#when it's too quiet I put music on to remind me of its passing

[jolalibrary]

had to see you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%. word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here

simon ghost riley masterlist

You love the rain. 

Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit. 

But, at home, it’s refreshing. 

It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next. 

Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.

It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called. 

On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices. 

At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat. 

Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather. 

Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.

You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts. 

Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.

You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.

The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.

When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.

That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them. 

Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness. 

It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.

It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock. 

Short. Deliberate. 

Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door. 

When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them. 

Only to see him. 

“Ghost?” 

He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. 

His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.

You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.

Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.  

“You lettin’ me in?” 

Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it. 

Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks. 

He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second. 

Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“

“Someone broke into my place.” 

You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was. 

Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back. 

“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?” 

“Not sure.” 

Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?” 

He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain. 

“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper. 

As if it’s so rarely ever said. 

You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything. 

He’s Ghost. 

Silent. Quiet, Ghost. 

Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound. 

Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?” 

Silence. 

A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.” 

You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.” 

He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to. 

“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.” 

You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him. 

But you’re more nervous. 

Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is. 

Him being here. 

And yet, not that odd at all. 

“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.

He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him. 

His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit. 

“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add. 

Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show. 

And then, he says, “It’s nice.” 

“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”

“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly. 

“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.  

Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.” 

His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table. 

“It’s not what I expected.” 

“You’ve thought about my place?” 

Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down. 

You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward. 

“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”

You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement. 

“You were closer.” 

Oh. 

Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason. 

Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months… 

It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.

Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat. 

“I had to see if you were okay.” 

You don’t place the plates down, not immediately. 

Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat. 

He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue. 

Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you. 

“Well, I’m fine.” 

“Had to be sure.” 

You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.” 

His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.  

“Tea?” you ask. 

Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips. 

“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”

You make him snort. 

And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.

If anything, it adds to it. 

Shit. 

Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.

“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand. 

You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him. 

Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between. 

He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it. 

It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down. 

That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room. 

He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes. 

You cannot die.

Why?

But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again. 

Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost. 

Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm. 

“What?” 

Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’. 

You forget how good he is at reading people. 

Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle. 

Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart. 

Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat. 

Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.” 

Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk. 

But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you. 

Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.” 

“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.” 

“How then?” 

Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit. 

“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.” 

You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name. 

Your real name. 

Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier. 

“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”

“It?” 

You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense. 

“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?” 

Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you. 

He’s silent. 

So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it. 

Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.” 

You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.

For what you’re not sure. 

Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination. 

So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.” 

He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.” 

But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape. 

Go back. 

Go back to him. 

Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.

He came to check on you. You. 

Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak. 

It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.  

It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again. 

His hoodie is gone. 

Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.

Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin. 

“Tell me to go back to your living room.” 

Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side. 

You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again. 

As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined. 

“Words, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart.

Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you. 

“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.” 

Speechless, your lips part. 

Yes. Please, yes. 

Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—

His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality. 

“Simon…” you manage to whisper.

Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough. 

He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.

Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips. 

Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed. 

He smells different than usual.

Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough. 

“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?” 

His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for. 

“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up. 

His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.” 

If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it. 

All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.

And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do. 

“Wait.”

It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you. 

Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.

And he smirks.

The devious bastard smirks. 

Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him. 

“Fuck…”

“Part them, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back. 

The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.

You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big. 

Almost too big. 

The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans. 

He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers. 

You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him. 

The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side. 

“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours. 

Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you. 

“I want you.” 

“Yeah?”

You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”

“I hope you fucking don’t.”

His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.

You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds. 

You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.  

“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.” 

“Simon…” 

Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched. 

He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you. 

You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows. 

“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.” 

It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.

He does ruin you.

Not the first time, the second, but on the third.

Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom. 

You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.

A painting in colours of his own design. 

You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care. 

Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe. 

You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.

"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.

Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.

Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.

“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.” 

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move. 

Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building. 

"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."

His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.

"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."

You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.

Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.

“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.” 

Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.” 

You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart? 

His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.

“The latter.” 

You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.

Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.

“You make shit tea, though.” 

read part two

a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!

[luveline]

your first 'I love you' with Hotch ♥︎ fem!reader 1k

“You’re tense.”

Hotch doesn’t look up from his desk. He’s reading through a consult, two fingers pressed to his brow. He reminds you of a movie star when he poses like this. You like it, and you doubly enjoy the stirring feeling it prompts in your stomach. 

“I’m not tense,” he says, gently and quietly, “just thinking.”

He’s thinking and tense at the same time, then. The big wooden desk in front of him is open real estate for you to climb on top of, propping yourself with legs dangling to his right. He ever so kindly drops his hand on your knee. 

You slouch because Hotch doesn’t care about posture. At least, it doesn’t make him like you any less. Occasionally, he’ll press a hand to your lower back and try to straighten you out. But mostly he makes a comment on how your back will hurt worse than his by the time you’re forty and kiss your temple. You take his wrist into two hands and rub at the line where his tendon hides beneath the skin. 

“So… are you going home today?” you ask. 

“I…” He pulls his head up to yours, hand tracing your thigh surreptitiously slow. “Am going wherever you’re going.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Hotch pats your leg. 

You can feel the heat of his palm through your trousers. It doesn't take much more than that to have you droopy eyed as you wait for him to finish his work, his warm touch, the quiet of his office and the subtle scratch of his pen against paper. 

He puts everything away into its proper place. He helps you down off of the desk, and he puts his coat on overtop of his suit. Briefcase in hand, Hotch accompanies you down to your desk in one of the far corners of the BAU's offices where you put your own coat on. He beckons you forward to fasten the top button, which you'd missed. 

In the elevator, you turn your face to your shoulder and watch him watch the floor number change. He's smiling by the time you get to the bottom floor. Out past the metal detectors and security checkpoint and the huge glass doors, you stroll into the cool night time air and, barely a foot from the entrance, feel Hotch's hand looking for yours. 

"What do you want to do tonight?" he asks finally. 

"I really get to choose?" 

"You should get to choose more often." 

Hotch is admittedly much busier than you are. His work is more intrusive, or should you say, expansive, than your own, and he has Jack to prioritise, his family. But that doesn't mean you don't get to choose. You chose his tie this morning via the phone, and what you both ate for dinner — huge too-messy sandwiches over a casefile. 

"I'm hungry if you are." 

"And if I'm not, you'll magically feel full?" he asks. 

He gives your hands a little swing. You could kiss him right here on the sidewalk. 

"I'm, like– I could eat, but if you don't wanna stop for something I won't go hungry." 

"No, you'll just fill up on oatmeal." 

"Oatmeal is a great night time snack," you say. "Especially with the slow-releasing melatonin Dr. Reid was telling me about." 

"Are you distracting my colleagues?" he asks knowingly, looking both ways before he pulls you across the street and into the bureau's employee parking lot. 

"No. Well, sometimes." 

He unlocks his car with the beep of a hob and opens the passenger seat for you. "We can get something to go? We don't have to be out all night." 

You climb in, beaming as he kisses your cheek and closes the door behind you. 

He drives you down to the Thai restaurant a half a mile away. You call before you get there, so the food's ready waiting for you to pick up. He's in and out, and he says, "Put something down on your lap, honey, it's hot," before he passes it to you. 

You smile like a lovesick fool when he hums along to the radio, hand tapping the wheel as he turns into the street of your apartment. You hadn't realised he chose your place. 

The music suits him. You aren't sure how it happens. A happy love song in time with your small moment of bliss. You reach across the console and put your hand on his face. He turns into it, softly questioning. 

You rub your thumb into the scratching of his five o'clock shadow. 

"You're my favourite. I love you," you say. You try to be serious about it but your lips twitch. 

Your first 'I love you' maybe should've been saved somewhere safe until the right moment. You've been keeping it wedged between your heart and your ribs, though, and it's too much tonight. The sweet voice of the love song's singer saturates the air with a certain saccharineness, his handsome, beautiful smile, frown lines and won't be ignored.

"I love you, too." 

From Hotch, it feels like a promise. You lift your chin and he gives you a light kiss. He keeps smiling and breaking the kiss. 

"I wish you would've waited," he says. 

You're too happy to feel insecure about it. "What for?"

He reaches for your shoulders, squeezing you and pushing you away to meet your eyes. "Because I had this whole speech planned, you know? I was going to tell you first." 

"A speech?" 

He looks incredibly happy: he's onto you. He knows you're fishing for the speech and all the pretty compliments he might've doled out.

"If you'd waited," he concedes, "I might have told you how lucky I feel to get to be with you. How I know a second chance when I have it. A second chance at love, and… feeling young. Feeling brand new."

Your smile melds into a smirk. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah. And I might've said something about how beautiful you are, and how funny, and how interesting, but you got there first and now you'll never know the depths of my affection after all." 

"That's too bad." 

He leans in for another kiss. "Yes," he says against your lips. "Too bad." 

[caelivir]

songs of our hearts | mash burnedead

synopsis. in which you suddenly disappear without rhyme or reason, and mash spends the rest of his life waiting for you.

pairing. mash x musician!fem!reader | wc. 2.6k | genres. some fluff, angst no happy ending! | warnings. reader’s death is offscreened

notes. special order for @kyoghurts — this is long overdue and i almost never write for mash so sorry if he’s off but your idea was too good to pass on. just tweaked a little. (you can thank them for this one.)

mash and reader are the same age.

"and you and the rest of your clan will carry down this curse through the bloodlines of your descendants for it shall serve as a reminder of your sins against me. your firstborns will die the day after their 18th cycle of the earth, and there is no god above that will stop it from happening. it is a destiny you can never and will never escape for all of eternity.”

it is a majestic sound. a heavenly one. the chords carry through the enchanted forest, relaxing the trees and making flowers breathe sighs of relief.

the voice that accompanies the instrumentals is faint—soft and alluring. lyrics share the story of a mighty warrior and his beloved back home. curious, mash burnedead follows the source of the singing until it leads him to a fairly large pond, surrounded by green trees and blooming flora. the sunlight casts its glow over the body of water, allowing sparkles to dance across its surface.

mash finds you sitting atop a rock at the edge of the pond, so focused on your music that everything else in the world fades out. you strum at your lyre in memorized motions, as if the song was already part of your soul.

a leaf crinkles beneath his foot, and your eyes fly open, fingers freezing before they could strike another string. the surprise in your eyes does not deter mash. if anything, he doesn’t notice it.

“that’s a nice song you were playing.” he says, still standing in the same spot. you clutch your instrument closer to you.

“i’m mash burnedead. nice to meet you.” he continues, beginning to make his way around the pond.

“(y/n)…” you trail off, skeptical of the stranger stalking closer.

“are you hungry? i have creampuffs my pops baked.” mash tells you as he plops down next to the rock you’re sitting on.

you tilt your head. “creampuff?”

the mushroom head blinks in rapid succession. “have you never had a creampuff?”

you timidly shake your head, and mash takes that as the greenlight to hand you one of his. you accept it with some hesitancy but put enough trust in the stranger to take a small bite. mash senses it in the way your eyes widen and the way you rush in to take a second bite that you deeply enjoy the sweet treat.

"they're the best food in the world." the mushroom headed boy tells you. "did you know-" and then he's rambling on and on about this obsession with creampuffs. you don't interrupt him, allowing him to talk his head off because it's rather endearing. mash, of course, doesn't realize it. he doesn't see the interest you have for him growing in your eyes.

excited at the thought of having a new friend, mash returns after a few days with another basket of creampuffs. you smile when you see him and urge him to hurry up and sit by you.

on the surface, mash appears to be a quiet boy, but once you get him started, he doesn't seem to stop. he doesn't hesitate to update you on his life or narrate tales involving his friends or family. you'll only interject if you have something to say, but overall, you allow the mushroom head his moments. as he converses with you, you'll play a soft song on your lyre, just mindlessly plucking at chords you know will mesh well together.

mash never fails to compliment your skills, saying your songs are the best he's ever heard. the praise makes you stutter out a humble denial of how there are plenty of musicians better than you. that does not change mash's mind. he insists that you are the greatest.

one day, you offer to teach your new friend how to play. it goes as one would expect.

"ah. i messed up again." mash says listlessly after playing the wrong note of a basic song you were teaching him.

you giggle at his slipup. with a gentle smile on your face, you put your hand on his, guiding his fingers onto the right notes. your touch was soft, warm, and kind. it makes it difficult for mash to focus on the music, and really, he's only looking at you.

you let him try to play on his own again. mash still has not a single clue about what he's doing, but he's able to play a measure in perfect succession before messing up entirely.

you bite down another giggle, but your angelic laugh escapes your throat. your smile reaches your eyes. mash thinks you look really pretty like that.

"it's alright, mash. music is not everyone's talent." you assure him, taking your lyre from his grasp and setting it on your lap. "you make delicious creampuffs, and i think that is more than enough."

the tips of his ears burn red at the compliment. he's unsure why.

as the days drag on and the visits increase, mash has started to noticed that you're acting differently. you're not fully present in conversations, eyes staring so far ahead he thinks you're seeing a new world. as you practice new pieces, you'll play the wrong notes, and you'll mumble your lyrics. at times, you're not even playing songs. your fingers will mindlessly pluck at random strings, producing something that mash can't even call music.

he tries checking up on you, but you'll brush it off with a plastered smile before acting as you normally would. it's strange indeed, but if you say it's fine, then it should be, right?

the day of your 18th birthday rolls around, and mash has it all laid out on how he wants to spend it with you. he'll bring a delicious lunch that his pops cooked and a special kind of creampuff that's just for you. he'll bring a pack of cards so the two of you can play a few games that his good friend finn ames taught him how to play. to wrap everything up, he'll hand you his gift. it'll be a wonderfully fun day.

and it is exactly that. you show up to the pond in a pretty dress and a beautifully woven flower crown adorning your head. and with the way the sunlight hits your skin, mash thinks that you are ethereal.

your time together goes just as he planned. you don't waste a single crumb of the meal regro burnedead provided. mash brings out your special creampuff, even going as far as to bringing a candle to place on top of it. although, he kept breaking the matchsticks needed to light it, so you ended up having to light it yourself. he sang to you, rather poorly, but it's the thought that counts.

you play countless card games, ranging from speed, war, and slapjack, and when you get bored of that, you talk. it can never be a hangout with mash if there isn't an honest conversation.

"mash, have you ever kissed someone before?" you ask, a neutral expression on your face.

the mushroom headed boy is flustered by the question. he blinks. "i... i've never done that before."

you turn your head towards him. the embarrassment of your question now hits you. "would you ever want to kiss me?"

mash has never thought about it before. not once has it ever crossed his mind, but as he looks at you now with the beginnings of a sunset behind you, mash burnedead realizes that you are a force of nature. you are unforgettable in every way, shape, and form. your music resonates with the soul. your smile could blind the angels; your laugh could heal the earth. you are beautiful no matter what you do.

your presence is safety within itself, and mash really, really likes being with you. and so mash's eyes flicker down to your slightly parted lips. his head nods slightly.

yes. i would want to kiss you.

and you do. you lean in ever so slowly, faces so close together that your breaths fan against the other's skin. your eyes shut at the same time. you gently press your lips together, and time seems to stop. he can taste the faint flavor of the strawberry and vanilla creampuff filling on your lips. it's innocent and inexperienced but still sweet. it's enough to light fireworks in his stomach, and boy do they explode.

when you finally pull away, your eyes flutter open. your mouth opens so you could speak, yet no words tumble out. mash waits and anticipates what you could possibly say next. however, there is nothing in the world that could've prepared him for what comes out.

a wave of regret floods your face. a single tear carves its path down your cheek. you whisper, "don't come back here."

mash tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "what?"

you flinch. that is not what you were meant to say. "i'm sorry." you quickly apologize, not even trying to find an excuse or correct yourself. you scramble up and frantically search your lyre, only to realize that you don't have it on you. you didn't bring it today.

mash burnedead watches as you nearly fall trying to escape. you rip the flower crown off of your head, throwing it onto a random spot on the ground. you face mash. there is a waterfall of tears cascading down your skin. "i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. i don't know why i did that. i really like you mash, i do, but i... i can't do this. there's no time. i'm... i'm sorry. you-you don't deserve this. i don't deserve you, mash. i'm sorry. please don't come back here. please."

he doesn't understand what you're saying one bit, and he isn't fast enough to stop you and demand an answer. by the time he reaches his arm out to plead with you to come back, you're already gone.

mash's arm falls to his side. he looks into the basket that he brought with him today.

he didn't get the chance to give you your gift.

mash still carries on your shared tradition despite your plea not to. he has to give you your birthday gift, and if he can get an explanation from you that would be nice too.

he takes that oh so familiar trail down to the pond, expecting to hear the songs of your lyre, but the enchanted forest is still, save for the few deer rummaging around. mash reaches the pond, and for the first time in months, you are not there.

that's fine. he can wait for you. he kills time by doing random workouts. he eats his creampuffs in silence. any crunch of a leaf will have mash twisting his head to the source of the sound, thinking that you've returned. each time it is nothing—only the common forest animal wandering about.

the sun begins to set. you still haven't come. mash thinks he'll come visit again next week.

next week comes. with it, it brings a new batch of freshly baked creampuffs that the mushroom headed boy is forced to eat alone because you haven't shown your face.

despite your lack of showing up, mash burnedead does not give up.

weeks become months. months stretch into years. even as he grows older, mash finds his way back to the pond, in hopes that you'll be there waiting for him.

he still eats those creampuffs. he sets your birthday gift onto the rock where you used to sit while he bides his time. he still works out, but lately mash has gotten into the habit of talking to himself. he'll tell all the stories that you have yet to hear because just maybe the wind will carry his words and have them reach your ears. he'll hum all the songs you played for him.

then the sun will grow tired and take its rest, and mash will pick up your birthday gift and go back home.

years stretch into decades—decades in which you haven't come to see him once. yet he still finds the energy within himself to come find your shared spot with him.

the pond has yet to change. it is still surrounded by thriving green trees. squirrels and other rodents continue to find their daily drink in its water, and the water continues to catch the sun rays up in the sky.

mash has changed. his body grows old. his skin wrinkles and sags. his body grows weak. his joints hurt everywhere. his brain is consumed with thoughts of you. he wonders what changes you went through. he wonders where you are and what you're doing. what kind of people are hearing your songs? he bets you are still as beautiful as the last time he saw you.

by the time he knows it, the sky is painted with its daily palette of orange, blue, and pink—a signal to head home. mash promises that he'll visit again.

however, mash's next visit will be his last. he realizes that his body can't keep up with it anymore. he is at his limit. still, he braves the trip one final time, bringing a few creampuffs and gifts with him that he'll finally leave behind.

the walk to the forest takes longer than mash would've liked, but he makes it nonetheless. he saunters over to your rock, sitting on the cold, smooth surface that was once yours. mash would've preferred sitting next to it, just as he did in his youth, but his knees can no longer handle bending that low.

mash sighs, craning his head up to the sky. a pair of birds fly over above him. "(y/n), i still think of you, y'know? i don't know where you are, but i'm sure you did amazing things. i wish i was there to see you do it.

"this will be the last time i come here. i wish i could've stuck it out for longer, but i will only hurt myself more if i do." he frowns. mash pushes himself off of your rock and stands before it. "however, i'll leave you with a few parting gifts before i go."

the once mushroom headed boy reaches into the basket he brought along with him. he sets a bag of three plain creampuffs onto the rock. next, mash carefully pulls out a flower crown that he personally weaved. all the flowers were taken from outside his home and the beloved enchanted forest.

"i always think about how nice you looked wearing one of these." mash says as he inspects his work one more time before placing it alongside the pastries.

and finally, mash reveals the birthday gift he was supposed to give you all those years ago with a reminiscent grin. "one of the greatest things about you was your music. you and that lyre were perfect partners, but even i could tell that that thing was old. so i thought, why not have another one?"

mash gently lays the instrument on top of the rock, allowing it to complete the trio of gifts. "i did my best to take care of it. i hope you like it."

the lonely old man doesn't say anything for a while. he only stares on as a wave of emotions surge in his heart. he puts a wrinkly hand on the wooden lyre. the corners of his lips pull into a small smile. "thanks for everything, (y/n). and just so you know, i really liked you too."

mash lets his hand linger for a moment before he pulls it away. he gathers the last of his belongings and leaves the pond behind, all while humming the tune of your song about the mighty warrior and his beloved back home.

[hobiebrownismygod]

HAIII HELLOOO HOW ARE U DOING so i just had a random idea and i cant stop thinking about it. you can it ignore it i'm just asking

basically hobie x reader (can be fem or gender neautral idc) where reader is like a siren but isnt dangerous and likes swimming in the canal that hobie's boat is in and then like one night he spots reader in the water

idk if that makes sense words are not wording right now 😭 but yeah you can do whatever you like with the rest. thank yewwww 🙏🏾💞

wait omg I love this idea!! its so cute and I totally see why it's been stuck in your head lol I went kind of overboard with the lore for this one. I also made it femreader because that's easier for me to write and hopefully that's okay!! I hope you like how I wrote it <3

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Humming under his breath, Hobie stood at the edge of his deck, staring out into the distance, mind overrun with quiet thoughts. The night was basically silent, no people nor animals in sight, just Hobie and his canal boat, slowly drifting along the soft waves.

He was still fairly close to shore, and could see some faint lights of alive homes, but it was growing very late, and everyone was going to sleep for the night.

But Hobie couldn't sleep. He was tired, of course, anyone would be after the day he'd had...but he just couldn't sleep.

It was difficult for him to sleep these days. So many scenarios littering his mind, making him think, fear, dream. Not a day went by where he wasn't suddenly awoken by a terrible nightmare, the screeching of civilians flooding his brain, images of horrific villains filling his dreams.

So staring out at the water, enjoying the silence, it was much more calming for him. It was also a way for him to avoid the sleepiness crawling up his spine, latching its gentle claws around his shoulders and pulling him into the soft, warm enclosure of his bed.

But he refused to give in to the temptation, to the tiredness. What he'd experience when he was asleep was too much to bear.

Besides, he couldn't have any nightmares if he was awake.

Suddenly, Hobie's expression perked up, and he leaned his head forward. He'd heard something, but he wasn't sure what. He stopped humming, the area around him falling completely silent as he strained his ears to listen for whatever might have been there.

He heard a faint hum.

His spider-sense began to tingle.

The song was beautiful, nothing like he'd heard before. It was quiet, soft, reminding him of the way a hug would feel, warmth and love, wrapping around one's body and holding them close. It was musical, vibrant, but just enough to make him feel even sleepier than before.

It was also strangely enchanting.

After a beat, Hobie began to hum along. He knew the tune. He wasn't sure how, but he did know it. A simple five or six notes, easy to remember, easy to memorize, easy to single along with.

And then he realized he was humming alone. The other voice had disappeared.

He furrowed his brows, confused as to where it could've gone.

A ripple passed by, just barely changing the surface of the dark, murky water below. He stumbled back slightly, immediately on defense mode as he peered over the edge, gaze hardening over the sight of a few bubbles, slowly rising to the surface.

"Hello?" He called out softly.

For a moment, he thought nothing would happen. That he'd just been imagining it. Hallucinating even, the little sleep he'd had finally getting to him.

But he watched as a pair of eyes appeared, the outline of luscious hair and a head parting the waters, peering up at him.

He stared, mouth opening in awe.

You were beautiful.

Your face was just barely illuminated by the moonlight, glistening down on the droplets dripping down your smooth skin, just your face and neck having protruded out of the water.

You cocked your head to the side slightly, as if curious, inspecting him as he put his hands on the railing separating him from the open waters. "Hello."

His breath hitched in his throat. "Who...are you?" He asked after a moment, struggling to find his voice.

You smiled, enjoying his reaction. Before you could respond you were interrupted by a loud blare. Another boat was approaching, one that looked similar to a police boat almost.

Hobie looked up too, caught off-guard, and his expression immediately hardened. When he noticed you about to submerge yourself in the water again, he quickly reached a hand out.

"Wait!"

You looked back up at him nervously, eyes flitting between him and the slowly approaching vessel. The silence was thick enough to be sliced, his soft breaths and the ripples of the water both louder than the sound of the boat that was coming closer.

Your eyes stayed on each others, hundreds of thousands of words being exchanged in a single moment. It was like he could read your mind, and you could read his. An odd, yet welcomed, connection.

"What are you?" He asked softly. You smiled once again, eyes crinkling up slightly. When you opened your mouth to speak, Hobie was blown away.

What you spoke wasn't English, but it was like he could understand every word, your voice like a tune, another lovely song, sung by a perfect voice. He exhaled softly when you finished, nodding furiously.

"I-uh-" he stuttered, realizing the boat was only getting closer, the officers' voices growing louder and louder. "Do you speak English?" he asked quickly, praying under his breath that your answer would be-

"Yes."

He grinned, cocking his head to the side slightly as he stared down at you. "I-"

The horn of the police boat sounded again and you snapped your head to the side, pretty eyes widening before you looked back at Hobie. He opened his mouth, hoping to delay you just a moment longer, calling out, "Wait-!"

But you were already gone, having disappeared under the surface without a trace, lost to the pitch black, shallow waters of the canal. He stared back at the slight ripples still emanating from where you'd left before running over to motor and roughly turning it on.

He had to escape, as quickly as possible. If he got caught now, he'd be out of a home, and he'd grown quite used to this little boat he loved so much.

But those lovely eyes were still stuck in his head. He chuckled to himself as he turned the tiller, steering himself in the opposite direction of the officers chasing him. He hummed those same four notes to himself, your gorgeous melody turning into a tune he didn't think he'd ever quite forget.

He hoped...no he knew that wouldn't be the last time he saw you. Hobie Brown was never one to let an opportunity slip past him, and this little encounter seemed to be much more than that. The way you'd looked at him, spoke to him, smiled at him-

Could it be fate? Hobie didn't believe in fate.

But this just felt so real. So real that he couldn't help but hope that it was fate.

That he was meant to see you again.

Because he would, whether it was written in the stars or not.

He'd find the girl with a voice of gold.

No matter how long it took.

____________________________

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A/N: Might write a part 2 if enough people ask because I feel like turning this into a series might be really fun but I also don't want to spend time writing it if no one's interested because I have other requests to get to too 😭 lmk if you want another part anon!! I'd be glad to write it <3

Taglist: @therealloopylupin2099 @rinverse @l0starl @daydreaming-en-pointe @itsparis-07 @vileviale @puff-hugs @d0uble-tr0ubl3 @lauryn2558 @choccymilkdrinker @sunasslut69 @ask-1610-miles @ask-1610miles @axels-garden @eli21345 @miniaturesuitfox @spotconlon55 @riris-radioactive-panther

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[talesofesther]

sweet calamity | ch 5

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Series Summary: It was something people described as the sweetest pain, the feeling of when the soul that's destined to find yours is closer to you. Wednesday saw it as a curse, promised herself she would hate whoever was chosen for her; but it's easier said than done.

A/N: I think this might be my favorite chapter yet. Let me know what you think. <3

Masterlist | Read ch 4 here

The clock on your bedside table read 1:16 AM. It was a little late, but also the only time when, technically, everyone was asleep.

You snuck out — well not really, considering you're not leaving the school, only your dorm — with careful and calculated steps, you made your way down the dark stairs and to the quad.

The reason for that, is that a particular flower you want to add to the quad's flowerbed only blooms at night. And you need to make sure that its color fits in well with the rest of the plants already there. Maybe it was futile and maybe it was your perfectionist side speaking, but you genuinely wanted the place to look nice when you were done.

Or you were just taking any small excuse you could get to keep your mind busy.

You could use your abilities if you wanted to, make the flower bloom during the day so you could see it in its full glory, but it didn't sit well with your heart to disturb its natural cycle.

So here you were, in your pajamas, shivering because of course you forgot your jacket, sneaking out into the night only to watch a few flowers bloom. It reminded you of the times that you'd do the same thing when staying over at your grandparents when you were younger; a smaller you hugging a huge cardigan around your shoulders, your bare feet feeling the grass between your toes as you sat down on the lawn and just waited for it to slowly happen.

The moon was high in the sky when you reached the quad, almost full and casting a pleasant glow for you. The air was cold, much colder than it was during the day but there was a certain comfort to it, you realized.

You closed your eyes for a moment, tilting your head up and breathing in deeply.

Quiet moments like these have always been some of your favorites.

She would probably enjoy it too.

Your mind drifted. You opened your eyes only to see a blanket of stars above you; endless, timeless.

Maybe she would complain about the colors, but you'd gladly add a few black flowers to the mix if she asked you to.

You shook your head, scolding yourself for missing someone who wasn't even yours, to begin with.

Five days ago, Wednesday found out you are her soulmate, and you haven't spoken with her since. It could be wishful thinking, but sometimes you had the feeling that she wanted to speak with you, however, you didn't feel much ready for that. The changes were small, like finding a new partner for a few classes that you used to sit with her, taking the longer path to some of them so you wouldn't end up bumping into her; little things to postpone what was most likely inevitable — you live in the same place after all, it was bound to happen — but for now, you didn't know what else you could do, other than avoid her.

With a soft sigh, you sat down on the ground, eyes fixed on your flowers in the middle of the quad. You hugged your knees close to your chest… and waited.

The night was serene, you could hear the rustling of leaves in the distance, crickets singing, and music.

A beat passed, and you frowned.

Music?

The melody was a little distant, but not much, you could hear it pretty clearly; soft notes coming from the cords of a cello.

You couldn't put a name to the song even if you tried, but you could tell it wasn't a happy one. The melody was somber; not creepy though, closer to sorrowful. It comes from the tallest room in Ophelia Hall, echoing through Nevermore's corners and undoubtedly waking a few students from their slumber.

You know it's Wednesday. Enid has complained to you about her cello solos in the dead of night one too many times already.

If you close your eyes and focus hard enough, you can picture her fingers moving with the cords, shaping the notes of the song.

From your spot on the quad, you look up at what you can see of the half-colorful round window. You stay there until her song ends and a little bit after, part of you knows she's still out there too. In times like these it feels like the universe is fighting to keep you close to Wednesday; you wonder when it'll see reason and give up — though secretly, part of you doesn't want it to. Because you could pretend you shared this little moment with her, after all, it was just you and her who were awake and out at this hour.

The thought of somehow feeling connected to her made you smile.

—

Wednesday dragged out the end notes of her song, the tip of her fingers burning and stinging over the cords; a pleasant, grounding feeling.

Thing closed her sheet music book, gesturing softly at her after.

"That's a silly question," Wednesday told him, setting aside her cello, "considering I have nothing to be worried about."

The disembodied hand gestured again, causing Wednesday to narrow her eyes at him.

"Her childish behavior does not bother me, I'm not sure why you would even assume that." She huffed, looking away from him with a clenched jaw, "she's the one who chose to keep it from me in the first place, so if she wants to keep her distance now…"

Wednesday breathed in deeply, she got up from her chair, and walked over to the edge of the balcony to let the cold wind kiss her cheeks, "it's just less work for me," she finished then.

Wednesday feels stuck in limbo sometimes, she doesn't understand the weight on her chest whenever she thinks of you, can't decide on how to feel about you nor why she even cares at all. She detests not knowing things, yet when it comes to soul bonds and flower perfumes, she sees herself walking blindfolded on a tightrope.

Thing came to her side carefully, he tapped her elbow, waiting until Wednesday's dark eyes settled on him. He gestured gently, his fingertips tapping the back of her hand once he finished.

In a quick move, Wednesday pulled her hand back and took a step away from him. She shook her head, breathing in deeply. "That could never be true," she pointed a finger at him, "say it again and I'll pick out each of your nails."

Wednesday turned around and walked back inside, leaving Thing alone in the night; but she laid in bed wide awake, staring at her ceiling for hours on end until the first birds started singing, his words replaying over and over in her mind.

———

The tall doors of the fencing room creaked when Wednesday pushed them open, the sunlight coming from the huge windows reflected on the pristine white walls and made the clashing blades shine.

The Addams girl walked between her peers, helmet in hand and chin held high. She could see their teacher instructing Xavier on his poor stance, holding his own blade in the correct position so the boy could copy. Wednesday scoffed when he failed again. He should stick to the bow and arrow, she thought.

Wednesday's gaze still looked for you in the crowds — while the teacher was busy getting frustrated with Xavier, she found you adjusting your uniform in the far corner of the spacious room.

She stalked closer, closing the distance between you and her. Your eyes found hers just before you lowered your helmet on your head and Wednesday could almost see the way your breathing faltered. She had caught you off guard.

You make to take a step back but your boot hits the wall, and it's suddenly very familiar to a recent memory that has been plaguing Wednesday's nights. She should hate you for it, for making her care about something she promised she wouldn't; but oh, she can't.

It's okay if you like her, there's nothing wrong with that.

Thing's words still echo in her mind.

Wednesday is quick to reach beside you, grabbing a blade for herself from the support on the wall and turning around to give you your desired space, because the image of you running away from her makes her stomach turn unpleasantly.

"Ready?" Bianca's voice caught Wednesday's attention and she looked up, only to see that the siren wasn't speaking with her, but with you.

You walked in front of her slowly, blade in hand as you took your stance, "yeah, ready."

Wednesday's grip on the steel handle of her own blade tightened; who was the absolute moron who paired you up with Bianca?

You were awful at fencing and Bianca was, arguably, even more competitive than Wednesday; and as much as she didn't want to admit it, the siren was good.

Your blade clashed with Bianca's for the first time, and a foreign feeling took over Wednesday's body as she watched the sparring unfold. She was restless, chest tight as she anticipated your every move.

Her lungs had a distant ache, because she's been holding her breath. Bianca's blade grazed the side of your head and Wednesday didn't know where to focus her unblinking eyes. She took a step closer when you almost lost your footing.

What the hell was happening to her?

Bianca was fast, too fast for you to follow. She striked, and you ducked out of the way but the movement caused the tip of her blade to scratch the side of your free hand.

Droplets of crimson red were quick to fall on the floor, staining the polished wood. The sharp pain made you wince, dragging your attention to the blood slowly flowing from the recent cut.

It was a blink-of-an-eye kind of thing. Bianca didn't see your wound, and you didn't see her going for the next blow until it was too late to defend yourself.

All that was heard was the loud clashing of steel against steel.

Wednesday stood in front of you, her blade holding Bianca's in place, with a look in her eyes that could send the bravest man running for the hills.

"What the hell, Wednesday?" Bianca snapped, lowering her weapon.

"This fight is clearly over," Wednesday tilted her head towards your bleeding hand, she still had her blade pointing to Bianca, daring her to object.

Bianca shifted her attention to you, her eyes softening, "shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's alright," you cut her off with a wave of your hand and a small, reassuring smile, "I'm alright."

"Addams," the teacher called, walking over to where you stood, "you're not allowed to interfere when other students are sparring".

Only when Wednesday saw Bianca walking away, did she lower her weapon. "Then you should learn how to properly pair up your students," she bluntly stated, raising an eyebrow at him.

The older man huffed, turning his gaze to you, "go to the infirmary." Was all he said before walking away.

You angrily took off your helmet, messing up your hair. "I had it under control," a frustrated scoff escaped you as you threw your blade to the floor. You refused to look up and meet Wednesday's eyes.

"Obviously not," she countered, "given how she was about to impale you with her sword had I not stepped in."

"Whatever, it's not like I asked for your help," you argued back a little too loudly and felt warmth rush to your cheeks when it attracted a few curious glances.

Wednesday flinched at your sudden tone, blinking a couple of times. You never snapped like that. After a beat of silence, she tried reaching out, "let me see it."

Only for you to take a big step back, holding your bleeding hand close to your chest as if trying to protect it. This distance, this brick wall you were trying to build up between you and her; it got Wednesday striving to keep her face impassive, to pretend like it wasn't taking away her sleep.

"I don't need you pretending like you care, Wednesday," you told her quietly, turning around to walk to the door, and Wednesday watched you leave. Again.

Her classmates were anything but subtle with the way they watched the two of you, no doubt wondering what about you was so special that prompted Wednesday to do what she had just done. To be honest, she was wondering the same thing.

With each of your steps — morning sunlight bathing you aureate as you walked — Wednesday could feel the thudding beat of her heart against her ribs, trying to escape her, trying to go after you.

Wednesday closed her eyes, mumbling a thousand curses under her breath as she shot down her ego. Damn you. She discarded her blade and helmet, hurrying to fall into step beside you.

"You're mine even if I don't want you to be," she forced out, sparing a single annoyed glance at you; her hand took hold of yours in a strong grip as she pulled you along, "I'm not letting anything happen to you."

—

The cut on your hand wasn't big, but the antiseptic still stung like a bitch.

You sat on one of the hospital beds of the infirmary, swinging your feet back and forth as the nurse wrapped a small bandage around your hand.

Wednesday was leaning back against the wall to your right, you could feel the weight of her eyes on you, unmoving; you felt like a deer under a panther's gaze.

But that analogy didn't work, did it?

You dare to steal a glance at her; you catch her straightening her posture, clearly not expecting you to do what you just did. Her eyelashes kiss the corner of her cheeks as she looks down at her boots, her arms crossed over her chest. There's something about her that wasn't there before, you just can't put your finger on it yet.

I'm not letting anything happen to you.

Why? You thought to yourself as you looked back at your hand, the white gauze now slowly turning a soft shade of pink. Why did she have to say that?

"You can come back later to change it one more time if you want to, but you should be fine by tomorrow," the nurse gently told you.

"Thank you, I will," you smiled, flexing your hand to test if the pain was still there. It was.

The older woman smiled back, before turning around to attend to a vampire girl who's accidentally eaten garlic.

You didn't move, only pursed your lips and gripped the edge of the bed; you had a feeling of what would happen next.

And it did.

Wednesday pushed herself away from the wall, her steps slow as she came to stand in front of you. She stopped closer than you thought she would.

"Lemon and salt will help," Wednesday told you.

Your head instantly snapped up to look at her, you frowned, eyes a tad too wide. "It'll sting like hell."

There's a ghost of a smile on Wednesday's lips that she never intended for you to see. She reached a hand to you, slowly, carefully, half expecting you to reject her touch again.

You didn't, and you're not sure why. But you did hold your breath before she even touched you.

She took hold of your injured hand, her fingers holding yours with a gentleness even she didn't know she was capable of. Wednesday turns your hand around, and somehow she knows you're back in that moment too.

She gulped, her thumb brushing over the dried blood stain on your uniform; "for the stain," Wednesday simply said.

"Oh," is all you can breathe out, afraid to break the spell that's holding this moment.

You allow yourself to savor her touch just for a second more before pulling your hand back.

Wednesday didn't comment on it, she refused to acknowledge the effect you have on her. She sets her jaw tight before saying; "I've been meaning to apologize."

You raised an eyebrow at her.

"For what I said when we first met," she continued, and you closed your eyes, because you were done crying.

"Had I known it was you I'd-"

"You what?" You interrupted her. "You'd tell me I'm not a burden? Or maybe that I shouldn't grow attached to you because you hated me before even knowing me?"

Wednesday's lips parted yet no words came out. This is wrong, this is all so wrong. She decides. This is not how our story should go.

You pushed yourself off the bed, picking up your bag to leave the infirmary.

And Wednesday follows, because that's all she can do now.

"Listen, Wednesday," you started after a sigh, pushing open the door and being welcomed with the chatter of Nevermore's busy hallways, "we can be friends if that's what you want us to be."

The students walking around you caused Wednesday to move closer, her shoulder bumping into yours with each step.

"But right now… I need time. And I need space." You shrugged, a melancholic smile coming to your lips.

Wednesday can't decide on how to feel, the thought of it brought a sour taste to her mouth. She should be glad, but that doesn't sit right with her either. And she thinks she should probably say something anyway, but before she could, someone else called out your name.

Both you and Wednesday turned to see Andrew waving animatedly to you as he molded his way between the students until he could reach you.

"Hey you," he greeted with a smile, then turned to the girl beside you, "Wednesday." He gave her a nod, and when she didn't answer, he looked back at you, "ready to present our work?"

You breathed in deeply, you hated talking in front of the class. "As I'll ever be."

"Relax, I'll be by your side the whole time." He offered.

You glanced at Wednesday before following him, the glint in your eyes resembling something akin to longing; "I'll see you around, yeah?"

Affection isn't a word Wednesday uses much, but she thinks of it a lot when it comes to you.

"Okay," she uttered quietly, and as you walked off with the guy, Wednesday managed to catch on to little bits of your next conversation;

"Hey so, you know how the Rave'n party is less than two weeks away, right? I was wondering if you'd like to go with me?" The annoying boy asked.

"Uh, yeah sure, I- I'd love to," was the last of your words that Wednesday could hear.

And she felt the strange urge to grab your hand and drag you away with her all over again.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 6 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I'd appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

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[bridgyrose]

Ruby felt her heart race as a blush crossed her cheeks, her eyes glued on Weiss and Penny as she watched them dance. There wasnt a party or a gala, no dresses or tuxedos, no reason at all for the two to dance beyond enjoying the music and wanting to dance together, and yet, all she could do was watch and fall in love with the two all over again. The smiles on their faces made her heart flutter, the laughter that left their lips made her blush deepen, the joy that they felt with the little things reminding her why she fell for them in the first place.

“Slow down,” Penny said between a few laughs. “You know I cannot keep up with you like this.” 

“You knew what you were getting into when you picked me to dance with,” Weiss laughed with a smirk as she twirled Penny around. “But dont worry, the song is almost over.” 

Ruby smiled as she watched the two start to wind down as the song finished, her cheeks still as red as her cloak once they finished with Weiss holding Penny close. She looked away to hide her blush and calm her heart, her voice cracking as she spoke. “We really should finish packing. If we’re late again- “

“Blake will understand if we’re late,” Weiss interrupted as she let go of Penny. “Unless you’re jealous you didnt get to dance with me.” 

Ruby nearly froze as she felt Weiss put a finger under her chin and move her head until she was staring deep into pale blue eyes. Her cheeks started to heat up as her blush deepened more, her fingers twitched as she desperately wanted to reach out and place her hand on Weiss’s cheek. She was close enough to kiss, close enough to pull close to hold, close enough to finally ask her to be hers.

She finally pulled away and cleared her throat and looked away. “I-I think I need some air.” 

Penny smiled a bit and took Ruby’s arm. “Then we can go for a walk. We have been packing for a while now.” 

Weiss sat down. “You both can go. Its still a bit too warm for me to go out right now. Just dont be out for too long.” 

Ruby nodded and made her way to the door, trying to ignore the fact that Penny was still holding her arm. Her heart ached to tell Penny and Weiss how she felt, to finally ask them out on a date like she had wanted to for years, but seeing the two together, seeing them date each other… It made her nervous that she was going to ruin the friendship she enjoyed with them. 

“Is everything alright, Ruby?” Penny asked once they were outside. “Your face is still red and your body seems warmer than usual.” 

“I-I’m fine,” Ruby answered quietly. “Its nothing to worry about.” 

“Are you sure? The only time I’ve ever seen Weiss get red like that is when she is sick.” 

“I guess you could call it a bit of a sickness.” Ruby took a deep breath as she walked down the street, letting her mind focus on smells of baked bread from the nearby bakery, the sounds of cars passing by on the roads, and the feel of a slight breeze on her skin to take her mind off her feelings for Weiss and Penny. “But its not a bad sickness. An annoyance but not bad.” 

Penny looked a bit confused. “And how is that an annoyance?” 

Ruby went quiet as she looked for the right words to say. Annoyance wasnt quite right either, but she wasnt sure how to describe it. “Lovesick” didnt seem to feel quite right, she wasnt exactly sick of the feeling. No, quite the opposite. The love she felt made her feel more human and less like a weapon for Ozpin to wield. And yet, no matter how much she wanted to say something, it never felt… right. Like it wasnt deserved. 

“It gets in the way,” Ruby finally answered with a lie. “Clouds my judgment, makes it harder for me to focus on what really matters… stuff like that.” 

“Is that why your heart rate increased when Weiss touched you?” 

“No… I mean… not entirely…” Ruby let out a soft sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Right, you would notice that, wouldnt you?” 

Penny nodded with a smile. “It also seems to happen when you are with me. Just like it does when Weiss is around me.” 

“Can we talk about this later? After we visit Blake and Yang?” 

“Winter always says that you should never avoid talking about your feelings.” 

“That’s… ironic coming from her.” 

“She means well, even if she does not follow her own advice.” 

“Yeah, but… its easier said than done. I dont want to ruin anything.” 

“And what would you ruin?” 

“Our friendship.” Ruby slowed down her pace as she tried to focus on everything around her. The sounds of the dogs barking, the smells of the flower stands, the feel of the heat of the sun. None of it enough to take her mind off the conversation. “Weiss and I have been friends for years, about as long as you and I have. But if I try to talk to her about… this-” 

“Then I think you will make her happy,” Penny interrupted. “She has been trying to find a way to tell you that she wants you to join us. And… and I think I would like that too.” 

Ruby looked over at Penny to see a blush run across her freckled cheeks. It was strange to see her look so flustered, usually being the calm one between her and Weiss. And to see her blush, to feel her fingers brush up against her own and to feel her lean against her… it was almost everything she wanted. “And you’re sure she wants me like that?” 

Penny nodded. “Knowing her, she will probably be coming up with a way to ask.” 

Ruby nodded and started to walk Penny back to the apartment, smiling a bit as she held Penny close. “Then I’ll let her ask.” 

“But please make sure to look surprised when she does.” 

“Dont worry, I will.” Ruby relaxed a bit as she made her way back, stopping at the door when she started to smell some cookies along with fried fish she hadnt had in years. With a deep breath, she walked in and smiled, ready to finally talk to Weiss. 

[kittyamore0]

𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫

༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉

༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉

[PART II]

RATING: SFW

FANDOM/GENRE: Horror, dark romance, scream 6, Ghostface, Ethan Landry

WRITING STYLE: One-shot

TAGS: @kittiescrownedsoul, @zspen, @h34rtsformilli, @alice121804, @kylespencersvocalcords, @babywantskith

REMINDER: Do NOT translate, transfer, modfiy, copy or steal my ideas!

CW: Attempted murder, stalking, stabbing, breaking and entering, usage of a knife, knife mentions, fighting, shouting/screaming, swearing, blood, passing out

༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉

"You fuck up!" An angry Quinn slams her hand on the small, wooden coffee table. "I wasn't going to sit there and watch you kill the love of my life!" Quinn scoffs. "Richie didn't care about trying to kill Sam!" Ethan rolled his eyes. "That's because he was with Amber! He didn't care about Sam, none of them did! Billy, Stu...I care about [Name!]"

Quinn lets out a frustrated groan. "You fucking virgin..." Ethan shrugged. "That changed with [Nam ]" Quinn pretends to gag. "Dude, overshare!" Ethan raises his hands in a 'whatever' matter.

"Dad won't be happy about this. You're messing up the plan...!" Ethan mumbled 'i dont care...' to which Quinn responded by bumping into him, hard.

She slammed the door shut, making Ethan flinch. "Cranky..." He faked shivered.

↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔

You hummed while listening to music on your headphones, glancing outside your house window, remembering your terrifying experience on the makeshift ladder while trying to escape.

You shook your head and lifted your shoulders up and down, continuing on munching on your small snack.

Your phone rang. You were hesitant to pick up after seeing the callers ID, 'unknown caller,' but it could be Gale, prank-ers, etc...

You decided to play the safe game by hanging up, nibbling on your sweet treats.

You received another phone call again. You started getting pissed off and grabbed it in a swift motion, 'Tara' it read.

You took a deep breath in before answering and putting the phone to your ear.

"Hey, Tara, whats up?"

You could hear faint breathing from the other side.

"Hello, [Name]..."

Your breathing stopped, all of your movements stopped.

That same fucking deep, moderated Ghostface voice.

"How have you been since the last time we met, hmm? That ladder stunt you pulled was impressive, but incredibly bitchy at the same time..."

You turned to your window and then your door.

"You're acting like you wouldn't pull something like that if you were on the brick of death, cocky asshole."

They chuckled.

"You've got a point, so vulgar though..."

You scoffed.

"Says the fucker who said my surviving skills were bitchy!" "Feisty, i like it..."

You grimaced.

"Fuck you, you perv!"

You ran to your knife holder, pulling out a knife. You were about to hang up until you heard Ghostface shriek.

"Hang up and ill have you hanging on those trees on your front porch like ornaments, and we all know Its too early for Christmas so you'll be an early Christmas gift! You hear me?!"

You smiled and flashed a smile grin.

"You think I'm scared of you now? Maybe at when i was on the ladder, but this is my house and I'm for sure not gonna let you parade around MY house trying to kill me and doing whatever the fuck you want!"

You hanged up, stuffing your phone in your pocket. At first, it was quiet. You stayed still trying to figure out where Ghostface could be hiding.

You heard some clothes shuffling in the background. There. You swung your head to the left of you and a gloved hand holding a knife came in contact with your right that held nothing.

You kicked the figure in the back of their knee, making them fumble forwards. You held your knife and swung it at them, but they had also lifted their knife, clashing it against yours.

During that process, the knife in your hand flew from the impact. "Fuck!" They tried stabbing you again, but you dodged by crouching under their arm and running to the kitchen counters.

They were hot on your tail. Your current goal was to get another knife, but chances were slim with this fucker running and partying. You pulled on one of your cabinets, letting it fly right into Ghostfaces mask, hitting them directly without the mask too.

You reached out to the knife holder, until the clothed arms slithered around your waist. They raised the knife and let it sink into your waist. You scream in pain.

You lifted your right foot up and then down, kicking them from your behind, pushing them back too. The knife went with them as they flew.

You took this chance to run upstairs, going into your bedrooms closet and stuffing yourself behind a suitcase.

↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔

"Goddammit...where did she go?" Ethan huffed in frustration. Text after text, Quinn didn't respond. He passed the room she was staying in, sending another text, but hearing the notification come from her room.

He opened the door to her room, slowly going in after curiosity got to him. He spotted Quinns phone on her bed. "She probably forgot to take this..." He grabbed her phone while it switched on.

'Tara and [Name] have to be got to be taken care of.'

What...?

He opened her phone, and paused before putting the password in. He scrolled through messages until he found the message between Quinn and detective Bailey.

Quinn: Im telling you. That fucker, [Name], has Ethan under control! He beat the shit out of me for trying to kill her. If i wasn't wearing the mask, i would have a massive black eye! Detective Bailey: Tara troublesome too. More than Mindy. Quinn: Mindy's such a fuck ass. Nagging about whose this whose that, what can be the killer or what cannot. Killer history! I never asked for it. Detective Bailey: Well, we have to be patient. Quinn: No, the fuck we dont. I dont even have the patience either. That bitch, [Name], is getting me on my nerves. I have a plan anyways. Detective Bailey: And what is that plan, Quinn? Quinn: You go for Tara, i go for [Name]. We get rid of them and dont tell Ethan the plan. Detective Bailey: What do you suggest we do other than what you said? Quinn: I just need Taras phone, to call [Name], then you can have your way with Tara while i have mine with [Name]. Detective Bailey: Alright.

"Shit!" Ethan rushed out of Quinns room, running towards his own. He fell foward into his room, scrambling to get his own Ghostface costume.

"No...no, no, no!" Tears build up in his eyes

↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔↔ᰔᩚ↔

You sighed in relief, feeling your phone still in the same place you had left it.

You dialed the police, explaining your situation to them. They asked you to stay on call, but the closet door burst opened. Ghostface. Out of panic, you hanged up and put a hand over your mouth, also putting your phone on silent and low light.

They rummaged through your clothes, even taking some out. They grunted and slammed the door.

After a few minutes of silence, you crawled out of your closet. You put a hand over your chest, in relief that they werent here, but wait... something felt wrong?

You turned around to see Ghostface charging at you. You yelped and threw yourself to the left again, making them miss their hit and run.

They turned around and lifted the knife in their hand. You ducked under their arm and grabbed the lamp of the nearby, throwing it at their mask, causing them to grunt.

You tried to take another swing before Ghostface held your right arm that held the lamp. You brought your foot up and kicked their arm away. You hit them with the lamp. Right and then left, their head went.

You ran out of the room and slammed the door closed. You heard your door crack from how hard the door hit. Your throat felt tight, the collar of your shirt was snatched, but as soon as it was snatched, it was let go.

You heard a grunt and felt the Ghostface chasing you not so hot on your trail anymore. You turned around to see two Ghostface brawling it out.

"What the fuck...?" One of them jumped at you and hugged your body, pushing you away from the other one trying to snatch up.

The Ghostface that was holding you pushed you aside and punched the first Ghostface to appear. The first Ghostface to appear hit the back of their head on the hallway mirror.

The second Ghostface grabbed the same mirror and smashed it on the other Ghostface head, making them go limp and all movements stilled.

The other turned to you, and you stayed put, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, they embraced you, before pushing you away. "Leave. You're bleeding..." You nodded, confused.

You turned around and ran downstairs, limping your way onto your porch and streets. Your vision went black and everything had caught up to you. You were just saved by a Ghostface and your waist is bleeding as in status SOS!

Your head throbbed and everything twisted and turned in your vision.

The last thing you remember was losing your breath before hitting the concrete ground.

༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉

༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉༉𓆩❀˚𓆪༉

[osiiiris]

Terzo, the unlikely vampire - A brighter night.

As predictable, I’m struggling to keep these episodes short and light, but everything is under control, for now. A new episode for my clumsy Terzo vampire. A little less clumsy in this one.

>> Ep. I: Tumblr, AO3

>> Ep II: AO3, down here 👇🏻

>> Ep. III: Tumblr, AO3

It’s night again over the Ministry, and as you prepare to go to bed, your sixth sense tingles with the sensation of being observed. Just as you slide your habit down your shoulder, you turn to the window and find a pair of eyes peering out from the lower corner, one green and one white.

"Terzo? Again?" you sigh.

The window is closed, revealing only half of his head, as if he believed that was enough to go unnoticed. He tries to retreat quickly, but you're faster. "What did I tell you about windows and doors?" you scold gently, opening the window.

He looks up at you, holding on the cornice of the window. Fortunately, your room is only on the first floor, and the ivy crawling on the walls makes it easy to climb. "Well, I wasn’t actually spying, I just-just happened to pass by!" he stammers.

"Passing by... through the window?" You raise an eyebrow, helping him into the room, making sure his outfit doesn’t get in the way again. You ask him what he was doing there, reminding him that spying on girls in their rooms isn't appropriate.

"Well, sometimes I'm lucky... I see them undress." he boasts, to which you quickly react with an afflicted "Oh, Sthanas…" massaging your temples.

"Uh, anyway... It's a beautiful night, and I was going out for a walk." he suggests.

"For a walk?" You ask him, skeptically. 

"Yes, would you... join me?"

You hesitate, it is quite late, but at the end you ask him for five minutes to get ready, and as you exit the room together, you don’t notice him quickly grabbing your panties left on the bed, putting them into his pocket. 

You’ve never seen the Abbey under that light. 

Yes, you’ve been up till morning with your friends, at midnight masses or parties, but you had never focused on all those little details Terzo is showing you tonight. 

He guides you through the empty corridors, inviting you to just hush and listen to all the echoes, the sounds and what he calls music of the night, reverberating through the stones. To you, night time had always been a useless timespan to fill with rest, thinking that nothing really happened during the dark hours, but now you start to feel something different, as if the walls seem to breathe with a life of their own, whispering secrets of centuries past, of all the feet that clicked on those floors and the thousands of words the walls have absorbed. You realize that in that silence, even the smallest water drop falling on the floor has a distinctive sound, different from the others.

He moves you gently, moving closer and farther away as if in a dance. His voice in the silence resonates like a melody, warm on your skin when he whispers in your ear, as if not wanting to disturb the quiet by speaking too loudly, manifesting his charm like a bat who is at his best in flight during the night.

“The night holds secrets untold, mysteries waiting to be unraveled. Each shadow hides a story.” You hear him say. “Night is when everything slows down, revealing its true essence...” He continues, letting the light of the lantern he holds closer to his face draw shadows on him, before blowing on the candle, “… or hiding it in its safe embrace.” and you only hear his voice, his body now one with darkness.

“Do you feel it?” He asks, reappearing behind you, or at least you feel his breath through your hair, his hand on your arm, “Do you feel this magic in the air?” 

As you see all the shadows and faint, natural lights dance around you, It seems like everything comes alive - just a different kind of life - under the moonlight. It is something you never noticed.

“…Yes.” You only manage to say, feeling your heart beating in your throat.

You take his hand and move to the garden, and as the hours pass you finally open up, sharing stories of your past, your childhood, and your journey to the Ministry.

He lets you talk, while he just seems to enjoy your tales, sitting next to you on the stone bench. You’re not even sure if he is actually listening to your words or just enjoying the sound of your voice, as you share your story of a life lived in the lights of the day. 

At some point, when night delves into its darkest hour, he notices you shivering lightly at the cold air. It takes a bit for him to realize you are cold, but as he does you promptly find yourself enveloped in his cloak.

When words go missing you simply find solace in each other’s company, accompanied by a shared, comfortable silence, just letting time pass by itself. Sometimes a beast’s verse, louder than the others, startles you, or a rustle in a bush makes you flinch, but Terzo reassures you that it’s just life going on while humans sleep. 

“It doesn’t stop when the sun goes down.” He says “Nature swarms with no rest. Isn’t it beautiful? Nothing really stops, everything flows endlessly.”

And that is that, something once frightening to you, like strange noises in the night, becomes music you now listen to from a different perspective.

The night passes quickly until you start to yawn, struggling to keep your eyes open.

“Are you bored?”

“No, no…” you reassure him. Your head comfortably resting on his shoulder “it’s just very late for me, I’m not as nocturnal as you. I’m just a bit tired.”

“Oh, well… It's getting late for me too. Dawn is close.” he says, glancing at the sky. You quietly go back to your room, saying goodbye at your door. 

“Thank you for keeping me company. This night was brighter.” he says, putting a little smile on your tired face. “To the next walk, so…?”

“To the next walk.” You agree.

He moves away, but after a few steps he turns back again, “Tonight?” he asks hopefully, pointing at you with both indexes.

“Tonight.” Nodding, you agree again, and finally enter your room, unsure if that night had been real or just a dream.

Only a few hours later you find your friends in the refectory. You woke up a bit late, but not enough to miss breakfast.

“Oh wow, I know what those are.” A friend says with a rather suggestive tone, pointing at your eyes, puffy for the lack of sleep, “Someone stayed up all night…”

“Terzo invited me for a walk tonight.” you quietly admit, biting a brioche. It is not a mystery that Terzo seems obsessed with you lately. “I found him spying on me through the window.”

One of your friends shrugs, “I know, I have Dracopia following me now…” as she says it, she stops eating when she notices your eyes, all pointed in the same direction behind her. “He’s behind me, isn't he?”

You all nod, looking at Copia’s head disappearing quickly behind a wall. Dracopia, you learnt, is just a nickname the Sisters have given him.

You spend the lunch discussing whether or not your friend should give a chance to Copia, and what you should do with Terzo, gossiping about how cute and odd he is with you, and the magical night you just spent with him.

The decision is an easy one anyway, and as you return to your room to prepare for the night, you notice something is missing in your drawers. 

You shrug, trying to remember where you put the panties you were planning to wear.

[l0vergirlatheart]

can I get a twst Dorm leaders headcanon with a student that wears their headphones a lot bc they're sensitive to loud noises?

Have this image too

this is so me wtf (both the req and the image lmfaooo)

didnt do anyone esle because im lazy and tired and its nearly midnight AAAAAAAAAAA

anyways as always, start under cut

MALLEUS DRACONIA

he is old

mentally

im not a hater i swear

but when he sees you with things hanging out of your ears, he's slightly concerned.

whether it's normal headphones or earphones or earbuds, it just doesn't seem normal

so of course, he informs you of this

you stare at him for a second before you take an earbud out and stare at him again, with a following "what'd you say?"

he thinks it's harming your ears for a moment because you couldn't hear him

please reassure baby that it's not an infection or something

he'll be confused for a moment but he gets the hang of it rather quickly

SHARE AN EARBUD WITH HIM!!!

SHARE YOUR MUSIC W HIM!! HE WILL FALL AS HARDER, IF IT'S EVEN POSSIBLE

he jus luvs any classical tunes but..

i actually honestly think he's also like hard metal... don't ask me why

OH!! AND TV GIRL

HE LOVES TV GIRL!!!!

LISTENING TO LOVERS ROCK AND CIGARETTES AFTER SEX TOGETHER MAKES HIM MELT :((( <3

overall 10/10 good boy

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

he KNOWS what it's like to have sensitive ears

so believe it or not, he totally understands u wearing earbuds an (probably) won't rip on u for it

he might start talking to you w/o u knowing because you have your eyes closed and youre just vibin w ur music

and he knows that so he takes that chance to say some sappy shit w/o anyone hearing him at all

he could never say it to your face

so he opts for this instead

fuckin big ass ego mf /affectionate

he'll probably never ask to listen to the music w u no matter how much he wants too

so if you wanna have a silly lil romantic moment w him, you'll have to ask him first

he'll probably scoff an roll his eyes before he sees you pout and he just turns away as one of his ears flicker

that's your sign to put the earbud in

imo i think he'd really like MSI, POPPY, and for some reason Mac DeMarco

mindless self indulgence because their music jus slaps

POPPY because i think he'd like the guitar in the background and the solos and her voice

Mac DeMarco because he's nice to listen to when you wanna pass out fr

overall 8/10 good boy

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

okay dont come at me but at first i have a feeling he might try to use it to rope u into some kind of contract...

but later on he just accepts it

he's sometimes annoyed when he's talking to you an u havent heard a thing he said

but one confused look from you makes his annoyed frown turn into a small, hard-to-keep pout

has to remind himself that your hearing is different from his

he tries his best to keep monstro lounge quiet at times and lets you stay after hours when it's all quiet and empty

it has a certain comforting charm

i swear the first time you asked him to listen to music with him

he turned into stew i swear his face was extremely red and he was just like

???

he accepted ofc, tried to play it off, (failed)

i have a feeling he'd like Ricky Montgomery, Steve Lacy, and girl in red

Ricky Montgomery because he's got a nice voice and his lyrics are really relateable,

Steve Lacy because the instrumentals are just so!!!

and girl in red because he finds it romantic listening to her w you

lean against him as you two listen to music i promise he'll explode

overall 9.5/10 good boy

KALIM AL-ASIM

oh boy

this boy is super loud (/affectionate)

but once he learns about you and your sensitive hearing, he tries his best to keep it down

from lowering his voice a bit to trying to make "quiet times" at his dorm,

he tries his best to make sure you're as comfortable as possible and it's not too loud for you

he likes to talk to you even if you're not listening to him, he could ramble for hours

as long as you're next to him, he could talk until his voices dries out and withers away

he'll probably be the one to ask you to listen to music first

i think he'd also like Mac DeMarco, Alec Benjamin, and Conan Gray

all of them because of the instrumentals and vocals!

but he doesn't mind listening to anything as long as he's with you

he might fall asleep while listening though

he's smiling all the way through though :)

overall 15/10 good boy

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

theres probably some bs rule about music n shit but like

lets pretend there isn't

he'll probably be trying to reprimand you for doing some stupid shit

and then you'll just take out an earbud and be like "huh??"

he'll just stare up at you, face slowly getting redder from slight anger but mostly embarrassment

like?? how dare you ignore him???

but either way, you're his favorite so you get a pass

he just sighs and shakes his head

but then you tell him why you wear your earbuds so often and he immediately gets it

he himself used to really sensitive to loud noises before he just got used to them (thanks to his mom)

so he does his best to go easy on you about it

he WILL NOT EVER ASK YOU TO JOIN HE IS WAYYY TOO SHY

hand him an earbud, he'll be confused for a moment or two

but he puts it in w a red face and vibes w u

i think he'd like Mitski, Tally Hall, and Pastel Ghost

they all are just so... soothing yet relatable

fall asleep listening to Liquid Smooth with him, hug him as you listen to Hidden In the Sand, just hold his hand as you two sit in the garden while listening to Silhouette...

he loves it sm

overall 9.3/10 good boy

[ivycorp]

Megatron and his servo

The door slid shut behind Megatron, his quarters quiet and empty as always (but they weren't like that not long ago, he remembered with a twist of the mouth); his frame was hot and charged up despite the time it took to:

Return to Nemesis,

Get told off by Soundwave (it was an interesting thing, to be told of with no words),

Subsequently to be told off by Knock Out that he needed to leave the injured hand to heal or it would require an entire replacement next time.

He was so dazed by the fight earlier, he just nodded and went out into the corridor from the medbay, on automatic letting his legs carry him back to berth. The vehicons he passed in the way scrambled to not cross paths with him, but the warlord didn't really care about them.

No, he had more pressing matters on his mind. 

Taking a look at his freshly repaired arm, he noted with humor that at least it was not the servo he needed tonight anyways. 

With a practiced ease that spoke of the pathetic disposition he was finding himself way too often these days, the silver mech locked the door, put the music on loud and shut off his own audio input. In case of emergency, Soundwave would shoot him a direct comm anyways.

The music was not for his benefit, after all.

As the silence filled his mind, Megatron allowed himself a shudder as his extensive (not extensive enough, whispered his greedy spark) collection of material on Orion-Optimus started taking its place, feeding his newly rediscovered needs like a mech starved.

'My, pet, you are positively begging to be touched, aren't you?' Optimus's voice seemed to drown him, as the silver frame settled itself down on the floor, knees spread, servos held behind his back in a looser grip than he usually preferred, but the medic's warning was enough to keep him from pushing it.

He sighed softly, chasing the memories of the way Orion would look at him, teasing him with the softest strokes, as the latest battle took hold and reminded just how much he enjoyed the digits on his throat.

It was enough to cause his charge to grow at once, as he desperately held the self-imposed position; he was even facing the chair the blue and red mech took as his during the stay at Nemesis, from the first time they fell into the familiar dynamic.

Megatron both rejoiced and cursed that moment, as it had changed something between them irrevocably- he had no clue precisely why, but the recent losses they were suffering were telling enough.

They have gotten under each other's plating and Megatron was obviously losing control. He expected Soundwave to lose patience with his behavior any day now.

He grimaced, as he felt his frame shiver at the notion of losing control, of letting Orion take care of him, to make him break apart and be rebuilt over and over again in the most agonizingly pleasurable way there could be.

He could feel his valve clench as lubricant started falling on the floor through the seams, but he kept the cover in place.

There were rules to be followed, even when he was alone.

'Beautiful, my sweet, so obedient for me, thank you for waiting for the commands,' cooed the imaginary Prime, as Megatron could feel himself tremble at the praise; discovering that he liked it made Orion smile so nicely, as he explained one day that it also was something he loved to indulge in.

"What a complementary pair we make, Megatron," the mech said once over Energon, and the silver tyrant couldn't help but agree.

Yet now, ex-vents coming out loud, Megatron could only think about the voice in his helm, which chuckled and finally prompted him to move, but still kept the panels closed.

'I want you to take your time and show me where you would like to be touched,' caused the silver servos to move from behind to the front, as Megatron started to stroke his frame, before he arrived at the throat, neck cables just inches away from his wandering digits.

It was the spot Optimus bit him earlier that day.

Touching on the tingling part of his throat, he suddenly wanted to know if the bite was still visible - Knock Out took a look but did not repair it, so most likely it was not threatening and would be taken care of by his own self repair.

He pressed, hissing, as the motion flared with numb pain, which made his spark throb.

He needed to see it badly.

His imagination fed him another memory, the impression of Orion smiling, walking over to the berth and motioning for Megatron to join him, as it offered an undisturbed view of the mirror in the private washracks.

The silver mech knew better than to rise up, instead crawling hastily and setting himself down, pedes spread so his reflection would show the entirety of the heaving frame between them, servos flat on the floor.

'I can see just how desperate you are - if you keep it up I might even let you overload today, despite your prior behavior,' teased the Prime’s voice, as he fought hard to keep his panels closed and optics down; he did not miss the echo of shame that ran through him on the battlefield about not yielding when Optimus threatened to feel disappointed by him.

He did not want to disappoint Orion. He was good and will keep on being good if it meant he could stay in this dazed state longer.

'Now, pet, I want you to open your panels,' instructed him the warm voice he could listen to forever, as his panels slid open and lubricant gushed out of his needy valve, spike pressurized and aching to be touched.

'Look at yourself as you get your valve prepared for me - tell me when you get close to overloading,' ordered the specter of his memories, as Megatron turned his gaze and locked sights with the reflection and allowed his optics to take in the mark on his neck cables as one of his servos went up and wrapped itself right below it.

His other servo was already in motion, working the sensitive mesh open, rocking onto the digits; he did not think it would take long for him to reach the edge, but when he tightened the hold on his neck and brushed his digit against the anterior node, he was hit with a jolt of pleasure that got him immediately there, and he gasped out:

"I am close, so close, please," came the begging, so much faster than expected. He faintly blamed the forward actions of the Prime for driving him insane with the damned bite, but that thought left quickly as he continued the ministrations on his leaking valve. 

He knew at this point he could probably take some of the largest toys hiding in the closet, but it was too far from him now - and, more importantly, there was no command that specified that anything but his digits were allowed this time.

'That was quick, even for you - but then, I knew the bite would do the trick… or was it the talk about a collar, perhaps?' came the question, as Megatron's servo stuttered in its rhythm, nearly bringing him over the edge.

He wished to reply, but all that left his mouth was just a low keen, words escaping his frayed focus and leaving him bare to the wants of his greedy frame. At this point he would agree to whatever the other would demand, if only he would be granted release.

Yet, as Megatron looked towards the mirror, he could not stop feeling a rush of humiliation at the sight; spike neglected, valve leaking so much lubricant it made a considerable pool on the floor, neck cables held tightly and squeezed to the point of pain whenever he would feel himself get dangerously close, until the charge would die down again just enough to escape the temptation.

And he would start again, because he was not told to stop.

The digits were avoiding his node now, as he knew just a brush would make him overload hard. 

He would not do this without permission. 

There were rules to be followed.

The rules were important. 

He could hold it off for longer.

A hum sounded in his audials, as a curt 'optics up front' made him realize he was looking anywhere but the reflection as he was wrestling with the need to obey and the whispers of his frame.

He burned, and the assault on his valve did not stop as he turned to pleading for permission to overload; seeing the desperation in the mirror only made him glitch up.

Such a wanton display…

'Now, pet, we both know who you need to ask if you want to overload,' reminded him the voice, as he briefly wondered if maybe he could break the invisible hold Orion had on him; it's not like he would know what Megatron was doing right now, and what he wouldn't know wouldn't hurt him.

The warlord shook his helm, disappointed at even entertaining this idea.

He would not fail.

As he opened his comm list, he made sure to pick the adequate encrypted frequency - Optimus told him he would not revoke the access again unless he abused his openness, with a threat of terminating their games once and for all.

He could feel the heady state overtake him, as he dialed for Prime to pick up - the Autobot leader usually did not leave him hanging, and more often than not, his release would come very soon after they connected on the line.

The call dropped. 

He sobbed, as he tried again and again, to no avail. With the last dregs of thought, he realized the Nemesis was jamming communications both ways.

Soundwave. 

It must be his way of punishing him for today's loss. Apparently, the TIC's patience has finally ran out.

The elation he felt at the idea of finally being allowed to overload got replaced by the icy chill of shame that made him feel like he was torn apart at the seams; the wetness of his valve felt wrong, but he still could not stop moving his digits.

He wondered briefly if he was too far gone to ever come back to his life before the Optimus-As-Orion incident.

A sympathetic whisper of 'poor thing, you know what is left to do, come on, maybe next time you will get to overload,' made him openly weep, as he withdrew his digits and pushed himself up, shakily going under the solvent in the washracks, set to the coldest setting. 

As the steam lifted from his burning frame, he rested his helm against the wall, charge gradually dropping to the buzz he started associating with just being awake.

Megatron nearly stepped back into the lubricant on the floor, as he felt at once nauseous at the sight and the throb his tired valve gave at the reminder of what he just did. Grabbing a rag, he began to clear it away, noticing to his dismay that the charge was building up again, fuelled by his own sense of humiliation.

It would seem he will need to stay under the cold solvent for a much longer time than expected…

*****

Fowler frowned at his phone, as he fiddled a bit and checked if maybe his WiFi had disconnected.

No, full bars.

Frustrated, he turned to address Ratchet working on the side, grumbling to himself.

"Are we being jammed? Or jamming the Nemesis?" Fowler asked, trying to discern the possible reason why the vehicon group chat stopped updating mid-rant. 

The medic looked at him puzzled.

"No, I don't think so," he replied, going back to doing the inventory, while in the background Optimus stilled his console repair. He looked pensive, but something must have clicked as he relaxed and chuckled to himself, getting back to work.

The Prime even began humming a soft melody as he was mending the pieces he tore off himself because of…

The agent's eyes opened wide when the dots connected:

The group chat has just remarked on loud music picking up.

The incident earlier that day on the battlefield.

Optimus's air of satisfaction as he mended the mangled parts of the console.

Fowler rolled his eyes hard, and asked himself for the fifteenth time that week as to why he even felt surprised anymore.

*********************

Another one prompted by this post of @paraxodicalundressing as a direct follow up to this (mentioning here the time on Nemesis)

[red-dyed-sarumane]

okie im tired for the day heres my vocacolle recs

Inner Child - yurame (miku) : this ones my current favorite. i love the spaceyness going on & i love how the chorus sounds with the harmonies & the lyrics are so good too.

kaf-eine - hiiragi magnetite (kafu) : kafu kafu kafu kafu!!!! this is so fucking cute this is the best thing to come out of their neta posting i love this i love sena yuta's art too its all just so good

kaihou seimei - zeeka (vflower) : this song goes hard. some of the lyrics are a little weird to me but thats really just a zeeka thing the whole things really solid. (zeeka has en translation in the video btw! so u all can enjoy in full) very cool flower song highly recommend

phenomenon - szri (gekiyaku utau + ß) : szri's music always goes hard. quick paced & heavy. love the growly gekiyaku & the rap parts. clearly szri's sound but its distinct from their other songs i think tho some parts remind me of quiet & anaphylaxis. is it related idk im not looking into it rn

kowaremono - kyiku (rime & kazehiki utau) : holy shit. hi i love this. the lyrics kinda hurt & it sounds so dramatic. also oh my god the tuning on rime i could cry. working with her to make her sound both emotional & pretty🥺🥺 this isnt a duo i wouldve thought of but it works. this is so good [puts it directly in ur hands and walks away]

Predation - logico (haru) : yeah this is something i can easily loop for days. its so good. love the little bits of squeakiness on haru it has charm to me. goes hard. haru fans come get ur food

Shell - tokino yamma (rime) : i wasnt sold on this at first but listening more i feel like it works with rime well enough. sounds more emotional than like shes actually struggling it gets a pass from me. love the sound in the chorus. idk this is going to grow on me even more i think with the combination of the lyrics & sound

moving on to things i didnt mylist but still like enough to have in a playlist

Smart??? - marasy (kagamine rin) : i like the it

Worst Regret - youman (gumi) : youman is hit or miss with me but this is a HIT love it

Rime-chan no fukuoka trip kisoukyoku - minami no minami (rime, sekai, kafu, touhoku kiritan, frimomen, matsuka risuku) : hilarious finally my girl gets a neta song thank u minami no minami everything about this js so fuckign funny

Polybius - dopam!ne & zensen (kafu) : these 2 producers know how to have fun together. kami electroswing duo for REAL

hayari no ice cream - mochi utsune (miku) : simultaneous both cute and dark. worth ur time

chase - satsuki (teto sv) : heavy sounding song & theres something about it that keeps u listening. yes its supposed to be pronounced chase its in the comment when u like the video.

it's all my fault - aluvi (stardust infinity) : this is so pretty like actually. heavy content wise but the sound is just SO good. please give it a chance.

Chase - yakou ume (aisuu, rime, tsurumaki maki) : COMPLETELY different from the other chase. its still so good tho

Caligula - shinonome kasumi (gekiyakuß & rime) : this legit sounds like it should be one of the most popular uploads and yet it is not. how sad. its really good

denkou roukaku - dadari (haru) : another haru banger. shes kinda squeaky but i like it.

Plum - see & haiiro nemuri (nedjem & kafu) : such a calm tranquil sound for something not that light.

Time Limit - sigma (kafu, miku, & vflower) : idk how to describe this one its more mellow than other things ive put here but its so far from the really tranquil stuff. very good

yuurei ni naretara. - HotaRu (miku) : absolutely LOVE this sound it feels like carbonation in a pretty colored drink to me

tengoku yori shounen-kun e. - aira (coko, chisei, & kafu) : airas tuning is so unique no one does it like aira does this song is so immediately clockable as aira and it fucks

imaginary girl - miru (teto sv) : this feels like a popular song. to me. im not going to look at the view count im going to live in my own world about it

uso desho!? - eo (rin) : i can vibe to this i think i like the it

hakoniwa no kajitsu [beginning] - hitogoto (kafu & haru) : oooo another hitogoto song pair im liking where this is going i like this theres a story in this one too. dramatic.

giraffe center - caracca (kafu) : i dont have anything profound to say but i think its worth a listen

[uglypastels]

Personal rant incoming because i dont have anywhere else to put this or anyone else to share it with-

Thing is, I hate parties.

But I also know I need to leave the house every now and then and meet up with people my age and come out of my shell.

But my god it was horrible.

The second I got there, not even passed the theshold, the person behind me just says: oh my god I think we have the same costume. And yup. We did. Worst part was that I had already predicted it. Somehow, deep in my gut I saw it coming (while also knowing no one else would get it, which somehow was for the most part also true) and it just immediately sunk my tiny shred of confidence down because, sure its not the end of the world, but still, how fucking emberassing. Out of all the costumes. I just wanted to scream.

But instead, I walked inside and it just got worse from there. It's like all the things that inherently make a party a party were also designed to trigger me into a deep sense of discomfort. Stranger. Loud noises. Alcohol.

I have never been the most social person, but idk what the fuck has happened to me the last few years but its like the last few pieces of my confidence and social skills have been completely deteriorated. I just cant get a single word out. Even introducing myself, when I know I should, I cant. Just smile and wish I would die.

But at the same time, when I do try and speak up it's like I don't exist. No one ever acknowledges what I saw or do and i dont fucking know what I should do. Am I just not funny? Do they not give a shit? Am I truly invisible?

Did I mention, it's so loud. The music is shit (not all the time) and everyone is yelling over it and over each other. A million conversations crossing through the room and I'm unable to keep track, let alone participate in, any single one.

So I just sit there, hoping I'm not making everyone else unconfortable. Except I probably am. Sucking the fucking life out of everyone in my close proximity. I bet I ruined the night for my friend. She's also an introvert and we're both awkward but for her things seemed to go smoother. So then whenever things went quiet I knew it was my fault. I know I should say something but I have no idea what.

Also, being around people my age, as healthy as it is, just makes me sick because it makes me realise just how detached I am socially. How behind I am on life and its just a reminder of my horrible lack of a romantic life.

Not that its really important. I wasnt going there to find anyone. But when you walk into a room and basically 95% of the people there are in a relationship, and all conversations are about who dated who, why x and y broke up, people asking for dating advice.

And upon entering the party, you get warned to look out for this cute guy, coz he's single and kind of needy and looking to latch onto someone, and then your friends notice how, yeah, he's clung onto every single girl at the party. Meanwhile, you havent even seen him. But thats just how my life is. Its not like I actually expected anyone here to suddenly fall in love with me. (I really didn't. But it still heard to hear that)

Idk it was a stupid punch in the gut.

Oh and the fucking pictures. There was constantly someone snapping pictures with exteeme flash scaring the shit out of me and making me so fucking cinscious of everything I was doing and how I looked. And on one side of course it would be nice to have them as a memory keepsake and being one of those kids that never wanted to pose for pictures i get now that it is a bit of a shame, but still, when i hate how i look why would i want that to be memorialised in extremely unflattering light, around stranger and for all of them to see later too. [Actually getting sick just thinking about it]

Anyway, a few hours went by and I made some small talk. There were moments of niceties among the awkward silences and staring ahead in a dissociated state.

But the longer it went on, the more I just felt like crying and I grew so much more aware of my soul sucking presence. Coz fuck am I cockblocking my bestie over here by clinging onto her to have someone, anyone to talk to? I totally am bumming everyone out arent I? If thats even if they notice me of course.

But it still feels early to leave and the FOMO kicks in. As if I wouldc actually participate or make part out of anything that could happen tonight. I cant do it anymore.

So I left, and cried on the way home, and now i'm crying while writing this and just feel so pathetic and ugly and dump and incredibly alone.

[Rant over]

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ronmanmob {{xx}}

"Bout nonsense, or…?" She chases the tail of his questions. It is not often that Beth speaks ill of her brother and when something looms on the horizon that feels it might come close, she closes herself off. In this moment with Ron there is no place for hard feelings, especially not when she needs to ensure the relationship between doctor and patient flourishes so she might be allowed to spend more time with her Prince. Selfish? Certainly. But they both seem benefit from their meetings and walks. She only hopes that maybe Ron might feel the same, finding a tranquillity in her presence. She has no other friends here in England, and she doesn't seem to see him being particularly in tune with the folks around him. Much better then to seek happier moments. She watches as spectres of emotions, of feelings, make a quiet waltz across his features, and she submits every muscle movement to memory that she might easy recall them later. She wraps that expression around herself for its warmth and in favour of taking his arm and dropping it over her shoulder. She does not want him to know trouble simply because she has an urge to cuddle up to her fascinating gentleman. Every ounce of her wants to turn and walk backwards that she might continue to watch his eyes ~their dark depths holding a touch of a glow behind his glasses, the kind that reminds her of stars on a dark night~ and his mouth. That might seem silly or might push him toward concern for her own safety. Instead she keeps pace with him both in conversation as with step. So easily, she's drawn into the idea of a smokey jazz club that he was too young a man to find himself in, wearing what he considered the best threads in his closet. Tall and lean and beautiful, like a scruffy angel slumming amongst mere mortals. For whatever reason, the image he paints so vividly in her mind plays out like a black and white film, except for Miss Ella and her sequined gown of shocking blue beneath the lights. Beth begins to swish in her own ways as she imagined the music, as she tried to share that memory of his and put it in context of her own experiences. She has nothing much like them to share but that doesn't mean she doesn't find it beautiful. But none so much as the smile that comes alive, genuine on generous lips. Her heart finds itself in her throat and her own eyes shimmer. He punctuates that feeling with the tiniest glance of his fingers on her arm, but she doesn't so much mourn its passing, as delight that he sought her out, however briefly. "I goddah disagree wi' you, Ron," she counters quietly, not provoking a disagreement so much as to let him know she knows what he felt then. "I t'ink art is beauty an' music is art. If it moves you, it doesn't have t' be a hosanna, aye? Andy says God made everyt'ing in creation an' it came from His great love, so dat song did too. It was speakin' to you an' it filled ya soul. Is no more beddah message dan dat, aye?" Her own side-wards shared smile lives and dies on a breath and she lapses back into her little shell of silence. Nods when he thanks her. "I'm jus' glad…I could make you happy." Though his words do find her. They sink in. Maybe he would know what she thought or felt or did, because maybe they have some of their broken bits scrambled together. She'd be more mindful of herself. It wouldn't do at all if he knew-knew. "But…uh…yeah. I bring you new kinds each week. Lil bit from your time, lil bit from mind…an' you tell me wha' you like an' wha makes you make completely 'yuck-gross' face."

[anonymityisfunwriter]

The Twin Flame - Chapter 17: "Vigilante Shit"

"Ladies always rise above, ladies know what people want, someone sweet and kind and fun. The lady simply had enough..."

"Sam?" Bucky prompts, grabbing Sam's shoulder to stop him from following you, Sharon, and Zemo. Bucky pauses for a moment, allowing you to round the corner and just out of earshot before he speaks again, "And just what happens if Nagel says something about Karli? She'll know we've been lying about the Flag Smashers this whole time."

Sam takes a deep breath, another dose of dread pooling in his stomach. "I know."

"You know?" Bucky scoffs.

"Look, we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Nothing good will come from telling her right now."

"At least she'll know the truth. And she'll hear about it from you and not Nagel!"

"And then what? We drop a bombshell like that and two seconds later we expect her to face the guy? That doesn't sound like the epitome mental stability, Bucky!"

"Maybe-"

"Guys!" you call, rounding back from around the corner to find them after you realized they were no longer following Sharon. "What are you doing? Come on."

"Coming," Bucky calls back, sparing one last pointed look at Sam as he passes him. 

Sam ignores the pointed look, reminding himself that it was too late to go back and tell you the full truth. And now, nothing good would come from telling you before Nagel. He's sure of it. He joins you again, doing his best to pretend like nothing was wrong. Or at least, there weren't more things going wrong. "You know, Madripoor could give New York a run for its money." 

"They know how to party," Zemo agrees.

"Well, with that bounty on your head, the longer you're in Madripoor, the less likely you're ever leaving," Sharon warns. She nudges her head to a specific container off to the side. "Alright, he's in there. Container 4261. I'll watch while you guys talk to Nagel, but hurry, we're on borrowed time."

You nod, taking one of the earpieces in Sharon's hand. 

Sam is the first one at the container, slowly creaking the metal door open. You enter behind him, straight into the pitch black room. Sam turns the earpiece on, speaking lowly, "Hey, Sharon. You sure this is the right one? It's completely empty."

"Positive. It has to be," she quickly responds. 

You all stand there scanning the completely empty, unassuming cargo container. And you remember that secret bookcase from not that long ago, you slowly pad to the back wall, running your hand over the metal wall. You knock on it once. And just like you suspected, it's hollow. You cross your fingers, pushing on the corner of the wall. "Please work. Please work."

And with a small click, the door creaks open to a stairwell leading down to an underground room.

Sam nods, an impressed smile on his face. "How did you figure that out?" 

"I saw it in a movie once," you tell him. "It's worked out for me twice now."

He chuckles, stepping onto the metal staircase. As you walk down the staircase to the dimmly lit room, you hear quiet music floating through the room.

Sam takes the lead, followed by Bucky, both with a gun in hand. They scan the room, quietly stepping towards the scientist. The doctor's head stays down, not even realizing anyone is in the room with him. 

You watch him for a moment as you creep towards him, the way he tinkers with vials and unknown liquids. He almost looks harmless, but there's a strange quality in the way he works, his eyes flickering back and forth, the quiet hums and groans that leave his mouth. 

As you watch him, slowly stepping closer and closer to him. The music ceases, the silence cutting through the room. Dr. Nagel's head snaps up, gasping when he sees you standing less than a yard away from him.

"Dr. Nagel?" you ask, taking another step towards him. 

"Who are you?" Dr. Nagel frantically demands, scrambling to put distance in between the two of you. "What do you want?"

"We know you're working on a serum, Doctor," you gently state, hoping a soft approach will make him more amendable to answering your questions. 

"Get out of my lab," he orders, throwing the metal tray in front of him directly at you. 

You stop the tray before it hits your face, stopping mid-air only to clatter at your feet harmlessly. Nagel gasps softly, eyes lighting up with recognition. You know that glimmer of recognition in his eye doesn't bode well for you considering you've never met this man before. "Please, Dr. Nagel. We just need answers."

"Hey," Sam warns, directing Nagel's attention to him and Bucky.

Dr. Nagel stops all movement when he sees the two of them standing at the foot of the stairs.

It's clear to you that he knows exactly who you and Bucky are.

"So you know who they are," Sam guesses, gesturing to you and Bucky. Bucky takes slow, calculated steps to stand by you. The proximity makes Dr. Nagel even more anxious. "And this is Zemo, but you knew that too." 

Dr. Nagel remains silent, still staring you and Bucky down. At this point, you're not sure if he's looking at Bucky who looks much too ready to pull the trigger, or at you, the very person who's blood he'd been experimenting on.

Nagel stays silent, trying to figure out how to escape the room. Sam strides to him after a moment, harshly gripping Dr. Nagel's shoulder to shove him into a seat in front of you and Bucky. "You seem like a pretty smart guy, so you better become conversational pretty quick." 

Nagel chuckles bitterly, a maniacal smirk on his face. "How about a counter proposal? Make me a better offer and I'll talk."  

"Guys, we have company," Sharon's voice crackles over the comms. As Bucky puts a gun to Dr. Nagel's head, Sharon speaks again. "Every bounty hunter in the city is here. We gotta go!"

You flinch as Bucky fires the gun once, just behind Dr. Nagel's head. "Okay, okay. I was brought into a HYDRA program to synthesize a new serum. When HYRDA fell, I was recruited by the CIA. They had blood samples from a SHIELD asset, a test subject. Someone kept so hidden, no one knew anything about. Can you imagine that? In this day and age," Dr. Nagel carelessly laughs, like your life was meaningless to all of the parties involved, like you were nothing but a pawn in their game. "After much labor, I was able to isolate the necessary compounds, some specific elements of her DNA. I was a god. I did what no other scientist had ever done. One human able to manipulate all the elements."

"How have we never heard about this?"

"Because before I was able to complete my work, I turned to dust," Nagel angrily states, his eyes falling back on you. This time you hold his gaze, forcing him to look at you - it was the least he could do after everything they'd subjected you to. You maintain eye contact as he continues speaking, "Then when I returned, it was five years later, program had been abandoned, so I came here. The Power Broker was more than happy to fund the recreation of my work."

"How many vials did you make?" Sam demands.

"Twenty," Nagel replies, flinching as the barrel gets put back against his head. "Karli Morgenthau stole those so..."

"Karli Morgenthau?" you repeat, finally looking away from Dr. Nagel. You look to Sam and Bucky who aren't asking the same question. You take a step closer to Nagel and ask, "Who's Karli Morgenthau?"

Dr. Nagel's eyes flicker to Sam and Bucky. From the Sam's dropped gaze to the tick in Bucky's jaw, it doesn't take much for him to put the puzzle together. He wickedly snickers, "Oh, that's rich. Still keeping the asset in the dark, I see?" 

"Stop talking," Sam seethes. 

"Who's Karli Morgenthau?" you ask again. 

"It doesn't matter," Dr. Nagel shrugs. "I can only imagine what the Power Broker has planned for that poor girl."

You look away from Dr. Nagel to Sam with pleading eyes. "Sam?" 

"Where's Karli now?" Sam asks, doing his best to avoid your questions. 

"I don't know, but a couple of days ago she called and asked if I could help someone named Donya Madani. Poor woman has tuberculosis. Typical of overpopulation in displacement camps like that."

"What happened to her?"

"Not my pig. Not my farm," Dr. Nagel blithely responds.

"Is there any serum in this lab?"

Dr. Nagel remains quiet. You sharply inhale when Bucky puts the gun even closer to his face. "No."

"Now what?" Bucky asks.

"Guys," Sharon calls, running into the room. "We're seriously out of time here."

Just as you look away from Dr. Nagel to look at Sharon, a gun shot is fired. You gasp, watching as Dr. Nagel goes flying back into his seat, slumping down on the floor.

"No," Sam shouts, diving to take the gun out of Zemo's hand. 

"What did you do?" Sharon exhales, helping Sam pry the gun out of Zemo's hand.

And just when you're certain it can't get any worse, a large blast is blowing you back.

You roughly hit the floor, the air leaving your lungs with how hard you hit the ground. For a moment, you lie still on the ground your ears ringing and heart pounding with adrenaline. As the heat begins to swelter in the room and the air starts becoming unbreathable, you start trying to pull yourself up. One hand on the ground, now covered in soot and ash, you groan, "Why is this the second time this happens to me?" 

"Anyone see Zemo?" Sam roughly exhales, trying to find his footing.

Bucky is the first one up, scrambling to his feet as alarms blare throughout the room. He scrambles to you, desperate to make sure you're okay. He finds you clutching your ribs while trying to sit up. Without even thinking about ramification or hidden meanings, he cups your face frantically searching for any sign of critical injury. As he cups your face, he rasps, "Are you okay?" 

You're not even sure what has you more dumbstruck, the feeling of Bucky's hand unexpectedly touching your face or the fact that you're all in a burning cargo container. You nod, "Yeah."

"Come on," he urges, taking your hand to pull you up. 

He breaks away from you for a moment to help Sam and Sharon up. Though you're very literally in a burning building, you pause, trying to take in the room for anything of importance, anything that could tell you more about yourself. You're sure it's only been a few seconds when Bucky snatches your hand and pulls you out of the container.

You four have only made it a few feet away from the room when the entire container explodes, landing slanted on the other shipping containers. 

Smoke plumes from the wreckage, and you four run along the side of containers to find cover. 

"Alright, wait for my signal!" Bucky calls, the gunshots ringing around you giving no one a chance to recover from the explosion. 

Sam bolts anyway, running for cover underneath another one of the containers. You follow right behind him, right into a gaggle of mercenaries with guns pointed right at him. He reflexively places an arm protectively in front of you. 

"Okay," you call out to the dozen men in front of you. "I'm going to be nice and give you guys the chance to do the right thing and walk away. No one has to get hurt."

Sam looks at you with a bewildered look in his eye. 

You roll your eyes, swatting Sam's arm away. "Would you move?"

The blown off container door that lay strewn on the ground, suddenly lifts vertically with a wave of your hand. Before the men can react to the fantastical sight, the door sweeps across the small plane, pinning the hitman against another container in one fell swoop. 

Sam looks at the smug smirk on your face, he narrows his eyes, grumbling, "Show-off."

You triumphantly chuckle, "You're welcome."

"Go," Sam orders, seeing more hitman appear through the spaces of the containers.

You both duck, zigzagging your way through the labyrinth of shipping containers. In your peripheral, you see Bucky duck behind the fallen shipping container that only provides marginal cover. 

"Damn it," Bucky hisses, ducking back down to take cover from the seemingly endless amounts of bullets swarming your group. He's still ducked down, when he watches you and Sam join him underneath the container. He snarkily quips, "Good of you to join me."

"I thought you guys didn't want my help," you sarcastically retort, quickly hitting the floor beside him as stray bullets ricochet off the metal container. 

"And you like living here?" Sam shouts over his shoulder as Sharon joins you three. 

"It's not terrible," Sharon replies, firing another round from her gun. 

If your life wasn't being threatened, the bounty hunter's reactions to their guns flying out of their hands and skidding across the floor, would almost be funny. You continue on the defensive, only occasionally ducking behind the metal container at stray bullets you don't have a chance to stop. 

"Get that guy!" Sam calls, pointing to a man behind you. "Why didn't you get that guy?"

"I can't stop guns I can't see, Samuel!" you frustratedly shout back. 

"Did you just use my full name? I know you didn't just use my full name!" Sam loudly rants. 

"Yes, I did, Samuel Thomas," you exaggeratedly enunciate. 

"Hah," Bucky chuckles, ducking back down. "Samuel."

Sam fires another round into the large courtyards, yelling at Bucky over his shoulder, "You shut up! At least, I didn't go the wrong way."

"I was clearing the way!"

"I came out first. You had to follow me!"

"Will you both shut up?" you call back to them.

"Guys, not the time," Sharon shouts over her shoulder. She quickly ducks, checking her clip for any more ammunition, "Great, I'm out."

They continue screaming at each other and suddenly you're the only one still actively doing anything.

You're about to start yelling at all of them when another shot rings out, but this one is followed by a large billowing flame that almost clears out the entire courtyard. 

You recall seeing the mask of Zemo during the time of the Avenger's Civil War on some security footage, but actually watching as a masked Zemo grabs another man to use as a human shield while firing shots at another four men that still remain standing, is more than a little unnerving.

"Go," Bucky exhales, tapping your shoulder.

The four of you continue to run through the maze of shipping containers, most shots still echoing above the four of you. 

"Buck!" Sam calls, pointing to another container to take refuge in. 

Before Sam can tug you into another container, you notice more mercenaries flanking each side of the container so you quickly shut the door on him and Sharon. 

Sam gasps as the door shuts with you still on the outside. He tries to ram the door down with his shoulder despite knowing that he'll never get it open if you're the one holding it shut.

On the other side of the door, you and Bucky stand completely surrounded by even more hitman. Your heart thrums in your ears as you and Bucky stand back to back, each of you facing a plethora of men that want you all dead. 

This time, you don't offer a warning to any of them when you see a large metal pipe on the floor. The pipe whips across the courtyard, hitting one of the men on the head on its way to your hand. You notice how the man slumps down where he stands. You shrug with pursed lips, "I can work with that."

The pipe leaves your hand again, wildly swinging around the area. You nod, impressed with the off the cuff technique that works quite effectively, even 6 against 1. Still one man quickly dodges the pipe, only to be clipped on the return back to your hand. 

"Can I?" Bucky asks, taking the pipe from your hand. 

"Sure." You turn back to the container still holding Sam and Sharon hostage when you hear a wet thump followed by a pained shout. You turn to the source of noise to find a man pinned against one of the shipping containers, the metal pipe ran through his now bloodied shoulder. You gesture to the man. "Oh my God!" 

Bucky innocently shrugs. "What?"

You sigh, shaking your head at him. You walk back to the container still holding Sam hostage. You creak open the door to a furious Sam standing there still trying to pry it open. "Oh, Sam, there you are!"

"What the hell was that?" Sam fumes, taking a large step out of the container to storm towards you.

"What?"

"That vigilante shit! That reckless-"

"Guys," Bucky interrupts. "We gotta go."

Sam grimaces for a moment, clearly not wanting to be done with this argument. He grits his teeth, jutting his thumb to the other side of the container. "Come on."

You wince to yourself, but follow them through the other side of the container. You exit out the door to hear tires squeal as Zemo miraculously pulls up the gravel road in a convertible. Zemo grins, proudly commenting, "Supercharged."

"You're going back to jail," Sam glowers, clearly fed up with all the eventfulness of Madripoor. 

"Do you want to find Karli or not?" Zemo rhetorically asks.

And there it was again.

The sharp reminder of something so obviously being kept from you. The adrenaline makes your mind race, coming to conclusions that you're not sure you want to face.

But one very important thing dawns on you, you weren't the only person keeping secrets. 

"He's right. We need him. There's three of us, and-" Bucky's words falter as he slides into the car. He catches the look on your face, and it's not just uncharacteristic, it's so cold that it's almost not a person he recognizes. It's bone chilling. You shake your head, the absence in your expression fading and bringing you back to a person Bucky remembers. And still, he sees the suspicion lurking behind your eyes. He can see the pieces coming together in your head, and he knows that you won't like that picture in the slightest. The volume of Bucky's voice tapers off as he finishes speaking, "...And we don't know what we're up against."

"Fine," Sam reluctantly agrees, hopping in the front seat. "But if you try that shit again..."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Zemo assures. 

"Well, that was one hell of a reunion," Sharon sighs, shutting the door behind Sam.

"Come back to the States with us," Sam offers.

"I can't. Just get me the pardon you promised," Sharon reminds him.

"Thanks for everything," Sam calls over his shoulder. 

"Bye, Sharon!" you call back to her. "Nice seeing you!"

"You're not going to move your seat up, are you?" Bucky asks Sam.

"No."

The Twin Flame Chapter List AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

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[tenuuchlegch]

Frequent usage makes the fingers hurt. In archery, not all fingers of one's hand are used in drawing the bow, only three fingers do the work. To maximize accuracy, a clean release is required. He does not know if it's a practice she still makes use of, but prior knowledge demanded that he craft a release aid as a gift.

It's a work of art, crafted with precision and attention to detail. It's made of the finest materials, with a sleek and glossy finish that caught the light and shimmered in the sun. The design was elegant and timeless, with intricate patterns and filigree etched into its surface. It fit comfortably on the finger, its smooth edges caressing the skin, and the balance is perfect, allowing for a seamless and effortless draw. It's more than just a functional accessory, it's a true masterpiece, a symbol of the archer's skill and devotion to their craft. Its beauty is unmatched, a true feast for the eyes, and those who beheld it will be left in awe of its grace and elegance. The most gorgeous finger tab is a prized treasure, a symbol of the archer's art and the pinnacle of their discipline.

Happy Valentione's!

          While Odtsetseg could not claim she did as much archery compared to before, xaela still took it up every now and then. How could she not, when it was her first craft in the art of battling? Additionally, it was more fit for hunting then chakrams, as there happened to be much less of a mess which called for cleansing afterwards. Then there was the musical and social aspects of being a bard, which nigh demanded one to keep group together even during the darkest hours. That being said, it was not without its drawbacks as the callouses on her fingers could surely attest. Countless times did she need to put some lotion or balm on them these days, as she rather enjoyed smooth hands despite scales dotting body. Granted she could not apply them too much, lest digits become slippery with their grasp. 

             There was a time where Odtsetseg had briefly almost gave up bow entirely, as the memories contained within said art were... too much to bear for her. Fortuitously, after rescuing the First from total annihilation she had gradually moved passed that; perfecting skills in quiet solitude then later assisting Jehantel and his crew. Though not as proficient with the battle-style compared to years ago now, full glad was she that others had taken up said craft. 

            Appreciation, shown throughout visage after a momentary lapse in curiosity when receiving gift from Meteor. Twas plain that much thought and care had been put into this finger tab, its elegance plain for all to witness. Bequeathing hyur a smile, she then slipped it onto her hand and examined it thoroughly.

           “I must say, I am most impressed. Did you make this yourself? It’s quite exquisite,” she confessed. “Oh! That reminds me.” Rummaging through her inventory, she then pulled out a plastic bag and handed it to Meteor. Inside was a heart-shaped cookie, with a little vanilla smile frosted on it’s surface. “While I admit, such treats may not nearly amount to the time and effort you put into your presents, I do hope it is to your satisfaction.”

[ladyfly]

BLUE PT2 Warnings for abuse emotional and physical

CW:emotional, physical, and implied sexual abuse  Soulmate AU

Moon entered the daycare to help his best friend start the prep work for the day. He was immensely confused when he entered. There was a strange woman passed out on the floor. Sun was staring at her unmoving. Leo was talking to someone on the phone.

Moon decided to talk to Sun "What is going on?"

Sun blinked as if freed from a spell "She's my soulmate."

Moon spun his head upside down "But you already have a soulmate? You can't have another one??"

Sun turned to him "Moon I don't know what to do! I'm scared!" He whispered out "Brittany isn't really-"

"Alright boys! Management wants one of you to clean her and the other one to continue to get ready. She can rest in the nap time area. We can settle this when she wakes up." Leo stated.

Moon nodded "I'll take her. You finish setting up."

Reluctantly Sun agreed. He watched for a moment as Moon picked you up. He caught sight of your face. It made his internal fans kick on to cool down his rapidly warming circuits. He understood what everyone was telling him now. He finally had that warm feeling.

He daydreamed about you as he set up the craft supplies. What kind of things did you like? Did you like music? Movies? Dancing? What did your laugh sound like? How would you treat him? Would you be like Brittany? NO! He shook his head. You would be nothing like her.

You are not her, he reminded himself. Soon Moon returned with you tucked in his arms. His handler and soulmate Rati, head of janitorial staff, at his side. She is a lovely person. At least to him. She goes by they and her. They can go toe to toe with any entitled person. He can see why Moon likes her so much.

Together the two of them walked into the nap time room. Sun took a step towards the room but the first child arrived. He had to get into place.

You stayed asleep for hours! Sun wanted to go check on you. Really he did! But the children needed him! Moon pulled Sun to the side for a quiet chat as Rati put a movie on for the kids.

He puts a hand on Sun's shoulder "What are we going to do about the soulmate thing? You seemed pretty upset about it this morning."

Sun rubs his arm, folding in on himself "It's about Brittany..."

Moon leans forward "Sun is there something you aren't telling me? Talk to me."

Sun opens his mouth to say something but the two are interrupted.

Brittany throws her arms around Sun tightly. Very tightly "Squishylove!"

Sun forces a smile "Butterlove. How are you?"

Brittany nips his side a little too roughly "Who is that strange" She holds him tighter "woman in the nap time corner?"

He panics on the inside. Does she know? She must know! Please don't let her know!

He stutters out "O-Oh! T-that's Y/n. Th-the new daycare guard."

Brittany hums "Oh! Its a woman! We'll she's not doing a good job if she's asleep! She'll get fired soon though!" Her faz watch goes off and she sighs "I guess I gotta go... Unless you need me?"

She pinches Sun's ass. No, Sun does not want that. He doesn't enjoy it. To him it's a chore. Something he has to do not wants to do.

It's hard for Moon to ignore the dread on Sun's face "Well. Better get to work then! Sun, I still need your help setting up lunch for the kids."

Brittany glares at Moon. Something she hadn't done before unless it was playing. Moon didn't know what was going on between her and Sun but it felt like he was beginning to understand at least a little. He needed to talk to Rati about this... they might know something about this.

You woke up in a beanbag chair. Your clothes had been changed. Weird. As you stepped out of the dark room your eyeballs were assaulted with colors. You stumbled back into the dark room. Slowly you peeked into the daycare.

"Finally awake I see. How are ya feeling? I know some people don't handle the sudden color explosion very well." Leo barked out with a laugh.

You sat at the entrance to the nap time corner "It's.... wow. Far too much. Sorry for the mess. I'll be ok soon."

Leo holds out a can of ginger fizzy faz "Here. Drink this. It'll help with your stomach."

You open the can and take a large gulp "Thank you." You bite your lip "Is... is Sun ok?"

Leo lets out a gruff noise "Yeah. You should know he already has a soulmate. Don't care for her much but Sun seems to like her."

You look down dejected "Oh...."