#regroup and focus on the next one

[captainmartin20]

[saltymarshmall0w]

Danny was a half-a.

Until tragedy struck. He could tell, the moment he died. He didn't even pass out, it was just like a string cutting and all of a sudden he knew it was over.

But the battle wasn't over, and Danny could keep fighting, so he did.

With the bad guy defeated he regrouped with his friends and family. They cheered and celebrated, retelling that moment he seemed to suddenly gain a second wind to defeat the baddie, all while Danny didn't have the heart to tell the truth.

Being dead wasn't all that bad.

He just couldn't tell anyone.

Everyone knew he was the protector of the earth. The human boy turned superhero thanks to his ghost abilities that everyone secretly envied.

He just had to convince Spectra to teach him how to imitate his human form, which worked---so long as he didn't pass out or lose focus.

He had to be careful no one got close enough to see his real eye color shining through his contacts or notice that he no longer breathed unless done so manually.

His obsessions constantly buzzed in the back of his mind. If he wasn't indulging in one, he was thinking and planning the next time he could. He lost time staring at the stars and couldn't help but constantly check for unseen threats around his friends.

Sometimes, he forgot his name was Danny. Keeping two feet on the ground was hard. He no longer could digest human food and using his powers became second nature.

[halfmoonshines]

soft spot

damon salvatore x reader

summary; you're injured in a fight with a rogue vampire who breezed into town, and Damon is being weird about it

hurt/comfort

----

You tried to stay hidden in the shadows outside of the streetlight, but your rapid heartbeat probably would've given you away either way.

"Who the hell is this guy?" You heard Damon mutter from the spot he was tossed just a few feet away from you, dusting the dirt from the trash cans he'd squished like cardboard. His ice blue eyes spared you a quick glance but didn't say a word, trying not to draw any attention your way.

Damon intervened as Caroline was struggling to grapple with the stranger. In the span of a moment, she was on the ground groaning with a broken arm and he had launched the assailant to give them a chance to regroup - right toward you.

You couldn't help the little gasp that you emitted, no matter how much time you spent around these creatures this was a vampire. One in particular who would have no hang ups about snapping your neck.

Per their supernatural hearing, it didn't take long for the mans vicious senses to find you, and took half as long for him to have a bruising hand around your neck.

The sound of Damon yelling your name was distant in the background, you were focused on the threat literally snarling in your face.

"Don't you smell good?"

That was as far as the stranger managed to get before Damon had the broken handle of a broom protruding from his back. His grip slipped off your throat as his body slid sideways and you toppled to the ground, heading bouncing off the pavement hard enough for you to see stars.

Damon's voice was faint to you again, but you could hear him begging for your attention. Caroline was in the background too, in panicked discussion with someone over the phone. You couldn't get your eyes to focus though, hair becoming wet and warm.

The eldest Salvatore's touch on you was feather light, his mouth still moving with words he wanted you to latch onto but you had already lost the dance with consciousness.

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The first thing you were aware of when you woke up in a bed was that it was decidedly not yours. The next thing you noticed was that you weren't in any pain, just a bit stiff when you went to sit up from the bed. Someone had definitely given you blood, which was against every rule her and her friends had discussed, but from the smell of the sheets behind you - Damon wouldn't have cared either way.

You made your way out of the room and down the stairs, vaguely knowing the layout of the boarding house from your handful of times actually coming inside. Over the last few months you had become dangerously intertwined in Elena's grapple with the supernatural, despite Bonnie's vehement advice to go as far as possible. You were emancipated, you could switch schools and move to Pennsylvania.

No, you couldn't. Once your conscious had been opened to everything around you, once you were aware of the dangers of the dark - you could never ignore that. Better the evil you know.

Speaking of.

You came upon Damon in his favorite spot, a tumbler of bourbon in his hand while he leaned up against the fireplace. The suit jacket he had been wearing earlier that night was discarded on the couch behind him, a small amount of blood on the collar of his shirt still.

"You always look so broody." Poking fun at him might not be in your best interest, but you figured you'd give it a go. Over the last few months, your and Damon's relationship had morphed into something you couldn't quite understand, but moments like these had seemed to become more comfortable between you.

"I believe you're confusing me with my much broodier younger brother." Damon's words were laced with sarcasm, but his tone didn't have a hint of amusement.

You felt suddenly awkward, in his space and home. Just because you had gotten kind of comfortable lately didn't mean he wanted to be around you.

"Well, thanks for the whole life saving thing." You began to babble nervously, a faint pink glow to your cheeks. "I'll get out of your hair. Sorry for taking your bed, I don't even know what time it is-" You had begun turning toward the door, making to just leave and find a way home. How you could this age and still flustered in front of attractive men, especially murderous ones was beyond you.

Damon appearing in front of you almost made your heart stop, hair stirring at his incredibly fast movements. He was barely a foot away, his piercing gaze holding your confused one. From this close you could smell just how much he had probably drank.

"Are you... okay, Damon?" Your voice wavered a bit under the heat of his stare and you saw the muscle in his jaw working overtime while he looked like he was debating whether or not he wanted to actually say anything to you.

"You don't have to thank me for saving you when you were in danger because of me." His eyes had drifted from your eyes to your neck, voice whisper quiet.

Vulnerability was the last thing you expected from the man standing over you. "What do you mean? It wasn't your fault. Just wrong place, wrong time and I so happen to be the weakest link." You hoped your voice conveyed even a bit of humor.

His eyes snapped back up to yours, head tilting slightly while he assessed you. Damon's hand rose to grab a lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger in thought. Your breath caught in your throat, feeling like you were on the precipice of something.

"My weakest link, maybe. Have I told you how much I like your hair?" His voice was still quiet, an innocent lilt.

Your mind was reeling, half drunk on his closeness and hazed by confusion. Where was this coming from? Had he drank a small liquor store and now he was confusing her for her much more appealing best friend?

"Damon, I'm not sure how much you've had to drink, but I'm happy to brew you a pot of coffee. Does that even work for vampires?"

You had started to pull away, making to turn toward the kitchen but Damon was infinitely faster than you. His drink was discarded, one hand going to your upper arm and the other to your waist, tugging you back into his vicinity.

"On the contrary, I don't think I've ever been so sure minded, sparrow. I'm sorry for not protecting you tonight." His voice was tight now, the warmth of his hands tingling down your body.

"It's not your fault, or job, Damon." Your voice had quieted to match his, all humor leaving. You didn't know where this guilt had come from, but it was misplaced. Since you'd met Damon he'd made some bad decisions, but you had also seen his sacrifice so much for the sake of the team. Even if others didn't acknowledge it, he didn't need to add anymore to his plate.

"I'd like it to be. My job." His reply was lightning quick, eyes pinning yours in place.

Were you dreaming?

Damon's signature smirk was visible for a split second, telling you that your confusion was written all over your face. "I think that I'm asking you, in the most coming of age movie way, if you'd like to go steady?"

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send any fic requests here!! all comments/criticisms/requests welcome

[purifiedclitoris69]

Breaking point

a/n: Finally got to the nat version of silent comfort. It’s a little short tbh so sorry about that. hope you enjoy!

pairings: Natasha Romanoff x supersoldier reader

warnings: violence

You’d been with the Avengers for almost a year now, and in that time, you’d managed to carve out a space for yourself on the team. Sure, being the former Hydra experiment wasn’t exactly the most inviting introduction, but you didn’t let that define you. It wasn’t who you were anymore. You were the team’s go-to for a laugh, always cracking jokes, lightening the mood, and making it easier for everyone to handle the high-stakes pressure of their lives. What you didn’t talk about, though, was your past. Not because anyone had told you not to, but because you didn’t want to relive it.

Especially not now, when things were starting to feel... normal.

Normal was spending late nights on the couch with Natasha, arguing over which movie to watch but never finishing them because you’d get caught up in teasing each other. Normal was training together and catching her smiling at you when she thought you weren’t looking. Normal was her throwing playful jabs about how you talked too much, only to call you out on being unusually quiet when something was bothering you.

You weren’t sure when things had shifted, but somewhere along the way, the time you spent with her had become the highlight of your day. And judging by the way she always seemed to find excuses to stay close, you thought maybe—just maybe—she felt the same way.

Neither of you had said anything yet, though. It was comfortable, whatever this was, and you didn’t want to ruin it.

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

The quinjet hummed softly as the team prepared for the mission. Hydra remnants were regrouping, and the team had been sent to intercept a high-level target.

You were double-checking your gear when Natasha sauntered over, a sly smile already playing on her lips.

"You know," she said, leaning casually against the wall beside you, "I’ve noticed you spend an awful lot of time fussing over that utility belt. Got a secret stash of candy in there or something?"

You snorted, pulling a strap tighter. "Jealous I don’t share my snacks with you, Romanoff?"

"Please," she shot back, tilting her head. "If I wanted candy, I’d just take it," she shrugged her shoulders, "I always get what I want."

You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try."

She stepped closer, her green eyes glinting with mischief. "Careful, or I might have to prove it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You’re all talk."

"Am I?" She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of your belt, and for a split second, your heart skipped a beat. But instead of taking anything, she smirked and stepped back, clearly enjoying the way you were watching her.

"Tease," you muttered, pretending to focus on your gear again.

"You make it too easy," she quipped, crossing her arms.

Before you could come up with a comeback, Steve’s voice cut through the moment. "Gear up. We’re heading out in five."

Natasha straightened but didn’t move immediately. Instead, she leaned in just enough for only you to hear. "Try to keep up out there, rookie."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. "Try not to get distracted, Romanoff."

She laughed softly as she walked away, the sound lingering in the air long after she was gone.

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

Though successful the mission had been thoroughly chaotic, to say the least. Things had been going smoothly until Natasha went off-script.

You hadn’t even known what was happening at first. One second, you were covering her six, and the next, she was gone, chasing intel Fury and Maria Hill had deemed critical. It left you in a tight spot, trying to hold your ground without her, and you’d taken a few hits you shouldn’t have.

By the time the mission wrapped, you were sore, bruised, and too exhausted to joke around like you usually would. The tension on the jet ride back to the compound was thick, everyone keenly aware that Steve was seething.

The hanger was suffocatingly tense as the quinjet’s ramp descended with a mechanical hiss, and everyone piled out, the weight of the mission hanging heavily in the air. Conversations were sparse—exhaustion mingled with the unspoken tension. You were still catching your breath, the fight replaying in your mind, when Steve’s voice broke the silence.

“Romanoff, we need to talk.”

You glanced at Natasha, who was walking beside you. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t stop, striding toward the hangar floor like she hadn’t heard him.

“Natasha.” Steve’s voice carried more force this time.

She stopped, turning around slowly, her face calm but her eyes sharp. “What?”

Steve’s expression was stony as he marched toward her. “What the hell was that back there?”

“The part where we got the job done?” Natasha shot back, her voice icy.

“The part where you ignored orders and jeopardized the team,” he countered, standing toe-to-toe with her now.

You stepped closer instinctively, but for now, you stayed silent, your fists clenching at your sides.

“I didn’t jeopardize anyone,” Natasha said, crossing her arms. “I prioritized the bigger picture. Fury and Maria needed that intel, and I got it.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Fury and Hill aren’t the ones in the field. We are. And when you decide their priorities are more important than this team, you’re not just making a bad call—you’re making a selfish one.”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t look away. “I made a call that benefited everyone in the long run. You might not like it, but it worked.”

“Did it?” Steve snapped, gesturing toward you. “Because they almost didn’t make it out thanks to you.”

Your chest tightened as his words hit. “That’s not fair, Steve,” you said, stepping in now.

He turned on you, his voice rising. “It is fair. You wouldn’t have been in that position if she hadn’t dragged you into her little side mission.”

“That’s enough,” you said, your voice low.

But Steve ignored you, his focus still on Natasha. “You know, it’s always the same with you. You play both sides, keep everyone guessing. It worked for you in the Red Room, maybe even with S.H.I.E.L.D., but here? That doesn’t fly. We’re supposed to be a team, but you’re still looking out for yourself first.”

The mention of the Red Room made your blood run cold. You saw the flicker of something in Natasha’s expression—a crack in her armor.

“Watch your mouth,” you said, stepping in front of her now, your voice dangerously calm, as you met Captain America eye level.

Steve’s gaze snapped to you, his frustration redirected. “Stay out of this.”

“No,” you said firmly. “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

“Or what?” Steve challenged, jaw tightened, his temper bubbling over as took a step closer, eyes blazing with anger.

The moment he moved, you acted. Your hand shot out, gripping his wrist and twisting with precision. With a sharp pivot of your hips, you flipped him over your shoulder. The impact reverberated through the hangar as Steve crashed into a nearby crate, shattering it into splinters.

The hangar went silent, the sound of the crash echoing in the vast space.

Steve was already scrambling to his feet, his eyes blazing with disbelief and fury. Bucky intercepted him, gripping his shoulder and holding him back

“Steve, don’t,” Bucky said, his voice firm but calm.

Natasha was in front of you before you could react, her hands pressing against your chest as she pushed you back. “Enough,” she said, her voice low but forceful.

You froze, the reality of what you’d just done hitting you like a freight train.

You glanced around the hangar, catching the wide-eyed stares of your teammates. The expressions on their faces weren’t just shocked—they were scared. Of you.

Your gaze landed on Natasha last. Her green eyes were glassy, her brows furrowed with confusion and something that looked too much like hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice barely audible. Then you turned and walked away, your boots echoing in the silence of the hangar as you disappeared into the compound.

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

The rooftop felt like the only place you could breathe. The cool night air bit at your skin as you sat on the ledge, your hands gripping the metal railing.

What the hell had you done? You’d spent so long trying to prove you weren’t the weapon Hydra made you, but one moment of anger had torn that facade apart.

“Hell of a move back there.”

You didn’t have to look to know it was Natasha. Her voice was light, but there was an edge of something else—concern, maybe.

“Didn’t mean to wreck the crate,” you muttered, still staring out at the city lights.

She walked over, her steps soft, and leaned against the railing beside you. “The crate’s fine. Steve, on the other hand…”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, bet he’s thrilled.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just studied you with that piercing gaze of hers. “Why’d you do it? he was right, I left you out there."

You sighed, finally meeting her eyes. "I would've been fine Tasha, and I know you know that," you looked down to your lap, "besides I couldn’t stand the way he was talking to you. Like you haven’t done more for this team than anyone.”Her expression softened, and for a moment, the world felt a little less heavy. “I don’t care about your past, Nat,” you said quietly. “And I’ll be damned if I let anyone throw it in your face.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile as she reached out, her hand brushing yours. “You’re not who they made you either, you know.”

You looked at her, and for the first time all day, you felt like maybe you hadn’t completely lost yourself.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t have to fight for me," her gaze dropping to your lips as you both began to lean in, " but thank you for doing it anyway," her breath fanned across you. Before you could reply, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was well over do. Her lips were soft against yours, warm and grouding in a way that made everything fade away.

When she pulled back, she smiled—a real, genuine smile. “Now let’s go figure out how to apologize to Steve.”

You groaned, but for the first time that night, you felt like everything might just be okay.

[overtake]

if you’re still doing prompts: ⁹¹⁾ six missed calls

Car mechanic Daniel, driver Max.

Daniel’s brain pulses inside his head, kissing the fragile walls of his skull with every second he’s awake. His nose simultaneously runs out of one nostril and is stuffed up in the other. Even through his slightly blocked hearing, he knows his breathing sounds wheezy and congested.

He props himself up onto a shaky elbow and almost collapses with the motion. His whole body aches. There’s spine-chilling shivers sent through his bones one second and hot flashes the next. Groaning, he finally adjusts himself to a seated position and takes a second to regroup.

Reluctantly, he reaches for his phone to turn off do not disturb. He hates to call out of work, made worse by how nice Cyril always is about it. The garage is a lot for the two of them to handle, let alone Cyril by himself.

Daniel blinks when he realizes he has six missed calls from the garage. He’s definitely running a bit behind his usual schedule, but Cyril doesn’t set specific hours for him so long as Daniel gets his work done. There must be some emergency, which is fucking great. He’ll be taking medicine and going after all.

He sees spots when he stands to his feet, but he grabs his bedside table and manages to stay upright. He puts the phone on speaker and drops it on the bed while he pulls on the first respectably clean items of clothing he can find. Not like it matters, really. He’ll sweat through them within five minutes of working through this fever, and grease always seems to permeate their coveralls no matter what they do.

Cyril picks up in a state of panic — which, for him, still sounds remarkably calm and stable.

“We have an emergency repair,” he informs Daniel. “It’s going to take me all day, probably. I need you to cover everything else so I can get this done.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Daniel promises, trying his absolute best to sound as if he’s not deathly ill. Cyril is too caught up in frantically relaying this emergency to Daniel, who has entirely tuned him out in pursuit of getting on pants without passing out and splitting his head open. He probably ends the call rather rudely into Cyril’s story, but he needs to focus all his attention on driving into work without a dizzy spell.

Cyril takes one look at him and tries to send him straight back home.

“No,” Daniel protests. “I’m good. I’ll go home if it’s still bad by midday, but I’m alright. You have that emergency repair for someone important.”

The reminder of this seemingly VIP client perks Cyril right up. “You would not believe who is in our office right now,” he says, dropping his voice to a low whisper.

Daniel shrugs. He probably can guess. A tiny auto repair shop on the outskirts of Perth doesn’t exactly attract high profile visitors. At best, it’s probably some dickhead politician or half-famous musician. They definitely have money, based on the nice ass car Cyril was working on when Daniel walked in.

“Go and look,” Cyril says excitedly, shoving Daniel toward the door that leads into the office space.

This mystery guy has his back to Daniel, bent over on his phone. Daniel sees broad shoulders and scruffy hair in that nebulous area between blond and brown.

It’s only when the guy turns around that he realizes he’s looking at Max Verstappen.

Daniel hasn’t paid actual attention to F1 in years. He did his time in Italy, tried to prove himself worthy of a real shot. He got it, too. He did races with HRT, made it two races with Toro Rosso, and then collapsed in the paddock before quali and was diagnosed with a heart condition. Manageable, they said. Shouldn’t affect his length or quality of life, so long as he took medication and stopped putting his body through the enormous strain of racing.

He’d considered saying fuck it and racing anyway. It felt more important to him than anything else at that time. To a 22-year-old with his dreams at his fingertips, he figured there was no quality of life without F1.

His mum, though — it would have destroyed her. He returned to Perth and laid uselessly in bed for two months, then found the closest job to cars he could stomach without driving himself mental over what he’d lost.

“Everything okay?” Max asks, twisting and facing his body toward Daniel when he hears the door open. His blue eyes widen when they take in Daniel, probably looking just as spooked as Daniel’s do right now. Daniel knows he’s sick, but he didn’t realize he looked atrocious enough to scare people.

“Hi,” Daniel says. His words come out phlegmy, and he tries for a casual cough to clear it. He can feel it’s not successful, but forges on. “Uh, I don’t know if Cyril mentioned it, but your repair is going to probably be an all-day thing. You don’t have to sit in here.” Then, panicked that he sounds as if he’s kicking Max out, he hastily clarifies. “Obviously, you can stay if you want. There’s just probably more exciting things to do.”

Max looks at him drily. “I don’t have a car.”

“Right,” Daniel says. “Like, no offense, but I think you’ve got the money to rent a new one.”

Max doesn’t look remotely offended. He laughs, something genuine and higher-pitched than Daniel expected.

“I’ve done all the tourist things anyway. I leave tomorrow. I don’t really mind just sitting here.”

“Alright, well. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Thank you, Daniel,” Max says. He has a nice smile, Daniel thinks, and admires the pink shape of it before Max turns back to his phone.

It takes his hazy brain ages to realize he never told Max his name.

Max hunches over his screen, shooting the odd glance at the door to make sure no one’s about to bust back through. He types in the Instagram handle he’s visited countless times over the years. Daniel Ricciardo, who shook his hand at a karting event with a big grin and imprinted himself permanently on Max’s psyche.

Max had spent ages on his dad’s computer after that collapse, refreshing the search over and over until a news article confirmed that Daniel was alive.

Daniel had faded in and out of Max’s memory in the years since, but he never left completely. Every so often, Max would look at his social media and watch the profile picture change with the times. Those pixels on a locked-down profile were the only documentation he had that Daniel was still out in the world somewhere and doing okay.

He didn’t come to Perth for Daniel. He didn’t even know if Daniel still lived here, for one. Plus, it would be incredibly creepy to track him down based on the foggy memory of a decade old karting event.

Max had watched back Daniel’s limited races, breathless at the raw potential. He’d wondered a few times what it would’ve been like if Daniel stayed and fought his way into Red Bull long enough for Max to race beside him.

Even still, he didn’t pick his vacation spot for Daniel. Subconsciously, maybe it influenced his choice, but he had two spare weeks after Melbourne and an ache to see something besides his white bedroom walls.

Fate, not Max, made his ludicrously expensive rental car break down in the Perth suburbs and brought him to Daniel’s garage.

He looks down at Daniel’s profile. 32 posts. A profile picture of him in a colourful bucket hat sipping a drink. No mutual followers, despite the countless people that connect them. Daniel didn’t make this page until he was out of F1, and Max assumes he blocked out that world entirely.

He hovers his finger over the follow button, then exits the app before he can make that kind of bad decision. Instead, he stands, pats his jeans to check for his wallet, and marches out the door toward the cafe a few doors down.

He thinks of Daniel’s raspy voice and ruddy, fever-red cheeks and hopes he likes soup.

[hoe4hotchner]

A night to remember

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader (x BAU)

Words: 1k

Warnings: Alcohol

A/N: Brain was not braining while writing this, so it’s a little all over. I like it though 💕

The team had just wrapped up a particularly nerve-wracking and challenging case, and with work finally behind them for the next day or two, Morgan and Prentiss had suggested a night out before flying back to Quantico to regroup for their next case. The local bar was surprisingly lively, a cozy spot with exposed brick and upbeat music.

The team arrived in high spirits. Morgan and Prentiss were especially excited finally having gotten Hotch to agree to let the team go out. They quickly took charge, persuading the bartender to mix up a round of colorful, strong cocktails. The drinks arrived, each one a vibrant concoction that pledged to a good time.

Morgan slid a drink toward you with a grin. “Here’s our special celebration cocktail. You’re going to love it.”. You looked at the drink with hesitation, not used to drinking as much as some of your more seasoned colleagues. Your college years had been spent focusing on studies, not on parties.

Emily leaned in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, relax and enjoy. We’re here to make sure you have an unforgettable night before Mr. Suit and Tie over here cracks the whip again.”

As the evening progressed, the atmosphere became even more lively. The drinks flowed down your throat, and your demeanor shifted to an intoxicated happiness. Morgan and Prentiss ensured that you never had an empty glass, continuously encouraging you to try different cocktails, mixers, and liquors. The infectious energy around you loosened your usual restraint, and soon you were laughing more freely, even joining JJ and Spencer on the dance floor.

Meanwhile, Rossi and Hotch had stepped outside for a break, enjoying the cool night air and some quiet conversation away from the bar’s chaos. They leaned against the wall, discussing the case and catching up on personal matters. Hotch, ever the responsible one, was still keeping an eye on his team through the windows.

Morgan and Prentiss, never ones to miss an opportunity for a bit of fun, decided it was time to focus on their favorite target once again: You. They had noticed that you were incredibly lightweight when it came to drinking, and they were determined to make sure this would be your most memorable evening out with the team.

Morgan nudged at your side with a playful grin. “Alright, time for another round. You’re doing great!”

Emily joined in with a conspiratorial whisper. “We’ve got a plan. You’re going to have the best night ever. Just keep enjoying yourself.” You didn’t catch the mischievous glint in their eyes.

As the evening wore on, the booth gradually emptied, leaving you somewhat slumped over, your mind a foggy haze. Reid had joined Rossi outside, while Morgan and Emily had pulled JJ back to the dance floor for the night’s final songs. Glancing around, you noticed how the booth seemed emptier than before, leaving you confused and disoriented.

As the evening progressed, the booth you all shared became empty. You were sitting somewhat slumped over as your mind felt foggy. Reid had joined Rossi outside. Morgan and Emily had joined JJ on the dance floor as the last few songs were being played for the night. You glanced around, noticing that the booth seemed emptier than before. Not knowing where the others were.

“They left without me,” You said loudly, wobbling out of the booth. “They do this every time! Why? Doesn’t anyone love me?” The dramatic outburst drew amused glances from the few people left in the bar. The scene was more humorous than distressing, with your exaggerated tone providing a bit of comic relief.

Hotch, noticed the shift in your mood and decided it was time to step in. He quickly finished closing the team's tab before he approached with a gentle hand on your arm. “Hey, let’s get you out of here,” he said calmly. Trying not to startle you.

As they made their way to the exit, you almost stepped in a puddle of vomit left by a large, bulky man who had just finished throwing up on the sidewalk. You recoiled, exclaiming, “Eww, SICK! Hey! Wide body, curb it next time!”

Hotch quickly covered your mouth to stifle any further comments as he turned to the man with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about that,” he nods before guiding you away from the scene.

Back at the hotel, Hotch helped you into your room. The rest of the agents already having retreated into theirs. As soon as you walked in, you began looking pale and became unsteady on your feet. “I don’t feel so good,” you said, clutching your stomach.

Before Hotch could respond, you hurried to the bathroom, the sound of retching following shortly after. Hotch’s concern grew. He knocked gently on the bathroom door. “Hey, are you alright in there?”

“Yeah, just reallyyyy sick. I think I had too much to drink.” You slurred, your head bobbing a little to the side.

Hotch stayed just outside the door, ready to kick it down to help if needed. After a few minutes, you emerged, looking slightly better but still pale. Hotch helped you to bed, making sure you were alright one last time before leaving you to rest.

The next morning, the team gathered at the airport to head back to Quantico. You looked exhausted and pale, clearly not having slept very well and still feeling the effects of Morgan and Emily's overindulgence. Your head was spinning. They couldn’t resist teasing you about it.

“Hey, baby face,” Morgan said with a grin, “looks like someone had a rough night. I guess the drinks were a bit too much?” You stuck your tongue out at him, clearly annoyed with how cheerful he was.

“Yeah, you might need to work on your drinking skills. You were quite a scene last night!” Emily joined.

You managed a weak smile and rolled your eyes. “Very funny, you two. I’ll stick to water next time. Thanks.”

“How are you feeling today?” Hotch asked, concern evident in his voice. He had been watching the exchange with a sympathetic look.

“Better,” You replied.

Hotch handed you a bottle of water. “Here, drink this. Let’s get you through the flight and back in one piece.”

On the plane ride back to Quantico, you tried to rest, still feeling the effects of the night before.

Consider linking or reblogging if you enjoy my work

[etherealstar-writes]

PAINTBALL | ARSENAL WOMEN X READER

pairings: arsenal women x reader

summary: in which you're involved in a chaotic paintball battle with your friends

warnings: none

✦ ——— ✦ ——— ✦

Beth gasped as you shoved Katie down, taking a hit to the chest. 

"I've got her!" Katie yelled, dragging you to safety and checked your pulse. "She's still alive!" 

"Of course she is," Viv mumbled, taking aim and shooting Leah in the leg as she ran into the open. "This isn't a real battle." 

You sat up, giving Katie a thumbs up. "Just paintball, Katie." 

Beth shrieked as a series of paintballs hit the towers behind her and Viv, both of them ducking down. 

"Give it a shot." Katie nudged you with her gun and you nodded. 

Rolling onto your knees, you poked your head above the small fort and spotted Kyra with two paintball handguns. "What! Where did she get those? Not fair." 

You closed one eye and aimed before pulling the trigger as three paintballs shot out and hit Kyra along her shoulders and arms. "Ha!"

"Get down!" Viv chided you three, getting back to her position. "If you stay up too long, you'll-" 

A pink paintball was splattered behind them with paint flying everywhere and added to the array of colours in Viv’s and Beth's hair. 

"AH!" Viv swore under her breath in Dutch.

"Viv, no! Wait!" Beth tried to grab Viv and pull her down, but she was already standing and shooting randomly at where Kyra, Leah, Caitlin, and Lia were hiding. 

Caitlin jumped up and made it one step forward before paintballs were pelted at her everywhere. And while everyone was distracted targeting poor Caitlin, Kyra rolled out, aiming her gun and shot Viv in the chest. 

"Vivi, nooo!" Beth dramatically wailed out. 

She yanked Viv down, half cradling, half strangling her while Viv tried to break free. "Oi! Let me go! I'm fine! I'm not dead!" 

Beth wiped away a fake tear. "In the world of paintball, you are." 

As Viv rolled her eyes at Beth's melodramatic display, the three of you huddled together, plotting your next move. The battlefield was filled with laughter and shouts as paintball pellets whizzed through the air. 

You wiped a streak of paint off your cheek and exchanged determined glances with Katie and Beth.

"We need a strategy," you said, your voice low. "We can't let them take us down one by one."

Katie nodded, her eyes scanning the field. "Let's focus on Lia and Caitlin first. They seem to work well together, and if we eliminate one of them, the other will be easier to handle."

Beth sniffled theatrically, still cradling Viv. "Vivi, my love, we shall avenge you! We will paint the field with the colours of victory! Your sacrifice will not be in vain."

Viv couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Just make sure you actually hit them, unlike the sorry attempt you made to save me."

The three of you broke into laughter, and once the giggles subsided, you set your plan into motion. Sneaking through the field, you took cover behind barricades and crates, moving stealthily towards Lia and Caitlin's position.

As you approached, you signalled to Katie and Beth to be ready. With a coordinated attack, you emerged from cover, firing a series of paintballs at Lia and Caitlin. The two opponents fought valiantly, but your combined assault overwhelmed them. 

Lia was the first to go down, her colourful attire now adorned with splatters of paint. Caitlin, still defiant, tried to retaliate, but Beth, channelling her inner warrior, charged forward and unleashed a flurry of paintball fury. Caitlin's resistance crumbled, and she joined Lia in paint-covered defeat.

"Two down!" Katie exclaimed, exchanging triumphant high-fives with you and Beth. "Now, Leah is next."

You regrouped, strategising your approach to take down Leah, who was proving to be a formidable opponent. 

“You can’t get me, losers!” Leah yelled out as she sprinted away from you.

“Don’t be so sure about that!” With a combination of flanking manoeuvres and coordinated attacks, you managed to corner Leah. And with a well-aimed shot, she had no choice but to surrender to the colourful onslaught.

“Hah! Take that, Williamson!” You jumped in joy while Leah playfully glared at you as she was dramatically sprawled out on the floor. “Who’s the loser now?”

Your little victory was cut short when dramatic gasps were heard from Beth and Katie. While you’d been busy with Leah, Kyra had taken the chance to sneak up behind those two and had surprised them with a rapid blast of paintballs.

“Gotcha!” Kyra exclaimed, grinning at her successful ambush as those two went down. “It’s only me and you now, Y/n!”

The battlefield was now eerily quiet, with only the distant sounds of laughter and shouts from other ongoing matches. You and Kyra were the last ones standing, facing off against each other. 

"Ready to surrender, Kyra?" You called out, crouching behind a makeshift barricade.

Kyra's laughter echoed across the field. "Not a chance, Y/n! I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."

The two of you engaged in a lively exchange of paintball shots, dodging and weaving through the obstacles. Paint splatters filled the air as the vibrant colours painted the battlefield. The tension between you and Kyra was palpable, but there was also a shared sense of enjoyment in the competition.

As the battle raged on, you managed to catch Kyra off guard with a well-timed shot. A burst of laughter erupted from your lips as the paintballs landed on her, covering her shoulders and arms.

"I gotcha, Kyra!" You exclaimed, revelling in the sweet taste of victory.

Kyra dramatically staggered, clutching her chest in mock defeat. "Noooo!"

Theatrically, she collapsed to the ground while your teammates rushed to join you, cheering and celebrating the hard-fought victory. Beth and Katie, still covered in paint, embraced you, and Viv playfully patted you on the back.

"You did it, Y/n!" Beth laughed. "You've avenged us all!"

You then approached Kyra with a playful grin, offering her a hand. "You put up a great fight."

Kyra took your hand, pulling herself up with a grin. "You too, Y/n. You got me this time, but I won’t let you win next time."

The two of you chuckled and joined your friends, huddling together for a group photo that you no doubt would cherish deeply.

[hartlesshart]

By @kelsochronicles and hart!

Hello! It has come to our attention that some of you may have trouble telling us apart.

The Sun will illuminate your path as we have come up with a solution! Lets cast off:

Now, bask in the luminance of our faces

If you've looked at us for more than 2 seconds and you’re not sure - don't panic, we won’t report you to Compliance - take a step back and don't post/reblog on socials or say anything out loud. All hunters need to regroup from time to time.

Next, ponytails. One of our most defining traits that no one in the world ever wears.

You’ll see that Talanah’s ponytail is flame shaped and her hair is more wavy. Seyka is like a smooth cascading waterfall. On to head accessories. A good Marine takes the time to observe!

Talanah wears a crown made from machine parts. Like a bird! Seyka’s ponytail has a headpiece with little antennae. Like a moth! Oh and she has a focus on.

Finally - Tides take us, if you still can’t tell us apart - then just LOOK AT OUR OUTFITS

By the Sun, most importantly: check the tags of the original post to confirm the artist’s intention. We’re all here to celebrate these characters and they’re worth getting to know!

There you go!

BIG SHOUTOUT TO KELSO FOR THIS AMAZINGLY FUN AND CHAOTIC COLLAB!!!! Kelso gave each slide such a fun layout (and as always, absolutely slays with Talanah art!). We both adore our girls and we hope you enjoyed their special powerpoint presentation. P.S - this is a joke - we hope....

[spicyclover]

In a haze

Summary : In the car, there are millions of thoughts that pass one after the other. The brain accumulates and releases at hundredths of a second all the information we need to be good drivers. However, sometimes it happens that the information never comes back and we are lost in this infinite mist.

Request

Hope you’ll enjoy it. Let me know in the comment section.

Thank you! :)

Lots of love, xxx Spicy Clover

WARNING : mention of crash | lose of consciousness

The humidity is at its peak. Singapore is really one of the most physical races. The overwhelming and stifling heat prevents the brain from accumulating air properly. I already regret leaving the refrigerated hospitality to join the garage. I meet some fans on my way and I stop to take some pictures.

I am quickly escorted out of the crowd. I run to join the others to start the parade. I regroup with the two Ferraris and Max who discuss qualifications. I am P8. I could have had more, but a moment of distraction made me lose seconds in a corner. I smile at Charles and shake Carlos’s hand. I'm sweating in my team gear, it's really the worst. The Ferraris boys are not better, Charles is red as a tomato and Carlos look like he's going faint any second.

In the distance, I see Daniel. He is in a corner, his headphones on his ears. He has his face of concentration. He's cute, makes him look more serious. Since the beginning of the year, he hasn’t smiled as much. He’s not the same as before. He gradually realizes that his days are numbered in this sport and it scares him. I understand that feeling. I am the only woman on the grid and at my first mistake, I have a horde of men wanting to replace me with their macho and sexist criticism. Daniel raises his head and crosses my eyes. A smile expands on my lips and he seems to relax.

With the parade over, I return to the garage for the final preparations. I visualize the race in my head. I review the turns, the areas of acceleration, the areas of deceleration. I calculate the pressure of my tires and I look at the temperature one last time during the race. Filling my brain with all this information helps me not to be overwhelmed by pressure. I relativize and focus on the fact by what can happen.

It’s already time to get in the car. As always, the pressure goes up and I feel like my head is going to explode. I get in the car. I put my helmet on. When the helmet goes on my head, I no longer calculate what’s around me. Everything around me gets foggy and only my car counts. I hear my engineer in my ear and listen to the instructions.

The journalists and the teams leave the track. The crowd is on fire. I allow myself to look around. Oscar is on my right at P7. Lando is P6 ahead of me. Behind me is Daniel P10. The light turns red and the formation round begins. Max starts the pace. I warm up my tires and check my brakes one last time. I barely have time to think that the finish line is in front of me again. I install the single-seater in my starting lines and I prepare myself.

One. My pulse begin to quicken. Two. I'll move faster and faster, the fan roaring beside me. Three. My thoughts begin to wash away in a cloud of wind and dust. Four. The crowd thunders. Five.

My hands release the brake and I press the accelerator. The first corner comes quickly. I find my line among all the cars and I concentrate. The first few cars slow down and I’m right behind. I start turning the wheel. The next few seconds freeze in time. My brain tries to interpret what is happening before my eyes, but I can’t. I feel the back of my car rising in the air. In a straight perpendicular line, all I see is black and white asphalt. I let go of the steering wheel and the barrels start. My body is wandered from left to right in the car and I try to maintain myself. All this happens in seconds before I crash into the security fence.

I hear his laugh. I look up and he is in front of me, his smile bigger than the sun. I chuckle before I tongue him. I get up and start running to the ocean. He rushes after me. I peek behind me and he’s already behind.

"It’s not fair," I said, with a sulky pout. "You’re faster than me." He grabs my face in his gigantic hands and kisses me. I try to resist, but these kisses are magical that I can’t keep acting. I surrender to these lips.

"I am a high performance athlete, athletes speed." I laugh and I push him away a little. He loses balance and leads me to his fall. The fine sand is quickly encountered and my eyes get lost in his. I remove some rebellious streaks from his face. He meddles his fingers between my hair and he passes them behind my ears. "You’re beautiful." I pouffe before I kiss his lips again to silence him.

I’m back in the car. I fainted. Oh no, I lost consciousness. My vision is blurry and my ears are ringing. I try to straighten my head to look around, but I can’t. I feel like my heart is in my brain. It’s pounding and I can barely breathe. I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I can’t react. Gradually my vision darkened again.

"I don’t want us to hide anymore," whispers Daniel.

The night is cool and we’re in our hotel room in Los Angeles. This is the first time that we meet after weeks of meeting at the bend of an evening or a race. We have been living in this secret relationship for a few months now and I must admit that it is happiness. I like to find it even for a few moments, but it is true that with each separation, they become harder. I smile as I relax my head.

"We have no choice." I say, slowly fading away in my sleep.

And it’s true, we are stuck in this spiral of PR. Being the only woman on the track, I have to be attractive to the male fans. A girl in a relationship is not interesting. I hate every day since this phrase came out of my manager’s mouth. What do I give a shit about male fans? I’m not there for them, or thanks to them. I long to make a big finger in all this, but the more I think about the consequence and the more it scares me.

I am transported out of my car, I distinguish the lights of paramedics who check the dilation of my pupils. I blink and red and white flashes pass in front of my eyes. The ambulance. My helmet was removed. I don’t remember much. They talk to me, but I can’t tell the words. Everything is confusing. Yet, this hand I know. It’s his. Daniel. My eyes are frantically searching around me and I finally see him. He too has crashed. I don’t have time to think more than the paramedic pulls it out of my hand and takes me in the ambulance to the nearest hospital.

The hours that follow are a perpetual blur. I get lost in the dozens of exams and questions I am asked. I answer as best I can, but I get tired and I ask him to be beside me. I whisper his name between my lips. Many hours have passed. My senses come back little by little and I hear again the noises that surround me. I hear the beep of the machines, I hear the nurses who pass by the door of my room. I hear the television on, but I can’t understand the words. Most importantly, I hear his voice. He’s there with me. I painfully open my eyes. In the first place, everything is blurred. I can only see the light, but very quickly my vision clears and I can look at his face.

"I am so sorry, my love. I am terribly sorry." He whispers repeatedly, my hand in his.

"Hey, stranger." I say in a hoarse voice. I feel like I’ve been smoking for forty years with that voice.

"Y/n!" He cries while looking up. "You are awake."

"You didn’t think you’d get rid of me like that." I said with a laugh. I try to move to get up, but my body hurts. I moan and Daniel looks at me worried. "What happened?"

"We crashed into each other… I ran into you by accident. The car behind me didn’t brake and I was right in your corner. You rolled, I thought I’d lose you." He chokes a sob before he takes over." You landed in the safety gate and the race was paused for a long time. I… I couldn’t… I couldn’t go on without knowing if you were okay." He caresses my hair tenderly. I feel the pain in his voice and it hurts me.

"You disqualified yourself for me?"

"For you? Always." I smile and reach for him. I grab the top of his neck and our lips meet. Our kiss lasts a few minutes. We enjoy the present moment and the presence of the other. "Just to let you know, but I may have told everyone about our relationship and the media is crazy about it."

"What?" I write to myself as I step aside. What did he do? He didn’t… Oh no!

"We’ll talk later." He kisses me again with a smile. "You need to rest and heal."

"Dan…" I try to argue, but he won’t let me continue.

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟗 | 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He quiets you with the sound and your smile falls. You are captain of the guard all dressed in red, training squires on spring mornings. He is the king who rises at dawn to watch you."

cw suggestive, kissing among other things, tooth tongue saliva, fingers and lips, manhandling, grinding, disregarded injuries, an audience if you squint. a beleaguered team regroups in the castle underbelly and someone is a flight risk. yn is thrilled and itching to fight but her prince can't focus. he can't let her go 5.2k

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Autumn in Takoba is hell everywhere else and even with the first ticklings of sunrise, the cold is immeasurable. Like the queen made a deal with grief and now her country becomes her heart. You wake first, tucked and folded into the space between your prince’s chest and the wall.

Your comfort is found between groggy thoughts, in the rough blanket someone has wrapped you up with, and in Bakugou’s arm that falls over your waist to keep that warmth inside of it. He’s dreaming, muttering something into the back of your head. He smells like home. Even unconscious, his bicep strains through the effort of holding something gently.

The night returns to you in pieces under the pathetic white light of a candle sconce. Something nearby reeks of the sea. A single roll of your shoulder confirms the bandages there, crusted in stiff blood and still too sore to stifle a wince because you were something not quite war fodder. A golden hand flexes broad across your stomach when you fidget in the dark. You were a guest at the queen’s ball, you were target practice, you killed Takobans. You underestimated your bloodloss. You are falling through the air into Bakugou’s arms again, dancing, glowing, bleeding, clingy. The king embraces his undead son. The mage. You fly up to sitting so quickly the world cannot react to you.

Bakugou is curled around the space you left in the dark, bloody and spattered with ash. His own blanket is pulled up over his jaw to ward off the chill and behind him is Mina, cheek flush to his back. Blood crusts down her temple in a path from her hair.

Sweat has soaked into the two places the prince held you most closely and chills now in the free air, heat and damp from his breath at the nape of your neck and down the small of your back where his hips cradled yours all bundled in good-enough blankets. The sweat is welcomed, it is ammunition, it is warm, it’s proof of your still beating heart. Don’t need a fucking babysitter. Cover yourself. Quit starin’. Don’t call me that. Eyes! You are mine. His eyebrows flex and knit in the seconds before he wakes up, but he is safe and he is exhaustingly whole.

It stinks like ocean foam because this hallway where you shelter is in the bowels of the castle, deep in its belly, tucked under the kitchens where your prince hid from you for weeks. Damp stone, fire in the air, the memory of this hallway from over the prince’s shoulder. Of stepping through the only red door here and returning to Aldera.

“Y/n?” A voice floats in whispers through the dark and down the hallway from the dim light of another candle.

“Who's there?”

There’s no response, no time, before one golden hand is flat across your chest and your prince raises his other to the sound, bristling with sparks. Bakugou startles from sleep and pushes you behind him. Mina groans, rubbing the back of her head.

In the dark, damp, and cold, he is made of starlight. When your prince exhales, the frost from him is tinged with tiny sparks.

“Calm down, Sleeping Beauty.”

You realize as the prince does that the voice is Shinsou’s and in the momentary relief Bakugou swings on you. Even before the Takoban guard can emerge from the dark he turns, hands snapped around both your wrists, apprehending his criminal. Red eyes, breath of smoke and a growl, the boy who laughs when he dances is back at home and you are left with the prince who hates your company.

“You.”

A defiant breath falls from you but you don’t dare voice it. No longer hidden in sleep, his still-beautiful face is marred at the jaw, a red burn in the lopsided shape of a hand. You would take his cheeks up in your fingers if he weren’t holding you steadfast. You would take the head of the man who hurt him. Your prince tightens his grip. He is staring strong enough to brand his fury on the backs of your eyes and without his chest, without your blankets, the chill creeps in like a tide. 

“Selfish fucking–”

“You're injured,” you try to dip closer in inspection but Bakugou riots.

In the ballroom he clung to you, in the shadows he invited you close, in this hallway he is the sun of your orbit. He is fire. Your prince jerks a hand over your bandaged heart without much mind to your company and seethes, “You are reckless.”

“I am exceptional,” you breathe without thinking. He is the brightest, angriest thing in the sky. He is arora and you’re a girl in golden fields, staring. His fingers warm your breast where dragontooth used to perch. Does he not get it? “I will die for you.”

Too much and not enough, he is spiteful and aggressive and alive, and maybe now he hates you enough for Takoba to have been a dream.

“Where is our company?” You speak again, nerves itching.

“Think they’re lost without miss martyr?”

Mina swats at him but he doesn’t let you go. “What’s wrong with you?” He glows at the edges like you haven’t seen since the forest outside Takoba. Bakugou’s teeth are bared but his wrath is different than before. He’s not picking a fight, he’s not forcing himself free of you. Your prince holds you tight in front of him where you cannot hide. He stares.

“Highness, where are they?”

“In the castle,” Shinsou interjects. He points up with a finger when he approaches your little group and emerges from the shadows in odd pieces of armor– greaves, cuisses, and faulds but nothing other than light padding on his chest. He yawns and he is bloodspattered. He looks like Uraraka and your panic begins to rise.

“Highness?” You turn back to the scarred prince who will not release you. Kirishima is not nearby, Kaminari and Sero, Uraraka, Fuyumi– “There’s no time, we–”

“We? We don’t have to do anything,” he drops you gently even though he is angry and you shake out your shoulders on instinct. “You need to sit the fuck down for once in your life and trust someone without a stab wound to shovel this shit.”

The hallway is different than you remember, it is colder without your fever, it’s taller. Shinsou yawns again and behind him you can just make out mixed voices in the dark. Your prince is orange amber, molten honey, chip and shoulder. He does not rise but tosses blankets away towards you like he no longer needs comfort. Mina glares over his back.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“It’s almost dawn,” she replies, helpful, not so much like magma. “We escaped down here with a few others but–”

A sudden scraping door overhead forces your group to lurch towards the ground. Shinsou drops to a crouch, hand on sword, and creeps forwards into the dark. Bakugou isn’t far behind, a warning hand outstretched to try and keep you down. “Fear not soggy citizens,” a voice hisses from the source of the sound and Bakugou straightens immediately. “We’re back.”

“Took you long enough,” Shinsou is firm but fond and you and Mina creep behind your prince to peer deeper into the dark. The charred remains of her white gown are stiff with mixed blood. Who’s out there? A few shapes catch light from a sconce past Shinsou’s shoulder and you have never been so unarmed in your life. The prince refuses to let you in front of him.

The light ahead flickers when someone handles it. Prince Natsuo– dusty but alive, thank gods– is illuminated clearly for a moment as he takes a candle from its sconce and a pair of footsteps descend from the kitchen door above. Kaminari and Shinsou stride down the last stairs into their prince’s hidden hallway and beam over a bounty of bread baskets.

More candles are lit by the Takoban prince and the hallway is quickly not so dark and not so lonely. A handful of Takoban lords and ladies lay scattered at the edges of the hall, all deep in sleep. It’s difficult to navigate but you rush past a golden arm and towards the Alderan boys, rejoicefully free of blood, as quickly as you might without stepping on sleeping hands so that your relief doesn’t overflow in loud noises.

“Where were you?”

“Pantry mission.” Kaminari shrugs to hoist his bread basket high enough for you to see, “Food and rest..” he grins Alderan.

You finish, “build blood.”

Sero starts speaking over your shoulder and you turn to catch the briefing for your prince and the Takoban guard, “There were no combatants in the kitchens. A few shuffling feet from the dining hall when we checked under the doors, otherwise,” he hands his basket off to a bloody and impatient Mina, “otherwise, I think they must be patrolling the exits.”

Bakugou grunts and chews at his cheek. It’s not lost on you how pointedly everyone speaks over your head, like you would throw yourself onto the nearest broadsword if given the chance to fight. Though, if you could see the amount of blood in your bandages you might hesitate to speak to you too. The cloth is stiff with it even if you’re no longer bleeding, but the wound that pinned you to the floor, the poison that knocked you from consciousness, no longer grip you with their icy fingers and you thank Shuzenji. You’re sore not a war casualty. Your friends are being hunted upstairs. If it takes the general’s voice to be noticed, so be it.

“Where is the mage?”

Soldier Sero instinctively drops his head to speak to you, “No sign of him since last night.”

“No new fires,” adds Kaminari, “he could be anywhere.”

“Where is the doctor?” 

“You’re awake.” You turn to the new rasp from the floor. Screaming her son’s name once used up all her voice like a long night singing and Queen Rei is scorched at the edges, but alive, in a pile of rumpled skirts. She sits among her sleeping people as Natsuo lights a candle for her to hold, “The doctor is upstairs, I’m afraid.”

“Still with the princess?”

She stiffens but nods, “We can hope.”

If that’s the case, you can also hope that they’re being protected by the two champions you left them with. You speak as you turn, “How,” and Bakugou’s silent eyes are the first you catch, full of something, “are all these people still asleep?”

The group gestures to Shinsou in their own ways– Kaminari cocks his head, Sero points with a shoulder– “We couldn’t know who was friend or foe,” the apprentice clarifies of the civilians the group managed to collect on their way down to the safety of this underbelly. “We still don’t know. It’s not safe to keep them conscious with the queen, not while we have so many injured.”

“How do we proceed?”

The group hums for a moment before Sero clears his throat, “We can’t escape with a group this big,” he looks to the bodies littered and pushed to the sides of the hallway, “we could be caught and with so few fighters, with so many injuries…we’d have to send a scout ahead and Shinsou’s the only one here besides His Highness and Her Majesty who knows this castle well enough to outsmart turncoat guards.”

Your ears perk at the claim and your prince bristles. Takobans are not the only ones here who have memorized cold hallways.

Kaminari interjects, “But without Shinsou here to keep the civilians out cold, if a potential traitor wakes up–”

“Worse– if the scout is caught upstairs with no way to communicate– overwhelmed in numbers– gods forbid the mage– we don’t know what weapons they have up there but we have to assume that it’s, it’s everything.”

No help’s come yet,” Mina adds to Sero’s point and drops to a seat on the cold floor to eat.

“So assume none will,” you exhale and she shrugs in agreement. You nod a few times and review your company. They are battered, all of them, and your breath inflates frost in stubborn puffs. Assume every enemy is dressed in Takoba’s full armory, how many survived the night? How many know about this secret Alderan hallway?

If the royals stay hidden here, Shinsou must stay too. Two exits, one to the kitchens and the other straight out to the beach where any mage worth their magic would keep a close eye. Too open. The only way is up, and more accurately, through. “We just need contact with the outside. Reinforcements.”

“Blasty could get out no problem, but we have to assume guards stationed in the city are working for the mage too.”

“Can we get word to Aldera? Another kingdom nearby?” Kaminari speaks with his hands like he’s grasping at thoughts “Carrier pigeon?”

“Not how those work.” You massage your knuckles with your thumbs, “We need the doctor.”

Mina’s magic hasn’t returned, what about Aizawa? Is Hawks alive? This party isn’t enough without the doctor’s magic, You need Kirishima and Uraraka, and the youngest Todoroki prince and his champion if you could manage it. Where is the useless king?

“If there were no injuries what would the plan be?” You roll your sore shoulder back and then freeze. There’s a weight under your bandages.

“Kill a mage, call for help, go the fuck home,” Mina grumbles with a moutful of bread. She rifles through Sero’s basket to find the softest pieces. Rolls are tossed to conscious members of the party, fresh and sweet, and you catch Bakugou’s eyes once more. His clenched fists give off the faintest popping. The prince you know wouldn’t be so quiet, he wouldn’t let his friends– wouldn’t let anyone– venture into the dangers of the castle without him.

“Highness?” you attempt as Mina pelts him with a pandemain. “Are you injured?”

Mina raises her hand, “I’m injured.”

The question unbalances Bakugou who simmers behind you, but he redirects his anger quickly enough with a gnash of rations. His burn almost glows under his jaw. “Course not, you are.”

“It’s my job to be injured, sir. What are your orders?”

He snaps forward but you are already palming your bandages. It’s still there. He glows in the remnants of his formalwear, stripped down to a bloody undershirt and charred white trousers. He glows in anger, he glows with something you don’t recognize and the prince who hates your company thrills you once more. You will kill the mage and you will take him home. You press your fingers to the shape tucked between your bandages like holding a hand over your heart.

“Then, I request an audience with His Highness Bakugou Katsuki.”

Hell can’t deny you. Bakugou reluctantly marches you down the dark hall and curses Alderan pride. A prince would never refuse his general’s audience.

You’re walking well, your breathing is even. He clenches his jaw instead of picturing the last time you came to his room, half on his back, half in his arms, all saltwater and sweat heartbroken with fever. The braids you keep neat at home fray in Takoba. The remains of your red dress are eaten black with burns and you are more phoenix than dragon ahead of him in this hellish castle.

“In,” he grunts when the red door is finally in front of you, “quietly.”

You turn around to confirm, turn into his chest and look up at him with those horrible eyes he loves to see watching. He rolls his own and pushes you both inside.

The air is iron with blood. You startle the second you enter because Captain Hawks is sprawled sideways on the bed under furs, back exposed to the cold air without life in the fireplace. His wings, wings, are a collection of odd scorched feathers protruding from his spine like boney fingers and a few feathers litter the pillows keeping him turned on his side.

They did their best posting him up after carrying him from the party, but even Bakugou concedes the scene is grim.

Candles are lit at intervals around the room, a few on the mantle and a dozen around the floor on mismatched candlesticks. Furs and tapestries are nailed over windows so that the light can’t be seen from outside. Aldera is three days away, home is only three days away and he can’t even get his people outside of the city gates– outside of the castle.

You take a deep breath and face him, “What’s your–” But he can’t let you speak.

“You’re not fighting. No more, you are completely reckless.”

“Me?” You almost snort. He tries not to let your amusement warm him, not an ember, not a spark. You begin fingering through your bandages again and he instinctively reaches to stop you. “You are not my queen to be doling out orders like that.”

“Stay here.”

“You are my job,” your voice staggers a bit when his hands take up yours to keep them from pulling at your bandages but you stare through surprise with glinting, obsidian eyes, “my purpose.”

Will you stay when this is over?

Bakugou is a cocky brawler on his first day of training with Jeanist and you are lugging weapons to the Keep. He is suffering through class and you are just outside the window, rushing to your lessons still trailing smoke and dragonfire. He is kneading dough before the holiday feast in roaring kitchens and you are armed, halberd and crossbow over your shoulder, collecting a plate the cooks put aside for you.You are supposed to be sleeping. He is supposed to be sleeping. You are both pretending to watch the stars and not each other in the library at midnight.

You stare through him and Bakugou stares at you in the candlelit chill of this makeshift bedroom. “Who mended your cape, Highness?”

He furrows both brows and sighs. He won’t win, “A friend.”

You’re smiling now which he should hate and in one jerk of your arm you tear a strip of bandage free. Dust of blood and the crack of its cast make him wince, but under the red material, soaked pink from your wound, is a small stitched square, a repair date, and a family seal. Yaoyorozu. “The traveling merchants Yaoyorozu don’t only mend capes.”

“And?” Of course they don’t. They’re the richest family on the continent, engineers, the lot of them.

“This seal is on half the tonics in the potions closet and on half more in the pantry. Weapons, clothing, ammunition–”

He stops you talking with a shake of his head and winces again when you rip another bandage free, “Will you stop it!”

“Aldera couldn’t study dragons without the tools that family designed– Takoba would succumb to winter every year without their insulation, without one of their boats in port. They are ubiquitous.” You continue unwrapping yourself, bare skin becoming raw scar until a piece of glass glints under the last of the wrappings. You tug it free before the stiff bandages even fall, and press it into Bakugou’s chest.

The glass is warm with the heat of your heart and you beam so close to him. He studies you. His hand closes over yours.

“Highness, we can fight with this. We can fight the mage and what we have left we’ll bring home. The Yaoyorozus can engineer something to reverse the effects– we have allies– not just them, we aren’t– aren’t–” You are swelling with Alderan fire, a pot boiling over, a hound, a dragon, a phoenix itching to fight. When you smile for bloodlust it is even more beautiful. He doesn’t know he is holding you until you stop speaking.

Bakugou cups both of your cheeks as you offer up the mage’s stolen vial of poison. You are formidable. You are terrifying. He holds you like you might go out candlefast in a breeze.

“We can still–”

“Y/n,” he quiets you with the sound and your smile falls. You are captain of the guard all dressed in red, training squires on spring mornings. He is the king who rises at dawn to watch you. “Thank you.”

The corner of your bodice has been cut away to expose your wound for the doctor and it is raw at its edges so close to your heart. Your collarbone shines with the new and mended skin there. Another scar from a wound that might have killed you, another injury you took in his place. You are reckless but that’s not the problem. Maybe derealization will hit Aldera after you die. Did you outsmart the ghost even as you were being raised from the dead?

“Highness–”

“Don’t.” Bakugou traces the shape of your pulse with his thumbs, “Don’t call me that.”

He’s hardly thought about home since you laughed with him on the catwalks. Since he gave you his hands to do what you’d like with and you told him they make something beautiful. He always thought he might not be able to hold things gently. He knows it’s hard, he knows his hands are meant to break and burst and destroy, but you are a relief. Your hands can kill, they can catch, they fold laundry, they break joints, and they tremble when sparks run through them.

“I don’t–”

“Anything but that, anything. Asshole, coward–” he wants to be upset with you, it is easier when you hate him. It is easier to fight.

“Bakugou.”

Closer. He knows there’s no time but he wants to be closer. You clutch the vial tight in one hand and rest the other over his bloodstained heart. He can feel your heartbeat in the curve of your jaw with his clumsy, heavy fingers. He shakes his head.

“..Katsuki,” you murmur, and he kisses you. You who are just like him.

Your back finds a wall smoothly this time when he dips low to catch your lips with his. There is no desperate grabbing, no stumbling, tripping, every push of his tongue against yours is deep and slow and starving. Your hand cups his chest in both protest and invitation, somehow you are scalding, somehow you are hungrier.

There is a thank you that chases every parting of your lips for everything he owes you. He owes you two lifetimes and a spar. More than that. He presses deeper. Blood flakes from his blond hair when your fingers rake through it and you pull just enough to make him growl.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps in correction. He holds your head in his hands like a gentle promise even as his bones break themselves to be closer.

You manage, “wait,” through the pause and when he jerks back you are no longer the nervous soldier crying in cold hallways. He is nervous, he is trembling, you are something else, something black and infinite. You lower your hand to his cheek and stare almost too close to see him clearly. The hand that kills becomes soft fingers that drift over his temple and push his shaggy hair from his eyes. You watch every part of him. Your eyes and fingers make shapes of his face as he stands above you, as he submits to your touch happily.

What else can he kiss from you? What will you offer him? Breath and tears, he wants more. Memories, exhaustion, boredom, tell him more about yourself, favorites and enemies, show him more tragedy, selfishness, joy. Take him to study dragons, not your soldiers, not your queen.

Your knuckle ghosts his burn and catches the swell of his lip and the wet there. Time be damned, blue mages, civilians, home and hell wait for you. He rumbles somewhere deep in his chest when your thumb presses just slightly harder, your breath catching, at the soft pink flesh and the tongue that darts out to wet you. Bakugou kisses the tip of your finger, again, again, you swipe saliva under your thumb and he kisses you there, again until you can’t take it anymore and lean forward to taste him. He has no such patience. Your prince takes your jaw back up between his fingers and molds his lips to yours like he might give his life to you. You knock hard against the wall and push against him with just as much force so that he must knock you back again to keep you where he needs you.

More of this, more of your greed, more of your desperation stolen in gasps, more of your body fitting perfectly into his hands. You pull at the neck of his undershirt, nails catching flesh. He’ll praise you. He’ll watch you. He only wanted to kiss you. He doesn’t know what it is to want, to be close to someone he needs to keep.

He can’t push any closer– chest to yours, legs between– you inhale sharply when he rolls too deep and he wants to apologize again but you arch your hips higher on instinct. It almost tips his head back. He thinks he says your name. You press warm and shaky against the thigh that pins you to the door while your lips keep him close, bobbing between sloppy presses and a tongue kneading wet against his. The friction of your hips stutters the yawning starving kisses. Where does he hold you? Sweat collects between his knuckles, the excitement soaks through him, you’re alive you’re alive, he grasps you under your thighs and up into his arms.

The pressure is worse here, you are a fire against the rawest parts of him. He catches your throat with his teeth in your surprise above him and lays as many kisses up your pulse as you will let him before cupping his stinging jaw back up where you want it.

He wants to dance with you. You nip where he offers himself, tongue and lip and neck, because your thrill never left you. He wants to fight, he wants to blow out all the candles and make magic for you in the dark. Bare, his shoulders beg you to find hold there, to grasp and scratch, draw blood, breathe fire, don’t let go of him. The swell of your thighs is unbearable in his palms. Your tattered dress parts for him– your damp flesh vibrates with his magic and he wants to sink so deeply inside of you– it is the only thing can could heal this ache, the one thing to make it worse. He wants to hear just one noise. Who taught you not to make a sound? Why can’t he stay quiet?

“Highness,” you breathe. He will break you of that habit, “Highness, I–”

He grunts the low sound of a question and pulls wet away from your kiss in strings of desperation. He wasn’t– he isn’t thinking. Bakugou loses half his halfgone composure when you stare into him with huge, burning eyes and bring an embarrassed palm up to your lips. His ears catch fire. Immediately he knows both of his cheeks and half of his chest are lost to flush. A chill through the air makes you shiver in his arms, back to the door, and he shudders, his own eyes widening at the crease of your brows and the sound you bite back.

“Your shoulder.” He blinks a thousand more times than necessary, “you–you’re– injury.” He almost drops you, almost falls over. Bakugou lets you to your feet– your braids catch on the wooden door above your startled bonfire eyes and it is too much the picture of you, laid out under him in half-torn clothes, overheating, breathless– inside, let me have you, hips grinding through this heat until–

“Highness,” a different voice drawls from the dark. It kills the thought and the silence of the room so suddenly both of Bakugou’s palms ignite in plumes of violet on either side of you. “Please,” Hawks groans, suffocating, into the Alderan pillows propping him up on the bed, “don’t fuck in here.”

“You’re awake!” You gasp because there’s nothing else to say.

“Not on purpose.”

Your prince cannot form a thought. He’s never had– never wanted the things he wants from you. He’s never been distracted from a fight. You begin patting yourself down, searching for a place to tuck the vial, settling the layers of your dress, pushing your hair back where you like it to lay, clearing your throat, catching your breath.

“Did I hear right?” Hawks grumbles again and the prince prepares to escape the end of the sentence, but both captains continue, “you need a Takoban scout?”

“You’re hardly fit enough for that.” Your tone is all disbelief but excitement shows through your embarrassment and he hates how readily you offer up all those sanguinary thoughts. Bakugou shakes his hair down from where you pushed it. He wipes his face with the back of a fist and sucks his teeth.

You will dive into the castle, you will cut down soldiers and dancers, and you will be killed by the mage before he can get you home all because you made a promise to a queen who is not here. He dreaded this. He should have taken Sero as his second. Kaminari would have done, why didn’t he just leave you?

“Can you walk?”

“I sure can’t fly.”

Bakugou bursts, all blush and bitten lips, “Neither of you are fit for reconnaissance and both of you will heel. We don’t have time to limp through the castle.”

You snap around, bright eyes, teeth shining, possessive and kiss swollen and wild. You turn to fight and then there is a crash. You are between your prince and the thrown open door faster than that injury should have let you.

He has half a mind to toss you over his shoulder when a blast of air so frozen it takes form, shatters through both of you in the doorway. You’re quick to bear through it and without waiting to cover Hawks’s hiding place you’re both down the dark hallway, longing, starvation, wet and warmth left behind you. The damp of the hall freezes over completely underfoot.

“Enemy?” You bark, death to stealth.

“The queen!”

The dim light of your meeting place is more pathetic than before, now that candles are dashed and sconces are punctured in awkward icy stalagmites. Mina and Kaminari are picking themselves up off the floor as their captain and prince race forward. Sero has Natsuo under the arm, “Shinsou.”

He throws his gaze over your shoulder to the wall in horror and you turn to follow it, past shining cobblestones, over clouds of breath to the Takoban guard, pinned half up the wall in a crashing wave of ice. Most of both legs and half his hip are trapped in the tide, leaving enough of his torso free to breathe easy. “She’s,” he grunts, thrashing against his restraints, “she’s escaped.”

Bakugou should hate the look on your face but he knows he looks much the same. Thrill makes you glow like he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

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[strayrockette]

My Sunshine Girl: End of the Night

A/N: Good news, this one is shorter than the first part!! The third chapter is in the works, currently editing and adding more! There are a few things I'm really excited to explore between Sunshine and Benny as well as Sunshine's history. Sooooo I hope you enjoy this short chapter ❤️😊 Please comment your thoughts (I really enjoy reading them), and remember to like and reblog!

Inspiration: He's Mine by The Platters Summary: An invitation is extended and you accept Previous Chapter: The Celebration Masterlist

By the time the ride ended, you were breathless and craving more. Benny had led you back to the bar, where everyone else had regrouped. You sat on the back of his bike, your fingers loosely gripping the bottom of his jacket.

Benny helped you get off, his hand holding onto yours. Steadying your swaying body as your feet met solid ground. You breathed a quiet thank you, his strong but gentle grip keeping you upright. 

You glanced up from the ground, ready to say goodbye and be on your merry way, but the words got stuck and you realized; you didn’t want to leave his side. 

Benny held your gaze, his thumb brushing circles over the back of your hand. 

You could hear the others making teasing comments, but all your focus was on him. You tried to capture this moment in your brain, his eyes softened under the street lamp, searching your face for any signs of distress or annoyance but finding nothing but wonder and excitement.

He smirks realizing you were just as much a fan of the ride as he was. This realization pleases him, already envisioning you as a part of his daily life. You’d be a second extension of his tiny world. Another slot that would take up space next to the club and his love of riding. 

He moves to slide off the bike, you shuffle back, your hand still in his. He speaks quietly, a deep baritone in the soft caress of the night wind, “Do yah wanna drink” 

Your eyes flickered over to the bar doors, men falling into line for another round of fun before ending their night. You could see Johnny turn to look at you guys, a smile on his lips, walking backward he calls out, “I told yah girls would be okay, the guys just wanna go out wit yah” 

You found yourself letting out a breathless laugh. Your eyes fell to watch his thumb repeatedly draw circles on your knuckles. Does he realize he’s doing that? You wondered. 

“I-uh-I don’t drink alcohol” You stuttered, “But I wanna dance” 

He hummed, lifting your hand, your eyes following the movement, “Gail would love that” 

He peppered a soft kiss on your knuckles his eyes smiling as he watched you melt under his gaze. “C-cool, ha” 

You slipped your hand away from his lips, from his warmth, and tore your eyes away from his. You almost ran, but forced your legs to follow a decent pace, you’d caught wind of Kathy and practically tackled her to hook arms and slip into the bar. The man she had ridden with doubled over in laughter, “Why you runnin' from your man Sunshine” 

Your face flushed, bowing your head to let your hair fall over your red cheeks, “Don’t” 

Kathy giggled beside you and said naught about your sudden shyness. The two of you set off to dance. You’d asked around looking for a Gail, she had already taken control of the Jukebox and had a group of other ladies warming up to let loose. You and Kathy slipped into the group of ladies, entering a bubble that no man would disturb, including Benny. 

Dancing the night away with Gail, who was happy to have a gal who wouldn’t tap out after the 3rd song. The better half of the night was reserved for the ladies, who got to dance and talk as loudly as the men had before their ride.

 Kathy finally seemed to be having fun, though she still shot some of the men her look of disgust, warning them to stay away from her. On more than, one occasion you pulled her from her seat and her drink for another dance, her laughter and groans drowning over the music. You’d done all you could to avoid looking at Benny. 

Who had no qualms watching you from the bar; a drink in his hand and his body turned away from the counter, his eyes following your body weave in and out from the crowd.

He watched you from the pool table too. Cue stick in hand, his head leaning against it as he followed your body's movements. 

It comforted you, to know that he was watching. No man seemed to want to catch his ire and for whatever reason everyone had already dubbed the two of you as an item. All because you rode on his bike. You wanted to think it was ridiculous. But something told you that one way or another, you’d end up his and he yours. 

You buried the thought behind a smile immersing yourself in getting to know the ladies of the club. 

Benny was the one who brought you home. 

Kathy had gotten a ride from her boyfriend, who wasn’t happy with where he found her. You’d seen the angry look on his face and how Kathy had shrunk into the car seat. You were gonna hop in but a rough hand grabbed yours and led you away.

You slipped onto his bike and wrapped your arms around him, your bag tucked between your arms. You remembered mumbling your address and you expected the ride to be quick because you didn’t live that far but Benny had taken the long way to your home. Your tired eyes took in the passing lights and scenery. Your head lulling to lay on his shoulder. The calm of the night is a lullaby to your soul. 

When he pulled in front of your house you sighed in sadness. It took effort to release your tight hold on his midsection, clumsily fixing your bag back over your shoulder and an unsteady hand gripping his as you slipped off. 

You hummed along to the last song that had played on the Jukebox, its melody echoing in your mind. 

“He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s really mine, I said my baby loves me so” you sang softly as you held onto his hand, your feet fighting to stay upright. Your feet ache from all the dancing, and the adrenaline of riding is wearing off. You resemble it to sea legs getting used to land. 

Benny’s hand moves to grab your elbow, steadying your body. You realize through a tired haze that you like his hands on your body. He makes you feel small and safe with his large hands supporting you. 

You bury this thought behind a mumbled thanks, your head hanging as you peer into your purse to dig out your keys. His hand is still on your body, moving to your lower back, pulling you closer so your knees touch his legs. He’s still on his bike and you wonder if he’s uncomfortable with his upper body turned to you. 

Your eyes were blurry from exhaustion. The quiet cool night was almost enough to have you fall asleep standing. 

When you finally snagged onto the metal of your house keys, you pulled them out and finally looked up at Benny. You were impossibly close, your nose nearly touching his. You couldn’t remember why you were standing or where you were.

He was still seated on his bike, his head and shoulders turned in your direction.

“You really need to stop doing that,” you whisper into the night air. His brows lift and he chuckles, “Stop what?” 

You pointed an accusing finger at his chest, lightly poking him, “You know what.” 

He’s teasing, you know he is by the way his eyes glint playfully. You want to keep the back and forth going but your mind is tired and you want your bed. So instead, you roll your eyes and step away. You say thank you again, avoiding his burning gaze, and walk up the steps to your home. 

You fumble with the keys, sticking the key into the hole, but the lock won’t turn. You’re tired and frustrated and you just want to sleep. It isn’t till you feel him standing behind you, one hand coming around to gently pry the keys from your hand and the other lightly ghosting over your lower back.

With one hand, he’s opened your door for you, pushing the door ajar for you to slip in. 

The air is palpable, an unspoken question hanging densely over your head. You stare into the emptiness of your mother's childhood home. Breathing in the cool air you slowly step through the threshold. 

You turn and lean a hand against the door frame. “I’m not with my girls anymore” 

Voice soft and probing, you aren’t sure what you’re doing. But you know you don’t want to be alone tonight. So you ignore the screaming inside your head. 

“No, you’re not” He replies softly. 

You flip your hair over your shoulder and step away from the door, you tell him you like to cuddle. You don't close the door because you hope he gets the hint.

You turn and start walking up the stairs and you hear the front door close behind you, his footsteps echo up the stairs. You giggle when you feel the tips of his fingers try and grab your waist but you're bounding up the stairs with energy you thought lost. You lead him to your room and you give him eyes filled with anticipation and excitement. He’s slow and teasing as he walks up to you, there are no words just your giggles bouncing around the quiet home that hadn’t been home for a long while. 

He’s caught you in his grasp and you expect things to go a certain way but it's as if he knows what you need because he’s pulled you down to your bed and has you in his arms. Your head resting on his clothed chest. You can still smell cigarette smoke and sweat. It sticks to both of you and you’re too tired to care. 

“Hey Sunshine,” his voice breaks your reverie. His fingers are playing with your hair. 

You hum into his chest, “Yeah?”

“You wanna go to the next meeting with me?”

It's a simple question. But you sense a layer of complexity. You've already invited him into your home, into your bed. Now he's inviting you into his world. Saying yes means so much more than you can imagine. You lift your head, resting your chin on his chest. His head is propped up on your pillow, his unoccupied arm tucked behind his head, his blue eyes on you, patiently waiting for you to give an answer with bated breath.

"I'd love to, handsome," you give him a small smile and then bury your head into his chest, settling as the silence grows. He fixes his arms around you, tugging your body closer, one leg wraps around him, and your arm is thrown over his stomach. He rubs your shoulder and tells you to go to sleep. 

The silence used to be deafening but now basking in his warmth and listening to the steady thump of his heart, you don’t mind the silence all that much. 

His heart sings you to sleep much like your mama who used to tuck you in with stories and songs. Your heart tugs at the memory and you drift off. In the echo of the night, you can almost hear her soft voice singing out to you. You want to reach out and hold on. But all you have is Benny. So, you hold onto him. And pray he doesn’t slip between your fingers like the memories of your ma.

Taglist:

@storiesfromafan, @aleemendoza2425-blog, @preciouslilmonster

[delicatebarness]

So I was thinking earlier for the Avengers Bunch

What if…while on a mission and in the middle of the fight reader is listening to music and just starts humming which leads to singing quietly till other young avenger hears and joins and another one and so on

the young avengers just start singing cause someone is anxious or just because they’re bored and when they run into the enemy they are like what is happening

And the song would be “We Didn’t Start The Fire” Fallout boy rendition or you can chose

The Avengers Bunch | Who's Robert Downey Jr Anyway?! #004

Summary: ^^ Requested.

Warning: Violence. Mentions of real-life events from 1989 - 2023 that could be triggering.

Word Count: 567

Series Masterlist | Tips

Tags: @somnorvos |

On the outskirts of an abandoned nuclear power plant, bursts of energy and lights flashing illuminated the night sky. The recruits were in the thick of their mission, each one of them locked in their conflict. Amidst the chaos, you crouched behind a pile of rubble, trying to catch your breath and reload your guns. After a moment, you remembered you packed your AirPods…

“Why do you need them?” you remember Bucky asking you from your doorway.

Slipping them into your ears, you pressed shuffle on your playlist, and the familiar strains of “We Didn’t Start The Fire” by Fall Out Boy filled your senses. As you re-entered the battle, you found yourself humming along to the beat.

Softly, the hums turned into singing, barely audible over the fights. “Captain Planet, Arab Spring, LA riots, Rodney King…”

Nearby, Kate crouched with her bow at the ready, glancing over at you. “Are you singing?” 

You gave her a sheepish grin, still humming. “It’s to help me focus.”

Nodding, Kate smiled at you before she took a deep breath and joined on the next line. “Deepfakes, earthquakes, Iceland volcano…”

Spider-Man swung in from above you, delivering a kick to a robotic enemy. He landed next to you, eyebrows raised beneath his mask. “Cool! Karaoke time!” Without hesitation, he joined in, surprisingly in tune. “Oklahoma City bomb…” 

Suddenly, an amplified voice added a deep resonance as a shadow loomed over you. “I am Groot, I am Groot, I am Groot, I am Groot…” Groot has caught on to what was happening. 

Soon enough, the four of you were all belting out the song, your voices melding together in a harmonious chorus. Your enemies, a group of heavily armed mercenaries even paused in their attacks. Staring in confusion at you all. 

“What the hell?” one of them muttered, lowering their weapon slightly. 

Even the most seasoned in their ranks, looked bewildered. “What is happening?” he growled, becoming distracted for a moment. 

You and your friends never missed a beat. You used the mercenaries’ confusion to your advantage. “Cambridge Analytica!” you sang together, your voices rang out across the battlefield. 

As the last of the mercenaries were knocked out, you regrouped, still singing the lines of the song.

Kate paused and looked confused when you all sang, “Robert Downey Jr, Iron Man.” Picking up her arrows she asked, “Wait, who’s Robert Downey Jr anyway?” 

“No idea,” Peter shrugged, sending one more punch toward a waking mercenary. “Must be some old actor.” 

Groot nodded, “I am Groot.” 

You laughed, shaking your head. “Tony will know.” 

~

Once your enemies were tied up and the area was secure, you made your way back to the Quin Jet. As you and the rest of your team boarded, still humming together, you found the ‘older’ Avengers sitting inside, their heads in their hands.

Bucky looked up first, his face a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Do you realize we have comms? We heard… everything.” 

Steve sighed, rubbing his temples. “Every. Single. Note.”

With a raised eyebrow, Natasha made her way over to you. “Not the most conventional tactic, but it worked.” 

You blushed slightly. “Sorry, we just got carried away.” Sharing a look with your friends, you all tried to stifle your laughter. Leaning back in your seat, you began to hum softly again as the Quin Jet lifted off.

“For the love of Odin, shut up!”

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Soundly (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

Summary: You’ve injured your arm, leaving you frustratingly helpless to complete everyday tasks, like cleaning yourself. Your boyfriend and colleague Simon understands your apprehension towards accepting help for such a task and tells you how he does.

AN: Working title was “Sprain” for those of you who voted in the poll. I’ll be posting the Soap fics shortly and posting another poll for my other upcoming fics afterwards! Meanwhile, let me know what you think in replies or inbox me, tell me your thoughts on fics - present or future. 

I just want Ghost to feel loved and to recover from all the shit he went through. I did a fic for that and sharing a bed, so I’m doing this one for the reader a.k.a. me. Plus I like the head canon that Ghost is actually kinda talkative, like in the Alone mission. I know he’s probably partly chatting to Johnny to because he’s trying to keep him focused, guiding him to regroup and survive. But he’s telling dumb jokes and joking about watching his torture video. He’s got banter and trauma!

Content warnings: Allusions to Ghost’s time being tortured by Roba and the Mexican Cartel - specifically his SA as well as the reader’s. Reader is GN, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // AO3

For “just a sprain”, your elbow hurt like a bastard. It was resting in the hammock of the sling your doctor ordered you to keep on. Almost smugly, it sent a few stings across the bone when you were also instructed to restrict your movements and get support to complete day-to-day tasks before you were signed off on a month’s medical leave – pending review at the end of it for being brought back to work.

It was half your fault. The sprain in the first place was caused by some asshole who would not go down quietly and attempted to dislocate your limb. Thankfully, your training automatically twisted you into a position preventing that but then you had to shoot that asshole and your gun was in the arm he’d injured. The bullet that you fired solidified the damage and you were forced to focus hard on aiming with your non-dominant hand whilst slugging it over to the Heli half a klick to the west for recon. You didn’t have to shoot the guy straight away. You’d kicked him down and he was too far from his own weapon to have made it before you could have swapped your gun to your other hand and ended his life the same miserable way. But nah, in the heat of gunfire, you’d decided to end the fight as quick as possible then ran like a bat out of hell back to safety where the rest of your crew was headed.

Simon had known you long enough – and dated you long enough – to not treat you like glass. He wouldn’t insult you like that. Therefore you were very grateful that he was the one to take you home, and that his driving was a lot steadier and smooth on the motorway.

Letting you open the front door, he carried both his and your bags inside, ready to start your medical leave this instant. He was heading out of the hall with his shoes dropped loudly onto the rack when he asked:

“You want anything specific for tea?”

“Nah, I’m good with whatever.”

Despite years of therapy, this injury had dealt a hefty blow to your pride; you didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you were going to be over the next few weeks. Thank God you’d been to his place enough times for it to be considered familiar.

From the airing cupboard, you collected the towel that Simon had bought you after your fifth stay here and smiled at the memory of shopping for it together. He’d asked for what colour you preferred then gathering other items into the trolley that were the same shade: toothbrush, wash cloth, cup to sit by the bathroom sink. He was nice like that.

The bathroom door locked behind you, the final ebbs of afternoon reaching in through frosted glass. You thanked the sun for enabling you to keep the lights off; the buzz that accompanied their stark spark on the silky tiles was always too much for you. However as warm as the daylight was, it failed to soothe your state. When you tried to retrieve the memory of how you’d gotten this t-shirt on in the first place, your mind offered you a blank slate and tears of frustration bubbling over, stinging worse than the injury as you tried to warp it against its will. But to no avail. Your bitten tongue surrendered so that the crying could commence with your t-shirt still stuck on your body.

Gentle rapping at the door didn’t halt anything. Surrendering felt like an admission of weakness, failure, and it poisoned you against yourself as you twisted the lock in the handle and slumped on the rim of the bath.

A pair of plain-socked feet appeared at the top of your line of sight, lingering on the cobalt carpet side of the door frame.

“Can I borrow your scissors please?” You asked, toying with a stray string dangling from the hem.

“You gonna stab me?” Simon inquired semi-sarcastically.

“Yes.” It was a pathetic little reply. But Simon pushed off the bath, belongings tinkling against one another as he rooted around then retrieved a small pair of scissors from the top shelf.

He sat down beside you on the rim, holding out the scissors by the blade, “It’s a nice shirt.”

You wiped your nose on the hem before taking the scissors, “It’s just Primark.”

“I can help you out of it, if it is Primark’s finest.”

“Was just cut it off.”

But of course your dominant hand was tied up in the sling, and you only just realised now.

“I could help you take it off.”

You’d never been undressed around Simon. The closest you’d gotten were jogging bottoms you’d cut into knee-length shorts and the sleeves of your t-shirt pushed onto your shoulders whilst you both worked out at opposite ends of the gym. Towards the end of your set, you mopped at your brow with the hem of your shirt once and the sliver of skin nearly sent Simon into anaphylactic shock.

He knew why you grappled with the notion of undressing. But he didn’t ever linger on you going elsewhere to change. Across your relationship, and even before it started, he’d shown you love in so many other ways that you would forget about what had happened to you.

Today was the first time he addressed it: “I understand why you wouldn’t want me to help.”

Without moving your head, your watchful stare latched onto his adjusting to the nuisance of sitting on a thin perch of porcelain. He withdrew his skull balaclava from its suffocating in his pocket and began kneading at it until the eyehole faced the ceiling you’d stared at many times, wishing you could be more intimate with the man you loved more than life.

 “Your reasons aren’t so different from mine.” And he held out the mask to you.

The olive branch was accepted and you thumbed over the skull plate as best you could with the scissors still in your grip. Only when your thumbnail caught against the paint depicting a cheekbone did it dawn on you what your boyfriend was referring to.

“Simon-”

“None of that,” He interrupted you, gently, firmly, “I get it. I don’t wanna bother you if you don’t want me here.”

He rubbed along your shoulder as you matched your deep breaths to his, resting your eyes to bask in his comfort and crushing the mask in your loose fist. You’d always equated it to anonymity. Never had you thought of linking it to another form of comfort.

“You can bathe with your clothes on,” Simon suggested after a minute’s silence.

“Do you know how hard it is to remove wet denim?” You muttered with a crooked smile.

“I do,” and he pressed a kiss to your forehead – his preferred place to do so. “Let’s give this a go.”

You handed back his balaclava and took in his bare face, the medical mask – the one he’d been wearing whilst you were in the hospital and all the way home - gone, his expression carefully crafted to be neutral so that you didn’t have to be.

He eased your sling off you after the taps were thundering steaming water into the tub. Then he vanished to his room, returning with a pair of baggy sports shorts. Cradling them like a baby, your nose welcomed their softness and the steam whilst Simon knelt onto the fluffy bathmat, nodding after splashing the bathwater and twisting the taps into silence.

“I’m gonna stink if I don’t wash properly,” You whispered.

After opening his palms to you, Simon took your shorts and arranged them on the floor, “I’ll get you some wet wipes to use while we wait for your arm to heal up.”

You held onto his shoulders whilst he undid your jeans and eased them down your legs, his hands careful to stay hidden in the fabric whilst you stepped out of them and into the shorts. Simon to pulled them up to your hips.

“Why did the magician take a bath?” He asked you as you lowered yourself into the water.

“I dunno, why?”

“To clean up his act.”

Your chest quivered, struggling to hold in your groans and giggles whilst Simon pumped some blueberry body wash into his palm, “That’s good.”

Tenderly he circled the soap across your forearm, “Fancy another?”

“Go on.” You were nothing if not his little enabler, indulging in his humour even after the rest of 141 had lightly roasted him for it.

“Knock, knock.”

Your free hand fiddled with the sodden hem of your t-shirt, “Who’s there?”

“Dwayne.”

“Dwayne who?”

Soaking the flannel and wringing it out over your arm, Simon began to wash the suds away, “Dwayne the bathtub before I dwown.”

Your smile was not dampened by the tears that rolled down your cheeks and dripped onto the shallow waterline. Instead, you focused your blurry vision on Simon’s hoodie sleeves that were pushed up to his elbows, those broad forearms sprinkled with droplets and soapsuds.

When Simon was lathering up some more body wash, you offered your own joke: “What did the man say after he swallowed a clock and went to the toilet?”

“What?”

“Watch out.”

Simon snorted loudly whilst carefully manipulating your injured arm amidst the blueberry bubbles.

You wiped a new tear away on your shoulder: “I’ve already told Kyle but you can tell it to Johnny.”

“Much obliged.”

With permission and a slow touch, he started soaping up your shins. His contact always lingered for hours on your skin. This felt like a polish, not a scratch or a dent, which is why you felt so overwhelmed now, just as you did that first time he gave you a proper bear hug. You didn’t mind the blueberry, something else to focus on instead of letting yourself meander towards conjuring disturbing imaginations of what you’d just learnt about Simon’s capture in Mexico.

He let you take over for washing your thighs, sitting on the toilet still talking to you with a smile that cracked up his face like the scar, from lip to brow. His eyes never strayed from your face, though it never felt like you were a target down his scope, more like feeling the sun first thing in the morning with a delicate breeze that danced around your being. Such a gaze wasn’t alien to Simon, even if he rarely showed it to you, and never to anyone else. You were just grateful that he was able to be like this, and that he still chose to.

That same stare, he held it whilst draping a towel around your shoulders, patting over your arms before he gathered it at the front for you to hold in your healthy hand. Then he collected a pile of clean clothes from the bedroom, placing them onto the closed toilet lid, you noted the crisply ironed button up folded on top. You settled for nestling your head against his chest since you were unable to hug him.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make dinner.”

The door was locked after Simon disappeared behind it. You did end up cutting yourself out of the shirt, rest in peace. Fogged-up, the mirror wasn’t so bad to stare at whilst you moisturised with your good hand. You could still feel where Simon’s calloused hands had brushed over your skin, tingling in each follicle, and it was protected by the button-up you were able to slide on – one of the few Simon owned. His bulk was once again your gain; the shirt was loose enough to give you some wiggle room whilst dressing.

Clattering from the kitchen caught Simon in the act of putting away the ironing board. He was taking loud and rehearsed deep breaths that hissed through the fabric of his freshly-donned balaclava, the board under his arm before he tossed it into its assigned slot. His hand shook as it released the cupboard door handle, searching for something to distract himself with until he latched his stare onto you bunching your shirt in the front.

“I can’t do my buttons up,” You said quietly.

Your stomach impulsively sucked in on itself when his hands reached for the buttons before it, joining them with the fabric. Nevertheless, your gaze found solace in the thatch of fine chest hair growing in the lowest peak of his V-neck.

Simon started from the bottom button and made his way up. With each wince, his fingers stalled. But you knew he’d never hurt you, never on purpose and never like that. He made steady progress until complete and even helped you replace your sling. But then he sniffed and brushed his nose briefly, stepping away and back to the kitchen. For five minutes he alternated between sifting through the cupboards and staring helplessly into the fridge, his face washed out by the stagnant light inside. You took the time to help him in one of the ways you knew how.

“I’ll order us a takeaway.”

Immediately he slammed shut the fridge door, “You’re a fucking star.”

You were not put off by his pacing back and forth, nor were you by his hovering over you like a gargoyle whilst you tapped at the screen – which you held in a way for him to see clearly in case he wanted to add something. A wide berth allowed you to approach him on the couch with the takeaway when it arrived half an hour later (always reliable, hence why it was your go-to takeaway place). Simon also accepted the drink you brought him, but only because he’d already gotten you one plus two pain meds he made sure you took after getting some food into your stomach first.

The cushioned lap trays you’d invested in were already paying for themselves.

Dinner inhaled and rendering you quite soporific, you mirrored Simon’s earlier actions and tentatively shuffled closer to him, “Is this ok?”

“Yeah.” His arm dropped to around your waist, and you tugged on his wrist to keep it there. Only then did you tentatively wrap yourself around his full belly.

“Fuckin’ softie,” He said under his breath. That didn’t stop him from giving you a little squeeze – his hand no longer trembling - and sinking himself lower so that there was no pressure on your sprain. He turned the volume down a little, which sparked inspiration in your mind.

Half hiding in his t-shirt, you projected loud enough for him to hear you: “The local TV controller museum shut down due to no visitors. Turns out people aren’t remotely interested.”

“Have you been researching these instead of doing your paperwork?”

“What makes you think I haven’t been doing my paperwork?”

Simon looked down at you, those expressive eyes communicating both the “are you fucking for real?” and the “you’re lucky you’re cute” in equal parts. But from the way his balaclava was balanced on his face, you could tell he was smiling at you. So you smiled back at him then snuggled back against him with a contented sigh and the existence of your new joke book still a secret (for now).

The next time you opened your eyes, it was much darker in the living room. A blanket was tucked around your legs. The glow of “Are you still watching Phil Wang: Philly Philly Wang Wang?” from the flat-screen, despite that not being what you were watching when you first drifted off, bathed you in enough low light to allow you a comfortable adjustment period. You squinted up at your boyfriend. Head back in the pillows, his chest was rising and falling with each breath he drew and released through his nose. You adjusted the blanket around to cover his legs too and, tucking yourself back into your bundle, both you and Simon slept soundly.

[inchidentally]

insane and stupid but what’s new !!

something about how Carlos said today how this sport has taught him to be selfish and focus on his own interests and the quote about his dad saying you need to be the dog that bites or else you’ll get bitten

and Daniel’s PR skill and knowing his own marketability and maneuvering in his F1 career because plenty of times he is being moved by other forces

and how they both came into Lando’s life with a big brash alpha arm around him and taking Lando’s natural desire to let someone else lead and for him to be the satellite so that the dynamic was so all consuming each time - and when they left or had to leave, it was equally a wrench and destabilization for Lando’s world because they could march off and regroup but he was left each time not knowing what the next season would bring

and then he gets Oscar who treats Lando like The Star That He Is and defers to him and accommodates him in everything and is so calm and rational and selflessly happy and supportive even when team orders or Lando’s right of seniority in the team spell bad news for Oscar’s race

but he never treats Lando as if he were a Carlos or Daniel type of role bc he’s observed how Lando likes being taken care of and Oscar didn’t need to watch the chicken shop date to know that already

and it’s had Lando in a state of managing his relationship with Oscar because on the one hand he keeps emphasizing how Oscar is taller and bigger and calmer and more confident than him but not at all in a Carlos or Daniel way because Oscar doesn’t view Lando as someone who needs Oscar specifically but as someone who deserves the way Oscar treats him

and how confusing is that when normally Lando has these guys who do the give and take dynamic of them being in charge and Lando wriggling and whining and laughing beside them (which he loves) to Oscar quietly and steadily insisting on taking care and closely observing Lando’s needs and taking all responsibility out of his hands except the ones Lando does want

because Oscar believes that Lando can be The Star and endless confidence in him and suddenly Lando is saying how Oscar has pushed him like no one else has and Lando is now dissatisfied with anything other than a win and chasing the WDC for the first time in his career and Oscar is still there saying how he didn’t intend to do the shoey but he knew it would raise Lando’s spirits and when Andrea says a race had been Lando’s to win and didn’t is when Oscar clenches his jaw and stands up straighter and allllmost openly contradicts his own team principal

like to go fully stupid here you’ve got Lando with Carlos and Daniel where love is so easy and thankfully Lando doesn’t mind being the one to run after them for it because once he’s with them they take over and Lando just has to react and be cute and sweet and nothing else

to the way Oscar loves with such constant and intense proof of respect and attention and easy capitulation (even at the expense of his own comfort) to Lando’s wants and needs but !!! Oscar’s firm and persistent standing aside or standing back and watchful eye keeping Lando metaphorically and physically in the spotlight on his own the way that Carlos and Daniel and all the older guys take the spotlight so comfortably

that Lando has blossomed into a WDC because Oscar wouldn’t let Lando lean on him - instead he stands at that infuriating little distance of respect and turns his head in Lando’s direction and does that active listening thing and smiles because Lando’s got this and he doesn’t need anyone else

Lando needs Oscar to help him with words and remembering things and letting Lando blare his music and to not eat salmon near him anymore and to never get annoyed no matter how annoying Lando gets and to not mind or take it seriously when Lando gets distracted mid interview or bored easily because Lando does in fact need a lot of support as a human being

and Oscar not only becoming an extension of team LN4 in McLaren but even dressing like one of them whenever he doesn’t have to be in his race suit to the point where casual fans mention it in comments sections

but Oscar won’t demand a specific dynamic with Lando and he won’t get ‘jealous’ or react when Lando wants to talk to or about Carlos or Daniel and he won’t share his down time with Lando with fans bc Oscar has such firm lines drawn between his private time and his public time

and landoscar and the Lando/Oscar dynamic being so wholly natural and McLaren deciding to flop at consistent or quality online content after 5 years of it being stellar which means that pretty much all of Lando and Oscar’s relationship was built off camera and lower pressure

and that it’s all so hugely popular with fans despite there being no bromance, no fake flirting or “gay”, no memeable moments and them barely even physically touching its just accidental nicknames becoming a ritual and Oscar helping Lando’s dyslexia being A Thing and their smiles when they watch each other being sweet and warm and Lando acting as bratty as he wants and Oscar being helpless with laughter

and as of Silverstone last year they’ve had multiple incidents that would have produced tension between teammates and Oscar is the closest teammate rival he says he’s ever had and yet every post race video they’re smiling warmly and Netflix has to beg them for fighting talk which they still won’t do

like to me the whole immense pull of landoscar comes down to Oscar being so calmly and firmly the strength and the support while easily managing his own career and skill - and in most ways more of a specific support to Lando than either Carlos or Daniel - but !! that Oscar is also content and firm in not becoming a star himself (he just wants to drive and try to win and then be a normal again) while gently nudging and creating space for Lando to fully become one - and !! that it’s everything Lando’s ever wanted and he adores Oscar for what he does (and what he consciously does not!) and yet feeling like he’s so close to Oscar in some ways and (even goes private with their alone time himself) but without the safety net of Oscar steaming in and pulling Lando into his orbit and taking control the way Carlos and Daniel did

because god

there’s something in all this about Lando associating giving of himself to others to be guaranteed of their time and affection for him - literally knowing that to have his friends around he has to pay because his schedule is insane and it’s not as easy for them, chasing Carlos like a puppy, taking on all of Daniel’s americanized interests, the fact that all of team LN4 including Jon and his manager are all relying on him for a salary - and!!!!!!that is NOT the case ofc so many of them genuinely do love him!!!! but Lando’s strange life means that it’s difficult to prove and it has to be that way!!

vs the amount of insecurity and maybe even sometimes hurt confusion ?? of Lando suddenly having someone who not only gains nothing at all from observing and learning and loving and supporting him the way Oscar does, but that Oscar then actually throws away easy opportunities handed to him to benefit in some way from his association with Lando! Oscar almost makes a point of Lando serving him no function or purpose other than Lando being Lando! he doesn’t demand or wheedle or even gently push to get more time with Lando outside of work he just waits to see when Lando is available! and when Lando was recovering from his crash in Vegas and Oscar went from a podium hope to all of it going away, Oscar wanted to be with a quiet and achey and medicated Lando to “commiserate” quietly

there’s something about Lando meaning so much to Oscar but the Lando/Oscar and landoscar of it all meaning absolutely nothing to him. what he is to Lando is on his mind so much more than anyone expects including Lando and yet Oscar not positioning himself at all PR consciously in any of it and most of it happening wordlessly and invisibly

and Lando getting the most support from a teammate ever and his career being the best it’s ever been and him openly attributing part of that to Oscar

but Lando also feeling the least certainty of why Oscar is Like That With Him and the least grasp of exactly what their dynamic is and none of it feeling simple and obvious the way it did with Carlos and Daniel

and the one thing Oscar doesn’t give Lando - and clearly has no idea he needs to give it or he would! - is a simply easy reason or dynamic of why Oscar loves him. Carlos loves him because little brother/fellow mischief conspirator. Daniel loves him because Lando is so easy to entertain and is so much fun. a lot of the other people in his life love him for similar reasons and also a professional dependency. Lando is so easy to love! but Lando has such deep seated insecurities about that! and such a fear of failure and inadequacy that he’ll fake himself out sometimes!

but Oscar thinks it’s easily enough to love Lando because he’s Lando! wouldn’t occur to him to try and think why! doesn’t feel at all weird how much other people love Lando and command his time and attention! Oscar would never assume he gets first dibs or priority and that’s fine!

but Lando is !!!! bc Oscar is always there for him but he also stands so far away sometimes and won’t tell him or the world why he loves him or play a bit of a PR game to define their friendship !!!!!!! the boy is so sweet but so !!!!!

[mythicalmisery]

Pyrophilia AU: GhostxSoap

AO3

The bar was a warm refuge from the damp chill of the night, a place where the team could forget the aftermath of the mission for a few hours. Ghost stood beside Soap at the bar, nursing his drink while they waited on the rest of their order. The low light washed over the balaclava he had pulled up over his nose so he could take an occasional sip. Soap was next to him, the upbeat chatter of the bar mixing with the soft clink of glasses and the hum of conversation. 

The mission had gone well- no casualties and the base they’d targeted was nothing but smoldering rubble now. 

But Goat’s mind lingered on something. Soap had gone dark during the extraction, his comms dead until they’d regrouped at the exfil point. He let the silence stretch between them for a moment longer, watching the sergeant from the corner of his eye before speaking. 

“What happened on the mission?”

Soap, already a couple of drinks in, gave him a puzzled look. “What do ye mean?”

“Ya went dark after ya set the charges. Comms were off ’til ya got to exfil.” Ghost’s tone was calm, but there was a weight behind it that had Soap on edge now.

Soap blinked, clearly caught off guard. He opened his mouth before closing it once again as his scotch-soaked brain tried to find the words. Running his hand through his mohawk, he turned back to him with a shrug. “Must’ve been an equipment malfunction. I’ll take my radio to tech in the mornin’, get it checked out.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes, though his expression remained hidden. He didn’t believe him, not fully at least. Soap’s tone was too casual, too rehearsed, but Ghost knew better than to push. If Soap was lying, he’d figure it out eventually. Backing the man in a corner was just gonna have him lashing out and turning on the defensive. 

“Right,” was all he said, letting the matter drop for now. But his mind wouldn’t stop running over it. Soap didn’t lie to him. Not his sergeant. 

Their drinks finally came, and both men headed back to the corner booth where Price and Gaz were already seated. The minutes passed, the men taking turns to take the piss out of each other and finally relax after a grueling two weeks of recon. Ghost stayed mostly quiet, content to observe. But his focus kept drifting back to Soap, to that nagging feeling something wasn’t right. 

As the laughter filled the booth, Ghost absently reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his old zippo lighter. The cool metal had become a comfort of late, something to ground him when his thoughts spiraled. He flipped it open, the quiet click soothing, his thumb flicking the wheel to produce a small, steady flame. He didn’t smoke as much as he used to, one every now and then after a particularly stressful mission, but the ritual had become second nature, a habit more than anything else. 

He wasn’t the only one watching the flame. 

Across the table, Soap’s gaze had zeroed in on his lighter, eyes fixated in a way Ghost hadn’t seen before. At least now that he was actively looking for something. It was like the man’s breath hitched every time the flame flickered to life, his focus unnaturally sharp on the glowing ember. Gaz said something to Soap, drawing him away, but Ghost noticed the slight shift in his body language, the way his fingers twitched around his glass as if resisting the urge to reach out. 

Ghost’s brow furrowed beneath his mask, and a slow realization crept up on him. He flicked the zippo shut, a quiet clink, and slid it back into his pocket, mind already working overtime. Soap hadn’t taken his eyes off that lighter the entire time. The sudden bang of the alley door slamming open as the bartender returned from his break had his thoughts returning to reality. The action sending a gust of cool Autumn air through the bar, snuffing out the hollowed candle on the table. 

Call it divine intervention, but it gave Ghost the perfect chance to test his theory. With a quiet metallic clink, he flicked his zippo open again, and Soap’s attention snapped back to him like a well-trained dog. Ghost lit the candle in silence, his eyes sharp as he observed every twitch in Soap’s expression.

The man didn’t even blink, his gaze locked on the small flame as if mesmerized, a faint tremor running through him. When Ghost leaned back in his seat, still watching him, he noticed the subtle shift in Soap’s posture— the tension in his frame, the way he readjusted himself.

It hit Ghost like a freight train.

Fucking pyrophiliac. 

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but then his thoughts snapped back to the mission and everything he knew about the man. The pieces clicked into place, and his blood ran hot with anger. Soap had turned off his comms not because of an equipment malfunction or to take a piss or any other sorry excuse, but because he’d detonated the charges, and…

The fucker got off on it. 

Ghost’s grip tightened around the lighter, his jaw clenching beneath the mask. How the fuck had he not figured it out sooner? He remembered desperately shouting Soap’s name over the comms, only to be met with silence— his mind spiraling into the worst possibilities. The fear had consumed him until he spotted that familiar mop of hair leaning against the wall at exfil, and finally, he could breathe again. And all of that because the so-called demolitions expert was getting his rocks off?

Soap flinched when Ghost snapped the zippo shut a little too harshly, the sound sharp and deliberate. Ghost pocketed the lighter and slid out of the booth, the leather cushion creaking under his weight. His movements were calm and measured as his eyes remained locked on Soap. He pinned the man where he sat like a helpless insect, watching every nervous shift, every flicker of unease that crossed his face. He knew Ghost was angry, but not what for. 

“I’m goin’ for a smoke,” Ghost said flatly, the words heavy with something unsaid, a warning hidden beneath the surface laid there for only Soap to pick up on. 

Price looked up from his drink, grumbling about the mountain of paperwork still waiting for him back at base. “Aye, best be heading back soon before it starts raining,” he muttered, gathering his things. Gaz downed the last of his pint, shaking his head as he mentioned early morning drills.

Soap slid out of the booth after them, clearly rattled but keeping quiet as Price and Gaz said their goodbyes. He lingered, letting the others leave as if waiting for some kind of cue. Ghost didn’t give him one—he just stood there, silent and still, his presence as oppressive as the storm rolling in outside.

When the others were finally out of earshot, Ghost turned to Soap, his voice cutting through the space between them like a knife. “Ya care to join me, Johnny?”

Soap hesitated only for a second, knowing full well it wasn’t a question. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor before giving a reluctant nod. “Aye,” he muttered, his voice stripped of its usual cocky edge, though he made one last desperate attempt to play it cool. His posture had gone rigid like he was walking into something he wasn’t prepared for, but without a word of protest, he followed Ghost out the back door.

The alleyway was damp and shadowed, the smell of rain lingering in the air. Ghost lit his cigarette, the flicker of his zippo casting long shadows on the brick walls where it illuminated his mask. Still silent, he exhaled a plume of smoke into the air, his eyes trained on his sergeant. 

Soap shifted uncomfortably, glancing around like he was trying to find something, anything, to break the silence. But Ghost could feel the weight of his nerves, the way he kept stealing glances at the lighter still in Ghost’s hand.

After a moment, Ghost finally spoke, his voice low and edged with cold amusement. “So… ya wanna tell me what really happened back there?”

Soap froze, caught like a deer in the headlights, and for the first time in a long while, Ghost saw him stripped of his bravado. 

Soap leaned against the cold brick wall, his hands stuffed in his pockets, trying to appear casual as he spoke. “I already told ye, I dunno what happened to my comms,” he muttered, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. 

Ghost took a slow drag from his cigarette, as he looked up at the sky. He nodded slightly, but there was something cold, calculating in his gaze when he turned back toward his sergeant. In the blink of an eye, the space between them vanished. Ghost had Soap pinned against the brick wall, his forearm pressed hard against Soap’s throat. 

“Fuck—” Soap barely had time to react, the force of the shove knocking the breath out of him. Anger flared instantly, his voice rising in protest. “What the fuck are ye doin’?” His hands instinctively gripped Ghost’s arm, trying to push him off, his fiery temper returning in full force. This wasn’t the hesitant, unsure man from earlier. This was his sergeant— his Johnny — coming back with a bite. 

But Ghost wasn’t fazed. He stared down at Soap, his eyes dark, the harsh grip tightening. With his free hand, he pulled out the zippo and flicked it open, the flame crackling to life mere inches from Soap’s face. The heat licked at his skin, the flames dancing dangerously close. Ghost cocked his head to the side, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“No?” Ghost’s voice was low, taunting. “It didn’t have anything to do with your little secret?” His tone dripped with amusement, each word pressing heavier than the arm keeping Soap pinned in place.

Soap’s eyes were drawn to the flame, his breath quickening despite himself. It took every ounce of willpower to tear his gaze away from the fire threatening to singe his eyelashes. He locked eyes with Ghost, his expression hardening as anger flashed beneath the surface. “I don’t know what the fuck yer talkin’ about,” he bit out, his voice sharp with defiance.

Ghost chuckled darkly, the sound a sharp contrast to the tension in the air. It wasn’t just a laugh—it was a taunt, a challenge. “Don’t play dumb with me, Johnny.” Boldened by Soap’s stubbornness and his own growing irritation, Ghost decided to escalate the situation. He took a long drag from his cigarette, then leaned closer, blowing the smoke directly into Soap’s face, his breath hot against the sergeant’s skin.

As the smoke swirled between them, Ghost’s voice dropped to a whisper that sent a chill down Soap’s spine. “I think ya know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, Johnny.” His free hand drifted down, brushing over the front of Soap’s jeans. 

Soap cursed under his breath at the sudden touch, his body betraying him with a shudder of heat and adrenaline. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, fury warring with the embarrassment that was already flooding his face. His voice was tight, the words forced through gritted teeth. “Ghost, what the fuck—“

But there was no denying what Ghost felt beneath his hand, and Soap’s body betrayed his mind. The tension in the air crackled as Ghost leaned in closer, his lips brushing Soap’s ear, his words mocking and satisfied. 

“Always knew ya were a firebug, MacTavish.”

Ghost didn’t give Soap much time to react. He watched the man weakly stammer a defense, “I… I didn’t—”

But before Soap could finish, Ghost’s hand closed, grabbing him harshly by the front of his jeans. The pressure made Soap’s breath catch, the words dying in his throat. Ghost’s voice was low, laced with cold disdain. “I think I’m done listenin’ to your lies, Sergeant.”

Soap’s resolve crumbled as the truth bore down on him. “I’m sorry…” he muttered, his voice barely audible under the strain of Ghost’s grip.

Ghost clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Twelve minutes, Johnny. Twelve fuckin’ minutes I didn’t know if ya were alive because you’re so pathetic ya couldn’t keep it in your pants till we got back to base.”

Without warning, Ghost yanked open the button on Soap’s jeans, the metallic sound of the zipper being dragged down echoing in the tight alleyway. Soap’s hands reflexively clawed at Ghost’s forearm, trying to find purchase, but there was no real resistance. If he wanted, he could’ve fought back, but the lack of effort only stoked the fire in Ghost’s eyes egging him on. 

Ghost spat out the remnants of his cigarette onto the dirty ground, grinding the embers beneath his boot. His hand paused at the waistband of Soap’s boxers, his voice quiet but commanding. “Grab my pack from my pocket.”

Soap blinked, caught off guard. “What?” His confusion was met with a sudden, painful yank on his mohawk, slamming him back against the wall.

“Grab me a cigarette, and light it, Johnny,” Ghost growled.

Soap hesitated, a mix of fear and anticipation flickering in his eyes before he shakily reached into Ghost’s jacket pocket. His fingers fumbled as they retrieved the small white box. He shook one free and held it up to Ghost’s mouth, his hand slightly trembling as Ghost’s lips closed around it.

“Light it,” Ghost ordered, his voice muffled by the cigarette between his teeth. 

Soap reached into his other pocket, pulling out the familiar zippo. His hands were a bit more steady as he brought the lighter up, the flame flickering to life, illuminating Ghost’s face in the dim alley. At that exact moment, Ghost slipped his hand under Soap’s boxers, gripping him firmly. The touch burned like an iron brand against Soap’s skin in the cold night air.

Soap tried to steady his breathing, his body betraying him once again as a puff of smoke from Ghost’s cigarette had him blinking through watering eyes. Ghost exhaled slowly, his gaze predatory. “Twelve minutes ‘til this cigarette goes out. Twelve minutes ya gotta last.”

Soap’s eyes widened in horror. “Ye can’t be serious, Lt. I’ll barely last three.”

Ghost’s hand tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, their faces only inches apart. “Ya need some fuckin’ endurance trainin’, MacTavish. Now start countin’. Miss a minute, and I’ve got a whole pack left.”

Soap groaned a pitiful sound that only made Ghost’s smirk grow. The groan turned into a whimper as Ghost’s hand began moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Soap tried to focus, forcing himself to count the seconds, but it was torture—the unforgiving touch, the sting of smoke in his throat, the weight of his lieutenant’s gaze.

It became a battle, Soap struggling to school his reactions while Ghost taunted him between each minute mark. “Seventh minute,” Soap gasped out, his voice strained. His eyes flicked downward as Ghost casually flipped the zippo open again, the small flame dancing between them, a constant reminder of what had Soap unraveling.

“Is this what does it for ya, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice was low and mocking. Soap could only nod, his teeth sinking into his lip to keep from moaning, every stroke of Ghost’s hand driving him closer to the edge. It wasn’t lost on him that they were technically in public, anyone strolling by could see them and it only made him harder.

Ghost’s cruelty knew no bounds, working Soap up only to pull back at the last second, teasing him until he was nothing more than a shaking mess. Something about seeing one of the strongest soldiers he knew falling about from merely his hand had his own pants turning uncomfortably tight. “You’ve always been this fucked in the head, Sergeant?” Ghost murmured, a wicked twist of his wrist making Soap choke on the air fighting its way into his lungs.

“A-aye…” Soap breathed, barely able to get the word out before he remembered to call out the eighth minute.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity. Soap’s body trembled, overwhelmed by the relentless torment Ghost was putting him through. “Fuck… you,” he managed to grind out between gasps, his voice hoarse and desperate.

Ghost’s grip on him tightened sharply, eliciting another whimper from Soap. His tone was cutting, full of amusement. “Now I’m pretty sure the only one who’s justified in being pissed off here is me, Johnny. You’re the one who couldn’t contain himself, and now you’re complainin’ when I take care of ya? Ungrateful slag.”

Soap bit down hard on his lip till it broke skin, his mind spinning, barely able to keep track of the countdown. Ghost’s hand never let up, and Soap’s body was betraying him in every way possible, completely under his lieutenant’s control. The flame flickered dangerously close between them, both their breaths threatening to snuff it out, but neither daring to move away.

The eleventh-minute left Soap barely holding on, his body trembling, a trail of sweat running down his neck as he struggled to breathe. His lips parted, eyes locked on Ghost’s, and the words spilled out, raw and desperate. “Burn me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the conviction behind it unmistakable. Ghost’s eyes bore into him, unreadable. Soap’s heart pounded in his chest, but he couldn’t stop. “Please… burn me,” he begged, sounding so desperate it made his stomach twist with both need and shame.

Ghost’s hand paused, the zippo still burning brightly between them. His eyes narrowed, studying Soap as if deciding whether to indulge him. Then, in a swift motion, he closed the lighter with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket.

Soap whined at the sudden absence, his frustration palpable, but Ghost’s lips curled in a quiet, taunting hush. “Not yet,” Ghost said, his tone dripping with cold authority he reserved for in the field. “Not until you’re completely mine.”

Soap swallowed down the disappointment, forcing himself to call out the final countdown, his voice shaking. “Twelve…”

Ghost didn’t hesitate. His hand sped up, the relentless strokes drawing Soap to the edge of madness, leaving him hanging in a torturous limbo of pleasure and pain. Soap’s mouth fell open, ready to moan or cuss the man out, but Ghost surged forward, capturing his lips in a brutal, possessive kiss. The world narrowed to nothing but the taste of smoke, heat, and the burning press of Ghost’s mouth on his.

Ghost pushed his dying cigarette between Soap’s lips with his tongue, the glowing bud scorching Soap’s tongue, a small, searing pain that had him flinching. Soap whimpered into the kiss, moans swallowed by Ghost as his body finally surrendered, shaking as he came apart in Ghost’s hand, unable to hold back any longer.

Ghost didn’t let up. His strokes continued, tipping Soap into overstimulation, the pleasure too much, edging on painful as the man’s body twitched helplessly in Ghost’s grip. It wasn’t until Soap spat the cigarette stump out onto the ground that Ghost finally pulled away, leaving Soap trembling and half-broken, gasping for air.

Ghost’s fingers gripped Soap’s jaw roughly, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Show me,” he demanded.

Soap’s eyes, glassy and tear-filled, met Ghost’s as he obediently stuck out his tongue. Ghost’s gaze dropped to the blistering burn left by the cigarette bud, the skin red and angry. It would be a bitch to deal with for two weeks but it wouldn’t leave any permanent scarring. His thumb brushed over the spot, pressing down deliberately. Soap flinched, hissing in pain as he tried to pull back, but Ghost held him in place, a satisfied, dark gleam in his eyes.

Ghost’s voice was a low, dangerous growl. “Next time ya do somethin’ that reckless,” he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Soap’s ear, “I’ll drag ya into the captain’s office and dole out your punishment while he watches just how much of a fuckin’ whore his Sergeant really is.”

Soap shuddered, the threat sinking into his bones as Ghost pulled away, his eyes raking over him one last time, taking in the disheveled, debauched state he’d left him in—pants undone, the aftermath of their encounter staining his shirt.

Ghost swung the back door open, the sounds of the bar spilling out into the quiet alleyway. “Clean yourself up and get back before curfew.”

Without another word, Ghost turned and left him standing there, half-leaning against the brick wall, body aching, and head spinning. Soap’s breath hitched, his mind reeling from everything that had just happened. He tilted his head back against the cold wall, eyes closed, a whispered “fuck me” escaping his lips as the night closed in, leaving him utterly alone.

[valyrfia]

will you please do another tarot pull for charles? his career trajectory in general/ the wdc at some point/ the move anything truly. he is the first sports person i have been so worried about completely getting ruined. no worries if not of course.

I did a pull for Charles asking "what will it take for him to become WDC?" almost a year ago now. I didn't post anywhere about it at the time because it was a heavy reading, and when people asked me later, Ferrari didn't seem to be doing too badly and I think it would have made a lot of people quite upset.

The cards I pulled for Charles and his WDC prospects were: four of swords, the fool, the tower, the death, the king of pentacles, with a clarification card of the ten of wands��all the cards upright. If you know tarot, you get the absolute magnitude of the centre of that reading being the tower, flanked by the fool and the death, but for those who don't know tarot, I'll put a longer explanation of this pull below the cut. I'll also include a screenshot of me talking about it to @tsarinablogs (who bless, puts up with me and my cards) so you know the reading dates to end of August of last year.

Beginning with the Four of Swords, this is a card of overwhelm and signalling that there is a need for rest and regrouping–to not make rash or harsh decisions. In order to prepare for the future, one needs to leave their fears and irrationality behind and plan with logic.

Next is the Fool, which as number 0 in the Major Arcana represents new beginnings, possible innocence, or a leap of faith. It's a card of new exciting opportunities and advancement and being reinvigorated with energy.

At the very centre of the reading is the Tower, and this card is the main reason I chose not to share this reading when I did it. The Tower is possibly the most 'terrifying' card in the whole of tarot and is definitely the one where there's a strange and heavy energy when it comes up in a reading. The Tower represents chaos, destruction, upheaval, disaster, loss, sudden and violent change. It's often a sign that things need to and will be burned to the ground. thetarotguide has a pretty good general round up about it, but it's the card at the centre of this reading.

Following right after the heaviness of the Tower is more–Death. While it sounds bad, the Death card in tarot often indicates a transformation–things needing to die so they can be left behind when one moves on to a better version of themselves.

The last card in the reading is the King of Pentacles–which after all that heaviness is actually a great card. It represents success, prosperity, stability, reaching one's goals–especially through hard work paying off and seeing things through to the end.

I pull a 'clarification' with my reading as well which is supposed to serve as a simple yes or no/round up of the overarching message of the reading, and I pulled the Ten of Wands which, straight from thetarotguide, 'the Ten of Wands represents a situation that started off as a good idea but has now become a burden'. It's about an uphill struggle, losing hope and losing focus.

I'll leave my interpretation of this reading at the time below with the timestamp proving I did this reading before Lestappen Gate was even a twinkle in anyone's eye. I will say take my interpretation with a pinch of salt, as things end up having a funny way of working out which is never how you read them initially but fit better with the cards in retrospect.