#is this anything. i’m gnawing soap

[whitmore]

head in hands “you’re in the pit with me now” by phil to tubbo, because it’s always the pit and it’s always like this— we’ve had that conversation, we’ve spoken that language. they both already know how this works. quesadilla island is about sharing languages and purgatory is about violence being the universal language. which is spoken in the pit

[4me2knowandyou2findout]

THATS THAT GOOD ANGST RIGHT THERE YEAH GRRR BARK BARK GRRR

Tearing at the seems, imagining each expression with excruciating detail

YEAHHH

You know I can’t reblog without highlighting these tags

OH LAWD

CW: (speculative) suicide/self murder, demonstration of incredibly unhealthy relationships, gore allegories, and also just straight up gore

Thinking about soap completely trusting ghost

And like- fuck it's so unhealthy but also it's putting an image in my head that's actually got me fucked up rn

Imagining ghost handing soap a gun, looking directly into soap's eyes and asking him to kill himself. And soap does it, no hesitation, just BAM.

Or rather C L I C K

And FUCK imagine the gun was unloaded because it will only ever be unloaded around Johnny. But that's not the point is it? No the point is that soap... soap didn't care. Soap thought ghost told him to kill himself and he did, he would have. Had the gun only been loaded. Had simon not taken precaution to make sure it had been unloaded. Had simon done it in the spur of the moment.

And isn't that great? Isn't that amazing? Isn't that absolutely bone-chillingly terrifying?

Fuck

Soap would let ghost tear a chunk out of his throat, and as long as ghost looked him in the eyes as said he loved him, said he deserved it. Soap would cup his cheek, and smile, and choke out "I love you. Of course I did, you love me." Through the blood that floods into his mouth and lungs and down his esophagus and into his stomach. Because soap bleeds for ghost.

Ghost needs only to ask and soap would tear open his own stomach and let his guts spill on bloodsoaked, battle-stained ground.

Ghost is a man blinded by blood, leading an even blind-er man through death

Part 2 anyone? Stay tuned, I'll link it :)

[agentmarvel]

center image by @/ave661

PART II

hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

rating: explicit

word count: 3,010

read on ao3

cw: toxic parenting, implied fatshaming, simon begins his descent into madness, so obsessive!simon

♡

It's irksome, the way Johnny fusses over Simon's bowtie. He keeps turning and twisting it in an effort to straighten it out, but the little perfectionist is just never satisfied.

“s'fine, Soap. Leave it alone.”

“Awa’ an bile yer heid. Damn thing's more crooked than yer nose, LT. Not letting ye get hitched lookin’ like a dafty.”

Simon sighs, rolling his eyes with a sly smirk. He's partial to the nickname, though neither of them served a day in their life. Well, not in the traditional sense, at least. But the semblance is a loyalty forged in sweat and blood; Johnny's been with him for years, a parting gift from Price. 

“He's a good lad, Simon - real salt of the earth type. Bit chatty, but he works as hard as his old man did. Think he'd do well with you.”

Simon thinks he truly understated the chatty bit, but as usual, was not wrong.

“Aye, there we are.” Johnny finally steps back, admiring his work. “Yer tie looks better now; shame we can fix yer ugly mug, though.”

“Oi, fuck off.”

Kyle snickers across the small room, straightening his cuff with a grin.

“Don't be such a git, mate. Not every day the big man gets married. Frankly, with a face like that,  doubted he ever would.”

“You're both fired,” Simon mutters, shaking his head as he moves towards the door.

“Where ye think yer goin'? She's not laid eyes on ye, so I dinnae think she's bolted yet.”

“Better give ‘er the chance then, yeah?”

He slips out the door with an amused hum before wiping his palms against his slacks. Never will he admit it, but a waxing sense of anxiety gnaws at his gut. It’s been years since he’s actually felt… nervous. Not since his first solo contracted kill. Treading unfamiliar territory stirs foreign feelings, but perhaps they’re not all bad ones.

To take the edge off, Simon decides to step out for a smoke. That wasn’t his intent initially, lest Soap bitch at him for disrupting the effects of his subtle cologne, but he’s willing to face the wrath for some nicotine. He pats his jacket, feeling the creased, misshapen cardboard pack in his breast pocket and looks for the nearest exit. It’s just a bit further down the hall.

But something stops him before he steps out. An argument behind another closed door.

“Of course I think you look nice! All I’m saying is that you could’ve put a bit of effort into losing more weight. I didn’t hire a top nutritionist and personal trainer just for you to not need more alterations.”

Simon recognizes that voice. Your father has an unmistakable level of condescension that drips off every word he says.

“And would it kill you to smile? It’s your wedding day, for Christ’s sake! Pretend you’re happy.”

“You’re not in any position to ask anything of me.” The response is acrimonious, venomous, and a voice that doesn’t ring any bells. It’s you. 

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me. I am your father, and you will do as I say.” The already bellicose tone swells as his voice raises, and Simon has half a mind to step in. A sense of fury burns within his chest. He should’ve known that someone with such a flagrant disregard for you behind your back would be just as derisive to your face. It’s crass at minimum, especially in the face of your own fucking child.

The only thing stopping him is the want for things to go smoothly today; a temporary ceasefire to ensure that he can fulfill his obligation.

Still, he feels a tug at his hollow heartstrings. No one deserves to be spoken down to in that manner, let alone on their wedding day. He’s certain you look stunning, and he’ll be sure to tell you as much when he finally gets to see you.

He’ll also be sure to limit contact with your father immediately after the marriage license is filed. Keeping that twat on a short leash ought to keep his beautiful bride in high spirits, yeah?

Before he can think better of his decision, Simon sees himself outside. Getting his fix does little to quell the rage stoked by his albeit unintentional eavesdropping. Before he knows it, he’s gone through half the pack and is about to light another when he gets a text from Kyle.

>>> It's time!

He takes the unlit cigarette from his lips and begrudgingly stows it away. Making his way back inside, his stride slows as he approaches the door to the bridal suite. It's partially open, and from what he can see, your father is conspicuously absent. You remain, however. 

It's hard to fathom how a man could be so cruel to such a creature of allure. In the most fleeting glance as he passes by, Simon's struck with a gravitational pull. You're the moon, he's the tide. At that moment, he wants nothing more than to turn back. He wants to make his presence known and promise you'll never face another day of derision after today. You'll never endure another vile word. A painful, gruesome death would befall anyone who treated you so disgracefully from this moment on. In that singular frame, Simon knows he'd break John's rules for you. He’d break his own rules for you. 

And he's never even spoken to you.

♡

Johnny's waiting for him just a few doors down. As Simon approaches, he sees Johnny’s nose wrinkle.

“Och! Ye smell like the alley behind a fuckin’ pub, ye reprobate. C'mere, ye fuckin’ oaf.”

As predicted, Simon supposes.

It's a quick fix, and Johnny rushes him off to the altar. Simon adjusts his jacket, buttoning it properly before taking a deep breath and pushing ahead. The room goes silent as several dozen eyes abandon their previous gazes to watch him. His confidence doesn’t waver outwardly. There’s no room for that. He keeps his eyes forward as he approaches the pulpit. A familiar face awaits him there in a fresh-pressed three-piece.

“Didn’t know you did weddings,” he laughs, low and clipped.

“Do funerals, too, if you know anyone in need,” John Price hums back with a grin. Simon offers a hand, one Price accepts with a quick, firm shake. “Good to see you, my boy. Been too long.”

“Not long enough if your chin hasn’t caught up with your chops yet.”

“Glad to see time hasn’t dulled your sense of humor.” It’s a dry response, but the creases at the corners of his eyes give away his amusement.

Idly, they chat, waxing philosophical to pass the time. Periodically, John checks his watch and looks into the balcony, but he doesn’t miss a single word Simon utters. Simon’s seen this before; something isn’t quite right, and Price is trying to suss out precisely what it is.

The door at the back of the chapel opens, and a small woman with wiry hair rushes up the aisle as fast as her little legs could carry her without breaking into a jog. She clambers the quartet of steps, looking a bit worse for wear. Sweat prickles her brow, her sunken eyes seeming to recede with each movement. John raises an eyebrow as if to ask her if she’s okay, but she ignores the unspoken concern.

“So sorry to keep you waiting, John. Bride had a little, eh, mishap, but we’re ready to begin.”

Simon opens his mouth to demand more detail, but Price shoots him a pointed look, the aim to keep the dog from barking as he reassures her, “Perfectly fine, Doris. Is the young lady alright?”

“Quite. She's just had a bit of a rocky morning. Nerves and all.”

She shrugs with a timid smile, like that'll placate the intense look of defensiveness on Simon's usually stoic face. He knows she's not being entirely truthful, but to whose benefit? 

Price gives her a curt nod and offers his arm to usher her to her seat. Her frail fingers curl around his elbow, blue veins protruding like a web of thread unspooled. She smiles at Simon sympathetically. They descend the short few steps in stagger, and he can’t help but wonder what it is that she knows that he doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter, he decides. After today, none of this really matters. The setting is a mere formality, born of a desire for flamboyancy and extravagance, neither of which have ever been in Simon’s wheelhouse. His preference for something simple and quiet was aggressively overruled from the start.

His eyes drift over the observers that casually mill about the pews. Only one bears any familiarity, the one patting an old woman’s hand before turning back towards the pulpit, while the rest look more like faceless mannequins, nondescript in the forward echoes of memory. 

John takes his place beside Simon, asking under his breath in close proximity, “Are you ready?”

Simon nods, folding his hands together in front of him and adjusting his stance to face the doors at the back of the aisle. In his periphery, he sees Price signal the woman who sits at the piano. She begins to play something Simon doesn’t recognize. Immediately, those stark moths flood to their seats like a bright bulb.

The doors open after a few measures, a pair of well-dressed ushers securing them in position. Shortly, the two pairs of bridesmaids and groomsmen enter, timely and in sequence. The young women accompanied by Simon’s men are both bright-eyed and all smiles, but the air of wariness is not lost on anyone keen enough to notice. Circumstantially, this wedding is dubious at best, and if they’re close enough for you to ask them to join the wedding party, then they’re close enough to know the truth.

He’s under no illusion that you’re an overtly willing participant in any of this. You were blindsided. Out of the blue - no warning, no inkling - being told over dinner that your father is not the man you always believed him to be, that you’ve been promised to a stranger to improve business prospects, that you’re seen as a pawn rather than a person. Simon feels vaguely guilty for the turmoil, but seeing the lack of consideration for you truncates it. You’ll be better off by his side. That’s not the fanatical part of his brain speaking; it’s factual. 

When he hears the music change from a simple, tedious tune to a melodic version of the traditional bridal march, reality pulls him back into his body. His gaze locks on the doorway. For the first time - the first real time - he gets to see you.

You look god damn gorgeous. There’s no other way to describe it.

The dress is bright white, almost blinding. Crystalline and pearl accents around the neck and waist lines reflect sun rays from the windows, giving you an ethereal glow. Delicate charmeuse drapes some of your curves while tulle hides others (much to his dismay). Simon swears the halo above your perfectly styled hair isn’t a trick of the light. You look like a fucking angel - his angel.

His heart is racing, raging against the cage of his ribs like the bars of a prison cell. It wants to escape, break free and put itself in your hands. The pace of his breathing has quickened, palms beginning to sweat, and a foreign euphoria falls over him like mist. His lips curl into the smallest expression of joy, barely detectable, and John nudges him with his elbow.

“Congratulations, my boy. She’s a beauty.”

A sense of pride swells in his chest at that.

Halfway down the aisle, you finally look up at Simon. In the span of seconds, your expression rolls through a series of emotions; bitter, then a mite of surprise, confusion… then admiration and ire.

You take on a more timid look as you approach, though, fingers wrapped loosely around the inside of your father’s elbow. Despite the narrowness of the aisle, you’re still positioned as far away from him as you can be. The anger is palpable, rolling off you in waves. Just beneath the surface, an indeterminable despair. You don’t want to be here, don’t want to be anywhere near that bastard or Simon himself. He may not have gotten to know you in the traditional sense, but he knows human behavior all too well.

You’re hurt. Betrayed. Defiant.

The iniquity of it all gnaws at his bones as he extends a hand to you. He watches your snake of a father wrenches your wrist with a hollow smile to pull you closer before taking your fingers in his with a brutish grip.

“Do you give this woman to be married to this man?” Price asks, an obscure grit of disapproval at the display thickening his voice.

“I do,” your father answers, tugging your arm forward in an offering of your hand.

Simon takes it gently, savoring the feeling of your soft, manicured fingers sliding across his rough, calloused palm. You lift the hem of your dress with your free hand, taking each step like it’ll delay the inevitable. There’s a tremble in your touch, undoubtedly apprehensive, uncertain, scared.

When you’re settled on the top step, you glance at your father with pleading eyes. His expression is stern and hardened. He mouths an inaudible warning before turning to take his seat, and Simon swears he sees the last shreds of your stubborn will collapse. 

Quietly, you hand your bouquet to the bridesmaid just behind you before placing your other hand into Simon’s waiting one. Tears spring up in your eyes, and he gives you the softest squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers so softly that even Price almost misses it. Your eyes shoot up to his. “Let’s just get through this, yeah? We can talk about everything when we don’t have an audience.”

You nod.

♡

It all passes in a haze, like Simon’s somehow running on autopilot while still autonomous in part. Both your vows and his were written by the wedding planner with significant input from your parents. An effort to hide the clandestine nature of the nuptials, he supposes. He recites his from recall, trying to place emphasis where needed like code. Yours, however, have him rapt. While he knows the words are not your own, something about hearing you profess your love ignites a spark within him. Hell, he nearly misses his cue for the ring because he’s so focused on absorbing your presence, memorizing every detail of the way you look right now.

One thing snaps him from his infatuated stupor: “You may now kiss the bride.”

He eyes you warily, seeking any sign of discomfort. There are no sirens sounding, no postings of danger, no flashing warning lights. You’ve resigned yourself to the moment’s arrival, and Simon does not hesitate. His hands curl around the roundness of your cheeks, slotting you into his palms like you were made to fit. The tilt of his head falls opposite yours. 

Slowly, he leans forward. Leisurely so as not to alarm you. Your breathing hitches just a hair as he closes in. The tips of your fingers settle against his chest as he reels you closer. His lips barely brush yours, a hint of strawberry as your gloss transfers in brief contact, and you draw him nearer until you reconnect.

It consumes him wholly now, the spark, engulfing his entire being. Flames of desire lick up the base of his spine, rising until your fingerprints are blistering his skin. He’s melting into you, embers glittering as they rise up and away until he’s nothing more than ash, staining every inch of you he may ever touch with a permanent marking that can’t be scrubbed away. Your name is branded on his chest, now and forever. In every way, he is yours.

Price is kind enough to wait until the kiss ends to formally announce the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Simon Riley with a reminder that a reception will occur at a later date. Simon takes your hand in his and briskly leads you back down the aisle, grateful for the guise of a honeymoon flight to stave off a night of questioning and awkwardness.

It’s not a honeymoon that awaits, but rather a lengthy flight back to Manchester. Movers cleared out your apartment this morning, carting it to the tarmac to load. Another crew will be waiting to unload it the moment you touch down.

Simon hopes you’ll be able to get some rest during the flight. You needn’t lift a finger, don’t worry; he’s just concerned for the dark circles hidden under your make-up, the torn bits of skin around your nails, the way your voice rings unsteady and uneven in the moments you’re alone with him.

It’s understandable that you don’t trust him yet. You don’t know him quite as intimately as he knows you. You’re afraid, unsure of what comes next. The life you knew is in upheaval, disrupted by years of lies and deceit. You don’t know what’s real anymore. You doubt everything. Who knew the truth and didn’t tell you? Are your friends even really your friends? Did your parents ever love you, or were you always just a puppet? The strings are too tangled to separate at this point, so you might as well accept your fate and cut them.

You sob into his chest, tears soaking through his white button down. It’s taken so much out of you, hasn’t it? And now you’re here, spilling your guts to a man you don’t know as he holds you, dutifully and steadfast.

One more hour, and you’ll be away from all of this. He won’t lie to you, he won’t hide things from you. You’ll never have to question yourself or the people around you again. You’re getting the life you deserve now.

It’s okay to trust him, sweet girl. Tell him all your secrets, let him in, let him live in your skin, burrow deep in your mind. Simon will keep you safe. At any cost.

part iii

[whore4gwen]

Everything & More･ﾟ･｡

Young!Larissa x Milf!Reader

A/n: I have a screenshot of the ask, but I can’t find the actual ask anywhere!?😭 I sincerely apologize & hope whoever gets to see it! Hopefully, whoever did ask, I hope you don’t mind that I changed the concept slightly.

It’s been way too long since I’ve written for dear Larissa. I hope this is acceptable.

Tags: age gap, slight guilt, oral sex, begging, humiliation, pet names, slights religious themes, brief face riding, volume control, slight orgasm denial, borderline obsessive Larissa, Larissa is NOT a minor, play it safe & go with 19, top Larissa, bottom reader, fingering, all consensual, down bad reader & a very down bad Larissa, I think that’s it lmk if I missed any!

———————————————————————

You knew it was wrong, but how could anything that wrong feel so good? A small gasp erupted from your chest as butterflies filled your stomach.

Larissa pulled your thighs, scooting you, as if possible, closer to her ravenous mouth. She feasted on your center voraciously, as if she had been starved.

“Ooh Larissa.” You moaned as quietly as you could, burying your finger tips within the strands of Larissa’s hair, riding her face.

Your legs clutched together, suffocating Larissa between your thighs; not that she minded though, eating you out was heaven, it was all she imagined that it would be and more.Larissa would gladly worship the very ground you walked on, expecting any fate you deemed fit. She just couldn’t get enough of you, your smell, taste, sound, it consumed Larissa’s every thought.

“I-I’m so so close, please!” You begged, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Smirking, Larissa pulled away from your soaping core, “I would be quiet if I was you darling, it would be a shame if your daughter woke up and walked in on her mother, with her legs wide open, whoreing herself out to her daughters best friend.” Larissa teased in fake pity.

Groaning at yourself, you look away from Larissa, regret washing over you. Before you could think too much more about it, a bolt of ecstasy shot through you as Larissa pumped two fingers into you eagerly.

You quickly slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to muffle the sinful sounds threatening to fill the air.

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” Larissa asked, licking a broad stripe up your clit. Confused, your brows furrowed, as you gave her a questionable look. Smirking again, “It turns you on having your daughters’ friend fuck you for anyone to see, for her to see, doesn’t it?”

Blushing, you quickly advert your eyes away from Larissas. The weight of her words gnawing at your chest. You want to feel more than a tinge of regret, but it’s so difficult when a sexy blonde is knuckles deep inside you. Larissa watches a hoard of emotions sweep across your face. She smiles menacingly at her small victory.

Everything is going exactly as Larissa anticipated. She got close to your daughter so she could get close to you, everything Larissa did, she did for you.

[itacats]

Operation 141: The Family Business

FT: TF141 x gn!reader - Mafia AU

Warnings: mafia themes, use of the name "sweetheart", kidnapping/abduction, drugging, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: As the team embarks on this urgent search, tension rises with each step they take. Their loyalty runs deep, and tonight, that bond drives them into the dark unknown, where shadows hide more than answers. Follow closely—this mission is about more than duty; it’s about finding one of their own before it's too late. Hold your breath; every clue they uncover only deepens the mystery.

Read Part 1 Read Part 2 Read Part 4 Read Part 5 Read Part 6 Read Part 7 Read Part 8 Read Part 9 Read Part 10

Part 3: An Urgent Search

The low hum of conversation had filled the dimly lit room of the 141’s HQ, blending with the smell of takeout and the occasional clink of beer bottles against glass. Soap leaned back in his chair, tossing another joke across the table as Ghost, Price, and Gaz chuckled. The atmosphere was relaxed, comfortable, like soldiers savoring a rare moment of peace.

But beneath the surface, a tension simmered.

It had been three outings now. Three times they’d gone to the bar, expecting to see you behind the counter, serving drinks with that easy grin. Each time they came up empty-handed. At first, no one thought much of it; life was unpredictable, especially for people like you, who juggled the chaos of civilian life with the remnants of a soldier's discipline. But the absence had stretched on too long, and now it gnawed at them in ways they hadn’t spoken aloud.

Soap, always the first to break the silence, tapped his watch, his expression shifting from humor to concern. “They’re on leave, aye?” His Scottish accent was thick as he glanced around the table, looking for reassurance but finding none.

Price sighed, setting down his drink, the laughter from moments earlier already forgotten. “Maybe, but they’d have told us if something was up,” he muttered, his voice gruff, filled with the weight of too many missions and too many friends gone missing.

Gaz leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, the light catching the subtle furrow in his brow. “It’s not like they could afford a vacation. You’ve seen that shitbox they drive,” he added, half-joking, but the concern was real. That car had always been a running joke, but now it felt like a clue, a reminder of a struggle they all knew too well.

Ghost had been silent through most of it, his expression hidden beneath the skull-patterned mask he wore even when off-duty. He’d been watching, waiting, processing. Something didn’t sit right with him, and when his instincts kicked in, they were rarely wrong. Slowly, he pulled out his phone, his gloved fingers moving with precision as he dialed the bar. The tension in the room thickened as the phone rang once, twice. 

“Tab’s Bar, Julia speaking,” a voice rang out, but not the one they were hoping for.

Ghost greeted the woman, getting to the point of his call and asking if you’d been in.

“No, come to think of it– They haven’t been in since the beginning of the week, I’ve had to cover most of their shifts. Not that I’m complaining, we could all use the extra cash these days.” Your co-worker rambled.

“Thank you, that’ll be all.” Ghost ended the call and silence filled the room.

The silence stretched like a knife's edge, the words of your coworker twisting the worry in their stomachs tighter.

Ghost’s eyes flicked up from the phone, his voice low but commanding, slicing through the tension. “That’s it. We need to check on them.”

Price didn’t hesitate. He nodded, already reaching for his jacket. “We’ll split up, cover more ground. Someone at the bar has to know something.”

Gaz and Soap exchanged glances, both rising without another word. It wasn’t just camaraderie driving them now—it was fear. Fear that something had gone wrong, fear that someone they held close might be in danger. They’d seen it too many times before.

Outside, the air was sharp, biting with the chill of the night. The familiar hum of the city echoed in the background, but for the team, it felt like a distant noise, their focus narrowed to the search ahead. The streets, once so familiar, now felt alien—full of shadows and potential threats. 

Ghost led the way, his steps precise, his mind already racing through possibilities. You had always been careful, reliable, a little care-free maybe, but never unpredictable. Missing shifts wasn’t in your nature, not without a damn good reason. And if something had happened to you, there wasn’t a doubt in any of their minds that they’d find out. And if necessary, they’d make whoever was responsible regret it.

The bar had always been a sanctuary of sorts, a place where patrons, old and young, could unwind, share stories, and drink to forget the turmoil that plagued their days. Its regulars knew the team well enough to exchange nods or beers, but tonight, that comfort was gone. The moment they pushed through the heavy door, eyes turned their way—wary, silent.

The bartender, your coworker, froze mid-pour, her eyes flicking between them as if she already knew the question before they asked it. Something was wrong, and the weight of it settled into their bones.

Price stepped forward, his voice rough, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. “We’re looking for someone. You know who.” His words hung in the air like a challenge.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, slowly, the bartender set the glass down, her jaw tight. “They haven’t been in for a while, hence why I’m here tonight. Last I saw, they were talking to someone a couple days ago before they bailed on work. Tall, dark jacket, looked like the type to be a shut-in honestly.”

Gaz exchanged a glance with Soap. They knew the type. And that only made the pit in their stomachs deeper. Quiet and reserved didn’t always mean trustworthy friend.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. The urgency ramped up. Whatever was happening, they needed to find you—and fast.

Read Part 4

Your team is closer than you think, but with each step they take, danger looms larger. Will their loyalty and determination be enough to outwit the darkness closing in around you? Find out as the search intensifies, and hidden truths come to light.

[wiltedflowerpetals]

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At first, you, Mrs. Price, thought that you had to go on a normal but dangerous mission. You only had to get some intel. Get in and out. Easy… right?

But getting captured was not on your to-do-list for this mission…

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Words: 2038

Warning: Blood, death, angsty, fluff

Part 1: Wife Meets Friend | Part 2: Wife On A Mission | Part 3: Wife In Danger | Part 4: (you are reading it) | Part 5: Husband And Wife

141 moved with precision, each man knowing his role in the rescue mission. John led the way, his mind singularly focused on getting to his wife and bringing her back safely. Each step closer to Mikhailov's hideout increased the tension, but John was still determined. He wasn’t going to lose you, not to this man, not to anyone.

They cleared room after room, encountering resistance but dispatching it swiftly. John’s heart dropped with each empty room, the fear gnawing at him. Finally, they reached the central part of the compound - a large, reinforced door that led to what they assumed was a holding area.

Ghost and Gaz took up positions at the door, while Soap rigged the explosives. John waited, every muscle in his body tense. The moment the door blew open, they moved as one, weapons ready.

Inside, the scene that greeted them was one of chaos. Bodies lay across the floor, blood pooling beneath them. John’s eyes darted around the room, his heart in his throat, searching desperately for you.

Until his eyes met yours.

You were huddled in a corner, your clothes stained with blood, your face pale but fierce. The ropes that had bound your hands were on the floor beside you, and in your hands, you held bloodied knife and a piece of glass. Probably from a nearby window or a bottle that was lying on the ground.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. John’s blue eyes stared at you - alive, but bloodied. Relief, his lips turned up, smiling at you. He had found his wife. You were alive.

“(Y/N)!” John shouted, his voice rough with emotion as he rushed to you.

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice, and the weapons fell from your hands as you rose to your feet. The moment you saw him, you felt a tear escape your eye, as you stumbled forward, throwing yourself into his arms.

John wrapped you in a tight embrace, holding you close as if he could protect you from everything that had happened. You were finally in his arms.

“John…” You whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. “I thought… I didn’t think…”

“Shh…” He soothed, his hand cradling the back of your head. “I’m here. You’re safe now.”

You two stayed like that for a few moments. But eventually, John pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes scanning you for injuries.

“What happened?” He asked. “How did you manage to-” He gestured to the dead men around them. “How did you fight them off?”

You swallowed hard, your eyes locking with his. You could see the concern, the confusion in his gaze, and you knew you couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer.

“John.” You began, your voice trembling, not knowing how he will react. “… There’s something I need to tell you.”

He frowned, concern deepening. “What is it? You can tell me anything.”

You took a deep breath. “I’m not who you think I am…” Your gaze moved to the ground, scared to see his reaction. “I’ve been lying to you… about my job, about who I am. I’m not just a secretary, John. I’m… I’m a hitman.”

John stared at you, shocked. He couldn’t believe what you were saying. It didn’t make sense - how could his wife, the woman he loved, be a hitman?

“A hitman?” He repeated slowly. “What… What are you talking about?”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded. “It’s true. I’ve been doing this for years, long before I met you. It’s how I know Kate, how I’ve been able to protect you during some missions without you knowing. I didn’t want to tell you… I was afraid that if you knew, it would put you in more danger and… I… I was scared that you might leave me…”

John took a step back, his mind razing through so many thoughts. The woman he had thought he knew, the woman he had married, was a professional killer. It was almost too much for him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, his voice filled with a mix of hurt and confusion. “All this time… Why didn’t you trust me?”

“It wasn’t about trust.” You said quickly. “It was about keeping you safe. If you knew… if anyone knew… it would have put a target on your back. I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

John’s mind raced. You were a murderer…? Someone who got paid just to kill people. Sure, he did it as well, but he was a soldier, while you were a hitman.

He looked around the room again, at the bodies, the blood, and then back at her. The strength it must have taken for you to survive, to fight your way out - he couldn’t deny that you had done what you needed to do to stay alive.

But the betrayal he felt was deep. It felt like a knife stabbing and cutting him. “You should have told me.” He said, his voice breaking slightly. “We could have faced this together.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you shook your head. “I’m so sorry, John. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now that I was just lying to both of us. I never wanted to hurt you.”

John was silent for a long moment. He was angry, hurt, and yet… he was also relieved. You were alive, you were here with him, and that was what mattered most.

He reached out, taking your hand in his. “We’ll get through this.” He said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “But no more secrets. We will tell each other everything, from now on. Understand?”

You nodded, squeezing his hand tightly. “No more secrets. I promise.”

John pulled you into his arms again, holding you as tightly as he could. No more lies, no more hiding.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes. “We need to get out of here.” He said, his voice firm but gentle. “We’ll talk more later, but right now, we have to move.”

You nodded. John motioned for Ghost, Gaz, and Soap to move in, their weapons still drawn as they cleared the area, making sure there were no more threats.

“Clear.” Ghost muttered, his voice low and professional as always.

“Let’s get her out of here.” Soap added, casting a concerned glance at you. He, like the others, didn’t fully understand what had happened, but they all knew the mission wasn’t over until you were safe.

John kept you close as they made their way out of the compound, the team covering them as they moved swiftly and silently. Once outside, the team regrouped at their extraction point. The silence got interrupted by the sound of the helicopter blades cut, ready to take them to safety.

As they boarded, John kept his arm around you, not letting you go for a second. You leaned into him, exhausted. He held you closer, whispering reassurances that you were safe now, that he was there.

The helicopter lifted off, and the team remained silent, each lost in their thoughts. John couldn’t help but think of the man responsible for all this - Mikhailov. He was still out there, a threat looming over them like a dark cloud. John had faced him once before and thought he’d ended it. Now he realized how wrong he’d been.

But he also knew that Mikhailov wasn’t the only threat. The secrets his wife had kept, the life she had lived in, were now a part of his world. They couldn’t go back to the way things were before. Everything had changed.

When they finally touched down at the base, John helped you out of the helicopter, his arm still around you. You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face for some sign of what he was thinking. He could see the fear in your eyes - not fear of him, but fear of what might happen next, of how he would react now that he knew the truth.

He cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “We’ll figure this out.” He said, his voice soft but firm. “I don’t know how, but we will. You’re my wife, and I love you. That hasn’t changed, and it won’t.”

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of relief. You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I love you too, John. I’m so sorry for everything.”

As they headed into the base, the team following behind, John knew that Mikhailov was still out there, and as long as that man was alive, they would never be truly safe. This was far from over. The battle lines were drawn, and this time, John wasn’t just fighting for himself - he was fighting for the woman he loved.

And he wouldn’t stop until Mikhailov was nothing more than a ghost of the past.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

His arm remained around your shoulders, a silent promise that he would keep you safe. The rest of Task Force 141 followed closely behind; their expressions unreadable.

They reached a secured briefing room, each of them taking their places around the table. John led you to a chair, his hand lingering on your shoulder before he took his place at the head of the table. His mind was racing. So much as happened today.

“We have a problem. Mikhailov. He’s still out there, and he’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants. He’s a ghost from my past, someone I thought I’d taken care of years ago, but he’s come back for revenge. And now, he’s targeting (Y/N) because of me.” John said firmly, arms crossed over his chest, as he glanced at every person at the table.

Gaz frowned. “If Mikhailov is involved, it means this is bigger than just a personal vendetta.”

“That’s why we can’t let our guard down.” John agreed. “He’s already shown he’s willing to go to any lengths to hurt us, and I won’t let him get another chance.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Soap asked, his tone serious. “We can’t just sit around waiting for him to make his next move.”

John nodded, grateful for the support. “We go on the offensive. We track him down, find out where he’s hiding, and take him out before he can do any more damage.”

“And what about Mrs. Price?” Ghost asked, his gaze shifting to you. “She’s been through a lot. Is she ready for what’s coming?”

You straightened in your chair. “I’m ready. I want to help take him down.”

John’s heart swelled with pride at her determination. “We’re going to do this together.”

You looked at him. “I know. But I also know that I’m the one who got us into this mess. I need to be a part of getting us out of it.”

“Then it’s settled.” John said, his voice firm. “We go after Mikhailov, and we end this once and for all.”

They spent the next several hours going over intelligence, strategizing, and preparing for what would be one of the most dangerous missions they had ever undertaken. They knew Mikhailov wouldn’t go down easily, but they will try their best.

“Don’t worry, we got this.” You said on the phone, talking to Kate as she gave more information that might help you all out during the mission. “Good. Be careful. All of you.”

You said your goodbyes, as you walked through the base, gaze moving towards the balcony to see your husband smoking a cigar on there.

You walked to him and leaned against the railing.

Your husband turned to you, his expression softening as he reached out to take your hand. “I meant what I said earlier.” He murmured. “No more secrets, no more hiding.”

You looked up at him, your eyes shining with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything...”

He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We all make mistakes.”

You nodded, leaning into him as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

Together, they would face whatever came next. And together, they would overcome it.

🔖 Taglist: @starriestarlight @aldis-nuts

Masterlist ❀ Askbox/Requests ✿ Navigation

Reblogs and comments are appreciated.( ‘ω’ )

© nanamisflowerfield/wiltedflowerpetals. Do not repost, rewrite, plagiarize my work.

[rascal-xo]

Ooh!

What if you did one with a reader who is all sunshine and rainbows usually and just the most positive person, until her S.O gets hurt/taken captive (I’m thinking Ghost or Soap with this one)

Once they’re gone, she turns into an absolute beast trying to get her person back. (And it’s lowkey scary and hot?)

Flipping The Switch - Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Summary: Ghost has gone off the grid after Grave’s betrayal and that leaves you to track him down.

Warnings: Violence, language, weapons, injuries, angst, fluff

Tags: @pukbadger @fiveshelmet @myguiltypleasures21 @madamemelaninn @emmaadlerrichtofen1 @swissy23 @thatchickwiththecamera @glitterypirateduck @glitteryeggalmondherring @allaboutirem0

A/N: Ty for the request, I hope you enjoy!

As you stand alone in the aftermath of Grave’s betrayal to the 141, worry gnaws at your heart like a relentless predator. Thoughts of Soap and Ghost flood your mind, the fear of losing them both unbearable.

When not even Ghost is responding to comms, the thought that anything could’ve happened to him begins to creep into your mind. Imagining a life without the man that gives you your own sends shivers down your spine.

When you finally get back up on your feet, you only have one thing on your mind…

As you approach the taken HQ in Las Alma’s, adrenaline courses through your veins. The building looms before you, ominous and foreboding. You’re alone this time, your team split up in unknown places.

With carefully honed skills, you stealthily maneuver past guards and surveillance systems, each step bringing you closer to your goal.

The echoes of your footsteps resonate in the dimly lit corridors as you move deeper into the enemy territory. Anger fuels your determination to find Simon

You round a corner, you catch a glimpse of a familiar insignia on a soldier’s uniform, and your heart races.

They are the same soldiers who once fought alongside you, but now they serve a different master. Suppressing the urge to strike, you slip by them, trying not to alert any unwanted attention.

The sound of voices leads you to a control room, where you spot the towering figure of Graves. His once-trusted face now bears the mark of betrayal, and your anger reaches its peak.

You finally come out of the shadows making yourself seen. Taking a step forward, you raise your sidearm at him.

The two Shadow soldiers raise their weapons at you but stop in their movements when Graves lifts a hand. “Excuse us, gentleman.” He says, motioning them away.

“It was about time you found your way here, Sergeant.” He smirks, setting down his gun. You lower your sidearm, but keeping it handy. “We could use your wisdom.”

“I’m not here to play nice with you, Graves.” You answer, finally taking a better look around the control room. The large window at the control panel overlooks the a pier with heavy standing machinery. Missiles.

You know if he’s smart enough he won’t kill you. You finally walk over to the controls, hovering your fingers along the buttons. “You had a good thing going Commander. You’ve forgotten what you’re fighting for.”

Graves steps closer, and you take a step back, maintaining your distance. “You wouldn’t understand,” he replies dismissively. “The world is changin, and I’m simply aligning myself with the winning side.”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” you retort, unable to fathom how the man you once respected could become so twisted. “Shepard bought you out.”

His smile widens, revealing a cold and calculating demeanor. “And yet, you’re standing here, alone,” he taunts. “Your precious team is scattered, and your beloved Simon is… well, let’s just say he’s not in any position to help you.”

His words hit you like a physical blow, but you refuse to let consume you.

“You think you have the power right in your hands commander but the only thing you have is the nerve.” you declare, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within.

Graves laughs, the sound echoing in the room. “You’re a patriot fighting for her country. That’s what I always liked about you, Y/N That you’re not afraid to do it.”

“You’re a dog with a bone Graves.” You retort, your voice low and menacing. “And i’m gonna make sure you know what it’s like to have that taken from you.”

His eyebrows drop and you barge out of the room, he watches you walk out with a slanted expression.

As you leave the control room, you make your way through the labyrinth of corridors, determination burning in your veins. Your mind is set on finding Alejandro and putting an end to Graves’ sinister plans.

After what seems like an eternity, you finally reach a heavily guarded cell block. Your heart races as you spot Alejandro inside, weakened but alive. With swift and precise movements, you manage to disable the guards and free him from his restraints.

“Sergeant, you made it.” Alejandro says, his voice filled with gratitude and relief. You give him a reassuring smile, helping him to his feet.

“I have a plan but I need your help.” You explain, clocking back your gun.

He nods his head, “Hacemos esto juntos, camarada.” (We do this together.)

With a knowing smile, you leave the cell behind and make your exit long enough for the guard to stay unconscious.

As you both sneak through the HQ, avoiding patrols and surveillance, you fill Alejandro in on everything that has happened since he was captured.

The weight of the situation is heavy on both of your shoulders, but you know you must stay vigilant.

Eventually, you make it to one of the Vaqueros’s safe houses with a map of the facility. With Alejandro and Rudy’s knowledge and your expertise, you devise a plan to navigate through the complex stabilize the guidance systems now that you’ve seen them first hand.

Time is of the essence, so you move with swift precision.

Suddenly, there’s a faint sound coming from the back entry door. Your reflexes kick in, and without hesitation, you throw one of Ghost’s knives towards the source of the movement.

But as the knife makes its way through the air and into the door frame with a thud, you realize it’s not an enemy. The door swings open, and there stands Soap, both looking surprised but unharmed.

“Steamin bloody jesus!” Soap calls out, holding up his hands in a mock surrender at the near miss.

“Christ Soap.” You let out a breath you don’t know you were holding, feeling relieved beyond words. “Comms are still out i haven’t been able to reach-“

You stop mid sentence as the air suddenly leaves your lungs. Simon suddenly appears through the door behind Johnny pulling the knife out of the doorframe. “I believe this belongs to me.”

Without a second thought, you rush towards him, closing the distance between you in an instant.

As Simon steps out from behind Johnny, you throw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. You can feel his warmth through the fabric of his balaclava, and it only makes the moment feel more intimate.

“Son of a bitch, I thought I lost you.” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. You hear Johnny and Alejandro gasp in shock behind you two, only now finding out about your clandestine affair.

Simon’s arms wrap around you, holding you close. “I’m here, Y/N. I’m right here,” he says softly, his words muffled by the balaclava.

You lean back slightly, wanting to see his face, to look into his eyes and reassure yourself that he’s real. But the balaclava remains in place, concealing his features.

Unable to hold back any longer, you lean in and press your lips against the fabric of the balaclava. It’s not the same as a direct kiss, and you feel him relax under you.

“How did you guys find us?”

l “I’ll explain everything later, but right now, we need to focus on the mission.” He says. turning to face everyone now.

You nod, understanding the urgency of the situation. You pull away slightly but keep your hands on his shoulders, cherishing the closeness between you.

“We have a plan, and with you guys here, we have more bodies. I know we can make it work,” you say with determination, meeting eyes with alejandro.

“Los Vaqueros and 141 come together on this one.” Rudy says, putting down the blueprint to the HQ.

“What’s the plan?” Soap speaks up, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We’re killing Commander Graves.”

A/N: Ahhh what did y’all think???

[valkyrieromanoff]

☠️DIY COUPLE COSTUME - MODERN AU: CROSSHAIR X YOU (day 9 of 31)

synopsis: you and Crosshair needed to create a last-minute costume for a Halloween party

warning: fluffy, establish relationship.

 a/n: Hello there, grumpy and affectionate boyfriend is my headcanon for Crosshair,  hope you like it💖

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ꜱᴇᴇ

ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛꜱ

ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴇᴇɴ

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Crosshair’s voice carried that familiar edge of irritation, his long fingers rifling through the clothes in your shared closet, tossing them onto the bed without care. Each discarded item added to the growing pile, and every glance he gave himself in the mirror was accompanied by a scowl before he’d hurl the next piece aside.

“I didn’t know it was a costume party,” you replied, trying to sound calm as you sat cross-legged on the floor, rummaging through a drawer in a desperate search for anything costume-worthy.

Crosshair huffed, his sharp eyes narrowing. “It’s Halloween, darling. Obviously, it’s a costume party.” His tone was sharper than usual, revealing how on edge he was. He already wasn’t a fan of parties—too loud, too crowded—but the idea of going without preparation was enough to send his stress skyrocketing. His usual brooding mood had become something far darker, and you could feel the tension radiating off him.

You shrugged, still sifting through the mess of clothes. “With your brother organizing it? Nothing is obvious.” You paused, holding up a tie to your neck and squinting at your reflection. “It’s Hunter, after all.”

Crosshair stopped rifling through the closet for a moment, and you could see the exasperation settle on his face. “This is literally Hunter we’re talking about. There’s no one more obvious than him.” He ran his hand through his silver-gray hair, now tousled from his stress. The thought of showing up unprepared to anything—especially one of Hunter’s events—was gnawing at him.

You gave a thoughtful hum before responding, “True. He’s not exactly subtle.” You stood, walking over to him, guilt creeping into your voice. “I’m sorry, honey. I misread the invitation. I swore it said next week.”

Crosshair’s body softened slightly, though his expression remained distant. “Darling, you’d miss a party even if your life depended on it,” he murmured with an amused smirk. You could feel his tension easing as his long fingers absentmindedly ran through your hair. 

You leaned into his touch, letting out a soft sigh. “That’s probably true.” You pulled out your phone, scrolling through Pinterest, searching for last-minute costume ideas. You held it up, showing him the first few you thought might work. “What about this?”

He glanced at it briefly, and his expression instantly soured. “I’m not dressing up as ketchup,” he grumbled. “Or mustard, for that matter.”

You bit back a laugh and swiped to the next idea. “How about this? We could be soap and a bath loofah.”

Crosshair’s reaction was immediate. “Hand me that,” he said, grabbing the phone. “Apparently, you’ve lost the ability to make good decisions.”

You flopped onto the bed, resting your chin on his chest while he scrolled through TikTok, looking for something that didn’t make him want to crawl out of his own skin. After a few moments, he snorted in frustration. “These so-called ‘easy’ costumes would take more effort than building a new rifle.”

You grinned, tracing random shapes on his sweatshirt with your finger. “How about Backyardigans?”

His look of utter disbelief was priceless. “No.”

“ETs from Toy Story?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Nail polish bottles?”

Crosshair narrowed his eyes at you. “Now you’re just suggesting the most absurd things on purpose.”

You giggled, propping yourself up on your elbows. “So, Mr. Costume Critic, what’s your brilliant idea?”

He stayed silent for a moment, his brow furrowed as he scanned the room for inspiration. His gaze landed on the *Pulp Fiction* poster hanging on the wall. His lips quirked into a half-smile, and he pointed at it. “There. Mia Wallace and Vincent Vega. Simple, but classic.”

You followed his line of sight, grinning as the idea clicked into place. “Not the most original, but it’ll work.”

A few minutes later, you both set to work, rifling through your clothes for the right pieces. Luckily, the thrift store trip last weekend had left Crosshair with a black suit and dress pants. He was already wearing a white shirt, so you added the final touch—a slim black tie, which you carefully tied around his neck. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot how to tie a knot,” you teased, your fingers deftly tightening the tie.

Crosshair smirked, his brown eyes softening for the first time that night. “I know how. I just like when you do it.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully shoving him away. He chuckled, then threw you one of his oversized white dress shirts. “Here. Wear this over your—” his gaze briefly flickered to the black bra you were already wearing “—Mia Wallace look.”

You slipped into the shirt, fastening only a few buttons, then followed him to the bathroom where your makeup bag was waiting on the sink. Crosshair slicked his silver-gray hair back with gel, while you applied a bold red lipstick, adding the final touch with fake blood under your nose.

“Get down here,” you murmured, gesturing to your boyfriend. He knelt before you, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his head briefly against your belly. The rare intimacy of the gesture made your heart flutter. When he pulled back, you gently started working on his makeup, adding a black eye and a few cuts with fake blood and eyeshadow. 

“Perfect,” you whispered, admiring your handiwork. Crosshair looked up at you with a faint smile. His sharp features were softened by the lighting, the usual intensity in his gaze replaced by something... warmer.

Before he stood, he tilted his head up, capturing your lips in a soft kiss. “Careful,” he murmured, “I don’t want to ruin your lipstick.”

You smiled against his mouth, brushing your nose against his before pulling back. “Maybe I’ll ruin yours.”

Crosshair smirked as he stood up, grabbing the fake blood and splattering it on your white shirt. The red drops sprayed across the bathroom tiles, but neither of you cared. When the costumes were finally ready, you both stepped back, admiring yourselves in the mirror.

“For something last-minute,” you said, adjusting your collar, “we did pretty damn well.”

“Good enough,” Crosshair muttered, taking your hand and pulling you out of the bathroom, leaving the mess of makeup and brushes behind. As you stepped out of the apartment, he glanced at you, his lips twitching in that small, almost hidden smile he reserved just for you. “Let’s hope the party’s worth it.”

Despite the stress of the evening, there was a contentment settling between you. It wasn’t about the party anymore. It was about the two of you, together, navigating whatever chaos life threw your way. As much as he grumbled, you knew Crosshair had enjoyed working through this mess with you. He would never say it, but you could feel it in the way he’d held you close, the way his irritation melted into quiet amusement.

And when you arrived at Hunter’s place, you could only laugh. His costume was a tank top, army pants, and his usual bandana—he claimed he was Rambo. Wrecker’s attempt at a dragon costume was endearing but turned out more abstract than anything else, while Tech and Phee had gone all out with matching steampunk outfits, clearly having prepared for weeks. Echo simply stood off to the side, arms crossed, his face set in his usual stoic expression. “I’m too old for this,” he muttered, though no one dared disagree.

Crosshair sighed, glancing around at his brothers’ half-hearted attempts. “I put in all this effort, and for what?”

You grinned, nudging him gently. “For Omega.”

His expression softened at the mention of her, and he gave a small, resigned nod. “Yeah, for Omega.”

As the night went on, you stayed close to Crosshair, laughing with the others, sipping drinks, and occasionally stealing moments together where no one was watching. And while it hadn’t been the evening Crosshair had planned, he found himself admitting that, maybe, it wasn’t so bad after all. Being with you, solving things together, that was all he really needed.

“Remind me to read the next invitation properly,” you whispered, leaning into him.

Crosshair smirked, his arm slipping around your waist. “No need. I’ve got you covered.”

[lynxindisguise]

Universe 560: Medieval Royalty

“You do know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” he asks, strategically timing this conversation with his weekly bath.  

Remus’s fingers pause on his scalp. “What do you mean?”  

“I mean there’s nothing you could tell me that would make me think any less of you.”  

“Because you already think so low of of me?” he quips.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Lean back.” He does, and Remus pours a bucket of warm water over his hair, gently rinsing the soap. “What brought this on?”

“I know that you’re keeping something from me.” He rests his wrist on the side of the wooden tub, obscuring the rune as Remus shifts around to wash the rest of him. “I’m not upset. I just don’t want you to feel that you have to.”

Remus says nothing, only gnaws at his lower lip as he works the soap across Sirius’s chest and under his armpit.

“Remus.”

“You shoulder enough burdens, your majesty.”

“But—”  

“Sirius!” James barges into his chambers, hair and ridiculous spectacles all askew. “Dragon,” he pants. “There’s a dragon.”

[ceilidho]

I’m biting and gnawing on anything I can get my hands on dude, your ghoap fic????? uNHINGED, mouthwatering, I will be rereading this over and over until my eyes fall out and I need to see the optometrist again for a new prescription—I freaking love Johnny’s playful meanness and Ghost just ABSOKUTELY stewing in his rage, I could see wanting to get away from them and the ghost having to reign Johnny in, telling him to wait and they’ll give you exactly what you deserve for leaving them in just the right moment!! Oh man oh man oh man you are so insane for this, I love it!

yah he's going to tan reader's ass when they get back home :\\ she put them through the fuckin ringer. i mean, i'm on her side about it!! she did her best and almost got away!! but unfortunately she's just a civilian and ghost and soap have been trained to track and hunt. she did everything right but she really didn't stand a chance lol.

thank you so much ;~~; i wrote the idea in my note app last night before going to sleep and woke up this morning w the burning desire to write it. even though i should be finishing up my price/reader fic lol. i've also never written a proper ghoap x reader fic before, so im glad i got the dynamic right!

[cynicalrosebud]

Rumor Has It (14)

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

CW: Medical; Aftermath of torture; self-deprecating humor; You Are Responsible For Your Own Media Consumption

The quiet hum of the base settled over the two soldiers as they leaned against the cold concrete walls of the hallway just outside the medical bay. Soap stood with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed, his usual carefree expression gone as he stared at the ground. Gaz, leaning next to him, tapped his fingers on his leg, a quiet restlessness simmering beneath the surface.

“Christ… That was too bloody close,” Soap muttered, finally breaking the silence. He pushed a hand through his mohawk, his jaw clenched tight. “Thought we’d lost him.”

Gaz nodded, his face grim. “Same, mate. Never seen anything like that before. When we found his tags, the blood—” His voice trailed off, shaking his head as if trying to banish the images from his mind. “And the screams. Heard him over the comms like it was right next to me.”

Soap’s fists tightened, his knuckles white as he spoke. “They did a right number on him, Gaz. Ye saw him. Barely even breathin’ when we got tae him.” His voice cracked just a little, anger and fear mixing together. “And he still had the gall to tell us he wasn’t worth savin’.”

Gaz let out a heavy sigh, leaning his head back against the wall and staring at the ceiling. “That’s Rumor for you. Always takin’ the piss, even when he’s bleedin’ out.” A small, tired smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Stubborn bastard.”

The hallway fell silent again, save for the occasional footsteps of medics passing by or the distant murmur of voices from another room. Soap and Gaz just stood there, both of them lost in their thoughts.

“He’s gonna be alright, yeah?” Soap asked after a beat, his voice quieter, more uncertain than usual. It wasn’t often that Soap let doubt creep into his tone, but after everything they’d been through today, it was hard to keep it out.

Gaz hesitated before answering, his eyes flickering toward the door of the medical bay. “He’s tough. We’ve seen him bounce back before, but... this time was bad, Soap. Real bad.” He shifted, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. “But if anyone can pull through, it’s him.”

Soap huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “Aye, if his bloody mouth doesn’t get him killed first.”

Gaz chuckled softly, the sound bitter but familiar. “Wouldn’t be Rumor without it.”

They fell quiet again, the weight of the mission still hanging heavy between them. Soap’s mind raced, replaying the moment they’d stormed the enemy compound, hearing Rumor’s screams through the walls, the blood, the way they found him—beaten, broken, but still spitting venom at his captors.

“I should’ve been quicker,” Soap muttered, his voice barely above a whisper now.

Gaz turned his head, frowning at him. “This isn’t on you, Soap.”

Soap shook his head again, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I was close. Could’ve gotten to him faster. Maybe... maybe if I’d been quicker, he wouldn’t—”

“Don’t,” Gaz cut in sharply, standing up straight now. “Don’t do that to yourself. We got him out. That’s what matters.”

Soap didn’t respond, the guilt gnawing at him, but he didn’t argue either. He knew Gaz was right, but it didn’t make the sinking feeling in his chest go away.

After a long pause, Gaz glanced toward the door again, his brow furrowing. “You reckon he heard us? Over comms?”

Soap raised an eyebrow. “Ye mean when we were callin’ for him?”

Gaz nodded. “Yeah. D’you think he heard us, tried to hold on ‘cause of it?”

Soap’s expression softened, and for the first time since they’d pulled Rumor out, a small smile tugged at his lips. “Aye. I think he did. He’d never admit it, but I reckon he did.”

Gaz chuckled, shaking his head. “Good. That bloody idiot. I’m gonna rip him a new one when he wakes up.”

Soap snorted, his grin widening. “Get in line, mate. That’s my job.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the weight of the mission slowly lifting, replaced by the familiar banter that had kept them going all these years.

“Wanna go get a drink?” Soap asked after a beat, pushing himself off the wall.

Gaz raised an eyebrow. “After today?”

“Exactly. We bloody well earned it.”

Gaz sighed but nodded. “Alright, but you’re buying.”

Soap grinned, clapping Gaz on the shoulder as they headed down the hallway, their footsteps fading away. “I’ll put it on Rumor’s tab. He owes us.”

As they walked away, the door to the medical bay remained closed, but both of them knew that inside, Rumor was fighting his way back. And when he woke up, they’d be there—just like always.

The dull, sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air, the faint hum of medical equipment beeping somewhere in the distance. The soft, muted lights overhead buzzed quietly, casting a faint glow over the room.

Rumor groaned as he stirred, his body feeling like it had been hit by a freight train. Everything hurt—his arms, legs, his ribs... hell, even his fingers ached. His mind, however, was fuzzy, still grasping at the remnants of unconsciousness, trying to pull him back under.

The first thing he became aware of was the oxygen mask pressed against his face, the rhythmic sound of his own breathing echoed in his ears. Then came the throbbing pain in his side, where he vaguely remembered being stabbed.

His eyes fluttered open, heavy and slow. The white, blinding lights of the medical bay made him squint as he tried to focus. For a moment, everything was hazy, the lines between dreams and reality blurred.

"Easy now," a deep voice broke through the fog. Ghost. Of course it was him. The voice was unmistakable, calm yet full of authority. "Don’t try to move too much, pup. You’re still patchin’ up."

Rumor blinked a few times, his vision slowly sharpening, revealing the large figure sitting beside him, half-covered in shadow. Ghost was leaned back in a chair, arms crossed over his chest, his mask firmly in place. His dark eyes, though, were fixed on Rumor with a rare intensity.

“You’re... really here,” Rumor rasped through the mask, his voice hoarse, barely audible. His throat felt like it had been dragged over sandpaper.

Ghost tilted his head slightly, his gaze softening. “‘Course we are. Wouldn’t leave you behind. You know that.”

The memories started to rush back in fragmented flashes—captured, tortured, the screams, and the darkness closing in. He had told them... I'm not worth saving.

"Guess ye didn’t listen," Rumor muttered, his lips twitching into a weak attempt at a smile.

"Never do," Ghost shot back with a small grunt, his gaze briefly shifting away. “You talk too much shite sometimes.”

Rumor’s eyes scanned the room, noticing the small details—IV lines snaking into his arm, the bandages covering his torso, the lingering pain in his chest, and the steady beep of the heart monitor beside him. The faint scent of smoke on his skin reminded him of the hell they’d pulled him out of.

“Where’s... everyone else?” Rumor asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Price’s with Laswell. Soap n’ Gaz are nearby—been hoverin’ like bloody nurses. Nik got us back here.” Ghost paused, his eyes darkening briefly. "Took us too long to find you, pup. Too long."

Rumor swallowed hard, the guilt of his earlier words gnawing at him. He’d tried to keep them away, tried to make them leave him behind. He hadn’t wanted them to risk everything for him.

“I told you—”

“Don’t start,” Ghost cut him off, his tone firm but not harsh. “You might not think you’re worth savin’, but tha’s not your call. We made that choice for you.”

Rumor’s throat tightened, the weight of his words, their actions, sinking in. He didn’t know how to respond, his usual sarcasm failing him for once.

The door to the recovery room slid open, and in walked Price, looking just as battle-worn as ever, his signature hat pulled low over his eyes, though there was a softness to his expression as he approached.

“Well, look who’s finally awake,” Price said with a small smile. He stood at the foot of Rumor’s bed, arms crossed as he surveyed him, taking in the sight of their beaten, but alive, teammate.

Rumor tried to sit up, grimacing from the pain. “Cap...” he started, but Price raised a hand. The older man looked pained at the sight of the Welshman laying there. Rumor couldn’t stand the sad look that was wasted over him.

“Permission to die, Cap?” Rumor asked weakly, his usual cheeky grin barely forming on his lips as he attempted to lighten the mood.

Price shook his head, his smile fading a bit into something more serious. “Denied, soldier.”

Rumor managed a small laugh before wincing in pain. “Figured you’d say that.”

Price stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Rumor’s shoulder. “Rest up. You’re not done with us yet.”

As Price turned to leave, he stopped briefly at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "You’re part of this team, Rumor. Don’t ever forget that.”

Rumor felt the warmth of Price’s words sink into his chest, though his body still ached, and his mind was exhausted. The weight of everything—the rescue, the pain, the torture—lingered in the air, but so did the presence of his team, the people who wouldn’t leave him behind.

Ghost leaned back in his chair again, one gloved hand resting on Rumor’s arm in a rare, quiet gesture of reassurance.

“Try to sleep, pup,” Ghost murmured, his voice softer now, gentler. “You’re safe.”

Rumor closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion pull him under once more, the sound of his team’s voices a comfort he didn’t realize he needed so badly.

Safe. Finally.

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the small room, a harsh contrast to the chaos and blood from just hours before. Rumor lay in the hospital bed, bandaged and hooked up to monitors, his breathing shallow but steady. His eyes were open, though half-lidded, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips when he noticed the two familiar figures hovering in the doorway.

Soap and Gaz exchanged glances before stepping inside, trying to keep their expressions casual, but the relief in their eyes was unmistakable. Soap was the first to speak, his voice light despite the weight in the air.

“Look who finally decided to wake up, eh?” Soap grinned, pulling up a chair and sitting by Rumor’s bedside. “Ye know, we were this close to sellin’ yer gear to pay for drinks while you were out.”

Rumor let out a low, breathless chuckle, his voice raspy from disuse. “Better... leave my girls outta that, MacTavish.”

Gaz snorted from where he stood, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “You’ll be lucky if we didn’t pawn them already. You owe us after that stunt.”

Rumor shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. “Didn’t ask to be... the damsel in distress,” he muttered, though his eyes softened as he looked between the two of them. “But... I guess I owe you both, huh?”

Soap’s expression flickered, his usual grin fading for just a moment. “You’re damn right, ye do,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Ye nearly gave us a heart attack, ye prick.”

Gaz nodded in agreement, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced with something more serious. “You had us worried, mate. Don’t think I’ve ever heard MacTavish shout like that before.”

Rumor’s lips curled into a faint smirk, even though his face was pale, and his eyes were dull from exhaustion. “Don’t... flatter me, Gaz. Wasn’t... worth the fuss.”

Soap’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, he looked like he might lose his temper, but instead, he just sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Ye really don’t get it, do ye?”

Gaz stepped closer, his face softening as he looked down at Rumor. “You are worth it. Don’t ever pull that ‘not worth saving’ bullshit again.”

Rumor looked between them, his breath hitching slightly, but the humor in his eyes faded as he realized they weren’t joking. “I... didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, his voice faltering. “Just... didn’t want you wasting your time.”

Soap’s expression hardened. “We decide what’s a waste of time. And trust me—coming after ye wasn’t.”

There was a heavy silence in the room, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor and the hum of medical equipment. Rumor closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling softly.

“Guess I can’t... talk my way out o’ this one, huh?”

Gaz chuckled, the sound soft but genuine. “Nope. We’ll drag your sorry ass out every time. Whether you like it or not.”

Rumor’s lips twitched, a weak but appreciative smile forming as he opened his eyes again. “Glad to know you lot are so... damn stubborn.”

Soap grinned, leaning back in his chair. “We learned from the best.”

For a moment, there was a sense of normalcy, the banter slipping back into place like an old, familiar habit. Rumor relaxed a little, though the pain still lingered in his movements.

After a few minutes of quiet, Soap’s expression shifted, his voice softening as he leaned in slightly. “How ye feelin’, bonnie? Really.”

Rumor sighed, his eyes closing again as he considered the question. “Like I’ve been hit... by a truck,” he muttered, his voice low. “But I’ll live. Just need... some time.”

Gaz gave a small nod, his hand reaching out to pat Rumor’s leg gently. “Good. We need you back on your feet sooner rather than later.”

Soap leaned forward, his grin returning as he added, “Yeah, don’t think we can handle the paperwork without ye.”

Rumor huffed, his laugh weaker than usual. “I’ll... keep that in mind.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence after that, the weight of the rescue still hanging between them but slowly lifting as they sat together. They didn’t need to say anything more—just being there was enough.

After a few minutes, Soap stood up, stretching his arms with an exaggerated groan. “Right, we’ll leave ye to rest. But don’t get too comfy, mate—we’re expectin’ ye back to keep us in line soon.”

Gaz shot him a look, shaking his head with a smile. “Don’t rush him, Soap. Man’s barely woken up.”

Soap winked at Rumor as he started toward the door. “Don’t listen to Gaz. Ye know he can’t handle anythin’ without ye.”

Rumor smiled faintly, his eyes half-closed as exhaustion began to pull him back under. “Try not to... burn the place down... without me.”

Gaz smirked, following Soap out of the room. “No promises, mate.”

As they left, Rumor’s eyes closed fully, the quiet beep of the monitors lulling him into a more restful sleep, knowing his team was waiting for him when he woke up again.

[soopsiesdaisies]

i mean, technically, (y)our marriage is saved - 5

Chapter summary:

Rhys, emboldened by Feyre having allowed physical contact, amps up the teasing. Feyre allows that too, but not without readying herself for going home.

Read on AO3 + Tumblr chapters overview

General warnings: Rhys, 7.3k

~*~

The next morning I didn’t wake as much as I just dragged open my eyes, head pounding, not having slept one wink. 

I’d been thinking all night—about the upcoming war, my return to the Spring Court, and these last two days I’d spend with Rhys. It’d left me unable to fall into the slumber I needed even with my ever-present night terrors, the worry and dread gnawing at me; Nuala and Cerridwen seemed to correctly clock my sluggish demeanour as exhaustion and quietly set out my clothes, lined the bath with soaps and oils. With Rhysand back from wherever he’d gone, I was expected to have breakfast with him again. 

The bathwater was warm. I sank down until everything but my nose was submerged and simply floated, eyes closed. My fingers twitched and I imagined heating them until the water did too, hot enough to burn me, as though the pain would drag me out of my funk—but nothing happened, so I sat up with a sigh, accepted the washcloth from one of the girls, and began to scrub at my once sweaty skin. My hair I massaged firmly until the muscles lining my scalp loosened and the petty little tension headache decreased to dismissible levels. 

By the time I climbed out, Nuella and Cerridwen were gone and Rhysand had not yet summoned me. I dried off quickly, twisted my towel around my hair for the water to soak up, and tugged on the underwear they’d curiously left for me in the bathroom rather than on my bed. I then padded into my bedroom, none the wiser, and promptly felt my heart drop out of my arsehole at what greeted me. 

“What are you doing here?” I demanded shrilly.

“I figured I’d fetch you so you don’t get lost,” Rhysand said, blinking big, innocent eyes at me. He was lounging on my bed like it was his own, obviously comfortable. “I wouldn’t want you to get lost, wandering my halls for the foreseeable future. What kind of horrible host would I be if I let that happen?” 

“A better than you are now,” I shrieked, furiously searching for my clothes. “Leave, Rhysand!” 

“But what if you get lost?” 

“I won’t get lost if I refuse to leave this room for the rest of the week!” Dark blue fabric folded on the armoire caught my eye, and I hurried towards it, snatching it from the lacquered wood. I tore the towel off my head and slipped into the sundress, heart thundering. “How dare you—I was bathing!” 

“I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” he replied, audibly amused. “You were covered—in underwear, mind, but still. I can assure you I’ve seen far more skin of many, many females—”

A burst of emotion I couldn’t place engulfed me so forcefully that it came out in a menacing, rumbling hiss; the room sharpened, turned simultaneously more colourful and colourless, and my gums itched like something mad. Rhys gaped for less than a second before his expression turned so pleased that I flushed from head to toe and stumbled towards the dressing table, desperate to see what, exactly, had made him so smug. 

My veins still thrummed with the lingering remains of the foreign feeling, so much so it almost hurt, but it swiftly faded to make place for my own shock. The mirror reflected something unrecognisable yet undeniably me—eyes a shock of electric turquoise, pupils slit and fangs elongated to thick and sharp weapons of ivory. I looked darker, more shadowed, more fiery. 

It startled me so much that the change melted away, and I was left staring at my familiar though reddened reflection, panting and reeling. 

Fae, I thought frantically, I’m fae. This happens. It slipped out. 

With a breath meant to steady me, I opened one of the drawers of the vanity and took out the obsidian comb I’d been using.

“It’s… it’s uncouth,” I insisted eventually, teeth gritting at the gleeful little giggle he let out. “Rhysand, you can’t just walk into someone’s bedroom—”

“I thought you were already dressed,” he protested. “Dressed, and sulking, most likely…”

“You,” I began, venomous, and I dragged the comb through my hair, unmindful of the snags. “You—”

“Me,” he agreed, swaggering closer until he stood behind me and was able to peer at my reflection over my shoulder. “I know I’m very handsome, but there’s truly no need to be so embarrassed. We are mates, after all.” 

He grinned then, a gleam of sharp, daring white, cockiness spilling off him in waves. My answering glare didn’t even make his smug, stupid face falter. 

“I figured we could use the walk up to talk before eating,” Rhys added. His hand reached out, closing around my trembling wrist; the other plucked the comb from my suddenly limp fingers with infuriating ease. “I want to hear all about your progress.” 

“Go to hell,” I groused, but I didn’t bite his fingers off when he began to carefully comb through my wet hair. 

Rhysand’s grin hardened for a few seconds. “I’ve already visited. Not my preferred travel destination, I tell you.” 

I only glared. Rhys, for he was the most self-centred male I’d ever met, only let his grin morph into a small, smug smile and continued to run the teeth through my hair, careful not to pull at any tangles he came across. Eventually he put the comb down and bent at the waist, rummaging through the opened drawer and taking out that peculiar silver hairbrush. 

“Mor told me you’re doing really well,” he said, as he began to brush. “Reading, writing… I heard you’ve been trying to shield too. Obviously she can’t tell whether it’s any good, but I’ll be putting it to the test today.”

My lack of reply didn’t seem to deter him. 

“Doesn’t it feel good?” he questioned. “Becoming more capable, more independent. Judging by what Mor tells me, you’ll be able to plough through novels by Nynsar, perhaps earlier.” 

Nynsar, one of the minor fae holidays Amarantha had deemed unnecessary and subsequently banned from celebrating. It was months from now; the first to be celebrated in fifty years. 

My jaw tightened. “That’ll still be a while.” 

“‘A while’ in human terms is nothing in our immortal existences,” Rhys said smoothly, still smiling. I looked at his face, the small amount of concentration that the tightness in his muscles revealed, and stayed quiet. “You’ll only need to keep at it. Practise until it becomes second nature.” 

“That’s what Mor said too,” I muttered. 

Rhys beamed. “Mor does have a tendency to be correct.”

He continued brushing, smoothing my hair back over my head until he seemed satisfied. Then he leaned down again and fetched a ribbon. 

Something in me — and I wasn’t certain whether it was just how our relationship should be, or if it was the bond urging me along — wanted to… untether him. The confidence that seemed to be written on his bones was familiar, yes, but I wanted him to lose his balance for once. 

“Mor…” I started, hesitating, before I continued in a rush of breath: “Mor also said you have the wingspan of a fledgling.” 

Rhysand froze for about two breaths. Then he shook himself, gritted his teeth into a tense grin, and said, “Mor doesn’t know what she’s talking about on that front.” 

“She doesn’t?” I asked, heart pounding and body tensing with the urge to giggle. “I don’t know, when I saw them they didn’t look all that impressive.” 

He tied half my hair back with sharp movements. “I assure you that they are.” 

“Hmm. Well, whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

“They are. My wingspan is absolutely above average, and—” he halted, jerked his face up, and stared directly into my eyes. “You’re teasing me.” 

I tilted my head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“You are,” he said, pure, unfiltered glee spreading all over his face. “You’re teasing me.” 

“To reiterate,” I replied, “whatever helps you sleep at night, Rhys.” 

He grinned and bowed his head again, sweeping my hair over my shoulder. I could feel his fingers brush my back; he was fiddling with the lacing of the bodice. 

“You absolutely were teasing me, and that will aid my rest tremendously, thank you very much.” He tightened the bodice, tied the laces in what I assumed to be a little bow. “Where are your shoes?” 

“Somewhere in the room, I suppose.” I shifted and turned, placing both my hands on his chest and staring up at him. “I’m sure your humongous brain can figure it out.” 

His eyes glittered like stars. “You wish for me to pick out your shoes?” 

“Do I have more than one pair? Just grab my shoes, if you’re so interested in their whereabouts.” 

Rhys grinned at me—not lewdly, not feline, just a normal grin of genuine amusement. He reached up to put a lock of hair behind my ear. I graciously allowed it. 

“There are at least five,” he said. “Flats, heels, boots made from leather and boots made from fur. They’re in the armoire.” 

I slipped past him without a word and made my way to the armoire, opened it. And yes, there—on the opposite side of the wedding dress, low and beneath sweeping fabrics held up by hangers, sat six pairs of shoes. 

I snatched a pair of brown leather sandals and pushed the doors closed, walked to the bed to put them on. They were strappy and had a plethora of horrible little silver buckles that I did not know where to attach. 

“Need any help?” he asked, as I struggled. Upon looking up I found him staring at me with that same grin, hip resting against the vanity and arms crossed. “It’s Summer Court fashion, but you’ll find I’m rather proficient in helping beautiful females slipping in or out of clothing—be it from my Court or not.” 

“I’d rather gut myself,” I said sweetly. 

Rhys’ grin widened further, eyebrows jumping up. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to fasten them.” 

“It’s a shoe,” I snarked, struggling. “How would I—”

“Just let me do it,” he said magnanimously, all self-important and puffed up like a peacock. He walked forward and went down on one knee, gripping my left foot by the ankle and resting it on his thigh. Then he briefly looked up, smiling slyly. “I don’t just kneel for anyone, you know.” 

“I know it’s difficult for you, but please just shut up and fasten them.” I gritted my teeth and crossed my arms, looking away. My cheeks had grown hot again. “Your massive ego shouldn’t be inflated further for risk of exploding.” 

“I’ll have you know my ‘massive ego’ is incredibly stretchy and can take at least double of what it is now,” Rhys said. The tips of his fingers brushed over the top of my foot and I had to bite my lip to not jerk it away. He could not know I was ticklish. “There. Next foot, please.”

I hesitantly stretched my leg. Rhys yet again snatched my ankle to hold it still, but had to slip the sandal on this time like I was some sort of faerie Cinderella. Mercifully, he remained quiet as he made quick work of the straps and buckles. 

“Done,” he said, “take a good look at the pattern so you’ll be able to replicate it later. I can’t always be there to put your shoes on for you, Feyre darling.” 

I glared at him through my lashes. He grinned back, a cocky tilt to his mouth. 

“Though I do wish,” he added smoothly, “fervently.” 

Arrogant, annoying bastard. I scowled and swung my legs to the side of him to stand. 

“Let’s just go get breakfast,” I muttered. “Before your damn foot fetish has you crawling.” 

I stalked off to the hallway, ignoring the warmth blooming in my chest at his surprised bark of laughter. There was no honour or joy in making him laugh; I was something to amuse himself with, like a jester, like I had been in Amarantha’s Court. Me being Made didn’t mean I’d never been a pathetic human plaything. 

The scramble of footsteps behind me told me Rhys had followed. He was still chuckling when he reached me with his unfairly large gait, hands buried in his pockets as he twirled to face me. 

“You needn’t run,” he said, delighted. “I won’t bite. Unless you ask me to—”

“I’ll bite you,” I snapped, before I could think to realise what that would imply. The utter glee on his face was enough for me to thoroughly regret ever having opened my mouth. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“But that’s what I took from it,” he tittered. “Oh, Feyre, has no one ever told you to be careful how you word things around the fae?” 

I sped up and went past him, climbing the steps by two. Rhys followed swiftly and was next to me in less time than it took to blink. 

“Little girl, do hold your tongue. I know it’s hard when you’re still young—but the faerie knows and the fearie hears, he’ll twist your words laid in his ears….”

I ignored him, scowling, climbing up and up and up to reach that ridiculous open space—

“…he’ll grab you, take your words for truth; shall take your life, and then your youth. The fearie may be so divine, but he’ll snatch you, tell you, ‘now you’re mine’! The fearie knows, girl, so know this: you give your mouth? He’ll have your kiss.” 

I stomped towards the table, near the stretching veranda that offered that marvellous view of the mountain range. It was already dressed with two plates, a steaming teapot, baskets of bread and bowls of cut fruit; I skidded towards my chair, sat, and angrily poured myself a cup of tea. 

Rhys was still singing as he joined me, voice smokey and lilting. 

“The folk of fair, they dance and sing, they’ll offer you food and leisure; but be prepared, and be on guard: eat and be theirs for pleasure.”

“That’s not how the verse goes,” I told him stiffly. “It’s, ‘the folk of fair will dance and sing, and offer you food and joy; but be prepared and be on guard: accept, and be their toy’. Where the hell did you learn it’s ‘pleasure’?” 

Rhys leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “I changed it to fit our situation.”

“The original fits better,” I said, spooning some melon onto my plate. “According to you I’m Tamlin’s cuddly little stuffy, remember?” 

“But you’re not mine,” he retorted, still twinkling. My scowl deepened. “Oh, don’t be like that, Feyre darling—I’d never just take you for my pleasure. Only if you ask nicely.”

I didn’t know what to even say to that, though my mouth nevertheless opened for a scathing reply. Quick as a whip, Rhys picked up a grape and pushed it onto my tongue. 

“Maybe we’ll include rhyme into your lessons,” he mused, as I chewed in the most aggressive manner possible and shot daggers at him with my eyes. “Yes, that could be fun—faerie Feyre, eyes like ice, won’t you sing a song for me? I’ve sung so much my throat is raw, here on my bended knee…”

Lessons with Rhysand were different from lessons with Mor, in which we occupied a library instead of the alcove-study, and Rhysand spent much of his time staring at me and trying to get a rise out of me. He threw balled paper at my head, wrote ridiculous sentences for me to read out loud and copy — Rhysand is the most beautiful and handsome High Lord, Rhysand is Feyre Archeron’s favourite High Lord, Rhysand has an incredibly impressive wingspan, Morrigan is a lying liar who lies and is always incorrect in her frivolous assumptions — and used the command ‘shield’ as a way to get me to lower or raise my mental wall. Though it was admittedly kind of torturous, it was, much like the lessons with Mor, nothing like I’d imagined my stay at the Night Court to be prior to him stealing me away. 

Instead of counting the hours to my departure in a bare-boned cell, I had been given a lavish suite and was often seated in comfortable chairs; instead of being physically tortured, he simply tried his best at annoying me by being himself; instead of being given gruel, the food I was offered was incredible and delicious and easy to keep down. My clothing was comfortable and clean. I was allowed to bathe and sleep whenever I wished, provided those wishes did not coincide with my lessons. 

Back then I’d imagined Rhysand to sit on his throne or hide in the shadows as he ordered my torture. I’d imagined him watching it happen with a sick kind of glee that fit more on Amarantha’s face than his own. But that fear was entirely unfounded, as my stay so far had proven. The aftershocks of other people’s prejudices and his initial deception had swept me away and dumped me into a vat of sticky, thick anxiety; my fantasies had subsequently run wild after hearing that Amarantha had modelled her Court after his, assuming Rhys was, in essence, just like her. 

Perhaps he was, in a way. Perhaps I simply was his favourite plaything at the moment, and he allowed me a semblance of freedom just to keep me placated. I couldn’t genuinely trust him just yet—maybe never. 

“So,” he said, after reading through the assignment he gave me. I was met by a smile, which I supposed meant that I did well. “Shielding.” 

I did not groan, though I wanted to. 

“Mor said she described it to you as a wall shielding your mind,” he murmured. “She said she’d asked you to practise. I’d like to test you.” 

My shields, that’d still been down at his last command, slowly rose up again. I glared at him and sat back, playing with my pen. 

“Go ahead then,” I said. “Slip into my mind, like you’re so fond of doing.” 

Rhysand smiled a very feline smile. He didn’t move; and still, I felt tendrils of shadow actively slithering across the bridge between our minds. All too soon talons tapped along the walls of adamant I’d raised, questioning and explorative; they scratched along them, still incapable of inflicting any damage. 

The tendrils retreated. “Interesting. You’ve utilised your will.” 

“Outrage is a good motivator,” I replied.

“So it is.” Rhys’ grin widened. “I want to show you something—why it’s so important to have mental shields. Lower the wall for a moment, darling.”

I did, though I did not stop glaring at him. The tendrils entered my mindscape almost immediately, curious, explorative; it almost tickled with how gentle they were.

Then they struck.

My entire body seized, breath caught in my throat and extremities tingling. I was caught, stuck, embraced in a menacing hold of power like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. It felt like one wrong movement would have me mauled. 

“This is what a deamati like me can do to the unprotected mind,” Rhys said quietly. His gaze was intense, shining, and I wished to glare at him but was too frightened to. “Right now I’m just holding you, but one simple action from me can destroy you. Everything you are, everything that makes you you. It’s why you need to shield.”

I couldn’t speak but nevertheless managed to conjure the image of a massive middle finger to get my point across. Rhys sniggered unsettlingly and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. 

“Now push me out,” he whispered. 

That was easier said than done, I assumed, but I messily attempted to follow his order. The tendrils were everywhere, creeping along the bookshelves and through the aisles, slipping between them and cradling memories like he wishes to take them. I fought back, ripped them from his grip, frantic and panicked; started slapping them away like they were buzzing flies. 

“Come on,” he urged me, “try a little harder. Your walls are impeccable, so I know your will is strong enough…”

It was less like I had endless hands to get ahold of the tendrils and eject them, and more like I erected a force field that steadily grew to encompass my mind and pushed Rhys out. I stared at his face, the excitement growing on it, and pushed, pushed—

The last of the tendrils were blasted back towards the bridge, and I raised my wall of adamant in the same breath before they could even attempt to return. With his hold having vanished, my body slumped forward like a puppet with its strings snipped through—I panted, rubbed at my damp forehead, and flexed my fingers to get used to the feeling of control again. 

“Excellent!” Rhys crowed. “That was incredible, my darling, I simply knew you could do it—now, returning to the matter at hand, why don’t you read me a passage from this book…”

Though I barely had the energy to glare at him, I did so anyway. And I took the book from his hands just as easily. 

The next day, my last full day in the Night Court, I walked — alone — to the hall where we ate together to find Mor sprawled out in a cream armchair and Rhysand pacing furiously. It felt intrusive, as they were obviously discussing something grave, so I purposefully kept my steps loud and audible as I approached. 

“Azriel would want to know that,” Mor said, fiddling with the end of her standard braid. “He—”

“…can go to hell,” Rhys finished snappishly, continuing to pace. His steps were aggressive and long. “And he likely knows already, anyway.” 

“Listen. The last time this happened, we were playing games. We lost then, quite horribly, and that shouldn’t happen again.” Mor’s tone was so serious that I paused for a moment. “We can’t lose again.” 

“And you should be working,” Rhys replied. “I gave you control for a reason.”

Mor’s face tilted up and her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, before she took a bracing breath and turned to face me with a stiff smile. “Good morning, Feyre.” 

Rhys tripped over thin air. 

“Good morning,” I replied cautiously, watching Rhys regain his footing and send me an unreadable look. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“No,” said Mor. “No, I think it’s a good idea that you know this, too.”

Her chin tilted down and her eyes glittered, like she knew something I didn’t. Rhys cursed under his breath and resumed pacing. 

“Just say what it is you came here to say, Mor.”

Mor sighed, her facial expression turning quite grave. “There was another attack—at a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess was slain, and the trove was looted.”

Rhys halted once more, this time smooth and poised like a wildcat. And then he uttered, in a tone that perfectly revealed his complete and utter fury: “Who.”

“We don’t know,” said Mor. “Same tracks as last time: small group, bodies that show signs of wounds from large blades, and no trace of where they came from or how they disappeared. There were no survivors; the bodies weren’t found until a day later, by a group of passing pilgrims.” 

I swallowed audibly, and perhaps exhaled a little too hard, because Mor gave me a tight and sympathetic look. And Rhys, who apparently had been hanging onto the last vestiges of his control, broke—plumes of utter shadow rose from his back in a terrifying flare before they solidified into flesh. 

They looked as I remembered: beautiful and massive wings, membranous and clawed like those of a bat, in a shade of darkness so intense it was as though they sucked in light. They made him look sturdier, like they belonged in full sunlight or under the pearlescent glow of the night—like he stood differently, somehow. 

“What did Azriel have to say?” he breathed.

“Well, he’s fucking furious,” Mor answered, glancing at me again. “Cassian’s worse—he’s convinced it’s got to be those Illyrian war-bands again, intent on expanding their territory.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rhys said, amused in a very dangerous way. “Some clans bowed happily to Amarantha the last forty-nine years. Perhaps they wish to see how far they can push me and get away with it.”

Mor hmm’ed. “Cas and Az are waiting in—erm, the usual spot for your orders.”

She gave me an apologetic grimace and I couldn’t do anything but shrug. I wasn’t Night Court, I was the bride of an enemy—it was miraculous Rhys allowed me to overhear as much as I had. Like playing with fire, though I had no idea where Cesare even was. 

Rhys glanced at the open skies from behind the windows, jaw working. The wind was fierce and loud; the clouds were dark and menacing, thundering over mountaintops like an avalanche of ash. 

Good weather for flying, I thought, staring at the wings protruding from Rhysand’s back. But then Mor said, “Winnowing in would be easier.”

Rhys scowled. “Tell those pricks I’ll be there in a few hours.” 

Mor laughed a barking laugh, winked at me, and promptly vanished—like reality itself folded in on her and pushed her out of sight. 

Though I’d seen a handful of High Fae do it, it still surprised me. I gaped at her empty chair for a few moments before shaking myself and carefully stepping closer. 

“How does that vanishing work?” I asked.

Rhys glanced at me and stretched one wing out fully, tip quivering slightly. “Winnowing?” 

“If that’s what it’s called.” No-one had ever explained, neither the theory nor actual act. 

“Think of it as… stepping from one place to the other,” he said. “Like two points on a cloth. One is where you are; the other your destination. Our magic folds the cloth until the two points are touching one another directly, and then we simply step through.” 

I blinked at him. “Can anyone do it?” 

“No, it’s a rare gift.” He shrugged. “You need to be powerful to do it. The more powerful you are, the further you can travel; and the further you travel, the more keenly you feel the fabric of the world brushing past you. Going from one side of the room to another, though, feels like a single step.” 

I rubbed my hands together, then glanced down at my fingers. Licked my lips. “Do you think I’d be able to learn it?” 

I didn’t look up until I suddenly heard footsteps growing closer; when I did, Rhys was so close to me I could feel the heat of his body. 

Silence, save for the muffled roar of wind in the background, swelled between us as he stared at me. His eyes flit over my face, lingering on my mouth, then my eyes. And then he smiled a very small smile. 

“Feyre,” he said, “you know this—I think you can learn to do anything.”

I stared back at him, and for a moment I couldn’t hear anything but my heartbeat in my ears. His smile widened; my own mouth twitched. The jasmine-scented breeze blew his own scent to me, citrus and rain and sea, a freshness that would’ve startled me had it not become familiar to me by now. I hesitantly, carefully, reached out and straightened his already straight lapels. 

“I’m sorry about the priestesses, and the temple,” I whispered. 

His smile froze, eyes shuttering. “Plenty more people will die.”

I continued to straighten his lapels, jaw tight, then brushed invisible lint off his shoulders. It was calming, the motion—prevented me from growing irate, or fearful, or anything other than contemplative. Touching him continued to be inexplicably grounding. Even some of the tenseness in Rhysand’s form dissipated. 

He let me overhear the conversation, I decided, because he wanted me to know. He needed me to, if only to reiterate our conversation from two days prior: Hybern and the threat it is. 

Plenty more people will die. 

“So… I know what Illyrians are,” I continued, “but what did Mor mean with ‘war-bands’? Are they groups of soldiers who’ve deserted?”

“All Illyrians are warriors, and in all technicality they ought to be loyal to me as their High Lord,” Rhys said, teeth baring into something between a grimace and a menacing grin. “Even more so because I’m half Illyrian myself. However, some of them don’t quite like me as I banned a few of their traditional Illyrian practices. That did not go over well; the males collected their females and children and began to—erm, show their discontent with me. I suppose that ‘deserters’ is an apt description, but ‘murderous rioters’ fits as well.”

“And they kneeled for Amarantha?” I frowned up at him, clenched my jaw in thought. “Are they the groups of fae you’re worried will join Hybern?” 

Rhys inclined his head in what could barely count as a nod. “Yes, some bowed to her. And yes, these war-bands are some of the groups of fae I’m worried about. There are many others, but these males specifically—” his eyes flamed, “—me and mine have been thoroughly enjoying hunting them down, and ending them for their actions.”

Slowly, I finished mentally. My eyebrows raised and I ceased petting him down, merely resting my hands flat against his chest. 

“Was that why you were so busy these last couple of days?” I asked lightly. “Or were you running away?” 

His tight grimace did not fall. “I was busy with many things.” 

“Sure,” I said. “High Lord-things. Of course.”

Rhys nodded, and I couldn’t help but note that he hadn’t given me a straight answer. Lingering embarrassment, perhaps—or just a plain need not to divulge everything to someone who wasn’t loyal to him. 

I drummed my fingers on his chest, played with a button. “Will you be busy again today?” 

“Yes,” Rhys said, a touch strangled. He swallowed; I watched the protrusion around his larynx bob up, then met his eyes again. “I… I need to help. Lead. Give orders.” 

“Of course,” I murmured. “Have you left me any assignments to work through?” 

“Plenty,” he whispered. 

We stared at one another for a few more breaths, and then I nodded sharply and stepped back, my hands dropping to rest beside my thighs. And Rhys stood there, looking a little bit lost before he visibly gathered himself. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Before taking you back.”

I nodded again. Rhys nodded as well, then turned to step out onto the balcony. He rested his foot on the parapet, sending me one last unreadable look over his shoulder. 

Then he jumped off and vanished. I somehow didn’t cry out in surprise; and even if I’d wanted to, it couldn’t even have left my throat before the fright would have ebbed away. He rose up with a twirl, winked at me, and swept off into the curling roll of storm clouds with just a handful of powerful beats from his wings. 

“Show off,” I grumbled, and I stalked off to study all on my own, legs unsteady and jittery with the lingering shock. 

Back in the library, I sorted through the endless little notes he’d left me and parsed through his looping, fancy handwriting—slightly different from Mor’s, but clear enough that I didn’t have too much trouble figuring out what he’d written. There were absurd, egocentric sentences because of course there were, but he’d also written that I ought to practise the solidity of my mental shields. Imagining one other person had the key, or was allowed to phase through, for example; reordering my thoughts and placing the wall in a different section, so that a less practised deamati could be tricked into finding what I wished for them to find, rather than what they wanted to find. The concept was intriguing and made some sense, but mainly if I was locked in a place with one or two daemati and it was wartime. Yet another hint that Rhys expected me to join the fighting. 

He was such a fucking prick. 

But I practised nevertheless, because the strain felt… good, somehow. It felt like running until my muscles were burning. Refreshing, almost. And besides, the note implied that I had to be able to rise and drop my wall while thinking of other things, which left me with plenty of time to mull over the information Rhys had allowed me to overhear. Especially because that implied he wouldn’t necessarily mind it if Tamlin was informed. 

Tamlin, I supposed, and Ianthe. 

Perhaps she’d known the victims. Perhaps she’d already be aware of the murders, by the time I came back to tell. But perhaps, she didn’t know that the temple in Cesare was only one of many attacked—and I thought she should know that. 

I ate lunch alone in my room, then wandered: read simple texts, played with my toes, attempted to rummage through cabinets that ended up being locked. Inside my room none were, and I opened the armoire to stare at the poofy custard mess that was my wedding dress. With the doors opening, tiny little pearls and sequins once more fell tinkling onto the ground. 

It still annoyed me. The sight of it still caused anger and embarrassment to surge high. I’d wanted it when it was picked out; I’d stopped wanting it by the time I was hoisted into it, by the time Rhys whisked me off, by the time he compared it to a cupcake and I suspected, knew, that he was right. 

It was almost time to go back home, the dress told me. I almost shook with it. I wondered, once more, how obvious my hesitation had been—how many people had seen me almost say no, say that it was too soon, say that I couldn’t, not yet. I wondered how I could possibly explain it if it had to be explained. I wondered if the fae of spring would confront me with it, demand answers, in the same breath that they’d demand me to divulge any and all secrets of the Night Court I’d managed to uncover during my stay. 

For some indiscernible reason, that made me angry. That I—that I was useful for show, to have, and useful for potential information of enemy territory. Nothing else. Or — and I scoffed, gritted my teeth so hard it would’ve cracked my human molars — for fighting, as Rhysand had so kindly informed me. 

My right of existence, no matter my species, was contingent on my usefulness to others. It always had been. I’d prided myself on it, once; now, it felt more like a death knell. 

I closed the armoire, bottom lip trembling. Ate dinner alone and took a bath. Dunked below the surface, swam and twirled, stayed in there until I’d shrivelled up into a woman-shaped prune and I could rub the dead skin off my limbs with nothing more than a brief rub of my hand. I washed my hair and oiled it, massaged my scalp; went back under and wondered, as I blinked up, squinting, at the surface, what it would be like to stay beneath the water. 

Night had fallen by the time I was dressed in a soft pair of pyjamas and padded out of the bathroom to climb into bed. It was snowing, and I could smell it, but it felt freeing rather than miserable like I’d expected. And though my sleep was restless, I managed to rise and get dressed before the dawn had fully broken. And the storm had stopped. 

I found Rhys in the same hall we ate in once more. Slouching, he was still dressed in the same clothes as yesterday; his hair was windswept, and he looked tired. I wondered if he’d even slept, if he’d only just arrived—worried for half a second, then questioned why on Earth I cared whether he was okay. 

“Good morning,” I said hesitantly. 

He glanced my way and offered me a brittle smile. Then he took a large gulp from a brown, familiar-smelling liquid in a crystal glass. 

I inched closer and wondered whether I should sit down. “Should you be drinking around me?” 

“Who said I was drinking?” he asked, but he downed the remainder in one go and reached for a refill. “Good morning.”

“To reiterate,” I said, “should you be drinking around me? You got rather… emotional, last time. Revealed a little much.” 

Rhys slouched further. From nearer by, I could see that he’d undone the top few buttons of his tunic; it was rumpled, like he’d slept in them. I doubted he’d slept. 

“Do you want any tea?” he asked. “Maybe a pastry, or some fruit? Or do you want me to deposit you back in Spring like the doll Tamlin believes you to be as soon as possible?” 

I reared back, fire erupting within my chest cavity. “Excuse me?” 

He grinned lazily and raised his glass. “Sorry. Filter’s a touch gone.”

My eyes narrowed, lip twitching as I resisted the urge to curl it. His explanation, or apology, or excuse did not help me become less irate. If anything, I grew even more outraged. 

“If you’re going to be like this then yes, I’d love to skip breakfast so you can… deposit me back in the Spring Court like the object I apparently am.”

He took a few quick swallows and set the crystal down, wiping his mouth. “You said it, not me.” 

His gaze then fell on my outfit, a variation of the first one I’d worn here; it was a dusky kind of purple, this time. I watched as his eyes widened; his mouth fell open, just a touch. I shifted, scowling. 

“Do I need to say ‘please’? Are those the magic words you require?” He didn’t answer, just stared at my exposed midriff. “Rhysand!” 

His whole body jerked, and like a spell had broken, he met my eyes with his own wide and almost guilty. 

“You only call me Rhysand when you’re cross with me,” he whined. “Why are you always cross with me? The colour just looks wonderful on you.”

“I’m cross with you because you’re the most infuriating male I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting,” I retorted sharply. 

But the wording was a mistake, because a smug, feline grin crossed his lips almost immediately. His head tilted, his face exuded arrogance, and then he purred, like a prick: “So it was a pleasure to meet me, was it, Feyre darling?” 

I closed my eyes. Counted to ten in my head, twice. 

“Rhys.”

“Just sit,” he drawled. “Have some tea, have some fruit—or a drink with me, if you need to mentally prepare before facing the undoubtedly disastrous consequences of your sudden absence. A bit of liquid courage, if you will.”

“I don’t need any liquid courage,” I said testily, but I did sit down, like a weakling. I wasn’t sure why I’d stopped insisting — however briefly I had done so — to take me back home, but there was some part of me that felt sick at the thought of leaving. Likely the mating bond, traitorous thing that it was. “Give me some tea.” 

“Anything for the lady.” He snapped his fingers and in an instant, a steaming teapot, two delicate cups, and a basket of pastries appeared on the table. “Summoning,” he explained, at my confused look. “It was already done—I simply made it come here. You sure you don’t want something stronger? I can also add some to your tea…”

“It’s far too early, you prick,” I replied, refusing to be polite. Rhys just smiled at me and poured the tea, sliding the cup over. “Are you really willing to bring me back?” 

“Like I said, anything for the lady.” He inclined his head and leaned back in his chair, lifting his leg to rest his ankle on his knee. The glass was picked back up, balanced precariously between his long fingers. “Just on the last day, of course.”

“Right,” I said, sceptical. Rhys just smiled serenely and took a sip of his drink. “Because I’m a guest.” 

“Exactly,” he said. “See? You’re learning things here.”

I rolled my eyes and snatched a pastry, ignoring how the flaky outside grumbled in my grip. Rhys sipped at his drink, watching me. 

“What?” I asked eventually, through a mouthful of butter and cherry. 

He smiled again. “You look better. Got a bit of colour,” he leaned in, tapped my cheek, “and the marks under your eyes are almost gone. And, of course, your progress…” 

“And the discovery I have magic,” I grumbled. 

He tapped the tip of my nose, grinning widely when I retreated and wrinkled it. 

“Yes,” he said, “good point.” 

He leaned back once more, tilting his head back, and I eyed him as covertly as possible—which wasn’t much, considering a sliver of violet was still on me. Just from a plain observation, Rhys looked much the same as he did at the beginning of the week; just a bit less drunk, but still similarly tired. Looking closer, however, I could see the lines of stress around his mouth and between his neatly groomed eyebrows. 

Maybe, I thought, or likely, he doesn’t want to bring me back. 

I didn’t dwell on that though, because I didn’t exist for Rhysand’s happiness. I ate my pastry and drank my tea, wiping my hands on my trousers when I was finished. Then I stood. 

“Shall we go?” I asked. 

“So soon?” Rhys whined, but he threw back the remainder of his drink and climbed to his feet, stumbling only a little. He walked closer, hands in his pockets, and smiled tightly. “Very well then. You don’t want to wait for Mor?” 

“I—” I started, realising I’d honestly forgotten about her promise. But I shook my head. “Do you have a piece of paper? And a pen?” 

Rhys’ hand emerged from his pocket with just what I asked for. I eyed his form suspiciously but took the objects, then leaned over to the table to carefully write a goodbye message. Just an apology and a promise I’d see her the next time, if the bargain wasn’t broken by then.

I straightened up and Rhys grabbed my wrist, pulling me against him almost immediately. He leaned in even closer, nose against my temple, like the alcohol allowed him to. Said: “Ready, then?”

His breath reeked of the liquor he’d been drinking and I wrinkled my nose again, but my words came out amused. “You sure you’re up for winnowing?”

“I’ve winnowed far less sober than this and arrived in one piece, if you must know,” he replied promptly. “And you’d know.” 

I pulled a face and he chuckled humourlessly, tugging me a little closer. 

“Alright,” he said, “hold on tight.”

And the world faded into a whirl of darkness and wind, a trip through realms made only less terrifying by the steady, warm line of Rhys’ body against my own. I clutched at him almost against my will, pressing tighter, and his forehead dropped to rest against my hair. 

The solid ground and sudden blast of light was just as disorienting as winnowing itself. I blinked and squinted was my pupils acclimatised to the assault of sunshine, my hand still gripping Rhysand’s bicep. The manor, a monstrous behemoth of sandstone, rose up in my peripheral; there were flagstones beneath my feet, sturdy and weathered. Birdsong and sound of wind brushing through the leaves of the ancient oak tree next to us told me he’d taken us to the edge of the manor’s gardens.

The air smelled sweet, cloying, like roses. My tongue felt almost too thick for my mouth.

I cautiously stepped away from the High Lord next to me, looked at him. He appeared out of place here, too sleek for the romance of the Spring Court—all sharp, black lines against the rosy and soft backdrop. He didn’t belong here. The crooked smile he sent me, stiff and brittle all at the same time, told me he knew it. 

“Good luck,” he whispered, leaning in to brush his mouth over my temple. “You’re going to need it, Feyre darling.”

He released me, stepped back—and was gone, in an overly dramatic swirl of lingering, smoke-like shadow.

[drolly-rolly]

Ghost Soap: Berlin, a club, a dark room

(CW: age gap, unrequited SoapGaz, kink/BDSM, experience gap, eventual Ghoap is 100% consensual BUT definitely could be considered rushed/too fast by the fault of either/both of these dumb, horny men) Gaz and Soap are traveling during a uni holiday break, bumping through the continent before they have to go back and properly crack down: Kyle’s has a real shot at the Olympic team and Soap’s crammed his upcoming term with more courses than anyone should in an effort to save the dwindling funds from his scholarship. The only reason Soap’s along at all is Kyle’s charity and he tries not to think too much about how much, and exactly why, he’s going to miss him. They’re in Berlin when they meet up with this goth chick that Soap is desperately trying to impress. She goes along with it and invites them both to the club: It's overwhelming in the way that they are for first timers, which both of them absolutely are. Soap definitely lied about how experienced he was (or deliberately left out how green he is) to impress this girl so naturally the situation once they’re inside goes all tits up in the wrong way. The girl ends up making out with Gaz in the hallway instead of Soap and he can’t blame her, look at the guy. Or maybe she was hoping she’d get both of them, way she’s looking at him, but that’s definitely too close to those things Soap doesn’t want to think concerning Gaz so he wishes them well, despite the hollow gnawing in his chest and wanders.

He ends up talking to a woman who’s a little older, beautiful and attractive but she laughs and just pats him on the head when he thinks that CBT means Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, he took Intro Psych his first year, and suggests he find someone more his speed to play with. 

“Play? I’m not a kid.” He says. He’s been with older women and they’ve liked him and there’s definitely something about this one that he likes.

“Not that kind of play.” She just smiles at him with perfectly painted lips. Then asks him if she can help him find his friends, but he’s a stubborn little idiot with bruised pride so of course he tells her it's fine.

After that he just wants a place to curl up and be the fuck alone and have his sad, confused boy- man, adult man, feelings. But he’s sort of lost and doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go and definitely doesn’t speak enough German to really properly navigate this place that is so much bigger than it looked from the outside.. Naturally ends up where he shouldn’t be.

Enter Ghost, full gear. Mask, of course. Not currently with anyone per se but assisting another pair. Hears Soap before he sees him. Rolls his eyes, figures he should probably get this stupid kid out of here. Soap’s not expecting the massive man in the skull mask and the whole… outfit… to speak english. Isn’t expecting his knees to turn into pudding when he hears the voice. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be back here, sweetheart.” He stalks forward and Soap can’t look away. “Why not?” Soap says. It's stupid. But right now he’d do anything to keep those dark, almost black eyes on him. Keep him saying ‘sweetheart’ instead of ‘kid’. “Door wasn’t locked.”

“I think you know why.”  Ghost says. “If I don’t…Would you teach me?””

And the way he bats his eyelashes has to be intentional, has to know what he’s doing. Testing Ghost’s self control. “You definitely don’t know what you’re asking for.”

(Part 1, already working on Part 2!) Special kudos to @leathfaic for our silly chit chats that lead to this.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

hello, me again, & I’m sorry if I missed any of your guidelines for requests—but I see that yours are open & I really like your writing! 👀👀 may I request anything fluffy/angsty with Vi/reader? (Or if you’re not writing for her anymore, literally anyone 😂) maybe reader feeling insecure & Vi reassuring them? (But if not that’s okay sjdjdkd)

First off, lemme just say asdfghjkll I meant to have this done months ago, very sorry about the wait! I got most of it done before the holidays hit and I kinda just flailed around for a bit. Also, technically I said I wouldn't be taking Arcane requests yet (because I had a bunch of ideas for Arcane fics I wanted to finish first), but I'm allowed to break my own rules, so~

To Exist Is Enough

Genre: Fluff, comfort Rating: T, maybe? There's a few mildly suggestive lines, but only in the sense that it implies/references past activities Summary: You're feeling a bit insecure today, and Vi does her best to help. Even if she can't make you love yourself right away, she can try to ease your pain. // Alternatively: Somewhat inspired by some posts I've seen talking about unlearning self hatred by starting with self tolerance- you do not have to love your body to tolerate it, to understand that it is useful, that it is a container for your mind. I am not wording this well, oop Notes: Gender neutral reader (for my fellow enbies), referenced + established issues with body image and anxiety, I'm not 100% confident on some of the dialogue, Vi calls the reader "sweets" as a pet name, Caitlyn is mentioned once but only in a friendship context

She knows- always, without fail, more often a blessing than a curse. Whenever your heart trembles, whenever doubts creep up like vines weaving themselves through the cracks of your mind, she knows. It is a sixth sense. A work of magic, almost, the way she knows your patterns as thoroughly as she knows her own. Today proves to be no different than any other, at least in this regard.

“Hey,” Vi says, her smile evident by the way it curves her tone, even within this single syllable. From where you lay, in the dark, you cannot see anything but her silhouette. She’s resting against the doorframe, peering into the bedroom with what you can only assume is gentle concern. “Mind if I turn the light on?” Murmuring your assent, you untuck yourself from your blankets, raising a tired hand to wipe the sleep from your eyes. Soon enough there’s a familiar weight next to you, and through your squinting you can make out Vi’s warm smile. As always, your heart flutters at the sight.

“G’morning,” you mumble, before shifting to rest your head on your girlfriend’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be hard to fall back asleep. There’s a comfort that comes with Vi’s presence, a sense of safety and warmth; a scent too, come to think of it. It grows stronger as you lean into her, face pressed against her neck, breathing in a heavenly mix of undercity spices and Piltovan floral soap (a moving-in gift from Caitlyn). Something about the combination suits her, and you’ve grown to love the sharp contrast. Nowhere felt as much like home as her embrace, and you are quick to lose yourself in the feeling.

“No morning kiss, sweets?” Vi eventually teases. A blush overtakes your cheeks as you sheepishly pull back just far enough to give her what she wanted. Although the kiss is brief, it is more than enough to make your heart skip a beat; and when you catch sight of Vi’s loving gaze in the aftermath? Oh, the entirety of the world was a million miles away, in that moment, nothing existed but the two of you. “Mmm,” she whispers, only daring to break the silence so that she may showcase her affection, “there’s the pretty face I missed so much. You’ve been hiding it from me all morning.”

It’s not her fault that the words make you wince, of course, but she falters all the same. Anxiety had been gnawing at your heart all morning, painfully repeating an age old worry. Your thoughts had followed this path so often, for so long, that they might as well have worn-down the very flesh of your mind, carving in deeper and deeper grooves. Escaping this cycle was something Vi endeavored to help you accomplish. Somedays you even believed her when she complimented your appearance- sometimes it just felt like she was going through the motions, consoling you because that was simply her nature.

“Hey, sweets, please look at me,” Vi says, the words knocking you out of your own head. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized that your eyes were closed. Taking a deep breath, you look back up at her, forcing yourself to give a weak smile. “There we go, that’s better. Can you unclench your jaw for me?” Her fingers gently trace along the edge of your face, and she can feel the exact moment you do as she asks, her eyes gaining a self-satisfied twinkle. Then she speaks again, the words slow, not quite hesitant, more so cautious. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost scoff in response. Do you want to talk about it? It. It. The elephant in the room. The big, bad, thing Better Left Unnamed. Vi was just being gentle (and you know this), but you’ve still got anger in your chest. Just not at her, not really, and you take another deep breath before allowing yourself to respond.

“What, are you going to spend another hour trying to convince me that I’m beautiful?... I’m not sure that’s what I need right now,” you answer, at last, doing your best to keep your tone as light as possible. Maybe even with a twinge of mirth. Admittedly your success is mixed, but Vi doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seems more sympathetic, and she starts rubbing gentle circles into your back as she holds you.

“I have an idea for something different,” she starts to say, leaning in close until her breath tickles your ear, “if you’re up for it.” A moment passes, then two, as a blush creeps up your face, your mind reeling with predictions for what was to come. Except Vi isn’t wearing her trademark smirk, nor are her fingers already seeking out certain sensitive spots. Whatever she has in mind… you get the feeling that it’s more than just a fun distraction.

So you nod; after all, what do you have to lose?

“Alright, sweets, lay back for me, okay? Get nice and comfortable,” Vi instructs, in a voice she normally reserves for certain activities. A mix of curiosity and excitement builds up in your chest, and you’re more than eager to do what she says. Once you start getting settled, your girlfriend explains what exactly she had in mind. “I want you to love every inch of your body the same way I do, and I know how hard it can be to get out of your own head when it comes to shit like this. You can’t force love, not even for yourself, right?

“That’s why we are going to start smaller. You are so much more than just beautiful, sweets, and I want you to be able to hold back your hate, at least a little bit. Tolerance is still better than hatred,” she says, slowly trailing her fingers along your side as she does. Then her hands wander back up, stopping to rest on your biceps. “Mmm, these? These are the arms that hold me close, night after night,” her hands slide down to your own, “and these are the hands that have touched me, caressed me. Pressed against all the right spots, soothed my aches and wrapped my wounds, working next to mine all the time.

“Now,” she continues, grinning, taking on a hint of mischief as her hands move ever downwards, “these are the legs that carried you to me, through everything that life threw at us. These are the thighs that give me a place to rest… and wrap around my-”

“Vi!” You interject, blushing heavily, knowing exactly what she was getting at. Both of you are smiling, and your objection devolves into quiet laughter. Something in your chest feels lighter than it did just a few minutes ago. “Maybe save that part for tonight, alright?” Still smiling as bright as ever, she gives a quiet hum of agreement, nodding before moving upwards. It may simply be your imagination, but you’re fairly certain that there’s a light dusting of pink on her cheeks as she speaks.

“Where were we… ah, right,” Vi chirps, tucking a finger under your chin and letting her gaze linger on your lips. Then her eyes meet yours, her thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth. For a moment you are rendered breathless. The way she was looking at you, the love and tender appreciation, the loveliest brand of desire. “These are the lips that give me good morning kisses, the mouth that tells me how you love me, that whispers all the comfort in the world when I need it.” Pausing, she places a tiny kiss on the tip of your nose before giving you a cheesy grin. “That nose? Perfect. Adorable.”

By now her energy is downright infectious. A smile dances on your lips, and you almost want to interrupt her with a kiss, but something tells you to wait a little longer.

“I could stare at those gorgeous eyes all day, sweets, but I think you already knew that,” Vi teases, taking a moment to brush her thumb across the top of your cheek, right under your eye. A lovely glint flashes in her eyes, and you just know that she’s as tempted to kiss you as you are to kiss her. But she resists, trailing her fingers down to your stomach. Instinctively you take a sharp breath at the touch. She knows your heart, however, and makes this even more gentle than before. When she speaks, it is with the whisper of devotion. A prayer dedicated to only you. “This is the stomach I wrap my arms around, the place I tie myself to at night, where I hold myself to you.”

Slowly, she shifts back upwards a small degree, finalizing her ritual with something a tad less intense.

“And this is the chest I get to lay my head on, listening to the way your heart races when we’re together. The reminder that we’re alive, and you aren’t leaving any time soon.” As she speaks, one hand rests directly over your heart, the other seeks out your own and holds tight. Pain dares to rear its ugly head for a brief, unholy second, flickering in her eyes. You know she is remembering those she has lost- and you know that she is silently promising not to lose you. The fear vanishes as quickly as it came. In its place, you find nothing but love.

“Thank you, Vi,” you say, after what feels like a couple minutes of easy quiet. Before your girlfriend can shrug off your praise, you continue, giving her hand a squeeze as you do. “I mean it, seriously. Sometimes I get stuck inside my own head… but you always seem to know how to get me back home. I’ll always love you for that. For everything you do, and everything you are.” In response, Vi gets even closer, peppering your face with kisses, then resting her face against your neck, hiding her blush from you.

“I love you too, sweets,” she mumbles, her breath tickling your throat. Her arms are right where they belong, curled around you, just as she had described. Maybe she hadn’t magically cured your ills, but she had certainly convinced you of her love, and made your self-doubt grow quieter for today. “Now c’mon,” she says after a minute or two, raising her head to look into your eyes with a lovestruck expression. “We should grab something for breakfast before it’s time for lunch.” 

And just like she had lifted the fog from over your eyes, she takes your hand and helps you up, ready to face the day by your side.

[unicornmachine]

Dumping my Huntbunny brain rot from X here so I remember to come back to it and write it one day

Imagine an AU where Hunter Wizard is trapped in Human World living in Hunter and Fionna’s apartment while they try to figure out how to get him home without magic… 🤣

“AGH! You cannot hunt squirrels here!! They did nothing wrong!” 😱

“Gross, HW! No dead animals in the house!” 😖

Fi: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HW?!?- THAT’S MY BOSS YOU CAN’T BEAT HIM AND TIE HIM UP FOR ‘DISRESPECTING’ ME, YOU’RE GOING TO GET ME FIRED AGAIN 😫😫😫”

Human Hunter has wanted to do this for a long time, he cannot be that mad about it

Fionna and Human Hunter cooking 🧑🏻‍🍳 a deluxe, five-star dinner for HW just to finish setting the table and finding him gnawing on a raw, dripping deer leg

Trying to get him to take a shower 😩 he wouldn’t trust it, and the perfumed soap would make his nose twitch 🧼🚿

Fionna would make him up a nice, comfy bed with fluffy pillows and cozy blankets he wouldn’t sleep in, they would find him out front passed out in the hedges

“Oh my god… a bird has made a nest in his antlers… we shouldn’t disturb them…”

Cake brings inside a dead chipmunk

Fi: “ewww I’ll get it…” 🤢

Before she can do anything HW gobbles it up.

Fi: 😨

HW: “I like the little furry hunter…”

Cake purrs and roosts on him

They are friends ever since 😭



H. Hunter: “I’m sorry he’s causing such chaos”

Fi: “it’s okay, I’m getting used to it, and look how nice him and Cake get along… they’re running around outside together chasing birds, how cute… oH MY GOD THEY’VE CAUGHT AN EAGLE! NOO HW THEY’RE ENDANGERED!!” -grabs spray bottle-

[ffjjkkssiim]

Nothing is there. I’m losing a thought literally on the way between the second of its birth and my desk. Even if I catch it on time, what will there be? Two unrelated symbolical images, a handful of words describing a smell or a texture, an unreflected emotion, and an immature attempt to fit all the wisdom on the universe I have collected into one sentence. I cannot say what I want. In front of a Gene I would freeze with a dull expression and suffocation due to a highly masked panic, even though I would not be forced to hurry with my wishes. Why am I hurrying then? If to slow the action down, it will get possible to notice how futile this action is. Doing it all in a hurry, not letting myself admit the absolute fuckwittery of goings-on, on every corner. A temporary backache, shooting in my neck and my head as well, has become a bigger concern than the uselessness of my acting in this death camp which the male sex proudly calls a state.

Mould particles in the water, fruit flies over a trash bag, toilet paper stuck to the anus, a black sock, soaked with sweat, nail dirt, fat fingers grabbing a piece of a killed animal, deep-fried in an old dark brown oil, the piece goes straight into this oiled mouth, surrounded by stubble and a dozen of festering pimples because of grown in hairs. All reminds of the male existence, no matter how hard I would avoid the contact with XY-chromosomed Homo sapiens.

But then it gets better, my notebook piles, book piles, journals and drafts, XX-coded; pink plastic shaping my joy of the present day, a cold breath tying me up like a serpent, with a relieving indifference. An apple pie, and the plasterwork cracking, falling off, with a tempting deliciousness of its sounds. Maybe I should get that therapy appointment to consult on my constant overeating. The idea I am trying to convey is that pure, simple thoughts are usually overwhelming, they are hard to suppress and to lie about, and it is even harder to write about them, for the speed of them is higher than that of the most trained typist. Superficials have plenty of time to compose semantics and grammar of their empty combinations of letters. They do it for the sake of elevating themselves above those who do not jump out of their skin to seem particularly enlightened. Superficials(mostly men) cannot experience that silent fall into a mess both cognitive and affective at any slow, unfilled with anything external, moment, when the most brain-bubbling, skull-cracking thoughts appear.

Chunky pieces of soap, I want to gnaw them.