#To the point of integrating her body parts
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seokminfilm · 2 days ago
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longing to long for him ♫ lee seokmin
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♫ pairing, lee seokmin x reader ♫ warnings, non-idol au, ceo au, husband seokmin, reader and seokmin have a baby girl, angst, hurt/no comfort, one allusion to being nude ♫ synopsis, you hate the feeling of being so close yet so far away.
♫ author's note, trying out a new layout! let me know your thoughts on it 🤍 been listening to same dream, same night, same mind by svt and suddenly had this urge to write something angsty with seokmin so here you go!! hurt no comfort too?? am i going insane?? (yes)
♫ now playing, same dream, same night, same mind, seventeen
♫ word count, 1.8k | for @kstrucknet
"welcome home, seokmin." your voice feels empty as you speak, but you bypass it, allowing your husband to bring you into his chest for a equally-empty hug.
being married to lee seokmin came with its ups and downs.
as the hardworking ceo of his own corporation, passed down to him by his grandfather, he always had a full, busy schedule. when seokmin wasn't busy in his office at home, he was on the road, driving from one meeting to another from sunrise to sunset.
as the youngest couple in the midst of seokmin's business partner circle, you were used to the so-called "advice" the older, married ladies would share with you at company dinner parties, as if it made the reality of your situation any better.
"there's no more time for love or play, now that mr. lee is climbing the ranks. you might as well get used to loveless nights, overdramatic reactions, and distant conversations. it happens to the best of us." one lady had said while stroking your back as if you were a miserable cat, and your skin boiled with anger, hoping that the lady would just drop dead.
the night you and seokmin had said "i do", he had laid down in your untouched hotel bed beside you, face and body still warm from the wedding's festivities. the sparkles in his eyes still haunt your memory to this day, and you could remember his sentence word for word, the feeling of his soft hand on your cheek as he looked into your eyes.
"no matter what happens from now until eternity, you'll always be on my mind."
that sentence was simple, but complex enough to make you teary eyed as seokmin hugged you, body engulfing yours as the sheets seemed to protect you from the harsh cold─the harsh cold being life without lee seokmin in it.
now, all you could feel was that cold.
"how's mihan?" seokmin's voice was tired, layers of disappointments and annoyance seeping into his words. his eyes were tired too, gaze harsh as he stripped himself of his shoes.
his styled hair was still flawless from this morning, and the sharp point of his nose was highlighted by the light shining down on him as he looked at his sleeping baby girl in your arms. she had your eyes and his nose, resting peacefully in her swaddle as you sighed, giving a small smile if only for her.
"she's doing okay. she's been sleeping all day." you say, and seokmin nods, sighing as he leans against the countertop. he stares up at the light, eyes unflinching as he shuts them tightly seconds later. the sigh that leaves his lips is felt, and your heart falls a little bit more, watching him bypass you without another word and disappear into your shared bedroom.
it hurts to see him leave without another kiss or tight hug like he used to do. as much as you wanted to ignore the warnings given to you in the early stage of your marriage, they were like bright stage lights, illuminating the things even you wanted to deny.
love used to be such an integral part of you and seokmin's marriage, and now, no matter how hard you looked or tried to pretend, you couldn't see it anymore. you couldn't remember the last time you or seokmin had said the phrase 'i love you' without sounding tired or empty, and it made your heart ache.
tears pricked the corner of your eyes as you walked to your bedroom, and mihan stirred in your arms, lips turning into a small smile as her tiny fingers clung to your shirt─the faded smiski tee seokmin had let you have the first time you had come home with him.
even he didn't recognize the shirt now. that, or he just didn't care anymore.
sitting on the bed after putting mihan to bed in her crib just a few steps away from you, you wipe the now freely falling tears from your eyes, wedding ring glinting on your finger as you chew at your lip, falling silent as the shower turns off in the bathroom.
soft piano lullabies play from your phone to calm down both you and mihan, and you sigh, turning away from the door as it opens to reveal seokmin's fresh face and toned figure, sweatpants thrown on around his waist as he scrubs his face dry.
your eyes meet for a second, taking each other in, and for a moment, it feels like old times again─the shyness you feel rising up in your body is just like when you saw seokmin nude for the first time, and it makes you turn away again, holding back fresh tears.
seokmin cleans up his mess, throwing his suit in the clothes hamper as he combs his fingers through his wet hair. his dark brown eyes seem to have more shadow under them, and he slowly makes his way to the bedside, crashing onto the sheets without a second thought.
silence goes through the room like a blaring siren, suffocating in nature as you look over to your husband. he's already fighting sleep, letting the silence and drip of the showerhead lull him to dreamland. his face is relaxed now, eyes half-lidded as he meets your gaze.
something lingers behind his eyes, but you don't know what, and before you can work up the courage to speak, he falls asleep, leaving you to long for him even more.
how long would you be longing to have lee seokmin back?
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talonabraxas · 21 hours ago
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Solar Angels Talon Abraxas The Solar Angel channels life from the Monad to the lower self, responding to karmic necessities and orchestrating a sequence of incarnations through which the individual can gain evolutionary experience. The Solar Angel’s point of attachment to the human individual is the causal body. It links the mental permanent atom on the first subplane with the mental unit on the fourth. Between these subplanes lies the great gulf that has divided us, since our inception as human beings, and which eventually we seek to bridge by constructing the antahkarana.
The causal body is a sheath that contains the astral and physical permanent atoms and the mental unit. It is the lowest vehicle to survive from one incarnation to the next, and through the three permanent atoms (for convenience treating the mental unit as such) serves to preserve a distillation of the experiences from successive incarnations. Prior to physical birth, life flows down from the causal body to the lower mental, astral, and physical planes, energizing the permanent atoms and sweeping the devas of those planes into action to build the new incarnational form. At the end of that incarnation, life is withdrawn from the lower vehicles, and the permanent atoms are enriched by what has been learned.
For millions of years, the lower self is unaware of the Solar Angel’s existence. For its part, the Angel looks down on its charge, like a hen brooding over its egg, waiting for the first stirring of awareness that can develop into more definite contact. In the Tibetan’s words, the Solar Angel “is in deep meditation for the greater part of the cycle of lives of any one individual, and that it is only when a fair measure of personality integration is set up that the soul’s attention is drawn away from its own interior considerations and egoic affairs to those of its shadow.”
Techniques for developing contact with the Solar Angel can be found in many esoteric systems, whether or nor the concept of the Solar Angel is properly understood. For example, Ron Scolastico’s popular book Doorway to the Soul provides an interesting sequence of meditations that could be used even by people with minimal esoteric training. As the individual invokes his or her Solar Angel, the Angel responds, at first sporadically and then more continuously. Golden Dawn initiate Israel Regardie provides an eloquent description of the process:
The everlasting abode of the Higher Self is the Eden of Paradise, the supernal sanctuary which is ever guarded from chaos by the flaming sword of the Cherubim… From that aloof spiritual stronghold it gazes down on its vehicle, the lower man, evolved for the purposes of providing it with experience—involved in neither its struggles or tribulations, yet, from another point of view, suffering acutely thereby… (S)eldom does th(e) Genius leave its palace of the stars except when, voluntarily, the lower self opens itself to the higher by an act of sincerest aspiration or self-sacrifice, which alone makes possible the descent of the Light within our hearts and minds.
The Tibetan makes a similar point and goes on to emphasize the need for a reciprocal response in building the antahkarana. He tells us that, “as it lives its own life on its own level of awareness,” the Solar Angel “is not always constantly aware of its shadow, the personality, in the three worlds. When the antahkarana is being built, this awareness must be present alongside the intention of the personality.”
Some types of service can only be performed with the Solar Angel’s participation. For example, the Tibetan explains that the practice of white magic requires the Angel’s resources:
Only the solar Angel can do the work of the white magician, and he effects it through the control of the lunar angels and their complete subjugation. They are arrayed against him, until, through meditation, aspiration, and control, he bends them to his will and they become his servants… The worker in white magic utilises ever the energy of the Solar Angel to effect his ends. The dark brother works through the inherent force of the lunar lords, which are allied in nature to all that is objective.
Similarly, in that important application of magic, healing:
The healer who works on a higher level, and necessarily therefore with a higher type of patient; he uses the energy of his own overshadowing soul in conjunction with the energy of his individualised soul, and thereby radiates it forth into the soul of the patient, via both of the auras.
If white magic requires the Solar Angel’s assistance, magic ritual has also been explored as a means of invoking the Angel. The most famous ritual for that purpose was recorded by the medieval Kabbalist Abraham the Jew (1362-1460), but attributed to a sage, Abra-Melin, whom he claimed to have met in Egypt. What is particularly significant about Abraham’s work is that, in a preamble to the ritual, he dismissed the then-customary use of elaborate magic paraphernalia to emphasize a life of prayer and concentration, akin to the spiritual practices of the mystics—or indeed to our own esoteric disciplines. The early 20th century occultist Aleister Crowley adapted Abra-Melin’s ritual to invoke what he termed “the knowledge and conversation” of the Angel.” It is not clear whether Crowley succeeded, but he affirmed that the central role of ritual is “the invocation of the Holy Guardian Angel; or, in the language of mysticism, Union with God.”
Another ritual for invoking the Solar Angel, used by members of the Golden Dawn, focuses on participants’ personal transformation. Interestingly, it refers to the “true Self,” a phrase often used by the Tibetan:
Come forth unto me, Thou that art my true Self: my Light, my Soul… Thou that art crowned with Glory… Thee I invoke. Come forth unto me, my Lord: to me, who am Thy vain reflection in the mighty sea of Matter… Without Thee I am nothing; in Thee am I All-Self existing in Thy Selfhood to eternity.
Yet another includes this affirmation of personal sacrifice and sacrifice and courage:
Let the influence of thy divine ones descend upon my head, and teach me the value of self-sacrifice so that I shrink not in the hour of trial, but that thus my name may be written on high and my genius stand in the presence of the Holy One. In that hour when the Son of Man is invoked before the Lord of Spirits and his Name before the Ancient of Days.
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hajihiko · 2 years ago
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My own narrative of the SDR2 class being haunted by Junko in various ways
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thefudge · 1 year ago
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Advice for writing smut???
gonna do bullet-points of things i tend to live by when it comes to smut (this is just my opinion):
don't switch styles: the way you write the smut has to be consistent with the way you write the rest of the story, so if your story is more comedic or romcom-y in nature, the way you write the smut should have those stylings. i personally find it very jarring when authors decide to break the format for the smut, almost like the story has to stop for the sex intermission; if you're writing a horror story, the smut must be informed and influenced by that genre, and if you are breaking genre for the smut portion, tell us why you're suddenly switching gears (it has to be an aesthetic choice you're making on purpose). likewise, if your style in that story is more lyrical, the smut has to be somewhat lyrical too, or if your story is more cormac mccarthy-esque-cut-and-dry, the smut can't suddenly involve an effluvia of purple, sappy prose. integrating the smut in the story and treating it like any other part of the story is key to me. too often i've seen ppl switch to this anonymous pornified style when they get to the smut
which brings me to specificity. i'll talk about het sex, since that's what i tend to write most: not all men are going to be fingering or eating pussy the same way, not all dicks are big and they shouldn't be, not all women immediately get excited by fingering, not everyone moans the same way or makes the same sounds. you're writing about particular characters so it has to be particular to them. i know this is very old advice, but i think it bears repeating
there isn't an exact formula or sequence you have to follow, there aren't precise steps, you don't have to go "well, first he has to kiss down her neck, then reach the boob area, then play with the nipples, then put the nipple in his mouth, then slowly go down on her, then prepare her for entering her etc. etc. etc." this can get boring and repetitive and you start thinking of your characters as these mechanical dolls who have to fuck for your audience. and that can be a vibe too, if you do it on purpose. but sometimes you can get stuck in a porn routine (and ofc, having only the guy show initiative can also get boring)
in order to break that, insert some character moments. what are the characters thinking during this? sometimes they might be thinking of something completely unrelated on the surface, but which has a thematic relevance that can make the scene hotter. likewise, maybe they're doing smth that seems unsexy on the surface, but which, within the context of the story might be really hot. sex doesn't just involve, well, sex, but so much weirdness and humanity and creativity. two bodies (usually) are trying to do this really awkward thing together and they might have a lot of baggage and history to inform it. there's a lot you can do with that.
don't make it glossy and clean, where everyone smells of strawberry shampoo and there is never anything out of sync. the most boring smut tends to be the kind where no one makes any mistakes and everything is super efficient. i imagine it feels like using an industrial pump to milk various farm animals.
and you know what? you can make that hot too. you CAN write a kind of robotic efficient smut and make it really interesting based on the context. let's say you're writing a 1984 AU fic where ppl are forced into intimacy only to procreate and their sex drive is diminished. you can play with that premise and lean into the dehumanizing industrialization of sex, but you have to mean it, aka your narratorial voice must be conscious of these factors.
if you're writing dubcon, make the dubious part present, make sure you draw out the ambivalence and ambiguity. if you're writing noncon, the character whose consent is being violated has to be transformed by this in some way. it can be forced pleasure, for instance, but not only. it has to be a journey for them too, some kind of spiritual pit, or a form of access to terrible knowledge. i know this is a personal thing, but noncon doesn't work for me if the character being noncon'd is just sort of *there*, suffering passively. i think that sort of dead passivity can be done very well too, but the narratorial voice has to persuade me.
that being said, don't be afraid of fear in consensual sex. terror and vulnerability are a part of consensual sex too, imo, and again, depending on the story and the characters, there's a lot you can explore there
i personally find it really hot when the narratorial voice starts discussing some of the ideas that the story wants to convey during the smut. so like, you can characterize person A and outline their worldview and their plans while they're ramming person B, and the thinking & fucking are thus entwined. idk, i dig that
speaking of which, smut can convey world-building details and social/philosophical ideas, not just emotions and character beats
not all smut has to end with mutual orgasm or even one-sided orgasm, it depends what you want to do or where you want to go. again, you don't have to follow a sequence. plus, it's fun (and hot) to write about frustration and failure too.
if you want to mix up the descriptions, resort to the story & characters. you'll find it's easier to describe someone fondling a boob in a new or at least interesting way if you're thinking about that particular character in that particular story, and not just Man X from planet porn (sorry to be snarky, but mainstream erotica is soooo guilty of this)
screaming & really intense reactions are cool but they have to match the characters and the situations
sometimes, it's hotter if an effect is mild or negated, if the usual outcome doesn't happen; mix up the order of events, toy with the usual reactions. it's not about being original, it's about finding out what works for your characters. writing about sex is, in a way, a performance of it, an attempt to go through the sexual motions, to find out what works and doesn't, to engage with the erotics of text (roland barthes entered the chat)
if you are bored by your own smut, that's a problem. i know we all talk about how hard we find writing smut, and IT IS hard, and sometimes it's not enjoyable, because writing itself is often not enjoyable, but even when it's painful and annoying, it gives you that little intellectual kick like "huh, i'm creating this and making these people do this, and ohh look, i can maybe put this unnamable thing into words". but if you become bored, that's a sign you have to look at the language & characters and figure out what's not working for you
last thing i'll underline: pay attention to your narratorial voice. in this ordeal, you are the seducer. not the characters. you have to seduce us with words and context. your voice matters the most. you can persuade us of anything. but you have to be confident in your weirdness and particularity. this is your bedroom (so to speak), so invite us in.
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dekusleftsock · 9 months ago
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I think about this sometimes but I personally love that Horikoshi took the Yandere trope, split it in two, and gave one half to Izuku and Himiko.
Like it’s so fascinating how you can just SEE how purposeful Himiko was as a character in hindsight standing next to him.
Himiko is a really interesting subversion of her trope for two reasons:
She hurts people because she loves them, not for isolation or destruction of the competition (gore/blood is love to her, not necessarily a means to love someone)
She’s not possessive. Like at all.
I’ve seen that hc a few times and it always bothers me. Ochako is for sure a possessive character (we saw that with Hatsume around Izuku way back at the sports festival arc), but Himiko? Really?
You mean the girl who had a crush on a boy AND the girl who also had a crush on the same boy? Her?
You mean the girl who doesn’t hurt people who love who she loves, rather actively encouraging it in the first place? That one? Really?
Like it’s such an integral part to her subversion too. It’s what makes her such a weird and fascinating character. Possessiveness is supposed to be whats ugly about love itself, yet her love remains ugly without it. She is ugly because the fundamental ways in which she sees and feels about the world are considered “wrong”, “dangerous”, and “deviant”.
But Izuku… ohhhh Izuku…
He holds this trait like a badge melted to his skin. My man cannot escape these allegations. It’s to the point where it’s honestly a fundamental to his narrative. Izuku does not act nor feel the same without it.
Izuku holds a cutesy nickname that literally every other childhood friend of Katsuki’s has long left behind, saying his real name instead (this is honestly why I’m also uninterested in a scene where Izuku calls him “Katsuki” instead of “Kacchan”, Katsuki doesn’t represent the same things the name Izuku does, imo at least), izuku “give him back to me” midoriya, holds his dead body to his chest on a cover, freaked out on someone either hurting/offending Kacchan.. 3 times(?), keeping big boy ofa secrets…. The list goes on.
So it’s this main reason that I think their characters are just so. Fucking. Intertwined. I’m glad this has become a more common interpretation because there’s just so much that aligns between them.
Both of them call their “special people” with -chan endings, both by their first names, both deemed deviants/irrelevant by society. It’s no wonder Ochako fell in love with Izuku, just like she did toga, they’re fucking freaks. They’re interesting. They’re weird. They’re overly friendly and socially inept and a little beaten down by the world yet have too much passion to stay on the ground. They’re envious of the ones they love (Ochako of her freedom to be a normal girl, Katsuki for his raw power and harnessed skill), and I guess I just wanted to make this post because I adore how it’s all done.
I LOVE how the yandere trope is used as societal commentary here. Not necessarily as a way to make the main love interest jealous and feel she must protect the main character, nor for some kinky reason surrounding her character, but because the trope is built off of real, ugly feelings that can and do happen. That love can and is considered truly beautiful in all its forms, especially those of queer people.
So I especially love it because it isn’t just limited to Himiko, but Izuku as well. He may never hurt the ones he loves, but he would hurt for them.
A perfect narrative foil on queer and deviant forms of love. Big fan Horikoshi.
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tacticaldiary · 1 year ago
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Reader joining 141 for a mission and Simon is not having it and is pissed at price for calling them and all of the other guys are confused about why ghost is so upset till they find out reader is his wife after the mission
Maybe reader got hurt and ghost goes off on price
The Price Of A Secret
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive-"
"This is different." He grits out.
"And why's that?"
"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the table. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.
A/N: It's 2:45am and I have no energy to proofread caution advised-
Masterlist
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The moment the picture of the intelligence officer joining them flashes on the screen, Ghost puts his foot down.
"She's not coming."
Everyone in the room pauses, Price staring at Ghost mid sentence. It's the usual 141, and then it's her. Sitting there with a mildly frustrated look, refusing to look at him because she should have known he'd try to pull some shit like this.
"Why not?" Price folds his arm, narrowing his eyes. "Is there an issue, Lieutenant?"
She was supposed to work from the inside, drawing out data and cracking through defences that they then passed on to people like the 141. An integral part of the process of running the whole task force, but not once was she involved in hands-on field work.
It's not that she's incompetent. No, not at all. Ghost would have his head bit off if he even remotely implied that because it simply isn't true. She got the top scores in almost every part of her training exercises, and yet she chose the intelligence part of the military to serve in. His wife was as competent as they got.
His wife.
"This is a covert operation, the fewer people the better." That's what he goes with. Not because his heart picks up at the thought of her being anywhere near what they deal with every day.
"I won't have the range I need to retrieve the data from their servers if I'm not close to them." She speaks up, and their eyes meet from across the room.
His determined, hers resolute.
Sometimes he really hated that she was so fucking stubborn. It had been the same stubbornness that cracked down the iron grip he'd had on the walls in his mind and around his heart, but if that stubbornness was what got her killed Simon would give up this joy in a heartbeat.
He'd do it for her if it meant she kept on living.
"This isn't up for discussion, Ghost." Price states, "She's part of this operation on my authority."
"Price-"
"End of discussion. You settle whatever you have going on outside this room." And fuck, he can't refute a direct order like that, can he?
Ghost sees her release a long exhale, and he knows he won't share such a relief until this damn operation was over and done with.
                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Her body is so limp it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.
Ghost grips her so tight it's as if he himself is the only thing tethering her soul to her body, boots thumping hard against the muddy ground as they retreat back to their extraction point, data successfully retrieved.
Successfully, not smoothly.
The plan was simple. They'd flank the building while she camped out near the edge of the woods, retrieving the intel they needed. A couple of fuckers slipped out of the building and went straight for her.
Ghost's stomach turns when he remembers how he found the scene. She wasn't answering through her comms, but he knew he wasn't able to leave his position until the building was secure.
Waiting felt like an eternity, he could feel Soap send troubled glances in his direction at the way Ghost was unusually silent and more brutal than.
When the building was finally secure, they'd gone to reunite with her position and found three men dead, bloody seeping into the ground in a crimson mess. The last one standing hovered over her unconscious form, over his wife with a knife raised ready to slit her thought.
The only thought Ghost had as he ripped the man away with his hands was that he was going to take the one good thing in his life away, and he would not let that happen. Not her. Not like this.
"Bleeding wound to the head, unconscious but still breathing!" Gaz called out while Ghost shoved the man's own knife into his throat. Tossing the gurgling body aside like a ragdoll, he's immediately by her side, assessing before carefully lifting her up in his arms.
It's the most emotion Ghost has ever expressed in front of the others, but he couldn't give a fuck about the looks or the questions right now. Her heartbeat against him settled him the slightest bit with the reassurance that she was alive.
Angry does not begin to describe what itches under Ghost's skin as they scramble into their exfil airship.
"Medic!" He barks the second they lift off. Setting her down, he brushes the bloody strands of her hair away from her face.
Despite the urge to stay by her side, the medic gingerly requests for him to take a step back so he could work. Ghost obliges but his eyes never leave her face.
He's painfully aware of his wedding ring pressing against his chest, strung onto a chain long enough to be tucked under his uniform. A matching one to her own.
Nobody speaks.
Perhaps they recognise the anger washing off of Ghost in waves, because if they'd just bloody listened to him, she wouldn't be laying there with a head wound.
The atmosphere is heavy and sombre. Even Soap keeps his mouth shut, too confused by the outward, uncharacteristic way Ghost was acting to make fun of it.
It's only when the medic announces she's stable that the suffocating knot in Ghost's chest loosens. There's audible relief from everyone in the place.
"Bloody hell." Price breathes, and something in Ghost snaps.
"I told you to dismiss her from the op." He says coldly, turning to the man.
"We got what we needed, son." He sighs, deep and tired, and part of Ghost understands that this was their life. But he's too worked up to care.
"At a fucking cost."
"People get injured on the job, Ghost." Gaz tries to defuse the situation. "She's alive, that's all that matters. Nothing permanent, yeah?" He glances at the medic, who confirms with a nod before slipping away.
"This is different." Ghost grits out.
"Why's that?"
"Because that's my wife!" He hisses, slamming his fist onto the metallic walls. It strikes them harder than if he were to have yelled it at them.
How long had it taken for Ghost-...no, for Simon to let someone crack open his defences until he was coaxed out and allowed himself to love again? Four years they've been married, and four years he's kept it a secret.
It's not that he doesn't trust his team. He trusts them with his life, would lay his own down for Johnny, Gaz, and Price any day.
But this? This was bigger than him, she was the most precious thing that had ever happened to him, and the safest way to preserve that was the keep it on a need-to-know basis.
She'd agreed with him, of course. In that soft, patient way she always has with him. She'd seen the paranoia in him, recognised that he needed this one thing for himself, and she'd been more than happy to oblige.
What was outside validation about her relationship worth when she got to crawl into his arms at the end of the day? Be granted the pleasure that comes with being loved by someone as protective, intelligent, and sharp as Simon Riley? She adores all of him, even the jagged pieces that cut into her from time to time, because he's always there to take care of her afterwards.
"She's my wife." He repeats quieter, sitting back down. Exhaustion lines the slope of his shoulder's dark circles well present under his mask.
"You're married." Soap is the first to speak, incredulously. "You? Ghost? You're married?" His eyes flicker down to Ghost's left hand, and then to Gaz and Price who look equally as surprised. "I mean, congratulations?" He trails off, knowing it's not really the situation to celebrate.
"Thanks." A tired, small voice has everyone's attention back onto the figure on the bed. Ghost is on his feet in moments, by her bedside. "It'll be five years in...what, a month?" She cracks an eye open, giving Simon a tired, smile.
"Two months." He corrects with a mutter, and Johnny looks like he might just collapse. "Sitrep?"
"We're not on the field anymore." She groans, pushing herself to sit up. Ghost's hands fly to her immediately, helping her sit up. At his blank, insistent stare, she relents with a deep sigh. "My head's killing me but other than that just a few scrapes and bruises." Her hand travels down to grab his at her shoulder, squeezing briefly.
"I'm alright." Her voice turns into something soft and reassuring, and it's only then that a quiet, shuddering breath comes out of Simon's lungs. "I think I'll sit to working from the inside though." She jokes weakly. "Leave the dirtier work to you brutes."
It lightens the mood as intended, eliciting a snort from Gaz. "Yes, ma'am."
He'd make sure she got checked out properly when they landed, but for now he takes his place sitting beside her. The others fall into a hushed conversation after a while, but he makes no move to join them.
A warm hand intertwines with his, hidden beneath the bulk of their combined gear.
"I'm alright, Simon." She mumbles, just loud enough for him to hear.
Simon squeezes her hand in response. "Fucking hell, love." He breathes.
And it's enough to convey everything he's thinking. Humming, she tips her head against his shoulder and lets her eyes slip shut. The warmth of his body, even through the tang of copper is enough of a familiar comfort to drain the tension from her body.
She's fast asleep against his shoulder a minute later, and the devil himself couldn't make Simon move lest he wake her now.
He wasn't a publicly affectionate person by any means...but he trusted his team enough for this right now.
Letting his own head press against the metal wall behind them, his eyes shift to meet Price's. A softer, knowing look from the Captain is all he needs to hook his chin over her head and turn his attention outside the small window.
And if he counts her breathing while she sleeps for his own peace of mind? Well, that's no one's business but his.
Reblog, Like and Comment!
(10/09/2023)
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lets-try-some-writing · 28 days ago
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Do you think if any of the Tfp bots have seen any human deaths? Like any sorta of a death, old age, illness, infected injuries or sometimes people just die unexpectedly. It’s most likely any of the soldiers that work around any of the bases. if a human were to die more violently like bot human and ‘con fight happened and they didn’t know such a small creature could bleed so much.
I do imagine they have. It's likely not something they are fond of talking about, but civilian casualties had to have happened at some point after their initial arrival. Strength differences and all that.
Optimus, while attempting to save a car and its passengers before they went hurtling off a cliff edge, ended up grabbing the vehicle just a bit too hard. He overestimated the strength of human steel and the humans he was attempting to save from certain death died anyway. All Optimus could do was push the wreckage down the cliff anyway to make it look as if nothing had happened on his end and go back to base with servos coated in red.
He learned a grim lesson that day, and Optimus never again used all his strength for anything on earth again, save for combat with Megatron.
Ratchet was mistaken as a proper ambulance at one point, and an emergency at the roadside had him pulling over to transport a crash victim to the hospital. He had his holoform in the drivers seat and he instructed the bystander who volunteered to help, but the effort was in vain. The unfortunate victim passed away halfway to the hospital from blunt force trauma to the head. Ratchet thought he had more time since the organics he was familiar with generally had a higher constitution. The loss did not bother him too much after a while, but it was a bit of a wake up call after he dropped off the body and the bystander before speeding away.
He put a little more effort in understanding humanity after that. If only to stop needless death.
Arcee was neither involved with or the cause of any human deaths, but while the team were still integrating on Earth, she watched a marine get hit with a rogue piece of shrapnel and quite literally explode, at least in some areas. It didn't register for her at first, but the moment the humans started flocking and panicking, Arcee knew what blood was and just how... unfortunate the innards of a human are. She learned just how fragile humanity is, and while did not shake her, it was enlightening and she offered her condolences later.
Bulkhead has never actually witnessed a human death in person, largely because he was already a naturally cautious mech when it came to his strength, so there were no accidents. However, the first time Bulkhead saw a human die in a movie, he may or may not have gotten emotional over it. A simple scene with an old man bidding his family one final farewell had Bulkhead reconsidering the functional immortality of his species for a while. Then he watched Marlie & Me-
Bumblebee witnessed his first ever human death in a similar manner to Optimus. He was out racing illegally and trying to make up for the loneliness of being part of such a small team by filling the void with a competition. But one human got a bit too excited during the race, and a few bad decisions later, one of the racers rammed directly into Bumblebee, sending them both spinning. Bumblebee was disoriented but otherwise unharmed when he transformed. But looking at the wreck? The other guy was anything but that. Bumblebee didn't need to look hard to know that the red smear on the inside of the care was about all that was left of his competition.
He stopped racing after that.
Smokescreen, Wheeljack, and Ultra Magnus have yet to witness any human deaths up close and personal. They have seen movies, but not any real expirations. Ultra Magnus doesn't care to. Smokescreen is afraid to see what happens when a fleshy dies, especially after the Darkmount incident and Optimus's near death. Wheeljack, surprisingly, has witnessing such a thing on his bingo card. He's not looking forward to it, but it's bound to happen and he wants an excuse to get a drink.
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stylesloveclub · 2 years ago
Text
sunshine (part 2)
In which Harry's a little bit nicer, and y/n is very excited to possibly, hopefully, maybe be kissed.
sunshine (part 1)
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Y/n’s apartment is filled with a bunch of people she doesn’t know. Maddie has a bunch of people over – not really a party, but a fairly large gathering. A few of her school friends, a couple of her co-workers…. nobody that y/n is really close with, though. 
That’s why she locked herself in her room, away from the music and the stuffy, smoke-filled air. She said her polite hello and everything, of course! But… she just wasn’t in the mood to hang out with Maddie’s friends. They weren’t really y/n’s type of people, and the smell of weed is giving her a terrible headache. 
She bunches up her hair in her fists as she stares at the math problem in front of her. She had been able to do integrals just fine with Harry, but when you add trig into the equation? She’s thoroughly fucked. Not even The Organic Chemistry Tutor could help her work through this problem. 
A knock on her door makes her jump. “Come in,” she says politely, though her brows are still furrowed grumpily as she stares at the calculus in front of her. 
“S’this room taken?” a deep voice murmurs. 
She whips her head around, heart fluttering excitedly in her chest. “Harry,” she says softly. “What are you doing here?”
“Maddie invited Blake,” he says, sitting down on her bed. “And Blake invited me.” 
Oh. She should’ve known. 
She rolls away from her desk and faces Harry, who’s making himself more than comfortable on her bed, laying down with his head on her pillow. “Smells like shit out there,” he grunts. 
“Yeah,” she shrugs. She’s accepted that her apartment will always reek of weed, no matter how hard she tries to get rid of the smell. “Did you smoke anything with them?” she asks. 
“No, not in the mood.” Honestly, the only reason he decided to come over with Blake was because he knew that he’d be able to go chill in y/n’s room. Hanging out in Maddie’s smelly apartment was the last thing he wanted to do on a Thursday night, but… he knew y/n would be there, sitting quietly in her room like the good girl she is. “Did you?”
“No.” She fiddles with her fingers. “I– I don’t smoke.”
He snorts. “You don’t smoke but you live with Maddie?” Maddie cannot survive two seconds without her vape. “That doesn’t make sense.” 
“The smell of it gives me a headache,” she tries to explain. 
“Your apartment literally always smells like weed,” he deadpans. 
She blinks. “Yeah…” she trails off quietly. “If I close my door though the smell isn’t that bad.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “What are you working on?” he asks, pointing to the textbook sitting on her desk.
“Um– math.” His lips quirk up, while she pouts. “S’not making sense again.”
“Lemme see,” he says, sitting up. She looks at him for a second, not moving, but when he nods towards her ipad again she scrambles to pick it up and sit next to him on the bed. 
“So, what were you going to try and do?” he asks, grabbing her pen. She’s hyper aware of how their thighs are touching, how she can practically feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Um… I feel like I need to use one of the trig rules here but I can’t think of any that would do anything here.” 
“Okay you’re right… the issue is that none of your sins or cosins fit any of the rules. But you can break cos^3x down into cos^2x times cosx, right?” 
“Okay…” she looks up at him like a lost puppy, still not fully getting it. 
“Do you have any trig identities with cos^2x?”
“Um…” she shuffles through her notes, “ cos^2x equals 1 minus sin^2x?”
He nods his head, “yeah. So now that everything is in terms of sin, you can do a u-sub.”
“Oh,” she blinks quietly, staring down at the paper. “Why’s it so easy when you explain it?” 
He shrugs, leaning back down onto her bed, “y’just need a lot of practice.”
The bottom of his shirt rises up as he puts his hands behind his head, revealing a pair of black ferns that point towards a yummy v-line. Y/n tries her best not to look, but she’s reminded of the night where she showed up to his apartment to pick up Maddie… how he’d been shirtless, his abdomen so chiseled and firm. The swallows on his collarbones, the butterfly that seemed to jump with every breath. She finds herself getting a bit short of breath as she thinks about all of the things hidden beneath his shirt currently.
That’s the thing about being a touch-deprived, romantic girl like y/n. The littlest things get her going. 
He was nice to her once, helped her with her math homework and comforted her when she cried, and now her heart flutters like crazy when she sees him. Just the smallest rise of Harry’s shirt has her spiraling. 
She can’t help but notice the way his biceps bulge subtly as he puts his hands behind his head, and finds herself overwhelmed with the fact that this boy – an attractive boy – was just laying in her bed casually.
She knows it’s no big deal for Harry, he’s probably just in here because the living room stinks and he needs to clear his head. But for her, it’s a lot. She never has boys in her room, has never had a romantic interaction with a boy. Hasn’t even been kissed. It’s always just very friendly – getting notes from a guy in her class, joking around with some of Maddie’s friends. She’s never had a boy talk to her any more than that. 
Harry, though… Harry comes into her room and talks to her even when there’s a whole party going on outside. He kept her company when she was stranded at his apartment, he took her home and took care of her when she was drunk and emotional. It probably meant nothing to him, but the way he grabbed her ankle and told her to lie down when he was helping her into bed was one of the most tender things she’s ever experienced. He put his hand on her waist, and held her arm while she stumbled, he’d guided her through the door with his hand on the small of her waist. 
And when he saw her crying at the library, he came over and talked to her. Comforted her and let her rant about her classes. He’d let her into his room and helped her with her homework, murmured soft praises to her when she got a question right, his arm brushing against hers, or his chest rubbing against her shoulder. 
The stupidest little things, that are probably so insignificant for him, have been on her mind for days.
“Hey,” Harry says, snapping her out of her daydreams. She tears her eyes away from his ferns embarrassedly, hoping he didn’t notice. “What are you thinkin’ about?”
She averts her eyes, looking down at her bedsheet. “Um, nothing.”
He quirks his brows. “Nothing?”
“Mhm,” she nods her head innocently.
‘Really?” he asks again, his lip twitching with the slightest hint of amusement, sitting up on his elbows now. He raises himself up so that they’re face to face. He’s not an idiot.
She bites her lip nervously, and her heart stops when Harry’s eyes flicker down to watch. He stares at her with a strange look in his eye… a glimmer in them that she’s only ever read about in books. His eyebrows furrow as though he’s deep in thought, eyes still glued to her lips. 
She wonders if she’s hallucinating when he leans in. 
She thought she was being silly for starting to feel things for him – that she was just being classic y/n, crushing on a guy even though she knows she’s too shy to ever make a move. Now, with how close he is, she can see every freckle on his tan skin, every lash that frames his bright green eyes. She breathes with a tight chest, swallowing thickly as her eyes flicker between his, wide and curious. His eyes still haven’t left her lips.
Her heart stutters as his large hand makes its way to her thigh, his palm warm and smooth, gently grazing her skin. He unconsciously inches closer and closer, incapable of pulling his eyes away from her mouth. 
He wets his bottom lip with his tongue, a force of habit, and finally looks her in the eye. His irises have turned a dark green, pupils dilated, and his breathing has deepened. She has no idea what’s going on in his head, but he looks serious. Deep in thought. His hand still rests on her thigh, the contact sending sparks of electricity all over her body, especially when his fingers gently start to trail upwards. 
Her eyes flutter shut as she tries to take deep, calm breaths, but he’s gotten so close that she can feel the puff of his breathing against her lips, inhaling his every exhale. It makes her lightheaded. He’s so close… so, so close…
A loud pounding on the door makes y/n jump away from him. 
Her eyes are blown out when she jerks them open, her heart pounding harshly with anticipation that’s been left unsatisfied. “Who is it?” she calls out with a shaky voice. 
Harry hasn’t moved an inch. He sits there and stares at her, hand still on her thigh. 
“Is Harry in there?” Maddie yells. “Blake is ready to go.”
He brings a hand up and tugs on her bottom lip with his thumb, then watches it bounce back into place, hypnotizing himself with the sight. Y/n, unable to get any words out, sits there and watches him as he stares at her lips.
“Hellooo?” Maddie obnoxiously yells again.
Harry’s nose flares and he shuts his eyes, frustratedly pulling himself away from y/n. She says nothing, still in a daze, watching as he leaves her bed. He stands and runs a hair through his messy curls, before heading towards the door and opening it. Maddie stands in front of the door with her fist raised, ready to knock on the door again. 
“Calm down,” he says, eyeing her coldly. Maddie rolls her eyes and walks away to tell Blake that she found Harry.
He turns around for a moment and glances at y/n. “See ya,” he says. 
She blinks, her hand coming up to touch her lips, searching for some confirmation that this was real and she hadn’t imagined it. “Bye,” she nearly whispers, breathless. 
The door shuts with a click and she finds herself alone with her thoughts. Her math homework sits abandoned on her bed, and will probably remain untouched for the rest of the night.
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Finally, y/n has Harry all to herself.
She’d been dancing around him all night, constantly catching his eye from across the room in a game of cat and mouse. He watched her from the corner of the room he was stationed in with his dark eyes, a teasing smirk on his face. He knew what she was doing – trying to distract him. It was working. 
He watched her as she mingled and talked, watched as she sipped on her drink, watched as she weaved her way through the passes of people in her apartment, pushing past the hot bodies and sweaty skin until she disappeared in her room. 
He followed her in, less than a minute later.
She hears him walk into the room, the sound of him turning the lock and his heavy footsteps approaching her. A shiver runs down her spine when his hands grab her shoulders from behind, goosebumps rising on her arms almost instantaneously. His firm front pushes against her back, toned stomach pressed against the curve of spine. 
His fingers are warm and gentle on her shoulders, comforting yet teasing at the same time. He doesn’t hold her firmly – his featherlight touch more tantalizing than any other form of contact. These light, delicate brushes of his skin keep her on her toes, never knowing what to expect next. She holds her breath as his fingers travel from her shoulders, down the length of her arms. 
Suddenly, she feels his lips against her ear. She can’t help the soft, aroused breath that leaves her as his lips skim the shell of her ear. He chuckles, low and taunting, and she can feel the deep reverberations of his chest against her back.
“I’ve been waiting f’this,” he murmurs softly. His warm breath tickles her ear, sending waves of pleasure straight down to her core, and his hands have migrated from her arms to her hips now. He grips them, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, and pulls her back, grinding her into his front. She swallows a whimper down, eyes fluttering shut. A hard bulge presses against her ass, and she can’t resist the urge to press back on it, wriggle her hips even though Harry’s holding her still. “You’ve been teasing me…” he presses a kiss right underneath her earlobe. “Playing all innocent when I know you’re actually filthy.” Another kiss, and another kiss, trailing his lips down the curve of her neck.
She lets out a pathetic, shaky whimper, and it makes him chuckle tauntingly. “Your head is just filled with dirty thoughts, isn’t it?” Her knees go weak as he wraps a hand around her throat, tilting her head to the side so that he can look at her. “Bet you’re just dying for me to fuck you.” 
Her eyes are wide and round, and her entire body turns into jelly. The only reason she’s standing right now is because Harry’s holding her up. She can’t get any words out, pathetically wrapped around his finger. She looks up at him with a pleading gaze, begging him to do something… anything…
The sound of her 8 AM alarm yanks her straight out of dreamland.
Her eyes are bleary as she frantically looks around her bed, gathering her bearings. She has to triple check that Harry isn’t anywhere in her room – looking at every corner and patting around her sheets as well – before she can confirm that it was all a dream. 
Oh gosh. This is like the third time this week! 
She doesn’t mean to be having these dreams. It's a rather embarrassing situation for her and she honest to god would much rather just read a couple of steamy romance books about fictional vampires to get the horniness out of her system, instead of having repeated wet dreams about a very real Harry. 
They make her feel icky because, like– isn’t it a bit disrespectful to be having such dirty thoughts about someone who’s just been helping her with her math homework and potentially also kissing her had they not been interrupted? Like what are the boundaries there? You can’t really ask someone for consent to having wet dreams about them… but it’s not like she was consenting to those dreams either! She can’t control what her subconscious mind decides to stir up for her nightly dream! 
She tries to logic it out – how would she feel if Harry was having wet dreams about her? Well… actually the thought of it makes her a little bit excited, cos that would mean he likes her, right? Ugh, no, she’s getting distracted!
It’s all very typical horny virgin behavior. Ever since her almost kiss with Harry, her mind has been in shambles. Her first issue is trying to wrap her head around the entire thing – had Harry actually wanted to kiss her? She hadn’t made that up, right? 
She’s replayed the night a hundred times in her head. Remembers exactly how his hand felt on her thigh, how he’d stared at her lips, how their eyes had fluttered shut, how their noses brushed… all the things she’s read about in her books! All the ingredients for a first kiss! 
How tragic that it’d been interrupted. She thinks that’s why her brain has been overly active this past week – her subconscious has been trying to fulfill the insatisfaction she felt when she jumped away from Harry, just seconds before their lips touched. It feels like she’s been edged over and over again and been denied an orgasm five times – but the orgasm is her first kiss and she’s being edged by Maddie, who stole that kiss away by knocking on her door! 
She flops around in her bed frustratedly, smushing her face into her pillow with a sad groan. What if Harry doesn’t wanna kiss her the next time he sees her? What if this was a one time opportunity? She doesn’t want to sound desperate… but she really wanted to kiss Harry! She’d be really sad if it was just a whim of the moment kinda thing. 
But also… if it wasn’t just a one time thing… if he did actually want to kiss her… well how was she gonna end up in the situation to be kissed by him again? 
She’s thinking about this way too hard, way too early in the morning. And she’s uncomfortably wet from her dream.
She needs to get herself sorted out. 
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The chair in front of y/n screeches loudly as it’s pulled from under the table she’s sitting at. She jumps at the sound of it, having been too engrossed in her book to be aware of what’s going on around her. When she looks up, she finds Harry standing at her tiny table in the campus coffee shop.
“Can I sit here?” he asks, his jaw tight. He’s wearing a gray Kendrick Lamar hoodie with the words DAMN. written in bold font across the front, his curly hair messily hidden underneath. All the other tables in the shop were taken (it tends to get pretty busy at noonish when everyone needs somewhere to sit and study), and Harry needs somewhere to sit before his next lecture.
She nods, eyes wide like a baby sheep. It’s quite jarring to just randomly see the guy you’ve been having sexy dreams about – especially for someone like y/n who apparently can’t be normal about having a crush or having an almost first kiss. She hopes she’s acting normal enough to not raise any suspicion. 
Trying to not get distracted by his green eyes and pretty pink lips, y/n looks down at the table, but finds herself instead staring at Harry’s hands. He has nice hands, she thinks to herself. The cross tattoo on his left hand compliments his tan skin nicely, and he has these thick knuckles that she just wants to run her fingers over. In one of his hands he holds a coffee cup, and even though she and him both got a medium sized coffee, his drink looks smaller, dwarfed in his massive hands. His thumb is fingering the lid of his drink mindlessly, and she remembers how that same thumb had touched her lips just over a week ago… how he’d tugged on her bottom lip and hypnotized himself with the sight of it bouncing back into place. And while she’s on that train of thought, she can’t help but remember how his hands portrayed such a significant role in her dream last night. Hadn’t she imagined them being wrapped around her throat–?
Harry clears his throat. Y/n glows with heat. She has absolutely no capability of being normal around him. “Sorry, what?” She hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the past minute, too caught up in her own thoughts. 
He smirks. Is she always this distracted? “Just asked how it’s going.”
“Oh! Oh, yeah– good, I’m good,” she closes the book, folding the corner of the page she’s on as a bookmark. “How about you?”
He shrugs. “Just got out of class. Needed a coffee.”
“What’d you get?”
“Just a black coffee.”
She can’t stop herself from wrinkling her nose, “Ew.” 
 He quirks a brow, “Well what’d you get?” “Vanilla latte with oat milk.” Yeah. She would be an oat milk girl.
Considering their recent frequency in seeing each other and his newfound… fondness towards her, he doesn’t find it difficult to start picking and prodding at her, getting to know her. He realizes Blake was right – she wasn’t a super duper shy girl, she probably had just been scared of him. Once he started talking to her and smiling every once in a while, it seems like she loosened up. What used to be painfully awkward conversations have now become free flowing and casual.
He picks up the book she was reading and reads the cover. “Book Lovers by Emily Henry. Awfully fitting for you.”
She furrows her brow, already offended. She hates it when people make fun of her books – especially boys who make fun of her for reading romance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a book lover, aren’t you? Can never find you without your nose in a book.” 
She relaxes. “Oh… yeah,” a soft chuckle escapes her. “Yeah, I guess I’m a book lover.”
“You think I’d like this one?” he asks, flipping through the first few pages. 
“Um… maybe.” She can’t imagine Harry being a huge fan of her soft romance books. “Are you a reader?”
“God, no,” he puts the book down. “Not smart enough for that.”
Her jaw drops. “You are totally smart, Harry! Way smarter than me!” she exclaims.
“M’just good at math,” he shrugs, “You’re little miss smartie, with your color coded notes. Reading your books for fun.” 
She grows shy. Part of her thought that Harry thought she was stupid – not the over-emotional-girl-who-cries-too-much kind of stupid, but rather the kind of stupid that makes you wonder how she even got into this school because she’s doing so bad in math. 
It was a massive hit to her girlboss mentality when she had to ask Harry for help, and even though Harry never actually made her feel dumb when answering her questions… she just had this mean voice in the back of her head that constantly nagged her, convincing her that Harry thought she was a stupid girl who should just give up and drop out. And ignoring that voice is really hard, so…  it was just nice to hear that he didn’t think she was a stupid little baby. It made that mean voice in her head shut up. 
“Um… by the way. My next calc midterm is next Friday. I was wondering if, um…” she tucks her hair behind her ear nervously. 
He fills in the rest for her. “Do you want to revise together this weekend?” 
“If it’s not too much trouble,” she says bashfully. “Your tutoring is super helpful.” 
“You can come over on Saturday,” he sips on his coffee. “No trouble.”
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“Is this right?” Y/n shows her work to Harry, and he nods. They’re both on his bed, except Harry’s lying down with his head on a pillow, scrolling through tiktok, while y/n’s hunched over her ipad. She’s been doing practice problems for the past three hours, asking Harry for help every once in a while. That's how it’s been most of the night – her study session is mostly just him checking her work to make sure she’s not doing anything funky and giving her hints if she’s stuck. 
She’s studied a lot in the past two weeks and luckily doesn’t need Harry to be guiding her through every problem, which makes her really happy. And she’s only gotten a couple of the practice problems wrong! Some of them were particularly tricky and had her stumped, but that’s why she has Harry. He helped her out of roadblocks and kept her motivated. Without him here, she probably would’ve given up after the first question that she didn’t know how to solve.
“You should take a break,” he says.
She’d refused to take any breaks since she got here – determined to finish the practice test that her professor had posted while she had Harry next to her to help. Now that she finished all the problems, she locks her ipad and puts it on Harry’s bedside table. She leans back on one of Harry’s pillows and copies Harry, holding her phone above her face. Except instead of scrolling through tiktok, she opens up her kindle app and starts reading.
He sees the tiny font on her screen from the corner of his eye. “Reading?” he asks.
“Mhm,” she shuffles around on his bed, getting comfortable. 
He thinks it’s kind of cute that she’s always reading. “Is it the same one as last time? Book Lovers?”
“No, I finished that one yesterday! This is by the same author though. S’called Beach Read.”
“What’s it about?” he turns off his own phone and sits up, turning to look down at y/n. Her hair is splayed across his pillows, and her eyes glimmer softly in his bedroom lighting.
She feels a little shy describing one of her favorite books to Harry – she’s often been ridiculed by her friends for being so lovey dovey and reading her silly romance books. But he seemed genuine when he asked. “Um– there are these two writers. The girl writes romance and the guy writes like these serious fiction books. And they’re kinda rivals.” 
He hums. “Let me read a little bit,” he looks down at the screen of her phone. “I tightened my thighs around the sides of his body–” he reads aloud, before she yanks her phone out of his sight.
“No!” she yelps, turning her phone off and practically throwing it across the room. “You are not allowed to read it!” 
He laughs, a fully amused belly laugh, and the sound is beautiful but she doesn’t allow herself to revel in it due to her embarrassment. “What are you reading?” he giggles.
“Oh my gosh,” she hides her face in her hands. 
“Didn’t expect you to be reading such dirty stories,” he teases, “I thought you were a good girl.”
“It’s not all dirty!” she defends herself. “It’s– it’s sweet! It’s a love story… it’s romantic.” Her voice gets quiet near the end. 
Harry’s laughter bubbles down and he’s left with a smirk on his face, while y/n lays in front of him, an embarrassed pout on her face. “M’only teasing,” he says as he reaches a hand out to rest on her thigh, not wanting her to look so sad. “Read whatever you want. Seems like a cute book, maybe I should pick it up, hm?” 
Her mind goes a little blank when his hand meets her thigh, his palm warming her skin once more – just like that night he’d almost kissed her. “Y-yeah, you might like it,” she clears her throat. “S’one of my favorites.”
That same look glazes over Harry’s eyes – that dark look, as if he’s deep in thought. 
She swallows thickly. Could this be it? Her second chance at a kiss with Harry?
She pushes herself up on her elbows, more alert. Her palms feel sweaty and she finds her fingers nervously toying with his comforter. A million thoughts are racing in her head as she searches Harry’s eyes, flickering back and forth, trying to see what he might be thinking of. He’s so hard to read. She feels like she’s drowning in his eyes. 
Almost as if he can read her thoughts, he leans forwards. She hopes she doesn’t look like an over-eager puppy, but her eyes light up and practically beg him to come closer, to just kiss her! He smiles to himself a bit, and obliges. 
With y/n laying on his bed, propped up by her elbows, and Harry already having been sat up on the bed, he doesn’t need to move that much closer for their faces to be aligned. He’s leaning over her, one hand holding him up, while the other hand comes up to her cheek.
She gasps when his large palm comes up to cup her face, his palm on her jaw and fingers sliding into her hair. He inches closer and closer, his eyes fluttering shut when his nose brushes against hers ever so lightly. She can feel the puff of his breathing against her lips, breathing in each of his exhales as she tries to stay calm. She forces her eyes shut, her entire body alive with butterflies.
He wets his bottom lip with his tongue, a force of habit, and nudges his nose against hers. She tilts her head to the side. He teases her for a second, gives her the chance to pull away by just grazing their lips together teasingly, and feels her sharp intake of breath at the contact. He can’t help but smirk against her lips.
With her eyes closed, she’s hyper aware of how it feels. The way his curls brush against her face… the warmth of his palm as he tilts her head upwards… the wetness of his lips as he finally… connects them… in a kiss. 
This was it. Her first kiss. 
There’s not one thought in her head, a stark contrast to how she’d spent countless sleepless nights overthinking the mechanics of kissing someone. She’d always worried that she’d mess it up, that she’d freeze and wouldn’t know what to do. 
But falling into the gentle caress of Harry’s lips is easy. Her nerves spill, her muscles relax, and she just lets herself melt against Harry’s lips. He suckles on her bottom lip gently, folds their lips together, pulls away with soft clicks just to reattach a second later. She sighs dreamily into his mouth and lets herself fall back into the bed, her head against his pillow. He doesn’t let their lips disconnect, following her down and climbing on top of her so that one of his legs is stationed between her thighs. 
She wonders if all kisses are this magnificent, or if it’s just Harry. Is it normal to feel your heart stuttering in your chest, or feel electricity flowing through your veins at just the touch of someone’s lips? Would she always lean her face into the palm of his hand, and let herself relax in the bliss of feeling his lips against hers?
It’s wonderful – a head-spinning, heart-fluttering, electrifying kiss. 
Harry’s hand that isn’t holding himself up comes down to rest on her thigh, goosebumps rising under his touch. His kisses start to grow more pressured, inhaling sharply and breathing heavily against her, tongue licking at the seam of her lips eagerly. His nose bends against her face as he tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tastes the sweet chapstick on her lips. Her skin is warm and soft and plushy underneath his touch, and her lips are addictive. 
He uses his grip on her thigh to hike her leg up, fitting his hips between hers and sliding his hand up and down her leg tantalizingly. He can feel her losing her breath, so he forces himself off of her lips and starts kissing down her neck. He skims his lips down, presses wet, hot kisses on her throat, his every breath making her core clench. 
She squeezes her eyes shut, eyes rolling into the back of her head, and takes heavy breaths, chest rising and falling shakily. Her hands come up to grab onto him – just hold onto him in any way – and the first thing her hands land on are his biceps. His firm, toned biceps, that are flexing as he hovers above her. In an effort to feel more grounded, she squeezes her fingers, but it just ends up making her even more lightheaded because god he’s so strong and muscular and he’s kissing her right now! 
She’s overwhelmed and her head is spinning and it feels like she’s in a dream, an amazing dream that feels so good and that she never wants to end – she can smell his aftershave and his shampoo and his overall yummy boy smell, and her lips are tingling with the aftermath of his kiss. She’d always imagined what it would be like to have her neck kissed and sucked on by a boy and now that it’s happening it’s better than she could’ve ever imagined, and she’s so sensitive, and it’s just different to have a real person touching you and kissing you all over, especially someone that she’s majorly attracted to and–
Harry presses his hips into her center and, wow, if it isn't the most arousing thing she’s ever experienced. Excitement and anticipation fill her veins… but then a trickle of doubt starts to filter in. She’d only just had her first kiss, was she ready to go any further than that? 
‘H-Harry,” she says, but it’s more of a moan because his fingers squeeze her hips and he’s kissing right underneath her earlobe right now and it’s sending shivers down all over her body. “M-maybe we should stop.”
“Hm?” He pulls away from where he was buried in her neck, his eyes blown out and lips slicked with a mix of their spit. 
“I-I’m not ready to have sex with you, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s okay,” he says, licking his lips. “I could just eat you out.”
And, god, if that doesn’t make her whimper. “I– no, I um…” she stammers over herself.
He smiles. “What is it?” he murmurs, an amused lilt to his voice.
“I… I haven’t done any of… that.” She swallows, looking at him nervously. Her heart, which had once been racing with excitement, now pounds with apprehension. This is the first time she’s been in this position and she’s feeling so vulnerable. 
It’s extremely scary and nerve-wracking and Harry’s silence is not doing anything to help her feel better.
“You’re a virgin?” he asks after a beat.
She nods. She feels insecure under his gaze, and even though she’s fully clothed, she feels totally exposed.
He laughs. “Are you really?” he asks again.
Her eyes flash with hurt. She just shared something extremely intimate with him, shared her very first kiss with him… and he was laughing at her?
She feels her heart drop, and her cheeks flame with insecurity. 
“Um–" she swallows around the lump developing in her throat. "I should go,” she says, barely over a whisper. She puts her hands on his chest and pushes him away, sliding out from underneath him and climbing out of his bed. Grabbing her ipad, she shoves it into her backpack, along with her notes that were scattered along his desk and her phone lying at the foot of his bed. Her cheeks burn hot and her heart is aching in her chest.
“What?” He doesn’t challenge her when she pushes him away, but he stares at her with his eyebrows furrowed, confused at the sudden mood shift. “What happened?”
She doesn’t answer. Her throat is hurting, the painful lump a tell-tale sign of the tears getting ready to fall.
“Y/n?” he asks again, getting off his bed and walking towards her. All amusement has left his face, brows furrowed in a concerned manner. She shrugs him off when he approaches her.
“Don’t.” She feels embarrassed, her mind only filled with insecurity. He was making fun of her for being a virgin, teasing her. As if she wasn’t already embarrassed enough about it herself.
She’d planned on calling Maddie to come pick her up when she was ready to go, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She leaves his room hastily, before any of the tears can fall, and nearly runs out of his apartment. 
She’ll walk home. 
˙· .° 。  ˚ 。  ° . · ˚ ˙ · . ° 。 ˚ 。  ° . · ˙ · .° 。 ˚ 。 °.  · ˙ ‧̍̊  
OMG!!! HOPE U GUYS LIKED ITTTTTT HEHEHEHE :-) part 3 is up on my patreon already and will come to tumblr next saturday (augsut 5) pleeeeaaaase lmk what u think and give her a rb and a comment i LOVE U GUYS SO SO MUCH!!!!
sunshine (part 3) - in which y/n just wants to get this whole virginity thing out of the way, and Harry needs to grovel a bit before she forgives him.
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souliebird · 9 months ago
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[[and then I met you || ch. 20]]
Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit
Summary:
A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.
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Pain radiates through your body as you begin to regain consciousness. There are two points that are throbbing and parts of you want to slip back down into the darkness until the aches are gone, but the rest of your body doesn’t like that plan. 
Slowly, the switches in your mind are flipped to ‘on’ and you become more aware of what is happening around you. There are two people talking near you - a man and a woman whose words you cannot yet process, but the deeper voice sounds so very familiar and comforting. It takes a few moments or hours - you cannot tell - for you to give a name to who is speaking, but when you finally figure it out, your mouth speaks his name.
“Matt…?”
Your name is said, then something is touching your face. Your instinct tells you to pull away, so you try to, but there is a gentle pressure keeping you in place.
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just me, sweetheart. It’s just me.”
Forcing your eyes open takes a few tries and you have to blink multiple times to get anything into focus. Slowly, Matt’s face forms in your vision, looking so, so haggard. His hair is fluffed up like he’s been messing with it and he’s got a frown that is so out of place on him. He should be smiling or laughing. That is how you always picture him in your mind - warm and happy. 
You realize it is his hand that is cupped along your jaw and press into it, letting your eyes close again. His thumb begins to rub along your cheek and you want to melt into it and allow yourself to drift back into the nothingness where there is no pain. Matt, however, has other ideas.
“I need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?”
You do not want to do that, but since he is asking, your eyes open again. Your brain feels like sludge, but it is your knees that are screaming at you to not move. 
You are startled into being more aware of your surroundings when a feminine voice speaks from above you.
“Matt, you need to move if you want me to do anything.” 
He seems to hesitate, his face screwing up into something clearly unhappy before he finally pulls away from you. He doesn’t go far, though, stepping only a foot away. Only once your vision isn’t filled with a handsome-exhausted lawyer do you process that you are laying on your couch.  You have no idea what is going on, why you are in pain, or how you got to this position, but part of you feels at ease because Matt is there with you. 
You trust he won't let things go badly for you.
A beautiful, but tired, woman steps into your view, a pen light ready in her hand. She has an air of authority about her that has you not questioning why she is in your living room. 
“My name is Claire, I’m a nurse,” she tells you and you introduce yourself. “You passed out. I'm going to check your eyes and ask you a few questions to make sure you don't have a concussion.”
“Okay.” You don't remember passing out, but it would explain a few things. Your anxiety-people-pleasing mind pushes your confusion down and wanting the examination to be easier for Claire, ask, “Do you want me to sit up?”
“Do you feel like you can?” She counters and you don’t really know the answer, so you try. Your head throbs as you do and your knees are not happy about bending, but you get yourself into sitting. More pieces are added to the puzzle of what is going on, but none of them make any sense. 
You couldn’t tell before, but Matt is wearing a dark red jumpsuit that reminds you of Captain America’s armor. There had been a news segment where they had brought out a replica to talk about the design and the function and all you can think is Matt somehow got his own copy and customized it. For whatever reason. You certainly don’t know all of his hobbies - it could be a cosplay thing for all you know - or some kink - or both. 
You are in no position to judge.
The other puzzle piece is Karen’s boyfriend, sitting at your kitchen table looking at his phone, with your daughter in his lap. She is splayed against him in her bright pink jammies and her sleep headband, and you can only guess how deep into dreamland she is. But why is she out here, being held by a near-stranger, and not in her bed? 
You don’t get to ask that question - Claire is back in front of you with her penlight, shining it directly into your eyes.  As she does, she fires questions at you.
What is your name? Birthday?
Where are you and who is the current president?
What is twenty divided by four?
You pass the concussion test and are rewarded with two of the biggest ibuprofens you have ever seen. You take them, chasing them down with water from your sticker-decorated water bottle, as Claire tells you what is what.
“You have a decent sized cut on your forehead. It needed three stitches - and those will dissolve on their own, so you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll give you some of these higher milligram pills for the headache you’ll have, but a good night’s rest will have you up on your feet again. Do you need instructions on how to clean the cut?”
You take in the information at face value, still unsure why you are being examined and cared for in your living room as opposed to a hospital. Everyone else seems so sure of what is happening and completely fine with it, so you simply shake your head.
“Um, no, I know how to take care of it.”
“Perfect,” she turns away and begins to pack up a backpack on the coffee table you did not even notice. “If you start getting nauseous, head to the ER. Now,” she turns to stare down Matt, “If my delicate hands are no longer needed, I’m going back to bed so I am well rested for the job I actually get paid for.”
“Thank you, Claire. I appreciate it,” he says in a soft voice, but there is a layer of gravel in it you aren’t used to. 
The nurse finishes her packing, then looks to you with a small smile, “it is nice to finally meet you, I’m sorry it was like this. Late night calls have gone down since he told me about you.”
“Nice to meet you?” You say to her as she leaves your apartment, completely unsure of who you just met and what her connection to Matt is.
As you continue you try to comprehend what is going on, Matt moves towards you. He cups your jaw with both hands, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks, “what were you thinking?”
You frown at not only the rougher tone he is using, but the question, “Matt, I don’t know what is going on. I don’t…” 
You trail off and finally mentally address what you have been ignoring.
Your hand creeps up to your face and you feel the edges of the band aid covering up the cut on your forehead. How did you even manage to do that? Claire said you passed out - but how? And why? And why are Matt and Frank here?
Did Minnie call them like she did with Foggy when you were sick?
You don’t know those answers, so you switch to things you can figure out. You search your mind, trying to recall what you were doing before you apparently passed out. You remember cleaning the bathroom, then Minnie coming in and throwing up. 
As those memories surface, the rest rush you - you took Mouse to the bodega and on the way home, some man attacked you. You remember struggling and fighting then…then there is nothing. 
The fear you felt then tickles back into your throat and you can feel tears starting to form. 
“We were attacked,” you breathe out and almost instantly, Matt is pulling you to him, wrapping his arms around you and cradling you as the reality of what happened hits you. You cling back, burying your face into the rough material covering his shoulder, and try to not break down. 
You’d been slapped a few times - but no one has ever tried to physically hurt you to that extent before. You had never felt so helpless - so useless - before. You hadn’t been able to protect your daughter. 
Hands had been around your throat and in your hair and you had flopped around like a fish. 
He could have killed you. 
He could have killed Minnie. 
Matt gently rocks you as you process what happened to you. You try to not cry, but you can’t stop it when some tears do start to fall.
“Why were you out so late?” he asks into your hair and the guilt pools in your belly. You were so stupid to go out.
“Minnie was sick,” you mumble against Matt’s shoulder. “Her stomach was upset, and we didn’t have Pedialyte. We had to go get some.” 
You can feel him frowning into your hair and it just makes you feel that much worse about everything.
“It couldn’t have waited until morning?”
“No.”
It’s not you that responds - it's the man across the room you completely forgot about. You lift up your head to look at Frank, confused why he is speaking up for you. Matt partially turns, pulling you along, and angles his head towards the other man.
“No?” He questions, not sounding pleased at all that someone else is chiming in.
“No,” Frank repeats firmly. “That’s bein’ a parent, Red. Your kid needs something in the middle of the night, you go out and get it. That’s how it is - there ain’t no waiting until morning when they are sick. That’s how they get dehydrated. She didn’t do anything different than any other mother in the city.”
Matt’s lip twitches and you have the feeling he is trying to not scowl or snap. You can tell he is just worried and upset over what happened, but you’d never seen him like this before.
But Frank is right - there was no scenario in which you did not go to get Minnie what she needed when she was sick. 
You look to your baby, and you need her in your arms. You pull away from Matt, wiping at your eyes as you do, and make your way to your small dining room. You feel more than see Matt follow you - practically becoming your shadow until you are in front of Frank. Once you stop walking, he is against you again, his chest to your back and his hand on your hip.
Your daughter is dead weight as she is passed to you and you cradle her to your chest, giving her hair a kiss before asking, “Is she okay?”
“She’s okay,” Frank assures, and you feel like he is speaking to both you and Matt. “Probably going to have some nightmares and be clingy, but you’ve got one brave and smart little girl.” You smile a bit at the praise, because you like to think the same thing about Mouse - brave and smart - your perfect little angel. 
“Gave her some of that Pedialyte,” he adds, “and she drank it all, so hoping whatever made her sick will be gone.”
“Thank you,” you mumble. You feel like he is a father and that is why Minnie seems comfortable with him, but he has an air about him that makes you not want to ask.
You rock your daughter in your arms, feeling so grateful that she doesn’t have a scratch on her. You have no idea what you would have done if she had been hurt in any way.
You can feel yourself starting to calm - your tears are slowing as you accept and process things and part of you just wants to curl up in bed with your family and sleep for twelve hours. 
Unfortunately, that is not in the cards for you. 
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Matt’s head jerk towards the main door, and you can’t help but tense up. His vibe since you have woken up has been on edge and you're surprised he hasn’t snapped or something, yet. He pulls away from you to stalk towards the hallway and you hold Minnie just a bit closer to you, unsure what he could have heard.
He swings the door open and there is a woman with thick jet black hair and bored looking expression. She pushes past Matt without care and enters into your apartment. 
“Don’t ever ask me to do that again.”
“What happened?” Matt asks.
“Well, he’s not dead, but he won’t be waking up anytime soon. I even got you a report number, so you can follow up,” the woman says, and you realize they are talking about the man who attacked you. That makes your heart start beating a little harder and your mouth feel dry.
“Did they say where they were taking him?” 
You tune out of the conversation and instead focus on holding Minnie. You press your lips to her hair and avert your eyes away from Matt and the woman. You look briefly to Frank, who is back on his phone, then let your eyes wander elsewhere. Minnie’s sippy cup is sitting on the dining table, so you decide you can at least clean that up. 
As you move around the table, something else catches your attention. 
There’s a large black bullet proof vest sitting on one of the dining chairs, with a distinctive looking skull spray painted on it. 
You’ve seen that skull before - it’s a common thing to see spray painted on a wall or post box around Manhattan. It’s a symbol everyone in the city knows just as well as Spider-man’s emblem or Captain America’s shield - it’s the Punisher’s logo. 
The Punisher - whose real name is Frank Castle, who, if you recall correctly, looks strikingly similar to the man sitting at your dining table. 
For some reason you do not understand, you do not panic. You simply stare at the vest, all the connections flying around in your brain, and mentally go ‘Well, that makes sense.’
The Punisher is here because he was with Matt.
Matt’s dark red jumpsuit isn’t a cosplay or a kink thing - it’s armor. 
It’s armor because he is Daredevil - the protector of Hell’s Kitchen. 
Matt is Daredevil.
Daredevil is Minnie’s Dad.
That’s why he sometimes has bruises and cuts you don’t ask about. That’s why his knuckles are scarred. 
That’s why he is in your apartment tonight - Daredevil stops people from being mugged. 
You were being mugged and he came and rescued you. He called his Superhero Doctor to come make sure you were okay so you wouldn’t have to go to the hospital and explain how a blind man stopped the attack. 
“You okay?”
You look to Frank, and you expect to see blood and guns and mayhem, but all you see is the man who brought you soup. You see Matt’s friend and Karen’s boyfriend - who are two of the kindest people you have ever met in your life. They have treated you better than anyone ever has in your life. They care about you. 
You flash back to your very first encounter with Frank and you recall how you were scared of him, but Minnie wasn’t. Minnie - who is unsure about everyone new. You trusted her instincts even before you knew about her gifts - you’d once heard you can tell a person’s intentions by how toddlers and dogs react to them, and you’ve always found it to be true. 
So, you decide to trust Minnie as well as your initial reaction - it may possibly be because of a concussion but you would actually like to sit and think about what you just learned rather than react blindly. 
“I’m okay,” you say slowly, sticking with how you feel in that exact moment, and not how your night is going. “I think I’m going to go lay her down.” You hesitate, then decide you still need to be a good host, since this is your apartment, ask, “Would you like anything to drink?”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he says, his lips turning up into a small smile. “Think it’s time for me to head out - leave you and Red to have a talk.”
Your cheeks heat up and you know he knows you have figured out who he is. You hold Minnie even tighter and look down to your feet, your anxiety over being perceived starting to spike.
But you know better than to be rude and Frank has always been kind to you and Mouse.
“Thank you, Frank. I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”
You do not flee, but you do walk a little faster than normal to carry Minnie to bed. You oh so carefully place her down and tuck her in, making sure Pig is right there with her. Scooby must be out in the living room, and you’ll need to grab him when you finally are able to lay down. 
You stare down at your daughter, who is sleeping so peacefully, and let everything wash over you again. You cover your mouth to try to repress a sob, but you know it doesn’t matter - Matt will still hear it. 
Everything is changing so much and so fast and you don’t know how to deal with it. 
First, you finally find Minnie’s father, then you find out he has super senses and your daughter inherited them, and now you learn he is a superhero.
You don’t know how to even begin to process this development. There is no guide for this and you aren’t even sure how you even feel. 
You can’t be angry at Matt - you don’t know how he got into crime fighting, but you know how passionate he is about being a lawyer and helping people. You know he loves Hell’s Kitchen deeply and you can’t imagine having to hear every little crime that goes on. 
You don’t know much about Daredevil. You know he sticks to Hell’s Kitchen and he’s made the area safer. He stops muggings and break-ins, and he’s cleared out various gangs. You know the community likes him for the most part - there is actually a mural of him in an alleyway near the diner. 
But what does it mean for you and Minnie? 
How does Matt being Daredevil work with him being a father? If you look back over the last few weeks, you haven’t really noticed anything off. 
But what if he gets into a fight he can’t handle? 
Or some bad guy learns who he is and comes after Minnie to get to him? You know that happens to politicians and cops and such, so it would be no different for a vigilante. 
What secrets will you need to keep?
Do you need to learn more than basic first aid - like how to stitch someone up?
How will you explain this to Minnie?
Does he know Spider-man? Captain America?
Does he kill?
There are so many questions ping-ponging around in your mind you don’t notice when Matt enters the bedroom. 
He comes up behind you and says your name in a soft voice before wrapping his arms around your waist. He holds you to his chest, chin dropping over your shoulder, and to your surprise, you find yourself leaning into his hold. 
“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he tells you and you close your eyes at his words, letting his voice wash over you and corral your thoughts into something quiet. “I had a plan to tell you - to explain everything. I swore to myself I wasn’t going to hide anything from you.”
You believe him. 
You wish you would have known sooner, but you also understand why he didn’t tell you. It’s not just something you tell someone, and Matt has proven that his intentions have always been good. 
“Am I going to get another binder?” you ask, sniffling a little as you do to stop more tears from coming.
“If you want one, I’ll make you one,” he instantly replies, “just please don’t take Minnie away. I beg of you.”
You can hear the fear and pain in his voice, and you know exactly how he feels. You remember how scared you were that he would take Minnie away. 
You turn in his arms - looping yours around his middle and resting your forehead on his shoulder. 
“I wouldn’t do that. Not unless she is put into danger.” 
“I would never.”
Again, you believe him. 
His arms tighten around you until you're snuggly pressed into him and you can feel armor and buckles pressing against you. You squeeze him back, needing the comfort and needing something to ground you. 
You need to feel safe. 
Matt makes you feel safe. He made you feel safe before you knew what he did in the night and now it’s just amplified.
“Did you stop him?” You ask in a whisper. “The man who attacked us?”
“I did,” he responds. “I’ll stop anyone who dares to try to hurt my family.”
You shakily nod against him, then ask the question you fear, “Did…did she see?”
He doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, the guilt is palpable, “No. Frank made sure she didn’t see anything.” 
That eases your anxiety a fraction. You will need to talk with Minnie about what happened, and you already fear that conversation. She has never seen anything so violent before and you are surprised she isn’t already having bad dreams. You have no idea how she’s going to react in the morning.
You have no idea how you will react in the morning. 
You press your face into the crook of Matt’s neck, where there’s some type of rough black fabric. He begins to rub his hand up and down your back - you don’t think it will be soothing, but you don’t want him to stop. 
You want him to stay and hold you.
You want him to keep you safe. 
So, you tell him. 
“Stay the night,” you mumble against him, and he nods into your hair. 
Neither of you move to pull away - you stay holding each other in front of your daughter and you wonder if he needs the comfort as much as you do. 
It feels like time crawls by and your knees, which you must have banged up in the attack, start to make it known that you need to stop standing. Matt must sense something, as he nuzzles into your hair and whispers, “We can talk more in the morning. Let's get you to bed.”
You hum in agreement, then slowly bring your arms around to Matt’s front so you can place your hands on his chest, “I need to change. I’ll grab you some sweatpants and a shirt.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” 
It still takes you a minute to finally step away and when you do, his hands drop from you. As you go to dig for clean sleep clothes, Matt begins to undress. You try to not turn to look - you are curious about how the suit is put together and how he gets in and out. You didn’t see any zippers or other clasps, but you suppose he wouldn’t want those out in the open if he’s fighting someone. 
You find two sets of sweats, one large enough for Matt. You hesitate to start changing, but then remind yourself that not only is he blind, but you’ve slept together, so you have no reason to be shy. So, you strip and pull on your new pajamas. 
Matt is still working on his boots when you turn back around, so you set his clothes on the bed. You remember then you are missing a member of the sleep squad.
“Do you know where Scooby is?” 
To his credit, Matt doesn’t look confused. You wait patiently as he uses his abilities, then smile when he tells you the toy is under the coffee table. You go to fetch him, and finally drop Minnie’s sippy cup in the sink, and when you return, Matt has finished changing. 
You hold out Scooby to him with a small smile, “Do you want to tuck him in?”
Matt’s solemn face lights up and he takes the dog. You watch, with a strange lightness coming over your heart, as he places Scooby beside Pig. He places the tenderest of kisses to your daughter’s temple, and you can see him move his lips, but are unsure what he actually says. 
You let him have his moment before taking his hand and tugging him towards your bed. He won’t be sleeping on the couch tonight and both of you know it. You lay down first, then he does, stretching out on his back.
“Come here,” he breathes, and you obey. You roll so you can curl into his side, resting your head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest. His arm wraps around you and you feel Safe.
Your body and mind feel so heavy as you close your eyes, and you hope you can sleep as peacefully as Minnie. 
The two of you lay in silence and when you finally succumb to your exhaustion, as the darkness takes you, you once again hear Matt’s soft voice.
“I love you.”
-
AN: Its not mentioned bc Reader missed it but it is very important to me that everyone know Jess brought Matt his gloves as well.
Also new header :3C
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@
two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04  @ astridstark13
 @lovingkryptonitehideout @moongirlgodness @soocore @bluestuesday
@starry-night-20 @rebeccapineapple @writtenbyred @cherrypie5 @capswife @silvercharacterchaos @resting-confused-face
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lovemomhatepolice · 9 months ago
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lando norris nswf alphabet (part 1) (minors DNI!)
navigation taglist requests
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A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) No matter how rough and long you have sex, Lando behaves like a typical Lando afterwards. Of course he giggles under his breath, as if it was his first time. And he freaking blushes!!! He then loves to cuddle up to you even more (as he stresses - you need to appreciate the contact of naked body to naked body) and you lie together for a long time before you go to prepare a bath together or a quick shower (depending on your mood) while you wash each other. Oh, how he loves to wash your hair….
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) Lando loves his abs in himself. Well, I beg to differ, superbly muscled, gym-trained…. Yes, Lando is definitely proud of it, and especially when he sees that you like it too. That works on him the most. He also likes her eyes, I think for many reasons, but I beg - who wouldn't love those bright beautiful eyes? Exactly!!!
What does Lando love about you? I think it will also be the eyes. The boy loves to look into them and could do it for hours. They are such a damn mystery to him, and yet he knows them so well. He loves to look into them when you are happy and they sparkle or when you squint them with laughter. But he definitely loves to look into them when you close them from the euphoria that grips your body during your sex. A better view Lando has never seen before, I promise.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Lando loves to see you in his cum. I know how it may sound, but there is no better sight for him than your lips around his cock or your shapely breasts that are all in his seed.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Without hiding it, Lando has fantasized more than once and more than twice about being completely dominated by you. The very fact that he adores you on top during sex says a lot. He loves it when you take control, and all he has to do is hold your hips to support you as you bounce. Even so, this doesn't happen too often and mostly Lando takes control, but in his head for a very long time exactly such thoughts have been forming….
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) I wouldn't say that Lando is some very experienced. He had a few sexual experiences with other women before you, but nothing binding (except his previous girlfriend), so I think he only started to discover the depths of sex with you. But you can't deny that he is vague or can't do something. God, I swear, Lando is the fulfillment of your every need.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) Nothing fancy, let's not kid ourselves - despite the fact that you are young, you do not overdo it. Lando's and your favorite positions? Oh, definitely cowgirl. Norris loves to see your breasts bouncing right in front of his face. When you let out a quiet moan as he fills you to the brim. When he can look at your face constantly and sneak kisses that aren't very precise. And his other beloved position is total wall sex. No matter where - whether in the shower or in the kitchen or even in the hallway. Lando loves to do this, especially since at this point you are completely dependent on him and he hugs you with his whole body.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Well, I beg you - you know Lando. The giggles in your bedroom (and not just your bedroom) are an integral part of sex. As I mentioned - the boy also blushes all the time. So no, serious sex with him is not an option. Even if you have a damn intense and romantic moment, Norris will always pull out some funny line and say it. Unless he is angry, oh, then his laughter you won't hear for a damn thing, but how long does it last? A maximum of two hours and it passes. Lando can't get mad.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) I don't think this is one of the thoughts that occupies his head in any particular way, but I think he has a neat. He shaves there out of habit, but it's not always a 100 percent shave, so I think you've seen a light stubble more than once. And as for you, I think he doesn't have too many requirements either. As long as it was neat and hygienic, yes it gives you free rein. After all, it's not his body (well, kinda like that…), the decision is yours.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Well, all right, but despite his giggles and funny tics, you will hear from his mouth lots and lots of comments about yourself. How good you are to him, how great he feels, how much he loves you…. Lando is a romantic - he may not show it too often in a serious way, but all of his still small youthful acts (even though he is already 25) are infused with love. If you tell him once that you want to make love by candlelight in a bathtub full of foam - voila! The next day, or maybe even the same day, your wish comes true.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Well, Lando does not shy away from masturbation. Rather, he doesn't practice it often because you are constantly next to each other and his level of sexual gratification is in the right place, but if you happen to be away, why not? But it should be acknowledged that he has never masturbated to any videos or photos or anything not related to you since your relationship began.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Dom/Sub sex - As I mentioned before, Lando often has thoughts in his head that you should totally dominate him. But I don't mean some kind of BDSM (although…) or degradation. Simple domination over him, though, here. Since you are 50/50 in life…. Well, and maybe a little voyeurism - he wouldn't mind if you entered the room, if he was just masturbating. Or the other way around. He himself also would not forgive such a view.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Couch or shower. I don't know why, Lando just has it that way. He loves sex on the couch probably because then you're mostly upstairs and he can spread out on your damn comfy couch. And the shower? That's the realm of greater intimacy for him. He really enjoys taking a bath with you, even when it's just a simple bath - without sexual overtones.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) You. Simply you. Lando still has a boner with you, which is of course damn funny for you, but well, don't kid yourself, we both know that you also get your panties wet at the sight of him. Whether morning or evening, whether in sweatpants or a elegant dress. It doesn't matter to him. You are so damn beautiful and exciting to him that such silly things as clothing go away. You could even be in a straitjacket and he would continue to appear extremely clingy next to you.
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A/N: part two is already here! english is my second language i will be very pleased if you leave something behind - orders are open, and I am very close to 200 followers! maybe I can get in by the end of the week?
please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)
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p0orbaby · 3 months ago
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Why Do I Give You the Worst of Me (1)
summary: love and bad decisions collide as you struggle to balance a tour and a relationship that’s spiraling out of control
warnings: 18+ adult themes throughout
a/n: another series i’m hoping i don’t regret committing myself to… not sure how many parts it’ll be, i don’t plan anything
word count: 3.1k
-
You wake up face-first on a sofa that smells like cigarettes, spilled beer, and faintly, vomit. Not yours, you think. The synthetic fabric is scratchy against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, it takes a moment to realise it’s morning—sunlight cutting through the cracked blinds, striping the floor with dusty light. The sofa is mustard yellow, ugly in a deliberate, trying-too-hard-to-be-retro way. It doesn’t belong to you. Nothing in this flat belongs to you.
There’s a girl in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she pours cereal into a bowl. You don’t know her name, but you know she wears Chanel No. 5 because it’s all you could smell last night when she leaned too close, whispering something you didn’t quite catch. Her hair’s a mess now—like spun gold caught in a tangle of barbed wire—but her makeup is still pristine. She’s the kind who sets her eyeliner with setting spray before going out, even if it’s just to the pub. You admire the commitment, if not the execution.
Your head throbs—a deep, insistent ache behind your eyes that reminds you of last night in bits and pieces: the gig (decent, though the sound guy fucked up your monitor levels), the afterparty (loud, sweaty, a haze of bodies and smoke), the lines of coke on a chipped coffee table, the bartender who kept giving you free shots because he recognised you from that NME interview last month. At some point, someone tried to fight you, though you’re not sure why. You vaguely remember smashing a bottle of tequila against a wall and laughing as glass shards rained down like confetti.
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, which is peeling in a way that suggests years of neglect, a building held together more by stubbornness than actual structural integrity. There’s a stain in the corner that looks suspiciously like mould, but you don’t care enough to investigate. The flat isn’t yours, after all. You were invited here by someone whose name escapes you now—a bassist from another band, or maybe it was their girlfriend? They’re gone this morning, anyway, leaving behind only the detritus of a night well-lived: empty bottles, crushed cigarette packets, a single black stiletto abandoned near the door like a fairy-tale gone wrong.
You light a cigarette, despite the pounding in your head and the fact that you’re pretty sure it’s technically illegal to smoke indoors here. The girl in the kitchen glances at you but doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if she’s annoyed or indifferent; you don’t care. The smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the quiet. Mornings like this are rare—where everything is still and soft, where the chaos of your life is temporarily held at bay by the thin walls of someone else’s flat.
Your bass is propped up against the armchair, scratched and battered in a way that tells a story if you care to look closely enough. It’s a Fender Precision, black with a white pickguard, the same model Sid Vicious used to play—not that you’d ever admit that’s why you bought it. The neck has a gouge near the third fret from when you threw it at a sound tech who deserved it (and missed). The strap is leather, worn smooth where it rests on your shoulder, and the bridge still has flecks of blood from the time you played so hard your fingers split open mid-song. You keep meaning to clean it, but you never do.
You check your phone, which is cracked and sticky with something you don’t want to identify. No new messages, except for a text from your drummer that reads: “u alive?” You don’t bother replying.
-
You’ve been in the band for five years now, though it feels longer. It started as a joke—a group of friends fucking around in someone’s garage, trying to see who could play the loudest, the fastest, the most obnoxious. Somewhere along the way, it became serious. There was a DIY EP, recorded in one manic weekend on borrowed gear, and a string of gigs in dingy pubs where the audiences were more interested in drinking than listening. Then came the break—a slot supporting a bigger band, one of those industry darlings who’d already started to hate themselves for selling out. The kind of band that wears matching outfits ironically, even though everyone knows it’s not ironic at all.
Now, you play sold-out shows to crowds who scream your lyrics back at you, though most of them probably couldn’t name your second album. Your face has been on the cover of Kerrang! twice, though you didn’t bother reading the articles. You hate interviews, but you do them anyway because your manager insists. You’re better at the photoshoots—smirking at the camera in a way that suggests you don’t care (you do).
The band is your life, though you wouldn’t call it that. Calling it your life makes it sound like you have some sort of plan, and you don’t. You’re just here, playing gigs and writing songs and doing whatever it takes to keep the wheels from falling off.
Your bandmates are a mixed bag of personalities, each one a walking caricature in their own way. There’s Matt, the drummer, who swears he’s been abducted by aliens and won’t shut up about it. Alex, the lead guitarist, is constantly high and insists on bringing his cat on tour, which you find deeply annoying. And then there’s Holly, the singer, who somehow manages to be both the most chaotic and the most responsible member of the group. She’s the one who organises rehearsals, books the studio time, and keeps you all from self-destructing entirely. You love her for it, even if you’d never say it out loud.
The girl in the kitchen finishes her cereal, rinses the bowl, and leaves without saying goodbye. You watch her go, not because you care but because there’s nothing else to do. When the door slams shut, the flat feels even smaller, like the walls are pressing in on you. You stub out your cigarette, grab your bass, and leave too.
-
Outside, London is already alive, though you wouldn’t call it awake. The streets are sticky from last night—spilled pints and kebab wrappers crushed into the pavement, cigarette butts floating in puddles of something that smells suspiciously like piss. The air has that distinct urban flavour: exhaust fumes mingling with fryer grease and the faint tang of wet concrete. You pull your leather jacket tighter around you, not because it’s cold (it is), but because it completes the look.
The jacket is vintage—or at least you tell people it is. In reality, you bought it at a high-street shop three years ago, and it’s held up surprisingly well, considering the abuse it’s endured. The lining is torn, the cuffs are frayed, and there’s a mysterious stain on the back you can’t quite place. But it’s yours, and it feels like armour. The boots, on the other hand, are real vintage: a pair of Dr Martens from the ‘90s you found in a thrift shop in Brighton. They’re scuffed to hell, and the left one squeaks when you walk, but you refuse to replace them because they’re authentic.
You head toward the Tube station, your bass slung over one shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle. People stare, but only briefly. In London, no one has the energy to care for long. The morning commuters are a mix of suits and students, their faces blank, their eyes glazed over as they clutch takeaway coffees in one hand and their phones in the other. You feel out of place but also weirdly superior, like you’ve cracked some code they haven’t even realised exists yet.
You hop on the Northern line, ignoring the signs that politely request passengers to “refrain from eating or drinking.” You’re not eating or drinking, but you do pull out a cigarette, which is arguably worse. It’s a roll-up, so you convince yourself it doesn’t count. An old woman glares at you, clutching her handbag like she thinks you’re about to mug her. You offer her a crooked smile, which she does not return, and you put the cigarette back in your pocket because she reminds you of your nan.
The train screeches into motion, and you pull out your phone. The lock screen is a photo of your bass, which says a lot about you. There are a few notifications—mostly spam emails and an unread message from Holly: Rehearsal at 2. Don’t be late, dickhead.
You glance at the time. 11:47 a.m. Plenty of time.
-
The rehearsal space is in Camden, a dingy basement that smells of mildew and unwashed socks. The walls are lined with egg cartons painted black in a half-hearted attempt at soundproofing, and the floor is sticky for reasons you’d rather not think about. The room has seen better days—probably in the ‘80s, when it was still a nightclub and not a haven for struggling musicians. There’s a single fluorescent bulb overhead that flickers ominously, and a space heater in the corner that’s never worked.
Holly is already there when you arrive, tuning her guitar with the precision of someone who takes this far more seriously than you do. She’s wearing a denim jacket covered in patches for bands you’ve never heard of, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looks up as you walk in, her expression equal parts exasperation and relief.
“Christ, you smell like an ashtray,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s called branding,” you reply, dropping your bass onto the floor with a thud.
Matt and Alex show up ten minutes later, looking even worse than you do. Matt has the kind of face that always looks slightly hungover, even when he’s not, and Alex is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, now with an impressive new stain across the front.
The rehearsal starts late, as it always does, and quickly descends into chaos. Matt insists on playing a drum solo during every song, despite the fact that no one asked for it. Alex keeps stopping mid-riff to check his phone, claiming he’s “waiting for an important call,” though everyone knows it’s just his dealer. Holly shouts at both of them until her voice cracks, then turns her frustration on you for being “completely fucking useless.” You take it in stride, plucking random notes on your bass and pretending to care.
-
At some point, Holly storms out, leaving the three of you to your own devices. Matt immediately pulls out a joint, which Alex lights with a lighter shaped like a naked woman. You lean back against the wall, your bass resting against your thigh, and watch as they argue over which fast-food place to hit up after rehearsal.
“McDonald’s is closer,” Alex says, taking a drag.
“But KFC’s got the gravy,” Matt counters, waving his arms for emphasis.
“It’s not even real gravy,” Alex snaps.
“None of it’s real,” you interject, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re all just cogs in the capitalist machine.”
They stare at you for a moment, then go back to arguing.
-
By the time rehearsal ends, it’s dark outside. You pack up your gear, ignoring Holly’s death glare as she reminds you for the millionth time that you need to take this more seriously. You nod, mumble something about “artistic integrity,” and leave before she can yell at you again.
Back on the street, the air is crisp, the kind of cold that bites at your skin and makes you wish you’d brought a scarf. You light another cigarette, even though you’ve already smoked half a pack today, and head toward the pub.
The pub is your sanctuary, a place where time slows down and the only thing that matters is the next round. It’s a dive, the kind of place where the carpet sticks to your shoes and the jukebox is permanently stuck on a rotation of The Clash and The Smiths. You know the bartender by name, though you’re not sure if he knows yours.
You order a pint and settle into a corner booth, your bass case propped up beside you. The first sip is like a warm hug, washing away the stress of the day. You’re halfway through your second pint when you see her.
-
You don’t notice her at first. Not properly. She’s part of the blur—the dim bar lights catching on glasses, the low hum of half-drunken conversation, the vague sense that you’ve been here before even if you haven’t. She’s leaning against the counter, waiting for her drink, and it’s not until the bartender—a man whose name might be Pete but who you’re pretty sure is just “Oi, mate” to everyone who comes in—hands her a gin and tonic that you actually see her.
And it’s a gin and tonic. Not a lager, not a rum and coke, not something ironic like a snakebite or one of those craft beers with names like Hops and Robbers. It’s a G&T, clean and crisp, with a slice of lime balanced on the rim like it’s posing for a stock photo. The glass is crystal clear, and so are her nails—short, practical, painted the sort of soft pink that suggests she doesn’t chew them during stressful moments (unlike you). She takes the drink with both hands, like she’s steadying herself, and there’s something about that—the deliberateness of it—that hooks you.
You tell yourself you’re just looking because she’s there. Because it’s either her or the guy at the next table who’s been droning on about Bitcoin for twenty minutes straight. But it’s more than that. There’s a stillness to her, an odd kind of clarity that doesn’t fit in a place like this, like she’s wandered in from a parallel universe.
She turns slightly, and you catch her profile: sharp nose, strong jawline, cheekbones that could cut glass but probably wouldn’t because she seems far too polite. Her hair is blonde—not platinum, not peroxide, but the kind of natural gold that makes you think of expensive shampoo and childhood summers. It’s tied back loosely, wisps framing her face in a way that seems accidental but probably isn’t.
She’s not wearing makeup. Or maybe she is, but it’s the invisible kind—the kind that takes forty-five minutes to apply but looks like you’ve just rolled out of bed looking flawless. Her jumper is navy, oversized enough to suggest she might have nicked it from someone else’s wardrobe, paired with jeans that sit perfectly at her hips without being skinny. On her feet are white trainers—clean, like freshly ironed bedsheets—Adidas, the classic three stripes in black, laces tied neatly, no fraying ends.
You’re staring. You know you are. But she hasn’t noticed, so it doesn’t count.
The bartender mutters something to her, and she laughs. Not the loud, performative laugh you hear from most people in bars, but something softer, like it’s meant for her and her alone. The sound is so out of place in this dingy pub that it feels almost sacrilegious, like someone’s brought a cathedral choir to sing in a nightclub.
You tell yourself to look away. You don’t.
Instead, you light a cigarette, even though the pub is strictly non-smoking. You do it for the aesthetic, the same way you do most things. There’s a half-empty pint in front of you—lager, flat and warm, probably with someone else’s fingerprints on the glass—but you take a sip anyway, because what else are you going to do?
She turns then, her gaze sweeping the room, and you’re caught like a deer in headlights. For a second, you think she’s looking at you, but she’s not. She’s looking past you, at the dartboard on the wall behind your head. Her expression is curious, like she’s trying to figure out why anyone would bother playing darts in a place like this.
Then her eyes meet yours, and the world tilts.
It’s not love at first sight, not really. Love at first sight is for Disney films and Hallmark cards and people who shop at Waitrose without looking at the prices. This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Like you’ve seen her before in a dream or a half-remembered story someone told you once. Like you’ve spent your whole life waiting for this moment without knowing it.
She holds your gaze for a second longer than is polite. Then she looks away, back at her gin and tonic, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath.
-
You don’t approach her right away. That would be too obvious, too predictable. Instead, you wait, watching her out of the corner of your eye while pretending to scroll through your phone. It’s a shitty phone, cracked and outdated, but you’ve never bothered upgrading because you secretly enjoy the low expectations it sets. No one looks at you and expects success when your phone screen is held together with Sellotape.
She moves to a table in the corner, near the radiator, and sits down alone. No book, no laptop, no visible excuse to be here other than the gin and tonic in her hand. She sips it slowly, methodically, like she’s savouring it. Like she’s savouring this.
You wonder what her story is.
Is she waiting for someone? A friend, a boyfriend, a clandestine meeting with a lover? Or is she just one of those people who can sit alone in public without feeling like a target? You’ve never understood that kind of confidence—the kind that lets you exist without an audience, without a role to play.
You take another sip of your pint, then decide, fuck it.
You stand, grab your bass (because leaving it behind would feel like abandoning a child), and make your way across the room. Your boots squeak against the sticky floor, and you curse them under your breath. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.
“Mind if I join you?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair across from her.
She hesitates, just for a moment, then nods.
“Sure.”
Her voice is soft, but not shy. Measured. Like she’s weighing every word before she says it.
You sit, placing your bass case carefully against the table leg. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re not sure what to say, and she seems content to let the silence stretch. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy, either.
Finally, she breaks it.
“You’re in a band,” she says, nodding toward the bass. It’s not a question.
You smile. “Yeah. What gave it away?”
She raises an eyebrow, and you realise it’s a stupid question.
“What’s the band called?”
You tell her, and she nods, like she’s vaguely heard of it but couldn’t name a single song.
“I’m Alessia,” she says, holding out her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin warm.
“Nice to meet you,” you reply, and for the first time in a long time, you actually mean it.
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thewulf · 9 months ago
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Breaking Point || Simon "Ghost" Riley
Summary: Request -I've got this itch for some hurt/comfort with Simon Ghost Riley and the reader from TF 141. Reader's this badass sniper, always on top of her game. But one day she wakes up feeling under the weather. She decides to push through training, but things take a turn when she starts feeling faint during drills after Price gives her shit for not training hard... Read Rest Here
A/N: Ahhh this was challenging but so much fun to right. Please let me know your thoughts below :) Got a little carried away with this one!
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader, TF 141 x Platonic Female Reader
Word Count: 7.7k +
TW: Heat Stroke, Flu, Illness, general COD warnings.
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Four years ago, you were a part of a special training assignment with the American Navy, deployed in a remote and sweltering military base off the coast of Africa. It was here in the middle of the grueling drills and relentless heat that you caught the eye of Captain John Price. Your prowess with a rifle was unmistakable. Every target set before you fell without fail. But what truly set you apart was your demeanor: you kept your head down, focused intensely on the task at hand, never boasting about your undeniable skills.
Captain Price who was always on the lookout for exceptional talent to add to Task Force 141, saw in you a rare combination of humility and sharpshooting expertise. Recognizing your potential he pulled some strings, navigated through the complexities of the American Military bureaucracy, and somehow successfully recruited you into the prestigious ranks of TF 141. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. One that would challenge your resilience and skill more than any previous assignment.
Joining TF 141 wasn't just a promotion. It was being welcomed into a family of elite soldiers. While Soap and Gaz took an immediate liking to you, appreciating your wit and marksmanship, Ghost was initially more reserved. His trust was not easily won. It had to be earned on the battlefield not just through training exercises back at base.
Your defining moment came during a perilous mission in the frozen expanses of Russia within your first year with the 141. The mission had quickly gone sideways. Ghost found himself in the deadly crosshairs of an enemy sniper. With the situation deteriorating rapidly and no clear shot available to him your actions in those critical seconds would forever change the dynamics of your relationship with Ghost. From a concealed position you took out the opposing sniper with a single, precise shot, saving Ghost’s life.
This act erased any last reservations Ghost might have held. From then on he saw you not just as another sharpshooter but as an indispensable member of the team, his team. Your ability to make life-saving decisions under intense pressure proved your strength. Not just in terms of physical prowess but in intellectual and tactical acumen as well.
Since then you have become an integral part of TF 141's operations. Your journey from a promising recruit noticed by Captain Price to a pivotal player in some of the team’s most critical missions has been defined by relentless dedication and the deep trust you've earned from some of the military's toughest warriors.
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The shrill beep of the alarm slices through the stillness of your room dragging you from the shallow waters of restless sleep into the harsh reality of dawn. For a moment as you blink against the dim light filtering through the barracks' curtains, the room spins slightly—a disorienting dance that forces you to close your eyes again.
You’ve always been the type who never gets sick. The one who breezes through the cold season unscathed while others succumb around you. Your robust health has been a point of pride, a badge of reliability in TF 141. But this morning something is different, and you know it immediately.
Your body aches profoundly, each muscle groaning with a weariness that feels bone-deep, and your head pounds with the relentless rhythm of a dull, throbbing drum. Swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down your throat. An unfortunate wave of nausea rolls through you as you sit up. It has to be the flu, you think grimly, recognizing the unmistakable and unforgiving symptoms.
Despite the clear signs of illness, the thought of calling in sick doesn’t even cross your mind. It’s not just about pride. There’s also a deep-seated belief that you can handle anything, a belief that has carried you through countless challenges.
With a heavy, determined sigh, you push yourself off the bed. Standing unsteadily for a moment, you use the wall to keep yourself upright. Today is not the day to show weakness, not the day to break your perfect record of health. You decide to power through. To dress and join your team for the morning drills under the rising sun. The thought of letting them down by your absence is more daunting than the physical discomfort threatening to overwhelm you.As you gear up, each movement measured and more deliberate than usual, you steel yourself for the day ahead. Today, you'll prove—not just to your team, but to yourself—that not even the flu can keep you from standing alongside your comrades.
Stepping out into the cool, pre-dawn air, you allow yourself a moment to feel the chill against your fevered skin. It’s oddly refreshing, a natural contrast to the unnatural heat of your illness. It’s bound to be short lived though as the sun’s rays already feel warm on your skin. The training field is a short walk away and with each step you rehearse the day’s routine in your mind. A mantra against the physical discomfort.
As the briefing wraps up and the team begins to disperse to their respective training stations you feel the weight of Ghost’s gaze right on you. Despite the heaviness of your limbs and the fog in your brain, this unspoken solidarity from your teammates, especially Ghost, gives you a sliver of strength.
With each step towards the day’s first drill your resolve hardens. You're not just fighting the flu; you're fighting to maintain the trust and respect you’ve earned. Today, the battlefield is here, within yourself, and you're determined to prove your mettle. You are keenly aware of being one of the few women in the unit and the additional scrutiny that comes with it. It's crucial that you show no weakness even as your body wages its quiet rebellion. Your head pounds with a relentless ache. Your limbs are heavy. And every breath feels like an effort. Despite these symptoms screaming flu, you've chosen silence—no complaints, no excuses.
When you arrive at the training field the usual bustle of activity sharply contrasts with your internal struggle. Everyone is focused on what needs to be done, their attention solely on performance. As Captain Price begins the morning briefing his voice sounds like a distant echo in your ears drowned out by the pounding in your head. The day's challenges loom large, testing your limits before you've even started.
As you make your way to the lineup, the crisp morning air begins to turn warm, almost uncomfortable warm already. Soap falls into step beside you, his familiar grin lighting up his face as he launches into the light-hearted banter that typically marks your mornings together.
“Morning! Ready to outshoot us all again today?” Soap teases before giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow, expecting your usual lively retort.
You manage only a weak smile, one that doesn't quite reach your eyes, and nod faintly. The flu has buried your usual quick wit under a heavy weight of fatigue and discomfort. It takes all your effort just to keep standing without revealing how much you're struggling.
Soap’s smile quickly falters at your lack of reply, his eyes narrowing in concern. “You okay, lass?” he asks. His tone shifting to something more serious.
You nod again, swallowing hard against the surge of nausea. “Yeah, just tired,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. You're careful not to reveal the full extent of your ailment, not here, not in front of your team.
From a short distance away Ghost's intense gaze follows the exchange. Though his presence is more subdued, and his demeanor reserved, his attention to detail remains sharp. You can feel his concern even without words. His posture is alert, his body tensed as if ready to act at a moment's notice.
Ghost offers no overt gestures of worry; he doesn't need to. The slight tightening of his stance is a silent signal of his readiness to intervene. His eyes, just visible through the slits of his mask, never wander, tracking your every move with a vigilance that speaks volumes. You know he's always watching out for his team, and today, his protective focus is unmistakably fixed on you.
"Alright, let's warm up! Start with sprints!" Captain Price commands. His voice cuts through the morning air, decisive and clear. You line up with your teammates, the grass cool and slightly damp under your boots. The whistle pierces the calm, and you propel yourself forward. Each step is a battle, your muscles protesting every movement. Yet you push through the fatigue and dizziness.
After sprints the drills shift to push-ups. Down on the warm, wet grass you feel the earth against your palms, stabilizing yet unforgiving. You count each repetition, your muscles burning and a thin layer of sweat forming, which only seems to heighten the chills that intermittently rack your body.
Sit-ups come next and with each crunch a wave of nausea threatens your composure. The world tilts slightly with each lift, blurring at the edges. Captain Price’s footsteps approach. His presence looming. "Let’s see that strength, Y/N! Don’t slack now!" he urges. The encouragement is meant to inspire but it feels like a heavy mantle on your already burdened shoulders.
“Yes sir.” You manage to get out between crunches.
As you struggle through each exercise you can't ignore the hot flashes followed by chills, the hallmark of flu symptoms. Each movement is more taxing than the last and the temptation to give in and rest grows stronger. However, your determination doesn't waver. You are here to prove yourself, to demonstrate that neither flu nor fatigue can break your resolve. You need to showcase the unwavering strength of not just a skilled sniper, but a resilient soldier.
As the whistle blows, Captain Price directs everyone to break into their respective teams for more specialized, team-based drills. You find yourself grouped with Ghost, Gaz, and Soap. Your usual teammates and three of the unit's most competent operatives. Your heart sinks a bit. Their proficiency and teamwork are unmatched and under normal circumstances you would feel invigorated by the challenge. Today, however, it feels like an uphill battle.
"Alright, team," Gaz announces with a nod, "we’re up for the relay sprints and tactical positioning exercises. We need to be sharp and synchronized. Let's show these assholes how it's done."
You nod silently, attempting to muster a semblance of enthusiasm. Soap claps you on the shoulder giving you a reassuring smile, likely mistaking your subdued quietness for focused determination rather than the fatigue that’s slowly overtaking you.
The drills begin with relay sprints. You watch as Soap takes off with his usual speed. His figure swiftly cutting through the warming afternoon air. Gaz follows, moving with practiced ease. Then it’s your turn. As you push off your legs feel as though they are wading through molasses, your usually sharp agility significantly dulled by the flu’s tenacious grip. Each step feels heavier than the last as your breathing becomes ragged and unsteady.
Compounding your discomfort, the gear you're clad in feels unbearably hot against your skin. The layers that are usually a second nature in your fieldwork now seem like a furnace, trapping in every ounce of body heat. Your temperature rises not just from the fever, but also from the exhaustive exertion and the insulated heat from your tactical vest. Sweat beads on your forehead, not entirely from the physical activity but also from the early signs of heat exhaustion—your body’s desperate attempt to cool down under the layers.
Despite feeling increasingly overheated and nearly overwhelmed, you hide your discomfort well. Your face remains stoic, betraying none of the battle raging within your body against the heat and illness. To an outsider you might just appear intensely focused. But beneath the surface you're fighting a much tougher battle, trying to keep pace while your body screams for relief.
Ghost, from his vantage point, watches closely. His sharp eyes catch the subtle signs that others might miss—the slight falter in your step, the way you're breathing a little too hard after your sprint. His gaze intensifies with concern etched across his face as he monitors your every move, aware that something isn’t right but waiting for you to signal if you need assistance.
When you pass the baton to Ghost your hand trembles slightly. He catches it and for a brief moment your eyes meet. There's a flash of concern across his usually impassive face, a subtle shift that speaks volumes. He nods at you before taking off, his movements fluid and precise, yet his mind clearly not fully on the drill. His glance back at you is quick, discreet, checking to ensure you’re still on your feet.
As the exercises continue with the tactical positioning drills, the demands increase. This part of the training requires quick movements and even quicker thinking as each team member needs to cover different angles and work together seamlessly. You position yourself to cover Ghost’s flank, aiming to maintain your usual high standards. However, the world begins to tilt alarmingly. Your vision swims and the ground beneath you feels as if it’s shifting forcing you to steady yourself against a nearby tree.
Ghost, now at a slight distance, turns sharply in response to your stagger. His eyes narrow, not with disapproval, but with intensified concern. He makes a subtle move to close the distance between you, his instincts as a protector kicking in. Yet, he stops himself, respecting your pride and your ability to signal if you need help. He positions himself strategically, so he’s close enough to intervene quickly if needed. His body tensed and ready to act.
“Y/N, you alright?” Gaz’s voice suddenly cuts through your fog of discomfort, and you realize you’ve attracted more attention than you intended.
You straighten up quickly, nodding more sharply than necessary. “Just lost my footing for a second,” you lie. Managing a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
Ghost, who has now subtly shifted his position to provide you with both physical and moral support, keeps his gaze fixed on you for a moment longer. He doesn’t call you out on your obvious discomfort. Instead, he gives you a nod, an unspoken communication between you two. It’s his way of saying he’s there, just in case, without putting you on the spot in front of the others.
His presence helps you gather your strength to continue. Despite the unease churning inside you knowing that Ghost is watching over you with such attentiveness gives you a small, but significant boost of confidence. You focus on the drills, pushing through the nausea and instability, bolstered by the knowledge that help is just a few steps away if you truly need it.
You begin to feel the oppressive heat bearing down on you more intensely than before. Each breath feels like you're inhaling fire. And the tactical gear, usually a familiar weight, now feels like an unbearable burden. Trapping too much heat against your body. More and more sweat beads on your forehead mixing with the slight dizziness that refuses to fade. The discomfort is escalating and despite your best efforts to mask it the heat is becoming unmanageable.
Ghost was still maintaining a discreet distance, watches you with sharp, observant eyes. He senses the subtle changes in your posture and the slight grimace that you can't quite hide each time you move. His concern deepens but he waits for a sign from you, respecting your pride and your position within the team.
As the drills continue you find it increasingly difficult to focus. The world seems to shimmer with heat around the edges and you feel a wave of nausea stronger than before. Recognizing that you might be in more trouble than you initially thought you catch Ghost's gaze across the field. It's a silent plea for understanding, a subtle acknowledgment that you do need his help after all.
Ghost responds immediately, his instincts as your LT kicking into high gear. He crosses the distance between you with a few quick strides. His approach discreet yet filled with purpose. “Everything okay?” he asks quietly. His voice low enough that only you can hear. It’s clear he’s prepared to step in, to offer whatever support you need without drawing unwanted attention to your struggle.
Your attempt to respond is less than reassuring. "Heat… too, it’s not the... can't—why can’t the air?" you mumble. Your words tangling into an unintelligible mess, a clear indicator that you are far from alright.
The expression behind Ghost's mask tightens, his protective instincts flaring as he assesses your condition with even greater alarm. Your face is flushed from more than just the heat. It's clear you're struggling significantly under the weight of your gear and the relentless sun.
At that moment Captain Price's voice cuts sharply through the air, his tone laced with the urgency of the drill. "Let's move it, Ghost, Y/N!" he commands from a distance, seemingly oblivious to the severity of your distress. His focus is on the continuity and discipline of the training. Unaware that one of his own is teetering on the edge of collapse.
Ghost’s response is swift and decisive. Without drawing attention to the situation, he steadies you with one arm, his other hand signaling subtly to Captain Price that something isn’t right. "Give us a moment, sir," he calls back firmly, his tone respectful yet insistent enough to convey the seriousness of the issue without alarming the entire unit.
He turns back to you, his gaze intense. "We need to get you out of the sun," he states quietly, directing you towards a shaded area nearby. His hand remains supportively on your back, guiding but not pushing. His presence a steady force as you stagger slightly under your own weight.
Once under the shade, Ghost helps you remove your tactical vest, easing the burden of the heat trapped against your body. The cooler air hits your skin, offering a momentary relief that you hadn't realized you needed so desperately. But as your body starts to cool an unexpected shiver runs through you, violent and uncontrollable. It feels as though the temperature has plummeted, though the day remains swelteringly hot.
"Ghost," you stutter out between shivers, "it's so cold." Your teeth chatter, a stark contrast to the sweat that still beads on your forehead. The sudden coldness is disorienting, confusing, and you clutch at your arms in an attempt to warm yourself.
"Simon," you manage to say between shivers. His actual name slipping out amidst the confusion—an unusual slip that does not escape his notice. Ghost, or Simon as you now call him, recognizes the gravity of the situation immediately. The usual protocols and formalities fade into the background as he prioritizes your wellbeing above all else.
You blink rapidly trying to focus as your surroundings become a blur. The ground seems to tilt beneath you for a second time and a wave of darkness edges your vision. Simon watches you closely with an arm around your waist in case. His trained eyes catching every sign of your deteriorating condition.
“Hang on,” he urges. His voice steady but the concern is palpable. Before he can offer more reassurance your knees buckle beneath you. Your body finally giving way to the overwhelming symptoms. And suddenly the world goes dark in your eyes.
Simon catches you before you hit the ground his arms securing you firmly yet gently. “Medic!” he shouts. The urgency in his voice cutting through the morning air without a hint of hesitation. Captain Price who had been overseeing the drills from a short distance, turns sharply at the sound. His quick assessment of the situation bringing him running.
Price approaches just as Simon adjusts his hold on you, bringing your body to the ground so you were laying.  “What happened?” Price asks. His voice a mix of command and concern.
“Heat stroke, I think—she’s out,” Simon responds curtly. His gaze fixed on you as he checks your pulse and looks for any sign of recovery. Your brief moments of unconsciousness are fleeting but each second is critical.
As you flutter your eyes open, confusion mingles with the need to communicate. “Simon... it’s all spinning,” you murmur with your voice overly weak. The use of his first name again in such a vulnerable state only cements his resolve to get you the help you need immediately.
As Simon kneels beside you he carefully supports your head, his eyes searching yours for any sign of recognition. “Can you tell me where you are?” he asks again. His voice a mix of firmness and concern trying to assess the level of your disorientation.
You blink slowly but the effort to focus feeling monumental. Your gaze drifts over the familiar yet strangely distant figures of Soap and Gaz before returning to Simon. “We're... in Bosnia?” you murmur hesitantly, the name of a recent mission location slipping out, completely unrelated to your current setting on the training field.
Simon’s expression tightens, a flicker of worry crossing his features as he realizes the depth of your confusion. He exchanges a quick, grave look with Captain Price who has been monitoring the situation closely. The incorrect answer confirms the seriousness of your condition, prompting Price to look around, expecting the medics to be approaching swiftly.
However, as Simon scans the area his frustration mounts. The medics, possibly delayed or misinformed about the severity of the situation, are nowhere in sight. Realizing that waiting even a moment longer could jeopardize your well-being he makes a decisive call.
"Not fast enough," Simon mutters under his breath. His protective instincts overriding protocol. Without waiting for the medics to arrive he gently but firmly scoops you up in his arms. His movements are swift and determined as he begins to rush you towards the infirmary. His concern for your immediate safety taking precedence over everything else.
Captain Price, upon seeing Simon’s sudden movement, understands the gravity of the decision and immediately acts. "Clear the way!” he shouts, commanding the attention of everyone on the field.
As Simon carries you, the world around you becomes a blur of motion and sound, but his steady grip provides a reassuring constant. "Hang on love, we're almost there. Just stay with me," he urges. His voice a soothing presence amid the confusion.
With each step Simon takes your sense of time and space dims, the urgency of his stride and the rhythm of his heartbeat blending into the background noise of the base. As you approach the infirmary you see figures moving quickly to prepare for your arrival.
Simon’s pace doesn’t falter until he reaches the medical staff waiting at the infirmary doors. As he gently hands you over to their care his gaze lingers on yours filled with concern and an unspoken promise of unwavering support, no matter the circumstances.
In the cool, sterile environment of the infirmary, Ghost stands a vigilant watch beside your bed. His gaze locked onto your face as the medical team works rapidly to stabilize your condition. The typical stoic mask he wears has fallen away, replaced by an expression etched with deep concern. Each furrow of his brow and tight set of his jaw reveals more than usual concern. It speaks of a profound fear that he rarely allows others to see.
As the medical staff step back momentarily to fetch additional supplies, Ghost's role shifts subtly but significantly. He transforms from a mere observer into an active caretaker, a role those in TF 141 rarely witness. He picks up a damp cloth and gently wipes your forehead. His touch delicate and caring, betraying the roughness expected from his formidable field presence.
"Hey, love, can you hear me?" he murmurs. His voice soft and laden with a tenderness that surprises even him. The word 'love' slips out naturally. A term of endearment that he hasn't used lightly before. This slip, this small but significant deviation from his usual manner, is a clear sign of his deepening feelings. Feelings he might not have fully acknowledged until this very moment.
You blink slowly, responding to the sound of his voice. Ghost watches for any sign of recognition, any indication that you understand his presence. As you meet his gaze, there's a moment of relief that passes over his features. But it's quickly replaced by renewed worry as he continues to monitor your responses.
He is utterly overwhelmed. A feeling that's foreign to him. He's faced countless dangers without flinching but the sight of you so vulnerable stirs a fear in him that battlefield threats never have. He realizes perhaps more clearly than ever how deeply his feelings for you run. It's not just friendship or brotherly protection. It's something much deeper, more personal.
He stays close, his hand finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The contact is meant to comfort you but it also grounds him, reminding him that you're still here, still fighting. "Stay with me, okay?" he adds quietly, almost pleadingly. This is not just a command from a superior officer; it's a personal plea from someone who cares deeply.
Ghost's presence in the infirmary becomes a constant, a guardian ensuring that no detail is overlooked, no necessary treatment delayed. His commitment to your recovery is unwavering, his actions driven by a mix of professional duty and personal concern that has become inseparable. The realization that his feelings for you have evolved adds a new weight to every decision, every action he takes on your behalf.
A few hours later, the haze of confusion and illness that enveloped your mind begins to clear slightly. As your eyes flutter open, the stark white lights of the infirmary momentarily blind you, and the unfamiliar sounds of medical equipment beep rhythmically in the background. Disoriented, you try to recall the sequence of events that led to this moment.
Sitting beside your bed, Ghost notices the subtle signs of consciousness returning. He leans forward, his presence reassuring amidst the clinical surroundings. "Hey, you're awake," he says gently. His voice a soothing contrast to the beeping machines. "Take it easy. You gave us quite a scare out there."
As fragments of memory return—the unbearable heat of the training field, your faltering steps, the feeling of collapse—your face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. The realization that you succumbed in front of your team, particularly because of a flu exacerbating the situation, is hard to accept.
Ghost reads the embarrassment in your expression and quickly addresses it. "Listen, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. You’re dealing with the flu on top of everything else. Heat stroke is serious and it’s a lot for anyone to handle. Especially when you’re already under the weather," he reassures you earnestly.
He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. His touch grounding. "Even the toughest soldiers need to take a step back sometimes. It’s okay to acknowledge that you’re human, that you have limits. It doesn't diminish your strength," he continues in your silence. His voice imbued with empathy and understanding.
Feeling the sincerity in his words helps ease some of your discomfort. "Thanks, Simon," you manage to whisper, your voice still weak but filled with gratitude. The informal use of his first name in such a vulnerable moment speaks volumes about the trust and comfort you’ve grown to have in him.
Simon offers a gentle smile. His eyes softening. "You’re always pushing yourself to be the best and that’s certainly admirable. But sometimes, taking care of yourself is part of being the best. Don’t blame yourself for this. I certainly don’t blame you for trying," he adds, affirming his support in you.
"Sleep now. Don’t worry about the rest for now. We’re all here for you," he suggests while still holding your hand, his steady presence a comforting constant as you drift back towards unconsciousness. His commitment to your well-being is clear not just as a teammate but as someone who cares deeply on a personal level.
As you close your eyes, comforted by his words and presence, you feel a profound sense of relief. Simon's quiet vigil lets you know that no matter what, you’re not alone. Periodically, he checks the IV line and adjusts the cold packs making sure to monitor your recovery closely.. Each time you stir or grimace in discomfort, he’s there, adjusting your position or simply offering a reassuring touch.
As the hours pass Ghost remains by your side, a silent sentinel. Even as you're asleep he doesn’t leave, instead pulling up a chair to sit beside your bed. Occasionally, other members of the team peek in offering quiet words of support. But it's clear Ghost has appointed himself your primary guardian during this vulnerable time.
This unexpected role of caretaker reveals a depth to Ghost that goes beyond his tactical prowess and battlefield grit. In the infirmary, with the soft hum of medical equipment in the background, his softer, caring nature comes to the forefront, showcasing a profound sense of loyalty and protectiveness towards his team. Especially towards you.
As the day's tension slowly ebbs away in the quiet of the infirmary, you sleep deeply, recovering from the ordeal. Ghost sits steadfast by your side. His focus is solely on you. His usually impassive gaze softened by concern. The door creaks open softly as Soap and Gaz walk in. Both their faces splitting into mischievous grins when they see Ghost in his uncharacteristic role as your caretaker.
“Never thought I’d see Ghost play the doting nurse,” Soap chuckles quietly. Trying to keep his voice low to avoid disturbing you. “What’s next? Will you be knitting her a sweater?”
Gaz joins in leaning against the door frame with a smirk playing on his lips, “Maybe a nice scarf to go with it, mate. Make sure it matches her eyes, yeah?” His comment draws a soft laugh from Soap. Their teasing lightening the atmosphere of the infirmary.
Their laughter, though subdued, is a needed release after the day’s stress. It’s filled with genuine affection and respect for both you and Ghost. They understand the stakes of such moments and the bonds they forge.
Ghost, not missing a beat, shoots them a pointed look. His response is tinged with his characteristic dry humor. "Keep it up, and you'll be on the next solo recon mission in the coldest part of Siberia," he replies. His tone firm but with a faint smirk betraying his amusement.
In the background Captain Price stands silently in the doorway. His observant eyes taking in the scene. He watches Ghost’s interactions with a discerning eye, noting the subtle softness in his usually stoic demeanor. Price is no stranger to the complexities of personal dynamics within his team. And he senses the potential implications of Ghost’s deepening concern for you. There’s a hint of understanding in his gaze, mixed with caution, as he ponders the path this could lead down.
As the laughter begins to die down Price steps forward, his presence commanding a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. He gives Soap and Gaz a brief nod, a clear signal that it’s time for them to leave. The moment for jokes has passed and it's time to restore some decorum. As they exit Soap can’t resist throwing one final teasing comment over his shoulder. “Take good care of her, Ghost!” he calls out as his tone is playful yet sincere.
Price remains a moment longer his gaze lingering on Ghost and then shifting to you, asleep and unaware of the exchange. There’s a quiet gravity to his demeanor, an unspoken reminder of his leadership role and his understanding of the deeper currents flowing beneath the surface of his team’s interactions.
Captain Price approaches Ghost, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. He pauses beside him, his voice low and measured to ensure privacy. "Simon," he begins. His tone serious but not without warmth, "you're handling this well and it's clear you care deeply. Just remember, maintaining balance is crucial." His eyes, steady and understanding, meet Ghost's, acknowledging the depth of his concern while gently reminding him of his broader responsibilities.
"Don't lose focus. We rely on you—not just for her, but for the whole team," Price continues, his voice softening slightly to underscore his supportive intent.
Ghost nods, the gravity of Price's words resonating with him. "Understood, sir," he responds, his tone reflecting both respect for Price's leadership and an acute awareness of the weight on his shoulders.
Price places a hand on Ghost's shoulder, a gesture that speaks of his care and mutual respect. "Keep me posted. If there's anything you need don't hesitate to ask," he adds. Emphasizing his role not just as a commander but as a supporter willing to provide resources rather than merely oversee.
"Will do, sir," Ghost says, his voice steady as he watches Price prepare to leave the infirmary. Price gives him one last affirming nod—an acknowledgment of Ghost's commitment and his understanding of the emotional complexities involved. As Price walks away his demeanor reflects as a leader who trusts his team to handle personal challenges with professionalism yet remains ready to step in if the balance shifts too far.
Once alone again Ghost turns back to you, his expression softening as he adjusts the blanket around you and checks the monitors to ensure everything is as it should be. In these quiet moments his demeanor reveals the profound loyalty and protectiveness he feels. Traits that define him just as much as his combat skills.
The room is quiet, the only sounds are the gentle beeping of the medical equipment and your steady breathing. In this sanctuary away from the battlefield's chaos, Ghost’s vigilance continues, a promise of unwavering support.
In the dimly lit infirmary, the soft beeps of the monitor blend with the quiet sounds of the night. Ghost sits closely by your side, his eyes tracing over your peaceful face, contrasting sharply with the day’s earlier tension. The room is calm now, the urgency has passed, but the weight of the day lingers in the air heavy with unspoken words.
Leaning closer Ghost watches you for a long moment. His expression a mix of concern and something softer, more vulnerable. He knows you can’t hear him, but the words slip out quietly anyway. A whisper meant only for you. "You’re killing me here, love," he murmurs. The hint of a smile touching his lips despite the worry in his eyes. It’s a rare admission. One that reveals just how deeply he’s been affected by your condition.
He sighs lightly, the sound almost lost in the quiet of the room. Adjusting the blanket around you one last time to ensure you’re as comfortable as possible, he finally leans back in his chair. His gaze remains fixed on you a moment longer as a guardian watching over you.
Realizing the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion settling into his bones Ghost decides he wasn’t willing to leave you yet. Not when you’d hardly regained consciousness and certainly not when you might need him upon waking. He shifts to make himself as comfortable as possible in the chair beside your bed, his body angled to keep you in sight.
As he settles in, his eyes slowly close but it’s clear he’s not completely given over to sleep. Even in rest, he’s alert, ready to wake at the slightest change in your condition. In this quiet vigil, his presence is both a promise and a protection. A steadfast commitment to be there for you when you finally do wake.
The night deepens around the two of you. The soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant in the otherwise still room. Ghost, in his chair, remains by your side. A figure in the dim light embodying both the warrior and the caretaker in this rare moment of peace.
As the first light of dawn begins to filter through the blinds of the infirmary your eyes flutter open greeting the new day with a mix of confusion and sluggish awareness. Initially, your vision is blurry, the shapes and colors of the room melding into indistinct forms. Gradually though your eyes adjust, and the figure slumped in the chair beside your bed comes into sharper focus. Ghost, asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the wall.
The sight of him so uncharacteristically vulnerable in sleep immediately warms your heart. Despite the residual fog clouding your mind a soft smile plays on your lips. "Ghost," you call out, your voice hoarse but audible enough to stir him from his light slumber.
At the sound of your voice Ghost snaps awake, instantly alert. He straightens up before rubbing the stiffness from his neck as he turns to face you. His eyes that displayed a flicker of reprieve meet yours. "Hey, you're awake," he says. His voice rough with sleep but tinged with unmistakable relief. "How are you feeling?"
"A lot better, thanks to you," you reply. Your voice was still weak but filled with gratitude. "You stayed all night?"
Ghost nods, a soft expression crossing his face as he hears your voice. This subtle return to normalcy reassures him. Warming his heart and letting him know you must be feeling a bit better to revert to familiar terms. "Yes, I stayed. Didn’t want you to wake up alone here," he replies. His tone gentle. Ghost’s eyes scan your face for signs of pain or lingering confusion, ever the vigilant guardian.
"Thanks, Ghost. Really," you manage to say feeling comforted not only by his presence but also by the return to a semblance of normalcy. His constant vigilance, even as you slept, speaks volumes of his dedication not just to his duty but to you personally.
Ghost offers a slight smile, one that reaches his eyes this time. "No need to thank me. Just glad to see you're doing better," he says. He pulls a chair closer to your bed, settling in. "Need anything? Water? More pain meds?" he asks. Ready to assist with whatever you might need.
The simple exchange is light yet filled with unspoken care helps to ease the remaining tension from the ordeal. As Ghost continues to make sure you’re comfortable, you feel a profound sense of safety and appreciation for the bond that has only deepened through this experience. The conversation drifts into a comfortable silence filled with unspoken understanding and mutual respect. In this quiet early morning hour, a new layer of your relationship has been gently unfolded. Revealing the depth of connection that hardship and vulnerability can foster.
As the morning sun continues to pour a warm glow into the infirmary the doctor finishes his examination and nods with satisfaction. "You’ve made a remarkable recovery. I think you're ready to be discharged today. Just remember to take it easy for the next few days," he advises as he begins to pack away his equipment.
Ghost's reaction is almost immediate, his brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure she’s ready?" he questions the doctor. His voice carrying a protective edge that makes you smile inwardly. His overt protectiveness is both touching and reassuring. A stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor.
The doctor, accustomed to dealing with the cautious nature of soldiers about their comrades, reassures him with a confident nod. "Yes, she's stable. Just ensure she rests and avoids any strenuous activity. She should be fine," he explains patiently.
Despite the reassurance Ghost still looks unconvinced. His gaze flicking back to you, searching for any sign of discomfort or lingering weakness. "Maybe another day for observation?" he suggests. His tone half-questioning, half-requesting. It's evident he'd prefer you stay under medical supervision a bit longer.
Your heart warms at his concern and though you find his overprotectiveness endearing, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Instead, offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand instead. "Ghost, I think I’ll be okay," you assure him gently trying to alleviate his worries.
Ghost manages a small smile. His usual impassive facade softening. "Just making sure," he mutters. Though his eyes remain tender with concern. He finally nods accepting the doctor's verdict, but his posture stays alert, protective.
"Alright, I’ll hold you to that. But we’re taking it slow for the next few days. I’ll let Price know." he declares. His tone firm, directed more at himself than anyone else.
As the doctor leaves Ghost assists you in gathering your belongings. His movements careful and considerate. He checks in frequently asking if you're feeling alright to continue, his cautiousness evident but heartening. It’s clear that although you’ve been given the all-clear Ghost will be keeping a close eye on you, ensuring your recovery proceeds without issue.
His unwavering attention not only makes you feel deeply cared for but also subtly deepens the bond between you, underscoring a shift in your relationship where his role as protector has become as instinctive as it is essential.
As you swing your legs off the bed and attempt to stand a momentary wave of dizziness makes your legs waver slightly. Instantly, Ghost is there, his hand firm on your waist, steadying you. His touch is gentle yet secure, grounding you in the moment.
You laugh it off with a light flush coloring your cheeks. "Just wobbly legs," you joke trying to ease the tension you feel from his close presence. Despite your attempt to downplay the situation your movements are still a bit too brisk. A clear sign you might be overestimating your current strength.
Ghost doesn't smile but there's a tenderness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. "Take it slow, love," he advises, his tone almost demanding. His hand remains on your back as a discreet but constant presence. He guides you slowly out of the infirmary. You feel the steadiness of his support with each step you take. His careful pace ensures you don't overexert yourself, allowing you time to adjust as you walk. The corridor seems longer than you remember but Ghost’s reassuring presence makes the journey feel safer, more manageable.
"You don’t have to rush this," he continues. Sensing your eagerness to prove your recovery. "We’ll get there when we get there." His words are simple but effective reminding you that your health is the priority not the speed of your recovery.
As you proceed you lean slightly into his support realizing how crucial his support has been, not just physically but also emotionally. Ghost’s unwavering steadiness helps bolster your confidence, making you feel that no matter how shaky your steps might be you won't fall as long as he’s by your side.
The walk back to your room is quiet but comfortable. It’s filled with an unspoken understanding that something significant has shifted between you. When you reach your door, Ghost finally pulls his hand away, but the warmth of his touch lingers.
"Thanks again, Ghost. For everything," you say while meeting his gaze. It's an open acknowledgment of all he's done and all he might continue to do.
"Anytime, love. Just... please take care of yourself," he responds. There’s a promise in his words, an implication that he'll always be nearby, watching over you.
As you reach the door to your quarters, Simon pauses, his hand resting lightly against the frame. "Can I help you get settled back in?" he asks. His tone as soft as it has been before, something new that has overcome him in your incident. His concern clearly evident.
You nod, touched by his attentiveness and as you enter your room he follows close behind. Simon watches carefully as you slowly make your way to your bed and sit down, still feeling a bit shaky. The room is familiar and comforting but his presence makes it feel even safer, more serene.
Once you're seated on the bed, he scans the room quickly, always alert for what you might need. "You sure you don't need anything else? Some more water? A snack?” Ghost asks, already moving towards your small kitchenette. He assumed a role that went beyond duty into something more personal.
You smile at his back, warmed by his concern. "I’m fine, Ghost. Really," you reassure him. But he shakes his head, not entirely convinced.
"It's no trouble at all. You should eat something," he insists gently while fetching a glass of water and a small snack from your stash. Simple things that you hadn't thought you’d needed until he presented them. As he hands you the glass his fingers brush yours lightly, sending a small, unexpected shiver up your arm. You thank him with a soft smile, touched by his thoughtfulness.
Noticing a few strands of hair falling over your face, Simon reaches out and gently brushes them back, his touch delicate and caring. His hand lingers for a moment, a silent expression of his deeper feelings.
You’re momentarily stunned but thrilled, nonetheless. You find it hard to find words as his hand lingers on your face. "I know I keep thanking you but thanks again Simon. For... well, for everything," you say after a moment. Your voice low and sincere. Using his first name feels natural, reflecting the shift in your relationship.
He pauses, looking into your eyes with an intensity that makes your heart flutter. "I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to be," he replies. His voice so soft it’s nearly a whisper, revealing the depth of his feelings.
"If you need anything else, just let me know. I'll be just a call away, love," He adds imbued with a warmth that reassures and comforts. His use of ‘love’ is tender, an endearment that resonates deeply, marking a significant moment in your ever evolving relationship.
He gives you a lingering look that was filled with care and a promise of protection before he reluctantly steps towards the door. There's a hint of hesitation in his movement, a subtle pause that conveys his desire to stay longer.
As he exits, gently closing the door behind him, you lie back against your pillows, the glass of water in your hand. His presence has left a comforting warmth in the room. A sense of safety that lulls you towards rest. The thought of Simon being just a call away brings a smile to your face. And as you close your eyes it’s not just the fatigue that makes you feel at ease. It’s knowing Simon is there, caring for you with a tenderness that goes beyond the call of duty.
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ckret2 · 4 months ago
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So last night, after reading the newest chapter and then writing my fanfic² until too late, I had a lot of dreams about Bill. Most of them were him being disturbingly tormented because my dreams are always on some joker shit at some point.
But I do remember a funny part with Goldie! Most of this part was basically the beach episode, but bill was more integrated into the teen friend group. All the teens were dressed up in Bill paraphernalia.
There were cops there, and it felt a little more 70s in vibe, where like, the Bill-Satanism thing was widespread around all the teens and there was a big satanic panic around it. Which was actually valid because it was more of a real cult.
Most of my dreams are a bunch of sort of separate dreams with a thread connecting them, and the thread in this one was that Bill was being hunted down by... authorities. And for some reason regular human cops were part of it.
So the cops come up to the group of teens, Bill among them, and they've been tipped off that the REAL Bill (currently goldie) is hiding among the bill-decorated teens.
So the cops go through all the teens, doing some (facist-y) body checks. Bill is very nervous by the time they get to him. It's this gruff lady officer, and she's checking him over, getting more and more suspicious.
Then someone makes some comment about "that's not Bill cipher, that's a woman".
And bill snags this chance for a distraction.
"And why shouldn't Bill Cipher be a woman?! I believe she is! Is it because Bill Cipher is powerful? A God? I believe God is a woman!"
He stands on a picnic table at some point. This is still on the beach. (He actually climbs a tree, dream logic whatever) He's raised his voice and he's speaking from the chest like this is gospel.
"Why shouldn't God be a woman?! Why shouldn't she be gay, or transexual? God is power! God is a woman!" People on the beach are clapping.
The female cop is in tears, a sad smile. She helps Bill down from the table and, with a teary but powerful voice, she comes out as a lesbian. She thanks Bill for his bravery. Everyone on the beach is clapping.
The and Bill share an embrace. Bill pets her hair "shh...I got you. You're so brave..."
They shake hands. "You're alright! We're gonna let you of the hook. Take care!"
Bill is the mouthpiece of feminism.
Yeah this is the exact kind of bullshit Bill would do and get away with.
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Also, here 🔴 your dodgeball for predicting in a dream that while hanging out with the teens Bill nearly gets found out by the cops and says something that sounds like he's about to stupidly blow his cover but he swings it around to getting out of trouble completely by exploiting the fact that Gravity Falls has the gayest police force in the nation
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derinthescarletpescatarian · 7 months ago
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hey! I'm pretty new to your stories: currently reading curse words and loving it! (I started the first book with the mindset that I wouldn't be caught enough to miss some real life stuff because of reading... guess what, I missed some real life stuff reading.)
but now I have a question: the books have a pretty intricate plot with a lot of good payoffs for small things. which is very cool from a reader's point of view, but from the writer's one— can you maybe share some stuff about your process? especially in the early stages, how do you go from the initial spark of an idea and what this is about to a fully formed plot? would be cool if you're willing to share
anyway have a great day I'm off to start the third book hehe!
One thing to know about me is that I have just the worst possible imagination. Absolute pisspoor garbage imagination, nothing going on up there. When I want to plot, my process is simple:
Find a problem, then solve it.
Curse Words was born of several disparate story ideas coming together, but mostly I wanted to play with the magic system -- I wanted to write a story where spells were metaphysical parasites that possessed mages, and each mage could only cast their unique spell. The whole thing came about when reading The Princess Bride, specifically the chapter where Buttercup dreams of being a perfect baby and the doctor looking her over and regretfully informing her parents that she was born with mo heart -- I was possessed with this powerful impression of a slightly wacky doctor peering over the top of his rose tinted glasses to inform a pair of parents that their baby had a curse trapped in her heart. From there, it's find the problem, solve the problem.
I wanted to separate Kayden from his family and put him in an unfamiliar environment for the story so that he and the audience would be on a pretty similar level re: world information; isolated magic and a magic school is the easy way to do that. Okay, so why is this school isolated? Why is the curse thing not common knowledge? Why do the public fear curses and have such limited access to magic that it's not a part of Kayden's day-to-day, if it's so useful? Solve the problem; look at the economy. The unique nature of spells makes them difficult to scale up, and the unpredictable nature makes them inferior to technological solutions to problems in most large-scale issues. What does this say about how the Industrial Revolution would've affected the usefulness, and therefore the public perception, of magic? The logical conclusion is the Purity Revolution.
This school is gathering and teaching all these students; why? I wanted a clear division between witches like Kayden and a privileged elite that formed most of the school body; why are they different, how are the elite kids here, why are witches accepted and integrated into the student body? Solve the problem; look at the economy, the politics. Where are these rich kids getting their magic? Why pull in witches? One question answers the other. Why didn't Kayden and Kylie know that curses were spells in advance? Seems something that should be common knowledge. Look at the politics; tie that in. Logical conclusion: magic trap. We have this magic lake with a monster in it that we introduced super early for dramatic purposes and haven't explained yet. What can we do with that? Let's invent empowered water. Let's look at what that means for the creation of potions worldwide. Let's tie in the management of unmanageable spells. Let's elaborate on the structure our magic trap.
Now we have a channel of power. Curses parasitise witches; some are blessings, some are more trouble than they're worth. The school collects curses, domesticates them, makes them more useful, locks away or renders harmless that which it cannot make use of. More curses are collected over time, the school grows and grows and Refujeyo becomes stronger and stronger as they control more of the world's magic supply, but every system has a capacity. What's the effect of this infinite growth? Here we have a clear and unavoidable economic metaphor, so obvious that not centreing the story on this concept would basically be dishonest. Who's managing this collection, what does it say about the power of the school within mage society? How would such a school relate to the rest of Refujeyo; how would Refujeyo, collecting power like this, relate to and be viewed by other magical traditions, and by nonmagical society? Run through the reasoning, solve the problem.
Why would the school only approach Kayden as a teenager, after his curse caused problems? Surely the school would want to collect as many curses as if could as early as possible. There has to be a reason why they waited. This is a good one because it flows directly from the complex political relationships between Refujeyo and commonfolk politics that have to exist, AND ties neatly into critical character motivations that have to exist for book 1's main twist to function (notably, Malas Aksoy's actions). Sort this out for book 1 and accidentally create a critical political point for the rest of the entire series.
I started writing book 1 with the idea of the court case and subsequent twist about Kayden's curse being the big mystery, but Kayden still needs something to actually do at school. We have this mage who we threw in to rescue Kayden and Kylie from the lake, and had Max hero worship her for flavour; she seems to be becoming central to a lot of interactions for some reason. A lot of dramatic stuff is therefore automatically happening in her presence, but why is this incredibly accomplished and intelligent mage fucking up so much? We've established her as careful and thorough. We need a reason for all these accidents beyond random chance. Someone's sabotaging her -- why? Let's look at our established characters and figure out who has means and motive, and who the most fun red herrings would be.
How could a place like Refujeyo, such a complex and time-consuming project that would have to involve the cooperation of so very many mages, even get built? How would it survive long enough to be powerful? When and where did this happen? We've already established the Purity Revolution; maybe there was something more coordinated than just random undirected economic forces. We've established some incredibly powerful mage families and the old system of apprenticeship and inheritance; we know that the most powerful family in Refujeyo used to have a prophecy and owned a very powerful place that helps prophecies specifically. They could coordinate something, given enough motivation and the help of enough other powerful mages. What kind of motivation? Let's go back to the Purity Revolution. If tech develops alongside magic without central oversight of some kind, what could magic enhance? What problems could be foreseen that would make this kind of investment worth it? How does Refujeyo save the world?
Tie this into our power channel. Refujeyo's attempt to save the world endangers the world due to infinite growth and power being passively collected by those who benefit from the dangerous status quo. It fits our economy metaphor, because they're essentially the same thing, just putting in magic instead of money as a means of power.
Find a problem, then solve it.
The important thing with this method is to keep your solutions cohesive. If you come up with a new different reason for every thing, your plot will look scattered and disorganised. We don't want to look like we're just pulling the story out of our arse. I mean, we are pulling the story out of our arse, that's what writing fiction is, but it's a big part of our job to help our audience suspend their disbelief on that. Whenever possible, you should look for answers that solve multiple things and weave disparate parts of the story together; this is especially true when they relate to the core plot or central theme of your story.
Also, leave gaps for reader inference. You don't have to answer every single question, you just need to make sure that some plausible answer exists for every single question. Sometimes this involves saying less, not more, and letting the audience figure it out.
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nebbyy · 10 months ago
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Hi! Could you please do a part two to the lester/apollo x reader fic you posted?
Apollo x reader - Eternal Bonds
A/N: thank you so much for your request, anon! Sorry if this took a bit more than the time I usually take to write my fics, but as I said the past weeks have been really tiring for me🥹 
Anyway, I hope you like this fic, I personally like it better than the first part, but as always let me know your thoughts on it<3
Aaaand as always, painting is "Springtime" by Pierre Auguste Cot for anyone interested!
Summary: Having regained his immortality and prestige, all that remained for Apollo was to stabilise something in his life was one thing: you. It might sound easy, but he honestly would disagree.
Warning: it is implied that Athena has a great admiration for reader, but they’re not their child. This reconnects with my own personal thoughts on how Athena’s cabin should work, so the goddess’ relationship with reader in this fic should be seen as the same as hers and Odysseus’ (if you want further explanations on what their dynamic was let me know:))) Also I must say, I haven’t read any of the trials of Apollo books in ages so I took it as an occasion to interpret Apollo’s return to Olympus how I see it more fit to this little scenario of mine.
And lastly, not a warning but this fic starts just a bit before the end of the first part, if anyone was wondering:)
Word count: 3813 (longest fic yet omgg)
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Apollo stood there, standing on the elevator that would take him home. How strange, he had dreamed of this moment for months, eager to return to his home and be welcomed as a glorious hero, with restored dignity, free of the mortal shell in which he had been confined all this time. He had imagined himself proud, tall and triumphant as he entered the gates of Olympus.
Yet as he stood on his way home, he could not prevent the continuous movement of his foot against the elevator floor. There was no trace in him of the security typical of a hero, in him at that time reigned only the same anxiety and nervousness that had characterized his mortal form. First it was Apollo inside Lester’s body, now Apollo had his body back, but Lester was inside of him. That Lester had become an integral part of him? Or maybe it didn’t add up, maybe it was always there, unable to make its voice heard under the omnipresent spirit of Apollo.
Okay, maybe he was rambling, but he couldn’t help it when he felt like his nerves were about to make him explode!
The point was, he wasn’t just going home, he was going to convince his father, the king of the gods, the exact same person who kicked him out of Olympus, to make the love of his life immortal so that he could stay by his side for eternity. It was not a situation in which one could easily remain connected to reality.
Finally, the elevator slowed down its run, until it stopped completely and opened its doors with a characteristic "ding".
Slowly, one step at a time, Apollo stepped out of the elevator and advanced to the throne room, walking up the path that would take him directly there. His performance had an air of regal composure, but it was nothing more than a method of masking his tense nerves. He walked until he reached the first areas inhabited by the Olympians and some other immortal creature.
"Apollo? I didn’t know you were already back. We thought it would take you millennia to make it up to Zeus!!" He hadn’t heard it in a while, but there was no way he could ever forget the sound of Nike’s voice. The winged goddess came to meet him flying curiously, also attracting the attention of the entities that had not paid attention to the scene so far.
Some approached, recognizing the face of the beloved god, while others ran to announce his return to the major gods. First came Hestia, who with that loving family attitude, embraced him gently. "Oh Apollo, you were so good! I never doubted you could do it." 
"I can’t say that with as much confidence, but I must congratulate you, Apollo, you have exceeded all my expectations." It was the authoritarian voice of Athena who spoke, who wore a smile on her face, a more unique than rare event. Apollo was so surprised by this unusual compliment from her that he hardly paid any attention to her questioning his chances of success.
For a moment he felt his eyes almost come out of his skull when a large hand was planted on his shoulder to pat him. " Well done, little brother, aren’t you as soft as you look, eh?" Massaging his shoulder, Apollo smiled faintly at the mountain that was his half-brother. "Thanks, Ares, it means a lot I guess..."
He was about to receive the coup de grâce, if it were not for Aphrodite, unconscious of her intervention, she had put herself right in the middle, affectionately placing one hand on Apollo’s shoulder while the other not very secretly found place in that of Ares, to the delight of Hephaestus who observed snorting away from the scene, but thumbs up at the sun god to express his joy.
He didn’t know how long this lasted, or exactly how many gods surrounded him at that point, but when Nike was about to hold a banquet in his honor he couldn’t control his reaction: "No wait!" His tone sounded so panicked that he caught everyone unawares. For a moment the gods almost had the sensation of speaking a mortal, so much his voice had squeaked in the air. Realizing that he had drawn even more attention to you, as if it were even possible in that situation, he gently shrugged his shoulders, to mitigate the gaze of the Olympians his nerves more tense than ever.
"Um I-" he made a false cough to try to regain his posture before starting to speak again, illuminating his companions with a dazzling smile, "sorry, mortal’s pollen, am I right? Anyway, much as I would be... ecstatic to attend a banquet, I’m afraid I must first have a discussion with Zeus about some... matters of utmost urgency! If you’ll excuse me, now.”
With little pomp, he made his way through the crowd stunned at his unusual behavior. "Poor thing, the Earth has changed him." Someone shook their head resigned, someone else did not even notice his abrupt exit, simply saying goodbye and congratulating him as he got smaller and smaller in the distance. The attention to him lasted just before each god went for their merry way. After all, when you have a whole eternity to live, there are few things left for you for a long time.
Everyone resumed doing what they were doing before Apollo’s return, all except Athena. It was in her nature to predict the rival’s moves- or rather, the moves of anyone around her. She may not have been born with the ability to see the future, but her intellect allowed her to come to conclusions almost as apt as an oracle. Silent as night, he followed the solar god, whose aura seemed to be clouded by some heavy burden.
The closer he got to the heavy bronze doors of the throne room, the lighter his head felt, as if his brain had gone numb. He was mathematically certain that he had NEVER felt so nervous in his entire existence. Not even his many figures in human form could compare to how he was feeling at the time. But it’s not like he could back out now, not after all the way he’s come, not after promising you not to leave your side. Not now, that had arrived in front of the doors.
He didn’t even have to knock, or announce his own name. No use, Zeus was waiting for him. Apollo took a breath, pumping his chest to emulate some sense of confidence before making his way into the vast hall. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked around and looked at the empty thrones, each with small inlays reminiscent of its owner. He passed by his own throne, and a sense of longing pervaded him to the thought that in no time he would have sat there again. Maybe you could convince Zeus to put a similar throne for you next to his own..
No, stay focused, Apollo, first of all he had to convince Zeus to make them immortal in the first place.
Without even realizing it, he was so taken by his own thoughts, he had reached the end of the room, finding himself a few feet from the king of Olympus. Now he could not afford to show himself weak, fearful. Come on, it had to come easy for him, he was also the god of the theater after all! As if a thread pulled him from above, he felt himself erect tall and proud, his chest out, his muscular back straight; a slight halo of light surrounded him, reconferendogli a little of that shine that has always distinguished him from the rest of the gods. He smiled at his father before bowing down gracefully. "It’s good to see you again, Father."
“Apollo, I see it took you no time to get used to your old life once more. I trust you have learned your lesson.”
“Indeed, father. And I came here to thank you for it all. It was… better than I expected.” Zeus lifted a brow suspiciously, eyeing his son as if trying to make out what’s in his mind just by his appearance. “Mmh I hardly believe that you only came here to thank me for your punishment.” Okay, even if he had second thoughts, it was DEFINITELY too late to back out. Yet despite the seriousness of the situation, Apollo no longer felt the same anxiety that had accompanied him throughout the climb to Olympus. He felt powerful, confident in his words, in his actions, but above all confident in you. He knew that if ever there was a mortal worthy of immortality, it was most certainly you. He looked up at his father, this time his smile had become less dazzling, almost a little nervous.
“Heh, you’re not wrong, father. I came here to make a request.”
“Depends. What is it that you desire?”
“How do you make a demigod immortal?”
Total silence fell in the room. The expression of Zeus was intelligible, and not being able to read the true emotions of Apollo, moreover in such a silent environment did not help to calm his nervousness. Zeus slowly blinked, covering his icy eyes for a moment before opening them again as he breathed in just as slowly. " Few mortals have earned the gift of immortality throughout history. He must deserve that honor with out-of-the-ordinary feats," he paused, as if to reflect, then resumed speaking, in a neutral but glacial and authoritative tone, "this is not impossible, but I count on one bare hand how many times a mortal has been added to the abode of the immortals over the millennia."
"I am aware of this, Father, and that is precisely why I believe that the person I speak of is the most deserving of this honor." Zeus did not answer. Not immediately, at least. He seemed confused and intrigued at the same time, as if he had not expected such a response. " My son, what do you mean by that?" Apollo could not avoid the smile that spread on his face having an opportunity to talk about your countless qualities, which in his eyes were endless. It was one of his favorite activities even when he was mortal, actually.
"You see father, they are a demigod of qualities worthy only of an immortal god. They are strong and wise, although they are still at a young age. They fear nothing but the limits imposed by Olympus, which they have served since the day they set foot inside Camp Half-Blood."He took a little dramatic pause, perhaps expecting to be interrupted by the divine father, but he gave no sign of wanting to intervene in words; he preferred to remain silent, peering at his son while he justified his reasons for satisfying his will.
"And they are beautiful, Father. They shine with a beauty far beyond that of an ordinary mortal. Even on the battlefield, soiled with blood and filth of all kinds, their beauty always resembled that of Aphrodite and Eros and all the gods of all the Pantheons of this world who possess the gift of supreme beauty." To this the father could not suppress a snort of derision, not trusting the words of the son in fact of beauty, "If I remember well such words were spoken by you also for Hyacinth, and before him Daphne, and before her still such a long series of river nymphs and mortal beings that I lost count."
Apollo lowered his head in resignation, sighing gently before looking up to speak again, "I realize this, Father, but I mention their beauty only because it would be a crime against all that is right to omit. However, it remains only one of the many qualities that characterize them, which none of my past lovers can say. But that is not the greatest reason why I consider them worthy of immortality."
"Speak openly then, you know I don’t like to wait." The blond-haired god nodded and took another step towards the king of the gods, his eyes even brighter than before, inflamed by his longing desire to obtain what he most desired in his entire existence. You, at his side. Forever.
"You see, they have done a great service to the goddess of wisdom and the manual arts. They have done the will of Athena and have done such glorious deeds that they have increased her honor. I myself was able to attend only some of their quests, but I assure you that they were so great as to justify the support and blessing of a goddess so hardly affable." To these words, Zeus seemed completely incredulous. In Olympus it was well known that Athena was the beloved daughter of the king of the gods, who always kept her close to him and always made all her will an uncompromising law. It seemed impossible to him that any mortal had been able to win the favor of the goddess, and he strongly doubted the veracity of Apollo’s claim.
The young god opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a voice echoing from behind him, "As much as the idea of supporting Apollo’s petty whims, this time I must agree with him." Athena had followed Apollo to the throne room, suspicious of his strange behavior. He had to be honest, Apollo literally had no idea what to say at that moment; he did not expect to get to that point with his interview and certainly did not expect Athena’s support in his intent. But this was a real blessing, for she herself could bear witness to your worth.
She only gave him a scowling look, like a silent admonition to avoid yelling at him, pick up your mouth from the ground and be a god, genius! But his silver eyes were enough to relay the message, and after a moment Apollo had returned to his usual divine bearing. She blinked slowly before turning her eyes again to Zeus.
"Y/N Y/L is a demigod of undeniable quality, which also left me pleasantly surprised. It is true, they have diligently served Olympus and have especially served me, and I have let them fight in my name precisely because their wit deserved such honor. If only it were possible, I would claim them as my own child, for only twice in my existence have I met two mortal men of equal virtue, and those mortals were the king of Ithaca and your son Hercules, to whom you rightly granted immortality.
You know that I do not speak in vain when I express my opinion, and that is why I consider them worthy to also obtain the gift of immortality, especially when to these incredibly successful quests are added the love of a god and the admiration of another." 
Now Zeus observed the two with two comically wide eyes, mostly due to the unexpected intervention of Athena. Even Apollo could not hide his amazement from that sudden help, but he certainly did not complain at all. Three beats passed, then Zeus cleared his voice and I speak in a more serene tone than before, though still authoritarian, "Very well, if you yourself, Athena, consider this mortal worthy of so many honors I want to believe you. Your lover will be granted immortality, Apollo. This will happen at sundown, when you bring your chariot back here to Olympus. Lead them with you, and they can live forever here with you."
"Yes!!" Apollo threw a fist in the air for joy, a small habit he had taken in his stay on earth, but soon after he realized that perhaps it was not quite the right place to give free rein to his happiness, judging by the unimpressed face of Zeus, "Um, I apologize. I thank you father, for this wonderful gift. I assure you that you will not regret it!" He slowly stepped back as he spoke to him with the biggest smile on his face, extending his arms and bending his knees in a farewell bow. Zeus, for the first time in what seemed like centuries, smiled at Apollo and nodded slightly.
"Enjoy this concession of mine, my son, and may it remain in your mind as your reward for having demonstrated your qualities, even without the intervention of your divinity."
"I’ll never forget it. They’ll never let me!" With some other ceremonious thanksgiving, which they had little given the haste and irrepressible joy of the sun god, Apollo rushed down to Olympus, hastening as much as possible to reach his beloved in the place where they had met. He looked at a clock to see how much time he had left. 7 P.M., he still had some time left. He ran like a madman, until he saw the entrance of the familiar Campo approaching. He ignored everyone around him, his perplexed children, his disappointed fangirls, his friends not too surprised to see him running like a bullet through the field, with the biggest smile they’d ever seen on him. Only Meg had a vague feeling about what exactly happened, but even if she did, she didn’t say anything and just looked at him smiling before going back to her things.
Apollo entered the forest next to the Camp and continued to run. Lucky he was back in his cool form, if he was still Lester would have collapsed out of breath for half an hour. And then finally, he finally arrived at your rendezvous point. She found you there, gently lying on moss, slumbering from the weariness of the activities at the Camp and from the worries you had freed yourself of the previous day, in that exact same place, when you had finally found your beloved. Apollo was quivering, thinking how you would react to the awakening, among the golden blankets of his heavenly palace. What would you have said seeing your body invigorated and illuminated by immortality. What would you have felt seeing that his declarations of eternal love were not fallacious, but promises that he had dedicated himself body and soul to keep.
He gently picked you up, taking care not to wake you. He invoked his golden chariot and rode with you to your new home. He kept you close, as much as he was physically allowed by the confined space. The journey did not last long, being facilitated by the godly transport; once arrived right in front of the golden gates of the Apollonian abode, he took you back in his bridal style, leading you to his- your bed. You were stretched out just as he saw your skin begin to shimmer gently, its color gradually became richer and filled with eternally vital sap. He stood by your side, filling your neck and shoulders with kisses as he crouched behind you, eagerly awaiting your rebirth as a deity.
In the morning you woke up with a strong light that dazzled you. You thought it was Apollo, who since he had returned to his true form had regained all the lustre of his nature. But no, it wasn’t him; it was you, whose skin emanated a faint light that bounced against the various gold inlays that were in the bedroom. Yeah, you didn’t remember falling asleep in a bed, the last thing you remembered was lying in the forest moss while you waited for Apollo. Wait a minute, this isn’t even a room in Camp Half-Blood! 
You did it to snap up to the alert, but then you stopped when you felt the familiar touch of Apollo caressing your shoulder, sliding towards the back of your neck and passing through your hair, which had been twice as long as the day before. Normally you would have yawned, but it didn’t seem physically possible to experience any fatigue in the state you were in. You felt... almighty. You finally turned your attention away from your body and turned it towards Apollo, who was already looking at you with a loveless look.
"Good morning, beautiful." You smiled though still confused by the situation you were in. Tempting your luck, you took a sigh and then you spoke, your melodic, honey-sweet voice even though you just woke up, "'Chicken, where are we?"
"We are in Olympus my dear. I promised you that I would not forget you, that I would love you forever. And I meant every single word I said, which is why I had a little conversation with Zeus earlier, and well... let’s just say with a little help I was able to convince him to give you immortality." He said it with the biggest and most satisfied smile I’d ever seen on him, and meanwhile he hugged you and held you and caressed you all over his body, as if to confirm himself that all this was true.
You were utterly speechless, incredulous at what this god had just done in the name of love for you, but at the same time you felt a warm feeling pervading you from within, filling you with joy and happiness, as if that of him had infected you like a disease. You held your hands to his face and laughed in disbelief and said, "You’re the biggest crazy idiot I’ve ever met, Lester!" 
He laughed with you, feeling pervaded by this joy that moved him from within, almost pushing him to tears by the power of these feelings. Holding you tighter, she stroked your silky soft hair as she chuckled happily, "I guess you’ll have to get used to the gold and clouds here." " Still better than a bunk bed to share in five."
Laughing together, you held each other so long as you had time, before he had to take off and lead the sun across the sky. Before he got on the golden chariot, he touched your face with his bronze hands and kissed you gently. " I still can’t believe I’m gonna be able to kiss these lips forever, Y/N." You smiled at him before you grabbed him by the shoulder to push him towards you, and kissed him again. " Then hurry up and leave, so you’ll be back soon and I’ll have a chance to convince you that everything is real." Winking at him, he laughed loudly and heartily, a more melodic sound than any lyre or flute.
"Then I shall not be long in returning to your arms, my lord" And so he departed towards the horizon, and you smiled as you watched him disappear into the sky, thinking with satisfaction of the world that will look up to him with longing and admiration, knowing that he will never again stop for anyone but you, once his daily duties are over. 
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cdlum · 1 year ago
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I just wanted to say I think your art style is awesome! I was wondering if you had any tutorials on how you draw anatomy in your style (hips and legs especially)? Sorry if there's already one posted and I just didn't see it 🥲. Happy New Year :>
thanks for the kind words. i tend to draw people pretty stylized and then some so a good bit of artistic licence gets used. these tips are just what i use so feel free to take them with a grain of salt. with anatomy in particular you can kind of talk in circles because human/animal bodies are that complex so ill just zone in on the points you specified. here's a little image with a bunch of pointers:
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the above image condenses a lot of the points I'd make, but basically the key parts are to start with the bare essentials and build up that complexity. using a line of action is a good way to get a quick, rough start. you draw a line out in the general direction of the pose and do your best to adhere to it to give the pose a sense of flow.
you can also draw smaller, thumbnail versions that throw a lot of caution to the wind but capture the basic energy of what you're going for. even having a tiny little stick figure version of your idea can make for a good guideline of where to take it forward.
when it comes to actual limbs, you wanna consider how they integrate and work together, kind of like how chains do. you can see on some of the parts of pear i've drawn out these wireframes to kind of portray how the mass of her legs works in a three dimensional space. for aspects like the waist/hips, i use that X technique i highlight above a lot, particularly for the lower torso. a lot of the times, even when drawing a character totally naked, imagining them wearing things like skintight underwear can help a lot to guide you in the right direction.
its also a good idea to consider things like gravity and weight to a degree. humans are essentially big meat sacks and gravity is always pulling down on that, but theres all kinds of aspects that effect that, such as character build or clothing. pear technically isn't naked in this, but i've tried to imagine her as such and take that into account.
if you are drawing digitally, don't be afraid to take advantage of the convenience you get with that workflow. you can retry and iterate on things a lot faster that pen and paper, and do things that aren't really feasible at all when it comes to editing and modifying your existing work. things like resizing certain bodyparts, instantly flipping the canvas, or using selection tools to completely adjust the positions of parts of your drawing. to give you an example heres a timelapse with all the little edits i made just to this demo drawing:
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you don't have to use these techniques linearly, either. sometimes ill have a really solid idea for a piece in my head, and go back to basics with certain elements if they’re not coming out right or i just want to brush them up a bit more. some of the tutorial-y parts i added in i didn't actually use during the drawing but often do use so they're there just for demonstration. not every drawing i do starts as building blocks or a really basic version, often ill just start with a face and build it out from there.
i always encourage liberally using references (this can include yourself) and trying out stuff like life drawing or looking at things like existing photographs of real people/places/things if you can, the more you use learning material the better you'll draw up a mental inventory in your head that you can rely on more and more. some of these tips are things i've learned from other artists over the years (the chin one especially i remember seeing a tutorial about lol), so this is a lot of knowledge i've amassed from other sources over time myself. there are plenty of times ill use all sorts of reference material and its all in service of arriving at the final destination as smoothly as possible. learn by doing, as they say. hope this helps!
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