#you can pry their healing from my cold dead hands

[mymitochondriaforpresident]

The racism my beloved Simon had to face….my baby. 🥺💔

Although painful to watch, it felt incredibly validating. It was so annoying watching some people say this show was “only about class” while dismissing the BS that Simon had to go through. The abuse was ten fold because he’s POC and S3 finally exposed that.

That being said, and on a more positive note, it was so incredibly sexy when Simon sang happy birthday to Wille in Spanish (he feels safe with him!) and when Wille admitted to fantasizing about stroking those beautiful curlssss (and then actually did it). 🥹❤️‍🩹

Wilmon forever. 🤎🤍

[hxlxnaaa]

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after a week of silence following the events that spiraled from your fake relationship, there's a knock at your door in the night. the sequel to wishful thinking, read part 1 here!

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: some angst (happy ending), really sappy make up smut, soft sylus, kinda sub sylus if you squint, body worship, female reader

★ 𝐰𝐜: 3.1k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: woot woot part 2 is finally here, sorry for the wait!! i had envisioned this being a two-parter from the start, and i wanted to do a bit of sweet smut hehe. you'll have to pry soft and caring sylus out of my dead cold hands that man is needy and obsessed w mc :(

It had been a week.

A week of nothing, absolute silence. No calls, no texts. It slowly became as if Sylus never even existed.

It was hell at first. My feelings had come on so fast, and then just like that it was over in the blink of an eye. The game of it all, will they or won’t they find out, the lies, the fun. It was exciting, until I started to get hurt; and I wasn’t going to put my own feelings and misery aside at the expense of everyone else.

Slowly, but surely, the days got easier. I had a break from work where I could take the time to put myself back together, though the band aids didn’t heal the wounds. They just helped to ease the ache.

I started to move on. It had been a week; I was going to go back to work, and act as if none of this ever happened.

Then there was a knock at the door.

It came in the middle of the night, and I just assumed it was one of my neighbors telling me to turn my TV down, or Xavier dropping off a game he had borrowed.

When I opened it, outside in the complex's hallway stood a sopping wet Sylus, drenched from the storm outside. His silver hair was messy, sticking to his forehead, his clothes disheveled as if he had thrown them on in a rush. A look of desperation resided on his face, replacing his usual calm and smug demeanor.

Not seeing him for a week was not something out of the blue, but the big bad leader showing up at my doorstep shivering like a wet cat was. Especially after everything that happened.

My heart felt like it lurched out of my chest, and all the bandages I had tried wrapping around it came loose in one swift movement. All the healing I had done flew outside the door I had opened and stood beside Sylus, mocking me.

I almost slammed the door closed, angry at his audacity, showing up at my place in the heat of the night after not speaking to me. Angry at everything that happened. Angry, hurt.

A whisper of my name escaped his lips, and I froze. It wasn’t often he called me by my name, only addressing me with his usual pet names.

“What are you doing here?” I questioned, hesitant about this whole exchange.

He glared at me, “That’s no way to speak to someone in distress.”

Angry.

I went to shut the door in his face, pissed off and violent, but he stopped it with his hand.

“Wait, I’m sorry.” The apology felt foreign coming out of him, “Can I come in?”

The look on his face went soft, and it almost looked as if he was going to cry. Everything about this was so out of character for him, and if I wasn’t so angry, maybe I’d even feel sorry for him.

Without a word, I pulled the door back open, stepping aside for him to come in. He was obviously cold, and it seemed like was trying his hardest to keep himself together.

“Don’t sit on the couch, you’re wet.” Maybe I was being mean, maybe he was undeserving of my anger, maybe letting him in was a mistake. I sighed, “Sylus, why are you here?”

“You’ve been ignoring me.” His words were hard, and his stare was piercing. Normally I would feel uncomfortable under his gaze, but the exasperation I felt from his words outweighed that.

I scoffed, “I’ve been ignoring you? You haven’t reached out, what was there to ignore?”

“You’ve been ignoring me, you’ve been pulling back. I know you know I’m not stupid, kitten.”

He was right, he wasn’t stupid. When I started pulling away, he started pushing harder, and I could tell he knew I was almost done.

“Okay?” I crossed my arms, avoiding his eyes, “Then you started ignoring me. We’re even.”

“No.” He shot out, taking a step towards me, “That’s not how that works. I was waiting for anything from you, but it never came.”

“What did I do? What did I do wrong?” Sylus tilted his head forward, and I started to finally feel guilty. All of this was so different for him, when Sylus was upset he became mean, aggressive. He put up walls, started fights. For him to be so…pitiful, where was all of this coming from?

“I don’t understand what you mean-” He cut me off with a forced laugh, “You don’t understand? I don’t know how much more obvious I can be, sweetie.”

“Okay,” He paused, “I love you.”

My heart stopped. For a second, the world stopped spinning. It’s like everything, all at once, came to a halt with Sylus’ confession.

“You…love me?” The words tasted bitter on my tongue. This was not how this was supposed to go. I loved him, that’s why I had to stop all of this, so it didn’t continue. It couldn’t continue. He cannot love me back.

“Why else do you think I threw myself into all of that? Why do you think I didn’t want anybody else to do it? Because I was bored? I have plenty of other things to do in my spare time.” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading for me to understand.

“Sylus, I-”

“For a second, I thought you loved me too.” Sylus sounded desperate, “But then you pulled back. You disappeared.”

He grabbed my hands, “Tell me, sweetie, what did I do wrong?”

“You love me.” I whispered, “That’s what you did wrong.”

Sylus let go, taking a step back. He ran his hand through his hair, a sorry attempt to pull himself back together, “I apologize,” He said, “I misunderstood this then.”

I looked at him, his appearance disordered and disheartened. The once prideful and arrogant man was now broken down to nothing but a shell of himself, and I realized the cause of that was me. Sylus was never one to back down from a fight, yet here he was throwing up a white flag.

He went to leave, turning his back to me. Turning his back to whatever was happening, breaking the character I had come to know. Going down without a fight. This broken man wasn’t Sylus.

“I love you too.” The words came out rushed, in a hurry to stop him. Announcing my own declaration of love wasn’t something I had intended to do, planning to keep it inside for all of eternity, letting the poisonous feeling bubble inside until it ate me alive.

Sylus stopped in his tracks.

“Then why is this wrong?” He didn’t turn back around to face me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. I’d crumble and fall if I saw his eyes.

“It would never work,” I let it all out, everything I had been holding in for so long, all the insecurities I had collected regarding any kind of relationship I could have with Sylus. “I’m a hunter, and you’re the head of Onychinus. We’re in two different worlds, living such different lives, it’s doomed. All of this is doomed.”

“Do you really think I care?”

His fingers suddenly gripped my chin with a possessive hold, as if he thought I might run off again. Trying to pull myself away, his grip tightened on my face, as well as the hold he had on my heart.

“It doesn’t matter if you care or not,” I gave him a weak glare, trying to scare him off, “don’t be selfish, Sylus. We’ll both just get hurt.”

Sylus lips twitched downwards, “I think you should allow yourself to be selfish for once.” His grasp left my face, “Do what you please.”

We stood in silence for a second, and I set my gaze upon the floor to avoid his stare, his red eyes penetrating my soul.

“What are you thinking?” He finally asked. I hesitated, not exactly sure what the right answer really was. I could continue to fight this feeling, or jump into the water.

“I’m scared.” I confessed, “I don’t want to get hurt. I can’t go through all of that, all of the heartache when things go wrong.”

“Now why do you think I would ever let that happen, sweetie?”

Sylus grabbed my hand, placing it against his heart, “This beats for you, I live for you.” I felt the quick, erratic rhythm of his heartbeat under my fingers, “I never stop missing you when you’re not around, every second you’re not beside me is misery.”

“I'll love you until my last breath, and even in the heavens too.” He pulls my hand up, placing a kiss against my palm, “I will never let anything happen to you, I could never live with myself if I hurt you.”

He kisses the back of my hand, my wrist, all the way up my arm to my collarbone, “I will do anything to make this work - if this falls apart, I’ll just put it back together. I need you by my side.”

I feel his soft breathing against the crook of my neck, and goosebumps rise on my skin. I want to fall into him, let myself become loose in his embrace and learn to trust his promises.

“But if you don’t want it, just say that.” Sylus presses one last kiss to the skin of my neck, “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave through that door, and I won’t bother you again.”

“Sylus…” I can only manage a whisper of his name. Everything else gets caught in my throat, my mind a tangled mess of emotions.

His face is inches from mine, and he quickly gives me an amused smile, “That's not a no.”

Before I can respond, even think of something to say, he captures my lips with his own. The strong smell of his cologne mixed with the taste of his mouth against mine makes me dizzy. The room and everything in it has suddenly become so warm, and my skin feels as if it’s been lit on fire.

Sylus pushes my body up against the wall behind us, hands trailing up my curves, grabbing at anything he can. His fingers embed themselves in my hips, waist, thighs, trying to pull me any closer.

“I’ll ask you again, sweetie,” He pulls away and I’m left standing there breathless with an unwavering grip on his (still) damp sweater, “do you want me to stop?”

I tangle my fingers in his wet hair, bringing his face back down to mine.

“No.” I whisper against Sylus’ lips, before crashing mine against his feverishly. Every feeling I had for him, everything I had suppressed, all of it was going into this kiss. He groaned into my mouth, his hold on me becoming tighter.

It all made perfect sense; The way our lips moved in sync, how our bodies fit perfectly together, our minds addicted to the thoughts of one another. We were, to put it simply, made for this. Our souls intertwined with ease as we found solace and safety in each other. All of the fear I had been plagued with dissipated with the consolation of Sylus’ body against mine. I was no longer scared of this not working, all I cared about was him.

After all, even a broken clock is right twice a day.

With one swift movement Sylus lifted me off my feet and cradled me with ease, maneuvering around my apartment as if it was his own.

Before I could even register I was in my bedroom, I was pinned against the mattress in the safe confine of his arms.

“Please,” His breathing was ragged, “let me show you how well I can treat you, let me touch you how you deserve.”

I lean up and kiss him between his furrowed brows, and he takes the opportunity to dive for my neck.

“Please.” Sylus repeats again. His eyes are practically begging. I give him a nod.

Stripping me of my shirt, he places gentle kisses down my torso down to the waistband of my shorts. Goosebumps rise on my skin from the cold air mixed with his gentle touch. His rough, calloused hands hold my hips like glass, a finger slowly pulling my shorts off my legs. A hiss of air leaves his lungs when Sylus sits back to take me in.

“Fuck.” He whispers, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for... Thought about having you like this.”

I give him a sheepish smile, “Is it worth the wait?”

His adams apple bobs in his throat as he swallows whatever words were going to leave his lips, running his hands up my thighs and waist. Sylus’ eyes travel up my figure, almost as if memorizing every dip and curve of my body.

“Every single second was worth it.” His voice was soft, “You’re perfect.”

Sylus leans down, pressing his lips to the bone where my hips and pelvis meet. He picks my leg up, lightly lifting it over his shoulder, resting his head on the inside of my thigh and looking up at me through his eyelashes.

He looks angelic, pure almost, glowing in the moonlight that spills through the window. His dominant, hard-bitten and arrogant exterior had disintegrated into nothing but his surrender as he lay open and bare for me in between my legs. All the walls I knew Sylus to have crumbled and fell, his only goal to show me that I’m loved; serving to please.

The tip of one of his fingers slides up my slit, and my breath catches in my throat. Sylus pauses, “Is this okay?”

“More than okay.” I confirm.

He quickly discards the cloth separating him from the heat in between my thighs, placing a gentle kiss to the place that craves him the most.

A moan escapes me as his lips latch onto my clit. My hands weave themselves through his hair, “Oh God, Sy- Do that again-”

Sylus groans into my core, worshiping the sex and heart that weeps for him, and only him. I twitch my hips towards his face, my mind reeling with the feeling that emits from his mouth.

“Yes-” He pushes a finger into me, easing the ache deep inside, “Be greedy, kitten, use me as you wish.”

I can only manage whimpers of his name, my brain incoherent and high on his mouth and touch as his tongue and fingers work magic. Tugging on the silver strands that grace his pretty head, the moan that leaves him vibrates against me, and I think for a second I might be done for.

“Mm, Sylus, wait-”

“That’s it, sweetie. Getting close?” His fingers curl up inside me and I shake my head, not wanting to finish so soon, “No, I-”

He pulls back and sits up as soon as the word leaves me, and I almost sob at the loss of contact. Sylus’ eyes scan my face with concern, and I pull him back down on top of me. His chest heaving against mine, he plants a kiss to the corner of my eye, “I thought I-”

“Not yet, fuck me.” Cutting him off, I push my body up against his.

“Of course, kitten,” Within seconds his pants and briefs were discarded somewhere in the room, my thighs instinctively wrapping around his hips, “who am I to deny you?”

His hard length pressed up against my entrance, the desperation making me crazy.

“Sylus, please-” I tried to push my hips forward, longing for more. He cupped my cheek, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, inching deeper agonizingly slow, “Patience, sweetie. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t!” Despite my reassurance, Sylus’ eyes were still filled with worry. Using my legs that were wrapped around him, I yanked his hips forward and with one fell swoop he was to the hilt inside.

Spasming around him at the sudden fullness, I sunk my teeth into his collarbone to stifle a scream. I could feel myself gripping him like a vice, his moaning and panting in my ear a sweet confirmation.

“I told you I could do it.” I lapped at the broken skin where I had bitten.

Sylus laughed lowly against my lips, “I didn’t mean to doubt you, kitten.”

The movement of his hips were rhythmic, every thrust sending me deeper into a spiral of love and pleasure. My thoughts were nothing but static, only focusing on the beautiful man in front of me and how good he was capable of making me feel.

His own moans were strangled, groaning praises and muttering sweet nothings into my ear. Sylus thrusted deeply into me, tightly holding my hand as if he thought I and this moment were going to disappear. His eyes would snap open and flutter closed with every movement, relishing in the feeling of our bodies together.

My skin was electric, fireworks setting off in every corner of my being. My mind spun with the addictive feeling and taste of Sylus’ sweet lips on mine, his fingers digging into my hips.

He and I together were not doomed, though us being apart was. We were magnetic, velcro, sworn to be together. We were aligned in ways I wasn’t sure was even possible.

“Tell me again that you love me,” Sylus trapped my head in between his arms, “tell me that this is okay and you want it.” His eyes were misty, his voice hoarse.

“I love you.” I mewled as his thrusts were getting faster, harder.

“I can be good for you, I’ll take care of you, please just let me be yours. Please be mine, let me have this.”

The familiar feeling rose inside, and I knew I was close, “Yes, Sy- I’m all yours.”

“I love you, I love you, I love- Fuck-” His hips snapped against mine at a pace that had me seeing stars, “My girl, you’re my girl. Mine-”

His girl.

I came undone with a loud moan of Sylus’ name, scratching my fingers sharply down his back, arching myself deep against him. His hips stuttered against mine, reaching his own high. Wrapping each other in our arms, trying to pull one another any impossibly closer. So close our souls could touch.

I didn’t just want Sylus, no, I needed him. It wasn’t until I found him that I discovered the large, empty sorrowful space that resided in my life. A space that I was always too scared to confront, a space that he fit into so perfectly.

Some force in this massive universe decided to pair me with him, to make me his, and I was tired of being scared and ignoring it.

“I love you, Sylus.”

tag list!! ty all for the support <3

@crowskitten22 @peacedreamer14 @phantom-101 @evilldentists @ionlypartiallyslay @fealy @sellelqvz @huachengnism @mandysfanfics @shiorihoshino @sinnamon-bunn @knifep-rty @l0bulariia @knifep-rty @yoyach @ononpetitecroissant @syluslittlecrows @beewilko @unbetirtlt @sylus-crow

[flyingwargle]

november fanfic recs!

we're almost at the end of the year, but there's always fanfic to be read! check out previous months' recs: october, september, august, july

some of these fics are rated e!

sakuatsu

can we always be this close (forever and ever?) g. 3.1k. sakusa approaches osamu to ask for his ring size because he plans to propose to atsumu. osamu instead interrogates him to see if he's ready to be with atsumu forever, while suna watches. very endearing with the best ending ever.

The Wisdom Tooth Incident™ g. 4.8k. atsumu gets his wisdom tooth removed and forgets about sakusa in his post-anesthetic haze. i will never tire of this trope. you can pry it from my cold, dead hands.

city of millions t. 7.2k. mostly sakusa-centric and background sakuatsu. a beautiful love letter to sakusa's early years of university, his friendship with akaashi, and learning to reconnect with things that he left in the past (things being miya atsumu).

lingua franca m. 9.1k. sakusa learns about the different love languages through his life and finally finds someone who has the same love language as him.

itadakimasu t. 10.9k. pro athlete sakusa puts out an ad for someone to cook him meals, and aspiring chef atsumu answers his call. a slow but beautiful partnership that leads to love.

double lift e. 12.8k. 3/3. accidentally been reading a lot of winterwaltz6's works this month huh (they're all very good though). this one is the intimacy of sakusa helping atsumu re-dye his hair after he's been on the bench due to a knee injury. very soft and warm <3

halfway to sunrise e. 12.9k. atsumu offhandedly tells sakusa that he can sleep with him and sakusa takes him up on it. fwb to lovers.

hustle for that muscle e. 13.8k. atsumu and suna make a bet on who can get an underwear ad first, and the loser has to ask their respective crush out. atsumu loses, hence the hilarious attempt to ask sakusa out, which leads to eventually trying to sleep with him.

anchor m. 21.3k. atsumu helps sakusa through his panic attack and sakusa reciprocates in turn. augh, the emotional damage this caused, but the fluff made up for it. beautiful writing and discussions of mental health.

take two e. 23k. 3/3. sakusa reconnects with his ex, atsumu, after finding him on an adult site, and maybe, just maybe, they'll rekindle their relationship. the prose was full of so much pining and love.

A Thousand Cuts t. 37.9k. 3/3. this is the perfect study of misunderstandings, miscommunication and unrequited love. absolutely heartbreaking with gripping prose.

hand study e. 84.4k. 7/7. atsumu injures sakusa's hand and becomes his personal helper while he heals, with benefits. fwb to lovers with a healthy dose of angst but has a happy ending.

Lessons in Falling e. 87.2k. 6/6. sakusa resists from falling in love with atsumu because he believes his family is cursed with falling out of love and dysfunctional relationships. atsumu is so tooth-rottingly sweet and patient while waiting for sakusa to make peace with his family. gripping prose and tension. one of my favorites <3

iwaoi

thrilled by the still of your hand t. 2.6k. iwa and bokuto arm wrestle. that's it, that's the fic. and oikawa kisses iwa but that comes later.

tattoo your name across my heart g. 5.4k. iwa drunkenly gets oikawa's name tattooed on his arm. SO CUTE. SO FLUFFY. augh my heart, they love each other so much.

Even here, there is light t. 11.4k. single dad oikawa finding love in iwa. oikawa's son is so lovely in this, along with their love.

come get me, come love me m. 20.7k. oikawa is invited to a wedding upon his return to japan and comes face to face with his ex, iwa, after several years. a lovely, lovely fic of coming back together <3

Learning to Walk (So That We Can Run) m. 27.6k. oikawa's knee isn't healing the way it's supposed to be, thus a long journey of getting surgery and enduring the rehab that follows. iwa is with him every step of the way.

bokuaka

and i have never felt so bright t. 16.5k. 5 times akaashi told himself not to be selfish in life and 1 time he decided to. the 2nd chapter blew me away with the domestic details and eventual getting together. such a sweet fic.

down, boy e. 87.8k. 15/15. think of sakuatsu's terminal curiosity but bokuaka. that's all i can really say without being too detailed, other than it's slow burn with a lot of spice.

sunaosa

check out all the wonderful works from the sunaosa autumn gift exchange that were revealed in november! there's lots to read and fanart to see <3

the universe called and said we're soulmates t. 3.8k. suna starts dreaming of his relationship with osamu in different universes. so sweet and beautiful!

two drinks t. 4k. suna falls head over heels with the barista to the point that he orders coffee every time he sees him. except he doesn't like coffee. absolutely hilarious!

moonlight e. 5.5k. emotional spice featuring suna having low self-esteem and osamu wanting to show him that he's loved. beautiful, with so much affection from osamu to suna.

stop me if you’ve heard this one before… g. 6.4k. osamu is a dumbass and keeps forgetting about relationship milestones and suna just finds it amusing. find yourself a partner that finds your forgetfulness endearing like suna, seriously.

god in jeans t. 22.4k. atsumu accidentally kicks a god's shrine and ends up indebted to them - i.e. suna. outsider pov watching suna and osamu fall in love despite suna's god status, with a healthy amount of angst and an eventual happy ending.

drowning in gravity m. 24.1k. exes to fwb to lovers. suna being emotionally constipated, osamu being patient but also impatient...combine all that together and you get angst with a happy ending.

other

And flowers bloom in his wake g. 10.6k. kurodai. modern magic au where everyone has a unique ability and daichi's ability is that flowers grow where he walks and kuroo makes it his personal mission to protect those flowers (and fall in love in the process).

know what a river can be g. 13.6k. oikawa-centric. a character study of oikawa's time overseas to pursue his volleyball career with bodies of water as the main motif. beautiful prose with an uplifting ending.

Point Break t. 18.3k. daisuga. the karasuno 3rd years undergo the most ridiculous heist of all time. HILARIOUS. so cute and endearing as well, and so, so dumb. on-point prose, pining, and getting together. one of my favorites this month <3

heaven's here, it's right where you're standing t. 47.2k. 8/8. kuroken. kenma, a cancer survivor, moves to a small seaside town for a change of pace and meets kuroo, the local science teacher and volleyball coach. slowburn romance with perhaps one of the best twists that i have ever read.

Making a Home g. 106.3k. 27/27. arankita. kita is a foster parent whose license is about to expire when he's given the miya twins to foster, after they've been passed from one abusive household to the next. a beautiful story of found family and love.

[cringe--is--dead]

Can I request headcanon of Jason Todd/Red Hood (Under the Red Hood movie) being with fem s/o who can magically heal just about anything no matter how severe the wounds are and how deadly the diseases, but she can't heal herself; she is serene, gentle and soft spoken please?

I think Jason Todd deserves the world, so yes, I shall! Thank you for the request!

You Playing Doctor Now? Jason Todd x Meta!Reader

The door slamming open and shut had become a sound you were used to. Months ago it would have startled you, made you jump nearly out of your skin, especially given the area you found yourself living in. Now, however, the sound was almost comforting to you.

The slam of the door meant your boyfriend was home, alive, but from the sluggish sound of his footsteps, not uninjured. You paused what you were doing, carefully chopping vegetables for the stew you had been planning on making.

You set the knife down, washing your hands rather quickly, before making your way into the living room. Sure enough, Jason was sat on the couch, having taken his helmet off himself, sweaty and breathing heavily, his eyes shut.

His hair was nearly plastered to his forehead, and he didn't open his eyes to your entrance, despite hearing your footsteps grow closer. You took stock of his appearance, cuts and fresh bruises lined his cheeks, and you were sure there were other injuries beneath his armor if the thin trail of blood from your doorway was any indicator.

"You should see the other guy," Was the first sentence he offered you, lips curled in an attempt of a smirk, but his labored breathing made it appear more of a grimace.

"I'd rather not waste my time looking at dead bodies," Despite your worry, you joked back, voice soft as you knelt down in front of him.

He cracked open his eyes, sighing as he took in your sight. Your eyebrows were furrowed with worry, eyes raking over his appearance, no doubt calculating just how injured he was. He shifted, leaning towards you, prying a glove off before caressing your cheek, thumb softly brushing the cheek bone.

"I'm fine."

You rolled your eyes, rather used to hearing that line fall from his lips, "You and I both know that's a lie," You stood up, hands on your hips, "Take the armor off."

He raised an eyebrow, trying to deflect your concern, "Take me to dinner first."

You barely rose to the bait, "Dinner will be ready sooner if you let me treat your injuries without a fight."

The two of you stared at each other for a silent moment, before he relented. He had never thought he'd meet someone whose stubbornness outweighed his, and he never would have thought that someone as sweet as you could be harder-headed than him.

"Alright, alright," He hated that he was struggling to remove his own armor, muscles sore and screaming at him.

You shook your head as he dropped his clothes onto the ground, stepping forward, tender hands pressing gently to his skin. You started on his face first, palms cupping his jaw, and he relaxed into your hold, the warmth of your hands fighting the nippy cold from outside that still lingered in his bones.

You made a soft tsk, and he felt the odd sensation of the cuts on his cheek closing themselves up, not having to open his eyes to know that your gaze was unwavering, eyes glowing inhumanly, the color a brighter hue of the normal ones he fell in love with.

"The scars will fade quickly," You murmured, voice low as you moved your hands from his face, gently pressing against his shoulders, biceps, forearms, taking assessment of the damage.

He opened his eyes to watch you, a smile forming on his face as you continued muttering to yourself, cursing him for trying to hide his injuries, easily reversing the damage that had occurred to him hours before.

"Jason Todd," You scolded, pressing your hands against his ribs, eyes narrowing into a glare, "You were going to hide broken ribs from me?"

He chuckled sheepishly, "I've handled worse."

"Doesn't mean you have to now," He felt energy buzz under his skin, sucking in a quick breath as he felt his ribs fuse back together, "I'll do whatever I can to make sure of that."

He knew that, he knows that. But more often than not he feels as if he's taking advantage of you, of your abilities. He didn't know if your powers made you selfless, or if your selflessness manifested your powers. But he does know that you would run yourself ragged if it meant you could help every injured or ill-ridden person you came across.

He didn't want to admit it to anyone, let alone the rest of the stupid bird family of his, but he did go out of his way now to avoid massive injuries. If he came back with just a few scratches or bruises, he could talk you out of healing him, telling you paper cuts hurt worse than the injuries he had now.

He had less luck when he came home with cracked bones or bullet holes. He knew, and you knew, he would heal faster than normal thanks to the Lazarus Pit, but your powers worked almost instantly. You'd rather heal him immediately, rather than let him set for a few hours, body healing itself.

In a matter of five minutes, all his injuries were gone, leaving nothing but dried blood and faint scaring in their places. You sat back on your heels, eyes their normal shade, smiling up at him.

"There you are," You stood, leaning to place a soft, quick kiss to his lips, pulling back to run a hand through his hair, "Good as new."

"You enjoy playin' doctor, huh?"

The blush on your cheeks had him grinning like mad, and you rolled your eyes to avoid eye contact. He caught your hand in his, resting your knuckles against his lips, "Thanks doll."

You went to move, more than likely heading back to finish tonight's meal, but a flash of white caught his eye, and he grabbed your hand, turning it palm up. You stood, eyebrow raised in confusion as he ran his fingers across your skin gently, feeling the rough bandage across your palm.

"What happened?"

Your lips formed a quick 'o', grinning almost sheepishly, "I nicked myself cutting the carrots a bit earlier," You let him fiddle with your hand, your fingers for a moment longer, shrugging, "It's fine, I dressed it."

"I wish you could heal yourself."

He had found himself saying that so many times, wishing you could use your abilities selfishly. You healed him, no questions asked. You used to babysit some of the kids in the area, kissing away scraps and bruises under the guise that kisses healed everything when they looked at you in wonder. You held injured birds, cats, and dogs in the alleyways, taking care of their illnesses brought by hunger, correcting broken wings and crooked paws like it was as simple as breathing.

But whenever you were injured, struck down by a fever, found yourself in a situation where you needed help, you were helpless to do anything for yourself.

Your powers, Jason thought, were a blessing and a curse.

You shrugged, "Even if I could, wasting my abilities on a little cut? I'm fine."

His gaze met yours, and you understood the look he was giving you. You were repeating his own sentiments to him now, but you stood by it. Even if you could heal yourself, there were others who needed your energy and powers more than you did. Why would you have been born with this power if not to help others?

That's the notion you were raised on, and while Jason wanted you to put yourself first, protect yourself over strangers in the streets, he also knew that mindset was why the two of you met.

No one else would have rushed to the side of a downed Red Hood in the streets, covered in a mixture of his blood and the blood of those he killed. Everyone else would have run off or ignored him, but you rushed to his side, not asking questions, not trying to remove his hood or armor, hands placed where ever you could put them, and before he knew it, the dizziness brought on by blood loss was gone.

The rest was history.

He stood up, "Let me redress it at least," He squeezed your hand gently, "A lifetime of healing and you don't even know how to properly apply a band-aid."

You pouted but laughed along as he dragged you behind him to the bathroom, the first aid kit he forced you to buy still laying out on the counter.

You chattered away, talking about how your day had been, the kittens you saw coming back from the store earlier, how you got rid of their flea-ridden infections, and how you went back a few hours later and set up a box with some blankets in it for them. You mentioned keeping an eye on them, and bringing them home if no one claimed them in the next few days. He listened intently, cleaning the cut and dabbing some neosporin on it, wishing he could do more for your injuries, regardless of how small there were.

He'd do whatever he was able to though, wrapping any cuts you got, icing any bruises that appeared, he'd carry you everywhere if you required him to. He'd do that for as long as you'd let him.

Sorry, I had no idea how to end it. I hope you liked it!

[roxxiies]

Assassin along with a support!reader who is in the opposite team. sfw, gn!reader, slightly obsessive themes, convincing you to join them instead

✩　featuring: dyrroth, julian

It was quite scary how the enemy assassin kept glancing your way as if you're his prey. However, it only worsened when Dyrroth was carrying his team. So to roam around the map to get your job done always sent you in a panicky mess.

Now, your team has been wiped out, leaving you as the last one standing. Your mind raced with frantic thoughts as you warily turned your head at every bush you passed. You ducked inside one, pressing yourself low as a shiver ran through you at the thought that, at any moment, he would come for you—

“Boo. So this where you were hiding,” The voice came out of the blue as you felt your blood running cold. He chuckles mixed with the raspy and calm tone of his voice as your body trembles beneath him.

You cowered at the sound near your ear and tried to escape but he was just faster. His hand quickly clamped over your mouth while his other arm wrapped around your stomach, pulling you in—trapping you against him as you could feel his chest press against your back.

Dyrroth mutters lowly and it sends shivers down your spine, “Why not be my healer? That damned Duke doesn't even deserve you.” He scowls, clicking his tongue, “Such a waste of power.”

You only shook your head, trying to speak up for your jungler but it came out muffled against his palm. He notices this and removes his hand and you instantly gasp. “He’s not w-weak! You're just—”

“Strong.” He finished for you, chuckling. “Yeah, that much is obvious, isn’t it?” His grip tightened slightly as he pulled you even closer... was his head nuzzling against your neck?

The whimper you let out was weak and quiet as if you're hesitant to disagree with what he said despite knowing it's true. The recent Savage! notification was evident.

“I’ll make sure to win this little game for ya’,” He murmured, his tone mixed with confidence. “And once this is over, you can come to me, yeah? With me, you'll effortlessly play your role, and I'll carry you alll the time. You won't have to worry not a single bit.”

You did felt a streak of loses and this was one of the great offers one could give to you. You unhesitatingly opened your eyes as it landed on his. “Really…?”

The innocent sight in front of him made him feel something stir deep inside. He smiles wildly as he pulls you close, “Yeah, you're going to be my own little princess.”

You knew from the moment Julian earned the Triple Kill! notification that this match was going to be rough—it hadn’t even been five minutes!

Your role as a healer would require ten times the effort compared to other games. But what irritated you most was the way he mocked your team, especially the jungler you supported, leaving everyone dead except you. And somehow, that made you feel something.

Now, it was just the three of you—him, you, and your jungler—contesting the turtle where the other players were busy clearing their lanes.

The assassins were neck to neck as they fought. Despite your consistent healing and telling him to retreat for now, your jungler was stubborn—so prideful and insistent—that had cost him an embarrassing streak of deaths.

As you see your jungler fall, your feet scramble to get away, fearing he'd kill you this time. But he snatches you instantly by the waist. You closed your eyes, covering your face as you wished he'd just slay you immediately.

He lets out a huff of amusement, “It’s a lil’ adorable when you cower in fear.” He takes to pry one of your hands that you were using to hide your face. “It's as if you weren't watching my every move.”

His words sank in and your face flushed a deep shade of red. The sight made him chuckle. You stammered, trying to defend yourself. “I—I wasn’t! I was just keeping an eye on you—”

The grin that stretched across his face made you stop mid-sentence. He clearly wasn’t buying it...

“Keeping an eye on me, stalking me—Sure, but aren't they the same thing?” He lets out another chuckle, “But I don't bite, sweetheart. If you could just tell me you want me, then I'm all yours—”

Your heart fluttered wildly as you slapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t just say things like that…”

“Sure,” he only chuckled, finding you quite adorable, “Anything for you.”

[amourtoken]

i know he's in timeout rn but i think having matt's fingers in my mouth sloppy style would heal my soul....if they were all bloody from a fight too....many thoughts....

idc if he's in time out I'm still fucking that man raw they can pry that privilege from my cold dead hands IDGAF!!!!!

Ik he's got the worst reverse oral fixation imaginable, always trying to find an excuse to get his fingers in your mouth or feel your lips on him. It doesn't take much, you're always happy to indulge thankfully.

he could cum untouched just from seeing you like this, looking up at him with pretty doe eyes while he fucks his fingers down your throat. Your lips look so pretty wrapped around his fingers and to top it off its so fucking messy it makes him lightheaded. Your spit dripping down his wrist from how long he's been dragging this out, he's definitely not above adding to it by spitting in your mouth or pulling you in for a messy kiss before begging you to keep going for just a little longer.

Theres definitely something about the contrast between the two of you that gets him off too, you're so soft and sweet, seemingly untouched while he's sporting scarred up hands and fresh wounds scattered across his knuckles. He loves that he gets to be the one to do this kind of thing to you, and gets off even more thinking about how you still love every inch of him endlessly no matter what happens on the ice. You help patch him up after fights and more often than not he gets to fuck you right as a thank you, what more could he ask for really?

[bowsers-keep]

Compling all my Guilty Gear headcanons into one place

Most of these are actually headcanons friends had first but I've just incorperated them into my belief system. Under the cut cause this gets long.

LGBT+ Headcanons

Sol Badguy is a Butch Lesbian. No I will not explain why.

Ky is Genderfluid. I will stand by this till the day I die.

Dizzy is Pansexual! She loves her partner no matter what gender they currently are!

Slayer is the Token CisHet, because it is funny. Fruitest Vampire you've ever met and he's actually happily living with his wife, everyone else is some form of queer.

Genderqueer Izuna. Nuff said. He/She pronouns for them

On another Izuna note he's a man kisser. You cannot tell me she was born from the love a woman had for her husband and think he's anything but. Gay little fox thang.

The ending where Baiken just forsake all form of gender is forever iconic to me they are the nonbinary samurai in that one joke now.

Aromantic Johnny will forever be iconic to me. Just big brin genius play honestly. (He's also like Pansexual)

On the other side of the spectrum we have Asexual Nagoriyuki!

Also AroAce Potemkin. Feels right considering his reaction to Magnum Wedding.

In my heart Goldlewis is a Trans Gay man. He fucked clocked Bridget so hard during her Arcade mode. Old trans helping out a baby trans!

Giovanna feels bisexual to me, don't ask me why.

Leo is in a similar vein as in yeah that's a bisexual person.

Neurodivergent Headcanons

Butch Lesbian Axl, yeah there's more of this. My friends are horrid influences <3

Goldlewis is gay and trans. This feels right to me

Ramlethal is 100% Autistic

Actually all the Valentines are autistic as FUCK to me

Sin has that Audhd wombo combo

Leo has some godforsaken fucked up evil autism to be a guy WITHOUT FUCKING SLEEVES UNDER HIS JACKET!

In reality there is nobody in this cast who isn' some form of neurodivergent so I'll just run through funny ones actually.

Testament is that one kind of adhd where they cannot pick a hobby for the life of them

Goldlewis most certainly has cryptid austism, and he also does not know how far is too far in terms of asking questions.

While Slayer may be the token cishet, he is NOT the token neurotypical. That title goes to Anji for me personally, because funni.

World Headcanons

Mana Sickness. If you use too much Mana too fast there are repercusion!

Healing magic is a VOLITILE LITTLE FUCKING! It can fuck you up! (Aka what we think happened with Asuka's wing eye thing)

Idk how canon this is in particular but different people have different mana caps and magic affinity levels (Example: Johnny has piss poor magic affinity which is why he only knows like 4 spells top)

Misclenous Headcanons

Sin has a tail, you can't pry this out of my cold dead hands.

Giovanna really likes chocolate (I get to be self indulgent with her being Brasilian therefore this)

Out of the three kings of Ilyria, Leo is actually the workaholic! As much as he complains about paperwork it helps him take his mind off this survivors guilt and pstd. Ky has healthy coping mechanisms and Daryl is a dick.

June (One of the Jellyfish Pirates) is a music nerd!

Izuna will use his teleportation to fuck with people and prank them. This is an activity she enjoys very much.

Baiken just has hammerspace, just where else do they keep all their weapons???

Asuka R. Kreutz has a cane, nuff said. Pain haver.

Goldlewis is Johnny's Uncle. The guy from that one Xrd stage that's Goldlewis's brother? Yeah that's Johnny's dad now, they're estranged because after Johnny's Dad died Goldlewis just kinda drifted away from everyone else because his brother was the one guy who liked him there.

[berrystrawbs]

so SO upset because they filmed shit that wouldn’t fix the season by any means but might have salvaged the final installment of a show that is so precious to so many people.

if you haven’t already, i recommend checking out these deleted scenes (ESPECIALLY the final one if you were as mad about klaus’ storyline as i was) for a little bit of closure/healing/context*

(* a few of the scenes definitely re-inspired me to try my hand at fix-it fic because actual s4 just rendered me despondent)

these are more canon to me than Anything that came out of 4x05 and steve blackman can pry them out of my cold dead hands. ☂︎

[inkyarcturus]

give me all your headcanons for snape nEOOOOWWW (pretty please 🤎)

Okay so I think I’m going to break this down into chunks because I have a LOT of thoughts so here’s the first chunk :D

TW: for child abuse?

PRE HOGWARTS:

it’s pretty much canon that Sev came from an abusive home with an alcoholic muggle father and a pure blood mother.

Personally, I believe that his mother Eileen Prince was disowned by her family upon marrying Tobias. Although at first they were a happy couple, Eileen becomes pregnant with Severus and reveals to Tobias that she is a witch. Tobias, coming from an era where witchcraft is demonized and realizing the drain that a child has on his finances, becomes abusive.

Eileen tries her best to keep the abuse from Severus as much as possible, leading to her stopping herself from using magic as she believes that would just anger Tobias even more.

Severus is absolutely a mamas boy as a child and you can pry that headcanon out of my cold dead hands. He would do anything for his mama, growing up hearing stories about Hogwarts, magic and the legacy of the Princes, it was all he had to stay sane. Whenever Tobias was out of the house for extended periods of time, Eileen would brew with Severus as well, usually healing potions.

He would often be seen wearing his mother’s clothes because of the families lack of funds but also just because it was a way to connect with her.

The first time Severus uses accidental magic was to help his mom avoid Tobias, blasting him unconscious. It’s a mess of emotions for the rest of the night. Eileen is panicking, worrying about her husband’s health and her own but also trying to celebrate Severus’ magic so he knows magic isn’t bad (pure bloods are aware of obscurials). Severus is in tears worrying about his mother’s injuries, unable to understand the situation. Eileen calms him down enough to get him to agree to never tell Tobias about this incident.It happens again more times afterwards.

Severus is sensitive as a child, always crying despite his father’s anger towards his tears. He becomes agitated with himself, being unable to control himself. His father’s words haunt him every time he cries.

He goes years without any friends, not going to school because of his magical status, but still being allowed to go out to play and escape his fathers grasp.

The kids usually don’t like him cause of his poor hygiene, odd clothing and even stranger words. He’s rather intelligent for his age, but being raised in an abusive household has only taught him vulnerability is weakness and everything is a threat.

When he meets Lily he learns how to let go of his shields. He’s made his first magical friend, someone who doesn’t mind his clothing, or hair, or overall oddness.

He goes over to the Evan’s family house at least once a week. Lily’s parents constantly fuss over him, asking if he’s alright or need food or clothing. He constantly denies it because he doesn’t want to burden them, or have them look too closely at his home life

Eileen is so grateful her son has a friend she is brought to tears wherever she hears Sev talk about Lily (which he does, a lot). Whenever she knows Tobias will be out of the house she’ll ask Sev to bring Lily over so all three of them can make potions together.

Petunia is less receptive of him, constantly starting arguments with Lily over why she even talks to him, but generally leaves them alone to stay in her room.

Sev was always quiet as a child, he would play silently whenever on his own, keeping his thoughts within his imagination. His preferred method of play, pre-Lily, was organizing objects. He would organize them by color, shape, name, then mix them back up and start again.

With Lily he would let his imagination run wild, playing the part of dragon, knight, prince and spy, usually acting as a helper to Lily. They call each other sun and moon. He sees himself as a reflection of Lily’s light. His self esteem will only get lower as the years progress.

Occasionally, Lily would get extra allowance (Lily’s parents purposefully gave for Sev) and they would go to a corner store to buy sweets. I imagine he has a pallet for less overwhelming sweets, like matcha flavoring, but as he grows older he convinces other people he likes bitter sweets the most. I think he has an appreciation for berries the most.

Hope you appreciate these :D think took almost an hour to write and I keep on wanting to add more but this is honestly already too long :,)

Side note I just realized I can’t do multiple posts on one ask? So if you want the second chunk can you please send another ask :,D

[inkandarsenic]

Ok, so expanding on this post for @heartofmortis, meet my newest oc, Nymeria Targaryen

- youngest daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, born in 283 AC, like a month or so before the sack of KL

- conceived as soon as possible after Aegon, just before the maesters declared Elia unable to have more children and Rhaegar subsequently ran off with Lyanna

- named Nymeria because Elia knew Rhaegar would’ve wanted her named Visenya, but Rhaegar ran off to have a third child with the Northern girl before he could even be informed of this pregnancy, so Elia decided to name her daughter after the legendary warrior Princess of Dorne (call it rebellion if you will — this pregnancy so soon after Aegon’s nearly killed her, and he decides he needs a daughter with the Stark girl? Fine. Elia will name her daughter from her culture, not his. Let him get his Visenya elsewhere.)

- Smuggled by her wetnurse through siege tunnels out to where Rhaella and Viserys were evacuating to Dragonstone. in the chaos after Rhaella’s death, only Viserys and Daenerys are smuggled off of Dragonstone. Stannis arrives to find a terrified nursemaid and a screaming infant less than a year old.

- Raised by Stannis Baratheon, who heard how his brother laughed at the two dead children of Elia, and refused to hand over Nymeria — Stannis is many things, but he isn’t a child-murderer yet

- She’s his ward, and technically also a hostage to keep Dorne from rising up over Elia and her children’s death — Nymeria is the last link to Elia Dorne has.

- Uses Martell name when introducing herself. Tries to distance herself from her Targaryen lineage — was raised on stories of all of the bad parts of the Targaryens as her bedtime stories and history lessons, and doesn’t like them at all.

- Oberyn and Doran work it out with Stannis so that Nymeria can be visited — under supervision, and mostly Oberyn as Doran is busier ruling Dorne — on Dragonstone by her mother’s family, and when she’s a bit older, she often spends a few months each year in Dorne. (You can pry reluctant friends Oberyn and Stannis out of my cold dead hands.)

- Robert tries HARD to get Nym betrothed to Jon — in his mind, Ned’s bastard son is more than deserving of a former princess, and what better way to keep the Targaryen spawn from rising against him than marrying her off to the son of his best friend? To his endless frustration, this goes nowhere — both Stannis and the Martells (who are actually responsible for Nym’s marriage prospects) refuse the idea — Stannis because Jon’s a bastard, the Martells because they very much do not like Robert — and Ned also refuses with no real explanation (“Jon is free to choose his own wife, Robert” when really it’s because Jon is Nym’s half brother through Rhaegar)

- Likes to help out Stannis’ maester and takes an interest in healing — both Stannis and Oberyn agree that this is a useful skill, and let her learn all she can.

- Rides out with Stannis when he goes to war; Melisandre keeps trying to convince Stannis to sacrifice her, and after Renly dies, Davos convinces Nymeria to leave, for her own safety.

- She originally intends to go south to Dorne, but comes across Catelyn and Brienne first. Upon hearing how Renly died and recognizing the account of Melisandre’s work, she realizes Dorne would be the first place Stannis would look for her — whatever Melisandre so desperately wanted Nym sacrificed for cannot be good — and she decides to go with Catelyn and Brienne to Robb’s camp instead. You can never have too many medics in a war.

- Our boy is WEAK to the pretty healers, weak I tell you, and this one is Westerosi, highborn (a princess, technically— rightful heir to the Iron Throne) and she’s a politically advantageous (the princes of Dorne would surely be on his side if he married their niece) match to boot??? He doesn’t stand a chance.

[imadeitworseyourwelcome]

The Dead Don't Heal

(Part 1) you are here

Next

The decepticon miners had halted their work and stood at attention as Megatron walked through the icy cavern, flanked by Starscream.

"This better not be a waste of my time," Megatron warned, "I don't need to see every fossil you did out of this place."

"Yes- spending more time than nessiccary in the cold - do you know how long it takes to defrost wings??" Starscream complained. This was the only situation he'd ever feel jealous of ground vechiles. He could already feel the frost creeping along his wings.

"I'm pretty sure this is something you'd want to see." Breakdown assured. He lead them deeper into the mine shaft until they arrived at the end of the tunnel, barely illuminated by the temporary lights.

"Surely you called me out for more than simply reaching a dead end." Megatron growled.

"We stopped mining because we found something." Breakdown tilted one of the lights to hit the wall, illuminating the silhouette of a large mech frozen in the ice. "Er-, someone."

"Decepticon?" Megatron raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Don't know, the scanners can't get a reading through all the ice." Breakdown shrugged, "Big guy could be long dead."

"We could make use of a warrior of his size," Megatron mused

"And if they are dead, they can be used for spare parts," Starscream waved a hand dismissively, this was hardly a reason to drag them all the way to the arctic.

Megatron waved the vechicons forward to continue digging. Their heavy machinery shook the whole cavern, slowly chipping closer and closer to the frozen cybertronian.

Breakdown's hammer struck a crack that sent a rain of ice shards down, revealing part of the mech's upper torso and head.

They were mostly white, with a blue stripe on their head and a red stripe on each of their wings.

Starscream's gasp echoed through the cave as the ice fell away.

Skyfire.

"Work faster!" Starscream snapped at the miners, lunging forward to join the digging. Carefully clawing chunks away from their grey face.

He had been here, all this time..

Breakdown and Starscream each took hold of a shoulder, and with some difficulty they managed to finally pry them free from their icy prison.

Starscream cringed as Skyfire's armor creaked and joints crunched from the ice buildup.

He placed a hand over Skyfire's inactive vents, before gently tracing his claws up their chestplate, he was so cold...he frantically checked for any sign of life. Surely he'd be able to feel the warmth of his spark...

"We have to get him defrosted immediately!" He ordered, "You-!" he pointed to Breakdown, "Call Knockout, he-"

Megatron grabbed Starscream roughly, wrenching him away from the lifeless bot, "I give the orders, Starscream." He snarled.

"Lord Megatron, please- he needs a medic-" his wings now trembled from more than the cold.

"Why so invested, Starscream?" Megatron questioned, "Do you recognize this mech?"

"I knew him, a long time ago.." Starscream trailed off, staring down into Skyfire's unlit optics.

"Chose the wrong side?" Breakdown interjected

"No-!" Starscream snapped, "He.. went missing before the war... he is a scientist, he would be a great asset to the decepticon cau-" Starscream was cut off by Megatron, his tone cold as the cavern they stood in.

"His name?"

"...Skyfire, " Starscream answered, confused by Megatron's apparent curiosity.

"Skyfire..." Megatron seemed to mull over the name, before asking, "isn't that your missing conjunx?"

Starscream felt as though the energon in his lines had turned to ice. He hadn't expected Megatron to know that.

He really shouldn't be surpirsed, afterall he had made quite the fuss when Skyfire had initially gone missing.

Trying without success to get a search team- any search team to find him.

But that was long before the decepticons.

He stuttered, trying to deny it, "How- no- no I-"

But Megatron clearly wasn't convinced.

"It's fortunate he died, such a weakness is not tolerated among decepton ranks." Megatron towered over Skyfire, retrieving a purple crystal from his subspace, "But he can still be made useful..."

Starscream lunged forward, grabbing for Megatron's arm, "No!"

But Megatron swatted him away, "I thought you cared for this bot Starscream. I'm giving him a purpose, even in death - as a member of my undead army!"

"Lord Megatron, I beg of you- he's not a fighter-!" Starscream's pleads fell on deaf ears,

"Ever the more reason to raise him to my command."

Megatron plunged the shard of dark energon into Skyfire's chest.

Starscream watched on in horror as the shard sank into Skyfire's chest, sending pulses of purple veins across his frame.

"Arise my minion! " Megatron yelled, cackling as an evil grin spread across his face.

The purple veins faded until there was no trace of them. Starscream silently hoped that it wouldn't work- that Skyfire would not be ripped from his resting place.

Skyfire's eyes flickered alight with an eerie purple glow. His frame creaked and groaned as he picked himself off the ground. Chunks of ice still clinging to his armor.

He towered over all the bots in the cavern. His eyes glowed a solid purple.

"Kneel," Megatron ordered.

Starscream couldn't move. The scene playing out before his eyes left him rooted in place. He was only able to stare on in horror as Skyfire obeyed, slowly dropped to one knee and bowing his head

[cod-thoughts]

Help to make the season bright

Word count: 9.9k

Relationships: NikPrice, PriceNik, team as family

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Simon "Ghost" Riley, Fluff, Niks love language is food you can pry that out of my cold dead hands thank you Soft Nikolai, Christmas Fluff

I posted this while i was gone and never ended up putting it on here so im doing that now! Its two chapters!!

Stuck in a safe house over Christmas, the team does their best to keep spirits up despite the storm outside—and the one raging inside Ghost. It’s supposed to be the season for family, but some wounds don’t heal, and some ghosts don’t rest. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Chapter 1: And so I'm offering this simple phrase

The safe house was unremarkable, a squat, grey structure barely visible against the snow-laden woods. The storm outside had been raging for hours, a relentless whiteout that battered the building with icy gusts and howling winds. Snow piled high against the windows, and the walls creaked under the force of the gale. The wood-burning stove in the corner struggled to fend off the biting cold, its faint glow casting flickering shadows across the room. The scent of damp wood and lingering smoke clung to the air, seeping into every corner of the cramped space.

Inside, the team sat huddled around a battered table. A single bulb swung gently from the ceiling, its dim light highlighting the weariness etched across their faces. Supplies were running low, and the safe house felt smaller with each passing hour, its confined walls pressing in like the snow outside.

Soap blew into his hands, rubbing them together briskly. His breath fogged in the icy air as he muttered, “Bloody hell, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”

“Better than being out there,” Price said from where he leaned against the stove, adding another splintered log to the flames. His voice was steady, calm, but his eyes were fixed on the fire as if willing it to grow.

Soap scoffed, gesturing around the room. “Aye, well, not by much. Think we’ll still be here come Christmas? Stuck in this frozen hellhole?”

Gaz glanced up from the radio he’d been fiddling with, his brow furrowed. Static crackled faintly, filling the silence. “Unless that storm clears, we’re not going anywhere. Could be days yet.”

Soap groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Fantastic. Best Christmas ever.”

Price glanced towards the frost-covered window, where Ghost stood silently, his posture stiff and unyielding. He was a shadow against the dim light, the edges of his figure blurred by the condensation on the glass. The balaclava he always wore revealed only his eyes, which were fixed on the swirling snow outside. His gloved hand rested on the windowsill, unmoving, and the stillness of him felt almost unnatural—like a tightly coiled spring on the verge of snapping.

The quiet unease in the room wasn’t lost on Soap. Ever the optimist, he straightened in his chair, forcing a grin. “Oi, Ghost,” he called, his tone light and teasing. “Fancy helping me brighten this place up? Could string some lights or hang something festive. It’s grim enough without us all sulking.”

Ghost didn’t move, his gaze unwavering as he muttered, “Not interested.”

Soap’s grin faltered, just for a second. “Ah, come on, mate,” he pressed, his voice carrying a forced cheerfulness. “Even you can’t be above a bit of holiday spirit. You could use it, I reckon.”

Ghost turned his head then, his eyes cold and sharp under the dim light. “I said, drop it.” His voice was low, steady, and left no room for argument.

The room seemed to shrink in the silence that followed. Soap shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders tense as he looked towards Price for some kind of signal. The captain’s gaze was fixed on Ghost, his expression unreadable, but after a moment he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Soap leaned back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Suit yourself, Lieutenant.”

Ghost didn’t respond. His hand dropped from the windowsill as he turned away, his steps clipped and deliberate as he left the room. The door to the adjoining space shut behind him with a soft but deafening click.

Soap exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to push him,” he muttered, glancing back at Price.

Price stepped away from the stove, his expression softening slightly. “You weren’t to know. It’s not your fault.”

Gaz, who had been watching quietly from his seat, frowned. “What’s his deal, anyway? He’s been like this all week.”

Price’s response came slowly, his voice quieter now. “It’s not my story to tell. But this time of year… it’s not easy for him. Give him some space.”

Gaz and Soap exchanged a look, both nodding in silent agreement. Still, there was a lingering heaviness in the air, and it seemed to settle deeper into the room now that Ghost had gone.

The hours dragged on, the storm outside a relentless fury of wind and snow. Inside, the safe house had grown oppressively quiet. The stove crackled faintly, its orange glow casting long shadows across the room. Soap had finally abandoned his search through the supply crate, muttering about the lack of decent provisions, while Gaz leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he stared at the faintly glowing radio. Price stood near the stove, his eyes distant, his mind elsewhere.

A sudden knock shattered the quiet. It was sharp and deliberate, cutting through the howl of the storm like a gunshot. The team reacted instantly—Gaz straightened, his hand going to his sidearm, while Soap shot Price a questioning look.

Price moved towards the door, his steps steady but cautious. His hand rested lightly on the rifle propped against the wall as he glanced back at the others. “Stay sharp,” he said quietly. “Could be anything.”

Soap sidled closer to the door, his pistol drawn and ready. “Anything? Or anyone?” he murmured, his humour noticeably absent.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Price pressed his ear to the door, his brow furrowing as he listened. A muffled voice reached him, faint but unmistakable, carrying the weight of familiarity even through the storm. “John! Open the door, or I will freeze out here!”

For a moment, Price froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then the tension in his shoulders released all at once, and he reached for the latch, yanking the door open against the howling wind.

Nik stood there, his figure outlined by the swirling snow, his coat dusted white and his cheeks red from the cold. His breath came in sharp bursts, visible in the frigid air, but the grin on his face was bright enough to rival the glow of the stove.

“Nikolai!” Price’s voice was low but edged with something that sounded suspiciously like relief. He stepped forward, gripping Nik’s arms to steady him as the wind threatened to shove them both back. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”

Nik’s grin softened into something more intimate, his voice warm despite the storm whipping around them. “Could not let you spend Christmas without me, could I?” His gloved hand lingered on Price’s arm, his touch reassuring.

“You’re mad,” Price said, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a rare smile. “This storm could’ve killed you.”

“For you?” Nik shrugged, leaning in closer as his voice dropped to a murmur. “I would walk through worse.”

Price shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he pulled Nik inside, slamming the door shut behind him. The sudden quiet of the safe house felt almost overwhelming after the storm’s chaos, and the others stared at the new arrival with a mix of surprise and relief.

Nik stomped the snow from his boots, shrugging off his coat and shaking out the worst of the frost. His gaze flicked back to Price, his expression softening as he murmured, “Merry Christmas, mishka.”

Price’s answering smile was brief but genuine. “Merry Christmas, love,” he replied, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of them. He reached out, brushing a stray bit of snow from Nik’s shoulder before letting his hand drop.

Soap broke the moment, his voice loud and incredulous. “Nik, you daft bastard! What in God’s name are you doing out there in this storm?”

Nik turned, his grin returning in full force as he glanced towards Soap. “Saving you from yourselves, apparently,” he said, his thick accent colouring his words. He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder, producing a bottle of vodka with a triumphant flourish. “Emergency rations.”

Gaz snorted, lowering his sidearm as he gave Nik a quick nod. “You’ve got your priorities sorted, then.”

Nik laughed, but his gaze slid past the sergeants towards the closed door leading to the adjoining room. His smile faded slightly, and he turned back to Price, his voice quieter now. “And Simon?”

Price hesitated, his eyes following Nik’s line of sight. “He’s…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “He’s struggling.”

Nik’s eyes softened, understanding flickering across his face. He reached into his bag again, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped parcel. “I brought something for him,” he said quietly, holding it out to Price. “Not much, but... maybe it will help.”

Price took the parcel, weighing it in his hand. “He’ll appreciate it,” he said, though his voice was edged with uncertainty.

Nik clasped a hand on Price’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “He has you. That is enough.”

Price’s fingers tightened briefly around the parcel as he let out a low sigh. His gaze lifted to Nik’s, and for a moment, the tension in his features softened. “You’ve always got an answer, haven’t you?” he murmured, his voice carrying a rare, almost teasing note.

Nik’s grin widened, his hand sliding down Price’s arm in a slow, deliberate motion before resting just above his elbow. “Only for you,” he said lightly, though the warmth in his tone betrayed the weight behind his words.

Price shook his head faintly, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile. “You’re mad, coming through that storm.”

“And you love it,” Nik countered, leaning in just enough that his breath warmed the air between them. His gaze held Price’s, steady and unwavering, and for a brief moment, the room seemed smaller, the world outside distant and irrelevant.

The sergeants exchanged a glance, Soap clearing his throat dramatically. “Alright, lovebirds, save it for later.”

Price turned towards him, his expression carefully neutral, but the faintest hint of colour crept up the back of his neck. Nik, on the other hand, laughed easily, his smirk only growing as he released Price’s arm and turned to face the others.

“What do you have in mind for this evening?”

Soap perked up “Gaz, you’re on wrapping duty. Price you’re on food and…Nik, you’re on morale.”

Nik raised an eyebrow, glancing at Price with an amused smirk. “Morale?”

“Don’t look at me,” Price said, his tone dry but softened by the faintest hint of a smile. “He’s the one giving orders now.”

---

The warmth from the stove slowly spread through the room as the storm continued to rage outside. Soap dropped into a cross-legged position on the floor, pulling out scraps of old paper and a small pencil from his kit. His brow furrowed as he carefully began folding and sketching, the sharp movements of his hands betraying his focus.

Gaz raised an eyebrow from where he sat nearby, unspooling a length of thread he’d found in one of the supply crates. “What’s that supposed to be, then?” he asked, nodding towards Soap’s creation.

“Dunno yet,” Soap admitted, though his tone was light. “Just thought... maybe something for Ghost. Don’t know what, but it’s gotta be something, yeah?”

Gaz glanced at the scraps of paper and gave a small, approving nod. “Yeah. He’s not going to say it, but... I reckon he needs it.”

Soap’s hands stilled for a moment, his gaze dropping to the makeshift decorations in front of him. “You think he’ll even keep it? Or just bin it the first chance he gets?”

Gaz leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that we did something. He’ll know it’s from us.”

Soap let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You sound like Price.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gaz shot back with a grin, before sobering slightly. “I mean it, though. He might act like nothing gets to him, but you’ve seen the way he’s been. It’s bad.”

Soap nodded, his hands resuming their work. “Aye. The way he froze up earlier...” He trailed off, his expression flickering with guilt. “I didn’t mean to set him off, you know. Just thought a bit of banter might help.”

“Not your fault,” Gaz said firmly. “Price said it himself. He’s carrying a lot, and it’s not on us to fix it. Just to let him know we’re here. even if we don’t know what’s going on”

Soap nodded again, his movements growing more purposeful. The faint scratch of pencil against paper filled the quiet space as he began sketching small patterns across the scraps. His usual precision was softened here, his strokes more hesitant, but Gaz didn’t comment. He simply continued his work, the two of them falling into a companionable silence.

Across the room, Price sat near the stove, his focus half on the fire and half on the small parcel Nik had handed him. The weight of it felt disproportionate to its size, and he turned it over absently in his hands, the edges of the paper smooth beneath his fingers. Nik, perched nearby, sipped from a steaming tin mug, his eyes quietly tracking Price’s movements.

“Still thinking about him?” Nik asked softly.

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t deny it. “Always.”

Nik leaned back, his mug cradled in both hands. “You have done more for him than anyone else ever could. Try not to let yourself forget that, Mishka.”

Price’s gaze lingered on the flames, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough,” he admitted, his voice low. “He’s still... there. Stuck in it.”

“And he is still here, with you,” Nik pointed out. “He would not be if he did not want to be, you and I both know that.”

Price exhaled, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”

Nik’s smile was small but steady. “No, not simple. But the truth.”

In the adjoining room, Ghost sat on the edge of the cot, his head bowed and his gloved hands clasped tightly between his knees. The faint crackle of the stove in the other room seeped through the walls, but it did nothing to drown out the silence that clawed at his mind. The storm outside howled, the wind battering the safe house with icy ferocity, but to Ghost, it barely registered. His focus was elsewhere, lost in memories he wished he could burn away.

The scent of iron and gunpowder seemed to cling to him, even now. He could still see it—the crimson streaks splattered across the carpet, the pale hand of his mother lying limp against the arm of the sofa. His nephew’s tiny body crumpled in the corner, his favourite toy still clutched in one hand. The echoes of his what his brother’s voice sounded like, it must’ve been raw and frantic, shouting for help that never came. It was all so vivid, so painfully clear, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

Ghost inhaled sharply, his chest heaving as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He had found them like that—his family, executed in cold blood—on what was meant to be a day of warmth and love. He had walked into his childhood home expecting laughter and the smell of roasting turkey. Instead, he’d been met with silence and the metallic tang of death hanging thick in the air.

And then there was the fire.

He’d struck the match himself, his hands steady despite the storm raging inside him. The flames had climbed quickly, consuming everything—his memories, his childhood, the evidence of the life that had been taken from him. He had watched it all burn, the heat licking at his face as he turned his back and walked away, leaving behind the only home he’d ever known.

But he hadn’t left it all behind. The guilt stayed with him, a constant weight he carried. He had faked his death that day, disappearing into the shadows, but no matter how far he ran, the memories followed. His family’s silence, their bloodied faces, the betrayal that had led him to them too late. It never stopped. Not even now, years later, sitting in a safe house surrounded by people who would never understand.

His breathing hitched, his fingers digging into his knees. He could feel the storm pushing against the walls, its howl seeping through the cracks like the echoes of the past he couldn’t escape. The sound of boots scuffing on wood and the distant murmur of voices filtered through the walls, but it wasn’t enough to ground him.

A soft knock at the door cut through the noise.

“Simon?” Price’s voice was low and steady, a quiet anchor against the tempest inside him. “You don’t have to come out, but... we’re here. Whenever you’re ready.”

Ghost stared at the door, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. Price wouldn’t push—he never did. That was part of what made it so much harder. Part of what made the heaviness in Ghost’s chest feel like it might crush him.

The sound of Price’s retreating footsteps left the room in silence once more. Ghost dropped his head into his hands, his gloves creaking softly as he pressed his palms against his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the images away, but they lingered, just as they always did.

The storm raged on outside, but faintly, he could hear the sound of the team in the other room—the low murmur of conversation, the occasional soft laugh. It grated at him and comforted him in equal measure, a reminder that he wasn’t alone. Not entirely.

But even now, with the warmth of their voices filtering through the walls, all he could feel was the cold weight of his past pressing down on him.

Chapter 2: Merry Christmas to you

The storm howled outside, a relentless wail that rattled the frosted windows of the safe house. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of burning wood and the faint tang of damp clothes strung up near the stove. The first light of dawn seeped weakly through the cracks, casting long, uneven shadows across the room.

Soap was already awake, moving around the cramped kitchen area with the kind of energy that felt almost sacrilegious at such an early hour. The crackle of the stove and the occasional clang of a pan broke the stillness, his humming just audible over the storm outside. It was cheerful and obnoxious—exactly what one would expect from him.

Price appeared in the doorway, his presence a quiet weight that filled the room. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his hat was pushed back, revealing a tangle of unruly hair. “You planning to burn the place down, Sergeant?” His voice was rough, still thick with sleep.

Soap turned, a wooden spoon in hand, his grin immediate and unapologetic. “Nah, Cap. Just thought we could use a proper breakfast for once. Y’know, something to keep us from freezing our arses off.”

Price’s gaze dropped to the pan Soap was stirring over the stove. The concoction inside was a chaotic mix of eggs, tinned beans, and what looked suspiciously like crisps. His lips twitched, though whether it was a smirk or a grimace was hard to tell. “That meant to be food, or are you experimenting with chemical warfare?”

Soap laughed, unbothered. “Food. Though I reckon it might knock Gaz out if he smells it before it’s ready.”

Price hummed, stepping into the room fully. He glanced towards the back of the safe house, where a door remained firmly shut. “Where’s Gaz?”

“Still sleeping,” Soap replied, his grin dimming slightly. “Ghost too. Or... whatever it is he does when he’s not brooding.”

The faintest flicker of amusement crossed Price’s face before his expression settled back into something more serious. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer than necessary. “Let them sleep,” he said finally. “They need it.”

Soap nodded, stirring the pan a bit slower. “Aye. Think it’s gonna be rough for him today, yeah?”

Price didn’t answer right away, his silence heavy. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

Soap turned around and started muttering to himself, nudging a particularly stubborn clump of eggs across the pan, when the faint creak of floorboards signalled another presence. Nik appeared in the doorway, rubbing a hand across his face but still looking more put together than anyone else in the room. He carried his coat over one arm, the tailored fabric folded neatly despite the storm outside, and his heavy boots made no attempt to soften their steps on the worn wooden floor.

“What the hell is that smell?” he asked, his voice rich with amusement, though his nose wrinkled slightly as he approached the stove.

Soap turned with an exaggerated flourish, brandishing the wooden spoon like a trophy. “Breakfast, mate. A masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”

Nik leaned closer, peering into the pan with a critical eye. “That is not breakfast,” he declared with a shake of his head. “That is a culinary crime.”

Soap narrowed his eyes, jabbing the spoon in Nik’s direction. “Oi, I’ll have you know this is an original recipe.”

“Original, perhaps,” Nik replied, his lips twitching into a smirk. “But edible? I have my doubts.”

Price, who had been leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, let out a low chuckle. “Careful, Johnny. He’s got a point.”

Soap looked between the two of them, his mock offence quickly giving way to a grin. “Bloody brilliant. Both of you, ganging up on me before I’ve had my morning tea.”

Nik shrugged, setting his coat down on the back of a chair. “It is for your own good. You will thank me later.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” Soap shot back, though his tone was lighter now, the weight of the earlier conversation slipping away.

Nik rolled up his sleeves with the practised ease of someone who had done this many times before. “Jealous? No. But I will not stand by and let you poison the team. Step aside.”

Soap hesitated for a moment, glancing at Price for support. The captain raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show. “Go on, Sergeant. Let him work.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Soap relinquished the spoon, stepping back to watch as Nik began unpacking supplies from a crate near the stove. The sharp scent of cinnamon filled the air as he pulled out a small jar, followed by a tin of flour and a bottle of honey.

“What’s all this, then?” Soap asked, folding his arms. “That doesn’t look like beans on toast.”

“It is not,” Nik replied without looking up. His hands moved with practised precision, mixing ingredients in a bowl with quick, efficient motions. “This is for Ghost.”

That got Soap’s attention. He tilted his head, watching as Nik shaped dough into small, neat circles. “Ghost? What, you reckon he’s a pancakes man?”

Nik glanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but pointed. “Everyone has a favourite. Even him.”

Soap looked skeptical, but Price spoke before he could argue. “He’s right.”

The faintest hint of something softened in Price’s voice as he moved closer to Nik, his arms dropping to his sides. He lingered near the stove, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed against Nik’s. It was a subtle thing, easy to miss, but Soap caught it, maybe he can convince Ghost and Gaz to give the two some time alone, especially with the way Price’s gaze lingered on Nik’s hands, and the quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—it wasn’t just appreciation for breakfast.

“You’re showing off now,” Soap muttered, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

Nik didn’t look up, but there was a faint air of satisfaction in the way he flipped the first pancake onto a waiting plate. “Maybe. But only because I can,” He said with a wink.

Price’s chuckle was low, almost private, as he leaned back against the counter. “You’d better hope he likes them.”

“He will,” Nik replied simply, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “Trust me.”

The quiet certainty in his voice was enough to quiet any lingering doubt. Soap fell silent, watching as Nik finished his task with the precision of someone who took pride in even the smallest things. The pancakes were golden and crisp at the edges, their tops glistening with a light drizzle of honey. The smell was warm, sweet, and utterly at odds with the cold storm outside.

Gaz stumbled into the room just as Nik finished the last pancake, his eyes half-closed and his hair sticking up at odd angles. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“Breakfast,” Soap said brightly, gesturing to the stove. “Nik’s decided to show us all up.”

Gaz sniffed the air, blinking as the scent registered. “Smells better than usual,” he admitted, dropping into a chair and rubbing his face. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Nik said, sliding the plate onto the table with a quiet sense of finality. “Just something decent to start the day.”

Before anyone could dig in, the door to the back room creaked open. All heads turned as Ghost stepped out, his movements deliberate and quiet. He lingered in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the faint light spilling in from the room behind him. His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing, before finally landing on the table.

Ghost’s boots barely made a sound against the wooden floor as he stepped into the room, but his presence immediately shifted the air. The faint warmth of banter dulled under the weight of his silence. He was still wrapped in his usual layers—balaclava pulled snugly over his face, hood drawn up against the cold that seemed to cling to him even indoors.

“Morning, mate,” Soap greeted, his tone carefully neutral, not quite as bright as it had been with the others. He waved a hand toward the table, where Nik was setting down a fresh plate of golden pancakes. “You’re just in time. Nik’s gone all domestic on us.”

Ghost’s gaze lingered on the plate for a moment, then flicked to Nik. His stance remained guarded, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. “What’s the occasion?” His voice was low, rough at the edges, as if dragged up from somewhere far deeper than his throat.

“No occasion,” Nik replied, his tone calm and measured. He didn’t press, didn’t look too closely, just gestured toward the table. “Thought you could use something warm.”

There was no hesitation in Nik’s movements as he stepped closer, holding out a plate of pancakes with quiet confidence. The smell of honey and cinnamon filled the space between them, soft and inviting.

Ghost hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the gesture. He glanced at Price, who stood nearby with an expression that gave nothing away, his arms loosely crossed as he leaned against the counter. When no one said anything else, Ghost stepped forward and took the plate. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he wasn’t sure if the food might vanish the second he touched it.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he muttered, his voice just barely above a whisper.

Nik shook his head, his tone matter-of-fact. “No, but I wanted to.”

The room was quiet, the storm outside muffled by the thick walls of the safe house. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, but for once, neither of them spoke. It was rare for Ghost to linger this long in the shared space, let alone accept something so openly.

Ghost didn’t retreat to his usual corner. Instead, he moved to the far end of the table and sat down, his posture stiff as he set the plate in front of him. He stared at the food for a long moment, his gloved hands resting on either side of the plate as if bracing himself.

Soap broke the silence first, his tone a little too loud, a little too eager. “Don’t let it get cold, mate. Nik put his soul into those.”

Nik snorted softly, shaking his head. “Ignore him. Just eat.”

Ghost lifted a fork, his movements slow and methodical as he cut into the first pancake. The fork hovered for a moment before he took a bite. The crisp edges gave way to a softness that melted on his tongue, the sweetness of the honey grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. It was warm, nostalgic, and uncomfortably familiar.

He didn’t say anything at first, his gaze fixed on the plate as he worked through the first pancake. It wasn’t until he’d cleared nearly half the stack that he set the fork down, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Thanks,” he said, quieter this time, though the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.

Nik gave a small nod from his place by the stove, not making a show of it. “Anytime.”

Soap’s grin softened as he leaned against the table, his arms crossed. “See? Told you it was a masterpiece.”

“That’s because you had nothing to do with it, Johnny, I’m sure of it,” Ghost replied, the faintest hint of dry humour slipping into his tone.

The team laughed, a quiet ripple of sound that broke the tension. For a moment, the storm outside faded to nothing more than a faint hum, the warmth of the stove and the quiet camaraderie filling the room instead.

Ghost didn’t linger long after finishing his plate, but when he rose and carried the empty dish back to the counter, he gave Nik a small nod—a gesture that spoke volumes for someone like him. Nik returned it with the same quiet understanding, a moment shared without words.

The warmth of the room lingered even as the storm outside raged on, but the chatter around the table had softened into something quieter. Soap and Gaz had started a half-hearted game of cards, their voices low and easy, though they occasionally glanced toward the window where Ghost had settled again, his posture closed off.

Nik leaned against the counter, a cup of tea cradled in his hands. His gaze flicked between Price and Ghost, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. The two of them exchanged a brief glance—a silent conversation that spoke of understanding without a single word.

Price set his empty mug down on the table, the sound barely louder than the soft crackle of the stove. He straightened, adjusting his jacket as he crossed the room to where Ghost stood by the frost-covered window. The faint glow of the storm outside reflected against the glass, casting pale light across the Lieutenant’s masked face.

“Simon,” Price said softly, his tone low enough not to carry beyond the two of them. “Come with me.”

Ghost turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

Price didn’t answer immediately, his gaze steady but heavy with meaning. “It’s important,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

There was a beat of hesitation. Ghost’s posture stiffened, his fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves. He glanced toward the others, where Soap was muttering about a bad hand and Gaz was laughing under his breath. Neither of them paid much attention to the quiet exchange happening by the window.

Finally, Ghost exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Fine.”

He followed Price out of the main room, their boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The temperature dropped noticeably as they stepped into the adjoining space, the chill seeping through the poorly insulated walls. It was smaller here, quieter, with only the faint sound of the storm and the creak of the house settling around them.

Price moved to the table in the centre of the room, where a single candle sat waiting. Its wick was unlit, the wax slightly worn and uneven. He stood beside it, his hands resting on the back of a chair as he looked at Ghost.

Ghost stopped just inside the doorway, his shoulders drawn up and his stance uneasy. “What’s this?”

Price gestured toward the candle. “Thought we could take a moment,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “For them.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken until now. Ghost’s chest tightened, the weight of the day pressing down harder than ever. He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, until he stood on the opposite side of the table.

“For them,” Ghost repeated, his voice low, almost hollow. He stared at the candle, his hands twitching at his sides as though unsure of what to do with them. “It’s not... it’s not the same.”

“No,” Price agreed. “It’s not. But it’s something.”

The room felt colder, the silence pressing in from all sides. Ghost stared at the unlit candle, the faint tremble in his hands betraying the calm he tried to project. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, but the words wouldn’t come.

Price moved slowly, striking a match and lighting the candle with careful precision. The small flame flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls around them. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly. “Just... be here.”

Ghost’s breath hitched, his gaze locked on the flame. It wasn’t the same—could never be the same as visiting the graves. But the thought that Price had done this, had set this up for him without being asked, cut through the tight coil of grief in his chest.

“I should’ve been there,” Ghost muttered, his voice breaking on the last word. “I should’ve done more.”

Price didn’t move closer, didn’t try to comfort him with hollow words. “You did what you could,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “And you’re still here. That counts for something.”

Ghost’s hands tightened into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. The grief was sharp, an ache he hadn’t allowed himself to feel fully in years. He bowed his head, the shadows of the flickering candlelight dancing across his balaclava.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding, broken only by the faint hiss of the storm outside. Ghost’s breathing quickened, shallow and uneven as he kept his gaze fixed on the candle. The small flame flickered, fragile but persistent, a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on him.

“I miss them,” Ghost whispered finally, the words barely audible. His voice cracked, rough with emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. “Every fucking day.”

Price didn’t speak, didn’t move. He let the words hang in the air, giving Ghost the space to let it out. He knew better than to rush him, knew that the silence was sometimes the only thing that could carry what words couldn’t.

Ghost’s hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white beneath the leather of his gloves. “I should’ve been there,” he said again, his voice breaking. “Should’ve done something. I could’ve stopped it—”

“Stop,” Price cut in gently, his voice firm but low. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

Ghost shook his head, his shoulders trembling under the weight of it all. “It’s all I fucking do. Every year, every day—it doesn’t go away.”

“And it won’t,” Price said softly. He stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding. “But carrying it alone isn’t the answer. You’ve got people now, Simon. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Ghost’s breath hitched, the tremor in his hands spreading until his whole body felt unsteady. The mask felt suffocating, the thin fabric pressing too tightly against his skin. He reached up without thinking, his fingers tugging at the edges of it.

The balaclava came off in one sharp motion, his hands trembling as he dropped it onto the table. His face was shadowed in the flickering candlelight, the faint scars and the raw edges of his grief laid bare. He didn’t look at Price, his gaze fixed firmly on the flame, as though it was the only thing tethering him to the room.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Ghost admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to... let it go.”

Price reached out, his hand resting gently on Ghost’s shoulder. The touch was light, unobtrusive, but solid enough to anchor him. “You don’t have to let it go,” he said quietly. “You just have to let yourself feel it. You owe yourself that much.”

Ghost’s head dipped lower, his chin nearly brushing his chest as the tears finally came. They were silent but relentless, streaking down his face in hot, bitter trails. His hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.

Price didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Ghost’s shoulders and pulling him into a firm, steady embrace. Ghost stiffened at first, his instinct to pull away kicking in, but the warmth of Price’s presence was impossible to resist. Slowly, tentatively, he let himself sink into it, his head dropping against Price’s shoulder as the tears kept coming.

“I should’ve done more,” Ghost choked out again, his voice muffled against Price’s jacket. “I should’ve—”

“You did enough,” Price said firmly, his hand resting on the back of Ghost’s neck. “You’ve done more than anyone ever could. And they’d be proud of you, Simon. I know they would.”

Ghost’s grip on Price’s jacket tightened, his breathing uneven as he tried to pull himself back together. The weight of years of guilt and grief bore down on him, but for the first time, it felt like he wasn’t carrying it alone.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the faint crackle of the candle the only sound in the room. When Ghost finally pulled back, his face was raw with emotion, his cheeks still damp with tears. He didn’t look at Price, swiping a gloved hand roughly across his face.

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice hoarse but sincere.

Price gave him a small nod, his expression soft. “Always.”

Ghost’s gaze drifted back to the candle, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the edge of the table before coming to rest near the flame. The warmth of it seeped into his palm, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“They’d have liked this,” Ghost said quietly, his voice steadying slightly.

“They’d be glad you’re still here too,” Price replied, his tone low but certain. “That’s what matters.”

Ghost’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the flickering light. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed to ease, just enough for him to breathe.

The candle flickered faintly as Ghost leant forward and gently blew on it, letting the smoke curl up into the air. Ghost turned to Price and they stepped back into the main room, their footsteps barely audible over the low hum of voices. The warmth from the stove was a sharp contrast to the cold, still air they’d left behind, and the faint scent of cinnamon and honey lingered like a comforting embrace.

Soap glanced up first, his eyes flicking between Ghost and Price before his grin widened. “There you are. Thought you’d gone and disappeared into the storm.”

Price gave him a look, one brow raised in mild exasperation. “Something like that,” he said, his tone carrying a subtle edge that warned Soap not to push. Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t falter. 

Ghost stayed quiet, his mask tucked loosely into one gloved hand as he lingered near the edge of the room. His face was still flushed, the faint lines of emotion lingering around his eyes. He glanced at Soap briefly before his gaze dropped, his shoulders stiff as though he was bracing for a question that never came.

Gaz looked up from the table where he was reshuffling a deck of cards, his movements slowing as he took in Ghost’s expression. “Everything alright, LT?”

Ghost nodded once, his shoulders loosening. “Fine.”

The room fell into a comfortable, subdued silence. Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance but didn’t press further, the unspoken agreement between them clear. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t their place to pry.

Nik approached Ghost quietly, his steps measured as he offered a cup of tea. “For you,” he said simply, his voice low enough not to draw attention. His gaze was steady, thoughtful, and without judgment.

Ghost hesitated for a moment before taking the cup, the warmth of the porcelain seeping into his gloves. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice rough but genuine.

Nik nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Anytime.” He said, echoing his words from earlier.

The brief exchange passed unnoticed by the others, but it left something unspoken between them—a quiet understanding, a thread of trust that hadn’t been there before.

The stove’s warmth and the low hum of banter had settled into the room by the time Ghost returned to his seat. He lingered near the edge of the table, the steaming cup of tea from Nik cradled between his gloved hands. The faint aroma of honey and black tea curled into the air, grounding him as the others moved around the room.

“Alright, lads!” Soap clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and cheerful enough to draw everyone’s attention. “Gather ’round the tree. Time to see who’s been nice and who’s been naughty this year.”

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing as he followed Soap’s gaze. Near the corner of the room, a small, potted plant sat perched on an upturned crate, its thin branches barely supporting the scraps of tinsel and paper stars draped across them. A strand of fairy lights blinked faintly, the bulbs unevenly spaced but glowing warmly despite the storm outside.

“That’s what you’re calling a tree?” Ghost muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite.

“Best we could do on short notice,” Gaz said with a shrug, already crouching near the crate. He gestured toward the mismatched pile of wrapped parcels tucked beneath the plant. “And it’s got presents, so it counts.”

Soap knelt beside him, his grin wide as he began sifting through the packages. “Right, let’s get started. Cap, this one’s yours.”

He passed a carefully wrapped parcel to Price, who opened it with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with faint, intricate designs. Price ran his fingers over the edges, his lips twitching into a rare smile.

“Good work,” Price said, nodding toward Gaz and Soap. “Might actually use this.”

“You’d better,” Soap said with mock sternness. “Took us bloody ages to find something you’d like.”

The exchange continued, each gift drawing laughter and soft words of appreciation. Soap’s exuberance filled the room as he opened his own parcel—a set of sketching pencils with a small, leather pouch—and immediately declared it “the best present ever.” Gaz unwrapped a finely stitched pair of gloves, his grin softening as he flexed his fingers in the sturdy material.

Ghost stayed quiet, his tea growing cold in his hands as he watched the others. The way they passed gifts back and forth, the easy warmth of their banter—it felt distant, like watching something through frosted glass. He hadn’t expected anything, hadn’t thought it was possible to be included in something like this. But when Soap reached for a package wrapped in paper adorned with tiny skulls and held it up, he froze.

“And this one,” Soap announced, his grin bright, “is for Ghost.”

All eyes turned to him. For a moment, Ghost didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the parcel in Soap’s hands. It was small but neatly wrapped, the paper clearly hand-decorated with painstaking care. Tiny skulls and symbols had been sketched along the edges in careful detail, some slightly smudged but all unmistakably Soap’s handiwork.

“Come on, mate,” Gaz said, his tone softer now. “It’s not going to bite.”

Ghost stood slowly, his movements deliberate as he approached the makeshift tree. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing over the edges of the paper as he took the parcel. For a moment, he just held it, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name.

“You gonna open it, or just stare at it?” Soap teased, though there was no edge to his voice.

Ghost sat back at the table, carefully untying the string that held the wrapping together. He worked with precise, deliberate motions, taking care not to tear the paper. When he finally peeled it back, his breath caught.

The wooden frame was smooth and solid, its edges carved with tiny symbols. A skull in one corner, a soap bar in another, a boonie hat, a cap, and what looked like a helicopter etched along the surface of the wood—the work was rough but meticulous, each detail imbued with care. Inside the frame was a sketch of the team, their expressions captured with remarkable accuracy. Soap’s grin, Gaz’s smirk, Price’s calm, steady presence, and Nik’s quiet confidence—all of it centred around Ghost himself, his mask drawn with sharp, careful lines.

Ghost stared at it, his thumb brushing over the carvings. “You made this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Gaz did the frame,” Soap said, his grin softening. “I did the drawing. Thought you might like something to remind you of us. Y’know, in case you ever decide to ditch us for some better company.”

The faintest huff of amusement slipped from Ghost, though he didn’t look up. His fingers traced the edges of the frame again, the weight of it grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” he said finally, the word rough but sincere.

Soap and Gaz exchanged a glance, their grins widening, but they didn’t push him for more. Instead, they moved on, pulling another parcel from beneath the tree.

Ghost sat back, his grip on the frame tightening slightly as he watched them. It took him a moment to realise the room had quieted again, all eyes turning toward him as Price tilted his head slightly.

“Something you want to add, Simon?” Price asked, his voice light but knowing.

Ghost stiffened, his hand tightening on the edge of the table. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small bag, the fabric worn but clean. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low. “Figured I owed you lot something.”

Ghost placed the bag on the table, his movements deliberate but hesitant. His shoulders stiffened under the weight of the team’s attention, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he focused on the bag, untying the knot with careful fingers before reaching inside.

“I, uh...” Ghost cleared his throat, his voice low and slightly hoarse. “Didn’t think I’d be... here for this. But I had these ready. Was gonna mail them to you.”

He pulled out the first item—a carefully folded piece of fabric—and handed it to Soap. Soap unfolded it quickly, his eyes widening as the dark material revealed itself to be a patch, custom-embroidered with a small, detailed skull set against crossed paintbrushes.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Soap said, turning the patch over in his hands. “This is brilliant. You had this made?”

Ghost nodded, his gaze still fixed on the table. “Figured it’d suit you. Something for your kit.”

Soap’s grin softened, his fingers tracing the stitching. “You’re a bloody genius, Ghost. Cheers.”

Next, Ghost reached into the bag again, pulling out a small leather-bound notebook and setting it in front of Gaz. The cover was simple, but the first page had been carefully filled with neat handwriting: To keep track of all the things you’re too stubborn to write down.

Gaz let out a low whistle, his fingers brushing over the cover. “Didn’t think you paid that much attention, Lt” he said, though his grin was warm. “This is great. Thanks.”

Ghost didn’t respond, just gave a faint shrug as he pulled out the next item. It was smaller, more personal—a slim case for cigars, its surface dark and polished. He handed it to Price without a word, his gaze flicking up briefly to catch the captain’s reaction.

Price’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he turned the case over in his hands. The leather was smooth, the edges stitched with precision, and the faint engraving of a compass rose on the lid gave it a touch of elegance. As he turned it slightly, another engraving caught his eye, etched just beneath the compass:

For always leading me home.

Price stilled, his thumb brushing over the words. The quiet weight of the sentiment settled deep in his chest, something unspoken passing across his face. He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening slightly around the case.

“Simon,” he said softly, his voice steady but low enough to hold meaning. His lips curved into the faintest smile, the kind Ghost had seen only a handful of times. “I’ll take good care of it. Thank you.”

Ghost didn’t look up, his attention fixed on the edge of the table. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed how much the gesture meant to him.

Price said nothing more, slipping the case carefully into his pocket as though it were something fragile. The faint twitch of his lips lingered, but his gaze didn’t waver from Ghost for a moment longer, the weight of their shared trust unspoken but understood.

Ghost’s hand lingered on the bag for a moment before he pulled out the final item. It was small and roughly made—a wooden carving of a wrench intertwined with a rotor blade. He hesitated before holding it out to Nik, his grip tightening slightly as though he might change his mind.

“This one’s... last minute,” Ghost muttered, his voice almost too low to hear. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

Nik took the carving carefully, his fingers brushing over the uneven surface. The details were rough, but the effort was undeniable—a simple, thoughtful gesture that clearly meant more than Ghost was willing to admit.

Nik smiled, his expression softening as he turned the carving over in his hands. “You made this? For me?” he asked, his tone full of quiet admiration.

Ghost nodded once, his shoulders stiff. “Yeah. It’s nothing fancy, sorry it’s a little rus-”

“It is perfect,” he said simply, cutting Ghost off, his voice carrying a sincerity that left no room for doubt.

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of the gesture settling over them all. Ghost sat back slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he avoided their gazes. The faint flush of embarrassment was barely visible under the faint shadows of the room, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

Soap was the first to break the silence, his grin wide and teasing but filled with warmth. “Right, well, now you’ve made the rest of us look bad.”

The room filled with quiet laughter, the tension easing as the team shifted back into their easy rhythm. Ghost stayed quiet, his gaze dropping to his hands, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Nik leaned closer, his voice pitched low enough that only Ghost could hear. “You have a good heart, kostochka.”

Ghost froze, the nickname pulling him back to a memory he hadn’t thought about in years. The last time Nik had called him that, he’d bristled at the word, sharp and defensive. He’d thought it was infantilising, a jab at something he couldn’t quite name. He’d snapped at Nik, told him to knock it off, and the name had disappeared after that.

But now... now it felt different. The way Nik said it didn’t sound mocking or patronising anymore—it was warm, soft in a way that caught Ghost off guard. It settled in his chest, strange and unexpectedly comforting.

“You haven’t called me that in a long time,” Ghost muttered, his voice quieter than he’d intended.

Nik smiled faintly, his gaze steady. “Thought you might be ready to hear it again.”

Ghost huffed, the sound low and almost bashful. He glanced away, a faint heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Still sounds ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Nik said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “But it suits you.”

Ghost didn’t reply, his fingers brushing over the edge of the frame in his lap. The nickname lingered, filling a space in his chest he hadn’t realised was empty.

The storm outside had softened into a low, steady murmur, the howling winds reduced to whispers that brushed against the frost-covered windows. Inside, the safe house felt warmer than it had all day, the stove’s soft glow casting flickering shadows across the room.

Soap and Gaz had moved to the floor near the table, a deck of cards spread between them as they traded quiet jabs over their game. Their laughter was light, unguarded, the kind that filled the space without demanding anything in return. Price leaned back in his chair, his cigar case resting on the table in front of him, his gaze distant but content.

Ghost sat between Price and Nik, the frame he’d been given still resting in his lap. His gloved fingers traced the edge of the wood, running over the tiny carvings with slow, deliberate movements. Every so often, his gaze dropped to the sketch inside, his eyes lingering on the details—the lines that made up Soap’s grin, the precise angles of Gaz’s cap, the calm strength in Price’s expression, and the confident hand Nik had around Price’s waist.

The weight that usually pressed on his chest felt lighter here, surrounded by the quiet hum of his team. For years, Ghost had thought of himself as a shadow, something separate and apart from the people he worked with. But now, sitting here with them, the thought felt... wrong. The frame in his hands, the tea still warm in his chest, the lingering warmth of Nik’s quiet words—they all reminded him of something he hadn’t dared to acknowledge in years.

Family.

He didn’t say it out loud. Couldn’t. But the thought lingered, settling in his chest like an ember that refused to go out.

“You alright there, LT?” Soap’s voice cut through the quiet, his tone light but full of genuine curiosity.

Ghost glanced up, his fingers stilling on the edge of the frame. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

Soap didn’t press, though his grin softened into something almost knowing. “Good. Don’t think too hard, though. We need you sharp, this one cheats.”

Ghost huffed a quiet laugh, the sound barely audible but enough to draw Gaz’s attention. The sergeant glanced over, his smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“You’ll have to fend for yourself I’m afraid,” Ghost muttered, though the faint warmth in his voice gave him away.

Nik shifted beside him, drawing his attention and pulling out a small tin from the bag he’d kept near the bunks. “Ah. Almost forgot,” he murmured, holding it out to Ghost. “For you.”

Ghost frowned slightly but took the tin, his fingers curling around the cool metal. He popped the lid open, and the faint scent of honey and butter hit him immediately. His breath caught.

Inside were biscuits, their edges golden and crisp, just like the ones his mum used to make every Christmas. The memory hit him like a wave—his mum humming softly as she shaped the dough, the faint warmth of the oven filling their tiny kitchen, the laughter of his nephew somewhere in the background. It was a memory Ghost hadn’t allowed himself to visit in years, and now it sat in his hands, tangible and real.

“How did you...” Ghost began, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, his grip tightening on the tin. “How’d you know?”

Nik shrugged, his expression soft. “You mentioned them once. I thought they might mean something.”

Ghost swallowed hard, his throat tight as he stared at the biscuits. He didn’t know what to say, the words sticking somewhere deep in his chest. Instead, he looked up, his gaze meeting Nik’s for a long, quiet moment.

“Thank you,” Ghost said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t enough—not nearly—but it was all he could manage.

Nik nodded, his smile warm but understated. “Anytime,” he said, the familiar word carrying the quiet certainty that it always did. Ghost had heard it before, countless times, but something about the way Nik said it—steady, unchanging—made the weight in his chest ease just a little more.

For a moment, Ghost hesitated, his hands tightening around the tin. Then, slowly, almost awkwardly, he leaned slightly against Nik, his shoulder brushing against the other man’s. The touch was hesitant, the weight of it fleeting, but he didn’t move away.

Nik didn’t react immediately, letting the moment stretch in quiet understanding. Then, with the same quiet grace, he leaned back into Ghost just enough to make the gesture feel intentional—balanced.

They sat like that for a while, the warmth between them quiet but steady, the biscuits still cradled carefully in Ghost’s lap.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the stove and the faint laughter of Soap and Gaz filling the air. Ghost shifted in his chair, placing the tin of biscuits to rest on the table in front of him but keeping the frame cradled carefully in his lap. The carved wood was smooth under his gloves, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He glanced to his right, where Price sat close, solid and steady as always. On his other side, Nik leaned slightly back, his posture easy but his presence just as calm, just as constant. The space between them felt warm and safe, like a barrier against the cold chaos that so often consumed his world.

Ghost took a slow breath, letting it settle in his chest before he moved. Carefully, he leaned toward Price, his shoulder pressing against the captain’s arm. But instead of stopping there, he shifted further, resting his head lightly against Price’s chest. His forehead brushed against the rough fabric of Price’s jacket, the contact steady and intentional. The motion wasn’t hesitant—it was a quiet, deliberate moment of trust, rare but unflinching.

Price’s arm moved instinctively, wrapping loosely around Ghost’s back. His hand rested lightly against Ghost’s shoulder, the weight of it both protective and grounding. His head tilted slightly, chin just brushing Ghost’s hair.

“Get some rest, Simon,” Price murmured, his voice low and steady. “We’ve got you.”

Ghost exhaled softly, the tension in his frame melting as he let himself relax fully against Price. His eyes drifted closed, the quiet weight of safety settling over him like a blanket. On his other side, Nik’s hand brushed briefly against Ghost’s forearm—a fleeting but deliberate gesture of reassurance. Between the two of them, Ghost felt completely shielded, an unfamiliar but welcome feeling.

The storm outside raged on, relentless and cold, but inside, there was peace. For the first time in years, Simon Riley let himself sink into it. Surrounded by the quiet strength of his team and the warmth of an unexpected family, he drifted into sleep—deep, steady, and untroubled in a way he hadn’t known in far too long.

[candyapplemacchiato]

my latest hazbin hc is that Lucifer's wings used to change colours with his emotions

hear me out-

like. look;

you can see a bit of a dusty pink on his wings here, right????? okay?? and this is when he's HAPPY. immediately following this is-

his wings going grey as soon as he's sad

i'm well aware that this is probably just style choices and all that but you can pry this away from my cold dead hands.

bonus: what if Lucifer's wings don't change colour now because the feathers are too bloodstained from the Fall for it to show? What if he hasn't molted in over ten thousand years because he never truly started healing emotionally from that?

What if he has his first molt in way over a millennia at the hotel because he's finally starting to heal there? What if his wings start changing colours again-

[thespineoftherighteous]

honestly? you can pry the idea that once Neil heals from his injuries, he goes back to the backseat and Kevin reassumes his rightful place in the passenger seat of Andrew's car. from my cold dead hands. neilandandrew changes nothing irdc.

[katsdynam1ght]

just saw another endeavor hate post so please let me reiterate again: i love endeavor. you will never take this fucked up old man away from me. i will be writing endeavor fic one of these days and i hope it makes everyone who hates him mad

call me crazy if you want but i believe that supporters of villain redemption can’t complain about endeavor being redeemed. and everyone should in some respect support villain redemption because that’s something of a thesis throughout the show (i.e., all these people needed was someone to reach out to them). but if you can redeem a killer of dozens (or hundreds, or thousands) and yet can’t stomach a man who is doing everything he knows how to heal what he hurt? [points at door] go away

“kats he abused his—” i don’t care. do i need to bring back my post about how forgiveness is essential to one’s own growth. even if they don’t forgive him, he’s fine with that because he’s not trying to improve to win their forgiveness. he’s trying to improve because deep down he’s a good person. and that, sirs and madams, is what i care about

in short: endeavor i love you and the fandom can pry that love from my cold dead hands

[taylorb6312]

the tridisaster trio survived origin and you can pry that shit from my cold dead hands

“oh but joshua said that he couldnt sense bahamut” bahamut was knocked out by ultima’s attack. we never see dion’s dead body- he has also survived falling from much greater heights

“We watched joshua die” and clive healed his wounds. they never confirmed to what extent

and clive literally woke up on the beach.