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#soldiers had to carry him off the field
ellemj · 2 months
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It Was Sunday
Bucky Barnes x Female Reader: 18+, light smut
Song: never be like you (sped up) by Flume
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Warnings: profanity, brief mentions of unprotected sex, brief mention of oral (female receiving), casual sex, slight brief somnophilia, kinda fluff (I know, who do I think I am), MINORS DNI, 18+!!!
Word Count: 855
A/N: I don't really know what this is but it was on my mind today. Super different from my usual shit. Do me a favor and don't read it without listening to this song at the same time: never be like you (sped up version) by Flume. I feel like it would fall very flat without music behind it.
            It was Monday when you wore that little black dress with the slit up your right thigh. That was the day you took down three men with ease while looking like a fucking goddess. It wasn’t just Bucky staring, it was every man on the surveillance team, every man in the club, both the guilty and the innocent bystanders. They weren’t transfixed on the violence unfolding in the center of the room, no. They were transfixed on the fatal, yet beautiful creation that was you.
            It was Monday night that Bucky told you how reckless you were, how close you came to taking on more than you could handle. Then, he gave you something he knew you could handle, right up against your bedroom door.
            It was Tuesday when he found you sparring with a trainer, flirting between lightly thrown punches and half-assed kicks. He focused on counting his reps with the weights rather than counting the number of times he imagined throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you upstairs to remind you who you belong to.
            It was Tuesday night when he counted the number of breathless moans and whimpers that fell from your lips every time he thrusted into you.
            It was Wednesday when you ran headfirst into danger to save someone out in the field. That was the day Bucky thought he’d lost you, and the all-consuming fear he felt seeing you disappear into that burning building made him wonder if he’d somehow fallen for you.
            It was Wednesday night when he stopped by your room to make sure you were okay and then, he scolded you for risking your life like you did. That night, he fucked you so thoroughly that you swore you could still feel him the next morning.
            It was Thursday when Bucky told himself he needed to distance from you, just in case he was really catching feelings. He didn’t see you the entire day and it left an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was eating him alive as he sped down the interstate on his bike, trying to replace the high he gets from you with the high of an adrenaline rush.
            It was Thursday night when you knocked on his door for a change. He’d avoided you all day and you’d had enough, so you pushed your way into his room as soon as he opened the door. You didn’t question him, maybe because deep down you knew why he was avoiding you. Instead, you kissed him with so much fiery passion that you wouldn’t have been surprised to see his bedsheets go up in flames around the two of you. You put your all into riding his cock that night.
            It was Friday when Bucky went out on a solo mission, meant to be playing the part of the famed Winter Soldier. It was late that evening that he returned to the compound with more cuts and bruises than you’d ever seen on him.
            It was Friday night that you forced him to sit on the side of your bed while you cleaned him up, carefully dabbing saline-soaked gauze over each wound with the gentlest of touches. Bucky took your orders in silence, pulling his shirt off when you demanded him to, tilting his chin up so you could get a look at the abrasions on his neck. He did whatever you said because it had been so long since he’d had someone care for him like that. That night, he laid in your bed as you pressed your lips to every already-healing bruise littered across his skin.
            It was Saturday morning when you found yourself tangled up in the arms of the man you’d been casually sleeping with. That was the first day you felt butterflies dancing around in your stomach at the sensation of his warm body pressed so tightly against yours beneath the sheets.
            It was Saturday night when you tried to tell yourself that you could go one night without him. You made plans with friends, stayed out late, and had just enough alcohol to get him out of your mind for a while. When you sauntered up to your bedroom a little past tipsy, your inebriated mind decided to knock on his door instead of unlocking your own. Bucky gave you an amused smirk as he pulled you into his room and helped you change into one of his t-shirts. You slept in his bed that night, wrapped up in his arms, in his sheets, wearing his shirt.
            It was Sunday when you woke up on your back, with a skilled and familiar tongue working against your clit. As your fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair and your back arched off of his bed, he imagined how different it might feel if one of your fingers had a ring on it.
            It was Sunday when you both realized you’d fallen. You’d fallen far beyond the reach of any rescue, of any chance at getting back to where you started. Somewhere between Monday and Sunday, you fell in love with Bucky Barnes, and he with you.
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lilywastaken · 1 year
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⇝ refuge .
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!AFAB!Reader.
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PART FOUR OF MÉNAGE.
SUMMARY: After a mission goes wrong, the 141 seek shelter in Ghost's so-called "safe house".
WARNINGS: Canon typical violence, blood, wounds, stitching of wounds, mentions of abuse, first fluff in a while.
A/N: My fingers hurt I'm actually going to pass out now goodbye <3 (PLEASE DON'T FORGET TO COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED IT HELPS A LOT!!!)
WORD COUNT: 11.2k.
MASTERLIST.
If you want to be tagged in future works, please follow and activate notifications on this account - @lilynottaken !
Also on Ao3!
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Ghost’s hands were covered in blood. 
Although this was nothing out of the ordinary for a trained soldier like him, as he’d washed away many gallons of blood off of him in the time where he’d been on the field, this was different. 
It wasn’t the enemy’s blood that covered him, no. It wasn’t even his soldiers’ blood. 
It was civilian's. People that had been going about their day. Casualties in the mess that had erupted with a single missed bullet. 
It was his fault. 
If he hadn’t let himself grow distracted with the banter that erupted from his ear piece, if he had paid more attention to the target Laswell had given him, he would’ve been able to game end them right there and then like he had many before, instead, the bullet lodged right in his chest above the heart, enough time to stun the man but not enough to stop his other hand from clicking the detonator. 
The chaos that had followed was indescribable. He could still feel his ears ringing from the explosion that had occurred, the screams of the people he could have saved, the panicked shouts and roars from Price as he ordered them about. 
Ghost followed the order mindlessly, his body on some type of autopilot that had been turned on after the shock, taking out the other targets that had been lingering around until the bomb had gone off, his emotion-fueled mind taking out it’s anger on them by tearing them apart in the most gruesome ways possible. 
But he knew that covering himself in as much enemy blood as he could wouldn’t wash away the innocent’s. 
It wouldn’t wipe away the countless deaths he’d caused. 
But as he watched his final victim bleed out on the ground, ignoring their screams of pain and the insults that were being hurled at, Soap’s voice came through his earpiece. 
“Bastard’s gone. Cannae find him anywhere.”
Ghost’s blood boiled, combat boot slamming down onto the man’s head to finally shut him up, a last act of mercy and a way to express the anger rushing through his veins.
Even after they’d retreated back to the base they’d made theirs in the outskirts of Berlin during their mission there, Ghost couldn’t shake his disgusting feelings off his shoulders.
He’d never been the one to cause such a massacre like this. It was always some rookie or other, never a seasoned Lieutenant like him. 
Soap and Gaz’s conversation was just static to his ears, his mind spiralling as he thought about all the people around the city who had lost a family member today because of him. 
It wasn’t the first time in a mission where there’d been casualties. But never as many as this. And never had it affected him like this. 
The empathy he’d lacked almost all his life had suddenly made itself known in his mind, the little voice gnawing at the back of his head as it fed him scenarios linked to the mission they’d just failed, impossible if he were to think about them clearly, but right then, he couldn’t stop his heart from beating as fast as it could against his ribcage as he thought about the possibility of you or Tommy being involved in something like that, of having to carry the guilt that would no doubt haunt him all his life if that were to happen. 
He fucking hated it. 
He’d been deep in thought when they finally arrived at the base, the humvie’s doors opening as the other three stepped out, Price the only to take note of Ghost’s dishevelled state. 
“Lieutenant.”
“Ghost.”
“Simon!” Along with the bellow of his real name, the captain’s hand came down to slam onto one of the leather seats, finally pulling Ghost out of his stupor. “We’re here.”
“Copy.” He grunted, pushing himself out of the car and following his captain and the other two back to base mindlessly, almost like a zombie. 
It didn’t get better from there. Even as Laswell reassured him that it hadn’t been anyone's fault, that they hadn’t planned on the man wearing a gun vest, that even if he had succeeded in shooting him down, he wouldn’t be the only one with a detonator as found in one of the man’s lackey’s front pocket, that the explosion would have happened either way… He couldn’t help but still feel horrible. 
“Any idea where he is, then?” Price asked, looking through some of the files they’d been given on their runaway. 
“Probably went back home.” Gaz suggested, pointing out the address for a flat he had somewhere in the outskirts of Manchester.
“Called the airport, they told us a man with similar build and looks boarded a plane for Liverpool over two hours ago. He’s probably already out of the airport.”
Soap clicked his tongue, looking down at the address Gaz had mentioned before. “That’s his maw’s flat. Reckon he’d put ‘er in danger?”
“Doubt he’d care. He was happy to kill countless people for his cause, including his men and himself, what’s one more?” Ghost grunted, throwing the file down and leaning back in his chair, sharp gaze focused on the digital map Laswell had brought up, looking at the location of the terrorist’s house. 
“It’s not near any major buildings and isn’t close enough to the city to cause a commotion.” Laswell noted as she looked over the hills and lakes that surrounded the small house. “Good hiding place.”
“And if he’s not there?” Gaz asked, handing all the files back to Laswell, who gave him a solemn look. 
“We keep trying. Go get ready, I’ll call for a heli to take you all back to England. Try and get him, preferably alive, but be wary of any more guards or lackeys he might have brought with him. You’re all dismissed.”
Everyone was armed to their teeth by the time they’d made it back to English territory, night vision goggles pulled above their head as they had realised the trip took a bit longer than expected due to the cargo they had been asked to bring back to England in the process, the sky darkening even further with every second they spent on the helicopter. 
“Ghost, how copy?” Price shouted over the sound, elbowing Ghost in the side when he didn’t seem to hear him.
“What?!” Ghost shouted back, forcing out the pressure that clogged up his ears in order to hear properly. 
“How are you?! Never seen you this melancholic!” 
Ghost huffed out a laugh, tightening the straps of the seatbelts around his chest, as if they were the one putting pressure on his lungs. 
“Fine, captain!” He snapped, turning to look out of the small window row behind them. “Just ready to kill this fucking bugger!”
“Copy that!” Price slammed one of his burly hands onto Ghost’s shoulder, an act of encouragement the captain found himself giving to each of his members every time they went on a mission. 
After that, the helicopter went quiet, focusing on the mission ahead of them. 
Which in foresight, was expected to be relatively easy, a copy of many before them where they’d all come out victorious. 
But this one differed. 
The target wasn’t even that dangerous in itself, he was just some bloke who had had the brilliant idea to make an organisation that had somehow ended up planting bombs in almost every major city under the government and army’s radar. It hadn’t been up to now where they had finally learned who was behind it and where their next target was, but even then, they’d failed in protecting the civilians. 
Something they had spent almost a year investigating, fighting, taking down so many factions across the world to get to the top of the pyramid, the man behind it all. 
And fuck, if Ghost wasn’t going to make all the time he’d spent stressed and infuriated out of his mind on a wild goose chase for this fucking guy worth it. If he’d never fucking existed, the task force wouldn’t have gone through all that just to lose him, he wouldn’t have ruined the relationship he’d began with you, he would’ve had a proper go at being Tommy’s dad from the get-go. 
But a group of people that had afforded to build and plant so many bombs across so many countries, were to have enough money to hire bodyguards en par with the skill the 141 had. 
And that’s just what they had. 
Just like them, they were well-equipped with as many guns and weapons that the group’s money could buy, and while normally most men like these were just random guys picked off the street who had had guns shoved into their hands, these weren’t. They were trained, skilled enough to almost knock Soap’s gun out of his hands, and although that wasn’t what had happened, it had given them enough time for one of their bullets to graze his leg, not enough to fully bury itself into the flesh but enough to make him bleed and buckle to the ground. 
Ghost grabbed Soap by the scruff of his jacket, quickly disposing of the man that had shot him and pulling him up, letting the scot lean on him for balance. 
“Captain, Soap’s been hit!” Ghost roared into his radio, letting Soap lean on the wall while he grabbed some bandages they were always advised to bring and helped Soap in stopping the bleeding that the graze had caused. “Can you walk, Johnny?”
“Feckin’ adrenaline’s runnin’ through me, LT., could carry a horse if ye told me to.”
“Atta boy.” He handed him his gun so he could defend himself while they got out of the top floor. “Sir, the first floor’s clear. Taking the sergeant back to the car.”
“Roger. Be careful, fucker’s nowhere to be found down h- Fuck, Gaz!”
The sound of a gun going off and the roar from their captain made both men freeze in place, the dying grunts of someone coming through the radio before Gaz finally spoke, voice wheezy and hurt. 
“‘M fine, just- Fuck, that cunt stabbed me!” 
They made their way to the bottom of the stairs, where unfortunately, one of the men was waiting for them, stabbing their tactile knife right into Ghost’s shoulder thanks to the fact that he’d switched off his night vision goggles moments before, and wouldn't have seen them in the dark.
“Fuck, where do they keep comin’ from!?”
“Captain!”
“I see ya! Ghost, Soap, meet us outside, there’s not enough of us to take these fuckers out!” Price commanded, all of them responding with a “Roger!” before barreling their way out of the house, shooting a few more men in the process until they both shoved themselves into the car, Ghost immediately grabbing at the keys and pushing them in, getting everything ready while they waited for the other two, that quickly retreated into the back and slammed the doors shut, the captain slamming his fist into the back of GHost’s seat and ordering him to drive.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Gaz cried out as he held onto his wound, planting his feet on the floor as he realised who was driving, both him and soap squeezing their eyes shut as the blond slammed onto the accelerator, bringing the car out of the rocky driveway of the house and back out into one of the main roads. 
As the adrenaline started to fade from all of them, Price lazily raised a hand to grab at Soap’s shoulder, looking down at the bullet wound. “Still in one piece?”
“Yeah… Don’ think Lt. can say the same.” He pointed over to the stab wound in Ghost’s shoulder, that luckily had been right over his tactical gear, so it hadn’t caused as much damage as the perpetrator clearly intended. 
“‘M fine, Johnny. Worry about yourself.” He grunted, trying to ignore the pain that came with taking a turn with the steering wheel, every single time he moved his arm striking pain into the wound, the adrenaline from before having done a good job at keeping him from realising the amount of pain he had been currently in. 
“What about you, Gaz?” Soap called out, turning his head to look at the other as Price got his radio out, planning on informing Laswell on the second failure of the day. 
“Not dead.” He joked, tightening the bandage around the cut on his arm. “Gonna need stitches or something.”
Everyone went silent as Laswel’s voice came through the radio, broken and incomplete, but they could slightly understand what she was saying. 
Of course, the terrorists had also managed to hack into their servers while the task force was on their way and had made preparations for when they had inevitably barged into their house to arrest the man. 
The base back in London was almost a four hour drive away, and they doubted that their wounds would be in perfect condition after that long of a time, they needed to be disinfected and treated as soon as possible. 
“Any safe houses ‘round here that we might have access to?” Price called out, listening to what he assumed was Laswell looking through files.
“None that they don’t have access to.”
“Hospital?”
“Too far.”
All of them collectively sweared, Ghost’s grip tightening around the wheel as he took a right into one of the roads leading towards Manchester, the same road he took every time he came back from base to see you. 
You…
“Don’t you live in Manchester?” Gaz called out, kicking Ghost’s seat like a kid asking if they were there yet. 
“Not safe. If they have the locations of our safe houses, they have the locations of our own.” Price called out. “Unless one of you has a secret house off the grid or some James Bond mansion.”
Silence filled the car. 
Now, it had passed through Ghost’s head when they first started talking about safe houses, but it wasn’t really his house, after all. It was yours, Your space, your flat, your building. Not his. He was nothing but some sort of weird tennant. 
And his flat would have been the first place to take them to if it hadn’t been compromised, but now that he knew that that idea was out of the picture, he couldn’t help but continue thinking about your flat. With the safety kit he’d given you once after Tommy had gotten a scratch; with the pullout sofa he used every time he was over; with all the warmth and comfort he wished for every time he finished a mission. 
And he knew it wasn’t fair on you, it was extremely late compared to the times he came back in the night, you were probably fast asleep curled in your bed like you always where when he checked up on you; and it wasn’t fair to suddenly just shove three more men into your personal space, but as he took another turn and his shoulder throbbed, as he heard Gaz hiss whenever the car bumped a little, as he watched Soap try his best to stop the bleeding occurring from his wound, he knew that the worries Simon had couldn’t overcome the panic and danger Ghost was in. This was an emergency. 
“Know somewhere, sir.” Ghost spoke out, his voice hoarse, as if he’d been keeping the secret deep inside of him for longer than a minute. “Safe house, I mean.”
“You’re certain it’s safe?” Price questioned, Laswell going silent on the other side of the radio as well. 
“Positive.”
That’s how he found himself copying the exact route he always took to your place, passing the same pubs, the same shops, the same flats… Up until he parked a few blocks away from yours like he always made sure he did. 
“This it?” Gaz asked concerned as he gazed upon a closed Greggs, Ghost letting out a huff of amusement. 
“No, a bit further up.”
Since Ghost and Price were the only ones who were able to walk without limping, they took it upon themselves to be the ones to help the other two reach the building, Ghost’s hand inexplicably shaky as he stuck the key in like he’d done over a dozen times before, shoving them all into the elevator. 
“Quiet.” He hissed to them as Gaz let out a small pained cry, not wanting to wake up the ever-so irritable neighbours or cause you any alarm if you were still awake. 
He felt bad as he slotted the second key into the door, thinking about how scared you could be if you heard him coming, pushing it open with his healthy arm and letting it creek open. “Don’t open any doors. Find a place to sit. Don’t move, don’t make a sound, don’t interact with anything.” 
The three nodded at his warning, Gaz and Soap slumping onto the sofa as soon as they could and Price taking a seat at the island as Ghost slowly closed the door and turned on the light, dimming it down so it wouldn’t alert you nor Tommy. 
As Gaz and Soap whispered between themselves, wondering how the hell Ghost kept a house in such a tidy and pretty state (“Reminds me of my maw’s.” Soap had commented, making Gaz nod and laugh.), Simon pushed open Tommy’s door, listening in to the telltale sound of his son’s breaths to make sure that he was okay, turning around to find Price looking at a small stuffed animal sitting on the counter along with a dummy, his eyes wide in realisation as he turned to his lieutenant.
“Simon-” 
“Yeah.” He brushed past, tapping on the back of Soap’s head to catch his attention. “Up, I’ll deal with you first.”
“Oh, I’m honoured!” He said in a faux-british accent, lifting himself off the sofa with his help and leaning against one of the walls Simon had placed him against. 
“You’ve got a really nice gaf, didn’ expect this from ya.” Gaz commented as Ghost looked through some of the drawers around your flat, trying to remember where the hell he’d seen you put the medkit last. 
“Yeah, you're a classy one aren’t ya, Lt.? Place’s better than mine, I mean, have ya seen your sofa?” He chuckled, signalling towards the plush pillows Gaz was leaning against now, the cute crocheted blanket hanging on the back. 
Ghost ignored all of their remarks, slamming one of the drawers shut and pulling himself up, nodding towards your bedroom door. “Shut up. I’m going to check the bathroom. Not a word.”
Soap seemingly assumed that the door Ghost had gestured towards was the direct entrance into the bathroom, so in order to help his lieutenant out a bit, his hand moved towards the doorknob while Ghost started pulling off his combat boots, not wanting to make a sound when he went into your room. 
But, apparently, the small sounds they’d been making should have been his main priority, by the way you were almost waiting at your bedroom door with a gun raised to Soap’s forehead, ready to shoot just like he’d taught you in a situation like this one. 
“Steamin’ fuckin’-”
Ghost couldn’t rid himself of his boots fast enough before Soap’s hand was instinctively around your neck, the adrenaline that was rushing through both of your veins making it easier for him to ignore the pain shooting through his leg to defend himself and for yourself to scratch and pull at the hand around your throat. 
“Soap!” Price shouted as he pushed himself off his seat, noting the panic that had filled Ghost’s normally stoic eyes at the mere sight of you in pain, slowly putting two and two together. 
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?” Ghost roared, abandoning his shoes as soon as he saw your eyes roll back into your skull, a telltale sign that you were about to pass out due to the scot’s strong grip on your neck, while normally it would’ve taken way longer for someone to pass out. 
The sight of your legs going limp in Soap's grasp was enough for Ghost to see red, moving like he did on the battlefield to reach Soap, grabbing him by the neck and throwing him onto the ground like a ragdoll, secretly hoping the grip he’d grabbed him with was strong enough to cause him the same pain you were undoubtedly in, arms immediately rushing towards your flailing body and pulling you into his chest, one of his gloved hands holding the back of your head as the other pulled your shaking legs up. 
He didn’t really care that he might’ve seriously hurt Soap, gaze and attention fixed on the tears running down your cheeks and the paleness to your normally warm skin, the wheezing breath leaving you as your body tried its best to regain the breath Soap had just stolen from you, your hands clinging to his tact gear instinctively as you coughed with every attempt to breathe.
Once he made sure you were definitely still awake and breathing, he brought you closer to him, the hold on you similar to some desperate attempt at the bridal style, almost like a mutt protecting its territory.
“What the fuck, were you thinking, Saergant!?” He shouted, glaring down at the man, who was rubbing at his neck looking up at you both in confusion. 
“Well, I’m sorry for protectin’ myself against someone who was armed, Lt.!” He shouted back, being helped back up by his captain, who seemed torn between who was in the right and who was in the wrong. 
“Did you even stop to think-”
“Oh, because you feckin’ warned me about the armed woman who’d be waitin’ for us!” Soap interrupted, coughing out.
Ghost clenched his jaw, turning to make eye contact with Price, who just shook his head at him, imploring him to just let go. 
“We’re all stressed. It slipped Ghost’s mind to tell us about her and you shouldn’t've had reacted like that. You’re both in the wrong.” 
Neither of them spoke, knowing that the Captain, as always, was right. 
“Go take care of her.” 
He didn’t have to tell Ghost twice. He and Soap shared one final glance, one that only they knew what meant, full of words neither of them would dare to share out loud, but they understood. 
The gun luckily hadn’t gone off during the whole kerfuffle, letting Ghost lean down and pick it up carefully, clicking on the safety before sliding it into one the spare holsters, not trusting himself enough to carry a loaded gun while you were still in his arms. 
He pushed the door open, your coughs continuing as your eyes started fluttering open, trying to drive away the flurry of tears that were still streaming down your cheeks and wetting your clothes, a broken croak of his name leaving you. 
“It’s me, don’t worry. Just me, love. Just me.” He reassured you the whole way back to the bed, propping you up onto the soft mattress and letting you fall back, kneeling onto the carpeted floor and letting his head rest against the sweet-smelling covers, lifting his head as one of your hands pawed at his mask. 
He tried ignoring you for a few moments as he took the gun back out and expelled the mag, squeezing his eyes shut as another one of your sobs reached his ears, shoving the gun and mag back into the drawer it had been in before finally turning to look at you properly.
“Simon…” You managed to get out, cringing at the sound of your voice, still slightly delirious from the lack of air in your brain. “What… It- It hurts…”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” He whispered, grabbing at your hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Just breathe f’me. It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you.”
He didn’t even know what he was saying at this point, just reacting to every single thing he usually told himself when he was in the midst of a panic attack ever since he was young.
“Who…”
Your eyes darted over to the door, where both of you could still hear the other talk, flinching as one of them spoke a bit too loud. 
“They’re with me. Soap, he was the one to… I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you before coming, we were in the middle of a mission and-”
“Oh my god, Simon!” You cried out, startling the both of you. You propped yourself up, shaking a bit due to the dizziness but grabbing onto his non-wounded shoulder all the same. “You’re bleeding!”
In the midst of everything that had just happened, he seemed to have forgotten the stab wound, his free hand coming up to touch at the now drying blood with a hiss. 
“It’s fine. Listen, you-”
“No! It’s not fine, oh my god!” You felt a bit queasy as you noticed the blood that also stained his hands and tact vest, hoping to god that it was his even though deep down you knew that it wasn’t. “What- How are you so okay with this!?”
He grabbed both of your hands before they reached to grab at his wounded shoulder, staring deep into your foggy eyes. “Don’t worry about me.”
Don’t worry about him? 
He was fucking freebleeding in the middle of your bedroom like it was a goddamn hobby! How could you not worry about him!?
“I’m fine. How’s your throat?” He let go of one of your hands to bring it up to your neck, fingers softly grazing against a few darkening spots adorning your skin, reminders of what had happened before. 
“It… It still hurts to speak. Kind of.” You closed your eyes as the tough material of his gloves brushed against you so gently, surprised that such items that had been used to rip countless people apart were capable of a touch so sweet, so soft, so caring…
You swallowed, the movement of your throat beneath his hand quickly alerting himself of what he was currently touching, holding, and making him let go, going back to search for your other abandoned hand, making it easier for him by raising it and meeting his halfway.
“I’m sorry. For not telling you we were coming.” The apology seemed to slip from his lips oh so easily, compared to when you’d first let him in to explain himself, when he’d clearly physically struggled to speak those two damned words…
“‘We’?” You repeated, feeling his hands tighten around yours. 
“Soap’s not the only one. Price and Gaz are also here.” He explained, his eyes motioning towards the door. “We were compromised, in a way. Needed somewhere to go, and I just…”
You looked away, already knowing the ending of the short recap of the night, looking down at your linked hands, gaze darting back up to the blood staining his arm. 
“It’s… Fine.”
It really wasn't. You knew you had every right to be angry with him and the three other men he’d brought along, this was your flat! Your home, your building, your living room they had no doubt made their own in the small time you’d been in the bedroom with Simon, and without even thinking about the bruises forming at the base of your neck you already had enough reasons to let your anger boil over. 
But you stayed silent as he waited for you to snap, to scream at him, to add even more salt in the wound that had formed both mentally and physically tonight; silent as he took your hands and helped you climb out of bed and cling onto him for balance as you regained the feeling in your legs (that were being invaded by the stabbing feeling of pins and needles); silent as he pushed the door open and walked out with you concealed behind him like some tactical weapon. 
You were pleasantly surprised to see that unlike your fears the men had seemingly not touched a single thing in your living room, standing next to the kitchen island despite one of them clearly having problems with standing. 
He made eye contact with you, your blood running cold as you realised that he had been the one to cause the soreness that now racked your throat, immediately moving to tear your gaze away from him but stopped as he did it first, looking down at his shoes as if ashamed, and by the way he stayed silent while the other introduced themselves, he was. 
The captain was nice enough, he clasped your hand in a firm handshake, one that you assumed he’d been practising for longer than you were alive, and he had a very kind face despite the work you knew the four men did, but you couldn’t help but feel at ease in his presence, an effect you assumed he had on everyone by the way they seemed so lax instead of freaking out over the wounds littering their bodies like you would. 
Gaz gave you a smile and a nod, not even attempting to outstretch either of his hands to you due to the tear up his arm and the other hand pressing a bloody piece of cloth to the wound in hopes of keeping himself from losing too much blood. 
“Soap.” Ghost’s voice came out low and gruff, a tone of voice you’d never heard from him, and you thanked whatever god was up there that you’d never heard it directed to you, because clearly you weren’t as strong as the Sergeant in front of you and would’ve immediately crumbled into fear.
“I’m sorry.” He immediately spoke out, his accent thick around each word as he outstretched his arm, poised out for a handshake. “I hope I didn’ hurt you t’much.”
Although the burn from his hand was still there, a constant reminder for the rest of the night of what had happened, and though it would take a bit of while for you to let go of it, you still raised your hand up to his, clasping it in a much weaker handshake than his Captain’s, but it was firm nonetheless, confirming your “acceptance” to his apology for now. 
“I would have done the same if I had your strength, don’t worry.” You tried lightening up the mood, despite the anxiety that still tugged at your mind, letting go of his hand and going back to standing next to Simon, your arm pressed right against his, hoping that his massive frame would do something to help hide you. 
A warm hand came up to your waist, the hairs on your body standing on end as Ghost’s breath hit the shell of your ear. “Go check on Tommy.”
Tommy.
Your stomach dropped at the realisation that you hadn’t even thought about your poor son in the whole time you were awake, too focused on yourself to even think about what fear he could be going through after hearing more than the two voices he was used to in the small apartment, your breath hitching as the hand slowly pushed you towards the nursery door, like you were a dog in need of direction.
“Tommy?” Gaz breathed out as Ghost led him to the kitchen sink, letting the man run his arm under the stream of cold water, washing away any of the crusty blood that stuck to the skin, while Ghost continued his search for the medkit.
The man stayed quiet, not even bothering to even think of beginning to explain Tommy, and by association you and whatever relationship you had, already having had struggled enough when deciding to open up to Price about it, not needing to do it two more times. 
“His son.” Price answered for him when he saw that Ghost was making no move to answer, the skull-faced man turning to send a quick glare in his captain’s direction before being shot down with one of the same calibre. “Don’t ask more, though. Bugger still likes keeping his secrets.”
Both Soap and Gaz turned to Ghost with matching expressions, dumbfounded by the information they had just been fed, unbelieving that the man they knew as Ghost, the Ghost that they had watched kill people with a single hand, the Ghost that seemingly felt no emotions towards any of them or anyone, the Ghost they’d worked so hard to even get a sliver of information out of him was indeed a father. An actual father, with a real son who had a mother who lived in a nice and cute-looking flat taking care of said son. 
After the confrontation between you and Soap, they had quickly assumed that Ghost harboured some type of feelings towards you, whether they were romantic or platonic was still yet to be known (though by the way he had held you so protectively against his chest, they assumed that they already knew the answer to that small conundrum), but they would’ve never guessed that you were the fucking mother of his son, a son he’d kept pretty well hidden from everyone, except Price, like many of the details of his oh-so mysterious life.
“That’s… Nice.” Gaz croaked out, throat having gone dry by the absolute shock that had filled the two Sergeants, gulping as Ghost stood back up to his full height, suddenly intimidated by the man more than usual. 
“Yeah. Stay.” Once again, not even bothering to say it in a nicer way, commanding all of them like dogs before entering the room you’d just retreated to and slamming the door closed. 
He immediately regretted it, though, by the way you snapped your head around like the girl from the ring furiously, clutching a fussing Tommy to your chest, reminiscent of the first night he’d spent in your flat.
“Sorry.” He didn’t wait for you to respond, taking a few long strides until he was at your side, gazing down at your sweet boy, who was moving around in your arms like he was actively trying to escape you. “How’s he?”
“Fussy. I mean, he’s been sleeping all day, no surprises there. Probably wants to watch some telly.”
“Can’t really do that lying down now, can he?” A gloved finger came down to tickle his tummy, causing him to move around more as he burst into a fit of giggles, seemingly not caring about his father's sudden change of appearance, hopefully assimilating in his tiny brain that all skull patterns equaled dad. 
At his response, you sucked air through your teeth, causing him to snap his head towards you in fear he’d said something wrong, taking a step back as he watched you place your hands underneath Tommy’s armpits and slowly take him to the ground, his little duck printed socks touching the floor and causing Ghost’s eyes to widen, mind racing with thoughts that your son might actually be some type of prodigy if he was standing up at this age, but let out a humoured breath as his little bum hit the floor, and instead of falling back like he always did, he instead stayed there sitting, moving his arms around in order to shake your grip off. 
“He’s sitting.”
“You don’t sound very impressed.” You said, looking up at him with a bright smile, not being able to help the immense pride you felt as your son ticked off another milestone off the list, sitting down on the carpet behind him and handing him one of the toys littered on the ground, wanting to enjoy this little moment of peace within the confusing and terrifying night you’d had, trying your best to focus simply on Tommy and not with what would come with having four military trained men in your flat. 
“No, it’s… Yeah.” You rolled his eyes at the inexpressive tone his voice took, watching him take a seat in front of you and raise his uninjured arm up to click his fingers in front of Tommy’s chubby face, like you normally did when wanting to catch his attention. “Good job, duck.”
You couldn’t help the way your smile widened as you heard him use the little nickname you’d given him, placing your hands on his chubby tummy and tickling his sides, enticing another few happy giggles. 
But through them, you heard the sharp hiss that came from Simon as he moved to put his weight onto the other arm, eyes going wide as you realised you’d completely neglected the wound you’d fussed about so much earlier, one of your hands moving to grasp his hands. 
“Why haven’t you treated it yet?” You whispered, keeping your distress to a minimum in front of Tommy, but Ghost could still feel the worry that emanated from you, shrugging (as best he could) and looking away. 
“I couldn’t find the medkit.” You raised a brow at his apprehensive words, lifting yourself off the floor along with Tommy and adjusting your hold on him. 
“It’s where it always is.” You started moving, giving him little to no time to react before he had jolted up and started following, almost crashing into you as you stopped in your tracks once you’d opened the door, seemingly forgetting about the company you’d been thinking about mere moments before. “Oh.”
“Is that him?” Soap said with a smile before anyone spoke, gesturing towards the small boy fidgeting in your arms. 
“No. Just some other random kid, Johnny.” Ghost’s hands once again found their rightful place on your hips and pushed you slightly to urge you to continue your walk, a huff leaving your lips at his impatience (although you couldn’t really blame him, you too would be impatient if there were a literal hole in your shoulder), as you made your way back in to the bedroom, feeling Ghost move around behind you as if he were shielding you from the prying eyes of his Sergeants and Captain, who simply wanted to catch a glimpse of the small boy. 
“Here.” You called out as you handed Tommy over to his father, opening up the mirror in the bathroom and pulling out the small yet quite big medkit he’d gifted you. 
Ghost tried his best to ignore the small bottles of pills he spied along the shelves of the little cupboard as you opened up the medkit, looking through all the items. 
“I… I don’t know how to use most of these.” You mumbled, taking it over to him so he could look through it. 
“Don’t worry, we do.” Tommy was handed back off to you, no doubt giving the small boy whiplash from how fast he was being moved from one parent to another like a hot potato. “Might need some help with the stitches.”
Stitches. 
You willed away the look of discomfort that would no doubt try to show on your face at the mere thought of it. 
Now, you weren’t the most horrible person at stitching clothes, you’d fixed a few items for both Tommy and you, and maybe the odd time you’d found a hole in Simon’s hoodie and couldn’t just leave it like that, but the thought of using a needle and string to stitch up a wound instead of the normal cloth made shivers rack your body. 
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” You breathed out, instead of letting out the worries that swirled about your brain. I mean, these men were dealing with blood and gore almost daily, surely you could manage to deal with a little wound, right?
“Hey. We’ve been treated by worse. Won’t be any worse than doin’ it ourselves.” He murmured, opening the door for you. 
And that filled you with some reassurance at first, but as you disinfected your hands and were given the needle and string, you couldn’t help but feel sick, turning your head over to the little playpen you’d purchased a few days ago where Soap was sitting next to looking down at Tommy play. Ghost right at his side glaring down at them, as if Tommy’s personal bodyguard. 
“You don’t have to, really. I can try and do it myself.” Gaz assured you with a smile, starting to move his arm away from you. 
“With one hand?”
“You’d be surprised what I can do with one hand, ma’am.” He grinned, getting a furious look from Ghost. 
You breathed out a laugh, shakily taking his arm into yours and bringing it back to where he had it before, angling the needle to his wound before taking one last look of reassurance up at the man, who only nodded in response. 
It wasn’t as disgusting as you had expected, but the sounds and feelings were still uncomfortable.
You finally finished the final stitch, shakily tying the knot before cutting the thread, disposing yourself of the latex gloves you’d put on. 
“Is- Is that okay?” 
“It’s perfect, love, don’t you worry. Did it better than I ever could.” Gaz encouraged, getting some bandages and helping you to wrap it around his now sanitised wound. “Could easily get a job as a nurse if you ever wanted to, eh? Think Ghost would love to have you on base.”
“That’s enough, Sergeant.” Ghost snapped, pushing himself off the wall and nodding down at Johnny. “Get a move on.”
You shared a smile with Gaz before Soap took his spot, albeit a bit more awkward, and raised his leg up to the sofa (you almost had a heart attack before you realised he’d kindly discarded his shoes before doing so). 
“Oh, do I-.” 
“No need f’stitches. I just need a bit o’help disinfecting it.” He mumbled, always the careful one when it came to cleaning. 
“Yeah, okay.” You did just as he had told you to, carefully pouring the alcohol onto the gauze before wiping away any dirt and dry blood from the graze before sticking a clean one over the wound with the help of a few bandages. 
You couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of your handiwork as you watched him get up, his limp a bit better now that he definitely knew that he hadn’t contracted any types of diseases thanks to the wound, taking back his spot back next to Gaz and Tommy, the other sergeant moving a little toy around in hopes of attracting Tommy’s attention. 
“I’ll help with this one, Lieu-” 
“No need.” Ghost interrupted the captain, sitting down on the sofa and immediately sinking it, the piece of furniture still not used to his weight even after all the time he’d been using it. “I’ll help her.”
You nodded with a smile, although it quickly flipped upside down as you realised what dealing with Ghost’s wound entailed, watching him slowly take off most of his tactical gear before leaving him in one of those damn tight shirts, moving the sleeve off the wounded shoulder and letting you see what you were dealing with in full detail. 
“Clean and stitch it up. Not that hard, lovie.” He mumbled, his words just for your ears, one warm hand landing on one of the thighs you had curled beneath you on the sofa you were kneeling on. “Just going to be a bit more difficult to heal.” 
“Okay.” You swallowed, tugging on another pair of gloves before balancing yourself with one hand on the part of his uninjured shoulder, somehow still feeling the body warmth through the latex. 
This was different from Gaz’s wound. While the other man had been looking away the whole time, you could feel Ghost’s sharp gaze on you even as you thread the needle, your body squirming beneath the uncomfortable stare. 
“C’mon.” He urged, settling himself further into the sofa to make the next part easier for you, letting yourself take a deep breath before starting without a second though, pleasantly surprised as he didn’t even move an inch with every stitch you made, although you could feel his thumb rubbing over the warm skin of your thigh with every second, your hand giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze every time you tightened a stitch, despite knowing he probably didn’t need the same reassurance you did. “It’s okay.”
It almost felt like you were the one getting stitched up, not him. 
You finished with shaky hands, dropping the gloves and needles and patching it up, jolting away when his hand grabbed at the bandages, finishing the job himself. 
“Thank you.” He mumbled, the hairs on your body standing up as you realised finally how close you’d been to him the whole time, slowly letting go of his arm and letting them fall back onto your lap. 
“It’s fine.” You watched him get up, once again not showing a single ounce of pain or discomfort despite the pain you knew a person who wasn’t desensitised to this type of wounds would be in, your eyes following him across the room until he reached the two Sergeants, who were still trying to gain Tommy’s affection.
When you saw them like that, they hardly looked like the type of men whose job consisted on fighting and killing for a living, they just looked like two blokes you’d find at the pub on a random sunday night, despite the tactical gear they still wore, having fun with watching a kid roll around with his toys. 
“Thank you.” Price rumbled from behind you, a hand landing on the headrest of the sofa. “For letting us stay. Feels like no one’s said that yet.”
You shrugged, running your hands up and down your thighs in order to cure the chill that had just run through your body. “It’s okay. I mean… Simon’s done a lot for us, guess I could just repay the favour one way or another.”
Although maybe you would’ve thought of a more traditional way of doing that, one that wasn’t stitching up his men and him in the middle of the night. 
“Hmph. Well, considering what good a job you’ve done, I’d say you’ve paid it back pretty well.”
You smiled up at him, not catching the look Ghost sent to you from the other side of the room, looking down at the small boy he was cradling and then up at the time, not having missed the eyebags that adorned your normally bright eyes. 
He called your name as he came near, his heart missing a beat as you instantly outstretched your arms out at him, stomach sinking as he quickly realised you were gesturing towards Tommy and not him, carefully bringing him down to latch onto your chest. 
“Think we’ll be leavin’ now.” He said, catching both your and Price’s attention. 
“Leaving?”
“Where else are you going to stay?” You prodded for an answer, pressing Tommy further into the jumper you’d pulled on. 
“We’ll find somewhere.” He looked up at Price for reassurance, but got a not so on board look back. 
You looked between the two, who stayed silent enough for you to make a quick inventory check in your head, looking down at the pull out sofa you were currently sitting on and thinking back to the possible inflatable mattress you had stored in your room. 
“Simon.” You said, almost like a child tugging on their parent’s sleeve to ask for something. “You can just stay for the night. I’ve got a few blankets and a small mattress along with the sofa. I don’t mind.”
You always felt like you could drown in his eyes when he looked at you like that, glassy eyes filled with concern and apprehensiveness at your words, as if he was assessing the true nature behind them only to find that you were only speaking the truth.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
And maybe, in the heat of the moment, you’d under planned a bit, since you realised mid unfolding some blankets that both the sofa and the small mattress would not fit four people, even if one decided to sleep on the floor, they’d be far from comfortable curling into some random nook or cranny of the flat. 
You fluffed up some of the pillows, listening to some parts of the conversation Gaz and Soap were having from inside the bathroom, jumping out of your skin as one of Ghost’s hands appeared on your back. 
“I'm going to let Soap and Gaz take the sofa. Price’s alright with taking the mattress.” He explained, hand continuing to rest on the small of your back even as you leaned back up, working on shoving a cushion into its cover. 
“And you?” You asked, almost dreading the answer. 
He looked away, a faraway gaze on the visible part of his face as if he wasn’t really there with you, as if you were just talking to a shell of a man who someone else was controlling. 
“I don’t need to sleep. I’m fine with staying in Tom’s room.” He responded, taking the pillow from your hands and placing it down on the inflatable mattress that lay next to the sofa. 
“What? You’re hurt, Simon, you should be resting!”
Silence. 
“You’re not fucking superhuman, you know that, right?!” You snapped, grabbing at his sleeve and forcing him to look your way. “You need rest like anyone else. Just because you cover your face and act like you don’t care about anything does not mean you’re special.”
God, shut up! Your brain was shouting at you, unbelieving that you were getting so worked up over a man you’d convinced yourself that you wouldn’t let in no matter what, but there you were, horrified that he had such little care for his well-being that he would rather stay awake all night than find somewhere else to sleep. 
“Just take my bed!”
The words were out of your mouth before you even realised it. 
And clearly, you weren’t the only one who was surprised by them. 
Simon was staring down at you with what you could only assume was a dumbfounded look, his eyes swirling with confusion. 
“Your bed?”
“My bed.” You breathed out, horrified with yourself. “It's queen sized, you know that. You’ll fit.”
Silence engulfed the room, a pattern that seemed to follow every single one of your conversations you had in this exact spot of the living room, gazes interlocked together. 
“No-”
“Yes. Get into your pyjamas and come to bed.” You said almost robotically, finishing the final cushion before pushing yourself off, quickly walking back into your room before the man could protest. You placed a hand against the wall in order to balance yourself as soon as you were out of his line of view, a shaky hand coming up to cover your mouth in shock of what you’d just asked, no, insisted him to do.
Soap and Gaz apologised for taking so long in the bathroom, letting you take their place so you could calm down a bit alone and in silence, sitting on the closed toilet with a shaking leg, biting your nails as you stared down at the white tiles. 
You were so fucking stupid. 
What was wrong with you!?
Why couldn’t you just stick to your initial feelings for him!?
Why couldn’t you just have let him do what he wanted!?
Why did you care so much about someone you’d insisted was nothing to you!?
You rested your face against the open palms of your hands, running them up and down until you rid yourself of the urge to want to cry, the opening of your bedroom door immediately catching your attention. 
Ghost knocked at the door, making you jump for what seemed like the nth time tonight, calling out your name. 
“I need to get changed.”
Your heart soared at the implication behind his hushed words. 
Now, you don’t really know what you were expecting for his pyjamas to be, but the black shirt and cargo sweatpants he sported were definitely on brand for a man like Simon.
It’d been a really long time since you’d caught a peak at his arms, since even in the warmest weather possible, Simon always insisted on wearing at least a long sleeved shirt, leaving the rest of his body up to the imagination (which, thanks to that night, you didn’t really need), but thanks to the shirt he was currently wearing, it allowed you to gaze upon his muscular arms and the tattoo that ran the whole way up one of them, remembering faintly the moment he’d let you look at them for a moment before tugging you closer into his chest. 
It also didn’t surprise you that he was still wearing the balaclava, although this one was different to the skulled one he normally wore, silver lines running over his chin, like the bottom set of teeth of the plastic skull he’d now discarded, leaving him almost naked in a way, after having gotten so used to him all covered up. 
“Are you sure?” He asked one final time, standing at the edge of the bed. 
“Yes, Simon.”
His gaze darted away from you as you called out his name, something you’d noticed he’d done the whole night every time you spoke his real name out, despite him never reacting this way when you were both alone. 
“Lie down.” He did as you said, getting into the bed and pulling some of the covers up to cover his lap, turning to watch you as you leaned over to turn off the small lamp on your nightstand, the room instantly being filled with darkness after the click. 
“You know…” Your voice came out hushed, further down than before, letting him assume that you’d just rested your face against your pillow. “Your skull mask looks silly.”
“Silly?” He whispered back, mock offended, like you’d just killed his entire family in front of him (which would be largely upsetting considering you were his family…).
“Silly.” You parroted, thinking back to the hard plastic skull. “You look like a little kid on halloween.” 
“That was the goal.” He lazily joked, moving down so he too was lying on his own pillow, staring up at the darkness that used to be the ceiling, his hair scratchy against his nape and skull due to it being pressed against the material of his balaclava. “...my brother wore a mask like that. Used to scare the shit out of me.”
You let out a huff, impossible of even imagining a little version of your Simon being scared by his brother. “Isn’t he younger than you?”
“...”
“Oh my god, Simon.”
“I was easily frightened.” He said, knowing that if there were any source of light near you, you’d instantly be able to see the blush that no doubt was dusting his pale cheeks. “I was frail as a kid.”
Why was he telling you this?
“Frail?” You mumbled, moving yourself closer to him in order to hear him clearer. 
“My dad wasn’t the nicest person.” 
He should stop. 
“You mean… He hurt you?”
“In more ways than one.”
You shouldn’t know this about him. 
“That’s… Horrible. I’m sorry, Simon…”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t. 
“It’s not… You don’t have to act like it is.”
“...”
“Simon.”
Your sweet voice called out to him, your hand brushing against his arm and causing a ripple effect on it, all of his hairs standing on edge at the soft touch. 
“Simon…”
“I’m sorry.” He breathed out, turning around, forcing your hand away from him in doing so, leaving you staring at his back in the dark. 
Silence engulfed the room once again, your hand frozen in place from where it had been pressed against before, clenching it closed and bringing it back, turning around yourself and snuggling into the nice-smelling covers.
You didn’t even bother trying to continue the conversation or bid him a goodnight like you wish you could, instead keeping the silence going until the inevitable grasp of Hypnos would pull you under. 
But you couldn’t seem to fall asleep, even after only having slept two hours that day, even as no sound came through the baby monitor on your bedside table, even if everything was perfectly scripted for you to close your eyes and finally get some rest…
You turned around, feeling around the cold space of the bed that laid between Simon and your sleeping bodies, squeezing your eyes closed before taking a shaking breath. 
It was cold. That was it. It was cold, and you felt bad for him.
There was no other reason for why you wrapped your arms around his chest from behind, curling into the shape of his body and pressing your face right against his warm back, feeling him tense beneath your hands. 
You stayed there, waiting for the unavoidable moment where he’d try and shake you off like you were some kind of leech, but he didn’t. 
Instead, one of his hands came up to rest over the one you had above his heart, squeezing it slightly, his way of telling you that this was okay without openly speaking out. 
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes and pulling yourself closer into his warmth, feeling his heart beat slowly grow steady beneath your palm as time went past. 
Simon hoped that the tear streaks down his balaclava wouldn’t be noticeable in the morning. 
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This time, when you woke up, he wasn’t gone. 
Although a bit dishevelled compared to the normal composure he kept, he was there. 
The mask had ridden up to his cupid’s bow in the middle of the night, exposing the not very well-kept beard he’d started growing under there, along with tufts of blond hair that peaked out from around his nape.  
It was clear you’d both moved a lot across the course of the night, by the way you’d both ended in a completely different position than the one you'd started in, with you on the other side of the bed wrapped up in his arms, your face pressed into his chest instead of his back.
His warm hands were covering your lower back, brushing lightly against the elastic band of your pyjama bottoms, one leg draped over his waist while the other was between his.
You tentatively raised your hand to run your fingers against the hair at the base of his head, curling a slightly long strand around one of your fingers and letting out an amused huff at the curl that formed there. 
“Ow.” Simon rasped, although his voice was as monotonous as could be, pulling his head away from your hand. “Ticklish.”
“You’re ticklish?” You mumbled, watching him open his eyes before craning his head away from you, a pop coming from the bone as he stretched, moving onto his back and pulling you with him, letting you curl into his side. 
Not one word was spoken during the entire morning about what was going on, about your sudden change of heart (although you knew it wasn’t sudden), about what this night would mean for the two of you moving forward. 
Neither of you said a word, afraid that the conversation that would follow would be the one to ruin whatever had happened, 
You wandered out of your bedroom an hour after you’d officially woken up, wanting to indulge in the warmth Simon had provided all throughout the night, surprised and a bit shocked (you’d honestly forgotten what was waiting for you outside), Tommy fidgeting around in Soap’s arms as he held him with surprising care and ability. 
“Are you some type of expert?” You said with a careful smile, not missing the way his eyes darted down to the bruises around your neck, still feeling bad for what he had done. 
“Uh, kinda’? Got four sisters, each of ‘em with their own set of bairns.” He shrugged, the movement making Tommy let out a giggle through his dummy. “Lad was cryin’, couldn’t just leave him there.”
“It’s okay. Thank you.” You felt a bit embarrassed for not having woken up at your baby’s crying, but you were glad that he seemed perfectly happy, clearly enjoying the attention he’d been receiving the past hours. “He’s starting to teeth, that’s probably why he was crying, my poor-”
The slamming down of a mug interrupted you, staring dumbfounded at Gaz, who’d been the one to cause the noise. 
“Fuck! Sorry, sorry, ma’am, just-” He wiped away some of the spilt tea (you were even more confused as to where he’d gotten the cuppa until you noticed the captain standing next to the stove with your kettle), looking up at you with darkening cheeks. “Sorry, my arm’s still a bit fucked-”
“Clean it up.” Ghost ordered gruffly as he walked out of the bedroom, clad in most of the clothing he’d worn yesterday, hiding once again all the skin and muscles you’d ran your hands over that morning. 
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not a prick, man.” Gaz grumbled. 
Ghost leaned down to you, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden closeness, in front of his teammates no less, but ended up pressing a finger to Tommy's nose, your cheeks going warm out of embarrassment. 
“You made tea?” He grunted at his Captain, who shrugged, taking a sip of the warm brew. 
“I’ll pay it back.”
“Y-”
“It’s not necessary, it’s just tea.” You elbowed Ghost before he could say anything rude, placing Tommy down onto his highchair before moving to get some of his food and get yourself a cup in the meantime. 
“Can’t thank her enough.” Price grumbled to Ghost as you and the other two started a conversation, watching the masked man pour himself a cup before swigging it all down quickly like it was some type of liquor. “For letting us stay.”
“Yeah. I’m going to have to make it up for her.” Ghost answered, watching you try to coerce Tommy to open his mouth for a spoonful of baby food with Soap’s help. 
“Seems like you already did, she looks real happy.” Price nudged Ghost, like a father teasing his son for getting his first girlfriend, his moustache twitching as Ghost turned away from him, further pushing the thought that it was just like that type of scenario. 
“We should get going. I can’t risk it further.” Ghost responded instead of continuing the banter, pushing himself off the counter and turning to you, Price immediately dropping the funny act and nodding, moving to get some of their things they’d tried to place neatly in one of the corners. 
“We’re going.” He announced, heart sinking into his stomach at the disappointment that washed over your face, placing down the baby food on the table and leaning back up to your full height. 
“Now?”
“Yes. Soap, go start the car.” Ghost ordered, the scot doing just as his captain had and dropping the smile that had been previously adorning his face, getting up and taking his jacket from Price, not forgetting to say a proper goodbye to you and give you a firm handshake that he hoped transmitted the apology for everything he did, and as you received it with a small smile, he hoped it meant that you forgave him. 
“Where are you going?” You asked, watching Gaz and Price reload some of the guns from the other side of the flat. 
“Base. Hopefully, Laswell will have backup and we’ll be able to finish what we started.” He said, gloved fingers running over Tommy's soft head, messing up some of the curls that had started to form. “I’ll call you once we’ve finished.”
The look you gave him spoke a million words. 
“I promise. I’ll be back, you know that.”
You felt embarrassed at how quickly he’d managed to discern what your look had meant, but nodded nonetheless, saying goodbye to the other two (Gaz giving you a bright smile and Price clasping your hand in his once again, his presence washing away any worry you might have just like last time), leaving the three of you alone in your apartment. 
“Duck, daddy’s going now.” You whispered to your son, the small boy clearly having no idea of what you were saying, but giggling up at you as you pressed a kiss to his chubby cheek. “Say bye-bye, now.”
You moved his little hand in a goodbye motion, Ghost’s mask moving over his lips as he smiled, raising one of his hands to wave goodbye back. 
Despite having done this same song and dance for almost four months now, it still didn’t get rid of the bittersweet feeling that bloomed in Simon’s chest, already knowing the drill as you led him to the front door with a solemn look tugging at your pretty features. 
“We’ll talk once I get back, okay? I promise.” He spoke softly as he stood by the opened door, a gloved hand coming up to cup at your face and tilt you upwards so you were both making eye contact. “‘Bout everything.”
“Okay.” You whispered, fighting the urge to lean further into his touch. “I’ll be here.”
He nodded, but his hand still didn’t move. 
You waited, for what, you didn’t know. You were slowly getting lost in his eyes when his other hand came up to pull his mask up over his lips, leaning down and softly tugging you upwards until they met your forehead, the kiss short and sweet despite all the pain and darkness that you knew followed him, always a surprise when it came to how quickly he could change from the personality he showed to you and Tommy to the personality you’d witnessed him show to his teammates not long ago. 
You blinked up at him owlishly, watching him pull the mask back down and let go of your face (though his touch still lingered) before taking a step back. 
“Stay safe.” You repeated like all the other times. 
“I always do.” He replied, and like always, he disappeared down the hall. 
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“No.”
“Oh, come on. He’ll like it!” 
“He won’t.” Ghost snapped, taking one last look at the small toy Gaz was waving around, like Ghost was a child to be entertained and he was just being fussy, which really wasn’t that off track. 
“How’d you know?”
“‘Cause I’m his dad!” He looked away, already regretting having brought his teammates back to your place and therefore letting them meet Tommy. Maybe he should’ve just let them bleed out back then. 
“And you’re honestly telling me that a child will not like this?” Gaz moved it around a bit more, almost tantalising his lieutenant. 
Ghost peaked back at the small teddy bear, its fur fluffy and inviting and its black button eyes adorning its little face. 
“Just take it, mate. It’ll make me really happy!”
“I don’t care about your happiness, Sergeant.” Ghost snapped, snatching the toy from his grasp and shoving it into one of his pockets, ignoring the bright smile Gaz sent him and the punch to his shoulder. 
“God, you’re the best, Ghost. Text me if he likes it, eh?”
He never did text Gaz back, but Gaz had apparently ran his mouth to Soap about Ghost’s reluctant acceptance of the gift, since the next time he saw Soap, the scot had kindly brought a little teddy bear with a tiny Scottish flag in its paw. 
And although Ghost wanted nothing more than to rip it up in front of him, he found himself passing them on to Tommy the day he came back to you, “reluctantly” sending each of the Sergeants a picture of the small boy curled up to the two bears.
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Let All Your Damage Damage Me
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Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader Summary: There's something to be said for patching up Camp Half-Blood, especially when you end up seeing more of Luke Castellan than you thought you ever would. Or 3 times Luke starts a fight and 1 time he doesn't. Word Count: 4.6k Warnings: smoking, mentions of low-grade drugs and underage drinking, implied sexual content and more teenage dirtbag luke because @initialchains was kind enough to let me steal him for evil!
a/n: this is the most brainrot i've ever brainrotted and again, all credit for this version of luke to noli. enjoy!!!
There’s this weight that carries the name Luke Castellan across Camp Half-Blood. Once, it was a new camper - years on the run with a young daughter of Athena and a fatality at the borders that drew interest. In the time since, it’s become something different, reshaped and frayed. A promising young demigod lingering on the outskirts where possible, creating his own tethers to the mortal world like it’ll detach itself from him if he doesn’t. 
It confuses new campers at first, the dichotomy between how Luke is spoken of and who he is. The best swordsman in almost three centuries, a once favorite son of Hermes. To look at him then, take in his scuffed shoes and the cigarette tucked behind his ear - it makes them wonder what it took for him to fall so far out of alignment. 
No one ever asks. 
1.
The conch sounds from your left and the rest of your campmates spread out across the land with a battle cry. You know how this evening goes, too many of them spent alone in the quiet of the med-bay. There’s three of you as it stands, all waiting for someone to show up with a cut to tend to as the game gets underway. Will stands outside, eyes wandering over the edges of the forest as if he can see through the trees to what’s happening within them. It’s his first summer, the thrill of camp yet to be lost on him, and you’re glad he can find excitement in being on the sidelines. Lee has already tucked himself into a corner, technically a part of the medical team but mostly waiting to tag into the game. A back-up player. 
You know that within the hour, you’ll likely lose both of them to the game. It’s not something you mind, dealing with the minor injuries alone. There’s an element of peace to it, tending to everyone else’s wounds and sending them on their way. It’s what you’re best at, a healed knife wound last year the reason you were claimed. Still, it makes capture the flag last for eons - every hint of action happening further than you can see, often too far away for you to even register until someone pushes their way through your door in need of help.
So you settle in, let the peace of the evening wash over you. When one of the younger Demeter kids rushes into the room, you observe Will treating the deep cut on her arm. Disinfectant, gauze, a small bandage. When he’s done, he looks at you and you’re all too familiar with it. The longing to be part of the action. At your nod, he takes off, hot on the heels of the young girl and into the thick of battle. 
Eventually one of Clarisse’s siblings bursts into the room, fire in his eyes and you can hardly blink before Lee is standing to attention. It’s the way of the game and you wave him off lightly, lowering yourself back into a chair and letting your head fall against the cool surface of the wall. 
Another hour. 
If you had to guess, you would say there’s less violence on the field today. It’s Annabeth’s first time leading a team, you know that, and you’re aware of the way her mind works - lower injuries, higher soldiers. There’s little doubt that she’s ran the numbers, with backup plans for her backup plans to find and steal the flag. You know you should be rooting against her, Apollo partnered with Ares this time around, but you want this victory for her. 
There’s a flurry of movement from outside moments later, a groan followed by a muttered “I’m fine, Annabeth” before the girl is in front of you, frown pulling across her features. 
Beside her, or rather resting his weight on her, is Luke Castellan, eyebrows scrunched together and arms covered in thin cuts. 
You don’t really have much of an opinion on Luke if you’re being honest. You know the basics - a crash course given to you by Silena when you arrived at camp, actual information littered between rumors. Son of Hermes, incredible swordsman. Snuck out of camp two years ago to get a tattoo because he was drunk. Bribed Katie to start growing weed in one of the rarely used greenhouses.
Now, faced with him in a bloodied camp t-shirt and lacking his usual cigarette, you sort of want to know what’s true. 
“What happened to him?” There should be more urgency to your actions, you know, but you help Annabeth guide him into one of the beds at the side of the room slowly. 
“He decided to pick a fight with a bunch of kids near the lake,” Annabeth says, rolling her eyes. Even as she does, there’s this adoration that seeps out of her, the same one you’ve always known her to carry where Luke is concerned. “Three on one.”
Luke groans as you shift his position, glaring at the girl in front of him. “They deserved it. The shit they were saying.” 
Part of you wants to ask, desperately. Annabeth chuckles, nudging his shoulder and says, “Yeah, I know. I already thanked you so stop fishing for compliments.” 
He laughs lowly and you almost forget that there’s a real reason Annabeth would’ve brought him here. You’ve only seen Luke in this room once, late last winter, so it’s odd that he’d be here now. He tilts his chin at her, and then at the door. “Go win that flag.”
She starts to protest, talking about having faith in her team and how making sure he’s safe is more important. Still, she glances towards the door. 
“He’s in good hands with me, Annabeth,” You say when she stops to breathe for a moment. She bites her lip. “I promise.”
“She promises,” Luke repeats from behind you and apparently, that’s all Annabeth needed. With a final glance between you, she retreats, working her way back into the game. “Just me and you now, Angel.” 
There’s some sort of shift with Annabeth’s absence, thicker in the air and not completely unwelcome. Maybe it’s the nickname, too familiar for people having their second conversation, but there’s this way Luke says it, no intention twisting around the letters but settling warmly into your system anyway. You ignore it. “Where are you hurt, Castellan?” 
He grimaces and it’s the first time you notice his hand clasped at his side. It drops and you take in the darker color of his camp t-shirt there, the way it sticks to the area damp with blood and probably a lot of sweat. 
“Holy shit.” 
“It’s not that bad,” he jokes and you raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”
You shake your head. “Come on then, let’s see it.” 
It’s something you don’t do often, this informality with a patient. Bedside manner means something in healing but right now, you can’t think of the right way to channel it. To be gentle with Luke would feel awkward, restrictive almost, and to be too formal would just be rude at this point. What you’re doing now seems to work, if the way he grins is any indication, and you excuse yourself to the supply cabinet as he does as requested.
When you turn back around, Luke has his shirt off, legs still hanging off the side of the bed. You almost want to tell him to lay down, for your own peace of mind. Make it so you can simply treat the wound without having to look at him properly. Because Luke is…
Luke is really fucking pretty. 
You’ve known he was attractive - everyone knew that. It wasn’t something openly spoken about, not with how he exists on the outskirts of camp most of the time, but it was mutually understood. For all his faults, Luke was incredibly attractive. 
Now, though, even with blood covering half of his torso, he’s really fucking pretty. 
“I’m just going to clean it first,” you say when you reach him and it comes out quieter than you intended. You stand in front of him and his head tilts back slightly to look at your face properly. “Do you mind if you just- I need to get a little closer to look at it.”
You expect him to turn to the side, let the wound face you a bit better. Instead, the space between Luke’s legs widens enough for you to take a step closer, almost like a challenge, and you take it anyway. 
You work on instinct, wiping the blood away, pressing gentle fingertips into the skin. Habits formed over months, usually steady hands shaking just slightly as you wipe the cloth against Luke’s torso, his even breaths hitting the side of your neck at this angle. 
It’s not as deep as you expected, the skin still open, completely raw but not as ugly as it could be. As what you expected it to be. Gently, you press the gauze to it, lifting your head to be met with Luke’s eyes. They’re brown. They’re brown and completely relaxed and you kind of really want to find out how wide they could get in the right situation. 
“I told you it wasn’t that bad,” Luke says and you feel it more than you hear it. It shoots through your veins and you distantly remember Silena telling you that she once caught him with a line of coke. They rattle together before falling silent and you can hear your own breathing again. Luke’s too, slower than yours but close enough that you can count the length of each one. 
“You still should’ve come to me when you got injured.” 
“I’ll remember that next time.” It drifts across your cheeks, warming the skin there and you look back down at your hand pressed against Luke’s side. Pulling the gauze away, you quickly replace it with a clean square, sticking it in place carefully.
You run a finger across the edges before muttering, “All done.” 
There’s a right thing to do. Take a step back, give Luke the privacy to redress and send him on his way with instructions for looking after the dressing. That’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s what your brain is screaming at you to do, actually, but Luke’s skin is still so warm under your palm and each breath makes you more aware of the dip in his collarbones and you can’t think of a single good reason to move away.
When his lips part, you think he’s going to give you one. Instead, he whispers, “Tell me no,” and it just makes more sense to meet him halfway than say yes. 
Turns out, Luke Castellan is a really good kisser. It matches him, the blase way he leans into the action, tilts his head and adjusts the pressure to match whatever you do. Distantly, you remember to move your hand, dropping it from the gauze and resting it on his thigh instead and there’s this noise Luke makes in the back of his throat as you do so that makes you want to do it again.
He breaks off in the end, drawing in deep breaths. To see him disheveled isn’t entirely new, not with the lack of care he puts into maintaining his camp uniform, but to see him like this - dark curls run through, cheeks flushed red and lips swollen - is something else entirely. Without thinking too hard, you dip your head and place a kiss to the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He shivers and you take it as an invitation, pressing another to his shoulder and then one to his right collarbone. 
His loose grip on your hip tightens and you wonder how far you could take this before you would have to stop. Based on the low curse Luke lets out when you repeat the motions on the other side of his neck, it’ll probably take until another camper comes to find you. 
Dragging your gaze down Luke’s frame, you come to the reasonable conclusion that it’s a risk you’re just going to have to take. 
2.
You expect it to happen sooner, staring at the door each evening willing it to open. A week of counting the hours, locking the med bay every night and still no sign of Luke. He’s back from his quest - Will had rushed in with the news when he’d crossed the border back into camp - but you’re yet to see him at all. Silena tried to tell you about his quest, about his failure really, and you’d shut her down before she could give you anything more than that he’d been badly injured. 
Lee had been on duty the day he’d returned. Written the notes and left them filed away. 
Deep scarring on the face. Nectar and ambrosia required on arrival. Patient refused monitoring. 
He doesn’t offer any further insight when he catches you reading over them the next morning, just shrugs like he expected Luke to refuse his help. Like he’s surprised the other boy even showed up for treatment at all. It’s moments like that, where there’s this judgement surrounding Luke’s mere existence, that remind you of the weeks before his quest. The five hectic weeks of bruised knuckles and how soft they could be against your skin. Of how nice cigarette smoke could be coming from Luke’s lips instead of just lingering in the air. 
So it catches you off guard when the knock sounds on your door, the same familiar quick raps of knuckles on the wood that you grew accustomed to hearing late into the night. He’s there, when you pry the door open, and he’s nothing like you expected. 
He’s still Luke, from the ragged tee to staggered breathing, but there’s blood covering half of his face, dripping from the stretch of open skin running down his left cheek and a dip in his spine he never had before. 
“Do you want to berate me first or can I just come in?” 
Stepping out of the way, you gesture into the empty room. There’s a familiar routine to this now, despite the week without it, and Luke takes his usual path to the bed near the cabinets. It’s wrong, the way you attach yourself to the casualness of it, to the comfort of having him back in this space with you, instead of rushing to do your job. 
But it’s Luke, a little broken maybe, but still Luke. 
“Who’d you fight this time?” You ask as you dig through drawers for everything you might need. You tell yourself it’s to be prepared - you both know what it really is. “Don’t tell me the foxes are back.”
“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.” 
It’s a running joke, borne of concern the first time Luke showed up here after curfew with a cut on jaw and nose a little more crooked than before. Something to reassure you, to stop you shifting yourself into professional mode. A way of assuring you that there was no rush. 
“You didn’t have a healing scar before,” you mutter regardless, slotting yourself into the space between his legs like normal. There’s an overhead light and, from directly in front of him, you can make out the length of it, the shape of the raised skin. It’s still raw, a little puffy, but on the right track. “Or did you forget?” 
“It’s not exactly easy to ignore, is it?” He shrugs, sitting straighter. “Besides, Ares kids are never all that.”
Finally, you think, lifting your hand to touch the taut skin there, there’s the bitterness you’ve heard in his voice so many times before. It’s one of those things you’ve come to recognise in Luke’s tone, the cadence of it when he actually cares, pitching lower than usual, burying itself under nonchalance. 
He watches as your thumb swipes across his cheek, pulling back to observe the way it stains red. You’re used to seeing him a little damaged, easily put back together by your hand. This is something else, a reflection of how everyone else sees him - bloodied and broken and damn near unapproachable for fear of spilled blood - and you want to capture it in your brain for the future, maybe forever. 
“I’m starting to think you might like me,” Luke says, hands moving from where they sit on the bed to rest on your waist. Your eyes stay locked on the pad of your thumb, watching the blood begin to seep into your skin. A beat, the brush of his warm thumb against the skin on your waist, and then, “It doesn’t hurt that much.” 
It goes against so much of who you’ve always sworn to be, finding him so pretty in this moment. Taking in the red of his cheek, the way it stretches down his neck and drips onto his t-shirt. Short of taking a medical oath, you’ve promised yourself to heal. To mend. To treating the injured, regardless of your own feelings on the matter.
Of course it would only take Luke Castellan, dark eyes and tender hands, to challenge that. 
“Tell me if it does,” You whisper and he licks his lower lip as he nods, wiping away some of the blood staining it as he does. The end of his quiet “promise” catches itself between your lips, mingling with the metal on your tongue and making it sweeter than you could’ve ever anticipated. 
This part of Luke is all too familiar, the taste of him to the comfortable weight of yourself on him. You’d learnt on that first night what made him tick, what made its way through him and he would return to you tenfold. In the weeks since, you’ve studied them, picking them apart until there’s been nothing to do but follow them into freefall. 
Now, you use them to guide you. Those small hitches in his breathing, the clearing of his throat, the slip of his palm when you press your lips to the skin above his pulse on the left and let them stain the right to match. It’ll all fade when you come back to yourself, cleaning the wound and stitching him back up, but it’s there when you lean back to look at him again, the undeniable mark of you on Luke Castellan’s skin. 
“You’re really fucking pretty, you know that.”
Luke tilts his head, squinting a little to focus his gaze. It’s this thing he does whenever you get like this, observant and a tad shy, waiting for the ball to drop. You keep silent, arms still wrapped around his shoulders and knees digging into the mattress either side of his hips. It’ll pass, always. 
When it does, the air changes. Not quite the same heated urgency as before, less hazy and with Luke realising the inch he’s been given, taking the mile you’ve offered in the inbetween. He’s still broken, still stained despite your best efforts to remove it, and he settles a hand in the hair at the nape of your neck as you push closer to him. 
3.
Silena told you once that it only takes twenty-one days to form a habit. She was talking about finding cigarette ends scattered around the training centre, a sure sign of Luke’s presence there each day, and how his habits had become too ingrained in him after years for them to be broken. It wasn’t true, you’d known that much, but it stayed in the back of your mind with every new one you attempted to build - daily runs, the correct amount of sleep, offering help to someone you didn’t know too well at camp. None of them ever stuck, lasting a few days at most, but it strikes you again now, Luke pushing his way through your door.
Eight weeks. More than enough time to form an alleged habit. You think, observing the flex of his arm, the thin section of ink peeking out from under his camp tee when he does, that you’ve fallen into a habit with Luke Castellan. Possibly even the habit of Luke Castellan. 
It’s different this time, however. The lack of visible bruising on his own skin, for one. There’s hints of it, smatterings of black and purple stretching across his knuckles, the skin peeling slightly, but his face is unmarred save for his usual scar. You don’t often see Luke mean. Based on the clench of his fists, so tight you’re sure it must hurt, you’re not entirely sure you want to.
“Did you know that he was summoned?” He says through gritted teeth. Sometimes, you wonder if Luke knows how to start a conversation properly. It’s not something you’ve known him to do, never a hello or goodbye, just a topic spoken into the space around you both. Neverending. “Claimed while I was away getting my ass handed to me by a dragon and then summoned for a discussion with Hermes.” 
You understand, then, why his entire body is tense. A carefully curated reputation tumbling down around him after years. The fallen son of Hermes finally getting some comeuppance for his impudence. Being replaced, in spite of dedication given to people who couldn’t stand to be around him. It’s not the first time you’ve been upset for him, but it is the first time it’s made you ache for justice. 
“I heard he got back this morning.” 
Luke hums and you watch as his cheek hollows, knowing how his teeth are indenting on the skin inside. “Came to find me first thing. To tell me all about it.”
“He came to rub it in.”
“Good girl,” he smiles, the first since walking in, and the combination burns low in your gut. A habit takes twenty-one days to form and it took Luke seventeen to understand the effect those words had on you. “I swung for him before I even realised I was doing it.” 
You perch yourself on the edge of one of the beds, keeping careful track of his movements across the room. “This might be the first time you’ve come here and the other guy is actually going to look worse.” 
It does what you wanted it to, drags a chuckle out of him and releases the tension from his shoulders. “I bumped into Will on my way here. Sent him to patch him up and keep him far away from me.” 
“Are you telling me you planned to get me alone in the med bay, Castellan?”
His nose scrunches, stealing the last of his rage from the air and twisting it into something different. “You were already alone in the med bay. I just planned to take advantage of it.”
The change in dynamic isn’t lost on you, so unused to starting in these positions, but you let it linger for a moment anyway. Ground yourself in the knowledge that Luke knows you, knows your breathing and your movements and your heartbeat. It doesn’t take twenty-one days to build a habit, and you’re far from breaking this one.
“Tell me no,” Luke says and it echoes in a way it hasn’t before. Joins the dust in the air and settles in the sunlight from the high windows. You take a breath. He releases one. “Tell me yes.” 
It’s something you should think about more, letting him ingrain himself in your space the way you have been. Patching him up is one thing, borne from consideration and oath and demanded by a higher power than yourself. In the dark nights of camp, you can pretend the time you spend with him doesn’t count for much - that it barely exists if you want to. That’s how you’ve navigated it so far, pretending not to know the calluses on his hands during demonstrations, brushing it off when Silena points out how he’s been getting into more fights these past few months. 
You should leave Luke Castellan in the shadows, a boy mended in dim lighting and known through hushed conversations. 
But you know the taste of smoke from his lungs, the press of his lips on your skin. You know his blood and his sweat and his mumbled curses. You know more about him than anyone in this camp, maybe in this world, and you’re the only one who cares to trace it over again and again until you can recite him line by line. 
“Yes, Luke,” It comes out louder than intended, completely defined. “Please.” 
Whatever it is about it, the assuredness or the plea, it’s what he needs, crashing into you like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do. There’s an easy confidence to the way he touches you now, swallows the sounds you make to keep them for himself, keeps you half-hidden from the daylight peering in like it’ll protect you both. You bury yourself under his skin, nails and teeth and take parts of him with you when you let go. 
It’s risky, slightly too hurried for how important it feels, but it makes sense with each breath you share. Fits itself to the bitterness that frays your edges, hems them into something more palatable. Luke’s mumbles are half-formed against your skin and yours are incomplete in air and they stick together as something no one else could translate. 
You can’t define this, not with a theory or a diagnosis, but you think it could fall neatly into your notes as a categorised addiction. 
With Luke’s soft curls between your fingers, you kind of forget how to care.
+1
“You know, I could probably beat you in a fight.” 
Luke chuckles, flicking the ash from his cigarette to the ground behind your cabin. It’s a new thing, hiding yourselves away in new locations, and you’re sort of fascinated with the way he chooses where to go. No rhyme or reason. “You think?”
“I would bet so much money on it if we actually got paid here,” You nod, rocking back on your heels. He’s nicer like this, bathed in moonlight and at peace with his surroundings. It’s something you’ve become accustomed to, the casual dichotomy of Luke at night, unburdened by rumours. “I would bet your chain on it.” 
You’re not serious, he knows that - the silver necklace is one of the few things he actually treasures - but it’s funny to see his face lift in disbelief as you say it. He presses the end of his cigarette out under his shoe and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the smile threatening to come out. 
“You really think you could beat me in a fight?” 
You take a step back with each one he takes forward, only to find yourself pressed against your cabin seconds later. Luke’s smile changes, twists a little more into a smirk, and you let yourself relax into it. Instead of an answer, you hum lightly. His hands land either side of your head and you feel yourself smile before you remember to stop it. 
“Take it back,” he whispers and it drifts across your cheekbones. You drop your gaze to the peek of silver above his camp shirt, curling a finger underneath the metal so the charm dangling from it drops into full view. You glance back at him, his gaze dropping from your face to hand on his chest. “Please.” 
Wrapping your hand around the cool metal, you tug him the short distance between you and it feels like the better response when Luke smiles against your lips.
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two-red-butterflies · 9 months
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the bravest soldier | m33
Description: Max Verstappen and his girlfriend go inside a taxi (not knowing that it's a prank set up for him) in which, their relationship is made public.
Pairing: max verstappen/model!leclerc!reader
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yournameleclerc1 he loves himself ladies and gentlemen 💙
tagged: max verstappen
239 comments 123,210 likes
user19: UMM??? Y/N??? baramram3: i smell y/n x max 😳 maxverstappen1: 😆
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"It's more of a red and orange day," he explained, moving his arms around and placing the cap on his head. He fancied himself a fashion connoisseur at home, even helping you pick out outfits for work - but when he was out with friends and the media? The same cap was on his head - the same polo, and it was frustrating.
"I actually feel proud 'cuz I forced you to wear white," you chuckled as he opened the taxi door. "Don't be too cocky, liefde." he rolled his eyes - helping you carry the luggage inside the car.
"Maybe I'll get you to wear red soon," you add - and he gently nudges you inside. "The day that pigs fly - maybe." he laughed, settling his hand on your thigh. The taxi driver in front of you looked familiar - but you couldn't remember where you saw him.
"Oi! Are you Max Verstappen?" the man rudely asks and your boyfriend nods his head. His grip on your thigh tightens - praying to the gods that he wouldn't recognize you. "Yes," he answered politely, playing with the straps of your seatbelt. He was a professional driver but seldom wore it in the passenger seat.
"Very nice eh? Must be the dream." the man complimented, moving his car away from a section of the airport. "We'll be going to ******," your boyfriend informs while fastening the seatbelt around your waist. "If you don't mind - I don't use those digital map thingies. I think that if you wanna be a taxi driver, you gotta know the roads." the man rambled, and your boyfriend continued smiling.
"Yeah, I guess that's the best way to get around things." he replied while playing with his phone. He couldn't believe that the both of you were unlucky enough to score a chatty driver. "How about the girl beside you? Is she your sister?" the man asks intrusively, and a nervous chuckle escapes both of your lips.
"No, she's uhh - my girlfriend." Max confirmed proudly, wrapping his free hand around you. "That very nice," the man nodded his head - trying to get out of a conversation that he started.
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leclercuniverse16: ya'll...check channel 4 💀
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arthurleclercsupporter1192: YA'LL CHANNEL 4 IS LIVE??? HOW DID REDBULL APPROVE THIS?? HOW DID MAX VERSTAPPEN'S PR TEAM APPROVE THIS??? HOW DID Y/N LECLERC'S PR TEAM APPROVE THIS?? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS
charles16ismydaddy: what is going on? i don't have ch 4 - arthurleclercsupporter1192: they were doing one of those gags where they prank celebrities and MAX VERSTAPPEN went inside the taxi with Y/N LECLERC AND HE SAID "No she's my gf" LIKE
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LandoNorris
"Y/n what was that?"
Y/N:
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landaurrnorris12: lando wtf is this 😭 - LandoNorris: had to jump on it before charles finds out
bellawherehaveubeenloca: TELL CARLOS TO TELL CHARLES - LandoNorris: I think Checo would appreciate having a teammate that's alive ✌🏼
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"I'm sorry, I think I took the wrong turn." the taxi driver apologizes, quickly pulling up a paper map from his pocket. "It's totally fine," you smiled at him, playing Helix Jump on your cellphone. He begins driving towards an empty field - to the right place.
"I'm sorry but I got to take a wee," the man apologizes again and your boyfriend agrees; mumbling something along the lines that he understands. Once the taxi driver was out of the car, Max began to panic. "Where are you going?" you ask and he opens the door.
"I think we should get out," he informed you, taking your seatbelt off. "Why?" you inquire - caught in headlights in the sight of danger. "There might be a bomb here," he explained and your eyebrows merged into each other. "Like assassins sent by Ferrari or something," you attempt to lighten the situation but ultimately - the both of you exit the vehicle.
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Wildunchartedwatteers
Charles getting out of his car to find Max and Y/N
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Y/NL/NWORLDGOSSIP
"Assasins sent by ferrari" Nooooo the enemy (Max Emillian Verstappen) has brainwashed you!!
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After a long ride - you finally reached your destination. Max made sure that you were the first person to exit the car. "What's with the cameras?" the man asked while helping your boyfriend take a few of the remaining luggage inside the car. "Umm I don't know - probably something about a documentary," he shrugged, telling the cameras to leave you out of the frame.
"Wait really? Really?" the man repeated the question while taking his disguise off. An amused chuckle exits your lips - he was one of the interviewers for the sports channel. "Fucking hell mate," Max laughed, realizing that it was a setup. "I thought that you were some creep," he grinned while scratching the back of his head.
"He was prepared to run away," you say from behind the camera. "I hope it's fine that I exposed your relationship," the man apologized - quickly telling Max that it wasn't part of the plan. "Nah, you're fine mate - we've been meaning to tell the public anyways." he comforted - freezing once he sees the faint figure of your brother running towards the both of you.
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rileyslibrary · 10 months
Text
No fun allowed.
Based on this idea from anon: Can you feel that? A heat wave is washing over the 141 base. Who wants to do training at 35 degrees and counting? No one but Ghost of course... Maybe it's time for some fun summer activities instead? How about some beach volleyball in the sandpit where they blow up explosives? Fruit salad from a helmet anyone? Can our stoic lieutenant be convinced to enjoy this sunny day with the team?
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You were all melting in the heat today, but the lieutenant insisted on continuing the training.
Even the medics stepped in. They tried to emphasise the dangers of heat stroke, but Ghost dismissed their credibility and accused them of slacking off, claiming that he’s been through worse.
That’s right—he has been through worse. So why should you have to go through the same?
Without anyone else to turn to, you collectively decided to snitch on him and inform Price, hoping he’d be the most sensible of the two.
Being the man he is, the captain came up with a solution to please both parties—Yes, you would continue your training, but with water guns instead. This way, you could cool off from the heat while following Ghost’s training routine.
And so it happened—water guns, balloons, sprinklers, and inflatable pools were brought to the base and set up around the training grounds to simulate a field exercise.
The lieutenant wasn’t happy, but then again, when was he ever?
“This is bloody orange, and these look like fucking Skittles,” he moaned, looking at the water blasters and pointing at the balloons, “how are we going to blend in with these?”
You tried to reason with him, explaining that the bright colours would add to the difficulty since you would all have to work harder to camouflage yourselves. And, although he didn’t accept the idea in the way most people tend to change their minds, he stopped complaining.
Everyone changed in their summer attire except for the lieutenant, of course, who didn’t remove anything from his body. Not even his gloves. You asked him why he was still clinging to all that gear and pointed at a flare in his tactical vest, claiming it was unnecessary. He clarified that it wasn’t a flare but an Evian water facial spray. His response made you laugh, and in return, he made you drop and give him fifty push-ups.
And so the “training” began, and it was nothing like your lieutenant had hoped for. You were all deliberately blasting water guns at each other while staying within the sprinkler’s range to keep cool. Ghost soon lost his patience—if he had any—and chased around whoever dared to laugh or show any hint of joy, yelling things like, “Stop laughing, ya focken muppets,” and “This is serious; why can’t you take it the way is intended to be?”
And this went on and on until the water fight turned into a game of cops and robbers. Or, more like, one cop and many robbers, with Ghost chasing soldiers around and you treating him as the enemy.
And he loved it. Finally, he did.
Look at him now; so happy and running around, trying to catch you. He corners you inside a mock house, and you can see traces of his smile through the damp cloth covering his face. You desperately try to escape his grasp, but you’re too slippery. He lifts you up and tosses you over his shoulder. You scream and laugh simultaneously, and he responds with a menacing chuckle. He carries you to the centre of the training grounds and throws you in one of the inflatable pools—his “prison cells,” as he now calls them.
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sexydoffyman · 7 months
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Hi! So this is my first time requesting,, I have COD brain rot and I had this idea I thought you might like.
Forced proximity with Simon ghost Riley x male reader :D!!
If it’s spicy I’d absolutely love hair pulling and soft praise,, reader being bottom please! I don’t mind if it’s smut or not tho 🫶
IN THE TRUNK
navigation
genre: smut
A/N: Sup. I did the praise thing, but I couldn't find a way to add the hair-pulling. Enjoy! 🦆
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You guys were on a mission together. Everything went well until it didn't. One of the soldiers got wounded and wasn't able to run. And with Ghost in charge of the mission, the rule "No man left behind" was never forgotten.
Ghost picked the wounded soldier up, but by that time, the enemy soldiers had caught up. Everyone scattered. Soon, there was no other option than to abort the mission.
Ghost commanded the team to run to the trucks that were hidden in a nearby forest. He threw the soldier to someone else and started looking for you. Hoping you were left unharmed.
He only met you a couple of days ago, but you caught his eye. You were an important asset to the team. You were smaller, so you could sneak around better and fit through places no one else could. You were also an amazing strategist and interrogator.
And for some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off you.
The way your smaller, flexible body moved when you dodged knife throws. The way you looked at him when everything was going exactly how it was supposed to go. The way you laid your head on his shoulder when you were exhausted.
You quickly found yourself messing with his pheromones. He felt like he needed to have you in his grasp and he didn't understand why. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to taste you. He wanted to make sure you are alright.
Your small size also resulted in you being a little slower than the others. He was aware of that, so he wasn't surprised when you had trouble catching up with the rest of the team.
He ran to you and picked you up bridal style. He ran fast even when carrying you. You being smaller helped him a lot since you were also lighter. He ran with you, seeing the last truck waiting for him and anyone else.
A few soldiers jumped into the car, and Ghost signaled the driver to start moving. The truck slowly took off as Ghost caught up with it, opening the trunk and jumping in it with you in his arms.
You closed the trunk from the inside. Ghost looked at you while gasping for air. You gave him a sweet smile knowing that the whole team is safe. "That damn smile." He thought. That damn smile that messed with him so much.
He squeezed into a slightly larger part of the trunk. You both look at each other awkwardly, not really knowing what to say. Ghost had his leg in front of him, managing to hide his erection. He would be really embarrassed if you caught him thinking like that about you.
The truck ran over a rather large speed bump. You were almost thrown at Ghost ending in your back smacked against his abs. You ended up being pushed into his lap by the way the truck moved.
There, you felt it. You felt the bulge in Ghost's pants. He wanted to get you off him to avoid being embarrassed even more. Instead, he grabbed your waist and pushed you closer to him. He knew the truck would still be moving rather roughly, and he didn't want you to get injured.
When the ride calmed down again you looked at him. "Don't talk about it." He almost barked out. "Being distracted like this won't do you any good in the field, sir." "Would you want me to help you out?"
He was blushing hard under his mask. "Sergeant, I am in no way attracted to you." He said defensively. "Then why are still holding me?" You questioned. He would think that you were teasing him, but your innocent eyes made him realize that you were genuine.
He sighed "Pants down, sergeant!" He commanded. "You're lucky these trunks are soundproof." He muttered against your neck. You slipped your pants down to your thighs he followed your movements.
"You sure you can take this?" He asked, grabbing your hips with the hand that was over you. "Yes, sir!" You answered and adjusted your body so he could slide his other arm under you and push you closer to his chest.
He didn't wait a second when he got an agreement out of you and thrusted his dick straight into your ass. You gave out a little whimper. He grabbed your chin to look away from him. You wondered why he did that only to feel his lips on your neck.
He took off his mask to kiss you.
Your stomach filled with butterflies as he started thrusting into you roughly. With each thrust, you let out a whimper. He stretched you out so good. "Good boy... keep... making those sounds." He stuttered struggling.
He didn't know it would feel so good. He just had to make sure you knew how happy he was. "You are such a good boy for me sergeant." "You feel so good." He was bruising your neck as he sucked on the skin.
He started hitting your prostate head-on which made you switch from whimpering to moaning. That made him go feral. He could feel himself getting close to seeing stars. He thrusted last time into you and filled you with his cum.
He didn't want to leave you unfinished, since you did so good. He grabbed your dick jerking it off until you came into his hand.
You both panted trying to catch your breaths. "Sergeant!" "Yes, sir?" "Just letting you know if I'm ever distracted again, I'll go straight to you."
You chuckled knowing that you signed up for a hell of a ride.
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bones4thecats · 3 months
Text
Adopting Their Fallen Enemy's Child (PT.1) ~ RoR/SnV x Child! Reader
Type of Writing: Poll Result Characters: Thor, Shiva, & Child! Reader Name: Adopting Their Fallen Enemy's Child (PT.1) Original Poll Link: Here Other Parts: (PT.2)
A/N: I actually really liked this idea on the poll I made, and I hope it turned out as good as I imagined it! Enjoy!!
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🌩️ Your father was the Lü Bu, the Flying General himself, and when you heard from the Valkyrie named Brunhilde that he was set to fight in the first match of Ragnarok, you gave him the best support he could’ve asked for
🌩️ You sat alongside his army, with his strategist, Chen Gong, sitting next to you, trying to keep you from jumping down and attacking the God of Thunder yourself
🌩️ When Chen Gong and the others sacrificed themselves, stating their loyalty to you father, you stood there in shock and tear-filled eyes as Thor looked at you, seeing a child without anyone left
🌩️ He felt guilty, but this was what they wanted, they wanted to join their lord, and while he initially wanted to just leave the area, he walked up to you and shocked the Gods and Humans as he kneeled down and hugged you
🌩️ After that day, you stayed by Thor’s side, he reminded you so much of your father it would make you cry
🌩️ Thor may not be the best person when it comes to comforting, but he tries his best when it comes to you, Lü Bu was the one person who could stand a fight against him, and because of this, he would try training you to be just as strong as your father and him
🌩️ He honors your father with you. Every day on his birthday, and on the days of each of his soldiers, including Chen Gong, you would walk into a field in the forest located in the Chinese section of Valhalla, you would both hand off flowers and lay them on the graves you and him had made
🌩️ The words he said to you when he comforted you that day are words that you will never forget
“ Your father was an honorable man, I hope you know that. And because of the honor he possessed, I will take you in as my own. I believe it is something that your father would’ve wanted. “
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🪩 He believed that Raiden was the one opponent he would remember the rest of his life, and when he saw the now-deceased rikishi stare at a young child with the two Valkyries, he froze
🪩 The man was a father, just like him
🪩 But while his child could handle loss of someone easily, you appeared to be around a young teen, this must’ve been one of the hardest things you ever had to witness
🪩 Shiva looked at you and back at the crumbling Raiden Tameemon, guilt filled his heart, which was something he hadn’t felt for such a long time, why did he feel guilty? He just won and brought honor to his pantheon!
🪩 Watching as you ran down and tried hugging the remaining pieces of your father just got him staring back at his wives and son, and when he saw how saddened their eyes were then they looked at you
🪩 The God of Destruction walked up to you and you jumped back when his one arm reached out to you, and that action made the Humans cry out for him to not hurt you
🪩 He kneeled down and since he was just on fire, the heat that radiated off of him made you hold your head away from him
“ Look at me, young one. “
🪩 You looked up at him and saw how his eyes shimmered with guilt, making you look at where your father once stood and back at the man who caused his demise
🪩 Shiva held is one arm back as you tried helping him stay standing when he slumped over in pain, after all, losing three arms doesn't exactly make anyone, including Gods, feel very good
🪩 Once you came to visit him with his wives and son, he saw how you carried yourself around him, not with resentment or fear, but with care and gentleness, making him smile
🪩 Whenever he rested, you laid next to him, you were like another child of his, and when he offered to take care of you in the Hindu Pantheon, it made you jump up and down and hug him and his wives as they agreed to taking you in as their own
“ Your father was one of the best fighters I have ever met in my thousands of years of life. And… seeing you look so painfully at where your father once stood, I just, I knew you had to have someone there for you. Would you do me, and my wives, the honor of joining our family? ”
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opultea · 9 months
Text
Where’s My Kiss? - 2
Genshin men see you kiss something, and can’t help but want one for themselves… ft. Gorou, Wanderer
GN Reader (No Pronouns) - Romantic - Drabbles - Fluff, Angst w/ fluff ending (Wanderer) - SFW (very slightly suggestive at the end of Gorou's)
Word Count: 1.6k
Part 1 - ft. Dottore, Zhongli
Guest Staring - Tawara! Camp dog of the Watastumi Resistance. (Featured in the 2023 birthday art for Gorou, check it out if you haven't seen it!)
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Gorou
The finality of the hard won end to the Vision Hunt Decree was an event celebrated by all of Inazuma, most of all the resistance of Watatsumi. Although despite the relief and happiness that the peace brought, there was also the struggle of readjustment. It was not easy coming down from the high tensions of war, and the army still had soldiers in excess. Many now contributed to the last relief efforts for struggling communities, and as reconnaissance units. This was the very task you and a very special operations officer were undertaking at present.
Tawara scouted ahead as you secured the empty battlefield. Many war torn plains were left with lasting remains of equipment and resources, of which you and your trusty camp dog were tasked with retrieving. Her Excellency wished to put the war in the past, and to move forward, there couldn’t be such reminders of the horrors endured during the time.
“Tawara! Where are you boy?” You called, hoping the sweet shiba hadn’t gone too far. A yip in the distance helped your eyes find the pup stood atop a small hill where the enemy camp would have been.
This particular battlefront had little left of the war, only a few broken weapons and cracked armour plates that weren’t considered worth salvaging when the camp was first emptied. You took stock of how much still lay in the field so you could get an accurate gauge of how many soldiers it would take to clean it up for good.
Tawara zipped down the hill and over to you, pressing his paw to your shin to gain your attention. Looking down, you smiled at the pup and the dendrobium he held in his mouth.
“For me?” Tawara carefully dropped the bloom at your feet and barked cheerfully, sitting and awaiting your reaction expectantly. “Aw, aren’t you just the sweetest,”
You knelt down and cooed at the camp dog’s cuteness, squishing his fluffy cheeks in your hands, causing Tawara’s tail to wag wildly behind him.
Plucking the dendrobium off the ground, you inspected the deep red bloom before your gaze drifted across the still-dead grass of the field. New shoots of green could be seen dotting the dry dirt, but there was no mistaking the ground flattened by the feet of soldiers. Perhaps Her Excellency would approve planting some dendrobiums in the field to restore and improve the area.
“You’re a true genius Tawara,” you smiled, smoothing the fur on his head with a well-deserved pat. You went a step further with your affections, clasping Tawara's face in your hands again to press a gentle kiss on his left and then his right ear, before landing one on his snout. You laughed as the pup licked your cheek in return.
Little did you know that another loving pupper was watching the whole affair with unidentified jealousy and a fluttering heart.
Gorou had been notified of your mission long before you set out to complete it, being the general. Although he admittedly preferred when the actions assigned to you could be carried out alongside him, or at least within the campgrounds. Being apart was never easy, even when he knew you would return eventually.
Today Gorou had been lucky enough to finish his reports early and decided that his free time may as well have been used to help you with your mission. He had no doubt in your abilities, but Gorou tended to miss you quickly, so you often received a helping hand from the doggy general even when you didn't need one.
Rounding the hill close to the old front, Gorou felt a streak of unease being back in a place where he had fought so viscously, but it was all washed away as soon as he saw you. His tail began to sway as he approached, watching you smile and interact with Tawara. Then he saw it.
Gorou’s left and then right ear twitched in unison with your kisses, his mouth agape and face flushed. You had never kissed his ears before. The general's ears continued to twitch as he imagined your lips touching them, the images in his mind sending another round of fluttering to his heart.
As Gorou stood frozen and red hot at the edge of the field, Tawara eventually noticed him, barking in recognition and bounding over to greet his superior officer. You followed closely behind, equally happy to find that your boyfriend had come to see you.
"Gorou! Done with your work already?" He didn't hear your question until he shook himself from his stupor. "You okay honey? You're all red,"
"Y-yes!" The confusion on your face caused Gorou's pause, his body fidgeting and eyes trying to latch onto something that could ground his thoughts. "I just, umm... do you think I could... no, never mind."
"Gorou," you gently took his cheek in your hand, placing the other on his chest. "We've talked about this; you know I'll never judge you for anything,"
Ears coming to lay on his head Gorou nodded, still blushing wildly as he finally found the courage to make his request.
"Could you... kiss my ears?"
You cooed quietly, heart overflowing with love for your sweet partner but trying not to embarrass him further. Taking his hands in your own, you kiss Gorou's ears twice each, trying not to giggle at the way they twitched each time.
As you brought yourself away, Gorou whimpered faintly, likely not on purpose.
"Come on, let's head back to camp. I have a report to give for this reconnaissance mission, and you have more kisses to gain, perhaps somewhere more private?"
You smiled demurely as Gorou blushed, swiftly nodding his head and following you and Tawara back to the camp with anticipation.
Wanderer
Now renowned scholar ‘Hat Guy’ was currently in class, despite his vehement protests towards attending formal lectures, leaving you alone in the home to tidy up the shared space.
Lesser Lord Kusanali had seen your relationship bloom since the beginning, before even either of you had seen it. She was immensely pleased that the previously misanthropic puppet had grown to love another, and once informed of the official announcement of your relationship, she generously allowed the Wanderer to move from the Sanctuary Surasthana to a home of her choosing close by. It was a quaint and quiet home, but both of you cherished the space. It was a place you could just be together, and need nothing more. Because of this, you took great pride in making sure the home remained a place of respite, and so liked to keep it tidy.
Deciding to start with the laundry, you gathered a basket and went to the bedroom to gather anything in need of washing. Humming a little to yourself, you plucked the pillows off the bed, thinking of washing the cases, when a little thud on the ground came as you lifted your partners pillow.
Curious, you knelt to inspect the thing that had fallen. What was he hiding in his pillow? Kuni certainly wasn’t the type to believe in improving his sleep by hiding trinkets under his head. However, what you discovered made you gasp. On the floor lay the tiny cotton doll resembling Kunikuzushi, its beaded eyes reflecting its obvious displeasure with having taken such a fall.
Tenderly, you took the doll in your hand and stroked its head as you would with Kunikuzushi. Why was it here? You had only ever seen the doll once or twice when Kunikuzushi had readjusted his sleeves or changed shirts, but you knew that he always carried the cotton companion with him. Running your hand gently across the doll, you felt a snag on its back. Turning it over revealed a tear in the seam, a puff of cotton poking out its spine.
“Oh, poor thing,” you muttered, rising slowly while you cradled the doll like a babe. “Let’s get you patched up.”
Collecting a sewing kit from the drawer and sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, you let the doll rest on your lap as you prepared. Gently, as if it could feel your stitching, you mended the fabric. You smiled as you steadily sewed. It made you happy to think you could help Kuni this way, even if he had tried to hide the issue under his pillow.
Kuni has always been private, even with your long-standing relationship it wasn’t easy for him to show such vulnerability. But this doll was his vulnerability, a piece of him he showed almost no one. It was fulfilling to aid it.
Pulling the thread tight, you tied it off and admired your handy work, turning the doll over to greet it again,
“There, all better.” You landed a tender kiss on the top of its head, sealing all your love and care into its plush fabric.
A small choke brought your head up, allowing you to see your partner standing in the doorway, a rare kind of apprehension etched upon him. Your eyes caught each others, astir in stagnant bodies. Kunikuzushi's hand trembled on the doorframe, mouth open as if trying to form words he didn't know.
Through the silence, you lifted a slow hand, extended and opened with a hopeful invitation. The puppet approached, taking your hand and the seat beside you. No words were spoken as you gently lowered his head into your lap, letting his body lie across the bed and his arms wrap around the mended doll. As tears began to shake from Kunikuzushi’s face, you leaned down to press kisses to his head, caressing his hair and allowing him to finally feel the pain and vulnerability that had always ached in the space where his heart should have been.
"Thank you, for daring to love all of me," The shaking whisper stirred the greatest sense of care in your heart.
"You have never deserved anything less,"
The response brought him to sit up, clasping his body around yours as he continued to wring tears into your shoulder.
Perhaps it was not often that Kunikuzushi showed his vulnerability, but you could never stand to mind. Not when these tender moments were so treasured. Besides, you knew well that you would take anything he gave you. You were ready to love it all.
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agapantoblu · 3 months
Text
There should be cheering. It is all Arthur can think about, that there should be cheering, that the people are moving on the stands, shaking, jumping, waving, they bend forth with their mouths open, so by all reasons, there should be cheering.
All he hears, is the thumping of his own heart in his skull, grave enough to rattle his teeth.
Guinevere is helping him with his armor, because all others who tried he'd shunned away with shouts and insults. He's not any happier with her, but he would never dare addressing her in such manner so he's having to tolerate the warmth of her fingers scalding his skin, the strength of her tugs shaking his organs like carrots in a sack.
"Arthur-" she tries to say and he shuts her up with an overbearing hand.
"Sword," he doesn't ask, doesn't say please or thank you, and Guinevere is too aware of the eyes on them to take him to task right now.
Merlin would have, but Merlin is not here now.
Rather, he is, Arthur can see the mop of his black hair as clear as day, because for all he's standing on the opposite side of the pitch he's not wearing an helmet. Nor a chainmail, it seems, nor a husberg or a leather armor, he doesn't even appear to be carrying a sword for fuck's sake. Some Champion he is, in a ratted jacket and loose breeches, with his stupid little neckerchief.
All he has is a shield and it's painted with a dragon and Arthur seethes at the mere sight because that is not his dragon, not the golden creature on Camelot red. It is, rather, a deep red on a dark blue field; curled in a circle and biting its own tail.
He didn't even knew they still had weapons with the Dragonlords' insigna on them. Geoffrey must have dug around for hours to find it, and that is telling enough on his hopes for this match. So long as Uther doesn't find out.
Guinevere is not Merlin: she doesn't know when to scold him regardless of public, doesn't know how to tease him to soothe the pre-battle jitters, doesn't have words of unexpected wisdrom to rain upon him when the figure of his father gets blurried in his head. Still, she shares his talent for incessant nervous blabbering: "If that's really his father, how could he not-"
"That-" Arthur cuts her off, turning his eyes away from his opponent to rest on the pyre erected in the middle of the field, right in front of the royal stand. To the man chained in Cold Iron on top of it, standing with his back against the pole, "-is an enemy of Camelot."
"He sent the dragon away, Arthur! He kept his end of the bargain! This is not right, you have to know-"
"I don't have to know anything," he hisses, turning fast on her before any of the guards by his tent hear her words and call for treason. He rips the helmet from her hands rather roughly, only to try and not meet her eyes when they are so full of sadness and disappointment. "I have to protect my kingdom, that is all."
He leaves the tent before she can utter a single breath more.
It shouldn't come as a suprise, because Balinor - around the fire of their camp two days from Camelot - told him this would happen, Merlin - refusing to leave after being dismissed after dinner the night before they faced the dragon - told him this would happen, Leon - when asked for private council - told him this would happen, and yet.
Arthur is so taken aback he can do nothing but drown in a sudden onslaught of shame that ran over him as his father's words echoed in the war chamber.
"Arrest the sorcerer."
Balinor, for his part, doesn't even change expression. He stands in the middle of the room, the savior of Camelot from the rage of the dragon, and lets mere soldiers clap him on iron. All the time, he stares at Uther in the eyes as if looking for something.
"The first time, I blamed your cruelty on grief," he says. "The second, I assumed madness. But now, for this breach of the knight code and all laws of chivarly, I can only say, you are a dishonorable man, Uther Pendragon."
Arthur feels the flush climbing up his cheeks, to his hairline.
"I am King of Camelot, I do what I have to ensure the safety of my people," Uther counters, and Arthur wants for nothing more than to beg him to be quiet. "I don't expect a beast like you to understand the greater calling of a sovreign."
"Is that how Camelot shows her gratitude, then? Do you suppose you will gain many allies, once the word spreads of how you reward them?"
"You are no ally of mine!" Uther screams ring against the walls and the windows and every inch of Arthur's skin. Calmer, more poisonously, "You, and your kind, are a plague upon my land."
"Yet I sat in your Council, once. You listened to my advice. I ruled over lands in your name." Balinor has not moved of an inch. He stands tall and straight and proud. There is only enough honour for one man in this room, and it is clear to whom it belongs. "Now you will not even grant me the right of single combat to defend myself?"
"You are a sorcerer, you lost that right a long time ago. We both know you'd use magic to cheat your way out of your sentence."
"But he did not lose the right to name a Champion in his place."
Arthur's eyes snap to the side, though he needs no confirmation, he's way too attuned to the voice, too familiar with the tone of unbridled impudence, the pitch of judgemental insubordination.
Merlin is looking at Uther alone, though, in a way that is a bit too deliberate, a bit too strained not to meet Arthur's gaze.
Balinor, for the first time, looks away from the Pendragons. His eyes settle on the boy with severity. "You need not doing this, Merlin."
"I really do," Arthur's idiotic friend replies, stepping away from the line of servants waiting by the wall and colums, standing tall as if on par with all the men that now look at him in disbelief. He takes place in front of Balinor, just a step to the left, and faces off the king just recklessly.
"Think well of what you're about to do, boy." Uther speaks in a voice that is deep and low, soaked in poison. "You might be Gaius' but that will not help you if you stand against me."
Merlin remains unshaken in front of the danger. Like an oak of centuries old, he has roots deep into the stone and his skin is thicker than all the blades in the king's glare. "I am Merlin of Ealdor, son of Balinor of Ambrosius, and I will stand as my father's Champion in his trial by single combat. That is-" he doesn't look at Arthur, won't look his way if the ceiling fell on him, "-unless the King of Camelot is too scared of a serving boy to accept the challenge, or he's sunk so low as to ignore his own laws as much as the rules of knighthood."
There are easier ways, Arthur wants to yell at him, to get himself killed. Simpler, quicker, cleaner ways. Less painful ways. There is no need to go and make a furious boar out of the king.
Not that it would work. Merlin makes an art of rebelling against any and all forms of authorities he can meet.
It takes Arthur a long time to realise. Just about enough for the king to yell and scream in outrage and for the councilmen to tentatively push for the solution that spares Camelot a crumb of honour and for Balinor and Merlin to be taken away to the dungeons and for Geoffrey to announce to the crowd that the duel will be held on the morrow at dawn. In fact, Arthur only figures it out when he is standing in the middle of the war room, the king's hand on his shoulder as he hisses in his ear that he better not have known of this, he better show his loyalty on the field tomorrow, he better prove to the people that the Pendragons stand united as King and Prince Champion, when it comes to him.
Merlin of Ealdor, son of Balinor of Ambrosius. A bastard's name still, but a father's acknowledgement nonetheless.
The man that saved Camelot and now rots in chains for it, is Merlin's long lost father.
They don't meet in the middle because Merlin is not as mentally addled as everybody seems to think.
Arthur charges, of course, but rather than face the humiliation of trying to hold him at bay with the shield, Merlin does the smart thing and ducks. Then ducks again. Jumps to the side to avoid a fendent from up high, and almost stumbles to pull back from a lounge.
Arthur's eyes are cold through the helmet's line and his teeth are clenched, but Merlin can hardly believe the rage painted there when he can see every attack coming.
He's trained with Arthur plenty of times, he knows his speed as well as any of his knights. The first times, when Arthur was still trying to get him to quit the job, Merlin had suffered the onslaught of his "practice" absolutely helplessly, just taking hit after hit that came too fast for him to react. Later, after one more bandit attack where Merlin refused to run and instead risked his life to keep to his lord's side, Arthur had decided to train him more properly, not certainly as a knight - he was far too old for that - but enough to earn himself some time in a fight.
This duel feels much more like those training days, with Arthur forcing himself into slowness just to give Merlin time to learn the motions and the tempo of a fight.
Arthur slams his sword downward and Merlin jumps to the side just in time to avoid it, but then the prince is on him, slamming into his shieldless side, and Merlin would fall on his arse for all of Camelot to see if not for the arm that sneaks around his, for the hand that grabs his and brings it forcefully to the hilt of the sword.
Grunts and shakes make it look like the blade is stuck in the sand, but Merlin can feel it move meekly to every small gesture of his or Arthur's and knows that it's perfectly free. So closely huddled, with their backs to the stands, it must look like they're figting for the one weapon available, which truly is a smart move on Merlin's part, he should have thought about it himself.
He had not given this whole thing much thought, in fact, strategically speaking. When Geoffrey had brought him his family's shield, he'd taken it mostly because he felt bad saying he didn't really need it.
Truly, the fight has been going on far longer than it ought to, all considered, but Arthur had thrown himself into it so fast and so fiercely Merlin had understood. The shadow of doubt must hang over the prince, now that his closest servant turned out to be a sorcerer's son: everyone in the castle knew and spoke of the unnatural closeness between men of such different ranks they ought to barely speak with each other; now they must also gossip about what the prince knew, what he'd allowed to happen in his father's castle, whether he himself had been involved in magic.
If they had not spoken the word out loud yet in coucil, it must have been whispered in the corridors plenty of times already.
Treason.
So, really, this is all for Arthur's benefit. Merlin was going to let him look good, like he's fighting with all his might and the evil, evil sorcerer in the end had no choice but to resort to magic to win a battle where he was so utterly overpowered.
The problem is, Arthur is not.
"What are you doing?!" Merlin hisses, pushing him with his hip even though he bets the chainmail won't let the other feel more than a vague push.
"Trying to keep that addled head of yours attached to your neck," Arthur growls back. "You bloody idiot, try and make it look real when you take the sword from me, will you? Or I'll be hanging right by your side, next."
There are plenty insults Merlin wants to offer the absolute buffoon who decided that a few looks and a handful of slowed-down lounges counted as sharing a plan, but all that climbs out his throat is a single, "Prat," and it sounds awfully fond as well.
Arthur elbows him in the chest - too hard for pretence, truly - and Merlin realises he'd dropped his shoulders in relief. He clenches all himself right back.
He knows this position, they trained in it often years ago, so he knows how to twist his leg around Arthur's, how to trip him backward using his height as advantage on the prince's sturdier bulk. It is the perfect moment to take the sword, pretend to free it from the sand, and point it at Arthur's throat. The duel is last blood or surrender, but no one expects the heir to the throne to die like this, they all will want him to yield rather than to die, and Arthur will smart in shame at being beat by a servant for a while, but he will live. That is, if Uther forgives him this failure, if he believes this charade at all.
Merlin is not willing to take the bet. It might be his father up there, but it's his friend, his king, his destiny all up against his body and he's not risking him for an easier escape.
Not to mention, Arthur assumes Uther will honour the fight's result just because there is an audience, while Merlin knows better than that.
He makes a show of coughing from the elbow, and stumbles back a few steps, leaving the sword where it is.
Arthur has the cold blood of a snake when he fights, so he remembers to make it look like he's unsticking the blade before turning to Merlin, but when their eyes meet his are full of melting rage. "What are you doing?!" he roars, and the people will hear him, but none will guess what it is really about. They must think the prince is calling him not to run.
Merlin shakes his head just once, subtly. "Sorry, Arthur," he says, louder. "That's your father and this is mine. Nothing more than that." We're okay, he hopes it's gotten through, I don't blame you. None of this is on you, and your father's shame is not for you to atone.
Then he tosses his head back, and he screams into the skyes.
A Dragonlord's gift passes down father to son upon death, but somewhere, in a tower that Merlin can see in his head but never gazed with his eyes, there is an egg that needs hatching. Normally, it would take close proximity and years of studying and then more of practicing, to hatch and raise and train a dragon, but, well. Merlin is a bit more than a simple Dragonlord, in the end.
He feels the shell slipping off his shoulders, sees the light unshielded for the first time; he learns what air feels like under his wings and he finds East from West and starts going.
Arthur is still looking at him, but now he's blanched. Merlin hears the echoes of his last words fade into the air, and it sounds like an animal growling more than anything a human could make.
The stands are quiet and still now. The air trembles for a second.
Uther jumps to his feet. "He's a sorcerer as well! Guards!"
A screech wrecks the air.
Arthur ducks instinctively, but the speck of snow white light that barrels towards the arena is not aimed at him.
Merlin stares at the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life, as she barrels into his father's pyre and snaps her jaws shut on his chains, crushing Cold Iron like it's nothing. "Aithusa!" he calls, and his dragon - his, he's, his, he's hers - turns his way and screams again.
Balinor pulls his arms apart wide, turns his head to the sky and roars.
Merlin had heard him call for Kilgarrah once already, when he stopped the dragon from slaughtering Camelot, but the feeling of awe and wonder that takes him is as strong as the first time.
In a breath, the creature that had been ordered to seek refuge in the North, in the ancient lands of his kin, is back into the city and the people are reminded of why, exactly, Uther had to bend and call for help from a sorcerer.
Arthur is between them now, between Merlin and his father, and there are two dragons at his back but he turns to his old friend instead, eyes wide and mouth thinned.
Merlin gulps once. In the chaos of people screaming and running and soldiers breaking into the arena, he dares to say out loud, "I'm not letting him hurt you."
He's not talking about his own father or the Great Dragon, he hopes Arthur knows.
His magic surges, and he grabs the prince just to toss him to the side, so hard he lands several steps away and rolls the rest to the wooden wall of the arena.
If Merlin gauged right he shouldn't have broken anything, but it will hurt tomorrow and a few days after too.
Aithusa jumps his way. She's a spry thing the size of a lazy housecat and Merlin opens his arms to let her land against his chest. He reaches his father holding her as close as he can, and the man grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him up unto the stage of his executional pyre. "Arms around my waist, hold on with your thigh, don't let go for anything. Clear?"
"Yes," Merlin barely has time to say, because Kilgarrah lands in the sand and ducks his head so low his throat caresses the ground. Balinor drags them both to jump on the dragon's neck, and the landing is rough, good goddess Merlin needs sturdier pants than these, but in a moment they are flying and he is, in fact, too busy trying to hold on to think of much else.
The chaos dims in a second. In a few more, Camelot is as big as a pebble and it's impossible to tell where the people end and the houses begin. Merlin counts to a hundred and it's fully gone, just green land and dark forest and brown mountains.
"You were right," Balinor says, when Merlin finally stops looking back and hides his face in his father's coat, feeling the poke of his shoulderblades and wishing it was the softness of his mother instead. "He is a good man, your prince. One day, he will be a good king."
Merlin doesn't tell him, how will he get there without me?, because that would be arrogant, but he cannot stop the thorned vines that begin to coil around his chest.
Aithusa wriggles out of his grip, jumps and starts flying at their side with a cheerful chirp.
They are eight long months.
They are trapped and outnumbered. Arthur knows Leon won't say it out loud, but if his father allied with Cenred and Alined, already having Olaf and Odin on his side, there is hardly any other outcome to this war.
Queen Annis and King Bayard take the news in stoically. Arthur would feel shame for the way his face falls at the messenger's report, but at the moment all he feels is cold and numb.
The enemy troops are at the horizon and the sun is rising. Winter is at the door and the air is already crisp with chilly wind, but not so much as to freeze the ground under their feet. After the rain of the past few days, it is all mud and it will make for an horrible terrain to fight and slip and die on.
"Steady on, young Pendragon." Annis' words are harsh, but her voice is not and her hand on his shoulder is as firm as it's warm. "These men followed you past the line of duty and into treason. Do not let them see you falter now."
"We have not much time to make a decision," Bayard adds. He's right, of course, because the troops with the red capes of Camelot are already in full sight and will be on them come morning. According the messenger, it won't be futher than midmorning that the troops from Essetir descend on them from the other side, from the Eastern path that Arthur hoped to use for retreat. At their back now stand just steep mountains and there is nowhere left to run, nor time to relocate, to try and lead the battle somewhere more suited.
"I didn't think-" he cuts himself. No one thought he'd get two well affirmed kings to side with him either, when he left Camelot in disgrace after turning against his father, yet here he is. Three, if one counts Nemeth, but their troops are facing Odin's in the Valley of the Fallen Kings.
"Your father knows you have the people one your side," Bayard scoffs, as if in disgust. "He needs snuffing your rebellion out as fast as possible, before winter comes. If he doesn't, the villagers will starve as a consequence of this war and come spring there will be many more willing to join your fight against him."
"But Cenred, he's...bloodthirsty. Hungry for power. He cares not for his people, nor for his soldiers, only to push his borders further. Who knows what he asked for in exchange of his allegiance!"
Silence meets his exclamation because they all see the truth that he doesn't dare to vouch: that his father is prone to madness, and that the same cruelty he showed magic users after the loss of his queen, he's now turning upon his son.
"My people will fight," Annis says. "They are fierce and they will take down many, but I won't delude myself into thinking we can end the battle against Camelot before Essetir arrives."
"They pushed us into a dead end," Bayard nods. He doesn't seem overly worried, Arthur thinks, and it must appear on his face because the older king sighs. "It was a possibility, Arthur. We considered it, when we chose to come at Camelot from the West. We thought we had prevailed upon that risk when we struck bargain with Nemeth, but it was nonetheless something we foresaw could happen."
It is not said out loud, but they are leaving the final choice to him. Because this is his land, because it is his people, and because the enemy on the other side is his father. He wishes they'd stop. He's twenty-eight, and they are, what, forty and fifty? This is the first campaign he runs himself, and most of the advisors he'd listened to his whole life remained in Camelot, loyal to their king.
"This is shaping up to be a slaughter," he speaks into the air, because they are all thinking it and it is not his habit to hide behind a single finger in hope not to see the monster coming. "We have to consider the option, for it will save most of our people,-" fuck, it burns in his throat, the word itself, "-of surrendering."
Neither of the other rulers seem as ashamed as he feels bringing it up. Bayard nods at him. "You will not find reproach from me, for considering this. There is no shame in yielding, when it spares many lives. I will not oppose, if this is what you choose, but it must be your choice indeed, Arthur."
"Why?" he can't help but snap. "You have as many men in this as I do! Even more so!"
"Because unless I die today on the field, not much will happen to me by sundown," Bayard argues back, sharp and unforgiving. "Your father will demand a ransom to my sons, but he will eventually let me go. The same can be told about Queen Annis, for her people will pay to have her back if she is to be taken prisoner." Just a touch kinder, "It is a much different situation for you."
"You will die, Arthur, both if we lose and if we surrender." Annis waves away Leon's outraged objection. "Let us be very clear on the matter, because you are still young, and for many in youth death seems abstract and far away." She meets her eyes firmly, the wrinkles around her eyes making her look a lot like the nanny that used to rock Arthur to sleep as a baby, though he'd never say it to her face. "You have defied your father and attempted to take the throne. He cannot let you live, not even if you're his only heir."
"I might not be," Arthur interrupts her. "I'm told my father found a wife a couple weeks after my disertion. My spies say he brought her along to the campaigns for the first four months of war, then sent her back to the castle about eight weeks ago."
"You think he got her pregnant," Annis sumrises, and Arthur nods. "Then he won't hesitate, Arthur. He will make an example out of you, so that no one dares to rise against him again and that his new heir's succession remains unquestioned. It will be slow, and it will be painful, and it will be public."
"Your only chance at survival is fighting and winning." Bayard picks back up. "But that means, many men will die for your attempt at saving yourself."
"May I address the war council, sire," Leon interjects, jumping to his feet. The tent is so small his red curls brush against the top of it.
Arthur watches him hold himself back from just spitting what he wants to say, so much that he trembles with the effort. "Go on," he grants, just to ensure that he doesn't lose his best commander to a sudden burst of flames.
"Arthur is our king," Leon immediately says, aimed at the two rulers with little care for propriety. "We all knew the risk when we chose to follow him, and we knew what we were turning our backs on. This has not changed. We will fight for our king, because we believe him to be just and honourable and fair; all sorts of things that King Uther has never been." He turns to Arthur, eyes almost feverish with devotion. "I would rather die for you, than live another day under your father."
For a moment, there is silence in the tent. It is only broken when Annis chuckles gently. "And that, is why two old boars like us chose to side with a rebellious prince," she says, exchanging a knowing look with Bayard from above the flames of the brazier in the center of their circle. When she turns to Arthur, he finds her offputtingly serene, for a queen at the eve of battle. "That sort of loyalty is not easily inspired, Arthur. It is a rare gift, and you should think twice before throwing it to the wind."
"Shouldn't I reward it, though? Shouldn't I be as willing to die for them as my men are for me?" he asks, but it lacks conviction.
He's always been unsure of himself, since the day he turned his back on Camelot. He'd never known how much his courage depended on his father's approval until the day he lost it, but now he feels it in his chest, like coals breathing back to life. It is not his father's ever-fickle encouragement that sends the blood pumping in his veins; it's something much firmer and greater, that breaths asynchronous with each and every man outside his tent right now. It is the colour of Leon's eyes and Gwaine's hair and Elyan's skin and Percival's armour.
"Your men risked house and family to follow you here," Lancelot speaks up, even if he's not asked permission to, even if he stands at the tents flap as a post-guard and doesn't belong to the coincil itself. Arthur placed him there for a reason, and the man knows it. The faith in his expression is impossible to miss, especially when he looks at Arthur head on, unimpeded from class difference. "They will not be grateful to you, if you tell them it was for nothing without even giving them a chance to earn the promise they saw in your leadership."
"But they will be thankful for a chance to be slaughtered in my name?" Arthur returns, but it sounds humorous to his own ears. Apparently, he already has the answer in two of his most loyal.
"Yes, Sire," Leon doesn't hesitate.
"It is the oath that we swore," Lancelot adds. "It wasn't taken lightly, my lord."
Arthur looks at them one more moment, looks at his friends in the pale blue livery with the white dove. In his head, he swears he will see them back in red and gold one day.
He turns back to Annis and Bayard. "If you will trust me one more day, I will ride out at dawn for my people's freedom once again," he decides. "I will not hold you to the oath of my knights, but-"
"Do not be stupid, little prince," Annis scoffs. "Caerleon's rulers never left the battlefield running in all history of the kingdom, I am not about to be the first."
"And I'm not about to be outshone by a woman and a boy," Bayard assures, somehow making the latter sound more like an insult than the first. "It is decided, then. We better give the men their orders. Dawn is not far out."
"No," Arthur agrees, rising to his feet as well and finding Leon's vambrace instinctively, a brother's silent thanks. Immediately after, he seeks Lancelot's. "Dawn is not far indeed."
Dawn comes, and the trumpets ring out.
No party rides out to meet them, and Arthur realises how foolish he'd been to think his father would give him the chance of surrendering. Annie was right: today is to become an example, for all that oppose Uther.
Arthur rides in the front, lifts his sword high to the pale blue skies and bellows out, heart and soul: "For the love of Camelot!"
After that, it's a confusing mess of metal and flesh.
At midmorning, Essetir is nowhere to be seen and the armies are pressing into each other. Uther's men are weary of Annis' warriors, and Bayard's slaughter Olaf's without hesitation. It is not to say that they are winning, not at all, but they are not defeated yet and it's more than anyone thought when the sun rose.
Four hours into battle, Arthur's body begins to seize. He's tired beyond anything he's ever felt and he's getting sluggish. What keeps him alive is merely that his enemy is equally worn down, and soon enough it will be down to luck, who lives and who dies.
Luck runs out and Arthur loses his sword, slipped out of his grip from the blood that's running down his arm, when his back is against a rock wall. Four enemies surround him, and he thinks an apology to Leon and Lancelot for failing their trust.
He doesn't close his eyes, which is stupid but he refuses to give them the satisfaction. It is also why he sees the speck of red coming, before he hears the screech.
A sound like striding metal curls the bones inside him, and the soldiers around him jerk and turn, yelling various things that end up swallowed by the roar of the flames.
Arthur watches them burn, taken back, and then there's a crashing thud above him. He looks up, past the falling dust and debris, and sure enough hanging on the rock wall, tail up and long neck stretched down towards the field to scream again, is the Great Dragon.
Arthur's knees tremble, but he couldn't even tell if from fear or exhaustion.
There, on the dragon's neck, finally outfitted in some proper chainmail and leather armour, is a familiar assembling of sharp cheekbones, messy dark hair, and earnest blue eyes. Familiar lips shape in his name, and Arthur realises, the battle has gone quiet.
Merlin nods once, hands tight on his dragon, and looks at him expectantly.
Arthur turns around. The four men, and many others in a line behind them, are dead. The rest have stilled, enemies and allies alike, to stare in frozen horror at the creature that towers upon them all.
It is fairly clear what Merlin awaits from him - it's familiar, in fact, almost like second nature.
He digs the sword out of the mud, tightens his fingers on the hilt as much as he can bear and finally rises it again for all to see. "For the love of Camelot," he whispers, mostly to himself, before letting the blade fall and bellow the order: "Fire!"
Merlin roars something in that strange roaring language of his, and the dragon complies.
Everything becomes fire and ashes.
At midday, the battle is over and Essetir has not arrived yet, but smoke rises in the East now and Arthur understands why it took Merlin four hours to join the fray.
Now though, with the men cheering in victory outside, with the shadow of ruination banished for a bit, Arthur doesn't find himself happy or even relieved. He's angry in a way he's rarely ever been before.
Leon, who is a smart man, has food brought to his tent and leaves Arthur well alone, keeping a good wide berth of his quarters at all times. The men and the other rulers either follow his example or his advice.
All but one, of course, but that's fine because Arthur has owed him a good punch for months now.
Merlin falls in a heap right at the tent's entrance, where Arthur descended on him like a hawk, and holds his yaw with one hand. When he doesn't immediately rise again, Arthur yells at his neck. "Get up! If you're a lord and a knight, get up and fight back, you coward!"
"But if I'm a servant, it is not my place to question my master's choice of discipline," Merlin retorts, and it's so dully spoken Arthur recoils from the words.
"Shut up!" he orders, but it's too close to the way they were before, too intimate, so he turns and upends the table instead. Plates and food and water fly everywhere with a clash. It is not as satisfying as Arthur had hoped, so he kicks the chair away as well.
He's breathing hard, when he hears the rustling that says Merlin is finally getting up. Shame creeps up his neck, so Arthur doesn't turn to look. He listens though, and he gauges the chair being righted and moved.
"You're still soaked in blood and grime," Merlin tells his back. "Get here, for peace's sake. You'll kill Annis' physician, if you keep refusing treatment much longer."
There is much of Gaius in his approach, and Arthur falls for it out of nostalgia and little else. Indeed, the chair has been brought by the brazier, and Merlin holds the backrest.
Arthur sits down heavily. "Where have you been," slips out of him, tired and heavy.
Merlin starts moving at his back, a cacophony of clangs and rings as he tries to fix Arthur's mess, possibly just moving it around and tidying up nothing, as he's always done with his rooms. "Many places. We looked for more eggs for the first five months. We kept far from Camelot."
Might be the first smart choice Merlin has ever made in his life. "Found some?"
"Two. It's not many, but it's more hope than we had before. Aithusa is guarding them now."
Arthur watches the fire dance in its bronze cradle. He finds his anger to have been tamed much the same way. He says, "Merlin, I-"
"Don't." Suddenly, Merlin is at his side, with a goblet of wine in one hand. Arthur turns the other way to check: the table is up, everything is neatly arranged on it, and there is not a crumb nor a drop on the floor. He looks back at Merlin, who pushes the goblet closer. "You know how awkward and insulting you get when you try to apologise. I'll settle for a thank you."
Pointedly, Arthur drinks and doesn't say a damn thing. Merlin calls him a prat under his breath.
Merlin also settles down, legs crossed on the furs that make the floor of Arthur's tent, and before the man in question can complain, he's already leaning to the side and using his knee as headrest. "The Goddess alone knows why, but I missed this. I fucking missed serving you. Can you believe that?"
"You never served me this diligently, before."
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. It's probably going to pass soon."
Arthur runs his hand through Merlin's locks to try and tame them, but finds the effort much harder after hours riding a flying dragon. "What shall we do until then?" he asks.
For the first time since he left Camelot, a sort of quiet has descended in his head. His most trusted advisor is here, his best friend is back, and he seems to have been forgiven by the brethren he'd wronged the most in his life; that they all happen to be the same person is but a lucky coincidence.
Merlin turns his head up, so that Arthur can see his eyes, the clear blue depths of them. "We make for Camelot," he says, simple as that. "Your father seeks refuge in the capital after news of your victory. If we want to take him down before winter, there is where we must go."
"I know Camelot like the back of my hand, including it's defences and the siege tunnels. Why would my father go there?"
"He plans to use his people as a shield against you. You need not fear, though. Morgana dreamt this long ago, and we took precautions. Come winter, you'll be king."
Arthur's hand stills. "Morgana."
Merlin holds his gaze. "I know you were told your father's men drowned her in the lake for sorcery. He certainly believes that. But Sir Caradoc served under Gorlois before Uther, and he and his men helped her escape instead of carrying on her sentence. She made it to the lake, only to cross it to the Isle of the Blessed." Slowly, a hand reaches to squeeze Arthur's knee in support. "She called the druids in council at Beltane. Every tribe sent a delegation. She spoke on your behalf, and now they march to Camelot to ward it against your father. They will not fight, it is not their nature, but they will put up shields for your people so that they cannot be harmed."
Morgana, Arthur's mind won't stop to spin. Morgana and Merlin, both back. Forgiving.
"Guinevere as well," Merlin adds, as if unhappy with the miracles he already brought his king. "I asked the Fae to whisk her away from the dungeons when your father had her arrested-" when he tried to bend Arthur the hard way, with the whip on his back first and with the axe on his beloved's neck after, "-and now she's with Aithusa. She eagerly awaits to rejoin you, though, and she wasn't happy that I wouldn't let her ride Kilgarrah with me in battle today."
For all she'll be angry at him too, Arthur cannot help it but be glad that she was never put in such danger. The words awaken a doubt, though. "You ride the Great Dragon now. Your father, where-"
"He's dead," Merlin speaks quietly, pain still etched in his voice but beginning to be sanded down by time. "He fell during the retrieval of our last egg, three months ago. That's when I chose to visit my mom. Gaius had gone to her hoping she would know where I was. He told me what happened."
Aeredian had happened. Uther had summoned the witchfinder to investigate his own son, but the man had revealed Morgana's magic instead. After her mad run, after she'd been taken for dead, after Guinevere's sudden disappearance in arrest, Arthur had turned on Uther definitely and begun his campaign to dethrone him.
"You really think I can do it?" Arthur asks earnestly. "Do you really think I can rule Camelot better than he did?"
Merlin blinks once. Slowly, he turns so that he's plain kneeling, right in front of Arthur, and looks up to him. "I think I'll have chicken for dinner," he says stupidly. Then, "I know you'll be the greatest king the world has ever known."
Arthur fights the boulder in his throat. "Will you help me get there? Will you help me protect my people and my kingdom?"
"Until the day I die," Merlin answers without pause.
"Will you advise me with sincerity and not for personal gain?"
He blinks twice, confused, but adds, "Of course."
"And will you swear-" Arthur finishes, seeing realisation dawning on the man at his feet, "-to conduct yourself honorably, and to uphold my laws and the rules of chivalry above all?"
Merlin's hand on his knee is shaking so hard, Arthur can feel it through his clothes, though there is no trembling in his voice when he answers, "Yes, my lord."
"Then I will need to find myself a new manservant," Arthur whispers, smiling genuinely for the first time in long months, as he climbs to his feet. "Arise, Sir Merlin, Knight of Camelot."
When Merlin obeys is to throw himself in Arthur's chest, stealing a hug that Arthur doesn't defend too much.
On the first snow of the year, Camelot cheers three times on her new King's name.
("Christmas Eve" Calendar: 20th - 21st - 22nd - 23rd - 24th - AO3)
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i absolutely fell in LOVE with your price fic holy shit. your writing is spectacular. then i read your request info and saw that you love keegan as well and my soul left my body.
So this is me requesting a keegan x reader fic bc i love this underrated man SO much!! maybe some enemies to lovers where one of them gets injured in the field and, thinking they're dying, a teary desperate confession ensues? lol im not good with prompts i just wanna see my man 🤧 thanks in advance i love ur work
(Don't) Go to War
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Pairing: Keegan P. Russ x F!Reader
Synopsis: Some days it became impossible not to lose your tempers with each other. Being enemies was easier than admitting you cared.
Word Count: 12.3k
Warnings: Angst, enemies to lovers, blood & gore, vulgar language, fluff & comfort eventually, suggestive (just a tiny bit)
A/N: Just a few more requests to get done, and then my inbox should be open again. I'm thinking I might do an independent Gaz fic too...but idk yet. Enjoy, Love!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
Some days it became impossible not to yell at him.
“I had the shot, Keegan!” Your voice carries over the hull of C-23 Sherpa, and you didn’t bother to stay strapped into your seat as the aircraft levels out around you. Thrusting your body up, your feet slam to the floor as you stalk over to the silent man who watches you with burning blue eyes, “If you hadn’t gotten in the way the target would be six feet under by now!” 
Your face was twisted with rage, and a need for justice laced your brain like an inextinguishable blaze of fire. 
Keegan and you had a violent streak of not getting along - to the point where Elias was close to separating the two of you permanently. It wasn’t entirely your fault, the man just got on your nerves when he acted like he could boss you around. No Man’s Land was your playground; you knew the trails, where to take shelter when needed, and what towns and backroads to avoid because of Federation occupation. You spent most of your time beyond the walls of Fort Santa Monica just like Keegan and the other Ghosts did – he had no right to lecture you out here. 
He had no right to fuck up the mission.
“Kid,” The man in question warns, his form tense from where it leans against the wall. Around the two of you, the aircraft shakes from turbulence. Keegan’s eyes narrowed to slits, and behind the cloth over his face you see his lips thin dangerously, “I’d be careful what you say next.” 
“Oh, shut the hell up!” You growl. The dirt and blood sticking to your skin makes you want to scratch at yourself with blunt nails; rip away the grime. Stomping up to Keegan you stand directly in front of him, a sneer heavy on your lips. Your body is shaking with adrenaline, “You have no right to tell me that. I worked my ass off getting that intel on Vidal Teo for months just for you to mess up my shot in no less than three seconds. What the fuck?!” 
Keegan’s dead eyes glare from behind the stain of his black eye paint, the custom balaclava shifting as his hidden face moves. Over his arms, his fingers tense and tighten; a pulsing atmosphere begins to perforate the hull. The already strained rope was snapping.
Vidal Teo was a high-ranking commander for the Federation soldiers stationed in a large portion of No Man’s Land. He was instrumental in leading the frontal assault on the Fort – which had been getting steadily worse as the years went on. Vidal was a man marked for death, and your bullet had his name carved into the silver grooves. 
He was yours. 
“I don’t like your tone, Princess,” Keegan hisses down at you, but his intimidation tactics don’t work. He was large, sure, with a gargantuan build that made your shoulders square, but the anger in your blood pumped with vengeance, “I’m in command of the mission, don’t go mixing it around. You listen to me.”
“Not when Teo was right fucking in front of me,” Your head whips to the side, hands clenched as you point a single finger into the man’s chest. The two of you were so close you could feel his gear brush against yours when he breathed. Inside your form, your pulse sings, “If you hadn't fired that shot all of this would have been finished. Now,” You lower your voice as his enraged eyes bore into you, “He’s off in the damn wind. We’ll never get an opportunity like that again.” 
“Back up.” Keegan stands straighter, arms falling to his sides, and at that moment a sliver of hesitance makes its way into your heart as his shadow looms over you, “Now. Before you do something you’ll regret.”
Clenching your jaw, your finger falls. No matter how pissed off you were at the Ghost, one thing he said was right. Keegan was in control of this mission – technically he was your superior at the moment. You should listen to him. 
Listen? Your eyes flash, Like he listened to me? I told him to not fire while I lined my scope up…Why the hell did he do that?
“The sooner you’re out of my life,” Growling, you stare deep into Keegan’s eyes and only slightly shiver at the intensity. You could feel his breath coming out in strained puffs, wafting over your face, “The better. This is on you…All of my goddamn work down the drain…” 
Jerking back as you grumble the last sentence under your breath, you storm past the Ghost’s stone-still figure and enter the cockpit, feeling his locked gaze on you the entire time. You slam the door shut, only serving to make the pilots snap their attention to you, mouths slack and optics wide.
“What?” You growl, glaring and practically releasing steam out of your ears. Damn that man and his stupidly handsome face…What?
The pilots quickly stutter back to their controls, backs straight, and heads forward. 
Blinking, you scrunch your lips; your sense coming back to you as your shoulders deflate. 
“Fuck,” Grumbling, you bring your hands up and place them on top of your head, lacing the fingers together as your elbows stick out. You glance remorsefully at the two stiff profiles, “Sorry, boys. Long day.” 
Elias was going to lecture you again. 
He always did when you and Keegan got into fights – they were becoming more and more recent in the past few months. From common disagreements about misplaced knives or weapons to full-blown yelling matches over accidents on missions, the recurring bouts of thrown words never seemed to end. 
You were so incredibly sick of it. 
Why were you always fighting with him? Why did every action strike you in the heart like a blade? You were always tense around Keegan, sending sharp glances at him every time he was in the vicinity and sharper words a second later. He did the same in return, it wasn’t like this was one-sided. The man was determined to push every button in the book, and damn it if you didn’t do that as well. 
Keegan was a man on a high horse; arrogant, hard-headed, rude, and held authority like a stick you could beat someone over the head with. He demanded utter perfection. 
Sighing violently, you lean back against the door and shove your palms into your eye sockets; head tilting back to rest on the cool metal and soothe the growing headache.
The problem was, most of the time the man was right when he told you something – whether work-related or not. 
“Tango to the left – weapons hot.”
“Contact Scarecrow, Exfil in five. We have a group just above the pharmacy building.”
“West, Kid. Snipers scope, take ‘em down.”
No Man’s Land was supposed to be your playground and all of a sudden some other kid comes along; starts throwing rocks at the equipment with a damn painted balaclava over his face. You didn’t want someone telling you how to do your job. 
Frowning, your teeth nash in annoyance. 
This flight back to Santa Monica couldn't end soon enough, and now you had months of Recon intel sitting in your office to throw into the trash.
You grabbed at the pinned-up files with paper-cut fingertips, looking over the contents before frowning. Tossing them to the side, your ears twitch at the flopping sound of them flying into the garbage bin at your feet. 
The bulletin board was bare of all the red yarn, maps, and intel that you had once hung up with pride. Vidal Teo was gone, and just so the board was once more empty. It was hard not to feel cheated, angry, but maybe a part of you felt emptiness as well. 
All of that work… just for one shot to mess it up. And the bullet wasn’t even from your own gun. 
“I swear,” You whisper, itching at your nose, “If I ever get up on a team with him again…” 
Trailing off, your legs shift and carry you to your desk where you throw yourself down into the chair. Thoughts of Keegan made your brain race, mind going to try and understand why. Even if you didn’t like the man, at least on the surface, you still respected him. 
So, why? None of it made sense. Why fire off into the city at an unidentified target and send Teo rushing for cover? Why not explain to you what had happened when you were back on the plane? If he had made a mistake and admitted that, you would have accepted it… eventually, of course, but you still would have accepted it regardless. You would have had to.
Licking your lips, you tap your knuckles onto the metal of your desk, playing a long-forgotten tune. You never heard the door open.
“Heard the Op didn’t go as planned, but at least the two of you didn’t kill each other. I’d have a helluva a lot of paperwork to do if you put a bullet in his ass,” Sitting up straighter your head snaps to the open doorway, seeing the stocky stature of Thomas Merrick with his arms crossed over his chest, “Still, though, heard ya’ nearly made those pilots piss their pants when you yelled at ‘em.”
“Merrick,” You groan out, tipping your head past the chair’s backing, your neck digging into the wood, “You’re acting like I try to be a bitch.” 
“Are you not,” When you glare at him, the man’s dark eyebrow raises slightly, “Because you’re failing at it – often. Elias’s at the end of his rope with you two.”
Grumbling, your nose scrunches, lips pulling back in a small snarl. 
“It’s not my fault. Keegan hates me just the same.” 
“That any excuse to yell at a superior?” Merrick sighs, shaking his bald head and walking forward, “Thought I trained you better than that?” 
Your eyes flicker to his own, but seeing the blatant disappointment in them, you find it better to look at the empty bulletin board. Swallowing stiffly, your feet shuffle on the floor. 
“Look at all my work, Thomas,” Shoving yourself to your feet, you walk to the small garbage bin and pick it up; holding it aloft, you watch the Ghost’s Field Officer's lips thin. There was a mass amount of wasted paper, pictures, and yarn that caught his eye. You go and slam it onto your desk, hearing the clatter as the pencil holder falls to its side, “Wasted. Because of one man’s actions – how many people are going to die now because I couldn’t make the shot? Ten, twenty, thirty…?” 
“Kid–” Merrick begins, but you cut him off – still angry at Keegan and trying to strangle down the guilt of pushing it onto Thomas.
“If you don’t mind, Merrick, I have a shit-ton of reports to sign and no time to do them,” Once more flopping back into your chair, you rub your hands over your face and feel the skin pull. If you were anyone other than yourself, you would be getting a reprimand for interrupting a superior like that but Merrick was something of a friend to you. 
Closing your eyes, you let the darkness behind your lids flood you as you take a deep breath. 
The Ghost leaves after a moment without noise or a sound of encouragement, but that was just how he was. You feel his dark eyes on you, lingering, before he closes the door behind him and stalks away. 
Finally left alone in silence, you let your thoughts run to try and answer the age-old question that ravaged your mind.
“What happened to make us like this?” You whisper, hands falling to your lap as you stare off into the distance with blank eyes. 
You had never given it much thought – sometimes people just didn’t like each other. Ingrained enemies written into the annals of time and cursed to forever be at each other's throats like rabid animals. But then you realized that this wasn’t high school and you were an adult living in a fucked up world full of death and war. Coworkers no longer had the privilege to talk shit about the other behind their backs or not communicate their problems; being out in No Man’s Land forced people to compromise and work together like a well-oiled machine. 
And well-oiled was not the way to describe yours and Keegan's relationship…more like a run-down and rusty car that screams every time you turn the key; practically begging someone to put it out of its misery. 
Blinking, you realize, perhaps for the first time, how much of a problem this predicament with Keegan really was. 
This could kill us both.
All of this began, you knew, a long time back, and, as it usually did, it had started out beyond the Fort before bleeding back into the ramshackle place you called home. The both of you were enemies far longer than you had been friends.
Your body was hot, sweat dripping down your temple and slipping the expanse of your chin, but still, you stood outside Elias Walker’s door with a tense jaw; fingers itching to rip into Keegan’s flesh. They were speaking inside, their voices hushed as your boots pooled mud and dirt onto the floor like a brand. 
“She…went over the ridge?” Elias asks, voice deep, “And she’s alive?”
“Hm,” Keegan makes a savage noise in the back of his throat, and you have to hide your panting breaths to hear it. The damn bastard was always so silent any sound would perk your ears, even if they were ringing with reverberations of spent bullets.
“Then I don’t exactly see what the problem is, Keegan.”
A pause.
“...She’s impulsive. Combative. Doesn’t listen,” There was an inhaled breath, and you feel your face burn at the profound gravel-toned words, lungs making your chest tighten as they zip closed as a bag would. But those next comments make you growl in the back of your throat, rage like fire in your heart, “I don’t want her. Kid’ll get the people she’s placed with killed if she’s allowed to do that again!”
A sigh through the shocked silence. 
“Then what do you suggest I do? She’s a valuable asset, I can’t just ground her – the Recon work she does is vital to finding Federation strongholds.”
“I don’t care what you do with her, Elias. Just keep her far away from me and the boys. Kid’s not my problem. Never want her to be again.”
Whatever harsh words are uttered next are lost to you, because your legs are already carrying you down the corridor with brimming tears stuck in the corners of your eyes. 
It was more the way he said it than the contents of the clipped sentences. Like you were less than him, pathetic, and unworthy. Nothing more than a rookie holding a gun and parading off into the wilderness to have a good time. That was what wrecked you.
The next time you saw Keegan it was only narrowed glances and clenched fists; terse words. When you snapped at him for the first time, you swear his eyes slightly widened, cold blue one second then boiling bright the next.
You liked that look on him – shocked into a different type of silence. A type of anger you could meet head-on.
Fighting with Keegan soon became too addicting to ignore, a constant activity that never changed like the destroyed world always did. A failsafe at the end of the day. 
 The anger had never dimmed, infecting you like a poisoned worm stuck in your veins and weaseling its way to your heart. It had only grown the longer you let it sit, and at the end of the day, you festered over the image of the Ghost’s face with his eyes digging into your skin. You stayed awake at night mulling over the arguments, taking the insults and words like bullet wounds to your heart with barely restrained tears; feeling guilty because you threw some back as well. 
But what hurt you the most was that, before the hushed meeting in Elias’s office, you had looked up to him. To Keegan. Perhaps you had even enjoyed his quiet company at one point when the loneliness of No Man’s Land got to you. The terrain was incredibly quiet in between the violent hails of gunfire and, on occasion, it would make paranoia infect your bones like a cancer; producing shaking limbs and tense fingers. When Keegan was with you…you hated to admit this, but he made the silence better. More survivable compared to when you were alone doing Recon with only a gun and a combat knife as deadly companions. 
Your narrowed lids flicker to the trash bin on the desk. 
There was still a small pinch of anger – resentment for the waste and for words spoken in haste – but your mind pulsed to find an explanation. A reason. 
There must be a reason that Keegan would fire off a shot into the city prematurely…obviously it was to hit a target, but why? And why hadn’t he told you the reason? 
I’m gonna rip my head apart if I keep thinking this over, You warn yourself, huffing under your breath. 
You had reports to write up – tell of your failure to kill Vidal Teo and how many lives that will ultimately cost in the future. While you were stuck with a pen in your hand, scribbling away even as the sun had set outside, you had no idea of the stare-down going on in Elias’s office one floor up.
Elias’s eyes are sharp, a wave of dark anger deep in the iris as he stands with his arms crossed behind his desk, “Why’d you fire?”
Keegan's feet are shoulder length apart and his arms are clenched behind his back, spine straight; a deep tension lives in the thick air, bearing down weight on the men. The Ghost was still in his gear, the balaclava and black face paint in all its glory situated over his head. That was his best form of armor, allowing him to hide the deep sneer over his cruelly scared lips. 
“Tango. Off in the next building,” Keegan’s voice was low, harsh, and cut to a point. He didn’t want to be there – there were many more important things to be done than getting a lecture like a five-year-old. 
His sniper rifle needed cleaning, rookies needed to be disciplined, and the treadmills were calling his name. He had to work off all the bullshit in his head.
“The Girl had the shot. Vidal Teo needed to die, Russ – she knew that well enough. I want an explanation as to why a high-priority target is still up and walking.” 
The silent beast of a man keeps his body still, even if his head is pounding. Hot adrenaline was still in his veins from how you were yelling at him in the Sherpa, the memory of your rage-twisted face burning into the back of his eyes. He had never seen you that angry before; shaking with the need to release your displeasure onto him. It had slightly taken him aback. 
Fighting with you was predictable. You’d both throw insults, get into each other's faces and cruelly break down each other's psyche piece by piece – the man knew what to say and where the unspoken line was just as you did. Fighting was easier than admitting there was something deeper going on, something that you two were hesitant to even speak of. 
But, hell, you had never gotten that upset at him previously. And, problem was, even if he wanted to deny it, Keegan knew he fucked up. Bad. 
There wasn’t a way in hell that he was going to tell you that, though. He wasn’t going to tell you that his finger had moved before his mind could, pulling down on the hair-trigger of his prized rifle like a fucking novice. Even now self-resentment was worming into him.
He had never felt that to this degree before. He didn’t like it – couldn’t afford to acknowledge it.
What gave you the right to provoke those emotions from him? Maybe I need to ask to have her transferred. Brat’s messin’ with my head.
“Miscalculation. Won’t happen again.” His feet shuffle, boots shifting silently over the floor like that of his title. Miscalculation – he doesn’t make those. Never had after ODIN hit the US. There wasn’t any room for them. 
Keegan was a master of taking lives with a swift movement and a pull of a trigger; no one had ever known him to be reckless. 
They had you for that.
Elias narrowed his eyes, head tilting, as a tightness is seen rippling through his jaw, “You’re going to have to lie better than that, Son.”
Keegan stilled, dead eyes boring into the other man’s. The sharp blue deepens, darkens. His shoulders set themselves, but the ingrained looseness is still there if someone looks close enough and spies it. Instinct is hard to fight. 
“Elias?” He asks from behind the fabric of his face covering but utters no more. 
Keegan was a man of few words – very few. Actions served him better, but in this room, there was no point to them. Walker was his superior; his Captain, but more so the closest thing to a brother Keegan would ever have. There wasn’t a choice in this, even if the men had gone through hell together as Ghosts. 
“Don’t play me for a fool, Keegan,” The graying man mutters out, shaking his head and going to rest his hands on the top of his desk, “I’ve known you a long time. You don’t fuck up something like this. Never have. So don’t insult me with that half-assed answer.” 
Elias pauses, sighing when Keegan just stares at him with blank, black-laced, hard eyes. The man was a damn empty slate, never moving, never giving away anything to betray his emotions.  
“I want a full report on my desk in a week. I’m sure the Kid’ll have hers done in a day, but I want you to explain yourself. In detail. You hear?”
“Copy.” 
“Dismissed.”
Keegan turns and leaves without another word, just a burning in his gut and a righteous sense of surety in his bloodstream. Your face slashes over his vision as he exits the room, he closes the door behind him and thumps down the halls. People move out of his way quickly, sending glances with pupils so tiny they practically disappear altogether; Keegan knew he was intimidating, especially with all his gear and smelling like gunpowder and blood. Didn’t bother him much. 
It seemed like it didn’t bother you either, judging by how you were in his face screaming all the time. 
Damn brat, Keegan thinks, itching at his nose bridge and sending stiff glances at the rows and rows of closed doors and windows, She doesn’t know anything.
Before long his feet had carried him down corners and hallways as his head pounded, and it wasn’t a surprise that when he shook himself out of his trance the entire make-up of the floors and walls had changed. 
Wait…where was he? 
His pace slows to a stop, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. Where had he ended up while his mind was running at the thought of you? This had never happened before – the Ghost’s head was all out of sorts if he was talking walks around the Fort without a destination. Every action of his had a purpose, why was that now becoming anything less than fact? 
Annoyance plagued him.
Sliding his eyes around, a certain office window catches his viper-like attention. It was the only one with a light still on, warm rays shining out into the hallway, and the shuffling of paper and manila folders flowing to his ears. The door was only minutely ajar, a sliver, and nothing more. About to turn around and leave the area, Keegan halts at the sound of a familiar voice grumbling. His heart jerks.
Blue eyes narrow, and that annoyance at himself grows to find an external outlet.
The hell is this Kid doin’ up so late? Doesn’t she know when lights out is? Fuck, looks like she can’t follow simple guidelines either.
With shuffling feet, he takes a step forward and has every intention to bust down the door and force you to the barracks; lecturing you on the importance of rest when he suddenly realizes something.
Why does he care if you get a good night's sleep? 
Growling under his breath, he happens to get a glimpse of a moving shadow through the window that gives him pause with one gloved hand on the woodgrain of the door. If possible, he feels his body completely stop at the scene; his eyes flickering into a widened look. 
And what was that tightening in his chest?
You were staring at the hung-up bulletin board, having dragged your desk chair over and situated it right in front of the bare rectangle that once held an innumerable amount of papers and information. 
Keegan had seen it himself right before the mission had started. Your eyes lit up when you could tell him everything you knew about the target from his schedule to what he ate in the mornings.
Eggs with a protein bar. Two cups of milk.
You had gathered all of that info yourself – countless trips into Federation-occupied territory that left you coming back with bruises and deep lacerations. Keegan knew; he had watched you limping back through the gate with a shielded look in his eyes. But now the board was blank and useless, holding nothing but your knowledge that it was once filled with your labors. 
The Ghost’s hand on the door loosens, and he takes a slow inhalation of breath as your tired eyes get glossy. When had you gotten those bags under your eyes? Keegan’s lips pull thin behind his balaclava. Had…had you always looked that tired? 
Had you both really been fighting so much that he had stopped noticing the most basic parts of you that he had watched so closely before?
“I had it…” Keegan’s shoulders tense when he hears you speak, but he doesn’t move. A needle of guilt moved to dig deeper. Your hopeless sigh leaves him gritting his teeth, “Fuck.” 
Digging your palms into your eyes, he watches you shake, limbs tense and hunched over nearly into a ball. He has the sudden urge to push the door open, not to scold you but to simply stand by your side. Tell you the truth. 
Keegan’s eyebrows pull together, gaze flicking away from you so his brain can focus. But it was like a magnet was stuck behind his optics because it wasn’t long before his eyes flowed back to the small figure. 
He stays there for a good while, watching, with a weighted chest and pounding heart. Keegan couldn’t really say what he was thinking about, but all of it certainly involved you. So why couldn’t he open the door?
When your head jerks back up, his eyes widen, body swiftly moving back. 
By the time you look out the office window, his shadow is already disappearing down the hallway. 
You nearly lose your cool when Elias tells you Keegan was accompanying you out into No Man’s Land once more. The bags under your eyes burned – weeks had passed since the fight, and you had gotten little sleep since then. 
“Teo was sighted by one of the drones near an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of San Francisco. I want you and Keegan on the trail, and, hopefully,” Elias mutters as Merrick and Ajax listen in the background. Your apparent partner stands behind you, leaning back on the wall with his arms crossed, “We can put this to rest.”
Standing rail-straight, your face is twisted but you keep yourself under control. Even being in the same room with Keegan made you want to lash out. At your sides, your hands slowly clench into tight fists, and behind you, a sharp gaze digs its claws into your skull.
He’s watching you. Studying like he always does when he thinks you don’t notice. 
“Sir,” You answer the older Ghosts blankly, lips stiff, “If you think that’s best.” 
“I do,” Merrick raises a brow behind Elias, and you pretend not to notice as Ajax’s shoulders shake, “That going to be a problem?”
Ironically, Keegan and you both answer at the same time, a strangling silence before a snarled, “No, Sir.” 
The pair of you shipped out in thirty minutes, but neither of you bothered to look at the other as you gathered supplies in the armory; grabbing magazine after magazine and strapping knives to thighs, arms padded with thick clothes and heavy black combat vests. Keegan was applying his face paint despite the dark color already stained into his eye sockets. You doubted it could come off anymore – the skin was probably so damaged by the chemicals it was pointless to try. Like some brutal birthmark. He slipped the balaclava over soon after.
The fabric covered the dark hair and strong jaw, slightly marred with stubble – long scars that grew harsher when his skin twisted; the angled lips below a sharp nose that had captured your attention the first time you had seen them. Keegan was undoubtedly handsome, carved from stone and silver – the remnants of that artistry only now glimpsed in his eyes as a cold reminder. It was funny, you thought, that someone so beautiful could be such an ass. You watched him, terse-like, and grabbed a revolver hanging from the rack, shoving it into your thigh holster. 
He was acting off. 
Keegan was more silent than he usually was; at this point, he would at least make a quick quip about your annoying habit of packing extra ration bars in your front pouch. 
‘Gonna weigh you down, Kid, if you stuff one more of those damn things into your vest.’
But the more you sneaked glances, the more your feet started to shuffle in unease. The Ghost wouldn’t even look at you. 
“You sick or something?” Your voice carries, echoing off the walls as you tighten the vest strap on your side. You had never bothered to be subtle when talking to the man – he appreciated bluntness, and that was one thing you could get behind. 
“No,” Keegan slips past, suddenly colder than ever before, and disappears without another word. 
Watching his back shift as he strides off, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and perhaps a bit of shock. 
What the hell was that? You ask yourself, hands falling to your sides where they twitch. Keegan was damn confusing, but he had never been outright numb like that to you besides when you both first met. Your resentment flares in your breast, but with a shake of your head, you force it down. That wouldn’t help anyone, and you still wanted answers. 
If this was how Keegan wanted to be then fine, you’d just have to ask Elias for his report when you got back and figure out for yourself why he had ruined the previous mission. 
You grabbed a canteen of water and shuffled out the door, flicking off the light with a heavy finger and followed after the Ghost’s footsteps; dreading the Op but feeling your pulse beat at the thought of nabbing Teo once and for all. 
This was ending. Today. 
The aircraft landed just far enough away to be unseen by Federation soldiers and on the line of being annoyingly distant from the target. The hike would be through mountainous terrain – the land ravaged by the remnants of ODIN’s destruction and just beginning to heal. On top of steep cliffs, and sharp rocks, there would also be rampaging streams and thick foliage. Speaking from experience, you knew it was going to be a sweat-inducing mission…and that was before you got to the main point of it all. 
Both of you disappear into the treeline after the pilot tells you the future Evac Point, hoofing it at a jog into the shadows and blending in like animals. Under your feet, the leaves crush, telling stories of where you placed your weight as the packs over your body jump with every jerk forward. Keegan takes the lead, silently expecting you to follow as your eyes stare into his back. 
He still hadn’t talked to you. It made your skin crawl.
Watching his gait, you frown and clench your jaw. Why did it bother you so much? Wasn’t this what you wanted all along…for him to leave you alone? 
Sighing, you hop over a downed log, seeing Keegan quickly send a look behind him at your form before snapping his head forward. 
“There’s an old structure west of the Warehouse – a hunting lodge still standing from before ODIN was fired, I found it on one of my other Ops,” You call, moving faster to run side-by-side with the man. Dodging a tree, your tongue runs over your lips, “We should set up there – we’d have a clear shot.”
For a moment there was only the sound of shoved foliage, steady breaths, and clinking gear before Keegan replies. 
“Affirm.” 
He pulls ahead, and you’re left widely watching his shoulders, seeing the muscles under his attire ripple as they propel him faster away. Your eyelids narrow, a thin sneer flickering over your lips.
Keep your cool, You follow after, careful where you place your feet as the ground begins to ascend, If I get him in a good mood, maybe he’ll answer my questions later. 
It was easier said than done, of course, and although your efforts were valiant, none of your plans to get him to speak to you landed. The hike ended with panted breaths and a setting sun, mist seeping like snakes over the rocks under your feet; the world was quiet, and try as you might you found a deep sense of loneliness in that. The pair of you were on top of a ridge, surrounded by deep green and gray. No birds sang, and no animals trampled the land – it was just the harsh wind and the creak of stretching metal from far ahead. The occasional smell of dirt that left your nose full of particles and led to coughing fits.
Perhaps Keegan had the right idea for a face covering, even if it was never intended for the reason of keeping the elements out.
The Warehouse was near a crater, one of the places ODIN had struck directly into the Earth, and teetered on the edge of oblivion as it was half-falling apart and drenched in red rust. Occasionally, as a tremor rolled through, pieces of it would fall off and slam to the ground a million miles away, deep into the crust of what was left. 
Definitely a place for a safe house. No one would bother to look here unless you already knew about it or were hiding something.
Thinking to yourself, you rub the sweat off your nose with the back of your hand, eyes flickering to the hole in the Earth with shielded disgust. It had been over ten years, but the horror was still there. All of those innocent people… 
“Here,” The smooth voice startles you, but your attention diverts quickly to the man at your side. His hands hold out a red cloth in his first and second fingers and pointedly avoids sneaking a peak at your shocked expression. Your mouth opens and closes, optics bouncing back and forth between the gift and the strange Ghost. 
You could hear a pin drop if you had one to throw.
“The fuck are you doing?” 
“Your stench is going to alert the guards – wipe yourself off. I need to repeat myself, Princess?” With an unamused face, you snatch the textile and rub it over your heated skin, reveling in the dismissal of layers of salt. 
“Asshole,” You mutter, “You better not have used this before me; if I get acne I’m shaving your head in your sleep and siccing Riley on you.” 
“Sounds fun. Better make sure I’m dead by the end of it.”
“Trust me, I will. I’ll make sure to chuck your body from the Fort wall, too,” Sliding past him, you toss the cloth at his chest, “Hunting lodge is this way.” 
You get so close your shoulders lightly brush, and although you hate the implications, the action leaves your chest tight as you inhale his scent of blood and shrill chemicals. Clenching your jaw, you don’t take in the way his warmth floods your veins or the cold gaze that follows your back as you walk away; briefly softening around the edges like a blunt blade before being sharpened once more under stone and rock.
Hearing his feet lightly caress the ground behind you, you let out a slow breath, shoving away a branch of a low tree and peeping back. Keegan's gaze locks on your own as if he was waiting for this, and you curse not being able to see his expression – but it wasn’t like that would give away anything either. The Ghost was blank, much like the bulletin board had been when you ripped your work from it.
Raising a dark brow, the man grunts under his breath in question as his large shadow leeks over your form. 
“Nothin,’” You mutter and turn back, fixing the strap of your rifle and side step a piece of cut wood, looking like it was the remains of a windowsill that had been broken during the shockwave and flung from a house, “Thanks for the rag. Even if it did smell like Gun Oil.”
Blinking down at the forgotten object, your arms push through one more set of fauna and huff when you lay eyes on the run-down lodge that would be Base Camp. Rushing up the decaying steps, you push the paint-peeing door open and throw your hands out.
“And here we are,” Walking with acute familiarity into the one-room area, “Home sweet home,” You nod your head to the left, where a large window gives a clear view of the Warehouse down below, “We’ll take the shot from over there, but…here…where did I…?” 
Stumbling to a stop, you take one step back and ignore the narrowed eyes on your back.
“The hell you looking for, Kid?” 
“Shh,” You snap your fingers at a loose board near a broken-down TV stand, “There we go!” Jogging over, you place your foot on one end of the board and grab the now-propped-up opposite side with a heavy hand. Like a teeter-totter. 
Tossing the wood away, you grab the stash you had hidden years ago and hold it aloft near your head as you turn around.
Keegan watches with small eyes, head tilted, and feeling a bit curious about where this was going. What were you holding in your hand…? Was that…?
“Chocolate bars? I thought those were under strict ration laws?” His booted feet carry him closer to you and the plastic bag holding three bars of the old treat, “Damn, Kid.” 
The man didn’t ask how you knew they were there – at least, yet – but he had an idea. You had logged more hours outside than anyone else besides the Ghosts, and with your affinity to keep to your own, it was only common sense that you had stashes all over California.
“Special occasion,” You mutter, opening the bag and tossing him one. Of course, he catches it, flipping it over in his hands and rubbing a thumb over the wrapper. Keegan’s eyes filter back to yours slowly, and under him, his feet shuffle to shift his weight. 
“Y’know these things are probably older than Fort Santa Monica, right? It’ll give you gut rot.”
“God, I hope so,” You rip the wrapper open and snap off a piece as you hear crinkling from the other bar being opened; you toss yours into your mouth and smirk, “Maybe Ajax’ll finally lend me his alcohol stash to help me out for once. Bastard keeps making excuses.”
The bar was a bit stale if you were being honest, but it was still chocolate in your books. Stuffing the rest of it in your side pocket, you slip the rifle from around your back and head to the window, with the butt of the gun you raise it up and bring it down. A corner of the glass shatters into a million pieces, falling to the ground outside like tiny stars and reflecting the dying light. 
Far below, miles away, the Warehouse seems dead to the world, but your and Keegan’s trained eyes spy the microscopic shadows in the rust-strangled metal walls, slipping past like rats over the holes and windows. 
“Visual?” The man next to you asks, pulling back down his balaclava, and your ears twitch as you gaze through your scope; watching with perfected focus. Pulling back with a grunt, you flip the gun and rest the barrel against the wall, sighing.
“Negative. There won’t be until the sun sets fully,” Keegan turns to look down at you, and the fabric around his mouth shifts into a frown. You raise a brow and explain, not needing him to ask his question, “I‘ve tracked this guy like a teenager on the internet who has a crush. I know his routine. When the sun sets he checks the perimeter with two of his guards, Fabián Julieta and Santos Rosa – I have reason to believe they’re his cousins, but it’s never been confirmed.”
“You sure he’ll do that?” Keegan scoffs, looking back out and tapping his fingers over his thigh holster, “There was just an attempt on his life. Not exactly the time to follow procedure.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to leave it to fate. Plus,” You can’t help but mutter, “We wouldn’t have been in this situation if you hadn’t messed up.”
The air thickens.
Keegan’s body stills, frozen like his bones had just been covered in frost and doused in frigid waters. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch with bated breath. But he notices the trap, it seems, because his neck never enters the snare laid out. The tension that had lived over you both like a dark cloud suddenly gained lighting, quick flashes of light over the sky.
“It’ll be too dark by then,” Is his only response – even if it’s clipped and growled out like a man ready to snap. He wanted to start an argument, you could tell with growing amusement. Keegan’s arms clench at his sides into shaking fists.
“Then it’s a good thing Ghosts can see in the dark,” You smirk, tilting your head to the side and beginning to reach for the rest of the chocolate bar resting in your pocket, “Isn’t that right? Make sure not to freak out and fire at the birds–!” 
The hand latches onto your shoulder before you can process the man had even moved; eyes widening to the size of plates as the pressure snaps your body to face forward. You let out a light yip as your feet drag. Despite the hold being firm, Keegan’s fingers never dig too tight.
Your eyes level on his, gazing deep into his boiling blues that shimmer the longer you stare. Had the middle always had flecks of green? Inside your chest, your heart pounds like a drum as, behind the balaclava, his jaw clenches. Keegan’s breath is like a breeze over your hair, rustling it. 
“Don’t…do that,” He says slowly. You just watch, wide-eyed, “Don’t speak on shit you have no idea about.” 
Whatever had made your lungs constrict fled in an instant.
“What?” Your lips twist, “You mind telling me how I’d have ‘no idea’ about an Op I was supposed to come back with a confirmation of death on?” 
You shove his arm off your shoulder and hate the way the chill of the air overtakes his warmth. 
Keegan’s shoulders set, “Kid, I’m ordering you to–”
“Cut the shit!” You yell, finger going to shove into his face and watching his head whip to it before wafting back to your visage. If possible his shoulders widen even farther, legs tense and straight. This was it – your confusion would go no further, you decided, “You’re going to explain all of this, Keegan–!” 
“Watch the damn volume–”
“Explain why I’m out here, why you messed up the mission–!”
“Listen to me. I need you to–”
“Why my fucking work was all wasted because you pulled the damn trigger and I’m reaping the consequences like an idiot with a guy who hates my guts–!”
“There was a sniper on the roof.”
Your rampage stops just as you were about to open your mouth once more. You stare at him at the bombshell, not even able to process it for a moment. Blinking, you realize you had moved Keegan backward so his back was pressed into the opposite wall; your body was pressed tightly up next to his. With every fast breath, you could feel your chest connect with his, and your finger was still against his peck, digging into the gear. 
Sucking in a quick breath, you gathered what little courage you had gained and looked up into his face with a fire lit in your blood. 
“...W-what?” Keegan’s body shifts and his arms go to grab your elbows. 
He doesn’t move you, just gives them a firm squeeze and explains as his heart pounds in his chest. Under the cloth, his mouth is slightly parted, and his pupils are wide.
“Federation sniper,” He utters, blinking as your face goes void of emotion, “I didn’t know if he’d seen you yet, but I…” 
The Ghost trails off as his thigh brushes yours, all of the pouches uncomfortable to feel digging into his skin, but worth it if he can make this right.
“Why…Why didn’t you tell me?” You whisper out, the skin of your eyebrows moving to press the tiny hairs closer together. This changed everything, “Why did you…?”
Keegan’s face is so close to yours that he can smell your shampoo through the dark fabric over his nose, suddenly suffocating on the comfort the covering usually brought him. Why was his heart racing in his chest? You were being irresponsible, yelling like that, and stubborn, hard-headed. 
But, damn, if anger wasn’t a good look on you. Your body heat was leaking into him, making him swallow heavily.
“Because…knew you’d blame yourself,” He said simply, staring at you deeply as your expression softens just as Keegan’s body does against the wall; you lean in deeper to his hold, “Just didn’t expect you to take it all so hard.”
“What? You just wanted me to let it go?” You utter, feeling and finally admitting how addicting it felt to be this close to him. For the life of you, you can’t find it in yourself to look away from him. What was happening?
“Again, didn’t know you’d take it so hard,” He raises a brow, grip falling from your elbows to lightly grab your hips. You force down a shiver, veins alight with molten lava at the strange contact. The Ghost continues, “Where’d you get the idea I hated you?”
Your throat swallows down saliva, not understanding the feeling in your gut. 
Shit, You think, Maybe that chocolate was bad – my head’s spinning…All I can smell is Keegan. But why am I not trying to leave?
Just a moment ago you were angry at him, but now everything made sense. A sniper, God, he could have just told you. It would have fixed a lot of things.
You mull over his question; do you answer it honestly? But for some odd reason, your mouth runs faster than your mind – it always had, and certainly always would. At least around Keegan, that is.
A breaking point had been reached, wherever you went from here was entirely up to the two of you.
“You said you didn’t want me,” The man’s breath stills, and you feel it just as you hear it; his scanning optics halt their study of your features, as if he had been seeing them for the first time in this light, “That I’d get people killed…why…why do you think I always work by myself nowadays?” Your nose begins to hurt, eyes falling to Keegan’s chest. You try to shove it down, but your hand over his vest shakes slightly. Where was this coming from? Why were you telling him this? The source of your animosity, how you two became, at least in your mind, enemies, “I just didn’t want to be a problem.”
Muttering out the last sentence, you swear Keegan’s chest hitches, heart kickstarting. 
“I…” He begins after a long moment of mutually avoiding eye contact. If you look into those beautifully cold blues you might break. 
But voices from below snap whatever the both of you would externally loathe but internally revel in; the longing in the two pairs of eyes is replaced by duty and unsaid words. The action was mechanical, and both parties rushed to the window, with your fingers grasping the rifle and Keegan grabbing the binoculars from his largest pouch. 
Like birds of prey, the two work in such sync that others would question if they even hated each other at all – and if they had seen the scene just moments prior the thoughts of denial would have been strengthened ten-fold. 
Did you hate Keegan? Or did you hate what he had done? Now really wasn’t the time to question it, but as the Ghost called out the distance and spotted Vidal Teo in pitch darkness, you can’t help but mutter, “Knew you could see in the dark, Kee,” And lined up the shot. 
Your finger pulls the trigger with little more than a second thought, and your shoulder catches the recoil with a grunt leaving your lips. 
“Direct hit. Target down,” A soft hand squeezes your shoulder as you watch the body drop from the scope. Grim satisfaction breeds in your heart. Your eye roves to Keegan’s face, who nods his head at you, “It was a good shot, Princess.”
Face heating, all you do is scoff, rolling your eyes, “Yeah, well…I suppose you called it.”
“Really, you can’t just take the compliment?“
“Do you want me to beat you over the head with this rifle?”
You both stand up and send coded glances to the other, and where the backhanded comments would usually be hostile, the small differences in presentation lean more toward teasing than anything. 
It was…nice. Foreign, but nice.
Chuckling, you toss the rifle around your back and listen to panicked voices echoing out from the warehouse. Keegan still stands near the window, with his back to it, while you inch to the door and itch at the back of your neck. He stares at you strangely, no doubt thinking about what you had confessed prior.
He had no idea you had heard the conversation with Elias. The Ghost’s chest constricts, remembering the words he had said in concern and anger. Had you really heard all of it? That would explain the sudden cold attitude that was mirrored back to him all those months ago.
Damn, Keegan blinks, and his head tilts as you stare back at him with a questioning expression. Your face was innocent with sweaty flesh filled with dust and grime. His fingers itched to wipe away the slash of black dirt from your forehead and, against his will, his stone blue softened to water in his eye sockets.
Your lips twitch at the rare expression. You had a lot to talk about when you both get back to base. 
“We should get going before–” 
Glass shatters, and a loud pop like an opening soda can startles you so bad you swore your heart stopped. Two things happen in that instance that will be ingrained into your head forever, carved like a scar in the fine tissue and tender to the touch.
One, his blood splattered your face, making you blink rapidly and reel back.
Two, the sound of Keegan’s hitting the floor – deadweight – and the loud gasp that exits his mouth, all the air expelled from his lungs not allowing him to even scream.
“Keegan!” You yell, rushing over and grabbing onto his shoulders, flipping him over with a grunt and panicked breath as you brush away the crimson from your eye sockets with a fast hand, “Shit!”
His body slams once more to the old wood, this time his back now on the floor. Blood pools down from a gunshot wound over his right abdomen, and your eyes land on it immediately, lungs struggling to suck down air.
Below you, Keegan lets out a wheezing sound, arm coming half-up to clench in the space above him, shaking violently. 
“Fucken’...” The man gasps, and his body jerks, trying to move despite the hole in his side. Your fingers rip open your medical pouch, eyes darting back to the window. You lightly stand up, frantic eyes darting and freezing. Spying a glint of light reflected from the moon, you quickly dip back to the floor.
Sniper scope. 
Rushing to grab Keegan under the shoulders, he yells out curses as you drag him to the side and out of the line of sight of the window. Tearing out a rag and a roll of gauze from your stash, you look at his face as you shove the cloth against the leaking wound, bunching the fabric and working it into the crater. 
Keegan snarls, head going back to slam to the floor as his eyes flutter. Those blues of his were wide and whizzing back and forth in a primal display, and behind the balaclava, you could see his throat bob with strangled, open-mouthed, breaths. Fuck, fuck, fuck…!
“Hey!” You shout, bringing up one hand and lightly slapping his cheek as you lean your body weight into his side. Your heart was going too fast, it was going to break out of your chest if you didn’t get a grip. But…Keegan’s blood was staining your hands; leaking down your face to drip from your chin. And the fact remained that the Federation soldiers now knew your position and were rushing to the dilapidated lodge. You needed to get him out of here, “Keep your damn eyes open – the only person who gets to kill you is me!”
“What…what the fuck, Princess?”
“You heard me!” Your body was shaking just as much as Keegans as you gnash your teeth together, “‘Doesn’t listen,’ my ass, your ears work less than mine do.” 
You’re panicking; using born and breed sarcasm and clipped words to ease you back into focus.
You had to move him – had to get him out of here. But would you be able to? He was big; far larger than you and weighed twice as much in muscle alone, not to mention the gear... Your mind did the math even as you pleaded with it not to. 
He would have to help you on his own if this was going to work. And that meant keeping him conscious.
Keegan lets out a loud cough, and your fingers itch to move his face-covering so he can breathe better. But you unravel the gauze instead, going to shift his body to wrap it around the rag – holding it in place. 
“Gotta’ move,” He snarls at you, trying to keep the pain at bay as it sweeps over him like waves of water, in and out, in and out.
“Working on it.” 
Right as you tie off a tight knot on the already bloody wrappings, the Ghost tries to get up, an arm turning to slam to the floor behind him and vibrate as he forces his weight on it. Knowing that was a bad idea but not having another choice, you loop one of his arms over your shoulders and grunt. Bearing the brunt of his weight you hold your breath and angle your feet; shoving with all of your strength and gasping out. 
“What the hell do you eat, man? Rocks?” As you grip with your free hand at his limp wrist, you take a quick glance at Keegan when you don’t hear a response. When he’s up, one of your hands goes to wrap around his waist. 
The man’s eyes were fluttering fast, pupils retracted in pain. The blood leaking from him stains your body as you hike his form closer to you, feeling the warmth of the flesh enter your skin like a candle’s flame. 
“Keegan!” You call, shaking his body. The man lets out a low groan, sharp eyes snapping to yours. You're taken aback when you see them immediately soften as they land on your panic-laced form, “You’ve gotta help me, okay?”
Speaking slowly, you hope he listens as he blinks at the blood on your face, eyebrows tensing.
“Copy,” He mutters and sends about the closest he can to a stiff nod your way. 
Immediately all weight is taken from your hold and he stumbles to stand up straight, a hand snapping to his side as his feet drag.
“Not all of it! Idiot!” Growling, you rip him back to you, hissing in disapproval as he lets out a deep curse; nearly falling into you. Forcing him forward, you go as fast as you’re able to the entrance door and already a sheen of exertion is falling over your face. How the hell is he so heavy?
“Fuckin’ confusing, Kid…Just tell me what you– what you want, I’m bleeding out here,” Keegan barks, annoyance falling from him onto you. Was it really that impossible for the two of you to get along that you were fighting while he was seeping crimson all over you? You were getting along just a second ago.
“You’re impossible, Keegan Russ,” You lock onto him in the corner of your eye as you practically drag him to the door, shoving it open with your shoulder. Your fingers dig into his side and his wrist, trying not to get distracted by the strong muscle you feel writhing under your touch. Without meaning to, your grip had gravitated under his shirt, touching bare skin littered with scars and burns – hot and pulsing with life.
Your grip goes deeper, nails creating crescent moons in his flesh as you, somehow, get him down the stairs without falling flat on your face.
Did he just shiver?
“Evac point,” Muttering to yourself, you move faster, heart beating as shouts echo out over the hills, “Shit.”
“Focus,” Keegan utters to your side, “Don’t think about it. What…what’ll happen will happen.”
“Bullshit,” You growl and glance back to see the trail of blood over the ground. Shaking your head you stumble into the treeline, mouth open to help you suck down more air into your lungs, “If you expect me to believe that, you’re a fool.”
“..Maybe,” He coughs, and you have to pause for a moment and look in concern as dark phlegm splatters to the ground. No, you think, no not yet. He can’t do this to you, “Maybe I have been.”
“What,” You attempt a wet chuckle, not liking the conversation but if it kept him awake you would entertain it, “It only took you taking a shot to the side to realize that? There’s no hope for you, Kee.”
“Like when you call me that,” Lips thinning, you work your legs faster, dodging a rock and shimmying past a tree, “Sounds nice.” 
Your face heats at the shock-induced confession, breath inhaled in a sharp breath. 
You look at him, only to find his eyes already locked on your visage. The unrelenting optics ripped you open with how lucid they looked, even if his mouth seemed to have lost its filter. Taking it as a good sign, you tear your head back to the front, biting into your lips as your legs shake.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” You whisper, clearing your throat as Keegan lets out a small strangled sound from the back of his mouth as you stumble over a log on the ground, “But keep talking to me, yeah?”
“I don’t hate you,” He confessed with a soft voice, “...Was jus’ worried you would hurt yourself. Too hard-headed for your own good.”
“Could say the same thing about you,” Your lungs are burning, but you remind yourself it’s not even half as much pain as Keegan is going through. He carries himself so well, even holding some of his own weight to help you. How was he even still standing? If you had gotten shot like that, you’d be screaming your head off.
He’s a Ghost, You remind yourself, They defy all laws of nature and common sense.
“I’m sorry, Kid,” That makes you stop, body halting halfway through a step as your face blanks, panting out air and eyes popping out at the weak words, “You didn’t deserve to hear that.”
Swallowing down saliva into your dry throat, your mind tells you to keep moving. The meeting in Elias’s office…he was…he was apologizing to you? Stuttering only a moment, you resume your break-neck journey with a burning face and jumping heart. 
“Apology not accepted,” You growl, sending a sharp glance his way. Keegan’s eyes widen in surprise – but they look slightly buggy, “When we get back to the Fort, you’re saying it again…When you’re not getting me all covered in your fluids.”
The chuckle he lets out startles you, but you resist the urge to bring him even closer to your form and bask in his heat. He was…nice to feel against you, you admitted. Strong. Comforting in a rabid dog sort of way.
“Yeah, but you’d like…like that wouldn’t you, Princess?”
…Did he just..? When your jaw drops in shock, he lets out another gasping chuckle that divulges into a coughing fit. Getting your bearing back, you roll your eyes above the embarrassment in your blood even as your lower body pulses. Your legs shuffle as your breath goes thin.
“Let’s keep the dirty jokes under wraps, too, okay?... Who knew blood loss made you into a fucking comedian? Mr. Stand-Up over here.”
“Hm,” Keegan grunts, wheezing in a breath. You watch a dribble of blood fall from the side of his mouth with a grim face, mind running. 
He can’t die, You shake with nerves and adrenaline, I won’t let him. 
There was a brimming affection for the man you had been forcing down like a mouthful of food, and his drunk honestly right now was throwing you for a loop.
“I’ll get you to the Evac point, Keegan, I promise,” The shouts were getting closer, and the Ghost’s eyes were falling closed once more. 
You wanted to see his face – make him stare at you.
“Know you will,” His eyes clenched closed and you felt his weight fall more over you. Groaning breathily, you take it and continue onward with little concern for how your nerves tingle, “Y’know,” The next words he says are so muffled you barely hear them, but when your brain processes the gravel and sifts through the depth of it, you feel tears wet the sides of your vision, “I think I a-actually like you, Kid.”
Keegan goes slack, and the sounds of shouting grow ever closer. It takes everything in you not to scream out.
He wakes up with a buzzing in his ears and a bright light assaulting his eyes. It takes Keegan a good while to fully open his eyelids, flinching as the bulbs set into the ceiling seem to only get more violent as his senses come back to him. 
A groan exits his lips, and the scent of bleach and sterile air makes his head rove on the hard pillow under it.
“Well,” A masculine voice results in Keegan jolting up like he was hit with an electrical current, body spasming at him to stay still but not able to stop the ingrained instincts in his head, “Took you long enough. Ajax was just about losing his mind for one of you two to wake up. Had to order him to go run laps.”
“Merrick,” Keegan clenches his hands in pain, but his eyes fall to the man sitting in one of the visitor chairs at the door. The Medical Ward's familiar walls soon entered his sight, and ignoring the flair of agony in his bandaged side, the dark-haired man brought a hand to his face. Keegan takes a deep breath and flinches, “Explain.”
“What happened,” Standing, the stocky man cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders before glancing down to his side. Merrick points over Keegan's shoulder and nods his head, “Is that the girl dragged your limp ass all the way to the Evac point with a bullet wound in ‘er shoulder. Took out a few soldiers as well – one helluva hot exit.”
Sneaking a peak back, Keegan was stunned to find a matching hospital bed not a few feet from his own, a rack for a curtain drawn back to allow a view of a woman asleep; her right arm was in a sling and heavily bandaged, the covers pulled back to her midsection. You. His eyes stay locked on your form, momentarily forgetting the pulling of sutures in his side. 
You had…gotten shot. Protecting him.
“How bad,” His lips move faster than his head, a trait he was beginning to pick up and associate with only you.
“You needed to go into surgery–”
“Not me,” Keegan growled, itching at the gown that had been put on him. His eyes never left you, the peaceful expression on your face he had never seen before leaving a warm feeling in his gut. With a sigh, he mutters out with a tone far softer than it had been before, “Her.”
Merrick smirks, watching the rise and fall of your chest and seeing Keegan doing the same, just far more closely. 
“Prescribed pain meds and on leave for two months. It was a clean shot – lucky for her.”
Keegan nods his head stiffly, moving the pillows up on the elevated mattress and leaning back with a throaty groan. 
“I’ll go tell Elias you’re awake,” Merrick swiftly turns and opens the door, but pauses in the opening. The other man watches closely with a frown. Without turning around, Thomas utters, “Kid was pretty shook up when you wouldn’t come ‘round. You should fix that.”
The Ghost disappears and closes the door behind him. 
Blinking at the wooden barrier, Keegan wastes no time in pushing back the covers of his bed and pressing his feet to the floor; hissing at the chill but only running a hand through his hair in retaliation. His dark eyes watched you as he gritted his teeth at the strain in his side, the faint ripping of stitches. 
The pain didn’t bother him, didn’t sway his actions. His socked feet move over the floor to stand above you. He breathes slowly, sucking down cool air as he pauses for a minute or two.
“You’re something else, Kid,” Keegan whispers, cold eyes narrowing as his thumb goes to swipe away the dirt smudge on your forehead with delicate movements. He didn’t want to wake you. 
The mirror across the room shows a beast of a man carefully cleaning the face of a woman who murmurs to herself, shifting closer to the hold with a small sigh. Keegan, whose lips quirk in a small smile that pulls at scars and black, irreversible, face paint, finds the warmth in his blood addicting. His heart slowly speeds up, and although crimson was staining his bandages, he couldn’t find it in him to go back to bed. 
“If you keep doing that,” Your voice snaps him out of his stupor, and his hand is snatched back to his side in an instant; feet shoulder length apart and tense, “I just might die on you.”
The light above you plays in your eyes, bouncing off the color and reflecting it directly into Keegan’s iris as the skin of your eyelids peel back. You blink up at him, vision coming back into focus as you stretch your legs out under the covers. 
Sending a small smile to his blank face, you chuckle, “What?” You groan, “I was being sarcastic.”
A smirk is all you get, a slight twitching at the side of his lips at the fatigue in your tone.
“How long?” Keegan asks, raising a dark brow. Knowing what he’s asking, you scoff, face bright.
“Only about five minutes. I caught the end of Merricks conversation,” You reply.
“Hm.”
“Don’t give me that look – I’m in the room, what do you want me to do…not listen? Tch,” Your hand presses into the mattress, shoving you up. 
A hand splays over your back immediately to help. 
Goosebumps litter your arms as Keegan’s grip lightly digs into your gown, assisting you where your other arm can’t. Sparing him a glance, you watch with heat on your ears and neck as his attention remains solely fixated on you. Blue breaks open your skin and infects you with its chill. Liking the feel of it, you let it in and embrace it. 
When you’re sitting up, silence ensues, with Keegan’s eyes studying your body as you do the same. His hand remained on your back. 
Does he remember what he said? You wonder, locking on the thick wrappings under the man’s gown with a frown, Or was he too out of it?
“Feelin’ alright, Princess?” Your eyebrows raise as he tilts his head.
“I should be asking you that.”
“We both got shot,” Keegan shoots back, and the black around his eyes creases as he deadpans at you.
“You passed out – I didn’t. Don’t blame me because you decided to take a nap, Big Guy.”
“So, you’re just full of nicknames now, are you?” 
“Hm,” You smirk, voice low and teasing, “Perhaps…Raccoon Eyes.”
Keegan scoffs, turning his head away in exasperation. You were both the same people from hours ago, but something felt different – the air was lighter, bordering on sacred. Looking at each other with hesitant vulnerability, hearts yearning but not quite certain where to begin. So many jagged pieces of glass to buffer out, smooth along the edges, and pray that they became mosaics of brightly colored perfection that glittered in the sunlight. But you could still slice your fingers open, despite the years of practice and knowledge of that sacred art, feel the blood splatter the table and leak into the fine lines of your palm.
But, perhaps, it was time to try. 
“I guess I owe you one,” You admit awkwardly, suddenly avoiding eye contact and feeling sheepish. This was new to you, “You saved me from a sniper but I couldn’t see the one behind you.”
“You owe me twice, then,” When you send him a scalding look, he puffs out a breath to show it was a joke and continues as you roll your eyes and smile softly, “..but, uh,” Keegan clears his throat, “Don’t…worry about it, Kid,” Your eyes snap to his side profile, blinking in shock as his eyes rove the room, watching the cracks in the floors as you gape at him. Why…why did he sound like that? Like the gravel in his words had smoothed over and was suddenly a paved road with moss along the edges; gentle to the touch. And why did your heart skip a beat at it, “Forget about it.” 
“...What?” Your voice is small, genuine confusion whispered out as you watch the muscles in his face move. Keegan’s jaw was clenched, his nose scrunching as he rolled it and fixed his stance. It was adorable the way he was trying not to face you.
His head turns to his gear that Merrick had placed on the large table across the room. You watch him lightly limp to it, mind still trying to think through what was going on. His shredded hand goes to the back pocket of his folded cargo pants, and your ears twitch at a crinkling nose. The Ghost pulls out an empty chocolate wrapper and you feel your heart stop all together when he holds it aloft. He shuffles back over. 
“It was alright, little stale, but not bad,” Those steel blue eyes slide to yours, and your face heats; throat tightens. Since when has your pulse rampaged like that outside of a gun battle? Keegan’s lips quirk into a slow smirk at your expression, “Not bad at all. I’m sorry that I ate it all.”
You have to look away before you pass out, all confidence now gone and dignity stomped on when you realized that you liked when he looked at you with those eyes of his. Your hand clenches over the covers, finding that double meaning with brimming affection.
Oh, you just hated him…but your breath still gets stolen all the same.
“Yeah, well,” Your hand goes to scratch at the back of your neck to ground yourself, “Don’t get used to it, Kee. That bar was worth like fifty bucks if we’d have just sold it.”
You decide his laugh is better than any old chocolate bar, and that you wanted to taste it on your tongue until the very sun died out. Until your bones were bleach white from age.
There was no doubt he remembered what he had told you as you dragged him along, scared and wishing he would stay awake; that was simply judging by the sparkle in his pupil and the way he was facing you now. 
Smirking, you raise a brow and grab the man by the collar of his gown. 
Ah, what the hell. Better to start strong.
When you smash his lips to yours, you decide right then and there when Keegan melts into you, his hand going to grip the back of his head, that maybe being enemies wasn’t so bad at all.
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elfy-elf-imagines · 8 months
Text
— In the Fields of Poppy | Thranduil *✧・゚
▹ Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!Reader
▹ Genre: Fluff and Angst (mentions of death and the aftermath of war)
▹ Words: ~2k
▹ Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies, you have a chance encounter with the King.
▹ Notes: This is unedited because we die as men! Also because I'm sleep deprived rn. Let me know what you thought!
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✧・゚: *✧・゚:*✧・゚: *✧・゚:*✧・゚: *✧・゚:*✧・゚: *✧・゚
The carnage had been terrible; the aftermath of the battle more brutal than any recount would ever fully capture. 
Broken stained glass mosaics formed with blood from all sides of the battle glistened in the sun. There was a heavy fog that clung to the ground, the wails of survivors finding the corpses of their loved ones. You couldn’t focus on it, blocking out as much of the noise as possible. Later you would feel the weight of the lives lost, you were certain, but for now, there was work to be done. 
You kneeled before the squirming body of a dwarven soldier, too delirious off his own pain to scorn the healing of an elvish maid. There was a cut on his leg that was bleeding profusely, his skin showing the beginning signs of infection from the poison the orcs used. He was muttering in Khuzdul, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. His eyes were locked on the sun, and if there weren’t other grievous injuries taking priority, you would’ve reminded him to not stare at the sun. But who cares for blindness if you’re already dead?
With ghost-like touches and careful concentration, you placed the healing salve on his leg, cleaning the wound as best you could beforehand. He hissed in pain from the contact, his eyes no longer looking at the sun but at you. He continued to speak in Khuzdul, this time at you, with spite and pain written on his face. You weren’t concerned, continuing to work as you numbed yourself to your surroundings. 
A group of elven soldiers marched past you, carrying the body of their fallen comrade, faces stricken with grief. Your eyes darted away from the sight and returned your attention to carefully wrapping your patient’s leg with bandages. 
“I don’t have anything for the pain, I’m afraid,” you said to him, briefly meeting his eyes that went back to looking at the sun. He muttered incoherently, and while he spoke Common this time, his words were lost on you. 
Tying the final bandage, you then began the same work on the rest of his wounds. More wails and more dead bodies carried from the battlefield, but you blocked it all out. There was no time to be swallowed in the suffering. Once all his wounds had been tended to and your dress was drenched in the blood of another patient, you stood from the ground. A dwarven soldier rushed forward to bring his comrade to the tents where the injured were resting. Words of thanks fell from his mouth, but you had already turned away, moving towards the next person. 
This time it was an elf, so young he couldn’t be more than a century old. Old enough to serve in the guard but too young to die; it made you sick to your stomach. There was a gash near his neck, the veins around it turning black. The poison had already gotten into his system; it was only a matter of time before it took him. Yet you kneeled beside him and gently placed his head in your lap as you began cleaning the wound. 
Unlike the dwarf from before, his eyes met yours, a grin on his lips. It looked out of place on his face, contorted into pain. He spoke softly in elvish, reciting an old song that mothers usually sang to their children when putting them to bed. As the cold salve touched his neck, he froze up, twitching slightly at the sensation.
Silence enveloped the two of you, he no longer sang, yet his eyes stayed on you. A stray piece of hair had fallen from your messy braid, the elf reaching up and grabbing it. He held it between his fingers, mouth parted and eyes a thousand miles away. 
“Naneth--” he trailed off, muttering more incoherent words. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to continue working as a spark of pain reactivated your cold heart. He called you mother; the poison must’ve already reached his head, making him see things that weren’t there. 
Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes as you looked away to reach into your healer’s kit. He must’ve been so terrified as death came closer, seeking comfort in a mother that wasn’t even here. You didn’t have the heart to correct him. Let the boy have a small bit of comfort. 
With a strip of bandage in your hand, when your eyes went back to his body, his eyes were shut, and his breathing ceased. Dead. 
Your hand fell limp at your side, eyes unmoving from his face. He looked at peace, expression no longer twisted in pain. A shuttered breath escaped your mouth, the chill in the air allowing you to see it blow away. You stood with shaky legs and trembling hands, two soldiers approaching to take his body away.
You’d been a healer for as long as you could remember, training for this since you were a little elfling running wild. Time allowed you to become numb to tragedy, keeping a clear head to do what needed to be done. But the elven boy’s death managed to stab a needle right through your heart. He was so young and vibrant, his potential severed by senseless war. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, like the ashes of the bodies the humans were burning. 
The mud squashed beneath your feet, eyes unseeing. You were a ghost on the battlefield, blood-stained dress blowing in the wind. How did the other healers seem so emotionless? Was the bite of death something that lessened the more you were near it? In a few years, would you have a disposition that was nearly mechanical? A part of you hoped for that release, while the other part of you was terrified by it. 
You turned, eyes meeting the misty blues ones of King Thranduil. He stood a few feet away from you, a vision amongst the dead. Tall and noble, he looked every bit the king he was. Golden like the dawn, his hair was loose and messy, and his previously pristine armor was dirty with mud and blood, cuts and minor wounds marring his body. Yet he looked eerily perfect. 
His stare was heavy, yet you refused to be the one to look away. A hint of a smirk appeared on the edges of his lips as his head tilted to the side. Long and sure strides brought him closer to you while you stayed locked in place. The king stood before you, towering over your smaller form. You may have been on the taller side; he made you feel as though you were a hobbit.
“What is your name?” 
You lowered your head in a half-bow, a pathetic attempt to show respect, not entirely accustomed to the presence of royalty. 
“Y/N, my king.”  
He nodded, mouthing your name as if to commit it to memory.
“Do you live in Eryn Galen? I have never seen you.”
“I grew up in Lothlorien, where I spent most of my life before training to be a healer in Imladris. I have only recently moved to Eryn Galen.”
Thranduil raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands behind his back. 
“How lucky we are to have a student of Lord Elrond among us.” You could discern if his words were patronizing or genuine, his tone not betraying his intentions. 
“I did not train under Lord Elrond personally.” You felt the need to correct him, not wanting him to think you of a higher station than you were.
“But your teachers were overseen by him, were they not?”
You nodded.
“Then you were trained by Lord Elrond, even if he himself didn’t oversee your education.” 
A small smile appeared on your lips, and you nodded. “I have no choice but to agree; who would I be to disagree with a king.”
A coy smile pulled on the edges of his lips as his eyes shone. 
“A foolish woman is who you would be. Walk with me?” It was phrased as a question, but he didn’t wait for your answer. His long strides carried him towards camp, and you had no choice but to follow.   
“Tell me, do you plan on staying in Eryn Galen long?” His voice was crisp but quiet enough that only you could hear them.
“I do. I have grown fond of the people and its forest.” You spoke genuinely and truthfully. The wood elves were reclusive and suspicious, but once you broke through those barriers, they were full of merriment and loyalty. You cherished the relationships you had already formed and were eager for more. 
“Even in its sickly state,” his tone was sardonic but not enough to hide the pain in his voice. How terrible it must’ve been to see his home twisted into something so evil while powerless to stop it. 
“I believe there is still hope for it to be returned to health.”
Thranduil stopped in his tracks, eyes meeting yours. You stopped as well, patiently waiting for what he may say next. His expression was unreadable, eyes searching yours for the answers to questions you didn’t know. 
Wherever he was searching for, it sent shivers down your spine and made goosebumps form on your arms. The moonlight was kind to him, bathing him in a silvery light that made him look like the elves of Lothlorien who always seemed to shine. You felt your heart stutter as butterflies formed in your stomach. 
It could’ve been a trick of the light, but you could’ve sworn there was a hint of affection in his bright eyes. After the death of his wife, rumors spread of his cold demeanor and harshen disposition. But now, before you, none of those adjectives seemed suited for him. As soft as the stars and as beautiful as the moon, how could he be anything but good and kind?
“I hope that you are right.” He finally broke the silence, eyes raising to the sky before he continued walking, and just as before, you matched his strides. Neither of you spoke, relishing in the silence after a terrible day full of death and terror. 
Finally, the both of you stopped in front of the tent that was yours.
“It was good to meet you today, Y/N. I hope to see you again; I find your company pleasant and your conversation enjoyable.”
A red flush made your face warm, and a child-like grin appeared on your lips. As light as a feather, you would’ve floated away had the king not grabbed your hand, delicately placing a kiss on your knuckles. 
When he released your hand, you lowered into a half curtsey, the movement not as fluid due to your dress that was stiff from the dried blood covering it. 
“It was an honor to speak with you, my king. I wish you a good rest tonight.” 
He smirked in a way that made your flush deepen.
“And if I find it difficult to find rest, will you brew me a tea to lull me to sleep.” 
“Herbology happens to be my specialty.” 
Thranduil gave a single, firm nod, yet his eyes never moved from yours. The affection you’d seen before was brighter, easier seen in the dim lighting. And you were certain your eyes portrayed the same attraction. Could this be the beginning of something wonderful?
“Then I shall know who to call upon in my hour of need.” He lowered into a full bow, his cloak billowing around him. You took a step back, a bout of giggle escaping your mouth. Who would’ve thought the stern king had a sense of humor?
“Farewell, my lady.” 
He then swept off further into the camp, and you stayed in your spot, watching his form disappear, only moving once you could no longer see him. You turned and entered your tent, hand placed upon your flushed cheek. As you readied yourself for bed, the encounter with Thranduil replayed in your mind. And suddenly, you found yourself dancing alone, unable to push back your excitement. 
And as you lay in bed and shut your eyes, you desperately hoped this would only be the beginning and not where the story would end. 
✧・゚: *✧・゚:*✧・゚: *✧・゚:*✧・゚: *✧・゚:*✧・゚: *✧・゚
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651 notes · View notes
dulcesiabits · 9 months
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a sparrow in the storm.
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summary: though many plucky suitors have tried unsuccessfully to vie for your hand, Jing Yuan has to be the most persistent of them all.
notes: 6.7k words, fic, fluff, lovers to exes to lovers, author's notes
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You’ve had many arrogant suitors over the years, but this newest one might be the most arrogant yet. 
A row of sumptuous gifts line the entrance to your room, and when you properly step inside, you’re greeted by a spray of flowers: orchids, pink roses, and white lilies, the perfume of which makes you dizzy. You snort as you make your way to your desk, waving your hand to the various servants who are abuzz in your room. 
“Get rid of all of them,” you instruct.
“All of them? Are you sure?” one of them questions.
“Yes. I don’t want to see a single petal left in here. Make sure you return all of the gifts, too,” you snap, and they all bow as they rush to carry out your orders.
You sit in your plush desk chair, and it’s only now that you see the red-ribboned, cream-colored letter  sitting on your desk. You don’t open it before tossing it aside.
Many people have tried to win your hand over the years, as the sole heir to the alchemy commission. One of your mothers has a noble, storied family line, dating back to the very beginning of the country’s founding, and your other mom is praised as a genius in the alchemical field. It’s no wonder those who want a taste of wealth and power flock to you like flies. You’ve managed to successfully ward all of them off so far, either with flat rejections, threats, or, in the rare case, by matchmaking them with a different prospect. 
But your newest suitor, a general? A newly minted nobleman, granted a title for his contribution and victories in the recent war? It’s only been a few days since he’s arrived back in the capital, but he’s been sending you an endless stream of presents since his first day in the city, no matter how many times you return them or burn them in the yard for his slack-jawed couriers to watch. It isn’t just physical presents, like rare silks and flowers, either. It’s reserving your favorite restaurants for you to dine in, all expenses paid, and hiring the most famous musicians to woo you with sweet love songs outside your window.
It’s disgusting, frankly, and every rejection just seems to spur him to try a different approach.
You're no stranger to dalliances, courting your fair share of lovers over the years, starting with a snowy-haired soldier you met in your youth to traveling musicians and merchants. But you were clear to all of them: this would be a passing fling and nothing more, for you had no desire to bind yourself to someone as of yet.
Marriage, after all, is a political game, and you would only enter it once you had a hand that would ensure your success. You would have to marry eventually, but you plan to do so only on your own terms. You want someone who can bring glory and wealth to your house, who wouldn’t try to usurp your position or play games over power, who would be a prudent match, and who’s intelligent enough to keep up with you. Love is not a necessity, but a potential bonus, as you do not often have the habit of mixing business and pleasure.
When you dine with your mothers in the evening, you tell them as such. They are long used to your schemes and strategies, and only smile at you over glasses of wine and plates of tenderly steamed white fish.
“This general courting you should meet your expectations then, no?” your mother poses. “He’s recently been awarded a noble title, and he was clever enough to claim victory against our enemies with minimal loss.”
“And–” Your mom winks at you, nudging your mother. “--He’s handsome. I hear all the eligible girls and boys send him proposals, but he turns them all down. It seems he’s set on someone. I wonder who?”
“Hah.” You spear a piece of marinated cucumber with your chopsticks. “Well, I’ve refused his advances, and I will continue to refuse them.”
“A pity!” your mom groans. “Just when it seems like someone meets your exacting standards. What is it about him, then, my dear child, that you dislike so?”
“I dislike his attitude,” you say bluntly. “And, more to the point, I detest being pressured like this. He doesn’t even have the sincerity to meet me in person, and gives me favors I never asked for. If he is hoping for a love match, then he shall be sorely disappointed.”
“How cold,” your mother says. “But I understand your reasoning. But would it not be prudent to give him a chance? We have never pressured you to get married, as you know, but…”
“But?” You arch an eyebrow.
“What your mother means to say,” your mom interjects, “Is that we want you to be happy! And this could be a good opportunity for you. Your pool of suitors is dwindling, and if you wait too long, you may not have a partner at all.”
“Which is to really say,” your mother says, putting her utensils across her clean bowl, “I will force your hand if you do not make a choice soon, or at least make an effort to. This general meets all of your standards, and an union would be beneficial to all of us. So try to hear him out… or I will make you.”
“Mother, what you’re giving me is the illusion of choice. Will you force me into a marriage against my will? What if I do something drastic? What if he is a foul villain, and you doom me to unhappiness, in your haste to settle a match?”
“Well, that would be most unfortunate for you. But I am your mother, and mothers are allowed to be unfair, no matter how old you are,” your mother says, and your mom tries to hide a laugh as she leans into your mother’s side.
“What’s the name of the general, again?” you say sourly.
“Jing Yuan,” your mother says. “Now, why don’t you try to meet his courier tomorrow? You could stand to learn a little more about him before you cast such hasty judgment.”
The next morning, you rose early, pacing around the gardens until the general’s daily present was delivered. If nothing else, he is punctual, sending presents around noon, in between the breakfast and lunch hours. But what would it take to get him off your back? Insult him at the next commission meeting? Hire someone to place a curse upon him and his household? Or march over to his residence and start a commotion, burning something down in the process?
But, no. Your mother has all but threatened you to play nice, and, as loath as you are to admit it, she does make a certain sense about gathering information on him. It is prudent to have knowledge of your enemy if you wish success in battle.
At noon, one of your servants comes to find you. To your surprise, a young boy trails after her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as his head whips around, taking in the sights of your garden, fresh and fully bloomed at this time of year. There’s a sword strapped to his back, and when he sees you, he waves.
Is this part of the general’s plans? Does he really think a cute child would be enough to make you throw yourself at his feet?
Still, you guide the boy to one of the garden’s open-air pavilions, shaded by rose bushes and intricate wooden carvings, pillows cushioning the hardness of the benches. You wave for refreshments to be brought over, chrysanthemum tea and sugar cubes and egg tarts and red bean buns, certain to tempt the appetite of a child. And you are right, for the boy immediately picks up a bun, munching without a care in the world.
“So, what brings you to the chief of the alchemy commission’s residence?” you say mildly.
“I’m Yanqing, and I’m here on behalf of the general. He’s worried because it doesn’t look like you’re happy with any of your presents, and he wants to know why.”
“Ah, I see.” You smile at the boy, whose cheeks are stuffed with pastries. “It’s quite simple. I do not like them.”
“Then what do you like? … is what he said to ask if you said you didn’t like any of your gifts.”
“Anything that doesn’t come from him,” you say bluntly. 
“Oh.” Yanqing tilts his head in confusion before his eyes light up, springing up in his seat as he leans forward. “Well, the general is pretty cool, you know! He’s the youngest person in years to be awarded a title! And he’s the reason we won all those battles in the war so quickly! His strategies are genius, and it’s like he knows what the enemy is thinking every time he makes a move… He even trained me! I’m the best with the sword, you know, but the general is stronger than me! So he’s pretty impressive!” 
You want to smile at the way Yanqing presents the general, clearly expecting you to be impressed with the general’s credentials. “And what is your relationship with the general? Are you his child?”
“What? No, no, no! Our relationship isn’t like that. I’m just his disciple!” Yanqing flails, waving his hands wildly. “He wouldn’t let relationships distract him on the battlefield! He never even left his tent when the other soldiers went out to town!” 
“So he wouldn’t love me if we were in a relationship together?” you ask dryly. “I would just be a distraction?” 
“No! He would definitely treat you well! He treats everyone well! That’s why everyone loves him! All the soldiers, and townspeople, and everything!” 
“Ah…” Yanqing perks up at your tone. “So he’s a philanderer.” The boy deflates.
“He wouldn’t! He wouldn’t do that! The general would be loyal to you!” Yanqing insists, slamming his fist down on the table for emphasis. 
“He sounds like a scoundrel,” you note. 
“I promise he’s not!” 
“I don’t know, Yanqing. It sounds like he would leave me alone to fight in battles all day, all the while flirting with all his soldiers, and then come home once in a while to assuage his guilt.” 
Have you teased the boy too much? He slumps morosely in his seat, poking idly at his egg tart. 
“Why don’t you go home for today?” you say gently. You’ve had your fun, and it wouldn’t do to prod at the boy anymore. 
“Before I do, is it okay if I give you one more present from the general?” he asks.
“Go ahead,” you say patiently, as Yanqing fumbles in his pocket and takes out a small wooden box. It’s unadorned, and you flip it open cautiously. Inside lies a single knotted tassel with small jade beads. The threads are in your favorite colors, instead of the traditional red.
“He made it himself,” Yanqing explains as you take the tassel in your hand. 
The general is skilled, if nothing else. The knot looks like a small, symmetrical flower in your hand, and you finger the clear jade beads. 
“I’ll accept it,” you say slowly. 
“Really?” Yanqing perks up. “That’s great. He’ll be honored to hear that.” 
“Does he have a matching one?” you inquire dryly. 
“I think he said he was hoping you would make one for him one day.”
“He might as well wait forever.”
Yanqing pouts, but still remembers to thank you for the food and the courtesy of hosting him before he dashes off. 
You end up placing the tassel in one of your desk drawers, hoping Jing Yuan doesn’t read your acceptance of his gift as some sort of positive sign. To you, it’s nothing more than an odd memento from a curious man, and there’s something amusing about the image of a bloodthirsty general painstakingly threading jade beads onto an elaborate tassel. 
But your courtship is going to stop at this, if you had any say in the matter.
— 
The best defense is a good offense, and the only way to win a battle is to gather knowledge on your enemy. With that reasoning, you send a letter to Yanqing (who doesn’t bother penning a reply before running to your house to inform you he’d be delighted to show you around) and prepare yourself to visit Jing Yuan’s residence. 
You go by foot, keeping your clothing plain and simple to dissuade unwanted attention. His residence– gifted to him for his achievements in war– is situated in the northern part of the city, a quiet residential district, away from the hustle and bustle of the city center. You’re not sure what you expect when you arrive: something ostentatious, or enemy heads hung on his gate to ward off visitors, perhaps.
Instead, you’re greeted with a modest wooden building, surrounded by a stone gate, and Yanqing bouncing in front of the entrance.
“Welcome to General Jing Yuan’s home,” Yanqing says formally, though he’s rocking on his heels. “I’m glad you decided to come by today! Are you–”
“No, I’m not going to accept his proposal,” you interject.
“Oh. Well! I’m more than happy to show you around, still! The general was also really happy that you took an interest in him and your future– his home!”
“If an enemy took interest in him, would he also be happy?” you ask.
“Yes, because he’d undoubtedly draw the enemy’s attention on purpose as part of his plan,” Yanqing replies seriously.
“Lovely. What’s on the agenda, Yanqing?”
Yanqing leads you through the gates and into the courtyard, showing you the pond, rows of flowered bushes, the stone pathways, and then the open-air hallways which ring the courtyard. As Yanqing guides you through the building, you note that there are hardly any servants around. Each room is all polished wood and fresh sunlight, with minimum furnishings, save for a flower arrangement or a tasteful painting. 
The last stop on the tour is a bright, airy room clearly intended for guests, with a steaming teapot already prepared on the table. Yanqing courteously pulls out a seat for you to sit in, pouring you a cup of tea without any further prompting. 
“Let me give you some refreshments,” he says. “It’s not right to have a guest over without giving them something to eat.”
“No, you don’t need to bother. I–”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Yanqing says, and dashes out of the room before you can deter him further.
You sip your cup, a pleasant jasmine brew, leaning back as you contemplate the ink brush mountains scroll across from you. Did the general come home often? His home is far too neat and quiet to imply consistent use. You haven’t run into him, either, so it is possible Jing Yuan is out… though whether this is a blessing remains to be seen. Perhaps you could pry more information out of Yanqing in the meantime.
Footsteps spring down the hall, and without looking at the doorway, you remark, “You know, Yanqing, I’m starting to suspect this general of yours is scared to meet with me–”
“Am I? I didn’t realize.” You whip your head towards the sound of the deep voice. Where you expect Yanqing to stand is a man with snow-white hair and relaxed, golden eyes, an amused quirk to his mouth.
You exhale sharply, your thoughts, once so orderly, tangle together like a ball of yarn. It couldn’t be. Of course you’re expecting to run into the general at some point, have half-hoped for it, but what you haven’t expected is that the general is also your first lover, someone you’d courted  many years ago in your youth.
“Jing?” you say, blood roaring in your head.
“Surprised?” he says, lounging in a chair. “I told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”
At that moment, Yanqing bursts into the room, a plate of snacks balanced in his arms. “I’m back!” Heis gaze darts around the room, from your tense expression to Jing Yuan’s casual smile. “General! When did you get here?”
“Just now. Actually, Yanqing,” Jing Yuan says, “Why don’t you go out into the courtyard and practice your form? My guest and I have much to discuss.”
“... Okay, general.” Yanqing places the tray on the table, and hesitates; his eyebrows furrow quizzically as he glances from you to the general, but he only bows before darting out of the room, despite his obvious curiosity.
“I’m sure there’s much you’re curious about,” Jing Yuan says pleasantly. 
“I do. So perhaps you could humor me and explain what you’re trying to accomplish,” you say coolly.
You swear there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes even as he lowers his head deferentially. “As you wish, my liege.”
Your relationship with Jing Yuan started when you were young and, like all youth your age, felt the stirrings of rebellion– against who, or what, didn’t matter quite as much. Reckless, chafing against the loving restraints of your mothers, and eager to make something of yourself, you decided the best way to do so was to throw yourself into a relationship, hopefully one they didn’t approve of.
That’s when Jing Yuan caught your attention, though you only knew him as Jing back then. A soldier in training, with a shy smile and a quiet countenance, his hair short enough to stand in unruly, snowy tufts at the back of his head, you hadn’t thought much of him when he was first introduced to you. He was sent to guard your mom’s alchemical business, and would bow to you wordlessly whenever you visited. 
You were more practiced in matters of business, alchemy and politics, but even with your limited knowledge you could tell he was talented with a sword. When a thief tore through your mom’s shop, hunting for rare herbs to sell on the black market, he had unsheathed his lance with lightning-quick precision, and in a few swift, well-aimed strikes, the thief was on his back, Jing’s lance poised at his throat. 
You watched from the back of the shop, lurking around the storeroom, as Jing handed the herbs back to your mom, who thanked him profusely. 
He noticed your gaze, and smiled at you. “Are you okay, my liege? You weren’t hurt, were you?”
You tossed your head. “I’m fine. You handled him before anything could happen.”
Still, your interest in him was piqued after that day. So on a restless, cloudy afternoon, with the smell of a storm sharp in the air, you sought him out at your mother’s store, as dutifully guarding the entrance as ever.
“Do you have time for lunch?” you asked him. “I would be honored if you could join me for a bite to eat.”
Like an inquisitive cat, Jing tilted his head. “It wouldn’t be right for me to abandon my post in the middle of my shift.”
“You’d hardly be a good guard if you keeled over from hunger,” you pointed out, “And you don’t have to go too far, besides. We can just stay right here.”
“I could hardly refuse a request from you, my liege,” Jing said.
With his permission secured, you brought out the meal you had packed back home. It was simple, nothing more than a few meat buns and some tea, and the two of you sat and ate on one of the stone benches outside of your mom’s workshop. If you were to court someone, you had to dine them first, didn’t you?
“Why did you become a soldier, Jing?”
“Because it was the only path open to me,” he said easily. “My skills wouldn’t find much purchase elsewhere.”
“And what sort of skills are those?”
“The art of combat. I also dabble in chess, occasionally, though I couldn’t have made a living off of it.”
“Chess? Why don’t you play me in a round sometime? I’d love to see your skill,” you said keenly.
“If you find my skills desirable, then I would be honored to,” Jing said.
“Speaking of desirable… is there anyone you’re interested in?” you posed, watching his reaction from the corner of your eye.
Jing chewed his bun instead of responding, though the tips of his ears reddened. “No… Not in particular.”
“There’s someone I’m interested in,” you continued, taking note of the way he inhaled so sharply he started coughing. “I’m hoping I can grow closer to him.”
“Ah– Is… is that so…?”
“Yes. I think I’d be able to do so with your help,” you said, emboldened by his reaction. You smiled prettily at him, in a way you’d learned to do to charm the nobles at any social gatherings you intended. “So… Do you think we could see each other again?”
Jing’s eyes darted away, and he seemed for all the world like a small sparrow, pecking at the crumbs of affection you offered. “If… If you would be pleased by my presence, I would… be flattered to see you again.”
Like your first encounter, your relationship with Jing proceeded in much the same way. You meticulously planned every outing, reserving restaurants and reading up on festivals in advance, eavesdropping on gossiping maids to learn of the most popular spots for couples in the city. Jing was content to go along at your pace, never brooking a word of complaint even as you, looking back, realized how any other person might have been annoyed at your single-mindedness and desire to always get your way.
He was agreeable, and unerringly polite, and clumsily sweet in all the right ways. He offered his arm for you to hold as you strolled about, and tolerated all your badgering for chess games, even when you grew so competitive you could play for hours without stopping. Sometimes he brought you flowers, single stems of white lilies or sprigs of plum blossoms you would set proudly on your desk until the perfume faded and the petals wilted.
You liked him. You liked him, because he was endearing, and went along with all your antics, even the ones that could have gotten him in trouble if the two of you had been caught. Once you had asked him to meet you in the middle of night, when the fireflies were thick in the air like stars on earth. 
“My liege, are you sure about this?” he whispered as you waved to him from your window. 
“Of course! Do not back out on me now, Jing!” With your hands for purchase, you set yourself on the window ledge, experimentally lowering one leg over the other side.
“Please, let me help you,” Jing said quietly, and offered you one of his hands. You took it, swaying unsteadily, and Jing quickly reached for your hip to help you balance. His hands, you remembered, were calloused, with clever, slender fingers, his touch like sunlight. He flushed at the contact, though didn’t let go of you before he could guide you over the window and set you onto the grass below. Until you reached a small hill a good dozen minutes away from your home, he shadowed your steps, always just a pace behind, and always on guard for threats you couldn’t make out in the dark. With his warm gaze which never drifted from you, and the sea of fireflies, you couldn’t help but feel like no threats could touch you.
“Let’s catch some fireflies,” you suggested, once the two of you reached your destination. “Don’t you think that’s a romantic activity?”
At your words, Jing swiftly cupped his hands around a soft glow, and you crept closer. He slowly unfurled his fingers to reveal his captive, a firefly that pulsed with light like a heartbeat. “Is this to your satisfaction?” he asked.
The firefly spread its wings and flew off his palm. The two of you watched its path, an afterglow of light trailing through the sky. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” Jing said, but he wasn’t looking at the firefly anymore.
You cleared your throat. “So, Jing. In such a romantic, late-night setting like this… when two young people meet in a clandestine manner… What do you suppose would happen?”
“Any manner of things, I suppose.”
“True, but there’s one in particular that’s on my mind.”
“My liege…?”
“Jing, I want to kiss you,” you said plainly. His face shone in the light. 
“Y… You do?”
“I’ve been courting you for the past few weeks. Why wouldn’t I?” you said impatiently. “But before we go any further, I want you to understand that this is only for fun. Don’t worry; I don’t expect marriage talks to come out of this.”
“Marriage?” Jing repeated, tasting the word on his tongue.
“Yes, marriage. But we’re young. We’re allowed to have our fun, aren’t we? I have a business to inherit, and you have dreams of your own, surely. We need not get in each other’s way. But, for now…” You placed a hand flat against his chest. “Do you want to kiss me?”
Jing’s eyelashes fluttered as he looked down at your hand; slowly, he brought his own to press against yours, keeping your touch captive against his chest. 
“Yes,” he said quietly.
And on a midsummer’s night, with only fireflies as your witnesses, you shared your first kiss with Jing. He tasted like sweat and mint, and his lips were chapped, but you wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything else.
For the rest of your courtship, the two of you would act like the lovers you saw wandering the streets of the city. You spent all of your freetime with Jing: bought skewers at a vendor so you could feed him by hand and watch his face redden, convinced him to take you on a boat ride and glide through the canals, feed the wild sparrows nesting in the eaves of your house.
It was only once your studies in business management and alchemical laws increased, and Jing had to be called away for longer and longer stretches of time to train, that you decided your relationship was too much of a strain on your schedule to continue. Better to end the relationship here, when the two of you were still on good terms, than to watch it shrivel beyond repair.
You explained as much to him on the day you broke up with him. “We said we would keep it casual, didn’t we? I don’t want it to become too much of a burden in our lives. Besides that, I do not plan to take any of my relationships seriously unless it’s with the expectation of marriage, and I don’t plan to do that unless my lover meets all of my expectations.”
“What are those expectations?” Jing asked.
You tap your chin thoughtfully. “Well… they must have a title if not a lineage, and have enough fortune to be a boon to my house. They must be intelligent, thoughtful, cunning and ambitious, but not to the point they attempt to limit me or usurp my position as heir to the alchemy commission. And they must be able to keep up with me and assist me in my goals for my future business.”
You thought Jing would make a joke about your lofty expectations, but he only said simply, “And you would marry someone who met all those?”
“Well, yes. Though my mothers keep telling me to lower my expectations.”
What is he thinking? For once, Jing’s eyes are hooded, the perpetual sleepiness replaced by something you can’t place a finger on; the closest word you have for it is hunger. 
“Then, my liege…” Jing takes one of your hands, as reverentially as he would touch the emperor himself, and places a chaste kiss along your knuckles, his lips grazing against your fingers. “I’ll come back for you one day, but let us say goodbye for now.”
You didn’t think much of his words at the time; it was simply a parting from a soldier who had always done everything much too seriously. You did, however, entertain a brief fantasy that Jing would come back and elope with you, but that passed like the rain during the summer: sudden, intense, and gone more quickly than it arrived. You were busy, and though you flirted once or twice at social functions over the years, took on all manners of temporary lovers, your main focus was always on your duties towards your house. 
You lost track of Jing over the years, and you chalked it up to a natural consequence of time and distance. Jing became a memory you could look back fondly on, a foolish first relationship that you chased after with a youthful arrogance… until he showed up in front of you again.
“You really had no idea that I was the one courting you?” Jing Yuan’s voice is amused, sleepy, but each word possesses a certain gravity. He’s a careful speaker, you think. Someone who weighs the measure of everything he says. He sits across from you at the table, fingers steepled as you talk.
“I didn’t read any of your letters,” you say coolly. “Nor was I expecting an old fling to start pursuing me again, when none have in the past. We ended on clear terms.”
“Does it change things, now that you know who I am?”
“Not at all. In fact, it’s even more disappointing to realize it’s you courting me. I would have thought burning your presents was answer enough to your proposal.”
“I simply thought you were dissatisfied with what I bought you,” he says easily. “Material objects are easily replaceable.”
“And did I not spurn your disciple as well?”
“Yanqing is a child, though he dislikes being called such. He’s talented with a sword, but his conversational skills are lacking.”
“And,” you say pointedly, “You are an annoying, insufferable man.”
“Ah,” Jing Yuan says. “Also easily remediable. Shall I prepare an entirely separate estate for you to live in, and stay silent forever after in your presence, so you need not fear seeing or hearing me?”
“Have you no sense?” you snap. “Do you really see nothing wrong with my behavior? Do you not understand what rejection is? Must I send a tutor to your household?”
“Ah, but that’s because you’re doing everything on purpose, not out of ignorance,” he says smoothly. “I know you well enough; you only have eyes for your dreams and goals, and little attention to spare to anyone else. So playing these little games with you… this is the only way you will turn your gaze to me, is it not? My dear liege–” Jing leans closer to you, and you wonder why you never realized the boy you thought was a little bird is actually a lion– “whether you accept my proposal or not, whether you find me a detestable nuisance or a respectable ally, I am satisfied as long as you think of me, with fondness or with loathing. As long as I occupy your mind as much as you occupy mine, then I will be happy.”
“You are an insidious man, and I shudder to think of the state of the city if someone like you somehow managed to crawl up the ranks,” you say flatly.
“Then shall I give up all my wealth and all my titles for you? You only need to say the word.”
“Are you mad?”
“Only if love is a form of madness, my liege.”
“I should never have gotten involved with you.”
“You cannot change the past,” Jing Yuan says, and you want to flick him in the forehead.
“Which is a shame.” You gulp down the rest of your cooled tea, slamming the cup on the table. “At the very least, stop sending me things I don’t want. No flowers, no presents, no love songs. It’s distracting.”
“Of course.”
“Then…”
“Will you stop by again some time?” he says pleasantly. “I’ll be sure to inform the guards to let you in if you ever stop by, no matter the time or circumstance.”
“Confident, are you?”
“Have you given me any reason not to be?”
“... Hah. Never mind. I need time away from you to clear my head.”
Jing Yuan simply lets you go with a smile, and as you step outside his estate, you had a feeling it would not be your last time visiting.
After your visit to Jing Yuan, true to his word, he does not send you any presents, nor couriers or musicians to pester you. You would be relieved with the sudden peace if you didn’t suspect he had something else planned. The next few days pass with little fanfare, until an afternoon in which your mom requires your assistance managing her inventory.
“My darling child, did you hear?” your mom says conspiratorially, lowering her face next to yours as the two of you sort through dried herbs.
“Hear what, mom?” you ask. Your mom loves to gossip and chatter, and hears news from all corners of the city thanks to the customers filing through her alchemy shop. Though it is usually your mother who indulges her, you don’t mind listening occasionally as well. It’s always prudent to know what is going inside of the city, after all.
“The general… the one who’s been courting you… has been seen with a few lovers!”
“And why is this my business?” you say, expertly bundling a few dried stalks together. “Should I congratulate him on fooling multiple people to find him a viable partner?”
“Why… they say there’s talk of him marrying one of them soon.”
You crush the herbs in your hand, dried green flakes escaping through your closed fingers. “Is that so?”
Your mom watches you in amusement. “I thought you didn’t care for him.”
“I do not. I find myself loathing him even more now, in fact, as he seems to be a man who can’t keep his word.”
For the rest of your time with your mom, you fume and plan ways to curse Jing Yuan as you stack containers of herbs in the cool, dark storeroom. Ah, you see how it is. For all of his grand declarations, as soon as he gets tired of you, he has no problem finding someone else, does he not? But– and a sudden jolt of embarrassment shoots down your spine– that is all idle gossip. It is the height of foolishness to believe something without verifying it for yourself. Perhaps that man has made you lose your mind through sheer annoyance; certainly, your intelligence seems to have lowered after prolonged contact with him.
You should be rejoicing. It shouldn’t bother you to hear that he might have found someone else. It shouldn’t, but…
You take a breath. No, if you let yourself go down this path, then you would fall into a spiral of doubt. Perhaps you should seek the source of your frustration to quell your nerves. But, before that, you would need to prepare a few things.
You march into Jing Yuan’s residence like a soldier heading to battle, heedless of anything around you. No servants stop you, wide-eyed as they are, and even the occasional guard only bows at your presence (Yanqing once told you that Jing Yuan had hired more people after you complained about the lack of personnel). You stalk through the house, searching for the general; he can’t hide behind a forest of varnished wood and lacquered bowls forever.
It’s in his office that you find him, relaxed and poised at his desk as he pours over some documents, head in his hand like he’s liable to fall asleep at any moment. 
“General,” you say, all acidic politeness as you stride up to his desk, slamming your hands down so hard the corners of the page flutter. 
“My liege. If I knew you were coming, I would have prepared some snacks,” he says mildly, but you don’t miss how all his boneless relaxation melts away, replaced by an alert interest, though he doesn’t move a single inch.
“Don’t bother.”
“Are you okay, my liege? Though your harsh words and fiery wit are normally music to my ears, it seems as if something is bothering you.” Jing Yuan eases forward in his chair, face right in front of yours so you can count all of his eyelashes.
“You…” You bite your lip. What were you doing? You aren’t even engaged to him. You have no right to be jealous of who he chooses to spend his time with; it is not uncommon for eligible bachelors to test the waters with multiple partners, as you know from firsthand experience. But you couldn’t back down now. “You… are you planning on finally settling down?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I just wanted to know if I could count on you being out of my sight forever if you’ve found someone else.”
Jing Yuan cocks his head. “Ah, I see. You’re worried I no longer care for you. I find your lack of forthrightness charming as well.”
“You’re not answering the question.”
“What would you do if I said I had?” he remarks.
“I’d send you a thousand presents as thanks in return for all the ones you flooded my room with,” you reply tartly. 
“Well, I can’t have that, can I? Where would I put them all? To answer your question, my liege, you are the only one whom I will ever devote myself to. You are all I think about. All I do is for you. The idea someone could take your place would be as foolish as a candle becoming the sun,” he says simply.
You twist your hands. It is a grandiose declaration; from anyone else, you might have laughed. But Jing Yuan spoke each word with a measured sincerity. You think if you were to ask him to burn down the city and crown you as the ruler, he would do so with a smile. 
“There are rumors around the city about you and your lovers,” you venture.
“There are rumors about you, too, speculating that you have a hidden lover you jealously hide from the public view. People love to talk; I could not walk around with even a friend without gossip sparking.”
You let loose a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. So it is nothing more than idle tongues wagging… and the gossipers of the city would rejoice at the news they could share after today.
Jing Yuan doesn’t seem all that surprised when you take a pouch out of your pocket and slide it across the desk. He unveils a tassel with intricate knots vaguely in the shape of a lion head, made with strands of soft yellow and white, interspersed with small amber beads. Jing Yuan says nothing as he examines it, holding it as if it were an offering to the gods.
“Yanqing said it, didn’t he? That you hoped I would make you a matching tassel?” you say. “You can take this as an answer to your proposal. This should quell any rumors of potential lovers for either of us.”
“My liege, I may just kiss you,” he murmurs. 
“Then hurry up and do so.”
And Jing Yuan reaches for you across the desk, papers flying as you ungracefully prop yourself on top of all his important paperwork, ink smearing, pens clacking to the floor. His hands are on your face, cradling you like a promise, while he kisses you with an increasing hunger that leaves you breathless. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging the silky soft strands to pull him closer, and he surrenders to your touch.
This is a prudent match for your family, of course. Jing Yuan, as your mother once noted, has power. Money. Fame and glory. He is loyal. Devoted. He can keep up with you, does not quail under your words, and has no schemes of vying with you for power.
But more than that, more than his titles, you want him. You want the man in front of you and, this time, you would not let him go.
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pokechbi · 9 months
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I love your writing so much!! I was wondering if you could write about könig and ghost finding out that y/n is a couple years older than them! How would they react? If you’re not taking requests feel free to ignore this!!! Thank you!!
Hi ♡ Anon ♡ !!! Tysm !!! I'm so glad you love my writing. Thank you for the very unique idea !! I was so lost at how to even go about this at first but once i started i literally could not stop! So ty! Ya'll are bringing me out of my writers funk fr im so so grateful 💗
JSYK: I know zilch about military stuff so forgive me for any inaccuracies!
WC: 1.1K ♡
Enjoy 🎀
♡Konig & Ghost find out you're a few years older than them...♡
König
During the time that the KorTacs and T141 had joined forces, you had gotten pretty comfortable around the newcomers. Specifically one big, mountain of a man named König. He was a no-nonsense man when it came to his work, but aside from his duties he fared to be a pretty decent friend that you often hung around in your free time. You often asked him about his life in the military, learning many skills of the trade since he was a Colonel, and you had only managed to grow yourself to second lieutenant, the lowest commissioned officer rank.
While you were on the topic of years spent in the army, somehow your ages came into play and while he was still protective of revealing his exact age to anyone, he lead you on with the fact that he was in his mid-thirties. You were no priss, so talking about your age was something you didn't mind. When you revealed to him that you were a few years older than him over lunch, he paused, taking in your new revelation.
"You're older than me? How can that be? You look so...young" He trails off, stabbing at his lunch with his fork. You glanced at him, a surprised look on your face as you chuckled. He wasn't the kind of man to give out compliments very often, so it scratched a new itch hearing him use them on you. "Well thank you, that's very kind of you, König" She replied, her eyes darting from his eyes to the table.
"You carry yourself very well. Physically and emotionally, so I guess it's no surprise that you're older than some of us." He continues, his German accent thick on some words more than others. You smile at him as you blush slightly, waiting for him to finish chewing so he can continue speaking. "There's a quote, by the German novelist Franz Kafka. Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old." He clears his throat. "So...never stop seeing your beauty, I guess." He pauses after speaking, standing suddenly as he walks away from the table, striding towards the door before you could begin to reply.
You knew his social anxiety had caused him to distance himself from people sometimes, but you had no idea why he was still anxious near you after all the time you'd spent together. You were only just friends, right?...Right?
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost was fond of you, unlike some of his other unit members of T141. He admired the way you carried yourself on the field, possessing a natural leadership instinct that he had worked endlessly, for years to attain. He envied you at times. He envied your ability to take risks without much thoughts of consequences, and you always trusted your gut. Which 100% of the time proved to be right. He knew it was some weird woman's instinct that always overpowered him. It sometimes embarrassed him when you outdid him mentally, standing your ground and showing him who's boss in front of his soldiers. While you were still under his command, he saw you as his right hand woman, always by his side to have his back when he needed you.
The team had just finished a debriefing for the new upcoming mission that you all were set to leave for in a few days time. You reeled at the information that was revealed, running your hands over your face in frustration. He sat by your side, trying to cheer you up with his sarcastic jokes and self-deprecative witticisms. Ignoring him, you shook your head as you flipped through the classified files once more.
"In all of my 37 years of living, I haven't come across a terrorist quite like him. Jesus." You sigh, standing to your feet as you begin to pace the room.
"Excuse me?" He stood suddenly, pacing over to you slowly. Your neck cranes as he approaches you, towering over you like a building. You hated when he did this. You placed a hand on his chest, trying to push him backwards. "Come on, Simon. Back up. You know I hate when you do that." You say frustrated, your hand meeting his hard chest as you swallow hard. He doesn't budge, staring down into your eyes as he bores a hole into your very soul.
"Never mind that." He disregards her demand, stepping closer to her. "You're...older than me? Since when?" He asks in disbelief.
You chuckle at him, the smile falling from your face as you realized that he wasn't making one of his stupid jokes. "Yeah... so? What's wrong with that?" You say, crossing your arms over your chest, causing your breasts to perk up the slightest bit. His eyes slyly graze over your covered cleavage under your tight black turtleneck, so quickly you wouldn't have caught it if you blinked. Realizing what he was staring at caused your stomach to flutter, your gaze shying away from his as you drop your arms to your sides. You were alone in the room now, the silence thickening the air between the two of you and making it hard to breathe.
"Uhh... No. Nothing's wrong with that, it's just..." He trails off, ending his sentence with a chuckle. "It's just that what, Simon?!" You press, raising your voice at him the slightest bit. Your blossoming friendship with him was on the line, and you gave him a stare that read: choose your next words carefully, boy.
"It's just that...It explains a lot. How you've always been so... confident. So right about everything. I get where that's all coming from now." He chuckles softly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, scratching under the hem of his balaclava. "Trust me, I like it more than you know." He finishes.
You smile at him slightly and nod your head, suddenly understanding why Simon had favored you all this time, the puzzle pieces all fitting together now. You realized that he liked the fact that you acted older than him. Your usual feminine maturity making him feel secured in his team. You made him feel confident in his actions, as long as he was by your side. There also might have been another reason he wasn't upset at all at this news, and that was because Simon "Ghost" Riley, had a thing for being controlled by a woman in power.
There was now a clear cut reason he'd tag along next to you in his free time more than usual, asking for your advice on career-altering and mission-making decisions. He trusted you, more than a friend, more than his soldier. He trusted you as his woman, even if you didn't know you were his yet.
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
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Male Reader X 141 boyfriends (individually) where he has a pet wolf and the rest of 141 reacts to it on and off the field
Also can it be a BIG ass wolf too plzzzz?
(Super simple really lol)
141 x male reader
Headcanons
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You said big wolf, so I made it a big wolf, big enough to ride on. I know this isn’t realistically possible, but I don’t care :)
You callsign in this is Lycan, because of the wolf lmao. It isn’t really mentioned but yeah.
John Price
-          Now Price added you to the 141 he had read in your file that you had a canine with you. He just assumed it was like any other dog that was in the military, imagine his surprise when you pull up with a wolf big enough to ride on.
-          It takes a good while to get used to the big wolf, which he learned it was and not a dog, especially when he sees it walking around on base at night, it almost gives the poor guy a heart attack.
-          At first, he would think it would be a disadvantage to have such a big animal with you on missions, but when the wolf turns out to be super useful during missions, he will change his mind.
-          He acts all tough, but you’ve caught him petting and cuddling your wolf more and once, but you have a mutual agreement to never mention what you saw to anyone.
 Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
-          Gaz had no idea how to react to the huge wolf you brought along, and he’s kinda nervous around it in the beginning but its mouth it big enough to rip someone’s head off. When he learns the wolf is friendly outside of missions though, he becomes close friends with your wolf.
-          He half heartedly complains about the dog hair everywhere, even though he’s the one cuddling your wolf and getting covered in the stuff.
-          Gaz would be kinda on edge for a little bit after the first time he sees your wolf rip a poor enemy soldier apart as if they were a chew toy. The cautiousness stays for a while though your wolf searching for cuddles with Gaz helps warm the man up to the canine again.
-          He takes pictures of your wolf all the time, he’s also the one who started calling you Lycan when you joined the team.
 Simon “Ghost” Riley
-          Ghost gives the vibe of the kind of guy who likes animals more than people, so he wouldn’t outwardly show it but he’s ecstatic when you show up with your wolf.
-          He would of course be cautious in the beginning because that’s a big animal that can easily kill a man and has military training, but when your wolf turns out to be pretty much harmless, he would allow himself to pet it when no one was looking.
-          At some point you notice how Ghost sticks around your wolf and finds comfort in its presence, so you offer to teach him the commands and how to fight closer alongside the wolf. In exchange he teaches you some of his moves too.
-          It becomes a thing that if your wolf isn’t with you, it’s with ghost during missions and outside missions. Ghost makes a horrifying picture walking around with your wolf, it only makes the legend of Ghost even greater.
-          He secretly carries treats for your wolf in his gear, not that he would ever tell anyone.
 John “Soap” MacTavish
-          I headcanon that soap hates dogs, this stems from him being attacked by dogs when he was younger and the fear just kinda stuck. So, when you rock up with a wolf the size of a horse, he doesn’t know what to do and almost just keels over right then and there.
-          Soap would avoid your wolf most of the time because of him not being super comfortable around them, so this would also mean the two of you wouldn’t bond as quickly as normal since you are typically around your wolf.
-          After your wolf saves his life during a mission, he grows a little more comfortable with your animal partner, though he still isn’t the biggest fan of being too close or touching.
-          As time goes on, he grows more comfortable and might even pet your wolf every now and then, though he isn’t all over their fur like some of the others are.
-          Soap sketches your wolf in his notebook every now and then since it’s a great reference.
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lvlyghost · 9 months
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Hi I just read your “The Things I Never Said” oneshot and loved it. Can I get a kind of opposite version where Simon wishes to be a dad but the reader never wants to be a mom so she freaks out and gets an abortion with out Simons knowledge and later he somehow finds out? Maybe angst to fluff? Totally ignore this if you dont want to, have a wonderful day/night.
The Things I Wish I Said
Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader
Summary: You decide to end things with Simon after what you did.
Word Count: 1.7k
Tw: hurt, comfort, angry simon, angst, implied abortion. Not proofread.Think that's it but lmk if i missed anything!🐸
A/N: here it is! I hope this doesn't disappoint and that it lives up to your expectations 😰🤞🏻 I really enjoyed writing this one and since it's similar to my previous fic decided to name it quite similar. ✨💞
Masterlist✨Masterpost
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He doesn't know. You stare at Simon's gargantuan body as he barks orders to the new recruits. Things have been rather... tense lately. And it's all because of you.
Yesterday had taken a toll on you. A big piece of your heart and soul lost forever in that godamn clinic. You can still smell the perfume of the nurse, feel the hands of the doctor as he tried to comfort you. You're deadly pale, tired and numb. That's why you're sitting on the other side of the field, watching the rest of your team training as usual. Nothing changes for them. You on the other hand? Can't even look at Simon in the eyes. Not anymore. The one thing he wanted the most was also the one you were the most reluctant to. It just wasn't you.
You didn't have it in your DNA. To be a mother. To carry a baby in your arms. And not because you're selfish, but you had decided a long time ago that having children was off the table.
Even when everybody would say 'you'll change your mind when you find the one'. Well it was a blatant lie because you found him. You loved Simon. You'd do whatever he asked of you. Just not this. And you hate yourself for it.
You lied to him and didn't mention anything. Didn't tell him you were pregnant with his offspring.
Couldn't even bare to maintain a conversation with him. And he's starting to notice the way your body startles when he reaches out to you. How you avoid his gaze or not kiss him anymore.
"Feeling better?" He questions, strong arms crossed. Simon doesn't fully look down where you sit but side eyes you. He awaits. You're looking out to the field, ignoring his presence as you swallow the lump in your throat.
"Not really, Lieutenant." You simply add, in a hushed tone.
He sighs but doesn't move, starting to lose his patience. He's trying so hard to understand why you're acting like this. He's preoccupied. Anxious. Yet doesn't let it show, remaining stoic as ever.
"Wanna talk about it, Sergeant?" Biting down on your lip and fidgeting with your hands you shake your head. Simon rubs his face, annoyed that whatever the fuck is happening is driving the both of you apart, so he sits down on the bench next to you. "What is it?" He turns his head to you. Arms resting on his knees.
"Simon..." you warn him with a sad tone.
"No. That's an order."
"Sir, we're done here..." One of the recruits shouts from the other side.
"You bloody keep going until I tell you to stop!" He seethes, making you flinch.
Resting your head on your hands, start thinking about the inevitable. About what you're going to do. Your heartbeat racing when you feel his eyes on you again.
"Simon..." you say. "I... I- don't think we should be together right now." It hurts deep inside because all that's left is the rustling of wind and the voices of the soldiers around. You don't turn to see his reaction, probably wouldn't be able to stand it. It's not because you didn't love him. In fact, you loved him more than he could imagine. It's what you did behind his back what's eating you alive. And the best way you can seem to cope with it is to leave him.
Not a sound comes from him for the next few seconds. Until you finally find the courage to look his way. Blue eyes scan your body.
"As you wish, kid." He whispers. You can't see it but he's already spiraling down to a dark place.
The one good thing he had...
-
"I've had enough!" Soap's voice booms in the hallway and then your door bursts open. You shriek, standing up from the bed. "I can't stand it anymore lass. You've gotta talk to him." He says.
"Johnny... we've talked about this." You murmur.
"No. I'm being serious! Ghost is more irritated than usual, he almost punched me for saying he needed to get laid. The bloody hell happened to you both?" His eyebrows furrow. "You need to figure this out, otherwise..."
"It's complicated." You deadpan.
"Well then bloody make it right! Steaming fucking Jesus you two acting like fucking children. Grow the hell up."
You had never seen Johnny this mad.
Of course you were aware of Ghost's attitude since you two broke up. And it's only been three weeks. You've been attending the military counselor since then, it's a sorrowful feeling when you think about Simon, while you talk about him. About what led to the end of your relationship or whatever it was that you two had going on.
"I believe what you went through was hard and painful. But I do think that he deserves an answer." she had insisted. "He needs to know."
It was easier said than done. Every time you thought about going to his room or wherever he'd be you got this uneasy feeling, like he somehow despised you now. That all the soft smiles and gentle caressing that were once just for you had turned into frowns and harsh commands. Dismissing you whenever you showed up to training. Not even making eye contact during debriefs. Walking right past you in the corridor. You can't help but wonder if the baby's eyes would've been more like him or yours.
Stop.
The counselor said it was a type of ptsd and that therapy would help you get through it.
"The first step is to let yourself feel that pain, make amends with it, and then go see him."
"I'll try to talk to him Johnny. I promise." You murmur, jaw clenching.
The mere thought of going to speak to Simon made your hands sweat and your heart beat frantically.
Three days after the conversation with Soap, you stand in front of Simon's bedroom door. Blinking rapidly as your mind races with all the things you ought to say. It's almost one in the morning, unable to sleep you decided the conversation couldn't wait any longer. You couldn't wait anymore. Swallowing down saliva you raise your hand, two soft knocks on the door echoing in the empty hallway and you wait patiently, fumbling with your hands as the anxiety begins to raise.
Simon doesn't open so you knock again two times only to be greeted by more silence and a loud thunder outside in the sky.
A quiet huff leaves your mouth as you turn on your heel and leave. Wandering around the compound with no clear direction. It's dead silent, you're left with your own self destructive thoughts as you walk past the gym. A low thud can be heard from behind the doors so you backtrack and take a glimpse through the window.
Why is he at the gym at this ungodly hour?
Pushing past the door you walk sluggishly, Simon's quick to notice the disturbance, ready to snap at whomever is here to interrupt his midnight routine. It's been like this for weeks now; not being able to sleep. The nightmares that had disappeared for the most part came back with full force.
There's a hollow feeling inside of him ever since you decided to call it quits. He doesn't fucking understand, he's mad. Furious even. Can't help the anger whenever he wakes up and you're not there anymore. Can't bear the sight of you during debriefings and not even looking his way. The way you freeze when he has to order you around.
Had he done anything to make you fearful of him?
He needed to know, he needs answers. He'd ask tomorrow. He swears. Whatever it was. Then he'll walk away.
He stands from where he was about to start the second round of push-ups. Simon's able to recognize your silhouette with the lights off, he just knows you that well. Wherever you were, in a sea full of people he'd know it's you even then.
"Sorry..." you murmur. Simon's looking at you over his left shoulder through the mirror in front of him, you stand a few steps behind him. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
He stays silent. It's now that you come to realize that he isn't wearing the mask, instead lies on the room floor, discarded. "Was looking for you in your room but-"
"Say it." He barks, turning around and stalking towards you. His presence alone making you feel smaller. His brows are knitted, jaw clenched so hard you're sure he'll break his teeth. Simon is massive. Yet, despite all of this you know he'd never lay a finger on you, nor hurt you. "Fucking start talking, kid." The hurt in his voice is palpable. You fumble with your hands, it's getting harder to keep your eyes on his. You do not deserve his love at all. "Because I've been losing my mind ever since you shut me out."
A soft wail escapes your lips, you try to muffle it. Simon hesitates for a second. Wanting nothing more than to hold you in his arms, he awaits.
"I... I- got pregnant." You cried. "And you've always known I never wanted that. I panicked and didn't say a word because it would be more painful or...-" you swallow through incessant tears. "Or so I thought. I decided to get rid of it, Simon. But seeing what's done to us. What I've done... I'm so fucking sorry I don't deserve-"
Suddenly you're engulfed by strong arms and a broad chest as you finally let go and cry rivers of pain and regret. He's murmuring sweet things in your ear that you can't understand die to your deteriorating situation.
"It's okay. It's okay, love. Fucking hell, should've come to me." He growled. "Don't you ever do this to me again, kid. You didn't have to do it alone. Christ."
There's a soft kiss on the top of your head as your cries start to die down and all there's left are soft whimpers.
"I never meant to leave you, but I couldn't be close to you after what I did behind your back." You sniff.
The ever gentle caressing of his thumb on your back never ceases, providing the comfort you so desperately seek.
"S'alright, love. Nothing to be sorry about." He takes a step back keeping you at arms length. "There she is." A little broken but starting to be pieced back together. He gently wipes your cheeks and breathes deep. "I'm here. Always."
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alientee · 3 months
Text
Christmas Cookies 🎄
This is a 18+ minors don’t interact and have your age in your bio. NOTHING BUT PURE SMUT. (Oral.M Receiving, spanking, spitting, cum everywhere) 2000 something words. AFAB reader
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Sometimes you wonder why you chose this life. Your parents were gone, leaving behind you and two siblings. Not like they had a choice; they died in the omnic crisis. So you had to make a decision: die with your brothers going into the system, or live and protect them. So you made yourself useful until somebody picked you up.
Being a healer in Talon wasn’t so bad. You weren’t cut out for violence or war, and you were terribly shy. But you had to do what you needed to take care of your siblings. Plus, Doomfist and Moria were impressed with your progress in healing the troops, so you were moving up with the pay grade. You stayed in the background, stayed out of the way, and kept everyone alive, so your job was easy.
Well, your job would be easy if a certain tank didn’t take a liking to you. According to him, he had a soft spot for medics, especially sweet ones like you.Ever since you joined, Mauga has done everything in his power to get you to open up to him. Always asked Doom to bring you out in the field with him. He trusted you to keep him alive for some reason. He’d flirt with you, pick you up, drag you off with him, and even bring you dinner when you patched him up.
Sometimes you felt like he’d get hurt on purpose just to see you. He’s so huge that bullets don't affect him, so seeing him hurt made you a little skeptical. But with all the time and effort he put into you, sometimes they really would send you out on the field with him. He made you stay well hidden, or he carried you on his shoulder. Late missions had become late nights with you patching him up, listening to his crazy ideas, and telling you about his home.
You both had gotten close, but you think your shyness to speak up let it get out of hand. After a while, you grew to have feelings for him, and Mauga could tell; he was even a little smug about it. Mauga was touchy—really touchy—and overprotective; you didn’t realize what you got yourself into. To the point where other Talon soldiers would avoid you because, apparently, it was an unspoken rule that you were off limits.
And you were fine with that because people left you to your own devices. The problem was that you weren’t used to his overly sultry nature. Even after the large man had taken your virginity, (another story for another time.) You both went from being friends to him claiming you and doing whatever he pleased (with consent, of course). He never said if you both were a couple, so you didn’t want to put too much of your feelings into it.
But he made it very difficult, always being very kind to you or following you around. You decided it was best to avoid him until your feelings calmed down. You didn’t want to get so invested in him only for him not to feel the same. Your heart couldn’t take that kind of pain in your life again. So you did your best, and it paid off; you avoided him for a week. But Mauga got sick and tired of that real soon.
So here you were trying to avoid him on Christmas, thinking he wouldn’t be at work. You spent the day with your brothers so you could come in tonight. You were in the kitchen baking deserts for the team. You didn’t mind; you loved baking, plus you got paid extra for coming in today. You even put on a cute Santa dress and thigh-high socks. You already made a cake, gingerbread, pies, and even fruit muffins. The last thing left was the second batch of sugar cookies. You placed them in the oven and set a timer.
While you opened the oven, ready to put them in. You felt something hard press against your ass. The next thing you know, you’re lifted into the air. “EEK!"
You try to grab onto something, but you are set on the counter. And loa and behold, Mauga is standing right in front of you while in between your legs, smirking at you.
"M-Mauga, what the heck! I was baking.” He ignores you and starts to rub your cheek with his thumb.
“You make something for me, sugar?”
“U-um……. You can have a muffin if you want.”
He chuckles, "Nah, I think I want something else. I think you owe me a pie, sweetheart."
You quickly move to hand him a pie. "Here, take one!”
He looks at the pie, then back to you. He takes it out of your hand and sets it back down. He pushes you on your back against the cold counter. “Your funny; how bout a cream pie?"
“I can make you o-mmmh." Mauga cuts you off by shoving his tongue down your throat. He pushes your body down on the counter. He grabs at your thighs, squeezing them.
“Pretty thigh highs,” he says, running his finger along the socks. “It’s like you made yourself into a present for me.”
He starts to bite and nibble on your neck while putting his hand up your dress. His tongue licks up the side of your neck until he nibbles on your ear, and you shiver. You hated to admit it, but you missed his touch. His hands grip your ass, holding your lower half up. He scoffs and starts to rub at your covered folds.
“Lace panties, huh... I'm starting to think you really did dress up for me.”
You try to look away; it was an embarrassing position for you. And even if you told him you didn’t do it for him, he wouldn’t believe you anyway. He grips your chin,forcing you to look at him. “You miss me? Cuz it seems like you’ve been avoiding me lately.” You push him back a little.
"Mauga, you know I have siblings to take care of. I've been busy."
He looks down at you, frowning. He’s a firm believer that if there are 24 hours in a day, some of them better be for him. He slams you back on the counter, kissing your forehead. “If you’re going to make excuses, I won’t go easy on you.”
He moves back to push up your dress, rips your panties off, and leans down. “Spread those fucking legs; show me that pussy.”
You spread your legs, and he spat on your pussy, making you gasp. He slides his tongue over your cunt and starts to finger you slowly. "Mauga, we can't; we’re in the kitchen.”
Mauga hums in agreement, his tongue diving deep into your wet folds. He licks and flicks your sensitive spots, making you squirm with pleasure. Before you could grab his hair, he moved away, making you whine. Mauga chuckles and pulls you closer, his hard cock rubbing against your ass. “Thought we couldn’t do it in the kitchen?" He grabs a handful of your ass cheek and squeezes it roughly, causing a pleasurable pain to shoot through your body.
“Wanna watch your ass jiggle while I fuck you.” He throws you over, putting you on your stomach. "M-Mauga, wait, maybe we should wait till I’m done cooking.”
He paused for a moment, looking down at you. “You may not think I know what’s going on in that head of yours, but you’ve been acting insecure and putting up walls, then you started avoiding me, so im gonna show ya you can’t leave me your mine and I’m yours got it.”
You start to tremble and turn around to look at him. “I’m…. I’m yours?” He doesn’t answer; he’s still holding your body up. You realize all you can do is hold on and take what he gives you. Mauga teases you for a moment, rubbing his tip at your entrance. He starts to slowly push his cock inside you, filling you up with each inch. He slowly thrusts in and out, causing you to moan in pleasure. On instinct, you arch your back for him. “That's it, baby. That’s my good girl."
He reaches around, grasping your breast and squeezing it hard as he continues to fuck you. Mauga growls while his cock is pounding against your wet pussy. He grinds his hips forward, pushing deeper into you. You feel him playing with your nipples, pulling them roughly, and you cry out in pleasure. He pulls back slightly, then slams his hips forward again, burying himself to the hilt inside you. You scream his name as he starts to fuck you harder and faster.
Mauga smacks your ass, rubbing the cheek softly to ease the sting. "I think you deserve a punishment for dodging me; how bout I spank that cute ass, hm? Redden you up a bit.”
“Maug-ga! I’m close! Please!”
He smacks your ass harder this time. Pushing your body into the counter as his hips smack your thighs. Your body is being pushed back and forth in the air while all you can do is weakly grab at the counter. Your eyes roll in the back of your head, getting thrown around like a rag doll while Mauga bottomed out in you was bliss. You couldn’t help but moan out his name like a mantra, losing your breath with every thrust. He grips your hips, fucking you faster as he feels his balls tighten. “Want me to cum in this pussy or on that pretty face?"
“D-d….dont know Ahhhhh~”
You can barely answer him when he’s plunging his cock into you nonstop. His cock slick with your juices, making nasty squelching noises. He fucked you deeper while he whispered the dirtiest thoughts in your ear. His cock is stretching you past your limits. You make a weak attempt to crawl away, pulling yourself onto the counter.
Mauga grabs your hips, slamming you back on his cock. “Don’t you fucking run from me; take this dick.”
Mauga groans and thrusts a few more times. One more powerful stroke is all it took. Mauga started filling your pussy with his hot seed. He thrusts deep, feeling his cock twitch as he unleashes his load inside you. You can feel his cum seeping into your walls, filling you up with his essence. He keeps fucking into you while you cum on his cock, covering him in your juices.
You sigh and start to relax on the counter, catching your breath.
"You're not done, sweetheart."
You start to protest when he picks you up and puts you on the floor. He grabs you by the back of your hair, pushing his cock to your lips.
“Open wide, baby."
You open your mouth, and Mauga shoves his fat cock down your throat. You gag, tears coming to your eyes as you steady yourself, putting your hands on his thighs. Mauga growls, pushing his hips forward, his cock forcing its way into your mouth. "Fuck yes." He groans, his hands gripping your hair tightly as he thrusts in and out of your mouth. His cock is hitting the back of your throat.
You swallow his dick down to the base and begin to play with his heavy balls. Your sloppy noises echo through the kitchen.
Mauga's hips jerk violently as he feels your warm, wet mouth on his cock, his hands gripping your head tighter. "Fuck yeah, suck it, baby." He groans, his hips pounding into your mouth as he fucks your face with long, hard strokes.
Mauga's moans turn into grunts as his hips start bucking wildly as he loses control. "Mmmmh shit! Almost there..." He grips your head tightly, his cock jerking erratically in your mouth as he approaches his climax.
Mauga's entire body tenses up as he feels his climax come again, his hot cum filling your mouth and his hips jerking violently. "Fuuuuuck!" he moans lewdly, his cock pulsing with each spurt of cum, filling your mouth to the brim.
He pulls out of your mouth, spraying the rest of his cum on your face, his cock still hard and throbbing, cum dripping from the tip onto your tits. "Swallow it all, sweetie." He commands, his voice rough with authority.
You swallow all of his cum, sticking your tongue out to show him you finished.
Mauga chuckles, thinking you look gorgeous with your face covered in his cum. “Frosted like your cookies."
Just then, your timer dings.
“Cookies done, babe, go on and take ‘em out. You can frost 'em after I’m finished fucking you again."
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