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rememberwren · 1 year ago

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Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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gguk-n · 9 months ago

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Hello!! I was wondering if you could please write a redbull driver with multiple wdc x platonic grid

But the older drivers like max Charles Lewis lando etc get jealous of her constantly being with the younger ones like franco kimi and Ollie all fluff n funny n fans going crazy bout their jealousy

Thank you

Rivals of the Track

{Reader's POV}

It was the Azerbaijan GP, Kevin wouldn't be racing so Ollie had replaced him for the race. He was this tall lanky British teen who rightfully corrected me saying that he was an adult now, he was funny. Ollie was with his best friend Kimi, who had come to support him for the race. I found their friendship endearing and reminded me of my best friend who would try to come to as many races as she could. The other drivers would argue about who my best friend was, but I knew who my best friend was and it was Y/BFF/N.

"Y/N, did you colour your hair?" Kimi asked. "You can tell?" I asked slightly shocked, "I just went for a lighter shade of burgundy than the last time" I elaborated. "Yeah, you look prettier" Ollie chimed. "Thank you. You boys are so sweet, unlike some people I know" I said looking at the other drivers who were stood a few feet away who were very confused when I asked them if anything was different about me. "You're always pretty" Franco added. "Okay, okay, flattery will only get you so far" I laughed. "We're being honest. Having some one as talented and beautiful on the grid that we can learn from is an honour" Kimi said solemnly. "Okay, is there a body you boys wanna hide?" I asked laughing. They laughed back.

"Can you introduce us to Lewis?" Franco whispered while we were stood there waiting for the media interviews. "Sure" I said. "He's so cool and we aren't sure if he'll talk to us" The other two boys added. "Oh, no, my babies, he's a sweetheart. You could just walk up to him and start talking. I was scared of him when I first joined too but we're pretty good friends" I explained. The 3 boys smiled at me, nodding in agreement.

Every time I would be talking to these 3, trying to make them feel at home like all the times the others did, I could feel eyes on me. I wasn't sure why they were all glaring at me.

I was doing my post quali media after qualifying P4. "So, what a race? Are you expecting a win or a podium?" The interviewer asked. "Obviously going to go for the win, podium isn't too far away either, let's see, I have a Ferrari and a McLaren to fight off though" I laughed. "We've seen you hanging around with the younger drivers, do they remind you of your rookie days?" she asked. "Yes, they are so nervous and scared but full of energy. They are fun to hang out with too" I said. "Does this mean you find the older drivers boring?" she prodded. "Never said that" I tsked. "I'm just trying to make them feel at home" I said. "Well, the fans are eating your interactions up. They find it so cute, you're like the mother duck and they are your ducklings" she said. "I wouldn't say that they are wrong" I chuckled. "I interviewed your teammate Max a while back and he didn't seem too pleased with your blossoming friendship. Why is that so?" the interviewer pointed out. "We're all competitive. I guess they are competitive about friends too" I shrugged. "It was nice talking to you, can't wait to watch you on the podium" she stated. I smiled and talked away.

I met the others in my drivers room. "I think this is a confidentiality breech to have all the other teams here" I laughed. "We're staging an intervention" Max stated. "For what? I don't have an addiction" I pointed out. "Since we're losing our bestie" Lando said. I couldn't help but laugh, "Who?" I asked. "You, you dumbass" Charles said. I sat on the chair that was unoccupied. "What's up my fellow drivers?" I asked. "We aren't only your fellow drivers, we're best friends" Lewis said. "Arguable but okay" I shrugged. "Are we not best friends?" Daniel fake cried. "My best friend is Y/BFF/n. You guys, I tolerate at best" I laughed. I could see all them visibly pout. "We don't like it" they said in unison. "What do you not like?" I asked. "You hanging out with the younger drivers or that we aren't best friends. Are we too old for you?" Carlos asked. "I'm as old as you guys. They just remind me of my siblings, they are like my ducklings and I'm their mother duck" I chuckled reminded of the analogy. "So, you aren't replacing us?" Oscar quipped. "Obviously not, they are my children. You guys are my friends" I said face palming myself. "Group hug?" Yuki asked and then we all huddled together. "What about us being best friends?" Max asked. "Still Y/BFF/N. I don't feel like a girl when I'm around you guys, she reminds me. We all have something special, we're competitors and friends" I said. They all seemed to nod in agreement.

After an abysmal race, I was laying in my hotel room going through twitter when I saw people talking about how I had taken the younger drivers under my wing and how they would follow me around like lost puppies while you could see the others stare daggers at them. At some point in the weekend, Max did almost carry me away from them, out of jealousy it seems and the gif was circulating all over the internet. I laughed at the tweets, my friends can get jealous, they would be jealous when I hang out with Y/BFF/N but I do need a get away from all the testosterone, but they are nice people, just bad at communicating.

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d3stinyist1red · 10 months ago

Note

MORE YAN EX NOW ‼️‼️🗣️🗣️

FEAST MODE ACTIVATED, #HUNGRY, FEED ME MORE DOT COM ‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🗣️

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴇx x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ 𝟸!

yan ex who is finally ur friend again even though he thinks u guys are back together

yan ex who now suggests a sleep over at your house, at first you decline but he says he just wants to talk about his life and like wants to vent to you

yan ex who you say yes to bc u knew that mf had no friends since when he was in a relationship with you, he would only hang out with you and panic when you hung out with some other than him

yan ex who brings his hello kittys pj's and hello kitty blanket, as you wore ur batman pjs and had your batman blanket

yan ex who literally is never gonna beat the 'obsessive crazy hello kitty fan' allegations

Yan ex who wanted to strip you down so bad when he saw you in your batman pjs like he WOULD AND WILL be ur cat woman to your batman he swears🤞🤞

yan ex who volunteers to help you with anything, whether it be setting up snacks, making food, cleaning dishes literally anything

yan ex who sits and is way too close to you, his thigh touching yours, his fingers brushing against your waist

yan ex who is hyper focused on your every move, finding you absolutely perfect. He was sure he was gonna have you back in his arms

yan ex who is now touching you the whole time, playfully slapping your shoulder and giggling like a middle schooler girl with a crush whenever you tell him a corny ass batman joke, literally biting his lip and tryna hold back from pouncing on you as he rubbed his thighs together to get more friction

yan ex who stays up late to just talk with you, hand around your hips as his head was laying on your stomach.

yan ex who watches you sleep and immediately starts snapping pics of you, knowing he was gonna beat his meat to you later

yan ex who hugs you the whole night, wanting to put your titty in his mouth and suck on it like a baby

yan ex who is a total pervert, the next day after the sleep over he is even more handsy with you, touching your everywhere his hands could land on

yan ex who wants you to cum all over his face, wanting his mouth to be stuffed with your creamy milk

yan ex who at this point, NEEDS to be locked up like he is as freaky as Kevin Gates💀💀🙏🙏

yan ex who you confront,

"Why are you getting all handsy with me? We barely made up." You glared at him as he was ready to start panting like a dog and drool. "Hng...ba-baby? What'cha talking about? We was never done. We never broke up, baby."

yan ex who is never letting you go now

NO MORE REQUESTS TAKEN CHAT

#yandere x reader #yanderemalexreader #soft yandere #clingy yandere #tw yandere #yandere blog #yandere boyfriend #yandere x darling #yandere male #yandere #destinys worksss<333

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witchygagirlwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Let Me Decide

Hank Voight x Reader

You're a lot younger than Hank, hell you should've never looked his way considering you work at firehouse 51 and yet you couldn't resist the sergeant of the intelligence unit. When a bad day happens you take your back and forth with him into your own hands.

You hopped out of the ambulance, grabbing your med bag and looking over at Sylvie. You hated responding to a shooting because you never knew just what the hell you were walking into. Especially when intelligence was involved.

The two of you met the patrolman that was covering the outside of the house “Well I hope no one is dying considering none of you seem to be in a god awful rush” you told him and saw Sylvie smirk slightly. He shook his head “No ma'am. Sergeant Voight just wanted one of his detectives checked out along with the perp before rolling out”

You rolled your eyes “Always a pleasure to act as his personal rolling clinic” “Well if it isn't my favorite Paramedic” You glanced up the steps to see Voight himself standing in the threshold of the house.

You hated how damn attracted you were to him. He was quite a bit older than you, his son Justin was just a couple years behind you in high school. He had a hell of a reputation in Chicago and around your station house. He did things his own way and sometimes, well most of the time those ways were less than morally north.

But he also ran the most successful unit in the CPD. The men and women under him were your friends. He worked non-stop no matter the case and no matter the background of the victim. He may be a little more on the grey side of the moral scale but the results spoke for themselves. He went at every one the same. Brown eyes, that damn gravel filled voice that went straight through you and that fucking smirk that drove you bat shit every time you had to respond to a call he was at.

“Hello to you too Voight. I see you're fine so which of your detectives got hurt?” You asked, walking up to meet him. He held open the door, letting Sylvie in first then his eyes trailed over you “Ruzek rolled his ass up chasing the perp. I need to see if a trip to med is needed”

You shook your head “Ok then, show us to them”

You were sitting at the bar in Mollys eyeing the most recent concoction Herrman had sat in front of you, Cruz, Jay and Adam. “Boys, I don't think this is a case of ladies first. Besides if either of you go down don't you want me still standing to render aid?” You asked, looking between them.

Adam shrugged and tipped the green liquid back, grimacing slightly but then he shrugged “Not that bad actually”

You watched him for a second before saying “Fuck it” and tipped back your own shot. You saw why he grimaced. It was very limey but for one of Herrmans mixes it was good. “Not bad” you nodded so Jay and Cruz followed after you.

Cruz motioned to Herrman for another round. Adam cut his eyes at Jay who shook his head. “Ok detectives. What was that about?” You asked, seeing Jay shoot Adam a glare before Adam turned to face you, leaning one arm on the bar “What's with you and Voight?”

“What do you mean?” You asked, looking between him and Jay. Cruz laughed “She's a little oblivious fellas” you spun around to face him and he threw his hands up “I think I just heard Kelly call me…from the other side of the bar”

“Coward” you called after him before leveling Jay with a look “Halstead” he punched Adam's arm before saying “You and him flirt…like a lot.”

“I do not flirt with Voight” you argued, feeling your face warm. Adam nodded slowly “Yeah, Sure ya don't. And he doesn't get pissy when we have to roll an ambo any time it's not your shift so that means he hasn't gotten to see you”

“What?” You laughed and Jay shrugged “Just an observation” “about what?” Kevin asked as him, Hailey and Kim joined the three of you. “Voight's thing for her”

Your mouth fell open at Adam's answer but then Kevin nodded “Oh yeah. It's hilarious when we work a scene with fifty one. Ain't never seen Voight get dog walked before then”

“Oh my god. I do not!” You gasped and Kim patted your back “Honey, ya kinda do”

You shook your head “For fucks sake. You six are like kids trying to get your dad a date” Hailey shrugged “Maybe he'd get in a better mood” and all of you busted out laughing.

A week passed and you didn't give much more thought to their teasing. Hell Hank Voight struck you as the type of man that if he wanted something he'd go after it.

A call rang out summoning an ambulance to the north side. Sylvie slapped your foot where you’d had it propped up on the chair in front of you, currently beating Kelly at a game of poker “C’mon partner. We gotta go” you tossed your cards down and pointed at Kelly “I’ll get you later Severide”

The two of you headed out to the bays and climbed into the rig with you driving. She shot you a smile as you pulled out onto the road. At least it was a nice day, winter was finally breaking and the roads weren’t iced over.

“I’ll buy lunch since you bought breakfast” she offered and you grinned “You just want an excuse to hide from Matt” she raised an eyebrow “Says the lady who literally hid behind Chief the last time we worked a scene with PD so you wouldn’t have to talk to Voight!”

You opened your mouth to argue but knew that would only push her point further. When you clamped your mouth closed she giggled, honest to god giggled. “I knew it! You have a thing for him! Hello daddy issues” your mouth fell open “Sylvie Brett!”

She shrugged “If it makes you happy and he treats you good” you shook your head “He doesn’t treat me anyway. Now no more teasing, we’re to the address”

___________

Hank was in his office when Adam walked to the open door and knocked on it “Hey, um boss” he cut his eyes up from the file in his hands “What is it Ruzek?”

“We got a call about a hostage situation. Three civilians and two medics from fifty one” he was on his feet and grabbing his jacket before Adam could finish talking. “Gear up, now!”

__________

Your eyes were glued to the gun in the man’s hand. Unconsciously you moved one hand to push Sylvie behind you. You couldn’t get your partner out of this situation but you’d be damned before you stood there and didn’t try to protect her.

“What’s the end game here? I mean you have to know SWAT is gonna come through that door” you motioned to the door at the far end of the store. There were a total of five hostages including yourself and Sylvie. He nodded “Oh, I know” he took a step towards you, close enough the gun brushed against your chest “But luckily for me I got a pretty little paramedic with a big mouth who wants to protect everyone else in here”

You glared at him, keeping one hand on Sylvie. You had to keep him calm until SWAT could respond. That meant staying calm yourself, despite the fear coursing through you. “Whatever you need me to do to get everyone out of here alive” you whispered, feeling your hands tremble.

The sounds of sirens hit your ears and he smirked at you “Lets see what happens next”

________

He’d had to order the shot. There was no other way to get you out of the situation. When they’d breached you were held against the man’s chest, the barrel of his gun pushed into your temple. Your eyes had widened slightly when you saw Hank but your shoulders had loosened just a bit.

“Listen, you let her go..you got a chance of walking out of here” he tried to offer a way out but when the son of a bitch had the nerve to look him in the eye and smirk before saying “What if I wanna walk out of here with her” he gave the signal to Jay.

You flinched when the blood splattered across your face but the moment you were free instead of running to Sylvie like he’d expected or to a member of his unit that he knew you were friends with, you ran straight to him. You wrapped both arms around his neck, your muscles fully relaxing once he pulled you to his chest “Thank you. Fuck, thank you. I was so damn scared until I saw it was you. I knew you’d get me out”

____________

You and Sylvie were on the couch in Hank’s office. She had one of Kevin’s spare jackets wrapped around her while Hank had taken the jacket off his back to put around you when a crime scene tech had been forced to take yours for evidence.

For the last couple hours you’d given your statements and both of you had fallen asleep when the adrenaline crashed down. The entire time no one dared to cross the threshold. Hank had told them in no uncertain terms to “Stay the hell out of my office and let them catch their breath”

You curled further into the jacket, the scent of Hank’s cologne comforting you despite everything that happened that day.You’d never been so fucking scared. Your job was insane enough but staring down a barrel of a gun? Having to offer yourself up to get her and innocent people to safety?

The moment you knew it was Hank..you knew you’d be ok. You knew he’d get you out. You knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Why were you waiting on him to make a move? You knew he was single, knew he had a thing for you as well. Why hadn’t you asked him out?

A knock at the door drew your attention and you smiled when Hank walked in, followed by Stella. “Your ride’s here” he teased with a smile. You grinned “Oh thank god, I thought I may have to deal with your driving again” Sylvie shook her head with a small smile “We can go?”

“You’re free to go” he agreed so she walked over to Stella. You started to walk after her and made it halfway into the bullpen before you realized you were still wearing Hank’s jacket. “Let me give his jacket back” you told Stella who nodded “Take your time”

___________

You walked back to his office and tapped on the open door. He cut his eyes up and smiled when he saw you “Hey sweetheart, you forget something?” you motioned to the jacket “Well sergeant I was stealing this” he shook his head “Keep it. Looks better on you”

You felt your face warm “Hank Voight. Never would have pegged you for a flirt” he shrugged “Only when you’re around apparently” you rolled your lip between your teeth. After the day you had, you weren’t letting an opportunity go by “In that case, you have my number on my statement. Why don’t you use it and come pick me up Friday night?”

He raised an eyebrow “Excuse me?” you grinned “Come on Old man do I gotta spell it out” you stepped further into the office, leaning against the wall not far from his desk “I like you, you’re a pretty good man and damn good looking. I think you like me. So, do you want to go out friday night?”

He stared at you for a moment before shaking his head “You’re damn near young enough to be my kid” you couldn’t have stopped the smirk that slipped onto your face if you’d tried before you asked “Is that your way of telling me you want me to call you daddy? Because damn, at least wait until then”

He laughed “You’re something else you know that?” you nodded “I’ve been told. So, friday?” he smiled “Friday sweetheart”

__________

When you walked out of the office you heard Adam whisper to Hailey “I think we got her” you cut your eyes at him and smirked “I’ll see ya around Ruzek” he grinned “So does this mean I can call you when he’s mean to me?”

You shook your head “Ruz, let me go out on the date first before you want me to protect you. Damn!”

#hank voight x reader #hank voight x you #hank voight x female reader #chicago pd fanfiction #chicago pd fic #chicago pd fanfic

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adnrewminyard · 1 year ago

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just thought about moon song by phoebe bridgers and was sick

can you guys please start tagging kevjean with a cw because i think if i see one more 'i bet on losing dogs' comparison they will have to up my meds

#SO I WILL WAIT FOR THE NEXT TIME YOU WANT ME #LIKE A DOG WITH A BIRD AT YOUR DOOR #i will never be normal about them #kevjean #kevin day #jean moreau #jean. hey jean. jean valjean. hey. hey. hello.

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starrycassi · 10 months ago

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Of course Nicky will never clock Kevin as bisexual. Of course he never clocked andreil as queer. Of course he can't ever see the members of his own community.

As far as we know, Nicky's first time actually being in a big, queer community was the camp. I feel like people overlook this. He was raised baptist, and no matter how gay you turn and how much sinful sex you have, you're always going to be just a product of your environment. The hymns are embedded in your vocal cords. The wine flows through your veins. It's all he's ever known until it suddenly isn't.

I'm pretty sure that he grew up thinking that gay people were only this caricature, this nameless freak, like many of us did. Gay men always dress a certain way, they're annoying, loud, touchy, and lesbians are always disgusting and manly and smelly. This is what he was taught, and there's no indication that he ever grew *out* of this mindset.

Yes, I believe Nicky enjoys a lot of the things he does, but I also think he's portraying the part of who he thinks he *needs* to be. And everything outside of those boundaries is still new and unbelievable. He's still a child, and relatively new to being openly gay.

And he's so proud. He can't think of anyone being anything other than proud of what they are. Nicky sees things as very black and white (completely gay or straight as a rod, hatefucking or about to get married) and probably thinks that if you're not out and proud, you're working with internalized homophobia. He never wanted anything other than to be free, and he cannot even think about the fact that some people don't want that level of fanfare.

He expects anyone who's queer to immediately come and talk to him. He's trying so hard to be the safe, iconic gay that other people can look up to and latch onto. He thinks that the only thing stopping people from screaming their sexuality to the world is homophobia, therefore they would at least tell him.

He doesn't get that people (Andrew, Neil) might just want to keep things private, because, to him, privacy equals secrecy, secrecy equals shame, and, well, there's nothing to be ashamed of!

Or maybe I'm just rambling. Idk guys this is my hot take of the week or whatever

ADDITION: guys I edit it to baptist I'm SORRY for the previous mistake I was sleepy.

ALSO ALSO the fact that he had to choose to be baptized?? That he's being faced with the choice he made and the nature of what he is?? The nature versus nurture themes HELLO?? This man is driving me crazy

#aftg nicky #nicholas hemmick #nicholas aftg #aftg #andreil #all for the game #aftg hc #I'm so sick in the head for queer catholic fuckers #because that's me #anyway do any of you have a saint patron?

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car-o-line · 4 months ago

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Can you do a Doey x reader with some platonic cuddles? I feel like they really need the comfort.

IDC HOW MANY POST I MAKE ABOUT THIS THING I WILL LITERALLY DIE FOR HIM❤️🧡💛

Doey PLATONIC DID I MENTION PLATONIC??? cuddling headcanons☺️

Let’s just do this as you’re the Player!

It was a peaceful day in Safe Haven(or as peaceful as it could be), which soon turned to nighttime and all Smiling Critters started to try and get rest.

You were currently on a little side quest to collect Kissy some new bandages for her arm because well, Safe Haven kinda ran out of them.

It was a quick trip but once you returned it seemed the whole demeanor changed, from bright and colorful, to dim and silent. You thought Safe Haven was cuter with only the fairy lights on.

All the other toys including Poppy and Kissy were sleeping in the small tents except for one.

“Hello Doey..”

Doey was sitting on the ground watching the paintings on the walls by all the other toys, he was clearly happy to see you were fine but seemed slightly solemn.

“Oh! Hiyaa pal, that was thankfully quicker than what I thought you’d be.”

You sat beside the toy as he explained what he was doing, “I was just looking at these drawings..you know.. These aren’t just paintings, they’re memories. And they’re cries for help, therapy for the experiments minds. It’s just depressing really, but you, you. Can save them, and I know it sounds hard and tedious but-”

He was interrupted by a small cool feeling on his arm, when he looked down he saw your hand resting against his doughy skin(that sounds odd).

“I think you need to rest too. You look after others too much, it’s sad.”

He’s never heard your voice much, only quiet responses to Poppy and uncomfortable greetings, so it made him feel special when you expressed your emotions on his actions.

He told you it was fine, he’s been doing it for so long so he doesn’t mind. But you had other ideas, leaning your head on his side you quietly reach your hand out for his and hold it gently. Your touch was so light he could barely tell it was there without looking at you do it yourself.

“I think..I might nap. I’m tired of everything today.”

He’s never heard stared at you for a moment before smiling softly, he was glad you trusted him so much that you’d willingly take a nap while leaning on him.

“Alright..sleep well then Y/n.”

He wrapped an arm gently around your shoulder, he couldn’t just deny you comfort when you were tired and were falling asleep, so now he’s obligated to not get up.

It’s like when a cat purrs on your lap and now you have no choice but to wait until they move til you do something else(you know what you’re doing).

By the time you woke up you were pleasantly surprised to see Doey lying on the ground with his arms around you, in a firm yet comforting hug.

Jack was ecstatic, he hasn’t felt cared for by another person in so long. And to have said person fall asleep by his side just made him want it more.

Matthew was glad, he was glad that you were getting rest while also caring about Doey. He never thought any of the scientists cared, but you weren’t a scientist, just a past employee so he figured you were just nicer than the others.

Kevin did NOT give af and I’m leaving it at that(he almost cried from comfort).

#doey #doey the doughman #platonic #doey ppt #ppt x reader #ppt #poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime doey #poppy playtime #doey x reader #doey poppy playtime #poppy playtime ch 4 #doey my bbg

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adamsrcnan · 6 months ago

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honestly i think it's a little redundant to write any think pieces on what jean's endgame ship will be. it's going to be jerejean whether you like it or not. that's the story nora is writing. she said it herself when she announced it. this story is a love story but it's also a story about jean and his journey to recovery (and just because jeremy is the future love interest that doesn't diminish the importance kevin has on jean's life either. jean's feelings for kevin are very much still there but so is the betrayal and hurt of him leaving him in the nest. it's a very convoluted relationship of which we still don't know much about. only what jean has told us, so far. as the man who believes his feelings have not been reciprocated to the same degree, mind you. like, we still have two more books to go, one with more scenes with kevin in them where we will learn more.).

as for jeremy...lmao. have we not been talking about how little we know of him since the book dropped? and now all of a sudden people are claiming to know everything about him and decided he's no good? based on one book? and for some reason because he isn't handling his new traumatised teammate perfectly like a professional with a psychology degree he's somehow not right for jean? since when has anyone in this universe been perfect? or dealt with trauma professionally and perfectly?

do i think it's right that jeremy crossed some boundaries to get some answers about jean's past? no. do i think it's right that he overshared jean's truths to his friends without his permission? fuck no. but we're dealing with a whole different group of people here, most of which have not been traumatised to the level the foxes had been. who are not used to dealing with people like jean. jeremy has his own issues yet to be revealed, he clearly has problems standing up to his family (as seen with his sister), though he has no issue captaining his team (as seen with lucas) and it's suspect that he also doesn't think himself to be as great of a person as everyone else does given the sad look on his face when jean tells him he could never be anyone's villain. so idk why anyone thinks they know anything about him when he's so cagey in his own pov. and nowhere in that, may i add, has he ever implied he wants to "fix" jean. he wants to help him. he wants to give him reasons to enjoy his life now that he can i.e making him take that silly ceramics class for Fun. and given jean has had his whole life centred around exy (which he doesn't even enjoy anymore) i think it's actually very smart and helpful to get him doing things that "don't matter" so that he can learn from it and learn that he can actually live outside exy. that he can make mistakes and be imperfect at something and that's Okay.

at this moment in time in canon, kevin doesn't have that kind of mindset and it's probably because he was allowed the freedom to already pursue an interest outside of exy - his love of history. like are we missing the detail that he begged tetsuji to let him take that as his major and he actually allowed it? kevin, though still has a long way to go, still has something outside of exy he can hold onto and switch off from. jean doesn't have that and jeremy just so happens to come along and give him the option and for some reason that seems to get ignored. i think it's actually one of the most important things about their relationship so far. jeremy still makes all the accommodations jean needs - setting him up with class partners, taking him for a run when he needs to get out of his head, buying a bed to sleep in the room with him. but he also pushes back and insists jean try something to break him out of his unhealthy relationship with exy.

also, hello, jean literally admits to himself it's a Lie when he tells jeremy he doesn't want him to look if it's too much for him to deal with when jean is attacked by grayson. and jeremy refuses to look away. something everyone around jean has done since he was born, probably.

"Jeremy’s response was low but unhesitating: “I will not look away.” “I do not want you to look.” It frightened him how much it sounded like a lie, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it..."

jean appreciates when jeremy is so very obviously attracted to jean and openly staring, but doesn't press and removes himself from the situation if he thinks he may come on too strong.

"Threat assessment, he told himself, and it was almost the truth. He needed to see the easy way Jeremy ceded Jean’s space to him. Jean couldn’t remember the last time someone allowed him any boundaries, and the feeling was as novel as it was addicting."

hello???? that is literally jean himself telling us jeremy just allowed him a boundary. how does that get looked over?

also he's content enough with jeremy in his space that he feels safe enough to almost drift off

"In the quiet he could hear Jeremy breathing, and it was almost as comforting as the heat of another body this close to his. It thawed the parts of him the sun hadn’t reached despite soaking up its glare all day. Jean closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift far away. [...] This was the first time his room truly felt safe and right, and he was content to hold onto it for as long as he could."

mind you right after this jeremy presses that jean should have his own space and jean insists jeremy share with him and get his own bed. and let's not forget the obvious flirting that has jeremy immediately backtracking and telling jean to let him know if he ever makes him uncomfortable.

ALSO THIS

“Stop asking,” Jean said. “You only think you want these answers.”

jean may find it annoying and unfavourable that jeremy keeps pressing but idk i infer this to be more of jean not knowing how to handle someone actually giving a fuck about what was done to him when he was so used to everyone turning a blind eye.

finally (bc this is getting long) jeremy pushes himself into jean's space when he hugs him, and jean doesn't hug him back but he doesn't push him away either and jeremy is the one who has to wait for jean to let go of his shirt so he can move away.

"Jeremy heard the dismissal in it, but he waited for Jean to let go of his shirt before leaving the room."

i have made a post about this before but jean craves attention and affection, he wants to be loved and to be frank he fucking deserves it more than anyone else does.

i'll finish the post with one last line from jeremy's pov...

"...it wasn't his place to interfere with Jean's trauma or his healing."

jeremy isn't perfect, he's not meant to be.

#i actually think the push and shove dynamic he has with jean is what jean needs #anyway #just my two cents bc idk why everyone is being so doubtful all of a sudden #i also think nora knows what she's doing with the story she wants to tell #lets have a little more faith in her #jean moreau #jeremy knox #kevin day #jerejean #the sunshine court #tsc #all for the game #aftg #the golden raven #tgr

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urdreamydoodles · 9 months ago

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Hello hello hello darling!!

How are you? Well,i hope?

Introducing myself,I am Nina or weewoo,self proclaimed platonic asker!!

I saw your requests for X-Men were open,so i jumped right in,as it's my current hyperfixation!! So here it is:

Could i pretty please have Wolverine,Scott,Jean,Kurt,Ororo,Remy,Anne-Marie,Hank,Kevin,Lucas,Charles and Erik with a Child!Gn!Reader (if you don't want to write a child!reader,an adult reader is fine!) that's literally a ball of sunshine,always being positive and able to light up a room,always being clingy- but after a really bad mission/day,they just- dim? They become a hollow version of themselves,becoming scared,silent and depressing,distancing themselves from the others and overall just being the opposite of what they were? And the X-men are just trying their best to cheer them back up and are just so relieved to see them slowly go back to normal? Just a little hurt/comfort :3

Anyways i hope you enjoy writing this ask!

Feel free to tweak it (if you don't write for certain characters,If you want to write for more/other characters etc..)!!

Don't forget to eat,drink and have breaks!

Stay Proud,

-Nina <33

X-Men x Child!Reader

You lose your zest for life after a traumatic event

After a traumatic mission, your usually bright and positive self becomes withdrawn and distant, leaving the X-Men concerned and heartbroken by the sudden change. Each mentor steps in to offer their unique form of support, helping you gradually return to your true self, offering a blend of quiet understanding, strength, and unwavering care.

Characters: Scott Summers, Logan Howlett, Jean Grey, Kurt Wagner, Ororo Munroe, Remy LeBeau, Rogue, Hank McCoy, Kevin MacTaggert, Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr & Lucas Bishop

Hello, Nina! What a lovely message you left me here ♡ It made my day. And this is the first time I've been asked for "obscure" characters and I'm so happy, I hope you like my take on them. As I said, I've read almost all of the X-Men comics, so don't be afraid to ask me your "obscure" character, I will gladly make them. And same, I think everyone has noticed that X-Men comics are my hyperfixation. Hope you like it ♡ — Love, Marie, your friendly marvel fangirl

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

- Scott Summers has always been a strong, dependable presence in your life. You’ve always looked up to him, not just because of his leadership but because of the way he’s always made you feel safe. You’re the bright, cheerful kid who lights up the room when you walk in, and you’ve always been attached to Scott. He treats you like his own, encouraging your optimism, even when things get tough. You’re constantly clinging to him, whether it’s holding his hand or sitting next to him during training sessions.

- But after a particularly bad mission, something inside you changes. You’d witnessed something you shouldn’t have, something that shook your sense of safety and security. For the first time, you were scared. You pulled away from Scott, stopped seeking his comforting presence. You became a hollow version of yourself, quiet and withdrawn. Scott noticed immediately, his heart breaking every time he saw the light in your eyes dimmed. He tried talking to you, but you brushed him off, not wanting to burden him with your fears.

- Scott wasn’t about to give up on you. He knew what it was like to carry fear and trauma, and he wasn’t going to let you go through it alone. He’d sit beside you quietly, offering a hand that you didn’t take, but he never pressured you. He’d talk about his own struggles when he was younger, hoping that sharing his experiences would help you feel less alone. Slowly, he started to break through the walls you’d built around yourself. Little by little, you began to open up again, but it was a slow process.

- The turning point came one day when Scott took you out to the training field. He didn’t ask you to train or talk; he just stood with you in the quiet. After a long silence, you finally spoke up, telling him about the fear you’d been carrying. Scott listened intently, reassuring you that it was okay to be scared but that you didn’t have to carry it alone. His steady presence, the way he never wavered, slowly helped you regain your confidence. Over time, you started clinging to him again, your light slowly returning.

- Scott’s relief was palpable when he saw you smile for the first time in what felt like forever. He never stopped watching out for you, always ready to offer a hand or a kind word when you needed it. He knew that you’d never be the same as you were before, but he also knew that you were stronger for it. And he’d always be there, a guiding presence, whenever you needed him.

Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

- Logan wasn’t exactly the warmest or most outwardly affectionate person, but somehow, you managed to break through his tough exterior. From the moment you arrived at the mansion, you’d latched onto him, following him around like a little shadow. You were this bright, positive ball of energy, always finding the silver lining in any situation. Logan would grumble about you being clingy, but deep down, he didn’t mind. In fact, he found himself getting used to your constant presence, and it brought a rare smile to his face.

- Then, one day, after a brutal mission, everything changed. Something happened out there—something that left you shaken to your core. You came back to the mansion a different person, quiet and distant, a shadow of the child you once were. You stopped seeking out Logan, stopped clinging to his side. You barely spoke, and when you did, it was just to say you were fine, even though Logan knew you weren’t. It was hard for him to see you like that, and it tore him apart inside.

- Logan didn’t know how to handle it at first. He wasn’t good with feelings, and he didn’t want to push you, but seeing you so hollow hurt him more than he’d care to admit. He’d sit outside your room sometimes, just to be close to you, hoping you’d open the door. He tried to give you space but also wanted you to know that he was there. One day, after you’d been sitting alone for hours, Logan finally came into your room without a word, sat down beside you, and just waited. You didn’t speak, but his presence was comforting, like an anchor in a storm.

- Slowly, Logan started taking you out on little trips—nothing fancy, just walks in the woods or quiet moments by the lake. He knew the outdoors had always helped him clear his head, and he hoped it would do the same for you. It took a while, but you eventually started talking again, first in short sentences, then longer conversations. You told Logan about the fear you couldn’t shake, about how the mission had changed how you saw the world. Logan listened, not offering advice, just being there for you.

- Over time, you started to come back to yourself. You clung to Logan again, and even though he grumbled about it, he didn’t push you away. The first time you laughed after the incident, Logan let out a relieved breath he didn’t know he was holding. He wasn’t the best at showing emotion, but you knew he cared. And in his own gruff way, Logan made sure you knew that no matter what, he’d always be there for you, protecting you from the world—and sometimes, from yourself.

Jean Grey (Phoenix)

- Jean Grey was the one you always went to when you needed comfort. She was warm, nurturing, and could always make you feel safe, no matter what was going on around you. You adored her, always hanging around her, basking in her presence like a little ray of sunshine. She never minded how clingy you were—in fact, she found it endearing. You were her little bright spot in a world that often felt heavy, and she cherished every moment with you.

- But one day, after a particularly intense mission, everything changed. Something happened out there—something that shook you to your core. When you came back, the light in you had dimmed. You didn’t seek out Jean like you usually did. You didn’t smile or talk as much, and when you did, it was clear that you were trying to hide your fear and sadness. Jean noticed immediately and was heartbroken to see you so withdrawn.

- Jean didn’t push you, but she made sure you knew she was there. She’d gently knock on your door, leaving little notes or snacks she knew you liked. She’d find subtle ways to be around you, like sitting quietly in the same room while you read or worked on something. It was her way of reminding you that you weren’t alone, even if you didn’t want to talk about what had happened yet.

- One evening, Jean invited you to the rooftop garden, a place that had always been special to both of you. You hesitated at first, but eventually, you agreed. As you both sat under the stars, Jean spoke softly about her own struggles with fear and trauma, telling you stories of times when she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. She wasn’t trying to make you feel better by comparing your pain to hers; she just wanted you to know that it was okay to be scared, that it was okay to feel overwhelmed.

- Slowly, with Jean’s gentle care and understanding, you began to open up again. It wasn’t an overnight change, but little by little, the light in you started to return. Jean was patient, never rushing you, always offering a kind word or a soft hug when you needed it. She was so relieved the day she saw you smile again—really smile, not just out of politeness. Jean knew you would never be exactly the same as you were before, but she was proud of how strong you’d become. And she promised herself that she’d always be there to help you find your light again, no matter how many times it dimmed.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)

- Kurt Wagner, with his kind heart and unwavering faith, had always been like a father figure to you. From the moment you arrived at Xavier’s, he took you under his wing. You, the ever-cheerful ball of sunshine, found his gentle nature comforting, and you admired his ability to remain positive despite everything he had gone through. You’d often cling to his side, your laughter echoing through the mansion as you teleported around with him or listened to his stories about his life in the circus.

- After a particularly difficult mission, however, everything changed. You had seen things that no child should ever witness—things that tore away at your innocence and light. You returned to the mansion quiet, no longer the beacon of joy you once were. You distanced yourself from Kurt, spending more time alone in your room, and when he tried to comfort you, you’d give him half-hearted smiles, pretending everything was fine. Kurt knew better, though. The light in your eyes had dimmed, and it broke his heart to see you retreating into yourself.

- Kurt, being as patient and understanding as ever, didn’t push you. He respected your space but never let you feel abandoned. He would often leave little drawings and notes for you to find, hoping to coax a smile out of you. One evening, as you sat alone in the chapel, lost in thought, Kurt quietly joined you. He didn’t say anything at first—he just sat beside you, offering his silent presence as comfort. Eventually, he began talking about his own struggles with darkness, reminding you that it was okay to feel scared and lost but that you didn’t have to go through it alone.

- Slowly but surely, Kurt’s unwavering kindness and gentle patience began to reach you. He never demanded that you return to your old self but instead encouraged you to take things one step at a time. He took you on small trips around the mansion, teleporting you to peaceful spots in the garden or the attic, where you could talk if you wanted or just sit in silence. With each little outing, you felt a small part of yourself begin to heal, the weight of what you’d seen slowly lifting.

- The first time you laughed again in Kurt’s presence, he nearly cried with relief. It wasn’t the carefree laugh he was used to, but it was a start. Over time, you began to cling to him again, seeking his presence when you needed comfort, and while you weren’t the same person you were before, you were stronger. Kurt made sure to remind you every day that no matter what, he would always be there for you, a guiding light in the darkness whenever you needed him.

Ororo Munroe (Storm)

- Ororo Munroe, with her serene presence and deep connection to nature, had always been like a mother to you. You admired her strength, her compassion, and the way she carried herself with grace despite the storms she had weathered in life. You, with your bright personality and endless energy, often found yourself attached to Ororo’s side, soaking up her wisdom and calm demeanor. She adored your optimism and always took the time to nurture your cheerful spirit.

- But after a harrowing mission that rattled you to your core, the light inside you dimmed. You had witnessed something that no child should ever see, and it changed you. You became quiet, withdrawn, and stopped seeking Ororo’s calming presence like you once did. You no longer smiled or laughed as you once had, and Ororo could see the pain in your eyes. She didn’t push you, but the change in you weighed heavily on her heart. She knew something was wrong, but she waited for you to come to her when you were ready.

- Ororo, with her natural maternal instincts, made sure you never felt alone, even as you distanced yourself. She would leave flowers by your bedside, small tokens of beauty and life, hoping to lift your spirits. One afternoon, when you were particularly down, she invited you to the greenhouse, knowing how much you had always loved spending time with the plants. At first, you were hesitant, but Ororo’s gentle encouragement convinced you to go. The peaceful atmosphere and Ororo’s quiet presence made it easier for you to open up, and little by little, you began to talk about what was troubling you.

- Ororo listened with endless patience as you finally shared your fears and the things that haunted you. She didn’t try to force positivity on you; instead, she acknowledged your pain and assured you that it was okay to feel the way you did. She reminded you that even the sun needs time to rise after a storm and that, like nature, you would heal at your own pace. Her words comforted you more than anything, and you found solace in her gentle wisdom.

- Slowly, over time, you began to recover. Ororo took you on small walks through the gardens, showing you how the flowers bloomed even after the harshest winters. Her presence was a constant source of comfort, and she never left your side, encouraging you to take things one day at a time. The first time you smiled again, Ororo felt a wave of relief wash over her. You were healing, and while you weren’t the same child you were before, you had grown stronger. Ororo made sure to remind you every day that, like the weather, you could weather any storm with time and support.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

- Remy LeBeau, with his smooth charm and playful nature, was someone you had always looked up to. He treated you like his little shadow, always making time for your endless energy and positivity. You adored him, clinging to his side during missions or downtime, laughing at his jokes even when they weren’t that funny. Remy loved the light you brought into his life, and he always made sure to keep that spark alive, teaching you card tricks and letting you tag along on adventures.

- But after a mission gone wrong, the light in you dimmed. You had seen something that no child should have to witness, and it shook you to your core. When you returned to the mansion, you were no longer the bright, bubbly child you had been. You avoided Remy, retreating into yourself and becoming a quiet, hollow version of who you once were. Remy noticed immediately, and it worried him deeply. He tried to coax you out of your shell with jokes and games, but nothing seemed to work.

- Remy wasn’t the type to give up easily, though. He knew you were hurting, and while he didn’t want to push you, he also didn’t want to let you carry that burden alone. He started leaving little notes and gifts in your room, hoping to make you smile. One day, when you were sitting alone in the mansion’s common room, Remy sat down beside you, quietly shuffling his deck of cards. He didn’t say anything, just sat with you, offering his silent presence. Slowly, the two of you began to talk, and Remy listened as you finally opened up about what had been bothering you.

- Remy was patient as you worked through your feelings, never once rushing you to be “your old self” again. He shared stories of his own troubled past, reminding you that even the brightest lights can flicker sometimes. He encouraged you to take things one day at a time and reassured you that it was okay to feel sad and scared. With Remy’s gentle guidance, you began to feel a little more like yourself each day.

- The first time you laughed at one of Remy’s jokes again, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. It wasn’t the carefree laugh he was used to, but it was a start. Slowly but surely, you began to cling to him again, seeking out his presence for comfort. While you weren’t the same child you were before, you were stronger, and Remy made sure you knew that no matter what, he would always be there to help you find your way back to the light.

Rogue (Anna Marie)

- Rogue had always been your big sister figure, and you admired her so much. She had her own struggles with her powers, but you never once saw her let it dampen her spirit. Her tough love and protective nature made you feel safe, and your bright and bubbly personality often drew her into fits of laughter when the two of you hung out. She’d ruffle your hair and joke about how you could probably light up the whole mansion with your smile. Rogue was always there for you, and you adored her for it.

- One day, after a mission that went horribly wrong, you returned to the mansion feeling completely shattered. You had seen something that no child should ever have to see, and it left you feeling broken inside. Your once vibrant and clingy self faded into the background, and you withdrew from everyone, even Rogue. You avoided her, choosing instead to lock yourself away in your room, barely eating or speaking to anyone. Rogue knew something was wrong, and it broke her heart to see you retreat into yourself.

- Rogue wasn’t the type to let anyone suffer alone, though, especially not someone as close to her as you. She tried giving you space at first, but when it became clear that you weren’t coming to her, she decided to come to you. She knocked softly on your door one afternoon, waiting for you to let her in. When you didn’t respond, she simply sat outside your room and began talking to you, her voice gentle and filled with care. She didn’t push you to open up right away, but she reminded you that she was there, whenever you were ready.

- It took a while, but eventually, you came out of your room and found Rogue sitting on the porch, watching the sunset. You sat beside her quietly, and for a long time, neither of you said anything. Then, with a shaky voice, you started to tell her about what had happened during the mission, how it had affected you, and how you didn’t know how to deal with it. Rogue listened intently, her usual sass replaced with a quiet understanding. She wrapped an arm around you, careful with her touch, and pulled you close. “You ain’t gotta deal with it alone, sugar,” she said softly. “I’m here, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

- Rogue didn’t expect you to bounce back overnight, but she made sure you knew she had your back. She’d drag you out of bed on particularly bad days, forcing you to come on walks with her or just sit in the sun. Slowly but surely, you started to feel a little more like yourself. The first time you cracked a joke, Rogue’s grin was so wide it made your heart swell. You weren’t completely back to your old self, but Rogue never rushed you. She was just happy to see that spark returning, even if it took time. You knew with Rogue by your side, you’d find your way back to the light.

Hank McCoy (Beast)

- Hank McCoy was a father figure to you in every sense of the word. His intelligence, kindness, and calm demeanor made you feel safe, and you always loved spending time in his lab, watching him work. Your bubbly and energetic personality balanced out his more serious side, and he often said you were like a ray of sunshine that could brighten even the darkest of days. You adored him, following him around and asking endless questions about science and the world, to which he would always give thoughtful and detailed answers.

- But after a traumatic mission that left you shaken, your once-bright personality faded. The light inside you dimmed, and you found yourself retreating into the shadows. You stopped visiting Hank in his lab, stopped asking him questions, and started spending more time alone, lost in your own thoughts. You didn’t want to burden him with your problems, so you kept everything inside, but Hank noticed immediately. It hurt him to see you withdraw, and he knew something was wrong.

- Hank, ever the patient and understanding mentor, gave you space but never let you feel alone. He would leave small notes in the places he knew you frequented, little reminders that he was there if you needed him. One day, when you hadn’t come to the lab in weeks, he knocked on your door. You were curled up in bed, barely acknowledging his presence. He sat down beside you, his large, gentle hand resting on your shoulder. “You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready,” he said quietly. “But know that I’m here, always.”

- Eventually, you did open up to him, telling him about the horrors you had witnessed during the mission and how it had changed you. Hank listened with the utmost care, his heart aching for you. He didn’t try to fix everything right away, but instead, he reminded you that it was okay to feel lost and scared. He shared his own struggles with you, times when he had felt out of control or burdened by his powers. His empathy and understanding helped you feel less alone, and little by little, you started to find your way back to yourself.

- Hank knew it would take time for you to fully recover, but he was endlessly patient. He’d invite you to the lab again, not to work but just to be in each other’s company, and he would leave little experiments for you to do whenever you felt ready. The first time you smiled while working on a project, Hank felt an immense sense of relief. You were healing, and while you might not be the same child you were before, Hank was proud of your strength. He made sure you knew that no matter what, he would always be there for you, guiding you back to the light whenever you needed it.

Kevin MacTaggert (Proteus)

- Kevin MacTaggert, or Proteus, was a complicated figure in your life. Despite his dark history and unstable powers, there was a part of him that cared deeply for you. You, with your infectious positivity and boundless energy, had managed to form a bond with him, one that even he didn’t fully understand. You saw the good in him, even when he couldn’t see it in himself. Kevin often kept his distance from others, but with you, he allowed himself to be a little softer, a little more vulnerable. You clung to him, always finding ways to make him smile, even if it was just for a brief moment.

- But after witnessing something truly horrifying during a mission, you changed. The light inside you dimmed, and you no longer sought out Kevin’s presence like you used to. You became quiet, withdrawn, and scared. Kevin, who had always been sensitive to the emotions of those around him, noticed the shift immediately. It unsettled him to see you like this, and he didn’t know how to handle it at first. He wasn’t used to caring for others, but seeing you suffer made him feel something unfamiliar—concern.

- Kevin wasn’t the type to offer comfort easily, but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. He sought you out one day, finding you sitting alone in the mansion’s courtyard. He didn’t say much at first, just sat beside you, his presence enough to let you know he was there. After a while, he quietly asked what had happened, and for the first time since the mission, you opened up about the trauma you had experienced. Kevin listened intently, his usual sharp demeanor replaced with quiet understanding.

- He didn’t know how to fix what you were feeling, but he knew he didn’t want to see you in pain. Kevin began spending more time with you, trying to coax you back to your old self in his own way. He wasn’t great at emotional support, but he’d distract you with stories or small adventures around the mansion. You slowly began to open up again, and while Kevin wasn’t the warmest figure in your life, his presence was comforting. He didn’t push you to be happy, but he made sure you knew he was there, in his own quiet, protective way.

- Over time, you started to feel a little more like yourself. You weren’t the same child you were before, but you had grown stronger. Kevin, in his own way, had helped you heal, and you could see that even he had changed a little, softening around the edges. The first time you smiled again, Kevin gave a rare, genuine smile of his own. You were healing, and though the journey was long, you knew that with Kevin’s quiet support, you’d find your way back to the light.

Charles Xavier (Professor X)

- Charles Xavier had always been a guiding figure in your life. He was more than just the head of the school; he was like a father to you, someone you could look up to and trust. Your boundless positivity and energy were a constant source of joy for him, and he often said that your presence alone could brighten his day, even when things were difficult. You clung to Charles, always seeking his advice or simply spending time with him, knowing that he understood you in ways few others could.

- But after a particularly harrowing mission, something inside you broke. You weren’t your usual self, no longer the bright and happy child everyone knew. The trauma of what you had seen had dimmed your light, and you withdrew from everyone, including Charles. You stopped seeking his guidance, and instead, you stayed silent, choosing to avoid him altogether. It pained him to see you like this, but he respected your space, understanding that healing took time.

- Charles didn’t push you to open up, but he was always there, silently offering his support. His telepathic abilities allowed him to sense the depth of your pain, but he never intruded on your thoughts. He waited patiently, hoping that one day, you would come to him when you were ready. In the meantime, he left small reminders around the mansion—a favorite book, a handwritten note—letting you know that he hadn’t forgotten about you.

- It wasn’t until you broke down one evening, unable to contain the weight of your emotions any longer, that you finally came to him. You found Charles sitting in his study, and without saying a word, you collapsed into his arms, tears streaming down your face. He held you gently, his presence calm and reassuring. He didn’t ask for an explanation, knowing that you would speak when you were ready. “I’m here, always,” he whispered, his voice steady and full of compassion.

- Over the next few weeks, Charles made it his mission to help you heal, guiding you through meditation and mindfulness techniques that would allow you to process your trauma. He never rushed you, never expected you to be your old self right away. Slowly, you began to come out of your shell again, finding comfort in his wisdom and kindness. The first time you laughed again, Charles smiled, his heart swelling with relief. You weren’t fully back to your sunny self, but with Charles by your side, you knew you would find your way back to the light, in time.

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)

- Erik Lehnsherr wasn’t the warmest of mentors, but he had always taken a special interest in you. There was something about your bright personality that intrigued him, something about the way you could remain so positive in a world that was often so cruel. You admired Erik for his strength and conviction, and despite his often stern demeanor, you knew he cared about you deeply. He was like a father to you, though he’d never say it out loud. You often joked that you were the sunshine to his storm, a balance of opposites that somehow worked.

- After a mission that went horribly wrong, you weren’t the same. The bright, bubbly child that had once brought so much light into Erik’s life was gone, replaced by someone who was quiet, withdrawn, and afraid. You couldn’t shake the horrors you had witnessed, and you distanced yourself from everyone, including Erik. You stopped seeking him out, choosing instead to hide away, not wanting to burden him with your pain. Erik, however, noticed immediately. He wasn’t the most emotionally expressive man, but it hurt him to see you suffering in silence.

- Erik didn’t push you to talk about what had happened, but he kept a close eye on you, watching from a distance. He understood trauma in ways that most couldn’t, and while he respected your need for space, he also knew that you couldn’t go through this alone. One evening, he found you sitting by the window, staring out at the night sky, lost in your thoughts. Without a word, he sat beside you, the silence between you heavy but comforting in its own way.

- After a long stretch of quiet, you finally opened up to Erik, telling him about the mission and how it had changed you. Erik listened carefully, his usual sharpness replaced with a rare gentleness. He didn’t offer you platitudes or try to diminish your pain. Instead, he shared his own experiences, his own struggles with the darkness that often consumed him. “We all have our demons,” he said quietly. “But you don’t have to face them alone.”

- Erik’s approach to helping you heal was different from others. He didn’t coddle you, but he was always there, offering his strength when you needed it. Slowly, with his guidance, you began to find your way back to yourself. The first time you smiled again, Erik gave a small, almost imperceptible smile of his own. You weren’t completely back to the bright, sunny child you had been before, but with Erik by your side, you knew you’d find your way back to the light, even if it took time.

Lucas Bishop

- Bishop had always been more of a protector than anything else. He admired your optimism and saw in you a kind of light that was rare in his world of war and survival. To him, you were a reminder of the peace he fought so hard to protect, and despite his often stoic nature, he grew deeply attached to you. You, in turn, saw Bishop as a big brother, someone who would always keep you safe, no matter what. You often followed him around, your endless curiosity and bright energy a stark contrast to his serious demeanor.

- But after a particularly brutal mission, everything changed. You weren’t the same bright and positive child that had once been a beacon of light in Bishop’s life. The trauma of what you had witnessed left you hollow, and you withdrew into yourself, barely speaking or acknowledging anyone. You stopped following Bishop around, stopped asking him questions, and instead, you stayed in your room, avoiding everyone. Bishop noticed immediately and, while he respected your space, it tore him apart to see you like this.

- Bishop wasn’t one to talk about emotions, but he wasn’t going to let you suffer in silence either. He didn’t force you to talk about what had happened, but he made sure you knew he was there, whenever you were ready. One evening, he found you sitting alone in the mansion’s training room, staring blankly at the ground. Without saying a word, he sat down beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. You didn’t speak at first, but eventually, the silence between you became too much to bear, and you began to tell him about the mission, about how it had changed you.

- Bishop listened with the same intensity he brought to every mission, his focus entirely on you. When you finished, he didn’t try to fix things or offer you easy solutions. Instead, he put a hand on your shoulder and said, “You’re not alone in this. I’ve been through it too, and I’m here for you.” His words, simple as they were, carried a weight that made you feel less alone. Bishop had seen horrors too, and knowing that he understood made it easier for you to start healing.

- Over the next few weeks, Bishop kept a close eye on you, making sure you didn’t retreat too far into yourself. He didn’t push you to be your old self right away, but he did encourage you to get back into a routine, to start training again, even if it was just for a few minutes a day. Slowly, you began to regain your strength, and while you weren’t the same bright child you had been before, you felt a little more like yourself each day. The first time you cracked a joke in Bishop’s presence, he gave a rare smile, a small but significant sign that you were on your way back to the light.

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charliedawn · 2 months ago

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Hello again! •^ ^• I was wondering if you could do Hannibals reacting to reader that's sensitive? Like if you yell at them they'll cry and they used to get bullied because there a cry baby. But because there so sensitive there clingy! If not I get it have a good day/night :3

Take this ->🍫🎂🍬

Author: Munch Munch. Thank you for the snack. 👍

Hannibal Lecter Sr. :

At first, he would find your sensitivity inconvenient. He’s used to strength, resilience, people who know how to take care of themselves. But the first time he accidentally raised his voice at you—watching you flinch, your eyes welling up—he would feel something unexpected: guilt.

He’d kneel in front of you, tilt your chin up with infinite care, and wipe your tears with his thumb.

"You must never cry because of me," he would tell you. "Only fools cry when they are being attacked, little lamb. I will correct that flaw in you, make you stronger. Just never cry in my presence again."

Also, you would make him think of the little sister he lost at a young age. From that moment, your clinginess would be welcome. When you seek him out, clinging to his coat, to his sleeve, to his hand—he would let you, even encourage you quietly. You’re not weak in his eyes. You’re something rare, like a pearl formed out of pain. Something he must keep and protect. He would turn you into his perfect companion.

Hannibal Lecter Jr. :

Hannibal Jr. would immediately understand you. Maybe too well.

When you start crying, even over small things, he won’t mock you or get impatient. He would just calmly sit beside you, offering you a handkerchief, letting you cry it out while staying close—silent, solid, safe. He would never raise his voice at you intentionally. In fact, if someone else did, he’d correct them in a way so chillingly quiet that nobody would dare upset you again.

If you cling to him afterward, desperate for comfort, he would hum softly and rub your back, whispering against your temple:

"It’s alright, love. I am here. Cry all you need. They hurt you before. They won’t ever again."

You’d be like a beloved stray kitten he adopted and that he refuses to let the world harm anymore.

Morgan Hannibal :

Morgan would struggle at first. He’s sharp-tongued and sarcastic—he’s used to tough people giving it back to him. The first time you cried when he teased you too roughly, it would leave him dumbfounded.

He would freeze, panic clear in his wide blue eyes, and immediately backpedal, awkwardly trying to apologize even if he doesn’t know how.

If you cling to him, he wouldn’t dare push you away. He’d just awkwardly wrap his arms around you, swearing under his breath and hating himself for making you sad. He would tap your back awkwardly before attempting to smile reassuringly at you.

Over time, your clinginess would become something he craved. You would find him deliberately starting little ‘accidents’—spilling something, stubbing his toe—just to coax you into hugging him. Or if he found you crying ? Well…

"If you’re gonna cry," he’d smile down at you, "at least cry here. On me. I can take it."

If it was because of someone else ? Yep. Goodbye. He would hunt whoever made you cry and turn them into human sashimi.

Kevin Hannibal:

Kevin would be the worst and the best about it.

At first, he’d probably tease you, because he doesn’t understand how badly it hurts. "Oi, tears already ? Haven’t even started yet !"

But the moment he realized your history with being bullied—how much the words genuinely hurt you—it would wreck him.

You clinging to him like a lifeline would make him fiercely protective. If you sniffle and cling to his sleeve or jacket, he’d ruffle your hair (gently) and mutter,

"Yeah, yeah, alright, hang onto me. Anyone tries to mess with you again, I’ll bloody end them, alright ?"

Expect tight, tight hugs and messy kisses on your forehead whenever you get overwhelmed.

Peter Hannibal:

Peter would cry with you. No joke. The first time you burst into tears, he would just lose it emotionally right beside you. Big, teary, sniffly hugs.

You two would be clinging onto each other like two over-soaked teddy bears.

He wouldn’t even let go once you calmed down—he’d just hold you, petting your hair, rocking you back and forth.

"You’re perfect the way you are," he’d whisper against your ear, choked up. "Anyone who hurt you before…they didn’t deserve you. They were just mean. Do you want me to kill them ? Because I would. I mean…if you want to."

If you’re clingy, he’s even clingier. You’ll basically be a walking tangle of limbs, kisses, and murmured reassurances wherever you go.

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #slashers #hannibal siblings #morgan hannibal #peter hannibal #the hannibal family #hannibal jr #hannibal x reader #hannibal family #hannibals #hannibal lecter #hannibal #peter hannibal x reader #morgan hannibal x reader #kevin hannibal x reader

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lsunstreakerl · 3 months ago

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hello hi if you haven't seen pacific rim this will... not make sense. anyways! no worldbuilding, no help from me, I am dunking you all into this ficlet head first and in the deep end.

for those of you who were also spitballing with me about this. your fault. you know who you are. 1.6k words, Daniel POV

Checo is at his door. Daniel doesn't care.

It's never mattered to him before. Didn't matter when it was Alex or Pierre either, desperate for some scrap of advice that Daniel didn't have to give them.

There's no magic formula, no secret hack to make it bearable.

There is the drift, and there is Max.

If you can't handle the pressure, you break.

Alex and Pierre broke. Daniel's not sure how, and he doesn't care. It's not his business or his problem, and he's made a solid attempt at cutting jaeger's and their pilots out of his life entirely since he left, but somehow each of Max's kills find themselves on his doorstep anyways.

He stopped letting them in a long time ago.

It doesn't matter to him that Checo's eyes are bloodshot, that he's clearly been chewing at his lip, the way he's still in an enviro-gel suit.

He's been crying. Daniel doesn't care.

------

Pierre shows up, and Daniel pretends he isn't home.

He repeats the process with Alex.

------

A representative for the jaeger program stands outside his door for three hours straight. Daniel spends them drinking.

------

It's been three days since Checo was at his door— Daniel hates counting it, hates the way the number seeps into his life, ingrained and everywhere he looks. Three days since Checo. Three years since Daniel's last attempt at a drift, three failed rehab programs before he'd given up entirely, three pilots Max has shattered in the meantime.

Checo is at his door again, gaunt. He looks like shit.

Daniel doesn't open the door.

------

Nico and Kevin show up. Daniel only lets them in because they bring food, catching up quietly at the table over a pot roast. It's only superficial conversation— Daniel doesn't do anything deeper than that with anyone, not anymore.

Nico says Max's name, and Daniel doesn't let him get any further than that before he kicks them both out.

------

He doesn't let Lando in. The brat is standing in his living room anyways, because he was an alley child before he was a jaeger pilot, and Daniel knows his early years as well as he knows himself. Knows that Lando has a favorite bakery that gives out leftover bread at the end of the day, knows that he hates tsunamis because he's been flooded before, that he's had hypothermia multiple times. Knows that there's a recruiter at the local prep school that Lando resents, knows there's not a lock the kid can't pick.

Lando is glaring at him.

Something about the enviro-suits. Something about nobody being able to get close enough.

Something Daniel doesn't care about.

Something Daniel can't care about.

------

Charles calls him a cunt for getting the memory removal service.

Daniel tells him he doesn't even remember the color of Max's eyes.

------

A week since Checo first showed up at his door. He's back again, worse than before.

His third trip.

There must be some kind of emergency, for everyone to be coming to Daniel like this.

There's only one person it could be about.

He doesn't care.

------

Charles and Pierre almost get ripped in half in a kaiju ambush. They should've had a second jaeger with them, but the defense wall is short staffed.

Daniel doesn't—

------

Charles and Pierre are fine. Daniel feels better when he sees them with his own eyes, awake and alert in the medical bay.

There's an enviro-tank along the wall in the back, full of orange gel. There's a pilot inside of it, fully suited and unresponsive. The tank shows weak vitals.

Mick is suiting up to go into the tank, dark circles under his eyes.

Daniel wonders if the pilot is alive. If there's any life worth living, when the mind is broken.

------

HB-333 has been retired. Daniel stands along the metal rails by the memorial hallway, looking at the faded honey badger decal on the chest of it. It's an older jaeger, by today's standards, nothing like the gleaming shine on some of the others.

There's a smaller jaeger in the repair bay, a design Daniel doesn't recognize. It's white and orange, sharp angles and harsh lines. It's labeled 01 on the leg. No other personalization.

Daniel asks a dock worker what it is.

The department has created a single pilot jaeger, while he's been gone.

Daniel looks at it, and thinks of the unresponsive pilot in the enviro-tank.

It doesn't feel like a success.

------

Charles grabs him before he leaves, bodily drags him back to the med wing.

He's angrier than Daniel has ever seen him since—

It's been a while.

He calls Daniel selfish, tells him he's a miserable alcoholic and a sorry excuse for a pilot, that he retired because he was scared and a coward.

He tells him Max deserves better.

He tells him he deserves better.

------

Daniel is in one of the new enviro-suits, compressed tight around his body. There's a mask that delivers air through the gel.

He's never been in the gel before.

Mick is asleep on one of the med wing cots, exhausted. The pilot is still unresponsive.

The vitals are worse.

Daniel gets in.

------

"Wait, Danny, do you think we can throw that?"

"The rock? Hell yeah, let me— we need a better division on the limbs, Maxy."

"I already told you I will be the dick if you would like to be everything else."

"But I want the dick."

"Two dicks? No limbs? I think we could make that work. The dick jaeger."

"Now there's something that would scare the kaiju. This giant dick jaeger rolling towards them."

"We could shoot the cannons out of the—"

------

The pilot's name is Max, and Daniel used to know him better than he knew his own heartbeat.

He's twenty four.

Daniel encounters little pieces of him in the gel. A scrap of his name, a memory of a rambunctious card game, of George flipping a table.

A sister.

Countless kaiju fights.

There's fragments of solo piloting, a heavy, inescapable weight. It makes Daniel's head hurt just thinking of it.

It takes several fragments for Daniel to realize that they're not shattered— that's how Max remembers them.

He didn't think it would be allowed for a pilot to operate in a fragmented fugue state. The only moment of clarity is when there's a kaiju.

Finding the edges of a drift is laughably easy. Daniel finds the frazzled ends without thinking, unweaving them, intertwining his own thoughts.

It's a well worn shoe, a glove that fits just right. It's a weight off of his chest.

This is right.

Daniel doesn't remember where it went wrong.

------

He's deep in the drift, unnerved by how alone it feels. There's another mind hiding. He can't find it.

------

Daniel hacks up orange gel when they pull him out of the tank. It looks more like a funeral when he tells them he couldn't find the pilot.

Nico's eyes are wet. Charles won't look at him at all, knuckles white where he's clenching his fists.

Lando asks him quietly if he would try again.

There's a denial balanced on the tip of his tongue, perfectly practiced and honed to perfection over the last three years.

Alex, Lando, Mick.

Three people crying.

Daniel has two more shots.

He tries again.

------

"I mean, you have of course seen my memories of my dad."

"You know how I feel about him."

"Yeah."

"What'd he say this time?"

"He said they're doing research on single pilot jaegers, what it might take to handle one. How efficient they would be."

"Oh that's— fuck me, that's stupid. The whole point of drifting is so that the jaeger don't just— boom, to your brain."

"You wouldn't do that if it was an option, would you?"

"Leave this to hunk of glory to fly solo? Nah, you're stuck with me Maxy. We're the dream team, baby."

------

Daniel finds memories of Alex, Pierre, and Checo. He finds half baked thoughts of other pilots, prospects who couldn't even handle the edges of a drift with Max.

He hasn't found anything with him.

He wonders if maybe Max got memory removal too, but— it's illegal for pilots.

There's an itch in Daniel's brain.

The old Daniel would know where to look to find Max. Would know how to draw him out of his own shattered mind, back into the world of the living. Would be able to tell him all the people who are missing him.

He'd killed that Daniel. Sent him under with medications and liquor and a memory displacement specialist, carved out every mention of Max in his life.

Daniel doesn't choke on the gel again, when they bring him up.

------

He's on a mandatory break. It's the cot they'd had Mick sleeping in, but it's his now.

Lando brings up food from the lower levels, sitting at the end of his bed and picking at his rice.

He says Max had been getting worse.

Distant, hard to catch the attention of. That every drift had been harder and harder to pull him out of.

He doesn't accuse Daniel of anything.

He doesn't need to. Daniel knows Lando like the inside of his lungs, knows that they're both aware of what he's really saying.

Daniel tells him about the memory displacement. Tells him he doesn't even remember what caused a rift between him and Max in the first place, that it's been completely removed.

Lando cusses him out.

Slams the door when he leaves.

The echo still rings in Daniel's ears as he shakes out rice from the sheet, picking up Lando's overturned bowl.

------

The vital signs on the tank are weaker.

Three years since he left, three failed pilots, three failed rounds of rehab, three confirmation appointments before they'd removed all of Daniel's memories, three numbers on HB-333, three chances to save him.

He's on his last shot.

Daniel connects the mask to the oxygen supply, feet dangling over the edge of the tank.

He gets in.

#ficlet #pacific rim au #the inescapable shame of something you don't remember #tried writing this a bit different from my usual style

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