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ddarker-dreams · 1 month

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In Life, In Death.

Enver Gortash x F Reader.

Warnings: Unhealthy relationships, obsessive behavior, imbalanced power dynamics, manipulation and brief mentions of blood. Word count: 2k.

Control.

In all its variations, this word is what you associate most with the tyrant hiding in plain sight — Lord Enver Gortash.

If it’s an art form, then he’s a virtuoso. The invisible score he weaves needn’t hypnotize the listener, no, they are drawn in willingly. Lured by innocuous and diabolical plans, shackled into place by unchecked ambition. Though they may feel unique in their role, to him, they’re little notes that shall fall silent once the page is turned.

The full vision behind the overture is unknown to even you. From the snippets you’ve overheard, it leaves a sinister impression. Discordant harmonies promise a dark future.

You thought you’d find satisfaction in stilling his tongue. You dreamt of the day, yearned for it, like a bride one night away from walking down the aisle. From your current vantage point, you should be seconds away from fully realizing this goal. The control he exudes over himself and others can’t be infallible. Nothing is.

If the gods can bleed, then so can he.

If the gods can die, then so can he.

If your fellow man can kill, then so can you.

“One thing’s for certain, dearest,” he comments, his tongue unfettered as ever, “Our evenings together are never dull.”

Contrary to your wishes, it’s you who is rendered speechless.

You are hovering above him, the long skirt of the nicest dress you own rising to accommodate the uncomfortable position. Beneath you lies a man whose dark eyes inspire more trepidation across your features than what’s reflected in his own. A perfect politician’s smile accentuates the bags beneath them. The brief struggle — if it can even be described as such — has left his hair more tousled than usual. It’s splayed out against the wooden floorboards of his study.

When he speaks, his Adam’s apple rises dangerously close to the blade kissing his skin. This is made riskier by how shaky the implement is in your hands.

“Breathe, darling,” he instructs, stoking your frustration. Only he would have the audacity to make commands of the person holding him at knifepoint. “You’re seconds shy from passing out in a nervous fit. That would be counterproductive to your designs, I take it?”

Your nostrils flare. “You want to enter the afterlife making insufferable quips?”

He considers you for a long moment.

“The delay’s left me with little else to do.”

“‘Delay,’” you scoff. Your grip around the hilt tightens. “A self-important egoist to the end.”

“You’ve made up your mind, then?”

“Long ago.”

“Hm,” he hums, the low sound resonating in his chest. “I wonder about that. Fantasizing over my death in your head is a far cry from enacting it out yourself.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. You want to dismiss this as a petty taunt, but you both know that isn’t the case. It’s why his tone lacks condescension — he’s pointing out a fact. Everything is hitting you simultaneously like you’re being doused in an icy pale of water. The soft smile on his face, the steady rise and fall of his chest, how level-minded he remains despite what should be a looming threat.

Then there’s you.

Sweat beading down your temples, your breathing erratic and your stomach twisting into knots. You’re acutely aware that outside the heavy mahogany doors stands a legion of Banite fanatics. Some disguised as Flaming Fists, the others choosing not to bother. At Gortash’s command, they’d have no difficulty subduing you. The agonies that’d await afterward… you shake your head, willing the thought from your mind.

Your eyes flicker to the two golden chalices sitting atop his desk. Wanting to build up courage, you downed most of yours, whereas he nursed his. In retrospect, your uncharacteristic indulgence should’ve warned him that something was off. He, playing the kindly host, always offered a vintage bottle during your tête-à-têtes. You rarely took him up on the offer. Alcohol dulls the senses, which you need to keep razor-sharp in his presence.

“... You saw this coming, didn’t you?”

Gortash exhales sharply, his eyes gleaming with entertainment. “I expected some form of retaliation. I am the reason your less clever co-conspirators are idling away in the dungeons instead of scurrying about.”

This makes you bristle.

“They’re my friends, not ‘co-conspirators,’” you hiss, leaning down to glare at him closer. “And they’ve done nothing to earn such a… a… ridiculous sentence! Libel? Treason? Sedition, of all things? What’s next? Blasphemy?”

“It could be arranged.”

“Bastard,” you growl.

“It’s a jest, dear, a simple jest,” he takes a deep breath when you apply pressure to his solar plexus. His eyebrows pinch together from the pain and he coughs. He strains to speak again, though his cadence is unsettlingly calm. “My girl, there’s a great deal in this world you’re ignorant to. Ironic though it may sound now, there was dissatisfaction over your pacifism. Dissatisfaction that almost gave way to drastic measures.”

Gortash takes your silence as reason to continue. “The Dark Lord and I are in agreement upon your value. The same cannot be said regarding your… compatriots. They lack your finesse — your practicality. Their single-minded pursuit of ‘justice’ had them poking their nose where it doesn’t belong. I can’t abide by such behavior.”

You grit your teeth. “Then you should’ve come to me, so I could resolve the problem.”

His response is immediate, requiring no forethought.

“You’re soft-hearted. Charitable where you should be strict. Why else would they feel emboldened enough to act against your wishes?”

“I…!”

He speaks your name, effectively silencing you.

“Answer me this,” his eyes bely a certain intensity that has you swallowing thickly. “How would you see this city become the shining utopia you long so desperately for it to be? Free of poverty, corruption, and injustice?”

“That’s never the standard I’ve aspired for,” you reply. “If it was, I never would’ve swallowed my pride and worked alongside you. Progress comes in increments. The ills that plague Baldur’s Gate aren’t chronic, the proper alms can lessen the symptoms. Righting the city’s massive wealth disparity is where I’d start.”

He smiles at you, his eyes creasing with fondness. “My dear, the rich would sooner surrender their souls than their wealth. It’s intrinsic. When faced with outside pressure, they will exert their own, and it will hurt.”

“I’m aware of the risks.”

“Are you, though?” He challenges. His voice grates your ears like a drunkard’s warbling. “Your resolve is commendable — I’ll give you that. I have no doubt you’re every ounce of the bleeding heart you present yourself to be. And therein lies the issue. You can’t quell dissent with a slap on the wrist. The bones are better broken, so the hand can never rise against you again.”

You roll your eyes. “Spoken like a true tyrant.”

“Is tyranny so terrible?” Gortash cranes his neck upward, forcing you to move your weapon back, lest it break skin. “When I assume the role of Archduke, I won’t inflict suffering for suffering’s sake. The common folk, when left to their own devices, scramble about like livestock; beholden to superfluous pursuits and preyed on with ease. A little order would serve them well.”

This song and dance rings familiar.

In undermining his political aspirations, you found your paths crossing more than you would’ve preferred. It’s these ‘coincidental’ meetings that bore what he labels an alliance. You call it a temporary truce. Funds found themselves in the coffers of almshouses, orphanages, and other charitable programs in exchange for your cooperation. Cooperation being loosely defined as a more subtle subterfuge.

You wet your lips. When did your mouth go so dry?

“... Truthfully, I’ve never understood why you let a thorn such as myself remain in your side. These aims of yours would’ve been achieved easier with my death.”

Outside, a bell tolls, revealing the time to be six in the evening. The window pane behind his desk barely muffles the sound of city life. There’s the clank of metal meeting metal and the thumps of arrows finding their targets as the Flaming Fist train. Children can be heard advertising the latest installment of Baldur's Mouth Gazette. A fellow bard strums his lyre and recounts daring tales from Avernus.

It’s for these folk that you’ve toiled endlessly. You’ve always held the belief that one can rise beyond the circumstances of their birth, so long as they have the resources available to them. It’s a matter of where they get those resources. Amidst the Mistress of the Revels’ enclave, like you, from the Nine Fingers, or worse, among The Dead Three. The options are infinite yet few are good.

“The answer’s identical to the doubt plaguing you know — ‘what if I’m offing the lesser evil?’”

Swifter than you can comprehend, his gauntleted hand seizes your wrist. Before a spell can leave your lips, he brings the blade closer, allowing it to nick his skin. Your eyes widen as droplets of crimson gather and trickle down his neck. The setting sun’s rays reflect against the silver weapon, nearly blinding you. When your eyes readjust, you find something about his expression different. Heavier.

“I’ve seen to it that in the event of my death, no harm would befall you,” he speaks without wincing, despite the blade’s tip penetrating his skin. “My estate, research, and Steel Watch; they’d be yours. Whatever painfully altruistic means you put them to are at your discretion.”

It feels like the air’s been forcefully squeezed from your body. “A bold lie.”

“In my desk’s bottom-most right drawer, you’ll find a copy of my will proving the opposite.”

“To what end?” The question comes out breathless. “You’d throw away your life’s work to— to prove a point?”

He chuckles darkly. “My girl, your ignorance is as endearing as it is perplexing. You can’t see it? The fascination I hold for you that’d drive me to such extremes? My blatant favoritism?”

Gortash’s grip around your wrist tightens.

“A death by these untarnished hands… I’d claim what remains of your innocence for myself. A prize worth the price of admission into the afterlife.”

Your head aches, throbbing like your brain itself is being squeezed. You break out into a cold sweat. Favoritism? Is that what this is? Can such debauchery align with the word? It’s painfully obvious now; the amusement your indecision provides him. That, along with someone else. Something foreign. A sweet concept that most spend entire lifetimes chasing, twisted into an omen.

He says your name with enough reverence to stir envy among the divine.

“What shall it be, darling? My ironclad rule or your fleeting paradise?”

“...”

Your hand falls limp.

You wordlessly move to accommodate as he props himself up. Gortash cleans the blood off your knife with a handkerchief. Next, his ornamented fingers find the hair loosened from your updo during the struggle, tucking the stray pieces behind your ear. The interaction feels like it lasts a lifetime. Warily, you eye the weapon in his non-dominant hand. There’s still a chance that this is a ploy, meant to humiliate you in a final violent act.

As if sensing your thoughts, he raises an eyebrow. “Out of consideration for our partnership, I’ve never done you any harm, have I?”

“Physical harm is but a single category,” you murmur, the words notably sluggish.

“True enough,” is his blasé response. He holds his palm open, as if expecting you to relinquish something. When you remain still, he sternly utters your name. “Give me your hand.”

You obey his command.

The gold metal forming his claw-like gauntlet is cold against your skin. He closely scrutinizes your hand, manipulating it so he catches every angle. This dedication reminds you of when he’s tinkering with a new invention. The mental notes he takes, how he maps out dimensions and improvements for future iterations. It could be paranoia, but you swear he studies your ring finger with special interest.

Slowly, while looking you straight in the eye, he presses an open-mouthed kiss against the bruise forming on your wrist.

“Now that that’s settled… was there anything else on your agenda for the evening?”

#enver gortash x reader #gortash x reader #bg3 x reader #yandere x reader #baldur's gate 3 x reader #we out here. Thirsting for this fella #i'm such a sucker for these dynamics if you couldn't tell #my stuff

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synamartia · 3 months

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I promise I haven't forgotten about this! Things have been a bit hectic in my personal life, and it feels like the hits just keep coming. But as a sign of good faith, I'll leave you all with another little snippet! Hopefully, it'll be the last one before I release the full story. On another note, as much as I LOVE the title Smutmus, I don't think that it's a fitting title anymore with the direction the story is taking - it's becoming a fully fledged fic with plot (which is one of the biggest reasons it's release has been delayed). So I will be renaming it in the future; just not sure what, yet. If you have any ideas, I would love to hear them! 🥰

Content Warnings: Again, none really. Afab!Reader ; No pronouns used ; Suggestive situations ; Nudity ; More light banter. If there's a warning anyone feels should be listed, please let me know!

Divider © cafekitsune

“Alastor, is that a tail?” you blurted out without thinking, immediately slapping both of your hands over your mouth right after. “Oh- that,” he said nonchalantly, moving to stand between your legs once more. Your body tensed as you awaited his reaction, so sure that you had just earned yourself a good scolding for such an impolite question. You hadn’t meant to be so bold or outright, but you’ve come to find that your body and your brain hadn’t been on the same page since the moment all of this began. “Yes, it’s a tail,” Alastor responded and turned slightly, swishing the puff of fur side to side a couple of times to amuse you before turning back. “I’m sorry, that was rude- …!?” you tried to apologize, but a surprised squeal interrupted your speech when his sharpened claws sunk into your posterior and he hoisted you up off the desk, your legs wrapping around his waist in the process.

“It’s alright, darling,” Alastor reassured you, spinning around and taking a few long strides to the rarely used bed. “While I’m not particularly fond of it, my tail isn’t something that I’ve ever gone out of my way to hide,” he explained, dropping you onto the mattress and climbing on top of you soon after, nestling himself in between your legs as you breathed a sigh of relief - albeit a short-lived one. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, causing your body to tense right back up with each word that left his mouth. “Although, you are correct - it was rude to ask such a thing,” he clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, his pointed teeth nipping at the shell of your ear then tugging on the lobe. “Perhaps I should give you a lesson in proper etiquette, hm?” Alastor mused, rolling his bare hips against yours and sending a shiver down your spine, not missing the flash of panic in your eyes when his words finally registered in your brain.

‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit- fucking hell, fuck my life!’ you thought, trying to reel yourself back in and failing miserably. If this ‘lesson’ of his was anything like the punishment he had doled out earlier, you knew you were in for a rough night - one that would leave you physically incapable of walking out of his room come morning. “No- …! Al, no, no… i-it was just a slip of the tongue, I swear!” your pleas fell on deaf ears, his lips ghosting over the carotid artery in your neck, then over your collar bone and traveling further down to your breasts. “I’m sorry, please- …!” you spoke, only to be interrupted by Alastor’s stern gaze, looking up at you while he placed butterfly kisses to your chest and his teeth grazed your erect nipple. “I know you are, dear,” Alastor started, kissing further down to your navel, not breaking eye contact for even a millisecond. “But if ‘sorry’ fixed everything, there would be no hell, no demons, and we certainly would not be in this hotel,” he smiled wickedly, knowing that you couldn’t argue with the point he had just made - your silence proved as much.

Alastor continued to move south, soon reaching the delicious mound between your thighs which he had not known could be so fun, so intoxicating. But, as much as he wanted to devour you and everything you had to offer him, he was on a self-imposed mission now and couldn’t let himself get distracted. Heated breath fanning over your soaked core, Alastor lightly kissed and nipped at the insides of your thighs, past your knees and down your calves - stopping momentarily for a taste of your blood that was still seeping from your self-inflicted wound. He groaned as his tongue was coated in the coppery flavor of his new favorite thing, one hand wrapping around your ankle, his deft digits unclasping the strap of your heel and pulling it off, repeating the process with the other one and discarding both seconds later.

Sighing softly, you wiggled your freed toes while Alastor began to kiss his way back up to your face. “W-well then… what would this lesson entail?” you asked nervously, resigning yourself over to your fate. Alastor chuckled darkly at your question, not bothering to answer you as he pressed his lips against yours harshly and pinched one of your pert nipples. “Mmph-phh!” you whined, your body flinching at the pain his digits were causing as he twisted the sensitive flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Alastor pulled back, his teeth dragging your bottom lip with him as far as it would go, releasing it and your nipple a few seconds later.

"On your knees."

#hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #smutmus #alastor #alastor smut #alastor x reader smut #hazbin hotel alastor #synamartia

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cuubism · 3 months

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this cursed eternal WIP is about to hit 30k words still incomplete so here, WIP Wednesday snippet, I guess?

He’d just gotten on a clean pair of jeans and was reaching for a shirt when the door clicked open. Dream stepped in, so quiet he was less person and more shadow. Gone were his long coat, and his boots. His black skinny jeans and long sleeve shirt were functionally identical to what he’d been wearing before, but Hob had a feeling the actual blood-soaked ones from before had been destroyed—if they’d ever existed outside of dreams in the first place.

He stepped quietly, barefoot, over to Hob, and Hob looked up and down at this change in attire. “Planning to stay awhile, love?” he asked, a weak attempt at levity.

Dream stopped before him. His eyes were deep and very dark. “You are shaking.”

Hob chuckled self-consciously, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, turns out that sort-of-almost-dying is a bit of a shock to the system. It’ll pass, though.”

“It will pass,” Dream echoed, expression unreadable.

“Has before,” Hob said, tension prickling up his spine at the utter stillness of him now. And not the relaxed stillness that Hob had become accustomed to when they sat and drank together. No, this was the stillness of water about to overflow. Surface tension.

“Before,” Dream repeated, again.

Hob smiled weakly at him. “Promise.”

Dream’s night sky gaze flickered over his face. His shoulders were even narrower without his coat, and the lack of structured fabric made him look softer, human, normal.

But Hob’s friend, his love, his stranger had never felt less normal. He moved in like the approach of nighttime, hovering clouds and darkness and rain, a blanket pulled over one’s head that might cocoon or suffocate.

Hob would have accepted either.

Dream caught him by the jaw with fingers soft as lamplight, murmured, “Promise,” and kissed him.

It was a biting, hungry kiss, what Hob thought being eaten by the summer dusk might feel like. It was a darkness that pulled him down into southern seawater echoing with the warmth of the noontime sun; that pressed him into ticklish warm grass, a lover’s body over his as the sunset swept below the horizon; that took him by the hand and tugged him from the yellow light of the kitchen and out into hot August woods singing with insect voices and howling night creatures. All the comfort and thrill of nighttime in his mouth.

Dream’s voice thrummed through Hob’s chest and his own heart beat an answering note. He found Dream’s ribcage—so bony, still—and held him fast. Unbreakable bones and fragile heart under Hob’s hands. Dream’s mouth was hot against his and possessive but also tender, tenderer than Hob would have expected. There was blood still in Hob’s mouth, and Dream kissed him anyway.

Nothing about it felt surprising. In an echo, Hob found himself in a tavern in 1389, looking up at a beautiful, tragic, dangerous creature, something like premonition flashing through him. Dreams could be precognitive, and so when their lips met it did not feel new, but rather like the long-awaited fulfillment of an ancient prophecy.

Then Dream slipped away, ducking to press his cheek to Hob’s and then pulling back entirely to look at him. His hands slid to encircle Hob’s neck, thumbs falling to the still-healing scar where the Corinthian had carved him open. He had a dab of Hob’s blood on his lower lip. Hob didn’t wipe it away.

“Dream,” he whispered, broken open.

“It is… unconscionable to me,” Dream started, voice low but still with that resonant quality, “that a creation of mine would harm you in this way. I am sorry, Hob.”

“Dream, come here,” Hob begged, and hauled him back in.

He staggered under the force with which Dream came to him. It was like he’d been waiting for permission to collapse. Hob swept his arms up and around his back as Dream kissed and bit at the corner of his mouth, holding Hob close by his neck, his jaw, the back of his head, a flood of feeling that Hob knew had been in him, had caught balancing in his eyes, along his eyelashes, but never truly seen. The cup running over.

Hob let it run, let it spill through his hands. His hands, which were held out to catch him, as soon as he was ready.

They kissed and kissed, blood and nighttime and the spark of violent life that always rushed through Hob’s body after he’d died and come back. It jumped like static from his lips to Dream’s, and a rush of color and feeling jolted from Dream’s hands into Hob’s body. Fear-joy-red-flowers-ice-smoke-laughter-crying— psychedelic swirls of everything imaginable. Were those all of the dreams? Were those in him all the time?

Dream released him when it became clear that Hob, at least, had to breathe. He took Hob’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing his knuckles, his palm, the pulse shuddering in his wrist, mouthing at the skin. Hob tucked his face into his hair and failed to catch his breath.

Finally, Dream looked up at him, lips brushing Hob’s fingers. It could have been supplication, his dream king bowing before him, but that was not the look in Dream’s eyes—it was worshipful, but in the way a god worships a flower that’s bloomed from his hand. Hob couldn’t even manage to swallow.

He cradled Dream’s jaw in that same hand, running his thumb over his lower lip. “There is… so much in you,” he murmured, a heaviness in his throat. He wasn’t talking about all of the dreams. He was awestruck at the display of feeling, feeling that was whispered in the tilt of his lips and the gleam of his eyes but that may as well have been shouted for how Hob was able to hear it. “You don’t have to show me any louder, love, not if you don’t want to. I can see it. I see it.”

Dream’s hand wrapped around Hob’s wrist like he meant to hold him there. His tongue dabbed at Hob’s thumb as he spoke. “I would have you know—” God his voice was so deep now, echoing in Hob’s bedroom for all that the curtains and rugs and soft bedding should have swallowed it “—what you have become to me. I would have you know how you consume me.”

Hob had long been consumed by Dream in return so hearing this was revelatory, like breaking the surface of the water after drowning. Like collapsing in a seat across from his stranger in a 17th century tavern, and eating for the first time after starving. He’d thought he was okay, that he could be satisfied with his love being one-sided, loving Dream how he needed, so slowly, so carefully. How he was wrong.

He would have to be careful, very careful, to hold this passion gently.

Hob kissed his cheek, then his temple, the curve of his ear, the juncture of his neck and shoulder. There had been so much held between them, unspoken, for so long, that it was easy to slip into the nonverbal. To treasure him without having to speak it.

“Dream…” he breathed, just that, Dream, and Dream came back to him, pressed his lips again to Hob’s. Kissed him like he needed it to live as Hob held his face between his hands, held him close, so close. He let Dream’s kiss calm the shivering after-effects of dying. Dream may have been full of all terrible nightmares and dramatic tales but Hob found peace in him too, the peace of easy sleep.

When Dream finally pulled away, his lips were tinted red from the strength of the kiss, his eyes shadowed under his lashes. God, he was so beautiful. Hob had thought so, from the first moment he saw him, only it had taken him some time to realize exactly how he thought it. Beautiful, like the moonlight, and like an artist, and like a work of art; beautiful like a wild fey thing he wanted to catch in his bed, wanted to lay out in all his long limbs and fine lines and worship.

“An appealing daydream,” murmured Dream, and Hob started.

“You can—?”

Dream’s brow quirked in amusement. “I can indeed view strong daydreams. Particularly when you are… open to me.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Hob said, heart ticking up a notch. What a concept that was, for another time.

Dream left the matter there for now. Instead he twined his fingers through Hob’s hair, catching on dried blood. “You are bloodied.”

“Yeah,” Hob agreed. His cursory scrub with the towel hadn’t done much. The taste of his own arterial blood was still in the back of his throat.

He meant to say more, let the whole thing slide with a joke, maybe—but Dream’s look on him was so serious and solemn that the words went still.

“Come,” Dream said, and led him out into the hall and towards the washroom.

#the way i wrote most of this in october 2022 kill me #i'm determined to finish this damn thing soon #dreamling #my writing #they had 25k slow burn and then they had sex 1 day after this lmao #this is Michelangelo's Hands

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granddaughterogg · 8 months

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You Let Me Complicate You - Part 1

This is a love story about Simon "Ghost" Riley and you, starting with a random hookup and later navigating your increasingly complex feelings and desires towards each other.

~~Reblogs are always Greatly Appreciated!~~

PART 2 HERE

SUMMARY: You're all alone in London because of Reasons. On a particularly dreadful, windy, rainy Halloween evening you venture outside for a quick pint - but find Simon "Ghost" Riley instead. He's a consummate fuckboy who uses fleeting trysts to blow off steam collected at his deadly job, and you're a cynical, world weary girl who nonetheless very much enjoys no-string-attached sex. None of you are prepared for the horror of Actually Falling In Love. Also - the mask stays on for ridiculously long. What, oh what will become of this fateful encounter?

Chapter 1: SKULLFACE

As with many other adventures in your life - this one started only because you wouldn’t quench your curiosity.

It was an insatiable force, one that has driven you into a lot of shit over the years. On the other hand, you could call your life path - that collection of irregular zigs and zags off the beaten trajectory - anything but dull. And you owed it to that ever-present itch at the back of your head.

Let’s go back to the very start, shall we?

The start was unpromising. For one, it was Halloween evening, but you were on your own and it was pissing it down outside.

You sat in a tiny squalid apartment, its walls painted a nauseating shade of green and stared at the darkness behind your windows. Cold water splashed against the glass. Technically speaking, those windows weren’t yours. Nothing here was. You’ve just Airbnb’ed this hovel for a few weeks. The thing is, you’ve been awaiting news about a job.

They haven’t contacted you yet. You’ve been paying through the nose for this musty abode, bristling at the prices of groceries – at the prices of anything, really. London’s famous charms were lost on you. You hated this city. To you, it felt as if someone had squashed a dozen smaller towns into an amorphous heap. You didn’t know a single soul in those streets and you weren’t sure if you wanted to change that.

But how long can a lonely girl sit on her ass, browse youtube and marinate herself in misery?

And it was All Hallow’s Eve after all.

You always loved Halloween.

The weather discouraged kids from trick-and-treating. Yet you could still hear multiple footsteps going every which way on the wet pavement below, snippets of conversations and muffled laughter. Londoners decided to enjoy themselves tonight, weather be damned.

You paused the video (it was about a groomer, tending to a particularly matted, hissy cat). You stood up with a sigh, slammed your laptop shut and went to the suitcase lying in the corner.

It’s been a week here and apart from your sensible job interview clothes, (which have been hanging on the door, properly steamed) you still haven’t found it in yourself to unpack.

Never mind that now. You unceremoniously threw the suitcase’s contents on the wooden floor and fished one particular object out of the pile; a little velvet dress, as black as the night.

You stood in front of the dusty mirror and pulled the garment on. It was one of those strappy numbers which start late but end pretty early. Hugged all your curves, not leaving much to the imagination. Your dear mother would’ve described this dress as „slutty”.

Just the way you liked it.

You’ve learned before that excessive preparations only dull your enthusiasm for the unknown. So you’ve slid your feet inside your trusted combat boots, smudged some black eyeliner here and there, put your hair up in a French twist with a simple metal pin, and threw on a jacket - and you were good to go.

Wherever those streets would take you.

***

It turned out that the streets wouldn’t take you far. Because it was raining fucking hard.

It's one thing to merely observe the skies opening, and another to withstand their fury. You were trudging the pavement under your flimsy foldable umbrella, almost bent in half because of the gusty wind. You walked turned to the side, trying to avoid getting ballistic rainwater in your eyes, one half of your face damp and cold already. The light jacket offered little protection; soon you were soaked to the bone, and furious.

Screw it, you thought. I’m just gonna get inside any old place, have a pint and then go home.

You turned the corner and came upon a narrow crooked staircase leading below the street level, as was usually the case with pubs in this area. Some people were just leaving the premises, laughing and talking as they went. You caught a glimpse of bluish light, pouring from the inside along with some muffled bass beats.

Good enough.

You descended down the staircase; concrete steps crumbled under your tractor soles, threatening to throw you off balance. You passed by some folks on your way, squeezing yourself past them on a narrow path cutting through an overgrown courtyard. You pulled the handle of a heavy iron door. It was covered in graffiti and layers upon layers of old stickers.

You stepped inside.

Your first thought was: This is not a pub.

You weren’t a local – hell, you weren’t even British – but after some time spent in this country, you’ve more or less become acquainted with the trappings of this cornerstone of any local community, what with its cosy nooks, mandatory fireplace and dark polished woodwork. Those kinds of places you knew. The beer wasn’t half bad, the tunes were usually tolerable and bartenders had this well-practiced cordiality to them. You liked the atmosphere of an English pub.

This, however, was different. Like, much noisier.

Your ears got filled with the metallic beats of dark industrial music. You couldn’t name the song that was playing. Deep inside there was a small dancefloor, where bodies swayed along with the slow, reverberating rhythm.

This place was so dimly lit, that you had to squint just to adjust. The walls were raw concrete, with exposed brass piping running up and down in complicated patterns. It reminded you of a bunker. All the furniture seemed to be worn down and mismatched as if someone scavenged it from various vacant buildings. The bar counter was one giant slab of concrete too, its greyness punctuated by rows of tiny lights hanging from the iron truss under the low ceiling.

The patrons all wore black. Not just your basic, nondescript black, oh no. You looked around (as much as you could while drifting in this neon blue semi-darkness, which revealed so little) and noticed some people in gothic finery. Velvet, lace, the works. Others chose leather or elaborate corsetry.

Ah, it’s one of those places.

You got your shit together, folded the damn umbrella, shook your damp hair to get at least some of the water out of it, and beelined to the concrete bar. At this point of the evening, you’d kill for a hot beverage.

The bar area was not too crowded, thank fuck. You clambered gracelessly onto one of the free barstools and smiled at the bartender. He was completely bald, with a ginormous nose ring and a thin face, eternally crumpled into an expression of faint disgust.

"Hello! One hot tea, please", you said breathlessly.

Dude looked at you as if you’d just spat on his mother’s grave.

"Tea? You sure 'bout that?"

"Well yeah", you answered. "It’s bucketing down out there, and I got chilled to the bone..."

The bartender wasn’t moved by your plight.

"This is a club, not your Granny’s living room, see? We serve adults here..."

"Give ‘er a damn tea, Geoffrey. Don’t be a cunt."

A man’s voice rang out from your left. It was low and throaty, but also perfectly even in tone. It cut through the music and the bustle like a knife wielded by a steady hand. Your ears twitched pleasantly at this sound.

Geoffrey blinked at whoever it was that scolded him. Then he made a face and turned away to fulfil your order.

"I’m just saying, we’re trying to run a business here…" he muttered, putting the kettle on.

"I see that”, you assured. "Make that a tea and a glass of Scotch then. I could use both."

"Right." The bartender was seemingly placated by your offer.

When he put the drinks in front of you and turned towards other customers, you emptied the sugar packet inside the cup, stirred your tea for a while, finally sipped it - and sighed with delight. It all took a while. When the life-restoring elixir started to course through your veins, you stole a glance at the man who spoke earlier.

"Thanks for putting in the word for me", you said with a slight smile.

"Geoff's not a bad bloke. Just overworked."

The stranger was tall and dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. He was looking straight ahead, away from you, cradling his whisky glass in two large, strikingly pale hands.

"I can imagine, with the place being so busy on Halloween and all...Anyway, I’m feeling better by the minute."

"Drink up then, and that whisky too. You look like a half-drowned cat."

That voice was something to behold. So deep and guttural, with a thick accent that made short work of most of the consonants. As your ears helpfully suggested, it was probably Mancunian. One doesn’t simply grow such a voice. One earns it through incessant smoking and other recurring bad life decisions, no doubt. It was kinda hot.

...Wait a moment, did this perfect stranger just smack-talk you?

Your head darted upwards.

"Did you just say that I look like shit?"

Your tone was still playful - if underlined by a suggestion that you’re always ready to drop the playfulness.

The hooded man must’ve heard that undertone because he chuckled. That rumbling sound reverberated somewhere deep within you. Probably in your bones.

"Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. You're just a little worse for wear, is all."

That impassive tone of his stabbed you in the solar plexus. You've straightened up as if pulled by a string. The teaspoon fell into your tea, making a soft clatter, while you spun around on your stool to look this insolent git straight in the face.

"How do you know?" you bit out. "You weren't even looking -"

The following words got stuck in your throat.

Not only was the man hooded, but he also wore a mask. A tight black one, covering his head and the lower part of his face. A balaclava, your brain hinted helpfully. It looked like a part of the regulation equipment of the armed forces, and that's where the similarities came to an end. For the mask has been printed over – or painted, maybe? - with the image of a skull. Mainly its lower jaw. White paint glimmered in the bluish light, forming a wide, ghastly smile which grinned at you.

But even more striking were his eyes, large and protruding. Your stunned stare met two opaque irises, as dark and dense as a black hole. You weren't able to decipher their expression. That cryptic intensity of his gaze seemed to bend space-time.

His eyelids and skin around the eyes have also been blackened, but his long lashes remained pale as frost.

You stared at this vision with your mouth ajar, like a dead fish.

"What?" He asked calmly and quietly. "Do I have something on me fuckin' face?"

You were always quite outspoken, but at that moment words eluded you.

"Cool mask,” you said finally because something needed to be said. „Cool...disguise. Is it for Halloween?"

He didn't blink. It was unnerving.

"I don't do 'alloween, love."

"So you wear this thing 'cause it makes you more interesting and mysterious and shit?"

The tall man leaned towards you, his eyes creasing in a smile.

"Look at you, sweetheart. It's clearly workin'."

"That's because of that stare of yours. It could pin a person to a wall...", you murmured.

"I could pin you to a wall. Just ask nicely.”

You felt suddenly weightless. Out of breath.

"For how long?" you quipped, trying your damnedest to sound flippant.

The nerve of this fucking guy!

"For as long as you'll need me to. I'm a dedicated man.”

There was no bravado ringing in his gritty voice. Just a calm statement of fact.

You cut a look at his arms. The black cotton of the hoodie did little to conceal their immense size.

He could probably deliver on his promise.

You took a long breath, trying to regain your lost composure. It wasn't easy when this hulking freak stared you down, but you'd been in tighter spots before.

Goths, amirite, you thought. Ever the contrarians, regardless of their age. They tended to be good in the sack though.

You studied this new specimen very thoroughly - and there was plenty to stare at. The man was built like an industrial-sized fridge. Ridiculously tall even while sitting down and broad-shouldered, with a firm chest stretching the plain black cotton of his sweatshirt. Which, by the way, he wore zipped up almost to his very chin, like a layer of protective gear. Weird.

Those dim little lights over the bar made it hard for you to discern the details, but you also noticed the width of his torso and his powerful thighs, clad in simple blue denim. He was by far the plainest dressed patron of this edgelord cellar joint. Apart from the mask you didn't notice anything even remotely Gothic about his style or bearings. Although he sat motionless, cradling a glass of whisky in his long, strong fingers – he still exuded that kind of primal strength which you've learned to associate with the outdoorsy hiker type or the avid sportsman.

"Like what you're seein', love?”

You winced, a bit perplexed that he had caught you taking stock of his impressive physique. But you weren't about to let him know that.

"Yep”, you blurted out instead, staring boldly into those eyes, as dark and impenetrable as a shark's. "Do you?"

"I do, yeah."

Aaand here we go, you thought, relaxing immediately. For now, you were on a beaten path.

"You've said that I looked like -", you chuckled accusingly, leaning back on your stool. His stare was gliding all over you without any shame, probably filing the best finds away for later.

"I know what I said," he cut you off calmly, leaning closer. The height difference between you two was striking.

"Your mascara got smudged and ran off...to there."

You stilled as this complete stranger traced a pale finger across your eye socket. You drew in a deep breath as he touched your zygomatic bone, where nothing possibly could've smudged. His fingertip travelled even further, brushing over your sensitive skin and freeing a lone strand of hair from behind your ear. It was still damp from the rain.

He did it very slowly. Very gently.

You let him. As if you were hypnotized. Attempted a smile, but the corners of your mouth felt strangely numb.

"See? Now that's perfection", he stated in the same hushed, impassive tone of voice before turning back to his drink. The whisky glass disappeared in his hand.

You were silent. Your head was buzzing as if someone had set the radio inside to a non-existent channel.

The thing is, you knew perfectly well who you were dealing with. When it comes to seasoned fuckboys like Skullface here, it's all very simple; they're nothing to be afraid of. Such men are what a high wave is for the swimmer. An opportunity for a fun ride.

Back when you were a teenage girl, you liked to spend hours on end in the sea. At the time you'd like to imagine that this cool, salty, malachite green vastness was your lover. You drifted in the water, letting the wave carry you, surrendering yourself to its tender ruthlessness, allowing the element to hold you for a moment without dealing any harm, to guide you like a dance partner, and then to pass by and disappear into the distance.

It is just like dancing. As long as you know the steps, something beautiful can come out of it.

And you haven't had the chance to let loose on the dancefloor for so long.

You calmed your body by taking a few deep breaths. You couldn't calm your heart. What you could do, though - was to let your audacious spirit take the wheel.

You grabbed at your glass and emptied it in one sweep. Vile whisky did as it always would; it burned your gullet only to flare into a ball of pleasant warmth once it reached your insides. It was not a connoisseur-worthy beverage, but its aggressive sweetness suited your current mood.

You threw your head back and exhaled slowly.

He was watching, you could tell. He tilted his head slightly. Amusement emanated from behind the black mask.

"Say..." you drawled, leaning towards him with your eyes sparkling, for you felt a surge of vigour and boldness along with a freshly bloomed, alcohol-induced blush.

"Does your mum know that you being a goth is not a phase?"

Skullface snorted softly.

"I am not a goth, love."

"Then why are you in this den for kinky weirdos?" You gestured around the dark interior, including the bare walls, the blue neon light and the throbbing, metallic, dark rhythms pulsing around you.

"I like goth chicks”, he admitted. Cheeky git.

"Why?" you prodded.

"Tattoos in fun places."

"Animal”, you chided him, setting your empty glass down with a bang.

"Excuse me, sir!" you called out to the bartender. "I shall have another."

"Like you came here for some lofty purpose. Wanna discuss the works of Kierkegaard...dressed like that?” The masked man snorted, summing up your entire scantily clad person with one tilt of his chin.

You chuckled quietly, taking no offence.

"I'm surprised that you even know how to pronounce his name."

He remained silent, so you fired away again, buoyed by the alcohol in your veins:

"Weren't you supposed to add something scathing after the 'dressed like that' part? I'm still waiting for that burn to sting."

"If I did, I'd be a fuckin' hypocrite", he muttered. "Cause I very much enjoy it."

That solemn note of appreciation in his voice made you smile and nod. What an earnest freak.

The bartender came over and took away both of your empty glasses.

"What can I get you?" he asked, his gaze moving from his face to yours.

"Two glasses of bourbon, Geoffrey", the masked man said.

He noticed that you were opening your mouth and nipped those objections in the bud by raising a finger.

"Hey. Bear with me here. If you don't like it, you might drink whatever you want next. Even more of that fuckin' coal sludge you've been having."

"Excuse you, Scotch is hardly a sludge".

"That's what the bloody Scots would tell you. In much more...colourful terms, I s'ppose. I have a Scottish coworker and every time that we go drinkin', he gives me a bloody earful about the superiority (he pronounced this word rolling his r's) of the local distilleries over that Kentucky brew."

"You're friends with a highlander?" you asked. "Does he curse at you in Scots whenever he gets agitated?"

"All the fuckin' time. He's a twonk." A smile laced his words.

"You sure are passionate about your liquor choices."

You propped your chin up with your hand, smiling at him.

"If I wanted to taste a fuckin' fireplace, I'd chew on a burnt log. Bourbon is the way to go. Much sweeter."

You couldn't help but laugh at his sudden fervour.

"You don't seem like the kind of lad who pursues sweetness," you quipped, trying to look into those impossible eyes of his and not blink. So far, it was a downhill battle.

The bartender came back. Two glasses full of amber liquid landed on the counter with a dull clink. You didn't have the time to focus on them, because Skullface leaned towards you, shading you with his powerful torso and obscuring the source of the blue light. Your nostrils were suddenly filled with his pleasant manly scent, mixed with the fragrance of fresh laundry, some kind of a woody-citrusy aftershave, and a hint of something you couldn't decipher even though you knew that smell. Its memory, devoid of a name, tickled at the tip of your tongue. Fireworks?

"Sweet and rough things should go hand in hand in life. That's how you make it all bearable somehow."

"Somehow?..” you asked absentmindedly, mesmerised by his deep voice. By the promise tilting at the edge of those slowly, intently enunciated words.

"Hey, true balance is hard to find, 'cause life's a fuckin' mess. It's chaos, it's cruel. No point to it at all."

Holy mackerel, you thought. A goth girl admirer, an apparent powerhouse of a man and a homegrown nihilist in one. With eyes like two abysses and a voice like grit. This was going to be an enchanting evening.

Don't go crazy just yet, you admonished yourself. Don't let this stranger in a mask get the upper hand on you. Keep your calm so that he doesn't sweep you off your feet prematurely.

"So," you murmured, your tone casual, "What did Kierkegaard have to say, exactly?"

Dark eyes twinkled.

"Many things. Like that our whole existence is absurd. It doesn't really matter what we do, so we might as well do whatever the fuck we want. And right now, I want to do...this."

He dipped a finger into his glass of bourbon and glided it across your lower lip.

You parted your mouth without protest, giving in to the shamelessness of this gesture.

"Just taste it."

#ghost cod #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #ghost modern warfare #ghost simon riley #reader x ghost #simon ghost riley smut #ghost is a fuckboy #the mask stays on #simon riley fanfic #ghost mw2 #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x female reader

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theteasetwrites · 4 months

Text

Begin Again

Chapter 3: Éveil

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: none ❧ Word Count: 5.5k

❧ In This Chapter: You awaken in what seems to be a convent, crawling with nuns. When you find Daryl, you must come up with the next move in order to get home, but your current circumstances complicated things as your trust in the strange nuns proves thin.

❧ A/N: Hey there! Long time no see. So um I'm still doing this writing thing, believe it or not. And I'm working on this series slowly but surely. The second season of DD is supposedly coming out in September, so I have some more time to finish up season 1! Well, as much of it as I can. Anyway, enjoy this long-awaited third installment. Reader meets Isabelle... there's some tension there for sure. But who knows? Maybe they'll become friends <3

You woke with a start, your heart racing as soon as your eyes shot open. Above you, there was a thin drape of natural linen—a canopy. Underneath you, a rather firm bed.

Looking around, you tried to make sense of your surroundings, to assess your safety. No walkers, but the place was so different from the last you remembered. What stood out to you most was the crucifix, directly across the room and mounted high upon the wall. A less than welcoming motif.

At your right, a small wooden table, upon which sat a burning candle with wax beginning to drip down the iron holder. A glass of water was beckoning to you, so you sat up quickly, tearing the neatly tucked blankets off your body and reaching over to take it in your hands. The liquid soothed your sore, dry throat as you drank it greedily, letting it dribble down your chin and onto some fabric that adorned your body. You looked down—you weren’t in your own clothes, but a white woolen frock that reached your calves. You’d had an extensive collection of nighties and lingerie back at home, but this was much more… modest for your taste, with wool sleeves and a high neckline that threatened to cut off your breathing.

Without another moment’s hesitation, you raised yourself to your feet, bundled up in thick hand-knitted socks that protected them from the chill of the old wooden floor beneath you. You moved slowly, steadily, until your dizziness took over, causing you to grasp at the bedside table and shake the wobbly little structure until the glass fell to the floor, breaking into a hundred tiny shards.

But that was hardly noticeable to you as you came to, remembering everything you could before you had blacked out: the young French woman and her grandfather, the two paramilitary men, the mysterious blurred figure approaching as your eyesight faded to black… Your memory faded in and out after that, with only snippets of what must’ve happened since you passed out. You recalled what seemed to be… nuns. They were women dressed in long white gowns, their heads shrouded in hoods that framed their faces.

That wasn’t all you remembered, though. There was a faint memory of a scream echoing through your mind, a scream that you’d only heard a few times in your life, but you knew it. It was a scream of agony, which had riled you up in your stupor as the nuns had tried to restrain you last night. You recalled the panic, the fear as you heard him cry out in abject pain, the screams echoing through the walls from somewhere else, somewhere not too far away.

The memory made you move, your shaky but determined steps taking you towards the door of the room you’d been seemingly confined to, with several other unoccupied beds lining the walls. But your head was dizzied from the sudden movement as equilibrium took its time to set in. Your body careening swiftly towards the wall, you clung to the dark fabric of a curtain. The light of the window it draped over was enough to shock you into coherence, or at least some semblance of it. Pushing back the fabric, your eyes adjusted to the bright, cool light of the morning.

The window gave way to a new scene playing outside, in a courtyard. You made out old, pale bricks forming elaborate arches encircling a slightly overgrown, yet somehow cared for, garden. Tall cypress trees that seemed particularly well maintained reached up to the open air, where voices echoed between the walls of the courtyard. Speaking in French, of course, so you couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but a child’s voice chimed above the others.

As your eyes began to collaborate with your ears, you pinpointed the child in the courtyard—a boy. Or at least, you assumed to be a boy. You couldn’t make out his face, as he was wearing a… helmet. A silver knight’s helmet that must’ve compromised his vision as he stumbled around, two rusty tin cans strapped to the bottom of his feet to make him almost taller than the nuns that playfully chased him. In his hand, a small wooden sword.

Chickens scurried around as the boy wobbled on his tin cans, brandishing the sword at the veiled women chittering around him in amusement. The boy could not keep balanced, however, making a wrong step as he lunged towards the nuns, only to stumble onto the ground. A few of the nuns quickly swarmed him, doting on the boy with pitiful “aw’s” and other expressions of overbearing, smothering concern that you as a mother were not unfamiliar with.

But this scene was just a distraction, a pointless waste of time that could’ve been spent finding your other half. Pulling yourself away from the support of the wall, you pressed on towards the door. You stumbled forward, just about to reach for the doorknob when the doors were pushed open from the other side, startling you backwards momentarily.

A young nun, one you could vaguely recognize, stood in front of you, her dark brown eyes wide and her hands outstretched as if to usher you back to bed. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” she exclaimed slightly, though you could not bother to even attempt to translate with what little you had picked up from your French-to-English dictionary.

The nun came forward as you tried to side-step around her, but her hands grabbed onto your shoulders, her worried face matched up with yours. This time, she spoke in English, “You must lie down. You need rest.”

Dizzied but determined, you shook your head so hard you swore you could feel your brain bouncing off the interior of your skull. “No.”

Despite a brief struggle, you pushed past her, limping slightly as you came into a narrow hallway that opened into a bright corridor of arched windows, letting in the nearly blinding sunlight that momentarily obscured your sensitive vision.

There was no time to ask questions, and no time to wonder how on Earth you ended up in a… convent. All that concerned you now was finding Daryl, whose cries of torture and pain still echoed inside your head. God only knew what they had done to him, and you didn’t trust a nun as far as you could throw one. Though you yourself hadn’t grown up Catholic, you’d had a childhood friend who did, and her horror stories of the corrupt church she grew up in were enough to keep you mostly guarded when it came to Catholicism and its most ardent practitioners.

You could feel the nun behind you, walking quickly to keep up with your pace. At one point, she grabbed your wrist, pulling you back to look at her again. You huffed in aggravation, combined with the irritability that accompanied your worry.

“You must rest,” she said, squeezing your hand gently.

But you yanked your hand away, too frustrated to even try to say anything back. You turned around again, making your way to the first door across the hall, in the hopes it would lead you to wherever Daryl might be.

The large wooden doors creaked as you pushed them open, into a room not unlike the one you’d woken up in. Much the same, actually, except for the bathtub at the far end of the room, on which your eyes set first, because Daryl’s soaking wet head turned around and looked your way, his face relaxing in relief, yet still cautious as the nun beside him looked up at you, dropping the wet rag in her hand into the water.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Your lips tightened as your back straightened to stand up a little taller, more rigidly. The wave of relief that washed over you was soon overpowered by combined confusion and embarrassment… with just maybe a tad bit of irrational resentment of the rather attractive French nun ostensibly bathing your naked and possibly disoriented husband. You supposed you had a right to be just a little skeptical.

“You’re awake,” said the nun, smiling at you in a way you could not quite find very comforting. Her intention seemed innocent, as did that of the other nun, but perhaps you just could not get past the habit, yours and hers. “I see you’ve met Sylvie.”

She nodded towards the nun behind you. You followed her gaze. The younger, shyer nun bowed her head, remaining silent before scurrying away. One less nun to deal with, you supposed.

“My name is Isabelle,” she said. Her English seemed more confident than that of Sylvie, her accent sounding almost more English than it did French. “You must be (Y/N).” Isabelle must’ve sensed your immediate discomfort at the fact that she seemed to already know your name. She perked up to say, “Daryl was quite concerned about you, asking where you were. Of course, you were asleep.”

“And now I’m awake,” you replied softly, but with a somewhat stern tone.

In your mind, you faced a very sudden dilemma, an almost amusingly irrational conflict of thoughts. What you knew in your head and your heart to be the most sensible belief was that these nuns seemed good-natured, taking in two injured strangers and providing them shelter. Perhaps they could even somehow aid in your journey home. After all, that was what you wanted: people who could help.

But there was that doubt that contradicted all your hopeful rhetoric. That possibility that these nuns could be some sort of a clandestine cabal of cannibals or a bloodthirsty band of brutes in disguise as meek servants of God. You’d seen stranger things before, heard of stranger things, too. It had to always be considered when approaching new groups, especially in a world where the likelihood of someone killing you was higher than the likelihood of them helping you with seemingly altruistic intent.

And then, of course, was the part of you that you were embarrassed to even think about. The part of you that was purely annoyed at this Isabelle for having the audacity to bathe your husband… But you had to repress that thought, because you knew it was just a very petty, irrational, ridiculously juvenile jealousy that was skewing your first impressions of this woman.

However, you figured you’d cut yourself a little slack and allow yourself the momentary annoyance, considering you’d never once in your relationship ever been jealous of another woman. You figured this one moment of weakness wouldn’t sully your track record, especially considering just how much your skull felt as though someone had reemed into it with a battering ram.

The silence did not become less awkward, of course, only more heavy, with you practically staring down this strange nun whose balance of gentleness and seriousness seemed to challenge yours, and with Daryl sitting naked in a bathtub, probably not very comfortable.

“Well,” sighed Isabelle, picking up a few towels in her arms as she walked by you, that small smile still on her face, “I’ll go fetch you some fresh clothes.”

Your eyes followed her as she shut the doors behind her. You couldn’t help but be suspicious, after all.

With a huff, you quickly moved to the large tin tub at the center of the room, where Daryl began to lift himself out, but you wordlessly stopped him, kneeling down and gently grabbing his shoulder with enough pressure to coerce him back into the soapy water.

You eyed his skin carefully, searching for any injuries you might’ve not seen, or ones that he might’ve gotten while you were asleep. The one that drew the most attention, though, was the hand-shaped burn on his left forearm, the one that worried you so much that you were sure you’d dreamt about it in your restless sleep.

It looked different now, much more healed, despite the clear indication that it had been through more trauma—more burning. In fact, you knew the look of it.

“They cauterized it,” you said to yourself, taking the cloth the nun had left floating in the cloudy lukewarm water. You rolled up your long sleeves and took his arm, carefully washing around the wound. “I heard you screaming last night. I thought they had you in some… medieval torture device.”

He watched you intently scrubbing further up his arm, your face concentrated on the task at hand, as if you were inspecting Isabelle’s ability to properly bathe him. Afterall, you were the world’s only authority on the subject.

“Was just a hot stick,” he said, the soft gravel in his voice offering immediate relief to your somewhat frazzled state. “Said it stopped it from spreading.”

The term spreading frightened you. Did that mean the burn would’ve covered his whole body? Or that the burn soon would’ve caused Daryl to turn? Everyday you learned more about a new walker variant, you missed the days when you assumed they were all the same basic dead people with a propensity for biting things.

“Well,” you said, “I’m glad they did it.” That was about the only courtesy you would offer those nuns.

Now dabbing the cloth along his collar bone, you began to reach his neck and face, where wet strands of his long dark hair clung like sinuous clumps of tangled seaweed. Your other hand carefully pulled back each piece of hair until you could properly see his face—the scar that ran over and under his left eye, and the new cut on his forehead that still worried you.

“I wonder if they have something to put on that.”

“She did,” he said, and for a moment, you had no idea who he meant. “The, uh, nun.”

Oh, her.

“Isabelle?”

Chewing his lower lip, in the way he often did, he grumbled a low, “Mhm.”

“She… put it on?”

“Yeah. Honey garlic, or somethin’.”

Honey garlic? What a bitch.

“That was nice of her.” You swallowed hard, annoyed by how annoyed you were. She did something nice, she helped your husband. Your sudden jealousy almost terrified even you.

Of course, Daryl could sense it, that odd feeling of distaste you had for her actions. He knew you well enough to know that, when it came to taking care of him, you were the only one qualified to do so. Anyone else stepping on your toes, albeit well-intentioned, was going to get you a little bit out-of-step.

It was almost amusing, though, he had to admit. Afterall, he’d never seen you like this. It was subtle, but he noticed it, and it was clear that you were, despite all your composure, a bit jealous.

Daryl knew jealousy very well. It was a silly emotion to have in the context of your relationship, considering there was no distrust nor betrayal in any sense, but sometimes, he simply couldn’t help his attitude when a man back in Alexandria or the Commonwealth or even back at the prison got a little too comfortable around you. He’d never do anything irrational, but his thoughts would run wild, mostly born of his own insecurity.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen ya jealous before,” he said, watching you lift his arm to scrub underneath.

You almost dropped his arm as you looked at him, wide-eyed, then broke out into a small laugh, as if to hide your embarrassment. “Jealous? Jealous of what?”

He tilted his head at your act. He knew you knew exactly what he meant. “The nun givin’ me a bath.”

Somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief, you stared at him with a raised eyebrow and a twitching smile, culminating in a dismissive scoff.

“Please. I have a lot more to worry about than some… French nun. She didn’t do a very good job, anyway.”

“Yeah,” agreed Daryl, watching you scrub his chest with uninhibited enthusiasm. “She didn’t get in all the nooks and crannies like you always do.”

You scoffed. “Well, I certainly hope not.”

He huffed out a laugh under his breath, which you quickly caught.

“What?”

“You’re jealous, angel.”

Despite the blush blooming upon your cheeks, your lips straightened into a tight line. Daryl flinched slightly as you half-heartedly whipped the wet rag against his chest.

“Stop it. I’m not jealous, that’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you got nothin’ to be jealous of.”

A small smirk lifted your blushing cheeks. Only Daryl could flirt with you in a convent somewhere in France and still make you feel like a schoolgirl.

And only Daryl could flirt with such a straight face, his eyes doing most of the talking as he roamed your body, somewhere between checking you out and checking you for injuries.

But he couldn’t see much beyond the modest nightgown that covered most of your body, all the way up to your neck.

“Ain’t ever seen ya in a nightgown like that neither.”

Your eyes followed his as you looked down your chest, examining the large white cotton thing draped over your body.

“Mm, you like it?”

He straightened up in the bath, making the cloudy lukewarm water splash against the sides of the tub. Of course, he’d find you adorable even if you were dressed in a trash bag.

“Yeah. Real cute… Help me outta this thing, would ya?” He winced as he tried to lift himself out of the tub, his soaking wet arms straining hard. If you were at home, you might’ve taken the opportunity to admire his well-developed muscles, but the situation was much too unfamiliar for such a thing.

So you stood up, grabbing his forearms as he winced in pained soreness. His weight made you strain hard to help him, but soon he gained his footing and stepped out of the tub, dripping water all over the stone tile.

In a rush, you turned to grab a fresh towel, left by Isabelle, you presumed. Despite knowing he was more than capable of drying himself, perhaps a part of you wanted to make up for the attention that the nun had given him earlier, so you wrapped the towel snug around his shoulders, your hands running up and down his arms to dry them.

The room was silent for a while as you focused intently on towel-drying him. He watched in slight fascination at your diligence, his eyes never leaving your concentrated face despite your eyes never meeting his.

Cute, was indeed the word that came to his mind during this moment, a little pocket of intimacy and affection within the confusion and peril of the unfamiliar world in which you found yourselves now.

At least, he thought, you were with him, because he wasn’t quite sure he could get very far without you.

“We’re getting out of here, right?” you asked, reaching up to wrap the towel around his head and knead his hair dry as he scrunched up his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Soon as I get some clothes on.”

Indeed, the first step to getting out of here was getting Daryl dressed, lest he walk around naked in a French convent and scar a few nuns for life. You turned to look around you, until your eyes landed on a neatly folded stack of clothing, sitting on a wobbly wicker chair. As Daryl was left to dry himself, you lifted the first article—a sweater, made of charcoal colored wool. It looked just about Daryl’s size, and you always liked the rare occasions on which he wore the sweaters you picked out for him, so the outfit the nun had chosen for him was so far granted your stamp of fashion approval.

Next, a long pair of wool pants, black in color. The waist was quite wide, you reckoned. You were all too familiar with Daryl’s build—widest in the shoulders, slimmest at the waist. He’d lost some weight recently, too, on account of extensive traveling all over the east side of the States, and the fact that you weren’t able to make him cookies for the last several weeks. You were sure these pants would fall off him about as soon as he’d slip them on.

“These are way too big,” you sighed. “We’ll have to see if—”

But as soon as you lifted the pants, two more articles of clothing revealed themselves at the bottom of the neat little pile: a set of off-white cotton briefs, which amused you greatly, as Daryl’s usual underwear consisted of boxers, and a pair of… Suspenders?

A smile split your face as you held back a small chitter at the sight.

“Never mind,” you simply said, holding up the brown striped suspenders for him to see. “These will hold them up.”

He looked up at you as he dried his feet. His face was contorted in mild confusion, having never really paid much attention to such an old-fashioned accessory. “What the hell are those?”

“Suspenders. You know.”

“Pfft,” he scoffed, beginning to slide the briefs up his legs. “Yeah, think my grandpappy wore those. I’m not.”

“Why not?” you asked, a slightly disappointed pout to your lips. “You’d look cute.”

He tilted his head in lighthearted annoyance at the thought. “I’m not tryin’ to look cute.”

Of course, you knew that, and you knew that yours and Daryl’s mission was one of utmost seriousness. You couldn’t be distracted by moments of humor or amusement. However, you also knew that Daryl’s practical, survivalist nature would be more responsive to your persuasion if you took a new angle in this approach.

“Daryl,” you said, watching him pull up the pants that were, as you predicted, much too wide for his waist, even when he’d finished buttoning them. “Those pants are going to fall down. You don’t want to be constantly pulling up your pants while we’re trying to get home, do you? It would slow you down.”

As much as you found the image rather amusing, you didn’t want that either.

Without another sound, besides an aggravated huff that you knew to be his reluctant admit of defeat, he pulled on the sweater, then took the suspenders from your hands and started his attempt at putting them on himself.

He did not succeed.

“Here,” you laughed. “Let me.”

It took you a second to figure out the mechanics of the things, but within moments, you were securing the button fasteners to the corresponding holes on the inside of the waistline on his trousers. With a steady hand, your eyebrows knit together and your tongue slightly poking out between your lips in concentration, you adjusted the suspenders until they seemed to fit snug against his chest, but not too tight to cause discomfort. You flattened out any twists or kinks, then patted his shoulders in satisfaction at your tailoring.

“There.” Stepping back, you couldn’t hold back your smile. Your eyes roamed all over him, taking in his new look, courtesy of the nuns. Despite the lack of trust in them, you had to admit, they had provided you with a great source of amusement.

“Oh, cutie pie,” you teased with that old pet name you’d drunkenly bestowed upon him about ten years ago now, in a place far away from here. “You look positively adorable.”

Daryl huffed, but you saw a faint blush grace his cheeks. He could pretend all he wanted that he hated being called “adorable” or “cute” by you, but both of you knew the unspoken truth.

His eyes lingered on you for a while, and as usual, you couldn’t quite tear yourself away from them—those swirls of rain clouds tinting an otherwise blue sky, with the slight reflection of green that could be caught only at certain angles. At this point in your life, you’d recognized every minute shift in hue, and each one was like another reason to let yourself get too preoccupied with his eyes.

For his part, a bittersweet mood befell him. At once you were here with him, all he could ask for, and you were here because of him. Everything was because of him. He thought back to it now, how the choices he made this far somehow landed you oceans apart from your family. It killed him inside.

But you did not let him dwell in that state for long. You pressed your lips to his in a firm kiss, as if to forcibly derail his train of thought which you knew was entering the territory of a typical Daryl pity party.

Only a moment passed after your lips separated that the door to the washroom creaked open. It startled you back slightly, and both of you straightened with an acute alertness that came naturally after so long on the road. The nun, Isabelle, stepped towards you, with a neatly folded pile of beige-colored clothing in her arms. Upon that pile sat a pair of short lace-up boots, worn but practical.

“Here are your clothes,” she said before placing them upon a nearby chair. With each move you found yourself studying her, trying to see if there was something you could pick up on that would indicate deceit or some hidden agenda. The woman was difficult to read, however, and even Daryl couldn’t quite know what to make of her just yet.

Isabelle held a soft smile as she met your gaze for a few moments. Her eyes were clear blue and her skin was pale as a porcelain doll. Of course, being a nun, her hair was hidden, tucked neatly under the white veil atop her head. From what you knew of nuns, which wasn’t much, you understood that her veil signified her rank within the cloister. A veil of white meant the wearer was a novice, still yet to take her vows, whatever that means. Married to Christ, or something like that.

“Thank you,” you replied, your words quickly forming a new sentence: a question, of which you had many. “What happened to our clothes?” This was spoken with a tad bit of urgency, as not only had Daryl been wearing the angel-winged vest he’d prized above any other article of clothing in his possession, there was also a small assortment of polaroid photos zipped up securely in the pocket of your vest. You just hoped the nuns hadn’t disposed of your clothing, as most of it was tattered.

“All the possessions we found you with are beside the beds you awoke in,” she replied. Her voice was so… calm. Assured. Satisfied. You did not like it. Not one bit. She seemed all too pleased at your presence, as if she knew something you didn’t, but something that would ultimately benefit her. Whatever it was, you couldn’t place. “Dress yourself. I will show you both around.”

A quick exchange of looks with Daryl and the two of you were of one mind. “We’re not stayin’,” he said, much to your approval. Though you’d been eager to find people who could help you get home, you didn’t want to linger longer than needed. If you could get whatever help you needed here, you’d take it, and use it to get home. Besides, your trust was wavering. “We’re tryin’ to get back to America. Soon as possible.”

Isabelle’s face was unmoving, with that same indecipherable calmness that made you uneasy. There was more to her than she let on, and you had a feeling that Daryl could sense it, too.

“You need rest,” she said, her eyes fixated on Daryl, then moving towards you. “Both of you. A day and you’ll be back on your feet.”

Though the thought of just one more day away from home killed you a little inside, you knew she was right. You were still exhausted, and Daryl would probably want to recalibrate in terms of geography. It would be wise to take a moment to get your bearings before setting out again, but one thing was certain: you weren’t taking your eyes off the nuns.

“In the meantime,” Isabelle continued with a slight huff to her voice, “get dressed and come out when you’re ready. I’ll take you to the courtyard. You could both use a bit of fresh air.”

With a smile she exited, closing the door behind her. Still, however, you were wary. What if she was eavesdropping on the other side? You stepped closer to each other, ready to speak in whispers. Even sign language, if necessary.

“I don’t like this,” you whispered. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Daryl chewed the inside of his bottom lip in thought. Deep thought. This threw you off a bit. Shouldn’t Daryl be agreeing with you? Not that he didn’t, at least from what you could glean from his facial expressions, but there was something going on in that head of his. Some… conflict?

“Daryl?”

Another few beats of heavy silence as he rubbed his chin in thought. “Think we should try to see if they can help us.”

For a moment, you were stunned, unable to speak except for an exasperated huff. “What? Daryl, they’re nuns. Something tells me they don’t get out much.”

Another pause. “Let's just… see,” he said. “They’ve made it this long, they gotta know their way around. Hell, maybe they’ve got a radio or somethin’. There’s gotta be other communities, like back home. Maybe they know some people who can get us back. All we need’s a boat.”

It drove you nuts when he was right and you weren’t. In this case, you couldn’t even bring yourself to admit it, but you knew it. All you could do was relent, and remind him that you weren’t staying. You knew he knew that, but just to be sure.

“Tomorrow we’re out of here,” you stated plainly. “We can see if they can help us, but we’re not staying longer than that. The sooner we get back on the road, the better.”

Daryl nodded in agreement, but his eyes scanned your face curiously. Your cautiousness and reluctance to trust the nuns was stronger than his, which both surprised him and intrigued him. He was usually the one who had his defenses up. Not that he didn’t in this case, of course, but it seemed you were more so than usual.

“I don’t trust ‘em anymore than you do, but let’s be smart about this. Just ‘cause you don’t like Isabelle doesn’t—”

Surprised at his words, you scoffed. “What?”

He huffed. “You don’t like her.”

“I never said that.”

He shook his head in slight amusement.

“Daryl.” Your arms crossed in front of your chest as your lip twitched in annoyance. At the very idea of Isabelle filling your head again, or at Daryl’s assumption, you weren’t sure. “I’m not jealous. I’m a grown woman, I don’t get jealous. Maybe… she annoys me, okay?”

“Okay.” He held up his hands as if in defense. “So I’m takin’ the lead when we get out there then, right?”

As you turned to begin removing your second-hand nightgown, you let out another scoff. “Oh, really? Daryl, I’m not going to fight with her, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know, I can be unemotional if the occasion calls for it.”

Daryl knew you well enough to know that indeed, you could suspend your feelings, despite the fact that you most often wore them on your sleeve, but he also knew you were a lot like him: stubborn.

“Just trust me,” he said, his hand curling over your now bare shoulder. Its warmth was like a gentle summer breeze caressing your skin. And now you were annoyed at him for knowing how you melted under his touch. Typical. “I’m gonna get us outta here. I’m gonna get us home…”

The rest was unspoken. He could’ve said more, could’ve gone on and on about how horrible he felt, how he felt this whole thing was his responsibility because of the chain of events that had brought you here in the first place. He couldn’t bring himself to vocalize it completely, though, for fear he might break down in a moment of weakness. As much as he knew you’d never judge him for his emotions, he still felt compelled to maintain his stoicism for as long as it could hold out under the weight of frustration under the surface.

The silence between you settled in uncomfortably for a moment, until you turned to face him, your eyes glassy and your lips curled slightly on one side in a smile that seemed heavy, like it was a burden on your visage. But you tried to hold it. You tried for him.

“I know that. But you’re not alone. We’re in this together, like we always are. And if you want to take the lead for now, that’s fine with me. Just don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he said, his expression softened under your gaze. “I might need ya to step in if I do somethin’ stupid.”

“Mm, well… If that nun touches you again, I might step in either way.”

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

#begin again series #begin again #the walking dead #the walking dead: daryl dixon #daryl dixon #daryl dixon spin-off #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead: daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus fanfiction #norman reedus fanfic #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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sharkenedfangs · 3 months

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— ☆ “SPIRALLING CYCLE — I MEET YOU HERE, AGAIN.”

#. — synopsis. sleep, his initial intention, the original plan impulsively made ahead or so he had promised, but y’know, sleep can be a bitch sometimes and damn it all if he’ll ever truly receive it for real, this time.

#. — content warning! angst with some eventual comfort at the end, mentions of physical abuse here and there, substance abuse with alcohol, shit household overall, negative self-perception, a groggy whitney and a glimpse of his life through his own lens.

#. — word count? 2.5k

#. — extra extra! ashes snippets : “too embarrassing to vent about my problems, so why don’t I make blondie here, experience it instead? except all ends well with him and not with me.”

Dappled sunlight faintly seeping through the silken blinds, smoothly draped over the glassy windows to tenderly kiss at Whitney’s drooping eyelids, tiredly shut away from numerous attempts at resting. Sleep, his initial intention, the original plan impulsively made ahead or so he had promised, but y’know, sleep can be a bitch sometimes and damn it all if he’ll ever truly receive it for real, this time.

‘Course, today or specially last night, it hadn’t discreetly knocked at his awaiting door nor contentedly graced him with a visit of its own, therefore, here he is. Stupidly awake at the crack ass of dawn and consciously aware of the ticking clock signalling the approaching hour, dizzying, red lines mundanely staring back at him to readily showcase the eventual obligation he’s stubbornly set upon himself. Fuck. If he doesn’t soon get out of this shitty hellhole life has bitterly stuck him with, then the occasional pebbles clumsily thrown against his rattling bed window will be sure to stir the other bitch up.

Said bitch probably awkwardly sprawled along the used couch, rusty springs threatening to pop free underneath the stitched mattress due to the sheer pressure of their sleazy form resting atop of it. Beer bottle drunkenly discarded forth from their loose grasp, hanging limply below to paint a grimy picture he’s been greeted with time and time again. Just stinkin’ up the fuckin’ place at this point, but who’s he to make the shots on that? Bitter son of the house and he’s acutely familiar with what that position entails. Say the slightest word and he’ll be good to go explore the shadowed streets, end up at that shoddy brothel worst case scenario.

Takin’ all the damn space though, as it had been repetitively affirmed before, he should be fuckin’ near grateful he even possesses a space of his own — no matter how cramped it may well be. No matter how suffocating the bleak walls gradually narrowing in on his curled frame may be sickeningly tight around his dry throat.

Speaking of, he’s getting thirsty here and so are the impatiently growing, muffled shouts of his gang aimlessly straying along the bricked wall of his apartment, boringly kicking at chipped rocks to pass the excruciatingly long stretch of time he’s taking to get the fuck up. Fine. Dirtied blonde, messy haired boy here, s’got the message sent his way. Stifled groan easily slipping its way past his chapped lips, instinctively yearning for the nearest source of a fresh, preferably cold drink to quench his endless thirst annoyingly itching at the back of his throat. Old, dinky fridge’s gotta be somewhere here, fuck— the kitchen. Obviously, dipshit.

Becoming as dumb as the fuckers you hang out with which are the only dumbasses to mindlessly follow him along wherever he so pleases, huffing and puffing like a group of stray mutts pitifully pawing at its owners feet for some much needed attention. Well, they’re not receiving it anytime soon, far too preoccupied with searching for some fuckin’ water— shit, even beer will do, even if it sets him on the same level as that drunken piece of shit to be greedily swallowing down alcohol early in the morning.

Groggy footsteps steadily dragging him towards the stretched hallway, memory settling in thickly as per usual, his feet automatically straying away from the creaking floorboard he’s known to soundlessly creak beneath the slightest weight. Don’t wanna wake the fucker up— doesn’t have the patience nor probably the maturity to properly deal with ‘em face on, specially when the oddly warming sun has recently risen.

No, he’s not a goddamn coward, just too good of a bastard to waste his precious time he mostly spends on fooling around doin’ nothing. Anything will do as long as it isn’t spent in this stifling flat where recollection beckons him in turn and crappy guilt forcibly gnaws at the bruised flesh of his slouched back. Coward? No, he says — but, his subconsciousness subtly whispers out otherwise. Liar.

Marble set in stone, routine playing out as faithfully expected by the absentminded tugging of his sweats, idly scratching at his balls beneath the cotton material all the while reaching for whatever catches his eye in the flickering light. Stupid bulb that never got fixed is really gon’ have him punch the fuckin’ ceiling one day, knowing better than to do so, instead tentatively taking a swig of a cooling bottle of.. something. Definitely strong with how it pleasantly burns within the pit of his churning stomach, momentarily soothes the doubts away in his chattering mind. If only the intoxicatingly warm effects of alcohol were eternal— Scratch that. The blonde knows life would be shit regardless, but at least you get to be drunk while doin’ it.

Hell, if it kills him, all the more better actually. A sullying stain dreadfully misplaced upon this shit world now rightfully wiped away, like he had never existed to begin with, fuck. Everyone wins if the troubling delinquent causing problems ‘round town cleanly kicks the bucket off, randomly dies in some stinky ditch somewhere in the darker alleyways as God would’ve had fuckin’ intended anyway. If there is one, for that matter. Because at the end of the day, he’s just some boy with a troubled mind and split knuckles bloodied up from previous fights — don’t know which exactly, he’s lost count by now. And, this make-believe deity the deluded temple has carefully fabricated isn’t going to spare his ass one bit for the awful sins committed by him, or so the stuck-up nuns keep repeatedly preaching to him whenever they catch sight of dirty filth.

Walking further down the elongated hall— it’s funny, place isn’t even that damn big in comparison to the ones out on Danube Street, yet practically feels like it’s eating him out from the inside with every careful step taken. Get the fuck out, get the fuck out of here before he groggily wakes up, not that they’d possibly care for his absence or presence when it doesn’t mean two shits to ‘em if he fails school, but does he give a shit if Whitney so much as bothers ‘em in any shape or form. Intentionally or accidentally, he claims, all results in the same exact scenario. A purplish bruise painfully etched across his wobbly limbs, bound to leave a residing mark. Bloodied, fucked up nose trickling out scarlet stains for his tongue to messily swipe against later, taste the metallic residue in his mouth as reminder for his actions. Serves him right.

Having gotten the harsh lesson driven into him, body naturally adapting to seek an escape of any kind, finally pausing at the sight of the wooden door with the jiggling chain left unloosed. Fuck, didn’t even lock the damn door? Saves him the gruelling effort of having to deliberately sneak amongst the heap of dirtied laundry riddled onto the ground, notably remembering the fact he can’t go prancing around outside half-naked. When you forget one fuckin’ detail—

Sure, this is the town where you get repeatedly raped on a regular basis to the point where no local resident even bats an eye to the supposedly, morally wrong act — which they never actually take a stance against, fuck if he cares — however, last thing Whitney wants is to instantly draw attention to himself already as it is. Yeah, the urging temptation is there, shivering jolt passing throughout his spine at the mere thought, but he’s not in that particular mood. No, not right now. Blatantly ignoring the sickening sight of his bulge visibly straining against his sweats, hot, leaking tip staining the greying fabric a darker shade. Morning wood, he supposes. Or just cuz’ he’s the type of guy to get high off of received attention when intentionally done.

Great coping mechanism for that affection you’ve never received early as a child, huh? Fuckin’ shut up— Goddamnit.

No point in sleazing ‘round here any further, not with the increasingly apparent risk at hand and the selflessly given opportunity to make his escape for the day. As always, his hasty departure goes unnoticed for the entirety of the upcoming hours, weeks would be a plausible period of time too with how unimportant his mere presence is at the shit hole one would reluctantly call ‘home’. Shit, if it works in his favour, all the more better for him. Gets to roam as he so pleases all night and who’s gon’ stop him for it? Yeah, that’s right. Normalcy instilled within his mind that this is how it should be. A parent worried sick over his own rebellious child fooling along somewhere amongst the bustling streets filled with bums? Sure, like that’ll happen.

While you’re out here daydreaming over stupid shit, why don’t y’a throw some clothes on? Idiot.

What else to wear than a plain, white shirt, which he somehow isn’t directly in any possession of at the moment. Merely leaving him with the sole option to steal a flitting glance towards the limited closet shut at his side. Thing isn’t going to squeak too loud if he delicately opens it, right? Better fuckin’ not. It’s in the blonde’s inborn nature to be instinctively rough, though discretion is a useful skill he’s conveniently learned when stuck in sticky situations like these, specifically. Cautious palms placed against the hatch, soundlessly sliding the door open to give way to the few attires hidden in the confined space.

Ah, there it fuckin’ is. His scruffy leather jacket hung upon the metallic hook, sewed patches prominent around the torn edges of his sleeve from the wear and tear accumulated over the passing time. Shit quality, but it’s ultimately his alone to wear. And, fuck it if he’ll wear it with pride no matter how used it appears to the naked eye.

Swiftly slipping on the cheap garment before momentarily regarding the broken zipper loosely hanging at the hem of the leathered cloth. Thing just had to wordlessly give up on him at the crappiest of times with the seasons progressively shifting to a cooler weather, chilling breeze bound to have his bare frame subtly shivering underneath the thick material. Likewise, he’ll manage somehow. Doesn’t he always?

Maybe if it was any other day, he would’ve taken a second more to consciously scrutinize his sharp features dimly reflected in the dirtied mirror, visibly scowl back at the glassy surface displaying the very thing he hates to death— Not today, however. No, plan already dully simmering within the tight confines of his mind, action he willingly chose to take.

So scandalous in every sense of the word that stupid ol’ church boy Sydney here would’ve profusely reprimanded him of such wrongdoings, frantically swat away at the revolting notion he was fully ready to carry out. Hah, makes him unconsciously smirk to envision his shocked expression paired by the quivering squirms of his fist tightening around that annoying, red pen. ‘S it so ‘disgraceful’ to a goody-two shoes with an easygoing life like him?

Guess it’s time to openly show him what piles of shit like Whitney someday, end up at. Barely sparing one forgetful glimpse to the cluttered dump he has to regrettably live in, a flimsy goodbye that’s less of a ‘good-bye’ than a good riddance sort of gesture. He’s not one to be sentimental, regardless. That crap is for fuckin’ snotty losers like the tearful orphans he regularly corners in the shady alleyways near the orphanage, choked up pleads falling on deaf ears when his knuckles disgustingly crack against the beaten flesh. A means of distraction for what he’s gotta lamentably endure on the daily. If he’s gotta suffer then, might as well bring a goddamn couple of nosey brats down with him too. Shit excuse and he knows it, doesn’t stop him from doing it either way.

Rushing past the creaking door, forcibly slamming it shut solely to spite the surrounding neighbours sleepily soaking in the approaching dawn, jolt their dumbasses awake as he laughs it off with a resounding snicker and of course, not to forget— his boldened signature move of a straight ‘fuck you’ shot in the windows direction. Whoever may fuckin’ see it by chance, may they remember that snide grin and those golden locks of hair messily tumbling forth to obscure his gleaming eyes. Cocky boy causing trouble, the first name to be softly whispered when an incident occurs on the local streets, Whitney. Yeah, they better fuckin’ hammer that name into their hardened skulls. Yell it out to the goddamn world.

“Whitney! Hey! Over here!”

Fucking hell— He totally forgot those morons were still loyally waiting for his eventual arrival out here in this icy weather, freezing their asses off till’ he got out of the house or flat, whatever they call it. Fists snugly shoved in his pocket jeans, freshly lit cigarette already comfortably tucked between his lips to then appreciatively take a slow inhale of the fag before casually exhaling out a puff of smoke to meld with the cooling air.

“Fuckin’ idiots. You’re still here? Scram, I’m not in the mood.” Barely hiding the faintest traces of a smirk creeping on his lips at the sight of his gang appearing like a bunch of stray dogs without him in the middle, where he rightfully belongs. Fine, he’s in somewhat of a good mood right now. Why not play nice? “Whatever, you guys can come if you want. I don’t give two fucks either way, just don’t fuckin’ start with that dumb shit again from last time or I’ll dump your asses in the nearest river and watch you fuckers freeze to death.” Classic tactic of ‘I actually want you to come and if you don’t, I’ll kill y’a.’

Holding back the snicker that’d ease past him once they gleefully raise their heads to meet his serious gaze, implying that he isn’t joking— he means it. Really does.

“See, what’d I tell y’a? He’d be happy to see us—” One naively chirps up while the other simply smacks their head in retaliation, puffing and crossing their arms in turn. “Fuck off! If it weren’t for your genius idea to stand outside in the freezing cold, my hands wouldn’t be fucking turning blue by now, y’a cunt!”

“Oh, shut up! If you hadn’t complained the whole goddamn way then maybe—“

Usual banter ensuing as per usual, told those fuckers not to do it and they still do. Hah, what the hell did he expect in the end? Wistfully sighing out to his warning being plainly ignored, hands coming up to run along the golden strands of hair in an easing habit to soothe the headache he’s getting from merely listening to ‘em. Head drooping lowly in a half-assed attempt at covering his widening smile threatening to fuck the whole act up. Bunch of freaks, aren’t they? His gang, though.

Which he’ll never concede to, no. Can’t have ‘em know he’s secretly grateful for their constant presence and insistent tugging for him.

“Cmon, you morons. Pub’s still open till midnight and I’ve got a fuck ton of money to spend from that slut. Drinks are on me this time, you better be grateful I’m sparing y’a a penny.”

No, he can’t possibly admit the simple fact that they make the difficult things in his shitty life, slightly more bearable.

#I didn’t think I was so weak #that I’d get sad over him being sad #but here we are #pretty boy is snickering and smiling #and considering whitney and their gangs dynamic is massively overlooked #I think it’s undermined how much they mean to each other #dol #degrees of lewdity #whitney the bully #dol whitney #whitney dol #degrees of lewdity whitney #whitney degrees of lewdity #mentions of #sydney the faithful #— ☆ burnt ashes.#ahah. hey! my first post huh #starting with whitney and continuing on with whitney #fucking nice

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hocuspocusbabyy · 4 months

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A ring of bright light: Chapter 1. ‘It’s happening again.’

Eloise Bridgerton x Female OC.

Description: Eloise Bridgeton is to marry Lord Brennan this upcoming season, following a residency at her familiar home Aubery House. Their betrothal is to be announced in two months. If all goes to plan…

Warnings: None?

Word count: 1k (just an opener don’t panic loves.)

Next Chapter

Eloise tightened her gloved hands on the balcony wall, partially to resist the temptation to leap ahead and greet those who waited on the other side and partially to wake herself from the nightmare to come.

Winter air cools against her skin, the long gown doing little against the harsh country noir exterior that was Aubrey House at night. Buried deeply into the evergreen stitch of her corset, her heartbeat ragged against the confinement. If birds were not built for cages, surely the same logic would be applied to herself? Bare feet making a swift sloshing sound aggravating the gravel below, debris digging into the pads of flesh deeper than any weapon she had known before.

The gardens seemed alive with light as every inch of ground bubbled with people and for a fleeting moment, as more carriages approached the castle. A warmth raised within her chest as undeniable anxiety, familiarity. Turning her back to the on coming guests, the small of her back pressed deadly against the barrier. Shadows filtered through the historic windows, as the dust licked walls still seemed to cling onto the fleeting light of Friday as though an old friend they had yet to have finished talking to. A shaking breath escaped the mouth, caught in a brief moment of admiration towards the dripping sun - for out of all the fires she had seen this hideously biblical form was one she had grown fond of; or rather the flashes of red from within its last moments as through snippets of the passing day mere memories now. Only the future night was imminent.

She was running unusually late, she could tell by the main entrance to the building growing peacefully desolate; as the other inhibitors congregated within the ballroom. Her eyes squeezed shut, desperately clinging to those final moments of silence.

“You’re not considering jumping are you?” A voice asked the approaching footsteps drew closer, heart edging to her throat.

“What would that help? Death has no use for me yet, although I do wish he would.”

“What makes you so sure death is a man?” The voice asked again, their body finding rest beside Eloise.

“Surely only a man could be so cruel, as to hover such a fate in my peripherals.”

“I see.” The voice hummed as though mulling the conversation, “And clearly you see so much with your eyes practically melted closed.” Eloise’s laughter was a welcome sight to her visitor, the brunette's eyes finally opening as her head found rest against the woman’s shoulder. Her mother – Violet. A buoyant woman; complimented heavily by her Angelically crow-like features - coils of ash tamed in a formal updo so different to the style had grown accustomed to as she usually pottered away her hours within the castle greenhouse. Fingers never without the soil beneath them, a relationship with a ghastly old nail brush that lay upon the kitchen sink heavily established. She'd always lecture upon the importance of soil, on how each particle of the earth somehow held its own story and origins - for soil had seen more love, more pain than any human. As she'd place lumps of the material within their hands "Rub it in then the memories never leave you".

It was reminiscent of her father, of his death. Violet hadn’t allowed anyone to tend to the lilacs since.

“Is everyone here?” Eloise asked after a moment, basking in the comfort of her material figure.

“All the ducks are in rows my dear, now they await a leader.”

“You’re their leader.” mumbled the familiar scent of gardenia flowing past her, upon the open air.

“Now for long my little swan.” Violet sighed, a perfectly delicate hand raising to card its way through the princess’ hair.

“Is he here?”

“Your suitor? Yes dear unfortunately for you he has shown” The queen laughed hoping to lighten her daughters mood.

"We have a nasty habit involving men in this family" her mother would often say whilst winking at her father Edmund across the room. He had passed on almost ten years ago; he'd been the best hug giver and secret magician, never failing to pull a coin from an awaiting child's ear. A sometimes overbearingly traditional yet progressive man, his head still surprisingly full of hair till the day of his early demise. Collins is seemingly thinning already.

His passing had wrecked the family. His wife, all the more scornful and ironically loving; the clone of her mothers, and the replica of herself - Lady Violet was no elementary being, her voice like bathwater, every syllable effortless and wise. She played the piano as though it were second nature to breathe air; embraced few but loved many under the guise of something to be feared. Eloise’s most loved and favoured person in the entire world… unless you asked Benedict.

Then there was Eloise, Lou and 'Flower' on the not too rare occasion, for as her mother was prone to say and the people continued, was the "one of the most precious examples of life to ever grow within these gardens.” with her uncontrollable ripples of dark hair, ill radiance and sea filled eyes, the procurement of two fine specimens to create the most poorly formed swan the world was ever to behold.

“I wish he were here.” Eloise mumbled gently, Violet’s lips falling to kiss the crown of her head.

“I know my dear, as do I.”

Father had died in these very Gardens during her seventh year. Leaving behind Anthony as the elder brother to ascend the house.

“Come now. Best to hit the ground running, keeping your guests waiting is a terrible introduction.” Violet stated, stepping towards the balcony doors.

The set of grand doors that almost shook with vigour with the level of presence behind it, the noise and voice of many locked behind it. Eloise came to her mother’s side – she could not run from this, this was her home.

The doors were opened with one swift movement of the awaiting footmen, revealing a ballroom, many familiar inhibitors of the neighbouring families huddled around in festivities, laughing. Drinks not far from hand, and children in clear scheming mode begging their respective guardians to stay up late; while others could be seen playing games in each corner, the low light shining on each face – new and old.

“Introducing The Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and Miss Eloise Bridgerton.”

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0cta9on · 3 months

Note

Cute Thoughts - Minji

An interviewer approaches you two asking "Excuse me, Are you two a couple?". You coldly replied "Yeah why?". The interviewer goes on asking if we are willing to tell about how we both met. The whole conversation took a complete turn, from cynical to sociable. "Sure, absolutely" you quip and turn to her with tender looks meeting her gaze..............

[Tell her dude how much you adore her😤may I have a snippet of this scenario? Tq🙇‍♂️]

Reference- Meet Cutes NYC

Hello mikeylo! These kinds of videos are really cute, thanks for sending such an interesting prompt :> Made a very slight tweak to the prompt (as I always do) that I think you and a few other people might enjoy :]

Nowadays, it's rare that we ever get a chance alone together with how busy Minji is. Long distance is hell, but she's living out her dreams and I want to do anything I can to support her, even if she's a million miles away. Some nights, like tonight, we get lucky. The stars aligned and I'm once again reunited with the girl that changed my life.

Minji hooks her arm through mine, shielding me from the frigid winter air with her warmth. "There's a cafe around the corner I've been wanting to try, do you mind if we stop there?" She asks.

I look at her, smiling. "Of course-"

"Excuse me!" A man comes up to us, pointing a camera at our faces. "Are you two a couple?"

I shield Minji from the camera, pulling her behind me. Fuck, is this guy paparazzi or something? Does he have to stir up shit on today of all days?

"Yeah, why?" I answer gruffly.

"Would you mind telling me the story of how you first met?"

My expression shifts from defensive to enthusiastic as I pull Minji into view of the camera, draping my around her like it's where she belongs. She giggles cutely, awaiting my answer.

"Yeah, absolutely!" I reply, turning towards Minji with a heartfelt gaze. "We went to high school together and, uh... For me, it was love at first sight."

Minji slaps my arm, blushing profusely. "When did you turn so corny?" She quips.

I chuckle, pulling her closer. "I wasn't an 'ideal student' in school, but she took a chance with me and I've been the happiest man on Earth ever since."

The interviewer turns towards Minji. "What about you, miss, what did you think of him when you two first met?"

"Well, he was..." She looks up at me, gazing fondly at my face. "...a bit of a troublemaker for sure. But I think a lot of people just misunderstood him. He may have made some mistakes in the past, but I know that he has a good heart, and that's why I fell in love with him."

My lips curl into a smile from her words. Our first meeting was a bit... messy, but if it weren't for that one fateful night, I wouldn't be here with her right now. Hell, I might not have been here at all.

"What's your favorite thing about each other?" The interviewer asks.

"Damn, how am I gonna narrow it down to one thing?" I quip, receiving another playful slap from Minji. "She's just so... amazing. Hardworking, humble, unconditionally kind. Her soul is so unbelievably beautiful."

Minji cups her hands, hints of pink peeking through her fingers. "He's usually not this corny, I don't know what's gotten into him today," she jokes, a smile evident in her voice.

"Don't say it like that, people are gonna think I don't compliment you!" I playfully chide her.

Minji leans into the camera, waving her hands in protest. "To everyone watching this, he's very sweet, I promise! It's just multiplied by a thousand today!" She giggles.

The interviewer smiles, another victim of Minji's infectious energy. "What's your answer, miss? What's your favorite thing about your boyfriend?"

I look at her expectantly. "Yeah, what's your favorite thing about me, miss?"

Minji chuckles to herself before facing the camera. "Hmm... There's a lot about him that I love, but if I were to pick one thing, it would be that he communicates very well," she says. "He's very open and honest to me about what he's feeling, so we rarely ever fight about anything since he'll talk to me right away if there's something bothering him."

The interviewer's brow raises in surprise. "So you two have never fought about anything? Ever?"

A mischievous smirk grows on Minji's face. "Actually, there was one time he upset me, so I gave him the silent treatment the whole day, and in the middle of the night, he comes up to me, cry-"

Heat rushes to my cheeks as I scramble to silence her. "O-okay, Minji, you don't need to tell the whole world about that!" She laughs at me with her signature cackle, nearly falling to the ground.

"Fine, I won't tell," she concedes with an amused grin. "It was really cute though, and I felt really bad about giving him the silent treatment."

"It was hell..." I mutter under my breath, my cheeks still burning with embarrassment. That happened months ago, yet she still won't let me forget about it.

The interviewer chuckles to himself. "Alright, to wrap this up, can you tell me what your names are?"

"I'm Minji." She turns to me, her eyes glistening with warmth and tenderness. I still can't believe someone as amazing as her is in my life. There are days that I think I don't deserve her, but she's always there to reassure me, bombarding me with love and kindness. It makes it even harder to say goodbye when Minji has to go back to work.

I may not know the next time I'll be able to hold her like this again, so I need to make every second count. For her.

I turn to the camera, smiling ear to ear. "My name is Yuno."

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useralba · 1 month

Text

FEAST FOR WOLVES — JON SNOW, ROBB STARK X READER // SNIPPET

authors note: ( nervous laugh ) haha … yeah so this stupid one shot is taking me an embarrassingly long time to complete; been rewriting it for like a week and am only now almost done — and I feel bad!!! so here’s a little snippet. 🎀

“IN HERE, NOBODY WILL BOTHER US.”

jons statement was framed by a white puff as it floated into the icy nights-air and froze. before you stood an ancient, crumbling tower; years of neglect evident, the only thing daring to climb the long-forgotten tower being vines and ivy. your eyes met jons, a huff of disbelief escaping your chattering jaws.

everything here was cold, the thought still rang true in waves of trembling shivers as the hour of the wolf drew near.

jon peered into the rubble-coated stairwell inside, his palm open and scarred with chivalry as he held it out to you; an offer of tender guidance you would need upon navigating the foreign ruin blanketed in the unrelenting decay of time. he glanced to you, hoisting the precarious barrel closer to his side as the cold wind bit at your face, his eyes patient and reassuring.

robb appeared by your side, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he gazed upon your shivering form; starkly contrasting the brothers, who stood tall and unwavering as though the dornish sun kissed their northern features.

"scarce chance of gaining warmth stood out here, my lady." robb stated, sharing a silent look of teasing with his brother, who turned to face the ruin as he inconspicuously hid his smile. you rolled your eyes, the urge to regurgitate a snarky remark fizzling out within you at the warm hand robb rested upon the small of your back; lithe fingers splayed upon the crimson silk as his breath fanned across your neck, "and scarce chance of the indulgence you seek."

vermilion leaves danced through the wind, rustling restlessly as they too, awaited your compliance. the sky above dark and twinkling; akin to jons eyes as you curled your fingers around his. a hum of agreement from you at the honeyed rasp of robbs words; merely more than a short exhale of uncertain exuberance as your wandering eyes climbed the cobbled tower: coiled, slithering vines constricting its stones from crumbling.

jons jaw clenching momentarily; his grip gentle, careful upon your hand; averse of tarnishing the regal purity of your palms — of you — with his bastardy; the sight before him however, rendering him unwilling to let go, his grip assuring itself slightly upon you — swallowing contempt; his eyes trailing the line of robbs arm, his hand obscured by the fluttering silk of your gown. robbs eyes upon where his brothers hand swallowed your own, the possessive, unnoticeable pressure of his hand pushing upon your waist.

silent snarls of territorial wolves, honing themselves for the hunt; laying claim upon their prey.

( I don’t wanna show you — my beloved @dipperscavern especially — too much !!! but I assure you, the full thing is coming soon. ) 🎀

#why do I write so slowly.#uhm anyways #the following tags is what will be included in the ACTUAL one shot #robb stark smut #robb stark x reader #jon snow x reader #game of thrones #asoiaf #robb stark #jon snow #jon snow smut #robb stark fluff #jon snow fluff #jon snow + robb stark + you = that one challengers scene minus when the men makeout because these are BROTHERS.#these guys are competitive as FUCK #especially when besting eachother #piece it together #that’s all I’m gonna say

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hierba-picante · 4 months

Text

I'll Be There Ch.1

Summary: You are Gregory's older sibling! :D He tags along with you to your interview for your new job at the pizza plex!

Edit: Fic is now on AO3!

A/N: GUYS!!! THE LONG AWAITED FIIIC YIPEEE!!

I'm sorry this took a while to come out- I thought today was Friday--my bad guys :'D- I did also say I was going to post this to AO3 but uhm erm,... I was unaware of the invitation and having to wait a few days to get approved..SO I POST THE TWO CHAPTERS HERE!! They will later get uploaded to AO3 once I have the account settled!!

Word Count: 6k!!

Tags!: gn!reader, many hijinks, no use of y/n, Gregory is a little shit, the daycare attendants are goofy, Moon, Sun, and Eclipse are all separate animatronics!, Daycare attendants have transatlantic accents, Alternate universe- Canon Divergence, self insert, 2nd person POV, mentions of minor injury!!

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Serene. Quiet. In the warm grasp of your peaceful slumber. Your toasty blanket completely engulfed you whole. Your face poking out just enough to let air flow into your nose for proper breathing. Your room was cozy, well, your side of the room. A desk cluttered with trinkets and paperwork. Scribbled notes on top of books. Your soft bed adjacent to said desk. Some fairy lights strung about as to not let it ever be a full dark night. Plush animals strewn about to occupy the remaining space of your bed and floor beneath it. Ah yes, one could get used to such luxury.

The other side belonged to your little brother. A handful he was, one you kept close to your heart. His own plush animals are thrown around to mingle with his light boards and remote control cars. A small desk with crayons and construction paper. Some snippets of color here and there. A small pile of markers missing their caps. No matter, you’d find them another time. His bed laid empty, his liveliness unbeknownst to you. For now.

You awoke to a plush object falling onto your face. Your little brother’s laugh rang through the room. Feeling his weight shift onto the bed as he giggled and nudged you awake. Smiling to yourself, you sat up and let the object fall onto your lap. A yellow teddy bear with a blue gingham ribbon. How cute.

With a yawn and a stretch you greeted your sibling by ruffling his hair. “Morning, pudge.” He shook his head away and lightly smacked your hand. “Hey!”

You couldn’t help the chuckle that left your throat. “Heyyy!” Mocking him with a smirk, you ruffle his hair once more. A harsh nudge of his head sent your hand flying off. Before you could react, he sent himself shooting right into your abdomen. “Oof-!” You breathed out. Minor pain aside, he curled himself up into your lap and started babbling about a dream he had.

You glanced out your window as your hand tucked his hair behind his ear. The sun hasn’t come out yet. Blue hour. Smiling, you closed your eyes with a hum. Right on time.

This was routine for you and your little brother, Gregory. He’d wake up at around four in the morning and immediately run up to your bed. Toss his plush as high up into the air as possible and let it fall onto your unsuspecting self. Of course, Gregory only wakes you up for the important things, consisting of: a glass of water, a sweet bread, some cereal, or just to talk your ear off about the wildest dream he had. This time, he chose the latter.

Normally, you’d wait for him to talk to himself to sleep, but you were particularly tired this morning. So you scooped up your little brother, interrupting his dream talk session.

He expressed his dismay by tugging on your shirt and raising his voice. You got off the bed briefly to remove some of your plush animals. Once satisfied with the space you made, you cradled him back to bed with you. Giving him most of your pillow as he made himself comfortable. Humming a short tune as you bundled up the blankets around the two of you.

“Alright, tell me what else happened in your dream,” you said, smiling and pinching his nose. He laughed and scrunched his eyes closed.

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The bright sun is what woke you up first. You sat up with a groan. Not quite the morning person you used to be, you sat up with eyebrows already knitted together, squinting at your window with repugnance. Begrudgingly, you made your way to shut the pesky light out with curtains. Only to get cut off by a sudden crash downstairs.

Oh come now, what time is it even? You thought to yourself. The clock read 6:32 a.m. That checks out. Gregory, still being the morning person, was usually making himself some sort of breakfast by this time. Grabbing a sweater, you made your way down the stairs. Dreading what sort of mess you’d find on your arrival.

“Don’t come down!! I dropped a glass bowl!!” he warned you. You paused and looked down at your fuzzy socks. You left your slippers upstairs. Admittedly a bad habit, but one that Gregory took into account.

“Did you get cut? Do I need to get the bandages?” you hollered back to him as you made your way back to get your slippers.

A few seconds of silence passed by. Taking that as a yes, you made swift work of retrieving the bandages from the mirror cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, along with some antiseptic if needed. You smiled to yourself. Remembering how clumsy Gregory had been in his younger years. Often running to you in tears after scraping his knees, or getting stung by a bee he'd been chasing. It was rare to see him without a bandage somewhere. Your thumb traced over the bandaid box gently. You yourself were rather clumsy. Often bumping your nose into something or getting cut by the most random things. Just like Gregory, you'd be seen with some sort of bandage. Or even a bruise here and there.

Laughing to yourself, you made your way to the kitchen. Gregory had already swept up the glass debris. He dumped it into an old kitchen rag before tying it with a rubber band. All while wearing oven mitts. Something you'd taught him to avoid any further injury. Whether it be you or anyone else who comes across it.

"C'mere, lemme see," you offered with a hand. Embarrassed, he made taking off the oven mitts as slow as humanly possible. Mumbling something about it not being that bad. "Gregory." Warning him as if you'd already begun to count to three. He groaned out a "hmph" and let his wrist fall onto your hand.

The cut itself was wide. About a quarter size to be exact. It looked like he peeled a sliver of skin off, enough so to have little specks of blood forming. Not a deep cut, thank goodness, but a cut nonetheless. You hummed and dabbed some of the antiseptic on. Your little brother grimacing a bit at the sting.

"How did you get this from dropping a bowl?" you questioned as you slipped on a bandaid. Keeping your hold so he wouldn't find a way to weasel out.

Gregory huffed, "I didn't. I got it from cutting strawberries. I didn't wanna use the cutting board, so I cut them in my hand. But the knife slipped and...yeah…” he trailed off.

You hummed, seeming satisfied with his answer. Hand hovering just an inch above his bandaged wound. You smacked it. "Ow!! What??" he fumed.

"You couldn't be bothered to wash a cutting board? Now look. You have a quarter sized piece of skin missing," you gestured towards his wrist.

"So?" he cradled his wrist towards his chest.

"So?" you parroted back, "You know how easy these can get infected if you don't take care of it properly? Knowing your ass, I'm gonna have to remind you to regularly keep it clean."

Gregory's voice grew quiet. "Nooo."

You chuckled. "Yeaaah," you said, mocking his tone. Your brother laughed as he shoved your shoulder.

"Go back to bed, don't you have that interview at two?" he commented as he made his way back to his fruit.

"I do. Did you wanna come with?"

He thought for a moment, "Hmm..I guess so. Knowing your ass, you'd probably forget where you park." A knowing smile danced across his face.

It was your turn to laugh, "I mean I do—but it's also just a fun place, I think. I figured you can look around and play games while you wait for me."

Gregory feigned his deep thought, "Hmm…wellllll.”

You chuckled and pinched his nose, "It's either yes or I leave you here alone for three hours. I don't want an 'I guess.'" Your brother shook his face away in laughter.

"Okay, okay! I'll tag along!"

You smiled at his answer, "Alright, be ready by 1:30." You ruffled his hair before heading to the stairs. The faint sound of chopping on a cutting board could be heard once you reached your bedroom door. Your shoulders relaxed. "Good egg,” you whispered to yourself.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

The drive there wasn't too bad. Early afternoon on a weekday. People were either working or in class. Either way, it allowed you to arrive ten minutes early. You turned your car off and rummaged around in your bag before exiting your car. You looked at the massive building before you. A silent gasp fell from your mouth as you opened Gregory's door.

"I didn't expect the pizzaplex to be that big…" you mumbled as your little brother laughed.

"Didn't you read up on the job offer before applying?" he poked at your side.

You jumped and swatted his hand away. "I did!” You exclaimed as you shut the car door. “…The important parts at least..." Your answer only gives more fuel to Gregory's laughter.

True, you had read up on the offer itself, the expectations and what not. Just not the rest of what the place had to offer as entertainment. You were there for a retail position. Specifically, a spot in the Lucky Star's Gift Shop. Expectations were: know how to manage a register, minor custodial experience, customer service, and general knowledge of the products you'd be selling. Those products being: plush toys, candies, apparel, trinkets, etc. An easy job surely.

You didn't expect the pizzaplex to be the size of a super mall and then some. Your wide eyes glued to the building as Gregory dragged you to the front doors. The parking lot was thankfully not as full. You felt comfortable in trusting your sibling to guide you to your destination.

A small chime rang once the two of you arrived. The smell of pizza and freshly cleaned carpeting wafted in the air. The ceilings were higher than the sky. Tiled floors waxed clean and carpeted floors as vibrant as the day they'd been installed. Gregory let go of your hand as he took a step ahead. Eager eyes darting around all the possible things he could do: an exciting collection of bowling, racing, arcades, and a food court, to name a few. He felt his stomach growl. His window shopping, however, got interrupted by a robot. A cute little thing. Just an inch taller than Gregory. Colored cheeks and the animation of a stiff broomstick. A colorful sunny shirt with the words "Daycare!" littered across its chest. A quick scan from your head to toe gave it all the information needed.

"Interview number 24, scheduled in 8 minutes. Early. Punctual. With a—" it stopped and gave a slight nod, "—plus one. I am one of the daycare's staff robots, greetings. Would you like me to show you to the location of the interview? Do you need to enroll the young one into the daycare while he waits?" It offered its metallic hand towards you.

You smiled and shook your head. "Thank you! But he’s alright on his own, I appreciate the offer though!" You made quick work of fishing for your credit card in your wallet. "Alright Greg, I'm leaving you with this to use responsibly. Food and a few games. Keep your phone volume on high and with you at all times. I'll call you once I'm done, alright?"

His eager hands snatched the piece of plastic, "Alright!" And with that, he was gone. Laughter hummed through your chest as you took the staff bot's hand. Just an interview. In and out. Then you'd find Gregory and be on your way home.

The walk there helped you familiarize yourself with the layout of the first floor. You took note of a few bathrooms and emergency exits. The bright neon lights arranged in stripes along the wall caught your eye. How you didn't notice that upon first entering was beyond you. The larger than life statues in the dead center as well. The Glam Rocks, in golden splendor.

You kept making mental notes as you followed the staff bot up the escalators—a gift shop or two on the side, a few designated party rooms—just some things you'd expect to see in the pizzaplex. You almost bumped into the bot as it halted. Pristine walls were decorated with a fun blue sky and the words “Super Star Daycare!” Two painted over doors sat in the middle. The right door had a small screen on it. A small wave of the staff bot’s hand had the screen flashing a green color. The doors click open, granting you both access. You watched in awe at the interaction, smiling to yourself at the notion that kids under Fazbear care were taken very seriously. Enough so to only allow a select few during working hours.

What you didn't expect was to hear the reverb of a band. Wasn't this a daycare? You didn't recall reading about there being two bands within the facility. That or the Glam Rocks hosting shows for the smaller children. Sensing your confusion, the staff bot chimed, "While this is a daycare, the attendants do like to offer shows to both children and family members. A sort of break from taking care of all the little ones running around. It keeps them still long enough while me and the others get nap time essentials ready—or when organizing the place during a busy day." You nodded at it's explanation. The staff bot took your hand once more and guided you into the hallway.

The glittery ivory flooring wasn't new, but the light fixtures were. Instead of intense neon, this section of the pizzaplex favored a warm light hung by chandelier. There were faint wooden walls staring back at you. It felt elegant to say the least. Catching you off guard, as you wouldn't expect this sort of appeal from a daycare. But a place to hold shows? You could picture it.

The daycare itself was enormous. The front doors loomed over you, as did its walls. Your eyes trailed up to find a sort of railing at an even higher level. You could only assume it was to help clean and maintain the structure. While it was walled off, the daycare offered viewing windows for anyone who dropped off their kid. Or in this case, for you to peer into.

The bot led you a bit aways from the daycare. Noticing a small fault in your steps, it offered you a small stop to look through the side window. Paying attention to your growing curiosity for the daycare attendants. You smiled in thanks and turned your attention to watch.

A bright sunny animatronic held the position as lead guitarist. His rays dancing about with little head shakes along with his background vocals. His counterpart, a sleepy night capped moon animatronic, played what looked like a bass while also taking lead vocals. Easily keeping up with the sun's guitar. Behind them, another animatronic was on drums. He resembled the sun, but had a darker color palette and a dark silhouette in his rays. He had a calmer smile to him. While he didn't sing along, he did keep up with their energy. An eclipse themed animatronic, you deduced.

Next to the moon was another guitar player, a more human looking animatronic. His color palette matched the sun's while taking the personality of the moon. Rays shooting out from his curly hair. To the sun's left was a female animatronic, another human-esque one. A violin in one hand and a wide smile and energy to match the sun's. Though her color palette resembled the moon's more than anything. Even sporting a similar nightcap.

"A Thousand Eyes, I believe that's what they're playing. It's a popular choice here. Bobby Vee?" the bot nodded, "Yes Bobby Vee, a classic." You continued looking on, impressed by their performance.

Your eyes danced across their attire: the sun sporting an exciting patterned button up shirt, bright yellow suns decorating his arms and chest. His pants were high waisted and loosely flared at the legs. Having a clown like ruffle at both ends, with cute sun's at the knees. The moon wore a red vest atop his own button up shirt. A puffed short sleeve with moons leading into a tight long sleeve seamlessly. Sporting similar pants as his counterpart, the main difference being the moons on his knees and a faint change in fabric color at the hips. As well as the buttons, which formed in a triangular pattern at his waist. Their clothing is reminiscent of both a 50s working man's attire and a 50s clown costume.

The eclipse was vastly different in clothing. An eclipse patterned button up yes, but short sleeved. No elongated pants either. Instead, he was clad in high waisted, two toned shorts with two pairs of belts. A pair of knee socks hugged at his legs before leading into his jester shoes. You couldn't help the smile growing on your face. While his counterparts had casual working man's clothing, he wore a relaxed summer outfit.

The human leaning designed animatronics had contrasting aspects. While the male's color palette resembled the sun and eclipse, he had somber imagery: a yellow short sleeved button down riddled with rain clouds and drops. His pants flaring with ruffles. The latter being cleverly white with raindrops defying gravity and drifting up his legs. His female counterpart sporting sad blues to match the moon. Specks of happy suns littered her puffy sleeved button up. Her own vest was colored a happy yellow with four pointed stars. Her high waisted shorts were a two toned blue with similar stars dancing at the ends. A sun patterned nightcap atop her head.

"So remember when you tell your little white lies that the niiiight~ Has a thousand eyyyyes~!", The sun and moon sang while their human counterparts accompanied with a falsetto. The eclipse excitedly hit his symbols to signify the end of the song.

The daycare erupted in cheers and you couldn't help but clap softly. The animatronics bowed as flowers and toys were thrown to the main stage. The sun was the first to rise, his smile widening as he made eye contact with you. You smiled back and raised your hands up a bit. Wanting to make sure he saw you were clapping. Only for said clapping to stop once he winked at you. You couldn't help the silent gasp you let out. The girl animatronic jumped up from her bow, waving to children excitedly. Turning to yank her other half up. Her eyes briefly caught your's, her smile growing that much wider.

“Two minutes remaining until the interview. Shall we be on our way?” The staff bot unknowingly offered you an out to your awkward expression. "Y-Yea! Let's!" you agreed. This time you took its hand in yours as you walked away.

"Ah—I see you were familiar with the way to the Lucky Star's Gift Shop?" you stopped abruptly.

“Uhm...nooo..." sheepishly admitting you were, in fact, not.

The bot laughed, "Don't worry, it's a few steps in front of you."

You glanced up from your stance and saw the sign in front of you. "Oh—! Well look at that…" biting the inside of your cheek as you continued leading the staff bot there.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

"Guys! Did you see them? The new interviewee for the gift shop?" Sun exclaimed. His fellow bandmates looked around for said interviewee.

"I don't think we did," Moon admitted, "Brother?"

Eclipse shook his head, "Sorry, afraid not. PeyPey?” he turned to the human animatronic.

"Hmm...can't say I did, Caro?" his counterpart excitedly nodded.

"I did! I think they were absolutely darling, wouldn't you agree Sun?" she rested her head on PeyPey's shoulder.

Sun excitedly nodded his head, "I do! Darling and kind! They clapped for us after we played! Oh, I can't wait to meet them!!"

Moon chuckled, "That's if they get hired, brother dear. And knowing the luck with past interviews, I'm afraid their chances look slim."

Eclipse clicked his tongue, "Well, never say never, Moon. Don't sour Sun's optimism."

PeyPey nodded in agreement, "I think this is the first one to actually stop and watch a bit of our show.”

"Right you are! I'm sure we've more than grabbed their attention, enough so to have them really aiming to win this interview~!" Sun sang out as he began to put his guitar away. The rest of the band mates followed suit with their own instruments.

"Well, possibly…maaaybeee," his lunar brother teased as he put on his neck ruffle.

"I just hope it all turns out okay," Eclipse added while also fitting his own neck garment on.

"Oh come now, I'm sure they'll ace it! They've already made quite the impression on Sun, I'm sure he'd be more than happy to convince the company otherwise if it all came down to it," Caro commented.

Her other half chiming in, "It'd be nice to finally open up the gift shop. The staff bots help a lot but none have what the higher ups are looking for, even with all the programming they do."

Moon hummed in thought, "What do you suppose they're looking for?" He opened his palms as if waiting for something. All eyes turned to PeyPey.

"Well...someone kind and patient, who can connect with guests, and…someone who has experience with children? Especially the younger ones. Someone who has a real knack for it," he concluded.

Eclipse twirled his drumstick. "That sounds about right. Certainly the type of person I'd want working in a gift shop right next to a daycare," he smiled.

"Speaking of daycare: our other jobs await! Come on!" Sun spun his rays as he ran off to the growing number of children waiting to get checked in.

Eclipse laughed and followed his brother. "Hold on now! Let me just wrangle up PeyPey and Caro!" Moon called over to his brothers.

He held out his arms and nodded towards the two animatronics. Both of which did a quick jump into the air. After a small popping sound and puff of clouds, they were the size of pineapples. Landing softly into Moon's embrace.

"Why they made you two as both small and tall will always confuse me," he quipped as he jogged over to the check in.

"Aww, Moon, don't you find us helpful when the kids get into small spaces? Or when you need an extra pair of hands for paperwork?" Caro asked while tugging on his ruffle.

The animatronic rolled his eyes with a smile, "I suppose so."

"Or how about when you need us to walk around the daycare during nap time? The other two aren't aren't too great at sneaking like us three. Especially on a full day. Are we helpful then? Or how about—" PeyPey's words got cut short by Moon's hand gently patting his head.

"Alright alright! You're both helpful even when the size of fruits! Happy?" he exasperated. The pair nodded, satisfied with his answer.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

The gift shop was pretty homey, reminiscent of a mom and pop shop, and matching the personality of the daycare indeed. Faint primary colored wooden walls surrounded you, accompanied by cartoons of the attendants frolicking about. Ivory tiled flooring at your feet, white wooden shelves with card labels for what would be set out. ‘Sun plush toys here,’ read the one. ‘Eclipse plush toys here,’ read another. The shop was well kept. No dust in sight and your reflection smiled back at you from the floor.

Yep, well kept.

"Alright, I've got your papers all settled here. Now let's see…" What would be your manager beckoning you to the front register. You loudly gulped and nodded as you made your way to her.

She was a warm woman. Pansy was what she went by. She was average height and wore a black button up with some slacks. A pen held up her messy bun. Glasses hung at the bridge of her nose. During your initial interaction, you'd find out that not only was she this giftshop's manager, but the manager of pretty much every other shop here in the pizzaplex. How does she manage all the inventory and employees? You'd never know. Trying to think about it made your balance shift off its axis. Even with the technological advancements of staff bots roaming around, managing that many stores must be exhausting. What with customer service whilst also making sure everyone on the team was okay.

"Your resume is nice, your experience certainly fits our criteria. We would love to have you, but you must answer one question correctly," she watched you through the rims of her glasses.

With nervous eyes, you nodded at her once more. Urging her to continue.

"When you see a child begin to cry after a fall, what do you do?" The question itself wasn't one you were expecting.

Befuddled, you recounted the times that child was Gregory. "I...I don't make it into a big deal. If I do, they learn that every little problem is a bigger deal than it's supposed to be. Help them up, make sure they're okay and point out how there's no injury. Gravitate their attention to something else," you glanced back at her and tried to read her reaction.

This was how you raised Gregory. For whatever accident happened. You made sure not to baby him as much, and to show him ways to get back up. On the off chance you weren't around. It's how your parents had raised you, so you raised your little brother the same way.

She nodded and scribbled a few things onto her pad, "Well, consider yourself hired!" She immediately grabbed your hand and shook it.

Your air left your lungs in a gasp, “Really?” attempting to match the strength in her own handshake.

"Of course! Every interview I've had failed to give an honest answer. It's always, 'cradle them until they stop crying' or 'leave them there to cry until they stop', I was beginning to doubt I'd ever open this shop up!" her laughter raised into the ceiling.

"The position you're applying for is no daycare attendant, but to hire someone without at least that sort of experience? Right next to a daycare?" she waved her opposite hand, "Don't even get me started! I know I can confidently leave you here to handle any child. After your training period of course! If you can calm a kid down before the waterworks, you've made it!" her laughter died down as did her handshake.

Your mouth hung open in a smile, "Well-thanks! I owe it all to raising one!"

Her eyes widened a bit, and her hand stilled. "You're a parent…?" she asked as if it was the most otherworldly thing she'd ever heard.

"Oh—! No, no! I raised my younger brother!" you laughed.

She sighed a breath of relief. "Goodness—I was about to ask you for your skin routine!" You couldn't help the happiness constantly growing on your face.

Pansy wiped a tear from her eye, "Woo! What a hoot! Alright, what day are you able to start?" she asked, readjusting her glasses.

You stood there contemplating for a moment. In all honesty, you were ready to start then and there. You had been let go of your previous job due to seniority and having to make some cuts. Unfortunately, you were one of said cuts. A bit of worry seeped into your brain. What if they view you as too excited? Maybe a bit of a try-hard? You could wait until the shop was fully furnished. Or maybe the following day…tomorrow...yea!

“Tomorrow's good! But of course I can see the shop needs its products, so I don't mind waiting until it's all stocked up, whichever works best!"

Your manager's smile grew, "I'll notify you once the shops all settled in, we'll start easy. Just some managing the floor and customer service, how's that sound?"

You happily offered your hand, "Sounds like a plan, I look forward to it!" She matched your enthusiasm with a firm handshake. The second one of the meeting. "As do I. Welcome to the family!"

You felt something in your grasp once she let go. Your name tag. A pretty, holographic lenticular tag. Shifting it to the left would shine a sun, in the middle a calm eclipse, and to the left, a sleepy moon. You stared in awe at the exquisite piece of plastic. This was the most beautiful name tag you'd ever been given.

“We'll get this little guy properly labeled with your name in a second, love. Just need to remember where I left that pesky hand machine…” she mumbled the last sentence as she walked around the front desk to look for it.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

"Moonie I simply must know!" Sun grunted as he tried reaching the daycare's front doors. His brother held him back without much struggle.

"We'll know in due time Sun. No need to pry for information," he chuckled.

Eclipse had started a game with the kids. A classic game of cops and robbers. Such a game in the daycare proved to exercise a kid's brain. With many places to hide such as the ball pit, jungle gyms, slides, cubbies, and so on, one had to get creative in this space. This time the attendants were playing the cops and the kids were the robbers. Caro and PeyPey had more luck than the lunar and solar triplets. Their smaller size proved useful in getting the stealthiest of kids. They'd started a system of chasing the kids out of hiding and straight into Eclipse's waiting arms.

"Come on Sun, don't you want to play with the kids? It's cops and robbers, one of your favorites,” Moon tried convincing his twin.

"But Moon! What if we never find out? What if they didn't get hired?" Sun whined in his brother's hold.

Moon sighed and reluctantly carried a protesting Sun to the game. "You had confidence earlier. Where has it gone?" The animatronic passed by the window, not thinking much of it.

"Oh hey it's the interviewee!" Caro exclaimed as she popped her head out of a jungle gym.

"Where?” Sun jumped out of Moon's hold with his eyes darting across the room.

"Out there, they're shaking hands with Pansy...I think I see something sparkly on their clothing," Eclipse added while carrying four giggling children.

His solar twin excitedly gasped and ran over to watch. What he said was very much true. There you were, talking with Pansy as if the two of you were old friends. A fresh name tag glistening below your smile.

"I can't thank you enough Pansy, thank you!" you exclaimed.

Your manager shook her head. "No, no—I should be thanking you! Two years this shop has been here—two years without a proper employee. You're doing wonders by just being you, love!" She smiled warmly.

You felt bashful and rubbed the back of your neck. "Aww, I'm glad we could help each other then! I look forward to being able to help in any way I can!"

She patted your back with vigor. "There we are! That's what I like to hear!"

Sun failed to notice bandmates and children crowding behind him to get a look at the new hire.

"They did it! I see their name tag!" Caro hollered from Eclipse's shoulder.

Moon nodded, impressed. "Huh, Look at that."

All comments fell on deaf ears. You did it. Finally they found someone competent enough to run the gift shop! Someone who's genuine—kind even! Sun couldn't contain his excited rays dancing about as he watched, resembling a puppy happily wagging its tail. He could see it now: his siblings and friends all palling around, with you in the middle! Catching up and having a swell time as you take your lunch break. Sun sighed at the thought.

Pansy turned curiously at all the muffled yelling. Her laughter got caught in her throat, "Oh! Would you look at that!"

Curious, you peered towards the direction she was looking in and gasped. Not only the animatronics, but the children as well had been watching you. Not knowing what else to do, you offered a small smile and waved. The crowd waved back with a muffled "Hi!" except for Sun. He stood there with his shoulders relaxed and smile tilted.

As you were about to take a step, he joyously screamed and launched himself away from the window. The kids erupting in laughter as Eclipse and Moon can be seen calling out to him in chase. Caro and PeyPey, still at the window, poofed themselves to their tallest height, herding the kids away from the front door.

Sun rushed out with a trail of smoke behind him. He was a foot away from you in an instant. "Hello there! My name is Sun! I'm one of five daycare attendants and a member of the Starlights band! Who might you be, dear?" he cheerily asked.

His height was alarming. You barely reached his chest. While his tone of voice was welcoming, and you couldn't help the anxious flips your stomach did when you briefly raised your eyes up to his. This was the performer who winked at you—a type of interaction you weren't used to. His charming transatlantic accent didn't do you any favors either. You quickly glanced at Pansy for guidance. The only guidance being a nod to go ahead.

Your name trailed out of your mouth awkwardly as you reached a hand out for Sun to shake. "A lovely name! An absolutely darling name!” He matched the same enthusiasm of Pansy’s.

His siblings caught up to him. "Sun! You can't just run off like that, we've got children to look after!" Eclipse scolded as he placed a hand on Sun's shoulder.

“Yes, just look at them all wiggling about in your absence." Moon observed once he reached the small crowd amongst you.

You peered past Sun's waist. The children had been trying to weave themselves through the other two attendants. So much so that you've noticed the two sprouted a second pair of arms just to manage the lot.

"I'm sorry…" you trailed off. You didn't mean to cause this much excitement.

Eclipse shook his head, "Think nothing of it. It's our brother's fault, truly. We really must go before they get any more restless," he admitted with a short bow. Pulling his solar brother by the arm with him to the daycare.

"We'll be seeing you around!" Sun called from Eclipse's grasp.

"Yes, sorry for the short introduction—I'm Moon, that one's Eclipse. The girl is Caro and the boy is PeyPey, the two there at the window," the lunar animatronic gave a small bow in turn. "We look forward to working with you, dear," rushing off to help get Sun back in.

You faintly heard Moon and Eclipse scolding their brother. Who in turn could only muster up "I couldn't help myself!" Your brain wracked against your skull. All three were charming, you had to admit. What with their manners, transatlantic accents, and just the way they carried themselves with each other.

Both Moon and Eclipse smacked Sun upside the head in a playful manner before running in through the front doors. The latter took this as an opportunity for a chase. From the window you could see the children and two human animatronics briefly pause their actions. All heads following Moon and Eclipse as they excitedly ran across from them. The crowd turned their heads to Sun. All of them caught momentum once they noticed the attendant had begun to go after them as well. The children shrilled in joy as the other two attendants joined. Scooping up any stragglers on the way.

Pansy burst out laughing once more. "Those five know how to liven things up around here. Get ready to see more of them, especially with their merchandise in the giftshop."

You sheepishly smiled, "Can't wait!” Your eyes glued to the window a few feet from you. Admittedly, you missed when Gregory was that small. Laughing at almost everything, getting excited over the smallest things. It made your heart feel warm. This must've been how your own parents felt when you yourself grew up.

TAGLIST WEEE!!

@cosmog-mcgee

@antwithwaffles

End of chappie ooone :]!! I hope you guys liked it! I enjoyed writing it and my friend @by-the-chapel-gates did me a huge favor and was my beta reader!! I love her very much she are my booboobear :]💖💝!!!!💖💝THANK YOOOOUS💖💝Please leave your thoughts below!

Wanna keep reading it on tumblr? Chapter 2 is here! :]

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gojosatoruwifey · 8 months

Text

ㅡdreaming torrents

✑ the what ifs random snippets postwar rotmhs that no one asked for (◕∇◕✿)

✿ warning/s: fluff , g/n! reader , swearing, tell me if i missed something!

✿ character/s: pbss! chung myung , junior! reader (feat. small baek cheon)

part of the senior reader agenda (tba)

thumb ring

sleepiness seems to overlap either day or night. the issue used to not bother him but now that being groggy is catching up to his body, chung myung finds it hard to stifle a yawn. bed hair of ink black falls to his shoulders, white robes thrown in haphazardly as if he’s not bothered by the incoming scolding from his tidied junior later in the dining hall he will be meeting for breakfast, drowse clung to his eyes, hand busy itself to close the door of the room.

“sahyung,” a voice called out from the side.

chung myung glanced to see a cultivator disciple in black, a carefully embroidered tassel hanging on their sword as it sways from side to side with each step they made, a thin sheet of sweat cling to their forehead making people who see them want to applaud at the sight of an outstanding figure doing work once the sun is up, there is a tender smile on their face as their hand waved at him from afar. “your hair isn’t tied up. want me to do it for you?”

like sent into a trance, chung myung wordlessly gives to your awaiting hands his green ribbon, it was brief but he catches a band around your thumb. “were you wielding a bow? you have a thumb ring.”

“i went out hunting,” you stood up behind his sitting figure as your fingers card through his fluffy hair. on the side of the doorway of chung myung’s room, there’s a wooden side table with two chairs you can pull under. it’s a highly convenient furniture that chung myung bought on a whim. who said impulse buying is always a bad thing? they clearly haven’t seen the side table. the craftsman was so happy that his ‘unusual’ invention was bought and seeing that it was the highly regarded plum blossom sword saint, his spirit reached the heavens.

chung myung perks up, “does my dear junior willing to give me their catch?”

he may have his back facing you but you well know that he was wearing a teasing expression, a grin on his lips as he closes his eyes while you tighten up the ribbon. “sure. i wonder if senior can eat all of them up, though. as they say 'time is of the essence'. tang bo is waiting. hurry up, or face the consequences of being beaten."

“damn, that guy is already here?”

you patted his shoulders, laughing. you step to the side as chung myung stands up to his full height. you leave first but not when a callous warm hand lifts your hand with the thumb ring closer for chung myung to look at. his eyes glimmer with an unknown light you can’t name. so you just let him hold it like that — his own thumb stroke it a few times before he let it go — matching your pace as the both of you walk to the stoned pavements,

later that day, before you turn around to go back to your room, chung myung tosses a shiny material to you which you catch with a heart in your throat. who wouldn’t be surprised, anyway? you were about to mind your business and sleep after a whole day of labour then your sahyung passed something to you without any words. opening your fist, a beautiful jade thumb ring sits on your palm as your wide eyes flicker to chung myung’s self-satisfied figure.

a huge batch of char siu is due.

fuzhou fish ball

you can’t believe the day will come that a certain senior who hasn't taken a single disciple in that long life of his finally arrives. it’s strange to see a small figure beside his imposing height, much more strange that it was a kid once they got nearer and a clear view of a refine-looking boy, with straight hair and a pair of big, strong eyes that remind you of a stone with a similar colour on them, they bring you a sense of refreshing waft of salt in the air accompanied by a low crashing of waves.

there was one question you badly want to voice out.

annoyed by your staring, chung myung huffed. “What?”

“...you didn’t kidnap this child for a ransom, did you?”

chung myung looks scandalized, “what the fuck are you sayi–”

“sahyung! the kid can hear you!”

“so what? he will soon learn that.”

you cleared your throat and knelt to level your gaze at the kid. the last thing you want is to frighten him. with the bickering that just happened right now, you give him a timid smile and the boy’s shoulder drops a little as he hides behind chung myung’s legs. it’s a small change, nevertheless, still change and you’re happy to see that his guard is down and not up. “hello.”

he shyly returned a small ‘hello’. if you’re not a cultivator trained to have good hearing, you’ll not catch it, his greeting might get lost in the wind.

“don’t hesitate to tell me if this bad guy is threatening you, okay?” a giggle slips out from the kid.

“yah!”

“you should eat something.” you ignored the glare in your way as you offered a cheery smile to the kid whose name you haven’t known yet. “this one is called y/n, third grade disciple of mount hua. can i have the pleasure to know the young one before me?”

the kid blinked at the figure in front of him. an air of dignified pillar surrounding you making you appear trusty. having a good intuition, he opened his mouth to say his name but he was beaten to it by the older man.

“the kid wants to change his name.” chung myung said.

“oh,” a click of understanding registered on your face as you nodded and stood up. “after eating, do you want to meet the sect leader? he will bless you with a given name if that’s what you want. feel free to say to this elder here, hm?”

as expected, once the three of you stepped foot inside the courtyard, everyone bombarded questions as they gathered you to the center. the sect has always maintained a family ambience yet it feels the bond is deeper now that the war is over and a child especially the one that is picked up by the plum blossom sword saint is seen as a blessing. the excitement never dies down even when the sun is starting to set as the women with their daughters prepare an impromptu banquet. long line of tables decorated with vibrant red and gold, a group of baek disciples tying the plum blossom flags in the ceilings, another group carrying boxes of drinks and the others keeping the places tidy.

an auspicious occasion is what the old people say.

“just where did they get the money to get those expensive things?”

“sahyung, you didn’t know? the government may keep away from the events of the martial sects but the emperor owes the mount hua sect big time.” you explained. “i handled that matter a few weeks after the war ended as per the sect leader’s permission. the bank notes and everything else is in my care, the treasure chests are with the financial hall. you see those wines?” chung myung glanced at the spot you are focused on where the two older baek disciples are carrying a box with care, then followed by another set of disciples. “gift from the emperor. the ones that reached early were only one-third. the second deal of the agreement…do you remember those men fixed the damages to our sect? that’s the second deal and the last, ownership rights documents of land properties. it wasn’t long ago that these hidden precious gifts were placed underground.”

“hundred years ago is not long ago!”

chung myung side-eyed your relaxed figure, completely baffled at the way you casually bring you’re a walking dungeon. “you hoarder…are you sure you’re not a descendant of dragons? you seem to stick your nose in places with mountains of rewards.”

it’s your turn to glare at him. “i don’t want to hear that from you, of all people. now, where is that cute fuzhou fish ball?”

“what???”

“your first disciple.” you clarified. “he is like a fuzhou fish ball.”

“he is with the sect leader and why are you calling him fuzhou fish ball? are you hungry? you can go eat first, you poor thing.”

awaiting for the last dance

whimsical as the shower rain, you spent a sleepless night opting for a productive path — train. the music of sword cutting the air with the intent of precise point, feet steady to the ground yet agile as a feline, it’s a footwork to allow yourself an escape in a bind, unsettled water that was agitated and quelled. the blade flared cold light, striking a purpose, a sword dance following an illusionary image of an empty plane as the void of life suddenly comes alive with the arrival of plum blossoms.

nights at mount hua are cold and unforgiving. they take advantage of the light clothes worn, crackled frost nipping on the skin turning to a hungry bite, the scenery of plum blossom trees deep red under the chilly moonlight and mocking the pitiful soul to catch a glimpse of it as the first fall of snow buried them. your graceful form in the wintry night comes to mind. chung myung leaned his back on one of the trees as he watched quietly and listened to the light tappings of your boots, sounds heavy landing a blow, wind urging the leaves to dance and chung myung tip of his head to the sight as the vicious swift blade tore the trunk.

it’s hard to discern the difference between the petals drifting slowly in the air from the plum blossom tree sprouting in the ground and the petals unfolded by two elders of the sect. the musings of the night giggled, the series of fists either blocked single-handedly or avoided in a way his body is angled to the side. second slower, you will come to scathe the vital points of this hailed saint. chung myung leapt back, putting distance as you come emerge in the shadows, swinging your leg to kick the side of his face and like your other attempts, it also failed. chung myung seized the opening — suddenly dropping as he pivoted a leg to lose your footing. unprepared, you immediately tumbled, closing your eyes to embrace the impact that never happened, a deep chuckle reverberated above.

chung myung had his arm wrapped around your torso, carrying you like you weighed nothing as he had you hoisted, the feeling of floating strange as he walked back to the newly established dormitories. he passed by the same tree that your sword had pierced in its spot, he applied a spell as it hovered in the back. “that’s enough training for the night, dear junior. i’ll never hear the end of sect leader sahyung’s nagging to find out you sneak out.”

“looks who is calling the kettle black. put me down.”

“no.” still childish at his age, he stuck out his tongue to make fun of your worm-wriggling figure.

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alienoresimagines · 3 months

Note

I wish you would write a fic (canon era, modern au, any setting really) where Buck is sick and Bucky fusses over him. Maybe with Buck’s head in Bucky’s lap?

I loved your fic of Bucky watching Buck sleep, so anything with that type of vibe? ❤️

I don't know the difference between a snippet and an actual fic so this is 1.4k 😅 But hey, Gale's awake for this one! Thank you so much for this inspiring ask, I've been writing angst for a week so going back to fluff felt really good 🥰❤️ Featuring : A sick Gale and a worrywart Bucky Also on AO3 Find my other Mota fics here

"Do you need anything ? Blanket ? Water ?" His hands hover over Gale's shivering form but the other weakly bats his hand away when John reaches out to check his fever.

"M'fine, Bucky." Gale's usual deep voice is now raspy and hoarse from too much coughing and Bucky winces in sympathy, knowing how much just saying those few words must've hurt. It also happens to be one of the biggest lies he's ever heard, on the top of his list with Buck's other countless "I'm fine"s he's heard since meeting the other. Bucky's only slightly exasperated.

"Like hell you are." He grumbles unhappily but fondness rounds the edge of every word as he fusses with the army issued blankets until only two unimpressed, slightly hazy with fever, blue eyes could be seen above the green fabric. John has to physically suppress a coo at the sight, sure it wouldn't be welcome, and very much not in the mood to wrestle Gale back in bed a second time.

He's honestly surprised the other held on for as long as he did considering the entire 100th had fallen victim to a nasty cold in the past two weeks, even Bucky himself. Buck had nursed him back to health and despite the pounding headache he remembers, John had enjoyed every minute of it. He would've enjoyed it a lot more though, if this stubborn sweetheart of a man hadn't also decided to take as much of a workload as he could while the rest of them were bedridden, disregarding any signs of his own degrading health.

A hand pulls on his sleeve until he sits on the edge of the bunk, the heat from Gale's body warming his side even through two blankets. Those pills better kick in soon or John might just die from worry. Over a damn cold.

Well, that's not exactly true. Even if the depth of his feelings for Gale still scares him absolutely shitless, he's past the shameful stage of denial. A mere small splinter would be enough to have him worried sick if it was in Gale's finger. But, he considers, maybe he went a bit overboard when he tucked Gale in with all the blankets available. Perhaps just four would be enough... which is why he lets Gale, although unhappily, drop some of the blankets on the bunk next to him. His mouth opens then closes with a click at Buck's glare.

Three blankets it was.

Gale settles again under the remaining covers, graciously letting John adjust them until his neck is covered. His lips, despite being chapped and not as pink as usual, still look so inviting that Bucky has to physically stop himself from pressing his own lips to Buck's. Three days he's been deprived of Gale's kisses and he has never wanted anything more in his life - except for Gale himself. During the two days he was sick, Buck had imposed a no-kissing-on-the-lips rule, much to his own chagrin but he respected Gale's boundary and need for cleanliness. Besides, it's not like he wanted to get Gale sick. And today, on the day he'd been longingly awaiting for 48 endless hours, Buck himself was sick and would refuse Bucky's kisses, he knows. It doesn't stop him from gazing mournfully at those plump lips.

"I was really looking forward to those kisses." He whines dramatically in a defeated sigh, a pang of fondness in his chest at Buck's own saddened eyes. He hasn't been alone in his longing, and the thought sends warmth through his body. Yet, coldness courses through him as he watches guilt overcome sadness when Gale turns his head sideways to avoid looking at him.

"M'sorry." All theatrics forgotten, a frown crosses his face immediately. He leans closer to Buck's face, gently sweeping his hair of his forehead and then cupping his flushed cheek to stroke over a high cheekbone until Gale looks at him.

"Hey, Buck. Listen to me." With his thumb, he tenderly frees Gale's bottom lip from the cage of his teeth. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. Damn cold got everyone, it's no surprise it'd get you too. Nothing shameful 'bout that, okay?"

Later, when the other isn't as miserable as now, John will grouch to him about working himself to the bone instead of going to see Smokey as soon as he’d started feeling bad. Later, he'll make Gale promise to come to him too, if he doesn't feel like talking to their flight surgeon.

The thing is, Gale is John's safe place. With him, he doesn't have to worry about talking too much, touching too much -as much as he could in public- being too much. He just wishes Gale would allow John to be his safe place too. And he knows that Gale allowing him to see that vulnerable side of his is already a huge show of trust. But he wants Gale to trust him not only to catch him when he falls but also to lean on him when he misses a step or falters just a bit.

For now though, he accepts the small nod he gets and relishes in the soft, barely there up of the corners of his lips, which blooms into a sweet smile when Bucky leans down to press a kiss to his forehead.

"As soon as you're back on your feet, I'm kissing you 'till you push me away." He promises against the too-warm skin of Buck's forehead before pulling back and grinning down at him. Gale looks amused, if a bit tired, but the light in his eyes is one of amused defiance. Even if he doesn't speak, Bucky hears him anyway and it sends thrills of anticipation down his spine. Just a few days more.

There's a moment of silence as John mindlessly plays with sweaty golden strands until Buck blinks slow and long and Gale's warm hand slips into his under the blanket. He has to bite his lips to keep the dopey smile from his face but he does stroke his thumb back and forth the expanse of Gale's knuckles. Shivers still wrack his form, though they did subside a bit compared to minutes ago. It's not nearly enough for Bucky.

"You sure I can't get you anything ?" Buck audibly groans as he opens his eyes just enough to show Bucky just how hard he's rolling his eyes and John snickers sheepishly. He raises the hand not in Gale's soft grip in mock surrender, the amused glint in sky-blue eyes only spurring him on.

"Sorry, sorry. But really, do you need anything ?" Gale licks his lips once and oh, John knows that look. It's as adorable as it makes his heart ache, the way Gale doesn't look him in the eyes. He thinks of a young boy, barely knee tall, not daring to ask his father anything and imperceptibly clenches his jaw. Softly squeezing Buck's hand in his, he smiles encouragingly when the other faces him.

"Anything, Gale." Tired eyes look at him for a moment, searching for something but John isn't sure what. He keeps his face open, knowing perfectly well there's no way he could hide how he feels about the other man when no one is around. Gale must find whatever he's looking for because he bites his lip slightly, seemingly pleased and content, if a little shy.

John is keeping a tally of how many kisses he's been robbed of.

Minutely, Gale starts scooting over and John huffs a laugh but obediently sits in the spot just vacated, back leaning on the metal headboard. He's barely put his legs on the blankets that Gale immediately presses in close to rest his head on John's lap like a cat pressing his head on his hand until he gets pets.

Bucky might just die of adoration for this sweet, sweet man he's blessed to call his.

He's half convinced the other will start purring when he strokes his fingers through his hair, nails slightly scratching at his scalp like he knows Buck likes but Gale only presses even closer to him until his body is one hot line against John's leg, a happy hum leaving him. He's asleep in one minute flat, face buried in Bucky's lap as the latter keeps playing with his hair, eyes not leaving the even rise and fall of his back.

John's so, so in love that he wonders how he ever thought he wasn't Gale's safe place just as much as Gale was his.

#clegan #buck x bucky #buck squared #mota fic #john egan #gale cleven #buck cleven #bucky egan #ali writes

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la-petite-lapin · 9 months

Text

Double the Love | Part Two

Double the Love masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x female civilian!OC Word Count: 2.9k Series warnings (may change between chapters): 18+, Minors DNI, angst, mentions of death, mentions of violence, mentions of poor mental health, injury description, eventual explicit sexual content, polyamory, M/M/F, FMC is bad at feelings

They finally meet

One year later...

The message comes out of the blue. The first time I've heard from John Price in a whole month, and it's a fucking text message.

I'm watching TV, curled up in a ball on the sofa next to my best friend and flatmate Winslow "Winnie" Sloane, when my phone pings. I think about ignoring it until I catch a glimpse of his name. It's an unspoken rule between the two of us - we never knowingly ignore one another. Obviously, he can't reply to my messages when he's on ops, but that's different - that's not wilful.

I pick it up without hesitation and take a look.

JOHN PRICE: Tali, I need a favour. It's urgent.

My heart drops.

TALIA KELLER: What's happened? JOHN PRICE: Call me. I'll explain.

So, I do. I tap Winnie on the shoulder and rise up to my feet, shuffling off to my bedroom so I don't disturb her episode of Slow Horses. When I'm safely shut behind my bedroom door, I tap on the call button, dreading what's awaiting me on the other end of the line.

"John?" my voice is full of nerves as the call connects, echoing slightly around the room.

"God am I glad to hear your voice, Tali." He sounds haggard, his own voice tired and hollow. It's not hard to tell that he's fresh off an op. I can already imagine how drained he looks; can picture the dark circles shading his eyes and his scruffy too-long beard.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly brave, I try to talk him into leaving the service. I think about Alex and his death, and I hate that John still knowingly puts himself in harm's way day and night. He's the only serving soldier I know now - I never met any of the other members of their unit - and I desperately wish that he'll retire soon.

"How are you?" he follows up, voice puncturing through my thoughts.

"I'm okay. At home with Winnie. How's Marcella?"

A soft sigh leaves him at the mention of his long-suffering wife. I wonder if he's even had a chance to see her yet. "Last we spoke, she was perfectly fine. Misses you though. You need to come over for dinner soon."

An easy laugh leaves me. Winnie and John aren't the only ones who've been supporting me since Alex died. John's wife Marcie has been there every step of the way too, helping me through rough patches whenever John is away on deployments. And Winnie's never been anything but kind and understanding - it's not in her nature to be anything but.

"Soon," I mumble in agreement. There's a sound on the other end of the line in the background, a murmured snippet of conversation and a drawn-out groan followed by a soft shut up. "Not alone?"

"Got some company," John admits. "Speaking of... does Winslow still have that big trip coming up?"

My palms slick with sweat. Yes. Yes, she does.

Ever since her big promotion six months ago, Winnie's job now involves a lot more travelling than it used to. And - because of that - in three days' time, she'll be in France, starting a month-long assignment helping a struggling marketing firm in Paris.

And I'll be alone.

It doesn't bother me as much as it used to, but I've always had this thing about being alone. It's part of the reason why I live with Winnie; why I've been seeing a therapist since I was sixteen; why I struggle to have normalcy. My current therapist thinks that it's a form of abandonment issues from being orphaned at a young age, which has led to my inability to maintain stable relationships. The therapist before that thought it was something completely different; that I seek to form attachments but wilfully don't, self-sabotaging and creating my own permanent sense of loneliness. But, my point is, I don't react anywhere near as badly to it as I did when I was a kid.

I still remember when I was fifteen and Alex left for his first deployment. I was still living with our maternal grandmother at the time, and I completely shut down. I holed up in my room for almost a whole month, refusing to speak and barely eating or sleeping. I could hardly function for worrying about him...

"Tali?"

I snap out of it. "Sorry. Yes."

"Could you... could I possibly bring some of my guys to your apartment? Just while Winslow is away. Our safehouse in the area has been taken out of action and we need somewhere to lay low for a little while."

My guys. The unit.

"What about your place?" My brow furrows. Surely Marcella wouldn't mind a few guests. She's calm and motherly and takes great pride in hosting. I'm sure she'd be in the element with them.

John clears his throat awkwardly. "Not an option. They don't know."

Ah. The brave, almighty Captain John Price still hasn't told his team that he's married. Typical.

I roll my eyes. "Okay. I hope you know that we're coming back to that later." A beat of silence passes. "How many people are we talking, John? Because it's a two-bedroom flat in London. It's spacious but it's hardly the Tardis."

He snorts out a dry laugh. "Only two. One of the lads is local so he's got family around here he can stay with. And there's some stuff I've got to get done, so I'll be hopping from base to base."

"Where are they going to sleep? Are they going to mind sharing a bed? Because the sofa is comfortable, but I know how you army guys are built..."

There's an awkward silence on Price's end as I hear him shifting around. It takes me a second to realise that he's covering his mouth against his phone's microphone. "Yeah... that's, um- that won't be an issue for them."

Oh.

"Okay. Cool. I'll take them."

I wince. Why the fuck did I say cool? Of all the ways that I could respond and I choose that. Way to go, Tali.

"Are you sure that you're okay with this, Tali?" Price asks, his voice soft and encouraging. "If you aren’t, we can find something else-"

"Price, I'll take them in. Winnie leaves on Tuesday morning, so just have them swing by around then, okay?"

Favour asked and questions answered, we say our goodbyes and hang up. It takes me a second to gather my thoughts before padding back into the living room. The moment I step through the hallway, Winslow pauses the TV, angling her head up to look at me. A cloud of black curly hair frames her beautiful face, dark eyes wide and expectant. "Is John back home?"

I wince, getting ready to launch into an explanation. "Not quite."

Tuesday morning rolls around all too soon. By 9 a.m. I'm sitting cross-legged on the foot of Winnie's bed as she packs up her stuff. I can't help but feel a pang of anxiety strike deep in my chest.

"Are you sure that you're gonna be okay?" Winnie asks, almost like she can read my mind.

I meet her dark, knowing gaze and offer her a smile. "Winnie, I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about me. If I need anything, I can call Marcella."

She smiles, running a hand through her freshly braided hair. The pearls attached to some strands clink together softly. "Okay. Good. But you've got to call me once a week at least, okay?" Before I can reassure her that I will, she adds, "And you've got to text me every day."

"Winslow, I will. Stop stressing, please."

A moment of easy silence passes before the laughter starts. Both of us crack up, her eyes finding mine and holding my gaze.

Once we've both calmed down, I take a closer look at her cases. She's packing almost everything she owns. It's a sight that worries me, so I look away, deciding to look out of the window instead.

A loud, firm knock on the front door saves me just as Winnie is packing up her last suitcase. We exchange a look before I'm up on my feet, scrambling to answer it. I can't lie, I'm curious to meet John's friends. But I'm also sad. Because there's a strong possibility that they knew Alex too. That they were with him when he died.

When I open the door, there's two men standing in the hallway, just like John said there would be. The first has short brown hair styled into a mohawk, the sides cropped close to his scalp but the top and back left longer. He's broad-chested, muscular too; built like a grizzly bear. And, even though his complexion has a slightly pallid hue under the overhead lights, it's not hard to imagine that he's usually quite tan.

And then there's his friend. Standing next to the grizzly bear and at least half-a-foot taller than him, he has the expression of a man who wants to break me apart with his bare hands just to see what's inside. I fight to meet his intense gaze, taking catalogue of the features visible under the dark hood of his black sweatshirt. His eyes are hazel - I think - skin tanned from what I'd assume are long hours spent out in the sun, and I can't quite make out his hair colour. He's equally if not more muscular than his friendlier-looking counterpart. My eyes trail down to his mouth, drawn to the scar bisecting his bottom lip. It doesn't draw away from his attractiveness though; just adds to the sense of rugged charm that I'm getting from him.

Not that it should matter. It doesn't. They're here because they need help; not because they want to be ogled by a complete stranger.

"Are you John's friends?" I ask stupidly, as if they could be anyone else.

The grizzly bear nods. "Aye. And you are?"

Scottish. Nice. I've always loved the accent, but his is even better. There's a humour there; something uniquely his. It makes me want to keep him talking just so I can hear it more.

"Tali." I step back so that they can come inside. They hesitate for a second before following me into the living room, the tall, silent one closing the door behind him with a soft click. "Also John's friend."

The grizzly bear plops straight down onto the couch, stretching out with no hesitation and making himself at home. His arms drape over the backrest, a lazy grin forming on his lips as he watches me take a seat on my armchair. The tall one gives him a reprimanding look, hovering beside the window behind him. His light eyes are always alert; darting around the room like something's going to jump out at any second.

"You army?" he asks, expression wary. His voice is all gravel with a Manchester accent.

I offer him a small smile. "Nope." I don't think anyone could mistake me for a soldier. I'm small - short and slender - and skittish at the best of times. "So... what should I call you?"

Hazel eyes narrow at me. "Ghost."

The grizzly bear rolls his eyes dramatically, offering me a wide, disarming grin. It's blatantly obvious that he's overcompensating for him. "Callsign is Soap, but a pretty lass like you can call me Johnny."

My heart flutters.

It takes a second to remember what John had said on the phone. Sharing a bed won't be an issue for them. The awkward, implying tone he'd said it in. In other words, neither of them are meant for me.

Ghost eases away from the window to stand just behind the sofa, drawing closer to Johnny. Johnny, on the other hand, moves so that he's leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees as he cocks his head at me. "A friend of Captain Price, are ye?"

I nod softly. "Yes."

"Funny that," Ghost barks, tilting his head to one side. "He's never mentioned you." Thinly veiled suspicion drifts off of him in waves, and it makes me feel endlessly uncomfortable. His harsh gaze melts through my skin and bones, boring deep into my soul.

I shift in my seat. "He never mentioned either of you to me, so I don't think that counts for much."

Johnny lets out a loud laugh. "I think I'm gonna like ye, Tali. Not many people talk back to 'im."

It's in that moment - as I'm silently praying for the floor to open up and swallow me whole - that Winnie steps out of her room, suitcases in tow. She walks into the living room, depositing them by the front door before coming over to introduce herself, a sceptical look on her face.

She levels Ghost with an icy glare, not looking away from him as she asks me, "Everything all okay here, Tali?"

"Yeah, it's alright Winnie." I gesture to each of John's friends in turn. "Winnie, this is Johnny." He raises his hand and waves, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "And that is Ghost." I point to looming, ominous figure behind him.

"Ghost?" she repeats slowly. I nod. "Okay, well I'm leaving now. Tali, I love you and I'll miss you. Remember to call me." She bends at the waist to hug me, wrapping me up in her warm, vanilla-scented embrace. As she straightens, she glares at each of the men in turn. "And you two - don't give her any shit. If I find out you've made her feel uncomfortable even once, not even John will be able to save you. Got it?"

Johnny stares up at my friend, mystified. His blue eyes are bright as he nods. "Don't worry. We won't be any trouble."

Winnie turns back to face me. "Right, I've got to go or I'll miss my ride to the airport. I'll be back before you even know I'm gone, okay?"

"I know," I say, my voice soft. "I love you. Be safe and text me when you land."

With a nod, Winnie presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head then gets her last few bits together. And then she leaves. Leaving me alone with two complete strangers. Yay.

"So," I grumble, struggling against the urge to shy away from their intense gazes in the safety of my room, "do you want to see where you'll be staying?"

Later that night, the three of us gather in the living room to watch TV.

The guys didn't have much to unpack. They travelled light so I'm going to have to go shopping sometime soon to buy them some essentials; more clothes and toiletries. Definitely food too. If dinner tonight was any indication, they eat a lot.

I'm curled up in my armchair again, watching something that Johnny chose on Netflix. Every once and a while, I glance across at them. Ghost is sitting upright, legs stretched out in front of him. His legs are so long that his feet are tucked under the coffee table. And then there's Johnny. He's laying on his side on the sofa, his head resting on Ghost's muscular thighs. Every now and then, Ghost's hand runs down the length of Johnny's side, stroking him in soothing, rhythmic motions.

Looking at them, I can't help but feel a sense of longing. Jealousy that they're together and obviously quite happy. That they're comfortable enough around one another for these subconscious displays of affection.

I'll never have that. It's something that I've come to accept. I'm twenty-five now and I've never had a serious relationship. I don't even think I want one. For a period of time in my late teens, I thought that I might be aro-ace, but over time I've gathered that I do feel romantic and sexual attraction. It's just different.

The sad truth is that I don't trust anyone enough to believe that they'd stay with me. Love me. Make me feel safe enough for displays of casual affection. There would always be that looming sense of dread that they'd leave me sooner or later.

In my head, I've justified it. If I don't get into relationships, no one can leave me. Alex's death all but solidified that for me.

The rom-com Johnny picked out gets to a comedic scene - a naked beach fight - and he starts to chuckle. I join him and I swear even Ghost lets out a little snort. We're all laughing until...

"Fuck. Johnny, you're bleeding."

My heart crawls up into my throat. My eyes snap across to them, blatantly looking now. The white t-shirt Johnny is wearing is plastered to his side, a red patch seeping through the fabric, spreading across his ribs.

He sits upright, holding it with one large hand. "Ah fuck. Didn't get any on the sofa, did ah'?"

"Fuck the sofa," I splutter out in a panic. "Are you okay? Why are you bleeding? Should I call an ambulance?"

Johnny looks back at me with a quizzical expression while Ghost just sighs, standing up. He walks towards the bedrooms at an unhurried pace, stopping along the way to press a chaste kiss to Johnny's forehead, placing a loving hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, darling, I'll get the bag." Hazel eyes swing towards me, where I'm still panicking in my armchair. "His dressing just needs changing, and I'll check his stitches. He's fine, love."

I ease back into my seat, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Oh."

Ghost leaves the room, heading into my bedroom to get the aforementioned bag. I've decided to give them my room for the duration of their stay because it has an en-suite. It eliminates the risk of me accidentally stumbling in on them in the shared bathroom that doesn't have a working lock. Overall, it's safer for everyone that I'm staying in Winnie's room.

Feeling more than a little foolish for my outburst, I offer Johnny a weak smile. "I'm going to go to bed now. Goodnight, Johnny."

"Ye sure?" he asks, blue eyes tinted with a hint of... something. Maybe disappointment? I don't know. "The movie isn't over yet. You seemed like ye were enjoying it." His brow furrows. "We could watch something else."

"I'm sure. It's fine; I'm just tired. We can watch another movie tomorrow night if you want."

His eyes light up at that. "Yeah, sounds perfect."

I'm back in Winnie's room by the time Ghost leaves mine. I can hear his footsteps padding down the hallway. Hear their muffled conversation and muted laughter.

As I fall asleep, I can't help but feel a different kind of loneliness. And, as I drift off, my heart aches for what Ghost and Johnny have.

a/n: guess who's back! so Tali has finally met the boys :) sorry if this part is a little short, just wanted to get something out in time for christmas for you guys - merry christmas and take care of yourselves, lapetitelapin

#cod #fanfic #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #simon “ghost” riley x reader #soap x reader #callofduty #cod fanfic #cod x reader #ghost x reader #female reader #romance #angst #poly #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny x reader x simon #double the love

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