even got together. His job, his emotions, his habits. His job you couldn’t change, but his emotions and the habits that came with them, you could help. You’d been there for him, and he for you. Yet, it didn't occur to you that he would find himself revisiting past obstacles without you by his side. It should’ve. You should’ve pushed through any discomfort or awkwardness between you to be there for him. You should have been better.

“Jake…”

He released another stream of smoke, the quiet act somehow effectively cutting you off. “I’m not back on ‘em. Just one here or there…” he flicked his index finger to knock off the ashes, “to calm me down.”

Beats passed. How many, you couldn’t say. All you knew was that not so much silence had filled the bubble around the two of you since you were left spent and hurt after the blow up of ending your relationship. Though, in truth, you hadn’t been near each other enough in the past few months for the possibility of that situation to present itself. 

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he suddenly said, “and the dress kind of…threw me.”

“Nat made me.”

With a snort, he said, “Figures.”

More agonizing silence dragged painful memories to the surface. The tears, the shouts, the pleading and apologies from the day that continued to haunt you. 

“Jake.”

He hummed.

“I think we need to find a way to exist in the same space. It’s too difficult to try to work around one another when it comes to our friends and the places we frequent in town. I understand that you don’t want to be with me, but—”

“Me?” he snapped, head whipping in your direction. The blaze in his eyes seared the shock in yours, yet his tone maintained a calmness that, when accompanying his words, felt more eerie than anything. “I don’t want to be with you? You’re the one who ended us. You told me you were leaving, and then you didn’t even go.”

Your head fell and you began to pick at your fingernail. “Would you have preferred I left?”

“I would’ve preferred if you stayed my girlfriend.”

Looking up, you asked, “What changed your mind?”

A flash zipped across the green of his irises. “What are you talking about?”

“A week after we broke up, I chose not to go,” you said. “I wanted to be with you more than I wanted that job. I went to your house to tell you, but you weren’t there, so I went to the bar.” A hard swallow at another memory failed to relieve the aching lump in your throat. “I found you kissing some woman and I realized you’d already moved on.”

Jake took careful breaths—one too many for your liking—before letting out a soft chuckle. It held no humor. He shook his head. 

"I didn't move on."

"Jake, I saw you."

"She kissed me," he said. "I told her it wasn't going to happen, then went home and drank myself stupid trying not to think of you." His eyes tore away from yours to stare ahead. And with a pinched brow, he shook his head once again as he tossed the remaining nub of the cigarette into a nearby trash can. "I did not succeed, I should add. So, no, I didn't move on. I can't even imagine trying." 

You were overwhelmed with an array of emotions, each of them warring, mixing chaotically. Waves of relief crashed into the shame lingering from the day you fought. They churned with the pain you'd yet to let go of after seeing someone else kissing the man you love. There was a tick of embarrassment from the, now very clear, misunderstanding between you. But it was the cautious joy that overpowered it all. 

"You still love me?" You said softly. 

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. 

"That's funny?"

"No, baby, I just—" he paused then brushed his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. I never thought I'd have to answer a question like that."

Your lips parted, ready to ask why such a simple question from you was practically stumping him, but he was one step ahead.

"I was always trying to prove how much I love you. Every single day I made sure of it. And I'd hoped I showed it well enough that you'd never need to ask," he said. A light shrug of his shoulders—barely noticeable, yet far from nonchalant—followed. "But here we are."

Without a thought to stop yourself, you reached up to cup his cheek, drawing his eyes back to yours. 

"Jake, I didn't question it. I knew you loved me," you swore. "But I ruined things, and feelings can change."

As if understanding your immediate uncertainty that bloomed from your sudden touch, Jake wrapped his fingers around your wrist before you could dare to withdraw it back to your side. 

"Not mine," he said. Then quieter: "Never mine."

The fresh rawness of his stare, of his tense brow, and softly parted lips, broke your heart. He looked ready to fall to his knees and weep at your feet. He looked how you had felt for months. Like standing, breathing, putting one foot in front of the other, was not easily done. Since you’d left him, nothing had been natural. Nothing came easy. Living life was a chore. And seeing Jake release it all in front of you with his desperation and devastation clear as day, allowed you to do the same. 

Your palm fell to his chest. Jake brushed an escaped tear from the corner of your mouth, then rested his forehead against yours. 

"It's ok," he whispered. "It's gonna be ok."

"I still love you," you said between sniffles.

With a heavy exhale, his whole body eased out of its rigidity. "I love you, too."

"Would…” you started but paused, unsure if your question would be your final strike. But you couldn’t stop the pounding in your heart, nor deny the need you had for Jake. So, despite the shake in your voice, you pressed on. “Would you take me back?"

Your eyes were closed, but you could sense his smile. Then he said: 

"Baby, I never let you go."

---

A/N: it's been a minute since I posted any writing here. Sorry about that. But I'm working my way along my list and hopefully, you guys liked this :)

Tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #jake hangman seresin x y/n #jake seresin fluff #tgm #tgm fic #tgm fanfiction #top gun maverick fic #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin fanfic #jake seresin x you

[caffedrine]

Ikemen Prince Act 4 Prologue Summary

I pretty much have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t trust me, and you shouldn’t either. This summary is not guaranteed to be accurate, it’s mostly written for myself to follow along with all the lore that was just dropped.

Emma has had a recurring dream where she finds a book in a beautiful rose garden and reads it. Unfortunately, the book is unfinished, and leaves her feeling unsatisfied. We then get a summary of Acts 1 and 2 - Emma was chosen as Belle, the woman to choose the next king of Rhodolite from a selection of 8 princes. She also has to go undercover due to the visit of 3 foreign princes. Ultimately, she gets through her trials, chooses a good king, doesn’t get entangled with anyone, and avoids being chained up in Gilbert’s love dungeon. This should count as a happy ending to the story, but it leaves Emma feeling unfulfilled. She wants to have her own adventures, learn more things, meet new people, and maybe fall in love with someone.

Emma eventually wakes up from her flashback nap only to find that she is still in the bookstore, having fallen asleep while reading a book. Just as she starts to get up to close the shop, she realizes she’s not alone.

The shop’s owner and her adopted ‘too young to be a dad’ not-father has returned. He often travels the world, purchasing and selling rare books, and is back from his last year-long trip.

Though he is not a native to Rhodolite, and still wears the beautiful, eye-catching clothes from his native home in Ruby, he has set up a permanent shop in Rhodolite’s capital city. And, he has taken care of Emma since she was a child.

Akatsuki, the shop owner, reveals that he knows all about Emma’s time as Belle, as Sariel had been sending him regular letters. He had hurried home when he heard that pipsqueak from Obsidian had also shown up, but it looks like Emma got through that ordeal just fine without him.

Emma assures Akatsuki that nothing major had happened during her time as Belle, and she had actually enjoyed it. It had given her a new perspective and opened up new avenues of interest for her.

Akatsuki points at the book Emma had been napping on and asks if that’s why she’s changed from romance novels to studying continental history.

This segues into Emma admitting that she feels trapped in a small world since her last experiences and wants to travel the world just like Akatsuki does. Akatsuki offers to take her with him on his next trip.

Emma is excited, and Akatsuki tells her that as his valued employee, it’s time for her to learn how to purchase books as well. 

Akatsuki unfurls a map and sits with Emma. While not usually a problem, these days things are a lot more dangerous than they were. Emma asks if it’s the 3-country alliance between Tanzanite, Ruby, and Acroite. She heard about it briefly during her time as Belle.

And yes, that’s exactly the problem. Right now, the countries are not hostile, but this could be the calm before the storm. Akatsuki asks if, despite knowing of the danger, will Emma leave the relative safety of Rhodolite and travel to these countries with him.

If this had been before her time as Belle, Emma probably would have refused. But now, after meeting the princes of Rhodolite, Emma agrees without hesitation. 

So, the next step is to choose the country. Each has its own dangers, but it is how Akatsuki will get his rare books. Notably, Akatsuki is somewhat hesitant about going to Ruby. 

Since this is her training trip, Akatsuki generously lets Emma choose their destination. To help her decide, Emma asks Akatsuki to tell her about each country.

Tanzanite 

Tanzanite is the land of divination and illusion. Everything is determined by the living god.

The living god is a person born with silver hair and silver eyes. But - it’s not just his appearance that is unique - he is clairvoyant beyond anyone in recorded history, each of his prophesies/predictions has come true. He is considered a miracle bestowed upon Tanzanite by god.

Meanwhile, in Tanzanite

In the Tanzanite throne room, filled with people bristling with excitement, a huge moon shines down as if protecting the people.

With one word, the living god Azel is able to silence the entire vast room of people. With a benevolent visage, Azel tells the crow that god has this spoken and tells them to develop the policies to follow the divine will. Or don’t, it’s their choice whether or not to follow divine will. Just don’t make a choice that they will regret. The heavens will be watching.

Finished, Azel stands up and simultaneously the crowd falls to their knees, their heads pressed against the floor. Among the crowd, the King of Tanzanite tells Azel that there is a banquet being held in his honor and asks him to attend. Azel politely declines - he can’t imagine anyone would enjoy their meal if god were to attend. He’ll just quietly return home, no need to see him off. He bids everyone a farewell, praying that god will bless them.

As he leaves the group, Azel finds himself alone in a quiet hallway lit only by the moon, the night's natural calm returning. Or almost alone.

A woman is waiting for him, dressed in provocative dancer’s garb. She is carrying a variety of dishes and asks if he’s in a good mood. Azel thanks her for her consideration, but he must decline. The woman points out that he already declined the banquet held by the king, but after that divination, he must be hungry. At this, Azel’s traitorous stomach growls. Again, Azel thanks her and declines, mentioning that he is actually in a hurry, and could she get out of his way?

The woman moves to block his path completely as Azel tries to brush past her. Azel loses it, calling her stupid and refusing to understand him no matter what he says. He trips the woman over his foot, and she falls to the ground, dropping all the food.

Azel feels so sorry . . . For the wasted food. His eyes full of compassion, he laughs and asks the woman to lick up the food. She is stunned, and Azel explains that it goes against his morals to waste food. He gesture at an upturned bowl of soup and tells her to crawl to it like a dog and lick it up so it isn’t wasted.

Of course, Azel isn’t a tyrannical monster, he’s not forcing the woman to do anything. It’s her freedom to choose to follow the living god’s will or not.

The woman hesitates, but in the end, she brings her face down to the soup and licks it up. Soon, her body grows hot and her gaze clouds with lust, and she looks up at Azel. Azel surmises the soup must have been laced with an aphrodisiac- he guesses the poor woman’s fortune isn’t good at all today.

Or rather, she is extremely fortunate. The living god, Azel, will keep this a secret between them and won’t tell anyone about her misdeeds.

Azel walks past the woman and calls over his shoulder that she can feel free to take care of herself, or any other option she might have available to her. He will take his leave now.

The woman reaches out to try to cling to his legs and tells him that she loves him. She would do anything, give up anything for their living god. She asks Azel if these feelings she has for him truly is a sin?

(Azel does not appreciate his almost-rapist declaring love)

Azel turns around and tells her that god doesn’t love anyone, since it doesn’t give him any advantage. Well, maybe if she gave him the same amount of money Silvio does, he would consider it. But as she is, she has nothing he wants.

Azel thinks the woman still doesn’t understand, so he will say it plainer. Get out of his sight, he can’t stand her. The woman gasps as the compassion drains from Azel’s face. His eyes are as cold as a desert night, and he looks down on her as if she is an insect.

Most of the time, it’s not love that people like her feel, it’s greed drowning stupid women like her. Under the moonlight, Azel laughs coldly and without any sense of compassion. 

Everyone in this country protected by god is living a happy dream. On the day the dream crumbles away, Azel wonders when people will get over the shock and laugh with him.

Acroite

The country is built on a steep mountain range where it snows year-round. Everyone follows strict laws, making it the safest country on the continent. The laws are enforced by the Keepers of the Laws, people who can set aside their humanity and rule everything fair and balanced.

Recently, the penalties for lawbreaking have become harsher and more severe, but the country is extremely stable and orderly. If someone commits a crime, the Keepers of the Laws will make you pay.

Meanwhile, in Acroite

Snowflakes, large enough to be mistaken for flower petals, flutter down on the houses, coating everything in a white winter wonderland scene. 

The lamp-lit street is bustling and full of people, but unlike other cities, there are groups of people missing. There are no beggars, drunks, or youths itching for a fight. It is because in this country, those activities are illegal, and one can expect to be swiftly arrested.

However, there is a corner where a large group of women have gathered, all jockeying for position. One woman after another asks Matthias to join them at a party, or for dinner. Matthias politely thanks them and explains that he doesn’t want to be late for work. 

Matthias Osbrink, the First Prince of Acroite, the Keeper of the Law. He has blond hair the color of the fading rays of twilight and sad eyes the color of snow in shadow. While he has a stiff demeanor- he is still considered very appealing. The women around him gaze at him with enchanted expressions.

He combs back his hair with a sigh, to the delight of the women watching, and hurries away. A fellow judge walks next to him, patting him on the back sympathetically. He teases Matthias for being so popular with the ladies.

Matthias complains that his coworker didn’t help him at all, after all, Matthias is famous for not being good at dealing with women.

The coworker agrees that he knows that, but unfortunately, he is too busy being envious of Matthias’ luck with women to help him out. If anything, he wanted to switch places.

Matthias asks if his coworker noticed the look in those women’s eyes. They were the eyes of a warrior, determined to annihilate the enemy.

The coworker is taken aback, he was certain they were just lovely women.

Matthias complains that he doesn’t care if they are beautiful or not, the problem is that they are not his soulmate.

His ideal woman is someone who doesn’t venerate him, nor does she look at him like she’s preparing for war. In fact, she’s the type of person who would kiss him goodbye in the morning while adjusting his tie. Afterward, she would smile gently as she waved goodbye and . . .

Yes, yes, this isn’t the first time Matthias’ coworker has heard this fantasy. Honestly, he would say it is starting to get embarrassing, but they passed that mark a long time ago.

Quietly, Matthias’ coworker asks if he’s okay. Matthias points out that he’s spent the past ten minutes explaining how he’s not okay and needs to be rescued from these warrior women.

That’s not what Mathias’ coworker meant. The defendant for today’s trial is Matthias’ friend.

Matthias summarizes his relationship with the defendant. They were roommates at the Royal Academy, and when they joined the National Guard together, they were in the same unit. Matthias recalls him as being a good person, with a cheerful personality, smart, and witty. And, unlike Matthias’s coworker, was good with handling women and could help Matthias out of the situation before.

(Conflict of interest? What is that?)

Matthias sees no problem with handling the trial. After all, he is a member of the Osbrink family.

The seat of the country’s justice, the royal court, was filled with a solemn crowd of defendants, lawyers, state officials, investigators, and a large number of citizens. The five judges, the Keepers of Law, sit high above with everyone watching them.

Matthias summons the defendant, accused of selling secret Acroite military information, forward to testify. While the defendant looks haggard, there is a gleam of hope in his eye. It is well known that the defendant was friends with the Keeper of Law, Matthias.

After the testimony, Matthias rules that there is no reason to exonerate the defendant from his crimes. The defendant disagrees, he made a mistake, yes, but death is too heavy a punishment for it. Matthias disagrees, the law is the law, and as a citizen of Acroite, the defendant must abide by the sentence. The execution will take place in five days at noon.

The defendant collapses, and Matthias watches him being taken away with snow-shadow eyes. With that, Matthias ends the trial and closes the court.

After everyone leaves, Matthias remains behind in the empty courtroom. In the same emotionless voice, he used when he proclaimed the sentence, Matthias mutters that he did the right thing just now. He’s the Crown Prince of Acroite, the land of snow and laws. It’s his duty to condemn and punish all evil.

Ruby

The last country on the list of options is Ruby, the land of Cherry Blossoms and Turbulent Times. The situation is complicated, the country is in a 3-way civil war, each with foreign backing. In theory, there is a royal family, but they’re all on opposite sides.

There is, however, a safe area, in Kagari-Yaksha’s territory.

Yaksha? Emma asks Akatsuki to explain that.

It’s a title of sorts given to one of the faction leaders, a true battle fanatic who has never lost a fight. If they go under his protection, they’ll be safe. For now. As long as he doesn’t decide that they’re his enemies.

Meanwhile, in Ruby

A group of men run through the forest, hoods low over their heads and swords hanging from their belts. When they near a red-tiled castle illuminated by lanterns, they halt and gather to strategize.

A voice begins counting them, 100, 200, at least less than 400. The men all start and grab at their swords, searching the darkness for the voice.

Without a sound, a man with fiery red hair and green eyes appears before them. He asks if they were planning on launching a night attack with so many worthless people. Honestly, they’re barely even worth killing. Compared to all the other factions, these people are barely more than half-trained children. The man asks if they are still planning on going through with their attack. If they give up and turn around now, he’ll let them leave.

One of the attackers notes his hair and eyes and identifies him as Kagari, the Yaksha. Another attacker laughs, explaining that from the rumors, he was expecting a beast of a man, but instead its just some pretty guy. It’s not bad to be disappointed from time to time. Besides, even if he is the warrior of rumor, he is but one man against –

Another hooded attacker recoils as the speaker’s head falls to the ground. Kagari apologizes, he grew bored of waiting for the speaker to finish talking. He tells the men that he’s kind of busy, so rather than killing them one by one, he would prefer it if they just all came at him at once. Hey, even weaklings like them might give him some entertainment if they work together. When one of the attackers protests, Kagari tells him not to get angry, he’s just telling them the truth.

The difference in their ability was obvious.

Kagari notes that this is what it’s like to be weak. Even if they never met him, these men would have still died young. He dodges their attack like a wildcat, his movements quick and efficient. With each stab of his sword, a vital area is struck, and bright red droplets dance like cherry blossoms in the wind. The final attacker tries to run, but Kagari throws his sword, striking the man. Kagari bemoans how heartless people are these days, leaving their comrades to die alone.

The final attacker explains that they’re not comrades, he’s a mercenary who was just hired to do a job with them. He begs Kagari for mercy.

In this country the strong are good and the weak are evil. Therefore, a weak person like this mercenary has no place in Ruby. If he dies here and now, he doesn’t have to go through life being a weak coward who hates himself. Really, Kagari is doing him a favor.

He kills the man quickly, and then disappointedly notes that everyone else is dead.

The quiet night is interrupted again by the sound of approaching footsteps. Kagari’s subordinates arrive, and he orders them to send the bodies back to their employer. The subordinates complain that Kagari went off without them again. Kagari asks if they want to be killed along with the attackers. The subordinates grow pale and Kagari tells them that he was just joking. Mostly.

Kagari sheathes his sword, and the atmosphere lightens. He tells his subordinates that he’s fine on his own, and if they’re useless in a fight, they’ll just get in his way. But even he understands strategy enough to know that the more pieces one has, the better.

No one chases after the Yaksha when he walks away.

With an unsteady step, Kagari settles beneath a cherry tree, and notes that there is a full moon tonight. He watches some of the petals fall in front of him.

(Some days you just wanna take a nap)

The bushes next to him rustle though there is no wind. Kagari asks if they’ve come again.

A cat pops out of the bush and meows at Kagari. Kagari meows in reply and tells the cat he’s especially bloody tonight, so they should stay away. The cat doesn’t heed his warning and approaches Kagari, tail held high.

Kagari muses that if the cat lives in this country, they’re probably used to the smell of blood by now. He lies down, using his sword as a makeshift pillow. The cat trots over to his side and when he strokes under their chin, they begin to fall asleep.

Kagari complains that the cat is too small, too fragile, and too forgetful to survive. They’re going to die soon. Then again, the cat is choosing to sleep next to the Yaksha, a good choice to live a long life.

A shadow flickers in Kagari’s eyes and he pulls his sword close to himself. He wonders when the next battle will be. Tomorrow, the day after?

Unfortunately fighting doesn’t put food on the table. If things continue, he may starve to death. He needs to hurry up before that happens, and then everything will be easier.

Rhodolite

Finished talking about the four countries, Akatsuki turns to Emma and asks which country she has chosen.

Emma thinks that all the countries are interesting, and any one of them would be a good choice. After listening to Akatsuki, Emma chooses.

#ikemen prince #ikepri

[buckybabieboy]

Heyy! I was reading you work, which I love btw, and I wanted to request a one-shot or blurb for little!bucky accidentally getting drunk, like how would he act, what would he say. I feel like he’d be super clingy and needy. With cg!mommy!reader please 🥹 Love you writing <333

Lol this is gonna be the cutest thing ever😭. Thanks for the request Babie!

Tipsy Baby.

☁️ Summary: Bucky has way too much to drink at Natasha’s party, leaving you to take care of your little boy.

⚠️TW(READ.): sub!touch-starved bucky, dom!fem!reader, Bucky is so touch starved😭, reader is able to carry bucky, lactation kink cuz I felt like it, mentions of alcohol, Bucky can get drunk if he drinks an abundance.

📝A/N(PLEASE READ): DO NOT READ IF YOU DONT LIKE. ITS THAT SIMPLE. DON’T REPORT MY WORK JUST BC YOU DONT LIKE IT. Anyways, pls enjoy this lil blurb! drunk Bucky is just the cutest 🥰. and your right, bucky is VERY clingy AND FUCKING TOUCH STARVEDDDD when he’s drunk.

“Mommyyyy!” Bucky slurs out as he dramatically falls in front of you on the compound’s floor.

“Mommy pay ‘tenttion to me!”

You peer over your phone and watch as your baby heaves and pants on the ground, his beautiful pale skin flushed with pinkish-reddish tones, and his big puppy dog eyes red and puffed.

“Baby, are you drunk?” You question him, though you already know the answer. He only whines and thrashes his limbs around in a hissy fit, not using his words.

“W-why are you so faaarrr?” He wails petulantly, completely ignoring your question.

“M’ not far, sweetheart, ‘m right in front of you.”

An empty bottle of Tiger Beer has accompanied him on the ground, clutched inside his sweaty palms.

“Gimme that!” You sigh before getting off of your comfy spot on the couch and snatching the bottle out of his hands. He whines even more.

“Who let you have this?”

Bucky pouts and mutters something, but it’s almost impossible to hear with the music and noise that flood throughout the compound.

“Can’t hear you bud, you’re gonna have to speak up f’me, okay?”

“T-tasha…” He hiccups. “N-Natasha lemme have some, mommy…”

Another exasperated sigh escapes from you as you begin to regret supporting Bucky’s idea to come to Natasha’s party. It didn’t really surprise you though, since he was always a party guy when he was younger. You rarely ever drank, especially when you were going to an event. You opted out of that a long time when the both of you got drunk, which you both know didn’t end well.

Natasha had invited everyone to her floor for a party. You weren’t too fond of the idea when you heard there was going to be alcohol, but Bucky was very excited and begged you to go. He assured you that Steve and Sam would be there to watch him.

So eventually you gave in, but not before making him promise that he wouldn’t drink.

When you arrived at the party, Bucky was acting more than normal. He immediately started chatting and playing party games with Wanda and Vision. He even played Twister with them, which you knew was a surprise to everyone. Despite the fact that loud noises triggered him, he seemed to be having a good time. Needless to say, you felt comfortable with letting him go off on his own for awhile.

Scanning the room, you spot Natasha by the fridge, a Tiger Beer in hand. The trash can next to her was filled with empty bottles of that stuff, and you knew they had to be Bucky’s. He couldn’t get drunk easily so it would take a copious amount of alcohol to get him drunk.

The blame wasn’t all on Natasha, though. Wanda, Vision, Steve, Natasha, and Sam all were made aware of Bucky and his little space—you’ve told them a numerous amount of times for his safety. So Natasha could’ve given him a bottle, but Bucky must’ve gotten his hands on this much alcohol all by himself.

You’d have to talk to them about that another day though, because right now, your little boy was cemented on the cold floor, spacey and dazed below you.

“S-so pretty. Mommy so pretty!” Bucky giggles, his head cocked to the side in awe as he gazes up at you. He wasn’t thinking about anything else. He literally couldn’t. His little brain couldn’t process anything while in little space, so him being drunk definitely amplified it X10.

“C’mon, baby boy. Let’s get you taken care of.”

You offer your hand to him. He doesn’t budge though, instead he whines, and mutters more incoherent sentences. This wasn’t the first time Bucky lost all of his words. When he was little, most of the time he would gesticulate instead of speaking up.

“Hmm…” You tap your index finger on your chin, prenteding to brainstorm. “Oh! I know what you want! You want uppies!”

Bucky nods and squeals, making grabby hands up at you. You place your hands under his arms, pick him up, and set him on your hip. A precious little noise escapes from him as he wraps his legs around your waist, his arms around your neck, and leans into your touch. The smell of your hair seemed to be the only thing he was able to process.

Once you make it to your floor, you set him down on the bed. He whines once again when you leave and you quickly shush him, reassuring him that you’re just getting his pj’s out for bed. Bucky stands up to take off his pants but stumbles and trips, landing face down on the floor.

“Hnnngh..” He whines, starting to pick up his thrashing and wailing from earlier.

“Hush, my little boy, let Mommy take care of you.”

“M’ dizzy…” He fusses. “Everything’s spinning…”

“I know baby, I know. Let’s get you in your PJ’s, okay?” You hush him a little bit before helping him off the ground and settting him back on the bed. It was a struggle, but you got his pants and shirt off. Now the task was to replace them with his nighttime ones. You take one leg of the pants, grab his leg, and slide it in.

“Good job, Jamie! Now your right leg!” You praise your little boy. He giggles when his pants are all the way on, and doesn’t even fuss when you put his shirt on for him.

“Perfect… now let Mommy get changed and then we can go sleepies, okay?”

He fussed, but you got changed in no time, and his fussing quickly became coos of happiness once you cradled him in your arms.

“My little baby.” You fawn. “Your mommy’s boy aren’t you?”

Bucky’s eyes flutter, as he tries to stay awake. His baby blues are glossy and clouded from the substance earlier.

“Mmm… uh-huh! M’mommy’s boy! Mommy’s goodest boy!”

“Yeah, except for earlier. What did I tell you about drinking that much alcohol? You know your little mind can’t take it.” You scold, and he pouts up at you.

“Sammy was watchin’ me! But then he drank some too, ‘n we-” His hiccups interrupts him.

“W-we made a stupid bet. Who could drink the mostest, ‘n I won.” He giggles at that last part, obviously proud of himself for beating Sam at literally anything.

You were about to respond when you noticed his eyes flutter. His metal fingers tug on your tank top—you already know what that means by now.

“Awh my baby’s hungry! You hungry, sweetheart?” You coo at him in the softest tone possible. He does nothing but nod, his words are becoming little to none—indicating that he was deep in.

“Go ahead, Jamie. You can have some, mommy doesn’t mind.”

You help him out a bit by tugging down the top yourself, your leaking tits out for Bucky to suckle on. He wastes no time, immediately latching his pink lips on your right nipple. His suckles were harsh and rapid. All he wanted right now was to taste your sweet nectar. A few strokes to the scalp and he’s almost out—his stamina completely gone from earlier.

You praise your little baby. Whispering to him all of the things he loved to hear. Calling him all of the names he loved to be called while in his little space.

The meekest whines and whimpers come from him as he suckled more frantically. As time went on he became frustrated—frustrated at the fact that he was too exhausted to keep going.

“Shh, it’s okay. I know… your so exhausted, hm? So exhausted from having so much fun earlier?”

You stroke his scalp with your fingers, keeping the movements slight and slow for him. Bucky could never describe it, but there was always a certain tactic, or pattern in which you’d scratch his scalp that made him feel so innocent. So vulnerable.

You know this, You know what touching Bucky’s hair does to him, what it does to him when he’s completely reliant and under your control.

“I’ve got you, Bucky Bear. Hush now.”

Bucky eventually quiets down, and so do his suckles on your nipple. He lets your nipple fall free from his mouth, some milk dripping down his parted lips. You wipe it off gently.

“Mommy m-mines?” He whimpers. “All mines?” He nuzzles himself into your chest, the warmth of your body and vibration of your voice as you cooed to him always calms him down.

“All yours, honey.”

#buckybabieboy #buckybabieboyanswers #sub!bucky barnes #sub bucky barnes #little!bucky #soft bucky #sebastian stan #dom!reader #lactating kink #imagines #marvel #bucky barnes #chubby dumpling #falcon and the winter soldier #female reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes blurb #bucky blurb #little bucky

[b33zlebubz]

RECKLESS ABANDON--------

CHAPTER TWO - an interrogation

TASK FORCE 141 X READER (PLATONIC)

PREV CHAPTER || MASTERLIST || AO3 LINK || NEXT CHAPTER

TAGS: gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, slow burn found family, PTSD, trauma bonding, kidnapping, reader is a foster kid in high school, family drama, blood, violence, guns

"After your life falls apart at the seams very early on, you work hard to keep the small amount of peace you still have. Foster care is rough, work is draining, school is a drag...but you eventually find yourself in a good place. All of that quickly goes to waste, however, when your family's unfinished business finally finds its way back to you."

"You've got the wrong person."

"I can assure you we don't."

"Then what the fuck did I do?"

Price sits back in his chair with his arms crossed, staring out the one-sided mirror that separates him from the interrogation taking place.  The room is dark save for the mirror, the laptop in front of him, and the red-yellow embers of his third cigar in the span of an hour.  He fidgets uselessly with it, rolling the paper between the fingers in his right hand while the other clutches a pair of dog tags.  The metal feels twice as cold in his palm as he listens to the two people in the room in front of him.

Laswell looks tired—typically perfect hair beginning to fall from her bun and the bags under her eyes deeper than usual.  He doesn’t doubt he looks the same, if not worse.  Despite the majority of the day dead and gone, the only thing they have to show for the amount of time spent in this room is a quickly filling tray of cigarette ashes and a messy desk of conflicting files, open laptops, and empty mugs of both tea and coffee.

"Nothing.  We just have some questions regarding your birth family."

You chuckle bitterly, your voice strained from the day's events even through the intercom.  "You had me kidnapped and nearly killed for a couple of questions?"  

Laswell's mouth opens and then snaps shut again. 

Price flips the dog tags through his fingers like the world’s most unlucky coin.

"This isn't an interrogation,"  she eventually responds.  "We’re trying to help you.”

“Then why am I in an interrogation room?”

He thinks its hard to find anything surprising, nowadays.  Price thought he saw pretty much everything there was to see already.  He’s traveled the world, faced every obstacle with bared teeth and clenched fists.  He’s seen death in all its forms, he’s seen someone come back from death—and yet, this was a new problem.  One he hadn’t encountered before.  A mission he, for once, didn’t know how to approach. 

He sighs, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees as he watches Laswell shuffle through papers.  This is usually what the chief specialized in—getting intel—but it appears even she's left flustered and clueless with how to handle the iron will of a shell-shocked teenager.

You’re sitting in a similar position as Price himself as you sit across from Laswell; a too-big S.A.S. sweater on your shoulders paired with sweatpants of a similar fit, your previous clothes ruined with blood.  Eyes downcast, hands clasped and shaking; Price can’t imagine the things running through your head.  He felt even worse that they didn’t have spare shoes, leaving you in your untied sneakers stained red-brown with the blood from earlier that day.  

You’re lost in thought.  You try to focus on what Laswell says, but her questions seem to go in one ear and then back out the other if you don't snap with a sarcastic comeback.  Laswell swallows heavily, much more used to this routine involving adults with war crime lists as long as the very building is tall.  She’s being gentle—well, as gentle as she can manage given your sharp tongue—but you haven’t given them any answers since you showed up.

You're scared.  You want answers.  Anyone in your situation would be the same.

So, after a few more minutes of talking and getting nowhere, Laswell stands.  She spares you one last, sympathetic look before crossing the room to the door—where she leaves the room in favor of the small office Price resides in.  A long breath leaves her as she stops at the table, lifting her arms and then letting them fall back to her sides in defeat.

“Nothing,”  she breathes.

Price nods.  He takes another drag of his cigar and exhales the smoke in a heavy sigh.

“Figures,”  he says, leaning over to snuff the embers out in the dish.  “Simon scared ‘em shitless.”

Laswell scoffs.  Shaking her head, she drops the file on the desk with a slap before sitting down herself—rubbing her tired face.  Her gaze falls to you sitting alone in the room, her brow furrowed tight.  In all his years of working with her, Price doubts he’s seen someone get under her skin like this in a long time.  

“We can’t wait for answers—not with the news spreading like this.”

He hums.  “You’re right.  We can’t.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”  She asks, genuinely.  “Because this isn’t working.  The kid's not talking until we tell them what's going on."

Price is silent for a moment.  None of the team had expected anyone else to catch wind of your location so quickly—nor had they expected such an organization like the Shadow Company to get involved.  What was supposed to be a silent search-and-rescue mission turned into something more of an ambush.  Something Price knows Graves will eventually seek repercussions for.

He feels his stomach twist from the thought, but he shakes it from his head.  Right now, proving to you that you weren’t in any danger was his priority.  The sooner you felt safe, the sooner you would answer questions—the sooner Price could formulate some semblance of a plan going forwards.

He pushes himself to his feet.  “Then we'll just have to give 'em what they want."

Laswell sighs, “John—”

“We owe the kid answers, Kate,”  He insists.  "We have for a long time.  Far too long."

“And if Graves or someone worse gets to them?  What happens then…when they give up intel?”  Laswell argues.   “We’ll just have to keep them until they’re ready to give up answers.  It’s the only way to make sure we don’t get compromised if shit hits the fan again.”

Price’s brow furrows.  He looks back out into the interrogation room for a moment, at how you stare down at the table wiping your bruised face on your sleeves.  Laswell is right, of course—she usually is.  If you gave up sensitive information to save your own skin after everything you’ve been through, nobody would blame you.  It could ruin everything, and it would be his fault, but that’s a risk he’s willing to take.  

He turns to Laswell again, his voice low as he steps closer. Palms flat on the desk, he leans down to her level.  “Then we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?”

Laswell just stares at him for a second, her gaze hard in calm resolve.  She seems to consider his preposition, carefully weighing the pros and cons as she searches Price’s gaze for any hint of self-doubt.  As usual, she finds none.

She sighs again, shakes her head, and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the table.

"Fifteen minutes, Captain."  She says, resolute, as she lights a cigarette between her teeth.  "That's all you get."

Fifteen minutes.  He’s saved lives with less, but yet he still finds himself taking a nervous breath as he grasps the doorknob anyway.  Up until this point he hasn't officially met you.  In a perfect world, he probably never would have needed to.

He swallows the lump in his throat and opens the door.

Immediately, your eyes dart up to meet his.  Your expression is a tangled mess of things.  Fear, maybe.  Anger, definitely.  There’s sadness and anxiety in there, too, as Price meets your gaze for a moment before padding inside.  He makes a point to leave the door open behind him as he walks forwards, pulls the chair out, and sits down with his hands on the table.  Your legs are pulled up to your chest now; arms hugging your knees as you stare up at him—defensive.

Like you're a cornered animal ready to bite.  

You are, but that's besides the point.

He regards you for a moment, attempting to look past how you have your father’s eyes—bright and focussed and unrelenting underneath the deep, puffy bruise on your left eyelid.  The wound looks old, at least by a few hours, so he knows it wasn’t caused by any of his men.  Even the Shadows wouldn’t swoop so low as to hurt you without reason.

"Nice eye,"  is all he says.

Immediately, you look away, suddenly self-conscious as you wipe at the aching, bruised flesh.  It hurts, that’s for sure, but you do a good job at hiding it.

"The other guy looked worse,"  you lie.

"A soldier?"

"No…"  you clear your throat and shift, your shoulders easing just a little from exhaustion.  "No.  Some kid.  Long story.”

"Ah,"  he chuckles a little, as if you aren't sitting across from him with your hands still stained in some dead guy's blood.  "Somehow, I don't doubt that."

"Who are you?"

Hm.  The dreaded question.  For a second, Price debates how much he should tell you—and he knows Laswell is holding her breath hoping he'll hold his tongue, but you deserve answers.  It's the least he could do.

The dog tags feel like they were burning a hole in his pocket.

"Captain John Price.  British Special Air Service."  He answers through a sigh as he sits back in his chair.  "But you can just call me Price."

That furrow in your brow loosens just a little.  Slowly, you remove your arms from around yourself, letting your shoes hit the linoleum flooring.  Maybe you recognized his name somehow, or maybe you’re just relieved to be talked to like a human and not a cornered animal—but you’re more relaxed than you have been that whole day.

"And the woman?"  You press.

"A friend,"  Price answers honestly.  "She helped us find you.  You can trust her, too."

"And how do I know you're telling the truth?"

Price hesitates at that, glancing towards the one-sided mirror where he can feel Laswell watching.  Then, he reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out the dogtags.  He tosses them over and they slide across the metal table before landing in your hands.  You turn the metal chips over in your palm, tracing the enamel with shaky hands.  When you look back up at Price, it's in disbelief.

They're your father's.

"To make a very long story short: over a year ago he had a mission,"  Price begins.  "Your old man was tasked with disarming a missile.  He succeeded, changed the code...and died before he could deliver it.  As of a month ago, it's been missing.”

It's a grossly summarized version of what happened over the course of the past year and a half, but Price figures he’ll spare you the details.  Details like how your father was tortured for months before he was finally killed while escaping.  Details like while he was stuck in enemy territory—you were all he would write about.  Your interests.  Your face.  Your words.

You're silent for a moment, squeezing the cold metal in your palms.  When you speak, it's quiet.

"That's a lie," you argue.  "Dad died when I was five. In Mexico."

Price nods.

“Maybe,” he says quietly.  “But, like his kid—he wouldn’t go down easy.”

You let out a breath, sitting back against the chair as you digest the information handed to you.  He watches dots string together in your mind as you mull over your whole life up until that very moment.  He knows what you’re thinking of already; not because he ever met the man personally, but because with the past few months he spent reading and rereading every letter, email, and assignment report—he feels like he did.  He knows you’re rethinking every letter your father sent you right up until his supposed “death" and every call promising his return soon.

He knows it’s a lot to take in, and that aching guilt in his chest rears its ugly head.  He wished he could do more—apologize on behalf of your father, reassure you things would be fine, take you back to your home…but, alas, all of those things were impossible.  So, instead, he’d answer whatever question you asked.

Because that was all he could do.

Almost a full minute passes before you speak again, quietly.  "And why, exactly, am I so important?"

"Because your father kept a journal,”  he answers promptly.  “In that journal, he said you knew the code.”

You laugh bitterly.  “It’s not like he was around to tell me—I don’t know shit.”

“I figured,”  he sighs, nodding.  “So, until we figure things out…you’re sticking with me and my men."

You bristle again, shoulders tensing.  "I never agreed to that."

"I never gave you the choice,"  John hardens his tone, not leaving any room for argument.  "It's what your father would've wanted.  Those were his last orders."

At that, you fall quiet; your face scrunched with frustrated anger and unshed tears as you look away to steel yourself.  John sighs and softens again.

"You’ll have a temporary room for the next few days.  Then, Friday; you, me, and my team are moving to a different base to plan and gather intel.  Everyone here answers to me, and if any of ‘em give you trouble—I’m never far away.”

He leans in close.

"I'm sorry, kid.  Really," he says, "but you can't go home."

Finally, you nod in understanding, your gaze falling to the table.  Lost in thought again, another long moment passes.  He watches as you look down at the dog tags before, hesitantly, lifting them up and over your neck.  They fall to rest at your chest as you clasp them before looking up at Price.  You won’t ask the question—won’t admit what you’re thinking—but he meets your gaze with calm resolve as he speaks again.

"You'll be safe here," he says. “Alright?”

You purse your lips, thinking.  John almost holds his breath, waiting for your response.  Conflicting emotions swim in your eyes as you squeeze the metal on your neck. 

He pretends not to notice the tears pricking your eyes as you swallow heavily and nod.

“Yeah…yes,”  you choke out.  “Not like I have anywhere to go, anyway."

After that, things go smoother.  There were supposed to be more tests—more questioning, interviewing, and other supposedly mandatory things that would get everyone nowhere.  Instead, Price decides to bypass all of it with Laswell’s permission.  The walk to your room is silent, and he assures you, again, that nothing will happen to you here.  He apologizes profusely, but he’s not sure you truly hear any of it—simply nodding and thanking him before the door is shut, and the halls are quiet.

Only then does he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, slipping his hat off to run his hand back through his hair.  There’s paperwork he has to do, a briefing to attend to, and he still has yet to touch base with Soap and Ghost about what exactly happened earlier that day.  Despite it all, though—he feels somehow lighter.  Months of tracking down your father’s only family coming to a close now that you were found and safe.  Or, maybe, it was just because the dog tags were weighing him down.

Nevertheless, he barely spares himself a moment to recollect before his hat is placed back on his head, his expression is hardened again, and he finds himself walking back down the hallway—already itching for another cigar.

It was going to be a long fucking week.

@brokenpieces-72 @warenai

#kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #call of duty #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty x reader #call of duty reader insert #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader

[117luv]

THE PARENT TRAP — LHS | CHAPTER 6

synopsis: jungwon and ni-ki met each other at a summer camp and found out they were fraternal twins. this leads to events where the two ex-lovers, heeseung and yn, are reunited after 14 years by their children.

genre: exes to lovers, smau, fluff

pairing: lee heeseung x fem!reader

warnings: cursing, poor attempts in humor, grammatical errors, marriage, pregnancy, parenthood, miscommunication

taglist: CLOSED!

a/n: hi my loves! apologies since it took LONGER than my usual sched for updates which is average of 2 days, it just i have many things in mind and im having a minor writer's block hence the slow update but rest assured my update sched will be consistent since its my final week of school T.T ne ways enjoy n love ya <3

masterlist | previous | next

Having dinner with your ex is an awkward event, especially if it's your own kid who asked for the event to take place. Yn can't say no to her son, whom she hasn't been with for almost 15 years; it's the least she can do for him. As she got ready, the boys waited for her downstairs as they watched a show on the TV. A doorbell rang just after she went downstairs. She opened the door and met the eyes of the man who is not only the father of her children but also the guy she still deeply loves and cares about despite being apart for more than a decade. They got in his car and drove to the restaurant. The car ride was filled with the boys playfully teasing each other as she looked at the rear mirror. She was met with a scene she didn't think could be possible after all these years. Her twin sons are playfully bantering as Heeseung hums to the tune of the song playing on the radio. It felt like a family enjoying the weekend and having dinner together. A complete family she had wished she could have fought for in the past.

They stepped into the restaurant and sat at their table. The boys were busy looking at the menu while the two tried to avoid each other's glances. As the waiter got their orders and, after awhile, came out with their food. They peacefully ate while the boys shared stories while they were in the camp. She can see that the boys indeed have a bond with each other despite being apart for such a long time. It pains her that this could have been their reality if things had turned out okay. It was time for dessert, and Heeseung excused himself to go to the restroom, which she quickly followed as she instructed the boys to wait for them. As she found him, she quickly grabbed his arm and asked him if she could talk to him in a private area.

"What do you want us to talk about?" he asked. "I think we should tell them; I can't bear waiting any longer to see them not know about their situation, she responded. Heeseung gave her a reassuring smile and said, "Okay, if that's what you want, then we can tell them. They deserve to know about it." — "Thank you. We should wait and tell them when we arrive in my place since we are still in public, to which he nodded and agreed. They got back to the table, and the boys were just talking as they saw their parents. She told them that her and Ni-ki's dad would tell them about something. The ride back was silent as the boys felt nervous for what was about to happen.

"So, what do the both of you want to tell us?" Jungwon asked as they all sat on the sofa. "Okay, me and Heeseung have been hiding something. I know this might come as a surprise and if you two are angry or feel betrayed by the both of us, its completely understandable. Jungwon and Ni-ki, the both of two are twins. Ni-ki, I understand if you feel hatred towards me. I been nothing but an useless mom to you. I failed to give you the right to experience to have a mother. I as your mother would like to apologize deeply. I know my apology doesn't make up for the 15 years but I hope you know that I always have you in my mind. I prayed everyday that you and your dad are safe. That you're eating well and growing into a respectfully man. I'm always proud of you and I'm grateful to be your mother." as she spoke Ni-ki cant help his eyes to tear up. He finally found his mom, the woman for whom he had longed for a long time. He can finally have someone he can call 'Mom', or someone who will shower him with affection. The day had come, and he was the happiest he had been for the longest time. "Can I hug you?" he spoke to her, and she opened her arms as the boy hugged his mom. "I've been wishing to feel your hug for the longest time. Whatever reason you and dad have, you can just explain to us next time. I just want to hug right now. Also, does this mean I can call you 'Mom' and taste your meals?" the boy finally looked at his mom, who shared the same tearful eyes as she looked at him: "Yes, Sweetheart. You can call me 'Mom, and I will cook you anything that your heart desires. Anything for my baby." as she placed a kiss on his forehead.

As the scene unfolds in front of Jungwon. He can't help but look at Heeseung, who is sitting near him. His dad is within arms reach; he can't believe he can finally meet him. He got up and hugged him tightly. "I can't believe I can finally hug you, Dad, he said while the older male hugged him tighter. "Me too, Kid. Me and your mom want to apologize about everything. The both of you don't deserve this but we can't undo the past anymore. Let me make for years I wasn't there for the both of you." Heeseung replied, "Thank you for telling us. As Ni-ki said, just explain to us next time. I want to be with you, I really want to be close to you." he said as Heeseung caressed his hair and placed a kiss on top of his head while hugging him. The day ended on a good note. There were many emotions poured out, and the four of them hugged together. The family is finally complete.

taglist [CLOSED] : @yangwaa @emikisses @yohanabanana @arizejkt19 @skuwu-blog @beatr2x @svarcq @softiehee @enhastolemyheart @deobitifull @emxshu @bucketofhiros @lost-leopard-beanie @soobin-my-beloved @azurez @flwrshee @beomgyusonlywife @lalalalawon @yanagisprettygf @astrae4 @myjaeyunn @sesame-street-lol @yumilovesloona @jhopesucker @omgjwon @yoonjunshi @wannatinyus @yeahhemmings- @coupscheri @aefolrin @neozon3nha @mevalemadrws @wonyoungsvirus @ilvsoup @dneltrise @chirokookie @noascats @sxftiell @onionzzzs @nokacchan @i-yeseo @02zluvbot @iamliacamila @nicholasluvbot @ilovewonyo @ddazed-lhs @tobiosbbyghorl @youmenotyummy @minhoie @enhaz1

#the parent trap — lhs 🌷 #enhypen #heeseung x reader #sunghoon x reader #enhypen x reader #jake x reader #sunoo x reader #enhypen imagines #jay x reader #jungwon x reader #ni-ki x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen headcanons #enhypen au #enhypen smau #enhypen masterlist #heeseung imagines #heeseung fluff #heeseung smau #enhypen social media au #lee heeseung x reader

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Today, Israel is voting in its local elections (for mayors and city councils). ALMOST all of Israel. The original date was at the end of October 2023, for obvious reasons, the elections were postponed. There were also a lot of mayor nominees, who were summoned for reserves service due to the war, and one of the reasons why the elections were postponed more than once, was to give as many of them as possible a chance to finish their service, and participate in their own election campaign. But even so, there are still hundreds of thousands of people from evacuated communities (displaced people, internal refugees, however you wanna call them), and therefore not everyone will be voting today. For the evacuated cities and towns, the elections were postponed until November. Looking at things, it's not sure they'll be back in their homes by then either, so IDK what their elections will look like. And then of course there are the hostages. Save for two, 4 years old Ariel Bibas and his 1 years old baby brother Kfir, they all had the right to vote, and none will get to. We remember them and hurt over their absence and everything being continuously being stolen from them on this day, too. On a side note, the national supervisor of these local electional is Rayan Ghanem. And if you know Jewish last names, you know Ghanem is not one of them. I'm trying to remember a time in apartheid South Africa when a non-white was a national supervisor of elections.

Despite still pointing out that the International Court of Justice has no right to judge the case brought to it by South Africa (becaue of SA's false claims to bring this case to court), Israel has filed a report in accordance with one of the ICJ's provisional measures, showing that its actions are in compliance with all of them (like providing humanitarian aid to Gaza, and doing all it can to protect civilians).

Meanwhile, at Harvard, just 6 weeks after she was appointed to lead the task force meant to combat Jew hatred, the university's antisemitism tsar has quit her position, with reports saying that she's frustrated over her inability to implement practical measures.

Remember when I wrote about Idan Amedi, the Israeli singer and actor that most people outside our country know from his role on Fauda? He gave a really moving speech when he was released from the hospital. I've wanted to share it for a while, but couldn't find it translated well. I found this bit:

But it really doesn't cover how moving the whole speech is (it's 9 minutes long). Among other things, he also thanked medical teams, assured Israelis we have the best ones, and apologized to his soldiers who died in the same incident in which he was injured. He also mentioned that he was unrecognizable when he was rushed into the hospital, and that doctors only identified him by the note that was attacked to his hand. It turns out, he really wanted people to see what he was talking about, and to understand that by the time he gave this public speech, he was already looking much better than on the day of he was wounded. So here is the image he shared himself on his IG (just scroll quickly past it, if you feel like it is too much for you, which is an understandbale reaction):

This is 68 years old David Edri.

On October 7, he was held hostage with his wife by Hamas for hours. At a certain point, he even covered his wife Rachel with his own body, in order to protect her from the terrorists' shots. They both survived. Yesterday, we got the news that he has passed away. His family said the trauma and stress from the massacre, and the news of its scale, had aggravated his medical problems for the last couple of months, until he could no longer go on.

This is 23 years old Raz Mizrachi.

In May 2021, she was injured in a vehicular terrorist attack in Jerusalem, but survived. On Oct 7, she was attending the Nova music festival. Her last phone call was to the police, to help instruct them on where she and dozens of others were hiding from Hamas terrorists, inside a public bomb shelter. Raz was murdered shortly after that. When her mom got a copy of the call's recording, she said it was a great source of comfort to the family, to know that Raz was a fighter till the last moment.

May their memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish #israelunderattack

[scribbling-dragon]

the very lonely giraffe

summary:

It’s stupid to begin to feel this kind of reluctance now. Stupid to feel the shaking of his hands, the trembling of his fingers as they line up along the string of his bow. Stupid, to begin to feel a swirl of regret deep in his gut, despite the layers of blood already lathering his hands – blood that he put on his own hands as he seized the lives of his friends in those very same hands. So maybe – maybe maybe maybe –that’s why he can’t resist the pull forwards. The urge to follow the bloody trail of who he and Pearl hunt over the grassy plains.

(ao3 link)

(3,750 words)

uh! yeah! that finale sure was something, and here's something that i decided to write after seeing this post by @stiffyck (hope you like it hdjsshjk <3)

(also hint hint nudge nudge reblogs are pretty funky <;3)

The grass swishes beneath his feet, the susurrus of his legs against the grass as he moves through it becoming familiar to his ears. He cuts through the tall grass easily, long legs eating up ground with each stride he makes. Legs that feel oddly shaky right now, trembling with each pulsing beat of his heart.

He can’t tell if it’s reluctance – some kind of fear that’s only just beginning to rear its head as his heart continues to thump louder and louder, beating in his ears as a mockery of war drums; something warning that every step brings him closer to the inevitability of winning, or dying trying.

It’s stupid to begin to feel this kind of reluctance now. Stupid to feel the shaking of his hands, the trembling of his fingers as they line up along the string of his bow. Stupid, to begin to feel a swirl of regret deep in his gut, despite the layers of blood already lathering his hands – blood that he put on his own hands as he seized the lives of his friends in those very same hands.

So maybe – maybe maybe maybe –that’s why he can’t resist the pull forwards. The urge to follow the bloody trail of who he and Pearl hunt over the grassy plains. He’s drawn forwards, pulled into the orbit of this roaring flame, like a moth that can’t quite resist the alluring light promising warmth and safety. But in this case, he is the moth and the flame is an assurance of violence.

He stumbles, drawing to an unsteady halt; slowing from a gallop to a gentle jog as Pearl pulls up beside him.

“Scar,” she huffs out, sounding far more strained than he expected her too. He looks over as she groans, doubling over and leaning against her knees. He’s worried, for a moment, that she’s been mortally wounded, somehow and he’s about to lose her to bleeding out, of all things. “Just- remember that your legs are longer than mine. Please.”

And oh. That makes so much more sense. He lets out a relieved breath that almost turns into a laugh, but he manages to staunch it at just a giggle. Of course she was struggling to keep up with him, he’s so much faster than her!

“I also have double the number of legs that you do,” he adds. He’s forced to lean over to the side, a little awkwardly, in order to close the distance between them. Being forced to shout up at him is probably not helping Pearl’s efforts to catch her breath. He still feels awkward, despite being forced to lean over like this the whole time in order to put himself a little more on their level – an awkwardness that he’s managed, so far, to blame most of his allyship (or lack of) issues on.

He still feels awkwardly far away from his friend – is friend even the right word for someone that could end up dying at his hands later? Is it the right word for someone that is his friend, but only outside of this game? Is it the right word for someone that is only friends with him right now because they are all the other has left? – widening the space between his legs in order to lower himself that tiny bit more.

He would consider sitting down at any other time, folding the four gangly legs beneath himself in order to better speak with Pearl. But that is not a weakness he’s looking to invite; standing up again would take far too long, leaving him vulnerable to a surprise attack before he manages to regain both his feet and his balance.

Gem and Scott are long gone by now, escaping like the slippery snakes that they are. Slithering away into the tall grass to lick their wounds and prepare their next attack.

“They're long gone,” he echoes his thoughts aloud, watching as Pearl straightens back up, apparently having managed to regain her breath. Or at least enough of it that she no longer feels the need to hunch over and just breathe. “We should regather ourselves, get whatever else we need.”

He turns around, hooves clopping against the baked earth, ready to do just that. Maybe slightly anxious to get moving, to do something. He only has a few supplies, but he’s sure that they can be spread between the two of them, albeit a little thinly…

“Scar,” he feels Pearl’s hand on his flank, the sensation almost making him jolt at its unfamiliarity. He manages to reign the reaction in and pauses his steps instead, thoughts halting too as he looks back down at her. Pearl’s hand rests lightly over one of the larger blotches on his side. The brown of the fur is too dark to actually be brown, closer to black than the typical markings you would find on a giraffe.

He makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat when she doesn’t continue, but doesn’t pull her hand away either. She seems lost in thought, eyes searching his face, as though in consideration. Then, as though she’s been shocked, her eyes dart away, fastening onto a patch of bare ground just in front of her feet. “Look,” she breathes out slowly, raising her head to meet his eyes as he hunches down again, worried at her uncharacteristic solemnity, “Scar. At the end of the day, when we’ve finished off Scott, when all is said and done, I want you to kill me.”

He rears back, mouth moving before his brain can catch up- can even begin to comprehend what it is that Pearl is suggesting to him. For him to do. Her hand, a warm presence on his side, falls away as he backs up, leaving him feeling cold all over. Like someone’s just dumped a bucket of ice over his head.

“I'm not gonna kill you Pearl!” His voice may come out a bit more panicky than he intended, but he doesn’t care much – can’t find it in himself to care when his brain is struggling to process what it is that Pearl is wanting him to do – the decision she’s making on his behalf. His legs feel shakier than before, and he’s momentarily worried they won’t support him at all. “I’ve wronged you too many times recently,” he follows up with, a little quieter than before. A little sadder.

“I- Scar,” Pearl emphasises his name, as though that’s meant to mean something to him. Like it’s going to sway him to agree with her. He shakes his head stubbornly, gritting his jaw and preparing himself to argue further. She must realise this, as she stares up at him a moment longer before sighing, shoulders drooping. “Whatever you say.”

“You can’t just say something like that to me,” he laughs, even though it feels strained, as though it might crack his chest apart from the sorrow behind it, barely contained within his ribcage. “My poor heart just can’t cope!” he sings, aware that he’s being over the top, that he’s overdoing it all. Pearl still cracks a grin, though.

Maybe she can sense what he’s doing with his words, with the way he gestures too widely and smiles even wider, steering her back towards the remnants of his base, to root through the half-exploded chests and hope that the items inside aren’t burnt to a crisp.

They don’t even make it past the Secret Keeper.

Pearl’s the one that stops him, throwing an arm out in front of him. He doesn’t notice it, only registering the blockade when his front legs bump up against her arm, halting and looking down at her. Maybe he should work on being more aware of his surroundings, maybe he should have been paying a little more attention in order to keep an eye out for the people actively hunting them down.

Gem’s eyes gleam as she stares over at them, stood on higher ground than Scott. His head is bowed before her. Gem’s lips move quickly, but they're too far away to hear what they're talking about. Gem doesn’t look at them for longer than a few seconds, but it’s enough to pin him in place, keep him rooted to the spot despite how easy it would be line up a shot and take Scott’s life right that moment.

There’s a flash of blue – a sword drawn, are they turning on each other? – and then the unmistakable sound of flesh being parted forcefully. He feels a little sick as he watches the sword poke out Scott’s back, a little to the left of his spine.

His jacket quickly soaks through with blood, darkening as it continues to pour. Scott, brave man, doesn’t make a single sound, simple collapses where he stands. It leaves Gem scrambling to pull him into her arms, dragging the sword back out of his chest.

He feels like he’s intruding on a quiet, private moment – both of them are, really.

Gem doesn’t look at them once. He feels his fingers twitch over the string of his both, an arrow balanced loosely against it. He could line it up, take Gem out while she grieves over her friend, her ally, the one she’s put to death herself.

He doesn’t, finger continuing to twitch as he goes back and forth between drawing his bow at all.

An explosion echoes overhead, reaching every corner of the server. As though there is anyone left beside the three of them, gathered in this small corner of the world. The explosion echoes far and wide, as though there are more people to hear it than just them.

“Oh,” Pearl says beside him, the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears, the blood on Gem’s front not fading. “He…gave her the kill. Gave her that small reprieve.”

He feels his mouth go dry at the discovery, watching as Gem looks up at them, away from where Scott had lain previously, face splattered with gore that might belong to her enemies, but could also belong to her allies – to Scott. He can’t see her expression properly from this distance, as she disappears too quickly for him to try and see it any better.

He doesn’t look at Pearl, ignores the way he can feel her looking up at him, imploring him to take that kill too. To go into that final fight with his wounds stinging a little less, his energy slightly replenished.

His legs continue to shake, and he can’t lie to himself – he’s long past lying to himself, except about the little things, not big things like this – and say that the idea isn’t tempting. Cannot say the thought wouldn’t sway him slightly if he were anywhere else. If it were anyone other than a friend beside him; if it were an ally of convenience rather than someone he cares for.

Call him selfish, maybe, but he wants someone beside him in these last moments. Doesn’t want to be the one to cut down his one friend – one remaining friend, he had a few in the hours before this, only had friends as everything went to hell around them – when they could charge against Gem together. She’s scraped and beaten, the same as both of them despite the small boon Scott granted her. But there is two of them and only one of them. Two of them, when she is used to having two others at her back, ready to support her when she needs to fall back.

He steps forward, attempting to appear confident. He can only hope Pearl doesn’t notice his shaking, the way his legs tremble like leaves in a breeze and the discomforted swish of his tail.

He gives a small laugh, hoping that it might bolster his confidence. Make him feel a little less sick to his stomach. The feeling only worsens, bile rising in the back of his throat as he speaks, “Let’s go put her out of her misery, yeah? Maybe she wants to join her friends!”

Pearl makes a small noise, one that could either be an agreement or a hesitance. Scar ignores it, continuing to step forward, before he's lightly jogging, covering the distance quickly. He’s worried his legs will get tangled up amongst themselves, feeling as shaky and ungainly as a newborn calf.

He barely notices Pearl beside him, feeling so tall, so far away from the ground and the rest of the world that goes on around him. Oddly separate, even as Gem perks up, readying herself and her sword when they approach, when they corner her beside the Secret Keeper.

He draws his bow first, dancing out the way carefully as Gem goes for the legs first. Smart move, one he’d probably use in her place – take out his legs and he won’t be able to run anymore, won’t be able to go anywhere.

Pearl crashes against her with a scraping of steel and apologies, the two of them apologising for each clash of blades they have with each other. Apologising for every scrape of steel and every nick of skin. Pearl shoves Gem back, away from the tangling twist of limbs and swords, enough for Scar to line up his shot and take it.

Gem hisses, staggering back as the arrow pierces her shoulder, going straight to the bone.

She turns her eyes back to him, something furious flashing in the depths of her red eyes. Something born of desperation and fear, something that only rolls about once someone believes they are cornered. A frightened animal lashing out despite being on its last legs.

She may be going down, her eyes seem to promise, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t take at least one of them with her.

He has to properly leap back when Gem lunges at him, batting Pearl aside easily as she chases him. His hooves make deep grooves in the dirt as he attempts to escape the blow, taking it on his side rather than straight through him.

He still winces at the sting, kicking at her and shoving her further backwards. He can’t draw his sword – there’s no point in drawing that weapon when he won’t even be able to reach her. He shoots off another arrow, one easily dodged at such close range.

He startles as Pearl barrels into Gem with a shout, the two tumbling over the ground, more like a pair of wildcats fighting as they claw at each other. He watches Pearl rip through half of Gem’s face, fingers curled into claws.

It makes Gem cry out furiously, throwing her head upwards and goring Pearl across the face with her antlers. Pearl falls back, grasping at her face as something – Scar doesn’t even know what, stood on the sidelines like a fool – begins to bleed profusely.

Gem spins on him, and charges with a cry.

He doesn’t expect the arrow to be what does her in. Doesn’t expect her to die to his hands at all. He’d been stood there, aware that he was probably about to watch two of his friends rip each other apart in the name of a game.

He shoots it with shaking hands, a last-ditch effort to not die at this moment, at this crucial point in time. Still grasping for that final win, despite how firmly out of reach it really is.

It sinks into Gem’s chest with an awful, solid sounding thunk.

The sound alone makes him sick, tears already beginning to bead in his eyes, shaking his head as he backs up, raising his hands in defence. He doesn’t even notice the bow slipping from his fingers, doesn’t notice the way his hoof crushes it beneath him, grinds it into the ground.

Gem glances down, as though surprised at the arrow sticking out of her chest too, looking back up as the explosion sounds and she’s struck down. The lightning wipes her away, as though she was never there in the first place.

“Pearl!” he calls, turning in a circle as he looks for her. She’s nowhere nearby, explosion continuing to ring longer in his ears than it probably should – still echoing through the air around him, crackling with electricity.

Maybe she’s down in the ravine nearby, he tells himself. He leans over the edge exaggeratedly, looking for her. She’s not there, he knows that. She’s probably somewhere behind him, lining up a shot at the back of his head.

He’ll let her take it – she deserves it far more than he does. She’s done far more in this than he has, been far nicer to him than he really deserves.

He lowers himself to the ground properly when the shot fails to come, settling himself at the edge. He won’t be moving anywhere quickly now, and Pearl will know that. Will shoot him now, now that her arrows will find their target; there’s no risk of her missing and startling him anymore.

And yet, the arrow fails to come, still.

The air seems to sigh around him, breeze stirring the grass he sits in. It brushes over his face gently, like the cradling, careful touch of a loved one.

“Pearl, I'm coming for you!” He heaves himself to his feet, wobbling precariously on the edge of that ravine. And, oh, Gem cut him a little deeper than he realised, blood sluicing off his fur and down to the ground. It patters like a morbid rainfall over the grass there. He turns, a little unsteadily, and prays he doesn’t topple into the ravine like a fool. “Where’d you go?” he calls out again, “I'm gonna getcha!”

She’s dead, Scar, the heavens sigh. You’ve won.

The heavens seem to have a suspiciously Grian-like voice, echoing down at him as though the man is speaking a thousand times over, each repetition layering itself over the previous until it reaches the echoing crescendo that has him cringing slightly.

“What?” he laughs. “C’mon, don't mess with me like that!” No response comes, even when he looks around, waiting for Pearl to emerge from whatever hiding spot she’s found herself and to declare the final showdown between the two of them.

“Oh, c’mon,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything else. Maybe it’s a last, desperate plea for Pearl to jump out at him. Maybe it’s a struggle to accept what’s being shoved in his face. Pearl doesn’t hesitate, not even over hard decisions. “How’d that happen, huh? How’d the guy with no friends win?”

The air kicks up around him a little, pushing him in the direction of the Secret Keeper.

“I don't even have my book anymore,” he calls out to no-one. The silence responds as silence often does: not at all. He sighs, and begins the short yet long trek towards the Secret Keeper. “How am I even meant to hand in a task without a book,” he grumbles.

He can feel the tears in the corners of his eyes, can feel the way they threaten to spill over as the silence presses in around him.

His hooves echo awkwardly against the stone as he walks up to the Secret Keeper, looming over him ominously. “Uh, hey there,” he greets, as though the stone might respond if he tries hard enough. “I don't actually have my book!” He laughs again, shaking with both residual adrenaline and the knowledge of what’s to come. He’s watched all the previous winners, bar one, be struck down by the powers that be. He’s sure his own death will be no different. “Never really thought I’d get this far,” he adds, a small, quiet afterthought.

He leans down, the distance between him and the button nigh insurmountable. It clicks beneath his fingers gently, bouncing back up as he pulls his hand away.

He takes a step back, watching as the Secret Keeper draws power towards itself, coalescing into a bright white symbol over the hooded face. He glances back as the tension builds, half expecting to see all his friends gathered there, watching with anticipation to see what rewards he’ll gain.

There’s nothing there.

Empty space where someone once stood. Empty air where laughter once echoed. He’d even rather a chant of fail fail fail to the silence, pressing in around him.

There’s a small thump, and he turns back around. A book lies at his feet, even further from him than the button. It looks tiny, that far below him. The leather-bound book stares up at him, insignificant in the face of the last few hours.

He picks it up anyway, blood smearing over its front cover.

Curiosity drives him to flick it open, blood staining the white paper a deep crimson, blooming across the pages. Like he’s pressed for too long with a quill and the ink has begun to bleed.

Win Secret Life

It stares back at him. Mocking in its simplicity.

“Thank you!” He responds, “I didn’t have a book to complete it with, did I? Well, I have one now!”

He presses the button, book in hand, feeling the weight evaporate alongside it. He turns his face upwards, ready and waiting for the lightning to strike him down too, to claim its last victim. He closes his eyes, not exactly willing to see his death plummeting towards him.

There’s a small thump as something small lands on the ground, just in front of his hooves.

No, he thinks, and looks back down anyway.

This, it seems, is what does his shaking legs in. they give beneath him, folding as he crumples like wet paper. The book continues to sit there, taunting in its smugness. It has no face to grin with, but Scar can feel the disgustingly pleased aura radiating off of it anyway.

“So this is my reward,” he tells the book. “Thanks, I guess.”

His words are empty, devoid of any humour of actual thankfulness. As dead as the server around him.

Only bloodstained grass and the dried blood clumping beneath his nails remains of his friends. And yet he stays, he remains.

The air remains still, not even that gentle touch returning to promise him everything will be alright. They would be empty words, empty promises, but he’d prefer them to this.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” he asks.

The Secret Keeper stares down at him, silent.

He’s not sure why he expected a response from it, really. It’s lifeless stone, as dead as the server around him.

#juno.writes #goodtimeswithscar #secret life smp #secret life spoilers #slsmp #secret life #secret life scar #gtws #gtwscar #slsmp fic #secret life fic #slsmp spoilers #trafficfic

[deakyjoe]

Somebody’s Watching Me: Tea For Two Deleted Scene

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (she/her, “Sarge”, British, backstory)

Category: coworkers to friends to lovers with grumpy x sunshine dynamic/idiots in love

Summary: Your lieutenant joins you for a cup of tea.

Warnings: tension, banter, flirting, mention of dead hamster, mask is off, domestic Ghost (he sits and has tea), Ghost doing normal things (he sits and has tea), British terminology/slang

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE FIRST CHAPTER OF SOMEBODY’S WATCHING ME!! 🥳🥳 I cannot believe I started it so long ago, it’s crazy. This is for everyone who has read, enjoyed and supported me along the way. This takes places directly after the first chapter.

Consider buying me a coffee :)

The door of your flat creaked open, accompanied by the awful sound of your keys falling out of the lock and crashing to the floor uncermoniously. You winced at the sound but said nothing, sticking your foot out to prevent the door from slamming closed again right onto your face. You didn’t need a broken nose right now. The hinges were loose but you couldn't be bothered to tell your landlord, or fix it yourself, since you weren't even living there most of the time.

You stepped into your flat quickly, ushering your lieutenant in behind you. "Welcome to my humble abode." 

Ghost went to close the door behind him but stopped when it just swung shut by its own accord.

"Very humble." You re-iterated. It wasn't the Ritz, that was for sure.

He made no comment on the state of the door, despite clearly having some thoughts if the slight frown on his face was any indication.

"You live alone?" He asked, taking a nice long look around at your flat. You wondered if he was judging the trinkets scattered all over the place and the lack of real decor.

You nodded, shrugging your coat off of your shoulders and hanging it over the back of a chair. "Yeah. Used to have a hamster but he died a few months back." 

You missed Señor Duncan.

He blinked at you slowly and said nothing so you rushed off into the kitchen with your bags clasped tightly in your hands to make the tea and avoid further awkward conversation. You tried desperately to come up with a new topic to talk about when you got back to him.

But he had other ideas. As you turned to get the milk out of the fridge, Ghost was stood in your doorway watching you.

"You can sit down, lieutenant." You assured him, not needing him hovering as you made the two cups of tea. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He took a moment to answer. "Here to make sure you make my tea right."

You scoffed. "I know how you take it, sir."

The double meaning of that statement hung in the air between you for a few seconds.

"I've seen you make tea about a million times on base so..." The clarification probably didn't help you. In fact, it made the previous sentence even more glaring.

"Okay." He nodded. "I trust you."

The way he said it wasn't convincing.

The kettle clicked behind you but you ignored it.

"Got any biscuits?"

You shook your head. "Nothing you’ll like, no."

"Hmm." 

"Sorry." Your jaw clenched tight.

"Don't be sorry."

You broke off the staring contest that was happening between you, knowing he'd probably win in the end anyway, and turned around to actually make the two of you a drink.

The thought that this may have been a bad idea plagued you as you watched the teabags drown in the boiling water. You were just trying to be friendly. Maybe friendly with your lieutenant wasn't good. Although, he agreed to come. So some of this was on him.

Ghost was silent behind you but you assumed he was still there. You could feel his gaze burning into the back of your head, the hairs on your neck and arms standing up on end. When you were done, you turned to find him stood a lot closer to you than he had been just a minute or so prior.

His hand was stretched out ready to take the mug from you. "Thank you, sergeant."

"You're welcome, lieutenant." You croaked back at him, unprepared for how close he was. You could smell him, the distance was that small. You begrudgingly admitted to yourself internally that he smelt nice. Of course he did. You avoided looking at how his hands enveloped the cup you'd handed to him. "Umm, living room?"

“Not going to put your things away?” He lazily gestured at the bags sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Oh… it can wait a while.”

He nodded and followed you as you swerved around him, mouthing oh my god to yourself as you walked away. In the lounge, you settled on the sofa and were not surprised in the slightest when he chose to sit in the other chair, his large frame consuming the cushions almost completely. He looked comical.

There was a brief moment of tense silence between you and just as you opened your mouth to say something, say anything, he cut in.

"Want a chocolate digestive?"

Your teeth clicked shut. "Uh, sure!"

Sipping on your tea to hide your face behind the mug at the way-too-upbeat tone of your response, you burnt your tongue on the scalding liquid. Luckily, your lieutenant was too distracted by pulling the pack of biscuits out of the carrier bag at his feet that he didn't take any notice of you.

When he held out the packet to you, you tentatively took one and started nibbling on the edge. You were really unsure of what to do with yourself. Think. Just think of something to say.

"So, what does Lieutenant Simon Riley do for fun when he's on leave?"

Idiot.

"Not this." He grumbled.

"Not what?" Of course he didn't do this, this was the first time this had happened.

"Socialising."

Oh.

"Then why did you agree to come here?" You asked, frowning. Seemed a bit silly to you honestly.

Ghost said nothing, just stared back at you.

So you filled the silence by rambling. "You didn't have to. Just because I asked you to. Don't feel forced or anything. I mean, like, you never listen to me in the field. So why is it different out here? Don't think you have to be polite. I'm a grown woman, I can take no for an answer."

"Christ, you talk a lot."

You frowned. "Sorry."

"Between you and Johnny I don't know how I don't get more headaches."

"Charming." You snapped back despite the pull of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

He continued on. "Without the two of you I'd get some silence once in a while."

"How boring."

"How peaceful."

"Overrated.” You waved your hand in a dismissive motion. “I think a couple of hyper sergeants are a lot more fun."

"If you'd like." He took a mouthful of his tea and you wondered if he was hiding anything behind the cup. A smile, a smirk, just something. Probably not.

You decided to pry. "You never answered my question."

He sighed. "What question?"

"What do you do when you're on leave?"

"What do you imagine I do when I'm on leave, hm?" He evaded the question by shooting back one of his own. Tricky bastard.

You shrugged. "Mope at home all day probably." 

"Mope." He repeated back to you.

"You seem like a moper."

He didn't reply.

"I think it's a fair assessment."

"Based on what?"

You barked out a short laugh. "Based on everything!"

"For all you know I could be the life of the party when on leave." He drained the rest of the tea from his mug in a few steady gulps, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Your mouth hung open for a second as you watched.

"You just admitted you don't like to socialise. Or like how loud me and Soap can be. I seriously doubt you're the life of any party." You deadpanned, noticing how your cup was still mostly full.

"Should I take offence to that, sergeant?" He asked, resting his own cup between his knees.

Your eyes flickered down towards it. "Didn't say it was a bad thing necessarily."

"But it can be?"

"If you're boring in general, I guess."

"I see."

Your back straightened in defence. "I'm not calling you boring, sir! In fact, I think you're rather interesting. I was just saying it can be bad if you are always boring. Which you are not."

"This might be my cue to leave, you don't seem so sure." His head tilted to the side. "Very enthusiastic to prove you don't think I'm boring. Too enthusiastic."

"That's just my general demeanour." 

He nodded. "I'm aware."

"Now I feel like I should be insulted."

"And why's that?"

"You seem disgusted."

He repeated your words back to you. "That's just my general demeanour."

So you did the same. "I'm aware."

"Hm, clever." He grunted, glancing down at the empty mug. "I should probably go."

"If you want." You watched him shift in his seat.

His eyes shot back up to meet yours. "Kicking me out, sergeant?"

"No. Just not going to insist that you stay if you want to leave."

He nodded and looked around the room. "You should get another hamster."

What an odd thing to say.

"Why?" You questioned, putting your cup down on the coffee table and gesturing for him to do the same.

"You're a social creature. Could probably use the company."

"A social creature. Gee, thanks." You rolled your eyes at him. "I have friends, y'know?"

"Seen 'em since you've been home?"

"Haven't had the opportunity yet." You mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

"Mhm." He hummed, not needing to say anything to get his point across.

You didn't even bother responding, what good would it do? You just watched him rise from the seat and pick up his plastic bag of stuff, following him when he started towards the front door.

Neither of you exchanched pleasantries as you opened the door and held it open with your foot, you didn't need to pretend that this was anything less than awkward and slightly odd altogether. There was no oh this was nice we should it again sometime. The exchange was very short.

"Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No, I don't live too far."

"Okay."

Silence.

Tense silence.

"Goodbye, lieutenant."

"Goodbye, sergeant."

And then he was gone.

A/N: thanks for reading!!

#simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost riley #ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x you #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon riley fanfiction #ghost riley fanfiction #ghost fanfiction #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 3 #modern warfare 3 #modern warfare #cod modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #ej’s fics #ej’s writing #deakyjoe’s fics #deakyjoe’s writing #sarge and simon #simon and sarge

[ittybluebell]

Roommate | Daredevil G/T | Chapter 1

AO3

Next

Matt Murdock didn't have anything against mice. He'd never been personally harrassed by one, but he understood the need to get rid of them. One easily turned into a dozen and with all the mess and digging into food, eviction was necessary. Despite how many rodents he heard daily, it wasn't something he thought about. The only reason mice were on his mind now was because one had moved into the floor, and he could hear it moving around as he laid in bed.

Now, like he said, Matt didn't have anything against mice.

Scrtch-scrtch-tick.

This one, however, was pushing its luck.

It showed up one night, moving in when he was out vigilante-ing and he only noticed the next day. At first, he didn't care. It was alone and hadn't yet realized there was food in his apartment. He had other, more pressing issues than a single mouse. It was a benign little thing - hardly a problem. Most nights, he could ignore the pitter-pattering and scraping or put in his noise-canceling earbuds.

Tonight, the mouse was too loud for earbuds. As he tossed and turned, Matt fumed, wondering what that rodent could possibly be up to. Rearranging furniture? Fuck, it sounded like it. Little mouse furniture.

Enough was enough. Matt threw a pillow at the floor and told the thing to shut up. To his surprise, it did. Matt sighed and finally went to sleep.

From that night on, he noticed a drastic decline in his downstairs neighbor's noise pollution.

How silly it was, Matt thought during a good mood, holding a grudge toward an animal. Especially one that was polite enough to let him sleep in peace.

Oh, how naïve he was.

The mouse quickly reinstated its grudge status when Matt noticed things going missing. It started with the bagels - a hole in the bag he noticed because the scent of bagel was particularly strong. Upon investigation, he discovered there was a complete lack of crumbs. And a chunk discreetly chewed from the middle. From there, things escalated. He smelled the shift in the air, smelled the remnants of another living being in his apartment. Little objects went missing - things even a seeing person might miss. But not Matt Murdock.

The sock was the last straw.

"What's the best bait for mouse traps?" Matt asked as soon as he entered the office.

"Cheese?" Foggy answered, confused. "Why? Do you have mice?"

"One. One mouse."

"How d- nevermind. Let me guess - you can't sleep."

"It's taking my stuff."

Foggy laughed. Karen huffed.

"At least tell me you're using non-lethal," said Karen. Upon his silence, she aww'd sadly. "Matt, no. It's just a mouse. You can't kill it."

"They're pests," said Foggy.

"But they're so cute. It just wants a place to live."

"Karen-" started Matt.

"No, no, she's got a point." Foggy spun his chair around. "Matt, you can't kill it! So cute and fuzzy!"

The lawyer-by-day, vigilante-by-night groaned. "Fine, I won't. Just stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Foggy, I can feel your eyes fake-tearing up."

Matt bought some glue traps and baited them with peanut butter. When Karen told him glue traps were worse - "They're so inhumane, Matt!" - he assured her that he'd know when the mouse got stuck; it wouldn't suffer. As much as the thing annoyed him, Karen was right: he wasn't going to abandon his no-killing rule for one mouse. (One mouse that must have a vendetta against him. He would not stoop to its level.) What kind of hypocrite would he be, huh?

The traps were set. Now to wait.

And wait.

A week passed. No mouse was caught. When he listened to its movement, he realized it was avoiding the spots he'd trapped. Avoiding the usual routes.

Smart. For a rodent. But Matt was smarter.

More traps, different bait. Traps disguised as the food and objects he'd noticed go missing, even the mate to his missing sock. It couldn't resist now.

Days passed.

Evidently, it could resist.

Foggy teased him about being outsmarted by an animal. Karen was on the mouse's side. Somebody must've told Jessica because he got a condescending text offering her services. Traitors, every one of them.

It all came to a head one terrible Friday night. Matt was already in a bad mood when he got home from work but going out, hearing and feeling New York City, pushed him over the edge. He was annoyed, his brain was overstimulated, and he just wanted to rest. The rooftop access door shut behind him and he threw his helmet into its trunk, about to shed the rest when the distinct sound of scratching and plastic crinkling in the kitchen cupboard caught his ear.

Matt stilled. It was here.

He marched with purpose toward the sounds.

That little bastard wasn't getting away this time. Catching it would be a satisfying end to a crappy day.

The mouse started fleeing before he was even close. It was headed for the other end of the cupboards - a hole in the floor Matt wasn't aware of but now could sense the air flowing from within. He'd have to seal that in the mor-

Mice didn't run on two legs.

Matt cocked his head, listening to the pattern of footfalls. He'd never cared to pay attention, but now it was impossible to miss. He knew what scurrying rodents sounded like. Whatever was in his kitchen, it was no rodent. It was bipedal. A bird? No, not with that speed. Not with that gait. He needed a closer examination.

Matt threw open the cupboard door. The first thing to hit his senses was the scent of corn chips.

The second was the heartbeat.

The creature's heart pounded swiftly in its chest. Air rushed from a mouth that was too upright for any kind of animal, a nose too humanlike. Small shoes hit the baseboard as it ran. Fabric rustled the same way he heard every single day in the street - like clothing.

Matt got lower, needing to be closer, needing to examine this little anomaly. How it moved, how it sounded, how uncannily familiar it was.

The living shape that his senses created was so alike to people that he was too shocked to outwardly react.

The little thing escaped into the floor, and Matt Murdock was left crouching there. Slowly, he shut the door. He took off the suit, dressed his wounds, and went to bed, his mind racing.

His body was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. Not when he was tracking the creature's movements. Every scrape, every soft thud of a step, the whisper-

Whispering?

"You're fine. He didn't see you. There's no way…"

Whispering. Okay.

Matt pretended he didn't hear anything and put in his earbuds. That was a tomorrow-Matt problem.

Unfortunately for tomorrow-Matt, another problem knocked on his door first. That problem rhymed with Stank Hassle and didn't like to be ignored. Frank did offer coffee when they left so at least it wasn't a total bust. It was a good opportunity to get Matt out of his head; to get a clear perspective of the night before. Matt decided he was exhausted and hallucinating. The alternative was a tiny person living in the walls of his apartment. Delusion was easier.

Delusion was also what kept the borrower from abandoning the apartment altogether.

Call them stubborn, or stupid, but Finch didn't want to leave. Borrowers could only get so lucky. Landing a decent apartment with an oblivious bean was a rare opportunity, and Finch had no intention of giving it up. They would use this good fortune. Even if they didn't deserve it.

Finch shook off the guilt following that thought.

They spent the first week setting up: finding a place to sleep and tidying it up, living off the rations they packed. They got a lay of the land, surveying the apartment and its infrastructure. The excessively bright billboard directly in front of the living room window, the kitchen, and - most importantly - the bean. Light - or lack thereof - was never an issue for him. Not once did he flip a switch or so much as use his phone, which read texts aloud to him. He hardly looked at whatever claimed his attention. Everything added up to limited vision, but they couldn't be sure. It was safest not to risk any assumptions.

Evidence pointed to some damn good hearing when Finch was carving planks of wood out of the floor's innards. They were minding their own business, content with their repetitive, calming task, when something large and loud impacted the ceiling a dozen paces away.

The borrower nearly jumped out of their overalls, giving a startled squeak.

"Shut up," yelled the muffled voice above.

Pretending their soul wasn't just violently expelled from their body, Finch smoothed down their curly brown hair and exhaled shakily, making a mental note to postpone noisy work till the bean was away.

And they did good on that: when the bean was home, Finch completed the quieter, slower tasks. They thought they'd discovered the formula for living under the radar, satisfied to have found a routine that worked.

Then the traps appeared. Finch cursed their luck. The jig was up. The bean set up gross glue traps in outer access points, a couple even getting to the paths Finch took. Finch avoided them and laid low for a bit, hoping the lack of activity would convince the bean they'd skipped town. But more traps appeared. Smart ones, too - they almost fell for a couple. Now, Finch knew a thing or two about a thing or two. They made new routes and took extra care when borrowing. They even started mapping paths to the apartments below. Despite their small stature, Finch had a lot of room for determination. After a life of sticking their hand in the fire, they learned to take the heat. If the bean wanted them gone, he'd have to try a lot harder.

Night fell. The bean was gone. He followed routines - ones he scarcely strayed from. It would be hours before his return.

Finch made their way to the kitchen. They pushed up the trapdoor and strolled through the cupboard. They still had to be careful: just because the human wasn't home didn't mean they could throw all caution to the wind. Leaving evidence was a massive negatory. Finch didn't care for stupid rules, but the rules of borrowing were locked in their brain. They were already careless with the bagels, something they couldn't afford again. Desperation wasn't an excuse for sloppy borrowing - not when it exposed them.

Finch observed the boxes and containers around them, reading labels and calculating risk and reward. There was no chance of getting into that cereal box, but the nutrition bars would be a good grab. The box was short and already open. Finch pushed a can of tuna against it and hopped on. They began extracting a bar only to realize they had no way of getting something so large home without a sled.

"No, that'd be too easy." With a huff, Finch dropped it and shoved the can back into place. "'cause food can never be-" plastic crinkled under their foot "-easy?" Finch inspected the blue packaging. It was an open bag of tortilla chips. They grinned.

The scent of corn chips filled the space as Finch unfurled the bag. They dropped their backpack and started breaking the triangular chips into smaller pieces. Salt-free, too? Hell, yes. They tested the backpack's weight, put a bit more inside, then pulled the strings tight. They slung the strap across their chest. Oh, yeah, this would last them a good while. Finch fought with the chip bag, trying to roll the top underneath like it was before.

"Come on. Stupid fuckin'-" They tried to simultaneously lift the heavy bag and pull the other end.

Over the sounds of plastic popping and crackling in their ears, Finch didn't hear a door open and shut.

DOOM.

They did, however…

DOOM.

…feel the approaching footsteps of the human bean.

Finch froze. Blue eyes snapped wide open, their head flinching away from the plastic. It couldn't be...

Finch bolted.

He's supposed to be out why is he back-

DOOM.

They didn't need to know why he was back - just that he was and he was approaching at an alarming rate.

DOOM.

Oh, fuck, that's actually really close-

The doors ripped open. The hinges didn't even get a chance to squeak.

Finch stumbled. Air caught in their throat. For a moment, Finch was rooted to the floor. Just a moment. Long enough to see the human's form towering beyond the counter, covered in some kind of dark red leather. Long enough to see boots more than capable of squishing the life out of them.

Legs like fenceposts bent as the human came unbelievably closer. Closer than Finch had ever been to a bean. A giant face suspended above them, features blank and expressionless. Not once did the bean look at them.

Finch ran. They didn't look back. When they reached the hole in the floor, they plugged it up and kept going. Keep running.

Only when they reached the safety of their shelter did they falter.

"Oh, shit," they gasped, resting their weight on a nearby post. If their heart didn't outright stop, they were sure it might burst from their ribcage. Finch felt that exploding was a reasonable response. "He didn't see me." The scene replayed in their mind, over and over like a glitched tape. "I'm fine. You're fine. He didn't see you. There's no way he saw you. Just breathe."

Delusion, like they said. It was a powerful thing. It pulled many tricks on the mind. Like convincing oneself that they weren't discovered.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet, one might even say, if they weren't one Matt Murdock. He never got that phrase. Nothing was 'too quiet'. In his - correct - opinion, nothing was quiet enough. There was always something creaking, breathing, or thumping, even in the smallest hours of the night. But on some front he had to agree: there was a suspicious lack of activity from the critter in the floor lately. Reluctant as he was to admit it, he couldn't deny that it wasn't an animal. Animals didn't mutter to themselves, in full sentences, in English. He wasn't mentally, emotionally, or spiritually prepared to assess beyond whatever that meant. In the moments his mind wandered, however - such as now, sitting and listening to a recording for his current case - he found himself pondering the tiny being regardless.

The peace wasn't an accident. Finch had been avoiding that place, giving themself and the air time to settle. They continued work on their residence, slotting together panels of wood and cardboard to form walls. One room would do for now - they just needed protection from the elements and potential scavengers slinking around. Skies above, if a cockroach tried anything, it was next on the menu. Grind up the little fucker into a smoothie. Finch wished a bug would: it'd be miles better than those godforsaken tortilla chips. Finch gave the wood posts they'd just secured a good push, nodding in satisfaction and moving on to the wall. It would be the last one to seal up their box of a house.

Four days. It'd been four days since Finch was nearly discovered; four days since they stared a bean in the face and got away unscathed. Four days since they got an answer to what they'd only suspected: the human couldn't see. That explained the brilliantly bright billboard, the sensitive hearing, the lack of lights - it explained a lot. Finch had to re-evaluate their approach to borrowing. This human would be extra careful about his possessions - the sock was proof enough - and notice what was out of place. In some ways, this both simplified and complicated things.

But borrowers were nothing if not adaptable.

Finch ventured up to a peephole in the wall and looked out. Nothing had changed except the bean now sitting at the dining table, papers and an electronic box neatly laid out on the tabletop. Casually dressed, he was listening to… a podcast? No, too personal. Finch liked podcasts. There was a crime involved, but this sounded like a conversation Finch would overhear more than something designed to entertain. So this bean worked in solving crimes. A detective?

They listened to the dry as hell audio a scant longer before growing bored and moving on. Hey, at least the bean was preoccupied.

Naturally, they found themself puttering toward the kitchen. Wielding two bent nails tied to their belt, Finch climbed up the cupboard door, using hinges and decorative bevels alike to hoist themself up. Those bagels were good. Were there any left? Nothing but corn chips really wore down a person's capacity to give a damn. They perused the counter, confident that the bean was sufficiently distracted by his work. Finch was disappointed to find the bagels sealed in an airtight container. It was their own fault, slicing up the bag so messily. They pulled a face and resumed their search.

A plate of mostly-eaten pasta sat before them. Fuck yes! Finch scuttled to it, pulling out rolls of tinfoil from their bag. Careful to avoid crinkling, they gathered up all the leftover noodles and sauce that would fit.

Finch squirreled away their haul, licking their fingers clean of evidence and ignorant of the man listening to their heist just a few metres away.

Matt stopped paying attention to the tape some time ago.

The sounds of Hell's Kitchen couldn't drown out the little inhabitant in his walls. A scent had blown into the room, vaguely familiar with hints of tortilla chip. He sat straighter and listened, idly shuffling papers and tip-tapping his fingers on the table. He found himself unable to be anything other than impressed as they scaled his counter like a mountain climber. Whatever was left from dinner became his visitor's latest plunder. That was fine; less waste, right?

He was disappointed when they returned to the walls. He wound back the recording to get some work done, but found himself consistently distracted by his small neighbour's goings-on. This discovery was just so unique, so strange - how could he not be curious? He heard them venture out again, across the apartment now. Into his bedroom. What could they be doing?

Oho, if Matt found any more socks missing-

He turned in his seat, about to rise, when he heard:

"You hafta to be shittin' me."

The voice, quiet in size only and bold beyond that, was the mildly annoyed tone of someone who'd been inconvenienced. Matt had heard it before, in the late hush of the night, when no one else would. Muttered curses and remarks that blended into the creaking and groaning of buildings and chatter and sirens of the city. One voice that Matt Murdock had tried very hard not to think too much about.

"When is enough too much, huh?" the voice griped. "Does he think I'm just gonna lay on one? 'Oh, felt silly today, stepped on the massive rug of glue.' How 'bout I drag this onto your floor, see how you feel walkin' in a minefield?" They growled. "UGH. Beans."

Well.

There was no denying it anymore, was there? A tiny person was living in the walls of Matt's apartment.

Matt leaned back, processing. He'd tried ignoring it - for the sake of his mental health and faith - because it was insane. It was impossible. It shouldn't be.

And yet…

Matt wanted - needed - to investigate further.

He got up, quietly, light on his feet. He didn't make it two steps before he heard a swear and the tiny person retreated once more. Into an electrical outlet, by the sounds of it.

Hm. He couldn't sneak up on them - not this time. They heard him- no. Matt quirked his head, considering. They felt him approaching. Like Matt, they could feel vibrations. Vibrations that alerted them of a threat. It only made sense.

Heh, 'threat'. Regular ol' Matt Murdock was the threat this time, not his alter ego. Wasn't that something?

The next time Matt encountered his new neighbour, he was trying - and failing - to fall asleep. There was too much on his mind for sleep. Frustrated, he huffed and flopped over, restless, his thoughts racing. Sounds of the city were extra distracting tonight. He considered getting up and making a cup of tea - maybe that would calm his mind.

Noises from the kitchen drew his scattered focus. He sat up, listening to the scuffing and tapping that he'd come to recognize as his uninvited houseguest. Three visits in one day. Were they always this proactive? Well, he did interrupt their attempted heist of his bedroom. Matt scooted to the edge of the bed. He would make that tea, actually. As he stood, he remembered sneaking didn't work last time. Right. Heavy-footed. However, he had a hunch that this attempt would yield a sneakier result.

Aided by socks, Matt softly padded through his apartment. Tiny - the name he assigned his little visitor - was fiddling with some kind of packaging on the top shelf. And as he got closer, lo and behold, they did not startle. His theory was correct: the further Tiny was from the floor, the weaker their pallesthesia became. Their ability to detect vibrations just wasn’t as sensitive as his own. Once he stepped foot into the kitchen, Matt dropped the Daredevil act and let himself be known. He grabbed a mug and turned on the kettle. Tiny's pulse quickened; their breath hitched. He gave them time to hide before he opened the cupboard for a tea bag. He quickly realized the box wasn't in its usual spot - his own doing, unfortunately.

"Stupid tea bags," he muttered for Tiny's sake; an 'I'm not looking for you, I swear!' assurance as he searched the cabinets. For extra sauce, he added, "Always misplacing them."

Would he forgo tea? He did start the kettle… as much as he got a kick out of playing the part of oblivious blind guy, causing Tiny undue terror wasn't his end goal. He wanted to test them, their cockiness, not scare them. Tiny may be a thief, but they were just trying to survive. Why else was food their number one haul? Matt dedicated his life to helping people in need. Wasn't Tiny part of that demographic? Weren't they someone in need? Unless small people were running drug cartels and trafficking rings, Tiny was innocent.

Doubt and guilt crept in. Maybe he was pushing the bit too far.

Matt was just about to get up and leave when something square and coarse pressed into his fingers.

He faltered, then pinched it, rubbing his thumb over the material. Its strong, earthy scent gave it away.

A tea bag.

Small shoes lightly retreated. Matt withdrew his hand. He held the sachet of dried herbs, cogs turning in his mind. He tilted his head.

Tiny handed him a tea bag. That…

Matt found himself puzzled and oddly touched. It was for their own good, to avoid getting found, but he couldn't not appreciate the nice gesture. He easily smelt where the tea was, of course. But Tiny didn't know that. Huh.

Maybe he was being too harsh about the sock.

The kettle's bubbling pitch rose to a squeal. Wincing, Matt shut it off. He dropped the tea bag into the mug and poured steaming water over it.

What a strange experience. He wondered what Tiny was thinking. Their heartbeat eased into the fluttering pace that he learned was its resting rate. It was the trait that had him most convinced his roommate was a rodent of some sort, though the way they squeaked when startled was a close second.

Matt threw out the tea bag and took the mug to his room, leaving Tiny to their task.

The next day, he casually slipped questions about tiny people into a conversation with Foggy. (It was not casual and quite random, actually.)

"You mean, like… fairies?" Foggy cautiously asked.

Sort of? Matt didn't know whether Tiny could be considered a fairy. They certainly didn't seem like the fairy type, not with the kind of language he heard them utter. Did fairies say 'fuck'? Would that break some kind of fairy law?

Karen told him about a book series that she'd been obsessed with as a kid: it contained many smaller magical beings. Brownies, for instance. Matt settled on definitely not that one. What favours was he receiving? Aside from the tea bag - an isolated incident - absolutely none.

Matt wasn't convinced they were a magical creature. Really, they just… seemed like a normal person, albeit smaller. They hummed to themself, snickered at their own dumb jokes, and swore a hot streak that would impress even Castle and Jones. Matt was pretty damn sure they'd been building a house under his floor, though he noticed all the loud busywork was put on pause when he was home, most notably when he was sleeping. Another nice gesture that was also for their own self-preservation.

Maybe they were a mutant. Or maybe they were mutated, like him.

When Matt got home, he discarded the glue traps. It felt wrong to leave them now that he knew it was a person he'd been trying to catch. Guilty, he started leaving crumbs in easy-to-reach locations. It wouldn’t hurt him any - his grocery budget wasn’t gonna tank because of some scraps. If chips and leftovers were what they were after, then they had free reign over the countertop. That didn’t stop him from being cheeky about it, though - if Tiny was getting confident, he might as well play along.

He found Tiny’s courage something to marvel at. Roaming a giant’s home? Without fear? His vigilante persona was literally named Daredevil and he was impressed.

However, bravery and foolishness were not mutually exclusive. That’s when the cockiness came in.

Matt was minding his business, washing the dishes, when Tiny wandered out. Brows hitching up, he continued sponging the plate. Surely, they wouldn't-

Oh, but they did.

Unwavering, Tiny climbed up the counter they same way as before. They walked up to the pan on the stove and hooked a leg over. Matt fought hard not to chuffle. This was getting out of hand. Matt remembered an adage about not feeding animals or else they'd grow dependent. Had Matt inadvertently done exactly that? Animals that were accustomed to people often didn't see the danger. Tiny was certainly no animal, but the absence of caution they displayed in the moment was, frankly, ridiculous. It was a massive leap from the times they would flee his presence. He was starting to think he'd played too ignorant.

A smirk tugged at his lips upon hearing the leftover eggs being pilfered. When he turned to fetch the pan, Tiny was already hopping to the floor and disappearing behind the fridge.

Stealing right behind his back. When was enough too much, indeed.

AO3

Next

#g/t #giant/tiny #goldfinch (oc) #matt murdock #daredevil g/t #giant tiny #the borrowers #borrowers #g/t community #gt #g/t writing #daredevil #marvel g/t #marvel #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #daredevil fanfiction

[cordeliawhohung]

When Your Blood Meets Mine - Part 2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part twelve of "soft spot"

it's growing.

warnings: talks of past trauma, medical trauma, medical worries

wc: 3.8k

It only got worse.

If it wasn’t the pain, then it was the fatigue, but on most days it was both. Despite the fact you spent most of your days at work doing nothing but sorting through paperwork and typing nonsense on your computer, it wasn’t uncommon for Simon to return home to find you asleep in bed or on the couch. You didn’t bother with any over the counter pain medicine because you knew from word of mouth it wouldn’t help. No amount of ibuprofen or tylenol could rid you of the ache that festered in your side, and you reminded yourself of that fact every day as your fingers poked at the scar tissue and lumps that plagued you. 

You thought of your mom often those days. You thought of her home cooked meals and her soft tone when she spoke to you. But no matter how hard you tried to think of the good days with her shattered smile and broken nails, you were always brought back to that hospital. Beeping machines became the lullaby that accompanied your mothers explanation about everything because even though you were an adult, you really were still just a kid, and you were scared like one, too. So she taught you about how the chemo worked, and how neat her PICC line was, but you remembered thinking it wasn’t neat at all. A port with twisting tubes that invaded her veins and rested close to her beating heart wasn’t neat. The only thing that should have been that close to her heart was you. 

Those memories haunted you both in your dreams and in consciousness. Not even Boo, who you found curling into your side as a purring mess more often than not, could distract you from the fact that something wasn’t right. One night, a dream twisted up a story in which your position had been replaced with your mothers, and yours with her. She took care of you while you were sick, just like a mother should. She coddled you when you couldn’t stop crying from the pain, and smoothed your hair over while you tried to eat. And yet, for some reason, she still died in the end even though she wasn’t the sick one that time around. 

When you woke up, all you could think about was Simon and how you didn’t want to put him through that. How you refused to put him through that. It was a special kind of torture watching someone waste away. There was no gun in the world powerful or precise enough for him to use that would cure you of whatever had gotten you sick. He would not be able to fight his way to a cure. 

“Want me to come with you?”

There he was, in front of your desk, eyes trained on you with a type of soft concern you hadn’t seen from him in years. Anxiety stained your workstation, and its stench had followed you around for the last few days, and you knew he had picked up on it. He always did, but it was especially difficult not to this time around. Over the days leading up to your appointment with your OBGYN, he had pulled your hand away from your scar so many times he had lost count, and you were often so lethargic when you woke up he had to help coax your body out of bed. It wasn’t his first time taking care of you, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last; he just wished it didn’t remind him so much of what you were like after you had gotten shot. 

“No, that’s okay,” you assured him. Your voice was calm, but your leg shook underneath your desk. “It’ll probably be a quick appointment anyway. No need to have you leave base for it.” 

“I don’t care about what anyone on base wants, I care about what you need,” he said, taking care to keep his voice quiet. 

Of course he would say that, because you learned that there was nothing in the world Simon Riley wouldn’t do for you. But really, you didn’t want him there for your appointment. He had seen plenty of you in a clinical setting before, and you weren’t sure if you could stomach him seeing you like that again. Though, something inside of you told you that you might not have a choice soon. 

“Simon,” you said, firmly but kind, “I don’t need you to come with me. I’m fine. I’ll be back in like, two hours.” 

He didn’t believe you, and you knew that. You were always an open book to him, and he often knew more about you than you did yourself half the time. Yet he didn’t challenge you, and instead he straightened up as he got ready to leave. He had a tendency to not stick around too long while the two of you were working, but you knew leaving you this time killed him a little inside. 

“Alright. I’ll see you in a bit, love,” he said in a near whisper. 

You smiled to stop your bottom lip from quivering. “See you in a bit.” 

Despite the fact that you and Simon only ever used the quietest of tones with one another while speaking on base, that didn’t quite save the two of you from prying eyes. While no one in your office ever really cared, or dared, to eavesdrop or pay any attention to the two of you, the same couldn’t be said to anyone who happened to pass by the door. Especially for Arlo Sallow, who was always on the lookout for anything entertaining, private or otherwise. His beady eyes had caught sight of both you and Simon in the office as he passed by on his way to the gym, and while he hadn’t heard a single bit of the conversation between the two of you, that didn’t stop him from talking. 

“Do you think that masked freak wants to fuck Mrs. Riley?” 

Aaron, who had been in the middle of doing lateral raises, nearly dropped his dumbbell at Arlo’s question. Wiping the sweat from his brow, the man looked over to his blunt friend with his mouth slightly open in surprise. 

“You talking about Ghost?” he clarified. 

“Sure,” Arlo replied with a shrug. 

Huffing, Aaron set his dumbbell back on the rack before he placed his hands on his hips, almost like a disappointed mother. He shook his head as his chest heaved with a sigh, and Arlo nearly rolled his eyes at his friends over dramatic reaction. 

“You can’t just say shit like that, mate,” he chastised. “You’re gonna get in trouble one of these days.” 

“Yeah? Think Ghost is gonna reprimand me for speaking my mind?” Arlo jeered as he emphasized the word Ghost as if to make fun of it. “He’s just a big guy in a mask, he doesn’t scare me.” 

“What about Mrs. Riley?” Aaron challenged. “I get you’ve got some sort of imaginary beef with the lieutenant, but she’s obviously married. Keep spouting shit and you’re gonna drag more than just him into this.” 

Shrugging, Arlo tapped his fingers against a few of the dumbbells as if they were drums. “Maybe he should keep that in mind. Doubt I’m the only one who thinks he’s got a thing for her. Poor thing, he’s probably jeopardizing her job.” 

“Whose job is jeopardized?” 

Both men stopped their chatting and turned around to face the sergeant that interrupted their rather unpleasant conversation, John MacTavish. Sweat soaked into the fabric of his shirt near his armpits and chest, and his mohawk was slicked back from the perspiration. Though he looked somewhat relaxed despite his workout, there was a certain glint in his eyes that showed that he heard more than what he let on. 

“Nothing, sir,” Aaron was quick to excuse, “Sallow’s just talking nonsense.” 

“Mrs. Riley,” Arlo said, apparently with little regard for his life. 

Surprised that the man would admit that fact so blatantly, Johnny raised an eyebrow as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What about her?” 

“Her and Ghost seem awfully close,” he commented, digging his own grave.

Johnny tilted his head to the side in thought as he stared daggers through Arlo Sallow. There were several ways he could go about shutting down whatever was brewing in that bastard's mind, and telling him to shut up wasn’t going to cut it with a man like him. No, he knew his kind well, untamed beasts that often had no shame in tearing others down. So he was left with two options; intimidate him, or get him to respect you. 

Why not do both? 

“Makes sense after everything they’ve been through together,” Johnny said as if it was common knowledge. 

Confused yet curious, both Troopers glanced at one another. Arlo with some morbid curiosity, and Aaron with a blatant ‘I told you so’ look. 

“What do you mean?” Arlo pressed.

With a sigh, Johnny ran a hand over his damp hair, smoothing it down before he scratched at the back of his neck. Though he wasn’t taller than Arlo, he had both men beat on muscle mass and sheer size. He was older, more experienced, and despite the Trooper’s childish confidence, this wasn’t a battle he could win. 

“Mrs. Riley used to work as an intelligence agent. Very tech savvy, was really good at digging up intel that organizations wanted buried,” Johnny said, fabricating a story. “Damn good at her job. A little too good... You boys familiar with Mark Sizov?” 

While Arlo appeared just as bored as usual, Aaron’s eyes widened at the name. “He was a Russian terrorist, right? Some sort of splinter group created after Barkov was killed. He was executed a few months ago, wasn’t he?” 

Johnny answered him with a nod. “His men abducted Ghost during a mission gone wrong. Mrs. Riley was the one who found his location. They came for her after Ghost was rescued.” 

Lying so blatantly was necessary in order to really get Arlo off of your tail, yet it created a tension in the air Johnny didn’t really appreciate. It was as if the man was able to read right through him. Or, perhaps it only felt that way because the man hardly showed any other emotion than boredom or malicious curiosity. 

“They went after a civilian?” Aaron questioned. 

“They’d already killed hundreds by that point,” Johnny explained. 

“Civilians make for better bargaining chips,” Arlo added. 

Johnny looked at him with a glare. “That they do.” 

With a slight tilt of his head, Johnny took a few careful steps towards the men, though his eyes stayed trained on the most troublesome of the two. Arlo attempted to double down as the muscles in his jaw tensed, but he refused to waver. Still, nothing, not even his unfounded confidence, could save him from the fact he was clearly outranked. 

“My point here, Sallow, is that both Mrs. Riley and Ghost went through hell and back together. She’s a strong woman who’s recovered despite the horrors she’s witnessed. If I ever hear you spout bullshit like that ever again, I’ll ensure that you’ll be packing your bags by the end of the night,” Johnny threatened through gritted teeth. “She’s earned her place here. Don’t think that just because you’ve got your name on a badge and a uniform that means the same for you.” 

There were a million insults and vile things that bubbled in the back of Arlo’s throat. Johnny could see the man attempt to hold the bile at bay, but he wasn’t able to mask his glare. He obviously didn’t like being challenged, but he would be damned if your work life was put at risk because someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut. Besides, if he didn’t take the hint, there were plenty of other methods Johnny was more than willing to use in order to get his point across. 

“Understood, sir,” the man finally spoke. 

Once again, Johnny nodded something short and curt as he looked back and forth between the two Troopers. A part of him felt a little pity on Aaron for having made such a shitty friend, as he pegged Arlo as the type to not let relationships of any kind go so easily, but that was a battle for another day. Your image, your comfort, was the most important thing for him to accomplish. He had grown to see you like a sister, and he refused to just stand around idly while someone slandered you over what he could only assume was pathetic jealousy. 

“Good, because we won’t be having this conversation again,” he finished as he turned to leave. “As you were, gentlemen.” 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

It had been a long while since you last found yourself in your OBGYN’s office. Any sort of clinical setting had always unsettled you ever since the death of your mother. Even in an environment as welcoming as a private clinic, the beeping of machines seemed to follow you, haunting you nearly as bad as her final breaths. Things only got worse after Adakskin had shot you, and it had been quite some time since you had last visited any sort of doctor because of it. The needles, the poking and prodding, the drugs; even the thought of it nearly had you melting down in the middle of the waiting room. But when the clinical assistant called your name, you were brought right back to reality, no matter how unpleasant it was. 

Something was wrong. Something had been wrong, and you were finally about to find out what. 

Everything that came next was something you were prepared for, as you had gone through it loads of times previously. Your height and weight were recorded before you were brought into a private room. A poorly padded examination table was shoved into the corner with the stirrups half folded up, and a gown and blanket laid waiting for you on the corner. Then came the vitals and questions. What is the reason for your visit? Notice anything unusual lately? All of which you answered truthfully. You were scared of dying. You were scared of the lumps that reminded you all too much of what your mother had dealt with. 

The easiest part of that whole appointment was the blood test and urine sample. A quick prick of your finger, and a cup full of piss later, and you were directed to completely undress and change into your gown to wait for the doctor. It was all so stale. The gown was stiff against your skin, and though the blanket smelled fresh, it wasn’t at all warm. It was as if everything good had been sucked out of the world due to your terror. Still, you sat there on the edge of the table, half naked and feeling small. 

Small. You were painfully reminded of the last time you felt such a way. Was it back on the beach in Salthouse? When Bukin had dragged you out there wearing his coat? When he had grabbed you and you had fallen into the sand, wishing Simon had been there to pick you up? Was it on the floor of that basement after Adakskin had beaten you to a pulp? Or maybe in that orchard when Simon had finally been able to hold you after so many months? You hated how your trauma seemed to weave together. The pain of your childhood had burrowed into the trauma of being abducted, and then even that had taken root in your present worries. It all meshed together to hold you tighter than that blanket in your lap could. 

A short knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts and you glanced up just in time to watch as your doctor and her clinical assistant entered the room. She greeted you with a smile as if she was blissfully unaware of your exposed nature and she approached the side of the table as if ready to get down to business. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asked, her voice chipper. 

Silly, you thought. Doctors always asked that question even when they knew the answer.

“It’s going alright,” you responded with a sheepish smile. 

“Good, good,” she replied with a gentle bobbing of her head. “I understand we’re having some tenderness and pain in the breast area?”

Nodding, your hand instinctively reached up to hold the jagged tissue of your left breast. Really, it was more than just that. Between the fatigue and soreness, you had felt like nothing but a zombie for the last few weeks. Hell, you had even stopped wearing bras because the pain was near unbearable. But those questions would come in due time. 

“Why don’t you lay back for me? We’ll do a quick breast exam to check for any abnormalities,” she said as she gestured towards the table. 

Once you were settled as comfortably as you could get on a table as firm as that one, your doctor wasted no time getting to work. With your permission, she moved the cloth of your gown, revealing your bare breasts to the cold air of the examination room. It didn’t take her long for her movements to cease, and though you tried not to look at her while you were exposed the way you were, you knew exactly where her eyes had landed. 

“What happened here?” she asked, fingers ghosting over the ugly, puffy scar that afflicted your side. 

“I was shot,” you answered simply. 

Her silence almost made it seem like she didn’t believe you for a moment, and yet your own silence proved her suspicions wrong. With a tilt of her head, she visually examined your old wound yet didn’t make any effort to put any pressure on the area. The tension in your body alone already made the area feel like it throbbed. 

“Mind if I ask how you managed that?” she prompted. 

“It’s a long story but… we’ll just say it was a work hazard,” you said, bypassing her question. 

All she gave you in response was a hum, which you were grateful for, and then she truly got to work. She instructed you to move your arms over your head which stretched your breast tissue out to make for easier examination and access to your underarms. With the tips of her fingers, she began to poke in gentle circles around your left breast. No matter how light of a touch she used, the sheer achiness was overwhelming, and you found your face screwing tight from the pain. 

“I’m feeling a few small lumps here in line with your scar tissue,” she spoke after a moment. “It’s always difficult to tell through a physical exam, but it feels like fat necrosis.” 

Despite how uncomfortable you were in that moment, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “My husband said the same thing.” 

“Smart man.” 

Your other breast wasn’t as painful, though it was still oddly uncomfortable as checked for any other lumps that could be lying elsewhere. Eventually, her hands left your skin and she instructed you to sit up where you were able to completely cover yourself with the gown once more. 

“Well, there definitely are a few small lumps there,” she concurred. “Your right breast was perfectly fine, no abnormalities, and as for your left the lumps seem to be in a perfect line with your scar tissue. I’m very confident that this is just fat necrosis. It’s very common for these cysts to form oil deposits and even calcify after trauma has been dealt to more fatty areas of the body. However, given your family history, I think it would be a good idea to get a biopsy, just to be safe. Perhaps put your mind at ease a little. We could even perform the biopsy today if you’d like?” 

There was something so relieving about her words that you nearly forgot all about the pain and discomfort that had been harbored in your body. A smile flooded your face as you nodded your head in agreement. 

“Sounds like a plan, I just…” You paused to sigh and you brought a hand to your face to rub at your eyes. “Sorry, the last few weeks have just been so stressful. I’ve just been in so much pain, I’ve been so sore and could hardly stay awake. I feared for the worst.” 

You expected more assurance from her. You wanted her to open her mouth and tell you that it was all normal, that pain was a part of the fat necrosis building in your body, that you were fatigued due to the stress, but she didn’t. Instead, when you pulled your hand away from your face, you were met with something of a somber look. Or maybe it wasn’t somber, was it pity? Whatever it was, it had your stomach dropping, and you could feel the color drain from your face. 

Of course. Nothing in your life had ever been so simple and easy before. 

“Pain and fatigue aren’t typical symptoms for fat necrosis,” she explained, “though I might have the answer to that as well.” 

There it was again. That small feeling. Nothing but a bug on an examination table. Stuck with a body that you seemed to know nothing about. Because if it wasn’t one thing, it was always another, and no matter what you always seemed to be in the dark. 

“We run a few routine tests of all of our patients to check for afflictions that may be the underlying cause of common issues,” she started. “For example, when your finger was pricked earlier for a small blood sample, that was to test for iron deficiencies. And, as you noticed, we test urine for things such as UTIs, sexually transmitted infections, things of that sort.”

Whatever she was trying to say, you wanted her to hurry up and spit it out all ready. Her explanation only prolonged you getting your proper answer, and you could feel your stomach churn with anticipation. But maybe this was her way of preparing you for it. It was never easy hearing unexpected news. Perhaps she did you a favor. 

“When we tested your urine today, it was flagged that you had strong traces of a hormone called hCG in your system,” she finally finished. 

With a dry throat, you looked up at her as your fingers began to pick at your gown. She said that as if you were supposed to know what that meant, and she looked at you expectantly. Instead, you shook your head as your brows drew together. “What’s that mean?” 

“It means you’re pregnant.”

@ghostlythots @archonsabyss @crowbird @beware-my-thorns @koko-1025 @nessaasstuff @escapefromrealitysm @ilovehyperfixating @babygirl-riley @theloneshadow24 @ashableketchup @violet-19999 @ocyeanic-dani @paigetaylor628 @curlygirls-world @gaebestie @datlilwrench @analyseeeesworld @ryisghost @suffering-and-happy-about-it @achelois-is-here @spookyscaryspoon @vampykween @tapioca-milktea1978 @perfectus-in-morte @comeonatmebruh @xxkay15xx @talooolaaloolla @astraluminaaa

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soft spot #f!reader

[onskepa]

Hello, could i get a neteyam x human!fem!reader where on pandora she get tanned and her skin is falling off and neteyam things she is going to die but she assures him

Ooooooooooooooooooohhh!!! I can tell you from personal experience, it was weirdly satisfying peeling the skin. Thanks for requesting! hope you enjoy!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tsawke

Pandora wasn't like earth where it had major change of the climate. Drastic change for a new season. Pandora do have different climates and each of their own spot.

Where the green lands of the forest na'vi live, there are days in the year where it does get colder and/or warmer. But nothing too drastic to consider a new season. Now the sun was blazing across the forest, brining warmth more than usual.

Wasn't that hot, but was warm.

And that is where sweet Tsawke would take the opportunity to sun bathe. She loves the sun and all its bright glory. The warmth, the light, and the life it brings. Of course no disrespect to Eywa. But in terms of science, she knows the sun plays a big part of keeping things alive.

Every day, every hour, Tsawke would take every chance she can get to go outside and enjoy the sun. No chores, no exploration, just herself and her sun.

Rare she can have a day to herself, but when it comes, she never lets it go to waste. Like now.

From when the sun rose Tsawke climbed to the clearest cliff with the lovely view of the floating mountains. It was a perfect place to sun bathe.

A little too perfect.

Following day neteyam went to visit his dearest at the human post. Going in and saying the usually morning greetings he was close to reach Tsawke's door when spider stood in front of the door preventing neteyam from entering.

"hey bro! um, why not come tomorrow?" spider says a tad bit nervously.

Neteyam tilted his head a bit, feeling curious as to why spider would block him from seeing his beloved.

"is she sick? has something happened to her?"

"yes! she is sick and she doesn't want you to go in. Human sickness isn't a pretty sight believe me" spider speaks quickly. Hopping for his blue friend to leave.

Hearing that only made neteyam worry. Humans are fragile and despite the technology to protect them, death isn't a 100% preventable.

"all the more reasons to see her! move spider!" neteyam says, now feeling the urge to help Tsawke at her weakest point. But he also doesn't want to push spider like that.

Spider still doesn't move, determine to keep neteyam away. "Sorry neteyam but Tsawke told me not to let you in. She doesn't want you to see her right now. Just wait for tomorrow" spider tries to ease neteyam but it seems it falls on deaf ears.

"either you move or I will pick you up like a baby" neteyam threatens, and he was serious. Spider was willing to help his fellow sister but DAMN....his pride.

"its ok spider, let him in" Tsawke small voice was heard from the small gap of the door she opened.

Spider nods and left as neteyam gets close to the door.

"Tsawke? what is wrong? spider told me you are sick" he speaks, clear worry in his eyes.

A soft giggle escaped the girls lips, "I'm alright nete, it's just I didn't wanted you to see me like this..."

"like what Yawne?" he urges.

With a sigh, Tsawke opens the door wide so he can go in. The room was dark and a bit colder than usual. Turning on the lights neteyam gets a good look at his beloved human.

He freaked out.

"oh my Eywa what happened?! are you hurt?! does it hurt?! are you feeling alright!? should I take you to my grandmother!?" so many questions in a panicked voice as neteyam tries to understand what he is seeing.

Tsawke's skin was peeling off in pieces. She giggled, amused seeing neteyam's worrying fit.

"I'm alright nete, really. It is just yesterday I spend too much time under the sun. You can say my skin was....over cooked" she smiles as she explains in the simplest form.

"over cooked? Is that what happens to humans?" neteyam asks.

Tsawke nods, "yes, like the animals that need to shed, we humans also need to shed. It doesn't hurt I swear. I just didn't wanted you to see me like thinking worrying it might degust you..". She rubs her arms softly, suddenly feeling insecure about her body in front of neteyam.

His gaze softens and he gets closer. "Yawne...I could never be disgusted with you. I find it interesting. Humans are very different from us na'vi and I enjoy it every time you show me something different. So please Tswake, don't shut me out because of this. I love you, all bits of you. Even if you are 'shedding' as you say".

His words have a power of some sort. It soothes Tsawke greatly. "thank you nete, it means a lot" she smiles brightly.

Neteyam smiles as he gets closer for a hug but she backs away. "yes it doesn't hurt but that doesn't mean I can take physical contact at the moment".

He pouts cutely, shoulders slumped down slightly, ears pinned down and tail stops moving. He looked like a cat that way.

"haha, its ok neteyam tomorrow you can hug me all you want. But for now, why not enjoy some music?" she suggest. Satisfied with the answer, neteyam sits close to her but not too close and they pick a song and sing along to it. Enjoying each other's presence.

And that is all for this one! Hope you all enjoyed it! until next time!

Tsawke = sun

Yawne = Beloved

#avatar #na'vi x reader #avatar the way of water #na'vi avatar #avatar 2 #na'vi x human #neteyam #neteyam sully #neteyam fluff #neteyam x reader #neteyam x human #neteyam x human reader #spider socorro #spider x reader #spider x y/n

[xoyalanztov]

Just watched barbie and I am going through so many emotions right now.

SPOILERS AHEAD:

Okay so. This movie is a lot more than I thought it would be? like yeah I definitly expected the feminist subtext but they brought out the P word? saying the word Patriarchy out loud is like putting your hand on the stove, but I'm so happy they included it. Because this movie reflects a point where a lot of us are at in our lives. We are growing up, watching the people around us getting radicalised and its such a difference from what we used to be. How kind we used to be.

And Barbie is great at reminding us of that. Greta is so clever of never falling into the trap of saying: people are selfish, or all men suck. She knows what people will say about the movie, so she already added her rebutalls in, which is really clever.

The patrirachy affects everyone. This is a fact. Women live as a walking contradiction, cognizant of themselves and others at all times (with "an undertone of violence"), and we are so scared. All the time. It's exhausting be here, especially if you're an immigrant in a first world country, because you are constantly being reminded of how much better you have it. What people don't understand is that it's not enough. We deserve more. When the Barbies were getting their Nobel Prizes they were so confident, so assured in their right for recognization of the amazing work they've done, and just. I want that. So bad. I want to look at something and say I earned that.

And the Ken's were just this backdrop charecter, and it was achingly similar to how women are often presented in media. When Ken went into the real world he saw that he could be respected, could be loved, so of course he wanted that. This just shows that unbalanced societies will find ways to even themselves out, and those ways won't be great for everyone. But it does pose a great question for all "alpha" men: Who are you without the grind mindset, your podcast and your minifridge stocked with beer? Who are you? What is your life's purpose? What have you done with your life so far? You can do anything, and you are free to do anything. You don't have to work 80 hour weeks. You don't have to work yourself to the bone. Ask for help. Ask for compassion. Its ok.

And the way the movie makes fun of Mattel?? Aboslutely hilarious. Yes Barbie started out as a woman that could do anything, but she was perverted into this shell of herself, so that all that mattered was how much she would sell. This subtle dig at capitlisim is great, and the showcasing of performative activisim is top tier.

I think that at the heart of it this movie is about the thing that most great works of art are: human connection. The connection between mother and daughter, how it may wane, but if it is fostered and treated with respect it will flourish. Gloria loves her daughter. She gives her the speace she needs, lets her daughter grow. And her daughter understands that she needs that space, but also jumps to her mothers defence. Ken just wants to be loved, just wants someone to be there for him. Barbie helps him through that, and in the end, where Ken almost throws himself off the roof, Simu's Ken helps in persuading him not to, despite their bitter rivalry. Because love has many forms, and shouldn't just come from one person. Because we are more than a forgotten kiss.

Don't even get me started on the montages. I am so happy to be human. I am so in love with everything and everyone.

#barbie #barbenheimer #greta gerwig #margot barbie #margot robbie #ryan gosling #ken #america ferrera #chaotic academia #desiblr #desi #desi academia #school #everything is poetry if you write it truthfully enough #poetryblr

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 7: mammon / rain + hug

ao3 link

note: this takes place during chapter 14, after ik loses her hand but before she wakes up properly - i.e. during the same general period that lucifer's pov section in chapter 15 takes place in! since this slots right into that (and since ik doesn't remember this anyway) this could now be considered canon to jtta!

i combined two separate prompts - 'hug' and 'rain', with hand-loss scene being from the rain request, since i felt like they worked well together, i also did a bit of a play on the rain prompt - requesters, hope you don't mind!! ^^

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

It occurs to Mammon that he’s never held someone so small before. He doesn’t remember his brothers being little enough to gather in his arms so easily.

In the beginning, he’d imagined that humans couldn’t feel that different from demons or angels - after all, they’re pretty much the same thing, just in different sizes. And he’s had to pick IK up several times already, but this had been different.

Everything after stepping into the tomb is a blur. His memory only sharpens into focus after Diavolo intervenes. As the prince shouted himself hoarse, he’d looked up, and seen the three of them - big demon, little angel, scarily still human - huddled by the wall.

There had been Luke, barely disguising panicked tears, and Beel’s face had been set and pale. For a moment, it felt to him as if he were watching his brother cradle a corpse, with a mess of smoking wounds where its right hand should have been.

He sits now by Beel’s bed, where he insisted IK rest, and finds himself staring at the haphazardly wound bandages around that same wrist. He wrapped them himself, even though Solomon had told him they were unnecessary - perhaps more for himself than for IK, who isn’t conscious to appreciate the effort.

He’d been the one to carry her up from the tomb, too, insisting despite Beel’s assurances that he could do it himself. That’s the part that sticks with him even now.

It was frightening. IK, as he has learnt, should be lively. She’s a bundle of contradictions, of course - defiant in the face of monsters despite being afraid of loud corridors, bold and brave despite that instinctive polite nervousness - but, out of everything, she is never silent and still.

“Idiot,” He mumbles in the silence of the room. No one hears him - Solomon and Beel are both downstairs, and Levi’s stalked back off to his room.

“...mhh…”

His head snaps up. IK’s eyes are wide open.

The relief is tantamount to being dunked in ice after spending a year in the desert. He scrambles out of his seat, unable to bite back a grin. “Took y—”

Then he stops. Something isn’t right.

IK glances at him without moving her head. There’s something unsettling and robotic about the way she blinks.

“Good morning,” She says vaguely.

It goes without saying that the room is dark. He tries to play along, wondering if he should shout for help - did she hit her head? “Yeah, mornin’, sleepyhead. Finally up, huh?”

“Huh,” IK mimics, and this is where she’s supposed to laugh. She doesn’t. “Hey… what’s your name?”

He feels his heart sink. He tries not to let it show. “You forgot? Honestly. It’s Mammon, duh.”

“Mam-mon,” IK repeats, stumbling, as if the sound is foreign in her mouth. “Ma…mon.”

“That’s it. Good job.” He watches her face scrunch up in discomfort. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Hot,” She mumbles, and she sounds younger than he’s ever heard her. “Ow… ow!”

“Hey, hey—” He springs forward without thinking, using his hands as barriers so that she can’t suffocate herself on the pillow. “—shh, shh…”

Her cheeks feel red-hot against his palms. There’s something he’s supposed to do for that, right? He glances to the side, then remembers the basin and towel on the nightstand.

“Alright, kid—” He makes sure she’s listening. “—I need ya to stay still. Can ya do that for me?”

“Hurts,” IK mutters hoarsely, and he feels something damp trickle over his knuckles. “Mammon…”

“Shh,” He repeats, quieter. It’s strange how naturally it comes to him. “You’ll feel better soon, alright? Won’t be a second.”

He moves as quickly as he dares, dunking the towel in the cold water, then wringing it out again. He turns on the lamp while he’s by the table, and IK’s little tear-stained face is thrown into sharp relief. It just about breaks his heart.

“Deep breaths,” He says absently, and lays the towel across her forehead, like he’s seen Solomon do. “One, two, three…”

He watches the anguish melt from her face, but the relief only lasts a moment - because now she’s blank again, and it feels like she’s staring right through him. IK blinks once, twice. One last gathered tear slides down her face.

She reaches up - with her left hand - and touches her face. “...it’s raining.”

“Sure,” He agrees quietly. “It’s raining.”

It might as well be. The strange, static-y sound in his ears is just like any downpour he’s ever heard.

IK lifts her right hand and reaches for the ceiling - for those umbrellas the twins strung up for whatever reason, years and years ago. They’ve never been used the way they’re supposed to.

“I can’t reach,” IK mumbles. “I can’t… hold anything. I can’t feel my fingers. I don’t have…”

She stares at the white bandages around her wrist. Mammon suddenly wishes he’d done a neater job. From here, in the dim lamp-light, it looks like jagged bone; he can’t decide whether that’s better or worse than the web of dark scars beneath the clean gauze.

He can’t think of anything he could possibly say. Slowly, IK lowers her hand again.

“Did I make him angry?” She asks. She looks tiny. “Did I… did I do something bad?”

He shakes his head firmly. “No. No way. Lucifer was just being an idiot.”

IK’s eyes widen a little. “You can’t say that. He’ll hear you.”

“So what if he does? I can say whatever I damn well please,” Mammon mutters, thinking that he should’ve socked him properly while he had the opportunity.

IK is smiling at him now. It’s small, almost ghostly, but it relieves him all the same. “You’re cool.”

“Duh. Ya only just noticed?” He tries not to look too pleased. She seems more comfortable now, so he decides to remove the towel.

Her eyes are a little red at the corners. He gives them a dab, then chucks the towel back into the basin, and pats her face dry with his sleeve.

…feels like he’s playing house. Has he ever done something like this before? Even back then, he wasn’t exactly responsible enough to be playing nurse.

“Mammon,” IK says, voice small again, “Am I dying?”

“What?!” It comes out louder than he means it to. He quickly lowers his volume. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“I’ve seen this in movies,” She mumbles. “I feel like… I’m going somewhere. Somewhere really far away. Or maybe you’re going…?”

“I’m right here, kid. Nothing’s gettin’ rid of me.”

And he makes his next decision on a whim. He carefully tucks some of the blanket out of the way, slides his arm beneath IK’s shoulders, and pulls her into a hug that - conveniently - keeps him steadied enough on the mattress to still the trembling in his arms.

IK barely moves, remaining unnervingly still throughout it all, but she hums as if to say thank you. So he stays there until her eyes close again, and for a little while longer after that.

She’ll be alright - IK’s a strong kid. Any human who makes it in the Devildom has to be, but especially one capable of stepping in front of a seething Avatar of Pride, and insulting him to his face, according to Solomon’s account.

It confuses him a little. If he had a spirit like that, he’d be on top of the world, but IK carries herself more like an inconvenience than a presence.

Right now, that presence is small, warm, and alive. She’d been limp and still as he carried her up here, the chill of the tomb clinging to her clothes - small, stiff, each breath laboured, as if they might stop at any minute. It’d been like holding a puppet whose strings had broken.

He doesn’t know when he started caring so much - doesn’t know why he keeps this weird little human nestled in his arms - but it scares him. If something like this happens again, he just might die.

#3rd anni event #they mean so much... 2 me #obey me mammon #jtta ik #writing

[libraford]

I remember early on in the trump administration- I was sitting at the mechanic's lobby and he was on the news with a giant stack of papers wrapped in a big red ribbon. And he talked about how the regulations imposed by previous administrations got in the way of business and prevented every day americans from reaching the american dream. And he took a pair of shears and cut the ribbon, symbolically cutting the red tape, as a promise to undo all regulations that hot in the way of moving forward.

And I looked to the woman waiting in the lobby with me, in her 60s, who shook her head along with me at the gesture, because we both lived on a low income side of town and people in our tax bracket know what happens when regulations are slack- people get sick, they get hurt, they die.

Disaster happens when people are careless and each regulation is written in blood.

Fuck that guy.

Picture id/transcript: (a screenshot of a news report by Heather Cox Richardson from february 15 2023)

But the derailment of fifty Norfolk Southern train cars, eleven of which carried hazardous chemicals, near East Palestine, Ohio, near the northeastern border of the state on February 3 has powerfully illustrated the downsides of deregulation. The accident released highly toxic chemicals into the air, water, and ground, causing a massive fire and forcing about 5,000 nearby residents in Ohio and Pennsylvania to evacuate. On February 6, when it appeared some of the rail cars would explode, officials allowed the company to release and burn the toxic vinyl chloride stored in it. The controlled burn sent highly toxic phosgene, used as a weapon in World War I, into the air.

Republican Ohio governor Mike DeWine has refused federal assistance from President Biden, who, he said, called to offer “anything you need.” DeWine said he had not called back to take him up on the offer. “We will not hesitate to do that if we’re seeing a problem or anything, but I’m not seeing it,” he said.

Just over the border, Pennsylvania governor Josh Shapiro, a Democrat, said that Norfolk Southern had botched its response to the accident. “Norfolk Southern has repeatedly assured us of the safety of their rail cars—in fact, leading Norfolk Southern personnel described them to me as ‘the Cadillac of rail cars’—yet despite these assertions, these were the same cars that Norfolk Southern personnel rushed to vent and burn without gathering input from state and local leaders. Norfolk Southern’s well known opposition to modern regulations [requires] further scrutiny and investigation to limit the devastating effects of future accidents on people’s lives, property, businesses, and the environment.”

Shapiro was likely referring to the fact that in 2017, after donors from the railroad industry poured more than $6 million into Republican political campaigns, the Trump administration got rid of a rule imposed by the Obama administration that required better braking systems on rail cars that carried hazardous flammable materials.

According to David Sirota, Julia Rock, Rebecca Burns, and Matthew Cunningham-Cook, writing in the investigative journal The Lever, Norfolk Southern supported the repeal, telling regulators new electronically controlled pneumatic brakes on high-hazard flammable trains (HHFT) would “impose tremendous costs without providing offsetting safety benefits.” Railroads also lobbied to limit the definition of HFFT to cover primarily trains that carry oil, not industrial chemicals. The train that derailed in Ohio was not classified as an HHFT.

Nonetheless, Ohio’s new far-right Republican senator J. D. Vance went on the Fox News Channel show of personality Tucker Carlson to blame the Biden administration for the accident. He said there was no excuse for failing infrastructure after the passage last year of the Bipartisan Infrastructure Bill, and said that the administration is too focused on “environmental racism and other ridiculous things.” We are, he said, “ruled by unserious people.”

:end id/transcript