#task II

[ashla-lavista]

No, I'm not a player, I'm a puppeteer

task reward: o despertar dos poderes

tw: violência domestica, assedio, ptsd e vários pensamentos ruins.

Tentou ser discreta caminhando rapidamente para que ninguém percebesse que ela estava fugindo no meio de um casamento. Ela não era a noiva correndo com as saias brancas esvoaçantes, era apenas uma mulher fugindo dos fantasmas do seu passado. Já tinha sido uma noiva antes e podia afirmar com toda certeza que não foi uma boa experiência.

Entrou em um dos quartos reservados para os noivos se arrumarem. Não era muito grande, mas tinha uma porta que a permitia fechá-la e assim estaria segura.

Aquele templo era muito mais chique do que o lugar onde foi realizado o seu casamento sete anos atrás. Não se lembrava dos detalhes, pois seu cérebro fez questão de apagar a maioria das lembranças daquele dia miserável. Se lembrava de querer fugir, de odiar tudo e a todos, de querer chorar em posição fetal e pedindo à deusa para alguém salvá-la. 

Ninguém a salvou. E isso resultou em mais memórias horríveis que seu cérebro não apagou.

Sentou na cadeira em frente à uma penteadeira que estava incrivelmente arrumada, havendo apenas uma xícara e um bule de chá usados, esquecidos enquanto o noivo ou noiva saiam correndo para aproveitar a festa glamurosa. A xícara até mesmo tinha um pouco do chá, mas foi abandonada depois de ser usada. Não era sempre assim?

Seu braço ardeu. Sempre ardia como uma lembrança constante de um episódio difícil de sua vida. Não ardia porque houve uma ferida aberta ou algum osso lesionado, não, aquela dor era puramente psicológica, desencadeadas por xícaras de porcelana. 

Algo estranho para ser um gatilho, no entanto Ashla começou a ter essas reaç��es à xícaras de porcelanas depois que seu marido enfiou um estilhaço do objeto em seu braço, logo abaixo da axila. 

Nada justifica uma agressão daquelas, principalmente quando o motivo era tão bobo quanto uma bandeja derrubada, que fez a xícara quebrar e espalhar o chá quente pelo chão. Era parte de um conjunto de chá que foi passado de geração em geração na família Armstrong e ela teve a audácia de quebrar uma dessas peças inestimáveis. 

Seu pai falaria que a pena foi leve para o nível do crime, mas ninguém ficou sabendo desse evento. E nem dos outros que ocorreram. Apenas os funcionários da casa, mas esses faziam vista grossa por medo e respeito ao patrão.

Foi tirada de seus devaneios com a porta abrindo. Por um segundo se perguntou como isso tinha acontecido se tinha certeza que havia trancado com a chave, mas quando ergueu os olhos e viu quem estava parado à porta percebeu que isso não importava mais.

Eles a tinham encontrado.

Seus fantasmas do passado, que marcaram presença no casamento.

O segundo filho do Coronel Armstrong.

Conseguiu se esconder de Thane, o primogênito com a ajuda de Sylas, mas ali estava o seu segundo maior pesadelo..

Ainda lembrava quando conheceu aquele enteado em especial. Lorcan era quase quinze anos mais velho que Ashla, e assim que colocou seus olhos na mulher havia um lampejo de crueldade que a fez pedir à deusa que nunca ficasse sozinha em sua presença. Ele era uma daquelas pessoas que toda mulher tinha medo, ainda mais quando notavam o modo como seus olhos passavam por seus corpos, de forma lenta e lasciva, assim como fez com Ash.

Um segundo depois só havia desinteresse da sua parte, a tratando como uma servente, um nada. Afinal, logo ela não estaria mais naquela casa, se o histórico do pai dizia alguma coisa. 

Mas naquele momento, num quarto relativamente pequeno dentro do templo, havia apenas raiva em seu olhar.

Ashla achava que pagaria por seus crimes, mas por algum motivo achava que acertaria as contas quando morresse, quando enfrentasse o julgamento de Erianhood. Quase odiou que encontraria seu fim nas mãos de Lorcan. Parecia errado, patético e agonizante pois tinha certeza que ele a mataria do pior jeito possível. Pois além de raiva, tinha um desejo de vingança em seu olhar.

— Então foi aqui que você se escondeu? - disse ele, abrindo um sorriso cheio de dentes, como se quisesse mostrar as presas perigosas que não tinha — Você achou mesmo que conseguiria fugir de mim a noite toda? Mesmo com aquele pirralho como cão de guarda? Ele pode ter enganado Thane, mas não a mim.

Sylas cumpriu o que prometeu e ajudou a protegê-la, mas eles não sabiam que havia outro filho do Coronel na festa.

— Não vai falar nada? — falava enquanto entrava e fechava a porta atrás de si. O som da tranca ecoou nos ouvidos de Ashla como o sinal do fim dos tempos. 

— Não acho que nada que eu possa falar vá te impedir, não é? —  tentou segurar a língua, mas odiava demais aquele imbecil que se achava homem.

—  Não vai fazer nada, não é? Igual o que fez com meu pai. —  mostrou os dentes de novo, mas era tão patético que quase fez Ashla relaxar. Quase. Se perguntou se tinha ouvido direito ou Lorcan foi tão enganado como os outros. —  Você vai ficar com essa cara de confusa? Eu sei o que você fez!

—  O que eu fiz? —  perguntou com cautela. Era melhor perguntar do que se entregar imediatamente e piorar a situação.

—  O que você fez? Você não fez nada para salvar meu pai! O deixou morrer por aquela doença! Você poderia ter curado aquela pobre alma, mas não, você simplesmente o deixou definhar por meses. 

—  Perdão?

Não conseguiu segurar a pergunta, estava tão confusa. Se preparou para uma acusação de assassinato e não de negligência. Bom, pelo menos isso significava que era muito boa no manejo de venenos para ninguém desconfiar que a doença misteriosa de seu marido era na verdade causada por ela. 

Ashla queria dar risada. Uma gargalhada tão grande que provavelmente os convidados ouviriam mesmo com todo o barulho que estava no templo. Ela queria gritar, chamá-lo de todos os xingamentos possíveis sem se importar com as consequências.

Mas não fez nada disso.

Tinha que se segurar, engolir todas as verdades que queria jogar na cara daqueles idiotas, crias de um dos homens que mais machucou Ashla. Em vez disso, enfiou as unhas na própria mão. 

Era pequena quando desenvolveu aquele hábito, de se machucar para não machucar os outros, para não explodir e devastar tudo ao redor. A mãe brincava, quando Ashla era pequena, que ela tinha vindo com garras de tão afiadas eram suas unhas. Não era uma brincadeira que a agradava, pelo contrário, trouxe muitas inseguranças e a obrigou a ter um cuidado extremo com suas unhas, sempre às mantendo aparadas. Mesmo assim, ocasionalmente acabava se cortando, manchando de sangue suas mangas e vestes que usava na enfermaria.

—  Vai negar? Sua vadiazinha! Você é imprestável, nem deveria estar lecionando no Instituto, espera só, vou eu falar com os responsáveis e você será demitida em dois segundos.

A raiva aumentou com aquela ameaça descabida, afinal como ele ousava destruir uma das únicas coisas boas que aconteceu na vida dela? 

Sentiu sua mão machucada formigar. Seu coração disparou como se ela tivesse sido atingida por vários raios de uma vez. Porém a respiração estava calma, como se o coração e o pulmão não estivessem em sincronia. E então explodiu. 

Em um acesso de raiva, pegou a mesma xícara que foi um gatilho para memórias dolorosas e a jogou, não apenas para acertar Lorcan, mas também para aliviar aquele sentimento em seu corpo.

Mas não foi apenas a porcelana que atravessou o pequeno quarto, atingindo a parede atrás da cabeça do homem; mas também as lâminas mais estranhas que Ashla já viu. Eram três no total, vermelhas quase bordô, fincadas na parede enquanto os pedaços da xícara caíram no chão. Uma gota de sangue escorria da orelha esquerda de Lorcan, onde uma das lâminas o acertou. 

Ashla olhou para as próprias mãos e viu que não havia nenhum sangue restante do machucado feito pelas unhas. Juntou os pontos e percebeu que as lâminas que apareceram quase como mágica eram na verdade sangue. 

Que ela controlou para virarem armas. 

Testou com aquela gota que caia da orelha de Lorcan e ela veio direto para sua mão, ainda no estado líquido, diferente das lâminas. 

Ashla começou a rir. 

— Você que fez isso? —  perguntou Lorcan, mostrando que seu cérebro servia para alguma coisa. —  Você é uma aberração como os outros. 

—  Sim, eu sou. Finalmente.

Hemocinese: habilidade em manipular sangue de si mesmo ou dos outros, interna ou externamente. Pode criar hematomas, ferimentos, acelerar ou diminuir frequência cardíaca, como também controlar fora do corpo, podendo mudar o estado do sangue ( líquido para sólido, por exemplo). Quando bem treinado, é capaz de manipular as funções motoras da vítima, transformando em fantoches sem poder de escolha.  Inspirações: Marie (gen v), os sangradores (Grishaverse) e Dobradores de Sangue (ATLA).

[helsonfire]

task ii. missões

A verdade é que Helena sempre evitou pensar em sua primeira missão. Ainda que conseguisse controlar minimamente sobre o que fazer e com quem falar, era muito mais difícil controlar seus pensamentos e, especialmente, os sonhos que constantemente a faziam lembrar do que acontece quando se perde o controle.

Estava especialmente inquieta olhando para a folha em branco. Tentava se concentrar no barulho das ondas, mas nada parecia o suficiente para fazê-la escrever qualquer coisa: quase como se as palavras que seriam colocadas no papel fossem proibidas. Talvez porque para a filha de Hefesto elas realmente fossem.

(tw. menção de morte, fogo)

Tinha grandes expectativas quanto a minha primeira missão. Estava certa que depois dos primeiros anos isolada e um treinamento intensivo aquele seria o momento de realmente me sentir como parte ativa do acampamento e de provar que meus poderes podiam ser úteis fora das forjas, também seria uma formar de honrar meu pai, depois de anos de raiva em relação a ele. Hesitação não seria a melhor palavra, mas com certeza fez parte do momento em que sai junto com a equipe, mas a confiança foi aumentando a cada noite sem acidentes. Estava certa de que conseguiríamos conseguir cumprir a missão com êxito e que eu também cumpriria minha missão pessoal. Até a última noite. Yas e eu repassamos o plano várias vezes, eu tinha certeza de que depois daquela missão ela negaria qualquer outra comigo envolvida. Nessa altura, percebia que a confiança anterior era só uma ilusão para mascarar o medo constante. A ansiedade e o medo se tornaram intensos quando ouvimos os sons de monstros, na saída. Mas nada se comparou ao desespero que senti quando vi a Quimera. Me vi como uma criança apavorada com medo do monstro no armário, incapaz de se aproximar pra ver se ele era mesmo real.

O medo parecia tomar conta de mim, era como se alguém me dissesse de que aquele não era meu lugar. Era difícil saber o que exatamente trouxe as chamas, se eu e meus pensamentos ou a Quimera, mas a verdade é que quando elas nos rodearam o medo pareceu se transformar em urgência e depois em prazer, nunca tinha me sentido tão poderosa até aquele momento. Parecia que aquele era a minha última chance de acabar com aquilo, com todas as lembranças e imagens que me perturbavam desde pequena. Mas quando abri os olhos de novo a Quimera não estava mais ali, só Yas, o corpo do outro semideus e as cinzas. Nada mais. A missão foi considerada satisfatória, mas eu e Yas sabemos bem que não teve êxito nenhum. Tenho vergonha de ter me sentido forte em um momento como aquele e pelo resultado que isso teve, me odeio por isso, odeio precisar de um dispositivo para controlar minimamente. Foi apenas um lembrete de que o medo pode ser uma maldição, mas que nesse caso a confiança pode ser muito mais perigosa.

Soltou o ar com pressa, sem ter notado que o segurava a longos segundos. Mordeu os lábios com força, sentindo a pele delicada reclamar, mas lidar com aquela dor era melhor do que deixar que as lágrimas escorressem de seus olhos naquele momento. Ao reler as últimas palavras, a folha em suas mãos se dissiparam em cinzas rapidamente como a urgência que sentia de se livrar daquela sensação. Tentava lembrar das palavras de apoio que recebia, em especial dos irmãos. Ao olhar para os lados as folhas mais próximas de si também estavam chamuscadas, mas a tensão dos músculos começava a diminuir, conseguindo retomar a respiração aos poucos, mas precisaria de tempo para retornar as atividades.

[khioneee]

simon is one of the girls (sort of)

boyfriend!simon was always invited to girls’ night—not out of obligation, but because everyone genuinely wanted him there. he fit into the group effortlessly, his quiet, protective presence becoming a staple at every gathering. whether it was lounging around in pajamas with face masks on or heading out for a wild night at the club, boyfriend!simon was part of the plan.

if it was girls’ night, boyfriend!simon was there. need someone to open a bottle of wine? he had it uncorked in seconds. carrying heavy bags for a night in? already done. if the group was heading to the club, simon was always the first to volunteer to drive everyone home safely at the end of the night.

boyfriend!simon never overstepped, but he wasn’t a silent bystander, either. when conversations got lively, he’d chime in with the perfect sarcastic remark or sly observation, earning a mix of giggles and mock glares. and when a topic turned to relationship drama, he always gave it to you and your friends straight.

“dump the bloke,” he’d say bluntly, not even looking up from his drink. “if i hear his name one more time, i’m blocking his number myself.”

your friends always groaned, but soon enough, they started messaging him directly for advice.

out on the town, boyfriend!simon was the designated protector. no one had to ask—he was always at the edge of the group, watching for anything suspicious. he made sure no one lingered too close, and if someone tried to chat up one of your friends unwantedly, simon’s presence alone was enough to send them packing. if they didn’t get the hint, simon would step forward, voice low and deadly calm: “you’ve got somewhere else to be, mate.” that always did the trick.

despite his intimidating size, boyfriend!simon never felt out of place during your quiet nights in. he sat comfortably among blankets and pillows, scrolling on his phone as face masks dried and reality tv droned in the background. your friends teased him mercilessly about it, but he didn’t mind.

“you’re basically one of us now, si,” one of them joked once.

he gave a small shrug, not looking up. “just don’t expect me to paint my bloody nails, yeah?”

with boyfriend!simon around, you and your friends could relax fully, knowing he’d take care of everything—from heavy bags to creeps at the bar. he wasn’t just there for you—he was there for everyone you cared about, making sure nothing went wrong on his watch.

one night, after everyone had left and it was just the two of you, you leaned into him, curious. “why are you so sweet to my friends?”

boyfriend!simon didn’t miss a beat, brushing a strand of hair from your face as he answered softly, “because they mean a lot to you—and you mean everything to me.”

an. i desperately need a man like him.

[temeyes]

'eepy lieutenant

[capybarawithafishtail]

Feast your eyes, I have made Gaz as promised.

[uglygirltrying]

wolf-hybrid!simon x bunny-hybrid!reader | PT3 | pt2 | pt1 |

apparently simon wasn't the only one who loved your scent.

other males had been trespassing on his territory, coming dangerously close to his den. to you.

simon tried to make his scent more pronounced. to keep them away. to keep his bunny safe.

fortunately, so far, no one had been brave enough, to deliberately come after you. and simon thought that nobody would be.

until that day.

simon had left for water that evening. he wouldn't have been gone for long. it was always risky to leave you alone, without his protection. but simon promised to be quick.

unfortunately, that was enough time for him.

you shouldn't have been so naïve. so stupid. you should've stayed vigilant. but you were just cleaning the den. you didn't feel threatened. you felt safe.

heavy thumps on top of the den. that's what you heard first. you looked up, a little bit of dirt fell down from the den ceiling, and dropped on your head. it must be simon. it has to be. right?

but then. there was slow struggling at the den's entrance. you couldn't see it, it was behind a curve. but you could hear it. simon didn't have to struggle to get inside. it was his den after all, it was just big enough, to let him inside.

maybe he was just struggling with the water. yeah. it's simon, you tried to reassure yourself.

"s-simon...?" your voice was meek, scared, unsure. you've stopped messing with the nest, now only focused on the noises coming from the den's entrance.

the obvious struggles at the entrance stopped.

why? simon would give you an answer, wouldn't he?

the weather was beautiful. there was only few clouds covering the blue sky. the sun glared down, hot and bright. it made the snowbanks sparkle beautifully.

the hot light made the snow melt away, uncovering calm, small rapid. the clear water ran over the rocks underneath it's surface. only more and more snow kept melting into the water, small droplets falling down from the melting ice, and snow.

simon knelt by the river. filling a carved, wooden bucket, with the cold, refreshing water.

he had to keep himself, and the bunny hydrated, after all.

the bucket filled pretty quickly, and simon was ready to head back to the den.

the snow crunched under his steps. simons hot breath came out as steam, as it hit the cold air. frost was starting to form on the tips of his hair.

the wolf's movements stilled, as smell hit his nose. a musk. another male.

simon dropped the water filled bucket, and began to run. you were alone. hopefully you were alone.

but he wasn't there to protect you. oh, god.

panic flared inside simon, his heart beating out of his chest.

the den was just a rocks throw away from the river. simon was quickly there. that didn't calm him down. somebody was kneeling at the den's entrance, trying to dig in. trying to get to his bunny.

simon panted heavily as he approached. the trespasser heard him coming. with a smirk on his face, the intruder turned around, to look at simon. simon's hands clenched into fists, his skin turning white.

he gritted his teeth. "mace." the wolfs voice resembled a growl.

here this bear was, trying to steal his bun. simon knew him, a territorial rival. and now he was attempting to take his fucking mate. his mate. his.

the black bear chuckled darkly, as he stood up.

"can smell her... you're hiding a sweet thing in there..."

"time for you to go, mace." simon grumbled.

mace grinned. "i'll leave you be, for now."

he walked down from the den's entrance, towards simon.

"might wanna keep her in there. never know when she's going to get snatched up."

mace's shoulder knocked against simon's, when he walked past him.

simon was fuming. his whole body moved, as he took heavy breaths.

the wolf listened, until the sound of footsteps faded away, before rushing to the mouth of the den.

"bun? come here." he called out, into the tunnel.

he had to wait a moment, before he saw your head sticking out of the hole.

simon sighed. "come here..." he signaled for you to come closer with his hand. slowly, and hesitantly, you crawled to the entrance of the den, where he was waiting for you.

"you okay, bun?" simon mumbled, his hand gently holding your cheek. after a meek nod of your head, simon leaned in and kissed your forehead.

simon leaned away, and gently guided you back down into the den, following suite after you. once you were down in the nest, simon made sure to hold you tight against his chest.

"you know that I would never let anything happen to you. you know that, don't you, bunny?" the wolf murmured into your ear, his free hand slowly making it's way down your stomach.

"what can i do to calm you down, huh? you're still shaking." his hot breath hitting your ear. simon was being sneaky. before you even knew it, his calloused fingers, pinched your nub.

he chuckled at the squeal you let out. his fingers began to gently massage your little clit.

"i'll never let that happen again. okay?" his voice got more serious, and his touch harder. your legs kicked out at the increasing pressure on your sensitive clit.

his touch didn't relent. it only got more determined.

determined to distract you from the scary situation, you had to go through.

determined to make you feel good.

the feeling was foreign. his touch was so tough, just like him. but his words were so sweet. the pressure in your belly grew. your breathing got heavier. simon noticed. with a wicked smirk on his face, his movements got faster.

"give it to me. c'mon bunny... i know you want to." he so meanly teased.

it just suddenly hit you. your legs tensed up, and your breath hitched. luckily, simon decided to show you mercy. he helped you get down from your bliss, before pulling his hand from in between your sweet thighs. your juices coated his fingers. simon grinned at the sight.

the bunny was now completely limp in his arms, panting and exhausted. simon wiped his dirty fingers against the fur on your stomach. simon's hand grabbed your chin, turning your head to look at him.

"go to sleep, bunny..." he murmured quietly, laying you against his side. his arms rested around you, in a protective hold. he couldn't even imagine how scary it must've been for you, being trapped down here, with no way out, while somebody was trying to crawl inside.

but just as he promised, simon would never let it happen again.

authors note: that poor bucket, alone in the cold forest :(

heart divider by @roseschoices

taglist (honestly i'm pretty lost who's on it and who isn't😭):

@famouscattale @nappingmoon @tame-the-lion-writes @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @distinguishedprincesstrash @yourfavreggie @rorowingaboat @limeleag @sushiumex @aldis-nuts (won't find it sorry) @the-palelady

COMMENT TO GET ON THIS TAGLIST 😠

[xinnamonbun]

Stupid.

[callsignfawn]

18+ mdni. overstim. slapping.

another little price thought cause the last one did so well. he loves to have you sit in his lap so he can play with your pussy. you could be doing the most mundane thing in the world, lighting a candle on the coffee table in front of the leather couch he's sat on, a rugby game playing on the tv. "c'mere, love," he speaks, voice low and oddly quiet. price motions with his hand, spreading his thighs and patting one of his muscular thighs. and you know what's coming. as soon as you take your proper place between his legs, back to his chest, his calloused hands are rubbing up your inner thighs, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. his thumbs slip under your shorts, brushing the soft and sensitive skin right below your panties. just as your breathing starts to grow heavy, price pulls his hand away with a quiet tut, palms sliding up to your hips instead.

"lift up for me," he says, and you obey without question, lifting your hips. in a practiced motion, he slides both your shorts and panties down your legs, the garments sliding off of your ankles and onto the living room floor. with a quiet groan of satisfaction, price's hand comes to cup your mound, the other keeping a steady grasp on your waist to keep you in place. two thick fingers spread your already soaked lips, exploring your folds in slow motions.

"john-" you panted as his fingers teased your awaiting hole, before slipping up to press down against your clit. the action has you squealing out, body jolting in his lap.

"shhh, love," price soothes, though the smirk in his tone is evident as his fingers rub tight circles around that little bundle of nerves. his breath is warm against your ear, beard tickling your neck. it's just so damn easy to have you come apart beneath him. the rugby game is long forgotten as his gaze peeks over your shoulder, down at your cunt. "such a pretty pussy, sweetheart," price rasps, gathering your slick with two fingers. he's teasing your entrance again, millimeters from pushing his digits in. the hand around your waist moves, arm wrapping around your form instead as your chest heaves. "need me to fill 'er up, hm?"

"yes, yes, yes, please, john."

that's all it takes for him to plunge his fingers deep into your cunt, your back arching with a cry of pleasure. price's fingers work with the rhythm of an expert, thrusting in and out of you in a pace that has you seeing stars. toes curled, eyes rolling back, breathy pants and whines filling the air and droning out the announcer's voice on tv. it's a cacophony of pleasure. price has lost count of how many times he's made you cum, his fingers pruning from your wetness. the sight of you is beautiful, too fucked-out to do much but whine and squirm in his lap. it's too much, his fingers still bullying your cunt. the white-hot pleasure is overwhelming, and before you can stop yourself, your hands wrap around his wrist with an incessant squeal as you try to pull his hand away from your core.

price pulls his hand away with a grunt, fingers and palm covered in your slick. you think that's the end of it, relaxing in his hold to catch your breath. but, oh. no, no, no. he's far from being finished with you. price's hand connects with your pussy in a sharp slap that has you yelping, thighs shaking.

" 'm not done, love," he speaks, tone much darker than before. he gives your pussy another slap just for good measure. "keep your hands to yourself."

[mockerycrow]

The 141 boys having to physically hold back their much smaller but freakishly strong female teammate or S /O when someone is stupid enough to insult her and/or her boys

!!fem!reader!! — can interpreted as platonic or romantic

“Fuckin’ hell, hey—“ Price hisses as he stumbles, his arm wrapped around one of yours as Soap holds onto your other arm. They’re both in stances to hold you back yet despite your size, BOTH of them are struggling. Soap lets out a grunt as you struggle, nearly ripping yourself out of their grips. “Let go of me, lemme show that son of a bitch a piece of my mind—“

Gaz steps in front of your line of sight, holding his hands up as if he’s calming a wild animal. “Heyy, let’s just calm down, yeah? Their words aren’t worth anything, sweetheart.” You look at him desperately, your tone still filled with frustration and rage. “They have no right to say what they fucking said, Gaz! How could you let that slide?? And in front of the other recru—“

Your angry yelling is cut off with a familiar large, warm hand wrapping around the back of your neck and squeezing. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, the anger still stirring but no longer boiling over—you stop struggling. “Take a deep breath, love.” Ghost rumbles from behind, causing the hair on the nape of your neck to stand up against his gloved palm.

You obey, taking a deep breath. “Good, now breathe out slowly.” Price says lowly, his voice closer than normal—he must’ve stepped closer. “That’s it, lass. Good, another?” Soap utters, making you nod. You take another deep breath and as you do, you feel a hand—Gaz’s, as the hand is coming from in front of you—touch your cheek and then your forehead.

“There we go.” Ghost hums, letting go of your neck. You open your eyes and the other two let go of you, Gaz putting his hand on your shoulder. “Better?” Gaz asks softly, making you nod in response. “Better.” You confirm, causing Soap to chuckle. “Nearly ripped my arm off, bonnie. Keep that strength in check, why dont’cha?”

[girl-lostconnection]

Continuation to this post, that came down to me like a message from a god.

“Lieutenant, you have to let go”, the voice is muffled, all sounds are, like you are underwater. The blood pumping in your ears is so loud you aren’t sure if you can still hear properly.

You aren’t sure if the rapid ascend of extraction shuttle didn’t burst your eardrums.

“Lieutenant, look at me.”, the voice is closer and you can’t help but curl away, your whole body tensing, grip tightening.

Why are they speaking to you? Why- shouldn’t there be medic by now? Shouldn’t someone come out? What’s going on?

There is a stubborn nagging feeling in your chest — poking and prodding, fraying your nerves, sending twitch to your nervous hands.

Your wrists ache, tension coming through them to your fingers, every knuckle burning but the pain is dull.

You are just so cold. Why are you so cold?

It’s not supposed to be so cold on the ship, you just paid for an upgrade, just fixed the ventilation and heating, just —

Another Helldiver crouches in front of you, their eyes unusually soft — glimmering through the visor of their helmet. You don’t know them, they probably came through on the SOS beacon you deployed, just a little too late. The mission is done.

You are out.

But you are wet and cold, lighter armour that let’s you run faster, that lets you get to the exfil as soon as possible is now clinging to your body — wet and sticky in a way that makes your skin crawl.

God, do you hate sweating that comes with running like a mad fucking chick through the terrain that’s never on your side.

“Lieutenant”, the voice of commander — their rank shining like a fucking supernova — is practically gentle. Almost soft.

Unusually so. It grates down on your nerves. Helldivers aren’t soft. You aren’t made to be soft, it gets trained out of you. You can’t be if you want to survive.

“Lieutenant”, but they are soft and you want to scream at them, rage and despair coiling in your belly, your wrists ache, your fingers burn. “You need to unclench your fingers”.

Your mind is so blank, so painfully empty but you just grip harder, your knees joining in, boxing in your valuable cargo against your body, your vision blurring for some reason.

“…Why?”, is a broken quiet whisper, your voice hoarse in a way that makes commander carefully cover your hands with theirs.

Prying your fingers open.

“They are gone, lieutenant”, their voice is just as quiet as yours when they get your right hand uncurled.

Off the vest of your teammate.

The notion hits you like a dumbbell, your eyes sliding to them, your whole body instinctively tries to curl harder around the diver you managed to shove into Pelikan-1 before it got off the ground.

It’s impossible.

You got them inside, you got them out, you two got back, what do they mean?

You saved them, you brought them back, medic will just need to patch them up, why isn’t medic there, why is no one here?

You don’t realise you are shaking until commander physically pulls you off the ground, their gauntlets cold against the torn fabric of your armour.

You don’t notice. You aren’t sure you remember how to breathe.

There is a small persistent sound, that reverberates through your chest, that rises to your head and your mind is so blank and you are shaking.

Sound just gets louder — raw and wet, broken wail no human should be able to make, no human should be made to make.

You realise that it’s yours only when commander forces your head in their shoulder, muffling it effectively.

“You did your due, lieutenant. Democracy’s dignity is protected”, they murmur the script you both know too well.

Words echo through your skull as another wail rocks your body with a force enough to make your knees buckle.

Whats good is your due right now? What’s use of this protection if you couldn’t save the young diver that answered your SOS beacon and bought you time?

“You did good. We’ll be able to bury them. You did good, lieutenant, you didn’t leave them behind”, the voice above your head is thick with something you can’t place and hands around you just get tighter.

Uniform clings to your skin, your body still shaking, awful sticky feeling making your skin crawl.

You don’t realise why until you get back to your quarters, mirror making you lightheaded with panic, suddenly clicking that it’s not sweat.

It’s blood

Gaz looks over your ship with the same excitement young cadets usually have, his eyes shining when he turns to you.

“This sure is something. You keep your bird in prime condition, captain”

You hum, helmet in your head shining with metal detailing in fluorescent lights of your ship.

Prime is an understatement. You poured all resources and money you earned into this ship. You still do.

“I was just wondering…”, sergeant starts carefully with the wariness of someone who knows that it’s not up to him to wonder. Not when it comes to things so much higher his pay grade. But you nod, encouraging him to speak his mind and he continues. “You don’t have med bay around here. Seems like you could use one in your line of work.”

Gaz smiles, lips curling wider and god, he’s so young.

Young and brilliant, eyes so bright you can feel the phantom feel of the blood seeping through your uniform again.

“Had one. But command pulled the funding and pulled the stuff while we were deployed. Said that it’s not profitable use of resources”, your tone is carefully level, your helmet covering your whole head. Nothing to give you out. Nothing to report.

You are a picture of devour Helldiver.

But Kyle’s eyes still sharpen.

Like he can sense years-old rage and despair under your breast plate.

Like he can see the blood seeping though your uniform.

(It’s impossible, you washed it so much skin on your palms started to peel. You washed it so much you no longer smelled anything other than bleach when you wore it)

“Must’ve costed you a lot of good soldiers”, he muses carefully and something in your chest snaps painfully.

Something important. Something soft.

“Well, you know how it is, sergeant”, you say and there is rage in your chest and years-old blood in the threads of your armour (you will need to wash the bloody thing again until you can’t remember how sticky it was).

Kyle’s eyes are sharp and he’s brilliant and you never wanted to get someone off your fucking ship this quickly.

Your voice strings higher but you push through it, turning away, your words coming out more of a script than human speech.

“We do our due, sergeant. We protect democracy’s dignity”

You don’t add that the same can’t be said about your own.

[brav0-6]

PRICE & GAZ IN GHILLIE SUITS 🍃 | MODERN WARFARE II

[ashla-lavista]

Stay in your place. Better seen and not heard.

task II - o Parapeito.

As pedras enfileiradas no quintal estavam assim faziam alguns dias, afinal Ashla precisava treinar para conseguir fazer aquilo direito. Passava todo o tempo livre ali, treinando seu equilíbrio para sobreviver e passar o primeiro de muitos desafios que enfrentaria: o Parapeito. Precisava passar para poder frequentar Wulfhere, para poder estudar e ser uma cavaleira como sempre sonhou. 

Queria um dragão lilás, igual ao seus olhos, mas Arvind, seu irmão apenas um ano mais velho, a chamou de idiota e disse que não existia. Mas para Erianhood tudo era possível, não era? Seria uma fêmea e se pudesse nomeá-la, seria Petúnia. Ashla iria cuidar com todo amor e carinho até que Petúnia estivesse grande o bastante para montar, então assim iriam viajar pelo mundo. Iriam conhecer outros lugares, outras pessoas, outros doces gostosos. Seriam melhores amigas!

Mas nada disso seria possível se não passasse pelo Parapeito. É claro que existia o perigo de morte, mas nas histórias as pessoas sempre morriam e não parecia uma coisa tão séria. 

Ela precisava passar pelo parapeito e ter a melhor amiga possível, e assim talvez não se sentisse tão sozinha.

Era a última criança morando em casa. Todos os seus irmãos já tinham ido estudar em Wulfhere e Aarav, o primogênito, até tinha conseguido encontrar um dragão que suportasse seu mal humor horrível e aceitasse fazer dele seu cavaleiro.

Ashla conseguiria, é claro.

Quase escorregou e torceu o pé quando ouviu uma risada. Olhou em direção à porta dos fundos e viu um de seus irmãos, Arjun, encostado no batente observando e rindo da cena. 

Tinha ouvido de Evadne, a cozinheira, que Arjun estava se destacando na infantaria. Ashla se perguntou o que ele fazia em casa, e mais importante: do que estava rindo?

— O que você pensa que está fazendo, Pateta? — perguntou Arjun, em tom jocoso. 

— O que você acha que estou fazendo? — respondeu Ashla, colocando as mãozinhas na cintura na sua melhor pose para enfrentar o irmão mais velho.

— Fazendo papel de boba, isso é o que eu acho que está fazendo — com a confiança que nunca viu nele e só poderia ser explicado por ser um soldado, Arjun andou até ela, seu sorriso aumentava ainda mais, o que causava mais medo em Ashla. Seus irmãos mais velhos, os homens pelo menos, eram conhecidos por terem pavio curto e comportamento explosivo. — Espera, você está pra fazer oito anos, não é? Por Erianhood, você acha que vai passar pelo Parapeito? Você? 

Como se a vida da irmã mais nova fosse a piada mais engraçada que já tinha ouvido, Arjun gargalhou tanto que até perdeu o fôlego. Ashla tentou se manter confiante, afinal seu irmão era um bobalhão, e que pelo jeito tinha pouca resistência respiratória se perdia o fôlego tão facilmente assim. Na verdade estava confusa, não via explicação para tamanha gargalhada. 

— Pateta, você não vai passar pelo Parapeito. 

— Como assim? É claro que eu vou. — a determinação de se mostrar forte perante o irmão estava se esvaindo — Eu sou uma changeling que vai se alistar para Wulfhere! Tenho que passar pelo Parapeito!

—  Como se papai fosse considerar sua completa falta de capacidade motora! Você é muito desastrada, Pateta. Você morreria em cinco minutos. 

— Eu não sou desastrada!

— Claro que é, desde que nasceu. Você ficava batendo nas paredes quando era pequena, por isso te chamo de Pateta.

— Eu não fazia isso! - insistiu Ashla.

— Independente disso, papai nunca arriscaria sua reputação por você, Pateta — ouvir aquilo do irmão doeu, mas já estava acostumada a fingir que não era atingida por esse tipo de comentário.

— Então como vou me alistar? Papai falou que eu iria me alistar.

— Você vai, só não vai passar pelo Parapeito, oras — andando, voltou até a porta como se não tivesse estilhaçado o mundo da irmã — Você é filha de um coronel, foi só dar umas ordens e pronto, vão te levar até seu dormitório amanhã. Mesmo que ninguém fosse sentir sua falta, seria feio para papai perder um filho para o Parapeito. Seria vergonhoso.

— Mas como posso ser uma cavaleira se não passar pelo parapeito? Eu preciso me provar capaz de conseguir …

Isso fez Arjun parar. Devagar, como se estivesse em câmera lenta, se virou e encarou Ashla de oito anos. Não estava sorrindo, nem mesmo de forma zombeteira. Agora tinha raiva em seu olhar, e isso era sinal para a garotinha se afastar o mais rápido possível, sabia que coisa boa não viria daquele olhar.

Mas não fez isso. Não fez porque estava distraída demais para pensar em se esconder ou mesmo desviar. Não teve como escapar quando ele a pegou pelo braço, tão forte que achou que poderia quebrar um osso. 

— Escuta aqui, sua bostinha. Acha mesmo que seria uma cavaleira? Você? Que dragão te escolheria? — sua voz era baixa, como se não tivesse recuperado todo o fôlego que perdeu rindo. Ashla preferia quando ele estava rindo, pelo menos não estava doendo fisicamente. — Você não é nada! Você foi um erro desde que nasceu. Já nasceu errada por ser menina, mas cresceu para ser uma inútil. É isso que você é, uma inútil. Você não vai ser uma cavaleira, nem mesmo terá a honra de ser da infantaria. Você vai ser uma misera curandeira ou escriba, pra estudar até que um idiota aceite se casar com você e tirar dos ombros de papai esse fardo imenso.

Ele soltou seu braço com tanta força que Ashla perdeu o equilíbrio e caiu no chão. Se Arjun viu as lágrimas escorrendo pelo rosto da irmã, não se importou. 

— Faça um favor para si mesma e pare de sonhar. Você nunca vai passar a ser qualquer coisa se não uma pateta inútil.

Com isso, se virou e entrou em casa, deixando a garotinha no chão, tentando se controlar para não chamar atenção enquanto chorava. 

No dia seguinte, as palavras de Arjun se provaram verdadeiras.

Vestida com mangas compridas para esconder as marcas deixadas pelo irmão, Ashla foi escoltada por um soldado da infantaria, a pedido de seu pai. O jovem apenas disse para não se preocupar que seu nome estaria na lista dos cadetes que haviam passado pelo Parapeito. E que era sortuda. 

Porém, Ashla se sentia tudo, menos isso.

[ethe-realfantasy]

"I don't need time, I need you."

(heavy Angst, established relationship, Simon is going through it, but he is still so gentle and vulnerable with you???,

I sobbed writing this… should this be a new series? Idk guys you tell me)

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

It starts in small ways.

You notice the change first, not with anger, but with worry. Simon comes home quieter than usual. The shadows in his eyes sit heavier. He doesn’t sleep through the night anymore, sometimes you wake to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face like the weight of the world has finally settled in his palms.

You try to talk to him. Gently, you're always gentle.

“Did something happen?”

He shrugs. “Just work.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

He leans in and kisses your forehead. “I’m fine.”

But he’s clearly not.

And after a while, you stop asking, because being met with silence feels worse than hearing the weight of his truth.

He starts pulling away in other ways, too. Fewer touches. Less eye contact. The warmth in your shared spaces fades like breath on glass. He still shows you love, quietly, in his own ways, but you can feel the wall going up and it hurts.

One day, after a particularly long stretch of silence between the two of you, you finally break.

“You can’t keep shutting me out, Simon. I’m not your enemy.”

He looks at you like you just told him the sky isn’t blue anymore. And then he looks down and avoids you completely.

“I’m trying to protect you", he simply says.

“From what?” Your voice is thin, breaking despite your best effort. “From you?”

He doesn’t answer.

So you step closer. “I don’t need you to be okay all the time, Simon. I just need you to let me in.”

“I can’t,” he says after a long pause. It’s not angry or cruel. It's just tired. “You wouldn’t want what’s in here."

There’s nothing left to say after that. Just silence. A long one.

“I can’t be in a relationship with someone who won’t let me love all of him", you whisper.

He stiffens like he’s just been shot in a place he didn’t expect.

You turn toward the door, already halfway out. Your coat’s in your hand and your voice is shaking from the effort it took to say what you just did.

“Wait,” he says, voice rough. He doesn’t reach for you or grab you. He just... stands there.

You pause for a second.

“You think I want to be like this?” he asks, and there’s frustration there now. Not aimed at you, it's never really aimed at you, but it's thick in the air like smoke. “You think I like being the man who can’t talk about what’s going on inside his bloody head?”

Your grip tightens around the coat.

“I don’t know what you want anymore", you say, not turning to face him.

“I want to come home and not see the things I’ve seen stuck behind my eyes.” His voice drops. “I want to lie beside you and feel like I deserve to. I want to protect you from the ugliness I carry every damn day.”

You finally turn, slowly, with glossy eyes “But I’m not asking you to protect me.”

“I know,” he says, almost to himself.

You step forward, just one small pace, like you're still waiting for something he can’t quite say.

“I wasn’t made for this kind of talking,” he adds, a little helpless. “Wasn’t raised for it. Wasn’t trained for it. But I’m trying.”

You watch him quietly and your heart cracks under the weight of what’s not being said, of how hard it clearly is for him, even now, to let you in.

“You don’t have to say everything,” you say, voice softer now. “Just… don’t push me out. Don’t treat me like I’m a door you can close whenever it gets heavy.”

His gaze lifts to yours. And you see that he’s tired and also scared. Scared of being known too much, maybe. Of loving you too hard and not knowing how to keep it.

And still, he doesn’t ask you to stay.

He wants to. It’s there, all over his face. But it’s like something inside him just won’t let the words form.

So instead, as you open the door, he says it, almost under his breath.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes as soon as you hear the words and your shoulders tense. It’s not the first time he’s said it, he says it often. Sometimes too quietly. Sometimes when he’s angry. But this time it lands like an anchor.

And still you do not turn to face him. Instead you keep your hand resting on the doorknob. You're waiting.

You love him too. God, you do. But love wasn’t supposed to feel like you're standing in a room, begging through a closed door.

A breath leaves your lips slowly and only then, you turn. Just enough to meet his eyes across the small space between you.

“Then say it. Say it like you don’t want me to walk out,” you say, barely above a whisper.

God, why won't he say it?

Simon doesn’t move right away. He looks like someone still caught between instinct and truth. That part of him that retreats when things get real… and the other part that won’t let you go.

He takes a step forward. Not close enough to crowd you, but enough to reach your eyes fully. Enough that his voice drops to something raw, and low, and unmistakably real.

“I don’t want you to walk out", is all he says.

No excuses. No promises he’s not sure how to make. Just that truth, stripped bare.

Your lips part like you're going to respond, but no sound comes out. Your throat works around the feeling pressing there and you exhale shakily through your nose instead. Your fingers finally release the doorknob.

It's not a step forward, but you're not leaving, either.

And Simon… he watches that tiny gesture like it’s the biggest thing in the world. Still, he doesn’t rush to close the distance.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits. “But I’m better when you’re here.”

The air between you feels electric. Not the kind that thrills, but the kind that trembles. Your pulse is still racing, your chest rising and falling like you just stepped out of a fight... or into one.

You watch him and see the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the softness trying to push through his guarded stance. He’s not easy, he never was, but this? This took something out of you.

Still, your fingers twitch slightly at your sides.

Simon doesn’t move yet. He stands like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal, only this time, he knows he’s the one who caused the wound. And he’s terrified he might make it worse.

Your voice comes quiet and tight in your throat.

“I don’t need perfect,” you murmur, “but I can’t… I can’t keep being shut out like that.”

Simon’s eyes don’t leave yours. “I know.”

You step forward again, closer this time, although still cautious, like you're bracing for another sting.

But Simon finally moves.

He lifts his hand slowly, his palm rests open in the space between you. He's only offering.

You glance at it. After a long pause, you place your hand over his, tentative and trembling. It’s like the moment finally exhales.

Simon’s fingers curl gently around yours. There is no pull or force. Just that grounding warmth in his touch, steady and solid.

"If I want anyone inside this mess of a head… it’s you.”

A shiver rolls through you and your heart flutters.

“I hate that you say things like that when I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“I know,” he says, and for the first time all night you see a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Then you take the final step, just close enough that your forehead nearly touches his chest. You haven’t leaned into him, not yet. But you're right there.

And that’s when Simon rests his chin just over the crown of your head. And you, exhausted and full of everything that still aches in you, finally let your head fall against him and close your eyes.

You're ready to try again.

-------

Until a few weeks later, it starts again with nothing.

A short comment from you, something about how he seems off. How he barely touched his dinner or how he hasn't looked you in the eyes since coming through the door.

Simon brushes it off. “Just tired,” he said, flat.

You try again gently. “You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

And that's it.

His jaw clenches. He doesn't snap or raise his voice, instead he just goes quiet. A different kind of silence. Not soft or thoughtful. Not the kind that gives space. This one is cold, rigid. A wall going up brick by careful brick.

You watch it happen, because you know it by heart now. That slow closing of the drawbridge and the subtle retreat behind armor.

But this time you don't knock on the gate and plead for him to open up. You don't follow him with worried eyes or curl your hands in your lap like you did a million times before. You just… go still.

Quiet.

You push your chair back, slowly and clear the plates without a word. Your movements are precise and gentle. No slamming cupboards or angry sighs, just that unbearable calm that says this is how it breaks.

Simon sits at the table, staring at the space where you just sat.

It takes him a minute to realise what he has done.

He hears the faint sound of the sink and the clink of dishes. So he stands up, unsure. His voice doesn't come easily, it never did with this.

“y/n.”

You don't move when you hear your name. You don't flinch or turn to look at him. You stand there at the sink, back straight, shoulders set like you're trying not to feel anything at all.

He approaches slowly, his boots soft against the floor. He doesn't want to startle you, hell, he doesn't even know what he wants to say. But something in him needs to be close.

Then he hears it.

It's neither a gasp nor a sob, not really. It's just a little break in your breath, the kind of sound that only comes when someone’s trying too hard not to make a sound at all.

You reach for another dish, knuckles white, and your head dips a little.

He stops in the doorway, like it physically hurts to take another step.

"Are you crying?”, he asks softly, softer than he spoke all night.

The question hangs between you, a little helpless. And God, he didn’t mean it to sound like that, like it broke him a little to ask.

You don't answer or turn around. But he sees you pause, hands faltering, the plate still under the running water.

And that's enough for him to know.

He exhales through his nose and a hand comes to rest at his side, curling into a fist like he doesn't trust himself to reach for you yet.

He has faced gunfire and blood, stared down the darkest parts of the world, but this quiet ache in your silence, this is what cracked him open.

“y/n” he tries again, voice low, with a thread of apology woven right through it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just..” He runs a hand through his hair.

“I don’t always know how to bring you into the mess in my head.”

Still, no answer. But your shoulders shake, barely, and that sound comes again, it's stifled, quiet and full of all the things you never wanted to say like this.

Simon takes a cautious step forward.

“If I made you feel like you were alone in this…” He pauses and wallows hard, unsure of which words to use. “I really didn't want to make you feel like this.”

You set the plate down gently, still not looking at him. But he sees your hand press to your chest, like something inside there just hurt too much to keep in.

He steps beside you, not touching yet. Just enough for you to feel him there without him needing to say anything else.

“I hate that I made you cry”, he says with his voice cracking.

There is a tiny hitch in your breath, like his nearness itself is too much right now.

He notices and freezes immediately.

“I really didn’t mean to..” he starts, but you shake your head, still not facing him.

“I can’t right now, Simon,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I can't talk to you right now.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, and it guts him, because he sees every trembling inch of you. The strong, steady woman now holding herself together by a thread. And knowing he’s the one who pulled it taut… it hollows something in his chest.

“I’m just” you try again, sucking in a sharp breath as your hands press into the edge of the counter. “I’m so tired, Simon. Tired of trying to pull things out of you. Tired of always being the one asking. Guessing. Waiting.”

“You shouldn’t have to guess,” he finally says, voice low and full of regret. “That’s on me.”

You still won’t turn to face him, but your shoulders are trembling harder now, small, shaking sobs you can’t hold back anymore. His chest aches with the sound of it.

He reaches out and lets his hand brush lightly along your upper arm. A touch you can refuse, if you want to.

You don't flinch away, but you don't lean in, either. It’s all too much and not enough, all at once.

“I’m trying,” he says, and it comes out raw, broken. “I’m trying to do better.”

You turn your head slightly, not fully toward him, but just enough to show him the wet shimmer of tears on your cheek.

“Then tell me that, before you shut me out,” you whisper. “Tell me when you’re struggling instead of making me feel like I’m not allowed in.”

Simon breathes in hard through his nose and nods, once. “Come here", he says, and pulls you in a tight embrace, more tender than he has ever been.

It isn’t a command. It’s a request. Something he needs, but only if you need it too.

At first you hesitate, but then you turn, just enough to lean your forehead against his chest. It's just a small surrender. He wraps his arms around you without saying another word, holding you like you are fragile and unbreakable all at once.

“I’m sorry. God, 'm sorry", he murmurs.

Your forehead rests against his chest, but you don't stop crying. It‘s the kind of crying that’s silent at first, just trembling shoulders and breath caught in your throat. Then it hits in waves: Sharp little sobs that break free one after the other, muffled against his shirt. The sound rips through him.

Simon holds you tighter. One hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. The other hand is anchored at your back, steady and protective.

“y/n”, he says gently, barely more than a whisper, his lips near your temple.

You don't respond or lift your head, you simply sob harder and it shatters him.

He presses his face into your hair and closes his eyes, holding you like he could somehow shield you from himself. Like if he were strong enough, careful enough, you wouldn’t have to feel this pain at all.

But you do. And it’s because of him.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs again, softer this time, “I hate that I did this. That I made you feel like this.”

You shudder in his arms and your hands are clutching his shirt now, wrinkling the fabric.

He rocks you slightly, almost unconsciously. Not to calm you, but rather just to do something. Anything. His own throat tightens and it burns him alive, knowing you're crying this hard in his arms, because of him. Because he was too afraid to show you the ugliest parts of himself. Too closed off.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over now, the words catching in his throat, raw and fraying at the edges. “I’m sorry."

You sob into his chest until your legs give slightly, and he feels it, the collapse under everything you've been holding together.

Without a word, Simon gently steadies you and guides you back into the bedroom. His hand never leaves your back as he sits you down on the edge of the bed, crouching in front of you like you might slip away if he turns his back for even a second.

“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly. His voice is low, warm and rough with emotion, but it's steady. Just steady enough not to make you feel more fragile than you already do.

You nod numbly, eyes glassy and cheeks blotched and fold your hands in your lap while he disappears down the hall. He returns with a glass of water and a few tissues, kneeling beside you again, like you are sacred.

“Here,” he murmurs, pressing the cool glass gently into your hand, his other hand brushing your hair out of your face, soft and careful. You take a sip, but your fingers are trembling too much to hold it long, so he takes it from you and sets it aside.

Then he stays there, kneeling before you, eyes searching yours with something raw behind them.

He smooths your hair back again, letting his thumb graze your cheek. Your lashes are wet and your lower lip trembles.

“I know,” he finally says, voice hushed. “I know I keep shutting you out.”

You don’t respond and that silence alone breaks him more than shouting ever could. His hand lingers against your knee. “You didn’t do anything wrong, y’hear me?” He searches for your eyes.

“I know I’m hard to love sometimes,” he adds, eyes dropping to the floor for just a moment. “I don’t talk when I should. I shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He looks up again, his voice tightening. “I think I broke this.”

Your eyes well up again, more quiet tears slipping down. He reaches up and brushes them away gently with the edge of the tissue, not trusting himself to speak.

“You’re the last person I want to lose", he whispers.

You lean slightly into his hand and that tiny gesture nearly undoes him. He feels it behind his ribs, a weight that presses hard. Still kneeling, he presses his forehead to your thigh, his arms loosely circling your waist. It's a wordless please. "I love you."

And he just stays like that, kneeling at your feet, arms around you, like maybe, there’s still time to put the pieces back together.

You stay still, with his forehead resting gently against your leg and his arms wound around you like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping.

You swallow hard with your throat tight and aching, the aftershocks of your sobs still quivering in your chest. When you speak, it's barely above a whisper.

“Simon.”

His name comes out broken, like it costs you something to say it. He lifts his head slowly and your heart stutters at the look in his eyes, red-rimmed, heavy, wrecked with guilt.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

It lands between you with the weight of truth. Your voice cracks on the last word and you have to look away as fresh tears gather.

“I’m so tired,” you say, brushing angrily at your cheeks, your tone raw and vulnerable. “I feel like I’m trying to love you with both hands tied behind my back. Like you’re only giving me the parts of you that are easiest to carry.”

His breath catches like he wants to interrupt, to explain, to apologize again, but something in your expression holds him still.

“I know it’s hard for you,” you say, softer now, gentler. “I know you’re not used to talking. I’ve seen you hold the weight of everything without saying a word. And I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried, to be patient." Your lips start trembling again. “But it hurts me too, Simon.” You finally look at him again and your eyes are full. Not just with pain, but with love too. Still. Even now. “Can’t you see that?”

He does. The sight of you sitting there, holding yourself together with fraying edges, still beautiful, still his... it guts him.

He reaches for your hand, slowly and carefully, like you might pull away.

“I see it,” he says. His voice is low and unsteady.

For a moment all you can concentrate on is trying not to cry again.

“I just don’t know if loving you should feel this lonely,” you admit and the way you say it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

Simon presses your hand to his lips and doesn’t say anything for a beat.

“I don’t want to lose you“, he manages.

You close your eyes when you hear him say it. Like your body doesn’t quite know how to hold the weight of those words. Like they mean too much. Like they’ve come too late.

Simon watches you with something hollow and tight in his chest. Your fingers are still in his hand, but limp. Your shoulders curve forward as if you're trying to keep from collapsing in on yourself.

He’s kneeling beside the bed still, one arm draped across your leg, the other hand still cradling yours gently, like it might break if he grips it too tightly. Like you might break.

“I just”, your voice comes soft, but cracked at the edges, “I think I need some time.”

Simon’s breath catches.

His eyes search your face not with judgment, not even resistance. Just with that sharp, wounded stillness, like someone took the floor out from under him. His hand stiffens where it rests on your thigh, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying I want this to end,” you add quickly, your voice thick with the tears still lingering in your throat. “God, Simon, you know I don’t want that.”

He swallows hard, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I love you,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “You know that, right?”

He nods stiffly, like anything more than that would shatter him.

“But I’m drowning,” you continue. “And I keep waiting for you to reach for me and you don’t. You shut down. And I know you don’t mean to. But it leaves me alone with all this… And I just.. I think we need some time.”

Simon’s jaw flexes, something deep in his chest twisting.

He wants to say something. He wants to throw himself at your feet and promise you he’ll do better, that he’ll rip himself open if that’s what it takes for you to see inside him, to believe him. But the words sit in his throat like stone.

So instead, he leans forward and kisses your hand. “I don’t need time,” he murmurs. “I need you.”

You shake your head and bite your lip hard, your breath hitching. The pain on his face, that quiet ache in his voice, it all hits you too hard.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I… I have to figure out if I can live like this.”

He drops his forehead against your knee and rests there. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible. “But I love you.”

The words break against you like a wave, but you don't move. You just sit on the edge of the bed with you hands in your lap... the same hands he’d held, kissed, clung to. Now they’re locked together like a barrier. Simon stays kneeling beside you, not quite breathing. He searches your eyes and they are glossy, tender, raw in a way that strips everything bare. There’s no heat or anger in them, only truth.

And he knows:

You mean it. You really mean it.

´You need space... from him.

Simon swallows and it tastes like metal in his throat.

He stands slowly, but doesn’t move far. He just paces. It's not fast or frantic. More like he’s trying to walk the ache out of his chest. Like if he keeps his body busy enough, he won’t fall apart. His fingers twitch restlessly as he crosses the room and he even pretends to tidy something on the counter. Then he picks up a book and sets it down again. He glances toward you again and you're still there, still quiet. And it's all because of him.

He runs a hand down his face, with his jaw clenched and his breath uneven. For a moment it looks like he might say something, but it dies before it reaches his lips. Instead, he drifts toward the door and picks up his keys from the small dish by the entrance.

He stands there for a moment, hesitating.

“I’ll give you the space you asked for,” he says quietly, voice low and heavy, like it costs him everything. “But I’m not lettin’ go.”

You don't reply. You don't feel the need to.

Then he opens the door and steps outside, leaving behind a silence thick with all the words you didn’t say.

[Part II]

[fish-in-the-aquarium]

nine of cups don't enter rooms without knocking

Spirit of pleasure

Other "cards": two of swords | five of cups | it will take time |

Without doors + Details✨

[temeyes]

hair pulling (extra under the cut!)

you brought this to yourself, soap...

[cavernsandcod]

imagine being a rookie and talking a hard spill on the obstacle course during drills. knocked right on your ass and left unconscious.

when you open your eyes in the med bay, gaz is standing over you with an amused, yet soft, expression. what a sight to wake up to—you think. but your head fucking pounds. and he’s your superior. so.

you reach up to your temple and feel the fresh bandage, squinting and scowling at him because the lights hurt.

he just chuckles and helps you sit up, a hand on your torso to prevent you from tipping over again. he knows you’re all bark and no bite:

“i think i’m gonna call you stitches now, rook.”