#blazestone x reader

Jack's kisses were slow and supple, but in the morning he's quick and careless, leaving behind nothing but a fistful of pocket change left on the nightstand with a note telling you to catch a cab and be safe on your journey home alone. It's always like this. He leaves you with just his shadow, and you leave him a memory of your flushed face. You sigh wistfully, remembering the night before as you ready yourself for the trudge back. When you leave his apartment, your eyes are affixed to the sky as you mindlessly walk in the general direction of your own home. You're looking to confirm a suspicion you've had since the last night you spent with Jack; that despite leaving you alone in the morning, he watches as you make your way home. Finally you see a flash of green light in the sky and feel satisfied, because even when keeping you at a distance Jack can't help himself, you are his favorite after all.

Hypershock is still there in the morning, but he's different. If werewolves are men that turn to beasts with the dusk then what does that make a man who turns to a beast with the dawn? His arms cross around your back, hands clinging to your shoulder blades and his head nestled in your chest, his eyes are squeezed tight, clearly no longer asleep. You debate in your mind whether to unwrap yourself from his embrace in order to get him coffee, or to stay still allowing him to cling for comfort. You opt to wait on him to acknowledge you're no longer asleep.

"Don't leave me yet," he mutters, eyes clenched tight, clearly suffering from one of his migraines. Who were you to deny the wishes of an ailing man? So you stay, until the phone rang, or until you had to unravel yourself from his grip to prepare for work, or until he had to dawn his suit and helm.

The night with Blazestone was intense and heated, but left you fading off to sleep in her warm embrace, in the morning you're still cradled in her warm arms, but far beyond comfort, instead it's smothering. You only realize why when flickering embers catch your gaze; she had lit the hotel room ablaze. You pat at her shoulder, both in an attempt to wake her, and to extinguish the flame lighting the strap of her pajamas ablaze. She may be fireproof, but you are not.

"Hey, wake up," you call as affectionately as your panic can muster. She groans and rolls her head to the side, almost into the flames. When her eyes finally open they dart between the flames and you. Saying a slew of profanities she takes you by the hand, weaving you both through the flames, and leads you out of the burning motel room. Standing outside, it looks as though the flames are reaching up to touch the rising sun.

You both stare in awe until she giggles. "Guess things got too hot last night," she whispers in your ear, placing an arm round your shoulders.

The two of you had resigned yourselves to just being the best of friends. But still, It felt like the two of you were one in the same you know, one confined to an endless warfront across the sea and the other confined behind bars. One soul branded in camo, the other in stripes. You knew her heart had strayed from yours while you were gone, and yet it was still her face you clutched in your palm as you clung to hope at nightfall. When she told you about her new fancy government job, you prayed at night she wouldn't be anywhere near the horrors you dodged everyday. This hell was no place for someone you loved so.

When she wrote, which she often forgot to, she'd double side pages and cram them all into an envelope busting at the seams. Words written in a rush, she always is in one, which make your face flush. In turn you'd write no matter if you got responses or not, hope is funny like that. Hope is what got you though the war, hope that she'd be there when you came marching home.

When you did come marching home, the pride and hopefulness was emanating off of you. The country won the war, and you hoped to win her. She had written that she'd started anew, that she'd found love, friendship, stability, in the years since your parting. She agreed to wait for you inside the two bedroom home you once shared, and yet nothing. Greeted by dust on the frames featuring the two of you, you waited by the phone, sitting on the sofa head in your hands. You had no evidence to confirm your theory, but you knew in your bones she had gone back to her old ways.

The next day you wore the same strong expression you wore when one of your dearest friends deserted their post, stoic and distant. You searched the streets, asking old vagabond friends if they'd seen her at her old haunts. Most said no, but you couldn't find yourself believing them. Their eyes held too much guilt. It wasn't until you looked in a trash can did you find her face, well lower half, crumpled on the front page of a paper from two weeks ago. Something along the lines of 'Blazestone sentenced, NSA ashamed.' With that, you knew exactly where she was.

Clouds loomed over the women's correctional hall, fitting for a day like today. Nostalgia clung to the air. It was probably hours that had gone to waste as you pleaded with the staff to allow you to see her. It was only until you implied common law marriage that they let you in. She looked as beautiful as the day you left her, strawberry blonde hair tied up, pouting cherry lips, and a grim look in her eyes. She perked up at the sight of you. There's that warmth like the end of a cigarette you'd been craving. Hand on the chicken wire dividing the two of you, you hold your own up to meet hers.

"Y/n, you know me, you know my temper," she began, but you couldn't bring yourself to listen. This is what she always says. Talking about her temper, and seeming grateful for help then succumbing to it time and time again. "I know," you replied plainly. "I really wish I could've been there to welcome you home." Her eyes are glossy, you almost feel bad for her. "But, you chose to do what you did, why?" your voice trembles with edge. "If you saw how they treated me, always walking around as if on eggshells, you'd understand." Her hands fidget as she talks, a tell tale sign she wasn't enjoying this conversation. "How they treated you like what? Someone who could singe their skin if they get too close?" "That was an accident and you know it!" Silence fills the visiting hall as you stare blankly at one another like chickens in a betting ring waiting for the other to peck.