#who wouldn't be? but pea had to take a bit

[voiceless-people]

I think that for a month or so before Peacock and Pecan started dating, Pea would fan his tail up a LOT.

When their eyes meet, when one of them says hello, literally anywhere that Pea can fan out their tail without smacking something or someone they will do it.

But Pecan isn't actually a bird, he just enjoys looking like one, so he isn't picking up on it (he's also a dumbass when it comes to anything aside from staged interactions) Peacock goes crying to his cheesebird mamas and they have to politely remind him that Pecan is a shapeshifter NOT a hybrid.

[waves-against-a-cliff]

Where Soul Meets Body - Ghost x Reader

Ao3 Link

Content Warnings - afab!reader, no pronouns used, reader has a call sign, canon typical violence, ghost's past :(, angst, smut, fingering, oral, thigh riding, PiV, unprotected sex, happy ending. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Summary - Simon Riley has been your best friend since the two of you were five. You've been in love with him since you were 15. It's too bad life has other plans

WC: 18k

Big thanks to @shotmrmiller for helping me with the last chapter and big thanks to @itsagrimm for listening to my rambling about this since January. I'm so happy to see it written and finished.

Rainy days in the United Kingdom we're far from abnormal. Seeing the bright sun with no clouds obstruction was abnormal. Seeing someone without an umbrella, even a jacket, in the rain was more than abnormal to you. Who in the world would set out to school without a jacket or umbrella? You approach the strawberry blond boy and tentatively hold your umbrella over his head. "What are you doing without an umbrella?" You ask, head tilting ever so slightly at the boy looking up at you. Oh, he's from your class, what was his name again?

"I don't have one."

"Did your mum not buy you one?" There was a small silence but you smile, "Well it doesn't matter now, I'm here and we can share." You give him your name and get the smallest smile from him.

"I'm Simon Riley." Ah, that's right, Simon Riley.

"Well then Simon, let's get to school." The umbrella was hardly large enough for you to fit under but you held it over his head as the rain came down. It rained all day but that was okay because you and Simon sat together all day. "I'll walk home with you so you don't get wet." You say while playing another round of Sorry!.

"You don't need to." Simon mutters as he moves his piece, his brown eyes downcast. You frown, brows pinching together as you try to piece together the logic behind that statement.

"I don't need to but I want to." You respond with a toothy grin. "It's what friends do." You say with confidence as you draw a card.

"We're friends?" Simon asks, his eyes suddenly meeting yours.

"Of course. We're sharing an umbrella." You laugh and move your piece according to the card. "And when you get your own umbrella, we can be umbrella friends." He repeats the term umbrella friends as if testing the waters and then smiles. A smile suits him much better than a frown you decide. During lunch, you offer part of your sandwich when you realize how sad his packed lunch is. "Here, I'm full." A lie but he hardly had half of what your mum packed. He looked at the triangularly cut sandwich with apprehension. "Please eat it." He continues to stare at it before picking it up and taking a bite then looking at you. When he sees your smile, he keeps eating it. "You have very brown eyes." You suddenly comment, unable to keep it to yourself. "I like them."

Simon easily fit into the routine of your life, each day after school he would walk home with you on Fridays. Together the two of you would chatter about anything and everything, conversation flowing easily. Somedays were worse than others, like right now while you treated Simon's busted lip with a bag of cold peas pressing against his cheek. "I'll beat him up." You promise. He seems different these days, he had always been a bit timid before but any loud noise scared him. You don't ask what happened, you could see it in his eyes that he didn't want to talk about it. Those same eyes were always looking down all the time now too, you wish he wouldn't. You like to see his eyes.

"You can't beat up Tommy." He insists.

"He beat you up, I'm just returning the favor." You huff as you dab the blood away from his lip and hand him a bag of cold broccoli. The attic of your home had become a safe haven to him and the walls and ceiling were decorated in drawings that the two of you had created over the last two years. A plate of triangle sandwiches sat half eaten on the box-made-table. "I'll just punch him. Serve him right." You huff and cross your arms after throwing the wet rag in the corner. Books and half put away board games were scattered all around the little attic.

"Please don't." Simon begs, his brown eyes downcast again.

"Will it make you happy if I don't?" You ask, twisting your shirt and pulling at the loose thread. Simon nods and you sigh, pushing your hair from your face. "Fine then but you're staying the night." You declare.

"Don't you need to ask your mum and dad permission?" He asks.

"They'll say yes. They always do." It was true, there hadn't been a time your mum hadn't let Simon sleep over if you had asked. Simon tapped your arm and handed you a book from the pile.

"Out of your head, let's read." He says while giving a frail smile. When did his smiles get smaller? You take the book from his hand, you hope it'll make him happy. A knock on the attic door as your mum peaks her head up.

"Are you staying for dinner Simon?" You mum asks and you jump on the opportunity.

"Can Simon stay the night mum? Please." You draw out your please and put on your best puppy eyes. Your mum looks between you and Simon who still held the bag of broccoli against his mouth.

"Of course he can stay. Just be quiet after eight pm." Your mum disappears back down the ladder towards the kitchen while you turn to Simon with a victorious smile on your face.

"Told you so."

You knock rapidly on his home's front door, "Come on Riley! I'm not gonna stand out here all day waiting for you." You would, of course you would. Rain or shine, warm or hot. The door swung open and you scrunched up your nose when Tommy was standing in front of you. "You smell like a sewer rat." You remark, "Where's Simon?"

"Don't you ever shut up?" Tommy snapped, "Simon isn't your boyfriend."

"He doesn't need to be my boyfriend in order for me to ask where he is." You immediately respond. He snorts and rolls his eyes. Tommy, Simon's younger brother, had been teasing the two of you for years since the first time he saw you walk Simon home. "Simon!" You say, a smile immediately appearing on your face as he finally appears behind his brother. "Come on!" You push Tommy out of the way and grab Simon's hand. "I got my drivers license." You boast, "Dad's letting me drive his truck around whenever he doesn't need it."

It was a rare day in spring when it wasn't raining and you weren't gonna let it go to waste. The windows of the truck were rolled down and the wind blew through your hair. The city of Manchester slowly disappears, the loudness exchanged for the quiet of the countryside.

"Don't look so grumpy Simon." You say when you notice he had his head in his hand and a scowl on his face. "You're acting like I'm driving you to your death."

"With how you drive, I'm sure you are." He retorts, a small smile growing on his face as you bark out a laugh.

"Well we're almost there so your death won't be quiet so soon." You remark. You slow the truck down before pulling off into a dirt road and coming to a complete stop. You turn the truck off and tuck the keys into your pocket and grab the basket you brought from the back of the truck. You look at the fence blocking the way into the flower field before you toss the basket over the fence before you launching yourself over the fence. "Come on Simon, just jump it!"

"Isn't this illegal?"

"Only if you get caught." You laugh and wink before helping Simon over the fence. The field of flowers stretch far and bumblebees buzz around from flower to flower. You open the basket and lay out the thin blanket onto the ground. Lowering yourself onto the blanket and you motion for Simon to join you.

"What's all this then?" He asked with a brow raised as you began to pull out a few cans of coke, a couple of sandwiches and apples.

"Happy 15th birthday." You say with a grin, "I got your present back at my house but I figured you'd like it out here." Simon stares at you, brown eyes wide as he looks between you and all the food you somehow managed to pack into the basket. You shift a little his heavy gaze as anxiety crept up as your cheeks turned red. "Do you not like it?" You ask.

Simon looked at you before a lopsided grin grew on his face, "It's great. Thank you."

"What are you planning to do after school is over?" You ask after taking a sip from your coke. "I mean, we only have next year left. Are you going to attend University?"

"I'm gonna take a butcher's apprenticeship."

"What?"

"My grades aren't doing great and I figured why not." Simon shrugged, "Not like it's a bad idea." You punched his shoulder lightly and glared at him.

"Why didn't you tell me you were struggling Riley? You know I would have helped." The wind blows softly, the flowers and grass rustle, birds sing in the distance. "You're a smart man Simon, if this is what you want to do," You take a steadying breath, "then I'll support you."

Simon smiles at you, "You took it better then my mum did at least." He sighs and takes a bite from his apple.

"She just wants what's best for you." You say, softening your voice. If there was one thing you learned about Simon Riley after these five years, it's that he loves his mum more than anything. You lean against him, coke can still in hand as the silence blankets the space between you and him. After a few minutes of silently eating and drinking, he nudges you.

"Look." He whispers and points to a flower by his side. You lean over and a massive smile grows on your face as you spot a very tired bumblebee resting within a flower. You look at Simon and feel something within yourself turn on or maybe become louder as you see his soft gaze at the sleeping bee. Suddenly, you wanted him to look at you with that same soft expression.

"You know Daisy?" Simon asks one day while you were driving to the flower field. It had become a place to get away from school and home, away from all the stresses of life for at least a few hours. Daisy was a classmate in the same year, you had never been close with her but you had grown up with her the same as you had with Simon.

"Of course, Daisy Lockmon right?"

"Yeah." There's something in the way he says it that makes your heart clench. It's the softness of it, the fondness and the soft sigh, even the sort of dreamy look in his eyes you spot in the mirror as he gazes out into the countryside.

"Yeah?"

"I'm dating her. She asked me out a few days ago." Few days ago. Why did that sting so fucking much? You smile at him as you grip on the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white and your fingers go numb. It doesn't compare to the squeezing grip of whatever is holding your heart. No, you know who holds your heart and he doesn't even know it. It's my fault, I never told him. You try to reason with yourself but it doesn't stop the hurt.

"Congratulations then. Daisy is a sweet girl."

A few months later, you feel like you're going to throw up. You fight back any words threatening to come out of your mouth besides something good and kind because he doesn't deserve your anger or sadness. Simon doesn't know, you keep reminding yourself, you're just his best friend that he's confiding in. Just the person he's grown up with since ten years old, just the person who treated his busted lips, cuts and bruises. Just his best friend. Not the girl, not Daisy Lockmon who he thinks he loves. He probably does love her, you've never seen him look at someone the way he does Daisy.

You lay in the field, something that allows your stress to melt away, does nothing for you. Not as Simon lays next to you, not as you think about the times before all of this you could have said something. Simon says nothing, you say nothing and the two of you just watch the clouds float by. Simon sits up as he speaks, "I'm ready to leave, how about you?" Your heart clenches again, time in the field has been getting shorter and trips less frequent. You know it's not just because of his relationship and it's just how life is sometimes. He has his butcher's apprenticeship and you're studying for university classes but logic doesn't dictate emotion.

"In a moment, I'll catch up with you at the truck." You say, pasting on a smile. Simon shrugs and grunts as he gets up. You wait until you're sure he's already hopped the fence and heading towards the truck before you move over to his spot. Where the grass and flowers are flattened down into his shape, slowly you curl into the spot. For a moment, you imagined that you were the one he says he loves. For just a bittersweet moment, you pretend that you're his and he's yours.

"I'm joining the military." Your ceramic mug shatters on the floor. Just like that, everything comes crashing down. The world was still reeling from the twin towers attack in the United States, the sense of safety shattered in a terrorist attack.

"What?" That was the only word that could come from your mouth. You look at Simon with wide eyes, the cozy atmosphere of your flat turned cold. "You're joking. Right Simon?"

"I'm not."

"What about your apprenticeship Simon? You've been working as a butcher since you were 16. You're nearly done." The words come flying out of your mouth, "Simon-"

"I'm not asking you to understand my decision. I'm just telling you that I'm doing it and you can't stop me." You laugh bitterly and the sound is so foreign to both your ears and Simons.

"As if I could stop you Simon." You mutter, moving to grab a broom and dustpan to clean up the shattered mug on the floor. "But why? You've never once shown interest in joining the military." The answer is clear, its reason why many people were joining the military and you already know his answer before he opens his mouth.

"The attack in the US." Of course, he doesn't elaborate. "I'm being sent to bootcamp in two weeks."

"Two weeks? That's hardly any time at all." You sigh and sink down into your couch, putting your face in your hands as you try to process everything. "What about Daisy?"

"Broke up with her." He says so plainly and with a shrug of his shoulders. You have to bite your tongue to keep from saying something back handed. You're not petty, you're not petty, you're not petty, is the thought running through your head but you can't deny how good it feels to know he isn't dating her anymore. Not like you have much of a chance now since he's going off to bootcamp. "She said she didn't want to date a guy in the military. It's a deal breaker apparently." It's not for me you think quickly.

The day comes too quickly, for once you wished life would slow down and let you soak up Simon's presence in your life. It's not like he's dying, he's just going off to bootcamp and then he'll be back is what you think to keep yourself from falling apart. Nearly nine years of friendship, spending hardly any time or going a long distance away from one another, now Simon will be gone for 14 weeks. Then he'll be stationed somewhere for two to six years. You wrap your arms around him, squeezing him hard and burying your face into his jacket. "You be safe Simon Riley or I'll raise you from the dead."

He chuckles and pats your head, "Its bootcamp not an active war zone." You just shake your head and he wraps his arms around you. "But I'll be safe. I'll write to you every chance I get, I promise."

"Good."

"Simon?"

The last three years had passed quickly with the letters from Simon being the only rest stop between university studies and work. Grabbing your coat from the back, you sigh as you finally shut off the lights to the cafe you work at part time. With a small click, your work day was finally, finally over. You twist the lock on the cafe front door, struggling momentarily from your thick gloves. You turn to start walking towards your rather cheap flat and scream when you see a massive figure barely a foot away. The familiar voice hissing your name made the panic subside as quickly as it appeared.

"Glad to know you still have those pipes of yours." You look at Simon, he is barely illuminated by the street lights but you can still tell he's different now. He's no longer the slightly slender boy you knew three years ago. He wasn't slouching and made direct eye contact with you. You take him all in before you rush to him and wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his coat and drinking in his scent.

"Simon Riley," You whisper into his coat before pulling back to look up at him, "you've really grown. Come on, I'll let you crash at my place." He opens his mouth to argue but you're already pulling him along. You lead him to your flat, which isn't far away from your place of work thankfully. You kick off your shoes at the door and tell Simon to do the same. Placing a kettle on the stove to boil some water you then sit down and look at Simon. "So, what's brought you back here?" You ask.

Simon looks at you, drinking in your appearance. You look tired, worn down and ready to collapse. "I'm gonna fix my family." He finally answers after you cock your head to the side.

"You're... gonna fix your family?" You ask, leaning back as the words wash over you. Your heart hurt slightly for a reason you didn't want to understand, for a reason you didn't want to voice out loud or in your own head.

"Yes. And I'm not leaving until it is."

You purse your lips and get up to pour the boiling water into two cups. You put an earl gray tea bag with a splash of milk into the mug for Simon and a few cubes of sugar for your own cup of tea. You hand him the tea and sit back down as you continue to run through the implications of his choice. "Alright." You finally say. "You can crash at my place while you fix your family."

"You don't believe me." Simon states and you snap your head to look at him completely. "I know it sounds crazy but I'm stronger now. I can finally do what I've always wanted." He says between sips of his tea. "And I won't leave until it is fixed."

You sigh and set your cup down, "Fine." You get up and grab a piece of paper and a pen. You scribble down the addresses of Tommy's friends that he keeps couch surfing between before handing it to Simon. "This is what I know about Tommy. You'll probably get a confirmed address from your mom."

"And my dad?"

"Still an arsehole who comes and goes as he pleases." You grumble.

You walk out of your bedroom as quietly as possible. You peak over your couch and feel a weight lift off your chest. He was still here, right here in your flat. Your best friend, your rock and crush. Simon was finally back, not for the reason you might have fantasized about more than often you were willing to admit, but he was back. Love is such a funny thing, you think to yourself as you lay in bed. It had been three years since you had last seen him, hugging and barely holding back tears as he hopped on a bus to bootcamp. You hadn't cried that hard ever as you had cried on that day when he left. You turn onto your side and wipe away a few tears that leak from your eyes, at least he was here now.

You stand outside his family's home. You look down the street and recall the exact path that you could take to see your family. You had turned down Simon's offer to come inside, you didn't want to intrude on his reunion with his mother. You tap your foot as you lean against your truck, the same one you had driven to the fields outside of Manchester all those years ago. Simon steps outside of the house and hugs his mother one last time, his mouth moves but you don't hear what he has to say. His mother looks around him and looks at you. She's been crying you realize. You exchange a smile and a wave before she goes back inside of the house.

"Got the address?" You ask Simon as you both get into your truck.

"Got it." He confirms and gives you the address. You can't stop yourself from grimacing, of course it had to be that arsehole’s address. You hadn't left Simon in the dark of what was going on with his family while he was deployed and away. You didn't bother to spare details, okay, well maybe a few. Mostly about your own interactions with Tommy and his friends. But Simon didn't need to hear that, he had already sworn to come back and fix his family at least a dozen times since the third month. He didn't need to stress himself over you.

The car ride was quiet, the radio was off and the only sound was the wind blowing in through the open windows. You can feel the rage rolling off him but also the concern for his brother. The truck comes to stop outside of a dingy and unwelcoming flat building, you look at Simon and take him in. His brown eyes fill with determination and rage the longer he looks at the building. Finally, he opens the door, "I'm gonna get Tommy." He says before turning to go into the building after shutting the door. You let out a shaky sigh and let go of the steering wheel, looking at your shaking hands you try not to think too hard about what Tommy and his friends had done. What kind of people they were.

Tommy, your best friend's young brother had let his so-called friends push you around at your job until they were banned by your manager. Then they slashed your tires. Tommy hadn't changed, just become a carbon copy of dirt-bag father. Simon was made from something different, he was his mother's son, the undying love of his family and the ability to go with the flow of life. To never give up. You tense up as the people who lived in the flat walk past you, your breathing becoming more shallow as you watch them enter the flat. Oh god. Oh god. You panic and go to unbuckle yourself but struggle as your trembling hands only become worse.

You could hear the fighting coming from inside the house as you finally unbuckle yourself. There were five of them and only one of him. Oh god. Oh god. You push the truck door open and nearly tumble out, rushing to Simon's aid. You didn't expect to see him handling himself well against five other people while Tommy crouches low to avoid the fight altogether. One of the men goes to try and put Simon in a headlock, you do the only thing you can think of. You grab the man's jacket and pull him into your punch.

Simon places Tommy in the back seat, telling him he's going to bring him to the clinic and get him clean. You rub your throbbing knuckles, the pain from that one punch still echoing in your body. Simon gently takes your hand and inspects your knuckles, clicking his tongue. "You were never much of a fighter." He comments and looks up into your eyes. "But that was a good punch."

You're standing outside the clinic, the cold early spring wind making you pull your jacket closer to your body. Today was the day Tommy was going to be released, you weren't going to turn down Simon's request for you to be there. You had been spending more and more time with Simon and his mother. She is such a sweet lady, and loves her sons more than anything in the entire world. Simon looks at you and smiles, "I told you I would fix my family."

You roll your eyes, "I'll believe Tommy is clean when I see it." You grumble.

"I know he wasn't a good man back then,"

"He was a fucking mess Simon." You say, "He and his druggie friends cornered me once, demanded whatever money I had on me." You finally spill your guts, "I don't like him. You've been defending Tommy and his stupidity every day since I've known you." You look him right in the eyes, "He doesn't deserve your love or your mothers. As far as I'm concerned, he's been on my shit list since the first time I had to clean your bloody lip."

Simon looks at you for a long moment, your words hanging in the air until he pulls you into a hug. "I'm sorry." He mutters and hides his face in the crook of your neck. You freeze and he hugs you tighter, "I'm so sorry. You should have told me about that. I would have never-"

"Don't be sorry." You whisper quickly, "Never be sorry. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. Simon you're too kind, too forgiving."

"That's not true."

"I think it is."

Someone coughs and Simon lets go of you, his face breaking into a smile as Tommy stands in front of the two of you. He looks different, better. Healthy and alive. "Can we go home now?" He asks. You watch as Simon walks up to Tommy and wraps him in his arms.

"Of course."

You watch from the driver's seat as their mum opens the door and jump into Tommy's arms as Tommy hugs her tight. You can't help the smile that grows on your face when Simon joins the hug. Their mum looks at you and motions you to join them. You shake your head but Simon walks over and pretty much drags you from the car and into the group hug.

Later that night, their mum pulls you to the side. "Thank you." She says and takes your hand into hers, "for being there for my Simon."

"It really was nothing." You assure her and she shakes her head.

"You love him very much. Don't try to deny it, you've stuck by his side all these years and I've seen the way you look at him." She winks, "I just hope the two of you get together before I'm dead."

You can't help the quiet laugh that comes from your throat, "Me too." You whisper and look over at Simon who sits next to Tommy as they watch a football match after eating dinner.

You can hardly believe that you're sitting here at Tommy's wedding next to their mum as you comfort her. Simon stands as Tommy's best man as they trade vows. Beth looks beautiful as she always has. Long black hair and charming blue eyes, she was beyond kind as well. Perfect for Tommy who hadn't lost some of his snark but Beth softened him. You look at Simon and smile when you notice he's holding back tears as they exchange vows.

The wedding's reception wasn't filled to the brim with people but it was lively, friends and distant family members mingled as you sit at a table with a glass of champagne. Simon lets out a sigh as he sits next to you at the edge of the party. "Are you having fun?" You tease and Simon rolls his eyes. Joseph, Simon's nephew who you are sure will never know a day of fear or hurt like his uncle and father, is exchanged between party members and snuck small bites of cake.

"I'd let to get away from all of this for a moment." He admits as he runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair. You remember when he was the sad strawberry blond boy that rainy school day. The way he avoided eye contact and others. You smile and take his hand.

"Then lets go."

You can faintly hear the music from the reception but other wise, this bench away from the party was the perfect place. The night sky is some what visible, with only the brightest stars being visible from all the light pollution of the city. A small breeze blows through your hair and you close your eyes to just soak in the moment. You open your eyes and Simon looks at you, softness in his eyes.

"What?"

"You're stunning." He says and you furrow your brows, ignoring the heat in your cheeks and neck. He leans in closer and cups your cheek, "Can I kiss you?" The words don't come to you but you nod frantically, feeling worried that he might change his mind for some reason. His eyes look between your eyes and lips before he leans in. The kiss is slow and he holds you like you might break or in case you want to leave. His lips are slightly chapped but soft and you vaguely wonder if he put on flavored chapstick earlier. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer and he takes the hint. The kiss turns from soft to practically ravenous as he holds you close, your mouth parts automatically and he slips his tongue in.

When you finally pull back to breath deeper, he looks at you with amazement. "I love you Simon Riley." You whisper and rest your forehead against his, "I have since we were 15. Don't leave me again Simon. Not if you can help it."

"You're gonna hate me then." He whispers as he holds you close. "I'm returning to duty in a month."

"I could never hate you Simon. Not in a million years. Just… write to me and when you go on leave again,” You take a steadying breath, “We can talk about what we are." He nods and you press your lips to his again.

You stand in the rain. You fucking hate the rain. It soaks through your black clothes and makes it stick to your skin. It mats down your hair and hides the tears that run down your face. There is no one here, no one but you and the priest at this funeral. How could this happen, you wonder. Everything was perfect. You look at the name on the gravestone. Tommy, Beth and Joseph, there's another gravestone a few feet away that has his mothers and fathers name on it. Simon is the only one who is buried alone. A bitter and petty choice from their distant family. Everyone thinks Simon did it. There was no proof to prove otherwise and it fit the story. A soldier returns home and suffers a PTSD breakdown and kills his entire family.

It didn't make sense. Simon was getting better, he promised he was getting better and attending therapy appointments. He loved Joseph, he loved his family and he loved you. He would have never done this. Maybe he would have murdered his father but the anger there was long and bitter, if he wanted to kill his father, he would have done it years ago.

Earlier last month, you had passed by a stand with different brochures. Some of them were for churches, others for activities to do with the family. Normally, you would have passed by it, eager to leave the store as quickly as possible. But you stopped this time and glanced at a particular brochure, you picked it from its spot and glanced over it. “You belong here.” A soldier is yelling while another is taking cover, inside are different recruiting offices and general information. You pocket it.

It was an impulsive decision. But the papers were filed and your two week notice already given. You didn't want to think about the consequences of what you were about to do, you just felt lost. University didn't matter, your cafe job didn't matter and every street in this fucking city reminded you of him. You decided if you were going to join the military. You had been accepted, the letter sat in your bag now that all of your items in your flat had been packed up and stored in your old childhood bedroom. This was just the last thing to do before the bus picks you up tomorrow morning.

You throw the roses in your hand into the caskets until you reach Simons. Your hand trembles as it holds the thorny rose, shakily you bring it to your lips and kiss the petals before tossing it into his grave. "I love you Simon Riley."

You watch as the city of Manchester flows past you like a river. It's raining again and the droplets obscure your vision of the outside world. People around you talk and you realize just how out of place you are. These are 16, 17 and 18 year olds with bright eyes and dreams. You vaguely wonder if Simon had sat in silence as he liked to do or if he had been dragged into a conversation. You glance at your duffle bag by your feet before leaning your head back and shutting your eyes. The bus ride would be a long one, you figure that some rest would make it faster.

Your name is called and you step forward, you hold onto the bag of items shoved into your arms. You listen to the drill sergeant yell that these are your items. You are responsible for maintaining and keeping track of all things in this bag. You realize, in a way that makes it difficult not to smile, that Simon was right. They are hard arses here.

You wonder why Simon never told you about this but he never seemed to tell you anything. You curse the dead man and curse yourself for being impulsive. Nearly done with university and you dropped out for him, for a dead man who was buried alone in his own grave. You use your anger to make it to the end, your uniform is covered in mud and the sensation makes your skin crawl but you run forward towards the rope wall, swinging your rifle over your back. “Come on Private!” The drill sergeant screams at you, “I’ve seen injured men move faster than you do!” You grit your teeth as he mocks you.

The scratches that litter your body sting as you crawl through the mud and muck underneath the barbed wire with a rifle held close to your chest. You breathe out puffs of condensation in the air, you’re shivering and you keep your jaw clenched so your teeth don’t chatter. You keep crawling, inching like a caterpillar towards the end of this section and fight the urge to just lay there on the ground. The cold rain soaks through your clothes and you grunt when part of the barbed wire above you catches onto your leg again. “Fuck.” You hiss but you’re nearly there.

It's his job, you remind yourself, to try and break you. If Simon leaving didn’t break you, if him and his family dying didn’t break you then this fucking drill sergeant was not going to break you. You climb up the rope and grapple onto the next bit of rope, locking your legs with your ankles and you inch down the rope even as your hands burn.

That night as you sit in the corner of the mess hall, you itch at the bandages wrapped around your hand. Whatever salve the lady in the med bay had slathered onto your hand hadn’t done much to cool the burning. You know it's counterintuitive to scratch at it but who was going to stop you? You were an adult now and could suffer the consequences of your stupid actions. Like not demanding Simon give you answers on why he was pulling away after finally confessing his feelings. You clench your fist and smother those feelings with the pain you feel.

No matter how many times you try to remind yourself there's no point in focusing on the past you can’t stop. How can you stop? Everything you’ve done has been for him and now he’s gone and you’re still doing things for him. You look around the mess hall at the different groups of fellow trainee’s and know you’ll never have that kind of connection with anyone else. Simon was it. Your best friend since childhood, your first crush and first heartbreak. You wander outside and sit on a stack of crates near the mess when the talking and clanking of silverware grows too much.

The night is cool, the sky is clear from the rain that had poured so hard earlier but you can’t see the stars anyway. You go to itch at your hand again when a drill sergeant comes around the corner. You stiffen up and immediately get up to salute but he dismisses you before you even get your hand to your forehead. “Private, why aren’t you in the mess eating?”

“Lost my appetite, sir.” You reply, “Figured some fresh air would do me some good.” You go to scratch at your hand again and his eyes snap to the motion.

“Private, did the nurse not provide you with burn cream?” He asked and it was weird having the man who yelled at you all day suddenly become concerned for your well-being.

“She did, sir, it just itches.” You explain and the drill sergeant makes a face, for a second you worry that he will demand that you return to the med bay again. Instead, he nods.

“Dismissed Private. Get some rest.” You nod and scurry away to your barracks.

The helicopter’s wings slow but any flyaways in your hair whip and stick to your face anyways. After serving in the SAS for five years, you had been picked by Chief station Laswell and Captain John Price to be a part of the 141 task force. You couldn’t believe you had finally done it, all these years of serving and you start to finally believe that you might’ve done Simon some justice. All the broken bones, bruises and scars are worth it if it means he’s looking down on you fondly. You look between the four men in front of you. You recognize Captain Price immediately with his boonie hat and well groomed mutton chops. He extends his hand which you take and shake with a firm grip. “Boys, this is Gator. They’ll be joinin’ our task force startin’ today.”

The man standing next to Price smiles at you, beautiful white teeth with a stunning smile and soft brown eyes. He has a scar on his cheek and you wonder how he got it as you shake his hand, “This is Sergeant Garrick.” Price says and you beam back at him.

“A pleasure to meet you Sergeant.”

“No need for that, just call me Gaz.” He assures you and lets go of your hand. You turn to meet the third man and before you can even open your mouth or extend your hand to shake, he’s grabbing yours with a grip tight enough to shatter a few bones. He has a stupid mohawk haircut that he somehow makes work, crystal blue eyes and you can tell that he’s a little mischievous.

“I’m Sergeant MacTavish but e’eryone calls me Soap.” He laughs, warm like an early summer day, when he sees your eyebrows raise. “I’ll tell ye why later.” He promises with a wink.

“Oi! Johnny, stop hoggin’ the new meat.” You turn to the voice and have to stop yourself from taking a step back just so you could look at the man fully. He’s fucking huge. Broad shoulders, wearing all black and a skull mask to hide his face. You can barely make out his brown eyes from under all that eye black. His accent is rough, with a voice that gives away how much he smokes. He looks down at you, like you suspect he has to most people, and you want to slink away into whatever hole he thinks you crawled out of. Despite this, you stick your hand out for him to shake.

“And this is your Lieutenant, Ghost.” You have to stop yourself from snorting. Ghost, how fitting for a man literally wearing a skull mask. He grips your hand and gives it a firm shake as his eyes burn holes into your soul. You look at his hand when you feel something other than familiar flesh, it's a glove. Even funnier, its skeleton gloves. It sends you nearly into a giggle fit, yes this man is intimidating to a point where you would have been shaking in your boots a few years ago. But he’s unironically wearing skeleton gloves. How is that not funny? He gives you a firm shake but just as quickly removes his gloved hand from yours. “Alright Gator, Ghost will give you a quick tour around here and then I want you to report for training at 0500 hours.”

The tour is silent besides the simple sentences Ghost speaks and you’re that sure he wouldn’t if Price hadn’t put him on the spot for giving you the tour. “This ‘ere is the training hall, this is where yer expected to be tomorrow.” He gruffly says, stiff as a board. You nod and nearly jump out of your skin when someone wraps their arm around your shoulders.

“There ye are! I was tryin’ tae find ye.”

“Sergeant.” Ghost says gruffly and Soap rolls his eyes before removing his arm. “They are busy.”

“Away an bile yer heid.” Soap says with a laugh, “I ken that yer aboot as excited fer this tour as they are.” You didn’t need to see Ghost roll his eyes to know he did, it was just in the way the air shifts around the three of you. “Lemme take over the rest of the tour aye?” Ghost sighs but concedes which confirms that he would really rather be anywhere else than giving the FNG a tour. “Good lad.” Soap chuckles and pats Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost leaves quickly for being a man so massive and Soap turns to you, “Dinnae mind him, he’s a big grump.” You snort and laugh while nodding in agreement. “Alright, let's continue this tour.” Soap claps a hand on your back and for the rest of the day, with breaks for food of course, he showed you around. He was certainly better at it then Ghost who acted like he had been asked to travel across the sahara desert while carrying you.

“Steamin’ Jesus.” Soap groans while he stumbles back from you. Sweat sticks to your forehead and your usual hairdo is ruined but so is the way of sparring and training. “I see why they call ye Gator.” He grumbles as he holds his head. “Ye fuckin’ death rolled me.” Soap accuses and it was true. You have the strength to take down men bigger than you in not only height but sheer mass. It was a skill you had honed for the past several years ever since you figured it out in bootcamp.

You wrap your arms around him as he tries to pin you to the mat and roll. You twist with all your might and switch the position then without a second thought you slam your head against his. The force knocks your brain around and the headache you’ll get later is going to be absolutely terrible but the man under you groans and holds his forehead. “I yield! Holy shite.” He curses as you immediately back away from him. You glance around at the group of people who had made it this far into the training and then meet the eyes of your drill sergeant who, if you weren’t mistaken and didn’t have a concussion, looked almost proud.

That night as you hold an ice pack against your forehead and sit outside the mess hall away, he approaches again. “Never seen a private do that.” He says after immediately acknowledging your salute and telling you to be at ease. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone do that before.” You sheepishly shrug.

“I didn’t want to lose.”

“And so you didn’t.” A silence hangs in the air as the crickets chirp and you wonder if that's an owl’s hoot you hear. “I think you're going to have a nickname before you even leave camp.” He says, “You have the other sergeants wantin’ to call you Gator.”

“Gator?” You ask even if you understand the implications. You guess you did a kind of death roll that poor buy but Gator? Really?

“Better than some poor sod who got named Dirt because he ended up with a mouth full of dirt after tripping on the 20 mile march.” You chuckle at that.

“I guess Gator is much better than Dirt.”

“That’s the spirit. You better get some rest for tomorrow, Private.” He says before walking away and just like that time, leaving you to sit in the cool night air before you heed his warning.

You grit your teeth as Ghost ignores you again. You’re just trying to get him to sign from fucking paperwork Captain Price asked of you. “Lieutenant I need-”

“Not now sergeant.” Ghost says as he walks away from you and you want to scream. Its been like this the entire time you’ve been on this team. At first you thought it was his way of hazing you, act like a dickhead and see if the FNG breaks. Well you haven’t broken, you’ve only doubled down because every time he acts like this you keep being reminded of Simon and how he wouldn’t have given up.

At least Gaz and Soap were more open to you being on their task force now that months had passed. Although you doubt if Soap had ever disliked the idea of you being on the force. You barely duck Gaz’s punch but aren’t fast enough to catch his leg before it slams full force into your side. You grab it before he can bring it back and yank on it so he falls onto the floor, he rolls over before you can pin him down. You stare at each other for a moment before you lunge at him like a rabid dog without a leash.

He steps to the side and then grabs the back of your shirt collar to slam you down into the mat. You squirm and fight to keep him from pinning your arms back but it's no use. And in this position, death rolling him was nearly impossible. And you’ve definitely been trying. “Distracted Gator?” Gaz asks as he pants and you snarl back at him before you let out a meek ‘I yield’. He releases you immediately and you rub your wrists. “Broken?”

“Negative.” You say as you walk over to grab your bottle of water.

Watching you spar from the corner was Ghost. He observes the way you fight and the way you wiggle out of every attempt to pin you until the last. If it wasn’t for your infamous ability to death roll, he’s sure you would have ended up being called Weasel. And wasn’t that an amusing thought? Still better than Soap. “Ye stalkin’ the FNG.” Soap teases and Ghost glances down at Soap with what he knows is a deadpan expression. Or at least deadpan eyes. Mask and all that.

“You stalkin’ me?” Ghost shoots back and Soap grins this feral grin that makes Ghost groan inwardly because that grin meant only one thing. Dog with a fuckin’ bone, thats what Soap is when he thinks he’s smelt something out. “Don’t start MacTavish.”

“Oh its MacTavish it is?” Soap feigns hurt as he clutches his chest. “Ye wound me sir.”

“It is when yer about to say somethin’ god awfully stupid.”

“Yer no fun L.T.” Soap laments and Ghost rolls his eyes while shaking his head at Soap’s antics. Soap looks past Ghost and to Gator who is talking with Gaz on the bench while the two of them drink water and give the other advice. “Slippery thing they are.” Soap comments and Ghost nods. “Dinnae think I’ve ever seen someone slip out of your hold befure.”

“Is tha’ the reason yer botheirn’ me Sergeant?”

“Botherin’ ye? Nae sir, jus’ wanna see how Gaz manages to take them down.” Soap says, a half truth and they both know it.

“They gave him a hard time too.”

“Do ye think tha’ they oil up befure every sparrin’ match?” Soap says with a smile and Ghost rolls his eyes despite the small smile growing beneath his mask. You look up and notice Soap and Ghost which immediately makes him want to flee the scene. Every time you lock eyes with him, it sends him back to his time in Mexico. You’re a constant reminder and he wants you gone. Simon is dead and he’s not sure why you even joined the fucking military in the first place. Last he knew you were close to finishing off your degree, did you drop out to join this place?

Ghost grits his teeth as he shoves the memories of both Roba and you back into the box he had stuffed the two of you into years ago. He can’t open the box for one without the other escaping. You offer him a small smile and he turns on his heel. He walks as quickly as he can back to his private quarters, perks of being an officer and also being dead he guessed. He slams his door behind him and marches right into the bathroom. He yanks off the mask and stares at himself. He stares at the scars across his face, his broken one-too-many-times nose and the scar that cuts his lip. He takes stalk of his flaws within his face, the one you had seen and hadn’t recoiled from.

He wonders if you even suspect that its him and his chest hurts at the thought that you’ve forgotten him. But he knows he hasn’t earned his right back into your life, he’s dead. He can never be the man you need or want, he’s different now. Much more scarred than when he returned from Mexico, he’s brash and rude. He doesn’t like people and he doesn’t like that he still wants to be near you. It’s irrational, it’s stupid and there’s nothing he can do about it but try and get to you to quit.

“Captain Price told me to give this to you.” A Corporal says, clearly shaking in his boots, as he hands Ghost a file. “A-and he told me that he wants you in the briefing room.”

“Dismissed Corporal.” Ghost says and the man scurries off. Ghost looks at the file and opens it, the first thing he sees is that it’s a duo op. The second thing he sees is that you’re the one coming along. “Fuckin’ hell.” He mutters as he looks at your little picture papercliped to the top of the page next to his faceless one.

“He always does that.” You groan to Gaz as you watch Ghost turn on his heel and leave once you lock eyes with him. “Did I do something wrong?” You ask, “It's been months.”

Gaz shrugs, “Ghost is an enigma, when you start to think you know him you find something else about him. That man has secrets upon secrets.” You frown at that statement. Obviously he was hiding his face to protect his identity and of course that made you naturally curious but you’ve never pressed about it. He’s quiet and efficient if any of the stories told you by Gaz and Soap were anything to go by. And now he’s a secret keeper.

Who are you Ghost?

”The group that had been inhabiting the old soviet base are still lingering around and might return when they realize that they’ve left behind a very important piece of information.” Captain Price says and points to the projected map on the wall. “You’ll need to be fast and efficient. Is that clear?” His blue eyes scan over the two of you and both of you echo a ‘yes sir’ at the same time. “Good, get your gear and be ready, you’re wheels up in two hours.”

You sit at the table in the briefing room, bouncing your leg up and down under the table as Captain Price goes over what the mission objective is and what intel you and Ghost will be going in with. The mission is in Siberia, the objective is to get an old usb drive from a recently re-abandoned USSR base. You glance over at Ghost who hasn’t stopped looking at you this entire time, only dragging his eyes away from you when Captain Price addresses him specifically. His brown eyes seem to be trying to burn holes into your very soul so you try to match it. This would be your first duo op with Ghost and you would not be pushed around during it.

“Yes sir.” You say and leave the room after being properly dismissed. You look at the file in your hand, the information covered in the briefing summarized in the file with certain things blacked out. Like the fact this is in Siberia or that it’s an old soviet base that had been taken over by a terrorist group for a short while. You worry about that fact, if this base had been well and truly abandoned, why would the group set up there? Siberia wasn’t exactly a very hospitable environment and would take a certain amount of resources to deal with. Not just any kind of terrorist group would be able to afford those expenses.

“What’s got ye frownin’ so hard?” Soap asks and you jolt, not even aware that Soap had come up to you. He glances at the file and whistles, “Yer on a mission with L.T?”

”Somethin’ wrong with that? Something I should be worried about?” You ask, glancing behind Soap to make sure that specter wasn’t there.

“Nae, nothin’ ye should worry about besides the stick up his arse.” Soap jokes and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you. Soap grins, “There’s that smile.” Soap pinches your cheek and you swat at his hand.

”What are you? My aunt?”

”Nae I’m worse.” Soap laughs as he goes to pinch your cheek again. You squeal and laugh as you take off towards the armory and Soap gives chase. You eventually make him leave, shoo-ing him off so you can change into your gear. The gear is heavy but familiar, a comforting kind of weight that you always mourn once an op is over. Tightening the strap of your vest until you felt like it was secure enough and doing the same thing with the gun holster on your thigh.

”You tighten it anymore and you’ll lose blood flow.” Ghost grunts and you stop yourself from startling a little. Ghost walks up to you and loosens the straps himself a little before your brain starts working again. You slap his hands away and glare up at him.

”I am perfectly capable of knowing when to stop tightening my straps.” You hiss. You had been in the SAS long enough to know your preferences and the fact that he is trying to baby you is insulting at best and downright disrespectful at worst. Ghost stares down at you, brown eyes dead but also filled with some kind of emotion you can’t place. He says nothing else, doesn’t even grunt, before he turns to get his gear on. You huff and finish preparing your items for the op.

You go over the file one last time while on the flight to Siberia, flipping through the different pages and you can’t fight off the gut feeling that something isn’t right. You bounce your leg as you look at the map of the base, for an old soviet base, it's small. Granted, you don’t know how big USSR bases in Siberia tended to be but this is just too small. You glance at Ghost and contemplate mentioning this to him but since the armory he hasn’t spoken a word to you. Let alone even look your way which would normally be a reprieve but right now you wish he would look, just so you’d feel less awkward starting a conversation. You remind yourself that he’s a Lieutenant, he knows more than a Sergeant such as yourself. You need to trust your commanding officer.

Ghost can feel the warmth from you, like you had leaked a part of yourself into his gloves and now he can’t get rid of it. He doesn’t understand why he had approached and went to fix your straps, really they are too tight for comfort, but when you had slapped his hands away it was like a shock had gone through him. Like his entire system had been rebooted from the simple touch, now he can’t even bear to look at you. He can feel the weight of your gaze on him though and that’s how he knows that he acted out of character. He clenches his fist so tight his knuckles are cramped when he opens it again, he wishes you would just say what you want to say.

He wishes you would yell at him so he would have something to tell Price about, to maybe get you booted off the team. He’s been a prick to you, moving your stuff in the rec room, eating your food and being condescending. What kind of drill sergeant you had, he didn’t know but they must’ve turned your will into steel. Or maybe you were always like that, you hadn’t given up on him when you got a glance at his life at home. You treated his bloody noses and busted lips, you convinced your parents to let him stay over as often as possible. You even went with him to get Tommy despite the shit Tommy and his shitty friends had put you through.

Ghost clenches his jaw, no matter what, this is better for you. He just needs to get you to quit or maybe transfer to some kind of safer job in the military if you’re so hell bent on staying. He still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that you dropped out of university. He steals a glance and sees you looking at the file the same way you would look at study notes before a test.

You were right. Of course you were fucking right. Why do you have to be right? The base is much, much bigger than the intel said and worse is the fact that its not completely abandoned. “Get the fuck out of there!” Ghost yells over comms and you’re so close to just tearing the wiring in half so you don’t have to listen to him. You turn another corner, refilling the ammo in your pistol as the sound of pounding footsteps echo down the long concrete hallways of this underground base. You wait for the man to turn the corner and shoot him right between the eyes, the muzzle on your pistol only does so much and the sound bounces off the walls. ”I said to get out of there soldier!”

You snarl, “I’m getting this fucking USB drive, fuck off!” You say into comms as you run down the halls. Lights flicker above you and distantly you can hear soldiers yelling. Just a few more turns, you tell yourself as you slide into a wall, using your arms you push off it and keep going. Once out of this god forsaken underground, NOT abandoned, USSR base you’d die happy never seeing another concrete hall. You slam the door open to the server room stored deep in the base and lock it behind you, hoping that might spare you some time between you and soldiers surely running down the halls towards you.

”Don’t ignore me Sergeant!” His voice comes out warbled, likely because you’re so far underground. You clench your jaw so hard your teeth hurt as you fling open different desk drawers, toss everything onto the desk in search of the USB they sent you here for in the first place. After six desks, you realize there is no way there is a USB.

”Fucking CIA intel.” You grab an unused USB from a desk and jam it into the nearest computer. “Fucking lucky I took that damn class.” You mutter to yourself as you bypass the passwords and begin to download the information.

”Sergeant! I said get out of there, use your bloody ears!”

”I have to download everything myself!” You yell into the comms, “The intel was shite!” You slam your pistol into the PC you’re not currently using. “Fucking CIA.”

”I don’t care! I’m pulling us from this mission.”

”I’m getting this USB Lieutenant, you’re welcome to chew me out once I’m back on the surface.” You snap, “Going dark.”

”Don’t you da-“ You rip the wires out of your comms and throw the damn thing onto the floor.

Ghost yells into the comms again but only gets static back, he looks down at the base from the scope of his sniper. It looks abandoned, it looks small and easy to navigate but he heard what you said. He knows that its all a facade, that the terrorist group had found tunnels to another base nearby and have been smuggling weapons and food between those tunnels, hardly ever having to go outside at this base. Which is what led the intel team to believe its been abandoned and therefore an easy op. His heart is pounding against his chest and it hurts from how hard its beating against his chest, he keeps trying the comms. “Gator! Gator turn your comms back on!” He snarls into the mic but still nothing.

It’s then that it dawns on him that you didn’t just turn comms off, you ripped the wiring out. “God damn it.” He grunts as he gets off the ground, the snow disguising him falls to the ground as he hauls his sniper up and buries it under the snow between two trees. He pulls out his shitty cracked phone, that he frankly refuses to replace. He knows why and its not because he doesn’t like the newer versions. It’s because this one has those pictures of you, the version of you that hadn’t turned your back on civilian life yet. The version of you that makes him feel kind of sick for looking at now that he knows you now.

He opens up his map to the coordinates to the nearest safe house, and grabs his pistol before he puts his phone away. He sighs and makes his way down towards the base that must be crawling with enemy terrorists but no one gets left behind. And he’s not about to let you die down there, his grip on his pistol tightens for just a second before he forces his fist to relax. He saunters his way in, everyone is far too distracted with chasing you down to pay attention to the cameras. He slides down the ladder into the base and is immediately greeted with the muffled sound of an alarm. “Fucking hell.” He mutters as he readies his pistol and knife.

You grunt, push the metal cabinet against the door, pushing through the pain in your thigh to do so. By the time it’s in place, you collapse against the wall next to it, grunting at the pain that shoots up your thigh in quick bursts. You look at the bullet wound and can’t help the disgust that crawls up your face when you realize it's pumping blood out in the rhythm of your heart beat. It’s funny, you’ve been shot before but you never had the time to look at it. It makes sense that it would do that though. You lean your head back against the concrete wall and can’t help the sob that rips it way out of your throat. Not because you’re going to die, not entirely because of that. Because you’re going to die in a concrete box alone.

You smear your bloody hand against the wall, wiping it off as you fumble with your shirt, pull just enough fabric out and rip it. No, you think, you’re not going to die here. Anywhere but in fucking Siberia surrounded by enemies and in a damn concrete room underground. You wrap the torn fabric around your thigh, just above the wound and wrap it tightly. So tightly you can actually feel the blood flow being slowed and this time on purpose. You check the bullets in your pistol and laugh when you see only two. “And I’m fucking out.” You mumble just as you hear someone’s boots echo outside of the room. You rise on shaky legs and bite your tongue to keep from crying out from the pain but walk over to the corner. You raise the gun and point towards the metal cabinet that is rocking from the force of what must be either several people pushing or one big motherfucker.

You don’t pray, no sense in praying right now. Even if you did ask for forgiveness you wouldn’t get it, the blood on your hands is more than any person can justify, not even God because it is a rule. Thou shall not murder. You huff out a laugh at that, well you’ve certainly sinned. The metal cabinet comes crashing down and in bursts three men. Fuck. You fire your last two shots and take down the first two but when the third enemy hears the gun click, he laughs. It’s an ugly and horrible laugh, one that expresses his entire arrogance of you being in this situation. Wounded and without any ammo, your knife left behind in some fuckers neck a few corners ago. “You lose.” He taunts as he walks closer and your leg finally loses feeling, you slide down the wall as you stare at the man who is going to hopefully bring you death.

You’re reminded of that quote you read once, When I die, bury me in the woods, the wolves will be kinder to me than any man. And if you weren’t about to meet your end, you’d laugh at the fact you can’t even remember the woman who said it. You hope she got her wish. The man raises his pistol and presses it to your temple. You hear a bang echo in the room and expect for it all to be over but you grunt when the man lands on you. “What the fuck?” You mutter as you struggle to push the weight of a dead man off of you. He’s pulled off of you and you look up at the bloody skull face plate, “Aren’t you just a life saver?” You quip before you throw up.

Ghost huffs when you pass out after throwing up and narrowly avoiding his boots. He hauls you up and over his shoulder, tucking your pistol into your thigh holster. Trying to get you up the ladder was hell, he was constantly afraid that his grip would loosen and you’d fall to your death. The walk to the safe house is about half way done when he feels your stirring. He grips you tighter just in case you try to flail around and attempt to land yourself in the snow.

When you come to, you realize that you’re over someone’s shoulder. Just as you’re about to flail around, the memory of Ghost standing over you. “Awake now?” Ghost asks, his voice rough as always and that reminds you of someone you used to know. You give your reply in the form of a groan which is all that seems to want to leave your mouth. “We’re about an hour away from a safe house.”

”And I wasn’t told?” You snap, anger pushing past the way you feel like you’re going to throw up if you speak again.

”Need to know.”

”Well I might’ve needed to know!” You flail your arms around harmlessly before you collapse back to being a rag doll on his back. He doesn’t respond and when you think he’s about to return to his normal grumpy silence, he breaks it.

”What the fuck were you thinkin’?” He snaps and you jolt awake from the half sleep you had unknowingly slipped into. “Ripping your comm wires out and going dark. What the fuck Sergeant?”

”I wasn’t able to focus with you screaming at me to abandon the mission.” You immediately jump to defend, “I got the damn USB drive with the intel they need, I completed the mission.” You don’t even realize that he’s reached the safe house until he nearly kicks the door in because the doorknob is frozen. He practically tosses you onto the couch before slamming the door shut. “I completed the objective.” You nearly snarl out.

”You failed to follow simple orders to retreat.” He slams his pistol and knife down on the table, “You nearly died.”

”Yeah, well it didn’t seem like you’d care all that fucking much if I did! If I hadn’t gotten the USB,” You pull the damn thing from your front vest pouch and throw it onto the table. “then the entire thing would have been a waste!”

”I don’t care about the USB, if you’re in danger like that you follow my damn orders! I can’t lose you!” Ghost grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you just a little. You look at him, feeling confusion creep up before it is swallowed down by anger.

”What?”

”Forget about it.”

”No. You’ve been treating me like a damn nuisance the minute I joined the task force and now you suddenly care? Why now huh? Why now? Because you sure didn’t act like I mattered very much.”

”I said forget about it.” He snarls but you go to stand on shaking legs

”No fuck that! Fuck you Ghost! What changed?” You keep hounding him until he slams his fist down the table and rips off his mask.

He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe an animal but you’re frankly ready to sink your teeth into his skin if he tries to approach. “You didn’t even have the courage to write? Not even a little postcard? Something! Anything! To let me know you’re not dead? You’re lucky I’m not able to walk.” You spit.

Rage boils up in you so quickly, so quickly you aren’t able to express it all just through yelling. It burns you up, sets you on fire and throws lighter fluid into that inferno any time you think it's about to burn a little less. It’s all consuming anger mixed with all those years of grief that you never properly addressed, just slapped a bandaid on called military life and carried on. Hot tears run down your face as you scream and rage at him. You even throw something at him, though he ducks out of the way easily. “You fucking bastard! You bastard! Fuck you Simon Riley!” You scream as you cry, head pounding from something. The pain in your thigh? The rage in your temple? Or how hard you’re crying? Probably a mixture of all three. “You’re dead! I buried you! I went to your funeral Riley!” You throw something else at him, probably an MRE.

”Would you listen-“ Simon tries to say but you immediately cut him off. Hearing his voice makes whatever walls you have built up over these five years crumble so easily. You can’t let him speak or else you’ll fall into his arms and just cry. And you need to be angry because you deserve to be angry.

”No! You listen to me Simon Riley!” You ball your hands into fists, “Why? Why did you treat me like shit? Why did you undermine me at every turn? It’s bad enough that you let me believe that you were dead! Wasn’t that enough for you? But of course it wasn’t, you had to make my life hell because you met me again!”

”Shut up!” Simon finally snaps, his brown eyes swirling with fury and guilt. “I had my reasons and if you would just-”

”Well what were they then? Huh? I’m all fucking ears.”

”You keep interrupting me. If you didn’t-“

”You had months to come clean Simon! Years if you count the time before I met you again and after all that time you couldn’t just be a man and tell me? Couldn’t even send me a hint that you were alive?” You slam your fist into the wall, you ignore the pain that shoots right up your arm into your shoulder. You glare at him through your tears and wipe at them frantically. “You didn’t even try.”

”I did it to protect you! And if you’d just let me speak I’d tell you all the reasons I had to not tell you or even let you think I was alive!” Simon finally manages to say, he goes to speak again and you hold up your hand.

”Don’t talk to me Simon Riley.” You say as you wipe away any tears from your cheeks that hadn’t rolled all the way down. Your eyes burn and your stomach hurts from just how much you’re feeling right now. Deep down, past the anger you feel relief because he’s alive. Your Simon is alive and maybe more rough around the edges with a scar bisecting his lip, a nasty scar along his cheek and nose broken and not properly set several times. You’re also sure his eye bags have increased tenfold since you last saw him but his eye black keeps that little fact hidden from you. His teeth are chipped and broken but his brown eyes still hold that same depth. You can tell he still smiles the same and he’s still that overprotective boy who had scared off your date that one time just by opening the door.

That’s still your Simon Riley. But damn him to the deepest hell and back for making your heart hurt so badly. “Fine.” He grits out before he marches to what you assume is the safe house bathroom and slamming the door behind him.

There is something wrong with me. That is Simon’s first thought when he looks at himself in the mirror that must be old because his reflection is warped. There is something wrong with me and it's not the scars or the way my joints ache when I stand or sit down. There is something wrong with me and it makes my blood run black. Simon wonders if he had been born wrong. He suspects he’s always been this way, he was his father’s son after all, doomed to be awful to all of those he knows. To use them and drain them dry until they cut him off or he tosses them away. He doesn’t want you to be part of that cycle, to be a part of the cycle that always results in those close to him dying.

He already lost his family, he couldn’t lose you too so he cut you out completely. It was better if you thought he was dead. You were better off thinking he was dead in the ground even if it hurt you, even if it hurt him. And fuck did it hurt that first year, every time something happened he wanted to call you or text you. Tell you all about it late at night in a part of base where no one would care if he was awake if they even dared to approach him at all. Simon wanted to return to you more then anything but Ghost hadn’t dug himself out of that grave and lost his entire family as consequence for not fucking dying just for you to meet that same fate. No, you’d be his only in memory. Maybe one day he’d stalk your social media and find that you’ve moved on. Hopefully out of that fucking city, working a good paying job with a man who deserved you.

And it didn’t matter how much that thought made his supposedly ice heart hurt. It didn’t matter because he was dead and there was nothing he could give you besides this rotting body and whatever love he could scrape together for you.

Simon looks at himself in the mirror, completely maskless and bare for what felt like the first time in years. It felt like his skin had been pulled away to show the maggots, rotting tendons and muscle underneath. Every tear that had left your beautiful eyes had felt like acid on his skin, every word thrown his way a well placed knife throw. He knew he deserved all that malice and if you didn't want to talk to him, then he wouldn’t talk to you. No matter how much he wants to.

The next two days go by slowly, it reminds you of the time you had to go through a bog. Slow movements and time seemed to slow to a fucking crawl as you traversed the bog to go around an enemy encampment so you could get the jump on them from behind. It didn’t matter that your clothes had been soaked through or that you could feel the cold of the water seeping into your bones. You kept going. So the same logic was applied here. Your bullet wound in your thigh eventually got treated properly, in silence of course. Simon had given you the first aid kit and you did your best with what you had. Digging out the bullet had to be one of the most painful experiences you’ve ever had.

Simon had wanted to step in and do it himself but he knew you’d sooner accept an infection then let him any closer then needed. By the end of the hour and several deep, guttural screams cut off only by the belt between your teeth, you had managed to pull the bullet out. You were quick to stitch the hole closed and to wrap it in bandages. When that was over, you only had enough strength to crawl onto the shitty couch and pass out.

The first day not talking to him was filled with tension. It was so thick you could cut it with your knife, if you had it that is. It’s still stuck in that asshole’s neck which sucks because it was a good neck. You were hesitant to put any pressure on your wound, terrified of ripping your frankly shit stitches and increasing the chances of you getting an infection. You spent the entire day cleaning and taking apart your gun with occasional glares sent to Simon if he tried to enter the same room as you and stay for more than a few minutes.

He understood your anger, he did, but he couldn’t stand it at the same time. He wants to sit right next to and soak in your presence in a way he hadn’t allowed himself before this. He hadn’t bothered to put his mask back on and when he had stepped out of the bathroom without it the first time you had jerked like someone had pinched you. You could still tell he had blonde hair from his eyebrows but seeing his blonde hair in a buzz cut had felt like an electric shock. That was still your Simon even all these years later and that made you angrier. How could he? How dare he? After all these years, he looked the same despite the scars on his face but you? Do you still look the same despite the weariness in your eyes and being grief eaten.

The only word he spoke to you was, “There’s a blizzard coming in tomorrow.” You had only given a grunt in acknowledgement which he had to admit, stung. How many times had he responded to you like that while trying to get you to quit and transfer somewhere else? Far too many times, he ran a gloved hand through his prickly hair as he shook his head. God he had been so fucking stupid and stubborn. As it turns out, the blizzard couldn’t wait until tomorrow or maybe it was the next day. The wind shook the entire safe house, the walls creaked and groaned from the force of it. The windows were covered by snow or maybe it was a white out, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t even want to lift your head to check. You were fucking freezing despite your thermals and the blanket. Your teeth chattered as you pulled the blanket even closer and closed your eyes. Your cheeks were numb and you could barely feel your nose, your fingers actually hurt from how cold they were.

You blew more warm breath into your cupped hands, your entire body shivered as another burst of wind caused the house to groan from the weight of it. You glanced around the living room/kitchen area, the fireplace was boarded up but it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t, you had no wood. The only thing of light was a battery powered lamp that you had been surprised still worked. You knew where Simon was, in the only other room besides the bathroom, the bedroom. Getting up those stairs would have been impossible for you the first two days here with your injury. Hell, you even doubted if you had enough strength to do it now even with the protein and nutrient packed MRE’s given to you for rations. But you suspected if you didn’t seek out another form of warmth and soon, you’d end up a popsicle. And frankly? That sounded like a bad way to go.

You shakily got to your feet, where it was from being nervous about putting weight on your injured leg or if you were cold, you couldn’t be sure. But you wobble up the stairs, gripping the rail for life the entire way and nearly falling when you finally manage to get the doorknob to turn. Simon catches you, he opens his mouth to chastise you before he realizes the state you’re in. He mutters your name, brown eyes filled with worry as you shrug, too tired and frozen to verbally shrug. He shakes his head and brings you to the mattress in the corner, he quickly runs downstairs and grabs your blanket before returning upstairs. You grumble, which honestly was just noises from the back of your throat as he settles next to you, pulling both blankets over the two of you. After a few minutes and warming up a little you mumble, “This doesn’t change that I’m upset with you.”

”I would never expect it to.” He whispers back as he wraps an arm around you. It shouldn’t be as easy as it is, like two pieces of a puzzle finally snapping together. You seep warmth from him like a leech while he holds you close and steady enough that you don’t shiver or shake. He stays awake the entire time, long after you’ve fallen asleep on your pack-made-pillow. Simon looks at you and drinks you in properly this time. Despite the blizzard outside still raging on and the cold temperatures making your skin lose a little color, you’re still as stunning as the day he confessed his love to you. He can still recall that day, sitting at a bench a little ways away from the reception party. The cool October breeze blowing through and the way you looked so relaxed. So content with the moment and with him. He kissed you that night, he kissed you like a starving animal. Like he might never get to kiss you again and that he needed to take what he could now.

“I love you Simon Riley. I have since we were 15. Don’t leave me again Simon, not if you can help it.” He was fucking idiot not to say it back, he didn’t even think to do so because his heart had been stabbed the moment you pleaded with him not to leave because he was leaving again. He was leaving you, the best thing in his entire life. Then he came back fucked but he did his best to get better. He didn’t want to touch you, he was terrified he would hurt you. Force himself on you, every night he dreamed that he was hurting you and that he enjoyed it. The therapy helped a little, you and his family helped a lot. Having something to return to helped so much. Then it all came burning down and damn it, he wasn’t going to let you die. So he killed the men then he returned to Mexico and killed Roba and his entire cartel. Then he never returned home, he never let you even think that he was alive. He glances down at you, sleeping in his arms

Sometimes, if he looks at you even now, he can recall the day the two of you met.

It was so cold and the rain didn’t make anything better. He trembles in his too-big shirt and pants which are rolled up to stop him from tripping again. He sniffles and wipes at his face, if he wipes away tears or the rain he doesn’t know. Other kids pass by him quickly with their umbrellas, rain coats and boots, protected by the things their mum’s and dad’s buy for them. His dad had sold his and Tommy’s umbrella’s and coats to afford more alcohol and drugs. Being the good big brother that Simon told himself he was, he let Tommy take their mum’s coat instead of him. He didn’t regret that, he could never regret making Tommy’s life a little better.

He isn’t expecting you to walk up to him with an umbrella with yellow ducks on it. He recognizes you almost instantly, you go to his class. You ask him, “What are you doing without an umbrella?” with your head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

He mumbled out, eyes averted to the ground and soggy strawberry hair sticking to his forehead, “I don’t have one.” You asked if his mum didn’t buy him one. She did, she always did her best to provide for him and Tommy but his dad always ruined it. You don’t wait for him to respond, you don’t push for further answers or make fun of him for not having an umbrella or raincoat.

Instead, you smile at him and hold the umbrella with yellow ducks on it over his head after pulling the hood of your coat over your head. “Well it doesn’t matter now, I’m here and we can share.” You give him your name and he gives you his with the tiniest smile on his face. You held the umbrella over his head the entire way there then you walked him home because it was still raining. You called him a friend.

When you wake up, he lets you sit in silence. The blizzard had mostly passed through during the night, the worst of it was over but the safe house outside of the blankets was freezing cold. Simon knew he wasn’t exactly in a rush to leave the warmth and comfort of this moment. The silence hangs between the two of you and at some point, you begin to play with fingers in the way you used to when growing up. It takes a better part of an hour for him to work up the courage and it really feels like he is going to throw up when he whispers, “Do you still love me?” It’s quiet that if you didn’t know his voice that you’d think it was the wind still blowing.

He swallows hard and squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for the killing blow. For you tell him that you don’t love him anymore, especially after these five years and the shit he pulled. But it doesn’t come, instead he hears your shuffling and feels your slightly cold hands cup his stubble covered cheeks. He peaks his eyes open and nearly melts at the sight before him. You, nearly in tears as you look at him so fondly like you did that October day. “Of course I still love you Simon Riley.” He can’t stop himself from closing the gap between the two of you as tears spill from both of your eyes and kiss you.

”I love you Simon Riley.” You kiss his cheeks, “I love you.” You kiss his forehead, “And I’ll keep loving you for eternity.” Simon melts with each kiss you give him and sighs when you kiss his lips again. His large hands find your waist and tug you closer, his thick thigh parting yours as his tongue swipes at your bottom lip. You happily part your lips for him, your hands gripping his shoulders as his tongue explores your mouth and a needy moan leaves you. Your heart aches still and tears keep slipping down your face because he’s here. Simon Riley is alive and has been for years. The relief is almost enough to make you forgive him on the spot.

You’re taken by surprise when he kisses you, it's gentle and some tears slip between your connected lips. You don’t even realize that either you or him has started to cry but you return his kiss, trying to keep him this close for as long as you can without breathing. His hands tug you closer, if he could tear open his ribs and stuff you in there instead of his heart and lungs, he would. When you finally pull away, tears still running down your cheeks, you look at him. Tears run down his cheeks too and wet the fabric of his shirt now that they’re not being caught between your lips and spread between your cheeks and his. “Say it again.” He croaks and you repeat it.

Maybe you are forgiving him in a way, not fully. God knows that it will take a lot more than just this to make you forgive him but it's a start. And it’s a start you desperately need, your fingers dig into him further which pulls a groan from him. Immediately you loosen your grip on him, fearing that you’ve hurt him until he pulls away completely breathless and with pupils so wide there’s hardly any brown left, “Don’t stop doing that.” He leans in and whispers against the shell of your ear. It sends goosebumps rising up on your skin as you dig your fingers back into him right as his mouth connects with yours again.

He rests a hand on the back of your neck to keep you close and connected to him. You feel like a teenager again when he slips one of his thick thighs between your own and you grind down on it nearly out of pure instinct. The pressure of your pants seam pressing against your clit makes your legs weak and a liquid warmth to pool. You do it again and you moan into the kiss, his other hand which he had used to cup your cheek immediately went to your hip and grabbed it. He doesn’t try to stop you, instead he encourages you to grind against his thigh. He mutters something against your lips and it comes out muffled but it sounds like, “Take what you need love.” And you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You grind against him, a little harder this time which causes your entire body to jolt as the electric pleasure shoots up your spine. His hand on the back of your neck tangles itself into your hair and he pulls away only barely so he can catch his breath. You’re left breathless and panting as you grind against his thigh, he rests his forehead against yours and his eyes focus on you using his thigh. “Fuck.” He mutters as his hand on your hip moves up and cups your chest. “I’m sorry.” He whispers and you furrow your brows, your pace faltering at his words.

”Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, I’m sorry fo’ bein’ such a twat.” He says and pushes his thigh back against you. Your head tips back as a moan leaves your throat and you resume your previous pace. He gropes and paws at your chest, trying to pinch and twist at your hardened nipples from over the fabric of your shirts. “Love, please let me- let me push your shirt up.” He begs and you immediately give your consent. He doesn’t waste another second and pushes your shirt up as far as it would go then he grumbles something to himself before he pulls it over your head and discards it nearby.

He dips his head down and immediately takes a nipple into his mouth while his hand squeezes the other breast. He sucks on it, laving his tongue over it like a dog and letting his teeth graze it slightly when he figures out it makes your hips jolt. You tighten your grip on his shoulders as your thighs tense up and you desperately keep rocking your hips against his thigh. “Si-Simon I’m cl-“ You’re cut off by your own moan when he switches nipples and when he looks up at you between blonde lashes your orgasm washes over you. Your hips stutter and your entire body jolts once or twice as you soak your underwear. Simon swears at the sight of your mouth falling open and your head tipping back to expose your entire neck.

His fingers are nimble as he unbuttons your pants, he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of both the pants and your underwear then yanks them down. “Let me? Please let me make you feel good.” He begs and you nod, mind still trying to piece itself back together after the first orgasm. He shuffles under the covers and it’s kind of funny to see the bottom half of his body sticking out but the sight of it is pulled away from you as he yanks you further down the mattress.

”Simon-“ You yelp before it’s cut away into a moan. There’s no preamble or teasing, likely because he feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t have his mouth on your cunt now, before he buries his face in it. You grab at the blankets, your mouth falling open as you moan when his tongue flicks your engorged clit. He can’t seem to decide if he wants to focus on your clit or your pulsing hole, dipping his tongue down to slurp up your juices before returning to your clit. He’s desperate, his hands are gripping your thighs like you might try and pull away despite your moans and pleads for more filling the safe house.

He eases one thick finger into you as he sucks on your clit and you see stars in your vision. “Like that- oh my god- like that please don’t stop.” You whimper as your fingers card through his hair. You moan and start to squirm a little as he begins to pump his thick digit in and out of you. He seems to be searching for something, trying different things and sticking to the one that makes you keen the loudest. He crooks his finger just right and your thighs tense up around his head as a moan tears through your throat.

Like the sniper that he is, he focuses on that spot within your increasingly soaked cunt as he tortures your clit with his mouth. The slurping sounds have your cheeks heating up and you squirm as he pushes a second finger into you with no resistance. He rubs against that soft spot inside you that causes your body to relax further and pins down your hips when you try to squirm away from his tongue.

“Simon- nngh- that feels so-“ You can barely string together a sentence as he seems intent on rendering you boneless and incapable of speech as he abuses your g-spot. You feel a tightness growing within your abdomen, like something is winding up before it lets go. It barely registers in your brain that you’re on the verge of cumming. Simon must feel it too, with the way your pussy clamps down around his fingers, because he redoubles his efforts. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as your pussy pulses without a rhythm and you’re thrown over the edge. The muscles in your thighs clench involuntarily as the pleasure runs through you. He keeps rubbing at that spot through your orgasm, his fingers soaked in your slick as you twitch a little from the aftershocks.

You try to move upwards when he eases a third finger into you but he holds you down. “It’s too much.” You choke out as he crawls up your body, leaving a trail of sticky wet kisses. “Si please.” You hiccup as he begins to work you open with those three fingers.

”Got to work you open love.” He mutters reassuringly before capturing your lips in a kiss. He swallows down your moans like the greedy man he is, keeping all of these sounds for himself. He doesn’t care if the two of you are the only people around for miles upon miles, he doesn’t even want the walls to know your sounds in case they ever learn to talk. You whine at his words and a hand grabs his bicep as he fucks his fingers in and out of you. The stretch of three of his fingers is delicious, just that slight sting that ebbs away the more he finger fucks you.

It feels like he rips the next orgasm out of you, your entire body tenses as it slams into you. You feel yourself gush on his thick fingers and he keeps going, keeps fucking you through it until your pushing at his arm and pleading for a moment of reprieve. It’s only until tears gather in your eyes that he finally stops. Simon peppers your face in kisses while he whispers that he’s sorry. He promises that he’ll do right by you this time, no more running away or disappearing. He swears it as you unbuckle his pants and pulls them down. There’s a noticeable wet patch on his boxers but you don’t comment on it, just pull those down as well. Your mouth waters and your eyes widen when you see his cock.

It's thick, uncut and long. The tip is red from neglect and drips pre-cum like a leaky faucet. His cock is heavy that it hangs low and his brown eyes are filled with lust as he watches you reach down and wrap your hand around his length. “That’s not going to fit.” You finally whisper out, meeting his eyes which crinkle from the cocky smile on his face.

He leans down, body draping over yours. You can feel his body heat rolling off him in waves as he takes his cock from your hands and lines up the bulbous tip with your cunt. He strokes it a few times with his slick coated fingers as he looks you in the eyes before whispering, “I’ll make it fit.” When he pushes it, he does it slowly. You can feel every ridge, every pulsing vein of his cock against your walls. Despite having stretched you with three of his fingers before hand and making you cum twice the sting remains. It’s a sweet burn, a delicious heat that licks from your hips up to the back of your skull. It grounds you to the moment as his fingers dig into you as his hips meet yours, bottoming out in you he lets out a low moan. His eyes flicker down to where the two of you meet and he licks his lips at the sight.

He pulls back just a little and the squelch that comes from your cunt when he pushes back in makes your face hot. He leans down and grabs your uninjured thigh. He hooks his arm around it and forces it up as he cages your body between his arms. You grab onto his shoulder and bicep, your eyes can’t seem to leave his as he thrusts in and out of you. The pace isn’t fast but his hips snap against yours, the sound of skin on skin fills the room and mixes with each noise pulled from you. Simon swallows the lump in his throat as he supports himself on one arm and cups your cheek, his thumb swiping something away. You sniffle and reach your hands up to his face, you try to drink his face. The same face you thought you would never see as tears roll down your cheeks and his cock fills you past the point of full.

“I love you.” You say between hiccups and moans. You watch as his eyes water and he buries his face within the crook of your neck. He mouths at the sweaty skin there and whispers that he loves you back. That he loves you so much it hurts and that he’s sorry. He repeats it over and over again with each roll of his hips and that feeling within your stomach grows again quickly. With each snap of his hips you feel yourself getting closer and more tears leak from your eyes. You cum again with his name on your lips and feel his hips stutter and loose pace. He grinds up against you, nudging your cervix in a way that causes a slight pinch within your lower abdomen that makes you clench down harder on him.

You feel him cum, you hear his groan right next to your ear as his hips come to a complete stop and pressed against the meat of your thighs. His sticky warm cum fills you, the feeling is odd. Foreign but not entirely unwelcome as he stays in that position after letting your thigh rest back down onto the mattress. You twist your head to the side and give him a quick kiss, “Say it again?” He whispers.

”I love you.”

Simon lets out a shaky sigh, the relief he feels is palpable, “I love you too.”

It’s not all that surprising that he can’t keep his hands off you and you’re not innocent either. After seemingly fucking all of your anger towards him out, the two of you cling to each other. He rocks his hips into your again, every movement lighting up your nerves in a way that seems never ending. Like this pleasure will swallow you whole but you don’t mind, it hides the twinges of pain from your thigh from being pressed so close to your chest. You kiss all of his face, soft moans from both of you mixing together into a melody.

”How long until someone is able to get us?” You ask later while you lay on his chest and trail your fingers up and down his abdomen. You’re exhausted, barely able to keep your eyes open and the heat between the two of you is slowly lulling you further into sleep.

”The radio said they’ll be here tomorrow.” Simon replies and you mindlessly hum.

”What will happen when we leave?” You ask, “When all of this is over.”

”We’ll figure it out.” he murmurs and kisses you. “Rest up love.” You’re not surprised, actually delighted, when he wakes you up with kisses on your neck. He trails down from your jaw, nipping occasionally at the soft flesh which earns a wanton moan from you.

”Happened to resting?” You tease and he chuckles against you.

”Oops.” He says and it would be convincing if you couldn’t feel his smile. Simon’s hands trail down your naked body and he pushes two fingers back into your sopping wet cunt. You gasp and arch your back, eyes fluttering closed as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. “You’re so wet.” He groans, like he still can’t believe that you still want him. “Never going to let you go again.” He promises as he begins to abuse that soft part inside you.

Simon kisses your nose and you chuckle. “Excited?” You ask and he nods. It’s been two years since that mission when everything changed again. Two years since you found out Simon Riley never died, that he had refused to die once again. It had taken a little while to figure out what the both of you wanted, therapy helped a lot. It helped you realize that the military lifestyle, despite it being the thing you had only known for the past five years, wasn’t truly for you. Of course you had known that you had only joined in Simon’s memory but therapy helped you let go of it.

God bless John Price, bless him for being utterly professional despite two of his soldiers fucking which has to be the most unprofessional thing to do in the military. He looked at you with that smile that made his eyes crinkle when you placed the discharge paperwork on his desk that day 8 months ago. “Finally figured out what you want then?” He asked as he immediately signed off on it, not even bothering to read through it.

”Yeah, I have, Captain.” You said with a fond smile, you’d miss this. You’d miss him, Gaz and Soap but it wasn’t like they couldn’t come and see you when on leave. You’d only be an hour away in a nearby city anyways. You glance at the two keys in your hand, one for you and one for Simon. You place the second one into his palm. “Let’s go see our home then.” You pick up the cat carrier and Mittens meows in protest. You coo your reassurances to her, promising that it’s almost over. The three of you climb the steps up the porch of the townhouse you now own and Simon unlocks the door.

You glance around the currently empty space then glance behind you to the moving truck parked out on the side of the street. “I think it might take us a day to get everything in here.” You say when you turn to look at Simon

”I’d say two.” Simon says as he takes the cat carrier from your hands and sets it down next to the stairs. You quirk an eyebrow up and part your lips in an ‘o’ shape when you realize what’s on his mind.

”Really Riley?” You ask as you loop your arms around his neck and he chuckles as your expression.

”I’ve always wanted to bend you over a countertop.” He purrs as he tugs his mask down and plants a kiss on your neck which sends shivers down your spine.

”Is that so?” You ask as he backs you up against it after closing the front door. He hoists you up on top of it with a ‘mhm’ before he captures your lips in a kiss and his hands settle on your hips.

You grasp at the edge of the counter, moans being punched out of you with each thrust of his hips. The sound of skin on skin echoes in the house and mixes with his groans. Simon’s fingers dig a little harder into your hips, enjoying the sight of how your fat squishes up between his fingers. “You’re so fuckin’ stunning.” And all you can respond with is a moan as his fat cock abuses the tip of your cervix. “I’m gonna retire.” He babbles and his words hardly register in your mind as you begin to clench down on him as a sign you’re on the precipice of an orgasm. He loops a hand around and rubs mean circles around your clit which sends you falling off the edge.

He swears as your cunt clenches down on him like a vice and he spills himself in you all while he keeps rubbing at your clit. You lay there panting, trying to gather your senses as you blink away the tears of overstimulation once his hand falls away. You gasp and gulp down the air, “Simon?”

”Fuck I said that out loud didn’t I?”

You can’t help but giggle and shake your head. “You mean it?”

”Yeah, I mean it. I’m gonna look into retiring, I can’t be a soldier forever.” He rests his sweaty forehead against your back as he speaks.

”I love you so much Simon Riley.”

His hand reaches out and loops through yours, the matching rings on your fingers glinting in the light. “I love you too.”

[toxicanonymity]

being bad and looking good.

2.8k, raider!Joel (dark) x f!reader | Raider Master SUMMARY: You look hot but get punished for acting up. WARNINGS: I8+ dubcon unsafe P in V, possessive Joel, creampie, manhandling, angst, joel makes you cry, rough, spanking, choking. He's a bad guy, not a kink practitioner: no rules. He cares, and you enjoy the dique, but you're captive. A/N: HYPOTHETICAL because I didn't want to figure out where to place it in the timeline. Set vaguely in the past. This is for a lingerie ask as well as readers who have requested feral/mad Joel or sweet pea being bad. @javier-penas-wifexx420 @arcanefox207 IMMERSABILITY: Reader has hair that can be held/pulled. Joel can lift reader. Reader has no height/size, so fill in the blanks for whether he has to bend his knees to enter you, etc.

Joel lets it slip how close the abandoned mall is, and you can't stop thinking about going there. You want to get something for him.  He always brings you things and you never have anything to give him other than food you've foraged and flowers for the trailer. One day, you insist it would be fine with Joel if you go to the mall. You make it sound like you've discussed it. Carter is skeptical, but he feels bad for you. He finally breaks down and agrees to take you. 

When you're there, you're walking through the mall and notice Carter's head turn all the way toward a particular storefront as you walk by. You wouldn't have noticed it otherwise. He keeps the same stride, but you slow down to look.

It's a lingerie store. Most of the mannequins are bare or have clothes hanging off them, but there are huge, fading posters with women of all shapes and sizes sporting lace teddies, babydolls, bralettes, strappy garters, and the floor is littered with them. 

Carter sighs when he realizes you've stopped at the store. 

As he slowly walks back to you, scratching the back of his neck, you ask, “Do you think Joel would like it if I had something from here?” The question feels almost rhetorical, but there's that bit of insecurity, too. 

“Uh, I dunno. Sure, I guess.” Carter doesn't seem comfortable. He agrees to let you go in for just a minute to see if you find something, but you have to stay in view. And you think you do. It's a two piece with a sheer, strappy top. The bottom is more modest than a thong, but it has a slit in the crotch that makes you clench your thighs together thinking about Joel.

—-

When you get home, you put it on in the bathroom so you can look at yourself in the mirror. You think it looks good, but it's not a full-length view. And you're not quite sure if it's fitting right. How much tit is supposed to be showing? How tight should it be? You put the flannel back on, but leave it open when you come out. You feel a little more covered than you are, since the nature of the fabric shows a lot. 

Carter's sitting at the kitchen table casually shuffling a deck of cards.  He looks at you for only a split second before his face hardens, and he abruptly looks away. “Jesus,” he drops the cards on the table, and the chair groans against the floor as he stands up. “The hell are ya doin’?” he awkwardly turns around, pulling up on his pants a little. 

“I just wanna know if it looks-”

“--'m sure it looks great,” Carter runs his hands through his hair in distress as he looks out the window.  Then, he tightly crosses his arms, and they stretch his sleeves even more. “Now get outta here,” he tells you. He rocks forward onto his toes, then back, waiting for you to leave. 

Is he mad? You step further into the kitchen and try to meet his eyes in the reflection. 

His voice is stern. “Go put some goddamn clothes on.” 

“Sorry, I wasn't–”

“Now.” He means it. You stand there stunned for a moment with your lip quivering. He's never been angry at you before. 

“NOW.” He points toward Joel's room, veins bulging on his hand and arm. He doesn't turn around to look at you, but you see the flush from his cheeks creeping onto his neck and ears.  

You go to your room and sniffle as you button the flannel. Then you put on a pair of shorts, curl up on the bed, and cry. 

–

After a few minutes, there's a soft knock on the bedroom door. “Ya’okay?” 

You only sniffle, “I'm sorry,” in response. 

Carter sighs. “I shouldn'ta snapped at ya, darlin’. But ya just – can't do that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Shit, you're a pretty girl, okay? But it ain't my business how ya look. . .in somethin’ like that.” 

“. . .I know, I wasn't thinking.”

“Now, if you're dressed and wanna play rummy, I’ll deal. . .”

You smile to yourself through your tears. 

—--

You dry your eyes and come out to the kitchen, but something in the air is different as you pull out a chair and sit down.

“Carter, please forget it,” you plead and try to get him to look at you. It feels like you broke something.

He finally makes eye contact and forces a little smile. Then he concentrates on the cards as he deals. “Two, two, three, three,” he counts the cards out loud for each of you as he deals. He finishes, and while you're studying the hand you’re dealt, it's quiet. In the corner of your eye, Carter's gaze falls to your now fully-covered chest, but he quickly pulls his eyes away and looks straight down, fidgeting with his cards. You feel awful. What if he can’t look at you the same? It was stupid to try to show him. Of course it would look good to Joel, he likes everything on (and off) you.

______

When Joel gets home, you're in the bedroom alone, sitting on the bed in the lingerie and flannel. As he enters through the kitchen, his boots are heavy on the linoleum. Your heart races with a moment of doubt - how are you going to explain this? But he bursts in the room grumbling, “goddamn Harold, tryin’ to get us all killed.”  He takes his shirt off over his back, tosses it to the laundry, and looks at you. He pauses and devours the view for a few seconds before he slowly approaches, chest heaving.

He looms over you as you sit on the bed. He uses both hands to nudge the flannel off your shoulders, and it pools behind you. You take your arms out of it. He grabs a tit and rests his other hand on the nape of your neck, thumb brushing the curve of your skull. His chest lets out a low growl as he feels you. Then his fingers trail up the strap on one shoulder. He plucks it and it snaps against your skin.

Joel’s face darkens as he asks, “Where’d it come from?” When you don’t answer fast enough, his hand traces up your throat. A chill spreads across your chest. His thumb brushes the side of your neck, then slides over to lift your chin and make you look at him. “Where.”

“I wanted to do something you’d like.”

“Where,” he repeats, then clenches his jaw, waiting. 

“You said the mall wasn’t far, so–”

He raises his voice. “You went to the mall? Where was Carter?”

“It’s okay, he was there, even found a part for the van in the parking lot.” 

Joel’s nostrils flare, and he grips your jaw. “Carter took you to the mall.” 

Your eyes water with panic. “No, it wasn’t his idea--”

“To buy somethin’ like this.” 

“I wanted to get you something. I didn’t know they had this stuff —”

“He's got no business takin’ ya anywhere. And sure as hell not somewhere sexy.”

You're worried for Carter and grateful he’s not around. “I swore the mall was okay, that you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t know there was somewhere sexy,” your voice trails off. 

Joel shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “You don't say what's okay. You don't KNOW what's okay. Get up.” 

He forces you to your feet then turns you around.

“I thought you'd like it,” you sniffle. “You always do things for me.”

“He grabs your ass, lifting your butt cheek and lets it drop. He clicks his tongue. “well, I sure don't like how ya got it.”

“I'm sorry”

“Think ya need a reminder who's in charge here.”

“I know,” you sniffle in agreement, sensing what's coming. He sits down on the bed and manhandles you into lying face down over his knees. You feel a twinge of arousal even before he shifts your position and your hip brushes the hard shape in his jeans. 

You hold your breath as he brings his hand back, then it lands with a sting and you yelp at the force. You bury your mouth in your arm as he brings his hand back again. He repeats it on the other cheek and you let out a muffled whimper that sounds more aroused than you should be. 

“Like bein’ bad?” He asks, then spanks you again. 

“No.” 

His hand lands with a sting one more time and stays on your skin to grab the plush of your burning skin. “Ya like this?”

“. . .I dunno,” you whimper, unsure of the right answer.

He feels between your legs, his thick finger finding  a damp slit in the cotton crotch of the lacy underwear. He slips a finger inside the garment, giving you a shock of need when his knuckle nudges your dripping hole.  “Ya do, don't ya? Get up.” He grabs your arm and stands up, forcing you to your feet. He holds your hair and stares you down sternly. “This ain't for fun, baby, it's your safety” He lets go of your hair and looms closer. “Understand?”

You nod and reflexively back up. Something tells you it's not just about your safety. 

“AND Carter's. You tryin' to make me hurt’m?” He asks. Joel gets closer and you keep backing up toward the wall. 

“No,” you sob. “Please don't. He’s good, so good, he wouldn't even look at me. He respects you so much”

A new rage flashes across Joel's face and he lowers his voice. “He wouldn't . . .even . . .look at ya,” he mutters too calmly for your comfort. He takes a deep breath, looks you up and down again, puts his hand on your chest, fingers spread wide, and walks you harshly into the wall. His bare chest heaves. ”But ya gave him the chance, didn't ya,” Joel nods. You've dug your hole so much deeper. 

“I was only thinking about–” Joel’s hand comes to your neck as you croak out, “--you.” You don't know what you were thinking. Joel doesn't either. He slowly shakes his head, nostrils flaring. 

He pins you with his hips, and his hard cock digs into your front, making you gush.  

“Forget who ya belong to?”

“No,” you whimper. “I’m yours.”

He pulls his hips back and quickly unfastens his pants. You bite your lip to keep from moaning at the sight of his cock. It nudges under the bottom hem of the lingerie top to reach your body. You feel his skin hit your lower belly, and it makes you weak with desire. “Only wanna be yours.”

He kicks your feet apart to spread your legs, and he brings his lips to your hair. “Then ya do what I say. Understand?” 

“Yes sir,” you whisper, then he shoves his hand between your legs, using two fingers to spread the slit in the fabric of the crotch. 

“‘s’for your own good,” he adds. 

He nudges the slit with his cockhead. The fabric doesn’t open wide enough, so he rips the slit more, then you feel his tip at your wet little hole.  He holds his cock in line, then grabs your ass and shoves up into you all at once, bottoming out. The force makes your back and shoulders drag up the wall. With your feet now off the ground, your knees bend, cradling his hips. He holds you by your ass, adjusts your weight, and your back is against the wall. You balance your arms around his neck. His thick cock retreats then punches into you again. 

He's so thick, each time he pushes in, it feels like he’s taking up your whole body. He’s not looking at you; he’s looking past you. The grip of his fingers hurts enough to feel good, to feel his desperation, how much he has to have you–for him and only him. 

He grunts and growls and breathes heavily, stomach heaving against you. “You're mine, sweet pea.”

“I am,” you agree. 

“No one else can have ya.” His words get broken with the force of his thrusts.  “No one else can see ya.”

“I know.”

You moan as he buries his length in you roughly, and he mutters “goddamn,” tightening his grip on your ass. You’re overwhelmed by the fullness of his cock, his skin against yours, his breath in your hair, his body pinning you there. All of it makes your insides swell with mounting pleasure. 

“I love being yours,” you pant. 

He fucks you in relative silence for about two minutes, the room filled only with the sounds of his brutish grunts and unbridled sighs, your little moans and whimpers, and the squelch of his stiff cock pumping in and out of your dripping cunt.

He adjusts your weight and looks down at your body from time to time, letting your upper back rest against the wall as he rails into you. You’re reassured that he likes the fit, at least. Your legs wrap loosely around him. 

The pressure in your lower belly builds with each grunt, each thrust of his cock. Soon, his breath becomes shaky and the drag of his cock quickens. Then he bottoms out sharply with a groan, drawing a sigh from you as he begins to pulse. He thrusts into you slower, more controlled, and you rock slowly against the wall. The rhythmic swell of his shaft within your walls and the warm seed spilling from his tip make you clench around him. You moan his name, tighten your legs, and he sighs as your cunt chokes his cock. 

When his balls are empty, he slides out, and the fabric pulls with his cock as he withdraws and lets you down to the floor.

—-

Joel sighs, crams his wet cock into his pants, and fastens them again.

“You okay?” He asks, catching his breath. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Where are you going?”

“Gonna pay Carter a visit, down at the house.”

“Please, Joel, it was all my fault,” you beg. “Don’t do it.” 

“Ain’t gonna kill’m. This time.” You still don’t like the look on his face. 

You follow him across the room, reach for his arm, and your fingers land lightly on his inner elbow. He pauses, still without his shirt on, and looks down at your hand on his elbow. He turns around, reads your face, then goes over to the bed without a word. He sits and manspreads.  “I was desperate to make you happy,” you plead, fidgeting with the hem of your top.

Joel scrunches his face. “Ya do make me happy, sweet pea.”

“He didn't even wanna take me,” you insist.

“Then he’s gotta learn to say no.” 

You hesitantly come closer, unsure if he’ll turn you away, but he lets you between his legs, then you sit on his thigh and keep fidgeting with the hem of your top. 

“He says no all the time,” you assure Joel. 

“Does he,” Joel mutters skeptically.

“I made it like he would've been saying no to you.” 

Joel shakes his head, looking at your mouth. “That ain't right, but he knows better, baby.” 

“He yelled at me,” you offer, hoping it doesn't make things worse.

Joel's brow furrows and his tone sharpens. “Ya gotta stop lyin’, now. It's pissin’ me off.”

“I'm not! He was mad.”

“Oh yeah? What'd he yell?” 

“Told me to go away and put on some clothes.” 

Joel’s chin lifts to look at the ceiling and he takes a deep breath, then looks at you. “What the hell got into ya, huh?”

“I dunno,” you mumble. “Feel like I'm going crazy, stuck here all day.” Joel looks at you. “But you take good care of me,” you clarify, “and I love it here.” 

But that’s not what Joel’s thinking about. 

“Wanna fuck him? Suck his dick?”

“No!” You're on the verge of tears again. “God, Joel, please don't talk like that.” Your face is scrunched up in pain. 

“Then don't act like it.”

“I was–okay, I get it.”

Joel is quiet for a few seconds, then asks, “What if I told ya to suck his dick?” 

“No!”

“You'd say no to me?” 

“I’d ask if I really have to.” 

Joel's face slowly softens, like you found the only acceptable answer. “And why’s that?”

“Cause I only want yours.” 

“Hm,” Joel nods. 

“Please, Joel. Stay here, don't go to him. . .you can talk to him tomorrow.”

You put your arms around Joel's neck and study his pensive face. Then you bury your head in his neck and whisper “Sorry.”  His hand slowly comes to your back. You dip your head and lightly brush your lips against his collar bone, then return your face under his jaw, and he nestles his head over yours. Your wet lashes blink against his skin, and his hand slowly slides on your back. Somehow, it feels like more comfort than you deserve. 

“Ok, baby,” he whispers and wraps both arms around you.

----------

if you wanna know whether Carter sees sweet pea that way, check out he's only human.

----------

Their present-day story will continue, but I don't have an ETA, sorry. Unless the next one gets split up, it'll have fluff, two moods of smut, angst.

I appreciate all your comments that let me know what you enjoy and what curiosities you have. Thank you so much for reading, and thanks for your support. Love you all.

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[justyouraverage-simp]

she's in good hands// t.s, s.r

pairing: steve rogers x reader (romantic), tony tark x daughter!reader (platonic)

warnings: tony being a bit of a douche to steve, tooth rotting happy relationships

summary: tony was very protective of everyone he cared about but his daughter meant the most to him out of anyone so when he has to face the music that shes growing up he finds it hard to accept especially when it comes to boys but not just any boy captain america

*gif not mine*

Y/N swore she could never love anyone as much as she loved her dad, he was the only man she needed in her life. The two were peas in a pod, they were best friends and after Y/N got her heart broken who was there to pick up the pieces? Her dad.

Everyone swore Tony wouldn't be a present father, that he would send his child off the first chance he got. Just like his parents did to him. But Tony used that to be better, he became the worlds best dad at least in Y/N's eyes and to him that's all that mattered.

****

When the avengers were formed they all was told to keep their hands to themselves when it came to Y/N. No one risked to see where the line was because Tony had never been so passionate about something in his life. His little girl (although she is now 24, she will always be the little girl he used to play tea parties with and dress up with her like princesses) was his world, she saved him when he lost his parents, she gave him a reason to keep going and he will always protect her.

What Tony wasn't prepared for was her getting to the age where she was interested in boys and becoming more curious about them and her feelings. She didn't have a mother figure in life really other than Pepper then eventually Nat became an auntie/ older sister to her, so it was down to him to teach her everything and it was the first time Pepper had seen Tony unsure of himself.

Y/N went through her fair share of rough relationships, the worst being a three year relationship that ended with her being cheated on. Tony was furious seeing his girl crying over someone. She swore to him she was done with men, that he was the only man for her, the only one she needed. She was happy being single and free. That was until 2011 when she met Steve Rogers.

*****

Y/N and Steve both agreed to keep the relationship a secret to start with so the two could find their footing without the whole world watching their every move. And also so they could work out how to tell Tony without putting him or Steve into an early grave.

"Hey, how would you feel about telling my dad about us?" Y/N said looking up at Steve who had his arm draped over her shoulder as they cuddled into the sofa.

"As long as you want to I'll do whatever you want sweetheart you know that" Steve says.

"I know I'm just nervous"

"I know you are but we love each other right?"

"Yeah"

"So your dad will see that and how he hasn't noticed yet I don't know but we will show him that I'm not like the others" Steve says placing a kiss onto Y/N's forehead.

It was a few hours later and Jarvis had made Y/N and Steve aware Tony was back from his mission with Nat and Clint. Everyone meet in the living room to welcome the three back when Tony looked up at his daughter suspiciously.

"Why are you being weird?" Tony says bluntly.

"Wow nice to see you too dad"

"Honey you know what I mean, your quiet and your not as happy to see me" "I just need to talk to you when you get a minute"

"You can talk to me whenever you need, I'm your dad"

"In private please?"

Tony and Y/N walk to her bedroom, Steve following behind sneakily to be there for Y/N.

"What's going on kiddo"

"I'm just going to come out and say it" Y/N says running a finger through her hair "I'm dating Steve"

"As in Captain America?"

"No Steve from down the road, yes Captain America"

Steve takes this a time to walk through the door and wraps his hand over Y/N's.

"No" Tony says quickly

"No?" Steve says "What do you mean no?"

"I mean nope, not happening, over my dead body. How else do you want me to say it, I can say it in another language if that helps you Cap"

"Dad, I wasn't asking you if I can, I'm telling you because I don't want to hide him. I want to hold his hand or sit next to him on the sofa without having too worry someone will catch on. I want you to be able to accept that I'm not your little girl anymore I've grown up" Y/N says getting more annoyed at her dad.

Seeing how passionate his daughter is makes him realise she loves Steve, not in the same way she loves Tony but the way he loves Pepper. It made him realise he will always be the man who taught her what to expect from men, to not accept anything less than 100%. Steve however he showed her what 100% is, he showed her the meaning of true love. He chose her and he would risk everything to make sure she knew how much she loved him.

Tony looked between the two of them "Rogers promise me something?"

"Yeah Tony?" Steve says unsure of what he's signing up for.

"Promise me you'll look after my girl, she's my world and if you hurt her I will not be held responsible for what happens"

"I promise, I will always protect her and I will always do what's right by her" Steve says looking down at Y/N lovingly, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

"Just because I know your together doesn't mean the PDA can come out thank you very much" Tony says as he leaves Y/N's bedroom shacking his head.

*****

That evening Y/N is cuddled back up to Steve on the sofa dozing off slightly as the Avengers all have a movie night which was tradition when someone came back from a mission.

"Tony I'm surprised you haven't blasted Steve to another planet for touching Y/N" Nat says looking over at the two.

"Nope, she's in good hands and I'm okay with that" Tony says as he watches Steve admire his girl sleeping.

[sweetestcaptainhughes]

Mam can I request ❤️‍🩹16❤️‍🩹 with jack hughes please 🥹🫶

I am truly sorry this and your other ask are just now being answered nonnie. But thank you for requesting! 🫶🏻🫶🏻 Also so sorry in advance because this will be sad.

200 Followers Celebration Masterlist

The "playful" flirting that they mean with every bit of their heart.

Everyone claims they have a photic soulmate. Someone who they met in their lives at the exact moment they were suppose to and immediately clicked. Everyone in life was suppose to have a Monica to their Rachel, or a Cristina to their Meredith. That is was Jack Hughes was to you, except for one small problem you were in love with him and he saw you as a best friend only.

You've only known Jack for two years now, actually meeting through his brother Luke. Luke was a 'friend of a friend' when you went to Michigan State. As soon as Luke met you he swore you were like the girl version of his older brother Jack. Someone who was quick-witted, charming when they wanted to be, could be the center of attention naturally, and when it came to a filter on their mouth almost nonexistent. But you were also someone who had secrets, who acted out of feelings of low self-esteem almost unconsciously and did what they thought they needed to do to survive. Turns out Jack was like that too, only it was a big enough secret that he would never dare let his little brother know, because he was older so he had to be stronger in his mind.

Meeting Jack two years ago when you were about to graduate Mich and move to Manhattan to start your life, and meeting Jack it just clicked. Luke was right, you were two peas in a pod, except only one of you was in love with the other. Due to your quick-witted mind and zero filter, you ended up accidentally flirting with Jack a lot, and he would flirt back, as the natural flirt that he is. But each time it was like a crane was being released again to smash into your heart. It happened everyday, it's even to the point where Jack thinks shameless flirting is just how you communicate now with each other. But today him flirting with you pushed you to the edge, and you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom to collect yourself.

Today you and Jack were eating lunch today in his apartment. Luke was in their living room watching something on T.V. Sitting down at the table, eating some pizza that you had just ordered from down the street.

Eating quickly because you hadn't eaten yet that day, you didn't realize that some sauce was on the side of you lips and your chin. Just focused on your plate and eating to help your growling stomach from your hungry. Finally looking up Jack saw the sauce immidately and smirked. "Hun" he always called you that before he said something flirtatious. "you made a little mess and got something on you." taking his finger and going to lightly touch your lips and catch the sauce before it dipped down your shirt.

"thats what he said" you spoke quietly trying to control your breathing and slow down your fast heartrate at how close Jack was to you, entering your personal space.

Immidately his smirk breaks out into a full grown smile as his mouth twitches as he says "yeah i would after your mouth would be full" Dipping his head down to your ear he whispered "with my cum."

It's like your body just reacts, you feel your stomach drop the familiar flutter of butterflies in your stomach, feeling yourself pull your thighs together. "baby if i sucked you off, i wouldn't risk any of wasting any of your cum I'm a swallow not a spitter."

"yeah wanna test that theory" he speaks in a low voice and you swear that your already feeling a pool form the wetness forming in your leggings, cursing at yourself for not wearing underwear this morning because you didn't want underwear lines.

"name a time and place Jacky" forming a small smile on your lips.

Jack laughs almost crying tears of laughter, as he backs out of your personal space finally. Gripping his stomach from laughing so hard as he plops himself in his chair. Once he calms down he turns back to his pizza.

Suddenly your stomach hurting but not from butterflies like a few moments before but rather anxiety because you let yourself believe that Jack was flirting with you because he actually wanted you. Quietly you excuse yourself to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. All you could think of as you watched your tears drop as you starred at your reflection in the mirror was 'how much longer can I live through this pain, of being in love with Jack Rowden Hughes when all he wants is to flirt and laugh at me'. After what felt like an eternity you felt yourself calm down enough to clean your face and put on a fake smile as you went back out to finish your lunch. Because even though you were in pain, you feared that a life without Jack Hughes would hurt more than a life with him where he flirted with you, taking a sledgehammer to your heart with each word.

[ohmygraves]

Hello, this is my first time jump into someone's ask box. May i have a request Gaz or any TF141 men you think would fit with reader who has big bruises on their body (they got it from mission or simply after training) but reader choose to hide it and tend the bruises by them selves. The man found this out by accident when they're changing clothes or whatever scenario you would put up. It's a bit angst but with a lot of comfort afterwards. You may ignore this if you feel uncomfortable with this trope..

Sincerely

Anon from Indonesia UTC+8

hello anon, thank you so much for requesting! i feel like they all would be concerned if the reader got hurt but refused to go get it checked with the medics (⁠ ⁠･ั⁠﹏⁠･ั⁠) so i will try to write some bits for all of them 💖 i hope you like it, sorry it took so long!

you got hurt on the last mission you went to with gaz.

you, captain price, and the sergeant were on the comms line together. you're in charge of backing up kyle when he infiltrates the building, and was talking with laswell and price. some dumb jokes, catching up with the station chief, stuff like that. the mission had been slow, and you're getting bored staying out there alone glued to the scope.

looking back, you probably shouldn't have joined in on the banter. you completely missed an enemy ambushing you from behind, and had lost communications for a few minutes as you got slammed against a huge boulder, tossed around by the man who attacked you. it was a miracle you got back in one piece, only bruised and some small cuts after the scuffle. you were lucky, so lucky that you're not sure if this were to happen again, you'd probably not going to be able to return at all.

you noticed how kyle, price and laswell was worried during your disappearance from the comms line, especially since kyle kept calling for you a few times and you wouldn't answer. after you shot the man down, you brushed off your clothes and returned to your post, apologizing to everyone and explaining what had happened. you assured everything is fine, and that you're okay and can still keep going. you didn't bleed out or anything.

oh, how wrong you were.

as you sat on the exfil vehicle together with price and gaz, you're starting to feel sore. the adrenaline coursing through your veins must've dulled the pain earlier, and now that it's gone down, you're feeling the pain.

honestly, pain might be an understatement, because you feel like you just got hit by a car.

god, your body hurts. every inch of your body feels like it's screaming for mercy. you're sure that bruises are forming somewhere under your clothes, but you honestly can't be bothered to even go to the medic for this. not when kyle is bleeding beside you and price is stressed because the target escaped.

it's fine, you can deal with it later. frozen peas and some painkillers will do the job.

you didn't realize that someone did notice how you're nearly limping around to go catch up with price for a debriefing...

john price

he'd noticed that you were hurt after you returned his calls on the comms, just after you finished shooting the guy who messed you up on the field. although, he was too occupied to even press you more about it, deciding to trust you that everything is fine on your end. thankfully, you did returned to the helo in one piece, which eases his mind.

still, he couldn't help but notice how off you're walking to his office, wincing slightly as you take each step. something must've happened back then when you were cut off from comms, and he needs to know. he quickly finished debriefing and dismissed everyone else, but told you to stay behind.

you feel your bones creak every time you move, even if that doesn't seem physically possible.

"are you sure you're okay?" price asked you, crossing his arms over his chest as he examined you top to bottom, "you're limping quite awfully, doll."

"'m fine, captain... gonna go check on kyle..." you replied curtly, not wanting him to make a big deal out of it. it's just a couple of bruises, nothing bad surely.

"get it checked with the medics. and i'll know if you don't." he sighed, "i know you think you can fix it yourself, but you should get it checked either way. you may be able to fix some scrapes, but you'll need to see if you broke any ribs or not."

"but—"

"it's an order, soldier," price snapped, "no ifs or buts."

you didn't say anything, simply nodding and turned back to leave his office. you might actually do it, given how sore your body feels right now. you didn't hear that price approached you, holding your hand over the doorknob. his eyes looked closer to examine you, his free hand moving to caress your cheek, his thumb wiping off the dirt on your face.

"take care of yourself, love. please."

"i'll try, captain..."

"good. that's all i asked."

simon "ghost" riley

you decided that you want to take a shower before going to see kyle at the infirmary.

he was bleeding a lot, it might take a while to see him anyway. and you were rolling around on mud that whole mission, you feel like you were covered in dirt from head to toe. gross.

the communal shower is just a few meters away anyway.

you took a small detour to your room to grab a change of clothes, thankful that you prepared it in advance. grabbing a cargo pants and a pair of clean t-shirt, you walked into the communal shower at the base, taking off your dirty clothes and setting it aside. it'll be cleaner if you wash them yourself.

changing was hard, your arms feel like it's so sore that it's about to fall off, and not to mention you can't even move freely. maybe price was right, you broke a rib because your chest is hurting slightly when you try to pull your dirty t-shirt over your head.

"what the hell happened t'ya?"

a rough voice called out to you as you heard someone stepped closer. you glanced to see who it was as you struggled to take off your clothes, seeing the familiar mask over the face and a bare, scarred chest. oh, it's just ghost.

"ya looked like a bruised apple."

you laughed, knowing how much your body hurts right now, you kind of feel like one too.

"got thrown around during the mission with gaz and the captain," you replied, trying to wrestle your t-shirt out over your head still as you wince slightly, "just... god, no big deal, really... gaz got shot..."

ghost hummed, nodding slightly as he sees you struggling to undress. "need help?" he asked, eyeing your bruises under the t-shirt peeking out while you try to peel off the fabric off of your body.

"please do, i'm losing my mind..."

"guess someone needs t'see medic after this..."

you rolled your eyes as ghost yanked the shirt off of your body in one swoop, making you groan and hiss at the sharp pain you felt. clearly he wasn't gentle enough.

"sorry," ghost apologized. you didn't really mind, brushing it off as you kicked off your boots and pants down, throwing it somewhere in the room.

"i'll live... thanks, ghost."

he nodded, giving your head a small pat as he turned around to his own locker, his fingers messing your hair up. "don't act tough, go see the medic after this."

you didn't want to tell him that you liked that he patted you on the head, so you grumbled up a response, pouting. "yeah, yeah... you're such a worrywart."

"i mean it. those bruises are messed up."

"i know, i know... geez."

ghost shook his head as he patted your head again, a little more roughly this time, messing your hair as he got dressed and left the communal shower.

john "soap" mactavish

the moment the water hits you, you couldn't help but groan out in pain. you weren't expecting hot water or anything, but at least not something that would literally freeze your arse up. you weren't sure if cold water is better since you're far too distracted from the pain by how cold your fingertips are.

you wondered if there's any way you could get some hot water, most of the time it's always broken.

your fingers started messing with the dial, fumbling as you tried to dodge the cold water hitting those sore spots on your body.

"jesus wit happened to ye, bonnie?"

you turned around seeing soap in his naked glory, somehow. having seen everyone naked at this point, you didn't care enough to mention it. it's the shower anyway.

"got smacked across the face by the enemy earlier on mission."

"yer like a bruised pear."

you shrugged it off, "lt said apple earlier, but same difference i suppose."

he chuckled, looking at what you were doing. he didn't say anything, simply moving to adjust the water for you. after fiddling for a while, he managed to find a good enough temperature that you could enjoy.

"need help, bonnie?"

"'m good, soap. you should go see gaz."

he didn't fight you, simply giving you some head pats, chuckling when he sees your pouting face. sometimes you feel like he's treating you like a kid or like a younger sibling... well, until he gave your butt a squeeze anyway.

"ow! soap!" you yelped in pain, knowing that a bruise has formed there too. soap laughed, giving it a small pat as he teased you again.

"careful, bonnie. can't get our star all bruised now~"

you rolled your eyes, sticking your tongue at him as he walked out of the communal shower.

kyle "gaz" garrick

after taking about an hour on your "quick shower", you get changed and decide to go see gaz in medbay. knowing that he got shot made you feel awful, so you just want to see if he's okay. you're sure he's fine, but he's going to keep bitching about it for weeks.

you made your way to the medbay, seeing if you could visit kyle. he was on the bed, pouting, so you decided to walk in and sit by his bedside.

"hey, you okay?" you asked him, seeing how he's wrapped in bandages.

"have a few extra holes on me, but i'd say i'm feeling better... you?" gaz let out a sigh as he looked at you, noticing the way you sit uncomfortably on the chair because of your bruises.

"i'll live."

"they got you too, huh?" gaz sighed, looking disappointed at you, "i'll call the medics."

you didn't want to bother him, so you tried to stop him.

"what? you're hurt. just because it's bruises doesn't mean that you can just brush it off." gaz shakes his head, taking your hand in his. "i don't like seeing you get hurt."

that made you blush, your heart thumping as kyle called for the medics to check on you too. you could feel his hand on yours, thumbs caressing the back of your hand as medics approached you.

[muddyorbsblr]

feels like mine pt2

See my full list of works here!

Summary: On the worst day of his life, Tom receives an offer impossible to refuse: getting you back. Well, almost…

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: major character death; possibly a wonky timeline (the math wasn't and still isn't mathing in my pea brain); probably a wonky depiction of soulmates [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: sad meow meow hours

Three days ago…

After a good dozen takes on the same sequence from a variety of angles, Tom finally had a moment to himself, giving his assistant a signal to retrieve his phone so that he could give you a call. You'd been apart for nearly a month at this point and he missed you terribly.

The only remote relief he'd get was hearing your voice as often as he possibly could. You'd tell him all about the plot of the book you were reviewing, or what details you could divulge on the shows you were working on. Considering that you often had ironclad NDAs for them these days, you'd usually tell him of the former as it was less of a minefield.

Once his assistant handed over his phone, however, his heart caught in his throat at the screen that greeted him. Over a dozen missed calls from an unknown number in the last few hours, preceded by a text message from you.

Tom, sweetie, I'm in the hospital. It's no big deal, just a little road accident, don't worry about me. I might not be able to answer your calls for a while, since they're taking me in for surgery in a few minutes. I love you. Always.

With trembling hands, Tom returned the call from the unknown number, his heart so heavy in his chest it was a struggle to even breathe right. The next words felt as if they passed through him in a blur; he could only pick up on bits and pieces from the other end.

Drunk driver. T-bone. Internal bleeding.

And the worst words of all. I'm deeply sorry for your loss.

He took the soonest possible flight back to London, everything around him seemed a blur until he finally got to the home you two shared, his and your mothers waiting for him inside. That was the moment he finally broke, dropping to his knees and breaking out into sobs, the horrible reality cruelly sinking in once he saw their completely distraught faces.

They took your body to be cremated that day, allowing him a few minutes to say goodbye before they began the process. Your mother advised him against looking into the body bag, insisting that he wouldn't want that as his last memory of you, that he should at least get to live on with his final memory of your face being that of the loving, beaming wife he knew and loved.

The next time that you came out, it was in an urn, weighing just about the same as a baby, and he cradled you as such. For the entire car ride back to your home until he settled you in his study.

"We didn't have enough time," he said through his tears, stroking the golden urn as if he was stroking your hair. "We should have had more time."

At that moment, a voice pierced the solemn silence of your home. "I'm sorry for your loss, Thomas."

When Tom turned to see who the unwelcome visitor was, he couldn't find any words to say except one. "Impossible."

"Quite possible, really," Loki shot back, stepping into the study with palms open in a sign to tell your husband that the god meant no harm. "Anything's possible in this multiverse, I'm slowly coming to find. And in that realm of possibility, I have something to offer you."

"All due respect, I want nothing that you can give," Tom declared sullenly. "You can't give me my wife back."

"And what if I said that I can? Well, in a way."

That suddenly got Tom's full attention, placing an arm in front of your urn as if he was still trying to protect you. As if that could really do anything against a god. "I'm listening," he said cautiously.

"I've recently learnt that in every universe, there is an iteration or an echo of me, and a corresponding iteration of Y/N. In this universe, Thomas, you are my echo. In every universe, Y/N's echo is destined to fall in love with mine, and in almost every universe, that love is reciprocated," the god began to explain, creating an illusion with a wave of his hand of your wedding day.

It was nearly enough to mesmerize Tom completely, almost losing himself in the memory. In happier times. "Hang on, what do you mean almost every universe?"

"Ah, yes. That part. Well, you see, Thomas…in the universes where my echo takes on your form, world-famous actor, hordes of adoring men and women and everyone in between at his feet, getting an entire crowd to fall silent with a finger to his lips--"

"I get it, I get it, can we keep it moving, please?"

"Right then. In the universes where my echo is…Tom Hiddleston, while it is a guarantee that Y/N will love Tom, it is not a guarantee that Tom will love Y/N. There are universes where Tom barely even knows of her existence. She's in the hordes, a part of her soul knowing that she's doing exactly what she was designed to do, but confused as to why she feels as if a part of her is missing somehow."

"That's--" Tom's words choked off in a sob at the back of his throat, a new type of sadness overcoming him as he imagined a world where he never even knew you. Never loved you. "That's miserable."

"It is," the god agreed. "My offer to you is that I can reach into one of these universes where her love for you is unreturned, and I can bring her to you. Fulfill what her heart yearns for, and in return, you have an echo of your wife. Have the time that was stolen from you so harshly. So unfairly."

Tom considered the offer carefully, only moments passing before he had his first question. "What of her universe? Her family?"

"In these worlds she doesn't have much of one. For the most part she's alone, and has learnt to fend for herself in lieu of a support system." Both their hearts broke for those iterations of you, the thought of you taking on the world without anyone by your side was nearly enough to bring both men to their knees. "If you were to accept, then it would be a simple enough spell with barely any ripple effect to nullify her existence and memories of her from the minds of those still around to remember her."

Every part of him wanted to jump at the offer. To accept it without thinking. Getting another chance to spend a life with you? There should have been no hesitation at all. Except…

"If she's anything like my Y/N, she'll be smart enough to ask questions. Why her life's different from what she knew before. Whose remains are in the urn in my study. What do I tell her then?"

"That is entirely up to you." Loki's answer was not in the least bit comforting. "You can conjure up a story that she will be inclined to believe, or you can tell her the truth. Alternatively, I can offer you an easier way out of this as well. Surrender your late wife's remains to me and I can keep her somewhere safe. That way you can live on with creating your new life with this echo of your Y/N without being as tethered to your past; after all, if you wish to start this life with her, then she deserves to have you love her to the fullest extent you can afford. She deserves not to be loved half-heartedly by someone still clinging to the ghosts of his past."

Much as he agreed completely with the sentiment, Tom found himself hesitating at the thought of simply surrendering your ashes to the god. He knew what the trade would mean, and that he in turn would have more time with a version of you; however, a part of him still protested.

For would this not be a dishonor to your memory? To simply let go of you and the time he'd gotten to know you and fall in love with you in exchange for something that might not even live up to his memory of you?

And on the other hand, he thought about the version of you that was doomed to live your life with an unrequited love. The knowledge that your souls were only partly intertwined in that world had him hurt for that iteration of you. You did deserve to be loved with the same magnitude that you gave love. And if he could give that to you, then the only way that he could do so was to accept that this wouldn't be a life wherein he picked up where you and he left off. He would be building something new entirely.

It was a near impossible choice. But ultimately he knew which way he would go.

Loki's offer meant more time with you. It meant having you again. Even if it was an echo of you. At its core, it was still you.

Right?

"What would you do?" he asked the god.

"If I lost my Y/N? I'd turn the multiverse inside out to have her again. Rearrange the Realms itself until she was by my side." He paced the room as he continued his answer. "Any version of her." A smirk tugged at the onyx-haired man's mouth before tilting up his chin, assuming an all-knowing stance. "But seeing as you are an echo of me, you already knew that this was the answer, didn't you? You simply needed to hear it outside of your own thoughts. Solidify your decision."

Tom could only nod, the depth of the situation still tremendously lost on him. All he knew was that if he did this, he would have you back.

He placed your urn on the desk, pushing it towards Loki. "What do I do now?"

The god held out his hand. "Firstly, your wife's ring. I'll need it when I find an echo of her that leads her life all alone. It will be her first tie to this universe. Your universe." Tom placed your wedding ring into his hand. "Secondly, you grieve. You've suffered a great loss, and what I am to do is not a replacement of your late wife, and should not be treated as such. Mourn your loss for the next day. Then after tomorrow night, go about your morning routinely, as if she were alive."

Tom nodded again. "How will I know that it worked?"

Loki only shrugged at the actor. "Have faith. Faith that you'll see your wife again the morning after next."

With that, the god disappeared, taking both your remains and your wedding ring with him. And Tom heeded the advice, crawling into the bed you shared with him, all the memories of the life you built together and the possibilities of the life you were yet to build overwhelming him. The weight of your lost future all but crushing his heart into a million pieces.

And he wept himself to sleep.

Today…

On the second morning after Loki's offer, Tom rose from your shared bed and listened to the god's instructions from days before. He laced his shoes up, went on his usual morning run, changed into business casual attire as if he was scheduled for a Zoom call in a short while, and proceeded to start preparing a breakfast for two.

Once he had coffee brewing, he started preparing a lavish breakfast for you two to share, starting with a fruit platter. "Have faith," he whispered to himself, making the last second decision to make it a touch more decadent with a small bowl of Nutella to dip the fruit into.

If this truly was going to work, he would spoil you at every turn moving forward. Never another minute squandered, nor another craving denied.

"Have faith," he whispered again, putting on an apron to prevent any spills from ruining his white dress shirt and proceeding to slice up the fruit.

Then he heard the bedroom door open. And for the first time in days he felt the tiniest glimmer of hope.

He waited until you made your way down the stairs, fighting every urge to meet you halfway and take you into his arms. He knew you needed to acclimate into this life you'd been suddenly thrust into; Loki had done his part, now it was his turn to ease you into your new reality.

Your footsteps got closer and closer until finally they stopped just outside the kitchen area. That was the only time Tom allowed himself to turn around and look at you, relief flooding his system once he laid his eyes on you. In the silk navy blue nightgown, wearing your wedding ring.

He finally felt like he could breathe again.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

A/N: *peeks from the corner* I promised I'd have a sequel for 'feels like mine' up, and here it issssss 🫡 This isn't 'sworn fealty' after all 🤣 (in all seriousness though I will be working on a sequel to that I just have 0 idea when)

And technically this isn't a sequel but more of a prequel to part 1…all I can promise you is that there is a part 3 and it's spicy 😳👀 Dunno when that'll be out tho because I'll be returning to the requests pile but we'll see where the vibe takes me

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemis @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified

[jungle-angel]

It Smells Like Home (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: Ever since moving, you and Bob have decided that you're going to have a very, very cozy Halloween with the babies

Bob took another sip of his oatmeal cookie flavored coffee, at least the second one he had that morning while two-year-old Patrick came waddling down the stairs, rubbing his little eyes and clutching his blue crocheted blankie.

"Hi bubby," Bob cooed as he lifted him up and kissed his soft little cheeks. "You're up too early."

"No sleepy," Patrick yawned.

Bob gently patted his son's back and set him back down on the floor. "You hungry?"

Patrick nodded before pulling his chair out and climbing right up.

Bob immediately fixed him some eggs, a little bit of diced ham and a tiny little cup of blueberries. "You wanna help Dada bake today?"

"Yes peas!!!"

Bob chuckled as he heated up his coffee and picked at his own plate of ham and eggs. He felt bad that it would just be him and Patrick for most of the day with you having gone to help Bob's parents get things settled around the new ranch and to help his Meemaw with her doctor's appointments. But Bob was happy since it meant bonding time with the littler of your two, soon to be three children.

As soon as breakfast was done, Bob cleared the dishes and put on "It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" both for Patrick and for the background noise while he baked. He kept it on repeat, never once annoyed by how many times it played, comforted by the memories it brought for both him and you.

Patrick kept himself occupied by teasing and playing with Tank, the burly rottweiler who helped Bob and his father keep control of the cattle. Bandit, the newest addition, a one year old blue heeler, snoozed away on the couch, completely unfazed by Patrick's little baby giggles.

It wasn't long before the whole house began to smell so good, overwhelmed with the aromas of chocolate, cinnamon, pumpkin, apples and sweet sugar. Bob loved when the fall farmers' markets came to town, leaving your family swimming in baked goods until then.

"Patrick," he called. "Patrick come taste for Daddy."

Patrick waddled right into the kitchen and took a large bite of a chocolate and vanilla cream cookie that had been shaped into a pointed little witch hat.

"MMMM yummy!" Patrick loudly and happily declared, the chocolate crumbs still all along the edges of his mouth.

Bob laughed, finishing off the rest before Patrick went back to his own business.

Bob had completely lost track of the time, when in the middle of the tenth or so rerun of the Peanuts Halloween special, Patrick had fallen right asleep with his blankie tucked under his arm. You had just come through the door with Auggie, quietly shutting it so that Patrick wouldn't wake.

"I've got him sweetheart," Bob assured you.

"You sure?" you asked him.

"I'm certain," he told you, picking the sleeping toddler up off the couch and carrying him up the stairs with you, laying him down on your shared bed for a nap. He covered Patrick with his blankie and tucked his little brownie bear under his arm, letting him sleep the afternoon away.

"You think he'll sleep for a while?" you asked.

"He'll probably sleep till dinner," Bob answered, taking you in his arms and kissing you. "She awake?"

"Wouldn't stop moving ever since we left your Meemaw's appointment," you chuckled.

You and Bob leaned in, pressing your foreheads against each other. "Wanna go and watch the Peanuts Halloween cartoon?" he asked. "Patrick's been watching it all day."

You hummed happily. "With you? I'll watch anything."

You and Bob soon found yourselves downstairs, snuggled under the couch blankets while your sons were upstairs napping the afternoon away, watching the Peanuts cartoons and the smell of baked goods filling your home with their delicious scents and your dreams of a cozy Halloween with Bob, fully having come true.

[kiankiwi]

So its a random start but I love taking naps so i was thinkin that it would be cute if u could do poly cg Bau Team x little reader where she is young like 2 in her headspace and always sleepy and she is like "nwap?" and they are like "sweetie you slept 1 hour ago" 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Spencer carried you, a very sleepy little one on his hip to the kitchen where your other daddies Hotch, Morgan and the rest of your BAU (your aunts and uncles) were preparing lunch and hanging out. "Hey, guys, look who it is!" Morgan said as he bumped a drawer closed in the fridge.

"What's going on sleepyhead!" Rossi said, coming over with his hands extended, silently asking to hold you. You stayed silent as Spencer passed you over. "She might be pretty quiet, little one is still pretty sleepy. But if I didn't wake you up now, you probably wouldn't sleep through the night." Spencer said, running his fingertip over your soft cheek that was still quite red from your sleepiness. You were the opposite of a regular toddlersace little.

A regular little in toddlerspace was usually full of energy and HATED sleep and would fight it. But you LOVED sleep. Every day during naptime, you slept so long that Spencer had to come get you. And you usually tried to sneak a second nap in if your daddies didn't bring you out to some activity. You just whined and hid your face in Rossi's shoulder. "It's okay mi carino, shall we go find a nice record to put on?" Rossi asked, bringing you into the living room.

"That poor thing is always so sleepy." Derek commented as he grabbed more lunch ingredients from the fridge. "Do you think she's sick?" He asked, grabbing drinks as well.

"Honestly? No, I just think she loves to nap. She didn't feel warm to me when I brought her down." Spencer said, handing out drinks.

An hour later, as the team were finishing up lunch and starting to bring dishes to the kitchen, you got down from your seat and waddled up to Derek as he was putting dishes away in the dishwasher. You pulled at the him of Derek's shirt, trying to get his attention. "What's up baby girl?" Penelope looked in the direction of you two, thinking the nickname was only referring to her.

You reached up to Morgan, requesting silently to be picked up. "Nap, peas?"

Derek picked you up swiftly and popped you onto his hip. "You wanna go to sleep baby? Again?" Adorably you nodded while rubbing a tiny fist into your eye. "How could I say no to that precious face. How about this, you wanna stay down here and cuddle with one of us?" You nodded and pointed to daddy Hotch as he spoke to Rossi about your last aquarium trip and how much you loved it.

Hotch was confused for a second as Derek grabbed your blankie and placed it on his shoulder but then the dots connected, "Oh, am I being napped on?"

"She specifically asked for your snuggles, Aar." Derek nodded as he passed you over from hip to hip. Hotch cooed and swayed you a ilttle bit, rubbing your back as you snuggled into his now cozy shoulder. Within minutes you were asleep again surrounded by everyone you loved.

[lxvvie]

Introducing the DITL (Day in the Life) series: You, your faves, and a day in the limelight with them when they're off-duty. Said series will also include their beloved pets.

A DITL with Gaz would consist of:

Gaz waking up at the ass-crack of dawn when the alarm goes off and preparing for his morning jog. It took a bit longer because you wouldn't let him get out of bed. He'll be back before you wake up, darling.

Gaz greeting and feeding Buttercup who insists on responding back with a curse word. Yeah, he's gonna need to talk to Uncle Soap about this.

And true to his word, Gaz was back. You woke up to him in the shower; you also made him yelp when you reached in and touched his bare skin with your cold hands. If you heard it, no you didn't.

You and Gaz preparing breakfast together. Well... Gaz was the one doing all the cooking because there was this new recipe he wanted to try and you prepared the drinks and set the table. Breakfast was good.

Simply relaxing, vibing, and enjoying the blissful quiet. And Buttercup's profanity.

Giggling because Gaz is lecturing your feather baby about his choice of words and Buttercup doesn't give a damn. Yeah, Soap, you're in trouble, mate.

Sitting around gossiping like hens because Gaz stays having the tea and you cannot help but partake.

Tickling session as in, you are busy touching, feeling, kissing, and loving on Gaz, and he plays off his bashfulness with quips and... was that a giggle, handsome?—'"Fraid not, darling." Sure thing.

Having an impromptu date afternoon/night because why not? After bidding adieu to Buttercup (who flapped his wings and told Gaz off yet again because how dare you take him off your head, dad?), you two just... went out walking in the town. Looking good in his pea coat, by the way, darling.

You took in the sights, hand-in-hand. You talked, you laughed, you kissed, and simplistic though it was, your time with Gaz was blissful.

You two had found yourself in this nice hole-in-the-wall café where you enjoyed a light dinner and people-watched. And gossiped some more.

You managed to make it home just in time before the torrential downpour hit. Lucky you.

The rest of the evening was spent watching the telly (or, rather, letting it watch you) and when it was time for bed, another ten minutes was spent convincing Buttercup that no, he can't sleep in the bed with you and Daddy and no, you two are not knobheads (Looking at you, SIMON).

You're nestled in bed, Kyle's arms around you, your face buried in the crook of his neck, and all is well. Until you squeeze his ass because why not at which point he just groans in mock exasperation and tells you to behave, beautiful.

[queenshelby]

Our Little Secret (Part 47)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity, Age-Gap, Triggers

A few hours earlier, at Cillian's house, Mara was sitting in her highchair, making a mess while she played with her food. She was on solids now, at least some of them, and she was as excited about her mushy peas as she was about her mashed potatoes.

Cillian couldn't help but smile as he watched her from the kitchen table. He had been a bit nervous about taking care of her on his own for the first time over night, but she was so calm and content that it seemed like she was truly enjoying her time at his place.

"Dada," Mara called out to him, lifting her tiny hands towards him.

Cillian's heart swelled with love at the sight of her. He got up from his chair and walked over to her, carefully lifting her up out of her highchair. He held her close to his chest as he kissed her on the forehead, breathing in the sweet smell of her hair.

"What is it sweetheart?" he asked, but of course, she wouldn't answer so he took it upon himself to figure out the mystery. 

"Dada," she repeated, reaching out a small hand to grab his stubble. Cillian raised an eyebrow as he marveled at how fast she was learning.

He walked her over to the living room and sat down on the sofa with her on his lap. She continued to look up at him, clearly demanding his full attention.

"What is it, sweetie?" he asked her, running his fingers through her soft, curly hair.

Mara shook her head and, before he knew it, she leaned in and touched his nose.  

"Dada," she exclaimed again, laughing at the silly little game they were playing, and Cillian smiled and played along, letting her poke his nose over and over again.

"Dada," she grinned, and Cillian kissed her on the cheek before lifting her up and spinning her around in a slow, gentle circle while she giggled along.

The love he felt for Mara was overwhelming. He had never known he could feel so much towards a person. It scared him sometimes, the depth of his affection for her but he wished that he could share this kind of familiarity and love with you as well.  But it was too late for him now. He had humiliated and hurt you beyond words, and no matter how many times he apologized, it would never be enough. At least not for you, and that was a pain he would continue to bear for the rest of his life.

Just as Cillian continued to play with Mara, doting on her cuteness and sweetness, he received the text from you, checking in on him. 

"Is Mara okay? Did she eat? She hasn't been very hungry lately," you asked  Cillian, hoping for some reassurance knowing that Mara was okay when apart from you.

It was the first time you had left her overnight since her birth, and despite Cillian's arguments about how it was about time that you trusted him with her, you still felt guilty for leaving her with a man who no longer loved you.

"Yes, she is fine. She ate well," Cillian texted back to you  , his fingers moving quickly over the keys as he kept one eye on Mara.

"Good. It makes me nervous, just do you know," you replied, then added a concerned emoji, causing Cillian to chuckle.

He knew how worried you were all the time when it came to Mara and, at least when it came to his daughter, you remained civil with him while, on the other hand, when he attempted to talk to you about anything else, including your failed relationship with him, you got angry. 

Thus, Cillian sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table before picking Mara up from her highchair again. She was chattering away to herself, clutching onto the spoon as if it were her most prized possession.

"Come on, Princess. Time for your bath," he said, tickling her under the chin as she giggled and squealed in delight.

As he carried her upstairs, she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaving tiny wet kisses on his neck, trying to blow raspberries on his skin as he sang songs to her about pirate treasures and buried gold.

Giving Mara a bath  was quickly becoming one of his favorite moments of the day, as it allowed him to laugh and enjoy his time with her without worrying about everything else that had happened between you two.

But as much as he loved spending time with Mara, the pain of losing you still lingered in the background, a thorn in his side that he couldn't escape no matter how hard he tried.

“Okay, up you go,” Cillian told Mara as he lifted her out of the tub and wrapped her in a soft, warm towel. "All ready for bed," he told her gently, smiling as she leaned her head against his chest, already half asleep which is when, suddenly, the doorbell rang.  

"Ding dong," Mara murmured, and Cillian chuckled as he carried her downstairs to see who it was.

Much to his surprise, it was his sister Siobhan standing at the front door, looking as if she had seen a ghost.

"Siobhan, are you alright?" he asked, sensing that something was up.

"I am and, fuck, I think you will be too," she told her brother who quickly covered Mara's ears.

"Language!" he  chided his sister as he opened the door wider. Siobhan rolled her eyes and walked in without a word, still looking shaken.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Siobhan. What's going on?" he asked, setting Mara down on the warm blanket on the floor before quickly gathering her pajamas. 

Siobhan sighed, running a hand through her hair before turning to face her brother.

"I just left a bar where I ran into Amanda," she murmured, slowly pulling her hairband off her head and letting it loose. Cillian froze, his heart skipping a beat at the mention of her name.

"What about her?" he asked hoarsely, his grip on Mara's clothes tightening, as if she was his chance at redemption. He was sick of hearing from her after she announced her pregnancy to you, and even the rest of his family, without any remorse for consequences. 

"She was drinking a few glasses of wine," Siobhan continued, narrowing her eyes at Cillian. "She looked quite hammered, actually," she then added, and Cillian inhaled sharply, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach.

"And?" he asked, seeing how he really wanted nothing to do with her until their child was born and, even then, he wanted her to take a paternity test as he did not yet believe her that the child was even his, which was something that made her blood boil. 

"Well, isn't she pregnant?" Siobhan said, raising an eyebrow at him. Cillian sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "What is she doing getting wasted?" his sister pointed out, causing Cillian to shrug nonchalantly which made Siobhan shake her head in disbelief. 

"Jesus Cillian, don't you get it?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"I think she is lying about being pregnant," Siobhan exclaimed, her eyes wide and filled with righteous anger.

Cillian's shoulders sagged as he stared at his sister in disbelief. His mind raced as he tried to process what she was saying, but it all seemed too outrageous, too far-fetched to be true. How could Amanda be so cruel and manipulative?

"You think that she isn't pregnant?" he  asked, struggling to hide the hope and disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, I think she is lying about being pregnant," Siobhan reiterated, her arms folded firmly across her chest. "I mean, it's just a feeling I have gotten for a while now. I can't explain why, but I just feel like something isn't right," she said emphatically.

Cillian stared at his sister for a long moment, considering her words carefully. The thought of Amanda lying about being pregnant was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

"She sent me photos of scans and stuff, Siobhan.  I have seen them," Cillian said, feeling a sense of doubt creeping into his mind.

Siobhan sighed and shook her head. "I know, but it's not that hard these days to falsify documents like that. I mean, she could have easily gotten them off the internet and then passed them off as her own. And besides, I saw her drink- she must have been at least three or four glasses deep, maybe more. There's no way she is pregnant," Siobhan continued, and Cillian felt himself growing increasingly uneasy. "She isn't even showing yet and I just have a bad feeling about this all. I had this bad feeling from the beginning, but I didn't want to believe it."

Cillian stood before her, feeling stunned as his sister laid out her suspicions to him. He couldn't believe that Amanda could be capable of such deception. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed possible. 

"So, you just happened to be at that same bar as Amanda?" Cillian  asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Yeah, I was grabbing drinks with some friends and she was just there," Siobhan replied with a shrug, lying to her brother while looking at him curiously, trying to gauge his reaction.

"What did she say when she saw you?" Cillian asked, still holding Mara's pajamas.

"Not much, actually. She just kind of...left," Siobhan said, furrowing her brow as she tried to remember before admitting to her brother that she had actually been keeping an eye on Amanda through work.

"Alright, I knew where she was going tonight. I have been keeping an eye on her for a while and her secretary is a big chatter box, so I knew where to go tonight," Siobhan continued as she stared at Cillian intently. "Listen, I just had a gut feeling that something was off about her pregnancy and my gut is usually right," Siobhan added and Cillian felt a wave of emotions wash over him at his sister's revelation. Confusion, excitement, disbelief, and rage all coursed through him simultaneously.

"But, why would she do that?" Cillian stammered, the words catching in his throat but Siobhan did not know the answer to his question.

"Amanda has always been manipulative when it came to you ," she whispered, running a hand through her hair. "She probably thought that she could get what she wanted from you if she played the 'pregnancy card'," Siobhan explained and Cillian quickly became determined to tell you about it all, thinking that, perhaps, it would make a difference. 

"Y/N needs to know that this all a big fat lie,"  Cillian murmured, looking at Mara before turning his eyes to his sister again.

"She does, although, honestly Cillian, I don't think it will make a difference. You cheated on her with Amanda, which is why she left you, and frankly, it was the right thing to do," Siobhan retorted, arching an eyebrow at her brother.

Cillian nodded in agreement. He knew she was right, but he couldn't help but feel guilty all the same. He had ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him, and now he was left to pick up the pieces of his broken family.

"I know Siobhan, but sometimes I wonder if we have another chance somehow, you know?" Cillian asked his sister wistfully, staring at the floor as Mara played contentedly on the blanket where she had been placed. "I love her so much and I wish that we could just start all over again, with a clean slate," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as, suddenly, he broke down.

Siobhan sighed and walked over, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You hurt her Cillian, and you have to live with that. You can't take it back, you can't erase it," she told him gently.

"I know, but I am prepared to do anything it takes to get back" he admitted, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"And that's admirable, but for now, you need to focus on being a good father to Mara, and maybe in time, things will work out between you and Y/N," Siobhan advised, her tone soft and supportive. "It might take years though, so just know to be patient," she then told him and Cillian nodded, wiping away the tears that had fallen down his cheeks

Siobhan squeezed his shoulder and then let go. "Come on, let's get Mara into bed. Then we can talk some more," she said, offering him a small smile before picking up Mara from the floor.

Cillian took a deep breath and followed his sister upstairs, feeling a mix of emotions.

He was still reeling from the revelation that Amanda might not be pregnant, but he knew that it was only one small piece of the puzzle. The real challenge would be convincing you to give him another chance, something which seemed impossible at this point.

As they entered Mara's room, Siobhan began the bedtime routine, changing her diaper and dressing her in her favorite pink sleeper. Cillian watched them quietly, feeling a sense of longing deep in his chest.

He missed you, missed the convenience and familiarity of having you in his life, not to mention the deep emotional connection you once shared. 

You were perfect for him in all the right ways, not just as the mother of his child but he also knew that he needed to earn your trust back, but he wasn't sure where to begin.

As Siobhan finished putting Mara to bed, she turned to her brother with a concerned expression. "Are you alright, Cillian?" she asked, placing a hand on his arm.

Cillian took a deep breath and tried to push the thoughts of you and Mara out of his mind. "I will be, Siobhan," he said, trying to reassure her. "I will figure this out somehow."

Siobhan nodded, walking with him down the stairs and into the living room. Cillian sat down heavily on the sofa, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.

As if sensing his turmoil, Siobhan sat down beside him, taking his hand in hers. "Can I tell you something, Cillian?" she asked, and he turned to look at her, nodding silently.

"You are an idiot for having slept with Amanda but, maybe Y/N will find it in her heart to forgive you. If she doesn't though, you should be grateful for how much she allows you to be in Mara's life," Siobhan told Cillian gently, holding his hand firmly as she offered him some hard truths. "Most women in her position would be much more vindictive than her and you need to appreciate the effort she makes when it comes to the joint custody agreement you so desperately want for your daughter, so do not screw this up by pestering her," Siobhan continued. 

Cillian sighed deeply, closing his eyes as he leaned back on the sofa. "I know Siobhan. I am lucky to have Mara in my life, and I am grateful for that, but I want more. I want Y/N back. I love her, and I don't know how much longer I can keep going like this," he whispered, feeling the weight of his emotions press down upon him.

"Give it time, Cillian. Things will work out if they are meant to, but for now, you need to give her some space," Siobhan encouraged her brother softly, rubbing his hand gently. 

Cillian sighed deeply, opening his eyes and looking at his sister. "I hope you're right, Siobhan. I really do," he whispered fervently, wanting nothing more than to have a second chance with the love of his life.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred @blondie-22

[sweetsweetjellybean]

In a city the size of Chicago, Eddie should be easy to avoid. Or maybe the city isn't as big as you thought?

Masterlist Listen to Sour Girl Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago.  Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC:6558 beta'd by @superblysubpar

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The old wooden frame of your window groans against the track, burdened with too many layers of paint to make the slide smooth. The swirls of creamy pinks and oranges have faded hours ago into the star-lit summer sky. The boy is below, standing in your backyard, fist full of pea gravel taken from a neighbor's garden. A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below. You raise a finger, signaling for him to wait before you turn away. Tossing a few things in your empty backpack, you take a pillow from your bed, and your comforter is wrestled free from the mattress. With careful footsteps, you creep down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. The light from the fridge casts a triangle across the floor as you take a few Capri Suns to add to your bag. Leaving through the slider, the end of your blanket trails behind you through the grass that was trimmed that morning. You slip off your flip-flops, leaving them beside a pair of larger, well-worn sneakers with a chain wallet tucked inside the right shoe. Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning. 

“I got it,” you tell him, tossing the pillow behind you.

“Nah-uh.”

"My dad took me to Tower this afternoon." Rummaging in your pack, you pull out a Discman and over-the-ear headphones with the cord in a tangled mess. "I could only get two. I had to choose between Rage," you begin, ticking off album titles on your fingers, “Soundgarden, STP, and Pearl Jam.”

“And?”

Taking out the CDs, you press them against his chest, letting go as soon as his fingers go around them. His brown eyes widen as he examines what’s in his hands as you pick apart the knotted cord.

“Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop AND Down on the Upside? You haven’t even opened this one.” He holds up the Soundgarden CD before using his teeth to rip open the cellophane covering the plastic case.

“I waited for you.” You smile.

His face softens. “You’re a doll.” 

He lies back, his head nestling into your pillow, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the sky. After putting the CD into the player, you follow him, pulling the comforter over you both and resting your head on his bicep. The headphone speakers are flipped out, tucked between you, as Chris Cornell's melancholic voice begins to seep into your ears, velvety and dark like the night itself.

"Listen to this transition," he insists, his voice filled with the same awe that it always does when he talks about music, "The shift from acoustic to electric guitar is seamless." 

“I wish I could hear it the way you do.”

As you gaze skyward, a slender branch sways in perfect rhythm with the chords, green leaves fluttering with the bass. The stars multiply and shimmer as if they’re caught up in the flow of the song. 

“You do,” he says, his head turning toward you, “You’re the only one I know who loves it as much as I do.” He studies your face, his eyes locking with yours. The music building until it’s too intense, and he looks away. “It’s lyrics that hook you. You’ve always got so many words floating around in that big brain of yours.”  

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He answers, eyes closed.

“Are they fighting again?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone knows—an ugly secret festering on an otherwise picture-perfect street. No one wants to get their hands dirty by getting involved. 

“Why won’t she leave him?” A simple question in a world of black and white.

“I want her to,” his adams apple bobs as he swallows, “She says she loves him.”

“Just stay here with me tonight, okay?” Rolling to your side, you wrap your hand across his chest, offering him the only protection that you can. 

“Yeah, okay.”

When you wake the following morning, the songs and memories you were reacquainted with last night have faded to a dull throb–much like the martinis. But remnants of their lyrics persist,  crawling under your skin, irritating like an itch, a tune hummed without the words to accompany it. Your phone’s screen lights up with an incoming text, the short burst of vibration sending it skittering across the surface of your nightstand. It takes a moment for your bleary eyes to focus on the notification on your lock screen.

Unknown: I admit last night could have gone better. Let me make it up to you. Coffee?

After tapping in your passcode, you open the message app to reply.

You: Wrong number

Darkening your screen, you let your phone slip from your hand onto the bed beside you. With a sigh, you lean back, staring at the ceiling, seeking answers that remain elusive. The scent of brewing dark roast and toasting bagels rises up the stairs with the sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen. A cup of coffee (or five) and a shower is what you need to wash away the past and leave it firmly where it belongs– in your rearview. 

It's the bottom of your second cup when Steve walks into your massive walk-in closet with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, the freckled skin of his chest looking golden in the soft glow of the elegant pendant lights. 

“Is that what you're wearing to work?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” You finish buckling the strap of your chunky mary-janes. “Something wrong with it?” you ask, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, dark distressed jeans and a band tee recut into a fitted v-neck. 

“Of course not,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair before sitting down heavily on the leather bench. His shoulders slump as he looks across to the cherry built-in shelves holding the rows of tailored suits hung by progression of color. “You always look beautiful.”

Taking your watch from the marble top of the large center island, you wander over to where he’s seated. He hooks a finger into one of the large holes in your jeans, tugging you over to stand between his legs, his big hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs.

“Guess I’m just missing the days of wearing jeans and a jersey to work,” he says, his smile not smoothing the faint crease in his brows.

“You traded that in for a car service and a big fat paycheck,” you point out, kissing the top of his head and moving back to your side of the closet to select a blazer.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower. 

“Steve, I don’t need all of this,” your hand sweeps in the air, gesturing to the lit shelves holding more clothes and shoes than you could ever need. “Just take me to a concert every once in a while.” Your voice trails off as notification chimes on your phone.

Unknown: Nice try, doll. Robin gave me your number.

“Can you imagine if we were still in that cramped apartment in Lincoln Park?” He scoffs, pulling on a light gray pair of suit pants. “We were tripping over all our stuff.”

Steve found the three-bedroom, three-bath brownstone on a tree-lined street in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood just after he got promoted from Metro, marking the beginning of his rise up the ranks in Second City Media. He spent a year and a chunk of his trust fund on a meticulous renovation before the two of you moved in. It is beautiful—large air rooms with lofty ceilings adorned with pristine white crown molding and wainscotting throughout, giving a modern but classic feel. Living with so much space is lavish in a city of this size. But you would be just as happy back on that ratty couch in Lincoln Park, drinking beer straight from the bottle and eating pizza without the fuss of plates, working on your laptop while he watched a Cubs game. Steve is driven–determined to be a success, and he is, but with the money came the stress. And it’s taking a toll.

Your finger hovers over the block button, but you press add to contacts instead. “Hey,” you change the subject, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket, “Did you ever look into that sailing charter you wanted to book out at the lake? We could do that this weekend?”

“I wish I could, Ace. I’ve got those weekend meetings about the streaming radio we're trying to launch. Pick out a tie for me?” He asks, pulling off a starched black button-up from its hanger.

“Sure.” You walk over and spin the rack holding up dozens of ties on shiny brass hooks.

“What do you have going on today?” The well-defined muscles of his sculpted shoulders, earned from never skipping a day at the gym, flex before disappearing into his shirt sleeves.

“Not a lot.” You pull the silky slip of deep maroon fabric off its hanger. “Lola is put to bed for this year. I just have an album review to finish up and a meeting with my editor today. Maybe a series on the Fall tours?” You propose, mostly to yourself, as you bring him his tie.

“Maroon, huh?” One brow raises with the question, “I would have picked black.”

“I know.” The corner of your lips turn up in a sly smile before you rise to your toes and place a kiss on his mouth, “I’m gonna go.”

“You want my driver to drop you off?” He asks, looking in the mirror and adjusting his tie.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself. Argyle and I are going to the Subterranean for drinks. Santigold is performing. Do you want to come?” You throw out, picking up your ancient army green messenger bag you can’t bear to part with, straining with the fullness of your laptop and notes.

“I’ll pass. Not really my scene.” As he fastens his gold cufflinks, they catch the gleaming light.

“You never come to shows with me,” you sigh. 

“I know, I know. I’ll try and catch the next one,” he says, sliding his feet into shiny Italian leather shoes. “I’m meeting Robin for lunch. You want to join us?” 

“No. I’ll let you have your girl time.” You blow him a kiss before heading out the door. 

 “See you tonight, okay?” 

“Love you. See you tonight,” he calls after you.

Passing through rooms decorated with rich creams and calming moss greens, you yell over your shoulder, “Tell Robin I said we don’t have any more room for paintings of flowers that look like vaginas.” 

“They’re a good investment,” his voice fades as you jog down your stairs, grabbing your keys from the stained-glass bowl on the table beside the door, ignoring the buzz coming from your pocket. 

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths.  Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

Without taking your eyes off your laptop screen, you reach for your coffee mug only to knock over the tittering tower of CDs that you had stacked on the corner of your cluttered desk. The plastic jewel cases meet the cement floor with a shattering crash, the noise echoing off the walls of the open industrial space that houses the offices for Stax Magazine in the heart of Fulton Market District. Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out. The perpetual chaos of your desk has become an ongoing punchline in the office banter. Your phone begins to ring at the same time an IM pops on your screen - both from your editor, the enigmatic J. Hopper. 

“Art Garfunkel’s house of pizza,” you say by way of greeting, trying to get the CDs back in their cases and toppling a pile of mail in the process.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We had a meeting at 2,” comes the gruff voice of a man who's clearly not amused.

“It’s only one forty,” you reply.

“Get your ass in here now,” he yells, disconnecting. 

Hopper's bark has always been more bluster than bite. The towering, older man has been a fixture in this building since its days as a "hard-hitting" newspaper. While the city has evolved and transformed, Hopper and this old brick building have remained resolute, like an immovable rock in the ever-shifting stream of time. He possesses zero patience, holds a disdain for people, and dismisses any music created after 1978. You love him as much as your own father. He offered you a position fresh out of college when other magazines wouldn’t take a chance. He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

With a gentle rap of your knuckles against the frosted glass, you step into Hopper's office. He's seated behind a substantial oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. A hint of cigar lingers in the air, though you've never been able to catch him smoking. He remains engrossed, squinting at his desktop screen with a furrowed brow. Settling into one of the vintage leather club chairs, you wait for his acknowledgment, your gaze drifting across the framed magazine covers and photographs lining the walls. One of a much younger Hopper clad in a tattered flak jacket catches your eyes. His face smeared with dirt and grit, standing amidst the ruins of a war-torn Kosovo street, a city reduced to chaos.

"Where’s my album write-up?" He asks without looking up. 

"I emailed it to you before lunch," you reply, confirming on your phone. 

He pushes back from his desk, propping up his feet on the edge, and offers you a soft smile from under the bushy mustache covering his lip, "How are you, kid? Everything okay? Harrington treating you, right?"

"Of course, Hop. He knows he'd have to answer to you otherwise. What about you?" You ask, leaning forward, "Is Joyce looking after you? Making sure you're watching that cholesterol?"

"Yup, she's got me eating all these organic vegetables, no booze, no smokes. Kinda takes all the fun outta life." He laces his hands behind his head, stretching out his back. 

"Oh yeah, does that include that bottle hootch you got stowed in your bottom drawer?"

He sits up with a quick move, pointing his finger in your direction. "You don't know anything about that. Are we clear?"

The only one who can scare Hopper is Hopper's wife. 

"I don't know. What are you going to do if I give Joyce a call? Seems to me that's something she'd want to know," you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"You'd be out on that sidewalk before you hung up the call. Don't test me." He shakes a finger at you, "Now, what are you pitching me?"

"Well, I'm going to a club tonight, so I'll have a live performance review. And I was thinking of a piece on the bands touring this Fall. Kind of like a road map that the readership could follow and hit all the good shows."

"Those sound good, kid, but I got a feature for you to cover." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes, "You know this Eddie Munson character?"

The blood drains from your face. "No. Not-not really," you stammer, "we're from the same town, but I haven't seen him in years."

"Well, it's time to get reacquainted. I want a series chronicling the opening of CursedSound Recordings, and I want you to write it."

A featured series is something that other journalists fight over, and usually, you'd jump at the chance, but not this time. Not this series. Not Eddie Muson. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, looking down at your lap.

“You don’t think–”

“Give it to Miles.”

“I’m giving it to you. Morales is busy with–”

“I don’t want it,” the words burst out of your mouth before you think better of it. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing Eddie, your world is spinning out of control.

Hopper's face turns to steel as he plucks the pen from behind his ear and throws it down on the desk. “I think that you’ve forgotten how this works. I give you an assignment. You write it.”

Your lips part before the protest in your brain is fully formed. 

“If you’re about to tell me no again, it better be followed by a damn good reason.”

His eyes are locked on yours while he waits for a response, one brow raised in challenge. 

“Listen, kid,” he picks up a stack of papers, shuffling through them as he talks, “I’ve looked into this Munson character. He has a good reputation in L.A. His name is in the credits for over half the multi-platinum releases in the last five years. And word is, his studio is booked out with big names for a year in advance.” He pauses for a moment to be sure his words sink in. “Establishing a good relationship with him is in the magazine's best interests. And what's good for the magazine is good for you. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, Hop,” he answers for you when you remain quiet. 

“Yes, Hop,” you repeat.

“Good,” he says, lacing his fingers together. "The printed word isn’t worth what it used to be. Everything's gone digital, the never-ending twenty-four-hour news cycle. The competition's cut-throat out there. Trust me, our friends over at Spectrum would eat this up for Chicago Lifestyles. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d be all over this. Especially since it was proposed by corporate. I figured you went around me and pitched it to Harrington directly.”

The mention of Steve’s name sets your teeth on edge. He hadn't breathed a word about this assignment earlier, and now he's reaching out to Hopper, painting a picture as if you're disrespecting your editor and exploiting your personal connections to secure a story.

“I would never do that,” you shake your head. 

"Alright then. Call Byers at Metro," Hopper instructs, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Bring him with you. His assignment is just wrapping up."

You nod, your blood boiling and your mind racing. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you finally reply with an outward calm, "Okay."

Hopper's eyes remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Now, why are you still here wasting my time? Get out."

You don’t need any more prompting. Swiftly, you rise from your seat and make your way out of Hopper's office, formulating plans to murder your fiancé.

With a heavy sigh, you sit back down at your desk. The Stax logo bounces off the edges of your laptop screen. Your phone lights up with a photo of Steve. You let it ring a few times before sending it to voicemail. A few colleagues linger nearby, mugs in hand, their idle chatter blending with the hum of printers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Your to-do list sits on your desk with strike-throughs on only half the tasks, but the priority of the ones remaining isn’t enough to capture your attention. 

Reaching down, you tug at the handle of your tightly packed bottom desk drawer. It sticks, protesting the overload.  The bright yellow color of the Sony Sports Walkman stands out from among the other clutter. You hesitate when reaching for it, the beginnings of the ache already tightening your chest. But you can’t resist, your hand closes around it, pulling it and the headphones coiled around out from under a pile of old concert passes attached to lanyards. 

Swiveling your chair away from the desk, you face the windows and slip the headphones onto your ears. A gentle press of your thumb produces a satisfying click, and a soft crackling sound fills your ears as the capstans start to whir.

The crystal blue of the cassette is dulled behind the transparent black window, but you can still make out the handwriting on the yellowed label. 

For when you miss me.

“Did you ever listen?”

Everyday. 

A bird's eye view of the stage is perfectly spaced in your viewfinder, with Santi downstage dominating the mic, her other arm outstretched to the fervent crowd. Your finger clicks the shutter as a text pops on the screen.

Eddie: Seems this city isn’t so big after all.

With a huff, you close the screen, pocketing your phone.

“What’s going on with you?” Argyle shouts over the crowd, handing you back your drink as you both lean over the black-painted railing on the balcony at The Subterranean.

"Nothing," you reply, your gaze returning to the stage where Santigold is Chasing Shadows. 

“You’re moody,” he accuses, leaning closer to your ear to be heard over music.

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s true,” he shakes his head. “You’re moody. Moody dick.”

The corners of your lips lift as you roll your eyes.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with mister dark and handsome sound engineer guy from last night, would it?” He probes as someone bumps into you from behind, throwing you off balance.

Your eyes narrow as he steadies you with a hand on your elbow. 

“Hey, I know things,” he says, sipping his drink and looking back out over the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, turning and leaning on the banister to face him, “What do you know?”

He turns his head toward you, his thoughtful brown eyes connecting with yours. “I know you looked freaked the fuck out when he showed up for drinks and even more so when he said he was staying. And I’ve seen you tell off enough people to know that’s what was going on at the bar when you walked away from him last night,” he says, looking back toward the stage, gesturing with his hands, “Now we're here, with my future baby mama killing it on stage, and you’re sucking all the energy out of the room.”

The song ends with the crowd erupting in applause. “I love you!” Argyle shouts toward the stage with his hands cupped around his mouth as the bass starts back up with the opening of High Priestess. Santi looks up, throwing him a wink, her voice low and fast as the reverb vibrates under your feet. 

“Future baby mama?” You laugh.

“Yeah. Do you think you could use your press pass to get us backstage?”

“No. I don’t think you need to add to the population tonight.”

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” you say, scrubbing your face.

“Keeping everything all bottled up ain’t good for you, little mama,” he pokes your arm, letting you know he’s not going to drop this, “I’m your boy. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“Circle of trust,” he says, stirring the air between you with two fingers when you don’t respond. 

You lean against the rail, considering. “Alright, but this stays between us,” you threaten him with a pointed finger. His head nods as his fingers slide across his mouth like a zipper.

“There’s not much to tell,” you say, looking down at the sticky floor. “I had a crush, and he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I get it. The fury of a woman scorned. What did you do, go full bunny boiler?”

“No,” you chuckle, “Nothing like that. That part didn’t even really bother me. He was my best friend, my only friend for a long time. I thought there was something between us, that he cared about me. Maybe not the same way I cared about him, but you know, I thought we were close. I must have built it all up in my head because one day, he just takes off.” You swallow the sharp pain pressing into your chest, “He never even said goodbye.”

“Nooo,” Argyle’s eyes widen.

“It broke me,” you admit.

“Harsh,” he agrees, “And he never called you? Or gave you an explanation?”

“Not until yesterday.  He asked me to lunch. You know, he actually had the nerve to say that Steve has me on a tight leash.” 

“Typical.” He shakes his head, swallowing the last of his drink.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swirling the last of your ice into your watered-down drink. 

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.” 

“How did you get so wise?” You ask. 

“I don’t know. Must be all the weed,” he says with a hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the bar. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“You never told Steve any of this?” He asks as you join the crowd of people that constitutes the line.

“No,” you sigh.

“No?” He repeats in surprise, “This is bad news, man. Why wouldn’t you tell him? What are you going to do, just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“I guess. It doesn’t really have anything to do with him.”

“This is going to get messy.” He shakes his head as you move up in line.

“Well, I’m not real happy with him either right now. He went behind my back to Hopper, deciding that I’m going to cover Eddie’s recording studio's opening. He completely humiliated me in front of my boss. I look totally unprofessional.”

“Well, that's not cool,” Argyle sympathizes as he takes the plastic cup from your hand and tosses it into a trashcan tucked beside the bar.

“No, it was very not cool,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"Wait," he looks at you with sudden revelation, “Technically, isn't Steve your boss?"

“That’s not the point–”

“And isn’t your job to write about major happenings in the city, like when fancy L.A. sound guys open up studios?”

“You're not helping, Argyle.”

His hand lands on your head, offering a comforting pat like you're a child before the line begins moving again. "Cheer up, Bernstein," he quips with a grin, "I'll buy the next round."

Your anger hasn’t abated when you walk through the front door of the brownstone. Steve is already in bed, shirtless with the taupe velvet coverlet pulled up to his waist, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up from his laptop as you enter the room.

“Hey, Ace, how was your day? Did you write me–”

“Anything you want to tell me about, Steve?” You ask, your voice already coming out more heated than you intended.

He looks up at you, brows pulling together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, dropping your bag onto the blue slipper chair in the corner of the room, “Maybe about how you went behind my back?”

"What?” He questions, slamming his laptop shut.

“The story, Steve,” you huff, leaving the room through your closet. You’ve just put your shoes away when he appears in the doorway, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, wearing just his boxers.

“Munson’s opening, that’s what you’re mad about?” He demands.

“You totally blindsided me,” you complain, pulling a hanger off the rod and hanging up your blazer with enough force to have the other clothes swinging. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it this morning.” His hands run through his hair, tugging in frustration.

“So what, it just came to you in a flash of brilliance?” Popping the button on your jeans, you tug them down your hips, kicking them into the corner instead of putting them in the basket.

“No, it didn’t, and I hate it when you’re sarcastic. Robin wanted to stop by and see his studio. We had lunch nearby,” he informs you, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gold chain he wears glinting in the low light.

“So the two of you just decided what I was going to be writing? Maybe that’s something you should be discussing with me.” You lay a hand on your chest before pulling your shirt over your head and giving it the same treatment as your jeans. “You know, your fiancée, not some old buddy that sold you weed a few times back in Hawkins.” 

“The content Stax puts out is directly under my approval, just like Metro and the Newsdesk and every other division.” His voice, which has been steady and even until now, begins to rise, “I’m not going to call you and ask for permission every time I make a decision. Eddie and I have kept in touch. How do you think we landed that interview with Radiohead last year when they wouldn’t even sit down with Rolling Stone?”

“That’s another thing you kept from me. I had no idea Eddie was your best friend.” Your eyes narrow as your fingers yank at the delicate clasps of your jewelry and watch.

Steve's eyes roll in frustration as he shakes his head. "He's not my best friend. He’s a business contact. I know him through Robin. They were is band together, you know this."

"That feels like a lifetime ago, Steve," you remark, the clinking of your jewelry against the marble island adding a discordant scrape.

"Well, some people aren't embarrassed about where they came from," he accuses.

"I'm not embarrassed," you scoff and begin to pace as if you can outrun his words.

"Oh, please," he says, taking a seat on the bench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, his gaze tracking your restless movements. "You cut off anybody we still know living there. You won't even go to visit your parents. They always come here."

“You never listen to what I’m saying. This has nothing to do with Hawkins or my parents.” You halt your steps, your hand slices through the air, punctuating your statements. “It's about you making me look like a fool in front of Hopper. Like I’m trying to go around him to corporate to get assigned the big stories. Like I’m sleeping with the boss. I’m not ruining my reputation so you can give free advertising to your friends.”

“You're being crazy right now,” he yells, wincing with regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. He stands, moving closer, making an effort to control the tone of his voice, “I gave you this assignment because you know Eddie, and it will make for a better story, not because I’m fucking you. We’ve been together since the day you started at Stax. We’ve been engaged for two years. If anyone was going to think that, they already would’ve.”

Your head shakes, rejecting his rationale. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I can't have a conversation with you when you’re like this.” He starts to walk back toward the bedroom but stops abruptly, spinning on his heel and pointing his finger in your direction. “But I'll tell you one more thing—you are going to write this story.” He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Now, go wash your face.”

Your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you walk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back. 

“Baby.” His breath caresses the spot just behind your ear before the wet press of his lips traces a path along your neck, latching on to the apex when it meets your shoulder. A gentle bite follows the swirl of his tongue as he moves even closer. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your shoulder and down your arm, coaxing the thin strap of your tank with them.

“Please,” he whispers between kisses, his fingers finding their way under the bottom edge of your tank top, the light scrape of his blunt nails against your ribs sending shivers across your skin. Your breathing is picking up, the fire from your argument morphing into a new kind of heat. His hips flex against your ass, his cock hard and ready. When you turn your head, his lips are there, a wet slide over your mouth until they pull back, floating just above you, lingering with a question. And when his hand cups your shoulder, urging your body to turn towards him-–you answer. 

The sultry feminine voice drifts from the speakers in your bedroom, her smoky timber weaving through the air like dark tendrils intertwining with the high piano notes. Your hips rise with the flow, a slow, unchanging cadence, the stretch of his cock creating delicious friction against your velvet walls. You move higher until he almost leaves you before you start your descent, the angle finding all the hidden places that light you up beneath your skin. 

"M' sorry," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open at his words as they carry you away from the depths. 

"Hate telling you no." He gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair pushed back from his face, and a flush across his skin.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your hands cover the ones wrapped around your thighs, guiding them up your body. His warm, rough fingers are eager to map out every contour. Your head falls back when they find their destination, cupping your breasts with a possessive grip.

The song shifts, the new baseline a drawn-out pulse lining up with your movements. The lyrics are raw and a little filthy, fueling the urgency of your rolling hips, your clit grazing the short hairs at his base.

"Don't like telling you what to do," he mumbles even as his hands drop to your hips, attempting to hold you still as he bucks up from underneath. "Just wanna take care of you."

"Steve," his name passes your lips in a low moan as you lean forward, taking his hand from your hips and pressing them into the pillow, "Stop talking."

Sitting up, you shift your position, leaning back, bracing your hands behind yourself on his hairy thighs. You set a new pace, bouncing harder, driving him deeper, taking what you want. 

“Jesus, fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes hitting the back of his head while his hands slide across the sheets seeking any purchase as you ride him. The music surges, its tempo rising in perfect sync with the wet intimate sounds of your bodies coming together, the rhythm repeating over and over.

"So close…please," his fingers slip between you, adding pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that he finds there, "Need you to cum."

"No," you rasp out breathless, pushing his hand aside, your eyes locked on his as you bring your own fingers to your mouth. With a swirl of your tongue, you coat them with wetness before sliding them down to touch yourself, controlling your own pleasure. 

The muscles in his neck strain with effort, his gaze darkening, fixated on you. “Goddam, so sexy like this,” he murmurs.

Your body tightens, taut like a bow-string, the tension building until the crescendo crashes over you. The music washes over your senses as you reach your peak, your legs trembling with the intensity. You push your body further over the edge, succumbing to the euphoria lost in the wave of sensations.

Floating back down, your eyes open to the sight of your ceiling, your body still arched, catching your breath. His fingers tighten on your ribs, reminding you he's there. Sticky wetness dripping between you is evidence that he reached his own climax. His hands gently urge your forward to collapse into his chest. 

"Wow, that was…" He strokes the sweat-slicked skin of your back. "I’ve never seen you like that before. What got into you?"

"I think you did," you say, placing a kiss over his heart as your fingers smooth through the hair covering his chest. He chuckles, holding you closer. 

The gentle croon of the music fills the quiet space between you as you lie entwined, drawing closer to sleep's embrace. With a fumbling hand, Steve reaches for the remote on his nightstand, silencing the stereo, returning the room to a restful hush. He places a final tender kiss on your temple, his eyes closing as his features turn peaceful. But for you, even in this stillness, another song lingers in your mind, its lyrics echoing like a secret.

AN: Thank you for reading and rebloging. Your comments are what keep me at my keyboard plugging away at this story. Please keep sending me your songs and asks! They have inspired so much of what's to come. xoxo- Jelly

Read Song 3 Here

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[nastyaromatherapy]

Hiii I love ur work mwah mwah

Could u make some stuff for Gf Ethan as the readers Bf . Like a list of the different things happen to reader that they're unaware is by Ethan to trap her with him.

Ex: As Gf making the reader break her leg or arm so she has to relay on Ethan to take care of her.

Just a list of stuff like that

bf ghostface ethan headcanons 😽

wc: 700+ cw: mentions of sex, sociopathic ethan, reader's colorblind, a little dark but not rlly

๋࣭ ⭑ you met Ethan in econ class when your teacher paired you two for a project. you both hit it off instantly. it didn't take long for y'all to start dating, you making the first move of course.

๋࣭ ⭑ after that, the two of you were inseparable, two peas in a pod. you were never seen without ethan, and you never realized it was all subliminal.

๋࣭ ⭑ ethan was a master manipulator, a sociopath if you will. he wasn't toxic, he wasn't trying to use you, but he needed you. to be around you at all times. he knew someday you would leave him. girls like you didn't like to settle down, and often nice guys finished last. that was his ideology.

๋࣭ ⭑ first, he had to turn you away from your friends. he had to be your only emotional outlet. besides, since your friends were pretty sane, he knew that they would worry for you at some point, and maybe try and drive you away from him, which couldn't happen.

๋࣭ ⭑ he would casually talk about how he didn't like them while on dates, and he'd find the smallest things about your friends to turn you against them,

“the one with the wavy hair, yeah, i think she was kinda, laughing at me. it's okay if i'm embarrassing you, i'll wait in the car.”

๋࣭ ⭑ in turn, you would give the girls a piece of your mind and continued with your life, your long life in his captivity.

๋࣭ ⭑ now friendless, the only person you could talk to was him, which he loved. he loved whenever you were vulnerable and confided in him, even sometimes spilling a bit too much. you knew he had issues and was angry, but you never thought he'd ever actually kill for you.

๋࣭ ⭑ he could never let you know that he's killed before though. he knew you were soft and not like him. he was aware that if you had found out there would be no saving it, no coming back.

๋࣭ ⭑ so he did everything in secret, chalked it up to coincidence. you puked in bed, leading him to have to nurse you back to health? must've been the shrimp. the town is on lockdown due to the deaths recently, all of them being people that you despised or despised you? karma.

๋࣭ ⭑ the sweet boy persona worked so well, even having you fooled. even when he dicked you down into the mattress, claiming you, making you say you'd never leave him and that he was the only boy for you, you thought he just cared about you.

๋࣭ ⭑ he cared about nobody but himself. you were the closest he's ever got to caring for someone. he wanted to hurt anybody who hurt you, going lower than those who went low. but that was because he knew if they really hurt you, you'd be gone, and that wouldn't be good for him. it was always about him.

๋࣭ ⭑ even once, you insisted to go roller skating with some classmates you didn't even classify as friends, yet, but you would. so, he followed you. he couldn't just force you to stay home, but you needed to learn a lesson.

๋࣭ ⭑ he would cower around the rink as Quinn, his accomplice, "accidentally" crashed into you. For safe measure, she cushioned herself with knee and elbow pads. You, already great at skating, had nothing to help break your fall.

๋࣭ ⭑ you yelped loud enough for the whole plex to hear, your arm broken. Quinn was quick to apologize for the "mistake," it all being a face as she shared the same sociopathic traits with her brother.

๋࣭ ⭑ your friends took you to the hospital, and you called him unaware that he was still following you, already on his way.

๋࣭ ⭑ he coddled you when he saw you laying in bed with a cast on your arm, and you were quick to hug him as much as you could.

“I let you out of my sight for a couple of hours, god, promise you won't leave me again.”

“I won't Eth, I'm so sorry. I promise.”

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

fic prompt: Ed & Stede watch a bird raise hatchlings through their bedroom window (I hope you're feeling better soon!)

"Stede, Stede, babe, holy shit, c'mere!"

Stede held out the teacup he'd brought for Ed, taking a sip from his own as he joined him at the window. "What's - oh, wow!"

"Yeah." Ed took a sniff of his teacup to get a whiff of the cinnamon Stede added at this time of year before taking a drink. The baby birds in the tree by their upstairs bedroom window were some kind of swallow, Stede thought, and looked to be pretty fresh. "Look at them - all cute and naked and everything."

"Just like you were last night," Stede said, nudging an elbow playfully into Ed's side.

"Heh." Ed leaned against him, his smile growing fond. "Pretty cool, right?"

"Pretty cool."

The birds were nice to check in on as they went throughout their days, Stede thought. They watched as they started to get feathers, as their eyes opened, as they started to look more like birds and less like gross little raw meat cutlets. Ed liked when they could spot the birds' mama, and always called for Stede to come watch so he could see her feed the babies and hop around, too.

That was why it was a bit unusual when Stede returned to their bedroom with a stack of folded laundry to see Ed quietly sitting on the bed, watching by himself.

"Alright, sweet pea?" Stede put a hand on Ed's shoulder, depositing the laundry on the bed to be put away later.

"Mhm." Ed leaned his temple against Stede's hip, and when Stede followed his eyes outside, he was a bit surprised to see two adult birds hopping around the nest. "They've got a dad. Didn't know bird dads were, like, very good."

"Ah." Stede clicked his tongue. "Well, maybe bird dads are shit, we don't know -"

"Nah, man, he's an excellent dad!" Ed's lip wobbled, just slightly, as he looked up at him. "Did you know birds got to have that? A dad who - who loves them, and feeds them, and teaches them how to flap their little wings around?"

"Well..." Stede sat next to him on the bed, pulling him into his side. "Sometimes, some birds get excellent dads, and some birds get awful dads. And it's not the birds' fault which one they get."

"Maybe it is," Ed said bitterly, his eyes shining. "Maybe if they were just better at doing their little bird chores and had better bird personalities, their bird dads would like them more."

"Oh, honey, you know that's not true." Stede leaned their foreheads together, looking out at the soft blue sky outside and the birds in the tree. "Baby birds don't have anything to apologize for. They're just babies. They've never done anything wrong."

Ed was quiet, for a long moment, and when he spoke his voice was very small. "It's not fair."

"No," Stede agreed, thinking back to cruel words spoken in a low, unkind register, thinking back to feeling small and somehow wrong for it. "It's not fair at all."

They were both a bit sad when they went upstairs for bed one night and the birds were gone. They'd known it had been coming, they'd watched them flapping their little wings and venturing onto the branches, but it was still a bit sad.

"I hope they'll be okay," Ed said, looking out the window as he got changed into his pajamas. "It's a hard world to be a little baby bird in. I hope..."

He trailed off, his head tucking in the way he did when he thought he was being silly in a way Stede wouldn't like, which just wouldn't do.

"I hope," Stede said brightly, "that they make friends, and maybe even lovers...do birds have lovers? I hope they find out, I guess."

"And I hope they have a good life."

"The best," Stede agreed, joining Ed at the window, wrapping an arm around his waist. "And I hope they always have somewhere to go. Where they feel safe. And loved."

Ed brought Stede's hand up to his lips, kissing his palm. "I hope so, too."

[morganski-19]

Robin takes the bag of frozen peas from Steve with a silent thank you. Wrapping it with a tea towel and resting it gently against her throat. Hoping that the swelling would go down and the bruise would fade fast, even though she knew that it wouldn't.

It could be worse. She could have broken bones like Max or torn skin like Steve and Eddie. She could have stopped being able to breathe for more than a few seconds. She could be dead.

Instead, here she is nursing her wounds, as they were, with her best friend who is severely worse than her looking after her. Not in a hospital, but in his house. Because her parents don't need to know this happened to her. The same way she hid the burns from the rope that bound her wrists in the bunker. She'll hide this from them too.

Steve has his own frozen bag of vegetables to his neck, leaning back on the couch to alleviate some of the pressure on his abdomen. Heavily bandaged abdomen. They probably should have gone to a hospital, seen if he needed stitches. But the stubborn asshole didn't want to go, so they didn't. Claimed he could take care of it himself. He always did.

"Is this what it's like?" Robin asks, voice raspy and weak. "Frozen vegetables and empty houses. No doctors hovering over you or government agents secretly experimenting on you."

Steve lets out a small grunt, shifting himself to look at her better. "Pretty much."

Robin snorts, wincing a bit when she does. "Now I know what the great Steve Harrington uses as a cure after battle. Frozen vegetables. What would the people say?"

"That I should go to a hospital, probably," he replies, exhausted.

"At least there's no concussion this time. Or black eye. Nothing messing up this pretty face," she pokes his cheek gently. "You should really see someone about the bites though. Make sure they're not infected."

Steve tries to swallow without wincing. "I know. Just needed a moment to breathe. Too many people at hospitals."

She knows what he means. After the past week, they needed a night before the craziness continued. Until life was forced to move without them wanting it to. Where the consequences came and reality sat in. Where people almost lost were slowly brought back, and they were forced to move on like nothing happened.

They had the scars to remind them. The nightmares. The anxieties that never went away. Their lives were changed. Things can't just revert back to the factory setting.

"How have you done this four times?" Robin asks without really wanting to know the answer. "I can barely wrap my head around doing it twice, let alone four."

"The first time didn't really count," he mumbles. "I just came in at the end. As for the others, you just get used to it. Weird shit shows up, you hit it with something, and it goes away. Until it doesn't."

Robin lets out a long breath. "Sounds like shit."

"It is." His eyes fight to stay open, head halfway fallen onto her shoulder.

"I'll take first watch, you need your sleep." She'll probably crash right after him, but he didn't need to know that. She could be the strong one for a second if it meant he could rest.

Steve takes a deep breath. "You sure."

Robin grabs his wrist, absentmindedly feeling for his pulse. Half relieved when it still thumps under her fingers at a normal rhythm. "Yeah. Get some sleep, you deserve it."

"Thanks. Wake me up if anything happens." He barely finishes the last sentence, eyes finally closing and breaths slowing to a soft, even pace. Robin still able to feel the thumping of his veins through her fingers.

For a brief moment, she can pretend that this is all normal. That this was just a normal night where she and her best friend fell asleep on the couch after watching a movie. After a totally normal night of fun, that didn't risk their lives.

Where there wasn't a bat full of nails resting against the coffee table. Or an ax somewhere in the kitchen waiting to be cleaned. Where she isn't counting the seconds between his breaths or making sure his heart is still pumping. Making sure he's still alive.

Where she'd be able to fall asleep and not risk waking up screaming. Covered in sweat and barely able to breathe. Her wrists wouldn't hurt and her throat wouldn't burn with every breath.

The now warm bag of peas falls off her neck as she leans back. She takes it off and places it to the side, along with Steve's. Pulls him a little closer so he knows that he's not alone. And she does too.

Then finally, she falls asleep. Hoping tomorrow the sun will rise on a better day than today. Time will move on and people will get better. And she'll never have to go through this again.

[burning-academia-if]

Bonus Short Story: Zoe

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a child who used curiosity to escape loneliness.

CW: brief mentions of transphobia

A/N: Thanks again for one hundred reviews and enjoy Zoe's backstory! It's the lightest of all of them, and also has some fun lore bits tossed in lol

Zoe hadn’t always been their name, and sometimes they wondered if they’d gotten it right. Their old name isn’t relevant to the story, except in the very beginning. When, at a very young age with a vocabulary so limited that they had to mime with their tiny hands the concepts they were trying to tell adults about, the sound of it had felt wrong. They didn’t have the words for why either.

In books and shows and movies, sometimes characters took on fake names for fake identities and Zoe started doing the same. They ran through names, some so utterly ridiculous it brought more joy then concern to any adult listening. Others made eyebrows draw together and wordless frowns burn their throat.

It was why, when they uttered the name ‘Zoe’ and it only got cursory shrugs they lunged for it. Gripped it with their hands. This time, maybe, people would take them seriously. This time, maybe, people wouldn’t laugh at the name they chose themself. This time, maybe, people would respect the one thing that belonged to them. But that wouldn't be until the end of youth. When it already felt far too late.

//

Zoe's mom and dad hadn't ever cared, at least. The two of them would call Zoe whatever name they wanted as seriously as they would have the name they'd originally given. There had never been any expectations for them to grow out of it, and their mom was the one who went to the teachers and told each one Zoe was allowed to write down whatever name they wanted. No teacher would tell them otherwise.

It was easy to grow, in the house they did. It was harder to grow anywhere outside of it. School was full of watching eyes that questioned everything Zoe did. They had failed every social interaction they'd ever been in and elementary school was a haphazard of pitfalls that lead straight to being the 'weird kid.'

Their little brother was different. From the moment he was born, everyone found him charming. Brighter, cuter, easier. He didn't question everything and go through names like packs of candies. Others might have been irritated, but Zoe was five years older and from the moment they'd set eyes on him decided it was their job to protect him. They didn't want him to know what it was to escape to a library to hide the way they were crying over being left out during recess again.

At home, Zoe would sit in the grass in the small garden their mom had, watching bugs flutter about. She wouldn't say a word, hair wrapped up in a bandanna, braids falling down her back and dark skin gleaming in the spring sun. Her hands were nimble as she turned the earth, covering seeds with soil.

It'd take minutes, it'd take hours, for them to finally talk, "I don't want to go to school anymore, ma."

"And why's that sweet pea?"

There was a butterfly, small and white, fluttering against the wooden fence. Lost and too early to the season. Their own body felt too small for them, ribs squeezing all their organs. Maybe it felt the same. Escaped from it's cocoon early to search for a way to be free in a different kind of form. To stretch its wings and go as far as it could before being devoured.

They were eleven now, at the end of elementary school. They couldn't imagine middle school, weren't ready for the new challenges it would come with when they hadn't even managed to overcome a single one they'd encountered in school so far. Their toes curled into the grass, rolling around words on their tongue.

"It's like...it's like everyone was born with a script to a movie except for me. I don't get the words I'm supposed to say, or why what I say is wrong. It's like...like..." Their face scrunched up, not knowing how to explain the wall they were always banging against. At how they tried to mimic how everyone spoke and interacted with each other and missed the steps each time.

Their mom set her tools down and turned to look at them, "Is this about your name again?"

"No! I mean, kinda? All the kids already thought I'm a freak because I don't use the name you and pa gave me and maybe that's where everything went wrong. Maybe I showed up wrong and so now, no matter what I say it'll be wrong. I don't know how to get the other kids to like me. I'm too scared to keep trying. I go to school and there's no one to talk to and I'm so lonely and I'm so...lonely..." Tears pricked their eyes and they buried their face in their knees. Curled themself up tight so they didn't have to see the look of pity on their mom's face.

A door slid open, and a body, tiny, crashed into theirs. They gasped, teetering over onto the grass, arm flinging out to cradle their brother without a second thought. He wrapped his arms around their middle, eyes squeezed tight.

In a daze, they looked over and saw their dad with a twist of a smile in apology and a gentle one on their mom's face. Their brother said, louder then he probably realized, "No no no. You're sad. Being sad isn't fun."

"It isn't." They said, trying not to laugh. To cry. They didn't want to talk to another soul again. They didn't have a choice.

//

They couldn't use magic, either, which felt like another mark in a sea of marks against them. When they'd gone to do the required assessment at thirteen, it'd been a whole lot of nods and 'hmms' and other things that made them feel like they were a specimen under a microscope.

"You have a stronger magical presence, but it certainly isn't something you have access to."

Didn't they know. Between their constant failures of connecting to kids at school and trying to talk with other magicians, their inability to be anything had been a barrier in all ways. Everyone knew luck magicians weren't seen as real magicians, and in the rare instances Zoe was forced to go to any gathering related to them was met with the distant look of otherness or pity.

Their mom and dad had shrugged it off. Their dad commenting how it was a better assessment then his own and their mom saying her magic might as well have been the equivalent of a luck magician's with how weak it was. It wasn't that Zoe minded, at least, not in the way everyone thought they would.

They minded in that it was another addition to the wall that existed between themself and others. Middle school was harder than elementary in all the ways they expected. All lunches ended hiding in a teacher's classroom or the library, words getting tangled together when they tried to talk. They managed the bottom tier of friends, the kind you exchange a few meaningless words with during one class. At this point, they thought of giving up.

After the confirmation they were a magicless magician, they went home and laid on the grass outside and watched the clouds roll by listening to the sounds of cars rolling past or echoes of neighbors floating towards them. They thought of their little brother, the exact opposite of them in every way. They thought of their unborn sibling, two months out from its due date. They thought of all the ways they wanted someone to mirror them. They couldn't be the only one that was so, so lonely.

//

The Ripley siblings had stretched by one. Zoe, the quiet one who could never find their tongue. Elijah, who was as charming as ever and growing quicker then anyone could blink. And now Lia, the little sister who was more quiet than Zoe could ever be.

Like Zoe and their habit of always changing names, their mom took Lia being non-verbal in stride. She spent an hour each day on ASL lessons and Zoe would sit with her, fifteen and the same as ever in all ways, learning each sign. They would practice together, and then go to show dad when he was back from his part time job, separate from the tea shop they owned. Doctors had said she was young, and it might just be delayed at only two years old. Their mom would rather be safe than sorry, and learning a new language never hurt anybody.

The new studies was something to throw themself into. Another way not to think of anything else. Just them, them, them. Always them. Their world was too big for one. Too big for just their family, as much love as was there. They didn't think there would be anything else for them.

//

"Ughh, I'm too old for my sibling to babysit me, ma." Elijah groaned, ten years old and already speaking with the attitude of a teenager. The look mom threw his way made Zoe throw a hand around his shoulder, more in warning then camaraderie.

"Ignore him, I got him. Besides, Lia's appointment is only an hour."

"You bet I'll ignore him. Keep talking like that and we'll see where that lands you." She reached out, pressed a kiss to Zoe's cheek and then Elijah's despite his protesting and groaning.

The second she was out the door, dad and sister in tow, he shoved their hand off him, "You don't gotta cover for me. I'm not that small anymore."

"...You're ten."

"And you always treat me like a kid! You and mom and even dad when he's not careful." They raised their hands, deciding to concede, but the flicker of irritation showed it didn't help their case. "You never even let me help you."

Zoe's brow furrowed, "I don't need help with anything...? And even if I did, it's not your job to—"

"Because I'm too young to make you happy. I at least know when you're sad. Better then mom does." Elijah stormed away in a whirlwind and Zoe blinked before hurrying after him.

"Wait, Eli!" They skidded out into the hallway, calling after him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!"

"Yes there is!"

"And I don't want to talk about it."

"But..."

"I don't!" And he whirled around, and there was a sea of violent, rushing past Zoe like wind during a snowstorm. It shoved them backwards, and they fell. Their eyes went wide as the chill of it wrapped around the whole room, spilling through the house. Magic.

Magic?

Zoe's words were barely a whisper, "You're...a heart magician?"

Since when? They searched through the confines of their memory, and tried to pull up any instance where he'd been acting strange or when something had been off. They came up blank, but as the last of the magic faded away, they understood why. As dramatic a display as it had been, there was nothing destructive about it. Strong, yes, but more desperate to heal and mend then destroy.

They pulled themself up, and found Elijah's eyes wide, "Don't tell mom. I'll tell her. I just...I can't be the only one who can use magic like this. All the other magicians are so...mean. Isn't that part of the reason why you're sad?"

"What? No. No, no, no. Hey listen, being a magician is a gift alright? Come here, it's ok." They weren't sure how to go about this. It wasn't an experience they'd ever gone through, suddenly wrapped up in magic.

His feet remained glued to the floor, eyes bright and shining. The false anger persona falling away until he was just a kid all over again, "No. I could have hurt you. I could have..."

"I'm fine, aren't I?" Zoe held out their arms, tried for a smile they were never good at wearing. "You knocked me over, it's fine. A solid gust of wind could do that with how scrawny I am."

They waited for him, until he eventually took a step. And then one hesitant step became two and then a lunge and then he crashed against them in a tight hug and Zoe wrapped their arms around him and they thought it not fair for him to be so young and trying so hard to figure out their pain while hiding his own.

Zoe hugged him back, arms not as sure as his. Never as sure. Their thoughts were racing. They knew nothing about magicians or magic or creatures of magic. They didn't even know anything about themself. But they knew the path Elijah was going to walk was going to be vastly different than their own. They needed to learn.

//

It was an excuse, maybe, to ignore their constantly endless problems and questions for their own life. High school was fine. It was the same routine as middle school. They had friends they talked to in certain classes and spent lunch hiding in classrooms and libraries. The key difference now was that they had after school pass times.

It still involved libraries and holing themself away in study rooms, but still.

The most frustrating thing was West Myers was not where one would find information on magicians easily unless they ventured onto the campus of Vales Grove University. Zoe didn't want to do that because they were a luck magician. They could already picture some heart or soul magician college students looking at them like a lost child. So they made do.

It was maybe the hundredth visit to the rundown public library that something noticed them. The library was on the edge of the north side of town. From here, the woods crept in, always yellowing grass spilling over the edges and thin trees watching anyone who would look back. Zoe had never paid it much heed, until their sixteenth year when the woods got tired of waiting and watching.

"BOO!" Zoe jumped near ten feet in the air, feet stumbling over each other, bag slipping half off their shoulder. By some miracle they managed to stop it from dropping to the ground and spilling out its contents. Their heart was going a thousand miles an hour in their ears. A strange, round, green creature was floating in the space near them giggling to itself. "Ooh, I did it! I did it! I scared a magician."

Their expression collapsed into their default blank calm. No words passed their lips.

The creature kept going, "Hey hey, don't be mad! It was all in good fun. Here, here, an apology."

Tiny arms with little nibs on the end reached out and there was a dandelion in its hands. Zoe stared, "Does this cost anything?"

"No no, it's an apology. It's what I owe you. A wish." They reached out a hand and instead of placing the flower in their palm, the creature settled into it instead. It felt soft, like an old cotton shirt that's been through the wash many times. "I always see you. Looking. Longing. What's your name?"

Zoe searched their memory for the name of this creature. There were hardly any magical creatures in the region; the local magician council had a firm distaste for them that kept most at bay. It wasn't information they needed often but this was a common enough one. A regular earth sprite. Maybe once a forest sprite, specifically, but the endless drought had shifted things in the region. What once should have been vibrant green was now a muted brown.

The things were harmless enough. Maybe. So they offered their name.

Immediately, the creature shook its head, "That doesn't fit right, does it?"

Zoe blinked, "Well...I mean..."

"Don't mind, don't mind. Humans that feel like you...are always in flux. Like the seasons. I'll call you that if you wish! My name is Jolly right now!"

At this point, they finally had the realization to look around. Humans couldn't see anything related to magic. Zoe must look wild, talking and stammering into their hand like this. The talk right names and wrong names was throwing them for a loop. What was their name? They'd stopped jumping through names like t-shirts in middle school. How did this creature even know that? And the most pressing question of all.

"What do you even want?" The creature nestled further into their hand at the question.

"Hmm, company? In exchange, you want answers to things, yes? I'll help you navigate magic. In return, allow me company!" Zoe pressed their lips together, but before they could deny the request, it suddenly hopped out of their hand. "Come, come. I know where they hide information. Follow me."

And despite all reservations, they did.

//

West Myers was stranger than Zoe had originally thought. Jolly had proven to be a great guide, and also their first real friend. Zoe sat at the counter of their parents tea shop, binder and notes spread out around them. The air conditioning strained against the summer heat, and Jolly dozed softly in a spare teacup.

The first thing Zoe had learned was that the borders of West Myers did not end at the town. It extended into the woods, and stopped miles in. The second thing Zoe had noticed was that the reason why they had been struggling to find anything was because those records had been removed.

Jolly had said magicians didn't want the general public to know of any events related to them, and so most information would be removed. Thankfully for Zoe, the woods remembered everything as well as the dead did. It had said that Vales Grove had stood for a relatively short time, which in sprite terms meant at least a hundred years, and it's founders had been odd. Liars. Cheats.

It hadn't provided more information on them, and Zoe had gotten the sense it'd been nervous. They didn't press it and it didn't matter, they knew what they were looking for now, and they knew how to look.

Bent over pages, they jerked as a door suddenly slammed open.

Snapping to attention, their brother raised an eyebrow, "Ma would have your head if she caught you not paying attention."

"Sorry, just..."

"Not to mention if she saw Jolly here." Eli's voice pitched high into singsong, "Wake up, wake up. I brought snacks."

Like clockwork, Jolly snapped it's eyes open, hopping up into the air, "Sugar snacks?"

Eli held out a box and poured a couple of sour candies into his hand, offering it up to it. Jolly practically cheered, diving right for it and gathering them all on its arms. He laughed, flinching away slightly at the sensation of it in his hands.

Zoe sighed, fighting a smile, "You're spoiling it too much."

"And you don't?" Eli threw back, coming to lean against the counter. His eyes skipped over the set up, unseeing for a minute as it was how Zoe normally looked at work. Eli sometimes swung by when he was walking home from a friends' house. Zoe couldn't tell if it was because he wanted to bother them or he actually wanted to visit them. Maybe it was both.

His hands snatched something from the table before Zoe could blink, "Is this a brochure to Vales Grove?"

Zoe paused, "Oh, yeah. That's likely where you'll be attending college so I just...checked it out."

They'd hated the visit, hated the atmosphere, hated the way they were spoken to the entire time. Still, they'd gone on the tour and taken all the information packets and had went online to fill out the application anyway.

Eli frowned, "You're hiding something from me again."

"What, no. I mean, you're going to have your magician assessment next year and I just...wanted to know how things worked with all that."

"I know you're lying."

They flinched, and it was Jolly who answered, falling back into its teacup, "They're going to attend! They're curiosity got to them!"

Zoe went still and so did Eli. He paused, eyes narrowing as he looked at Zoe. He was twelve now, still so young but as perceptive as ever. His voice was as soft as it was simmering, "Curiosity killed the cat. Are you forcing yourself to go because of me?"

"No, actually." Zoe's voice rushed out the next sentence before Eli could cut them off. "It was, at first. At least, I just wanted to know what to expect to help you if you needed it. But, you know, something's...really weird about this town and that school. Now I'm doing this because I want answers."

"Answers to what...? What's so weird about this place? It's just normal suburban weird, you know?" Eli handed Jolly another candy without thinking as it reached for more. "What you should be doing is finding some place where you can finally make a friend, and that isn't Vales Grove."

"Jolly is friend!"

"A human friend. No offense Jolly."

"It's fine, it's fine."

Zoe frowned, shook their head, and then thought better of it, "Listen I know that I'm...not the most social, but hear me out first. Look." They spun their binder, brimming with various papers and printouts and envelopes. Eli raised an eyebrow, but let Zoe go on. "What's weird is that there's barely anything magical in our entire region."

"But that's because—"

"Wait. Just. Hear me out. Magic is attracted to magic, right? And if magic is attracted to magic, then places where there's a lot of magicians should attract all sorts of things, but it doesn't. The only reason Jolly is here is by accident, but in other places, it's different. Take, I don't know, Foxglove for example. That whole town is the country's epicenter for magic and it's brimming with every magical thing you could imagine."

Eli frowned, popping more candy into his mouth with a shrug, "It's also the source of so much trouble all the important magicians in the region warn us about it."

"Sure, two worlds constantly colliding will do that but...humans are allowed to know about magic. Magicians aren't forced to hide what they are. The Council of Foxglove doesn't force people to forget things or erase memories of peoples' friends." Zoe pulled at the purple tab and opened up to a series of hastily written notes. "And it isn't just Foxglove. Look at this. Everywhere I was able to sneak information on is the same. And all of these records are so well hidden and for what?"

"Well..."

"This is all weird, Eli. Not just West Myers or Vales Grove University, but this whole region." They pushed the binder towards him.

Their brother pursed his lips, handed the rest of the candy to a very excited Jolly, and wrapped his hands around himself, "Alright. So things are weird. What are you going to do about? This only makes me think you should get out of here as soon as possible even more now."

They shook their head, "I...it...it doesn't feel right."

There were so many other things they wanted to say. It wasn't just the absence of magic but the presence of death. So much death. They wondered how no one was drowning in it. And if there was anything known to combat death, it were heart magicians. It was the thing Eli was. It was the thing Zoe was sure their new little sister was showing signs of being.

"It doesn't feel right because you've only ever known this town, sib. You keep closing off your world before you even let yourself try for something else." Eli shoved himself back from the counter. "Look, all that is super weird, though. Like, you better not fall into a conspiracy weird. But if this is what you want to do, go for it."

Zoe's shoulders relaxed, "...Don't tell mom?"

"So she can kill you? Nah, you can have the college conversation with her yourself. Good luck. Also, speaking of, the only reason I stopped by is because we needed some garlic from the store. Mom'll pay you back."

"Got it."

Eli raised his hand, walked a few steps back and paused. Zoe thought he was going to say something, but he only gave a goofy grin as goodbye and ducked out the door. The quiet that followed was only broken by Jolly's munching. Zoe leaned back in their chair, and wondered if Eli was right.

//

When did they settle on the name Zoe, anyway? When did they lung for it with all their might? It was when their childhood was already over. It was right before the summer they started college. Somewhere in the whirlwind of applications and parental arguments and throwing themself into a new thing and a new thing and a new thing, it came to them.

"It's Zoe." They said, suddenly, a week before they were slated to start college. Their mom and dad stopped whatever they'd been saying. "My name, I think."

"Zoe." Their mom said, with a smile. "I like it."

"Better than when you were insisting we all call you Guardian Heart when you were five." Their dad laughed, and their next words felt heavier. Their dad's joke didn't even get through to them.

The thing about their nature was that they'd run from one thing they were afraid of to another thing. They were afraid of magic and the Council and the university, and suddenly the fear of themselves was washed away, "I don't...think I'm anything. A boy or a girl or...anything."

They were clumsy, trying to find how to articulate it in the moment. It'd been easier to tell Eli, who had barely blinked at the news. It was impossible now, even though they knew their parents wouldn't reactive negatively. They'd always gone with them and let Zoe do whatever they wanted. They knew that so why?

Why was their chest caving in and why was their vision blurry?

Hands wrapped around them, and they buried themself into their mother's shoulder. Why were they crying? Because inside their stomach something twisted and wished that maybe it wasn't true. Oh, it would be so much easier if it wasn't true. Their mom held them tight and they imagined years of scornful eyes and disappointed frowns and they wanted to have something in them that wouldn't elicit such reactions. In another body with a different soul, they wouldn't have spent a whole childhood alone.

And so they wept for pieces of childhood forever lost to them.

//

"You can't come with me to college, Jolly!" Zoe huffed, trying to find just where the second shoe of their favorite pair went.

Jolly hopped around them, "But you changed! You changed! Your aura is so beautiful. Like grapes!"

They snagged it out from under their bed and threw it on, "I don't even want to know what it means to have an aura like grapes. Listen, I don't want anything to happen to you. And besides, this is something I choose myself. I have to face it myself."

Jolly collapsed on their bed, a pout on its face, "It'll be fine! Nothing strange there. Not for you."

"Better safe than sorry. Bye Jolly, I'll tell you how to goes later." And they were out the door and catching the bus.

And Jolly would be right. That first day was as anxiety inducing as everyone else's first day of college. And then the first year went by and the next and, save for a few missteps, everything was calm. Everything was peaceful. The years stretched on and they found a way to grow into it all.

They knew everything about Vales Grove, and they knew nothing.

They knew everything about themselves, and they knew nothing.

Everything was the same, until their last year of college, when nothing would be the same again.