#Lightning in a Bottle is the title | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keferon · 1 month ago

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I just want this fic to be here too👍 Part 1? Eh

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“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

_____________

Blurr/Swerve, Superhero au, fic under the cut⤵️ Heavily inspired/based on this post

Blurr doesn't think life and death is something he can control.

He's about 99.99999% sure.

The remaining microscopic fraction of that idiotic statistic is held in place by one small but important factor that Blurr can't explain and isn't sure he even wants to explain. It's like the dream logic. The moment you realize exactly how things work is also the moment you wake up to realize it.

The very nuance understanding which destroys all magic or reveals the fact that magic never existed.

That nuance?

Blurr can't die.

And it's certainly not because he's not trying hard enough.

That last one sounds a little radical. But he has a history. His team has a history.

“Wreckers is a pretty peculiar collection of superheroes. It's easy to get into and even easier to get out of (usually feet first and in a bag). No other hero organization loses so many people so often. No other hero organization can also handle the level of threats that the Wreckers eliminate.

Their fans affectionately refer to them as the Suicide Squad. There is...a lot of black humor among the Wreckers fanbase and Blurr doesn't condemn it. Not after having to memorize new names and faces of teammates every six months.

The thing is.

He probably should have been dead a long time ago. A lot. A lot of “that was close” ago.

Just two days after joining the Wreckers, he found himself in the middle of an absolutely monstrous fire and miraculously escaped death by getting away just moments before the entire building collapsed on his head.

Only a week after that, he gets shot. Fifteen times.

And. Look.

Blurr is fast! Being fast is kind of his main thing as a speedster. He did the only logical thing and made an honest effort to dodge, but three of those fifteen bullets still ended up inside him and only miraculously didn't hit anything that couldn't be repaired.

Half a year later, a car falls on him.

Another month - some freaking supervillain decides to infect an entire country with a homemade super lethal virus and guess who becomes the only victim.

At least once a month, various psychopaths try to break his legs.

At least once every half a year he ends up being the one who “heroically saved all the hostages but didn't have time to save himself”.

It's like an endless stream of negative karma.

It's really amazing how such a small piece of civilization like Iacon can contain so many disasters. Even more amazing perhaps is how people manage to survive through all this neat smoothie of misery and violence.

Earthquakes, villains, villains, more villains, terrorists, natural disasters, monsters from outer space, and it all comes out of nowhere and it all takes a hundred percent effort to pack Blurr in a coffin.

Blurr... doesn't know why he's still alive.

He honestly has no idea how he's doing it. He may get into life-and-death situations more often than he does haircuts but every time things come within an inch of killing him. It's impossible luck. Statistically improbable chance. One-in-a-thousand odds. A fucking lightning caught in a bottle, but it happens so often it's like someone somewhere in heaven decided to open a bottled lightning factory and then reward Blurr with the title of their honorary loyal customer.

Blurr doesn't think he has power over life and death.

But here's the thing.

On some particularly violent nights, he wonders that maybe...

---------------

Sometimes Swerve thinks being a dedicated fan should be on the list of “unhealthy” high-paying jobs. One of those where they give you extra cash for the fact that you even bother to show up and then give you insurance and paid vacations.

Okay, that last one might be a bit of an overkill, but it would be nice if he at least had an endless supply of sedatives.

At least some chamomile. Preferably not from the sidewalk. He's not picky.

See, their world decided to change the rules of existence not too long ago and turned such a trivial thing as “trust” into a new in-game currency.

Simply put. If enough people believe something, it becomes true.

What has society chosen to do with that? Of course create an absolutely insane cult of celebrity worship, essentially giving a bunch of already rich and beautiful people superpowers as well.

As if they weren't already living luxuriously enough!

Swerve is not jealous. Certainly not. His first thought when he found out about the new “rules” was definitely not to tell everyone he knows that he won a million dollars and wait for the power of belief to make it true.

He surely wasn't trying to do that. Anyone who claims otherwise is either a liar or their name starts with a T and ends with Gate.

Speaking of.....

Tailgate scratches the back of his head puzzled.

“So you didn't actually win a million dollars?”

They are sitting in a small cafe, the name of which Swerve has honestly forgotten. Or rather he never memorized it, because the local owner of the place prefers to hang huge posters with superheroes right above the name. Swerve is a rather controllable customer.....

Rewind, sitting at the same cheap plastic table as them, hums.

“And here I was trying to figure out if your holey slippers were a cry for help or one of those crazy expensive 'fancy' designs.”

“Ha. ha.” says Swerve slowly and deliberately unhappily “If I get rich one day, I won't tell any of you.”

He slowly takes a sip of some obscure looking substance that Rewind ordered for them all as an experiment and turns to Tailgate.

“Look, it's a pretty fun system. Things that people believe in strongly enough - become real. So if uh, if uh, if we as a whole country believe that our government is honest - that will, in theory, make it honest. Or if a hundred thousand people genuinely believe you can fly, you will be able to fly. That's how it works now.”

Tailgate stares at him. With very large, puzzled eyes.

Swerve tries not to laugh too hard. Poor Tailgate had once gone off to explore the caves and somehow, by some incredible means, managed to get lost and stuck in them for two whole months. Then he crawled out and discovered that magic had appeared in the world while he was gone. Swerve thinks that if he were Tailgate, he'd look very stupid too, trying to realize the absurdity of the situation.

Tailgate is toying with his curled straw.

“So is the government honest now?”

Rewind makes a loud “snrk” noise into his cup.

Swerve chuckles. Not as “funny” haha but more like “we fucked it all up” haha.

It shouldn't be possible to fit all the sense of doom from the world's level of damnation into one expression, but he confidently goes for it.

“GOD NO, did you ever believe that government could be honest?”

“Well...now that's just sad...” decides Tailgate ‘Something good was supposed to come out of this, right?”

Rewind raises a finger victoriously.

“Oh! There are no more incurable diseases! The placebo effect is the new big thing now that a bunch of people have gotten the ability to cure any illness at the snap of their fingers.”

Swerve nods, dangling his drink in his hands.

“There was a guy who claimed he had magic hands that cured everything and gathered a crowd of fanatical admirers around him. So...now his hands are really magic because his followers believe it. Crazy stuff...”

Tailgate puts his elbows on the table, propping his head up with his hands.

“So if I tell everyone I won a million dollars.....”

“I recommend--” Rewind waves his cup “...first make sure you're not wearing holey slippers.”

“Аh”

“That, and you'll need at least about a million people loving and supporting you wholeheartedly if you want this to work.”

“That's...a lot of people,” Tailgate groans.

Swerve shrugs

“That's why all the really cool stuff only goes to celebrities.”

_____

Tailgate cranes his neck curiously.

“Hey Swerve, while you went to place your order your phone started buzzing.”

Swerve falls back into his seat as fast as if he'd just decided the entire floor was lava and starts scrolling through notifications, cursing at spam and useless newsletters.

“When??”

“Just a couple minutes ago” shrugs Tailgate ”Are you expecting someone?”

“I'M...OH NO NO I'M JUST. Shit, wait a minute.”

Rewind leans over to Tailgate and smiles deviously, not even trying to pretend to whisper.

“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“' Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

Swerve slides down the back of his chair slightly and tilts the phone toward Tailgate

“No, it's not him. He's the one in the blue suit on the left. And no, he's not dying. That bastard is impossible to kill.”

Tailgate lets out an understanding “ooh.”

“Although,” Swerve admits, “ Following him was a lot easier when he was driving cars instead of saving the world.”

He's been a Blurr fan for so long that it can probably be put on his resume already. He remembers watching the Iacon 5000 race with friends with Rewind starting to joke about how they should all bet on someone brand new this year. To fuel the fun, they sat down to pick candidates to bet on based solely on the color of their cars.

Swerve then poked his finger at a random bright blue car and said he'd bet on it because “blue is a fast color.”

Later, his friends would joke more than once that Swerve had the gift of prophecy that day. Because blue wasn't just fast. Oh, God. No. Blue turned out to be the absolute leader, dominating the race track from start to finish.

Swerve remembers vividly the first time he looked at a racer getting out of that car and thought “who the hell is that” and then immediately “how do I find his socials”.

The answer to the second question came quickly. The answer to the first...well. The guy, Blurr, soon turned out to be a faceless celebrity. Shining at numerous races, but never showing his face. Swerve highly doubts it's due to shyness, given...some character traits. (Swerve has a running theory, which is that ...Blurr has no shame. Even as a concept.) Probably just to keep his life anonymous and quiet, he believes.

It's understandable.

He's not judging. But he has to admit that a billion fanarts on what a face under a racing helmet could look like in theory...really...fuels his fantasy.

He's a very normal and sane fan. He tries very hard to be a normal fan and he's doing a great job at it. Maybe except for those moments when Blurr gets into another car accident. Lots of them. Lots and lots of bloody accidents actually and Swerve at first catches a micro heart attack every time he sees the news, but eventually he gets used to it. Blurr is incredibly resilient. And just as rich as well.

Swerve is used to hearing updates about another incident and then seeing Blurr back in the race a couple months later. Just as energetic, carefree, and frankly . Really handsome. As if nothing had happened. As if any danger would just bounce off him without leaving a dent.

It was familiar. It was habitual.

Until, of course, the universe started handing out faith magic to people. Until Blurr walked up to this imaginary box of lottery numbers and pulled out a ball that said “congratulations you're lucky now go and fucking die.”

Blurr is a racer. A damn good racer. Incredibly popular too. Of course his many fans who adore him beyond measure gave him a superpower.

Of course that power was speed.

Of course.

Blue is the color of speed. What else.

As a racer, Blurr is undefeatable.

As a superhero, ..

Swerve still thinks this guy is impossible to kill, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get worried every time he sees the news headlines and live feeds.

“You're alive” Springer states ”Literally how are you still alive?”

Blurr tilts his head because it's the only part of his body he can still move while trapped under ten tons of mangled steel from a Decepticon flying base falling out of the sky.

“Hello to you, too.”

Springer tentatively pulls the nearest sheet of metal and hums in satisfaction when he feels the structure is stable enough.

“Bleeding? Fractures?”

“I think my hair's ruined.”

“No one can even see your hair.”

“Doesn't mean I shouldn't care about it,” snorts Blurr

Springer tosses aside another piece of metal and reaches for his earpiece

“Smoke...? Nah...no really.....REALLY. ....No, you're not going to believe this. ......Aha, digging him out.” he looks away from the earpiece and leans over Blurr ‘Smokescreen wanted me to tell you that he's impressed and,... I quote ’personally saw that damn wagon fall right on your head'. He also wants to know if he needs to shoo away the paparazzi.”

Blurr tries to shrug but remembers in time that it's best not to fidget too much.

“Tell him I'll need a new suit. Let him keep everyone, I'm fine.”

“Literally...like...” barely audibly mutters Springer. “Like.h ow..”

Blurr smiles “My guardian angel is working overtime.”

Swerve takes a deep, nervous exhale, unhooking his fingers from the phone on which he's watching the live feed. Ah shit. Okay. Okay. Alive. Fine.

Rewind looks over his shoulder.

“Looking out for your pookie?”

“HE'S NOT MY

__________

Smokescreen stops right in the middle of an inspired argument with the advertisement agent when his side vision registers a flash of blue to the right of the entirely destroyed street.

“Blurr??”

“Oh, hey!” waves Blurr, “'Sup Smoke?”

The crumbled asphalt beneath his feet crunches softly. Just a few minutes ago, this street was a complete mayhem....

Smokescreen waves the clipboard in his direction

“I thought you had your head ripped off, you suicidal son of a bitch! Do you know how hard it was to calm your hysterical fans down??”

Blurr knows no one can see his face but rolls his eyes anyway. Almost immediately his brain tells him that this was a bad idea, sending a whole bunch of black spots in front of his eyes.

“Hey, you're getting paid for th...ugh...this.”

Blurr doesn't elaborate on the fact that he was sure he was going to be left headless today as well. One of the Overlord's freaking monster minions grabbed him and for a split second Blurr could swear he heard his own neck crunch.

He tries not to think about it.

The more he thinks about it, the less sense it will make.

The more he analyzes, the louder becomes the voice in the far corner of his head saying he should have been dead a long time ago.

A week ago when an entire air base fell on him. Three weeks ago during the battle with Menasor that practically broke his spine. Even earlier, when he was so busy evacuating hospital staff that he ended up being the only one present when that hospital exploded.

He's afraid that if he starts looking into the causes, this magical effect..this life-saving placebo will disappear.

He's convinced it's a placebo. It's the way this world works.

Someone out there must be doing some complex mental magic, keeping him more or less alive and whole and...Blurr is probably going a little crazy. Probably.

Maybe one of those many blows got him harder than he thought. Maybe it's his own self-confidence manifesting miracles of salvation one after another.

(It actually...doesn't sound that unbelievable. Blurr has a lot of belief in himself. Many people would say even too much. The question is whether it counts.)

(He prefers to think it counts.)

__________

Swerve sees red. Lots of it. LOTS of red.

More than he ever wanted to see in his life.

Uh-oh. That's not good.

His vision is blurring. His head buzzes with a nasty sharp static and his left shoulder hurts like a BITCH.

Above him is the flickering, faltering light of the bulb and below him is a growing puddle of his blood. His hair is wet and sticking to his face, making it hard to focus his already shaky gaze.

He makes an attempt to shift, but all it brings him is an explosion of pain.

Ugh.

Sirens are blaring outside, warning the public to evacuate. He's not really sure he can make out exactly what the sound is announcing. He has memorized all kinds of emergency alerts, but the thought escapes him.

What was it

Oh, yeah.

He's been shot.

He's been shot and he's probably going to die because everyone he knows is either too far away or busy evacuating. He vaguely hopes they'll remember about him.

Maybe only after getting to a safe place, but he'll take even that.

The red around him is getting bigger.

He tries to reach for his phone to...where is his phone? Did he leave it in the kitchen? He probably did. Swerve seemed to have no time to grab it when the entire building shook and ugly semi-mechanical monsters fell from the sky.

One of these monsters noticed Swerve just moments later and activated something resembling a cannon mounted in his hands. Swerve then looked at the glowing muzzle and thought that firing this thing would probably send his atoms so far away that his dna would be found on the moon. He could stick his hand down that gun barrel. And his hands are far from the smallest and most delicate hands you can find.

Why did this have to happen on a Saturday? Why not a day later or earlier? If it were any other day, Swerve would be at work right now. In a different place, with other people and probably with a much better chance of not being killed like a loser.

Not sure he wouldn't have been shot, but at least someone would have seen this and picked him up off the floor, put him in their pocket and taken him to the rescue.

Ugh.

He realizes that he closed his eyes at some point and hurriedly opens them. His expertise is by no means professional, but he is almost certain that that weapon wasn't ordinary. He has no idea what it means for him. Maybe he needs stitches, painkillers and a kiss and he'll be good as new. Or maybe it's like one of those films where you get hurt by an unknown creature and then you grab the sink in front of the mirror at midnight and watch the veins under your skin move on their own.

He doesn't feel shot, as silly as that sounds. He feels numb. Falling. Farther and farther away.

He is falling and falling as deep as he's ever fallen in his life. Maybe not as far as "got lost in the woods" far. No, more like " a coin dropped behind the fridge" far. It's not really about the distance but more about the feeling that he's never going to get out of here because no one ever looks in here.

He’s falling until the state of falling starts to register as a resting point, because that's the only variable he still feels. This corner he falls into is very deep and dark and dusty.

He doesn't remember to open his eyes again.

___________

Smokescreen sounds frankly hysterical, yelling at Blurr through his earpiece.

“I understand you like to show off, but you can't outrun a freaking tsunami?!?!”

Blurr only speeds up, “Watch."

“You cocky IDIOT this is suicide!”

“Relax Smoke” laughs Blurr ”You say that every time.”

The half-destroyed bridge shakes and sways like a wounded animal as the water from the overrunning sea crashes into it, gouging into the concrete and bending the metal.

The whole scene is...depressing. Water and debris everywhere and damn. This isn't the first time Blurr is witnessing a large-scale attack by the "forces of evil" as the hero agency likes to call them, but looking at the wrecked cars and scattered debris doesn't get any easier with time. Maybe it just hasn't been long enough. Who knows.

Springer doesn't look like he is bothered by it. But Springer also has a lot more experience being a superhero. With his skill at giving out smiles and encouragement in absolutely any situation, not many can compete.

Blurr certainly can't. In fact. He's got a face with subtitles that turn on in almost any stressful situation. Wearing a mask is probably one of the best things he can do to calm down any random civilians waiting for him to save the day. If they can't see him making panicked grimacing eyes, they'll be feeling much better.

A few more seconds and he's on the collapsing bridge. The people stuck on it look hysterical and bruised, but no one seems injured, so it shouldn't be difficult.

Blurr's plan is simple. Get all the people out of the disaster's path. Then get yourself out. Easy.

Easy?

He can pinpoint the exact moment when something goes wrong.

It's the second that a crooked, hideous-looking monster grabs his leg and pulls him underwater. The second when Blurr fights it with all his might and realizes with sudden horror that his strength isn't enough. That he is. Not enough.

His lungs burn, begging him to take a breath and he doesn't even know which way is the surface because all there is around him is the dark, black, cold pressure of water. It's clinging to him, seeping through his suit, his hair, burning his eyes and making his fingers go numb. It's pulling him somewhere, and he's obeying whether he wants to or not.

His spine prickles with panic.

His personal miracle. His damn magic or guardian angel or cursed luck or whatever the hell it was called. That thing that was always there to catch him like in that game of trust fall. He'd gotten so used to it's presence, he began to take it for granted.

Like the air you trust to be there every time you need to take your next breath.

And right now?

It's not here.

His body takes a convulsive breath and finds nothing but water.

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agentlizardofowca · 4 months ago

Note

"Bubbles"

May I get a drabble about Perry having to kiss Heinz to either protect his identity or just keep Heinz quiet?

Thanks for reading! Feel free to delete for whatever reason ♡

Hiiiii, Thanks for the nice asks and thank you for your patience. That time Perry and Doofenshmirtz bumped into Major Monogram and Carl in the supermarket was bad enough. Now, imagine Perry’s frustration when Heinz dragged him along to the supermarket again, this time to buy nougat and toothpaste. He was just minding his own business, trying to convince Heinz to buy a nicer shampoo than the cheapest one, and reading the ingredients on a bottle when a very familiar voice rang out behind him.

“Perry?”

It was Linda.

Perry turned, lightning-quick, and came face to face with Linda and Candace, who were looking at him in surprise.

“Hi.” She continued, eyeing him up and down in his work outfit. “My, don’t you look professional today.”

He barely had enough time to do a nervous little wave before Heinz caught on to the conversation behind him, and he turned.

“Perry? Do you know these people?” Heinz asked, and Perry turned to him vaguely aware that he was PANICKING. NOT GOOD. HEINZ AND FAMILY. BAD. VERY BAD.

“Hello?” Linda said politely. “Do you know Perry?”

Candace hadn’t seemed interested in the situation initially, but her uncle didn’t seem to know anybody. Him being in the supermarket with a stranger was perhaps the most exciting thing Perry had ever done in his miserable and boring life.

“Do I know Perry?” Heinz repeated thoughtfully, unaware that his nemesis had stopped breathing. “Yeah, of course I do.”

“Oh, well. Nice to meet you,” Linda said, extending one hand for Heinz to shake. “Although.” She looked at Heinz curiously. “Have we met before?”

Heinz accepted the gesture and shook Linda’s hand. “I have to be super honest with you. I am horrible with faces.” He explained. “I even forget Perry’s face sometimes. Only very rarely! But it has happened once or twice.

Despite his shock, Perry couldn’t help but crack a little smile. One of twice, his secretive ass.

“And how do you know Perry?” Linda asked conversationally, but she and her daughter both had matching curious expressions.

“Oh, you know,” Heinz explained happily, not aware that was was about to ruin Perry’s life forever. “Perry the Platypus is my secret-” Agent. The next word was going to be agent, Perry realized. He had to do something and he had to do something NOW! There was no time for a plan, he had to act. So, Perry prepared himself and followed his instincts.

Perry jolted as he suddenly sprang to action as if he had been shocked by a bolt of lightning. With both hands, he grabbed Heinz’s face, pulled him down to his level and firmly and confidently smushed their mouths together right there in the middle of the super food stuff mart.

In a sudden wave of clarity, Perry remembered that sometimes INSTINCT. BAD. Like right now. There he was, mouth to mouth with his nemesis with no further plan. He could release Heinz, but then there would be many, many questions from Candace, Linda AND HEINZ.

So, since his instinct got him into this mess, his instinct could get him out.

Still kissing, Perry dragged Heinz around the corner to the next aisle, leaving Candace and Linda right there.

Stupified, they watched him go.

Over in the deodorant aisle, Perry released Heinz’s lips with a smack and placed him upright as Heinz stammered and stumbled, too confused by everything to speak coherently.

“I- eeh? Oh? Uh! aa.” He exclaimed.

Perry took Heinz by his slanted shoulders and shook him lightly.

“This is the weirdest dream I’ve had since that time I dreamt a tiny alien force-fed me watermelons. No. Wait. This is still stranger. Perry the platypus what was that about?!”

At least Heinz seemed to be coming back to his senses. Perry, unsure of how to explain, dug through his pockets and pulled out a pamphlet with the title “So you’ve found out your uncle is a secret agent. What now?” and pushed it into Heinz’s hand. 「Read that.」And off he went, back to the toothpaste aisle.

Linda and Candace were exactly where he had left them. Their mouths were still vaguely open in shock.

Perry smiled as innocently as he could as he jogged up to them. 「Whoopie」 He gestured at them.

Linda stared at his hands and blinked. “Whoopsie?” she repeated.

“What did you just do?!” Candace shouted. “And with him!” she gestured at the end of the aisle, where he had dragged Doof off to.

「Couldn’t help myself.」 Perry replied hysterically. 「What a stud, right?」

“... Right,” Linda replied, confused but supportive.

“NO!” Candace replied, because she was 15, always honest, and convinced something was wrong with Perry.

「Got to go!」Before he left, he grabbed a tube of toothpaste, and then he ran. Luckily for him, they didn’t even try to follow him.

Heinz was still busy reading the pamphlet when Perry returned and snatched it back. He presented him with the toothpaste, forced him into the next aisle, and refused to explain anything.

By the time he returned home to the Flynn-Fletcher residency, Perry was exhausted. But when he stepped into the kitchen he came face to face with Lawrence and Linda, who seemed to have been waiting for him.

“Oh, there you are Perry,” Linda said, and she turned to him. “Me and Lawrence are a bit worried about you.”

#phineas and ferb #perry the platypus #heinz doofenshmirtz #pnf #perryshmirtz #human perry the platypus #pnf fanfiction #my drabbles #thanks Astro for the ask this was a super fun drabble to write because it is absolutely rediculous hihihi

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cressidagrey · 1 year ago

Text

Lightning in a Bottle - Prologue

Summary:

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings:

Kinda Elain Bashing?, Low Self Esteem, Mention of Cauldron induced torture...

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

As far as cauldron-made went…Eira Archeron was pretty much useless.

She had neither the power of Death nor of Divinity.

She was neither the prettiest one, that title belonged to Elain…nor the smartest one, which was undoubtedly Nesta. Or the strongest one like Feyre…And if she had tried to hunt like Feyre, it would have been more likely that she would have accidentally killed herself instead of bringing home any meat.

As a human, she had been limited to cooking and cleaning and laundry, all of it with limited supplies and even more limited experience. She had tried. It had never been enough.

So maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her that her uselessness continued on even when she was no longer human.

So if she wasn’t beautiful or strong or smart…what was she then?

The dumb one?

When the cauldron had burned every bit of humanity out of her…when it had ripped away all her hopes and dreams…when it had been so angry with Nesta after whatever she had done to it that Eira was just…Eira was just an afterthought, something it could hurt in response to her sisters and then leave gasping on that stone floor feeling like she was dying…

She had done her best to accept her lack of humanity afterwards. Nesta had raged…Elain had said nothing, suffering silently in the bed…and Eira…Eira had tried.

Tried to make it better…tried to make it easier for everybody around her. She had tried.

She hadn’t wanted to put even more on Feyre’s shoulders, not with the threat of impending war…and so she had done her best to be supportive and make no trouble…be agreeable and quiet and be helpful…

But she couldn’t be helpful.

She was nothing but a useless appendage. With no powers, no great destiny stretched in front of her…

Not even a limb. Not even a fucking pinky finger.

More like a skin tag.

Completely useless. If cut off, it wouldn’t even bother anybody.

They had made that clear to her over time.

They had made clear what they thought about her, again and again, and now…now she finally realised it. She was a slow learner…but by the gods, she did learn.

It started…slow in a sense. Comments, made offhandedly, that probably weren’t meant that way anyway…sometimes said to her face…sometimes overheard.

“Stop your screeching, girl, I am getting a headache.” Amren. After she had finally…after months felt like singing again as she fixed the hem on one of her sister’s dresses. She had stopped singing then.

Amren had never brought it up again. But then Amren had never been particularly nice to any of them.

“Don’t come crying to me if she bites off your head. I warned you.” Rhysand had told her drily when she insisted on visiting Nesta at the House of Wind every week after all of that had gone down…

“Don’t you have anything better to do? Like make another ugly dress?” Seethingly said by Nesta…pitted against the one thing she liked to pretend she was good at…the one thing she could do and make money with…

It cut. Of course, it did. But it wasn’t even the worst thing thrown at her head by Nesta…so why was it the one thing that stayed in her mind?

“We don’t need Eira. Quite frankly, it’s better if she doesn’t go. Elain is the prettier one, anyway.” Cassian…overheard by Eira before the rest of them had gone off to Hewn City. Eira left behind because…well the contrast of Elain badly dressed was enough, no need for Eira to…be what? A distraction?

And it was true too. Elain was the prettier twin sister.

Eira was just…common as muck as her mother had liked to remind her…Nesta was the smart one, the one who would marry a prince…Elain would marry for love and beauty…and Eira…well, she would make a good farmer’s wife as far as her mother was concerned.

Not pretty enough to garner a richer man’s attention…not smart enough to drag herself up the echelons of society on her own…To easily content as far as her mother was concerned.

“As far as cauldron-made goes, she is pretty much useless.” Morrigan. Said in jest. Eira was quite sure of that…still, it had hurt. Because it was true. She was useless.

No magic sparking at her fingertips…Using her magic was like pulling teeth…painful and a long process…And it never did what she wanted anyway.

“Eira, find somewhere else to be. I really have more important things to do,” Feyre had said with a sigh…after she had brought her sister cookies and tea…after she had only tried to get Feyre to take a break from her work.

Eira hadn’t tried that again either.

And then the one that clinched it:

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

Said by Elain…by her twin sister. She was frozen in place, staring at Elain wide-eyed as her sister sneered at her.

That was the last drop into an already overflowing bucket.

Stress. Right? Just stress from wedding planning. Elain would have never said that usually.

She wouldn’t have…

It was just…it was just stress…Just stress.

Elain didn’t mean it like that.

Right?

Elain flounced off…her wedding binder in tow…leaving Eira alone, sitting there, in the dining room, her chest aching.

Eira was in a trance as she carefully put all the plates into one tidy stack…as she was thankful that it had just been her and Elain, every other person in their family busy with their mates or something else…Feyre and Rhysand gone with Baby Nyx for the evening…Nesta and Cassian off at the House of Wind…who knew what Mor and Amren were up to…

Or even Azriel.

A sob threatened to take over, as she thought that name.

She walked up the stairs…to her room…Her room. She locked the door with shaky hands.

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

She collapsed on her bed, burying her face into her pillow and let the tears stream.

Ridiculous puppy crush.

All of that said because she had tried to talk to Elain about her choice of flowers for her wedding. Because lilies wouldn’t be in season when she married Lucien in Day Court in less than 2 months.

And then Elain responded with that, because Eira clearly wanted to ruin her wedding with that factoid.

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

The worst part of it was that it was the simple truth.

Azriel was never going to pay her a second glance.

He had always been more interested in Elain than Eira…he had on more than one occasion asked Eira questions about her twin sister…had made sure that Elain was comfortable and cared for…and Eira had sufficed as a source of information and nothing else.

And after Elain and Lucien had become serious…well, Eira ceased to be interesting too. He hadn’t sought her out again.

If she sat next to him at dinner, he was polite and quiet, bordering on silent. And then she tried to fill the silence and probably only annoyed him in the process.

He didn’t want her. He never would.

She starved down the sobs that wracked her body.

It was probably high time that she accepted that, right?

High time to get over herself.

High time that she reminded herself that…that she was never going to have him and that staring at him in ill-hidden affection only made everybody else make fun of her and probably made him deeply uncomfortable.

So maybe it was better that she just…

At least he had never called her useless, she supposed. It could be worse…even when he never would want her.

She felt the touch on her hand first…soft like velvet…like kitten fur…never warm, never cold. massive and somehow not… definitely not human.

The shadows. His shadows.

Sometimes they came to keep her company. At the start, she had thought that maybe he had sent them but nowadays she was quite sure that they had just liked her quiet singing while embroidery one afternoon. So quiet that nobody would hear. It had taken her months to coax them out of their corners after that. They probably had just taken pity on her.

Just like they did now.

“Please don’t,” she choked out. She never wanted him to find out how she was feeling about him…never wanted to feel the pain of him outright turning her down.

And if his shadows came to check on her, they would report back in what they saw…and they didn’t need…didn’t need to worry about it.

They never talked to her. Just sometimes they came and listened to her softly talk to them while she was sewing in the evening, about this and that...

It wasn’t right how she talked to you, the shadows whispered.

They didn’t talk to her. Never.

And now they did.

Hell, even his shadows were feeling sorry for her, weren’t they?

“Please don’t tell him,” she begged.

He should know, they disagreed softly. Everybody should know. She should apologise to you.

And what would that give her? Nothing. More embarrassment because everybody else got to hear all about her fledgling little feelings? Feelings she should bury deep and never examine again?

“Please,” she begged again and the shadows seemingly surrendered, curling themselves up against her hands so that she could touch them.

Don’t cry, they soothed her softly. Don’t give her that.

Elain hadn’t said anything that was untrue. That was the worst part. It was true. And that hurt.

Is there anything we could do? the shadows asked Eira softly. Anything at all to make this better?

“No,” she whispered, choking out the words, another sob. Not anymore. There was nothing anybody could do.

It hurt. It hurt so badly. Just like the cauldron had. Then she had wished she would die.

Now…now she wondered the same once again. Maybe then it would stop feeling like this.

She cried her eyes out, as the tears kept pouring over her cheeks…as she sobbed until her throat was raw and everything hurt. And finally, she just laid there…the shadows still swirling worriedly around her prone form.

“Don’t you need to work?” she asked the shadows listlessly, tears tracking over her cheeks. “Don’t you have something more important to do than to try and comfort me?”

Maybe take care of him?

You are important, the shadows snapped.

Eira could argue that point. She was useless. So what did it matter? It didn’t.

She wiped away the tears, but new ones just came pouring over her face and she stopped trying, let them run down her face and wondered how long she could stay in her room and never come out again.

Would you like something to eat? the shadows tried again. So sweet. Trying to give her something, anything to comfort her.

“No, thank you,” she whispered. Alone the thought made her want to throw up.

She didn’t want to eat.

She didn’t want to get up and talk to anybody. She didn’t want to even look at another person anymore.

She didn’t…

What would you like then? The shadows tried softly. Would you like to plot revenge? they suggested.

It was so stupid that she choked out a laugh.

“For what? Elain saying what everybody else is thinking?” Eira asked, her heart painfully restricting.

Nobody here actually wanted her around. If she disappeared forever she would do them a favour. Him especially.

Elain had only said what everybody else was thinking.

All three of her sisters had found their mates, just not Eira. All three of her sisters had some kind of power…just not her. All three of them had found some kind of place for themselves…and then there was her, living with her youngest sister, half seamstress, half nanny for her child, an unwanted appendage that was taken care of out of some feeling of duty and no other reason.

Elain had just voiced what she was thinking. The truth.

It had been the truth. Plain and simple. And Eira maybe didn’t like to hear it but it didn’t…it didn’t matter.

It was the truth.

Elain had two men willing to marry her and spend the rest of their lives with her…and nobody wanted to spend any time with Eira. A husband wasn’t even something that had ever seemed to be a possibility.

Even if everybody else is thinking, that doesn’t make it right. The shadows disagreed quietly. Your sister said that to hurt you and not for any other reason.

“She’s stressed out with wedding planning,” Eira whispered.

It had just been that. Probably. Maybe.

That doesn’t make it right, the shadows disagreed again, twirling tighter around her wrist. We could ruin her wedding. Lilies and all, they suggested brightly.

She shook her head. No. Elain should have the wedding she dreamed of. Eira wasn’t going to ruin it for her.

“Don’t do that,” she said weakly.

We could at least steal her wedding binder, they told her mulishly, and Eira wondered if they disagreed like that with Azriel too.

Azriel…

What did it say about her that she fell head over heels in love with the first man who treated her with polite indifference? That she was so desperate to be loved that that was all it took?

Did it matter?

No.

Elaine was right. He would never spare her a second glance. He was just as unreachable as any other male.

Nothing was enticing about Eira. Neither her body, nor her mind, nor her magical power. What could she possibly offerany male?

All the nightmares she had on a near-daily basis? All the fear and anxiety that swirling around her gut every day?

She could sew on any buttons he lost along the way, she supposed. That was something.

The knife that plunged into her womb and twisted, took her by surprise.

It shouldn’t have.

Of course. 6 months had passed once again.

“Don’t tell him this either,” she begged in a whimper. This was too embarrassing. He didn’t need to know about her cycle.

Nobody did. She was the most modest out of all her sisters. The one with the most human ideas of what was considered to be decent, left…the only one who…

The only one left with her maidenhead intact, because everybody else was mated or married or very much in love and it had never mattered in Prythian anyway.

Just Eira was left.

Without a mate. Without a husband.

Without ever having even been kissed. Nearly 26 and that…hadn’t happened for her.

It probably would never happen anyway.

Why today of all days?

Why did her cycle need to torture her today? How did she deserve this? Why not in a week…Though at least now she had a reason not to leave her bed for a few days.

She could just stay here.

Mope in her own Misery and self-pity…wallow in the pain that she knew would come…

Of course, it would. She had always had a horrible time during her cycle even as a human…as a Fae, it had become her very own personal torture.

Maybe a bath would make you feel better, the shadows suggested softly as she already curled herself together in pain.

She needed to get up and sort herself out before it got even worse…made sure that she wouldn’t get blood all over the sheets, but she couldn’t…She didn’t want to.

And a bath…A stab of pure fear.

“It’s like the cauldron,” Eira whimpered. Just like the cauldron.

She didn’t bathe…she used buckets of water…even years later…still standing water was not something she could stand. Not without being reminded of her humanity being ripped away and traded for whatever this existence was.

What if we make sure that it isn’t? the shadows asked her softly. It will be nothing like the cauldron, we promise.

A bath…a hot bath that would help against the soreness of her muscles…that would maybe ease the cramps…

It did sound nice. So nice.

So Eira just weakly nodded.

That seemed to be all the agreement the shadows needed as they whisked her to the bathing chamber, in the blink of an eye.

She watched as they flitted about the room, turning on the water, dotting candles around the room, making it brightly lit with faelight and candlelight both.

Lots of foam and bubbles appeared in the bathtub as well as numerous concoctions being poured into the water.

She slowly toed off her shoes and opened the laces of her dress. Eira hesitated and the shadows disappeared, letting her undress in privacy…letting her walk to the bathtub and test the temperature…stare at it for a moment.

It couldn’t look less like the cauldron if it tried.

She waited for a stab of fear but nothing came.

So she slid into it, let the warm water envelope her, the perfect temperature… A few tendrils of shadows came to keep her company, touching her chin so that she tipped her head back and they started to wash her hair for her.

Eira couldn’t even remember the last time anybody had done that for her.

And they did that…without even asking…just…just for her.

“Thank you,” Eira whispered, not daring to close her eyes, but staring at the ceiling. “Are you sure you don’t have anything more important to do?” she asked weakly. “Isn’t your master going to be angry at you?” She didn’t want them to get into any trouble, just because they…they were taking care of her.

You don’t want Master to find out, so he won’t, they said easily. Would you like some pain potions?

If they gave them to her, she wouldn’t need to walk downstairs and maybe face her sister or gods forbid, Rhysand…and ask them for Madja.

Nobody would need to know. She could have her privacy and her dignity left intact.

“Yes, please,“ she breathed in relief as the shadows poured something or other over her head. One shadow brought her a vial, wrapping around her wrist as she uncorked and downed it.

A bitter taste but it left her blissedly numb and tired nearly immediately.

“What’s that?” She mumbled as they hushed her, massaging her head.

It tasted differently than whatever Madja usually gave her…telling her that pain and discomfort were normal and that her potions would ease it…It was like pouring a bucket of water over an inferno.

While this…this was quenching everything. Leaving her numb.

Just a rather strong pain potion, the shadows promised her. You’ll sleep for a bit…We’ll talk more then.

Sleep… Sleep sounded nice…

She didn’t even think about feeling self-conscious when they pulled her from the water, rinsed her off and wrapped her in warm, fluffy towels.

They laid out her favourite nightgown so she only needed to pull it on and pull back the sheets of her bed so she could slide beneath it.

Even a hot water bottle was waiting for her…

Everything so that she would be as comfortable as possible… everything for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears pricking in her eyes as she climbed between her blankets, the shadows fluffing her pillow and pulling the blankets as high as they went.

It was weird…to have the shadows doting on her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Eira was too selfish to protest this bit of attention…the only positive attention she had in years.

They promised not to tell, so she wouldn’t either. Not when this was the sweetest thing anybody had ever done for her.

She fell asleep between one breath and the next, safely and warmly ensconced in her bed. Deep dreamless sleep…When she woke, it must have been the middle of the night…and still, the shadows were there immediately.

She whimpered at the cramps that were ransacking her body…and the growling of her stomach in hunger.

She hated these cycles. Hated how weak they left her and how she wanted nothing more than to cease to exist.

Are you hungry? You’ll need to eat before you can take another pain potion, the shadows told her worriedly. Not a lot, just a little bit, they promised.

“I don’t want to go down into the kitchen,” she answered weakly, biting her lip. Not that she thought that she could safely traverse the staircase anyway.

Eira just wanted to stay here…alone. Maybe with the shadows for company, as long as they wanted her…

We’ll get you something. What would you like? They assured her immediately.

Everything in her body ached for something human, even when she knew that their food would taste like ash for her. She always wanted human things. The things she would never have again.

“Maybe some soup?” Eira asked finally. “If that’s not too much trouble?”

Of course not.

They fluffed her pillows and helped her sit up…and then soup appeared…a bowl filled with clear broth with bits of vegetables and chunks of chicken and noodles…cooked to perfection…better than anything she could have ever produced and by the gods, she had tried…All of it, arranged on a tray, with two slices of perfect crusty bread and another pain potion.

She took that first, and it made her pleasantly numb and tired…and so she weakly spooned as much soup as she could in her mouth afterwards… mopping up the last of her soup with the bread.

She finished as much as she could before she was too tired and the shadows tucked her back into bed, curled up on her side…so they could fuss with her hair which was a mess as always.

She felt like a child being fawned over and she couldn’t help but relax into it…let them do with her whatever they wished if they just kept being so…nice to her.

Feeling better? they asked softly and she hummed.

If you could be anything…do anything... what would it be? The shadows wondered quietly. The movements of them were lulling her to some space of safety and warmth and Eira considered the question.

If she could have anything in the world…what would she want?

A heady question.

“When I was…young,” she said softly… “I wanted a dashing knight to come rescue me, and whisk me away from that horrible cottage,” she said weakly. “That’s what I wanted since I was old enough to want anything.”

A stupid children’s dream.

But sadly there were no knights in Prythian and even if there were any, they wouldn’t pick Eira.

And now? The shadows pushed.

“Somebody that loves me,” she admitted quietly. “A husband…children.”

All of that…she wanted all of that.

And she was never going to have it.

We could find you a husband, the shadows finally said quietly. If that makes you happy…we could help you.

“Who could possibly want me?” Eira asked, her voice breaking. Who would want her? The answer was easy: Nobody.

Only because Master is an idiot, doesn’t mean every male is, they told her tartly.

She wanted to laugh but it ended in a sob.

“He isn’t an idiot,” Eira disagreed. “He just knows that…I am not good enough for him.”

Not pretty enough, not smart enough…not enough period.

That’s ridiculous, the shadows hissed.

It wasn’t.

“He’s in love with my prettier twin sister,” Eira snapped. “I shouldn’t want him anyway. Why should I want to be his second or even third choice? Maybe for once, I want to be somebody’s first choice! Maybe for once, I want to be treated like I matter! That my feelings matter…that I matter!” It burst out of her. The tears burned in her eyes at that admission. At…how unfair it was.

What had she done to deserve this? What had she done?

Eira immediately regretted that outburst though. “I am so sorry,” she blurted out.

They didn’t deserve to be pulled into her feeling unfairly treated. She should stop complaining. It wasn’t going to…

For what? the shadows snorted. You are absolutely right. You deserve to be somebody’s first choice. You deserve to be treated like you matter.

She didn’t.

Maybe you should go shopping, the shadows suggested with a sigh. The suggestion was so sudden that she stared at the tendril of shadow still wrapped around her wrist.

“Why?” she asked with a sigh.

The Morrigan does that if she feels bad. The shadows told her earnestly. Then she buys shoes and feels better.

Ah.

She highly doubted that shoes were going to solve any of her problems. A pretty pair of shoes wasn’t going to make anybody fall in love with her. Or want her.

“What am I supposed to buy?” She asked quietly. “Just shoes?”

Stuff. The shadows answered easily. Whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy, they assured her. All your sisters have more stuff than you. You make them dresses and other things. But you never make yourself anything, the shadows said quietly. Nobody would say anything if you wanted things that are yours.

Right. She had never bothered with that. Not after she had lost all her things together with her humanity…there had been some piles of necessities sent to them by Rhysand…and that had been that.

She had never bothered to get more than that. She still wore those dresses of the very first weeks… and while she had made dresses for all three of her sisters…as human out of necessity, as Fae out of habit…she hadn’t made herself any in years.

Not since becoming Fae. Her new body felt…she hadn’t wanted to look at her new body for long enough to figure out how something should fit onto it. How it had changed….

These godforsaken ears were enough.

Buy things for yourself. Like a new dress! Or earrings! Diamonds! The shadows suggested. Whatever you find pretty.

“My ears aren’t pierced,” she said quietly, a yawn taking over her face.

That brought them up short.

Master bought you pearl earrings, the shadows said suddenly, sounding perplexed.

He had. Beautiful. Impersonal. Unwearable for her…a far cry from all the little trinkets he had given to Elain…

Still, for months she had stared at them and found them oh so beautiful…safely kept in their box in her drawer at her vanity table.

Maybe that alone should have told her everything she needed to know about the state of Azriel’s affection for her.

Namely it was non-existent when the spymaster of the night court didn’t even bother to check if she even wore earrings.

And the earrings…well…they were only…one thing. Her room at the River Estate that she had been supposed to furnish to her liking…that was another.

In the end, it had consisted out of her getting a set of the same bedroom furniture as every other guest room and her walls were painted cream like in every other room Feyre hadn’t gotten to yet. It was still as impersonal as it had been when she had moved in.

She knew that Elain had stuff to litter her bookcases with…gifts from Azriel or Feyre or Lucien, her mate…even Eira had gifted her sister things.

But all Eira had…were the dresses she had on commission laid out on her desk. Which she would need to return to the shop where she worked as a seamstress at soon enough once she was finished with her alteration on them…and well, that was it.

No books, because her reading was absolutely atrocious…no little trinkets from any of her sisters…no paintings or art or anything really.

Just…her sewing and embroidery supplies and that was that…and even these weren’t…held in one of these pretty little wooden sewing boxes on legs that would keep them tidily kept away…

Do you need money? The shadows asked her seriously.

“What?” Eira asked weakly.

She made some money with her job. Not a lot…but some. All of it carefully stashed away to buy birthday or solstice gifts from…or little trinkets she saw in a shop and thought one of her sisters would like…that Nyx would like.

Do you need money? They repeated patiently. To buy stuff? For yourself?

“No, I have money. And I don’t want to owe anybody anything,” she answered quietly, her eyes slowly closing.

She didn’t want to end like Nesta… were in the end, her habits were used to bludgeon her with…she didn’t…

You wouldn’t. The shadows assured her. We have our own line of credit.

What?

“How does that work? Do you have your own bank account?” she asked curiously, and she could nearly feel their amusement.

We like playing the lottery. Everything we win, we put into Master’s Bank Account, they explained to her earnestly. He never uses it anyway. We could just put our winnings in yours instead. Master wouldn’t care.

It was so ridiculous that she couldn’t help but giggle.

“Really?” she still asked weakly.

Really! they assured her seriously. Enough for you to have a shopping spree! We like shiny things, they told her, making her laugh. Master never buys any. We’ll pick up some mail-order catalogues for you and then you can spend tomorrow ordering some things. Maybe some curtains to spruce things up a little. It’s awfully empty in here.

Still, she couldn’t help but ask.

“Why are you doing this?”

Nobody should be treated like you are, they told her fiercely. Nobody should feel like they have no place anywhere.

#lightning in a bottle #acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader

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oceantornadoo · 4 months ago

Text

the ex-wife chronicles pt.2 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

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The first few days go how you expect them to. Day one is a joke of a team briefing since half the team isn’t there. You make both John and Sergeant Garrick explain what happened and why team bonding is necessary. You’ve found that soldiers view themselves as battering rams, not stopping to acknowledge their scars when there’s more doors to break down. The whole day, spent mostly with you lecturing about safe spaces and ‘shrink bullshit’, is emotionally exhausting. That’s why you end it by pulling out a bottle of wine in the name of team bonding, you and Sergeant Garrick spread out on the living room floor while John smokes in a recliner nearby.

John hates wine. You know this.

You remove the cork with your switchblade anyways, taking a swig before passing it to Sergeant Garrick. If you were younger and greener, he’d be your type. Pretty and hurting, desperate for someone to put him back together but too proud to ask his team to be the one to do it. It was the same thing you saw in John ten-odd years ago, the pair of you two new Sergeants begging to be seen in very different ways. Sergeant Garrick offers the bottle to John and he takes it, only sipping a little before handing it back to you. Your hands resolutely do not brush.

“For what it’s worth,” you hold back a hiccup after another swig of wine, “I am sorry for what happened to Sergeant MacTavish. You almost lost a brother-in-arms and here I am, making you talk about it.” Sergeant Garrick snatches the bottle out of your grip and takes a long pull. “You can call him Soap an’ me Gaz. No sense in stayin’ professional, ma’am.” Gaz shoots you a grin and a wink before handing the bottle to his captain. You nod your thanks. “You don’t need to call me ma’am. I stopped chasing titles a long time ago.” You refuse to look at John when you say it. Gaz’s eyes bounce between the two of you before focusing back on the wine, stealing it from his captain’s hands. “So what’s your background?” Gaz asks, eyebrows raised curiously.

You count the years on your fingers. “Joined up. Made Sergeant. Hated it. Got recruited for a joint stealth mission with the Americans, which is where I met Laswell. She pulled these strings to let me pursue field psychiatry on a promise that I use my skills wherever she asks. Once I finished training, I’ve been doin’ this for the last few years.” You hiccup on the last word. “I’ve never slept in the same building as the team, though. Or done it for two months. Longest has been three weeks. Guess this is new for all of us.” The admission thaws the ice a little. Even John takes a deep breath as the three of you watch the smoke curl off his cigar. Gaz pats his thighs before standing up. “I’m wrecked from all the travel. See you two in the mornin’. Sir. Doc.” You wave your goodbyes as he treks to his bedroom on the opposite end of the building.

“Ever get married again?” John’s voice grumbles like a freight train from the chair he sits in, above and across from you. You shake your head, snatching the wine bottle from where it stands on the small coffee table. “Too busy. You?” He shakes his head once, twice, before taking a pull of his cigar. “Married to the job.” You snort at his admission, blaming it on the wine. “So cliche.” You murmur, staring at your reflection in the glass of the bottle. It’s almost empty, and you wonder how much you both drank.

Exhaustion hits suddenly like a lightning strike. You yawn and stretch, then slowly climb into a standing position. “I’ve been up for 24 hours now. I’m too pampered for this much sleep-deprivation.” John’s beard pulls up on the right, like he’s smiling at your self-depreciation. It gives you confidence to walk to where he sits on his plastic throne, smoke concealing bits of his face. You hand him the wine bottle and he takes it gladly, fingers brushing yours. You step closer until your knees hit the fabric of the recliner, forcing him to spread his legs. John doesn’t complain.

“You ever get that greater good you were searchin’ for?” You murmur, holding his gaze. He doesn’t answer, simply raising his cigar to his lips. “You find that purpose you were lookin’ for?” He asks, a non-answer. You simply stare at each other. You bet his greater good didn’t include one of his men almost dying. Your purpose did not include the lack of roots you feel everyday. His knees inch closer together, a hair's breadth away from yours. Neither of you move, breaths syncing as you just look. At the new wrinkles on his forehead, at the stupid hat he’s wearing, at the stray grays in his beard. At the smile lines and the healed scars. At the lack of a wedding band on his ring finger.

“Night, John.”

“Night, Doc.” A sliver of a smile finds a home on the curve of your cheek. You turn around and go to bed.

The rest of the week goes pretty much according to plan. A guided meditation outside the barracks when the weather turns nice. The three of you review past missions, discussing group tactics and communication styles. They try to fill in the gaps of Ghost (you’re not stupid enough to call him Lieutenant Riley) and Soap, demonstrating the normal dynamics. You keep reminding them that there is a new normal, a fact they don’t like to hear.

When Friday rolls around, you tell Gaz he has the weekend off. John quickly counters by reminding him of his responsibilities at the main base. Gaz locks eyes with you and you hold in a giggle at his attitude. John stays silent. After a team dinner that night (boxed mac and cheese, loads better than whatever the mess hall is serving), Gaz begs off for plans with some sergeants on the main base. You fish out your newest literature purchase and bring it to the living room, stopping when you see John already watching something on TV. Before you can turn around, he calls out to you.

“Stay.” You freeze, shoulders bunched to your ears. “You sure? I don’t want to encroach on your alone time.” John shakes his head and gestures to the empty couch. You plop down, setting your book down and fishing out the notebook you had tucked under it. “So,” John looks up apprehensively. “We never had our 1-on-1.” He sighs dramatically. “Can’t this wait until Monday?” You shake your head decisively. “Ghost and Soap are coming Monday. It’ll be too busy. You wouldn’t want me to forget, would you?” All he does is stare. You shrug.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Fine.”

“8 hours of uninterrupted REM?”

“Sure.”

“And what about during the day? Do you feel yourself drifting off?”

“Nope.”

You glare at him. It doesn’t have the full effect when you’re clad in sweats.

“John, I’m here to help you. I know you’ll be speaking with a specialized therapist next week, but I need a good understanding of where you’re at so I can help the team heal.” You know from a private conversation with Gaz that he hasn’t been sleeping, and you suspect the same might be the case for John. Gaz has been sensitive to sound, mainly the ticking clock of a bomb, and you can only wonder what John is feeling. Even though you aren’t their main therapist, your job is to understand how their personal needs can translate into a solution for the group. They need sleep to be efficient soldiers and at the end of the day, your job is to make them ready for the field.

John changes the channel on the TV, stopping on a rerun of a footie game. The two of you watch in silence for a few minutes, little figurines dancing athletically across the screen. “Most I get is four hours. Sometimes I’ll call the night shift nurses to make sure Soap’s alive. Stand outside Gaz’s room to hear him breathin’. Feels like everytime I take a break, I’m leavin’ them behind.” You hum thoughtfully.

“There are a lot of captains out there that don’t have as nearly as much dedication that you do to their team.” Is what you say eventually. His therapist will be the one to give him sleep tips and such. He needs to learn from you what being a Captain means for men that have returned changed. “Lot of good that’s done me.” He grunts, eyes focused on the screen. “I think you know Soap’s injury wasn’t directly your fault. But, you’re associating it with the fact that you weren’t there, which means you need to be there all the time. I’m hoping I’ll help you trust them to survive on their own.” Again, is what you mean to say, but you don’t know enough of their prior dynamics to trust that word has meaning. From what Laswell has told you, he’s always been somewhat of a father to his team, more involved in this task force then when he’s managed others.

“You have a team of your own?” John asks, not responding to your other statement. You shake your head, curling into the sofa with your book in your lap. You scribble a bit of what he said down in the notebook, then tuck it away so he doesn’t feel like he’s being therapized. “Just me and my handlers, including Laswell.” John scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.” You know it’s not an insult but his gaze meets the book and your lap and it’s like a brand. A callback to a marriage years ago between two kids who thought their loneliness was solved by each other. Now you’re defensive about seeming to not have upgraded since then. “Being a Captain sounds pretty lonely too.” You say, with too much bite. John shakes his head, his facial expression hidden by darkness. He reaches for the remote and turns off the TV, muscles straining as he goes to stand.

“John, I didn’t mean-”

“Enjoy your book, Doc. Might be the last bit of peace you get for a while.”

He doesn’t say goodnight.

these chapters are gonna be short lol

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speedywizardland · 10 days ago

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Title: “What Comes After”

The air outside the gym reeked of sweat and smoke. It was late — almost midnight — but you knew Park Humin would still be training. He always was. That was just… him. He didn't know how to rest.

You stood by the side door, fists clenched in the pockets of your oversized hoodie. Your heart thundered louder than the thuds of fists hitting punching bags inside. You weren't scared of him — not really. But this moment, this truth, could break everything.

Or maybe, it would build something.

The door creaked as you stepped in. He didn’t notice at first, too locked into his routine — fists sharp, eyes cold, focused like always. But the second he saw you in the mirror, he froze.

"You're late," he said quietly, wiping sweat from his jaw. He turned, tossing the towel around his neck. "I thought you weren’t coming."

"I almost didn’t," you replied, walking toward him slowly. You could barely hold his gaze. Not because of fear — but because you knew what you were about to say would change both your lives forever.

He tilted his head. “Something wrong?”

You took a breath. The words tasted like lightning. “I’m pregnant.”

The silence was a punch harder than any he’d ever thrown.

Park Humin didn’t move. His face didn’t crack, not even a twitch. He just stared at you like he’d misheard.

You went on, barely above a whisper. “It’s yours.”

For a moment, you saw it — the flicker of something in his eyes. Vulnerability? Shock? Maybe even fear. It was gone before you could name it.

“…When did you find out?” he asked, voice steady but softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Two weeks ago. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you. But… I had to.”

He walked past you, picked up a bottle of water, twisted the cap, then stopped halfway. “Why now?”

“Because I thought you'd disappear if I told you sooner. And maybe… maybe I thought I could handle it without you.”

He turned to face you fully now, and for once, his guard was down. Completely.

“I’m not the guy who runs,” he said quietly. “Not from this.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t have to pretend. I know how much you’ve already been through. You’re still fighting your own demons, Humin.”

He stepped closer. “So let me fight this one with you.”

Tears welled in your eyes — not from sadness, but from the weight lifting off your chest.

“You don’t have to love me,” you whispered.

“I already do.”

That stopped everything. The fear. The chaos. Even your heartbeat.

He took your hand, pulling it gently toward him. And there, in the middle of that dim, empty gym where he trained to survive, Park Humin did something he rarely allowed himself to do.

He hoped.

#weak hero class x reader #park humin x reader

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lewismcqueen · 2 months ago

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alcohol-free.

yt22 x black!reader (drabble)

summary: a beach volleyball-related accident leads to a chance encounter while you're on vacation. cw: contrary to the title, there is alcohol consumption here. i just really wanted to make a twice reference. reference to implied sex. milton keynes slander. a/n: hello yuki girls...can i sit with you guys...this is my first fic for him !

“Heads up!”

You kick up sand beneath your feet as you rush with hands clasped in front of you to return your friend’s lightning-quick serve. The white volleyball hits the sweet spot where the flat of your forearms are, flying over the net. Emi—the friend in question—nearly stumbles trying to keep it in the air on the opposite side, her long dreads flying behind her. She does, and it zips straight towards you again.

Of course, you hit it again in a clean, wide arc. A very wide arc. Maybe a bit too wide.

You gasp, standing frozen in shock as the ball hurtles over Emi's head, and into a cluster of multi-colored beach umbrellas. You hear a man yelp from beneath one of them.

As soon as the situation fully registers, you’re speed-walking towards the umbrellas with your friend nervously in tow. About halfway there, you spot someone who seems to have picked up your ball. A man in black swimming trunks approaches, and you stop dead in your tracks.

He’s on the shorter side—you’re just a bit over eye level with him—with a sturdy, muscular stature. Your eyes catch on two glinting dog tags that sit over a lightly-tanned, bare chest. Your volleyball is tucked beneath his arm.

Running a hand through mid-length, jet black hair, he seems to be looking around to try and locate the culprit, dark brows furrowed in frustration. Worriedly, you think, He looks like he’s about to cuss somebody out.

Yuki was about ready to curse someone out as he stalked across the beach, the offending volleyball in-hand. He was in the middle of developing a particularly gorgeous tan when it whacked him on the side of his head and made him spill the bottle of Gatorade he had been sipping leisurely all over himself. Probably someone’s dumbass kid.

Was he injured? No. But was his day ruined? Most certainly.

As he moved in the direction that the ball seemed to have come from, two women seemed to be approaching. One was dark-skinned, wearing a cropped jersey and white shorts with long braids swinging behind her back, the other was of a lighter complexion, wearing a black bikini top with a red cloth wrapped around her waist. Her dreadlocks were tied up into a high ponytail. The first woman looked worried, smooth temples creased slightly as they got closer. Round, gleaming dark eyes locked with his, and Yuki realized that he was looking at the culprit in question. She seemed like the sportier of the two. The woman’s full, almost heart-shaped lips were downturned into a frown. They looked impossibly shiny, likely some sort of lip gloss.

Okay, day slightly less ruined.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the woman parted those beautiful lips to speak.

“Hey, um, I’m really sorry, but I think that’s our ball,” she began.

Yuki couldn’t place her accent. Vaguely southern, but he’d be hard-pressed to name a particular state. He couldn’t tell the difference. Her voice was light and airy. He thought of soft, clean linen for some reason. She began messing with the ends of her braids nervously, which made him smile. What the hell was she so nervous about? It’s just a ball. It just smacked me in the face, no big deal. I’ve been in car crashes that were far worse.

“I hit it way over the net and saw it fall somewhere back there,” she tilted her chin over at where Yuki had been resting. She placed a hand over her heart. “Did we hit you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, not at all!” He beamed. “It just…landed next to me.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and his chest swelled. “Oh, that’s good!”

Yuki took in all of the contours of your face—your rounded cheeks, the width of your nose, the way your lips scrunched to one side of your face as you seemed to be waiting for…something.

Oh.

“Ah, your ball,” Yuki took a step forward, pushing it towards you. “Sorry.”

You gave him a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Your fingers brushed momentarily as you took it from him, and he marveled silently at how soft your hands were even beneath the rough grains of sand that dusted them.

Before he could gather his wits and introduce himself you were walking away, leaving him to reluctantly return to his spot on the beach as your figure retreated in the other direction.

“He was so into you, why didn’t you say anything?”

You yelped when Emi playfully smacked you upside the head as you sat near where the ocean lapped at the shore, pushing sand gently back and forth. You pushed her hand away.

“No he was not! He was just being nice.”

She looked unconvinced. “Girl, I was standing right behind you. He was looking you up and down.”

“Please, you just tryna set me up with somebody while we’re on vacation,” You picked up a small, creamy-white shell that washed up by your feet and examined its grooves. “He sounded like he wasn’t from here.”

Emi leaned back on her palms, watching the sunset. “Right? He sounded kinda British actually. British and somethin’ else. Who knows? You might get flown out to London.”

You laughed and shook your head.

“Emi, it’s not gonna happen.”

“Alright, but if you see that fine man again and don’t say nothing, I’m gonna be mad at you.”

You sat cross-legged on a leather stool, partially regretting letting Emi drag you to a crowded bar on a weekend. The only plus was that she’d taken you shopping the week before for a new ‘going out’ dress—a silky black mini with a boat neck that was completely backless. She’d joked that it was “business in the front, party in the back.” You weren’t used to showing off this much thigh, but seeing her sat next to you in a bright red bodycon dress of equal length made you feel a bit better about it.

You were still scanning the special menu on the chalkboard when the bartender slid you a glass. A lemon drop martini, with a slice of lemon stuck on the edge. You gave the man a questioning look. He nodded.

“From the gentleman on the far right in the black shirt. Feel free to send it back if you don’t want it.”

You looked over in the direction the bartender gave, and your eyes nearly popped out of your skull. There, smiling timidly at you from across the bar, was the man who’d retrieved your volleyball at the beach. His shirt had a few buttons left open, revealing his collarbone and the valley of his chest. There were the silver dog tags again; he seemed to really like showing them off. His hair looked a tad bit neater, like he’d hastily styled it before coming here. It swept across his forehead as if the wind had gently blown it into place.

A half-smile spreading across your lips, you accepted the drink. It was the right amount of sweet and sour, dancing over your tongue and quieting your nerves as you sipped. You heard Emi giggling beside you, but when you turned, the seat was empty. That girl is a piece of work, you thought to yourself before looking back up to meet the man’s eyes.

“Do you wanna sit here?” You mouthed, pointing at the seat. He wasted no time hopping off of his seat to maneuver his way through the crowd, which made you laugh.

Once the man sat down next to you, you finally got a closer look at him. Curious, almond-shaped brown eyes that darted around as he observed you just as closely. Short face and nose, full, pink lips over which there was a bit of grayness, as if he forgot to shave. You weren’t completely sure if you minded; from an angle it made him look almost a bit rugged. Without the distraction of bare skin and musculature, you came to the conclusion that he was still cute.

“Are you finished staring at me?” He asked frankly, those lips curling up into an impish smile. It revealed a slight gap tooth that you immediately found charming. You took another coy sip of your drink. Dimples, too.

“Yeah, all done,” you joked in return. He placed his forearms on the counter and leaned forward.

“What do you think?”

“I think I like what I see.”

He laughed quietly. “Good. Feeling is mutual.”

“So what’s your name?”

“Yuki.Yours?”

You gave him your name and he repeated it, carefully trying out the syllables on his tongue. “You’re Japanese?”

Yuki nodded. “Haven’t been home in a while, though. I used to live in the UK not long ago.”

You rested your chin in your palm. “Where in the UK?”

“Milton Keynes,” he said with disdain, his nose scrunching like he’d just smelled something foul. “Don’t go there, by the way. The food is utter shite.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you chuckled. “Where do you live now?”

His face lit up. “Italy. Much better eating there.”

International student, you tried guessing.

“Sounds like you travel a lot for you to end up all the way in Miami.”

“I do. My job takes me all over the place, so for this week I’m here.”

Okay, so not a student. “What do you do, then?”

Yuki’s lips twitched in amusement, like he was keeping a cheeky little secret. “I play sports.”

Immediately, you began sifting through all of the sports you knew of that you could visualize the man playing. He didn’t look like any Japanese footballers you’d seen before, and basketball was a non-starter. You settled on baseball. He had the build for it.

Yuki briefly turned to the bartender to order a whiskey on the rocks while you nursed your lemon drop.

“Do you get to have any fun? Traveling the world, I mean.”

He emptied half his glass and gently placed it in front of him before twisting his whole body to face you, thighs spread wide like a cowboy at a saloon. He grinned and rested his head on his knuckles. It seemed you had both needed some liquid courage.

“I have plenty of fun. I get to meet girls like you, for example.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t the best pick-up line you’d ever heard, but it thrilled you to watch him put on a show just to keep your attention. Your gaze roamed over his thighs, then over the belt holding up his blue jeans. It had a flashy buckle, gleaming in the low light of the bar, right above his crotch.

You arched an eyebrow.

“You say that to all the girls you meet?”

Yuki stared at you through his lashes. “You’re the first one I’ve ever said it to.”

You watched him intently over your glass as you finished off the rest of your drink. He gave you a mischievous look while doing the same, awaiting a response. Heat gathered in your abdomen when his knee brushed against yours beneath the counter.

“You say you’re out here for about a week?”

His voice became low as he drawled, “Only a week, then I’m gone.”

You felt your phone buzz in your purse, but ignored it. Probably Emi, announcing that she was taking an Uber home.

“Let’s get outta here and make the most of it, then.”

Yuki led you to a bright red sports car that still smelled new and squeaked as you sat on the cool leather of the passenger’s seat. You asked him if Milton Keynes was really that bad, he asked you if you’d ever had alligator meat before (the answers being ‘yes’ to both). As the conversation progressed, his eyes began to float over your form more intensely at every red light. He cursed the traffic each time as his fingers brushed your thigh. You giggled every time he told you that your skin was ‘so soft’, obviously making up excuses to touch you.

You ended the night beneath the lemon-fragranced sheets of a luxury hotel room, Yuki knocked out cold beside you. You turned your wrists back and forth gently. They felt sore after being pinned over your head for so long. So as to not worry Emi, you reached over towards the nightstand and unlocked your phone. There were two unread messages, each one an hour apart.

Emz: I’ll be in the back if you need me babes (please just go fuck that man y’all taking too long)

Emz: hey bb went back to the hotel. Tell me when you make your way back or if your mission was successful <3

You stifled a laugh, trying not to wake Yuki as you typed up a reply.

You: hey girl i’m safe just in his room lol

You: mission successful 🫡

#yuki tsunoda x reader #yt22 x reader #yuki tsunoda x black!reader #lightning writes

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ordinary-barbie · 5 months ago

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lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice | rafe cameron x fem!reader

title from "Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac.

summary: you're a contestant on love island US who's become skeptical about actually finding love on the show. but when a certain bombshell walks back into the villa, it opens up the possibility of a second chance - for both of you.

word count: 1.9k

tags: love island au, swearing, suggestive content but no actual smut, fluff fluff fluff

note: inspired by Love Island Australia season 5...if you know, you know. I haven't watched the US version of LI so if any details are wrong please forgive!

divider by @inklore.

"I've got a text!"

Those four words can strike fear into the hearts of any islander. Sometimes it's good news, other times it's the most stressful fire pit of your life. You were lounging by the pool when you heard a familiar chime from your phone, and your heart nearly jumped out of your chest.

Everyone's heads snapped up at your announcement, suddenly filled with nervous energy. You gulped, trying to remain calm as you read the words on the screen.

_____, put on your cutest outfit because you're going on a date! There's a new bombshell in the villa and he's got his sights set on you. #ChampagneAndChill #TheBombDotCom

You gasped, your nerves replaced with excitement. The villa erupted in cheers, especially from your besties, Phoebe and Nora. You'd coupled up with Miles recently, and he was very cute and charming, but the relationship had cooled off pretty quickly. Now Miles had his eye on the newest bombshell, Madelyn.

All the girls followed you inside, ready to help you look your absolute best for the new bombshell. Phoebe did your makeup, Nora curled your hair, and Madelyn lent you a cute pink floral print sundress. Everyone oohed and aahed at your date look, and you felt a warmth in your heart from all the ladies hyping you up.

As you walked out of the villa, you couldn't help feeling anxiety in the pit of your stomach. You'd been in two different couples, and neither had worked out how you'd hoped. What if things fizzled out with the new bombshell as well? You'd been having a great time in Fiji for sure, enjoying the gorgeous views and laughing with your new pals, but this wasn't Friendship Island. If you weren't able to find a true romantic connection in here, you were screwed.

You showed up to an impressive spread: a charcuterie board with a delicious assortment of cheeses, fruit, and crackers, plus a bottle of champagne glinting in the sun. Oh well, if the date didn't give you fireworks, at least you got a tasty meal out of it.

You sat down and absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the table, the anticipation in your gut ready to bubble over at any second. And then...he showed up.

Rafe Cameron.

Your breath caught in your throat. When Rafe had sauntered into the villa as a bombshell about two weeks ago, you were instantly smitten with the dirty blonde-haired man. He'd picked you for one of his dates and the two of you had hit it off, the banter flowing effortlessly. But you also noticed that he was into Zoey, and you felt like you should take a step back and let them explore their connection. It still stung a little when he chose her at the recoupling, though.

Then Zoey's head got turned by a new guy, Bennett, and Rafe was sent packing. His exit had affected you more than you wanted to admit. At the time, you were still in your original couple with Jack, and while you still had some feelings for him, the relationship felt like it would run its course soon. You started wondering about the "what-ifs" with Rafe, though you tried hard to push those thoughts out of your head.

But now, Rafe was back, greeting you with a "Hey there, princess" and a lazy grin. Your head was spinning. Was this really happening? You almost wanted to pinch yourself to make sure this wasn't some fantasy you would wake up from in a cold sweat.

You squealed, launching yourself into Rafe's arms. He looked down at you fondly before wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close to your chest while he buried his nose in your hair.

"I can't believe you're here," you gasped, inhaling his scent. He still smelled like Rafe - a nice, woodsy cologne scent, plus whatever product he put in his hair that kept it looking so perfect. He smelled so good and felt so warm - it was almost enough to overwhelm you.

You and Rafe finally broke apart, sitting down to eat and talk. "I'm sorry, I'm still trying to process this," you apologized, chuckling.

Rafe smiled softly, taking a sip of his champagne. "Honestly, when I was leaving the villa and giving my exit interview, I said I regretted not giving you more of a chance. When I got the chance to come back, I jumped on it."

Your heart felt like it might burst. "I honestly wasn't sure if you were into me, you know? I thought we had a great date, but I saw how you and Zoey were vibing, so I thought I would let y'all explore that. But when you left - I was pretty sad, not gonna lie. I've never felt so heartbroken about anyone leaving the villa before."

Rafe reached across the table and took one of your hands in his, stroking the side of your palm with his thumb. "You were coupled up with Jack and I didn't want to interfere with that," he explained. "And don't get me wrong, Zoey was cool, but I couldn't help wondering if I should've explored my connection with you more."

You were over the moon. "Well, cheers to second chances!" you said, raising your glass. Rafe shot you a tender glance before clinking his glass against yours.

The rest of the date flowed smoothly, with both of you falling back into a casual back-and-forth filled with banter and giggles. You loved how easy it felt to talk to Rafe. You silently hoped this date would never end because you could listen to him for hours.

You were about to finish the last of your champagne when your phone dinged with a text.

______, now you must make a choice: return to the villa coupled up with Rafe, or come back alone. #DiffuseTheBomb #RafeYourVoice

"Geez, this is such a hard decision!" You tapped your chin with your index finger, pretending to ponder it over.

Rafe rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You're such a goof."

"But I'm your goof," you countered, giving him a peck on the lips. "Let's go, I already know the others are gonna lose their shit when they see us together."

Rafe beamed, helping you get up from your chair and lovingly squeezing your hand while walking back to the villa.

"Deciding to couple up with Rafe was the easiest decision I've ever made in here," you said in your confessional, feeling absolutely giddy. "This feels like a dream come true. I'm so glad he's back."

You were on cloud nine. Ever since you and Rafe had officially recoupled, the two of you had become nearly inseparable, relishing any moment to chat with each other or cuddle in bed. When Rafe received a text that the Hideaway was open for him and you, you were elated at the chance to finally get some privacy with him, away from your fellow islanders.

You put great effort into ensuring every inch of you looked and smelled good for your special night with Rafe. You put on your favorite lingerie set, a cute, lacy, lavender bralette with matching panties, and covered up with a fuzzy white robe.

"Rafe is gonna die when he sees you in this," Nora complimented you, and a chorus of whoops and catcalls erupted from the other girls in the bedroom.

Your jaw dropped when you met up with Rafe. He was wearing a black silk robe that was opened up, revealing his tanned and toned chest, and gray shorts. He was so attractive it almost hurt to look at. Rafe smirked, catching you shamelessly checking him out, and ducked down to whisper in your ear.

"Can't wait to see what's under that cute little robe," he purred, sending an excited shiver through you.

You giggled coyly. "Who says you're gonna get to see anything?"

Rafe chuckled, his eyes darkening with lust. "You're trouble, you know that?"

You smirked at him. "Sounds like you like trouble."

Rafe wrapped his arm around your waist, kissing your lips before leading you to the Hideaway. The islanders hooted and hollered, with Phoebe yelling "Bye, you lovebirds!" and Miles shouting, "Use protection!"

Production had graciously left the two of y'all a collection of snacks and wine, though you were feeling too antsy to eat. Still, you obliged when Rafe fed you a chocolate-covered strawberry, feeling slightly breathless when he wiped some chocolate from your lip, licking his fingers.

The two of you idly chatted for a while before you finally disrobed, showing off your lingerie to Rafe. His eyes raked over your form, letting out a little moan. "Fuck, princess. You're so damn sexy."

You giggled, feeling shy under Rafe's hungry gaze. You straddled his lap and kissed him deeply, and Rafe soon returned the favor, letting his hands roam all over your body. He wasted no time draping the covers over the two of you, creating a sense of privacy from the cameras in the room.

Let's just say that Rafe spent the night making you feel good - really good.

"I can't wait for you to meet my family," Rafe had said to you the next morning, nuzzling your neck. "My sisters would love you, I just know it."

You beamed, gazing fondly at Rafe. "I can't wait for you to meet mine either."

You were glowing, wishing that your time with Rafe in the Hideaway would never end. The sex with Rafe had been fantastic, and you'd had some deep conversations that you'd never gotten to have in the villa. You were looking forward to visiting Rafe in the Outer Banks, meeting his friends and family, and carving a little space for yourself in his life. Maybe you were falling too fast and things would look different on the outside, but for now, you were in a bubble of bliss.

You and Rafe end up in second place at the end of Love Island. The public did love you, but they adored Phoebe and her boyfriend, Declan, just a little bit more. It didn't matter to you though. Not just because Rafe was already loaded, but because as cheesy as it sounded, getting to leave the villa with him was the real prize.

A year later, the giddy feeling of being with Rafe hadn't gone away. The two of you had moved in together a few months ago, with Rafe buying a place for the both of you in his cushy Figure Eight neighborhood. At first, you'd been intimidated, not feeling like you belonged in this big house, but as you and Rafe began to decorate the space and truly make it your own, you felt more at home.

You smiled at your boyfriend, lightly toying with his signet ring as he slept soundly in bed. His eyes fluttered open, instantly warming upon seeing your face.

"Need to get you your own ring so you stop playing with mine," he joked, his morning voice sounding deliciously raspy.

"Rafey, are you hinting at something?" you asked with playful suspicion.

Rafe casually shrugged, kissing your shoulder. "Maybe I am. Who knows?"

"All I'm saying is, '____Cameron' has a nice ring to it," you teased. Rafe groaned at your words, palming at his boxer shorts.

You let out an amused snort. "Did the thought of me taking your last name seriously get you hard?"

Rafe shrugged, grinning lazily. "Sure did. Can you help me out, Mrs. Cameron?"

You smirked, pulling down his boxer shorts and sinking to your knees. "Anything for you, Mr. Cameron."

As the two of you spent the morning tangled up in each other, you felt thankful that you took the chance and went on a silly little reality dating show.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfiction #outer banks fanfiction #tiff writes ✏️

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leeny-leens · 5 months ago

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can't stop thinking Abt Barty and Reader who were childhood best friends but as usual, Senior has to ruin every good thing Barty has, and they get engaged the summer before they go to Hogwarts. It doesn't affect them much at that point, they're children after all and it's their duty as purebloods to marry anyway. They think it's better if it's each other and not some random person they can't stand.

When they get to Hogwarts however, things change drastically for the worse, with Barty growing distant everyday until finally, it's like you'd never been friends in the first place.

He hates the engagement and is dead set on ruining it for his father because how dare he try to ruin the one good thing he had in his life by taking it and making it fit into his ideals? In his twisted logic, abandoning and hurting you is equal to getting back at his father and refusing his control.

Of course he doesn't tell you that, because Barty is the king of keeping shit bottled up, and you're left ghosting around Hogwarts wondering where the boy you love had gone and who this person wearing his face and name is.

It's even more painful to watch the boy you've loved all your life fall in love with someone who isn't you; his best friend (a title that had once been yours) Evan Rosier is the one who holds his heart.

That doesn't keep Barty from seeking you out on occasion, when the both of you are alone and you can for a moment abandon all the restrictions and stuffy standards that look over you, tension crackles like lightning between you. The air is heavy with all the words left unspoken, and there are moments when the heat is too much to bear until you find yourself entangled in one another.

As much hope as those moments give you, they're fleeting and insignificant, because Barty goes right back to ignoring your existence the next morning, as if he hadn't been whispering sickly sweet nothings into your ear the night before when he took you to your room.

#idk man #js sth abt them #leeny's writing ideas #barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch x reader #rosekiller #slytherin headcanons

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12triceratops · 1 year ago

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Where the rubber meets the road.

These two didn't just have a relationship, they had a (soul)utionship. "The Prophecy" Hand on the throttle Thought I caught lightning in a bottle...

What these two had was magical. There is no debate that Karlie Kloss and Taylor Swift were electric: (I am using past tense for the moment, I will refer to them in present tense a bit later in the post)

Fast forward a decade later to Fortnight. This record did not hit me immediately the way "Folklore" and "Evermore" did, It has almost been a week since its release and I hadn't been fully onboard with TTPD. I was expecting something different, something not familiar and I had quite literally thought maybe Jack Antinoff and Taylor Swift had reached their limit together as collaborators. The music produced by Aaron Dressner had flavors and connections to "Folklore" and "Evermore," while parts of the album was reminiscent of "1989." My next thought that maybe the three of them had done all they could do.

And then the Matty Healy conversation exploded across the net (le sigh), and I just about gave up on the record.

I damn near had a sanguinary struggle within myself over The Tortured Poets Department (I know, that is very dramatic lol), and then I finally got it. The brilliance of this woman is unmatched.

The last song "The Manuscript." Now and then she rereads the manuscript Of the entire torrid affair

"The entire torrid affair" meaning the last decade (probably longer, but I am sticking with 2014-2024). The title isn't lost on me and many others - The Man-U-Script.

The last segment of the song

The only thing that's left is the manuscript One last souvenir from my trip to your shores Now and then I reread the manuscript But the story isn't mine anymore

She is closing the chapter on all of it. It's over, the countless theories, the stories we all have created about her. They're our stories now, we built them into a formidable, monstrous entity that took on a life of its own. "The last souvenir" are her words to us on this album. From the Swifities, to the Gaylors/Kaylors, to the haters, critics, industry, fans, media. She won't play this game anymore. Taylor gave enough clues on this album to make EVERYONE'S theory plausible (Karlie, Joe, Matty, Travis, Harry, Kim etc). She connected threads to come full circle, which brings us back to "1989," that 1980s syth-pop (hello! "I Can Do It With A Broken Heart"). This is why she and Jack Antonoff brought us back to where it all began, Karlie Kloss and #Kissgate (Dianna Agron, too, who can forget "Wonderland). Aaron Dressner summons moments within this records of the two albums that fractured my soul, F & E. That folky-pop melody that gets into your skin to change the DNA. No joke, I sobbed listening to "Folklore" and "Evermore."

With TTPD, Taylor comes in like a thrashing, tumultuous storm; at times seething and others admonishing. She is singing to herself, for herself and without need of approval from the mainstream radio (or anyone else). TTPD is messy, too much, not enough, vulnerable, real, relatable and she is tired of our collective shit.

Back to "The Manuscript" This Era has come to an end and she is leaving us with the ruins, the aftermath of what she went through: being forced to hide who she really is, having to placate the rabid fans who believe the stories of every boy she has ever dated. She has had zero privacy and the only safe place Taylor has ever had was her music, she is the ONLY one who knows to whom she sings. Does she love her fans, of course, but Mother is tired and done. She is ready to come clean and live the life she has crafted to keep in secret in order to protect the innocent.

The beards, NDAs, slight of hand, she is smashing all that we know. It's not her reflection she seeks to shatter, it's the illusions. In "Fortnight" the nurse, a woman (cannot convince me that it's not Karlie. A doorframe is 6'8" and that nurse is about 5" shorter that frame, which would make that person 6'3" :), comes to save her, gives her the key to set her free. The men in the video are the ones who are torturing her. Like the last 10 years, The poet has been tortured by the department of men: Joe, John, Conner, Jake, Harry, Calvin, Tom, Joe, Matty, Travis, Scooter, Scott, and the list goes on.

It's "Robin" that has got a choke-hold on me.

Buried down deep And out of your reach The secret we all vowed To keep it from you in sweetness

She is singing to a child, a kid, and I am going to say a little boy. Is this song about Levi? I am going to say yes. Hands down the gem of the album, and our cue to realize she is telling us what is next, her family, the loves of her life: Karlie and the kids. That is what she wants and that will be her next chapter. We struggle to interpret the Taylor that is always ten steps ahead of us. Her Eras Tour, this will be the last one for a while. Once it has wrapped, I wouldn't be surprised if she disappeared for a spell. Will she produce more work, sure. Perform, probably, but this last decade has taken a toll, and this tour has been a herculean effort. Hence, its wild success. Could she retire (FLORIDA)? It's possible, but she would never tell us, we would have to figure that out for ourselves.

I have more to say, but it's late and I am sleepy. As I get lost in the piano of "The Manuscript" I am reminded of the book "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo"

Not sure if anyone is going to see or read this, but I needed a place to write my thoughts about this extraordinary album that I almost let slip through my fingers. Good night and sleep well everyone <3

#taylor swift #karlie kloss #the tortured poets department #matty healy #gaylor #kaylor #jack antonoff #aaron dessner #1989 era #the eras tour

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mochinomnoms · 2 years ago

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The Private (not) Thoughts of a Moray

Gender Neutral Reader x Jade Leech

Synopsis: In theory, telepathy is a great power that can help the person understand the other better, learn dark secrets, or just be a little nosey. In your case, though, theory doesn’t always reflect reality. Slowly turning your head to the source of the (tremendously) loud thought, you saw the infamous Vice Housewarden of Octavinelle, Jade Leech. A polite, yet inscrutable smile on his face, Jade’s thoughts betrayed his nonchalant facade. Aaaaaaaah! I’m sitting in front of Y/N! I just wanna turn around and stare. Aaaaah! Little pearl, your voice is so cute, talk some more! Y/N’s class introduction…their voice was… really cute. Their moans are probably really cute too. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit how the hell do I turn this off??? Loosely based on “Mousou Telepathy”

a03 link

spotify playlist

fanart: @nefe-kav (1/2/3/4/5/6)

[cw] – sexual humor and innuendos

[tags] – fluff, sexual humor, slightly aged-up characters, slow burn, mutual pining, more tags to follow

Edited 2/19/2024: added accompanying playlist and added all chapters with their titles

Chapter List:

chapter 1: I wonder if you look both ways (when you cross my mind)

chapter 2: I love you means you're never, ever, ever getting rid of me!

chapter 3: They say it’s gotten out of hand, and I’m obsessed with you

chapter 4: This thing called love, I just can’t handle it

chapter 5: I wanna go on walks with you, I wanna have long talks with you

chapter 6: I'm feeling blessed by a curse

chapter 7: No matter what they say, You'll never meet another me [PENDING]

chapter 8: Baby, you're like lightning in a bottle

chapter 9: Bhfuilis soranna sorcha, Ach tagais 'nós na hoíche

chapter 10: Before the dawn has come, I'd block the sun (If you want it done)

chapter 11: Son of Nyx (and thoughts of a moray)

chapter 12: Perfection is so quick to bore

chapter 13: My heart, I never be, I never see, I never know

chapter 14: You were steerin' my heart like a wheel in your hands (Turn back, darling)

chapter 15: I can hear your thoughts light a melody

#twst #twisted wonderland #jade leech #twst jade #jade leech x reader #jade leech x yuu #mochi masterlist #the private thoughts (not) of a moray #ptm

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zeke-fanfucs · 2 months ago

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Title: “The Hollow Star”

Original Universe | Heavy Angst | Mad Crow Torment | Kamor Breakdown | Featuring Albus being a big brother.

⸻

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that swallowed even the breath in your lungs, leaving you hollow. Cold.

Kamor sat on the fraying mat he called a bed, knees pulled to his chest, fingers twitching over old scars only he could feel. The dim glow of the Springrock moons spilled through the cracks in the metal wall, dancing like ghosts over his trembling form.

“They don’t need you.”

Mad Crow’s voice slithered in.

Kamor flinched.

“Not really. You know that, right? You’re baggage. A broken little thing that talks with their eyes and bleeds guilt like a faucet.”

“Stop,” Kamor whispered, voice hoarse and raw.

“But you asked for the truth,” Mad Crow crooned. “And I’m so glad you did.”

The darkness around him pulsed—then cracked.

Visions hit him like fists.

⸻

Hipswitch.

His optics flickering violently, body half-shattered and sparking on the ground.

Calling Kamor’s name, choking on oil and static.

“You’re supposed to be my partner!”

“You promised!”

And Kamor couldn’t move—could only watch as someone crushed his cowboy’s skull underfoot, laughing.

⸻

Mahatma.

Pinned to the wall, bruised and bloodied, trying to protect a child clinging to his coat.

“I can fix this, Kamor—just please, don’t let them touch him—!”

A scream. A white light.

Then nothing.

—

Albus.

His face twisted in rage, in grief, in heartbreak.

Standing in a field of ash, holding a body Kamor couldn’t recognize until it sagged lifeless in his arms.

“They died for you.”

“I should’ve let you rot.”

And Albus threw a bottle of whiskey at Kamor’s feet, shattering like glass stars.

⸻

Kamor screamed, hands ripping at his hair, nails digging into his scalp like he could claw the visions out. His breath came in ragged, broken sobs.

“MAKE IT STOP!” he howled. “I DIDN’T MEAN—”

“But you did,” Mad Crow whispered.

“You always do.”

Blood filled Kamor’s mouth—he hadn’t realized he bit through his lip. His nails had broken skin. He was shaking violently, hiccupping through helpless sobs that rattled in his chest like dying birds.

“No one gets out alive, sweetheart,” Mad Crow said sweetly. “Especially not the cursed.”

And Kamor knew.

He knew this wasn’t a warning.

It was a promise.

⸻

Kamor screamed into the pillow until his throat broke. It was the kind of scream that left claw marks on the soul, the kind that didn’t stop echoing even after his mouth went silent.

Lightning cracked across his skin.

Bright, searing veins of power flickered along his arms, racing up his neck, his jaw—his eyes blew white-hot for a split second, then dimmed with a sizzle and the smell of ozone. His body spasmed with each surge, like his own energy didn’t want to be inside him.

Zap.

He was back in his room.

He could feel the threadbare blanket under his fingertips.

Crack.

He was back in the visions. Blood. Screams. Them dying. Always him watching.

Snap.

He was floating above his body. Trapped in a limbo between reality and the illusion Mad Crow fed him with silver tongues and poisoned sugar.

“You’re a walking curse,”

“A failed experiment,”

“A timebomb with a pretty face and a heart made for hurting.”

“Shut up,” Kamor gasped. His voice cracked. “Shut up shut up shut up—”

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

His pillow was soaked with tears and spit and a trail of blood from where he’d bitten through his tongue. His fingers dug into the mattress like he could ground himself, anchor himself, but his body just kept trembling. Sparks jumped from his fingertips to the walls—zapping the lights, charring the ceiling.

He could hear Mad Crow laughing.

Laughing like thunder.

Laughing like war.

Then—

Bang.

The door.

Was that real?

Or just another game?

Kamor curled tighter, lightning twitching across his back. His body flickered in and out of focus, phasing slightly, like reality itself was rejecting him. Like he didn’t belong here.

All he could do was cry into the pillow.

A scared, lonely cry.

The door creaked open.

Kamor didn’t look.

He couldn’t look.

Not when he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating again. Not when Mad Crow could easily conjure another version of someone he loved just to mock him.

But the figure didn’t speak.

Didn’t move fast or try to drag him into another nightmare

Just…

Sat.

The bed dipped beside him. The mattress springs groaned in quiet protest. And even though Kamor kept his arms around his head like a shield, he felt it. That quiet heat of a body that had known cold for too long. That weight that grounded more than gravity.

A calloused hand hesitated, hovered just above his shoulder—then gently touched down. Solid. Real.

Kamor peeked up through tear-blurred eyes.

It was Albus.

Just Albus.

Rough face. Tired eyes. Streak of dried blood on his temple. That stupid dented metal flask strapped to his hip. And shoulders that carried wars no one ever asked about.

Albus didn’t say anything.

Kamor twitched once.

Then twice.

And the third time… he broke.

A quiet sob escaped, then another, and then his whole body was crumbling into Albus’s side like he’d been waiting years for this—this moment of proof that something real still existed.

Albus just wrapped an arm around his trembling frame and pulled him close.

No words.

No pressure.

Only breath. Weight. Warmth.

And then… silence broke like ice.

Kamor’s hand curled into Albus’s sleeve, tugging faintly.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something—anything—but no sound came. Only that look.

That same hollow look Albus had seen in the mirror years ago when he lost everything. When he left the family thinking it was for the best. A heart that still bled in places no medkit could touch.

Kamor’s eyes were asking:

Why am I here? Why me? Why this time? Why this life?

Albus exhaled.

A hand came to rest on the back of Kamor’s neck. Firm. Calloused. Reassuring.

“Don’t fall into the void, whelp.”

It wasn’t poetic.

It wasn’t tender.

But it was honest.

A tether. A promise.

“You go there, you might not come back. And if you don’t come back…” Albus swallowed. His jaw clenched. “Then we all go under with you.”

Kamor’s grip on his sleeve tightened, knuckles white.

He buried his face into Albus’s chest. Sobs muffled, but deep—ripping up from the ribs. The kind that said thank you and I’m scared and please don’t let me disappear.

Albus shifted to cradle him properly. Like he’d done for Devlin once in a ship while they searched for the child Faithful went out to rescue. Like he’d never had the chance to do for Faithful when she thought he died.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he muttered. “Or who dropped you off in this twisted timeline.”

“But I know this…” Albus leaned down, pressed his forehead against Kamor’s. “You got people now. Hipswitch, Mahatma, me. You ain’t drifting alone anymore.”

Kamor blinked, eyes still burning.

Lightning flickered faintly over his collarbone but didn’t crack this time

Didn’t hurt.

Just hummed.

A small spark.

Like maybe—

Maybe—

The void hadn’t swallowed him whole just yet.

#BROTHERS #THEY ARE BROTHERS #IM CRYING #YES #GIVE MY BOY SOME TRAUMA #I LOVE THEM #MY BABIES #goodboyaudios #gba bvz #bastard vs zombies #goodboyaudios albus #goodboyaudios karmor #ANGST #depressing shit #HERES TISSUES

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lightningskipper-blog · 2 months ago

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Thunderbolts MCU fic

So I saw Thunderbolts recently and I might have ended up doing a thing.

Have some Bucky/John Walker shameless smut fic.

Title: Step One: Team Building

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65463061

Rating: NSFW, mind the tags.

Pairing: John Walker/Bucky Barnes

Description:

Bucky's first thought when Starr gets impatient and blows the door early is: "Steve made this look easy." The second thought, as both Shostakov and Walker charge in like bulls competing for the only china shop in town, is: "We need to pick a leader before someone gets killed." The Avengers are lightning in a bottle. And it turns out the New Avengers, Thunderbolts, whatever, aren't the second coming. Their next time out the gate already goes to hell barely half-way into the mission.

#bucky barnes #john walker #thunderbolts #marvel #mcu #ao3 fanfic #my fic #winteragent #winterwalker #us agent #ao3 #winter soldier

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hazbinshusk · 1 year ago

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prompt #13: a kiss on the chest combined with a hurt/comfort request from @jx3-xd for the reader comforting husk during a storm when they find him unable to cope thanks to his feline side. 1.6k

Thunder rumbles through the walls of the hotel, and you draw your sweater closer around yourself against the surprising chill the storm has brought with it. Weather in Hell wasn’t exactly pleasant, but at least storms were usually few and far between, even if the risk of lightning strike was so much higher. This is the first storm you’ve experienced since joining the inhabitants of the hotel, and it’s been months now since you moved in.

You sidestep a cackling Niffty as she skitters past with a bucket in his hand, apparently stirred into further excitement by the storm. Charlie and Vaggie are currently assessing the windows that line the front of the hotel, concerned about how they’re holding up against the apple-sized hail now beating against them, and Angel is sprawled across one of the sofas, a trembling Fat Nuggets curled tightly in his lap.

“Shh,” the porn star coos comfortingly, stroking a gloved hand over the piglet’s back. “’s okay, Nugs. It’s just a storm.”

You cast a glance towards the bar as you take a seat on the opposite sofa, surprised to see it empty. “Hey. Where’s Husk?”

“Good question,” Vaggie says dryly as she approaches the two of you, wiping her hands with a rag from the bar. There’s a small puddle of murky water seeping under the front door, and Charlie leaps away from it in alarm, running to collect a mop. “It’d be nice if some of you could help with all this.”

She raises an eyebrow at the two of you expectantly, and Angel holds up the two hands not currently comforting his piglet. You notice then the quivering form of KeeKee underneath the couch. “Sorry, toots. Got my hands full here.”

On cue, thunder sounds again, shaking the windows in their frames. The piglet lets out a frightened squeal, burying himself further against Angel’s stomach. Vaggie turns her attention on you, folding her arms over her chest.

You grimace, fumbling for an excuse. It’s not that you didn’t care, it was just… you only got so many days off, y’know?”

“Why don’t I see if I can track down Husk?” you suggest, jerking your thumb over your shoulder towards the stairs. “You’re… gonna need someone with wings to check the windows on the higher levels.”

“Uh-huh.” Vaggie deadpans dryly, and you pointedly avoid Angel’s eye as he smirks at you before you turn on your heel and hurry back up the stairs.

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

“Husk?” you knock lightly on the door to his room, the sound drowned out by the latest rumble of thunder. You try again, rapping your knuckles more firmly against the wood. “Husk? You in there?”

There’s still no response, but you notice the door isn’t fully closed, swinging in slightly as you knock. You hesitate for a moment uncertainly; you know just how private the bartender is, and entering his room feels like an intrusion, an invasion of his boundaries. Still, the door being open brings the first spike of concern up inside you, and against your better judgement you push the door open slowly.

“Husk?”

The room is depressingly bare, the bed dressed with the hotel bedding and the walls bare of personal decoration. Even the half-open wardrobe seems almost completely empty. If it weren’t for the half-empty whiskey bottle by the bed and the few beaten novels stacked on top of the dresser, you might not have had a sign someone lived in that room at all. You pause long enough to read the titles printed along the spines –And Then There Were None… A Study in Scarlet… Devil in a Blue Dress…

You run your fingers over the embossed letters on one of them before turning back to the rest of the room. No Husk.

“Husk?”

A noise catches your attention and draws it to the bathroom.

“Hey, I’m sorry for busting into your room, but Vaggie’s all stressed out because of the storm and—” you come to a stop as you enter the bathroom, your brow furrowing. “Husk? What’s wrong?”

The cat is squeezed the space between the toilet and the wall, his whole body curled tightly in on itself. Even in the low light cast from his bedroom you can see that he’s shaking, his eyes wide and his fur standing on end. His ears are pinned back tightly against his skull, and you come to a stop as he hisses warningly, low in his throat.

“Woah,” you hold up your hands pacifyingly. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Husk, it’s just me.”

A growl vibrates through him as you take another careful step towards him, hands still raised. He blinks after a minute, brow furrowing.

“Shit…” he breathes, pressing himself further back against the corner of the tiles. Embarrassment floods his features, his claws clutching at the end of his tail. “Shit, I’m sorry, I—”

Another crash of thunder blasts overhead, and you can hear the windows in the main room rattle. Husk yowls, fangs bared, trying to force himself further back into the cramped little space he’s sandwiched himself into. More feathers fall from his wings to litter the floor.

“Woah, okay…” you say reassuringly, and you can see the terror warring with shame on his face. “It’s okay, honey, I get it… you’re okay.”

Husk lets out a sound that’s something akin to a whimper, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. The furrow between his brows is deep, his body quivering against the tiles.

“Just…” you glance over your shoulder, swallowing. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

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

You manage to avoid the other residents long enough to make a couple of trips to your own room, collecting armfuls of blankets and pillows and dragging them back to Husk’s quarters. You can still hear him hiss at each rumble of thunder as you tug the doors of his wardrobe open and push the few items hanging to the side.

Arranging the bedding into a nest within the cramped space of the closet takes only minutes, but coaxing Husk out of the bathroom takes much longer, and eventually you just have to make do with climbing into the closet yourself and waiting, humming kind and reassuring words until he finally climbs into the nest beside you, still shaking.

Husk curls in on himself, flinching with the next crash of thunder. You can feel him quivering, feel his fear, and you tug the doors almost all the way closed, until the two of you are wrapped in comforting shadows. Husk relaxes ever so slightly, and its with the next roll of thunder you feel him press into your side.

Wrapping you arm carefully around his shoulders, you let him rest there, stroking your fingertips through the fur between his ears. Husk exhales shakily as you do, and despite the way he still shudders, you can feel his muscles so slowly start to relax.

“’s okay, baby,” you murmur, letting your fingers continue down the back of his neck. Husk hesitates before he wraps an arm around your waist, burying his face against your chest. His wing curls around his shoulder, his tail wrapped tightly around his own ankle. “You’re okay.”

“Fuckin’ embarrassing…” he mutters into your shirt, but you hush him again gently.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him, tucking your chin between his ears. Husk sighs into your chest. “You should see me around heights.”

He hums what could almost be a laugh, the sound broken by his still shaking breath. The two of you stay like that in some kind of limbo, and while he still jerks with each rumble from the sky above, he doesn’t growl or hiss. Instead, you just feel him settle further into your embrace, your fingers still mapping a slow, repetitive path through his fur.

“You didn’t have to do this, doll.” he murmurs after a while, bumping his muzzle up against the underside of your jaw. It makes your heart jump in your chest, and you smile softly.

“Sure, I did.” you tell him. “I wasn’t gonna just leave you alone. Besides, you’re getting me out of helping downstairs.”

Husk hums a broken chuckle, nuzzling deeper against you despite himself. Your face warms as you feel his lips press against your sternum through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Thank you, baby.”

“You’re welcome, Husk.” you say softly, and he shudders as your fingers find the fur at the base of his neck.

“What’s that?”

You follow his gaze down to the book set beside your thigh. You shrug the shoulder he isn’t leaning against. “I wasn’t sure how long a storm like this would last… or if you’d want me to stay. So, I… it’s one of yours.”

He assesses the cover through golden eyes as you lift up The Devil in The Blue Dress. “It’s a good one. Have you read it?”

You shake your head.

“You should.”

A soft smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you feel his nose brush against your sternum again, and you set the book against your opposite knee, opening to the first page. The soft sound of your voice as you begin to read aloud does nothing to drown out the next wave of thunder, but this time, he doesn’t tense or jump, just stays curled comfortably against your side.

“I was surprised to see a white man walk into Joppy’s bar. It’s not just that he was white, but he wore an off-white linen suit and shirt with a Panama straw hat and bone shoes over flashing white silk socks. His skin was smooth and pale with just a few freckles. One lick of strawberry-blonde hair…”

send me a prompt and either husk or blitzø

#husk #husk x reader #husk hazbin hotel #husk fic #my fic #hazbin hotel husk #husk fanfiction #husk fanfic #husk posting #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel

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missbluez · 3 months ago

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I need you like God needs the Devil Pt.1/3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Ao3

Title song

“If you run, you’ll run right back again.”

He’s back.

You try your best not to stare at him, but that always proves to be difficult.

His towering and burly figure dwarfs everything around him. The skull balaclava covering his face does nothing but enhance the mysteriously terrifying aura that surrounds him. The first day he came into the store, you thought for a solid five minutes that you were going to get robbed, your heart threatening to beat right out of your chest. But when he had approached you, a pack of water bottles and a six-pack of beer in hand, you had calmed down.

You barely spoke a word to him, swiftly ringing his items up. He handed you a bill and grumbled something before he went on his way. It was a very short interaction, but it wasn’t the last time you saw him. Every night since, he comes into the store, buys a couple of things and then leaves. Your conversations are merely transactional, he barely says enough for you to discern that he’s got a British accent. All in all, he isn’t the weirdest person that comes in, considering the part of town the store is located in. You only accepted the job because it pays almost triple the salary that other stores like it in other parts of town would, and you need the money.

This time is different, he lingers inside the store, slowly walking through the aisles. He’s never spent more than five minutes inside the store, you keep on watching the clock, minutes passing as he walks to the back. It’s been eight minutes. You try distracting yourself by reorganising the candy bars that are placed behind the till. That’s when you hear someone coming into the store, you turn around to greet the new customer, but you are shocked to see a gun pointed at you.

You freeze, blinking slowly as your brain catches up to your situation.

The guy behind the gun looked twitchy, like a drug addict jonesing for his next dose. – Which makes sense, you think, only someone like that would be desperate enough to try an rob a shitty little convenience store – his dirty blonde hair wet and stuck to his forehead, his eerily blue eyes blown out.

You know he’s saying something to you, but you can barely hear it over the sound of your heartbeat and your breathing quickening. Your hands are up next to your sides. Money. He wants money, so you slowly reach forward and open the till. You started your shift two hours ago, but since it’s the night shift and a Monday, there’s barely anything in it. You gather the bills, less than four hundred dollars and shove them towards the guy. When you look back up, you spot Skullface (that’s the nickname you had so graciously given him since he always has that thing on his face) walking towards you. The guy pointing a gun at you doesn’t even notice him, so you look away from him and back into the guy’s shaking hands.

Your mind can barely catch up when a blur of black moves at what seems like lightning speed, disarming the robber with quick, efficient moves. By the time the guy can react, Skullface already has the gun pointed at his temple. The guy tries to defend himself, but Skullface just hits him on the side of his face with the weapon, making him fall to the ground, blood running down his face.

You’re just standing there, staring, frozen. The money is still clutched in your hand, the bills are now crumpled and slightly damp, and you’re sweating nervously. You should probably snap out of it and call the cops or something, but you can’t move as you watch your would-be assailant get his ass handed to him.

You had your suspicions about Skullface being some sort of military man. Well, he seemed more like a mercenary or a murder for hire type of guy to you, but you aren’t an expert in that sort of thing.

The guy is on the floor, trying to drag himself away from Skullface’s unforgiving strikes. The sound of his nose breaking is what takes you out of your stupor. your hands shakily reach for the emergency button, which would alert the authorities, and they would be here in less than ten minutes.

When you look back up, you see that the guy is now passed out cold on the floor. Skullface starts getting closer to you, walking behind the counter. For a second, you’re scared you might meet the same fate as the robber as his hulking form grabs your arms, but that thought is quickly dismissed as he lowers himself to be at your eye level. He places the weapon in your hands.

“He’s not going to wake up any time soon, but just in case, I can’t be here when the coppers show up.” his piercing eyes are looking at your shaking form.

“O-okay”, you say, staring at him.

The sound of the police sirens can be heard in the background, the noise getting louder as they approach the store.

“The name’s Simon, darling.”

That’s the last thing he says before he swiftly leaves. Just a minute after he is gone, a police unit parks in front of the store. Two armed officers burst into the store, guns pointed forward. They can barely hide their shock as they see the bloodied man lying on the floor and you nervously holding the gun. You are scared that they might misunderstand the situation.

“I-I´m the cashier! He walked in with this gun and demanded I g-give him all the money. A-a customer defended me…he…he was he one that did that.” You ramble as you point at the unconscious man. “There’s only one camera here, but it’s above the till, and it will show I didn’t …uh..do that.”

The officers just stare at you for a few seconds before one of them kneels down and checks on the unconscious guy. he seems satisfied when he cuffs his arms behind his back, and that seems to wake him up,

It took around an hour for the officers to properly get your testimony; you also gave them a copy of the camera feed. They told you that they would contact you if they needed you, but that it seemed like an open and shut case,

You didn’t tell them anything about Skullface —Well. Simon - you know his name now which feels quite strange to you, it made him seem more approachable even though it could always be a fake name– he didn’t seem like he wanted to be involved with the police, and since the camera only recorded above the till it only shows a big hand yanking the robber by the collar of his shirt while you stand there frozen. You doubt that he will be back, but you wanted to thank him somehow.

After the police leave, you reach for your phone. You had contacted your boss shortly after the police showed up, She’s an old lady that owns the small store and that completely trusted you with it. You had told her what happened and told her that after the cops left, you’d meddage her back. But before you have the chance to send a message, you see that she has sent a few herself.

(00:35)I hope you’re okay, sweet girl.

(00:35)When you’re done with the cops, just close up and go home Take a few days off. You went through a truly terrifying thing,

(00:37)Don’t worry about the money. I’ll still pay you for the rest of the day and however many days you’re off.

(00:40)I will call you tomorrow to check on you.

You sigh relieved. The adrenaline is wearing off and you suddenly feel like throwing yourself on bed and crying yourself to sleep.

You gather your things and do the essential closing tasks. The store is a mess, but that is something you would deal with in three days.

As you lock the store, you remember that the buses aren’t running anymore at this hour. you doubt you’d find an Uber at this time on a Monday, but you still check, Nada. You groan, you’re on the verge of tears, your apartment isn’t that far away, but you still don’t feel like walking for thirty minutes at this time after the day you’ve had. You feel the coolness of the glass door on your forehead as you repeatedly hit your head on the door trying to figure out what to do. Your eyes shoot open when you feel something soft between your head and the door. It’s a gloved hand. When you look up, your heartbeat picks up again. It’s Simon.

“I don’t reckon that’s going to help much”, he says, and you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice despite not being able to see it on his face.

“Simon,” you say breathlessly, and if you were in a more stable state of mind, you might feel embarrassed at the way his name falls from your lips, like a prayer, like a plea from a helpless soul. He seems slightly taken aback at the softness of it, you don’t notice it, he is far too well-trained to let his emotions show in such a way.

It’s all too raw, especially for two people who have barely exchanged pleasantries. But there’s something between you, one might call it a spark because it feels like that. Electric.

He hasn’t responded yet, so you just continue,

“I wanted to thank you for earlier. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.” You look up at his eyes – the only part of his face that isn’t covered– they’re sharp and attentive as they take you in.

“No problem, love.” He replies with a quick nod. “I know the buses aren’t running anymore. I will walk you home if you’d like,” he says, one of his hands waving towards the empty bus stop a few meters away.

You probably shouldn’t accept. You previously suspected that he was a dangerous man, but you know what he’s capable of. Taking him right to where you live seems to be the worst thing you can do. But you don’t really care as you nod at him.

Usually, you wear your headphones but don’t play anything because god forbid you’re listening to music on your way home and some sleazy asshole takes it as his chance to do something to you. You have gotten used to carrying some sort of self-defense tool in your bag, but you have never felt safe on your trips from and back to your apartment.

And it might be a stupid notion, but you do feel safe as you walk next to his tall, menacing figure. There’s no one in the streets yet, but you doubt that anyone would say anything with him next to you, you aren’t used to feeling like this.

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If people like it I might add a couple parts so don't hesitate to comment your opinion!

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #angst with a happy ending

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