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theonewiththefanfics · 1 year

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The Layers of Thomas Shelby - Frozen Fear (one-shot)

Synopsis: Fear was an emotion Tommy elicited in others. He never thought he'd feel it himself. Not like that. Never like that...

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!Reader

Genre: angst, slight fluff

Warnings: graphic descriptions of blood, injuries, kidnapping, swearing, death not sticking to canon whatsoever :)

Word count: 3028

Fear was something Thomas Shelby was intimately acquainted with. He elicited it and made others tremble to their very core with just a glance or a whisper of his name from someone else’s lips. Fear was as much a shadow in his life, as his daughter who followed him around wherever she could.

But fear was also what he felt in that exact moment as he stared at the bloodied napkin on his table, the silver locket he’d gifted Y/N when their child had turned one inside it, a simple note of “For Angel” attached to it.

Sadie was tight asleep on his chest when he’d received the damned box. Y/N had taken her to Ada’s so she could have the day to herself, get her body pampered, do up her hair and maybe spend a bit of money on some new shoes or a winter coat as a birthday present from him. If she’d asked, Tommy would’ve bought her the Eifel tower, and she’d bloody well deserve it. Valentine's was coming up, after all.

He was so proud of her. Despite the certain things that’d happened, he wouldn’t want anyone else to share a life with. She’d picked up the broken pieces Grace had left his heart in and mended it with gold. But gold didn’t matter at that moment when he didn’t know where she was. Where her body was.

When Frances had brought in the box that’d been left by the doorstep, Sadie had been softly snoring on his shoulder for the better part of an hour while he ran tired blue eyes over the logs of the previous week.

He thanked her, his voice a whisper to not stir his toddler, before cautiously examining the square. When he opened it, Tommy swore his heart stopped beating. Or he wished it did. Because it wasn’t like that time when Grace’s boyfriend had taken Y/N, or like that time she’d gotten mugged behind a shop. No. This time, he knew she was dead, and he wished he was too.

It took all of his self-control to ring up his brothers and tell them to get to Arrow House right that second. It took all of his restraint not to shout or scream, the only thing tethering him to earth and sanity his pride and joy asleep in his arms.

When Arthur and John got to his home office, Tommy simply threw them the note, his eyes trained on the small oval locket, thumb tracing the inscription upon it, smearing blood more and more over his own hands.

“Find her.” Those were the only words he uttered.

For a brief second, he’d glanced up and saw terror rush through the eyes of his brothers; he knew how much the two loved his wife, they loved her like they loved Ada and Polly, so without a second to spare, they ran back out, no doubt to gather every Blinder and search every nook and cranny while he clutched the brown-haired girl to his chest, the silver locket clutched in his other palm.

He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t even necessarily believe what his gipsy ancestors did or even his aunt Pol, but at that moment he turned his head to the ceiling and prayed to whoever might listen, old gods and new, Norse and Greek and Slavic – anyone that would hear his pleas.

Tommy thought back to every time Y/N had smiled at him, had laughed and filled his world with light. He even thought back to all those insane moments where he felt like his jaw would snap with how hard he’d been clenching it because of some stupid thing she’d done. He wished he’d appreciated those moments more because when two hours later Arthur came back to the house, the coat his wife had been wearing that morning in his hands, soaked and dripping freezing water onto the Turkish carpet, Tommy knew she was gone.

***

Her whole world consisted of cold, nothing else. It was the only thing she could feel, taste and sense. Was there anything to sense? Y/N didn’t know. She didn’t even fully believe her legs were still attached to her body, but somehow she was making her way across the field.

Time had become a concept she couldn’t comprehend, and the only thing that showed it had passed was the ever-changing position of the moon - her only companion through the long journey.

She had stopped shaking a while back, which it didn’t take her being a genius to know meant trouble if she didn’t find a way to get warm, but even that didn’t matter. Nothing but getting home did. If she had to die, she wanted to do it there, not somewhere in a ditch let alone beneath the frozen surface of the lake where Luka Changretta had dumped her.

He thought she’d been dead. He’d slit her throat, but not before ripping off the beautiful little necklace Tommy had gifted her.

“So he has something to remember you by,” the Italian mobster had given her a mocking smile before taking a knife from his side and slicing it across her neck.

The pain had been blinding, knocking all sense of reality out of her mind. She knew it would be the end. When her body lifted above the chair she’d been tied to, when her back greeted plush leather seats, her blood staining them forever. She knew she would die sooner or later. Then sweet blackness greeted her.

But death was a lot more painful than what it’d been described to be like in all the books she'd read and edited, especially the wound in her throat. Her breaths were white-hot knives dragging down her oesophagus and her lungs were on fire with each shallow take of air.

Through a haze, Y/N heard Italian being spoken before two rough hands grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her out of the car.

Her body hit the frozen ground with a thud, and it took every bit of remaining brainpower not to whimper from the pain. The winter air stung every piece of her body inside and out, caressing her with icy nails.

Slowly her mind was coming to, the cold sobering her up, but when someone took her wrists and another took her by the ankles, setting her flying, it was the frozen surface of the lake she cracked through that awoke her completely.

Y/E/C eyes flew open, murky depths of the water greeting her while every nerve and cell in her got shocked. Instinct told her to swim up, get a breath, and get out of the water before it pulled her under, but with the mightiness of a Norse goddess, Y/N suppressed all that and allowed the lake to gently pull her down, and her mind finally started to understand what’d happened.

They thought she was dead and decided to throw her body in some lake, probably hoping it would freeze over before she floated to the top and would remain that way until the very spring, prolonging the pain for her family.

The thought of her family grieving her was the only thing keeping Y/N from not trashing below the still surface. Instead, she slowly slipped her arms out from the coat and let it move to the top, while she sunk lower and lower.

Soon enough her feet touched the slimy earth below, which is when she once more opened her eyes and glanced up. There wasn’t really anything to see, apart from the light of the moon streaming in through the broken place where her body had been thrown and two retreating headlights.

Y/N waited two more seconds her whole being in shock and begging to get out and away from the cold when she pushed upwards and broke the surface. She gulped the air down in greedy takes, not caring about her split neck or the trembling of her body - at that moment all she cared for was air.

Her teeth were chattering so hard she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, afraid it might get caught between them and she’d bite it off. Swishing her head around, she looked if the ice had broken anywhere else. Out. She needed to get out. And to whatever god had taken pity on her after everything, underneath a small makeshift pier where kids would come and fish, the ice had cracked right to the very edge.

She knew every second spent in the water was a second closer to hypothermia, so as quick as her frozen limbs would allow, she swam to the land. It was a hand’s stretch away when another pair of headlights came into view. Y/N cursed and instead of getting out of the lake, she ducked underneath the wooden planks, pressing a palm to her mouth, so whoever it was wouldn’t notice the air steaming up in the air from her mouth.

Her ears were ringing, so Y/N couldn’t hear whatever the men were talking about, only see how they fished out her coat and took it with them. They left another minute later, and she swore at whoever it was for costing it to her. Home. She needed to get home and fast, but she couldn’t be seen, couldn’t let Changretta know he’d half-assed her murder and she’d survived. He wouldn’t do so again, so Y/N waited another bone-chilling minute, checking if any car passed by again.

And then she got out, her dress clinging to her body, hair against her face, matted with seaweeds and blood, one heel of her boot snapped off – a wraith come to life and ready to haunt.

The first step was agonising, and Y/N collapsed underneath her weight, needles piercing her feet. Her knees bruised and scraped raw against the stony earth as did her hands, but she welcomed the pain, let it ground her, and used it to remind herself – pain meant she was alive. No pain would be the real problem.

Y/N wrapped her hands around her body, digging her nails into her biceps, each step an arduous labour. Small pebbles cut the soles of her feet; she’d lost her shoes somewhere along the way; her bones ached from the very inside and each breath was a task, the wound in her neck, although scabbed over, split with every small movement, small streams of blood trickling down and staining her white dress.

Lights were visible in the distance, even as her vision blurred more and more, the small bright dots becoming stretched-out beams before everything tilted and she was staring up at the sky.

The stars were magnificent, she thought. You couldn’t really see them shine like that in the city. Even with Arrow House being further away from the centre, the beauty of it didn’t compare to that of the open field.

Her mind went back to Tommy, to how they met, how they used to bicker about every single thing and to that first morning she’d woken up beside him and instead of finding his pillow cold, a strong arm had been wrapped around the middle, his nose hidden in her hair.

Neither mentioned it a few hours later at breakfast, but it’d been the day things slowly had started to shift. Then she’d gotten shot, and the switch had completely been flipped. All those glances they’d shared, the soft smiles and tiny touches were no longer hidden, but out on full display. His hand now always gravitated to touch any part of her, they fell asleep facing one another, most times Y/N using Tommy’s chest as a pillow. And then someone else came along and used his chest as a pillow, his heartbeat as a lullaby and his eyes as the ocean to pull them in and never let go.

She’d been scared to become a mom, but even with that, she’d never seen Tommy so absolutely terrified. When Y/N had gone into labour, she thought he would pass out, but he swallowed the fear and stayed with her. Despite Ada being adamantly against a man being present during “women’s business”, she’d threatened to break her neck if she so much as looked at Tommy, Polly snorting beside her.

“He put me in this position, and by God, he will be here,” Y/N had sneered at her sister-in-law before a contraption rippled through her body and she almost crushed her husband’s hand.

But then the pain went away and a small wriggling person was placed on her chest. She’d never seen Tommy fully break down before that.

“Huh,” Ada had shrugged. “So he does have a heart.”

She’d promptly received a smack from Polly and Y/N for that comment, but Tommy had chuckled.

“No, I don’t.” He’d leaned in and pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple. “These two stole it a long time ago.”

After that day, it wasn’t uncommon to find Tommy either in his office or even in their bed with Sadie sound asleep on his chest. She just about melted each time.

But now all that stared back at her was the cloudless winter sky. Y/N wanted to sob at the thought she’d never see Tommy’s blue eyes anymore or fix the way Sadie’s curls framed her face, but every little movement was agonising, so she just laid there, staring at the cosmos and waiting for that black void to get her.

***

When Y/N came to she was confused as to why there was so much yelling when being dead, why her head was pounding and her body was racked by violent shivers.

“You undressed my fucking wife!” A deep voice boomed from somewhere very far away it seemed while at the same time, the noise echoed in her skull, rattling her brain.

“Oh, would you have liked me to have left her in that frozen fucking dress?” A deep, gruff one replied. “She was already hypothermic, but by all means, you’d rather no one saw her in her knickers than be alive.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Solomons!”

That name being said snapped her eyes open, which was a big fucking mistake, as even the warm light from a candle by the bed and from the fireplace was enough to make Y/N feel like she was looking directly at the sun and burning her retinas.

Another horrible shiver went through her frame, her teeth chattering nonstop. Pins and needles were running all over her skin and Y/N curled up in a ball as if trying to not let any of the heat she’d managed to get back escape, but that only made her feel more pain, a groan escaping her mouth. That small noise was enough though for the door to be busted open and for two men – one lean and tall, the other a burly, beard-covered menace to rush inside.

Tommy was by her in an instant, a careful palm placed on her cheek.

“Don’t try to talk,” his own voice was that of a whisper. “The wound’s pretty rough.”

If it didn’t feel like it’d hurt like hell, Y/N would’ve just rolled her eyes, but all she could do was squeeze them shut as shivers went through her body. When Tommy saw that, he was instantly on his feet, going for the fireplace and adding more logs to the dwindling flames.

When he turned around, Y/N had slid her shaking hand from underneath the duvet and extended it to him, a silent plea for him to come back.

It didn’t take much more than that for Tommy to take off his jacket and suit, not caring about the company in the room, his trousers following until he was in his breeches, sliding into the bed, wrapping her frozen body with his own warmth.

A groan escaped her mouth, as she clung to him, Tommy releasing a string of expletives when sensing just how cold Y/N actually was.

“Bloody hell, woman,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her forehead and tucking her face into the crook of his neck.

Gently, he intertwined her legs with his, and his fingers went to card through her matted strands, the motion more so calming him down, than her.

He’d put their daughter in bed after calling for Polly to come, with the thought Y/N was dead, his whole being a numb void. He’d thought the only time he’d ever get to see her again was after her body was found, that was if it’d be in a recognisable condition, so he’d take her frozen feet against his calves, her cold lips against his chest and stiff fingers digging painfully in his sides, as long as it meant she was alive.

At some point, after Alfie and Tommy exchanged words, Solomons left, and they spent the whole night and early morning like that, tangled in one another until Y/N was no longer cold or more appropriately would snap her tongue off if she so much as opened her mouth. She still couldn’t speak despite how Alfie had cleaned and stitched the wound in her neck, but she could write.

Alfie had brought a pen and paper upon Tommy’s request so they could communicate and the first and only word she scribbled was “home”.

“We’ll go home soon,” Tommy promised. “Arthur’s just… taking care of a few things.”

To that Y/N just nodded; she didn’t need any more explanations.

She took the pencil again and flipped to a new page. “Alfie has shitty sheets.”

Tommy chuckled, tightening the grip he had around Y/N’s waist. “He does, doesn’t he? You’d think the fucker could afford silk by now. Did he even change them before he put you in the bed?”

She just smiled and nuzzled closer to Tommy pressing her no longer cold nose to his chest and breathing in his scent, as he cradled her nape.

Y/N could hear the rapid thuds of his heart. When he'd first joined her in the bed, it'd been racing like one of his horses, stuttering and trying to find a beat, but now it was a steady song, matching her own.

No longer were they afraid.

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take):

Everything tags: @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @m-a-t-91 @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @lestersglitterglue @im-squished @strangersstranger

Thomas Shelby tags: @datewithgianni @captivatedbycillianmurphy @screemqueen @mrsmalfoyshelby @theamuz @lyarr24

A/N: sooo, it's been a while, hasn't it? Just wanted to drop something for the upcoming Valentines :)

P.S. hope you liked this :)

P.S.S. please don’t plagiarise my work and repost it/ translate it on other platforms (wattpad etc). re-blogs are very welcome

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procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics · 9 months

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snowfall

summary: when she’s young and in between foster families, she meets a scrawny kid named Simon. Simon sits to the side while the other kids play, and she gives him her sandwich. When he leaves, forced to go back to his dad, she feels bad for him.

Then, when she gets older, she realizes that Simon was the lucky one. He made it out.

notes: based on the song snowfall, bc I’ve been listening to it and thinking about this fic a lot lately

warnings: mentions of abuse, human trafficking and childhood trauma. Violence. Allusions to smut? Afab!reader

taglist: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins (hmu to be added to any taglist!)

masterlist | requests are OPEN!

You’re back to square one, where you always end up when a foster family lets you go. A big, grey house that was built in the sixties and not once painted afterwards, that’s square one. Makeshift beds and damp rooms, showers that smell of piss and food that has the consistency of cardboard.

The house is so terrible on the inside that everyone flees into the parking lot, a barely better place to be. In the dirt-poor areas of Manchester, it’s all anyone can ask for. The younger kids play with chalk or run around, chasing each other, while the ones your age pass cigarettes and other stuff to each other.

None of you know each other’s names, but you’ve all seen each other in passing. Kids that were left on their own, that don’t trust easy won’t talk to each other either. Not really.

It’s rare to see a new face, so the teen sitting off to the side while the others talk catches you by surprise.

He’s massively tall already, but scrawny as hell, his hair in the awkward stage between short and being grown out. His eyes flit around, meeting no one else’s.

“Haven’t seen you before.” You greet, and he barely looks up. You offer him your name, and he pauses before he responds.

“Simon.” He says finally. There’s a short silence, broken by his rumbling stomach, and you hand him your sandwich without thinking twice. You’re not a big fan of tomatoes. He hesitates, inspecting it before he takes a bite. He barely nods as you tell him you don’t like tomatoes, and you doubt he even heard you.

“What are you doing here? Never seen you before.” You attempt, trying to make conversation. He shrugs in response, and you don’t pry further.

Simon sticks to you like glue in the days afterwards, a silent shadow that towers over you. Timmy, a kid that joined a gang after feeling overly confident, tries to approach you twice, but apparently, Simon’s glower is more intimidating than his stature.

After a week and a half, a social worker interrupts a game of Uno between you and Simon, pulling him away for a conversation. That usually means one of two things: going home, or going to a family of strangers.

You never get to find out which one it is, because Simon doesn’t say goodbye. You tell yourself that he made it home, or at least made it out. He seems like the type.

***

Against your hopes, and in line with all odds, you don’t make it out. Bouncing between foster families leaves you frustrated, angry and alone. A recipe for disaster, and you know it. Two years after Simon left the grey house that smelled like a germaphobe’s nightmare, you did as well.

Barely eighteen, with no one to back you up and not a single penny on your name, that went to shit quicker than you might have thought, and you found yourself exactly where you did not want to end up: the crime scene of Manchester.

It started off with little favors. Timmy convinced you. He said it wasn’t hard to sell drugs. That you’d only have to do it a few times, and then you’d have enough money to start yourself off with a real job. Something honest.

Something that would finally get you some real security. A sense of permanence.

Over the years, little favors turned into bigger favors.

Timmy, of course, didn’t know batshit about anything, and he certainly did not care to look into things more than he had to for you. And by the time your idiot, barely not-adolescent brain realized that, you were in too deep.

You’d done everything wrong, because selling drugs for a few days ‘wouldn’t hurt anyone’.

That was how you ended up as the cliché character of anti-everything prevention movies they showed you, back in the grey house. Abused, beaten-up, trafficked, sold, and not even out of your twenties.

Each time you thought about it, you wanted to laugh at yourself, to try and stop yourself from missing the gray house and the exhausted social workers that weren’t paid enough to care for any of you.

Just this time, you couldn’t go back to the gray house. You weren’t a child anymore. This time, people came for you to make sure that you’d pay them back what you owed them. Technically, what Timmy owed them.

They, whoever they were, took you away from Manchester, the only semblance of home you’d ever known. You found yourself in an abandoned cargo hall, freezing cold. From what you could see, it was snowing outside, the chill creeping inside. The girl next to you was out like a light, either from drugs, exhaustion, the cold, or a combination of all three.

You could make peace with the fact that you would never get out. You could just accept it, like you’d accepted everything else in your life. A voice in your head screamed that it wasn’t fair, and it felt like that scream was becoming more and more real. There was a ridiculous notion in the back of your mind, telling you to get up.

It bled into the screech from the gates of the cargo hall, protesting as they were opened. Your captors pointed their guns, but thick, white smoke filled the building, and you felt yourself become suddenly sleepy.

The last thing you saw were shadowy figures storming the hall, gunfire ringing out, smoke filling your nose and mouth.

***

When you came to, the smoke had dissipated, but you were still in the cargo hall. A group of men in camouflage walked around the hall, checking the men that were lying on the floor. One of them approached you and the others.

Almost automatically, you slinked backwards, out of his reach, but he gave you a soft smile.

He was young, too young to be in a place like this, with a sweet expression on his face that felt too saccharine to belong in the midst of this violence.

“I’m Gaz.” He said. “I’m with the British army, and we’re here to take you home. Are you hurt?”

Varying reactions came from the people around you, and you felt yourself numbly nodding. Home. Had a God heard your prayer and then decided to turn it into a joke?

The doctors arrived a while later, taking a look at everyone that had been with you. Some of the girls around you were drug addicts, and going into withdrawal was never pretty. The cargo hall quickly filled with the stench of vomit and cold sweat, but it meant that you got the time to look at the men that had stormed the hall. A gruff man with sideburns, a Scot with a mohawk that was chattering away with Gaz and-

He was hulking, a mountain that wore a skull instead of a face. You’d never met someone like him in your life, but he paused when he saw you, and you knew that he’d seen you before, this behemoth of a man.

***

It takes two more days before you’re back in England, but it doesn’t feel like a homecoming. Some of the girls have people waiting for them, parents, children, boyfriends, girlfriends to run into their arms and hold. Some are like you. No one comes, and they leave on their own.

You want to follow them. You can’t go back to Manchester. You’ll only return for your papers, if those still exist, and then you’ll leave.

You’re about to finally lift your feet from the cold, concrete floor when you feel a pair of eyes burning into your back.

Turning around, you see it’s the one they call Ghost. He’s standing off to the side, and it reminds you of something. You can’t figure out what it is, even though you try so so hard to just remember.

“Thank you for getting us out of there.” You blurt out, and he looks like he wants to say something, his jaw almost cramping together as he makes a tiny movement. You think it’s towards you.

“I owed you for the sandwich.” He says. The shrug looks forced, and you know that he can’t bring himself to say something more honest. “No tomatoes, of course.”

The seconds it takes you to understand seem to tick by outside of your brain, like a clock hammering with each moment passed. Then, your jaw falls slack.

“Simon?” you ask, too loudly, and the Scot named Soap snaps his head around to stare at you.

He doesn’t reply, and he doesn’t have to. You recognize his height, his eyes, the awkward standing off to the side so suddenly that it hits you like a fucking train. How couldn’t you see it before?

This is Simon. The kid that-

“You left without saying fucking anything!” you accuse, and you’re sure the others think you’re exes.

He just nods, and that almost infuriates you. But he made it out. He made something of himself, and you have to respect that. It’s all you want, always slipping away from your grasp, and Simon got it. Carved it out for himself, by the looks of it.

And finally, after an eternity, Simon steps forward and holds out a bag with the yellow-and-green subway logo on it.

“Hope you like it.” He mumbles, and it’s an almost adorable gesture. There’s no tomatoes, as he promised. Someone remembered something from your childhood.

You take the bag, and then you take the step separating you and hug him tightly. Are you overstepping a boundary? Is he going to push you off roughly?

He doesn’t hug you back, but he does allow you to wrap your arms around him (or, as much as you can do that with his new size).

His teammates stare, but you don’t let go. Not for a while.

“You got a place to stay?” he asks, when the others have gotten over the shock of your interaction. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, and a part of you hopes that you’re special in this, because you helped him too. Somehow.

“McDonalds is always open, and I’ve got…” you reach into your pocket, finding a crumpled note. “Enough for a large drink.”

He shakes his head. He offers his apartment, his home up to you and you should say no because he could traffic you, or rape you, or hurt you just enough to make you drag yourself back to Timmy.

You get into the car with him, and your mind screams danger. Your gut’s feeling alright though, so you ignore it.

The first change beyond the obvious of his massive frame that you notice is that he’s gotten even quieter. While you drag yourself up the dark staircase with some effort, he stays true to his name, not a single scrape coming from his combat boots.

In the apartment, he switches on the light, and you take in the spartan interior. A small kitchen, a sofa, a TV, a coffeetable with a mug still on it. No dinnertable, but three pictures on the refrigerator.

A young boy, a woman that reminds you of the younger Simon (maybe his mother?) and his teammates. Gaz, Soap, the older guy, two men that you don’t recognize, standing in scenery that looks almost tropical.

He lets you stare, before he quietly shows you the bathroom. You let the lock click behind you, even though you know that wouldn’t make much of an obstacle for the person he’s become.

You shower as quickly as you can, slipping back into your underwear. You hesitate for a moment, and then you grab the big, fluffy bathrobe hanging over the towel rack. Someone had vomited on your shirt, and you refused to put it on again.

The robe was too big for you, black with white skulls on it, and you highly doubted that Simon had bought it for himself. Maybe the Scot that cracked jokes with, or rather at him, had bought it for him and he’d caved to using it.

When you walked out, Simon was pulling clean sheets over the bed in his bedroom. He lifted his head when he heard you, and even through the balaclava, you knew he was lifting a brow at you.

“You’re wearing Soap’s bathrobe.” He commented.

“Someone vomited on my shirt.”

Simon did not reply, but he did turn around to rummage in his closet, throwing you one of his old shirts. You went back into the bathroom to put it on, and decided to not comment on the fact that it looked like a midi dress on you.

He closed the door behind him when he went to sleep, and the click of the lock felt a little insulting to you. Yet, you couldn’t expect him to trust you.

Sleep did not come easy to you, and when it did, you only had nightmares.

After a particularly bad one, you woke up with a start, only to find yourself face-to-face with one of your captors, face hid behind a balaclava, and you screamed.

Only after a few moments did you realize that it was Simon.

Between your panicked apologizing, and his nervous tea-making, it took a while for either of you to speak.

“I’m sorry for not telling you I was leaving.” He said finally, sitting across from you on the sofa, and still managing to take up three fourths of it.

“You didn’t have to. You didn’t know me.” You replied.

“I clung to you.” He said under his breath, as if it was an admittance of weakness.

“I liked it. Made me feel less alone.”

Your hands found each other in the dark, his fingers curling around yours and you swore that you could feel his heart hammer in his wrist.

“I don’t want to go to Manchester alone.” You whispered. It was an admittance of defeat.

“I’ll go with you.” Simon replied. He had no incentive to.

In the dark, it didn’t feel as preposterous or dangerous to move closer to him. He stilled when your knee bumped against his leg, and you held your breath, waiting for his rejection.

It didn’t come, only a shaky breath from Simon that gave the smallest of hints about how he was feeling. His hand was still holding yours, warm and a little rough, but it felt real. It made you move closer, to try and lean into his touch.

His hand slipped from yours, and for a moment, you thought that you’d done something wrong, but then you felt it on your waist, and Simon pulled you onto his lap. Your hands flew to his chest to steady yourself, and you could feel his hammering heart beating under his shirt.

Simon was so massive that he engulfed you, drowned out everything around you, and you loved it. There was nothing but him, and that didn’t scare you. It made you feel unfathomably safe.

He hugged you suddenly, a mirror gesture to what you’d done at the airport, his thick arms wrapping around you, pulling you even closer, until your lips were almost on his and he looked up at you with something in his eyes that you couldn’t place, because no one had ever looked at you like that.

You couldn’t help kissing him. Slowly, asking, almost begging, you peeled up the lower half of his balaclava, waiting for him to tell you to stop. Instead, even in the darkness, you knew that the stubble on his jaw was blonde, because it was impossible to forget someone like him. Your lips found his and it felt so right that your hands snaked up to his jaw, cradling his face in the hope that he’d know you cared for him.

Simon returned your kiss equally as hungry, demanding the air you breathed from you, his embrace swallowing you, and you wanted to give it all to him. Your hands shook as you reached to slip them over the band of his sweats, still unsure if he’d reject you, or let you do it.

Cautiously, your hands slipped under his t-shirt first, his skin feeling like it was burning in comparison to your cold fingers, warm to the touch, and safe.

“I thought about you a lot.” You admitted between kisses. “Wanted to know what happened to you.”

Simon stilled at that, his gaze shifting, warping from one unreadable expression to another.

“Nothin’ good.” He replied finally. You felt like an idiot. Like you’d just ruined the moment.

“I’m sorry.” You said, because you had no idea what else to say. His hand found yours, and you felt like whatever was going to happen to you, it was going to be okay.

#simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x you #cod: mwii #cod x reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost cod x reader #ghost cod x you

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rabbitcruiser · 9 months

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International Day of The World's Indigenous People

The International Day of the World’s Indigenous People on August 9 pays tribute to the indigenous communities of the world. The latest data reveals that there are about 370 to 500 million indigenous people living in 90 countries. These communities are noted to have their own unique set of languages, traditions, cultures, and governing systems. For many indigenous groups, the systems that their ancestors have followed for centuries have stood the test of time by serving them with positive outcomes to date. Many indigenous people’s special bond and connection with nature have also led to the protection of the general environment. However, on the other side, several indigenous communities face difficulties due to a central government’s covert and overt attempts to control their lives. This has led to indigenous people’s rights violations where they would have otherwise ensured peaceful and harmonious lives for them.

History of International Day of The World's Indigenous People

The first International Day of the World’s Indigenous People was officially celebrated in August 1995. The day had been brought into existence when the 49/214 resolution was passed by the U.N. General Assembly on December 23, 1994. August 9 was chosen as the commemorative date because that was when the first meeting of the U.N. Working Group on Indigenous Populations of the Sub-Commission on the Promotion and Protection of Human Rights was held. Every year, the day is honored by governments and organizations holding education forums and conferences to meet and discuss the social issues faced by indigenous groups worldwide. People are also given information on any ongoing and/or upcoming activities and projects that are being undertaken to help the target communities. Every year, the theme changes to shed light on a pressing topic, and the theme for the year 2021 was ‘Leaving no one behind: Indigenous peoples and the call for a new social contract.’

The social contract theme is a call for accountability in the general populations’ interaction with the indigenous communities and their resources. Over the years, many indigenous groups have found themselves to be on a disadvantageous terrain in the face of urban development projects that have destroyed and denigrated their lands and territories. The central governments and builders involved in such projects never sought permission from or even spoke with the indigenous communities before they took the developmental steps. Organizations and agencies like the U.N. and UNESCO have made efforts for constitutional/legislative reforms for dominant indigenous groups. Yet, the efforts must be focussed on bringing everyone together in the cause, leaving none behind.

International Day of The World's Indigenous People timeline

1982 First U.N. Meeting on Indigenous People

The U.N. holds the first meeting on indigenous people by forming the U.N. Working Group on Indigenous Populations of the Sub-Commission on the Promotion and Protection of Human Rights.

1995 International Day of the World’s Indigenous People

The first International Day of the World’s Indigenous People is celebrated by the U.N. General Assembly.

2005 - 2015 Indigenous People’s Decade

The U.N. proclaims 2005 to 2015 to be the ‘Decade of Action and Dignity’ for the indigenous communities.

2019 Indigenous Languages Year

After a startling 2016 report on the danger of more than 2,000 indigenous becoming extinct, the U.N. declares 2019 to be the International Year of Indigenous Languages in order to create awareness.

How To Observe International Day of the World’s Indigenous People

Learn about indigenous groups

Learn an indigenous language

Stand by indigenous groups

History related to indigenous people is always interesting to read and learn about. They have their own sets of beliefs, customs, languages, and cultures. Their daily lifestyles are also often connected with nature, be it animals, trees, certain plants, or lakes/rivers.

The U.N. declared the years 2022 to 2032 the decade for indigenous languages. The goal is to bring to attention the dying languages, since most of them are not taught in schools or are used by the general public. Losing a language is losing an important facet of the history and culture of a people.

The best way to celebrate this day and the rest of the year is by vowing to stand by indigenous groups. The indigenous people have the right to freely choose however they wish to live, much like any other living being on this planet. Protecting their rights also in turn protects your rights in the long run.

5 Interesting Facts About Indigenous People

80% of the world’s biodiversity

4,000 indigenous languages

High poverty rates

Short life spans

Leaders in protecting the environment

Around 80% of the world’s biodiversity is in places where indigenous groups are living.

The 5,000 indigenous communities in the world are credited with having about 4,000 languages.

While the indigenous communities account for only 5% of the world’s population, they make up 15% of the world population that is living in poverty.

Indigenous communities, due to a lack of awareness, have shorter life spans as they die of preventable diseases like malaria and H.I.V.

Studies have shown that the fauna and flora, and biodiversity thrive and flourish where indigenous people reside.

Why International Day of the World’s Indigenous People is Important

It’s a celebration of indigenous people

It’s a celebration of indigenous languages

It’s a celebration of the freedom to live

Indigenous people form an essential and crucial part of not only our planet’s history, but also how human beings have come to make systems to lead fruitful lives. The indigenous people’s cultures, customs, and traditions are interesting to learn about for their uniqueness and for what they teach us about the universe and the bigger picture.

Language, at its core, builds the identity of a people. The involvement of the different phonetics, grammar rules, and formal/informal styles can tell one a lot about where a community has come from, and how their history has shaped them. The same is the case with indigenous languages. The problem lies in their endangerment, and this is why we must strive to preserve them.

The freedom to practice our rights on a piece of land that has shaped our communities for centuries should not be taken away from anyone. The freedom to practice our customs, traditions, and general lifestyles is another important aspect of living a worthwhile life. For these very reasons and many others, we should join indigenous people in their right to live and flourish however they like.

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halfmoth-halfman · 1 year

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our little secret

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader Synopsis: Soap finally gets all of his answers- and then some. Word Count: 7.4k Warnings: injury mention, pet death mention, child mention Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. part one. part two. part three.

Soap has been in his fair share of safe houses.

He knows what to expect when he hears the words: a sparsely furnished studio stocked with the bare essentials. It’s not a problem for him. Safe houses aren’t meant to feel like houses; they’re there to do their job– to keep their inhabitants safe.

So his confusion is valid when Ghost mumbles something about a “safe house” nearby, only to lead him through the dense woods of the mountains they’re stuck in to the coziest-looking cottage Soap has ever seen.

Soap’s frozen, unable to stop staring at the two-story stone house with dark ivy creeping up the grey stonework and an actual babbling brook winding around the right side of the house where it runs into a small pond in the front yard. He doesn’t know where Ghost, of all people, found the one safe house to come straight out of a fairytale.

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny, stop staring like you’ve never seen a house before.” Ghost’s hand harshly shoves into Soap’s shoulder, and Soap stumbles forward, turning back swiftly to glare at Ghost.

The Lieutenant had been particularly testy for this mission, seeming almost reluctant to take part in any aspect of it; regret had oozed out of every inch of Ghost from the moment he and Soap had touched down here, and Soap can’t figure out, for the life of him, why. It wasn’t like they were forced to be here; Soap was in the room when Price asked for volunteers for this mission. He remembers with exceptional clarity how Ghost perked up– as much a man like him could– and how the masked man was on his feet the second Price asked for volunteers.

If he was so eager for this mission, why did he seem so resistant to everything about it?

Tired and impatient with Soap’s lack of action, Ghost starts up the dirt path toward the cottage. It’s not hard to notice how he drags his steps, leaving small trails behind his boots. Soap follows hesitantly, keeping his head on a swivel as they approach the front door. Ghost tries the doorknob only to find it locked; his eyes slide shut, hand tightening around the doorknob before he lets his hand slide from the brass.

“Maybe we can–” Soap doesn’t get to finish as Ghost steps back to turn his gaze to the black iron sconce hanging next to the door. He pops one of the glass panes out with practiced ease, reaching in where Soap’s only now noticing there’s no lightbulb to grab a small golden key. He pops the glass back into place, sliding the key into the lock and turning.

The door swings open, allowing them into the pitch black of the house. For such a quaint-looking home, the endless void that greets Soap when he walks in is something lifted from a horror movie. Ghost shuts the door behind him, leaving Soap standing in the entryway that’s illuminated only by the misty grey of what little of the sun’s setting light is able to reach through the thick cover of the towering pines and low, looming clouds outside to shine through the small squares of glass on the front door.

“Take your shoes off,” Ghost mutters behind him.

“What?” Soap turns around– ready to ask why he should bother with etiquette for a safe house– but finds Ghost already hunched over, one hand on the wall beside him for balance as he unlaces his boots.

Soap copies him, unsure and so so confused. Ghost is as unbothered as ever, disappearing into the darkness of the house while Soap toes out of his boots. He places them next to Ghost’s, standing up right as the house illuminates in a soft amber glow.

It’s just as cozy inside as it is outside, and Soap is stupefied. His mind can’t comprehend the shadowy figure of death and destruction that is his Lieutenant among the picturesque interior of wooden countertops and decorative plants.

Ghost is none the wiser to Soap’s internal crisis, heading to a large armoire composed of deep brown wood that stands against the cream-colored wall next to the entryway. He pauses, leaning back to look at Soap over the edge of the lacquered door. “Weapons go in here.”

Soap joins him as Ghost unloads his weapons into the cabinet. The outside is unassuming— a normal, if a little taller than usual, armoire— which is why the interior catches Soap so off guard. A second set of doors— grated black metal with a keypad in the center— hang open to give them access to an impressive weapons rack that’s already half-stocked. Soap can’t help but gawk as Ghost works on hanging his knives— arranging them by handle color, then length. It’s done so casually, so routine, as if Ghost has done this a million times.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know where to start. What the hell’s up with this “safe house”? How did Ghost find it? Did he set it up? It was hard enough picturing the masked giant in everyday civilian life, let alone browsing for the perfect rustic armoire or a faux fur rug fluffier than a cloud.

Ghost walks away, heading towards the kitchen with an unusual hesitance to his steps– like he’s trying to lighten his footsteps against the hardwood floor. Soap quickly stores his weapons, trailing behind Ghost with less caution.

The kitchen is just as immaculately decorated as the rest of the house– all creams and beiges, a large window above the sink with a collection of herbs growing on its sill, and little pops of color from the neatly organized pots, pans, and baskets sitting on the shelves.

Ghost rifles through the pantry with his back to Soap, and Soap can’t help himself.

“What’s-”

“Keep your voice down,” Ghost snaps, hushed and threatening.

“Why?” Soap huffs, gesturing to the empty space around them. “It’s not like there’s anyone else here!”

Ghost turns to face Soap with a swiftness that surprises the Sergeant, his shadowed eyes narrowed into a glare so fierce it sends an immediate shock of fight or flight through Soap.

“Simon?”

Your voice is soft and raspy and startles Soap so badly he swears his heart skips a beat. He whirls around to see you standing across the living room, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. Dressed only in a hoodie that’s obviously too big for you— and the perfect size for a certain Lieutenant— and a set of fluffy pajama shorts, you rub your eye with the heel of your hand, clearly having just woken up.

Ghost groans behind him, and everything in Soap’s head suddenly clicks together: Ghost’s reason for volunteering for this mission so quickly, his expectation of working on it alone, why he dragged his feet to bring Soap here. All of the puzzle pieces floating around in his mind slide into place as he watches you stumble into the living room, still half-asleep.

After your rescue, you’d been confined to the infirmary for weeks. The team had come to see you, sometimes lucky to catch you for the few minutes you could stay conscious long enough to entertain small conversations. You were put on immediate leave once you were well enough, and in the three months since then, no one has heard from you.

Soap’s glad to see you despite his mild guilt for disturbing you.

You look much better than when you left— less like you’d been repeatedly hit by a bus— and well on your way to recovery. There’s still gauze wrapped around your right thigh, and a few of the worst bruises are still present on your skin, in the process of fading. The only lasting injury Soap can see is the deep scar that trails along the left edge of your jaw from your chin to your ear; you’d had trouble talking while in the infirmary, pain buzzing through your jaw anytime you moved your mouth, but now you’re yawning widely without a single care.

You make it halfway to the kitchen when your eyes land on Soap; you freeze, brows knitting together in confusion.

“Soap?”

“Doc.”

“What’re you….” You trail off, spotting Ghost behind him. Soap watches how you take in their clothes, the dirt and dried blood stained into the fabric, and how your eyes glance over to the open weapons cabinet near the front door. The shift to Doctor Mode is instant; you straighten up, already looking them over for any possible injuries as you hasten your way to the kitchen.

“I’m fine, Doc,” Soap smiles, seeing some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “Lt. got a little roughed up, though.” Your head snaps to Ghost, and Soap steps aside, setting a gentle hand on your back to guide you and your concern toward Ghost. The Lieutenant glares at him over your head, but this time Soap smiles back, a knowing grin plastered on his face as you fret.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Ghost sighs, pulling his angry gaze away from Soap to stare down at you. He’s trying to seem stern, frustrated that you’re up and about, but you pay him no mind. It’s almost sweet, the way his gaze softens the moment he looks at you; he’s concerned for you as much as you are for him.

“‘m fine,” you mumble stubbornly. Ghost rolls his eyes as he lets you look over him. His eyes briefly flick up from your face to Soap before back down to you. Soap’s known Ghost for a long time; he’s learned how to read the subtle changes in those dark eyes, and he can see the way Ghost fights with himself before letting his eyes slide shut in resigned conclusion.

“You need to rest,” he sighs again, faint and gentle, as he lightly grabs your wandering hands and eases them off him. He glances up at Soap again, but Soap avoids his gaze, finding interest in the earthy green toaster and not even trying to hide his grin.

“I will, I will,” you huff. You step back from Ghost, pulling your hands from his to cross your arms over your chest. “Mission go okay?”

You’re talking to him now; Soap realizes when Ghost doesn’t answer. He turns to you with an easy, if a little cocky, smile and a half-shrug.

“Thought they could try and ambush us, but they were no match for us. Right, Lt.?” There’s a quiet, exasperated fuckin’ hell from Ghost, but you’re laughing— your smile not as wide on your left side— and Soap realizes how much he’s missed you.

“We needed a place to lie low for the night-” Ghost starts.

“And this was close by, I get it.” You maintain your smile, nudging Ghost’s arm with your elbow. “Surprised you got here before the storm started.”

“What? That poor excuse for cloud coverage outside? Hardly call that a storm,” Soap scoffs. You shrug, meandering to the cabinet that holds the cups and mugs.

“If that’s what you want to think,” you tease, but Soap is too busy watching Ghost as he watches you. “All I’m saying is-” The moment you reach up to grab a glass, there’s a hand on your waist and a sturdy body pressed against your back. “-Simon, I can reach just fine-”

He doesn’t listen, grabbing a glass and setting it in your hands while you pout up at him. You roll your eyes, stepping out from in front of him and smiling at Soap like nothing happened.

“All I’m saying is, I’ve lived here for a while; I think I can tell the difference between a little fog and a soon-to-be torrential downpour.” You fill your glass with water as you talk, batting Ghost away when he tries to take the full glass from you the minute you’ve filled it up.

“And since someone-” you send Ghost a pointed glare “-is in such a helpful mood, he can set you up in the guest room for tonight while I go back to sleep.” You saunter past Soap— as well as one can while healing— glass of water in hand.

“Good to see you again, Doc,” Soap laughs as you pass him. You send him a sly wink, playfully bumping his shoulder before heading upstairs.

A tense quiet looms over the kitchen as Soap and Ghost are left alone. Ghost is staring at him, and he’s staring back, neither one knowing how to break the awkward silence that surrounds them.

Until—

“So,” Soap starts, smug grin crawling across his face and vindication thrumming through his veins. “You and the Doc, eh?”

“Don’t fuckin’ start.”

With that, Ghost marches past him, heading for the stairs and, Soap decides this is going to be one of the top three missions of his life.

It’s 5:03 in the morning when Soap is awoken by the loudest clap of thunder he’s heard in his life.

It shocks him awake, shooting straight up from the bed, heart hammering and mind alert. It takes him a minute to realize there’s no immediate danger and that his biggest threat is the blue duvet tangled around his legs. Soap pauses, staring down at the soft blue blanket in confusion.

Why is he-

Oh.

Right.

Soap takes in the room— cozy just like the rest of the house— taking this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see if he can spot any clues, any slight hints that’ll give him insight on you and Ghost. The two of you are frustratingly thorough, as the only unusual thing he finds is the heavy blanket of rain pouring down the window.

Thunder rumbles above.

A door opens and shuts somewhere in the house.

Soap is of a curious mind— perhaps too curious for his own good— but that same intense inquisitiveness is what gave him enough of a glimpse to discover his Lieutenant’s secret marriage, so who is he to fight it?

He gets out of bed, ignoring the instant chill that comes with leaving the warm covers, and changes into the spare shirt and sweatpants you had Ghost give to him. As quietly as he can, he leaves the room, heading straight down the hall and toward the stairs.

The roll of thunder echoes above once more.

Something metal clatters downstairs.

Soap tiptoes down the steps, peering into the living room when he reaches the bottom step. The lights are off, save for the kitchen, where you sit at the small circular table, and Ghost stands at the counter near the sink, pouring boiling water from an old kettle into a black mug.

You’re still in your suspiciously oversized hoodie but have changed out of your fluffy shorts, trading them in for long pajama pants decorated with those colorful ghosts from pac-man. Ghost is dressed down significantly, only wearing a thin black t-shirt and matching sweatpants.

Soap should be surprised to see the balaclava still on, but he isn’t.

Ghost sets the mug on the table in front of you before he slides a chair over and sits down next to you. You sit up— almost dragging yourself into an upright position— looking far more exhausted than you had yesterday.

He watches you— attentive and alert in an almost too-intense way— shifting slightly with your every move. You either don’t notice or don’t care, messing with the tea bag and sipping from your cup. You wince when you swallow, and Ghost is leaning toward you, gloveless hand coming to rest just under your jaw. His thumb gently trails along the scar on your jawline, quiet murmurs exchanged and lost on Soap’s ears.

He should go back upstairs; it’s still early, and this seems like a moment he shouldn’t intrude on.

Soap takes one step backward, the woods beneath his foot whining under his weight and settling with a pop.

Your attention turns to the stairs, and Soap makes a snap decision. He stands up straight, heading down the stairs and into the living room, doing his best to seem casual and not like he was just spying on you.

Ghost pulls away from you, sitting back in his chair as you smile tiredly at Soap. Your voice is rough, more so than the tired rasp of someone who’s just woken up. “Mornin’, Soap.”

“Mornin’.”

“The storm wake you up?” you ask, setting your elbow on the table to set your chin in your hand. Soap shrugs, taking a seat across from you.

“I was already up,” he lies. You raise a brow, an amused smile that says you don’t believe him, but you don’t say anything. You lean back, grasping your mug with both hands and letting the warmth soak into your fingers.

He notices the mug first, streaks of the cartoon ghost with a crooked smile peering at him through your fingers. Then his gaze moves to your fingers, where he spots a solid black ring sitting comfortably on your left hand.

“You gonna ask about it?” you ask, grinning at him over the steam as you sip your tea. Soap coughs, rubbing his neck with enough sense to look sheepish. He chances a glance at Ghost, but the man’s eyes stay firmly on you. “It’s fine, Soap. I’m sure you have questions.”

He’ll probably never get this chance again.

Fuck it.

“I have a list,” Soap says, a little too eager, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You get three.” Ghost’s voice is flat and unamused– a stark contrast to your welcoming demeanor.

“Only three?”

“That’s one. You got two left.”

You scoff, reaching over to pinch Ghost’s arm. He grunts– more in annoyance than pain– giving you a half-hearted glare. It’s not ideal, but Soap will take what he can get. Sorting through the mental list of questions he’s been compiling since he first took notice of this little relationship, Soap tries to pick out the most important ones.

The group sits in silence while he thinks; you slowly work your way through your tea, grimacing around every swallow as the storm looms overhead. Thick raindrops assault the kitchen window, a steady waterfall pouring down the glass. Thunder booms overhead, less severe than before but startling all the same.

“Does Price know about…this?” he asks, gesturing to your ring.

“That’s your question?” Ghost scoffs.

It’s a question that’s confused him for months, so yes it is.

“He does,” you answer honestly. “So does my old Captain. They helped get all the legal stuff sorted out.”

“Legal stuff?”

“‘s a little difficult getting a marriage license for a dead man. Some strings had to be pulled.” You speak so casually as if that’s a normal thing to say. They’re around each other so often, Soap sometimes forgets that Ghost’s callsign is more than just a nickname; he’s a literal dead man walking, the living phantom of Simon Riley.

“Does anyone else know? Your old team? Laswell?” A cold chill shoots up his spine, “Did Shepherd know?”

“No,” Ghost sighs.

“My maiden name’s on all the paperwork. Price and Owens were thorough,” you explain. “No one knows but them…and now you, of course.”

Soap nods, fully understanding the weight of this secret he now bears, but he has to wonder-

“Would you've said anything? Eventually?”

You and Ghost share a look before you shrug, staring down into your half-empty mug.

“We talked about it.”

“After Las Almas,” Ghost adds. “Got too used to keepin’ it a secret and ended up never bringing it up.”

“Old habits,” you laugh softly. There’s a swell in Soap’s chest at the thought of you two trusting him enough to tell him about your marriage, even if it never actually happened. There were times when he wasn’t sure if Ghost even liked him, but after Mexico…there was a bond there that he’s realized wasn’t as one-sided as he may have assumed.

Your laugh dissolves into a hoarse cough, and Ghost is instantly on his feet.

“Back to bed, let’s go,” he orders, no room for negotiation. You roll your eyes, standing up slowly and favoring your right side.

“Make yourself at home, Soap,” you say in your gravelly voice, glancing out to the endless rain. “It looks like you might be stuck here a while.”

The storm doesn’t lessen for the rest of the morning and only worsens the following day; it’s clear he and Ghost will be here longer than initially intended.

Soap doesn’t mind, though.

He’s been given almost completely free rein of the house, presented with the rare opportunity to snoop without worrying about getting caught.

He notices the pictures on the third day as he’s coming down the stairs. There’s a tall, thin bookshelf on the wall opposite the bottom step filled to the brim with a vast collection of novels and a few picture frames.

He checks the top picture first, carefully pulling it from the top shelf of the bookcase. It’s a picture of Ghost standing in full gear, sunglasses on over his balaclava, holding a fully grown German Shephard over his right shoulder. The dog is looking to the side where you’re standing in matching gear, hands scratching behind its ears as you make a silly face with your lips pursed.

“Aw, I miss that dog.”

Soap jumps, nearly dropping the picture frame as you appear next to him, looking over his shoulder at the photo.

“Christ, you need a bell or something,” he mutters, setting the frame back on the shelf.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let yourself get so distracted,” you tease. You turn to the bookcase, a fond sigh as you look over the various photos. You let yourself sit in nostalgia for only a minute before glancing at Soap with a slight grin.

“You wanna see more?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

You gather the pictures in your arms, leading Soap to the living room. You set the photos down on the coffee table and gesture for Soap to make himself comfortable on the sofa while you disappear into the hallway next to the kitchen. Soap sorts through the pictures. There’s one of Ghost sitting uncomfortably rigid in the back of a helicopter as you and Trip sleep on either side of him with your heads resting on Ghost’s shoulders. Another shows you with your old team, everyone dressed in civvies and sat around a bar table covered in empty glasses. The third is a duplicate of the one Soap had found in your desk in pristine condition.

“I have this if you want to look through it,” you say as you return a large black book in your hands. You hand it to Soap, and he flips it open while you make yourself comfortable next to him.

It’s a photo album.

An entire photo album of you and Ghost– and sometimes the dog and your old team, but that’s not important.

Soap flips through it in wonder and awe. “Who took all these?”

“My old Captain, mostly. Some were me or one of the others. I think there’s a couple Simon took in there, too.”

“What did I take?” Ghost wanders down the steps, stopping when he sees the album in Soap’s hands. “For fuck’s sake, why does he have that?”

“Don’t mind him,” you huff. You lean over a peer into the photo album, pointing at one in the bottom left corner. “That’s one of my favorites!”

It’s a picture of Ghost passed out on a tattered sofa, exhausted, with the German Shephard curled around his head as he uses it for a pillow.

“Riley was such a good dog,” you sigh wistfully. Soap snorts, glancing over to Ghost.

“Riley?”

“Wasn't my idea,” Ghost grumbles, looking directly at you.

“Didn’t think you worked on a team before, Lt.,” Soap says, handing the album over to you so you can flip through the pictures, pulling out ones you want to show Soap.

“It happened on occasion,” Ghost shrugs, thick arms folded across his chest. “Worked with Owens once before, and she was impressed enough to ask for me on certain missions.”

“And because he had a crush on the doctor,” you mumble, laughing to yourself as you slide another picture out. Ghost seems less than amused, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You were a doctor back then?” Soap questions. That doesn’t sound right. He’s seen you in the field with the 141, your uniform completely different from what you’re wearing in those pictures.

You hesitate, pausing in your picture collecting to knit your fingers together and pick at your nails.

“Of sorts.” Is all you say.

“It was a specialized position,” Ghost cuts in, walking around the back of the sofa to set his hands on your shoulders. “Interrogation Specialist.”

“So, you questioned people?”

“I tortured people.” You look up from the photos, meeting Soap’s eyes with a distant gaze he’s seen many times on Ghost.

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Is that why they called you Hornet?” Is what comes out of his mouth. It’s absurd enough to shock you out of whatever memory you were stuck in, tilting your head in confusion.

“No? Who told you that?”

“Grizzly. He said something about you being like a hornet in a beehive.”

You have to bite into your cheek to keep from laughing, and even then, a few giggles escape you. You relax into the couch, craning your head up to look at Ghost, “I mean, I guess that works.”

“If that’s not it, then why-”

“We didn't have a medic, so I had to stitch everyone up a lot. And most of the time, we didn’t have any kind of anesthesia, and I didn’t give any warning before I started poking with the sewing needle. Grizzly complained that I was like an aggressive bee, Trip told him those were called hornets, and that was that. Not as cool, right?” Soap wants to reassure you, but your attention is back to the book in your lap.

You gasp, pulling out a photo to hold it up to Ghost, “Remember this?”

Ghost’s answer is immediate, “Don’t show him that.”

Well, now Soap has to know.

You laugh, sliding the picture back into its place, but briefly look over to Soap, mouthing later with a wink.

Over the next few days, Soap learns more about your relationship with Ghost.

He learns that you met during a black-ops mission, where Ghost was meant to help escort your team– and more specifically, you– to a remote base to question some high-profile prisoner.

He learns that the two of you worked so well together for that first mission that Captain Owens made Ghost her go-to for any outside help if the team ever needed it.

He learns you spent years working together before the thought of becoming a couple even entered your minds.

And he learns that after that first time together, you and Ghost developed a specific set of rules for your relationship that’s only grown since.

You’ve told him a couple: no obvious affection in public, don’t compromise a mission for the other’s safety, respect each other’s space and the occasional need to spend time apart, no letters or phone calls unless it’s an absolute emergency.

Most were proposed by Ghost, but you agreed that it was for the safety of both of you.

He puts together clues about some of the other– possibly unspoken– rules when he watches the two of you interact. Ghost takes your health very seriously, and sometimes his tone borders on commanding when he tries to get you to rest or take medicine or drink tea without anything added to it. You sass him and roll your eyes, but do whatever he says every time. It’s the same when you ask him to get you something or try to get him to be a little nicer to Soap when he asks about some aspect of your marriage: Ghost will groan or roll his eyes but always bends to your will.

You don’t ask about each other’s missions, either. Soap watches you reorganize the weapon cabinet one day, noticing the blood on a few of Ghost’s knives. You ask if it’s his or Soap’s and if either of them needs to be looked at, but when they assure you they’re fine, you drop the subject.

The biggest question for him, though: the rings.

Ghost’s has found its way onto his finger– the first time Soap has seen it there, while you switch between wearing yours on your finger and on that thin chain around your neck.

It’s on your finger this morning, and Soap is fixated on watching you twirl it around your finger absentmindedly while you stare over the back of the couch at Ghost’s back as he makes breakfast.

(That’s another thing– Ghost has done most, if not all, of the cooking since they got here.)

“It’s weird to see him with a ring on,” Soap quietly laughs. You turn to him, pulled out of your husband-watching trance.

“Yeah, it’s not often we get to actually wear them.”

“One of his rules?”

“One of mine,” you sigh, gaze drifting back to Ghost. You fidget with your ring again, picking at its smooth, rounded edges with your nails.

“No wearing them where anyone can see ‘em, if one of us leaves for a mission then whoever’s staying behind keeps both of them, and if we both have to leave, the rings go in a small safe in my office.”

“That sounds-” Exhausting. “-thorough.”

“You’d be surprised how many captives forget about jewelry. It’s a whole lot easier to get information out of someone the minute you realize they might have someone they want to protect from you.”

There’s an edge to your voice, some kind of mix of nostalgia and resentment and regret.

But Ghost finishes breakfast and Soap decides it’s better not to ask.

Day six of waiting out this seemingly never-ending storm and the three of you are sitting in the living room cleaning your array of guns.

You’re wearing your own clothes for once, a dark cotton tank top and black sweatpants that lets Soap see the full extent of bruising and bandages around your arms. A long bruise stretches across your neck, still purple and blue, and Soap suddenly understands the uneven hoarseness of your voice.

Your hair is up, pulled out of your face so you can focus on your work. Soap can see the scar from the humvee on the side of your head as it disappears behind your ear.

The ear that hides your tattoo.

It’s a quiet afternoon; it’d be a shame to break the peace.

“When did you get the tattoo?” he asks anyway. You don’t answer until you look up and find him staring back at you.

“What tattoo?” you ask in genuine confusion.

“The little ghost behind your ear.”

Ghost freezes, head slowly turning to look at you. “What ghost?”

“Oh, that. I got it after Russia,” you shrug. “Whole mission was a total shitshow, but it reminded me how easily you can lose someone, so, after, I found the nearest shop and got it done.”

You return to your guns, but Ghost’s eyes are trained on you. Soap can see the gears in his head turning, and he briefly worries that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

“Thought we agreed: no marks, symbols, or tattoos.”

A sharp laugh escapes your mouth, eyes flicking up to Ghost in disbelief. “So if I check out that chaotic sleeve of yours, you’re telling me I won’t find a little hornet hidden somewhere in there?”

A beat of silence.

Ghost grunts and returns to his guns and you grin victoriously at Soap.

The power goes out on day nine.

Ghost is messing around with the fuse box. At the same time, you and Soap have decided to follow “sleepover law”, lighting the house up with candles, moving the sofa and coffee table to build a nest of pillows and blankets in front of the lit fireplace, and piling a collection of snacks nearby.

He can hear the two of you laughing in the living room, you exchanging old mission tales for stories about Soap’s nieces and nephews. Ghost sighs, his fourth and last idea to get the power back on failing miserably. He’s frustrated and annoyed and can feel that itch just under his skin that tells him to isolate.

To do that, he’d have to go upstairs.

And to get upstairs, he’d have to go through the living room and pass by-

Your laugh echoes down the hallway, and Ghost can feel some of the tension ease from his bones. The itch is still there– the immediate need to run and hide to deal with any sort of negative emotion by himself– but it lessens when he remembers you’re nearby.

He shuts the fuse box, deciding he’s not going to get anything fixed right now. Instead, he wanders down the hall, stopping just before he reaches the living room to lean against the wall and listen to you and Soap.

“I have to ask-” Soap starts, mischief laced in his voice, “-the mask. Does he ever take it off?”

“If he wants to,” you reply through gentle laughter.

“Really? So what if he doesn’t want to? Does he sleep with it on?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about when you two…”

There’s a brief pause before you snort and answer in a quiet purr, “Sometimes.”

“Nah, yer bum’s oot the windae!”

“...I don’t know what that means, but you asked!”

“You’re not serious!”

“Totally am! I mean…I wouldn’t’ve married him if I wasn’t into it.”

Ghost loves you more than anything in the world, but there’s nothing more he wants right now than for a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him whole.

It’s late, almost reaching into the early morning hours, and Soap cannot sleep. He doesn’t know what’s keeping him awake; he just knows that no matter what he tries, he can’t fall asleep.

After the third hour of tossing and turning and grumbling, he gets out of bed and heads to the kitchen. He does his best to keep quiet, all his stealth training kicking in.

He’s halfway across the living room when–

“Watch your step.”

It takes everything in him not to scream as your voice travels up from the floor. Soap looks down to find you lying on your back on the fluffy brown rug, your legs outstretched and resting atop the coffee table.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus! What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Came down here for some floor time.”

“Floor time?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” You raise your brows at him, reaching out to pat the empty spot next to you.

He stares down at you, but you meet his gaze, eyes wide and unblinking to the point it almost freaks him out. Soap relents, bending down to lay next to you. You clap your hands in victory, scooting over to give him more room.

Soap gets himself comfortable, crossing his feet on top of the coffee table next to yours. You two lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet dark.

It is kind of calming, he has to admit.

“I used to do this with Riley,” you speak softly, barely above a whisper. “I’d lay down, and then he’d lay on me. At first, I thought he just wanted to use me as a pillow, but I think it was more of a grounding thing…he was a smart one, that dog.”

“What…happened to him?”

“He got old. K9 unit retired him, and Simon and I took care of him until…Simon was devastated when we had him put down. He refused to come back here for months after. Said the house was ‘too quiet’.”

“Could always have a kid or two,” Soap jokes. “House wouldn’t be quiet for a long while.”

“No,” you snap.

He sits up, propping himself on his elbows so he can face you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s not…you’re fine, Soap.” You release a long sigh, pulling your feet off the coffee table and sitting up straight. You stretch, back popping painfully from too much time on the ground.

“We’ve talked about kids,” you mumble, fingers moving to fidget with your ring. You look back at him– grey moonlight reflecting off your watery eyes. “Maybe in another life.”

Soap pushes himself to sit up completely, reaching out to settle a comforting hand on your shoulder. You flinch at the contact– relaxing when you realize you’re alright– and Soap pulls his hand away with an apologetic smile.

“Another dog, then? Or a cat? Ghost seems like a cat person.”

You make a sound, some sort of half-scoff, half-laugh that’s muddled by the knot in your throat.

“How 'bout a fish?”

“A fish it is, then.” Soap hears your watery laugh as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. You scoot back to sit next to him, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’ll name him Soap, just for you.”

"Thanks, Doc."

It’s a whole two weeks later from the day they arrived when the water has eased enough outside for Ghost and Soap to go out and check the roads.

You sit on the porch, tucked into a dry chair and another one of Ghost’s hoodies with a hot mug of tea warming your hands. Initially, you wanted to go with them, but Ghost refused swiftly and sternly. You argued that you needed the fresh air, and the compromise was made that you could settle on the porch and keep an eye out while they walked down the road.

Everything looked good, no mudslides, no floods, no fallen trees, so he and Ghost decided to head back and get ready to leave.

Soap spots you as they near the house, staring off towards the brook near the house. You look so calm, so serene that he almost hates to disturb you. But Ghost has no qualms about interrupting your peace as he marches straight up to the house. You don’t seem to mind, judging by the way your face lights up at the sight of him.

He’s had almost every question answered, Soap realizes as he watches Ghost offer you a hand to help you out of your chair, and you use the momentum to pull yourself up and kiss him on the cheek.

There’s only question left-

“Hey, Ghost?” he asks, once the three of you are back inside.

Ghost pauses his cooking, looking back at him over his right shoulder.

“How did you propose?”

“What?”

Soap expected that, but he hadn’t expected you to start snickering from where you’re perched on the counter next to Ghost with your head resting on his left shoulder.

“It’s just…I’ve been thinking about it for a while. And there’s no engagement pictures in that photo album so-”

“I didn’t.”

“You…what?”

“I didn’t propose,” Ghost sighs.

Oh…

Oh!

Soap turns to you and your triumphant– if a bit smug– grin. “I beat him to it.”

“By two days,” Ghost huffs, turning back to the food on the stove. “Patience is a virtue, but not one of yours.” You giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder over his shirt. Ghost nudges you away with a grunt. You lean back for a few seconds before setting your chin on his shoulder so you can stare lovingly at the side of his face. Ghost sighs, letting it happen and turning briefly to lightly tap his head against yours.

“How did you know?”

The question spills from Soap’s lips the moment he catches that little interaction.

“Know what?” you ask, turning to lay your head down, smushing your cheek on Ghost’s shoulder.

“That you wanted to propose. How’d you know you were the ones for each other?”

You sit up, eyes never leaving Ghost, who’s gone unusually still. An uncomfortable tension fills the air, swelling like a balloon ready to burst.

“It was after Sweden,” Ghost mumbles minutes later. He puts the stove on low heat and turns to you, your eyes meeting as he steadily holds your gaze. “We were clearing out that abandoned building, and you found this kid, couldn’t have been more than five…maybe six? They were so scared, but you managed to get them to calm down and come with us. We cleared the place but got ambushed as we were leaving. You gave me the kid and shoved me out of the back exit and-”

“Took a bullet meant for you,” you finish softly. Your hand comes up to graze just below your stomach, absentmindedly clenching the fabric over the spot.

The face you made when he’d brought up children flashes through Soap’s mind.

Maybe in another life.

“Didn’t realize how scared I was of losing you until that moment. You always seemed so sure, so indestructible, like there wasn’t anything that could kill you, like you’d always be there. And then you weren’t, and I thought that was the end until you finally got out of surgery. Wasn’t gonna let you get away after that.”

Tears well up in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. You try your best to wipe them away, a smile of a million different emotions directed at Ghost. Ghost reaches out, sets a hand on your knee, and you meet his eyes before glancing over and realizing Soap is still there– grinning like an idiot.

“Well, I knew the day we met,” you laugh through your tears. Ghost scoffs, playfully squeezing your knee before returning his attention to the food. “It’s true; you can ask Firefly. Moment you started training with us and flipped Grizzly on his ass, I told her, ‘I’m gonna marry that man’.”

“Fuck off.”

They’re packed and ready to leave the next morning.

Soap’s tugging on his boots while Ghost locks up the weapons cabinet, and you stand off to the side, watching. You haven’t said a word all morning, just leaning against the wall with your eyes fixated on Ghost.

Ghost shuts the cabinet with a sigh as Soap finishes lacing up his boots. Ghost glances at him, different this time– a silent ask for a moment alone with his wife.

Soap gets the message, loud and clear.

“Don’t worry, Doc. You’ll be back in your infirmary treating our stab wounds soon enough.” You huff in amusement, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, Soap.” He nods at you and turns to head out the door.

He leans against the wall just outside the front door, staring at the clear brook water that washes over smooth stones until he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks over and realizes he can see straight through the glass of the door where you and Ghost stand, feet apart from each other.

He should look away, get a head start down the road.

But when has he ever done that?

Instead, he watches Ghost slide the mask from his face, giving you a single nod before you launch forward and attach yourself to him. He holds you close like he’s trying to absorb you into his body, keeping you as close as physically possible. You pull back from him– only slightly– and Ghost wipes away the tears falling down your face. He reaches behind your neck, messing with the clasp of your necklace before his ring slides down the silver metal to meet yours at the bottom.

Your hands wind their way around the collar of his jacket, pulling him forward into a kiss he eagerly accepts. There’s no such thing as a goodbye kiss in the Riley household; goodbyes imply never seeing each other again, and that is a future neither you will accept. Instead, it’s a promise.

A promise to stay alive, to come back.

A promise either of you has yet to break.

You pull away, murmuring something against his lips. Soap’s never been a great lip reader, but it’s not hard to tell what you’re saying.

You better come back to me, Simon Riley.

Always.

Another kiss, and the mask is back on, slid into place by your steady hands. Ghost sets his forehead against yours, one last moment together before the inevitable separation.

Soap turns away when Ghost steps back from you, focusing his gaze on a small leaf on the ground until Ghost walks out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Let’s go, Sergeant.”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #mw fics #moth writes #private

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thetriumphantpanda · 4 months

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i've got my love to keep me warm | joel miller

Summary | Joel agrees to spend Christmas with your family, away from the warmth of Texas, and it takes him a little while to warm up to the idea.

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!reader

Word Count | 1.4K

Warnings | Grumpy x Sunshine vibes, some sweetness, some suggestive thoughts but nothing explicit, mentions of consuming food and alcohol.

Authors note | For @yeollie-plz- It's your @pedrostories secret santa!! I really hope you love this because it was good fun to put together! Happy Christmas to you!

“You know, you could at least pretend to be happy?” You tease, nudging your elbow into Joel’s side.

With the way he’s bundled up in his big coat, you’re not sure he actually feels you do it, but he grumbles all the same. Whatever he says in incoherent, but you can discern the meaning perfectly. What’s the point in being here as grown adults? What’s the point in wandering around, looking at lights and getting excited about Christmas, when, for the first time in years, there won’t be any children around?

“Come on,” You beam, taking his gloved hand in yours, “Maybe a drink with a little something in would make you happier?”

“What would make me happier would be sat indoors outta this snow.”

You roll your eyes, pulling on his hand to get him to follow you. He walks by your side, gloved hand sitting in yours as you weave through the crowds of people. Joel had wanted to stay in Texas for Christmas, something about the familiarity of it, not wanting to spend too much money on travelling at this time of year, but knowing it was his first Christmas without Sarah, now that she was all grown up with her own family, you knew that he’d be miserable, no matter that you’d be there with him, so you’d put your foot down, told him the two of you would spend Christmas with your parents up north, somewhere cooler, more festive.

He’d met them plenty of times before, they loved him, thought the sensible, stoic man was good for you. He had his head on his shoulders, a home of his own - settled, is what they’d called him. A far cry from the other boys you’d chosen in the past few years, and they were overjoyed to have a house full of people this year - your brother and his wife, you and Joel, a real family affair.

The centre of town always reminded you of being a child when you came back at this time of year. The streets filled with small stalls - some selling food, some filled with little trinkets from small businesses, all set around the main square, with its big tree, lit up and sparkling.

There’s one stall you zero in on, a small line that you stand in, still gripping at Joel’s hand as you step further towards the front each time someone walks away. You remember the first time you’d stood in this line - you were eight, and your dad had passed you a cup full of warm hot chocolate, a towering swirl of whipped cream on top. You’d sipped it so slowly, savouring the cream and the sweetness of the chocolate, and anytime you’re here, you have to get it, it’s just that these days, it’s always spiked with something.

Joel, of course, orders an Irish coffee - black, bitter coffee, split with cream and his favourite whiskey. You watch closely as he pulls one of his gloves off with his teeth, slipping it in his pocket so he can feel the warmth of it in his palm. He’s watching you just as closely as the lady hands you the cup of hot chocolate, mixed with Bailey’s, still with that tower of whipped cream too.

You both step away, standing off to the side as Joel takes the first sip of his drink. You can see the slight softening of his expression as he goes in for another sip, this one bigger than the first. He’s watching you as you dart your tongue out, taking some of the sweet cream into your mouth before you sip the drink, hissing when it burns your tongue a little.

“That’ll be hot, baby.” He teases, earning a little glare from you as he drinks his again, seemingly unaffected by the steam that rises from his own cup.

“It’s good,” You muse, holding it out to him, “Try it.”

“I don’t want none a’that,” He shakes his head, “Too sweet.”

“Joel Miller,” You chastise, pushing the cup closer to his face, “It’s Christmas, for the love of God, try the hot chocolate.”

He sighs, shakes his head in that way he always does when he knows he can’t win the battle. He hands you his drink, laughs a little when you wrinkle your nose at how strong it smells, takes yours from you and brings it to his mouth, taking a big sip, and when he pulls it away to hand back to you, you can’t stifle the giggle that falls from your mouth.

“What?” He asks, as your giggle falls into proper laughter, “What the hell’s the matter with you?” He snatches his own drink back sinking his neck down into his coat to keep the biting wind from his skin.

“Y-you’ve,” You choke out, pointing at your own nose, “You’ve g-got something here.”

You bring your hand up to his face, running the pad of your thumb over the tip of his nose, swiping the cream from his face. You go to pull it away, to wipe it away on the leg of your jeans, but Joel has other ideas, gripping your wrist to still you. He brings your hand to his mouth, enveloping your thumb into the heat of his mouth. You suck in a breath, feeling the tip of his tongue dart out against the skin, licking the cream off, before he drags your thumb from his mouth with a soft pop.

He drops your wrist from his hold, but you’re stuck, staring right at him, with the familiar throb of want settling across you.

“Thought it was too sweet for you?” You raise an eyebrow when you’ve composed yourself enough to speak.

He shrugs, takes hold of your hand and starts walking you back towards the tree, “If you’re gonna laugh at me, I ain’t gonna make it easy on you.” That familiar tone of grump is back, but you know he doesn’t mind really as he walks slowly, guiding you both to a bench that looks directly at the tree, dressed in red and gold, icy lights casting that familiar festive glow across everything.

He wipes the snow from the bench, makes sure it dry enough for you both to sit on, draping his arm across the back of it, encouraging you to curl into his side. The two of you sit for a while, watching the people come and go - young children excited to stand in line for the chance to meet Santa in his grotto, men on their own going from stall-to-stall, clearly shopping for last minute gifts, and couples, just like the two of you, wrapped up in nothing but each other as they hold hands, point things out to eat other.

“Thank you for coming,” You speak softly into his shoulder, looking up at him as he looks down at you, “I know it’s not really what you wanted, but I like that you’re here.”

“Of course it’s what I wanted,” He speaks just as softly, leaning down to press a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose, “I only ever want to be where you are baby,” He motions his head to the scene in front of you, “Even if it is in the freezing cold, surrounded by too many people, wherever I’m with you, I’m happy, okay?”

You smile at him, tilt your head slightly, as his lips come down onto yours, cold and chapped from the winter air, but oh-so familiar as they slant across your own. You open your mouth against his, let your tongue meld with his own, the bitter of his coffee mixing with the sweet of your own drink. It’s soft, gentle, and over far too quickly. He pulls away, places two more soft pecks against your mouth, and then settles back against the bench, his hand now resting on your shoulder.

A shiver settles across your bones, something to do with the fact that even a few years into your relationship, he still sets you on fire without even trying, but mainly because it’s fucking freezing. Leant against Joel’s body, you feel him shiver a little too.

“Home?” You ask.

He looks back down at you, smiling a little with a nod, “Home.”

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hometoursandotherstuff · 7 months

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Gorgeous 1888 Victorian is a mansion in Reading, Pennsylvania for only $497K. 7bds, 4.5+ba. The architecture, especially on the tower roof, is stunning.

Beautiful entrance hall. The wood was painted white, but the stairs and rail are wood. Isn't that an unusual fireplace? It's stone, but looks like logs. This home has amazingly stunning floors.

Pocket doors open to a wonderful sitting room. The long room has a rounded wall of windows, and an elegant original fireplace.

The dining room is very cheerful and right off both sitting rooms, which is great for entertaining.

Look at the murals in this sitting room. The ceiling is so dramatic.

Very nice den/library with built-in shelving.

They're not showing the whole kitchen unless this is it. It's not at all overly remodeled, but I wish they would've shown it. This sink unit looks like it could be the butler's pantry. Notice the faucets in the wall.

Cute little back hallway.

Nice vintage sink in the powder room.

Very pretty upstairs landing and it also has a leaded glass door to a porch.

Not sure what this room is. Maybe it's the primary bedroom.

This bedroom is very large size.

Vintage style bath.

I'm confused. Maybe they didn't fix up the downstairs kitchen b/c they made one on the 2nd fl., along with a dining room.

Cute 2nd fl. porch.

Long hallway on the 3rd level.

And, this appears to be the primary bedroom up here.

Love the vintage baths.

One of the bedrooms up here.

There's a living room up here, too. It looks like the family lives mostly on the 3rd floor of the house.

Beautiful big patio in the back.

And, a very pretty garden. The neighboring homes are lovely to look at, too.

Around the block is a garage with stairs to the back of the property.

#victorian home #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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polarspaz · 2 months

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Carrion AU Updated Tidbits

So here's a HUGE info dump for the AU, and some minor adjustments to the lore.

-When Tim was a child, he was severely neglected by his parents. They had no interest in him and let the nannies do all of the care taking, and sadly, Tim was fine with that, until he started getting sick.

The nannies that took care of him were suddenly gone, and his parents became obsessed with him eating all of his food, especially dinner, but the more he ate, the worst he got, and Tim wasn't an idiot.

He knew the food was the real reason he was becoming so ill, so when his parents left the house, he studied. He researched poisons, searched through the house for information and clues, and finally found the truth.

The insurance plan filed under his name, the threatening letters from the mob, and even the bottle of poison his parents were using to coat his meals, all pointed to one single truth. His parents were going to kill him. They needed money from the insurance company to pay off the mob and his death would give them just that.

A few night's later, Tim secretly watched his mother make dinner and saw her pour a deadly amount of poison into his meal. Tim's tiny heart hammered against his chest, and one resounding thought echoed in his 7 year old mind, I don't want to die.

So he crept past his mother and towards the wine glasses, pulled out a small vile and dumped it's contents into both drinks. He then went to the dinning table and sat down quietly, his hands shaking the entire time.

Five minutes later and he was still there, trembling. Both his of parents were dead on the floor.

-----

Gotham is divided into two parts, The Gilded Square, and the Chaos Circle. The Gilded Square is the upper center part of Gotham, where Batman and the police force have complete control. This is were the majority of citizens live and where Wayne Tower and Manor are located.

The Chaos Circle covers the entire area outside the Gilded Square and encompasses most of Gotham. Here, there is no law, criminals run wild and their numbers are immense. The worst felons from all over the country are sent here, and psychopaths like the Joker rule the streets.

-Batman does not like killing, but he will do it if he has to. The sheer amount of chaos he has to fight against has brought him to this point. Still, it's a last resort option, and he still won't use guns.

-The rest of the Batfamily try to follow this rule but there are times when it's broken. Jason likes to use guns and has no problem with offing more people than necessary. Dick gets extremely violent when he finds hurt kids. Damian meanwhile thinks torture should be implemented into their cause. Stephanie likes shoving fireworks into unethical places, like eyeballs, and then there's Tim.

-Tim, who likes to make drugs that cause people to claw into their skin so they can dig out the spiders hiding inside their veins. To say Bruce has his hands full in this AU, is an understatement.

#carrionau #dc comics #tidbits

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 4 months

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To the victor the spoils

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 19

Prompt: Enemies to lovers

Rated: T

CW: light blood and violence; steamy kissing; very light dubcon if you squint (they're actually both super into it, I promise)

Tags: Fantasy AU; Magic AU; Guard!Steve; Thief!Eddie; Sexual tension; Flirting; Fighting; First kiss

Notes: Thought that kiss was hot in writing? Wait until you see it! @house-of-the-moving-image did an entire mini comic!

In the end, it’s just the two of them again.

Steve jumps over another groaning pile of half-conscious guards and bursts out onto the roof, cold night air slapping him in the face and making the cape of his uniform whip.

“Munson!” he barks.

He is standing by the edge of the roof, a black cut-out against the starlit sky. As Steve stalks closer, he can see the smile curling at his lips, the amusement glinting in those dark eyes.

“Stevie,” he greets, like they’re two acquaintances who’ve just met on the market square - not the new Captain of the Guard and the city’s most wanted criminal. “My, don’cha look strapping in the new get-up. Congrats, I bet daddy’s mighty proud.”

“Shut it,” Steve growls, ignoring the way Eddie’s eyes linger on his golden breastplate, the way it makes a treacherous heat prickle at his neck. “Flattery will get you nowhere. Now give it back!”

He jerks his head at the necklace clutched in one black-gloved hand. Eddie pouts.

“Don’t wanna. It’s shiny.”

Steve groans. It’s like talking to a five-year-old. A five-year old clad in black armor who’s versed in combat magic.

“It is a priceless magic artifact that’s been in Lord Carver's family for generations-”

“Yeah, and what a load of good they’ve done with it,” Eddie sneers. “High time it got into the hands of someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

“Oh, and that someone would be you?”

“Look at you,” Eddie winks. “Pretty and clever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta-”

“You’re not going anywhere!” Steve snaps. His sword slides out with a high, metallic sound.

Eddie raises his hands. “Woah, big boy. Careful now, you don’t wanna-”

Steve roars and lunges.

Eddie skips out of reach, but not quite fast enough. A lock of curly hair floats to the ground.

“Oh sweetheart, you're gonna regret this,” Eddie purrs.

And all hell breaks loose.

The air crackles with the taste of ozone, a blinding light erupts from the artifact, and Steve just barely manages to parry. Something whirrs through the air, glides off his blade and a sharp, hot pain explodes all over the side of his face. Something warm trickles down his cheek.

“Hell yeah,” Eddie whoops and comes flying at him, giant shards of solid magic whirling around him, eyes eerily alight with their glow. “That's what I'm talking about!”

The world blurs into a frenzy of movement and adrenaline. Attack and parry, dive for cover behind the towers and turrets and battlements of the roof, attack again. It’s almost comforting in its familiarity, this dance of theirs. Steve knows all of Eddie’s little quirks, the subtle twitches of his face that indicate his attacks before they actually come. They’ve done this so often, he can read him like an open book.

The problem is, Eddie knows him just as intimately. Steve screams with rage, forces his aching limbs to go faster, harder, but it’s no use. Every blow that he tries to land, Eddie blocks, every twist and turn he makes, Eddie’s already there, always with that infuriating, dimpled grin, that amused little quirk of his brow.

Until Steve’s foot lands on a wet patch of moss and he slips.

It all goes so fast he has no time to be terrified - just feels the horrible sense of vertigo as the world tilts and the cobbled street jumps at him. Then, before he can so much as scream, there's arms wrapping around him and he's being hauled backwards, back pressed flush against another body. His blade goes clattering into the shadows.

“Whoops,” Eddie chuckles into his ear. Steve can feel his chest rising and falling with exertion, can feel his hot breath clouding against the shell of his ear. “Thought I told you not to fall for me.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, tries to struggle free, but Eddie has one arm around his chest, the other flush against the hollow of his throat, and he can't go anywhere. “Don’t give yourself too much credit.”

“Oh, do I?" Eddie’s lips twitch into a smirk against the nape of his neck. “Then why were you holding back?”

“Fuck you!” he grits out, but all it earns him is a low tut. “Now release me.”

“What, without a reward?” Eddie’s voice tingles down his spine, sweet and potent like poisoned mead. “You know how I am about pretty things. And you wouldn't wanna deny the victor his spoils, would you?”

“Asshole!” Humiliation coils hot and heavy in Steve’s abdomen. “Stop joking and-”

Eddie snarls against his ear. “I've told you a million times, honey. I'm not joking.”

Steve’s world spins again, breath punched clean from his lungs as he is flipped around and slammed against the nearest wall. Eddie doesn’t leave him any time to recover, just surges in with a hungry growl and crashes their lips together. When Steve tries to struggle, he bites down on his bottom lip, uses the pained gasp it earns him to lick into his mouth.

Someone moans, but it takes Eddie running his tongue over the roof of his mouth and pushing a leg between his thighs before the sound tumbles out again and Steve recognizes his own voice. They only break apart when they run out of air, both flushed and struggling for breath.

And that is when the door to the roof slams open and Lord Carver and his men push through.

“He went this way! Seize him!”

Eddie lets out an annoyed huff and leans in for one last peck against Steve’s lips.

“Sorry, darling. Gotta go, y'know how it is. See you next time.”

He steps out of his space and the night air hits Steve like a bucket of ice water. Eddie winks at him and steps over the edge of the roof.

By the time Carver and his guards arrive, the night has long swallowed him.

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #steddieholidaydrabbles #hype's holiday drabbles #phantom thief au

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lalacliffthorne · 9 months

Text

💜 starshine pt. IV 💜

Rhysand x Reader

part I part II part III part IV part V part VI

summary: a promise is fulfilled.

notes: back to our regularly scheduled program of fluff deluxe - with maybe a teeny-tiny sprinkle of angst. come on, I can't just make it that easy.

______________________________________________________________

Crossing the street, I pushed my bag higher up my shoulder, a cool but soft breeze brushing through my hair as I closed my eyes for a second.

Something warm vibrated under my ribs, something that seemed to stem from the city I was wandering through itself, and when I opened my eyes again, my heart rose in a vibrant flutter when I caught a glimpse at the sun sinking towards the mountains, its warm golden light submerging the buildings and gardens into an otherworldly glow.

Velaris. The City of Starlight.

The Court of Dreams.

When Rhys had first told me about it, all those years ago, I had almost not believed him. It had sounded - far too good to be true.

But now, as I made my way through the narrow streets, laughter and voices winding through the air from restaurants and bars, families passing me, I suddenly understood the light that appeared in his eyes whenever he talked about the city.

It was beautiful.

The buildings were big and winding, with towers and bay windows and balconies, the cobblestone streets between ranging from wide ones leading to big squares to narrow, connected alleys. There were wisterias winding around the houses, in full bloom just like the trees, their petals being sweeped through the streets by the soft breeze, lacing the air with a sweet scent.

A few children were chasing a whirlwind of blossoms, giggling, and I could feel something in my chest swell.

My eyes flared golden for a moment, and the petals rose in a rush, moving through the air like water flowing and sweeping around the children, their laughter growing as petals brushed over their cheeks like gentle tickles.

I smiled brightly and exhaled a soft laugh before turning back ahead, my breath hitching as I slipped out of the street and found the river in front of me. Bridges with intricate carvings arched over the water that reflected the light of the first golden lanterns and the sky, a few stars already visible, twinkling in the pale blue that spanned all the way to the surrounding mountains.

It had taken me longer than expected to fulfill my promise. After taking care of those still Under the Mountain and the faeries there, I had brought those captured home. By then, many faeries had started leaving the places they'd sought shelter at.

But the chaos that had become the courts had not spared their homes. Many of the wild woods, the meadows and riverlands had been destroyed or had withered without the fairie´s care.

And so I had spent almost two months making my way from Spring up all the way to the North, rebuilding the fairie's homes a lot easier with the assistance of my magic. It had mended something in my chest, cracks that had formed there over the past fifty years, cracks caused by the harm that had been caused to those I felt I was made to protect. And not a day had gone by where I hadn't felt the gentle rake of claws down the walls of my mind, like the male they belonged was trying to assure himself I was still there.

I knew Rhys was probably up to his ears in work, things that had piled up over the last fifty years; mending his own court back together. But still.

I knew him.

Knew how wonderfully, awfully self-sacrificing he was, and how he had the admirable and not at all healthy tendency to always put everyone else first.

The stubborn male hadn't sought me out once. And it had made something rise and ache in my chest, more with every passing week, until over the last few, I had rushed, moved as quickly as possible, barely halting to accept the faerie's words of thanks.

It felt like something pulled me north, something that became stronger the closer I got.

☆

The sun was almost touching the snow-covered mountain peaks when I finally found the adress Rhys had left me. It was located at the end of a long street, a bit off the city center, sheltered by blooming trees and hedges, just like the other properties.

Carefully opening the gate covered in sweet smelling vines, I felt my heart skip softly against my ribs.

Before me rose a big house made from sandstone, with huge windows, carved details and a domed roof, blossoming plants climbing the walls. There were bushes in bloom planted in front, and as I slowly made my way towards the steps at the side of the house, leading to big wooden doors, I caught a glimpse at the garden beyond.

My breath hitched, and I slowed until I stood still.

Flowers bloomed, wild and free, faeries whizzing through the high grass, giggling and chasing each other over a pond with floating lilies, reflecting the mountains lining the horizon and the sky above, beginning to turn pink.

Something rose in my chest, swelling and thrumming as a soft, slightly shaking laugh built in my throat, and I quickly wiped a hand over my nose.

Staring at the garden for another second, my heart fluttering wildly against my ribs, I blinked before looking up the houses façade. Then I turned, climbing the steps to the door where I hesitated for a second before I raised my hand to knock gently.

After waiting for a minute and knocking again, I felt my brows furrow, and my heart skipped softly when Rhys' voice echoed through my memories.

Don't worry. The wards will let you in any time, day or night.

I could still hear the cheeky smile in his voice, and something rose in my chest.

Raising my hand again, I paused for a moment before carefully placing it onto the wood of the door.

My heart skipped when I felt a shift under my fingers. A soft breeze brushed through my hair and brought with it the small of chilled nights and wild flowers, and my lips rose into an incredulous smile when the door opened with a creak.

Carefully stepping over the threshold, I felt something begin to flutter gently against my ribs as I slowly made my way past the staircase leading up and felt my lips part softly.

My gaze flickered over the one wide room that was the first floor, open and flooded by the golden light of the sinking sun coming from the big windows that opened like doors into the garden. There were shelves filled with books to the front, comfortable looking couches and soft carpets, and a big oak table over in the open kitchen with an array of chairs. The air smelled warm, of blooming flowers and a trace of Rhys that lingered, like he'd been here some time in the past few days.

Something rose under my ribs, quick and fluttering wildly as I carefully let my fingers graze over the back of a leather armchair, breathing in the scent of the flowers on the dining table – and then the air shifted behind me, and I quickly looked over my shoulder, my heart rising in my chest and breath stilling.

Rhys had appeared next to the stairs, looking a little out of breath, his hair windswept like he had rushed as his wide eyes flickered up the stairs.

My gaze quickly darted over him, and something tightened harshly in my chest as I practically drank him in, because Gods, I had missed him. Far more than I had realised, something that seeing him again Under the Mountain had not changed; in fact, it seemed to have made it worse, because as my gaze dragged over the familiar width of his shoulders, his inky black hair and that stupidly beautiful face, something in my chest began to ache.

Rhys' eyes darted away from the stairs as he turned quickly, and his body went completely still when his gaze found mine.

Something swelled under my ribs, rising as it pulsed warmth, and I swallowed before sending him a smile, soft and just a little cheeky. “Hello.”

Rhys stared at me like I had knocked one of the books from the shelves behind me over his head. His violet eyes were wide, his throat working as he swallowed lightly, and suddenly, the ache in my chest grew unbearable.

Dropping my bag, I darted towards him, and Rhys stepped forward, catching me as I crashed into him.

His familiar scent washed over me like a tidal wave as his arms tightened around my waist, lifting me slightly until only my toes touched the floor as he pressed me into his chest, and I dug my fingers into the back of his shoulders, my arms wound tight around his neck as I buried my face in his shirt. His scent filled my nose, the warmth of his skin causing my own to heat, and something rose under my ribs, fluttering into my throat when I could feel the light shudder going through Rhys' body.

His arms tightened around me like I wasn't already pulled flush into his body, then he dropped his head to bury his nose at my shoulder, a slightly shaking breath leaving him.

“You're here,”, he mumbled, his deep voice hoarse, and I slid my arms down from his neck to wind them tightly around his middle, curling into his chest because it felt like the only way to still get closer.

“I promised, right?”, I mumbled into his shirt, my own voice sounding a bit weak, and Rhys slid his arms up from my waist to wrap them around my shoulders, dragging me further into his body as he dropped his nose into my hair.

My heart clenched when I felt a tightness form in my chest, one that wasn't mine but belonged to the male in front of me, who felt tired, and worn, and a little heavy, but like him, and the feeling in my chest swelled.

Breathing out, I felt my shoulders sink. Winding my arms tighter around Rhys and nuzzling my face into his chest, I mumbled: “I hope not everyone can walk in here like that, because then we'd really have to talk about your security measures.”

Rhys huffed into my hair, his lips moving up against my forehead when he mumbled back: “What do you take me for, an idiot?”

I felt my own lips rise, and Rhys seemed to realise it too, because he added a grumbled: “You know what, don't answer that.”

A giggle bubbled in my throat, and I could feel Rhys' muscles shift under my hands, slowly relaxing as he wrapped me up tighter in his arms.

“You're not an idiot,”, I whispered softly, pressing my nose into his shirt, and my heart skipped when I could feel Rhys begin to smile brightly into my hair.

“I've been telling you that for more than a century, darling.”

His voice sent a soft tingle down my spine, low and rumbling warmly, and I grumbled: “I take it back.”

“Nuh-uh,”, Rhys murmured, and I could feel his smile widening.

Closing my eyes, I carefully sent a wave of warmth his way, to lessen a bit of that heaviness clinging to him, and Rhys' grip shifted as his shoulders sagged.

We would have probably kept standing there for another while, because tiredness suddenly washed over me, the exhaustion of the past two months finally catching up with me, and Rhys didn't seem like he was planning on letting go either, his grip softening as he held me, body unwavering even when I slowly let my whole weight sink against him, burying deeper into his chest.

But then something shifted at the back of my mind, soft and curious, and I hesitated before pulling back.

“Rhys?”

The male looked down at me, violet eyes tracking over my face, and I slowly slipped out of his grip a little, feeling my brows furrow gently as I stared up at him.

“Who's house is this?”

Rhys' hands on my hips flexed a little, almost like nerves as he slowly slid them off. Then he blinked and smiled, soft and lopsided and almost a little sheepish as he dipped his head to the side.

“Yours.”

I blinked. My arms slipped from his waist as I stared up at him, feeling my lips part, and suddenly, the ache in my chest was back, only it was different now, pressing onto my lungs and causing my breath to hitch.

“What?”, I whispered softly.

One corner of Rhys' lips curved, his eyes moving over my face as he shrugged lightly.

“I always hoped you'd come here one day. And I didn't want you to feel like you were just visiting.” He blinked, and it almost looked like he was hesitating for a second before he mumbled, voice hoarse: “I wanted you to have a home here.”

Staring up at him, I felt the ache rise. Looking over my shoulder, my eyes brushed over the beautiful living room, the garden visible through the big doors –

Something thrummed harshly against my ribs, and turning around, I sniffled and moved forward, slipping my arms around Rhys' neck and hugging him so forcefully, he huffed a little in surprise.

“Thank you,”, I whispered, my heart rising as my bottom lip trembled a little and a tear ran over my cheek as I quickly squeezed my eyes shut.

Rhys breathed out and wrapped his arms around me, dropping his chin onto my shoulder, and his deep voice rumbled through my body when he mumbled back, sounding a little raspy: “Purely selfish reasons.”

Giggling softly, I pressed my nose against his shoulder. Then I pulled back to stare up at him, breathing a soft, incredulous snort.

"Only you casually buy someone a house."

Rhys grinned. "Always aiming to impress." Raising his hand, he gently brushed his thumb over my cheek, wiping away a tear as he stared at me, one corner of his lips curving. Then he blinked.

“Come on.” Leaning down, he picked up my bag before straightening and sending me a slow grin that caused his cheeks to crease and my heart to do a backflip. “You're staying with me tonight.”

“And where would that be?” Feeling my lips curve, I turned around to follow Rhys towards the windows leading onto the terrace.

Rhys pushed open the doors, and something skipped lightly against my chest when he threw a look over his shoulder, his violet eyes twinkling lightly when he raised a brow.

“The House of Wind.”

The soft air brushed over my skin when I stepped onto the terrace, breathing in the scent of blooming trees as I slowly took the two steps leading down onto the grass. Then Rhys turned around, and my breath hitched when the air behind him rippled, shimmering as his wings melted out of the darkness. I had seen them before, but they still made something tumble softly in my stomach, the way they opened in a stretch, flared wide for a moment before relaxing and folding lightly against his back. Then I blinked.

“Oh, hell no.”

“No other way.” Rhys shrugged, eyes twinkling.

“I am not flying with you.” I glared at him.

“Darling, the only way to the House of Wind is by air travel.” Rhys' lips curved in amusement when he raised a brow. “So unless you've learned how to grow wings, you'll have to fly with me.”

“No.” Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I shook my head. “Won't happen.”

Rhys casually slipped his hands into his pockets, eyes bright when he tipped his head to the side.

“You know, it sounds a little like you don't trust me.“

“That's low.” I glowered at him, and Rhys breathed a chuckle, something skipping against my ribs at the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned at me.

“Just telling you what it looks like, sweetheart.”

I grumbled.

The most annoying thing was – I did trust him. And he knew it.

What he didn't know was that I had trusted him for so long, and still, it scared me just how much.

Rhys seemed to see how he cut through my resistance, because he smiled, that godsdamned beautiful smile, and raised his brows.

Glowering at him for another second, I gave up my defensive stance and huffed. “I still don't see why I can't stay down here.”

Rhys chuckled and stepped towards me, carefully slipping my bag over my head and sending me a smile as he tightened the strap across my chest until it was sitting securely on my back, his eyes twinkling like the stars.

“Because I am far too selfish to let you stay anywhere I am not.”

Something got stuck in my throat as I looked up at him, and he sent me a wink that had me pull myself out of my stupor, deadpanning at him.

Rhys laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down my spine, my body fighting to angle towards him.

“Alright, starshine.” He grinned down at me, eyes glittering with mischief. “Hop on.”

I huffed.

“Wha-“ Interrupting myself with a soft squeal, I quickly grabbed onto to Rhys when he picked me up. My legs locked around his waist like reflex, arms clinging to his shoulders, and my eyes widened a little.

“What are you –“

Rhys' laugh made his chest vibrate, his arm under my thighs hoisting me up slightly to adjust his grip, and my heart skipped so high, I knew he'd caught it when he grinned at me.

We were on eye level for once, noses almost brushing and his body impossibly close, and I had to keep myself from holding my breath.

“Really?” My voice was a little breathier than usual, but huffy, and Rhys' eyes twinkled.

“Hold tight.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.” I tried not to swallow, and Rhys' lips curved upwards as his eyes dragged over my face.

“You have no idea.”

My breath hitched when I stared at him and the spark in his eyes.

My voice sounded a little shaky but moderately threatening when I mumbled: “If you drop me –“

Rhys smiled brightly. “Don't worry, love. I rarely drop anyone.”

I flicked his ear, and the grin I got in return made my heart stagger.

Rhys chuckled and raised his brows. “I am insulted you think I wouldn't try to catch you.”

My breath hitched, my mouth opening.

“Try to catch me; you –“

Rhys' wings opened as he took a step backwards, and with one strong beat, he launched into the air, leaving my stomach and my squeal down on the ground when we shot into the sky.

Wind whipped my hair as I squeezed my eyes shut tightly on instinct. My fingers dug into Rhys' shoulders, my legs tightening around his waist and arms clinging to his neck in a way that could not have been comfortable, but he just held me steadily as his wings carried us higher and higher. I didn't dare look down, instead hastily turning my head to bury my face in the crook of his neck, and I could feel Rhys' chuckle rumble deep in his chest, the arm slipped around my waist tightening.

“You know, if you were to look down to your left right now –“

The teasing tilt of Rhys' deep voice right at my ear made me dig my nails into his shoulders, and his warm laugh caused my stomach to dip for an entirely different reason than the way he leaned to the right as he dove into an elegant curve, wings stretched wide as they took us higher and higher with powerful movements.

When, after what felt like an eternity, Rhys' feet finally touched solid ground, my muscles had cramped into place. I refused to raise my head from where my nose was pressed into Rhys' neck, keeping my eyes shut tightly. Just in case.

It most definitely did not have anything to do with the fact his scent had filled my lungs or how warm he felt. Warm and solid and safe.

Rhys chuckled lightly, his grip loosening until only his right arm was resting under my thighs, supporting my weight effortlessly, and I could feel air graze my skin as his wings disappeared into the shadows. Then his warm breath brushed over my ear, causing my heart to miss a beat when his nose gently nudged my temple.

“You can open your eyes now, starshine.”

Ignoring the teasing tilt in his voice, I furrowed my brows, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Are you sure?” My lips brushed over Rhys' neck with my sceptic grumble, and it almost felt like he shivered a little under the touch.

Rhys just huffed in amusement, and I cracked open an eye, peaking over his shoulder.

My heart stilled, and my breath hitched as my lips parted softly.

Slowly, I raised my head.

Terraces stretched away from the mountain and the façade of a palace carved out of the very stone, shimmering in the moonlight. Blooming trees and gardens flanked the stone balustrades, lanterns and fires dipping everything in a golden light.

And far, far in the vale below us, the Sidra glittered in the moonlight, and around it, Velaris stretched into the distance, a maze of cobblestone streets, blooming trees and sandstone buildings, lit in a warm golden light that reflected in the river while mountains rose in the distance, guarding the city from all around as they rose high into the night sky.

A night sky filled with more stars than I had seen in my whole life. Glittering, twinkling in dozens of galaxies stretching to the horizon, hues of lilac and pink gleaming in the pitch black darkness.

It was so beautiful, it caused my chest to ache.

I hadn't realised my throat had closed up until I swallowed harshly, something skipping violently against my ribs when I whispered: “Oh.”

Rhys shifted, and I turned my head, my heart getting stuck in my throat when I found his eyes already on my face. There was a light in them, like they were reflecting the galaxies above as they pierced into mine, one corner of his lips curved upwards just enough for a crease to appear in his cheek and my breath to falter.

Suddenly, I realised I was still clinging to him, bodies still pressed together, so close that our noses were almost touching. Yet Rhys didn't make any move to let go.

Lightly swallowing again, anything to fight the sudden urge to lean forward, I unlocked my legs from around his waist, and Rhys loosened his grip enough to carefully place me on the ground. When my feet hit the stone floor, my knees almost buckled, and Rhys caught me by the waist, his eyes dancing with amusement when he leaned down his head a little, grinning at me.

“Am I making you weak?”

I had enough sense to hit his biceps instead of just gaping at him.

Rhys chuckled and straightened.

“Come on.” His hand slipped to the small of my back, and his chest bumped into my shoulder as he began to gently push me towards a pair of big doors leading into the House of Wind. “I'll show you to your room.”

Following Rhys through the halls, I felt my heart skip lightly. It felt a little strange, like the mountain was humming softly, not quite a presence like the one of the male next to me, but still –

“You'll stay right down the hall from me.” Rhys threw me a look, his eyes twinkling. “In case you get lonely.”

I huffed, trying to ignore the strange tingle down my spine, and Rhys chuckled, creases forming in his cheeks.

“Where is everyone?” I slipped my bag onto my shoulder.

“Azriel and Cassian are staying in the city right now. You'll meet them and Mor tomorrow.”

I sent him a cheeky grin. “Still scared they're going to steal me away?”

Rhys slowed as we reached a door, and his eyes moved over my face, then he blinked, one corner of his lips rising softly. “More than ever before.”

Looking up at him, I felt my brows furrow gently, something turning a little in my chest. But then he pushed open the door, and as I stepped over the threshold, my eyes got caught on the ceiling and the star constellations depicted in golden paint on inky black, and my breath hitched.

“Oh.”

☆

I woke up from the mountain trembling.

It was far past midnight. The sky was deep black, the stars twinkling, and I had fallen asleep with a soft skip in my chest, the bed in the guest room soft like a cloud, my eyes on the constellations painted onto the ceiling. But now, my breath was heaving, a pressure on my chest that wasn't coming from me, like a weight pressing me down, and my eyes widened as horror took over me.

Rhys.

Scrambling to my feet, I almost stumbled when the tremble of the mountain stopped, the windowpanes no longer clinking. My heart skipped into my throat, and I slid over towards the door, ripping it open – and barely catching the tall figure tumbling through it.

“What –“ My eyes widened as my heart tightenend harshly, and I nearly lost my breath at the wave of emotions crashing over me as warm, sweaty skin pressed against mine. Then Rhys' soft, broken voice sounded next to my ear.

“I'm sorry.”

My throat closed, pulled tighter and tighter as I felt his fingers digging into my waist and the way his chest heaved with his shuddering breaths, and pulling back, I slipped my hands up to cup the sides of his face, staring at him and feeling something press onto my chest at the sight of dried teartracks on his cheeks and his eyes, iris blown and utterly terrified.

Trying to swallow, I whispered, my voice cracking slightly: “Come on.”

Pushing the door open with my shoulder, I slipped under his arm and wrapped my own around his waist, and something closed around my heart like an iron fist when I felt Rhys lean heavily against me, his nose brushing over my hair as I started to guide him towards the bed. He sank onto the mattress, and I slipped into between his legs, my hands carefully cupping his face as I tracked his heart rate, off and racing, felt a slight tremble run through his body. Then his hands slid around my waist and pulled me forward, and something pulsed harshly, painfully in my chest when Rhys wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my shirt. I could feel something wet seep through the fabric and barely fought back the burn in my eyes, a heavy weight on my throat when I slid my arms over Rhys' shoulders and buried my nose in his soft hair.

Rhys held onto me until I felt his heartbeat calm a little. Then his grip around my waist tightened, and he pulled back, arms slow to slide away from me, hands coming to rest at the back of my thighs.

“I'm sorry for waking you up,”, he mumbled, and his rough voice caused something to break a little in my chest. "It's why the others are staying in the city, but - I couldn't stand the thought of you being here but not with me."

My breath hitched, heart skipping high.

Slowly sitting down on the mattress, I pulled my legs up. Something skipped harshly against my ribs as I watched Rhys, his hunched frame, so unlike him, head dropped, hair dishevelled as he ran his hands over his face.

“What happened?”, I whispered, barely audible and a little uneven.

Rhys turned his head, and something skipped hard against my ribs when his eyes found mine, pained and raw. Then he mumbled, hollow and hoarse: “She killed you.”

My heart beat once before stilling.

“I always dream about it. Her killing you.” Rhys blinked, staring into nothingness. Then he turned, slowly pulling myself up until he was sitting fully on the mattress, back against the headboard. There were dark circles under his eyes, skin sallow. I hadn't even fully realised he wasn't wearing a shirt until I saw the scar on his collarbone that I knew hadn't been there.

Before.

Rhys swallowed, staring at my knee. Then he mumbled: “Even though I'm back here, I feel like some part of me is still trapped down there.” A muscle in his jaw shifted, pain flashing through his eyes. “With her. I can still feel her, whenever I close my eyes. When I sleep, I dream about – what she did. It makes me –“

His face twisted into something that made my breath still. Then he blinked and raised his eyes, and they found mine, tired and a little broken when he mumbled: “I never wanted you to have to witness that. What she did, what she made me do – wasn't just for her pleasure.” His voice crumbled a little when he mumbled: “It was just another way of torture.”

My fingers trembled, but I kept staring at him, feeling my breath shake. My eyes were burning, and there was a pressure on my chest, a weight that made my body ache as I couldn't tear my eyes away from him, the male in front of me who had always been sure and charming and overly confident boarding on annoyingly arrogant and who now looked tired and a little empty, like something deep inside him had been shattered.

All because of her.

I didn't realise I had started to shake, my whole body so tense, my fingers dug into my knees until Rhysand´s soft, slightly cautios voice made me tear away my eyes from the scar on his collarbone.

“Starshine?”

My eyes darted up to meet his, and Rhys looked at me with his head tipped to the side.

“You're glowing.”

I blinked before hastily drawing away my eyes, swallowing against the pressure in my throat as I found a golden light pulsing around me.

Quickly, I furrowed my brows, drawing back the magic, even though it still raged soundlessly in my chest, then I raised my head again, and my heart tightened when I met Rhys' eyes that were already on my face.

Trying to fight the ache in my chest, I whispered, my voice hoarse: “I should have ripped her to shreds.”

Rhys breathed a laugh, and something tumbled in my chest at the way his eyes crinkled slightly, some of the familiar curve of his lips returning onto his face when he looked up at me. That slightly broken look was still there, and even though he was smiling softly, I could feel his pain.

Before I could stop myself, I dove forward, tackling him in a hug so forceful, it knocked the wind out of him; his arms catching me in reflex the only thing preventing me from slipping right off the other side of his lap.

I could feel Rhys freeze for nothing more than a second. Then a slow breath left him. His shoulders sagged and his arms circled around me, pulling me into his chest so tightly, I lost my breath, his grip almost squashing my ribs, and something stilled in my chest when he turned his head to bury his face in the crook of my neck.

I tried to swallow against the weight in my chest, pressing my nose against his shoulder and closing my eyes tightly.

“I wish I could take it away.” My voice was nothing more than a whisper, but I knew Rhys had heard me, because he shook his head without pulling back, his face still pressed into my neck, and something fluttered against my throat when he mumbled, voice so rough, it vibrated over my skin: “You've already done much more than I could ever give back.”

“Rhys –“

“You saved me.” Even though his deep voice was steady, it sounded raspy, and a little breathless when he added in a soft murmur: “You have been saving me since the day I met you.”

My heart did one small skip. Then it stilled.

Staring at the wall, I tried to fight the pressure in my throat as something warm rolled over my cheek, and I fisted my hands, quickly burying my nose at his shoulder and squeezing my eyes shut tightly.

There was an ache in my chest I couldn't explain.

Rhys propped his chin onto my shoulder, his hand gently running over my back, and I sniffled and huffed, my voice grumbly and a little shaky when I mumbled: “Shouldn't I be comforting you?”

Rhys breathed a chuckle, and the sound filled something in my chest I hadn´t realised had been empty.

“I think it's fine if we comfort each other.” I could hear the way his lips had curved and breathed out, threading my fingers through the hair at the back of his head as I pressed my nose against his shoulder.

A low hum left Rhys that had his chest vibrating and something jump in my stomach, and when I pulled back lightly, his eyes had closed as he leaned back into my touch. There was something so unguarded about this face, hurt and tension and restlessness still visible in the way his brows were crunched a little, but the shadows of Under the Mountain seemed to fade slowly as a light rumble built in his chest, voice rough when he mumbled: “I think I need headscratches.”

My heart skipped, and I felt my lips curve into a slow, soft but cheeky smile.

“Are my ears deceiving me or is the mighty High Lord of the Night Court actually asking me for headscratches…“

Rhys' grip around my waist tightened when he huffed and cracked open an eye, but one corner of his lips quirked when he glared at me.

“Yes, so think about your answer, because the High Lord is going to remember if you decide to deny them to him.”

I breathed a laugh, grinning widely at him.

“One, you're not my High Lord, in case you forgot about that; High Lords aren't really a thing for me, which leads me to two; are you trying to use your title on me, because you know I am not impressed by something like that –“

“Well, you could be impressed by other things -“ The rest of his words went under in a deep, soft chuckle when I lightly tugged at his hair, just enough to make a grin spread over Rhys´ face.

Feeling my heart skip, I loosened my grip, and Rhys' eyes rolled back a little when my nails raked gently over his scalp. Something twitched in my stomach at the way he groaned softly, head tipping back into my touch, the movement exposing the curve of his throat.

I swallowed softly, watching as little by little, my fingers massaged away the tension clinging to the male in front of me. His shoulders slowly slumped, hands around my waist relaxing before gently pulling me closer in what felt like subconcious, and I was suddenly glad his eyes had fluttered shut, attention clearly somewhere else, because I couldn't keep myself from holding my breath.

Stupidly pretty.

When I finally slid my fingers out of his hair, Rhys looked close to falling asleep on the spot. His eyes were drooping as he fought to open them fully, gaze seeming a little dazed as he blinked a few times, and I felt my lips curve when I gently poked my finger into his chest.

“Happy?”

Rhys' eyes found mine, and something skipped high into my throat when they pierced into mine, tired and warm and still twinkling softly. Then one corner of his lips rose a little.

“Profoundly.”

Staring at him, I felt something surge in my chest, warm and rising, and my lips curved cheekily as I raised my brows, whispering a little roughly: “Good.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, and I knew that I should have broken eye contact, should have looked away, because the way my heart was beating against my ribs, firm and steady, was strange and scary - but I didn't.

Not when Rhys was watching me like this, tired, lips curved up far enough for his cheek to crease.

I blinked, then I tipped my head to the side a little, mumbling softly to not disturb the quiet: “Are you going to try and get some sleep?”

Rhys stared at me, something behind that tired sparkle in his eyes when he mumbled back, voice almost a little rough: “Are you going to get me back if she finds me again?”

My heart slipped into my throat, and I barely suppressed the urge to swallow, instead sending him a soft, crooked smile, mumbling quietly: “I´ll fight her over and over again if I have to.”

Rhys stared at me, and blinking, I carefully slipped off his lap, tugging up the blanket and sliding under it. Rhys followed, heavily turning onto his side, and I let my head sink into my pillow, my eyes tracking over his face. Then, before I could stop myself, I slid closer, and I almost thought I could feel Rhys' breath hitch when I wrapped my arm around his waist and buried into his chest.

“I hope for your sake that you don't snore,”, I mumbled softly into his warm skin, and something that felt a little like a shudder went through Rhys' body. Then his arms slipped around my shoulder and squeezed, pulling me into his chest until even the last bit of me was pressed into his body.

My heart got stuck in my throat when I felt him bury his nose in my hair, then Rhys mumbled, his voice almost a little hoarse: “Why? Would you kick me?”

My heart skipped gently, and I felt my lips curve into a slow, cheeky smile as I whispered back: "Don't think I'd spare you, High Lord."

I could feel Rhys' lips rise, then he breathed out softly, and slowly, very slowly, his heartbeat calmed, only occasionally hitching gently. Exhaling lightly, I closed my eyes and felt something pulse gently in my chest.

"Night,", I mumbled softly, and Rhys' hand slipped up, fingers tangling into my hair, his thumb gently brushing over the back of my neck and causing a tingle to run over my skin when he mumbled back: "Good Night, starshine."

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