#and now he is helpless and unheard | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

drgnflyteabox · 5 months ago

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the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #task force 141 #141 x reader #drgnfly writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #skyrim au #i truly don't know but i had fun writing it #hehe #cw dubcon #tw dubcon #cw murder #idk what else to tag #i love skyrim #i dont know shit about goats #genuinely this is jokes but i've been playing a ton of skyrim so here you go

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revelboo · 3 months ago

Text

Everything Is Alright Pt 59

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• Feeling you relax against him, your breathing evening out, Starscream tucks the bedding more firmly around you where you’re curled against him. And stares at the communications officer, trying to figure out what his game is. Optics narrowing as Soundwave retrieves food for you and water, setting them nearby. And then hovers, servos flexing like he wants to reach for you. Then letting his hand fall. “You could have been rid of me,” Starscream growls, smoothing a hand up your spine. Hating being stuck like this, still too weak to mass shift. Helpless.

• “I could have,” Soundwave agrees, watching the Seeker’s hand running slowly back down your spine. Soothing himself and you. Knows Starscream has to despise being seen this helpless, but he’s gentler with you than Soundwave would have imagined. Not really able to understand your affection for the Seeker, unable to imagine Starscream taking care of anyone but himself. But seeing it? Whether the Seeker realizes it or not, he’s changing.

• Venting in annoyance, Star rubs his jaw against your hair. “I don’t like you,” he growls, twining his servos in your hair, expression softening when you make a soft noise and shift even closer to him. “You think you know everything. See everything.” But you trust Soundwave. Like him even if it makes him want to rip the other mech’s spark out. If their roles were reversed, he’s not sure he would be able to stay his hand. That he’d remove his rival permanently. “You care for my pet.”

• Silent, servos curled under into a fist, Soundwave knows the Seeker is antagonizing him. Can’t seem to help himself. They both know you’re no pet. Starscream may have thought of you as one to begin with, but you’ve been more to him for a long time. So why keep pretending? Afraid Soundwave might use that knowledge against him? Does he think it’s not obvious that he cares for you? “Ours,” he counters just to see the Seeker bare his denta. And because it’s true. Even if they’re both fighting against it, against each other. “You can’t be everywhere.” Starscream can’t protect you all the time.

• Low growl cutting off when you shift against him, he cups the back of your head, feeling you sigh against his throat, warm breath fanning his sensitive mesh. Does Soundwave think he doesn’t know that? That he’s not painfully aware of how vulnerable you are? One slip and it’ll cost him everything. “Sharing?” He sneers tiredly.

• “Sharing,” Soundwave confirms. “For safety.” And because he needs to hold you in his arms, without feeling your stress and worry for hurting Starscream. Watching the Seeker shutter his optics and press his mouth against the top of your head, arm pressing you so tightly to his frame you make a noise and shift against him. “For survival.” It’s a low dig, but how can the Seeker not see it? You’re safer with one of them watching over you, not left alone. And it’s not just being found. What if you try to climb down from wherever Starscream leaves you? What if you fall?

• “Primus, I hate you,” he hisses, furious even as he knows the other has a point. It’s not like sharing is completely unheard of. Trines sometimes shared a conjunx between them long before the war with the Quintessons with one mech looking after their mate and any sparklings. Soundwave isn’t a brother, though. He’s a rival. Who cares for you. Swearing under his breath, his wings flick fitfully at his back. Knowing right now he’s dependent on Soundwave for protection for him and you. Whether or not he likes it, his life and yours are at Soundwave’s mercy. “Frag me,” he hisses under his breath, hating that it’s come to this.

My OCD got triggered. Had to dig out the comic box and I’d apparently stashed some extra figures on top of it in the closet. There’s a MTMTE Skids figure somewhere and it’s going to drive me crazy until I find that one, too

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #idw starscream #soundwave x reader #idw soundwave

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princessbrunette · 1 year ago

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I can’t get off this modern!anakin train so imagine him discovering you have a daddy kink halfway through after he pushed your lower stomach down for you to feel it deeper and you let a “right there daddy…” slip

- 🌷

oh goodness this is speaking to me because 😩😩😩😩😩 oof. okay.

so you never bring it up, even if the idea of calling ani ‘daddy’ makes you clench around nothing. anakin never knew his own dad, so you figured the idea of calling him daddy would be a little…ick? and that was fine. you could save it for the fantasies, and push it down. until you couldn’t.

anakin was naturally protective, nurturing and dominant— it wasn’t totally unheard of for you to have these thoughts about him. he was, well — daddy material. in your sweet submissive eyes, that was the highest title you could bestow on someone.

it was one night where he was just fucking you so deep you couldn’t think straight. your knees were up by your tits, completely folded with anakin just hammering into you. you were totally helpless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. anakin looks after you good, you don’t need any mobility to feel good, he’ll do it all for you. he had just taken his thumb out your mouth, having been letting you suck on it, dragging his hand down so your sparkly saliva was smeared all down your chin and your lips were plump and wet making them all the more tempting.

“know you’re close, pretty girl, let me have it.” he didn’t even think when he pressed down on your lower stomach, your walls contracting around him tighter as he made sure you felt him deep. you squealed, knees jerking by your sides, clammy hands grabbing at him when it slipped out.

“right there daddy — mmph!”

it took you a few seconds to register it, him too. the pleasure was so immense that there was an actual lag time in your brain, but when you’d realised you said it you were unscrewing your eyes with hot cheeks and a guilty expression. his brow was furrowed, cheeks pink and chest heaving above you.

you open your mouth when he hesitates with his strokes. “i’m s-sorry i—”

he’s cutting you off by leaning over you, bringing your bodies close now. his lips are just below your ear and he’s grinding now, slow and deep inside you. “s’okay baby. it’s alright. you need me to be daddy? i’m daddy. yeah.” he reassured you, his voice low and raspy — practically purring in your ear. he liked it.

you let out this devastating moan, it’s all high pitched and desperate and he knows he’s cracked it. this is gonna be what pushes you over the edge. he’s panting into your neck but pushes back to bring your gaze to him. when you look at him, he looks as just as desperate as you. “there it is. i know baby, i know. cum for daddy, there you go.”

he lets out this choked moan a few seconds later, his own words arousing him. if you weren’t too busy cumming your soul out on his dick, you might have giggled.

#🌷 anon #modern!anakin smut #modern!anakin #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker drabble #anakin skywalker prompt

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milkb0nny · 23 days ago

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Ivar, your sanctuary

Pairing: Ivar x infertile!reader

Summary: You have been with this man for some time and you loved him. Yet you found out you were not as blessed as other women through a horrible incident. Though, you weren’t sure how to confront Ivar, not only with the pain you had to endure, but also that he would never have a son with you.

Note: I thought this scenario might be very intruiging, yet sensitive. Please do not read this when you feel uncomfortable or anxious about the topics in this fix. With that, take great care of yourself.

Content: established relationship, s/a, r@p3, trauma, mental breakdown, good ending but at what cost, infertility

Your feet trembled violently, the chill reaching through your bones. Your hands felt like ice, numb, dead, while your eyes, swollen with unshed tears, refused you sight. Another ungodly night, another night full of panic and unheard pain. It was deep into the night when you woke, the echoes of screams and cries from your dream fading into the silence of the room.

The only sound grounding you was the soft, even breathing of the man lying beside you, Ivar. Your beloved husband, your anchor, your protector. You loved him deeply, admired him endlessly, yet gazing at him now in his slumber only deepened the aching pain in your heart. His calm body reminded you of the peace that had been stolen from you. Tonight, once again, the night dragged you back to that day. A day not merely painful, but one that shattered the core of your dignity, left your sense of hope in ruins, and carved a wound so deep it bled into every moment of your existence.

That day - that man - that pain.

Unable to bear it, you slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb him. The idea of walking, of moving, perhaps would set you somewhat lose and relieve your mind of that horrible hands. Yet you didn’t get far. You were haunted. Tainted.

The coldness of the wooden floor beneath your bare feet sent a jolt of memory surging through you, dragging you back to that place. That room. The terror, the helplessness, the violation; it all came rushing in, pulling you under. You broke down, leaning against the wall as your breath quickened. For weeks now - perhaps longer - you had been tortured by flashes of the past, haunted by touches that made your skin crawl.

Ivar had noticed. Of course, he had. His sharp eyes missed nothing. He had seen the way you flinched from his touch when you thought he wasn’t looking. He asked, gently at first, then with a rising concern, what burden you carried. Each time, you avoided him, brushed off his questions, acted in strength you didn’t have.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him. It wasn’t that you doubted his love. It was that you didn’t know how to put your experience into words. How could you explain something so unspeakably raw and vile? How could you bare the darkest, most broken parts of yourself to him, when you barely had the strength to face them yourself?

You slid to the floor, wrapping your arms around your knees as the tears finally spilled over, hot and unrelenting. You didn’t sob loudly, as you didn’t want to wake him. Instead, you shook silently, trembling under grief and shame.

„My love, why are you crying so terribly?“

The usual stern voice was now so soft, gentle and endearing. Ivar laid behind you, looking at your shaking statue from behind, careful not to touch you. In this moment, he feared he’d crush you.

“I-Ivar, I...” you stammered, your voice cracking as you tried to force the words out. Slowly, you turned to face him. His blue eyes met yours, and the weight of his gaze crushed you.. He looked at you as though you were a fragile vase on the verge of shattering. “I... I don’t know how to say it.”

„You went to the seer today, didn’t you? Hvitserk saw you.“ Ivar’s hand reached for you, his movements slow and deliberate. He brushed the damp strands of hair away from your tear-streaked cheeks. A total mess like you shouldn’t feel pressured by his eyes, so he avoided yours - he knew better than to push you into a little corner. As it seemed, you were already trapped in it.

You nodded slightly, the memory of the Seer’s whispers replaying in your mind. You had wanted the truth, desperate for answers, but the truth you received had been devastating - but expected.

“What did he tell you?” Ivar’s voice broke through your thoughts, steady but cautious.

You turned back around, locking your eyes with the dark wall in front of you. For all the pain you carried, there was one thing you knew for certain - Ivar deserved the truth. For the first time since it, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility of telling him. If there was anyone in the world who could understand, who could carry your pain with you instead of for you, it was him.

Forcing yourself to speak, you began hesitantly, your trembling fingers fidgeting with the loose thread of your nightgown. “Do… you remember when you met with your brothers about a month ago? You wanted to move us into a bigger house, i-incase we might… become mother a-and father...” Your voice faltered, the knot in your chest tightening. “I-I went for a walk… and then it...“

You started crying uncrontrollably, your breath shortening with every intake of air, your nails curling into the cold skin of your arms. No, not again - those memories, these hands, that disgusting smell of alcohol.

...

Ivar didn’t move. He remained still, watching you with a pain in his eyes that mirrored your own. He knew. He had pieced it together, yet he waited. He wouldn’t force the words out of you, wouldn’t touch you without your permission, wouldn’t risk deepening your wounds. He just felt so broken seeing you at your wits end.

So, Ivar waited for you to continue speaking, even though it could take hours. He was still there, he was still lying in your shared bed - and he had no intention of leaving you there.

„He…,“ you muttered, and it wasn’t enough for Ivar to understand the full picture. He wasn’t stupid, he knew the horrible sides of men, he was aware of the power play they loved, he just didn’t think it would’ve happened to you. Ivar’s jaw clenched, his anger boiling up and the desire to kill that man flashed up, burned up, screamed up. It was for the man who had hurt you, for the gods who had allowed such a thing to happen.

“There’s more,” you said shakily, your voice trembling. “The Seer told me… He said... It was too much. I can’t... I can’t bear children, Ivar.”

There it was. The truth.

You and Ivar have tried months for children, effort and sweat, tears and frustration which you had wasted for the sole wish of kids. Ivar thought he was simply unable to be a father due to his own loss. His body wasn’t meant to reproduce, not another cripple should have been born - so he thought. But now, he had realized you were a woman who had been cursed, just like he was cursed.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, terrified of what you might see. Would it be disappointment? Resentment? Pity? The silence stretched on, and your heart sank further. He was going to leave, wasn’t he?

“I-… I‘m not a … worthy woman. I cannot conceive and then - this… terrible day,” you choked out, tears blurring your vision. “I know how much you want a family… a little baby, how much you want-”

“Stop.”

His voice was firm but not harsh. You froze, your breath catching as he moved closer. Carefully, he reached for your face, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. He leaned over your head, his warm chest meeting the back of your head, and his hair softly draping over your forehead, as he looked at you.

“Don’t you dare think I would leave you,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “You are my wife. I did not fall in love for children. I don’t care what that Seer said, and I don’t care what the gods think they’ve taken from us. You are still mine, and that is all I need.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t of fear. Ivar pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly but tenderly, as though shielding you from the pain that threatened to consume you.

“We’ll make our own fate,” he whispered into your hair, his voice fierce. “We don’t need anyone else - not the gods, not children, no one. As long as I have you, I have everything. My sweet little flower, I apologize I wasn’t there earlier.”

For the first time in weeks, the heavy weight on your chest began to lift. Ivar’s embrace was a shield, his words a balm to your wounds. The pain didn’t disappear, but in his arms, you found a piece of hope.

And in that moment, you realized something: Ivar wasn’t just your husband. He was your sanctuary. And in that moment, Ivar knew to heal your wounds together. You were his ethereal woman.

#vikings ivar #ivar x reader #ivar lothbrok #ivar ragnarsson #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x you #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings x reader #vikings #I'm crying this is too emotional #fanfic #hvitserk ragnarsson #hvitserk lothbrok #ubbe ragnarsson #ubbe x reader

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strawb3rryscorpio · 6 months ago

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𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 | 𝐚 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ( 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 )

pairing: joel miller x afab!reader summary: nothing had been the same since the day of the outbreak, the day you lost sarah. trying to be there for joel, even as he shielded his emotions and grew more distant by the day, was manageable for the first fifteen years, but eventually, you were bound to get tired. chapter warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of death and the end of the world. pls let me know if i missed any! author's note: hi guys! this was inspired by an anonymous request and i thought i could do a little mini series based off of it so like 4-5 parts at most. also, this is very loosely inspired by the song evermore of the evermore album (aka taylor's best album) anyways, i really hope you guys enjoy this!!!

❛ I had a feeling so peculiar That this pain would be for Evermore ❜

October 2023

It had been three weeks. Twenty-one days. Almost a month since the world crumbled into chaos and since you lost your Sarah. The silence between you, Joel and Tommy was suffocating, but was something you knew not to address. Words were kept to a minimum now, maybe ten a day at most, spoken between you three. Even the nature around you seemed to have absorbed the weight of your grief, their once vibrant colours now dull. Ever since Sarah was ripped from your lives, it felt like the entire world was in shades of gray—your mind, your surroundings, your Joel—everything was drained of life.

The day she was shot, you felt your whole word falling apart. And Joel had been holding the shattered pieces of his heart in his hands ever since, and you knew he would need time, a long time, to even begin to process and heal. You all needed time, but that was his baby, his daughter. The thought always found its way back into your mind: how could anyone heal from such a wound? But it wasn’t something you could heal from—it was a scar that would never go away, just something you learned to live with.

You understood, more than anyone, that Joel needed to grieve in his own way. You were willing to give him all the space and time he needed, even if it left you feeling helpless. But as someone who loved and cared for him, you couldn’t help but pry at times, hoping to uncover even the smallest bit of his pain. You needed to know what he was feeling—more for your own sake than anything else. The thought of losing him as well was too much, too scary.

“Joel?” you whispered, your voice as fragile as glass. Tommy whipped his head toward you, his eyes wide as if you had just dropped a bomb. Tommy might have been intimidated by Joel, but you weren’t; nothing he could say would hurt you or drive you away, especially after everything that had happened in the last few weeks. “Joel, baby?” you whispered again when he didn’t respond. At first, you thought your words had gone unheard but then he turned to you, his expression unreadable.

You hesitated, your mind flooding with conflicting thoughts. Should you let it go and let him climb further into his shell, or should you risk it, asking if he was okay, even if it was for your own selfish reasons? The second option tugged at you, promising a sliver of comfort, which you very much needed.

You said nothing as you quickened your pace, drawing level with him. Tommy, sensing the shift, slowed his steps, giving you and Joel space. “Joel, I need you to talk to me, baby,” you said, stopping in your tracks and turning toward him. You reached up, your hand trembling slightly as you caressed his rugged jaw, feeling the coarse texture of his beard under your fingertips. His skin, slightly kissed by the sun, glowed like honey, but his eyes—those deep brown, once full of life eyes—were now dark, cold and unreadable. “I need to know if you’re okay,” you added, your voice cracking like a twig underfoot. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision, because his eyes, once warm and full of life, were now filled by grief, and he looked like a different person.

He stared at you, his lips trembling as if words were trying to escape, but they remained inside. “Joel, if you want to say something, say it, baby,” you murmured, bringing your other hand to his face, cupping his cheeks gently. “I’m here for you, Joel. That might seem insignificant right now, but if you talk about things, it might help,” you uttered, your hands slipping into his hair, a gesture you had done so often that it became second nature.

But instead of leaning into your touch, he grabbed your wrists, pulling them down with a force that startled you. “This is not some fucking therapy session!” he exploded, his voice slicing through the air like a knife. His eyes were wide with anger, as if a storm was brewing within. Tommy started walking over, alarmed by the yelling, but you held up a hand, signaling for him to stay back. This was between you and Joel. “This ain’t some stupid shit like my dog died or something. I lost my Sarah, my everything,” he continued, his voice cracking, the anger giving way to a sadness you knew was there but never saw. Tears streamed down both of your faces, along with the dust and sweat from weeks worth of being outside. “So no, I’m not okay. I will not be okay, so stop asking dumb fucking questions and leave me the fuck alone!” he roared, his breath hot and ragged on your face. You could feel the rage and sadness in his body, his heart was racing so fast, you swore you could hear it.It should have scared you, but it didn’t, and maybe that was the issue.

In any other situation, his yelling would have cut deep, hurt you in ways words usually did. You might have even broken down, and started crying. But instead, you felt a weird sense of satisfaction, knowing that you had finally cracked through his walls, even if only a little. You hated that it took his anger to reach this point, but at least he wasn’t completely shutting you out.

You nodded slowly, acknowledging his pain, his rage, his brokenness. Tommy walked over, his expression tense and uncomfortable, the air between you all thick with tension. “Why don’t we set up camp here for the night?” he suggested, his voice soft, almost pleading. He knew Joel needed rest, and maybe the quiet of the night would soothe some of the emotions. “I’ll keep watch tonight, and one of you can make it up to me tomorrow night.” You nodded again, and Tommy took it as a ‘yes’ from both you and Joel.

You found a small cave, a dark hollow in the side of the short hill, where you could set up your sleeping bags. You laid yours right next to Joel’s. As you packed away the day’s equipment into your pack, Joel had already retreated into the cave, laying in his sleeping bag.

“You okay?” Tommy asked, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, the weight of the past weeks etched into his features.

“Yeah, Tommy, I’m fine,” you replied, zipping up your pack with more force than necessary, the fabric resisting for a moment before giving way.

“Sorry on his behalf for yelling at you like that. He lost Sarah, but so did you—so did both of us,” he said, the sadness in his tone a heavy, suffocating thing.

“No need to apologize for him, Tommy. I’m just the tiniest bit glad he said something to me. That’s the most he’s said to me since that day,” you said, your voice cracking as a thick tear rolled down your cheek. “At least I know what he’s feeling,” you added, and he nodded, understanding the small victory.

You walked over to him, pulling him into a tight embrace, your arms wrapped around him eagerly. He returned the hug, clinging to you as if you were the only thing keeping him together in that moment. You both thought about Joel all day, every day, and you realized you had neglected to check on Tommy. He had lost his niece, too.

“You okay?” you asked again, pulling away slightly to look him in the eyes, searching for an answer.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. There don’t seem to be any infected or people nearby, so I’ll be good,” he replied, scanning the area with a practiced eye, the soldier in him never fully gone.

“No, Tommy, I mean with everything,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper as you fiddled with the zipper on your coat. The nights were colder now, the darkness thicker, wrapping around you all.

“Yeah, I will be. We will be,” he said, the tears finally spilling over, leaving wet paths down his dusty cheeks. “But I don’t know about him,” he added, nodding toward the cave where Joel lay, his tone heavy with uncertainty.

“Me neither, but we can try,” you replied, your voice trembling with fear and sadness, the weight of it all pressing down on you. He nodded, and you grabbed your pack, heading into the cave, seeking the small comfort of sleep.

“You’ll be okay out here?” you asked, your hand resting on the cold stone as you prepared to crawl into the small cave.

“Yeah, always am,” he replied with a tight, tired smile. “Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he added, and you returned the smile, though it felt hollow.

You crawled into the cave, your eyes adjusting to the darkness as you made out Joel’s outline, his body curled up in the tight space. He was asleep—or at least you hoped he was—his back turned to you. You crawled over to him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating through the sleeping bag. Wrapping your arm around his torso, you rested your face against his back, breathing in his musky, earthy scent, a reminder of the man you loved, the man who was still here, even if only in body. The night outside was alive with the sounds of crickets and rustling leaves, a sound that once would have been comforting for you but now filled you with unease and fear.

You looked up, your eyes searching the starless sky as if seeking answers from God who you felt had long since turned away. You prayed, your thoughts a desperate plea that Joel would always be there with you. No matter where you were, no matter how awful the world became, the only thing that mattered was that you were together. You shut your eyes, the exhaustion of the day crashing over you like a wave, pulling you into a restless sleep, your arm still wrapped around Joel, holding on to him like you're life depended on it.

And at this point, it did.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #tlou #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller x you #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller hbo #pedro pascal x reader

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signoferoda · 10 months ago

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BRAVING THE SHADOW- HS

Summary- Harry’s son has night terrors and is in need of a child’s psychiatrist

The nightmares wouldn’t stop. They were on a constant repeat, night after night, plaguing Indis mind. Clowns with jagged teeth and glowing eyes chased him through darkened forests, their menacing laughs echoing in his ears. The ground beneath his feet felt like quicksand, threatening to swallow him whole with each step he took. He could run as fast as he could, but they still caught up to him.

In his dreams, the six year old was always alone. He would call out for his parents or his older brothers, but his voice would get lost in the void, unheard and unanswered. Fear gripped his heart, leaving him helpless in the face of his nightmares. The terror was so palpable that even when he woke, he could still feel his heart racing as if he actually had ran.

Every night was the same, the patterns repeating themselves, leaving Indi exhausted and afraid to close his eyes. He would lie in bed, wide awake, dreading the moment when sleep would claim him once more and plunge him into the depths of his subconscious fears. He tried to stay awake, to fight against the pull of sleep, but eventually, exhaustion would overcome him, and he would drift into fitful slumber.

From early on, Indi had decided that there was no escape from the horrors that awaited him in the darkness of his mind. It was as if his own mind had become a prison, trapping him in a never-ending cycle of fear and despair where each nightmare would take on new forms and shapes, each more terrifying than the last.

During a particularly scary night, Indi's night terrors worsened, tightening their hold on him with each passing moment. He jolted awake with a terrified cry, tears running down his face, frightened to spend another moment alone in his bedroom, the nightlight Harry put up his room doing nothing to help him.

Softly, Indi padded down the hallway, his small feet barely making a sound on the cold floor, his heart still pounding in his chest. He tried his best to be quiet, not wanting to disturb his older brothers who slept peacefully in their respective rooms. Once he reached the doorway of his parents' room, he paused, gathering his courage before gently pushing the wooden door open.

Inside, Harry and Y/N slept soundly, the only light in their room being the bright red numbers of their alarm clock. Indi approached the king sized bed, his bottom lip trembling as he hesitated for a moment before climbing in beside them. He tried his best to be quiet, not wanting to disturb his pregnant mother, whose rest was precious and very much needed. Indi was a worrier but also a nurturing soul. He knew y/n was having trouble getting enough sleep, the pregnancy being particularly hard on her.

Harry stirred awake, blinking away sleep as he felt the bed shift. His heart melted at the sight of his son, his tear-streaked face seeking comfort with him.

"Indi, buddy, what's wrong?" Harry whispered, his voice a comforting murmur in the stillness of the night.

Indi sniffled softly, trying to stifle his sobs as he climbed over Harry to nestle himself between his parents, seeking solace in the warmth of their embrace.

Y/N, stirred next, her maternal instincts instantly on high alert. She turned to see Indi nestled between her and Harry, his small form trembling with fear.

"What's the matter, lovebug?" she whispered, reaching out to stroke his hair gently. Although the other boys had their dads hair, Indi was all y/n. It made her smile as he seeked her comfort.

"I had a bad dream," Indi whispered, his voice barely audible.

Y/N wrapped her arms around Indi, pulling him close to her swollen belly so that he could feel the steady rhythm of the baby's movements beneath his touch, a comforting presence in the darkness of the night.

"It's okay, bug. You're safe now," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "We're here."

Harry squeezed Indi's small hand reassuringly, his heart aching at the thought of his son experiencing such fear. "We won't let anything happen to you, Indi. We promise."

With each soothing touch and whispered reassurance, the grip of fear began to loosen its hold on Indi's heart. He knew he would always find comfort in his parents arms so he let go, willing to fight his demons as he drifted off to sleep again. He made a silent vow to himself to be brave, not just for his sake, but for the sake of his soon-to-arrive baby sister. He knew he had to be big and strong for her.

A few days later, Harry and Y/N noticed that Indi's anxiety seemed to linger, dimming his usual playful spirit. Concerned for their son's well-being, they decided to seek professional help and make an appointment with a child psychiatrist.

As the morning of the appointment arrived, Harry and Y/N took on the delicate task of preparing Indi for his visit to the doctor. With tender hands and comforting words, they gently guided him through the morning routine, knowing the significance of the day ahead. Seated around the breakfast table, a hushed atmosphere enveloped the room, punctuated only by the clink of utensils. In a silent glance, Harry and Y/N affirmed their unwavering dedication to stand by Indi through his healing journey.

“Boys, why don’t you two go grab your school stuff whilst we talk to your brother” y/n began, smiling as Theo and Blake nodded and headed off to their rooms to grab their school bags. She nodded at Harry.

"Hey buddy," Harry began, his voice gentle, "Today we're going to visit a special doctor who knows a lot about helping kids feel better when they're feeling worried or scared."

Y/N reached out, placing a comforting hand on Indi's smaller hand. "It's perfectly normal to feel a little nervous, but we want you to know that we're right here beside you, okay? You're not alone in this."

Indi looked up at them, his eyes wide with uncertainty. "But what if the doctor doesn't understand?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry smiled reassuringly. "That's why we're going with you, champ. We'll all talk together, and the doctor will listen carefully to everything you have to say. She’s here to help, just like we are."

Y/N nodded in agreement. "And remember, lovebug, it's okay to share how you're feeling. This doctor is really good at figuring out how to make things better, but she need to know what's going on first."

Indi hesitated for a moment before nodding slowly, a small glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. "Okay," he said softly, "I'll try."

Harry squeezed Indi's hand, his heart swelling with pride. "That's my brave boy," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "We'll get through this together, I promise."

As they entered the psychiatrist's office, Indi clung to his parents' hands, his anxiety heavy in the air. The waiting room was filled with colourful toys and books, but Indi seemed too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay them any attention.

Harry and Y/N sat beside him, offering quiet words of encouragement and support.

"Indi, lovie, it's going to be okay," Y/N whispered, her hand resting gently on his knee.

Harry squeezed Indi's shoulder reassuringly. "You're doing great, little man. We're all here for you."

Indi nodded, his eyes stayed fixated on the door across the room. Every creak of the floorboards made his heart race, anticipation and anxiety warring within him.

Finally, the door opened, and a warm smile greeted them. "Indi?" Dr. Fox called, her voice soft and inviting.

Indi took a deep breath and rose to his feet, his parents following close behind. He stepped into the office, his heart pounding in his chest as he settled into the chair opposite Dr. Fox’s desk, his feet swinging.

"Hello, Indi," Dr. Fox said warmly. "It's nice to meet you. How are you feeling today?"

Indi shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Okay, I guess," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"Can you tell me a little bit about what's been bothering you lately?" Dr Fox asked.

Indi shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I keep having bad dreams," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Clowns and stuff."

Dr. Fox nodded understandingly. "It sounds like those dreams have been really scary for you. Can you tell me more about them?" Indi hesitated for a moment, looking towards his dad.

“I know it can be scary opening up. But remember that this is a safe space, Dr fox wants to help you buddy.” Harry spoke softly, ruffling his hair.

Dr. Fox nodded “you can take your time”

Indi nodded for a moment before slowly opening up about his nightmares. He described the monsters and clowns that haunted his sleep, the fear that gripped his heart, and the sense of helplessness that lingered long after he woke.Harry and Y/N listened intently, their hearts breaking at the thought of their son struggling with such overwhelming emotions.

As Indi spoke, Dr. Fox listened attentively, offering words of reassurance and validation. She asked gentle questions, guiding him through his emotions and helping him to make sense of his experiences.

"You're a very brave boy for sharing your feelings with us, Indi," Dr. Fox said, her voice filled with warmth and admiration. "It takes a lot of courage to talk about things that scare us." Indi nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Together, they discussed coping strategies and techniques to help Indi manage his anxiety, from deep breathing exercises to creating a calming bedtime routine.

"Sometimes, when we feel scared or anxious, our bodies forget to breathe," Dr. Fox explained. "Taking slow, deep breaths can help calm your mind and relax your body."

Indi nodded, his curiosity piqued. "Like this?" he asked, mimicking the slow inhales and exhales Dr. Fox demonstrated.

"That's perfect, Indi," Dr. Fox said with a smile. "You can practice this whenever you start to feel scared or overwhelmed. Your daddy and mummy can help” the couple nodded, reassuring Indi that they would help in any way they can.

They also talked about creating a bedtime routine that would help Indi feel safe and relaxed before going to sleep.

"Having a consistent routine can signal to your brain that it's time to wind down and relax," Dr. Fox explained. "You could try things like reading a book, taking a warm bath, or listening to calming music."

Indi nodded eagerly, already thinking about which of his dads songs he’d listen to before bed. “Daddy, I want to listen to Fine Line tonight” he exclaimed to his dad, excited to try these thing that would hopefully stop his night terrors.

“I’ll play it for yah, don’t worry bud” Harry smiled. With each new strategy, Harry could see that Indi felt a little more empowered, a little more capable of facing his fears.

By the end of the appointment, Indi seemed a little lighter, a small spark of hope flickering in his eyes. Dr. Fox commended him for his courage in sharing his feelings and reminded him that he was not alone in his struggles.

Leaving the psychiatrist's office, Harry, Y/N, and Indi strolled hand in hand, their worries lightened by the promise of professional guidance.

"Thank you for being so brave today, Indi," Y/N said, squeezing her son's hand affectionately."We're going to get through this together."

#dad!harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles writing #dad!harry #harry styles fic #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n

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moonchild912 · 22 days ago

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Chapter 2: Burial Mounds

His gaze moved from the spicy dish back to Lan Zhan’s unchanging expression. You can’t be this cruel to yourself, Lan Zhan. You need to heal. A-Yuan needs you to heal.

But even as the thought echoed through his mind, he knew that healing was not something Lan Zhan could do easily. He was too wrapped in grief, too bound by the past. He had lived through a storm of pain, and the past was a tempest that refused to let him go.”

Wei Ying’s chest tightened with a surge of helplessness. He could see Lan Zhan’s hands trembling slightly as he continued to eat, trying to endure the spice, but it wasn’t the spice that was making him suffer. It was the weight of everything—Wei Ying’s death, the world that had condemned him, the hollow absence of their family.

A small, flickering thought crossed Wei Ying’s mind—a memory of a simpler time. A time when Lan Zhan’s restraint had been a source of strength, not a wall keeping him from moving forward. He could see it clearly now—the quiet care with which Lan Zhan had shown in the cave of Xuanwu, gently cradling his head onto his lap, sending him spiritual energy to keep him alive, singing the song that he had composed just for him. He has always loved me, Wei Ying thought, his heart aching at the realization.

And yet, here they were, two souls separated by an impossible chasm of grief and time. He was no longer flesh and blood. He couldn’t touch Lan Zhan, couldn’t speak the words he so desperately wanted to say. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t help—didn’t mean he couldn’t find a way to guide Lan Zhan back.

Title: ‘A Soul Unheard’

AO3: Moonchild912

Wattpad: Moonchild0912

Etsy: https://lotuslovehaven.etsy.com

#mdzs #lan zhan #lan wangji #wei ying #wei wuxian #mo dao zu shi #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #the untamed #founder of diabolism #mdzs fanfiction #mdzs au

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transformee · 1 month ago

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MISTAKEN IDENTITY

A story for @axeeglitter for the 7th Annual TF Story Exchange!

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The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the suburban street as Kyle hurried home from the gym, his well-muscled frame drawing admiring glances from passersby. With his friendly smile and kind demeanor, Kyle had always been the polar opposite of his twin-like friend, Brandon. Though they looked eerily similar—tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly handsome—Brandon’s harsh personality and bullying tendencies made him more feared than admired.

As Kyle rounded a corner, he noticed a smaller figure standing under a tree, hunched and tense. It was Tim, one of Brandon’s frequent targets. Tim had always been wiry and unassuming, the kind of guy who faded into the background. But today, there was something different about him. His eyes gleamed with an intensity Kyle had never seen before.

“Hey, Tim!” Kyle called out.

Tim flinched but stood his ground. “Stay back, Brandon!” he snapped, holding up a strange amulet that shimmered faintly in the dying sunlight. Kyle froze, confused. He intended to reply, but somehow he wasn’t able.

Rage and humiliation boiled in Tim’s voice. “You’ve humiliated me for the last time, Brandon. This ends now!”

Before Kyle could explain, Tim muttered a string of incomprehensible words, and the amulet flared with a bright, unnatural light.

Kyle’s body jerked violently as a strange sensation coursed through him. A crackling sound echoed in his ears as his skin began to tighten unnaturally. He gasped, his broad chest seizing as if bound by invisible chains. His arms flexed involuntarily, the muscles twitching and convulsing before beginning to shrink.

“Tim.. s-stop-!” Kyle managed to croak, but his voice was already thinning. His shoulders pulled inward, their once-commanding breadth collapsing into narrowness. His legs buckled as they slimmed, the powerful quads and calves diminishing with every passing second. Pain shot through his spine, bending his tall frame backwards as if compressing him like a spring. Kyle groaned, a guttural sound of helplessness, as his hands and feet met and began to twist together. His fingers fused together, the flesh melting into a smooth, metallic band. His toes followed suit, the sensations overwhelming as they hardened into the same material.

His cock stirred, not with arousal but with an unnatural heat. He felt it shrink, pulling inward until it was part of the new form taking shape. His body collapsed inward on itself, his torso folding until it was nothing more than a smooth, circular ring.

Kyle’s mind screamed as his vision blurred and the world around him grew impossibly vast. His gym bag, once comfortably slung over his shoulder, now towered like a skyscraper beside him. The pavement beneath him was a cold, unyielding expanse. He tried to move, but his new form was stiff and immobile.

“No—this can’t be happening,” Kyle thought desperately. But his pleas echoed in the void of his own mind, unheard by anyone.

Tim hesitated, staring at the gleaming cock ring on the ground. “That’s what you deserve, Brandon,” he muttered, scooping it up and slipping it into his pocket.

Back in his apartment, Tim paced nervously. The amulet’s power had worked, but the weight of what he’d done was sinking in. He pulled the cock ring out of his pocket, turning it over in his hand.

“You’re not so tough now, are you?” he said bitterly.

Kyle, trapped in his new form, could only scream internally. I’m not Brandon! You’ve got the wrong guy!

But Tim couldn’t hear him. Feeling a strange compulsion, Tim stripped down to his briefs and slid the cock ring onto himself. The moment the ring settled in place, a surge of energy shot through Tim’s body. He gasped as his thin frame began to fill out, muscles rippling and bulging with impossible speed. His chest expanded, pecs becoming broad and firm, while his arms thickened with corded veins. His abs hardened into a sculpted six-pack, and his legs grew powerful, stretching as his height increased.

Tim stumbled to a mirror, staring in shock as his reflection transformed before his eyes. His once-gaunt face filled out, his jawline sharpening to match the strong, chiseled features of his target. His pale skin darkened to a healthy tan, and even his voice dropped an octave.

“What the hell?” Tim whispered, his new, deep voice rumbling in his chest. As the transformation slowed, Tim’s mind began to swirl with unfamiliar memories—laughing with Brandon, sharing stolen kisses, and enduring his cold, controlling outbursts.

“No… this isn’t me,” Tim said, clutching his head. But the memories grew stronger, intertwining with his own. Kyle and Brandon were together? Tim realized, the truth hitting him like a punch to the gut. They weren’t just friends—they were lovers. But Brandon… he was awful to him.

Tim’s eyes darted to the cock ring on him, and he shuddered. “Kyle,” he whispered. “It was you, wasn’t it? Oh God, what have I done?”

The next day, Tim—now in Kyle’s body—was forced to face Brandon.

“Kyle, where the hell have you been?” Brandon barked, his voice as sharp as ever. He leaned against the kitchen counter, his imposing frame radiating dominance.

Tim’s pulse quickened. Though he now had Kyle’s body, he felt none of the confidence that seemed to come with it. Brandon’s piercing gaze made him feel small and exposed.

“I… uh, just went for a walk,” Tim stammered, struggling to maintain his composure. Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever. Get over here.”

Tim hesitated, but his body moved almost instinctively, drawn by a combination of Kyle’s lingering habits and Brandon’s commanding presence. Brandon’s lips curled into a smirk as he leaned back on the couch. “Come on, babe. Show me you’re sorry for disappearing.” He unbuttoned his pants, his cock already half-hard.

Tim’s stomach churned, but his body obeyed. He knelt before Brandon, his hands trembling as he wrapped them around Brandon’s shaft. The memories Kyle had left behind flooded his mind, a mix of shame and reluctant arousal.

“That’s it,” Brandon growled, gripping Tim’s hair roughly. “You know your place.”

Inside the cock ring, Kyle screamed in anguish. He could feel everything—Brandon’s heat, the roughness of his movements—but he was powerless to stop it. Tim’s hand moved rhythmically, his face flushed with a mix of humiliation and a strange, unfamiliar pleasure. Brandon’s dominance pressed down on him like a weight, and he hated how natural it felt. When Brandon finally finished with a groan, Tim wiped his hand on his shorts, his face burning with shame.

“Good boy,” Brandon muttered, pulling Tim into a possessive kiss.

Over the following hours and days, Tim struggled to adjust to his new life. Brandon’s domineering behavior grated on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand up to him. The memories and emotions he’d absorbed from Kyle made it impossible to separate his own thoughts from Kyle’s.

Meanwhile, Kyle remained trapped, forced to endure every moment of his former life through a warped lens. He could feel Tim’s growing resentment toward Brandon but also his confusion and guilt.

One night, as Brandon slept beside him, Tim stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face. He glanced down at the cock ring and whispered, “I’m sorry, Kyle. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Kyle’s consciousness surged with frustration and despair. Then fix it! he wanted to shout, but neither of them knew how to break the curse. But the real Kyle remained trapped around his own crotch, a silent observer of his own life being lived by someone else.

One night, as Brandon pulled Tim into a possessive embrace, Kyle’s consciousness flared with a desperate plea. For a fleeting moment, Tim hesitated. A spark of his old self flickered within him, and he pulled back from Brandon’s kiss.

“What’s wrong?” Brandon asked, his tone laced with irritation.

Tim met his gaze, his heart pounding. “Nothing,” he said softly, forcing himself to smile.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t over. Kyle’s curse was far from broken—and so was the cycle of control and dominance that had defined his relationship with Brandon.

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inbarfink · 1 year ago

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There’s something very ironic about the opening shot of (almost) every DHMIS TV Episode being the front door opening. Considering that in general, this show is about the claustrophobia and helplessness of these characters being trapped in their house unless let out by the capricious whims of their teacher - and specifically because of that, from our protagonists’ POV, that front door probably doesn’t exist.

Okay, so, judging from the layout of the house in both the opening and the show itself, the front door should be right here -

behind the kitchen, right next to the mirror and the coat rack (which, you know, it makes sense to have the front door right next to the coat rack).

But the characters themselves never directly explicitly interact with this location (and they only implicitly interact with it once, which I will get to a bit later). Instead, every time the characters are actually shown going in and out of the house - they use the door on the side of the Dining Room.

And this door might lead outside of the house -

Or it might just lead to the living room.

DHMIS loves to use the conventions of television to create a surrealist and oppressive atmosphere and that is just another example of this. Nonsensical house/apartment layouts are not unheard of in TV Production. You know, filming inside a real house is often a lot less convenient than building disconnected sets and cutting between them when the characters walk through a door - and sometimes flubs or inconsistencies happen or the production just straight-up doesn’t care about it as much as nerds online and whoops now the characters live in a canonical non-Euclidean pocket dimension. But in DHMIS this is not a flub, but an intentional element of unease and horror (and sometimes comedy).

Cause, you know, it’s not just that the trio live in a space that does not make any sense (where is the bedroom anyways? Is it also behind that same dining room door?) - it’s also that their own house is a space they cannot actually fully control or navigate.

They can’t determine whenever this is the living room door or front door. They can’t leave of their own volition, but any random stranger can come inside or force them out.

Just another reminder that is not really their house, as much as they are of the house. And meanwhile the space that should logically be the front door goes totally ignored by the characters - basically on the same logic none of them can see either the staircase or the empty chalkboard space lingering just past the fourth wall of their dining room.

If it is off-screen, it basically doesn’t exist for the characters. Again, this idea of turning a convention of TV Fiction into another part of the Puppets’ Actual Nightmare is a recurring theme in DHMIS.

And on that same note, I want to point out the moment that comes closest to acknowledging the front door, or whatever else lies behind that little nook.

In Episode 2, ‘Death’, during the Memories musical montage, Yellow goes to the coat rack area -

And then he goes outside.

Basically the only time in DHMIS’ TV Series that one of the Puppets has left the house on their own. Not accompanied by a Teacher or following a ‘lesson plan’ (quite the opposite, really). Considering that he was by the coat rack a moment ago - that’s the closest we’ve got to one of the Main Three Guys Around using the front door where it’s supposed to be.

It’s still all very… ambiguous. You know, and Duck was basically buried in their backyard, it’s not like Yellow was pulling a Transport and actually trying to leave. But I still think there’s something there. Cutting from the little coat-rack-hallway to the outside is suggestive of a certain kind of movement the same way heading towards the kitchen door and then cutting to the outside is.

And the fact this is Yellow Guy, the Puppet who is at the same time most oblivious but also the closest to being aware of what’s going on -

Is certainly very intriguing...

#don't hug me i'm scared #don't hug me #i'm scared #dhmis #dhmis analysis #dhmis theory #dhmis tv series #dhmis tv show #yellow guy dhmis #dhmis yellow guy #yellow guy don't hug me i'm scared #yellow guy #dont hug me im scared

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dangermousie · 12 days ago

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This is such a good scene and encapsulates everything really - because in some ways it's a repeat of her reaction when the Magistrate seemingly gave up on her - she trusted a man to marry her but it wasn't truly trust but hope and the moment it looks difficult/impossible, her shields come back up. Because yes, she's horrified by the beating he got and the hunger strike and her comments about his disappointing her are made to motivate him to eat and fight sickness but the shields she raises are very very very real. I think while here, unlike with the magistrate, she's open to maybe it working out still, she does no longer expect or rely or hope on it and is emotionally preparing to cut her losses.

The thing with the Magistrate and his utter breakdown because of his powerlessness and helplessness - he's a brilliant scholar and a driven, civic-minded man but he can do nothing but beg for famine relief and get nowhere because he's not from an important family and just - oooof.

(I also love how they leave her feelings deliberately murky and complex - does she love the Magistrate? The Governor's son? Both? The Qin Psycho seems to think both and it honestly makes sense, because humans are complex and feelings don't cut themselves off cleanly.)

Oh, and the scene with Qin Psycho grinding her down...visceral.

(I got to say I laughed when he demanded to know how the magistrate and the governor's son are better than him. Umm, they are not murderous psychopaths who kept the object of his obsession in a brothel to break down her sense of self and think "not auctioning off your virginity until 18" is an unheard of favor.)

PS And once again, the way class trumps everything.

I love that even "bad" people are allowed to actually be complex - we saw that with cases earlier and now we see it with the eldest (living) Qi son. He's a murderer who's considering setting relief grain on fire for his own ends but he is a genuinely loving brother.

This drama is as if someone put Qingming Festival and Heroes (2024) with a side of Strange Tales of Tang Dynasty into a blender...

#cdrama #under the moonlight

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whoopsies-daisies · 2 months ago

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I can't stop thinking about it so... Here's an analysis of why i believe David Bowie's "space oddity" may have been taken as inspiration for the game Mouthwashing.

So, i feel like even though it could fit the game as a whole as well, this song best describes Curly, and his mental state throughout the game. If you've never listened to the song before, I'd suggest doing so before reading this. Not necessarily because you wouldn't understand it otherwise, but because it fucking slaps. The lyrics are in order, but the game events might not be chronological because of that. Some of the lyrics will have much more in-depth descriptions than others.

The song starts off by repeating the lyric "Ground control to major Tom... Ground control to major Tom..." In this scenario, i picture Curly as major Tom and, unsurprisingly, Anya as ground control. I do think other characters fit the role of "ground control" at points, but it's mostly Anya. Anya is warning Curly about Jimmy, and the lyric repeating relates to how her pleads for help remain unheard pre-crash.

"this it ground control to major Tom, you've really made the grade, and the papers want to know who's shirts you wear." This lyric feels very connected to Curly's success as a pilot. In this lyric i picture ground control as either Pony Express, communicating through the letter from corporate stating his promotion, or Jimmy and his envy/inferiority complex towards curly. Depending on the perspective, it could be taken as either sincere or sarcastic.

"now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare" I don't have a perfect connection for this one as it is just an extension of the previous lyric, but it could relate to the idea of Jimmy feeling like he's being abandoned by Curly, the capsule in this scenario being Jimmy and the crew. Sort of like he's saying "fine, leave me, i dare you."

"this is major Tom to ground control, I'm stepping through the door, and I'm floating in the most peculiar way. And the stars look very different today" was a bit of a tricky one but I'm thinking it has to do with the hallucinations/psychotic episode he experienced right before Jimmy's psych eval. Sort of like how the minute he stepped out of the door, he started seeing things.

"for here, am i sitting in a tin can, far above the world" seems indicative of how curly feels trapped (like being in a tin can,) both on the ship and in his job/life. The lyric is repeated multiple times throughout the song, and although the meaning changes each time, the overarching theme of feeling trapped seems present in each of them.

"planet earth is blue, and there's nothing i can do." is definitely connected to Curly's helplessness through it all. His inability to help anya, or to stop the crash, or to do much of anything after the crash due to his injuries. There's nothing he can do about what's happening, no matter how badly he wants to fix it.

"though I'm past one hundred thousand miles, I'm feeling very still." this could be another example of Curly feeling trapped in his position. He's exceeded or met his goals, yet still feels empty about it. It took him so long to get here, yet he's gained very little from it, and just wants to escape.

"and i think my spaceship knows which way to go." i think this represents Curly's misplaced trust in Jimmy before the crash and how Jimmy was supposed to be steering the ship.

"tell my wife i love her very much, she knows." in this scenario i picture anya as the "wife" and him saying "i love her" as him apologizing. It represents how he sees his mistakes and wants to apologize.

"ground control to major tom, your circuit's dead, there's something wrong, can you hear me major Tom? Can you hear me major Tom?" Ok this is my absolute favorite one, because it's literally the dead pixel metaphor rephrased. Once again, ground control is Anya and major Tom is curly. Anya is trying to tell Curly about the "circuit" or the dead pixel, referring to Jimmy, and the lyrics after, asking "can you hear me major tom" is sort of like how she wasn't able to get through to him either about Jimmy or the pixel.

and the final lyric. "Here am i floating round my tin can, far above the moon. Planet earth is blue, and there's nothing i can do." This is a representation of Curly's acceptance. The tin can could be either the ship as a whole or the cryopod. "Planet earth is blue and there's nothing i can do" is no longer regret, it is now a statement of mourning, for his crew and likely for himself as well.

I tried my best with this, guys. I'm not an analysis person so again, this could be really terrible and I'd have no clue! But if you made it this far, i hope you see my vision at least a little bit.

(@verdantwyrm come get yr juice 😋)

#mouthwashing #song analysis #story analysis #anya mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #mouthwashing game #mouthwashing analysis #david bowie #space oddity

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beevean · 23 days ago

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Prompt: The scene of Dracula kidnapping Soleil 😈

His heart still thrummed for the excitement, but Soleil, with trembling hands, forced himself to place the Vampire Killer on his nightstand and crawl under the sheets.

The Vampire Killer. Father's whip. In his possession. He was a true Belmont, now!

Oh, this was the best day of Soleil's life. Even under the warmth of the bed, he could not stop smiling and replaying the events of the ceremony in his head. His own father, his very hero, he who slew the evil Count Dracula himself, passed onto him the ancestral whip that radiated holy power. He had become a man, a Belmont worth of his name, Father had said with shiny eyes.

(Soleil might have cried very much unlike a man, but he couldn't help it.)

Not even the cold drafts seeping through the window bothered him. He was on top of the world, and he could not wait to make Father proud with the skills he had learned from him!

The window blew open. The night air outside rushed in the room. And with it, an odd sensation Soleil could not place, but it churned in his gut, uneasy, smothering his happiness. He had locked the window, he was sure of it. What was going--

Dark smoke took form next to him.

The stench was undescribable, inhuman. Icy dread settled in Soleil's stomach, as the smoke twisted, flowed like water, then became solid... a dark, solid shape, tall like a column, until it took the resemblance of a human - no, a thing, with bone-white hair and hellish eyes.

Count Dracula stood by his bed.

Soleil had never seen the vampire Lord, yet he knew, deep in his being, who that monster was. No one else could freeze the blood in his veins, cause tremors in his petrified limbs. He looked like a crude caricature of a person, a sickly corpse wrapped in a shadowy cloak, and Soleil's heart leaped out of his chest and the Vampire Killer was right there and his hand would not move to grab it.

"I finally get to see you up close, young Belmont."

Dracula's voice lashed at him like the wind blowing from the window.

Soleil couldn't talk. His tongue would not move, frozen to the roof of his mouth. His throat clamped shut. It was a nightmare, yes, it had to be, a very deep nightmare, and at any point Father would come wake him up.

"F-father..." he wheezed, weak, helpless, unheard by him.

My father defeated you before I was born! You can't be real!

As if he could read his thoughts, Dracula smirked, with his long canines peeking from his lips. "Your father is a weak, unremarkable man who brought shame to his thrice-damned family name. I'm disappointed, I must say, I expected better from Trevor's heir. But no matter..."

The creature walked - no, floated, his body moved unnaturally, he did not belong in this world - towards him. Soleil couldn't breathe, his chest heaved, as he could only raise his eyes and meet those of the vampire, who bowed close, too close to him, his breath reeked of blood and Soleil could not turn away...

"I observed you for years, little Belmont. Unlike your father, you seem to have potential. Magic flows in your blood, I'd recognize that scent anywhere." Soleil had no idea what he was talking about, and he could not ask, not when he watched as Dracula's fangs grew, right before his eyes. "And I am always glad to hone potential..."

The vampire raked his claws, longer than Soleil's fingers, down his cheek, jaw, neck, a touch so delicate and so intimately familiar that he tasted bile in his mouth. Then, all gentleness faded, and Dracula tore the collar of his nightgown with the swipe of an animal; and he plunged his teeth in Soleil's neck, it hurt! It burned like nothing Soleil had ever felt, not even fire: his entire body convulsed, trapped in the vampire's grip, Soleil opened his mouth but only a whimper came out of him, no no no how could he have let this happen?! No Belmont should be tainted by Dracula!

His blood left him in gulps, until his fingers grew numb, until the world around him faded in a haze of pain. Before losing consciousness, Soleil could faintly hear the demon sneer: "It is high time a Belmont learns of the agony of having your flesh and blood turn against you..."

#castlevania #akumajou dracula #beev's writing #soleil belmont #dracula castlevania #not the best. but who's gonna give soleil some love huh? :)#sorry kiddo it's not my fault you're so tragic

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rainintheevening · 2 months ago

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🍁🍁Comfy-vember 🍁🍁

Day 9: Scars

Grant Ward & Phil Coulson, Agents of SHIELD, Saving Grant Ward AU, aftermath of torture, non-sexualized bathing/washing, the author does not recommend postponing medical care for a shower

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The first thing Grant demanded was a shower.

"It's been three weeks, okay? You don't want me in your medbay like this."

Simmons stood with her arms crossed over her chest, frowning down at him where he sat on the Quinjet, which had just touched down in the Playground's hanger. "Just because Trip splinted your leg and I gave you some anesthetic, doesn't mean it isn't serious. You need to get the bone set, and I'm worried about infection. Never mind your shoulder—heaven only knows what those x-rays are going to look like."

Phil stayed seated, feeling Grant's weight leaning into him, though it was less than it had been before. Before Garrett, before HYDRA, before he'd been on the run. There was no denying Grant was a mess—greasy hair grown too long and falling in his eyes, ragged jacket and jeans bearing mud and tree sap smears, a fading black eye, and that nasty red scar in front of one ear that ran down to his neck. But he was here! He was safe, he was home, he was back where he belonged. Phil's kid was home again, and the joy of that overwhelmed any grief or fear for now.

"Medbay is built for messes, man." Trip grinned down at his old buddy. "Think about how many people puke in there."

"I'm with Ward," Fitz put in, hovering over Jemma's shoulder. "He should- um- er–"

"Shower." Jemma's whisper was barely audible.

"–shower if he wa-would like to."

"Thank you, Fitz." Grant opened his eyes to smile at the younger agent. "I'm taking a shower," he said again to Simmons. "I'll get back to you in an hour. In the medbay."

Phil knew that tone, and smiled up at the agents clustered in front of them, now including May; Skye lingered warily in the cockpit. It hit him suddenly that they were all here. Grant, May, Fitzsimmons, Skye, Trip. The whole team, reunited.

But he shook off the warm surge of emotion. Grant had to be cared for. "You're not budging him, guys, sorry."

"And what if you fall and break something else?" Simmons argued. "Splitting your skull open in the shower isn't exactly unheard of, and you're not exactly stable."

Grant sighed, sitting straighter so he could turn his head to look at Phil. "Dad?"

That tired little murmur had Phil swallowing hard, nodding before he answered: "Of course. Don't worry," to Simmons. "I'll go with him."

Grant shifted his weight to stand, and Phil moved quickly, ducking under the good right arm, as he levered himself up on the good left leg.

"At least let us get you a stretcher or a wheelchair." Simmons's hands fluttered out in a helpless gesture.

Stiffly, Grant patted her arm with his free hand, made more awkward by the damaged shoulder. "Thank you for your concern, Jemma. But I'm walking in there."

"He's not unconscious," Trip shrugged, moving to Grant's other side, but Fitz had beat him to it.

"Alright, we've got you," Fitz said, his arm joining Coulson's around Grant's waist.

Grant's smile was soft, and he nudged his chin against the curly hair at his shoulder. "Thanks, Leo."

The pure love and hero worship in Fitz's answering look would have melted anyone's heart.

By the time they made it to the bottom of the ramp, though, Phil was wishing Grant had taken Jemma's offer. Even with the local anesthetic in his leg, and the age of his shoulder wound, he moved slow and painful, only the hiss of his breathing betraying what must have been agony. He'd lost enough weight that Phil could have comfortably carried him, but he doubted Grant would agree to that with such an entourage.

That thought was cemented when the second set of heavy doors slid open to the main hall, and instantly a wave of applause washed over them.

Dozens of agents of all ranks and duties lined both sides of the hall, clapping and cheering as Grant stood frozen. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw him go first white, then red under the dirt and sweat.

"They're all the ones you saved," came May's calm voice behind them. "At Rabbit's Run and Carlton Place and Foxhole. They know what you did for them."

Most of them were hostages released in the wake of Grant's silent but deadly run on the HYDRA ranks. He'd assassinated almost a hundred HYDRA agents and operatives in the US and Europe, all in the span of two months, and while carrying a bullet in his shoulder. Not even Natasha could match that, Phil thought, pride welling in his chest.

As they came down into the hall, Agent Morse stepped forward, a genuine smile tugging at her lips.

"Baby Bird." Grant nodded at her.

"Baby Hawk." She grinned. "Welcome back."

Phil wanted to chuckle at the normalcy of their friendly banter, but he could feel Grant's arm trembling around his neck, Grant using all his strength to stand tall in front of the crowd.

"I suppose I have you to blame for this circus."

"Nah, it was Mack's idea."

"Mack." Grant smiled faintly over toward the big man. "Now if you'll excuse me, Birdy, I need a shower."

"And then medical attention," Simmons piped up rather crossly.

"Yeah, that's obvious." Concern creased Bobbi's forehead as she took in his current state. "Well, I certainly won't stand in your way." She stepped back into the line of agents on the left.

"Showers are down two levels with the bunks," Phil said softly, as they stepped forward again. "We'll take the elevator. Straight ahead, then to the right."

Grant did not reply, he was exerting every effort to limp as strongly and steadily as possible down that hall. Some of the agents they passed stood to attention and saluted, some just nodded or tapped a fist over their heart.

What a contrast to the outrage and anger that had gripped the surviving SHIELD members after they saw the footage from the Treehouse massacre—Grant Ward following John Garrett as obediently as a leashed dog. Phil, had been one of his only defenders, along with Fitzsimmons. Even when Grant had betrayed Providence, Phil had clung to his belief that his kid was just playing the game, keeping his cover by giving information that may or may not result in deaths. It was a far better idea than the alternative.

And Phil's belief had been vindicated.

Just Phil, Grant, Fitz, and Trip stepped into the elevator, and the second the doors closed, Grant sagged heavily into Phil, almost falling.

"Steady, steady!" Fitz exclaimed, then froze as his frantic tug on Grant's injured arm elicited a deep groan from him.

"Just– gimme a minute," Grant squeezed out.

"It's okay, Fitz," Phil said, hooking his fingers under Grant's belt to support him better.

It was... different sticking with an injured member of his team this far. Usually by now he'd stepped back, taking the team leader's long view, taking stock and planning what to do next, while other more qualified people did their jobs. Especially now that he was Director Coulson, and not just another agent. But this was Grant, this was his son. Grant trusted him like no one else. And Phil was more than grateful to have this time with Grant, after so long.

"I wanna sleep for a week," Grant whispered, somewhere around Phil's collar.

"That can be arranged." Trip looked both concerned and amused. "Are you sure you're up to this, man?"

Grant did not lift his head from Phil's shoulder, even as the elevator halted, and Phil barely caught his whisper: "I just want to get him off me."

Phil stiffened, and Grant straightened hastily, shaking his head. "No, no! That's not what I– I just–" He made a frustrated sound. "I smell like HYDRA," he said at last.

"You smell like shit," Trip said dryly.

"Exactly."

Phil had been blocking it out best he could, but in the narrow space of the elevator, it was impossible not to notice the reek of sweat and blood and something rotten that clung to Grant. Phil did not blame him at all for wanting that shower.

It took them another ten minutes to reach the men's showers; a long narrow space, with benches along one wall facing a row of shower heads, half enclosed, half not.

Fitz was sent for a chair, while Trip helped Phil remove the splint from Grant's leg and cut the bottom of his pant leg off so it could be put back on over bare skin.

"Are you sure you don't want me to-?" Trip held up a hand against Grant's glare. "Nah, it's okay, man. I'll leave you two to it." He glanced at Phil. "Want me and Fitz to stand guard outside?"

"One of you at least, if you wouldn't mind." He was about to ask if Trip could fetch something clean for Grant to wear, when Fitz came in, carrying the chair, and a handful of clothes.

"Agent May brought these." He held out the clothing: Grant's old Seahawks sweatshirt, a SHIELD-issue t-shirt and underwear, and a pair of flannels Phil didn't recognize. "Agent MacKenzie, er, gave the trousers."

Phil smiled, noting how Fitz's transitions from a word he couldn't remember to one he did were getting smoother. "Tell them both thanks."

"Clearing out now, sir." Trip patted Fitz's shoulder in a way that served to steer him back toward the door. "Holler if you need anything."

The clank of the door shutting echoed in the sparsely outfitted room, and then there was silence, except for a pipe gurgling, and the harsh sound of Grant's breathing.

Phil knelt beside him, involuntarily reaching to push back the shaggy hair from his forehead. They'd laid him flat on the floor for stability while they moved the splint around, but Phil couldn't help thinking he looked nearly dead, stretched out like that.

Grant opened his eyes, squinted up at him.

"You ready?" Phil asked softly.

"Think the granola bars are kicking in." Grant sighed, sat up carefully. "Let's get this over with."

They started with peeling off Grant's jacket, and two button-down shirts. "Haven't worn a t-shirt since Anchorage," he muttered, letting his left arm fall back into his lap.

Phil nodded silently. He remembered the shock of Grant's body hitting his, in time with the crack of Garrett's gun. That bullet had ended up in Grant's shoulder, rather than Phil's brain.

He frowned at Grant's torso, counting three puckered spots of skin, obvious gunshot scars. "Where'd you get those?"

Grant had already started to shiver slightly, and sat forward instead of back against the cold cinderblock wall. He took a moment to reply. "Garrett. On the Bus. Trying to get Fitzsimmons."

Phil was kneeling in front of him where he sat on the bench, so he could look up into Grant's face. There was a distance in Grant's gaze he understood, but didn't like. "Jemma was sure you were dead. She said you got shot at least six times. Fitz was heartbroken."

A spark in the dark brown eyes, a twitch of the lips. "He's a good kid. Leo the lion, bravest of them all."

"But Garrett kept you alive."

A nod, and Grant looked away.

Phil took a deep breath, quelling the anger and sadness that welled in him, and reached slowly to cup Grant's cheek, press his fingers to sweat-sticky too-warm skin.

"I'm glad you're alive."

A glance at him, before Grant's eyes welled up, and he covered them with one hand. Phil's heart cracked a little; four hours since rescue and this was the first time he’d seen tears from from Grant.

Grant slid his hand over on top of Phil's, now hiding his face behind both of them, but he gripped Phil's fingers painfully tight. He said nothing, but a few deep breaths later, he let go, sat straighter, rubbed his eyes.

"Okay, let's move."

They had to cut the waistbands of his jeans and underwear above the injured leg to get those off anywhere close to comfortably, and then Phil turned on the water, giving it time to warm. Grant would need that; Phil hated hearing the little teeth chatters and quick breaths behind him as he collected the company-issue soap and shampoo from a shelf, along with washcloths and a clean towel. Koenig deserved a raise for keeping this place so well-stocked, Phil thought.

At last he helped Grant gently to his feet, and half-carried him into the now-steaming shower, lowering him to sit in the chair Fitz had brought.

A little gasp escaped Grant as the warm water hit him, before he relaxed, tilted his head back to let it wash over his face. Phil moved back to the curtained entrance, awkward and uncertain now. He'd set the soap and things within Grant's reach, but it wouldn't be easy for him to wash himself in his current state. He decided to wait for Grant to ask before he tried to help any further.

He had a sudden sharp recollection of being a child in the bathroom doorway, watching his mother help his father bathe, near the end when the cancer had robbed him of his strength. It was the same mixture of embarrassment, helplessness, and love that filled Phil now.

Sweat beaded on his brow, and he became aware of his heavy jacket and boots, and the water splashing on the cement floor. He left the coat, socks, and boots on the bench, along with his watch, rolling up his sleeves as he walked back to the shower stall.

That was when Phil finally saw the bullet scar clearly, stark on Grant's flushed skin. A dent the size of a quarter in his left shoulder, red and purple lines radiating outward in a strange sort of shatter pattern.

In the narrow space, Grant's back was only an arm's length away, but Phil hesitated to touch him, afraid to startle him. He'd carried that wound for two months– How had he ever survived? How had he kept going? Kept spying and shooting and moving.

"Coulson," Grant was saying. "Dad!"

He blinked, shook his head, cleared his throat. "Yes?"

Grant had his head down, turned, but not quite looking back at him. His hand holding the shampoo bottle was trembling. "Can you-?"

"Of course."

Water droplets pattered against his arms, darkened his sleeves as he worked a lather into Grant's hair, careful and awkward at first, before settling down to the job. He could feel Grant relaxing under his hands, and bit back a smile.

"Feeling better?" he murmured, as soapy grey water slid down the drain.

Grant's only reply was a grunt.

"Just don't fall asleep," Phil warned. "You can do that when they knock you out in the med bay."

"Won't need to knock me out," Grant mumbled.

No, they probably wouldn't, Phil thought. At this rate, he'd be carrying Grant down to the med bay.

"Anything else I can do?" he asked aloud, dropping his right hand to Grant's shoulder.

Grant said nothing, just held up a washcloth, and Phil silently took it.

He eased back a step, as Grant leaned forward, and was thinking of how gentle he'd have to be when he paused, staring at Grant's back.

The bullet hole wasn't the only scar there. There were other, older lines, cuts, burns that almost looked like finger prints, and... was that-?

"Grant. What is this?" He could barely hear his own whisper over the running water.

"What-?" Grant started, before he froze under Phil's touch.

Phil's stomach churned as he traced the raised flesh, the hollow-eyed skull and the eight curling tentacles. Bile rose in his throat, hot and scalding, but he swallowed it back. "Who did this to you?" He hated how his voice broke, how tears burned behind his eyes.

"Sorry, Garrett's already dead."

With a curse, Phil turned away, slammed a fist into the metal wall, but Grant's flinch yanked him back from the anger better than the pain in his knuckles did.

A deep breath, before he found a word. "Why?"

Grant seemed to shrink under his gaze, curling under the weight of that awful brand. But his words came as steadily as they would in any debriefing. "He said I was his. After I– I tried to escape. They tortured me, but he wouldn't let me die. And then he had me branded. To make sure everyone knew which master to send the mutt back to.

"Did you know?" He sat straighter, as if the bitter words gave him strength, glanced over his shoulder up at Phil. "Did he tell you he came to recruit me? In juvie? He got to the detention centre ten minutes after we left. He wanted me for HYDRA. But you beat him to it." A rusty laugh. "The way he harped on that, you would have thought you'd done it on purpose." He sighed, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "After- after I broke, after I shot Firenze... he said he won. He said he got me in the end."

The warmth on Phil's cheeks was not water; it stung in his eyes, burned in his throat. Words, where were they? What was he supposed to say?

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. We should have searched harder, we should have found you, I should have saved you. But when he opened his mouth, no sound came.

Blinking away tears, he looked down to where his hands rested on Grant's shoulders, water pattering over his fingers and dripping steadily down from his wrists... washing over those scars. On the right, the brand of HYDRA. On the left, the shattered mark earned from saving Coulson. He wished suddenly that the brand could have been on the left, could have been punched through by that bullet. Because which one had been Grant's choice?

"He didn't."

It came out in a croak, and Phil cleared his throat.

"He didn't get you in the end. You were willing to die to save me. The whole time he thought he had you, you were waiting to turn it back on him. He might have had your hands tied, but he didn't have you."

Grant sat quite still in front of him, head bowed, and suddenly Phil needed to see his face, to make sure Grant understood the truth. He ignored how water soaked his shirt as he stepped around to turn the shower off, and in the ringing hush, sank into a crouch in front of Grant.

Naked, dripping, hungry, exhausted, scarred, and in pain—this was Grant Ward at his most vulnerable. Phil only hoped he could get it right, could say and be whatever it was Grant needed most right now.

"Grant," he murmured.

A sniff, a shaky exhale, a hand rubbed across his face, but Grant did not look up.

Phil shifted to one knee, reaching up to cup the back of Grant's neck, rest their heads together. "You did what you had to do to survive."

Grant shook his head, drew back. When he looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed and wet. "You taught me a long time ago there was more to life than survival."

"I trust your judgement on the cost. You're a good man, Grant. Making the hard choices doesn't change that."

Tears brimmed over, and he turned his face away again.

"You stayed alive," Phil whispered. "And I'm grateful."

A shudder under Phil's hand, and then a sob broke out, Grant shaking his head hard. "But I didn't! I didn't try to survive! He wouldn't let me die."

How could his heart hurt anymore? Phil wondered. Not that he could really pretend surprise. Torture could push people in all kinds of directions. But he needed to keep Grant talking, dig out whatever was festering in his heart.

"What do you mean?" he whispered.

"This scar," Grant gulped, lifted a shaking hand to the pink line running down from in front of his right ear to under his jaw. "That wasn't Garrett. That was me."

And now he was sobbing, slumping forward against Phil's chest. As gently as he could, Phil wrapped an arm over Grant's back, their positions making it awkward to offer more physical comfort.

He wished he had a towel to wrap around Grant's shoulders, knowing the chill would get to him sooner or later. Cool water was dripping down inside his collar, and the hard floor was hurting his knee, but Grant had a fistful of his shirt, and Phil would not have pulled away for the world. He pressed his cheek against wet hair, and closed his eyes.

"What happened, Grant? Talk to me. This is our debriefing. Just us. Talk to me."

"He told me they were dead," Grant choked out. "Fitzsimmons. But he kept me alive. Tortured me. No food. No water. Alone. In the dark. For weeks." A last sob shuddered through him, and he subsided to ragged breathing. He was collecting himself, trying to explain coherently. "Garrett wanted to break me. I tried to escape, but–" a deep shaky inhale "–they caught me. Beat me. When I woke up... he branded me. And I..." His voice caught, and he shook his head, shivered.

"I'm sorry, Dad, I'm so sorry."

That tearful whisper tore at Phil's heart, and a couple warm drops slipped down his own cheeks.

"For what?" Even though he knew the answer.

"I was supposed to die bravely. But I couldn't. I wanted it to end! I just wanted... it to stop, so I tried. I stole a knife, went for the carotid. When I woke up... Garrett said I wouldn't get away that easy.

"I gave in, Dad." Another round of sobs threatened, but he fought them back. "I wasn't trying to be a double agent, I just... wanted to eat every day. I wanted to wake up and not hurt. I don't even remember the Treehouse. Because he was right. I was no better than a dog."

"Grant Douglas Ward." His voice came out too loud, and he tried to soften it with a hand on Grant's cheek. "Look at me." He stared into bloodshot brown eyes, gripped Grant's face gently. "Sometimes heroes have to start by saving their own lives. And yours is worth it." A thumb stroked deliberately down the knife's old path. "So thank you. Thank you for surviving. I'm proud of you, son."

More tears, but quieter now, both of them worn and chilled.

Phil leaned in to press a warm kiss to Grant's forehead. "Come on," he murmured. "We better finish up and get you in some dry clothes."

"Okay."

As he stood though, Grant caught his hand, squeezed it. "I love you, Dad." His tiny tired smile was like the sun breaking through clouds.

It took a moment before Phil could answer.

"I love you, son."

He tried to move quickly, cleaning Grant's back, and helping him wash around the splint. The little gasps from Grant at any movement of his leg, told him the anesthetic had run his course, and his kid belonged in the med bay ten minutes ago.

But at the same time there seemed to be something lighter in Grant's eyes, in his air, and Phil was certain their conversation had been a good thing. What was that saying? The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable? Well, they'd gotten some of the misery out of the way.

Getting Grant dry and dressed was an arduous process, but at last he sat on the bench, clad in the borrowed flannels and Phil's jacket, preferable because of its zipper. Phil discarded his soaked button down, and took the t-shirt and sweater. May had forgotten socks, so he gave Grant his own, kneeling in front of him to gently ease on one and then the other, at least as far as it could go on the wounded leg.

As Phil hastily laced his boots, he glanced sideways at Grant's pale face, and closed eyes, the way he slumped back against the wall, still shivering.

"I'm carrying you." Not a question, a decision.

"You always carry me."

The words were barely audible, and he wondered if Grant had meant to say that aloud. But he clearly meant for Phil to hear him as he was set gently on the elevator floor, Fitz and Trip fussing around his leg. As Phil made to stand, Grant caught his sleeve, spoke soft but steady. "I'm glad I'm alive too."

Phil could only nod and smile.

Grant was asleep on his shoulder by the time the elevator stopped.

#um... sorry?#this took forever and got super angsty and i am so sleepy right now i hope it made sense #yes grant and bobbi know each other and yes they call each other that because bobbi took the mockingbird title from laura and grant has #always wanted to be as good a marksman as hawkeye so yeah. clint and laura are like older siblings to them #grant ward #phil coulson #antoine triplett #jemma simmons #leo fitz #melinda may #skye #bobbi morse #agents of shield #saving grant ward au #my writing #comfy vember 2024 #scars

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peachycrisis · 1 year ago

Text

Human Again

chapter 2

—————

The princess helped the former demon up the stairs as the rest of the residents watched in awe and utter confusion. How could this had happened? How could an angelic weapon cause all of this change? How is the infamous radio demon now a scrawny human?

“There we go, yep- one more step-“ Charlie muttered as she helped the injured man up the final stair, the man grunting in pain with each step. Charlie looked down at the man, who seemed to now be looking at her as well, the man’s eyes were dull- but alert. The man’s eyes were brown, with a little bit of green mixed in as well. It was very weird to look at the man who used to be feared all throughout hell as a helpless, injured human. The sharp red orbs on the man’s face were now replaced with big brown doe eyes- looking.. embarrassed? She sighed, stopping at the top of the stairs- feeling the man try to take his weight off of her and failing miserably.

“Woah- Al, are you okay?” the princess of hell asked as she felt the former radio demon place more of his weight onto her, the brown eyed radio host felt lightheaded and exhausted. His head fell into the crook of her neck, feeling his newly found curly hair brush up against her face and shoulders.

“It hurts a lot, you know.” he spoke into her neck, lacking the usual radio filter.

“I know, I know-“ she says, gripping onto the man, still allowing him to use her shoulders as something to balance on. Alastor winced, putting pressure back onto his own feet. “We’re almost there.” She said as they continued down the hallway slowly.

—————

The residents watched as the duo made their way up the stairs, confused as all hell.

“what the fuck just happened.” Angel spoke, breaking the awkward silence between them.

“I had never heard of such a thing, a sinner turning back into a human after being strikes by an angelic weapon..?” Vaggie questioned, dumbfounded at the events that just took place.

“That is unheard of, even in Heaven..”

“Well, I just gotta say- I would hi-“ Angel spoke seductively before being cut off by husk.

“If you hit on him I swear to fucking god.” Husk grumbled, everyone looked at him- surprised by his sudden outburst.

“I was just gonna say, he is kinda hot.” Angel confessed as he shrugged, everyone’s glance moved from husk to Angel within a second.

“Fuck no.”

—————

Once they got to Alastor’s room, Charlie helped him to the bed, before going back and closing the door for more privacy- she didn’t know the overlord very well, mainly do to him being a very private person- but one thing she did know, he would not want the entire hotel knowing about what is going on- or at least what is going on with his injury at this very moment.

“Okay, Alastor.” She started, “I’m not sure if you remember- I’m Charlie, but I think you know that already though-“

“yes dear, I know who you are.” Alastor spoke weakly. That’s right, he just mentioned the deal. Charlie internally envisioned herself smacking her own forehead. His smile continued to strain, the sharp teeth gone- replaced by a more human set. He cannot lose control. Not now, not ever. His smile strained even more as he watched the blonde woman in front of him, she looked so worried. He gripped tighter onto his coat, hugging his chest where his wound is, trying to hide it from view. He felt his breath hitch as his heart started to race… why was he panicking?

stay. in. control.

“okay, yes- um..” Charlie stuttered, looking at the man in-front of her- shock still coursing through her veins as she examined every nook and cranny- her eyes focusing down at the blood stained marks on his clothing. The clothing looked to be a little tight, possibly from the transition from a cannibal demon to a human being. She looked up and into his eyes, the man’s brown eyes looked tired and glassy as they also stared deep into hers. They stayed like that for a solid 30 seconds before the princess broke the silence.

“um…” she hesitated, looking at the arm encased in the bloody sleeve of his coat that was covering up the bloody angelic wound. She got on one knee in-front of the man and put her hand softly on Alastor’s arm, she felt him tense up, before watching him take a deep breathe and attempt to compose himself from the sudden touch. He allowed himself to loosen up, closing his eyes, putting his head down, and sighing.

“Can I see it?” She asked, gently rubbing his arm with her thumb. His breathe hitched again,

“uh- dear, i-“ his head shot up, his eyes opening- confused, scared, every emotion at once. Some strands of the overlords hair was sticking to his forehead from how much he has been sweating.

“I just want to see the damage.” She spoke reassuringly, “i won’t judge you, I promise..” the man noticeably tensed up even more, his eyes widened- his smile sharpening. His heart rate got even faster, Charlie noticed this, quickly getting up from her place on the floor, and opting to take a place beside him on the side of the bed.

“I just want to see how I can help you, is that okay?” She asked softly. The radio host finally agreed.

Charlie watched as Alastor- or the human version of who she knew to be alastor, took off his gloves, revealing flesh toned hands. She watched as his hands traveled to the buttons on his shirt, and how his hands shook with each button he needed to undo.

“Do you need he-“

“no.”

The man finally unbuttoned the last of the series of buttons, and slid the shirt off of his shoulders, revealing his chest and arms, all the same flesh color as his hands. Besides the obvious injury that stretched from the man’s hip to his shoulder, she noticed many scars littering his body, specifically his arms- she wanted to run her hands over the man’s scars, she wanted to tell him that everything will be alright… but she knows that the overlord would not want to hear any of it.

The man was stocky- thin, but built, a lot more built then his demon counterpart. His chest also contained the slightest amount of chest hair near his peck area.

“can we just.. get this over with?” Alastor spoke, his voice trembled and weak as his smile visibly starts to shake, on the verge of breaking. She took too much time examining and… exploring… the former demons body, she had barely payed attention to him himself. She watched as the mans body shivered, his eyes were wide with a mixture of what seemed to be fear and embarrassment.. the brown eyes started to well up with tears, as if he was going to break down at any moment. She watched him sniff, seeming either holding back a sob or a scream.

He could be self-conscious, she thought to herself before she looked at him, looking for a sign of reassurance that she could get closer. The curly haired hesitated, but then reluctantly agreed by giving her a nod.

She knelt down in-front of him again, taking a good look at the wound. It seemed to be starting to heal at the ends, but it was still very much inflamed and festering in the middle, with the outside skin looking red and raw.

“Alastor, you waited three days to take care of this?” She spoke… her voice shaking at the observation of how bad it truly was.

“yes…”

“Alastor-“

“I know.” he softly cried, letting a tear fall down his cheek, using one of his hands as stabilization on the bed, while the other found its way making it up to the man’s face and hair while the princess examined his bare, injured, and scarred skin.

he hated that she had to look at his body for that long.

#human alastor #injured alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #the radio demon #husk hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin hotel charlie #charlie hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #hazbin hotel angel dust #angel dust hazbin hotel #angel dust #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel #alternate universe #alastor #hazbin hotel vaggie #vaggie hazbin hotel

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