#and if hes sometimes masking about how he feels and is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hyperesthesias · 3 days ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Character

summary: Simon "Ghost" Riley makes the mistake of intervening on the behalf of a woman stuck in an abusive relationship. The only reason it's a mistake -- he has six months of leave, and he's falling for her. When he ships out, he promises that if she's ever in danger again, to call him and he'll come running. Ten years later, he receives that call -- only to find it's her daughter who's asking for his help.

author's note: this idea came to me while i was falling asleep, and it bothered me all night until i could write it today. i apologize for the chicken scratch. it's really just three ideas in a trench coat. i love this idea so much i might turn it into a book at some point. if that happens, i will probably delete this. but for now -- enjoy!

content: unformatted & not proof-read; references to past sexual assault; references to torture; abusive relationship (not perpetuated by Ghost); graphic sex; kidnapping; canon-typical violence; PTSD.

words: 10,692.

if you'd like music while you read, these songs are what i wrote this to: whiskey sunrise by chris stapleton // just pretend by bad omens // vore by sleep token.

He is on leave. He is attempting to assimilate into the usual crowd of a parking lot, but no matter how aware he is of his gait, or how many times he looks over his shoulder, he can't shake the feeling that he is inherently out of place. He's been home three weeks, back on English land, where the sea and river air feel damp on his skin, and he realizes home is an idea, not a place. He'll never feel the way he did all those years ago, when he was once a person he no longer recognizes.

He is content to stock up on the regular supplies: alcohol and caffeine -- caught in the perpetual sedative-stimulant cycle. He can make do with whatever else he has at his flat; it's sparse and barely furnished, but he's certainly had worse. He doesn't want to think of worse right now. He wants to think about getting a couple of six packs, and sitting in that in the living room chair that's too soft, and that's too difficult to get out of, he wants to think about putting his feet up, and pretending to watch football. He wants to pretend to be normal, if only for a few hours, until night falls and sleep waits in the corner for him.

But he's too observant for his own good -- it's always saved his ass, but sometimes, like today, it's a curse.

He sees a man in the far end of the parking lot, with the distinctive glint of a blade in his hand. He's growling behind grit teeth something Simon can't hear clearly. The man has gotten out of his car, and is slashing the tires of another man, who's trying to stay as far away from the sharp end of the knife as possible; there's a woman seated in the passenger's side of the aggressor's car, she's still as stone, terrified to move.

Simon swears under his breath, knowing he's not obligated to do a damn thing while on leave -- and knowing he's more than obligated, despite. His appearance is still obscured, he's wearing a black surgical mask, with a black aviators, and a cap; he looks like someone pretending to be tougher than they are. But no one needs to know otherwise.

He intervenes in the situation, trying to deescalate as quickly and as quietly as possible. Using a light pole and the position of the two cars as cover from the security cameras in the parking lot, he places himself between the aggressor and the victim -- who is now taking photos of the tires for insurance. Simon has one eye on the girl inside the man's car, and the other on the shaking hands of the coward in front of him. After his attempts to talk him off the ledge fail, Simon easily disarms the man and sprains his wrist as he twists the hilt of the knife out of his palm. He lands a punch into the man's gut, and tells him to stay down as he doubles over onto the pavement. When he doesn't obey, Simon kicks him in the head to make sure he doesn't wake up for a while. He briefly glances at the man whose tires were slashed, but he only turns a blind eye, still preoccupying himself with his insurance photos.

Simon makes his way to the passenger side, still avoiding the cameras, where the woman remains paralyzed from the violence that has occurred in front of her. He leans one arm on the roof of the car as he peers into the window, and ushers her out.

"You could do a lot better than him, you know," he says.

She looks her behind her to the man on the ground, then to the one who is standing above her. She doesn't say anything, but follows the instruction to exit the car.

"My advice --" Simon says, without prompting, "take this as a win. Leave him behind. A man like that will only bring you down."

It takes her a moment to register what he's said, but ultimately she agrees. She half expects him to be gone by the time she looks back at him -- like a vanishing stranger clad in all black -- but to her surprise, he's still there. He's standing beside her, looking at his smartphone. "Th--Thank you," she says.

He gives her half a look as he continues to fiddle with his phone. "Don't mention it."

She takes it as a command, rather than a pleasantry.

"I can call you a ride," he tells her, and hands her his phone -- a burner. "Put your address in, and I'll make sure the bastard doesn't start coming to."

She shakes her head. "I live just down the block. I'll just...walk home."

"He know where you live?"

"Yes," she answers, a cling of shame to her voice -- for a reason she can't quite discern.

Simon deviates from his plan, and instead puts in an anonymous tip to the police about a man causing a disturbance at the grocery’s address. The victim with the slashed tires isn't going anywhere any time soon, and would still be there to give a statement. "He won't be bothering you for a few days, at least. Long enough for you to get somewhere he doesn't know about." He walks her home.

She introduces herself as Cecelia, and all he replies is: "Simon".

He never got that beer. The next day, he goes to a different store, hoping he doesn't run into another moment of conscience.

The next week, he makes the misguided attempt to check on her. He debates for a while on whether or not it would come across as predatory that he remembered where she lived. He never vacillates in the field, but every time he remembers he's not in the field, he questions whether his decisions are appropriate for 'normal' life. He's made peace with never being 'normal', but for a moment, he'd like to not feel so unfit for human society.

Cecelia answers the door, and a part of him is disappointed -- disappointed that she wasn't far away from her ex-boyfriend, and disappointed that now he has to actually speak to someone.

"Simon," she welcomes him, to his surprise.

At her bidding, he steps inside her flat; he checks the corners around the door and the foyer, a habit of which he's painfully aware. "You always invite masked strangers in?"

She chuckles at the oddity, and closes and locks the front door. "You would be the first. But I don't consider us strangers -- not after your help last week. I am grateful."

"You able to find somewhere safe?" he asks.

"They're keeping him for now. He can't afford bail."

He nods and looks around at her apartment, that prickly feeling of being out of place starting to get worse, and more intense at the forefront of his skin. She has houseplants, a warm, well-used couch, paintings hanging from the wall. There's an electric tea kettle on a breakfast bar, with a lipstick stained mug sitting next to it. Her home looks like something out of a dream he had on occasion as a child -- after watching too many sitcoms on television. Everything always looked happy, everyone always laughed and got along. It was just as well it was on television, nothing like that could be real. Until it is, and until he's standing in the middle of it -- ill-fitted.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says, hoping for a quick and quiet exit. "Just wanted to make sure he hadn't come back to give you trouble."

"Please -- can't I offer you tea?"

She had the good kind in a glass jar on that breakfast bar, and his well-engrained comforts gave him a moment of pause. It was just enough of a pause to let her move from him to the kettle, where she was already making him a cup. She tells him it's the least she can do for him. He waits until she takes a drink of hers first. It is damn good tea.

She tells him her ex's hearing will be in a couple of weeks. Simon tells her he'll check on her then.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps in regular contact with Cecelia. Every time he comes over, she makes him a cup of tea, updates him about the case against her ex, and then they sit in silence. It's become a routine. After two months, he starts coming to her house even without cause from her ex's case. He starts to feel like those feral cats she feeds on her patio. But the silence is nice. Sitting in the warmth of her living room, instead of his own -- cold and rigid -- it was a pleasant change. There's a subtle, subconscious thought that he's afraid to let come to the surface -- that in a way, she has saved him as much as he helped her that day.

"When do you go back?" she asks one afternoon, breaking the silence between them.

Immediate suspicion grows within him, and he doesn't answer for a while, he only stares at her.

"It's not a difficult assumption that you're military," she explains. "I had a brother in the Navy." She pulls out a gold pendant necklace from beneath her sweater and shows it to him, hoping the display of vulnerability might help him feel more comfortable to answer. "This was the last thing he gave me. He sent it to me while he was overseas. He never stopped worrying about me, even while he was in active duty," she smiles, but it's a sad smile.

The stiffness in his shoulders softens only mildly, and he breaks his gaze from her. "I ship out in four months."

She only nods. A part of her was hoping that it'd be longer, that they'd have more time to get to know one another. The mystique was enticing, but the comfort she felt sitting in his company was something she hadn't felt in a long time. She would miss it when he was gone.

"What happened to your brother?"

"He was killed," she answers. "In a training exercise. That never sat right with me, though. I always felt they weren't tell me the whole truth."

"Probably weren't," he says.

"I don't know whether or not that's a comfort or if it just makes it worse."

"Whatever the truth is, probably worse. Better to take what they give you."

"You always take what they give you?"

He looks at her again. This time, not with suspicion, but with guilt. Guilt of following orders, guilt of not. The weight of betrayal. The heaviness of killing the people who were meant to have his back -- the people he was meant to trust. The anger and despair that he keeps caged somewhere just below the surface of being double crossed by those meant to guide him. It's a long time before he answers: "No."

They don't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. He leaves, as he always does, but this time he washes the mugs before he goes.

Another week passes, and in the middle of the night, he's startled by his phone ringing. It doesn’t wake him, but it disrupts the cycle of blended thoughts and memories that blanket him at night. He has half the mind to let it go to voicemail; it's just his burner phone, no one important has that number -- besides Cecelia. The static of worry crawls beneath his skin, and he looks at the caller ID. It's her.

"You alright?" he answers.

"Simon --" panic is set into her voice. "I think someone's trying to break in."

"Lock yourself in the closet. I'm on my way."

He's armed to the teeth when he gets to her flat. The glass patio door has been jimmied open, and her apartment has been tossed. The paintings are broken and hanging crooked on the wall, the soil from the plants is spilled and pressed into the carpet by footprints. Simon stalks from room to room, until he hears Cecelia scream from her bedroom. He raises his weapon and pushes open her bedroom door -- the ex is pulling her out of her closet by her hair, with a baseball bat in his other hand.

"Drop it!" Simon demands. It surprises her attacker, that his grip lightly loosens from her -- she's trying to wriggle free from his hand beneath him. "Drop it, or I drop you."

"You! -- You bastard!" he yells back. "This is your fault! Look what you've done, huh! Look at it!"

Simon doesn't take his eyes off her attacker, but he can see Cecelia clawing at the man with every might of strength she has -- she's pulling blood from his arm. "Let her go. I'm not telling you again."

The man releases Cecelia's hair, and grips the bat with both of his hands. He lunges at Simon with full force. Simon deflects the bat with one arm, feeling the impact of the wood absent of any armor. He follows his hand around the bat and grabs its handle, flipping it out of the attacker's grasp. He holsters the gun -- wanting to draw as little attention to himself as possible; and in that same sentiment, he refrains from hitting the man in the head with his own bludgeon -- regardless of how much he wants to. With a powerful swing, Simon cracks the bat against the man's tibia. The bone snaps audibly and the man collapses to the floor, wailing in agony. Whether out of the assurance of safety, or out of the flame of revenge, Simon takes one more pass with the bat and breaks both of the man's kneecaps.

He once more calls the police, and her attacker is taken to the hospital for his injuries under police escort. Simon encourages Cecelia to be seen by the paramedics, even though she insists she's fine. But no matter how many times she refuses, Simon tells her she needs to. They take her to the hospital for a concussion. He makes himself scarce.

He debates visiting her the next day. Much to his chagrin, and no matter how much he tries to deny it, he's grown attached to her. He knows it's not inherently a negative thing, but it is a liability. Regardless of how much of an asshole her ex was, Simon couldn't help but feel there was some truth to what he said: that if he hadn't intervened that day, nearly three months ago, that none of this would've happened. He tries not to think about the long term consequences of his actions.

He visits her in the hospital anyway.

He brings her flowers in an awkward gesture -- though it’s no less heartfelt.

"You have someone you need me to call?" he asks.

She's lying in her hospital bed, scraped and bruised, still mildly concussed, but grateful her injuries weren't worse. "No. It's just me."

"No friends?"

She sighs. "Not anymore. He made sure of that."

He nods, knowingly. His own father isolated his mother, Margot, as much as he could, until she'd had no one left. "I heard the doc say he’s gonna release you later today."

"I wish I was happier to go home."

"You don't have to be happy," he says.

As cynical as it sounded, it relieves the pressure from her shoulders of having to put on a front. "I could use some clothes, though."

"I'll get 'em for you," he tells her.

He returns to her flat and packs her an overnight bag. Her flat is a wreck, and the doors are still compromised. When she is discharged, he brings her to his place instead.

"You take the bed," he tells her when they step through his door. "I'll have the couch. I'd offer you tea, but it isn't any good." Even when he's joking he never sounds like it.

She's gotten accustomed to this timbre, and looks at him with a smirk. "I guess I'll have to settle for a beer, then."

She can't see it, but he's returning the smirk. At his place -- which he doesn't call a 'home' -- he takes off the black surgical mask, and the cap; he takes off his gloves, and puts them all by the front door. It's one of the rare times she's seen him so bare.

He helps her get settled, and gets her the beer. She's seated on his couch and he joins her. "It's as cold as it's gonna get."

She stays with him for a week; the patio door is being repaired by the insurance and the landlord. She doesn't mind, she feels safer at his place anyway -- even if it is lacking warmth. He's always awake before her, and every morning, she's woken by the scent of coffee. When she comes out of the bedroom and into the living area, there's always a cup waiting for her on the table.

Simon adds reinforcement to her front and patio doors. "Don't tell anyone where you got this," he tells her as he installs the locks and alarms for her. He helps rehang her paintings, and scrub the carpet. It takes his mind off of other things that try to come to the surface. His mind is emptier of its evils than it has been in a long time, and he's acutely aware that this is temporary.

When Cecelia is settled in her place again, she asks him to stay. He doesn't want to say no.

So he doesn't.

It's a whirlwind romance -- one they both know will end in only a few months' time. Despite the fact that he's only known her for a brief period, he can't recall feeling so comfortable. He won't say safe. He'll never say safe. Because he never is. He won't say at peace. And he won't say happy. But he is comfortable. It's a foreign feeling, one that he distrusts if he thinks about it too long. But when he's lying next to her at night, the brutal images in his head are less vivid, the screaming voices are quieter, sometimes he even sleeps.

They haven't had sex. It's not a subject he's even broached, and neither has she. When she lies beside him, the most contact they have is her hand on his chest, and her face nestled into his side.

She kisses him on the cheek once, and it takes him a moment to process it. He's still and quiet, his eyes are downcast as he's contemplating it. She asks if she's done something wrong. He tells her no -- not at all.

One evening, when he's staying at her place — as he often does — they're on her couch after a couple of drinks. They were at one point watching television, but they've since been ignoring it -- talking, and in between whispered words, soft kisses. One thing leads to another, and she's sitting on his lap, his arms are around her, and he's kissing her deeply. He forgot how to kiss like this -- he didn't think it was still possible within him. That there was still some form of passion and intimacy that was in his spirit. He's hungry -- and with every kiss he's getting hungrier. She's laughing and enjoying herself. The way she feels on top of him feels good, it's just enough movement and pressure to turn him on. It feels good -- until suddenly it doesn't.

Simon immediately pulls away and stops. The passion in him is walled up, shut up, and where there was once heat beneath his skin, it's now cold, concrete.

Cecelia stops and looks for his eyes. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He tries to get himself to talk. But nothing comes out. He's not supposed to talk. He's not supposed to say anything. He's trying to squirm away from her now, and she takes the signal quickly. She gets off his lap, and sits beside him, still trying to figure out what happened. She gets them ice water instead of asking any more questions. He looks like he's still dissociating by the time she comes back, and she has to prompt him to take the water.

Simon goes back to his place that night. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, until the nightmares come.

He's startled awake the next morning by a sound that doesn't exist. It takes several minutes for him to catch his breath -- his heart is in his throat, and he can't focus on anything in front of him. Eventually, he's able to discern his own sheets, he's able to tell he's in England, that he's nowhere near Mexico — his captors. He's still shaking by the time he finally reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

There's a text from Cecelia. He opens it, expecting the worst: that she never wants to talk to him again after what happened last night. That his rejection of her was insulting, and that he was less of a man for it. It was for the better, he thinks. It saves him a messy departure later.

But the text is very different than what he thought:

She apologizes. She thinks his reaction had something to do with her.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

Cecelia was indescribably incapable of the evil done to him. He just doesn't know how to explain that to her.

Well, how to explain it to her and still maintain some kind of dignity and confidence.

It would be easier if he doesn't reply, he thinks. Again, it would save him a messy ending with her. If he ghosts her -- no pun intended, he thinks to himself, but fitting regardless -- he never has to explain himself. He never has to tell the truth. Even to himself.

But that would be cowardly.

He's a lot of things. But a coward isn't one of them.

He doesn't reply.

Instead, he's on her doorstep later that evening. Just like one of those feral cats.

Cecelia answers the door, and he can't look her in the eye. "I come in?" he asks, his head still on a swivel, both out of instinct, and also to provide an excuse as to why he won't look at her.

She agrees, and closes and locks the door behind him. She doesn't say anything for a minute, waiting for him to make the first move, but instead he's standing in the middle of her living room, awkwardly -- like a video game character in the loading lobby.

"I didn't think I'd hear from you," she says. "I hope I didn't --"

"It's not you." He cuts her off. "You didn't do anything." He takes his hat off, and runs a gloved hand through his hair as he tries to figure out what to do with himself. He still won't remove the mask. He needs something -- some kind of barrier.

"I'll put the kettle on," she says. It's going to be a long night, she can feel it.

It's been years, it's been a lifetime ago. But some things don't stay dead. Like memories. All those weeks under Roba's influence of torment, retreating into ugly corners of his mind to escape the evil being done to him at the drug lord's hand, and all those under Roba's command -- viscerally having his body and mind being used and crushed in the attempt to break him. He hasn't talked about it, except in veiled mutters under his breath -- only once -- to Price. Even then, he wasn't entirely sure he understood, Simon made no effort to clarify.

He doesn't go into detail with Cecelia. She doesn't deserve to hear about the gore, the blood and violence. But he gives her clear implications, with bullet points of what transpired after he clawed his way out of Roba’s torture, out of Vernon's grave: the deaths of his mother, his brother and sister-in-law, his nephew.

Hours have passed since he showed up without warning, and yet their time together has been mostly silence. His words few and far between, he said most of what he meant without speaking. She didn't interrupt him.

At last she asks: "Did you get them?"

He looks at her, for the first time since he arrived. But he can't hold her eyes long, and he nods. "I got 'em."

"Good."

The next week, they're on her couch again -- two drinks in, with the television mindlessly on mute -- and this time, he lowers her onto the cushions, where he settles on top of her.

Foreplay last for several days. He gets to a point where he can be shirtless, or have his pants unzipped, until he backs down. He lies on her chest instead, and falls asleep as she runs her hands through his hair. She tells him more than once he doesn't have anything to prove. He knows, he tells her, it's something he wants to do; his mind and body need to do some catching up, is all. She waits.

It's the weekend, and she's invited him to stay over the next few days. She'll make them dinner. He comes by with a six pack and some fresh bread. There's a box of condoms in his back pocket, but he's not going to tell her that -- he doesn't want to promise anything and then not deliver.

But it happens. And it happens because they're not trying to make it happen.

They move to the bedroom; he has half his clothes off by the time she follows him. She's in her bra and panties as she gets on the bed -- she regrets it's not the matching pair, but it doesn't even look like he notices. At his request, she doesn't sit on top of him, she sits beside him as she rubs her palms into his chest, down his abdomen, trailing every outline of his body with a single finger.

She has a cute nose, he thinks -- it scrunches as she smiles, and she hasn't stopped smiling since they ran to the room like teenagers trying not to get caught. He cups a hand on her face, tracing her nose and the lines of her smile. He leans to put a kiss on her mouth, her hands taking his jaw gently. Every movement is gentle and deliberate. She moves her lips from his, down his neck, where they follow his sternum, his stomach, to the trail of soft hair that leads beneath his briefs. With his help, she removes them, and puts them with the pile of clothes on the floor.

He's already getting hard, and she wraps her hand around his cock, gently pumping him to help him along. She feels him twitch as he takes a deep breath, and when she looks at him to see if he's alright, he brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. She dots gentle kisses along his tip and frenulum, and his hand moves from her hair to twist into the sheets beneath him. She laughs as she takes him into her mouth, and the vibration of her laughter onto his cock makes him swear.

Simon takes another breath and watches as she bobs up and down his length, now fully erect. As she feels his body tense, she stops and returns to putting kisses along his shaft.

"You're teasing me," he says.

"I'm warming you up," she laughs again.

He reaches for the box of condoms on the floor, and rips open the package to use one. He sits up and pulls her close, onto his lap. He buries his face into her the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.

Cecelia takes him, inch by inch, as she sits on his lap, and the moan that escapes her sets his mind on fire. He pulls her closer to his chest, and grabs the pile of her hip as she starts to rock back and forth against him. She's whining as he tenderly bites into the soft skin of her neck -- leaving a pleasant mark behind in his wake.

He starts to feel unsure of himself, unsure of the position they're in, when Cecelia stops and nestles her nose into his hair. She puts another kiss on the top of his head, and they sit there for a moment -- barely moving, except for the rising and falling of their breathing.

Simon initiates the next movement, where he begins to thrust into her. One hand behind him among the pillows to balance him, the other holding her hip to keep her steady, he's looking into her face as she puts her hands on his shoulders. She begins to rock back and forth again, finding a rhythm with him, and as she does, she puts her hands behind her head, fanning out her hair as she seems to dance on top of him.

He has a brief moment of feeling foolish -- in believing she looks like some ethereal spirit, or a nymph. Like one of those paintings that he's seen on the walls of great leaders. But his doubts are drowned out by her leaning on him and putting her mouth on his.

They stay in this rhythm for some few moments, until he gently turns her on her back, and settles himself between her legs. He takes one of her feet and kisses it, before he wraps her legs around his waist.

He keeps a steady pace into her, the feeling of pleasure wafting through his body with unfamiliar electricity, his appetite suddenly whetted, and his thrusts become harder. Her moans and whimpers getting louder, more intense, as she touches herself. Simon reaches his hand to massage her sex, and her whole body tenses -- her core grips around him in soft waves. He comes -- intensely, and at the feeling of her, at the sight of her lost in the pleasure of him. A gasp sputters from him at the sensation of satisfaction that takes hold of his mind and body.

She reaches up to him and takes his face in her hands again as she puts her brow to his. His breathing is heavy, and it washes over her damp skin, sending a shiver of cold throughout her.

He lies beside her again that night, as she puts her hand on his chest, and her face into his side. Except this time, he turns to her, to see her -- face on. He usually tries to obscure himself as much as possible, but just for this moment -- just for the time he has left with her, he wants to be seen. Just for now.

Simon lives at her flat for the remaining weeks he has left of leave. He tries not to lean into the fantasy as hard as he wants to -- but when she invites him to the market to get ingredients for dinner, he can't refuse her. He's on edge the entire time -- searching the crowd for anyone who might become a threat, the sinking feeling of waiting for a detonation to occur when there isn't one keeps his eyes fixed on the periphery of the farmer's market. He briefly loses track of her, and he's ready to pry her from the arms of an enemy that isn't present -- he finds her picking fruit from a basket at a vendor's stall. It's the moment he knows he can't ever have a normal life. It's something he's always known, but the image of its reality is materialized as he watches her smell peaches from a distance.

His recall date is approaching faster than he wants it to. As strong as he is, he can't slow Time. Every night when he lies awake in bed, he watches her sleep. With the images of her bedroom, and of her living room, and the breakfast bar with the kettle and well-worn mugs upon it, with the image of her sleeping peacefully, cuddled beneath her blankets beside him, he builds a new place in the dark corners of his mind. Somewhere into which he can retreat when the night gets ugly. When the job gets uglier.

The night before he's recalled, they make love again. He adds the blissful memory to that place in his mind. He holds her tighter, fucks her with an intensity and a desperation he couldn't speak in words; he keeps her as close as he can until the moment he has to give her up.

Cecelia wakes up early the next morning, before dawn, to see him off. His bag is already packed, the coffee is already made, with her mug, full on the counter, just as it always is.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asks.

He stops. He heard her get up, heard her come out of the bedroom, but even still, he was hoping to leave unseen. He doesn't have an answer for her.

"No," he says. He still doesn't look at her.

She stays quiet, but sits at the breakfast bar, where her cup of coffee is waiting for her. He's still in the kitchen, washing the dishes he used to make her breakfast. She sees him put his head down, thoughts flooding themselves behind his brown eyes. But still, he says nothing.

After he finishes leaving no trace of himself in her home, as he readies himself to leave, his duffle bag in hand, his mask and gloves fitted against his skin, he stops before he opens her front door.

"Come here," he tells her.

A part of her hopes that he'll change his mind -- that he'll say he'll be back whenever he gets leave again. But she doubts they will let him go for a very, very long time.

"Look at me."

Her eyes are wet, but she tries to hide it. She does as he says nonetheless.

"If you are ever -- ever -- in trouble..." he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, "...you send this to this address." On it is written a word: 'MAYFLOWER', along with an encrypted email address. "I will come running." He hands her the paper and she takes it with a trembling hand. "Memorize this. Then burn it. Do you understand?"

She nods as she studies the paper. She tries to hold back her crying, but the harder she tries, the louder she sniffles.

Cecelia wraps her arms around his waist and holds him, just for a moment. Her tears stain his jacket, but she can't bring herself to care. When she lets go, she kisses his mask. She feels him return it, despite the barrier between them.

She watches him leave, before the sun is up. He vanishes from her life as quickly as he entered it.

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

TEN YEARS LATER

Ghost is preparing to ship out on an assignment to Eastern Europe with the rest of the 141 in two weeks. He and MacTavish are paired together to arrive first before the rest of the crew. They are currently both in England, going over the plans for the next assignment.

He sold his flat a long time ago, he no longer has permanent residence in England. He rents out places in cash when he needs a temporary place to stay. Simon and Soap are staying together while they prepare, then they will fly out to the drop zone.

As Simon prepares for the next assignment, he receives a transmission on an encrypted email. It is reserved only for emergent scenarios, usually used by his other teammates or superiors when an assignment goes sideways. As he opens the encrypted message, he anticipates that he and Soap will have to ship out sooner than expected.

The message reads:

'MAYFLOWER'

He gave this specific code only to Cecelia. No others have it. He remembers his promise.

In the ten years since their separation, he has not heard from Cecelia, nor has he sought her out in the time he is on homeland. But he thinks about her in moments when the dark begins to suffocate him. He thinks about her during the springtime, and when the world comes alive again. He shares this with no one. Not even Soap. Now, he might have to.

MacTavish sees Simon gearing up, as if he were ready to leave for the hanger at any moment. "You goin' somewhere without me, Lt.?"

Simon stops, and deliberates. A gnawing feeling tells him not to confide in a teammate again -- to not make the same mistake he did with Sparks and Washington. But when he turns and looks Soap in the eye, he knows that honesty -- even obfuscated honesty -- is what will help Cecelia in that moment. "You trust me?"

He tells Soap to pack as they talk, and he debriefs his partner with as little information he can get away with: he promised a woman a decade ago that if she ever needed help, he'd come running. She was calling in the favor.

"What's so special about this woman, then?" Soap asks.

They're driving to the location from which the message was sent -- a house in Manchester, that was bought under her name. She moved, then, he thinks -- from a flat to a house, he hopes she's doing well enough for herself. And whatever family she might have. It would be foolish to think she wasn't married with kids by now. It was just statistics.

"Lt.?"

Ghost takes a breath, as silently as he can, before he answers: "She helped me out. Just returning the favor." It's as close to honesty as MacTavish was going to get for now -- if ever.

The house is visibly disturbed by the time they get there -- the front door is broken, there are signs of a struggle in the living room. There are no police on the scene, neighbors seem to mind their own business. Simon takes the front of the house, while Soap takes the rear. Every room he enters is clear, the house is empty.

"You seeing anything, Lt.?"

"Negative," Ghost answers. "The house is clear."

"I'm doing a perimeter sweep," Soap says.

"Report back."

"Copy."

Ghost tries to piece together what happened as he steps through the chaos that transpired -- they entered through the front door, and tossed the entire place. Desks and dressers tossed; a file cabinet thrown on its side and emptied. The nightstand in the master bedroom rifled through, the closets emptied. There's a child's room adjacent to the master bedroom -- also tossed and empty. A child’s bedroom…It was just the statistical probability that she'd moved on, he reminds himself.

A noise comes from the secondary bathroom in the hallway, and Ghost raises his weapon. He pushes the door to the bathroom open and sees nothing. He prods at the shower curtain — nothing.

There's a linen closet. He raises the rifle, stands to the side of the door, and opens it -- waiting to hear a barrage of gunfire. But there was nothing. He sees the interior of the linen closet in the bathroom mirror:

A child is hiding inside of it, huddled with her hands over her head.

"Perimeter check," he radios Soap.

"Clear, Lt.. Converging on you now."

He checks her for weapons before he continues. "What happened here?" Ghost asks the child.

She's shaking and looks up at him with terror.

"Your mother called me to help."

"She -- She told me to c-call you."

"You sent the message?"

She nods.

"Do you know who did this?"

She shakes her head.

Ghost lets a silent breath, as he looks around the bathroom again -- even the medicine cabinet was tossed. "Whoever they were, they were looking for something." He lets his rifle fall to his side, and he helps the girl out of the closet. "Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"Was there anyone else in the house?"

"No. Just me and mum."

"Is anyone supposed to come home?"

"No. It's just us."

Soap arrives at Ghost's side, surprised to see the girl. "Casualty?"

"Just shellshocked. Get ‘er a blanket."

MacTavish does as he says, and pulls one from the girl's room. "We're the good guys," he tells her. "Give it a minute, an' when you've had a breath, tell us what you remember." He leads her from the bathroom, to somewhere warmer in the house, careful that she shouldn't step on anything broken on the floor. "D'ye have someone we can call, then? Gram? Da? A friend from school?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Alright, it’s alright. Let's start with somethin' easier, then." He adjusts her blanket and helps her put on a pair of shoes that was left by the doorway. "How 'bout we start with your name? How 'bout that? What's your name, love?"

"My name is Margot."

Simon stops. He looks at the girl, he studies her. She looks much like her mother, yet a part of him thinks he saw a resemblance of himself. But it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he insists. It makes no difference anyway.

"Margot. Pretty name, lass, very classy," Soap tells her.

"Call child welfare," Simon says.

"No!" Margot turns and stops him.

"It's only temporary -- 'til we find your mother," Soap tells her.

"No --"

“This isn’t a discussion," Simon snaps.

Soap looks at the Lieutenant, knowing him well enough to hear something other than the weight of the mission beneath the surface of his voice. He looks back at the girl, who keeps trying to take off her blanket, and ties it around her. "Like a cape," he tells her. "We're very good at what we do, lass. You'll be back with your mother in no time."

"You're not listening!" the girl finally says, she stands, facing Simon. "I don't know who they were," she tells him, still trembling, "but I know what they were looking for."

The girl doesn't seem to be intimidated by either him or Soap, and he finds it unusual. That sinking suspicion settles itself at the forefront of his mind, and he keeps it in check. "What were they looking for?"

"They said -- they said they were looking for something my uncle gave my mum." Tears are coming back to her, and she cowers at the feeling of guilt.

"The necklace?" Simon asks.

"But she doesn't have it. She gave it to me." She pulls out the gold pendant from beneath her shirt.

"Sir, can we have a word?" It's more of a demand from Soap, rather than a request and he turns to Margot. "Don't take off the cape." He pulls Ghost to the side, and speaks as quietly as he can, hoping not to scare the girl: "They're gonna find her eventually. I don't think child welfare is the best option for her."

Simon still hasn't taken his eyes off of Margot, he's still studying her -- her features, her nose, her eyes. She has brown eyes, but so does her mother. Even if his suspicion is true, it still doesn't mean anything, he convinces himself. He wouldn’t be able to be there for her in any way that matters, he tells himself.

"We can offer her better protection. We track the bastards, neutralize the threat, and get her mother back. We send her into foster care, she's a sitting target once they realize her mother doesn't have what they want."

He hates it when Soap is right.

Finally, he looks at his partner, and they mobilize. Soap helps Margot pack a bag out of what remnants of clothes and necessities are strewn all over the house. Simon is standing in the master bedroom, he tells himself he's looking for any sign of what the attackers were after, but he knows it's a lie. He wants to see what has become of Cecelia. But he knows he shouldn't linger.

They regroup at the house Soap and Ghost are renting. Simon asks Margot to hand over the necklace; she does, although she hesitates for a moment, a thought crossing her mind that it might be the only thing of her mother's she'll have left when this is all over.

"I'll give it back," he tells her.

She looks up at him, into his eyes -- he's still wearing that balaclava and all his gear. The greasepaint obscures the depth of his eyes, but she can see their glint in the low light of the living room. She's trusting him as much as he's trusting her. She gives him the necklace.

Simon holds it in the center of his gloved hand -- it looks no different than any other pendant one might find at a jewellry store. It was a plain circle, with no ornamentation, except for an asymmetrical raised texture in the center. He turns it over, there's no stamp indicating the carat or quality.

"All that trouble o'er a necklace?" Soap asks, looking over Simon's shoulder at the small thing.

"She said it was the last thing she ever got from her brother," Simon tells him. "She tell you anything else about him?" he asks Margot.

She shrugs somewhat, still clinging to the blanket around her shoulders. "He was in the Navy. But he died, though. I never met him."

Simon shakes his head once. "No, you wouldn't've. He died overseas, she said. Training mission gone wrong. MacTavish, check records," he tells Soap. "We find out what he was doing when he died, we might find out who's after this little bugger."

The adrenaline finally wears off, and Margot crashes. She's asleep in the master bedroom, curled underneath the blankets, still terrified, even in her sleep. Simon can see it -- her shoulders are tense, her head is tucked, her breathing is rapid. He wonders if every Riley is cursed with poor sleep.

Soap isn't having any more of his bullshit. They're talking in the other bedroom, while combing through personnel records and calling in favors to find out more about the 'training exercise' Cecelia's brother was involved in.

They haven't spoken in a while, which is unusual for Soap -- the air almost feels absent without his gabbing. But Simon knows he isn't being silent for courtesy's sake, Soap is irritated with him.

"Is she yours?" he finally asks, without looking up.

But Simon looks at him, unsure how to reply. Unsure of the answer -- but certain all the same. He doesn't reply for a long time, and Soap doesn't push him; even no answer is an answer.

Simon looks back at his laptop. "She's the right age."

They don't say anything for a while more. Simon is finding it difficult to concentrate, but he compartmentalizes, until Soap interrupts his thoughts again.

"You know I've got your back."

His other teammates, Sparks and Washington, said the same thing. Until they were taken, and turned. Until his family was all murdered in cold blood during Christmastime. He tries to tell himself it's not the same -- the present isn't the past. Yet, the past has a funny way of repeating itself.

He wasn't turned by the torture inflicted upon him, he tells himself. He'd like to think MacTavish wouldn't be, either, whether or not it's true.

"I know, Johnny," he says.

"You need your rest," Soap tells him. "I'll take watch and keep looking. You get some shut eye." He leaves the bedroom and sets up in the living room.

He tries to sleep -- he falls into a restless slumber. It feels like he's closed his eyes for only a moment, when Soap comes back into the room to tell him his watch is over.

It's still dark outside. Simon gets up. He checks on Margot.

She's still lying in bed, curled into a ball. But her breathing has changed -- he thinks she might've fallen into a deeper sleep, but he realizes she's awake, she's crying. He's tempted to turn and leave, to give her space, or to absolve himself of vulnerability. But he knows it's not the right thing to do.

"You should be sleeping," he says.

He hears her sniffle. She doesn't move for a while, until she sits up and looks at him. "I tried. I can't."

He sighs and enters the room, closing the door halfway behind him. "What's keeping you awake?" He sits on the edge of her bed.

"I keep...thinking." She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

"About what?"

She's trying not to look weak in front of him, but she can't help it -- she starts crying again. "All I did was hide. Mum told me to hide. But I didn't want to -- But I was scared..."

He doesn't think less of her. He sees a lot of himself in her, from when he was a boy. "Sometimes the best strategy is to hide. You're no good to anyone dead. Especially not to your mother."

Margot settles, taking hiccupped breaths until she can breathe again. "She said you'd come."

"I told her I would."

The crying has passed for now, she doesn't feel like she can anymore. But she likes sitting beside him. She wonders what he looks like -- he's still wearing that balaclava. "Do you sleep with that on?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"So people don't know what I look like. To protect myself."

"That must be annoying."

He scoffs. "Sometimes."

"Mum told me you wear a mask all the time. She told me a lot about you."

Immediate suspicion rises in Simon, and his mind interprets her words as a threat at first. But he proceeds with tempered rationality. "What'd she say?"

"You both loved each other, she said. You have a job that's really dangerous. She talks about you all the time."

It would've been better if Cecelia had forgotten all about him, it would've been easier for him. But to know that she kept him alive, in memory, somehow hurt worse than being forgotten. "She tell you anything else?" he's fishing, and he hopes Margot takes the bait.

She hesitates, she's thinking, debating -- unsure of herself, unsure of what he'll say. "She said...she tells me that you're my dad. Is that really true?"

He's never one to believe something without concrete proof, he's distrustful by nature. But he knows it's true. It's more than conscious, it's something visceral inside of him that knows something better than the doubt at the forefront of his mind. He only nods. "It's true."

Margot sits in silence, thinking.

"I'm going to find your mother," he promises her. "I’m going to make sure both of you are alright." He speaks to her, but also to the family he lost all those years ago: to his mother, to his brother. He has the chance to right the wrongs of the past. To change the future. "Get some sleep."

"What if I can't?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to find some kind of parental guidance to give her. "I don’t sleep good, either. A long time ago, I saw a shrink. He told me to relax your body -- from head to toe. And imagine you're floating in a canoe on a lake, with nothing else around. Don't think about anything else. Just you...in the lake, breathing deeply. Can you do that?"

She nods.

"I'll wake you when it's morning."

He leaves Margot to her rest and continues to search for reasons why Cecelia's brother may have been a target.

He wakes up Soap at dawn. "We've got a lead."

Simon explains that Cecelia's brother, Gabriel, was involved in a classified assignment to infiltrate a weapons dealer syndicate. He was supposed to eliminate the head of the syndicate, and destroy his compound. Gabriel completed his assignment, and eliminated the syndicate head, and burned the compound to the ground. However, the official report states that Gabriel was killed during the raid -- he was killed by his other teammates, for treason, and for turning on his superiors. Simon managed to find a buried statement from another teammate who had been on the mission, which said Gabriel was killed days after the raid, and his body was dumped at the compound after it was destroyed. Gabriel found that the officer in charge of his assignment was supplying a portion of the weapons being sold. The officer was using his team to clean up evidence of his involvement in the syndicate.

The officer buried anyone else who knew the truth.

Simon and Soap conclude the necklace must have something else to it, that Gabriel had to have sent it to for a reason. Simon examines the ridge in the center; he finds that the circular pendant is made with two pendants flat pieces soldered together. He halves it with a knife, jimmying the pendant open like an oyster. Inside, is a micro-SD card.

"That's what they were after."

"Obair mhór, Gabriel," Soap mutters.

"Mum's necklace..." Margot stares at its pieces in Simon's hand as she comes out of the bedroom.

"It was for a good cause," Simon says.

"But why --" Soap asks. "Why after all this time? Why go after it now?"

"The good Admiral is up for a political promotion. He's trying to clean house."

"So the Admiral finds out that Gabriel had a contingency, and he knows that the last contact Gabriel had was with his sister. So he puts the pieces together, figuring she knows more than she's saying."

"We need to find her. Now."

They're holding Cecelia at an abandoned farmhouse. It takes them thirty-six hours to track her down, by nightfall Ghost and Soap are converging on the target. Margot is left behind, locked inside their safehouse, with the doors and windows fortified.

They're outnumbered, but they have the element of surprise. Quietly, they close in on the farmhouse from opposite directions, using blades to wound and eliminate the men in their way, utilizing the ignorance of their presence to its maximum capability. Until an enemy fires his rifle, and the secrecy is over.

Ghost breaches the front of the house, firing two shots into the guard at the other side of the door -- chest and throat. He pushes the body to the side, and crouches, hearing more men on their way. He takes cover against the corner of a hallway, and fires two shots into the face of the next assailant who charges him. He uses the bleeding body as a shield, and moves into the line of fire, feeling the impact of the bullets pierce the corpse in his arms. He fires around the body propped against him, and lands three bullets into the torso of the man in front of him.

He throws the corpse to the floor, and moves into the center of the house. There's a locked bedroom door, and he pushes his blade into the jamb to free the lock. He can hear Soap's bullets from the opposite side of the house.

The lock breaks, and Ghost stands to the side of the door as he opens it -- he enters with his rifle raised. There are no men inside the room.

Cecelia is tied to a chair in the center.

"I've got eyes on the target," he radios Soap.

"Copy, Lt.. Three more guards inbound on the east of the complex."

"Copy." Simon cuts her bonds, and helps her stand. "We need to move. Can you walk?"

"Yes," she says, panting.

Ghost has one arm around her, practically pulling her out of the house as he rendezvous with Soap.

Soap covers them as the two limp off the complex -- into the cover of a copse in the distance. Their vehicle is waiting for them there, and Ghost puts Cecelia in the back, pushing her head down beneath the seats. Bullets collide with the metal sides of the doors, and Ghost returns fire as Soap jumps into the driver's seat and finds cover in the trees.

"They won't follow us," Ghost says.

"You'd better be right."

"Margot -- Where's Margot?"

"I got her -- She's alright."

"I'm sorry --" Cecelia says, out of breath.

Simon shakes his head. "Don't be."

They get back to their safehouse, and Margot is holed up in the bedroom until she hears the door. Simon gave her a pocket knife, and she's ready to use it -- when she hears her mother's voice.

"Mum!" she runs out of the bedroom, into her mother's arms.

Cecelia holds her tight. Simon only watches, and glances to Johnny when he puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels that out-of-place sensation once more, seeing mother and daughter embrace. Cecelia is checking Margot over, holding her small face in her hands, wiping away her tears. Simon doesn't know what to do with himself. He leaves them to their reunion. He hides -- in the other bedroom.

Later, he's triaging Cecelia's wounds. She's scraped up, she's got a black eye. The sight of it sends a rage through him that he can't put into words.

"I wanted to tell you," she says.

"I know."

He's bandaging her wrist, but he can't look at her. It's the same dance between them as it was a decade ago. Somehow, it feels like home.

"I don't know what they wanted from me," she tells him.

"I do. Your brother was a smart man. He knew he couldn't trust anyone above him. So he sent the intel he gathered to the one person he could trust. You." He looks up at her.

"What are you going to do with it?"

He gently puts her hand in her lap. "I'm going to do...what I wish I could've done many years ago." He grinds his teeth, and swallows. "I'm going to expose the bloody bastard for what he is: a traitor."

Simon arrives at the Admiral's office the next day. The Admiral is not expecting him, but he is aware of Ghost's reputation, and it precedes him. The Admiral has no reason to suspect Ghost is behind the attack on his off-books operation the previous night. As far as he's concerned, Ghost is scheduled to ship out in less than a fortnight, and he believes his visit has something to do with the upcoming mission.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

Simon chooses his words carefully. Everything he wants to say -- everything he's endured at the hands of men without honor -- floods to the surface of his stomach, to the surface of his face, and he holds the man's eyesight with a sharp edge of hatred.

He's kneading his fists open and closed as he stands there, still trying to get himself to speak. "I want to know if it was worth it."

"I'm sorry?" the Admiral scoffs, bemused and insulted.

"You're not sorry now. But you will be. Before that -- I want to know if it was worth it. The money. The job. The commendations. How many lives was it worth to you?"

The Admiral now realizes it was him who attacked the farmhouse the night before. His face grows hard, and he narrows his eyes. "I'd tread carefully if I were you, Lieutenant. Your reputation can only protect you so far, before enemies in high places turn on you."

"Was it! Worth it!" Simon yells. "You pricks -- who decide who lives and dies, who decide who turns on who -- you pricks, who let the job lead you to believe that you're God," he points. His face burns, his throat hurts. Memories claw their way to the front of his mind, just like he clawed his way out of Vernon's grave.

"If you kill me, you will be hunted for the rest of your life."

Simon shakes his head. "I'm not gonna kill you. You're not worth my bullets. I'm going to watch...as the world tears you apart. As you lose...everything."

The Admiral scoffs again, and moves towards his desk, where his service weapon lies locked in a drawer. "I doubt that. Surely, you didn't think you could come here and threaten me, and get away unscathed." He loads the chamber, and aims the barrel at Ghost's chest.

Simon doesn't flinch.

"Where is the SD card?" the Admiral asks.

"I've already given it to the press."

Military police storm the office, and take the Admiral into custody.

Ghost and Soap are taken off their upcoming assignment, they're needed for debriefing on the scandal that is unfolding regarding the Admiral. Cecelia and Margot are also asked to give account of what happened. The doors of their home are repaired, and they're left to pick up the pieces -- figuratively and literally.

Three weeks have passed; the trial is still in preparation stages; Margot is back at school, and Cecelia has set up therapy for her. Simon encourages her to be seen by a shrink, herself. She refuses, and he pushes her, telling her he'll take her himself if he has to.

"This feels familiar," Simon says, as he helps rehang a painting in her living room.

"Let's hope it never feels familiar again."

He wants to laugh, but he can't. He just shakes his head, and straightens the frame. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

"Wait -- can't I make you a cup of tea?"

It's the offer that got his heart into trouble in the first place. But he still can't say no -- the pause he gives, gives her enough time to head to the kitchen, where she boils some water, and hands him a well-worn mug of tea. The good kind.

He stays with them for several weeks. Weeks turn to months. He tries not to give into the fantasy. Cecelia knows as well as he does, that he can't stay. Even if he wants to.

He wants to.

He has too many enemies. If he retires, if he gives into the dream, it will only put targets on their backs. Cecelia knows. She doesn't fight him on it.

"Just...don't let another decade go by...before I see you again," she tells him.

"I won't." He has her hands in his, pressed to his mouth. He's getting ready to leave, a new assignment is waiting for him on the other side of the door, and for the first time -- ever -- he feels human enough to wish there was nothing waiting for him. No assignment. No dossier. He feels human enough to wish — for anything at all. Even a family.

He takes a deep breath, and lets go of her hands. He pulls from his pocket an envelope filled to the brim with money, an accumulation of many years' worth of combat pay. "Use this. For her. Anything she needs -- anything at all. You get it for her, with this. Get her into a good school, get her an education -- don't let her do what I do. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kisses her, and turns to Margot's bedroom to say goodbye. She's holed up there -- she doesn't understand why he has to leave. He doesn't think she ever will. He doesn't understand it fully, himself.

Simon sits on the edge of her bed. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Will we ever see you again?" she asks.

"You can't get rid of me that easy, love."

She crawls to him, and embraces him.

Something flips inside of him, feeling her arms around him. His own child -- the bone of his bone, the flesh of his flesh. A weight sinks into his heart, and he takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling like it's the first and only breath he's ever taken. He puts a kiss on the top of her head, and they linger there for a long while.

When he, at last, pulls away to leave, she follows him. "Goodbye, Dad."

It's a searing knife wound to the center of him. But he turns and touches her face. "Goodbye, love."

Simon leaves, seen off by the two at their doorstep.

It's a home he can return to. Over, and over again. A feeling, and a place -- people who welcome him. Where his bed is always warm, where arms wrap around him and the blood washes down the drain. And where December never hurts as much.

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earthsparked · 2 days ago

Text

It just slips out as you climb out of Optimus’ enormous hands, cupped supportively around you. Thanks, dad!

Across the room, Ratchet drops a wrench with a ping and clatter onto the concrete. Jazz bursts into cackles and hoots of laughter. Bumblebee bzzts and hides his face behind his mask, also laughing but trying not to let you see.

You freeze, cringing like you’ve never cringed before. You did NOT just call this military-robo-Pope older than your entire species, “DAD.” You did NOT just call this mech, who is effectively your boss as a cultural ambassador to an entire alien species, “DAD.”

Except you did, and your face is flaming red as you slowly turn to him, apologies springing to your tongue as you imagine with a sinking heart the thrashing you’re going to get from your human handlers when they find out you’ve insulted the leader of the Autobots. Oh god, the Decepticons are going to take over your planet because your parents divorced when you were young and then your father died and it’s been so, so long since you had anyone in your life who made you feel like Optimus does, safe and cared for and wanted. You had started to take it for granted, how gentle he was with you, how it healed something deep inside you every time he picked you up in servos you’d seen rip into Decepticons as if their armor was tinfoil.

You didn’t even feel a flicker of worry anymore in the moments Optimus, a being the size of a living building who could crush you by accident, moved around you with thunderous, titanic footsteps. And when he moved you with the confidence of a father absent-mindedly tugging their toddler out of the way of danger.

You’d gotten too used to it, had come to crave it. And now you went and ruined everything and - no, you have to fix this RIGHT NOW.

I, I’m so sorry, it’s a human thing, sometimes we get words wrong, I apologize sir. You can’t look him in the optic. Maybe he’ll take your lowered eyes and dipped chin as the act of apology, submission, desperation it is. Your heart is pounding and even in the cold air of the base, nervous sweat is breaking out on your skin.

-He’s silent. Why hasn’t he said anything?!

You hold your breath as Optimus’ huge shadow falls over you, and his servo moves closer. One finger bigger than your entire body brushes under your chin, tipping your head up so you have to look at him. Dreading what you’ll see, you capitulate.

And he’s -

The look on his face is not like anything you’ve ever seen. No, wait. You’ve seen it once. When Bumblebee was badly injured, and Optimus stayed by his side around the clock until he was out of danger, talking to him in deep, soft warbles and trills of a language you didn’t understand.

Why is he looking at you like that?

You are welcome, ambassador, is all he says, but you don’t miss the way he lets his servo stroke gently - fondly - brushing your hair out of your eyes, before turning and walking away. Leaving you on the scaffolding that leads to your office, as his footsteps reverberate through you.

He speaks to the others, briskly interrupting their joking, wrangling them like a herd of cats as he changes the subject to the patrol assignments. You look after him, a series of complicated feelings bubbling up in your chest, none of which let you get a word out. Eventually, you turn and make for the shelter of your office, to hide yourself in emails and reports.

Unaware as you go, due to the increasing distance between you - of the tendrils of energy reluctantly wisping away from you where Optimus’ powerful EM field had wrapped itself around you, as intuitively and automatically as it had wrapped around his sparklings so many millennia ago.

You couldn’t pick up on what he was thinking - not yet, anyway, you were sharp and intuitive and empathetic. But he had to wonder, how shocked would you have been to know, as he went about his duties, part of his processor was taken up with thoughts of how fortuitous it was that both your species had found something they needed, in this alliance of mechanical and organic life?

How long had it been since he’d held something small and soft and so alive, so precious? Was it ever since he had doomed his people to a slow extinction?

Such thoughts were kept strictly to himself; these organics are sentient, deserving of respect, and you are an adult by your own people’s reckoning, even if his spark aches with a painful warmth now to know you feel this connection, too. Even if you seem even less willing to acknowledge it than he is - and he will follow your lead. Or at least that’s what he tells himself.

The others aren’t fooled; that laughter had been directed at him, though he doubts you realize that. They know him too well, see his solicitous treatment of you for what it is, what it really means in their society.

Ratchet huffs and comms him on a private line.

Just tell them. You’re not going to chase our allies away because you’re going broody. And it’s not good for your systems, fighting those subroutines every klik. I doubt it’s good for them, either.

Optimus pings him a thank you and a message not as sardonic as he could have made it. Your wisdom is appreciated, old friend.

Ratchet gives him a Look with his EM field, but Optimus keeps the talk to business. Not fooled for a minute. Knowing he’s not the only one keeping a sensor or three trained on the little being in their nook, just across the way.

#transformers x human #transformers first contact au #transformers x reader #optimus prime #optimus prime x reader #platonically #that is your dad!! (he’s your dad!! boogie oogie oogie)#optimus (mentally) I am your dad. boogie oogie oogie #neither of you: actually addresses this #the others: taking bets on who will crack first #bonus:#ratchet but very surly: I am your medic. I’m not saying boogie oogie.

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zenithsturniolo · 2 days ago

Text

SCREAM, BITCH - ghostface!chris x blogger!reader

♬ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ series intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

chapter five: baby, pick up, i need you

this chapter will contain.. angst, mentions of death, emotional intensity, guilt, manipulation, deception, denial, breakdowns wc: 3k series summary: a dark, twisted slowburn where obsession bleeds into desire. you're a true crime blogger. he's the masked stranger recreating your cases. dual povs, filthy tension, and cliffhangers sharp enough to scar. it’s not just stalking - it’s seduction. not just fear - it’s fascination. you wanted a story. he wanted you. now you’re both in far too deep.

♯ reader pov

but nothin' is better sometimes once we've both said our goodbyes let's just let it go let me let you go

the first thing you hear through your sleep-fogged brain is a loud, grating ring. shrill, insistent, slicing straight through the haze of your dreams like a blade.

you stir, groaning softly as your lashes flutter against the inky darkness bleeding in through your blinds. your limbs feel weighted, sunk deep into the warmth of your mattress. the sound drills on. you roll over, clumsily pawing at the sheets, eyes still half-shut. after a few sluggish, unfocused swipes, your fingers brush something smooth and buzzing beneath the covers.

your phone.

you fumble it into your hand, squinting as the brightness stings your vision. the screen swims into focus, your wallpaper blurred at the edges, distorted by sleep.

your brows twitch together as last night reassembles itself in pieces: soft light spilling over café tables, laughter dancing in the space between you and liam, the way he smiled when he walked you to your door. you’d crawled into bed still smiling, texting him back and forth until your eyes gave out.

but now, your eyes scan the time. the name that flashes across your screen.

chris.

your heart skips.

you haven’t heard from him since yesterday — not even a meme, not even a thumbs-up to your last text. and now he’s calling you in the pitch dark, during the slowest, deadest part of the night.

a sinking feeling starts blooming in your chest.

you press the phone to your ear, voice gravelly. “chris?”

he says your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.“fuck. thank god. i thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

his voice is hoarse, frantic, fraying at the edges like a live wire. every syllable punches out raw and rushed, like he’s barely breathing between them.

you sit up, tangled in blankets, pushing hair out of your face. “what… what happened?”

“did you read the news?” he spits the words like poison — bitter, fast, and panicked.

your stomach lurches. you pull the phone away just long enough to open your browser, tapping through the glare with unsteady fingers. the headline at the top, posted a mere thirty minutes ago ago, reads: killer strikes again.

your skin goes cold even though you knew this would happen. your fingers tremble slightly as you grip the phone tighter. “yeah, and? why’s this different?”

his voice breaks — not just a crack, but a collapse. “he killed matt’s girlfriend.”

your heart slams into your ribs.

matt.

chris’s triplet. the one you’d never met, but felt like you knew just from how chris talked about him: stories told with so much warmth, with a love that felt fierce and unshakable. you knew how much his brothers meant to him. how tightly they were all stitched together, a thread of something unbreakable running through them.

“fuck… i’m so sorry,” you whisper, voice tight. your chest aches like something sharp’s been lodged behind your ribs.

“i don’t know what to do…” chris chokes, his voice unraveling completely. “just fucked up… fuck…”

you can hear the sound of pacing — floorboards creaking beneath his weight, the rustle of fabric as he tugs at something. he’s spiraling, caught in a loop of disbelief and guilt and grief.

“chris,” you murmur, “breathe, okay? did you sleep at all? how’s matt?”

“didn’t sleep,” he rasps. “matt… he’s at the station. they’re questioning him.”

of course they are. he was the boyfriend. and in cases like this, the boyfriend always came first. it didn’t matter that he’d probably been alibied six ways from sunday — when people are scared, they want answers, and the cops would settle for anything that made the public feel safer.

“they won’t arrest him,” you say softly, even though the assurance rings a little hollow in your own ears. “they don’t have shit against him.”

“i know…” chris whispers. “but he’s gonna be wrecked. he loved her. morgan. more than anything. and now she’s just…”

gone. just like that. a name erased. a future severed.

you exhale slowly and start moving, sliding your legs over the side of the bed and feeling the chill bite at your bare skin.

“listen to me,” you say, voice steadying. “it’ll be okay. meet me at the station, we’ll—”

“no,” he cuts you off. fast. sharp. “not the station. just…”

you pause, the silence stretching. “…alright. i’ll be over in fifteen.”

you hang up before he can argue. before that breaking sound in his voice makes your own start to shake.

you move on instinct, stripping off your sleep shirt, pulling on jeans with trembling hands. the fabric feels rough against your skin. your shirt’s slightly wrinkled, but it doesn’t matter. you brush your teeth on autopilot, swiping your phone and keys on the way out.

the air outside your apartment is biting. it slaps your skin awake the second you step into the parking garage. the world is asleep. lights hum softly, cars sit silent. even the shadows feel heavier now.

your hands tremble as you start the car, adrenaline clawing through your veins like fire. your chest feels tight, your breath shallow. the city blurs past as you press your foot dangerously low on the gas — empty intersections, flickering traffic lights, dark storefronts. everything looks hollow, like it’s holding its breath.

chris’s house looms up fast. the driveway yawns like a mouth. you barely make it to the porch when the front door swings open.

and there he is.

shirtless. sweatpants hanging low, waistband of his boxers peeking out. his chest rises and falls too quickly, like he’s been running, or crying. maybe both. his eyes are bloodshot, dark circles carved deep beneath them. his lips are raw, bitten. his hair is a mess — finger-tangled and curling in places it usually isn’t.

he looks… wrecked. not just tired, not just upset, undone. he steps aside wordlessly. you walk in.

the house is dim. not dark — but dim in a way that feels eerie. wrong. like it’s grieving, too.

the kitchen is lit faintly. nick is passed out on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, a blanket half-slipped to the floor. his face is slack, mouth slightly open. soft snores echo in the silence like waves.

chris moves toward the kitchen, but his steps falter. he braces himself against the counter, head bowed so his hair hides his face.

“you shouldn’t have come alone,” he murmurs. his voice is low. splintered. “not after what happened.”

you glance at nick. “he fell asleep mid-convo?” you ask gently.

chris nods. “he tried to stay up… but he was wrecked.”

“you look worse.”

his lips twitch into a ghost of a smile, but it dies instantly. “they needed matt at the station. he didn’t even fight it. just… left. like he wasn’t even in his body.”

“how was he?” you ask softly.

“numb,” chris croaks. “like he couldn’t even process it. like he thought she was coming back.”

you step forward.

“i’m not ready to see him fall apart,” he whispers. “he told me… right before it happened, he told me he was gonna propose.”

your heart shatters in your chest.

and then he breaks.

he steps into you like he’s crashing into the ocean. no warning. no grace. just sudden, aching need. he collapses against your chest, arms curling tight around you, face burying into your shoulder. he clutches you like you’re the last thing he’s allowed to hold.

you wrap your arms around him without hesitation.

his skin is warm, damp with sweat. you rub slow circles into his back, whispering soft, meaningless things — anything to keep him tethered. his body shakes with silent sobs, each tremor racking through you like an aftershock.

you don’t let go. not when your shirt goes damp with his tears. not when your arms go numb. you hold him until the shaking slows. he peels away eventually. quietly. his face is unreadable now, wiped clean, but not calm.

“gonna shower,” he mutters. the words are thick. he won’t meet your eyes.

he disappears down the hallway like a ghost.

you exhale and turn to the kitchen, chest still tight. every part of you hums with adrenaline, but your hands are steady as you rinse a plate and begin scrubbing. the silence stretches long, but you keep going — because if you stop, you’ll think.

and if you think, you’ll remember this was your plan. you and chris had mapped it out. picked the area. baited the killer. and now morgan is dead. the guilt pulses deep and hard behind your sternum.

does chris blame you?

you don’t want to know.

so you clean. you tidy the kitchen. sweep the floor. stir pancake batter like it’s holy work. you move with practiced precision, sleeves pushed up, hair twisted into a clip, as the oven clock ticks on behind you like a countdown.

when nick stirs awake, you’re halfway through the second batch. he blinks at you groggily, confusion pulling at his puffy eyes.

“hey,” you say gently, trying not to startle him. “i’m chris’s friend. he called me after matt left.”

a lie, but one chris would want you to tell.

he looks at you like you’ve materialized from smoke. “why are you in my house?”

“chris needed someone,” you reply simply. “he’s in the shower.”

nick watches you for a long moment. then slumps back against the couch, defeated. drained. you plate the pancakes.

“made you breakfast,” you say softly. “eat while it’s hot.”

and for the first time in what feels like hours, the weight in the air lifts — just a little. enough to breathe.

finally, you hear footsteps echoing down the hallway. chris emerges, and your breath catches.

he’s wearing a soft baby blue hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show the tension in his forearms. paired with washed jeans and damp hair that falls messily over his forehead, he looks almost boyish—almost. the color of his hoodie matches his eyes so well it hurts. he’s clean-shaven now, his jaw stripped bare, but the hard lines of his brows are set in stone. he’s still wound tight.

he doesn’t meet your gaze.

“chris,” nick says, standing. there’s relief in his voice, like he’s been waiting for this moment just to make sense of it all. “who’s… this?”

chris explains, flatly, who you are. you try not to flinch. he hasn’t mentioned you before? not even your name? he’s been woven into your life like thread—and you, apparently, haven’t even left a scratch on his. the realization stings. makes your lungs feel too small. god, how desperate you must seem now.

“come on,” chris sighs at you, running a hand through his hair. “you didn’t have to do all this. seriously, did you clean the fucking house too?”

you brush a strand of hair off your face with a sheepish smile, nudging a steaming plate of pancakes forward. “it’s the least i could do. you guys are going through hell.”

nick tilts his head at you, something soft flickering in his expression. “i like her.”

“so do i,” chris says, but he’s not smiling—he’s staring. right into you.

you shift under the weight of it, your neck warming. “so what were you doing in the bathroom for all of eternity?”

“just needed a minute,” he mutters, voice low. “to breathe.”

his tone douses the room in silence again, grim and sticky. you exhale and clatter plates down a little too eagerly. “dig in,” you say brightly, pretending like you’re not unraveling inside.

you all eat—well, sort of. you scarf down pancakes like it’ll patch the hole in your chest. nick picks at his plate, untouched, claiming his stomach’s in knots. chris devours his like he’s starving, then keeps stealing bites from yours when he thinks you won’t notice.

there’s a strange, aching comfort in sitting with them. you feel like you’ve known them longer than a couple hours. maybe it’s the grief. maybe it’s the way their shoulders slope beneath the weight of it. the way their silence speaks more than words.

“—and nate said he’s gonna fly over for the funeral. we’ll be coming with him,” mary-lou’s voice crackles through the speaker of chris’s phone. her tone is trying to stay light, but you can hear it—the heaviness underneath.

chris fidgets constantly. cracking knuckles. bouncing his knee. nick’s lip is raw from chewing it.

“you’ll give him our numbers when he gets a new phone?” chris asks. “kid breaks his like it’s a sport.”

you then say a soft hello, introduce yourself. her voice wavers a little, but she’s kind. kind, and tired. chris hangs up, then nick’s phone buzzes.

he glances at it. stills. his eyes swim with something thick and unreadable. he flips the screen around, and you and chris lean in to read it.

MATT: coming home in twenty

chris lets out a breath like it’s the first one he’s taken all morning. you glance between them, unsure of what to say, suddenly aware of the way silence wraps around all three of you like static. you think of matt.

you’ve never even met him, and still, you ache. murdered girlfriend. hours of interrogation. the weight of reality gnawing at his throat. it’s cruel. it’s unfair. and it’s coming for him in twenty minutes.

you start clearing the plates, rinsing them under warm water. nick thanks you, and chris shoots you a quiet smile.

but then you hear nick, hushed and wary: “why’d you call her over at four in the morning? she’s practically a stranger. and why’s she doing every house chore?”

chris’s voice is low. “she’s not a stranger. i trust her. i just… needed someone.”

a beat.

“i think she needs something to preoccupy herself with.”

nick exhales hard and stands. chris follows him into the kitchen.

“i’m sorry,” nick says to you at the sink. “i wasn’t thinking straight. shouldn’t have let you do all this.”

“don’t worry about it,” you say, but you’re drained, and the warmth of the water has long since turned cold. you don’t put up a fight, wiping your hands with a rag. a brief moment of small talk follows. light, tired. and then the front door slams.

you freeze. everyone does. the thud of footsteps. you all hurry to the hall.

matt steps into view. his posture is slouched, his eyes sunken, his face pale. he looks like someone who’s just been told something impossible, and chose not to believe it.

“yo,” he greets, voice rough. then he sees you. “uh… hey?”

“hi,” you offer, voice small. “i’m chris’s friend.”

he nods, distracted, and goes straight for the fridge. grabs a root beer. cracks it open like it’s any other day.

and that’s what’s so terrifying. he’s pretending nothing happened.

chris edges toward him, slow. gentle. like he’s approaching something wild.

matt notices, frowns. “what’s with you guys?”

“matt…” chris whispers. it’s agonizing.

“yes, chris? can i help you?”

nick’s hand flies up to his mouth. tears spill silently.

matt sees it. his eyes narrow. “guys?”

“why are you acting like this?” chris says, his voice cracking.

“acting like what?” matt barks. “you guys are fucking scaring me.”

“stop,” chris pleads. “don’t do this.”

matt sets the can down. “what?”

“she’s gone, matt,” nick says, barely audible. “morgan.”

matt blinks. scoffs. “yeah. i know. i just spent all morning saying that. jesus.”

“no, matt,” nick breathes. “she’s gone for good. she’s dead.”

and something shifts. subtle but catastrophic. matt’s face twitches. his breath shortens, his hands curl into fists.

“no. not my morgan.”

chris recoils like he’s been slapped, one hand over his mouth. he looks… broken.

matt starts muttering, rifling through his pockets for his phone. “you’re fucking with me. stop. she was just texting me. look—see? look.”

he shoves his phone at nick. “we were supposed to watch a movie. she said she’d bring snacks. look.”

nick just shakes his head.

“you don’t understand,” matt rambles, smile trembling. “they said they’ll bring her back. the cops. they said—”

“they meant justice, matt,” nick whispers. “not… not her.”

matt laughs. one, hollow sound. then dials her number. puts the phone on speaker.

“morgan, baby. pick up.”

ring. “please, baby.” ring. “i need you.” ring. “i fucking need you.”

his voice breaks. the tears come fast. ugly. helpless. nick takes the phone. matt clutches at it like it’s air. like without it, he’ll stop breathing.

“she can’t be gone,” matt sobs. “tell me she’s okay. please. please.”

nick doesn’t speak. just pulls him close. matt fights it at first—claws at him, fists shaking—but then he breaks. slumps into his brother’s arms, wracked with sobs.

“i can’t,” matt gasps, chest heaving. “i can’t live without her. nick, i can’t. i need her—please, god—”

chris stands back, frozen. he looks like a ghost. like he wants to touch matt but doesn’t trust his own hands.

you watch, eyes stinging, tears slipping down before you even notice. your heart splinters quietly. and still, it doesn’t compare to what they’re feeling.

you wipe your cheeks, step away.

and leave behind a house that now nurses broken boys.

—

you tuck your phone away, already pushing it by texting liam mid-shift—something you've gotten scolded for more times than you can count. but honestly, you weren’t really present today. your hands moved on autopilot, tamping espresso, steaming milk, making nice with strangers, but your mind was somewhere else entirely.

truthfully, it hadn’t come back since last night. and after this morning, you weren’t sure it ever would.

the air is thick with the scent of burnt espresso and oat milk, familiar and suffocating all at once. you slip into the mechanical rhythm: shout the orders, pull the shots, fake the smiles. it’s slower than usual—people are keeping close to home because of the murders—but the early rush still has its usual caffeine-fueled edge.

you prepare the next drink, barely looking at the label as you carry it to the counter.

then you freeze.

your breath hitches. your fingers go cold.

you stare at the name written on the side of the cup.

“user 187,” you call, barely louder than a whisper. your voice cracks as you look up.

and there— stepping forward to grab the cup, eyes locked on yours—

liam.

find parts of this series here !

a/n: matt my poor baby :(

🏷: @drewswife @k4urltzx @courta13 @briizysturn @y2kstarr @chriscantwhisper @tezzzzzzzz @adorechris @dolliraez @rriverscuomo @sturnsblogs @mattspillowprincess @mattsplaything @sturns-mermaid @auttysturnz @sonnyangelsweetiee @izzylovesmatt @ribbonlovergirl @k4urltzx @matts-girlfriend @pair-of-pantaloons @444sturns @weron1ka @grrrrcherries @matts-wife @thicknick19 @slvtf0rchr1s @devotedlyteenagemusic @adoremattsturns @slut4chrisloads @cayleeuhithinknott @lyingbymalcom @sturniolo1trips @chrissbxby @alexisa78 @ariheartsmatt

divider by @anitalenia

this series is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. all characters, events, and dialogue are entirely fictional and should not be interpreted as real. any similarities to real people or events are purely coincidental. credit and respect to all creators who’ve inspired similar works before me. I claim ownership only over my original writing, ideas, and interpretations. please do not repost, plagiarize, or steal. reblogs and love are always appreciated.

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ayukas · 15 hours ago

Text

AS IF YOU STILL HOLD ME

there are a thousand quiet ways to hold on to someone. sometimes, it sounds like eggs sizzling in the morning. other times, it’s a ghost brushing their fingers along a jawline just before the tear falls—still loving in all the ways they no longer can.

pairing lee haechan x fem ghost!reader genre angst, fluff if you squint really really hard, hurt/comfort, ghost au!!! warnings grief, mentions of afterlife word count 961 notes this was originally sions fic but i decided to give it to hyuck instead because...... ill be going on a mini hiatus (BOOOOOO) so my goodbye piece Has to be for the loml right... question mark... looks around...

there is a quiet kind of beauty in being unseen. you learn to watch without interrupting, to love without expectation, to linger in moments that would otherwise pass unnoticed.

that is how you remain now—caught somewhere between memory and presence, tracing the outline of a life that used to intertwine with yours. a life you loved more than your own.

haechan still sings when he thinks no one can hear him.

his voice is perfect—soft around the edges, always pitch perfect even when he’s distracted. that morning, like so many others, you watched him shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, hair flattened on one side. he yawned as he reached for the pan, humming a song he must’ve heard on the radio the day before. he sang as he cracked eggs, danced a little in place while the bread toasted, tapping his foot against the cool kitchen tile.

you remembered mornings like these—only then, you’d be there in the doorway, wearing his oversized shirt and watching him fumble around half-asleep. he used to say you made the morning warmer. now you try to believe he doesn’t feel the cold.

he paused mid-song to glance at the clock, eyes widening as he muttered out a small curse. you followed him through the apartment as he darted back and forth, grabbing his glasses, his phone, then discarding his outfit for another.

he held up two jackets in front of the mirror, trying to decide between the casual black leather or the brown blazer he always wore for special occasions.

“you look good in both,” you said, out of habit.

of course, he didn’t hear you.

eventually, he settled on the blazer, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeves. his hand paused at his collar, fingers tracing the moles across his neck up along his face. he frowned.

the constellations scattered across his skin had always fascinated you—tiny stars forming secret shapes you once pretended only you could decipher. you remembered pressing your lips to them like sacred markers, whispering their meanings against his skin.

he tugged the collar higher.

he left the apartment in a rush, nearly tripping over the doormat. you couldn’t help but smile as he glanced around, playing it cool like always. no one saw.

except you.

the girl he met at the cafe was kind. pretty, with an easy smile and the sort of laugh that bubbled up from her chest. she complimented his outfit. he made a joke about mark always setting him up with people who liked coffee. she laughed again.

you hovered nearby, fingers twitching with the urge to fix the flyaway curl on his head, to lean on the table and join the conversation.

instead, you just watched as he tried—tried to be present, tried to enjoy the moment. but his smile never fully settled. he picked at the corner of his napkin, looked past her shoulder once too often. he nodded when she spoke, but his eyes drifted somewhere else.

you knew that look.

he used to wear it when he was lost in thought, usually about music or dinner or whether the cat in the neighbourhood had eaten that day. now it was a mask, barely hiding the ache beneath.

afterward, he walked her to the bus stop, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. he said goodbye with a polite smile, thanked her for her time, and waited until her bus left.

then he turned left instead of right.

you followed him, your heart heavy with familiarity.

he walked slowly, one hand brushing against the leaves as he passed. the sky above had softened into the hues of early evening—pale gold tinged with lavender. the light always looked gentler at this hour, like the world, too, had learned how to grieve quietly.

he reached the hill where the cemetery rested, tucked between old trees and wild grass. he stepped carefully, as if afraid to disturb the silence.

his breath caught when he saw the stone. your chest tightened.

your name. still etched there. still real.

he knelt, setting down a small bundle of tulips. yellow—your favourite. he adjusted them with care, fingers lingering longer than necessary. his eyes were glassy.

“i went on that date today,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “mark kept saying how it’d be good for me. you would’ve teased me for being nervous, though.”

he let out a soft chuckle—one that broke halfway—then clasped his hands together tightly in his lap. the wind rustled through the grass. your presence, quiet as always, moved closer.

“i miss you,” he whispered.

you reached out, trembling, forgetting for a moment that you don’t exist in the same way anymore. your hand hovered near his cheek, and then—maybe it was the wind, maybe it was more—he leaned into it.

just slightly.

he closed his eyes.

a single tear slid down his face. he didn’t wipe it away.

he stayed a while longer, talking to you about nothing and everything, like he used to do on long walks home. you listened, grateful. you’d always listen.

as the sky deepened, and the scent of his cologne lingered far too heavily in the air, he stood. he whispered goodbye, though he didn’t mean it. he never did.

and neither did you.

because love, when true, doesn’t end in silence or shadow. it lingers—in mumbled songs, in eggs and toast, in the yellow tulips left on a grave. in the ache behind a smile. in shared laughter with ghosts.

and when he dreams tonight, maybe—just maybe —you’ll find him there again, in that quiet space between sleep and memory, where time forgets to move and you can finally kiss away the sorrow from his eyes.

perm. taglist ♡ @dreaminabtrj @ddolbyong @f6llsun @egojo1st @sungbites @nonverdolly @strwberie @blondemrk @chenlezip @markkiatocafe @stqrgr7 @jisungji @taroddori @haeriaes @kukkurookkoo @polarisjisung @dudekiss3r @dejundesign @uncasings @sweetpinkblueberry @spacejip @yushiela @insbread @t-102 @haelvrty @pl4netx1a @haeivie @natakgae @fae-renjun @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemcaffe @xikskrrrs

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yvaineseleneposts · 12 hours ago

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Midnight on Ice

A/N: Next Wednesday there will be another requested piece! So look forward to that one. Also this has nothing to do with anything, but my students are off the hook. They always get like this the closer we get to summer but man...

Requested: no

Pairing: Jack Hughes x reader

Words: 5k

Warning(s): none

The invitation shimmered in your hand, embossed in silver and sealed with the crest of the NHL Players’ Foundation. It had arrived unexpectedly, slipped into your mailbox by mistake—or so you thought. But it had your name, your address, and something in your gut told you: this was meant to happen.

The ballroom was a dream come to life. Draped in velvet and crystal chandeliers, every guest in a mask, you felt anonymous yet alive. You wore a navy gown that sparkled faintly under the lights, your mask feathered and delicate, like something out of a fairytale.

Across the room, Jack Hughes adjusted his cufflinks, pretending not to be bored out of his mind. He hated events like these—forced smiles, small talk, and the weight of his last name. But tonight, something felt different.

He spotted you near the centre of the room, laughing softly as you tried a chocolate fountain, totally unaware of his gaze. You didn’t look like the kind of girl who craved the spotlight. That made you more intriguing than anyone else in the building.

“Mind if I cut in?” Jack asked, offering his hand as the music shifted to a waltz. You blinked, surprised, but accepted. His grip was warm, confident.

“I don’t really know how to dance,” you admitted.

“Good,” he grinned. “Neither do I.”

You danced anyway.

The two of you moved like you’d known each other longer than a single night. You talked about anything but hockey—your love for dogs, his obsession with terrible reality TV, your shared hatred for pineapple on pizza. You still didn’t know who he was behind the mask, but something in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were the only one in the room, made your chest ache in the best way.

“Why do I feel like I’m going to remember this night forever?” you whispered.

“Because I will too,” he said, almost under his breath.

But time, like magic, doesn’t stand still. The grand clock above the fireplace struck midnight. You panicked, remembering the train you had to catch, the early shift you couldn’t miss. You pulled away, apologizing.

“Wait!” he called, following you halfway across the ballroom. “I didn’t even get your name!”

You turned, heart pounding, and smiled behind your mask.

“Maybe you’ll find me,” you said.

Then you vanished into the night, leaving only the faint scent of jasmine and a silk ribbon from your mask caught in his fingers.

Jack stared after you, stunned. He didn’t even know what city you were from but he’d find you. Because even NHL stars believe in magic sometimes.

The days following the charity ball were a blur of interviews, practices, and endless media obligations for Jack. But no matter where he went or how many questions he answered, his mind kept drifting back to that night—to you. The girl with the soft laugh, the sparkling eyes, the one who made him feel like he was just a regular guy, not a hockey star.

He couldn’t get over it. He hadn’t even gotten your name.

But he had your mask. It was tangled in his coat pocket, wrapped in the ribbon you left behind. The small, intricate feathers still held your scent—jasmine and something sweet, like sugar cookies. It felt like a secret he was desperately trying to hold on to.

For weeks, Jack couldn’t stop thinking about you. He tried searching through the guest list of the ball, but the invitation only listed a vague address for the location of the event, no names. His teammates teased him, calling him "the mystery girl hunter," but they didn’t understand. He had to find you. He just had to.

One evening, as he sat in the locker room after practice, Jack's phone buzzed. His fingers hovered over the screen as he saw a familiar notification pop up: the NHL Players’ Foundation had posted pictures from the charity event.

He scrolled through, scanning the photos of glamorous guests, but then he saw something. A picture of the ballroom, mid-dance, and there you were. He could see the curve of your gown, the way your mask caught the light.

Jack’s heart skipped a beat. He clicked on the image and zoomed in. There it was again—the ribbon you had left behind, still caught in the folds of your dress. It was you.

But the caption under the photo was more helpful than he’d hoped—it listed a few donors who had attended, some names Jack didn’t recognize, but there was one person whose name stood out: Y/N L/N.

He froze. He finally had a name. The woman who had haunted his thoughts was real. You were real.

The next day, Jack pulled up your name on social media, hoping to find a trace of who you were. Your profile was modest—no flashy selfies or over-the-top posts, just a few pictures of you with friends, your dog, and an occasional throwback to a family vacation.

He felt a little relief seeing that you weren’t some unattainable socialite. You were grounded. And in a world that always felt a little too loud, Jack found that incredibly refreshing.

He saw a post where you’d tagged the foundation, mentioning the charity ball. There, in the comments, was a simple line from you: “Grateful to have been part of such a wonderful cause.”

He smiled to himself.

A few days later, Jack stood outside the café you’d tagged in one of your recent photos. He was nervous—he’d been to dozens of media events, and the spotlight didn’t phase him. But this? This was different. He wasn’t playing for the camera. He was trying to find a real connection.

When the door chimed and you walked in, Jack's breath caught in his throat. You wore jeans and a simple sweater, your hair cascading in soft waves down your back. You didn’t wear your mask, but for some reason, you looked just as magical.

You saw him, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Jack took a deep breath and stood up, his heart racing.

“Hi,” he said, a little awkward, but with a smile that was all warmth. “I’m Jack.”

You froze for a second, then smiled softly. “I know.”

He was stunned. “You... do?”

“Yeah,” you said, walking toward him slowly. “You left quite an impression that night. I... I was hoping you’d find me.”

Jack felt a wave of relief, mixed with a burst of happiness he didn’t know he needed. “I was kind of hoping for that too.”

You laughed, and that sound—it was just as beautiful as he remembered. “What made you come here?” you asked, sitting down across from him.

“I wasn’t sure how to start,” Jack admitted, “but when I saw your name in the comments, I figured this was as good a place as any.”

“I’m glad you did,” you replied, giving him a soft look. “I didn’t expect to meet you again.”

"Yeah, neither did I," he chuckled. Then, in a quieter voice, "But I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. About you."

A comfortable silence fell between you, neither of you needing to rush to fill the space. It felt as though you’d known each other for years, and suddenly, everything clicked.

“You’re not like the others,” Jack said softly, leaning forward. “You made me feel like I wasn’t just... Jack Hughes. You made me feel like just Jack.”

You smiled. “I think I know what you mean.”

For the first time in a long time, Jack didn’t feel like he was living in the public eye. He felt like he was finally seen for who he truly was—a guy who was just trying to find someone who understood him.

“I’d like to get to know you,” Jack said, “properly this time. Without the masks.”

You smiled back, a glimmer of hope in your eyes. “I’d like that too, Jack.”

Days turned into weeks, and what began as a night of magic and mystery slowly turned into something deeper. Jack found himself looking forward to every second spent with you, from quiet walks in the park to midnight ice-skating sessions. It wasn’t just the star athlete meeting a fan—it was two people, finding their way through life, connecting in a world that always felt a little too fast.

But as the season went on, Jack realized something he’d never known about himself before—he wasn’t just chasing a fleeting fantasy. He was chasing something real. Something worth holding on to. And with you by his side, he felt like he was finally living the fairytale.

The days that followed Jack’s spontaneous visit to the café were a blur of nervous energy and new beginnings. At first, it felt like a whirlwind—just the two of you, getting to know each other in little stolen moments, always a quiet hum in the back of your mind, knowing that something was blossoming that felt completely natural and yet utterly extraordinary.

You’d find yourself laughing with Jack in a way that felt entirely effortless. Whether it was watching him awkwardly fumble through cooking dinner in your small apartment, or on the ice, where he tried to teach you how to skate but kept tripping over his own feet, the connection you shared was undeniable.

But as the weeks passed, the reality of Jack’s life began to settle in. He was an NHL star, constantly under the spotlight. His life was filled with endless games, media obligations, and travel that stretched across the country. You found yourself wondering whether it was possible to keep something real and beautiful alive in the midst of all the chaos.

One evening, Jack invited you to one of his games. It was a typical rink—cold, packed with excited fans, and charged with the electric energy of competition. The arena buzzed, and you took your seat, your eyes scanning the crowd. But your heart wasn’t in the atmosphere of the game; it was entirely focused on him.

You’d seen Jack’s skills on TV, but seeing him live—he was mesmerizing. The way he moved on the ice, the speed and precision with which he handled the puck—it was like watching poetry in motion. But what struck you most was how he always seemed to be looking toward the stands, as if searching for you in the crowd. It warmed your chest, knowing that he was as eager to see you as you were to see him.

After the game, Jack found you amidst the sea of fans, his smile wide and genuine. “Did you see that goal?!” he asked excitedly, as if the game had been a personal victory, not just another notch in his successful career.

“You were incredible, Jack,” you said, grinning. “You made it look so easy.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I’m a little out of practice, but I’ll take the compliment.” He gave you a playful wink and offered his hand. “Dinner? I’ve got a craving for something that isn’t just pizza or fast food.”

“Sounds perfect,” you agreed, taking his hand, warmth spreading up your arm as he led you away from the crowds, just the two of you, outside the glare of cameras.

As you sat in the quiet, dimly lit restaurant, Jack couldn’t help but study you. He was used to all sorts of attention—cheering fans, flashing cameras, glowing lights—but there was something about being here with you, sharing these quieter moments, that made everything else feel less important.

“Y/N,” he started, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately. I don’t know how we keep doing this—keeping it so... normal.”

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “I like the normal, Jack. It’s the real stuff. The moments we get to have without everything else distracting us.”

“I know,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “But sometimes I feel like I’m living in two different worlds. There’s hockey, the spotlight... and then there’s this—us. And I don’t know if you want to keep doing this while I’m constantly traveling, being in the media...”

You took his hand gently across the table. “Jack,” you whispered. “I don’t care about the media, or the schedule, or any of it. I care about you. And I’m here for all of it, if you’ll have me.”

The sincerity in your words stopped Jack dead in his tracks. He hadn’t expected you to understand, to be so real in a world that so often felt fake. But here you were—this person, sitting across from him, looking at him with warmth and trust, offering him a chance to have something real.

“I don’t know what the future holds,” he said, his voice barely audible. “But I’m willing to find out... with you.”

As the season progressed, Jack found the balancing act more challenging. There were days when he couldn’t be with you because of away games or media commitments. There were nights when you would send him texts, wishing him good luck, and he’d reply with a single heart emoji.

But in those rare, quiet moments when he was home, with no cameras or reporters to please, Jack would drive you to the rink at midnight. He’d grab your hand and skate with you under the glow of the overhead lights, skating just the two of you in the empty rink. It was moments like these that made all the noise and chaos of the world seem distant, as if nothing mattered except for this connection between you.

One evening, as you skated together, Jack pulled you to the centre of the rink, breathless, the cold air hanging around you both like a secret. He stopped and held you in the middle, his fingers curling around your waist, his eyes locked onto yours with the intensity of someone who had made a decision.

“I know we’re taking this one day at a time, Y/N,” he began, his voice barely more than a whisper against the silence of the rink. “But I want you to know that I’m in this... for the long haul. Whatever happens, wherever this takes us, I’m with you.”

You smiled, your heart full, knowing he meant every word.

“I’m with you too, Jack,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Every step of the way.”

And in that moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade. All that mattered was the two of you, together, sharing something real in the quiet of the rink—their own fairytale, still unfolding.

A few months later the media had begun to take notice of Jack's new relationship. At first, there were whispers, speculation about who you were. But Jack never shied away from it. He wasn’t hiding you anymore. The story of the NHL star and the girl who didn’t care about the fame? It was one that Jack wanted the world to know about.

And when Jack’s team made it to the playoffs, there was no hesitation. You were sitting in the stands, front and centre, cheering him on as the crowd roared around you. But there was something else—whenever Jack scored, whenever he landed an assist, or even just when he looked your way in the crowd, he was playing for something beyond the game. He was playing for you.

The days after Jack's declaration of commitment felt like a dream. You both fell into a rhythm, adjusting to the highs and lows of his career. The distance wasn’t easy—there were times when he was on the road for games, times when you missed each other so much it physically ached. But when he was home, the world outside the two of you seemed to disappear.

It was the small moments that made everything worth it: Jack calling you on his off-days when he was lying on his couch, bored and craving a familiar voice; you sending him playlists of songs that reminded you of him—songs that played softly when you cooked dinner in your apartment. It wasn’t about the grand gestures, but the quiet, simple ways you both made each other feel known and cherished.

It was a particularly chilly night when you found yourself once again sitting in the stands at one of Jack’s home games. The New Jersey Devils had been on a hot streak, and the energy in the arena was electric. The fans were roaring, and you could barely hear yourself think as they cheered for their star player.

But amidst all the noise, your attention was focused solely on Jack, his dark eyes scanning the stands briefly before locking on yours. There was a moment of connection, a silent acknowledgment that felt like everything in the world had just paused.

Then, as if to confirm that connection, Jack did something unexpected. In the middle of the game, when the puck was just a blur of motion, Jack took a shot, scoring a beautiful goal that had the crowd erupting into applause.

He skated toward the boards, raised his stick in the air, and then, in one bold, spontaneous move, pointed straight to you.

The crowd went wild. The arena filled with shouts, but you barely heard them. Your heart skipped a beat as your face flushed with heat, the recognition of the moment crashing over you. You knew it wasn’t just a goal he was celebrating. He was celebrating you.

You sat there, stunned, watching as Jack flashed you a smile so genuine, so full of affection, that it made the rest of the world fade into the background. The message was clear: this was no longer just a secret. This was real.

Later that night, Jack texted you: "I scored that goal for you. Every single time I look at you, it feels like I'm winning."

Your heart melted at the words, the simplicity of it, and the sincerity behind them. It wasn’t about the headlines, or the victories. It was about him and you, together, in this crazy whirlwind of life.

But not all moments were perfect. With the season in full swing, Jack’s schedule became increasingly hectic. One afternoon, he’d called you, his voice tense, a rare crack in his usually calm demeanour.

“Y/N, I—uh, I think I’m going to have to cancel tonight. I’ve got a meeting, and they’re pulling me in a thousand different directions.”

You tried to hide your disappointment, your fingers curling around the phone. “It’s okay, Jack. I understand. You’ve got a lot going on.”

“No, I—” He paused, his voice softening. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to cancel. I just... I wish I could be in two places at once.”

It was moments like these when you had to remind yourself that while Jack’s career was demanding, his heart was with you. “We’ll figure it out,” you said with a quiet smile. “I’m always here when you need me. You’ve got enough people pulling at you. I don’t want to add pressure.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice full of relief. “But I still want to make time for you. You’re important to me.”

The next day, Jack had a surprise for you. After his practice, he showed up at your door—on his bike, with his jersey on and a big grin on his face. You laughed as you opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, surprised.

He shrugged, unbothered by the chilly breeze. “I had some free time. And I figured, what better way to spend it than with you?”

Before you could respond, he gently pulled you outside, towards the backyard of your apartment building, where a small rink had been set up for the residents. You blinked in surprise—had someone else done this?

Jack grinned as he handed you a pair of skates. “You said you wanted to learn, right? I figured this was a good opportunity to give it another try.”

“Jack, you’re crazy,” you laughed, eyeing the rink. “You just got off the ice. You’re exhausted.”

But Jack was already strapping his own skates on, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m not the one who’ll be falling all over the place. Ready to try again?”

With a deep breath, you agreed, and together you glided onto the rink, Jack’s arms steadying you as you found your footing. He was patient, guiding you with careful steps as you both laughed in the chilly night air. The simple joy of skating under the stars, with Jack by your side, made you feel as though the world had slowed down for just a moment.

As the weeks went by, their relationship became even more intertwined. Jack was still the NHL star everyone adored, but when he was with you, he was just Jack—the guy who loved spending quiet nights cooking dinner with you, the one who showed up at your apartment unexpectedly with a cup of coffee and a sheepish grin.

The media may have been constantly at his heels, but the truth was, he didn’t mind it when it meant he could share a quiet evening with you. You weren’t a distraction—you were his anchor.

But life in the public eye meant that there were always new challenges. Rumors swirled about Jack’s personal life, people speculating about who you were and whether this was just a fleeting romance. There were nights when you saw headlines questioning your relationship, calling it “just another fling,” and it made you wonder if the world would ever understand what you and Jack shared.

On one of those nights, after seeing a particularly hurtful headline, you sat quietly on your couch, staring at your phone. Jack had caught wind of it through his team, and you knew what was coming next. He came over that night, his face serious but his eyes soft, as he sat next to you, placing his hand over yours.

“Y/N…” He trailed off, not sure how to phrase what he was feeling. “I know this isn’t easy. The public side of things—it’s not always the dream everyone thinks it is.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in your eyes clear. “Jack, I’m not afraid of the headlines. I’m not afraid of what people say about us. I care about you, and that’s all that matters.”

He nodded slowly, a relief washing over him. “I’m glad you’re saying that, because I feel the same way. We’re in this together.”

And you were. Together, through the noise, the pressure, and the uncertainty, you found a love that was undeniable, even when the world seemed intent on pulling you apart.

A few months later, just before the playoffs, Jack knelt down on the rink after the team’s final practice before the playoffs, the weight of the season bearing down on him. The crowd outside the arena was already beginning to gather, the anticipation thick in the air.

But his heart wasn’t on the game. It was on you. He had a ring in his pocket.

The playoffs were in full swing, the excitement and pressure of every game mounting as Jack’s team fought for a spot in the finals. The arena was electric with the sound of thousands of fans chanting and cheering, the intensity of the competition unlike anything you had ever experienced.

But despite the noise, the lights, and the high stakes of the game, Jack’s mind was elsewhere. Every time he stepped on the ice, he found himself thinking of you. You had become his constant, his grounding force in a world that often felt too fast and too loud. The way you made him laugh when he needed it most, the way you supported him through every win and loss, the way you believed in him, even when the world doubted.

It wasn’t just about hockey anymore. It was about you.

The night before Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals, the team had a brief meeting, followed by a light practice session. The pressure was on, but Jack knew what he had to do. There would be no distractions, no second thoughts. He had made up his mind weeks ago, and now it was time.

You were sitting in the stands, as you always did, giving him your quiet, unwavering support. He spotted you through the crowd, your eyes locked onto his, your smile soft and full of trust. And at that moment, he knew this was right. He didn’t need any more validation from the world. He needed you, and that was enough.

After practice, as the team dispersed and the arena began to empty out, Jack made his way to the locker room, his thoughts racing. His teammates could tell something was different, but they didn’t ask. They were used to Jack’s quiet intensity before a big game, but this was different.

Jack quickly showered and threw on his hoodie, but instead of heading straight for the team bus like everyone else, he pulled out his phone and sent you a quick text: “Meet me at the rink? I’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t ask questions. You knew Jack well enough to understand that when he asked for time alone with you, it was something important.

When you arrived at the rink, the lights were dimmed low, the arena nearly empty except for a few staff members wrapping things up. Jack stood near the centre of the ice, his skates laced up and his hands in his pockets. As soon as you walked in, his eyes found you instantly, his whole demeanour softening.

You smiled at him, walking down to meet him at the boards. “I thought you’d be resting for tomorrow's game?”

He chuckled, a nervousness in his voice that you hadn’t heard before. “I couldn’t rest, not with this on my mind.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on, Jack?”

Jack took a deep breath, and for the first time, he seemed a little uncertain. But then, he smiled that familiar grin—the one that had stolen your heart all those months ago.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” he started, his voice steady now. “About how this whole thing started—how we met at that ball, how everything felt like a fairy tale. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized something.”

You felt a wave of warmth spread through you, your heart quickening as you took a step closer to him. “What’s that?”

He knelt down onto one knee, and your breath caught in your throat as his eyes locked onto yours with unwavering sincerity.

“Y/N, these past months with you have been the best of my life. I’ve played in front of thousands of people, achieved dreams I never thought possible, but nothing—nothing—compares to the feeling I have when I’m with you. You make me feel like I can be me, without all the pressure, without the cameras. You’ve given me something real in a world that’s often far from it.”

Your chest tightened, your eyes starting to well up as the reality of what was happening settled in. But Jack wasn’t done yet.

“I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not a part of it. So,” he took a deep breath, “Y/N L/N, will you marry me?”

You froze. The world seemed to stop for a moment. The noise of the arena, the bustling of staff, even the ice beneath your feet—everything faded away, leaving just you and Jack. The man who had not only captivated your heart but made you believe in the kind of love you’d always dreamed of.

You nodded, a smile breaking through your stunned expression as your voice shook slightly. “Yes. Yes, Jack, I will.”

Jack’s face lit up, and he carefully slipped the ring onto your finger—a simple, elegant design, the diamond catching the light from the dimmed arena lights. He stood up, pulling you into his arms as the two of you shared a kiss that sealed everything—your love, your promise, your future.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. The team’s playoff journey continued, but Jack had a new focus. When he wasn’t on the ice, he was planning, talking to you about your wedding, about how to make it special, even amidst the chaos of his career. You made the decision to keep things small, intimate, just close family and friends, away from the media circus.

The night of Game 7 arrived. The arena was louder than it had ever been, the tension thick in the air. But Jack felt a calmness that had eluded him in previous games. His heart was full, and no matter what happened on the ice, he had everything he needed.

As the game ended with a nail-biting victory for the Devils, Jack felt the weight of his dream coming true. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was your voice, your support, your love.

That night, as the team celebrated, Jack found you amidst the chaos of victory. He pulled you close, his lips pressing softly against your forehead.

“I don’t care what happens tomorrow, or the next day, or a year from now,” Jack whispered. “As long as you’re with me, nothing else matters.”

You smiled up at him, your heart full as the sound of the crowd cheered around you.

“I’m with you, Jack. Always.”

And in that moment, everything felt perfect. They were no longer just two people trying to make it work in a world that demanded so much from them. They were a team, ready to face whatever the future held, together.

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cami040405 · 2 days ago

Note

Vincent Sinclair courting headcannons but the reader does not know asl and tries to, but it’s very hard for her to be interested in it? Maybe they text each other? You can choose the genre

Vincent Sinclair Courting Headcannons

Summary: Vincent Sinclair quietly courts you, you struggle to learn ASL despite wanting to communicate with him. Though frustrated by your slow progress, you continues to try, and you rely on texts, sketches, and small gestures to connect.

A/N: I loved writing this request, imagining how Vincent Sinclair would communicate with the reader. I found this approach interesting because in my story, Between Art And Silence, Vincent speaks. If you want to check it out, the link is in the text.

When Vincent first starts to court you, he tries to communicate mostly through body language and gestures — soft touches on the arm, a hand held out to guide you somewhere, or leaving little sketches for you to find.

He doesn’t expect you to know ASL at all — in fact, he seems almost guilty or hesitant to use it in front of you, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

Bo teases him, of course: “Tryin’ to woo someone who can’t even read your love notes, huh?” But Vincent shrugs it off, used to being misunderstood — until you try.

You suggest texting. Vincent doesn’t like technology much, but for you? He adapts.

He keeps his old, beat-up phone charged just so you two can have late-night text conversations. He’s not wordy, but his messages are always careful and intentional.

“Did you eat today?”“You looked sad. Want me to sit with you?”“The stars are out. Thought of you.”

You try. You really do. But ASL doesn’t come naturally to you — the grammar feels strange, and your hands just don’t move the way you want them to.

Sometimes you mess up signs badly enough that he chuckles silently and gently corrects you, guiding your hands with his own, warm fingers. It’s frustrating — not because he’s impatient (he never is), but because you want to understand him better. Still, it’s hard to stay interested when your brain just doesn’t click with it.

Vincent notices right away. He sees the tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes dart away in embarrassment after a failed attempt. He never pressures you. Instead, he starts drawing more — sketching out how he feels, what he wants to say, or what he notices about you. You have an entire drawer full of little drawings he’s made just for you.

Sometimes he’ll use one hand to sign something simple and the other to type it on his phone — a hybrid method that eases the burden for you.

Vincent expresses love in actions: brushing your hair behind your ear, fixing a squeaky cabinet in your room without asking, leaving your favorite tea beside your bed. He sometimes signs I love you slowly, just so you’ll recognize it. Even if you can't respond in ASL, you always press his hand to your cheek, showing that you know. One night, you sign something almost right — “You’re beautiful,” maybe — and he just stares at you like you hung the moon, his face flushing under his mask.

You might not become fluent in ASL, and that’s okay. Vincent never wanted perfection from you. He just wanted your effort — and you gave him your heart, one crooked sign and midnight text at a time.

You sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, a pit growing quietly in your stomach as you stared at the screen.

Your latest attempt at learning ASL had ended with a migraine and three nearly-broken fingers from accidentally jamming them trying to mimic a video. The app had long been closed. You were done for the night.

The silence in Ambrose was heavy, as always, broken only by the low hum of the cooling fan in Vincent’s workshop down the hall. He had texted you an hour ago:

“Working. Come by when you’re tired. Want you near.”

You had smiled when you saw it. He rarely typed that much.

Still, you couldn’t help but feel like a disappointment. It had been weeks, and you could barely manage the alphabet. Meanwhile, Vincent was patient — too patient — like he knew you’d give up eventually and was already forgiving you for it.

A soft knock on your door.

Not Bo. Too gentle.

You opened it to find Vincent, mask reflecting the faint glow of the hallway light, tall and silent. He held a sketchpad in one hand and his phone in the other. He tilted his head.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He nodded once, then tapped on his phone.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside and let him in. He smelled faintly of wax and pine, and the sleeves of his long shirt were pushed up, revealing pale arms marred with old scars and dried streaks of charcoal.

He sat on the floor, cross-legged like always, and you joined him.

You watched his hands carefully as he began to sign something — slow, deliberate. You caught maybe one word. “You…”

“Wait.” You reached for your phone and typed:

“I don’t know what you said. I’m sorry.”

He read it, then looked at you. There was no disappointment in his eyes, no hint of judgment — only that quiet depth he always carried, something heavy and old and kind.

He pulled his sketchpad into his lap and flipped it open.

The drawing was simple — the two of you sitting together, knees touching, your head leaned gently on his shoulder. Your face was wrong — lopsided, eyes too big — but you recognized the moment. It had been three days ago. He’d remembered.

You blinked back the sting in your eyes.

“I’m trying,” you whispered. “I just… it’s hard.”

He nodded. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands and signed something else.

You didn’t get it. Not all of it. Maybe “feel” or “you”. Something about safe. But you couldn’t be sure.

Your hands lifted without thinking. You fumbled to shape a sign you’d practiced — badly — one you hoped you wouldn’t screw up again.

You signed “beautiful”, aiming it toward him.

Vincent froze.

Not like he was offended. More like… stunned. Like he didn’t understand the word could ever apply to him.

He reached slowly and took your hand — large, warm fingers wrapping around yours, guiding them, correcting the shape gently.

You laughed nervously. “I messed it up, didn’t I?”

He shook his head. Then, he signed again — slowly, so you could follow.

“I love you.”

Three motions. You’d seen them before, sure, but never directed at you. Not like this. Not from him.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t know how to sign it back.

So instead, you leaned forward and pressed his hand to your cheek, closing your eyes.

He held still.

He didn’t pull away.

And in the silence that followed, in the soft weight of his fingers against your skin, you realized that love wasn’t always spoken — not in words, or even in perfect signs.

Sometimes, it was drawn.

Sometimes, it was typed out awkwardly at midnight.

And sometimes, it was felt in the gentle way someone stayed, even when you didn’t know how to say “I love you” the right way.

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sanesaviour · 17 hours ago

Text

yeah I think I did well this time

Flash Thompson finally

I was avoiding drawing him for so long bc I’m scared of drawing more buff characters lol but I think I nailed it

Headcanons:

1. uses humor to mask his insecurities, his over the top confidence and insults are defense mechanism, he is afraid of being seen as weak, but secretly feels inferior to his peers, he is jealous how successful people are - for example Peter and Ava are probably smartest people at school, Harry insanely rich and popular, MJ works at DBC, so it sometimes feels that everyone is better than him

2. always wanted to be hero deep down, despites being bully he really wishes that he could be like Spiderman, brave, selfless and admired… before becoming agent venom he lowkey thought he could be Spiderman’s sidekick lol

3. has complicated relationship with his parents, mainly with his father, which fuels some of his aggression and need for attention… he spends only little time at his home actually

4. has no idea Peter is spidey but after he’d finds out he’d go through every emotion - betrayed, amazed, furious, then proud… eventually, he’d brag that he always knew (he didn’t)… after that he would become more friendly towards peter and be protective of him… sometimes he would invite him to parties but pretend it was accident like “you are here? whatever, don’t embarrass yourself”

5. he genuinely likes MJ, he actually listens to her when she talks about justice or doing right thing, it lot of times stick with him… also he would try to impress her by bragging about his Spiderman expertise,… she’d be unimpressed

6. him and Harry would be okay around each other, not friends but they wouldn’t mind each others presence, they wouldn’t really talk at school but they often meet randomly at parties so they kinda know things about each other… he is bit jealous of Harry’s wealth and his fancy style in general but not that much he would hate him for it,… they are kinda rivals I would say but it more passive way… also during period of time where Harry would loose venom and before flash getting to it (the time when Harry would distance himself from everyone) he would notice and be bit worried about him

7. even tho he don’t like much Peter and ultimates at time they are new at school, after while he kinda befriends Luke (since they both like sports and gym they would kinda get along),… also when Peter’s words about not bullying others doesn’t work on him Peter sends Luke to scold Flash bc he knows he might actually listen to Luke… Luke would be just like: “man we already talked about this- not cool”

8. on the other hand after sam finds out Peter doesn’t like flash he immediately tries to befriend him, just to piss him off… but- flash sees sam as same loser as peter is, and he would definitely pick up on him too… but later on they would bound over making fun of Peter

9. this might be bit controversial BUT- I think he is totally intimidated by Ava but also thinks she is cool… he’s tried to flirt, tried to hide it with teasing and bragging and failed miserably… after that he just gives her very awkward thumbs up when she walks by

10. this will be no surprise but - he thinks Danny is weird, in his eyes he is loser number 3 to Peter and Sam lol, he would try to pick up on him too, but after he’d be paired up with Danny during P.E. for wrestling, and loosing to him during 5 seconds he would never ever try to make fun of him again

yep that’s all for now, enjoy

#usm #ultimate spider man #marvel #spiderman #usm 2012 #ultimate spiderman 2012 #fanart #character sheet #flash thompson #agent venom #sanesaviour #my art

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voiider · 2 days ago

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thinking about Reverse Robins with Red Hood Steph and Oracle Tim

and his best friend (almost girlfriend) died and it was Batman's Fault. I'm thinking Tim was a Friend Behind The Scenes like he figured out who Damian and Bruce were somehow and also met Steph when she was starting out as spoiler, and maybe he's the one who pushes her into being Robin bc Batman hasn't been the same since Damian left to be Nightwing in Bludhaven. So he feels guilty bc the joker killed her and he's the one who told her to be Robin but Batman is the one who's supposed to look out for Robin in the first place!

And Oracle would've been a name they came up with together and he would help her on cases and give her and Batman information and tip off the police sometimes. So Bruce knew Steph had a friend that helped out but never found a good time to address the possible leak.

And then at Stephanie's funeral one Timothy Drake accosts him. Crying and beating his chest and saying "it's your fault you were supposed to protect her" and Bruce doesn't know how to react because he wasn't aware Tim Drake and Stephanie (Almost Wayne) knew each other. But I think he'd connect the dots even if he doesn't say anything because it's the least he can do after letting Stephanie die.

And Tim who tries his best to avenge his best friend goes after The Joker himself, knowing he can't expect The Batman to kill. Not even for Stephanie. And it almost works but Batman shows up and tries to stop him and the Joker gets away and Tim is impaled by Something (rebar, pipe, crowbar idk) and has to get a splenectomy <3

(Raye is in my chat as we speak doing research on Post-sepsis syndrome (PSS) and overwhelming post splenectomy infection (OPSI) for me)

So he stays in his clock tower where he can make sure everything is sterilized because he is excessively immunocompromized and he takes his meds and he watches from behind his hundreds of screens. Mitigating his symptoms as best he can as he keeps an eye on the new Robin and the whole of Gotham.

Is he pissed there's a new Robin? Yeah ofc. But By God he will not let another Robin die. So he's helping on coms and keeping an eye on things as best he can and Jason is like "B literally who the fuck is this". And Bruce WON'T TELL HIM (because he doesn't know? Unsure) all B will say is that "You can trust Oracle." which is pretty sus even coming from Batman.

I think the relationship between Tim and Damian would be interesting esp if Damian wasn't a great older brother/mentor to Steph. So Damian is telling Jason NOT to trust Oracle under any circumstance and Bruce is telling him it's okay, and Oracle is helping him out but is all pissy about it so he is getting the most mixed signals of all time.

And then the Red Hood shows up. Starts taking out gang members. Delivers a bag full of heads to the leaders in order to threaten her way to power. Wages war against Black Mask and the Penguin in less than a week.

Declares Crime Alley as Her's (which is totally unfair to Robin who lived there and still visits regularly) and starts taking out the trash.

The Joker is still alive and Batman has replaced her as Robin, it doesn't matter if Steph knows that Talia was manipulating her that still hurts. What's worse? Steph's best friend is nowhere to be found. His parents died a year or so back, his old house is sold to new owners, and Timothy Drake has dropped out of the public view.

#ted talks #could be tim/steph but! also i love them as ride or die friends #batman #batfam #reverse robins #stephanie brown #tim drake #dc

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timothyclare · 3 days ago

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can't sleep for the life of me so have HSR Headcanons (except i don't care about anything so they're completely raw and almost all transgenderism)

underneath cut is headcanons huzzah

robin is a hyperfemme transmasc to me. he's feminine, but in a boyish way, and he's never been able to take control of his own femininity and express it in a way that is his own, due to the whole Idol Life thing. he/she prns. i also think robin has hEDS. because

gepard landau is a trans woman to me. a deeply repressed trans woman. her relationship with gender, expectations, her family legacy, and the eyes on her in her position as silvermane captain force her to constantly feel like she's wearing the skin of someone who she isn't; she feels a pain, a sense of wrongness in her chest that threatens to doom her. i also! think that she's got a really cool skin tone and cheeks/ears/a nose that blush/turn BRIGHT red in the belobog cold and make her look like an elf.

sampo koski is bigender and also. brazilian. to me. sampo is simultaneously a man and a woman and can present as either at any given time, though she does get antsy if she's been solely presenting as one or the other for a while. mixing it up is just so fun !! also, he definitely has thick, sturdy hands, calloused from constant use but well-taken care of and well-manicured.

transfem phainon ‼️ i feel it in my bones. she's so. mmmmm idk how to describe it. or explain it. she and mydei being t4t is great, but not my main reason at all. i think that. mm. something. expectations. something. ill-fitting forced masculinity. something. hating the name "golden boy". also, i hc her as having near-constant sunburns, always forgetting sunblock when she trains under the sun for hours.

aglaea. i hc her as having much more tan skin, and that she sometimes has moments of pause where she sees it and considers the scars that she holds all over her body. the scars of the flame-chase war that still rages are not victim to the surface-level veneer of perfection that she holds as the holder of the coreflame of beauty. idk this thought is vague. also she def gets chronic fatigue

yanqing and yunli both being trans is v important 2 me. idk why. something about the way in which they resemble and contrast each other, something something finding common ground, yeah

it's barely a headcanon-- heavily coded and implied in the text-- but aventurine is rroma. i also hc him as being autistic, highest masking you've ever seen. he has a collection of playing cards that he keeps at peir point that is probably the biggest in the galaxy. also, i think he gets chronic joint pain in his hands from how much he uses them.

argenti is autistic. to me. so very much so. he has a daily ritual of cleaning and storing his armor, taking care of his skin and hair, and then doing it again in the morning before putting the armor back on to start his day. if he has that routine, he can handle pretty much anything that the universe throws at him. if his routine is messed with... it gets rough. he's the type to have shutdowns more than meltdowns, i think. also, i hc that he has freckles, a tan, and a tooth gap that he wears a retainer to combat.

acheron is auDHD and a trans woman. i think that due to IX and memory loss, she's kinda forgotten the latter part. peaches, as the only food she can really taste, are her safe food and she will often nibble on dried peach slices as a snack wherever she goes (it is stimming but she doesn't know that). her dull affect and monotone voice are more a symptom of her autism than the nihility, given that she's also quite poetic and verbose at times.

boothill is native, and i headcanon him heavily as having ADHD. i think he's also heavily into/very connected to music-- he can play banjo and spoons, along with a flute from his home planet. music was a big thing back home culturally, so now it's pretty much the only way to connect to them he has that can't be taken away. he's musically very intelligent, with an absolutely impeccable sense of rhythm, groove, and timing.

dan heng is definitely autistic. you cannot convince me otherwise. also, he has narcolepsy. because.

sampo again (i have favorites, clearly) i think he's hypermobile. he's built up enough muscle that it doesn't give him too many issues but also she can and frequently does bend and move in some insane ways that come back to bite her later

ratio is autistic and transmasc to me. erm. yeah.

anaxa is the gender-queeriest looking freaky guy i have ever seen. he absolutely wears long skirts and pulls his hair up in a femme style at least half the time. very unlabeled in a dont-look-at-me way, along with my-gender-doesn't-matter energy, what with them being way more focused on scientific advancements and their research most of the time. i also think anaxa's most definitely disabled-- probably hEDS, maybe POTS, and some other various Ailments that she doesn't care about getting diagnosed. (also definitely autistic)

herta is very much autistic to me. autistic old woman. she and ruan mei both.

i've run out of ideas abd can't remember my other headcanons. yeah

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lost-my-hed · 3 days ago

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Chapter Two

Reader goes home extremely frustrated and contemplates their new options. Simon tries to figure out how he is going to break the news to Soap about the evens of the evening, he knows that Johnny is going to give him a hard time about the whole…interaction?

Rejection is Redirection

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Y/N was not a cryer. Sure, they have felt the urge to cry and their emotions, but it typically only made them feel worse. Their cheeks went all blotchy, eyes puffy and rimmed with red. It was much easier to push and shove all of the ickiness to the farthest corners of their mind. One day, they would unpack it…maybe get a therapist. However, for now, they would continue to ignore the pile of burning shit until they ran out of oxygen.

So, rather than letting the tears that wanted to make their way down Y/N’s cheeks after getting rejected by the stranger in the tattoo parlor, they hugged their jacket closer to their body and argued with themselves on whether or not they would meet this “Soap” guy. Did they wanna go back in there and talk to some mysterious person—one recommended by the guy who looked at them like an annoying child? Y/N wasn’t sure and that fucking sucked.

Maybe the large masked man was right in telling them no. Ugh. What a stupid day this turned out to be for them. Their boots crunched against the asphalt as they jogged across the empty street. Quickly they spotted their little hatchback sitting in the nearly empty parking lot. The headlights flashed twice as the doors unlocked with a soft “click”. Y/N gently pulled the driver’s side door open and slid into the seat. The door was pulled closed as their hand reached out to push the automatic lock button out of habit (they had listened to far too much true crime before bed). Their head leaned against the steering wheel and they just sat there—in the quiet, dark car, for a moment or two. They were relishing in the comfortable silence.

After deeming themselves relaxed enough to drive the short distance home, Y/N buckled their seat belt, and turned the car on, before pulling out of the lot. They didn’t turn on the radio, knowing that it would be too overstimulating at this time. They also wouldn’t be able to contemplate the last thirty or so minutes of their life. Instead, the gentle hum of the engine and tires on the road was accompanied by Y/N’s occasional drumming on the steering wheel. Before long, they were putting the car in park and unlocked the door to their apartment.

The lights were all turned out beside the small lamp they had turned on before leaving. There was a small pattering of feet against the cold floor of the kitchen as they walked further into their home. Butter Bean—a two-year-old, short-haired, buff tabby cat, with the shortest little ear tufts, was their roommate. Butter Bean had been just a couple months old when Y/N first found him. The poor thing was huffing and puffing from a damp cardboard box left by the trash bins outside the apartment complex. They still aren’t sure where the little guy came from. Sometimes they wonder if someone dropped him, left him to the element, but that was too sad for even Y/N to not get teary-eyed.

“Hi, my boy!” They gently coo at the creature who winds themselves around their ankles. The pair had a routine, and this was one of the only ones that Y/N would not change. The cat either comes trotting to greet them from the tall cat tree in the corner of the living room or their bedroom. No matter what though, after he was welcomed by Y/N, he would flop himself at their feet and stretch out lazily begging for attention. Each time, they would happily pat their head and give their belly a small kiss while telling them what a good cat they were and how badly they were missed.

Y/N would then set their belongings on the small table next to the door and begin to yank off their boots and unzip their jacket, before falling onto the couch in front of the television in the living room. The cat would soon find his way to the couch and jump up to lay on their chest, laying their head between their front paws contently.

“Oh Butters, what am I going to do?” They say with a sigh, “To say the least, that did not go as planned.” They continue while looking at the ceiling and petting the cat’s head. It was technically Tuesday if the clock in their car was anything to go off of.

Were they really going to go back and meet him? It was obvious that the man in the mask was trying to show some kindness, but the initial dismissal still stung. It would be impolite if I didn't go. He went out of his way to suggest this “Soap” person when he clearly wasn’t above being rude. I still don’t even know what I would get. What if this person was worse than the large masked man?

Butter Bean yawned widely showing all of his teeth and his little pink tongue from his spot on their chest. His big eyes slowly blinked at them with sleep and adoration, “Yeah, I think it’s time to go to bed.”

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

Johnny was lazing about the apartment waiting for Simon to return to him. The TV was turned on at a low hum and filled the small space with the perfect amount of noise. Johnny was passing the time by starting dinner for the two of them. Hopefully, Simon would be home at a decent hour, but Johnny knew that the man got easily caught up in his art and work in general. It was easy to forget about the rest of the world in the cozy den of an office Simon had created for himself. Johnny was often caught splayed out on the loveseat for a quick snooze between his clients. Or, the two of them would sit thigh to thigh and order Chinese take-out when Simon had late appointments.

Johnny had something lovely sizzling away in a pan while he floated between the stove and fridge. He had gotten so focused on perfecting the dish that it seemed to complete itself. He checked the time on the oven and knew that it would still be at least an hour until his other half returned to him. So, he settled for a small bag of crisps to snack on while he watched TV and waited. However, this became frustratingly annoying. Johnny got impatient and fast, especially when it came to Simon. How could he not when the man was just so cute? It had also seemed like these last few weeks Simon had been returning home later and later. Johnny knows it’s just because he is stressed.

A client had chosen a beautiful, but intricate design for their next piece and Simon was hell-bent on making sure it was exactly what they wanted. From what Johnny has been told, the client was pleased with their last consultation and is simply waiting on the final touches before their actual appointment. Simon will settle once he can etch the completed design onto its designated canvas. When he gets too wound up, Johnny will offer him whichever part of him is the closest and free of clothing: arm, leg, hand, back, so that Simon can trace out the strokes of the design with his finger mindlessly.

When his phone read 11:15pm he was getting antsy. It certainly wasn’t the latest Simon had ever stayed out, but his tired form, which was bound to walk through the door, still made Johnny's heart hurt. He sighed and laid his phone face down on the empty spot next to him on the couch. If the man didn’t show up within the next fifteen minutes he was going to drag him back home himself.

Johnny returned to the kitchen and began warming up two portions of the dinner that he had made. The two of them always eat the last meal of the day with each other whether it be in their home or at the shop. Two evenly portioned bowls of jasmine rice topped with a simple curry were placed at the diner table when Johnny heard the familiar footsteps of someone arriving home. He quickly padded to the front door and opened it before the man on the other side thought to unlock it.

“I was just about to start without ya,” Johnny smiled while looking at the man.

He heard Simon playfully snort, although his eyes had gone noticeably soft with admiration, “You couldn’t start without me even if you wanted to MacTavish.”

”You wanna put that theory to the test then?” Johnny counters with a matching smirk as he watches

Simon shed his layers at the now-shut front door. He was so methodical in how he removed his coat and toed off his boots and the shorter man couldn’t help but watch. He unzipped the jacket and carefully hung it on the hook by the door, then knelt down to untie the laces on his left boot before pulling it off. The right would be next, and both would be gently placed in the shoe rack on his right. His wallet and keys would be tossed into the small dish on the coffee table as he walked further into the room.

Johnny met him halfway and smiled when they were standing toe to toe, “You do know that you don’t have to wait for me, right?” Simon spoke softly, his large hand reaching out to cup Johnny's cheek. The shorter man leaned into the touch and smiled back at his goofy partner. Of course, he was going to wait for him.

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to,” Johnny explains as his own hand grabs to hold onto Simon's wrist comfortingly. Simon sighs and through the thin fabric of his mask, he kisses the shorter man's forehead.

“It smells good in here, ” Simon murmurs against Johnny's hair “...what did you make for us this time?” he teased while walking towards the kitchen.

Johnny smiles while following the taller man like an excited puppy. “I made curry! I even kept the chilies separate so that it’s not too spicy. It should be cooled off enough if you're ready to eat.” He smiles while making eye contact with who is standing behind his chair at the table. Simon’s eyes were filled with so much admiration.

“Thank you.” He speaks quietly, just enough for Johnny to make out. The other man’s smile grows even larger at that. There was nothing more fulfilling than knowing that he made Simon happy.

“You’re welcome, Si,” Johnny smiles before nodding to their seats, “Come on, sit down and I'll grab us something ta drink.” The shorter man is already making the short journey to the kitchen and reaching to open the cabinet above the fridge. Simon smiled with a small shake of his head, gently slipping off his mask and tucking it into his pants pocket. The meal in front of him was fragrant and steaming just the smallest bit. It was exactly what he needed.

“You want a single or a double?” Johnny asks from the kitchen, the nice bottle of Kentucky bourbon in his hand and two rocks glasses placed on the kitchen counter. Simons mulls it over in his head for approximately two seconds while leaning back in his chair and tipping his head back until he can see his boyfriend upside down, “Double.”

The man nods, pouring the amber liquid over a large chunk of ice. He pours the same amount into each glass before giving Simon's glass an extra little splash. Something told Johnny that he needed it. He carefully grabbed both of the glass as well as the bottle and walked towards the table. He gently placed Simon's glass in front of him and the bottle in the center of the table, just in case they wanted more. He watched as Simon took a large swig from the clear glass, his eyes closing while he forced his body to unwind.

“So, are you gonna tell me what you’re thinking about, or am I going to have to pry it out of that bonnie head of yours?” Johnny asks while resting his chin in his hand quietly waiting for Simon's response. The man deflates and looks at Johnny with a small knowing smile, “Was it that obvious I have something to say?” He teases, easing them into the conversation.

“No…not obvious, but I like to think that I know you,” Johnny responds with the most tender expression Simon thinks he’s ever seen. He should’ve known that Johnny would call him out, he was never one to keep quiet and let feelings fester. Sometimes Simon doesn’t know if he wishes that he could be more like Johnny or be better at concealing them from the man. However, he can’t deny how relieving it feels to be completely seen.

Simon runs his hand through his curly blond hair and looks into Johnny's eyes, “I found you a new canvas.”

⋆✩⁺₊✩☽⋆

i hope you enjoyed this chapter, i know it’s on the shorter side. chapter three is much longer and spicier (wink wink) xx

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