Sharkluver - MOLLY - Tumblr Blog

I'm curious. Reblog this if you know how to cook

I don’t even care if it’s macaroni, ramen or those little bowls you stick in the microwave. Please, I need reassurance that most of the population on tumblr WOULDN’T STARVE TO DEATH if their parents couldn’t fix them food or they couldn’t go out to eat. 

girlhood is staying up late to read the top posts in an x reader tag

im a mess right now😞my dog just died…could you please write some comfort?

my dog had a heart disease but he was doing fine…but today he started throwing up blood…he got to the vet but it was too late…his little lungs were filled with blood….im devastated. i went to see his body and he looked like he suffered so much…the vet tried to bring him back but he didn’t….

tomorrow he’s going to be cremated 😞

hello, hon, I am so sorry to hear that your dog passed away <3 I'm sure your dog was loved just as much as family, and I'm sure he took that love with him when he passed. Here's some comfort for you ❤️ sending so much love and hope in your direction!

**small note: I wrote comfort over fluff, so it’s emotionally heavy. Sorry if you wanted something lighter!!

Broken, Together

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags: slight blood and injury, hurt/comfort, reunion, fluff, confessions, flirting, implied sexual content, implied relationship, getting together, literally just straight tension between the two of them Word Count: 5.5k

-

“Hah—fuck,” you groan, not even bothering to mind your volume. Birds—what few of them were left—fly wildly from the tree next to you, running away from the pain of your shivering voice.

Let them, you think, resting your tired face against the plain of rock beneath you, There’s no helping this now.

The rain falls in merciless sheets, pelting you like miniature balls of ice with every minute of this miserable downpour. The river behind you is overflowing now, running red with untreated cuts and gloomy skies, and whirls around your dragging feet with every move, swallowing you up in muck. Listlessly, Scarlet trails of blood follow your path, but you can barely feel it pouring from the gash in your stomach.

You’d given up on walking a long time ago. Compared to the pain in your side, the fracture in your ankle was nothing, but they’re both a unique agony in their own right. You’d walked on the injury long enough, stumbling through the forest with your rifle and helmet. However, one wrong footfall had sent you tumbling down a cliffside, shards of rock and rubble imprinting themselves on every broken bone in your body—and not gently, either.

That had been half an hour ago. You’d barely made it a quarter of a kilometer since. 

The moss of the river bank tears into clumps within your grasp, washing away in the stream as you heave yourself up onto the bank. The scream you let out rings throughout the forest like a siren, and there was no doubt about it now: anyone who might have heard that would be coming soon enough. If they hadn’t trusted the sound the first time, they’d be running come the third.

Somewhere behind you, the war zone rages on. Dropping bombs paint the sky an eerie, smoke-shade of reddened blood. The nightscape is starless, hidden beneath a layer of dust and grime that not even the most powerful of telescopes could have seen through, but you look anyway.

Uselessly, you flop onto your back atop the river, unable to contain the tears of pain that leave you with the movement. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself once more, shakily setting your hand atop your bleeding cut. The treetops dance above you, swaying with every gust of the wind. It’s a gentle movement. Serene, almost. 

It’s not a bad place, you think idly, Wouldn’t mind staying here for a bit…or forever, at that.

Your lower body floats in the stream water. The rain washes away the dirt on your face. The searing pain of your injuries continue, but for the first time in days, you manage to take in a single, clean breath.

No one was coming for you. Your teammates had forgotten you—not that you blame them. If anything, you should be the sorry one. When the bombs had dropped and the five of you had been tossed in different directions, they were hardly the first thing on your mind—that’s not to say they were the last, however. Though, to claim that you’d even thought of them within the last twenty-four hours would be a stark lie. No, you were much too focused on your own dripping blood to do anything more than sit in the darkness and lick your wounds.

You sigh, trying desperately to find a star between criss-crossing tree branches, but your mind ranges on.

You didn’t come for them.

So they wouldn’t come for you.

If they aren’t already dead, that is, your mind helpfully supplies, Forty-eight hours alone, wandering through a war zone without backup and with no ammo reserves to speak of…better men had died from less.

Your fingers slip when another swathe of blood pours from the wound.

Well, at the very least, if they were well and truly gone, you’d probably be joining them soon, you smirk at the thought, Apologies can be saved for then…

The idea should have been a grim one, something that made your skin crawl and tears spring to your eyes. Yet, you find that it does the exact opposite. Instead, it falls over you like a worn blanket, painting yellow strings of warmth up your exhausted skin. An easy smile overcomes your face, and with little more to spare, you let your eyes fall closed, imaginary clouds swirling in the mass of darkness. Like that, you fade into the grass and rocks, fall away into the clutches of the earth underneath you, until it’s impossible to discern where the moss begins and where your camouflaged body ends.

Every breath is a trembling affliction, some sort of well-endured soreness. And for what seems like hours, you relish in the idea that soon enough, this will all be over. Soon enough, you really will fall back into the place you come from, back into the cradle of the distant star your very atoms were born inside of.

The moss is like a pillow.

The rocks feel like home.

The sky hangs overhead like a mobile, and with it, everything spins…

…and spins…

…and spins…

Until it doesn’t.

A loud snap resounds from the edge of the riverbank, and before you know it, something solid rams itself against your shoulder, falling headfirst into the stream at your feet. All at once, what feels like five hundred pounds of weight crushes down on top of you, replacing your comfortable end with a set of broken ribs instead.

“Fuck—,” you scream, automatically shocking into action despite the agony curling in your stomach. Uselessly, you try to push yourself back up the bank, but whatever—or whoever—just interrupted your reverie has a different plan.

A set of shaking hands grapple at your clothes, protruding from the water like a leering monster. They thrash though the waves, yanking you back down the rocky bay. You shriek as they pull your body into the water, nearly shoving you beneath the surface as they stagger to their feet. The shadow of them—the enormous, looming ink of it—consumes you when they emerge, haphazardly digging their claws into the collar of your uniform.

“Don’t—” they pant urgently, like they’d been suffocating mere seconds before, “Don’t you dare fucking move, you hear me?”

Flecks of water and spit rain down on you with his every word. Through the haze of your pain, you note that his voice is hollow and grisly, like he’d been choking up blood for hours before he came. With wide eyes, you clutch at his meaty forearms, trying to shove him away.

“Don’t fucking move!” He shouts again, jostling your body in his grip as he stumbles over his own two feet, “One more move, and I swear—swear to god, I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”

Something cold and wet is shoved up against your forehead. The barrel of the gun shakes with the force of his shivering. Between words, white plumes of breath fan over your face, and just barely, you can make out the shine of his irises through the fog of night.

“Woah—woah,” you tremble, limping lifting your hands in surrender, “I’m—I’m unarmed. Swear to god. I’m…fuck, I’m dying anyway. Couldn’t—couldn’t hurt you even if I tried…Swear it.”

For a few seconds, only the stunted sound of your shared breaths taints the air.

“I swear,” you whisper, like you still had anything left to plead for.

The man above you pauses, breathing deeply, and for a second, you take in the look of him. His face is…

Well, it’s a mess, to put it lightly. He’s covered in blood—watery rivulets of it—from bones to teeth, gathering in the slits of his gums. His lips are blue and split down the middle, front teeth broken crudely. His hair is matted with sweat and dirt, and mottled wounds cover his hollowed cheekbones. And his eyes are…Well, you can’t even see them. They’re swollen shut almost completely, a shade of purple so dark you might have mistaken it for black. Judging by the way his muscles contort around his words, he’s feeling every ounce of the violence inscribed upon his face.

“Just let me go,” you ask him gently, “Let me go, and—and I swear I won’t follow you. The allied FOB, it’s—” you point over his shoulder into the tree line, “It’s back that way…at least, I think. Whatever country you’re f-from, they’ll take care of you.”

The longer you continue speaking, the more skeptical the man becomes. Though, ‘skeptical’ might be the wrong word to describe it. If anything, he seems…confused. Shakily, he lowers the barrel from your forehead, and the purple skin around his eyes draws tight for a split second, almost as if he were trying to squint at your face.

“Rogue?” His voice is gentler this time, softer, “Rogue…is that you?”

At the sound of your callsign, your blood runs cold, brain shocking back to awareness.

“How—” you grab onto his forearm, ready to fight for your peaceful death if it comes down to it, “How do you know my name…”

A sharp breath escapes him, and all of a sudden, he’s holstering his gun, grabbing you under the arms to haul you up. His broken lips curve into a hazy smile.

“‘Cause—’cause it’s me, Rogue!” he huffs, a shivering laugh following the noise, “It’s me, Ghost.”

At that, you force your eyes to open impossibly wider. Puzzled, you squint at his ravaged face, fingers tightening around his wrist.

“Ghost?” You furrow your brows, “You’re not—you’re not Ghost. Ghost doesn’t show his…”

“Rogue, just—just look.”

He reaches down towards his belt, haphazardly sinking to his knees in the muck when your weight becomes too much for him to support. Like that, both of you fall back into the freezing lap of the stream, an odd peace overcoming you. It takes him a minute to find it. However, soon enough, he pulls a sheet of sopping, black fabric from under the surface, shakily holding it up in front of his face.

There, against a muddy background, stands that familiar white skull. It’s chipped around the edges and somewhat sad looking, what with the water. Yet, there’s no denying it. That’s Ghost’s mask, the same one you stared at over a hand of playing cards or over a couple drinks at the bar. Instantly, his hands hardly feel like chains around your wrists anymore.

“Ghost?” You huff, sitting up with more strength than you can remember having in the past forty-eight hours.

The man—Ghost—can’t contain the smile that overcomes him, not even when you’re sure the pain of it must be blinding.

“Yeah,” he answers happily.

“Ghost!” 

Without even thinking, you grab him around the strap of his vest, yanking him into a tight hug. The water pushes in between your bodies, in between your beating hearts, and yet, his warmth sustains you. It survives you. You, with your cold hands and trembling body. Him, with his warm chest and blue lips.

“Holy shit,” you laugh into the crook of his shoulder, feeling more alive than you have in days, “How did you—Fuck, where have you been? Are you hurt? How are you?”

“Fuckin’ better now that I found you, love,” he chuckles, locking his arms around your waist. You can feel him resting his chin against your shoulder, stubble scraping over your cheek. It’s weirdly close, to feel him like this—to feel his arms, chest, cheek, and smile bleeding life back into your body after you’d gone so long without it.

“God, me too,” you exhale, relaxing inside of his grasp. You’d never considered it before, but something inside of the way that he holds you—like he’d sincerely missed you all these hours—is so comforting you can’t even begin to describe it. No, you can only melt into it, counting every beat of his heart as they come and go against your sternum.

“You’re…” Another sharp breath; this time, worried, “You said you’re dying…?”

His arms weaken around your body, almost like he wanted to pull back and look at you, but you don’t let him. Instead, you hook your arm around the back of his neck, pressing him into your shoulder. Some part of you—small and nagging—doesn’t want even an inch to separate you any longer.

“I—I don’t know,” you shake your head stupidly, some dumb smile on your face, “I guess…I thought I was. It definitely felt like it. But I’m not so sure anymore. God, now that you’re here, I…”

Your words trail off, their meaning too heavy for you to shoulder alone. Unconsciously, your fingers tangle in the hairs at the base of his neck, and you squeeze them lovingly, chest stuttering with a sort of happiness you never thought you’d feel again. 

Unwillingly, you can feel as tears gather in your eyes. They burn against your freezing cheeks when they fall.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Ghost,” you whisper, voice trailing off into a small cry. 

He doesn’t say anything—he can’t. The only response to your words is the way that his muscles tighten, the way that his chest rises and falls rapidly when he pulls you in all the harder, holding you steadfast against his thrumming pulse point.

“Me too, love,” he rasps, voice choked, “Me too.”

For a minute, it all fades all. From the fires raging in the distance, to the death you thought was waiting so near, they all fall limply in the face of your embrace—in the face of the emotions coursing through you.

Maybe you wouldn’t die here.

You didn’t want to die here.

Not anymore.

Not now that you have him.

Not anymore.

“Fuck,” you pull back with a sniffle, crudely wiping snot away from your face. You reach out with your dirty hands, gently cupping his swollen cheeks. He winces at even the smallest touch, instinctually grabbing your wrist to lighten your touch.

“Where have you been?” You ask with a grimace, looking at his battered body, “Are you dying?”

“No,” he chuckles, but it cuts off into a small grunt. He drops his face, tucking the mask under his belt, before reaching up a finger to play at the cut of his split lips.

“Hope not,” he huffs gleefully, lifting his face into the light for you to look at, “Probably got a pretty good concussion going on. Head sure fuckin’ feels like it. But…I think m’alright.”

You nod, pulling your hand away from his cheek to run it through his buzzed hair, checking for cuts along his scalp.

“You don’t look like it,” you joke, “I mean, I’ve never seen your face before, but…I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that.”

At that, Simon laughs heartily, not even trying to resist the grin on his pale lips any longer.

“Yeah, that,” he sighs, running a hand over his jaw, “After the first fire run, I ran into the tree line. Wasn’t much cover anywhere else, so I figured that was the best shot at survival—and I wasn’t wrong. Only problem was that I was running in the wrong direction,” a grim countenance overcomes him for a minute, “Ran East for just a minute too long, accidentally ran straight through their bloody lines. For what it’s worth, the bastards didn’t notice me for a few hours…but, once they did…”

He sighs, rolling his eyes—like this were all just some stupid inconvenience for him instead of a life-threatening injury. You resist a laugh. Simon was like that, always confident in himself and his abilities, even when one simple mistake could prove so deadly.

“Some prick from Kortac thought it’d be a right laugh to get a look under the mask…paid for it with his life. But, not after he banged me up good,” he continues, “He tried to smash a rock over m’head, but couldn’t manage it, so he brought my head to the rock instead. That was yesterday. The swelling’s flared up pretty bad, and when I tried to put the mask on, the faceplate felt about two sizes too small…”

He huffs, looking down at his sodden mask.

“Figured I’d rough it for the night,” Simon chuckles, “Hasn’t been too bad. Mask woulda gotten in the way, anyway. M’eyes are so swollen I can barely fucking see…Didn’t even know you were there ‘till I tripped right over you.”

He looks down at your body and at the swirls of red blood cascading through the ripples around you.

“Sorry about that, by the way,” he breathes, reaching down to idly put pressure on your seeping wound.

“It’s alright,” you grit, hurriedly grabbing a hold of his shirt at the sudden sensation, “Better—than the fucking stab wound, I’ll tell you that…Though, you could do to lose a little weight, LT. Swear to god you almost cracked a rib when you fell on me like that.”

“Well,” he snarks, “Noted, love. Guess I won’t be on the cover of Vogue anytime soon, anyway. Not with a face like this, at least.”

“Exactly,” you giggle, but it quickly turns into a pained gasp when his fingers pull the two sides of your flesh back together. You writhe in the water, curling into his chest in some vain attempt at hiding yourself from the pain.

“You good?” He asks absently, rubbing over your stomach without hardly batting an eye at the way you cling onto him.

“I’ve been better,” you mewl, eyes wrenched shut, “Still—still not sure I’ll ever do better, though…”

“Don’t say that—”

“Ghost—”

“I said, don’t say that,” he scowls (or, well, as much as he can with his bruised façade), “Not yet, at least. I won’t let you.”

For a moment, all you can do is sit there against his chest, looking at where the scant moonlight phases through the colors of his blonde stubble. Although his face isn’t a pretty sight at the moment, you can’t help but memorize it, running your eyes over his each and every detail, like you were looking at him for the first time all over again.

“You promise?” You ask hesitantly, grabbing onto the back of his collar.

“I promise,” he answers without a second thought.

At that, you take in a low breath, before nodding in response. The hand against your stomach tightens for a beat—a token of reassurance—before he’s shifting on his knees.

“Here,” he huffs, getting his feet underneath himself, “Over that hill, you see it? There’s an overhang. Might give us a bit o’ cover from the rain.”

“Okay,” you follow listlessly, hooking your arm around his neck. However, just when you begin to come to your feet, the crackling bones in your ankle <em>scream</em> in protest. Limply, you fall against him.

“Fuck,” you grunt, looking down at where your feet disappear in the water, “Stupid legs…”

“Can you walk?” He huffs, stumbling over his own two feet. It nearly sends the both of you tumbling back into the water. Mentally, you chuckle at the pitiful image the two of you must make.

Maybe that concussion was worse than he was letting on, you raise your brows, staring at his grisly face.

“Far enough,” you reply instead of speaking your mind, carefully curling your hand around his back. Although your strength is marginal, even just the suggestion of your touch seems to straighten him up—enough to get onto the bank of the stream, at the very least.

“Good, ‘cause—” Simon’s voice peaks on your first step, a deep, hollow noise escaping him, “‘Cause once we’re there, m’not sure how much longer I can—bloody stand.”

“Right—back at you...” You grit, wrenching your eyes shut with another blistering step.

-

Fire-starters were a fickle thing, you’d learned.

Especially in the rain.

“Damnnit,” you curse, scowling down at fingers once more. The rain had done a number on Simon’s dwindling supplies, and none but a single fire starter remained. Good thing he was a heavy smoker, otherwise you’d have to light this fire caveman-style.

Yeah, you take a deep breath in, Maybe you could lay off all the warnings about lung cancer…it all seems like a trivial fucking problem in the face of this.

“Here,” Simon weakly shuffles closer, jacket halfway down his arms.

He pries the lighter out of your hands, flicking his thumb across the wheel. Without further persuasion, the flame blinks to life, a stark burn against your frozen skin.

“Fuck—!” Simon’s arm jerks, and he hurriedly covers his eyes, nearly dropping the lighter against the ground.

“Woah—you okay?” You yank the lighter out of his hand, hurriedly nestling the sparks against the kindling. It goes up in flames (thankfully) hardly a second later.

“Yeah, s’just—” he furiously rubs over his eyes with the palms of his hands, shoulders tight in agony, “The light is just…This—fucking headache won’t go away…”

“Ghost,” you shuffle closer to him, wrapping your arm around his shoulder, “Maybe you should lay down for a minute. I’ll—I’ll finish setting everything up, and we can figure things out in the morning.”

“No—no, Rogue, I won’t fuckin’ leave you by yourself,” he rakes a hand through his hair, under-eyes blackened and tired, “You’re hurt, too. That cut needs cleaned and dressing—and don’t you dare fuckin’ tell me otherwise.”

At that, you snap your mouth shut, swallowing the very words he’d just predicted. His eyes are woefully deadpan beneath all the swelling.

Gotcha.

“Ghost, you’re just as bad,” you come closer, holding his shoulders.

“Don’t say that,” he pulls your hand off of his shoulder, clutching it in front of his chest, “Don’t compromise yourself for me just because of a stupid little—”

“I’m not compromising myself—”

“I said no, okay? So just—”

“Ghost, your face is fucking purple right now—”

“And that’s okay so long as I know you’ll make it through the fucking night!” He whisper-yells, voice strained, like even the act of talking were painful in and of itself, “This headache can last as long as I know that you’ll last, okay, love? You get what I’m saying? Do you understand now?”

With every word that he speaks, his fingers curl tighter and tighter around your own, until you’re sure the shaking in your frame is from the blistering way he melds your skin and not the frigid winds whipping up your back. Unbidden, you’re speechless, and eventually, his voice dwindles into nothing. However, his hold remains.

“Ghost…” you begin, but you don’t know how to continue. His breath materializes like falling snowflakes between the two of you, and from his height, he curls over you closer.

“You remember what I said back then? That night at the bar?” He leans his face down, forcing you to meet his eye.

Your breath hitches at the mention, a glowing heat gathering in your cheeks. You barely have the bravery to raise your lashes to look at him, but when you do, he remains the same, bloodied man that he’d always been.

“I’m done letting you think that you’re unimportant, Rogue,” he whispers, his very words woven into the plains of your skin, “Not to me. Not to any of us. I’m done. Do you hear me?”

Shakily, you nod your head, looking down at your intertwined hands. Something inside of you—small and fragile—revels in the heat of his skin, and yet, another part of you shudders in the shadow of it. The cast of its unfamiliarity. The way that he touches you. The way that he speaks to you. The thoughts you know he has of you…and your own inability to muster your bravery.

“Let me take care of you. For once,” he continues, pleading.

Briskly, you swallow, closing your eyes. His scent wraps around you like a blanket, and with shivers running up your spine, you submit to the uncertainty of it. To a man whose face you’d never seen before…to a man whose lips you hardly remember the taste of.

Unwittingly, your brain thinks back on that night in the bar.

Kentucky bourbon.

Slurred dialogue.

Linen sheets. 

Dripping sweat.

The truth of him—one that you didn’t even know had existed…

God, you remember the way he tastes. In the recesses of your drunken memories…

Lime and hops. Stringent alcohol and cigarette smoke. Victory, virility, vitality and all of their counterparts. It was wasted on you. Or, at least, you thought it had been. Ghost, on the other hand, had never given up quite so easily.

“Simon,” you say for the first time in months—for the first time since that night. His chest stills against you.

“Then,” you press your hand to his sternum; it looks inconsequential against the mass of him, “Let’s do it together. Take care of each other, I mean. Can we do that?”

You look up at him from where you sit, shadowed beneath everything that he is. Through the darkness, you can see the way his jaw grinds for a few seconds, before he gives in.

“Only if you let me make the first move,” he huffs, a small smile overcoming his lips.

You can only scoff, eyes dropping back onto the ground between your legs. Blood rushes to your face, and your fingers fidget against his chest.

“Don’t you always do that?” You quip under your breath.

“Well,” he shuffles closer, gently grabbing your shoulder, “You tell me, love. Was that night in the  bar a one-off or…?”

“Simon,” you keel forward with an embarrassed laugh, looking over his shoulder instead of his face, “You—you can’t just say things like that…”

“Why?” he turns his head, lips brushing against your cheekbone. His fingers fumble at your collar, painting shivers into your being with every brush of your touching skin. The sound of the zipper is stark when he begins to edge it downwards, “Afraid you might like ‘em?”

At that, you don’t even have the strength to make a joke. No, you hook your arms around his neck, placing your chin on his shoulder while he slowly opens your jacket. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” this time, he presses his cheek into yours; it’s so dreadfully, beautifully warm, “But I know you’ll listen.”

His words are like a balm, distracting you even when his fingers begin to pluck at the hem of your shirt.

“Can I push it up?” He asks you gently, “Just enough to clean the cut. I won’t look if you don’t want me to. I swear.”

“Why?” You mumble, hiding your face in the crook of his shoulder like that might give you more bravery, “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before…”

“Trust me, love, I remember,” he shifts on his knees, nose brushing your hair, “But I know how you get about that stuff…All delicate ’n whatnot.”

“M’not delicate,” you giggle, even as something cold and wet presses into your bloodied stomach.

“You’re not,” he replies mindlessly, “But you felt that way. That night.”

That night.

Your skin bristles viscously at the thought, but even more viciously at the feeling of his fingers holding your wound closed. Instead of focusing on the pain, you try desperately to lose yourself in the memory of it, of how his bare skin had felt against yours that night. He doesn’t see it, but you can’t help but smile dreamily at the thought of it.

That night.

God, that night.

You were younger than him. Callow, too. Half the time you felt like some bloodless kid standing next to the rest of them. Unintelligent. Unimportant. The charity case that somehow made it to the big leagues. 

Of course you’d always had eyes for Ghost—who wouldn’t—even before he’d dropped the pretenses and admitted that he thought of you as friends. You still remember the night he’d finally told you. You’d nearly drove yourself insane with all of the swirling thoughts that had swallowed you up when you’d laid down for bed.

After that, you felt like a teenager writing his name in the margins of her diary, in looping hearts and gel pen. 

He was so far above you, and you, so beneath him. By all means, you were nothing to him.

Until that night.

Until you were in your cups, falling off of your barstool.

Until he pulled up his mask to take another drink, and you saw his smile for the very first time.

Until the boys went home and only you remained.

Until he pulled you close and told you that he thought you were beautiful—that he thought you were everything.

Until the only thing you could sense was the whiskey on his breath and the slick heat of his sweaty hips pumping back and forth between your legs.

Swallowing, you pull your fingers into his jacket, holding onto him like he might disappear into the very earth that had encompassed your tomb not an hour ago.

That night, you weren’t some small thing any longer. You weren’t some crushing high-schooler or immature teenage girl. You felt like the woman you’d finally become, the one you swore he’d made you.

If only you could’ve had the courage to look him in the eye and admit to all of it in the months that’d followed…

“I think you’re delicate,” you murmur in the swathe of his shirt, “Not back then, but now…”

You pull back, cupping his jaw. His skin and taut and thin, mangled and grisly. You can tell that the singular point of contact is agonizing to him, but he doesn’t resist it. No, he lets you hold him there, even when a wince works its way up his throat.

“Is that how I seem to you?” He asks, breathing you in.

“Simon, like this…” you follow the marks with your eyes, from his chin to his hairline, “With everything that’s happened to you…I guess, I thought you were invincible, but…”

Listlessly, your hands drop to his collarbones, plucking at a loose string on his shirt.

“But you’re fragile,” you whisper, lips brushing against his chin, “Human.”

The words are chock full of some unspoken emotion, something that had been boiling inside of you for so long, but had never quite managed to spill over. Until now.

“I guess that I…” you take a deep breath in, “I guess that I thought I couldn’t hurt you. That nothing could. And…I’m sorry for that, Simon. For thinking that of you.”

When you raise your head, he looks deep into your eyes, into the flickering shadows and dancing firelight. They burn his senses, grate on his nerves, rip out his heartstrings—and yet, he remains still. Fighting, still.

“Rogue, listen…”

He pulls his hand from underneath your shirt, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you close. When your bodies meet, when his chest becomes flush with yours, hips nestled just above yours, a warmth you’d nearly lost in that freezing stream returns to you. Everything you’d felt that night—the night when you’d finally done right by yourself and by him—comes rushing back, just as jarring as the headache that rocks his world.

“Everything out here—everything that’s happened…” he speaks, “The light, the sound, the people, this world—they hurt me…but you don’t. You never have. Never could.”

Transfixed, you push your hand into the pocket of his jacket, pulling him closer.

“I promise you, love,” he whispers, “Nothing you’ve done, nothing you’ve said has ever done that to me. You’ve a kind heart. A soft one.”

The words are raspy and low, a salve or medicine.

“Sometimes, though, I just wish you’d hurry up and give it to me,” he chuckles, though it quickly transforms into a wince.

At that, you can’t help but chuckle too, muscles tightening around his comforting embrace. Here, the world is just as peaceful, just as calm. It’s just as serene as the stream or woods, just as bright as the furthest shining stars. But unlike the rest of this world, you don’t want to leave it. Not now. Not yet.

“Then…” you swallow the emotions in your throat, “Would you mind waiting for me for just one more night?”

His chest rumbles with a hearty laugh, his big palms sliding over the curve of your back.

“Hardly,” he answers, “As long as tomorrow comes, I’ll have you. I promise.”

That one twitter trend

Danger zone || B.C.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

pairing is benny cross x reader

in which your job at the bikeriders bar turns out to be riskier than expected, and one gunshot is all Johnny needs to send you away. Benny takes you to the motel to protect you. but is it really safe when you don't even know him?

word count: 3,3k

warnings: multiple mentions of death, murder and violence, forced proximity, panic attack and angst, reader is freaking out, some comfort because I’m not evil

Around midnight, you drained the last swallow of your beer and wiped the droplets dribbling down your chin with your thumb. 

Drinking was one of the advantages of working there. You could have a glass or two and none of the men would even bat an eye or notice. They were too engrossed in their own activities, whether it was playing pool or smoking at a table. It also included listening in on conversations the men wouldn’t normally have in front of strangers. If the threats and secrets had creeped you out on the first days, you didn’t worry so much now. 

The place reeked of cheap cigarettes and the gruff laughs of the regulars filtered the warm air. It wasn’t the cleanest nor the calmest place, but you found it safe most of the time. Mostly thanks to all those men, determined to proclaim the place as their own. 

Weeks ago, on a stormy day similar to this one, you had run to the bar and pounded relentlessly on the door. After a few seconds, a head had popped out, dark eyes narrowed down at you. Those irises had made you step back, unsure for a second. 

“What do you want, kid?” the rough voice had asked you, visibly in a hurry.

You couldn’t remember the exact words you had told Johnny then. Something along the lines of ‘Please, I need a job, I’ll do anything you want’. And it had worked–only on the second day of begging. Probably annoyed by your insistence, the boss of the club had opened the door under a few conditions. 

What happened in the bar stayed in the bar. No questions, no knocking around with the guys. Johnny had suggested you could sweep the floor at first, visibly unsure of what he was getting himself into. And here you were, a few weeks after, cleaning the place from the tiny office to the pool cues and doing most of the bartending when the place was crowded. Your role was still ambiguous, but the men knew better than to talk to you about personal urges or demands. Johnny would kill them, you had no doubt. And you just needed the money to help your mother out. 

In fact, despite the forced compliments and the invitations to have a drink somewhere calmer, you had found some sort of serenity there.

Wahoo and Corky had forced some kind of friendship with you and now shared the most gruesome details of their adventures. Cal always asked you how you were. Benny was… Benny.

Johnny had swiftly introduced you to everyone one night, and Benny had practically been the only one to ignore you. Since then, you didn’t pay much attention to him. 

You weren’t here to make friends anyway.

“You should go home now,” Johnny’s voice echoed in your ear, startling you. “It’s gettin’ late.”

Setting the beer down, you turned around to glance across the bar. Nothing seemed off. Corky waved an eyebrow at you from his table, beckoning you to come and join their game. The others were playing pool as usual, a hanging bulb above their heads. Barely enough to light Benny standing in the corner, cue in hand. 

You met his eyes for a second and faced Johnny again, scratching your neck nervously. 

“Look, if it’s because I’ve drunk a beer or two tonight…”

“Three,” Johnny cut you off, looking as nervous as you. “I don’t give a fuck. You remember the kids from yesterday? Hmm?”

How could you forget? They had walked in like they owned the place and insisted that the guys go outside to have a look at their damn motorbikes. After a few seconds of standing behind the bar, terrified that they were coming for you, you had heard their bones cracking and swiftly pretended to be wiping the dirty counter. The beer stains were engraved into the wood, no matter how hard you rubbed the surface. You supposed it would be the same for you; some issues would always remain, no matter the cover. 

“Yeah,” the word coming out of your mouth sounded weak, so you repeated it a bit louder. 

Johnny nodded at you almost fatherly, a toothpick hanging from his lips.

“I think they’ll come back tonight,” he told you. “Cause a bit of trouble.”

Crossing your arms across your chest, you shifted on your feet and hoped you looked at least a bit tough while feigning insouciance. “Well, I’ve seen it before, y’know. It's not the first time y'all fight like beasts."

“I want you to go home,” Johnny nodded at you like you were a moron, staring down at you until your shoulders slumped. “Don't know what they’re capable of.”

Shit, you thought.

“I really need the money, though,” you added, hoping to draw some empathy from him. 

“And I really don’t need an innocent girl on my floor.”

You could almost picture yourself lying there, in the silence that followed the panic and the screams. Would it be so terrible to be freed from this life?

Sighing, you tried to find the right words to convince him you were fine. You had seen plenty of broken nose by then. You were almost immunized. 

“I’m just saying–”

That’s when the first gunshot echoed. Fear gripped your heart in a tight fist, and you saw that image of you again. Your dreams vanished, as though they had never existed in the first place.

Actually, you could wait a bit before dying. 

Johnny yelled at you to move, the shock leaving your fingertips buzzing. Another gunshot crossed the room and a framed picture burst out in pieces just above your head. Yet, your scream was stuck behind the panic blockading your throat.

Falling to your knees, you ignored the pain shooting up your thighs and hid your ears, unable to make a decision now that Johnny had gone. Were you supposed to run away and get killed like a fucking rabbit? Stay there, hidden, until they found you?

A yelp broke free from your mouth when you suddenly felt an arm around your shoulders. 

Benny’s face had never been so close to yours.

His expression was always so blank, almost emotionless, you had noticed. But then… concern was etched between his eyebrows, anger broiling beneath his muscles. There was something behind those eyes, and you could only wish it wouldn't harm you somehow.

“C’mon. Come with me,” he only said, his hand sliding down your arm to catch your hand.

Time slowed down for a second. But Benny’s touch was grounding you, gazing at your face like you were just a deer in a forest of monsters. So with a quick nod, obediently, you squeezed Benny’s hand and ran with him, holding his hand for dear life. After all, he was holding your life between his hands. You weren’t even sure why you blindly trusted him in the first place. 

Benny slipped into the hallway and you did the same, already panting by the time you reached the back door. 

“I’m getting you outta here,” Benny mumbled while shooting a quick look behind.

When he was sure nobody was following you, he got on his motorbike and told you to hop on behind him. Another gunshot was heard, followed by glass exploding, and it didn’t take you long to follow him. You swallowed the lump in your throat when he started the bike and drove off slowly at first. 

“Hold on,” you heard him say, that deep voice still unfamiliar tp your ears. 

Numb from panic, you tightened your arms around his waist and only realized you had never done something so impulsive and dangerous when he sped along the road. Your bodies swayed and rocked with the swerves of the bike, but Benny wasn’t bothered by the rain. You weren't either, too busy freaking out about what just happened.

Not long after, a U-shaped motel came into view along the highway. You held your breath for what was about to come, now starting to sweat when you didn’t recognize the area. 

“They won’t know we’re here,” Benny explained, as if sensing your worry when he got off his shiny motorbike.

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The new guys.”

Both his lack of explanation and honesty caused you to nod, unsure of what to say next. Benny scanned you from head to toe, visibly looking for something to say as well. Eventually, he told you to follow him. 

With another look behind, you blew out a shaky breath and followed him up a couple of stairs and in front of a white door, the same as the others on the floor. The inside of the room didn’t look so gleeful either. From the dull curtains to the messy linens on the bed, you almost took it as a sign to run away. 

“Might’ve been better if I’d gone home,” you broke the silence first, shivering.

Benny glanced up at you, taking off his leather jacket. His black teeshirt said something in white. You slightly squinted to read what was written, but couldn’t see anything. 

A strange discomfort curled in your chest. He stood there, more divine than any man you had ever met, and yet he wasn’t even capable of simply talking. What was the point of staying here? Have a staring contest?

The situation you had put yourself into seemed even more dangerous than standing in the middle of gunshots. Your carelessness again. It would get you killed someday. 

The soft patter of rain hitting the windows filled the room, inviting him to look at any potential danger outside. It was ridiculous to stand there, waiting for the storm to pass.

“I’m fine,” you dared to speak, glancing at the small bed. “I was doing fine.”

Your siblings had told you way too many stories about girls being murdered in motels like that. They all came back to your mind at once.

“You’re sleepin’ in your car most days,” Benny’s voice almost startled you. "You're not fine."

You softened at the tone he used, yet cringed at the words. The question had thrown you off. You frowned at him, searching for a credible answer for a minute.

It was hard to lie to him, though. It felt like he could see right through you. 

“How do you know that?” was all you asked, your heart thumping louder.

“I’ve seen you.”

“You’ve followed me, haven’t you?”

“I’ve seen you, is all,” Benny repeated, pulling a lighter from his jeans pocket. 

The flame cast his face in gold tones as he lit a cigarette between his lips. With an expression you were unfamiliar with, he stared at you for a second and blew out a breath of smoke. He settled on the chair by the small table and the room fell into silence again. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about him watching you as you walked up to your car, even though you always tried to find a spot where no one could see you. And why didn’t it feel as creepy as it sounded? 

A shiver ran down your neck when it was your turn to look out the window, finding yourself relieved at the sight of the empty parking lot. At least they didn’t seem to be coming for you. Or for Benny.

“What are we waitin’ for?” you asked, turning around to find Benny already looking at you.

“Johnny will find us. We’re not goin’ out if they’re still ridin’ around,” he replied like it was obvious and easy, tapping his cigarette on the table. “They’re out of their mind, all of ‘em.”

“Why's that?”

A shrug was all you got. 

With a sigh, you paced from the door to the bed until you had to rub your eyes not to fall asleep right there. Your gaze found Benny’s through a haze of smoke, the silence too comfortable for your liking. Almost shyly, you sat on the bed and wrung your hands to prevent them from shaking. The memory of gunshots filled your mind. Were any of the men wounded? Dead? It could have been you. It definitely could have been you.

“Where’s the bathroom?” you asked, so fast you barely recognized your own voice.

Benny stilled and took one last drag of his cigarette, nodding to a door you hadn’t noticed until then. Clearing your throat, you crossed the room, mumbled something about the beers you’ve had, and bypassed his shadow.

The bathroom was ridiculously small, the bath filthy. Deep down, you hoped he wasn’t living here. You almost hoped he had a wife and a warm place to come home to at night. Not an unsafe and lonely place like this. Though you supposed he was lonely.

After all, you still knew nothing of him. 

Speeding through the room, you checked behind the bath curtain and made sure the door was locked. And you stood in front of the mirror, flinching at the wind blowing into the tiny window, your painful heartbeats and the ceiling creaking. You had been serving beer just an hour ago, and you weren’t even sure where you stood now. Unbelievable. And Benny was there too, making sure you weren’t being killed by some men you hadn’t truly seen the faces of. 

Shakily, you unzipped your pants and eased the pressure in your bladder. You couldn’t stop thinking about the bar. 

Two or three cars idled in the street behind the motel, every nerve of yours anticipating gunshots to cut through the air. What were you doing here? You were going to die, and who would even know about it? Your father had met his end that way, killed like a dog. 

The distant whoops of police sirens outside were drowned out by the overwhelming fear settling in your veins. You usually handled it well. The fights and acts of revenge were regular, not to say daily, since you started working there. So then, you weren’t sure why your body started shaking uncontrollably, little hiccups rattling your chest as you desperately tried to stay quiet. Maybe it was just the beers. 

“You’re okay in there?”

You cursed at the muffled voice. Benny would kick you out for acting so fucking childish.  

He shouted your name again, those quick knocks happening again. All you could do was take tiny steps toward the door, keeping a hand over the handle when you had it unlocked. You didn’t want him to see how petrified you were, but were there other solutions?

You both stared at each other in silence. While your eyes remained on his face, tracing every line and small scar, his narrowed ones traveled down to your arms and back to your face. 

“I won’t hurt you if that’s what you’re scared of. I’m not like that.”

He had never been so soft, so sweet. Benny had never appeared as a shy guy either, and yet his hesitancy rolled off him like waves, drowning you in doubt. 

“What are we really doin’ here?” you asked, holding his gaze to know the truth. 

“Told you. We’re waitin’ for Johnny to get us.”

You paused for a moment, hating the way your voice cracked. “What if they find us before?”

“They won’t. I won't let them hurt you,” Benny frowned slightly. “You’re one of us now.”

Swallowing over the thick tears coating your throat, you gave a shaky nod. “Thank you.”

Benny seemed to think for a moment. “You should rest. The bed’s yours.”

“You look worse than me.”

“The chair’s fine.”

And he was gone again. Embarrassed by your sudden breakdown, you followed him out. The room seemed even darker now. At least you would be able to hide your face. 

You inhaled deeply as you took off your shoes by the bed, glancing through the window. A man was waiting by his motorbike, looking down at his hands. You instantly recognized Bruce, causing your shoulders to relax. 

Dragging yourself to bed, you crumpled under the weight of that night and let a silent torrent flow over your face. Tears of exhaustion and fear, mostly. As much as you wanted to, you didn’t even pull the covers over yourself in case you needed to run away. You kept your eyes on the ceiling and shut them close, clutching a fistful of the blanket. The gunshots wouldn’t cease.

Right then, your name was called again. It still felt so weird that Benny was addressing you, as though he hadn’t been purposefully brushing your existence off for the past few weeks. He could see you, you reminded yourself, and the thought was brutal. So shameful, really. 

“It’s just the beers,” you heard yourself say, distant from your own ears. “I’ve drunk too much.”

“Hey,” Benny whispered, now kneeling beside the bed. 

How he had got here so fast, you had no idea. His pale complexion and sweaty forehead glistened under the moonlight pouring through the window. 

“Look at me,” he said, peeling strings of hair away from your face. “You’re safe.”

You weren’t. Those guys would find you and hunt you down like they had your father. 

“I can’t die here,” you choked out, finding it so hard to breathe and have dignity at the same time.

What would he think of you? A fool who was scared of two silly gunshots.

“You won’t,” Benny said earnestly, his deadpan tone indicating he wasn’t up for debate. “Look at me, we’re safe here.”

“I don’t want them to shoot me. Oh, God.”

Through the haze of tears, you saw Benny sitting beside you on that tiny bed. It took you longer to realize he had your head against his chest, holding it while his other hand traced soft circles against your wrist. You wished he could have said something, anything to calm you down, but it dawned on you that his mere presence was enough. His warm hold was a blessing. He wasn’t about to drown you in compliments and soothing words, and perhaps it was better that way. 

Meanwhile, you sucked in a calming breath, focusing on your hand on the flat of his covered stomach. 

Benny rested his chin in your hair, his breath ruffling the strands and sending chills down your spine. You could have stayed like that for days; nothing had ever felt so right. It didn't even matter that he was closer to a stranger than a friend. He had seen you, and he was probably the only one.

And whatever he was, you wanted to trust him. Have someone to talk to and get it off your chest so the nights wouldn't feel so lonely anymore.

“My old man owed money to some guys. Can’t remember who exactly. They shot him down on our doorstep.”

Your words were painful and low, but you figured telling the truth was as depressing as it would have been to lie. 

“I need to work, Benny. I need to help my mom figure it out on her own. But they–they saw me standin' there in the kitchen, and I’m so afraid they’ll come and find me next. I told her I’m working overnight too, but the truth is… I can’t sleep at home anymore. I can’t."

You thought he hadn’t heard you with the way he kept on stroking your hand. The lack of response made you uneasy, already regretting your words until he replied.

“I’ll find them first,” Benny said, the rasp in his voice heating your body alone. “Won’t let anyone hurt you, you hear me?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Do you want me to?”

You paused for a long time, eyebrows narrowing as you thought about it. Another tear rolled down your cheek.

“Does it mean we’d be friends?”

“We’d be anything you want,” Benny replied with no hesitation.

You swore he kissed the top of your head. Or at least grazed his lips there, afraid to see you crumble again.

“I thought you couldn't stand me,” you mumbled, wiping off your cheek with your free hand. 

“Didn’t want to stain you, is all,” Benny mumbled back.

You weren’t sure what he meant by that, couldn’t really imagine how fucked up he was, so you just nodded. You doubted he could be worse than you were, but you just needed the warmth and affection for a night. You figured he might need it too. 

You had thought it was the beers, but perhaps it was just him that made you so dizzy.

Yeahhhh i def have a type🤗

Just an experiment. Reblog if you actually give a fuck about male victims of domestic violence and rape.

Of fucking course

What sick bastard doesn’t

Benny x reader who’s clingy when shes tired or sleepy <3 Throws her whole body onto him to fall asleep like she wants to burrow into him

this… turned into something??? for my johnny x reader x benny anon, this one is also for you… whoops!

at the table with the wives and girlfriends you’ve talked yourself hoarse and now that you’re actually quiet you grow drowsy in a matter of minutes. your eyelids feel weighted; so heavy that they’re fluttering like butterfly wings. “m’gonna find benny,” you say, pressing kisses on cheeks and haphazard hugs around shoulders. of course, benny is never too far away. you spot him quickly, his form so easy to identify despite the cigarette haze of the clubhouse. sat at a table with johnny, benny’s got his legs spread, one arm thrown over the back of his chair while the other lazily hangs between his legs. he looks so cool and not at all like it’s 3:15 in the morning. your shuffling feet pull his attention away and when he lays eyes on you a big ole smile spreads across his lips. “hey, sleepyhead.” you give him a smile, it’s a tiny blossom, too tired to bloom and benny knows just what you need. he stubs his cigarette out, smoke curling out of his nose as he exhales and opens his arms to you. “c’mere, sweet girl.” johnny watches the interaction; the way you fold yourself into benny’s lap, legs dangling over the chair arm as benny practically cradles you like a baby. one of his hands loosely curl atop your hip while the other anchors itself using your, well, his own shirt. johnny wishes he had danny’s camera. he wishes he could capture this moment for you all and, yeah, maybe a little for himself because it’s too sweet and at the end of the day he really loves love. it drips off the two of you, the affection you feel for one another. johnny wishes he could bottle it, drink it, feel it for himself, but that’s a conversation for another day. that’s a thought he’ll kick himself over later. now benny’s got his chin on your head and is looking at johnny like he knows what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t. no, johnny is positive benny has no fuckin’ idea what’s going on in his mind because those things shouldn’t be there. he shouldn’t want to be the one holding benny while benny holds you. no fuckin’ way. “m’sorry for interrupting.” you murmur, tired eyes on johnny. “s’no trouble.” is what johnny says, but fuck isn’t it? “just sleep, baby.” benny tells you. “i’ve got you.” “jus’ like being close to you,” you mumble with no regard for proper cadence. your speech is molasses, gooey and sticky. “like knowin you and johnny are here.” and jesus christ johnny almost falls out of his fucking chair. you’re a sweetheart who loves everyone and this probably means nothing, definitely doesn’t mean what johnny wishes it would mean and he’s a man, not a fucking school boy with a crush, so he’s able to maintain his always cool composure, but he’s cracking cracking cracking and benny smiles, fucking smiles, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “always gonna be here.” he says, blue eyes flicking up, meeting johnny’s almost as if he’s expecting something. anything. “that’s right.” johnny manages to say, knocking back half his bottle of beer in one swig. his lips are wet. “we’ve got you. always got you.”

yeah, johnny doesn’t see himself getting over this anytime soon.