#{ lets grease the gears here--

[heroichedgehammer]

"I made a friend in almost every one of my favorite places. Great people can make anywhere special, huh?"

[phant0mth1ef]

more of bakugou x support course reader!

after you’d fixed his gauntlets, he realized just how much you’d improved them as he was training in class one day, noticing how they’re able to withstand his blasts as if nothing had happened, and noticing that you etched the word dynamight onto the rim of the silver at the bottom of the grenade shaped gauntlet.

he found himself in the support course work room once again, looking aroundbto see if he could find you to, well, somewhat thank you and ask if you had any other recommendations to add to his costume.

his shoes hit the floor as he was able to fully see the room during the day, watching as the students shuffled around and didn’t just casually cater to someone standing in their doorway, they were too engrossed in their own projects.

he grabbed one’s shoulder as they tried to speed by him, almost dropping the poor boy as his items fell on the floor.

“where’s extra #1?” he asked, his eyes squinting at the boy who just wanted to grab his things and go.

“who?” the boy squeaked.

“extra #1!” he whisper shouted as the confusion on the boy’s face never faltered.

“…”

“l/n.” he finally gave up, realizing the boy wasn’t gonna understand what he meant.

“oh! she’s currently over at mirko’s agency! she designs support gear for her y’know! she’s so talented.” the boy gushed as bakugou swore he saw a slight blush on his cheeks before pushing him forward and letting him go, walking out the door.

he normally wouldn’t do this. but oh man did he really need that support gear today! the boy was walking around town looking for the number 5 hero’s agency, even stopping some people on patrol to ask!

he was outside the doors, watching with anticipation as he looked inside, watching power loader scold you, a sheepish smile on your face.

bakugou opened the doors, a soft music playing in the background as he caught the end of your conversation with the teacher.

“and get your grades up or i’m taking your keys to the lab!”

you put a hand behind your neck as you looked towards who had just walked in the door, a look of confusion on your face as you spotted the blonde hero in training.

you had grease on your face and dirt covering your arms up to your elbows, and yet he didn’t find himself completely repulsed, just fascinated.

“bakugou? what’re you doing here?” you spoke, a large screw in your hand as you waved him over.

“i, uh, i need your help with something.”

you nodded.

“d’ya have anymore recommendations for me? like to add onto my hero outfit? i liked the way you messed with my gauntlets.

“you came all the way over here to ask me that?” your tone was questioning, and your face wasn’t having any of it.

“listen! i’ve got a mission soon and if you do have anything to add i want it on by then! got it, extra?!” he got defensive quick.

“are you forgetful or do you just like to piss me off?”

he was stubborn, you were stubborn.

the perfect match for one another!

“tch. y’know what i don’t even know why i bothered coming out here! clearly you’re just an egotistical asshole.” he turned around.

“fine! then go! i’m not exactly asking to design your support gear anyway! bitch.” you said with pride, although you whispered the last part.

as the door jingled, signaling his exit, you could hear footsteps approaching from behind you.

“well well well, seems like we’ve found someone with enough spunk to finally match yours!” mirko clapped, announcing that out loud to everyone who was sitting in the lobby.

“tch. he wishes.”

“i dunno, the way you were talking to each other, i’d say there’s some romantic tension there, aren’t i right akari?” she turned to her assistant who nodded.

the next day bakugou showed up to the lab, just sitting there waiting to be acknowledged, although you blatantly ignored him the whole time he was there, going on with your day while people from his class walked in and were instantly assisted, even deku.

he would sit there and wait. and that’s all he’d do. day after day for a whole week before you finally begun to notice him sitting there.

“alright i can’t focus with you huffing and puffing in the corner over there!” you dropped your tools, clanking against one another as they hit your workspace.

“i don’t want to help you. but you’ve got persistence. i’ll give you that.” you said as you grabbed some things from a drawer, shoving them into his chest.

“what’s this?”

“a mix of different things. smaller compact grenades that pack a bigger punch than your other ones, these are ear plugs that’ll allow you to hear without damaging your hearing further, this is a roll of tape. for you to shut up.” you gave a chesire grin at the last one.

surprisingly, he chuckled. he didn’t think he’d ever find someone who… “matched his freak,” as mina would describe it.

he also found himself liking the feeling of sitting there and watching you in your element, so much that he begun to come in after classes just to chat with you while you worked.

you weren’t as bad as he thought, he wasn’t as bad as you thought.

you could get used to this.

[jilixthinker]

gross freak

͟͟͞♡ jisung × fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

warning: sub!jisung, dom!reader, kinda gross jisung, established relationship, masturbation (m rec), cock/balls slapping, jisung is gross but they are so in love

=͟͟͞♡ please consider reblogging if you like my works!

“Honey, I'm home!"

Jisung is kicking off his white sneakers in front of the door. They're a bit stained with mud on the sides, and he knows he’s not allowed to step inside the house wearing those unless he wants to hear your voice reverberating through the apartment. He's still wearing his soccer gear, tiny red shorts with a white stripe down the side, cut just above the knee, and a white tank top that you're sure he wore for the training as well. It's 10 p.m., but it's still warm outside, and the white fabric sticks uncomfortably to Jisung's slim body, a few yellow sweat stains under his armpits. 

His hair is still damp from the running, tied in a bun. A red hairband is pulling back his greasy locks from his forehead. He hasn't changed that in at least two weeks.

"Idiot," you chuckle in response, "how was it?"

"Uh, fine I guess" Jisung answers while kicking off his grayish, damp socks along with his shoes, "Changbin-hyung fell and ate a bunch of soil, I laughed so hard I peed my pants" he snorts.

"You all act just like children," you reply with a giggle, "I'm glad you had a good time. Are you hungry? Have you had dinner yet?"

"I ate a burger with the boys . It was huuuuge, baby. Can still feel it moving in my stomach," he replies as he finally enters in the living room delivering his signature goofy smile. 

You smile as you see him patting his tummy. Jisung is very thin, almost borderline unhealthy, but a small layer of fat sits stubbornly below his belly button, and it doesn’t go away despite all of the physical exercise. Jisung says it’s okay, that he doesn't mind. But you, you love it.

"Good. You didn’t take a shower there, did you?" you ask stretching your legs on the couch and pausing the show you were watching. 

"Nah, I didn't feel like it. I'll do it in a while." Jisung answers while opening the refrigerator and fishing out a can of sprite. He opens it with gnarled fingers and brings it to his lips, chugging half of it in one big gulp. 

"Ew, Sungie" 

Jisung widens his eyes in fake shock and leans against the peninsula of the kitchen. "Ew? To the love of your life? Your boyfriend, your future husband, the apple of your ey-"

"Enough of this," you laugh as you come closer him, leaning across the peninsula. "I could count the grease stains on your hands if I wanted to. You're dirty."

"Mean," Jisung whispers drinking the other half of the sprite and hiding a burp with one fist. "I thought I'd come home and get a better treatment than this."

You burst out laughing at his words. "Uh, did you have plans? What did you expect big boy, tell me." 

Jisung chuckles again and you can see a bit of burger sauce pooled at the corner of his lips. 

"Uhh, dunno. A massage, maybe? Showing your baby you love him?”

You laugh, "You want a massage? Come here, that can be arranged." You take a couple of steps back and sit on the couch, on the peninsula side, so you can stretch your legs. Jisung looks at you with a lopsided smile and brings a hand to his head, scratching behind his ear. You can see from a distance the oily strands of hair slipping through his fingers. You should find it disgusting. You really should.

You open your arms and offer him a big smile, "Come on, baby. You must be dead tired, hmm? The boys destroyed you. Come to mama, I'll give you what you need."

Jisung gulps and giggles, wobbling closer to you and letting himself fall into the space between your thighs, abandoning his back against your chest. Then he lets himself slide forward a little, pressing the nape of his neck against the softness of your breasts under the shirt you're wearing.

"Uh, uh. That feels nice already," he murmurs adjusting himself against your chest.

"Have you had some drinks?" you ask, bringing your hands to his shoulders and pinching them lightly. The fabric is damp and smells of sweat and the spray deodorant Jisung always puts on when he doesn't feel like showering.

"Just a couple of beers with Chan-hyung," Jisung sobs as soon as your fingers sink lightly into his muscles, "that man needs to get laid."

"Don't be cocky, Sungie," you reply with a grin as your hands descend to work on the muscles in his arms, "if it wasn’t for me, you'd be jerking off to one of your tacky porns as well. Be grateful I picked you up on the streets and decided you would be mine."

Your words are light, he knows you are joking. Even though, to tell the truth, Jisung was a virgin before meeting you, and the first time you had sex he was so nervous he came before he even managed to put the tip in. Adorable.

Jisung laughs and then he lets out a breathy moan when you run your fingers up between his shoulder blades, focusing on a knot. "That’s true. But now he’s the one jacking off to a shower wall. While me, I have a beautiful girlfriend who decided I was good enough to be adopted. I still am thankful for your bad taste in men." 

"My taste in men is great, excuse you," you retort as your chin rests on his head, near the band that pulls back his hair. "I pulled the nastiest hottest boy around. I regret nothing."

Jisung laughs. "You literally call me your rat." 

"Rats are cute," you answer back piquantly. Your fingers continue to work on the knot in Jisung's back with a little more insistence. Jisung writhes softly. "You just call me that because I'm a little gross."

You lower your head to rest a kiss on his greasy hair. There's gel residue on the strands, and it's a bit crusty.

"You know how much I love that you're a little gross. Makes me feral."

"You're a freak." Jisung laughs as your hands finish massaging his shoulder blades and descend to the front, down to his chest, to caress his sore pecs.

"Maybe," you admit. "Tell me how many beers you've had again. Just the truth this time, hmm?" 

"Five. Or six. Maybe six. Ah-" Jisung gulps when you brush your thumb on his pec, grazing his nipple. "Feelin' a bit tipsy." 

"I know, my love," you whisper as you continue massaging his chest with your fingers. Jisung's head is nestled perfectly between your breasts and you feel his ribcage swell and deflate quickly, like a baby bird. "You're all wriggly. You just can't sit still when you feel good, hmm?"

Jisung laughs embarrassed before letting a faint moan out when your fingers pinch his nipple again, more insistently. “Not fair though, you're t-teasing."

You nod a few times as your face descends to his ear, kissing the skin behind it, where you know that acrid, powerful smell typical of Jisung accumulates. “As if you didn't have a different kind of massage in mind from the beginning. Don't lie to mama, Sungie."

Jisung shakes his head tentatively, “I wasn’t trying to imply any of that”.

You chuckle at his words, bringing your mouth to his earlobe and nibbling at it. “Now say it again without drooling over yourself, mh?”

Jisung hiccups and goes limp against you, giving you enough space to keep nosing at his neck. A little bit of saliva is bubbling out of his parted lips, forming a shiny coat on his skin and you just wanna suck it off.

“Well, maybe. M-maybe just a little,” he grunts while the tip of your tongue brushes on the shell of his ear. “You’re mean for real.”

“Don’t call me mean when I’m about to jack you off, Sungie. That’s just ungrateful, don’t you think?” you whisper on his skin, breathing the sweet smell of his body in. Even his sweat kinda smells like beer. That’s disgusting and hot at the same time. Maybe you’re a freak after all.

“Oh. Oh. We’re… we’re doing that? Fuck, yeah. Suuuure, cool.” And then he lets out the nervous squeak he does everytime you’re about to touch him. It doesn’t matter it’s been years, he never gets used to you been enough attracted to him to give him pleasure even if he’s dirty. But, to be fair, Jisung is always kind of dirty.

You smile against his skin and your fingers find his nipple again, rolling it between your pointer and thumb over the fabric of his top. Jisung keens at that and you can feel the goosebumps forming on his arms under you.

“Wanna kiss. Give Sungie kiss first? Can you? Please?” He blubbers while your other hand is caressing just above his navel. He turns his face to look at you, and the angle is weird because he needs to force himself in this position, but his cheeks are flushed and cute, and his eyes so big you can almost see your own reflection in them.

The first kiss on his lips is just a peck, nothing else, and you can feel that Jisung tries, he tries so hard not to be affected too much this early, but as soon as you place your mouth on him and start to nibble lightly at his bottom lip, he lets out a broken whimper. He tastes like alcohol and ketchup, and his teeth are all sticky for the sprite he just chugged. You find yourself forcing his mouth open just after a few seconds just to be able to lick at them, feeling the sugar on the tip of your tongue.

“You’re so filthy, Sungie. You’re delicious.” You tease him a bit while sucking his own wet muscle into your mouth and slowly pulling it between your teeth.

Jisung lets out the quietest yet painful moan, "Ah- please, I just...", and he starts parting his thighs just a little bit, the tiniest movement showing how he is growing hard under his pants.

You look down and he is just the prettiest, all spread out for you.

“Never denied you anything,” you mutter as you scoot forward on the sofa to place a last peck on his lips. They’re a bit chapped, and a drop of blood stains your mouth.

Jisung’s head falls back on your chest, nuzzling between the comfort of your breasts, and he looks wrecked already. His eyes are teary and his vision fuzzy while his lips pucker, as if he was trying to suck on the air.

“Fuck, you’re so cute. Wish you had something on your mouth, uh?” you ask him as your left hand puts and end to the lazy massage on his lower stomach and finally cups him through his pants.

Jisung is fully hard already but, to an untrained eye, the two inches tent his erection is struggling to maintain makes him look like he’s just sporting half of a chub.

“Uh, uh - yeah, w-wanna suck please,” he manages while your hands goes a bit lower to graze his balls. “Please, mama- gimme anything.”

“Oh, Sungie, don’t beg,” you whisper kissing the tender skin of his ear one more time. Jisung’s soft sobs always make you feel lightheaded and needy, but you cannot show him. Not now. “Mama’s gonna give you fingers, mhkay?”

Jisung nods and parts his lips as a pavlovian response to your words, his tongue lolling out diligently out of his mouth. Your pointer and middle finger pinch the fat of his bottom lip and he moans softly at the teasing. When you finally ease your fingers inside of the heath of his mouth, Jisung lets out a weak cry. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you,” he gurgles around your digits as an indecent amount of spit oozes out and coat your palm.

When you look over his shoulder, you can see the shape of Jisung’s tiny cock angrily pointing at you, still covered by his shorts. The red fabric is somehow already wet because Jisung is always eager and leaky, and what he lacks in size he makes up in liquids.

“How many minutes today, Sungie? How much can you last for mama?” you ask, tone sticky and sweet while you thrust your fingers deeper inside his mouth and brush at the base of his tongue.

Jisung chokes on the pressure and a single tear escapes from his eyes. His cock twitches and you pat it condescendingly. “Aw, poor thing. How much? Two minutes?”

“Uh- mhhf sowy” he hiccups, mouth full of fingers and saliva, “sorry, I’m not..”

You smile and you finally wrap your free hand around his balls, squeezing it. “Don’t worry, baby. Mama gets it. Wanna come already uh?”

Your face finds its way against the crook of his neck and you lick a fat portion of skin, sucking it into your mouth. He tastes like soil, dirt and sweat. But most importantly, it tastes like Jisung. Like fried food and soda, mint cigarettes to cover the smell of unwashed teeth, ingrown hair and blemishes, acne and cum.

You bite on that sensitive spot and he sobs the most pathetic whimper out as your hand slaps his clothed cock once, twice, thrice, and your fingers go deeper and deeper, almost brushing his uvula and making him drown on his own spit.

“So-oh-sorry” he cries as his cock spasms one more time under the constriction of two layers of clothes. His knees shake and he lets out the most loud and sinful noise his voice lets him. His hips tremble with the force of his orgasm and he goes completely limp against you while spurting warm ropes of cum inside of his sweaty underwear. His eyes are glassy and full of tears while he empties himself for what it seems to be a full minute. He always cums more than he lasts anyway.

You hold him close through it as his high washes over him, arm tight around his waist, and you kiss his cheek, savoring the salt on his skin.

After a minute, Jisung turns his head in search of your reassurance, and he finds you already looking at him, your fingers falling out of his mouth to let him breathe properly.

“Well, that was a record” you chuckle at the sight of his goofy smile.

Jisung huffs and rolls his eyes at you. “I said- I said I had a few beers. That’s why.” He tries to justify himself.

You wink at him and you blow a raspberry on his nose. He always try to be the bigger man, but it never works.

“Whatever you say,” you concede. “Go change your underwear now. And take a shower.”

Jisung lazily shakes his head. “Nah. Too tired. Imma do it later.”

“You’re gross, Jisung.”

“And you’re a freak.”

©️jilixthinker, 2024. please do not copy, translate, or republish my works anywhere.

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 3

Again, the timing is icky but pretty much everything about it is icky.

——

Bruce wondered when Talia al Ghul would stop upheaving his life.

He loves Damian, but one surprise child was a lot, considering the cult deprogramming they’d had to do.

A second, older, surprise child? That was a bit overkill.

At least this time, the conception was consensual.

Bruce cradled his head in his hands, still-gloved fingers gripping onto sweat-soaked hair. The glow of the bat computer shone on his lone figure, sat huddled before endless screens of investigations and the unraveling threads of Bruce’s sanity.

How was he to cope with the knowledge that a child- his child, like Dick and Damian and Tim and Jason and- suffered so at the man he thought he had beaten so soundly?

It was his fault, Bruce thought, that Ra’s al Ghul tortured his… Bruce’s… daughter so brutally. It was no doubt, a way to assuage his anger at Bruce’s denial of being his heir.

His mistakes always came back to haunt him, but it never laid its furious eyes and hands on his own person. No, when Bruce made mistakes, his loved ones paid for it.

He tried his best, pushed harder as Batman, in penance. But this… his unknown daughter, trapped in the shadows of the league where it is cold and cruel and brutally painful…

How could he repent for the sin of letting his daughter suffer and chained at the hands of Ra’s al Ghul? How could he show her that the shadows could be kind? That he would rather break his own spine and get lost in the time stream again before he could even fathom hurting her? He found himself stuck in the same loop of thoughts that plagued him when Damian first came into his orbit.

The screens turned black, and Oracle’s call sign flashed onto the dark pixels.

“Oracle. I hadn’t finished looking at the cases.”

“Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“No, there is still work to be-” his voice, dipping into the growl, died a quick death when Barbara cut him off.

“Your daughter is coming tomorrow. So, unless you want to look like a disheveled grease racoon when you meet her, go shower and get some actual sleep.”

Bruce paused, feeling oddly offended. His eye bags weren’t that bad.

Bruce caught sight of his reflection in one of the blacked out monitors.

…Nevermind.

He sighed. “…Thank you, Barbara.”

“Anytime, Bruce. I’m always here to kick your ass into gear.”

Bruce huffed, but obligingly got up to change and shower. Alfred silently appeared at the elevators, polished shoes tapping against the stone floor as he raised an imperious eyebrow at Bruce.

“I see Miss Barbara has managed to persuade you to retire at an hour common to regular man, Master Bruce.”

“Ah, yes, she… did.” Bruce felt the urge to apologize, because if Alfred’s up because of him, it’ll wear down harsher on the older man’s health. If there was one thing he took seriously, it would be the health of his loved ones. “Sorry, Alfred. I’ll head up to bed soon.”

“See to it that you do, Master Bruce. I will warm dinner that you had missed by many hours and bring it to your room.”

Bruce lingered as the butler turned around and began making his way back to the main house.

Alfred paused and turned around once more. “If I may offer you some advice?”

“Please. Always.”

Alfred sniffed delicately, most definitely thinking of the times Bruce decided not to take his very well reasoned and seasoned advice. “You have done well with Young Master Damian.”

“Most of that was Dick,” Bruce interrupted, man enough to admit that he wasn’t a present or a particularly good father figure before his jaunt through time and space. Alfred shot him a chiding look, reprimanding him for interrupting. Bruce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Perhaps, but you have put in effort towards all of your children in a way that I have yet to see since Master Jason had… gone.”

“I’ll never make that period of time up to Tim.” Bruce whispered. Another thing he was guilty of. Tim still avoided some spaces in the manor, even when Bruce had-

“That is because you sit here, wallowing in your guilt,” Alfred returned. He added a belated “Master Bruce,” and it sounded like ‘you utter buffoon.’

“But…”

“You must take the first step, Master Bruce.”

“What if she hates me? What if I’m not ready- what if I can’t help her?”

“You will try. She deserves that, at the very least. You must try. Even if you are not ready for the day, Master Bruce, it can not always be night.”

“… You’re right.” Bruce straightened his shoulders. Time doesn’t wait. He, of all people, knew that.

“You will find that I am hardly ever wrong.” Alfred primly rested his hands atop each other.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course. It was also meant literally, Master Bruce, for the sun shall try its best to peek out of Gotham’s smog in approximately three hours and fourteen minutes.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Bruce grouched.

——

Her mother gave her a slow, cautious hug, akin to approaching a wild animal.

She huffed, and pulled her mother into a crushing hug. She allowed herself, for the first time in a long time, to linger and cling onto her mother’s shirt. Another tendency that Ra’s had thought he’d beaten out of her.

“Be careful,” the reincarnation whispered.

“You as well, my beloved daughter.”

‘You do not have to remind me that I am beloved, mother. I know.’

Talia al Ghul tucked a strand of the reincarnation’s curled hair behind her ear. “No, I do not believe that you do. But that is… my own fault. I will tell you and remind you that you are beloved to me as long as I can. I have two decades of it to make up to you, habibti.”

The flight attendant- a League operative- returned from placing her bags onto the private plane.

——

A sleek car made its way up Wayne Manor’s winding driveway. She’d declined the offer to pick her up from the airport. She had wanted a vehicle of her own, and some time before she met every one else. No doubt, knowing what she knew of her brother and Bruce Wayne, not to mention the little photographer, they were most likely tracing her path to Wayne manor obsessively.

She tapped her nails on the wheel as she drove towards her brother. Brothers. And… Bruce Wayne. On one hand, she’s kept them safe. On the other, she’d sacrificed years of getting to know them. It was odd, to feel this intensely awkward and nervous after years of intense hatred or apathy sprinkled by the the occasional love and fondness for Damian and her mother.

“Hmmm.” She hummed, slight smile spreading a bit more as the sound came out without pain. Two weeks, and the novelty of freedom had not worn off. She thinks that it would never wear off. She cherished it.

The gate had opened without needing a code, so they most definitely knew she was here. It’s a good thing she had prepared gifts in advance. Dodging Gothamites as they drove and jaywalked had been a rather unforeseen ordeal that she was not looking forward to repeating.

She rolled to a smooth stop at the front doors, giving the intricately carved oak doors a passing glance. She huffed a laugh as she saw Damian, flanked by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth, staring proudly outside at the front door. They’re anticipatory of her arrival. Warmth spread through her heart, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t the heat of rage.

She opened the doors with a quiet click and hiss, stepping out onto the heated paved driveway, and closed the door. At the steps, the two older men had frozen but Damian had come walking quickly towards her.

“Damian,” she whispered as he came near her, suffusing as much fondness as she could into his name. Her little brother all but sprinted towards her, screeching to a stop in front of her with excited eyes.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, ukhti.” He said formally. Her eyes softened and she pulled him into a hug.

(yā waṭawāṭī alṣṣḡīr is the phonetic spelling.) ("وطواطي الصغير" is the actual spelling. I think.)

“I have missed you, ya wat-wat alssgirr,” she whispered. The familiar endearment, “my little bat,” rung warmly like a warm crease ruffling his hair. The silks of her clothes and the ever present warm sand and candle scent wrapped around him like a hug… like the hug she was currently giving him.

(Her clothes were in blues and silvers. It suited her, she who had been forced in green and golds and cuts of black.)

“I still can not believe you all but told me who father was and I still could not figure it out until mother told me.”

She pulled back. ‘Damian, you were five.’

“I have little doubt you were smarter at my age, ukhti, so do not lie to me.” Damian grumbled. Nevertheless, he stepped back.

‘No, you were smarter.’

And to her, he was. It’s not like Damian had the edge she did, and he wasn’t the one trapped for twenty something years. She had foolishly thought that Ra’s wouldn’t dare to harm her too much, seeing as she was his blood, but Damian knew from day 1. She made sure he did. If she was half as smart as Damian, she would have bent her knee and obeyed, no matter how she felt about killing. She would have taken warning Ra’s issued and soaked in the poisonous praise to bide her time to escape. She could not- she did not- do what Damian found effortless, and paid the price for it.

“Unlikely,” Damian said, turning around fully, but she could see the tips of her brother’s ears burning. Ah, perhaps she had been to stingy with compliments if he was shy hearing a mild one, sincere as it might have been. “This is Alfred Pennyworth. He is the butler, and an integral part of the family.”

Damian glanced at her, taking in her suddenly impassive face, and nods. Good. His attitude towards Pennyworth when he first arrived was… mildly shameful. His ukhti was smart enough to know that and therefore he won the argument.

On her part, the reincarnation followed along like she hadn’t mildly stalked this family for decades. It was nice to see excitement rearing on her brother’s face. It was rare in the league and Gotham’s gloom had ironically cheered him up far more than the suns of desserts ever did. She nodded at Alfred Pennyworth, who had admirably recovered from his earlier shock.

“And this is… Bruce Wayne. Our father.”

She tucked a strand of curled hair back, impassive blue eyes meeting her… father’s.

She offered him a short nod.

——

“My word,” Alfred Pennyworth muttered as his charge’s (his son’s) daughter step out of the car. Her steps were silent, graceful, and lighter than a gazelle.

The way she moved, even as she hugged young master Damian, whispered of leashed lethality and treacherous waters. She moved like if grace had a form and Alfred was willing to bet his entire career that not an iota of air got close to her without her knowledge of it, and it reminded the aging man of the young Miss Cassandra. He knew then, that she could have pretended to be unassuming and that he would have had a hard time equating her with danger. That she showed them her potential for death was a sign of trust.

But it was not the way she claimed death as her own name that caught the former spy’s attention.

No.

It was her blue eyes and the way they ever so slightly crinkled fondly as she laid eyes upon her younger brother. It was the way her hair, curled in a nostalgic style, that curtained her face as she spoke to the young Wayne heir, though he could not hear her voice. It was the way that she tucked Damian against her side, protective but encouraging.

It was the way that she, despite Talia al Ghul’s features, resembled his dearest friend, Martha Wayne, in her every movement.

Alfred Pennyworth felt like he was decades younger, standing before Martha as she fondly tucked Bruce against her side and successfully needled Thomas into going to see Bruce’s favorite movie.

It felt like he had his best friend once more, just a little.

From the way Master Bruce stared, it seemed as though he thought the same.

Alfred straightened when young master Damian introduced him. He was the Wayne Family Butler. And she was definitely a Wayne.

Master Bruce stood there like a lout as his daughter greeted him. Alfred shot him a scathing look- he had taught Master Bruce much better manners than to gape, the nerve!- before smoothly directing the attention away. His hands moved as he spoke.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, Miss-”

She made a sharp motion to cut him off and signed something. Alfred might be a tad rusty in Arabic sign language (like he and the rest of the family hadn’t spent the last two weeks frantically memorizing and brushing up on their sign language) but he knew a name sign when he saw one.

“al Ghul.” Damian recognized. He did not use regular Arabic Sign Language with her often, vastly preferring their own established sign, but that did not mean he slacked. “You may call her al-Ghul.”

‘Or nothing at all,’ Damian’s sister signed. She looked at him like she was waiting. A test, Alfred realized.

Alfred pushed the slight twinge of disheartening disappointment away. He had wanted to call her Miss Wayne, to perhaps indulge in a bit of nostalgia for a while longer. But he shan’t do it at the expense of his charge.

“Miss al Ghul,” he continued, not missing a beat, imitating the name sign with pin point accuracy. She lifted her chin. Alfred sighed in relief. He passed. And now, perhaps he should revive Ra’s al Ghul and have a nice, entirely civil conversation about Miss al Ghul’s expectation that her wishes would go ignored.

Alfred will bring his shotguns and most likely would abandon pretenses as soon as that old goat got into his crosshairs. Old as he might be, he was still a very good shot, and civility was reserved for those with honor.

“Please head inside. I am sure young master Damian would love to guide you on a tour,” Alfred continued like he didn’t think of violent second deaths for Ra’s al Ghul. “Perhaps Master Bruce will join you, if you are amendable, once he has managed to stop imitating the rather life like form of a smooth brained sloth.”

Alfred congratulated himself on the small crinkle of humor that graced Miss al Ghul’s otherwise expressionless face. Well, expressionless to those that did not know where to look. Fortunately, Alfred and the rest of the family were used to stoic caveman micro expressions, courtesy of Bruce, and therefore it would not be much of a problem.

“I will bring your bags up to your room.”

She scrutinized him and then dipped her head.

‘Be careful. There are dangerous things in there.’

“I assure you the utmost privacy in regards to your belongings,” Alfred said.

“Pennyworth will not peruse your belongings, ukhti. He has more honor and respect than that.”

Alfred would like to interrogate Talia al Ghul to see who he must introduce some lead to, that clearly disrespected Miss al Ghul’s privacy like so. But for now, he will bask in the warmth of young master Damian’s implicit trust.

Miss al Ghul nodded. She opened the trunk of the car- the interior of which Alfred could now perceive to be entirely customized and of extremely quality material. She handed the keys and gave him access to her luggage. Then, placing her hand at young master Damian’s shoulder, followed the young master into the halls where she ought to have been raised. Or, at the very least, ought to have taken a step in at least once before today.

Master Bruce lingered at the doorway, torn between following the siblings and helping Alfred with the luggage (read: running away.)

“The daylight is wasting, Master Bruce.”

Master Bruce skittered in behind them like a newborn colt, wobbling and anxious.

Well, it’s time for Alfred to do his job. There was only a single duffle bag.

Hm. He’ll have to tell Master Bruce to take her out for necessities. He hardly doubted that a single bag could last her very long. And Alfred Pennyworth was hellbent on convincing his granddaughter to stay, may the gods have mercy on whichever poor soul that tried to convince her otherwise for he won’t.

——

She followed Damian as he led her deeper within the walls of a home she knew by heart from afar. She was like the little photographer in that way. Bruce Wayne trailed behind them like a particularly awkward ghoul, and she found it amusing to equate this turtle necked man was the illustrious Dark Knight. How dangerous.

“This is the first parlor. It is for guests of the… regular persuasion.”

Ah, for the civilians. She nodded.

“Ah, the silverware was selected by Alfred.” Bruce interjected, gesturing to the display silverware by the door. Their cabinets were intricate without taking away from the paintings upon the delicate ceramic.

She looked at him, wondering why he was following before giving up and nodding. It was his house.

(Bruce, for his part, felt like his daughter had laid judgement upon him… and found him lacking.)

‘It is… adequate.’ She sighed to Damian. Damian tutted.

“It’s fine to say quaint, sister. It could hardly compare to the palace.”

Bruce jolted, plans for converting the manor into a palace already in the making.

No, he couldn’t. Alfred would murder him with his favorite dish.

‘I like it, even if it is smaller.’

“….you do?”

‘You are happy here. It is warm to you. I like it.’ She repeated.

Damian latched onto her sleeve. “I- I shall show you my art. And then introduce you to the rest of the bumbling fools we have for brothers-”

She tilted her head. Bruce paused as well when Damian’s words cut off.

“If… you want them as brothers. It would be… helpful, to integrate.”

She waited.

“But… I am the first. Your blood. And-”

‘I will make room in my heart for them, if you wish it. I already know some of them.’ She allowed a small smile to show. ‘But that does not mean you will ever lose your place, little bat.’

Damian felt extremely thankful that father had not managed to pick up their version of sign language yet.

“Well… as long as you’re aware.” He marched further into the manor. She followed, once more, a look of fond indulgence gleaming in her eyes.

——

She stood in front of a painting her younger brother had done.

‘I made it two weeks ago,’ he’d told her, fingers curled into her palm.

It was green. She hated green. And gold. And ominous. Rage. Harsh, bold strokes and spots where the texture of the canvas were either globbed over or painfully showing through.

Her hands traced the single stroke of blue amidst the turbulence of green.

She tucked Damian against her side and realized that perhaps he understood after all, what it felt like. Perhaps not all of it, but enough.

——

“Here is your room, ukhti.” Damian stood watch as his sister scanned the room. She quickly removed three listening devices as Damian sighed.

‘You’ve gotten better.’ She crossed the room and plucked the listening bug from its place on the door frame.

“Clearly not good enough.” Damian huffed. “But I have beaten your knife game record. What do you think of the room?”

His sister rolled her eyes and handed him a blade she pulled from somewhere on her person.

An implicit challenge.

“No cutting your fingers off, please.” Father interceded.

“Begone, father. We are doing sibling bonding, something I remember you insisting that I participate in.”

Damian shut the door on his stupefied face, matching his sister’s sharp smirk as he splayed his hand on the dresser and raised the blade.

——

Alfred walked in with a covered plate and paused at the sight of the dresser.

Then, he looked on as Damian sat at the desk, rapidly signing to his sister in their own version of the language as said sister pulled out an entire wardrobe and a half to fill in the walk-in closet.

Alfred made a note to study some more magic.

“Miss al-Ghul. I bring you a snack that young master Damian made and to inform you that the others will be arrive en masse, within an hour.” Alfred paused. “Might I interest you in a mat before the two of you decide to… take a gander at furniture redecoration in the future?”

“Of course, Pennyworth. Apologies.”

“I’ll try to make sure they won’t overwhelm you. They can be a lot, at once.” Bruce said from the doorway. Miss al Ghul glanced at him and dipped her head in thanks. Her eyes wandered right back to the dessert.

Alfred made another note.

‘You made this for me?’ She asked, switching to standard.

Damian grumbled. “Do not eat it. I could not get the spice quite right, no matter how many variations…”

‘I am sure it will be good.’ She took the plate from Alfred’s hand and uncovered it.

They all had the fortune of witnessing a true, genuine wide eyed smile from a stoic face.

Alfred inhaled sharply. He had thought Master Bruce and young master Damian had inherited Thomas’ dimples. But she had inherited his entire smile.

‘Bstilla!’ She turned to Damian. ‘My favorite! You made this?’

“I know that. I am not incompetent as to not notice when you snuck three of them from the palace kitchens. You must give me the recipe from the cooks. I could not get it to taste like the spices they used. I even imported spices!”

Miss al-Ghul, like she had forgotten he and Master Bruce were there, stabbed a fork into the pie and put it into her mouth.

“Ukhti! Don’t- do not eat that! Spit it out! The pastry is too thick and-”

She held up her hand. ‘It’s good. I know what it is missing.’

She strode to her magic bag and pulled out a bottle.

She sprinkled flakes on top and offered a forkful of b’stilla to the young master who, shockingly, did not insist on his own utensil.

His expression lightened. “This is it. What is it? You know of the chefs’ methods?”

She sprinkled the mysterious spice on the food. ‘You’ve never eaten anything the chefs have made. I made your food by hand to prevent assassinations and inoculate you against toxins. Also, this is poison.’

Alfred stiffened.

“It’s what?!” Bruce spoke up, rushing into the room, finally to try and look Damian over.

‘It is fine. He has been immune since he was three.’

Miss al Ghul placed a piece of poisoned b’stilla in her mouth and ate. Young master Damian batted his father off, saying that poison inoculation was hardly a surprise. What was a surprise, though, was something else.

“That is- you- you’re the one who made my meals?” Young Master Damian demanded, looking guilty. “But- I- why did you not tell me? I made all of those demands in the middle of the night- what about the time I sent back the knafe fifteen times?”

She nodded.

“Why would you- why did you not tell me?”

‘You knew what grandfather thought of women. And besides, it was the only time I was allowed sweets. He did not want me to ruin my figure as it would lower my marketability.’

Alfred itched for his gun.

“You are not a commodity,” Master Bruce stated, intense as he tended to be. Miss al Ghul blinked at him.

‘… I am aware. But… thank you.’

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” And there went the emotionally intelligent Master Bruce. May he rest in peace until the next time he decides to make an appearance.

“I believe today is a chocolate chip cookie day, do you not, young master Damian?”

“Yes, Pennyworth, I believe it is.”

‘I have never tried it before.’

“You will love it. Pennyworth’s cookies are the best in the world, as is expected.”

Alfred watched as young master Damian tugged his sister out and marveled. The sides of his grandson they rarely get to see was so easily pulled out by his older sister.

——

Y’all I wanted to write her meeting the siblings but Alfred came out of no where and went haha nope feel the angst of a man who lost his best friend and had to raise her vigilante child.

Alfred, seeing Bruce put on the bat cowl for the first time: martha, why have you forsaken me

——

Me: what would baby assassins play as a binding game?

Me, remembering my past as a kid: I Spy, but with trackers and bugs. oh wait… THE KNIFE GOES CHOP CHOP CHOP

——

Also, I think B’stilla was food meant only for royalty and was probably rooted in slavery, so I thought it would be a meaningful nod to her position of privilege and how she are like a king but was treated as a… bed warmer and a slave. Yeah. If anyone knowledgeable on food history wants to school me on b’stilla, feel free to do so. I did like, a cursory research at best.

[skelliko]

๑-context: a summer activitie with them

๑-featuring: kazutora, chifuyu, Baji, Mikey, inui, shinichiro, Kokonoi, Rindou, ran, mitsuya,

°- kazutora hanemiya

• exploring abandoned places and going so far out into the city, climbing over fences just to get into the buildings and running from the police or other pedestrians that had caught you trespassing in someone else's property even though it's not like you both are doing anything harmful there. your just enjoying each others company whilst getting excitement in exploring new places that may be even a little dangerous but what's a little fun if you don't 'ball it'

°- chifuyu matsuno

• making hand made jewelry is a cute activity, you had to teach chifuyu how to tie the string right otherwise it'd come loose but after he got the jist of it y'all were making many sets of matching bracelets that you wear all the time in different colours and patterns. though sometimes it gets frustrating when it comes to tying the string and you can't seem to get the loop right or when your fingers accidentally let go of one side of the string and then all the beads fall downwards and both of you end up crawling on the floor trying to recollect every lose bead, but that doesn't happen often.

°- Baji Keisuke

• forest walks, not all the time but sometimes he'd suggest wandering around a forest, picking up weird shaped branches to show you, finding a bug on a leaf and if you don't like bugs then he'd be a nuisance about it and chase you around with the it. but if you have a heart with bugs then hed look around trying to find the coolest looking one specifically to show/give you and he'd dedicate to it even if he does occasionally get a little grossed out by them.

°- manjiro sano/ mikey

• constant motorbike rides! if you have your own motorbike then the both of you will be riding till you reach the end of earth and seeing which one can out do the other. but if you don't then you'd be latched on at the back of his bike and going with the flow of the wind to cool off from the heat. mikey would also try teaching you how to ride a motorbike, he's more patient with you than anyone else so you can take your time with taking in the information so that you know how to switch gears and dont attempt in going through a wall.

°- Inui seishu / shinichiro sano (I couldn't decide)

• due to him being in the bike shop and working on fixing some motorbikes here and there, there'd be trips to visit him holding a sweet, cold treat to give him on his lunch breaks. though when you're teasing him a little too much he'd purposely smear his oil grease stained fingers across your skin to leave a large, black mark and it'd cause a small fit of smiles and laughter but also some small annoyance on your side as you have to scrub the mark off from you by the sink.

°- Kokonoi hajime

• perfect time and weather to go visit new towns and enjoy the beautiful scenery that neither of you thought you could see until now. browsing into small business shops that you haven't seen/been into before and if something catches your eyes that you'd die for to have then Koko would buy it for you in a heartbeat because seeing you smile with light in your eyes at an item makes him want to keep you in that gleaming mood.

°- rindou haitani

• spontaneous night outs where you start the night to be all cozy watching a series with a tub of ice cream to then be all dressed up and sparkly after one text or phone call from rindou mentioning a club is doing a certain theme. the both of you may seem to be there for the party but actually it's the attention you both bring, getting all dressed up is the fun part and most of the time you do it together and have matching outfits or accessories, give everyone around a sight to see and only then do you give your all with the drinks and dancing.

°- ran haitani

• constant need to be in the pool or anywhere that has water, especially on hot boiling days when a 5 minute walk would feel like 5 hours. in the day you'd usually go to an outside pool and enjoy yourselves and then at night you'd have to pamper him since he's still affected from the heat, he has no tolerance. you tend to go to public ones but only those that you know are clean and have decency of others, essentially public pools that kids don't go to.

°- mitsuya takashi

• summer is the perfect time for him to work on summer clothes and you always happen to be his muse meaning you're the one who he always dots down your measurements and your always the one that tries the clothes on and half the time you tend to keep the clothing. if you wear dresses then sun dresses are always something that he enjoys sowing for you, you spinning around as the dress flows and spins with you, he doesn't make those basic ones but rather he puts in a lot of detail just for you, making it adorable and flattering. but if you don't wear dresses or such clothing then he always considers what kind of material he uses, that way for the hot days your not melting and instead you feel more free and feel a breeze.

 ♡----

[fanficsbyfae]

biker!bf head canons

biker!bf who, no matter how long you've been dating, would still try to rev his bike to impress you and get your attention

biker!bf who'd get a sticker that says "I <3 my girlfriend" so those girls who would bat their eyelashes at him and wave from their cars, would know he already has his backpack

biker!bf who would bite the tips of his gloves to take them off when you're watching just to see if he could get a reaction from you

biker!bf who would 100% pay good money to get you a helmet to match his, if not a whole set of gear - saying something along the lines of "can't have anything bad happen to you, right sweetheart?"

biker!bf who would also help you with your gear, fastening your helmet so its secure, then tapping his helmet against yours playfully before continuing to check your gear

biker!bf where, if you do have a full set of gear, would have you sit sideways on his bike, so he could examine that you're as protected as possible, before tapping your thigh to signal that you're good to go

biker!bf who would wear those slutty little compression shirts, even WORSE is he'd ride out in the rain just so he can get you all hot n bothered with how his shirt is clinging to him like a lifeline, and how the droplets of rain are running down his arms, definitely a sight you can't bring yourself to get used to

biker!bf who'd let his hand rub your thigh whilst you two are waiting at a red light, before dropping his hand to wrap around your calf

biker!bf who would definitely speed up abruptly just so you'd have to hold onto him just a bit tighter

biker!bf who LOVED when your hands would roam his torso whilst you guys are going for a ride, especially if you decided to be cheeky and rest your hand on his crotch

biker!bf who would tell you to 'behave', but you don't know what he's talking about? you're just enjoying the ride? ;)

biker!bf who'd race home afterwards, you're all bark and no bite after all

biker!bf who knew how much you loved to see him working on his bike, so he'd constantly leave his shirt off just so you can see how his muscles move as he's getting grease, dirt and sweat all over himself, all while he’s sporting a backwards ball cap

biker!bf who'd catch you staring at him, so he'd lean against his bike with a cocky smirk toying on his face, as he gloats out a simple "like what you see, love?"

biker!bf who'd fucking DIE if you made him one of those posters that has you posing on his bike - imagine you stole one of his riding jackets, you have nothing on underneath, you just have his jacket covering you, paired with some black boots, a flimsy little pair of denim shorts with your hair looking a little messy and your makeup just a touch smudged, adding to the look, as your perched up on his bike

biker!bf who never has to send an 'I'm here' text because his bike is so loud you hear him before you see him, so when he pulls up you're already sitting there lookin' pretty, waiting for him with a smile on your face

[storiesofsvu]

Decadent Desires Ch 19

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, alcohol consumption, the usual denial of feelings. It's all coming together now! Only a couple of more chapters to go! I'm super curious to how y'all think things are gonna go down and exactly when the oh moment really will be/what's gonna make them both admit it to themselves.

3.8k

Emily was a little later than she thought she would be, barely making it before breakfast hours ended but the important thing was that she got the food and she made it to your place and wasn’t whisked away by any phone calls. Securing the bag and drink tray she made it through the halls of your building until she was outside your door, knocking on it the best she could with her elbow. It took a couple of minutes, she could hear some shuffling gong on inside, but you finally pulled the door open, your head titling at the sight of her.

“Hey.” She greeted with a warm smile.

“Hey…” you replied, a tiny laugh coming from your mouth, “what’re you doing here?”

“I promised I’d bring brunch.” She held up the bag, “well, lazy brunch.” She surveyed you for a minute, watching the gears turning behind your eyes and it was her turn to laugh. “Oh my god, you really are out of it. Jetlag gets you that bad? I thought you travelled for work?”

“Not often.” You admitted, feeling the heat creeping into your cheeks as you fully remembered the conversation in her office, “and it’s only ever like, a two hour time difference.” You stepped back, letting her into the house and raising your hands to take the tray and bag from her so she could get rid of her shoes and coat.

“You really forgot I was coming?” She asked, swiping the bag back from you and following you into the living room.

“Figured you were off on a case.” You shrugged, dropping back down onto the couch, fiddling with the remote to turn the volume down as you burrowed yourself under the blanket you’d been under before the bell rang. “I’m glad you weren’t though…. I’ve been doom scrolling through three different apps trying to decide what to get delivered for hours without a single thought in my head on what I could possibly want.”

“Well, enjoy some delicious grease then.” Emily suggested with a smile, pulling what she wanted from the bag before handing it over to you.

“Thank you. Seriously.” You eagerly searched through it, pulling out a McMuffin and a hashbrown, your stomach loudly growling. “Would’ve wasted away to nothing without it.”

Emily laughed softly, watching the intricate way you inspected the ingredients of the sandwich, adding both ketchup and hot sauce into it before slipping a hashbrown next to the egg and putting it all back together. You let out a very appreciative groan after your first bite and silently gave her a very thankful look that she didn’t need words to transcribe.  

“I’ve never tried that.”

“Oh my god it’s the best.” You mumbled over a bite of food, swallowing it down “especially when the hashbrown’s extra crispy like this.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I got extras.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a true angel?” You asked and she laughed.

“Not often.”

“Well you are.” You leant in, kissing her cheek gently, “thank you.”

“Of course.” She squeezed at your knee, “I bailed on an arranged date, I had to make it up to you.” She gestured toward the tv, “now, what’re we watching?”

“Real Housewives. LA I think?” You shifted over to your right, nestling into the corner of the couch, your legs extending onto the longer part of the sectional as you adjusted the blanket. “It’s my brain rot show, I can never keep the cities straight. Now c’mon.” You waved her over to you, “make yourself at home, get comfy and put your feet up.”

Emily laughed softly, easily sliding in beside you as you pulled down another blanket to make sure there was enough for both of you. The sectional was wide, the extended portion more than spacious enough for you to both use it without being right up against each other. Not that that mattered, once breakfast was eaten and you just had coffee to sip on (you didn’t miss that Emily skipped coffee at McDonald’s, opting for a local shop a couple of blocks from your place so she could get your preferred seasonal blend) you were nestled right into Emily’s side. Her arm instinctively looped over your shoulders, encouraging you to lean into her. If you squinted hard enough and it wasn’t for the blustery weather outside the windows, it was like you were back on vacation.

With the television playing on, it didn’t take very long before you were drifting off, Emily managing to snag your almost empty coffee cup before the remnants split all over your couch. She was more than happy to let you snooze against her, your heart beat calm, thudding against her own rib cage and eventually lulling her to sleep too. Either one or both of you would wake up occasionally throughout the afternoon, sometimes shifting because of a cramped shoulder or foot, others because your bladder was screaming or because you desperately needed some hydration. The channel got changed a couple of times, flicking between a few options so you weren’t totally sucked into one overdramatic mess of somewhat real reality tv. Otherwise the two of you returned to your little corner of the couch, burying deep into each other’s arms with happy sighs and content little smiles. There wasn’t much of a better way to spend a Sunday.

At one point you woke up with a small yawn, rolling in Emily’s lap toward the arm of the couch to go back to sleep when a piece of your hair suddenly yanked. You thought it must’ve just been caught under your shoulder or her arm, it had been lose earlier, but Emily made a small noise.

“Sorry…” She winced and when you rolled your head back to look up at her she had a sheepish grin on her face and the ends of half your hair in her hands. “I got fidgety, needed something to occupy my hands.”

You let out a small laugh, carefully shifting so you were sitting at a better angle for her to continue the braid, “I, uh.. kinda wanted to ask if you would do it anyways but I thought that might we weird or something.”

“Not weird at all.” She assured, “as long as you waking up to some weirdo braiding your hair wasn’t weird.”

“You’re not a weirdo. If I woke up to Tony doing it, I’d kick him out.” Your body relaxed into her legs, “and.. for the sake of you not doing it, undoing it and doing it over a million times, the pink basket under the table has fidget toys.”

“You have a collection?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“Heather started buying them for me because I kept fidgeting with and breaking her super fancy expensive pens.” You explained and she laughed, “and I’m not allowed to have clicky pens at important meetings anymore.”

“Such a strict boss.” She teased, her fingers softly tickling at the back of your neck, pulling a shiver from you before she dug around for an elastic to finish the first braid.

The afternoon continued much like the morning had, half watching shows, mild chit chat, cuddling and dozing as the skies turned grey and the rain started. The next time you woke up the sun was completely gone from the sky and the side Emily had been pressed into was cold. You were going to just wait a minute, let your brain realize what you were even watching when you heard the tell tale sounds of your pantry drawers being slid open and shut. With a yawn, you pushed up to sitting, looking into the kitchen over the back of the couch.

“Hungry?” You asked and Emily nearly jumped, letting out a small laugh as she stilled.

“Me? Your stomach was making volcano noises so loud I’m surprised you didn’t wake yourself up.”

“We can just order.” You offered and she waved you off.

“Nah. I think I’ve got everything I need I was just looking for your spices.”

“Small cupboard, top right by the stove.” You replied, watching for a minute as she pulled it open and plucked through them, picking out a couple.

Curiosity got the best of you and you stretched out your limbs, a few of them cracking, achy muscles finally feeling relief as you moved off the couch and padded into the kitchen. Your arm snagged around Emily’s waist and you pressed a soft kiss into her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, and hey, we were both hungry and you were asleep. I figured the best thing I could do was snoop.”

“You want wine?” You asked.

“Please.”

Moving seamless through the room around each other you pulled down a couple of glasses, grabbing a handful of ice from the freezer for her glass before you popped a bottle of white, filling one up and sliding it over to her. You opted for red yourself, sliding the white into the fridge and the malbec back into the wine rack before you hoisted yourself up onto the corner of the counter. A happy hum left your lips when you took your first sip of wine, your body relaxing as you watched Emily move through the kitchen.

Every so often she had to ask you where a specific pan or utensil was but otherwise she had everything covered. She would never say that she was a particular whiz in the kitchen, but she could get a pretty good handle down on things, alter recipes to simplify them to what was on hand and go from there. The television was still going in the background, giving some background noise to the experience when the two of you weren’t talking.

You watched with a small smile as Emily popped two butterflied chicken breasts, coated with shake and bake into the oven. She turned back to the island, where she had pulled out all her supplies so she wouldn’t forget anything, glancing through them until she found the jar of pasta sauce.

“You have garlic?” She asked, raising a brow toward you, breaking herself out of her zone. She caught you half staring at her, hiding behind the rim of your glass and instantly felt the heat creeping up the back of her neck.

“Yeah.” You smiled, “powder’s in the spice cupboard, fresh is on top of the microwave.”

She chose the fresh garlic, swiftly crushing it and doing her best at mincing it up before tossing into a pan with some onion and oil.

“You want a hand?” You asked and with an almost shy smile she shook her head.

“Nah. I’m cooking for you; you just sit there and look pretty.”

“The hardest job of them all.” You mocked, a small laugh escaping your lips and Emily felt the blush creeping into her cheeks again.

Twenty minutes later and she was plating up a semi makeshift chicken parm for the two of you, spices added into the jarred sauce, and working with whatever cheese was in your fridge, but it smelt and looked delicious. You refilled both of your wine glasses, settling at the island to eat, groaning over how tasty it was. You teased Emily for never having cooked for you before, saying she was locked in and trapped now. She laughed, a glittering in her eye as she glanced over to you, a warmth blooming through her chest at the way you were looking at her.

Since Emily had cooked you ushered her away when she tried to help with the dishes, filling up her wine glass once more and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. With the kitchen clean, you flicked the overhead light off, scooping up your wine glass as you crossed back to the living room.

“Think you’ve got a movie in you?” You asked, noticing the way she was flicking through options on the screen.

“Yeah.” She looked up to you, shifting your preferred blanket out of your way so you could take your place beside her on the couch. “Figured I’ve got at least that much left before bed.”

“Did you want to stay?” You asked, tucking yourself under the blanket and nuzzling into her side.

Her scrolling through the app paused momentarily before it continued, “yeah. If that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect.”

**

Tony had been relentlessly bugging you for lunch, dinner, coffee, any kind of hangout since discovering you in Emily’s office. Knowing that he was likely going to press into things you didn’t really want to get into in public you’d finally said that as long as he brought takeout and a bottle of wine he could come over Thursday night. You’d picked through dinner at the kitchen island while you caught up, Tony surprisingly holding back while he listened about your vacation (that you held back plenty of details on) and he took some time to vent about the current NCIS/BAU case that was still open and struggling to move anywhere.

Eventually you dragged him and a fresh bottle of wine upstairs. All of the shopping trips over the past few months had your closets overflowing a bit too much for you liking and you wanted to get a head start on some spring cleaning. Your attention was mainly on pulling things out of your closet as Tony poked around your room as per usual.

“You know, if you know any FBI secrets, you should probably let me in on them.” He started, “I am an agent of the law after all.”

You nearly snorted, rolling your eyes and continued to ignore him.

“I mean, at the very least, should I think about switching departments? You think an SSA gets a better paycheque than us?  I could probably put in for a pretty smooth transfer after this case closes…”

“You’d never do that to Gibbs.” You interrupted, breaking off his train of rambling, “and Emily has family money, the job didn’t make her rich.”

Tony had been your friend for long enough that he didn’t need to be a profiler, hell he didn’t even need to be a special agent to pick up on the way your eyes lit up when you said Emily’s name. How you couldn’t seem to control your smile when you told him stories about the Maldives with a far off look in your eyes that you didn’t even register yourself. He wanted to know more, he wanted to know everything, but he knew you weren’t just going to share it all at the drop of a hat, when it came to things like this, and planting the seeds he wanted to, he had to tread carefully. Even if the seeds had already been growing for weeks already.

“So..” he leant back into an armchair, crossing his arms behind his head, “tell me more about Emily.”

You cast him a look over your shoulder as you tossed another dress into the donation pile, “I already told you; we enjoy our time together. I’ve expanded my repertoire of fancy restaurants in DC, could probably compile a list for you. You want it in order of cost, food quality or first date to proposal?”

“Please,” he teasingly scoffed, “the food is the last thing I’m interested to hear about from your dates.”

“You know I don’t kiss and tell Tony.” You threw a balled up shirt at his face, “especially considering she’s currently your co-commanding officer. I don’t need you looking at her and knowing what she’s into, gross.”

“As entertaining as that might be…” he straightened out the shirt, folding it before adding it to the donation pile, “I was more curious about the other side of things. I mean… this is the longest you’ve been with someone in a few years.”

He caught the way your hands faltered, the dress in your hands nearly slipping off the hanger before you caught yourself, straightening it to return into the closet.

“Trust me, it’s not like that.” Laughing, you turned back to him, hands crossed over your chest, “She paid nearly sixty thousand for that vacation and that’s if the all inclusive comment was true and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Then she tried to pay me on top of that for my time. I’m basically an over qualified sex worker.”

“As a member of law enforcement, I can confirm that you aren’t.” He replied, his hand reaching out as he started to fiddle with the jewelry stand on your dresser, “and if you were, the woman running an entire unit of the FBI wouldn’t be so happily enjoying it. It would be all secrets, dark hotel rooms and NDA’s.”

“Tony, lay off it.” You replied with a huff, turning back to your closet, “I already told you; I don’t have time to date.”

“You spent Sunday night with her,” he offered, “you’re hanging out with me right now. You even had enough time to swing by her office, which is in an entirely different district, in the middle of a work day, with lunch and you were there for at least an hour. Seems like you have plenty of time.”

“It’s not about physical time and you know it. It’s about, the emotional labour, having to be on all the time, getting through the awkward stages, fucking small talk.” Your fingers slid down a plum dress, pulling it out from the row of clothes and you felt your heart leap when you realized it was the dress you wore on your first real date with Emily, the one that was so rudely interrupted by her phone before you could even get a chance to kiss her. You groaned, letting the dress fall back into your closet to be kept, “dating fucking sucks.”

“We’re not talking about casual dating or swiping through apps and having to deal with a million first dates, we’re talking about Emily.”

“What about her Tony?”

“You wouldn’t have brought her lunch if you didn’t like her.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes to being her sugar baby if I didn’t like her. I stopped by because Heather basically ordered me to.”

“So you’re telling me things between the two of you are strictly contractual? Financial and sexual benefit only?”

“Yes!”

The way your heart was suddenly beating in your chest, the worry that was beginning to eat away at your insides was telling you that Tony was onto something. You’d been so surrounded by work it had been incredibly easy to shove your feelings down, only leaning into them when you were out with Emily, as if it was part of the show, part of the sugar baby package. It kind of was after all, the flirtation, the compliments, the making her feel wanted and appreciated, taken care of, it was part of what she was paying you for. You’d said it yourself; companionship was far more than just sex. Even if you had started to slip deeper into the role than you’d originally intended, developing real feelings, it wasn’t like Emily was on the same page, she was playing her part too. Tony was grasping at straws, no matter how hard he wanted to push his fairytale narrative, or how fast your pulse happened to be.

He seemed to be able to read your mind, see the hesitancy in your eyes as his nagging sank in.

“Hey,” he nudged at you with his foot, breaking you from your daydreams, “you can claim whatever you want, but you cannot deny there were more than just two wine glasses in your drying rack.”

“So?” Your brow furrowed, it didn’t matter if Emily had been over at your house, that was nothing new.

“There were also two coffee mugs, two full sets of dinner plates and utensils, which likely means homemade, not takeout. I mean, most situations like this everything happens at hotels, you guys stopped that months ago. That on its own is one thing, but your bathroom tells a different story?”

“Do tell Very Special Agent DiNozzo.”

“Second toothbrush, different set of shampoo and conditioner, perfume that is far too floral for you to ever wear, glasses cleaner on your nightstand and your vision is twenty-twenty. There’s a Yale hoodie on the back of your couch which is interesting considering you went to Georgetown and Prentiss has a Yale degree in her office. You keep two spare sets of keys on a hook in your kitchen and surprisingly, one of them is missing. I would say that’s the most suspicious part of it all, but don’t even get me started on these.” His hand lifted up the cardboard backing containing your starfish earrings and you felt your cheeks heat.

“Guess she saw them in the gift shop at some point and thought they were cute.”

“Bullshit.” He grinned, “when you found out NCIS meant time on the water, you were practically infatuated and wanted to know everything about it. I could’ve married you right then and there.”

“Yeah right.” You scoffed with a laugh.

“We had a movie marathon, I brought Splash and Mermaids, you reluctantly, and rather intoxicated, brought out Aquamarine. You love that movie more than anything and you never tell anyone about it unless you really trust them or care..”

“it’s not like it’s a take to the grave secret.”

“You were down in the Maldives, right on the ocean and got all gooey and starfish eyed, that dreamy smile on your face, swimming every day pretending you were a mermaid, that you were free and you told it all to Emily, didn’t you?”

“It might’ve come up.” You shrugged.

“And instead of her laughing it off or thinking it was childish or stupid she went out and found starfish earrings to buy for you and now you have a permanent and physical reminder of the trip and time spent together.” He placed the jewelry back down on the dresser, “I think the two of you might actually have something here and it would be a shame to waste it away because you refuse to talk about it.”

You cast him a look, one only a best friend of twenty years could fully understand without you saying anything and he shook his head with a laugh.

“I’m just saying, things seem a lot more comfortable and intimate than I would expect from a sugar baby relationship. Did she pay you for lunch?”

“Not with money.” The corner of your lips curved up and a smirk flashed across his face as he made a growling meow noise.

“What about Sunday?”

“I told her not to.”

“My point exactly.” He stepped toward you, softly cupping your face, “you’re happy right now. Happier and less stressed than I’ve seen you in years and I want to see you keep being this happy, don’t deny yourself that, okay?” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, finally dropping his hands, “let the girl who buys you starfish earrings and thinks they’re adorable be your girl.”

“Just help me get these bags out to the car, okay?”

_______________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @rustyzebra @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @supercriminalbean @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @scorpsik @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @regalmilfs4me @ara-a-bird @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @hopedoesntknow @venromanova @waitaminuteashh @noahrex @imlike-so-gaydude @wittygutsy @cx-emerald-cx cx @momily @nilaues @borinxnovakxprentiss @Soverign @v3nusxsky @mccdreamys-writes @l4yne @obsessedwjill @asolitaryrose3 @lisqueen @mrs-prentiss @whitewinewithice @d33pd3sire-blog @daffodil-heart @maximoffcarter @i-lovefandom @chimnlex @moonlightjxuregui @chestnutninny @gamma-rae-bursts @just-moondust @idkifimasub @gaydragonwitch @dowsedwithbleach @divergentalwaysandforever-blog @m1lfsh4ke

[imagine-knowing-a-name]

At Your Service

Summary: As a trainee mechanic, you apply for an apprenticeship at Stark Automotives on a whim. What you don't expect is for Tony Stark to reply personally with an offer to train you, and if that wasn't enough, a certain redhead also takes an interest in your sessions.

Word Count: 2303

Pairing: (Mentor/Mentee relationship for both) Natasha Romanoff & Reader; Tony Stark & Reader

Warning: None :)

A/N: Thanks for the response to my last fic, all the comments and reblogs kept me writing even with all my deadlines, and Mechanic!R was the clear winner of the last poll, so here you all go! Enjoy :)

»»————-　★　————-««

You rested centimetres from the cold floor with the sight of oil-covered gears, shafts, and pipes overtaking your vision as you rolled under the automotive.

"Does the axle cover come off?" you said after a short inspection.

"Yeah, those two hex screws, I'll get you the tool. You've worked out the issue?"

"It's meant to be 4-wheel drive and only the front wheels are moving; I'd guess a problem with the connector shaft meeting the rear axle."

"You'd guess or you'd know?"

"I can't know anything 'til the cover's off and I can see inside."

"Good answer," Tony replied. "Hand out."

As instructed, you stretched your arm until your fingers just about reached out from under the car chassis, where a tool handle was placed in your palm.

"One 5/8 hex screwdriver, that's the one you'll need."

"The screws are imperial?"

"'Course, kid, we're in America."

"Yeah, but you sell these cars globally; I just assumed-"

"Dear old dad set up factories all over the globe – allows for some regional differences in the schematics, then each production line just does its own thing. It's easiest for everyone."

You hummed your acceptance of his method, then started to undo the screws, until a light rock to the car paused you. The movement stopped, so you assumed it was just Tony leaning on the car and you moved to continue your work, until the hum of a motorbike -- the sound of which you'd previously ignored -- grew even louder. You jolted when the bike pulled into the garage, causing you to smack your head against the car's underbody and let out a low groan.

"Watch yourself, kid; are you alright under there?" Tony said from above. At your murmur that you were fine, he continued, "roll yourself out, there's someone for you to meet."

"Why's there someone under your car, Tony?" came a woman's voice -- the person to meet, you assumed -- "can't get under the car like the old days, hm?"

When you emerged, the bright light of the outside world temporarily blinded you; you could make out Tony's figure, and as your vision returned, you saw the newcomer's back was turned to you, so only an orange plait could be seen from under her bike helmet.

"Very funny," Tony scoffed, continuing the conversation before he pointed at you. The woman turned and you only just managed to stifle a gasp when you recognised her face. "This is an apprentice, wrote to me a couple months back asking to learn about Stark Automotives, so I've been training them since. Y/N, this is Nat. Nat, Y/N."

From the moment Tony suggested training you here, in the garage of the Avengers Compound, you knew there would be a chance of running into the rest of the team you'd spent your childhood idolising. But truthfully, you were too starstruck that Tony Stark himself had offered to train you to truly believe that moment of meeting the other Avengers would ever come.

Now here you were, facing the Natasha Romanoff, looking effortlessly cool with her white vest, jeans, and leather biker jacket...while you laid on the floor in a Stark branded boiler suit and a definite grease mark where you’d hit your head. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment when you realised that the Black Widow's first perception of you was seeing you smack into an object directly in front of your face. You only hoped the blush didn't show when you finally met her eyes.

"Good to meet you," she said cooly, holding her hand out, but her eyes tracked up and down as if sizing you up.

You took her hand instantly, about to ramble through an introduction before a slight gasp from her shook you back to attention. Your eyes snapped down to where your hands met, and you realised then that you still wore your gloves, coated with oil from working on the vehicle, and now you've smeared it all over her uncovered hand. You instantly broke away -- apologising profusely -- and grabbed sheet after sheet of blue paper roll, offering it to her to help clean her hand.

"I'm so sorry," you repeated again, but she shook her head and smiled at you.

"I've had much worse meetings. I'll happily take a little bit of grease over being shot at."

"Woah-"

"Hey, kid," Tony began. Both your head and Natasha's snap in his direction; you'd honestly forgotten he was still there. "Not to interrupt, but have you ever worked on a motorbike? I made a few modifications to Nat's, and now that she's so kindly brought it to us I can show you how they work."

"Do not lay a finger on my bike, Stark," Natasha growled in a tone that reassured you that if she had actually been angry at the grease before, you would have known.

"I won't," Tony scoffed with a roll of his eyes, "...Y/N will."

You gulped, eyes darting between the two Avengers as you were drawn into the fold. "Me? Tony I'm not sure that's-"

"It's essential learning. We don't just make fancy cars so you have to learn it all. Nat, you wouldn't deprive Y/N of this learning, would you?"

Natasha groaned, but eventually relented, crossing her arms and perching on the counter by the wall. "Okay, but I'm not leaving you alone with it. And Y/N?"

You looked up, fear probably showing on your face. Natasha smiled in return, and allowed you to see a glint of mischief in her eye, "give me a running commentary of what you do. I trust your honesty more than Stark's." She smirked at the last part, rolling her eyes as she pointed to Tony behind his back, an action for you and you alone to see. Something about it put you at ease, so you nodded, smiled back, then got to work, spending the rest of the session under the assassin's watchful eye.

»»————-　★　————-««

You watched the phone in your hand, hoping and waiting for those three little dots. Tony Stark was not a man famously known for his punctuality, but he’d been early to every lesson so far and now, ten minutes after you were due to meet, you’re starting to worry.

The worry wasn’t the lesson being cancelled so much as the worry that one of the other Avengers would walk in and accuse you of trespassing – there were still so many residents you hadn’t met, and without Tony present, you were just a stranger loitering unaccompanied in the Avengers’ garage, surely that looked suspicious. No matter the fact that you were supposed to be there and had gained authorised access with your security card, your anxieties continued to grow and grow.

Your heart rate sped up proportionately to the increasing rumble of an approaching bike. The seconds seemed to elongate when you knew there was no escape to being caught there alone. In the remaining time you had, you pulled your phone back out and, with shaking fingers, messaged Tony one more time – at least then you had proof, you kept your eyes on the device even as you felt the newcomer pull in and dismount from their motorbike.

“Let me guess, Tony didn’t tell you he’s away?” Your head snapped up at the familiar voice, face breaking into a grin as red hair broke free from under the helmet. Natasha had been showing up more and more frequently to your sessions, so her arrival was no surprise, but you were glad to have a friendly figure to justify your presence, lest anyone else appear. Natasha set her headgear to the side and hopped up onto the counter, following her usual routine; you watched her intently until you realised she was watching you too, still waiting for an answer.

"Oh, uh, yeah, no, he didn't- he didn't tell me. He's not coming?"

“He got called on a mission last night. Should be back in a few days, if all goes to plan, but I’ll have a word with him about keeping you informed.”

Her undivided attention unnerved you – Tony had always acted as a buffer before – so you fidgeted, avoided eye contact, and wondered what your next move should be. Thankfully, Natasha answered that last question for you: “It wouldn’t be right to send you home so soon,” she said, “And I am officially a Stark Industries employee still, you know, if you wanted…”

“Yes!” you exclaimed instantly, speaking before you thought. “I mean, yeah, if it’s no trouble. That would be awesome.”

“We both know I’d sit here and watch anyway.” She spoke softly and with a smile that you found yourself drawn to replicate, feeling more at ease in the spy’s presence. “Now then, I know about a lot of things but mechanics is an area where you might already have me beat, so how about something else?”

“Like what?”

“What do you want to know?” she shrugged, “Russian? Latin? Artillery? Archery? Wrestling? Weightlifting?” At your dumbstruck expression, Natasha smiled and realised she would have to make the choice for you, “how about the gym? You can impress Tony with your strength next time he makes you use that scissor jack.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory – neither Natasha nor Tony had said anything at the time, but both of them had needed to jump in and assist when you’d been unable to turn the jack enough for it to actually lift the car and fulfil its purpose. From Natasha’s warm smile, you could tell she still wasn’t mocking you for the incident, but you still nodded quickly and murmured agreement with her plan, before following her through the Compound towards the gym.

“Can I ask why you’re a Stark Industries employee?” you asked on the elevator, as a way to fill the silence and out of curiosity from her earlier words.

She laughed, “It was back in ‘09, we had to get intel on the newly revealed Iron Man, and the man behind the suit-”

“Tony-”

“Exactly. So, S.H.I.E.L.D. made some edits to the employee list, added my cover there, and I successfully infiltrated the company for as long as I needed. I only officially revealed myself at the 2010 Stark Expo – do you remember that? – and in all the chaos afterwards, they never officially took me off it.”

“I think I remember seeing it on TV – you were there?”

“I left before the explosions started, but I was around, trying to make sure as few people were in harm’s way as possible-” Natasha cut herself off as the two of you entered a space larger than any lecture hall, fitted with all sorts of workout machines – the majority of which you’d never seen in your life. “Here we are.”

“You use…all of this?”

She nodded, then paused, before pointing to a section in the corner where the machine structures and weights seem almost treble that of the current area. “That section’s for Steve, or Thor if he ever bothered to train. Us regular humans wouldn't move it an inch if we tried to use those machines.”

Natasha smirked and shook her head again, guiding you towards one of the regular machines: a chest pad adjusted to press against your front as you sat on the stool, while Natasha adjusted the weight and pulled the two handles back for you to grab them. With the position set, you looked up to her for advice,

“Pull the handles towards your chest and push them back to neutral, it'll work out your upper arms. That's where a mechanic will need strength the most, so aim for 10 repeats.”

Natasha watched carefully, adjusting your posture where needed, until you completed the set. You broke into a grin at the realisation that you'd managed it, one which Natasha happily replicated as she held her hands up for a high fives. “You'll be a pro in no time,” she promised, “ready to increase the load?”

The rest of the session continued in much the same manner – Natasha introduced you to different bits of equipment and perfected your form until your phone buzzed with a routine alert to mark the end of a session. 

Natasha accompanied you to the door, smiling, receiving, and occasionally rebuking the many thanks you bombarded her with for stepping up. “It was truly my pleasure,” she said at last, “I'll make sure Tony is back next week, but if you want to do this again, you have my number.”

She squeezed your shoulder, turned, and began to walk back inside – all before you came to the realisation: “I don't actually have your number!” you shouted after her. Natasha didn't respond, but when you checked your phone only seconds later, a message had appeared in your notifications.

‘Yes you do :) 

-N’

She really was some spy.

»»————-　★　————-««

Everything changed from then on: you walked in to Tony and Natasha arguing a week later, their sudden pause at your presence a very good indicator that they were discussing you, something they confirmed only moments later.

Next thing you knew, both Tony and Natasha had taken you on as their mentee, a session with each of them once a week, and neither of them wanted you to leave. Your apprenticeship was extended into the next academic year, where you moved even closer to the Avengers Compound to visit them more often, the two Avengers – not to mention the others they'd introduced you to – always making sure you were well cared for whenever you visited. Eventually, Tony even offered you a full-time job post-graduation as the Avengers' official mechanic, and who were you to refuse? You loved the work just as you loved spending time with your mentors, so you could think of no better job in the world.

»»————-　★　————-««

taglist: @canvascoloredin @fxckmiup @wizardofstories

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

HAL, HEAR ME OUT !!! ghost coming home to wis wife on Easter, he thought he wouldnt manage to come back home in time, but Price dismisses him earlier, so he decides to surprise her by making a egg hunt for her, something she always said she liked to do when she was little, I KNOW THIS IS A SPECIFIC REQUEST, FEEL FREE TO DENY DEARIE, i just really love easter loool (and simon too)

love ur works, hal ❤

A Good Man

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to Simon's past & trauma, delving into his psyche, angst, but a lot of fluff, Simon's POV

A/N: I knew I had to get this out before Easter actually came around so here it is early, Anon! This was an adorable request. Enjoy and have a happy holiday! <3

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it. 

Skin shredded; showing every tear and rip with a thinly veiled sense of pride along with a detailed description of every bullet wound and burn. Rope tears along the forearms and red stab marks over the visible spine of his back. Tattoos that depict skeletons and war. He couldn’t tell you every life he had ended, but he could name names until his tongue went black and fell off; though he spared you the details. 

Simon Riley was a devil incarnate. Dead-eyed and robust of body. Muscles wound with promised death and the trigger finger to prove it. His life was measured in an hourglass, the sand cascading down like the blood from his knife after a kill; it would stop flowing, one day – abrupt and final. Simon Riley was a demon, a monster. Simon Riley was a Ghost. 

A ghost with an impeccable memory and a deep love for the woman currently on the living room couch. 

The man blinks, slate eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest with a slow melting of his shoulders. He had a doubt that you had planned to fall asleep with the Tv on – or the floor lamp, for that matter. 

Its golden light slipped over your form, and he traced the flow of it as the voice of the news anchor went in one ear and out the other. Gradually, a hand slipped to the balaclava over his head as your lips let loose a grumble, nose nuzzling the feather pillow. 

Simon often found himself watching you sleep when he was home; how your face would lose all tension in those brief intermissions between oblivion and awakeness. When his own nights were restless, it helped to know that at least someone was at ease, especially if it was you. The fabric slips from his tired visage, the mess of blonde locks atop his head sticking this way and that; layered with the gleam of grease. As the black face-paint stains his sockets and spreads with a swipe of a stiff palm, the ever-constant cloud over his head peels back but for a brief moment of peace. 

His bag was still in the foyer, holding three months of dirty clothes and gear hostage in its zipped space; stained, and bloodied. The man himself wasn’t much better. 

It had been a long few months. 

Hooking the balaclava onto the belt of his cargo pants, Simon bends down on an achy knee, a grunt in his throat sounding off like a boar. Scarred fingers go to brush your cheek, though no words exit his mouth, no whispers of adoration. Just a glimmer in his eyes, a release of that furrowed line in the center of his forehead that seemed permanent these days. 

Staring, the faint twitch of his lips is the only tell at all that he was content at all, feeling your skin as a feather would slide over water. He takes down a breath.

There were few instances that Simon fully remembers from his childhood – most displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole – though there is one he refuses to lock away. His mother. He can’t help it, and before he can stop himself the words are spilling directly from his heart to his mouth. 

Hell, he really must be tired. 

“She’d of loved you, Sweetheart.” It’s like he’s startled by his own voice, head pulling back and walls going back up, but that delicate glimpse was enough. 

A gravel voice and manchester accent bleed together to form some piece of the puzzle that was his pure adoration for you; small cardboard cuts and divots that had been given over to create a picture. Simon Riley was a ghost, yes, the Ghost, but he was never that when he was home. 

He was just Simon to you.

Blue eyes study the small smile that blesses your face when the man runs his fingers into your hair and attentively separates knots; your body unconsciously molding to his touch. With a kiss on your forehead, Simon chooses to not wake you. It’s late, the man reasons, and he knows how hard it is for you to sleep when he’s gone. Almost as hard as it is for him when he can’t feel your weight on the opposite side of the thin mattress he’s cursed with in the barracks. 

Against his better judgment, he’d learned to love your contact; your presence next to him and the way you fit into his arms.

As gently as he’s able, the black ink of his tattooed arm slips under your shoulders, pushing between the cushion and your limp body to lie still. The other hooks around your knees, and with a pause to make sure you weren't going to wake up, Simon lifts you as easily as a piece of paper. Your weight lays comfortingly against his chest, shallow breath hitting his neck and he thinks for a moment just how it was possible to love something more than you can love anyone else that came before. 

“Simon…” Your voice brings goosebumps to his forearms, his fingers tightening over the shirt he now recognizes as his own clothing you. A smirk runs over his face. 

Lips caress his pulse, a nose taking in his scent of canvas and sweat; a tinge of barely restrained corruption, a soul more damaged than a window shattered into a million pieces.

How can you stand it? How could your body instinctively lay into him and give redemption willingly? 

Simon grips you ever closer, using his own body heat to lull you back to oblivion. He didn’t have an answer – probably never would – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t forever grateful. 

But he was a stiff man; a stoic one. 

He slips through the bedroom door, navigating in the dark as if his eyes had built-in night vision, and hums out, “it’s me. Go on – back to sleep now, Love.” 

Air communes with a soft grunt, and Simon watches from the side of his vision as your lids flicker open and closed. As desperate as the fight is, it’s over fairly quickly when he lowers you to the sheets, cupping your head and setting in on the pillow. 

Soft fingers wrap his lower arm, and with trapped breath, Simon watches your lips connect to the pale skin of his wrist before your form once more goes slack; ever the stubborn one to greet him even half-gone. Weak mumbles stuck forming ‘welcome home’ and ‘love you’ on a lead tongue garble to nothingness like a gargoyle’s stone speech. 

“Hmm.” The Lieutenant smirks as the area tingles, preening like a bird. There are many things to say to you, but he settles with a mumbled, “Don’t hog the sheets. Gotta go take care of the mess first, copy?” 

You don’t answer, of course. With a delicate pet on your head, Simon exits the room silently to take a shower and organize his gear; closing the door behind him only halfway so he can still keep an eye on you as he passes. Ever the neat partner, he wouldn’t go to sleep until all were in their proper places – clothes in the washer, knives and various licensed weapons in the nightstand, and paperwork in the office. 

There was a sanctity in this. A way to get rid of the lingering adrenaline of being on Base or in the field – deterioration of the mind but in such a way it would be described as a boil to a simmer. 

All of it is uneventful. 

He enters the kitchen with only a white towel around his waist sometime later, flicking on the lights and running his fingers through his damp hair before bee-lining to the fridge. If there needed to be a list made of the things he loved the most, it would be fairly short – only three. 

One, you, two, the adrenaline rush of a good deployment, and, finally, your food.  

Simon would listen to Johnny’s rambling for days if it ended with an excellent heaping plate of whatever you cooked for supper.

Opening the fridge, the man’s eyes widen, shimmering with azure glass.

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine,” he breathes to himself, hand reaching inside the box with fervor, “you’ve been busy, then, eh…? Bloody feast in ‘ere.” 

The Lieutenant drags out a heaping plate of steak and potatoes – a side of greens covered in plastic and a sticky note on top. 

‘Save for Simon.’ 

The food didn’t look older than a day or two…did you save him some of your meals every once and a while just in case he would show up?

He grunts, re-reading your chicken scratch with a swelling of his chest and a foreign heat on his cheeks. Simon moves to the oven, preheating it and placing a cooling rack on a metal pan over parchment paper. Damned if the man would mess up your masterpiece; he’d reheat it properly. 

With minimal noise, he waits for the meat to be done and settles on placing the potatoes in the microwave with the greens for time's sake. Standing in the kitchen, his eyes gradually fall closed, their weight heavy. But his ears perk at the faint pitter-patter of bare feet. 

The sneaking arms around his waist don’t startle him, and with a sigh on his lips, Simon feels you melt into the curve of his open skin. A head connecting with his spine. 

“Thought I brought you back to bed?” He whispers, flesh melding to you like hot iron, a scarred hand resting over the one that’s on his abdomen. 

Your nose nestles into the burns over his back, and even if you couldn’t see it – the sudden sweep of vulnerability is nearly heard. You lay a kiss and think no more of it, but Simon shivers with beautiful agony; eyes gazing off.

“...Erm,” you groan, fingers tracing the build of his ribs, “needed to hold you.” Your breath stills – half-asleep. “You’re…here?”  

Simon chuckles, hearing it echo off the walls.

“I’m ‘ere, Love. Few more bloody cuts,” he breathes, “but I’m here.” 

“Good. Missed you.” A second of kisses and distant blue eyes. Muffled yawns into his flesh. “Didn’t think you’d be back in time for Easter.” 

Simon twists, aware of the delicate fold of his towel, and lifts your fatigued form onto the counter, settling you down so you don’t fall sideways. He blinks down at you, cupping your cheek when your neck gets too heavy to hold up. Your lids rapidly move, your nose scrunched at the overhead light and the man knows you’re only awake because he’s home. 

He utters out to you, faces close, “The Old Man let me off early,” and lays a peck to your forehead, holding his lips there for a long second. Mutters into your skin, “prickly bastard’s been antsy – hasn’t had a good drink in weeks. Was about ready to strangle someone.”

She’s warm.

His body slots itself between your legs, one arm around your back and the other placed on the counter. Simon’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and with a groan of satisfaction, he feels your fingers go through his locks; itching at his scalp dreamily. 

“...Dunno whether to thank him or send ‘em to a therapist.” You whisper, kissing his neck, unable to keep your hands off each other for a mere second. 

“Better to place money on the both.” His grumbled words are barely heard. “I’ve got two weeks ‘fore they need me back.” 

A soft hum is all he gets before the timer goes off and he takes down a breath, forcing himself to peel back from you and grab his supper. 

By the time the both of you are in bed, he’d nearly forgotten about your comment, and as he stroked your hair and felt you bring him closer under the covers, he remembers. He’d asked Price to give him two weeks on account of the holiday you’d loved so much – Easter – and had used the Captain's deteriorating attitude as a pry. It had been easy enough, the two had known each other for a long time. They knew their breaking points. 

Sometimes living around a handful of other men formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood, and while that was true for 141, it was also a pain in the ass. People long for home at the end of it – a soft touch and sweet kisses. There’s only so long you can go with yelling orders into the same faces and playing Poker in a shitty safehouse.

Simon never thought he’d be worthy of it, a home, but here he is regardless and here he would stay. And he knew Easter was your favorite time of the year, and he also knew that Easter was…tomorrow. His dead eyes widened. 

The plan formed quickly, his strategic mind helping as it always does, and as he snuck out of bed and laid his lips to yours in a tiny kiss, a shirt was tossed on along with boxers. You never heard the door to the garage door opening, just snuggled back up to the pillow and an old t-shirt he’d placed in his spot instead; inhaling his calming scent.

—

When the sun had risen an hour ago and Simon had finished with heavy fingers. Groaning, the back of a hand meets a forehead, trying to swipe away sleepiness as one would a fly. But he says nothing, feet hitting the floor as he enters the kitchen, an object held in his palm that was quickly stashed in the breadbox.

This was childish, he knew, not at all like the deadly Lieutenant of TF-141. Like Ghost. The boys would tease him relentlessly if they found out.

“Simon…?” Your voice draws him back, and with a look over his shoulders, he finds you wrapped in the comforter like a mouse. “What are you doing out here?” 

The lie comes easily.

“Fixin’ breakfast.” Your eyes flicker to the open breadbox, eyebrows furrowing. A smirk grows and you walk over with a laugh living in your expression. 

“I don’t even trust you to toast bread, Love, go sit down. You’ve been stuck on rations for too long.” Simon only steps back, gazing over your head and seeing your hand pause. “I’ll make us some…” 

He watches as he loves to do, memorizing the parting of your lips and the recognition lighting like a shy fire. The man smiles then, and it is a delicate thing; an expression not tainted with sarcasm or deception. 

Your hand delves into the box and pulls out a plastic egg softly as if it would snap in two. 

It’s cheap, made of thin plastic and fading in colors of the shade of pastel pink. Chipping. There’s nothing inside of it, just a bare piece of holiday joy that never meant too much to anyone beyond children. But with how you’re staring up at him, Simon thinks all the searching in the bins from the garage was worth it. 

“What’s this?” Your voice wraps him close, and your hand holds the object close. Simon shrugs, digging deep into your vision. 

“I’ve the faintest idea, Sunshine.” The giggle flies to his cold heart and he pulls you to his chest to still the raging of it. “My guess,” he raises a stiff brow, “intruder broke in, yeah?” 

“Did this intruder have ears and a pink nose?” You ask, noses brushing. “A hop in his step, maybe?” 

“Hell if I know,” Simon grunts, eyes flickering away before he can break before you. “Best get my gun just in case – you’ll ‘ave to find the rest ‘o the bastard things, though.”

You kiss him then, and he captures the back of your head, holding you to him as if you’d disappear if he let go. He doesn't know what you did to possess him so, to make his thoughts be only of you even when he’s halfway around the world. Were you an angel? A shred of light made physical? Perhaps an embodiment of all the good in the universe? 

Simon had no answer, as he usually did when it came to you, and you sighed into him, whispering redemption to his soul. 

You said you loved him, and he said it back with every ounce of him that was untouched by death. And then you pulled from him with a laugh that could throw away darkness and disappeared with promises of finding the remaining eggs. Like a loyal hound of hell, Simon followed, pulling on the comforter to slow you down so you don’t trip. He would always follow.

The vision of a good life starts with a view of the present. Who you choose to care about; how you make meaning of nothing but a shared morning and a memory of youth. Simon does not remember much of his childhood. Most of the memories are displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole. Cast away. 

Coated in fear and lies.

Some days he asks how he can still call himself Simon Riley – it’s the name of a dead man, after all…and then he looks at your beaming face, and his question is answered as fast as it was thought up. 

You deserve Simon Riley, not Ghost. Not a devil incarnate or Dead-eyed. A demon, or a monster. If there was even a shred of purity left in him, that was what he knew beyond doubt. 

Simon Riley was selfish, he admitted, and he was loathed to leave you…so here he would stay. Hiding easter eggs and giving veiled hints when you were close to one near the planted flowers in the backyard. There was a simplicity that the man bathed in – the blatant enjoyment of a plain life. 

With a chuckle in the back of his throat, Simon pushes off the back porch and makes a comment about how you were closer to the dead bird you had buried in the garden bed than an egg. A flick of your middle finger leaves him smirking, and he splays a hand over your back, angling your body farther north. The kiss left on his stubbled cheek makes him warmer than he wants to admit; cold eyes soften.

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it…but he was trying to be damn near close. Until then, the ring he had bought would stay in his office.

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @shoe1412, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @john-pricee, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce

[willowser]

bakugou hesitates beneath the dim light of the station lamp.

you notice it at the last moment, half-turned from him already. red riot is waiting at the end of the sidewalk, far back behind him, a fuzzy, red little blip in the distance; before, he at least tried to act like he was interested in something on his phone, though now that he is safely out of reach of his partner's searing glare, his attention is all yours.

it feels like permission, for something. whatever it is has your heart growing in your chest, beating almost painfully.

in one quick flash of movement, bakugou pushes a rough hand up his face, dragging his mask along with his fingers until it's free. there, it dangles a bit limply as he stares down at it, picking at a loose string. he's fussed his hair up a little, but you don't think he knows and it's too cute to call attention to.

by now, he should be half-way back to kirishima, back to patrol. back to the city.

"think y'can manage not to die if i catch up with shitty hair?"

you had hummed coyly, silly and light beneath his severe stare. the darkness of his mask bleeds into his eyes, making them seem deeper, sharper; it's hard not to squirm at the other end of it.

"we'll see, i guess," you grinned. "listen for me to scream real loud, okay?"

bakugou had huffed, material of his gloves scratching against itself as his fists balled. "don't say shit like that."

now he's pulling them off, his gloves. staring down at his own hands, skin a bit pale in the winter evening. you watch him flex his fingers, warming the life back into them, before he's glancing up at you from beneath his long lashes.

"got this," he murmurs, without explanation, "shit on my face."

and — he does; eyes still shadows, outlined in his tacky, grease paint. a ghost of his breath floats by every time he huffs, but there's a sheen to the paint, high on the points of his cheeks, where it's smeared, like he's sweating in this kind of weather.

again, you see the ant in distance move, and you think he may be closer.

finally, you ask, "what are you doing?" because — he should be gone by now.

the rare moments you earn with him are often stolen away by dynamight; this should be no different. instead, he is here, having quietly accompanied you to the train too late at night, borrowing time neither of you can afford to pay back.

not that you would. not when he's shuffling in his heavy boots, gloves crumpled in one tight, icy fist. bakugou raises to his full height — a sudden reminder, of his greatness; his slouch is terrible — and you feel the night closing in on you both. shrouding you in something unfamiliar.

he doesn't say anything, just fixes you with a determined stare that makes you feel seen; maybe too seen. before your heart can land another beat, he's there, too close in front of you, melting what ice has gathered over your own fingers.

you gasp quietly, visible in the winter. there's something a bit frightening about him like this, dressed in his warring gear, painted like a warrior, but heat floods your face and builds on the back of your neck, excited by the hazard of him.

he's so beautiful, unappreciated. you look into the soft plain of his face and melt a little further, lean in as if to press your cheek to his.

bakugou lets out another huff; a mirror of your own breath. he murmurs, "fuck it," before closing the space between you, finally.

his lips are a little dry, but so are yours, by the chill, and the first kiss is quick and firm and chaste. he doesn't move away from you when it's over, though, just crowds you with a furrowed brow, nudging it gently against yours in an affectionate little headbutt.

it makes you laugh and that pulls him in again, rough fingers sliding along the curve of your jaw, keeping you together as his lips part with your own, deep and slow, savored. you've day-dreamed this moment with him one-thousand times since entering into his weird, intimate little space, but he's easier to fall into than you could have ever imagined.

bakugou breathes against you, open and panting, and you know he needs to go — but he doesn't fight when you rest a hand on his chest; his fingers tangle in your hair and his lips become kiss-bitten, red and wet as he parts to you for the last time tonight, tongue brushing your own before he's pulling away with a rushed, "fuck,"

you blink up at him, smile growing as red riot hoots and hollers down the street. bakugou's face is as red as his partner's costume, not dimmed in the slightest as he breathes in the night air, turns his face up to the chill.

"i—" he hesitates again before taking a step away, yanking his mask back on. "call me when—y'get home."

you laugh, and the sound stops him for another split second, though his eyes are bright and alive as he gazes at you, this time. "okay," you agree, cheeks aching from your smile. "okay, i will, i promise."

it releases him; he doesn't waste another moment before turning on his heel, tugging his gloves on as he saunters back down the sidewalk — to a jumping kirishima. bakugou shoves him once, voice low and angry and unmistakable, even from the distance.

you both savor the moment one last time, with one more look, before it slips away.

[vxmpyree]

HELLO first if all I LOVE UR WRITING ... UR NIKTO FICS MAKE ME WANNA SCREAM INTO A PILLOW (/very pos)

ive never requested anything ever so im shy n gonna use anon teehee. ANYWAYS ik you said you write for pretty much anyone but i'm still gonna ask: do you write for keegan? if you do..... could i ask for a sick fic?🙏🙏 or any type of fluff rlly. with a male reader :3 (theres barely any for him 💔) THANK YOU FOR UR SERVICE IN THIS FANDOM BTW RAHHHH🫡🫡🫡💖💖‼️‼️‼️‼️

ofc!! i dont know much about cod ghosts so sorry for any errors. thisll be my first plot fic :)) ♡ not beta read,,

[im the devil - clams casino] [0.7k wc]

when keegan returns from deployment, he finds you ill, and not just with a bit of a sniffle and cough. no, he can hear how your lungs shudder with every breath and feel how your skin is hot to the touch.

being his husband isn’t an easy job. he’s always out for one reason or another. you’ll be at home watching a film together, only for his boss to call and say that they need his help. he’s too much of a workaholic and empath to say no, i’m busy. keegan is always worrying about you, always thinking about the slight pout of your lips when he comes out of his bedroom in uniform again. 

so, seeing you like this doesn’t do any good for his anxiety. 

“you’re burning up,” he mutters, pulling a thermometer out of your mouth. 

the curtains are drawn, letting in only traces of sunlight tinted by the lavender linen. more light would only give you a headache. 

he pulls off his gloves before reaching out to touch you, not wanting to touch you with the same cloth that clutches his rifle. his rough palms move to cup your cheeks, swollen from fever and sweat. you can hardly even keep your eyes open.

“did you eat today?”

he grumbles as you shake your head. you must’ve been too sick to get out of bed, only able to helplessly roll over and try to sleep through hunger pangs. at times like this, he wishes he hadn’t chosen an occupation of aiming sniper rifles and long months of waiting in bushes or on tall buildings. then, he’d be able to take care of you. 

“do you want to eat? we’ve got… hm… soup and crackers. or bread,” he presses.

you shake your head again. you don’t want to eat!

keegan sinks into the edge of the bed and furrows his brow, considering you. he has the air conditioner unit on for your feverish top half, and keeps the sheets over your shivering legs. he’s taken your temperature and wiped you down. he gave you some tylenol, which should’ve gone with a cold glass of water, but you gulped it down before he came back with something to drink.

something is missing. there’s more that he could do for you, but he just can’t put his finger on it. 

when he lifts his head to check on you, keegan finds that you’re already staring at him. he has to stifle a smile. you are what makes him feel at home-- your accepting stares, and the slight curl of your lips. it would’ve been impossible not to wish for something more when you’re so welcoming, so warm. 

you motion with one hand for him to come closer. for a moment, he wants to say no, that his face is still covered in grease and he’s clad in heavy armor. but what’s the use in saying no to a face like yours? before he can even start stripping himself of his gear first, he’s already slipping into the sheets.

there’s the low hum of the air conditioner unit and the occasional car rolling down your quiet street. everything seems so small when he’s here with you, tucked away from the world. all he can think of is the smell of your shampoo and the slow rise and fall of your chest.

"...did you just miss me?” he whispers.

you only smile and watch him silently, looking at the bump in his nose and cheeks starting to droop with age. he’s getting older and so are you. it feels like you two only just settled down. the years have slipped through his fingers like sand. maybe it’s time for him to retire. then, he could spend all the time with you in the world.

keegan leans closer to you, and wonders if he smells like gunpowder and sweat. but he waves his worries away in favor of gathering you in his arms. his palm rubs slow circles into your back, wrinkling your old t-shirt. 

you cough into his chest and furrow your fingers into the back of his heavy jacket. your hands claw helplessly like it’ll ameliorate the itch at the back of your throat or your heavy cough. if he could, he’d do away with this sick spell. he can do things most men can’t, from scaling towering buildings to gutting men, but he can’t fix his poor husband’s fever and runny nose.

he pats your back until you settle down, becoming jelly in his arms. 

will he be sick tomorrow? definitely, but he wouldn’t mind spending a day hidden away with his husband, even if the two of you can only lie in bed and kiss each other’s warm faces.

[seat-safety-switch]

Have you been up to the ski hill this season? That's the sort of question that folks from places named things like Aspen, Whistler, and Shittleburg ask each other. Although I have lived my entire life in the snowier regions of North America, I have barely ever gone skiing. Why? The chair lift isn't fast enough.

Skiing is fun, nobody can debate this. You strap planks of waxed and potentially greased composite to your feet, then you let gravity do all the work. Thing is, at the bottom, you still need a way to get back up the hill to do it again. Some absolute genius invented the chair lift. It's sort of like a big belt drive with seats on it, and you hop your ass on one of those seats and it pulls you to the top. Great stuff all around, except for one thing. The rate of ascent is agonizing.

Sure, there's probably good reasons for this state of affairs. People get spooked by riding in open-air vehicles (a bench) with no protection whatsoever at high speeds. The wind will chap their lips, and the sound of the motor screaming away without a reduction gear makes it difficult to discuss the condition of the powder. It's just not that relaxing for the average human being. That's okay; they can take the slow one. I want the fast chair lift. I got places to be, and those places are the top of the mountain.

In fact, if you crank this puppy up, why am I only riding it up? Let's go down, too. These skis are too damn slow. And if everyone is so upset all the time about getting wind blowing in their face, then put a windshield on each bench. Maybe along with a four-speed manual transmission, so they can get the best ratio for the corners. Put some paddlewheel tires on it, and a 1.6L, cross-flow, high compression inline four engine that can rev to 10,000 rpm. Get rid of the belt entirely. I know it sounds like I've just described a dune buggy, which is weird, I agree. Coincidentally, this ski resort is also full of excellent, challenging areas in which to drift a dune buggy around. So let's have some dune buggy races here, if you're going to be so insistent on calling it that.

See? I'm having fun already. Thanks for the investment in this fantastic infrastructure, rich weirdos.

[zellink]

all the bells say - chapter 12: Dissonance

a pre-calamity zelink longfic. [M-rated // chapter 12 of 28 // Act 2 of 5]

>>Read chapter on AO3 or start from the beginning >>here

Chapter excerpt:

She has always understood that her knight is a walking legend. Spirit of the Hero, they call him. Handpicked by Hylia so long ago for his valor and courage in the face of the toughest wars. The body and the mind may be different each time, but the soul persists. Maybe she should tell Father to fire all her tutors. Let Anthon simply be a resident court poet and stop these ‘music sessions’ with her. Clear out this grand chamber of any instruments and unnecessary decorations—furnish it only with two armchairs facing each other, and a small table boasting an assortment of pastries, a teapot, and two teacups. And then she’ll sit Link down. Let him eat however much pastry he likes, then start asking him questions. Lay all the cogwheels and gears from that elusive head on a table and examine them, then find remnants of their past successes in the grease. Study his spirit and thus her history, the way her tutors desperately want her to study those texts. Get to know him and maybe, just maybe, she can know herself.

>>Read chapter on AO3

[bluesolarflare]

I miss them so much, I miss Empires Season 1

I kinda wanna draw them all again

Here are some lore ramblings under the cut

When Gem ran away from the Grimlands, she sought any way to remove her physical connection from the kingdom. The Grimland’s dependency on machinery made it rare to see one with long hair. Long hair was a hazard, it could get caught on all matters of gears and switches. So Gem let her hair grow and refused to cut it. She religiously straightened her hair, her naturally curly, ginger hair was too similar to her younger brothers. When Gem attempted to change her hair’s color she hesitated. She found herself unable to remove that part of herself. Instead, she chose to wear a hood, which was later replaced by a grand wizard’s cap when she received it. 

As the first heir to the Grimlands, she was raised to be responsible for the kingdom. She was forced to take great care of her speech, her appearance, and her clothing. This habit truly never died down, even after a decade of her escape. She keeps her clothing clean and her dresses always pressed. Gem keeps her now straightened hair in a neat and tight braid. The responsibility weighed heavily on Gem, she often misses nights of sleep in favor of researching into the night. Her eyes are weighed down by eyebags, aging her youthful face. She feels guilt for abandoning her brother but hopes that she does not see him again in fear of his rejection.

Fwhip was never meant to become the Count. As such his parents never placed high standards on him. He was allowed to experiment with Redstone and roam freely across the kingdom. It was not until his sister’s disappearance that he was forced to take on her responsibilities. Fwhip always hated maintaining composure. What he hated more was being forced to abandon his experiments. When his parents died, he gave the brunt of his responsibilities to his advisors and retreated into his laboratory. His curly hair is constantly tangled and covered in unknown motor oils and grease. He does the bare minimum while making appearances in kingdoms (wearing a clean jacket and washing his scarf). His eyebrows are singed and grow weirdly from his experiments’ constant explosions. His time outdoors testing his latest creation has left his skin suntanned. 

He wonders what became of his sister. When she vanished, their parents seemed…relieved. Fwhip knew his sister was different. He knew that the day he smuggled her redstone powder, only for it to turn into Amethyst dust in her hands. He knew the day her eyes turned a magical green hue, different from the icy blue they both once had. It enraged Fwhip when his parents pretended she never existed, erased all mentions of her, and even destroyed the few paintings they had commissioned throughout their youth. Yet, he can’t help but feel like her disappearance was fueled by him. Fwhip knew the stress his sister was under, yet did nothing to support her. He hopes to see her again one day and he hopes he can make amends with her.

[utilitycaster]

Could you elaborate on that Orym-grief post? I find it interesting and I love ur character meta

Sure! The main thesis, is, well, the post: Orym has a healthy attitude towards his own grief and deals with it well, but isn't good at handling how the party feels. And, secondary to that, the fandom tends to flip this around in their perception of Orym.

Orym is very aware he is grieving and that this will be a life-long thing. He misses Will and Derrig very much and their absence is a hole in his life. He also has built a life around it. It's a process, certainly, but a process he trusts. He allows himself to feel his feelings (the gravesite sequence in Zephrah), but he also very much wants to live out his life (the feeling of failure when he died, his general enjoyment of things). He's a relatively subdued and quiet person, but he clearly finds a lot of joy in life.

The thing about grief is that it's a unique sort of pain, because there's really nothing to be done about it, and it is, typically, something that will always be there. The process is to find a way to live with that absence and make space for it while also making space for new things. It's an important lesson! It's also not how you should deal with other problems, because it's not really solution focused (or rather, the solution is "it is what it is, and it really hurts, and eventually, time will make it hurt somewhat less though it will flare up in specific situations.") For more on this: Caduceus covers very similar territory; his understanding of grief is incredibly strong, and his understanding of other problems often falters.

With grief, the answer for the living is ultimately "keep going," and that's the thing with Orym: he sure does keep going. But I think it leads him to push past things without stopping to unpack and solve them, because in his case (a guy with a great mother, a happy upbringing, a career he enjoyed, and a loving marriage, who then experienced a devastating loss) the answer really was "yeah, it really hurts that my husband and his father, who was essentially the only father figure I had, were senselessly murdered in an attack on my home. But let's put one foot in front of the other."

However, this is not actually great advice for much of Bells Hells. Several of them genuinely have conditions that lead to a complete loss of control and self that could harm or kill others, and they are at varying levels of dealing with it, potential to the peril of others. Orym notes that Fearne's impulses might put the party at risk, but he never does anything to address it other than say "hey, we need to work together." He even skirts around it himself! I think it's valid for him to approach Fearne to have a backup plan about Imogen potentially joining the Vanguard, but he says his piece and then goes and does that in private instead of fully hashing out why she'd say this in front of the people who were murdered by them, which means the root causes are never addressed. A lot of this party needs to be told both "hey, your feelings here are really valid and you should express your anger" and "hey, get your fucking shit together once you've done that." Orym tends to treat them either like they're grieving (a gentle "hey, we need to keep going, we need to get back"), or treat this like a group endeavor without delving into the individual.

I really suspect the reason we are having such a massive blow up right now is in part because this party has, for so long, been told "hey, your shit? It could ruin it for the rest of us, and we're a team," and Ashton very much went against this. I would not, frankly, be surprised if Imogen (for example) is angry not just only Ashton, but also generally, that she pushed down her stuff and maybe didn't make more efforts to contact her mother and work through that.

Essentially, Orym is really good at smoothing things over just enough to keep everything on task, but eventually, if the gear is broken, no amount of grease can keep it from jamming, and that's what just happened here with Ashton. This is what only repeated quick fixes and no preventative maintenance looks like.

(As for why the fandom thinks the opposite? I personally blame that most putrid - in several senses - belief, that conflict is always to be avoided, mixed in with a longstanding really toxic and genre/medium-ignorant attitude towards death and grieving. I think this goes hand and hand with the really pervasive attitude early on that Bells Hells were so open and honest instead of the truth: it was just a pleasant veneer.)

[shes-an-oddbird]

Can't stop thinking about the battle for the Lieutenant position, especially with all the stills for 5.02 so here's how I think this is going to play out.

First of all I’m still not entirely sure who will get the title in the end because I originally thought Judd would come back before the decision had to be made but now, I don’t think that is the case. I think the appeal of having him start again from scratch as a probie is too good to pass up.

That leaves us down to Paul, Marjan or even possibly Mateo.

In the stills it looks like Owen is going over the lieutenant tests with Paul and Marjan and I think that could play out a couple of different ways. Now I don’t know what a lieutenant test would include or how it would be structured but I think they either outscored each other on different parts of the test or struggled equally on the same part of the test (I’ll come back to this). Effectively keeping them balanced or in need of proving themselves and prolonging the competition through 5.02 and 5.03.

What’s interesting is that Owen is also talking to Mateo in the stills. I personally think he’s asking for Mateo to help him in making a decision between Paul and Marjan because he can give a different perspective. Owen would have authority over a lieutenant as the captain while Mateo would have to take orders from them. (I’m also not entirely unconvinced that Owen wouldn’t just pass the responsibility to make a choice between them on to Mateo. Just say that he knows them best and that he trusts his decision 100% and is done with it because lone star is a comedy more often than not.)

Either way, over the course of 5.02 Paul and Marjan are still going to be under the microscope. They could be continuing to show off in front of Owen but I think there is another option. If they struggled with part of the lieutenant test, like perhaps they are called out for being reckless (because they do things like jump on to the back of out of control trucks or into grease traps with no gear) they may over compensate and proceed too cautiously at the train wreck or even second guess themselves. (And also put them in danger because the promos have them being tossed around like rag dolls).

Now here is where it gets even more complicated because if Paul and Marjan are overthinking their every move and Owen is lone wolfing it again that just leaves Mateo to be the rational one. And that sounds crazy but Mateo has proven that he is calm under pressure (like in the dust storm), sees clear and obvious solutions that others miss (like when that guy was almost crushed by the trash compactor) and is willing to let others take the lead if they are better suited to the rescue (he admits Paul is better off to lead when the father and son are trapped in the car on the power lines). In a way, he is actually the most like Judd of the three of them.

And if in 5.03 Mateo is the one to figure out how to get to TNT when they’re trapped in the school or whatever is going on there then I think it is a very real possibility Owen would offer him the job. If there is any solid reason as to why Mateo wouldn’t be a good lieutenant its that he’s probably not ready to fill in as a captain if Owen wasn’t there.

So in the end there is Marjan who is brave, organized and already has strong leadership skills. Paul who is observant, calculating and has the most experience. And Mateo who is hardworking, knowledgeable and determined. It’s a hard choice and I still don’t think we have a clear answer as too who it will be but I will say, if Owen mentions the lieutenant test to Mateo and Mateo says, yeah he took one when he took the job with the 129 then the chance that its him doubles because that’s absolutely them foreshadowing and covering a plot hole in one go.