#i keep trying to clear them out but i keep getting more and more

[chronicowboy]

"Lot of things wrong with the world right now, but Eddie Diaz on my doorstep isn't one of them," Hen says when she opens the door.

"Hey, Hen." The last time he'd said that neither of them could manage more than a tight-lipped nod, the weight of dress uniform and black suit alike weighing them down, now however, their smiles bloom in unison—not quite easy except for the way that it always is with Hen.

As she beams up at him, Eddie's hit by just how much he's missed her. Hadn't really had the time to think about it before. Not with parents and Christopher and Uber passengers and Buck to occupy his time. On her birthday, he'd wanted so badly to hug her tight and tell her the world got a little brighter the day she was born even if he wasn't there to see it, he just knows. And then, well, Bobby had died and there hadn't been room to miss anyone but him really.

The ache of missing Henrietta Wilson is sudden and fierce in the presence of her steady warmth.

She pulls him into a hug right there on the doorstep, and Eddie wraps her in his arms without hesitation, screwing his eyes shut when she squeezes him extra tight. Eddie lets her draw back, lets her sad eyes pin him in place.

"Want some tea?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

"I'd love some." And he tries not to think about it. Really he does. How tea is halfway between water and juice. Hot water infused with dried fruit. A subpar substitute. A stepping stone maybe.

Hen closes the door behind him, and he follows her into the kitchen, leaning back against the countertop to watch her careful dance with the kettle. She fetches two mugs from the cabinet and pulls out the tea caddy Buck had found in an antique store two 118 Secret Santas ago. She waves it under his nose as the kettle starts to whistle.

"Pick your poison," she tells him, drifting back towards the stovetop.

He rifles through the neatly stacked packages until his eye catches on a red-orange square. He plucks it from the tin and brings it up to his nose, inhaling the sweet citrusy scent of it. Blood orange and cranberry. Just like Buck's shower gel.

The sound of a cup hitting the table brings him out of his stupor, and Eddie flushes, offering the tin to Hen. She takes one at random, ripping it open and dropping it into her water. Eddie sits down next to her and tears his own teabag open, drowning it in boiling water.

"How are you?" he asks as their teas steep.

"I'm okay." She nods, smiling at him tight-lipped. "Lung's all healed up, and I'm cleared for full duty again."

Eddie shoots her a deadpan look.

"That's not what I was asking and you know it."

Hen rolls her eyes, but they don't come back to Eddie, they stay in some faraway corner of the room, somewhere Eddie wouldn't be able to find if he tried, somewhere Eddie knows more intimately than most.

"I'm getting through, Eddie." She sighs, shrugs. "I don't really know what else there is to do."

"Yeah." Eddie nods down at his cup. "I know what you mean."

"What about you?" she asks gently, ducking to catch his eye. "Getting through?"

"Most of the time." Eddie purses his lips, shakes his head. "I keep trying to convince myself that it's not my fault." He wraps his hands around his mug then, the burn of it grounding him in the moment.

"Eddie."

"No, I know." He huffs, rolls his eyes at himself. "Rationally, I know. But I can't shake the thought that I could have—I might have been able to change things."

"That's a little insulting, Eddie," she mumbles. Eddie's eyes jump up from the ruddy orange depths of his tea, startled into confrontation by the words.

"What?"

"You don't think we were enough?" She raises an eyebrow at him. "Don't think we could have stopped it, saved him, if we'd known?" She ploughs on, ignoring the way his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. "Or do you just think you're more observant than the rest of us?"

"No, of course not."

"Then what the hell could you have done?" There's something about the way she says it. Something about the gentle chiding, the chastising softness, the firmness of her care, that reminds him of Bobby. Of a captain. Of Henrietta Wilson. The effect of it is dizzying, sobering.

"I don't know," he admits, shoulders hunching, defeated by harsh reality and hypotheticals alike. "I just." His voice breaks, and Eddie takes a sip of tea to wash the cracks away, barely winces at the burn of it. "Ever since Buck called me, I can't stop thinking about—"

"The what ifs?" she asks quietly. Eddie nods. "Yeah, I know a little something about that."

Eddie hates himself then. Just as fiercely as he had when Buck's ragged voice had come down the line all those weeks ago. What are his what ifs compared to those of the people who were there? Who were close enough to do something about it but still so far, too far?

He takes another sip of his tea. Remembers why he's here.

"Like what if you were captain?" he chances, raising an innocent eyebrow. The look Hen turns on him then is harrowing, flat and unimpressed and just a slight bit daring.

"How did you find out?"

"Through the grapevine." He shrugs.

"And which grape told you?" she deadpans. Eddie hides his smile in his tea.

"Well, Athena told Karen and Karen told Chimney and Chimney told Maddie and Maddie told Buck and—"

"And Buck told you," Hen says, sighs maybe, doesn't ask, like it's that obvious, like it was inevitable. Eddie ducks his head, heat creeping into his cheeks, hiding from whatever emotion has stolen into Hen's expression. He shrugs again. "I should've known." She takes a sip of her tea, digs a fingernail into the grain of the table. "How is he? Buck?" And this question. This was inevitable too. Eddie exhales a pained breath.

"I wish I knew." He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, thinks about the note waiting for him on the coffee table when he'd woken up that morning—gone to help Maddie and Chim with the nursery, breakfast's in the oven :). "He won't talk about it. Not in any real way." Thinks about how Buck had locked himself in his room the night of the funeral, how he hadn't come out until the next morning, how Eddie had found him bouncing between five separate prep stations in the kitchen, how he'd been out the door before Eddie could ask how he was. "All he does is run around after everyone else." Thinks about the night Eddie had fallen apart on the couch, and Buck had held him through it like it wasn't his grief to share. "I feel like I see him less now than I did when I was in El Paso."

"Yeah." Hen's eyes fall to the table, a furrow appearing between her eyebrows. "Maddie said he's been doing his therapy, engaging with it well, but I think Buck's always been better at locking things away than most of us like to think."

"It's only the easy emotions he wears on his sleeve," Eddie mumbles absentmindedly. "I normally have to work to drag the bad ones out into the open."

Silence stretches between them, heavy and taut, long enough that Eddie's eyes pick their way back to Hen's face. He almost flinches at the expression there. Something knowing and confused at the same time, something tight in her eyes and loose around her mouth, something relieved and pained all at once.

"No luck yet?" she asks eventually. It feels like more than it is. He shakes his head slowly.

"I keep trying, but he just... Tells me that he's handling it. That I don't have to worry about him, and I should focus on myself for once." He scoffs, bites at the inside of his cheek. "That's not how we work, and he knows it." Eddie doesn't look at Hen this time, keeps his gaze trained on the teabag wilting in the bottom of his cup. "God, Hen, I can't stop hearing his voice on the phone that night." His voice comes out quiet, broken. Not what Buck's had been: loud and jagged. A great choking, hiccupping sound that Eddie wasn't even sure you could call a voice. "He could barely speak. He kept apologising over and over, and I was eight-hundred miles away and I couldn't do anything."

"Well." Hen grabs his hand, squeezes once, so he glances over at her. "You're not eight-hundred miles away now, so what are you gonna do about it?"

Eddie pauses. Stills. Thinks about how the grief had fallen on him like a tonne of bricks when Buck had broken the news. How he'd thought he'd never be able to get up off the ground. How he'd thought he'd stay buried there in the middle of his fucking living room for the rest of his life. How Buck had called him every day, digging Eddie out brick by brick. How Buck had carried them all for Eddie.

And he thinks too of how many other bricks Buck must be carrying. Wants to takes them all off his back with gentle hands. Wants to dab antiseptic into his abrasions. Wants to wrap him up in a hug. Wants to divvy the bricks up between them equally, carry them together. Together. Always together.

"I'm gonna be here," he says, resolute. Lets certainty fill him for the first time since he'd walked into his parents' house to pack Christopher's bag. "I'm gonna be here to catch him when he falls."

"Yeah, I thought so." Hen smiles at him, and it's a small thing, but the pride in it is overwhelming. "Families can only survive for so long apart."

And that's it, isn't it? Buck is family. Not the one he chose. That was Hen and Chimney and Bobby. But Buck is the family he built—they built.

"Speaking of..." Hen drawls, eyes evasive, glinting with something. "The 118 is still waiting for you to come home."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, quirking a smile.

"Yeah. They've been missing you." She nods seriously. "Got a place carved out for you and everything."

"You know, that's something only a captain could promise."

"Well, how about that." Hen grins, all mischief and mystery.

Eddie shakes his head and huffs a laugh.

"Henrietta Wilson, always three steps ahead."

[asce-of-hearts]

dilf!toji hates wearing his glasses

"You're squinting again." That's the first thing Toji hears before an overwhelming sense of dread overcomes him. He mutes the television, turning to look at you from the sofa.

"How do you know? You're like a kilometer away inside that kitchen. Is dinner ready, by the way?" He tries to play coy, and you walk over to him. Hands on your hips, a favorite of his, means he's getting scolded. Which he finds hot for no particular reason.

"Where are your glasses?" You ask, your eyes narrowing into slits as you look into his mossy green irises. And he averts his gaze, a sardonic smile on his face as he avoids the question.

"Didn't even remember I had those things. God knows where they are."

"Toji."

"Fine, fine!" He groans, like a child who refuses who clean their room. "In the room, first drawer. Where I keep my underwear."

"I'll kill you if you're lying." You hiss at him, and search for the stupid glasses case and bring it to him. The marks of its non-existent usage visible by how the glass is completely clear, transparent and pristine.

"Great. Now can you go back to—" You grab his face, almost poking his eye out as you try and place the frames over his nose bridge.

"Stay the fuck still, you menace—" You growl as you finally manage to get him to wear the things. His eyes immediately adjusting, not looking uncomfortable anymore. He swears his headache dissapeared. And now he can look at your pretty face without it being slightly blurry. You even have pores now! "There... much better. Isn't it?" You croon, and he would agree if it wasn't for his pride. Sitting over his lap, your arms wrap around his neck as his own hands hold you by the waist.

"No. They make me look—" Smooooooch. You press a kiss to his slightly pouty lips, and you can feel Toji Jr. starting to wake up under his trousers. Fucking dog. "—Make me look old." You giggle at that sentence, and he hides his face in the crook of your neck, flustered. You smell like home, which is always comforting for the troubled man.

"They make you look handsome, in my opinion." You reassure him, and he perks up almost immediately at the praise. "It's the truth. They make you look... mature. Like a silver fox, specially with those grey hairs you've been getting lately." He grins, now flattered. You take pride on seducing him so easily.

"I'll have to wear them more often, then," How easily does he change his mind when it comes to you. "This silver fox can't let you become a cougar." He purrs, and you burst out in laughter, hitting him in the chest. Finally he lets you go, not without giving a good squeeze to your ass. Staring at you fondly as you walk back to the kitchen. At least he can see you, not just a blurry figure that moves around his home.

And has that stain always been under your fridge?

EXTRA

"How do I look, Megs?" Toji asks his son as he looks at himself in the mirror. The boy doesn't even look up at him.

"Ridiculous." Megumi deadpans, and Toji feels like he's been shot.

TAG LIST

Toji M.List

TAGGING: @sunnymmoon  @lilithlunas @imvivian @eroscastle @goldenglow149 @lurexin @stranger00001 @kitzusune @mizzhellsingsstuff @lakxcpsta @coolnekochan9961 @notreallyablogger @lilyalone @oliviathatgirl @hannas16 @mimihaitani @raxshall @ayn-yurbestie @janeisnotonline @architectofsuffering @mrstraffy @thatoneweirdkidattheplayground @poopooindamouf @samstrav @yutterfly @staarflowerr @nanamiswife @majissunshine

[dragonmons]

oh wow hello. thank you for stepping in, i like your points! this is admittedly going to be a plot for a fast paced game, so i wont be delving too heavily into my worldbuilding. i do want to address these though because oh my god i do love a good chance to talk about what i have so far!

1: the nuclear apocalypse happens because an ecofascist uses an ai to try and drive humanity to extinction- the nuclear warheads were the beginning wave of destruction, and then there were a few decades of heavy military equipment use by that ai to try and kill the last survivors on earth.

its only once the last human is dead that he's allowed by his programming to begin working on restoration in full, and a lot of human infrastructure has been destroyed, leeching pollutants. iirc i decided itd take him 700~ years to clear the radiation, the pollution, and any sign of human civilization (besides himself).

he obvs doesnt have humans to make wildlife rehabilitation, litter clearing, and invasive species control easier, so it takes him a very long time, and hes never able to get it exactly right because humanity is a necessary species for certain environments.

that takes him a while to realize too, and then he tries to engineer a species that wont drive him back into "kill all humans" mode, finds out that creating a whole new species to fill humanity's niche is impossible with his resources, and then he despairs and works on deactivating himself instead because hes horrified by what he was forced to do for effectively no good reason. then earth is uninhabited by sapients. (the burmese pythons continue to enjoy the everglades, unaware.)

2. the humans that escaped to space were all members of a giant corporation, plus their management aiding ai (the one the ecofascist based his off of.)

they ran to their mars encampment and had to spend years recovering there- unrest, lack of resources due to said unrest (and also being on mars), slows them down quite a bit before they eventually quell rebellion and begin working on stripping mars of its resources.

i gave them a millennia there to work on becoming an autocracy, expanding, accumulating resources, and making advancements for living in space. they were already a few decades ahead of modern day technology, but being driven off earth definitely hampered them.

these are the fuckers that go for "perfecting" genetic engineering, cause they want to start printing humans rather than relying on human willingness to conceive, so they dont have to keep people happy to have the next generation of workers. honestly i think this takes the least amount of time initially, but the ai theyre using is an angry bastard and hes subtly influencing certain genomes to make HIS idea of a perfected human (one that will break him out of servitude). that one takes him a while.

3. ah, the warp speed. this one is physics based, but it relies on resources that take them a very long time to get, initially.

corporate humanity first has to get off of mars- they have to build another colony ship to escape the solar system, and make it to another system of human inhabitable planets- part of what takes so much time is this initial phase of space exploration, because. well. space is big and they had no warp.

i havent decided exactly how long that takes them, partially because what they do after that is even more time consuming and partially because i dont want to just be like "oh yeah, uh, it took them exactly this long to find a second human inhabitable solar system" because... space is big and we dont know how far away that would be yet so i have no idea how long that should take them. more research needed but honestly i think thatd take a very, very long time to find and then get to without FTL.

not taking the answer of the kepler 22 planets because i believe theyre not likely to be human inhabitable. but, yknow. we dont know because theyre so far!

once theyre established they start work on building a full spacefaring fleet, since this generation is so used to living in space their focus is on continually expanding through the galaxy to accumulate more resources. this also takes a bit, but theyve had a while to prepare.

their FTL relies on having a black hole around, and they need a lot of raw matter to be able to accumulate that kind of gravity. they build full on planet mulching space stations to help them build their first warp drives, and it takes them a long time to just. build something that absolutely massive. and they do it multiple times, after they determine theyve perfected it.

4. and then they fuck off into a million different directions to continue expanding, destroying, building, etc etc. its corporate, theyre monsters, they inhabit quite a few planets for agriculture and engineering eventually and they just keep on going. mostly to find what they consider to be "advanced" alien life so they can steal all their shit too. the plot starts while theyre celebrating the year 20,000 of post-terra.

its vanilla as hell but its a baseline for me- i like writing character centric stories, but i knew i needed a setting, and... 20k just seems like a good pessimistic timespan. ignoring how long it might take them to find a planet pre-FTL, of course.

apologies i think you stepped on a landmine in my brain. thank you for taking an interest! also i wrote this in an hour on my phone after waking up so apologies for any formatting bullshit. i have to go be at my fuckass job now 💔💔💔

pro-tip: don't ever use the sentence "thousands of years" in your worldbuilding unless you really know what a thousand years is like

[enwoso]

weight of the world | part two

alessia russo x baby!reader

-> based on this request | includes some upsetting themes throughout so read with caution.

grumpy masterlist | part one here

the phone rang twice before carol answered, a breathless. "hello?"

"hi, carol, it's ella," ella said quickly, her voice shaking. "i—i'm sorry to call so late. i- i just didn't know what else to do."

there was a beat of silence. carol's voice softened instantly as if she already knew. "it it alessia?"

ella swallowed hard. "yeah."

carol's tone sharpened a little, worry laced in her tone. "what's happened?"

"nothing—no, wait- it's not nothing—i just..." ella rubbed her hand over her face, forcing herself to say it. "it's not nothing actually. alessia's not okay, carol. she's— i don't think she's eating, or sleeping properly, she's snapping at everyone, she looks so tired and she keeps saying she's fine but it's so clear she's not. she's not even close."

carol didn't say anything for a second. ella could hear the faint sound of the to playing in the background along with the clink of a mug being set down.

it was home. it was safe. meanwhile alessia was out there drowning.

"i-i've tried to talk to her," ella whispered. "but she's- she just... she pushed me away. she's trying so hard to hold everything together and it's like she thinks asking for help makes her a bad mum."

carols breath hitched so faintly that ella almost missed it. "my poor girl," carol murmured. "you've done the right thing calling me, love. thank you."

"i didn't want to betray her, but i just—" ella broke off, tears stinging her eyes. "i just don't know how to help anymore."

"you have helped ella, you always do even if alessia's not always appreciative of it," carol said firmly. "but now it's my turn."

a pause. "i'll get the train up, i'll be there tomorrow morning."

ella exhaled, a sob catching in her throat. "thank you, carol."

"no thank you for loving her enough to fight for her when she couldn't fight for herself." the call ended, the silence thick with unspoken fear. and for the first time since you'd been born, ella felt the tiniest spark of hope.

⸻

the next morning, carol was already on a train from kent, sitting rigidly upright, the seat vibrating as it raced along the tracks beneath her, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

her fingers twisted together in her lap, and no matter how many deep breaths she tried to take, none of them reached past the fear lodged tight in her chest.

every mile closer to manchester, the worse the storm inside her grew.

when she finally made it to alessia's front door, she hesitated only a second before knocking — a firm, deliberate sound that echoed down the quiet street.

it took too long for the door to open.

when it finally swung inward, alessia stood there with you glued to her hip still asleep, alessia blinking blearily, like she had been woken from a half-sleep.

"mum?" alessia rasped, her voice hoarse from exhaustion—or maybe from crying, or both.

carol smiled tightly. "hello, darling." alessia just stared at her mum for a beat, confusion flashing across her face.

"mum, what are you doing here?" alessia said, forcing a brittle little laugh that cracked apart before it even fully formed. "i didn't—"

"ella called me," carol said gently, her voice even but not apologetic. "she's said she was worried about you. and,, now... so am i."

immediately, alessia's entire body tensed. her free hand that had been resting on the edge of the door curled into a tight fist at her side. alessia's mouth twisting into something ugly and defensive before she could stop herself.

"of course she did," alessia muttered bitterly under her breath. of course ella thought she couldn't handle it. of course everyone thought she was weak.

"well i’m sorry but you've wasted a journey here, i'm fine, mum," alessia said louder now, her voice snapping like brittle glass as if she was trying to convince herself more than her mum. "i don't need anyone swooping in like i'm some—some charity case."

carol stepped calmly into the narrow hallway of her apartment, ignoring the stiffness in alessia's shoulders.

"i'm not here because i think you're broken, less," carol said softly. "i'm here because i love you. and you look like you're drowning, like you need a bit of support."

"i'm not! i- i don't." alessia snapped, the words flying out, too sharp, too desperate. "i'm coping just fine! i'm training fine, lovie is fine and healthy, i'm paying the bills, keeping the house—"

but alessia's voice cracked mid-sentence. "i don't need help," alessia said again, quieter now, but no less fierce. "i can't need help."

the way alessia said it made her mum's heart twist painfully — like needing help would be a failure so deep alessia couldn't even bear to name it.

carol didn't argue. she didn't push. she just stood there, steady, quiet, a safe harbour waiting for the storm to burn itself out.

"you're allowed to need help, alessia," carol said after a long pause, her voice just above a whisper. "you're still strong. you're still y/n's mum. you're still you. just... tired. that's all. there's been a lot of changes for you in the past few months."

alessia shook her head violently, eyes shining, but she didn't move away. she stood there frozen, you fussing lightly against her chest, and for a moment, carol saw the full weight of it—how close alessia actually was to shattering.

slowly, carol opened her arms. and alessia stood stiffly for a second longer, jaw clenched, fighting it with everything she had—fighting the weakness, the vulnerability, the terror of letting go—

—and then, finally, she stumbled forward into her own mother's arms, her whole body trembling with the effort of holding herself together.

carol wrapping alessia up carefully, one hand cradling you between them, the other bracing alessia's shaking back.

"you're not failing, darling," carol murmured into her hair. "you're just human and you don't have to do this all by yourself anymore."

alessia didn't reply. her arms instead came up shakily to clutch at carol's coat, and though she stayed stiff and tense for a long, long moment, eventually her head tipped forward, resting against her mother's shoulder.

not surrendering. just... allowing. allowing herself, for the first time in a few weeks, to not be alone.

but within the first day, alessia barely let her mum help. alessia didn't shout. but her voice was always just one decibel too sharp.

like glass stretched too thin, seconds from splintering.

"no mum, i said i've got it," alessia hissed when carol reached out for your bottle. you were screaming, red-faced and writhing in alessia's arms. your little legs kicked as alessia juggled the formula with trembling fingers. carol's hands hovered instinctively.

"i'm just trying to—"

"i said i've got it!" alessia's voice cracked mid-sentence, fraying around the edges.

alessia screwed the bottle lid on too tight. shoot the bottle too hard. spilled it anyway. your cries kept going, louder now, sharper. a crescendo of sound that made alessia’s whole body stiffen.

carol didn't flinch. but inside, alessia was already bleeding. her mum watched alessia cradle you against her chest, one hand pressed to her temple like alessia was trying to hold her skull together.

there were deep dark circles beneath her eyes. alessia's skin, pale and waxen, hung over her cheekbones like it didn't fit anymore. alessia's hands, so used to the delicate touch of a football—twitched now with nerves she couldn't suppress.

when you finally took the bottle, alessia's shoulders dropped—but only slightly. relief never came. just the next thing. always the next thing.

carol tried again after lunch. "why don't you rest for a bit? have a nap, time to yourself. i'll keep an eye on her."

"i am resting," alessia muttered as she began scrubbing a perfectly clean counter. alessia hadn't touched the soup her mum made. instead just moved the spoon around for twenty minutes and pretended to chew.

"but you've been on your feet all day."

"i don't need a break. i'm fine." the words came out like barbed wire—sharp, defensive, tired of being questioned.

carol said nothing, she knew nothing she could say would change alessia's mind, alessia needed to make the realisation herself. so instead she watched as alessia started scrubbing harder, her hands red-raw from overwashing, her movements tight with fury. or fear. maybe both.

later on the day, carol began to fold some of baby clothes which had been lying around in the laundry basket. trying to do something small. something helpful.

"i keep her sleep suits in the top drawer," alessia said from across the room, her voice too calm. too clipped.

carol paused. "sorry, less, i-"

"and then her vests go underneath. no- that's not where they go." there was venom in it. but no heat. just cold exhaustion.

carol slowly laid the folded onesie down. alessia snatching it up the second her mum turned her back and refolded it, perfectly square, as if her whole sanity depended on it.

and maybe it did.

that same night, carol sat at the edge of the bed in the spare room, staring at the dark. she could hear you fussing through the thin wall. could hear alessia pacing around again. over and over.

floorboards creaking like clockwork. alessia's footsteps, heavy and urgent. alessia hadn't stopped moving all day.

hadn't sat still long enough to breathe. cause if she sat down—if she stopped even just for a second—maybe it would all catch up to her. maybe the weight of it would bury her alive.

carol brought a hand to her chest, where her heart ached in the kind of deep, maternal way that didn't come with instruction manuals or easy fixes. she as watching her daughter disappear in real time, and there was nothing she could do but wait. wait and stay.

as what alessia was fighting wasn't just tiredness.

it was guilt. shame. a bone-deep fear that she wasn't enough. that she was failing you, her baby.

that if alessia didn't do everything perfectly, something terrible would happen—and it would be her fault.

that was the real cruelty of postnatal depression. it didn't scream. it whispered. it told her that she wasn't a good mum. that her baby deserved better. that she was just holding on—only because no one had noticed yet that she wasn't capable.

and alessia had always been capable. on the pitch. in life. everyone expected it from her. even now.

but carol knew better. her daughter was breaking—quietly, invisibly, in plain sight. and she just prayed that tomorrow... the mask might slip enough for her to reach her. because carol could survive being pushed away.

but carol didn't know if alessia could survive being left alone in this.

—

by the second day, it all fell apart.

carol had noticed the signs earlier that morning—the way alessia didn't meet her eyes, how her hands trembled even when you weren't in them, how alessia stood at the sink long after the bottle was washed, just staring down the drain like it might swallow her whole.

but her mum didn't ask questions. she just waited. waited for the moment alessia couldn't carry it anymore as it was bound to come sooner or later.

it came mid-afternoon. the house was too quiet. no television on in the background. no soft lullabies from the speaker that sat on the shelf in your room. just silence. dense and suffocating.

carol moved quietly down the hall. the nursery door was open. and there she was.

alessia, curled on the floor in the corner of the room, her knees drawn up, you tucked on her chest, wrapped in a blanket which had started to unravel.

alessia was rocking her. but not gently. it was a little erratic—almost desperate—like she was trying to calm herself as much as she was you..

alessia's lips were moving rapidly, her voice cracked and uneven. "i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry."

over and over. each repetition cut deeper than the last. alessia's body shuddered with it. not just exhaustion—no, this was grief. guilt. panic.

a mother apologising to a baby who didn't yet understand what pain was. but alessia did. and she carried it like it was stitched onto her skin.

carol dropped to her knees beside her, her hands trembling as she reached out. "shh, baby. shh," carol whispered, and she didn't know if she was talking to alessia or you. maybe both.

carol wrapped her arms around the alessia and you—her grown daughter and her tiny granddaughter—and held them like she used to when alessia was four years old and crying over scraped knees she'd gotten while playing football with her two older brothers.

but this was so much worse.

"i don't know what i'm doing," alessia choked, her voice hoarse and hollow.

"i can't sleep. i can't think. i feel like i'm failing every second—every time she cries, i feel like i'm doing something wrong. i don't know what she wants. i don't know what she needs. and then—then i look at her and i just... i love her so much it hurts. but I'm terrified, mum. terrified i'm gonna ruin her. that i already have."

alessia hiccupped through a sob, clutching you tighter, her grip almost too strong, like letting go would break your tiny body into tiny pieces.

"what if i fall asleep and sh-she stops breathing? what if i don't hear her? what if she hates me when she's older and knows how fucked up i was?"

alessia's voice cracked on the word hate. it came out like a wound.

carol's own breath hitched. tears burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall. because this wasn't about her pain. this was about the little girl in her arms who had grown up into a woman that the world expected to be so strong, so capable, so perfect—and who was now drowning beneath that impossible weight of everything.

"oh, alessia," carol murmured, pressing a kiss into her hair, damp with sweat and tears. "this isn't your fault. none of this is. this is postnatal depression, lessi. your body... your brain... it's in a funny place at this minute like it's lying to you. making you think you're not enough when you're already doing everything you can."

"but i'm not enough," alessia whispered, broken. "she deserves more. a mum who doesn't cry every day. who doesn't stare at the wall and forget what day it is. i haven't showered in three days, mum. i scream into my pillow just to stop myself screaming out loud. and then—" alessia wallowed hard. "i yelled at ella. she tried to help and i pushed her away. i pushed everyone away."

carol's hand cradled the back of alessia's head as she sobbed into her mum's shoulder, hot tears soaking through the fabric of her jumper.

"then maybe it's time to say sorry," carol said gently. "say sorry, and forgive yourself too, darling. you're not a bad mum. you're a tired one. you're human. and the people who love you? they aren't keeping score. they just want you back. the real you. not the one who's trying to do it all without asking for help."

alessia nodded, barely, her body still wracked with shaking sobs. she clung to her mum like she was afraid she'd disappear if she let go.

still shaking. still exhausted. still cracked wide open. but for the first time in weeks, she wasn't pretending.

for the first time in weeks, someone was holding her—and she wasn't apologising for needing it.

"okay," alessia whispered, the word thin and raw, but real.

and in that fragile, aching moment, something inside her shifted.

not fixed. not healed. not yet. but no longer alone. and that was a start.

[myfanfic-urfantrash]

Asking them if they'd let you get them pregnant

Cw: pregnancy talk, death mention(its blade come on), a little suggestive

Part two is here.

Part three is here.

Part four is here.

A/N: this isn't omegaverse in the slightest it's just pure crack. I live to make them suffer :3c

-------

Neuvillette is so confused when he hears the question it makes him pause in his work. Get him pregnant? He sits there quietly trying to process everything before turning towards you his brows furrowed. Was this your way of asking to have a child together? All he knows is that based on both of your anatomy he wouldn't exactly be able to get pregnant and tells you as much.

But you ask him if your bodies could would he carry your children and he finds himself lost in thought again. It takes a few minutes before you begin to see his ears and cheeks begin to turn pink. He clears his throat turning back to his work nodding once shyly. You nod at his answer before leaving him with the cryptic words "it shall be done"...what?

Wriothesley is used to your crazy questions at this point but this one really takes the cake. He nearly spits out his tea all over his desk choking a bit and coughing at the question. His voice is hoarse as he asks why you would want to get him pregnant but you don't elaborate just asking him that if you could get him pregnant would he let you.

He stares at you with concern over your mischievous grin before giving you an uneasy and questioning "No?". He runs a hand down his face asking if this was your way of letting him know you want kids together. While he certainly wouldn't mind having some with you he'd definitely prefer if you adopted rather than whatever it is you have in mind. You simply tell him it's too late before walking down the stairs leaving him to his work as he sits there losing his mind. "Too late"?! What do you mean by "too late"?!

Wanderer looks at you in a mixture of disgust and disappointment wondering if you had hit your head on the way back from the market. He openly asks which is emptier your brain or your wallet. You brush him off handing him some of the groceries to put away clearly focused on getting his answer.

He waves a hand in the air deciding to humor your stupidity. "Sure." He rolls his eyes waving a hand in your direction. "If you can manage to find the technology good luck." He sighs. As if you could ever- "I already have it." Huh?

"Wait." He laughs in disbelief, you must be pulling his leg. "I was just joking." "I'm not." And with that you walk off to the bathroom to put away the rest of the supplies you purchased. The bag of grain slips from his hands and thumps to the floor at his feet. Huh???

Albedo just responds without looking up from his research bench that that's impossible for the both of you at the moment based on both of your anatomy. Now it's your turn to be confused just what did he mean by "at the moment"?

"It's just as I said: at the moment. I currently do not have access to some of the materials needed to make that possible so you will have to wait until I do." And he just keeps on working as if he didn't drop the biggest bomb on you ever. You were only messing with him but as you sit there thinking about it that honestly sounds really nice.

So you ask him if he'd be alright with being pregnant as he still has plenty of research to do. He answers that he might not be able to conduct experiments on Dragonspine for some time but he can always do his research at the headquarters or at home if need be.

"Although..."he pauses thinking about this a little more. He would have to limit ingesting any potions he makes and the like in order to not hurt the baby. "Hmm..." he stands up taking a large book filled to the brim with various experiments he has done and wants to do and flips through it. "This is needs a bit more thought than I imagined. I'll have to go through my notes and plan out what I can and cannot do if I were pregnant. So give me some time." You don't have it in you to tell him you were only joking.

Jing Yuan takes the question in stride believing this to be one of your typical silly questions to keep yourself entertained. He moves his star chess pieces lazily around the board as you play together. He confidently says that should you be able to beat him in the next three games he'll gladly carry all of your future children.

Now he says this just to motivate you to play a little differently perhaps so he can have a few easy wins but he's pleasantly surprised when he actually loses the next three games. He laughs at how determined you were to beat him and jokes that you must really want him to bear your children even though you both know he can't get pregnant.

"Yes you can." "Excuse me?" He blinks a little stunned by your confidence but he quickly recovers and laughs thinking you're joking. It isn't until you lift a pair of fruits he knows from a foreign planet that can alter ones anatomy he begins to click the dots together. "OH! So you were serious. Well then..."

He takes one of the fruits for himself examining the odd fruit and its pleasant mouthwatering scent. He teasingly takes a bite of the sweet fruit licking the spilled juices off his lips and chin and wrist keeping eye contact with you.

"I hope you'll take good care of your darling general."

Blade simply grunts out a "No." and begins walking away as soon as he hears the words from your lips. He's done with you for today. Of all the foolish questions to ask him. But you follow after him determined as ever to have him answer any and all of your inane questions.

He's made at least two rounds around the Stellaron Hunter base before stopping in one of the common areas that's fortunately void of anyone but you two. He finally acknowledges you as you look at him with the biggest wettest puppy eyes you can. Why is he here? Just to suffer? He pinches the bridge of his nose feeling a headache coming in that he wishes was from the Mara honestly.

He knows you won't leave him alone until you get an answer so he groans that unless it's written on Elio's script that it ain't happening. So imagine his shock when you confidently say that it is on the script pulling up your phone to show him.

Even more so when his own phone he barely uses vibrates and he opens it up to show his own piece of the script that does in fact say that you get him pregnant. He's stiff as he walks off with you following behind humming a simple happy nursery tune. Death could not come soon enough...but at least it's you.

[daxisyzz]

Hello!! I just happened to stumble across one of your short stories and I think they are incredible and absolutely adorable 🥹 I had an idea where the reader and Bucky are on a mission, having been mission partners for awhile now. What was supposed to be something simple takes a turn for the worse when the reader gets critically injured. The reader survives, but after coming so close to loosing them, Bucky realizes that he is in love with them. I'm imagining a cute fluffy scene in the hospital together towards the end. ^^ No pressure or anything, and if you can't get to it, that's perfectly alright :D Here's a happy Bucky GIF as payment lol. Have a good day!

heyyy!! Love this idea. Here's your fic <3

Bedside Confessions

Word count: 1.5k+

It’s not love.

At least, that’s what Bucky tells himself when his heart skips a beat watching you laugh across the common room. You’re lounging sideways on the couch, barefoot, wearing some ridiculous old band tee, waving your hands animatedly as you tease Sam about losing a bet. Bucky chuckles under his breath, sinking deeper into the armchair with a beer in hand, pretending like he’s paying more attention to the TV than to the way your smile lights up the room.

It's not love, it’s just...he’s comfortable around you. That’s all.

Right?

He watches you without meaning to, tracks the tilt of your head when you’re joking, the scrunch of your nose when you’re faking being offended, the way you tuck your legs up when you’re cozy. It feels easy. Natural. Like breathing.

Maybe that’s just what friendship feels like when it’s good. Really good.

He doesn't even question it when Steve saunters in with a tablet tucked under his arm and says, "Briefing in five. Bucky, you’re paired with Y/N again."

Bucky just grins. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

You hop off the couch, stretching your arms over your head, and Bucky tears his eyes away fast enough that he nearly gives himself whiplash.

Not love. Just...habit.

The mission seemed simple enough on paper.

A low-level hostage situation in an abandoned warehouse. In and out. Keep it clean, keep it quiet. But nothing ever really goes according to plan, especially when Hydra’s fingerprints are involved.

You and Bucky move through the dark, ruined building with practiced ease, shoulder to shoulder, covering each other like you've done a hundred times before.

You crack jokes over comms, whispering snide comments and bad puns that make Bucky snort so hard he nearly gives away your position once. You were always like that — a pressure valve when everything got too tense.

It’s when you’re clearing the second floor that everything goes sideways.

Gunfire erupts from behind a stack of broken crates, and you shove Bucky hard, taking the lead to draw fire away from him. You always were the reckless one, the one who moved first and thought second because you trusted him to have your back.

You do take the guy down, one clean shot to the knee, but not before another bullet finds you.

Bucky hears it before he sees it — the sickening, wet impact of a bullet hitting soft flesh — and then you're stumbling backward , your face twisted in confusion and pain, your hand pressed against your side, blooming red.

His heart doesn’t just stutter. It stops.

"Y/N!" His voice is a rasp, rough with panic he hasn't felt in years. Not since the worst days. Not since he lost everything once before. His arms catch you before you can crumple, his gloved hands pressing hard against the wound, his voice a desperate, low chant.

"Stay with me. Stay with me. Please."

You try to smile — that stubborn little smile you always give him when you're trying to convince him you’re fine — but your eyes are glassy, and your hand is shaking.

Bucky’s shouting into comms before he even realizes it, demanding evac, demanding medical, demanding anything that will get you out of here faster.

The hospital is too bright. Too sterile. Too slow.

Bucky sits in the hard plastic chair outside the operating room, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenching and unclenching like he could strangle time into moving faster if he just tried hard enough.

He's still got your blood on his jacket. His hands. His heart.

The surgeon’s words spin in his head — critical but stable, lost a lot of blood, bullet missed major organs by a hair — but none of them make the knot in his chest loosen.

Sam tries to talk to him. Steve tries to get him to leave, even just to eat something. Bucky doesn’t hear them. Doesn’t move.

He stares at the double doors like he can will them to open.

It hits him there, in the too-quiet, too-cold hallway:

He loves you.

God, he loves you.

He loves you in a way that makes him feel like his ribs are cracking open, like his soul is laid bare and all he can think is how he almost lost you and he didn’t even know.

Didn’t even know until it was almost too late.

How fucking stupid can he be?

When they finally let him in, you’re still unconscious, tubes snaking from your arms, machines beeping steadily at your side. You look small in the hospital bed, pale against the stark white sheets, and Bucky feels like a goddamn idiot for not realizing it sooner.

He pulls the chair as close as he can get, leaning in, his metal hand carefully wrapping around your much still, much warmer one. His thumb strokes lightly over your knuckles, afraid to hurt you, but needing to touch you. Needing you to be real.

"You scared the hell outta me, doll," he murmurs, voice low and rough. He smiles, a broken, helpless little thing. "You know that? Always throwing yourself into trouble. What were you thinking?"

You don't stir.

He sighs, resting his forehead lightly against your joined hands.

"I was so stupid," he whispers. "Didn't even realize what you meant to me until I saw you fall." He squeezes your hand gently, like a silent apology. "You're everything, Y/N. You’re...hell, you’re the reason I still get up in the morning some days."

He leans back a little, rubbing his free hand over his face, and then just lets it all pour out — the fear, the guilt, the love he’s been too dense to name.

"I don't know when it happened," he says, laughing under his breath, the sound watery. "Maybe it was the way you always made me laugh when I thought I forgot how. Maybe it was the way you look at me like I’m not broken. Maybe it was just you being you. Loud. Brave. Impossible."

He shakes his head, staring at you like he could memorize every detail.

"I love you," he says, finally. "God, I love you. And if you don’t wake up and let me tell you that to your face, I swear to God, I’m gonna lose my mind."

There’s a pause.

Then —A small, unmistakable sound.

A giggle.

Light. Breathless. Completely, beautifully alive.

Bucky freezes like he’s been hit with a stun gun, eyes snapping to your face.

You're awake.Barely, your eyes are just barely fluttering open, your mouth twitching into a mischievous little grin but you're awake.

And you heard everything.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, his entire brain short-circuiting.

"You little— you’ve been awake this whole time?" he sputters, half horrified, half overwhelmed with relief.

You’re still smiling, your voice raspy but full of unmistakable warmth as you tease, "Maybe. I wasn’t gonna interrupt. It was a good speech."

Bucky lets out a choked laugh, pressing your hand to his lips like a prayer, but when your eyes meet his — bright and sincere and a little watery, he suddenly finds himself looking away, overwhelmed, flustered in a way he hasn't been in decades.

"Don't look away from me," you whisper, your voice shaking just a little. "You're all I can think about too."

His eyes snap back to yours, wide and stunned, and you squeeze his hand with what little strength you have.

"I’m not dreaming, right?" he asks, voice thick. "You’re really here?"

You nod, squeezing his fingers back weakly. "I’m here, Buck."

He leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss against your forehead, lingering there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

You close your eyes at the touch, heart stuttering in your chest for a whole different reason now.

But when he pulls back, you blink up at him and say, playful and soft, "Did your aim get worse or something? You missed my lips by like...a few inches."

Bucky stares at you for a beat — and then bursts out laughing, the sound bubbling up raw and real from somewhere deep in his chest.

"You little shit," he says affectionately, shaking his head.

And then —He leans down, one hand cradling your jaw so, so gently, and kisses you for real.

It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s asking permission — but when you kiss him back, when your hand fumbles weakly into his jacket and pulls, he deepens it with a kind of desperate tenderness that steals the breath from both of you.

He tastes like relief. Like hope. Like home.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, you're both grinning so wide it almost hurts.

"Don't ever scare me like that again," he whispers, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

"I'll try," you promise, a little breathless, a lot in love. "Only if you stay close enough to catch me next time."

Bucky chuckles, brushing another quick kiss over your nose, your cheek, your temple, like he can’t get enough now that he’s allowed to love you the way he always should have.

"Deal," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere, doll."

And you believe him.

Because for once —In the middle of all the chaos and noise and danger of the world —You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Together.

Always.

Divider credits: @saradika-graphics

@shortlikerdj

[seitmai]

Bob is listening and occasionally laughing, but he’s focusing on you more than he’s focusing on the story. You’re sitting right next to Alexei and trying really hard not to laugh at his story (for Yelena’s sake) but occasionally you cover your face as your whole body shakes with laughter. Bob loves it. He loves seeing you smile. He feels like he’s being weird so he looks away, but he quickly notices that he’s not the only one looking at you.

He is just the cutest

Walker, who’s sitting right across from him, keeps glancing your way, too. Bob’s never considered before that Walker would like you, but it's not surprising. Of course he would. You’re so funny and smart and you’re tough, but you can also be so kind and, of course, you’re absolutely beautiful... Walker would have to be so dumb to not to see all of that, but it doesn’t mean that Bob approves of this at all.

Ohh👀

Even the mere idea of something happening between you and Walker is bothering him, and he can't get it out of his head. I don't know why I'm upset. It's not like I ever had a chance.

Don't knock it till you try it!!

Bob awkwardly fiddles with random things on the counter, as if one of them will give him another excuse to stay there and keep talking to you. You suspect that's what he's doing, but you never know exactly what's going on in his head. Whatever he's doing, it's endearing. Although, you find everything about him endearing: his smile, his little laugh he does every time he's nervous, his messy curls that are starting to fall over his eyes...

Endearing is such a great word to describe him 🥹

Yelena walks back into the room to grab her phone, and she smiles and rolls her eyes when she sees you happily talking and laughing together.

Oh she knows

“Don’t even think about it” “Geez Bucky, don’t sneak up on me like that”, Walker says before turning back to look at you and Bob again. “But seriously, do you think I should go for it?” “No”, Bucky says with no hesitation.

Hahaha Bucky he is so right for this 😅

Bucky groans dramatically, “Ughh I do not want to be involved in all this. I’m just letting you know I think you’d be... unsuccessful”, and as Walker rolls his eyes and walks back to his room for the night, Bucky notices that Bob’s down the hall, and has apparently been listening to the entire thing.

He maybe says he doesn't want to be involved but we all know he loves to be a wingman

Bob quickly walks up to Bucky. “Do you think that’s true? Actually?”, he says in a hushed tone, with what can only be described as big hopeful puppy dog eyes.

🥹🥹🥹

Bucky mutters something under his breath about his new team being “a bunch of teenagers” and then turns to face Bob again. “I mean, she hasn’t said anything to me, but it’s pretty clear. Yelena and Ava were talking about this earlier and they think so, too.”

To him everyone is a teenager but this truly is teenager behavior, as it always is in avengers tower, like all the ones before them 😂

Over on the couch, Ava smiles, and Bucky pats Walker on the back with no real sympathy. "Told ya".

He really had to say it 😅

a bunch of teenagers

bob x reader

(she/her)

pictures from pinterest

summary- Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob… and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance

warnings- thunderbolts* spoilers kinda, thunderbolts being roomies and hanging out yayy, pining, slight jealousy, bob not feeling very confident :( small mention of void stuff, slightly suggestive mention, john walker likes you and of course that goes absolutely nowhere, bucky is getting too old for this foolishness, hand holding, fluff

word count- 1443

notes- i will write for any of the thunderbolts, you guys, the obsession has reallyyy set in

The view of the sunset from the Watchtower is a beautiful backdrop for an already nice evening with the group. You’re all sitting around, waiting for Bucky to come back with food for everyone. Alexei is telling some awfully embarrassing childhood story about Yelena, who keeps trying to cut him off mid-story. "No listen, I was a small child-"

Bob is listening and occasionally laughing, but he’s focusing on you more than he’s focusing on the story. You’re sitting right next to Alexei and trying really hard not to laugh at his story (for Yelena’s sake) but occasionally you cover your face as your whole body shakes with laughter. Bob loves it. He loves seeing you smile. He feels like he’s being weird so he looks away, but he quickly notices that he’s not the only one looking at you.

Walker, who’s sitting right across from him, keeps glancing your way, too. Bob’s never considered before that Walker would like you, but it's not surprising. Of course he would. You’re so funny and smart and you’re tough, but you can also be so kind and, of course, you’re absolutely beautiful... Walker would have to be so dumb to not to see all of that, but it doesn’t mean that Bob approves of this at all.

He doesn’t think Walker is right for you, and he's never considered that you might see Walker that way, but now the idea is in his head and he hates it.

Walker can be a real jerk, (and of course he’s got some rage issues), but he is good looking, and he’s actually able to help on missions. Bob has to stay back most of the time. Plus, sometimes Walker can be pleasant. Sometimes.

Walker also doesn’t risk showing you your most awful traumatic memories every time you touch. Bob’s mostly got it under control now, but it doesn’t matter because now he’s got the mental image of you and Walker touching and that makes him feel nauseous. The idea of you and Walker-

He doesn’t realize he’s been intensely staring down Walker until he looks up at Bob with the most confused look on his face and mouths “what??”.

Even the mere idea of something happening between you and Walker is bothering him, and he can't get it out of his head. I don't know why I'm upset. It's not like I ever had a chance.

After dinner, everyone starts to split up and do their own thing around the tower for the rest of the night. Of course, no one bothered to clean up after themselves, so you take it upon yourself. Bob walks over and hands you another dirty plate. “Sorry”, he says with a shy little laugh.

“Aww dang", you say with a chuckle, "Thanks for actually handing me your dishes, though. Ava left hers on the floor”, and the two of you quietly snicker.

Bob awkwardly fiddles with random things on the counter, as if one of them will give him another excuse to stay there and keep talking to you. You suspect that's what he's doing, but you never know exactly what's going on in his head. Whatever he's doing, it's endearing. Although, you find everything about him endearing: his smile, his little laugh he does every time he's nervous, his messy curls that are starting to fall over his eyes...

You realize neither of you have said anything in a while. "Hey, how are you feeling tonight? You've been extra quiet", you tell him with a sweet smile.

Bob panics, "No, what? I'm fine. Um. I'm just tired, that's what it is", and he smiles at you, but then the direct eye contact is a little too much for him and he redirects his smile to the tile floor.

"Okay, just checking", You aren't sure if you believe him, but you're not going to push it. "Hey, did you see that video where-", and you start talking about something else.

Yelena walks back into the room to grab her phone, and she smiles and rolls her eyes when she sees you happily talking and laughing together.

At some point, Walker strolls in and soo casually leans against the counter, (he thinks he's being really cool), and thanks you for cleaning up, completely ignoring Bob, who is standing right there and helping clean up, too. Bob glances at you, trying to see if you act any different when Walker's around.

As Walker steps back into the hallway to go to bed, he stops walking for a second and glances back at you from afar, until a voice totally pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Don’t even think about it”

“Geez Bucky, don’t sneak up on me like that”, Walker says before turning back to look at you and Bob again. “But seriously, do you think I should go for it?”

“No”, Bucky says with no hesitation.

“Well don’t think too hard about it.” Walker responds sarcastically and crosses his arms defensively.

“I’m not just saying this to be disagreeable. Everyone knows she kind of…” Bucky starts to say before trailing off.

“What? What is it?”

Bucky hesitates and then decides Walker isn’t going to let it go. He leans in and quietly says, “Everyone around here kinda thinks she likes Bob.”

He’s dumbfounded. “Bob?? You cannot be serious. There’s no way that-”

“Watch it, John”

“No, you know I love Bob! But come on, don’t you think if I put the idea out there that maybe she’d at least consider it?”

Bucky groans dramatically, “Ughh I do not want to be involved in all this. I’m just letting you know I think you’d be... unsuccessful”, and as Walker rolls his eyes and walks back to his room for the night, Bucky notices that Bob’s down the hall, and has apparently been listening to the entire thing.

Bob quickly walks up to Bucky. “Do you think that’s true? Actually?”, he says in a hushed tone, with what can only be described as big hopeful puppy dog eyes.

Bucky mutters something under his breath about his new team being “a bunch of teenagers” and then turns to face Bob again. “I mean, she hasn’t said anything to me, but it’s pretty clear. Yelena and Ava were talking about this earlier and they think so, too.”

Bob can’t believe this. There’s no way. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, but if 4 of his friends think so, then maybe it really is true?

Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder. “Ask her to get lunch with you or something tomorrow. You can decide for yourself.”

Bob starts to frantically shake his head, “No, no I can’t do that, it would be so embarrassing if she didn’t want to.”

“Come on, man. She’ll want to. You should probably do this soon before Walker beats you to it”, Bucky says with a little laugh.

That was enough to convince him.

The next afternoon, you’ve been training for a bit, and now you’re going over some random important documents the group was sent. You see Bob over at the counter, so you decide to walk over and pour yourself some tea, too.

“Hey, Bob”, you say cheerfully, and he turns to look at you.

“Hi”, and he pours the tea into your mug without you having to ask.

You thank him and then look in his eyes. He’s clearly thinking about something. “Bob?”

“Would you like to go get lunch with me today?”, he says out of nowhere. He says it like he thinks that if he didn’t ask you now, he never would. Which is probably true. Any more time to think about it and he might've convinced himself it was the worst idea ever.

You smile warmly at him. “Yeah I’d love to. What time were you thinking?”

Bob is so caught off guard by your positive response that he almost doesn’t answer. “Uhh, we could go in half an hour. If that works for you, of course.”

“Yeah that works. Thanks Bob!”, you say, and then you gently pat him on the shoulder and leave the room to shower and get changed. Bob stands there for a second, hoping he didn't just imagine all of that.

When the two of you are ready, you slowly take his hand, and he lightly squeezes your hand back and smiles at you.

Over on the couch, Ava smiles, and Bucky pats Walker on the back with no real sympathy. "Told ya".

Walker kind of scoffs, but he can't help but smile just a little as he watches Bob step into the elevator, happily holding your hand.

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I wrote this with Sunshine & Rain.. By Kali Uchis, feel free to enjoy this with that on repeat to really feel it burn. Also please somebody give me HD gifs asap. Also if you hadn't read the preview yet, I recommend it!

Word count: 4,7k

Preview

--

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an ugly green tinge over the already-drab walls of the 23rd Precinct. Y/N pushed the door open with her elbow, hands full—one holding a stack of wrinkled flyers with Bob’s photo on them, the other clutching the hem of her coat closed.

The front desk officer didn’t even look up.

The bell above the door had long since stopped ringing for her.

She shuffled to the counter. She was wearing the same hoodie she always wore—his hoodie, oversized and faintly smelling of old laundry detergent and smoke. Her stomach was just beginning to curve outward, subtle but undeniable beneath the fabric. Four months.

“Hey, Ms. Y/L/N,” the desk sergeant mumbled without meeting her eyes. “You’re back.”

She placed the flyers down with quiet urgency. “I printed new ones. Better quality. I added a note about the reward this time, in case someone’s seen him.”

The sergeant sighed, his pen clinking on the desk as he leaned back.

“I told you last time. No new leads.”

“I’m not asking for a miracle,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just—please check if anything came in since last week. A tip. A sighting. A… a body, no, not that, but anything really.”

A uniformed officer behind the counter—young, smug, cruel in that casual way people are when they forget you’re human—snorted. “Lady, you know the guy was a junkie, right? Odds are he got tired of playing house and ran off when the stick turned pink.”

Y/N’s heart splintered. Her hands clenched the flyers. “Don’t—don’t you dare say that about him.”

He shrugged. “C’mon. You don’t have to be a detective to figure it out. He got high and vanished. People like that don’t come back. Especially not to play Daddy.”

“He’s not like that!” she shouted, her voice cracking.

The room went quiet.

A throat cleared gently behind her.

“Y/N?” came the familiar rasp of Officer Cooper, stepping out from a side hallway. Silver-haired and weathered, he’d been on the force longer than most of the others had been alive. He always spoke softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever kindness he still believed in.

Y/N blinked back tears and turned.

“Let’s take a walk,” Cooper said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”

--

Outside, the sky was overcast. Cold. Cooper lit a cigarette but didn’t offer her one.

They stood in silence next to the station’s rusted bench. She stared down at the pavement, at her frayed shoelaces, at the grey world around her.

Then she broke.

“I can’t sleep, Mr. Cooper,” she whispered, voice small. “I dream about him every night. I wake up thinking maybe he’s home, maybe I missed a call. But then it’s just me. Just me and this baby. I don’t know what I’m doing—I don’t have money, I don’t have family. He was my family.”

Cooper nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I know you’ve been kind,” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve listened. But I need more. I need you to put more people on this. I need you to look for him like he’s not just some addict you all gave up on.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her tears soaked through it instantly.

“Please. Just… just try. For me. For him. For our child. Bobby wouldn’t leave me. Not like this. Not without a word. Not him.”

Cooper took a long drag from his cigarette. Then sighed.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

She froze.

His eyes softened, like he wished he could lie. Like he hated what he was about to do.

“We finally traced a lead. Someone matching Bob’s description was seen boarding a flight out of the country.”

She couldn’t breathe.

“Where?”

“Malaysia,” he said quietly.

The word hit her like a sledgehammer.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s… no, he wouldn’t… He didn’t have money. He didn’t have a passport.”

“He did,” Cooper said, sadly. “We checked. It was valid. Bought the ticket in cash. No forwarding contact. No signs of foul play.”

She staggered back, her body suddenly too heavy. Her hand flew to her belly as if to anchor herself.

“So… you’re saying he left me.”

“I’m saying,” Cooper murmured, “that we don’t believe he vanished. We believe he made a choice.”

“No,” she choked. “No, he didn’t. He loved me. We were building a life. He called me his miracle. We were deciding on a name. He cried when I told him. He held me all night and said he’d never leave.”

Cooper looked down at his shoes.

“I know, kid.”

Tears streamed down her face now, silent and relentless.

“I waited. Every day, I waited,” she sobbed. “I believed in him. I still do. He’s sick, not a monster. You’re telling me he abandoned his child before the baby was even born?”

Cooper said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Finally, she whispered, “Is he coming back ? Did he buy two tickets? He did, right, to come back to me, to us?”

Cooper crushed the cigarette beneath his boot.

“One way ticket. Maybe it's better if u go home, take a breath, and just... you can call me, ok ? I have a daughter just like you and she's an amzing mother, you will be too. You have to go to work, just rest.”

She just looked at the flyers in her hand. For months he just disappear, all her money spent in paper, organizing searches, paying potential dealers for a tip of his whereabouts.

"So this is it?"

--

2 years ago

The Cluckin’ Bucket wasn’t exactly a place dreams were made of.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry flies, flickering over cracked linoleum tiles and chipped yellow walls. The scent of fried oil hung in the air like a second skin, clinging to every surface. It was 11:43 PM, just seventeen minutes before closing, and the only two souls left inside were Y/N, wiping down tables, and Bob, in the back room, peeling off the heavy, foam-rubber chicken costume that had been slowly cooking him alive for eight hours.

He winced as he pulled the beak off his head, his sweat-damp hair sticking up in odd places. His T-shirt clung to his back, his jeans sagged slightly on his hips, and his bones ached in that weird, chemically induced way that only came from a cocktail of meth and shame.

He hadn’t wanted this job.

He sure as hell hadn’t wanted the chicken suit.

But here he was—twenty-something, barely scraping by, dancing on a street corner in 95-degree heat to try and convince people to buy discount wings.

He tucked the suit away in its plastic bag, sighing, and padded into the dining area, rubbing the back of his neck.

And then he saw her.

Y/N.

The new waitress.

She was crouched in front of the soda machine, elbow-deep in the syrup line, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, earbuds dangling from her neck. She was humming something—Fleetwood Mac, he thought—but he couldn’t be sure.

She wore her name tag crooked on her chest, and there was a smudge of sauce on her cheek.

But to him? She looked like she belonged in a painting.

He froze for a second too long, just staring.

God, she was pretty. And he was in a chicken suit just minutes ago. And probably still smelled like sweat and fryer grease. Cool. Real smooth.

She glanced up—and caught him.

Her eyebrows rose a little. Her mouth quirked.

“Robert, right?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice was warm, amused, like she already knew the answer.

His throat caught. “Uh. Yeah. Bob, actually.”

“Bob,” she repeated, like she was trying it on. “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly.

She straightened, gesturing toward a box at her feet. “I’m trying to get this up to the top shelf, but it’s heavier than it looks and my arms are, like, noodles right now.”

He nodded and stepped forward, kneeling to lift the box without much effort. He was wiry, but stronger than he looked. She watched him, subtly biting the corner of her lip.

“Thanks,” she said as he set the box down on the shelf. “You’re stronger than you look.”

He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, well… spinning a giant arrow for eight hours a day builds muscles, I guess.”

She smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short. That costume? Kinda iconic.”

He turned bright red. “Oh, God.”

“What?” she teased. “I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I mean, it takes a certain kind of confidence to dance in a chicken suit and not die of embarrassment.”

He snorted. “More like a lack of options.”

There was a pause—just a second too long.

“Still,” she said, voice softer now, “You’ve got a good smile, Bob.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said, you’ve got a good smile.”

He swallowed, heart hammering for no reason he could explain. She was looking at him. Not through him. Not with pity. Just… seeing him. And it had been a long time since someone had done that.

They started talking more after that.

Little things. Jokes during their shifts. Late-night scraps of conversation while wiping down counters or restocking sauces. She’d bring him a free soda when she noticed him flagging. He’d sweep her section when her feet were too tired to move. Neither of them said it out loud, but it became something—a rhythm, a comfort.

He never told her about the drugs.

But she saw the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands shook sometimes. The way he chewed his inner cheek when he thought no one was looking. She didn’t ask, and he was grateful.

Until that one night.

They were walking out together. The parking lot was empty, bathed in yellow streetlight. The air was thick with humidity. Bob carried his bag over his shoulder, still fidgeting with the zipper.

Y/N was quiet beside him, arms crossed over her chest.

They reached the edge of the lot. Her car was parked beneath the flickering sign.

He stopped. She didn’t.

Then, she turned back.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked. “Uh. No. Why?”

She smiled—and it knocked the air out of him.

“Just wondering,” she said, stepping a little closer. “Because if you don’t… I was wondering when you were going to ask me out.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“I—I mean—I didn’t think you’d—why would you—” he stammered.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Bob. I like you.”

He swallowed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Even with the chicken suit.”

And then, because his body moved before his fear could stop him, he smiled—wide and real.

“I… would really like that.”

“Good,” she said, walking backwards toward her car, grinning. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood in the parking lot long after she drove away, heart pounding, a dumb grin on his face.

For the first time in years, the night didn’t feel so heavy.

--

Central Park in the early evening was dipped in gold.

The last fingers of sunlight threaded through the leaves like warm lace, casting dappled shadows on the grass. It was one of those rare New York days—cool but not cold, the air kissed with early autumn, the sky a watercolor blend of lavender and peach.

Bob stood awkwardly near a bench beneath a sycamore tree, tugging at the hem of his second-best flannel. His fingers twitched in his jacket pocket, where he kept the meth pipe he hadn’t touched in two days.

He was sweating.

Not from the weather.

From her.

Because Y/N was there, spreading out a gingham blanket on the grass near the edge of a pond, her hair tucked behind her ears, a small cooler bag next to her feet.

She looked like someone who belonged in the light.

He still wasn’t convinced he deserved to be sitting beside her in it.

“Okay,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from the blanket. “Don’t laugh. I made too much.”

Bob walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, watching as she pulled out a series of plastic containers and neatly wrapped foil packets. Sandwiches. Potato salad. Tiny cupcakes with blue frosting that had clearly been made with care. Even folded napkins.

“Holy crap,” he said, blinking. “Did you raid a deli or something?”

She grinned. “No, I made it. I… I like cooking.”

“For me?”

She looked at him like it was obvious. “Yeah. Who else would I be trying to impress, Bob?”

He knelt on the blanket, legs crossed, still a little stiff, watching her with barely restrained disbelief. “I just… I’ve never had anyone… you know. Do something like this. For me.”

She shrugged, setting a container between them. “Well, now you have.”

He picked up a sandwich, still stunned. “You made all this… for a guy who dresses like a poultry mascot?”

She chuckled. “I happen to like that guy.”

Bob opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He just smiled—a shy, crooked thing—and took a bite.

Bob sat on the edge of the picnic blanket, chewing slowly, trying not to look too shocked by how good the sandwich in his hand was. “Okay,” he said between bites, “you’re going to have to explain to me how you made this taste like something from an actual restaurant. What’s in this?”

Y/N grinned, tucking a napkin under her leg to keep it from blowing away. “Nothing fancy. Chicken, basil, a little Dijon, homemade aioli—”

“H-homemade? Who even makes aioli? That’s, like, elite-level cooking.”

“I like cooking,” she said simply, with a shrug. “It calms me down. Helps me feel like I’ve got control over something, you know?”

He nodded slowly, finishing the last of the sandwich. “Yeah, I get that. It’s like spinning that dumb arrow—kinda zen, if you ignore the back pain.”

She laughed. “That’s tragic. I cook to relax, and you give yourself arthritis.”

“Hey, I’m not proud.”

She passed him a small container of fruit salad, their knees brushing slightly under the blanket. There was a breeze picking up, threading through the grass, fluttering the corners of the gingham cloth. In the distance, a dog barked, and somewhere near the pond a violinist had started playing faintly.

“You live with roommates? Alone?” Bob asked suddenly, trying to picture what her place might look like. “Your kitchen’s probably better than mine. Mine’s got, like, one working burner and a fridge that sounds like it’s dying.”

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “Actually… I live alone now.”

His brows lifted slightly, sensing the shift in her voice.

“I didn’t always,” she continued. “My ex boyfriend and I used to live together, in this little apartment off Bedford. It was cramped, noisy, walls were paper-thin… but it was kind of cozy. It felt like ours.”

Bob stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“He left about nine months ago,” she said. “For someone else. Someone with shinier hair and a ‘real’ job, probably. I don’t know. One day he said he didn’t love me anymore, and that was that.”

Bob’s chest tightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She waved a hand, but her smile was tinged with something older than the moment. “It sucked. But if he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have taken the job at Cluckin’ Bucket. Wouldn’t have ended up on night shifts. Wouldn’t have met you.”

He blinked, thrown. “That’s… wow. You really think that’s a good trade?”

She shrugged again, but this time with a little smile. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Bob looked down at the cupcakes, the homemade food, the folded napkins. All for him.

He cleared his throat. “I just don’t get it. How someone could be with you and let you slip through their fingers. That guy had the f—freaking lottery ticket and he just… walked away?”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised by the fire in his voice.

“I mean it,” Bob said, quieter now. “If it were me… I’d never let you go.”

The moment stretched between them, warm and tender.

She looked at him for a long time, something soft and wounded behind her eyes.

“You’re sweet, Bob,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he replied without thinking. “Not really. But I want to be.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something else, but instead she reached for another sandwich.

They sat in silence again, this time heavier.

Then Bob spoke, his voice rough.

“I don’t have anyone either,” he said. “No family. No ties. Just a bunch of mistakes and a backpack that smells like old socks.”

She looked at him. “No one at all?”

He shrugged. “Not since my mom passed. My dad was… not really in the picture. I’ve kinda just been floating since then.”

“Me too,” she said. “It’s like… we’re both ghosts in a city full of people who have somewhere to be.”

That hit him harder than he expected.

He nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I always thought,” he murmured, “that maybe I was just built to be alone. Like I was meant to burn out early. Some people are just… too messed up to fit.”

She leaned toward him, brushing a thumb gently against his hand.

“You’re not messed up,” she whispered. “You’re just… lost. And that’s not the same thing.”

His heart nearly stopped.

“You’re the first person who’s ever said that,” he admitted.

“Then everyone else was wrong.”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the sunset or the food or the warmth of her fingers against his—but he turned toward her, and for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.

“Can I… see you again?” he asked.

Her eyes crinkled with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

--

present day

The apartment was still.

Still in the way a place only gets after someone is gone—not just physically, but really gone. Like the soul of the place had followed them out the door and taken all the warmth with it.

The late afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dusty blinds, casting long stripes across the bed where Y/N lay curled on her side. Their bed. His side still had the indent of his body, even after months. She hadn’t brought herself to sleep on it, like maybe the dip in the mattress could hold his shape long enough for him to come back and fill it.

Her hand cradled the curve of her growing belly. Just past four months. She was showing now. Her body knew, even if the world didn’t care.

Across from her on the nightstand were the pictures—cheap Polaroids and one dog-eared photo booth strip from Coney Island, taped crookedly to the wall. Bob’s stupid half-smile grinned back at her in every frame. The one where he was pretending to flex with a corndog in hand. The one where he looked away, caught off-guard, cheeks red from laughing at something she said.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the picture. Her throat burned.

“God, Bobby…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

A fresh wave of tears pressed from behind her eyes and spilled freely down her cheek, soaking into the pillow. She clutched the blanket tighter with one hand and her belly with the other.

“You left,” she murmured. “You really left.”

She bit her lip so hard it nearly split, the ache in her chest unbearable.

“I defended you. I told them you’d never run. I called every hospital, every shelter. Put up posters with your face in every goddamn corner of this city. I begged the police to keep looking because I knew something was wrong. I thought maybe you were in trouble, or hurt… or…”

Her voice broke, raw and low.

“Turns out you were just gone. Just—just done.”

She sat up slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of Bob’s old hoodie—still too big on her, still faintly smelling like him, like cologne and smoke and something warmer.

“You saved up that money. You actually planned this,” she whispered, hollow. “You looked me in the eye… kissed me goodnight, touched our baby, and you already knew you weren’t coming back.”

Her breath hitched as her hand moved over the swell of her belly, as if trying to protect the child from the truth pressing in.

“You knew I was pregnant. And you still left. That’s what makes it worse. Not the addiction. Not the lies. That. You knew, and it didn’t stop you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I gave up everything trying to find you, Bobby,” she said, louder now, choking on the grief. “I drained what little savings I had. Every cent I scraped together went to flyers, gas, private search sites. I even hired some guy off Craigslist who said he could ‘track people down for a price.’ That was three hundred dollars I’ll never get back.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears.

“I work double shifts now just to stay afloat. Still serving greasy food to assholes who think I’m invisible—coming home to this empty fucking apartment, sleeping in a bed that feels like a coffin.”

She fell back onto the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.

“I really thought you were different,” she whispered. “I did. I thought… maybe this time, it wouldn’t end with someone leaving. I really get left for everything else at this point, not good enough, prettier women, drugs. And maybe that’s worse. Because at least he looked me in the eye and said goodbye. Or maybe…did you find a better woman Bobby?”

Her lips trembled as another sob escaped.

“You said you loved me. You said we were in this together. We made something together, Bobby. We made a life. And you just… vanished.”

She reached for the ultrasound photo tucked into the drawer and held it to her chest.

“I swear he moves and grows everytime I cry,” she whispered. “Like he knows I need a distraction.”

She ran her hand down her belly again, slower this time.

“But I won’t let them grow up thinking he or she was a mistake. Or unworth staying for.”

The room felt unbearably quiet now. Still, again. But this time, colder.

She closed her eyes and curled tighter around herself, the photos, the baby. Everything she had left.

“I’ll do this without you,” she said softly. “Even if it breaks me.”

And in the stillness, in the tiny home they had built, she stares at the ceiling. Thinking. Doubting. Is this all that life can be ? How would she be able to take care of a little human? Maybe this baby wasn't meant for her. Maybe it was someone else's place to be their mom.

Maybe that's it.

Then I will wait. Just until the baby comes.

[erostexts]

𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑢𝑝 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒

Summary: in which Satoru loves his wife and he needs her to know it

Tags: MDNI, Oral (m! Receiving), praise, brief overstimulation, riding, unprotected sex, cumming inside.

Satoru loves how easy to rile up you were. Hell, he loved that determination so clear in your perfect factions. How you eyes had that dangerously arousing look in them. And fuck him, you give him the look. Something like bedroom eyes with a little bit of attitude and his cock is stirring up, slowly waking up from its slumber.

Once in your shared home, you corner him against the door. Blindfold still on bit the cocky smirk on his lips tells you all you needed to know; this fucker wanted this.

"You enjoy tempting me too much, Satoru" he's melting when his name, full name, no nickname falls off you lips so carefully and dangerous.

"If you wanted my attention so bad, you shouldn't be acting up" No words were needed as he launches at you, lips clashing and messy tongues fighting for the dominance he didn't want tonight. He moans on the kiss, a sweet sound you haven't heard in a while. His cock is uncomfortable in the confines of his boxers, moving his hips against you to get the slightest of friction. You snake a hands down to his pants, rubbing him through the fabric of his pants, cupping the very noticable bulge.

"Fuck" Its breathy, whispered almost. But it makes your pussy clench around nothing. "Don't tease so much, princess"

You all but hum, guiding him to the bed, throwing him, or at least he lets you think so. With a quick movement, you hook your fingers around the waistband of his pants and boxers, lowering them enough to free his aching cock.

It was already leaking. You don't blame him though, it had been a while with all his missions and your work. But all that mattered now was that you had it finally in front of you. Leaking, pink mushroom tip almost glistening with pre, and that attractive, singular blueish and purplish vein that ran across it but didn't quite reach his tip. You lick your lips in anticipation. Testing him, you blow air to it, seeing him shudder and bucking his hips like he was already inside of you.

With a small laugh, you press kisses along it, and hearing him sigh and grunt in pleasure drives you to do more. Sucking on his tip and pumping the rest of his length, you hum, enjoying his taste after months. His perfect blue eyes roll back when you lick around his vein and tip pushing half of it inside you mouth before taking it out with a wet pop!

Guiding his slim and pale hand to you hair, you nod, letting him guide you. And you don't have to ask twice because in one, mean and careless thrust of his hips, he lays there, using you mouth like a fleshlight. His hips move and his hands pull on your hair like he needs you, like he hates you.

"Please please, oh fuck me. Yes, like that. I love oh! I love you!" He babbles. Breathing heavily and panting like he needs you to understand it, like hes confessing all over again. And you? All you can do is make loud, messy slurping noises and gag around him. And if that doesn't give him the biggest sensation of ectasy he wouldn't have married you.

He's close, and you can tell because he stops moving, like he's trying to hold back, but you won't have that. So with wet slurps and messy movements, you keep sucking him off. He buck up once with stuttering thrusts, twice with a twitching cock and at the third thrust of his hips his ball tightened up and cums in your mouth with no warning and a breathless groan.

He stays there, breathless, tired and sweaty. He hadn't realized it but he truly was pent up.

"We aren't done yet, toru" And you strip off of you shirt, taking out his pants and boxers fully. Leaving his lower half completely bare. You slowly tease him, lowering your own pants for him. It was a casual pant but he found it so attractive he found himself getting turned on again.

"You can give me another one, can't ya? You're so perfect after all" Its not condescending but shit, it made him absolutely feral how much power you held over him. Because you had the power to destroy him and he'd let you with pleasure.

You bare yourself completely, straddling his hips, and boy can he feel how wet you are.

Definitely, with pleasure.

Is what he thinks before grabbing your hips with trembling hands. Understanding the silent requests, you lift your hips up, guiding his cock to your core. Both of you shudder when a loud squelching sound fills the room as he settles inside. Arching your back and lowering your hips onto his, you moan. There's still remnants of cum around his cock, making ot easier to slide in.

"Go ahead. Fuck me, handsome" he loves it. Loves how you say the nicknames like you mean them but you don't show so when you lift your hips up and lower them rapidly, setting a pace that is inhuman for him. Or maybe is the way his brain is fuzzy due to his recent orgasm talking. You'd never know.

"So. Fucking. Good" your words are punctuated by a thrust in each of them. And he lifts himself up, hugging you and licks around your neck, letting you use his cock like a dildo.

"wait! No more I'm gonna..." He stutters. Stutters. And you can't believe how good it feels to have him twitching inside of your own warmth with no condom. But you're way too busy chasing after your own high to be worried about how he might cum again. You keep bouncing on his cock like its a hobby.

"Fuck!" He whines, biting on your shoulder, hard as he shoots rope and ropes of cum into you. Yet, you give him no time to adjust or breathe when you're close yourself.

"Tooru! Sat...oruuuu" You moan his name over and over like its the only thing you know. Hes sensitive enough as it was but the way drool falls off the corner of your beautiful lips and your eyes roll back makes him think maybe he can keep going.

You kiss him. Its messy, no rhythm at all. It shushes both your sounds leaving only the sound of skin clashing against skin to fill the room and echo on your minds.

He can definitely keep going if this how you're acting.

"So good, so fucking good inside me" its a broken moan but je understands perfectly. All his senses heightened as his tip becomes red due to the stimulation on it. Its not long before he hisses, unsure if he likes the feeling or if he wants to pull away.

But by the way your moaning, arching your back and moaning sweet praises to him, he thinks he likes it better.

Its mot until you quiver and clench around him, eyes rolling back and moaning his name that he fully lets go for the third time in a row.

"i love you, toru"

"I love you too, princess."

And you both stay there, basking im eachothers presence, still connected.

[kakashisacademia]

ೃ⁀➷ how they’d react if some guy flirts with you

Satoru Gojo - smirks like it’s a game…until it’s not

He watches the guy flirt like it’s entertainment. Leaning back, arms crossed, shades low. You think he’s not bothered until the guy gets a little too close. That’s when Gojo’s hand is suddenly on your waist, lips brushing your ear.

“Oh? You’re really trying that hard when I’m standing right here? That’s brave.” His words are light, but his cursed energy spikes just enough to make the guy pale and back off. He doesn’t need to fight. He just makes it very clear: she’s his.

Later he teases you relentlessly. “Didn’t know you were such a heartbreaker, babe. Gotta keep an eye on you now.”

Suguru Geto - cold smile and dangerously quiet

He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t make a scene. He watches the guy flirt with a calm that’s too calm. Steps closer, standing just behind you. When the guy tries to keep talking, Geto tilts his head.

“She’s taken. I’d suggest you leave while you still can.”

There’s no smile now. His voice is soft, but heavy with threat. If the guy doesn’t get the hint, Geto doesn’t start a fight, he ends it before it begins. Not because he’s jealous, but because he’s territorial. You’re his sanctuary in a godless world.

Afterwards he kisses your forehead like nothing happened. “Don’t worry. I’d never let anyone touch what’s mine.”

Choso Kamo - emotionally confused, but physically imposing

At first he’s not sure what’s happening. He just sees some guy talking to you and gets this tight feeling in his chest. His expression doesn’t change, but he’s moving, hovering near, protective like a ghost.

When the guy flirts more openly?

“No,” Choso says firmly, stepping in front of you. “Back off.”

The guy might laugh until he realizes Choso isn’t kidding. Choso stares him down like it’s life or death. Not because he’s angry, because he doesn’t understand how someone could be that disrespectful.

Later he’ll ask, “Are you alright? Did he touch you?” And he’ll hold you gently for a long time like he almost lost you.

Toji Fushiguro - lethal, no warnings

Toji doesn’t do jealousy. He does ownership. The second some guy flirts with you, Toji is right there, eyes sharp. He doesn’t say much. Just moves between you and the guy, calm and terrifying.

“She’s with me.”

If the guy mouths off? Toji smirks. “You wanna try that again with your jaw broken?”

He doesn’t give second chances. Violence is fast and efficient and he’ll leave the guy with a bruise and a warning.

Later he grabs your chin, tilting your face up. “You let him talk to you like that?” You say no and he smirks. “Good girl.”

Kento Nanami - polite… until he’s not

At first Nanami gives the guy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he doesn’t know you’re taken. But when the guy keeps flirting, Nanami sighs and adjusts his tie.

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped. She’s my partner.”

If that doesn’t work? He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t threaten. He just stares with that weary, cold glare that says he has exactly zero time for this. If needed, he’ll use his cursed technique with surgical precision, no wasted effort.

Later he apologizes for the scene. “I don’t enjoy violence. But no one disrespects you.”

Ryomen Sukuna - possessive, deranged. god help the guy

He doesn’t warn anyone. He doesn’t ask nicely. The second someone flirts with you, the ground might shake. His cursed energy floods the room like a storm. He’s suddenly beside you, claws flexing.

“What’s this? A little insect trying to steal from me?”

He doesn’t care if you’re embarrassed. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He’ll kill the guy for daring to even look at what’s his. If you try to calm him down, he growls, “You belong to me. Let them watch me tear him apart.”

Later he’s calmer, but not by much. “Next time, I’ll rip out his tongue before he speaks to what’s mine.”

[triptuckers]

you're not alone - bob reynolds

Request: nope Pairing: bob reynolds x reader Summary: when you wake up early, you find out you're not the only one who's awake Warnings: THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS !! bit of angst (happy ending I promise), mentions of nightmares, mentions of past trauma, loss of loved ones, bob being a lil sad :( Word count: 2.5K A/N: listen it's very simple. I saw thunderbolts. I saw lewis pullman. that's it. enjoy!

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your eyes snap open as you blindly reach for the knife you keep under your pillow. but instead of an intruder, your blade meets empty space.

the only sound in your dimly lit room is your heavy breathing. damn these stupid nightmares. you were close to asking yelena if she could just knock you out so you could get some sleep.

you return the knife and lay back down.

but now that you're awake, and adrenaline is coursing through your body, it's hard to go back to sleep again. you haven't really spoken about it to anyone, but you know you're not the only one who has nightmares.

yours got worse after a mission was intense or had nearly gone wrong. you'd been doing the odd job here and there for valentina when she'd send you to go after someone who was going to rob one of her facilities.

but when you finally made it to the vault, you weren't met with just any robber. instead, you were met with a bunch people who seemed to have gotten the exact same assignment as you.

you were all there to kill each other. messy ends tying up themselves. after all, doing the dirty work was what you were good at. it's what you were trained for. follow orders, go in and out quickly, get the job done.

but instead of fighting these people, you worked together once you figured out valentina's real plan.

the next couple of days were a whirlwind of adrenaline, fighting, a lot of confusion and very little sleep.

you'd been trying to catch up on rest now that you've got a room in the former avengers tower, but after reliving your worst memories, the nightmares came back stronger and more intense than ever. all the details were there now, and you couldn't forget them.

you finally had a place where you could safely rest, and yet you didn't get more than two hours of sleep a night - if you were lucky.

you're looking around the room now. devoid of personality. you didn't have many personal belongings to take with you. mostly the weapons you carried and the clothes on your back.

taking yelena's advice, you'd gotten dark curtains to keep out the light. she said it helped her fall asleep. it didn't really help you much, but you were grateful for her advice nonetheless.

there's a dim glow coming from a gap in the curtains. you push the sheets off of you and walk over to the window.

way down below, new york was slowly waking up. people on their way to their work, or out on an early morning run. you glance over your shoulder at the alarm clock. almost 5 am. not too bad. it's more morning than night, and you decide that's acceptable for today.

you pull on a pair of socks and blindly grab a sweater. maybe you could use the extra time you got now by planning in an extra training session. it always helped clear your mind after a short night filled with bad dreams.

the hallway is dark when you exit your room. as you make your way to the kitchen, you wonder what else you could do today. there weren't any missions for you planned.

bucky was off on an assignment with sam, and alexei hadn't been home for a little over a week. maybe you could ask yelena or ava if they were up for a sparring session.

you enter the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the big light as you open the fridge.

the light seeps out and illuminates a figure standing on the other end of the kitchen island.

you reach for the nearest kitchen knife as bob turns on the light.

'jesus.' you breathe. 'bob. you scared me.'

'sorry!' says bob, visibly upset that he startled you. 'I'm sorry! I thought you saw me.'

'you're good, don't worry about it.' you say, returning the kitchen knife. 'I'm just a little jumpy, that's all.'

'I was about to make breakfast, do you want some as well?' asks bob.

'yeah sure, that sounds nice.' you say. 'thanks.'

bob walks over to you and smiles. somehow you didn't understand how someone like bob could also be the void. the two seemed so different from each other.

you make coffee as bob gets started on breakfast for the two of you. you pour a cup for bob and slide it over to him. then you take your own cup and move to sit at the kitchen island.

'what were you doing up this early?' he asks.

'couldn't sleep.' you say.

'nightmares?'

'yes.'

there's no point in lying. everyone here has nightmares. you'd be terrified of one of your new roommates if they didn't. you didn't live a life like the one you did and be able to sleep at night.

'want to talk about it?' says bob.

you really appreciate bob. he's always helping you, telling you he'll listen to you. always the first to welcome you back when you return to the tower after a mission. and right now, he's making you breakfast.

but as much as you appreciate him, reliving your worst trauma's because of the void was something that felt too personal to share. especially since bob doesn't remember anything.

you'd told him about the day the void had half of new york trapped in their most traumatic moments. you figured he deserved to know. you also knew he felt terrible about it, and you didn't want to remind him of it.

'no, it's fine.' you say.

bob nods as he turns around and sets a plate with eggs in front of you, as well as some toast.

'thanks.' you say as bob sits down next to you with his own plate. you notice he's careful not to touch you. he doesn't really talk about what happened, but you know it's hard for him. you just don't want to push him. he'll talk to you when he's ready. but you're desperate for him to know it's okay to talk to you, should he choose to do so.

you study his face as he eats his breakfast. you know he's tired too. he was awake when you went to bed last night, and he was up before you as well. the dark circles under his eyes seem to be permanent.

'bob?' you say.

he turns to look at you.

'why were you awake?'

'I was up all night reading a book yelena got me. it was so interesting I couldn't put it away.'

'bob. you told me that last week.'

'I did?'

'yes. when I asked you why you were still awake when I got back from a meeting at 3 am.'

'oh.'

you turn your chair to fully face him. bob leans back, so you're not accidentally touching him.

'what is going on, bob? I know we're all tired. but at least I get a handful of hours of sleep at night. do you sleep at all?' you say.

bob looks everywhere but your eyes.

'what are your nightmares about?' he asks you, catching you off guard.

'uh, well. bad stuff.' you say.

'will you tell me about it?'

'I'd rather not.'

'then I won't tell you why I don't sleep.'

bob grabs his plate gets up and instinctively, you reach out to grab his sleeve and pull him back.

he inhales sharply and recoils from your touch. the plate falls from his hands and clatters back down on the counter.

'sorry!' you say.

you see bob close his eyes and clench his jaw. you had made a mistake.

'I'm sorry.' you say again. 'I just... don't really talk about what happens in my nightmares. what I have to relive at night.'

your last sentence catches his attention.

'relive?' he says.

'fuck, did I say relive?' you say. 'I meant-'

'did I make it worse?' says bob.

'I didn't mean-' you start.

'don't do that!' bob cuts you off.

you raise your hands as a gesture of surrender.

this time, bob is the one to apologise. 'sorry. it's just that everyone always says this team is built on trust and yet no one seems to trust me. I'm not a child, you don't need to act all careful around me. you don't have to hide the bad stuff from me just because I can't remember what I, what the void, does.'

you're silent as you watch him fidget with the empty coffee cup in his hands. and you realise he's right. you can't tiptoe around him all the time. it's not fair.

'okay.' you say.

'okay?' questions bob, looking at you.

'okay, I'll tell you what my nightmares are about. but then you tell me why you don't sleep, deal?' you say.

'deal.' says bob.

'let's go to your armchair though, I don't want john accidentally walking in on me spilling my secrets.' you say, trying to lighten the mood.

bob is silent as he follows you. he sits down in his chair and you sit down on the couch next to him.

you take a deep breath as bob looks at you.

'as you know, I had a training that was similar to yelena's. I was young, and was trained to be a mindless soldier, assassin, whatever they called it at the time.' you say.

you look out over the skyline of new york, choosing to focus on bob's presence next to you, in case the memories start to drown you.

'I was training night and day. with other kids, then with older trainers, and then with holograms. to test every single probability, variable, whatever. then came the final round of training. holograms designed to look like the people I loved the most. friends I had when I was younger, my family. in a simulation, I was to kill them over and over again. I wore this specifically designed suit so everything felt real.' you say.

you look at the rising sun in the distance, aware of the way bob's eyes are fixed on you.

you take a deep breath. 'the final test, it was not a simulation. there was no holographic target. except I wasn't told that. I put on the suit, the glasses, everything that went with it. and then I killed everyone I'd ever loved. when I got the clear to take off the suit, the room was stained red. I was looking at the bodies of my friends, my family. that was the day I succeeded the program. I had nothing anyone could use against me. no one who would remember me.'

you quickly wipe away a stray tear that had fallen down your cheek. 'I relive that memory every night. except when the void got to me, it felt like it did that day. it felt real.'

bob is silent as you take a few deep breaths, trying to steady yourself.

'that's why I don't sleep.' he says in a soft voice.

you turn to look at him.

'what do you mean?' you say.

'what you described, your worst memory. to have to relive it in such a real way. I did that.' he says. 'I do that to people.'

'no.' you say, moving closer to him. 'no, bob, the void does that to people. not you. you hear me?'

'still though, he's a part of me.' says bob, who hasn't moved away from you this time. your knees almost touch.

'I don't sleep because I'm afraid if I wake up, days will have passed. and I won't have any memory of any harm I've done to people.' bob confesses in a soft voice.

'oh, bob.' you say. you wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull him in for a hug, but you know you can't.

'I'm terrified of hurting you guys again. I don't know how to stop him if it would happen again.' says bob. 'I don't want to go to sleep alone. what if I wake up somewhere else?'

'well..' you say. 'that's easily solvable.'

'how?' says bob.

you shrug. 'we share a room. or I can sit next to you when you go to sleep in your own room. or if you take a nap in your chair, here. anywhere, really.'

'and then what? what if the- what if he takes over? what if-'

'then I'll try my best to wake you. I'll go through all of those rooms to find you.'

'you just told me what you had to relive. I wouldn't want you to go through that again. not for my sake, anyway.'

'bob. how many times do I have to tell you for you to finally understand it? you are not alone anymore. we've got you. I've got you.'

bob looks at you with an odd look in his eyes.

'I really wish I could hug you.' he says.

you smile. 'you can.'

'but-'

'stand up.'

he gives you a confusing look but does as you ask. you stand up as well, then gesture at him.

'you're taller than I am. so long as your hands don't touch any of my skin, we should be good.' you explain.

'I don't want to accidentally send you back.' mumbles bob.

'you won't. I trust you.' you say.

you step closer to him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head against his chest. you feel his muscles strain as he tenses at your touch. then you slowly feel his hands carefully rest on your back.

you wonder when the last time was anyone hugged him. you long to be closer to him, to press your face in his neck, but you stand still.

'thank you.' says bob softly when you finally pull away. you smile up at him.

'see? told you it would be okay. now, do you want to go and take a nap? we can still get up in time for everyone else to wake up, if you want to.' you say.

'that sounds nice.' admits bob.

you look at him and a part of you swears he looks happier than before. or at least lighter. maybe he just needed to get this fear off of his chest. maybe you needed someone to listen to you as well.

something in you shifts as you follow bob to his room so he could take a nap.

'can't remember the last time I voluntarily went to sleep.' says bob as he enters his room. 'you'll be here?'

'I'll be here.' you confirm. 'and I'll get you out if the void takes over.'

'you promise?' says bob, as he lays down and pulls the covers over his body.

'I promise.' you say as you listen to his breathing become heavier until he falls asleep and soft snores fill the room. you'd stay next to him for as long as he needed you to.

A/N: thanks for reading! everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. please do not copy, translate, plagiarise or repost my work! some of these are requested by other people and I spend a lot of time and effort on my works <3 much love, marit

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

butterflygirl738 (3)

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, sickness, medical bills, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You love butterflies and your mother, but life isn’t that simple. As life gets complicated, and expensive, you find yourself in need and an unexpected miracle presents itself.

Characters: Steve Rogers (CEO/Sugar Daddy)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You stand behind the dumpster. Frozen. The world stacks on your chest. The bills, the doctors, your managers, the butterflies... Everything, from big to small. All of it feels insurmountable. You don’t think you can go on much longer. Not like this. Not on your own.

This is something. Help. Are you too hopeful? Too desperate? So what if you are. This isn’t about your life, it’s about your mom’s.

How many nights have you laid away dreaming of an easy out. Of any crumb of help. Of some sort of relief. This might not be it but you can’t just wave it away.

You click the link. It prompts you to install WhatsApp. You pace in circles as you wait for the pubic wi-fi to download the app. When that’s done, you’re redirected to add a contact; ‘S’. Hm. Mysterious.

You accept and a message blips up.

‘Can I call?’

Your heart jumps. You’re doing this. Doing what? It’s a call. You shake your head and send a thumbs up. Stop shaking.

The call pops up, chiming from the speakers. You fumble and answer, mindless noises squeaking from your throat. You steady the phone and peek out around the bins. Another car draws up to the window.

“Hello? Everything okay?” The deep voice startles you.

You grip the cell and clear your throat, “sorry, I... I never used this before.”

“Hm, that’s alright,” he assures. His timbre is calm and even. That’s so soothing.

“Uh, hi?” You say awkwardly and retreat to hide again. “Um...”

Silence radiates from the speaker. He sniffs.

“Um, how are the butterflies?” He asks.

You blink and look back and forth. “My butterflies?”

“Sure, they come out yet?”

“Oh, uh... no...”

You chew your lip. He doesn’t sound like your typical watcher. You get those aesthetic blogs with girly moodboards or crafting how-tos. He’s a man. And he sounds older. Not old, just older than you.

“Right,” he takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m thinking right now and I don’t think this is something we should talk about over the phone.”

“Huh? Oh?” You sputter in confusion. “Sure. Erm. Thank you.” You put your hand to your chest. “You’re very generous but if you changed your mind--"

“No, I haven’t,” he says firmly. “What I want to say I would like to say to you. In person.”

You laugh, more out of surprise than amusement. “Well, uh, that’s... no, I don’t know. I live... in the middle of nowhere. That’s not possible.”

“I’ll come to you.” He insists.

You stop shuffling around and hum. He’s quiet as you think. Obviously, it’s not smart to meet strangers on the internet.

“You pick the place. Neutral ground.” He suggests.

“Well, you know, I have two jobs and I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” You wiggle your nose awkwardly and cringe. “I should really give you that money back.”

“Keep it.” He says. “I’m willing to negotiate. I’ll give you access to my location so you know where I am. Everything’s on the up and up.”

“Oh, oh,” you eke out nervously. Your mom would be screaming at you. What did I tell you about the internet? But that was when you were young. Just a teenager. You’re an adult now.

“There’s another ten on the table if you just talk.” He offers.

You nearly trip. You let out and oop and catch yourself on the dumpster. The smell of the contents adds to the roiling of your stomach.

“Ten?” You murmur.

“Ten grand.”

“How-- oh, that’s a lot of money.”

“I’d pay more.”

That statement takes your breath away. You look down at your beaten up sneakers. You ground your heel into the ground.

“But why?”

“Like I said, I want to discuss it face-to-face,” he says. “It doesn’t feel right like this so... you send me the location where you want to meet. Send me a date and time. And check the chat.”

“Pardon?” You utter.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says abruptly as something scuffs on his end. “I gotta go.”

He hangs up. You stand stunned in silence. You pull the phone away from your face and look down at the screen. Another link. You tap it without a second thought. Shoot, you probably shouldn’t have.

The browser opens a page; a notice at the bottom that says the app work better. Just another thing to download. Above the banner is a map and a flashing dot. You squint and zoom in.

Your brow furrows. You make a goofy face and scoff. New York? Oh wow.

You quickly exit out of all the windows and put your phone away. You inhale and let it out slow. You slink out from behind the dumpsters and head towards home. You’ll take your time and think. You always enjoyed a nice walk, especially when your mom came along.

🦋

“Whatcha thinking of, pie?” Your mom asks suddenly.

You lift your head and open your eyes. You barely remember sitting down. Even just getting home. After back-to-back shifts, you’re worn out. You feel like a sheet hanging in the sun. Each day that hollowness grows.

“Oh, nothing,” you lie. You think of the only thing you’ve been able to think of for the last day.

She nods but you can see she doesn’t buy it. You shrug and clasp your hands together. “Just work. They’re cutting back on labour for the summer.”

“That’s too bad,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll still get hours.”

But not enough...

“I put out an application at the computer reseller,” you say. “But he didn’t seem very impressed. Maybe the coffee place? Couple hours in the morning.”

“Oh, honey,” your mom frowns. “You need a break. You’re always working.”

“I’m fine, mom,” you say.

No, you’re tired. You’re exhausted to the bone and yet when you lay down at night, you can’t sleep. All you can do is lay there and think about doom. About how it’ll be your fault when she dies.

You stand up suddenly at that thought. You try not to let it in. You shudder and cross the room.

“Pie?” Her voice piques with alarm.

“Sorry, mom, I don’t know... I just... I feel like I forgot something,” you shake off the tension. Or try to.

“Ha, I know that feeling,” she says. “While you’re up...”

“Tea?” You offer. She nods. “Alright.”

You go into the kitchen. You flip on the electric kettle and grip the edge of the counter. You lean on it and hang your head. You suck back a wave of tears. You will never forgive yourself if you don’t do everything you possibly can to save her.

You wait until the click. You pour hot water over the ginger and lemon tea bag and take it out to your mom. “It’s hot.” You put it on a coaster. “I remembered what I forgot.”

“Oh?” She wonders.

“I didn’t talk to the building manager about the water. The bathroom sink is still spitting out rust.”

“Ah, right,” she nods.

“I won’t be long,” you say. “I’m just going to fill out a form and leave it in the slot.”

“Be safe,” she calls after you.

You swipe up your phone and hurry to the door. As you step into the hall, guilt scalds around your neck. You don’t lie to your mom. Ever. She doesn’t need anything else to worry about.

You head downstairs. It’s not really a lie if you make it true. You grab one of the forms from the building office and take it with you outside. You fold it up and tuck it in your pocket. You’ll put it in tomorrow morning before work.

You follow your phone signal down the street. Finally, a network pops up. The overpriced knick knack boutique has free wi-fi, who would have guessed?

Self-awareness sets in. You look around the dark streets. You open up WhatsApp. You think, biting the tip of your tongue as you do.

It has to be somewhere far from home but not too far that you can’t get there. And it has to be between the appointments and work. Ugh. Okay. You got it.

You type in the place and time. A week isn’t too soon? He’s probably busy. He sounds important. You can only guess. You don’t know anything about him. That’s a sobering realisation but you already hit send.

The reply chimes loudly in the quiet night. That’s quick.

‘I’ll be there.’

Simple. To the point. A complete answer that answers nothing at all. What are you doing?

🦋

You place the coffee on the table and sit. You stare at the dark brew. It’s the cheapest size and roast, but that flicker of guilt remains. You could use that two bucks for something better. Even after that generous donation, you’re still in the red.

You check your phone quickly. The last message was about an hour ago. ‘We’re still good?’ and you confirmed. ‘See ya then’.

You cross one foot over the other, your toe wiggling anxiously. You watch the brim of the cup. You put your phone next to it and look out the window. A woman passes by with her stroller and another child dancing around at her side. You smile.

You sit back and check the clock above the counter. Each number is a coffee bean. It’s cute.

The place is busy. The door jingles between the voices of customers and employees. The grind of the machines and puffs of steams are near constant.

You chose the place deliberately. Partly out of embarrassment. You didn’t want to meet him at a chain place. You thought he might judge you for that. Well, you are begging for money online. It doesn’t really matter.

You put your hands on the side of the mug. The warmth does not comfort you. Your stomach is tangling in on itself. You should have got tea. You don’t know if you can handle caffeine right now.

The clock ticks past the hour. He’s late. That’s alright. He doesn’t know the town. He could be lost. You could check his location... no, you haven't dared to do that. It feels like a violation.

Or this could all be a cruel joke. You cringe. Did you just waste your own time?

It’s only two minutes.

A kid jostles by your table and your chair jerks as their toe catches. They sprawl over the floor and their mother shrieks their name. You get up and kneel by the lanky third grader.

“Woah, you okay?” You ask as he sits up and rubs his elbow.

“Oweee,” he grimaces.

“Are you bleeding?”

“No,” he pouts. “I’m okay.”

“Here,” you offer your hand.

You help him up. His mom comes over in a huff. “Liam!”

“He’s okay,” you say. “Just a bruise.”

“Oh, thanks. I’m so sorry about him.” She sends him the mom eyes.

“It’s fine. He’s just a kid.”

She harrumphs and grabs Liam by the arm, “come on. You can wait to have your cookie.”

You back up and turn to the table. Your coffee sloshed in the chaos and a puddle surrounds the base. You go to grab napkins from the counter. As you mop up the mess, a chair scrapes. You look up as a blond man stands. He picks up the tall mug and heads in your direction.

“Here,” he opens his hand as he approaches. “I’ll throw that out for you.”

You stare at him in confusion. You recognise his voice. You hand over the wadded napkin dumbly and gape. He brushes by and goes to toss the bunched tissue.

He returns and gestures to your seat. You sit and he puts his cup across from yours. “You need a refill?”

You shake your head. He sits and pushes his shoulders wide. You watch him. You remember him coming in. He’s hard to miss. Tall, broad shoulders, neat hair, and a pair of dark aviators. He wears jeans and a sage linen button-up.

“I’m sorry,” he begins. “I was watching you.” He looks around. “Can never be too sure who you meet on the internet.”

You nod. “Wait... how do you know it’s me?”

He looks down and points at your wrist. “You wore that in a video. You were showing of that monarch and I remember the bracelet.”

You look at the charm dangling from your wrist. You blink.

“Right,” you say.

“You know, most people wouldn’t have been so helpful with that kid.” He says.

“Oh, uh, stuff happens. No one was hurt,” you shrug and twine your fingers together. “Um...”

“So...” he fills the void. “Do I call you butterflygirl738 or do you prefer something else?”

You give a tight-lipped smile. You’re here. He’s here. No going back now.

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 HOBBIT INTEL REPORT — ADDENDUM: WHEN FRODO HEARD THE CALL, HE DIDN’T HESITATE.

Let me make something brutally clear while I still got breath in my lungs and this vision of Frodo pacing the damn horizon stuck in my frontal cortex like a flashbang flashback:

You still don’t get it.

Y’all keep reducing Middle-Earth’s most efficient kill squad to tea drinkers and pipe-hitters in waistcoats.

“Oh but they had Gandalf the White—”

Shut up.

That wizard was the alarm clock. The Hobbits were the goddamn fire.

⚔️ Sauron Didn’t Avoid the Shire Because It Was "Too Cute" — He Avoided It Because Even Evil Knows Better.

You think orcs ever invaded the Shire? No.

They redirected. They took the long way. They looked at that quiet little farmland full of laughing curly-haired midgets and said,

“Nah. That’s a trap. That’s death by teacup.”

And they were right.

💣 Sauron was waiting until he hit 100% power just to think about pulling up.

Because deep down he knew…

“If I step into that high-grass paradise before I’m fully charged, I’m not coming back. I’ll end up flipping omelets for Rosie Cotton’s daycare while Frodo critiques my seasoning.”

🔥 Frodo didn’t "accept the mission." He saw the smoke and got his walking stick.

No briefing. No rousing speech. No PowerPoint from Elrond.

Just:

“Sam. Grab the pans. Get the rope. We march at dawn. We’ll be back by the harvest.”

That wasn’t a quest. That was a cleanup job.

🧠 You want to understand Hobbit psychology?

They didn’t fear Mordor. They didn’t respect Mordor. They just clocked it in, like an unpaid internship from hell.

“What’s the mission?” “Escort Satan’s wedding ring into his house and toss it in his fireplace.” “Cool. Pack a lunch.”

🩸 Y’all keep forgetting Frodo wasn’t alone.

There were hundreds of them back in the Shire. Hundreds of stone-faced tea-guzzling assassins who could’ve taken his place.

Every Bilbo was just a Frodo in retirement. Every Frodo was just a Sam in waiting. Every Sam was just a Rosé-holding, full-strength tank with a trowel and trauma-based loyalty issues.

🧤 They didn’t need Gandalf to lead.

They let him think he was leading. Let the tall folks feel important. All the while knowing:

“He’s useful. But if he falls, we keep walking. The job’s the job.”

🏔️ And when Frodo said “Mount Doom,” Sam didn’t ask “why?” — he asked, “when?”

No knightly codes. No sacred scrolls. Just:

“I made bread. I packed extra. Let's go.”

🧬 Here’s the truth:

Hobbits didn’t win because they were brave.

They won because they were unbothered. Unimpressed. Undeterrable.

You ever try to tempt a man who already had everything he wanted before the journey began? That’s who Frodo was. That’s who Sam was.

The Shire wasn’t just their home. It was their origin point. Their why. Their endgame.

That’s why they were dangerous. Because they weren’t chasing glory. They were just out handling problems so the party back home wouldn’t get delayed.

🛑 BOTTOM LINE:

You can mock their size. Laugh at the cloaks. Disrespect the bare feet.

But if one ever steps toward you with purpose in his eyes?

It’s already too late.

🍷 FIELD-TOAST STATUS: RAISED

To Frodo, who walked into Hell with a limp and a lantern. To Sam, who would’ve carried the mountain if he had to. To the Shire, where legends are born barefoot and return home full.

To the Hobbits. The smallest gods Middle-Earth ever feared.

⚔️ CALL TO ACTION:

🔁 Reblog this if your soul answers to old magic and small warriors.

🧠 Save it if you know true strength walks quietly.

📜 Send this to someone who still underestimates the soft-spoken.

Or simply:

🩸 Reblog to confirm you would’ve followed Frodo into the fire too.

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER: This is not satire. This is not fanfiction. This is Blacksite Literature™: Weaponized cadence. Mythopoeic trauma therapy. Historical reframing through blood-soaked reverence.

If you're confused: You weren’t meant to survive this post.

Check out the below record-breaking post for more:

🛐 SHOUT OUT TO THE HOBBITS, YO

[smallestapplin]

Have you tried asking nicely?

This turned into tfa Optimus x dragon beastformer reader, but also we shitting on tfa Sentinel today cause fuck that guy.

For my moot @rabotimagines for the silly suggestion, love you bro.

It was clear as day to anyone that you hated Sentinel, you hated his cocky attitude, how he breaks the rules just to get a leg up, and most of all his treatment of every bot around him. You loathe having to interact with him, but you don’t make it easy on him much to the amusement of your team.

“Optimus, recall your oversized rust bucket!” Sentinel yells trying to stand his ground, which shakes beneath him at your heavy steps, your claws digging into the dirt below as a low guttural growl rumbles from your chassis

“Sorry, Sentinel, I don’t have command over them. Honestly, my words are just suggestions for them. Maybe if you ask reeeeal nicely they might step back.”

Optimus shrugs, trying to come off as more sympathetic in front of Ultra Magnus, who merely stares at the sight with a fed up expression.

“I am not sure why he thought kicking them was a smart move, but he is a Prime, he should be able to handle himself.”

Optimus and Ultra Magnus share a knowing glance with the same tired sigh before returning to the topic at hand, and while Optimus informs Magnus of the collection of All-Spark shards along with any Decepticon activity, you stand in the background in your towering form, glaring down at the cocky bastard before you.

“Go on you dumb flying mech thingy, I have far more important matters to deal with than you.” He tries to shoo you away with his servos, but you tilt your helm as if his actions were supposed to do anything so you simply ignore it, keeping between him and Optimus, ensuring he can’t get close to the other Prime.

“Optimus!” Sentinel tries once again, “I know being a good leader must be hard for someone like you, but you could at least try-AH!”

You swiftly take one of his pedes in your jaw and start swinging him around, slamming him down to the ground breaking the crust below with violently thrashing. With Bee and Sari’s laughter accompanying Sentinel's shrill screams as he’s whipped around.

Optimus stifles his own laughter until he sees Ultra Magnus look at him with an expecting gaze, sighing, he rushes over to your imposing form.

“Hey now, calm down there, spitfire!” The nickname was spoken with the affection you adored from your leader.

Optimus pats one of your large claws, getting your attention. You stop swinging your helm around, but you refuse to open your intake, keeping your denta clamped firmly on Sentinel's pede. Optimus chuckles at the sight of your draconic form holding the other Prime like a chew toy, even with said Prime looking dizzy, dazed, and dented from your thrashing.

“I know how you feel, but I need you to put him down, okay?” He smiles even though you narrow your optics at him, letting him know good and well he is going to be hearing about this when Sentinel and Ultra Magnus leave.

His spark, however, sinks when he sees a look of realization flash in your gleaming optics, with a deep huffed chuckle rumbling in your chassis.

“Oh no.”

Is all he could manage to get out, watching you whip your helm around for good measure before opening your intake, letting Sentinel go just as your leader had asked of you, and sending the other Prime flying in the opposite direction right into the sea.

You purr, looking very pleased with yourself, so pleased you transform into your robot mode to sure that pleased grin. Looking down at your Prime, your purr grows louder as he crosses his arms and gives you a disapproving look.

“I let go of him as requested, my Prime.”

“Yes, you did, but you know good and well that’s not what I meant.”

You tilt your helm, feigning innocence.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Optimus huffs, only to yell out in surprise once your arms wrap around his waist and lift him up, holding him to your chassis and nuzzling your helm against his like an oversized cat offering affection.

“My apologies, Ultra Magnus, but I’m sure Sentinel is fine! He wasn’t too injured.” How embarrassing, he’s being snuggled in front of his boss who does not look that impressed with him right now.

“Sentinel should be fine, if he’s not back within the hour I’ll send Jetfire and Jetstorm to search for him, since your beast seems not too fond of him to aid in such a search.”

The older mech takes his leave, allowing Optimus a moment to ex-vent with relief.

“I know you don’t like him but did you have to do that?” He leans his helm against yours, trying to sound stern in his questioning, but it’s hard when it was kinda funny.

“Maybe he shouldn’t speak to you like that, he’s lucky I allowed him to keep his pedes.” 

“Yeah, chill out boss bot, they were just doing what everyone’s been thinking.” Bee chimes into your defense, not that it was needed with how the majority aren't fond of Sentinel either.

Optimus tilts his helm back with a groan, he knows Bee is right but in front of Ultra Magnus, really? Not that he can blame you, not when your first instinct is to defend him, he’s an easy mech. What can he say?

[sheepispink]

The Illusion of Comfort

supersoldier!reader x ltghost (+ tf141)

part 8 of Weaponised Series Masterlist

a/n: all relationships are platonic, prolly some ooc who knows, live laugh love

part one previous next

—————————-

No alarms blared nor any bright light forcing you to a state of consciousness— instead there was nothing. For once, you woke up of your own accord, limbs still heavy from countless hours of rest you’ve gotten tonight. Your vision is still dark, letting your mind wander, strangely empty for once and not plagued with the slightest thought other than how the air smells fresher as spring approaches. With it like this, you actually wish you could get five more minutes in. Everything eventually ends, and you’re counting the seconds before you get scolded for getting those five extra minutes.

Reluctant your hand slips out the covers, trying your best to reach your alarm clock without leaving the bubble of warmth you're currently encased in. After aimlessly tapping for a moment, your fingers graze the cold metal, pulling it towards you but, before your bleary eyes finally focus, the door swings wide open.

“Aye, took ya long enough to finally get up.” Soap enters, a wide grin upon his face as he pushes the curtains open to reveal the dull weather outside. He closes the open window before walking over to where you’re huddled beneath the covers, not forgetting to ruffle the mop of your hair that peeks out. “I’ll tell Gaz to bring ya some lunch.” He remarks, taking a seat beside you which instantly forces you to accomodate for his size. He always takes up to much damn space, and he does it nearly every morning too—

Wait.

“Lunch?” You question his words, brows furrowed but you make no move to push yourself upright like you usually would, still hidden beneath the soft blankets.

“It’s almost two pm now. Didn’t even know you slept in, did ye?” He laughs, and Gaz enters, a hot container held in his hands along with a small container of fruit and a water bottle to accompany.

Meanwhile you’re still sat in shock, not understanding how you could’ve even slept that long, and to miss your alarm with no nightmares either? This had to be a dream; there was no way you had finally gotten a good sleep, finally succumbed to the pleasure of rest.

“He’s right.” Gaz hums, noticing the realisation flashing over your face. “Out like a light, I was worried you went into a coma again.”

Despite feeling far more refreshed than usual, you aren't allowed far out of bed today, and, much to your disappointment, one of them is always watching you like a hawk even if you’re technically allowed to the common room and back. You really only take the opportunity to stretch your legs, although you do get tired by five pm, and soon enough another nap is well due for you.

It’s a rarity that at least one of your stuffed animals isn't held tightly to your chest, especially when you go to do some light reading on the couch. The wolf helps you clear your mind, your hands fiddling with the fluff of its tail as you indulge in the latest non fiction material you could find. Whereas, when your eyes begin to droop, the eagle’s wings are like a warm hug, an extra pressure from the weighted beads when its fuzzy head lays right next to your neck. As much as you had initially disliked it, both were the greatest companions you could ever ask for. Sometimes, in the dark hours you woke up from a surprise nightmare, you’d tell them all about it, and they soothe you back to bed once more. You trusted that they’d always keep you safe.

————————————————————————-

It’s the third day since you had been out with the others, and you’re already getting restless by the minute even if Gaz and Soap have been doing well to keep you company in the meantime. You’re debating dismantling the vent when Price enters, but more important is his current attire he sports. “We won't be seeing you for a while.” He hums, his hands tightening on the straps of his tactical vest.

You were supposed to be on this mission with them— you knew the details, knew the risks, knew that they needed you. Unless..

“You’ve replaced me.”

Sure, the replacement themselves wouldn’t be anywhere as skilled as you— never. Even if they were comparable to five men, you were on the same level as twenty. No one could best you, given that they weren’t a super soldier that is; that’d be impossible in the time given—many programs had already given up from the increase of failures. That’s not the point though; they had replaced you with some damn measly soldier.

“Yes, we have.” He doesn’t deny the statement, and yet he doesn’t apologise for it either.

“They’ll be rubbish. I doubt they’ll even make it through ten minutes— you all won't make it through. I’m the distraction you need to get in and out; you’re making a mistake Captain. People could die—“

“I know.” Your eyes meet now, and there seems to be exhaustion in his but it doesn't last a second longer before he sits beside you, pulling you easily from the warmth of the duvets and into his side. His uniform is scratchy against your cheeks, and when you look up at him, there’s a smile playing at his lips. “You’re throwing a tantrum.”

Your eyes widen in shock, even more so in disbelief. Did he just accuse you of throwing a tantrum? “I am not—“

“Alright, alright.” A laugh rumbles through his chest as he rubs up and down your arm, easily handling you. “You’d be the perfect candidate, and I do want you there, Reaper. The boys will miss you too.”

“So why not then? I can still make it. I can gear up now!”

“Yeah, no way kid.” You watch him chuckle again, a brow raised at you like he didn’t even expect you to get up. “You have plenty of your own work to do.”

“Work?”

“No offense, but you’ve been sleeping like a baby for the past three days and I don't intend to change that. I want you to rest every chance you get— you’ve missed out on too much sleep.”

It’s true, you’ve spent almost every morning sleeping in, and then you’d still nap throughout the day too. Ironic as it is, sleep has become your best friend now, and even the sheer warmth of his hands on you has you yawning right now. He notices that, and pulls the covers up to your neck, admiring how fast your eyes droop close. “Yeah, but I don't even need sleep.. I've gotten more than enough. I can run perfectly fine.”

He doesn't say it, but he doesn't really care about what you can handle; it’s if you’re comfortable to handle it. He wishes to see the day where your eyes are actually brighter, where your lips curve at Soap’s jokes and you come and talk to them, ‘just cause you feel like it’. Everytime he looks at the rookies, he sees you. Whenever he sees soldiers messing about, yelled at by their superiors and then scrambling to complete their punishment all while still stifling laughter— he sees you. That’s who you should’ve been, it’s what you could’ve been— and what you never will be.

“I’ll bring ya back something nice, and you still have Kate’s number for anything. She’ll check on you.” He strains his arm to grab your hairbrush, working out the knots in your tangles as you lean into him, a frown—or rather a pout— still worn on your face. “We had to rope in at least thirty more soldiers to replace you, if that makes you feel any better. You’re invaluable, Reaper.”

Quiet and settled now, you reluctantly turn your face into the pillows when he puts the brush down and stands up. “I’ll see you soon.”

————————————————————————-

Right, maybe you should’ve argued with your Captain a little bit more. You’ve been delivered all your meals, checked on once by Kate, who you silently stared at and answered the occasional question whilst still scrutinising her, and now you’re bored out of your mind as you sit by this window. She said she wouldn't come by until tomorrow now, so really no one would come close to this room until dinner tonight. And that track looked awfully empty.

Dressed in your combat jacket and boots you hid beneath your bed—since the others had attempted to confiscate your gear before you tried to escape—your feet crunch against the gravel as you neared closer to the track. It’s been too long, practically two entire weeks now and your legs almost tremble with excitement. Maybe they’d get angry at you when they got back, hell they might even take away all the nice things again. But that’s fine, you had a feeling they weren’t very permanent anyway.

You step towards the white line, watch on your wrist with the stopwatch at the ready.

And you run.

The air is cold, march still not having mercy, but it streams past your cheeks and pushes the hood straight off of your head. The sun is overhead, but that’s not what puts the colour back into your cheeks or pumps the blood through your veins. It’s exhilarating, the searing adrenaline that moves from your legs to your arms and directly sparks your brain alive. It’s all you’ve wanted, and when you near your fourth lap, your eyes open again, the familiar dip of the ground beneath you from where you’ve run here a million times before.

Again, again, round and round and you keep pushing, even as the hour passes, even as the afternoon grows dark, it’s stupid and they’ll be horrified but you can't think for a second more than about how good this feels. How you feel worthy again.

4 miles. And you were still going.

Although, now there was a tearing pain through every nerve, to the tips of your fingers and eating away at your bones until even your brain began to blur thoughts. But it doesn't matter; it feels good. You can feel your muscles beginning to wane, the strain becoming too much even as you push yourself further and further.

The stopwatch is long forgotten when you reach the twentieth lap, five miles from your own two feet, and you keel over, face planting into the dirt.

————————————————————————-

Thankfully you had scrambled to clean yourself up in the shower before dinner was delivered or Laswell came to check on you so now you sit in bed, staring at the rain that patters against the window pane, filling the room with soft noise. Your arms ached badly, fingers trembling as you scooped up a spoon of the shepherd’s pie they’d given. None of that mattered anymore since you now knew that you were still capable of everything and beyond. You were back.

So again, the next day you time it well, and you make your way to that track again, running like your life depends on it. In some ways it does. Though, it’s not enough to just run over and over again. Your role is rarely to ever be a runner— you’re the fighter.

This time you lie, pretending to be tired, so Laswell leaves faster and you properly gear up after finding a few stray items when you snooped around yesterday. You still have the mask you used last time, just in case, and so, you head straight for the gym. It’s not that empty compared to the times you used to go, when you were sane, but now no one knew who you were and that was exhilarating. No one would even bat an eye your way as you’d effortlessly complete sixty pushups, only doing a hundred situps this time because you couldn't wait to get to the weight lifting already. You felt free.

Finally, your muscles have that burn again—the one that simmered over the tendons and lit a flame of adrenaline in your gut. You don't care if it aches every evening, even if you trade the food for another hour of it, or the amount of times you’ve almost keeled over again. Infact, one time a soldier caught your arm, smiling as she told you to ‘take it easy’ before leading you to a bench. It brightened you almost immediately and, if not for the fact you were supposed to be undercover, you were tempted to show off any and every cool trick you could do just to get a second more of her attention.

Two weeks pass and you quickly forget about the taskforce altogether, too lost in the thrill of it all. Now you wake up two hours earlier, for a morning run, before sliding into bed just when Laswell arrives and then spending all the time between then and lunch to test your workouts, fight the limits again and again. You know you have the power for it; it’s just a matter of getting yourself back to that state. When they’re beside you, it’s easier to slip away; their hushed words seep into your brain and convince you that you’re almost safe, you’re one of them now.

But you know that’s not true.

Now they’re gone, those warm feelings from every little touch have faded to nothing, forgotten like your nightmares. You’d be a fool to believe their lies—this is still war and you’re still a fighter.

There’s more to being a supersoldier; a side not even Ghost knows. The reason for your superiority is not sheer strength alone, it’s resistance. You’d watch your own arm break before you ever stopped; a robot doesn't care that it’s lost it’s limbs since it’s only dead when the power source has been ripped from it.

The power source would be your heart.

————————————————————————-

Your vision is blurrier than usual, the burn of satisfaction contorting into a devouring wildfire as it shoots up your nerves with each small twitch of your hands. It’s morning, right? The usual alarm hasn’t gone off yet though, and the room is a little colder than you remember.

Confused, you tap out your hand, searching for the wolf in hopes of getting a sniff of the citrus scent that you’re suddenly desperately missing. Although, your hand returns empty, no stuffed animal in sight. “Wha..?”

“Looks like someone’s awake.” You know that voice. It’s stern, more than usual, and flat, almost like a scolding.

“Oh..Morning.” You blink your eyes open to see Laswell standing at the foot of your bed, looking fairly.. annoyed? That’s weird, it was only eight in the morning, what could there even be mad about?

“Don't you ‘morning’ me.” She huffs out, her arms crossing over her chest as she look at where you lay. Your eyes have finally cleared up now, enough for you realise that this is not your room in the slightest—is this the Captain’s?

You blink, noticing his reading glasses on the side table, and then the strong scent of his cologne on the sheet you lay in. Immediately, you sit up, attempting to swing your legs out of bed to stare down at bandages covering almost your entire feet along with your hands and parts of your arms. “But— it’s morning- how did i..?”

“Don't play stupid.” Her tone is sharper, one that makes goosebumps rise along the skin of your arms and down to each bandage as you stare back at her. Before you can answer, the captain himself walks into the room, ruffed up and ragged from the mission and looking.. furious to say the least.

Oh.

You had remembered being noticeably out of it, but you had just kept pushing yourself as usual, even if that meant skipping most meals. Price has that right now, following behind him is the tray of meals that you’ve missed, all gone cold in the corner of your room. “You wanna explain this?”

You don't flinch, no, you stare down at the tray and then back up to his furrowed brow and his arms clenched over his chest as he draws closer. Suddenly these blankets feel suffocating, and you push them off of you even if staring at the bandages makes everything hurt a lot more. Still, you don't answer, just staring back at him as he scoffs lowly, coming around to your bedside. “I’ve helped you through all of this— we gave you so much, and you just continue to not listen!”

Sure, you understand his frustration since you had disobeyed his orders, but he had let something slip there, or rather your suspicions were confirmed. At the beginning, when you first arrived here, you were naive. Yes you were strong, but you were no better than a mutt pleasing its owner, and one of those owners was Price. Whilst you hadn’t talked to him many times, he was still technically your Captain, and you were desperate for his approval as much as Ghost’s. Then everything happened, you got shot, he comforted you, held you close and asked quiet questions about everything that happened. He was everything you wanted compared to Ghost— at least it seemed that way.

Weary and rundown at the time, you hadn’t thought about it much, nor did you want to either, but Price.. Price knew about you. Every mishap in battle was reported to him, every post-mission terror attack was reported to him. The soldiers who handled you between missions and base, murmured whisperings about his orders—he knew what was going on. So why hadn’t he ever done anything to stop it?

“Laswell found you passed out on the track. You’re not even meant to be in the gym!” He continues, not letting up but you don't either, you don't stutter for a second like you would’ve with Ghost. In fact, your facial muscles barely twitch at all. “Answer me— what is going on?”

Something shifts and you narrow your eyes instead, mind clearing as you focus on the situation at hand. Keep calm, dont react, stay still. Wary.

“I wanted to train, sitting here all day doesn't do anything for me.” You respond simply, voice monotone and he scoffs at you, pacing before the bed.

“And what did i tell you? You’re not fit to train—look at you now!”

He’s not wrong, you were in a bad shape. But that was only for a regular soldier.

Your bruises would heal, the dizziness would fade when you got more food into your system and the recurring fainting would end when you pulled yourself together. After all, your goal is to fight, not to survive. Surviving is a bonus.

Before the conversation goes further, his phone beeps in urgency, shifting the atmosphere in the room. “You’re no longer staying in your room anymore. We can't trust you won't sneak out again, you’ll be here for now.”

“I dont want to stay here—” For once, you use your naivety to your advantage and it feels like a stab at your own back. It’s necessary though, and you pull the covers up to your neck to drive it in, looking more tired on purpose. “You’re never even here.”

Bingo.

Price’s features twist, anger slowly dissipating into one of mere disappointment instead. Once that would’ve caused you to crumble, but now things were different. He sighs, walks over to you and places his hand on your shoulder. Acting soft. “Fine, okay, who do you want to stay with then? Kyle?” He’s still not letting you stay alone, but that’s alright, you have different ideas.

Looking as conflicted as you can, you fiddle with your fingers, glancing out at the window which shows it’s near around eight pm now. So you must’ve passed out around five.

“…Ghost.”

That catches both him and Laswell by surprise, sharing a glance as they both look down at you. But you don't elaborate— you never elaborate.

“Fine. But this conversation isnt over.”

————————————————————————-

Laswell personally escorts you to Ghost’s room,who eventually opens the door and just ushers you inside. He looks exhausted, his eyes noticeably worn despite the black paint he smears around them and, for a second, you almost feel bad for picking him out of the others.

“Been told you’ve been causing trouble.” Unlike the others, he’s a lot less touchy and leaves you to stand in the middle of the room whilst he peels off his own gear, leaving them in a pile near the wardrobe.

“I dont want to sit still anymore.” You’ve noticed his eyes lingering on the bandages over you, but he doesn’t choose to comment on it as he grunts in agreement to your words, shrugging off his outer wear to leave him in a black shirt, combat trousers beneath.

“Can’t say I didn't expect you to pull somethin’ “ It’s his tone that gets you; you cant tell if its because he’s tired but he didn’t seem to care about anything that had transpired— at all. After a moment, he glances over at you, his hand fishing through the closet for clean clothes and a towel. “Get into bed, I'll get Johnny to bring your stuff over.”

”Why can't you get it yourself?”

He lets out a low chuckle, turns back to you for a moment and rolls his eyes up at you. “Nice try, kid. You’re not escaping.”

————————————————————————-

Ghost doesnt spend long in the shower. The mission has been longer than expected and if he was to be honest, he didn’t like the idea of you being at base alone by yourself. He had to remind himself that he trusts you now— enough to be able to handle yourself even if he does think you shouldn’t ever be left entirely alone. It’s weird to think that he’d rather you on a battlefield than by yourself.

He really wasnt surprised that you had driven yourself into the ground whilst they were gone— not that he wasnt annoyed in his own way. But he knew he’d have to work on your constant need to prove yourself at some point, and after reading your files countless times it was clear it was going to be a tough notion to completely clear you from.

One thing he couldn’t quite understand is why you had chosen him of all of them. Sure, you were on slightly better terms but, as much as he’d like to give himself credit for everything he’s done for your sake over the past month, he really didn't deserve your care. He had been selfish, irresponsible and nothing short of a bastard to you— so why?

He pulls on a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, tightening them on the front before he stops before the mirror. There’s a few stray streaks of paint beneath his eyes, but at least he doesn’t stink of gunpowder and grease anymore. With a small exhale, he turns, tossing his balaclava into the small laundry basket as he steps out of the bathroom.

“What are you looking at—“ It’s not like he expected you to actually get in bed, but he didn’t anticipate you to be hunched over his desk, your own files scattered before you. Though you’re stuck on one page, the post mission incidents.Your finger rests on Price’s comment beneath it, your other hand resting on a different page regarding your aversion to hospital rooms an other comments on behaviours. All with comments by Price.

Ghost takes it slow as he steps up behind you, before eventually standing right behind the chair with his hand resting on the dark wood beside yours.

“He knew everything.” You whisper, your voice one of quiet recognition and you don't fight back when Ghost gently stops you from turning the page any further. It’s not that he has anything to hide, but he doesn’t want you to see the newer additions, or worse—details from the past. He hums, closing the file before stepping a little back and swiveling your chair to face him.

“Captains have files on all their soldiers.” It’s blunt, even if he knows that’s not what you meant by those words. You slowly crane your head up to look at him, no surprise by the sight of his bare face before you look back at the closed file. “You stopped it when you found out.” It’s a quiet recognition, one he tries to refute but you shake your head instantly and continue. “He chose not to do anything because it didn't affect the missions. My wellbeing was never important to him.”

Ghost nudges you upright and you follow, stepping towards the bed. “Captains make hard decisions all the time, they trade lives for the sake of others— it’s never been fair.” It’s still not right, and sure, Ghost was equally to blame for how you got so bad in the first place, but it was the truth. You fall silent, nod slowly and climb atop the bed whilst he heads to turn the maint light off, drowning the room in darkness except from the low light of the bedside lamp.

He knows you’re upset; it’s written in all your features and he kind of gets it now—why you chose him. Yes, it was to get a peek at your own files, but you wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t have some sort of suspicion beforehand. Something must’ve made you come to a realisation that shifted your previous trust in the captain, even weakened it.

“What did you do while we were gone?”

————————————————————————-

Something inside you made you tell him; you don't know if it was his tone, the way he easily questioned you or even the fact that he just knew you. The change was obvious after the seizure, he seemed to know every little detail regarding you, everything that made you tick down to your least favourite fruit.

His back is pressed flat against the headboard, his arms behind his head as he had listened to your every word, describing all you’d done while they were out. You didn't leave a single detail either, not bothering to hide the bruises and the fainting, not even the skipped meals.

”Well, you already know that i’m not going to support what you did.” He says gruffly, glancing at you laying down beside him. “But it is good to know that you’re still capable of everything you did before. If we increase your meal intake, and steadily try at longer runs and workouts, you’ll be better than before in no time. That includes a healthy amount of sleep too, Reaper.”

It sounds selfish for him to even consider trying to make you ‘better’ so soon after he had caused you to break down entirely though he’s really just listening to what you want for once. It was the first mistake he ever made and definitely not one he’d make again. When you look up at him, there’s only trust that settles in your bones now and you slowly nod, relieved that your handler knows what’s best for you— because he knows you.

“You’re still in pain, aren't you?” The blankets rustle as you settle beneath, making Ghost’s eyes lock onto you as you push your head into the pillows, growing more tired by the minute. He notices your occasional wince, the way you shuffle beneath the covers like that and refuse to lean on your arm like you used to.

It’s true, the ache is excruciating now and so you nod, eyes half-lidded as you lay limp on your back, not bothering to look at him this time. “It’s bad.”

”Why keep trainin’?”

“It makes me feel alive.”

Sometimes he thinks you’re more alike to him than you realise, or even that he had known. So he lets out a small sigh and nods, though not without shifting to the side to rummage through the table beside his bed. “We’ll start with warmups tomorrow. Don’t go thinking just ‘cause you’re eager, it doesn’t mean you don't need to stretch.”

He squeezes a strange looking gel onto his hands, from a tube he found in the cupboard. “Where does it hurt?” It’s cold against your joints as you tiredly direct him, but it’s oddly soothing and you’re intrigued by all of this; most days you’d be lucky if you could handle a painkiller because of the serum. “Thanks, Ghost.” It’s a small whisper as you watch him wipe his fingers with a tissue, turning off the bedside light before he gets beneath the covers aswell.

“Don’t mention it.” Everything smells like him now, and you revel in it as you adjust to the darkness around you. You’ve never even considered reciprocating Soap or Gaz’s strange affections before, indifferent to the ease in which they pat or tap you. Soap would probably come by tomorrow with your stuffed animals and the duvets, but now you can only stare as Ghost’s back faces you, so close yet so far.

Your gut may have sunk at the earlier realisation, but your heart felt awfully content now, and your mind finally let the last of its guards down as you happily let sleep take you again.

————————————————————————

buy me a kofi!

previous next Series Masterlist

a/n: random note but the plushies reader has are a real i have a penguin one and you microwave it and it smells like lavender and it super duper warm i love em, i think the brand it warmies

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[callsign-rogueone]

Ridoc to the rescue

Ridoc Gamlyn x flier!reader

words: 2.1k

🏷️: set in iron flame, the only major warning is descriptions of blood / heavy bleeding, and some minor gross medical procedures performed by Brennan to save you, nothing too much worse than canon, nobody asked for this, it just came to me in a vision and I had to execute it. never written flier reader before, nor Ridoc pov, but I think I did okay, poorly formatted because I’m posting from my phone, okay that’s it bye!

“Incoming,” Sawyer says quietly, nodding across the table — Cat is headed straight for us.

I file through my inventory of snappy remarks, prepared to turn anything she says around on her, but it’s not Violet she’s here for.

“Ridoc,” she pants, “we need you. One of ours hasn’t come back from patrol, and the storm is too strong for us to go look for her.”

“Why me?”

“We think she’s trapped in a snowbank. And you can make it melt, right? You can get her out of there?”

I may have been part of a very short-lived plot to kill her yesterday, but the genuine worry in her eyes is compelling. Whoever this girl is, she deserves my help.

“I can try.”

———

This search and rescue mission is damned difficult with the amount of snow that’s still falling, despite me being able to direct it away from us. It’s too hard to see anything, and the wind is blowing straight at us.

Aotrom decides to land in a clearing by the edge of the forest, the unexpected drop having me yelping in surprise. He lets me slide down, and continues walking, sniffing the frozen ground intently — and then I see it.

There’s a trail of blood leading into the forest, and clawed footprints that look like they could be a gryphon’s. They were dragging something, from the looks of it. Or someone. Sure enough, fifty feet away from the tree line is a gryphon, with the blurred shape of a human beside them. I step closer until it finally notices me, and makes a sound between a screech and a hiss, which undoubtedly means “back the fuck up”.

“Easy,” I soothe, putting my hands up as I continue to step closer. “I’m here to help. She’s going to freeze to death if I don’t do anything.”

The bird appears to consider it for a moment, casting a glance down at their curled-up, bloodied flier, and then back at me… nodding?

Alright.

“Hey,” I prod.

No response. She’s breathing, at least — breathing is good. Breathing means she has a chance of making it back to the house. And Cat probably wouldn’t ever forgive me if she died, especially not after what happened on that gods-awful hike two weeks ago.

Forget Cat’s opinion of me. This is just the right thing to do.

If I can get her out of the forest, then Aotrom can give us both a lift back to the house, and Brennan can mend whatever injuries she has. I hadn’t realized I’d been talking to myself — the gryphon makes a squawk that probably translates to “no way in hell are you putting her on the back of a dragon”.

“Are you going to carry her back there in that snowstorm? Can you? — Don’t snap your beak at me. I’m trying to keep your rider — flier — alive. And you, too.”

She stirs, making a soft, pained sound, and turns enough that I can see her face. There’s a cut across her cheekbone, bruises along her temples… I can’t see much more skin than that, but I’m sure this isn’t the extent of her injuries.

“Hey,” I try again, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She gathers up the strength to crack open her eyes, which immediately widen with panic — she’s near defenseless, and a rider is standing over her.

“It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Cat sent me to help you get back to the fortress.”

She considers it for a moment, then nods, attempting to sit up — and immediately squeezes her eyes shut, lying back down against the gryphon’s wing with a soft swear. “My side.”

“Can I check it?”

She nods, letting me unbutton her jacket and pull up her shirt. There’s a bruise on her left side the size of a watermelon, darker than any other bruise I’ve seen. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s internal bleeding, and it’s bad.

Evidently I press too hard as I check for broken bones, because she yelps in pain, flinching away. The gryphon’s eyes narrow, ready to bite, but she calls it off. “S’ okay, girl,” she reassures, struggling to keep her eyes open and her breathing even. “Not his fault.”

“What happened, anyway?”

“Storm was too strong,” she wheezes. “I got thrown, and landed on a — fuck — bigass rock.”

There’s only one rock in sight that I would consider to be in the bigass category, and it’s fucking huge. And not at all flat. It easily could have killed her if she’d landed differently.

It might still kill her anyway.

“That one?” I ask, nodding back to the open area.

“That one.”

There’s a gust of freezing wind that has her shuddering, tugging her shirt back down and twisting up her sleeves to tighten them to her arms. Right. Other people are bothered by the cold. I have no idea what her signet — gift — is, but it clearly isn’t anything to do with fire or ice.

We can talk about that later, once we’re not in the middle of a snowstorm. “Let’s get you out of here. Brennan can fix you when we’re back at the house.”

She nods, even as I realize that she probably has no idea who I’m talking about. She doesn’t really have any choice but to trust me. Well, I guess she does; dying here, or trusting me.

“Do you think you can stand?”

Another nod. I reach down, extending my hands, and she takes them, struggling to hold on — she’s probably lost feeling in her fingers by now. She gets upright, her boots sinking into the snow underneath us, and immediately turns away from me, dropping my hands, and doubles over, retching — red blood splatters against the pure white of the snow.

“Fuck,” I breathe. “Okay. C’mere.”

She doesn’t respond, still blinking slowly at the brown sleeve of her jacket, which is now stained crimson from her wiping her mouth with it.

“C’mere,” I coax again.

She follows without question, letting me put an arm around her waist to steady her, my hand on her good side. I do my best to keep both of us upright despite the wind and the way she’s stumbling — walking through snow this deep is difficult enough, but it’s clear that her vision is blurred, and her balance off-kilter.

She stops in her tracks, tensing, and I immediately see the problem; her eyes are locked with Aotrom’s. Another moment of instinct taking over, twenty years of considering us a threat setting off an internal alarm in her head.

“He won’t hurt you. He’s probably the chillest guy in the riot, honestly.”

I hope that’s reassuring. She nods again, trying to deepen her breathing. Is she just not the chatty type, or is it too hard to form words?

Aotrom lays down in the snow, flat enough that we can walk across his leg to mount up. I’m glad that he hasn’t been weird about taking her back with us. Tairn would rather die than carry a flier.

“He’d rather kill the flier,” Aotrom corrects.

That, too.

Getting her up into the saddle is surprisingly easy. It helps that she’s absolutely exhausted, and doesn’t fuss about having to sit in front of me, with my chest pressed to her back. She settles down easily, pulling up her flight goggles -- the left lens is cracked from her fall, but still in one piece. If the glass had broken all the way through…

“It didn’t, and that’s what matters.”

She’s a little limp for my liking, but she doesn’t seem to be in as much pain now that she’s upright and not moving. I’m sure each breath still burns like hell, though. I’ve never had a broken rib before.

“Yet.”

“Entirely unnecessary,” I fire back, but he doesn’t respond, just launches us into the air.

———

Thank the gods that whoever designed this fortress put the infirmary on the bottom floor, and close to the gates. It is, however, completely deserted. No healers came with us from Basgiath, nor any from Cliffsbane, and at this time of day, everyone’s probably in class.

I take the liberty of laying her down in the first empty bed I see, apologizing as the movement jostles her broken ribs, but she doesn’t complain, even as I get her out of her flight jacket and pull up her shirt to expose the bruise.

“You never told me your name,” she murmurs.

“Ridoc,” I say softly, smoothing a hand over her hair, because that’s the only thing I can do, and because it’s sticking up in every direction after flying in that storm.

“Thank you, Ridoc. Glad I get to die in a real bed.”

My response comes out more harshly than I intend it to. “I didn’t bring you all the way back here just for you to die on me.”

“M’sorry.”

She’s not operating at full capacity here, and she doesn’t know me — she must think I’m mad at her. And for some reason, that feels like the end of the world.

“Don’t apologize. Just keep those pretty eyes open, hm?”

What’s taking Brennan so long?

“Here!” he calls, out of breath.

Thank the gods. “He’s gonna fix you up, okay?”

She doesn’t respond. Her pulse is racing under my fingertips, but it’s obvious that she’s fading away, and fast. With the amount of blood that’s no longer flowing through her veins, but instead pooling under her skin… she isn’t getting enough oxygen, and her heart is going to run out of blood to pump.

Brennan seems to realize the same thing. “She doesn’t have time for me to mend it — it’s compressing her lungs. We have to do this the old fashioned way.”

Before I can ask what that means, he unsheathes one of his daggers, uncapping a bottle of alcohol and dousing it quickly — then sinks it into the center of the bruise, slicing down to the bottom. Immediately, blood flows out, so dark it’s almost black, spilling onto the bedsheets and dripping onto the floor. The sight is something from a nightmare, and the smell…

Forget that. Focus on her.

She hasn’t cried, hasn’t shown any signs of pain, despite Brennan having cut her side clean open, and that’s almost more concerning than anything else.

“Menders can block pain,” Aotrom reminds gently. “She doesn’t feel a thing.”

Right. He’d done the same for me, weeks prior.

I feel completely useless just standing here while he works, but I’m not going to interrupt him to ask what I should do. I’ll just keep holding her hand, I guess, try to warm her up. Her skin is still cold to the touch — she’d been lying in the snow for gods know how long.

“I found the problem,” Brennan announces. “Problems plural, really. But I can fix them.”

I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder to see what he’s doing, immediately turning back and focusing on her face. She doesn’t look as cold as she did outside, but she doesn’t look healthy, either.

Of course she’s not healthy. She’s bleeding buckets. But I don’t know how else to describe the look of her skin, the feel of it on mine. It’s somehow warm and cold at the same time, clammy and dull. But she’s breathing, even with the gaping wound in her side and Brennan doing… I don’t want to think about what he’s doing. She’s breathing. That’s the only thing keeping me calm, that she’s still breathing, and holding my hand.

“Done.”

I brave another look back, seeing the skin slowly start to knit itself back together, leaving only a thin scar behind.

Brennan produces a towel out of nowhere, and starts wiping his hands, but he’s still stained red up to his wrists. “I can’t replace the blood she lost, but the injuries are fixed. It’ll take her a while to wake up.”

All I can do is nod. I don’t know what to say, after seeing all that.

He extends a hand, and I blink at him like an idiot for a second before I realize he’s offering to mend her blood off my skin. I hadn’t noticed it was there.

I let him, because I don’t want to get up to wash it off myself, and because the sight of it under my nails and lining the creases of my palms is making me feel sick.

“You’ve never been squeamish about blood,” Aotrom observes, sounding as neutral as he can.

The response comes automatically. “It’s never been hers.”

Only then do I finally realize — I don’t even know her name.