#but to deny scar earth in that he is not soft enough is to pretend the earth is docile

[satoruxx]

pairing: toji fushiguro x reader | 1.6k words summary: boyfriend!toji headcanons, fluff, soft!toji, grumpy x sunshine, he’s a simp but he’ll never admit it !! rheya's note: grumpy man being soft for the person he really loves? i’m here for it. mamaguro is literal proof that he can and will love !!

bf!toji who is silent with his care for you. he's not one to be open or dramatic about his feelings, but you bet he'll show them in actions. small, mundane things that could only be picked out under critical eyes—like quietly placing an extra mug of coffee next to you as you work, or being the one to walk closest to the street, fingers firmly clasped around your palm. if you point it out he'll just grunt, shaking his head with a quiet "keep walking" all while pretending to ignore your silly little grin.

bf!toji who isn't really the type to be big on words of affirmation, but huge on physical touch. you tell him you did well on a project at school or work and he just hums, giving you a little nod. he doesn't say anything else—doesn't really have to because the soft lingering pat on your head is enough to tell you that he's proud.

bf!toji who is an aggressive yet affectionate lover. if you're doing something and he's not receiving your attention he will come up behind you and put you in a headlock. he thinks it's an appropriate response considering how much he craves your attention and company—why on earth are you focused on something that isn't him anyway? so be prepared to have his heavy bicep playfully curling around your throat or slinging you over his shoulders at random times—it's his way of telling you he misses you. and if anything, he'll do it to hear you whine and attempt to shove him off.

bf!toji who will absolutely take your phone and change your lockscreen to pictures of him. every so often, you'll turn your phone on and see an entirely different picture—sometimes a picture of him at the gym, other times a picture of him blocking out his face—but it's always him.

bf!toji whose own lockscreen is always something that's related to you. he's sneaky with it, always stealing pictures of you when you're not looking. he's got a separate album with them—probably hidden behind a password because it's something only he should be allowed to see. but whether it's a snapshot of his hand intertwined with yours or a blurry image of you fast asleep in his bed, it's always you. because of course you’re the first thing he should be able to see when he turns his phone on.

bf!toji who, as cliché as it sounds, is exactly the type to go feral if someone's made you upset. and he's freakishly observant, noticing even a slight pinch of your nose or wobble in your lips—he's caught them all. whether you're just down or outright sobbing, he's there, standing in front of you with pure anger weighing heavy on his brows. and yet for all his rage he's nothing but gentle as he firmly takes your face in his calloused hands, muttering a strained "what the fuck happened?" as he forces you to make eye contact with him. his own eyes will dart over your features, searching for discomfort or any other emotion as you explain, barely holding back his own emotions because there's no reason on the fucking planet that you should be upset at all.

bf!toji who rarely says the words "i love you" not because he doesn't but because the words themselves don't hold all that much meaning to him. no he'd rather spend his time proving it to you than just saying it for the sake of saying it. but, sometimes if you pretend to be asleep long enough, you'll catch him quietly whisper the words into your hair, almost like he doesn't want anyone to hear it. don't even bother trying to call him out for it—he'll deny deny deny.

bf!toji whose eyes flutter when he lets you trace over his scars. not just the one cutting over his lips but the ones that litter his back and torso—battle remnants that he doesn't remember much of. he's always hated the look of them, indifferent to old memories of a much more chaotic time in his life. but when your gentle fingers graze over the raised skin he'll sigh, oddly quiet but yet so comfortable.

bf!toji who will drop everything if you need him. don't ever hesitate to ask him for things because you're scared of being a burden—he will yell at you (affectionately). you drank too much with your friends and can't get a ride? call him and he'll pick you up even if it's 4 am. you're feeling nervous about walking home from the convenience store even though it's only ten minutes away from home? stay put and he'll come get you so that you can walk back together. shut up about all that "it's an inconvenience for you" bullshit—he'll do it and that's that.

bf!toji who asks if you've eaten today, and when you answer with a sheepish smile he'll click his tongue, crossing his bulky arms over his chest and giving you a pointed glare. then he'll say "get your ass to the kitchen. c'mon, up." while hoisting you to your feet—most of the time he'll just pick you up and plop you on the counter himself.

bf!toji who wordlessly makes you something to eat, whether it's a quick snack put together with leftovers or an actual full meal. then he'll stand in front of you with the plate and demand you eat. even a slight word of protest and he's scowling, already holding up a spoonful while grumbling a low "don't wanna hear it. open up, kid."

bf!toji who hates when you fall asleep on the couch waiting for him to get home. his job doesn't allow for the comfort of a strict schedule, and he's told you this many times. but you're nothing if not stubborn, and he can only sigh heavily as he sees you dozing against the armrest when he pushes the door open late at night. he'll click his tongue quietly, hooking both arms under your back and knees to cradle you against his chest before walking to the bedroom. though some part of him is pleased, knowing that you seem to care about him enough to make sure he's coming home every night.

bf!toji who glares at anyone who even breathes in your direction the wrong way. some guy eyeing you while you're walking on the street? toji looks like he's ready to rip his head off. some "friend" of yours asking too many questions about why you're dating a man like him? well…if looks could kill.

bf!toji who pulls you into his lap when he kisses you, because he likes the way you fit into his space so perfectly. he won't ever admit how it makes him swoon when you giggle against his lips, instead choosing to tighten his grip on your hips and pull you closer to his chest.

bf!toji who enjoys watching you sit on the kitchen counter and swing your legs back and forth—finding it so unbelievably endearing that he ends up just standing in between your legs and burying his face into your neck. his lips will map chaste kisses across your skin, and he'll hide a wry smile as your quiet giggles wash over him.

bf!toji who will notice when you eye something at a store, whether it's a pretty piece of jewelry or a new sweater or whatever—he keeps note. and then weeks later, once you've forgotten all about it, he'll come home and drop a bag into your lap before shoving his hands into his pockets. when you open it and start gushing about how much you wanted it and how pleased you are, he'll huff and turn away, muttering a low "whatever, kid. 's not a big deal."

bf!toji who sees you upset about something, and loops his bicep around your neck and tucks you under his chin. to an outsider it doesn't look like the most comforting form of a hug, but it's toji, and he's secure and he's safe and he's all the comfort you need—a tight squeeze that grounds you in a way that you can't quite describe.

bf!toji who will never admit how interested he is in your gossip. his ideal way to destress after he comes home is to sit on the couch with you in his lap, your arms looped around his waist as you press yourself against his torso and tuck your head under his chin. and even though his eyes are trained on the tv, he has no clue what's going on—he's more focused on the drama you're spilling or whoever you're ranting about. and he makes it known too, occasionally asking "then what happened, baby?" and adding in a few sounds of disbelief. by the end of your rant, he'll be saying something along the lines of "what a fucking bitch," or "honestly he deserved that," and then asks for updates on the situation over the next few days.

bf!toji who silently watches you trace your fingers over the lines on his palms. you're blabbering about something, tucked against his chest as his other arm remains wrapped around you securely, but he's just focused on your hands. it scares him a little bit—the difference between you and him. his palms are calloused, rough with battle and death, while yours are soft, clean of the horrors he's determined to keep away from you. and a small part of him tells him he shouldn't taint you with all his faults, that you deserve someone more capable of loving than he is. but then he feels you brush your lips over his scarred fingers and he sucks in a breath, tightening his grip imperceptibly. even as he hides a half smile against your brow, he knows he isn't going anywhere.

[permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88]

Old Town Road | Halbrand/OC (part 5)

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple arrangement. Give up her freedom, and save her family home. The ultimatum was one Tilda had grown to accept, given that she could stay as far from her would-be captor's presence as she wished. But when chance forces her into closer proximity with the man known as Halbrand, she will find that her patience is not the only thing being tested. Particularly when what he seems to desire most, now, is her heart. (Yellowstone-ish AU).

Warnings: alternate universe, original character(s), house fire, death of a parent, burn scars, toxic relationship, Stockholm syndrome, angst, allusion to smut, unrequited love, enemies to lovers.

Other: Please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag-list!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

From the moment Tilda's feet hit the ground on land that had been in her family for generations, she realizes that she is very likely in over her head.

Smoke still drifts in tendrils from charred wooden beams littering the ground. The smell seeps into her nostrils until it is near to all-consuming. It is enough to have nausea roiling in her gut, her eyes stinging with unshed tears as she casts her gaze around at the destruction, and although she had half-hoped to have the strength to manage this on her own, it would be a lie to pretend that Isildur's presence at her side is not something she knows she could never do without.

Sparing a glance for him, she takes a moment to gather her wits. A shaky breath escapes as she forces herself to swallow past a rapidly growing lump obstructing her throat.

Though she never once looks away from her friend's gaze, Tilda is aware of how Isildur's hand reaches for her own, their fingers twining together on instinct so that he can deliver a reassuring squeeze. And by the time she turns back to face the wreckage of her home, she is able to withstand it feeling just a little stronger.

Whether that strength is a fleeting thing or not, however, remains to be seen.

Still, the matter had been a necessary one. Though Elendil and the other hands had done what they could to manage initiating repairs on their own, after the police had concluded their cursory investigations, there were certain things they could not partake in. Things that required the landowner, or more accurately, a proxy, to tidy away.

He'd sent Isildur to the hospital to inform her of as much only a day prior, and although she was still very much reluctant to leave her father's side, Tilda couldn't exactly deny that it was a thing she would hardly be able to avoid. Something that needed to happen, whether she already found herself apprehensive of what was to be discussed, or not.

If she could do this one small thing for her father, however, particularly when he was already facing so much, then she would do it. She would move heaven and earth to do something in an effort at making amends for everything that had gone wrong between them before she'd left home.

With that goal in mind, together, Tilda and Isildur move toward the two men standing at the property's edge. And although she can feel herself tensing the closer they get, she forces herself to continue moving forward as best she can.

It is something the younger of the two men seems to sense, if the understanding expression that he adopts is any sort of indication at all, his tone soft—almost hesitant—as he moves to speak.

"I am sorry to have to bring you here, Tilda. And I am sincerely sorry for the loss of your mother."

"Thank—thank you," Tilda stammers, her brow furrowing as her voice seems to crack, the obvious sincerity behind the man's words at odds with the hard reality of what surrounds them, "I'm sorry, who—what am I to call you?"

"Elrond. And this is my partner, Durin."

"A pleasure," The other man—Durin—says, ignoring the sidelong glance Elrond sends him, in clear favor of getting to the point of the ordeal at hand as quickly as he can, "If you'll allow, we'd like to walk you through what we've got so far."

"What you've—what you've got?"

"Pertaining to what caused this tragedy," The younger man clarifies, some small amount of reluctance apparent behind the words, as though whatever it is they have managed to discern thus far is a conclusion that Tilda has not already come to, on her own, "If you will follow me, I can—we can show you."

Managing a nod, Tilda follows as Elrond and Durin lead the way to the opposite corner of where her childhood home once stood, picking her way through the rubble while simultaneously exerting every effort she can to avoid looking at it, altogether. In truth, it feels as though if she does grant it too close of a look, all of her attempts at keeping herself together will simply fall apart.

Her own suspicions about what had happened to cause all of this aside, the reality of any one of them actually holding some truth is enough to bring the burn of bile to the back of her throat. A reality that only grows more unavoidable as soon as she realizes Elrond and Durin have come to a stop near a quite obviously blackened patch of grass.

"There's evidence of an accelerant placed just here," Elrond informs, crouching down to run the tips of his fingers against the blackened grass, arrayed in a circular pattern just where the side of her home had once stood, "And some form of vegetation that likely only aided it—"

"The morning glories."

"Pardon?"

"My mother. She—she planted morning glories and hung them in boxes on the window."

"On this side of the home?"

"On every side," Tilda confirms, horror once again threatening to choke her at the thought of the flowers her mother favored having any sort of a hand in the blaze that had decimated their home, "The leaves were hanging—"

"And provided a means for the fire to spread, as I suspected."

The words are Durin's, and although gruff, Tilda already senses that there is no true satisfaction or boasting behind them. His expression, in fact, would seem to indicate the opposite.

Though Isildur seems to tense as the older of the two officers draws near, Tilda holds her ground. She squares her shoulders, though some small part of her knows such a thing is hardly warranted. And as he looks her over, almost seeming to size her up, Tilda is surprised to note just the faintest hint of something not all that far from respect behind his gaze.

Respect for what, though, she honestly cannot tell.

"We found a set of footprints nearby, as well," He continues, gesturing to a section of taped off ground just a few steps away, centered around what is clearly a half-smudged footprint in the dirt, "Did your family have any enemies, lass? Someone who might've believed they had a reason to do this?"

"Durin, I am not certain the question is one you should be asking until—"

"Until what? If the lass has an answer, I say we should hear it now, rather than give the arse who did this time to get away."

"I wasn't—I haven't been living at home for a year. I don't—I'm sorry, I don't know."

The admission is enough to nearly break her, and Tilda finds that her fingers tighten around Isildur's on instinct as he straightens just a bit, and draws a fraction of an inch closer to her side. Guilt over her own absence—over what she might have been able to provide in terms of aid, had she not been away—threatens to overwhelm her, a shaky breath escaping as she tries and fails to gather enough resolve to continue pushing forward.

It is a reality that the two officers standing before her seem to sense in seconds, if the expression they wear is any sort of indication at all.

An expression of pity that is enough to have her reeling, and desperate to cobble together whatever remains of her pride.

"What about your brother?"

"None of us have seen him," Isildur intervenes, clearly intent upon seizing the chance to utter the cold, hard truth before Tilda is forced to do so, herself, "And I doubt he'd be in any sort of state to give you the answer you need, regardless."

"When was the last time you did see him?" Durin persists, the question gruff, but with an undertone of gentleness that exists as a clear attempt at putting both Isildur and Tilda at ease, though given the way she can feel her friend tensing at her side, the effort is lost, no matter how sincere the intention behind it.

"The last I saw him was the night our mother died."

"I see. And did he seem to be behaving strangely at the time?"

"Strangely?"

"Aye. Unusually withdrawn, or—"

"Bain didn't do this. He would never—he would never—" Tilda stammers, indignation at odds with a growing sense of horror that the conclusion being drawn would be, in situations other than her own, an unfortunate possibility a person might be required to face. Of course the men questioning her are only doing their jobs. They have no way of knowing Bain's true character, and the almost immediately regretful look that passes across Durin's features indicates all too clearly that he never meant to cause offense.

Still, she cannot shake the revulsion that sweeps through her at the thought of what is being implied, however gently. And even when the taller of the two officers moves to interject on his partner's behalf, it is a sensation that seems hardly inclined to go away.

"I can assure you, Tilda, that is not what Durin is attempting to suggest."

"Have you got a means of contacting your brother?" Durin inquires, clearly aware of the renewed look of warning Elrond is directing his way, given the soft sigh that escapes him moments later, "We only wish to see if he knows of anything that might help."

"I can give you the number I have in my phone."

Startled, to say the least, by Isildur's abrupt interjection, Tilda spares a glance for her friend, the hardened nature of his tone catching her off guard. Though hardly blind to the inherent protectiveness he'd always harbored towards her for the duration of their friendship, such open hostility, or something very much like it, is unusual, if nothing else.

Unable to pinpoint the apprehensive feeling that is beginning to form in her gut, Tilda keeps her silence, watching as Isildur removes his hand from her own, withdraws his phone from his pocket, and locates Bain's contact information, before handing the device over as requested. Her teeth worry at the inside of her cheek, while Durin jots down the number, and hands the phone back to its owner not long after.

A strange sort of tension seems to have settled over them, regardless of any outward motive or conscious desire for it. And suddenly desperate to eradicate it however she can, Tilda forces herself to stand just a little straighter before attempting to speak.

"I saw a man. The—on the night of the fire," She admits, fighting with everything she has against the instinctive desire to step back as soon as the full force of Elrond's and Durin's gaze lands solely upon her, "You—you asked if my father has enemies, and I don't know for sure, but I saw him."

"Where, lass?"

"By the edge of the woods. He was—he was running away."

"Can you describe him?" Elrond questions, the understanding nod of acceptance he gives as Tilda almost immediately shakes her head in denial far more than she truly feels she deserves. It would be foolish for her to pretend the reality does not sting. That her inability to come up with anything other than that the man had, in fact, been there that night was not throwing in her face exactly how useless her combined absence and lack of knowledge made her.

Again, her teeth dig into her lower lip, this time so fiercely that she can nearly taste the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. But before she can make any attempt at trying to atone for her inability to provide anything useful, Elrond removes the matter from her hands, entirely.

"You had more pressing matters to deal with that night, Tilda. None of this is your fault."

"Thank—thank you."

"We'll be needing your contact information as well, if the investigation turns up any more questions," Durin says, the sudden turn toward the obvious end of the conversation once again catching Tilda off guard, such that she can only manage a singular nod in response. When Durin pulls a notepad and a pen out of his pocket, she takes them eagerly enough, and provides the requested information.

She would be the first to admit how strange it feels to constantly vacillate between an almost crippling sense of being on autopilot, and feeling every last facet of her guilt in slow motion. But regardless of whatever confusion might come about as a result of such feelings, Tilda would be lying if she tried to pretend she is not at least a little bit relieved that the interrogation, such as it was, appears to be over, at least for now.

While Elrond and Durin move off to continue their investigation, Tilda seems to sag beneath the weight of everything that has just transpired. Beneath the weight of how seeing the ashes of her home like this is tearing a hole inside of her chest far faster than she can hope to attempt repairing it.

She isn't aware that she has lost her footing, nearly crumpling to the ground, until she feels the steady weight of Isildur's hands at her waist, holding her upright. He murmurs something she cannot quite piece together, the words coming through as though in a fog.

Shaking herself, she attempts to claw her way back from whatever it is that has her in its sway, bit by bit. Her eyes squeeze closed until she can get her bearings, dragging in one slow breath after another. Until the rushing in her ears fades to a dull, almost inaudible roar.

By the time she is capable of opening her eyes again, Tilda finds that she is once again sheltered beneath the reality of the same sensation of autopilot as she had been, before. And by the time Isildur is shifting his hands to rest upon her shoulders instead of her waist, trusting that she can remain standing on her own, his words manage to reach her loud and clear, rather than through the hazy fog of before.

"C'mon, Tillie. Let's get you out of here."

Unable to manage any form of reply outside of a nod for what feels like the hundredth time, Tilda allows her friend to guide her away from the still-smoking rubble of her home. She follows at Isildur's side, as he leads her back toward the truck parked at the far end of the drive.

Yet again, his hand falls down to wrap around her own, delivering a reassuring squeeze before he releases her to open the passenger door of the truck, and guide her inside. And as she watches him maneuver his way around to the driver's side, Tilda is once again brought to the realization of how fortunate she is that he is apparently content to remain at her side, through it all.

If there is one thing that she knows for certain in all of this, it is that she would not stand a chance of surviving it all on her own.

When Bain wakes on the unforgiving hardness of the bed in a dingy motel, the buzzing of his phone in his jacket pocket an insistent nuisance, he almost immediately finds himself wishing he had left the device behind.

It would have been far simpler that way, or so he believes, a means of ignoring the world when all it seemed to want to do was cause him pain. Pain that seemed to claw its way further inside, despite his best efforts to avoid it.

Hauling himself upright, and pulling his phone from his pocket, Bain's brow furrows at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. The anticipated guilt at the thought of it being his sister's name, or Isildur's wanes, though it does not disappear entirely.

After turning the device off, Bain tosses it on the banged up bedside table, the impact causing the small collection of beer bottles to knock against one another in the process. He rummages through them, until he finds one with a little liquid left, and drains it in a singular gulp. And even when the nagging thought that avoiding reality will hardly win him any favors makes its way to the forefront of his mind, he does not entirely find himself willing to do a thing to change.

His mother is dead. Dead, and what had he done after receiving that knowledge?

He ran. Ran, like the coward he'd somehow always known he was.

In the moment, of course, he hadn't seen it that way. His anger at the world had been burning through him, and rather than inflict that on Tilda when it was the last thing she needed, leaving had seemed like the only option. Desperation to protect her from himself had pushed him when it seemed that nothing else could.

The potential for losing their father on top of it all had factored in as well, of course, the need to do something—to move—pushing him far past the point of rational behavior. And as soon as he had gained the wherewithal to reexamine that moment in the hospital—the moment when he'd left—the guilt had been near to overwhelming.

Seeking oblivion at the bottom of a bottle had seemed like second nature, after that.

As the days had gone on, however, it had become more difficult to maintain. The mindlessness he sought had become more and more fleeting, until it barely seemed to last for any time at all. And as he swings his feet over the edge of the bed to plant his feet on the worn carpeting, Bain realizes that if he wants to continue avoiding his own reality—his own guilt that he created—he will need to find something that is perhaps a little stronger.

The thought is enough to push him to stand, regardless of how foolhardy he might know it to be. In light of the grief that still threatens to pull him under, Bain finds it surprisingly simple to push the voice that practically screams in protest against this idea back behind a carefully constructed wall.

Leaving the phone on the bedside table, he moves instead toward the door, reaching to check for the presence of his wallet, still stowed securely in the back pocket of his jeans. And even though there had always been a part of him that had chafed at the idea of growing up where he and Tilda had—a small town, with close-knit people, always well aware of one another's business—now, he is more than grateful for the opportunity to still be acquainted with a few of those people who never managed to leave.

People who can supply him with what he needs, without judgment, or the need to ask why.

The decision made, whether it is a wise one or not, Bain is able to summon the wherewithal to step outside, and shut the motel door behind him. He starts off toward the road leading into town, each step more determined than the last.

Though hardly infallible, the wall he has erected to keep his guilt over everything at bay is enough to hold off all but the most determined of attacks, those coming in the form of wondering what his mother would think—what Tilda and their father would do—if they were aware of his choices, now. And he knows that those attacks, too, will soon fade into the background, so long as he is successful. So long as the dealer that had been in his classes at school before dropping out was still setting up shop behind the diner at the far edge of town.

Ignoring the risks—the potential ramifications, as well as the long-held reluctance to partake in precisely what he is considering, now—Bain continues moving forward. Desperation for a means of forgetting his circumstances pushes him forward as nothing else could.

Hands stowed inside jacket pockets, he redoubles his effort to maintain that wall against his own guilt and grief. And although a small part of him may still feel uncertain over his current decisions, he knows.

Moving forward is a far better course of action than turning back, and facing the shame that would come with the act of returning home.

When she first realized Isildur had turned the truck toward the path that would lead them not toward the hospital, but toward her grandparents' empty home, situated at the outskirts of their own land, instead, Tilda had protested. Vehemently, in fact, given she felt she had already been absent from her father's bedside for long enough.

The terror that had overtaken her at the thought of prolonging her absence had threatened to overwhelm her, much the same as the sight of her home had. A fact for which she is more than a little embarrassed, regardless of Isildur's countless assurances that it was nothing she need feel shame over at all.

Now that she had been given the opportunity to shower, though, and slip into different clothes, albeit older ones, from the last time she'd stayed beneath her grandparents' roof, Tilda is aware enough that her friend's decision had been a wise one. That continuing on as she had been would only render her less capable of aiding her father, rather than helping her to do so as she desired.

Returning downstairs afterward to find Isildur with a sandwich in hand, its twin situated on a plate at the nearby table, she cannot help but appreciate the gesture, even if the thought of eating turns her stomach in little to no time at all. And when she crosses the distance between them to sink into one of the seats at the table crafted by her grandfather years ago, she finds that it is almost possible to do so without the accompaniment of a heavy sigh.

"Feeling any better?"

"Maybe a little," Tilda replies, the words hardly doing a thing to convince her friend of any sincerity, even when paired with her meager attempt at a smile, "I just—I'm sorry I'm not better company."

"Don't be."

"Isil—"

"Don't be," Her friend repeats, moving to sit beside her, his expression an equal mix of both understanding and concern, "I don't think anyone would know which way was up in your position."

"And if I hadn't left, maybe I wouldn't be in this position."

"Or maybe you would be, only you'd be dead because you would have already been home."

Knowing that Isildur hardly means to do anything other than assuage her guilt, Tilda still cannot bring herself to fully accept it. Though she is not so vain as to believe her presence could have stopped what had happened, it would be foolish to pretend that she might not have been able to help her father sooner. That rather than running to a house that was already ablaze, she could have aided in getting her mother out if she had already been inside, instead.

Rational or not, the thought persists, as does the regret that comes along with it. And, before she can stop herself from uttering the idea that crosses her mind, ridiculous and self-pitying though it may be, Tilda finds that the words are escaping with little to no control on her part, at all.

"Maybe it would be better if I was."

"Tilda, you can't possibly believe that."

"What if I do? What then?" Tilda insists, her fingers flexing against the fabric of her jeans as she forces herself to look Isildur in the eye, "Where are we supposed to go, Isil? Our home is ashes, now. And it's not just my father and Bain, it's—it's you, and your father, and the rest of the hands, as well."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that my mother would have known what to do. That she would have been able to help my father fix this, and move forward, and she would have helped all of you—"

"When, exactly, have any of us given you the idea that you were incapable of helping us?"

"Wallowing in my own indecision is hardly a way of helping ensure that the lot of you aren't left without a home."

"We'll sleep in tents until we can repair the bunkhouse, Tillie. It's nothing we haven't done before," Isildur reassures, already predicting the impending protest Tilda will make, and moving to cut it off before she can even put it into words, "We've done that for years already every summer, and you know it."

"You shouldn't have to do it now."

"And what if most of us would want to? Lord knows it's better than sleeping downwind of Rowan when he claims he's too tired to shower."

"He still does that?"

"Every Thursday, at least."

Lips drawing into a thin line, Tilda does what she can to accept Isildur's assurances, such as they are. She tries to resign herself to the fact that at least a part of what he seems determined to believe is, in fact, true.

She tries to remind herself that all of them had spent summers camped out on the land, doing what was necessary to maintain a ranch of its size and stature, and not a one had found any hardship in it at all. But even that is not enough to fully remove the sense that she should have been able to do more. To be better than a clueless girl who couldn't provide anything for them in the wake of an event they were only a part of due to their association with her, and her family.

Even when she catches sight of Isildur's sudden expression of inspiration, she is not entirely capable of following his apparent enthusiasm, her mind absolutely glued to the guilt that refuses to release her from its sway. A fact that Isildur seems to notice, though it hardly stops him from trying to pull her from it, regardless.

"Perhaps you and your brother and father can live here."

"Isil—"

"Well it's your father's property anyway, now that your grandparents are gone, isn't it?"

"I'm not entirely sure he would agree to use it," Tilda sighs, leaning forward to place her elbow upon her table, and rest her chin against her palm, a frown marring her features as she attempts to explain what, to Isildur, must seem like an unusual reason to resist such an obvious relief to their situation, "He didn't—he and my grandfather did not always get along."

"Would he really allow that to stand between a roof over his family's head?"

"I don't—I don't know. But I do know that he—that he'd hardly shy away from doing exactly what you claim you and the rest of the hands intend to."

"Might be the better option. Would seem more normal, anyway."

"Maybe."

"You don't sound convinced," Isildur presses, his expression softening as soon as he takes in the very clear apprehension taking over Tilda's features before she replies.

"That would be because I'm not. The only thing I do know is that—"

"That what?"

Knowing that Isildur will hardly approve of what it is she is preparing to say—that the two of them should return to the hospital, and her father, rather than lingering here discussing things neither of them can control—Tilda resists answering for a moment, and it seems that pause is enough for the topic to be derailed entirely. The suddenly insistent chirping of her phone from where she had stowed it inside her jacket pocket before heading upstairs to shower achieves that end for her, whether she would have wished for it or not.

Dread rears to life, coiling inside of her chest to snake an insidious path around her heart, but Tilda forces herself to her feet to cross to where her jacket is hanging on a hook beside the door, in spite of it. And even as that dread tightens its hold upon her at the sight of the unfamiliar number, fearing that the call may have to do with news relating to her father, she forces herself to answer it anyway.

Paralyzed by the almost mechanical words spoken by the woman on the other end of the line, she is hardly aware of her own responses to them. She cannot even say with certainty that she could repeat them later, if asked.

Utterly numb, the call disconnects after a few more moments spent locked in her own stunned silence. And it is not until she realizes Isildur is once again at her side, holding her steady, that she comes to her senses enough to speak.

"It's—it's Bain. He's been arrested."

[kitshune]

"...too loud Archive"

Pairing: Void Archive/Welt Yang

Tags: Sleeping together, literally. VA being dramatic

————————————————

There are times where there will be an unwanted guest in the Express, specifically in Welt Yang's private space. Why would there be an unwanted guest in his room? One would ask but to be honest the real question would be why is Welt isn't even bothered by it at all. 

There is an uninvited guest in the Express, for some reason can only be seen coming out of Welt's room is a mystery. How does this man get into the Express without alerting anyone, especially PomPom. Why does Himeko seem nonchalant about it? And why does Welt doesn't seem even a little bit bothered by the fact that the man that he once accused of having bad feelings about is lounging right next to him? It is weird but then again, mysterious is what the young trailblazers would associate Welt Yang with. Since they don't have much to go by or do they know Welt Yang well enough. And so they let it go. For now. 

To think they would be welcome in the comfort zone of the brunette sleeping defenceless beside them. Well they did intrude in his private space but they never saw the man push him away. He even welcomes the blonde in his room with of course ground rules that they will not break (attempt to not break). 

To be honest, they sometimes felt a bit odd, seeing how oddly welcoming the man was for them even though they don the appearance for his enemy yet here they were being welcome. Who would have thought the man that was so cautious of them was allowing them to lay right beside him on his bed while he was asleep. Vulnerable. Defenceless. Of course they won't do anything unsavoury. They don't want to ruin whatever trust they had but in this situation, sometimes they like to think they were either extremely lucky (not that they care much for luck) or perhaps their relationship got somewhat better when the blonde decided to bring (read: blackmail) the brunette to go on this little adventure. 

After their initial departure from the Express, they didn't expect to be welcome back but here they were. Well, welcome into the brunette's room they meant. Not sure about the whole Express seeing that Himeko seemed to be on high alert when she saw the blonde walking about without the senior member with them. Troublesome plus that woman knows how to push the button and get away with it since Welt would do anything to keep her safe. Which means, he would 100% use his divine key to black hole them out of the Express. Don't want that to happen now do we. 

Ok, back to whatever thought they had before. Ah yes, the man beside him. Slumbering right beside him. In arms reach. Softly breathing and sleeping. Ok stop staring. That's just weird. But they can't deny that the man looks extremely…cute. Adorable even in his sleep. He looks as if he had one of the best sleeps in his life and he is enjoying every single bit of it. The blonde couldn't really deny it can they? This man is in their arms reach and they desire him. Ok stop. Really. No unsavoury act. That's what they promise, ok. Good. Go pretend to sleep or something. Ah but he looks cute though…

Who would have thought they would be having a…an…whatever this is actually because they don't know themselves (and if they do they will pretend not to). How troublesome. This is all this man's fault for flooding their head with unneeding thoughts.

…Ever wonder how this man can look so peaceful? Oh well, maybe because he finally got the rest he deserved after a long war back at Earth. Look at those scars on the brunette's body. A proof he had been holding up for that long only because he carries Humanity's reasoning and will. And he still does up till now. He deserves rest. Though, the blonde might miss those shining red eyes filled with honkai energy. Looking straight at them, well at Otto most of the time, with power and confidence. They missed how strong that gaze held but they couldn't complain with how soft the gaze became whenever he talks to them. There might be a little bit of resentment but they fully believe this man would continue to look at them with the same equal footing as he did. They are already being treated the same as any living being by the man, they wouldn't doubt that the man will also look at him in the same light. It's a bit weird how from the start they were treated as a threat as they should be by the brunette but the tone changed so drastically, so sudden that it took them aback when they got trapped in the spaceship. Did the blonde voice his concern? Of course not. But did they tease and mock the man for the sudden change of behaviour? Yes. Though their mocking and teasing didn't phase him, he did somehow manage to ease the blonde's muted concerns. 

Haa, they should really get up and do something else. There's no point lying in bed, attempting to sleep when they find sleeping is quite unnecessary. They should go arrange and organise their archive or something. Yeah go do something productive rather than lying on bed next to their crush the brunette.

Right before they could sit up, they were pulled back into the bed. Before they knew it their head was resting on the man's chest, hand stroking their wild hair. Gently combing through it. “...You’re noisy Archive”. The man said softly as he continued to hold them close to his chest and comb through their hair. As if the gear in their head stops working at that very moment. What in the world just happened? Why is their face smoosh against the brunette’s (soft) chest? What in the ever loving world is happening? Is the man half asleep? Does he realise what he is doing? The blonde screams internally while also trying to figure out what the man is doing and how to escape. And without missing a beat, the brunette pulled them closer to his face before leaving a kiss on their forehead. Murmuring about how loud they were and can they be quieter because he is trying to sleep. He let go of their face soon after before resting his head on the blonde’s. As if nothing had happened, he continues to sleep. 

Effectively dealing a heavy blow to them. Critical hit in psychic damage on the man. If it wasn’t due to their predicament, they would have a chance to reflect it back but they are stuck. Headlock in place by the sleeping man holding him extremely close. Oh their face is heating up extremely. What do I do now? Running every plan they could think of off their head. There must be a way to escape this dangerous situation. If they don’t, who knows what will happen to them (nothing will happen). Quick, is there a way to move around the man? Fuck, there isn’t a way. They are stuck (They are indeed not stuck. They just don’t want to move). Maybe they could manoeuvre the hand and head placement somewhere else to give them more wiggle room? No, there isn’t a way to do that either without waking the man up (They can in fact just move. He will not wake up). How does one get out of this situation? They have run through all the plans they had but none are proven to work. Darn it! (Void Archive can simply just move but choose not too and making it a big deal and being dramatic). 

Perhaps they should simply accept defeat this time. No! They shouldn’t. There is no such enemy that they couldn’t win against. Not against their captor, not any Honkai, not any sky people and certainly not any herrscher. Specifically this one, beside them. Sleeping peacefully. While hugging them close. Hand wrapped in their hair, head resting on top of their’s. They have never given up against any force so why should they admit defeat here?! They will find a way to defeat this herrscher…after they find a way to get up first…

“..too loud Archive” 

“Oh sorry! Didn’t mean too, my Welt”

[ink-flavored]

#OCKiss2024 Day 4: Lost

Purgatory Part of the @ockissweek event from Feb. 12-18th, featuring the titular couple from Pride & Justice. Tips are appreciated!

Pride had no idea how long he sat there. Long enough that the world turned orange around him, and when he couldn’t be bothered to get up from the couch to turn on a light, everything went inky black. But it was better that way. If it was dark, he could pretend he was invisible.

His tail curled around his ankles, knees drawn up to his chin. The thin haze of smoke leaking from his horns smelled like charred bone. Pride shut his eyes to turn the world an even darker black, jaw set in rage at nothing but himself.

A single glimpse of the scars on his back was all it took to ruin him today. Eternally angry red, the only reason he forgot about them so often was spite and stubbornness. One look at the shame of his existence—the jagged remains where his wings were cut out.

Pride curled into a tighter ball. He hated how they made him feel. It’s not like he wanted to go back to Heaven and buddy-up with the uptight, rule-following jackasses that would never forgive him in the first place. It’s not like he needed forgiveness anyway! It was good that he became a demon. Welcome, even. He’d take it over licking God’s holy boots, or becoming a servant for his pet humans. Pride didn’t want Heaven.

But he didn’t want Hell either.

And when he raced through that same conclusion hours ago, it brought him to the couch, where he stared at his dull reflection in the TV screen. Pride would never go back to Heaven, would stay as far away from Hell as he could get… but where else was there for him to go?

Earth wasn’t for him. It was for God’s favorite animals. It was for the creatures that were given the dignity of being forgiven. Pride wasn’t one of them. No matter how much time he spent among them, talked to them, befriended them, laughed with them, fucked them, pretended to be one of them, the treatment would never take. He’d never belong here.

Maybe Pride didn’t belong anywhere. He’d spend his eternity wandering from place to place, and never feel at home there. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to exist at all.

The couch dipped. Pride didn’t acknowledge it. He knew it was Justice. His moping had probably blared on his angelic radar the second he felt it. He almost wished it wouldn’t, so he could be miserable in peace.

“Are you coming to bed?” Justice asked, soft and inviting.

Pride didn’t know what to say. He should. He didn’t want to. He shouldn’t want to.

“I can read to you if you can’t sleep.”

He shook his head into his knees. Pride had no idea what he wanted.

Justice brushed a hand over his shoulder. He flinched away on instinct, and regretted it just as fast. His hand went away, along with his warmth. Pride clenched his jaw hard, almost cracking his teeth. Why did he do this? Every time?

“I can leave if—”

“No,” Pride blurted, before he could get the rest of that horrible sentence out. He snapped his head up, frantically making sure he stayed.

Sure enough, Justice was sitting right next to him. His halo was a blurry ring behind his head in the pitch-darkness of the room. The pale light made him visible enough for Pride to make out his loose pajamas and the dark lump of his dreadlocks stuffed into a nightcap. Deep shadows made the gentle concern on his face more piercing than any rage. Pride wished he hadn’t said anything.

“I’m here,” Justice promised. He put a hand on the cushion, careful not to touch him. Pride felt sick. “Whatever you need.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, and felt pathetic for it.

“Do you want to talk about why you’re upset?”

Pride snorted, humorless. “No.”

Justice nodded, looking a bit lost now that Pride had shot down all his offers to help. As lost as Pride felt in a world that routinely denied it to him. Well… except right now.

Steeling himself, Pride put his hand where Justice placed his own. This time, Justice flinched, but didn’t move when Pride did his best to hold it.

“I just want to sit here,” he said. “And you can… touch me, if you want.”

Without another word, Justice scooted in to hold him. Pride barely caught his breath before a pair of massive white wings curled around his body, feathers tucked up to his chin like a warm blanket. Pride stamped out all his immediate reactions to run, shove him away, slip out from his arms and declare he changed his mind. He curled into Justice with the same spite he used to keep living, pouring the same intensity into staying close to him as he did to stay in a universe that hated him.

Justice bent down and kissed him on the head. Perfectly angelic, chaste, and gentle. It wasn’t meant for someone like Pride. But he stayed, accepted it, and swallowed his darkness.

Even if nowhere belonged to him, he would always belong with Justice.

[usmsgutterson]

Hello I hope you have good day

Can I request a Nikolai x reader x Zoya where it can be mutual pinning where Nikolai & Zoya are together already.

More details Like where the reader has crush on them but doesn’t say anything due to not wanting to ruin the relationship while it could be like everyone knows that they like each other and are like why don’t they just get together already vibes but the reader denies it since they are conscious since they don’t believe it .

So they go confront the reader since they’ve been avoiding them after the incident about finding out they like them and they go comfort them about it. It could have the king of scars vibes if it’s okay as well can the pronouns be he/him

Perfect- Poly! Zoyalai x male! reader

Okay, hi! Second poly! zoyalai request to come out and the longer of the two I've written so far, and nonnie, I hope you like this one, it was a blast to write!

Based on your asking that he/him pronouns be included, I went ahead and wrote this fic in third person, which I hope you don't mind!

Fic type- this is fluff but there's a bit of yearning

Warnings-none

“It’d be easier to know whether or not they liked you back if you’d just ask them,” Tolya said pointedly as he found Y/N, sitting on one of many couches in the library. He was reading a poetry book, a volume that Tolya had read enough times to be able to recite every single poem in it by heart. 

“Perhaps I just like taking the mantle of the lovesick fool,” Y/N suggested, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I could make an argument that every palace needs one, but I wouldn’t want to bore you with the specifics.” 

Tolya scoffed as Y/N closed the book and stood. “Well, if every palace needs at least one, we’ve got two too many,” he said. “Are you due for a shift on the guard?” 

“Zoya and I took the morning shift," Y/N said. "Nik let me take the afternoon. Been a bit sick lately."

“Your heart will only grow sicker if you continue to pine,” Tolya said pointedly, grabbing the book from Y/N as the two moved to leave. “Seriously. People have died from broken hearts, from too much time spent yearning for romance. I have every right to be concerned.” 

“I’m not heartbroken,” Y/N said, pairing it with an easy shrug. “You won’t lose me, Tolya. Stop worrying.”

Tolya shot Y/N a look, the thought behind it clear as day. Stop being so destitute in the regard of your own emotions, it said. Tell them. It can't go terribly based on how they look at you when you're pretending not to notice.

“Worrying isn’t good for the heart, either,” Y/N said, though he knew that it would not stop his best friend from doing so. “I’ll handle it.”

“You handle these things by ignoring them,” Tolya said, holding the door open and allowing Y/N to step past the threshold and into the hall first. “You’ve been in love with them for three years now. Everyone sees it. Stop trying to ignore your feelings.”

“Why on earth would I do that when it’s what I do best?” 

Tolya scoffed and spitefully set a quick pace as he walked with Y/N back to his room, where the rest of Y/Ns day would likely be spent in quiet contemplation and enjoyable solitude. 

-

Y/N spent the next several hours reading the books on his shelves, journaling to recount the days minute, slightly bland events. He reread old entries from old journals with soft smiles. He read the realizations of the feelings he held for Nikolai and Zoya, tried to still his heart and ignore the feelings that never really did go away even as he willed them to. 

Part of him had known that there was a possibility that Nikolai and Zoya loved him, but it was just too unbelievable. It didn’t seem realistic, didn’t seem like he would’ve been so lucky as to have that outcome, so he ignored that possibility. Y/N ignored the way that it set his heart off at a mile a minute, ignored the heat that ran to his cheeks when he thought it over.

Y/N startled at the sound of a knock on his door, successfully having been pulled out of the reverie in which he'd found himself.

Zoya walked in first, wearing the blue dress Y/N had seen her in earlier in the day during their shift together, hair let down and laying in beautiful ringlets on her shoulders. She was an effortlessly beautiful person, and it’d been impossible not to notice it since Y/N had fallen in love with her. 

Nikolai walked in alongside her, wearing his usual kingly outfitting, blonde hair glinting in the sunlight, easy, assured smile on his face. He’d always been effortlessly handsome, and everyone, including Y/N, took notice to that.

“Enjoyed the day off?” Nikolai asked.

“Yeah,” Y/N said with a laugh. “Read, reminisced, nicked a few sweets from the kitchens. Grand day, really.” 

“There’s something we’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Zoya said, clearly interested in skipping the pleasantries. “Tolya just about threatened us. Genya thwacked Nikolai over the head with the hardest pillow she could find.” 

With Zoyas last sentence, Y/N let out a laugh. Like clockwork, both Zoya and Nikolais hearts gave a funny little flit, a flit they’d been experiencing since they’d fallen in love with each other and then with Y/N. 

“We’ve—” Nikolai began, pausing for a moment. “We’re in love with you. Both of us. We’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you and there just was never a good time because life got in the way tremendously and everything has been chaotic lately. We would’ve told you sooner but—”

“We’ve been arguing about how to tell you for nearly six months,” Zoya said. “It’s fine if you don’t feel the same, but it was going to eat us alive if we kept it from you.” 

Y/N, feeling shock fill him from head to toe, only blinked surprisedly. Zoya and Nikolai both watched him, saw him run a hand through his hair as the couples words hung in the silence. 

“You don’t—”

“I love you both too,” Y/N said. “I’ve been in love with you for a while. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it but I just couldn’t. Never really did find the words.” 

Nikolai and Zoya both sighed in relief, grins spreading across their faces. 

“Well then, mind if we join you?” Nikolai asked. “I do find myself curious as to the book you’re reading. Don’t think I’ve ever seen it in the library.” 

Y/N laughed. “It’s my journal, you idiot,” he said. “And yes, you can join me. I would rather appreciate the company and the excuse to ring up for dinner.” 

Nikolai and Zoya didn’t need anymore confirmation, joining Y/N easily and ringing up for dinner for three shortly thereafter.

The three of them talked, the conversation coming easily, the quips and the jokes and the looks that’d turned from longing into loving ones. All of it was perfect, and sometimes, Y/N would go on to think that that night must’ve been too good to be true, even as the relationship progressed and he fell deeper in love with his partners then he’d ever thought possible.

[thesecrimsonstrings-if]

How would the ROs react to MC kissing them awake in the morning and telling them they're so beautiful they couldn't resist?

ronan bennett: this man sleeps like a tranquilized horse most of the time but the feeling of your lips on his is enough to wrench him out of his morpheus-like slumber. eyelashes flutter open and you're met with bleary brown eyes which turn warmer with each second spent looking at you.

“i wouldn't be opposed to being woken up like that again in the future,” he grins in his own goofy way, looking way too cute for someone who just woke up from a sleep that almost resembled a coma.

you pretend to think, tapping your finger on his chin. “depends on if you're going to return the gesture on occassions.”

ronnie's eyes light up even more if that was possible. he pulls you closer to him, nuzzling into your neck. you wish for mornings like this every time you close your eyes to sleep beside him. whatever the future might bring to you, all you wanted was the constant presence of your own personal sunshine by your side.

“as if i'd ever deny your wishes, love.”

célia dupont: hazel eyes open slowly at the feeling of a pair of soft lips pressed against hers for a second or two. kaleidoscopic pools of green and brown try to adjust to the light coming in from the window. however, it's not the sun that has célia's full attention in the next moment. it's you, leaning on your elbows and gazing at her like she was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth. infact, you'd personally endorse her to be so (if you can get away without aphrodite trying to strike you down).

“you come up with quite the romantic ideas to wake up a woman with,” she smiles, the remaining drowsiness mixing with happiness.

“only one of many, i assure you.” you give her a wink which earns you a laugh out of the heiress.

her finger trace along your upper arm, going further up to brush your shoulder, your neck and finally stopping at your chin. she leans in, determined to get a proper morning kiss and you're happy to comply with her wishes.

‘mon dieu chéri,’ célia thinks as you try to get her up to make breakfast together. ‘you have drawn stars around the scars of my heart and you don't even know it yet.’

s bakkoush: they did not expect it, not from you at least, but they were not complaining either. emerald gems flutter open to land themselves on your smiling figure. you had already made some breakfast and brought it to S while they were sleeping like they had no care in the world.

“a breakfast fit for royals, huh?” S wiggles their eyebrows, sitting up to lean on bed frame. “just what i needed after that sweet wake up call.”

you roll your eyes playfully. “then you better watch out for the french toast i made for you, so much sugar might just give you diabetes.”

“not if it's from you,” came the model's smooth reply before they kiss you, pulling away just in time before you had gotten the chance to kiss them back.

“lemme get freshened up, hobi. don't want the breakfast getting cold, do we?”

you groan, trying to stop them but they dance out of your reach. you hear them laugh, it's filled to the brim with joy that only erupts from the deepest part of the heart and soul. you would know that; where your soul ends, theirs begin and vice-versa.

i tachibana: at first, they think akhlut has decided to slobber all over their face this early in the morning. tachibana is soon spared from that experience when they realise that you were kissing them instead– the feeling of those lips would never slip their memory. you pull away quickly to see them already looking at you with their eyes wide open, inky black and loaded with surprise.

“well hello there, sleeping beauty,” you decide to open up the day with light teasing. as expected, the hunter's expression transforms immediately into an irritated scowl.

“it's too early to be dealing with you,” they groan, trying to pull a pillow over their head and get some more sleep.

you huff playfully, leaning in to give light kisses on their exposed cheek. in an instant, you feel an embarassed heat radiating off of them.

“y-you idiot! i didn't tell you to kiss my cheek!”

“aww, now i need permission to show my partner some well-deserved affection?” you poke their arm teasingly. “at any rate, you're so cute when you're blushing.”

the hunter throws the pillow they were holding at you, you let it hit your face as you double over laughing. an adorable pout takes over their lips, although you're sure that they aren't pouting on their own accord.

“out of every single person in the whole wide world,” they mumble, fiddling with the hem of their shirt, “my heart decided to choose the most annoying one.”

you had heard that, of course, your sharp hearing didn't abandon you. and it was all the more reason to laugh and tease them.

tachibana sighs as they mentally prepare themself for whatever you're going to come up with next, yet you can't deny that there is also a fondness in their eyes as they say, “what am i gonna do with you, idiot.”

[yellowcabdriver]

in love

Pairing: Frank Castle x reader

Warning: fluff (?) if that’s not your cup of tea

A/N: I implied an Asian reader but everyone is free to read 💖 This is a repost because I deleted my side blog and started a main blog 😬

Frank Castle is in love.

That was not an easy thing to admit at first. It took quite a while and he struggled a lot with his feelings for you. He could be foolishly in denial but what there is to deny when there he is, head resting on your soft belly while he is looking at you and simply cannot get enough of you. The light is dimmed in the bedroom and you are even more beautiful in the soft yellow flickers of your stupidly pink reading lamp (whenever Frank makes fun of its ridiculously childish design you always defend it by saying that you bought it during a sale and “it was quite a bargain, actually, Castle, so don’t you dare make fun of it”). You are half sitting in bed and quietly reading a book but, to be completely honest, Frank isn’t really listening even though it was him who asked you to read it out loud (and you couldn’t say no despite not liking the sound of your voice because Frank was so keen on getting to know you better, “I gotta know what kind of stuff you’re into, sweetheart”). You are very much engaged in the story while Frank is involved in looking at you. He is lovingly gazing at your face and memorising every single detail his eyes are wandering around (though it is not like he hasn’t seen any of it before). The small scar on your forehead, three birthmarks on your left cheek, freckles that one can really see up close scattered across your face – Frank is shamelessly drinking in your features and thinking how could someone be so down-to-earth and so divinely breathtaking. He then thinks that he should be ashamed to be so head over heels in love with you and that he should avert his gaze and look at the ceiling for a change and even maybe listen to whatever the hell this book is about... and he probably would do all of these but he desperately wants to love you and make you feel loved.

“Frank,” you closed a book leaving your index finger as a bookmark and looked down at him with a smile. “You’re not even listening.”

“I am,” Frank replies with a rather confident smile.

You shake your head and laugh.

“You are so not! I can feel you staring at me.”

Frank, still resting his head on your stomach, raises his hand and softly touches your cheek. Subconsciously, you lean into his tough and leave a small kiss to his palm. Frank’s smile grows wider as he continues to stroke your face with his calloused fingers.

“I’m sorry, darling. I was just thinking.”

You laugh again and roll your eyes.

“Wow, that’s new.”

Frank pretends to be offended by your remark but joins to laugh with you.

“Should I continue or should I wait for your visual examination to end?” you ask with a playful scoff. Not bothering to respond, Frank quickly takes your book away ignoring your rather feeble protests and gets up. You are looking into each other’s eyes and Frank is crushed in a wave of the numbing feeling of overpowering tenderness and desire.

“You know, I changed my mind. I want your full attention on me,” he says and places gentle kisses on the back of your hands. You giggle and return the gesture making Frank feel dizzy.

It’s okay, he thinks as he is trailing the kisses down your neck. It’s okay for him to be so vulnerably in love with you because the truth is, you were the first and the only person to make him, Frank Castle, feel safe and at home. And if being a fool in love is a price he has to pay then he is more than prepared to give it all he has.

[egg-emperor]

What's the worst injury Eggman has ever gotten after a defeat?

This is very interesting to think about and I've had concepts of it for a while but wasn't sure if anyone wanted me to share until now. He's impressively far above the average human in many ways, including in strength and durability and we don't see him suffer from even a mere scratch on screen. But this isn't always the case because he's still human too and he can still hurt, bruise, and bleed like the rest of us. I imagine there are times where he does suffer injuries, whether minor or occasionally bigger and even serious.

In many boss battles we hear him make sounds of pain in reaction to Sonic landing blows to his Egg Mobile and mechs, it's common for him to at least get bumps and bruises that we just don't see the damage of on screen. I headcanon that he has issues with padding the cockpits of his mechs quite as well as he should, it's something he makes an oversight on when he's much more focused on making sure the robot is powerful and durable as he wishes, so he can get hurt when his machines take damage.

In the best cutscene in Lost World, we see him briefly clutch his hands from the pain after punching down that huge ice wall. When Orbot expresses concern, he says his hands are fine. But I imagine his knuckles were cut quite a bit and eventually started to bleed through his gloves. He was eager to casually neglect it and just keep moving but Orbot and Cubot wouldn't stop pestering him about it until he finally gave in to letting them treat it with the first aid kit that they always make sure to carry around for him.

I imagine that it's common for him to pretend it's fine in a similar way when injured after defeats too. He takes care of himself in almost every way he can as he highly values his brilliant self but when it comes to getting hurt, he doesn't like to admit when he needs help or even treatment due to pride. Also because he's incredibly strong, durable, and has a high pain tolerance, he doesn't feel the pain as bad as the average person, so he doesn't take it as seriously. But that doesn't mean he shouldn't treat it, tsk tsk.

In times he's caught in explosions or falls into the rubble of his machines and it's caught fire, he crawls out miraculously alive but sometimes not without burns and he may have marks on his body left from that. He's gotten scratches and cuts from sharp glass or metal in the rubble of his destroyed machines and the way he's collided with hard rough terrain with falls. A lot of the times he gets lucky and it's only 'minor' to him, even if it draws blood. He tends to hardly even react and gets back up easily.

When he goes flying out of mechs and his Egg Mobile has crashed, he's hit his head which can lead to concussion, hurt his back and neck, and sprained limbs. I like to headcanon that he's never broken a bone though, they're immensely strong and everyone is amazed. XD If he can fall off the Lost Hex back down to Earth without breaking one, I don't think anything can! But he has long term back issues from repeated fall damage, there's a spot that's tender when pressure is applied, so he makes seats and bedding extra soft to be comfy.

I imagine he has a few scars in various places, some newer and some older and faded, some due to his worst injuries and others smaller that he just neglected and risked scarring and infection because he got careless with it and didn't want to admit how bad it was to his enemies or his robots. Unless his injuries are so bad that he can't deny it to himself or anyone else, people don't get to see it or hear about it. And he can take a lot, so it has to be really serious to get him to admit it before someone else notices.

I think he'll try his best to hide when he feels the pain for as long as he can even when it feels worse than usual, as long as he doesn't think it's seriously dangerous or life threatening. If he feels pain on a level high enough for him to really react, he tries to hide it as he grits his teeth, sucks in deep breaths, and curses under his breath, quietly enough so others don't hear him as he applies pressure to a wound to stop the bleeding or massages a sore area. He hides the injuries from others' view and treats them himself in private or with secret medibots.

I imagine that there are rare cases where he's gotten very unlucky as things get especially nasty and bloody and even test his abilities of how much blood loss he can handle. These would definitely all be amongst the worst injuries that he's ever gotten after defeats.

He's banged his nose hard a couple of times from taking hits or falls and gotten some bad nosebleeds. When his poor beautiful big nose is hit hard enough, blood can gush out in a concerning amount. He grabs it after taking the hit and when he pulls his hands away and looks at his gloves, it's soaked with blood. He just has to hold it and beg for it to stop soon enough. Then he has to deal with it getting swollen and sore and has walk around with it covered with a compress for a while to soothe it and reduce swelling.

Something else at risk as much as his nose is his big tongue that he's painfully bitten after hits and falls too. It's alarming when he opens his mouth and blood just pours out and he can't speak. Sometimes it seems it isn't going to stop and he has to rinse it tons before it finally does. Because of the size and strength of his teeth/jaw, he's very lucky that he at least doesn't split his tongue. It stings terribly during healing and he can't talk much as moving it hurts a lot. He also hates not being able to eat much until it does!

Sometimes he gets nasty deeper gashes with a lot of blood in various places on his body. He might gain them during an intense fight or after it, due to the sharp rubble of the destruction of his machines again. But if it's the former, he won't let his enemies see how bad it is. He can take a lot more than the average person but of course there's eventually a point where he starts to feel very uneasy and faint from blood loss. His head starts spinning and he has to get down onto the floor before he can possibly pass out and fall and he has to try to order robots to come and get him.

I'd say the worst is when it was seriously dangerous and even seemed life threatening in the moment. He took a bad hit to the chest with something sharp during battle but tried not to visibly or audibly react too much, he attempted to hide how bad it was and kept fighting, the pain giving him extra determination to keep fighting, no matter how much it hurt. Sonic noticed there was even more fire in his rage but didn't exactly know why. It wasn't easy to see the injury when he's clothed, especially in his red jacket.

And of course he wouldn't let Sonic know how bad it is, he never wants to show what he considers weakness to his arch nemesis. But as soon as he got away after holding up until defeat, he staggered out his Egg Mobile and realized this injury is much worse than he thought. Now that he focused on the pain instead of the fight that was distracted him, it was a lot even for him to handle. He clutched the wound on his chest and couldn't bear looking down at the injury, especially when he saw the blood on his hands and it hurt to breathe.

That's when he actually started to panic, which isn't a common state for him with his usual fearlessness. But it's a case where he recognized the severity of an injury, of course a cut that's bleeding quite a lot across his chest is scary and he hoped it wasn't too deep but still couldn't look. His mind was racing and he was too stunned and confused to take the appropriate actions by himself. What's worse is that he was close to his base but not close enough before he had to stop the Egg Mobile before he could crash from dizziness.

He at least managed to remember to hit one of the yellow square buttons on his jacket that sent an SOS to his robots (like in X). All he could do is stay there, lay face down with his hand pressed against his chest. They tracked him down to see him groaning and mumbling in pain and saved him just in time, took him home and treated his injury. He hates when more know about his injury other than medibots at the most that deal with some injuries in private but when it's this serious, he lets them all take care of him.

Luckily the cut wasn't as deep as he feared but it was a tough healing process and the scar didn't fade for a while. He was relieved and grateful to make it out alive as it's not often he really worries like that with how strong and durable he is. But he still acted like it wasn't that bad, even though he had to rest for days with robots doing serving and keeping an eye on him. Much like when he's sick, he acts like it isn't a big deal and is too eager to get back to work too soon and they to had to force him to take it easy!

It's very dangerous being a man of his status and a great threat to the world when he constantly has to take risks and puts not only others but also has to be prepared to put himself in danger to get what he wants. But that never scares him off or make him give up on his dreams because no matter what happens, he always pulls through as he's the strong, brave, and determined fighter he is 💜

[giorno-plays-piano]

Superstitions and Curses

Pairing: mummy!Bucky Barnes x archaeologist!Reader

Warnings: slight dubcon, obsessive and soft!dark!Bucky, mentions of torture and being buried alive.

Words: 2163.

Summary: It wasn't your first expedition, but pretty much the first time when you had helped to bring an ancient being back from the dead.

P.S. Huge thanks to dear @navegandoaciegas who helped me get inspired again <3

_______________

"Please, let me in."

You clenched the amulet in your hands, nervously staring at the door of a hotel room and hoping he wouldn't enter. Despite the fact that you were an archeologist, a woman who believed in nothing but science, you were ready to pray to all the gods if it would help to keep this creature away.

"I mean no harm to you." His husky, dangerously low voice made you lick your lips as you thought of all the things he whispered in your ear the other night. "Didn't you like the way I treat you, love?"

"It was a spell you put on me!" You furrowed your brows, making a step away from the door and bumping into a nightstand with a loud thud - the bottle of water in top of it fell down to the floor.

"A spell?" The man behind the door chuckled, and you could hear him breathing out loudly as he peered through the crack in the door, his hands pressed against the dark wood. "You know I haven't done anything of this kind. What you felt was the chemistry between us, don't deny it."

It was true. That night when all you wanted was to forget the events of the last couple of days, forget all about the whole reason why you came to this ancient country, you rushed to a bar to get drunk like a fish, hoping the next morning once you'd wake up, it would all be a bad dream and nothing more. That's where you met him, the man who you had seen laying in his grave just a couple of hours before. Of course, you didn't know it was him - he looked like any other man, enough flesh on his bones not to cause any suspicion.

Oh, but it was him. He had followed you in that bar, pretending to be a stranger eager to know you; fooling you, he soon slipped into your room where he made love to you, completely drunk and fallen under his charms. How stupid you were, trusting a complete stranger after what had happened that day.

It was several hours after when you woke up in the night, and the moonlight coming from the window lit the room a little: as you stared at the man sleeping soundly next to you, you saw the ancient symbols on his chest.

The next minute you were out of your room, hoping he wouldn't wake up in the next hour. It would give you enough time to reach the railway station.

Why was he following you? You could understand his reasons since you had pretty much broken his tomb and opened his grave, but why on Earth did he sleep with you? Why didn't he kill you? Was it some kind of a ritual? Despite the fact that you were specializing on local customs and traditions, you have never heard of anything of that kind.

"You can't get rid of me." He murmured behind the door, and you sensed something wicked, resentful in his voice.

"Why can't I? What do you want from me?" You asked on the verge of tears, your arms trembling - you very much doubted the amulet you were holding was of any use to you.

"Shhhh." He cooed softly, feeling you fear and somewhat content with it. "I promise I won't hurt you. Let me in, love. Let me in."

For a couple of seconds you froze, listening to the man breathing softly behind the door. Strangely, you could almost hear his heart beating in his chest as if he really were human, not a rotten corpse you saw in the coffin a couple of days ago. The night you spent together you felt like he was the most tender and affectionate man you had ever met. Why did he do it? What was his purpose? Why were you opening the door for him when he ordered you to do it with that hypnotic voice of his?

You realized he had entered your room once he touched your cheek with his hand, rough fingers brushing against your wet skin. Oh, apparently, you were crying.

"I know it is beyond your comprehension, but please trust me, My Immortal Beloved." He made a step forward as you shriveled and slinked back, staring at his perfectly blue eyes adorned with black kohl. "Do not be scared. Even though it seems horrifyingly wrong to you, things are exactly as they were meant to be."

Despite the fact you had a thousand questions inside your head, the words were stuck in your throat. You couldn't even scream, asking for help. Besides, it would be pretty worthless, wouldn't it? No one could protect you from someone who rose from the dead.

"You were meant to open my tomb and set me free. You were meant to resurrect my body and let my soul return to it."

When you reached the wall, your back pressed to it as if you wanted to slip through the stone, the man had inched closer to you and lowered his hand on your chest, the other one right in front of your face as he moved his hand, drawing a circle in the air with his palm. I see you. You are important to me, a sign of both trust and affection - you had seen it so many times on ancient drawings it was imprinted on your brain.

What? Why was he doing it? Why it was you who set him free? You were just one of a whole team of archaeologists and wage earners. You did nothing special, nothing that differentiated you from others - you weren't the one who physically opened it nor did you read any ancient spells locals were so superstitious about. You were as much in shock as all others when the mummy had suddenly disappeared from the tomb.

At first, even though most of you were people of science, all of you thought of ancient curses and all those archaeologists who had supposedly died from it. Then, when you came to your senses, you thought of the thieves who might had taken the mummy. But then again, although it were the remains of someone very, very important, no treasures were buried with him - apparently, this person had done something terrible when he was alive, especially remembering the curses written on the walls. So why steal just the corpse, then? Without decent care, the bones would crack within minutes of carrying them. Why would thieves want the mummy?

"I want to come back home." You whispered, shivering and averting your eyes.

"I will bring you whenever you want once you swear loyalty to me, love."

You blinked as you stared at his tanned face, symbols painted with gold shining on his temples. It was getting more and more insane with every passing minute.

"Why would I swear loyalty to you?"

"Because I am your Sun, Moon and the Stars in between."

The silence felt heavy, suffocating as you kept looking at the man, not knowing what to say. He was right - you didn't understand a thing. You didn't even know who he was and why you swearing loyalty to him seemed so important so this stranger. The only thing you knew for sure was that he was dangerous, far more dangerous than any other human being - you felt it in your bones.

"Before I d-do that, may I know your name?" You wanted to add something like "Your Majesty", but you had no idea what kind of title the man once had - that is, if he had any at all.

He chuckled, "It would be hard for you to pronounce. But you can call me James, it is the closest you can get."

A part of you was offended - for heaven's sake, you were specializing on this exact area and surely knew how to pronounce ancient names - but the other part of you now wondered how come this being knew a real English name and could actually speak modern language. Surely, he was at least a thousand years old. How come?..

"Why were you buried so disrespectfully?" You started questioning him out loud, furrowing your brows. "This is not my first expedition, but I have never seen a tomb like yours before. No treasures, no name, nothing that could identify you at all."

"The Witch-king, that's how they called me." His handsome face darkened, and the man took a step away, turning his back to you. "The one who had surpassed his high priest and could read the Book of the Dead. Once my chancellors learnt about me practicing the magic of the ancient, they made my priests spread the word to my people, and I have been overthrown. They have tortured me, blinded me, cut off my limbs, and then sealed me away in the tomb when I was still alive. Because of their fear of me and my powers, they condemned me to the worst of fates, and broke the line of kings."

As he kept speaking, his dark long robe fell down to the floor, opening his half-naked tan body to you: you saw two deep scars on his shoulders that still looked raw, horrifying you - the man was telling you the truth. He had been dismembered.

"They have cursed me to stay neither truly dead nor alive till one day somebody would open my tomb and set me free. They have kept the location of my grave a secret, thinking no one would ever discover it in the sand, but they all were wrong. I will suffer no more in that place where not a single ray of light had shone over two thousands of years."

Your head was spinning from all this, and you quietly slid to the floor, your hands in your hair as you tugged on the roots in frustration and fear. For the love of God, was it all true? Did you help resurrect the ancient being that could use some scary black magic and probably kill lots of innocent people? Did he want to drag you along with him once you swear loyalty to him? If you didn't, would he actually murder you?

"But this is of no importance now." The man turned back to you and, suddenly seeing you on the floor, hurried to gently pick you up and place you on a spacious bed, watching you with worry. "I am sorry for I have frightened you, love. I swear this was not my intention."

You had troubles understanding what his intention was, but you kept silent, too scaried to say something to him. You had a dozen thoughts what a creature like him would want to do to people for all his suffering.

You should have left that damn tomb alone when your team found twice more death traps than in any other grave. You read the curses left on the walls, but they only fueled your interest. Of course, you had never been superstitious in your entire life, so you simply disregarded all the signs that now seemed so clear you were ready to slap yourself.

"Why am I important?" You asked in a shaky voice, your eyes trailing down his chest with ancient symbols tattooed on it. "Why spending a night with me? I am just a woman. I have opened the tomb, but I was one of many."

"No, you are special. You won't understand now, not yet, but think of it as your destiny. Your fate is bound to mine."

As he inched closer to you, you finally realized you were almost in bed with a half-naked handsome man resurrected from the dead. Immediately crawling back, your stared at him wide-eyed. No, no, no, whoever he was and whatever he thought your fate was, you didn't want him in your bed the second time! Well, almost. Maybe you wanted a little bit. Just a little.

"S-so, are you going to destroy the country and claim your kingdom again?"

Your words made him laugh as he bared his perfectly white teeth while touching the side of your face.

"Two thousand years were enough to change my priorities. Ruling the world of humans who know nothing of magic isn't interesting to me anymore."

"I see. That's a relief." You murmured, still very uncomfortable with him being so close to you. "Please, can I just leave? There are millions of women, I'm sure you'll find someone more attractive to be your... your concubine."

_____________

"Concubine? I did not have a concubine, and neither did my ancestors." The man tilted his head to the side, looking at you surprised as you were ready to bite yourself for your own stupidity: of course, the rulers of these lands only started having concubines in the fourth dynasty and onwards, James was definitely either from the first or second one. "I can't let you leave, love. You will have to come with me."

Part 2

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @literate-lamb @cosicas-cuquis @sarge-barnes-sir @iheartsebastianstan @ninefuckingoneone

[dwaynepride]

how was i to know?

summary: reader has a weird dream about gibbs.

have you ever done anything for the ‘ya know what kind of wood this is’ Gibbs dream that both Quinn and Palmer had?

words: 1700

warnings: slight nsfw

tags: @fairytale07​ @jrenn10​ @f4nboi​ @purplestarsr5 @ladyzombiielove​ @littlemiss3ma @minikate--24-05​ @consultingdoctorwholock​ @kittenlittle24​ @24601error-prisonernotfound @andreasworlsboring101​ @dressed-up-just-like-z1ggy​ @ms-allenbrown​ @ikbenplant​ @dylpickles1267​ @diaryofafan17​ @specialagentlokitty​ @pageofultron​ @stanathanxoox​

a/n: it’s been a while since i’ve posted. this isn’t beta-read so ignore the typos. be free, my thots.

Your eyes just weren’t focusing anymore.

It’s been hours (don’t ask how many) since you’ve sat down at your desk to read over case files. The bane of a federal agent - chained to their desk and forced to go over every scrap of evidence and testimonies to find anything useful and it’s the burden placed squarely on your shoulders for today.

Usually, you have tricks to help when the words start blending together. Getting some coffee, going for a walk, visiting Abby because she’s the physical embodiment of caffeine and normally wakes you up.

But nothing helped. And the words kept swimming over the screen.

You’re not learning anything new from sitting here. But with the team hitting a roadblock in the case, what else is there to do? 

Again, you start reading the paragraph that you’ve been trudging through for the past twenty minutes. But this time, as your focus wavers, it’s not because of the headache or the tension in your eyes. The sudden presence on your right is what stops your reading. It’s warm. All-encompassing. Brings over the soft smell of sawdust and aftershave and as soothing at the presence is, it’s a shock to you.

Because you could have sworn you were alone in the bullpen - staying behind while the others went off to find new leads.

Your eyes move off the computer screen, meaning to glance over to the presence. But you never see their face because they’re suddenly leaning in. Hovering over your shoulder, shrouding you from the harsh office lights, and you reckon if you take in a big enough breath, you’d be able to feel the warm presence pressing against your shoulder.

Their face was a mystery, and yet, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you - hard, steely, freezing you in your chair.

And without warning, a hand comes to rest on the surface of your desk, next to the keyboard. A worn, scarred hand that you recognize with a jolt. The named of its owner lies on the tip of your tongue, but it never comes out - like a secret you’ve sworn to keep.

His fingers curl a bit, knocking lightly against the top of your desk. The sound could’ve easily been mistaken as the pounding of your heart, if one listened close enough.

“You know what kinda wood that is?”

The voice mumbled against your ear is low and deep. Sounding like a bass drum and its sound reverberates through your body and you’re pretty sure it’s the reason why your hands are suddenly a little shaky. 

“W-wood?” You manage to echo back. A single word, hoping for clarification because your brain is moving at a snail’s pace. You’re simply too preoccupied on the warm, wet breathing that wafts over your neck.

His fingers start tapping against the desk in some unknown rhythm. And your eyes watch them move, entranced, and you keep telling yourself to look away and focus on something else but it’s much too easy to just keep staring. “Yeah. You outta know.” His voice is closer. More hushed. And that’s because his lips are right against the shell of your ear and his breath is blazing hot.

And through it all, you can catch the faint scent of bitter coffee and it only makes your skin tingle even more.

You suppress a shudder, if only to deny him the satisfaction of feeling it.

His presence somehow keeps growing larger - more encompassing, like a storm cloud rolling over the city. The words on the monitor; they don’t exist. There’s no more Naval Yard or team of federal agents or a whole case to solve. 

It’s just you, him, and the hard, cold press of the wooden desk keeping you here. 

Finally, you turn your head towards him. Words form on the edge of your tongue - stern words of annulment and to tell him you’re too busy for his games.

But then you meet his eyes. Head on - and they give you pause. Frozen in place, as if the icy blues really could chill you to the bone. So close, you could catch faint flecks of gray and gold floating around in the ocean of light blue and this time, it’s impossible to push down the shudder.

Now, his breath wafts over your lips slowly in his careful exhale, sounding almost disappointed and you’re shocked at how much that thought troubles you.

“Want to get a closer look?” He mumbles, eyes falling blatantly to your lips before coming back to meet your gaze.

A closer look? Damn him. 

This must be some kind of sick game for him - to see how far he can push you before you bend to him. He knows the implications of his question. You’ll start imagining yourself bent over the desk, looking closely to study the wood and its rings and texture. Everything he wants you to look for. Your mind will wonder, and suddenly, the image of him fucking you, hard and purposeful, over the desk pops up and you’ll never be able to get it out of your head.

And it works like a god damn charm.

His head tilts to the side, eyes softening to look amused. Probably because he notices you’re panting lighting and can feel it against his lips. “I can show you, if you want,” he murmurs. Still acting innocent. Still keeping with this game.

You breathe in because your head starts getting dizzy from lack of oxygen, but that proves a fatal mistake. 

Because the air itself smells like him - like coffee and smoke and old cologne and it goes straight between your thighs and you find yourself craving the feel of his scarred, worn-out hands on your skin. “Gibbs…”

His name comes out weak, like a shiver. And when he hums in response to it, you can nearly feel the vibration through the air and pulsing against your body. And slowly, carefully, his hand comes up to touch your shoulder. The first real, raw physical contact and you wait for it with baited breath. Suddenly craving it more than the air itself.

As it connects, you expect a soft sort of seering feel. Like a branding iron. Instead, it’s a hard and sudden shove that seems to rock the entire world.

It’s so hard, your eyes snap open instantly, sucking in a gasp of air like you’d just been held underwater. Those cold blue eyes that had so easily frozen you solid were gone, replaced with the familiar scene of the office doused in the light of a sunset. 

The stifling presence of Leroy Jethro Gibbs was also gone - in a way, you were grateful for the freedom. It was much easier to breathe now, that’s for certain. But the second thing you notice upon sitting up in your chair isn’t as appreciated.

Your body is humming. Heart pounding a million miles a second. And your skin...it’s almost painfully sensitive. So much so, even your clothes rubbing against it is almost too much to bear. For a moment, you can still feel Gibbs and his warm breath and the remains of his touch. 

But the worst realization is the deep throb between your legs. Aching and pulsing for something - or someone - that will never come. Your thighs shift together, hoping to ease the feel but the friction only seems to make it worse.

“You fell asleep.”

That’s his voice. 

Your head whips up to find Gibbs standing by your desk - watching you, his eyebrows pinched together and standing in nearly the same exact spot as in your dream and it’s a shock that you even realize that.

Immediately, you let your gaze fall - everything is throbbing just a little too much to meet his eyes. “And you were making some noises,” he continues. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you answer immediately. Too quick, you realize. Gibbs may not believe the dream was simply nothing, and it’s proven when he takes a small step closer to you. His shoes nearly nudge against yours, and you can’t stop yourself from tucking your feet under the chair away from him. 

His eyes are still on you. It takes an enormous amount of effort to keep your breathing steady and to stop the light shake of your hands to even pretend everything was normal. “You sure?” He asks. And this time, his tone is different. Just slightly - it wouldn’t even had been noticeable if dream-Gibbs hadn’t spoken so softly right in your fucking ear.

You need to get a fucking grip.

It was just a dream. A vivid, extremely hot dream. But a dream nonetheless. Not real.

“Very sure,” you reply, forcing your tone to sound more confident that you feel. It’s still impossible to meet his eyes - you know they’d be every bit as frosty blue and cool as in your dream, so you just spin your chair to face the desk. “You just woke me up from an intense dream.”

Gibbs hums a bit at the explanation. “Gonna tell me about it?”

“Definitely not.”

Out the corner of your eye, Gibbs just shrugs before turning back to his own desk and sitting down. Now that his whole focus isn’t on you, the rest of the world start to filter back in. The golden light of a setting sun coming in through the windows. The ambience of the office, winding down from a long day. Gibbs sipping his coffee. 

It gets easier to slow your beating heart. To ignore the slow, steady throb between your thighs. 

And carefully, you glance up across the bullpen to Gibbs. His eyes are on the monitor, paying you no attention.

“Gibbs.” That is, until you say his name carefully. Like an experiment. 

And when the shock of his eyes hits you once again, it’s nearly as powerful and earth-shaking as it was in the dream. But this time, you hold his gaze. Because there’s something you need to know before you can put this dream behind you and get back to work.

Your hand comes up, knuckles rapping lightly against the wooden surface of the desk. It sounds louder than it should. 

“Do you know what kind of wood this is?”

[flowercrown-bard]

To give without knowing (6/ ?)

Content warning: brief reference to minor injuries, brief mention of blood

word count: ~4k

 Read on AO3

previous / next

Geralt had never liked Jaskier's singing. No, that wasn't it. Not really.

Though Geralt knew next to nothing about music - a fact Jaskier kept lamenting whenever he asked for Geralt's input- he could recognise a good voice and pleasing melody. And oh, Jaskier's voice was good - beautiful even. There was nothing more soothing than sitting by a campfire in the evening, free from the noises of a bustling city and listening to Jaskier sing.

If Geralt was being honest with himself, Jaskier didn't even need to sing; even his chattering was beautiful, so full of life and excitement that Geralt hadn't thought someone walking the Path would be able to experience. Even if the Path didn't drain Jaskier of the joy, Geralt surely would, of that he had been certain.

And yet, it hadn't happened. No yet at least. If anything, the opposite seemed to be the case. The longer Jaskier stayed with Geralt, the more songs he wrote and tales he told. Geralt couldn't pretend not to feel a tingling warmth in his chest whenever Jaskier's eyes lit up while he was giving voice to the endless thoughts racing through his mind that were put there by his time spent with Geralt. So no, Geralt didn't dislike Jaskier's singing. Still, there was no denying that it did something to Geralt that he didn't like.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what exactly it was that was bothering Geralt. Jaskier was singing about him. That in and of itself would have been bad enough, but inexplicably, it was made worse by the fact that the man Jaskier was singing about in a sense wasn't Geralt, not really. The man Jaskier thought worthy of song was damn near perfect. Admirable. A hero. A friend of humanity. And that couldn't be further from the truth of what Geralt truly was. A hero wouldn't ask to be paid for their deeds and they would make the right choice if forced to choose between two evils. A friend of humanity wouldn't be despised by humans and the gods knew that humanity would be happy to see Geralt disappear from the surface of this earth forever. The perfect man wouldn't be littered by scars. He wouldn't scowl and curse. No, the perfect man would have a kind face and a charming smile. He would have shining blue eyes and know how to use words to win the hearts of everyone who looked at him. Geralt couldn't be more different than that.

He couldn't be what Jaskier made him out to be in his songs. He couldn't be what Jaskier wanted him to be. And that was the problem. Geralt couldn't listen to Jaskier's songs without grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, knowing full well that what Jaskier pretended to see in him was a lie. Everyone who bothered to take a look at Geralt knew. Geralt knew. And most importantly, Jaskier knew. There was no way the bard actually believed that there could ever be a chance of Geralt being the man he adored and praised with his songs. So when Jaskier's songs started changing, started deviating from the heart- piercing topic of that ideal Not-Geralt, Geralt should have been happy. This was what he had always wanted, wasn't it? For Jaskier to stop spreading lies - whether they were about the monsters Geralt hunted or about Geralt himself.

And maybe he would have been happy, if there hadn't been this painful knot twisting his insides every time Jaskier's songs of adventures were replaced by ones about soft feelings and yearning.

It would have been fine if those very same feelings that Jaskier described in his songs weren't welling up in Geralt more and more whenever he looked at Jaskier, though he knew not why. It made no sense. Geralt wasn't supposed to understand what Jaskier meant when he spoke of never wanting to be parted from the one he sang about or how he wanted nothing more than to hold and be held.

Geralt shouldn't understand and yet he did. That, however, Geralt could ignore and so he did. He averted his eyes whenever Jaskier sang and he pretended that his heart wasn't doing strange and unreasonable things in his chest when Jaskier's voice swelled to a crescendo that made goose flesh cover Geralt's arms. But of course it couldn't be that easy. Of course ignoring those strange feelings wasn't enough to battle the ache in his chest. It would have been fine, if Jaskier wasn't feeling those things because of someone else. Someone with "blazing eyes of liquid fire/ that wake in me burning desire" and "hands so gentle and so strong/ my foolish heart can't help but long".

For a reason that Geralt didn't dare explain, he felt a piercing spike through his heart every time Jaskier spoke of this new beloved of his. Geralt had no right to feel this way. For years he had been able to listen to Jaskier gush about his lovers without batting an eye. So what had changed? Why did Geralt want to find whoever Jaskier was yearning for and - and what? Tell them to fuck off? Tell them that they should stop talking to Jaskier even though that obviously made Jaskier happy? Or would Geralt tell them to end Jaskier's misery and just confess their love to him? Because surely they were in love with Jaskier. And if they were even half as wonderful as Jaskier described them, half as kind, caring, selfless and generous, they would be perfect for Jaskier. And wasn't that the worst part? That somehow Jaskier had finally found someone who was exactly what he had always wanted Geralt to be and that Geralt could never hope to live up to? It would be better for everyone if Jaskier's love would be returned by his unknown beloved. Then he would stop singing about Geralt altogether, would maybe even stop travelling with him and Geralt would finally be rid of this ache in his chest. If Geralt were selfless, if he were kind he would offer to leave Jaskier himself, because surely it was Geralt hovering over Jaskier's shoulder and glowering at everyone coming too close to them that ensured that this beloved never approached Jaskier.

But Geralt wasn't kind. And so he didn't even ask Jaskier who this beloved of his was, in hopes that soon Jaskier would forget all about them and stop singing about them. He didn't. Not a single performance of Jaskier's was completed without at least one song about this mysterious and infuriatingly perfect person. Not even when it was just Jaskier and Geralt sitting at their camp fire and Jaskier was singing softly to himself - not to Geralt, as much as Geralt wanted him to.

What used to be soothing for Geralt quickly became its own kind of torture. Had Geralt thought that he didn't like Jaskier's songs about himself, he had been sorely mistaken. This was so much worse than any lie Jaskier could tell about Geralt. After weeks of listening to Jaskier yearn for this stranger, Geralt finally snapped. "Can you stop singing for one minute?" Jaskier's lute gave a sharp twang as Jaskier's fingers fumbled. Red tinged his cheeks and when Jaskier's eyes found Geralt's, the insecurity in them made Geralt's chest tighten. "You still hate it?" Jaskier finger twitched. "I thought after all those years you would have gotten used to it." Geralt's jaw worked and he had to look away from Jaskier's dejected face. He wanted to take his words back, make them into something other. Something kind. But Geralt wasn’t someone who found the right words. He wasn’t what he himself wanted to be. "I don't hate it. Just...play something different? About something different?" Just like that Jaskier's face lit up. "There is something I've been working on! I wanted to play it for you once it's finished, but I guess I can show you now. It’s not perfect yet, though, so… I don’t know. Don’t be too critical of it." For you. The words echoed through Geralt's mind, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Jaskier had sung about Geralt, despite Geralt and he had tried to get Geralt to sing with him, but never had Jaskier actually sung for him. "Don't worry." Geralt's voice came out choked. "I'm sure it will be fine." More than that, whatever Jaskier was going to sing, it would be perfect. Because it was for Geralt. Not that he could say that out loud. All he could do was avoid Jaskier's eyes as he began to play again, lest that feeling that Geralt had tried so hard to repress would return in full force. And so Jaskier began to sing. Not about his beloved and not about Geralt - at least not as far as Jaskier was aware. Because what left his lips was a song about the gifts of the fae.

Geralt stilled as he listened. Those words about beautiful craftsmanship, about kindness, about the feeling of safety and affection for the gifter couldn’t be a lie. Why would they be? Jaskier didn't know that Geralt was the one giving him those gifts. He had no reason to lie about what he felt. He truly did think the figures were marvellous and worthy of song, even though this tune was addressed to the fae. Geralt didn't know how to feel about that. It wasn't - he had made those animals, so they weren't beautiful. They were creation made by the clumsy hands of one who only knew how to hurt with his hands. And yet Jaskier sang about the figures as if they were the most beautiful thing in the world. And Jaskier was admiring the fae for making such wonderful things, he was thanking and loving them for it. Geralt didn't know whether the knot in his stomach was something ugly or something more beautiful than any witcher should ever be able to experience. When the last notes rang through the air and the only sounds were once again those of the forest, Roach’s soft snores and the crackling fire, Geralt found himself wishing the song would continue. "So, what do you think?" Jaskier said with a smile that came painfully close to masking his lingering insecurity. It would have fooled Geralt if he hadn't spent years witnessing all of Jaskier's various smiles. "Three words or less?" "Play it again?" Jaskier's smile changed, became something brightly burning that set Geralt's chest ablaze. As Jaskier's fingers picked up the tune again, Geralt knew with an unshakable certainty that this feeling, whatever it was, could never be anything ugly, not if it was for Jaskier. As Jaskier sang once more of the magnificent gifts he received, Geralt was overcome with a strange wanting.

Beautiful. That was the word Jaskier kept using. When he described Geralt fighting in his lie-filled songs and now as he was talking about Geralt's carvings. Geralt wasn't beautiful, never would be. Not like Jaskier was. Not like Jaskier's mysterious beloved was. Geralt couldn't change the way he looked, couldn't rid himself of his scars, his inhuman eyes or the frown lines on his face. Not that a change in appearance would ever be enough to make Geralt into the hero Jaskier sang about. But there was one thing he could do. He could give Jaskier the gifts he deserved. He could make them more beautiful. When Geralt had only been carving for himself it hadn’t mattered what the results looked like, but now that he was doing it for Jaskier he wanted - needed- it to be good.

--

The next time they came across a town Geralt, bought the tools he needed; a chisel and more carving knives than Geralt had even known existed. The sudden lighter coin purse grated at his nerves after decades of refusing to buy anything but essentials just in case he would run out of coin soon, but as he set to work, he knew that this purchase wasn't one he would regret, even though the new tools were so unfamiliar that Geralt accidentally cut his own flesh more than once in the beginning. He hadn't been sure what animal to carve next, but when he cut off some wood of a white pine, his fingers moved in their own. Carving a wolf out of the lightest wood he could find wasn't very subtle, but Geralt couldn't find it in him to care. It just felt right to do this and it wasn't as if Jaskier would ever realise that the gifts came from Geralt. As observant as Jaskier could be when he needed to be, he often only saw what he wanted to see. And never in a hundred years would he want to see the gifts as coming from Geralt. Whereas Geralt had spent a couple of hours on his previous figures at the most, he now put all the time and effort he could into whittling the wolf. He needed this one to be perfect.

It was obvious that Jaskier was getting impatient. Clearly, he was waiting for another gift. There was no other explanation for the way Jaskier got more and more irritated with time, despite how often Geralt distanced himself from Jaskier to secretively work on the wolf to get it to perfection as fast as possible. Geralt had thought that taking Jaskier to a town with a grand market the bard had been excitedly telling him about, would appease him and for a while it had seemed to work. The closer they got to the town, the more Jaskier's eyes shone when he told Geralt about the wonderful things one could see and buy there. All of the excitement vanished when Geralt told Jaskier to take his time when he would go there. "What do you mean when I go there?" Jaskier asked with a frown. "I mean I'm not coming." "But I thought -" "I have things I need to do. On my own. So take as much time as you want." It should have made Jaskier happy. Without Geralt's impatient comments about picking a doublet already he would have much more fun, without Geralt looming over him, Jaskier might find people that more pleasant to be around than him, maybe even a new lover. But instead of enthusiasm at the thought of being able to experience the market with all the time he could want, Jaskier's face fell. "Yeah, I...Okay. Alright. I won't bother you. See you later, Geralt." With that Jaskier left and Geralt was left wondering what he had done wrong. Whatever it was, he would make this right. There was nothing like a pretty gift from the fae to bring Jaskier joy again. Safe in the knowledge that Geralt would have at least a couple of hours to perfect the wolf, Geralt set to whittling again. If his hands hadn't been covered in calluses already, they surely would have gotten littered with blisters. He was so fixated on his work that he almost didn't hear the floorboards in front if the inn room creaking. What Geralt heard were unmistakably Jaskier's steps. Geralt cursed and his heart dropped. Why was Jaskier back already? It hadn't been nearly enough time for him to explore the whole market and it had been nowhere near enough time for Geralt to perfect the wolf figure. The handle of the door was pushed down and Geralt had just enough time to let the wolf and the tools disappear in his bags before Jaskier strode into the room. "That's it," Jaskier announced in an unusually stern voice. "You are going to take a bath and you are going to relax and not think about whatever it is you keep thinking about?" Geralt blinked at him. "Jaskier, what are you talking about?" "I don't know." There it was again, that frustration that had edged its way into Jaskier's voice for the past couple of days. "I don't know what I'm talking about 'cause you won't talk about it. I don't know what's wrong and I don't know how to make it right again." Geralt brows drew together. "Nothing' s wrong." "Oh yeah?" Jaskier's lips pulled into a mirthless smile. "Because you have been tense and clearly worried about something. You keep finding excuses to get away from me and I don't know if it's something I did or if maybe you want me gone or -" "I don't," Geralt interrupted sharply, his heart skipping a beat. "It's got nothing to do with you." Except for the fact that Jaskier was too good and Geralt wasn't good enough and Geralt had to fix that. Jaskier's eyes softened and he came closer. "I won't make you tell me if you don't want to." He put a hand on Geralt's shoulder and squeezed a little. "But I want to help. So... A bath? That's something you like, isn't it? Something that always helps you relax?" Geralt grunted in affirmation, though it wasn't exactly the truth. Yes, Geralt did bathe a lot when he could afford it, but not necessarily because it was relaxing. When he had first started out on the Path, cleaning himself of the blood and stench of death had been an impossible to ignore need. It had been only recently that Geralt took to bathing even when there weren’t monster guts to be washed of.

Now that Geralt thought about it, he had begun taking baths for the simple enjoyment of it, not long after Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt's side. The revelation alone was enough to quiet Geralt's mind as he stripped out of his clothes and sank into the bath Jaskier was preparing for him in the meantime. He let out a contented sigh as he was engulfed in the hot water, the faint smell of something sweet and vaguely familiar surrounding him. For some unknown reason it eased the tension in Geralt's muscles. It wasn't exactly like the smell of home and safety but it was damn close to it. "What is that?" Geralt asked as he leaned his head back with closed eyes. "Oh, those are new bathing oils. I bought them earlier." "Hmm. They are nice." "I know," Jaskier said and Geralt could hear the smugness in his voice. "They’re the same smell as my favourite perfume." Geralt's breath hitched. He took another deep breath and sure enough, it smelled like Jaskier. Or at least like the perfume he wore most often. There was still something missing. The scent of Jaskier’s happiness that often followed when he was wearing this scent. "I didn't think your favourite would be something so subtle," Geralt said, a smirk quirking the corner of his lips. Teasing Jaskier was easier than to think about why his scent made Geralt think of home. "Ah, well..." Geralt could hear Jaskier shuffle about. "By pure coincidence, it's also the one perfume that you once told me you liked because it didn't assault your delicate witcher-nose." Despite the playful tone there was a hint of embarrassment in there. "Hmm. Still like it. It's nice." Jaskier released a shuddering breath that sounded almost relieved, but that couldn't be. Jaskier had no reason to have been anxious of anything. "Yes, right. Good." Jaskier's footsteps came closer. He hesitated. "May I?" Geralt didn't need to open his eyes to see what Jaskier was asking permission for. He did it anyway. He cracked his eyes opened and cranked his neck to look in Jaskier's eyes. Geralt nodded and without a hint of hesitation Jaskier placed his hand on Geralt's shoulders, kneading the muscles until not an ounce of the tension was left and Geralt became soft beneath Jaskier's ministrations. As Jaskier massaged soap into Geralt's hair, he began to softly hum. It was Geralt's song. The one about the fae. The one he had sung for Geralt. "You know," Jaskier said when the song came to an end. "Whatever it is you are so worried about, it's not worth spending so much time on. Not if you clearly lose sleep and get anxious over it." But it was. It was for Jaskier. And it was something Geralt did because he liked doing it. How could it be a bad thing to want it to be perfect? "I don't like seeing you like this, Geralt. You claim to take time for yourself, but whenever I come back, you're just more tense than before. I am worried." That wasn't... That wasn't what Geralt had wanted. He had wanted the opposite. He wanted for Jaskier to be happy. This was all wrong. Geralt swallowed thickly and turned around in the tub. Jaskier's hands lifted off his head and Geralt caught one of them, holding it in a light grip. It had been too long since he had held anything other than his blades or the block of wood he had given shape to.

It felt nice. He wanted more of it. He wanted to never have to miss this feeling of Jaskier's hand in his again. "How about we go to that market of yours tomorrow?" Geralt asked. "Together?" The smile Jaskier gave Geralt was bright enough to rival the sun. It was the smile Geralt had wanted to put on Jaskier's face by giving him the wolf. How... Why was Jaskier beaming at him like this now? Geralt hadn't given him anything, had done nothing to earn Jaskier's happiness being directed at him. Jaskier squeezed his hand. "I would love to. Thank you Geralt."

--

The market was bustling and as they pushed their way through the crowd, Geralt could feel the weight of the imperfect wolf in his bag, taunting him, telling him that he should have spent this time carving it to perfection instead of wasting time like this. The taunting voice was overshadowed by Jaskier's excited chatter as he pulled Geralt from one stall to the other. They had to hold hands to not lose each other in the crowd. Despite the fact that they were holding onto each other, every couple of steps Jaskier turned around as if to see if Geralt was still there and when he found his eyes, he would send Geralt that same joyful smile that Geralt wanted so much to keep on his face. The noise of the market was deafening and people were shoving Geralt in a way that couldn't be mistaken for accidental and yet, despite everything, Geralt found himself returning the smiles. Watching Jaskier's eyes widen in delight whenever he caught sight of something he liked made Geralt forget all about the figure in his bag. It wasn't until hours later when they were walking back to the inn and Jaskier was inexplicably still holding onto Geralt's hand that he remembered. When Jaskier eventually let go of Geralt's hand to show him the new hat he had bought - as if Geralt hadn't been present when he had gotten it - Geralt took the chance to take the wolf out of the bag - always mindful of Jaskier and making sure he didn't notice anything- and dropped where he was sure no one would find it until Jaskier and Geralt would take the same route the next morning to get out of this town. He had been right. When they took the same road again, this time accompanied by the click-clack of Roach's hooves, Jaskier stopped in his tracks and bent down to pick up the figure, caressing the almost white wood reverently. He looked at the wolf as if he couldn't find a single imperfection on it. No beaming smile stretched his lips and no cry of surprised joy left him, instead there was a softness in his eyes that made it impossible for Geralt to breathe. "What a perfect gift," Jaskier said quietly. "My darling witcher, it would seem today is going to be just as wonderful a day as yesterday was." Geralt swallowed. "Yesterday was wonderful?" His voice came out hoarser than he wanted to. "Why of course. I got to spend it with you. And yes, I know we spend every day together, but I mean in a fun way. It's been too long since we did that. I think the last time was at the lake." Geralt's heart stuttered in his chest.

The lake. Geralt had dared to hope that Jaskier didn't remember the lake. Didn't remember how Geralt had held him close in the water as if he had been allowed to do so. If Jaskier remembered, then why didn't he pull away now? Why had he held Geralt's hand yesterday as if Geralt hadn't crossed Jaskier's boundaries before? It didn't make sense. Unable and unwilling to give voice to any of those thoughts, Geralt cleared his throat and latched onto the first thing that came to mind to distract both him and Jaskier. "So you like this fae gift?" Jaskier let out a laugh at this. "Are you really asking? Of course I love it. If I weren't determined to love all of my little lucky charms equally, I would be tempted to say that this one might be my favourite." Geralt felt a swell of pride burning in his chest. "I... I hope it brings you luck." "How could it not? It's a wolf. The perfect protector and companion as far as I'm concerned." "You think so?" “Sure. But I might be a bit biased." Jaskier threw a glance at Geralt out of the corner of his eyes, the familiar mischief glinting in them. "After all, I have a soft spot for wolves."

---

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[bloodypapercut]

always here (r.l. x reader)

request: hi hi hi!!! can i request professor remus lupin x healer reader(instead of pomfrey she works at hogwarts) they are married and she comforts him and heals him after a full moon? thank you!🥺💖

sorry it took so long for me to get to writing this, school hasn’t been the kindest but here it is! I hope you enjoy <3 

word count: 1.3k 

He’s never dreaded a transformation as much as he’s dreaded this one. His first transformation as a professor, his first transformation at Hogwarts without all of his friends. Everything was different, it pained Remus to think about it. Within a couple of hours he wouldn’t be the quiet and reserved man that he usually was. As he walked down the corridor he observed the portraits moving, the cobwebs around their frames, creaky wooden doors, and abandoned books and quills sitting on benches. He was in a daze, his melancholy cloaked him and the pain from wishing things could be the same couldn’t compare to any pain he’s ever gone through from a full moon. His thoughts plagued his mind so deeply that he didn’t hear the rapid footsteps that increased in volume before coming to a quick halt.

“Rem? Darling, you alright?” Turning around Remus looked down to see Y/N, his only remaining friend from his years at Hogwarts, his best and dearest friend. She was still dressed in her uniform and her hair was still up, an indicator that she had just finished making sure all the students under her care were comfortable and asleep.

“Of course love, it’s just...well you know.” Y/N had never seen Remus this dejected. She knew he abhorred his transformations, she knew that he hated feeling like a burden to her and she knew that that wasn’t the only thing that was tearing him down.

“I miss them too, but we have each other, that’s something no one can ever take away from us.” The forced smile that adorned his face slowly turned into a tight grin and he extended his arms for her to encase herself in.

It was a tradition of theirs, to walk around the halls hours before his transformation then separate, Y/N going to the common room to wait for the return of the marauders and Remus going to the shrieking shack. This very tradition led to them becoming a couple, he remembers the moment he confessed to her, the memory makes Remus glad he took Sirius’ advice all those years ago, but thinking about Sirius now makes Remus’ mood turn bitter so he tries to avoid reliving memories involving him.

They walked through the hallways, their conversation devoid of any sense of genuine interest or joy, no matter how hard they tried to force an air of comfort, how hard they tried to act like it was the same as any other transformation they went through together, they couldn’t deny it. They were scared, but they couldn’t do anything else but pretend it was all fine, that this was normal.

Y/N squeezed his hand when they passed the door of her old common room, the place where they had their first kiss. It brought a sense of comfort and just for a second, they forgot about everything around them. The awkward giggles, their clumsy attempts to make the height difference work, the tendrils of her hair that got caught between them, the rush of excitement when they felt when they finally did meet each other's lips. They continued walking their conversation gradually becoming less strained as they did what they could to block out the harsh reality around them.

“Guess I’m off now beautiful, I’ll see you in a couple of hours okay?” He let go of her hand and kissed her forehead lightly. Her trembling hands reached forward to hold his face and stroke her thumb over an old scar.

“It’s going to be alright love.” He nodded pressing their foreheads together, nuzzling their noses and kissing softly.

--------

Y/N flicked through an old scrapbook smiling as the pictures danced and moved, her attention completely invested in the pleasant memories until a knock and the soft cries of the door brought her back to earth. As soon as she looked up, her eyes widened and it took everything in her to suppress a cry of sympathy for her husband. He looked battered, contused, and completely vulnerable. His kind grin seemed out of place on his decrepit form, and Y/N knew he was only smiling for her sake.

“Oh, Merlin! Rem, sit, go on sit down.” She rapidly grabbed her supplies and kneeled next to his feeble body. Gripping his hand she realized that he had never been this weak before. The lacerations and contusions nearly devoured him, it took everything in her not to cry. Her heart raced, she was sure Remus could sense that because he kissed her knuckles and hummed. Filled with perturbation, she lifted his shirt and gasped at the myriad of abrasions that littered his body.

“This is going to hurt a bit okay? Just tell me when to stop.” Another hum as he pushed her hair back. A damp cloth slowly wiped the dirt and blood off his limp body, his muscles clenching slightly due to the new sensation. After setting the cloth down on a wooden table she fished through her bag to get the ointment. Slowly the eyedropper was pulled out of the bottle, the fluid dripping on the floor momentarily before falling into the cuts on his freckled chest and stomach. His grunts and seethes of pain distracted her for a mere second but she continued, knowing that it was better to give him relief as soon as possible. After every drop of the ointment, she pressed a kiss to a random part of his body, followed by a soft whisper telling him how much she adored him. She smiled as his breathing became steadier and as the cuts turned into light scars and bruises faded to his normal skin tone.

“Turn over love.” She continued working on him, leaving plasters and bandages on wounds that would take a bit longer to heal. She kissed each of his shoulders and tapped him, signalling she was done. 

“All better, let’s get you cleaned up okay?” She draped one of his cardigans over his shoulder and led him to the washroom that connected to their shared room.

As soon as the water was warm enough she ushered for him to sit in the tub while she ran off to get him clothes and a book quickly. He chuckled as her hasty footsteps and the shuffling of objects came into earshot, his heart swelled thinking about how much he loved her, how he knew that no one else would ever treat him as good as she does. His feelings for her grew stronger with every second he knew he had her, and he just wished he could tell that scared little boy all those years ago that he would find someone that felt like home and that treated him like an irreplaceable relic. Upon her return his smile grew, he watched as she sunk to her knees once more and started to clean him off, staring in awe at the ring on her finger as it sparkled.

“All done, want to get out?”

“No, not yet, can you join me? Only if you want.” She smiled and got in with him, leaning her head against his chest, making sure not to aggravate any of his wounds. They sat in silence, letting the candle in the room slowly die down, the only light coming from the other room.

“We’re gonna be alright.”

“I know, I’ve got you, that’s all I need.”

“You never grew out of that sappy comments phase.”

“Never will love, I am simply too deeply in love with you to ever stop.”

“Shut up you sap.” She giggled, splashing him with water.

“No, say it back, you know you want to.” Water kept flowing down her head, causing her giggles and the sound of water to reverberate in the room.

“Fine, fine I’m madly and utterly in love with you too.”

[jadepetals]

so this is part 1 of the fics that i've read and have stayed with me for a looong time, hope they make you feel the same way.

once upon a dream / 33319 words

Louis is psychic and gets caught in the middle of a murder investigation led by FBI Special Agent Harry Styles.

bloodsport / 40283 words

American Football AU

Louis Lucas /  67999 words

Louis is a pornstar with more issues than he can drink away. Harry is a bisexual singer/songwriter who is desperate to be signed to a major label. Zayn and Liam are Louis's long-suffering best friends (who also happen to be pornstars, and also happen to be dating each other). Niall just wants to play his guitar. 

To the Ends of the Earth / 68488

During a yearlong hiatus, Louis visits Harry at his cabin in Idaho, where long-buried feelings ignite like the fire keeping them warm.

Dreaming of you / 68793 words

The Begrudging Starbucks AU.

This Wicked Game / 70010 words

An AU in which The Bachelor is gay, Louis is a contestant, Harry is the bachelor, everyone drinks a lot of champagne, the entire world gets to watch them fall in love, and no one plays by the rules.

don’t tell the gods (we left a mess) / 71556 words

After a misunderstanding with Liam’s mother, Louis agrees to accompany his best friend to a family wedding and pretend to be the world’s best boyfriend. But their simple plan goes awry when he learns that Harry, ex-boyfriend/ex-love of Louis’ life, will also be in attendance.

Here In The Afterglow / 88649 words

1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a curious stranger.

Paint Me In A Million Dreams / 112805 words

Harry's in love with someone and doesn't care about dating anyone else, Louis never felt home in L.A., Liam writes love songs for someone he shouldn't write love songs to, and Niall makes everything better with good food.

Soft Hands, Fast Feet, Can’t Lose / 112853 words

American Uni Au.

Fucking Animals /  116687 words

Louis is the frontman of an equal rights-movement, author of a book about beta-omega marriage and the struggles of being born and boxed into a personality you don't necessarily feel you fit. The notion that an omega must want to be with an alpha or else he or she's just settling for less, is bullshit.

For As Long As I Can Remember (It’s Been December) / 128451 words

After recovering from a severe accident that causes Harry to lose his memory of three years, he moves to London to start his life over as a star chef. Little does he know that when he falls in love with Louis at first sight, it’s not the first time they meet.

red hands / 132787 words

harry is wanted for treason, niall hasn’t changed in four years, liam is always smiling, and louis is angry. like, really angry.

Love Is A Rebellious Bird / 134891 words

Louis is the concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra, Harry is the New! and Exciting! interim conductor/ex-cello prodigy who "has made Mozart cool again" according to Esquire Magazine (Louis hates him immediately, which is definitely why he internet stalked him in his dark bedroom late at night that one time), and Niall is the best. Zayn and Liam are around too.

falling into you / 143157 words

In the grand scheme of adolescence and boyhood, Harry was still working himself out, so far with little luck. But four things he could say for certain: 1) he'd been at the top of his class all through primary and secondary school, 2) he was the shittiest alpha to ever walk the earth, 3) Liam Payne never let him forget it, and 4) he’d been in love with this boy, Louis Tomlinson, ever since he was fifteen years old.

Own the Scars / 144707 words

Louis has never felt like he was good enough: for his stepdad, for his life-long best friend, for the life he's supposed to want. After an accident that nearly costs him his life, Louis' parents send him to rehab where he’s forced to face his demons. On the long and difficult road to recovery, Louis must confront the truths he’s been avoiding about his future, his relationships, and his sense of self-worth. Because before he can love anyone else, he’s got to learn how to love himself first.

You are the blood / 175151 words

A seventh-year Hogwarts AU in which Niall gets all the girls, Liam goes on a journey of self-discovery, Zayn falls in love, Harry wants something more, and Louis tries to figure out once and for all why he, a Muggleborn, was sorted into Slytherin.

Cold Little Heart / 194589 words 

Louis is a soft omega with an abusive past and an alpha child

A few months after getting a divorce, Louis meets Harry, an ex-military alpha wolf that offers him something -odd.

In exchange for teaching him how to cook, Harry will babysit his son, Abraham

Louis really could use the help.

Collison / 226109 words

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

He kissed my lips, I taste your mouth / 290696 words

When Louis moves into the flat next to Harry's, neither of them thinks it will change their lives. Louis is stuck in a relationship with his controlling and overly possessive boyfriend who he loves too much to break up with. Harry is content, seeking refuge from the snobby world he grew up in and forging a new path for himself. He does happen to have a habit of wanting to fix people though and when he meets Louis, the gorgeous man with a prat of a boyfriend, he finds himself trying to do just that. While Harry tries to avoid getting tangled in a messy situation, Louis tries to deny that there's a niggling voice in the back of his head that prefers Harry to his own boyfriend. While both determinedly refuse to let change come, they fail to notice that exact force wrapping around them and pulling them tighter together until there just might be no escape from the feelings brewing within.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

[alienisticxo]

X Angel - Chapter 4

Elon Musk x Reader

{Authors Note} Sorry for taking so long! I’ll be updating more regularly now! You can also find this story on AO3 and Wattpad, the links are in my description. My asks are also always open for general Elon chat and requests. <3

Warnings: None yet!

“So what’s the verdict? We don’t got all day,” Jett pushed as he strode through the doors once more, irritated and impatient.

Elon backed away from me then as the other men walked in with a ferociousness in their stride, clearly champing at the bit to hear what their most valuable colleague had to say about the cash-robot.

“She truly has no recollection of anything, and not being aware of how her programming works can be dangerous, especially on Earth,” one man said to another, seemingly continuing a conversation from outside.

“However,” the other began even louder, loud enough for everyone to hear, to assure I could hear. “We’re willing to pay the price. Earth needs someone new for the public to idolize or they’ll waste away. Perhaps they’ll listen to the people who know what they’re talking about if someone like {Y/N} tells them what to do from their televisions. What did you find, Musk?” He finished, turning to Elon with interest.

But Elon only shook his head with conviction, confident in his findings.

“I’d like to investigate further before this purchase is made. Something isn’t adding up here, and I agree with the danger it could pose.”

“Nonsense,” the man replied brashly instead, suddenly not treating Elon as though he were their most valuable player in the room.

I wondered why they’d asked him for his opinion at all as the suited man took a holographic card from his own pocket then.

“Whatever the price, we’ll take her,” he demanded.

I could hear Elon breathe a disappointed laugh as he shook his head and turned away, sliding his hands into his suit jacket pockets, then. He very obviously deemed my purchase to be a terrible idea, though I know not for similar reasons I did. Still, the sentiment stung me more than I’d like to admit. He was my hero, after all.

But he was in no position to argue with them, as I wasn’t his pop star to claim. For another moment, I also wondered why they’d asked him to tag along altogether. If they weren’t going to hear him out, there was no reason for his presence. Even though I was sure he saw me more as a threat than beneficial, I was still glad I got to meet him, at least once in my lifetime.

Regardless of that, there was no denying it felt like the entire universe fell apart around me all at once, leaving me spiraling into the galaxy with no direction. I couldn’t go back to Earth— I wouldn’t go back to Earth. I would rather jump out of the window in front of me and disassemble my entire being, than go back there. But I had to stay quiet. I had to remain calm. My teeth ground together behind my lips as every inch of my body tensed up. They didn’t notice, but it was possible Elon had with each occasional glance he took back at me.

I kept my eyes right back on him this time, only averting them when he looked in my direction. When they gathered around the large table to sign the contract, which appeared in mid air at the press of a button on a phone by Jett, Elon stayed behind. He watched me intently as my {e/c} eyes burned holes into the man whose own eyes made steady and confident contact with the contract as it scanned his retinas. Within seconds, it disappeared, my life slipping from my own fingers as it was sent through cyberspace back to Astra. Crypto exchanged cards as Jett, and who I found out to be Mr. Bauer, held them against each other.

The purchase had been made.

It felt like an execution more than anything else.

I had a week to bid farewell to Planet X and all who inhabited it. Their label, something boring like Spinn Records, worked with Jett to plan a facade as to why I was leaving to feed to my adoring public. I was to follow it as per Astra’s orders. Once the official date on the contract arrived, I was to hop a flight with SpaceX and hurdle towards the one place I vowed I’d never return to, and take orders from Spinn instead. After that, I was no longer Astra’s responsibility. Silent rage and hurt and a plethora of other emotions came bubbling to the surface, but I kept them at bay, turning near catatonic as my eyes shifted focus to Elon once more.

Deep down, I was hoping he might be the fairytale hero I needed at the moment; might pick up on my silent distress and come up with a bulletproof excuse for me to stay on X, devoted to Astra. Mention anything from the danger I could pose to simply being uninteresting enough. But he didn’t say another word. He stared at me from time to time. And each time he did, I could see the cogs in his mind working away from my peripheral, as he valiantly attempted to unpiece the puzzle that was myself.

They didn’t even say goodbye to me when they left, and I didn’t dare look up at Elon, though I noticed his hesitation to depart. My emotions were on overdrive—  I didn’t trust myself to make eye contact for fear I might break down on the spot.

The ride back to my penthouse was quiet on my end. It wasn’t unusual, as cybernetic stars were usually seen and not heard behind the scenes. I sat in the back of the Cybertruck as Jett prattled on to the head of Astra about the deal he’d just made for them from the passenger seat. I was drifting in and out, but caught something about how he wanted more than his usual ten percent. Who would be paying him now?

I smiled to myself for just a second as I looked around inside of the vehicle. They were rare on Earth, but one of the status cars on X. Everyone who was anyone had one despite Elon’s standing in the social world.

Self driving, stereo system like a major recording studio, and built like a tank. Despite the autopilot though, we preferred to drive the beast ourselves. I mean, who wouldn’t? But as I thought about the Cybertruck’s creator, and our brief encounter today, I couldn’t help but feel slighted. It wasn’t his responsibility to save me from such a disastrous deal, sure, but I could tell he wanted nothing to do with my appearance on Earth. They didn’t listen to him when he’d tried to speak up, but he didn’t try hard enough, either. Something told me he wanted them to realize their own mistake, but he didn’t know at what cost that was to me.

I shook myself out of the thought. How could he know, really? Why would he even care? Why did I care so much? His small act of slight compassion in the boardroom didn’t mean I was entitled to his entire arsenal of kind deeds. It was absolutely insane to think that. I questioned my own sentience before trying to push my thoughts away altogether. My emotions were jumbled, no one in particular feeling better or worse than another. It was to the point that the only thing I felt was nothing at all.

When I’d finally arrived home, there were no flashing cameras, no screaming fans or journalists and no security guards surrounding me from every direction I looked. I made my way through the lobby of the building and onto the teleportation pad, dying to finally have some privacy in my own space. The damn thing couldn’t work fast enough as I impatiently waited for it to read my code. Eventually, though it was really only mere seconds, I found myself in my penthouse.

Once I locked the door for no outsider entry, I immediately leaned back against it, the soft clang of metal ringing lightly through the space and tainting my view of my life, the sound bitter and empty as it fell on my ears. My line of sight was glued to an onyx black rug in front of me as I recounted the latter half of the day's events. It all replayed to me like a movie I was forced to watch, all of my hard work unraveling for a little currency that didn’t even mean anything just a few years ago. As invincible as I felt to Astra, after all I’d done for them to save their name countless times, to push their agendas when I didn’t necessarily agree with them, to keep them relevant, they felt as though I was disposable.

My label deemed me disposable and my hero considered me a threat.

Then it hit me.

All at once everything I’d been feeling hit me like a swirling hurricane, and I began to near hyperventilation as I let myself truly feel again. The wall I had to build up every day cracked and crumbled as a million different sensations escaped into the ethos from my small frame. A roaring war within my body swept me into a moment that felt tumultuous, everything suddenly chaotic, loud and heavy though it was just myself in an otherwise quiet room.

My chest rose and fell as it all came rushing back like a wave of water, tears forming in my eyes as sobs pushed their way through my throat. It was as though everything else I had ever been fell away, stripping me bare to nothing but my own resolve. My cold hands immediately reached for my head and I started to sink to the floor, the dramatism of the moment not at all underplayed or over exaggerated when compared to how I felt as I began to tear the beautifully detailed chrome pieces from my face— and then my chest— and then the rest of my body, tearing my clothing off along with them. I threw each piece across the large entryway, the sharp echo earsplitting as each one clattered and rolled through the space. The intricacy I’d hid behind for what felt like ages now, meaning nothing and everything all at once. My heart pounded in my chest, a familiar ache I’d not felt since I left earth reigniting my passion, my need to escape. Inside, I was dying to escape the hell I had to endure, pretending to be a body I wasn’t day in and day out just to stay alive.

The jet black mascara I still liked to put on despite no one seeing it dripped down my cheekbones in messy streaks. My soft, warm skin was exposed in the evening's hazy sunset that wasn’t quite like anywhere else in the two worlds I knew. The small tattoos, scars and beauty marks I’d acquired on Earth, a stark indication of my true humanity, revealed to no one but myself and my thoughts. I embraced the way I could feel the blood coursing through my veins, supplying my carbon based vessel beyond what the most complexly built form of artificial intelligence could comprehend. I tasted the salt of my tears on my flushed rose petal lips with slight relief that I still existed as I was, if only for the time being. I reminded myself of who I was— who the world didn’t know me to be, who I’d often forgotten or left behind for the sake of my safety; of my family’s safety.

And as I sat there, naked and distraught, I briefly wondered if I should reveal my secret to the world now that I found myself at an impasse; if I should risk it all to stay on Planet X and continue the life I’d worked so desperately hard for. To use exposing my humanity as a playing card that no one saw coming was a thought, absolutely. Astra would be in shambles if I decided to expose myself as nothing more than a mere mortal after boasting to X and Earth that they had the most realistic A.I. lifeform in the game. While it didn’t seem like such a big deal, it was in the eyes of the public and their competitors. It would tarnish their reputation forever. But the label didn’t exactly play fair, either. My lifeless body would be hurdling into the universe within the hour I told them, and they’d be after anyone else who might be affiliated with me or related to me. It was one thing to outcast an individual to the outskirts. It was a whole other to wipe out any trace of their existence at all. But they had no issues with it, so long as they saved face and crypto.

Earth hadn’t been kind to my family or me in its downfall. I didn’t come from wealth of any kind and we’d made due with humble living while we could. But we’d gotten caught in the grime the moment it all began to fall apart on a grand scale.

X was my escape.

Our escape.

I barely managed to make it out of Earth as a stowaway, let alone alive.

[cl-01-kestis]

My Little Rebel - Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Female Rebel!Reader | Part 6

Summary: You’ve been in a secret relationship with Cal for a while now, and during a mission on Bracca, you discover a more than surprising secret.

Warnings: Threat

Life got strange ever since the day you were broken out of prison, in a good way of course. You and Cal have been with one another for 3 months now, you’ve grown into happy and comfortable people because of each other’s endless support and appreciation. Cal was the missing piece for you, and you were the light in the dark for him, but it wasn’t enough to bring him to the light side.

Cal continued to be an Inquisitor in fear that Darth Vader would find and kill him if he left and vanished. You chose to stay a Rebel instead of join the Empire and get a job there, you refused to join something so corrupt, but you respected Cal’s decision and thankfully he respected yours.

The war between the Empire and Rebellion was getting worse and overtime you started losing a lot of your friends to battles. The Inquisitors continued cutting through the Rebels like butter, and you had no backup plan that could save yourselves.

You’ve almost died on many occasions, you’ve almost given up and accepted death, but then you remember Cal and everything he’s done for you. You haven’t died yet because within you there’s a love and determination so powerful because you don’t want to let Cal down. You don’t want to leave him in a war and without someone there to help him, that would be too selfish and heartbreaking.

Recently you’ve been jumping from place to place, and this has been the most time you’ve been away from your home on Yavin. A mission came up recently that involved a handful of Rebels going undercover to the planet Bracca to discover possible Empire plans. You were one of those rebels, no surprise, it was about time you’d left to go on a long, outdrawn mission that could rescue the Rebellion instead of always fixing ships and vehicles.

You were next to your commanding officer, back against a large scrapyard wall and clinging tightly to your pistol. The weather in Bracca was dreadful, you’re thankful you brought gloves and an extra scarf or else you’d be freezing to death. Stormy clouds rumbled above you and your squad as you padded through multiple scrapyards which felt like a never ending maze. You had to stop on multiple occasions to get some rest and get a drink or eat something to increase your energy.

The vibe around Bracca felt like it was draining you, you were tired, cold, frustrated and your body ached. You wish Cal could’ve been here, that way you’d be a lot more energised and ready to go. But this was different, you hadn’t seen Cal in a while and you’d grown a tad bit colder.

After two days of walking through scrapyards, your team finally decided to split up to speed up the process of finding something. You were thankfully on your own, able to concentrate on your thoughts without someone yapping in your ear the whole time. You had your own rations and a large flask of water in your heavy weight backpack that weighed you down massively, but you didn’t give up.

Your feet screamed for you to stop but you couldn’t, you had to find something. A strange sense of warmth filled your chest and for a moment you thought Cal was nearby, but from what you could see there was no Tie fighter nearby and no Inquisitor.

The warmth in your chest was pulling you to something, distant whispers of a child echoed in your ear as you grabbed onto wires and metal walls and pulled yourself up to the next platform. The rain poured down onto your face and cleaned away any muck you had on it before.

As you hoisted yourself up, your head peeking over the edge of the wall and into the platform, your eyes widened when you saw a bright purple hue swirling around what seemed to be a screwdriver. Bewildered, you stood up and approached the purple hue cautiously, afraid in case it might be hostile. You crouched down to It’s level and heard multiple voices calling to you, the whispers of the child now loud and clear as your hand slowly pulled out and reached forward.

And suddenly, everything went silent.

You looked up from your spot and realised the purple hue was gone, your surroundings now covered in a similar hue as a transparent, familiar figure stood in front of you. A young boy, about 16, stood next to you holding the same screwdriver that was on the floor, twirling it between his fingers as he hummed a soft song to himself. He wore headphones on his head and took off his hood, revealing a batch of fiery red hair. You froze in your spot, mouth hung open in shock as the vision of a young teenage Cal walked in front of you.

He was oblivious that you were here, it was clear this was some kind of hallucination. His eyes were a soft baby blue instead of that sharp yet beautiful gold you always saw. Cal’s outfit consisted of combats, boots, a grey/blue long sleeved T-shirt and a thick weighted vest over his torso. This wasn’t the Cal you knew, it had to be a vision of who he used to be before turning into an Inquisitor.

Young Cal looked around from all directions before looking to his waist and pulling out a glorious lightsaber, igniting it to reveal a bright blue that illuminated everything around it. Cal’s eyes gleamed and he smiled to himself, twirling the lightsaber skilfully around his body and getting into fighting stances, pretending to fight an enemy as he waved the lightsaber around in front of him and practiced his fighting for a while until hearing someone call for him in the distance.

“Coming!” He said, his voice sounding so much more light and innocent as he hid his lightsaber and ran in the direction of the voice.

And then you shifted back into the sad reality of the scrapyard, the rain poured and made your hair wet to the point it looked like you’d been thrown in a pool. Droplets of rain fell off the edges of your hair and onto the ground. A sudden, strange weight in your hand caught your attention, your eyes looking down and lifting your arm up to see a lightsaber - the same one that Cal was holding from the vision. It’s golden body gleamed as droplets fell onto it and rolled off the ride.

You took a step back in astonishment, raising the lightsaber right in front of your face and inspecting its every detail. This situation was so sudden, first the vision and now the lightsaber.

Who gave it to you? When on Earth did you pick it up? You were certain it wasn’t around before you saw the vision. You looked at the other side of the saber and notices a small button, you knew immediately what this did. You couldn’t deny the urge you felt as your thumb traced over the button, you wanted to see for yourself what this weapon looked like.

Out of impulse, you pressed the button and almost dropped the saber as a beautiful bright blue blinded your vision, your eyes not used to the harsh light since they were adjusted to the darkness of Bracca.

You waved it around, your eyes wide with amazement and your mind rushing with so many questions and undeniable excitement. You never thought in your 21 years of life you’d be holding something so special and so sacred. This was a Jedi’s weapon, not exactly the same to the blasters you were used to. This was all so surreal and then the realisation dawned on you.

Why did you, of all people, have a lightsaber? This wasn’t yours and you weren’t a Jedi or force wielder, so why did the saber chose you? Or why was it given to you?

You pressed the button and unsheathed the lightsaber, not wanting any accidents to happen. You clipped it to your belt next to your blaster, your eyes lurking on it for a few more seconds before looking up and inhaling deeply. There was still much more territory to go over, you had all night.

This was going to take a while.

-

There it was again. The silent whisper of a child. You desperately tried to follow it and walked into many wrong directions whilst you were at it. You’d heard it many times since the last and it was getting to the point it was driving you insane. The lightsaber had come in handy in getting through dark areas and cutting through blocked paths. You made sure not to keep it on constantly to avoid unwanted attention from nearby mechanics, you were also still trying to get used to the fact that you all-of-a-sudden had this lightsaber in your hand, zero experience of how to even remotely use it.

And slipped through the cracks of the buildings made from scraps of machine, injuring yourself slightly in the process and suffering from many cuts and bruises from trying to make your way around the area. You didn’t bump into any other rebels but you could see a few of them from a distance, and by a distance you meant small specs from miles away. You didn’t even know how you noticed them, you were positive your eye sight wasn’t the best.

You found another purple hue, once again it was hovering above something on the ground and the noise that came from it was a child’s whisper. You crept forward to it, making sure your lightsaber was kept hidden underneath your green poncho as you sat cross legged in front of the purple hue and reached out to it, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in. It was strange, you felt a connection with the hue, it felt like a force dragging you towards something significant. You were slowly coming to the realisation that this might possibly mean you had a gift, maybe something like a hyper sensor ability that made you aware of everything around you. Or maybe, just maybe... the force.

As you dipped your hand into the purple glowing hue, a sudden sharp pain stabbed at your hand and you drew it back immediately, looking down at it to see where the pain was coming from.

There was a large scar on your hand that had been there for as long as you could remember, it had always been a part of you. It was on the back of your hand and dragged from your pinky to the centre of your outer wrist. However, when you looked down to inspect it, it was wide open and bleeding tons. Your first instinct was to panic but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. You’d never seen it before the scar formed, you can’t even remember how you got it. It was deep, you could see muscle and all the strange insides of your body, it made you want to be sick.

You tore a bit of your poncho off and wrapped it tightly around the wound to suppress the bleeding, sucking in a sharp breath as you applied pressure to the cut.

“This is strange” You mumbled to yourself, looking back at the purple hue that hadn’t vanished yet like the other, you realised you had yet to see what this one had in store. Reluctant, you reached your bandages hand out to give it a second try, if this one didn’t work then you’d just leave it and find another hue. You closed your eyes, preparing for the same sharp pain but instead opening your eyes to see that you were in another vision. The surroundings were coated in a fairly transparent purple and multiple bodies were around you.

You looked behind you when you heard blaster shots, ducking your head down immediately and looking up to see a young Jedi girl wielding a small lightsaber, blocking blaster blows that were shot in her direction by clone soldiers, lots of them. By her side was her Master, taking down the clones and defending her as much as they could. You were still in Bracca, the same environment but set in an era long ago.

The girl had (H/C) hair and soft yet grubby (S/C) skin, cuts covered her body and her Jedi robes were dirty and scarlet with blood that wasn’t all hers.

The girls eyes were full of fear, she continued blocking blaster shots until a clone trooper holding a blade approached her, running rapidly and throwing the blade down on her, only to swipe the back of her hand deeply and cause a painful scream to rip from the young girls throat. As a result, the young girl raised her lightsaber and cut the troopers head clean off before she realised the rest of the clones had been killed by her master. Bewildered, the girl fell on her backside and burst into tears, holding her head in her hands and smudging blood on the side of her face with the blood oozing from her hand.

Her master comforted her, reassuring the young Padawan that she was going to be alright and that they had to move or else they’d be caught.

“Come now, (Y/N), we have a long journey ahead of us” The Master said.

Wait... what?

[bnhaclaimedmysoul]

how would midoriya, bakugou and todoroki react to a tough s/o bringing their little sibling to school?

an anon requested: Hello! Can I request a s/o who is tough and strong all the time and totally acts like a delinquent but when they bring their little sibling to school one day they act like a soft mom and everyone is surprised? Can you do it so s/o is kinds like the parent to their sibling since their real parents are never there. Can you do it with the main three if possible? Thank you and have a nice day/night!

characters: midoriya izuku, bakugou katsuki & todoroki shouto

genre: fluff

note: helloooo, i’m sorry i’ve been m.i.a. the past week, i’ve been stuck with a week long school activity but !!! can i just say that this request is cute as shit?? and it’s wholesome, so thank you for requesting this, anon! hope you enjoy this bit ♡

–– medusa. 

midoriya izuku

- first of all, it’s a wonder how he managed to get a tough cookie like you

- people are still shocked by the fact that you two are together

- both of your personas seem to clash, but really, it’s all cute

- midoriya isn’t too fazed by your brash actions and way of speech given that he’s dealt with bakugou most of his life

- but that doesn’t exactly stop his awe whenever you act all tough

- this pure boy is so starry eyed around you

- who wouldn’t fall for his adorable demeanor? not even you could resist him

- once you two are in a later stage of dating, he makes an effort to get to know you a lot better

- you two may be together, but he wants to get to know you in a deeper sense

- like what’s behind the brash front that you hold? there must be a softer side to you!

- and this, he finds out in the best way possible

- midoriya knows your family situation, understanding this quite well given that his father wasn’t around

- he also knows of how you have a younger sibling

- but what he didn’t know was how you acted towards your younger sibling

- it all starts with how you stepped into the room during lunchtime, looking all smug with an aura that steals everyone else’s attention

- only it wasn’t just you that had stolen everyone’s attention

- it was the much smaller being that hid behind your leg, shy at the sudden attention

- his jaw nearly drops because?? who on earth?

- then it hits him

- this is the little sibling you mentioned?

- if that wasn’t enough, his shock increases tenfold once you reveal the lunch you had accidentally brought for the much smaller entity by your side, kneeling down to offer the box before patting your sibling’s head

- the scene set before his eyes reaches his heartstrings

- who knew you could be so soft?

- he makes his way over to greet you and your younger sibling, who beams up at him

- even outs how they know him from the sports festival along with the stories you would tell about him

- cue a flustered midoriya because you talk about him??

- you shush your sibling for outing you, sauntering the little rascal off with the lunch you provided

- he doesn’t allow this, of course, instead offering your sibling to join the both of you to take lunch

- midoriya’s good with kids

- takes this as a chance to get to know more about your family and how you really are at home

- instantly gets along with your sibling, immediately earning the big brother title

- his heart ACHES

- if that isn’t enough, your sibling develops the habit of clinging onto his arm to trace the scars littered there, which is a habit you have

- again, his heart ACHES

- it’s honestly so heartwarming to see your tiny sunshine getting along with your other beam of sunshine

- he makes a mental note to visit your place more often to bond with your sibling

- maybe even lighten the heavy load of work you have to do back at home

bakugou katsuki

- a hothead and a baddie, oh boy

- you two are such a badass pair, practically untouchable from how strong the both of your personalities are

- but what can he do? he’s a sucker for feisty ones

- never pictured you as an extra, instead saw you as some challenge with the way you never took crap from anyone

- which lead to an attraction he would deny whenever the squad would point out the stares directed to your place

- you couldn’t resist it either, he was a whole catch

- difficult at times, but his passion was irresistible

- but anyways, your relationship isn’t all about bickering and challenges, he has a soft side behind doors

- all about tangled limbs beneath the sheets after a long day

- like midoriya, he knows all about your family state and vice versa

- doesn’t comment much on it, instead tries to focus your energy on someplace else instead of a dreary matter

- but the act of avoiding the matter doesn’t last very long once he’s faced with the munchkin running to your side a little after the final bell rings

- is all like ‘what the fuck is that’

- his eyes widen once you pat the kid’s head, raising the tiny frame up into an embrace

- he’s in shock, eyes widened at the scene before him

- was that really his significant other?

- not that he was complaining though, you looked ethereal holding so much affection within your eyes

- turns away after awhile, clearing his throat and complaining about how it was to early to be so soft

- his cheeks are flushed to a faint tint of pink

- your younger sibling is all scared at first though because look at that intimidating ass face because not even kids are safe from his glares

- warms up to him eventually due to his attempts at acting softer

- by softer, that means less yelling and more forced smiles

- kinda works as he’s soon recognized to be your little sibling’s future, big brother

- the idea sends a darker shade of scarlet to his face

- kind of likes the idea though

- the event leads to more hangouts at your place, which usually ends in your little sibling snatching your boyfriend

- pretends to be bothered, but you’ve caught the slightest tugs located by the tips of lips

- it’s all tough love, but he really does the trick at carrying the weight of playing caretaker

- playing scary, big brother is a whole bonus for both of your futures

todoroki shouto

- one of the few things that led todoroki to catching feelings for you would be how outspoken you are

- you didn’t give a damn if your words hurt, just as long as you got them out

- you were unapologetic and todoroki was drawn to the trait

- he, too, was quite blunt with words after all

- getting to you wasn’t much of a problem given that he had his share of experiences with strong personalities on the daily

- his coolheaded persona matched well with your fiery one, sometimes even cooling your side down whenever situations would be too much

- he knew the face behind your feisty front, of course

- he could see right through you

- even if you put up a sturdy front, he could almost feel the amount of care you hid behind your words and actions

- witnessed this firsthand during the first meeting he had with your little sibling

- he’s heard bits about your little sibling and even tinier bits of your family background

- he wasn’t one to pry, but based from what he’s heard, your parents weren’t around much either, which was something the both of you had in common

- back to the first encounter, he had been waiting for you to finish packing up from the outside of the classroom, only you were taking your sweet time doing so

- what was taking you so long?

- todoroki finally pushes himself off of the wall he was leaning against, peering into the room only to find you tending to your bag while a tiny frame was propped up your desk

- now how did that get there? 

- he stares for awhile, noticing the slight resemblance between you two before realizing that this was, in fact, the sibling you’ve been speaking of

- doesn’t stare for long once your sibling points him out, causing you to turn and apologize for taking so long since your sibling had decided to surprise you with a visit

- he didn’t mind the surprise, but it did make a whole difference to the date he planned out for the both of you after school

- not that he minded, he wants to know more of you– the real you

- settles for treating both you and your sibling out for parfaits

- it’s the day your sibling finds out about credit cards

- yes, todoroki uses endeavor’s credit card to spoil the both of you

- it’s also the day your sibling starts pestering you to get one

- you only pat your sibling’s head, joking that it was todoroki’s job to spoil them from now on

- boy takes it seriously though

- not that he minded spoiling an extra person

- seeing you all motherly towards your sibling sends butterflies around his gut, hopelessly swirling at the melted contents of his parfait

- he would definitely put a ring on that