1, 9, 13 for Jonas please?
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What’s the lie your character says most often?
"...That I will sell the rings." Voice is lower than what usually graces his lips. Hazel eyes cast downwards, index and thumb meet the onyx loop around his left pointer. Tips of his fingers touch the smooth surface of the ceremonial jewelry while sight lingers on the ring around his pinky. Trimmed eyebrows remain pinched together slightly as he loses himself in distant and yet oh-so vivid memory. Jonas assumes your thinking: certainly as a victim, he would want to shed himself of any constant reminders of his murder. Yet somehow, he just can't bring himself to reject such a very real, very wounded part of himself.
Bleached old bones stained with his mark now stripped of meaning and having tempted their last mystery. Letters of his name spelled by the gothic spires of an alien moral compass scarred over and faded into the skin of followers now abandoned and jaded by his absence; the whispers of the Void snuffed out, the blue glow of its magic totally spent.
"I had known, before, that there was never much meaning to any of it. But... now." His brain threatens to unravel, the fibers of his fortitude fraying like a weak rope about to give under the weight that it tries to maintain on its own.
"...Jonas deserves meaning, too."
...
Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive?
"Love?..." Parroted airily, an innocent tone from the quiet teenager. The asparagus-colored hardcover closes with a gentle thump in his hands. Black brow climbs upon its companion, cocking while eyes wander up to the ceiling of the library.
"When it came to her, to N--" He falls silent nearly instantly, trapping her name within the cage of his lips. Eyes downcast, though his stare remains blank as mouth closes before he attempts to recover. He's careful in his movements, but Jonas gently hugs his book to his narrow chest. Fingers curl around the contours of the object, his grip noticeably tightening as if preparing to use the reading material as a shield or impractical hiding place. "I was selfish, but..."
Vocal chords unwavering, tone solid and strong. "But I did the right thing."
...
When do they fake a smile? How often?
"When your loved one has grown so weak that wrapping her grip around just your single finger takes an impossible amount of strength, you say nothing but you smile through humming the lullaby she used to soothe you with so long ago... You are supposed to fake a smile when father calls out your name and you are forced to leave her side even though her fever hasn't broken and she has fallen asleep and has not woken for two nights and one day."
He takes just a moment, thin lips pull into a slight curl and stretch a bit to each ear. Eyelashes flutter, blinking a growing collection of tears away before they threaten to spill. He mashes the heel of his palm into his eye, screwing into his tear duct with little grace; Adam's apple bobs in display of the thick swallow of his ever-tightening throat: the lump just won't leave him.
"You're supposed to fake a smile when the... wh-when the pain is too much..."
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@coinquinatvs || prompts for emotionally stunted idiots ( Miller for Jean ~ )
“ yeah i’m pissed off but i’d rather not talk about it. that’s why you’re the one i came to. ”
Eyeing Miller from the doorway, he can guess what he's pissed about. But only guess; there's too much that's gone wrong in their lives to know for sure.
“Khm…” he nods in acknowledgment and then over at his couch. Offering him a place to sit down. The tips of his ears are light pink for no reason in particular. All things considered, Jean’s surprised to see him. He's not in any shape to have guests over, and neither is his apartment. There are clothes on the floor. Dishes, case notes, and bottles are on the coffee table. Work always follows him home. His printed tee says something stupid on the front, but it's long faded.
“Want something to drink? Water, tea, coffee, ...beer?” It's what they both don't need. He makes his way towards the kitchen but turns around, leaning against the wide, blocky doorframe trim. “Flattered, that I’m the one you come to for that.” His tone is hard to decipher. It sounds sarcastic, facetious, good-humored, and (sort of) deadpan all at once. He isn’t trying to push any buttons, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. Vic offers a smile afterward. If only to show that he meant no ill will with his comment.
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“Simon Riley has god-like stamina this, Simon Riley goes multiple rounds that” yeah yeah okay sure, but consider this. What if he doesn't?
What if he's tired? Sick? Even just plain lazy? What if after a long day of getting his ass beat at work, he just wants to come home, cum quick, and knock the fuck out? Huh? Give me that Simon.
Simon who insists it's your turn to be on top since he was on top last time. Simon whose idea of foreplay is a little spit and a couple tugs, and then he's ready to go. Simon who prefers to have sex in the morning because he knows he'll be too tired if he waits until the night. Simon who starts to grouch about his tongue getting sore after it's taken more than five minutes to get you off. Simon who loves to wear condoms because it means he doesn't have to deal with a big mess at the end. Simon who half the time doesn't even bother undressing fully, just lowers his pants and underwear enough to pull out his cock. Simon who only has sex before having a meal because after he usually likes to take a nap. Simon who can't be bothered to change the sheets once you're finished, so he just lays on the wet spot you left on the bed. Simon who's huffing and sweating like he just ran a marathon even though you're only 60 seconds in. Simon who lasts just long enough to see you both cum, and then he's immediately rolling over and falling asleep.
Simon who may not be the most sprightly of lovers, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care. Even when he's got nothing but fumes left in the tank, he still finds a way to leave you both satisfied.
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nobody knew simon’s name, his cold glances penetrating souls whenever someone on the force even dared to call him by his first name. he preferred it this way. he wasn’t the kind to blend personal life and work, he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror without his mask and still see a murderer. his hands were clean, protected by the gloves ghost slipped on each time he reached base. it was soon that the other soldiers almost forgot his name, agreeing that their lieutenant was indeed a ghost.
that was until your worried voice called for him.
you didn’t know of the ghost identity, it had never even crossed your mind that your simon, your sweet and caring boyfriend’s personality would switch into a cold blooded killer as soon as he set foot at base or in the field. of course he never mentioned it with you, he sporadically talked about his job and his missions. you knew he was a strict lieutenant, but you had been kept away from more by the person with the skull mask and balaclava.
“simon?” you asked for the third time the receptionist. she apologetically looked up at you and shrugged. “oh cmon, simon riley. i know for a fact that he’s here. please, i need to see him.”
“i’m very sorry miss but…” the woman shook her head again, “let me call the captain.”
you sighed and sat down by the waiting area until a man walked in and talked to the woman.
“who’re you looking for?”
you stood up. “simon. simon riley.”
“ghost?”
you shook your head, almost clueless. “no, simon riley.”
“yeah, that’s him…” he said, “he’s training the recruits now. shall i deliver a message?”
“no, i need to see him personally. i wouldn’t have come all the way here if it wasn’t important, captain.”
you'd seen price a few times, simon's loyalty to the man was almost like a dog's one, always following orders and rarely complaining. he often talked about him when he was at home, all he shared with you about his threatening job was the friends he made along the way: johnny, kyle, price, gary, nikolai. he'd often go out for a pint –or two– with johnny and kyle, who also occasionally would come to your shared apartment for dinner with their temporary girlfriends.
"follow me." price sighed. you eagerly followed him, as close as his shadow, and the courtyard came into sight. dozens and dozens of soldiers in scarlet training uniforms were running laps of the immense open space under the pale sun, and that's when you spotted a tall and muscular man in black tactical gear. hell, he was hard to miss.
"another lap, smith!" his mancunian accent was stronger than his will to neutralise it. "if my gran was alive she'd be faster than ya."
you'd recognised the voice, of course, even if it was much harsher than usual, but you couldn't recognise him.
you realised, that was ghost. his cold eyes were studying each of the recruit's tired and red faces, his arms behind his back as he barked for five more laps for the ones who didn't look sweaty enough. even his voice was different, but what shocked you was the black balaclava with the white skull drawn on top.
you'd seen the mask once or twice over the years, shoved on the bottom of his duffle bag or drying on a windowsill, but you've never given it much thought, why would you?
"si?" you asked, standing directly behind him as price stood a few feet from you.
his head snapped in your direction at a worryingly fast speed, his eyes immediately becoming soft, then confused.
"what're you doin' here?" his voice spoke, much sweeter.
you kept staring at him, not recognising the man you loved.
he immediately grabbed the crown of the balaclava and yanked it off without a second though. holding the black piece of clothing in his hand, both of them came to cup your elbows, drawing you closer to him.
"love?" he called you.
still at loss of words, you reached to the balaclava and twirled it between your fingers.
"love, talk to me." his voice sounded worried.
"ghost?"
he shook his head. "simon, love."
"we'll talk about that at home." you raised your eyebrows, attempting a smile.
he looked at you impatiently, his fingers brushing up and down your forearms.
you fished in your bag a small plastic bag and gave it to him.
this wasn't like one of the times when he'd forget his lunch at home so you'd drop by and give it to johnny so he'd give it to an always so busy simon ghost; he could see it in your eyes that this was something more.
he unwrapped the plastic bag that you had rolled up on itself. his eyes looked brighter than ever when he took with shaky fingers the finally positive pregnancy test.
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