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stareiiez · 3 months ago

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You're Mine, Now and Forever

notes: first actually long fic for this fandom, and its giving a slow start. don't worry! it gets better from here. also idk how I feel about this style of writing, it feels off. idk.

warnings: MINORS DNI.

words :3.3k

chapter two

You don't know how it happened, or how much time passed when the first scream ripped through the air and the first bloody body collided with your frantic driving on the express lane outta town. After all, it was just supposed to be like any other day, with you spending your time at work during a slow hour; organizing and reorganizing dresses for what felt like the nth time that hour just so you looked productive. Pop music filtered slowly through the store's speakers and you hummed to the few lines you knew of Chappel Roan's new hit song. The two customers milling around the clearance section chatted to another one of your coworkers across the store, and your manager was at the cash register, scrolling through logs of ordered clothing items to make sure they were in stock in the store's catalogs.

It was a boring day. A lunch break was the motivation for you to continue mindlessly nitpicking at full clothing racks when the first explosion shook the very building. The music stuttered glitching just to accompany the flickering overhead flourescent lights. Then another explosion follows soon after, a deep heavy boom that sinks into the soles of your shoes and rockets up your spinal cord to shake your back molars. Your mouth wants to open, to ask the obvious ' What the fuck was that?" out loud like every stereotypical blonde that questions the bloody scream they heard in the middle of the night in every 90's horror movie. But the chorus of screams and chaos answers your inner thoughts instead. Screams of fleeing citizens running away from whatever danger caused the very ground to shake, and smoke to plume into clouds upwards.

"Stay back, " your manager barks to you and three other women who cower together in a small huddle. She walks towards the still rattling glass doors of the store. A shared fear decorates your faces as you all watch with bated breath; the two sets of wide doors swing open, and your manager steps out into the chaotic mass of running bodies that swarm past her.

Horror paints her face when she sees the source of the destruction. Her head is tilted backward and jaw slack, her amber eyes the size of marbles, she's rooted to the spot. You're surprised she's not knocked off her small feet with every push and shove she endures. "Oh my god." Your ears strain, eyes focused on the way her mouth moves over each syllable with a slow, shocked pace. You're not blessed with reading lips, but you'd like to think that adrenaline fuels your brain enough to make out the word 'Invincible' before the ground shakes again.

This time, the destruction targets your building particularly. One second you're standing and the next, you're knocked on your ass washed away in a wave of shattered glass and minuscule pieces of asphalt and rubble that spray into your vicinity. The outside world, once muffled by plexiglass, screams with sirens, and people running for their lives berate your ringing eardrums. Your front doors are destroyed and buried under brick-and-mortar rubble. Severed limbs stick out this way and at odd angles from the tight crevices of drywall and insulation. The dust makes your eyes water, and you choke on a scream that squeezes your throat something fierce. You like to think you're not consumed by the panic and the trauma of watching your manager and several others get crushed to death in a matter of seconds because Mark has gone off the deep end.

"Come on!" Your coworker's words bark at you. Suddenly she's at your side, in your shocked haze, she managed to be the functioning one out of the rest of your group. Her hands grab onto your forearm and yank all your dead weight to your feet. "We need to leave! I don't want to die here!" Her free hand holds onto the sobbing customer, the other woman accompanying her is missing. Surely buried under the rubble that caved in one corner of the dress store, maybe she was one of the hands that was reaching out from the concrete bloody mess. The thought makes you want to stop and vomit, your stomach curdles with how much stress and adrenaline swarms through your body in nauseating waves.

You follow her, not like you had a choice, she's pulling your trio towards the back of the store and the emergency exit. Her breaths are ragged and half-sputtering between prayers to some god she believes in that your only exit isn't blocked off either. "Stay here, I need to get the keys in the office." Your coworker says, dropping both of your hands. Her face is an ashy pale gray when she turns to give both you and the other woman a once over, checking to see if you're all in one piece and able-bodied enough to book it once she gets the door open. You must look just like her, the expression of unrestrained fear and cement particles dusting your face. Small streaks of blood trickle down your temples and nose bridge, thanks to the shards of plexiglass that rained over you in the third explosion.

You nod, swallowing down acidic bile that bubbles at the back of your throat. Your eyes linger on her small back when she makes a mad dash to the small back office down the hall. When she disappears from your line of sight, your phone vibrates in your pocket. It makes you jump right out of your ashen grey skin. The woman beside you startles as well, her hand clutching at her heart. "Sorry," you manage to whisper, while your hands scramble to the right back pocket of your jeans to dig out your phone. The now cracked touch screen illuminates too brightly, shining a picture of you and Mark Grayson posed in a goofy pose. Your fingers poised in a 'peace' sign, while the male was peeking out from behind your shoulder with his two pointer fingers raised above either side of your head. Your twin smiles look so carefree in the saved contact picture you have of him.

Your thumb taps on the green answer button, and you raise the phone to your ear. Mark's out-of-breath panting sends chills down your spine in some sickly worrisome way. Your name barks through the speaker of the phone, the continuous screams make it almost hard to hear him. "Mark? Mark, what's going on? " You don't even question why the hell he's calling in the first place, isn't he the supposed one murdering and tearing down the city? Isn't that why the people screaming his superhero name saw him wreak havoc?

"No time! Please tell me you're safe. ." a pause, his ragged inhale makes your heart squeeze in time with your clammy palm gripping the phone tighter to your ear. "Please."

"I'm fine." You copy his pause, brows wrinkle in thought. You know you're lying, you're not fine. You're dazed and confused, shaking in your sleek shoes. Your legs are unsteady and becoming more and more unstable, the comedown from adrenaline is going to be a fickle bitch that'll do you in if whatever happening outside doesn't kill you first. "I'm still at work, I'm waiting for the door to get unlocked as fast as it can be."

Even through the grey background noise on the other side of the line, Mark's sigh crackles through the call. You could picture his shoulders just dropping the tiniest inch in relief, that a loved one of his hadn't been hurt or god forbid, even slaughtered mercilessly in the devastation that had been going on. "You need to get out of here." His voice urges, tensely.

"Mark-"

"I'm serious!" His tone jumps, he's barking. Halfway yelling, and you flinch. The woman at your side reacts by recoiling, both of your nerves bouncing off one another like electrons bouncing off the walls of an atom. "You need to get the fuck out of here, find a car-- any car. Don't even think about hiding, you need to drive as far as you can outta here. You hear me?"

You swallow dryly, fingers squeezing tighter. Blood rushes in your ears, you know you can't argue. There's no way to get information outta him now, not when his words are clipped, whatever is happening outside is far more important and drastic than arguing with his girlfriend who's too stubborn to flee for her life without asking stupid questions. You're smarter than that, and he knows it. He's lost far too many things, and gone through too many traumatizing situations than to waste time and not save the people he loves. Your eyes close briefly, counting to three in your whirling hellscape of a mind. You nod like he can even see you. You can sense it's different now. This isn't some closed-off fight between Nolan and his son that trying to stand up to him and not ' ready the Earth' for the viltrumites to come. This is far more scarier, it's drastic and life-shattering. "What about you? People are screaming Invincible is causing this."

"Don't worry about me." Mark says, his tone more gentle than before, "Just run, I can handle them and if anything happens to me? Just know I love you, okay?"

Your breath hitches. You hate how that sounds; you hate the confession on his lips. It sounds more like a goodbye than him admitting his affection for you like he does every day so casually. It feels heavier on your heart, it rattles your bones, and the tidal wave of curdling bile in your stomach roars into a tsunami. You need to vomit. You need to yell at Mark and tell him to not talk like that. You want to tell him that whatever is happening outside can be handled by the two of you together, even if you don't have any powers. Yet, before you can even voice any of those options over the phone, the call ends with a sharp click. You don't know tears are dotting your waterline till you blink so rapidly that a few salty drops cut trails down your ashy cheeks. Gray water stains the front of your shirt, and your phone lowers from your ear. Your grip is loose on the device.

"Got them!" Your coworker calls out, jogging back to you and the other woman; the jangling keys clenched tight in her fist. You don't know if it adds to the hurt your heart is already holding onto when she doesn't acknowledge the distraught on your face. She's more focused on jamming one of the silver keys in the keyhole and twisting it to the right, the satisfying click and rough opening of the door rings in your muffled ears.

The woman shoves past the two of you without hesitation, making a break for it as fast as her forty-five-year-old bones can carry her. She won't make it far, she barely would last surviving running around the bend of the building before the crowd of citizens tramples her half to death in their need to live another minute longer. Any man for themself is a fickle bitch. Your head turns to your coworker as you follow suit, breaking into a jog. She's already following behind, her pace a lot faster. "Stay safe." You call to her when she breezes past. Her silhouette disappears when she blends into the waves of people, fighting against the current so she can get to some sort of safety before she gets crushed to death herself. Her kindness, her stupid jokes, and her natural leadership are all you're going to have to remember her by; if you live long enough to even see her again.

You run a different path, following the makeshift alleyway that's half crumpled down and now smaller in size, your shoes threaten to trip on jutting-out stone and rebar when you traverse too fast. Your heart thuds faster in your chest, brain running a million miles an hour on how to keep yourself from running further and further away from the manic crowds. Alley water splashes at your ankles, sinks into your shoes, and makes your socks stick to your soles. You cringe inwardly, pumping your legs harder till you too start to run. The small alley breaks out into wide open space, and sunlight and smokey skies greet your frazzled complexion. Crashed cars and abandoned vehicles greet you immediately, some are still smoking and burning. Hot oil and melted rubber don't do anything to quell the queasiness you've been fighting this entire day, but there's no stopping now.

Now, you have to leave. No matter who Invincible knock-off is causing this; they'll be busy fighting off Mark and his team. You run along the cracked sidewalk, eyes sweeping over the conditions of the vehicles.

The lessening of people crying for help is eery, the whole city should be shouting from the tops of their lungs. It's like everyone got wiped out in a matter of seconds, or on a lighter note, they're all hiding and being as quiet as possible so they don't die next. You expected to see clogged highways and people running along the highways seeking freedom, instead, there are only deserted streets and cars tipped over on their sides that you brush past in your search for a ride.

Finally, you spot a buggy. A cute little Volkswagon with dents decorating its doors, and still running. Its engine is the loudest thing in the pin-drop silence, even compared to your sneakers pounding on the pavement. You know it's stupid to take the bait, that some conveniently placed car is here while you were in the middle of your search. You like to think you're better than the dumb female lead of a horror movie, that falls for every trick and ploy the killer lays out for her; but you're desperate. You need to fulfill Mark's wish, that you get the fuck out here and run as far as you can. The leather seat squeaks under your weight when you throw yourself inside the car and shut the door behind you. The car's radio crackles with dead static over its speakers, it sends chills up your spine and only adds to the apocalyptic atmosphere your once-busy city has been subjected to.

You're a walking target. The last survivor of your bug colony that trying to outrun the burning magnifying glass held above your head by some sadistic fucking toddler. The realistic side of things is, that you won't live to see the outskirts of the city before the Invincible knockoff crushes you and your car into smithereens. It'll be quick and painless, but you would hate to be another headstone in a graveyard that your family and Mark would have to visit. That's if they can separate your body from twisted metal and leather. With bated breath, you shift the car from park into drive and slam your foot down onto the gas. Clammy hands clench the wheel when you speed down the streets. You weren't prepped to see the mass destruction that greets you with every twist and turn you made. Bodies littered the streets, some in one piece, others most likely ripped into multiple pieces and scattered over the road and sidewalks. Collapsed buildings and homes make you swerve and splash puddles of oil and blood on the car's exterior. Your tires have run over a body part or more not to crash; the squish of flesh being flattened unnaturally is unmistakable in your ears.

"This is so fucked." You whisper under the roar of your pounding heartbeat. The city limit sign seems to grow closer and closer to you once you hit the wide-open highway. The drive through the rest of the city was thankfully quick, and you still were alive and unharmed. It's a miracle.

Your hope swells and stirs in the pit of your stomach like acid-covered butterflies, you're going to make it. You're going to make it! The delirious bubble of laughter peels from your parched throat, you can't help it. However, that laughter dies just as fast as it came. Just when you were going to pass that beloved city limit sign that seems just in arms reach now, your car hits the dark blue blur that launches itself in front of you. Your foot doesn't react quickly enough to hit the brake, but somehow you're violently stopped. Your chest hits the steering wheel, forehead threatening to follow suit if it wasn't for the seatbelt yanking you back just in time to save you from a concussion.

"Well, and who do we have here?" A male voice speaks out, way too calm for your own disorientated liking. "Hey pretty girl, didn't know if I'd see you again."

Again?!

You blink quickly, as a hand rubs at your bruising chest. In front of you, is . . Invincible. His color scheme is the same, black and blue, but he looks different. His ears stick out, and his hair is hidden away by his suit. His smile which you thought was charming and shy, is replaced with a sick stretched look. He bares all of his white teeth at you like a predator intimidating its prey. In your heart you know this isn't your Mark, it can't be. Not with the way he doesn't move a single centimeter of his body, he doesn't even look like he's breathing. The man is so quiet like he's waiting for you to freak out or scream, yet you disappoint him when you don't do either option. Boring, all you do is stare at him. Jaw slightly slacked, brain whirring a million microseconds a minute. His smile, however, doesn't waver. No, not at all; of course his pretty girl has always been smarter than any bimbo bitch that cried out when he flew through their bodies and ripped them to shreds in his hands.

It's what he loves- - no, it's what he was obsessed over back in his world. It was a shame you didn't last long in his care, and now it's like a higher being is rewarding him for his hard work here in your world to plant you in front of him so suddenly. He's glad the others didn't get to you first, who knows who he would have had to kill off his variants to get to you. He rounds to the side of the car so smoothly, your eyes watching his every step. A hand smacks down on the roof of the car, adding to the multitude of dents to its being. His other hand grips the handle of the driver's side door and pulls it off as easily as peeling off a sticker from its page.

He bends at the waist, his face invading your space far too close to your liking. He can smell the waves of fear and the new spike of adrenaline leaking from every pore of your body. Your natural scent mixed in is an addicting concoction that he never seemed to get enough of, you smell the same. You look just like the one in his home world. He hit the jackpot. You flinch at his movements, leaning far back in your car seat.

"Who are you?" Fuck you sound just like her. Your voice exhales so quietly, warmed breath fanning over the lower part of his face. Delicious.

The Invincible doesn't respond, doesn't even emote as much as that smile you start to grow unnerved of. It's unnatural, just like this entire day. Just like you don't know what the fuck even happened to get you to where you are now, staring in the face of a clone of your beloved Invincible.

#ocean blues greets you 💭#ch: invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #headcap invincible x reader #headcap invincible #fem reader #trust me it gets good after this chapter

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spider-stark · 8 months ago

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A BOY'S FIRST PEST

Kaz Brekker x Reader

Summary - Kaz Brekker thinks Per Haskell's daughter is a (very lovely) pest

Warnings - fem!reader, traumatraumatrauma, the woes of troubled youth, light mentions of blood and death, these bitches trauma bonded yo, could deviate some from canon, based more on book!kaz than show, NOT EDITED WE DIE LIKE MEN

Word Count - 2.0k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Everyone knows Kaz Brekker put his own money into fixing up the Slat.

He hired men to patch the leaky roof (though it still drips during a heavy rain) and put proper insulation in the walls (which keeps the house warm enough, even if it does nothing to muffle the noise of its occupants). He had all the doors fitted with working knobs (but easily picked locks) and ensured the kitchen was capable of making a warm meal (even if seriously doubted any of the Dregs knew how to cook).

And while he would never admit it aloud, Kaz was also the one who made sure there were always clean linens in every room (albeit the cheapest Ketterdam has to offer) and spare clothes in every closet (sizes ranging from wafer-thin to barrel-chested). In keeping, he also takes it upon himself to keep the bathing room stocked with a steady supply of toiletries (because if someone uses his toothbrush again, he’s going to kill everyone in this place and then himself).

Because of Kaz Brekker, the Slat was more than just a safe place to hole up. It was a haven, the closest thing many of the Dregs had to a home.

But it did, of course, have one enduring problem.

The pests.

Or, namely, the one pest—one that he could never quite exterminate (though the spider privy to the inner-workings of Kaz Brekker’s mind might argue the merit of replacing ‘could never’ with ‘would never’).

Per Haskell’s very annoying (and very lovely) daughter.

In the midst of Ketterdam’s hottest season, you find yourself lying sprawled on your back atop the dark sheets, clad in the skimpiest nightclothes you own: a matching set of black silk shorts and flowy, thin-strapped camisole. The air is thick and near stifling in the attic-bedroom, but you don’t mind it. You prefer being hot to cold, if only because the heavy weight of winter clothes makes you feel trapped, eliciting the urge to crawl straight from your skin.

When the door finally swings open, you eagerly push up onto your elbows.

Kaz doesn’t so much as spare a glance in your direction. He’s got one hand on his cane, the other shoving the door shut behind him as he limps toward his desk, guided by the bright moonlight spilling in from the muggy window.

Your shoulders slump, huffing out a breath. “Seriously? You’re not even gonna greet me?”

With his back turned to you, Kaz removes his hat and places it on the desk. He doesn’t look at you. “You’re in my room.”

“Yeah—so I was actually thinking something more along the lines of hello,” you drone, lips pursed. “Y’know, that thing normal people say when they see their friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

A hand flies to your chest, as if struck by his words. “Um, ouch? Rude. For your sake, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Kaz tugs off his signature gloves and tosses them next to his hat. “I can always repeat it,” he says, so impassive you can’t tell if it’s a joke.

Knowing Kaz, you’re pretty sure it’s not.

You push up the rest of the way, scooting down to sit cross-legged at the end of his bed. It’s so much nicer than yours—the sheets softer, the mattress plusher, the smell so familiar and warm.

If it were up to you, you’d sleep in here every night.

And most nights, that’s exactly what you do.

“Would it kill you to be nice sometimes?” you ask.

“Not usually, no.” Kaz faces you, his weight leaned back against the desk, his cane propped against it. “But we both know you’re a special case.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Not at all.”

Your bottom lip juts into a pout. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?”

Aside from the subtlest lift of his brows, Kaz’s expression remains vague and disinterested. “Regularly,” he deadpans, looking the image of austere melancholy.

Your laugh comes so sudden it sounds like a snort. “I should’ve guessed,” you nod, forever unphased by Kaz’s forbidding attitude.

This is the way things have always been between you. Ever since a surly twelve year old marched head-high into your father’s office to see if the Dregs needed a new grunt, oblivious to the girl beaming up at him from a lonely corner, weaving colorful scraps of thread into bracelets for the friends you’d yet to make.

Kaz Brekker is dark and foreboding while you’re bright and bubbly; he’s rude and standoffish while you’re sweet and flirtatious. Some may liken your relationship to oil and water, but you prefer thinking of it as a carefully crafted balance—a yin and yang sort of thing.

Kaz, on the other hand, would simply say you’re a thorn in his side.

Fortunately for yourself, you’re not an easily offended thorn.

The rickety floorboards creak as Kaz starts around the desk. His bare fingers trail along the varnished edge for support. His limp is always at its worst by this time of night, so you’re not surprised to see the flicker of relief that slips over him when he finally sinks into the chair.

“Have you ever considered that maybe you work too hard?” Your voice teeters on the edge of concern, tracing idle shapes against the sheets with your nails.

His answer is curt, and contradictory to the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “No.”

Fumbling with his cufflinks—simple, unadorned things—Kaz rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Afterwards, he flips open the thick ledger laid before him, plucking up a pen and dipping it into an awaiting pot of ink.

Kaz keeps track of the Dregs expenses in his head—a skill you’ve always found most impressive, since you can hardly do a simple equation without scratch paper. Still, he keeps the physical record for the sake of having something to point to in case someone’s ever stupid enough to claim Dirtyhands flubbed the numbers.

As he works, boredom quickly becomes a chip on your shoulder.

Your legs unfurl, bare feet stretching toward the floor as you slip off the edge of the bed. Every step is purposeful, traipsing toward him with a look that’s not so unlike a cat readying to toy with its favorite mouse.

“Maybe we should take a holiday,” you suggest, your voice a soft trill.

One part of you expects to be ignored, the other to be shot down.

He lands somewhere in the middle.

“And go where? His eyes remain focused on the ledger, dark brows drawn tight in concentration. You envision numbers flashing before him, adding and subtracting at the steady pass of the nib scratching against parchment.

“I don’t know. Ravka, maybe?”

“Ravka?” It’s like the word tastes sour on his tongue. “Why?”

You stop just short of his desk, an answer instantly rapping at your mind. You quickly replace it with one that’s far less tragic. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Nikolai Lantsov with my own eyes,” you drawl. “Nina says he’s quite the looker, y’know.”

Kaz sits up a little straighter, shoulders pinned with newfound tension.

“Of course he is.” He seems to press the nib down harder, his disinterested tone bordering close to resentful. “He’s a prince—looking pretty is all they’re good for.”

Your head tilts. “Well, he’s actually a king now, so…”

There’s the briefest falter in the smooth motion of his jotting wrist. “I’m not taking you to Ravka so you can seduce the Lantsov bastard.”

“And why not?” You reach for the tip of his cane, still propped against the desk, skimming a finger over the crow’s head. “You think I can’t do it?”

The pen keeps on scratching, accented by the dull hum of the Slat’s perpetual motion—doors slamming, voices cackling. Your ego grows larger for every second Kaz stays silent, your satisfaction settling into a feline smirk.

Simply, yet firmly, Kaz eventually maintains, “We’re not going to Ravka.”

Your exhale is something over dramatic, laden with feigned disappointment as you huff, “Fine!” Kaz never looks up, continuing with the ledger.

Abandoning the crow’s head, you swipe one of Kaz’s abandoned gloves off the desk, fiddling with the smooth leather. Still recovering from their civil war, you imagine Ravka isn’t an ideal travel spot right now, anyway. Not unless someone has a morbid desire to tour the sites where Saints met their often-grisly ends, that is… Besides, for all Nina’s praise of the Lantsov king, you’ve never actually had a thing for blondes.

And yet—

“I really would like to go someday.” Your voice is hardly a whisper. Your other answer—tragic and rapping—crawls up your throat in a hoarse admission, “My mother was Ravkan.”

That persistent scratching finally comes to a sudden halt.

For the first time since he entered the room, Kaz looks up. There’s not a hint of pity in his eyes, though they gleam with solemn understanding. Your lips thin, pressing his glove tight to your chest.

In the winter of your fourteen birthday, you snuck into your father’s office and stole a full bottle of kvas. Dressed in clothes too light for the frigid weather, you sped up the crooked stairs to Kaz’s attic-bedroom, pleading until he begrudgingly agreed to join you on the moonlit roof. For a boy who claimed such an aversion to you, he was always doing things you asked—even if he’d griped the whole time. You both gagged after the first sip of hard liquor. After an hour or so, the full bottle had dwindled to just a drop, your tongues seeming to move with more freedom.

Neither of you had been prepared for the way the carbonated joy in your chests fizzled to something stagnant.

I don’t like being alone, you told him, fiddling with the frayed strings tied around your wrist, the friendship bracelets no one ever wanted. If I’m alone, it means I’m thinking, and if I’m thinking, it means my mother won’t stop dying.

You told him of the endless montage in your head. How at six years old, a walk along the Stave in your favorite winter coat ended with getting crushed beneath the weight of your mother’s last act of devotion, shielded by a body crumpled and crimson, shorn in the crossfire of unexpected gang violence. When you fell silent, Kaz drained the last drop of kvas and told you about a coffee shop near the Exchange. About a sickboat and a boy named Jordie, about a frosty harbor and an impossible swim that left him unable to bear the touch of another’s skin.

When neither of you had any soul left to bear, Kaz chucked the bottle off the roof. You don’t remember hearing it shatter, and maybe it never did. Maybe it hit some hapless pigeon and fractured his skull. Maybe it ceased to exist the moment it went over the edge. The bottle didn’t matter. Not to you. Not when Kaz Brekker reached for your wrist, leather-clad fingers gently tugging the bracelets off your wrist.

Don’t make a thing of this, he told you, stuffing them in his pocket. You’re still a pest.

But it was a thing. A strange, beautiful thing—and both of you knew it.

“Fine.” Kaz’s voice—the rasp of stone on stone—drags you back to the present. He sits the pen down beside the ledger, a strand of black hair swaying with the subtle shake of his head. “We’ll go to Ravka. You’ll seduce some sorry prince and live happily ever after in a gaudy palace. I’ll make my fortune snagging the Lantsov Emerald and use it to hire a proper bookkeeper. Deal?”

Your lips twitch, still hugging his glove to your chest. “King,” you correct him.

His eyes roll, but a flicker of something warm betrays his affection. “Pest,” he calls you, though it doesn’t sound like much of an insult.

“I imagine the Grand Palace has fine exterminators,” you muse.

“Then I suppose your marriage will be short-lived.”

“Will you save me, then?” Your heart leaps with the question, how it slips from your tongue before you can grasp it.

Kaz hesitates. Then��remarkably—smiles.

“Maybe.”

a/n - you know what they say. a bottle of kvas is never just a bottle of kvas, amirite

(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞

anyways, i was procrastinating an essay and thought "lets write something with a somewhat ambiguous ending!" and voila, a boy's first pest is the product. now everyone say: lainie, go work on your original writing and stop writing so much fan fiction! (but i'm already thinking of a kaz smut drabble so) anyways, comments and reblogs much appreciated, i cry with joy every time someone actively interacts with my work so THANK YOU

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lipglossanon · 8 months ago

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April Showers

Real Dad!Leon S. Kennedy x real daughter!reader

A Little More Savory tier commission from @ao3-rex1223

Word Count: 2365 (I went over! 🫣)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, DEAD DOVE, father/daughter incest, nicknames, dirty talk, kissing, shower sex, grinding, nipple play, breeding kink, lactation kink (mentioned), unprotected sex, creampie

Proofread ✍️

The weather app on your phone is nothing but a filthy liar.

“Sunny with a partly cloudy afternoon, my ass,” you mutter out loud.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Your dad glances over to you, the downpour soaking his hair until the fringe lay flat on his forehead.

You keep your eyes firmly above his neck, a Herculean feat since you wouldn’t mind following the water as it drips down his shirt—nearly opaque now and showcasing his mouth-watering pecs. It’s been a stupid, invasive thought that you can’t shake since moving closer to home after graduating. Your dad’s been helping you out around the house, fixing things up, and during one of those times, you accidentally stumbled on him half naked in your bathroom.

It really wouldn’t have been a big deal; he got covered in some kinda gunk from cleaning the gutters and decided to take a shower before heading back home. Not thinking about it twice, you opened the door to hand him a towel, only to be met with his flexing back muscles and tight ass. He’s been haunting your dreams, whether you wanted him to or not.

Since then, you’ve been keeping a catalog on what makes him so hot; suffice it to say, the brain rot hasn’t abated in the slightest.

“Oh, nothing,” you sigh. “How much longer til we make it back to the cabin?”

He glances down at his smart watch, the small face bright in the gloom. “GPS says about another quarter mile.”

Groaning, you tip your head back, raindrops smattering across your face and down your neck. “Who’s bright idea was it to hike today?”

Leon grins, "Believe it was you this time, squirt.”

Trudging forward, you shake your head, “Yuck, you know I hate that nickname.”

“Come on,” your dad needles you, laughing at your sour face. “It’s cute.”

“Uh huh,” you roll your eyes, then gesture to the trail in front of you. “Following your lead here, pops.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand at you and steps out in front. “Make your old man slug it out first. I get it.”

Rolling your eyes again, you give his broad shoulders a light push, meaning it solely as a joke—something you’ve done a thousand times before—however, because of the sudden deluge of water, the trail is nothing but a slippery, muddy mess, and he loses his balance.

He begins to fall backwards, and you try to catch him, but it’s a moot point; he just has too much weight on you. Both of you crash down onto the ground, Leon sprawled on top of you, leaving you both coated in mud. Wincing, you try to raise up at the same time Leon turns on his side, and you end up pinned underneath his body.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you valiantly stifle the whine in your throat. It’s unfair to have your hot dad pressing you into the ground, pelvis to pelvis, while mud and leaves are seeping into your clothes.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he laughs a little deprecatingly as he finally hoists himself up, stretching a hand out toward you. “Guess we’ll need to clean up in the outdoor shower.”

Heart tripping over itself, you nod, “Sure.”

Turning his back to you, he curses under his breath, “Good thing it’s insulated, huh.”

Head dizzy at the thought of seeing your dad strip down in front of you, you can only cough out a strangled yep. Shooting a look over his shoulder, you smile tightly.

“Must be a frog in my throat,” you joke weakly.

It’s enough to make him grin and chuckle.

“Well, Kermit, let’s get outta here.”

“Does that make you Miss Piggy?”

“Har, har, aren’t you funny?”

“Learned from the best.”

A comfortable silence falls between you, only broken up by the sound of rain and your trampling footsteps. Making it back to the cabin, you follow behind your dad as he walks to the lean-to built onto the side of the building. A shower stall’s setup alongside the house, protected from the elements by the sheltered roof. Glancing at it, it doesn’t seem like a lot, but it's fairly spacious inside with a little shower bench.

“C’mon,” Leon nods his head at the stall, kicking his boots off and starting to unbutton his jeans. “We’ll both hop in in our undies and get clean in one go. Save time, so we can get started on dinner and warm up.”

You feel faint, blood surging hotly through your veins. “Um, s-sure. Quick and easy, right?”

He chuckles, “That’s the spirit, squirt.”

Arousal dampening a smidge from the silly nickname, it revs back up when he turns his back to you and bends over to take off his jeans and socks. Biting your lip, you press the dough of your thighs together, eyes drinking in his toned form. Once he’s down to his briefs, he steps into the shower stall, holding the door open as he cuts on the water.

“Hurry it up, sweetheart, haven’t got all day,” he sing songs.

In no time at all, you stand next to your dad wearing only a sports bra and boy shorts, brain overrun with thoughts of his half naked body. You bite back a gasp when his hand comes up to press between your shoulder blades, ushering you into the shower. He steps in behind you and shuts the door.

It’s wide but not very deep due to the bench. As you both try to rinse off, you’re rubbing up against your dad in an almost obscene way. You really aren’t doing it on purpose, but he finally grabs you by the hips and stills your movement with a cut off groan.

“Dad?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles behind you, fingers gripping you tightly as he lets out a breath. “I didn’t—it’s been a while and just—that’s no excuse, ‘m sorry.”

Your heart beats a staccato in your throat, and you rock yourself back, ass brushing against his stiff cock.

“Oh, dad,” you whimper, and he inhales a sharp breath. “That’s so hot.”

He doesn’t stop you from pressing your ass fully against his chubbed cock, grinding back against him with a moan. His grip shifts, and he guides your hips into a rhythm that makes your toes curl, knowing your dad is getting off to this just as much as you are.

“Daddy,” you whine, reaching one hand over your head to drape over his shoulder. “Touch me, please.”

His hands move from your hips to drag along your sides until he’s groping your breasts through your flimsy bra.

“Take it off,” he tells you, voice thick with lust. “Show daddy these tits of yours, baby.”

Slick floods the gusset of your panties while you eagerly strip your bra off, dropping it to the shower floor with a splat. His hands immediately grope and squeeze your breasts, fingers tweaking and tugging your hard nipples.

“Daaaad,” you moan, hips rocking back against his while he plays with your tits.

“Hang on,” he mutters, one hand disappearing, and you hear him shift behind you. Glancing down, you see him kick his underwear off to the side, making you whimper.

“There we go,” he sighs, slipping his cock between your thighs. “Mmm, so soft. And..”

He trails off, and you feel him guide his cock up to rub against the outline of your cunt. “So wet, baby. S’this all for me? What a dirty girl.”

He coos the last sentence in your ear and you melt against him, keening low in your throat. “Daddy, please.”

He pulls back and turns you around to face him; your dilated eyes rake down his body, taking in his thick, dripping cock. Leon yanks your panties down, and you step out of them.

“Pretty pussy,” he groans, fingers skating along your slit, smearing slick along your cunt and his fingers.

“Dad,” you tilt your head. “Kiss me.”

“Baby,” he rumbles in your ear, and your hands grip onto his biceps, pulling him into a wet kiss.

He slips his tongue past your parted lips, groaning as he licks into your mouth. You’re so turned on, it feels like your brain is melting from your ears. Leon ruts between your thighs, cock dragging precum all over your pussy lips, parting your slick folds to nudge against your clit.

“Want it,” you pant, pulling away. “Want your cock.”

“Yeah?” He drops his hand down to grip the base of his dick, guiding the tip until he’s pressing against your hole. “Want daddy to stuff your pretty pussy?”

“Please, please, please,” you chant under your breath, eyes wide as they watch him tease the tip in and out of your fluttering cunt. “Dad, please, I wanna fuck you.”

“God,” he groans, sinking halfway into your snug pussy. “Take it then, sweetheart, since you want it so bad.”

“Yes, yes, oh, fuck,” you moan and whine, hands gripping his shoulders but making sure to keep your nails from scratching him up. No need to give your mom any suspicions.

Once he’s buried completely in your wet heat, he grabs your thighs and picks you up. Without pulling out, he walks you both back so he can sit down on the bench. Your knees settle on the outside of his thighs, letting you sink down on his cock until the tip kisses your cervix.

“So deep,” you slur, that pinch of pain making you clamp down on his dick. “Daddy, no one’s ever been this deep.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, hips snapping up, making you squeal as he knocks against the opening to your womb. “This sweet pussy’s never had a dick this big?”

Shaking your head rapidly, you sling water everywhere, “Nooo.”

“Goddamn,” he bites out, pulling you into a spit filled kiss. “Gonna dick down my little girl like she deserves.”

“Uh huh,” you mumble, kissing him between all your little moans and pants. “Give it to me, daddy.”

“Gonna let daddy breed your little pussy, sweetheart? Hmm?” He teases against your lips, warm palm cupping your lower belly. “Put a baby right here if you let me cum in this soft pussy, cream you nice and deep.”

Shuddering, more slick leaks from your cunt, coating his cock, while your nails claw at his back, totally forgetting about not leaving any marks, “Dad, y-you can’t—we shouldn’t, it’s bad.”

“So bad,” he simpers, kissing your neck. “But doesn’t it feel good? C’mon you know you want it. Let daddy stuff your sweet cunt, baby.”

Nodding, you kiss him, sloppily making out underneath the shower spray. His fat tip drags against your g-spot on every thrust, fucking you better than your last boyfriend by far. It really shouldn’t be this good between father and daughter, but now that you know how sweet this forbidden fruit truly is, you never want to stop.

He pulls away to mouth kisses across your jaw and down your neck, nipping at your pulse point. Drooling, you pant and gasp, knees digging into the tiled bench of the shower as Leon pounds into your clenching heat.

“Fuck, pussy’s so much better than your moms,” he grunts, fingers digging into your hips. “Like this tight hole’s made for my cock.”

“Daddy,” you whine, and he groans, biting down on the swell of your breast. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” He slows his pace, dragging his cock in and out of your cunt in deep strokes until you’re writhing against him.

“Want it fast,” you pout. “Please?”

“Don’t like being teased?” He chuckles, pressing a kiss on each of your nipples. “Let daddy play with you a little, sweetheart.”

Clit aching, you rock yourself against him. “But dad—“

“Shhh,” he nips at your stiff nipples, and you whine. “Just let me enjoy it. God, you’re so sexy.”

Pussy fluttering around his cock, you whimper, and he groans in satisfaction. “You like that? Yeah, best little pussy daddy’s ever had.”

He fucks you slow and deep, cock pumping in and out of your pussy while his mouth and tongue tease your nipples.

“Just think, if you let daddy knock you up, these gorgeous tits will be full of milk.” He bites your nipple roughly, a sharp pleasure that makes your pussy flutter. “Then daddy would have to help milk these fat tits every day.”

You hump down on his cock, thighs burning as you fuck yourself faster and harder against him. “Oh, god, dad, you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Fuck,” he groans, moving a hand between your bodies to strum across your senstive bundle of nerves. “Little clit’s so fat and slippery, baby.”

Keening, you thrash against him, arousal building higher and higher until it’s all white noise in your head. “‘M so close.”

“Cum for me, let daddy feel this little cunt squeeze his dick,” he coos. “Be a good girl and cream all over my cock.”

He pinches your clit a little harder, and it’s enough to snap that band wound tight in your lower belly. Your climax hits you hard, pussy squirting slick as your walls clench over and over while you shudder and writhe in his lap.

“Oh fuck,” he chuckles in disbelief. “Squirt’s more than just a nickname, huh?”

Thighs twitching, you slump against him, muscles too weak to keep you up. He wraps his thick arms around you and begins to pound up into your sopping wet pussy.

“Gonna cum, oh fuck, gonna nut in your hot little pussy, oh, oh, yeah, take it, gonna knock my daughter’s fat pussy up, breed your sweet little cunt,” he babbles against your neck, cock throbbing in your fluttering walls. “Oh, fuuuck.”

He buries himself to the hilt, shooting rope after rope of hot, thick cum inside your puffy cunt, letting your snug pussy milk every drop. He doesn’t pull out when he leans back and takes your chin in hand. Leon tugs you into a soft kiss, the sweetest one that you’ve shared thus far.

“Let’s go inside and continue this,” he nips your bottom lip. “We’ll worry about the consequences later. Daddy hasn’t had enough.”

He palms your belly, “Gotta make sure it sticks, too.”

A dull throb echoes through your cunt, “Okay, dad.”

#dead dove fic #real dad!leon s kennedy #daughter!reader #real dad!leon s kennedy x daughter!reader #fem!reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #fic request #kofi commission

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cupidsworstcrime · 2 months ago

Text

graves x f!reader

smut :)

You were supposed to be sleeping.

Lights off, door shut, uniforms half-hung, boots by the footlockers. The kind of military quiet that wasn’t peace—just discipline.

But you?

You were in your bunk, on your back, legs hiked up to you chest, pillow crammed between your teeth.

And Graves?

He was ruining you.

Real slow. Real deep. Real quiet, or at least he tried.

“Shh,” he breathed against your throat, voice syrupy-thick, hand clamped over your mouth now because the pillow wasn’t cuttin’ it. “Gotta keep that pretty little voice down, darlin’. Don’t want s'mone knockin’ just ‘cause they heard you cryin’ my name.”

You let out a helpless sound beneath his palm—half-moan, half-desperate whimper—because God, he felt so deep you swore you could taste it.

“Easy,” he cooed, cock buried so far inside you it felt like your lungs had to make room. “Know it’s a tight fit, sugar. But you take me like you were built for it.”

The frame creaked under his weight as he ground in slow, careful strokes, every one of them angled to punch the air out of you. You gripped his biceps, legs trembling around his shoulders, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how full—how stretched—you were.

And he just smiled.

“Can’t make a mess’a you if you keep clenchin’ like that,” he murmured, brushing sweat-slick hair off your forehead, his voice dripping with sweetness. “You holdin’ off for me, baby? Tryna be good?”

You nodded, wide-eyed.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “That’s my girl. Bein’ quiet for me. Lettin’ me ruin you nice and slow.”

You were so close, hips twitching, thighs trembling.

And then—he pulled almost all the way out.

You whined, panicked, hips chasing him on instinct, and he just chuckled low, dark, dangerous.

“Aw, now. You know better. That noise? Gonna get us caught.”

You bit down on the pillow, hard enough to see stars.

And then he gave it to you—hard, deep, full-length thrust that had your whole body jolting under him, head slamming back into the mattress. The cry that ripped from your throat was strangled by his hand, muffled and soaked with heat.

“God damn, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You were made for this. Made to take all’a me, even when it’s too much.”

Your eyes rolled, fingers digging into his back like talons.

“You gonna let me fill you up nice?” he whispered, voice slurred with pleasure. “Real deep? Nice and quiet?”

You nodded—barely.

And he did.

And you came with his name burning in your throat and your body shaking from the effort of staying silent.

When it was over, he didn’t pull out.

Just held you there, breathing hard, bodies fused and slick with sweat.

“Next time,” he drawled against your skin, smug and satisfied, “we find a room with a little more insulation.”

And you, weak and wrecked and still full of him, mumbled into the pillow:

“Or just gag me right first, jackass.”

He grinned.

#phillip graves #graves cod #graves call of duty #graves x you #graves x reader #graves smut #im bad at tags #i hate tagging so much #find my fics via vibe instead

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grayandthyme · 6 days ago

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mwah hello lovely! Just had a sneaky ask so basically when I'm washing my face or like doing my hair or like sewing, I take my rings off so it doesn't get caught or anything and I was like totally thinking like imagine jackson!tommy being absolutely miserable and grumpy and yous fall out but then like go to sleep on an argument and he wakes up to you getting ready without your wedding ring on and this man is stressing on another level like he is grovelling and apologising, like completely fluff, and your style of writing would so slay this!!

(could I request to be 💐 - also love ur work so much ur my fav right now!!)

authors note: ohhhh i LOVE this idea. i do the same thing too tbh.. and then i always forget to put all my jewelry on in the morning. excuse the horrible horrible writers block. if this was bad, then i am so so sorry, my flower.

warnings: lil bit of angst. couple disagreement. tommy is emo. happy ending. fluffy ending. implied intercourse near the end.

Winter was never kind.

Not in the last two years, anyway. The cold always came early, sharp and cruel. It gnawed at the town, and at Tommy—tightening its grip with each passing day.

Illness had started to spread, food stores had thinned, and every home begged for more insulation than they had to give.

And through it all, he carried the burden—Jackson’s protector, whether he asked for it or not.

You hated how powerless you felt.

Ideas buzzed endlessly in your head, half-baked plans and desperate wishes—none of them enough.

Sleep had become a stranger. Guilt made sure of that.

The front door creaked open, slow, as if even the hinges understood the weight of the man walking through the entry. Tommy's boots hit the floor with a dull thud. You could hear him exhale as he hung up his coat—bone-tired and quiet.

Upstairs, you sat still, listening.

You could hear it on him. The heaviness. The wear in every breath.

It twisted something weary in your chest.

And still—what could you do?

All you had was your love. Your presence.

Silent prayers that no one else would fall ill.

That no more names would be added to the list of the lost.

That he wouldn’t lose himself beneath it all.

“Tommy?”

Your voice was soft, coaxing, as your hands pulled your hair into its usual protective twist for bed. “I’m upstairs.”

You heard the stairs groan beneath his weight. Slow steps. Heavy. You pictured his hand dragging along the banister like he was holding himself upright with it.

He was.

When he appeared in the doorway, your heart ached at the sight of him. His face was blank, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual—not from lack of sleep, but from everything else.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything right away.

You tried to keep your voice light. “Did you eat anything?”

“No.”

Just that. A clipped syllable, tossed carelessly into the air between you.

You sat up straighter. “You should’ve grabbed somethin’. I left soup on the stove.”

He shrugged off the comment like it was a coat he didn’t feel like wearing. “Didn’t feel like it.”

"Oh—"

"I can grab you a bowl," You blinked. "Tommy—"

"Can we not?" he muttered, already tugging off his shirt, turning his back to you. His shoulders were hunched, tense like a coiled wire.

Your stomach tightened. “Not what?”

“This." He gestured vaguely. "The questions. The fussin’."

"...I just want five goddamn minutes without someone needing somethin’ from me.”

Five goddamn minutes without your suffocating love.

Isn't that it? Isn't that what he really meant?

You stared at him, stunned by the bite in his voice. “I’m not someone from town, Tommy. I’m not asking you to fix a generator or build a fence—"

"… I’m asking if you’re okay…"

"… If you’ve eaten.”

He turned to face you, exasperation flaring behind his eyes. “And what do you want me to say, huh? That I’m not okay? That everything’s goin’ to shit and I can’t stop it? You think sayin’ it out loud makes it better?”

He just isn't himself these days.

Not the man you married.

Not the man you fell in love with.

“No,” you said, voice rising in spite of yourself. “But shutting me out doesn’t make it better either.”

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw twisting like he wanted to say something worse.

But, he bit it back.

“I’m tired,” he said finally, like that explained everything.

Like that excused all of it.

Silence settled between you, cold and thick. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to you again. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you spoke.

And after a while, you leaned your head back against the headboard, hands still tangled in your half-finished updo. The sound of wind whistled faintly through the old windows.

It was cold in the house, but colder between the two of you.

Weeks since you had last been intimate.

Days since the last time you had eaten dinner together.

Minutes since the last time you had looked at each other.

Seconds since the last time you thought of each other.

Maybe this was the breaking point.

Not the kind that comes with shouting or slammed doors—but the quiet, bitter kind. The kind that settles in the chest and whispers you’ve had enough.

Maybe tonight you were done pretending that his silence didn't scrape at your insides.

That every sigh, every shift in the sheets, wasn’t treated like a personal offense.

You stood up slowly, breath steady but hands a little tight around the pillow.

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” you said, voice low, final—not angry, just… finished. You grabbed your water bottle off the nightstand, the metal clinking against your ring.

Behind you, Tommy shifted, but didn’t speak. Not right away. You were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the dark.

“What, now you’re punishin' me?”

You turned, the weight in your chest heavy. “No, Tommy. I’m giving us space. You don’t want me near you right now, and I’m not gonna beg for scraps of patience you don’t have.”

His expression darkened. “You think this is about you?” He gave a humorless chuckle and ran a hand down his face. “Christ. I can’t even be tired without it turnin’ into a fight.”

“You’re not just tired,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, level.

“You’re angry."

"And mean."

"… And I get that things are hard right now, but I’m not the enemy.”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked away, jaw tense, like the words were too much.

Like you were too much.

And maybe you were.

For tonight, at least.

So you turned.

Left the room with your pillow clutched tight to your chest, like it might hold the pieces of you still trying to stay soft. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but it was nothing compared to the chill in that bedroom.

Out here, at least, the air didn’t feel so heavy. You could breathe without the sharp edges.

Downstairs, you settled onto the couch. The cushions were stiff, unfamiliar. You pulled the blanket up over your legs and stared at the dark ceiling for a long while.

It had been nearly two years since you last slept alone.

When you got married, Tommy had made a quiet vow—not just in words, but in practice.

He stopped working nights, made a point to come home, to come to bed.

No matter how hard the day had been, no matter how tired or withdrawn he felt. He always made it back to you.

And those nights mattered—whether they passed in conversation, on-and-on, or in silence, with a book in your lap or his head on your chest.

He was there.

Always.

Every night ended with him. And most mornings began with his warmth still lingering beside you.

Until now, that is.

Now the absence was sharp, jarring in its unfamiliarity. You lay back, blinking at the ceiling. Pretty unsure if sleep would come at all.

Morning arrived without mercy.

Early light filtered through the curtains, indifferent to your unrest. It felt like you’d slept maybe two hours—scattered, shallow fragments of rest between the tossing and the waking.

Every groan of the old house, every twack of wind or branch against the windows pulled you back to the surface. Sleep had never been this fragile—not when you had his arms around you.

You'd almost forgotten how much quieter your mind was when he held you.

Was the world always this loud?

Even so, even bone-tired, you rose. Slowly, peeling yourself from the couch. Your body ached from the angles of the cushions, the way they never gave quite enough support. The living room was still, untouched by anyone else. Just you. Just cold.

You stood. Stretched out the tightness in your muscles, rolled your shoulders back, and breathed.

Then—against the weight in your limbs—you moved.

Back up the stairs. Not out of hope, exactly, but out of duty. Out of love that still lived, and lingered somewhere in the mess. You didn’t know what you’d say. You didn’t know what would be waiting on the other side of that bedroom door.

But he shouldn’t be alone. Not like this.

And when you finally opened the door—against all odds, against every hope he’d still be there—he wasn’t.

The bed was made. Curtains drawn open, exactly the way you did every morning. But the room was empty. He was already gone.

And just like that, the sinking feeling returned. That familiar, dreadful kind—the one that creeps in when you realize something is beginning to unravel. When the ground shifts beneath you, and nothing feels solid anymore.

The kind of fear that whispers, this is when everything starts to go really, really wrong.

Your chest tightened. That helpless, aching question echoing in your mind,

How are you supposed to carry his burden, when you’re starting to feel like one yourself?

It was that sensation you get when you trip over a sidewalk crack—just for a second, your whole body in freefall. That stutter in your breath, the instant rush of adrenaline as your brain prepares for pain. Just pain. Pain all over.

That’s what this feels like.

That’s what this room feels like.

Still. Clean. And utterly abandoned.

There wasn’t much you could do.

Just exhale.

Breathe in.

Gather yourself for the day ahead.

And send up a silent prayer—to whatever god might still be listening—that they wouldn’t take him from you. Not yet. Not like this. You weren’t finished. Your story wasn’t done.

So you stepped into the bathroom, steadying yourself against the sink. The light was soft, cold against your skin. You moved through the motions because they were the only things you could control.

You slipped off your ring. Then your bracelet. Set them gently on the counter like they might shatter if handled carelessly.

And then you began your morning.

Because what else was there to do but keep going?

You washed your face with the clove and ivory soap a farmer down the street had made just for you. It had come in a basket filled with sweetgrass and other homemade scents—gifts from your wedding day.

Now, these simple things were part of your daily ritual, grounding you in a world that felt anything but steady. And you routinely asked for these products.

Usually—most mornings, you’d pause in front of the mirror and smile softly, your hands would reach up and dab the soap onto Tommy’s face—gentle, playful, tracing through his mustache with quiet laughter.

He always let you.

Every single time.

That small act, so ordinary, had become a language of its own—one that spoke of tenderness beneath the weight of everything else. And, you hadn't done that today.

After your morning ritual, you stepped out into the gray light of Jackson’s small town market.

The heart of the community when everything else felt fragile.

The chill in the air bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed.

There was work to be done. People to help.

You spent the morning helping vendors unload crates, set up tables, and arrange produce with practiced care. Each small task felt heavy—not just from the cold, but from the weight of knowing Tommy carried the town on his back.

And today, you were determined to carry some of it for him.

Even if you weren't on speaking terms.

A few familiar faces caught your eye—Mrs. Harper, already at her flower stall, smiled softly as you helped her lift a box of fresh daisies.

“Thanks, dear. You always make things easier.”

You smiled back, brushing a stray hair from your face. “We do what we can.”

At the bread stand, Mr. Lawson handed you a warm loaf with a grateful nod. “Tommy’s lucky to have you.”

Was he?

Was he really lucky? Or had the weight pressing down on him blurred the lines between what he noticed and what he feared to see?

By midday, your hands were raw, fingers cracked from cold and work, your feet aching from hours on unforgiving ground.

But you pushed forward anyway.

An older woman had asked you to fetch a crate from the back, and you’d agreed without hesitation. You trudged through the snow, the cold biting through your gloves as you pulled them tighter, careful not to drop the crate.

Then—The sudden crunch of boots behind you made you turn sharply.

Tommy.

Steadfast. Solid.

Before you could say anything, his hands caught your wrist, firm but gentle.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer than it had been in weeks—less command, more question, more a fragile confession caught in his throat.

“Tommy—” You exhaled, startled by the sudden contact, your eyes locking onto his as if trying to read the worry etched deep beneath his steady gaze.

“I’m fine.” Your words came quick, but unsure. “What’s—what’s wrong?”

He hesitated, swallowing hard. His eyes flicked down to your left hand, the absence of the wedding band that you didn't know about glaring like a missing piece of a puzzle he wasn’t ready to face.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” he said quietly, his voice taut—tight with a panic that trembled just beneath the surface.

What?

You shook your head firmly, a silent no. Slowly, deliberately, you slipped your glove off, heart sinking as your fingers searched for the familiar weight.

It wasn’t there.

You must have left it in the bathroom after your morning routine—forgotten in the rush of thoughts and the quiet chaos inside your mind.

“Shit—” you breathed out, the word sharp and tangled with regret. “No, no… I forgot. I must’ve been thinking too hard… and just left without putting it back on.”

He shifted uneasily, a flicker of doubt shadowing his eyes—like maybe he wasn’t sure if he believed you.

“Hey,” you murmured, lifting your bare, gloveless hand slowly to his jaw. Your fingers traced the line gently, sliding back until your thumb rested softly against his cheekbone.

“I’m still your wife.”

“That doesn’t change,” you said quietly but fiercely, “... just because I slept on the couch last night. It doesn’t change because you carry a weight that feels like the whole damn world.”

Your voice held steady beneath the tremor of everything left unsaid—a tether meant to hold him close, even when everything else felt like it might unravel.

He exhaled slowly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—though it hadn’t yet reached the shadows in his eyes.

His hand slipped into the pocket of his worn jeans and pulled out the ring. A simple silver band, rough and weathered, crowned with the largest gem he’d been able to find in this fractured world—still bold, still fierce. About the size of a pea, catching the light like a stubborn spark.

“Oh no,” you teased, a soft laugh escaping as your fingers reached for the ring. “You’re gonna have to get down on one knee if you want to give this back to me.”

He hummed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief.

“Well, if I did it once…” His grin twisted into something fond and teasing. “I reckon I can do it again.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling low. “Good… ‘Cause it’s only payback.”

“Payback?” he echoed, sliding the ring onto your finger with a touch both gentle and reverent.

You smirked, nudging him lightly. “Payback for being just like your brother. A grumpy ass.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Hey, I’m not that bad.”

“Oh, come on.” Your grin deepened, teasing but warm. “You’re a hell of a lot worse. But honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Tommy’s smile softened, the rough edges melting away as he closed the distance between you, pulling you in just a little tighter.

“Yeah, well�� lucky for you, I’m stubborn as hell.”

You exhaled, slow and steady, your fingers weaving through the roughness of his hairline, tracing the familiar lines until you drew him closer still. His hands found your waist, steady and sure, anchoring you both.

“As stubborn as a bull,” you murmured, pressing gentle, scattered kisses to the planes of his face—each one a small claim, a quiet promise of holding.

Tommy’s lips curved into a crooked grin, the kind that made your heart skip—a flash of the man you knew beneath all the weight and worry.

“You know,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “if I’m a stubborn bull, you’re definitely the matador.” He gave you a playful shove, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Always finding ways to make me follow your lead.”

You laughed, nudging him back. “Someone’s gotta keep your ass in line.”

He winked, that familiar cocky edge sliding back into his voice as his fingers tangled in your hair with a possessive ease.

“Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. I’m a wild one.”

You smiled softly, your breath warm against his skin as he pulled you closer, the weight between you easing, if only for a moment, a fleeting second. “And that’s exactly why I’m sticking around.”

With a reluctant grin, you pulled away just enough to break the spell.

“Come on, get back to work. I’ll see you at home.”

You pressed a few lingering kisses along his jawline, savoring the quiet closeness before stepping back and reaching down for the crate, the cold biting at your fingertips but your heart a little lighter.

Home was a refuge—warmer than the biting cold outside.

Wrapped in the steady glow of the fireplace you’d left smoldering, just enough to chase the chill but not so much to waste fuel.

By the time Tommy came home, the house hummed with quiet comfort. You were already curled up in bed, half-lost between sleep and wakefulness, fingers loosely clutching the worn book resting in your lap—its pages blurred by your drifting thoughts.

Exhausted. You were exhausted.

The door creaked softly behind you, and then his presence filled the room before you even saw him.

He moved quietly, shrugging off his coat and slipping out of his boots without a sound. He slid beneath the covers beside you, his arms folding around your waist—steady, warm—a silent promise that no matter how heavy the world pressed down, you were still his.

Here. Now. Safe.

“Miss me?” he murmured into the hollow behind your ear, his voice low, softened by something tender and raw.

You settled into the curve of his neck, breathing out the day’s weight.

“Always.”

But then, with a playful grimace, you pushed at his arms.

“But—your hands… they’re so fucking cold.”

Tommy grinned against your skin, voice teasing as he tightened his hold just enough to spark a little fire between the chill.

“Cold hands, warm heart. You get the full package, don'tcha?”

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping you. “Seriously, you’re freezing.”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through your skin like a familiar pulse. “Yeah? Then warm me up.” His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, cool at first but purposeful, settling on the curve of your hips before sliding slowly upward.

A sharp gasp caught in your throat, breath hitching as you barely managed to say his name. “To—”

But he silenced you, his mouth claimed yours—urgent and fierce, but tender all at the same time. Then his hands traced the path of your stomach with deliberate patience, pausing just beneath your fluttering ribs.

His lips moved against yours with a slow, steady heat, tracing promises. His hands, cold and sure, slid from your ribs to your sides, grounding you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

You melted into him, breath mingling, heart beating in time with his. The cold from earlier faded away, replaced by the fire he always managed to kindle.

That burning pool in your belly.

When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were soft, searching, and a little vulnerable. “You alright?”

You nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Better than I’ve been in days.”

A slow, tender smile curved his lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”

You tilted your head, letting out a soft yawn into the quiet space beside him. His smile deepened, fingers leaving your hair, gently gripping your cheeks between his pointer finger, and thumb.

Tilting until you meet his stare.

“Fallin' asleep on me?”

“The couch wasn’t exactly welcoming,” you murmured, pursing your lips in mock protest beneath his touch. A soft squish.

“Too bad,” he breathed, his head dipping down to rest against the hollow of your neck. “There’s a whole lot I’ve been wanting to do to you tonight.”

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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When your Character Needs Outdoor Survival Skills

Knowledge of outdoor survival techniques can improve your chances of making it through a life-or-death situation. Examples include knowing how to make a shelter, forage for edible plants, find water, and build a fire.

Consider these essential survival skills to improve your chances of success in the wilderness:

Build a fire. Use dry leaves, pine needles, or small pieces of wood to start a fire that can enable you to cook a meal, stay warm, or ward off wild animals from your shelter site. Use waterproof matches or a firestarter to spark tinder and kindling.

Craft a short-term survival shelter. Depending on the climate, weather, terrain, and available resources, you might want to construct a temporary refuge to shield you from the elements until you encounter your rescuers. You should insulate your shelter to help you retain valuable body heat in cold weather or provide sun protection to minimize your dehydration in a hot, arid climate.

Establish a hierarchy of priorities. A stranded hiker or someone forced into a survival scenario should work diligently to address the “rule of threes”: The average human can survive three hours without shelter, three days without water, and three weeks without food. These timelines are somewhat subjective to the individual and the climate, yet the rule of threes can provide a template to guide actions in the field.

Find a clean water source. A human can survive only about three days without water, so finding and collecting drinking water should be one of your priorities in a survival scenario. Use a water filter, iodine tablets, or a fire to boil the water. However you choose to purify water, it’s imperative to do it in adequate amounts to meet your hydration needs.

Locate a food source. Gather surplus supplies when possible and diversify your diet as much as you can to provide your body with essential protein, fats, vitamins, and minerals. Forage for edible flowers, roots, and mushrooms; use natural materials to build snares for small game; or craft fishing tools to catch fish.

Practice excellent hygiene. Bacteria, parasites, and pathogens can enter the body through food and open wounds. Practicing cleanliness and good hygiene will reduce your chance of succumbing to an illness. Remaining healthy is crucial since even a few days of bed rest could reduce your chances of survival and quickly deplete your resources.

Stay calm and assess the situation. The most important survival tool you have at your disposal is your mind. When you find yourself in a life-or-death survival situation, the amygdala of the human brain will pump the body full of stress hormones to trigger a fight-or-flight response. Counter your instincts by taking a moment to collect your thoughts—this will help you eliminate unnecessary risks and minimize your energy expenditure until you have a solid plan in place. Remaining calm is a must since avoidable mistakes can be lethal, especially in the wilderness.

Signal nearby search and rescue teams. Use visual and auditory signals like mirrors, whistles, and smoke to attract the attention of rescuers and notify them of your location for evacuation. Keep a solar battery charger for your cell phone in your survival kit to keep you connected—especially if traveling alone.

Test your bushcraft skills before you need them. You might already know how to navigate by the North Star or tie a bowline knot, but you should run a preparedness drill to test your skills in realistic scenarios. Knowledge is essential, but practice can help you determine your strengths and weaknesses so that you can ultimately improve.

Use everything at your disposal. A survivor must pack light and move quickly, making it necessary to collect water and food while on the go and carry multipurpose items worth their weight in utility. For example, a stranded backpacker might not have a manufactured first aid kit or bug-out bag from which they can draw any necessary tools or materials to survive comfortably. Instances like these require ingenuity and good problem-solving skills. For example, a plastic bag, a length of paracord, and a supply of duct tape could become the primary elements of a shelter that shields you from the wind and rain.

To test yourself, practice hard skills under circumstances that reflect the challenges you might face in the field.

Mental conditioning, a positive attitude, and creative problem-solving skills also make an impact.

Consistent practice and improvement will boost your confidence so that you can remain resilient in the face of adversity.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#outdoors #survival #writing reference #worldbuilding #writeblr #character development #literature #dark academia #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #light academia #writing ideas #writing inspiration #writing resources

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multiversefanfics · 1 month ago

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Flowers For My Flower

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader Warning: a bit of anger, a stupid argument, then fluff Summary: You and Joaquin had an argument before he left for a mission. He came home with a surprise for you. Word Count: 1,220 Picture from pinterest

It was like any other mission day morning, you were up early, packing Joaquin and Sam, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You know, with them being on missions, they don't eat as much as you would like them to, so you went ahead and packed them some light things to eat on the road.

"Babe, have you seen my belt?" Joaquin asked, looking around the living room.

"On the coat rack, my love," You replied, not taking your eyes off the ziplock container.

He walked over to the front door, taking his tactical belt off the coat rack. He looked at his belt and noticed something was missing. His compact first aid kit and his flashlight didn't have batteries in it. He turned to face you, anger bubbling up, you looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you okay?" You finished putting the food in an insulated bag, zipping it up.

"Did you forget to put batteries in my flashlight?" He clicked the belt on, looking up at you.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry I had to go buy some, they're right here." You walked up to him, pulling the flashlight from his belt.

He snatched the flashlight from your hands and placed the batteries inside it. You looked at him trying to figure out what you did wrong, they were just batteries.

"What is your problem?" It came out a lot harsher than you intended

"You can't do a simple task of replacing my batteries?" You've never seen Joaquin snap before, this was new territory. "Unbelievable."

"Are you kidding me right now?" You shifted your weight onto your other foot. "Batteries? You're mad because I didn't replace your batteries?"

"Or put my first aid kit back." He scoffed, tightening his belt on his hips. "It's so simple."

You nodded and shoved he insulated bag of food into his chest. He stumbled back a bit, holding the bag against his chest.

"I'm so sorry that I was busy making sure you and Sam ate. I'm sorry I was up at 3 in the morning making you food, and it slipped my mind to put fresh batteries in your flashlight, or I forgot to put your first aid kit back after refilling it." You took a deep breath and took one step back.

He opened his mouth to speak, but as soon as he tried to speak, his phone dinged. He looked down and saw Sam's name on his phone. He looked up at you and frowned.

"I uh I gotta go." He shoved his phone in his pocket, he leaned over and kissed your cheek, "I'll be back in a couple of days, I love you."

You nodded and watched him walk out the door. "I love you too." You breathed out, trying your best to ignore the pain in your chest.

Although he was pissed over something stupid, you still loved him. He just needs a reality check, he'll come to his senses. Sam will surely straighten him out and you knew Joaquin wasn't going to tell Sam himself, so you decided to pull out your phone and text him yourself.

Y/N: Hey, Sam, Joaquin is going to show up with an attitude, and he's probably going to say everything is fine. Sam: Yeah, he came in huffing and puffing. what's going on? Y/N: I forgot to put fresh batteries in his flashlight and put his first aid kit back on his belt and he freaked out on me. Sam: That's it? I'll handle it.

You tossed your phone on the couch and plopped down, you sighed and leaned back, closing your eyes. At first you felt like a child telling on Joaquin like that, but if he was going to act like a child you were going to treat him like one.

Sam shoved his phone in his pocket and looked over at Joaquin who was angrily stabbing his eggs with a fork. Sam strutted over sitting down in front of him.

"What's going on, man?" Sam leaned his elbows on his knees, looking up at him.

"Nothing," Joaquin muttered.

"Well, Y/N already told me." Sam stared at Joaquin as he froze in place

Joaquin met Sam's gaze "She told you?"

Sam nodded, Joaquin dropped his fork, rolling his eyes a bit

"Don't roll your eyes, you know you were wrong. Y/N does a lot for you, like those eggs you're eating, let me guess, she made those?" Joaquin nodded slowly and was about to speak, but Sam wasn't done.

"Just like that duffle bag over there filled with a week's worth of food for us, or maybe the fact that you know she's going to make sure you have food when you go home. Maybe the fact that even though you yelled at her for something you could've done yourself, she tried to apologize and do it anyway." Sam looked at Joaquin once again. "Was I close?"

Joaquin sighed, realizing how stupid he's been, and now he has to wait a week to apologize the correct way. He rubbed his face looking at Sam like a little lost puppy.

"We don't leave for another 2 hours, get her some flowers and go apologize."

Joaquin didn't hesitate, he grabbed his wallet and ran out the door. He drove to the closest flower shop and got your favorite flowers, he also picked up some of your favorite chocolates and other snacks. The entire drive home, he practiced what he was going to say to you, he knew he had to get it right.

He stood outside your shared apartment door. He let out a deep breath and knocked on the door. He waited a few seconds, and he heard movement inside, then the door swung open. You stood there, arms crossed staring at him.

"I know I messed up, I am so sorry for yelling at you over something so stupid, something I could've easily done myself. I know I don't say it often, but I do appreciate you and everything you do for me." His eyes didn't leave yours, he wanted to make sure you really heard him.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You wanted to kiss and hug him and just let him know that you love him, and that you forgive him.

"Baby, I am so so sorry, please forgive me, I don't know what I'd do without you. I can't lose you." Joaquin dropped to his knees, which made you giggle.

"Of course, I forgive you, my love. Now, please stand up. I just washed those pants." He chuckled and stood up. You took the flowers and what seemed like a million bags from him, placing them on the table beside the door.

When you turned back to him, he cupped your cheeks and placed his lips against yours. You smiled against his lips and pulled him closer to you. He pulled back, leaving several pecks on your lips

"I really have to go, I love you, baby. I promise when I get back, I will make it up to you." He pecked your lips a couple more times.

"I love you more, please just make it back to me." You smiled up at him

"I always do." He kissed your lips one last time, winked at you then ran down the hallway.

A/N: i hope you guys like it if you want to be tagged in future fics, comment here

Main Masterlist - Joaquin Torres Masterlist

Taglist: @cherryresidence @sidkneeeee

#avengers #joaquin torres fic #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres

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parknonwovenindia · 6 months ago

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#non woven battery gaunlets #pet acoustic panel #compressor felt #breather fabric #fiber glass felt #high efficiency media #light weight insulation #lint free wipes #plastic extrusion profile #pp + pet felt

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hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall · 6 months ago

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For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius gladiator II #marcus acacius x you #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius fic #general marcus acacius #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedrohub #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader

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morethanmemory · 5 months ago

Note

Cold on during a night?

Crawl into Phosphorus' bed without anyone noticing so the guards can have a little freakout in the morning <3

Pairing: Doctor Phosphorus/Reader

Warnings: None; Some suggestive touching

Notes: Thank you for the request, anon! Just some short Phosphorus fluff for y'all (: Reader has draconic heritage so Phosphorus's radioactive flames don't burn because uhhh I said so ! Y'all will not believe the amount of research I did on underground temperatures and sewer lines just to see if it made sense for the non-human wing to be cold, and yes, Belle Reve (according to wiki) is in Louisiana!

---

Winter at Belle Reve is, by far, the worst season. This deep underground, the Non-Human Internment Division should be marginally warmer than the world above, but fifty years of deteriorating, shitty-to-begin-with insulation has left the entire wing about as toasty as the North Pole. The old concrete does little to ward off the night chill, especially when it rains. Nestled within a web of storm drains and sewer lines, coupled with crappy plumbing, the Non-Human wing is the unfortunate victim of leaky pipes and dank cells every Louisiana winter.

Phosphorus's personal hellhole is no exception.

Plink. A drop lands on his brow, evaporating the moment it touches his radioactive skin. Hiss. He turns with a grumble, tugging the threadbare, itchy blanket over his head. Plink. Another droplet hits his foot. Hiss.

Cold. Wet. Miserable. Winter at Belle Reve is, by far, the worst season.

But, there is one bright side.

The air vent in the center of his room shudders, filling the cell with the groan of rusty metal. A second later, you're unceremoniously tumbling from his ceiling like a baby bird tossed from its nest. You land by his bed in a crumpled heap, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from bursting into laughter.

With a pained moan, you get to your feet, dusting off the cobwebs that cling to your uniform.

"You really stuck the landing this time," he snickers softly as he props himself up on his elbows to get a better look at you.

"Fuck off," you hiss under your breath. You pick a dead spider from between the silver scales running up your forearm and flick it at him with a scoff. It burns to a crisp as he yelps in disgust.

Still, he lifts his blanket as you pad nearer.

"You're a terrible house guest."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you apologize dramatically, placing a hand over your heart as you hover above him. "You must forgive me. I believe I forgot my fucks in the air ducts about three cells back."

You can hear him rolling his eyes even as he reaches up to place his hand on your hip.

"You're a real comedian tonight, aren't you?" he murmurs playfully. His hand slides to the small of your back, gently pulling you down beside him. The old mattress springs shriek in squeaky horror beneath your combined weight, squealing as you both shuffle under the single sheet.

You stifle a laugh as his head hits the concrete wall behind him in his haste to make space for you, and Phosphorus pinches your hip in retaliation.

"Shut it, Smaug the Terrible," he mutters, drawing you closer. "I'm trying to be a gentleman."

A soft chuckle slips past your lips, and you fix him with an amused look. "You? A gentleman?"

"Is it that unbelievable?"

Your silence answers him loud and clear.

"Asshole," he huffs, pulling the blanket over you, and you can't help but giggle.

His warmth, radioactive and sickly as it is, is a welcome reprieve from the biting cold of the cell. The phosphorescent glow of his skin illuminates your features, glinting off your silver scales like the Northern Lights dancing over a dark lake. Soft shadows stretch themselves over the rough scutes along your brow and cheeks, and you let out a quiet, happy hum as he gently traces the jagged trail of scales with his thumb.

He doesn't tell you that you're hogging the blanket or that you've yanked it high enough to leave his feet bared to the seemingly endless drip of freezing water from the pipes above. Instead, Phosphorus lazily drapes his arm around your waist and tugs you closer.

"You'd think we'd at least get upgraded to bigger beds for saving the world," he grouses, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt in search of soft skin and sharp scales.

"What, the ping-pong table wasn't thanks enough?"

Phosphorus snorts out a light laugh and catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I would've preferred they approved my other request."

"The cafeteria soda fountain?" you grin as the tip of his thumb drags along your bottom lip. He leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath dance down the bridge of your nose. Slowly, Phosphorus tips your head back until your warm eyes meet his hollow sockets.

"Yeah, sure," he whispers, lips brushing your own. "The soda fountain."

You can't see it, but you know he's smiling, can feel the curve of it as his lips press against yours. And then, he's kissing you. Slow, soft, sweet. He cradles your face in the same hand that's melted through the flesh and bone of countless men. His touch, though, is anything but deadly.

The hand under your shirt travels higher, mapping out the arch of your spine and the ridge of razor-sharp spikes running up it, and you whine for more. More of this tenderness neither of you have known in so, so long. The tip of his tongue drags over the seam of your lips, and you let him in without a fight. Sharp words fail you both in the face of this soft sweetness. The warmth that rolls off his tongue is still unfamiliar but not unwelcome. It seeps into every fiber of your being, liquid hot in your veins, molten metal down your throat. You should burn beneath his hands, crumble to ash and dust like everything else he's ever known, but you don't.

Your hands swiftly find their way to his jaw with a clumsy desperation, and sparks shoot across his skin as your scales scrape against it. He moans into your open mouth, fighting down a hungry growl, but his body betrays him. His hand hikes your shirt up; his hips roll against your own. He's kissing you a little faster, a little harder.

Plink.

The splatter of one, two, three droplets of ice-cold water against your forehead cuts through the building heat between the two of you, and you pull away with a quiet giggle. Phosphorus groans, a low rumble caught between irritation and amusement, chasing after your lips.

Plink. Plink. He sneezes as a few drops of water tickle his nose. Hiss.

With a defeated sigh and a final nip at your bottom lip, Phosphorus relents, surrendering to the battalion of leaking pipes. At least, he thinks, you're still here, laughing in his arms. As your laughter fades, you bury your face in his chest and breathe him in deep. He smells like the world after a thunderstorm, and your eyes drift shut as you commit the scent to memory.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you yawn, nestling yourself against him despite how his prison-issued shirt scratches your cheeks. "The guards—"

"I know," he shushes you, kissing your forehead. "I won't."

He tries his best. Really, he does. He talks to you about everything under the sun. Nuclear physics, his favorite composer, the time he watched Weasel spend five minutes trying to hack up a fork. You tell him about ancient runes, your favorite authors, the time you ate a police officer (completely in self-defense) and nearly choked on his femur.

Leaving before sun-up, sneaking out before the guards catch you, making sure you don't fall asleep so the scales you've grown above the tracker in your neck can stay up and disrupt the location transmission—they're all an excuse. Because, truth be told, all either of you really want are a few more stolen moments. Another story shared in hushed whispers beneath his fraying bedsheet. Another teasing touch that leaves you both wanting more. Another hour, minute, second. You don't remember falling asleep.

When you wake, it's to angry shouts and rough hands. One moment, you're wrapped up in Phosphorus's sturdy arms; the next, you're face down in a puddle of dirty water on the floor of his cell, pinned down by a guard that smells of nacho cheese. You feel the unmistakable burn of blazing radiation fill the tiny room, see the bright glare of his skin flaring like wildfire before your eyes, hear a shrill shriek of a horrified guard echo against the concrete walls. For a split second, you think it might actually work this time, that your fight for a few more moments won't be futile, but a skull-splitting pain rips through your body. You know Phosphorus feels it too when he limply lands beside you with a dull thud.

Your eyes meet, and with the little strength he has left after the shock, Phosphorus reaches out to brush his hand against yours.

Solitary confinement for the week is worth it. Every time.

#phos ily ily ily #did y'all catch the lotr ref (and can you tell i'm a lotr fan 🤪)#sorry this isn't any longer anon T-T #still getting back into the swing of writing again after almost 4-5 years of barely sharing my stuff #but i hope u like it !!!#phosphorus phucker nation we rise >:)#mine #asks #dr. phosphorus x reader #doctor phosphorus x reader #dr. phosphorus #doctor phosphorus #alexander sartorius #creature commandos #dc

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c1qfxugcgy0 · 8 days ago

Text

I will never complain about a toolbox being too far from the jobsite again.

(previous post in this series)

Large Aircraft Manufacturer (LAM) has announced, to the surprise of nobody with a brain, that certification of our latest aircraft, Advanced Widebody Carbon Wing (AWCW), has been delayed to March 2026.

This firmly sets management on the horns of a dilemma. They have something like five thousand expensively trained employees on the AWCW production line who will not have much to do for the next year. You can continue production and clutter up the hardstand with precertification aircraft. But the process of certifying the aircraft against severe weather, bird strikes, lightning strikes, etc etc, will inevitably require serious changes to the beta aircraft. LAM must then modify every one of their backlog aircraft, ripping out the interior, replacing bond wires and ground straps, then reinstalling all those parts. Doing structural work inside a complete aircraft naturally takes much more time than doing it from scratch in the production jigs designed to accommodate such work.

(And if you don't believe me, just watch This Old House.)

Naturally, LAM tracks every minute of worker time on each aircraft. Enough rework can wipe out LAM's entire profit margin on a bird, especially given the large discounts it offers to early buyers of new model aircraft.

This is not idle supposition. LAM was hauled through an identical hall of thorns when Advanced Midbody Carbon Aircraft (AMCA) was delayed in certification a decade ago. Fifty aircraft required expensive rework, putting the entire program in the red for years afterward. The scars are fresh, and LAM is not eager to repeat the experience. Thus, AWCW production rate has been cut to zero point zero.

But what to do with the workers?

Airplane factories are always attached to an airport. [citation needed]

Everything outside the factory is the flightline. Flightline is where all the problems with an aircraft catch up with it, and occasion screaming matches between facility managers (who are desperate to clear their patch of concrete and get the plane in the sky) and production managers (who will have the rare pleasure of seeing their face on the nightly news when that plane kills three hundred people).

Airplanes require a really incredible amount of maintenance. If production delays mean the plane doesn't get delivered to the customer on time, scheduled maintenance can happen while the airplane is being made. These are not problems that happen when you build cars, I can tell you. This is the shop I, along with 20 of my coworkers, have been loaned out to.

There are lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of moving parts on an airliner. Every LAM aircraft has a design life of 30 years. They cost hundreds of millions of dollars each. Because they are so damn expensive, our customers want to fly them as close to 24 hours a day as possible, in rain, snow, sleet, from Kabul to Kathmandu, from sea level to eight miles above ground. Sealed bearings, so beloved by the automotive industry, are simply not an option across aerospace's range of temperature, pressure, salt spray, and total joint lifespan requirements.

As a result, every single metal on metal joint on the airplane has a grease fitting, and a prescribed grease type for each fitting. In just the photo above there are seven fittings visible. The document that lists every fitting on the plane is eight hundred pages long.

But greasing the points is, honestly, not that hard. You've got eight hours to finish any given IP, and in a storage IP the greasing will take, at most, 30 minutes. Greasing is not the problem. The problem is the fucking skin panels.

The exterior surface of a wing is, uh, important. It carries the weight of the aircraft, it has to be aerodynamically smooth to a frankly annoying degree, each carbon fiber wing skin panel has to be as light as absolutely possible, the insulative carbon fiber composite must be coated with an outer antistatic conductive layer to bleed off static charge, but at the same time the inner layer needs a more conductive aluminum foil layer to conduct the powerfully destructive lightning strike energies each plane will experience, oh, about thirty times over its rated lifespan.

On that list of priorities, "making it easy for ground personnel to take a panel off" is low on the list of the priorities. Very low. Real damn low. Put on your SCUBA gear and investigate the pelagic depths kinda low.

You take off the panels. Maybe ten percent of the screws will strip when you apply force, which means you get to carefully, slowly drill out the titanium fasteners while standing at the top of a scissor lift in the rain.

(There is an art to drilling out a Phillips head titanium screw. Ordinarily, you want to use carbide tooling, which is sharp, but brittle. But even after stripping the hell out of a screw there will still be some remnants of the head, which the cutting edge of the carbide drill will catch on and break. So when your crew is assigned to a new plane, the first thing you do right away is rush to the tool room to get drill bits before your oafish coworkers clean them out, and get both HSS and carbide bits-- tough and ductile steel to knock down the remnants of the screw head and then carbide to do the bulk of the drilling. And once you're into the bulk of the screw, you do peck drilling-- three or four seconds of drilling, then pull the bit out and apply lube. This isn't for the benefit of the drill-- it can handle high temps just fine. What you absolutely, must not do, is let the screw get too hot. Because when titanium gets hot and then cools down, it hardens, and you just turned a ten minute job into a four hour one. Because after you finish drilling the hole you follow it with a steel screw extractor, and there's no extractor on Earth that's going to bite into hardened titanium.)

You apply Aeroshell 33 to the bushings on the slats torque tube and carefully brush on Cor-Ban 27L to the specified exposed metal surfaces. You call QA out, who bitches and moans the entire time for being rousted out of their crew shelter to get rained on to witness that you greased the things that needed to be greased.

Now it's time to put the panel back on. First, you throw away all the used fasteners and order new ones from Logistics. Any screw that touches a flight component is used once, and only once. Try not to think about the dollar value of the two pounds or so of aerospace titanium screws you just shitcanned. Be careful when reordering, though-- across the five or six panels you're pulling off you'll have two different types of screws of differing surface finishes, (structural screws vs. antistatic electrical bonding screws) different diameters and different screw lengths. Why? Because fuck you, you stupid mechanic. You deserve to suffer. Your life should be only pain.

(If you screw up on this step and can't button up a panel before end of shift you need to "short stamp" the IP saying what you did and did not do, check the panel into the WIP cage (remember to label it with the part number, IP number, and your employee number!) and then "maintain closure" by covering the empty spot with a sheet of plastic taped down along its entire perimeter with 3M 8979 duct tape. It is, of course, still raining while you're doing all this, because some fucking idiot decided to build an aircraft factory in the Pacific Northwet. Does duct tape stick particularly well to sodden wing panels? No, it does not.)

The one advantage of going to work at 5 am is that you never miss a sunrise

Assume you have all the screws you need and you haven't dropped any of the panels and damaged them while bumbling around. Apply Braycote 248 to the threads and start banging them home with a torque-limited screwgun.

Once installed, there are those two important electrical bonds mentioned above. LAM does not take your word that you've correctly installed the panel, of course, they want you to measure it. Getting the antistatic value is easy enough-- one probe on the head of the fastener, the other to the surface of the panel, value in the hundreds of kiloohms. Impossible to screw up.

What's harder is the lightning conduction path bond. That's measured in single digit milliohms, and it's from the foil lining of the panel to the structure of the wing. The foil is hard to access, since it's on the other side of the goddamn panel you just expensively installed.

Well, in some cases, you can just reach from an adjacent open panel. (The IP notes which panel does not require a lightning bond reading, and you are supposed to infer that this is the last panel to install.) But LAM defines "adjacent" somewhat loosely. By the time you are on the final panel, you are measuring bonds by duct taping one probe of the M1 meter to the end of a broomstick, crawling up the asshole of the plane, and jamming it against the back of a panel six feet away. This is as stupid as it sounds, and it takes several tries and quite a lot of fumbling around to get a good reading. If you don't get a good reading, then you will have the experience of taking the panel off, cleaning it real good, and then trying again, while your team lead breathes down your neck.

But if the readings are good, you unthread yourself from the guts of the wing, pound in the last panel, plug in your scissor lift, dump your cleaning materials contaminated with various exotic aerospace greases and weirdo solvents into the hazmat bin, return your tools to the tool room, and clock the fuck out. You've got a different airplane to grease tomorrow!

#avgeek #large aircraft manufacturer

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mead-iocre · 1 year ago

Text

Our New Normal Pt. 3 | Leah Williamson x Reader

Our New Normal 3/4 (pt.1) (pt.2)

Ding.

The ding of the elevator interrupts your train of thought. The closer you are to her flat, the more nervous you are about the inevitable. You had to tell her tonight. You had to tell Leah that you are transferring to Arsenal. This was the first time you had ever kept something so important from your best friend. The guilt was nearly eating you up inside and while you were nervous about how she might react to your news, you were ready to get rid of the weight baring down on your shoulders during the past couple of weeks.

You are gently pulled out of the elevator by the blonde, one of your hands tightly clasped in hers. You and Leah walk the short journey to her front door, the warm sensor lights illuminating the way as you walk further down the familiar hallway. It’s hard to ignore the way your steps are synchronised, a reminder of how easy and effortless it feels like to be with the Arsenal defender.

But that could all change after tonight.

You begin to tug your hand out of hers so she can grab her house key, but she tightens her grip. Instead, Leah uses the hand that was pulling your luggage to fish out her key from the pocket of her trousers to unlock the front door. Your hand was safely intertwined in hers the entire time. This was normal. While Leah has always been an affectionate person, especially with you, you had a feeling that this was more than that. You had no doubt that the blonde can probably sense the change in your mood– she could read your cues and signals better than anyone. Leah could probably tell that you are pulling away from her, even if she doesn’t know the reason why, and she was stopping you from doing so. Literally.

——————————————

You never realised how much you detested coats and jackets, but now you have come to the realisation that they weren’t your favourite thing. First of all, some coats on the market aren’t insulated enough to keep you warm, and it can be very hard to find the perfect coat without spending so much money. Secondly, having a coat on meant that you have no choice but to let go of Leah’s hand in order to slip off your coat. Once your hand left hers, you immediately miss the comfort it provided. Not only were you enjoying the feeling of her hand in hers, but it gave you something to focus on instead of the onslaught of worrying thoughts that have begun to fill your mind. Every insecurity, doubt and uncertainty about how this night was going to go were now on the forefront of your mind.

“Right. I’m gonna order a takeaway” Leah walks over to switch the lights on, and her entire flat comes to life. She drops her keys onto the porcelain trinket tray that you had bought for her and wanders further into her flat. Leah has a tendency to misplace her keys, so you suggested setting up a designated place where she can leave her keys and so far there haven’t been any incidents. Yet.

You follow in behind her, slipping your feet into a pair of shearling slippers that the blonde had bought for you a few months ago. They were terribly overpriced, thanks to the iconic “H” cut-out that proudly boasts the luxury designer, but you couldn’t refuse her very expensive gift when she had excitedly pulled out a matching pair for herself.

Walking straight into the lounge, you spot the merinos wool throw blanket that you had bought and left at her house. It was also a very expensive purchase, and not one you would usually make, but you justified it by saying it’s for both of you. You and Leah would nestle underneath the blanket together whenever you were watching trashy tv shows on her sofa. By the corner of the window, you see the Kentia Palm plant, nestled in a ceramic plant pot, that you routinely nag the blonde to mist regularly. The bookshelf across the sofa proudly displays frame photographs of the most special people in Leah’s life. Some with family, some with friends, and some with you. There were pictures from your early years at England camp, playing for the youth teams. There were also photos outside of football, photos that never made the instagram feed and were only just for your eyes.

There are remnants of you all over her home.

After delivering your luggage to the guest room, she walks over to you and cups your rosy cheeks in her hands. “Put something comfy on and warm up, baby.”

It wasn’t long before you and Leah were seated at the table, a selection of all of your favourite Chinese takeaway dishes spread out in front of you. The aroma of sweet and sour chicken wafted through the air, mingling with the savoury scent of beef and broccoli; crispy spring rolls beckoned from their perch on a porcelain plate, making it almost difficult to choose which dish to taste first. Without further hesitation, the both of you began to tuck in. Together, you both sampled each dish with gusto, comfortable conversation and shared laughter filled the usual silence of the defender’s flat. Leah animatedly told a story about the time Kyra pranked a few of the girls on the team by hiding their boots and shin pads around the training grounds and sending them on a wild goose chase to find them.

As the meal drew to a close, you both leaned back in your chairs, sated and content. Now was probably the right time to tell the Arsenal defender about your transfer. You put your chopsticks down and turn your gaze at your best friend.

“Leah, can we talk…”

“Sounds serious.” Leah puts her own pair of chopsticks down on top of her napkin before she pushes her plate to the side. “You alright?”

“Yeah. I-it’s nothing bad. At least I hope not for you”

Leah leans forward in her seat. There’s a small smile on her face, but her eyebrows are furrowed slightly in concern. “You’re making me nervous, baby”

“I wanted to talk to you about my transfer…”

“Look, y/n.”

A brief pause of silence.

Leah takes a deep breath before continuing “I want you to know that I wouldn’t be mad if you signed for Chelsea. Honestly. It is still fucking weird to think about it though and I’m seriously considering knocking you on the head a few times– but if they had put down an offer and you want it then go for it.”

“That’s great, Lee, but-“

The blonde runs a hand through her hair in frustration, a habit she must’ve picked up from being around you so often. “I still can’t believe Arsenal didn’t put down an offer– I mean, you’re one of the best midfielders in the world right now. Seriously.”

“Lee–“

“Although it’s a bit weird that you would still consider playing for my rival club, like among all the wsl teams out there, you chose the club that happened to my club’s direct rival– wait does that mean we’re rivals now–”

“LEAH”

“WHAT”

“I signed for Arsenal”

One breath in, one breath out.

Two beats of your pulse.

“…fuck off.”

“Leah!”

“Don’t fucking joke about that” You wince at the sound of her chair scrapping against the hardwood floors as the blonde abruptly stands up. Her hands on her hips, face flushed red in anger. Annoyance even, perhaps. Her lips are pressed together firmly and her eyebrows are still furrowed.

“I’m not fucking joking. I signed for Arsenal”

Silence.

Two more beats of your pulse.

“Y/N listen to me– my heart is up to my fucking ears right now, and I swear to bloody god if you are saying all this just to have a laugh–“

The blonde in front of you begins to gesture wildly, hands pointing here and there but her posture remains stiff. A flicker of uncertainty danced across her gaze, mirroring the storm of thoughts that were probably racing through her mind at this very moment. The slight tremor in her hands betrayed the internal struggle as she sought to manage the anxiety probably bubbling within.

Every so often, Leah’s lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but it was as if the words remained trapped in the hesitancy of the moment. A subtle, rhythmic tapping of her foot on the floor betrayed the restlessness, a visual of the nervous anticipation coursing through her veins. You hear an audible hitch in her next inhale

and then silence again.

You give into the silence for a moment. Your own hands are trembling and your heart was pounding but you want to give the girl in front of you the time to process it. It takes a lot to leave Leah Williamson speechless, and if it were a different situation you would’ve teased and bragged about how you had been the one to leave her completely speechless.

But now was not the time to joke around.

After another moment of silence, you could not take it anymore. The quiet was almost suffocating at this point, when it reality it had probably only been a few minutes.

You expected the blonde to be happy– to be jumping for joy over the fact that the two of you will now be teammates for country and club. However, the lack of reaction was making you second guess your decision to sign for her club.

“Leah…” You start, but then stop yourself. You hate seeing the uncertainty in her gaze. You hate the way the defender in front of you is hunched over slightly, almost as if she was trying to make herself smaller, seeking a shield against the external world that seemed to loom large around her.

You take a deep breath and start again. “I’m not lying. I did sign for Arsenal. I wouldn’t lie to you–“

You wanted to explain things to her but she cut you off.

“You made me think you were leaving me” Hearing those words leave her lips nearly broke you.

Your chair rattles at the sheer force of how quickly you stood up to level her stare. “I– I know, Lee, but I wanted to surprise you”

“For weeks I was stressin’ about where you would be moving to. I was trying to calculate how far Lyon was from London– I was fucking looking up plane tickets, trying to figure out when I can come visit–“

You wanted to run. Like you normally would. You hated seeing the look on your best friend’s face. A face so familiar that it became a source of solace and comfort during your time of need. Now, however, the face looking back at you was filled with disappointment and distrust.

If it were some other time, you would be out of that room. You hated confrontation. You hated the feeling of being forced to say what you feel on the spot because the thought of accidentally blurting something horrible out in the heat of the moment terrified you.

But you weren’t going to run this time. Not when Leah was being vulnerable and honest. Your usually strong and capable defender looked like she was the one that needed defending right now. But how were you going to do that when the one thing that was hurting her right now

…was you.

“I’m sorry, Leah. I really am” Your hands were trembling. You felt like you were losing her, and yet she was never even yours to begin with.

You close your eyes, taking a moment to will your heart to stop pounding so hard. “I would’ve told you earlier– honestly. But then I started to have second thoughts– I mean I started to worry about–“

The next words were stuck in your throat. Tears had started to well up in your eyes, and the soon enough your vision of the blonde in front of you was drowned out by tears. You hastily start wiping away your tears when you feel another hand reach out to grab hold of your arm. A warm thumb gently glides across the span of your cheeks, brushing your tears away lightly.

“Don’t cry. I can’t stay mad at you if you cry” It was said in a hushed murmur. Like she had just divulged in a secret, in a confession.

You push her arm away slightly. She was standing a little too close. Close enough that you could fall into her and she would catch you. But you wanted to explain things before you gave into the urge to run away like always.

“I really didn’t mean to lie to you. I swear, Leah. I was worried that you wouldn’t like me being around you to much–”

An eyebrow raise from the blonde was her only reply. Leah had expressed to you multiple times that she wanted you at Arsenal in passing over the years, but you couldn’t help the small nagging doubt that clouded your mind once in a while.

Leah chooses to remain silent for the most part. In the many years that she has known you, this is the first time she has ever seen you lay all your cards out right in front of her, so there was no chance in bloody hell that she was going to interrupt you. Leah often joked that you were the master of avoidance. Whenever a difficult conversation loomed on the horizon, you would flee from the confrontation rather than face it head-on. It wasn't that you were afraid of conflict, but rather that you found it easier to run away than to confront the issue at hand.

She had gotten used to your flighty responses every time you argued, so this change was a surprise to her.

And she was so proud of you.

Her usually reserved and collected girl was pouring her heart out, and she was more than ready to piece it back together again– once you were done speaking, of course.

A lock of your hair falls in front of your face but before you can reach up to push it away, Leah does it for you. Her touch was feather-light as she tucks your hair behind your ear. This was normal. It was a simple act, one she had done countless of times before, but each time it felt like a reaffirmation of the unspoken intimacy between the two of you.

You grab her hand before it can fall back to her side. You need something to steady you as your world falls on its axis, and Leah was your anchor. She gives your hand a squeeze, taking a step closer to you.

Gone were the piercing blues earlier, instead they were now replaced by a softer, warmer look. She gives your hand another squeeze when she notices your slightly dazed expression. “Continue, baby”

The familiar nickname gives you butterflies. Like it always does.

“I was beginning to second guess my transfer because I was scared that us being around each other so much would ruin our friendship. Y-you know that saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder? Yeah, well what happens if we see each other too much? I-if there is no absence–”

“Baby, what the fuck are you on about”

“That saying that–“

“I don’t give a fuck what a saying says” She air-quotes with her fingers. “I want you with me all the time.”

The defender squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, trying to suppress the urge to simultaneously yell out in frustration and laugh. Not at you, but at your absurd idea that she would grow tired of you. She finds that idea laughable.

“Y/N, listen to me. I was upset because I wanted to be there for you. We did almost everything together. Remember when we signed our first professional contract, we did it together–”

You cut her off. “Actually you signed yours first. Mine was a couple days after because the mens team had a match at Old Trafford”

The familiar, unimpressed look the blonde gave you had you fighting to a grin. Maybe everything will be alright.

“I saw the comments when you announced your transfer. I saw the fucking nasty ones too, about how you were selfish for leaving United, and I wanted to be there for you every step of the way. To protect you from all that”

“You can’t protect me from everything, Lee”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t fucking try”

Leah takes a deep breath before focusing her gaze at you again. Her voice was quieter this time, timid. “I just feel like you’ve essentially shunned me from such a big step of your career. Like this is your first club transfer and I wasn’t a part of it in any way– not that I think I deserve to be because it’s your career but like– fuck we usually did everything together ya know..”

“I know I probably sound so selfish right now, y/n, but I felt like you didn’t want me to be a part of that. I felt like you were pulling away from me”

You frown. You were so focused of keeping this entire transfer surprise away from Leah that you did not expect her to feel left out in the process. Maybe you should’ve been more attentive. Whenever Leah would ask about your transfer, you would brush off her questions and quickly change the subject. You didn’t think that by doing so, you were making her feel like you didn’t care about her feelings.

“I’m sorry, Leah. I didn’t think that by keeping this away from you, I was pushing you away. I was just so focused on surprising you…”

“S’alright. I do feel like I’m overstepping–“

“No. You have every right to feel this way, Lee. You’re a huge part of my life and you’re right– we do everything together”

“Yeah. Well it seems like we’ll be doing a lot of things together from now on” Her tone was now light, and playful.

Leah finally breaks the looming tension with a smile, but not just any smile. She’s smiling the kind of smile that she only reserves just for you. With her lips curved in a tender crescent, her smile held the promise of a thousand intimate secrets, like the ones shared and whispered at 2 am in the morning during England camp. Her blue eyes, now alight with affection and warmth, drawing you into their depths like a moth to a flame. It wasn't just the physicality of her smile that captivated you—it was the way it spoke volumes without uttering a single word. It was the silent reassurance it offered whenever she knew you needed it.

In Leah’s smile, you found solace, understanding, and an unwavering sense of home.

“We’ll see how we get on when we’re together 24/7” You mutter, still not fully convinced.

“Baby, listen to me” The blonde cups your face in her hands, lightly stroking your cheek with her thumb. “Quit being such a worrywart. Yeah, we’ll probably get on each other’s nerves. That’s normal. I’ll do things that’ll piss you off, you’ll tell me to go ‘fuck myself’ and vice versa. We’ll still disagree on things– like how you’ll probably nag me about forgetting my boots at training, or how I’ll have to remind you about refilling the petrol in the car because I have an irrational fear of you being stranded somewhere with no petrol”

Leah waits a moment, wanting you to process what she just said. Her gaze firm, unwavering. When she notices your eyes start to water again, she knows it’s not because you’re sad or angry. She knows you’re just overwhelmed. She pulls you close, and tucks your face into the crook of her neck. With your tears wet against her neck and your arms hanging limp by your side, she can almost feel your exhaustion– both from the events of day and the emotional rollercoaster you both had to endure today.

You welcome her embrace, wanting to bury yourself in the safety and comfort of her arms. She faintly smells like her favourite perfume, delicate notes of jasmine and cedar wood still cling to a warm spot on the side of her neck. You nestle further into her.

"That's normal, baby. Otherwise relationships and friendships would be far too easy, too boring. But we will always work it out in the end. That's how we work. You run, I follow. I get angry, you calm me down. That's us. And that won't change just because we see each other more often. I promise"

After another minute of silence, Leah pulls back slightly. She gently grabs your face out from where it was buried in her neck, so you could meet eye to eye again. She frowns at the sight of your tear-stained cheeks, and uses her thumbs to wipe away the lingering tracks of moisture that streaked down your cheeks.

“Enough tears” She mutters, bringing your face close and resting her forehead against yours. A whispered secret only meant for the two of you. “You’re breaking my heart, baby”

She presses a kiss on your forehead, her lips soft and warm against your skin. “Do you understand what I said earlier? About not being a worrywart?” “m’not a worrywart” The blonde chuckles at the pout that you give her. Your eyes are still glassy, the tip of your nose red, and your hair was a mess, but to her you were the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. Bloody adorable too.

You poke her playfully on her side, giggling when she jerks away and narrows her eyes at you, but her lips are already curled upwards.

“I understand, Lee.”

The next thing you know the blonde has wrapped her arms around you waist, lifting you up and leaving your feet dangling in midair. You squeal and quickly move to wrap your arms around her neck tightly. You knew she wouldn’t drop you. You trusted her more than anyone else in the world. You were just looking for an excuse to hold her close. You laugh by her ear as she spins the both of you around a few times, excited cheers and whoops replace the tense silence earlier.

When she stops spinning and your feet are planted firmly back on the ground again, you both stand there grinning at each other before she breaks the moment.

“You’re now a Gunner.” “Woahhh hang on a minute– ” Placing both of your hands on the blonde’s chest, you push her away lightly. You are also hyperaware of her hands that are still resting on your hips, a thumb hooked onto one of your jean’s belt hoop.

Ignoring the pounding of your heart from Leah spinning you around just a second ago, and now from the mere proximity of her, you narrow your eyes at her.

“Lee, that actually gave me the ick. Don’t call me that” You groan, but your whining falls deaf to her ears.

“Y/L/N is now a bloody fucking Gunner” She practically screams at your face, her smile growing at your less-than-enthusiastic face.

The blonde then abruptly pauses her celebrations “Bet your spurs fan dad wasn’t too happy”

“Oh he was fumin’” Leah laughs loudly at that. She and your dad often butted heads, especially during derby days when the mens team were playing against each other. They would purposely rile each other up and taunts would be thrown throughout the match, but it was all in good fun. Leah didn’t know it, but your dad would secretly root for Arsenal when she was on the pitch. When you called him out for it, he said he was “cheering for Leah, not Arsenal.” Yeah right.

In the moody lighting of Leah’s kitchen, shadows dance across the walls like silent spectres, lucky to have been granted a peek into what seems to be the beginning of a new chapter– not just for you– but for Leah as well.

Leah, who had been by your side for many, many years. Leah who has been your friend, your confidant, and your lifeline.

“…so we’re actually going to be teammates at Arsenal, huh?”

In the corners of this kitchen, shadows linger like forgotten whispers. The soft glow of the pendant ceiling light that you had given her as a house-warming gift hangs above the dining table, casting a gentle hue over the both of you. The flickering flames of the candles that decorate the table dance across the room like fireflies in the night.

“It appears that way”

It’s hard to ignore the way shadows dance across her cheeks, the soft light tracing the contours of her jawline and the arch of her brows. Her eyes, darker than usual in the dimness, glimmer. The faint light catches the sparkle in her eyes, leaving you almost breathless from the intensity of her gaze.

She takes a step closer to you, until you could almost feel her breath as it fans across your face.

“And we’re going to be seeing each other a lot”

She reaches out to take your hand in hers.

“Yep. At training, recovery, meal times, team meetings…”

Your eyes are drawn to the way her tongue peeks out to wet her bottom lip. A nervous habit of hers that you have become familiar with over the years. Her lips part slightly, catching the light in a soft gleam, their natural colour deepened. She cranes her neck down slightly, forcing your gaze away from her lips and back to meet her eyes. If she noticed you staring at her lips, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, with her voice barely above a whisper, she began to speak.

“Move in with me”

For a brief moment, it was just silence as you both take in what this means for the both of you. This kitchen became a place of quiet refuge from the outside world. Here, you told your best friend and the woman who has somehow crammed her way into your heart that your lives will change.

You were not only going to be teammates who only saw each other during national duty camp, but now your lives will be intertwined even further. Here, amidst the flickering shadows and muted glow of her kitchen, time seems to stand still. Tonight, you will bask in these moments of intimacy and secrets that are only meant for the two of you, before the rest of the world found out.

“Yes.”

The much much-awaited chapter was worth it. Hopefully I met all your expectations (if you had any lol). It was a bit angsty-ish but I hope the ending made it worth it considering I was thinking about leaving it on a cliffhanger

but I'm not that evil.

Here's to breaking more glass ceilings. Happy International Women's day, my loves!

-- kisses, butter.

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!

#woso #woso fanfics #leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso blurbs #woso community #leah williamson imagine #Our New Normal fic

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gallusrostromegalus · 7 months ago

Note

AWIWAM ask if those are still open: are there any tortoises in the soul society? Specifically giant tortoises like the Galapagos tortoises.

Alternatively: which does the cast like more? Tortoises or turtles?

Yeah they got even more and even larger- there's ones wandering around (slowly) that are large enough to build a home on. To avoid stressing the animal too much, these homes are usually made of light wood or bamboo lattices covered in thick felt or animal skins- a good balance between insulation and weight, which also gives these beasts their names-

Yurtles.

#AEIWAM #an elephant is warm and mushy #bleach #bleach fanfic #its my fanfic and I'll put my stupid DnD jokes in there if I want to.

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cup1drul3z · 30 days ago

Text

★ — Keep Me Close

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4 : ᴏɴʟʏ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ɪᴛ

ᴘᴏᴘꜱᴛᴀʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʙᴏᴅʏɢᴜᴀʀᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 7.0ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Age gap, Angst, Masturbation, Car crash mentioned, Drinking, drugs, mental health problems, depression, suicide mentioned

A/N : i actually forgot to post this chapter im gonna kms

SUMMARY : You and Sevika arrive at the hotel after a long travel day, but privacy is hard to come by. Between surprise selfies, overheard questions, and accidental tension, the line between fake and real starts to blur. A day of chaotic rehearsals, heat, and unexpected confessions at the festival grounds leaves both of you unraveling—slowly, privately, and in ways you’re not ready to admit.

Thursday Afternoon

The room was what you expected—quiet, sleek, and tastefully expensive. Warm wood floors, a king-sized bed layered in crisp white linens, blackout curtains, and soft, overhead lighting that made the whole space feel calm and insulated from the noise of the lobby.

A desk with an ergonomic chair sat against the wall, plugs in all the right places. There was a full-length mirror near the closet, a marble-lined bathroom with neatly folded towels and little glass bottles of eucalyptus soap, and best of all: a tray of snacks on the credenza.

Not the kind you had to fight with the minibar over. These were complimentary. High-end, wrapped in matte packaging, the kind of snacks you usually had to sneak onto your tour rider.

You let out a small, satisfied sound and flopped face-down onto the bed, arms spread like a starfish. The mattress was perfect—firm, with just enough give—and you bounced once, kicking off your shoes as you sank into the pillows.

“Finally,” you mumbled into the duvet. “Something soft that doesn’t talk.”

Sevika lingered near the door, scanning the space like she was checking for threats instead of closet space. Her eyes flicked to the walls, the ceiling, the quiet hum of the thermostat. She moved slowly, taking everything in with that same sharp tension in her shoulders like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to relax yet.

You peeked up at her from where you were sprawled, then pulled your phone out and unlocked it with a lazy flick.

Already, your feed was blowing up—photos, fan edits, slowed-down videos of Sevika shielding you in the airport. Some zoomed so close, it looked like a movie still. People were freaking out over her. Over you.

Over the two of you.

You smiled faintly, brushed your curls back into place, and angled your phone for a selfie. Your lips curled into your signature smile, half-sweet, half-smug, and you made sure Sevika was in the frame just behind you—brows furrowed, looking mildly confused by the espresso machine on the counter.

Click.

Perfect.

Sevika let out a long, quiet sigh and finally lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. She sat stiff, back straight, hands braced on her knees like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to relax yet, even in a five-star hotel room with free snacks and no immediate threats.

Behind her, you were half-curled into the plush bedding, still scrolling on your phone, about to post the selfie you’d taken—your smile perfect, Sevika caught in the background looking way too serious for someone standing next to a cart of complimentary kombucha.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of air conditioning and the faint tap of your thumb on the screen.

Then you broke the silence.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice softer than before. No teasing. No smirk. Just a question lingering in the still air.

Sevika glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised. “Mean what?”

You sighed and set your phone down, turning onto your side. The movement drew her eyes before she could stop herself—how your hoodie hitched up slightly, the way the curve of your hip pressed into the mattress.

“The soft spot thing,” you said, watching her. “That we talked about on the plane.”

Sevika turned away instantly.

Too fast.

You didn’t miss it.

Her palm slid up her forehead and down her face in one slow, embarrassed drag as a quiet, sheepish chuckle escaped her lips. “I didn’t think you’d remember that…”

She looked like she was mentally kicking herself for letting that moment slip—like the admission had been accidental, like you’d imagined it.

You smirked and pushed yourself up, slow and quiet, the bedsheets rustling beneath your hands as you crawled across the mattress toward her.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t stop you.

You sat on your knees just behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her back. You leaned in, your breath soft against her skin.

Then your lips brushed the crook of her neck—barely there, feather-light.

“Do you have a soft spot for me, Sevika?” you murmured, her name spilling off your tongue like warm honey. Smooth. Intentional.

Her breath caught. Shoulders stiffened.

But she didn’t move away.

BANG!

The door flew open so hard it bounced against the stopper.

“Y/N, we gotta go to the festival grounds—totally forgot—they need you there right now!” Dean yelled, halfway in the room, already flustered and breathless.

And then he stopped.

His eyes landed on you—on your knees behind Sevika, still leaning close, lips barely an inch from her skin. Sevika was frozen, back straight as a board, eyes darting toward the door like she’d just been caught in a heist, not a moment of tension.

You pulled back immediately, your brows scrunching in disbelief as you turned to Dean. “Ever heard of knocking, pendejo?!”

Dean’s mouth opened. Closed. “I—uh—I’m sorry!” He threw his hands up in surrender. “But you seriously need to get ready, like, now. They’re doing light and sound tests. PR wants behind-the-scenes footage. Dress cool because it’s already, like, a hundred degrees out.”

You stood up, brushing your hoodie down and glaring at him, hands on your hips.

“I always dress cool,” you attempt to make a joke

Dean blinked. “What?”

“Nothing, It was a joke, a bad one clearly” you snapped, already stomping toward the door. “Just—get out!”

You shoved him backward with one palm to his chest and slammed the door shut with a loud thunk, the echo rattling through the hallway.

Silence settled again in the room.

You turned slowly, cheeks flushed, breathing hard—not just from the yelling.

Sevika was still on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor like she was trying to pretend she hadn’t been two seconds away from losing control.

And you?

You kind of wanted to slam the door on Dean’s face again.

Your palms pressed against the door, head bowed for a moment as you tried to collect yourself after nearly committing second-degree manslaughter via hotel hallway.

Behind you, Sevika finally spoke.

“Maybe you should stick to singing,” she said dryly. “Not comedy.”

You turned slowly, the tension in your shoulders still tight—but your face unreadable, quiet. The silence stretched between you like a rubber band.

Then, without a word, you reached for the hem of your hoodie and peeled it off in one smooth motion, followed by your tank top, tossing both onto the chair like they were nothing.

Sevika blinked once.

You were standing there in a white lace underwear set—delicate and pretty but unflinchingly bold. Your scar was fully exposed, a pale streak of memory across your hip, stubborn and unhidden.

Sevika’s mouth dropped open. “What are you doing?!”

You arched a brow and moved toward your suitcase, deadpan. “Giving you a show, obviously.”

She stood quickly, caught between panic and protest. “Y/N—”

“Where else am I supposed to change?!” you asked, yanking your suitcase onto the bed with a little thud. “The hallway? Want me to ask Dean for privacy?!”

“I dont know: the bathroom?!” Sevika yelled back

You furrow your brows and turned your back to her as you rifled through your outfit options, walking to the full-length mirror with nothing on but confidence and lace. Sevika’s eyes followed you—unintentionally at first.

The lily tattoo on your shoulder blade caught her eye, soft lines and shaded petals, a clear memorial inked with meaning. But as her gaze dropped, it caught something else entirely.

A tramp stamp.

Hearts—sharp-edged and spiked, bold and unapologetic ink etched low on your back, right above the curve of your hips.

Sevika swallowed, suddenly very warm.

You grabbed a pair of low-rise bootcut jeans and shimmied into them slowly, the fabric hugging your hips as you adjusted the waistband just right. Then came the top—a dark brown, low-cut, halter tank that sat soft and light against your chest, leaving your collarbones exposed and glowing under the room’s soft light.

You ran your fingers through your hair, tousling it lazily as you turned around.

And paused.

Sevika was still staring.

Caught.

“You good?” you asked, teasing—though there was a flicker of something else behind your voice now.

Sevika blinked, jaw tightening. “I—yeah. Fine.”

But she hadn’t looked away yet.

The festival grounds were a swarm of motion—early chaos before the glamour. Vendors were unpacking crates of merch and overpriced sunglasses, food trucks were heating up fryers, and tech crews shouted instructions across the open air as they set up towering speakers and lighting rigs.

Carnival rides creaked in the distance, half-assembled but already glowing faintly with bright pastel bulbs. You could hear the clatter of metal being locked into place, the distant hum of generators kicking on.

It was hot. Ridiculously hot.

The kind of heat that made your makeup melt before you even had time to sweat it off. You were already hungover from your in-flight drink binge, sunglasses perched on your nose, sipping a smoothie like it was medicine while mentally planning how many drinks it would take to get you on that ferris wheel by sundown.

Sevika trailed just a few steps behind you, sunglasses on, jaw clenched slightly like she was doing her best not to groan out loud.

She'd ditched the leather jacket hours ago—too hot, even for her—and now wore the too-tight black tank top the event staff had handed out to all security members. “SECURITY” was printed bold across her chest, right over her abs, which the top did absolutely nothing to hide. Her baggy cargo pants and combat boots grounded her, but the shirt made her stick out more than blend in.

You were vaguely aware of how many heads were turning to stare at her—not you—and you weren’t even mad about it. Just amused.

“God,” Sevika muttered, half to herself, glancing around at the dust, the makeshift booths, the speakers being hoisted on cranes. “This reminds me of Warped Tour.”

You turned to look at her, one brow raised behind your shades. “What’s that?”

Sevika froze.

Her head turned slowly. “…You’re a singer,” she said flatly. “And you don’t know Warped Tour?”

You shrugged, biting back a grin. “Umm… oh! That was popular in the 2000s, right? For, like, emos? Fall Out Boy?” You flashed her a sugary smile.

Sevika stared at you in betrayal, arms crossing over her chest. “Yeah. Emos.”

You gave her a wink and turned back around, walking ahead with an extra bounce in your step, smug as hell.

Behind you, Sevika muttered something under her breath.

It was probably a slur in the sacred language of ex-scene kids.

The rehearsal area was alive with movement—singers pacing in circles doing vocal warmups, dancers stretching and marking through routines, a few idols adjusting their in-ear monitors while staff carried water bottles and clipboards like Olympic batons. The sun beat down without mercy, sweat already glistening on everyone’s skin, and the buzz of music equipment being tested echoed in the background.

You were barely paying attention, casually scrolling through your phone as Dean talked to a festival coordinator about your set schedule and accommodations, hands flailing like usual. Sevika stood a few feet behind you, arms crossed and sunglasses low on her nose, eyes constantly scanning the crowd.

Then, out of nowhere—

“Y/N!!!”

A voice rang out like a firecracker.

You barely had time to register it before a blur of bright blue came charging toward you—shoulder-length braids bouncing, arms flung open, paint-stained ripped jeans flapping like flags in the wind. The girl wore a cropped high-neck tank and a moon tattoo inked sharp across her right bicep.

Before you could react, Sevika stepped in front of you like a wall, and the girl slammed into her with a solid oof, stumbling back and landing right on her ass in the dirt.

“The hell’s your deal, man?” the girl snapped, looking up with a scowl.

You peeked over Sevika’s shoulder—barely managing to see anything at all from behind her massive frame, standing on your toes, eyes just clearing her arm.

Then your face lit up.

“Jinx?!” you gasped, squeezing past Sevika and practically tackling her in a hug.

“Y/N!!!” Jinx squealed, springing up to her feet. The two of you spun each other in a circle like it had been years—and honestly, it felt like it had. Sevika winced and muttered something as she covered her ears with both hands like the screeching physically hurt her.

“What are you doing here?” you asked breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look Jinx up and down. “Wait—don’t tell me. Is Ekko headlining?”

“Yep,” she grinned, popping the p as she adjusted one of her braids. “And I got hired to paint one of the main murals too. Look!” She pointed toward a roped-off area across the grounds, buckets of paint and scattered tarps surrounding a massive blank concrete wall.

You turned just in time to see Dean spinning around looking for you, clearly realizing he’d lost track of you. His eyes landed on Jinx and lit up.

“Ohhh my God,” he said, suddenly appearing beside you both, teeth bared in a marketing-smile. “Jinx! It’s been forever, you look amazing!”

Jinx’s face twisted immediately into visible discomfort as he pulled her into a hug she did not reciprocate. Her arms stayed at her sides, awkward and stiff, and she lifted her hand like a warning sign.

“Haha… yeah… still married to Ekko,” she said with a forced smile, pointing to her silver wedding band and pressing a hand to Dean’s chest to physically push him off.

You furrowed your brows slightly but didn’t say anything—just looped your arm through hers like a reflex and started walking toward the mural wall.

Sevika followed wordlessly behind, eyes flicking between Dean and Jinx like she was mentally evaluating what level of crime it would be to trip your manager in broad daylight.

“When are you gonna get a new manager?” Jinx asked under her breath, leaning close to your ear.

“I’m working on it,” you whispered back.

And honestly?

You meant it.

The food truck stood out like a candy-coated beacon at the edge of the festival grounds—bubblegum pink with swirls of frosting-like paint curling across the metal sides. A striped awning shaded the serving window, and the smell of sugar and fried dough hit your nose like a warm hug.

Made sense. Dessert truck.

A girl with bright blue and pink curls stood behind the counter, grinning from ear to ear like she’d waited her whole life for someone to ask for a funnel cake.

“What can I get you ladies?” she asked, voice bubbly and sweet as the powdered sugar floating through the air.

“Funnel cake, please,” Jinx said, already pressing her face slightly too close to the menu board as she looked at you expectantly.

You froze.

Your mouth opened.

Then closed.

A quiet thrum started in the back of your head—too familiar. Too sharp.

Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe people were already whispering. Maybe someone would take a photo, post it, zoom in on your arms or your stomach or the way you chewed and laugh about it on Instagram. Maybe all those people who said they loved you would decide you were just some cow in a crop top pretending to be sexy.

“Y/N?” Jinx asked, her head tilting. “You okay?”

You blinked, pulling yourself out of the spiral, heart thumping.

“Uh—” you started, voice catching. You looked back up at the menu, reading each item like it was written in another language.

Then—

Smack.

A twenty-dollar bill hit the high counter with a sharp slap. Sevika, standing at your side, didn’t even flinch.

“She’ll take a candy apple,” she said, her voice deep and final, like a verdict.

The worker blinked, nodded quickly, and disappeared into the truck with a rustle of paper and the sizzle of caramel.

You turned to Sevika, stunned. “Why did you do that?”

You dug into your pocket, pulling out your wallet. “Here—let me pay you back.”

Sevika shook her head. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t listen. “That was really nice, Sevika, but you didn’t have to. I know times are kind of tight for you right now and—”

You pulled out a few crumpled bills, trying to push them into her hand. She didn’t take them.

Instead, she pressed her palm lightly against your chest, the money crumpling between you, her eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Sweetheart,” she said, voice low, “I said it’s fine.”

The word sweetheart hung in the air like smoke.

Both of you froze.

Your eyes widened. Hers did too.

Jinx, already halfway to biting her cuticles from sugar anticipation, blinked and looked between you two like she’d just walked in on something.

Then the worker returned, holding a funnel cake and a candy apple, the awkward tension immediately slapping her in the face.

“Here you ladies g—uh… is everything okay?”

Jinx snatched the funnel cake out of her hands so fast she may as well have teleported. “Yeah, they’re fine. Thanks, toots,” she mumbled, eyes wide, powdered sugar already on her chin.

You cleared your throat, trying to reorient yourself as you reached for the candy apple, cheeks burning.

“Thanks, ma’am,” you said softly, forcing a polite smile.

The worker blinked but smiled back before backing away slowly, clearly not wanting to get involved.

The three of you walked away from the truck, sugar in hand.

Then Jinx, mouth full of fried dough, glanced between you and Sevika again.

“Uhhhh… what the fuck was that?” she asked, powdered sugar puffing from her lips like smoke.

You bit into your candy apple, sweet caramel coating sticking to your lips, but your mind was elsewhere. “Didn’t get much sleep last night,” you said, brushing Jinx’s question off with a shrug, pretending the sudden shift in energy between you and Sevika hadn’t just knocked the air out of you.

Jinx eyed you like she didn’t quite buy it but didn’t push.

As the two of you made your way back toward the rehearsal zone, the distant beat of bass and mic checks rumbling through the air, she nudged your shoulder with hers.

“Well,” she grinned, licking powdered sugar from her thumb, “I gotta finish this mural before my boss realizes I wandered off again.”

You laughed and pulled her into a hug, squeezing tight. “It looks great. I’ll see you later, Jinx.”

She gave you a playful salute and sauntered off toward the wall, twirling a paintbrush like a baton. You watched her go, only half-finished with your candy apple before tossing it in a nearby trash bin.

When you turned around, Sevika was already watching you. Neither of you said anything.

You just… looked. And then you moved on.

Back inside the fenced-off area, Dean was deep in conversation with some dancers until he spotted Jinx in the distance—bent over a paint bucket, sleeves rolled, smudges of color on her cheeks.

“Hey,” he said, sidling up next to you, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. “You think Jinx is into me?”

You blinked at him, face blank. Then grimaced.

“Dean,” you said with mock politeness, “please, for the love of all things holy, fuck off.”

He pouted dramatically but wandered off as fashion staff approached, waving you toward the changing trailers. You followed, slipping behind the curtains into your designated space.

The trailer was cozy and familiar, done up in your signature style—baby pink accents, heart decals on the walls, cute throw pillows, soft light strips lining the mirror. It felt like a mobile version of your dressing room back home. There was even a mini cooler stocked with chilled water, juice, and soda.

Sevika stepped inside behind you and immediately crouched in front of it, yanking it open. She grabbed a water bottle and cracked the seal with a satisfying pop, tilting it back and chugging the whole thing in seconds. A few droplets slid down her chin, catching in the hollow of her throat.

One of the fashion assistants—clipboard clutched tight to her chest—was visibly blushing, peeking over the top of her notes like she was watching a forbidden scene in a romance novel.

“Ma’am,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

No answer.

“Ma’am.”

Still nothing.

“MA’AM.”

She jumped and blinked hard, snapping her eyes to you, flustered. “S-sorry! Sorry,” she stammered, lowering the clipboard and flipping it open like that would somehow save her. “So! Um—we have a few outfits for you to try. They all match the dancers.just thought it would be good to give some options”

Another assistant stepped forward, arms full of fabric, and laid a few pieces out on the pink couch.

You didn’t hesitate. You began to strip.

Sevika stood up so fast she knocked the cooler lid closed with her boot, turning to face the wall like she’d just been caught doing something illegal. She kept her eyes forward… except for one small glance. Just one. Down. And then snap—back to the wall.

You slipped into the first outfit—a shiny metallic pink halter top with a rhinestone heart charm dangling at the bust. The front slit dipped low, tied around your neck, and hugged your frame paired with a ruffled jean skirt cinched by a heart chain belt, and finished the look with pink metallic boots.

In the full-length mirror, you looked like a popstar. A real one. Glossy. Unapologetic.

But the top hem of your scar peeked out across your stomach. It curled just slightly below the edge of the halter, visible when you turned even a little. It would show during spins, jumps, anything.

You stared at it.

Even now, after everything, it still made your chest ache.

You clenched your jaw. “Give me another,” you said to the assistant, shaking your head, hands already reaching to untie the top.

But then—

“I think it’s hot,” Sevika said, her voice low.

You stopped.

The room went still.

You looked at her through the mirror—her reflection watching you, eyes no longer trying to hide.

And she didn’t take it back.

You froze, fingers still hooked in the tie of the halter top, the knot half-undone.

The fabric hung slightly loose at your chest, but you weren’t thinking about that. You were thinking about what Sevika just said.

You turned toward her slowly, the mirror forgotten, the assistants forgotten—just you and her and the words still hanging in the air like smoke.

“You… what?”

Sevika leaned against the wall again, arms crossed, face mostly unreadable—except for the faintest pink at the tips of her ears.

“I said I think it’s hot.” She nodded once toward your scar, then added, “You look hot.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

Behind you, the assistant practically squeaked, backing away with the second outfit like she was trying to disappear into the couch. You heard a frantic whisper and a giggle as she and the other assistant scrambled out, not even bothering to close the door all the way.

The trailer was silent again.

Your voice was quiet when it finally came. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”

Sevika’s eyes met yours. “Do I look like I say shit I don’t mean?”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The tension in your shoulders slipped, replaced with something else—warmth. Embarrassment. Maybe even a flicker of pride.

You looked down at yourself, at the shimmer of the pink halter against your skin, at the scar—raw, real, you.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a flaw.

It felt like something someone wanted to touch.

You looked back at Sevika. “Well,” you said softly, smirking as you smoothed the top back into place, “guess I’m keeping the outfit.”

She huffed a breath through her nose, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Good.”

The sun was still high, casting a gold haze over the rehearsal area as you stepped out of the trailer, your boots thudding softly against the packed dirt.

Sevika walked beside you, hands in her pockets, her expression unreadable behind her sunglasses. You kept glancing down at yourself—at the way the metallic halter hugged your body, at how the chain belt shifted with every step. Even with Sevika’s words still echoing in your head, it was hard not to fall back into that old habit of checking… adjusting… second-guessing.

You looked down one second too long and your toe caught the edge of a cable snaking across the ground.

Your body tipped forward—but you didn’t hit the ground.

Sevika caught your arm with lightning-fast reflexes, steadying you before you could do more than gasp.

She kept her grip light but firm, eyes scanning your face for something unspoken.

Sevika had been hired to protect you from crowds, stalkers, creeps, overzealous fans.

But lately… it felt like she spent most of her time protecting you from yourself.

From the voices in your head. From the weight of expectations. From the times you stared in the mirror like it owed you something.

You muttered a soft “thanks” as you brushed your hair back, trying to play it off.

She just nodded once and let go.

You reached the edge of the stage area where Dean was waiting, practically bouncing in place. He gave you a full once-over, not even bothering to hide it.

“You look sexy!” he grinned, eyes wide with approval.

You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze flicked sideways to Sevika instinctively, watching her reaction out of the corner of your eye.

She said nothing—but the muscle in her jaw twitched.

Dean clapped his hands. “Alright, let’s run it! I want full energy like it’s the real thing. Cameras are up, and PR wants behind-the-scenes footage later, so if you sweat, sweat cute!”

You rolled your eyes and stepped up onto the stage.

The lights blinked on. The music started.

And the rehearsal began.

You got through the first song with practiced ease, body moving on instinct—your voice hitting the right notes, your feet landing on every beat. The stage was still only half-lit, but the sound was crisp, and the backup dancers moved like extensions of your rhythm.

As you struck the final pose, chest rising and falling, sweat starting to gather at the nape of your neck, you heard it—

Light clapping.

You glanced stage left.

Jinx stood in her little roped-off corner, paintbrush tucked behind her ear, grinning like she was watching her favorite sitcom live. She was surrounded by open cans of paint and a partially-finished mural, but she’d paused mid-stroke just to cheer you on—hands clapping a little too eagerly, like you’d just saved the world.

You gave her a breathless smile and a playful two-finger salute before wiping your forehead.

The rest of rehearsal passed in a blur.

Choreography was tweaked, lights were reset. You changed outfits twice. Your dancers ran formations. There were pauses for water, quick mic checks, and tiny arguments between Dean and the lighting crew.

Sevika remained close through it all. Always nearby. Watching. Quiet. Her eyes followed you each time you crossed the stage, hands tensed whenever you so much as looked unsteady. But she never interrupted. Never hovered.

She just stood there, like a shadow made of steel.

Eventually, Dean clapped his hands and called it.

“That’s a wrap! Let’s reset for show day. Everyone hydrate, rest up. And someone please get this girl a smoothie!”

You exhaled hard, sweat dripping down your spine, heart still thudding.

One rehearsal down.

The real show was coming fast.

The trailer was quiet now, the hum of rehearsal distant, muffled by the walls and heavy heat of the afternoon. You stood in front of the mirror, your metallic top now folded neatly on the counter, the chain belt looped over the back of a chair. You’d changed into something more comfortable—just a cropped band tee and cotton shorts—but your skin was still warm, still buzzing with adrenaline and exhaustion.

You stared at your reflection.

At the sweat still glistening at your collarbones.

At the smear of eyeliner under one eye.

At the scar that curved softly along your stomach.

Your hand hovered over the small bottle sitting on the counter next to your water bottle. The label was peeled at the edge from too many times being opened with shaking fingers.

You popped the cap.

One pill. Then another.

The familiar dull rush started to trickle in, slow and warm.

Then—

Knock knock.

You jumped.

Sevika.

You didn’t even need to hear her voice to know.

In a second, you snapped the cap back on the bottle and shoved it into your bag under the table, zipping it up with a quick flick of your wrist. You took a long sip of water, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and smoothed your hair down like nothing had happened.

“Yeah?” you called, keeping your tone casual.

“I’m coming in,” Sevika said through the door, her voice low.

You glanced toward your bag. You knew she knew. You felt it in your chest.

But you weren’t ready to have that conversation.

Not yet.

The door creaked open, and Sevika stepped in, ducking her head slightly from habit, like she didn’t quite trust the trailer frame not to hit her.

Her eyes swept the room first—always the room, then you. When her gaze finally landed on you, it lingered for just a second longer than it should’ve.

“Didn’t see you after rehearsal,” she said, her voice a little rough around the edges. “You disappeared.”

You offered a tight smile and turned your attention back to the mirror, adjusting a wrinkle in your shirt that wasn’t really there. “Needed a minute. It was hot. Loud.”

Sevika gave a soft grunt of agreement, stepping closer, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler. She unscrewed the cap, then paused—watching your reflection more than your actual face.

You caught her eyes in the mirror. She wasn’t saying anything, but the air between you tensed slightly.

Your stomach twisted.

She knew. Or at least, she suspected. But she wouldn’t call you out. Not yet. Not like that.

“You were good today,” she said finally, taking a sip. “Crowd’s gonna lose their shit tomorrow.”

You laughed, quiet and dry. “Hope so.”

She leaned against the small counter by the door, arms crossed again, but looser this time. “You okay?”

You glanced at your bag—just once, briefly.

Then forced another smile, smaller now. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Sevika didn’t push.

She just nodded slowly, like she was cataloging the answer. Saving it for later.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—but it wasn’t empty, either.

It was full of all the things you weren’t saying.

The trailer door clicked shut behind you, and you stepped down onto the gravel path just as the last stretch of sun dipped below the horizon.

The festival grounds had quieted. Most of the crew was gone or packing up for the night, the buzz of rehearsals replaced by the low hum of generators and the faint thump of distant bass tests.

You looked up.

The sky was a watercolor spill—purple bleeding into orange, streaks of pink softening into a deep indigo at the edges. It was the kind of sky you could get lost in if you weren’t careful.

Sevika walked beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of her cargo pants, her security badge now slung lazily around her neck. You glanced at her briefly, then tilted your head toward the sky.

“It’s so pretty out here,” you said, quietly. “You can actually see it.”

Sevika followed your gaze.

“In the city, it’s just gray,” you added. “All that light pollution... it’s like the sky’s being erased one billboard at a time.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then: “Never really looked up much before.”

You smiled, soft and faint, as the breeze rustled your shirt.

“Maybe you should start.”

Sevika didn’t reply, but she stayed beside you, her shoulder close enough to brush yours if you leaned just an inch.

Neither of you rushed the walk back. Not tonight.

Thursday Evening

The ride back to the hotel was quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. The sky faded from rich indigo to a deep navy by the time you reached the building, streetlights casting gold shadows over the sidewalk.

You entered the hotel room without a word, the soft click of the door closing behind Sevika the only sound that followed you in.

Then you walked straight past the bed, your bag still slung over one shoulder, and into the bathroom.

Click.

The lock turned behind you.

You didn’t even meet her eyes.

Sevika stood frozen for a second on the other side of the door, staring at the wood like it had answers.

Inside, you dropped your bag onto the counter, hands moving on autopilot. You pulled out the bottle again. The pills rattled like broken thoughts.

You took one.

Then another.

The faucet groaned as you turned on the shower, steam already beginning to fog the mirror. You stripped down slowly, deliberately, the sound of the water pounding against the tile a numbing backdrop.

Your body ached.

Your chest was tight.

And part of you hated that she was out there, probably knowing, probably feeling it—but saying nothing.

You stepped into the shower and let the heat wash over you, eyes shut, water rushing down your back as you pressed your forehead to the cool tile wall.

Trying to breathe. Trying not to drown.

Steam billowed around you, wrapping your body in a cocoon of warmth that did nothing to settle the cold sinking deep in your chest.

You stood under the stream, head bowed, water cascading over your shoulders and down your back, masking the burn behind your eyes. You pressed your palms flat against the tile, letting the water thunder over you like it might wash the thoughts out too.

It didn’t.

You stayed in there until your fingers wrinkled and the room was thick with fog, your heartbeat heavy behind your ribs. The pills dulled the edge, sure—but not enough. Not in the way you hoped. Just enough to make everything feel far away. Floaty.

You finally stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel as the mirror slowly began to clear, the outline of your face appearing in the fogged glass like a ghost.

You stared at yourself again.

Still you. Still that same scar, peeking just above your hipbone. Still that same ache behind your eyes.

You cracked the door open a few inches, steam rolling out past your bare legs and flushed skin. You didn’t hear anything at first, but as you stepped into the room, you spotted Sevika sitting on the edge of the bed.

She hadn’t changed. Still in her cargo pants, boots unlaced. Her elbows rested on her knees, head bowed slightly, one hand running along the back of her neck like she’d been sitting there thinking too hard for too long.

She looked up when you stepped out, eyes scanning you quickly—not in a lingering way. Not right now.

Just… checking. Making sure you were real. That you were still there.

You said nothing.

Neither did she.

The silence sat between you both—quiet, steady, heavier than before.

You walked past her, towel clutched tighter around yourself than you needed, and reached for your pajamas.

She still didn’t speak.

But she didn’t take her eyes off you either.

And maybe that was the part that scared you most. That she saw everything—and stayed.

The room was dark, lit only by the pale glow of the city bleeding through the window. The curtains fluttered faintly with the hum of the A/C, and the hotel bed—massive, soft, overstuffed—creaked with every restless shift.

You lay on one side, curled beneath the thin sheet in your favorite nightgown—soft, pale, barely clinging to your skin in the heat. Your leg shifted against the cool fabric again, trying to find comfort, distraction, anything.

Sevika lay a few feet away on the other side, in a worn tank top and fuzzy, oversized pajama pants that didn’t match her usual vibe but somehow suited her. She’d been silent since the lights went out, but her breathing was too shallow, her presence too tense.

Neither of you had said it aloud.

But neither of you were sleeping.

You tossed. Then turned. So did she.

Got it—let’s adjust that:

Sevika couldn’t take it anymore.

She threw the sheet off her legs with a frustrated grunt, grabbing her pack of cigarettes and lighter from the dresser. Wordless, barefoot, still in her loose tank and fuzzy pajama pants, she crossed the room and grabbed her keycard from the nightstand.

You turned your head slightly but didn’t ask where she was going.

She didn’t offer.

The door opened with a low click, a rush of hallway air brushing over your skin. Then it shut behind her, leaving you alone in the thick, heavy silence of the hotel room.

You stayed still for a moment, listening to the soft hum of the fridge, the distant traffic outside.

Then your arm slipped off the side of the bed.

You reached for your little leather backpack, the one tucked underneath the edge where Sevika wouldn’t notice. The silver stars caught a glint of passing headlights as you unzipped it quietly, your fingers wrapping around the familiar shape nestled inside.

Your breath hitched—just slightly—as you pulled the vibrator out and sank back into the pillows, heart racing with something that had nothing to do with nerves.

She was gone. Fully gone. Probably standing outside the building, cooling off or burning through half the pack.

You had a few minutes.

And you were so wound up, you didn’t even try to talk yourself out of it.

Outside, the air was cooler than Sevika expected—almost sharp against her bare arms. The hotel parking lot was mostly empty now, the festival buzz having died down for the night. A flickering streetlight buzzed faintly nearby as she leaned against the stone wall, cigarette perched between her fingers, smoke curling slow and quiet into the night.

She lit her second without thinking, gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere between the concrete and the sky.

It wasn’t just insomnia.

It was you.

The way you looked in that nightgown, slipping under the covers without a word, your back turned but your thoughts loud. The way you tried to hide things you were certain no one could see—especially not her.

She could see all of it. Too clearly, maybe.

Sevika let the smoke sit on her tongue before exhaling slowly, the weight of everything pressing in again. Her hand slid into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She stared at the screen for a few seconds.

Then she scrolled to Vi and hit call.

It rang a few times before a groggy voice answered, rough with sleep.

“...You serious right now?” Vi mumbled, followed by the sound of rustling sheets. “It’s like three in the damn morning.”

“I know,” Sevika muttered, staring at the ground. “Shut up.”

Vi was quiet for a second. Then, more alert: “...Is this about the popstar?”

Sevika didn’t answer right away. She just took another drag, letting the silence speak for her.

“Oh my God, it is,” Vi groaned. “What did she do now? Wear glitter near you again? Breathe too sexy? Say thank you with a smile?”

Sevika sighed, tilting her head back against the wall. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That makes two of us, babe.”

“She’s... not what I expected.”

Vi let out a sleepy chuckle. “Is that a bad thing or good thing”

“...good” Sevika said quietly.

Vi was silent.

Then, gentler: “Yeah. I figured.”

Sevika stared off into the dark, thumb brushing over the edge of her lighter.

“She’s hiding something. Lot of somethings,” she said finally. “And I don’t think I’m supposed to care. But I do.”

Vi sighed. “You always care, Sev. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Yeah,” Sevika muttered. “That’s the fucking problem.”

Sevika pushed through the hotel lobby, the last drag of her cigarette still lingering on her tongue, her head low, hands stuffed deep in her pockets. The cool night had done nothing to clear her thoughts—it only made them quieter, sharper.

She reached the door to the suite and grabbed the handle, pausing for a moment before sliding the keycard.

Then she heard it.

A sound, faint through the door—soft, breathy.

A moan.

Sevika froze, her fingers still wrapped around the handle, her body locked in place.

Her brows furrowed immediately. Ten minutes. She’d only been gone ten minutes. Was someone in there with you? Had you invited someone over?

A hot twist of jealousy curled low in her stomach, ugly and immediate. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath.

Carefully, she pressed her hand to the door and cracked it open just an inch, the room still dim with only the soft glow of the bedside lamp. And what she saw—

Her breath caught in her throat.

You were alone.

Sprawled on the bed, one knee bent, your nightgown pushed down around your waist. The sheet had been kicked off entirely, your skin glowing under the light, the soft rise and fall of your chest quick and uneven. One hand moved over your stomach, your other cupped around your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

Your lips were parted, glossy and flushed, brows slightly drawn as you shifted against the pillows, lost in the moment—your head tilted just enough for Sevika to see the faintest hint of a smile.

She couldn’t look away.

Her chest rose and fell, slower now, heavier. Her hand slid off the doorknob. She didn't dare open the door further, didn't dare let herself be caught watching—but her feet wouldn’t move either.

Because god help her, she wasn’t angry anymore. She was starving.

A/N : after rewatching lilo and stich (the animation not that god awful live action) ive been thinking about doing a beach special in this fic, thoughts

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