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javierpena-inatacvest · 11 months ago

Text

Fever

Summary: You're ovulating- It's that time of month where you find yourself turning into an unspeakably horny monster with just one problem that Javi knows exactly how to help you fix.

Pairing: Husband!Javier Peña x Wife!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.7K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), unprotected p in v sex (do better, but also, who am I to say?) oral (m and f receiving), vaginal fingering, paise kink, an unspeakably explicit breeding kink (I ain't sorry about it), creampie, cum play, talks of starting a family, calling Javi "Daddy" and meaning it (help), the sweetest softest sex, yet somehow the filthiest, nastiest sex at the same time??? god these two love each other so much it makes me SICK

A/N: ... If you know me, no you don't. I'm so sorry y'all, I am ovulating and absolutely FERAL, I am truly thinking that someone may need to come put me down at this point because.... yeah... raise your hand if you're surprised Madeline has yet another story with Javier Peña and a big, fat, nasty breeding kink?! Oh look!! It's no one!!! ANYWHO, don't mind me while I foam at the mouth for the next 24-48 hours, BYEEEEEEEEEE

Can be read as a standalone or as a part of the Never Too Late Series!

If there was one thing that you knew about Javi, it was that he was one of the most handsome, attractive men you had ever met.

His dark, curly hair.

His mustache.

His sweet brown puppy dog eyes.

His absolutely incomprehensible shoulder to waist ratio.

Your husband had it all. That, you knew for a fact.

Truth be told, there wasn’t really much that you ever thought Javi could do to be hotter than he already was.

That was until a few months ago, when you had recently stopped taking your birth control and you could quite literally feel yourself morph into the insatiably feral, horny mess that you became when you were ovulating.

And when that was the case, not only was he the hottest man you had ever laid eyes on in your entire life, you were quite literally ready to rip his clothes right off of him at every single opportunity possible.

You could practically feel the change in your body when you woke up this morning- the soft sunlight of Saturday morning spilling through your curtains as you rolled over to see Javi, mouth slightly agape as he snored, face buried in his pillow and messy brown curls flopping over his head.

God, does he always look this hot when he sleeps? You thought to yourself, slowly stirring awake, stretching your arms over your head before creeping out of bed to make yourself some coffee to bring back upstairs with you while you waited for Javi to wake up.

As the bittersweet aroma and quiet, rhythmic drip of the coffee hitting the bottom of the pot began to gently rouse you from your sleepy state, you couldn’t help but shake the warm, stirring sensation in your stomach from the image of Javi sleeping next to you in bed.

Elbows propped up against the counter, chin resting in your palms, you closed your eyes, picturing him- His sweet soft smile as you kissed his plush lips, the way his big hands roamed across your hips and back as he pulled you closer to his chest, the bulge of his cock pressed against your thigh before he-

“What are you doing up, cariño?” Javi’s soft and sleepy voice cooed as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his chest to your back as he planted a gentle kiss on your shoulder, his presence enough to snap you out of your daydream, but not enough to shake the dull ache that had been growing between your legs from the moment you woke up.

“I was just gonna make some coffee and bring it back up to bed. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, baby.” You sighed, a smirk growing between your cheeks as you turned around to face him, Javi now caging you between his body and the counter as his hands splayed planted on either side of you. He looked down at you with his half-awake gaze and sleepy smile, still in nothing but his boxers, his tanned skin and barely there freckles glowing in the morning sunlight creeping through your kitchen window.

“Don’t apologize, mi amor. Just wanted to know where my wife was. Glad I found her.” He chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips, only pulling away to quietly whisper, “Good morning, hermosa.”

And while it was nothing but a simple good morning kiss, the way Javi’s lips met yours sent a spark off inside you, quickly leaning back to pull him closer to you as you draped his arms around his neck, a soft moan escaping from your parted mouth, feeling a grin growing across Javi’s face in response.

“Mhmmm, well, a very good morning to you then. My bedhead and morning breath really doin’ it for you, huh?” Javi smirked, lowering his hands to rest on your hips, gently toying with the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“Sorry, I uh- you just, God, you look really good this morning. Can we, um, ya know, maybe go back upstairs?” You stammered, so enamored with Javi’s presence that you could barely get a coherent thought out as you stared up at your husband, already feeling a damp patch beginning to grow in your underwear, stomach churning with arousal.

“Yeah? Mi esposa muy dulce (my sweet wife), you want me to-”

Ring, ring, ringggggg. Ring, ring, ringggggg. Ring, ring, ringggggg

“Who the fuck is calling me this early…”

Javi’s face scrunched in frustration at the sound of his cell phone ringing on the kitchen counter, reaching over you to see the expression in his face shift to concern as he read the caller ID, quickly opening up his phone to answer.

“Hey, Pops. What’s goin’ on? Everything okay? Again? Fuck… Yeah, just um- shit, yeah, I’ll be over in 30. Okay. Yup. Yeah, bye Pops.” Javi let out a deep sigh, running his hands over his face and through the sleep curled ends of his dark hair, his grumpy pout telling you that your morning was not going to go the way you thought it was 30 seconds ago. “The gate that Pops had installed last week fell down overnight and now all the cows are loose in the pasture… I gotta go over there and help him put it back up before it gets even worse. I’m so sorry, Hermosa.”

“It’s okay.” You shrugged, trying your best to mask your horny disappointment.

“It hopefully shouldn’t take that long. I should be back before lunchtime, okay? And when I get back, if you still want,” he paused, letting his palm slide along your jaw, cradling your cheek before pressing another soft kiss onto your lips, “We can pick up where we left off.”

“Promise?” You smirked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yo prometo (I promise).”

Wanting to give Javi any chance of leaving the house without trapping him in your bedroom, you tried your best to keep yourself busy while he quickly got ready and grabbed his things to head to the Peña Ranch, giving him a quick kiss goodbye before watching him back out of your driveway in his truck, the image of him with one hand behind the passenger seat at the other with his palm to the steering wheel making you just about drop to your knees for reasons you thought you couldn’t explain.

You hoped that with Javi gone, you could at least be a little productive in getting some things done around the house before he returned, but it seemed like with everything that you did and anywhere you went in your house, you couldn’t help but find more reasons to add to the insatiable desire building in your core.

While you were trying to make breakfast, you couldn’t help but stare at Javi’s favorite coffee mug, the Empire Strikes Back cup he had claimed as his at your apartment when you had first started dating. You couldn’t keep yourself from imagining the width of his huge hands wrapping around it, dwarfing the mug in his grasp, thinking about how good those same hands would feel all over you.

After that, came trying to do the laundry, where you caught yourself sniffing Javi’s shirts, the overpowering and familiar scent of his cologne and sweat seeping through the fabric, driving you absolutely crazy, wishing you could find a way to drown in his scent.

Finally, in your very valiant effort to try and make your bed, you found yourself laying face down in Javi’s pillow, somehow leaving the sheets and comforters tangled and tossed about worse than you had found them.

“What the fuck is wrong with me today…” You whispered to yourself, now sitting on the couch, mindlessly flipping through the channels on your TV, somehow still even hornier than you were when you woke up this morning. You let your gaze wander away from the TV, examining the walls of your family room until you landed on your wedding photos hung across your wall, smiling to yourself as you looked at the portraits, reliving the moments of the happiest day of your life.

It wasn’t until you glanced at one of the photos of you and Javi surrounded by your family in a candid moment where Javi had hoisted your niece on his hip to dance with her during your reception, the image making your stomach flip with an overwhelming need. After doing the quick math in your head, it hit you like a thousand pound ton of bricks why you had been so worked up all goddamn day.

You were ovulating, and you needed Javi to put a baby into you right now.

As if the universe had magically heard your prayers, you turned your head to hear your garage door opening and the familiar stomp of Javi’s boot covered footsteps trudging down the hallway. Like a moth to a flame, your heart began to race as you watched Javi’s broad body approach you, your jaw practically dropping at his appearance.

Javi was now glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his curls sticking to his damp forehead, and the sleeves of his button down shirt now rolled up past his elbows, the buttons once done up to near his neck before he left now trailing open to the middle of his chest, exposing the warm glow of his tanned skin underneath.

“Hey hermosa, I’m home! Ended up being a way easier fix than Pops thought and- Oh!”

Before Javi could even get out the rest of his sentence, you were trapping his words in your own mouth, feverishly bringing your lips to his as you grabbed fistfulls of his shirt, kissing him like every bone in your body depended on it.

Javi stood there for a moment, almost dumbfounded and frozen, wondering what had warranted such a greeting before leaning in to reciprocate, snaking his hands to your sides and grabbing your waist, pulling away only to try and understand the reason for his passionate welcome.

“H-hi baby. Everything okay?”

“Mhmmmmmm.”

“Not that I’m mad about it, but I feel like you’re greeting me like I’m coming home from war.” Javi laughed to himself quietly, looking down at you with a smirking suspicion.

“I missed you. I need you so bad, Javi.” You moaned, pressing up to lock your lips to his again, this time Javi matching your intensity as your mouths crashed into each other.

“Is this all from this morning?” Javi managed to ask between parted kisses, his grip tightening around you as he pulled you closer to his chest.

“This morning,” you paused, beginning to kiss him between each thought, “right now,” your hands began to roam up his chest, sneaking under the fabric of his shirt, “all the time,” fingers now working at frantically undoing the buttons, “fuck, everything about you. You’re so fucking sexy, Javi. Do you know that? God, I’m so lucky.” At this point, it felt like the words were flowing out of you in a horny and unstoppable stream of consciousness, babbling between desperate kisses pressed against Javi’s lips. “I need you so bad. I want you fuck me, Javi. Fuck, I- I want you to put a baby in me.”

Your last sentence had Javi frozen in place once again, pulling away just to make sure he had heard you correctly, even though the boyish grin growing ear to ear across his face seemed to be enough confirmation. The two of you had been trying ever since you had gotten back from your honeymoon, but now that you were to the point that your birth control was out of your system and your cycle was back to normal, it felt just a little more real to the both of you.

“You want me to put a baby in you, mi amor? That what you want?” Javi groaned, his voice rumbling low in his chest as a hungry glaze painted itself across his chocolate brown eyes, making your pussy throb at hearing him say it back to you.

“Mhmmmmm.” You nodded frantically, too caught up in your own desire to find any words to string together into a coherent sentence. “I think I’m ovulating, so it could really happen this time. Please, baby, I-”

This time, it was Javi’s turn to cut you off, his arms scooping below your legs to hoist you up around him, legs locking around his hips as he carried you down the hallway towards your bedroom, your bodies banging and bumping against the walls and door frames in a frantic race to your bed without any regard for spatial awareness.

As soon as you were close enough, Javi was tossing you on the bed, frantically stripping himself of his shirt and working his way down to his jeans before he realized you were sitting up, already toying with his button and zipper. You pushed his pants down his legs, followed by his boxers, revealing his cock, fully erect and weeping with precum at the tip. It wasn’t long until you were scrambling off the bed and dropping to your knees in front of him, licking the salty tang of spend off his tip before he could protest that he needed to take care of you first.

“Hermosa, I- Oh fuckkkk-” He groaned, feeling your jaw go slack as you took his length into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks until you could feel him in the back of your throat, pulling back to look up at him with batted lashes as you kissed him up and down his shaft.

“I wanna suck your dick, Javi. Wanna show you how much I love it. Wanna feel you down my throat before you fuck me.” You moaned, rubbing your legs together to try and ease the ache between your legs, your pussy so wet and puffy that slick and arousal were dripping from your cunt and coating the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck me…” Javi muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut to regain his composure before looking back down at you, slowly sucking at his tip, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridges of his cock. “Okay, baby. Show me how bad you need me before I put my dick in your tight little pussy, huh?”

Inch by inch, you took him back down your throat until you were brushing up against the curls at his base, the sweet and musky scent of him filling your nostrils as you inhaled. “Oh fuck, Osita. Holy shit.” His voice rasped, hitching in the back of his throat watching your mouth fill with his cock. His fingers ran through your hair, tugging a little tighter as your pace began to quicken, his grunts and moans becoming louder with each push and pull. “Fuck, such a good girl taking me so well. So fucking pretty when you suck my cock baby, holy fuck.”

For as much as Javi wanted you to keep going until he was spilling down your throat, he needed to save every last drop for when he came inside you, fucking you full of him until he knew it took. Feeling his balls begin to draw up into his stomach, he forced himself to pull you off him, panting to catch his breath before he spoke. “I don’t wanna cum yet, baby, and if you keep going like that I’m gonna bust. Fuck, you’re so good to me. Lay down on the bed, Hermosa. Let me take care of you. Need to taste you.”

Instantly, Javi was pulling you up and sitting you on the bed, letting your back hit the mattress as he settled between your legs, tugging your bottoms off until they were in a crumpled pile on the floor. his hands slide down the inside of your thighs, pushing them apart to reveal the wet, slick, and puffy mess your pussy had already become without even being touched. Javi chuckled to himself, awestruck by the sight in front of him, kissing and nipping at the meat of your legs, teasing you with how dangerously close he was to your cunt and finally giving you what you needed.

“Fuck, you’re so wet, cariño.” Letting his hands shift down, his fingers ghosted across your core as his thumbs slid through the lips of your pussy, spreading it open even further, making you whimper in anticipation. “Goddamn, she’s so pretty. Prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen. Who’s pussy is this, baby girl?” He smirked, barely kissing your clit, driving you absolutely wild as you squirmed beneath his touch, desperate for him to do something, anything, to ease your ache.

“Y-yours, Javi. It’s all yours, baby. Only yours.” You whined, gazing down at him with a rampant need in your eyes, fisting at your bedsheets to find somewhere to try and release your tension.

“Fucking right it is.”

His head then dipped between your legs, arms draped across your stomach holding you in place as he began to eat you out like a man being served his last meal on this earth. Broad, flat strokes of his tongue slid between your folds, pressing against your clit with the perfect amount of pressure he knew would have you crumbling beneath him.

You couldn’t help but rithe under his touch, instinctively bucking your hips at his face, overwhelmed by the way Javi was relentlessly drinking you up, his fingers gripping tighter to the meat of your thighs to hold you in place as you could feel the tingle beginning to build at the base of your spine, your back arching in desperate anticipation.

Almost as if he could read your mind, Javi easily slipped two fingers inside you, curving in just the right way to bump against your g-spot, fucking in and out of you to fill the emptiness in your pussy he knew you craved.

“J-Javi, oh fuck- don’t stop baby, please, don’t stop.” You whimpered, your eyes nearly rolling in the back of your head as you felt your orgasm begin to build, cunt clenching tighter around Javi’s fingers and beginning to flutter while he sucked on your clit. You could feel his smug smirk pressed against your heat as your hand shot down between your legs, grabbing and tugging on fistfulls of his thick locks, your tell tale sign that it was only a few more moments before you were about to come undone.

“That’s it, hermosa. Say my name, baby girl. Let me hear you.”

And there you were, chanting his name like a prayer, over and over again until you reached your breaking point.

“Javi, Javi, Javi, J-Javi, J-aaaahhhhhh, oh fuck-”

In an instant, you could feel a wave of pleasure crashing through you in toe curling delight, your orgasming ripping through every inch of your body with undeniable intensity, your slick soaking Javi as he drank up every last drop of you, savoring the sweet taste of you on his tongue.

You sat there for a moment, back against the mattress as your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, blissed out of your mind as you sat propped up on your elbows, staring at Javi, proudly wiping the slick covering his face with the back of his hand.

“Javi, holy fuck, baby.” You gasped, swallowing hard as you watched Javi begin to hover over you, making his way up your body one slow, wet kiss at a time, nipping at the soft skin of your stomach before cupping your breasts, taking one in his mouth, sucking and flicking at your pebbled nipples with his tongue while he rolled the other between his fingers. The whimpers escaping from your lips were damn near pathetic, but considering how worked up you were, you could have probably cum again just from this alone.

“You still want me to fuck a baby into you, Hermosa?” Javi asked all too knowingly, tongue darting between the smirk of his parted lips, trailing languid kisses along your collarbone and up your neck.

“Y-yes. Fuck, yes.” You moaned, breath hitching at the back of your throat as Javi sucked at your pulse point.

“Tell me how badly you want it, pretty girl.” Javi whispered, his voice rumbling low in his throat as he nipped at your ear. “Tell me how much you want me to give you a baby.”

“F-fuck, so badly Javi. Please, baby. I want you to so bad. I want you to more than anything. I wanna make you a daddy, Javi.”

If Javi had any ounce of self composure left, that alone was enough to make him crumble, letting out an audible groan, his dick even harder than he already thought it could be.

“Fuck me…” Javi groaned, sucking you in for another electric kiss. “Turn around, baby.”

Scooching yourself further up the mattress, you laid with your stomach to the bed as Javi climbed behind you, swiping his cock through your folds before sinking into your heat, bottoming out against your cervix and whimpering at the sweet sting of his stretch, sucking him in with your warm, velvety walls.

Slowly, Javi began to thrust in and out of you, taking his time with each stroke as he laid his chest against your back, interlocking his fingers with yours outstretched above your head on the bedspread, head buried in the crook of your neck.

Each push and pull of his hips elicited more lewd sounds than the last- you were practically dripping at this point from how worked up you were, and could hear the wetness pooling in your pussy, filling the room with obscenely filthy sounds.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. You hear that, Momma? You hear how wet you are for me? Hear how badly your tight little pussy wants me to fill her up? Pump her full of me?” Javi moaned, his thrusts becoming faster and deeper, his grip around your hands even tighter than before, biting down on your shoulder trying his best to keep from falling apart at just how good you felt around him, coating every inch of his length in your arousal.

“I want you to cum so deep inside me, Javi. P-please, baby.” You begged, craning your neck behind you just enough to see the wrecked expression painted across Javi’s face that mirrored yours.

Suddenly, you could feel Javi grabbing your hips, flipping you over as your back bounced against the mattress, now staring up at him. He ran his hands up the back of your thighs until your knees were against your stomach, spread open as wide as you could be for him.

As he sunk back in your heat, he caged himself over you, devouring you in a desperate and hungry kiss of mangled tongue and teeth, catching your moans in his mouth as he bottomed out inside you.

“Need to see that beautiful face when you cum for me, cariño. Wanna see you when you soak my cock, w-watch, oh fuck- you when I fuck you so full of me, I’ll knock you up tonight.” Javi moaned between kisses.

The new angle had Javi pounding into you in the way that had your jaw going slack and your cunt beginning to clench tighter and tighter around his length, once again feeling the knot in your stomach beginning to tighten with arousal.

“P-please, Javi. F-fuck- You feel so good, don’t stop, baby.” You whimpered, your eyes locking with his, your heart racing as you stared into the deep chocolate brown of his gaze.

“I won’t stop, hermosa. Won’t stop until I fill this perfect pussy up. Fuck you so full of me, I’ll be dripping out of you for days. Won’t stop until I fuck a baby into you, get you pregnant, watch you give us a family- Jesus, fuck- Fuck, I love you so much.”

Snaking his hand between your bodies, he reached between your legs to rub at your clit, rhythmically circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, eliciting a pathetic whimper from you, knowing at this rate, you weren’t going to last much longer, and that meant neither was he.

“I love you too, Javi. More than anything.”

Each thrust of his hips sending you closer to the brink of collapse than the last, the noises of your wanton moans, skin slapping against each other and the wetness of Javi’s cock sloppily pumping in and out of your cunt had the room sounding borderline pornographic. You could feel your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head as the coil in your belly was about to reach a breaking point until the firm grasp of Javi’s palm around your jaw forced your gaze up at him once again.

“Eyes on me, baby. Eyes on me when you cum. Need to see you when I fuck a baby into you, Momma.”

That was all you needed to finally send you over the edge, your body exploding with pleasure as your orgasm overtook you, your thighs shaking and voice trembling with wrecked pleas of Javi’s over and over.

“J-Javi, Javi, Javiiiii, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, oh God, fuck, baby, fuck!”

As you gushed around his cock, your pussy gripped him like a vice as you came. Javi’s hips began to stutter, his pace now becoming frantic and sloppy knowing how close he was to following suit, losing all inhibitions as you sobbed out in ecstasy.

“That’s it, baby. Mierda- Fuck, I’m close. Gonna fill this pussy up- oh shit- so full it’ll f-fucking take. I know it will. I p-promise, I- oh fuck!”

With one final stammer of his hips, Javi’s orgasm consumed him, his spend coating every inch of your walls as he spilled into you, milking himself of every last drop as he came. His body slumped into yours, chests rising and falling in sync as both of you laid in post-orgasmic bliss, completely lost in the sensation of each other.

After a moment, Javi finally pulled out his softening cock, making you whine at the loss. Sitting back on his haunches, he couldn't help but admire the absolute mess between your legs- your pussy so puffy and swollen, covered in your shiny slick, and dripping with his cum. A satisfied smirk spread across his face as he watched his spend begin to leak out of you, knowing that you were overflowing with him.

His fingers traced down your thighs, dragging his cum back to your cunt, making sure a single drop didn't go to waste. You couldn't help but sob as his curved fingers push back inside your pussy, making sure you stay stuffed full of him so he knew it took, because God, did want it more than anything to take.

Gently pulling back out, Javi couldn’t help but lean down to kiss you again, grabbing your face as he peppers you with kisses, making you squeal in a ticklish delight.

“I love you so much, mi amor.” Javi cooed, his forehead resting against yours as he softly stroked your face, your heart swelling with joy and excitement at the man you hoped from 9 months from now, would be the father to your child.

“I love you too, Jav. You’re gonna be such a good Daddy.” You smirked, teasing him just enough to make him let out a sigh, biting down on his lip.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me with that one. You know that?”

“Well it’s true!” You laughed, giving him a playful nudge, running your hand through the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck. “You think this one will be the one?”

“I hope so. If not, guess we’re just gonna have to keep trying every day till it is, huh?”

“If you keep fucking me like that, we’re gonna have 12 kids before you know it.”

“I mean… wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” Javi grinned, rasing his eyebrows at you with a boyish glow.

“Javi! We are not having 12 kids!” You protested, rolling your eyes at your husband.

“Osita, if you keep coming on to me like you did today, we may not have a fucking choice.”

Taglist:

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper r @nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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sheepispink · 3 months ago

Text

Relief

supersoldier!reader x lt ghost technicallly the 141 too but he’s the main culprit (part 4)

One Series Masterlist

cw: Reaper is reader’s callsign (backstory and meaning will be given at the bottom and thanks to @pythonmoth to help me with this :) ), nightmares, slight derealisation

pls lmk if u accidentally find any gendered terms for reader! this is supposed to be gender neutral

PREV NEXT

————-

“Lord, Ghost! Why do you think they don’t want to speak up? Look at their face!”

Soap raises his voice, louder than you’ve ever heard a sergeant before. Yet despite that, you watch in horror as Ghost shoves him out of his way, stalking even closer to you. The anger in his eyes is nothing short of fury, making fear spike in your heart and so the machines start beeping loudly, screaming in your ears. They’re not supposed to do that; your heart rate is supposed to keep steady outside of battle and serious situations—you’re breaking.

Wetness coats your cheeks as you scramble backwards, watching the terrifying skull mask grow closer and closer. You suppose you’ve taken it for granted that you never had to worry about the rumours surrounding the mask, but now you understand what every enemy had felt when they came across him, worrying that if you even so blink he’d have your heart in his hands the second your eyes opened.

You suppose he’s talking, likely yelling more curses and insults at you but you can't hear any of it, nor Soap’s voice as he reaches for you, everything swirling into an incomprehensible blur. You have to blink, your vision blurry and the next second you open your eyes his hand is around your throat, forcing your eyes to blow wide and your own breath to clog in your throat. Everything is freezing; the walls are closing in and your entire body feels strange, like the world around you has tipped entirely. “You devil—”

“Reaper!“

Your hands clench at nothing but the cold flooring of the medical room you’re in, having fallen off of the bed altogether. The heart monitor beeps loudly, having been detached when you fell, also causing the iv drip to rip off, and leaving your bare arms feeling naked and raw. Gaz crouches before you, his hands like a furnace against your frozen body, trying to ease you. “What happened? Are you alright?” You do your best to nod quickly in response, a hiccup replacing the yes choked in your throat. He’s still soothing you when heavy footsteps approach, though you know well enough that it isnt the ones you fear—well, not that kind of fear anyway.

The Captain stands in the doorway, watching as Gaz pats your back and says reassuring words to your horror stricken face, the hot tears still curving over your cheeks and thawing the ice your hands feel like. It’s not like you were afraid of him like you were with Ghost, no it was more of a… professional intimidation.

The first time you spoke to him was the day you first arrived at base, having been picked up by Ghost and then taken to meet the Captain. He didn’t do much than tell you how to contact him, and a few words about the things you’d take part in whilst you worked alongside Ghost. Even so, you had figured immediately from the getgo that he wasn’t a man to mess with, and so you avoided him as best you could. In your head, talking to him only occured when something went wrong and well, nothing should be going wrong with a weapon like you.

“I’ll take it from here, Garrick.” His voice is low, but not harsh, and Gaz slowly stands, looking back at you one more time before he steps back. The Captain moves towards where you are on the ground, your back pressed against the small cupboard and your hands flat against the cold tiles. “I’m sorry i didnt come earlier.” It’s the first thing he says, and he takes his hat off, making him look strange and yet nothing like the stern authority he represents, especially when his brows are furrowed.

“Captain— I-” Despite that, you still didnt want to be seen as weak before him. All you had done for the past three months would be for a waste if something as menial as the events of the past day caused you to crumble to pieces. You wish you could explain everything to him, beg him to believe you when you say this was all nothing. All you need is for him to walk away now, pretend he didn’t see the visible distress in your face. Then maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to move past all of this and live your life as the weapon his team would wield proudly. “It’s- I’m just—“

“No.”

The word is short, simple and stern and yet somehow it has you stilling, every nerve frozen as you stare at him.

You should’ve known that weapons don't get second chances, that the damaged soldier doesn’t survive the battlefield. You should’ve known he wouldn’t care for some weak straggler, someone who broke apart from a few threats on their stupid birthday. Even if you had led each of his missions to a swift victory. Even if his days had been spent lighter, with more free time because there were just less things to worry about when you were the equivalent to ten soldiers. Even if he had written star reports about you, even going as far as to someday wish to permanently add you to the team. Even if you held every mission you went on by it’s strings and you kept them taut— never letting go, not even for a second.

“Why’d you always call me Captain, hm? You can call me John, you know.” His voice is relatively calmer, even if it’s the same tone he’s always used for you. He crouches and easily slips a hand behind your back, nudging you forward enough to allow him to pick you up and place you back onto the military bed.

“John…” You test the word on your lips and he nods, your shaken up state not disregarded as his eyes rake over your trembling form. He quickly pulls them away to reattach the iv drip and the heart monitor before his hand carefully brushes through your hair from the front to the back of your head. “See? Slides right off your tongue.”

You realise now that you still had been breathing quite heavily, with your hand gripping the front of your shirt. Everything just felt so tight, everything around was completely fake. You’re used to having reservations about this, used to pulling away from any physical contact, or just staying blank faced. A defense mechanism perhaps, especially after you had been through torture training and they tried their best to prey on any possible weaknesses. The thought of that day makes you shiver, but still, you were too lost in it to care that you were breaking your own rules aswell now.

You look up as his thumb rubs absentmindedly at the soft skin of your cheek. It’s one of the few places untouched by the horrors of experiments and severe training, still somehow retaining that childhood chubbiness, even if you had been trying to rid that for a long time. His lips have pulled into a small smile as he looks down at you, one that seems so fond you’re almost sure that perhaps he’s laughing at you since it couldn’t nearly be possible. Then you see the guilt in his eyes, the way they flicker down every now and then, and when his hand grazes your bandaged arm, for the first time, you flinch.

“Why—no— Did..you ever want to tell me, at all?”

You nod quietly, and his breath returns, letting out in the form of a long exhale as he just nods quietly, nudging you up so he can sit on the edge of the small hospital bed. “What..made you choose not to?”

“I.. I didn't think it was that serious.. It seemed like a stupid threat.” You murmur out and despite how angry he is about the whole situation, he can't get mad at your mindset. It really isn’t your fault.

“You were scared though.” He points out, and you nod in response, his hand still rubbing your head gently. “If it’s enough to cause you of all people fear, I think it’s pretty serious, kid.”

You swallow sharply, and he notices, letting out another sigh as his eyes fill with even more guilt. “I’m sorry..about your party. I should’ve been there; Me and Ghost, and I should've bought all your things for you too.” Never in your life has anyone looked at you with guilt, especially not directed at you. “It’s fine.. I didn’t really care for the party.” You mumble out, wiping the remaining tears that had coated your cheeks.“No— kid, i mean it. I’ll make it up to you; we can have that party—“

”It was a lie- I.. I’ve never celebrated my birthday.” You finally admit, the words blurting out as you stare down at your hands, fiddling with the blankets. “I just.. I thought if one of you came then they wouldn’t have dared to try and harm me.”

John stills, staring at you so hard and his hands have frozen on your shoulder, the air growing silent. “I.. You just wanted us to protect you.”

There’s one thing you haven't been letting yourself think about. Maybe it was the fact you were so terrified by all the threats you received, maybe it was the fact that you wanted to believe you could be the one in control— maybe you just thought that after everything you’d been through you were allowed to feel that confident. Now that everything’s over, your mind can no longer push the undoubted facts out.

You’re a weapon, that’s something you’ve always known about yourself. But just like with a weapon, it can't fire on its own—it needs someone to wield it. Ghost, for example; he’d give you commands on the battlefield, whether vague or specific. Those experiments ensured you listened to him, years of brainwashing forcing you into submission only to who was your commander. And so, despite everything you convinced yourself of the last few days, you weren’t exactly all that feared, not by your comrades. Those who understood the nature of you knew you couldn’t lay a hand against them, no matter how bad it got. You were powerless without a handler, as useless as a gun with no bullets.

Understanding lays heavy in Price’s eyes, seeing the emotions that pass through you with every twitch of your hand and flicker of your lashes. You were just a kid damnit. Sure, you were well of age, but you never knew anything past military life. You were everything he fought against and yet you were still here, under his team’s command. You don't argue when he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in tight, and he doesn't argue when your face is pushed against his shoulder, wetting his thin shirt. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, whispering it in your ear again and again, making sure you dont only know it, but you believe it. You believe he didn’t mean it, and you believe he’ll do everything to fix this.

—————————-

10:23 pm, 3 days earlier

The tension in the room lays thick, the silence eating away at the two men sat infront of each other . Ghost was tense, muscles bulging as his fists clench at his lap, his eyes fixed onto the patterns on Price’s wooden desk. Meanwhile, the latter sat with his hands clasped, both of them with heavy hearts. “Reaper is in the infirmary; their arm took the brunt of the damage when they were protecting the fox.” He breathes out the words, suddenly wishing he has a cigar to fill the empty nausea in his throat.

Meanwhile, Ghost is only growing more furious, standing up way too fast before walking towards the cabinets. “They could’ve got killed, Capt.” His voice is stern, filled with fury that Price cant discern if placed on you or the soldiers at hand. Even so, there’s not much he can do, just sighing heavily.

“The higher ups are furious; we can’t afford for a failure in this program, and this sets us back months of research.” The glass sits in front of him, the golden liquid still inside and glowing in the low lamplight. Price steadies his words, watching as Ghost begins to pace back and forth. “They want to send Reaper back to the Scientists, brainwash any leftover fear out of their head.”

Brainwash

That word alone makes him snap, slamming his hands on the deep mahogany. “You cant be serious— We are not agreeing to that—!”

“I dont want to, Ghost.” Price reaches his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his elbows digging into the table as he tries to still the migraine that threatens to form.”But I can't deny them when we have nothing to disprove that Reaper’s state will only grow worse. We have to find out what happened, why they never told us about the threat—“

“So we have to coax it out of them? What, wait for them to feel all comfortable to tell us why they didn’t open their bloody mouths?!” He knows it’s more than that, he knows if it was that easy this never would’ve even happened because if you only functioned by orders, you wouldn't even be a person in the first place. Yet still he argues, because he knows this is all his fault. He chose to disregard the signs, he chose to hate you, he chose to push you to limits you didn’t even know you had. It’s his fault and he can't handle it.

He just couldn’t understand, why were you the one the team needed? It started off just testing if you’d handle the role you were destined for, a path you didn't know you were chosen to take once the time grew right. But then it grew deeper, a need to strain your limits, see if you could survive the cruelties he did. An abnormal urge and yet never too far, never over the edge. Just sheer of it.

Now look at what he’s done.

————————

4am. 5 days after the incident.

Another nightmare. You breathe heavily; for once no one is rushing to your room to check on your condition. Weirdly enough, Price had moved you to his barracks whilst he used a mattress hastily put together on the floor. Sure you had your own room, but with how frequent you managed to fall off of the bed because of recurring nightmares it was better to keep you here. Besides, this was far more comfortable than any sterile white hospital room which the rest of the 141 quickly realised hit a bad nerve with you. Your chest is tight, but it doesn't hurt, your lungs just feel pressured and yet you’re not short of oxygen either. It’s a strange feeling to say the least, and you just feel so, so exhausted.

Slowly you creep out of the bed, the bandage still tight around your upper arm and for once you’re wearing pajamas rather than the uniform you usually end up sleeping in to stop wasting time on changing. Disgusting perhaps, efficient regardless. Your feet creep into soft slippers Gaz brought you, hand sinking into your signature fox plush that Soap made sure to tuck in beside you. Quietly you slip out of Price’s room, the man snoring quietly on the mattress as you head down the corridor to the common room. They’ve let you use it now, like it’s actually yours too and that you belong there. Even if you know you dont.

It’s at the end of the hall, and you have to pass all their rooms to reach it. Gaz’s first, quiet inside, then Soap’s where you can hear a soft rustle— likely him rolling over. Your eyes linger on Ghost’s, the door shut and deadly silent. Ironically enough, he was sent on deployment the day after all the chaos went down, leaving radio silence on his part. It was strange, knowing your handler was around without you, going on a mission you would’ve probably been on too. All because you hadnt spoken up.

But would things really have changed?

You break your gaze away from his door, slipping into the common room to pour yourself a glass of water. “Hm? What ye doing up?” Soap is clearly tired, yawning all the way as he follows you over to the counter, pouring himself a glass of water aswell. “Thirsty..” You mumble, deciding to not let the idea of the nightmare linger much longer. Although, it seems like Soap’s already figured you all out, an arm lazily around your shoulder as he chugs his glass. “Nightmare, hm?”

You nod in response, and he lets out a small sigh, looking at you with softer eyes than usual. “Did ye tell Price?” He watches you shake your head, making him chuckle in response, a smile growing on his face as he lifts a hand up, ruffling your hair. “ ‘Course ye didn't, rascal.” It’s one of the few times anyone has been playfully mad with you before, the first being a nurse which accidentally just further reinforced your fear of medical staff. You never let that show though; it only came to light because of the trauma of the day. Soap and Gaz had been teaching you a lot of things, first of them being actually having a normal breakfast. You’ve joined them every morning now, well at least when they can make it, and it feels great but strange. They had immediately denounced your notions of “earning your breakfast” too, letting you have access to the actual food that was given at the normal breakfast times.

“Yknow, me and Gaz were thinking..” He hums, one hand still carding through your hair whilst he looks curiously at your arm for any sign of further damage. “You never celebrated in the end, did ya?” He watched you shake your head, teeth grazing your lips.

“No, i didn’t. I never wanted to though, i’m sure Price told you it was only a fib.” You respond, trying to downplay the situation. It’s not like you’d take much joy in celebrating now, even after all these years it felt better to just let the notion of it die in the trenches with your innocence.

“I know, I know.” He sighs, taking both your glasses and placing them near the sink for later. “Maybe we could do something small? Bit of cake, a movie. Nothin’ more.” You just shrug and nod, not sure what people even really do for their birthdays, and he gives you a smile, a hand on your back to lead you down the hall again.

You’re almost at the room when he stops you, his eyes almost locked onto you like he’s searching for something. “Do you wanna.. talk about the nightmare? It helps, I promise. You dont have to go in detail, but it’ll be good to know what you keep dreaming about.”

You debate his offer, staring back at him just as curiously. He wouldn't be mad if you didn't, even though you’re pretty sure the entire team is just anxiously waiting for you to speak. For someone whose silenced most of the time, it sure is weird.

“It was.. Ghost. I dream of when he yelled at me, except in my dreams he doesn't stop, he pushes you to the side and grabs me by my neck..” It’s straightforward and to the point. Well, maybe a little too much because Soap’s eyes have widened, pity swirling deep in his pupils. “He didnt— He was just angry that day, you know he wouldn’t do that.. right?”

There’s a rustle inside the room behind you, Price having woken up by your talking outside. You step towards the door, unsure what to respond to Soap’s question. “I…I know, .”

You disappear back into the room again, the door quietly shutting behind you again, leaving him standing outside and very worried.

——————

10am, the next day.

Gaz walks alongside you as you step through the forest, the morning air biting at your cheeks as he complains to you about whatever paperwork he had to finish last night. You’ve been at this for a while, the frosted leaves crunching beneath your boots and you dont feel the cold much thanks to his gloves.

“Through here.” You know the way and yet you follow him through the forestry, down the path, and towards the cabin up ahead. The floor is trampled, tire marks from when you were rushed back with blood trailing down your arm. Even Gaz looks a little tense at the small splotches on the ground but chooses not to comment on it, taking your hand as the ground becomes a little more uneven.

“Inside.”

He hums, unlocking the cabin door which has been tightly secured since the incident. You walk past him, stepping inside to hear an excited yip, the fox bundling towards you with joy. For once you smile out of relief, crouching down to pet the excitable creature that nips affectionately at your trousers. “Good to see you too.” You hum, hand running down his head and ears. Now that you can see it in the light, you realise they’ve cleaned it up properly, bandaged its dodgy leg and it looks noticeably happier.

The fox licks at your hands as you sit on the small bench, feeding it the occasional dried meat strips which it takes happily, tail swishing from side to side. Gaz sits beside you, one hand on the back of the bench and his arm grazing your shoulders.

“We called the wildlife centre for him. They’ll take him in the next few days, keep him safe and put him with some other foxes. He’ll be happier.”

Would you be happier though? When you look at the scrawny thing, all you really see is yourself. A known predator, a hated species, and yet just trying to survive like everyone else on this damn world.

“You’re right, it’d be better for him.”

—————————

Sleeping is increasingly difficult for once; usually you’re knocked out in seconds but today it’s like the concept of rest refuses you altogether. The reason behind it is Ghost’s return; you had heard the soft whispers between Soap and Gaz, the awkward tension as the day grew nearer. So you had resigned yourself to your room, left alone with your thoughts for the remainder of the day. However, now you were restless, unable to sit still with the threat looming down every corridor and through the vents. Your nails claw at the sheets– they feel sterile and uncomfortable no matter where you sleep– and so you slide off the bed, forcing one foot in front of the other. You need a break.

Somehow they had left you without surveillance tonight, which isn't surprising since you had promised you wouldn’t go out on your own. Oh well, you know two men who broke a promise to you. The air is cold as it blows on your face, slowly less frosty as winter begins to fade, and you walk past the track, planning to just walk through the other entrance and return to your room again. You wouldn’t dare go back the way you came– not when Ghost is around now.

It’s a rush of warmth when you reenter the building, the change making your fingertips tingle and your lashes flitter, mouth threatening to yawn. Thankfully, the hallways were clear, unlike your hazed mind. It was like swimming underwater, every thought swirling around and voices muffled by the water above—wait, voices? You pause infront of a door, immediately stilling when you recognise a voice too familiar.

“I’ve been gone for two weeks– how are they not stable by now?” You swallow, the roughness of the voice enough to make your teeth scrape against eachother nervously. It’s him.

“Reaper’s not doing well, it’s obvious—“

”So what? We’re just going to send them back? To those stupid scientists-”

You don't hear the rest, those words enough to make something in your brain snap. All this time you’ve worked tirelessly, day and night, after every mission and every near death experience. All to be sent back where you came from, like what, some broken toy? The thought of it makes anger brim in your chest, a fury that tips the scales enough to make you actually want to break something. Your feet stumble and for some reason you're running, somewhere, anywhere. It wouldn’t necessarily be a bad idea, a tempting one even— to actually lash out. What’s the point in anything if your life will be a full circle?

What is the point of all the pain if you’ll only relive it again?

Change has to come, even if you grapple with the chains at your neck and leave rope burns on your ankles.

You’ll die trying either way.

“No; we wont. Reaper isn’t going anywhere, ever again.” Gaz speaks up, having just closed the door after seeing a glimpse of someone walking past. They really shouldn't leave any doors open for anyone to hear their conversation. “Their performance outweighs the struggles. We have the time to make things right.”

Ghost’s expression hardens, listening to the words of his teams. Of course he knows what that means— he’s the one who has to make this right.

***************************************

NEXT CHAPTER buy me a coffee! Series Masterlist

CALL SIGN: REAPER— Grim reapers dont choose who dies, they’re told. The victims time has come, similar to how reader has never killed someone of their own accord, only through the orders another has given. They’re merely a tool.

Taglist:

@mellohimmku94 @rafaelacallinybbay @fasoaurore @starfish-sandwich @arael-asuka @pinkpickle @toxicgutz69 @pythonmoth @harmonycricket @sneezypandu @ctrlofurheart @ssc7514 @terrifiedanimegirl @rayrayyio @silas-aeiou @uhhevie @enfppuff @sirbonesly @nobodycanknoww @bitchyzombienacho @justdamnpeachy @harley101399 @w1theredr0se @whoisnthere @lexi2005 @nnsissys @el-salt @ttznlettt @thebumbqueen @thriving-n-jiving @fluffysmiko @vioxsoo @alex1011sdzfgh @honestlymassivetrash @defronix @eclipsedcherry @thatpersonnamedrook @mortem-writes @2bdamnedmadnesscombat @harley101399 @princessiris147 @taylorrrig

#simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #gaz x reader #soap x reader #price x reader #call of duty x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod angst #simon riley x reader #simon riley angst #simon ghost x you #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #ghost x gender neutral reader

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seumyo · 5 months ago

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todoroki and his awkwardness with babies.

Todoroki considered himself not good with kids. Yet somehow your nephew always seemed to favor him whenever he wasn’t busy with hero work and volunteered to babysit alongside you.

“Oh my goodness, look at this little cutie!” you coo, your voice brimming with excitement. Todoroki follows your gaze.

There he was. Baby Eitarou was happily gnawing on his teething ring as he sat on his play mat. His wide, curious eyes locked onto Todoroki’s mismatched ones. He tilted his head, letting out a series of excited babbles before reaching his tiny arms out toward him.

You gasped softly, clasping your hands together. “Shou, I think he wants you to hold him!”

Todoroki blinked, clearly unprepared for this turn of events. No matter how often he accompanies you, he still finds himself unprepared for every subtle change. “Me? Why?”

“I— don’t we always carry him whenever he does the grabby hands?”

“I do not, but you do. Because he always wants you to carry him.”

“Well, it looks like he wants you to carry him today,” you reply, your voice quivering with barely contained delight.

With a resigned sigh, he kneeled down. “I… suppose I can.”

He held the child stiffly, his arms awkwardly outstretched as if the baby were made of glass.

“Like this, hun,” you told him, adjusting his arms so he supported the baby properly.

Eitarou immediately snuggled into Todoroki’s chest, then gurgled happily, reaching up to grab at Todoroki’s face. His tiny fingers clumsily found Shouto’s cheeks, squishing them lightly as he let out a delighted giggle.

“Uwah!”

“Aww, you two are so cute! The cutest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Todoroki remained still, his hands supporting the baby securely while the tiny fingers continued exploring his face. “Is he supposed to do this?” he asked, his voice even. He eyed baby Eitarou and evaded his face whenever the little one tried to put his baby fingers in his mouth.

“He’s just curious!” you answered. “Let him—oh, now he’s going for your hair!”

Eitarou’s small hand found Todoroki’s dual-colored bangs, grabbing a tuft of white hair and tugging lightly. Todoroki froze, unsure how to react.

“Do I… stop him?” he asked slowly, unsure.

You waved your hands frantically. “No, no! Let him be! It’s harmless—unless he tries to put your hair in his mouth.”

He freezes, blinking owlishly at you. He’s never heard you speak of such things, let alone worry if Eitarou would nibble at your hair whenever you held this angel.

“He could do that? Should I put him down?”

“No! It’s just a little heads up. Babies who are teething tend to put most things in their mouth.”

“Oh.” Todoroki was somewhat relieved.

The baby let out another giggle, switching to the red side of Todoroki’s hair, his small face lighting up as he babbled incomprehensibly. “Umn!”

Your husband pouted a little. “Does this mean I need a haircut?”

He’s already thinking of going to the barber’s shop, the one that Kaminari had recommended in passing. Todoroki’s never tried that barber before, but if his friend had recommended it, then it could be worth trying.

You burst into laughter. “What? No! Why would you need a haircut? You just went to get a trim last week.”

“Oh. I did.”

He looked down at the baby, who was now attempting to bury his face into Todoroki’s shoulder while babbling happily, and he wiped the little drool on the corner of Eitarou’s mouth with the soft cloth you handed him. “I just thought that if my hair’s this interesting to a baby, maybe it’s too long.”

“Are you serious?” you asked, barely able to keep a straight face. “Hun, your hair is perfect. Eitarou just thinks you’re the coolest person ever.”

Todoroki blinked, clearly processing the statement, but he said nothing. His hold on the baby shifted slightly as he cradled the child more comfortably, the corners of his lips almost forming a smile.

“You think I’m the coolest?” he asks Eitarou, who could only giggle at him. “I think you’re the coolest as well, ‘Tarou.”

“You were great with him,” you said softly. Eitarou is napping by now, courtesy of Todoroki rocking him back and forth (even if you suggested he used the rocking chair instead so he doesn’t tire himself out) while humming a soft lullaby.

Todoroki glanced at you, his expression thoughtful. “I just held him, love.”

“Yeah, but you made him so happy—and got him to take his after-lunch nap. That counts for a lot.”

There was a brief pause before Todoroki replied, “I suppose.”

You sighed softly, watching as the tiniest hint of a smile flickered on your husband’s face. “‘Tarou’s grown to love you. You’d make a good dad someday, hun.”

His expression was unreadable as he took this in, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Maybe. Someday. When we’re both ready.”

He’d admit that the thought was... something he’ll look forward to more often now that you brought it up.

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drgnflyteabox · 4 months ago

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red ochre [5]

series masterlist previous || part five -> kermes || part six -> madder

> summary: big nun, little nun > tags/warnings: guilt, religious / moral turmoil, stockholm syndrome, child abuse (past), scars, simon returns, corruption (past), misogyny (past), whipping (past), blood, suffering (past mostly), power imbalance, freeze response (past), guilt, dissociation, dom/sub dynamics, we're learning consent (kinda? eeh), violent imagery, dubcon/noncon, vaginal fingering, choking, throat grab

When Johnny asks how it felt to go from there – the convent, you think he means – to here, you can only describe it as dunking your hands into ice water.

Shocking, painful, and prickling all over.

He only says hm, and moves on. His face is pensive. You don’t tell him that sometimes, you wake up and aren’t in the water anymore.

Even in prayer, you hadn’t thought as much as you had since you’d been taken. Hadn’t worried as much. Teachings from adults since youth had told you that everybody was inherently sinful, even children.

So why is the community around you so happy without God? They have their own, you know this, but the multitude of them and their roles in divine hierarchy aren’t necessarily about absolute power.

There are woman-Gods, Gods without designations, Gods for the earth and the children and unions between people. You find it hard to continue calling them heretics, devils, when they’re really just people. Different, yes, strange and incomprehensible, but people nonetheless.

Heathens, you try to think. Heathens, devils. They took you

You wonder when the last time you thought of yourself as just a person was, when you weren’t a thing set within a rigid mold, beaten down in more ways than one.

On the eve of Simon's return you catch Johnny doing something secretive. He's hunched over the table, the tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration. The soft sound of scraping, of wood gently knocking is all you can hear over the fire.

“What's that?” you ask, when your curiosity gets the best of you.

Johnny turns, one eye squinted, the every picture of concentration. He holds up a carved figure – a woman, it looks like. Ah, it’s you. Though hard to tell, the woman wears a veil and sits on a chair, hunched.

Your veil. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. It used to be a weight, heavy and pressing, a shackle. Now you miss the safety of not feeling so exposed all the time.

Somewhere in the journey here it had been lost, or maybe thrown overboard. Your habit, too, replaced for the woolen Viking-style dresses bought and bartered for by Simon and Johnny. Even you have to admit you enjoy the colours more, even if the conformity of the convent felt safe.

“How long were you watching me?” you breathe, eyes wide and still staring.

“Not long, lamb,” he smiles disarmingly. “Ah just remember ye, sittin’ pretty.”

“Working on the tapestry,” you correct him, though it doesn’t really matter.

He looks back down to his little figure, pensive.

“Ah guess so,” he says jovially.

“It was my punishment,” you add. This probably matters even less, but the clash of worlds has thrown you off balance. You feel unbearably present, unbearably lucid.

I was a nun, you think. Am I still a nun?

“Punishment?” he frowns. “Ah thought they struck ye?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I had to work extra hard.”

“Like a bairn?”

“A what?”

“A child, lamb,” he smiles again.

You look into the fire, thinking. Punishment applied to everyone, not just children, no? Even Simon and Johnny had punished you. But who had given them the right? Had you, with your secret want? Your secret lustful sin?

“You punished me,” you settle on.

“Aye, we did,” he nods. “Ye needed it.”

“Then why do you… ah, disparage the church for doing the same?”

He turns to you.

“Ah think ye got it all wrong,” he says simply. “We don’t give it to ye to make ye hurt. Aren’t ye better after? Righted?”

Righted. That’s a word worth its weight in gold. As is the truth of his words, but you stay quiet and look into the fire instead of responding.

You take up Johnny’s offer to spend time with Kari. Johnny walks you there, holds your hand in the cold and blows hot air on them as you wait together outside their door.

When Gaz opens it, he hoots and hollers as if the frigid air outside has no effect on him, as if his inner warmth and naturally excitable disposition is no match for the cold.

You have to admire that. At least a little.

“Hi there,” Gaz says to you, a greeting softer than the one he gave Johnny.

“Hello,” you try to subtly peek inside, “it’s… nice to see you.”

He doesn’t take offence to your awkward, stilted attempt at politeness. Maybe he knows you’re not quite comfortable here, to put it lightly, and only claps your shoulder gently to pull you in.

“Have fun!” Johnny shouts, already leaving, “and give me my wife back in one piece!”

That makes you sheepish, but you try to ignore your feelings in favour of moving towards Kari and the little baby, Tyra.

“Hello again,” she greets, smiling. The baby stares at you, babbles ceasing as if she’s seeing you for the first time. Her little head swings towards her mother, hiding despite her clear curiosity.

“You’ve met me before,” you say softly, trying valiantly not to frighten her as you take a seat opposite to Kari.

“She’s feeling shy lately,” Kari looks down and tuts, swiping a thumb over Tyra’s chubby cheek, “needs her mama.”

Weaving here is not much different than weaving at the convent. Once you get the basics down, you’re threading dyed wool into cloth astride Kari.

Some spirit of confidence grips you.

“Will you tell me anything about Simon and Johnny?”

“About-” she lifts her head, “Simon and Johnny? Don’t they speak to you?”

“They - do,” you rush to assure her, though your voice maintains a weary unsureness.

Luckily for you, she gives you a small but comforting smile over the wool.

“You’re looking for an outside opinion? That’s okay, lovely girl, I just might not know as much about them as my husband does,” she gestures with her chin towards Gaz, who walks towards you both.

“What d’you need to know?” he asks casually, sidling up to Kari affectionately, “think they’ll be able to answer better than me.”

“I only really know… what I’ve seen. I haven’t…” your mouth twists as you trail off, frustration germinating as you struggle. Right, you can commit sins of the flesh but you can’t ask a question to sate curiosity — one which might be the difference between surviving and not surviving.

Knowledge is important, after all. Powerful. You think of Eve, who doomed humanity for it, naked as the day she was born and as clueless as Adam yet ate the apple anyway.

“I know they’re… warriors,” you pause, “since they’re all scarred, but—“

“Well, not necessarily—” Kari starts, until Gaz puts a palm on her thigh and gives her a look you can’t discern.

“That’s not something we should share,” Gaz says tightly, but kindly.

“How else..?” you frown.

Tyra stirs, and Kari gives Gaz another look.

“Simon’s father used to be chief,” she lifts the babe back into her lap, patting, cooing, “it’s not a nice story, but if you need it to understand them better then I don’t mind telling it.”

“I want to know about them,” you insist, trying to push past the sense of danger, the sense that you’ll be hurt or killed for toeing out of line.

Testing the elasticity of safety here perhaps isn’t wise, but testing it might be what you need to settle. Knowing where the boundaries are, what’s expected, where they come from… you wonder if you’ll doom everybody, like Eve.

“Believe it or don’t, but we’ve only just rekindled the hunts, the raids. How it should be,” she starts.

Gaz sighs, leaning back where he’s sitting. You assume his hesitance is out of loyalty for his comrades, but you choose tentatively to ignore him in favour of his wife.

“We had a lazy, drunken leader,” Kari continues, “Simon’s father inherited the title through lineage, not through prowess as is… more natural to us.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine. In the church, such things were often gained with corruption: any wealthy lords’ son could rise high in the ranks, if he had the money and means.

The convent had somewhat of a similar issue, though the women were ‘married’ into the church and the power rested in the hands of their families.

Such was the world.

Not always, but you’d heard of it often enough. One of the abbots of the monastery in the closest town had been the son of an affluent donator, and thus received power of authority over the other monks.

“To make a long story short, and more respectful to Simon—” Gaz looks at her then “—his father was needlessly cruel both to his own children, his wife, and to those he was responsible for.”

“So, those scars…?”

“Some are from fighting, of course. But usually, no one’s getting close enough to those two to land that kind of damage. I’m sure you can fill in the rest.”

Gaz butts in here, “or, you can ask him yourself.”

“How did that woman, I forgot her name, come to be chief?” you frown in thought.

Gaz takes over again, his hand dragging up from the small of his wife's back and squeezing her nape. It’s as much of a warning as you’ve seen, though it’s quiet and Kari looks sheepish, not afraid, “Kate challenged him.”

“A challenge?” you frown, “such as?”

“A fight to the death.”

“Oh,” your lips close, and thin, and your eyebrows fly up. “I didn’t realize… I mean, violence is…”

They don’t do you the courtesy of filling in for you, so you go silent and the air settles.

Johnny picks you up later, when you’ve helped Kari with a big portion of her weaving. You love the threads, the dyeing process. It’s meditative.

“Good ?” Johnny nudges your side, slipping a hand to just above your waist, fingers tickling the side of your breast.

“Yes,” and it’s honest.

He walks you home, hand in hand, and cannot stop talking about Simon's return.

“Ah’ve never been without him this long,” he rambles over the fire, stirring a potato soup, “think yer gonnae be witness to something dirty. Sorry, lamb.”

Only he’s grinning, and he’s not sorry, and you can see the front of his pants begin to tent.

Johnny later offers you that very same sin, tilting his hips towards you and swinging his cock obscenely, cheekily. You do not take him up on it despite the smolder that begins between your legs – you simply turn, and try to sleep through the sounds of his self-abuse.

Simon returns without much fanfare, slipping into the house with a seemingly practiced silence. He moves like a ghost.

Johnny doesn't wake yet, sleeping like an affectionate log behind you.

His gaze meets yours, as impassive as always, framed in a halo of white winter light. He looks handsome this way, though it also has the effect of making his scars look deeper – crevasses on his face for shadows to lay in.

You watch as he strips his winter garments, slipping then beside you, evening out the weight on the bed.

“How did it go?” you whisper. If he's surprised that you spoke he doesn't show it, staring up at the ceiling, muscles decompressing. Sighing like a big dog.

In lieu of speaking, he lifts something into your focus. Oh, it's a tooth, sharp and white. A predator's tooth.

“The rest tomorrow,” he says quietly.

You can tell he's tired. His face looks weary. How far do they travel for these hunts? You assume quite far, as it’s enough to tire even a seasoned warrior.

So, rather than speaking, asking him from which creature he took this tooth, you tentatively reach your hand up to press your fingers against his thick scars.

Simon freezes, as do you. Then, as he relaxes, you trace the grooves on his face with your fingers tightly. Very lightly.

A delicate moment is born then. Johnny's deep, sleepy breathing behind you, Simon's acquiescence – it's a tranquil thing. As thin as lace, as sweet as a crisp apple.

After some time, when you've traced his face twice over and his eyes are half-lidded, you speak softly.

“Why me?”

“You're beautiful,” he says simply, sighing again, “we wanted to.”

It becomes harder, again, to hold the belief of them as devils. That they smelled the sin on you and picked you that way.

“Don't you think it's cruel?”

“No,” finally, he turns to you.

“It was,” you assert recklessly. Fear twists in your gut, poisonous.

“You were scared.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still scared?”

“I feel like you can see right through me. That scares me.”

“Not at first.”

“Then when?”

His hand finds the dip of your waist. Squeezes.

“On the boat, when you pushed up against me like a wet kitten. Even scared, you needed it.”

“You were cruel to me then, too.”

“I’m a cruel man.”

There's a stray thought that wiggles to life in the back of your head that suggests sympathy for him despite his statement. That you can begin seeing the path of his life and understand how he came to be.

You think of punishment again; about parents and children, husband's and wives, about Simon and his father. That wasn't punishment, if you're understanding it the way Kari implied.

A memory strikes you, unbidden and unwelcome.

Salt blows in the air, metallic and thick in your nose. Not sea salt, not the wind you love so much, but from blood spraying.

The man brought his son to the convent, citing his bad behaviour as ungodly. Sister Margret was pleading with him, hands clasped in desperate prayer and voice high, reedy, as she begged him to just stop hitting him – please, just stop hitting him!

The boy cowered. Not a child, but a boy nonetheless. Young enough to make an impression, round-cheeked, on the cusp of manhood. Stained with blood.

He lifted the rope, again and again and again, even as Margret leapt for his arm and tried to stop him, pulling, shouting.

You were stock still, frozen, not even a tremble in your body. Your eyes had widened when he first struck the boy and you’d been stuck since.

Simon takes your hand, peels it away from your dress, pulling you bodily towards him and out of the memory.

With your cheek pressed close to his bare shoulder, you murmur, “did you take me to hurt me?”

“No,” he says, sounding for once like he isn’t hiding anything.

“Did you hit me to really hurt me?”

“No,” he repeats, then, “I hit you because you needed it, because you liked it.”

“I’ve seen…” you don’t continue.

“I know.”

“We’ve both been hurt,” your voice is a whisper.

“Mm,” Simon confirms.

You think of the boy. Of his father. Of his terrified, deer-like eyes, blood splattered on his back and on the ground and soaked into the rope – about how four townsmen had to pull his father away for fear of killing the boy.

How you felt when you hit yourself, when the abbess hit you, how different they were to when Simon took his palm to your ass.

Shame. That had been in the boy's eyes that day. He had hid his face in his arms, cowering not only from fear but from being seen.

You’d felt that same shame each time you’d been punished, intensifying, twisting together until you’d learned to turn the same pain inwards.

“Are you afraid of being seen?” you murmur to Simon.

“No.”

You don’t have to say the silent part; that you’re the afraid one. That Simon correctly interpreting your need for a different kind of control, one that let you lose yourself, felt like you’d been flayed for all to see.

Simon moves his hand lower, cupping the soft curve of your behind, staring at you, testing the waters. You know that if you said no, he might anyways, but you stay quiet as his fingers lift the hem of your dress.

The fabric slides over your skin, a whisper in the air, tickling you. He rubs his rough, hairy knuckles against your thigh close to where it meets your leg.

He pauses there, breathing slowly, before he slides a finger up your slit and through the thatch of hair above it.

“If I made a request,” you murmured, “would you grant it?”

“Make it, and I’ll tell you.”

He slips a finger to rub your hole, just outside, teasing, while his thumb finds your clit.

“I don’t want you to take me until we’re man and wife… men and wife.”

Simon hums, rubs gently, makes your hips undulate.

“Do you think you’re in a place to be making requests like that, love?”

“I haven’t asked for anything else.”

He raises a brow, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle when you’re wet enough.

“Haven’t you?”

Your breathing deepens, hands coming down to hold his thick wrist, pulling almost subconsciously. Even now, you can’t totally let go, leaning away from him and the pleasure.

But he understands, leaning over you, using his other hand to pin you to the mattress by your throat. It’s not the nicest hold, but the burning of your lungs heightens the pulsing in your cunt.

“Think you just made a few requests right now,” he grunts, using your leg to rub his hard, clothed cock.

There’s a stirring beside you. Johnny groans as he wakes up, then laughs sleepily.

“Ah woke up just in time,” his voice is rough with sleep.

Simon hums, mmm, in that deep rumble of his. He slips another finger inside you, crooking them, making you gasp raggedly. Your hands still clutch his wrist, weaker now, but it’s half resistance half comfort.

“Mm, good girl,” Johnny murmurs. He curls into your side, cock growing against your hip, wrapping a leg around you while his hand climbs beneath your pulled up dress and palms your tit.

God, you could die just like this: fighting for breath, touched all over, held down and made free. The hate you had for them feels irrelevant, the fear, the brutal way in which they stole you.

You can’t even think about if Simon will disregard your request – your last frontier against them, the treasure between your legs for a husband only.

Simon’s knuckle deep in it, but still, you can’t let go of that final tether. Not yet, not without any other internal pillars to hold you up.

Everything else has been wiped away. Drawings in the sand on a beach swept by foamy white waves.

Johnny leans in and bites your shoulder, gnawing, hips moving against you. You can’t arch like you want to, but you try.

Wet, sinful sounds grow as you gush around Simon’s fingers, as they use you to get off.

When you peak, white spots dance in your vision, mouth open in a silent scream choked away by Simon's heavy palm.

It’s like flying.

In the afternoon, when you’ve all slept, Simon leaves to speak with John and you prepare lunch with Johnny.

More fish, more potatoes. It’s growing on you.

When Simon returns, he has in his arms a rolled up fur. Though unprocessed and still wet underneath, it’s beautiful, pale, spotted.

He takes a heavy seat in front of you, laying the skin over his knees, taking your hand in his and bringing it to the fur.

Soft. Dense. Your fingers move through the pelt.

“For you,” Simon says.

You look up at him, heart dancing.

His gifts. The apple, the orgasms, this– you don’t know what to make of it. Yes, it’s a kindness, but he’s a cruel man. He’d said so himself, and you’d felt the brunt of it.

Leaning into that cruelty has given you a strange power, a strange solidity. You’d so begun to familiarize yourself with his harshness that you’d forgotten this complexity.

You pinch the fur, feeling it between your fingers, breathing slowly. Your neck ached, but it wasn’t a bad ache; it felt like a phantom hand.

“For me?”

Johnny slides three bowls on the table, grinning.

“Yer first wedding gift,” he says jovially.

“Oh, I see,” you murmur, but it isn’t a disappointed oh.

Simon leaves later again, full of soup, to process the rest of the hunt’s boon with John. He takes the pelt with him, a snowcat pelt you’ve learned.

Yet, he’d returned with not much more than scratches on him from travel. Tired, yes, but a few hours of sleep and splattering his spend on your belly had fixed that earlier.

You’d bathed, since, though the feeling was hard to shake.

Johnny putters about again, returning to his carving of the little mini you. A peek into the past, one you no longer embodied.

“Can I see when you’re done?” you ask, slipping your favourite wool dress on. The red, well worn one. Soft, comforting.

“Course,” he mumbles, concentrating. Then, his head shoots up.

“Ye want one o’ Simon ‘n’ I, lamb? Carry us around?” Only it sounds like aroond.

You nod, walking on socked feet to where he’s carving.

“Yes.”

#drgnfly writes #sorry this is a bit late ahaaa #im almost late to class to post this oopsie #im also not super happy with it but hey #its posted ig #ghoap x reader #goap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cod x reader

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bbyblumarine · 3 months ago

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My Saviour

Clark Kent x Reader

Summary:

You’re Superman’s favourite person to save, and he can’t seem to understand why that pisses you off so much.

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: I’ve never worked in a jewellery store, so please suspend reality if you dare.

Thank you enormously for any likes, reblogs or follows! Your kindness continuously motivates me to carry on writing :)

You’d been stifling the same yawn for over an hour now; the ache in your jaw was persistent, begging you for permission to escape your mouth and accept defeat. You were a stubborn devil, you knew as soon as you freed the yawn from its shackles, your legs would cave in and you’d find yourself as a puddle of sleep deprived bones on the floor.

Today you were working through a long haul shift at your job at the jewellery store, covering for your colleague who had very conveniently come down with the flu (it was a Saturday morning, do the math).

You didn’t mind it so much— the reserved nature of the job granted you space to wander in your own thoughts, and involve yourself with short and direct conversations with the clientele. It was a surprisingly quiet day, nearing the evening time where everyone would rather be out on the booze than collecting expensive necklaces for their wives. No bother, you’d been abusing the clock with your eyes all day and for good reason, as there was only a mere 30 minutes left to your shift.

You began tidying up, running through closing jobs to save you more time for later, where you had devised a plan to run a relaxing bath, dip your toes in it, and inevitably neglect it by flopping on the sofa for a nap. Some peace and quiet would be charming: these past few weeks had been pure chaos, with the rate of crime ascending quite dramatically for no reason at all. Not to worry, the people of Metropolis would cry, their saviour Superman will be there to save them. You fight a stubborn eye roll everytime you hear his name in passing: oh Superman, he saved me from a burning building; why Superman, if it weren’t for him I’d be left with a penny to my name after the robbery; Superman, Superman, Superman. Like the cynical old hag you were, your opinion was that he was some egotistical fucker with a saviour complex, one that you unfortunately knew too well.

Somehow, as a result of your own terrible bad luck, you often seemed to find yourself caught in the crossfire between villain and hero no matter how hard you tried to evade it. Like a moth to a flame, what your family keeps telling you.

This meant that, almost weekly now, you’d come face to face with the infamous Mr Superman, the man adored by thousands. Your mother swooned when she saw one of your stories on the news, begging you to tell her every detail moment by moment. Bless her, she was crest fallen when all you had to come out your mouth was a series of vulgar expletives. No one understood why you resented this man so terribly, incomprehensible to speak ill of a hero so kind to save you not once, not twice, but enough times for him to now remember your name with ease. Man, screw that guy.

And so there you were, dusting down the shelves, when the bell chimed at the entrance. Curious, you whipped around; it was pretty unusual for customers to leave it so late, especially on a quiet day like today.

Your heart grew cold in an instant, when a gun was thrust towards your skull by a masked man in a balaclava. How cliché.

“You push that panic alarm, and you won’t have time to understand that your brain is gonna be on those walls,” he proclaimed calmly, nodding to the wall by your side. You had no reason to call his bluff, his hand was cocked on the gun unwavering in a way only a man skilled with the weapon could master. Despite this, your body started to burn with rage, incensed at a man gaining the upper hand on you like this - and only with half an hour to go!

You nodded your head meekly, pushing down your deep seated anger. There’s no way you were getting out of this. The streets were rife with people, with similar crimes like this robbery occuring all over the city. It couldn’t be possible for someone to save y—

“I suggest you put the weapon down, sir,” a deep and assertive voice chimed in, immediately dominating the tense atmosphere. The words were a command, but the tone, his register— it was advice.

Listen, you knew you should’ve been happy right now. This masked man would’ve stolen from here, and you’d risk getting fired, and then you’d have to move out because you couldn’t afford rent, et cetera. Your life was being saved right now.

But instead, you let out the most exasperated sigh, loud enough for the intruder to cock his head to the side in confusion. The poor sod probably didn’t know whether to be more unnerved by the caped hero behind him, or you.

The robber dropped his gun. Everyone in the city knew it was a losing battle as soon as they recognised the man behind the voice.

Moving to the side of the cowering man, Superman glanced at you quickly before returning to his observation of the man. To the human eye it would seem like a quick glimpse, but you’d spent enough dismal time around him to recognise that in that brief second, he’s likely checking your vitals, scanning your body for any signs of damage. The guy probably already knows before you do when your period is due. It’s insufferable.

A dizzy flash of red and blue bounced off the window, informing you of the quick arrival of police. It always did puzzle you how he’d manage to beckon the police so fast after the crime would occur. Clearly everyone was eager to please him once hooked on his words of persuasion.

Superman scruffed the intruder by his collar and dragged him to the door like he was a box of tissues, leaving you stood rooted to the ground. All you wanted to do was go home right now. You had already been physically worn out, now the mental stress of this encounter was melting your brain to mush. You might need to skip out on that bath later after all.

Walking back in, Superman afforded you the privilege of truly meeting your eyes with his own. Waiting, like a shark, or maybe like an eager to please puppy of sorts, though you were convinced on the former. The shouting of officers, the flashings of the lights, there was all so much happening at once. Superman was unperturbed, as always. He subtly shifted his body weight to the side, shielding you from the impeding glare of police lights blinding your eyes. It was stuff like that that would truly grind your gears, him somehow paying attention to the small tells of your body when you were feeling whatever emotion, and then jumping on any opportunity to protect you from it.

You opened your mouth, pausing, but knowing the words were begging to come out.

“I didn’t need you to come,” was all you had to say, chin high in the air, a heavy contradiction to your fast heartbeat.

His eyes flitted to the side briefly, before returning to yours like they never left.

“Actually, I’ve never once needed you here,” you blurted out triumphantly, a stream of your subconscious erupting out of nowhere. “I’ve never once needed you. Frankly, I’m sick of you turning up with this notion that I now owe you something each time. I don’t owe you jack! In fact, I think it’s pretty presumptuous for you to think that I can’t take care of myself in these situations. I’m self sufficient, I’m not some damsel. I don’t even know you! You don’t even know me…” you rattled on, losing any sense of cohesion as you rambled further and further.

The worst part is every time you’d throw your tantrum - which is every time - he would never once give in. He would stand still, face impassive, as if he was actually taking on all the petty things you throw at him. Why is it that it would infuriate you even more?

Silence eventually settled between the two of you, your breath ragged after your outburst.

Finally, his chin fell to the ground as he let go of a small sigh. Lifting his head once more, he allowed the small pull of the corners of his lips to form a shy smile.

“I’ll see you next time,” was all he said, before turning swiftly and disappearing before you had a chance to blink. You could almost taste his muted victory.

You fucking hate that you loved this man.

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #henry cavill x reader #superman #superman x reader #clark kent x you #henry cavill #dc imagine

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dirtyvulture · 2 months ago

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Pandora's Box - Part 3

Tomb Raider!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Enchantress!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: Natasha has spent years hunting the elusive Pandora’s Box, which many say doesn’t even exist. What happens when she not only finds it, but accidentally unleashes the sinister force hiding within?

Word count: 2715

AN: Didn't forget about this series, prepare for things to get hot in here...☺️

Click here to read Part 2.

Natasha stands at the back of the room, observing the sea of darkly-clothed people bobbing in and out of the church pews. She was surprised to see so many in attendance; most of them were Pietro’s students and athletes, distinguishable by the university logo pinned to their clothing. A number of faculty–including Natasha and her team–were here too, and a mass of non-university associated people.

There had been no other casualties besides Pietro in the freak accident at the coffee shop. The owner of the car had been located, but he had been shopping at the plaza a few blocks down, and no eyewitnesses had come forward about seeing anyone else get into the vehicle. A cinder block had been taped to the gas pedal, stumping police on who put it there and steered the vehicle towards the coffee shop in the first place.

But Natasha knew who it was, even if she couldn’t rationally explain it to the police. Wanda had survived too, and secretly she hoped you would return soon for a second attempt, if only so she had another chance to see you.

She couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your breath-taking beauty. The incomprehensible scale of your powers. She craves your touch again, and perhaps something more. No woman she had ever met before had taken up so much of her attention. You infiltrate her dreams every night, but always stop short of giving her what she wants. Natasha is determined to meet you again. She knows your paths will cross again.

Music begins playing and the guests in the pews stand and turn their heads towards the back. Steve walks in, Wanda clamped to his arm as she hides her face behind a wad of tissues. The officiant follows them, his head bowed in respect.

Natasha listens to the service half-heartedly, most of her attention absorbed in scanning the audience for you. While it would be wildly disrespectful for you to show up to the funeral of the person you killed, she has a feeling you operate under a different agenda. But the service ends, and she still hasn’t found you, disappointment pricking her heart. Everyone is slow to rise, some forming a line to pay respects at Pietro’s closed casket, while others embrace Wanda or offer envelopes of condolences. The majority head into the room next door, where refreshments are being served amongst quiet mingling. Natasha goes that way, feeling weighed down by the sadness.

“Did you see her?” Clint bumps her shoulder out of nowhere and startles her.

“No.”

“We told you,” he says. “She might be from another time, but even she would be insane to show up to the funeral of the man she killed.”

“Assuming anything about her is your first mistake,” Natasha defends.

Clint makes a beeline for the platter of refreshments, leaving her alone again. Natasha scans the crowd once more out of habit and her heart nearly jumps out of her chest when she spots you, parting from a hug with a professor.

You are wearing virtually the same clothing as the last time she had seen you, except in all black. At least you had some taste. Natasha is frozen when she finally makes eye contact with you, and she doesn’t know if she should tackle you or sweep you up into a kiss. You walk towards her, a little sway in your step, and Natasha fears she’s going to buckle under the sheer power you exude.

“Hello there,” you say in that devastatingly captivating accent.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Natasha says, wanting to slap herself for greeting you this way.

“No one stopped me.” You tilt your head and the moon pendant loosens from your collar and bounces against the bare skin of your collarbone. “Unless you’re going to.”

Natasha suddenly reaches out and grabs your arm. “Come with me,” she hisses. “And don’t you dare make a scene.” You drag your fingers across your lip as if sealing them shut and locking them with a key. She pulls you out into the hall and into a small conference room.

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for you to drag me off since the moment I saw you,” you say as Natasha shuts the door. “It looks like you’re ready to devour me.”

“Shut up.” Natasha presses you up against the wall. She is embarrassingly aware of the heat pooling in her own belly and to make matters worse, you’re looking at her like she’s nothing but a meal. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” she fires off to distract herself from her arousal.

“You know who I am, Natasha.” Natasha has to fight the shiver down her spine when her name rolls off your tongue. “And I came here to finish the job, obviously.”

“You’re not going to hurt anyone here,” Natasha says.

“Because you’re going to stop me?” Your tone is entirely mocking and Natasha can’t stand your bravado. But then you reach up and start stroking her arm, wrapping your hand around her bicep, and Natasha loses her train of thought. “What did you think was going to happen once you found my box and released me?”

“I…I didn’t mean to drop you. Release you,” Natasha stutters. “I wanted to…study you.” It is not her best choice of words.

You laugh, and it reminds Natasha of the delicate notes of a wind chime. “I’ll let you study me all you want once I’m done with my work.”

Natasha tries pulling her arm away from you but you grab her by the belt and yank her towards you. She stumbles trying to catch her balance and her chest presses against yours, your eyes barely a few inches apart as she has you pinned between the wall. Or perhaps you have her right where she wants you?

“You don’t have to do this,” Natasha whispers. Her heartbeat is frantic and she wonders if you can tell how nervous she is.

“Do what? I thought you wanted this.” Your hands untuck her shirt and loosen the bottom few buttons. Natasha moans when your fingers brush against her abs. “I can read your thoughts, you know,” you add in a low, sultry voice, digging your nails into the grooves between her muscles.

“I’ve seen how you want me,” you continue, leaning your head forward until your breath is warm against her cheek. “How you imagine my body against yours,” you whisper into her ear, your fingers trailing down to brush the band of her underwear. “What you think I might taste like.” You slip your hand into her underwear but don’t quite touch her where she wants. “What I would sound like when you help me reach the most earth-shattering orgasm of my life–”

Natasha grunts and thinks she’s going to combust with arousal. Where your skin touches hers, it feels like she’s on fire. She bends her knees to wrap her muscular arms under your thighs, lifting you off the floor like you’re no heavier than a paperweight and pressing your back against the wall. Your calves bracket her waist and pull her closer.

“What have you done to me?” Natasha whispers, her hands sliding up your legs to cup your butt.

You only grin, looking down at her with your bottom lip between your teeth. Natasha’s control snaps. She pushes forward, ready to feel your lips against hers, when suddenly she’s met with a face full of…water?

“What the hell?” She opens her eyes and looks up to where water spurts from the sprinklers in the ceiling. She looks around the conference room but you’ve completely vanished. Even the lock on the door is still shut. She wipes the water out of her eyes and huffs in agitation. How many times was she going to fall into your trap?

Natasha goes to grab the door handle and yelps as the hot brass knob sizzles in her palm. She withdraws in confusion, looking at the skin on her hand beginning to blister. Between the water sprinklers and hot doorknob, she deduces there might be a fire somewhere–and she has no doubt on who could’ve started it.

But first, she needs to get out of the conference room, and there are no windows or doors other than the one she entered. Carefully pulling down the sleeves of her suit jacket like a makeshift potholder, she grabs the knob again and manages to twist it open without burning her hand.

Smoke floods the conference room as the door swings open. Natasha drops to her belly and starts crawling back to the main room, covering her mouth with a wet sleeve so she can breathe what little oxygen remains. She hears screaming and banging and digs her elbows into the carpet to propel herself forward faster. Her eyes sting from smoke, robbing her of her sight, but luckily she remembers the exact way back without needing to see.

It takes all her strength to push open the door from her position on the floor, and the whole room is in chaos. A group of people are gathered towards the back, while another group stands by the windows. She watches as Clint grabs a metal chair and hurls it at the window, shattering the glass. Smoke funnels out, but the remaining edges of glass are too jagged for anyone to safely crawl out. Natasha gets up and pushes her way towards the crowd in the back, who hover before a pair of doors which are conveniently locked.

“Move, move!” she demands, bringing her leg up to kick at the door with all her might. Her boot bottom, slick with water, slips across the metal to no effect.

“I tried that already!” Steve says, coming up next to her, red-faced and coughing.

“Well, keep trying!” Natasha says, backing up so he can launch his full bodyweight at the door. “Aren’t there any other exits?” she asks, seized by a coughing fit that wracks her lungs painfully.

“This was the closest one,” Steve grunts as he rams his shoulder into the metal again.

Natasha looks around wildly for another solution. She spots a podium and grabs onto Steve before he can throw himself at the door again. “Help me!” she says, pointing at the podium, and he understands without further explanation. They race over and pick the podium off the ground, holding it perpendicular between them to use like a makeshift battering ram. But the podium is made of solid wood, slippery from the dirty sprinkler water, and the dwindling oxygen in the air makes Natasha feel far weaker than she normally is.

“Help!” she screams to the bleary-eyed guests who stand in shock. Three of them hurry forward and grab any available space on the podium. It takes a few tries to coordinate their strengths. Natasha feels dizzy from the smoke inhalation and she can tell Steve isn’t faring much better.

“One more! Together!” she pants, and with one final, heaving effort, the podium breaks the doors open and people spill out into the fresh air. Natasha falls to her knees, taking deep shuddering breaths. Steve lays on the grass next to her, clutching at his chest.

“Where’s…Where’s Wanda?” Natasha eventually finds the breath to ask.

Steve shakes his head. “We got…separated,” he wheezes.

“Steve!” Anger clears her head. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

“Don’t go back in–” he tries, but Natasha is already racing into the building again. Natasha can only hope you haven’t gotten to Wanda first. She has an inkling of where Wanda might be, and she hopes she’s right because she doesn’t have time to wander around. The smoke is thicker than before and the heat hangs in the air. How come the fire department isn’t here yet?

Natasha staggers through the enormous room to the conjoining one where the ceremony had taken place. Predictably, she finds Wanda huddled by Pietro’s casket, clutching onto a bouquet of white roses.

“Wanda!” Natasha bellows, squatting down to her level and wiping water out of her eyes. “We need to go!”

“I can’t leave him again,” Wanda sobs, moving closer to the casket.

Natasha isn’t sure how to be tactful, but given the blazing flames next door and the acrid smoke, that’s not her biggest priority right now. “I know,” she says, “But you’ll die if you stay here. He wouldn’t want that, you know.”

Wanda coughs and shakes her head in agreement.

“Please come with me. I know the way out,” Natasha says, holding out a hand.

After a moment that seems to freeze time, Wanda accepts and Natasha pulls her up. But the smoke is too thick again, and they have to hunch over to breathe.

“I can’t do it. Just leave me,” Wanda cries, dropping to her knees.

“Never.” Natasha bends down and scoops Wanda up, although with much less confidence in her strength than usual. When she stands fully, smoke swirls around her head and blinds her. She hunches over slightly, holding Wanda close to her chest, and runs back in the direction she came from.

The ceiling shakes with a roar, and Natasha pauses midstep, afraid it will collapse on her. She isn’t sure how old the building is or if it’s properly up to code, but that won’t matter either way if her and Wanda are buried six feet under burning rubble. She holds her breath as she starts running again, but the pounding in her head grows unbearable and she has to stop to suck in ashy particles.

“We’re gonna die in here,” Wanda whimpers unhelpfully.

“We are getting out,” Natasha says, trying to look determined even though she feels scared inside. She isn’t quite sure she’s going the right way anymore either; her senses are totally disoriented and there are no reference points for her to rely on. Hesitantly, she takes a few more steps forward, weakening by the second from the lack of oxygen.

“Natasha,” Wanda says, and Natasha swears the weight in her arms is growing heavier.

“I’m…I’m…looking…” she gasps, stumbling over some chairs. Panic begins to fill her, but she knows she can’t give up just yet. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, but her movements become visibly sluggish and she finally collapses to her knees, the side of her leg grazing something hard.

The podium from earlier, which means the doors are nearby.

“Here, here!” She puts Wanda on the floor and the two of them blindly grope for the doors. The ceiling rumbles again and large, flaming pieces begin raining down. Natasha shoves Wanda when she sees a wooden beam swing towards them, but it catches her arm and knocks her over, landing on top of her midsection.

“Shit!” Natasha struggles to push it off, but it’s too heavy and the angle she’s laying down doesn’t allow her to get much leverage. She hopes Wanda made it out at least. The weight is crushing against her already-overworked lungs and her vision starts to fade to black. She thinks about her team and what they’d do without her. She thinks about you, and how this is probably exactly what you had planned for her. In fact, her memories of you are so vivid it’s almost like she can see you standing over her.

Natasha blinks, but you’re still there. Maybe this isn’t a dream after all.

“Why did you come back?” you ask, looking at her with great disappointment. Natasha says nothing, staring at you with wide eyes. You kneel and push the wooden beam off her effortlessly, like it was made of plastic. “She comes from a family of traitors, you know.”

Natasha has no idea what you’re talking about. You take one of Natasha’s arms and put it behind your head, hefting her over your shoulder and standing. Natasha figures she had at least 50 pounds on you, but you carry her like a child. It’s part embarrassing, part arousing, and she grips the back of your shirt, desperate to hold herself as close to you as possible. Even through the smoke, she can smell the flowery notes of your perfume and her eyes begin to close.

“It’s not your time yet” is the last thing Natasha hears before she finally blacks out.

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

AN: Simpy!Nat is fun to write. :)

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff imagine #beefy!nat #natasha romanoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x you

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beamorgan · 5 months ago

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Favourite Reads of the Year

I will not be ranking these, because that would hurt my heart. Buckle up folks, there are a lot of amazing books out there

The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells

I know, I KNOW, I'm late to the party but omg this whole series is just as good as people say!!! I know I said I wouldn't be ranking, but if I was these would be fighting for the top spot. I have already relistened to all the audiobooks. I anticipate rereading them literally every year from now on. I would die for Murderbot, which it would think is a stupid thing for a human to do when there is a SecUnit right there. [adult, scifi]

Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands by Heather Fawcett

Sequel to last year's fav Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries, this follows a bullheaded academic trying find the magical door that will let her faerie boyfriend back into his faerie kingdom. Chaos ensues in the Alps. It's fabulous, and the author's approach to using folklore is very similar to my own writing, which I love and also get imposter syndrome about. 10/10 recommend [adult, historical fantasy]

Model Home by Solomon Rivers

Would you like to be repeatedly punched in the gut? Look no further than this story of racism and child abuse in a Texas McMansion, with gorgeous prose and a genderqueer protagonist and the laundry list of content warnings you can expect with the genre. It hurt so good. [adult, contemporary gothic horror]

You Should Be So Lucky by Cat Sebastian

This love affair between a baseball play and a sports reporter was recced to me by the lovely @colubrina and boy was it worth the two-day binge it inspired! Romance can be very hit-or-miss for me, but this knocked it out of the park (please enjoy my pun). I didn't even have to know anything about baseball to love it! [adult, historical (1960s) romance]

The Locked Tomb Series by Tamsyn Muir

Another tumblr fav, FOR A REASON. Gideon is hilarious. Harrow is an absolute mess. Nona is BABY, my beloved. (Camilla and Palamedes have my whole entire heart). Also, the audiobook narrator is fantastic. In the words of the author, the buns are also fried chicken. [adult, sci fantasy]

Master and Commander by Patrick O'Brian

This one is @elodieunderglass's fault. Historical buffoonery on boats. The main characters are ridiculous. The sailing jargon is incomprehensible. It's great. [adult, historical fiction]

All You Can Ever Know by Nicole Chung

This is a gorgeous memoir of an interracial adoptee trying to make contact with her birth family while pregnant with her own child. It grapples thoughtfully with reconnecting to a lost culture, the complexities of family history, and the social and legal barriers adoptees face to learning about themselves. [adult, memoir]

Death in the Spires by KJ Charles

I devour everything Charles writes, so I was EXCITED for this mystery. She made it very clear on social media "It's not a kissing book!!" (it's kinda still a kissing book). She wrote a stonking book, as usual, with an underdog protagonist revisiting the murder that happened during his toxic time at Oxford university. [adult, historical mystery]

Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar

My favourite literary fiction read of the year, this meditation on Iranian diaspora identity is written by a poet and you can tell. I would suck the prose up through a straw if I could. The protagonist is an addict and also quite suicidal. It was fun :) [adult, literary fiction]

She Who Became the Sun by Shelly Parker-Chan

and the sequel, He Who Drowned the World. I don't even know how to sell this, all I want to do is flail incoherently about how amazing it is. IT'S AMAZING. JUST READ IT. (wait I know: this satisfied the part of me that was obsessed with Mulan as a kid) [adult, historical fantasy]

A Little Trickery by Roseanna Pike

The voicey-est book I've ever read. I screenshot like every other page. It follows an orphaned girl trying to survive in Tudor England through various means, such as faking a miracle in the church where her gay best friend is priest. [adult, historical fiction]

At the End of the River Styx by Michelle Kulwiki

My friend wrote a book! It made me cry!!! They were delighted with this!!! Please give this to any teenager in your life who needs to see thoughtful representation of grief and depression and boys in love. [YA, contemporary fantasy]

#there's a little bit of everything in here #sorry to the thriller fans #I am too stressed to read many of those at the moment #bea reads #book recommendations

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shurisneakers · 6 months ago

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unsolved (vi)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, mentions of hauntings and the paranormal.

A/N: i need to start editing beforehand this series honestly takes to long to edit omg this was supposed to come out 2 hours ago. also thanks so much to @ginevranights for the one tweet in here, and @thebisexual-disaster for calling bucky babygirl because it was incredibly funny to me

Previous part || Series masterlist

Everyone is besotted with the cat.

It makes sense– everyone hates Bucky and will dance with glee upon his downfall. This is all his opinion, of course. The truth is that it is a cat and exists and everyone is thrilled.

Sensing his awful vibes towards her and the constant suspicion he thinks of her with, she decides she likes sitting outside his room at the early hours of the morning and screaming for him to open up.

Once he does, she strolls in leisurely, takes a look around and then strolls back out. Everyday. On the clock. An alarm clock that will cough up a hairball in front of his door should he not open it to her.

Also turns out she doesn’t have brown spots, the cat was just dirty. She’s pure white and you’ve taken to calling her something to do with snow or blizzards or something.

She is his mortal enemy. Bucky doesn’t stop to think that his biggest problem being a feud with a cat is possibly an indication that his life has gotten significantly better.

As with every week, you bang on his door on Friday morning.

Bucky, who's just fallen asleep after the stupid cat ceremoniously woke him up that morning, does not find this ritual as entertaining as you do, but his opinion has rarely held weightage in matters such as his sanity or his sleep schedule.

He does considr for a whole day that you and the cat are in cahoots to ensure he is as miserable as possible. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility– Sam talked to birds or and Clint talked to lizards or whatever.

You yell something incomprehensible to him. Bucky yells something back. The world keeps spinning, nothing changes.

Other than the sinking feeling on his chest, that was a bit more pronounced than usual, to the point where it’s a bit hard to breathe.

He pries open one eye, ready to name five things he sees, four things he hears, three things he touches.

The stupid cat smacks him in the face.

He shoves her off his torso, and along with her, the sinking feeling also reduces.

After a very useful day of staying in bed no less than three attempts to get back to sleep, Bucky sneaks out of the tower when dusk begins to fall to hopefully get some rest on the park’s grass.

It’s a nice evening out, the sky was painted a burnt orange, and the air wasn’t too chilly. He could even stop for a burger on the way back to top off a lovely nap.

But even a gorgeous sunset is not enough to distract him from his heightene awareness going off.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a black van trailing slowly behind him.

He picks up the pace, jogging past a street food vendor and a newspaper stand, and the van only speeds up to keep up.

Soon enough, Bucky breaks into a sprint, ducking into an alleyway and waiting until the van drives past him before stalking back out, eyes vigilant.

Whatever. Stalker be damned, he was going to go to the fucking park. And get a burger.

But the second he makes a turn on the street corner, the same black van pulls right up to him, not leavning even two feet of space between it and him.

Bucky, annoyed and with 80 years worth of boredom with this schtick, scowls as he yanks open the damn door, ready to just punch and move on with his day.

“Get in loser, we’re going out,” you call from the driver’s seat.

He growls, letting the handle go. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? I literally told you in the afternoon that I’m picking you up and you starting running from me, you baboon,” you exclaim. “Is that what you’re wearing in this video? Did you not do your laundry?”

Alright, so maybe it was on him to figure out what you actually yelled at him through the door earlier in the day. That doesn’t stop him.

Nostrils flaring, he continues to ignore you. “Who the fuck does this? Why do you have a van?”

“Style,” you insist. “We’re gonna be late, now come on. We’re leaving.”

Sensing that this conversation had reached a standstill, Bucky employs his next best technique.

“Where?” he demands.

“You’ll find out when we get there. Now get in,” you pat the spot next to you before pulling up your phone. “We’ll get there in about an hour–”

“No.”

Your neck cranes slowly to look at him incredulously. “The fuck you mean ‘no’?”

“You could be kidnapping me.” He stands with his arms crossed, tone defiant.

“Right,” you snort. “You seen yourself? Food laws say I need a cooling truck to transport that much beef around.”

Bucky feels his mouth opening and shutting almost immediately, a strange feeling creeping into the tips of his ears.

He clears his throat. “I’m not getting in the car unless you tell me where we’re going.”

“I’m not fuckin’ kidnapping you Bucky,” you say, loudly. “And even if I wanted to do it– which I don’t, because you can be so annoying sometimes– you’d never see it coming.”

“How would I know?” He’s offended that you only think he’s annoying sometimes when he’s been working very hard to make sure it’s a constant feature of his. “Who’s to say there’s not some guy in there with a gun–”

“A gun wouldn’t do shit when you’re so thick in the head–”

“And then SHIELD’s gonna have to shell out the ransom–”

“SHIELD would pay them to keep you.”

“Oh, so you are kidn–”

“Get in the car,” you say loudly before sitting upright, and turning your attention to the windshield again. “Or don’t. I don’t give a shit.”

He narrows his eyes at you grabbing the steering wheel, while your telekinesis moves to close the door on him.

Bucky sticks his metal hand between the door and the car, and pries it back open before climbing in.

“Now what,” he mumbles, arms still crossed over his chest like he’s throwing a tantrum. He even refuses to put the seatbelt. Rebellion.

You don’t answer, and the car doesn’t move.

When he looks over at you, you have a triumphant, smug smile on your face.

“What,” he bites.

You tsk. “Reverse psychology. Always works with children.”

Bucky immediately grabs at the handle, but the locks immediately click into place and you step on the pedal and send the van flying down the road before he has a chance to throw himself out.

The car pulls up to a mansion.

All the windows are closed and covered in newspaper, giving him no indication as to what was inside. The lawn was mostly brown, with weeds taking up more space than grass and dead flowers lining the fence.

“There’s gotta be like 5 bedrooms in that thing,” you note, as you both make your way towards it. “How many ghosts do you think are in there?��

“Zero,” Bucky states plainly.

You continue to talk like he doesn’t exist. “A house that big, there’s gotta be a ghost butler in there. Maybe a ghost maid.”

“None.”

“Five ghost maids, one for every room, and maybe a cook–”

Bucky starts speed walking, leaving you behind to admire the structure looming over the both of you, only illuminated by the streetlights outside.

Bucky knocks hard on the door, annoyed that it was getting colder and that he was stuck in his stupid running shorts in a house that definitely had no heating for the evening.

Eventually, you end up beside him, talking as he keeps his sight fixed right ahead.

Checking your phone to confirm the address, you mumble absentmindedly to him, “This kid tweeted us like fifteen times in the last week, this is gonna be a sick surprise. I love meeting my fa–”

“A surprise?” Bucky jerks his head towards you. “You didn’t tell him we’re coming?”

“Well no,” you lower your phone, “because that would give the ghosts some warning and we–”

His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “We can’t just go into some random kid’s house and film–”

“He’s hardly random, he’s been bombarding our inbox–”

Your defence is cut off when the door creaks open painfully, slowly, like it was letting out its last dying breath.

“Woah,” you whisper, eyes wide. “Ghost door.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky mumbles.

“Hello?” you call out.

When no one replies immediately, Bucky shoves his hands into his pockets, ready to leave.

Instead, you shove him to the side, taking his pace in front of the house. He offers no resistance, only a growl in annoyance.

You clear your throat, before calling loudly, “Hewwo–”

A dark hooded figure springs out at breakneck speed from behind the door, arms raised high, legs wide.

You don’t look fazed at all, staying entirely still, only with one eyebrow raised.

“Right,” you say. “You must be Jason.”

“Yuh,” he answers.

“Where are your parents?” Bucky demands immediately, choosing to ignore the full body cringe his own words give him.

“Indianna or something, man. I dunno?” The door trembles open a bit more, giving you a clearer look at the guy. “Do you guys wanna come in? It’s cold.”

You take a step inside the huge foyer, almost steretoypically complete with a cascading staircase and big paintings of people on horses and stuff.

Jason eventually peels the hoodie away from his face, shoving his arms inside the sleeves and spinning it around so he was wearing it the right way.

“This is Bucky, by the way,” you introduce before beckoning to the man who had refused to move all this while. “Come on, babygirl.”

Bucky does not look wowed with the theatrics as he stands there, arms folded tight across his magnificent chest.

Jason looks at you. “Is babygirl coming?”

Bucky inhales sharply while you stifle a laugh. “Do not call me that.”

“Oh, he loves it when people call him that, he’s just super pissy because he didn’t get enough attention today,” you coo. “Get in here Bucky.”

He glares at you with enough intensity to set the house on fire.

The kid looks like he’s in his early twenties, with shaggy brown hair that hides sleepy eyes, bad posture and a clean shaven face.. His hoodie is paired with grey sweatpants and yellow flip flops that were about one size too small for him.

“Why’d you tweet at us?” Bucky questions, wondering what he had to do with anything.

Jason juts his chin up contemplatively. “What do you guys do again?”

You stare at him to avoid how Bucky was staring at you.

“We hunt ghosts and help old ladies cross the street.” You flash him a smile.

“Cool.” Jason nods appreciatively. “I don’t have an old lady here.”

Your eyebrow twitches. Bucky would have taken great joy in your awkwardness had he not felt entirely exasperated by the whole exchange.

“Well, Jason, you DM’d us about the ghost in the house,” you communicate even slower. “The one that was being rude?”

“Oh, right,” he drags out. “You’re the people from YouTube. Avengers. I didn't think y’all were real, lol.”

“What the fuck.” Bucky mumbles to himself, because there was no way this guy said ‘LOL’ out loud. “Did you just invite us inside your house without knowing who we are–”

“Yes, we’re those people,” you interrupt, pulling out a card from your fucking sleeve. “The Graveyard Shift crew, ready and at your service.”

“Since when do we have business cards?” Bucky presses.

“Ignore him, he’s an intern.” You drop the card onto Jason’s hand. “Anyway, we’re the best rated ghost hunters within a twenty yard radius. Maybe even thirty, but I don't wanna get too ahead of myself.”

“Radical.” He flips the card back and forth without actually reading anything. Bucky wonders if he was looking for pictures. “Aren’t you supposed to have like, tech and people and stuff?”

“Some of us have performance anxiety–” you give Bucky a side eye and he rightfully looks absolutely incensed. “So, I’ve got a camera following us at all times and I’ve got all the tech we need.”

Bucky suddenly feels very aware of something hovering behind him, and it takes an incredible amount of self-restraint to not instinctually slap it out of existence.

He whips around to find a camera floating mid air, aimed directly at him almost like it is waiting for a reaction. While weird, it was still better than the stupid GoPro on his head that elongated his forehead to a sixhead.

“And I’ve got a REM Pod, a spirit box to pick up sounds when they talk to us, a water gun full of assorted waters from different beliefs for one gigantic spirit burning milkshake–” you list rapidly and Bucky cannot even tell where the fuck you’re pulling these things out from. “So, we should be good to go.”

Jason doesn’t look bothered at all, as he drags out, “Cool, lol.”

Bucky almost feels offended on your behalf by the little twerp.

“Hold this,” you instruct, pressing the spirit box into Bucky's chest without giving him a choice. “Ready whenever you are, but before we start I just wanted to ask– why’d you come to us for help? I’m sure you have plenty of options.”

“Oh,” the guy says, wiping his hands down the side of his sweatpants. “You guys are Avengers and stuff…”

He doesn’t add anything else, watching you both like it was obvious.

When neither of you offer an answer, he continues “I mean, no one else seemed to like, know kickboxing and shi–”

“I’m sorry– kickboxing?”

“Or like, karate.” He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “Whatever you guys are into, I don’t really care what style of combat it is.”

When it finally clicks, Bucky snorts. “You want us to fuckin’ fight your ghost?”

“Yeah, like a punch or something, I guess.” Jason looks too serious. “He’s being a real bitch dick.”

You exhale steadily. “First of all, how do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

Jason shakes his head, and his hair falls directly into his one eye, leaving you to only look at the other. “I’m pretty sure it’s my uncle.”

“Your uncle?”

“Well yeah,” the guy responds, “this is his house. He built it and decorated it and shit.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “You didn’t mention that in the brief.”

Bucky looks at you. “You got a brief?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s my uncle’s house, I guess,” Jason continues when you wave Bucky off. “He, like, kicked the bucket a few years ago. Like, totally died off.”

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together.

“We weren’t, like, close or anything but I guess he didn’t have any other relatives which figures, because he’s a pain in the ass, but I’m the next male heir or whatever, so I got it.”

“Male heir,” Bucky repeats slowly, wondering which fucking TV show he’s walked into.

“A 6BHK in this economy is a fuckin’ castle,” you shush him, turning to Jason again. “Didn’t you bother renovating or anything?”

“Clearly not,” Bucky mumbles, because he may have only known Jason for a grand total of a few minutes, but he really doubts that it was he who picked out redwood furniture and gold trimmings.

“Nah, I don’t care. I usually spend all day doing gigs at my friend’s house but he told me I can’t keep throwing ragers there every night so I wanna do that here but he’s just being a big baby about it,” he explains all in one breath.

“What gigs?” Bucky asks curiously.

“I’m a DJ who specialises in acoustic EDM,” he says, chest puffing in pride.

“Of course.” Bucky nods in return.

Jason turns to you. “Didn’t think you guys were coming, not gonna lie.”

“You just do that whole door opening show to everyone?” you ask, amused.

“Uh, no, I just heard you guys arguing outside and thought it’d be funny,” he says. “I got you guys good, lol.”

“Well, not me,” you counter, “but Bucky, for sure, pissed his pants a litt–”

“Anyway, here’s the keys. I’m out,” Jason cuts in. “It’s my last three performances at Rick’s house.”

He tosses the key at babygirl’s Bucky’s chest, who instinctively catches it with ease.

“You’re just giving us the house for the night?” Bucky stares at him incredulously.

“Yuh. There’s, like, beer in the fridge if you want. No one delivers here ‘cause someone snitched that this place is haunted, which was kinda fucked. So there’s ramen in the fridge too if you’re hungry.”

“Why is there ramen in–”

“See y’all later, lol,” he takes off without another word.

Bucky’s left staring after the guy who just strolls down the garden and out the gate without a second look.

“I think I want to adopt him.” Your gaze trails after him, before you crack your knuckles. “Alright. Let’s get this guy’s bitch dick uncle.”

The longer Bucky spends in the house, he can tell with absolute certainty that someone loved this place deeply. It is styled and decorated with the flair of a passion project, even though it currently looked like it dreamed of being a landfill when it grew up. There were cobwebs everywhere and several dust bunnies in every corner, and also many crushed cans of beer all around the floor.

The previous owner had taste for sure. Bucky’s not sure if he’d appreciate Jason turning it into the newest hotspot for his ragers. Whatever that meant.

“How long are we going to be here?” he asks, swiping a finger across the table.

“Why, you got something to do?” you pause before adding, “Or someone to do?”

He sends you a jaded glance. “None of your business.”

“You literally called me the love of your life.” You scoff from your corner of the room.

“You called yourself that,” Bucky reminds monotonously.

“And you have never denied it.”

“I’m denying it right no-”

“Bzzt, too late. Anyway,” you announce. “Your hot date will have to be postponed, I fear. We are not leaving until we get some sort of proof.”

“Two hours.” Bucky holds up two dust coated fingers.

“I’ll buy you a pretzel.”

“Three hours.” His middle finger goes up in solidarity.

You grin. “More than enough. We’re gonna make you a believer, babygirl.”

True, and surprisingly enough, an hour later, his whole life changes.

“Holy shit,” Bucky can’t quite believe his eyes either, stomach turning.

“What?” You’re somewhere behind, stupid machine held up as you spin around like a ballerina waiting for something to do something and make a noise or some shit. He doesn’t know.

Bucky has tucked the spirit box behind his ear like a pencil, arms gripping the doors.

“What the hell,” he trails off slowly, eyes glued to the sight in front of him, hypnotising.

“Did you find something?” you whisper-yell, and the camera whizzes past you into his line of sight.

Bucky swallows the bile in his throat.

“When he said ramen’s in the fridge, I didn’t think he meant he boiled a fuckin’ bucket full of noodles and just left it in there. What the fuck.” He grabs the aforementioned bucket and lifts it into the air. “Who does this? What the fuck?”

You let out a huff, lightly stomping yor foot. “Be so serious right now.”

“Are you crazy? Look at this.” Bucky spins it around to look at it from every angle. “It’s got ‘Jason’s ramen’ written on it. Who the fuck else’s would this be?”

“You’re supposed to be looking for ghosts,” you insist. “That is demonic behaviour. It’s not the same.”

“I’m lookin’ for snacks,” Bucky puts the damn bucket back and ignores it to look through the rest of the fridge. “There’s nothing here. What does that kid eat?”

“If you’re looking for snacks, you gotta look in the mirror,” you hum hopefully.

“Hilarious.” Bucky’s voice comes back muddled from the several bottles of beer in the fridge.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s not useful.” you correct, “You said you’re looking for snacks, not a whole meal.”

He stops briefly. Bucky’s not sure what to do with all this strange attention you give him. It makes him feel all sorts of ways and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Whatever,” he mutters, continuing to scavenge.

“Woah, calm down there, Prince Charming.” You snicker. “Give a person a warning before pulling out all your best lines on me like that.”

“You’re supposed to be working, not flirting,” Bucky responds, feeling the same burn at the tip of his ears from that evening.

“When I was in the events business, multitasking was considered a valuable and necessary skill.”

Bucky stands up so fast he nearly hits his head on the fridge.

“What’s with all these random jobs you keep saying you’ve done?” he questions. “They told me you went on the run a long time ago and that’s where you met Nat.”

Your face changes, features becoming more solemn. He doesn’t know what’s going on, because he’s never seen you this serious before, not even when you guys were hanging out in the library.

“Bucky,” your voice drops a few octaves, straight and steady. “Answer me this honestly.”

He feels a bit defensive because it almost feels like he’s fucked up somehow.

“What?” he questions.

You watch him for another second before taking a step toward him, observing him closely.

“Did you really ask people about me?”

He straightens up ever so slightly. “Why?”

You look at him gravely. “I got one more question.”

You take another step, reducing the space btween you to almost a ciminally low amount. Bucky’s sure he can hear your heartbeat.

You watch his eyes look into yours intently, a flciker or doubt there.

You open your mouth, voice low and strong, “When will you admit to yourself you’re obsessed with me?”

It takes a second for it to register, and almost instantly he shoves you away, only to have you break into a laugh.

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

“You have a crush on me,” you sing, “why else are you going around asking your friends about me? Do you want them to put in a good word? You gonna ask them to deliver your handwritten note to me?”

“Fuck right off, and then fuck off some more,” he barks, grabbing a beer from the front of the line.

“Don’t worry, Buck, I think you’re the cutest guy in our whole grade, no competition,” you drawl, grinning at the pissed expression on his face.

Bucky swerves around you to beeline to the kitchen island to drink his stupid beer in peace. He thinks that his retirement age is actually nearing.

A house like this, with a room for Steve and another guest room for whoever wanted to visit. Possibly a dog. There wasn’t musch left in life to do, so he may as well spend the rest of it out in the suburbs in quiet.

A few seconds later, you break the silence with, “But to answer your question: I did go on the run. I just did all those jobs while I was running.”

He turns to you, noting that while your face was light, it seemed like there was sincerity and truth in what you were saying.

“Why?” he asks, voice gruff.

You shrug, half a smile on your face. “Why not? I met Nat when she broke down the door of my accountancy office on one of her missions. I threw some staplers and hit a guy with a printer, and from then on, whenever I needed help or she needed my freaky little powers, we’d reach out. Years later, she asked if I wanted to come join, I was bored and now here we are. I’m a nepo baby, if you kinda think about it.”

Bucky looks at you, but says nothing.

“Anyway, brief history aside, I’m going upstairs. There’s nothing here other than your bitchy aura and bucket ramen.” The camera spins around to follow you.

Bucky simply ignores you as he swipes all the garbage off the counter and onto the ground so he can lean against it, alone with his beer and new information to process.

However, a loud creek, unmistakable and intense, comes from the floor above.

You look at Bucky. He doesn’t look the least bit bothered, instead using his metal hand to pop open a beer he fished out of the damn fridge.

“Can you shut up,” you hiss when he drinks a little too loud for your liking.

“What,” he asks through a mouthful of beer as he drops the bottle cap onto the counter.

Another creek reverberates loudly through the house.

You make a face at him, somewhere in a mix between excitement and anticipation.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” he inquires.

“Two creeks in the last minute,” you insist, like he’s stupid.

He scoffs. “So? It’s an old house, if you breathe too hard the floor’s gonna fall off.”

“It is literally not that old. And second, it’s too much of a coincidence.” You make way towards the stairs, beckoning for him to follow. “And take the spirit box out of your hair, we need to catch if it’s saying something.”

“You're not gonna catch anything because it’s not going to speak because ghosts are not real.” He takes a large swig.

You ignore him, leaving in search of the sound.

Bucky takes a second before following you anyway, bored out of his mind and with nothing really to do.

“You comin’ in?” he asks from inside the spacious room, beer in hand.

“I didn’t even buy you dinner yet and you’re already inviting me into your bedroom.”

“Jesus Christ. Stay outside then.”

The room has a strange, musty smell. Bucky, sick and tired of the ebay this kid has been living, drags open the window to let some fresh air in, going so far as to tear a large hole through the newspaper to let the moonlight into the room.

“Someone keeps moving the furniture back and forth, there’s scratches all over the floor,” you observe, pointing to the ground near the table and the bed.

“Uh huh,” he says, tossing the spirit box onto the table before taking another swig, ducking out of the way of the camera.

You scan every corner with the machine in your hand. Bucky wanders around aimlessly for a second before usefully sitting on the bed, leaning against the pillows.

“You gonna take your shirt off next?” you question.

Bucky rolls his eyes, taking another sip from his bottle. “Pay attention. Your demons are trying to talk t-.”

The bed immediately lurches from underneath him, scraping loudly against the wood.

“What the fuck–” he exclaims, getting right back up, heart in his throat for a damn second.

You stifle a laugh.

“I’ve had enough of you today.” He puts the damn bottle down on the nightstand. “I’m leaving.”

“We didn’t even light the candles yet, you can’t–”

The bed scrapes back into place again, but this time Bucky is prepared and done.

“Stop doing that,” he snaps, “you’re ruining the flo–”

“I didn’t do that,” you tell him, eyebrows and hands raised, “That definitely wasn’t me.”

“Hardy har har. You didn’t push the bed, you didn’t climb the tree in the cemetery, you didn’t conjure up hallucinations of my–” He stops himself abruptly.

It’s too late, though. You very much caught it.

The look you give him is peculiar. “Hallucinations of your what?”

“Nothing,” he utters. “Got my wires crossed. Nothing to do with you.”

“Okay,” you drag out, giving him one more uncanny look before turning your attention to the bedpost. “Anyway, I promise you the second one was definitely not me. There’s something else going on here.”

Bucky is starkly sent back to fifteen minutes ago and his thoughts of retirement as he watches you crouch by the floor.

He was too old for this. He was not right for this. The three second glance at his dead sister and his entire life had gone lopsided. Honestly, he could probably handle like two or three more episodes of this nonsense before tapping out completely.

“I can sense something,” you announce.

“I can sense something too,” he murmurs absentmindedly to himself. “It’s called bullshi–”

“Be quiet, I want to see if we can talk to the guy in the room.” You hold your hand up. “Hey Jason’s uncle. You here?”

He watches, unamused, as nothing changes. No machine beeps, nothing creeks.

“Bucky, you scared him away.” You turn to him, hands on your hips. “You used your big bitch face and you scared away th–”

He launches a pillow at you. It lowers to the ground without ever touching you.

“Go eat some bucket ramen and maybe you’ll be less bitchy.” Your face lights up, and he can tell you’ve gotten another stupid idea. “Jason’s uncle, are you hungry? Do you want something to eat? Human blood? Metal arm?”

Silence.

“No pretzels for you,” you tsk, but let go of the idea anyway.

“Maybe your ghost boyfriend likes them, why don’t you ask him?” He pulls out his phone to book himself an Uber. “And since he literally doesn’t talk and you don’t shut up, it’d be a great ma–”

The same pillow he launched at you gets thrown back at him. He simply ducks out of the way, and it hits the nightstand, toppling the bottle over.

“Now look at what you did,” you accuse, pointing at the bottle with the camera following suit.

“The fuck? I didn't do shit–” Bucky stops speaking when something nudges his leg.

The bottle that initially had clattered to the ground quite a feet away from him was now by his foot.

“Interesting,” you muse.

“What?” he questions immediately. “That a bottle rolled? It’s a bottle. They do that.”

“Uh huh. Come stand here then.” You jut your thumb out to a few paces away.

He rolls his eyes but takes a large stride towards you.

Annoyingly, the bottle rolls right along with him and lands up at his feet.

“Ghost,” you nod along certainly.

“Why isn't it doing that then?” he argues on instinct, and then his mind catches up, forcing him to take a step back and wonder why the fuck he was still in the house.

Once again, he genuinely believes that this should be enough. Ghost hunted for a few episodes, read a few stories. He thinks his numbers should be up and that would be convincing enough for Maya to let him get away from the series, especially if he played his 80-years-of-imprisonment card right.

“You're right.” You peer at him before turning your head up to the ceiling. “Please, ghost man. Please, I’m begging you, hit this man. Plea–”

Bucky feels something smack lightly against the back of his head before falling to the ground.

A second later you erupt into cheers and he turns around to look at the culprit.

A crumpled up piece of paper. He bends down to pick it up, finding nothing special about it other than some random scribbles. Probably some more of Jason's junk.

“Ghosts are real and they hate Bucky Barnes, baby!,” you cheer. “Ohh, I’m gonna make so much money. Babygirl, you are a poltergeist magnet. ”

“It’s a piece of paper and the window is open,” he groans, tossing it back onto the ground, where it dances around, proving his point. “The wind carried it over and it touched my head.”

“Right. The wind.” You roll your eyes. “You’re like, fifteen feet tall, only God can see the top of your head.”

“That doesn’t mean any–”

“Hush, I’m thinking. Quiet, human Burj Khalifa.” You hold your hand up. “Let’s see. The ghost knocks on furniture when we were downstairs. It shoves the bed and rolls a bottle around on the ground when we’re arguing and right when you’re leaving, it throws a piece of paper at you. What could it all mean?”

“I got it.” BUccky straightens up. “Holy shit, I think I know what it means.”

“What?” you ask, wonder and mystery. “What does it mean?”

“It means that my Uber’s here,” Bucky replies in the same tone and mystery. “You’re insane. I’m leaving. Bye.”

“Ugh, you’re such a loser. If I turn up dead, you’ll have been the last person to see me alive.”

“I’ll see you at home.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his shorts before turning on his heel.

“I do not have a home.” you say, reaching to grab the piece of paper he discarded and shoving it into your bag;

“Okay, see you on the news, then.” He kicks the damn bottle out of the way before heading out the door. “I’ll make sure they use a real nice picture of you.”

“Bitch–” you begin, when something catches your attention

The bed creeks loudly, reflexes instantly sending him into fight or flight.

Bucky turns to you to cuss you out again for the nth time that evening, but you’ve also got a look of confusion painted all over you.

“Hold on,” you say strangely, voice thick with theorising, “I think I actually figured it out.”

When Jason finally makes his way back to the house two hours later, his hair is littered with stray bits of confetti and his eyes are smudged with eyeliner. He’s got a smoothie cup full of glittery red liquid and a straw, and what looks like little bits of fruit floating around in there.

“Looks like the gig was a rager,” you comment.

“Nah this wasn’t from the gig. I got lost,” he dismisses, and then refuses to expand further. “Anyway, you kicked his ass, right?”

You look at Bucky, who is standing with his arms crossed over his chest, bitch face on full blast as he looks pissed in the corner.

“Your uncle– he decorated this house himself, right?” you prompt.

“Yeah.” Jason says, taking a sip from his unidentified liquid. “He got a bunch of shit custom made.”

“Right.” You nod. “And when you came in here, did you shift the furniture around?”

“Yeah, lol, it was mad ugly,” Jason divulges, taking one large last sip before dropping his cup onto the ground. “Mine’s way better.”

“Have you considered that maybe… your uncle doesn’t like that?” you try gently, eyes following the cup as it clatters gracefully onto the ground.

Bucky talks to himself under his breath, the same as when you told him that the only time spooky shit had happened was when he dropped bottle caps, shifted beds out of their original places, left behind bottles and other paper. But he doesn’t contradict you.

“I see,” Jason says. “What’s wrong with moving furniture again?”

Bucky wonders how the guy made it to this age. “Maybe he just doesn’t like you moving his shit around. Not that there’s a ghost at all.”

“Hmm,” he says, following along. “So I stop moving the bed and other stuff, and he’ll stop being such a bitch?”

“And maybe he doesn’t like you leaving trash around the place?” you eye the cup, completely understanding where the uncle was coming from.

“Okay,” Jason says again.

“So you’ll stop?” you proposition slowly.

He shrugs. “Nah, I like it better this way.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky exhales.

You hold back an audible groan.

“You could, like, punch him to get him off my back. Like, all the way off my back,” the guy suggests instead. “Like, sucks for him that he’s dead, I guess, but it’s like, my house now.”

You stay quiet and wait.

Sure enough, the cup from earlier bumps into his leg in silent fury.

He stares down at it, giving it a kick. It rolls away before rolling right back with malice. Bucky narrows his eyes at it, too tired at this point to even complain.

“This house is weird, man,” Jason declares after fifteen rounds of kicking it and watching it roll back.

“Look–” you sigh. “You could just stop littering, and he’ll stop messing with your layout.”

“And take out the trash more than once a month,” Bucky adds from under his breath.

“Life’s all about compromises. You get his house for free and he gets a clean house to spend his afterlife in.”

“No such thing,” Bucky adds.

You send a glare his way.

“I see,” Jason contemplates, as if it’s the toughest decision on earth to pick up his crushed soda cans. “Yeah, okay.”

A second later, the cup finally stops trying to assault his now pink flip flops. and comes to a standstill.

The both of you peer at him.

“What?” he asks.

Your gaze drifts down.

It takes a very long second for it to click.

“Oh ‘Kay,” he says, bending over to pick it up and place it back on his table, looking at you for confirmation, to which you nod.

It stays in its place.

“Radical,” he says.

No one says anything further. The bed doesn’t make a noise either. The air is almost dropping with awkwardness.

You clear your throat. “Well, that concludes it then. Pleasure meeting ya.”

“You too.” Jason gives you a thumbs up, following it with a peace sign.

“Bye,” Bucky says curtly, turning to walk out the room.

“Oh! Here’s our business card, in case you or anyone else you–”

Bucky spins you around by your shoulders and drags you out of the room with him.

On the way back, you sort through all the footage from the evening while Bucky drives the van back.

Thankfully, it has been relatively quiet the entire time, except for the soft sounds of the radio and the buzz of the heater. Bucky tunes out for most of the ride, one hand on the wheel and the other propping up his head.

“Huh,” you comment out of the blue. “That’s fun.”

“What?” he asks inattentively .

“I guess his uncle really was hungry,” you consider.

Bucky simply keeps quiet and waits for you to go on if you choose to.

“Piece of paper that he threw at you–”

“Piece of paper that the wind picked up,” even his entertaining of you has a limit, but he isn’t paying much attention.

“It’s got letters on it,” you shove the sheet in front of his eyes, forcing him to swerve on the road in an instant.

“I’m driving,” he hisses, shoving it aside swiftly. “Do you want us to die?”

“Yeah, yeah, but look at it,” you insist, only to hold it close to his face again. “Does this mean anything to you? It did hit you across the head.”

He refuses to believe you at first, but the second he glances at it, it’s unmistakable.

‘PB&J’ written messily across the page, small letters, lines jagged like someone was struggling to write with their non-dominant hand.

“That’s nothing,” he dismisses quietly, “He’s a college kid. They live on that shit.”

“Or maybe someone in the afterworld really misses their PB&J,” you hum.

Bucky doesn't answer, because the alternative is worse. The alternative means something is going very, very wrong.

But you don't seem to pay him any heed, going right back to sorting through footage.

It’s probably why you don’t notice that his one handed grip on the steering wheel gets tighter, and his face quietly drains of colour.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #unsolved fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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draconic-desire · 1 year ago

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your yan!neuvi series got me on a chokehold !! I feel so bad for darling but it got me thinking, would neuvillette ever allow them to i dont know, go visit mondt to look at their parents’ grave (?).

Neuvillette meets his (dead) in-laws edition 😂

Ok this idea is simultaneously kinda funny but also makes me cry a bit because I totally think Neuvillette would have ensured your family’s wellbeing in your absence. Despite his flaws, he still maintains his overwhelming sense of duty and justice.

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

(A Dance with the Dragon Interlude)

Talking about your life four centuries ago has become a bit of a taboo in the household you share with Neuvillette.

Mostly, it only serves to incite an argument, one you are always predestined to lose. The other times, it only reminds you of painful memories. So, you’ve learned to bite your tongue, to keep your past held tightly to your heart. Neuvillette doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, you believe he might prefer if your history were to be wiped from your mind completely, leaving a blank slate for him to carve his essence into.

Which is why you’re so shocked when, on a particularly storming evening, the Chief Justice himself requests, “Tell me about what your parents were like.”

Jolting, you nearly drop the book in your hands. He’s not looking at you—usually, having his gaze on you translates to irritation, concern, or lust. When he’s looking away from you, as he is now, irises trained on the waves battering the cliffs below your home, you know that means he is instead thinking, pondering.

But thinking about what? Your eyes narrow, and your heart accelerates. What is he getting at?

A hand clenches around your heart when you try to picture your mother and father in your head—and fail. Four hundred years without a visit or simple image…of course their features have faded over time. But you’ll never forget the warmth, the knowledge that they loved you until the end and supported your lifelong wish of pursuing marine biology, even when it took you away from them.

You only shake your head. “I don’t want to talk about that, Neuvillette.”

He turns to you, now, eyes filled with calculation. A judge presiding over his court. “I had no parents. I simply…came to exist. Born of the water, the waves, the sea foam, and bestowed with this primordial power.” He glances down at his gloved hand, palm squeezing into a fist. “So the idea of parents is…foreign to me. Though I have a sense of the kind of ceaseless, unconditional love that defines a family.” You know he’s talking about his feelings for you, and your tattoo burns. “Experiencing a loss of that magnitude would be incomprehensible.”

For the life of you, you cannot figure out his endgame here. Why acknowledge your loss? Why equate his adoration and obsession with you for parental love? Your eyes burn, your breath quickens, you feel the tattoo pulse with energy as you—

“Do you ever wonder about how they lived the rest of their lives?”

Yes. No. Everyday. Somehow, you find your voice, a quiet thing filled with warning. Your skin feels so hot, like your veins are laced with lightning. “And how would you know anything about that?”

Neuvillette’s sharp eyes cut to your frame. “I…made sure that they were fully provided for. They lived happy lives, believing you to be living out your dreams in Fontaine. They are now buried together, in the cathedral cemetery overlooking the Brightcrown Mountains.”

Your breath hitches, and that power in your blood begins to settle. Their favorite place. The Brightcrown Mountains, where your father proposed to your mother. The Favonius Cathedral, where they were married. And the cemetery behind the church, where your grandparents had been entombed, too.

Something falls onto your lap. It’s only when you touch your hands to your face that you realize you’re crying. Neuvillette watches you with concern, one hand raised and poised to reach out to you, but he keeps his distance as he lets you process.

You release a shaky sigh. Was it true? Did they pass with no fear for your safety, in ignorant bliss of your extended life? The thought, although morbid in some ways, actually brings you a sense of peace. Your parents never had to endure the loss of you in the same way you had for them.

You swallow thickly, your voice hoarse with emotion. “Can we…visit them?”

That sets Neuvillette’s back ramrod straight as he blinks. You’ve only been out of the house a handful of times, and he was the one to bring this topic to light, but to venture out of Fontaine entirely? His protective and possessive instincts flare immediately, screaming at him to shut this idea down, to grab you and sink his teeth into your neck, dominant, claiming. But as his silver eyes flick across your face, taking in your tears, the tremble in your hands, the pit of mixed despair and relief in your eyes, he relents.

Slowly, he blinks, taking in a deep breath. You’re expecting an excuse, a verbal slap on this wrist disguised as concern for your safety. Which is why, for the second time tonight, you’re stunned when Neuvillette, rising to his feet, extends his hand. “I’ll take you there.”

~*~

The trip is easy, thanks to the Hydro Dragon’s teleportation abilities. The two of you arrive at the large square in front of the cathedral, the statue of Barbados towering above you. Briefly, you wonder what the Archon of Freedom thinks about your situation, or if he even deigns to care.

Not much has changed about Mondstadt in four hundred years. The streets still possess an older feel, cobblestone streets and stone walls surrounding the city. After seeing the drastic change in Fontaine, the fact envelopes you in a sense of comfort, knowing that at least one aspect of the world has aged alongside you, long-lived but unchanged.

It’s long grown dark, and the heavy downpour persists. Neither of you brought an umbrella as you ascend the stairs and wrap around to the cemetery behind the church. The rain, however, seems to dissolve into your skin rather than chilling you or soaking your clothes, no doubt another consequence of Neuvillette’s magic coursing through your veins.

The Hydro Dragon leads you to a small plot towards the back. Two tombstones are erected side by side, and you fall to your knees as you read: (Mother’s name) and (Father’s name) (L/n). Lives entwined to their last breath, they soar high above the clouds.

You hear a rustle of fabric, and soon Neuvillette has joined you, kneeling by your side. He raises his arm, and tendrils of blue light pool from his palm, forming the shape of beautiful flowers. They surround the graves, a sea of blues to celebrate your loved ones.

The two of you sit there for what could have been minutes or hours. All you know is that this is the most at peace you’ve felt in four hundred years.

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rationalnerd62 · 4 months ago

Text

Seeing some of the tags I got on the CR timeline post, I think I loved C3 for the exact same reasons some folks disliked it or struggled with it.

I liked the overarching arc. Don't get me wrong, mini-arcs like with VM and M9 are perfectly fine, but there's something narratively satisfying to me about BH following this consistent thread all along the campaign. This group started with a few questions (Who attacked Keyleth? Why? What is the meaning of those dreams? Where are Fearne's parents?) and uncovered a whole conspiracy that then revealed itself to the entire world. It reminds me of reading those Fantasy series where the characters hear about the upcoming battle in book 1 and finally get to it in book 14. I can't wait to rewatch and see the foreshadowing and hints that brought this group to this point.

I liked the constant discussions about the Gods. Listen, as a gay person raised in a Catholic family, boy I've had my dealings and issues with religion. But I find it nice to be able to put our own world aside and watch this fantasy world ask questions that would be very controversial in ours. What we know of the Gods of Exandria has fundamentally changed from the first episode of C3 to the last. We went through both ExU Calamity and Downfall during that time. Those Gods have changed from being so removed and above mortals, mystical entities incomprehensible to anyone who dared trying, to beings with a past before Exandria, a family they're willing to protect at all costs no matter how hurtful their siblings are to the mortals, aliens with flaws and faults and failings, full of nuances and grayness in a world that put half of them in a box of "Good" and the other half in a box of "Evil". And as those Gods have been humanised in front of our eyes, it brought the question of whether their power over mortals is still justified and relevant. And now Exandria is about to change, and I find it exciting. IMO, it gives even more of a reason to keep exploring Exandria in the future of Critical Role than if the status quo was maintained. It's hard to do something new in a world that doesn't evolve with the story.

And while I understand people would have loved more time with Bell's Hells (I would have loved that too!), I also kinda loved how rushed and short in time they've been feeling since they've heard of the solstice. They've had a ticking clock ringing in their ears for a while now. People make different decisions when they don't think they have the time to get some sleep on it. Would have Ashton tried to absorb the shard if the group didn't have to leave for Ruidus the exact next day? Would have Orym taken a sword that maybe shouldn't be his if they didn't have to leave for Aeor the next day? Would have Imogen absorbed Predathos if watching Downfall hadn't made them realise that the Gods will break the Divine Gate to keep the secret of Predathos hidden?

IMO, we still got plenty of very interesting character moments despite the limited amount of time those characters spent together. They've been through some shit together, and the friendships they made through the shared trauma will stick with them for years. Because yes, they are friends (except for Braius, that one is on a tightrope lol). But they've proven over and over again what they're willing to do for their tight crew of broken people.

Boy I am so very fond of them. Saying goodbye will be hard 🥹.

#critical role #bells hells #i just think theyre neat #ashton greymoore #imogen temult #orym of the air ashari

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secondsistershelby3 · 5 months ago

Text

Pairings : Silco x Jinx's sister!reader

Summary : You were Powder's twin sister or as Silco had started calling her, Jinx. You weren't as smart as her, you could fight well enough but nothing more and yet Silco took you along with her when Vander died. After 7 years you find yourself in the following situation

Warnings : !no series spoilers!, smut, 18+, semi-public sex, blowjob, let's pretend that Jinx is not a minor and that all this is legal and therefore EVERYTHING LEGAL, fluff with Silco (HE NEEDS IT)

Words: 1,3k

Notes : It seemed longer, I hope it's good anyway

"Can't you delay the meeting?" You were lying on your back with your legs crossed. You asked the question in a bored tone to Silco.

"you know I can't" Silco looked at you leaning on his chair

You snorted like a little girl when she doesn't get candy. You may not have inherited the same talents as Jinx but you certainly inherited the character.

"how boring you are" you turned on your stomach, one hand under your chin and one dangling as you looked at him with an increasingly bored face

"who cares if you postpone the meeting, they'll talk bullshit whether you postpone it or not" you dangled your other arm and let your face hit the desk

Silco sighed and approached with the chair "it won't last long"

"You always say that" your voice was almost incomprehensible given your face against the desk

Silco reached out to caress your head, he hesitated almost before touching you but finally he put it down and began to slowly caress your hair.

After almost a minute of silence with Silco caressing you, you untied and placed your hand on top of Silco's as you lifted your head and leaned to one side

"you're such a dick sometimes" Silco laughed at your statement. You reached out to put your arms around his neck and slowly got on his lap. You rested your head on his shoulder

You started kissing his neck. Silco gently pushed you back "no, we all know how this will end" he said with a hint of severity but also sweetness

You huffed louder and angrily stood up from his lap. Silco called you sighing "have your fucking meeting" you walked out of his office slamming the door. Silco put his hands on his face. Any person would have already died if they even tried to talk to Silco like that but not you.

---

"Can you believe that asshole preferred to have that fucking meeting than being with me?!" You ate a piece of apple. You were sitting on the sofa, with Mylo's mannequin next to you

You put your legs on the table in front of you "for him talking to other assholes like Finn is more important than being with me. WHAT THE FUCK" You said angry with pieces of apples in your mouth

You sighed and let your head fall back against the couch, reaching for another piece of apple.

"I'll teach that asshole a lesson...." You threw the apple core on the floor and got up from the sofa

---

It hadn't been long since you had rushed out of Silco's office and gone to your corner, but the meeting Silco was supposed to attend was about to start.

You ran to Silco's office, Sevika was in front of the door "what are you going to do?" She asked sharply as usual. "uuuhhh do you always want to know where I am?" You grinned, stopping in front of her. She huffed and turned her head and you used that moment to walk in hearing Sevika whisper "brat"

Silco who at that moment was smoking his usual cigar, raised his head and saw you enter "is the teenage anger over?" he asked sarcastically

"What do you think?" You smiled with your hands behind your back. You slowly walked behind the desk where Silco was sitting. He watched you move carefully until you turned his chair towards you.

"You were very mean to me before" you whispered lowering your hand from the top of the chair to the arm

"we already talked about it-" Silco closed his eyes in despair but you interrupted him "ok, I accept it" you smiled going between his legs. Your hands went further and further down and in the meantime your knees also went down. "Don't try it, the meeting is about to-"

"boss, they're here!"

Silco tried to pull you up but you quickly ducked under the desk and forcefully pulled the chair Silco was sitting in towards the desk, At that moment they all came in: Finn, Renni, Smeech, Chross and Margot

Silco glanced at you as everyone walked in.

You didn't really focus on what they were saying because you only had one thing on your mind: to teach Silco a lesson.

You started groping above the crotch of Silco's pants, you felt him stiffen, but he continued to speak with ease. Licking your lips, you quickly moved on to pulling down the zipper of his pants without making too much noise, as you pulled it down you felt Silco's hand grab your wrist.

You looked up at him, smiled and moved closer to his hand that was grabbing your wrist, you kissed it slowly from knuckles to fingers, after a few seconds he gently let go of your wrist.

It didn't take you long to pull his underwear down enough to let his cock out, you started licking it, you heard Silco cough to cover his grunt

"What's the matter, do you have a cold?" Finn asked sarcastically "more or less" Silco said without amusement

You continued to tease him by licking his cock until you took the tip in your mouth, his hand suddenly grabbed your hair. By now you couldn't even hear his voice anymore, you could only taste of his cock, you took it more and more in your mouth, you didn't see that Silco was putting his hand on his forehead pretending to have a headache

"Are you at least listening to us Silco?" Smeech asked arrogantly

"I'm listening" Silco replied a little too aggressively

You started sucking Silco's cock mercilessly, his hand trying to guide you without attracting too much attention

It was so good, every time it felt like the first time. Jinx didn't know about all this, you don't know how she would react and right now you don't want to know

Silco's hand seemed to be going slightly faster, a sign that he was about to come, the plan was to let go without letting him reach the peak, so you tried to pull away, but his grip was so hard that you could barely take your mouth off his cock, he pushed you deeper and you almost let out a gargle that everyone would hear.

You felt his seed in your mouth, his hand suddenly left you and you leaned back. Silco put his hands on his face and sighed, he hadn't even noticed that two tufts had fallen out of his I got off on my face

You smirked as you closed your eyes and wiped some of his seed that had fallen onto your chin.

Time passed and you didn't even notice, you didn't hear everyone leave. Silco bent down to talk to you "now we have a score to settle-" as soon as he bent down he saw your sleeping figure. He shook his his head and smiled, zipped up his pants, and reached under the desk to pick you up.

He put you on his knees , your head automatically rested on his shoulder. He turned his chair towards the huge window, looked out and then at you. He pushed your face towards him slightly and moved a lock of your hair, he stared at you for almost a minute

"You're lucky I love you brat" he gently rested your head on his shoulder

You had the Eye of Zaun in your hands you didn't even know it

"How long have you been there?" Silco asked as he continued to stare out the enormous window.

"since everyone left" Jinx replied lying on the board on the ceiling

"Do you have anything to say?" Silco asked, stroking your hair.

"I'm a little angry that you didn't tell me anything, but as long as you don't leave, because I may be your daughter but she's my sister" she rolled over onto her stomach "and I'm still willing to do something to you"

Silco smirked "you don't have to worry about that" Jinx hadn't even realized she had called herself his daughter It was strange but also comfortable.

He looked down at you "you don't have to worry at all" he kissed your head gently and relaxed back into the chair"

It had been a tough day but it had ended well.

#arcane #arcane x reader #silco x reader #silco #jinx #jinx arcane #sevika #sevika arcane

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call-sign-shark · 7 months ago

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Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x You

Summary: It was supposed to be an entertaining evening. Boxing fights, booze and party. It wasn't supposed to be one of the worst days of your life. || Featuring Tommy Shelby x Reader

Words: 4.5k

TW: angst+++, alteration of canon events, canonical violence, depictions of slaughter and body horror, main character death, Reader's husband dying, suicidal thoughts, graphic murder. Parts in bold are direct quotes from the show. Parts in Italics are direct quotes from preceding chapters. Also, Tommy will take more space in the next chapters.

Notes:

✞ Shorter chapter because it's extremely violent and angsty. Also, I'm super rusty so I tried to write it in a more direct style so it's prolly less poetic and beautiful.

✞ This is chapter 16 of the Arthur Shelby x You series Heaven in Your Eyes. Each chapter can be read as stand-alones but reading the whole series will make the experience far more intense.

PREVIOUS || Masterlist || NEXT PART

The extraordinary general meeting of the Shelby Ladies Club.

This is what Polly called this unexpected little meeting in the bathroom right in the middle of the rigged fight happening a few rooms away. When you entered the lavatory with Ada complaining about the sparring between Goliath and Bonnie, Aunt Pol was taking a cigarette from the silver case she was holding while Lizzie was fixing her hair.

“I love your messy bun, Heaven.” Lizzie complimented when she saw your reflection in the mirror she was using.

“Thank you Liz. Ada scolded me and decided that it would be a better hairstyle for tonight.”

“You never style your hair except for braids and it’s a fucking shame considering how beautiful and long your white mane is.” The young Shelby sister insisted.

“If you say so,” You snorted, amused, “What are you doing here? Plotting and scheming? Leave these for Thomas.” You smirked, sitting on the edge of a sink with movements as nimble as a cat. Your little cutting remark had the expected effect: the three girls laughed with sincerity, somewhat amused by the beef between you and the family’s boss. They had eventually learned that nothing could ever ease the tension between the two of you, so laughing about the matter was the only thing they could do. A part of you couldn’t help but think that they wouldn’t find it that amusing anymore if they knew the unhealthy turn your mutual hatred had taken.

What did you feel when we kissed? A shiver ran down your spine as you heard Tommy’s husky voice, as charming as venomous, whispering in your ear. It might only have been a memory, but you could almost feel his hot whisky breath brushing your skin.

“Heaven has some news.” Polly’s voice resounded in the bathroom, snatching you from your thoughts.

“Me?” You asked, batting your bambi lashes in incomprehension before the understanding of the situation slapped you right in the face.

“Well, tell her. Now! While the men are screaming for blood.” Polly sneaked a cigarette between her thin, red lips.

Your blood momentarily froze in your pale veins for this unexpected pregnancy wasn’t something you wanted to talk about. For sure Aunt Pol didn’t mean to do harm, but the surrounding chaos and your last encounter with Luca Changretta seriously eroded your wish to have a baby. The baby who made you so vulnerable during times that were anything but good. Moreover, a quick glance at Lizzie’s sad and anxious eyes had been enough for you to understand that something was weighing on her shoulders. Something you had guessed for a few days. Something she needed to talk about more than you. The corner of your mouth turned up in a half-smile.

“Well, I discovered something about Lizzie but I think she should be the one making the announcement. Shouldn’t you, Lizzie?” You winked, replacing one of your long white strands of hair behind your pierced ear with a naive pout. Glitters of hope and gratefulness suddenly sparkled in the ocean blue of the secretary’s eyes to whom you replied with a discreet nod before grabbing Polly’s cigarette case.

“I’m up the duff. And it’s Tommy’s.”

You took a long drag on the cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke by your nostrils as the attention was now on Lizzie. Even though Ada almost choked on her sip of gin, she quickly showed interest in the tall woman’s pregnancy. The only one you didn’t fool was old and cunning Aunt Pol who gave you a brief “okay I get it” glance before turning back to Lizzie.

It’s a girl. Call her Ruby. Ruby Shelby. She’ll be a star in a Hollywood movie.

You watched the scene with a light smile floating upon your plump and glossy lips, satisfied by the outcome of your little trick as well as the surprising unconditional support Lizzie was receiving after years of being seen only through her job as a prostitute. Admittedly, the reason behind the little push you gave to Lizzie Stark was purely selfish, but you couldn’t deny the fact that you kind of liked the woman despite never really interacting with her. She got the attention, and you got peace. It was a win-win situation.

“Congratulations, Lizzie.” You said, your siren-like voice as soft as a lazy ocean.

“She’s a real Shelby lady now. Just like you, Devil.” Polly’s smirk betrayed her amusement. You rolled your eyes teasingly before proudly showing your left hand and wiggling your small fingers to display the magnificent wedding ring Arthur had gifted you.

“What about you Hev? When are you planning to give us a little Arthur?” Ada suddenly asked, Lizzie's news had visibly rendered her sour mood better.

“I think one Arthur is enough for now, don’t you?” You got up from the sink and carefully smoothed the folds your revealing black dress, “Anyway. Ladies, let’s rejoin our gentlemen.”

“I guess the meeting is over.” Ada added with a little chuckle

Joining deeds to words, Polly gently hooked her arm with yours in a motherly gesture and guided you outside, where the crowd’s roars were echoing.

Laughs and cheers filled the room as Johnny Dog put on a show to get more men to bet on the winner of this fight. Swallowing a mouthful of gin, your seraphic traits turned into a wince at the burning sensation the alcohol left in your throat – that new batch was strong, indeed. The sweet taste that exploded on your tastebuds, when the tip of your rosy tongue licked your juicy lips, made you grin, or maybe it was the all-consuming smell of sweat and blood that lingered in the air. It might come off as surprising for other women, but you enjoyed watching fights. There was something brutal but so real about them. After all, humans were just animals wearing suits. Animals which, according to you, had barely learned to speak instead of growling.

Your lips pinched the cigarette as you took another drag you quickly blew, your eyes following blood spurting from Bonnie’s nose and splattering the ground. Although quieter than Polly, Lizzie, and Ada, who were laughing, screaming, and sometimes nudging you in excitement at each violent blow the Romani boy gave back to his opponent, you had a lot of fun. Until a peculiar but familiar feeling blossomed within.

It started with a chill creeping down your spine and ended up with light tremors shaking your frail silhouette. Instinctively, you raised your piercing gaze and searched for Arthur somewhere among the crowded rows of folded seats. Your usual calm demeanor faltered as you noticed that your husband seemed troubled by something, rapidly glancing from here and there, attempting to read the room for whatever reason. He didn’t even pay attention to you, far too busy observing the men that were around the boxing ring. Eventually, Arthur stood up and left, his steel blue eyes fixed on someone he followed through the depths of the building. Let me do my fucking job! That’s what he barked at Tommy, or at least what you thought you overheard.

You frowned as a strange sensation rippled through your mind – like a distant, haunting whisper of something looming, a threat. Nervously swallowing your saliva, your first reflex was looking at Tommy. You couldn’t place it, but the odd feeling gripped you tightly like an omen you couldn’t shake, warning you of an approaching storm. It seemed like little King Shelby shared your inner agitation though, for his mesmerizing turquoise eyes dived into yours with the same nervousness and incomprehension. Whatever the many reasons behind your hatred, you were definitely on the same wavelength at this very moment. The silent conversation, expressed through brief eyebrows and eye movements, was more or less the following:

-Where is he going?

-I don’t know. It’s prolly the booze and the pills.

-It’s not. I’ll check.

-Don’t fucking do that.

You stood up from your seat with a clenched jaw and, feeling the vibration of this bad omen quaking your soul itself, you nimbly snaked in and out through seats and followed Arthur’s steps. As was the case for your husband a few minutes ago, the dark corridor into which you rushed engulfed your ethereal silhouette like a hungry giant.

“Fuck.” Tommy mumbled, straightening on his seat and leaning forward, “Fuck.” He repeated, torn between his own doubts and his disdain for you. Nevertheless, if there was one thing he had learned since you joined the family was that your gut feelings were never wrong. You proved it several times, starting by foreseeing Charlie’s abduction. The dark-haired gangster sniffed and nervously rubbed his chin, his catlike eyes going back on forth between the corridor and the crowd. A few minutes later, Tommy finally left the fighting pit.

Something was definitely off.

Cautiously walking through the maze of dark hallways dimly lit by a bluish light, you tried to ignore the maddening beat of your heart that was drumming so loud you felt it hammering in your temples. You didn’t really know where you were heading, nor where Arthur went, but the more you moved forward, the more this unbearable feeling of dread and panic invaded you. Your aimless wandering came to an end when the strong and metallic smell of fresh blood and the atrocious sight that followed jumped at your face.

No.

Your heart nearly stopped when you saw him – your husband, slumped on the ground, blood soaking through the collar of his shirt as it gushed from the wound across his throat.

No!

Time seemed to slow down, and your heart seemed to stop as you took in the scene: the gun the Italian bastard was holding in his steady hand aimed at Arthur’s head.

Panic crashed over you like a tidal wave, washing away everything but the rage that had piled up within you during all these years. In that moment, something primal and destructive snapped inside of you. In a blur of rage and raw instinct, and with a guttural scream that seemed too inhumane to come from you, you launched yourself at the mafioso, who barely had the time to turn around. Another furious shriek escaped from your quivering lips, similar to the rabid screech of a wounded banshee, and with your fingers curled into claws, your sharp nails slashed across his face.

“PUTTANA!” The man yelled and gasped, taken aback by your unleashed fury.

The mafioso fired with his gun in a desperate attempt to kill you but the brutal impact between your two bodies threw him off balance and the shot reached the wall instead of your brain. As his spine crashed against the tiled ground, Changretta’s henchman dropped the weapon. You gave it a brutal blow to make it slide away from him.

Another wave of insults followed as he realized that he struggled to overpower you. You were fighting like a cornered animal, wild and relentless. Your claws scratched him again and again, leaving raw and jagged lines of blood all over his face. The mafioso's strength was starting to falter as he realized that you weren’t just fighting to win; you were fighting to kill him, your body moved by the instinct of a bloodthirsty beast that refused to be caged.

"Stop it, you fucking bitch!" A scream of utter pain brutally tore the air as, completely out of your mind, you dug your thumbs into his skull, pushing harder and harder in an attempt to gouge his eyes. The Sicilian man produced a second sound so twisted that it seemed beyond anything a human throat could produce. The more you pushed with your thumbs, the more you felt his eyeball turning into a viscous pulp. The feeling of the moist and warm liquid on your fingers didn’t stop you. Nor the man’s wails of pure agony, with its pitch far too high and too broken.

“Ajùtami! Ajùtami!” He pleaded, his hands felt the ground in panic, searching for anything he could use to push you away from him. Anything to make you stop. Realizing that nothing was around him, not even the thread he used to attack Arthur, he managed to overcome the pain and gather his strength to grab your throat.

With your air squeezed, you wheezed and removed your fingers from his skull to claw his strong hands. “S-Stop!” Panic flooded you as your vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges. The harder you fought, the harder he strangled you. Seriously lacking air, you clawed at his arms, desperate to breathe, but his grip was iron. Now you had to do something and do it quickly if you wanted to have a chance to save Arthur.

Your thoughts raced, frantic, until instinct took over.

I love your messy bun, Hev!

The judas stick – now you had a chance. With one quick movement, you brought your hand to your bun and your fingers fumbled for the sharp metal judas stick that was holding your hair in place. It came in handy. With a choked sound, you drove it upward and sunk the sharp edge of the stick into the man’s side.

One time.

Two times.

Three, four, five, six…

Side, chest, shoulder, face…

Each impact was vicious and powerful, tearing through the flesh like butter and drilling into organs and bones with the sheer will of maiming your enemy. Hot blood splashed all over you and around, but you didn’t care. The only thing that made you stop stabbing him was when you felt the man’s grip loosen around your throat until his arms dropped on the red-smeared ground in a loud thud.

“Fuck!” You sucked in a sharp breath, your voice hoarse from being choked. However, you quickly got up from the corpse to run to your husband. “Arthur!” You screamed, rushing to his side, your hands trembling as you knelt beside him – or rather as you dropped to your knees, your legs unable to support your weight anymore. Panic seized you even more violently as you saw Arthur's deep wound and the blood—too much blood.

“No, no, no… not like this,” You whispered, voice cracking. You couldn’t lose him, not here, not now. Never. Your fingers brushed over his chest and, in your deepest desperation, you looked for his pulse. A pulse you found, but which was becoming slower and fainter as seconds flew by. “Arthur! Please!” You started sobbing, tears streaming down your face and mixing with the fresh blood that was painting your skin in a disgusting shade of red. You had to face the truth: Arthur was dying. The damages were too serious and the bleeding too much… But you were a witch. The gift of healing was coursing through your veins. The only problem was that if you tried to save him by using your magic, you’d hurt the baby. After all, that was what happened when you tried to kill Luca Changretta with a heart attack.

The baby.

Your husband or the baby?

Your heart painfully raced in your chest. Your erratic breathing and your sore throat made you feel like you weren’t getting enough air.

“I’d love to have kids with ye, eh. Little white-haired and blue-eyed us running barefoot in the forest… Little embodiments of our love brightening our life.” His voice was merely a whisper now for he was slowly falling asleep, “I’ve always wanted to be a dad… but thought I was too messed up for that.”

You could save him. You had to. Despite this torture of a dilemma and the harshness of the decision, nothing could change your mind, not even the feeling of your heart shattering into millions of shards. Closing your eyes, you placed one hand over his throat, the blood warm under your palm, and the other on his chest. Wasting no time, you channel all your strength – the connection sparked, and the raw, untamed magic you inherited from your mother surged through you. It seemed to work at first, his pulse lightly responding to yours.

But the more the magic surged, the more you felt a terrible pain in your belly. It started as cramps but quickly escalated into suffering so high that you felt like someone was stabbing you. A trembling squeal escaped from your red lips. You were killing it, you knew it. You were killing your own baby.

"Come on, come on," You muttered, pushing harder, forcing your will into his body. "Stay with me, Arthur," You whispered, tears streaking down your face, each sentence cut by muffled cries of the mafioso you had slaughtered and who was still alive— not for too long to be honest. He seemed to say something in Sicilian but you couldn't understand what. And you didn't care. "Just... stay with me." You gritted your teeth, doing your best to put up with the pain.

Click.

You froze.

“You nosey little slut. You should've stayed with the others.”

Your heart missed a leap at the unknown male voice, carried by a thick Italian accent. The mafioso’s colleague looked at you, gun pointed right to your head.

"Remember me?" He asked with a wicked smile, recalling the moment he had offered you a cigarette a few hours ago. During your brief chit-chat, he told you that his name was Damiano but you didn't make the connection between Changretta and his Italian heritage.

“Don't cry, you're going to meet with your husband again very soon." the imposing man added, a few seconds away from ending your life. However, Damiano didn't know what you were capable of. Even less now that you were driven by pure rage and despair.

“Shut the fuck up!” You suddenly yelled, your claws firmly anchored in your husband to make Damiano understand that no one would snatch him from your arms. Your voice, a seductive melody that could enchant like a siren’s song, suddenly sounded monstrous. Raw and primal, the way you screamed the threat echoed in the entire maze of hallways and made Tommy’s blood freeze in his veins, a few corridors away. “Fucking die!”

Damiano didn't know that he never stood a chance. You sealed that man's demise with one blunt arm movement as if you had wanted to chase a mosquito from your face.

"Wh-What..."

Damiano, fell on his knees next to his dying friend, and writhed on the floor. With his two hands pressing on his chest, he suddenly started to choke and, right after, threw up a great amount of thick blood. Apart from the vomiting, blood soon seeped from his eyes and ears, bubbling like something inside was boiling them alive.

"P-Please!" He begged but you didn't stop. The man obviously tried to scream but the only sound he could produce was disgusting gurgles.

"Don't worry, you're going to meet your friend pretty soon." You replied with a cold and sardonic tone before closing your fist, the man's lungs responding to your gesture by imploding in his chest. Like his colleague's arms did a few minutes ago, Damiano's whole body crashed against the floor with a thud.

Quickly, you shifted back your attention to your husband and kept giving him all your energy while ignoring the black dots that were dancing in front of your eyes, as well as the awful, unbearable stabbing sensation in your core. You were definitely hurting yourself by using your power that much but you didn't give a fuck. “Arthur, please.” You growled, a feeling of dizziness building up so bad that you didn’t even hear the hurried footsteps that were coming closer, nor the hoarse, familiar voice of your brother-in-law.

"FUCK!" You exclaimed. You were losing Arthur again.

The three bodies lay strewn like discarded puppets, their lifeless forms twisted and broken on the blood-flown concrete floor. The once clean backroom had transformed into a nightmare realm of gore and horror that made Tommy's stomach turn upside-down.

The Peaky Blinder's boss took two steps back and brought his calloused hand to his mouth, fighting against the urge to puke – and God knew it took him a lot considering the atrocities he witnessed and did during the war. His turquoise gaze scanned the room, which had turned into a slaughterhouse. A fucking pool of crimson blood. First, he saw the limp and distorted corpse of Damiano, whose eyes were open wide in horror despite him being dead and cold. The terror in his frozen facial expression left no doubt about how awful his last moments must have been: he had suffered, and he had suffered more than a lot. Then, he caught a quick glimpse of the second victim. With his eyeballs reduced to a reddish foul mush, the lacerations on his face, and the abnormal number of stabbing wounds, the mafioso’s body was so maimed that it looked disgustingly grotesque.

Then he saw Arthur.

"Oh my God. Oh my fucking God — Arthur!"

Amidst the chaos, where the air hung heavy with the acrid and pungent scent of blood, Tommy's screams echoed far away in the distance as you knelt there, eyes wide open and silent tears streaming down your cheeks, mixed with dark trails of ruined mascara.

Tommy reacted immediately and knelt near his brother with a panic so uncontrollable that it swept away every ounce of coldness and self-control he usually displayed. He slapped his brother's cheeks several times in a vain attempt to help him come back to a conscious state but it didn't work. Thomas Shelby's fist hit the floor with frustration as the feeling of powerlessness crept into his heart. He was losing another brother and there was nothing he could do to save him.

But you could.

"Heaven, d'ya hear me?"

You let out a muffled whimper, or at least you thought you did as your senses saturated with one unique sound: a relentless ringing that echoed in the hollow caverns of your mind. With each pulse of your heart, the sound intensified, threatening to consume the last remnant of sanity you had left. The world around you had seemed to fade into obscurity, your sight blurry and reduced to only one color: red. Vibrant red splattered everywhere, on the walls, and yourself but most of it was on the floor. In fact, the ground itself seemed to writhe beneath the weight of the corpses, as crimson rivers flowed freely, painting the concrete in shades of crimson that gleamed like freshly spilled paint.

“Oi! Listen to me!” Tommy’s powerful voice suddenly snatched you from your daze just enough time to catch your attention and plunge his turquoise iris into your Arctic eyes.

“I—I can’t. I can’t, I can’t...” You repeated in a whisper, just like a broken record, because your husband’s pulse was weakening again, blind to your exhausting and painful efforts. Arthur was dying, your baby was dying and the intensity of the pain you went through was so insufferable that all you wanted to do was curl up in a ball and wait for death to make this nightmare stop.

Tommy rapidly shifted his body to be by your side, his sharp eyes focused, but softer than usual. “You’ve got this,” he whispered, meeting your panicked gaze. “Keep going. Don’t stop.” He pressed his hand firmly over yours, steadying the trembling fingers that worked to save his brother. His voice was low, gravelly, but laced with a quiet strength he tried to share with you. His grip was warm, grounding you in the chaos, his presence like an anchor. At that moment, the weight of the world felt momentarily lighter with him by your side. You replied to his help with a muffled sob.

"You've got this!" Tommy tried to keep you from falling apart but the sight of a thin trickle of blood slowly running down your nose worried him almost to death. He looked at you and he knew. He knew that you had given everything – every ounce of your energy to save his brother, your magic now drained. Your hand trembled, still pressed to Arthur’s chest, but the world around you was seriously fading to black.

Caught amid this Hell with Tommy by your side, you didn't hear nor feel Polly, who had found the crime scene.

"Oh lord please help us, oh Lord, oh Lord..." Polly cried, horrified by the bloodbath as well as by the sight of you clinging to Arthur's limp body. She had already lost one of her nephews and couldn't bear the weight of losing another one. Not her sweet Arthur. Not him,

"We're fucking losing her too!" Tommy exclaimed, "fucking help me!"

"Heaven!" She called, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you but all you did was scream one last time. A haunting and otherworldly wail that pierced the darkness. A sound so agonizing and inhumane that it seemed to tear at the very fabric of existence. It echoed across the building, carrying with it the weight indescribable of sorrow and despair as your arms tightened your grip around your dying husband.

The smell of blood hid Tommy's musky perfume that was tingling your nostrils. The deafening ringing in your ears covered Polly and her nephew's voice. Your breaths came shallow and weak, your body becoming heavier as darkness crept in. Slowly, your eyes fluttered shut. In one final movement, you collapsed beside your husband, your last thought a silent hope that he would live.

Or that you would at least die trying to save him.

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language. gif by the wonderful @alicent-targaryen.

✞ Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @lokigirlszendaya @justrainandcoffee @mischievouslittlecreature

#Arthur Shelby #Arthur Shelby x Reader #Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinders imagine #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby x reader #Arthur Shelby x oc #Paul Anderson #Heaven Shelby #Peaky blinders oc #John Shelby #Polly Gray #Luca Changretta #Luca Changretta x Reader #Arthur SHelby imagine

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127tko · 5 months ago

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art dump bc this account has kinda just been sitting here and I don’t think each of them individually deserve their own posts tbhh :}

They’ll be sectioned and labeled for easy viewing and comprehension. All transformers content!!

…and I’m deeply sorry if the formatting ends up being hard to scroll through anyways im not quite versed in anything related to tumblr, this is my third post ever orz

First ever Optimus and Bee human designs I ever did (made after my first time watching TFPrime episodes 1 through like 9 with my friend)

Doodle ft the first ever (and I’m pretty sure only) Megatron concept

A small redesign after I made it farther into the series (around like the middle of season 2)

First ever Breakdown and Knockout!! They make me sick (it’s a mess I know - in my head Breakdown has just a giant braid it is very important to me. Think Osceola Redarm(the goat) from AoEx) (also important, if not for the fact that it would’ve been completely covered and incomprehensible, BDs shirt would’ve said Hello Nurse with a Red Cross on it - it’s KOs shirt)

New KO concepts and the start of a potential Starscream (im smirking)

Are they giving vampire bc I lowk wanted to channel vampire but I can’t tell if I failed or not

And finally… from out of the blue it’s StarBee. Sorry they’re both individually my favorite characters so I just… I put them together because I love them. There’s an entire au in my head and everything, hopefully I’ll find it in me to expand and share. It involves a death loop if anyone was curious :3

Plus a humanized bee that I put through the works because I love him, it’s a crime of passion

(Fun fact this was the first Mech I ever drew and you can tell becaus it’s not very Mech-esque ;*})

…I am still unaware on what constitutes effective tagging so sorry if it’s lackluster. I’m tying my best o7

#starbee #bumblebee #tfp #transformers #starscream #knockout #breakdown #tfp kobd #optimus prime #megatron #kobd #transformers prime

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requiemforthepoets · 7 months ago

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between worlds ⟢ CL16

part one of you’re the closest to heaven that i’ll ever be series

𖤓 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒘𝒐 ☽

PAIRINGS: charles leclerc x celestial!reader

SUMMARY: charles was never meant to see you—no human beings can see you except for those souls you have to guide to the afterlife. but somehow, charles did, and ever since he did, he had been very persistent to catch you, and when he finally had you in his line of sight, you decided to disappear on him once again.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: bible angel names references, some people may find this fic offensive, concept of divine beings and heaven & life and death, no use of y/n, angels and devils, mentions of papa leclerc (beginning is set in 2017) and jules bianchi, fluff, falling (literally & figuratively) in love, named side characters, angst but with a happy ending, purely written fic, a little but of world building (concepts), mentions of death, bad/evil people, cursing, not proofread, and typos.

WORD COUNT: 6k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is the first part of the series! again, i would like to reiterate, this fic may not be some people’s cup of tea, if you don’t like it, don’t read it. there will be a bunch of fast forward, but don’t worry, i’ll include everything as much as possible so that you will still be able to follow through. i wanted to limit the series to five parts, so each chapter will be lengthy. reblogs and comments are highly appreciated, and i hope that you’ll enjoy this first part!

As a Celestial, the warmth of human life and ache of human loss are always at a distance, intangible. Watching over humans and guiding them in unseen ways, you walk through the lives of people that are filled with laughter, sorrow, and strength. Your purpose is very clear, that is to help them transition from their earthly ties to the beyond. It was an endless cycle, yet you often marveled at the peculiarities of humans.

Beside you on many of these journeys is Gabriel, a fellow Celestial who, much like you, watches over humanity from afar. Though you and Gabriel guide people through their last moments, neither of you truly understand them, they are bound to the sensations you and Gabriel could not understand, things that you could never feel—touch, taste, the warmth of sunlight on their skin, and how humans held onto life fiercely. Their happiness and fears are a foreign concept, ideas that stir something within you and Gabriel, but will always remain incomprehensible without the senses the only humans possess.

2017

On an ordinary night by human standards, you had found yourself once again in Monaco, within the quiet sterility of a hospital room, where the soft hum of machines filled the room, a steady rhythm of life intertwined with impending loss. You knew, as you often do, that someone would soon pass—Hervé Leclerc, a man whose life was filled with passion for his family and his love for racing, lay fragile and silent on a hospital bed.

You stood nearby, unseen, feeling the quiet tension of the room, and watched as his family gathered around him. His wife, Pascale, sat at his side, holding his hand, her touch featherlight, as if she feared pressing too hard might shatter what little life remained in him. His three sons, Lorenzo, Charles, and Arthur, surrounded them, their eyes solemn yet determined, trying to be strong for their father and each other. As you waited, you felt Charles approach his father, bending down so only Hervé could hear him, and took a deep breath.

“Papa, I did it. I signed a contract to race in Formula 1 with Ferrari.” Charles softly murmured.

The statement hung heavy in the air, and you could sense the hope in Charles’ words—a gift, an offering of peace for his father in his final moments. Though you knew that it was not entirely the truth, you understood, in your own way, that it was a kindness, and an act of love. Hervé’s eyes remained closed, yet his breathing steadied, a faint smile curling on his lips. You knew that he had heard Charles.

Hervé’s spirit, though still connected to his mortal body, seemed to hover beside you, taking in the scene. He looked on, his gaze was soft and reverent as he watched his family, as if he was imprinting this final memory of them deep within his being. His presence was calm, accepting, and you felt like it was already time.

“Tell me,” you asked gently, stepping closer to him. “What was your favorite thing in life?”

You always ask this question to them, in their final moments, what their favorite thing in life has been. They would always recall something that is deeply personal, yet beyond your comprehension.

“My family,” Hervé answered as he looked at you, his ethereal form somehow both weary and joyful, his essence luminous even in the face of mortality.

“My sons, my wife. Watching them grow, finding their own passions, their own dreams…that was my greatest joy.” His gaze lingered on Charles, and you sensed an overwhelming pride emanating from him.

“I remember how Charles would always run into the house after a day of racing, his eyes filled with excitement. I could feel his dreams even then.” His voice trailed off as he was reliving those memories.

You just stood there beside him listening, absorbing his words, though the feelings themselves eluded you. Humans and their intricate emotions, it was like a puzzle with no answer. Your existence was outside the realm of these emotions, yet there was a beauty in his words, you glanced back at his family, sensing how they held Hervé’s life within their own, like a thread woven through each of them.

It was then that something had shifted. You felt the air grow thick, as if some unseen barrier dissolved, and turning, you saw Charles looking directly at you. His eyes were wide, face pale but intent, as if he was unsure of what he was seeing but could not look away. Humans were not supposed to see Celestials, they could only feel a faint brush of your presence, perhaps. But Charles’ eyes are fixed on you, gazing at you with a mixture of disbelief and wonder. You froze, unaccustomed to this kind of attention, as though he was staring into something beyond the grasp of reality.

“Charles?” Arthur’s voice had interrupted him, a gentle nudge that pulled Charles back, though his eye still lingered on you. “Why are you staring at the wall?” He asked Charles, glancing at your direction as well, but you knew that Arthur saw nothing there.

Charles hesitated, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He looked at Arthur, then back at the space where you were standing, his lips parted, as though he was about to ask Arthur, too, could see you, but he held back. He was still clearly torn between questioning what he had just seen and dismissing it as a trick of the mind. With a sigh, he chose silence, giving his little brother a faint shake of his head, brushing it off. He turned his attention again back to where you had been standing, but you were already gone, as silent and unnoticed as the night.

But, at that exact moment, a part of you had wondered, could he have truly seen you? Could he have felt the faintest echo of your presence, of your purpose?

You drifted back to Gabriel with the faint impression of Charles’ gaze lingering in your own consciousness—a reminder that even in your unseen world, sometimes the divide between the humans and Celestials could be momentarily bridged.

2024

Seven years. Seven years had passed since that quiet night in the hospital, but that moment with Charles had lingered in your mind like an echo. Since then, you had found yourself drawn to him, but not in a way that disrupted your purpose as a Celestial, but with a curiosity that seemed to grow with each passing year.

You had watched him move from promise to reality, the white lie he had told his father on his deathbed eventually blossoming into truth. Just a few months after that night, Charles had signed his contract with Ferrari, the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, and in some inexplicable way, you felt as if you had been there to bear witness to it all. Each race, every success and setback, despite going through a lot, you found yourself watching over him, a silent guardian he would never know.

Today, you sat with Gabriel atop one of Monaco’s high-rise buildings, the sparkling Mediterranean stretching out before you, and the entire principality sprawled below like a living diorama. The streets buzzed with celebration as the 2024 Monaco Grand Prix had come to a close, and Charles had finally claimed his victory in his home race. It was a win seven years in the making, a win that is not just for himself, but for the memory of his father, his family, and Monaco itself.

From above, you could see him clearly amidst the sea of red Ferrari colors, arms raised in happiness, face radiant with the kind of happiness only humans are capable of. Right in the middle of the chaos, he ran towards his little brother, Arthur, engulfing him in a hug that spoke of shared dreams and sacrifices, of family and bonds invisible, but deeply felt.

You just watched them in silence, the sight stirring something in you that had been dormant for as long as you had existed. Charles’ embrace was firm, his grip grounding, there was nothing restrained or hesitant about it. You felt a pang of longing, a wish as faint as stardust, and without turning your gaze from what was happening below, you murmured to Gabriel.

“Gabriel,” you began. “Do you ever wonder what it feels like…to feel someone’s touch?” Gabriel just looked at you, his brow furrowing slightly, a rare expression of contemplation on his normally serene face.

“Touch?” He echoed, as if the concept was foreign, a thing only humans grasped. “I’ve thought of it, perhaps, but…it is a human sensation. One we’re not meant to experience.”

“But don’t you ever feel…curious?” You pressed, your gaze drifting from the celebration below to Gabriel’s face. “We guide them, witness their lives, but we never feel what they feel. We only see it.” You let out a soft sigh, though it held no breath, a habit you had picked up from your time observing humans.

“To feel someone’s hand, to know the warmth they carry within themselves. It seems as if it would make understanding them so much easier.” You added.

Gabriel was quiet for a moment, his gaze had softened when he turned to look at Charles and Arthur below, watching as they held each other in a tight embrace that was filled with laughter and unspoken love.

“Perhaps,” he said, in a thoughtful tone. “But our purpose is not to feel as they do. If we were to experience what they do, to carry their joys and burdens…wouldn’t that make our task harder? Wouldn’t we lose sight of our main purpose?”

“Maybe…” you trailed off, there was a note of hesitation coloring your words. “But at times like these, it’s hard not to wonder. To see the way they hold each other, as if through touch they share parts of themselves they can’t express in words, it feels like we’re missing something that is essential.”

Gabriel tilted his head, considering your words. “I do understand,” he said quietly, though there was a trace of doubt in his voice. “But we are Celestials. We exist beyond the limitations of human senses, we are meant to guide, not to partake.”

You turned back to the scene below, watching as Charles lifted his gaze to the sky, as if looking for someone, or something, that could share in his win. You imagined, for just a moment, what it would be like if he could see you there, perched above, watching him as you had all these years. What would he think, if he knew that something beyond human comprehension had been by his side, through each win, each loss.

“It’s strange,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Even after all these years, after guiding so many, I still don’t understand why they hold onto each other so tightly. Why do they need these moments of closeness?”

Gabriel gave a gentle nod. “Perhaps that is the beauty of humanity. Their mortality gives weight to every touch, embrace, and word. They cling to these moments because they know that their time is finite,” he replied quietly. “For us, existence is boundless. But to them, it’s fleeting. They reach for each other because they know it won’t last.”

“What do you think it would be like, if he could feel our presence?” You asked. “If he knew we were here, watching over him.”

“He sensed you once,” he reminded you, as he gazed softly at you. “That alone was a gift, rare and precious. Perhaps that moment, as brief as it was, is enough. Enough to remind us that we are a part of their lives, even if they never know it.”

For a long while, you and Gabriel sat in silence, watching as Charles continued to celebrate, his family and team surrounding him, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, and their laughter echoing through the streets. Though you could never fully grasp the intricacies of their lives, in the moment, you felt a rare, almost painful longing, a sense that maybe there was something beautiful in being bound to the world as they were. Something in their fragility made them magnificent.

Meanwhile, for Charles, that night in 2017 would always remain etched in his memory, shadowing his every step like a faint, haunting whisper he could never quite shake. It was something he never really fully understood, something he never spoke of, not to Arthur, not to Lorenzo, and certainly not to her mother, Pascale. Charles had kept it buried in the recesses of his mind, an unexplainable experience he half-believed and half-dismissed, but that, no matter how hard he tried, wouldn’t let him go.

The moment he had seen you inside his father’s hospital room, his first instinct had been confusion. In a place so intimately reserved for family, for whispers of love and tearful goodbyes, you were a stranger, someone so unfamiliar standing quietly at the edge of the room. Your form was as clear as anyone else’s, not blurred or shadowed like a moment of illusion. Yet, what unsettled him the most was that no one else seemed to notice you.

At first, Charles told himself that it must have been the weight of the moment, his grief playing tricks on his mind. After all, in that fragile state, it would be easy to imagine things that were not there. He watched you out of the corner of his eye, cautiously, hoping to see you disappear, to prove that it had been just a figment of his imagination. But you stayed, your gaze resting softly on his father, with an almost reverent patience, and as the minutes stretched on, his conviction that he was truly seeing someone, is real.

The memory of your gaze, so steady and detached, left a strange impression on him. Charles found himself glancing at you repeatedly, his heart pounding as he tried to think about who or what you were. He wanted to ask you why you were there, how you had come un unnoticed, but something about your presence was ethereal, inexplicably untouchable. You didn’t seem bound by the rules of this world, as if you were simply just passing through, a visitor from some place beyond.

Then, Arthur’s voice had snapped him out of his trance, asking him why he was staring at the wall. Arthur’s words were practical, a rope that pulled him back to the room. Yet, the second he had turned back to look at you, you were already gone—just as quietly as you had arrived, leaving no trace behind, it was as though you had never been there at all.

Over the years, Charles tried to put that night behind him, brushing off the memory as a momentary lapse in judgment, a strange vision conjured by the heartbreak of losing his father. But even as time passed by, the memory of you still lingered. He felt you in many ways he could not describe, as if you existed in the peripheral spaces of his life, just out of reach, yet somehow undeniably real. Every so often, in the hushed stillness of a race night or in the lonely hours before dawn, he would sense something—an invisible presence, a faint familiarity. It was as though you were watching over him, an unseen guardian who drifted along with him from one country to another, from one track to another.

Sometimes, he thought he caught a glimpse of you, a brief, shadowy figure in the distance, a subtle hint of movement where there should have been none. Once, while preparing for a race in Silverstone, he was warming up in the garage when he thought he saw you standing by the edge of the track. His heart had leapt, his mind suddenly thrown back to that hospital room, but when he looked again, you were gone, leaving only the flicker of your image imprinted on his mind.

Even his teammate, Carlos, noticed too. There were times when Charles would falter mid-sentence, his gaze drifting as if he was seeing something beyond their conversation, beyond the present. Carlos would follow his line of sight, seeing nothing but an empty space, a shadow that Charles seemed inexplicably drawn to. He would often give Charles a curious look.

“Are you alright, mate?” Carlos asked, looking at him weirdly. Charles just shook it off, smiling tightly, and offering a quick nod. “Yeah, yeah. Just tired.”

It became a pattern that he could neither understand nor dismiss. The feeling of your presence was both comforting and unsettling, a reminder that he was somehow never truly alone, even in the depths of solitude. There moment he had questioned his own sanity, wondering if he was simply haunted by the memory of his father’s death clinging to something he could not let go. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the feeling that you were real, that he had seen you.

At times, he would catch himself searching for you in the crowd, hoping for just one more glimpse. Charles wanted answers, an explanation that would either ground him in reality or confirm that he is not going crazy, that his life had crossed paths with something beyond the ordinary. But as the years went by, he learned to finally accept your presence as a quiet, unspoken truth, something woven into the fabric of his existence that he would never fully understand.

SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX

The Singapore Grand Prix has always been one of the most electrifying events of the season, the country is a home for night racing—a race that is held under the city’s dazzling night lights, set against a backdrop of towering skyscrapers, and a sea of spectators from different parts of the world. The vibrancy, palpable energy, it all felt foreign to you, like watching scenes play out on a distant plane of existence you could never fully enter.

This year, the circuit was alive as ever, buzzing with the energy of fans and flashing cameras, the constant pulse of music and chatter weaving into the humid tropical air. Charles was in his element, navigating the crowds and the chaos with the ease of someone who had grown accustomed to the demands of fame. But in the middle of the swirling mass of people, someone unusual had appeared, unnoticed by most but utterly unmistakable to him.

You hadn’t meant to be seen. For years, you had existed on the fringes of Charles’ life, watching from a distance. But something about Singapore piqued your curiosity. It was the sheer energy of it all—the press, fans, and the kaleidoscope of colors. For someone like Charles, who seemed perpetually surrounded by people and yet remained alone in many ways, you wanted to understand just a little more about the life he lived. So you wandered through the paddock, watching from the shadows, taking in the sights and sounds, studying the excitement in the faces of those who adored him.

Then, as if some force had finally decided that it was time. You had found yourself standing right in the open, in the midst of it all, no longer bound to the periphery. There you stood, calm and composed, while people streamed around you, their movements fast and chaotic, yet never once brushing against you.

Charles arrived shortly after, dressed in his Ferrari team uniform, stepping into the crowd as he made his way through. However, his steps began to slow down as he walked, and his focus shifted the moment he saw you, your figure stark against the colorful, shifting background. You stood perfectly still, framed by the buzzing energy around you, as if the world had momentarily paused just for you. You were dressed entirely in black—turtleneck, tailored trousers, sleek shoes, and a long trench coat that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it—you appeared like a shadow against the vivid scene, an undeniable presence, a figure of quiet, captivating stillness. The Singaporean heat clung to everything and everyone, beads of sweat visible on even the most acclimated locals, but you felt none of it.

For a moment, Charles thought his mind was playing tricks on him again. He blinked numerous times, expecting you to vanish, for your presence to disappear into the crowd as it had so many times before. But this time, you didn’t fade. You just stood there, watching him with a calm, knowing gaze that seemed to pierce through the noise of the crowd. His breath was caught in throat, and he almost faltered in his step. You were no longer a flicker in his peripheral vision, no longer a question lingering at the edge of his mind. You were unmistakably there, standing directly in his line of sight, unyielding and unfazed by the swirl of people passing around you.

Your gaze met his, and in that instant, he felt the weight of something intense, a connection that defied explanation. It felt like it was a bridge that seemed to span years and memories, drawing him back to that hospital room in 2017. Charles remembered your face so vividly, and here you were, the same mysterious figure who had watched over his father in his final moments. He knew instinctively that you were not something ordinary, everything about you, from the calm in your expression to the impossible composure you held, marked you as something beyond human.

Charles could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, a strange mixture of awe and disbelief surging through him. He wanted to reach out to you, speak to you, but the weight of the moment made it very impossible. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention, especially from the media and fans who circled around him, unaware of the encounter unfolding before them. He didn’t want to appear crazy, pausing in the middle of the crowd to address a person that, for all he knew, only he could see. So he kept his expression carefully neutral, his gaze lingering on you as he moved forward with deliberate steps, passing just a few feet away from where you stood.

As he brushed by, he felt a soft, cool gust of wind graze his shoulder—a breeze that did not seem to belong in the humid heat of the Singapore air. It was as if your presence had left a subtle mark on him, an unspoken reminder that this moment was real, that you were real. Charles continued walking, the weight of your gaze lingering on his skin, the connection between you evident as he moved away. His mind whirled with so many questions, with the need for answers that he had long since buried but that now surged back with renewed urgency.

Who are you?

What were you?

Why did you seem to appear only at the most pivotal moments of his life, watching him with a calm that suggested knowledge he could barely fathom?

But as he glanced back over his shoulder to look at you one more time, you remained exactly where you were, standing with your hands casually tucked into the pockets of your coat, observing Charles with the same quiet intensity. He didn’t need words to understand that, somehow, you were there for him, that whatever role you played in his life was not a figment of his imagination but something far more profound. It was as if, by some cosmic design, you had been an integral part of his life, even if he could not understand why.

It was both terrifying and strangely comforting for Charles, knowing that you were there, connected to his life in ways he could not even explain. Though he continued to walk away, blending back into the crowd, he could still feel your presence, like a steady anchor amidst the chaos of his world.

The night had already fallen over Singapore, casting a warm, beautiful golden haze over the circuit as the city lights reflected off every glass surface, every curve in the architecture. The air still held the weight of the humid day, though there was a subtle breeze stirring now, drifting through the emptiness of spaces high above the throngs below. This was where you and Gabriel often met, removed from the world you observed, yet close enough to feel its pulse.

You sat together on a ledge that overlooked the bright labyrinth of the track, each car flickering past like the streaks of light, their paths twisting through the city like a thread woven into the heart of human life. Gabriel sat beside you, posture relaxed, gaze steady on the crowds moving below. He had a serene presence about him, as all Celestial did, though his was tempered by a slight curiosity, a kindred spirit in your shared wonder at the lives below, though he carried the wisdom of countless lifetimes.

“Today…” you began, breaking the silence between the two of you. “I saw him again. Charles.”

“And this time…he really saw me. Not just a passing glance, not a flicker. He truly saw me, Gabriel. It was different.” You added.

The words felt very strange in the open air, as though they held a weight that went beyond their sound. Gabriel’s gaze turned towards you, a subtle light of interest in his eyes, nodding as though encouraging you to continue, so you tried to put it into words that felt almost too elusive to capture.

“When I first saw him years ago, in the hospital room, I thought that maybe he only sensed me. It’s not unusual—though I know that some humans have that…intuition. They feel our presence, but they never truly see us,” you paused, searching for the words.

“But this was different. I was standing right in front of him, in the open, and he looked at me as if…as if he recognized me. As if he has always known I was there, even though we’re not supposed to be seen. It’s as if there’s a connection between us—one I can’t fully explain.” You continued.

Gabriel’s expression softened with understanding, a hint of knowing in his gaze. He looked out over the city, his voice a low murmur that held the weight of something ancient.

“Sometimes,” he began. “There are rare occasions when certain humans have a heightened sensitivity. They can feel what others cannot, see what lies just beyond the veil of human sight. They can perceive glimpses of our world, though they never fully understand it.”

You considered his words, recalling the many faces of humans who had felt your presence, brief shivers down their spine, faint chill in the air. “But this doesn’t feel like that,” you said softly. “This isn’t just intuition. It’s more than that…I—I think he truly sees me. As if I'm as real to him as any other person in his life.”

Gabriel met your gaze, his eyes thoughtful. “There are many possibilities,” he said, his voice holding a trace of reverence. “It could be that Charles was born with a rare gift, a unique soul attuned to the spiritual realm. Sometimes, humans like him are able to see beyond what others can, though they seldom realize it. Perhaps, he was always meant to see you, even if he doesn’t understand why.”

“But why him? Of all people, why would I form this…this kind of connection with him?” You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees, feeling a mix of wonder and bewilderment.

“Maybe it isn’t for us to know,” Gabriel replied gently, his gaze soft with empathy. “But there’s another possibility.” His tone grew contemplative, as though he was drawing from knowledge buried deep within him.

“Sometimes, when a Celestial spends enough time around a particular human, they may develop a tether—it is a bond that links their existence to that person’s life in a profound way.” Gabriel replied.

“A tether?” Gabriel nodded at you.

The word felt heavy with significance. You had heard of it, of course, in ancient stories, tales of Celestials who had unknowingly bound themselves to a single soul, a single life, whether through empathy, admiration, or something far more elusive.

“A tether is rare, but it does happen. It is formed not by choice, but by some force beyond even our understanding. When a Celestial is tethered to a human, it is as if they share a part of their essence with them. It could be because you watched over him so closely after his father’s passing, you saw him through one of the most pivotal moments of his life.” Gabriel explained.

The notioned lingered between you, reverberating like an echo. You had indeed been there, unseen, at some of his most significant moments, his quietest doubts, his rare happiness. You had felt compelled to follow Charles’ journey, though you could never quite explain why.

“But if I’m tethered to him, what does that mean for us?” The question was one you had not thought to ask before. It felt really impossible, like trying to decipher the meaning of a shadow that has been casted by an unseen light. “Is it my responsibility to stay close to him…to protect him?”

“Not necessarily.” Gabriel considered this, his expression calm and wise. “A tether isn’t a duty. It’s simply a bond. It doesn’t force you to act or change your purpose, but it can shape how you experience your existence—how you feel, and perhaps, in rare instances, it allows the human on the other end to see us, as Charles did today.”

You let Gabriel’s words sink in, the idea that your connections with Charles might be something outside either of your control. A rare, inexplicable bond that went beyond the boundaries you had come to know.

“Does he know?” You wondered aloud, the thought both terrifying and exhilarating. “Can he sense it as I do?”

“It’s possible,” Gabriel murmured. “Even if he doesn’t consciously understand, he may feel it. An inexplicable comfort, a quiet sense of your presence. Humans don’t often recognize such things, but in their hearts, they understand more than they realize.”

“I thought I understood my purpose,” you said quietly. “To guide, protect from a distance, never to interfere. But this…it feels like something more. I didn’t think I could feel this way.” You closed your eyes, absorbing the realization that your connection to Charles might be as real to him as it was to you.

Gabriel gave you a look of quiet understanding. “Feelings are not foreign to us, though they are seldom as strong as what humans experience. It is only natural to be curious, to want to understand what draws us to them, and what makes them so fascinating to us.”

He paused, then added softly, “but remember, the tether doesn’t mean you must change your purpose. It only means you’ve shared part of yourself with him, and in return, he has shared a part of his essence with you. It’s a gift, though one we may never fully understand.”

You nodded, a deep sense of acceptance settling over you. Charles might never know the truth of who you were, or why he saw you, but perhaps that was the beauty of it. He would carry the sense of your presence, a constant and silent connection, and in a way, it would be enough.

You just sat in silence with Gabriel, looking out over the glittering cityscape, you felt the comfort of his companionship. The two of you were bound to different souls, different journeys, but you shared the same questions, same yearnings.

As the night wore in, and the world around was now silent in the aftermath of the race, and the Singaporean circuit lay quiet, already emptied of the usual buzz of engines and the thrill of spectators. Only a few distant voices and the gentle hum of machineries being packed away punctuated the stillness.

Charles lingered in the Ferrari motorhome, his mind far from the day’s race. Finishing in P5 and scoring point should have filled him with satisfaction, yet something lingered beneath it all, a presence far more pressing. You. The image of you, standing amid the crowd, hauntingly calm and out of place, had filled his thoughts since he had passed by you that afternoon. He had always known you, even though Charles was certain he had never seen you before. The fact that you were gone the moment he had looked away haunted him, and now, despite the silence around him, his mind raced with the need to see you again.

As Charles stepped out of the motorhome, running a hand through his damp hair, he slowed, his eyes searching the dimly lit surroundings as if hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Then, just beyond the edge of the shadows, there you were. You stood there, calm and still, a silhouette framed by the city lights, a vision of dark elegance against the fading glow of the circuit. You were wearing the same all-black ensemble he had seen you in before, a stark contrast against the remnants of bright lights and flashes that had filled the paddock earlier, and the subtle breeze caught your coat, giving you an almost weightless presence as if you were somehow apart from the world around you.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved. Charles’ gaze lingered on you, studying the way your features seemed almost unreal, too striking to belong to the ordinary world he inhabited. It was as though everything he had ever seen had paled in comparison. He could feel some type of strange warmth radiate from you, a kind of serene beauty that pulled at him and silenced everything else in his mind. If ethereal were to take a human form, it would look like you, he was sure of it. Then you spoke.

“Hello, Charles.” You greeted him.

Your voice was soft, almost like a gentle breeze yet clear in the quiet of the evening. There was a soft smile on your lips, one that carried both mystery and warmth. Charles’ eyes widened, his heart seeming to stop for a second.

“I know that you can see me.” You said gently, the faintest trace of amusement in your voice.

For the first time, Charles felt a strange mixture of exhilaration and vulnerability. He had spent so many years convincing himself that you were just a figment of his imagination, yet here you were, standing mere feet from him, speaking as though you had been waiting for this moment just as he had.

Charles opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He was torn between asking if you were real and confessing that he had thought about you since that day at the hospital, wondering if he had imagined you. He felt as though the ground had shifted beneath him, everything he knew upended by this encounter, but before he could gather his words, a voice had brought him back.

“Charles!” A friend called out, waving him over from across the clearing, and instinctively, Charles turned his head to. “We’re already heading out, you coming?”

Charles nodded in acknowledgment. But the moment he glanced back to look at you, you had already disappeared. A rush of frustration flared in him, sharper than anything he had felt in recent memory. The moment he finally had you there, standing before him, speaking to him as though you understood this strange, silent connection, you had vanished again, leaving only the soft night breeze in your wake.

He just stood there, his chest tightening with an unnameable sense of loss, staring at the empty space where you had just been. Charles could still feel the subtle warmth of your presence, a lingering trace of your smile that had somehow left an imprint on his mind. His hands clenched and unclenched as if he could somehow reach for you and pull back, his jaw set in determination.

Though you were gone again, the mystery of you wrapped around him tighter than ever, leaving him certain of one thing—he would see you again. He had to.

taglist : @charlesgirl16 @chloes-book-corner

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