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ladamedusoif · 2 months

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(Joel Miller x disabled F!Reader)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Disabled F!Reader

Summary: "I just don't think she'll be able for patrol". But then it's just you, Joel, and your trusty walking stick in the middle of nowhere...

Content/warnings: Reader is disabled (she has rheumatoid disease/arthritis in addition to panic attacks, she uses a walking stick as necessary); Reader had a sister; Reader is an art teacher; strong violence; blood; description of panic attack; references to impact of chronic illness and disability; references to medication; references to disease and death; non-canon compliant; Jackson!Joel; strong language; ableist language and abusive language

Rating: Mature; 18+ MDNI

Word Count: ~3.7k

A/N: After making a plea earlier in the week for people to actually write disabled Reader fic, as opposed to forcing writers to feel they have to tag literally everything in an able-bodied Reader story, I knew I had to put my money where my mouth was as a disabled, neurodivergent writer with various mental health things going on here and there. And this one-shot is the result.

This one is a little personal. I was diagnosed with rheumatoid disease about ten years ago, and Reader’s experiences are informed by my own (though, thankfully, I haven’t had to contend with an apocalypse that meant I couldn’t access the medication that has kept me going). She’s also inspired by @agentjackdaniels, who acted as consultant extraordinaire on walking sticks and panic attacks, and suggested the Joel picture for the moodboard. Thank you, Luce, for this, for fighting the good fight for representation in fic - and for beta-ing the story.

(A note on terminology: rheumatoid disease/arthritis are sometimes used interchangeably. ‘Arthritis’ often sounds like it’s ‘just’ osteoarthritis to people who don’t know the difference. Rheumatoid, unlike osteoarthritis (which is shitty in its own ways), is a systemic, lifelong, chronic illness and an auto-immune disorder that affects the entire body, not just bones and/or joints. So personally I use ‘rheumatoid disease’ as it conveys more of the impact of the condition. It's also often seen as an 'old person' disease but this simply isn't true - not that this stops mobility aids being modelled by people in their 80s all the time...)

Please follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to stay up to date with my work.

Dividers by @saradika - moodboard by me

You weren’t supposed to make it.

Twenty-odd years in the apocalypse with your fucked-up joints and no steady supply of the meds that kept you going, pushing through the cycles of fatigue, and fighting off your own goddamned immune system as much as you were fighting clickers and raiders.

You really weren’t supposed to make it. But you had Annie.

You were sharing an apartment when the outbreak happened, a quirk of shitty personal circumstances - she’d just broken up with her long-term boyfriend - that probably helped save your life. Annie was the all-action sister - the kind of person who thinks there’s nothing weird about spending your weekends doing triathlons and “Tough Mudder” challenges, who had a perfect bill of health your entire lives, who bounced out of bed in the mornings while you cracked and creaked and stiffly manoeuvered yourself into being.

The good days generally outweighed the bad in the years between your diagnosis with rheumatoid disease and the initial outbreak - or maybe you had just gotten used to the aches and pains and the occasional flare-ups of fatigue. You invested in a walking stick to help on those days when mobility was particularly bad: solid, heavy, and carved in a pale yellow wood. It felt like a comfort in your hand, more a sign of strength, to you, than of weakness.

Annie helped you through the panic attack that consumed you on outbreak day, working with you to regulate your breathing and relax your tense muscles until you could finally say what was on your mind.

“My meds. What am I going to do without my meds?”

Nothing a quick smash and grab at the local pharmacy couldn’t fix. It was the first of many, stockpiling the little yellow tablets you relied on and taking as many packs of over-the-counter painkillers as you could carry. Useful currency in the apocalypse, as it turned out.

All-Action Annie was never going to cope with life in a QZ. She got the two of you out after months of planning, nights of whispered talk about a town out west that was normal - or something close to it, anyway. She hadn’t entertained your protestations about you slowing her down, holding her back.

“You think I’m leaving behind a girl who’s so handy with a weapon?” she’d teased, pointing to your walking stick. “Be real. We’re busting out together.”

The infection took hold in her about three days from Jackson. Fuckin’ barbed wire, tearing a jagged line through Annie’s hand and leaving behind an old-fashioned kind of threat to life, the kind penicillin had mostly dealt with. But that was then. This was now.

She died in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, you holding her hand until the end, talking to her about your childhoods and trying to keep smiling until she closed her beautiful eyes.

It took all your strength to dig her grave. And then, somehow, you found more.

You weren’t supposed to make it. But you did.

Jackson stands before you.

He sees you for the first time in the community dining hall, talking animatedly to Maria as you hungrily devour the food set in front of you. Eyes wide, face grubby, clothes ragged. Half-wild, he thinks, like most of the new arrivals. Like him and Ellie, once upon a time. He returns to his bowl of soup and his own thoughts - at least, until he’s interrupted by Maria.

“Joel? Want to introduce a new member of the community, just arrived.”

He doesn’t quite know why he’s surprised when he realises you’re leaning on a sturdy hand-carved walking stick in a solid, light yellow wood. Maybe it’s because he knows how physically hard it is to get here. Maybe he just assumed folks who needed a stick wouldn’t have been able to manage the journey.

For a second he can hear Sarah’s voice in his head, chiding him for focusing on what a disabled person can’t do instead of what they can.

“Joel?”

He snaps out of his reverie and looks from Maria to you. “Uh, hi. Sorry, just…sorry. Forgot my manners.”

“I was just saying how glad we are to have someone who can offer some art education in the town, isn’t that right, Joel?”

Your eyes are warm and mischievous as you meet his gaze, silently conveying your amusement at Maria’s rather brusque manner. It’s all Joel can do not to laugh.

“Sure is. You’re an artist, then?”

You shake your head. “Not a real one. I was an art teacher, before. Long time since I created anything, though, so I hope I remember how.”

He smiles softly, his gruff exterior receding a little. “Bet it’s just like riding a bike,” he says, before his face falls as he looks at your walking stick. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean… Shit. Hope I didn’t offend.”

“As it happens, I can ride a bike, Joel. The apocalypse just doesn’t give me much cause to.”

You leave him with a smile and a wink as Maria ushers you to meet other townsfolk. He watches you as you walk away, the tap-tap-tapping of your stick beating out a new rhythm in the heart of Jackson.

You think of Annie every morning when you wake up in the little house you’d been assigned. Sometimes, as you potter around the kitchen, still revelling in the novelty of making yourself morning coffee for the first time in two decades, you even talk to her. You tell her about the town, the townsfolk, your work in the community vegetable garden, your art classes.

“Honestly, An, you wouldn’t believe how popular they are,” you tell the Annie who, in an alternate universe, is sitting at the kitchen table with her own mug of coffee. “I’m setting up extra sessions to cater for demand.”

There’s something uplifting in how hungry the people of Jackson are to make art, no matter their experience or existing skill level. They’ll draw stuff from memory, they’ll dutifully work on a still life, they’ll even traipse outside with you, wooden sketching boards in hand, and make rapid-fire sketches of the goings-on on Main Street.

Joel doesn’t join a class - but the teenage girl Maria refers to as “Joel’s kid” does, all potty-mouthed and enthusiastic and pretty damned talented, to boot. Ellie tells you how she’s pinned up the drawings she’s proudest of in their home, “like our own fuckin’ art gallery or some shit.”

You pull up a tall stool and sit beside her, resting your stick over your thighs. “Joel’s got his guitar and those dumbass model figures he paints,” she continues, leaning around her easel and squinting at the woman who’d volunteered to act as a life model for this week’s classes. “But this shit? This is real art.” She adds a little highlight to the woman’s sweater and leans back to assess the work.

“You probably got exempt from patrols, I’m guessing. On account of the stick, an’ all.”

“Maria asked, and I signed up happily. I got all the way here, didn’t I? I’m sure I can manage patrols. And it’s the least I can do - they’ve even found me some of the medications I need.”

Ellie nods, somewhat convinced, and returns to sketching out the contours around the model’s jaw.

The day of your first patrol arrives. You bundle up and set out early for the stables, allowing extra time to get there on account of the flare-up you’d been experiencing the day before.

You arrive early - just in time, in fact, to overhear a heated conversation between Joel and Maria.

“She’s doing enough, ain’t she? I just don’t think she’ll be able for patrol.”

“You’ve seen her out and about, Joel. She’s mobile. She’s competent. She’s good with the horses. She got all the way here, the last stretch on her own. What more proof do you need?”

“You’re seriously gonna send a woman with a walking stick out on patrol?”

“I seriously am. Sent you and your bad back out, didn’t we?”

“That ain’t the same and you know it.”

“Just saddle the horses, Joel. And, in case you’re wondering - yes, I paired you together deliberately, just until she gets settled.” You hear her footsteps recede as she leaves him.

You had misjudged how much your already-limited grip would be further impeded by the gloves you’re wearing. The stick clatters to the ground.

“Who’s there?”

You emerge from the shadows. “Me. Sorry.”

Joel rolls his eyes and gruffly points out the tack and supplies.

The first patrol passes in silence. You wonder what happened to the softer man you’d caught a glimpse of the first day you arrived.

On the second patrol, you ask him questions about himself. On the third patrol, he asks (fewer) questions about you. By the fourth, you’re having something approximating normal conversation.

“Sarah loved to make all kinds of stuff,” he ventures, leading the way on his chestnut horse. “Those beaded bracelets, that girly Lego in the pink and purple, all of that. My girl had enough Magic Markers to supply a whole elementary school. Maybe two.”

You can hear him smile, even without seeing his face. His shoulders relax a little as he recalls the memory.

“So she was a creative kid?”

“Creative, sporty… she could do anything. Made the school soccer team, she was so proud. Just a…” He pauses. “A great kid.”

There’s a few beats of silence, punctuated only by the sound of the horses snickering and the steady rhythm of their hooves on the ground.

“What about your sister, was she arty like you?”

You’d told him about Annie on the last patrol. This was the first time he’d asked about her explicitly.

“She was the sporty one. I think that’s why I survived so long, truth be told. She was so strong and fast and tough as fuck.”

He chuckles, the burr of his voice resonating in the cold air. “Sounds like a good balance, though.”

“It is - it was. Was.” Your voice grows quieter as you repeat the word to yourself, chest starting to tighten. The horse slows, responding to the tension of your body, as Joel continues to trot on, not realising you’ve come to a halt behind him.

And then the tell-tale snapping of a twig, the sound of footsteps, and the realisation there’s someone else there, emerging out of the woods. Two someones.

Raiders.

The panic attack that has been building inside you gives way. An innate fight or flight response kicks in as you roar his name.

Joel turns and charges back towards you, just in time to see you take out one raider with a crack shot from your pistol. He slows the horse and readies his rifle, staring at the other man who is now trying to haul you off your mount.

“Get the fuck off me, motherfucker!” You flail against him, desperately shifting your weight to the other side of the saddle to try to shake him off.

Joel takes aim.

You think you’ve kicked the raider off. And that’s when you hit the ground.

He can’t take the shot now, not with her half-hidden from his view and audibly fighting off the man who’s dragged her to the ground. Joel is still a little distance away, slightly too far to see exactly what’s happening.

Why didn’t he hear her slowing? Why didn’t he realise she was further behind than she ought to be? Why did she slow in the fuckin’ first place?

Joel quickly dismounts, rifle in hand, moving closer so he can get a clearer shot at the guy who’s now standing over her. The horse’s elegant neck obscures the raider’s hands from Joel’s vision - he has no idea if he’s pointing a gun at her or not.

He thinks he has a clear sight on the guy’s head, provided he stays in the same position. He readies the rifle.

Suddenly, the raider disappears, letting out a primal roar before he hits the ground.

“You fucking cunt!”

Joel can see she’s standing now, the man prone before her. As he rounds the horse he sees her lift her cane, hands securely gripping the pointed end of the stick.

She brings the solid, weighty handle down on the raider’s leg with a sickening crunch. Even Joel recoils a little at the sight and the sound.

“F-f-fucking…c-c-cunt!”

Thwack. The other leg.

Fuck. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

”Keep calling me that, and I’ll keep the blows coming.”

Holy fuck. Who is she?

”C-c-c-cripple.”

”Excuse me?”

The raider props himself up on his arms. “I said, cripple. Fucking crippled cunt.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth.” Joel cocks his rifle.

The stranger sneers at Joel. “Awww, he’s actin’ the big man now. Weren’t too quick gettin’ back down here to save your cripple woman, were ya?”

Before Joel can react, she swings her stick over her head and brings it down on the man’s skull with a furious scream that seems to come from the very depths of her being.

She screams and screams as she hits him, over and over, eyes wild in her blood-spattered face. Joel recognises this: in himself; hell, in Ellie. It’s the moment when the floodgates open and all those years of pain blend together and zone in on this convenient target, an avatar for everyone and everything who had forced loss and trauma upon you.

He roars at her to stop, but knows she can’t hear him. It’s just her and the raider, now: her rage and fear and grief finding their expression through a walking stick turned cudgel.

A single shot ends it. She turns sharply, as if snapped out of a trance, and sees the smoke leaving Joel’s pistol.

“Hey. Hey. You alright?” His broad hands grip your biceps as he looks into your eyes.

Yes, you tell him, yes. You’re fine. But Joel keeps asking.

“Talk to me. Are you okay? I’m worried about you. Please, just talk to me.”

You are moving your mouth, but no sound is coming out. The familiar vice is tightening around your chest. You look down at your blood-stained hands and you struggle to breathe.

“‘M dying, Joel. Can’t breathe. All the blood. So much. Why can’t I breathe?”

Oh, he realises with a pang. She gets these things too. And I know how to help.

“You’re okay, you hear?” He’s rubbing your arms gently, keeping his gaze on you. “You’re alright. Breathe along with me, okay?”

It’s difficult to find the rhythm, at first. Joel’s hands find yours and squeeze them in time with his breath.

”In through your nose, that’s it. Slow and steady. Now out through your mouth.”

He can see your muscles starting to visibly relax. A wave of relief courses over him.

”Yeah, that’s it - you got this. You got this, good girl, you’re just fine. Gonna be alright.”

When he’s confident your breathing has settled and the panic attack receded somewhat, he gently guides you away from the body of the dead raider, one hand holding your horse’s bridle and the other holding yours.

“Why don’t you have a seat for a minute, huh?” Joel gestures to a long, low tree trunk lying near the forest’s edge and opens his saddlebags, rummaging until he finds a cloth, a battered hip flask and a bag of dried apple slices.

”Here.” He wipes the blood as best he can from your hands and proffers the flask, settling his substantial frame beside you on the log. “Have a sip or two, just to relax you a little bit more. Got a snack, here, too.”

You flinch at the taste of the liquor, but take a second sip regardless. The apple slices barely taste of anything in the afterburn of the moonshine. Joel nibbles on some jerky and stares into the middle distance.

You take a break from patrol, agreed with Maria, and a few days off your art classes. It was tempting to keep going, to return to the light and airy studio and to your students. But you feared a relapse.

And your body needed to recover physically, too. You ached from head to toe, fingers and toes puffy and swollen and movement seriously restricted. You ration out the supply of medication you’ve secured since getting here, and use hot water bottles and plenty of rest to try to ride out the flare in your arthritis.

Three days after the incident, there’s a knock on the door. You hobble to answer it, leaning on your trusty stick for support.

”Came by to see how you were doing. Got you some things if you needed ‘em.”

Joel is standing on your front porch, holding a jute grocery bag. He pauses, as if waiting for you to give him permission to say more.

”That’s so very kind of you, Joel. Come in, won’t you? I was able to set a fire so it’s nice and cosy.”

He watches as you lead the way into the living room, noting how much slower you were today. Guilt laps at his conscience. He said she shouldn’t go on patrol. He knew.

”You want me to bring these into the kitchen for you?”

“That would be a great help. Thank you.” He’s glad to see you smile, after the trauma of the patrol. “If you want a drink, I’ve got some tea and coffee in the cupboard just to the left of the sink.”

He pops his head back into the living room. “What would you like?”

“A tea would be perfect. Mugs are in the cupboard to the right.”

You wrap yourself back up in your blankets on the couch, making room for Joel when he returns with the drinks and a couple of cookies, sent over by Ellie as part of his care package for you. The mug feels like a comfort in your aching hands, its heat assuaging the inflammation ravaging your joints.

He sips his coffee and you sit in silence for a little bit, watching the flames dance over the firewood.

“Have you, uh - you been okay, doing okay, since…”

Joel stares into his coffee cup and then looks at you, a little awkward. You smile, hoping to reassure him.

”I’ve been okay. Just the physical pain and exhaustion, mostly. And - well, you saw it. The panic. It can leave you drained.”

He nods and takes another swig of his drink. “I know. I - I’ve had times like that, too. Real fuckin’ scary, when you’ve never gone through it before.”

You study his face for a moment or two, noting the little scar on his temple, the lines on his face, the stern expression completely undermined by the warmth of his deep brown eyes. For an instant, he seems so vulnerable, this strong, tough man sitting on your little couch.

“I haven’t had an attack like that in a while. But then, I hadn’t done anything like that in a while.”

This time Joel turns to look at you properly. “Not your first rodeo, huh?”

You giggle at the turn of phrase. “Not quite. Let’s just say my stick did a lot of work over the last twenty years. He wasn’t the first to feel the brunt of it.”

Joel nods, and you feel strangely relieved that he doesn’t seem surprised. “Doesn’t get easier, though, does it?”

“It does not. Which is why it’s better to avoid having to do it.”

”I agree. Gotta say, though, I - I was worried you wouldn’t be able for patrol, y’know?”

You arch an eyebrow at him. “I know. I overheard you, remember?”

He blushes. “Aw, shit. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I just didn’t want anything happening to you, what with your - condition, and all.”

You sigh softly, not really noticing the affection in his voice. “Most of the time, I’m fine. Y’know? I’m slower, but I do okay. I get tired more easily, but I manage. I didn’t come here to be a drain on the community.”

”You aren’t.”

”I know, but I want to keep it that way. I want to pull my weight. I’m able, Joel.”

He huffs in agreement. “Not like I’m a perfect specimen these days, either. Knees, fuckin’ back, deaf in one ear…”

You chuckle. “And you thought I wouldn’t manage patrol? Anyway, you’re not doing so bad, are you?”

He gives you a little smile, but that constant sadness still haunts his eyes. He stares at his coffee for a moment.

“You knew what you were doing, though.”

”I did. But I didn’t feel like I could stop.” You sip your tea, swallowing hard. “And I’m scared that makes me some kinda monster. You know?”

Oh, he knows. He knows it too well.

”You aren’t a monster.” Joel resists the urge to put an arm around you. “You just… something snapped, I guess. All that - well, all that hell you’ve gone through. It… it changes you. But it doesn’t make you a monster.”

He realises you’re crying before you do, spotting the fat tears that roll down your cheeks. He finds a clean handkerchief in his jeans and offers it to you.

Fuck it.

“Can I - can I put an arm round you? Just for some support?”

Your eyes light up, tears or no tears, and you nod enthusiastically. Joel is warm and comforting, his broad chest and strong arms a kind of anchor in the emotional storm. You nuzzle against him, and he gives you a little squeeze on the arm.

”You’re a really brave woman, you know that?”

His voice is quieter, more intentional. You look at him quizzically from under your lashes, unused to praise of this kind. For an instant you think about asking him what he means. But the safety you’ve found in the broad arm draped around you is all you need right now.

You nuzzle a little against his chest, and watch the fire dancing for the rest of the night.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x disabled f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #soft joel miller #disabled f!reader #disabled reader fic #hbo the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedrostories

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magneto-was-fucking-right · 3 months

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The Ghost Next Door - Chapter 5

Prompt: After suffering an almost lethal injury in combat, Simon "Ghost" Riley expected a dull, and uneventful leave back at his shitty apartment. His new next-door neighbor ruins his plans. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (named Riley Thomas for plot purposes)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 6

Disclaimer: slow burn; neighbor!Simon; will eventually contain very graphic descriptions of smut;

Chapter Summary: In which Simon's neighbor goes on a date but still ends up on his couch...

Word Count: 2.4K

One dull, oddly quiet evening, Simon Riley had decided to cook dinner for the first time in months.

Although his wound had healed considerably in the past few weeks, he knew he wouldn’t be ready to apply for medical clearance just yet, the base’s doctor preying on any sign of physical or mental discomfort like a hawk. His limp had been reduced to an occasional stumbling when his leg gave out, only problematic after long walks or if he missed his daily stretches.

The boredom of the current routine (or lack thereof) was a disease spreading through his bones, consuming his mind and slowly killing him bit by bit. He found himself seeking comfort in his neighbor's own ordinary habits, picking out singular sounds and signs of Riley’s activities in her flat: feeding the pets, the incessant scratching noises and whines from the pup, the way she sweetly comforted them even when they misbehaved. She left early in the morning, and regardless of her attempts to do so quietly, Simon’s line of work had made him a terribly light sleeper. When she returned in the evenings (seldom earlier than 18 o’clock), he unconsciously sighed with relief, happy that the usual racket would prevent him from being solely accompanied by his dark thoughts. When he finally heard her lay in bed late at night, he felt as if he was back on the field, studying the enemy, listening to either her soft snores of exhaustion or her tossing and turning on the sheets, deep sighs of frustration echoing his own.

He had barely started chopping up vegetables when he heard an anxious knocking on his door that night, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had heard her frantically move about after she’d returned from work, quick steps pacing back and forth as even Milo’s uneasiness made itself heard through constant meowing.

He wiped his hands on a clean cloth before reaching for the black facemask near the entrance, unlocking his door lazily. There, stood Riley. In a dress. With makeup on.

His body immediately stiffened at the sight, eyes drifting up and down, taking in the details as fast as humanly possible. He unconsciously took a step back, his leg faltering as he tried to pretend to be unbothered by the way the elegant garment enveloped her curves (that her oversized clothes had hidden for so long), the modest length to her knees doing poor work of concealing the soft flesh of her legs.

As his eyes quickly drifted up again, his pupils widened as he fixed his gaze on a generous cleavage, completely unprepared for the plumpness of her breasts. He gulped silently as he struggled to keep his eyes on her face, until he noticed how carefully she had drawn on some eyeliner that made her eyes stand out, mascara building long, dark lashes that somehow complimented her small freckles.

“What do you think?” she asked, smiling, giving him a shy spin before tucking her arms behind her back and shrugging awkwardly. Her heels were noisy against the old floors of the hallway.

He was rendered speechless, however maintaining his usual broody facade as he shrugged, feigning disinterest. Her smile crumbled as a deep frown set on her flushed expression

“Oh no…It’s too much isn’t it?” She looked down at herself with trembling hands. “I don’t have time to change.”

“No” Simon spoke before he even thought about it, but couldn’t find himself capable of blurting out how he actually felt about it. “It’s…You’re…”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend to like it.” She laughed nervously, the awkward tension rising between the two as Simon’s breath quickened. “I’m going out and I just wanted to know if you could keep an ear out for pets…I have a cam in the living room to watch them but It’d be rude to keep checking my phone and-” She stopped herself as she observed Simon’s pensive expression. “I’m rambling ain’t I?”

“Where ya going?” He tried to sound casual, but his voice came out strained as he leaned against his door frame, arms crossed and chest tightened.

“Oh…my sister kind of forced me to go on this arranged date thing…it’s silly, really…” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and giggled nervously, avoiding his gaze.

“Hmm.” His usual grunt returned and her shoulders slouched slightly. Simon felt uncomfortable as something unknown coiled in the pit of his stomach, making him suddenly lose his appetite.

She patiently awaited his answer, looking up at him through those long lashes.

“I’ll hear out for’em” He nodded in acknowledgement before making it to turn around and flee her perfumed scent. Lavender soap and a whiff of vanilla.

“Wait.”

Her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist softly, giving him a way out of her grip if he wished to. He felt himself shiver as he looked back at her.

“Thank you, Simon. I won’t be long.” Riley offered an apologetic smile before stepping back, readjusting her purse on her shoulder.

He couldn’t even speak as he watched her walk away.

***

Simon had been quietly staring at his kitchen wall for about half an hour, festering.

Once he had finished preparing his homemade version of chicken fried rice - his knife practically stabbing the meat before he seasoned and cooked it - he uncorked a bottle of wine, pouring himself a large glass, trying to quiet his racing mind.

Who could she possibly have a date with? The young woman was practically slaving most of her days at work or taking care of on coming and going pets she sheltered. Even if she was telling the truth, and the date had actually been arranged, he still found himself bothered with how well she’d dressed up for something “silly”.

Why do you care? he asked himself, frustration bubbling in his chest. I don’t - a part of him replied.

What if she brings him home? What if I hear them in her bedroom tonight?

He startled as he heard the glass between his thick fingers begin to crack, taking a deep, calming breath as he eased the pressure around it.

“Fuckin’ hell” he muttured, shaking his head as he made way to sit on his couch, downing the drink in fast gulps as he turned on a football match.

Just as he was about to doze off, his eyelids hanging low as the sleepiness from the alcohol enveloped his body and soothed his mind, he heard quiet, sneaky footsteps echoing in the hallway. He frowned as he heard the keys dangling next door, taking a quick look at the time on his phone. She hadn’t even been gone for an hour.

Simon groaned as he carefully stood up, reaching for his facemask as he heard the puppy whine and bark, intending to use it as an excuse to go check. His stomach knotted as he considered the possibility of catching her with someone, but he quickly buried those feelings down, his face utterly calm and collected.

Riley hadn’t even fully closed the door yet when he quietly reached her threshold, knocking softly and startling her.

“Fuck…you scared me.” She sniffled, quickly wiping away tears as she tried to force a smile, throwing her heels on the corner. “I thought you’d be resting, didn’t wanna bother you.”

Simon took a few seconds to process her distressed demeanor, stepping inside slowly and casually sticking his hands in his pockets. His head cocked at her puffy eyes and reddened, wet cheeks, her eyeliner ruined as it had completely smudged on the corners.

“Riley-” He started, his tone soft.

“It rained tonight, it was an awful idea to wear heels.” She scurried off to her kitchen, grabbing Milo on the way and kissing his forehead as he purred contently. “Were they too noisy?” She asked as Rex began whining at Simon, begging for his attention.

“No, but I-”

“Great!” She forced another smile while she refilled the pets’ bowls, bare feet on the cold floors. She wiped some snot off her nose as Simon bent over to pet the puppy, his massive hands easily covering the pup’s entire head as he scratched his ears gently. “Thank you so much for helping out.”

“S’nothin. I didn’t really do anythin’.” He shrugged, concern growing in his chest at her odd behavior.

“I still owe you that cake, you know.” She pointed out shyly “I haven’t forgotten, I promise…I’ve just been busy.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” He nodded gently and she sighed deeply, trying to avoid his lingering gaze. “Riley…”

“It’s nothing. I promise.” She sniffled again, smiling apologetically at him.

He stood in silence for a few minutes, weighting her words.

“What happened?” He asked, stepping closer until they were face to face, and she had nowhere to escape.

She looked down at her feet as silent tears ran down her freckled cheeks, remaining silent.

“Did he hurt you?” Simon’s voice came out colder than he intended to, fists clenched beside his body, trying to contain the anger that began boiling in his blood.

“No, it’s just…” The young woman covered her face with her hands. “So embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter, seriously, I’m just being sensitive as per usual.” His heart sank at her trembling voice and the way she anxiously began fidgeting with her necklace.

“Tell me.”

“Simon…”

Simon took a deep breath, pondering if it was really worth pressing the matter when she didn’t seem willing to talk about it, opting for another route instead.

“I made chicken fried rice for dinner.” He felt his face warm as her smile grew, this time genuine.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He lifted a hand to her face, wiping away a tear with his calloused thumb and secretly appreciating the way she discreetly leaned against his touch, comforted. “Wanna try it?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m starving.” She sighed in relief as Simon let out an amused grunt.

“Language, kid. There’s children present.” He pointed to the pets and she giggled, two dimples returning.

“Let me get some ice cream!” She rushed to the kitchen and Simon gave Milo a pat on his fluffy head.

“I opened a bottle o’wine.”

“A recipe for disaster.”

***

“This is so good!” Riley Thomas spoke with her mouth full as she sat comfortably on her neighbor’s couch, happily savoring the warm meal he had provided.

Whereas Simon was barely teetering on the edge of tipsiness - a couple glasses of wine in - the young woman was undeniably drunk, softly moaning every time she took the fork to her mouth.

“You’re sloshed.” Simon shook his head in amusement, barely containing a chuckle.

“I’m really not!” She protested, giggling at his accusation.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you love me for it.” She winked playfully, making his eyebrows raise in genuine disbelief at her newfound confidence, most certainly alcohol fueled.

“Feelin’ cheeky, are we?” He chuckled, entertained, as well as very relieved she was feeling better about whatever ailed her before.

Riley Thomas set the bowl down, leaning back on the plush couch and lazily pulling her knees towards her chest. Simon gulped silently, doing his best to politely avoid staring at the exposed skin of her thighs where the dress had bunched up.

“I think I feel lighter. Cozier too.” She gave him a dazzling, careless smile, eyelids low as her tiredness became apparent.

“Booze will do that to ya.” He readjusted his facemask, which Riley had begged him to fully remove each time he took a sip of wine. He had refused.

“Hadn’t had a drink or two in a while.” She slurred out and Simon snorted.

“More like a drink or five, love.”

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“Calling me love.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m wine drunk Simon.” She hid her blushing face behind her palms.

“Hm.”

Riley sighed deeply. Loneliness was hitting her like a brick that night, and she found herself craving her neighbor’s attention, yearning for the soft praisal she often imagined he could give. Fantasizing about his warm hands placed on her tense shoulders, the curve of her hips…maybe even the back of her knees. She attributed those thoughts to the dry spell that had been bestowed upon her since her previous relationship, imagining she could easily think that way about any other male that gave her the right amount of attention.

Or maybe she wasn’t yet willing to admit that Simon rattled something deep within her.

The young woman’s gaze fixed itself on his half-exposed arms, a look he couldn’t quite decipher as it trailed up, and down, and then up again, until it stopped on his eyes. He saw hunger.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He warned softly, large hands gripping the armrest.

“Like what?” She asked innocently, voice laced with honey and the prospect of a very, very eventful evening. Such a tempting proposition.

Simon cocked his head to the right, in silent answer.

She shook her head, trying to push away the warmth that trickled down her body, hugging her knees as she rested her chin upon them.

“Sorry…Tough night.”

“Ya ready to talk about it?”

Riley’s shoulders slouched, her face heating at the memory.

“Well…” She huffed, tiredly. “For starters he was thirty minutes late,and because he made the reservation I didn’t want to walk in the restaurant first, alone…”

“Hm” He nodded, a sign for her to go on.

“I texted him a few times, thinking he was a no-show, and he never replied.” She rolled her eyes. “My heels got drenched from the rain and my feet were hurting like hell. When I was about to leave the prick finally showed up and guess what he said next.”

“Can’t possibly think of a good excuse, love.”

“Apparently neither could he. He just said that we probably lost the reservation already and asked me if I’d like to come over to his place.” She huffed angrily, shaking her head. “Then he got mad that I refused and…”

“And?” He urged her to go on, noticing her uncomfortable expression, the way her fingers fidgeted with her necklace.

“And I don’t wanna say what he said.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

Riley looked up at him gratefully, but decided to open up further. He was a great listener after all.

She sighed once again “He…He told me he only asked me out because my sister kept nagging him about it…and that he thought I’d be an easy shag since I haven’t…dated, in a long time.” She exhaled the words quickly, unable to look Simon in the eyes.

She missed out on his livid expression, the way his fingers seemed ready to crush the armrest as his mind was lost in murderous thoughts.

“Hm.” Was all he could muster.

“Yep.” She looked down at the empty glass, preparing to fill it up again.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“You’ve had enough. You’ll feel like shit tomorrow.” He advised, moving the bottle away.

“What do you care?” It came out rougher than expected, and she winced at her own words. Simon’s cold gaze made her shrink further into his couch. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I didn’t expect to be into him, or anything to happen at all. Although sometimes I do miss being touched by something other than my right hand, you know?”

There it was, the alcohol again. Simon stifled a grunt of agreement, and the sudden warmth that involuntarily gathered at the apex of his thighs again once he considered her words.

“Is it so wrong to seek a bit of warmth sometimes?” Her tone reflected her sadness, and Simon knew he was just as touch starved as she was, albeit he buried those feelings so deeply he rarely ever thought about it anymore. Until Riley Thomas had showed up, that is.

“Do you seek it?” His eyes snapped back at hers, a hand running over his blonde locks as he considered her words.

“Hm.” Was all he was willing to give.

Tense silence fell between the two as she yearned to learn more about him. What moved him. He didn’t feel capable of conceding anything yet.

“You looked…you look beautiful. That guy was a proper cunt.”

His heart melted at the sight of her smile unfolding before him, like a radiant star with dimples, a chipped tooth, and freckles.

“Thank you, Simon.” She whispered as if keeping a secret. Their secret. Simon nodded in acknowledgement and smiled too, under his mask.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad at opening up after all.

A/N: Hey y'all! I hope you guys forgive me for how long I've taken to post this! After 10 years of service my laptop decided to die, and with it everything I've ever written, which was very hard to deal with, especially considering that I needed it to finish my master's thesis. It was very frustrating to write on my tablet with a little keyboard hence why I took forever to post. Hopefully I'll find another solution soon. Thank you for the lovely feedback, keep sharing your thoughts with me ❤️

TAG LIST (I hope I haven't forgotten anyone)

@xaestheticalien @bossva @missmae3004 @yyiikes @lillysfrogsandbogs

#ghost cod #ghostxreader #cod #ghost imagine #simon riley imagine #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #ghost smut #modernwarfare2 #neighbor!ghost

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orange-orchard-system · 25 days

Text

Thinking about how people think retail work is "easy", the idea that "unskilled labor is a myth", and some discussion/discourse I've seen about workers preferring to do sex work over retail. And I think many people just don't realize that retail work has a physical danger to it – and no, not just from other people.

Exactly what people do in their jobs will vary depending on the business, but as for me? I work with sharp metal and plastic at high speeds. Heavy objects could be dropped directly onto my head if I'm not extremely careful, and even then, all it takes is a slip of the hand. Due to our refrigerators and freezers, I am jumping between temperatures several hundred times a day, which leaves my body suffering from the whiplash. I am thankful to have a manager that enforces breaks, but my job takes a toll on me even on the mildest of work days. I could get seriously hurt, and a lot is already being asked of me.

"Retail/fast food/etc. is unskilled labor –" okay but I am not selling expert labor to you, I am selling my well-being. I am being paid to do not just the things you don't or can't do, but to damage and risk my body and overall health in these specific ways so that your day might be a little better.

And honestly, I'd be fine with that, if I got some recognition for it (in both pay and general attitude). I am fine with a little risk and damage so long as it's for proper compensation – I don't view this work as demeaning by nature, and I take pride in my skill at doing it. It's just that I wished others around me cared more about this side of my job.

On a similar note, restaurant/fast food/etc. workers are not just being paid to make and bring out your food. They are being paid to risk oil burns, regular burns, scaldings, being stabbed or sliced, their hands being mangled by equipment, their fingers being crushed by machinery, any number of diseases that food can carry before it's prepared, and death if something goes wrong with the gas. All for your convenience.

It doesn't matter if it's unskilled, or if "anyone can do it". A good salary is one that takes into account what one is sacrificing and risking to complete this job. It takes into account the damage to one's body and the everyday dangers they are in. Salary is, as people know, payment for energy and time, but it is also a reimbursement for the expense of putting oneself in harm's way, and a person's salary should reflect that.

This isn't meant to shame customers. I think it'd be a little silly to shame people for taking on my services when I am well aware of the risks in them (although I acknowledge that gets complicated when people have to take these kinds of jobs regardless of the risks, due to desperately needing money). It's more of a perspective I don't see others talk about often. Even before factoring in shitty bosses, crappy work environments, and the like, these sorts of jobs have dangers and cause damages that should be acknowledged. And people should be properly compensated for taking them on.

#politics #retail #front soup.txt #bvie.txt #silver.txt #looking at the scrapes I got today without realizing whoops #and the injuries I've gotten from things going wrong #something something osha regulations are written in blood and this is a workspace too #blood can absolutely spill here

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rayshippouuchiha · 2 years

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ray you can't just tease coffee shop detective aideku au

ray please

i have a need

See the thing is, Shouta doesn't like change.

He's honestly rather notorious in the auto-immune disease he calls his social circle for not liking change.

He likes things neat, orderly, and above all else logical.

Which is hilarious on a number of levels considering he left his perfectly logical job with the force to be a private detective and his schedule is, in general, made up entirely of too long nights, bad decisions, and surviving off of jelly packets and questionable takeout.

He's got the most chaotic general schedule out of most everyone he knows which is honestly saying a lot.

The only reason why his apartment/office is neat and orderly is that in all the years he's lived/worked in this building he never got around to furnishing it with anything but the barest of basics.

A fact which Hizashi and Nemuri both still make it a point to get onto him about. As for Tensei, well Tensei's been attempting to forcefully front him the money to buy out the rest of the building for a number of years now. Especially since old lady Kinato finally retired to the countryside last fall and none of her numerous grandchildren, or possible Triad connections, wanted to take up her dim sum place or keep her apartment. Tensei's been inches away from shoving the money down Shouta's throat since the rest of the building finally freed itself up. Money that Shouta has, of course, always refused to take.

Which is a move that has, apparently, finally come back to haunt him.

Because Shouta doesn't know a single thing about whoever it is that's moving into the second-floor apartment or renovating the ground-floor restaurant space.

What he does know is that he wants them dead.

Because he's not gotten a decent days sleep in over a month now. From basically sun up to sun down it's all loud construction, power tools whirling, and music playing. Never loud enough to disturb the rest of the street but still eardrum busting loud through the thin walls and floors that separate Shouta from the absolute chaos that's apparently happening down there.

And there's not even any peace at night either. Because even if the construction stops on the ground floor at a legally reasonable hour Shouta still has to deal with hearing his new downstairs neighbor getting settled into their apartment.

Shouta has thoughts and opinions about both their shitty taste in pop music and the fact that they, apparently, can't decide on where their furniture needs to be since they keep dragging it around their apartment every single night.

So, yeah, if Shouta's new problem neighbor was to take a long walk off a short pier sometime soon Shouta probably wouldn't even blink. Unless, of course, someone paid him to investigate the disappearance. Then he'd find the pier and the body, and then maybe actually get some sleep again.

But, beyond wishing absent harm on a faceless stranger, Shouta doesn't really pay all that much attention to what's going on in the rest of the building. He takes the fire escape outside his bedroom window to and from the ground level like he always has, he rarely ever approaches the building from any direction that's not the back alley (or occasionally the sewer but the less said about that the better), and he's grown used to practicing willful ignorance about certain aspects of his neighborhood ever since he watched old lady Kinato break a guy's kneecaps once with a tea tray and not even blink.

(Especially since Hizashi was absolutely terrified of her but she always doted on Shouta and gave him free dim sum whenever they crossed paths. He honestly kind of misses her even if she is still sending him care packages and seems convinced he'll die if someone doesn't shove food at him at least once a month.)

Shouta's willfully ignoring the comings and goings in his building honestly isn't all that much of an issue. At least, not until he remembers he really should get around to checking his own mail again before the post lady calls in a wellness check on his apartment. Again.

So, sunglasses firmly in place, Shouta makes a point to head to the front of the building where the rusty and undoubtedly tetnus-filled mailboxes are kept for the building.

Once he gets there Shouta immediately notices three things.

One, it looks as if the dim sum place has become some sort of coffee shop which says promising things for Shouta's future.

Two, the previously rusty mailboxes have been cleaned up and someone has even taken the time to plant small flowers around the base of the structure.

And three, someone is actively in the process of stealing his mail. Which, in general, Shouta doesn't actually care about but it's the principle of the matter.

For a moment Shouta just stands there and watches as whoever this is empties out Shouta's previously locked mailbox and shoves Shouta's mail into the canvas bag they're carrying.

"Mail theft is punishable by a fine and possibly detention depending on the severity of the crime," Shouta finally speaks up.

There's a yelp, a few pieces of the mail currently being pulled from Shouta's box go flying, and the thief whirls around to face him.

Shouta suddenly finds himself staring into wide green eyes over plump freckled cheeks.

"Oh," green eyes says, face flushed and the hand not carrying a bag full of what's technically Shouta's property coming up to press against his heart, envelopes and all, "you scared me."

"Committing a crime should be scary," Shouta can't help but say even though he knows that's often very much not the case.

"I-I'm not stealing anything," the denial comes quickly then. "I live here."

So Shouta's new neighbor, one Midoriya, I. if the new tag on the box Shouta can see over his shoulder is anything to go by, is both a disturber of the peace and a thief. Good to know.

"Even if you do," Shouta points out, "that's still not your mail."

"I'm just cleaning it up!" Midoriya's eyes have gone wide in distress and there's a hint of red on those cheeks. "My upstairs neighbor is dead."

,,,

"No," Shouta finds himself saying slowly. "He's not."

"Yes he is!" Midoriya insists. "Granny Kinato said my upstairs neighbor was a corpse and I should take care of things around here once I moved in. I wanted to find their next of kin."

Shouta squeezes his eyes shut behind his shades and resolves himself to sending old lady Kinato a strongly worded text the next time he gets a chance.

"I promise you he's very much not dead," Shouta says as he reaches up to push his sunglass up to rest in his hair. "And I'd know since I'm Aizawa Shouta, and the last time I checked I was still mostly not a corpse. What I am, however, is both your neighbor and the guy whose mail you're currently stealing."

Midoriya looks down at one of the envelopes clutched in his hand, twists a bit to look back at the mailbox behind him, and then turns to look at Shouta again with quickly dawning horror.

"You want to see some I.D?" Shouta can't help but ask.

There's a sound not unlike a hissing tea kettle, the bag Midoriya was holding is practically launched at Shouta's face, and Midoriya is practically sprinting away from him, face red and what sounds a lot like a stream of jumbled apologies training through the air behind him.

Shouta stands there for a minute, more than a bit bemused.

It's honestly not the worst first meeting he's ever had in his life.

#Double Cupped Up AU #AiDeku #RayRambles #BnHA #MHA

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brostateexam · 1 year

Text

This is going to be a post about diets and weight loss

On the one hand, I am really glad to see people starting to recognize that dieting is just... not effective. Because it isn't, sorry. You can lose an arbitrary percentage of your highest body weight via diet and exercise, and the more you lose:

the harder it gets to lose more weight

the easier it gets to gain back weight

These two things, in combination, mean that unless you are looking to lose a relatively paltry amount of weight, dieting is probably not the answer. It can work if you've gone up one size and would like to go back down. It does not work if you want to drop six sizes. The odds against someone doing that via diet and exercise alone and keeping it off are overwhelming.

I've done it, actually! Pre-surgery, I lost over 50 lbs (22kg) four times in my life: once when I was in highschool, once in college, once as a young adult, and once in my early 30s. It got harder to do each time, and required more extreme interventions each time. The first time was with good ol' Weight Watchers and a restrictive eating disorder, the last time was with a limited calorie diet that made me feel like I was going to pass out all the time.

People who can lose weight in this way and keep it off long term (the longest I kept it off was about 1.5 years) are outliers, or people who are willing to devote their entire life to diet and exercise, which is impractical unless you're an athlete or a personal trainer.

So it's encouraging to hear people in the weight loss industrial complex say "diets don't work." Because they don't. They just don't.

On the other hand, we are once again prescribing weight loss drugs that are touted as safe and effective to handle the "disease" of obesity. I have nothing against Ozempic and Wagovy in particular. I don't know enough about them to have positive or negative feelings. I do think it's safe to say:

The history of weight loss drugs is pretty rotten. Fen-phen, redux, (or the ol' speedball special of both fen-phen and redux), as well as amphetamines were all touted as wonder drugs that would help fat people become skinny. Largely, they just gave fat people health problems or killed them.

Weight loss drugs also don't actually drop that much weight from people. Again, maybe Ozempic and Wagovy are different! But the combination of fen-phen and redux was found to help people lose 15 lbs on average for as long as they stayed on the drugs. Then they gained it back. Not exactly a miracle.

To me, weight loss drugs, and dieting, and the weight loss industry in general falls into the category of "things we don't need proof to believe." We as a society want to believe that fat people are lazy, ignorant slobs because that excuses the daily cruelty and discrimination society heaps upon them. If weight loss isn't actually as easy as just dieting, well, there has to be something else that totally works that fat people are just not doing, or else we are being callous and shitty to a large percentage of the population for no actual reason. Therefore, diets don't work, but ozempic and wagovy totally do, and anyone who is fat is just choosing to be that way. Just like before, but now it's with medicine instead of a dietary regimen.

#*diet culture #*weight loss #*eating disorder #there's another post I've been wanting to write about this but I'll save it for later cause it's more personal

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perplexingluciddreams · 2 months

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General ramble update:

ME/CFS crash is the most shittest shitty thing ever to exist. and makes sensory so bad with the sweating and sweating and the temperature dysregulation and the pain and the flushing hot hot face ears neck chest bad angry bad.

and then can't properly regulate sensory OR emotional because swing is make sore and more tired and more flush face ears neck chest.

and in a weird weather point where my usual hoodie makes too warm and sweaty (Worst Bad Sensory Ever), but arms is cold with only t-shirt no hoodie...

AND can't do physio walking because of crash. i thought it got better for a day or two, then did too much (mostly swing), now it is worse than the first part of the crash.

fucking hate ME/CFS it is the cruelest most horrible disease and i so so fucking wish i didn't have it

Also, AFOs still give problems (so can't even wear at this point). we try to contact orthotics people, but honestly i don't know if they can do much different at this point. i don't know if they could edit the ones i have to be wear-able, and if they can't then i really don't want to go through the process of getting another pair made, just for it to not work (and have to struggle with disappointment All Over Again).

i know i said before positive things about these AFOs, but that is my usual mess up of following scripts (copy/borrow words from others) before i even know my own feelings. i mix up anxiety and apprehension and not-sure-yet feelings with excited, because they are all "high" feelings. like buzzy and tense and energy. similar body feeling, maybe? then it is only a while later when i actually process my own body feelings, both for emotions (like anxious and disappointed) and physical sensations (like the pressure-pain from AFOs). it is only then i can say accurate things about the subject. this applies to any subject for me.

and Mum and Dad ordered a recliner chair for me, to put my Recliner Support System (from Special Tomato) on. when the chair comes they will set it all up, then at some point i will try it. but i will learn from my mistakes with speaking too soon on AFOs, and wait a while until i process, then update on that.

i think i am getting very very gradually slower. definitely having more semi-stuck moments where i can still move my body but can't transition task - or can't even know what i am supposed to do next. it is taking me longer and longer each toilet trip, i get stuck sitting on the toilet and between each step. it is affecting all my movements, but i try not to compare the walking part too much since there is other factors in that.

i want to write much more about regression and (highly suspected) catatonia stuff. i have a lot to say.

more mood stuff like getting easily "worked up" and aggression, and more getting close to meltdown easily, more hit self without control when i get only a tiny bit upset. but that is also part of ME/CFS crash for me, so i will not judge that until i have longer time to compare it.

also mentally everything is just hard. (which is also partial explanation for the quick aggression and mood shit). i "clock out" or "shut off" most of the time, because i simply don't have the time, ability, energy, to even think about everything that is happening/has happened to me. whether due to health shit, past trauma, regression/decline... it is all too much. brain loud. and loud = takes more energy. so, i can't.

this post seems overall quite negative, i think. but that is just my mental place recently. it is not always quite this bad internally for me. but when it is bad, i can't pull myself out of it, i don't have that ability, i can't regulate like that. only suppress and ignore and avoid, in hopes of avoiding meltdowns. my only hope is swing swing swing, music, watch things, and shut off clock out brain. don't let myself think or feel or remember the reality. just live in the safe parts of my brain's inside world.

hopefully i will have more positive feeling soon, and maybe happier things to share. although it is important for me to share the shit stuff too, it gets out of my brain a bit this way, relieve some pressure. i just wish i could get more out (of past things and memories, mostly. that is what makes the most noise in my head).

at least i have sensory galaxy light projector, Downton Abbey, sudoku, and safe music playlist (called "fills brain just right"). 💚

#words from my head #myalgic encephalomyelitis #chronic fatigue syndrome #ankle foot orthotics #autism #autistic #autistic catatonia #autism regression #swearing

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quasi-normalcy · 1 year

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Worst Episodes of Star Trek by season (Revised and Expanded).

TOS:

"The Alternative Factor" - I've tried to watch this episode many times, but I don't think I've ever managed to sit all of the way through it. It's just a bunch of boring, nonsensical bullshit for an hour.

"The Omega Glory" - This is the reason why I object to framing Gene Roddenberry as some kind of visionary auteur, because this one, beyond simply having a ridiculous premise, is also really racist.

"Turnabout Intruder" - Turns out body-swaps aren't always good. Like the above, but sexist rather than racist.

"The Lorelei Signal" - An episode where Uhura finally takes command should be good, but again, more sexism (and a pointless rapid aging plot)

TNG:

"Justice" - The first season is mostly just kind of generically weak, but...ugh, those costumes.

"Shades of Gray" - Clipshow.

"The Price" - None of this season's episodes are actually bad, but I really don't like Troi's boytoy

"The Host" - Odan isn't interesting, and the bit where Beverly has sex with Riker's body is just gross.

"Violations" - Lots of bad episodes about rape on this list.

"Man of the People" - See number 5.

"Sub Rosa" - See number 6. Also, ludicrous premise.

DS9:

"The Passenger" - Did Siddig-el-Fadil just kind of forget how to act this week?

"The Alternate" - Probably the worst instance of Trek demanding reconciliation with shitty, abusive parents.

"Meridian" - Brigadoon in Space. Also featuring yet another chemistry-devoid romance for a female crew member.

"Sons of Mogh" - So the 'solution' is just to surgically alter him and delete his memory without his consent? And Julian went along with this?

"Let He Who Is Without Sin..." - Jadzia seems like a complete doormat for not dumping Worf's ass after this one.

"Profit and Lace" - I can't even be offended by the transphobia or the misogyny because of how stupid this one is. I love it.

"The Emperor's New Cloak" - The mirror universe had already been kinda run into the ground by this point.

VOY:

"Time and Again" - So boring. So pointless.

"Tattoo" - White Man's Burden. In Space!

"Favourite Son" - I don't even want to get into it, it's just bad.

"Demon" - This one could have been good if it actually paid attention to its own plot points. And the silly "needing to go to a hell planet to get deuterium" thing.

"The Disease" - Alas, Harry Kim's love life

"Fury" - Character assassination wrapped in the series' worst time travel plot.

"Endgame" - What a lousy way to end the series. No payoffs; no follow up; and the time travel thing wipes out trillions of people's lives for no compellingly good reason, and it's never discussed. The Borg are also presented as completely unthreatening villains, but this had been the way for several seasons. And it's even worse when you compare the deleted version of the early 25th century with the canonical version we see on "Picard."

ENT:

"Dear Doctor" - The 'moral' obligation to commit genocide. Fuck off.

"Cogenitor" - The 'moral' obligation to give a sex slave back to their masters. Fuck off.

"Rajiin" - Some pointless T&A; a little bad acting; and it becomes clear that there is no plan to the Xindi arc.

"These Are the Voyages..." - What a terrible insult to the series that it's supposedly the finale of.

DIS:

"Vaulting Ambition" - There's thos one scene where Emperor Georgiou murders all of her aristocratic in slo-mo cinematic detail and it just never comes up again. I hate this sort of pornographic, cavalier treatment of violence. It offends me to see human life treated in this manner.

"Point of Light" - Brings back Ash Tyler and Emperor Georgiou for an utterly un-thought-out 'intrigue' plot.

"Die Trying" - The idea that Starfleet has been using the same seed vault for a thousand years, that this seed vault is in Space, where it's vastly more vulnerable than it would be on (or inside) a planet, and that it contains seeds from *every plant in the galaxy* is so ridiculous that it undermines everything else in the episode for me.

"The Galactic Barrier" - Where it becomes most apparent that they're trying to fit ten episodes of plot into thirteen episodes.

PIC:

"Broken Pieces" - This one gets points off for completely wasting the XB plot, but it's still good because I like the bits with Rios's holograms and the character work for Jurati.

"Monsters" - There's a lot wrong with the second season, but two things that worked were Q and the Jurati/Borg Queen arc. Both of them were largely absent from this episode, and the stuff with Picard's expansion pack Victorian childhood trauma is just dreadful.

"The Last Generation" - Themes? Weight? Meaning? Non-violent solutions? Continuity? Nah. Let's just bash TNG action figures together for an hour. Also featuring the hit single 'Found Family Ain't Shit, You Need a Biological Son'

LWD:

"Temporal Edict" - This one has a generic workplace sitcom plot that doesn't really work in the Star Trek universe and also makes Freeman look like a complete idiot right out the gate.

"Mugato Gumato" - I don't think that Shaxs tasting Mugato dung was as funny as the episode seemed to think it was, and I really didn't like seeing Mariner beat the shit out of Boimler and Rutherford in the before-credits scene.

"Room for Growth" - Not bad, just kind of...meh.

"Twovix" - Again, not bad, just weakest of the season.

SNW:

"All Those Who Wander" - Ruining the Gorn and wasting Hemmer, all in one episode.

"The Broken Circle" - We really, badly needed to have this ten minute sequence of our medical personnel getting fucked-up on Green Goblin juice and beating up a hundred Klingons, eh?

PRO:

"Kobayashi" - Again, this one isn't actually bad, but it's just nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia; and I think that Dal's character growth should be earned through interaction with his friends, rather than with stock audio of Leonard Nimoy.

#star trek #the next generation #deep space nine #voyager #enterprise #Discovery #Picard #Prodigy #lower decks #strange new worlds #the original series #it's actually very difficult to pick 'bad' episodes for Prodigy or the seasons 3 and 4 of TNG

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dark-elf-writes · 10 months

Note

The second one was another Hanahaki disease au but technically separate from the itachi and sasuke thing. I don’t remember what I wrote outside the general plot of it so sry that this is shitty.

Naruto who has nothing and no one, latching onto the idea of a Village that he can love and who will love him in turn.

Naruto who throws himself into loving Konoha and her people before he can even understand what he’s doing.

Naruto who’s love is as persistent as the sea and strong as the forest being met with cold glares, harsh words, and uncaring hands that make him ache.

Naruto who grows up knowing a never ending pain in his chest that only becomes worse.

Naruto who coughs up bloody petals for the first time with the memory of a too big hand hitting his face playing on repeat, not knowing what it means.

Naruto who suffocates on a fully formed flower growing in his lungs at six years old: alone, scared, and unloved as he gasps for air.

Naruto who’s body is found a week later when Hound returns from a mission to check on a little boy he longs to hold in his arms but is forbidden to.

Hound who enters through the apartment window to leave money in gama-Chan, but is instead hit with the scent of rotted flowers, dried blood, and a decomposing body.

Hound who only gets to hold the boy that should have been his little brother when he’s hunched over his corpse more beast than man as sobs come out half whined.

Hound who’s love wasn’t enough to keep naruto alive. Who’s love wasn’t enough to keep anyone alive.

OH.

O H

Bestie ow

Hound who looks down at the too little body (thin. How had he never realized how thin he was in spite of all the money he left between missions) and promises to make the village choke just like they had made his little brother. Who swore to become the demon the thought Naruto was. Who vowed to make them bleed and fear like the too small boy with claw marks on the floor next to his corpse as he fought for his life and lost alone and scared.

Hound who burns that apartment building ti the ground and leaves a shattered ANBU mask in the rubble.

Hound who finds a place by the sea in the wreckage of a different village (failed just like his little brother had been, like all his family had been, like he had been) to bury the last piece of his heart in the old ways, the ways his father had been denied, that Kushina had been denied.

Hound who scratches out the lead symbol on his head band and decides to show the world what a true demon is.

#the elf talks #naruto #ow #tw death #tw child death

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bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus · 9 months

Text

Bloodhound. (A Ghost x AFAB!Reader fic)

Act One, Chapter Seven: All The Better To See You With

First off, I am so sorry for the ridiculously long wait! I know people will be telling me not to apologise but I am going to because I have kept you all waiting for too long! Thank you all for your patience, you're all great :3.

I've been so busy with various shenanigans and also just being generally tired... even though exams ended more than a month ago(?).

Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter... Though, I have to admit, I'm not sure if this is me best work but maybe that's me being a stereotypical, self-critical writer :P.

Warnings: Violence, threats of violence, people being extremely dodgy, swearing and horror elements

Here's a little fun thing for you to do: can you guess which CoD villain is in Y/N's flashback?

The plan had a rough structure, but it needed polishing. Phillip had forgotten what had worked on 141 and the Vaqueros last time and that was the element of surprise. They had grown fond of him, too fond of him, and that rendered them vulnerable. Like a fool turning their back on a wild cat, Phillip had exploited their friendliness and pulled the wool over their eyes; and whilst he couldn’t charm his way to Ghost, his infection and the renegade, Graves knew he could still use that element of surprise to his advantage regardless of whether it was via sweet-talking his prey or pouncing from the shadows.

Having them completely oblivious until it was time for him and his boys to break in and extract their targets would be perfect. Phillip needed to ambush them. Springing an ambush had worked on the Las Almas Cartel and it would surely work on the Vaqueros and their British friends. An ambush would also leave no time for re-introductions and other such pleasantries, and so Phillip could conceal his shame and preternatural resurrection from them.

However, the issue of having them completely clueless of his pack’s presence merely a few kilometres away from the Vaquero base would require Valeria’s delivery of the ‘package’ to Ghost to be so subtle that the keen-eyed Manc wouldn’t even know what hit him… or more like bit him. Basically, Valeria would need to be invisible.

Maybe, if they extracted Ghost first and then delivered the package-

“No,” Valeria chuckled, “It doesn’t work like that, my dear.”

Phillip turned around to face her, tilting his head to one side.

“How come?”

“The Foundation want you to infect him first, give his body time to either adjust to the disease or die, and then you bring them back either a corpse or a live Arcadian Son.”

“What?”

A shudder ran through him.

“With the live ones,” the drug lord let out a sigh, “it’s always a gamble. Some die, some don’t. If he doesn’t die, great. If he does, no matter, the Foundation will just make him one of you.”

Graves clicked his tongue, thinking about how to react to this information.

“Just don’t come back empty-handed,” Valeria advised, “They’ll be furious.”

“What happens if I do piss ‘em off and come back empty-handed?” Phillip dared to ask.

Valeria smiled resignedly.

“You’ll lose your privilege of being a good Arcadian Son. You’re here on this job because someone’s obviously put in a good word about you. If you fuck up, you’ll develop a reputation.”

Graves chuckled wryly.

Of course.

He knew what she meant by that. No one wants a contractor with a shitty record. He didn’t build a PMC empire by being a bad commander. He supposed similar rules applied here. Phillip needed to ensure his victory, should he want to have some form of success in this afterlife.

As he looked at Valeria, he began to wonder who exactly she was before she became Sin Nombre. Was she like 72 and 23? Like the renegade they were going to capture? Or had she always been… well, this?

“When you were a lamia,” Graves leaned a little forward, “what was it like?”

“Terrible,” she bluntly replied.

Phillip was a little taken aback by that.

“Valeria, hun, just answer my question properly. You’ve got nothin’ better to do.”

A clawed hand gestured to her tied-up state, body flush against the bark of a tree. Her lip curled a little upwards as her eyes glared at his gloved mitt and those ghastly metal talons.

“Fine,” she growled, “I was in Unit 4. My packmaster was the Foundation’s equivalent of royalty. Undead like you. He was… is… a terrible man, even by Arcadian Son standards.”

“Royalty?”

Valeria nodded.

“Did he have a number? Or a name?”

“4242.”

“That all?”

Valeria remained silent. That was all.

Footsteps sounded behind Phillip and he looked to see his men had returned from whatever they had been doing last night.

Two of them were fully armoured while one, 7629, was still getting his chest piece on, pulling it over his head as he trailed behind the others.

“Morning, boys,” Graves greeted them, “Y’all feeling up to a bit of planning?”

They all trudged into the camp rather sluggishly, with mumbles and half-assed nods being their replies.

Phillip didn’t really care for the whining protests and loud yawns coming from their masked faces as they reluctantly took their seats as he demanded. Eventually, though, they all simmered down and, once Graves had cleared his throat, he began.

“The best way to ensure extraction is a success is to catch these men off-guard. They’re special forces, meaning they’re good at their fucking jobs, but, like with any specialist, I find if we make ‘em start questioning their competence in the heat of battle, they fall apart very quickly.”

They all seemed to agree with that, nodding along.

“So, if we want the element of surprise, Valeria here needs to deliver the package to our target without being seen.”

Then, Graves sighed.

“Which is where I’m stuck. How do we get this woman into the base without her or our cover being blown?”

His men’s demeanour had now changed, they had gone from tired and disinterested to engaged, almost excited, as they pondered on what to do. Graves surveyed them, keeping an eye out for any indication of a ‘light bulb’ moment. The atmosphere of surrounding the circle of men was slowly shifting from dull and weary to something livelier. Electricity was in the air as brains whirred, the gears in each and every skull turning, wondering what could be done to overcome this potential setback. The collective buzz of mumbles of potential plans, rustles of idle fidgeting and clicking tongues all gave way to the climax of this crescendo of thought which came from 7152’s mouth:

“Isn’t there a spare of hepta-plate in one of the lamia’s bags?”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Is there?” 7418 asked, almost to himself.

“Will it fit our asset?” 7629 queried.

Graves watched them all descend upon 7152, barraging the guy with questions and contest. Curious himself, he rose from his seat on the ground and headed for their bags.

Sifting through the pile of rucksacks and duffels, sorting through them by briefly peeking at their contents, Graves arrived at a bag which looked to belong to one of the girls.

Carefully, he unbuckled the flap and pulled it back to reveal a zip. Not a moment later and Phillip was staring at exactly what he was looking for: a spare set of hepta-plate. He returned to the group with the armour held close to his chest. It looked like a small, shining bundle of light, highly reflective and responsive to its surroundings.

He placed it in front of Valeria and looked up at her expectantly.

“Do you think you could wear this?”

She eyed it. The armour before her was made for a girl. As Graves held it up, letting Valeria get a better idea of its size, she realised that it was far too short for her and also, there was seldom any room for her bust.

“This is for a child. I’m a grown woman.”

She looked at him with a disapproving face, relishing in the way Phillip sighed.

“How do we get this hepta-plate on her-”

Click!

In his sure grip, Graves had accidentally removed a group of plates from the chest piece. He slowly turned around to face the group, dreading to ask if he had just broken their ticket to getting Valeria into the base undetected. Underneath that helmet, Phillip Graves’s face was contorting into various emotions, his stomach dropping and eyes squeezing shut.

However, to his surprise, his action had warranted a few chuckles from the group. With caution, he cracked open an eye to see what was going on.

“Ah, I forgot the backup ones could do that!” 7152 remarked as he cupped his masked face in his hand.

“Wait, so I haven’t broken this?” Graves queried, holding up the separated parts.

“Well, can they still camouflage?”

“How do I get it to do that?”

7152 turned around and shouted for a lamia. 72 was the first to hear the call and poked her head out of the tent. A beckoning hand gestured for her to come forward and show her packmaster how to work the shroud mechanism.

With two taps on the isolated plates, Graves’ eyebrows raised as he watched it disappear from his hand. It was a strange thing to experience, witnessing nothing there and yet feeling a weight on your palm, seeing your fingers curl over an object that seemingly never was.

“The gauntlets have adjustable straps, as do the leg pieces. And one of your helmets could probably act as a substitute for a mask I think… if… if we can attach some plates on there,” 72 mumbled.

She looked up at him with her big brown eyes expectantly.

“Go on, kid.”

Shyly, she continued.

“You can also remove some of the plates from the chest piece and put them on a vest that does fit her.”

“But that won’t completely cover her, kid. She’ll have parts of her body still visible.” 7152 was quick to point out.

“She’s a lamia,” 72 replied, “If enough of her is invisible, she can make the rest of her vanish on her own with her mind.”

Valeria felt a lump in her throat form as all eyes returned to her. It was true: she could do that. However, it would take a lot out of her, and she didn’t want to be devoting so much of herself to this mission, to the Foundation. Perhaps the little girls before her could plead her case.

“Sister…” She did her best to appeal to the lamia’s better nature. “… It’ll take a lot out of me. I’ve not practised in a long time unlike yourself.”

72 nodded and thought.

“Maybe then I or 23 should-”

“No.”

Graves was quick to dismiss her suggestion. His interruption hit hard with the weight and finality of a judge’s gavel.

“Sir, you didn’t even let me finish-”

“The Foundation wants Valeria to specifically deliver the package. Not you. You and 23 are to remain here, out of sight.”

“But we’re here to help!”

“Help by staying away for the time being.”

Phillip’s voice was stern and for some reason, that pissed 72 off. The Arcadian Son was being particularly frosty this morning; a contrast to the open, kind man she had conversed with last night. She supposed she had expected better of him.

72 rolled her eyes as she watched him turn his back on her.

“Sheesh! It’s not like you’re our dad! We don’t need to be-”

“What was that?!” Phillip interrupted with a growl.

“Nothing, sir,” she sheepishly replied.

Some of the Arcadian Sons snickered, but promptly quietened down when they sensed the face of thunder Graves was pulling under his helm. The tension in the air was palpable and everyone decided it was best to keep quiet as Phillip regained his composure and continued with the task at hand.

“Okay, so let’s get whatever pieces we can on her and whatever. Once she’s got the… package in her system. We’ll escort her as near as possible to the base. Understood?”

“Yup!”

***

Valeria tugged at the strap on her arm, feeling the piece sit better on her now that it was more snug to her base layer. As she turned her wrist, to see what the armour looked like on her forearm, she couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship of the Foundation’s engineers. This was nothing like what she used to wear, although if the woman looked closely, there were echoes of her own hepta-plate within this new, more advanced style. It seemed the days of large hexagons slotting together were gone. Now, Valeria was confronted with the sleek, serpentine plates which, when isolated, did form that signature six-sided shape, but, as she saw when 72 pushed two plates together to cover her Kevlar vest, vanished to form one seamless, unified structure.

The armour shined, looking almost white in the sunlight. Beyond it, though, Valeria could see her reflection, distorted and uncanny. Between the plates, Valeria could make out a few strange dots. Dots which looked like eyes and it soon became apparent that these were the cameras that allowed the armour to see what to camouflage into. She smiled. Just like when she was a little girl.

“It suits you.”

She turned around to see 7418 approach her.

“Jaime.”

He couldn’t help but feel a shudder of revulsion at the sound of his name coming from her lips. Still, it wasn’t enough revulsion to make him completely turn away from her and so he squatted down in front of her, looking to continue this conversation.

“Sin Nombre,” 7418 spoke with a breathy, almost nervous voice, “how have you been?”

Valeria grinned.

“Why bother with pleasantries? I can tell you’re still angry with me.”

He shook his head and then turned to 72.

“You’re dismissed, girl. Go to your tent.”

She nodded and left them.

7418 did his best to contain himself, knowing full well that giving into his anger would only grant her satisfaction. Valeria was a tricky one. The woman was good at hiding her fear under that false mask of recklessness. Never had he met someone who so easily turn the tables on a person, make their vile fury her power. She thrived off of making men angry, so that she could use it against them. Or so it seemed, because, at the end of the day, Valeria’s whole personality was a performance.

7418 had been Jaime once, and Jaime had seen what Valeria truly did with all the anger and hatred that she supposedly fuelled her confidence with. Valeria Garza wasn’t a careless brat; she was a silent crier.

A gentle hand reached for one of his locs, twisting her finger around it. She remembered when he used to adorn them with jewellery, along with his fingers; his hands would always feel heavy, big rings resting on each and every finger.

“Anger doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel towards you.”

Those words hit hard.

“Jaime… I know it’s been a long time coming, but if it’s any consolation… I deeply regret giving you to them. I should have buried you. You were one of my best.”

He stared at her, trying to see if there was any sincerity to that.

Valeria looked into that black void of a mask and hoped that under it, his face was softening. She watched his shoulders relax, the tension leaving him. The Arcadian Son slouched a little, letting out a small sigh. Her eyes were as wide and expressive as ever. Her heart was in her mouth, her thoughts racing around, all wondering what he was going to do with what she had just said.

The drug lord had to admit, it was no apology.

And hence, 7418 struck her, right across the face.

She didn’t even have time to yelp, the sheer force of the hit was enough to shake her sense of balance. Valeria fell to the ground, tasting blood in the back of her throat.

23 watched from across the camp, through a small slit she had made for herself by slightly unzipping the tent’s flap. The girl waited, eyes fixed on the scene before her. She flinched as she watched 7418 deal his blow, wincing as Valeria’s body landed with a thud. A shiver of fear ran through 23’s body like a brief shock of electricity. She decided it was best to remain in the tent.

Phillip was quick to turn in the direction of this sudden commotion.

7418 stood above her, a looming golem, chest rising and falling rapidly. He was thinking about what to do, whether to leave her, limp on the ground, or kick her in the ribs, for a sense of finality. 7418 bit down on his anger, wanting to feel satisfied. She was here and she was at the behest of the Foundation, at the behest of him and yet, as he stood over her, he felt painfully empty. He wanted to feel like he had gotten one over her and proved to her that he was what happened when you got drunk on power. 7418 wanted to be something to Valeria.

Pfft. Valeria couldn’t help but smile through her bleeding lips. Get. In. Fucking. Line.

As he saw the corners of her lips pull into an unashamed grin, 7418 snarled. He raised his leg, drew it back and swung-

There was this deafening roar.

Graves charged at him, pinning him to the bark of a tree. A scattering of branches came falling down as the trunk shuddered, empathising with the wheeze that escape 7418’s mouth, the wind getting knocked out of him. The other Arcadian Sons backed up a little, rising onto their feet. They didn’t dare take their eyes off the exchange happening between them.

“What the fuck are you thinking?!” Graves yelled.

“That cunt doesn’t know her fucking place!”

“No, you don’t know your place! You can’t just hit her!”

“She’s our prisoner, I can do whatever I-”

Phillip snarled.

“Okay! Okay!”

7418 raised his hands, before briefly losing his balance as Phillip dug his clawed gloves into the fabric crevices in the other’s armour.

He lowered his head, making himself as physically small as possible. Something akin to a dog’s whine, though a lot raspier, escaped him as he tried to find a place to rest himself, slipping against the bark of the tree he was practically propped up against.

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Speak up!” Phillip barked.

“It won’t happen again, sir!”

He let 7418 go, sighing and shaking his head as the man staggered a little to regain his footing.

“Jesus Christ…” the man soughed before raising his voice once more, “She’s the asset! She’s a fucking pain in the arse but she’s also part of this whole operation! Restrain yourself, soldier!”

There was evident irony here and it was found in Phillip’s voice as he instructed his fellow Arcadian Son to rein it in. His voice for a brief moment was unrecognisable, sounding almost mechanical, like a bellowing roar from a big cat.

“And I pegged you for the diplomatic type,” Graves added as he exhaled.

7418 scoffed.

“Diplomatic?! Sir, I was a sicario. And now, I’m an Arcadian Son.”

Phillip watched the man slink past him, metaphorical tail between his legs.

Valeria looked up at Phillip, blood running down from her nose. He knelt down before her.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Stay that way and stop pissin’ these guys off. I don’t need this to be harder than it already is.”

Valeria smiled resignedly as she watched him leave her side and go gather the rest of her things, seething with long-fermented rage.

***

You could still picture it in your head, you and a group of maybe a dozen girls, maybe more, sitting inside a dark metal container. The door swung open and someone who was supposed to be your ‘knight in shining armour’ stood at the entryway. Like an obelisk sent from above, he planted himself firmly between you and the outside world, casting a dark shadow over you all.

The screams of little girls echoed throughout the place, as you were herded like cattle, along the asphalt pasture into their planes.

You don’t know how they’d found you, but, now that you thought about it, they may have staged this whole thing. Nevertheless, back then, you thought you were being saved by the special forces or something.

A lone cuddly toy sat on the ground, soaking in a puddle, its scraggly fur becoming matted with mud. You had cried out for your little friend, reaching for him as strong arms ushered you towards a ramp.

Luckily for you, that man, the one who had opened the door, picked up your toy wolf and handed him to you. He cupped your face in his big, gloved hands; the metal talons which tipped his fingers scraped at your skin. His blank mask, from which two canisters of red liquid protruded forth, was all you could see.

A small whimper left your lips, and he hushed you, bringing you to his chest, and gently swaying you side to side.

How easily he could manipulate your body, picking you up like you weighed nothing and cradling you in his arms as he took you onto the plane. You had sat on his lap for the entire journey, falling asleep, drugged by the lullaby that was his voice. Or perhaps something else. Maybe he had taken hold of your mind. Who knows…

***

He looked at you, eyes reflecting the dim lights of flickering ceiling lamps. Bathed in cool colours, akin to silver moonlight, you felt a shiver running through your body as he placed his rook in front of your pawn; an imminent threat that you would now have to think about, should he choose to have the little castle march onward on his next turn and add your soldier to the growing pile of bodies on his side of the board.

You swallowed hard and thought. His king remained stoic next to his queen, unfazed by your nearing army, seeing as his knights, pawns and bishops were destroying your forces. Such was the price you had to pay for every blunder you made.

"Oh, pup," the man across from you chuckled, "had I known this was your first game, I wouldn't have made this so hard for you."

You grumbled, brow furrowing.

He looked down at the board and then back at you. There was a glint in his eye as if he was trying to tell you something. His gaze directed you to a lonely pawn he had, which was ripe for your bishop's taking.

Reluctantly, accepting his aid, you moved to take it, your resentment growing as he took your hand and guided you to the pawn, practically handing it to you.

"There you go," he encouraged, "A kill to your name."

He sighed as you looked down, face tinted with the signature shadow of melancholy. Though he bore a mask, an elaborate, almost medieval-looking one at that, you could tell he was frowning.

"What's wrong, little one?"

You pulled your lips into a thin line, unsure if you should-

"Speak."

His voice echoed throughout the empty lounge, the rumble of his inner beast shaking your chest. You sat bolt upright, eyes wide and alert, deserting their heavy-lidded sadness, realising your emotions were dampening his mood.

"I'm sorry, sir. I-"

"What? Please, don't tell me you're crying over a game of chess."

He rolled his eyes.

"No!"

He looked back at you.

"I mean..." You cleared your throat. "I mean, no, sir. It's not about chess."

"Then, what, pup? What's making you so sad? It's not pleasant to see you like this."

The way he spoke had a terrible knack for cutting into you, like a well-sharpened knife through flesh. His Russian accent was strong and sometimes you found it had rubbed a little off on you, which you supposed was inevitable, seeing as he had brought you up.

"I don't know. I guess I'm just a little... erm..."

You had to choose your words carefully, the last thing you wanted to do was offend him.

"... I hadn't seen you like that before."

"Ah."

He was quick to realise what you were talking about.

"Most of my lamias do tend to be surprised when they witness me change for the first time. I make for a fearsome Arcadian Son. But I didn't attack you, did I?"

"No, sir."

"So why is it affecting you so much?"

You shrugged.

"I guess I was just scared."

He laughed. It was quiet, contained but aggravatingly condescending.

"You only need to be scared if you're my enemy. Are you my enemy?"

"No."

"Exactly. You're my lamia. I raised you as my own, you have nothing to fear should you remain at my side."

"Has a lamia ever betrayed you?"

He scoffed.

"Has a lamia ever betrayed me?! I am well into my hundreds now, pup, think about how many lamias I've raised in the time I've been with the Foundation. There are always defects."

"I see."

"And most of those defects found their end here."

He pointed to the lower half of his masked face, where its metal lips were.

"In my teeth."

***

You looked to your left and saw Ghost, staring off into the forest, waiting for you to continue. A small, sad smile crept onto your face. From sitting across one masked man to now sitting beside another, fate seemed to have found a recurring image and had now stuck with it. Nevertheless, you supposed you should appreciate the fact that Ghost hadn’t attacked you yet.

Yet.

Why were you anticipating the worst of him?

Damn. You were a terrible human being.

Well, in fairness, his job did require him to kill.

He looked back at you, sensing your eyes were on him and you were quick to avert your gaze, taking some feigned interest in a bird that was pecking at the soil. Your heart skipped a beat or two, your body painfully aware of his presence. You sighed, drawing your knees up to your chest. The desire to give your brain a factory reset was becoming a desperate need, clawing away at your insides.

“You were talking about your training…” he mumbled, hoping that maybe a prompt will get you back to talking, rescuing him from this painful silence you had cast upon both of you.

“Hmm?”

You turned to face him, his voice snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Training?”

“Ah, right. Yeah. Trained with professional soldiers who were much more experienced than myself and hardly held back. Um… Then, I was put into what we call ‘packs’, task forces, you know?”

“Mhm.”

“The men who were part of our packs were hardly kind. I think… I think there was a culture among them, a contest to see who could be the absolute worst human possible. It was like…” You scratched your chin as you tried to find the words. “… It was like they defined themselves by their capacity to inflict violence.”

Ghost couldn’t help but let out a heavy sigh through his nose. He looked down at the ground, his mind racing with questions and guilty accusations. That culture wasn’t unique to where you were from. That culture was everywhere and, as reluctant as he was to admit it, he knew he had partaken in that culture in some form. Then again, he was sure every guy had. He wondered if it was some unwritten rite of passage that you’d have to be violent in some capacity to put someone in their place. Violence was everywhere, especially in his life. His job pretty much boiled down to being violent.

Which was why he felt incredibly uncomfortable as you continued to speak about those godawful men.

“They liked making you feel small in any capacity. Even when they weren’t wanting to hurt you. My… overseer was very much like that. I sometimes questioned if he actually loved me like he said he did or if I was just a thing to him. Just another lamia to add to his collection.”

Like that growing pile of chess pieces on his side of the board.

“Overseer?” Ghost asked, hoping that redirecting the conversation to this man whom, he prayed you’d shit on to no end, would enable him to escape his own mental self-flagellation.

“Yeah, he was the man who I thought was special forces, remember? He raised me. I wouldn’t say he was a father to me per se, but he was close to that. He was terrifying.”

“How? I-If you don’t mind me asking.”

You smiled, something in you buzzing with delight in the way Ghost had checked if you were okay with answering.

“He was… hmm… this sounds crazy, but he was like royalty, a very powerful man. He was clever and experienced, and he knew how to make you like him because he pretended to respect you. However, if you pissed him off, or hit a particular nerve, he would be quick to remind you who he really was.”

“A dick pretty much.”

You chuckled.

“He was more than a dick, Ghost. He was a monster who hid it well, or maybe he didn’t, maybe he just desensitised us to his actual personality… I don’t know. Still, he was a terrible human being and I hate him.”

He chuckled, chuckled like he knew something… like he could relate. You looked up at him, anticipating elaboration, but either Ghost didn’t pick up on your curiosity or refused to acknowledge it.

Instead of giving in to that puppy-like nosiness you had on display pertaining to his remark, Ghost decided to question you some more.

“What exactly made you like a lamia? And… um, can I ask if the male soldiers were special in any way? Can I ask more about them?”

“Oh, well, for me I got a blood transfusion. They found a match and gave me a special type of blood that made me like the way I am. As for the men…”

Now, did you want to go into every itty-bitty detail about Arcadian Sons? Ghost could believe what you had to say about lamia abilities because he had witnessed them and, you supposed, they weren’t too far from being somewhat plausible… at least the superior strength you displayed, which you could argue was in the realm of possibility for the average human imagination. As for shapeshifting, bloodsucking monsters, well, you didn’t want Ghost to think you were making up tall tales.

Keep it tactical. Keep it minimal.

“… The men weren’t like us at all. Well, they were strong. Incredibly strong. Bought, though. They weren’t found and taken from a young age like us.”

“I see…”

Yup. You nodded to yourself. Love that for the Arcadian Sons… those heartless bastards. You wondered if you could ever take one on in a fight. That would be something!

“Now you’re out, Y/N. How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like shit. I want to feel good because look at me, I made it out but… I know the Foundation will be after me and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get over what happened to me while I was there.”

“You may never get over it, Y/N. But that doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong.”

You cocked your head to one side, brow furrowing.

“It’s okay to not entirely recover but it doesn’t mean you’re broken.”

“I wonder if this was meant to happen if it’s…” You felt the tears coming back, your eyes tingling. “…given me character or something.”

Ghost laughed.

“Y/N, trauma doesn’t equate to character and let no one tell you otherwise. You’re not meant to go through pain, and it’s not meant to be character-building. Trust me, I know.”

You do?

Should you ask that aloud?

You felt your heart kick up a notch. You didn’t want to upset him, especially as you felt you had just recovered from nearly making him hate you with you barging in on him showering and then proceeding to threaten his manhood with a swift kick to the balls during that round of sparring.

Hmm.

“I just had a rough upbringing, Y/N. That’s all.”

The way he had said it sounded laboured like you had been pestering him for a while about it. You hadn’t though, you knew you hadn’t. Maybe you just had that look on your face. Nevertheless, you decided it was best to leave it at that.

“Oh… right.”

You gave a polite smile and awkwardly looked to the ground, unsure of how to continue this conversation.

He sighed and decided to make his body language more open, hoping that would prevent you from looking too sad. Swivelling round to face you more and making sure he looked as amicable as he could with that threatening skull of a mask, Ghost made an effort to speak with a gentler voice in the hopes you wouldn’t retreat into your shell.

“Do you want to talk more? You feeling better?”

You nodded.

“I do feel better, thanks. But, I mean, I could probably fill books with how much I want to talk about my time in the Foundation. About everything… It’s tiring though.”

As if on cue, you stretched your arms upwards and let out a great yawn.

“Bringing up baggage is tiring, but while you’re here, feel free to come and-”

He paused, watching you suddenly get up from your seat and lower yourself so that you were close to the ground. You took a few steps towards something amidst the soil, moving in a catlike manner: stopping, crouching, and then continuing to creep closer.

“Y/N, what are you doing?”

“Shhh!”

“Y/N-”

Ghost would have the strangest shock of his life as you turned around and gave him an irritated hiss, only to then place a hand over your mouth, looking surprised yourself.

“Sorry! It’s a lamia habit of mine!”

He just looked at you. His eyes weren’t wide, but you could definitely tell he was taken aback. Much to your relief, he began to laugh.

“Laswell doesn’t hiss!”

“Does she not?”

The fact that was a genuine question only made Ghost’s confused laughter grow.

“No! She doesn’t?!”

“Weird,” you remarked, returning your attention to whatever you were investigating in the grass.

He rose from his seat, heading towards you.

“Weird? It’s weird not to hiss? Y/N, you really are full of-”

You raised your hand, causing him to stop in his tracks. Looking over your shoulder, Ghost squatted down beside you and beheld a… footprint?

He tilted his head to one side and reached forward to get a better look, only for you to bat his hand away.

“Y/N!” he scolded.

“You’ll damage it!”

“It’s a footprint. There’s plenty of ‘em around.”

“This one’s special.”

Was it? Ghost grimaced under his mask as he watched you lean in. The last thing he wanted to see was you sniffing at this like some tracking dog, which, luckily you didn’t do. Instead, you stroked your chin, examining every little detail on the imprint on the soil. It looked like it belonged to a standard combat boot, and you were sure you might find a few footprints around the base that would match this one.

You had a hunch that someone had just entered the Vaqueros’ base who wasn’t supposed to be there. Your pupils had dilated, eyes darting about, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end as you scoured for any other sign which confirmed your theory. Ghost watched you, both fascinated and also concerned, wondering if he should intervene.

“This doesn’t belong to someone we know,” you stated, rising to your feet and pointing at the footprint with an accusatory hand.

“Easy. It’s a footprint.”

Like the final gong of a church bell, you felt a sudden shift in your emotional state. Mild indignation set alight from old embers.

Easy. It’s a footprint. EaSy. It’S a FoOtPriNt.

It was how he said it: as if he knew better. However, Ghost didn’t know better, you did. He didn’t have your supernatural affinity for premonition, he wasn’t able to detect the slight change in the aura of the base behind you. Something told you that another mind had joined the collection of the ones you recognised. You began to grind your teeth together, instinct screaming from the back of your mind that you were going to be in trouble if you didn’t act.

“You’re no lamia, Ghost. You wouldn’t understand. I need to find Kate.”

You brushed past him, massaging your temples as you made your way back into the base.

Ghost’s shoulders slumped a little as he watched you disappear into the distance. Then, he turned around, hearing something amidst the bushes just yonder.

***

You let out a heavy sigh, head dropping downwards as Kate placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I can’t sense anything, Y/N. I think you’re just a little rattled, which is understandable. Sometimes anxieties can flare up suddenly.”

You weren’t having her patronise you again and the bubbling anger slowly making itself known on your face told Kate that perhaps she should choose her next words carefully. She did so, gently removing her hand from you and looking you in the eye.

“If it’s any assurance, my contact said that you’ll be good to go within two days. Two more days and you’ll be on your way to proper freedom.”

“Two days of sitting idly by while the Foundation gets clos- AHHHH!” you said before your voice crescendo-ed into a loud groan.

You clutched your head, losing your balance. Laswell caught you in her arms, hushing you as you whimpered, your mind soaring with a strange pain. It was like a high-pitched sound, ringing inside your skull, a blaring siren telling you that something was terribly wrong. You gripped onto her tightly, doing your best to sort through the howling voices in your mind and find one which spoke reason. Except, the more you fixated on the feeling, the worse it grew.

That footprint. That blasted footprint!

You tried to picture it in your head, hoping there was a clue within the image of the memory.

“Steady, Y/N.”

Kate had you rest some of your weight onto her and helped you hobble into the barracks.

As soon as Gaz saw the sight of you barely being able to stand on your feet, even with the aid of Kate, he rose up and made his way to you.

“Are they okay?” Gaz asked, helping Kate ease you onto a bed.

“I think they’re just a bit overstimulated. Happens sometimes. There’s a lot of people in this base,” Kate explained, feeling your forehead.

Your temperature was fine, despite your slightly feverish behaviour. You turned around and buried your face into your pillow, trying to focus on the distant echo of that foreign soul, praying that the redirection of your attention would be enough to drown out the cacophony wreaking havoc within your head.

“Someone’s in this base…”

“Y/N…”

“Someone is in this base!” you shouted, despite your voice being muffled by the pillow.

“What do they mean by that?” Gaz asked.

Kate let out an exasperated sigh, “They think someone’s here that’s not meant to be here but that’s… impossible.”

“What if they’re right?”

“I would know too.”

Kate, you’re out of practice. I’m fresh out of the Foundation. My senses are much better than yours.

You wouldn’t say it aloud, for fear of causing offence but despite that, you stuck to your guns. She may not have been convinced but you knew better.

Even if it may eventually be to your detriment, you were not sleeping tonight.

***

Ghost turned the faucet and flinched a little as a shock of cold water splashed him square in the face. He ran his hands through his wet hair, adjusting to the warming temperature, and a content sigh escaped his lips. While he lathered up some soap in his hands, he thought about you.

As he had walked past the barracks, he had seen you on your bed, lying on your back and staring up at the ceiling. You had your hands on your belly as you idly chewed on the inside of your cheek. It looked like you had calmed down from your little panic over the footprint, although he could still tell, even at the distance he was at, that something was bothering you. Your chest rose and fell quickly, your eyes wide and alert. Though he was careful to not catch your attention, he had a feeling you knew he was there, or at least nearby. Going from zero to a hundred like that, he wondered how you could cope with it, and he hoped it wasn’t a habit of yours. All from a fucking footprint. Yes, you probably could sense something with your… lamia-ness, but he had overheard Kate say something about overstimulation and upon hearing that, all the pieces fit together.

You probably weren’t used to being in an army base with all of them, all of these new people, and that only added to the pile you already had on your plate.

A pang of guilt struck him as he washed off the soap from his body.

Maybe he had been too dismissive. He could tell you had gotten annoyed by him trying to calm you down before you spiralled but he was just doing what he thought best. You were skittish, easy to agitate, and you needed to be settled down before you’d go off on one. Right? He was helping you!

Well, he thought he was.

The steam made the air in the bathroom heavy… or maybe it was just him?

He didn’t know why, but, all of a sudden, he was feeling a little claustrophobic. Ghost shrunk away a little, almost hiding under the water, wondering if your bout of paranoia had rubbed off on him.

Eventually, the lieutenant finished up his shower, got dressed and was brushing his teeth over the sink. Briefly, he looked up at the mirror.

A shiver, like none he had ever felt ran through him.

Primal fear, triggered by pure incomprehension, made his skin grow clammy and his heart speed up.

Before his very eyes, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley watched a handprint form on the foggy mirror. A disembodied handprint.

Quickly, he turned around, only to see nothing.

Something gently touched his neck.

Breath.

Ghost took the toothbrush out of his mouth and set it on the porcelain sink. Then, he searched around the empty bathroom, albeit a little frantically. He peered around the corner to see if anyone was in the shower unit.

If someone was playing a little prank, he was going to hunt that person down and give them more than an earful on how that was a stupid thing to do.

However, it would turn out to be empty.

Returning to the sink, he let out a sigh.

Jesus, Simon. Get a hold of yourself.

Resting his hands on the edges of the sink, he looked back up at the mirror. The handprint was still there, and in the patches of clarity that made up the palm, where the fogginess had been removed, Ghost spotted that the lock on the door had been undone.

But didn’t he… He could have sworn…

He returned to the barracks, towels and soaps in hand, making his way to his rucksack. As he knelt down before his bed, he looked to his side and caught your eye. You gave a polite smile, before rolling onto your side, turning away from him.

“You alright?” he asked as he packed his stuff away.

“I think I should be asking you that question. You seem rattled,” you replied, your voice monotone.

He looked back up at you, brows knitted together.

“Are you… Are you doing your ‘lamia’ thing?”

“Someone was in the bathroom, weren’t they?”

“Please, don’t fuel my paranoia,” Ghost said, getting up and heading elsewhere to find Soap and maybe a box of raisins.

#bloodhound fic #cod mw22 #cod mwii fic #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod x reader #phillip graves cod #cod mw2 werewolf au #cod mw2 fic #simon riley x reader #oh boy oh joy another chapter :)

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literary-illuminati · 11 months

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Book Review 14 - The Best of Nancy Kress, by Nancy Kress

Okay, continuing to work through my backlog on these! And learning the perils of letting it build for a month because my memories of most of the stories in this are already getting a bit vague and scattered.

So, getting the basic details out of the way – my first short story collection of the year, 600 pages of the works of Nancy Kress, curated and selected by the author herself as all her favourites that would fit in one volume. Someone on here (can’t remember who and tumblr search is being its usual unusuable self, unfortunately) recommended Beggars In Spain to me a while back, and this was the only volume my library system had that included it. So, 500-ish pages of other stories as a nice bonus until I got to the end and remembered that that’s the reason I’d gotten the book out in the first place.

The stories run from less than ten pages to a novella, and Kress includes a little half-page afterward following each. Usually either a reflection on the meaning of the story or an anecdote about its writing or reception, and then where and when it was originally published and any awards it won. And there were a lot of awards You can get a lot of short stories nominated for Hugos over 45 years of writing. The little snapshots of a, like, SF/F writer subculture and the relationships therein were all charming, anyway.

The stories themselves were of pretty wildly varying subject matter, though all science fiction of one kind or another. Everything from post-apocalyptic ruins to spaceships studying the galactic core to the drama and intrigue of gene-modding among high class ballerinas twenty minutes from now. The quality varied – it would pretty much have to, for like two dozen stories written across a span of decades – but overall it was really quite good.

Tone was rather more consistent. Some were happier than others, of course, but even the most fantastical and high concept worlds were pretty grimy and compromised and full of petty politics and pettier assholes. Capital H Heroes were pretty thin on the ground, even (especially) among the various protagonists. Kress seems to have a rare love for women who aren’t just, like, spiky, but genuinely flawed and unpleasant to be around (easier to pull off with short stories than novels, I suppose).

Short stories are great for just putting people in situations generally, really – not sure how long you could really draw out ‘feeling awkward and shitty because the guy you’re having an affair with was on a ‘business trip’ to visit you when aliens abducted and/or killed everyone in the city his wife and kids were in. He absolutely blames you for this,’ but it’s sure a hook!

Familial relationships that are, lets go with troubled, are a whole other recurring theme, too. Sororicidal sisters, deadbeat dads, obsessive ex-wives, parents putting their children through experimental gene-therapy to make sure they grow up with the ideal body to vicariously live out their dreams, the whole set. There’s even some dubiously consensual clone incest at one point!

Though honestly the lack of capital-h Heroes goes beyond just morality – thinking about it, most of the short stories are told from the perspective of observers, survivors, sufferers of exotic diseases, journalists poking at a mess from the outside. People whose world is being acted upon by forces far beyond their control, if not beyond their understanding entirely, and either bearing witness or struggling to adapt and get by. The stories where the protagonists had real agency – the scientists exploring the galaxy’s core, the time-travellers taking an alternate Anne Boleyn hostage to prevent the English Civil Wars – are usually the tragedies. There are a lot of those – or, if not tragedies, then at least stories that end badly for almost everyone involved. I’m halfway convinced that short stories are just a more appealing format for properly bleak fiction, really – less investment in characters’ wellbeing, or narrative expectations pushing towards growth or happy endings.

And now, before I focus on discussing Beggars In Spain specifically, some call outs for the short stories that really stuck in my head

The aforementioned gene-moding scandals in New York ballet, partially told through the perspective of the engineered-to-be-as-smart-as-a-5-year-old bespoke guard dog contracted to protect a start ballerina. Nicely understated cyberpunk setting and also felt extremely realistic as the sort of thing we’ll absolutely be having scandals about in fifty years tbh.

A woman discovering that the aliens are here amid the ruins of postwar Earth because they started getting our television broadcasts and decided that the only thing we had worth taking was dogs, but are stuck here until they figure out how to train them to be as good and heroic as they are in the movies.

A disenchanted and nostalgic man in the 80s finding a specific cupboard that goes back to one specific day in 1935 (I think. Pre-war but Roosevelt administration). He uses this exclusively to make his social security cheque go further and buy little presents for his friend with what in the 80s is pocket change. The actual plot involves despairing over how cynical and bleak-minded his granddaughter the artist is, and deciding to go back and a Good Man to introduce her to.

An extremely short one – just a one-scene vignette, really – about a waitress in a vaguely ‘50s diner when one of the aliens whose been in the news so much escapes their minders and wants to try an apple pie.

(There were also, I must admit, a decent number of stories that left me cold or that I just didn’t see the point of including, but, again, pretty much inevitable in any big collection, isn’t it?)

But okay, so! Beggars in Spain! It’s definitely an interesting novella, and given the fact that it’s 30 years old and was by all accounts incredibly successful I do kind of wonder how many common tropes about the whole super-intelligent designer babies conceit I’ve encountered elsewhere first are downstream of it?

Because I mean, ostensibly it’s about children modified in utero to not need to sleep, but practically that cashes out to them all being creative productive polyglot geniuses. Which is certainly the fantasy of never having to sleep with zero downsides, though honestly I’m pretty sure I’d spend at least half the extra time fucking around online. That said, the sense of alienation the protagonist has dealing with a world where almost everyone around her seems to just be wasting a third of their lives laying down is really well done.

It’s the sort of novella that you could probably write a dozen a dozen different essays about, and would probably benefit from being analyzed with less than a month’s distance and quotes on hand, but for all the futurism (and really not the best story in the collection for that, honestly), the thematic throughline that stood out to me is actually just libertarianism? Or not quite the right word, probably, though it is our heroine’s ideology (she is, after all, the favoured daughter of a self-made magnate, amid a social circle of the golden children of the striving upper-middle class). But the specific idea of enlightened selfishness, that the contract is the basis of all society, that no one owes anyone anything, and you are only worth what you can produce to offer up in exchange to others.

It’s where the title comes from, after all – the eponymous beggars with nothing to offer except their need who are entirely superfluous and inconvenient to the lives of the Sleepless ubermensch; what are they owed? The orthodox answer of the movement basically every major character at least ostensibly ascribes to is ‘nothing’.

Not that any of them actually act like individuals interacting solely through mutually beneficial contracts, which I’m fairly sure is in fact the point – the Sleepless invent nationalism before any of them turn thirty, going to great effort to support and look after each other on the basis of Sleepless-solidarity and an assumption that each of them is the future of humanity. And on the other hand, the protagonist’s father is a domineering, overbearing ass of a partner, draining both of his wives’ personality and will to live in turn until they get tired of being bitter social secretaries for him and quit. Equitable, contractual relationships are thin on the ground – and of course the entire climax is the protagonist relying on friends and an estranged sister to rescue an abused child who surely isn’t likely to pay any of them back for the effort anytime soon.

I thought the hypocrisy was neatly done, anyway. Especially since it’s never really confronted – none of the Sleepless ever show the slightest awareness that the lengths they’ll go to for the sake of each other purely on the basis of their shared enhancements seem to contradict the ideology they treat as holy writ.

Overall not exactly my favourite book of the year, but a fair bit better than a lot of what I’ve read so far. So I’ll call it a win. Just for the time capsule effect of reading stories written by the same author across four decades, if nothing else.

#book review #Nancy Kress #the Best of Nancy Kress #sff #short stories

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