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switchypanic · 4 months

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Wishful Thinking || A 'Hazbin Hotel' Tickle Fic (100 Follower Special)

Summary: Vox's obsession with Alastor is no secret, but the true extent and nature of said obsession is an entirely different story. As his thoughts grow increasingly consumed by his rival, Vox finds it harder and harder to think about anything else, ultimately coming to a head with a very interesting discovery.

Content Warnings: Canon-typical language, brief mild violence, use of restraints, a lil' bit of blackmail, and Vox being a thirsty bitch for Alastor (because we love a good dose of one-sided attraction). Also, not really a warning, but any scenes that take place in somebody's head are in blue and italics (you'll see what I mean as you read).

Word Count: 3,669 words.

Vox couldn't fucking stand Alastor.

His stupid smile, his stupid voice, those stupid powers that allowed him to crush anyone in his way like an insect. The man was infuriating, always acting so calm and in control, even after Vox managed to get the drop on him that fateful day seven years ago. It was like nothing could touch him in any MEANINGFUL way, a fact that frustrated Vox to no end.

Yes, Alastor was nothing but a big pain in the ass, constantly doing anything in his power to screw with Vox, oftentimes broadcasting it for the entirety of Pride to witness.

Worst of all was the way that he infiltrated Vox's processor, filling his head with fantasies he had no way of controlling without shutting himself down completely. And it wasn't even intentional! That bastard had no idea what he was doing, or if he did, he gave no indication of it! No, he just kept on smiling that stupid grin, making those passive aggressive remarks, acting like he wasn't the thing consuming Vox's mind nearly twenty-four hours a day.

Vox watched the surveillance footage captured earlier that morning, feeling his breath hitch at the staticky image being displayed. He could just barely make out Alastor's form through the distortion (another thing that Vox hated about him; the bastard made it damn near impossible to get a clear image of him), standing outside the doors of little Princess Morningstar's hotel discussing something unintelligible with that winged cat sinner who often hung around him.

Through the grainy audio, he could just make out Alastor barking out a laugh, the sound itself laced with static and radio interference. The deer demon's shoulders shook, his ears pinning back slightly as he chortled, his companion letting out an irritated huff in response.

How many times had Vox watched the clip now? He had honestly lost count. He didn't know why he kept returning to that particular moment of footage; nothing particularly useful or interesting was occurring. Just a regular conversation, from what he could tell. There was just...something in the other overlord's moment of mirth that captured his full attention, setting something ablaze within the TV demon.

More; he wanted to hear more.

The lights flickered, the sound of screeching radio filling the air, accompanied by something entirely different.

Giggling, pure and hysterical.

Alastor lurched forwards, hands latched onto Vox's wrists as he tried to lean forward and away from the other demon, who held him firmly against his chest. "Rehehehehelease me at ohohohohonce!" The usually composed overlord was a mess, face tinted a bright shade of red, eyes crinkled with mirth as another wave of snickers shook his frame. "Shihihihihihihit!"

Vox chuckled, leaning forward to croon into Alastor's ear, which immediately flicked at the feeling of the other's warm breath. "What's the matter, old man? Too ticklish?" He sang, smirk widening. "What would the public think, knowing the famed Radio Demon is so...sensitive..." He growled the last part, low and teasing, resulting in a shriek of microphone feedback from Alastor. "Perhaps I should turn on some of my cameras, hm? I doubt you could focus on messing with them while your giggling so hard. I could let all of Hell know just how much of a ticklish little-"

Vox blinked, pulled from his daydream by a raised brow from Velvette. "Vox, are you listening to me? This is important shit! I need to make sure you're on top of the advertisements for my new collection if we are going to see any substantial sales!"

Vox cleared his throat, trying to urge his screen to COOL THE FUCK DOWN before his flusteredness became obvious. "Apologies, I seem to have gotten distracted. You were saying, my sweet?"

Vox chuckled, watching his rival's squirming form, bound to the chair with the purest grade of angelic steel money could buy.

Only the best for this occasion.

"Well, well! Look what the cat dragged in!" Vox laughed, walking in circles around Alastor, taking in every detail of the scene before him. He was going to relish thing; savor it. He had waited so long to have the other at his mercy, and now he was going to take his sweet time and ENJOY the fruits of his labor. "You've lost your touch, old timer! It was far too easy to catch you in my little trap."

Alastor's eyes narrowed, grin tightening in a clear show of displeasure. "You would do well to remember who you are speaking to." He retorted, chin raising defiantly as Vox finally stopped in front of him.

"Oho, I remember good and well. I'm talking to the prick who has done nothing but make my life harder ever since he arrived here, and I'm going to see to it you feel every second of what's coming next." He leaned forward, locking eyes with the other overlord as he gave a grin of his own, his far more devious. "Little buck."

Vox's hand's shot out, latching onto Alastor's ribcage and beginning to claw at the boney torso. Alastor's breath hitched, his eyes widening with alarm. His grin became more strained as he jerked forward, trying to curl inwards on himself. His breathing became sporadic, lips sealed shot as a wobbly, genuine smile began to curl at the corners of his mouth. "F-Fuhuhuck!"

The TV demon laughed lowly. "Trying to hold out, are we? We'll see how long that lasts..."

Vox awoke with a start, his screen turning on as he bolted up in bed. His eyes were wide, immediately flicking over to Valentino, who lay beside him. Thankfully, the moth was still sound asleep, snoring loudly without a care in the world. Vox sighed, running a hand across his face and feeling the heat of a blush under his palm.

Damn it, this was starting to get out of control!

Vox was going mad! No matter how hard he tried to clear his thoughts, they always returned back to those deep, hidden desires playing out over and over in his processor. He found himself constantly thinking about Alastor's smile, his laugh, the prospect of taking him down with a few well placed squeezes or prods. To make matters worse, Vox was having a hard time FUNCTIONING at work because of this, and he could tell the other Vees were starting to catch on that something was up.

The TV demon rung his hands together, pacing back and forth in his private office. He had to find a solution FAST or he was royally screwed!

'Damn you, Alastor!’ Vox thought, a small growl slipping out as he rubbed his forehead, flopping into his chair and turning to face one of the many spying monitors plastered to the wall. "Pull up what we have on the Hazbin Hotel." He grumbled, giving in to his urge to spy on his rival once more. Inside, he secretly hoped to catch another fleeting moment of mirth from Alastor, even if it was just a chuckle.

Three monitors came to life, showing the hotel from various angles, with one focused directly on the front entrance. Aside from his...ongoing interest in the Radio Demon, Vox liked to keep tabs on who was going in and out of the hotel, just to make sure the princess wasn't gaining any more powerful allies he needed to know about. The scene was serene, or at least as serene as a live feed of Hell COULD be, nothing out of place. It seemed luck wasn't on Vox's side, as Alastor was nowhere to be seen. The TV host felt his eye twitch in irritation, disappointment stirring within him.

"You motherfucker! This is a brand new suit!" Vox yelled angrily as Alastor dodged another of his attempts to strike him.

The Radio Demon let out an amused chuckle (though unfortunately not the kind of laugh Vox had been secretly craving), one flick of his microphone sending three tentacles darting at Vox from different directions, which the other barely managed to avoid. "Really? Could have fooled me with how tacky and outdated it looks." The redhead retorted smugly.

"Oh, fuck you! I'll wipe that shit-eating grin off your face!" Vox retorted, giving up on using his powers in favor of lunging for the deer demon himself.

Alastor took a step back, Vox's claws just barely grazing the sides of his neck. The radio host opened his mouth, as if to make another snide remark, but whatever he said died in his throat and was replaced by a startled crack of microphone feedback. The two demons froze, eyes widened as they stared at each other wordless for a moment.

"What the fuck was-" Vox started, but in the blink of an eye, Alastor was gone and their fight was seemingly over.

"I mean, seriously?! What the fuck WAS that?!" Vox asked himself, finding himself pacing around his private surveillance room once more. "He never runs from a fight with me! Shit, he only ran from Adam because he was about to fucking die! He was nowhere near that point today!"

Did Vox somehow managed to hurt him? No, he had thrown far worse at the Radio Demon before without leaving so much as a scratch. He had BARELY touched him, and even with his claws, it couldn't have possibly hurt. So what...

The TV demon stopped, eyes shooting wide open as his breath quickened. No...no fucking way...

Alastor was ticklish. Not just in Vox's mind's eye, not just in his secret fantasies. He was actually, tangibly ticklish, and going from the reaction one brief touch had garnered, horrifically so.

Vox's processor raced at the prospect. He had been daydreaming about turning the other overlord into a cackling puddle, wheezing for mercy through a cracked voice, but he had never actually imagined it was possible! Vox got the feeling this discover was only going to make his daydreaming problem worse, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Alastor was TICKLISH...

'There has to be some way I can...some trick I can pull to...' Vox's mind raced, barely able to finish a sentence. He HAD to have the other now, even if just for a brief instance. Vox NEEDED to feel that high of reducing his mortal enemy to giggling shambles; to know what it felt like to be the one to finally BREAK the feared Radio Demon. But how?

Obviously the heat of battle wasn't the best place, though it would ensure a public audience to witness his victory. He doubted Alastor would agree to a private meeting, especially after their most recent fight. And there was CERTAINLY no way Vox was going to lower himself enough to go crawling to Princess Morningstar's little hotel. No, Vox was going to have to come up with another solution.

"Something on your mind?" A voice purred from behind him, low and dangerous. Vox yelped, whipping around with widened eyes. From one of the darkened corners of the room, Alastor seeped out of the shadows, grin ever present but appearing more strained than usual. Vox felt a nervous lump form in his throat.

"What the fuck?! How did you even get in here?!" He yelled, immediately moving to hit the alarm button on his control console, only to find his wrist being suddenly restrained by a shadowy tentacle sprouting from the floor.

"Ah, ah!" Alastor tutted, taking a few steps forward. "None of that. I just want to talk." He cocked his head to the side. "And as for how I got in, let's just say your security is shockingly terrible for a demon of your status."

Vox's eyes narrowed. "If you're going to kill me, at least make it quick." He growled, attempting to put on a brave face and save a bit of his pride.

"Kill you? Why, I'm planning to do no such thing, at least not today! After all, to defeat one's rival in such a disgraceful, sneaky manner would not be becoming of either of us, would it?" Alastor chuckled, moving closer to Vox as another tentacle grabbed ahold of his other wrist, keeping the TV demon rooted firmly in place. A flash of green magic briefly passed over Alastor's eyes as he chuckled. "Though it would be quite easy for me to do so with you sooo defenseless."

Vox's brows furrowed in confusion. "Then why the hell are you here?"

"Like I said, I just want to talk." Alastor leaned forward, maintain eye contact with the shorter demon. "To ensure that you keep your trap shut about matters which do not concern you."

"What are you going on about?" Vox sighed, clearly irritated by the other's continued vagueness. He continued to stare at the other demon, who merely continued to watch him wordlessly, before it dawned on him. "You're worried I'm gonna tell somebody you're fucking ticklish?"

Alastor's eye gave the slightest twitch. "Sensitive." He corrected.

"I'm pretty sure you're ticklish." Vox retorted, taking some delight in his rival's clear displeasure. "And what makes you think holding me hostage in my own office would stop me from mentioning it during my next broadcast? You can't keep me like this forever."

The sound of microphone feedback briefly overtook the air around him, making Vox wince at the volume and pitch. "No, I can't keep you here indefinitely, but I can provide you with a little incentive to keep your trap shut." One of the tentacles coiled further down Vox's arm, the end gently brushing over the trapped overlord's armpit. Vox tensed, breath hitching as his eyes grew wide as saucers. "You see, don't think I haven't noticed your own sensitivity, Vox. In fact, I've known about it for some time."

Shit.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about! Get the fuck away from me!" Vox stammered, eyes locked onto the other's devious smirk.

"Oh, come now, don't be shy! It's not as if it was especially hard to find out about! We have fought so often, categorizing your little weak points was easy enough to accomplish!" Alastor took a step closer as the shadowy tentacle began to stroke Vox's armpit more firmly, slowly moving up and down in an agonizingly teasy motion. "I will admit, it took me some time to figure out why you often flinched at the slightest of touches during battle. However, all it took was witnessing one little tickle fight at the hotel to make everything fall into place."

Another of Alastor's tentacle slipped up, beginning to tweak at Vox's side, causing him to bite down on his lip in a desperate attempt to hold back snickers. "Those weren't the reactions of a man barely avoiding a fatal blow, those were the reactions of a man trying oh so hard to keep from giggling."

Vox felt his screen heating more and more by the second, both from embarrassment and the effort to keep his laughter bottled up. What the fuck was happening?! How was this real life?! The TV demon lurched forward, straining against the restrains as a particularly well-placed prod to his hipbone pulled a soft snort out of him. "Shuhuhut the fuck up!"

"Being stubborn, are we? I expected nothing less." Alastor chuckled, clearly amused. "Perhaps I should take a page from Angel Dust's playbook then, hm?" The other overlord suddenly materialized behind Vox, melting from the shadows and resting a clawed hand on the back of Vox's head. His grip tightened, pulling Vox's head backwards as he crooned into his ear. "Coochie coochie coo..."

Vox just about short circuited at that, the sound of loud television static filling the air. As Alastor's free hand suddenly dug into his stomach, he couldn't hold back any longer, bursting into a wave of panicked giggles. "Ohohohoho shihihihihihit!" The flood gates had opened, and Vox had no hope of closing them again, no matter how hard he tried.

"Lovely." Alastor seemed quite pleased with himself, clawed fingers scribbling across his rival's exposed midriff as the tentacles (thankfully) stopped their own attacks, now focusing on holding the TV demon nice and still.

"Fuhuhuhuhuck you! Lehehehehet mehehehe go!" Vox tried to sound threatening, he really did, but that was impossible when every word was laced with titters. He squirmed desperately, attempting to curl inwards and protect his sensitive torso, but the restraints held firm. His voice raised in pitch as Alastor zeroed in on his upper stomach, just below the ribs, refusing to acknowledge the borderline squeal he made.

"And why would I do that? I have you right where I want you; nice and helpless..." There was a low growl to Alastor's words, both threatening and teasing in the most awful of ways, sending Vox further spiraling into flusteredness. His claws began to slowly inch upwards, like a spider slowly climbing towards prey trapped in its web. "From what I have gathered, your ribs seem to be an area you're quite desperate to defend during our little fights. I wonder why that could be, hm?"

The TV host began shaking his head furiously. "Dooohohon't yohohohou fucking dahahahahare! I'll kihihihihihihill you!" He snorted, the sound of television static increasing ever so slightly.

"Oops, too late!" Alastor's claws dug in, beginning to rake across Vox's rib cage slowly, moving up to just below the armpits before cascading back down to just above the stomach.

Vox screeched, thrashing becoming downright desperate as he threw his head back with laughter. "NOHOHOHOHOHOOO! OHOHOHOHOHO MY GAHAHAHAHAHAD, STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!" His cooling systems had kicked in, the fans whirling loudly as they attempted to cool down his quickly heating form. "NAHAHAHAHAHAT THEHEHEHEHERE!"

Alastor chuckled devilishly. "Why Vox, you should know better! Everyone knows that saying "not there" only makes the attack want to exploit that spot even more." He hummed, mockingly pretending to think. "Perhaps you DID know, and you're just enjoying this so much you want me to keep going? Is that it?"

The other overlord let out a startled squeal at the feeling of something fiddling with his antenna; when had ANOTHER tentacle popped up?!

Vox face felt like it was on fire from the teasing, his laughter pitching up with flustered desperation. "SHUHUHUHUT THE FUHUHUHUHUHUHUCK UP! THAHAHAHAT'S NOHOHOHOHOT TRUE!" He denied vehemently, knees starting to go weak. After a moment, his legs gave out, but instead of slumping to the floor, Vox found himself being held up by Alastor's sentient shadow. The creature's grin widened, becoming downright feral as it let out an amused cackle at his plight.

"Whatever you say, old pal! Now, if you REALLY want this to stop, you will agree to keep what you discovered today between us alone." Alastor rested his chin on Vox's shoulder, the touch shooting a bigger shock through his nervous system than any tickling ever could. "Do we have a deal?"

Vox's processor was racing a thousand miles a minute. Fuck, why was this actually fucking fun?! What was wrong with him?! He knew he should have hated it; the powerlessness, the teasing, the terror of being so utterly defenseless in front of his greatest rival. Yet...he didn't hate it, a fact he found more flustering than any tease Alastor could have pulled out of his ass.

No, Vox did NOT want it to stop.

Still, if Vox DIDN'T give in, it would only confirm the assumption deer demon had so accurately deduced, and he wasn't sure his heart would be able to take the cruel, crooning teases Alastor would no doubt come up with upon such a revelation. When weighing the humiliation of yielding to Alastor to the humiliation of admitting that he was ENJOYING getting tickled to the brink of his sanity, Vox would take the former any day.

"FIHIHIHIHINE, HOHOHOHOHOLY SHIHIHIHIHIT! DEAL, DEHEHEHEHEEEEAL!" He screeched, a little wheeze slipping out as one of the tentacles tugged on his sensitive antenna. "JUHUHUST STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP, YOU BAHAHAHAHASTARD!"

As soon as those words were uttered, all touch disappeared, and Alastor reappeared a few feet in front of Vox. The overlord collapsed against his surveillance console, panting as his fans worked overtime to cool his body down. He shook with residual titters, his sharp-toothed grin nearly slipping his screen in two.

"There, was that so hard?" Alastor purred, sharing a smug grin with his shadow. "Now, I expect you to hold to our deal, otherwise I will have to take this little audio recording and make it the center of my next broadcast!" The deer demon twirled his cane, gazing at it and humming as Vox's eyes shot open.

"What now?"

Alastor scoffed. "Oh, please! Did you really think I would take you on your word alone that you would stay silent? I knew you would not make a soul deal with me over it, so I took matters into my own hands." The other sinner explained. "See, my microphone was recording our little interaction the whole time, minus the parts about my own...shortcomings. Think of it as insurance; it will not be released to the public as long as you behave yourself!"

Vox's face exploded into a bright blush blush. "Wait, that wasn't part of the fucking-"

"Oops, I'm afraid I have another engagement to attend to! Until we meet again!" Alastor cut him off, melting back into the shadows and disappearing from sight before Vox could finish his sentence. The TV host growled, flopping into his chair. His claws dug into the armrests, slicing into the slight padding. That prick! He couldn't just-

The overlord sighed in defeat after a moment, eyes closing as his breathing slowly returned to normal and his fans kicked off. He could still feel those claws scratching at his ribs, setting his nervous system alight with ticklish fire. He could still hear that voice, singing those awful, teasing words into his ear. He could still feel his limbs strain against the tentacle's hold, preventing him from squirming away no matter how hard he tried. Vox swallowed, feeling his blush returning full force.

He might have a different daydream to worry about now...

#brief ticklish!alastor #ticklish!vox #hazbin hotel tickle fic #hazbin hotel tickles #tickle fic #sfw tickles #sfw tickling #sfw tickling community #tickling community #sfw twords #sfw tword community #tword community #switchy writes tickles

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belleandkurtbastian · 2 months

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Just a warning for tonight’s Game Changer: if you have any kind of auditory processing issues, you may need the subtitles for the back half of the episode.

Edit: actually, earlier too, depending on what specific issues you have. If your issues are about following disjointed utterances, probably earlier. If they’re more about audio distortion and levels then probably later.

#game changer #dropout #dropout.tv #dropout tv #dropoutdottv

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eywamygoddesswrites · 1 year

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— 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽 — (sully family x fem!sully!reader)

pairing: sully family x fem!omatikaya!sully!reader

tags: mourning, getting therapy

warnings: lowercase intended, implied character death, angst

a/n: characters are aged up! this is inspired by that one tiktok audio and then my curiosity got the better of me and turns out, it was a whole youtube series and i was hooked on it. i've been wanting to make a fic based on that audio for a while but didn't know what characters to use. hope you guys enjoy despite it being angst ㅠㅠ

a/n 2: do you want a longer version of this oneshot? look no further because i will be making a short series based on the youtube series called "LUCIDS" and the masterlist can be found here!

word count: 1.1k

+ gif not mine. ctto.

y/n had been keeping herself busy for the past 3 months. she did everything to keep her mind off of everything. weaving baskets and nets like it was a project to give everyone in the clan, fishing for meals that can have her family full for 5 whole months, collecting and discarding every foraged stuff she could get from her endless walks, riding her ilu further and further beyond the reef just to feel something.

being the oldest of the sully kids was tiring but even being a sister wasn't able to make her feel anything. it was much more numbing than it should be. it made her distant from them.

lo'ak couldn't meet y/n in her eyes. it was like if they looked at each other, the walls they both built would crumble the second their gazes meet. it was like strangers being forced to get to know each other after knowing the horrible crimes they both did.

kiri was very concerned for her older sister. y/n exerts her energy beyond her capacity, does dangerous explorations beyond the reef, and sometimes come back with cuts and bruises, and how she would skip meals to finish all the projects she 'needs' to weave. she was overworking herself and in the 3 months y/n was busy, she had fainted countless times eventually norm and max were called when it kept happening.

tuk missed her big sister so much. she missed collecting pearls by the shore and being carried around while exploring the forest. she was scared at how y/n looked now. from once being a bubbly young adult who was curious and eager to learn something new to a drained-out, almost dead-looking na'vi who would kill people if she saw them looking at her weirdly.

if the three were concerned, imagine how her parents feel. it hurt jake and neytiri to see their oldest overwork herself to distract whatever she was feeling. jake knew how it felt like and he wanted to help his daughter badly. but each time he tried to talk to her, y/n would push him away further and further. she even hissed at him to make her point.

neytiri was angry and concerned. why was her daughter pushing her own mother away when all she wanted to do was help? y/n shouldn't push her away because as her mother, neytiri understands her more than y/n knows, or at least that's what she likes to think.

it was like y/n became a stranger that the sully's just allowed to stay in their home.

when y/n was fishing for dinner, her mind had been wandering elsewhere. her eyes stared down at the net she held as dread slowly filled her mind. it was like her sight was enlarging in front of her until she hears a distorted voice call out her name. "y/n."

she pulled away from her trance, eyes widening as her breathing became slightly erratic. y/n breathed in deeply through her nose and out through her mouth before her attention went to ao'nung, or what looked like ao'nung by the shore.

"hey there! just a quick update. tsireya is still swimming with the ikrans, who were gliding through the mountains on their bellies, then they ate an eye of a seaweed. now, the ilus and tulkans are fighting for some reason." ao'nung said, he was far away from y/n but somehow she heard everything clearly.

"oh… wow…" y/n says, clearly not understanding a single thing from what the metkayina had just said.

"how's your existential crisis coming along?" he asked so nonchalantly.

y/n was bewildered to say the least. this was the longest time she had held a conversation for how many months now.

"uh… fine?" she answered back but it sounded more like a question. "good!" ao'nung exclaimed back before turning around to leave when,

"ao'nung!" y/n immediately called for him, who turned back around to look. "can… can dreams also have memories?" that sounded wrong. "i mean, can you still have dreams even when you're dreaming?"

"oh, y/n. what else are memories if not dreams themselves?" ao'nung replies, not making as much sense as the question she asked.

"what–" "alright then, more soon!" ao'nung cuts her off before running off to eywa knows where.

y/n was left once again with her thoughts. she turns back to the net she was holding, only for it to be gone. this confused her and when she turned back to where the shore was, the next thing she knew, she was sitting on a giant rock.

"do you blame yourself?" the same distorted voice that called out her name earlier asked. distress filled her veins as she looked to where she heard the voice.

y/n's eyebrows furrowed. "what?" she asked. she saw herself, an exact copy of herself wearing human clothes that norm and max wear with a pen and paper held in her hands.

"well, it's quite common in this situation for a patient to feel a kind of guilt." her copy said, voice distorting more and more.

y/n's mind was in turmoil. "what situation?" she asked. the same dread she was feeling came into full force. her chest became heavy as it caused her to not breathe well.

her copy had this concerned look but the smallest of a smirk appeared on her lips, the following words leaving the copy's mouth. "the accident."

that's when y/n was transported back to the day neteyam had died.

she was there when he was shot through the chest. she knew the bullet was meant for her but he pushed her away and in turn, the faith of death fell upon him.

while the rest of her family had cried, she didn't. instead, she felt numb and angry. no other emotions filled her body except these two. it had helped her kill some sky people and some avatars when she came back to save kiri with her parents but after that, all y/n felt was numbness.

the heavy routine she placed upon herself became the only thing that made her feel something through the numbness she felt. it wasn't enough but at least it was something.

the same distorted voice came back. "it's very common for people to invent blame or create a causality" then the voice became normal in an abrupt manner, and her surroundings turned to norm's lab where he used his avatar and where they were able to breathe normally. "when in reality, it was completely out of your control." norm's voice was soft as he talked to the young na'vi in front of him, who in turn was staring off through the distance.

the forest where she and neteyam grew up, only for her brother to never come back home.

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ambrozjas · 4 months

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OKOK… a fic with sodapop curtis x reader alright? but, soda is part of the rodeo and he’s getting ready to hop on the bull while reader is just totally hyping soda up, and once he finishes he runs back all giddy and stuff and just hugging reader and SQUEEZING them? idk but just in general, all i need is a rodeo sodapop x “cheerleader” reader. ty smm i luv ur writing btw <3

taming a bull ꨄ︎

sodapop curtis x reader

✧˖*°࿐ notes 🧸ᰔᩚ

rkfkekddkek this is literally such a cute req, but i know almost nothing about bull riding so forgive me if i got anything wrong 😭😭

✧˖*°࿐ warnings ᰔᩚ

mentions of a bull, bull riding, and the bulls horns, and kissing (eww 😒)

✧˖*°࿐ word count 🧸ᰔᩚ

749 words, 3903 characters

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄

“y’can do it.” you rubbed soda’s back as he hyped himself up, jumping up and down to circulate his adrenaline even more.

“and next we..” you both heard the announcer say through the giant speakers, the muffled audio from inside the dressing room distorting his voice.

“alright, it’s time!” sodapop said, jogging out to the door. you were turning to grab your bag and exit to the crowd before you felt a hand grab your arm and lips crash against yours. before you could fight it, you opened your eyes to see your boyfriend, giving you one last kiss before he went out.

you tapped his cheek, signaling for him to get a move on. once he had pulled away, he looked you up and down with his sea blue eyes.

“you gonna be m’cheerleader out there?” he asks, tilting his head.

“you know it.”

he beamed at you before he heard one of the crew tell him to come out. he gave you a quick wave and jogged out the door again.

you walked out another exit, making your way into the sea of people who were already cheering once soda had come out, half because of the sport and the other half because of soda’s good looks.

you watched with a smile as he searched for you in the crowd, saddling up on the bull while his crew secured him and the flank on the animal.

his eyes met yours, quickly crinkling with his grin before he was given the okay and braced himself as the gates open. soda grabbed onto his hat as the bull bucked its hind legs vigorously.

you cheered and clapped intently as you counted the seconds for how long he was on, already nearing eight seconds.

the bull shook its head along with his body rapidly, horns pointing in every which direction trying to buck soda off.

you and everybody around you whooped and whistled as the time finally hit eight seconds, and right after, soda finally flew off. he broke his fall as he shifted into a roll and clambered away from the bull to avoid injury, his back and pants covered in the light brown dirt from the ground.

his head turned quickly in every direction, eyes scanning the audience for you, and when he laid eyes on you, you’d think he was seeing an angel.

he ran up to you as you leaned over the railing, you pulled him by the collar of his shirt and pressed a kiss to his pink lips, a little rough probably from licking and chewing on his lips out of anxiousness.

“c’mon, baby y’gotta get up.” you whispered to him, eyes landing on the bull who the staff was trying to contain but all soda could do was look at you and smile.

once you had snapped him out of it, he climbed over the white spherical railing and the tall pieces of wood painted with ornate murals and graffiti that separated the audience from the dirt.

all sodapop can do is laugh and rush over to you, arms coming around your waist as you wrap yours around his neck. his grip on you was tight, rocking you side to side subconsciously as you mumbled praises in his ear, him pressing kisses to your cheek.

“y’wanna get outta here? maybe go to the dingo or som’?” he asked, pulling away but keeping you at arms length so he could hold your shoulder and look you in your eyes, those eyes he adored so dearly and those eyes who had supported him from the day you had met him.

you saw how soda was practically vibrating in place with energy, you wondered how his cheeks didn’t hurt with all the smiling he did.

“or y’know, we could head home or get some tickets for—“ you cut his stammering off with a kiss, holding his face with your hand as the other one found his hand. you heard a multitude of whistles behind you in the crowd at your interaction with your boyfriend, but you didn’t care.

it felt like those scenes in the movies, where everything went dark and you and soda were the only two people in the world, the announcer’s voice being tuned out in the background with the rest of the crowd. you and him were the only people in the world right now, it felt.

and that was all that felt right.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ soda’s literally my bae 🤭

kiss kiss ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

#the outsiders x reader #the outsiders #fanfiction #x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #sodapop blurb #sodapop x reader #sodapop curtis #sodapop imagine #the outsiders sodapop #sodapop the outsiders #ambrozjas #kiss kiss

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yourlocaltreesimp · 2 months

Note

Covering BOTW!Link in kisses pretty please (> <)

Yeah, I can do that!

I made this surprisingly angsty (though if you’re not new around here that may be less shocking) so be warned.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

For someone with such an utterly distinct lack of memory, Wild often found himself drowning within them. Fleeting snippets of vision or audio cut in and out, warped and distorted beyond anything he can truly grasp at. One second he’d be laughing alongside his brothers, but when his eyes blinked he’d be a century in the last. Oftentimes after the phantom arms of his previous life embraced him, he felt less than who he was before. his smiles dulled and heart weighed down. As if knowing more about who he was then made him less of who he was now. As if the two sentiences couldn’t coexist.

It was a quiet night, humid with the onset of summer. The fireflies —lightning bugs as Twilight called them— dancing lofty paths amidst the air. Sat side by side, the champion absorbed the fable. At first it seemed rather childish, the idea of two wolves within oneself fighting to make the forefront. But the longer he went on the more it resonated. The mental image as one sneers and snaps, barring its ugly teeth in unwavering violent truth. All while the other dodges and uses the violent’s strength against itself, all while denying its own violent nature.

Allegorically it was good versus bad, overindulgence against suppression. The idea that to overindulge, to snap, to be reckless would lead to being taken advantage of. Wild knew why Twilight thought the story relevant to him. He knew that whenever he’d turn his back on his enemies to support that it wasn’t viewed as loyalty. He knew that there was lots to lose, and they couldn’t afford another injury. He knew Twi didn’t want to see him fall into a similar circumstance. But he knew he couldn’t afford to fail again. He couldn’t fall short. He can’t lose someone close again.

Where externally he was viewed as the former, he internally found himself in the latter of cases. He fought the battle between the whispers of the others in contrast to his own thoughts of himself. Left with the residual pressure to be nothing short of perfect, to be The Hero of Time, to be worthy of the title and the land and the fate and the soul. The yearning to simply live and be without the burden of his own guilt, to be Link, to be your lover and accept the love without feeling indebted.

He didn’t realise Twilight had left.

His head swims and he feels clammy as he curls up, deciding aimlessly that it’s time to sleep. His feet lead him inside his house and he can hardly even stumble up the loft. Someone else can sort dinner.

Any sense of sensibility is muddled and mixed. Time does not matter, nor the relevancy if his mind.

He stares back at the shards of his past life, his chipped reflection in each mirror, and can’t help but wonder who he’d be if he were just Link.

Or would he be even anything at all if not a hero?

What was it that he truly was?

Mipha had written that he was a rather rowdy child, eager to take on the world with nothing more than a stick in hand. Then, he held no care for being proper. Wide grin and leaves in his hair, he was happy. Perhaps that was the most of himself he could ever be. Perhaps that was the reason he finds himself wandering aimlessly now. Perhaps that is his nature.

The records of many soldiers he fought alongside depicted him as the prime standard of the military. Those days were cold, and he just remembered how much he hurt. The ache of every muscle and bruise, every drill, every spar, every battle, every day spent alive that was spent suffering. His ability to cut down any monster or man with any weapon. His instinct and ability to hurt was primed until he now questions if that little boy who splashed around in rivers and threw handfuls of mud had retreated into the cold hands of death. The soldiers’ mirage of him is idyllic, but holds distressingly true to his own memory.

Perhaps that is why his mind is clear and quiet with weapon in hand and a body beneath his feet.

He dreams of musty stables and bare campgrounds, both places the since passed versions of himself would’ve spent a night at. The smell of dirt and dust is accompanied by the crackle of a fire as drunken men sing out of tune.

The littlest curled up as his teeth chattered, the chipped tooth whistling as he exhaled. A warm hand settles on his shoulders as his father drapes another thin blanket over him. He does not yet know this means his father will go without warmth.

The soldier tossing and turning, unable to relax even long enough to sleep. He too his tormented by the potential of falling. He does not yet know what’s to come. He does not yet know there’s nothing to be done.

The scene shifts and he is at the castle. It’s his first time and his eyes shine as he follows his father closely, following hot on his feet with a giddy grin.

It is his home. His work. His life. He follows the princess closely, just far enough to not make himself overbearing. He does not smile. He does not frown. He does not fail.

The colours fade and mix and blur, the dreamscape shifting oncemore. It’s raining. It pitters across his shoulders as he kicks up the puddles, scaring the stray cuccos from the stable not too far away. His father fusses over the sword he’d found, and he can hardly muster the strength to swing it against the base of the apple tree. He results in climbing up the twisted limbs, collecting extra ripe apples to ease his father’s worries. The wet bark gives no grip to his feet and he falls to the ground, winded next to the funny blue sword. It glints and chirps and when he catches his breath he laughs back.

It’s storming. The grass smells wet and irony. The bloody mud cakes his boots as his foot falls brace against the ground. His arms lock as he flings his shield to the side, the guardian falling to disrepair. His shield lay broken. He can see his strained face in the dirty reflection. He doesn’t like the man staring back. The rain pelts across his back and the lightning shakes the ground. His muffled ears pick up Zelda’s distress as another guardian climbs up the mound of soul. He draws his sword. He didn’t even know if it were possible to deflect a guardian laser with a blade. But he can’t fail now. Not after everything. A flash of blue light overtakes his vision as his limbs slacken.

He shoots awake with a familiar tightness in his chest, his scars itching and burning. He writhes beneath his own skin as he kicks the covers off, the cold air seizing him. His lungs struggle to draw breath as he wheezes. His vision tunnels and it feels as if he’s dying again.

Why can’t it just be over.

When will he finally be enough— if not for the sake of the world then to at least save himself?

Or maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved. He couldn’t save all those innocent people. Castle town, Deya, Lon Lon? Who was he to demand he was worth saving?

He hacks and coughs before even trying to look at his surroundings. Through the mixed screaming within his mind he gathers a few realisations. He’s alive. He’s home. You’re curled up beside him, reaching for his warmth. His hands tremble as they reach towards his uneven hairline, grabbing a fistful and tugging. The pain stings, he feels more than awake as his heart races.

“Mm- Link?” You mumbled against his side, awoken by the cold lack of covers. Guilt fills his throat again until he can’t breathe. He’s supposed to help you, to love you, to be of use. Not be such a burden. But here he is again, making it about him. Making your life worse and demanding comfort like a child.

“Heyheyhey- It’s ok, you’re safe” Your voice was as soft and gentle as your touch as you cradled his cheek. He didn’t even realise he was crying. Why was he crying? Who’d want a hero who cries like a coward in the face of a danger that isn’t even real? You collect his hands together, loosening his grip from his hair and running your thumbs across his knuckles. His head stirs as you speak, and he can’t make out anything of what you are saying. His ears ring, more than usual, drowning out any sound.

“Breathe with me, ok?” He nods weakly after you repeat yourself for the third or fourth time. He tries his best, his ribs shuddering before he could fully breathe in, but no longer deprived of oxygen, his head stops swimming as much.

It’s a while of sitting there, hands in your lap as you calm him down in whatever way he quietly requests. It’s so odd. Being raised to serve and to give and being taught through experience that your worth lies in your deeds… to suddenly being the one catered to. It still feels as if asking to be loved is forbidden. That his purpose comes before all requirement and survival. Somedays it still feels like death would come before he would be comfortable. But it took many long nights and longer days spent having uncomfortable conversations before he realised he still had a chance, only if he chose to make one for himself.

At some point he lets himself settle. He sinks into the now cool mattress as you stare into his eyes. He feels a flicker of shame before your hands are back on his jaw and you're pressing light kisses to his skin. Both temples, forehead, each freckle on the apple of his cheeks, crooked nose, the tip of his burn scar, the cut in his chin. You pull back for a moment to admire what you’ve made of him through the years. He smiles, lopsided and as giddy as he was in childhood. You press an eager kiss to his lips, giggling throughout.

He may be lost within the maze of his own mind, a man held hostage to himself, but despite being a failure by his own previous standards, it doesn’t matter so long as he’s enough for you.

#firreplies #linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #link x reader #linked universe x reader #link x you #x reader #lu wildxreader #lu wild #yes i got inspo for his panic attack by my own #no i’m not ok #yes they do hurt #no i’m not in therapy #do any of you read these?#if you do you get a gold star #⭐️

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blurredcolour · 24 days

Text

In My Blood | Part Two

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

It is no longer safe for you to remain in Belgium. With the Gestapo closing in, Curt is finally ready to make his escape with you. But is it too late?

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Violence, Weapons, Spy Craft, Detailed Description of Murder, Death, Injuries, Angst, Grief, Fear, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6929

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

May 3, 1940

“Honestly Papa,” You protested in French, threading the telephone cord between your fingers as the line crackled and hummed with the standard overseas audio distortions,“I do not understand why you will not let me come home, nothing has happened in months–”

“Enough, my little monster,” Your father’s voice gently but firmly cut you off. “We have been over this a thousand times, it is simply too dangerous for you to leave England with war declared. Yes, it is quiet at the moment, but it is only a matter of time now that the weather has grown warm.”

Your eyes scanned across the neatly appointed Edwardian writing desk in your grandmother’s study before turning to eye the drizzly gardens of the Dower House through the spotless window behind you.

“If it is so dangerous, why do you and Mama insist on staying in Brussels? You are both more important than me and if those Nazi bastards invade you know that’s where they’re headed – straight for you.”

“Come, come now, don’t let your mother hear you using that language.” His chastisement was half-hearted and filled with laughter, pulling a reluctant grin from you. “Belgium is neutral, firstly, but if the worst happens, we will simply flee to the house in Wallonia. Chin-up my little monster, we are made of sterner stuff, are we not?”

“Yes, Papa,” You replied, feeling somewhat reassured and heartened, “we truly are.”

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

October 28, 1943

The collision of your spine against the brick wall drove the air from your lungs, a strangled noise of pain seeping from your throat as the broken end of a bolt that had once affixed something to the side of the building tore through the fabric of your blouse and dug into the meat of your right upper arm. Gritting your teeth as your eyes watered at the searing pain and warm gush down your sleeve, your grip tightened on the handle of your knife, swinging it higher towards the vulnerable neck of the man you had lured into this alleyway.

He had been following you for at least twenty minutes, Gestapo most likely, on your way to pick up some material to then courier to another contact. You had been unsuccessful at losing him, and with the sun setting and curfew nearly upon you, confrontation had remained your only option. While sneaking out after curfew was perilous enough, being caught out around the fall of curfew was nearly suicidal. Parking your bike in front of a well-attended pub, you had made your way across the town square, wending your way through the emptying streets before ducking into this very alley to lay in wait.

Unfortunately for you, the man had proven to be much larger than you had first estimated, and along with a brutal case of halitosis, each sour breath assaulting your senses as it impacted your face, he was easily overpowering you, slowly turning your knife in your grip, threatening to use your own weapon against you. Unfortunately for him, you had been trained in all the ‘ungentlemanly’ ways one could undertake warfare, and he was utterly unprepared for the collision of your foot with his most tender parts.

A sound consisting of an intriguing mixture of a yelp and a wheeze escaped his mouth as he fell back, his oppressive weight finally easing off you. Seizing the momentum, you quickly struck with your blade, meeting the weak block of his forearm and drawing a yowl this time. While he was not proving to be a quiet kill, thankfully his racket resembled an alley cat, and could be explained away if necessary. Heart hammering in your ears, breaths coming in quick gasps under the heady influence of your own adrenaline, you swung the blade home into the defenseless flesh of his neck and tugged forward, sealing your opponent’s fate as he crumpled to the worn cobblestones.

Taking several awkward steps backward, you inhaled deep, greedy gulps of air as the man exhaled his last and grew still. It was both relieving and unsettling. Casting about for the large metal bins you had glimpsed earlier, you darted across the alley to quickly remove the lids from both, shifting the filthy contents from one into the other to make space for your deposit. Returning to his lifeless form, you assessed his bulk before struggling to strip him of his large, navy wool coat before dragging him down the alley and hoisting him into his final resting place. The wound in your triceps screamed in agonized protest with every breath until you had resecured the lid, the scene unremarkable enough in the long shadows of evening.

Shrugging into the bulky coat to conceal the damage to your blouse and retrieving your luggage, discarded moments before the altercation began, you forced yourself to exit the alley at a perfectly normal pace in the direction of Doctor Legot’s clinic, trusty bicycle abandoned for the sake of a speedy departure. Reaching the clinic well after closing, you slid around the back, setting down your suitcase to root around in the hedges for the upturned pot hiding the spare key known to only a select few. You took a moment to compose yourself, taking a deep breath and brusquely wiping at the tears of discomfort that had been stubbornly welling in your eyes the entire journey.

The lock turned soundlessly under your practiced hand, the door swinging inward to an unexpected shaft of light spilling from the patient washroom. Peering around the doorjamb, your eyes widened to see Curt standing at the small sink in the powder room, stripped down to his undershirt, carefully dragging a safety razor across one lathered cheek. Exhaustion and injury got the better of you, making you sway unsteadily, forcing you to catch yourself on the frame of the door, immediately attracting his attention.

“Marie?” He turned to look at you, well-defined muscles of his arms flexing with his movements, shaving cream adorably still adorning a great deal of his face.

Hastily lurching forward into the clinic, you quickly closed and latched the door behind you, depositing your luggage and shoulder bag before shrugging out of the claustrophobic overcoat.

“Jesus Christ, look at you!” His outburst, followed by the sound of his razor hitting the porcelain bowl of the sink, made you drop your gaze to your clothes, only to be greeted by the sight of your late opponent’s blood drenching the fabric.

“Oh, do not fret about me…” You had hoped to put on a display of bravado, but your voice was aggravatingly thin, “…the other fellow is much worse off.”

His startlingly warm palms cupping your elbows made your head jerk back up, meeting his furrowed brow, eyes darkened with concern. “That isn’t very comforting, gorgeous.” He muttered and began tugging you towards Doctor Legot’s office where a crack of light shone from beneath the door. “Doc?” He barked out before open the door without any further preamble.

Only a small noise of protest sounded before the doctor was shooting to his feet, quickly ushering you to take his recently vacated chair, rapidly looking you over before his eyes settled on your arm.

“I’m not going to ask how such misfortune befell you, Marie. I am a wiser man than that. But what, specifically, happened to your arm?” He murmured in Dutch as he retrieved a set of suture scissors to begin cutting away the sleeve of your ruined shirt.

“I backed into the shorn off end of a bolt with rather a bit of force.” You sighed wearily, glancing at Curt who remained in the room, eyeing the pair of you intensely from where he leaned against a filing cabinet. “Why is your guest upstairs?”

Your sentence ended in a hiss as you inhaled sharply through your teeth at the feeling of the doctor’s fingers prodding at the wound on the back of your upper arm.

“He cut himself shaving by candlelight one too many times. Once the cast came off, we made an agreement he could come upstairs between closing and dinner to wash up. You’ve had your tetanus vaccine?”

As Legot began to aggressively paint your wound with disinfectant, you pressed your lips together tightly against any further mortifying outbursts, and thus only managed a nod in confirmation.

“Good.” The room fell silent as he applied a square of gauze to your wound, securing it in place by wrapping your arm in a bandage, tying it off.

Your eyes drifted back to Curt who had not seemed to move an inch, not even changed position, the shaving cream on his face drying out, growing crusty against his skin. His silence was perhaps the most unnerving thing you had encountered this evening, his voice seeming to have filled every waking encounter you’d had with him thus far.

“It’s a lot of blood…” He muttered, eyes rising from your clothes, marred by scarlet quickly turning a mottled brown as the blood dried and aged.

“Mostly someone else’s.” You reminded him gently, earning a non-plussed grunt in reply.

A heavy sigh fell from the Doctor Legot’s lips, making you look up at him slowly. “Marie there has been…an increase in the Gestapo around town. A contact of mine was even questioned about a woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to you. And now that you seem to have had a run in, I’m…concerned.”

Despite similar thoughts ricocheting about your brain the entire flight back to his clinic, the breath you drew in felt like it contained thousands of tiny shards of glass which imbedded themselves deep inside your breast as you heard it from an external source. Rationally, to have survived so many months in your occupation was a feat worth celebrating.

An SOE agent typically had a life expectancy of six months, and yet to watch your ability to remain in Belgium, to remain useful to your fellow Belgians, crumble before you was incredibly painful. You allowed your exhale to accumulate in your cheeks before releasing it all at once through pursed lips with a nod, the feeling of having failed your people, your family, once again a yawning pit deep in your gut.

“It is time for me to move on.” You conceded flatly.

“If you are headed in a certain direction, might you be able to take a certain guest with you?” He asked with a nod in the American’s direction.“Couriers are still stretched thin.”

Your eyes widened slowly as it dawned on you that it was well over two months since Curt had become a guest in his cellar and should be well on his way to Spain by now. “He is well enough to travel then? Have they made him papers yet?” Your rapid-fire questions were greeted by frantic blinking from the doctor before he nodded quickly in the affirmative to both.

Turning back to Curt you tilted your head, reinvigorated by the chance to be useful one last time as you tried to remove yourself from occupied Europe, saving another’s life infinitely more important than simply trying to preserve your own. “Tell me, Curt, are you ready to head back to England?”

The apprehension that had drawn his features tight melted away, yielding to a bright smile, his eyes fairly sparkling with anticipation at the promise of beginning his escape at last. “You have no idea.”

You could do nothing to stop the uplift at the corner of your mouth in response, nodding slightly. “I’m going to change out of these clothes and then we’ll get ready to leave in the morning.”

Straightening from his lean against the cabinet, he moved to the door. “I’ll just go grab…” His voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hall before returning with your suitcase, setting it on the floor with a nod before departing once more, not loitering long enough to accept your gratitude.

Legot produced an old flour sack for you to deposit any clothes beyond saving, to be burned upstairs in his fireplace, before leaving you alone in his office. Feeling the chill of autumn in your damp clothes, you quickly stripped, using a towel to wipe any bloody remnants from your skin with water from the sink in the corner of the room, before changing into fresh clothing. Your mind was already occupied with plotting your route – to Antwerp, fetching supplies from the small flat you kept as a base of operations there, and then boarding a train to the border before crossing on foot then onto another train at Lille to Toulouse before meeting up with the Ponzán group to be guided across the Pyrenees. But this time, you would be one of the party making the crossing in neutral Spain.

Bringing your damp towel to try and blot any blood from the pilfered overcoat, hoping to save it for Curt’s benefit during the mountain crossing to come, you turned off the office lights and headed toward the storeroom, grabbing the garment from the floor on the way. Dropping it through the open trapdoor followed by the wet towel, you smiled to Curt as he appeared below, passing him your suitcase with your good arm before beginning your own descent down the ladder. Pushed well beyond all possible limits, your battered and bandaged arm gave out at your demand to bear your body weight, a yelp escaping as your right hand lost its grip on the ladder as a result.

Strong hands quickly landed on your hips, steadying and supporting you.

“Easy, gorgeous, good as you got the guy, he still hurt you.” Curt muttered behind you, the fresh scent of soap and aftershave radiating from his warm skin as he helped you down the last few rungs.

“Th, thank you, Curt.” You stammered, hugging your throbbing limb close as your feet settled onto the cellar floor, watching him easily climb up the ladder to swing the heavy trapdoor shut almost silently even from inside. “You’ve come a long way in the past few weeks…”

He smirked a little, carrying your luggage over to set on the foot of your bed for you. “Been doing a lot of shadow boxing down here.”

“Boxing!” You breathed in surprise, gathering the abandoned coat from the crumpled heap it left on the floor, trying not to notice the way his muscles moved as he pulled on a thick knit sweater in the cool damp of your hiding space. “If I had known, I would have gotten comics related to your interest…”

“I enjoyed the ones you brought, even read the book too. My teachers would be proud.”

A small laugh escaped you as you settled onto the edge of the bed, inspecting the coat for bloodstains and methodically beginning to blot them out. His own laughed intertwined with yours all too melodically, making you swallow tightly.

“That coat is awful big for you, gorgeous.” He teased, watching you from where he stood at the end of your bed.

“It’s not for me, Curt, it’s for you – you’re going to need it where we’re headed. Just need to get all the blood out first.” You murmured, turning the right sleeve inside out knowing you had surely bled on it yourself.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You peered up at him a moment before shaking your head. “Other than England. That will suffice for now. I will share the goal with you day by day, but the less you know the safer you will be. Aside from a few key portions, the majority of the trip will be by train to start. Tomorrow, though, we shall have to try something new.” You trailed off into a mutter at the last, wrestling with the heavy fabric, shooting him a grateful look as he grabbed the hem of the coat to help you position it, allowing you to reach one of the last stains.

“What’s so special about tomorrow?” He prodded, clearly still listening even though your final statement had more been musing aloud than for his ears.

Pausing a moment you sighed before meeting his eyes. “I suppose you ought to know that I appear to be a known entity to the Gestapo, at the very least locally, and so we will take extra evasive manoeuvres when we leave town. I shall be disguised, we will leave just before dawn, and avoid public transportation. I have a few ideas for how we might reach where we are going first, do not worry.” You offered a reassuring smile, to which he returned a small nod. “Jan will have been by the take your photo and give you papers?”

“Oh, yeah, nice fella if a bit quiet. Gave me a couple sets of papers.” He stepped over to his cot to retrieve two well forged sets of identity papers, bringing them over for you to inspect.

Laying the now-cleaned coat to dry across your suitcase, you accepted them from him, looking them over before holding out those in your left hand. “These are your Belgian papers. I suggest you put these in your usual pocket – the one you will reach for first, so that you can produce them as naturally as possible. We will destroy them as soon as we have left Belgium.” You watched as he took them from you.

“Belgian papers, got it.” Curt made a tiny salute with the papers before grabbing a leather jacket from the back of a small chair that was a new addition to the cellar, sliding them into the inner left breast pocket.

“And these,” you held out those in your right hand, “are your French papers. You will want to keep these close, in a safe place on your person, but not somewhere you will mistakenly hand them over until they are needed.”

His eyebrow shot up playfully. “Hold up, Marie, I thought you just said you weren’t going to tell me where we’re going…”

“Did I?” You blinked innocently and his guffaw of amusement threatened to pull another unintentional smile from you.

Since when had your expressions become so very difficult to control?

“The most important thing for you to remember on our journey,” you soldiered on despite your inner struggle, “is not to speak. Your voice absolutely gives away the fact that you do not belong here. Many of the airmen whom we guide find the most success by feigning deafness. It explains both their inability to speak and the fact that they do not understand the language.”

“You could just teach me French, or whatever you speak with Doc…”

“Flemish?” You found yourself fighting back laughter. “We do not have enough time for you to master either, Curt. We leave tomorrow. Now take your French papiers and get some sleep, we leave in a few hours.” You nodded firmly, but with a kind smile.

“You too, Marie, you need dinner or anything?”

Shaking your head softly, certain you could not bring yourself to eat even if you felt hungry, the pair of you settled in to sleep, the damp wool coat taking over the chair in the middle of the room to dry, looming in the flickering candlelight like some grim reminder of your actions. Huffing at your melodramatic thoughts, you pulled the blankets over your head and rolled over to get some rest.

As agreed upon, Legot woke the pair of you shortly after four with warm bread, apples, and granola. You could almost taste the ghost of butter, jam, sugar, and cream on your tongue – heavily rationed delights that had been hard to come by in England and all but non-existent here under Nazi rule. Downing your dry, brown breakfast, you opened your suitcase to retrieve a wig from its depths, gathering your hair and securing it beneath the false strands to disguise your apparently known appearance.

“I dunno Marie…” Curt’s musing were interrupted by an exaggerated yawn as he smoothed his hair with a pot of borrowed pomade. “Your natural hair looks so much prettier on you.”

Fighting the girlish urge to preen under his indirect compliment, you shook your head. “It’s a good thing I’m not trying to look pretty then, just different.”

“Well in that case you look nothing like your usual self.” He shrugged into his leather jacket before snagging the hard-won navy coat from the back of the chair and folded it in perhaps the most unmethodical way you had ever witnessed, but it still wound up flat and small enough to fit into his suitcase.

“Good.” You muttered and snapped the latches on your own luggage closed, heading over to the ladder to climb up.

“Wait, let me help you.” He hurried over, reaching out to grasp your waist. “You sure you can pull the cases up?”

Huffing a little, more in annoyance at being injured than his offers of help, you nodded firmly. “Absolutely.” Clenching your jaw, you forced your way up the ladder, stubbornly ignoring the ache in your still-healing arm, turning to reach out expectantly for the first piece of luggage once you were kneeling on the floor above.

A bemused expression greeted you before he easily hoisted the first, waiting until you had it tucked aside before sending the second up. Taking a moment to extinguish the candles still burning below, he then quickly ascended the ladder to join you, silently securing the trapdoor behind him.

“Right, this is it then.”

About to make your way down the hall to bid a final farewell to the doctor, you turned with a soft gasp to find him stand there with a small canvas bag of food.

“For your journey.” He held it out, nodding as Curt quickly stepped forward to sling it over his shoulder.

“Be safe, Doctor Legot, thank you for all your assistance.”

“The very same to you, Marie. Best of luck on your travels.”

A small, sentimental smile poked through your serious expression before your eyes widened. “If you are in need of a bicycle, mine remains outside the pub across from the town square. Farewell.”

At serious risk of lingering too long, you turned then and headed out the backdoor, glancing over your shoulder in the faint light of early morning to ensure Curt was following you. You kept a quick pace, cutting and winding through town towards a familiar farmyard, dairy cows grazing the fields, lowing softly, as the farmer and his daughters loaded containers of milk into the back of a worn truck. The sun had escaped the confines of the horizon by now, flooding the landscape with the golden light of an autumn sunrise as you cast another glance of confirmation over your shoulder, nearly tripping over your own feet at the unjustly stunning quality of Curt’s eyes in daylight.

“Whoa, easy.” He hurried a few steps forward to steady you by the elbow, catching the attention of Tillens who quickly sent his children back into the house.

“Hush.” You whispered firmly before waving to the farmer, who squinted at you a moment before relaxing as you greeted him warmly in Dutch.

“That you, Marie? You’ve done something new with your hair, didn’t even recognize you for a moment…”

“The point, I am afraid. Are you by any chance headed to Antwerp today?” You asked hopefully, stomach falling as he shook his head.

“Could take you to Brussels, but Antwerp is tomorrow.”

Brussels was the one place you avoided, far too many familiar faces and even more Nazis along with their collaborating government.

“How much could I offer to convince you to take us to Antwerp today?”

Tillens’ brown eyes studied your disguise before looking over at your companion. “It’s only one hour out of my way, Marie, for you there is no charge. Hop in the back and I’ll pack the rest of these around you.”

Your eyes widened before you quickly gestured Curt forward, digging into the bag on his shoulder and pulling out the loaf of the bread you found there. “Then please accept this, for your family.”

“Marie…” Tillens protested but you pushed it forward insistently and he accepted it with a grateful nod. “Thank you, every bit helps.”

“Thank you, for it truly does.” Grasping Curt’s elbow, you pointed into the back of the truck, watching him step up and weave his way towards the back.

Setting your suitcase on the tailgate, you reached for the handhold with your left arm, gasping as Curt’s hands were suddenly around your waist to hoist you in amongst the containers of milk.

“Gorgeous but stubborn.” He muttered under his breath, grabbing your suitcase and leading you over to a gap he had found just large enough for the pair of you to settle on the floor.

Pulling your shoulder bag against your body, you tucked your skirt beneath yourself as you sat down beside him, nodding to Tillens as he peered in at the pair of you before sealing you in with the last of his cargo.

“It’s about a two-hour drive, feel free to sleep.” You whispered, the back of the truck going dark as Tillens secured the doors shut, the motor growling to life shortly thereafter.

“So he speaks Flemish too?” Curt asked curiously as the vehicle jolted into motion and you nodded softly.

“It’s Dutch, really, with some regional differences. In the bigger cities you’ll find more of a mix of Flemish and French.”

“And you speak it all.” Curt smirked and you nodded, hugging your knees to your chest as the cargo rattled around you. “Really somethin’…” He muttered, leaning back to close his eyes and try to get some rest as you had suggested.

The drive smoothed out as the truck navigated onto the main road, and you felt yourself relax a little after the first hour of distance was put between you and Beverst. You were by no means out of danger – the Gestapo was an insidious organization, their network a far-reaching and interconnected tangle. The fact that at least one agent had come looking for you specifically meant that, if the entirety did not know of you yet, they soon would. You had to run all the way to be truly safe.

Of their own volition, your eyes drifted towards Curt’s sleeping form, his handsome face grown slack and soft in sleep, the youth of him both striking and painful. What would his life look like if Hitler had been able to keep his hands to himself…or better yet had never even come to power? What would your life look like? Certainly neither of you would be in the back of a dairy truck sneaking your way to Antwerp.

A roughened patch of road jostled his body, threatening to wake him and you quickly wrenched your eyes away, studying the handwritten labels from Tillens’ farm. Thankfully Curt remained asleep for the rest of the drive, the truck pulling to a stop amidst the hum of the city, and you gently prodded him awake with a shake to the shoulder.

“We’re here.” You whispered before pressing a finger to your lips and he nodded drowsily before straightening.

Light flooded into the back of the truck, the pair of you blinking owlishly as Tillens shifted the cargo to make a path of exit into a familiar alley. Climbing out carefully, you turned to unload the suitcases as Curt passed each, nodding sharply to the farmer before you and the airman assembled yourselves, and strolled casually out into the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

The interference and unpredictability of humans had you on edge, not appreciating the way Curt always seemed to be not where you expected him to be with every glance over your shoulder. After the fourth time you looked for him a little too long, your heart in your throat, you stepped around a rather annoying blonde making eyes at him, and seized his free hand with yours. To keep better track of him, of course. The fact that your throat tightened slightly as his blunt fingers wrapped around your hand in return, requiring a forceful swallow to clear it, was utterly irrelevant.

Turning the corner, you looked both ways before tugging on his hand, guiding him across the street to the unassuming building of flats from which you were intending to collect your warmer clothes and some other supplies. The sight of the rather nice car out front was the first sign that something was off. The next was the sound of your neighbour, an ancient, haggard woman named Josephine De Smet, speaking loudly in the stairwell, her creaking voice cascading down the tiled stairs to the lobby, halting your feet immediately.

Clearly distracted, Curt’s body collided with your back, forcing you to brace against the wall lest you topple over.

“Geez, why’d you sto–” His less-than-hushed whisper was cut off by your palm, forcefully freed from his grasp, slapping over his mouth as you quickly pushed him back into the corner of the lobby under the stairs, casting a sharp look at him before craning your ear back upwards.

Holding your breath, you listened intently, trying to hear the rest of the conversation. To confirm if the alarm bells ringing in your head were warranted.

“Just what has that hussy gotten herself mixed up in then, sir?” The old crone rasped in French, not her usual choice of language, and you pressed your lips into a line thin.

“I cannot say, madam, other than she is a monster and you’d best be wary.” The deep male voice, a German accent poisoning his pronunciation, made you inhale sharply through your nose.

Hand dropping from where it pressed against Curt’s remarkably plush and soft lips to grasp the lapel of his jacket, you pulled hard, yanking him out of the building and back onto the street. They were a lot closer on your trail than you had realized. Pulse rabbiting at your throat, you held your suitcase out to Curt in a silent request, grateful when he took it without question, following you as you took off down the sidewalk at a brisk clip.

Darting around the next corner, you led him on a chaotic, unpredictable, and hopefully untraceable path to a tramway stop several blocks away as you dug through your shoulder bag for the coins to make fare for both of you. Once that was secured, you traded his fare for your suitcase, tucking your own coins into the pocket of your light jacket, trying to suppress your grimace at the loss of your winter clothes in that now unvisitable flat. The feeling of Curt’s sturdy hand slipping into yours, enveloping your skin in warmth and his strong grip, halted you for half a step before releasing some of the tension in your lungs.

Propelling forward across the street, the pair of you jumped onto the tram just as it was about to pull away, shuffling into the heart of the crowded carriage to purchase your tickets and keep your faces away from the windows. It was not an overly warm ride to Antwerpen-Centraal station, but you could certainly feel sweat prickling in your armpits and rolling down your back between your shoulder blades. Tugging on Curt’s sleeve, you disembarked one stop short with him and ducked into an alley to yank the wig free, hanging your head upside down to shake out your hair before repining it. It surely looked sad, but given that identity papers were required to board a train, you needed to resemble your photo and thus the wig was shoved into a nearby trash bin.

“We will be asked for papers, there will be a lot of soldiers, try to remain relaxed and do as I do.” You whispered to Curt, and he nodded, patting the left breast of his pocket with an easy smile, though you watched his adam’s apple bob sharply as he swallowed. “We will be buying tickets and travelling to the border where will stop for the night, alright?”

“Lead on, gorgeous.” He nodded and turned to following you toward the grand, stone-clad station built at the turn of the century.

The presence of Nazi soldiers was pronounced, their bright red swatiskas flashing about the otherwise pleasant square like blemishes on a beautiful face. Keeping your expression perfectly neutral yet pleasant, confident yet not cocky, you took a moment to exhale slowly as you made it past the first hurdle into the building before heading to the ticket counter, requesting two tickets to Kortrijk. It was nothing short of a miracle that you managed a polite nod rather than kissing the ticket seller full on the mouth when he informed you the train would be leaving in twenty minutes. Pulling the bills from your bag, you accepted the tickets in return before leading Curt to track three.

Rolling your shoulders in and down your back, you confidently offered your identity papers to the Nazi soldier standing at the carriage door, immensely pleased when Curt did the same without prompting.

“Where are you two headed?” The soldier asked in clipped, stilted French, his piercing blue eyes wholly unsettling as they flicked between you and Curt before coming back to you.

“Kortrijk, sir.” You answered simply.

If he wanted to know more, he would need to ask more. You certainly had a lie prepared should he require one. He made a noise of displeasure, looking over your shoulder, implying the accumulation of other passengers.

“Off you go.” He grunted, returning both sets of papers to you and you nodded rapidly, climbing aboard quickly, even as your arm shook under the strain of hauling your body up the steps.

Shuffling down the hallway of the carriage, you at last came to an empty compartment, stepping inside and setting your luggage on the bench. As soon as Curt stepped in behind you, you slid the door shut behind him, knowing it was rude with a full train but not wanting anyone else to join you. As you turned back, he was already hoisting your suitcase up onto the luggage rack, making you smile fondly.

“Merci.” You murmured, hoping he would understand your meaning.

Judging by his responding smile, it seemed he certainly did. Despite your longing to collapse onto the bench seat, you sat with decorum, trying not to stare at your watch and count down the minutes. As the last whistle blew and the cars at last shunted into motion, you finally relaxed back into the cushion behind you.

“Is it always like that?” Curt whispered and you shot him a rueful look before shaking your head.

“I am deeply sorry, that…that is solely a complication of traveling with me right now.” You murmured in response, digging out his ticket and papers, returning them to him. “The conductor will arrive closer to our destination to check your ticket, then we show the papers again in the station after we detrain.”

You watched as he carefully took the items and tucked them back into his inner pocket.

“No apologies, gorgeous. We’re both not wanted here, so it’s a good thing we’re leaving.” He nodded and you looked out the window when rain pelted the glass as the train left the shelter of the station, biting the inside of your cheek savagely to keep your emotions in check. “Why don’t we have some lunch?”

He started to root around in the bag from Legot and you forced a smile, sharing the few apples and the small wedge of cheese, akin to a rare jewel, that the man had gifted the two of you with. After a minor squabble over who ought to be resting, Curt finally gave up and obstinately remained awake as you insisted that you must, staring out the window as the fields of Flanders rolled by. The train made numerous stops until the conductor arrived to check your tickets, signalling you were about to arrive in Kortrijk, the final stop.

Courtesy of your preparation, the process went remarkably smooth, and the pair of you stepped off the train once Curt had retrieved the suitcases from overhead. Another successful check of your papers and you were melting into the population freshly departing from their workday and making their way home. Within thirty minutes, you had arrived at an unassuming home on the southern edge of town, knocking the door in the prescribed way.

A young woman with a toddler perched on her hip opened the door, eyeing each of you cautiously.

“May I help you?” She asked in Dutch.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. We were wondering if you might be interested in some new cosmetics?” You smiled broadly, delivering the passphrase.

A flash of recognition crossed her delicate features, her plump cheeks flushing in excitement as she briefly went rigid before she reined in her emotions. “Why don’t you come in and show me what you have for sale…” She stepped back, holding the door open wider for you and Curt to step inside.

Once the door was secured behind you, she led you through her small but tidy home up the narrow stairs to a small half door before opening it slowly.

“Here you are, dinner will take some time.”

“Whatever you can spare is truly appreciated, thank you.” You thanked her softly, sliding your suitcase into the attic before crouching down to crawl in after it.

The space was smaller than Legot’s cellar but larger than the back of Tillens’ dairy truck, enough room for each of you to lay flat, high up in the very peak of the small house. It was not a safe house you would have employed for a larger group. For the first time, you were grateful it was nearly November and not the heat of summer.

“Ouch!” Curt hissed as he cracked his head on a low beam, and you frowned, shifting up onto your knees to make sure he was alright. “Yeah, yeah, m’fine Marie, just an idiot.” He gave you a lopsided grin and you shook your head.

“Sorry it’s not the Ritz, but it’s not a cellar either?” You tilted your head hopefully.

“Never stayed at the Ritz, you?” He asked, settling onto the centuries-old wooden planks beside you.

“Hmmm.” You hummed noncommittally. “She says she’ll have something for us to eat in a bit, we will rest and then start out walking after midnight.”

“Walk…?” He prompted, eyebrow raised.

“It is not easy to cross the border, we cannot simply take the train into France, so we must walk. It is best to do so at night, and even better to do so rested. I promise we can linger a little longer at our next place, but we must get out of Belgium.” Despite your efforts to quash it, a slight tremor remained in your voice and Curt shot you a look of sympathy and utterly threatened your ability to maintain your composure. “So sleep.” You tacked on firmly and pulled off your jacket, folding it up to make a pillow before laying on your side with your back to him.

There was a decidedly awkward silence as he remained seated, looming above you, before laying down with a heavy exhale, clearly frustrated with you. Well that made two of you.

Dinner arrived two hours later with a soft knock, driving home the fact that you had not slept, but the warm vegetable hash was so very welcome and filling, giving you hope that you might be able to actually fall asleep for the last few hours of your stay here. As you lay back down onto your make-shift pillow, Curt’s breaths almost immediately evened out into the heavy sighs of sleep, making your lips twitch in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. Yet as you closed your eyes, all that echoed through your mind was the voice of your father ‘mon petit monstre’ and the Gestapo agent from the stairwell of your flat building ‘elle est un monstre.’

Petit monstre

Un monstre

Monstre

Grief clawed at your throat, making you sit up sharply as you gasped for air, eyes brimming with tears as the realization that you would never again hear that nickname in your father’s voice – that it would now only come to you by way of anger and insult – sank like a stone in the pit of your stomach. Sniffling petulantly as your nose began to run, you jumped at the feeling of Curt’s hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong…” He whispered groggily, shifting closer.

Shaking your head quickly, you roughly wiped the tears from your eyes trying to hide the evidence, huffing as the action only caused fresh ones to spill onto your cheeks.

“Don’t tell me then, just c’mere.” He replied and gathered you into his arms, cradling you close against his chest.

Every muscle in your body went rigid at first, your rational, well-trained self knowing this was utterly inappropriate. And yet…

And yet, he was so warm, so kind, and he was holding you so tightly that maybe you could fall apart just a little without crumbling entirely. Surrendering to the fact that no arms had attempted to hold and comfort you in years, you yielded to his embrace, becoming pliant as you loosened the clenched-fist-grip on your grief just a little, allowing tears to slide freely down your cheeks in the darkness of that attic as his palm soothed up and down your spine.

“Shhh, I’m right here, you’re not alone…”

How very much you wanted to believe him.

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

Read Part Three

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

#curtis biddick x reader #curt biddick x reader #curtis biddick #curt biddick #mota fanfic #mota fic #masters of the air fanfiction #mota #masters of the air

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hypequeenves · 3 months

Text

TRIGGER WARNING: Audio goes from soft too loud, it has yelling bashing and crashing - please keep both arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. If you feel unsafe please pause, go have a warm shower and live your life.

*This is the audio heard from the camera room*

CLOSED CAPTIONS BELOW

Soft footsteps pause, a door opens, the footsteps continue and the door creaks closed.

VESPER You motherfucker.

VOX Well hello to you too Ves.

Footsteps getting closer. VESPER Two. Hours. The footsteps stop, hands slamming on a table, glasses and knick knacks clatter. VESPER You had me waiting... TWO. HOURS! Vesper snatches Vox's phone, throwing and shattering it against the wall. Vesper begins pacing. VESPER I, RAN here. I thought I was in trouble. For a second there I thought YOU were in trouble. VOX I had other meetings. *Sigh* You're not the most important thing in my life you know. VESPER Oh fuck you. VOX I don't even know why you thought it was important. Vesper stops pacing, hand slamming against the table. VESPER You BROKE my phone, AGAIN. A menacing static begins to ramp up in the background. VOX It's not like that. Vox stands and begins slowly walking towards Vesper. VESPER (Incredulous laughing) Not like that? What is-

Vox's footsteps get closer, as the static continues to get louder. VOX Dove. VESPER No, don't you 'Dove' me. I'm not- A loud crashing, the static overtakes the audio. There is the stuffing of furniture and feet. VESPER (Audio distorted and muffled) Okay, Okay. I'm sorry boss, I- More static, more shuffling. VESPER (Distorted and muffled) OKAY! The static suddenly stops. VESPER (Softly) Okay. A pause. VESPER Let's just work it out. Vesper's feet shuffling, before pausing. VESPER (with feeling) Together. Vox's feet crunch on a shard of glass, before his footsteps return to normal and he walks away, before sitting in a chair. VESPER (tentatively) Are you alright boss? VOX Yeah, yeah... it's just been a... rough, couple of weeks. There is a long pause. VOX (Quietly) I miss you, you know? VESPER I know.

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majokkoradio · 1 year

Audio

“Magical Destroyer” - Mahou Shoujo Magical Destroyers - April 8, 2023

#distorted audio warning #mahou shoujo magical destroyers #magical destroyers #aimi #jun inagawa #Timeline Playlist 3

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lunarw0rks · 11 months

Text

Old Bones | Chapter Seven

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): abusive relationship, PTSD/trauma themes, mentions of violence and blood, gun mention, strong language

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Not proofread. The next chapter is gonna be... interesting, to say the least. I ALREADY HAVE PLANS ;)

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Pitfall

“Where are you going today, you little fucker?” Simon muttered to himself, not ceasing his iron grip on the wheel.

His eyes flicked from the picture of him on the center console, then to the pistol laid on the empty seat next to him. It was taking every atom inside him not to execute him right then, right there. But he couldn’t.

He had to do this tactically. Not here, not today. But, that imaginary clock was ticking louder—and it would strike the right hour very soon. Simon's restraint was waning; he could no longer bear watching as Cal lead his uncomely existence and acted as if he were the ruler of every place he set foot in.

Simon had been doing this surveillance work since you two made it to the mountains. He’d drive the extra hours into Cal’s new hometown and keep tabs on him, then when the timeline became ridiculous, he’d return to the cabin holding the month’s rations, and you were none the wiser.

If you were to find out, he would chalk it up to his “big plan” for Cal, but in truth, it was all about knowing the person he was going to kill.

On the battlefield, he didn’t know his kills. It eliminated the need to make it personal. But this one, this enemy, it was personal—and in return, so would his method—whether it was going to be with his own two hands, a blade, or a bullet.

He read the small screen, the numbers displaying that of mid-morning. It was time to get back to you, in spite of how much he wanted to get out of the truck and pound him into the pavement. Nevertheless, he pulled out of his space, leaving Cal to his day drinking with friends.

…

He used his trip back to the cabin as his cool-off, a way to revert back to the self you thought he was; a man, your bodyguard, out for the month’s groceries.

Simon returned, holding the hefty bag and a six-pack of the soda you “had to have”. You were kneeling in the snow, practicing with one of his rifles.

He stepped in front of the scope before you made your shot, holding the pack out with a concealed raise of his brow.

“You’re still playing cowboy?” He tossed the pack into the snow, then returned inside.

He’d only bought the soda to not blow his cover, but that was between him and his endless pit of secrets.

—

At last, you succeeded in picking up a signal on the antique TV.

The images were slightly stretched, and the audio was shotty, distorting in ten-second intervals. But nonetheless, it was preferable over the sound of Simon’s grumbling in his sleep or his God-awful snoring.

The only channels it received were the news or endless static—something you figured out after giving the box a few harsh smacks, naturally.

Simon had stirred awake, rubbing his eyes, which remained bloodshot, despite a long nap. The cushion groaned against his weight when he sat up, folding his hands against the back of his head with always persistent fatigue.

On the faulty screen, an upbeat holiday parade unfolded in the heart of the city. It showcased large, joyous families, embellished kiss cams, and enthusiastic newscasters determined to spread the festive spirit to everyone.

You hadn’t thought about the approaching holiday season, since the disastrous ones shared with Cal.

Each festive season was marred by the shadows of shattered expectations; keeping up appearances around family became a painful necessity, often ending in a venomous spat when the front door closed behind them.

Amidst forced smiles and hollow laughter, fighting the disabling grip he had on you, demanding a facade of normalcy in front of his loved ones.

For others, it was a time of high spirits, gift-giving, and bonding. It was nothing more to you than just another item on the list of things he’d taken from you.

If you asked, he would say he hated them too, but Simon’s household was too chaotic to celebrate them. In contrast to the explosivity of yours, his were as unforgiving and cold as the winters in Manchester. The spirit of the holidays felt distant and unattainable, he had no one to share it with, and the wall he’d built between himself and others repulsed it.

Simon watched the screen silently beside you, although he was better at hiding his distaste for it, given his disguise.

You were only able to withstand a few minutes of it before you caved and pressed the off button. Now, it was only the faint hum of the appliances heard.

“Don’t care for the holidays?” Simon inquired, though he’d already twigged his answer.

Perhaps you did, at one point. Not now, not any time in the near future either. “No, I don’t.” Your reply is kept simple and empty, despite the iron clench you have on the remote.

He nods at the relatability, studying the clench of your jaw, as well as the tension brewing in your posture. It would not take a thousand questions to find out why you hated the holidays, the answer was living and breathing right before him.

He empathized with your feelings to his core, yet he was a man of few words.

In spite of his never-ending silence, you spoke again. “I ran across the country, and it doesn’t feel far enough.” This was the closest you had come to venting, feeling far more worked up than the day at the gas station.

The aspects of the holidays you tried to leave behind had emerged from the shadows so suddenly—a very familiar, looming shadow of the man you tried to suppress.

The kitchen, once a scene of festive warmth, now lay silent and dimly lit, its air heavy with the scent of spilled emotions and shattered resilience. The flickering light above cast haunting shadows across the tiled floor, mirroring the turbulent storm brewing within their soul.

The shattered pieces of a plate lay scattered on the floor, next to the rest of the disarray of the dining room. The runner rug your foot had snagged on, the silverware spilled out of the drawer, the red wine trickling down the edge of the counter and mixing your own crimson.

Cal had left to cool off his explosive temper, leaving you there to mull. Each passing moment seemed to stretch on endlessly, amplifying the overwhelming dolor that had clung to you like a suffocating shroud.

Outside, the snow pelted against the windows, its rhythmic patter echoing the relentless torment that had plagued you for far too long.

Memories of happier times seemed distant and faded, like ghosts haunting the periphery of your wavering consciousness. You yearned for someone, anyone, to come and break you out of this—but no one came.

The pain felt, both physical and emotional, merged into an indistinguishable ache; the fragments embedded into your skin, the healed and fresh contuses that littered you—all a suffocating weight on your wheezing chest.

Yet, even amidst their internal struggle, you knew this would be the last time, the last opportunity for you to find a way out. For the first time, the torment had given you straws to grasp. He had left, and you had at least a half-hour.

No one decent was coming to mend your wounds, only you could do that, before the one who caused them returned, forcing you to endure this nightmare longer.

Grappling with the notion of hope, that’s what allowed you to pull yourself to your feet—to pack your bags and slip through before the door to your destructive life with him slammed for good.

The wave of memories felt more like a silent predator lurking in the depths, these memories surged forth with unexpected force, pulling you into a tumultuous whirlpool of emotions. The undertow of the past jostled you around violently, dragging them back to moments you had desperately tried to forget.

Your once-stone expression had now shattered into pieces, forcing an uncontrollable frown.

“It’s like I never stood up.” It was supposed to come out a self-reflective whisper but rang audible enough for Simon to hear.

Ironically, the only whisper was the melancholic breeze of stirring memories chiming through your head.

Following the frown, it was a pitying look, like you were the pathetic one in this endeavor. He could hardly stand it—because you were right about one thing. No matter how far you went, that bastard had caught up to you, even with Simon at your side. It made his stomach turn, and his heart race with vehemence.

“But you’re here, and he won’t be soon. Remember that.” He replied, turning to face you from the opposite end of the sofa.

His words provided a morbid, forbidden kind of comfort. By this point, the morality of what you’d gotten yourself into was now a distant factor.

Your pocket stirred, surprising you with the sudden buzz of the phone he had gifted you—a device you had almost entirely forgotten about. Aside from the SOS text you sent several weeks ago, there was one more open conversation—a new, unread one from a number partially censored with asterisks.

(***) *** 8701 Instead of tailing me, drive that truck here.

Truck? Cal had seen the truck? Your brows knitted in thought for a few seconds, and then the truth dawned upon you.

Simon had caught a glimpse of it, as well as the second message—a location. He expected you to turn it towards him, but you didn’t. You were frozen again, but this time it wasn’t the heavy conversation, it was aggravation.

You figured it out; all those extra hours away, he wasn’t on a supply run, he was spying on Cal.

“Let me see that.” He outstretched his hand, ushering you to hand him the flip phone. You couldn’t believe it, him of all people. The way you thought he’d changed, that he was going to tell you the things you ‘deserved’ to know, but he’s been going behind your back for months.

You took one last look at the screen, memorizing the message before you until you could recite it.

With a slam of the small screen, you hurled the phone his way. “Matter of a fact, just keep it. I can’t fucking believe you.”

In true fashion, he showed no signs of shock, like he had been expecting this moment to come. The burner phone hit his chest with a sharp smack, but he didn’t recoil, or catch it this time.

“You know, you may think this is some kind of game, but it’s not, Simon. This is my life! Not your big opportunity for a power trip!” You thundered, extending an accusing finger his way.

This whole time, Cal has been in his crosshairs, and you've been sitting around on pins and needles, clueless. The months you’ve been less of yourself than you ever were with Cal, he sat back and listened, while in the process of double-crossing you—on some testosterone-fueled PI work.

With the phone now laying in his lap, Simon just sat there and took the beating. There was nothing he could do, nor knew how to say, that could change what he’d done. He knew Cal had been staying in the nearest city, he really was only spying on him with personal motivations.

If the tables had been turned, he would have wanted to know.

Your words continued their echo off the walls, but you had stormed off to your room already. An agonizing feeling of regret gnawed at him. His inability to apologize added to the torment, leaving him with a longing for a chance to make amends.

Having a spat with you? He could handle that and already had his fair share. But betraying your newly earned trust? He couldn’t handle that.

Without words, or amends to give you, all he had were his actions. The only remaining silver lining? He now had a time and place.

—

The zipping of his duffel bag was followed by the sound of him setting it down with a thump.

Then, he was going through the cabinets, keeping his back turned throughout his entire search. You lifted your head from the steaming cup of tea in your hands.

When he finished stuffing the goods into his smaller bag, he only gave you one glance. “It might take a few days. Once I’m back, I’ll drive you to the airport.”

It wasn’t a question, it was another plan of action he’d set out for you. For once, it was a decision he made you were totally fine with.

He didn’t say anything else, nor did you. There were no more words to utter, scream, or ponder. Simon exited the cabin with a hefty close to the front door, all his crammed bags in hand.

It was clear—Simon was packing his arsenal, and on his way to kill your estranged other half, leaving you here to grieve the man you despised.

At least, when you woke up that morning, that’s what you figured would happen. That’s what Simon thought was going to happen today, but it wasn’t. You knew something he didn’t—what you figured out about halfway through that awful cup of tea.

You weren’t going to sit back and grieve. You were going to be there, too.

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011 @stunkbiggu @warm-milk-with-honey @xheera @kiamewrites @01trickster10 @m0chac0ffee @tizylish @midwesternwitchery (if you're not properly tagged, it's not letting me)

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley fluff #simon riley smut #simon riley angst

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l0velylecter · 1 year

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you're not my homeland anymore (so what am I defending now?) — phillip graves x afab!reader

THERE'S SOMETHING INTIMATE IN THE WAY HE POISONS YOU: even with his hand around your throat, fingers slowly constricting, you can't seem to fight him. A snake trying to subdue its victims, Phillip dragged his thumb lazily across the column of your neck to check your pulse — eyes flickering to the rise and fall of your chest. He was ready to devour you, sneering because he knew you'd let him.

summary : After his betrayal in Las Almas, as Shadow Company’s Quartermaster, you were left behind to clean up after Grave’s mess. It’s not easy to pick up the pieces of the life he shattered, but it’s even harder to heal when he keeps coming back to undo the stitches. pairing : phillip graves / afab!reader fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii rating : e for explicit, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : descriptions of violence, cursing, descriptions of sex tags : afab!reader, female parts, some plot, somewhat toxic/unhealthy relationship, manipulation, mild backstory for reader, choking, he’s a red flag but red is my favorite color, reader has a ‘i can fix him’ mentality so read at your own discretion, rough sex, angry sex, edging. word count : 2k note : font is normal sized under the cut ! song used for inspiration : exile, taylor swift

01| Twenty minutes is the fastest recorded time of death caused by snake venom, not a second less, not a second later. And twenty minutes is all it took for Phillip to betray you. Your hands were trembling around the monitor while he aimed his rifle at Soap. Knocking a stack of papers in the process, your fingers flew across the keyboard to call for help — Laswell, Price, Garrick, anybody: you were desperate, choking in your guilt as a bullet struck the sergeant. With tears streaming down your face, you screamed into the comms, begging for him to cease fire. The analog clock beeped. Eleven minutes. Then without warning, the noise disappeared, leaving you to listen to the harsh rain against the pavement.

You slumped against your seat.

" Phillip...what have you done?"

Fifteen minutes. After a few seconds, his voice emerged, distant and faraway, distorted by the static.

" It's nothing personal, baby. It's just business." He chuckled. Your face crumbled at the airiness of his tone, bile rising in the back of your mouth as you imagined the smell of blood.

Seventeen minutes.

"I'll see you soon."

The silence that followed was almost deafening, echoing throughout the room. Phillip cut off all communications: ripping the camera from his chest before crushing it under his heel. The sharp ring of the mic's feedback made you rip your receiver out. Nineteen minutes. You caught your reflection against the monitor's dark screen. Even with the blood tricking down your earlobe, you couldn't move.

When they brought you in for questioning, they found you doubled over the table: earpiece dangling weakly from your palm. They needed to take note of the time. They said it was protocol. Twenty Minutes. You tell them as they cuff your wrists. Not a second less, not a second later.

02| The court proceedings ended in autumn. It took months before all charges were dropped: compliance, conspiracy, tampering of evidence — just like that, 'treason' was no longer in your record. One final act of mercy they gave you before cutting you loose, knowing that it was easier to sweep their fuck up under the rug this way. You rewind the tape from your interrogations, closing the blinds shut.

" And what was your affiliation with Phillip Graves?"

Crossing your legs on the couch, you pulled the laptop closer. The audio was muffled, bleeding static: a consequence of the metal walls which surrounded the scene that unfolded.

" I worked for Shadow Company.” You replied in the footage, “ I was his quartermaster."

Your interrogators shared a look. His. Not theirs. The needle of the polygraph jerked sideways. Suspicious. Compliant. You cleared your throat, opening your mouth to rephrase.

" I worked in logistics. Mortuary Affairs, subsistences. I distribute materials and brief them on satellite-based imagines. I knew nothing about the missiles or conspiring with Shepherd."

" How could that be?" The man on the right crossed his legs, arms folded around his chest.

Ink continued to glide across the graph paper.

" Evidence showed that you were...intimate with the commander."

Feeling scrutinised, you scoffed.

" What does that have to do with anything?"

" It has to do with everything. Surely, you understand how it makes it difficult for us to believe you were completely in the dark when you and Graves were so...close. Do you deny it?"

Blinking in disbelief, you slumped against your chair. For a brief second, you felt it. All of it. The weight of his arms around your waist. His fingers down your back. You thought of the moon and how his eyes melt into silver under its light. You hear his laugh when you fail to flip the egg against the pan. The scars littered down his spine as he lays next to you. Patchouli and sandalwood crowd the bathroom as you smear your fingers with his aftershave. The gunshots as they cut through the downpour.

The graph wavered. " Do you deny it?" They repeated.

You inhaled deeply, wiping your face with your palm.

" No. I don't."

The curves on the paper thinned into a vertical line. The men scribbled into their notebooks, gesturing to the cup of coffee they had given you. You tell them it's gone cold and stale. And under the yellow lamplight, the officer on the right stared at you almost apologetically — noticing how you’ve been staring at the printed picture of Graves strewn across the table.

“ And whose fault is that?”

That night you deleted all the files on your laptop before unplugging the USB, contemplating whether to flush gigabytes worth of confidential information: videos, pictures, documents down the toilet.

You ended up leaving it above the bedside table.

03| You used to like how warm Phillip's hands were. The weight of each finger pressed against your palm will usually shut you up from complaining about the cold. You've memorized every inch of his skin, the roughness and weight, too familiar to miss. Which is why you didn't need to raise your head to know it was him standing behind you: hand across your mouth.

" It's been a while."

He maneuvered you against the hallway, slamming you with his arm across your waist. When you struggled, he only tightened his grip, lips ghosting against the junction of your jaw and neck. Shhh, he cooed, and you obeyed.

You hated yourself for complying. Noticing this, he let out a small chuckle — lowering the palm across your face down your chin to tilt your head upward, ignoring the small thud your skull made with the hard surface.

" Did you miss me?"

You searched his eyes: cobalt blue, ocean-strong. They shined under the half-light pouring through the window.

Recoiling at his voice, your words were barely above a whisper, " How could you? You fucking snake."

He skimmed your cheek with his thumb. Once. Twice — Smiling at you as if you were having a regular conversation.

" We all need to shed our skin, baby. It's part of the food chain."

There's something intimate in the way he poisons you: even with his hand around your throat, fingers slowly constricting, you can't seem to fight him. A serpent trying to subdue its victims, Phillip dragged his thumb lazily across the column of your neck to check your pulse — eyes flickering to the rise and fall of your chest. He was ready to devour you, sneering because he knew you'd let him.

" You used me, Phillip. And you want to justify that by calling me weak? " You gave him a rough push, struggling against his grip. " I trusted you." "And whose fault was that?" Your breath hitched, heart heavy against the pit of your stomach. “ So was it all a lie then ?” His expression faltered. “ Not all of it.” “ Bullshit,” You spat, “ If you really did care then why didn’t you take me with you ? And what are you doing in my house ? What do you want ?” He laughed, teeth bared and head thrown back as if you’d just tell him a funny joke, before taking your mouth in a hard, biting kiss.

You startled, hands automatically flying to grip his tactical vest to kiss him back. Ashamed at how the response was almost automatic, you tried to break away.

“ I left you?” He fumed, “You think I abandoned you ?”

Phillip pulled you against his chest, breath ghosting against your lashes, “ Last time I checked, you were the one who got too fucking comfortable with one-four-one. Weren’t you the one who wanted to transfer units ?”

You reeled at his aggressiveness, letting his tongue push into your mouth : hands tight around your body. “ That letter to HQ was supposed to be confidential.” You reasoned, pulling away for air, “ And I wanted us, you and me, to transfer. Shepherd’s using you ! He’s going to sink your company and you’re going down with it !” He slammed a fist against the wall right above your head, the loud noise rolling down the empty space. Phillip growled, leaning down for your mouth. His hand hoisted your face up, teeth tugging at your bottom lip : forceful, all-consuming. “ You’re a hypocrite, you know that? Spewing all this righteous horseshit when your hands are just as red as mine.” “ What do you want, Phillip?” You sobbed, eyes screwed shut to stop the tears squeezing their way out. Your cry was silent, almost soundless.

He loosened his hold, boots squeaking against the floor as he took a few steps back. You could have used this opportunity to make a run for it. To escape, to leave. Phillip was giving you a choice. Always, he gives you a chance to leave. But you never do. Instead, you submit yourself to this want, this need.

His hands were warm and familiar, running down your body, scooping you up, carrying you toward the bedroom.

His hands set you on fire, and you'd let him burn you.

04| The heat was blanketing your back, licking up your spine, sucking on your earlobe. His cock, driving in and out of you. Phillip pulled your hips up a little higher, and the change in angle dialed it up even more. White spots flaring in your vision —

“ It’s too much,” You sighed, and it sounded suspiciously like a sob, muffled by the pillow underneath.

Your knees were trembling, struggling to support you. And you would have collapsed if he didn’t hoist you up against his hips. His pace was ruthless, hungry.

And when your arms buckled as you relinquished control, boneless and submerged under the shudder of lightning-hot fire sweeping through you, body strung tight and just on the edge, Phillip suddenly stilled.

You tightened around him, begging him to move.

“ Please,” You whined, “ Phillip, please.” You can sense him watching you claw the blankets underneath, the cold surface of the fabric relieving you of your fever. You tried to wiggle yourself against him, but he had a vice grip on your hips to restrain you. The stillness was almost as painful as the lack of friction.

Without warning, he turned and lifted you to sit astride him, hands holding you against his chest to guide you down onto his cock. You nearly screamed as he set up a new rhythm, fucking you deep, making you take all of him. You clenched around him each time he pulled you up to drop you back down, feeling so full. Past your lips was a high, helpless noise as liquid, molten heat spread inside you, shaking every muscle. When you tried to hide it by biting into his shoulder, Phillip roughly pried you away: hands gripping your chin to look at him in the eyes.

“Look at me,” He commanded, anchoring you.

Your nails left trails of red, crescent moon against his back, orgasm within reach again. You were whispering into his neck, babbling nonsense as everything goes tense and bright — and suddenly you were hit with the feel of your breast against his ribs, the cologne you got him for his birthday mingling with the smell of sweat and sex, his heartbeat racing against yours.

Phillip groaned, voice husky and low as he cursed, hips stuttering to come inside you with desperate, shuddering pulses.

And when you tip to the side and he guides you under the blankets, hands slack around your waist, you asked him again if it was all a lie. You were being lulled to sleep by the exhaustion when you feel a weight against your mouth, a phantom kiss, ghosting against your lips.

05 | Maybe you dreamt it. Maybe you didn’t.

But the next morning, the space beside you was empty. Left with nothing but the imprint of his body against the sheets, your arms and legs ached in protest, as a slow, dull ache took root inside your chest.

The USB by the table side was nowhere to be found.

a/n : first fic after two days, and first fic of 2023 ! What a way to start the year : angsty, angry sex with phillip graves 🤭 i made him so toxic here but dw i know deep down he’s not always like this ( maybe i’m the silly little reader with the ‘ i can fix him’ mindset ) i hope you all enjoy this ! <3

for graves fuckers : @cowboybxtch , @nfr89s , @kenobisjedi & more ! 🥴🥂

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