#riptide writes 🌊

[nevadancitizen]

-> FASCINATION WITH THE ORDINARY

synopsis: your world is vastly different from the nevada native to madness combat. after the main three + 2bdamned get transported to your world, they each find things that fascinate them.

word count: 2.5k

characters: hank, deimos, sanford, 2bdamned, player! reader

trigger warnings: ehh slight yandere/obsession but could also be read as super heavy pining if you're not into that lol

notes: madness combat fandom arise. madness combat fandom come back to me (also set in @/saltymongoose 's self-aware au)

For the sake of consistency, let’s imagine that the Player lives in a big, lonely, woodsy and plain-sy plot of land. There’s little to no outside human interaction, and lots of animals wandering through the area with a river running through it. For the wildlife, I’m basing it on the American South because I’ve lived here my entire life and know how they act.

SUNSETS & SUNRISES

2BDamned would be the most entranced, since he has the most memories from before the fall and before Hank killed the sun. He’s an early riser by nature (since his body has conditioned him so he’s mostly overworked and under-rested, as unhealthy as it is), so he leans more towards the beauty of a sunrise, towards the light that starts to paint the dark sky with hazy orange shades and rosy hues. He likes breathing in the crisp air and the way it almost sends a shock through his lungs.

But the sun stirs a lingering feeling of nostalgia, though, for the way things were before everything fell to madness. Doc tries his best not to let the thoughts get the better of him as you slip through the front door and out onto the front porch, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. 

God, he could imagine staying like this forever: just you, him, a beautiful sunrise, and coffee. Surely the way you pay attention to him, the way you get up extra early to watch the sunrise, the way you doctor his coffee just right – they’re all examples of how you care for him, just as he cares for you. But for now, he’ll just bide his time, blowing the steam off the surface of his coffee and purring, soft and raspy, both at the taste and because of your company.

But that doesn’t stop the others from appreciating the astounding view at dusk, because Sanford and Deimos are more partial to sunsets after long days. They like lounging in the adirondack chairs set up around the fire pit, cracking open a few beers, and simply relaxing with you. (Don’t worry, Sanford will gather firewood and Deimos will set it alight if it’s a little too cold for your taste.)

They’re fresher clones, so they don’t remember the sun well, if at all. They both always go quiet when the sun starts to dip below the horizon. Sanford props his tea sunglasses on top of his head and Deimos sets his cigarette in the ashtray as they both stare at the way the light turns the clouds purple and paints the sky with pink streaks. It stirs something sad in your heart – both of these men are pushing and just over the cusp of thirty, yet they don’t know the simple sweetness of a sunset. 

But as soon as night overtakes the sky, they both turn their attention back to you. Deimos makes some suave comment about your beauty being nothing in the face of a sunset in that rumbling, smooth voice of his, and Sanford gives him a pointed glare. Sanford points out that your beauty and the beauty of nature are two whole different things, but keeps showering you with not-so-inadvertent compliments, leaving you flustered and blushing from both grunt’s words.

Hank is somewhat of an anomaly with this one. All of the grunt’s biological clocks are absolutely porked from their time without a sun, but Hank’s affected the worst by far. (That, and he doesn’t really care for the sun. He literally slaughtered it.) Therefore, he’s more privy to waking up in the middle of the night and dragging you onto the roof to look at the stars. 

He likes laying on his back with you on his chest, pointing out the brightest stars and asking you questions about them. (He doesn’t really care, he just likes hearing your voice.) He loves your vivid descriptions of the constellations and how you describe them in intricate ways. To Hank, they’re just sparkly, unreachable dots in the sky, but it seems like, to you, they’re beautiful: like millions of silver nails driven into a dome of dark blue velvet. 

He savors the moments like these the most, when you’re alone with him. There’s no sound except for the crickets and dog-day cicadas and spring peepers and your voice and Hank’s sputtering purring. Honestly, it’s as it should be – without those other pesky dipshits ruining your time together. (Well, he can tolerate Doc, but that annoying extraction team could go fuck themselves for all he cared.)

ENTERTAINMENT

Sanford hates being lazy. He hates feeling like he’s not doing anything useful, even if he’s being useful by resting. The only real way to make him sit down and stop moving is by trapping him on the couch, laying your head in his lap, and turning on the TV. (Even if, for the first thirty minutes, he’s too focused on you and your body heat and how fast his heart is beating to even consider looking at the TV.)

But the thing he loves watching the most isn’t any sort of movie with amazing cinematography or show with riveting writing – it’s infomercials. Specifically, infomercials from the 90’s to the late 2000’s. He likes seeing what things could’ve been like if there was no madness in Nevada, because things are oddly peaceful (at least, to him) in your world. Billy Mays and Cathy Mitchell make him wonder about domestic life with you (even if the Jupiter Jack and the Xpress Redi-Set-Go are completely obsolete by now), and how these little gadgets would make your life together supposedly go smoother.

He likes combing his claws carefully through your hair as you both watch these people play up how useful these obviously useless inventions are. He tries to avert his eyes and act interested in the TV as you look up at him and point out how the Red Devil Grill was recalled because it got so hot it collapsed and caused fires, but can’t. He just can’t keep his eyes off you when you look up at him so sweetly, and can you blame him? You just make his face so warm and his heart beat so fucking fast…

Deimos has always had a fascination with electronics, but it’s mostly been from a tactical and weaponized standpoint. But he’s discovered (well, really, you introduced him to) video games. He absolutely loves curling up into your side, purring and providing commentary as he watches you play. (Because, despite his trying, he hasn’t really gotten a hang of the controls yet.)

He loves more story-fueled games with characters he can really get attached to. He likes investing himself in things and people that don’t actually affect him, because seeing your favorite character go through dire straits or even die hurts for a little while, but it’s nothing compared to seeing someone get eviscerated right in front of you. And, yeah, he totally cried when Arthur Morgan died (and totally played it up so that you’d comfort him). 

He also likes draping himself over you in the middle of a boss fight, wriggling and nuzzling into your cheek, causing you to giggle, lose focus, and, obviously, die. He strings together half-hearted apologies through his raspy purring, but he’s not really sorry. More deaths means more time spent with him, and internally, he’s completely and honestly unapologetic for his underhanded tactics. 

Due to the nature of his administrative role, Doc spends a lot of time in front of screens. He likes to unplug and unwind by reading, no doubt with a straight-up hazardous amount of coffee by his side. He prefers reading with you with an arm wrapped around your shoulder, whether you’re also reading or working on something else. Though he’s inexperienced (and sometimes even shy) with these types of things, he’s more than happy to ease into affectionate touches and romance that kills his common sense with you. 

His tastes are often cheap, but when he earns enough dough, he likes to splurge on second-hand college anatomy textbooks. No, he’s not planning on going to university, but he wants to know the inner workings of the human system (and, therefore, the inner workings of you). He also likes speculative biology and seeing what humans think about other intelligent species potentially being out there.

He would absolutely be elated (though he tries his best to hide it) if you took his interests seriously and discussed them with him. He tries to keep you in his makeshift office and away from the others so you can continue to spend this precious alone time with him, but that doesn’t stop the red-hot flare of jealousy as one of the others bursts in with a childish ask about something that should be obvious. (Of fucking course you wouldn’t want to go for a walk, Deimos, have you seen the weather out? Leave you and him alone!)

Obviously Hank would love gorefest and splatter film movies because of his all-encompassing and absolute love for carnage, and he’d love them even more if you got scared and hid yourself in his shoulder or chest. It’s clear that he’s your strongest and most capable vessel, so he clearly agrees with your choice to choose him as your protector (even if that choice is based on an instinctive need to hide). 

He also loves WWE and MMA fighting. When given the choice, he opts for MMA because it’s real and bloody and he prefers seeing people push themselves to their absolute limit rather than some predetermined fight that serves a higher storyline. (But, then again, he really likes the clip of Undertaker breaking into Paul Bearer’s house during an interview and throwing a cabinet at him because, what the fuck? He’s never thought of that before! Using things from the environment when out of weapons instead of his fists could be an improvement. Maybe he can learn a thing or two from these fake fighters…)

And, yes, if you give him access to Twitter he will turn your entire timeline into those backyard fight videos and dashcam car crashes. He doesn’t mean to, it just happens.

ANIMALS

Being a natural night owl, Deimos loves keeping a lookout for what critters come out at night. When he’s on the front porch with you, smoking a cigarette and waving away mosquitoes, he makes sure to keep an eye out for weird and unusual wildlife. (While pressed against your side and purring loudly, no doubt.)

He likes watching the whip-poor-wills swoop down and catch the moths that swarm around the overhead porch lights. Yes, he will try to catch one, but backs off when you tell him to. Instead, he opts for digging in the dirt to find beetles and grubs to toss up in the air for the small birds to catch. He will kinda feel bad if the beetles hit the ground but will continue to throw them to the birds when you tell him insects are basically immune to fall damage, so… no harm, no foul.

He’s also absolutely enamored by raccoons. He likes throwing food to them from the safety of the porch and watching them eat with their little grabby hands. He’s very reckless so, despite your warnings, he’ll try to squirrel one away inside the house. (He does this multiple times and, without fail, gets bitten each time. 2B has given him multiple rabies shots after shooing the raccoons out with a broom.)

Speaking of Doc, he enjoys going out in nature and finding decaying things just to see how many buzzards arrive. He excuses it with something about wanting to see if decomposition works the same across both your world and his, but he secretly finds some relation with the birds – something about being deliverers and arbiters and negators of death. (Though the last one really only applies to him.)

He also likes the rare sightings of wild horses. He’ll go out of his way to (carefully, shyly) rouse you from whatever you’re doing to go take a look at the majestic beasts, and he’ll be even more excited if there’s a foal wandering between the stocky legs of the adults. 

He just barely brushes his fingers against yours as you both stand on the edge of the treeline and watch them graze. Seeing the foal break from the herd, kick out and tumble and fall over and immediately get back up sparks… something in his heart. A vision. Just you, just him, linked pinkies, and a future together, with this warm feeling in his chest.

Hank really likes the more dangerous creatures. He gets along well with cottonmouth and other venomous snakes (and “gets along well” really means that they’re mean as can be and strike as often as possible while he just holds them and smiles at you). 

If you don’t keep a close enough eye on him, he’ll wander off and try to provoke larger animals, like bobcats. To him, they’re just tiny little pussycats, even if they pose a real threat and could kill him. Please don’t let him go too far, because if he comes across a bear, he will try to wrestle it, and Doc doesn’t like having to do emergency surgery on the island countertop in your kitchen. 

On multiple occasions, he’s come back to the house after being missing for hours, reeking of skunk spray. He just purrs happily as you tell him to strip and hold still as you spray him down with the hose.

Sanford is way calmer with his interactions with wildlife. He likes sitting on the dock with you and watching the fish swim by (because he’s impressed both by the fish and by the river – he’s never seen water in such great quantity!) Set him up with a hook, lure, and line and he’ll be entertained for hours. Though he struggles a bit with making streamers and fishing knots due to his big hands and claws, he’s more than patient when you teach him (mostly because he gets to spend time with you). 

When he’s fishing, he likes to look around and observe – mostly because fishing is a waiting game. His favorite visitors are herds of whitetail deer, especially when summer is in full swing and the fawns are ready to start exploring. They remind him of his family, mainly because of the way the does don’t really care which fawn is theirs, just that each is getting enough milk. You point at them and discuss them with him in small whispers because you don’t want to spook them. 

Again, it reminds him of his want for a domestic life with you. Just basking in the mottled sun that seeps through the trees, dipping your bare feet in the cool river water as a catfish tugs on the line – it’s all he wants, really. Now if he could just get the rest of the grunts to leave you alone… excluding Deimos, of course.

#riptide writes 🌊 #madness combat 🆘 #self-aware madness: project nexus au #sam:pn au #madness combat #madcom #madcom x reader #madness combat x reader #madness combat deimos #madness combat hank #madness combat 2bdamned #madness combat doc #madness combat hank j wimbleton #madness combat deimos x reader #madness combat sanford x reader #madness combat 2bdamned x reader #madness combat doc x reader #madness combat hank x reader #madness combat hank j wimbleton x reader #madcom sanford x reader #madcom deimos x reader #madcom 2bdamned x reader #madcom doc x reader #madcom hank x reader #madcom hank j wimbleton x reader #yandere hank j. wimbleton #yandere deimos #yandere sanford #yandere 2bdamned #yandere doc

[incoure-art]

Gillion Tidestrider cut his hair short in front of a broken mirror with a pair of rusted sewing scissors.

The sewing scissors had been a gift from his mother, when he was very young. It was before the Elder’s decided that he had to live closer to them for training, a time when his mother had told him he needed a hobby that wasn’t being a hero. She’d given him those scissors, the handle intricately designed to be some sort of Oversea creature he had never seen, shown him how to use the family sewing machine, and carefully guided him through making a bag. He’d hated sewing, from the beginning, but the scissors were something he had kept in his luggage, when he was made to leave. A memory of a past time, or something like that.

When they cut, they cut badly, edges dull from so long of lack of use. Even still, the snip they made was sharp, resolute.

He had broken the mirror himself. It was after Edyn left, the night after the Elder’s had told him such, and he had smashed his fist into it, just to see it splinter. And it did, a web of rage, and sharp edges, and desperate, bitter loneliness.

The Elder’s hadn’t let him get a new one. He had to be accountable for his actions, they said. He had been accountable ever since, always some part of him stuck in the splinters of that mirror, shoved into the back of his room.

It was hard to make any clear cuts with half a reflection, but it worked better that anything else he had. It was agonizingly slow, with every cut and readjustment.

When he finished, hair floating in wreaths in the water around him, the balance felt off. It was miraculously lighter, distinctly felt strange to run his fingers through and break free far earlier.

Short, for him, was just past the point of his chin, the lighter ombre of his hair almost completely cut away. It was a jagged cut, uneven and patched; a cut that would probably make Edyn frown and force him to let her fix it. If she were still around, that was.

Gillion’s teachers told him that, historically, priests of the Capital would wear their hair long in times of peace, a representation of all the luxury that Lunadeyis had gifted them with.

Then, out of what might be guilt, when the kingdom went to war, they would cut it off. Like a payment to the moon and the sun. They wore the pain of the country blatant in their appearance, the wrath of the gods paid for by their treasured locks.

Gillion was no priest, but the gods had their hands on him just as much. They clung to him, imagined fingers digging so deep into his shoulders he could almost feel blood start to pool under his armor plates.

But everytime he checked, his skin was perfect, unruptured. They did not show the weight of expectations on his shoulders, the pressure of ocean and land and bubbling conflict growing beneath the surface. They did not show his training scars, wounds burned into flesh from countless failures. His skin was nothing, a blank slate.

But his hair fell choppy around his chin, imperfect and messy and a statement of all that was important. Because like a priest, he paid a price to his people, and to his gods. They show their support for him, and he gives everything away for them.

Gillion cut his hair short, for the first time since he was child. And he stood in front of that cracked mirror, and felt no lighter than before.

#incs writing corner #jrwi🎲 #riptide🌊 #jrwi #jrwi riptide #just roll with it riptide #just roll with it #gillion tidestrider #nonsense writings for a #villian gillion au #i have so many thoughts

[notseaweedbrain]

OK so I know that I’ve shit on both adaptations of the PJO books (cry about it) but I will tell you this… I do it out of love for the series!

This book series literally saved my life. I’m not joking at all. (TW: self-harm mentioned) I promised my therapist that instead of ending my life early… I would read just one more chapter of Percy Jackson. No joke. I still do it to this day.

Excuse me for being extremely passionate about this series so much that I can take the “Rick Riordan hype-train”™️ blinders off and ultimately critique it.

I saw that the show was renewed for a second season. I won’t be watching it. Riordan promised a book accurate adaptation of the series and he ultimately lied to the fanbase. The man was so adamant about it being different from the movies that he forgot what was actually supposed to go on screen.

Every time I think of those books, I think of my happy place, my home.

I tuned into the first episode in a bright orange camp half blood shirt, blue cookies and pizza, (as Percy would) and my room completely decked out in blue lights. I felt safe. I felt like I was going to the one place I felt understood. I had hope for it let me make that clear. I didn’t want to hate it.

I walked away from the first episode, fairly excited about what was to come. I was happy. I re-watched it multiple times. It felt really faithful. I found myself every week after that feeling like I was being killed inside.

I will forever love the books. Every time I travel I bring at least one of the original five with me everywhere I go. I am a passionate fan. I have a Greek mythology tattoo sleeve and Riptide resides all the way down my arm.

Once again, I reiterate, that the Percy Jackson books saved my life and continue to do so. I will always thank Riordan for writing the originals.

There’s my story and my one original post a month

🫶🔱🌊

#percy jackson #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo hoo toa #percabeth #rick riordan #annabeth chase #pjo fandom #riordanverse #pjo show crit #rr crit #like rick riordan hit gold with the original series how has he lost the grasp on his own characters?? his own plot?? #if this offends people I’m sorry #It’s been quite a while since the season ended so I wanted to give a breakdown of my thoughts #Hopefully if I’ve pissed people off now they understand why #Don’t confuse passion for ignorance #The bar is in Tartarus smh #notseaweedbrain #ramblings #anyway stop misusing literary devices to justify the show straight up rewriting the story thanks #thanks for coming to my ted talk

[nevadancitizen]

-> HURTING, LONGING, LOVING – DANCING TO DISCO MUSIC

synopsis: you wake up and have no memory of simon. you can only hope to find him among your fractured memories and the scattered lights of a disco ball.

word count: 2.3k

characters: simon "ghost" riley, amnesiac! gn! reader

trigger warnings: transient global (aka temporary) amnesia, mentions of canon-typical violence/interrogation

notes: heavily inspired by disco elysium and part one of @roosterr 's amnesia series. go give it a read if you haven't already (＊๑˘◡˘)

Nothing surrounds you. Only warm, primordial blackness – the pond you learn about in Biology 101, the one where everything and everyone comes from. You don’t know this, of course, because you’re curled up in it, your mind fermenting in it. You’re no larger than a grain of yeast. You don’t have to do anything anymore. Ever. Never, ever.

But you’re growing. Gram upon gram of yeast, slowly morphing into meat. Muscles and bones and organs and a beating pig heart, decaying as soon as they grow. Soon you’ll need to do things. There’s a faint tickle of an idea. Soldiers. Battlefields. IEDs and tanks. You don’t know what to do with this information.

Somewhere within the idea – a sensation! Pain. Arcing, shooting pain, lightning through every new nerve in your new body. The limbed and headed machine of pain and barely-dignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

It wants someone. You want someone. A blurred-out face, someone you’re kneeling at the feet at. A ghost of a man. So lost he doesn’t even know what his face looks like. 

“I swore I wouldn’t let you go,” your barely-formed mouth mumbles. Your teeth are hot, melted-together plastic and your tongue is jet-fuel-fired rebar. 

Look up. No. You were just talking to yourself. That’s all you ever do. Even in this primordial pool. And the act is wearing thin, the spots of the disco ball fade around you…

The warm blackness is instantly replaced with a cold, artificial light. You bring your hand up to block it – since when have you had these? Gangly things with a red wire further down in… your elbow. That’s not a wire – that’s a tube. Of blood? Your blood. You have blood.

You remember now. You were born with hands and elbows, knees, feet, organs and fat and a copious amount of blood. A collarbone you’ve broken more than once. A body that was molded in the crucible of battle.

And holy shit does that body hurt. That hindbrain wasn’t exaggerating when it said that you are a being of suffering. 

A dull throbbing is behind your eyes as they rove around the room. They land on a button neatly labeled Call Nurse. You press it and wait.

Everything after that is a blur. Nurses, doctors, “Follow my finger with your eyes, but don’t move your head,” poking and prodding with various instruments, “Tilt your head back so I can feel your neck,” blue latex gloves, “How much do you remember?”, bright lights in your eyes.

One nurse checks the dressings on your forehead. It’s just above your temple. His hands are rubbery and unfeeling as he re-dresses it. A trickle of cold liquid dribbling down from an alcohol swab. Bandages press against your skin. “What’s your name and date of birth?”, “Can you name the members of the task force you’re a part of?”

A man cuts through the blur as he comes thundering through the door. A balaclava with a skull pattern. Three men are behind him, hanging in the doorframe, out of the way. But the man moves quickly towards you, standing on the edge of the crowd of medical professionals, pacing back and forth, eyes on you, like how a sheepdog circles its sheep. Longing, waiting. Held back by an invisible leash of respect.

After a while, most of the personnel disperse, leaving you with a transient global amnesia diagnosis, a nurse, and the men. But even then, they leave after casting a glance at the sheepdog.

He moves closer, then stares at you for a while. He’s expecting something. His brown eyes are like sodium lights. A small trickle of streets and the sky. In your mind, you know he’s the place to be. You’re still alive while he’s around. 

Yeah. He’s groovy. You want to disco with him. He is disco. But somewhere, a deep unaccessed area of your mind is saying, “You don’t want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where blond eyelashes only make you sad.”

Wait – come on, what are you talking about? Sad blond eyelashes? Blond eyelashes are fun!

“Why do I hurt all of a sudden?”

“Hey, it’s alright, darl.” He kneels by your bed and takes your hand in both of his. They’re warm, rough, calloused in places you thought couldn’t be calloused. “It’s me, it’s Simon.”

“What?” You pull your hand away from his. “I don’t know a Simon.”

Simon scoffs, but it’s more of an exhale of disbelief. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No.” You narrow your eyes. “Should I?”

Simon crumbles before you. His sodium streetlight eyes go out with an explosion of guilt – the bulbs pop with a fizzy sound. He looks like he should be groveling at the feet of a feudal lord, providing excessive evidence of his crimes, or throwing a cat-of-nine-tails over his shoulder and ripping the flesh from his own back. Whatever made him this way – you can be damn sure it was your fault. Those three simple words, instead of “I love you,” are “No. Should I?” 

“It’s me.” Simon’s voice cracks as he speaks. Tears flood his waterline. He takes off his mask, revealing his pale face and dyed-blond hair. “It’s your Simon.”

“Simon,” you say softly. You look at him and hurt. A hole in your still-beating pig heart. Blood spills out from where the bullet went in. 

“No. Nothing.” You look down at his hand. It’s palm-up, splayed out where you let go of it. It curls up into a fist, then Simon pulls it into his lap.

He says nothing. Just stares at you like you’re familiar yet somehow unknown. 

You don’t know what to say. You just can’t conjure up any thoughts as you stare back. The morphine can’t be the cause of your dumbness. And it certainly isn’t the new modafinil that was just introduced to your system. 

You search his eyes and feel, above all things, lost. Lonely in a hospital full of people. 

Simon pulls away. His breathing is heavy and labored. A single tear slips down his scarred cheek. He doesn’t look like he’s one to cry. The tear leaves a trail of wet that looks like a new scar.

He tugs his balaclava back on and shuffles out, casting one last longing glance over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with a soft click.

That’s where it is. He is disco. He’s stumbling through the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

You’re stuck in the hospital for a week for physical therapy and observation. Simon visits intermittently. He brings things to jog your memory – men that are part of Task Force 141, small snow globes from where you and he have apparently been deployed. Some of them work. But none of them bring back any memory of your apparent relationship with Simon – your boyfriend.

Today he comes in with a small device. It’s not a phone, but resembles it. A small wire comes from the amp and ends in a small circle of plastic.

You point at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s a contact microphone.” Simon settles in the chair that’s set up by your bed. He points at the blocky part of it. “This part holds the recording. You can play it back if needed.”

“Are you going to play it back?” You ask.

“No,” Simon says. “This one is blank.”

You take it from Simon’s hand and turn it over, looking at it. Examining. “Then why are you showing me this?”

“You are…” Simon sighs, trying to find the words. “You were a profoundly talented interrogator. You used contact microphones to record the interrogation, the confessions, the works. There’s a specified interrogation chamber underground. Contact microphones pick up the noise better down there.”

You continue looking it over. Fiddling with the wire. Running your thumb over the mesh of the microphone.

“Anything?” Simon says.

You close your eyes and think. Contact microphone… violence, blood. There’s a welding torch in there somewhere. The smell of bubbling flesh and burning hair. Cauterization without anesthesia. It was that way on purpose.

You open your eyes and look at Simon. “Interrogation.”

“Obviously.” Simon huffs out a laugh. It sounds forced. “I told you that.”

“Yes.” You sigh, looking down at the contact microphone. You try to think more. Contact… physical contact. Your fist making contact. Something hard. Solid bone breaking under your hands. 

But also… something soft. Something that smells good. Smells homey. A black hoodie with some cheesy skull pattern on it. Actually, a closet full of black and grey clothes. A monotone voice to match a monotone closet.

The clothes smell faintly of cigarettes. A carton that’s mostly empty. They taste better than regular cigarettes – they’re some European brand. 

“Do…” You look up at Simon. “Do you smoke?”

“Why?” Simon asks. “Do I smell like cigs?”

“No. Just…” 

You close your eyes and try to remember more. The carton is a brown-orange color. The back is plastered with warnings about nicotine being an addictive chemical. No filters. A smooth, walnut-esque finish.

“Revaality,” you finally say and look up at Simon. 

“Yes! Yes.” Simon takes your hand instinctively, excitedly. He smiles. Like crying, it doesn’t really fit him, but you’re glad he’s smiling anyway. “That’s the brand I smoke. I smoke Revaality.”

He takes your face in his hand and guides you to look at him. His sodium light eyes are bright once again. “Anything else? Lovie, please…”

You cringe away from his touch. Again, Simon is punched in the fucking face when he remembers that you don’t know him. Not like that. 

Simon pulls his hands away. “Shit. I…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “I know.”

I know you know a different version of me. The thought lingers, loud and unsaid. Simon, you’re a man with a lot of past, but little present, and almost no future. I’m sorry we only live in your memories, because I don’t even have those.

“I’m trying.” You look down at the contact microphone. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

“I believe you,” Simon says. “It’s just… it’s hard.”

Silence for a while. The artificial lights above you buzz and cast harsh shadows on Simon’s face. He looks… tired. 

“I still love you,” he says quietly. Almost a whisper. “I… you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

He rests a hand on the railing of your hospital bed. “I’m not the best. I drink. I smoke. I have a laundry list of mental issues and types of trauma. So much it’s not even funny.”

“But you…” he sighs. “You fell in love with me anyway.”

You look up at him. He’s crying again. A pang of empathy in your heart. You don’t know why, but you don’t want to see him cry. The tears that cut through the dirt on his face are unbefitting. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is a mirror of Simon’s. Soft and wavering. “I want to remember. I don’t even know what happened to me. The doctors always dance around it when I ask.”

Simon bunches the end of his sleeve up in his hand and wipes away his tears. “You were a fucking idiot. That’s what happened.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Not in a bad way.” Simon lets go of his sleeve and rests his hand on the railing of your bed again. “You love too much and too hard. You saved me.”

“It… the building…” He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his waterline to clear of tears. “The building was coming down. We thought we were out of danger close. But there was a piece of rebar that…”

Simon looks down at his lap. He’s ashamed. “It was supposed to hit me. I was supposed to die. I’m used to it. I’m used to close calls and blood transfusions.”

“But I’m not used to…” He glances up at you through his eyelashes. His long, blond eyelashes. “People I care about being hurt. Or people caring about me in general.”

“Simon.” You reach out and lay your hand over his where it rests on the railing. He holds his breath like he’s afraid.

A pause. You want to be sure of your words before you speak. 

“I’m going to try my damndest to remember,” you say. “Even if I don’t remember everything, I – I want to try to learn to care about you again. Because, based on our limited interactions, I know you’re a good man. Even if you drink and even if you smoke and even if you have a laundry list of mental issues and an assortment of trauma.”

Simon slowly brings his other hand and rests it on top of yours. His callouses brush against your knuckles. Abrasive yet comforting in a way you barely remember. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Really, truly. Thank you.”

And, in this moment, Simon finally has some sense of control in an ever-turbulent world. The world that tried to take his one and only love. The world that has taken his one and only love and is only now feeding him droplets of what he knows – what he once knew. He must exercise this control carefully, lest he lose you again. 

In the sky, there are no dogfights and no silverplate bombers. Only stars and the rabbit curled up on the moon and a singular winking comet. God is in Heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

Somewhere, the spots from a disco ball freckle the dance floor once again.

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #mw2 x reader #mw2 x you #mw2 x y/n #ghost mw2 #modern warfare 2 x reader #modern warfare 2 x you #modern warfare 2 x y/n #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x y/n #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x y/n #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x y/n

[nevadancitizen]

-> (I'VE BEEN) DREAMING OF YOU

synopsis: könig comes into your reality.

word count: 1.2k

characters: könig, player! reader

trigger warnings: mention of canon-typical violence, maybe slightly obsessive könig oops lol

notes: self-aware cod au belongs to @puff0o0 , inspired by @simp4konig // i moved for college lol hopefully i'll be able to upload(?) more often + salf-aware aus are really my thing huh. my jam if you will

It had been a week since König figured out he wasn’t real. 

At least, that’s what he approximated it to be. Time was tricky if he actually tried to count the seconds and minutes and hours. 

But when he stepped off the helicopter and trudged back into base, he knew he would at least have some sense of relief. Some sense of… realness, even though he knew he only existed through the wires of ethernet cables, or maybe even something as primitive as a CD.

König knew his boots tracked in mud and blood and maybe even guts, but he didn’t care. Everything would be wiped clean and be put on a new plate tomorrow for… he guessed they would be called the players, to eat. 

He shut the door to his quarters behind him and leaned against it, closing his eyes and sighing. He desperately wished he could tell someone, anyone, about what he had witnessed – what he knew to be true. 

He felt crazy. He felt blessed. He felt like a conspiracy theorist that was just re-inventing the idea that the whole world is a simulation – because it is! People re-invented ideas all the time, but there was nothing shameful in it. But if the rest of humanity (and for all he knew, humanity could only be KorTac and Specgru) oohed and aahed and said, “God, we live in a simulation? I’ve never heard that one before!” just to make him feel good, nothing would ever get done. But it still stung to know such a heavenly being existed and to keep such a huge secret. 

Of course he was talking about you, thinking about you. When did he not think of you, actually?

He felt almost hollow without you. Like you had given him warmth with your control – a raging bonfire he could only observe from a distance, but still felt the full heat of: as in, an actual heat in his chest whenever he felt his control slipping away, replaced with the security that came with being in your presence. And König didn’t hate it. Not at all. 

He didn’t even bother to shrug off his work equipment before he threw himself onto his bed. He turned over and swaddled himself with his blanket to try and emulate your warmth. It did nothing. 

It was a while before he fell asleep. And he had the strangest dream…

He was in your room. He had only caught glances of it, but here he was, tangled in your blankets and in your bed. 

And there you were. Sitting at your desk, typing away at your laptop. Your back was to him, but he could tell it was you. Even at this distance, you were so warm. 

You were wearing the big, chunky headphones you always wore when you played. He could hear quiet thumping bass coming from them. It was the only sound he could hear aside from your quick keystrokes. 

König slowly untangled himself from your blankets – he still had his boots on, the ones that had mud and blood and maybe even guts. Then he realized he had all of his work equipment on. 

He stood and surveyed his surroundings. Everything in your room was so… you. (Obviously. It was your room.)

His eyes snapped back to you when you took off your headphones. You pressed a button on the side to pause your music and then set them down. You stretched your arms above your head and let out a quiet groan as you leaned back. 

You looked so soft. So cute. Nothing like what König had seen through the screen. You had been slightly bitcrushed and pixelated, but now…

The warmth that blossomed in his chest was like no other. It spread out into his limbs, almost making him weak in the knees. His eyelids fluttered, but he forced them open to look at you, take in more of you. 

He tried to say your name softly, as to not startle you, but it came out choked and loud and awkward. His voice even cracked. 

You were so scared you nearly punched a hole through your monitor. You stood and turned, immediately grabbing a pair of scissors that were on your desk. 

Your hand shook as you pointed the pair of scissors at König. “T… take off the hood!”

König kept his feet planted firmly on the ground, even bending at the knee a little to be less threatening. He puts up his hands in a surrendering manner. “Schatz, no, it’s me. It’s König.”

“Shut up!” you barked. “I’m not – no way am I being killed or robbed or whatever by someone in cosplay!” Your eyes flit over his body, spotting a knife on his utility belt. “And give me your knife. Try anything and I’m – I’ll…” you glanced down at the pair of scissors (which you can’t really stab him with). “I’ll snip your dick off!” 

It honestly takes a bit of effort on König’s part not to laugh. Still, he slowly, carefully took the knife out of its holster and offered it to you, the blade pointed towards his chest. “Please, be careful.”

“I know how to handle knives,” you snapped. You put the pair of scissors back on your desk and took to pointing König’s knife at him. You took a tentative step closer, your jaw set. You reached a shaking hand out towards König’s face. “Don’t… move.”

"Mein Leibling.” König breathed out the words. “What are you doing?”

“The mask,” you said. “I’m taking it off. Then I’m calling the police.”

König just looked at you with wide eyes, his blue-grey eyes stark against his eyeblack. His eyebrows creased as he looked down at you, but said nothing. 

And then, König felt a blossoming warmth as his face was exposed for the first time in what felt like forever. 

His eyes fluttered shut as he felt your eyes rove over his face. Under the hood wasn’t a face: nothing except for his eyes, eyebrows, and a little bit of the surrounding skin. The rest of it was unloaded textures, a checkerboard of black and bright purple. 

“Schatz…” 

“König…”

König’s eyes opened as you said his name. You didn’t notice before, but his eyes were detailed, told a story. This wasn’t the king of the battlefield – this was König. Here, he wasn’t a killer, wasn’t someone who saws someone’s head off with a dull plastic knife and doesn’t even blink when the blood spurts out. He wasn’t the long-shot-drop-pop one-bullet-wonder. He was a man. 

König gently reached up and took your wrist and pulled your hand away from his hood. It fell back into place, covering up his checkerboard face. 

He looked down at you, his eyebrows still furrowed. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. 

“You’re…” you sighed – not disappointedly, but more surprised. “You’re actually him. You’re König.”

“I am,” König said simply. 

“Schatz,” you said. “What does that mean?”

König smiled down at you, even though he didn’t have a mouth. His eyes crinkled at the outsides. “Treasure.”

He gently let go of your wrist, his hand traveling up your arm until it came to your shoulder. His fingers brushed against your jaw, the rough texture of his gloves making you tense just the slightest bit. 

He whispers softly, like he’s afraid of you hearing his voice. “My treasured player.”

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #self aware cod au 🎮 #sacod au #self-aware cod au #mw2 x reader #modern warfare 2 x reader #modern warfare ii x reader #modern warfare 2 x you #modern warfare ii x you #modern warfare 2 x y/n #modern warfare ii x y/n #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #mw2 x you #mw2 x y/n #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x y/n #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x y/n #konig x you #könig cod #könig x reader #könig call of duty #könig fanfiction #konig #könig x y/n

[nevadancitizen]

do you think you could write something where könig and/or ghost (separate) were nearby or watched reader try to participate in a conversation but constantly got ignored or talked over to the point where they just kinda go silent and walk away? they end up comforting the reader and just trying to be a shoulder to cry on while they talk about their frustrations because this is something that always happens to them <\3

it doesn’t have to be too long and you don’t have to worry about getting to this request too quickly!! thank u for reading anyways :3

-> THE SOCIAL WEAK LINK

synopsis: rookies and debriefings are pains in both you and ghost's asses. rich people fail the turing test while interacting with you and könig.

word count: 2.2k (~1.1k each)

characters: ghost, könig, awkward! reader (lol)

notes: (rings dinner bell) hey friend.. this req has been sitting since september.. im so sorry (ಥ﹏ಥ)

-> GHOST:

Debriefings were always boring. Everyone was tired, sweaty, and just wanted a cold shower and a warm bed. But what else encompasses the military so eloquently except unnecessary misery?

And to add to the misery, some rookies had tagged along to the mission. “On-the-job training,” Price had prattled off as he read the mission statement. He had given you and the rest of the 141 an exaggerated look that screamed If these rookies compromise the mission I’m going to tear the Lieutenant Colonel a new one.

The rookies (with callsigns Quest and Cable) were nice enough. They weren’t given the opportunity to burn off their energy on the mission like the 141 – they’d stayed behind as backup while the 141 went in to deal with the bad guys. As a consequence, now they’re in the debriefing room, chattering away like parrots.

Ghost could fall asleep in the chair he was in, if Cable and Quest were a little quieter. He looks at the next spinny chair over, where you’re sitting. You’ve got your knees tucked to your chin and are silently tracing the patterns in the wood table with a fingernail. Every now and again, you glance at the rookies, but ultimately turn your eyes away.

You were always just a bit too awkward to fit in with the rest of the military. Either too quiet or too loud; you rambled too often and your voice cracked when you did. You slipped through the cracks, into the quiet background with Laswell and Shepherd. You’re one of the powerful hands that move the pieces on the chessboard, but not a well-recognized one. Well-recognized within the 141, yes, but not on a wider scale. 

Ghost can tell how you’re feeling by the obvious emotion on your face. It’s yearning – an emotion Ghost knows well.

His eyes sweep the rest of the table. Gaz is fucking around on his phone, probably making a new Pinterest board, while Soap leans over his shoulder and watches him. Price is in another room, talking to someone important. Ghost couldn’t really bring himself to care about who. 

The entire room is bogged down with an unmistakable tiredness that goes right over Quest and Cable’s heads. Really, the only sound in the room is their voices and, intermittently, yours as you try to inject yourself into their conversation. Each attempt is met with pursed lips that barely count as smiles and something along the lines of “Yeah. Anyway…”

Eventually, Price pops in, leaning his head on the doorframe. The brim of his hat crinkles and his nose wrinkles up in disdain. He sighs. “Everyone out. Lieutenant Colonel wants this meeting room for herself. We’ll debrief later.”

Quest and Cable pop up like excited teenagers and head for the door, continuing to talk. “I’m soooo goddamn hungry. Hopefully the mess hall has something good…”

“Hey!” You practically jump from your chair, your eyes on the rookies. “Um, I heard that they just restocked the vending machines? Do you wanna maybe chick – I mean, check – them out with me? They’re just down the hall.”

They both tense, and Quest looks over their shoulder. They smile awkwardly and exchange a look with Cable. “Uh… maybe another time?”

You visibly deflate and rock back on your heels. “Yeah, totally. See you later.”

They both nod tersely and exit. You take a deep breath and let out a long sigh. You sit back in the spinny chair and it wheels backwards from the force.

Gaz shuts his phone off and groans while Soap sucks air through his teeth. 

“Not your best effort,” Gaz says. 

“I know,” you say. 

“Maybe you’re not just compatible with rookies?” Soap tries.

You roll your head back against the back of the chair and stare at the ceiling. “I know.” 

You sink further into the chair, then stand. “Whatever. Let’s clear out. Price will have our heads if we don’t.”

Ghost tails you out the door. You don’t acknowledge him, but you know he’s there (even if his footsteps are extraordinarily light for a man of his stature). 

“Pompous pricks, ay?” Ghost says. 

You stick your hands in your pockets, hiking your shoulders up by your ears. “Wish they were a little more personable. Wish I was a little more personable.”

“Why, you’re plenty personable.” Ghost laughs gruffly at his own joke as he nudges your shoulder with his. 

“Asking to go ‘chick out’ the vending machines is a personable interaction?” You relax your arms and knock your elbow against Ghost’s. 

“I thought it was funny,” Ghost says. “Even if it was just a slip-up.”

You sigh, but keep up with Ghost as he walks. “If it was funny, then why didn’t they laugh?”

Ghost thinks for a second. “Maybe they just don’t have a sense of humor?”

“You don’t have a sense of humor,” you jab.

Ghost scoffs. “Of course I do.”

“Then make me laugh,” you say. “Make me laugh right now.”

Ghost breathes in and exhales slowly through the fabric of his mask. “Well… do you know why the Cold War was called the Cold War?”

“The supernations fought using proxy wars,” you say. “America and the USSR never really went head-to-head.”

Ghost sighs pointedly. “Yes,” he says, “but also because of the icy-BMs.”

“The what?”

“The Cold War?” Ghost repeats. “Icy?”

“ICBM stands for Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles.” You stop midstep, looking at Ghost with a disbelieving smile. “Ghost, don’t tell me you don’t know what ICBM stands for?”

“No, it –” Ghost sighs. “Icy sounds like IC? Icy-BMs?”

You burst out laughing, waving Ghost away like he was some form of stupid. “Ghost, seriously? You don’t – oh my God!”

“I’m not a fucking knob, I know what…” 

Ghost can’t bring himself to correct you as he watches you laugh like that. It’s a bit too loud and there’s a snort in there somewhere, but it rings true and warms Ghost’s heart. He doesn’t mind being seen as dumb for a minute if you’re able to warm his heart with a sound as nice as that. 

-> KöNIG: 

König nearly always hates going undercover. 

More often than not, the higher-ups stick him in some ill-tailored enemy armor and send him in with nothing but a less-than-encouraging slap on the ass. They know he’ll make it out alive.

On this mission, he feels a little more comfortable. It’s more than obvious you’re not. 

You and König are camped out on the edge of a ballroom, sitting together at a small table. You’re dressed in a fancy outfit that just screams decadence, and it fits your role well – the adult child of some rich, cigar-chomping tech baron. König is playing the role of your bodyguard, dressed down from his usual military garb in a plain black suit (with kevlar padding) and a balaclava.

You cross one leg over the other at the knee and look down at your flute of champagne as you swirl it. The bubbles rise to the surface and pop as the pale liquid settles. 

“I hate this,” you say under your breath, just loud enough for König to hear. 

He nods along, but straightens up when a small group of people approach the table. There’s an older woman, a middle-aged man, and a girl, maybe fifteen. 

“Hi, sweetheart!” An older woman croons at you. “You’re Bohumil Silvester’s youngest, right?”

“Oh!” You sit up straighter and put the champagne flute on the table. “Yes, I am. And, um – and who might you be?”

“I’m Laila Matthews.” Laila checks over her shoulder at the people accompanying her. “This is my daughter, Adine, and this is my husband, Keaton.”

“It’s so nice to meet you!” You smile politely, but König can scope out of the corner of his eye that you’re gripping a bit of the fabric of your too-fancy outfit like you’re meaning to rip it off. You spout your fake name to Laila with a cheeky “But you know that already, right, ma’am?”

Laila is utterly delighted with your carefully constructed persona. She throws her head back and laughs, one hand on her chest and the other finding Keaton’s shoulder. “Oh, Lord. Aren’t you just your father’s child?”

You nod and, once again, smile politely while exchanging side-eye glances with König. He’s just as confused as you are. 

As soon as Laila recovers, she’s talking again. She gestures vaguely in König’s direction. “And who is this? Security, for this casual meeting?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” you say. “You can never be too careful these days, with all the laws about concealed carry and everything.”

“Well, I’m 57, and I’ve only had security for a few occasions,” Laila says. 

“You’re 57?” You bark, a little too loud. You can feel a few heads turn your way and Laila’s stare turns withering. König’s shoulders shake as he coughs into his fist.

“I mean, um, you’re 57?” You try again, quieter. “Because you don’t look it. Like, at all. Ma’am.”

Laila’s tone is flat when she speaks. “Right.”

“I meant, um, you look younger? Uh, anyway.” You smile nervously, then pick up your champagne flute and take a sip. “I love your family’s outfits! And the, uh, the way they match.”

Keaton leans in and grabs a hold of Laila’s shoulder. He gets up on his toes to whisper something in Laila’s ear. It’s hard to hear over the ambient noise of the ballroom. Laila nods and Keaton continues to whisper.

“Um, Laila? Mrs. Matthews?” You try to get her attention, to no avail. She keeps nodding to Keaton’s words like you’re not even there.

You stand and turn to Adine. “Adine, right? Tell your mother it was nice speaking to her.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Adine nods absently, her eyes somewhere else on the ballroom floor. 

You toss the rest of the champagne in the flute down like it’s a shot and stand from the table. You make eye contact with König and nod towards the French doors that lead towards the balcony. 

People don’t notice as you and König step out. The sky is clear, yet the night is still young enough to be starless. 

“Christ, I hate rich people,” you mutter under your breath. 

König moves and leans his back against the wrought iron of the railing. His eyes sweep across the small area, then he nods. “Yes. That interaction was less than pleasant.”

You lean against the railing next to him. “Why was she even talking to me? And what did she mean, ‘Aren’t you just your father’s child?’ Like, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am… not sure,” König says. “Maybe it’s part of rich people code?”

“Yeah, maybe.” You huff out a laugh, then sigh. “I really wasn’t the best pick for this mission.”

“What do you mean?” König asks. “You are perfectly capable of fighting.”

“No, the, like…” you sigh again. “The talking part? I’m not fit for that. Never been a good conversationalist, never will be.”

“You are conversing with me right now, no?” König gestures between you and him. “This is a conversation. You are doing fine.”

“Yes, but…” you trail off. “You saw me. I shouted her age out in front of everyone.”

König hums. “To be fair, it was a bit of a shock.”

You glance up at him and laugh, a pretty smile gracing your features. “Shut up.”

“But it was!” König insists. The fabric of his balaclava puffs out as he laughs. “I had to cough to cover up my laugh. I nearly had to excuse myself.”

“Yeah, sure.” You shove his shoulder half-heartedly as you turn and look out over the railing, at the courtyard. König follows your gaze.

The courtyard is illuminated by ambient lamps. Paths are laid with bricks, with neatly trimmed grass in between each one. Exotic plants from every corner of the globe line the pathways, some of their flowers closed for the night. A fountain is in the middle, with water spouting out of the trumpet of a cherub statue. A few people surround the fountain, talking quietly with drinks in their hands in the low light. 

You lean close to König and point at one of the people – a man in a navy suit. “That’s the target. Mister T. Kilgore.”

“So he is,” König says. He pats under his armpit, checking his sidearm. “We need to get moving. I do not like the way Laila’s husband was talking to her. Suspicious.”

You nod and send König a small smile. “We’re still going with the plan, right? I’m going in and playing drunk?”

“Of course.” König mirrors your smile even though you can’t see it. “Besides, it’ll give you an opportunity to practice your conversation skills.”

You scoff, but you’re still smiling. “Yeah, if I’m planning on interacting with everybody as a drunk idiot for the rest of my life.”

“I’m serious!” König insists. “More likely than not, you’ll never see these people again.”

A beat of silence.

“You’re right.” You knock your elbow against König’s. “Let’s give them a show.”

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #requested ✨ #skelletonscloset #call of duty x reader #call of duty x y/n #call of duty x you #cod x reader #cod x y/n #cod x you #könig call of duty #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig #könig x reader #könig x y/n #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x y/n #konig x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley call of duty #simon riley mw2 #simon riley imagine #simon riley cod #ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost mw2

[nevadancitizen]

-> SEEING DOUBLE

synopsis: könig thought he was the only one that could hear and see you for a while. that is, until horangi mentions someone singing.

word count: 1.8k

characters: könig, horangi, player! reader, reader's unnamed friend

trigger warnings: mention of canon-typical violence, mentions of/thoughts of relapse (horangi’s past gambling addiction), hornagi is like obsessive too lololol (also forgot to add STILL insp. by/referencing @simp4konig 's self-aware könig piece)

notes: uh pov switches from omnipotent third-person könig to omnipotent third-person hornagi. oops lol also the temp. is in fahrenheit in celsius it would be ~26 degrees

König thought he was the only one for a long while. All these operators around him were only given minds through their code and pixels – König was the one with an actual brain in his skull. 

That was, until another operator heard you. 

You – and, someone else, maybe a friend from your world? – were singing along to some song unknown to König, mumbling the parts you didn’t know so well and bursting with energy at the parts you knew by heart.

König was waiting for the mission time to arrive in the armory, quietly listening to you and your friend. He felt some warmth from you – a small percent of what you’re capable of making him feel. Just enough to know you’re there, that you have eyes on him, to know the singing isn’t a delusion.

Horangi was also in the armory, his footsteps light as he peruses the wall of firearms. He plucks a Fennec 45 from the wall before turning it over in his hands and inspecting it – though he seems distracted while doing so. 

He turns to König and adjusts his sunglasses. “Do you hear that?”

König looks up from the stray skid mark on the floor he was looking at. “Hear what?”

“The…” Horangi gestures vaguely around him, then taps his earpiece. His voice drops to a lower volume, like he didn’t want anyone else hearing. “The singing. Do you not hear that?”

König stays silent for a moment. He checks over his shoulder to make sure no one else is in the armory before turning back to Horangi. “I hear it.”

Horangi breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t say anything else. He settles his ass on one of the thick, plastic ammo crates, fiddling with the Fennec 45, repeatedly pressing the magazine release before pushing the magazine back in. 

The singing stops, leaving only the music playing. Then, a voice is heard – “I’ve never seen Horangi do that. What is he, nervous?” 

And then, your voice – “Hey, don’t bully him!”

Horangi’s back snaps straight up as he looks around the armory. “What was that? Is someone else in here?”

König pulls at his hood so he can see Horangi better. “You’re really hearing them?”

“Yes.” Horangi looks at König. “Where are they?”

König shakes his head. “It’s best if we discuss this later.” In reality, König was dying to discuss this with another person – it was as if this heavy burden had been lifted now that he could talk to someone about you, about this video game they lived in, about everything while actually having something to back him up. 

Only a few seconds later, the siren sounds and it’s go time. Footsteps hit the ground and operators rush to the rooftops to be taken away to the hot zone. 

When both Horangi and König are secured on the helicopter, they don’t talk for a while, only sharing occasional glances (silent promises that no, the other is not insane, and no, this is not the start of a mass hysteria outbreak).

When boots hit the ground, König feels that oh-so-familiar warmth flood his body, blooming like a lotus from his chest to his limbs. He nods to Horangi to stick close. 

The music was turned down and all focus was on the battlefield – your silent guidance gave König commands to carry out, while your friend did the same with Horangi. 

Commands are barked out by the operators, you and your friend give excited praise, and the battlefield is a mess of noise. Bullets fly every which direction, sprays of brrrrrr-AT! echo off the abandoned buildings, some of which were still in the process of being built. 

This is urban warfare. 

As a SpecGru operator turns the corner, König pulls Horangi back behind a concrete half-wall (half because the rest of the wall had been sloughed off by explosions). To König, the touch is nothing, but to Horangi? Oh, that touch felt like bliss. 

It was you, striking a match and tossing it into the full burning barrel that was his lungs. Horangi pumped air into them like he was having a goddamn panic attack so that when his lungs caught fire, the rest of him did too. Your fire was slow, yet burning and hot all the same. It made him want to collapse in your white-hot flame and be consumed by you and not even care that he was ash and –

The feeling was gone, and Horangi was normal again. As normal as he could be when shivering in full tactical gear while it was eighty degrees out. 

König’s voice breaks through the haze. “Horangi?”

Horangi shifts so that he’s sitting with his back against the concrete half-wall. “Yes, sir?”

“You solid?”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. “The voices… our voices. The ones…” he gestures to his earpiece. “I heard them. And then I had a hot flash when you touched me.”

“Focus,” König hisses. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. He peeks out from behind the concrete half-wall, then ducks back behind it. 

“Ready, sir?”

“When you are.” 

The battle is easy for König and Horangi when a benevolent being and a lesser one are controlling their every movement. It doesn’t hurt that the warmth serves as adrenaline, a body high that keeps them both alive and bold. Battle chatter fades into the background when that song and your rushed praise fills their ears and makes them feel warmer than you already make them. 

When the last opposing operator falls, the message is relayed until every KorTac operator is back at the helicopters. 

“Wheels up in two!” the pilot calls out. 

König and Horangi move together up to the cabin of the helicopter and silently sit next to each other, hands working deftly to buckle themselves in. 

Horangi tilts his chin up and lets the back of his helmet hit the headrest. He takes his sunglasses off and wipes them of dust and a spurt of blood. His eyes wander over the ceiling of the helicopter, quietly listening to you and your friend celebrate. 

“Who are they?” he quietly asks König. 

König leans closer to Horangi, the hem of his hood brushing Horangi’s shoulder. His voice is quiet. “I call them players. I know the one who told the other not to bully you. We… I don’t think we exist on the same plane as them. I think of them as a god. They help me – us, now.”

Then, König leans closer and whispers your name like a single-word prayer. 

And, fuck, how Horangi wants to fall back into gambling so he could whisper your name into his cupped hands while he’s shaking the dice just as he rolls that blessed seven. His breath falters for a split second as he thinks of the divine luck you’d bring him at the craps table, your fingers – assuming you were even human, or humanoid – trailing down his arms, touching his wrist to imbue his hands with your power. He’d happily worship you if it meant feeding that rush when the payout is high, and… shit. Hornagi takes a deep breath before he quickly corrects his thoughts and directs them elsewhere. 

He doesn’t even know where those thoughts came from. Well, he knows where the thoughts of relapse come from, but he doesn’t know where the thoughts about you stem. He’s barely felt your warmth, yet in your presence, he doesn’t want to be the big bad tiger – he wants to be the housecat that rubs up against your legs and gets away with knocking pill bottles off the counter. 

“Can you feel them?” König asks in a hushed whisper.

Horangi nods. Your fire is a dull thrum in his chest, but your heart is beating right next to his nonetheless. “Yes.”

König knocks his knee against Horangi’s. “Focus on something small. Circular. Like a light. That’s how I see them.”

Horangi hums and looks at the ceiling. He focuses on a small red indicator light, his eyes unfocusing as he keeps eye contact with the tiny LED. And, slowly but surely – just as König said – something else came into view, slowly creeping into his peripheral vision. 

It was a small bedroom – a shoebox, really. Dimly lit by fairy lights. A bed, a desk, a dresser… Someone was on the bed, and the other person was in the desk chair. They were both holding game controllers, facing each other. Talking. 

“We need to play their Thanksgiving album,” the person in the chair says. 

“To what, pregame for Thanksgiving?” the person on the bed laughs. “That’s months away.”

And with that angelic laugh, Horangi knows that’s you. The person laying on their stomach on the bed, with your perfect smile, perfect fingers holding the game controller. 

You reach for your phone and unlock it, the screen lighting up your face. You tap at it a few times before too-loud music starts playing – a man yelling about how dangerous gas station tweakers are.

“Ay, turn that down!” your friend protests. 

You grunt and turn it down a little. The music is hard funk-trap, and you and your friend sing along. It’s something like – “Closed casket funeral, but Imma have to peek in; tryna get real, like, sorry, I was sleepin’!”

Hornagi quietly listens to the rest, keeping his eyes still so he can keep you in his sight. You and your friend prattle off the rest of the song, even going as far as vocalizing the instruments. 

When the song ends, you roll on your side and face your friend. “We should listen to their Halloween album next. Then their Christmas album. Then their Valentine’s Day single. And then start up their Thanksgiving album again.”

God knows how Horangi would let you. He’d love to watch you do anything – even if you’re doing nothing. He’d do anything just to reach out and touch you. Run his hands over your face and watch your nose scrunch up at his touch, your eyes squeezing shut. Your smile would be just like the one you’re wearing right now, accentuating the apples of your cheeks perfectly. 

And he’d love to sit with you as that artist’s Halloween album, Thanksgiving album, Christmas album and Valentine’s Day single play, even if he didn’t understand the slang the men used. He’d rub his hands up and down your back – anywhere he could touch you, really – as you explained what they meant when they said they were gonna “pop a thirty an’ get real sturdy.”

And maybe one day he’d make that a reality.

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #self-aware cod au 🎮 #sacod au #mw2 x reader #mw2 x you #mw2 x y/n #modern warfare 2 x y/n #modern warfare ii x you #modern warfare 2 x you #modern warfare ii x reader #modern warfare 2 x reader #modern warfare ii x y/n #call of duty x reader #call of duty x y/n #call of duty x you #cod x reader #cod x y/n #cod x you #könig x reader #könig x y/n #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x y/n #konig x you #könig call of duty #könig mw2 #könig cod #horangi x reader #horangi x you

[nevadancitizen]

-> TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY (I KNOW I NEVER WILL)

synopsis: you've always known that you're a throwaway -- another friendly kill. but when you're brought to ghost's world, you discover that there's so much more to life than defending democracy.

word count: 5.1k

characters: player! simon "ghost" riley, self-aware helldiver! reader

trigger warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, reader is obsessed with and idolizes ghost, nudity (but not in a sexual/suggestive context)

notes: wanted to try my hand at a reverse version of the self-aware cod au. also if you're not aquantinced with helldivers 2, it's okay! it has easy-to-understand lore but i recommend watching this lore video (it's just under twelve minutes and gives a pretty good run-down on what's going on). also inspired by "to liberty and beyond" by jt music, which is inspired by helldivers 2 in turn (✿˵•́ ૩•̀˵)৴♡*

You always knew something was… off. 

Numerous ads and training modules state that every Helldiver is valuable to the continued reign of Managed Democracy and Super Earth. And yes, you’ve seen more than enough shock soldiers die for the cause – mostly freshly eighteen-year-olds that didn’t read the fine print that states that the minimum enlistment for a Helldiver is ten years. 

But that’s the thing. They died. You watched their bodies be ripped apart by bullets or torn to shreds by terminids. 

You never… died. Not really, anyway. 

It was always a split second of hot-white, searing pain, then a moment of darkness, then you were strapped into a hellpod, being sent down for another wave. Mentions of gods or other types of divine beings weren’t really heard of or taught about, so you didn’t know who to thank – or to blame – for this phenomenon. 

(You tried to mention this to your assigned Democracy Officer, but she just dismissed it with a threat of being sent to a Reeducation Camp.)

So you kept it to yourself. You have a habit of taking your helmet off and bowing your head (In prayer? You’re not so sure) and just breathing, taking in the cool thrum of your heart. You never thought you’d relate to the fascism-fueled automatons, but you only feel the warmth of… your God? your savior? when in the heat of battle.

You always think like this in between being sent down – wandering thoughts while wandering the halls of the ship. There’s not a lot of this type of time, so you make sure to savor it.

You’re in this position right now, looking down at your helmet and thumbing over the imperfections picked up from battle. The void-black visor shows a reflection of you, warped and stretched-out. Above the visor is a skull etched into the titanium – the lines are all jagged edges and uneven depths. You don’t remember doing this, but it’s there anyway. You don’t remember a lot, actually, but you’re, once again, told by your Democracy Officer not to worry about that.

You pick yourself up from that train of thought before you go too far. Instead, you put your helmet back on and start to walk the halls of the ship. 

Once you’re past the armory and terminal, you start down the steps to the sleeping quarters. (Because yes, despite being supersoldiers, Helldivers need their rest, too.) 

But then, you snipe something out of the corner of your eye. There’s… a door. A door you don’t remember being there. Light seeps through the small gap where the bottom of the door and the floor don’t meet. The sight causes the ashes in your belly that have gone cold to stir once more.

Your boots clunk on the ground as you walk over to it. It creaks open, as if inviting you. Again, you never remember having wooden doors that creak on the ship – they’re all automatic sliding metal doors, and open with faint hisses.

You push it open the rest of the way and die.

It’s that all-consuming pain that feels worse than any other time you’ve died – like your skin is being torn off the same time you’re being tarred and feathered. The black isn’t just a flash this time, but a few seconds you can actually count – twelve seconds. Twelve whole seconds. 

Twelve seconds doesn’t sound like a lot, but for you, it was fucking terrifying. 

You thought you actually died. It was almost laughable – you’ve survived automatons and terminids and being in cryo, but you couldn’t survive some mystery door? And all that effort without meeting your… you don’t even know what to call it. Guardian angel? Tormentor?

You wake up and, for the first time, aren’t in a hellpod – instead, you’re in a bed. You can move your arms and legs freely, but they feel… numb. Disconnected. 

When you start to look around, you notice everything is white and sterile. There’s a distinct sharp scent of disinfectant in the air, contrasting the musky gun oil and sweat that you know well. 

(You haven’t ever been in a real hospital – the closest is a small supply closet on-ship that was converted into a first aid station – but you’re pretty sure this is an actual hospital, like the ones back home on Super Earth.)

Your uniform is set on a chair nearby, your black-and-yellow cape draped over the back of it. Your helmet is on the cushion of the seat, facing you. Every piece is… oddly clean. There’s no dark brown dried bloodstains or sickly green bug oil.

With shaky hands (which have never trembled before – at least, not to this degree) you rip out the IV and brace yourself on the railing of the bed before standing. Your legs wobble a bit, but straighten themselves out after a moment. 

You take off the paper hospital gown and dress yourself in proper clothing. All the metal parts of your uniform click into place, and your under-armor fits like it always does – perfectly flush to your skin. 

Just as you’re about to push open the door, a man opens it. You’re stunned for a second before taking him in. He’s tall with a beard that looks like walrus tusks, and is wearing military fatigues you’ve seen in history modules. 

Looking at him causes a dull thrum in your chest, like your heart is picking up again. But it’s not him – he’s not your savior.

“Civilian,” you greet before pushing past him. You wave over your shoulder politely. “Praise be Democracy.”

The man makes a stunned noise before grabbing your shoulder and spinning you to face him. He opens his mouth to talk, but you interrupt him by holding a hand up. 

“Please, no touching the armor, civilian,” you say. “This is the property of the Ministry of Defense, as am I. If you wish to enlist, don’t talk to me, but the nearest Democracy Officer available.”

The man pauses for a moment before barking, “What in the bloody fuck are you on about, muppet?”

You huff out a laugh and lean closer to him. He’s tall, but with your armor, you’re taller. 

“Okay, civilian.” You smile underneath your helmet and speak in a lower tone. “I understand that you don’t see a lot of us, so if you want a signature, just ask, okay? I can make it out to your kid who wants to be a Helldiver, or whatever. Tell them to put that M2016 Constitution bolt-action rifle to good use.”

The man stares at you as if you’ve just admitted to secretly being an automaton and are planning to undermine Democracy to institute socialism. He slowly brings his hand away from your shoulder and walks past you. 

“Come with me,” he says simply. 

You follow him after a moment of contemplation. He causes a faint mimic of the warmth, so that’s good, right? And he can’t be dangerous. Maybe a danger to others, but not to you – not with all the armor you’ve got. You keep your hands clasped behind your back to keep from fidgeting as you walk.

“Firstly.” The man holds up a hand, his index finger raised. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to look at you. “I am not a civilian. I’m a captain – Captain John Price of the SAS.”

“Nonsense,” you scoff. “A captain should always be wearing their armor. A Helldiver is always ready to fight for Democracy.”

You walk a little faster so that you’re not walking behind him, but next to him instead. “And besides, what is the SAS? I’ve never heard of that division, or that ship – whatever it is. I reside on the Dawn of Destruction.”

Price looks at you out of the corner of his eye, his thick brows furrowing. “It’s the Special Air Service. And I’ve never heard of these… Helldivers you’ve been going on about.”

“Good Liberty, that’s nonsense again!” You look over at Price, your eyes trained on him instead of in front of you. “Helldivers are all over the news, the radio sets, the televisions… surely you’re not that shut off? Every colony has some way to communicate with Super Earth.”

“Super Earth?” Price repeats back to you. He then holds up his hand and stops walking. “Nevermind. I don’t want to hear it.”

He gestures to the door he’s stopped in front of. “Go on.”

You glance at Price before opening the door. It’s an interrogation room, like the ones you’ve seen in old-timey movies. 

“Oh, I get it.” You look over your shoulder at Price. “This is like one of those war reenactments, right? You’ve recreated a military base from the original Earth… very impressive!”

Price shoves you into the room (with a surprising amount of strength), leaving you stumbling. You quickly correct yourself and spin around to confront him, but by the time you’re able to do that, he’s closed and locked the door. 

“Ah…” you sigh as you look around the room. It’s all concrete grey with a steel table and two steel chairs in the middle. There’s a mirror taking up the majority of one wall, one which you know is double-sided.

You walk up to it and try to talk to the people on the other side – you know there’s got to be someone there. “This is fun! Which training module is this? I thought I completed every one… is it new? Because I’ve never heard of something like this.”

After half a minute, there’s no response. You wander over to one of the chairs at the table and sit in it. You laugh a little as you rest your hands in the handcuffs chained to the steel.

“I am ready for interrogation!” you announce. “I sure hope no filthy fascist comes in and tries to cleanse me of the beauty of freedom! Because I surely won’t give them a cup of Liber-tea, and I of course won’t deliver it with my fist…!”

You tap your fingers on the table for a minute before slumping back in the chair. This is boring. Most training modules are the type where you’re run-and-gun-ing throughout the whole thing, but interrogation is boring. 

You’re sat like that for a good half hour before you hear the lock click. Your eyes dart to the door as it opens, revealing a man. 

He’s dressed in all black, with a balaclava covering his face. His russet-brown eyes meet yours through your helmet and it’s like you’ve died all over again. 

Heat explodes your chest like you’ve just got a shotgun slug blasted through your belly. The ashes have been blown away, and in its place, a raging bonfire! It roars like a dragon, and it reeks of reverence and prayer.

The man closes the door behind him and someone locks it from the outside. He barely makes it two steps before you stand from the chair, the legs shrieking against the floor.

“My God,” you say softly. 

“Helldiver,” the man greets.

“No, I…” You make your way around the table and stand as close as you can be without feeling like you’re about to catch fire. “Are you…?”

The man nods. “Ghost.”

“That’s it, that’s what you are!” you exclaim. You take a step forward and feel sweat drip down your back. “You’re the… the Ghost. The…”

The one who kept you from experiencing a permanent death? The one who kept you alive just to torment you? The guardian angel who watches your every move? The devil who prods at your ass with a pitchfork? You’re not sure what to say.

You settle on reaching out to him and saying, “You’re my savior.”

Ghost takes a step back. “Savior? I’m not so sure about that.”

“No, but – you are!” You breathe out a laugh and step forward, mirroring his actions. You bend at the knee and the back to make yourself shorter, as if trying to be smaller than him. “I am… I’m a throwaway. Another friendly kill. But you kept me alive! You brought me back after death, I remember dying so many times – y-you don’t get it, you’re my God!”

You strike, quick as a viper, and take his hand. Even though both your gloves and his act as barriers, it feels like your entire arm is engulfed in flame. Still, you keep holding on. 

“You chose me, right? You chose me to fight!” You clutch his hand tighter. “You chose me to spread Democracy, to smite the fascists and… I – I was taught that we are Democracy, not individuals, but you proved me wrong, because you chose me. 

“God chose me.”

A silence engulfs the interrogation room. You’re both frozen in time, living, breathing statues. It’s too hot. Every bone in your hand, wrist, and arm are turning to charcoal. It’s burning. It’s euphoric. 

Ghost starts to pull his hand away, but you bring your free hand to hold it in place, holding yours. “No, please.”

Ghost forcefully yanks his hand away. He drags you forward with the force, and you fall to your knees. The metal kneepads on your legs clang loudly against the concrete floor. 

You can do nothing but look up at Ghost from where you’re kneeling. There’s nothing sexual about it – it’s more like a believer kneeling at the feet of a statue of Christ. Ghost is your God, after all. 

There’s another minute of silence before you bow your head and reach up with shaky hands to remove your helmet. It clanks loudly against the floor as you drop it. 

You can feel Ghost staring at you. The fire burns hotter – the bonfire caught wind and is reaching up into the trees. The branches above are catching, aching to burn.

Tears rim your eyes as you bring your head up to look at him. His stare hardens.

It’s a sight you’ve seen in the mirror many times before. Your face is a mess of unloaded textures, a checkerboard of black and bright purple, with the exception of your eyes and the surrounding skin. But seeing yourself through Ghost’s eyes… 

It’s Rapture. It’s only you and him. A God and his only believer.

“Ghost, please.” A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t think you’ve ever cried before. It’s cool against your too-hot, burning skin. “Let me stay. I want to stay in Heaven, stay with you.”

“This isn’t Heaven,” Ghost says coldly. “And I’m not God.”

“But you are!” you snap. “This is peace and this is comfort and this is you. Don’t send me back to Malevelon Creek, don’t send me back to those godforsaken ion storms and automatons.”

Your voice grows quieter as tears run down your face and drip off your chin. “Don’t send me back to Hell.”

Ghost sighs and casts his gaze to the side. He’s thinking, and it’s plain on the parts of his face you can see. 

You bow your head and wipe your tears away to give him some semblance of privacy. 

“Fine,” he finally decides. “But stop calling me God. You’re starting to seriously piss me off.”

Your head snaps up and you fight back a fresh wave of tears as you nod. “Yes! I’ll – I’ll call you Ghost. No more God-talk, I promise.”

You huff out a wet laugh as you pick up your helmet and fasten it back on your head. “I mean, I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.”

And so it’s like that for a month. Ghost explains the concept of video games (and how you’re from one – but you figured out that much already), introduces you to his team (and forces you to apologize to Price for calling him a civvy), and gives you his blessing to be his guard (even though he doesn’t need one). 

He allows you to tail him around when he’s in a good mood. When he’s not up for it, you sit outside his door like the good soldier you are.

You’re not allowed to have weapons, on account of being… well. Your entire being. The flying spark that could cause a wildfire. The free radical that could split an atom. It’s just better to give you the bare minimum and keep you there.

And you’re more than happy with the bare minimum. You survive on scraps from the mess hall and the moments when Ghost can tolerate you being a little too close. 

But the week-long missions are nothing but pain for you. And yet, every time you meet him on the tarmac, he greets you with a pat on the side of your bicep and asks how you were while he was gone. Maybe he’s doing it to be polite, maybe he actually cares – you don’t know, and you’re willing to keep it that way. 

(In this instance, you’re blissful with your ignorance. Revel in it, actually.)

There’s a faint part of you that thinks that he views you as an abandoned puppy he found on the side of the road that just followed him home. You’re okay with that if it means you can keep being close to him and keep getting away with everything you’ve done so far. 

So you wait, ever so patient, outside his door. You don’t lean against the wall next to it – you’re always standing at attention, even when your back starts to ache from standing so rigid. You don’t know what to do with your hands (on account of having no rifle to hold) so you let them idly hang at your sides, fighting the reflex to fidget. 

There’s a knock from the other side of the door. A sign from Ghost, telling you that you’re welcome to come in.

You knock back with a soft, “Ghost?”

After a few seconds, there’s no response, but you can hear the lock click and unlock. 

You wait for a minute before you open the door and make sure to duck as you enter. (These doors are shorter than the ones back on your ship – they’re not built to accommodate someone wearing Helldiver armor.)

You shut the door behind you and take in Ghost’s room. It’s bare, like yours. Just a desk with a chair, a bed with military-issued bedding, and a closet with a dresser and clothes rod.

As if on instinct, you take your helmet off, leaving yourself vulnerable yet safe. As your time passed here, your skin has become less black-and-purple and more like a normal skin tone – like the color around your eyes has started to seep into the surrounding area. So far, it’s taken over your face and the column of your throat, just barely brushing past your collarbone.

Ghost moves away from where he’s facing his desk in his swivel chair. He takes you in. Takes your new skin in.

You’ve kept your armor clean, just how you both like it. But the upkeep of yourself, as a person, your new hair and new skin, your new nose and lips and beauty marks and imperfections…

Ghost points at you. “Your hair is greasy as hell.”

You comb a hand through your hair and your glove comes away with a bit of grease, just like he mentioned.

“It is.” You look up from your glove to meet his gaze. “What should I do about it?”

“Fucking hell.” Ghost rolls his eyes. “You’re asking me what you should do about it? Take a shower, knobhead.”

“Ah.” You look down at your boots. 

“Have you seriously not been bathing?” Ghost asks. 

“It, um…” You glance up at him, then back down at the floor. “It never occurred to me. Usually I don’t have to.”

“You’ve been here for a bloody month and you haven’t showered once?” he scoffs. 

You shrink into yourself, an embarrassed blush creeping across your face. 

“Christ…” Ghost mumbles. He stands from his chair and points you up-and-down. “Get out of your armor.”

“Excuse me?” A hand flies to the middle of your breastplate, as if cradling it to you like it’s the only thing keeping you decent. 

“You heard me.” Ghost moves over to the door to his bathroom and opens it, then glances over his shoulder at you. “I’m drawing a bath. And you’re going in it.”

You look down at your glove, at the thin sheen of grease covering it. “I… okay.”

Ghost goes into the bathroom to give you some semblance of privacy. You take a breath to calm yourself and exhale with a soft “Sweet Liberty…” 

You carefully lay out your metal armor on Ghost’s bed, leaving yourself in just your under-armor. It’s durable but thin, causing you to shiver as the air conditioning kicks on.

With light steps, you make your way over to the bathroom. Ghost is hunched over the side of the tub, his hands ungloved and sleeves bunched up to his elbows. One of his hands is under the running water, checking the temperature. 

You lean into the doorway and call his name softly. You only lean in a bit, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Ghost glances over his shoulder at you, then nods at the tub. “Come on. Haven’t got all day.”

You slowly make your way in the bathroom and close the door behind you. It’s a small space, and it just makes everything all the more awkward.

“Well?” Ghost prompts. “Will you be good by yourself?”

“I mean…” You look down at the tile. “I guess.”

Ghost shuts off the faucet, then stands and wipes his hand off on a towel hanging by the bathtub. “I’m off, then.”

“But – wait,” you say softly. “How am I supposed to bathe? It’s not full yet.”

“It’s not meant to be full up,” Ghost says. “You’re acting like you’ve never taken a bath before.”

You shift on your feet, your almost-bare soles making a soft sound against the tile. Your silence tells Ghost all he needs to know.

“Come on then.” He sighs and leans back against the counter, his hands on the lip of the sink. “Strip.”

You shuffle out of your under-armor, fold it neatly, and put it on the counter. You’re nearly shaking from embarrassment, but at least it isn’t as awkward as it would be if your body wasn’t just unloaded textures. Your body below your collarbone is built well, but it’s more like a jacked doll that a kid scribbled a black and purple checkerboard on than an actual human soldier. 

Your eyes meet Ghost’s before you duck your head away in shame. 

“Come on,” he repeats. “Let’s get you washed up, yeah?”

You keep your gaze low as you tentatively dip a few fingers in the water. It’s warm, but not too hot. You slowly hook a leg over the edge of the tub and step in. It feels good – not that you have any prior bathing experiences to compare it to. 

Your knees practically buckle as you lower yourself into the water. You sit with your knees pressed up against your chest, not wanting to take up too much space even though the tub isn’t all that small. 

“Good?” Ghost asks. 

“Good,” you parrot back. 

Ghost kneels by the side of the tub. “How’s it feel? Too hot?”

“Okay.” You raise your eyes to meet his. “Feels like… when I’m near you.”

He just hums, monotone, in response. He shifts to sit more comfortably, then pats the surface of the water, sending ripples. “Lean forward.”

You do as he asks, bowing your head so that your face is close to the water. “This good?”

“Yes. I’m gonna get some water on you now.” 

You nod. Ghost cups his hand and dips it in the water before running it down your back. You gasp softly at the feeling – it’s unlike anything you’ve experienced before. It’s like Ghost’s molten touch is seeping into your skin, but instead of fire, it’s a pleasant version of sunburn. 

Maybe it feels duller and better because you’ve been so exposed to Ghost over the past month that you’ve gotten used to it, like exposure therapy? And the feeling when you first touched him was just too much, too fast…

You quickly divert your thoughts away from the theoretical and into the now. Because right now, Ghost is doting on you unlike any other. 

Water runs through your hair, and Ghost threads his fingers through the strands to make sure it gets properly wet. Droplets run down your forehead and drip off your nose.

You turn your head just a little and look up at Ghost sideways. “Is this it?”

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “There’s shampoo, then conditioner. Then you gotta wash your actual body.”

“Oh.”

There’s a moment where the only sound is Ghost gathering a bit of shampoo in his hands and rubbing them together to create a lather. He scrubs it into your hair for about a half minute before washing it out.

You break the silence as he starts to work the conditioner into your hair. “I never got to ask – the engraving on my helmet… what’s that about? I don’t remember doing it.”

“Hm?” Ghost hums. “The skull? Dead daft, ain’t you?”

“I’m… I could only parse parts of that sentence,” you say softly. “But I can tell you’re calling me an idiot.”

“Yes. I am. You’re learning.” Ghost huffs out another laugh. “Go on, guess.”

“If I have to…” You close your eyes and lean into Ghost’s touch. “It’s a representation of your control over me? As a player, I mean. Not in… anything else.” 

You let out a nervous laugh and hope Ghost doesn’t pick up on your double meaning. But of course he does – you can tell in the way his hands pause for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. He’s too observant for his own good.

With an awkward ahem, you continue. “But that’s the same reason my callsign is Deathshead, right? Because you’re Ghost. You – you gave me your insignia.”

(You had to stop yourself from saying ‘Blessed me with your insignia’, because you promised you’d stop with the God-talk.)

“Dead on.” Ghost turns and rubs a bar of soap on a sponge, then hands it to you. “Scrub yourself. I’m not doing it for you.”

“Where?” you ask. “Like, all over?”

Ghost washes the conditioner from his hands in the bathwater and nods. “Mhm.”

You carefully scrub yourself from top to bottom. The sponge is a bit abrasive, but nice. 

(You’d much rather have Ghost wash you up, to cause the fire you’ve contained in a little wooden stove to flare out of the firebox and through the grill… but you keep that to yourself.)

Once you’re done, you wring the sponge out under the bathwater, then above water. You set it on the side of the tub and look up at Ghost, waiting for instructions. 

He meets your gaze and shifts where he’s sitting on the toilet lid. “Just relax, Helldiver.”

“Not used to this.” You pull your knees up to your chest. “Not used to having… downtime. I was always being sent down, or preparing to be sent down. Democracy was always my guide, but…”

You tilt your head towards Ghost, and he understands. 

“You are, now,” you voice the unsaid thought.

“That’s concerning.” Ghost rests his hands on his knees and leans back against the tank. 

“I know.” You look down at the bathwater and the bubbles floating on the surface. “It’s just… I’ve never felt the peace that we preach. I’ve only known fighting, only violence and blood.”

You look up and meet his eyes. “Have you ever had your legs blown apart by an Eagle Cluster Bomb? Ever been burned alive by friendly napalm? Because I have. I’ve felt my spine split because of an Orbital Railcannon Strike. I’ve been mowed down by friendly Gatling Sentries.

“But the worst thing I’ve experienced here is name-calling and weird looks,” you say. “I’ve been sick to my stomach with worry once or twice, but then I remember you’re a soldier, just like me. You’re trained, and you’re okay, and you’ll return fine. 

“I am…” You lean your head back against the tile wall and close your eyes. “I’m at peace here.”

“I get that,” Ghost says. His voice is the softest you’ve ever heard it. “How long were you deployed?”

“As long as I can remember,” you say. 

“Bloody long time, then, yeah?” Ghost says.

“Yes.” You bring your hand up and rub your collarbone, where skin meets undefined polygons. “But you’re making me human. Less Helldiver, less of an expendable piece of resurrected meat. You’re making me softer. More civilian.”

You open your eyes and look up at Ghost. The expression on his face is… conflicted. Like he didn’t know he could bring this out in someone. 

“They always said that when united under the beautiful Liberty flag of Super Earth, nothing will be able to stop or split its glorious peoples,” you say. “But you showed me that it’s better out here. That it’s… fascism, is what it is. But that’s a secret we keep from ourselves.”

You reach your hand out and lay it over where his lays on his knee. You just barely brush your fingertips over the back of his hand before grabbing it. 

(Another log has been added to the fire, and it’s covered in lichen and dried mosses. It crackles and pops, but you make sure to keep it still contained.)

“Would you believe me if I said that I hate Managed Democracy?” You laugh breathlessly. Even saying it causes a sick feeling in your stomach, like you’ll be found out and promptly dismissed. (Read: put up against a wall and executed via firing squad.)

“Yes.” Ghost glances down at where your hand lays on top of his. “A lot of people hate the government, all ‘cross the world. Don’t you know that?”

“And they’re… allowed to?” You bite the inside of your bottom lip to subdue a smile. “Like, openly?”

Ghost laughs. “Yes.”

“This really is Heaven.” You sigh out the words, an unbelieving smile crossing your face. 

“Not Heaven,” Ghost says. “Just Earth.”

He moves his hand slightly, and you take it as a cue to move away. You bring your hand back, dipping it back in the bathwater. 

“Well,” you say softly. “I think I like just Earth.”

“On just Earth, we bathe regularly.” Ghost dips a hand in the water and splashes your knees. “Now, come on. Let’s get you rinsed off.”

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #self aware cod au 🎮 #self aware cod au #tw: yandere #tw: obsession #mw2 x reader #mw2 x you #mw2 x y/n #ghost mw2 #mw2 ghost #modern warfare 2 x reader #modern warfare 2 x y/n #modern warfare 2 x you #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x y/n #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon ghost riley

[nevadancitizen]

-> YOU'RE OUT OF TOUCH – I'VE BEEN OUTTA TIME

synopsis: you died six months ago, but you've come back to haunt johnny. not as a ghost, no – as some twisted version of you that johnny still loves. too bad you don't still love johnny, or remember him in any capacity.

word count: 4k

characters: john "soap" mactavish, resurrected! reader

trigger warnings: talk of canon-typical violence, temporal weirdness, hurt + damn near no comfort

notes: first soap fic.. hopefully i've written him well!! also i couldn't resist incorporating madness combat in this somehow lol it's taking over my life (you don't need to know anything about madcom to read this, don't worry). also tumblr user nevadancitizen using the amnesia trope again? it's more likely than you think.

Somewhere in Nevada, a battered body is denied death, so that it may be granted, en masse…

And six months ago, somewhere in Russia, you were killed in action. 

It was a single shot through the skull – nice, clean. You didn’t suffer. Despite your killer more than likely being a terrorist (or working for one), they did you right. It was probably unintentional, but they still did you right. 

Johnny couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, even to piss, for weeks after. He was completely numb to almost everything. The world passed by while he stood completely still, laying on his side in your shared bed, spooning a pillow that was rapidly losing your scent. 

(He even tried spraying it with your perfume or cologne, but it didn’t work. It was too strong – it didn’t smell like when you wore it.)

Johnny thought all-too-often about what happened after death. He was ready to die, always has been, but he never really thought about what would happen if (or, more accurately, when) you died. He always cast those thoughts away, because he was done losing people. He was done with grief and screaming, pleading to God, and crying so hard he threw up. 

But he eventually returned to his job. He eventually put you to rest. He prayed for the first time in damn near two decades that, if there was really an afterlife, that you were in Heaven.

(He just hoped that, whatever Heaven there was, it was good enough for you.)

But again, six months ago, somewhere in Nevada, a battered body was denied death, so that it may be granted, en masse.

It is a land without sun, without warmth unless you could find it in another body. It is a land without rules, without remorse, without regret. 

It is a land of violence. It is a land that fits you well.

Despite being dead, you were sewed back together and cursed to live once more. Someone put a gun in your hands and told you, “Listen bozo, I don’t care where you’re from – just shoot!”

Of course, Johnny didn’t know this. How could he? He watched your casket be lowered into the ground. He knew it wasn’t empty – he had to confirm your identity in the morgue. 

But he can’t help but feel his stomach drop when Kyle comes rushing into his office, pointing behind him and, in a panting breath, says your name. 

Johnny immediately springs up from behind his desk and almost pushes past Kyle to get out the door. He turns down the hallway to the left, where he knows it leads to the hospital ward. 

“No, Soap – Soap!” Kyle sprints after him, just barely catching his wrist. “Wrong way, man.”

Johnny stops and, in his stunned state, lets Kyle lead him down the hallway to the right, away from the medbay, away from where you were surely waiting for him, recovering.

Kyle leads him into an elevator, scans his keycard, and presses the button for -3. They’re both uncharacteristically quiet. It just faintly registers in Johnny’s mind that the floor -3 is below the parking garages, past where anyone typically goes. 

(Past where anyone can hear screams ripped from tortured throats, really.)

When the elevator doors open, Soap’s greeted by a familiar sight. It’s a grey concrete hallway, with two soldiers on either side, guarding the way in. Doors line the hall, each one steel with a keypad to unlock it.

Gaz leads Soap down the hall and doesn’t stop for a while. Eventually, he stops in front of the last door and takes a deep, almost shuddering, breath.

Gaz inputs the code into the keypad and opens the door, nodding at the inside. “Come on.”

Soap, almost so quick he clips his shoulder on the doorframe, goes into the room. It overlooks an interrogation room, and it’s fit with a double-sided mirror, recording tech, everything.

Soap freezes when he looks into the interrogation room. It – it’s you, but… not you. You’re pacing, and Johnny can only stare. There’s a grey flush to your skin – no, your skin is actually grey – and bandages cover the back of your head, dirty and frayed, like you haven’t changed them in a while. 

You’re angry, a far cry from the person Johnny knew you to be. Sure, you could be angry, and Johnny’s seen you angry, but this…

You’re panting as you pace, fists clenching and unclenching as your eyes dart around the room. Soft mutters and expletives leave your mouth as you look around, surely looking for a way to escape. 

Johnny just keeps staring. You’re… alive? Yes, you’re not what Johnny remembers you to be, but you’re still alive. 

“Fucking – goddamnit!” You bang your fist on the steel table, causing it to rattle. “I don’t have anything to tell you! You’re all cowards –” you turn to the double-sided mirror and point at it “– especially you, Sheriff! Don’t tell me you’re not back there!”

You immediately turn away, your hands coming to clutch at the sides of your head, your fingers digging into the bandages, almost ripping them. “I swear, when I get my hands on you…!” 

“We don’t know what to do,” Kyle says softly. He looks over at Soap, his gaze obviously sad and sympathetic. “Do you want to try ‘n talk ‘em? Even if they’re feelin’ a tad… neurotic.”

Johnny can’t rip his gaze from you as you throw a steel chair at the wall, still cursing out someone named Sheriff and his lackeys. The chair bounces off the wall and one of the legs hits your shin, causing you to curse it out, too.

“Yes,” Johnny says quickly, decisively. 

Soap shifts on his feet, oddly impatient, as he waits for Kyle to unlock the door to the interrogation room. As soon as he does, Johnny shoulders past him and into the room. He hears a faint click as Gaz closes it behind him. 

You immediately whirl on Johnny, your eyes wide and your breath labored. 

“You!” You point at Johnny like it’s meant to be some offensive gesture. “What do you want?”

You move closer, and Johnny catches sight of the dogtags hanging from your neck. You were buried with one, and he kept the other. He even gave you one of his own because, on that day, a part of him died with you. But… instead of two, you have four hanging from the metal chain. 

You shove your finger in Johnny’s chest, your fingernail digging through the thin fabric of his fatigues. “Answer me!”

Soap immediately takes your wrist and cradles your hand to his chest. “Bonnie, please, calm down.”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” you bark, ripping your hand away from him. “I just lost one of my team and you’re telling me to calm down?!”

“Your team?” Soap echoes.

“Deimos!” you snap. “You – you killed Deimos.”

You take a step back, your fists still clenched and your eyes still angry. “I saw your stupid fucking Engineer murder him. He was dead from the first five bullets, and you know he knew that! But oh, let’s just make sure he’s dead by unloading clip after clip into him.”

You heave a breath, almost growling. “Let’s desecrate his corpse. All because he’s a dissenter. Let’s make it oh-so-hard to bring him back.”

Johnny steps forward, just barely moving his foot, and you jump back like he took out a knife. 

He breathes out your name, soft and unbelieving. “Are… is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me!” You turn and rest your hands on the steel table, obviously resisting the urge to bring your fists down against it. “Always has been, always will be. It’s always me.”

Johnny circles around the table and leans down a little, taking in your face. The grey makes you look dirty and unwashed, like you’ve got a layer of dirt on you that you couldn’t wash away.

You look up at him through your eyelashes. “I know you.”

Johnny’s heart leaps into his throat and, for a hopeful moment, thinks that you remember him, that this is all some sort of stupid trick, that you went MIA instead of being KIA, that this is really you. The you Johnny knows, the you Johnny loves. But his heart is crushed beneath your boot when you speak next. 

“I know soldiers like you,” you say softly. “Soldiers, produced en masse, told to shoot first and die quietly. We’re both clones, you know? But there’s a difference in what we want.”

You stand up straight, glancing at the double-sided mirror before turning your eyes back to Soap. “You follow orders. When they say jump, you ask how high. But I…” you laugh beneath your breath. “I am fighting for change. Normality. You’re comfortable living in this… this chaos.”

“Bonnie, what are you on about?” Johnny reaches across the table, trying to take your hand. You snatch it away before he even comes close.

Gaz slides into the room, holding a tablet. You whip your head around and glare at him. 

His eyebrows lift a little, and he raises the tablet, as if in a defensive manner. “Your tablet. It –”

You snatch it from Gaz’s hands before he can talk again. You set it down on the table and stare at it, waiting.

Johnny can just barely see the interface. The top of the screen reads COMBASIC .9(beta). It looks like some sort of chat room. A few messages pop up in quick succession.

FellowD9: GOTEM FellowD9: YOU WERE RIGHT FellowD9: HE WAS COMPLIANT 2BDamned: Neat FellowD9: CHECK MY SECTOR FellowD9: ANCHOR HIM NOW [user:FellowD9 IS OFFLINE]

The messages seem to relax you, even if Johnny has no idea what they’re talking about. You bring a hand to your forehead and laugh breathlessly, then set to typing.

CrosshairF6: lol hey im still alive CrosshairF6: aahw assholes gave me my tablet idk why CrosshairF6: check my sector & get me back 2BDamned: Getting Deimos right now, I’ll get back to you CrosshairF6: better do it right CrosshairF6: saw his corpse, looks like he ran through traffic [user:2BDamned IS OFFLINE]

Johnny watches as you tuck your tablet back in one of the inner pockets of your jacket, casting a suspicious glance at Gaz, like you expect him to take it back. 

Gaz raises his hands and slips back out of the room, leaving you and Johnny.

“So.” You look at Johnny. “Why are you trying to act all buddy-buddy with me?”

“You’re… you were…” Johnny sighs, an overwhelming feeling settling in his chest. “Do you remember… dying?”

“Of course,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “2B brought me back.”

“2B?” Johnny echoes. “Like, the one you were talkin’ to? 2BDamned?”

“Yeah.” You move and lean back against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. “He’s all doctor-like, y’know? Brings us back when we need it.”

“And he’s… on your team?” Johnny asks. He feels a deep pang of… something in his chest when the thought of you actually being on another team, separate from him, settles in his mind.

You nod. “Yeah. 2B, Hank, Sanford, Deimos.” You tap the dog tags resting against your chest. “We’re a team. Some of us are on a subteam, but still. We’re a team.”

Johnny blinks hard, shaking the thought from his head. “Do you remember anything before you died?”

“Some, but… not a lot. Just blips of fighting, some soldiers, then Nevada.” You shrug. “2B says that happens sometimes.”

Johnny feels his tense shoulders relax, if only a little. “Any one specific soldier, bonnie?”

“No,” you say. You look away and fiddle with your dogtags. “But I’ve got the dogtag of someone named John.”

“John?” Johnny echoes, his heart picking up in his chest. “John ‘Soap’ MacTavish?”

“Yeah.” Your gaze fixes on him again, immediately suspicious. “How do you know that?”

“That’s me, bonnie.” Johnny laughs breathlessly, moving towards you. He makes sure to stay slow and cautious, just in case. “I’m Johnny. Your Johnny.”

You move along the wall, away from him, just slightly. You seem to bristle a little, and bring your shoulders up a bit. “You’re not mine. I don’t own anyone.”

“Not in the literal sense, bonnie,” Johnny laughs, resisting the urge to trail after you. “I’m yours, romantically.”

You bring yourself off the wall, taking a step back. It’s like you’re repulsed by the idea. “I’ve never been romantically involved with anyone. You think I’ve got time for that?”

It’s like Johnny’s been punched in the gut. Tears well in his eyes and he suddenly feels so fucking sick. His feet almost come out from under him as he stumbles to the door, shaking hands putting in the code before slipping out. 

He could take the idea of you maybe not remembering him, sure. He could just re-introduce himself. He could take the idea of you forgetting the time you’ve spent together, because you’d remember, right? But the way you were disgusted by the idea of romance, the vitriol in your voice as you spoke…

Johnny doesn’t like the word ‘relapse’ because he thinks it holds too heavy of a connotation, but that’s the best way to describe what he did for the rest of the day, and into the early hours of tomorrow. He rotted in your shared bed, but instead of feeling numb, he felt his heart being wrenched by your hand, by your words. 

He just laid there, looking at his sketchbook – a good one with thick paper. The one you’d gifted him for your six-month anniversary. It’s filled with drawings of you: candid ones, ones where he had you pose (even though you were embarrassed), ones of you and him, together, doing couple-y things. 

He could only mourn what was lost, because you seemed to have absolutely no interest in recovering it. 

A week passes before you’re able to be let out of your cell. You slowly lost the fire and brimstone that filled your heart as you realized that the 141 really did want to help you. You feel better now that you have a few people by your side, fresh bandages, and a renewed sense of comfort.

(But you forgave yourself for acting like that in the beginning because, in Nevada, no one is nice. Not without an ulterior motive, at least.)

You’re practically on a leash as Ghost leads you throughout the base. He doesn’t talk as he guides you through winding hallways and up an exhaustive amount of flights of stairs. 

Eventually, he opens a door labeled ‘ROOF EXIT.’ He tilts his head towards the door.

“Someone waitin’ for you,” Ghost says gruffly. “And…”

He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a carton of cigarettes. Your cigarettes. 

Ghost takes your hand and puts it in your palm. “Don’t set anything on fire.”

You close your fingers around it and nod. “Got it, boss.”

Ghost starts back down the stairs, leaving you and the open door to the roof. You move through it and look around. 

Johnny’s sitting, cross-legged, on the concrete roof, facing away from you. It’s dark – obviously, it’s night. You look up and take in the stars, and…

“You have a moon,” you say softly.

Johnny looks back at you, a tentative smile on his face. Like he’s scared to be too hopeful. “Yeah. We do.”

You hum and look at Johnny. 

“Do you…” Johnny glances at the floor, then back up at you. “Do you wanna sit with me, bonnie?”

You slowly move over to Johnny and sit by him. You keep a healthy distance, but you’re still closer than you’ve ever been to him before. 

“Those fags for sharin’?” Johnny asks, a teasing smile on his face. 

You look down at the carton of cigarettes in your hand. You grip them a little tighter, causing the thin carton to crumple a bit. “Sure. Don’t know if you’ll like them, though.”

“Nonsense, bonnie.” Johnny bumps his shoulder against yours. “Let’s give ‘em a go.”

You smile and take out two cigarettes. You hand one over to Johnny. They’re hand-rolled and don’t have a filter, so they look more like joints, but the overwhelming smell of raw tobacco quickly quells that thought.

“Got a light?” you ask.

“‘Course.” Johnny reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small lighter. He lights his own cigarette, then pulls it away with a sputtering cough. 

“Steamin’ Jesus, what is that?” He asks in between coughs. 

You laugh, hitting your knee as Johnny reels from the taste. “It’s good, yeah?”

“Hell no!” Johnny wipes tears from his eyes and looks over at you. Despite his coughing, a soft smile spreads across his face at the way you’re laughing – loud, unabashed. Just like before.

You swipe Johnny’s lighter from his hand and light your cigarette, the cherry basking your face in a soft, warm glow. “Welcome to Nevada.”

“Let’s see that thing.” Johnny reaches over and takes the carton from your hand.

He turns it over, looking at it. The carton is worn, like it’s been refilled many times. There’s no warning about nicotine being an addictive chemical, just a grey box with a simple brand: G01 Choice. There’s a name scribbled on the back – Deimos, in all capital letters. 

“Deimos,” Johnny says aloud. “The man died and you stole his cigs?”

“He’s not dead.” You take the carton back and tuck it into your jacket pocket. “Not anymore. Well, he’s died lotsa times, so I guess he’s an... honorary corpse.”

“An honorary corpse,” Johnny echoes, looking down at the cigarette in his hand. He puts it out on the concrete. “Just like you, yeah?”

You take a drag off your cigarette and blow out the smoke in a single, smooth stream. “Just like me.”

A silence settles as you look up at the moon. You can feel Johnny’s eyes occasionally flitting to you, then back up at the night sky. 

“Your dogtags.” Johnny points in your direction. “Whose are they?”

You look down and tug on the metal chain, causing them to clink together. “Mine, yours, and my team’s.”

“Your team?” Johnny asks softly. “You never told me about them.”

“Yeah.” You look over at him. “I’m part of an extraction team. My partners are Sanford and Deimos.”

A pain, almost so real he thought he was actually injured, runs through Johnny when you say partners. The logical side of his brain chides him a few moments later because you obviously meant it in a militaristic sense, not a romantic sense.

“Can I see them?” Johnny asks.

You nod and take off the chain, then hand them to Johnny. He looks at the dogtags – he recognizes his and yours as being standard military dogtags, but Sanford and Deimos’ are much more… odd.

Sanford’s reads SANFORD / MELEE + EXPLOSIVES / G02 (NEG) / RETURN TO FAMILY. Deimos’ reads DEIMOS / FIREARMS + TECH / G02 (POS) / NO FAMILY. 

Johnny tilts the dogtags so that you can see them and runs a finger along the lettering. “What do these mean, bonnie?” 

You move a bit closer and lean in. “The first lines are their names, obviously. The second is what they’re proficient in. The third is what generation clone they are, and their blood types – there are only two blood types for second generation clones. And the last one is what to do with their bodies if they can’t be revived.”

“Wait, bonnie.” Johnny laughs breathlessly. “Clones?”

“Yeah, clones.” You tilt your head a little to the side. “What, you don’t have cloning technology here?”

“Of course not!” Johnny laughs.

You laugh and bump your shoulder against his. “You people are so primitive.”

Johnny smiles back at you and it’s like nothing is wrong. You both go quiet as you stare at each other until you look away.

“I, uh…” you clear your throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry for being so… abrasive. Earlier, I mean.”

“It’s alright,” Johnny says, almost too quickly. 

You scratch your cheek and glance over at Johnny, then away. “But it’s not, is it? I should’ve handled things better.”

“Someone you know died right before we talked.” Johnny reaches over and, cautiously, puts his hand over yours where it rests on your knee. “It’s expected that you don’t act like yourself.”

Your breath hitches, and Johnny squeezes your hand reassuringly in response. 

“But that’s the thing,” you say. “I’ve seen so many awful things before. People getting shot, stabbed, beaten, Hank tearing people apart with his bare hands. But, Maker…”

You drag a hand down your face, rubbing your jaw. “Deimos is young. So young. He’s only twenty-seven, and he always has a smile like he’s just tied your shoelaces together and is waiting for you to trip. And he’s so smart, even if everyone calls him a bit stupid. Yeah, he’s got a slower reaction time, but that’s what me and Sanford are for, y’know? He…”

You blink hard, trying to will your tears away. A soft, frustrated groan leaves your mouth as you duck your head and put your cigarette to your lips. “Don’t look at me.”

Johnny starts to pull his hand away, but stops when you squeeze his hand. Instead, he squeezes your hand back, averting his gaze.

To Johnny, it again almost feels like nothing ever happened. Like there’s no Russia, no Nevada, nothing besides you and him on this roof, together. But he’s no fool. He knows things have changed – that Nevada has changed you. 

You breathe out a shaky plume of cigarette smoke. “I just want to go back.”

“But you’re here now, bonnie,” Johnny says. He tries to ignore the crushing feeling in his chest, tries to keep his composure for you. “Aren’t you glad you’re back?”

“I don’t know this place.” You look over at Johnny, your eyes rimmed with unshed tears. “You keep saying that we’re together, that – that this is my home. But how can this be my home if I don’t remember a thing about it? How can you be my boyfriend if I don’t remember a thing about you?”

Johnny exhales sharply, like he’s just got the wind knocked out of him. “Bonnie, please don’t say that. Please.”

“I know violence, and I know bloodshed,” you say softly. “I know Nevada. This place, this world…” You gesture vaguely with your cigarette still in your hand. “It’s not mine.”

“But there is violence here, there is bloodshed here,” Johnny insists. “Here, we fought together.”

“But I don’t remember us being together, in any capacity!” you snap. You take a breath and try your best to soften your words. “All I remember from before is just flashes. I didn’t remember your face. I just had your dogtag and a weird, empty feeling.”

Johnny sighs and feels tears welling up in his eyes. He can’t tear his gaze away from you. 

“You really expected me to trace the bullet and sift through fleeting memories when there was an entire agency playing Pinkertons knocking down our door?” you ask softly. “2B was bandaging my head ‘cause he just finished playing around in my brains and Sanford was shoving a gun in my hands. They pointed me in a direction and told me to shoot. I didn’t have the time to remember you.

“I’m sorry, but I just didn’t.” You squeeze his hand before letting it go.

Johnny immediately scrambles to catch your hand in both of his, holding on desperately. “No, bonnie, please.”

A few tears slip down Johnny’s cheeks as he looks at you. Your face is a mirror of his own, just in greyscale. Your cheeks are stained with tears and your eyes are just beginning to get a bit puffy. 

“If you know you’re gonna be leaving again, then just let me hold your hand,” Johnny says softly, his voice wavering. “Just for a few more minutes.”

You nod and, when you blink, a tear rolls down your already-wet cheek. “Okay.”

Johnny slowly moves so that you’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder to him. He hesitates before resting his head on your shoulder. You smell just like how he remembers, albeit tinged with the acrid tang of G01 Choice cigarette smoke. You’re just as beautiful as the day he lost you.

“Okay.”

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #cod x reader #cod x you #modern warfare 2 x reader #mw2 x reader #mw2 x you #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mctavish x reader #john mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap cod #soap mw2 #cod soap #madness combat

[nevadancitizen]

-> RETIRED TRANSMASC GHOST

synopsis: a drabble about retired transmasc ghost and him discussing his top surgery plans with you.

word count: ~750

characters: transmasc! simon, gn! reader

trigger warnings: discussion of surgery, needles/testosterone injection, simon having breasts and top dysphoria

notes: wrote this because i'm six months on testosterone as of last friday 🎉🎉!!!!! (also note that this is not fetishization: i am a pre-op transmasc man)

simon’s lucky to have small enough breasts that they virtually disappeared when he enlisted. the drills and training were so harsh on his body that they looked more like pecs than breasts, so the feeling that he needed top surgery went away for the time being. 

but now, he’s nearing fifty, retired, still “in shape,” but not anywhere near where he was when he was part of the task force. his breasts are a bit more noticeable now, enough where he’d do a double-take in the mirror if he wasn’t wearing a binder or tape. the familiar feeling of top dysphoria came creeping back, as sniveling and pathetic as it is. (not that he felt pathetic for feeling it – he just felt as if it was a benign tumor that he’d be much happier without.)

you and simon had tackled this as a team, as you always did. you both did research about types of top surgeries, doctors, hospitals, recovery, the like. you had reassured him when you noticed any amount of hesitancy, (mostly about him being “too old” or not qualifying for surgery), calling him your “big man” and holding him tenderly, soothing your hand over the softness of his belly.

you took care of him in soft ways like that. you made sure he was comfortable, laying him down as you wiped an alcohol swab over his belly. your hands were careful as you pinched the fat of his stomach and injected his testosterone shot, soothing the injection site with a bandage and a kiss. 

“i can do that myself, y’know,” simon grumbles, but he does nothing to stop you.

“i know,” you say softly. you rub a thumb over the bandage, pushing down on it gently to calm any lingering pain – though usually, there was none. “just practicing taking care of you for when you’re recovering.”

“you take care of me just fine, lovie.” simon takes the syringe from your hands and caps the needle before putting it on the bedside table. then, he pulls you down so that you’re laying on his bare chest. he was shirtless and binderless – a true man in his true form. 

you hum and move so that your cheek is pressing against his chest, your hand resting on his sternum. you breathe in deeply, taking in the scent of the musk between his breasts. it was a heady and intoxicating smell, just like simon.

you trace the scars on his sternum – acne scars from when he first started testosterone. “hm… i’m gonna miss this,” you mumble.

simon’s hand comes up and pets the back of your head, messing with your hair. “miss what?” 

“this,” you say. “resting on your chest. hearing your heartbeat.”

simon huffs out a laugh. “the recovery is only two months.”

“two months too long,” you whine, then press a kiss to his chest, right over the darkest, dipping acne scar. “how am i gonna kiss you like this when you have all those bandages on you?”

“you’re just gonna have to wait,” simon chides, but you can hear a smile in his voice.

you sigh dramatically and nod. “you’re right. and i know it’s for the best. i’m just gonna miss loving on you like this, okay? even if it’s just for two months.”

simon just hums softly in response. his hand continues to play with your hair, combing the strands with his fingers. 

“mh… you gonna miss my chest?” he asks.

“i don’t think so,” you say. “it’s your choice, really. i’ll support you through everything, you know that.” you glance up at him with a teasing smile. “and i’ll finally get you to rest while you’re recovering instead of you busting your ass every day.”

simon rolls his eyes, but there’s still a smile on his scarred lips. “yeah, yeah. you sound like you’re looking forward to it, lovie.”

“maybe i am.” you bury your face in his chest again, pressing another kiss to his scarred skin. 

“don’t expect me to stay down for long,” simon says.

“i won’t,” you mumble. 

simon presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his hand drifting down to rub one of your shoulders. “i know.”

you sigh softly as you relax into his touch. you know it’ll be like this, now and forever. even after simon’s surgery and recovery, he’ll cradle you to his chest and exchange kiss for kiss like he is now, loving and soft and sweet. 

he’ll always be your boy. your lovely boy.

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #mw2 x reader #mw2 x you #modern warfare 2 x reader #modern warfare 2 x you #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #cod x reader #cod x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader

[nevadancitizen]

“debts to pay: nasty majesty!”

synopsis: sniping isn’t really something you wanted to do, but something you were forced into. luckily, you’re one of the best. unluckily, someone wants that position. that someone happens to be a 6′10 freak of a man.

word count: 1.4k

characters: könig, sniper! reader

trigger warnings: canon-typical violence

notes: i think i heard someone talking about könig being jealous that reader’s a sniper and reader being jealous that könig’s an intrusion specialist? can’t find anyone talking about it though. if you’re out there drop by! i like your ideas ^-^ also i’m going to be trying my hand at a series for tha first time in awhile.. be patient w me!!

chapters: one (you are here!) / two

The first thing you notice about König is the similarity he has to Atlas Shrugged and its author, Ayn Rand. He’s constantly trying to play both sides, just how Rand was pro-communism in her politics and pro-capitalism in her books – oh, yes, he’s so shy and insecure and such a fucking loser to others, but when he sees you, you who’s been shoved into the position of a sniper, he fucking seethes. 

It’s not even like you wanted this! All your life you’ve been dreaming of having his job, of getting your feet on the ground and putting boots in asses. Maybe it was a misguided attempt to get that adrenaline rush, maybe it was your true calling that your superiors would only recognize in time. But in any case, it wasn’t your job. 

Being a sniper isn’t honorable. You sit for hours at a time, being perfectly still, waiting for the perfect opportunity that might not even come. And what were you even supposed to do if there was someone right in front of you? Run five hundred miles away and take a shot? It feels like being the crazy ex: stalking, waiting, and, finally, striking. 

And that’s what you were doing right now. Sitting in a highrise apartment that wasn’t yours, looking out the window with binoculars, scoping out the target. She was moving about her hotel room, pacing back and forth while on the phone. It looked like she was having to hold herself back from screaming into it. 

The comm in your ear crackles to life. Your superior addresses you, then asks for a sitrep. You sigh and look away, bringing the binoculars away from your face. Your peripheral vision comes back into focus after you rub your eyes. 

You speak into your comms, “Schaeffer’s still in her hotel. On a call. Looks pretty damn angry.”

“Hold your fire,” your superior says. “Wait til she’s hung up. Then make it quick.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You quickly open the window and grab your sniper rifle, attaching a suppressor and resting the bi-pod on the windowsill. Breathing out slowly, you closed one eye and looked down the scope. It was just like looking down the binoculars, just with a crosshair, you remind yourself. You find Schaeffer’s hotel room window through the scope and watch. 

A horrible feeling settles into the pit of your stomach. You feel like a creep. You want to give the revolutionist an honorable death – best her in combat or something. Not shoot once and run away like a coward. 

Schaeffer screams into the phone, very probably something along the lines of ‘fuck you!’. She hangs up and throws her phone into the duvet of her hotel bed. Her hands fly to her scalp, looking like she wants to tug her locs out as she practically froths at the mouth in frustration. 

“Permission to fire?” you ask quietly. 

“Permission granted.”

The sound of the bullet leaving the gun is muffled by the suppressor, but right next to your head, it sounds like the crack of Babe Ruth hitting a baseball. Schaeffer jerks back and falls, just a bit of blood and brain matter splattering onto the wall. Confetti fit for a funeral. 

“Target down,” you say into the comms. You quickly gather your things, making sure to leave no evidence you even broke into the apartment for the perfect angle on Schaeffer. With your disassembled rifle in a duffel bag slung over your shoulder, you walk out of the apartment as casually as you can – even pretend to lock it behind you. 

You walk down the hall with your heart roaring in your ears, adrenaline screaming at your body to run as fast as you can, lest you get caught by Schaeffer’s followers. But you maintain a calm – maybe even bored – demeanor. 

And everything is quiet until you step into the elevator. 

A college student, no older than twenty, steps aside when you step into the elevator. You shift on your feet when you see a Vox Populi pin on their backpack – the name of Schaeffer’s revolution. The disassembled rifle clatters in your duffel bag. The college student sends a weird look your way as the scope falls out and clangs on the floor.

You quickly grab it and shove it in your pocket. You look at them out of the corner of your eye, gauging their reaction. “Don’t worry – it’s a prop. I’m a cinema student. The rest is filming equipment.” 

The way you speak leaves little room for doubt. The college student hums in understanding. You let out a silent sigh of relief and thank your lucky stars. 

You both stand in silence until the elevator reaches the bottom level of the apartment complex. You head for the front door while the college student heads for the front desk – probably to pick up a package or something. 

You’re one foot out the door when you glance over your shoulder to see the college student pointing at you. One of the front desk attendants slides her hand under the desk and hits a button, causing an alarm to blare. 

You take off, practically tripping over yourself as you run. Your hand flies to your ear, pressing the talk button on your comm. “Cover’s compromised, what now?!” 

“Sending coordinates of a nearby operator. He’s in a black, four-door SUV,” your superior replies. 

You slide into an alley, fishing your phone out of your pocket. The operator’s two hundred feet away – something you can cover without exhausting yourself too much. You pocket your phone and take off running towards him, eyes scouring the streets for a parked car that matches the description. 

When you see that only one car on the street is a black, four-door SUV, you immediately open the door and slide into the backseat, throwing your duffel bag on the seat beside you. 

You’ve only caught your breath just the slightest bit when you say your name and identify yourself as a fellow KorTac operator. You lean into the gap between the front seats to get a look at the driver, but your eyes dart to a ragged, black t-shirt in the passenger seat. Grey thread sews the neck and arm holes shut, and bleach-dyed tears run from two ragged holes cut in the pec area. You immediately recognize it as a mask that belongs to –

“König. KorTac.” 

You whip around to see his narrowed eyes peeking out from behind his hood. He’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to choke it out. You lean back into backseat territory, sighing. 

You look out the window at the people walking on the sidewalk. “Superiors said to catch a ride with you.” 

“And I wasn’t alerted.” König shifts the car into drive and moves onto the road, still keeping that white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes and scoff. “It was practically a fucking fiasco, man. Don’t think there was time for them to call you up and say, ‘Hey, is it alright if one more operator tags along back to base?’!”

“Of course you’re the type to say fiasco,” König mutters under his breath. 

“What does that even mean?!” 

König doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes on the road. You sigh and lean forward between the gaps in the front seats, turning on the radio so you don’t suffocate in this silence that’s quickly growing tense. König’s grip on the steering wheel relaxes.

You lean back against the seat, watching the countryside fly by. The disassembled rifle rattles in your duffel bag. You lay a hand on it to silence it. 

Minutes go by as the top hundred hits play on the radio before König reaches over and turns the volume down just the slightest bit. 

He glances in the rearview mirror before returning his eyes to the road. “Who was it?”

You shift in your seat, ever so slightly. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m trying to be polite.”

“Sure, ‘cause you know so much about politeness.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens again. You’re sure he could rip it straight off if he wanted to. Maybe he would. Hell, maybe he’d beat you to death with it just so he could take your job. He’s just like that when it comes to you. 

You lean forward and turn the volume back up. A new song starts – one with heavy beats that almost shake the car. The beat cuts out for a split second and a woman sing-shouts “Na-a-sty!”

Your eyes flicker to the radio interface. The song is Nasty Majesty by Off the Hook. A small smile settles across your face as you lean against the window. 

That’s what König is. A nasty majesty. 

#riptide writes 🌊 #feedback is appreciated as always :) #series: debts to pay #mw2 x reader #modern warfare 2 x reader #modern warfare ii x reader #modern warfare 2 x you #modern warfare ii x you #modern warfare 2 x y/n #modern warfare ii x y/n #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #mw2 x you #mw2 x y/n #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x y/n #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x y/n #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x y/n

[nevadancitizen]

“debts to pay: sight for sore eyes”

synopsis: Schaeffer is dead. you only want to celebrate, but multiple people come along to piss in your cereal – including one of the Vox Populi.

word count: 1.8k

characters: könig, sniper! reader

trigger warnings: n/a

notes: lol i was literally in mexico that’s why this chapter took so long soz 😭😭

chapters: one / two (you are here!)

The computer screen in front of you confirms your suspicions. A smile settles across your superior’s face as she claps your shoulder in a comforting way. 

The headline reads, The Vox Populi Falls Quiet Following Daisy Schaeffer’s Death. There’s also pictures of the revolutionary in black and white, her birth and death date below them. It would be a sad sight if you weren’t so relieved. 

Your superior pulls you into a tight side-hug. You bat at her shoulder, smiling. “Colonel Fitzroy!”

“Oh, does it not bring a smile to your face to see her dead?” Fitzroy asks, laughing. “The Vox Populi are scattered.”

You hum in agreement. “It’s a sight for sore eyes, ma’am.”

Fitzroy sighs, but it’s not in a relieved or happy way. She lets you go and steps behind her desk, pulling out a thick manila folder from a drawer. She meticulously pulls out papers from the folder and puts them on the desk. 

“Okay, the time for celebration will come, but for now, we need to work.” Fitzroy turns the papers on the desk so that they’re facing you. They’re all scans of handwritten notes – some even have the outlines of post-its. One of the papers on top details Fitzroy herself. 

Your eyebrows furrow. “What is this?”

“This is what we know the Vox Populi knows.” Fitzroy points to the papers. “They know most of our operators. I slipped up and now they know me.” 

She picks up a few papers and puts them on the top, pointing to the names. “They even know most of our spies. And they have suspicions on what connections they have – they’re trying to pick out the other spies.”

You look up and meet Fitzroy’s dark, brown eyes. They’re swirling with well-hidden, barely-there panic. She looks down at the papers before you can see more. 

“How do we have this information?” You ask. 

“We have a plant,” Fitzroy says. “Not everyone that’s in the Vox Populi wants to be there. There’s a man named Carlos – his wife joined and he was forced to go with her. But, lucky for us…” She holds up a small, black, blocky device with a small screen on it. 

You stare at it for a second. “Is… is that a glucose monitor?”

Fitzroy levels you with a blank stare. “Yes. I’ve recently been diagnosed with diabetes.”

“Are you –”

“No, I’m not serious!” Fitzroy presses a few buttons and presents the small device to you. “It’s a tracker, idiot. Carlos has a tracker sewed into the sole of his shoe. He lets us see where they’re gathering, where they’re hiding – everything that’s location-based, Carlos gives us with this tracker.” She puts the tracker down on the table. 

“Then what’s with the papers?” you ask. 

“That’s… also Carlos,” Fitzroy says. “A lot is riding on Carlos staying alive, you understand? He’s climbed the ranks so we can tear them down.”

You look up at Fitzroy. “Why are you telling me this?”

Fitzroy’s eyebrows furrow. She almost looks sad. “You… are an accomplished operator. And I know you joined us to make a difference. And that’s what you’ve done by killing Schaeffer – you have made a difference –”

“Colonel, answer me! Why are you telling me this?”

Fitzroy looks at you for a second. Her eyes crinkle as she grimaces slightly. A long moment passes before she speaks again. 

“I’m sending you to infiltrate the Vox Populi.”

“You what –”

“You are one of the only operatives they don’t know about. You are efficient, polite –”

You stand from your chair. “Colonel Fitzroy, with all due respect, I don’t think I’m fit for this position. I am a sniper, not a spy. And I didn’t even want to be a sniper.”

Fitzroy stands in response. “Don’t say that. I am the one who molded you into who you are today. You are an excellent operative. You will carry this mission out as I say, when I say, where I say. You will kill the Vox Populi.” 

You stare at her. You no longer see a Colonel – no longer see your Colonel. This is a woman of desperation. She will do everything in her power to suffocate this spark that’s becoming a wildfire, because she knows the fire will be hot and vengeful, and filled with blood and brimstone. 

“How?” you say softly. 

Fitzroy looks down at the papers and reorganizes them. “Do you see someone not on my desk? A person they don’t have notes on? That they don’t know of?”

You look down at the papers, skimming over the descriptions of operators and glancing over the pictures only a few of them have. You look back up at Fitzroy after a minute. “No.”

“König,” she says simply. “It’s König that’s missing.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What does he have to do with this?”

“They don’t have info on you. They don’t have info on König.” Fitzroy sighs. “They leave us no choice but to have you two work together.”

“Not happening.”

“It will happen,” Fitzroy says sternly. “It would be suicide if you went on your own.”

“It’ll be suicide if you send me with him!” You do your best not to roll your eyes. “I’m serious. We’ll probably do that thing where we pull the trigger at the same time and kill each other. How do you see this as a nonissue?”

“Because it won’t be, if you behave yourselves,” Fitzroy says. “Listen. This is the next-to-last choice we have.”

“What’s the last choice?” You ask. “Because I think I’d rather take that.”

Fitzroy stays silent for a moment. “We give up. Let the Vox Populi kill us. And that won’t happen. Do you understand your assignment?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Dismissed.”

You suppress the urge to slam the door off its hinges when you exit Fitzroy’s office. Instead, you shut the door softly, making sure it clicks back into place. You clench your hands into fists, then let go when the pressure becomes too much. 

As you walk, your eyes are glued to the floor and your thoughts in a loop. Why don’t you just kill König and have it over with? Or expose yourself to the Vox Populi, but in a way that looks like an accident so KorTac doesn’t fire you? Or maybe just shut yourself in your room and rot and let the Vox Populi take what they want?

Slowly, the tile floor turns into concrete and the cold air conditioning disappears. Your thoughts have brought you outside, away from base. 

You look around. The streets are only sort-of crowded, but they’ll surely start bustling in an hour or so as the nightlife of the city begins. The heat from the bodies around you only exaggerate the already warm air. You slip into the nearest bar to cool down (both figuratively and literally), if only for a minute. 

The bar is off to the side. Music and talking and the sound of shakers being shaken fills the air. It’s nice. Comfortable. 

You slide into a seat and manage to flag down a bartender. You order something simple, a quick drink that goes down easy. Your eyes flicker to the television in the corner. It’s showing a college football match that no one seems too excited about.

Someone sits next to you. You don’t turn to face them, but you can tell that they’re big, imposing, and warm. It’s not even that you’re sitting that close – they just exude heat like a furnace. 

They say your name. 

You turn just the slightest bit. Of course it’s him. 

“König.”

He’s wearing a black surgical mask and a hoodie with the hood pulled over his head. A few strands of dull orange, wavy hair peek out. Even in a bar (somewhere that most people will forget they even visited) he’s still doing his whole ‘I don’t want anyone to look at my stupid fucking face because I probably look like an elephant’s cunt’ routine. 

“Did you hear?” König asks. “About our assignment.”

“Yes,” you respond. “Why did you follow me?”

König scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I didn’t follow you. Fitzroy said you’d probably be at High Velocity.”

“Yeah, and I like it here because no one really talks to other people at sports bars unless they’re rooting for the same team,” you say and look over at the television. 

“Right, whatever,” he says. 

The bartender drops off your drink with a smile. You give a quick ‘thank you’ and payment before you take a sip. The drink is sweet and goes down smooth. 

“Did you get any more details other than who we’re working with?” You ask. “Did they tell you about Carlos?”

“Yes,” Konig says. “And his… role in this play.” 

He’s careful with his words, you can tell. Probably because you’re in public.

There’s silence for a while, except it’s not really silence. Around you, people are talking, laughing, having a good time. It feels like you’re in a bubble with König, with nothing but your drink as good company. You don’t even risk shattering the quiet. 

You glance around. There’s a sorority welcoming a new sister with a round of pink pussy shots. A couple of men drinking beers dressed too nice for the bar they’re in – they probably came straight from work. A guy trying to chat up two really bored-looking girls. 

Ah. There it is. You knew you could feel something. 

A pair of eyes are staring straight at you. They belong to a man hanging out with a group of people. They would be ordinary people, except for their shirts. Across the back, in bold branding, is an abstract design of a tsunami being fended off by people with large shields in a Roman turtle formation. On the bottom, it reads, ‘WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED BY THE WAVE’. It’s a quiet symbol and mantra that you recognize belongs to the Vox Populi. 

You turn back to your drink and knock it back like a shot. You breathe out slowly and lean closer to König. The heat he exudes and the hate your heart exudes make it near impossible. 

“There’s foxes about,” you whisper to him. 

“What?”

You roll your eyes. “Fox… Vox…”

“Oh.” König glances around. “Why… is that an issue?”

“One of their men is looking at me,” you seethe. “We need to get out.”

König stands up, acting nonchalant. “Then let’s go.”

You stand and turn towards him, but make sure the man can still see your lips move. “Yeah, I’d much rather watch the game at home. It’ll be too crowded in here in, like, an hour.”

You fall in step with König as you both walk out of the bar and into the night. For a second, it’s like you do more than tolerate him. The feeling is disgusting and goes away almost immediately.

#riptide writes 🌊 #series: debts to pay #mw2 x reader #modern warfare 2 x reader #modern warfare ii x reader #modern warfare 2 x you #modern warfare ii x you #mw2 x you #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #mw2 x y/n #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x y/n #könig x reader #könig x you #könig x y/n #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x y/n

[nevadancitizen]

self-aware cod au masterlist

key:

💘 -- gender neutral

⛅️ -- fluff

🥀 -- angst

⚠️ -- depictions of obsessive/toxic behaviors

könig

“(i’ve been) dreaming of you” (ft. player! reader) 💘 ⛅️ ⚠️

könig comes into your reality.

“seeing double” (ft. player! reader + horangi) 💘 ⛅️ ⚠️

könig thought he was the only one that could hear and see you for a while. that is, until horangi mentions someone singing.

horangi

“seeing double” (ft. player! reader + könig) 💘 ⛅️ ⚠️

könig thought he was the only one that could hear and see you for a while. that is, until horangi mentions someone singing.

simon "ghost" riley

to live another day (i know i never will) (ft. self-aware helldiver! reader) 💘⛅️⚠️

you've always known that you're a throwaway -- another friendly kill. but when you're brought to ghost's world, you discover that there's so much more to life than defending democracy.

(link back to my entire masterlist :3)

#riptide writes 🌊 #call of duty 🪖 #self-aware cod au 🎮 #personal #masterlist

[nevadancitizen]

“like the tiptop tournée”

synopsis: what would kim kitsuragi be like in the m:pn self-aware au?

word count: 2.7k

characters: kim kitsuragi, sanford, deimos, 2bdamned, hank, player! reader

trigger warnings: canon-typical violence, deimos being a menace

notes: i finally got a free day because everything’s frozen over and got to finish this 😭😭

Nevada really isn’t anything new to Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi. He doesn’t consider himself the finest of Precinct 57, but he’s pretty damn notorious for his detective abilities – and he’s been in strenuous situations like this before. 

But, honestly? In his many cases, he’s never met anyone like you. The only god he’s met is Evrart Claire: a man masquerading as the god of the dock worker union’s corruption. Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t revere you in the same way the others do – you carry somewhat supranatural power, you have an unnatural warmth about you, and others worship you – but Kim’s never been one to believe in gods, and he’s not about to start now. 

Sure, he felt your presence while in Revachol: some entity looking over his and Harry’s shoulders. Harry described you as “maybe some type of Dolores Dei,” but Kim knew you were more than a political figure somehow dubbed an Innocence.

(Kim looked down at the pinball machine. It was themed after the Dolorian Age – a time of early airships and beautiful, sad, pearl-laden women. He was glad it was broken. 

“How about we fire one of these bad boys up and play some ball?” Harry du Bois asked. He was the partner assigned to him by Kim and Harry’s competing precincts (the 41st and 57th, respectively).

“We can’t ‘fire them up,’ they’re broken,” Kim said. “Only that one machine in the main hall works. The Royalist Pinball.” his voice was ever-so-slightly laced with disgust at the name.

Harry laughed through his nose. “Sounds like you don’t enjoy pinball, Kim.”

Kim was almost too ready to reply. “No, I love it – I love pinball. Who doesn’t love pinball? Let’s move on.”

Their heads turned to the damp ceiling as they heard a quiet laugh. It wasn’t an actual laugh, mind you, not one they could really hear, but one they could feel resonate within themselves.

Kim and Harry looked at each other. They both decided, unspoken, that it was just the wind or the city or the rattling of this old brothel-hotel. But really, deep down, they both knew it was you.)

He’s always known everyone has the capability to murder, but the ease at which it’s committed here almost astounds him. He still keeps his cool, and (before you discover your powers) even defends you.

(It happens fast. You can do nothing but look down the barrel of the rifle. You can almost see the grooves on the inside. Its scope looks like a camera lens, focusing on you. It will take a picture of absolute destruction when the trigger is pulled. 

You hear Kim quickly whisper “God, please.” 

A shot rings out. It takes a moment to realize you’re not dead. Smoke rises from the barrel of his Kiejl A9 Armistice. Kim stands from his semi-crouched position. Your hands shake. His do not.)

It’s a shock when you find the grunts. Deimos and Sanford found you in a – what they thought was – an abandoned warehouse. They were clearing it out, trying to hide. You were too.

(You grip the handle of the broom closet door and try to keep your breath steady. Kim has his gun pointed at the door. You both know that if it opens, you’ll have nowhere to run.

“We know you’re here, bozo!” a voice rings out. They talk lowly to another person. You’re so pumped full of adrenaline you can’t recognize who it belongs to. 

Kim pulls the hammer of his gun back slowly, and it lets out a soft click. The conversation stops.

You’re good as dead.

An axe head crashes through the wooden door. You crumple into the corner. Kim backs into the wall. A hand reaches through and unlocks the door. Kim exhales sharply and shoots it. 

The owner of the arm screams. The next bullet clicks into place. Another arm, belonging to someone else, shoots through and flicks the door handle down. The door opens.

“Stop!” Kim shouts. He grips the gun harder. “I am an officer of the RCM, and have been permitted to use deadly force.”

They laugh and step closer to him. 

You look up to see two grey men. Through the shadows, you can see the one closer to you is wearing a durag and sunglasses. He has a natural pout that’s turned into a twisted smile.

“Sanford?”)

To say they’re overjoyed to see you would be an understatement. They could almost feel you in Nevada, and the wanted posters plastered with your face didn’t help with your poor attempt at stealth. But they were wary of the man you had brought with you, and made it very apparent.

(You barely managed to calm your nerves when you were sitting in the back of a pickup truck. Sanford immediately started the engine and drove. 

Deimos’ breathing was labored, and he clenched his bicep where he had been shot. And yet, he still talked. Some things never change.

“So.” You could hear him gritting his teeth. “Who’s the crackshot?”

“Kim Kitsuragi, Lieutenant of Precinct 57 of the RCM.” Kim answered for you. “And I apologize for shooting you. But I will not hesitate to do it again, if you present yourself as a danger.”

Deimos barked a laugh that was cut off by coughing. “Yeah, right.”

Kim opts to look out the window at the desolate landscape. The wind rolls in through a prominent crack, causing his orange aerostatic pilot jacket to ripple like water. 

Tension clouds the air like humidity.

“The, um,” you stutter. Deimos looks back at you. “RCM stands for the Revachol Citizen’s Militia. Kim knows how to shoot a gun, but he still knows how to holster it: he’s useful both as an officer and as a man. He is useful to us.”

Deimos turns forward. Sanford glances at you through the rearview mirror. If you say so…)

When you get back to base, it’s much of the same. Hank greets him as he does anyone else – with violence. Doc is more formal, of course. 

(“Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” Doc tries the name out on his tongue. It tastes like an old motorpool and authority – an authority he’ll barely respect, surely. “Just call me Doc, or 2B, if you like.”

“So you are the medic?” Kim asks. “What are your qualifications? If you don’t mind my asking.”

You shoot him a glance. There’s no strong-arming someone in Nevada unless you’re waterboarding them. This place doesn’t recognize your authority. Kim, we’re foreigners here – please, don’t do anything too rash.

Doc is curt. “I’m qualified enough.” 

“Yes, of course,” Kim says. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Now, if you’ll excuse us…” 

Kim starts to reach a hand towards your shoulder, but a hand shoots forward and grabs it. You look up. 

It’s Hank… the one man you were dreading introducing to Kim. You’re excited to see him nonetheless, but…

“Hank!” you exclaimed. His red goggles shined in the low light, glaring at Kim. He still held his wrist in a crushing grip. You eased his hand away, so he opted to hold yours instead. 

Kim glanced down at your hands. You could tell he was itching to ask many questions – probably about how you were able to ease the wrath of a psycho.)

Kim tries not to discuss the grunts to their faces. He does his best to keep up his professional persona, as draining as it may be. 

(It should’ve been night by now, but there was no sun in Nevada. You could only tell because of the moon rising in the sky and your biological day/night cycle. 

You sat on the steps leading up to the base. There were footsteps behind you. 

“I thought I told you, I’m gonna be okay. I’m just a few steps outside –”

“You did not tell me anything.”

Kim sits down on the steps beside you, but keeps a healthy distance. He has a feeling someone would know if he was too close, and promptly eviscerate him. 

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. It’s just that… this day…” you sigh.

Kim looks out at the horizon. “Yes, I understand. If I have too many more days like this, I may die prematurely. If I do not die in the line of fire first.”

He reaches into his jacket to pull out a single cigarette and a lighter. You smelt chestnuts when he lit it. He takes a deep pull and lets it settle in his lungs before breathing it out.

You watch the smoke dissipate. “So, what do you think? You like organizing your thoughts on paper. You written anything interesting?”

He brings out his blue Mnemotechnique notebook. Two fat, shiny pens hang from the binder like large caliber bullets hanging from an ammo belt. He flips through it, stopping on a page of importance. 

“Hm. Well, your men are very protective of you. I suppose that connection can only come with being one of your – how do you describe it? – ah, vessels. I understand the basics, but I don’t understand why it would inspire the need to revere you as they do.”

“It sounds freaky, but I can control them. I controlled Lieutenant du Bois. I protect them, and I guess that would deserve worship. Not that I want it, or anything.”

Kim scribbles something down in his journal. 

“So you were with us throughout everything?”

“Yeah. I remember most everything, too… especially standoff-style eyebrow raising matches.”

There was barely a crack of a smile on his face. That was the most you could ask for. 

“Still – those men are guard dogs. Be sure to keep them on a short leash, lest they do anything… unsavory.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Yessir, Lieutenant.”)

The grunts honestly don’t understand why you regard Kim as you do: why do you feel the need to have a man that’s practically an intruder in the base when you have them?

(“Yes, Lieutenant du Bois is… an interesting man,” you laugh. “But he’s Harry, and what more can you ask for?”

“A man with his memory intact would be a nice start,” Kim jokes, deadpan. You laugh harder and agree. 

Deimos cuts into the conversation. “So, what about you, Kim? What’s your background?”

He chose Kim’s first name on purpose, you think, so Kim knows he doesn’t respect his lieutenancy. But he has no interest in Kim’s personal life. Why does he ask?

“Well… I’m half-Seolite. Or – quarter. My father’s father was from Seol – so was my grandmother, but from my mother’s side…” he shakes his head. “But I’m still just a regular, garden-variety Revacholiere. I’m not an interesting topic.”

“Your police work,” Sanford says. “He’s asking about your police work.”

“Ah.” Kim thinks for a second. He’s choosing which cards he wants to reveal out of his entire hand. “Well, I was a juvenile officer for around fifteen years. I had a long-haul job, was successful, and moved into the homicide wing.”

Deimos is desperately trying to play nice. “And what was… this long-haul job?”

Kim spares a barely-detectable glance at you. “I’m not telling you that.”

Deimos sighs out a “Right…”)

They’re frustrated at Kim’s investigative nature, and at your willingness to appease it. They ask themselves constantly, what are his ulterior motives?, even though he has none. He never leaves you alone, and they interpret that as more of a “I’m in love with you,” type of way and less of a “You’re the only human I know, and I’m concerned for your safety. I want us both to get home – you to yours, and me to Revachol – but I’m scared we won’t be able to, though I would never admit it. Let’s stick together for now” type of way.

(“Doctor.” Kim greets Doc as he enters the room. 

“Lieutenant.” Doc’s eyes skip over him and fix on you. “Hey, do you have time to come into my office? I want to do a check-up – maybe learn more about the differences between our species.”

“Oh, okay.” you stand up from where you were sitting. “Maybe Lieutenant Kitsuragi can come with? So you can do a cross-examination.”

Doc is quick. “No.”

“It would be wise to do as they say,” Kim says. “You are a man of science, no? Science needs information. If you had twice the subjects, you would have twice the information.” 

Doc screws up his eyes behind his goggles. “Yes, I suppose you can come by later.”

“I’ve been meaning to have a look at your office and supplies. I would like to know what we have at hand.” Kim stands. “I can take a look while you do your examination.”

“I’d rather you not ferret through dangerous weapons and chemicals without direct supervision. I can bring you an organized list later.”

“C’mon, Doc.” you walk forward and turn him towards the door, letting your hand linger on his shoulder. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi knows what he’s doing – how else would he be so high in the RCM? He won’t make some bioweapon while you do a check-up. And he knows drugs: from a purely knowledge-based standpoint, of course.” you look over your shoulder. “What was that one, the – the d-something?”

Kim’s looking at where you touched Doc. His mind is racing with possibilities, taking too many mental notes to remember. “Diamorphine.”

“Yeah, diamorphine,” you look forward and start leading Doc outside. “See? He’s of stable mind, stable health, stable spirit. He even remembered what diamorphine was even though it was taken off the streets years ago!” you pull him closer. “He’s not that bad of a guy. A cop, sure, but he’s more of a detective anyway.”

Doc’s eyes flicker around the room. He’s flustered, yet you can barely tell. “I… alright. But I’ll be keeping my eyes on you. I don’t want you making some type of incurable disease.”)

God, and they get real fucking angry when you defend him. Why do you feel the need to do so? He’s obviously a non-player human, and he’s weak compared to grunts. 

(“Jeez, these are like magnifying glasses.” you say, peering into the lens of Kim’s glasses. “I’m glad you have them, otherwise we would’ve been dead meat when that guy decided to get smart with us.”

You’re just about to hand them back to him when Deimos swipes them from you. He brings them up to his face and laughs.

“God, you’re right!” he exclaims. “What are you, Kim, blind?”

Kim snatches them back and puts them back on. “No. I’m significantly farsighted.”

“Yeah, Deimos,” you say. “They’re just glasses.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know?” Deimos says. “Basically no one wears them here.”

“So you have amazing technology, but no one wears glasses?” Kim asks. 

You can foresee the argument blooming between them. “Almost everyone’s a clone here, Lieutenant. They have identical eyesight, along with identical… well, everything else. Except for personality, tastes, experiences, and the like.”

Kim hummed and wrote something down in his notebook. What you wouldn’t give to be able to take a look inside…  and be able to read his handwriting, of course. 

Deimos notices you staring at Kim. What he wouldn’t give to be able to slaughter him, right then and there… and be able to still build a relationship with you, of course.)

All in all, Kim’s a good companion: understanding, empathetic, and knows damn well how to shoot a gun. But here, he’s a target. He’s used to being one, and has been shot at plenty of times, but sleeping in the same base as four murderers, knowing one of them could knife him quietly in his sleep and blame it on raiders… he’d rather be home. Who wouldn’t?

He contemplates slipping away at night, sneaking out of a window or something like that. But he knows each person has their part to play in the world. His part was to solve crimes, now to stay by your side. He’s under no illusion that his role isn’t a minor one, in the grand scheme of things, but he embraces it because it’s his role. It’s the grunts’ too, whether they accept it or not. This story isn’t about them. It’s about you.

#riptide writes 🌊 #madness combat 🆘 #i said i would finish this in a week. i lied #madness combat #madness combat x reader #madcom #madcom x reader #deimos x reader #sanford x reader #2bdamned x reader #hank j. wimbleton x reader #self aware madness: project nexus au #yandere tw #yandere hank j. wimbleton #yandere deimos #yandere sanford #yandere 2bdamned #kim kitsuragi #disco elysium

[nevadancitizen]

“apologies”

synopsis: after dying for the nth time, you finally get some alone time with mark to apologize for everything you’ve done. 

word count: 1.6k 

characters: head engineer! mark, captain! reader, doc mitchell from “fallout: new vegas” MWAOICNOV

trigger warnings: guns, infinite time loop, mark and reader being shot and dying but then being not dead

notes: i literally wrote this in two days while high as fuck and still am god bless markipler

The first thing you felt was Mark’s body underneath you, his chest slowly rising and falling. Your close proximity would’ve been very comfortable if not for the second thing you felt: unimaginable pain shooting from the side of your head down into your spine. It was as if lightning had taken up residence in your brain, but was still looking for suitable locations in the rest of your body. 

There were men arguing. Shouldn’t you be able to hear them? Their words were more like boiling water under a pot lid, the muttering of something you can’t quite hear. 

Mark shifted underneath you. You felt the pain start to subside. Don’t misunderstand, the pain was still very real and still very much torturous: it was just that you had started to get used to the feeling of an electric drill being taken to your brain. 

“Captain? Captain, what’s happening?” Mark said. He started to struggle, kicking his feet against the ground in an attempt to sit up. He only stopped when you started cursing at him. 

“Hey, cut the gas!” a voice cut through the fog of pain. “I don’t wanna listen to you whine.”

“Really?” another voice said. “You gonna talk ‘em to death before you shoot ‘em?”

You managed to turn your head just far enough to see who was talking. There were three men, one dressed in a checkered suit, the two others dressed in dirty leather clothes and bandannas. They were talking amongst themselves, but still kept an eye on you and Mark. 

Slowly, you rested your head back on Mark’s body while still facing the men. “Mark, do you know them?”

“No,” Mark said. “I… I don’t.”

“I said to quit talking,” the man in the checkered suit said. 

The man on his left turned to him and fidgeted with his fingernails. “Would you just get it over with?”

Checkered-suit didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. “Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain’t a fink, dig?”

You looked at him in disbelief. What was this man even trying to say? Were the other two men Khans? What the hell were Khans, anyway? 

Your attention was brought back to checkered-suit when he pulled a shiny poker chip out of his inside breast pocket. Something about that chip was familiar. You felt Mark’s breath hitch underneath you. He must’ve recognized it, too. 

Checkered-suit looked at the chip, turning and looking at it from different angles in his hand. “You’ve made your last delivery, kids. Sorry you both got twisted up in this scene.”

The two other men were almost balking at him, waiting impatiently for something to happen. Checkered-suit put the chip back and pulled out a gun. 

You knew what they were waiting for. 

“From where you’re layin’, it must seem like an eighteen-carat run of bad luck.”

The man on the left looked away. You weakly grasped at Mark’s coveralls. Mark grabbed your wrist back. Checkered-suit readied his aim. 

“The truth is… the game was rigged from the start.” 

You could barely register the shots that rang out before you crashed into the unknown black. 

Waking up, still drunk from dying, wasn’t the best experience. The ceiling swam and your head throbbed even worse than before. The lightning had moved in and created a beautiful little family for itself. 

A hand grasped your own. You hummed at the touch before shooting up, tearing your hand away. 

You were laid in a tiny bed next to Mark. He was between awake and asleep, groaning and screwing up his eyes at the light. His hand was, apparently, searching for yours. It stopped searching after a few seconds. A dirty and bloodied bandage was wrapped around his head. You reached up and touched your own bandage, skimming your fingers over the gauze. 

Had the man really shot you? Had he dared to shoot Mark?

There were footsteps behind you. You turned to see an older man, his hands up, approaching the bed. 

“You’re awake,” the man said. “How about that.”

You looked at him and tried to talk. Your tongue was concrete in your mouth and your teeth were hot, molded-together plastic. 

Your eyes darted around the room frantically. You started to get up, but the man rushed over and pushed you back down. 

“Woah, easy there, easy,” he said. “You both been out cold a couple days now. Why don’t you relax a second, get your bearings? Maybe your friend will wake up too.”

You tried humming words and mouthing them for a second. Eventually, you managed to rasp out a “yeah.” 

Mark would’ve looked peaceful while he slept if not for the excessive bruising and bandaging. How did he survive a bullet to the head? Hell, how did you?

“I’m Doc Mitchell,” the man said. “We’re in a town called Goodsprings. Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I had to go rootin’ around in your noggin to get all the bits of lead out. Some animal banged on my window and I nearly lobotomized the other one.”

Doc Mitchell laughed until it seemed like he realized that he actually could’ve lobotomized Mark. It wasn’t funny anymore. 

Still, it didn’t really shock you to hear that you had died. Again. You hummed, tracing Mark’s jaw. He sighed at the touch, leaning into it ever so slightly. You really hoped he would wake up: sure, you had seen him die many times now, but it never gets any easier. Both of you were lucid and awake for every death, fully aware of every second of suffering. It might be labeled selfish, but you didn’t want Mark to die. You didn’t want to die.

“Anyway. I take pride in my needlework, but you better tell me if I left anything outta place,” Doc Mitchell said. There was an unsaid suggestion that said he might’ve stabbed you insane. 

You tapped the palm of your hand with the side of the other in a sign telling him to stop. Mark hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, just writhed so weakly on the bed. Why was this man so eager to get you up and running? So he could say that his operation to bring people back from the dead had a fifty-fifty chance of success? 

“Leave,” you rasped out. “We need… privacy.”

Doc Mitchell looked to the side and sighed. “Well… I guess I could leave you alone for a few minutes. I just need to check in to make sure that you don’t die.”

You nodded and watched him leave the room, which actually wasn’t really a room because the whole house was connected. But still, you appreciated he didn’t mention that. 

Mark huffed in his somewhat-awake-sleep. It seemed like he was trying to wake up, like the jerky movements from his fingers were an attempt to say I’m alive, Captain, don’t mourn me just yet. You laid a hand on his chest and felt him breathe, then took him by his coveralls and shook him as hard as you could. A few pieces might come loose, but that would just make him the same way he was before. 

“Mark, you idiot.” you strained your throat to say. “We die together or we don’t die at all. Wake up!”

Mark’s eyes flew open, then focused on you. He grabbed at your arms, patting them to make sure you were actually there. He tried to talk, but all that came out was strained gibberish. 

“We got shot,” you said over his blubbering.

Mark stopped. He took his arms away from yours, and just sat, looking around at the room. Something was going on in that head of his – besides the slow healing of his brain, of course. 

“We… got shot,” he repeated. His voice was as equally dry and raspy as yours. It almost hurt to hear. “And we’re still here?”

You nodded. “I think we should stay. For a while.”

Mark looked exhausted. He was still bloody and bruised from everything that supposedly happened in the past few days. He closed his eyes and leaned into you. 

Tears started to brim at your eyes. You wrapped your arms around him and let your weight rest against him. Had this reality only come to fruition so you could realize what a shit job you’re doing at protecting your crew? Mark didn’t need to get shot for that. 

“Captain,” Mark whispered, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Don’t,” you said. A tear slipped down your face and spattered on Mark’s coveralls. “Why are you trying to apologize? I’m sorry. Sorry for… for everything.”

The reasons you wanted to apologize wiggled and squirmed like a tapeworm on a hot skillet in your head. Their mouths were taped, practically glued shut, and yet they were still biting at their rusty-tasting lips, so that maybe they could say something through a little hole. But the tape was wide, and the glue had a grip of iron. Their mouths had grown shut. 

You could apologize for everything in the world, and it still would not be enough. What had happened to you? Why can’t you just apologize?

“I want to go home,” you said instead. “Back on the ship. That’s home.”

Mark sucked in a breath and shuddered as he sobbed. His breath was hot against your neck, tears soaking into your coveralls. “We’re… we’re going home soon. Trust me, Captain.”

“Thank you, Mark.” you squeezed him tighter. “Truly, thank you.”

#riptide writes 🌊 #my friends are getting tired of me talking about markiplier so tumblr is subjected to this torture instead #but i really do just want a hug from tha big man.. #ALSO FUCK MACK!!!!!! MARK SUPREMACY #markiplier #in space with markiplier #iswm #iswm x reader #in space with markiplier x reader #markiplier x reader #engineer mark #engineer mark x reader #space mark #space mark x reader

[incoure-art]

Gillion gets hurt a lot, and badly. He gets hurt so much that Jay and Chip can see the spatter of scars pressed into his ever-damp skin every time his armor shifted from his biceps.

There are a couple moments, vulnerable moments between big events, where Gillion takes his armor off slowly, piece by piece, and they see the picture fully. Chip could remember touching that patchwork mess of scars once, just barely, below the spot his gills meet the fins across his back, enough to feel the smooth skin turned rough with imperfectly healed wounds.

Gillion had flinched away from the touch, but then settled into it with a breathy apology. Chip hadn’t known why he was the one being apologized to.

Gillion always felt the need to make himself the one who shouldered the world; the blame, the cold steel of a sword aimed against the whole trio, anything and everything he could keep from his co-captains and take into his own torn and mended flesh.

Jay remembered long nights, sitting beside Gillion’s barrel, begging the water not to color with blood from rebroken wounds. She wasn’t sure he even knew, she was quiet enough that she never even noticed him stir from his sleep when she was watching.

She’d told him that he should spend the night after big injuries in a bed, just so they could keep a better eye on him. In case something went wrong, went unsaid. He’d shrugged her off, saying something about the healing properties of sea water, and that was that.

They could both name dozens of accounts of seeing him crumble under blows so heavy they could kill anyone else outright. They knew the color of his blood better than their own, that royal purple tone, somewhere in between their own and the ocean. They knew the aching fear of loss, the twist of panic whenever Gillion’s breath skipped a second after an injury. They knew Gillion Tidestrider, and all the pain he had endured to protect the rest of the world.

Somewhere between red, and blue. Somewhere between land, and sea.

#incs writing corner #tw blood #just roll with it #just roll with it riptide #jrwi #jrwi riptide #chip jrwi #gillion tidestrider #jay ferin #jay jrwi #gillion jrwi #albatrio #riptide captains #im full of angsty thoughts #jrwi🎲 #riptide🌊