#I still don’t know what I’m doing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

csbat · 10 months

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𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 — 𝐒𝐑.

▸ PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

▸ SUMMARY: Simon was so used to your presence, so used to you always being there. He’s struggling to cope now that you aren’t.

▸ CONTENT INCLUDES: Major character death, angst, hurt/no comfort

▸ WORD COUNT: 1,033 (+ head-cannons at the end)

Fear was the first and last emotion Ghost ever felt. He was a weapon; cold in the way he burned, poetic in the way he fought bloody and loved the same. He was made of bared teeth and rough hands, carved out of gunmetal and overflowing with carnal brutality. He made fear seem like a carnival performance, like a jester in front of a king.

Watching your body crumble, blood staining the same hands he held not so long ago—hands that felt him—hands that knew him. Yeah, Ghost was fucking terrified.

From blood and tears to tranquil peace. From aching bones to pale skin. From all to none in the blink of an eye. The gunfire ceased, and he spared a thought to wonder why. Maybe it was just him. Maybe he was just too focused on the way your chest didn’t rise and fall. Maybe his heart was just beating so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything else.

Ghost didn’t remember stumbling toward your body, didn’t remember cradling you in his arms, and he didn’t remember shaking you with desperation. No, he remembered your silence. He remembered holding your pale face in his palms, his hands shaky and his voice wavering as he mumbled hushed apologies against your skin.

“I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek—messy and so fucking painful. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Your neck, your jaw, your forehead. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For what felt like an army, Ghost was the last face people saw; the cause of many’s demise. He’s heard so many people’s last words, from pleads to apologies and everything in between. He carries so many final thoughts with him, things he never thought he’d care about until he realized that he’d never know yours.

He’d never get to see you smile again. He’d never get to hear your laugh, or the shakiness in your voice when he told you he loved you. He’d never get to take you out, watch you admire the sunset and call the view pretty, and he’d never get to agree while his gaze was still on you. He’d never get to help you fold laundry again, or hear you sing along to the radio, or watch you dance around the kitchen in the middle of the night.

Someone once told Ghost that the greatest ability one could have was the ability to remember.

Someone was a fucking liar.

Simon didn’t want to remember you, he wanted to know you. He needed you here, because the second you were gone he felt homesick. He felt like he was too big for his body, like he was suffocating without your presence to breathe life back into him.

He was his own villain, but love was his betrayer.

Ghost has died many times now; the kind of death that you don’t notice. The kind that can’t be seen. Once when his father made him watch that prostitute overdose, twice when he got buried alive, three when he came home to find his family slaughtered. He didn’t want to think about the fourth. Ghost has died many times, but he’s never felt the cold arms of death impaling him. He’s never wished it would handle someone so softly.

He hoped it was peaceful. He hoped it felt like sitting in your favorite garden and feeling the sun on your skin. He hoped the wind was blowing, and he hoped the porch light turned on when it grew dark. He hoped it wasn’t as cold as he felt without you.

Ghost turned his sorrow to anger. He wouldn’t rest until everyone that had ever hurt you was buried in the ground, wouldn’t rest until he made them statistics. He’d make you a graveyard in his desperation as if it were a sacrifice. As if he could turn in twenty-seven souls for the release of one. He’d find someone to blame, and he’d make them pay for it.

If he had to, he’d even make the gods suffer. He’d make them listen, make them greet his cries with their own while his grief haunts the soil and his turmoil shakes the clouds. They’ll fear him when he rips through the ground with his bare hands, desperate to feel your touch. Your hands would be cold, but he’d take them into his and warm them with the burden of his existence. The gods will have no choice but to pray for his forgiveness and beg for his mercy.

The only thing that could stop him was dead, and he’d return the favor until his body was rotten.

Home never felt so far away, even when he was standing in it. It went from his favorite place to a cage; nothing but four walls and a roof that felt abandoned by your lack of presence. Simon was like a ghost at the table, sitting there just to reminisce on the late nights you’d spend there with him. He almost imagined what you’d say if you were here now. Probably some shitty joke he’d pretend to hate. A shitty joke that he’d tell Soap later. A shitty joke that would live in the back of Simon’s mind until his memory failed him, stored with all the others you’ve told.

He didn’t find comfort in the walls decorated with your love and ideas. Almost desperately, they screamed: you won’t find comfort here. This is not your home anymore. She doesn’t haunt the halls. You won’t find her no matter how hard you look. Your records were still sprawled out on the coffee table, and the puzzle you were working on sat unfinished on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t bring himself to move the things you touched. Couldn’t even stand to look at them.

You were a good person. You deserved a soft ending with him. Curled up on the couch, skin wrinkled with age, a warm cup of tea in your hands. Simon knew he’d still find you beautiful.

He’d find you in the garden, laying in the tall grass and smiling when the sun hit your skin and the breeze flew past.

He’d turn on the porch light when it got dark.

THINGS THAT HAPPENED AFTER YOUR DEATH:

: The recruits learned that Ghost only tolerated them because you were around

: None of the task force sits at the table in the mess hall that you always occupied (except for Ghost)

: Every time someone mentions anything that has to do with you (your favorite movie, favorite subject, etc.) Ghost would lash out

: Ghost would throw himself into his work to distract himself from the silence of your home

: He’d always wear the hoodie that you stole from him, trying to imprint your scent into his skin

: He’d eventually grow old (shocker), and he’d hate himself for leaving you behind

▸ A/N: I genuinely cannot tell if the shit I write is good or not, but I hope whoever read all this isn’t disappointed. It’s late and I’m tired, so I didn’t really go into how others reacted, but I might elongate this in the future. If you can’t tell, I fucking love angst + making indifferent men feel pain, because yes. Just yes. I still have no fucking clue how this shit works, so bare with me please, we’ll get there eventually 😭

P.S, I tried a new color scheme, don’t know if I love it or hate it yet

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #i still don’t know what i’m doing #i still dont know what to tag #cod mw2 #ghost deserves peace #sadly he’s not getting it here #i love angst #pov you’re dead as fuck #not proofread #we die like men

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aore3d · 11 months

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i had a 7 month long anakin fixation and guys it’s threatening its return😭but can you blame me i mean LOOK AT HIM😍😍

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estrellami-1 · 1 year

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Soft Touch Baby

Pt 1 | Eddie’s POV | Song | ao3

For @madigoround

If Eddie is being honest with himself—which is something he always tries to do—then he thinks it probably started during Spring Break.

No… it definitely started during Spring Break. “For your modesty?” What the hell, past Eddie? And, he notes, he hadn’t actually gotten his vest back. Dammit. He spent a lot of time on his battle vest.

So, okay. Spring Break. Which is an absolutely shit time to discover you have feelings for someone. Which is probably why his brain buried it. And kept it buried. Until, roughly, the moment he and Steve are standing in Steve’s kitchen, helping Robin with drinks.

And sure, they’re standing way too close. But it’s still Steve Harrington, so his brain keeps the feelings buried.

Then he stays over that night, because why not, and wakes up in the middle of the night to Steve screaming.

Not just that; he’s screaming Eddie’s name.

He jumps out of bed, barely avoiding getting caught by the sheets. He doesn’t know what’s going on—almost doesn’t want to know what’s going on, based on that past spring—but he barges into Steve’s room anyways, eyes wide and wild, scanning for the threat.

Nothing.

Nothing physical, he internally amends, because Steve’s definitely in the throes of a nightmare.

Eddie is lost. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to help, only knows what he does which probably isn’t going to help in this situation, he doesn’t even know if touching him will help or not-

He touches him. Gently, on his shoulder, barely nudging him. “Hey, Steve,” he murmurs. “Hey, it’s okay.” Nothing, so he says his name again, a little bit louder, then a third time.

It doesn’t seem to help, but about a minute later Steve sits up with a gasp, sending Eddie skittering back because he does not want to be within arm’s range right now, he’s seen Steve’s right hook and doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of that.

It’s dark in his room, and Eddie belatedly realizes that he’s backlit from the window, since the light from the hallway is landing on the bed. “Hey,” he murmurs again, hands up, like he’s calming a wild animal. “Hey, you’re okay. Just a dream, Steve.” He continues to speak calmly, clocking the way Steve’s breath continues to come in sharp gasps, clocking the way his eyes flit to the nail bat, just behind Eddie.

Eventually Steve calms down enough to hear Eddie’s voice, and he’s immediately shaking his head. “Oh, god, no, no, that’s not possible, you’re- you’re dead, I watched you die-”

“Didn’t die, Stevie,” Eddie promises him, coaxes him back down again. Offers pancakes, of all things, because Eddie’s brain is an impulsive bastard on the best of days.

It gets Steve to smile, though, so he counts it as a win, shoving down the little fluttery feeling in his diaphragm (which, why are butterflies always described as being in the stomach when they clearly aren’t, whoever named them had an awful concept of the human body).

He shoves the feeling even lower when he follows Steve back to his room after, climbs in the other side of the bed, breathing steadily as Steve falls back asleep.

He awakens when Steve does, because somehow, sometime during the night, they’d moved together, Eddie flat on his back and Steve on his stomach, head tucked into Eddie’s neck, arm across his abdomen, and one leg over both of his. They’re cuddling, there’s not really another name for it, and Eddie’s brain alerts him the second Steve moves, so he sees the adorable (what the fuck, brain) squint on Steve’s face when he tries to figure out, still half-asleep, what’s going on. Eddie asks him a question and he takes an adorably (again, brain, why) long time to process and answer with a shake of his head, so Eddie gently coaxes him to lay down again.

It’s not even a conscious decision to put his hand through Steve’s hair, his hand just does it, but it works to relax Steve so he continues, scratching lightly at his scalp and letting out the barest huff of a laugh when it causes Steve to hum. He really is cute, Eddie’s brain thinks out of nowhere, and he freezes for a solid forty-eight seconds as he tries to process that thought.

And the thing is, his brain isn’t wrong. Objectively, Steve Harrington is a beautiful individual. Everyone, including Steve, knows it. So Eddie thinks that’s all it is, his brain just catching up, especially since he sought Eddie out for comfort. That’s a thing, right? Like ducklings imprinting. Except instead of a duckling it’s a guy a little bit younger with him with more trauma than he has.

That’s totally a thing, he thinks, and then doesn’t think about it again.

Until Steve wakes up again. They make a fucking pact, saying they can call each other whenever, and Eddie’s traitorous brain has to confirm that he can call Steve too. And Steve, serious as anything, confirms.

Three nights pass—not that Eddie’s counting—before he wakes up gasping, tears in his eyes and a desperate whine in his throat. He’s grabbing for his phone before he realizes, dialing the number he’d memorized without trying. “Come over?” He asks when Steve answers.

“Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

Eddie promises to unlock the door. He does so, then sits on a couch in a daze, still halfway stuck in the dream. He flinches when the door opens, even though he rationally knows it’s just Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says.

Eddie squeezes his sleep pants. “Hey.”

Then Steve breaks the script, saying, “I was about to call you,” and Eddie’s heart plummets even as his breathing picks up.

Somehow they end up with Eddie on top of Steve. Their arms are locked around each other, Eddie’s vaguely reminiscent of his leg being put into a hold, which he pressed into (what the fuck, brain), and his nose is shoved into Steve’s throat as his tears begin to lessen.

He feels something wet on his forehead, realizes Steve had been crying too, and conversely feels better about the whole thing. They end up giggling like kids, half-hysterical, arms still around each other but no longer squeezing, and Eddie doesn’t miss the touch as much as he usually does when they finally part.

He knows Wayne’s got the night shift, which is the only reason he thinks to grab his guitar in the first place. Steve readily agrees, which should not make his heart skip a beat the way it does, what the fuck, but he grabs it and starts playing, first the “Master of Puppets” intro he’d been working on, then just playing around for a bit until he hits on a melody that he thinks could work for the song he’s writing, hang on-

But Steve’s there, laying with his head off the edge of the bed, which should not be as endearing as it is, get with the program, brain, but Steve says yes, says he think’s Eddie’s a genius, and-

Oh, fuck. Not again.

Eddie’s been in his fair share of quickies, in the bathroom or behind the bar or God-knows-what, just straight guys trying to get it out of their system, and he’s an easy target and he knows it, all sharp lines and angles with hair like a girl’s, and he even flags for fuck’s sake, and he knows what desire feels like, is the point.

This… isn’t that. Well, it’s not just that. There’s definitely desire, but it’s low-level, overrun by the keep protect hold keep mine cherish thrumming through his veins like a dragon.

He’s falling for a straight man. And he doesn’t think he wants to stop. He’s not a complete idiot; he knows Robin is a friend of Dorothy’s too, knows that Steve knows she is, knows that he doesn’t treat her any differently for it. So he (probably) won’t treat Eddie any differently, either.

Eddie decided to bury it deep down and just not ever think about it again ever.

Then Steve brings him breakfast, and he really has no chance.

And listen. He knows they were both leaning in. He knows Steve was looking at him with something close to adoration shining in his eyes.

He knows kissing Steve is a bad idea. So he pulls back.

Until El, and Dustin, and the entire fucking Party demand cheek kisses, and, well, this is right up Eddie’s alley, isn’t it?

So he gets a kiss, and he gives a kiss, and suddenly it’s a thing, and they’re doing it when it’s just them alone in Eddie’s trailer or Steve’s house or once—accidentally, it was a reflex, thank fuck the store was empty—in Family Video.

Then Steve calls again, breath hitching, and Eddie’s instantly awake even if his voice isn’t, rough and low, and he hears the doubt in Steve’s voice, trying to play it off, and that won’t stand. “I’m coming over,” he says, and it’s not a question, and then he needs Steve to know it’s okay, and his brain blurts out, “I’m glad you called.”

There’s something in Steve’s voice giving him pause as he grabs his keys, ends up grabbing a stack of blankets too, tossing them into the back of his van before turning the ignition.

He silently berates himself the entire drive over, because what the fuck, brain, that was not a straight thing to say, and he’d practically panicked and ended the call before either of them could say anything else.

He drives over, grabs the spare, and lets himself in. Lets himself look. The way Steve’s sitting before he knocks, with his legs up to his chest and his arms looped around his knees, chin on one knee, staring blankly into the distance. How he shifts and begins to open up when he sees Eddie, but Eddie knows him, knows that line of tension, and takes him for a drive.

He doesn’t comment on the Harrington stretched across the back of his shoulders from the hoodie Steve had tossed at him.

He doesn’t comment on the Dio playing, talking about running away. Doesn’t comment on them holding hands. Doesn’t comment when Steve begins to nod along to the songs.

Just smiles when they pull up to the field. Tells Steve he has blankets, and they can sit or lay, or he can run, and he sees the grateful look in Steve’s eyes before he takes off running, going around the field almost twice before slowing to a jog and cutting across, a beeline headed directly for Eddie and the blankets.

His hand touches Steve’s hip. Their hands touch.

Steve starts crying, starts saying how their friendship has to end, and Eddie’s heart plummets. “I think I’m in love with you,” Steve whispers, and Eddie’s heart stops entirely before restarting.

He manages a laugh, a joke, “I thought I was falling for a straight boy,” and the way Steve smiles at him, so full of hope and wonder and love-

Keep protect hold keep mine cherish, says the dragon inside of Eddie, and as their lips meet, Eddie agrees.

Song

Just in case y’all want to be tagged (and let me know if you want to be tagged for the song reveal, I’ll tag unless told otherwise):

@thegingervulcan @snapshotmaestro @the-redthread @tiny-enthusiast @thatonepotatochild @maya-custodios-dionach @imsociallyanxiousgetoverit @vhelt @newtstabber @huskysarelife @singmeyoursimpsong @gaysonthefloor @darkwitchoferie @vi-an-te @kato-hoeven @biatcgh @vampireinthesun @goodolefashionedloverboi @awesomeimportantfan @oreos-ate-my-balls @theotalksalot @raysreads

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #steddie kiss #soft touch baby #eddie pov #I hope y’all like this!#i blacked out and wrote this #I hope it’s everything you wanted #stranger things #once again #I still don’t know what I’m doing

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bloodybloob · 2 years

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Mouse

#linked universe #four linked universe #minish #he has become mouse #he’s just a little man #I still don’t know what I’m doing

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schemmentiswife · 4 months

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guys don’t forget me I was sapphixwriter ;(

#fyp #fanfiction #larissa weems #wednesday #character x reader #larissa x you #gwendolineuniverse #i still don’t know what i’m doing #marilyn thornhill #lesbian #melissa schemmenti #lisa ann walter

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hypertic · 1 year

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Again - Avatrice training AU [part 3]

[part 2 here]

“How is Ava doing?”

It never bothered Beatrice that Mother Superion was so straight forward and in times like this, she even appreciated it, wanting nothing more than to go back to her room, take a shower and sleep.

“She’s made a lot of progress.” Beatrice started, thinking back to their latest training sessions. “I assume she’s settling in quite well, since she’s already gotten used to the training hours and no longer sits alone during lunch.” Beatrice has to suppress a small smile at the memory Ava and Camila teasing Mary during lunch.

“What about her individual training?“ Superion inquired, leaning back on her chair.

“It’s been… hard.” Beatrice admitted, a little ashamed.

“It’s supposed to be.”

“I know that.” Beatrice looked back up, wetting her lips before speaking. “I’m just not sure it’s the best method.”

Beatrice wasn’t one to often question authority, but Superion always seemed to welcome her insight, so she became more comfortable sharing her thoughts with her.

“But it’s working, is it not?”

“It is.” Beatrice admitted. She knew she couldn’t argue against that, the earthquakes that shook the entire building as evidence. “The Halo reacted strongly to Ava’s anger, as you predicted, but she managed to keep it under control.”

“I don’t think anyone at Cat’s Cradle would say it’s under control.” Mother Superion debated, leaning forward on her desk.

Beatrice didn’t reply, holding the older woman’s stern gaze for what felt like hours, before Mother Superion spoke again.

“I admit it’s a hard task, Beatrice.” She conceded, standing from her place behind the desk and making her way towards her. “So I understand if you don’t wish to continue. I will take up Ava’s training myself.”

“What?” Beatrice asked, her voice laced with both surprise and fear.

As much as she hated being the one tasked with making Ava furious every single day, she didn’t think Superion taking her place was the best idea and, even if Ava wasn’t the best student, she didn’t wish her hours of individual training sessions with Mother Superion.

She wasn’t sure she would wish that to anyone.

“I will train Ava from now on and you can go back to your regular schedule.” Superion was testing her, she knew that, a flash of satisfaction crossing her eyes as Beatrice shook her head.

“I’m not quitting.” Beatrice said, surprising herself with how determined she sounded. “I will continue to train Ava, but I would like you to consider using a different method to help her control the Halo’s power.”

“And what would that different method be?” Mother Superion pushed.

“The same method that is used to teach every Warrior Nun.” Beatrice knew that wouldn’t be enough, that she needed to come up with something more specific if she wanted things to change.

“Do you think it would work?” Superion asked, her voice cold and challenging.

“I think…” Beatrice trailed off, giving herself time to put her thoughts in order. “I think that if Ava learns to control the Halo’s power for something useful, like fighting, then she’ll be more willing to train. If she trains with the Halo, I’ll be easier for her to keep it under control in stressful situations.”

Beatrice was amazed that she managed to keep her voice steady all throughout her explanation, with Mother Superion’s piercing eyes on her and the fact that she made it all up in the spot.

It’s not like she hadn’t thought about bringing it up, she did believe that it would be far more useful and effective to teach Ava how to use the Halo for a fight, but hadn’t thought about bringing it up yet.

“If you wish to try, then go ahead.” Mother Superion conceded, and Beatrice released a sigh of relief. However, it was short lived, as Superion continued. “I will give you a week, after which I will test Ava myself.”

Beatrice’s blood ran cold at the subtle threat hidden in Mother Superion’s words. If she failed, if Superion didn’t consider her training to be effective enough, she would be admonished. Not only that, but Ava would be punished for Beatrice’s mistakes.

“Fine.” Beatrice accepted after a split second of consideration, all the worst scenarios running through her head. She sighed, rolling back her shoulders to release the tension that had built up in them.

Without another word, Mother Superion dismissed her, the silence heavier and louder than anything she could’ve said.

#this is slightly more boring because no avatrice but part 4 is ready #i still don’t know what i’m doing #but y’all seem to enjoy it anyways #avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #warrior nun #wlw #writing #save warrior nun #avatrice au #part 3

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