#he usually just comes out for battle and understands that and takes the mask off when it's done

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Honestly, I find it very funny that FD says that he doesn't need to eat, doesn't need to sleep, doesn't engage in mating rituals. Because that kinda goes against a bunch of irl mythology.

I mean, just look at Greek mythology. Zeus & Hera are married, Hades & Persephone are married, Hephestus & Aphrodite are married. Not to mention that the Olympian Gods tend to reproduce like freaking rabbits. Especially Zeus, dude could not keep it in his pants. There's also the fact that Hestia is the Goddess of Food who is known to make ambrosia which was known as the food of the gods.

Like, were those declarations strictly a FD thing or was it a statement regarding deities in the world of Hyeule in-general?

Honestly, I can't help but wonder if it's really accurate to classify FD as a God of War. When you consider the Japanese lore behind his mask's name, it suggests that he's more so a God of Protection. A tutelary deity. What I mean is that the mask is referred to as Kishin, which are Japanese Ogre Gods that were inspired by the Buddhist Pāla or Fierce Gods. They were known to be ferocious in battle & very scary-looking, but ultimately compassionate & benevolent at their cores. They were said to exact divine retribution upon those who did wrong to innocents & got rid of obstacles in the way of mortals achieving enlightenment.

It's all very interesting.

I've always viewed the Fierce Deity as a god of protection, a benevolent guardian over Termina who was cursed into a mask with dark magic. He would fight to protect the land when needed and just chill and hang out in the meantime, likely with mythical creatures more than the people, but still be fairly normal in his own eyes. The mask is a prison for him, sealing him there with evil magic of some sort.

Seeing as his mask has a dark aura, and Fierce is really only utilized to fight, and his mask can harm the user, in the eyes of the world he became known as a dangerous god of war and is usually kept at arm's length. The millennia in the mask have chipped away at his memory and his personality, leaving him closed off and aloof, ignorant to much of anything outside of battle, which is the only constant he has left. His cool demeanor isn’t because he’s a mindless otherworldly god, it’s because he’s been alone for so long he doesn’t know how human behavior works anymore.

Fierce has been happy, sad, angry, hungry, sick, upset, etc. He just barely remembers it, if at all. He’s so emotionally disconnected he struggles sometimes to process things. While sealed in the mask he has no physical needs, and he only vaguely remembers them when he’s out, and he’s never out long enough to really merit worrying about it (at least until Link gets the mask). But he is curious and eager to help nonetheless.

[awkward-walking-potato]

how would Logan handle a reader that has anxiety? maybe they tend to overthink about things easily, or just can’t stop thinking about certain things. maybe they hide it really well but he knows them well enough to know when they’re upset

Unspoken Understanding

The world outside was quiet—too quiet, in Logan’s opinion. Nights like this always had a way of crawling under his skin, the kind of silence that made you hyper-aware of everything, every little sound, every little breath. But tonight, his focus wasn’t on the stillness of the night. It was on you.

You were sitting across from him on the couch, curled up with a book in your lap, a picture of perfect calmness to anyone who didn’t know better. But Logan knew better.

He watched you over the edge of his beer, eyes narrowed slightly, his senses keenly attuned to the subtle tells that most people would miss. The way you hadn’t turned the page in several minutes. The tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers twitched ever so slightly as if fighting the urge to fidget. And then there was the way you occasionally glanced up from the book, your gaze distant, lost in whatever thoughts were swirling around in your mind.

He didn’t need to ask to know something was wrong. He could smell it on you, the faint scent of stress that clung to your skin, masked by the outward calm you projected. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you like this, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. He’d come to recognize the signs, the way you’d retreat into yourself when your mind got too loud, when the overthinking started to take over.

Logan was many things—gruff, blunt, more than a little rough around the edges—but he wasn’t oblivious. Not when it came to you.

He set his beer down on the coffee table, the soft clink of glass against wood drawing your attention. You looked up, eyes meeting his, and for a moment, you managed a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You were trying, he knew that. Trying to hide it, trying not to let whatever was going on inside your head affect the evening. But it was a losing battle.

“Something on your mind, darlin’?” His voice was low, calm, a contrast to the roughness it usually held. He wasn’t pushing, just opening the door for you to walk through if you wanted to.

You hesitated, your gaze dropping back to the book in your lap. “I’m fine, Logan,” you replied, your voice steady, practiced. It was an answer you’d given before, one that you hoped would put his mind at ease, but he wasn’t buying it. Not tonight.

He let the silence hang between you for a moment, just long enough for you to realize that he wasn’t going to let it slide. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shifted on the couch, moving closer to you. The cushions dipped under his weight as he settled beside you, his presence solid, grounding.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, his hand finding its way to your knee, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of your pants. It wasn’t a demand, more like an offer. An invitation.

You bit your lip, the weight of his gaze on you, making it harder to keep everything bottled up. You knew he wouldn’t judge you, that he’d listen, but the words still felt heavy on your tongue.

“It’s nothing, really,” you began, but the way his brow arched ever so slightly told you he wasn’t convinced. “I just… I keep thinking about things. Stupid things. Things I can’t control.”

Logan didn’t interrupt, didn’t push for more. He just let you speak, his hand on your knee a steady anchor.

“It’s like my mind just won’t shut off,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. “I keep running through everything, over and over, and I know it’s pointless, but I can’t help it. It’s like I’m stuck in a loop, and I don’t know how to get out.”

There it was, the truth laid bare between you. It wasn’t the first time you’d felt like this, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but admitting it, saying it out loud, made it feel just a little bit more manageable.

Logan’s hand shifted, his thumb brushing over your knee in a soothing motion. “You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges, but there was a softness there, too. A tenderness he didn’t show to many people. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

The words were simple, but they carried weight. Logan wasn’t the type to offer platitudes or false reassurances. What he said, he meant. And he meant this.

You took a shaky breath, feeling the tightness in your chest ease just a fraction. “I know,” you murmured, leaning into his touch, letting his presence ground you. “It’s just… hard sometimes.”

He nodded, understanding in the way his eyes softened as they met yours. “I get it,” he said, and you knew he did. Logan had his own demons, his own battles with the past, with the thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone. He understood better than most.

For a while, the two of you just sat there, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Logan didn’t try to fill the silence, didn’t try to offer solutions or tell you how to fix it. He just sat with you, his hand a steady, comforting presence on your knee, letting you know without words that he was there. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

After a few minutes, you shifted, leaning into him, and he welcomed you into his arms without hesitation. You tucked yourself against his side, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close. It was a simple gesture, but it was enough to make the world feel a little less overwhelming.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt.

He didn’t respond with words, just pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. You felt the tension slowly begin to drain from your body, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket draped over your legs.

[n1ght0f-nyx]

Reassurance- Erik Destler x reader

word count- 1036 erik need reassurance, please give it to him

The cold air of the opera house sent a shiver down my spine as I wandered through its dimly lit corridors. The echoes of distant footsteps haunted the silence, blending with the faint notes of a melody that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The melody was his, unmistakable and enchanting. I knew I shouldn't be here, but something—no, someone—pulled me deeper into the labyrinth.

"Erik?" My voice was barely a whisper, almost afraid to disturb the music. But I knew he would hear me. He always did.

The melody faltered for a moment, a sign that he was aware of my presence. I took a deep breath and continued down the narrow passage, feeling the walls close in around me, their coldness a stark contrast to the warmth that filled my chest at the thought of him.

It wasn't long before I reached the hidden entrance to his lair. The massive mirror that served as the gateway slid open with a soft, almost mournful creak, revealing the flickering glow of candlelight beyond. I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest as I stepped over the threshold.

There he was, seated at his grand organ, his back turned to me. The sight of him, cloaked in his usual black attire, sent a rush of emotions through me—fear, curiosity, and something else I couldn't quite name.

"You're here," his voice, low and velvety, cut through the air, sending a thrill down my spine. He didn't turn to face me, but I could sense his awareness of every move I made.

"I had to see you," I admitted, my voice trembling despite my efforts to stay calm. "I couldn’t stay away."

Finally, Erik turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the mask that covered his disfigured face. The rest of him remained shrouded in shadow, a dark silhouette against the dim light of the candles.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmured, but there was no anger in his tone, only a deep sadness that tugged at my heart. "It's dangerous for you."

"Dangerous?" I repeated, taking a cautious step closer. "You wouldn't hurt me, Erik. I know you wouldn't."

He let out a soft, bitter laugh, one that seemed to echo off the very walls of the cavernous room. "You think you know me, but you don't. Not really."

I moved closer, drawn to him despite the warnings my mind tried to scream at me. "I know enough," I said quietly, my eyes searching for his in the dim light. "I know you're not the monster everyone thinks you are."

Erik's shoulders tensed at my words, his hands still resting on the keys of the organ. For a moment, he remained silent, the tension in the air thick and palpable. Then, with a heavy sigh, he stood up and turned to face me fully.

The sight of his masked face, the hint of the scarred skin beneath, should have frightened me, but it didn’t. Instead, I felt an overwhelming sense of compassion, of understanding. I stepped closer until I was standing right in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

"You're not a monster, Erik," I repeated, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. I reached up, hesitating for only a moment before gently touching the edge of his mask.

His hand shot up to grasp my wrist, not forcefully, but with enough strength to stop me. "Don't," he warned, his voice strained. "You don't want to see what's underneath."

"Maybe I do," I whispered, my heart pounding in my chest. "Maybe I want to see all of you."

For a long moment, we stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills. Then, slowly, Erik released my wrist, his hand dropping to his side. He said nothing as I carefully, almost reverently, lifted the mask away from his face.

The sight that greeted me was heartbreaking, but not for the reasons most would think. Yes, his face was scarred, twisted by some cruel twist of fate, but it wasn’t the sight that made my heart ache—it was the pain in his eyes, the loneliness that seemed to emanate from him in waves.

"You're beautiful," I said softly, meaning every word. I saw the disbelief in his eyes, the way his expression faltered as if he couldn't quite process what I'd said.

"Beautiful?" he echoed, his voice thick with emotion. "How can you say that?"

"Because it's true," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper as I gently cupped his face in my hands. "You're more than just your appearance, Erik. You're talented, intelligent, and… so lonely."

The vulnerability in his eyes was almost too much to bear, but I held his gaze, willing him to see the truth in my words. "You don't have to be alone anymore," I continued, my voice steady. "Not if you don't want to be."

For a moment, I thought he might push me away, retreat back into the darkness that had been his refuge for so long. But then, slowly, he leaned into my touch, his eyes closing as if savoring the warmth of my hands against his skin.

"I don’t deserve this," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I don't deserve you."

"You deserve so much more than you think," I said, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "Let me in, Erik...et me be the one to show you that you're not alone."

He opened his eyes then, and the raw emotion I saw there took my breath away. "You'd stay?" he asked, almost as if he couldn't believe it.

"Yes," I answered without hesitation. "I'll stay."

Erik's hand came up to cover mine, his touch hesitant and unsure, but there was a gentleness there that made my heart swell with affection. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against my forehead in a gesture that was both tender and desperate.

"Thank you," he whispered against my skin, his voice filled with a mixture of hope and fear. "Thank you for seeing me."

As I stood there, wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, I knew I had made the right choice. In the darkness of the opera house, I had found something—someone—who was worth all the risk in the world. And I wasn't going to let him go.

[niphredil-14]

EEEEEEEE your writings make me roll around happily!

May I request a Donnie x reader where they communicate via asl during his non-verbal episodes? So we all know that Donnie knows asl and binary code, and it's theorised that his eyebrows are also important to express what he wants to say non-verbally (I heard that your expressions are also important in asl).

So imagine Donnie, during his non-verbal episodes and talking seems more tiring than usual. Unresponsive to reader's words and he'd just nod and his face is more expressive. Noticing this, reader pat Donnie's shoulder and starts to sign, and that's how their conversation went.

Cue Donnie falling hard.

I know that this has taken absolute ages to get out, so thanks for your patience! Also, if the quality of this is less than great, this is the first thing I've written (aside from school writing) in ages.

TSL- Turtle Sign Language

Don never had been very good at acknowledging his own feeling and needs, which, although he would deny it even in the face of torture, did frequently cause him many a problem. Such as the common occurrence of Donnie denying and ignoring his sensory issues, exhaustion and stress, which when all put together, caused him to shut down. That was where they found him, on the floor by the foot of his bed, knees pressed to his plastron, with a weighted blanket replacing his battle shell. The lights were all off, except for the tablet propped up a foot or so away from him, soft sounds of someone whispering, most likely an ASMR video, playing from the device. After a quick knock on the door, they cracked it open and peeked inside, not bothering to wait for an answer. His eyes glanced up from the tablet to meet their gaze.

"Is it okay if I come in?" They said softly. He nodded, and watched as they walked in and closed the door behind them, making their way over to him. They pointed to the open space on the floor next to him, and with their voice low, and just as soft,

"Do you mind if I sit?" Donnie raised his eyebrows and gave them a small smile, giving a small shake of his head before jerking it sideways, to motion for them to sit with him. After getting situated, they asked another question,

"Are you okay, Dee? Leo said you left really suddenly." Donatello gave a light shrug, pulling the weighted blanket more around his shoulders, before finally giving them a small nod. Upon not receiving a response from his companion, he let his eyes wander back to the video. The screen displayed a dim background with fairy lights and a woman holding her index finger up and slowly drawing patterns in the air in front of her, asking after each one what shapes and images she had traced. The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, following the woman's directions and answering her questions, until Donnie's attention was grabbed by his friend, who leaned forward and was staring intently at him. He turned his head to gaze at them, and raised the muscle over his browbone, causing the faded, drawn-on eyebrow on his mask to raise almost as drastically. They seemed to take a moment to think before they raised their hands a bit and began to motion, forming signs familiar to Don.

'Is there anything I can do to help you?" Donnie's eyes shot wide open, and he released his grip on the weighted blanket to raise his hands and sign back to them.

'You know sign?' He questioned them, one thick, marker-made eyebrow raised comically higher than the other. His signs looked slightly different, which they assumed was just an adaptation made due to his distinct anatomy, but they could understand him regardless. They smiled wide at him, a proud glint in their eyes, and began to sign their affirmation to him. A smile formed on his face, his bad-boy image being challenged by just how heartwarmingly sweet the look in his eyes was. Their hands began to move again.

'So, is there anything I can do?' His own hands flying in response, his excitement and joy apparent with the speed at which he moved his hands, and the expression shining so brightly on his face.

'Just being here with me is really helpful, thank you.' Their smile grew to match his.

'You don't need to thank me, Don, there's nowhere I'd rather be.'

[daydreamingyuta]

NCT as Husbands Series: Johnny Suh

summary: fluff, drabble, husband!johnny wc: 830 nct as husbands masterlist

Johnny is such husband material!! He's genuinely soo thoughtful and sweet! like I always think about jcc and how he picks things to do based on who's in the video with him and what they would enjoy doing. which is why I would say one of his love languages is for sure acts of service! like he would always do the little things for you, that you may not even notice.

Also really big on communication. Anytime there's conflict in your marriage he's sitting you down and talking through it until you find a good solution. which I think is also a way that he shows he loves you because usually he can just brush things off, but with you he makes sure you're both on the same page and fully understand everything from each other's perspectives.

Johnny as a husband is also just so much fun! like there's not a day that goes by where he doesn't flirt with you like crazy. You could be twenty-five years into your marriage and he's still making you blush. He also loves to travel with you. He's always loved traveling and having someone who he can experience the world with is soo precious to him!!

I also feel like he would be in a constant battle with himself on how to impress you more and more by his good husband skills. Like he became a husband and all of a sudden it’s his life mission to make you the single happiest wife on earth. Especially with making sure you're taken care of!

Johnny enters the front door, too tired to even properly lift his feet causing them to drag. The combination of not getting enough sleep and dancing for hours straight was taking a toil on him. He knows immediately that you're not back from work yet, the atmosphere in an empty home just feels different somehow. He figures that you must be working late again. If he wasn't married, he would probably just go to bed right now without properly taking care of his needs, but he is married and he knows that you'll be hungry when you get home. He quickly checks in the kitchen to see if there's something easy to cook, but he doesn't find anything. He settles on taking out his phone and ordering takeout. He has a page on his notes app of all your favorite things to order from different restaurants just for situations like this. Yes, he could just ask you what you want, but sometimes being surprised with your favorite food just made it taste that much better. He places the order and then walks into the bathroom to wash his face, in hopes that it might wake him up a bit. However, once he flips on the light switch, he notices one of your face masks laying on the counter. "She must not have had enough time to do it last night." He thinks to himself, making a mental note of this as he brings his cupped hands full of cool water to his face. ⸻ It's not long after the food arrives that you come home, just as exhausted and hungry as Johnny figured you'd be. He gives you a sympathetic pout before he brings you into his embrace, letting you stay for as long as you want. It's two whole minutes into the hug before you finally notice the smell of your favorite takeout. You pull away from him and place your hands on his shoulders. "Did you buy me food?" "Maybee." He says, giving you his sweet smile. All your energy must have come back to you at the thought of food, because you rushed into the kitchen to grab a plate for the both of you. "Actually, I was thinking we could put on face masks together, sit on the couch, and eat while you tell me about your day." "Genuinely Johnny, I would love nothing more." You say, following him to the bathroom. "Actually, this is perfect because I was wanting to do one yesterday but got too tired." "Oh really?" He says, pretending like he hadn’t seen the face mask earlier.  You two put your sheet masks on in the bathroom and then go over to get your food. You sit on the couch in a criss-cross position as you tell Johnny all about your day. Actually, one of your coworkers recently had a very dramatic breakup with her boyfriend, so Johnny was all ears. "You know, It's actually so hard to eat with a sheet mask on, baby." Johnny says, adjusting his mask that started to slide down. "But it's worth it, it feels so nice," You say, setting down your food and helping him with his mask. You get it back into the right position and then kiss him on his temple which puts a proud grin on his face because he knows getting you food and doing face masks together made you happy. 

[wowcatboys]

Hear me out

Grunge bf kayn with a hyper feminine gf , like his gf loves sanrio and cute stuff 🫢🫢🫢

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

HEARTSTEEL KAYN: ULTRA-CUTE PARTNER HEADCANONS ♡ Gender Neutral ♡ SFW ♡ No TWs ♡ I am so fucking rabid for the idea of this combo...demon bf/ hello kitty reader SUPREMACY

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

KAYN

At first, the pairing confuses people, but those that see you and Kayn together recognize that somehow you just work. You soften Kayn's sharp edges in a way that he only lets those closest to him see, and Kayn helps highlight the fact that even though you look innocent and soft, there's more to you than that.

Both you and Kayn recognize how much work it can be to curate and present an aesthetic. That's part of what helps you two mesh so well, even though on the surface, you're entirely different. There's a mutual respect for the other, stemming from understanding.

Though he keeps them stashed in a bathroom drawer, Kayn's got a matching set of soft bunny-ear headbands for when you sleep over. Usually he just bobby-pins his hair back to wash his face, but when you're there, he'll pull out the cute headbands so you can match during your morning/night-time routine. For the sake of his image, please, please don't ever show anyone your bunny-eared, spa-masked selfies.

Kayn has you saved as 'prince/princess' in his phone. Fitting, since you're the patron saint of all things cute and soft, no?

The guys tease him whenever they catch Kayn with your things around the apartment, like when he's washing your pink Starbucks cups or pulling your cinnamoroll pajama pants out of the dryer. "Changing your look, Kayn?" They'll smirk, but he just rolls his eyes and sneers. "It's (y/n)'s, obviously," he bites. He's not really embarrassed, though—truth be told, he loves the way your life has leaked into his enough for others to notice. Besides, those nerds are probably just jealous that he bagged such a fucking perfect cute pastel angel.

Obviously, Kuromi is Kayn's favorite, if he has to pick one. You won him a little Kuromi figure from a claw machine, once, and he actually keeps it on top of his dresser, in full view for everyone to see. (It's probably the cutest thing he owns, and though he might not admit it, he fucking treasures that little figurine.) He sometimes says he's your Kuromi, though not usually in earshot of others. The similarities are uncanny—a proclivity for black, a tendency for mischief—they even have almost the same birthday!

Whenever you're in his room, Kayn sets his LED strip lights to pink for you.

If Kayn's going to be gone for awhile, touring and the like, he always gifts you a Calico Critters set the night before he leaves. "Try to take good care of them, yeah?" He smirks. "I don't wanna come back to the mouse family in the middle of a custody battle."

Kayn stashes a plushie in his underwear drawer, so you'll always have something to snuggle with when you stay with him (besides him, of course).

The visual contrast when Kayn lets you borrow a hoodie or jacket is nothing short of jarring. Here you are, this adorable thing in Mary Janes and a pastel skirt, sporting a bleach-dyed hoodie with a death metal logo. Kayn, of course, thinks the contrast is fucking adorable.

Kayn gently teases you about your bedroom—"I didn't even know this many pink things existed," he'll say"— but the truth is, he loves being in there with you. The softness makes him feel totally surrounded by you. It's gentle. Safe, even. Drinking from Sanrio glasses and slipping underneath a strawberry-printed comforter to spoon you may not be his usual style, but you make it feel so natural. (Sleeping in your bed, though? Kayn doesn't love that as much. He moves around in his sleep enough as is, but now he's got to worry about accidentally shoving your favorite Hello Kitty off the bed? Not fun.)

Kayn's favorite cutesy thing to buy you is sleepwear. Those pastel, soft-fabric cami and sleep shorts combos? Fucking delicious. There's at least three sets of your pajamas stashed in his PJ drawer, and Kayn bought all of them.

[dawn-dream-crusader]

DMC boys hedacanons - Sleeping positions

________________

Dante

Due to his non-caring attitude about himself, he dozes off right on his chair most of the time. Legs on table, hands hanging down, a magazine on face instead of a sleep mask. Just how he likes it and just how Morrison usually finds him.

When on couch, he sleeps like a little child, really. It's that one position, when hands are under pillow (even though Dante's is flat like a pancake), legs pressed to chest. He seems to relax more than ever while sleeping like this. Gives him memories.

And when you're with him, he would hug you with one of his arms and pull you closer, so your head lays on his chest, so you could hear his heartbeat, how far he's ready to go for you. Dante remembers a similar picture from his magazine, and chuckles slightly, throwing your arm over his body. These pictures lack sensuality. He pats your head and takes your hand just to plant a little kiss on your palm. You mean more to him than any photo could ever convey.

"Hm? What's it, strawberry? Nothing? Then sleep again. I don't want you to knock out on our tomorrow date."

Vergil

Before meeting up with Dante again, Vergil used to curl up in a ball on ground or a tree to keep himself warm, wrap in his coat, press Yamato to his chest, getting ready for a battle with any entity that would come by. He would wake up from the littlest sound, swinging his sword and accidentally cutting down a tree. There was no rest for him.

After reconnecting with his humanity, Vergil sleeps on a firm bed that Dante bought for him, in his room in Devil May Cry. Now, that he feels a bit safer, he naps, throwing his limbs all apart, still pressing Yamato to his chest, in a grip of disturbing thoughts still covering himself with his coat.

With your help, he slowly becomes more comfortable with not having his katana right next to him. Vergil lays Yamato on ground and finally gives in to his urges: he wraps his arms and legs around you, pressing you closer to him instead of a weapon. He nuzzles your hairline, holding your hands in his, making sure every part of you is warm. As strange as it is, Vergil can't help himself but shower you with compliments all night. He whispers to you, how much he loves you. How much he wants you to stay with him, by his side. Everything that he doesn't know how to say when you're awake.

"I wish I had met you sooner. My star. Maybe, something would change in my life... if you were next to me."

Nero

This sweet boy is definitely what you need, if you like people who kick in their sleep. Every night has the same scenario: Nero throws off his blanket, wakes up from cold and then puts in back on, and in the morning he can't understand how to untangle himself from it. One time he used devil magic and burned the blanket to ashes. Don't try at home.

And with you, he wraps you in. Nero'd sleep at the North Pole with no clothes whatsoever, but he'd totally make you a walking mummy from blankets. Even though he is the best listener, Nero won't let you take your rest without anything to warm you. He's a caring guy, just like his father, but at least, he doesn't suffocate you with his limbs. Nero hugs you and pulls you close, so he feels your breath on his neck. A cute guy.

"Where is this damn blanket.. Here it is. Look, I want you to be healthy, so you don't catch cold. Got me? Nice, baby."

________________________

P.s. Very short. I woke up and decided to write.

[jolalibrary]

it's you. it's me.

simon ghost riley x f!reader (reader!helen) wordcount: 5.3k (i have zero self-control) summary: he never wanted to get married. he’s not sure when you became the exception. an: mention of loss, blood. smut. emotions. angst. fluff (usual jo-shit)

simon ghost riley masterlist

++

He never wanted to get married.  Marriage meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leads. Leads led to death.  Not just for him, but for the poor soul he’d chain to him. The one who he’d rather not have than know their life was ended because of him. Because he’s supposed to be dead.  He’s not sure when you became the exception.  Unsure when you buried yourself so deep into his veins he needs you more than blood, oxygen and bullets.

++

Shit hit the fan. 

Some missions were worse than others. Some leave more than scars and nightmares.

Today was bad. Even he knew that. 

Alpha 0-3 lay on the floor, unconscious proof of it. 

Half the soldiers they’d gone with—dead, KIA. 

His jaw is tight, almost cracking as he stares at Johnny—unsure how they’ve walked away from it. How they’re both here, surrounded by silence as the few who have survived try to process.

He almost says something, spits it out. But then he hears it—your orders.

They’re piercing and direct. Coming over the radio as the blades overhead slow, guiding them down to the ground. He feels it—the itch to get to you. To bury his hands in your hair and pull your face to him. 

Ghost makes do with meeting your eyes when the rear opens, your eyes scanning him, the briefest mist of relief over your lips, cheeks and eyes before you nod.

“Later?”  Later.

He responds in the same silence, puncturing it with a nod. 

The two of you had your own spoken language—something he’d mastered quicker than he had any other language. But then, speaking Helen had more pros than cons. More benefits than listening to enemies talk shit about him and his mask. 

All he could do was watch as you followed the carried body. 

Unsure what version of you he’d find later—what fragments of you he’d have to scoop up. If there would even be pieces left where they were supposed to be. 

Secretly, and selfishly, he just hopes the pieces of him match with the pieces of you. Praying they slot together until the two of you can both return to some semblance of a whole. 

It’s then he has to remind himself it’s a luxury having you. War takes so much—the darkness takes so much more. 

It’s a reward to pull you close to him after a shit show like this; it’ll be a gift to feel your breath on his chest. Even more so for your fingers to draw those bloody shapes on his side—dancing over healed scars and your needle stitching. 

“C’mon, Johnny,” he snaps, filling the air with something other than failings, disappointment and held breath. “Briefing. Now.” 

+

You crumble. 

Lost it. Lost them. 

Losing is part of the war, part of the battle. But, it doesn’t sting any less, doesn’t make it easier to swallow. 

Call it.  But— I said call it. 

Your gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Desperately clinging, digging your toes into your boots as you try to not unravel. You could do it alone. When they’d left. When the room was emptied and there was only you and your failure on the table. 

They moved to leave. Quickly. Announcing they’d check the others—the ones who had wounds but still had air in their lungs. Your eyes blinking, the machines turning off, their boots squeaking before the door to the theatre squeals. 

That’s when you look at their backs, firing a quick, but soft thank you. Something those above you didn’t do when you were in their position—when you were them, head hung down, feeling the weight of another loss. 

Both of them meet your eyes, and you reward them with a smile, one which tells them it’s not on them—a smile which says you can’t win them all. Something you don’t believe, have never believed but can understand why it’s a comfort. 

They nod, and they leave. 

Not knowing you’re ticking, that you’re a bomb. Emotions bubbling, fizzing and hissing. Time ticks as you wait. For what you’re unsure. 

Silence? The moment to snap? 

It would have needed a miracle. The damage was extensive—you knew that, you’d already calculated it before you’d begun. A life, was a life. A person had people. 

You stare at the corpse—the one which had a beating heart minutes ago, the one which had the slimmest chance, but a chance all the same. 

You could feel it crushing you. The weight of loss. The failure pecking at your bones—good soldiers lost. Gone. 

Because your fucking hands weren’t quick enough. 

++

You’re not in your office. 

Not in the infirmary or the utility cupboard you often hide in. 

The one he’s somehow crammed himself into when you’ve needed a minute—hands grasping at his belt buckle. 

He’d counted the bodies hooked up to machines. 

Realised quickly, but not quickly enough. The soles of his feet hammer down, and it dawns on him how shit shit was. 

He’d felt the thrum in his chest earlier. The knot of something undoing—his gut telling, screaming and kicking that something was wrong. Now he knows what. 

Because he knows you. It’s why he cuts down corridors and passes soldiers who almost flatten themselves to the wall as he passes. 

Doing so until he finds you, and finds you he does. 

If someone told him he grasped his chest at the sight of you, he’d have crushed their windpipe with his palm. But, as he stepped through his open door, spotting you pressed into the corner of his room, he unclenches his hand from his jacket. 

You’ve been broken. A shattered raft out at sea, lost and delirious in grief. 

But this is worse.

His foot closes the door, waiting for a reaction—finding none. Nothing. Not an arch of your brow, not a snort.  

Your knees remain bent, elbows hanging over them. There’s a distant, empty look in your eyes. Both of them almost glazed over, like the light in them has been snuffed out. 

Exactly how Johnny had described them to him when he’d come looking for him, having passed you…

But, it’s that plus the fact your bloody apron is still on, your blue gloves crumbled before you—boots removed, white sock-covered feet flat on his floor. 

The only way he can even tell you’re alive and awake is from the slow rise and fall of your chest—the occasional blink here and there. 

He knows how often you’ve taken care of him. You’ve stitched him. Stapled him. 

You’ve listened and you’ve sat as he had shouted. 

Most of all, you have looked for him—found him. You’ve saved him from falling into a hole. Even going as far as to find him behind the mess, cold ebbing at him as your fingers snake under his mask—not to remove it, but to touch the back of his neck. 

I’ve got you. Ghost, I have you. Simon. Simon, I’ve got you. I’ll always have you. 

Your eyes staring into his, saying those words over and over until he can blink a little easier—he can move your hand under the mask to his lips so he can kiss them. 

And he knows it’s his turn now. 

He crouches, sliding a glove from his hand, brushing his finger over your cheek, watching your eyes flicker—registering him, acknowledging. 

“Helen.”

Your lips twitch. 

The name usually does that. The one he uses more than your own. At this point, he’s unsure if you truly hate it or just hate that you love it. He prefers it, personally. Not because he dislikes your name, but because he’s the only one who calls you this. The only one who gets that glint in your eye, that twitch of your lips. 

His fingers trace down your cheek, running to clutch your chin. You’re cold, so impossibly cold, watching your teeth nip at your lip, watching for the tremble, the quiver he knows is due to come. Not taking his eyes from you as they stare back at him, all sunken and sad, but still somehow more beautiful than any fucking sunrise he’s ever seen. 

He whispers your name—your real name, stroking the skin under your chin as he feels you swallow against his little finger. 

“Y’know why Price likes you?” 

He wraps his other hand around your arm, feeling you move with him—allowing him to lift you to your feet. Your plastic apron is crinkling, feet shuffling until he can lift you with ease. 

“Cause I’m cheap for saying I’m good with a scalpel and a PC?” 

Ghost shakes his head, wanting to chastise you—but he assumes you’re doing that enough to yourself for the two of them. 

Instead, he forces his fingers to lift your chin. “Because you give a shit, Helen.”

“I don’t want to.” 

“I know.” 

Your hands gently clutching his mask-covered cheeks, staring into his eyes as you silently stare. Not saying anything with your lips, but plenty with your eyes. 

“What do you want, hmm?” 

You. I want you. 

His hands take your wrists, holding you, not letting go.

“I don’t want to think. Just… make me forget, help me not give a shit, Simon.” 

And he knows what you need, what you’re too afraid to ask for. Fuck me like a whore, Ghost. Fuck me until I'm whimpering and begging cause I can't take anymore. 

You have said those words once. Albeit drunk, confidence propped up with vodka and fruit juice. But, if you had that same confidence now, he imagines it’s what you’d ask for. And who is he to say no? How could he? 

You’ve looked up at him from your place between his thighs, knees on stone and dirt as your hand wrapped around the base of him. Let your tongue swirl over his tip, tasting him, hollowing your cheek, sucking, teeth grazing down his shaft when he needed it the most. When he needed something so similar. 

Some drink to forget the bad days.

The two of you fuck until your raw, till you’re both full of something other than regret and sadness.

He’s aware he shouldn’t, not this time.

Ghost should hold your cheeks, stare into those pretty eyes he’d happily burn the world for, and take you for a shower, washing the day from your skin and bones. Because you’re crumbling, the parts of your confidence withering—hoping and needing to feel good, to be good. 

And he can prove that to you without fucking you senseless. He can name an infinite amount of fucking things that prove you’re good, that you’re kind, and that you can do what you can do. 

Because you’re you. 

You've wormed your way inside of him, flooded the darkest parts of him with light and made a slither of him think he deserved you.

Your hand presses to his chest, cold and timidly. All of sudden so aware of how delicate and thin your fingers are, how small and delicate it is next to his scarred, worn skin. 

“Please, Simon.” 

And he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your scrubs at the whisper of his name—feeling you hold his shoulders as you kick them into some distant corner. 

You silently thank him when he rips the disposable apron, balling it before tossing it. Letting your fingers, those soft, slightly calloused, healing fingers slide under his top—run over his skin, over the places you’ve stitched.

He doesn’t move, even if he wants to. Letting you brush over the hair on his stomach, run your nails over the lines of his muscles. Letting you read him as if his scars are Braille, allowing yourself the reminder of the times you’ve saved and healed. 

And then he pulls your chin up. 

++ 

“‘You sure you want this?” 

Ghost is rarely gentle, but Simon sometimes is.

The man you have in front of you is some hybrid of the two—masked up, but with the eyes of Simon. All blue, like the ocean, willing to drag you down. 

Sometimes they’re like the water you’d expect to be licking a sandy beach, and sometimes they’re so dark you’d fear what breathed under the watery depths. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at you. When his eyes—all swirls of blue surrounded by charcoal black—curl into you. He’s big, broad and tall, and so much more than you could have ever known you’d have. 

He makes heat pool between your legs with one look, and makes you feel safe by just being close. Even if he doesn’t see it—doesn’t fathom it at all—you’d throw away all your values and beliefs of saving people, and rip them apart with your hands to get to him. 

You feel his thumb flutter over your scar, the one on your hip from a bullet meant for him. He hates it, and yet always strokes it. A memory forever embedded into your skin he can’t help but press play on, even if he knows how it ends.

You shouldn’ have done that, Helen.  I’d do it again. Stupid, woman. You’re a fuckin’ idiot. Only for you, Ghost. Only for you.

Your hands move to his belt, undoing it—the clang of metal piercing the air. 

“Helen?” 

You look at him, meet him in those beautiful blue eyes. Don’t ask me to talk, Simon. Your lungs are tightening, aching, as if each emotion you’re holding in is made from molten ash. 

You crack his belt like a whip with the speed of releasing it from his hooks, eyes holding his more firmly, blinking away the weakness—the emotions, the fucking audacity of the day. 

“Be my reason,” you say. 

To breathe. To keep fighting. To get up. 

++

For his sins, he’s gentle. 

Both in the way he lays your naked frame on his bed and the way he runs his fingers over the inside of your thigh. 

He wants to devour you, plunge his tongue into your cunt and taste everything you’ll give him. He almost does—instead he breathes over you, watching your hips try to wiggle, his other hand holding you in place. 

He lifts his head, watching, earning the sights he’s about to behold as he eases two fingers inside of you. You’re wet, warm—but it’s the way your lips fall that makes his hip roll against his mattress. 

With each movement, he watches for your reaction. Like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and you are. 

You whimper. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter, and your mouth falls open. And it’s all for him. 

With each rise of your chest, breath hitches, and he runs his mask down your abdomen. Feeling how slick you are against his fingers, how you whimper, both pleading and breathless. Even through the mask, he can smell your arousal, how you want him to take you apart—practically taste it all in the air. 

He curls his fingers, watching as your hand grasps his forearm. More, Simon. More. Your other knotting his sheets in between your fingers, a root, something to grip until space, time and life crashes into you and makes your throat sore as you moan his name around his room. 

He wants it too. He wants to earn his name, coax it from your beautiful pink, swollen lips and wear it with pride. 

But, Ghost also wants something else. 

Normally, he’d give you everything you want, and more. From the feral look in your eye, you want to be turned away from him, for him to be rough—and normally, fuck he’d want that too. 

He’d want to split you apart, know that you’ll be thinking—feeling—him for the next fucking three days. 

He admittedly also likes the sight. 

Something about getting to see your arse while holding your tits, and having the ability to suck red and purple welts on your neck. The best, though, is when you try to wiggle to see him—catch sight of him. Your eyes pressed into the corner of your sockets, hands gripping nothing as he takes you apart with his cock.

Ghost likes fucking you like that—likes fucking you when you have nowhere to go. Pinning you. Locking you in place. 

Not that you ever want to go, he knows you don’t. 

You’re so fucking big, Simon. 

You clench around him like you never want him to stop filling you. A vice on him that he never wants to rid of either. 

Because Helen likes to be pinned, to be smothered by his body. You like him looming over you, dwarfing you; like him lifting you and fucking you against walls, doors and even fucking windows. 

He suspects it’s because you like to surrender control, like for it to be taken from her. So used to being in control, needing to be, and people depending on it. to be taken away from her. 

Your thighs quiver, soft protests as he slides another finger inside of you. Stretching you. 

“Fuck… Simon, fuck.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” 

He doesn’t lessen, listening to each whimper and moan, lifting his mask so he can kiss your skin—teeth grazing as he curls his fingers, thumb swiping over your swollen clit as your hips try to cant against his hand. 

The sensation of your fingers in his hair, makes him groan as he captures your lips. All teeth, tongue and messy, both pushing your legs wider and pulling your hips to him all in one movement. 

Needy. Desperate. Hungry. 

And then you're clenching, hips tensing before a hand grips his mask—and then you come, hips spasming, thighs shaking. 

++

Often, you let him leave the mask on—partly. 

You like to kiss him, like to bury your moans against his mouth. You’ve seen him, know him. You know the shape of his cheekbones and the silver scars. 

“Your eyes are enough for me. Never take them from me.”  “Never.” 

He's being a tease. 

Sliding inch by inch of himself into you. His tongue in your mouth, your focus on the fiery stretch he provides as he buried himself to the hilt. 

He rears his hips back until he fills you all over again, faster, sharper, more purposeful. And it’s sinful. It’s fucking bliss and a high you don’t even deserve. Not as you begin to meet his thrusts with a squeeze, a clench. Hearing his hiss, watching him place his mask-covered forehead against yours. 

Because he’s deep. So fucking deep. 

Sheathed inside of you at an angle you’ve not known before. Almost unsure what your body has had to adjust to accommodate him. Not that you care, you never fucking care. 

You want him to claim you, mould himself inside of you. Because the sting passes, the size of him is something you never prepare for. Your nails are in the back of his hair, your lips almost meeting him as he ruts into you. Your eyes gazing down, watching where the two of you meet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever tire of it—of him. 

You imagine each muscle of his, tightening and flexing—especially as he rocks into you at alternating speeds, your eyelashes fluttering, feeling beads of sweat build at your brow. 

He’s everything. 

He’s fucking fire and ice, both dusk and dawn and everything in between. Your eyes blink open, seeing his own truth—seeing it as he grunts and his hand tightens on your hip as he seats himself deeply into you. 

The words are like licks of fire up your spine, mixing and blending with searing pleasure. 

I love you. I love you. 

You know. 

Fuck you know. 

Your lips crash and swallow the words he hasn’t yet said. Feeling him shake, as your toes curl, red-hot pleasure desperate to smother every inch of you and spread along every single nerve. 

His hips losing their rhythm, hammering the head of his cock against that spot which makes the sound of him filling you so damn deplorable. 

You whine for him. 

Biting down on his lip as it slams into you, snapping you, tears spilling down your eyes as his name storms past your lips as he holds you in place. 

Fucking you through it. 

Holding you, pinning you—until he fills you, his hips shuddering, fingers bruising until they slowly unclench from your hip. 

++

If someone cracked his head open, they’d see that one of his favourite things is holding you. 

He won’t admit it. 

Not even under the worst of tortures. 

But it is. It’s simple. Homely. Something he knows he doesn’t fucking deserve, and yet, has all the same. 

“You wanna talk?”

“No.”

You’re quick. The short, sharp no filling the small space between his face and yours. Mask gone, the lamp on his desk smothering the room in soft light. 

But he knows you do want to talk. So he gives it a minute.

He lets his fingers draw shapes on your ribs, waiting, letting you settle against him, hearing your mind begin to turn and churn. 

And then you talk, as he suspects you will. 

Because he knows it’s what you need. Even if you beg him to fuck you into his mattress, even if you tell him to fuck off, you need to talk. The thoughts building otherwise, stealing your confidence, your belief, your fucking hope. 

He needs silence, and sometimes needs to be alone. Sometimes, he needs both. 

You need to be touched, to be rooted, and to talk it out. Let the thoughts run from your tongue and meet the air—even if you repeat yourself, even if the same thought comes up time and time again. He will just listen. 

You’re rambling, talking about the clinical-ness before you move into how there was nothing you could do. So much blood. Too many bullets. You’re good. Not that good.  You lost one, and then the other. 

On another day it can be more, your hands not good enough today, but will they be tomorrow?

“Simon…”

He doesn’t breathe. Feeling, watching your eyes lift up from your place on his chest, scorching into his. “…They didn’t have a person, Simon. Not one. No Ghost. No Helen. Not this… Not that we’re each other's person. Not like how I mean.” 

“How do y’mean?” 

Your eyes tilt down, and he wonders if you can hear his pulse. 

“I have no one to alert that they’re dead. Not a wife. Not a husband. No children. A parent, yes. But… not a person. They died without…” 

You lift up, his fingers falling to your chin, feeling your lip quiver. Tears in your eyes, making them shimmer—a single tear hanging from your lash, dangling, waiting to drop. 

“It’ll be the same when I die… no one to legally inform. No one to...” 

Then it drops. The tear. 

Falling and cascading down your cheek before it lands on his chest. It bleeds out, mixing with the dried sweat and forgotten kisses you’d left before.

And then, like all downpours, more follow suit. Dancing down your skin, too many for him to catch even if he tries. 

He’s ashamed it takes him a minute. 

Wondering what the hell you even mean until he realises—no one knows. Not officially. Not even fucking unofficially. A secret, one which flickers inside of him and inside of you. Something shared in quick looks and private moments, but never where else.  

You shake your head, lifting up from your position on his chest, wiping your cheeks as you try to put on a smile. “I’m… ignore me. Just being daft.”

You’re not.

But he doesn’t say that.

He says nothing, eyes falling to his vest in the corner before landing back on you, watching you shimmy and shift to the end of his bed. 

“I should shower,” you mumble, hand brushing hair from your face as you stand.

His hand wants to lift, to take your wrist and pull you back to him—to kiss you, to tell you so many things. But his throat goes dry, silence filling the space his voice should be. 

++

It’s odd, what the two of you have. 

Far more than a situation, and way more than convenience. 

It’s trouble, difficult—often the hardest thing you could have chosen to do, and you stitch wounded soldiers for a living.  

But it makes sense. 

He didn’t seduce you. Wasn’t the best out of a bad situation.

He was dry and dark humour and had beautiful fucking eyes that you’d suspected were meant to strike some fear in you, but you’d weathered worse storms than him. You’d first kissed him because you had to—a niggling feeling inside of you that had to know if his lips were soft or whether they just looked it. You’d kissed him again because he stopped you from thinking, from crumbling.

Simon made you feel like you were falling, happily. 

His hand taps on your door, clicking your pen as you look up at him. He’s all casual, a sight to fucking behold. Dark grey joggers and a long-sleeve tee—and from the look in his eyes he’s on his way to training which only sparks more sinful thoughts in your hectic mind.

Initially, way back when, it had been about sex. 

About providing to yourself you could take him, having felt him, having felt how heavy, thick and long he fucking was. Then, it wasn’t.

Now it’s something big—bigger than his cock. It’s feelings and need, it’s desperation and imissyous wrapped in something you’re not sure you can live without. Now it’s about everything else, it’s about the small things and the fact you can feel yourself wanting to smile just because he’s here. 

“Lieutenant, what a surprise! How can I help you?”  

You wonder how often he smiles behind the mask. 

His reputation of being cold, difficult and sometimes an arsehole—depending on who you ask—is widely known. But you know a different person. One who washes your hair when you’re too tired to stand, one who brings you the milkiest tea on cold mornings, ‘Because you’re fuckin’ bitch without a tea in y’, Helen.” 

It still surprises you when he holds it up. It shimmers, sparkles and gleams between a bare thumb and his index finger. 

“For this situation, I think you should be callin’ me Simon.” 

You narrow your eyes, even if your heart is already pounding. Panic. Dread. Your mind racing, unsure what you’ve done—half-worrying if you’d lost one, even if you never wear jewellery. Not here. Not on base. Suddenly questioning whether you’d drunkenly told Soap to buy you something again, a dare gone wrong. 

You hum.

Hiding as best as you can that you’re lost, and confused. 

“Are you going to call me by my name?”

“No.”

Snorting, you fold your arms. “Didn’t think so. You going to explain why you’re holding a ring?” 

“I think you know.”

“Humour me.” 

Because my brain is running away from me. 

He’s not romantic in terms of red roses and sweeping you off your feet. He’s romantic in ways like tapping your arm twice, letting you know he’s missed you. Letting his eyes land on you across briefing rooms, nodding—you got this, Helen. You can do this. 

Ghost is sweet in ways others don’t see. His hand on your lower back when he can tell you want to leave somewhere, a silent offering to walk you back; bringing you a thicker pair of socks when snow is landing on the sill of your office, knowing you hate being cold. 

So, this… him standing holding a ring, could mean many things. 

“C’mon, Helen.” 

You pull a face, shrugging. 

“Be my person.” 

Your brows furrow, eyes frowning. 

Your mind explodes with a sea of things, darting, trying to remember, thinking of that exact phrasing. It takes a second, and then…

His eyes have that shimmer, that fucking obnoxious twinkle. Likely having watched you come to the same realisation—letting you take your time, proudly standing in your smile and glittering eyes.

“You want me… to be your person, person?” 

“Be the one they tell. Yeah.”

It would be easy to get ahead of yourself. 

It could be a formality, something small. A gesture but not the actual question. 

“I know you liked what I did with my tongue last night, but I didn’t know I was that good at giving head—“

“Helen.”

It comes out warningly.

It makes your lips clamp shut, looking down before meeting his gaze—his fiery, intense fucking stare. 

“Look, I know I was upset, but you didn’t need to go steal a ring for me.”

“I didn’t steal it. I had it made.” 

“What?”

He shrugs. 

He fucking shrugs. 

“When?”

It comes out high-pitched. The tone surprises you. So much so, you clear your throat. Repeating it, in a more normal and appropriate volume as you stand, gesturing to close the door behind him as you look at him. 

“Does it matter?”

“I think it fucking does.”

“Last time I went home, home.”

You glare.

Wishing you could see his smirk, already imagining it there all the same. 

Your fingers take it from him, looking over it as you admire it, feeling how warm it is. He’s been holding it, likely pressed into his palm on the walk over here. Your fingers turn it, feeling the ridges of it. 

Mostly, you’re trying to recall when he went home. 

The last time, you two had both been released home at the same time. Having half-joked that you’d combust without his cock, that he’d have to visit you, come ruin the countryside with you—only for him to offer to come with you. Come home. See your place—ensure you didn’t die from lack of being fucked senseless. 

Your fingers won’t do shit, Helen. Not now, anyway.  You’re a cocky shit, Riley.  And you’re a whore for my cock. 

His hands are buried in his jogger's pockets, questioningly staring at him as you hold it. This little thing, that means something big. 

“It’s made from a bullet. One you took out of me.”

Your lips part.

“Not sure if you remember? You told me to keep it as a reminder of what good hands feel like.”

“I remember…” you lick your lips, unable to stifle the way your heart hammers into your ribs—pretty sure he can hear it, the entire base for that fact. “I also remember you showing me how good yours were.”

“Enough.”

You silently apologise, looking at it again before meeting his eyes. “You’ve really had this the whole time?”

“In my vest.”

He says it so plainly like it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

As if your mouth shouldn’t be falling open in surprise again, that you shouldn’t be staring up at him in the way you are. 

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s you and me, Helen. Sometimes we’re the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense.” 

“You know what giving me this means, right?”

He nods—fucking formally at that. 

“Ghost—“

“Simon.”

You smile, lips tight. “Simon. Does this mean what I think it means?” 

“If you think it means that it needs to go on your finger on your left hand, then yes.” 

He’s looking at you, pleadingly. 

“I think you should ask.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

You laugh, watching his large chest rise and fall in annoyance. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a pain in my arse—“

You say your name. 

Sharp, but sweet. Watching the parts of the mask around his nose flex in and out as he snarls and sighs. 

“Simon… out there, I’m Helen, I know. But, here… holding this, I think you should say my name too,” you whisper, more fragile, quieter than he’s likely known you to be for a while. 

And then he nods.

Taking the ring from your palm, sliding it over your fingernail, on that hand, on that finger—hovering it close to the knuckle. 

And he asks—using your name. Will you be my person?

[redrobinhoodrat]

Damian

“Damian, don’t you want to see your surprise? I think you’ll love it.” He grinned maliciously as he gestured for someone to step forward.

Damian’s breath was caught as one of the ninjas from grandfather’s guard stepped forward and crouched into a fighting stance. Everything about them was entirely too familiar. Grandfather was saying something but the ringing in his ears was making it hard to understand.

“— happened? We found him and now he’s back home. Don’t you want to come back and see him Damian?” Grandfather had walked up to the figure as he was talking. Reaching a hand up, he pulled the half mask down to reveal their face. “He’s excited to see you.”

His chest was aching now as he listened to his family behind him taking in the scene. Even as he shifted into his own battle stance it felt like his face and hands had been dipped in static. He was sure he wasn’t getting oxygen adequately but still he couldn’t take his eyes off what could have been a mirror image of himself if he’d never left the league. From the hair and the outfit, to the burning green eyes glaring back. He knew however, he wasn’t looking at a clone. He was looking at his worst nightmare, something that the pits had brought to life.

He felt a hand drop down on his shoulder and he flinched. A quick glance at the blue stripes give the culprit up as Richard but the familiar comfort he usually got from his adopted brother never came. He clenched his jaw to steady himself. There was no way grandfather had done what he was thinking. This has to be a clone or something else being used to entice him back to the league.

“Grandfather, I fail to see what use another clone could be. I would think that after the first attempt of using clones failed you would try a different method.” He made sure to sound as bored as possible, knowing how his grandfather played with emotions. His grandfather seemed to be amused if anything, a cruel smirk settling across his face.

“I would not bring you a mere clone Damian. Is it the green eyes throwing you off? It’s merely a side effect of the pits as you well know.” Here he shot a pointed look towards Redhood before glancing back. “Don’t you recognize your own twin?”

The ringing was back.

“He simply needed a quick dip in the pits before he was willing to listen. Here lately the aggression has been quite handy.” Grandfather stepped back at the same time he let go of the figures shoulder. “Cosmas, why don’t you go ahead and show your brother what he’s missing out on?”

Damian’s eyes quickly snapped back to the boy as he started moving. Pulling out a blade that looked shockingly similar to his brother’s—his real, dead, twin brother’s—sword. With the way his eyes were glowing, Damian couldn’t tell any emotions coming from him. He quickly unsheathed his matching sword as he watched the figure—supposedly his brother— smirk.

Danny POV

Danny was shocked.

Surprised.

Absolutely flabbergasted.

Never had he imagined this scenario for himself, and he’s been through some pretty wild shit!

Okay, so to start out his eyes are glowing green due to being literally dunked in rancid ectoplasm like ten time. Which is just ew. He was also forced to change into an old league uniform, given his old sword, and then pretty much pushed out in front of the bats of Gotham within a day of him being taken.

…WAS GRANDFATHER CRAZY??

Obviously grandfather didn’t know about Phantom or he’d be in a lot deeper shit. To be completely honest, he just wanted to go along with this to see Damian again but now he’s supposed to fight the bats? That’s so not happening, Danny enjoyed his half-life. Sure it was overrun by beings trying to kill him but when was that any different than what it was in the league.

Obviously, grandfather just wanted him to die again—

“—recognize your own twin?” Danny’s ears twitched as he heard that, snapping his gaze to the figure squaring up across from him. That was Damian? He looked so…calm. The Damian that Danny was used to had an eternal stick up his ass that made his face look like he was scowling 24/7. Maybe the mask helped with that? Huh. Interesting.

“Cosmas” Ancients he hated that name. “Why don’t you go ahead and show your brother what he’s missing out on?” He felt grandfather taking a few steps back.

Danny internally scoffed as he went to take out his sword—HIS SWORD!!—that had recently been given to him.

‘Like I’ll ever help you out you senile fruitloop’ Danny smirked as he thought it ‘You just made yourself useless.’

[chaotic-fandom-writer]

Adam x Reader P.1 (Hazbin Hotel)

Warnings: Heavy cursing, violence, adult themes

Chapters

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII

Extermination day was never easy, nor fun. But you fought nonetheless. You would do anything to keep your friends and the hotel from being exterminated.

Today was a harder one than usual. You noticed they seemed to be sending more and more angels down every year, making it nearly impossible to hold your ground anymore. Maybe it was your hood and mask, or maybe it was all the attacks, but you were out of breath quicker than usual, too.

You were doing okay, until an angel came from behind, knocking one of your daggers out of your hand. Mind spinning, already nearing exhaustion, you turned and ran as fast as you could, fully aware the angel was gaining on you quickly.

You turned a sharp corner and dropped into the cellar doors of one of the shops nearby. You could hear the angel go past, holding your breath and waiting extra long, just to be safe.

After you finally catch your breath, you ran outside, ready to fight again, only to see a brilliant burst of light come crashing down on you. You barely managed to jump away, looking up for the source.

Horrified, you realize where it came from - Adam, the leader of the angels.

Of course he's the one who happens to find me.

You mentally curse your own luck before jumping again, avoiding more of his strikes. "What's with the fucking mask? You some kind of bimbo robinhood bitch?"

"What the fuck does that even mean?" You laugh, not even sure how to process the insult.

"Fuck you! That's what it means!" And more strikes. You jump again, seemingly irritating your attacker.

"Hold still, bitch!"

You laugh, and run into a nearby shopping center, running up the stairs to the second floor and hiding in a shop.

You had no weapons, aside from one small dagger, and honestly, that didn't look like it could do much against the literal leader of the angels.

"Where are you, slut?"

God, he's a real charmer, this one.

Slowly, you start to creep around the shop, trying to get a better peek, when suddenly, you take a wrong step, and the fragile, crumbling conrete gives way underneath you.

You let out a scream as you fall from the second floor, landing flat on your back in the shop beneath. You gasp for air, ripping the mask and hood off of your face.

Adam appears before you, his cocky grin suddenly faded. You tense your body, waiting for him to attack, but he does nothing. He stands there, staring at you.

"What's your fucking problem?" You ask, looking away, somehow unable to bear the sight of his gaze anymore.

He says nothing, instead walking slowly over to you. You scoot back as far as you can before your back hits the wall.

Looking up at Adam, you squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head away as he reaches down for you.

Suddenly, before you know it, you feel his arms lift you up. But before you even have time to process that, you're flying through the roof of the building and into the air.

Unable to speak, you gawk at the sights below you, flying at insane speeds in Adam's arms. He stops at a tall building, dropping you on the rooftop.

"It's almost over. Stay here until we leave, or you'll get killed."

Before you can even respond, he flies off into the distance.

"What the fuck?"

--

It took you a while to climb down the building, and even longer to walk back to the hotel. The asshole had really taken you far from the battle site.

You wearily walk up the steps of the hotel, swinging the door open and collapsing at the bar.

"And where the fuck have you been?" Husk asks, pouring you a drink.

"I don't even know dude." You slam your drink, and he pours you another one.

Another voice chimes in. "What do you mean, 'you don't know?' What happened?" Angel Dust now joins you at the bar.

Sighing, you explain what happened, also gaining the interest of Vaggie and Charlie.

"That's.. strange. I don't understand why he wouldn't just kill you. He's kind of notorious for that." Vaggie says, a confused look on her face.

"Maybe he felt bad?" Charlie says enthusiastically. Husk snorts at this. "Maybe not." She says more quietly.

"All I know is, I'm going the fuck to bed." You stand, slamming your last shot before heading up and turning in for the night.

--

What you thought was a random, strange occurence, ending up turning into a yearly routine.

Every single year, the angels would come down for extermination, lead by Adam. And every year, he began to seek you out, snatching you off the streets and dropping you on the top of a random building.

Every time, you fought, kicked, and screamed. You demanded, yelled, cursed. But still you recieved no answers, only "rescues" you weren't asking for.

This year would be different, you decided. You were going to fight him back, and demand to know why the fuck he kept doing this. It didn't make any sense, and you deserved answers.

You had a plan. All you had to do was stand in the open, and wait.

Sure enough, Adam came flying down. You could see his eyes sweep the crowd, before landing directly on you. In the midst of the chaos, nobody else ever notices him swoop down and grab you.

You played it up like you always do, yelling at him to let you go. He did the same as always - ignored you.

As he neared the top of the building, you suddenly grabbed onto his wing and bent it as hard as you could, earning a loud CRACK.

"FUCK! What the FUCK!" Adam shrieks in pain, dropping you onto the rooftop and collapsing alongside you.

You grab daggers out from under your shirt, and begin wildly slashing. Despite his wound, he recovers quickly, fighting you off.

But he's not going anywhere with that broken wing.

The both of you jump backwards. "Adam. Tell me what you're doing. No more games!" You scream.

"You broke my fucking wing, you bitch!" He yells back.

"ADAM! No more games!"

You lunge at him again, tackling him to the ground, stomping the heel of your shoe down into the broken wing. He screams, but holds tightly onto both of your wrists, keeping your daggers away from his face.

"Just tell m-"

You're suddenly cut off by a sharp pain in your chest. You gasp for air, looking down and seeing the tip of a blade poking out through your shirt.

Through your chest.

"NO!" Adam screams out, cradling you as you slump off of him, now the one on the ground.

Behind you, Lute stands looking confused, holding onto her bloody blade.

"LUTE! What the fuck?"

"Sir, I thought -"

"FUCK!" Adam screams, holding onto you.

You simply smile, aware of the life draining away from you.

Before you die, all you can manage to say is,

"At least the game is finally over."

--

All you hear is a loud POOF! and suddenly, you're awake, standing, and feel no more pain.

Standing before you, angels. Surrounding you, more angels. White, white everywhere.

You look down and see yourself in elegant white clothing.

"What the FUCK?"

"Welcome to Heaven!"

--

Don't forget, I'm always accepting requests!

Chapters

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII

[gatorbites-imagines]

I'm back wayy too early, Just as promised!👍🏻

How are you?

Would you like to explain, in the Reader of your choice that "Flaxans' king is kinda..", mister?🤨📸

Aaand that's It for now, drink some water mr. Allig-author, I'll do the same.

See you in the close future! ~💙🌺✨

Flaxan Leader x antihero male reader

Headcanons

straight up cant find any flaxan gifs

What do you mean 🤨📸 I said what I said 🗣️

Reader is kinda based on Deadpool, but with some tweaks. Insert also flaxan headcanons, cuz I thought it was funny.

Working with teen team had never really been something you planned to do. You were more of an antihero than an outright hero. Majority of the public didn’t even know about your existence, since most of your dirty work was done in the shadows.

But seeing as the guardians of the globe weren’t responsive, and you had been in this business for a long time, Cecil called in a favor you owed him, which lead to you fighting alongside this group of young heroes.

To you it felt like being a caretaker or kindergarten teacher, since you were older than all of them with a lot more knowledge and experience. Your lack of care about spilling blood and killing seemed to unnerve a few of them, invincible being one of them.

Your regeneration seemed to shock the flaxans you fought, as they’d blow your head off with their blasters, or would slice your limbs off, only for them to regrow in seconds as your damaged body kept on fighting.

Invincible may have scarred his face, but you were the one the one who would become the flaxan leader fought head on. You may not have super strength like some of the others, but your expertise made you even more of a bother to fight.

Since we know nothing about flaxans, let’s say that they flirt through sparring or fighting, so you being your joking usual Deadpool self could be seen as advances of some kind. The kiss you blow him as they flee the first time doesn’t help your case.

After the first invasion, I can already imagine the likes of invincible freaking out a little or a lot about how easily you kill and how you make a joke out of everything. It results in you having to give these young heroes a reality check, that being a hero isn’t easy, and that they’ll probably end up killing more people than they save. That’s your feelings about it anyways.

The second invasion has you involved again, since your extreme healing factor also means you barely need to sleep, eat or drink, as your body keeps itself going without issue. And once again you end up fighting the flaxan leader, whose now got a different look.

The first words that leave your mouth is ooing and awing, purring that you like em a little grey so you are happy to see him. All the talking you did during your first battle also meant that the flaxans, or maybe rather the leader, has a much better understanding of human speech.

The second invasion ends like the first, except the leader is too busy fighting with you to focus on invincible and atom eve, so Robot ends up finding their weakness on his own. Sometime during the fight your mask also ends up getting ripped off, letting you plant a big kiss on the flaxan leader’s forehead before they flee.

When members of the teen team ask why the hell you did that, you just shrug and make some comment about how you two “have a connection”. Its clearly a joke, because you take nothing seriously, but the flaxan leader seems to see it as legit.

The third invasion goes differently from the show, since the leaders risen up to rule all of his people, and instead of wanting to invade earth this time he comes through to court you, much to everyone’s surprise, both you, the teen team, and the media that’s been watching the entire time.

Imagine your surprise when the flaxan leader, now a good deal older and in a powersuit, rocking up to you with flowers native to his planet and what looks like a bracelet made out of similar material to his armor.

It takes some translation and some help from Cecil and his people to figure out what its all about, and honestly you feel a little chuffed at this big guy pretty much proposing to you after two fights. It seems completely out of the norm for humanity, but apparently its normal in flaxan culture.

In the end it helps create more of an allyship with the flaxans than them getting eradicated by omni-man. And you end up scoring a hot older guy who doesn’t seem to mind your many many scars. Its not everyone who can say their husband developed technology strictly to be able to exist in your world, is it? you definitely brag online about it, “if he wanted too, he would” and all that.

[hiraya-rawr]

so i betrayed you, my love– (2/5)

Xiao Version || Childe Version || Thoma Version || Gorou Version || Ayato Version

synopsis !! Part 2 of “You Were The Enemy All Along” featuring the aftermath of betrayal and confrontation, with more depth to their stories! (Part 1 of each character was also included to make reading convenient.)

contains !! some character lore spoilers / a little violence / dialogue heavy in some scenes / reconciliation but also complicated relationships mending together / cameos of other characters! / might be easier to understand if you knew the lore of the characters 

notes !! This was commissioned by the wonderful @mh8 who allowed this to be posted in public for everyone to enjoy! and honestly childe scares me to write bc I've barely written anything for him but I tried to bring out his charm? idk 😭

CHILDE

wc !! 2.4k

The noisiest of them all. He doesn't understand at first, tries to deny it by making jokes. The prank is up, what are you still doing? It's only when your betrayal becomes painfully obvious does he allow himself to laugh. It's ironic to be surprised coming from his line of work. He should really be used to these things.

"If you're this desperate for a fight, you could have just said so," He laughs, "Though, I warn you comrade, I won't hold back this time." It's so easy to drown in the adrenaline of battle and if he doesn't think hard enough, it feels no different than any of your usual spars together. There's a battle crazed look in his eyes at the thought of not holding back with you, but it's odd how numb he feels as Foul Legacy takes over. 

Whether or not he wins the fight, the result remains the same; with him lying in the middle of the battlefield, mask still on, staring blankly upwards. He thinks of the abyss he fell into as a child, and briefly wonders when did it all go wrong.

— Before Him

You sighed in relief, a long day of training was finally coming to an end. Dottore was not an easy harbinger to be a rookie under; aside from the harsh training requirements of a Fatui Agent, you also had to deal with a lunatic scientist for a mentor. You were lucky enough to have the doctor more distracted on conducting his experiments rather than training fresh meat like you. 

You leaned against a wall. You were in an isolated, snowy village, a mile away from the nearest Fatui training ground. It existed quietly, the villagers were as cold as Snezhnaya in that barren wasteland. You knocked twice on the concrete behind you, then an additional four times, then once more.

“Agent (Name), report.” A voice muffles from behind the wall, a figure you can't see.

“Pulcinella adopted a strange boy. . . He's coded as Childe. They say he fell into the abyss. He's quite strong, we've only sparred once but I know there's something off with him.” 

“Hmm. A peculiar new recruit. I've heard from the other agents.” Muttered the figure of the shadows. He doesn't talk much. You know it's to keep identities hidden and to avoid letting you know too much lest you get caught and the information forced out of you (and believe me, the information will be forced out of you).

“You think he could rise in the ranks? Perhaps become a general or diplomat?” You question quietly.

“I think he could be the next Harbinger.”

A sharp intake of breath, surprised. A Harbinger. The next and possibly youngest one after so long.

“Continue your work. Do what you believe is best for our organization. Leave any files you found useful under the gap.” Were his last orders before hearing the footsteps walk away. Work was never easy; you dealt with loneliness most of the time. The only comfort was when an ill-reputed plan of the Fatui failed, knowing it was only possible through your contributions and warnings. For every plan you thwarted was a step closer to revealing your identity and getting killed for it.

Yes, you're prepared. You've been preparing for it ever since you joined the Fatui.

With a sigh, you went back to the training grounds. 

— With Him

There’s a reason why Diluc Ragnvindr survived the hunt by the Harbingers when he sought out revenge in Snezhnaya. That should have been the first red flag for Childe. You were transferred early under his platoon, just when he was solidifying his position as a Harbinger. You were the subordinate he sent out to represent the 11th and, having the approval of Dottore (The old geezer, what a wack. Should he really be trusting a mad scientist? Childe questions this everyday) he trusted you enough to do your job.

Yet, the winery-heir-slash-fatui-serial-murderer escaped Snezhnaya with the help of those damned underground pests they've been trying to get rid of. Honestly, Childe could care less about the guy— if anything, he was immensely excited to try and pick a fight with him! But it still hurt his pride that one of his early missions as a Harbinger didn't turn out well. He needed to prove himself to the Tsaritsa after all! If not to at least make Pulcinella proud.

Going back to you.

It was always him and you; you and him ever since you transferred; sparring blade against blade. It was easy to get along when you were one of the only trainees close to his age, even easier when you managed to keep up with him in everything, bloodlust and all. 

You were his match and he was yours, or so he believed.

“Say, why did Dottore transfer you anyway? Did you get kicked out, pissed him off somehow?” Childe once asked, boots scraping the ground as he dodges an attack from you flawlessly. Despite Dottore’s rather crazed way of managing his platoon, agents were given a handful of benefits for being under a high ranking Harbinger with a budget larger than the others (Experiments don't pay themselves, you know!).

You huff, a little tired from the onslaught of keeping him entertained in battle, “No, didn't he tell you? I requested for transfer.”

“Oh really? What, did the good looks of a new Harbinger catch your eye?” He teases, going on the offensive once more as he sprints to slash his blade. You block it with yours, trying to push him back with force. When he does pull back, getting pushed a few meters away as hir boots skid on snow, you scoff.

“Good looks? If that were the case, I would have transferred to–”

He immediately sprints ahead again, blade nearly catching you off guard as you block the attack.

“Aww come-” Slash. Block. “-on! Don't tell me you're not-” Kick. Jump. “-even a little bit enraptured by-” Hit. Block. “-me?” He huffs heavily, finally catching your eye as your blade stays on his, pushing each other back with all your strength.

“Hmp. Must you be so arrogant?” You strain out, matching his force before– “Maybe. . . maybe just a little bit.” You avert your gaze at the very moment he catches sunlight in your eyes. Childe pauses, his grip on the blade loosens momentarily at your admittance. You take the chance— kicking his stomach back with force as he skids across the training ground, the sword clattering on the ground.

“Does this mean I won?” You giggle, your weapon still in your hand as he looks at you from where he crouches, a smile on your face.

Maybe it's the butterflies that erupted in his stomach, but he laughs out loud. Childe wonders to himself; Is this the thrill of battle? Or something else? You tilt your head in confusion.

“As if! I haven't even gone all out yet!” He yells enthusiastically, “Agent (Ņ̸̛͕͔̏̓ͅa̶͍͊m̸̲̫̄͝ȩ̴̹̙̄̀ͅ.)”

Your smile tenses. Your heart beats. Pensively, you also wonder to yourself; Is this the success of a mission? Or . . . something else?

— After Him .

You should've known.

You should've known, you should've known, you should've known that the Fatui would never have let a betrayal such as yours go so easily. The past few months after him was spent laying low, hiding from daylight and any chance that you could be recognized. A large bounty was on your head and the Fatui weren't cheap by any means. The organization shielded you as much as they could but even you had missions you had to continue fulfilling. You’d gladly risk your life for the better good; after all, if you didn't, you wouldn't have went undercover in the Fatui anyway. 

But now, he was chasing you.

It's back to the snowy forests of Snezhnaya, sprinting and dodging all the tall pines in your way. You hear him gaining speed from behind you, hydro blades swishing as they cut through branches, unbothered to waste energy on dodging. Distantly, the sound of a Fatui gunner prepares his shot. You immediately switch directions, a pyro blast landing inches from where you once were. It’s followed by more blasts, each hitting a little closer to you until—

“Ah!”

It grazes your shoulder, blood escaping the wound and soaking your clothes. You don't stop running, adrenaline keeping you alive and conscious. Childe barks something out in Snezhnayan. You’re too distracted with running to understand what he said, but the Pyro Gunner stops shooting and soon enough you focus on escaping.

A clearing appears in your line of sight. A field of snow and endless white and—

Crash! You're knocked off your feet, landing on the snow. You feel him on your back as you quickly force him away, rolling to the side and kicking. It's a blur from there on— a flurry of kicks, punches, scratches, the snow around you forming the most unrecognizable snow angel.

Until his hydro blade was on your neck as he keeps you pinned underneath him. No amount of sparring could've prepared you for a battle to the death with a harbinger. Your breaths fog together with every exhale, the proximity feels bad for your heart but finally, you get a clear view of the face you haven't seen for months.

“I win,” He says, an ever-so-childish grin on his lips, “Any last words?”

It astounds you how casual he is, as if you weren't running for your life just moments ago. Sparring had always been his favorite game but this wasn't like the other times. You do as you were trained (by both the Fatui and your organization)— you keep your mouth shut. Last words are worthless in the face of the enemy, you’d rather bite your tongue off.

“Hmm. . . the (Ņ̸̛͕͔̏̓ͅa̶͍͊m̸̲̫̄͝ȩ̴̹̙̄̀ͅ) I know would have barked back some words. You would've scoffed.” Childe says, the blade pressing deeper onto your neck, drawing beads of blood to the surface. “Or was that some personality you made up? Was it fun for you?” 

Silence.

The smile falls off his face. Something darkens in his eyes. “Alright. You won't talk, that's okay. Anyone who would dedicate their lives living undercover naturally wouldn't respond. I can respect that.” He starts, the blade doesn't move an inch on your skin, the snow numbing more of your back, “But at least answer me this. Not for your organization, not for you. . . answer it for me; was I ever anything to you?”

Silence. Keep quiet.

Something unrecognizable crosses his face. There’s a smile on his lips, but his eyes are pained.

“You know,”  He whispers, leaning down closer to you. “Whenever we sparred, did you feel anything? Anything at all?” His face contorts to a mix of frustration, “Because I sure as hell knew I loved you. I can differentiate things, (Ņ̸̛͕͔̏̓ͅa̶͍͊m̸̲̫̄͝ȩ̴̹̙̄̀ͅ.)! I knew what was bloodlust, it wasn't just me being battle hungry. I’m not dumb! I knew— know I love you!”

As if wanting to hide from your gaze, he hides his face on the crook of your neck. Forehead to the snow, blade stilling on your skin. Despite how cold everything is, the warmth of him seems enough to coax you in.

“. . . At least tell me how much of it was real. Please.” He mumbles slowly. Did you mean to cause this much anguish? Did you have to go fall for someone like him? 

The words fall from your tongue before you could even catch them. The lack of hesitation, the urge to come clean; “Everything. . . everything was fake. Even my name. (Ņ̸̛͕͔̏̓ͅa̶͍͊m̸̲̫̄͝ȩ̴̹̙̄̀ͅ.). It's fake.”

He freezes over you, listening intently. Snow falls quietly into the ground, you wonder if you'll be buried in— caved to become timeless underneath the ice. Briefly, you think it would be fine if it happens if it's with Childe.

“I know it's hard to trust me, but please�� loving you,” Pause. You feel tears well up in your eyes, blinding your vision of the descending snowflakes. “Loving you was real. Is real. It was the realest thing I had in that life under the Fatui. I’m so sorry, Childe, I’m really sorry. And I’m sorry we have to end like this.”

“You mean it?” He asks, hushed.

“Yes, yes, archons I mean it.”

“Then what's your real name?”

Your breath hitches, “(Name).”

“(Name).” He repeats.

The awareness of the metal on your throat becomes all too obvious. Breathing too hard would cause it to press more against your skin. You try to calm down, trying to accept the falling of the snow (the fall of you) as the end of your life nears and suddenly—

the blade is retrieved. You hear the shuffle of leather as it's placed back into its holder. Blinking, bewildered, you glanced up at him only to see his boyish grin.

“You honestly didn't think I'd kill you, right?”

Your mouth falls open. You want to hit him.

“You're going to let me go?”

“I mean, I did kind of let the traveler go back in Liyue.”

“The senior Harbingers reprimanded you for that!” You sit uo, hands flailing as you grab a handful of snow to throw at him. He lets it hit his stomach, laughing.

“It's fine, it's fine! The higher ups don't really care about me as much as they do the others anyway,” He shrugs nonchalantly, “It gives me a whole lot of leeway. If I say I don't want to kill you, they'll just nod along.”

You stare at him longer than you mean to, holding his cheery gaze as the snow continues to settle around you. How quiet and peaceful to exist with him in that space. 

“Is this really okay?” You ask and he falls silent with you.

He looks away to the white horizon, speaking in a softer voice, “Well, of course not. You still betrayed me, I still got hurt,” He inhales, “But you love me. I think that's all that really matters, no?”

Tears well up in your eyes. You can't bear to think how close you were to losing your life (losing him) and how easily he pushes your lifelong conflicts aside. So who cares if you played for the opposing organization? Who cares if you struggled with love and truth?

You've faked yourself for so long but Childe would still embrace you, lies and all.

“Come on, the snow must be cold.” He extends his hand, gesturing for you to take it, “Sooner or later the other scouts would be arriving. You should keep running east.”

“Ajax–” You start but he hushes you gently.

“We won't be seeing each other for a while. I don't know when we’d meet again but. . . you know, I’m sure it'll work out if it's us. So don't cry anymore, (Name).”

Stiffly, you nod. It was this moment that you tried to memorize everything about him— his eyes, his ginger hair, the way your name -your real name- falls off his tongue. You replay every sound he made to say such a name, just for the sake of remembering.

“Now go—” He pushes you to the direction, “Don't worry! I won't let them catch the love of my life!” He grins widely, hydro blades appearing in his hands once more as you nod towards him, tear stained smile in response. Your feet take you away, further and further away as you hear the familiar sounds of his blades against his own agents. Icy wind whipping against your face. You can't help the laugh that escapes you, surely the agents would think their blood-crazed superior is in another one of his impulsive moods. 

You pity them and envy them all the same.

~

notes !! thoma is up next, featuring some of our fav inazuma characters <3 ill edit it into a post once my finals settle down (currently cramming in a cafe) I hope you guys liked this one

childe // i really tried to fulfill that he's the more talkative of the bunch! and honestly with childe’s history of forgive and forget, i dont think it's a surprise that he’d easily forgive MC and brush everything under the rug. if anything, he kind of likes the complexity as far as i could tell! by the way, did you like the inclusion of “before him, with him, and after him”? i think it was a poem or a dedication in some book. I really like the thought of it since it's a good way to divide timelines. BY THE WAY do you like the parallels? In part 1, he was left on the snow looking up at the sky. Now in part 2, ur the one on the snow looking up at him :D

[chemdisaster]

boat boys reunion after secret life! after they both have their reunions with their allies first, of course

update: now with art

Etho sticks around for a long time, after.

Wanders around the server, avoids every site of active battle, and eventually comes to a free spot near Joel's fairground, where the grass is marked with patches of gunpowder, but the leaves ripple and his vision remains clear of dirty dark grey smoke.

He stays there a while—until his comm pings with the news that it's over and something hooked deep in his shoulders begins to let up on its unyielding pull.

He stays after that, too. Until an all-too-familiar voice comes up on his half-baked musings, complete with the usual tint of derision—with less heart behind it now, though.

"What are you doing here, Etho?"

Etho turns around, makes a point to smile despite his mask.

"Hi, Joel."

Joel sighs, walks up to stand beside him.

"You like the fairground?"

"Liked it better when it was still whole."

Joel sighs again. Taking advantage of his gaze being lost somewhere between the ferris wheel's cabins or the railings of the slide, Etho looks him over—notes both the bags under his eyes and the green streak in his hair, bright in a way he's never seen it be this far in.

"You okay?"

Joel blinks, as though surprised by the question being asked—or the person asking the question.

"Yeah, I think I am," he says after a moment of consideration, and then scowls, "Bloomin' Scott killed me again, though."

Etho has nothing to say to that. Another minute of silence passes, as the temperature around them starts to mellow out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Joel glancing his way, looking almost unsure. "Are you...?" he asks and, as expected, doesn't finish the phrase.

Etho looks over at him again. Staring directly into his eyes, he nods.

"Okay," Joel says. "Okay."

Almost as though by force, his brows pitch downwards.

"Good for you," he spits then, with more venom in his voice than anyone would imagine for such a simple remark.

Suddenly, Etho understands what he's getting at—what he's been getting at the entire season.

"You still care."

"Wh—no, I don't," Joel immediately bites back—a wolf, ready to bare his hackles, even now.

"You do," Etho repeats, but it's not the accusation it could have been.

"I have the Mounders now," Joel says in response, and it's not the uncompromising rejection it once was.

Etho nods. "Yeah." He knows that's not the end of it, knows that Joel has something more to say, will always have more to say—in contrast to where his own words feel like they could never be enough.

For a moment, silence reigns and neither of them speaks. Etho shifts his weight from foot to foot, digs his hands into his pockets and flexes his thumbs. Somewhere in the unnatural stillness, the first bird chirps in the remnants of warm-blooded destruction.

"The ship burns, everything burns," Joel recites softly.

Etho nods again.

Joel looks up at him, something vulnerable in his expression never seen before.

"I'm not—I can't—" he begins, and then breaks off, pressing his palms into his forehead with a frustrated sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, and Etho waits for him—but strangely, he finds himself fine with that being the state of things for the rest of both their foreseeable futures.

"I don't—I won't burn again," Joel eventually forces out. "I'm not going to—do that. You know. It's—I'm tired of everything burning, okay? I'm just—I'm tired," he repeats, and looks over at the remains of the helter-skelter behind him. "I want to keep this. I want something I can call my own."

"You don't want to run around the server lighting things on fire with me?" Etho asks in a somewhat-joking tone, but he gets it. He does.

And he thinks Joel gets that, too.

Still, when his old soulmate grabs his hands into his own, hot and dry skin just like he remembers, when he looks up at him, a question in his eyes, a desperate plea for something that stays, something real—

Etho thinks of Cleo and Grian.

"Yeah, I don't want to burn, either, I think."

Joel relaxes, steps away, but does not release his hands. Etho takes that as his invitation to come closer, drop his head down until it leans against Joel's, and their shared warmth envelops them, not like flames licking at their ankles, but like a comforting embrace, like home.

He thinks of the Relation—charred sails and splintered wood scattered around the air like the tiny scars on his fingers.

Nothing is ever truly gone, even when it turns to ash.

[merwgue]

I'm pissed off at the lack of crack shipping in this fandom so

HERE ME THE FUCK OUT AND DONT SHOOT.

Eris and cassian, aka caris

WAIT:

It would begin in a setting charged with tension. Perhaps a formal meeting between courts—a high-stakes negotiation where Cassian, representing the Night Court, would once again meet Eris Vanserra, the calculating and haughty heir of the Autumn Court. The air would be thick with barely concealed disdain. Cassian, his broad shoulders stiff with the need to fight, would scowl as Eris approached, every inch the aristocrat in his pristine armor, hair as red as autumn leaves shimmering in the firelight.

Cassian’s hands would flex, instinctively wanting to curl into fists, but Rhysand’s warning echoed in his mind: This is diplomacy, not a battlefield.

Eris’s eyes would flicker over Cassian, amusement dancing in them. "You’re looking particularly brutish today, General," he’d say, his voice a slow, taunting drawl.

"Careful, Eris," Cassian would growl, "I bite."

But in those heated exchanges, something subtle would shift. Cassian would notice the flicker of something behind Eris’s sharp words—a vulnerability hidden beneath layers of cruelty. Eris, for all his manipulation and cunning, wasn’t as impervious as he seemed. The idea would gnaw at Cassian, whether he liked it or not.

The next step toward something deeper would come not from a shared desire, but necessity. Both courts, forced into an alliance against a common enemy, would demand that Cassian and Eris work together. Rhysand and Feyre would push for it, and though Cassian would hate the idea, he would have no choice. The battlefield would demand cooperation.

At first, their partnership would be a disaster. Their egos would clash—Cassian's brute force against Eris’s strategic mind. But slowly, as they fought side by side, something unexpected would emerge: respect. Cassian would begrudgingly admire how Eris maneuvered the battlefield with precision, directing their forces like a chess master. Eris would begin to see beyond Cassian's brute strength, recognizing the fierce loyalty and protectiveness that drove him.

After one particularly brutal fight, where they narrowly escaped death, Eris would look at Cassian with something akin to curiosity. He’d mutter, half to himself, "You’re not as idiotic as you look, you know."

Cassian, breathless from battle, would chuckle, wiping blood from his face. "You’re not as much of a prick as I thought."

That would be the first moment where the heat between them wasn’t just anger—it was something more complex. A shared understanding, a respect for each other's skills, and maybe even the first glimmer of attraction.

But their walls would only come down slowly, piece by piece. The real turning point would happen one night when they were forced to take shelter in a cave, the flames of their campfire casting shadows on the walls. The air would be tense, the quiet between them thick with unspoken words.

Cassian, ever the direct one, would break the silence first. "Why do you do it, Eris? Play their games? Your father’s? Beron’s? You’re better than him."

Eris’s eyes would flash, his cold mask slipping for just a second. "You think I have a choice, Cassian? You think I enjoy being trapped under my father’s rule?"

The vulnerability in Eris’s voice would catch Cassian off guard. He’d expected the usual snide remarks, but instead, there was rawness. For once, Eris wasn’t playing a game. Cassian would be quiet for a moment before he said, "I don’t know your life, but I know what it’s like to feel trapped."

Eris would scoff, the mask slipping back into place. "Please, you were raised by the Night Court’s High Lord, free to be your brutish self."

"I was raised in a war camp," Cassian would snap, the words coming out harsher than he meant. "I wasn’t even part of the Night Court until Rhys made me one of his own. And for a long time, I felt like I didn’t deserve it. Like I didn’t belong."

Eris would go still, staring at Cassian as if seeing him for the first time. He wouldn’t say anything, but there would be an understanding between them, a shared pain that neither of them had spoken aloud before.

Over time, that understanding would deepen. The sarcastic jabs between them would soften into something more playful, and the tension that once had them at each other’s throats would turn into a different kind of tension altogether. It would happen slowly, almost without them realizing it.

The first kiss would come after a particularly heated argument. Eris, tired of pretending, would shove Cassian against a wall in frustration, his hands shaking with fury. Cassian, breathing hard, would grab Eris’s wrists, the heat between them crackling like a fire. And then, without thinking, they’d both lean in—anger turning into something much more explosive.

Afterward, they wouldn’t talk about it. Not at first. The confusion and denial would eat away at both of them. They would fall back into old patterns, bickering and fighting, but now there would be an undercurrent of desire in every word, every glance.

Eventually, though, they wouldn’t be able to ignore it anymore. One night, after another battle, Cassian would find Eris standing alone by a river, staring out at the water. Cassian would approach, silent for once, and stand beside him.

Eris wouldn’t look at him, but after a long pause, he’d say, "It’s easier to hate you, you know."

Cassian would nod, understanding exactly what he meant. "Yeah. Same."

They’d stand there for a long time, the silence between them comfortable now, filled with the weight of everything they’d been through. And then, softly, Eris would admit, "I don’t hate you anymore."

Cassian’s heart would twist at the words. He’d look at Eris, and for the first time, he’d see past the sharp exterior to the man beneath—the one who’d been fighting his own demons for far longer than Cassian had ever known. And he’d realize, with a start, that he didn’t hate Eris either. Not even close.

They wouldn’t need to say the words. Their love would be unspoken, a fire burning quietly between them. But it would be real, undeniable, and powerful.

And it would remain theirs, hidden from the rest of the world. Not until the doors were truly closed.

[ficmachine]

Bloodhound, Octane, and Pathfinder, reacting to a make reader who always hides his face? Like- always wears these pretty/badass looking masks, and one day it falls off (or maybe brakes, or they catch him without his mask) and he's the most prettiest boi they've met- and he just starts crying cuz he's afraid on how they'll react?

You don't have to reply to this if you don'twanna! Also I wanna say I love your work! Your really talented ^^

Please keep up the great work!!

I gotchu! Dw! And thank you! :0c

-

Bloodhound/Octane/Pathy x Masc Reader. (Mask-wearing self-conscious reader)

Style: Intro + Headcanons

Wordcount: 1.8k (1808 to be exact)

-

People get curious. People ask. Not everyone, of course, but those who ask about why you cover your face usually prod to the point it gets uncomfortable. The amount of people – Your “fans” as they call themselves - who blow it out of proportion, make you paranoid about someone pushing it too far.

They're terrifying, especially when they obsess over something. You'd think you would have more than enough shit to deal with as a legend but no, this is a whole different can you don't want to crack open.

Regardless, whether it's just for your own comfort or just because you like looking cool is nobody's damned business.

You have your own reasons. That should be enough.

But bad fortune was going to catch up to you at some point or other, you suppose.

The stray bullet that scraped the side of your face was close, way too close - fear washes over you like a bucket of ice cold water.

Ducking under cover with your heart leaping to your throat you touch your cheek with a hiss – red smeared over your glove – and curse under your breath. Shit. Not good but at least you're not out in the open. Taking a deep breath you grip your gun tighter, chest heaving up and down as your eyes lock with your teammate.

“I'm fine.” You dismiss their concern quickly, pressing the inside of your sleeve to your face to stop the bleeding as you peek out from behind the wall. You can't pinpoint the shooter, neither can you sense any movement out in the open. Sucking in a breath you take cover again, back against the cold concrete wall and gun clutched to your chest. “Can't see them.”

Looking back at your partner your brows furrow. They're staring. Is the wound that bad? You pull your sleeve away to see the bleeding eased up and heave a sigh, breath visible in the cold weather.

“What-”

Your eyes catch the sight of your face-mask on the ground.

Oh.

Quicker than you can process your free hand snaps to your face. Panic engulfs your form all over again – eyes shooting up to your teammate to find them still staring – they definitely saw. Your head spins, heart hammering as your throat goes dry.

Ah.

Okay.

This is probably the worst time to panic. And cry? Are you really going to cry over this? Right now? In the middle of the field?

Fuck.

Bloodhound -

If there's anyone out there who'd understand the panic you're experiencing now, it's them. They wouldn't want anyone to see their face, especially in the middle of the battlefield.

Bloodhound knows better than to stare. Even if they caught a glimpse of your face they respectfully avert their gaze, focusing on the incoming fight instead.

They've seen you come out of fights with much worse scrapes, but when you hesitate so do they.

Minding to keep their eyes off you, they grab your mask off the ground and hold it up to you without a word.

Thankfully there's nobody around, nor are there any cameras close enough to your cover.

They keep watch over you while you fix the mask back onto your face the best you possibly can, and only when you're done do they look at you.

Noticing your trembling form they try their best to soothe you, resting their hand on your arm and giving it a small squeeze. “Stay with me, félagi fighter. The fight is not over yet.”

As empathetic as they are, they can't do anything but bring your focus back to the battle.

It's hard to get a grip on your panic – eyes blurry and ears ringing, you're disorientated and zoned out - but you know you have to. It's either pushing your feelings to the side to deal with them later, or risking dying.

Bloodhound keeps a hand on your arm until you're calm enough to stand and move. Eyes locking with yours you give them a nod, a thanks, and their whole form relaxes some.

“Good. Let's move, myndarlegur. It is not safe here.”

Carefully they lead you out of the danger zone and towards somewhere quieter.

They keep an eye on you throughout the rest of the game, both out of concern and interest.

Whether or not the two of you win doesn't matter. As soon as the game's over and you're free to go Bloodhound checks up on you. They don't bring up whether or not they've seen your face, and with how they're acting you're not entirely sure they did, but if you need to they let you lean on their shoulder as the panic from the day's events catch up to you.

Octane -

Unlike Bloodhound, Octane's a bit too stunned to snap his gaze away from you in time. When your eyes lock he tenses, feeling like he was caught red handed over something he wasn't ever supposed to see.

How can he look away though? Have you seen your face? That's... A dumb question, but he's seen it now too! And MAN, he looked away more out of bashfulness than anything else.

His heart leaps to his throat when he forces out a laugh to dismiss the situation, clicking his tongue. “Ai, amigo, you gotta be more careful. Custom masks like that are a bitch to replace.”

Shaking his head he hands you the mask, frowning when he notices how badly its broken. There's no way you can put it back on.

The realisation draws over you the same second and suddenly it's much harder to breathe than before.

With your vision spinning you lean back on the wall heavily, knees almost buckling under you while the gun slips out of your hand and falls to the ground with a clatter. A vague wave of pain passes through you when you grip your face too hard but you're too zoned out to care.

One moment your vision is spinning, the other you feel fingers prying your hand away from your face. Then, you're staring at maskless Octane grinning his stupid grin at you while he makes sure his own mask sits comfortably on your lower face.

He dismisses you when you ask why, waving his hand in the air as if it was nothing.

“What are friends for, huh? Besides, we have a game to win. Can't have you distracted while we kick ass!”

And kick ass you do.

Sure, he looks kinda dumb with just his goggles and head covered, but with the air filter built in this mask it's much more comfortable to breathe than in your own.

After the game is over Octavio sticks to you like glue, both to check in on you and to let you know you can keep the mask until you can replace yours.

Like hell you're gonna give it back. You're keeping it and he's more than okay with that.

Pathfinder -

Pathfinder, sweet, helpful Pathfinder, notices your mask is gone quicker than you notice your bleeding. Fortunately, he's also the quickest one to jump into action.

“Careful, friend! Faces aren't meant to be shot through.”

You're panicked and shaking, covering your face, and the last thing on his mind is your face. He's focusing on double-checking nobody's near before looking back to you and holding out a medkit to you.

He enjoys looking at your face, of course, so he doesn't look away until you turn away and it finally clicks in his head that you're probably uncomfortable. After all, some people like having their face covered and you happen to be one of those people.

Looking around he pinpoints your mask and dusts it off, holding it up to you.

Noticing you're not moving and your eyes are leaking he tilts his head to the side, only realising you're having a panic attack when his thumb feels the pulse in your wrist.

“Oh no, this isn't good. Don't worry, I've got you.” Immediately his attitude changes from cheerful to deeply worried, and he's wriggling the medkit out of your hand to grab you and get the two of you out of the open.

Thankfully, he holds you close to his chest while he grapples to the safety of the indoors – locking the doors and setting you down in the corner – to make sure no cameras can catch a glimpse of you.

Once inside he rummages through the kit to patch you up, giving you a heads up at the incoming sting loud enough to get through your brain haze so you can brace yourself for it.

With that done he gets to work on fixing your mask up the best he can – he's not great at it but he can get a few strong stitches in quick enough before you need to get moving again.

“There, just like new – only slightly torn.” He beams at you.

By the time he's done you're staring at him openly, eyes dried, mind still foggy but you're grounded enough to bring yourself back into the present. You've been staring at him all throughout and if he noticed he didn't say anything. You're grateful for it.

Pathfinder hands you the mask and you shakily put it on, gasping when he ruffles your head to ground you further.

“Do you need another minute or are you feeling well enough to keep going? We always can outrun the ring with my zip-line, so don't worry about that.”

You let him know you need another minute, and he nods before walking off to double-check if it's still safe in the building. Once he's back he looks at you, head tilting to the left while a question mark pops up on his chest monitor.

“I do have a question for you, friend.”

Your mouth runs dry. There it is-

“Are you alright?” You blink up at him, genuinely expecting him to ask about your mask or why you wear it. Instead, he continues, “I'm sure we can forfeit if you need to leave. Your well-being matters more to me than winning.”

Your heart swells, both with anxiety and appreciation, but you ultimately shake your head from side to side, letting him know you just need another moment.

You might not win, but with a friend like Pathfinder, who's willing to give up winning just to make sure you're okay? You're gonna have to make sure he knows how much he means to you.

[ilivingonmyway]

StaticEnergy Brothers AU (but it's the MovieVerse)

(I have nothing better to do, English class is boring)

It's a normal day for Lloyd. He's been receiving looks of mockery and fear from the moment he leaves home until he gets to school, Chen and his friends are teasing him as usual, and his ninja friends are fine. Zane with his usual weird and robotic ways, Cole quiet with his headphones blasting music, Kai and Nya acting like the older siblings that he never had.

And just like any other normal day, Garmadon attacks the city just before lunch time.

Lloyd and the others escape from class, put on their gis, grab their mechas, and head into battle. At first, nothing inusual happens. Lloyd orders his team to take on Garmadon's fleet of marines while he goes after Lord Shark himself. He easily finds him walking in his ridiculous shark mecha towards the mayor's building to take control of Ninjago City,they exchange some heated words and Lloyd is one step away from shooting missiles at his father. Is it his impression or his father is acting more annoying than usual?

Suddenly, Lloyd — or rather, the Green Ninja — is grabbed and thrown off his dragon and — holy crap, THERE IS FRICKING A KUSARIGAMA PRESSED TO HIS NECK.

A dark blue-gloved hand gripping the weapon's handle catches Lloyd's attention, only then does he look at his attacker, who is probably one (lucky) of his father's thousand seafood generals—

... Okay, so he's not wearing some ridiculous sea animal costume, he's actually dressed like a ninja. A black gi with varying shades of blue, some silver details and a single orange cloth underneath the outfit. The only sign of skin that Green sees is in the eye space of the mask. A patch of pale skin is decorated with a some visble freckles that are beneath electric blue eyes filled with determination.

Green hears Garmadon let out that annoyingly evil laugh and he sees the Oni approaching, only then does he realize that the guy who caught him off guard must be another one of Garmadon's soldiers, just with a better fashion style.

Garmadon steps down from his mecha and walks over to stand behind the evil ninja, smirking at the scene before him with malice and... Pride? Why isn't he giving that arrogant and mean face he gives to his normal soldiers?

"Very good move, my son."

Lloyd feels his breath catch and he is sure that this only sentence makes all of Ninjago stop moving.

"S-... Son?!" Green repeats, looking from the boy to Garmadon and back again. The Oni just laughs at his reaction.

"Oh yeah, I never brought him to our previous battles, so you guys never had the chance to meet each other." His father approaches the other Ninjac— his supossed brother — and places two hands on his shoulders, the other two behind his back. "Green Ninja, I want you to meet my son, the Lightning Ninja." Garmadon's sharp, toothy smile was fearsome. "Or Sparky for those close to him." He added, dropping his shoulders and patting the Blue one on the head.

For a moment, the three of them just stood there. Green with his throat at the mercy of Blue's curved blade while his father smiled maliciously. It was a tense moment, just like those in movies where the hero faces the villain after he makes his big revelation, and It was that's what it looked like, with Lloyd staring at his father in disbelief and confusion while Garmadon himself began to laugh uncontrollably.

That's when a throat clearing sound caught their attention.

"Dad, with all due respect, I understand that this is a tense moment and all, but did you realize that the rest of the Ninjas are destroying the fleet and that Cyan and Red are coming with everything on this way, right?"

Indeed, Nya and Kai's war screams sound in the distance.