#so he likes popping in and out with misty step

[ramlightly]

@enjolieblue 's Archon and my Morgan are getting along GREAT

[halfmoth-halfman]

our little secret

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader Synopsis: Soap finally gets all of his answers- and then some. Word Count: 7.4k Warnings: injury mention, pet death mention, child mention Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. part one. part two. part three.

Soap has been in his fair share of safe houses.

He knows what to expect when he hears the words: a sparsely furnished studio stocked with the bare essentials. It’s not a problem for him. Safe houses aren’t meant to feel like houses; they’re there to do their job– to keep their inhabitants safe.

So his confusion is valid when Ghost mumbles something about a “safe house” nearby, only to lead him through the dense woods of the mountains they’re stuck in to the coziest-looking cottage Soap has ever seen.

Soap’s frozen, unable to stop staring at the two-story stone house with dark ivy creeping up the grey stonework and an actual babbling brook winding around the right side of the house where it runs into a small pond in the front yard. He doesn’t know where Ghost, of all people, found the one safe house to come straight out of a fairytale.

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny, stop staring like you’ve never seen a house before.” Ghost’s hand harshly shoves into Soap’s shoulder, and Soap stumbles forward, turning back swiftly to glare at Ghost.

The Lieutenant had been particularly testy for this mission, seeming almost reluctant to take part in any aspect of it; regret had oozed out of every inch of Ghost from the moment he and Soap had touched down here, and Soap can’t figure out, for the life of him, why. It wasn’t like they were forced to be here; Soap was in the room when Price asked for volunteers for this mission. He remembers with exceptional clarity how Ghost perked up– as much a man like him could– and how the masked man was on his feet the second Price asked for volunteers.

If he was so eager for this mission, why did he seem so resistant to everything about it?

Tired and impatient with Soap’s lack of action, Ghost starts up the dirt path toward the cottage. It’s not hard to notice how he drags his steps, leaving small trails behind his boots. Soap follows hesitantly, keeping his head on a swivel as they approach the front door. Ghost tries the doorknob only to find it locked; his eyes slide shut, hand tightening around the doorknob before he lets his hand slide from the brass.

“Maybe we can–” Soap doesn’t get to finish as Ghost steps back to turn his gaze to the black iron sconce hanging next to the door. He pops one of the glass panes out with practiced ease, reaching in where Soap’s only now noticing there’s no lightbulb to grab a small golden key. He pops the glass back into place, sliding the key into the lock and turning.

The door swings open, allowing them into the pitch black of the house. For such a quaint-looking home, the endless void that greets Soap when he walks in is something lifted from a horror movie. Ghost shuts the door behind him, leaving Soap standing in the entryway that’s illuminated only by the misty grey of what little of the sun’s setting light is able to reach through the thick cover of the towering pines and low, looming clouds outside to shine through the small squares of glass on the front door.

“Take your shoes off,” Ghost mutters behind him.

“What?” Soap turns around– ready to ask why he should bother with etiquette for a safe house– but finds Ghost already hunched over, one hand on the wall beside him for balance as he unlaces his boots.

Soap copies him, unsure and so so confused. Ghost is as unbothered as ever, disappearing into the darkness of the house while Soap toes out of his boots. He places them next to Ghost’s, standing up right as the house illuminates in a soft amber glow.

It’s just as cozy inside as it is outside, and Soap is stupefied. His mind can’t comprehend the shadowy figure of death and destruction that is his Lieutenant among the picturesque interior of wooden countertops and decorative plants.

Ghost is none the wiser to Soap’s internal crisis, heading to a large armoire composed of deep brown wood that stands against the cream-colored wall next to the entryway. He pauses, leaning back to look at Soap over the edge of the lacquered door. “Weapons go in here.”

Soap joins him as Ghost unloads his weapons into the cabinet. The outside is unassuming— a normal, if a little taller than usual, armoire— which is why the interior catches Soap so off guard. A second set of doors— grated black metal with a keypad in the center— hang open to give them access to an impressive weapons rack that’s already half-stocked. Soap can’t help but gawk as Ghost works on hanging his knives— arranging them by handle color, then length. It’s done so casually, so routine, as if Ghost has done this a million times.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know where to start. What the hell’s up with this “safe house”? How did Ghost find it? Did he set it up? It was hard enough picturing the masked giant in everyday civilian life, let alone browsing for the perfect rustic armoire or a faux fur rug fluffier than a cloud.

Ghost walks away, heading towards the kitchen with an unusual hesitance to his steps– like he’s trying to lighten his footsteps against the hardwood floor. Soap quickly stores his weapons, trailing behind Ghost with less caution. 

The kitchen is just as immaculately decorated as the rest of the house– all creams and beiges, a large window above the sink with a collection of herbs growing on its sill, and little pops of color from the neatly organized pots, pans, and baskets sitting on the shelves.

Ghost rifles through the pantry with his back to Soap, and Soap can’t help himself.

“What’s-”

“Keep your voice down,” Ghost snaps, hushed and threatening.

“Why?” Soap huffs, gesturing to the empty space around them. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here!”

Ghost turns to face Soap with a swiftness that surprises the Sergeant, his shadowed eyes narrowed into a glare so fierce it sends an immediate shock of fight or flight through Soap. 

“Simon?”

Your voice is soft and raspy and startles Soap so badly he swears his heart skips a beat. He whirls around to see you standing across the living room, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Dressed only in a hoodie that’s obviously too big for you— and the perfect size for a certain Lieutenant— and a set of fluffy pajama shorts, you rub your eye with the heel of your hand, clearly having just woken up.

Ghost groans behind him, and everything in Soap’s head suddenly clicks together: Ghost’s reason for volunteering for this mission so quickly, his expectation of working on it alone, why he dragged his feet to bring Soap here. All of the puzzle pieces floating around in his mind slide into place as he watches you stumble into the living room, still half-asleep.

After your rescue, you’d been confined to the infirmary for weeks. The team had come to see you, sometimes lucky to catch you for the few minutes you could stay conscious long enough to entertain small conversations. You were put on immediate leave once you were well enough, and in the three months since then, no one has heard from you. 

Soap’s glad to see you despite his mild guilt for disturbing you.

You look much better than when you left— less like you’d been repeatedly hit by a bus— and well on your way to recovery. There’s still gauze wrapped around your right thigh, and a few of the worst bruises are still present on your skin, in the process of fading. The only lasting injury Soap can see is the deep scar that trails along the left edge of your jaw from your chin to your ear; you’d had trouble talking while in the infirmary, pain buzzing through your jaw anytime you moved your mouth, but now you’re yawning widely without a single care.

You make it halfway to the kitchen when your eyes land on Soap; you freeze, brows knitting together in confusion.

“Soap?” 

“Doc.”

“What’re you….” You trail off, spotting Ghost behind him. Soap watches how you take in their clothes, the dirt and dried blood stained into the fabric, and how your eyes glance over to the open weapons cabinet near the front door. The shift to Doctor Mode is instant; you straighten up, already looking them over for any possible injuries as you hasten your way to the kitchen.

“I’m fine, Doc,” Soap smiles, seeing some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “Lt. got a little roughed up, though.” Your head snaps to Ghost, and Soap steps aside, setting a gentle hand on your back to guide you and your concern toward Ghost. The Lieutenant glares at him over your head, but this time Soap smiles back, a knowing grin plastered on his face as you fret.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Ghost sighs, pulling his angry gaze away from Soap to stare down at you. He’s trying to seem stern, frustrated that you’re up and about, but you pay him no mind. It’s almost sweet, the way his gaze softens the moment he looks at you; he’s concerned for you as much as you are for him.

“‘m fine,” you mumble stubbornly. Ghost rolls his eyes as he lets you look over him. His eyes briefly flick up from your face to Soap before back down to you. Soap’s known Ghost for a long time; he’s learned how to read the subtle changes in those dark eyes, and he can see the way Ghost fights with himself before letting his eyes slide shut in resigned conclusion.

“You need to rest,” he sighs again, faint and gentle, as he lightly grabs your wandering hands and eases them off him. He glances up at Soap again, but Soap avoids his gaze, finding interest in the earthy green toaster and not even trying to hide his grin.

“I will, I will,” you huff. You step back from Ghost, pulling your hands from his to cross your arms over your chest. “Mission go okay?”

You’re talking to him now; Soap realizes when Ghost doesn’t answer. He turns to you with an easy, if a little cocky, smile and a half-shrug.

“Thought they could try and ambush us, but they were no match for us. Right, Lt.?” There’s a quiet, exasperated fuckin’ hell from Ghost, but you’re laughing— your smile not as wide on your left side— and Soap realizes how much he’s missed you.

“We needed a place to lie low for the night-” Ghost starts.

“And this was close by, I get it.” You maintain your smile, nudging Ghost’s arm with your elbow. “Surprised you got here before the storm started.”

“What? That poor excuse for cloud coverage outside? Hardly call that a storm,” Soap scoffs. You shrug, meandering to the cabinet that holds the cups and mugs. 

“If that’s what you want to think,” you tease, but Soap is too busy watching Ghost as he watches you. “All I’m saying is-” The moment you reach up to grab a glass, there’s a hand on your waist and a sturdy body pressed against your back. “-Simon, I can reach just fine-”

He doesn’t listen, grabbing a glass and setting it in your hands while you pout up at him. You roll your eyes, stepping out from in front of him and smiling at Soap like nothing happened.

“All I’m saying is, I’ve lived here for a while; I think I can tell the difference between a little fog and a soon-to-be torrential downpour.” You fill your glass with water as you talk, batting Ghost away when he tries to take the full glass from you the minute you’ve filled it up.

“And since someone-” you send Ghost a pointed glare “-is in such a helpful mood, he can set you up in the guest room for tonight while I go back to sleep.” You saunter past Soap— as well as one can while healing— glass of water in hand.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” Soap laughs as you pass him. You send him a sly wink, playfully bumping his shoulder before heading upstairs. 

A tense quiet looms over the kitchen as Soap and Ghost are left alone. Ghost is staring at him, and he’s staring back, neither one knowing how to break the awkward silence that surrounds them.

Until—

“So,” Soap starts, smug grin crawling across his face and vindication thrumming through his veins. “You and the Doc, eh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ start.”

With that, Ghost marches past him, heading for the stairs and, Soap decides this is going to be one of the top three missions of his life.

-

It’s 5:03 in the morning when Soap is awoken by the loudest clap of thunder he’s heard in his life.

It shocks him awake, shooting straight up from the bed, heart hammering and mind alert. It takes him a minute to realize there’s no immediate danger and that his biggest threat is the blue duvet tangled around his legs. Soap pauses, staring down at the soft blue blanket in confusion.

Why is he-

Oh. 

Right.

Soap takes in the room— cozy just like the rest of the house— taking this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see if he can spot any clues, any slight hints that’ll give him insight on you and Ghost. The two of you are frustratingly thorough, as the only unusual thing he finds is the heavy blanket of rain pouring down the window.

Thunder rumbles above.

A door opens and shuts somewhere in the house.

Soap is of a curious mind— perhaps too curious for his own good— but that same intense inquisitiveness is what gave him enough of a glimpse to discover his Lieutenant’s secret marriage, so who is he to fight it?

He gets out of bed, ignoring the instant chill that comes with leaving the warm covers, and changes into the spare shirt and sweatpants you had Ghost give to him. As quietly as he can, he leaves the room, heading straight down the hall and toward the stairs.

The roll of thunder echoes above once more.

Something metal clatters downstairs.

Soap tiptoes down the steps, peering into the living room when he reaches the bottom step. The lights are off, save for the kitchen, where you sit at the small circular table, and Ghost stands at the counter near the sink, pouring boiling water from an old kettle into a black mug. 

You’re still in your suspiciously oversized hoodie but have changed out of your fluffy shorts, trading them in for long pajama pants decorated with those colorful ghosts from pac-man. Ghost is dressed down significantly, only wearing a thin black t-shirt and matching sweatpants.

Soap should be surprised to see the balaclava still on, but he isn’t.

Ghost sets the mug on the table in front of you before he slides a chair over and sits down next to you. You sit up— almost dragging yourself into an upright position— looking far more exhausted than you had yesterday.

He watches you— attentive and alert in an almost too-intense way— shifting slightly with your every move. You either don’t notice or don’t care, messing with the tea bag and sipping from your cup. You wince when you swallow, and Ghost is leaning toward you, gloveless hand coming to rest just under your jaw. His thumb gently trails along the scar on your jawline, quiet murmurs exchanged and lost on Soap’s ears. 

He should go back upstairs; it’s still early, and this seems like a moment he shouldn’t intrude on.

Soap takes one step backward, the woods beneath his foot whining under his weight and settling with a pop. 

Your attention turns to the stairs, and Soap makes a snap decision. He stands up straight, heading down the stairs and into the living room, doing his best to seem casual and not like he was just spying on you.

Ghost pulls away from you, sitting back in his chair as you smile tiredly at Soap. Your voice is rough, more so than the tired rasp of someone who’s just woken up. “Mornin’, Soap.”

“Mornin’.”

“The storm wake you up?” you ask, setting your elbow on the table to set your chin in your hand. Soap shrugs, taking a seat across from you. 

“I was already up,” he lies. You raise a brow, an amused smile that says you don’t believe him, but you don’t say anything. You lean back, grasping your mug with both hands and letting the warmth soak into your fingers.

He notices the mug first, streaks of the cartoon ghost with a crooked smile peering at him through your fingers. Then his gaze moves to your fingers, where he spots a solid black ring sitting comfortably on your left hand.

“You gonna ask about it?” you ask, grinning at him over the steam as you sip your tea. Soap coughs, rubbing his neck with enough sense to look sheepish. He chances a glance at Ghost, but the man’s eyes stay firmly on you. “It’s fine, Soap. I’m sure you have questions.”

He’ll probably never get this chance again.

Fuck it.

“I have a list,” Soap says, a little too eager, leaning forward on his elbows. 

“You get three.” Ghost’s voice is flat and unamused– a stark contrast to your welcoming demeanor.

“Only three?”

“That’s one. You got two left.”

You scoff, reaching over to pinch Ghost’s arm. He grunts– more in annoyance than pain– giving you a half-hearted glare. It’s not ideal, but Soap will take what he can get. Sorting through the mental list of questions he’s been compiling since he first took notice of this little relationship, Soap tries to pick out the most important ones.

The group sits in silence while he thinks; you slowly work your way through your tea, grimacing around every swallow as the storm looms overhead. Thick raindrops assault the kitchen window, a steady waterfall pouring down the glass. Thunder booms overhead, less severe than before but startling all the same.

“Does Price know about…this?” he asks, gesturing to your ring.

“That’s your question?” Ghost scoffs.

It’s a question that’s confused him for months, so yes it is.

“He does,” you answer honestly. “So does my old Captain. They helped get all the legal stuff sorted out.”

“Legal stuff?” 

“‘s a little difficult getting a marriage license for a dead man. Some strings had to be pulled.” You speak so casually as if that’s a normal thing to say. They’re around each other so often, Soap sometimes forgets that Ghost’s callsign is more than just a nickname; he’s a literal dead man walking, the living phantom of Simon Riley.

“Does anyone else know? Your old team? Laswell?” A cold chill shoots up his spine, “Did Shepherd know?”

“No,” Ghost sighs.

“My maiden name’s on all the paperwork. Price and Owens were thorough,” you explain. “No one knows but them…and now you, of course.”

Soap nods, fully understanding the weight of this secret he now bears, but he has to wonder-

“Would you've said anything? Eventually?”

You and Ghost share a look before you shrug, staring down into your half-empty mug.

“We talked about it.”

“After Las Almas,” Ghost adds. “Got too used to keepin’ it a secret and ended up never bringing it up.”

“Old habits,” you laugh softly. There’s a swell in Soap’s chest at the thought of you two trusting him enough to tell him about your marriage, even if it never actually happened. There were times when he wasn’t sure if Ghost even liked him, but after Mexico…there was a bond there that he’s realized wasn’t as one-sided as he may have assumed.

Your laugh dissolves into a hoarse cough, and Ghost is instantly on his feet.

“Back to bed, let’s go,” he orders, no room for negotiation. You roll your eyes, standing up slowly and favoring your right side.

“Make yourself at home, Soap,” you say in your gravelly voice, glancing out to the endless rain. “It looks like you might be stuck here a while.”

-

The storm doesn’t lessen for the rest of the morning and only worsens the following day; it’s clear he and Ghost will be here longer than initially intended. 

Soap doesn’t mind, though.

He’s been given almost completely free rein of the house, presented with the rare opportunity to snoop without worrying about getting caught. 

He notices the pictures on the third day as he’s coming down the stairs. There’s a tall, thin bookshelf on the wall opposite the bottom step filled to the brim with a vast collection of novels and a few picture frames.

He checks the top picture first, carefully pulling it from the top shelf of the bookcase. It’s a picture of Ghost standing in full gear, sunglasses on over his balaclava, holding a fully grown German Shephard over his right shoulder. The dog is looking to the side where you’re standing in matching gear, hands scratching behind its ears as you make a silly face with your lips pursed. 

“Aw, I miss that dog.”

Soap jumps, nearly dropping the picture frame as you appear next to him, looking over his shoulder at the photo. 

“Christ, you need a bell or something,” he mutters, setting the frame back on the shelf.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let yourself get so distracted,” you tease. You turn to the bookcase, a fond sigh as you look over the various photos. You let yourself sit in nostalgia for only a minute before glancing at Soap with a slight grin.

“You wanna see more?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You gather the pictures in your arms, leading Soap to the living room. You set the photos down on the coffee table and gesture for Soap to make himself comfortable on the sofa while you disappear into the hallway next to the kitchen. Soap sorts through the pictures. There’s one of Ghost sitting uncomfortably rigid in the back of a helicopter as you and Trip sleep on either side of him with your heads resting on Ghost’s shoulders. Another shows you with your old team, everyone dressed in civvies and sat around a bar table covered in empty glasses. The third is a duplicate of the one Soap had found in your desk in pristine condition. 

“I have this if you want to look through it,” you say as you return a large black book in your hands. You hand it to Soap, and he flips it open while you make yourself comfortable next to him.

It’s a photo album.

An entire photo album of you and Ghost– and sometimes the dog and your old team, but that’s not important.

Soap flips through it in wonder and awe. “Who took all these?”

“My old Captain, mostly. Some were me or one of the others. I think there’s a couple Simon took in there, too.”

“What did I take?” Ghost wanders down the steps, stopping when he sees the album in Soap’s hands. “For fuck’s sake, why does he have that?”

“Don’t mind him,” you huff. You lean over a peer into the photo album, pointing at one in the bottom left corner. “That’s one of my favorites!”

It’s a picture of Ghost passed out on a tattered sofa, exhausted, with the German Shephard curled around his head as he uses it for a pillow.

“Riley was such a good dog,” you sigh wistfully. Soap snorts, glancing over to Ghost. 

“Riley?”

“Wasn't my idea,” Ghost grumbles, looking directly at you. 

“Didn’t think you worked on a team before, Lt.,” Soap says, handing the album over to you so you can flip through the pictures, pulling out ones you want to show Soap.

“It happened on occasion,” Ghost shrugs, thick arms folded across his chest. “Worked with Owens once before, and she was impressed enough to ask for me on certain missions.”

“And because he had a crush on the doctor,” you mumble, laughing to yourself as you slide another picture out. Ghost seems less than amused, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You were a doctor back then?” Soap questions. That doesn’t sound right. He’s seen you in the field with the 141, your uniform completely different from what you’re wearing in those pictures.

You hesitate, pausing in your picture collecting to knit your fingers together and pick at your nails.

“Of sorts.” Is all you say.

“It was a specialized position,” Ghost cuts in, walking around the back of the sofa to set his hands on your shoulders. “Interrogation Specialist.”

“So, you questioned people?”

“I tortured people.” You look up from the photos, meeting Soap’s eyes with a distant gaze he’s seen many times on Ghost. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Is that why they called you Hornet?” Is what comes out of his mouth. It’s absurd enough to shock you out of whatever memory you were stuck in, tilting your head in confusion.

“No? Who told you that?”

“Grizzly. He said something about you being like a hornet in a beehive.” 

You have to bite into your cheek to keep from laughing, and even then, a few giggles escape you. You relax into the couch, craning your head up to look at Ghost, “I mean, I guess that works.”

“If that’s not it, then why-”

“We didn't have a medic, so I had to stitch everyone up a lot. And most of the time, we didn’t have any kind of anesthesia, and I didn’t give any warning before I started poking with the sewing needle. Grizzly complained that I was like an aggressive bee, Trip told him those were called hornets, and that was that. Not as cool, right?” Soap wants to reassure you, but your attention is back to the book in your lap.

You gasp, pulling out a photo to hold it up to Ghost, “Remember this?”

Ghost’s answer is immediate, “Don’t show him that.”

Well, now Soap has to know.

You laugh, sliding the picture back into its place, but briefly look over to Soap, mouthing later with a wink.

-

Over the next few days, Soap learns more about your relationship with Ghost. 

He learns that you met during a black-ops mission, where Ghost was meant to help escort your team– and more specifically, you– to a remote base to question some high-profile prisoner.

He learns that the two of you worked so well together for that first mission that Captain Owens made Ghost her go-to for any outside help if the team ever needed it.

He learns you spent years working together before the thought of becoming a couple even entered your minds.

And he learns that after that first time together, you and Ghost developed a specific set of rules for your relationship that’s only grown since.

You’ve told him a couple: no obvious affection in public, don’t compromise a mission for the other’s safety, respect each other’s space and the occasional need to spend time apart, no letters or phone calls unless it’s an absolute emergency.

Most were proposed by Ghost, but you agreed that it was for the safety of both of you.

He puts together clues about some of the other– possibly unspoken– rules when he watches the two of you interact. Ghost takes your health very seriously, and sometimes his tone borders on commanding when he tries to get you to rest or take medicine or drink tea without anything added to it. You sass him and roll your eyes, but do whatever he says every time. It’s the same when you ask him to get you something or try to get him to be a little nicer to Soap when he asks about some aspect of your marriage: Ghost will groan or roll his eyes but always bends to your will.

You don’t ask about each other’s missions, either. Soap watches you reorganize the weapon cabinet one day, noticing the blood on a few of Ghost’s knives. You ask if it’s his or Soap’s and if either of them needs to be looked at, but when they assure you they’re fine, you drop the subject. 

The biggest question for him, though: the rings.

Ghost’s has found its way onto his finger– the first time Soap has seen it there, while you switch between wearing yours on your finger and on that thin chain around your neck.

It’s on your finger this morning, and Soap is fixated on watching you twirl it around your finger absentmindedly while you stare over the back of the couch at Ghost’s back as he makes breakfast.

(That’s another thing– Ghost has done most, if not all, of the cooking since they got here.)

“It’s weird to see him with a ring on,” Soap quietly laughs. You turn to him, pulled out of your husband-watching trance. 

“Yeah, it’s not often we get to actually wear them.”

“One of his rules?”

“One of mine,” you sigh, gaze drifting back to Ghost. You fidget with your ring again, picking at its smooth, rounded edges with your nails.

“No wearing them where anyone can see ‘em, if one of us leaves for a mission then whoever’s staying behind keeps both of them, and if we both have to leave, the rings go in a small safe in my office.”

“That sounds-” Exhausting. “-thorough.”

“You’d be surprised how many captives forget about jewelry. It’s a whole lot easier to get information out of someone the minute you realize they might have someone they want to protect from you.”

There’s an edge to your voice, some kind of mix of nostalgia and resentment and regret.

But Ghost finishes breakfast and Soap decides it’s better not to ask.

-

Day six of waiting out this seemingly never-ending storm and the three of you are sitting in the living room cleaning your array of guns. 

You’re wearing your own clothes for once, a dark cotton tank top and black sweatpants that lets Soap see the full extent of bruising and bandages around your arms. A long bruise stretches across your neck, still purple and blue, and Soap suddenly understands the uneven hoarseness of your voice.

Your hair is up, pulled out of your face so you can focus on your work. Soap can see the scar from the humvee on the side of your head as it disappears behind your ear.

The ear that hides your tattoo.

It’s a quiet afternoon; it’d be a shame to break the peace. 

“When did you get the tattoo?” he asks anyway. You don’t answer until you look up and find him staring back at you.

“What tattoo?” you ask in genuine confusion.

“The little ghost behind your ear.”

Ghost freezes, head slowly turning to look at you. “What ghost?”

“Oh, that. I got it after Russia,” you shrug. “Whole mission was a total shitshow, but it reminded me how easily you can lose someone, so, after, I found the nearest shop and got it done.”

You return to your guns, but Ghost’s eyes are trained on you. Soap can see the gears in his head turning, and he briefly worries that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Thought we agreed: no marks, symbols, or tattoos.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth, eyes flicking up to Ghost in disbelief. “So if I check out that chaotic sleeve of yours, you’re telling me I won’t find a little hornet hidden somewhere in there?”

A beat of silence.

Ghost grunts and returns to his guns and you grin victoriously at Soap.

-

The power goes out on day nine. 

Ghost is messing around with the fuse box. At the same time, you and Soap have decided to follow “sleepover law”, lighting the house up with candles, moving the sofa and coffee table to build a nest of pillows and blankets in front of the lit fireplace, and piling a collection of snacks nearby.

He can hear the two of you laughing in the living room, you exchanging old mission tales for stories about Soap’s nieces and nephews. Ghost sighs, his fourth and last idea to get the power back on failing miserably. He’s frustrated and annoyed and can feel that itch just under his skin that tells him to isolate. 

To do that, he’d have to go upstairs.

And to get upstairs, he’d have to go through the living room and pass by-

Your laugh echoes down the hallway, and Ghost can feel some of the tension ease from his bones. The itch is still there– the immediate need to run and hide to deal with any sort of negative emotion by himself– but it lessens when he remembers you’re nearby.

He shuts the fuse box, deciding he’s not going to get anything fixed right now. Instead, he wanders down the hall, stopping just before he reaches the living room to lean against the wall and listen to you and Soap.

“I have to ask-” Soap starts, mischief laced in his voice, “-the mask. Does he ever take it off?”

“If he wants to,” you reply through gentle laughter. 

“Really? So what if he doesn’t want to? Does he sleep with it on?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about when you two…”

There’s a brief pause before you snort and answer in a quiet purr, “Sometimes.”

“Nah, yer bum’s oot the windae!”

“...I don’t know what that means, but you asked!”

“You’re not serious!”

“Totally am! I mean…I wouldn’t’ve married him if I wasn’t into it.”

Ghost loves you more than anything in the world, but there’s nothing more he wants right now than for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.

-

It’s late, almost reaching into the early morning hours, and Soap cannot sleep. He doesn’t know what’s keeping him awake; he just knows that no matter what he tries, he can’t fall asleep.

After the third hour of tossing and turning and grumbling, he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. He does his best to keep quiet, all his stealth training kicking in.

He’s halfway across the living room when–

“Watch your step.”

It takes everything in him not to scream as your voice travels up from the floor. Soap looks down to find you lying on your back on the fluffy brown rug, your legs outstretched and resting atop the coffee table.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus! What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Came down here for some floor time.”

“Floor time?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” You raise your brows at him, reaching out to pat the empty spot next to you.

He stares down at you, but you meet his gaze, eyes wide and unblinking to the point it almost freaks him out. Soap relents, bending down to lay next to you. You clap your hands in victory, scooting over to give him more room.

Soap gets himself comfortable, crossing his feet on top of the coffee table next to yours. You two lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet dark. 

It is kind of calming, he has to admit.

“I used to do this with Riley,” you speak softly, barely above a whisper. “I’d lay down, and then he’d lay on me. At first, I thought he just wanted to use me as a pillow, but I think it was more of a grounding thing…he was a smart one, that dog.”

“What…happened to him?”

“He got old. K9 unit retired him, and Simon and I took care of him until…Simon was devastated when we had him put down. He refused to come back here for months after. Said the house was ‘too quiet’.”

“Could always have a kid or two,” Soap jokes. “House wouldn’t be quiet for a long while.”

“No,” you snap.

He sits up, propping himself on his elbows so he can face you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not…you’re fine, Soap.” You release a long sigh, pulling your feet off the coffee table and sitting up straight. You stretch, back popping painfully from too much time on the ground.

“We’ve talked about kids,” you mumble, fingers moving to fidget with your ring. You look back at him– grey moonlight reflecting off your watery eyes. “Maybe in another life.”

Soap pushes himself to sit up completely, reaching out to settle a comforting hand on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact– relaxing when you realize you’re alright– and Soap pulls his hand away with an apologetic smile.

“Another dog, then? Or a cat? Ghost seems like a cat person.”

You make a sound, some sort of half-scoff, half-laugh that’s muddled by the knot in your throat.

“How 'bout a fish?” 

“A fish it is, then.” Soap hears your watery laugh as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. You scoot back to sit next to him, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll name him Soap, just for you.”

"Thanks, Doc."

-

It’s a whole two weeks later from the day they arrived when the water has eased enough outside for Ghost and Soap to go out and check the roads. 

You sit on the porch, tucked into a dry chair and another one of Ghost’s hoodies with a hot mug of tea warming your hands. Initially, you wanted to go with them, but Ghost refused swiftly and sternly. You argued that you needed the fresh air, and the compromise was made that you could settle on the porch and keep an eye out while they walked down the road.

Everything looked good, no mudslides, no floods, no fallen trees, so he and Ghost decided to head back and get ready to leave. 

Soap spots you as they near the house, staring off towards the brook near the house. You look so calm, so serene that he almost hates to disturb you. But Ghost has no qualms about interrupting your peace as he marches straight up to the house. You don’t seem to mind, judging by the way your face lights up at the sight of him.

He’s had almost every question answered, Soap realizes as he watches Ghost offer you a hand to help you out of your chair, and you use the momentum to pull yourself up and kiss him on the cheek. 

There’s only question left-

“Hey, Ghost?” he asks, once the three of you are back inside. 

Ghost pauses his cooking, looking back at him over his right shoulder.

“How did you propose?”

“What?”

Soap expected that, but he hadn’t expected you to start snickering from where you’re perched on the counter next to Ghost with your head resting on his left shoulder.

“It’s just…I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And there’s no engagement pictures in that photo album so-”

“I didn’t.”

“You…what?”

“I didn’t propose,” Ghost sighs.

Oh…

Oh!

Soap turns to you and your triumphant– if a bit smug– grin. “I beat him to it.”

“By two days,” Ghost huffs, turning back to the food on the stove. “Patience is a virtue, but not one of yours.” You giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder over his shirt. Ghost nudges you away with a grunt. You lean back for a few seconds before setting your chin on his shoulder so you can stare lovingly at the side of his face. Ghost sighs, letting it happen and turning briefly to lightly tap his head against yours.

“How did you know?” 

The question spills from Soap’s lips the moment he catches that little interaction.

“Know what?” you ask, turning to lay your head down, smushing your cheek on Ghost’s shoulder.

“That you wanted to propose. How’d you know you were the ones for each other?”

You sit up, eyes never leaving Ghost, who’s gone unusually still. An uncomfortable tension fills the air, swelling like a balloon ready to burst.

“It was after Sweden,” Ghost mumbles minutes later. He puts the stove on low heat and turns to you, your eyes meeting as he steadily holds your gaze. “We were clearing out that abandoned building, and you found this kid, couldn’t have been more than five…maybe six? They were so scared, but you managed to get them to calm down and come with us. We cleared the place but got ambushed as we were leaving. You gave me the kid and shoved me out of the back exit and-”

“Took a bullet meant for you,” you finish softly. Your hand comes up to graze just below your stomach, absentmindedly clenching the fabric over the spot.

The face you made when he’d brought up children flashes through Soap’s mind.

Maybe in another life.

“Didn’t realize how scared I was of losing you until that moment. You always seemed so sure, so indestructible, like there wasn’t anything that could kill you, like you’d always be there. And then you weren’t, and I thought that was the end until you finally got out of surgery. Wasn’t gonna let you get away after that.”

Tears well up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. You try your best to wipe them away, a smile of a million different emotions directed at Ghost. Ghost reaches out, sets a hand on your knee, and you meet his eyes before glancing over and realizing Soap is still there– grinning like an idiot.

“Well, I knew the day we met,” you laugh through your tears. Ghost scoffs, playfully squeezing your knee before returning his attention to the food. “It’s true; you can ask Firefly. Moment you started training with us and flipped Grizzly on his ass, I told her, ‘I’m gonna marry that man’.”

“Fuck off.”

-

They’re packed and ready to leave the next morning.

Soap’s tugging on his boots while Ghost locks up the weapons cabinet, and you stand off to the side, watching. You haven’t said a word all morning, just leaning against the wall with your eyes fixated on Ghost. 

Ghost shuts the cabinet with a sigh as Soap finishes lacing up his boots. Ghost glances at him, different this time– a silent ask for a moment alone with his wife.

Soap gets the message, loud and clear.

“Don’t worry, Doc. You’ll be back in your infirmary treating our stab wounds soon enough.” You huff in amusement, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, Soap.” He nods at you and turns to head out the door.

He leans against the wall just outside the front door, staring at the clear brook water that washes over smooth stones until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks over and realizes he can see straight through the glass of the door where you and Ghost stand, feet apart from each other.

He should look away, get a head start down the road.

But when has he ever done that?

Instead, he watches Ghost slide the mask from his face, giving you a single nod before you launch forward and attach yourself to him. He holds you close like he’s trying to absorb you into his body, keeping you as close as physically possible. You pull back from him– only slightly– and Ghost wipes away the tears falling down your face. He reaches behind your neck, messing with the clasp of your necklace before his ring slides down the silver metal to meet yours at the bottom.

Your hands wind their way around the collar of his jacket, pulling him forward into a kiss he eagerly accepts. There’s no such thing as a goodbye kiss in the Riley household; goodbyes imply never seeing each other again, and that is a future neither you will accept. Instead, it’s a promise. 

A promise to stay alive, to come back. 

A promise either of you has yet to break.

You pull away, murmuring something against his lips. Soap’s never been a great lip reader, but it’s not hard to tell what you’re saying.

You better come back to me, Simon Riley.

Always.

Another kiss, and the mask is back on, slid into place by your steady hands. Ghost sets his forehead against yours, one last moment together before the inevitable separation. 

Soap turns away when Ghost steps back from you, focusing his gaze on a small leaf on the ground until Ghost walks out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.”

[simplydozing]

𝐈𝐟 𝐈𝐭 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐈 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞

You comfort Copia in the aftermath of the fateful Los Angeles ritual. ⚠︎ Spoiler Warning For The Film ⚠︎ Word Count: 1624 || Ao3

Everything was going so well. It was supposed to be a Ritual like any other. You were stationed backstage, and offered the love of your life words of encouragement every time he popped in for a break or a costume change. It was routine.

But it all came crashing down after the encore.

The following events seemed to fly by before your eyes. Now, he was back on the stage. Not to sing or be a star. Not to perform. Not to entertain. But instead to say goodbye. To establish an end to a relationship he wasn’t ready to let go of so early. His mother, once alive and just then giving him advice, now blanketed and unmoving. It was odd. He swore he could see she had some sort of color to her. Her skin and hair was greying out, but when does age not do that to someone? She still had her smile that rejuvenated her features. And her laughter always made him feel better. She would help brighten up his day in any way she could. But now, she laid before him, faded and gone. He could no longer hear her voice, feel her touch. You stood behind him. The shock of it all dissipated into sorrow. He was a statue for the longest while. You contemplated on saying something to console him, but you knew he needed some time to process everything. Quite honestly, you did too.

You hadn’t known her for long, but from the time you did spend with her, you grew to look up to her. She always knew what to say or do, and she’d be damned if she didn’t. You caught a glimpse of the relationship she had with Nihil. She was always quick with words and would give witty responses. But she seemed to soften up around you. When you first joined the church and her son showed an inkling of interest in you, she played the cards right, and ended up playing matchmaker with you.

Since then, you couldn’t help but love her. Which is why your heart shattered when given the news. You were startled from your thoughts when you heard the scuffing of Copia’s shoes.

His steps were slow. He walked as if something was pulling him back, not wanting him to see the cold face of death that plastered his mother’s. He dropped to his knees reaching the side of the gurney and looked her over. Her eyes were closed, and her face rested in a tranquil state. It was peaceful. It was hard, but he took it all in.

Or he at least tried to. You could see his shoulders starting to tremble. His whole body began to quiver. His breath was hitching and becoming raspy. Misty eyes finally let tears slip. And he finally was allowed to break. He threw himself over her, gripping the blanket in balled fists. The fabric bunched between his gloved fingers. He sobbed uncontrollably, wailing out and begging for something to bring her back. He kept calling out for her, as if she’d rise up and hug him again in a warm embrace, like she would do when he was a child. And like a child, he couldn’t do anything but miss her. He couldn’t do anything to wake her up. Your own tears started trailing down your face as you watched the scene before you. You swallowed and did your best to stifle yourself, wiping away the tears that did fall. Right now, you had to be strong for him. As strong as you could be.

You then made your way to them, and knelt beside Copia.

His face was pressed into her abdomen. He was clawing at the sheet desperately trying to feel her warmth one more time. “ My love, ” you barely whispered as your hand ghosted his back. You couldn’t even touch him before he tackled you. He clutched your clothes and clinged to you as if you were leaving him next.

You couldn’t help but join him in his mourning. You cried again along with him, gently rocking him back and forth and tracing patterns on his lower back in an attempt to soothe him. You kept him like this for a bit, before you remembered something she shared with you. “ You know, when he was having a panic attack, or if he just needed it, I would hold him and stroke his hair and hum to him to help calm him.”

You had asked her what to do in times like these when he first started panicking around you.

She used to hold him like this as a child, too.

So you knew how important this would be to him. This was the moment he could be comforted by her, the idea of her, for one last time. Your fingers wandered up to his hair, now brushing through and caressing his head. He nestled in the crook of your neck, pulling you in tighter (if that was even possible). Soon enough, your voice vibrated a medley of choruses from tonight’s show. You drifted between each song, letting a few lyrics escape from your lips in a hushed tone. You could feel his chest tightening and his lips pressing against your skin. You could feel his sorrow. You could feel him .

You let your eyes close to help you focus on him.

Slowly, his body starts to lull. He wasn’t as shaky as he was before, however, you could still feel the downpour that came from his eyes. You kept massaging his scalp. You didn’t dare break away from him until you knew he would be alright. But you were running out of songs. Your eyes peeled open, and your voice got lower. Your heart quickened its pace in a panic. You couldn’t quite remember how some of the older songs that you listened in the church’s archives went. You could feel Copia shift. Perhaps he knew that you were coming to a close. As your humming grew quieter, you began to hear something. There was something ringing out to you. It sounded way off in the distance, like it was playing somewhere in a totally different part of the auditorium. You closed your eyes again, straining yourself to listen harder and make out what was playing.

Sure enough, the sweet sound of music trickled through your ears. You can’t put your finger on it, but the more you tuned into it, the more familiar it sounded. You channeled your focus inwards, finding the lyrics that somehow rippled through your thoughts. What was strange though was that you were certain you’ve never heard of anything like this before. What was even more strange was how the chorus just…came to you. “ But if it all burns down,” you barely muttered. “ If it all burns down,” Copia perked up, raising his head enough for his eyes to peek over your shoulder.

“I will hold you close for the minute,”  his eyebrows knitted together, and his breathing wasn't as labored as before.

“For the minute,” you were getting lost in a trance along with the lyrics, each word rising to a crescendo the more you sang.

“If it all burns down, and the flames devour everything that we are,”  it was amazing how you never heard this before, but you sang the words like it's been stuck in your head.

“I will hold you for the minute,”

A sense of bewilderment overwhelmed him. His anguished grip on you loosened, taking in another stuttering breath.

Did you think of this just now?

“I will hold you for the minute it takes,”

When you finished and you came to, you saw that your beloved was stable.

Another moment of you trapped in each other's arms. No words, no sound.

Just a broken couple, seeking solace in one another.

There was nothing but silence, until Copia spoke up.

“I don't…remember us performing that,” verbalizing his confusion, voice still wavering. “...I don’t either.” Internally, you were just as puzzled as he was. Yet, your expression ceased to change, staring blankly out in the open.

You felt another breath warm the curve of your neck before he pulled away. Part of you didn’t want him to. Your heart sank deeper when you saw his disheveled form. Your hands rested on his shoulders after he adjusted himself,  his own then rose to hold your face. His thumbs padded over your tear-stained cheeks. His paints were smudged, and you made his hair a bit unruly. Eyes were red and puffy, and still tearful. “Whatever that was, it was beautiful, Amore .” His forehead pressed against yours. “Thank you.”

But he didn’t have to thank you. You would do this as many times as he needed. You could hold him like that forever if it were up to you. Whether you realize it or not, he felt the same way. “Copia, my love,” hand cupping the side of his face. “I will always be here for you,” Your lips crashed against his. He inhaled through his nose. It was his turn to run his fingers through your locks and hold you close to him. Teeth-gnashing moments passed. Unfortunately, there had to be a stopping point. And this time it was you who pulled away. And you both turned your gaze to the third body that still filled the room. “Especially right here,”

You both drew the sheet up over her face, engulfing her in the pale linen. Then, you both leaned over and enveloped each other. Afterwards, you helped each other up and were about to leave hand-in-hand when an older gentleman walked in with a letter issued to Copia.

“ Right now. ”

The end causes for a new beginning.

[pedroshotwifey]

*slaps more money on the table*

👀 So basically, I can’t seem to finish any WIPs with this man, he is a ball of lust but I can’t write him. 😭😭😭

Javier Peña you and your sexy self frustrate me! But I also want to request a Drabble for my birthday (Sunday 3/31 - which I should have requested this earlier this week. 😖)

Anyway whenever you finish it is fine.

I would like some sweetness and smut from Javi because if there’s a time to be completely self-indulgent, it’s on your birthday. 🥳

Thank you in advance love! ❤️

*Gives money back*

This one's on the house. 😉

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NERDIE!!! 🥳🥳🥳

As requested, here is your birthday sweetness and smut:

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit

W/C: 1.3k

Salty Sweet

*****

“Javi, are you home?” 

You take a step into your dark and too-quiet apartment, looking around for any trace of your boyfriend. You know, despite the fact that you couldn’t get your birthday off, Javi was able to stay home so he’d be here when you got back. But so far, it looks like he might be out. You frown, more curious as to where he might be than upset though. 

You sigh and slip your shoes off, exhausted from the day you had. It seems like you didn’t get a break at all on top of having to stay late. You love your job, but they really don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s your birthday or your last day on earth. If you want to keep up with the competitive pay, you better do what they ask, no matter how many hours of overtime you may be working. 

You’re taking your coat off when you hear a sudden clatter from the kitchen, and then a whispered curse right after. You can’t help the smile that creeps up. This idiot is trying to surprise you. If you had to guess, you’d say he probably just slammed his foot into one of the chairs in the dark.

“Javi?” you try to keep the amusement from breaching your tone. He doesn’t answer, of course, so you make your way to the kitchen. You reach to turn the light on but stop in your tracks at the sight that beholds you.

The entire kitchen is decorated. There are fairy lights hanging on the walls and around the table, ribbons and balloons in your favorite colors spread tastefully throughout the room, lit candles on every surface, and a cute birthday banner hanging on the back wall. And in the middle of it all is Javi, standing next to the table which holds what might be the most beautiful little cake you’ve ever seen. 

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he says through his beaming smile. He knows he did good. 

Your eyes start to get misty as you walk toward him and throw your arms around his neck. “Thank you so much, Javi. You didn’t have to do all this.” 

He tuts as he embraces you and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Of course I didn’t have to, but you deserve it, hermosa. So much.” 

You lean up and press a kiss to his lips, a tear slipping down your cheek as you do so. You hadn’t realized how overwhelmed you’d been all day. Just as you deepen the kiss, Javi groans against your lips and forces himself back. 

“One more thing,” he breathes against your mouth before moving to the fridge. You watch with peaked interest as he swings the door open and pulls out a can of whipped cream. He shuts the door and smiles devilishly as he shakes the can. You open your mouth to ask what the hell that’s for at the same time he pats the table. 

“Hop up, cariño.” 

It’s not until you see the mischievous glint in his eye that you understand what he wants. You immediately feel a throb between your legs. The two of you had talked before about doing something like this, but you hadn’t realized it would be happening so soon. Not that you complain as you quickly follow his instructions and clamber onto the table. 

He smirks wildly at you as he pops the top off of the can and rucks your skirt up. You sit up and allow him to bunch it around your waist. A small shriek escapes your lips as Javi brings your panties down as well, leaving you bare for him. 

You can already see the bulge pressing against his pants. When you look at his face, his expression is almost pained as he looks between your thighs. 

“Gonna taste even sweeter now, baby,” he practically moans. His eyes flick up to catch your stare and he flashes you a smile. “Lay back for me,” he instructs. You obey quickly, laying down until the back of your head touches the table. 

The first spurt of the cold cream comes unexpectedly, making you yelp as it lands on your clit and starts to slide down. Javi only laughs. “Always so sensitive,” he teases. 

You whimper in response as you stare at the dimly-lit ceiling. Even though you’re not watching him right now, you know that Javi’s getting on his knees in front of you. He gently parts your folds with his thumbs as the melting whipped cream travels to your hole. Just as you feel it land there, he leans forward and scoops it up with his tongue, so gentle that it makes you shiver. 

Your hips chase his mouth as he pulls away, but his hand comes up to push one of your knees. 

“Javi, p-please,” you beg quietly. You’re almost surprised how quickly this has gotten you pent up. 

He chuckles as you let your eyes drift to his kneeling form. “Patience, baby,” is all he says. He keeps his eyes on yours as he lifts the can again and squirts some whipped cream into his mouth and then sets it down again. He just winks before leaning forward and putting his mouth on your cunt. 

You moan as he starts to spread it with his lips and tongue, making a complete mess out of you. The sensation of both the heat and cold makes you dizzy, delirious for more. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, the cold and softness of it mixed with his strong, warm tongue as it begins to lick up and down and inside of you. 

He holds your thighs open as he swirls your clit with the tip of his tongue before going lower and dipping it into your hole. 

“God, you taste so fucking good, hermosa,” he praises through a groan. 

“Feels good,” you moan in reply. 

Suddenly, you feel his tongue push into you again, fucking you with the muscle as he reaches for the can again. He curls within you as he puts another squirt on your clit. When he comes back up to envelop your clit with his plush lips, the cream sloshing between the two of you,  your hands find their way into his hair. You tug on the strands as he sucks harshly, flicking his tongue as he does so. He drinks up the cream and alternates between pressure as he swallows. 

It doesn’t take long for you to start to feel your body warming in suspense of an orgasm. Javi continues to tease and suckle your clit, and when he takes a hand off of your thigh to slide a finger inside of you, you know you’re done for. He hooks his finger as he pumps it and you’re immediately clenching around it, moaning as you pull his hair harder. 

He helps you through it, growling and sending vibrations to your twitching clit before removing his finger and licking up the mixture of your release and the whipped cream. He keeps licking and sucking until there’s barely a trace of the sweet dessert left on your cunt. When he’s done, he licks his lips and sits black to look at your face. 

You’re panting, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and looking utterly gorgeous. He finds himself smiling as you shoot him a grin, already knowing what the next words from your mouth are going to be. 

“Your turn.” 

As much as he would like that, he knows it’ll have to wait a bit. He still has a pile of presents to give you and your favorite dinner to make. Tonight is about you, but he certainly won’t object if you still want to return this favor a little later.

[boatdriinks]

@riipperdoc

He was a little antsy, that much was clear just by the fact that Kerry was there at all. Earlier in the day, he'd texted Vik with the invitation to pop in around the afternoon for his weekly check-up. Needless to say, plans had been changed.

Instead, he'd made the drive all the way to Little China like it was nothing.

Misty let him know that he should've been finishing up with his current patient, so letting him through shouldn't have been an issue. With that in mind, Kerry kept his disguise firmly over his features as he trotted down the steps and into the open clinic.

Part of him had been hoping to see V in Vik's chair, but nope. Hadn't seen hide nor hair of V in a while, and that apparently wasn't going to change today. Letting the thought fade from his mind, he'd instead ignore the client in general to put all his focus on Vik.

"Take yer time," Kerry would immediately assure as he stepped forward, a little too comfortable in the space by this point. It was far from the first time he'd been here by this point.

"I'll jus' stay outta your way." And out of clear sight of the patient. Absolute last thing he needed was someone recognizing him today. That meant going straight past the chair, instead going to sit on the corner of the desk where Vik's computers were.

[scummy-writes]

Winter Comforts

A fic for @misty-moth. Thank you for your support!

Pairing: Arthur/Reader

Words: 2143

Tags: Depression, comfort, fluff

The snowfall after your first night at the cabin was more than anticipated, causing an extra chill in the cabin you rented for the week. While it wasn't unwelcomed as an added bonus to the atmosphere of your lovebird vacation, it was enough for Arthur to designate himself as the one to take Vic out, refusing to let the risk of illness touch you.

And that's where he was now: out in the yard, watching the way you busied yourself with putting another log in the fireplace. There he stood with arms crossed, puffs forming in the air from his deep sighs.

Meanwhile Vic stepped cautiously through the snow, his small, boot clad paws crunching with each step. He only stopped exploring long enough to relieve himself, and in that time his owner finally stopped looking so worriedly in your direction, crouching down to make eye contact with Vic with new determination.

“Alright, Vic, we have our work cut out for us this week. Our bird has been putting on a brave face for us and refuses to say what's truly bothering her.”

Vic looked at Arthur with a small huff, chilly even through the sweater you'd knitted him, as he tried to finish his business as fast as he could manage. Yet Arthur continued, his focus on figuring out how to triumph over your depression causing him to neglect the cold.

“I've already devised plans to keep her mood up, in and out of bed, but what I need from you is the best charm you can manage. I need you to harken back to your youthful days as a pup and pretend to have that energy once more! Of course, this isn't all for nothing- with her mood lifted, she's bound to spoil you tenfold, Vic.”

Vic huffed once more, giving his owner a tired look before shaking the snow from his fur. But the man continued, used to this behavior for years.

“And… I'll let you get onto the bed with us in the mornings we're here. What do you say?”

The shaking slowed to a halt as Vic contemplated the words, staring Arthur down as if to call his bluff. But when Arthur merely just stared back, waiting for an affirmation of sorts, Vic slowly began to wag his tail before taking determined steps towards the cabin.

“Atta boy!”

.

Inside, the fire you set up crackled and popped, providing a comforting warmth to the abode. Once you had finished stoking it, you couldn't manage yourself up off the floor. Instead, you seemed entranced by the flames, watching them dance as your thoughts whirled in your head. You hardly seemed to notice when the other two came back in, only breaking out of your trance when Vic excitedly collided with you, paws hitting your back in excitement.

“Whoa!”

You turned to face the pup, chuckling as you saw his boots had been kicked off in a haphazard trail towards you, tag wagging wildly as his round eyes looked up at you. An impossible gaze to resist, and you found yourself smiling once more as you stroked his head, cooing as Vic melted at your touch.

It didn't take long for him to curl up by you, overjoyed in the belly rubs he received as Arthur doffed his overcoat and shoes.

“I say, Vic strolls into the room and you're putty in his paws! Won't even pass me a glance.”

There it was- that adorable grin when he was being ridiculous. At the sound of your chuckle, relief washed over him. It seems as though your depression wasn't as poor as he feared.

You met his gaze as you rolled your eyes, continuing to pet Vic's stomach.

“Are we going to have this conversation again? About how many more merits you have in comparison to a dog?”

“Well, I do distinctly remember you insisting I was acting like one last night- hey!”

Laughter followed as you playfully threw one of Vic’s boots towards Arthur, the writer mocking offense as your giggles persisted. Soon, the two of you were caught up in tossing the boot back and forth, teasing words before each one, and Vic settled down with a huff of understanding that belly rubs were long gone for the moment.

.

It had been a while since the two of you could settle in like this. You sat between his legs as you both stretched out on the couch, nestled in a blanket while Vic sprawled out in front of the fireplace. While he dozed, the two of you read a book of your choosing; Arthur, a mystery novel from a new author, and you, a random romance you had plucked from the mansion’s library. 

With a pencil in hand, Arthur underlined descriptions he favored while making notes in the margins, humming intrigue at the way the plot was unfolding. For him, it was easy to deduce from the beginning who was at fault in the story, but he was enjoying the way the author could still make the story interesting despite that. Certainly a novel he’d recommend to you. A copy he hadn’t marked in, of course.

Between every few pages, he’d cast his eyes towards you. He couldn’t get a good read on your face in this position, but every so often he’d feel the way your breath would pause at a passage, how your shoulders would tense- and sure enough, one look at the book in your hands would confirm the male lead blundering his way through affections. 

Another reference to add to his mental notes, of what made your heart speed up.

Yet now, he watched you thumb the corner of the pages rhythmically, the same set of pages you had been reading the past time he checked on you. He furrowed his brows, but allowed himself to read a few more pages of his novel before worrying further. But when he looked back, you were still doing the same- shoulders tense as you were lost in thought.

What kept causing that? What was making you worry on this little retreat? When Comte had offered to let Arthur use this cabin as a romantic get-away, he had been hoping this would cure those bouts of long sighs and tired eyes. But they kept persisting, no matter the amount of hugs and kisses Arthur gifted, among more sentimental offerings.

Carefully, he set down his pencil and book aside, wrapping his arms around yours. Setting his chin upon your shoulder had some tension melt away, but you were still wound tight in other ways.

“Luv…” he murmured against your ear, massaging his thumbs against your skin, “what’s troubling you?”

“I’m fine.”

The response was automatic, almost cold in the attempt to dismiss his worry, but you faltered immediately, fumbling over your words to ease the bluntness, “I mean- I am fine. I’m okay, I promise.”

You turned to face him then, a soft smile on your lips, but it was a poor mask that was easy to see through. And there, Arthur was at the crux of how to handle the issue. Pushing too hard could result in you hiding even further away. Meanwhile, time may be what you needed, but… It was difficult watching the way you crumbled, even if it was in small pieces.

He hummed in response, a gentle kiss pressed against your cheek. “Haven’t we discussed this, luv?”

You drum your fingers on his arm, neglecting his question. So he continues, calmly. In a quiet tone that causes your motions to stop.

“I know all too well how one may be keen to hide it all away- that void threatening to swallow you whole, how your heart aches through the days. But we promised each other to speak up before that burden gets too heavy.”

The crackling of the fireplace fills the air, merging with the tension after his words. Arthur watches as your eyes flit away again.

“I feel like I should be saying that as well.”

“What ever do you mean?”

Glancing at him again, there is a murmur of frustration in your gaze, mixed in with your own worry. 

“Do you think I wouldn’t have noticed? You can try to hide by flirting like a man preparing to never see his lover again, or by covering my concern with kisses and prose, but you can’t hide those bags under your eyes, or those times at night when I wake up in your bed, alone.”

Arthur frowns.

“Luv…”

“I don’t know how else to make it clear to you that I am here for you. I’ve tried so much…” You trail off, voice raspier than before. 

In the moment that you take to briskly wipe at your eyes, Arthur realizes where this enigma of your worry stemmed from. And he wants to laugh mockingly at himself, for getting so lost and scared at the sight of depression taking over you, that he neglected to consider the most damning possibility.

His arms hold you tighter, letting you continue to refuse looking his way. He doesn’t prod or force you to turn around, knowing well by now that when your emotions overflow, it’s difficult to let anyone watch. So Arthur holds you, letting tears fall down your cheeks as you process your next words, trying to convey your struggles.

“I know I can’t take away your pain. I know that it will linger inside of you, no matter how many years we stay together. No matter what luck comes into our lives. But I can be here for you. I can listen, I can hold you when it’s too hard to handle the world- I can do so much, but only if you let me in, Arthur.” Another shaking breath escapes you, and your next words come out so quiet, as if you’re fearful of the words themselves, “if we can’t talk about these things, how are we supposed to stay together? To get married…?”

With that, you crumble apart. Arthur pulls you properly into his lap now, letting you nuzzle into his neck, letting his shirt soak up your tears. Each shaking sob from you has him murmuring reassurances, promises that saying such a thing wouldn’t bring ruin to the relationship. 

And he waits. Until you can breathe properly again, until you’re ready to listen to him to speak.

“I think we’ll be fine.”

“How can we be when-”

“For instance, did you know we’ve been worrying ourselves sick over the same issue?”

You peek up at him, questioningly. Arthur takes that moment to brush back the wet hairs sticking against your face, his smile soft.

“It seems we’re both having trouble letting each other in on the secrets of our heart. I can’t promise that there won’t be moments like this again in the future, but for now…” Arthur presses a chaste kiss against your temple, sighing along with you, “I can apologize. I didn’t realize you felt like this, luv. I’m so used to burying my emotions that I neglect understanding it can hurt others.”

“I’ve been trying to think of how to bring it up, but…I just kept getting scared that this wouldn’t change.”

“It will. I’ve just got to get used to the fact that I’m lucky to be loved by you,” he pecks your cheek once more, “and I’ll stop leaving you at night when the nightmares plague me.”

You study his face with your reddened eyes, and Arthur tries to ease the pangs of guilt in his heart. But you seem to relent, shoulders relaxing as you return one of his earlier kisses.

“You promise?”

Arthur hooked his pinky with yours, grinning, “promise.”

.

Vic gave you a dubious glance after inspecting the sugary fluff on your finger, giving it a few more sniffs.

“It won’t bite you! But if you don’t want a bit of marshmallow, I can just take it back-”

A low whine rang out once you pulled your finger back, and you and Arthur fell into a fit of giggles at Vic’s contradictory behavior. But you gave him another chance, and the pup happily lapped up the small treat before you could take it away again. Yet, after a few smacks of his jows, Vic unceremoniously plopped the now-wet mess on the carpet. At your surprise, he merely settled into a comfortable heap in front of the fireplace again, his curiosity sated over what you and Arthur had been laughing about for the past few minutes.

After cleaning up, Arthur watched as you happily stick another marshmallow onto your stick, poking it into the fireplace while you used your free hand to pet Vic. The puffiness of your eyes had calmed down enough, and now the smile left on your face held no hidden meaning; you were happy. Relaxed. Everything that Arthur wanted for this trip.

Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!):

@yarnnerdally @katriniac @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bakaneko-chan @skoetiepoetie @bestbryn @nightghoul381 @fang-and-feather @xbalayage

Ikevamp Masterlist || Ikepri Masterlist || Ikevamp/Ikepri server

[momotonescreaming]

This just a short Scott Clarke/Wayne Munson thing inspired by the writings of @unclewaynemunson and @flowercrowngods because this little ship has me in a choke hold. (2.2k)

“So, how was the date Pops?” Eddie asks, before Wayne even has a chance to close the front door. He’s lounging on the couch in an old pair of sweats and a - slightly too big for him - Hawkins High Swim Team hoodie, arm outstretched with remote in hand so he can turn down the volume of whatever show he was watching. Waiting for Wayne to come home, no doubt. Like a stray cat waiting for scraps to be thrown his way.

Wayne just sighed, making sure the door locked behind him as he stepped into the trailer. “You know it ain’t like that.”

He threw his keys next to Eddie’s on the small side table next to the door - the wobbly one that they balanced out with a wad of cardboard crammed under one leg - and removed his jacket to hang on the peg that hung above it.

Wayne didn’t say anything, and neither did Eddie, still laying on the couch and looking at him with a glint in his eye. He wasn’t going to let this go - Wayne knew exactly what his nephew looked like when he set his mind on something. Only normally it was a new DnD campaign, lyrics he was working on, that puppet song he was determined to learn to play - not his Uncle’s love life.

Sighing again, he took his time slowly toeing off his boots, pushing them to line the walls with Eddie’s sneakers.

“It weren’t a date, Eddie.” Wayne adds, breaking the silence under Eddie’s heavy gaze.

“But you’d like it to be.”

Neither Eddie or Wayne say anything. They both know the answer to that question is yes. He wasn’t trying to hide it from Eddie, but he wasn’t planning on shouting it from the rooftops either. They were just too good at picking apart each other’s moods, seeing past expressions, and pulling at words left unsaid. They were family and knew each other like no one else. So Eddie knew Wayne was growing mighty fond of his new friend Scott Clarke - the same way he knew when Eddie finally made a boyfriend of Steve Harrington - all without ever saying those words.

The Munson men were smitten.

He made his way to the kitchen, now socked feet cool on the linoleum floor as he opened the fridge. Wayne welcomed the brief shock of cold fridge air as he pulled out a couple of beers. As he returned to the living room, Eddie was uprighting himself into a sitting position - one leg tucked underneath him on the couch, the other brushing the floor. Wayne handed him one of the beers as he passed, before settling into his own armchair.

“So,” Eddie started, dragging out the sound. “How was your not-date?”

Wayne gave him a look before responding, cracking open his beer. “It was fine.”

It was a lot more than just fine, spending time with Scott, but Wayne wasn’t going to give Eddie the satisfaction of caving that early. They always did this song and dance, Eddie asking him about his time spent with Scott, not so subtly gathering information and prying for details.

“Come on Wayne!” Eddie exclaimed, gesturing with his beer bottle. “You gotta give me more than that.”

“I don’t ‘gotta’ give you anything,” Wayne replied, taking a sip of his thankfully cold beer.

“Wayne,” Eddie whined, melting down further into the couch cushions - absent mindedly making sure his beer bottle remained upright. “You’re no fun.”

“I just ain’t gossiping about a perfectly normal evenin’.”

“Can you tell me what you did at least?” Eddie said, only sort of begging and taking a swig of his own beer. “Set the scene. Walk me through it. Let your poor worried nephew know where you were all night.”

Wayne gave Eddie a look. He had heard Eddie call it his Dad Look once when Wayne was out of the room and he thought he was too far away to hear it. Wayne ended up standing outside the door, eyes misty, pretending it didn’t mean as much as it did. He may not be his father but Eddie was his boy.

They had leaned into it more, ever since the hospital, ever since they almost lost each other. He’d call Eddie Son, and in return Eddie would smile and call him Pops. They hadn’t talked about the dad thing yet. Wayne didn’t want to push, to take too much. He was willing to wait and take Eddie’s lead.

“You ain’t guilt tripping me when we both already know I’m home safe.”

“What if I guilt tripped you by mentioning how I’m a poor gay kid needing an older gay man as a role model to help me grow and develop and shit?” Eddie said with a shit eating grin. “Would that help you spill the beans?”

“Considerin’ you got a boyfriend all on your own,” Wayne started, gesturing to Steve’s hoodie that Eddie was wearing. The sleeves were starting to fray where Eddie had picked at the threads, but Steve liked it on Eddie too much to complain. “I’d say you’re doin’ just fine.”

"Well, what if I said I wanted to bond with my uncle whom I love so much?” Eddie said, a layer of sincerity coating his words as he leaned on the arm of the couch and looked over at his uncle with those wide eyes of his. Wayne looked back at Eddie, his gaze softening.

“Then I’d say me and Scott went bowling,” Wayne said, knowing he was going to give in to Eddie eventually.

As much as Eddie loved to joke and tease and play up the dramatics, he could tell this meant a lot to his boy. Knowing their trailer was a safe space where he could talk about boys - and he would encourage Wayne to talk about boys in kind. Knowing that they loved each other, and knowing that they wanted the other to be happy.

And Wayne is happy. His boy is alive, his boy is happy, and he’s met someone he likes spending time with.  And if all they ever are is friends - then he’ll be content with that. It’s safer to not want things too much when you’re a man like Wayne. When you’re poor. When you’re old. When you’re gay.

You take what you’re given and want for nothing.

Eddie didn’t subscribe to that train of thought. He was passion, and ambition, and wanting. He kept calling himself a coward but Wayne thought he was the bravest boy Wayne had ever met. He could list the reasons until the cows came home. Being himself in a world where that wasn’t encouraged. Standing up for the freaks and geeks at his own personal risk. Failing senior year twice and still going back because he was determined to graduate. Having a steady boyfriend in a small hateful town like Hawkins.

And then there was spring break. The week that almost took his boy from him.

But it was also the week that bought him back.

He wasn’t thankful for spring break, how could he, when Eddie was almost strung up for a murder he didn’t commit. When Wayne had to come home to his front door open and a broken cheerleader laying there on the floor.

But he had to look on the positive side of things or he’d go mad. He knew that about himself now. So he got to thinking. Eddie was home, he was safe, he was more sure of himself in a way he hadn’t been before. And Wayne had met Scott Clarke. As friends- or something adjacent. Not as parent and teacher.

Scott saw the news and saw a man in need of comfort, a companion. Not a man who’s son was a Satan worshipping murder. Not some trailer trash Hick with bad luck. So when the men from the plant looked at him with pity, when housewives gossiped as he passed them in the supermarket, when those fancy suit types took over his trailer while his neighbours looked through their windows - Scott asked Wayne how he was holding up. Offered him kind words and a warm presence. A casserole.

Eddie would say it was like him and Steve. Going through something traumatic together and coming out closer than you could have imagined otherwise. (Steve would say he’d like to think they’d be this close even without the week from Hell. They’d make it.)

Wayne was content to have a friend, after it all. Scott had held him when he cried, had hugged him when he heard Eddie was alive and safe, and then neither men were content to leave the other’s company now that they had it. They’d meet up for a coffee one morning, or a beer in the evening, and Wayne never complained that it messed up his sleep schedule working nights. Scott would invite him and Eddie over for a home made dinner (nothing fancy, he’d claim) and Wayne would politely decline until the desire to see the other man again won out.

And now they went out and did one of the only things there is to do in Hawkins - they went bowling. And Wayne wasn’t too shabby at it, if he said so himself. (Eddie would say he was fucking amazing at it, but that might have been because the boy was absolutely terrible.)

“You and Scott, huh?” Eddie teased, waggling his eyebrows and pursing his lips in a barely contained smile. “Already on a first name basis?”

Wayne looked at him with a half-hearted glare. “You don’t go bowling with a man, then turn around and call him ‘Mr Clarke’, Eddie.”

It was nice, bowling with Scott. They finally had an evening where Wayne didn’t have a shift at the plant, and Scott didn’t have any urgent papers to grade or after school activities to supervise. It had taken some scheduling, but both men were determined to make it work. (Wayne tried not to read into that too much, Scott making time for him).

Wayne had shown up too early (perhaps too nervous, perhaps too eager) and had resigned himself to lighting up a cigarette while he waited - awkwardly leaning against the worn paint of his truck while he waited for the other man. Only to shortly find Scott pulling into the parking lot - also awkwardly early. He tried not to read into that either.

“I don’t know, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie singsonged. “Seems awful familiar.”

“You’re just saying that because he was your teacher,” Wayne retorted, tone light.

Eddie relented. “Yeah probably. I called him Scott in class once you know?”

Wayne hummed in acknowledgement.

“It felt so weird, but it got a laugh from the class, which was the goal.” Eddie said. “He retaliated and called me Edward for the rest of the lesson. I thought it was funny.”

Eddie looked over at him, head tilted, eyes thoughtful. Peering through Wayne’s uncomfortable silence. He spoke, quieter this time. “It would be alright if you did like him, you know.”

Wayne dipped his head, taking a sip of his beer to avoid talking. It wasn’t always easy talking about these things. Even with Eddie, in the privacy of their own trailer. The weight of his words hanging over his head if he even thought about admitting liking men the way he did. He doesn’t want to risk anything going wrong. Not when he’s got Eddie. Not when he almost lost Eddie.

It was one thing to feel his stomach flutter, his heart clench when he saw him - it was another to admit out loud that Scott had him feeling all kinds of giddy. It was like he was a teen again, waiting for his crush to lock eyes with him across the classroom. Eager and nervous and keeping it all locked up inside.

So Wayne looked at Eddie, voice quiet. “Thank you, son”

If Eddie noticed that Wayne carefully didn’t admit to anything, he didn’t say a word.

“I Just want you to be happy, Wayne.” Eddie said, propping his chin in his hand.

“I know.” Wayne replies, fondly looking over at Eddie. “Who knew my boy was such a romantic under all that bluster.”

“What can I say,” Eddie says with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “Steve brings it out in me. He bought me a bouquet of roses one time and it was like, the romantic floodgates opened.”

Wayne snorted into his beer bottle, watching as Eddie waved his hands around as he talked.

“Seriously!” Eddie exclaimed. “He’s a total romantic and keeps like, reserving new movies that come through the store he thinks I’ll like, just for me. He made me a whole candlelit dinner once, suit and everything - because we can’t exactly go out to Enzo’s for it you know? Picnic’s by the lake and shit. And I thought that stuff was all cliché, and fads and crap - but now that I have Steve? I dream of kissing him under the moonlight and listen to his favourite bands just so I can surprise him.”

“I just love him a whole lot Wayne. I want that for you too.” Eddie said as put down his beer and flopped down onto the couch once more, hair falling into his face. “Like, if I can wind up with Steve Harrington, then you can win over my Middle School science teacher. With your southern charm and sick bowling skills.”

Wayne stuck one foot out and gently kicked at the side of the couch - jostling Eddie, who giggled. “Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Pops.”

[pokemon-ash-aus]

Cuteness!

Cuteness

Timeline: Present

Alternative Universe: Swap Maturity AU

May grinned, chuckling as her new friends gathered closer and closer, tied into it by a certain missing ebony.

The awkward atmosphere was still plenty palpable, but the more they talked and mingled, the more many of them had realized they all had quiet a bit in common.

And yes, May was going to get at Ash for forgetting to mention how many cool people he knew. The dude had the memory of swiss cheese at times, which still baffled all of them on plenty of occassion.

"Anyone got any insight in Ash." Brock tilted his head, the ten year old mullishly picking at his pokedex. "I thought, he was gonna be here sooner."

"Either Indigo held him up, or he got lost." Max grinned, taking the plate offered to him by Bonnie. "You know how they are."

"Just cause we know it, doesnt mean we get it." Came the grumble, Brock glaring at the plate of chicken offered to him.

"Worse comes to worse, we get a Jenny and preform a search party." May waved a hand, feeling her phone vibrate for the briefest of seconds before she flipped it open. "Man- they choose the worse timing, it would have been a great search party too."

"They're here?" Dawn prodded, leaning to look over her shoulder.

It didn't really matter much, as they all felt the smallest tug of a teleportation, ears popping at the subtle change of atmosphere.

Suddenly, they heard the thundering of footsteps, watching Peach burst in with the flamboyance only ten year olds seem to manage.

"HELLO!" She threw her arms up and threw her head back, like a tiny little rockstar in the making. "WE ARE LATE CAUSE OF THE TERRORS!"

May snickered, rolling her eyes as Indigo came running in shortly after, hair askewed and desperately trying to fix it. His face was tickled pink, burning brighter as he glanced at everyone.

"Oh fuck." Indigo breathed out, wincing slightly when Misty shot him a glare. "For the record, here and now, I wanna say we've had a hellish few months, we didn't actively choose to not tell you."

"Gogo, what are you even talking-," And Bonnie's sentence trailed off, the older teen sitting up straight as her mouth dropped open.

And May followed her line of sight, taking in Ash as he sluggishly walked in, eye bags bruised and hair frazzled.

Still, when he caught their eyes, he grinned, face considerably brightening.

"Come on now." He drawled sarcastically, shifting his shoulder slightly. "This isnt the weirdest thing you caught me doing."

And May's eyes traveled down, right into the two kids settled neatly into Ash's arms.

One child, couldn't have been older than two, peered over the swaddled blanket he was in. Big red-brown eyes stared right back at her, a pout settled on his lips. The kid has black hair from what she could tell, contrasting against paler skin.

The other child must have been only a year older. Maybe three? Maybe not. But he was a small bit bigger. Black hair toussled with streaks of pink, big blue eyes glancing at everyone nervously as he tried his hardest to sink into Ash's shirt. Unlike the other one, he had a tanner skin, nearly the same tone as Ash's.

May completely froze, barely registering any sound as her eyes darted from Ash, to the two children in his arms.

"What the fuck," Iris dropped her plate onto the table, blinking slowly as she stepped forward, then back, then forward again.

"Oh yeah-" Ash lifted up baby number 1, the two year old scrunching his face and making an odd movement with his hand. "This is Red, Red Ketchum. He's 2 years old and he can't speak very well, so we've been teaching him sign."

The baby made another movement with his hands, coordinated in a way that May had an inkling she knew less and more than she was supposed to.

"And this-" Ash lifted up baby number 2, the Toddler having a vice grip on ash's shirt, uncaring of the way he dragged Ash's shirt and jacket up. "Is King, King Ketchum. He's 3 years old, but he doesnt like people very much. Just give him a bit of time to get used to everyone."

The silence might have been much more all consuming, if it wasnt for the way that Indigo and Peach both walked to the center table to start serving themselves food, one looking exhausted and the other gleeful.

"Cute kids." Serena mumured out, her eyes still wide as she turned to look at everyone else. "So, where did you even... Did you- did you make them?"

And Ash's demeanor fell, an annoyed look to his face that would have made her flinch is May hadn't known her friend.

"Oh, let me tell you all what happened." He sighed, striding forward with a story on his shoulders and 2 toddlers in his arms.

Oh, May was gonna remember this day forever.

[trailblazethegalaxy]

Photos of Our Love ~ *Welt Yang*

Summary: Welt is trying to find the best way to propose to you. Eventually he decides on photos of the two of you. Hopefully you see just how much he loves you and will accept his proposal.

Pairing: Welt Yang X Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluffy Oneshot

Word Count: 1130

Warning: Welt might be OOC?

Masterlist

Welt isn’t the most sentimental person in the world, but he had his moments. Like right now, as he was looking through photos of the two of you, he couldn’t help but get a little bit misty-eyed as he reminisced. He couldn’t believe he found someone so precious and so wonderful such as yourself. And he was glad you made transitioning to the next step in your relationship much easier.

“Hey, Welt? I have the package you asked for. It’s the best we could find on such short notice.” Himeko said as she handed him a small bag.

March peaked into the room as well, narrowing her eyes at the two of them. “So are you going to tell us what was so special that Himeko had to make a special stop?”

He sighed, knowing he couldn’t keep this a secret from the most nosey member of the Astral Express. He pulled out the small box from the bag and opened it. “I plan on proposing to Y/n tonight.”

His crewmates eyes widened in surprise before March started cheering. “Wow! That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for the two of you! Congratulations!”

“Easy March, no one’s said yes yet.” Himeko chuckled before smiling at Welt. “Either way, I’m happy for you both as well. This is a big step for you.”

He nodded. “Yes, this is a very important milestone in our relationship. I just hope Y/n feels the same. I don’t want to catch her off guard.”

“Understandable.”

“So how do you plan to pop the question?” March asked eagerly, leaning in close to hear all the juicy details.

He nodded to the photo album he was flipping through earlier before Himeko delivered the ring. “I plan on using that to help convey my message.”

March clasped her hands together and giggled. “That is SOOO romantic! I have more candid shots if you need them!”

“That’s a great idea. I’m almost surprised you were the one to come up with it.” Himeko chuckled behind her hand.

Welt frowned. “Are you trying to tell me something, Himeko?”

She sighed and waved off his question. “Nevermind about that. Is there anything you need from us before your big proposal? I’m sure you want us out of here tonight so you two can have some alone time.”

“I plan on proposing to them in my room. It’s more intimate there without the possibility of anyone walking. However, if you can keep March away, that would be great. And if you would like to help, March, I have an idea that could use a few extra hands.”

Well, Welt was right that many hands make light work. Before too long, everything was ready. Both Himeko and March wished him luck and he thanked them sincerely. March tried to get him to allow her to listen outside of the door, but Himeko made sure to keep her distracted. Looking around his room at everything, Welt let out a puff of air and gave a self-satisfied nod. Everything looked perfect.

However, for the first time ever in his life, Welt Yang was anxious.

Proposing was a big deal and a decision one shouldn’t take lightly. But he knew it was the right decision to make. He knew he loved you enough to jump into this new life and not look back at his old one. He just hoped you were too.

“Welt?”

Your soft voice shook Welt out of his thoughts. You looked amazing, all dressed up to perfection just like he asked you this morning. He felt his heart flutter in his chest and his smile widen. He was practically overflowing with love for you. He just hoped he could get through all of this without messing up.

You gasped, a hand over your mouth and he beamed at your reaction. All the pictures he loved of the two of you were hanging from the ceiling by glittery thread and shining in the candlelight. He had written about each event on the back of the photos, where and when it took place and all the precious memories he had about it. He was proud of the idea and he was happy you were reading each of the stories as you traverse the memory labyrinth he set up, with help of course. However, he couldn’t wait until you got to him.

When you saw him, you had tears in your eyes. Welt was frozen in place, knowing you’d reach him eventually so he could wipe your tears away. You smiled so brightly his heart beat louder. He really did love you, didn’t he?

“Welt, you did all of this, just for me?” You sighed. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“I ask myself the same thing everyday.” He answered with a laugh. After using the pads of his thumbs to wipe your tears he held your face for a moment longer. “You look absolutely exquisite tonight.”

“Thank you. You look dashing as well.” You nodded to his outfit. “What’s all of this for? We already had our anniversary…”

He took a deep breath. “It’s for something far more special.”

And with that he sank down to one knee. You gasped and he took one of your hands. “Y/n, I love you. I love you so much. You have opened my eyes to what real, true love is and I will never stop thanking you for that. You have made my life so much more vibrant. I couldn’t imagine a single day without your ever present sparkle. You are everything and more and I want to keep telling you how much I love you for the rest of our lives, for the rest of time. Please, will you marry me?”

“Oh, Welt.” You cried, nodding. “Yes! Yes absolutely! A hundred thousand times yes!”

All of the air in Welt’s lungs whooshed out of him. He couldn’t believe it. He could and he couldn’t at the same time. He was finally engaged to the love of his life.

Slipping the ring onto your finger, he stood and kissed you, slow and deep, just the way you deserved. When he broke for air, you pressed kisses all over his face, whispering an I love you after each one.

He gently pulled away to look you in the eyes. “No, I love you.”

You shook your head with a laugh. “No, I love you and no one will ever love you more than I do.”

“I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to love me more than you. But I love you more than anyone will ever love you.” Sighing, he held you close and kissed you once more. “I really can’t wait to keep telling you how much I love you for the rest of our lives.”

[potatowitch]

A Beginner's Guide to Playing Astarion

(AKA: Rogues aren't useless in combat, I promise)

I feel like every time I mention that Astarion is an absolute beast in combat for me, I get at least one person asking me how that’s even possible because for them he does basically nothing damage wise, so I figured I’d write a rough guide on how I get the most out of him in combat.

For this guide I will be giving Astarion the Assassin subclass. I’m aware that a whole lot of guides online suggest the Thief subclass is the “best”, but I don’t particularly find it engaging to play, personally. Arcane Trickster is fine, but not my favourite.

First of all - I suspect that the majority of people who say Astarion doesn’t do meaningful damage for them just haven’t figured out how to position rogues properly. Rogues aren’t just squishy Fighters with some edgy flavouring. You cannot just have them waltz up to an enemy and start stabbing them in the front and expect it to do much, or just have them stand in a random position and have them shoot arrows willy nilly. You have to mind their positioning and take advantage of the battlefield. Rogues have Hide, Disengage and Dash as bonus actions for a reason - you want them to be slipping in and out of melee range, hiding or going invisible where possible, and looking for positions that give them Advantage. 

So. First things first, fill Astarion’s pack with Invisibility potions and scrolls and give him a bunch of those teleportation arrows. Get him gear that allows him to cast Misty Step, go invisible, increases his crit chance, increases his stealth rolls, or gives him extra movement speed. Separate him from the party to sneak around the back of enemies as much as possible before entering combat. Use poisons where possible, especially poisons like the Drow Poison that can potentially put an enemy to sleep.

Advantage is one of the key aspects of playing a rogue as it lets them use Sneak Attack, which can be used once per turn and lets you do extra damage against an enemy you have Advantage against, and it’s especially important to keep in mind with the Assassin subclass. Bump him up as high on the Initiative order as possible (I always make sure he gets the Alert feat) as with Assassin he gets Advantage against enemies who haven’t taken a turn in combat yet. Also with Assassin, any hit against an enemy who is Surprised is automatically a critical hit.

The other ways you can gain Advantage against enemies in combat are:

Attacking a target that cannot see you, IE you are Hiding, Invisible, or they are Blinded.

Using a spell or ability that grants Advantage.

Attacking a target within 1.5 metres of an ally (flanking an enemy). As an example, say Gale is positioned up high but an enemy has managed to get within melee range of him and threaten him. You can send Astarion up there to help him out, and because he’s right next to an ally, he will do extra damage to the enemy. Alternatively, you could have Astarion pop into the thick of the fight right next to Karlach, pull off a Sneak Attack, then dip back out using an invisibility potion or Disengage as a bonus action.

Attacking an enemy that is Restrained, Prone, Sleeping, Entangled, Paralysed, Off Balance or Enwebbed. For example, your wizard could facilitate Astarion pulling off a Sneak Attack by casting Hold Person on the enemy you want him to target next.

Having other party members cast spells like Guiding Bolt or Faerie Fire on an enemy.

My favourite elixir to give Astarion is the Elixir of Bloodlust - it is so stupidly overpowered when combined with an Assassin’s burst damage. He can sneak up behind an enemy, one shot them with a Sneak Attack, get a second action that turn from the elixir, and then attack another enemy and almost one shot them too.

A point I think is important to bring up is that rogues are pretty squishy. Combine that with the fact that you’re going to have them in melee range often, and Astarion is going to take a bit of a beating sometimes. You need to keep that in mind and adjust your tactics accordingly to mitigate that - sometimes you will have to sacrifice doing damage for a turn just to get him out of dodge so he can heal. I often have Shadowheart cast Death Ward on him at the start of the day, considering he is the one who tends to get to the lowest health even if I have someone else trying to tank. That could be a skill issue on my part, but enemies really do just love to bully Astarion.

For ranged attacking, get him up to the high ground. This is where spells like Misty Step come in really handy - you want him high up where he can see enemies, but they can’t easily see him. Think the rafters in the goblin temple, for example. This also keeps him out of reach of tougher enemies like Dror Ragzlin, who will obliterate his health in two hits if you’re not careful.

In terms of gear, you want to focus on a few things:

Increasing his movement speed

Giving him the ability to cast Invisibility on himself

Giving him bonuses to stealth

Giving him bonuses to Dexterity

Increasing his chances to land a critical hit

Negating the effects of Difficult Terrain (for example ice or grease)

Letting him cast Misty Step

For out of combat use, gear that gives him bonuses to Sleight of Hand (for pickpocketing, disarming traps, and lockpicking)

I tend to equip him with two shortswords and a longbow. Fiddle with his weapons loadout to figure out what works best for you and your game.

That’s pretty much it, really. Learning how to get the most out of a rogue does take a lot of practice, but once you’ve got the hang of it, you can have Astarion doing an impressive amount of damage all the way through to the end of the game.

Let me know if you've got any other tips and tricks or if you think I've missed something!

[soulc-hilde]

The Library

Note: I've been kind of AWOL after putting out a couple of works, but it wasn't on purpose - I promise! Between working everyday and debating if I want to give college another try, things have been hectic but new chapters will be posted soon!

Pairing: Sokka x Beifong! OC

Synopsis: Takes place during ATLA episode, The Library. Taking mini vacations, Sokka flips out over his need to wrap his hands around a map of the Fire Nation. Thanks to the mysterious words and well detailed map of Professor Zei, the group discovers the mysterious Wan Shi Tong's Library; however, at what costs?

After teaching Aang how to earthbend, the young Avatar had suggested everyone to choose their own mini vacation. As the sole purpose of the group, the monk had decided on some mountains without explaining why.

The boy sits cross legged and in front of them, the land was lined with holes. He holds the flute in his hands, waiting on something. "What's out there," Sokka questions. Toph bends down, her hand laying flat in the dirt.

"A lot, actually," she answers, "there's hundred of little--" Aang silences her, "shh! Don't ruin the surprise. Just watch." Looking back toward the field, he blows a note into the flute and a groundhog pops up and mimicks the note.

The Avatar continues, shifting from high notes to low. With each pitch that was played, a groundhog appeared to replicate it. While Aang was enjoying himself, Sokka was over it and had reached his limit. The teen plugs his finger into the end of the instrument with a frown.

"This is great and all," he chides, "but don't we have more important things to worry about? We should be making plans."

Aang argues back, "we did make plans. We're all picking mini vacations." Sokka grunts, "there's no time for vacations."

"I'm learning the elements as fast as I can. I practice hard every day with the girls," the boy explains, "I've been training my arrow off!" Sokka scoffs, "so have I, but you don't see me complaining."

Katara steps up, "what's wrong with having a little fun in our down time?" Sokka ignores her, glaring down at the airbender. "Even if you do master all of the elements, then what? It's not like we have a map of the Fire Nation."

He points his arms into the wind, "should we just head west until we reach the Fire Lord's house?" Sarcastically, he pretends to knock on an imaginary door, "knock, knock. Hello? Fire Lord? Anybody home?"

Breaking character he faces the group again, "I don't think so. We need some intelligence if we're going to win this war." Irritated, Aang plays a note and a groundhog appears under the Water Tribe boy.

Katara rolls her eyes, "alright. We'll finish our vacations and then we'll look for Sokka's intelligence." The others laugh at the siblings' quid. Aang opens a map, jumping to his feet before showing it to Katara.

"Your turn, Katara," he grins, "where would you like to go on your mini vacation?" The waterbender looks with a hum before pointing at a small spot that was drawn with ice.

"How about the Misty Palm Oasis?" She suggests, "that sounds refreshing." Aang nods, "oh yeah, I've been there. It's a pristine natural ice spring and I usually don't use the word 'pristine', it's one of nature's wonders."

After a few minutes of traveling, the Oasis was no longer in 'pristine' condition anymore. Instead it was littered and home to shady sandbenders as well as a small little shop.

Aang awkwardly laughs, "must've changed ownership since I was here." Riki smirks, "sure, kid. Sure."

The group walks further into the Oasis and the withering sign falls. They pass what used to be the ice spring, now just a patch of snow. Entering the small bar, one of the sandbenders spit at Sokka feet. Watching the teen snarl with irritation, he smirks at the idea of starting a brawl.

Before the Water Tribe boy could lunge, a strong brown hand snatches him away. He looks down to see that his rescue was at the hands -- literally -- of Riki, who continues inside without a fault. Inside, the bar was filled with travelers of weary health and appearance unlike the man who stood tall at the counter.

"One mango, please," he orders with foreign mannerisms. Sokka watches the bartender slice and mash the fruit into a juice before sweeping it inside the chiseled bowl.

The teen smiles, "I don't see anything wrong with having one of thos fruity beverages while we plan our strategy." He runs over to the bartender, the others following. As the foreign man turns around with his bowl, he accidentally slams into Aang.

Unbothered, the boy smiles, "no worries, I clean up easy." Without a thought, he airbends the substance off of his robes. The man gasps, "you're a living relic."

Aang shrugs, "thanks, I try." The man continues, "an Air Nomad right in front of me." He bows, "Professor Zei, Head of Anthropology at Ba Sing Se University."

He snatches Aang's arm, holding it to his eyes. Just as Aang was forced to lean on his toes from the force, the ground beneath the professor shifts and pushes him back a few steps. The two turn to see a glaring Riki.

"Watch it, professor," she growls.

Since chaotically meeting Aang and his friends, as well as joining them along with her sister, the elder Beifong had willingly took on the responsibility for the group -- particularly the youngest ones. At first, it wasn't too much trouble since her first experience was with Toph but after meeting the boy's continuous list of enemies created a sense of paranoia for her.

It doesn't help that he tends to use airbending out of habit... and his mortal compass marks even the craziest people as 'friendly.'

Zei continuous his rant of questions, measuring the boy's head, "tell me, which of the Air Temples do you hail from?" Aang answers, "the Southern Temple."

The professor gasps, "oh, splendid! Now, tell me, what was the primary agricultural product of your people?" With a raised eyebrow, the boy replies, "uh, are fruit pies an agricultural product?"

"Oh, truly fascinating," Zei grins, "that is one for the journal."

After conversing with the weird man, the group -- Sokka -- made their mini vacation about finding Wan Shi Tong's Library and the Professor had joined their journey. As Appa soars, peacefully, the professor continuously admires the bison's fur.

Toph huffs, slouching over the saddle, "does this place even exist?" The professor looks over, "some say it doesn't." Her glazed over eyes widen, "shouldn't you have mentioned that before." The twelve year old grunts, falling back into her older sister's lap.

Once again, time passes and no library in sight. Toph sits up, pointing outwards, "there it is!" The others crowd around the sisters with anticipation, but the two laugh.

"That's what it'll sound like when one of you spots it," Toph teases, waving her hand in front of her face with a smile. The others delfate in disappointment while Riki gives her a high five.

The eldest of the group looks at them, shrugging, "it shouldn't be this hard to spot a giant building from the air. Especially one as huge as it's described to be." Riki points at the drawing

Sokka looks out with a telescope before pointing into the abyss of sand. "Down there," he calls out. He leans forward, "what's that?" Aang guides Appa down to it.

On landing, everyone jumps off and watch as Katara pulls out the library blueprint once again. She shakes her head, "forget it. It's obviously not what we're looking for. The building in this drawing is enormous."

Riki takes a look at the blueprints before smiling, "no, it is the library! It's just completely buried and there's one of those foxes," she points. They all watch as the fox mindlessly climbs to point of the building and leaps through the small window.

The professor runs to the point, shoveling at the sand with a hand shovel. "My life's ambition is now full of sand," he sighs, "well, time to start excavating."

The others look at him in ridicule as Toph slams her hand into the pointe. "Actually, that won't be necessary," she explains, "the inside seems to be completely intact and it's huge!"

Sokka nods, "that fox thingy went in through a window. I say we climb up there and give it a look." Toph crosses her arms, "I say, you guys go without me."

"You got something against libraries?" Katara raises a brow. Riki's jaw clenches as Toph replies, sarcastically, "I've held books before and I gotta tell you, they don't exactly do it for me."

Katara turns sheepish, "oh, right. Sorry." Riki side-eyes her, "are you?" Not wanting things to escalate, Toph smirks, "let me know if they have something you can listen to."

As the others begin to climb inside, Sokka turns around when he notices Riki wasn't climbing the rope. "Riki," he calls, "aren't you coming?"

The teen shakes her head, "I'll be the look out with Toph. It may seem empty, but those sandbenders can be anywhere." He simply nods in understanding, "we'll be back," he promises before disappearing.

As time drowns on in the heat, Toph sits in the sand as Riki plays catch with the flying bison. Bending the sand to point upwards on one end and once again on the next, Riki softly smiles as Appa fails at catching it.

The fun comes to an end once the ground beneath them quakes. Looking over, the girls gasp as the library begins to sink. "No!" They shout, charging for the pillar.

Slamming their hands into the earthy wall, they fight with gritted teeth to at least slow it down long enough for the others to escape. Toph, aggravated at her slipping, hardens the sand around her feet before going back to holding up the pillar.

Appa roars, alerting them of unwanted company. "What now," Toph grunts. "Sandbenders," Riki answers. "Focus on the pillar, I'll handle them."

Not waiting for a reply, the older Beifong charges towards Appa. Launching over the bison, she lands on her knees and shoves her hands under the sand. Creating quicksand, a few of the sand sailors are swallowed by their own element.

The others that made it use their strength in numbers against the teen and the bison. Hearing the pained grunts of her sister and terrified roars from Appa, Toph tries to send her own quick blasts into the fight. Unlike her sister, she was unfamiliar with the sandy form of earth and missed each hit.

Forced to focus on the pillar, the young girl cries softly as the sounds of fighting go silent and in turn one of the thugs ordering the fleet to leave. Feeling the lack of their presence, she shakes her head, "I'm sorry, guys. I'm so sorry."

[angeart]

With interest, Grian watches Scar heave breaths and clutch at his chest. The surrounding caves full of lava pops and hissing mobs fall away, bringing them somewhere dark and misty instead. The ground is smooth and pitch black, some blocks of it gently floating away in a way that’s entirely disturbing; a picture of a quiet and broken world. Glancing appraisingly around, Grian takes a step away from Scar, swishing his tail impatiently as he waits for him to calm down.

“Gee, Grian. Can’t you bring us somewhere nice for once?” Scar huffs out breathlessly, still slightly bent forward. His messy brown hair falls into his eyes, partially covering up his expression.

Grian itches to step closer and push Scar’s hair away, so he can see his face in full. “I can’t,” he lies, a hint of sulkiness in his voice. His nose scrunches up a little as he wrangles the strange urges nestled in his heart, and he takes one more step decidedly away from Scar.

 Taking a final deep breath, Scar straightens up. “Can’t or won’t?” he presses.

“Can’t,” Grian insists, even though the words feel like gravel in his throat under the scrutiny of Scar’s gaze. There’s something in Scar’s eyes as he looks back at Grian, and Grian can’t quite identify it—something veering on expectant. Something hopeful, maybe. Something strange. His tail sharply swishes again, agitated, and he blurts out: “What are you the most afraid of?”

“What?” Scar startles, visibly flinching under the abrupt ambush.

“What are you the most afraid of?” Grian repeats, pinning him down with his gaze. “We went through plenty things. You scare easily. But what is The Big Bad Scary Thing for you? I can’t quite figure it out.”

Scar feels his heartbeat in his throat. He purses his lips and stays silent.

They stare at each other.

Swish, swish, swish. Grian’s tail flicks from side to side as he waits.

Scar thinks Grian might explode if he won’t give him something. He releases a breath, wilfully loses the staring match and stammers out: “I—I’m not telling you that!”

Grian’s tail droops, suddenly weighted as he pouts. “Aw, why not?”

It’s a display of innocence, but Scar knows he’d be barking up the wrong tree if he wanted to find a shred of innocence in the demon that stands in front of him. (And yet a part of him wants him to willingly let himself get deceived. A part of him wants to think that it’s not as impossible as the rest of him makes it out to be.) Gritting his teeth, he pulls up every defence he can muster; unease sings in his veins, ready to be called upon once again in this dreamscape, always so, so very close to surface here. “You’ll use it! You’ll use it against me!” he accuses.

“I’d never,” Grian says simply, his lips twitching into a toothy grin.

“Pfhshs, you would, you absolutely would, you menace!” Scar protests, taking a stumbling half-a-step back, as if having physical distance ever helped him in here. (It never helps. Sometimes he feels like closer is the only right place to be. Like the further he runs, the more danger he’s in.)

The familiar sound of giggles bubbles out of Grian; his eyes are bright when they meet Scar’s again.

Running on some faulty setting, Scar’s heart skips a beat at the sight. He blames it on adrenaline—on the constant looming feeling of awaiting terror; on the lingering fear that so stickily clings to him whenever he dreams—but somewhere deep down in the pit of his stomach he knows that’s not it.

He watches Grian quiet down again, eyes grazing the surrounding dreamscape almost contemplatively. There’s a small tilt to Grian’s head as he thinks, a curve to his throat and jaw that makes Scar’s fingers twitch. He pries his gaze away and forces himself still, instead watching the world slowly float away around him and get swallowed by the void.

Is that what’s going to happen to him if he keeps standing here?

Dread curls through the spaces between his ribs at the thought, even though he’s aware it’s better than most alternatives.

Grian’s hum interrupts his thoughts, and the dread in Scar’s chest grows thicker and more insistent.

“I noticed,” Grian starts musingly, “that you don’t usually dream about other people.”

Scar blinks, trying to regain his footing in the seeming randomness of the topic. “So?”

“Well, most people dream about other people in their lives now and then,” Grian notes. His dark eyes hold Scar hostage. “Bad dreams, you know. Them getting hurt? Or getting hurt by them? Things like that.” His tail swishes. There’s something both grim and intrigued in his expression as he continues hungrily watching Scar. “But you don’t.”

There’s a flash image rushing through Scar at those words: Mumbo, drenched in blood, sobbing helplessly as he collapses on the floor and curls up on himself. Scar, hovering around him, not knowing how to help.

He tries to cover up the shakiness of his breath with false bravado. He isn’t going to let Grian have that.  “I don’t see anything wrong with that,” he retorts, his voice carrying only a hint of his fraying nerves. He doesn’t think he could bear that kind of nightmares.

Grian cocks his head, eyes still lingering on him in that scrutinising way. “Is it because you don’t have anyone? Is that what you’re secretly afraid of? That you’ll die completely alone?”

Scar’s brows pull into a bemused frown. “Are you insulting me?”

“What?” A genuine confusion disrupts the intensity of Grian’s gaze.

“I have friends!” Scar huffs out defensively.

“Wait,” Grian shakes his head, feeling like he’s suddenly two steps behind Scar in this conversation. “Why would that be an insult?”

This whole time, Grian thought there’s simplicity in fears. Everyone was scared of something. And Grian did so very much enjoy putting his hands in that particular jar of honey, so tantalising and rich and sweet. There was fascination in watching it all unfold, so raw and terrible. Seeing the frantic urgency, the rising swell of overwhelming emotions ready to consume. Yet at the end of it, there was nothing. Always, always. Inevitably, it’d end. They’d all wake up.

All but him.

They’d wake up and none of it would ever be real.

He was just playing. It didn’t mean anything.

Scar is looking at him as if maybe it meant something.

“Well, you’re—” Scar starts, a baffled edge to his voice. Wasn’t it obvious? He thought it was obvious. But Grian keeps looking at him with that same confusion etched into his features, and so Scar fumbles for a way to put his knee-jerk thought into coherent words. “You’re saying I might die alone. Isn’t that kind of like suggesting that I’m unlovable?”

There’s a beat of silence when Grian parses through his words, slots them somewhere within himself.

Scar can’t tell where Grian’s slotting them. He just wants to be understood, and for them to move on.

But Grian doesn’t swiftly move from it quite like Scar hopes.

His tail once again gravitates straight down; his wings droop and his bat-like ears twitch and pull back. “Oh.” It’s a small sound, timid and fractured and just a little bit guarded.

Scar watches Grian’s face scrunch up again, in a way that’d be completely endearing if it wasn’t so alarming. Because Grian doesn’t usually make a face like this. He’s sulky, sure, and he’s chaotic. He cackles and sighs and swishes his damn tail and—

He shouldn’t look timid. He shouldn’t look like he’s about to get hurt.

“Grian…?”

When Grian speaks, his voice is even quieter, cracking with something unsure. “I didn’t know it’s…” He stops, the words hitting some dam within him. I didn’t know it’s bad, is what he almost says. His frown deepens, and he’s not looking at Scar anymore; he’s staring at the ground, as if it held the answers he so desperately needed. “I didn’t…” He trails off again, sheepish. I didn’t mean that you’re unlovable hovers on the tip of his tongue, but he bites at it until it dies in his throat.

A sharp urge to step closer and lift Grian’s chin sears through Scar.

Before he can do anything, Grian lifts his head on his own accord and meets Scar’s gaze.

Grian’s dark eyes are full of some deep pitfall, a ravaging emotion that Scar fails to identify.

“Am I?” Grian asks, words imbued with painful desperation. Am I unlovable? echoes through him, thrums through every part of him with the wild force of his heartbeat.

He shouldn’t be asking this. Why is he asking this?

It shouldn’t matter.

Why does it hurt to think it?

He should be coating the words in sharp edges. He should be using them as knives. He should be digging his claws into Scar, mocking him that yes, maybe Scar is unlovable. He should be trying to see if that scares him. If it hurts.

Isn’t that what nightmares should be about?

But instead, Grian’s the one in pain.

And yet.

And yet it looks like Scar is hurt too, somehow, anyway. There’s a faint fragrance of fear in the air, an unfamiliar tinge to it that Grian can’t quite pinpoint.

A part of Grian wants to stay and figure it out. It wants to indulge in the way Scar looks right now; it wants to step closer, to put his sharp, clawed fingers against Scar’s pulse point and find out what makes it beat like that.

The other part of him is cacophonic and loud, ringing alarm bells and frantically trying to get him to run away.

Run away from what? Run where?

This is his world. This is his place.

He isn’t supposed to hurt here.

He isn’t supposed to hurt here.

He doesn’t realise his breaths are turning rapid and shallow; his heart is throwing a tantrum, causing havoc within him. All he knows is that he has a strong urge to hide. To protect himself. To stay safe. Deeper, deeper in the dreamscape. That’s where he should be. That’s where he needs to go.

He steps away from Scar and with wide eyes and too-loud heartbeat, he watches Scar follow.

“I’m done playing for today,” he lets him know, the words raspy and wrong as they barely make it past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t give out any more chances; he turns around and runs.

The ground rumbles in the wake of his footsteps, walls pulling up behind him, blocking Scar’s path to him and rendering him unable to follow.

[likethe-month]

Slenderman x Reader - Short Oneshot

-Hi everyone! This is going to be part of my Slenderman fic collection I'm calling "Static and Shadows." I have lots of stuff for him already written so please let me know if you'd like to see more! >:3 Oh also I would label this as Yandere in the title, but his behavior isn't quite there yet(?) I'll think of this as Dark! Slenderman x Reader for now-

-

Retreating to your childhood room, you slunk through your parents’ house, preparing for a verbal confrontation to break. With final exams done you could finally relax, or so you thought… You had forgotten about your highly-confrontational sibling who liked to pick fights whenever and wherever they could. They were still in high school, so you were both in the same house over break.

It was easier to forget about why you moved to a different town whenever you had your peaceful and quiet room, devoid of anyone else. The fights back at home weren’t so bad, but you didn’t handle loud noises well, so you would shut yourself in your room until it was safe to come back out into the living room.

Laying in bed for a small nap, a thought suddenly popped in your head. Didn’t the tall man say that you could change your reality with your thoughts? If you thought about him hard enough, maybe you would see that big mansion in the woods again. Well… it was worth a shot…

Filling your head with thoughts of the tall creature, his home, the static, and the misty woods, you shut your eyes, quickly drifting off. You woke up standing in what seemed to be the entryway of the mansion. Peering around, you were surprised at how elegant and pleasant the home seemed to be. Deep reds and mahoganies filled your vision, accompanied with warm lighting.

Suddenly, a couple of people walked into the room, coming from a door to your right. One of them had a white mask devoid of eyes with black painted lips. The other male figure wore a yellow hoodie over his head, and his face was also covered with some sort of dark mask.

“Hello,” you offered with a nervous smile. “It’s nice to meet you… My name is-

“Y/n,” the one with the hoodie interjected, rendering you surprised. “Yeah, we know who you are. He told us about you.”

“Oh, right… Speaking of him… where?…” you began, trailing off, suddenly unsure of yourself.

“He’s in the room back there,” the one with the white mask said, nodding to a door beyond the grand staircase in the middle of the entryway. “That’s his ‘office’ or whatever. He’s usually in there after dinner.”

You gave them your thanks and approached the door, knocking gently three times.

“Come in,” the chilling voice uttered.

You took a breath and complied. You stepped into the office, taken aback by the sight. Books lined the walls, enclosed in cases that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and an elegant desk sat in the middle of the room. Slenderman was not sitting at the desk, however, but instead standing in front of the tall windows, his back turned to you.

“It’s me,” you croaked nervously, knowing that he was well aware.

“Dearest Y/n,” he said, walking over to you. “It’s quite a pleasure to receive a visit from you.”

You swallowed as he drew nearer, having to tilt your head up to look at his blank face. “You have a lovely home,” you said, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Thank you, my dear,” Slenderman replied, his tone of voice oozing with the pleasure of your arrival.

You paused, taking the moment of silence to look at the office. The woodwork consisted of a deep mahogany that seemed to be well-polished. You supposed even eldritch beings liked to keep a clean household.

“I hope I’m not intruding or anything, but I just wanted a small break from… my world, I guess,” you said, glancing down at your feet.

“You could never intrude; you are always welcome. Think of this place as your home as well.” After the tall creature said this, you heard a loud thump and some laughter come from another room.

At this, his demeanor became slightly annoyed. “I’m sure the others will be delighted to meet you.”

“Oh, right…I met two boys on my way in. Why do they cover their faces like that even when they’re inside?” You asked. You wanted to ask more about the strange people scattered throughout the mansion, but you would try to find out more gradually.

“Sometimes their actions are a mystery to even me. They often galavant around the house and prefer to be masked while doing so. At other times, however, they all show their faces.”

Suddenly anxious, you wondered just how many other people were in the house. You also wondered what they were like.

“They may seem different and even frightening at first, but I assure you, they mean you no harm. I will make sure that you remain safe,” Slenderman said, and you froze when a black tendril gently brushed against your arm as he strode past you. When he reached the door of the office, he turned his head back to acknowledge you. “The others have already all eaten dinner, but I would like to invite you to stay for a drink.”

Taken aback by the invitation, you agreed. “That’s fine with me,” you said, allowing yourself to smile slightly despite your nerves.

You walked alongside him to the dining room. When a shadow whisked by, you found yourself drawing nearer to the tall being beside you as if he would provide protection from whatever lurked in the dark. You caught yourself and reestablished some distance, embarrassed and unsure.

He then said your name quietly, prompting you to explain your jumpiness.

“I don’t understand any of this. I’m not sure how I was able to get here just by thinking hard enough about it. Can anyone else do that?” You asked breathlessly, desperate for answers.

“I have given you a special ability that no other human possesses. I wanted to make sure you could reach me at any time, so you have been given the ability to transport yourself here whenever you please,” Slenderman explained, his nonexistent gaze still focused on the hallway that lay before you.

You stopped yourself from asking why you of all people had gained his attention. You made the mistake of asking this once, and he had provided a most terrifying answer. The frightening being was enamored with you for one reason or the other, and he had devoted time and effort into learning everything he could about you. Your schedule, hobbies, sleeping patterns: he had been there, watching and observing. You fought back a shudder as you walked. Hearing about how obsessively you had been stalked and preyed upon was not on your agenda tonight.

The two of you reached the dining room: a massive room complete with a large table and fireplace on the wall. The decor consisted of blacks, golds, and reds. You had to admit that the room was incredibly elegant, as was the rest of the house, or at least, what you had seen so far. You took your seat next to Slenderman, and to your surprise, there were two glasses already placed at the table. Besides the glasses was a pitcher of water and a bottle of wine.

“What would you like to drink?” The tall man asked you, taking your glass in his large pale hand.

“Water is fine,” you said, your throat suddenly dry. Engaging in conversation with him suddenly seemed more intimidating, even though you had endless questions you wanted to ask.

You were both sitting now and you hesitantly fiddled with your glass.

“Your water is completely untainted. I assure you I mean you no harm,” your companion said gently, as if sensing the fear that coursed through your body.

With a skeptical glance, you took a sip of your water. “Can you tell when people are afraid?” You asked curiously.

“I can usually tell through body language and facial expression, but I also possess the ability to sense fear in a way that is unfamiliar to humans.”

After another thoughtful drink of water, you continued. “How does that work?”

“I sense it through the chemicals that you give off in your frightened state. You might describe the sensation as… sweet,-tasting” he said darkly, taking you by surprise.

Fighting back every instinct to leap out of your chair and flee, you swallowed thickly. “Oh… Is that why you want me to spend time with you?” You immediately regretted your question. You had just sworn to yourself not to give him another reason to explain his obsession with you. He could make anyone scared. Hell, some of the bravest people you knew would whimper and flee at the sight of this monster.

“I think you already know the answer to that, (Y/n),” he replied, his tone of voice neutral.

You averted your gaze and looked at the fireplace absentmindedly. “Yeah, I do.”

There was a pause, and Slenderman raised his glass to his featureless face. Somehow, there was less wine in his glass when he set it back down.

“I was wondering… Is this place real? Could someone traveling through the woods come across this mansion?” You asked.

“No. I am the only one who can allow people to be here. Coming here in your world is possible, but only through me. If someone happened to stumble into my domain, I would have the ability to permit them to see the mansion.”

“I see. But I can travel here whenever I please just by thinking about it?” You said, hoping to learn more about your situation.

“Correct. And you also have the ability to leave at your will.” After a moment’s pause, he continued. “I must ask, my dear, why in particular did you choose to travel here tonight?”

You sighed before beginning. “I’m on break from my classes for a few weeks, and being back home with family has been… a dramatic change from what I’m used to. I love my family, of course,” you countered quickly, “it’s just that I thought I could use some peace and quiet.”

“And you chose to retreat here. To my home,” Slenderman replied, and you could hear how pleased he was at this. You hated it when your words gave him that sick sense of gratification.

Gritting your teeth, you opened your mouth to reestablish your sense of pride. “I’ll admit, part of it was to test if I could truly come here through my thoughts, but, yes. I did choose your home,” you admitted, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of your decision, but it was probably futile to lie to him. A part of you thought about transporting back home, just to test yourself. You decided to stay for a bit longer instead, hoping to get more answers.

“I’m so glad you did,” Slenderman replied, his voice sending shivers down your spine. “You’re always welcome to spend the night. I have set aside a bedroom for you whenever you need to stay. I could show it to you if you’d like.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. He was trying to lure you in. You wouldn’t allow yourself to be trapped. “That’s alright. I don’t need to spend the night here,” you countered, feigning politeness as best as you possibly could. “I’ll need to be returning soon-“

As you spoke, you heard something that seemed to be coming from the back of your head. You froze, recognizing the sound. The static that sometimes appeared in your head was all too familiar, and you remembered the time it made you pass out. Slenderman’s eyeless gaze hadn’t left your face, and the longer you looked at him, the stronger the static became. You started to panic, realizing you needed to get out before you fell unconscious here. Away from home. At his mercy.

You stood up from your chair hastily, the chair leg dragging against the wooden floor. “This was nice-I have to go now,” you blurted, walking as quickly as possible to the entrance. Concentrating your thoughts, you thought about your home as hard as you could as the static rose in volume. Out of the corner of your vision, your eyesight began to blur, and your heart continued to pound.

Suddenly, it stopped and you found yourself in your bed back home. With a soft cry of relief, you sank down into your sheets and wiped away the small trickle of blood that had begun to fall from your nose. Staring at the smear of blood on your hand, you shut your eyes and concentrated on the feeling of your head being clear once again. Strangely, things felt almost too quiet now without the faint static. - Slenderman watched you stumble out of the dining room, his gaze focused on your frightened form. Suppressing a growl of frustration, the being formed a fist with his large white hand. He had to remember you were easily spooked in the future.

Leaning back, he then realized that your desperation to flee did not bother him as much as it usually would have. You chose to come to the mansion. You chose to come to him in your time of need. It would only be a matter of time before you returned. He couldn’t help but imagine desperation painted on your face as you begged for his assistance with something. The thought alone nearly drew a rumbling purr from his throat.

He allowed you to scamper off this time. Giving you a sense of power and freedom was all a part of his plan. Once you became brave enough to try and ignore him or act out against him, he would reclaim his power over you as quickly as you could imagine.

Still, you had managed to fight his static more potently than he expected. You were growing stronger, as most people would have collapsed from the amount of static you endured. He so desperately hoped you would have been tired enough to stay here in the mansion tonight, but the mere mention of it sparked fear into your heart.

No matter. He had time. He had all the time in the world you convince you of just how much you needed him.

[t4tozier]

I think the (in the beginning) few times Jace spends the night he learns Porter is 1) kind of a cuddly sleeper and 2) very heavy

No I don’t know how he takes this information I just think he should be squished by a bear

I AGREE. jace usually hates cuddling. it feels too restrictive and like what if he needs to piss during the night?? he’ll use a misty step if he has to but he’d rather not waste a spell slot and also then he just falls on his back and that’s no fun either. but with porter he’s like wait. i’m thinking.

like after they fuck porter kinda passes out as pulls jace to him. but he lowkey sleeps in the slut position. like one leg up ass popped out. and when jace is there that leg goes over jace’s waist instead. so jace is like firmly pressed against porter’s tits locked in with his leg and. he doesn’t actually hate it. it’s better in the morning when he’s ready to wake up because it’s the perfect position for him to grind against porter’s bulge but when he’s trying to sleep it’s almost distracting.

@delinquentbookworm said it first but if jace is feeling understimulated it reaaaally works for him. he hates feeling restrained but he loves feeling cozy. and porter laying on top of him feels cozy to him. so sometimes he’ll sleepily tug porter to be more on top of him than just his leg so he can go to sleep with a warm weighted blanket on him and porter wakes up with jace’s face pressed into his tits. he has no idea how jace breathes but he seems to love it.

[theresawritesstuff]

Maisel: An 18 year old Esther announces at Yom Kippur that she’s changing her last name to Weissman-Bruce. Chaos ensues.

So, little personal author fun fact... While my situation was different from Esther's growing up, I very likely would have taken my step father's family name had I not gotten married right out of high school. So stepfather/daughter stuff like this is definitely has a place in my heart.

Love the prompt! Enjoy the chaos ❤️

Yom Kippur 1976

"I changed my name."

The table fell silent for quite possibly the first time in family history. Certainly the first she could remember.

"What?" her mother asked finally, swallowing down her bite of food.

"I changed my last name. I'm not Esther Maisel anymore," she repeated.

More stunned silence followed.

"When?" Mama wondered.

"Just before fall registration. I had been thinking about doing it for a while and it seemed like as good a time as any. Save the hassle of changing it later with school records, signing up for classes, eventual diplomas…"

Papa Abe nodded sagely to himself at her logic. "I do not miss the clerical errors of academia. The number of spelling mistakes I caught at Columbia…"

Pop finally got over his shock enough to speak. Unfortunately.

"What do you mean you changed your name? You're a Maisel."

"Not legally anymore," Esther countered into her wine glass. "At least not according to a lot of paperwork I had to file."

"Don't get smart with me, young lady. This is serious," Pop warned.

"Too late," Chiam muttered under his breath, prompting his mother to choke back a barely stifled laugh.

"What'd she say?" Grandpa Moishe adjusted his hearing aid.

"Esther changed her name," Ethan replied casually, returning to his chicken.

He was the only one who wasn't surprised. 

Because he was the only one who already knew.

Grandpa Moishe nodded, satisfied with the answer. "Oh. Good for you, pumpkin."

"I always thought the matching sibling initials was a weird trend," Grandma Shirley chimed.

"So what are we calling you now? Deborah?" Grandpa asked.

Esther groaned. "God no, there's so many Debbies on campus already."

"Are you one of those transexuals, honey? Because we'll still love you no matter what," Grandma Shirley promised.

Ethan nearly spit his drink across the table, earning a pat on the back from Kitty beside him.

"Just as long as you don't go parading around in an ill fitting suit," Grandpa amended.

"Nope. Still Esther Grandma. Not that kind of name change," she replied.

"How do you two know what a transexual is?" Ethan wondered, fighting back a laugh.

Grandma Shirley's eyes lit up at the chance to tell the tale. "We saw that movie! The one with all the singing and the thrusting. It was very sparkly. I think there were aliens at one point?"

"I don't know. I fell asleep around when Meatloaf showed up," Grandpa admitted, unimpressed.

"We thought we were going to see that new boxing movie."

"It was not about boxing."

"The songs were catchy though!"

"Very catchy."

Susie barely concealed her amusement as she looked pointedly across the table at Mama.

"That's so going in your act," she muttered knowingly.

Mama gave her friend a look. It was true, but not the time.

"You can't just change your last name," Pop insisted indignantly.

Her stepfather scoffed. "Why not? I did."

"Stay out of this, Lenny," Pop barked.

"We're in my house," Lenny reminded him.

"And she's my kid," Pop spat back.

Lenny tossed down his napkin and started to stand, the limits of his patience finally reached.

"Oh shit," Uncle Noah breathed, preparing for a scuffle to break out and looking a bit too excited about it.

Mama put a hand on Lenny's arm in an attempt to keep the peace. "Joel–"

"I changed it to Weissman-Bruce," Esther blurted over the mounting chaos, bringing the table to another uncharacteristic standstill.

"What?" Pop looked like he might have an aneurism.

"Really?"

Esther turned at the awe in her stepfather's voice.

"Yes."

Lenny swallowed, his eyes getting misty as Mama squeezed his hand, looking between the two equally touched.

Oh shit. Of all the people she expected to cry during the course of this conversation, her money had not been on Lenny. 

Herself, maybe. 

Grandma Shirley had been the front runner. But Lenny…

"Cool. Welcome to Team Hyphen," her little sister Lilah quipped, looking up from her book.

Esther couldn't help the breathless laugh that escaped her. "Thanks Birdie," she whispered.

"We'll teach you the secret handshake later," Ari offered, earning himself a light smack on the back of the head from Mei.

He gave Esther a wink across the table all the same, the lovable little mensch.

She smiled and gave him a nod in agreement.

It would have been so easy to resent her half sibling, to blame him for the way her relationship with their father had disintegrated over the years, for taking him away from her and Ethan. 

But she was smarter than that. She'd learned pretty quickly that the kids aren't the ones responsible for their parents' choices. 

And frankly she'd take her little brother over Pop just about any day of the week these days.

"You traded my name for his?" Pop growled, gesturing derisively to Lenny.

Mei turned to glare at him. "Joel–"

But Lenny wasn't the only one done with putting up with Joel Maisel for the evening.

"For fucks sake Pop, not everything is about you!" she cried.

"Language, young lady," Grandma Shirley gasped.

She barely registered the rebuke, venting, "It's not like I'm the only one left to carry on the family name for the next generation or some bullshit. You've got two sons. That's their job!"

Ethan looked up mid-bite. "It is?"

"That and dispatching really big bugs," Kitty confirmed in mock sympathy.

"Esther!" Grandma Rose reprimanded.

She rolled her eyes. "Grandma please. I was raised by two of the most foul mouthed entertainers in the country and had Susie as one of my primary babysitters. That is not the worst thing that has been said by a member of this family by a longshot."

"Why am I getting dragged into this?" Susie wondered through a bite of kugel.

Ari looked up. "Wait, what's our job?"

"Procreation and extermination, apparently," Ethan chuckled.

"College first," Mei reminded him in a veiled warning.

"What brought this about?" Mama wondered gently.

Esther exhaled a sigh. "I just…I'm going to be a scientist someday. And Mama, as much as I respect the work you've done to build your career, I can't walk into every classroom, interview, and workplace and hear 'oh hey just like the foxy comedienne who tells all those dick jokes! Say, you kind of look like her too'. I just can't. It's already hard enough getting anyone to take me seriously. I have always been a Weissman anyway. Papa Abe has said so since before I could read. It will make things easier and it just…felt right. So I did it. I didn't know how to tell you before."

"It's okay sweetie," her mother reassured her, taking her hand.

"So why tack Bruce on the end? People know his name too, you know. Why not just leave it at Weissman?" Pop demanded.

Her mother glared at him.

"You wanna know why?" Esther laughed mirthlessly. "Because he's earned it. I've earned it. Lenny has been more of a father to me in the past 14 years than you ever have been."

"What are you talking about? I've been there for you!"

"You've been in Chicago on and off for almost my entire childhood!"

She shook her head, so fed up she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry.

"And you know what? I get it. You felt like you had to follow Mei when she got her residency because of true love or whatever and yeah Mei is amazing. I get you not wanting to give up on that. And then Ari came along and that made things complicated. I get that part now.  But as a little kid all I knew then was that Daddy left. Again."

To his credit, Pop did look genuinely pained by her reply. "I split my time as best I could..."

"For a while, yeah," she admitted. "But it only took a few years before it felt like you stopped trying. Even when you were here it never felt like you cared. You'd check in with Ethan but sometimes I wondered if you even remembered I was there. And don't say you didn't know how to talk to me because you never even tried. Meanwhile, Lenny…" 

She blinked back tears thinking about all this so openly. "God, even when he was going through hell fighting for his career, dodging obscenity convictions by the skin of his teeth, staying sober when it would have been so much easier to fall off the wagon, he always was there for us when we needed him. He always cared. Always. And he never once stopped trying to do right by our family. He's the one who actually taught me how to ride a bike instead of just saying 'here watch your brother do it'. He's the one who helped me with my debate homework when the thought of public speaking made me want to hurl and let me talk his ear off about music and dumb science fiction novels and what Karen said in home economics and didn't laugh when I had to wear headgear for six months. I had braces by the way. But you wouldn't know that because you ran off to Chicago and left us."

"Esther…"

"I visited. I called. I'm here now. I–"

"So that just makes it all okay? I'm supposed to feel grateful? Honored to share your name because you decided to waltz back to New York now that Ethan's back stateside?"

She shook her head, getting up from the table.

"I'm still your father."

"No. No you're not."

"Esther."

"I need some air."

"Esther!"

"Joel." Mei put a hand on his arm. "Let her go."

It was Susie who eventually broke the silence, reaching for another piece of challah.

"You guys always did know how to throw one hell of a break fast."

The fall air was a welcome reprieve from inside as she collected herself on the fire escape. 

"Room out here for one more?"

She smiled slightly as Lenny came to sit beside her on the cool metal.

They let the sounds of the city fill the silence between them, Esther eventually letting herself slump against his shoulder.

"I didn't mean to tell everyone like that. It just…" 

"It's okay, sweetie," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her.

She nodded, sniffling as she wiped at her face with the back of her hand. "I don't care what he thinks. As far as I'm concerned he lost his fathering privileges a long time ago."

"You're an adult now. You get to decide what your relationship with him looks like."

She nodded again. Somehow it didn't make her feel better.

"What you said back there…"

"I know you haven't always been perfect but at least you've always tried. You did the work. You never stopped trying to be there for us. And you've owned up to your mistakes. I don't think he's ever done that."

She swallowed, looking up at him shyly.

"Is…is it too late to ask if I can call you Dad?"

Lenny smiled softly, hugging her tighter. "You can call me whatever you want. But Dad would be pretty fucking great."

"I've wanted to for a long time," she admitted. "I did once. Not to you, just to myself for a little while. Trying it out in my head back when you and Mama first got married. I slipped up and called you dad when I was talking to him over about… I don't know, some plans we had for the weekend or whatever. He took it about like he did back there on a smaller scale. I still wanted to call you Dad but I was little and wasn't brave enough to stand up to him. I was afraid I'd slip up and set him off. I guess I grew out of that."

"You and your mother sure know how to throw down a tirade when someone pushes you hard enough, I'll give you that," he chuckled. "But I'm proud of you for standing your ground. I mean it."

"He just makes me so mad sometimes. The way he just pretends everything is fine and normal no matter how long it's been."

"Oh I get it." Lenny shook his head. "We've had a tenuous truce over the years for the sake of you kids but…"

He let out a sigh through his nose.

"For what it's worth, I've always considered you and your brother my kids, no matter what you called me. Just as much as Kitty and Lilah."

"I know."

"You gonna be okay?"

Esther nodded. "Yeah."

He leaned over to kiss her hair before getting to his feet. "Love you."

He paused at the window before climbing in.

"I'm not saying you have to forgive him or let him in your life in any capacity you don't want to…But try not to stay too mad at him forever. It's not good for your health."

She heaved a tired sigh, knowing he was right.

"Maybe just a little longer?"

Lenny chuckled. "Okay. You've earned it."

"Hey...Will you let me know when he's gone so I can have some honey cake?"

Lenny nodded. "I'll send someone out with a big slice in a few minutes. That way you don't have to fight Susie for the last bit."

She smiled genuinely at that.

"Thanks Dad."

Lenny nodded, looking a little watery again at hearing her say it. 

Finally.

"No problem kiddo."

[flowerpottlady]

Misty

Day 11 of July’s @jilymicrofics! This will go up on ao3 once this attack ends :(, but enjoy this sweet moment now!

Jily + Harry featuring very light blackinnon (because yes, I am above the age of 30 and I fell for that way too hard 15 years ago, and I will forever try to incorporate just a little bit of it into my stories ❤️)

And just to throw this out there, while it may be annoying that we can’t access ao3, this site is run by volunteers- for free. Show them our love.

***

“Pads?” Marlene popped her head into the living room, her frizzy blonde hair more wild than he had ever seen - tied back into a lazy bun, portraying how exhausted she truly was. “Do you wanna come in now?”

It had been more than an hour since the screaming had ended, replaced by a squeaking wail and a hushed awe throughout Godric’s Hollow. It was past midnight now, the first of August, and his best friends were now parents.

“Yeah… uh yup.” He stood up, and smiled weakly at Marlene, “is it… like all cleaned up and everything now?”

Marlene laughed then, her blue eyes twinkling and more full of life than he had ever seen. “Yeah… it’s safe for boys.”

He wiped his palms off on his jeans, nervously shoving his hands in his pockets.

She moved closer, her hand on his shoulder. “As scared as you are right now,” she began, “they are worlds more scared. We have to be there for them.”

His eyes softened then, unable to even fathom becoming a parent at twenty years old, “I know… of course I know that Mar.”

Marlene smiled, huge and radiant, “wait till you see him.”

Sirius took her hand, charging the way back up stairs and towards where he knew James and Lily’s room to be. He knocked twice, until James' weak voice welcomed him in.

The sight shocked him, Lily planted in the middle of her bed, propped up by pillows - looking as white as ever, her hair pulled back in a loose twist, pulled over her shoulder. She was wearing James’s sweater, the same one she had pulled from his trunk in October of seventh year, and has yet to return. Despite how worn out she seemed, the softest smile was spread across her face, a glow that Sirius had never seen upon another person. Her eyes were trained upon James, sitting on the edge of the bed - and a lump grew in Sirius’s throat as he took in the bundle of blankets in his best friend’s arms.

“Sirius… hey,” Lily said, looking up at him, as Marlene rushed back to her side - picking up a glass of water and holding it to her lips.

“Mama dear,” Sirius laughed nearly in disbelief, “how’re you feeling?”

“Better now,” she spoke softly, turning her head back to the bundle in James arms.

Sirius nodded his attention being drawn back to James too, “Prongs… mate.”

James stood up then, carefully cradling his new baby in his arms and walking towards Sirius, tears flowing freely down his face. “Padfoot… this is Harry.”

Sirius stepped closer, peering into the blankets, being greeted with a mess of black hair - a little red face, eyes blinking slowly, his nose small as a button, and his mouth scrunched close. “Merlin, James… he looks just like you.”

“Here sit, hold him,” James said, motioning towards the bed, and Sirius sat delicately on the edge - staring at Lily as if asking for permission to hold her son. She nodded at him, sitting up just a little bit more, and winced in discomfort.

“Hold your arms out…” Marlene came around the bed, “here just like that.” And James was practically shaking with tears as he placed his son into Sirius’ arms.

“Make sure you hold his head… there…”

The lump was back in his throat, misty eyes staring at the infant that two of his best friends had created. He was just so… small. Up until that moment Sirius didn’t even know that a human being could be this small.

“Merlin’s balls…” Sirius said, simply because he was speechless with awe, and he didn’t know what else to say. “I can’t believe you two… you made a fucking kid.”

James could only laugh, sitting beside Lily, leaning against the headboard - his arm around her shoulders. “We made a fucking kid.” He whispered, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself.

“You’ll be his godparents right?” Lily asked suddenly, looking up at Marlene, and then back at Sirius.

Marlene beamed, taking Lily’s head in her hands, and pressing her forehead against her temple. “Of course Lily,” she whispered, and Lily was crying once more.

James looked to Sirius then, “Pads? Will you be his godfather?”

“Definitely…” Sirius said with so much surety. Lily’s hand was over her mouth, her chest heaving with her sobbing. “I’ll do whatever it takes Lily. To protect him.”

Lily leaned over - as much as she could in her weakened state - and placed her arm against his hand. “Thank you, Padfoot.”

Harry peered up at him, his green eyes wide as he took in the new face before him. “He has your eyes Lils,” Sirius said “Merlin I can’t believe he just came out of you.”

Lily laughed then, only to wince in pain, “don’t make me laugh right now, it hurts too much.”

Sirius couldn’t help laughing back - unable to take his eyes off of the newborn. “We’ll have loads of time for that later, won’t we mate?”