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itstheghostofmypast · 16 days

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Lime Milkshake

Non-Idol Choi San x (f)Reader

Summary: Love is not a feeling that comes without a cost, a give-and-take relationship that flourishes if both ends of the line meet at a pleasant frequency. Choi San had yet to understand that concept, especially when he deemed himself to be unworthy of love, in all its forms.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 5.1k

Est Read Time: 25 minutes

Warnings: past relationship trauma, language, ghosting (it triggers me so yes)

Rating: PG-13

Networks: @cromernet @k-labels @san-network

Banner: @cafekitsune

Fate had never been fair, not with anyone who ever dared to dance with it, and luck was often watching from the sidelines, that's exactly how he felt when he saw her walk in with another man that day, watching the way she laughed at something the stranger had said to her- whispered to her, leaning closer to her, who knew the girl he had given his heart to was busy fooling around with it. That day he had stomped out of the shop, making sure to walk past her, feeling her body tense up, breath hitch and eyes widen as she turned her head to face him, locking her panicked orbs with his cold, hard ones-, a look she had never been a victim to before. That was the last time he had seen her, spoken to her, responded to her texts or even made the effort to open the door.

The thing about love is that it leaves a mark, an imprint that one may either wear proudly or cover with shame. She wasn't the first person he had been with, no, he had been in a few other situationships- unfortunately, she wasn't a situationship, she was a relationship, much like his previous ex- the one who had cheated on him with his own best friend, ironically his best friend was unaware of the relationship. He never thought that one night he'd visit her apartment, to surprise her, a day before his birthday, that he wanted to celebrate with his lover, his Bora, his angel, and find none other than Jung Wooyoung with her on her bed. It took Wooyoung four days to force San out of his room and another six for him to actually communicate with him, Bora was already out of the story, someone who didn't even bother calling back San or trying to reach out to him. That day Wooyoung had seen his best friend implode, keeping it in more than his introverted self ever did before, he was shy by nature and was one to put up a strong front to match his physical presence (the current big mountainous one) the old Sannie was as fragile as his porcelain heart, the recent development however was the addition of his nonchalance followed by his tactic to ignore the situation. The younger man had practically broken into his apartment to talk to him, only to find him mindlessly scrolling on his phone, he sat beside him, trying to talk to him but what he had received was a step ahead of the silent treatment- it was as if he was invisible like he wasn't even there. To get a reaction when Wooyoung had snatched it out of his hand and flung it across the room, the man simply grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, mumbling to himself about some movie- it was only two hours in of him sitting with Wooyoung in silence when his head whipped in the direction of his friend, at the sound of a broken sob, he'd never seen Wooyoung cry, let alone sob like that. It was after that when the two finally talked it out, how Wooyoung explained how he never knew San was in a relationship with Bora, and perhaps San shouldn't have hidden his relationship with her if he truly loved her, even if she had asked for it, he should've at least kept him in the loop.

He did thus keep him in the loop, for one fine afternoon Wooyoung had received a text from San, while he was busy cleaning at home,

"It's over, don't meet her anymore, she's just like her."

Her- two years had passed and she still haunted his best friend, keeping him awake at night until he met someone else, Wooyoung was glad he had, for once San had met someone different, someone who would pull out San from the bubble he hid in, she was honest but careful with her words which Wooyoung had noticed, the two had met at a 7-Eleven at midnight, buying a lime milkshake and bonding over how disgusting of a midnight snack that was- though San had told him how she had done most of the talking, even while he walked her home she was talking, they had exchanged numbers because she had suggested becoming "mid-night snack buddies"- initially Woo thought she meant that sexually, but ironically she didn't, there was no other implication, but honest words of sincerity, a range of snacks were exchanged and shared and slowly San had begun to fall again, only this time he knew his mountain of a friend would fall into her arms and she'd catch him. Or so he thought, the text itself was something that had scared him, as soon as he read it, he was quick to leave his home to his friend's side, only to find her at his door, crying and asking for his help. Initially, he had thought she was no different, just as San had suggested, but it occurred to him how Bora had never cried like this, never tried to fight for San- if she truly was different then she would try no matter what, which is why he had decided to stay out of the matter, only advising her to "Don't give up on him." San, at the realisation that this was Wooyoung's advice, was, to say the least, enraged. His now ex would be at his door all the time, he blocked her number and email address, and made sure she couldn't find him on social media, at one point she began to show up at his door, knocking, gently calling him out, "Sannie, please I- I don't know what I've done, but please listen to me or at least talk to me." He'd ignore her diligently, making sure to leave a message, of how he didn't want her, how she was like her, how she was no different and how he was not someone to play around with. This went on for months, five to be exact, not that he was counting, she came to his door whenever she knew he was home from work, gently knocking on the door, "Hey... it's me, I just wanna talk." "Sannie, please, please just tell me what I did wrong?" "I hope you're taking care of yourself..." "Hey...Wooyoung told me about her...I'm not her San, I'm not Bora-"That was the last time he had heard from her, that night, he had almost opened the door, instead opting to lean his forehead against it, listening to her laboured breathing, "I- I don't know why you think I'd ever do that to you...I don't even know what I did to trigger this- please San, I know you're there. I know you can hear me- everyone in this building thinks I'm insane, like I'm a lunatic- I don't care about that but San I- please don't ghost me like that, don't pretend I never existed....just open the door...if you won't I..." he had heard the way her voice had cracked, his own resolve had begun to crack as well, but when he closed his eyes to keep the waterworks at bay, the image that flashed in front of his eyes was not hers- it was of the one who did this to him, he was so distracted by the face of his ex that he had almost missed her final call, "I won't bother you anymore."

It wasn't fair how all he asked was for true love, yet he was given something bitter as this every time he received any, it was unfair how he'd still cling to the memories, onto the habits and the little activities, only to make himself feel better, to feel whole again. It wasn't fair how he was now climbing down the damp, slippery stairs, on his way to have a disgusting, cold, unworthy lime milkshake. It took him a while to come out of the habits he had developed with Bora, but now that he thinks about it, those comprised of usually pleasing his ex, it was different with her, she'd usually look for a middle ground. Scoffing to himself he stuffed his hands in his jacket, what did it matter, he hadn't heard from her since that night, he hadn't heard from her for almost a year, she was no different, at the end it was only-

"Ah!"

His ears picked up a loud thump, followed by the sound of things clattering around, a pained cry had him focusing on a crouched figure, leaning against the wall almost at the base of the stairs- oh no, they must've slipped. Making his way quickly, but carefully down the remaining concrete steps he clicked his tongue at the figure, a woman, "Miss, are you okay?" He asked as she watched her gripping her ankle, and let out a shaky breath, she couldn't hear him. Moving closer he tapped her shoulder, "Miss, do you need.... help..." his words died down as his eyes locked with a familiar misty pair, which widened upon a sudden realisation. Honestly, she was quicker than him, shaking her head and mumbling an, "I'm fine", before trying to reach for her bag and its fallen contents hastily, not sparing him a glance.

Did she change her hair?

Did he change his hair?

Her mind raced with a thousand questions, but she didn't listen to any, quickly trying to stuff whatever she had dropped, back in her bag, her keys, her wallet, her perfume, and her…her phone? A gasp escaped her as she continued to frantically look around, hands slapping against the dimly lit stairs, cringing at the wet dirt that stuck to her palm.

He watched her silently, frozen in the spot as he tried to process what had just happened, how did he not notice her walking before him? He hadn't noticed anyone at all, why was she out at this hour? It was still drizzling a bit; it was cold and- since when did she wear wide-legged pants? Sandals in the rain? His ear picked up her little gasp, picking up her little "Where's my phone...", he saw the glint of the device on two steps below, making his way around her to go down quietly.

She felt his gaze on her, somewhat humiliated, somewhat angry and truly upset. Why was he not helping her? Was he just going to stand there and watch? The San she knew wasn't like this, he was cold-hearted- she saw him crouch down to grab something, her phone- shit- the screen lit up, reflecting off his eyes that had widened for a split second before he closed them, letting out a sigh and locking the screen.

He picked up her phone, pushing the lock button to check the damage, only for his breath to hitch at the sight of her wallpaper, it was the first couple picture they had taken together, one she had coaxed him into after three months of being together;

"Don't worry, it won't have your face or mine." "I... how?" "Watch, just stop walking." She instructed as he stood still, still carrying her on his back, this was a habit that developed when she'd come to the store after leaving work way later than she had imagined, which is why walking back was a bother, so he had brought up this suggestion, "You're wearing trousers anyway." Regardless of how worried she was, he held her with ease, carrying her up the same steps they were now on.

This picture was a shadow of the two, with her on his back, this was the picture she had as her wallpaper when they were dating as well- a year ago. He walked over to her, looking at her face, trying to read through her turmoil, something twisting within him as she stared up at him for a split second before looking away, the familiar words ringing in his ears, "I'm not Bora."

She looked away from his face, chewing on her lower lip, almost ashamed that he had caught her like this, that he had found out how she still hadn't moved on, as she tried to move her leg, only to wince, eying the reddened ankle swelling as the now tight strap of her sandal pressed against the skin.

Crouching down he slipped her phone into her back before gently pulling it out of her hand, turning around before she could protest as he stood there, facing ahead, pondering for a moment, before sitting down on the step after hers, quietly waiting for her to understand the signal.

"I- I'm fine, I can walk-"

He sighed, turning around to look at her with a frown, "You can't walk."

"I don't need your help," she looked away, slowly trying to stand up as she braced herself for the pain, only for him to grab onto her arm and move it around his shoulder, manoeuvring so she had to cling onto him when he stood up at full height, arms wrapping around his neck as he hooked his arms under knees.

"No, you do need my help. You don't want my help." He sighed, as he slowly started making his way down the last step, walking down the pathway, ignoring how she let out a shaky breath, her fingers digging into his cotton shirt when he took a quick step, the jerk causing her to wince, making him mumble a small "Sorry."

"It's okay..." she whispered, her warm breath against his neck causing him to shiver, as he cleared his throat to distract himself, before asking her the real question, "Where were you headed?"

"...7/Eleven."

He stopped walking.

"Oh."

"Yeah..."

"Why?"

"I think you know why."

That's how the two found themselves sitting on the footpath, grimacing at the weird taste of the lime milkshake, watching the once-in-a-blue-moon car pass by, her bag in between them. She didn't know he had finished before her, but he had stood up and walked back inside the shop, causing her to turn her upper body to look at him walk inside, he'd grown prettier since the last time she saw him- well he was always pretty- she quickly turned back when he came outside with a paper bag in hand, trying to act casual, only that failed when he crouched down in front of her reaching for her ankle, "ITS OKAY-"

Clicking his tongue, he glanced up at her, narrowing his eyes when she cleared her throat, letting him have a look. Folding up the wide end of her pant leg he frowned, "This is bad..." he mumbled, undoing her sandal buckle with deft fingers, watching the imprint in the swollen, pink skin, "Since when did you where such pants?"

"I was trying something new." She sighed, placing the empty bottle of her shake next to her, reaching for her ankle, "I-I'll put some ice on it, it's fine."

"Why did you do it?"

His question caught her off guard, causing her to look at him all confused for a second, before pouting "Wear...sandals? Cause they matched-"

"Cheat on me."

"What?" She frowned, "I didn't cheat on you- San, I understand that lady hurt you, but I'm not her and if you weren't ready to move on, you should've said so." She scoffed, amused and angered by the fact that she had been crying each night for a man, who couldn't see past his ex, what was she? Some form of comfort cushion for him to use when he'd miss his ex?

"Then" he placed his hand on her ankle, gently massaging it, though he narrowed his eyes, glaring at her, a contrast between the way he looked at her and the way he was touching her ankle, "Who was that guy? At the cafe? You don't think I noticed how he was whispering to you?"

Reaching forward she slapped his hand, hard, only for her palm to hit her own ankle in the process, hissing in pain as she looked at him tear-eyed.

"OW- WHY WOULD YOU- ARE U MAD?" He yelled, pushing her hand away as he tenderly ran his thumb over the bluish skin, "Why would you hit your own bruise?" He sighed, before pulling out an ointment from the paper bag with his other hand, ignoring the way she was glaring at him, maybe she did lose her mind when they broke it off.

He had begun massaging the ointment on her ankle, not looking at her, though he could feel her glaring daggers at him, watching him work on her, and for some reason, though he didn't care, he didn't mind. It was as if the voice inside of him was berating him, scolding him for letting his insecurities get the best of him, pushing away the only person who had accepted to glue back the shattered pieces of his heart, promising to place in pieces of hers in the cracks that were left by missing pieces.

"I hate you."

His hands paused, one holding her ankle and his other hand holding the gauze, not an ounce in him wanted to look at her, wanted to see the hurt that swirled in her eyes, her words hung in the air, still as the mist on a cold bitter morning, perhaps such as this one, it was already past midnight. Clearing his throat, he continued his work as if nothing had happened, not daring to look up at her. Once he was done, he inspected his work before standing up, ignoring how her head followed his movements, still looking up at him, as if waiting for an answer, though he had nothing to give her, she hadn’t answered his question as well, she had only rejected the accusation. He grabbed her sandals in one hand and slung her bag over his shoulder before turning around and crouching down once more, the expanse of his back at her view, making her scoff, but she slowly got on, mumbling an ‘I still hate you.’

He had been making his way up the steps when he began to feel her tighten her arms around his neck, ignoring her for a minute or two, maybe she was scared she’d fall, so he let it be. That is until it became a bit too difficult for him to breathe for which he wheezed out,

“I can’t breathe.”

She let out a small gasp, “Aww…really?” before her grip tightened causing him to stop on a step, coughing out her name.

“That’s how I felt EVERY NIGHT when you IGNORED ME!”

Her grip loosened to its usual strength as he coughed for air, one of his hands flat against the wall as he tried to steady himself, letting go of her uninjured leg, feeling it wrap around him, wiping away a bit of drool with the back of his hand he hissed in anger, “You still haven’t told me who he was? What do you take me for-

“AN IDIOT, I TAKE YOU FOR AN IDIOT!”

“WHAT?” turning his head to glare at her, he frowned as she leaned over his shoulder to glare back with the same intensity, the volume of their voices wasn’t helping either, if anyone were to see them they’d probably call the cops, though that didn’t stop him from finally blowing up, letting out everything he should have the first time she came over to apologise, “WHY? WHY AM I THE IDIOT WHEN ALL I DID WAS WAIT FOR YOU AT THE CAFÉ LIKE YOU ASKED ME TO? AND THEN YOU BRING OVER SOME GUY AND-

“HE WAS THE F*CKING REAL ESTATE AGENT AND HE IS GAY!”

Just like the previous statement she had bombarded him with, her words hung in the air around them once more, the only sound that was evident to the ear was their heavy breaths, though he could see the way her ears had turned pink, not from the cold nipping at her but the anger that he had caused to run through her veins, “I- I can’t believe you, you walked out on me, you never let me explain and- and all I wanted to do was to surprise you with an apartment we could share.” She sighed, slowly letting go of him, causing him to panic, though she pulled back holding the handrail, “Just give me my stuff, thanks for today, just pretend none of this happened, you’re good at that anyway.”

Turning around to look at her he watched her reach for her bag that he was still holding onto, only for him to pull away, biting his lip to hold back the flood of emotions, especially when she looked up at him all exhausted, “I really did think Wooyoung was right, that you’d give me a chance but- I, I don’t think you were ready for something new and-

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, catching her off guard, eyes widening at the way he looked down at his shoes, holding onto her purse like it was his own, or perhaps he was holding onto something that was hers, the only piece that was not taken away, much like the memories of her, of how she loved him through the darkest patches of his life, how she spent time peeling away each layer with delicate movements, how she spent most of her time trying to understand him, how she’d be there with her melody, trying to soothe his aching soul, only for him to toss her out when the voices inside became so loud he couldn’t hear her’s anymore.

“You’re…sorry?”

“Yeah, I- Hey!” he almost lost his footing when she shoved him, staring at her in shock, for the love of God, they were still on the stairs, “Don’t do that,” he held onto her wrists when she almost shoved him again.

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me she hurt you like that, you- don’t you think I would’ve stayed with you? I love you- I- I helped you as much as I could and if I knew you needed professional help I would’ve stayed by your side- did I not love you enough for you to realise that?” her words cut through him, it was as if reality had come and punched him in the face for her, “What’s the point of being so tough of on the outside when you’re hurting on the inside, indirectly hurting everyone who chooses loves you…” He watched her sigh, her resolve breaking as she looked up at him, streaks of fresh tears painting her face, causing his breath to hitch at the sight- no, if he had opened the door on the first day he would’ve cracked, he would’ve crumbled at her feet and to think he didn’t, to think he had let her cry like this at his doorstep for so long, to have her break down, to lose a piece of her every night because he was too afraid to confront her, even though she had come to him, fate was not cruel to him, no, for once fate had pitied him, by sending him a form of compensation he was unworthy of, a form of love that he was unworthy of, for he was unworthy of her.

“I…” his head hung low, fingers tightening around her wrists as he let out a quiet sob, before he slowly sat down, the world around him spinning a bit too fast, though he did not know she had followed after, he didn’t even know when he started bawling his eyes out, his deafening cries were being muffled by her shoulder as she hugged him close, a soothing hand rubbed his back, though she never shushed him, never asked him to stop, in fact, it was as if she was encouraging him to continue crying, to let it all out. Soon his sobs turned into incoherent apologies, which morphed into hiccups of her name, squeezing her close to him as she pressed his face into her neck, whining and mumbling about- honestly, she couldn’t even understand him, she was just glad he had finally decided to let it out, to finally feel whatever he had barricaded away, whatever was stopping him from loving and feeling loved. He doesn’t know how long it took, but he’s sure it was after a solid twenty minutes when he finally peaked up at her, catching the way she gave him a small smile, only for him to whine and hide back in her neck, mumbling, “Do you still hate me?”

“I don’t hate you San, I just hate what you did to me.” She sighed, slowly peeling him off her as she cupped his face, taking note of his puffy eyes and red nose, her thumbs caressing the warm and wet skin below his eyes, “I don’t think I deserved to be punished for something I didn’t do.” He could only meekly nod at her statement, before sniffing and letting out a shaky breath, followed by another apology which she nodded at. Standing up he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, before he picked up her things once more, turning around so she could hop onto his back.

“I can slowly walk there, you know?” she asked only for him to shake his head, not even turning to look at her as he did so, just waiting for her to do as he asked, which she did thankfully.

The walk to her apartment was quiet, though not as tense as the walk to the store was, or before they finally fought, in fact, she felt quite better, she didn’t really know about him, but it had been a long time since she had felt this light as if the weight of the horrid world had been lifted of her shoulders. Ever so often, she’d hear him sniff, but that was all, halfway up the elevator ride to her apartment she felt him gripping her tighter, closer, though she did not say anything.

It was when she was at the door when she tried to move but he didn’t let go, instead stood there facing the door with her on his back, not saying a word or moving an inch.

“San.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t lose you again.”

She sighed at his statement, before giving what was similar to a back hug, placing a kiss on his shoulder, slowly slipping out when he eased because of her antics. Limping over to the door she finally unlocked it, turning to look up at a dejected mountain of a man, holding onto her pink sandals in one hand, while on his shoulder clutched close to his body was her hot pink purse, if this wasn’t a serious moment she may have even laughed. Still, the sight of him standing there, like a kitten kicked in the rain had her gripping the doorknob, wondering what she should do next, was it worth the effort? Was giving him another chance worth the risk of the pain? All that therapy she had to go through when she decided to move on- but had she moved on? Well, she thought she did, until she met him again tonight until he began to carry her down the stairs, until she realised he too was going for that horrid drink, until he sat there quietly drinking it with her, until he began to treat her injury as if nothing had happened- perhaps a part of her did not want to move on, or was she waiting to see if he had moved on?

“I can’t just…forget everything San.” She finally gave into the rational part of her being, “I can’t help someone, who doesn’t want to help himself,” looking up at him she noticed the way his eyes had watered, his lower lip trembling, much like his shoulders, “I need to know if what I’m fighting for is worth it? Are we really worth it, Sannie?”

His ears picked up the little nickname, most people who were close to him would call him that, but when the name slipped off her tongue, his heart grew bigger three sizes, his heart grew braver three sizes, something ignited within his soul, his fingertips tingling with a new found sensation, his eyes met hers, eyes burning with a new found determination, a newfound realisation, “We are. I need to make it up to you, I want to make it up to you, I will make it up to you…” he paused, before taking a deep breath, “Only if you let me.”

She looked at him quietly, taking in his words, perhaps she had woken up someone who lay asleep for years, slowly losing himself within the broken shell of a man who walked aimlessly around the Earth claiming to be Choi San, perhaps this was the real Choi San, the one Wooyoung had told her to fight for, the one Wooyoung had told her would love her endlessly, would hold onto her tighter than she’d hold onto him, the one who was to bring down the galaxy and present it to her on his palm, all wrapped within his love and admiration for her.

“I have to go for talking therapy at 8 pm tomorrow.”

“We have to go for our talking therapy at 8 pm tomorrow.” With that he handed her the purse, leaning closer to the door before opening it and picking her up princess style, her sandals still hanging off his fingers as she scoffed, wrapping her arms around him, “You’re sleeping on the couch though.”

“As long as I still have a date with you tomorrow.”

“Again, it’s therapy.”

“Therapy dates can be our thing.” He smiled down at her, a genuine smile, a smile that she had barely seen, one that came with the dimples and the crinkle of his nose, his teeth peaking out at her, contagious enough for her to morph a similar smile, perhaps not as pretty as his, but for him, it was the brightest, most beautiful, most charming smile he had ever seen, the very sight he would long for each night, when his self-induced state of pity would subside and the kinder, selfless San would resurface, the one who had decided to set the same picture as his wallpaper as her own- that’s why he was so shocked to find out that even though the two hadn’t met for almost a year, or talked to each other, they somehow still happened to have the same wallpaper- guess fate really did know what she was doing, enough to have the two craving the disgusting, ungodly lime milkshake.

Taglist: @edenesth @yessa-vie @the-kpop-simp @mlysalt @spooo00oky

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captainjamster · 2 months

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Observation Duty

Pairing(s): Price x fem!Reader Warnings: Manipulation, stalking, monitoring and surveillance, obsessive behaviour, non-consensual voyeurism, non-consensual mutual masturbation, non-consensual recording and photos Wordcount: 3.2k Summary: John isn't quite the captain everyone thinks he is, but he knows just how to act like it. No one would ever believe the things he does behind closed doors. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: PLEASE LOOK AT THE WARNINGS BEFORE YOU READ MORE! This is the first part of what should be two chapters, because I can't stop starting things without finishing them <3

If I miss any tags you think should be there, please let me know!

Full fic under the cut <3

John’s line of work has taught him that people are so, so easy to play with. Know the right person, the right place. Know what to say, who to say it to.

Keeping you safe, under his ever-observant eye, is easy in the barracks and on the field. You don’t make a single move he doesn’t see or hasn’t approved. But when you go home, away from him and his control, he just can’t help but worry. Are you safe, alone in that big, empty house? What do you get up to? Are you eating and drinking? Taking care of yourself? Who do you see? Do you invite anyone around? The idea of another man in your home makes him shudder, and in your bedroom isn’t something he even entertains. John needs to do something about it.

He’s been thinking for a while. Some way to watch you, every waking moment. A permanent eye on the wall. He knows your address; it’s right there in your files. There isn’t a single legal document or piece of information about you that he can’t obtain if he wants to. Every place you’ve lived, your parents, extended family, even your friendship circles. Your school results, community hobbies, bank purchases, every doctors trip – especially your birth control and fertility, he paid very close attention to those details. He knows how to play you; he listens to your grumbling, observes what makes you happy. Notices the moments where you’re less resistant, records what makes you flare up in defensiveness or fury. John is a well-educated man, one who could’ve been a scholar in another life, and he’s decided his favourite topic to study is you.

--- ︻デ═一 ---

“Remember to fill out your forms, lads. New policies coverin’ house insurance and maintenance, let me know if y’need any fixin’ at home.” He hands out the papers, carefully keeping yours separate without being too obvious. Soap’s head bobs up, glancing at you and taking the bait John has set out perfectly. “Oi bonnie, weren’t ye chattin’ ‘bout fixin’ a light o’ somethin’?”

Your face lights up at the mention, a bashful smile gracing your lips, and John would be mad that it’s not in his direction if he wasn’t so satisfied with himself. “I can’t believe you remembered that, yeah! I was going to wait until I got home.”

Gaz hums, hunched over his own form as he signs it. “Maybe Ghost can buy a piece of furniture this year.” His sentence is rewarded with a pen smacking into the side of his head, bouncing off him and onto the table as Ghost snorts in amusement, answering gruffly. “Fuck off, Garrick.”

It never goes wrong, but he still feels smug at how effortless it is to orchestrate an entire conversation before it starts. Getting your signature is as easy as an extra sheet, you can’t even tell the difference. No one reads terms and conditions, and he’s made extra sure you don’t - a couple of edited test forms a few months ago - to rule out the chance.

With the paperwork completed, he contacts the company and gives them a boring, digestible cover story. “Yeah, her husband. Installing cameras, yeah. Keepin’ it safe while we’re both on deployment. Just a light out the back to fix, cameras to install in and outside.”

They’re so quick to listen to the man playing the big, strong head of the house, not a single question about why everything but the payment would be in his ‘wife’s’ name instead. Lying, John finds, is easiest when others do the work for you; give vague details that seem right, and let them come to their own little conclusions. Let them assume you’re some kind of military wife who doddles along behind him, just an obedient little civilian pet while he organises the household. If only they knew what you were and what you did, he thinks. Though still, an obedient little pet is how he would like you. It just takes time to get there.

They come over and install the cameras in less than a week. John’s antsy the day he gets the call that they finished, waiting for it to be over so he can experiment with his new toy. He ignores the questioning looks from his inferiors as he dismisses his last evening meeting early, pushing out the door into the stream of soldiers heading for dinner, only departing from the pack when he reaches his office door.

John prepared a room for this in advance – the moment he set the plan in motion. A room at home, his central control that he could run unmanned and long-distance, circumnavigating his occupancy at the base. It’s almost undetectable; no pesky windows to peek in from the outside, entry hidden behind a locked door in his office. The numerous screens flicker to life, illuminating the room in a blue glow. The cameras are perfect; detailed quality, blur-less zoom. Every angle. It quickly becomes his favourite room to be in, despite only being in it once when he headed home to initially set everything up.

At the base, all he needs is an electronic device and an app to access the command. His favourite to use is his phone, flicking through each screen to take in the rooms, committing each detail and decoration to heart. Though to keep up all professional appearances, he often settles for his laptop, flicking between reports and gazing at the screens with every spare second. John takes the weeks leading up to break to memorise your house, seeing each room flickering on the back of his eyelids as lies in bed, tracing each path you’d take morning and night until he falls asleep.

He protects it. Types your address into his maps app, virtually scouting the neighbourhood to make sense of all your outside cameras, memorising every surrounding street. Plans escape routes, recording positions of defence and any weak spots he could reinforce, windows or vents that are just too easy to wrench open by perverse men like him. Within a month, he knows your house plan like his own; enough to contemplate how he would reorganise it if you wanted him to move in, how many little ones it could hold, tiny feet pattering up and down its hallways.

--- ︻デ═一 ---

When the last week before leave finally comes around, he’s beyond ecstatic. John is a carefully controlled slate around anyone else, but his boys know each twitch of his eyebrow and quirk of his lip. They clue you in to his unusually excited behaviour with teasing jokes and remarks that have him rolling his eyes, gruffly ordering them back to work. Soap is betting on a secret missus, making a point to sneak up behind Price when Soap catches him texting away on his phone.

When he finally arrives home, he’s delighted to see your house is still empty. It gives him time to unpack, running loads of laundry and showering. He keeps an eye on his phone, monitoring the screens until he finishes, bringing a cup of coffee and dinner to his little surveillance room.

The screens fill the wall, a 3x3 set-up that basks the room in a pale glow, yet still isn’t enough to display every camera hidden around your house. Everything is silent, the occasional rumble of a car getting his hopes up, but nothing happens until a few sips of his coffee and an article later. Movement from one of the screen catches his attention, his head straightening to watch your front door swing open.

A bag is the first thing that comes through the door, flung down the hallway with a dull thud. Your figure follows it in, heaving another heavy bag behind you. John frowns at the sight, mindlessly tutting as he crosses his arms. He could be there to do that for you. None of this silly straining yourself.

Leaning back and settling in, he watches how you unravel from your long absence. It pleases him that you’re practical in your return, taking the time to wash your laundry, circulate and dispel all the stagnant air (although Price dislikes seeing your windows open, so unattended), and give the place a general tidy up. There’s a ping from your phone a few times that puts John on edge. Who’s texting you already, when you’ve been back for less than a day? His prominent guess is family and close friends, excited to have their beloved child home and safe, but he can’t help from worrying that he’s wrong. Maybe you’re so pent up that you just can’t help it, using those silly dating apps you talk about with Gaz, eager for someone to unravel all that need within you. Maybe it’s an old friends-with-benefits situation you already have that’s eager to climb back in your bed. Maybe – maybe he should bug your devices.

His deliberations are disrupted as you reward your productivity with what Price thinks to be a party in your bathroom. The small haven of what should be privacy isn’t free from his omniscient gaze, either. He doesn’t care if it’s disgusting; there are no boundaries to him. There isn’t a single side of you he doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to know.

The music comes through his speakers, some songs he recognises from the long travels spent in transport together. Melodies echo through your room as steam slowly gathers, whisps streaming in and out of his lens view as water slowly fills the bath. You trail from the room, meandering down the hall and grabbing some snacks from the kitchen, filling a glass with a carbonated drink you grab from the fridge. Snug in the corner above the entryway, paired neatly with the fire alarm, his camera catches the way you bend yourself over the counter, distracted by scrolling through some app.

He feels himself throb at the sight, fumbling to take a screenshot of the image. You tease him, staying bent like that as you wait for the bath, your ass swaying occasionally when a trendy song hums from your phone. Disappointment washes through him when you stand up, though he basks in the sight of your stomach peaking from under your shirt as you stretch, but his excitement is quickly renewed when you gather your snacks and head back to the bathroom.

The room has filled with a thick fog that blooms out into the hallway as you open the door. It clouds his vision, leaving him cursing for not considering the possibility. Your darkened figure is hardly visible as you move throughout the room, but from the soft, metallic clicks and flickering of light, he assumes you’re lighting something. Two lights blossom in front of you, remaining behind you as you crouch at the bath and start flicking the lighter again. The cloud has dispersed enough to let John see the fuzzy details of your face, watching as you bring a third candle to your face, inhaling with a hum of delight before you light the flame and return it to the bath’s edge. You strew the candles about the room, leaving a large one to glow on your vanity and putting the other one on your closed toilet lid.

You fiddle with the taps – running cold water, he guesses – and sit on the floor, sorting your snacks onto a long tray as the last of the mist spills from the room. He’s been lucky this time; had you not been treating yourself, taking the time to create a small sanctuary, the fog would’ve concealed any chance of John seeing you at such a vulnerable time. A flaw within his system that requires refinement. Perhaps a flaw he can turn into an excuse to visit you.

His thoughts fall flat when you stand up, slotting the tray into its position over the bath and silencing the taps with a few sharp turns. Finally. The point he’s been anticipating.

The captain waits with bated breath, eager to salivate over his uninvited striptease. It’s far from the first time he’s seen you undress, though it’s the first time you’ve been so beautifully unaware. Close proximity (and the resulting lack of privacy) is just another test of comradery – he’s showered next to you in just underwear and ripped your shirt or pants off to treat a stab wound more times than he can count.

But this time you undress, you don’t stop at your underwear.

There’s no to palaver or parade to your performance – there’s no real performance, just a one-sided show, and that alone has John’s cock aching. Capturing you without filter, pretences or social expectations, no song and dance of captain and soldier. You’re clumsy pulling off your underwear, catching the elastic on your toes and throwing it haphazardly onto the floor with the rest of your clothes through curses and grumbles. Inspecting yourself in the mirror, catching up on each new scar and burn, bending over and peering around to see the state of your backside and between your thighs. This is a side of you he can never glimpse on base, despite all his attempts.

The buzz of your phone distracts you, straightening up with a right, okay! and grabbing the small device, unlocking it to peer at the content as you gingerly slide a foot into the hot, soapy water. Bit by bit, you emerge yourself within the sudsy liquid, minding the tray as you let out an audible groan. John watches you melt into the bubbles, arms resting along the tub as your head falls back.

For a while, the two of you remain like that; John sat comfortably in his chair, ignoring the heat flickering in his lower stomach as he works through some papers, keeping an eye on your relaxed form as you decompress within the hot, sudsy water, picking at the tray of food and drink. His attention slips as the minutes go by, becoming more focused on his work – pushing the aching need between his legs further to the side - as he checks the screen every ten minutes.

The swishing of water becomes a tranquil ambience as you scrub at yourself, low voices from your phone that John doesn’t currently care to make out keeping you entertained through the process. You luxuriate in the tub for much longer than the barrack would ever allow, taking your time to scrub the build-up of product and dead skin that you give little concern during deployment.

A paper absorbs his attention, keeping his eyes occupied as he grumbles through writing. His concentration is only torn away as he finishes scribbling his signature, a sharp, unexpected moan filling his ears that has him looking up so fast his neck cricks. Scanning the screen, he quickly determines that it’s not coming from you – rather, your phone, and is now accompanied by a deep, masculine groan.

Your expression is clear on his screen, a flush to your cheeks as you gaze at your device, hand running along your chest teasingly to tug at a nipple. Whether it’s from the pornographic material playing on your phone or the heat of the water, John can’t tell.

The tent of his pants is already insufferably tight, and he swears there’ll be a zipper print against the red of his aching cock when he pulls it out. He wants to relish this, commit each moment of this first time to memory without the taint of his lust, but he can’t help the growing need between his legs. Ignoring it to finish paperwork, merely bask in the company of your unwinding routine, has been a challenge even for his steeled resolve.

As he watches your hand trail down the soft pudge of your torso, dipping into the bubbly water to follow the rise and dip of your stomach, he breaks. His cock springs out of his briefs like it’s gasping for air, bouncing angrily against his stomach with each haphazard tug at the elastic around his hips. He can only imagine how your fingers work between your legs at that sensitive skin, how you orchestrate your undoing.

The tray holds your phone conveniently, allowing both hands to roam your body, and John thanks his luck for at least the opportunity to watch you pinch and roll your nipples between your fingers. You tug at the sensitive buds with whimpered moans, water sloshing as your hips buck against your hand, teasing John with actions that he can’t see.

He’s damp to the touch as he grips his shaft, fingers immediately sticky with precum that’s been smeared throughout his briefs. Pearlescent beads drool from his tip in a lazy stream, lubricating his motions as he tugs lightly at his foreskin, already teetering the edge of climax. The slightest stimulation has his stomach tightening, listening to your gasps and whines grow in urgency.

You chase your orgasm eagerly, working with a pent up need that comes from the absence of full privacy within the miliary. Convulsions rack through you in synchronisation, moans combining in a harmony he wishes wasn’t separated by the screen. He wants to time it perfectly; fuck up into his fist and release as you reach your own peak, as if a flawless synchronisation is key to unlocking some phantom sensation of being buried between your thighs, clenched down around him.

It doesn’t take much more teasing before you catch up, your tiles wet as water breaches the rim with each careless thrust. The video in front of you has ended, long forgotten as your head lulls back, lost in the sensations that envelope your consciousness that prove to be too much. They push you over the edge with a ragged cry, your knees peaking from the water as your thighs clench around your hand, and John loses himself too.

All it takes it a few weak thrusts into his hand before his balls are tightening, seed spilling in enthusiastic spurts, striping his shirt and pants before it dies down to a dribble that John coaxes out with a groan. He sits there, watching your breathing even out as you wipe away at your mess, spent and catching his breath as the cum dries on his clothes. You’re quick in cleaning up the mess, pulling yourself up on unsteady limbs as you pull the plug, bending down to rinse your hands one last time for John to relish.

He's almost heartbroken when you step out the tub, droplets cascading down to drip from your form, only to reach for a towel to wrap around yourself. The fabric is a slim cover, leaving glimpses of your behind and chest as you dry yourself, humming a tune with a note of content John wishes he brought instead. John tucks himself back into the soiled briefs, shucking off his shirt and pants to wash momentarily, but not before he glimpses you one last time getting changed.

Before you can reach for the underwear placed in advance on the sink and discard your towel, the camera barely picks up the vibration of your phone, catching both his and your attention. Leaning over to the tray, your process is halted by a text on your screen that makes you smile, and whether it’s the drunken, post-orgasmic haze that clouds his mind, or the way it makes him more vulnerable to the surge of jealousy that flares up at your giggle, John finds himself fumbling through the lockscreen and pulling up your contact before he can stop himself.

If you’re not going to think about him during your masturbation, he’s sure as hell going to make sure you think of him after.

Dividers by cafekitsune

#READ THE WARNINGS ON THIS ONE BABIES!!!!#price x reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #jams writings #cw: noncon #cw: dubcon

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antianakin · 7 months

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Ok, I just saw a post and in the tags the OP said (paraphrased)-

“Don’t you guys think Luke had the same relationship with Ben [Obi-Wan] that Leia had with Vader? Like how Luke was able to forgive him but Leia would NEVER, except in the opposite? Where now it’s Leia loving him [Obi-Wan] and Luke having these complicated feelings because Ben told him to suppress his emotions, because idk about you but i’d be mad at someone who told me to suppress all my emotions.”

And…it’s certainly an opinion! Any thoughts?

Well, firstly, I think that even if we decide that Obi-Wan is wrong in what he says to Luke, that it's wrong to equate that to Anakin torturing Leia so that she'll betray people and a cause she cares about, forcing her to watch as her entire planet is blown up as punishment when she DOESN'T betray them and an extra intimidation tactic, torturing her and her friends a second time as bait for Luke, and putting Han in carbonite and giving him to Jabba the Hutt. Like at WORST Obi-Wan gives Luke some bad advice, but even if we agree that it's bad advice, Obi-Wan is clearly doing it for well-meaning reasons because he wants to try to protect Luke. Nothing Anakin does to Leia is EVER well-meaning of any kind. The two things just aren't equal in any way shape or form and I think any accurate version of Luke would be able to understand where Obi-Wan was coming from and forgive the bad advice even if he chose not to take it.

But secondly, and people have said this a lot better than I probably will right now, but "Obi-Wan told Luke to suppress his emotions" is a very literal and simplified way of describing what is happening in that scene. Like yes, Obi-Wan says to "bury his emotions", but the rest of that line is "They do you credit, but they could be used to serve the Emperor." Obi-Wan PRAISES Luke for his emotions and his connections to other people, but he KNOWS that Luke is going up against the two Evilest Space Wizards With Evil Mind-Fucking Powers. And guess what? Luke's feelings are not buried far enough and Anakin DOES pick up on them and he DOES use them against Luke. Like they go for the mental manipulation almost IMMEDIATELY upon Luke showing up, so Obi-Wan is in no way wrong for worrying about this or telling Luke that it's going to happen and trying to give him advice to protect himself against it. Obi-Wan isn't saying that Luke shouldn't feel the things he's feeling or that he has to bury them forever, but just that he needs to find a way to hide it FROM ANAKIN AND PALPATINE when he does inevitably go up against them in a fight.

So no, it's not the same, Luke DOESN'T have complicated feelings about Obi-Wan, he LOVES Obi-Wan, and so does Leia, and the two of them get to swap all kinds of fun stories about their adventures with Obi-Wan. Maybe Obi-Wan manages to stick around as a ghost just long enough for Luke to train Leia how to see them and so Leia can speak to him one last time.

#star wars #luke skywalker #leia organa #obi-wan kenobi #anakin critical #anakin skywalker critical

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insane-brit · 9 months

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Royalty (Ch. 4)

Muzan Kibutsuji x Soulmate!Fem!reader

Chapter Links: Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three

Next scheduled Royalty update (Ch 5.): I’m not on hiatus for this story or any others, however, my semester has started so updates will be slower and I cannot give a true update schedule at this time. Thank you for your patience.

Tags/Warnings: Dark, dark story/themes, enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, Muzan, talk of death, mention of gore, insulting/degrading words and names, anger/hatred, planning/scheming, light teasing (not the NSFW kind), dialogue, dialogue heavy.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: 2.4K

Steam wafted from the pile of white jasmine rice. Generating a warmth that relaxed her muscles and coaxed an exhale from the depths of her chest. Gingerly gripping the sides of the ceramic bowl, she pulled it towards her form. The plushness of the cerulean cushion cradled her bruised knees.

“I hope you like Karē Raisu. It’s the first thing I thought of to make you.”

She looked up at the older woman standing in the doorway. A tired smile graced her wizened face as she looked over (F/N).

“I do. Thank you, Mrs. Aoki.” She whispered and grabbed the spoon next to the bowl.

The clinks of the metal hitting the ceramic resounded in the otherwise quiet room as she mixed the darkened spiced roux with the rice. Thick cuts of beef with onions, carrots, and potatoes raised a potent aroma that made her stomach growl. Aoki beamed and the wrinkles around her mouth became more prominent.

“I’m glad.” she meandered her way to sit across from (F/N). Setting her bowl down before slowly lowering her body onto a cushion. (F/N) studied Aoki, noticing the dark blemishes that almost looked akin to welts blooming across her arms, sun-kissed patches dotting her face, the droopiness of her skin as it weighed from aging, and the slight tremble of her hands.

She sucked in a breath as the corner of her mouth ticked a ghost of a smile before settling back into a line. “Thank you for helping me. I am in your debt.”

Aoki hummed as her shaking hands grasped her spoon. “Nonsense, I was merely passing through and heard your distress,” she blew gently on the pile of rice and broth. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you were a dying animal.” (F/N) choked on her rice. Feeling it lodge itself in her throat as she coughed and flushed from embarrassment. Thumb grazing the corner of her mouth as she covered the lower half of her face.

“I apologize.”

“No need. You were quite shaken, and I couldn’t leave you there,” Aoki sighed. “How are your bandages? Not causing any trouble?”

(F/N) looked down at the carefully wrapped dressings. Her hands were covered in the cream-colored woven fabric. “They feel great,” she reached over and gently grazed the wrapping on her elbow. “What did you use?”

“A salve I got from a nice young woman in Asakusa. I wish I could’ve acquired more things, but the young man accompanying her seemed less than pleased for me to be near her,” Aoki looked down at her bowl dejected. “But I’m happy this finally came in handy.”

A benign smile crossed (F/N)’s lips as she set her spoon down. Today’s events weighed heavily on her mind, and it seemed her body was just now catching up. Fatigue settled into her bones and her eyes burned. The pads of her fingers rubbed the feeling away as she raised her head to look around.

Aoki’s Minka was simple but pleasant. From the moment she helped her and Seiichi, paranoia, and all, to the front door of her home she was a delight. The lanterns adorning the rooms gave off a hue of glittering gold and sparks of amber. Exactly like most fixtures in people’s homes, but Aoki’s was much more inviting. It reminded (F/N) of flames licking at chopped timber; a sentiment to the nights her and the other Hashira would gather and reminisce, and the musty, earthy smell of pages being turned; memories of when her grandmother would read her old fairytales.

The older woman even had bundles of wisteria hanging here and there in rooms. A few shrubs of the woody vine clung to her home and (F/N) wondered if she knew of demons. If she did, Aoki didn’t mention it to her. Nor look at her with any difference as she took the haori off her shoulders and set her katana off to the side before inspecting her wounds. In a way, she was grateful to not be looked upon in awe and bombarded with questions. She didn’t have the energy to answer or feel deserving of such a gaze.

The rustling of fabric and slight grunt had her snapping her neck towards Aoki. The woman was standing with her empty bowl and picking up the miscellaneous things scattered on the table. (F/N) reached her arm out to aid her, but Aoki held a hand up, effectively halting her extended arm that was about to grasp a ceramic teapot.

“I can do it dear. You’re my guest.”

(F/N) furrowed her brows and her tongue ran over her dry lips as she spoke. “I insist. Please let me help you. You’ve done so much for me already.”

Aoki shook her head and arched her brow. A teasing look in her eye. “I don’t think so. If you move an inch from your spot, I’ll make sure that crow of yours never hears the end of it.”

The younger woman gawked at Aoki before a small snort sounded from her nose. (F/N)’s body shook as she tried to contain her laughter. The back of her hand rested over a smile that cracked over her face. The older woman teetered between scowling at the girl and joining in on her amusement.

In the end, she hummed and chuckled to herself before staggering away to another room. “I’m being serious.”

(F/N) took a deep breath trying to reel in her merriment. When Aoki was tending to her, Seiichi busied himself by stealing pieces of jewelry and even coins from the older woman. Flaunting them around and hopping away when either of them would try and snatch the items from his beak. She could still hear the older woman berating the bird in her mind, and she swore from the look on Aoki’s face that she was ready to wring his neck.

“I hope you know how to play.” Aoki hobbled back into the room with a bag in her frail hands. She handed the cloth over to (F/N). The Hashira opened and poured its contents onto the table. Eyes widening a fraction seeing it was Men’uchi.

“Of course, I do,” she said staring at the engraved clay pieces. “It’s been a long time.” The kind gestures from the older woman had allowed (F/N) to momentarily forget everything. She felt warm and something akin to safe here.

“Then I suppose we should change that,” Aoki began separating the pieces before pausing. “Right, here.” She reached into her pocket before placing something on the table. It clinked when it touched the wood, and she slid it over to the young woman. (F/N) trailed her hand before seeing a thin gold pin poke out. The metal curved up like vines wrapping around a pale sea foam-colored gemstone, jade. An even thinner gold chain dangled from the stone and branched off into mismatched lengths. A cerise-colored bead held the trains at the branching point and at the end of each, a milky glass teardrop hung.

Her mouth parted and she held up her hands as if afraid to touch the ornamental hairpin. “Why are you giving me this? I can't take it. It’s too much.”

Aoki made no move to take it back and hummed. “Well, I’m not taking no for an answer. I promise it's fine so don’t question or fight me on this.”

(F/N) gingerly picked up the delicate item and ran her fingers over the smooth metal. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” the older woman continued to separate the pieces. “Oh, and please share it with that crow. Maybe he’ll stop taking my stuff.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Muzan stood on the tatami flooring. His body hunched over his desk as his nails pierced into the wood grain. The vastness of the Infinity Castle caused echoes and creaks to magnify and drone. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows. His eyes were sharp and shrewd as he glowered at the line laying in pristine condition across his workspace. Books were thrown open and some pages torn; shredded to ribbons.

The surroundings felt suffocating. Desolation whispered sweet nothings in the expanse, and a looming presence stood stoic and ominous not far away from Kibutsuji. His aura felt heavy and stifling. As if zapping any energy or spirit from one’s body.

“To think, after all this time,” Muzan said straightening up his posture and turning to face the man behind him.

Kokushibo did not waver. His fist circled the hilt of his blade and the other rested at his side. All six eyes that resembled carefully soldered stained glass bored into his master's slitted claret ones.

“It is… strange.” He drawled. His eyes flickered from Muzan’s to his wrist. A very thin thread, only visible in certain angles of light, shone and connected his lord to someone far off. It glittered like a spider’s silk. Spindly and thin; stronger than steel but looking as if it could break with the slightest tug.

Muzan’s face remained constant upon looking at Uppermoon One. Though, the warmth that fury carried crept along his collar. “You can see it?”

“Yes,” Kokushibo shifted slightly. The fabric of his purple-and-black kimono ruffled against his hakama. “I suspect…it is the lifeblood’s doing.”

The progenitor’s brows dipped downwards but an inch. Festering anger bubbled like molten lava. The ambrosia: rich velvety fluid that ran through his core, that had Oni’s imploring their master for more, was what granted them the sight of what he despised. Slipping a pen ornamentally engraved from his pocket, he clicked it open. The tip scratched the smooth paper in the book he now clutched. His apprehensiveness showed faintly from the bone-breaking grip he had around the cool metal.

It made perfect sense. His creations were an extension of himself. Remade into cutthroat violent things with the weight of his ichor circulating in their undying bloodstream. They were him, but also themselves.

“How does it appear to you?” Muzan hissed through his teeth.

Six eyes and their cracked black pupils focused studiously on the filament. “Like… a phantom. Clear and… barely visible.”

The sound of ripping reverberated through the endless wooden rooms as Muzan’s pen tore through the paper. His knuckles were white, and his jaw clenched. This did not bode well for him; however, a trace of possibility crossed his mind. If the upper ranks, who pulsed with his vitality, could barely bear witness to the tie, then maybe beings less fortunate to receive generous amounts of his blood could not at all. It was a stretch, but one that seemed likely.

This thought eased Muzan’s pride. He would not be perceived to have a weakness of any sort. His Kizuki knew better than to assume such foolishness, but others he could not be so sure of. Muzan would be damned if some sly little vermin thought they could exploit something the progenitor had no control over appearing. Much less presume that he cared for the woman connected to him.

“The woman… was a Hashira, was she not?” Kokushibo queried.

“Yes, but I doubt her abilities considering the cowardice she expressed,” the book slammed shut with a loud crack. “She must not be very valued.”

Kokushibo’s voice thrummed in his throat. “Valuable or not… she poses a threat. Or… an opportunity.”

Muzan’s lip curled back into a snarl and his eyes narrowed. He was not blind. The desire to sever the bond even if it was in vain, and the ire that overcame him when he saw the mockery that was the slayer consumed him, but he remained conscious of the possibilities. If that spineless woman were to open her mouth, it could be detrimental to everything he’s worked towards.

“That Hashira can lead the corps to us. Ubuyashki will make sure of that.” he bared his teeth.

“Even so… if he were to be eliminated… they will tuck their tails between their legs and run to the hand that feeds them. Without him, they are nothing.” Kokushibo uttered lowly.

His subordinates’ words weighed heavy on Muzan’s mind. Ubuyashki was skilled in eluding even his most capable forces, however, the slayers had a weak spot for him. It was clear in the way they held themselves, and it was no secret how deep their loyalty ran. He could see it on their faces and when they would speak. Granted, it was rare that Muzan ever came across a swordsman that would divulge anything regarding their master, but in his over one thousand years of existence it has happened, and once was all it took.

They were soft at their core, and regardless of whether he located Ubuyashki’s estate and sunk his claws in his tender flesh, tasting the coppery substance on his tongue, or dangled an empty threat over their heads they would scramble and wail to his side.

“You propose a possibility that none of you have been able to achieve. Yet, your strategy pervades you Kokushibo.”

The man in question tilted his head down slightly in acknowledgment.

“Misleading the Kisatsutai into thinking their lord is in danger would divert their attention to him and not locating us but preventing the woman from speaking would sever the chances completely,” Muzan took a few steps towards Uppermoon One. His posture was rigid. “In turn, the wretch could provide an advantage.”

Kokushibo studied his lord’s stature. The abhor was formidable and bled through his skin. He had seen Muzan’s wrath many times but the moment he had disclosed what the Uppermoon had understood upon being summoned, he had never felt animosity such as this. It was explicit as to why, and he would feel the same if he was bound to a mere mortal.

“What are your orders?” he asked easing the grip on his blade.

“Follow the thread. Find the slayer and do what you must to ensure her silence, but don’t kill her,” Muzan growled. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I will not… is there a reason why I can’t end her life?”

“Don’t be daft,” Muzan seethed. “You know why, and I will not leave it to chance.”

Kokushibo mulled over Muzan’s response before it clicked. “I’ll see it done, my lord.” He lowered his head in respect before his aura faded. His presence no longer there to cast a baleful weight.

Muzan curled a finger under his tie and pulled, loosening the silk. He had the notion to take care of this matter himself, but he was not about to risk revealing himself more than he already had. The boy with the Hanafuda earrings and now the Hashira woman was enough to pose a risk. His hair flitted over his jaw as he ruined the tomes sitting on the umber shelves before moving to tear into the desk with his nails. The timber screeched in agony as long marks were formed on the unblemished surface.

Taglist: @shellseys @athalahild @stxrrielle @lulu-83 @nianre @sincerely-aaronette @horror4themasses @warringwarrioridiot @vilshoenheitishot @woozzz @kathleen7i

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juvenillia · 6 months

Text

~ Death of Peace of Mind ~ 13: call

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader

photo credits go to very talented @ave661

a/n: you can't believe how much fun I have to write König (expect more for him in the future) After I created a whole past story line for Skadi I really think about writing like a 'prequelle' when we're finished the series, what do you think?

CW/TW: mentions of guilt, injuries, jealousy, hurt, comfort, fluff, trauma, unrequited love, smoking, healing,

wordcount: 3.2k

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Another week passed and a soothing mood hung over the 141. At least over the three men spending their time at one of KorTac's bases. Price declared the waiting of your convalescence as an official break. Him and Laswell had enough to sort out anyways, he wanted his team to be rested for the things that lay ahead for them. Johnny could convince Simon to at least hit the gym with them regularly now. Spending a few hours away from the sterile hospital room. Even if they we're on a break, it didn’t mean they had to go slack around. So, every morning they would pay the gym a visit, pushing their limits, before heading to breakfast and after a quick shower accompanying you. Today shouldn't be any different but it was. As soon as they walked through the door to your room, the heart from Simon stopped for a moment.

Your bed was empty. "That's weird.", Kyle said while taking his usual seat. " 's all ya gonna say?", Simon snarled while moving closer to the bed. He couldn't suppress the fear that something happened to you. Especially when he wasn’t here, when he could have prevented it. He immediately started to observe the whole room. The bed wasn't stained with blood, so at least your wounds were still closed. As his gaze wandered to your bedside table, he saw that the wooden box was gone as well.

Their heads snapped into the direction of the door as the nurse walked through it. A silvern plate with bandages and cotton on it. She looked confused at the men. "Where is she?", she said while placing the plate on the bedside table. "Yer dinnea ken?!" Johnny looked at her shocked. The women exhaled deeply. "Jesus Christ." - "How can you not know where your patient is?" Simon snapped, a small panic forming in his chest. That's when the door opened another time, and you walked through it. Still weak knees but you stood there. He couldn’t handle all the feelings boiling up in his chest as he saw you back on your feet.

"What the hell, Sergeant, what do you think you were doing?!", the nurse snapped at you. Your arms immediately flew in the air in defense, a water bottle in one hand and the common blue box in the other. The sleeves of the way too huge jacket slid down your arms. "Having a smoke.", your voice was soft, and calm. Still, you didn't dare to move. "Why did you leave the bed?!", she walked closer to you. "Ma’am, you'd kill me if I'd smoke in bed.", you smiled at her, still a bit weak but the cocky tone in your voice was undeniable. "You're unbelievable.", she sighed. You put your arms down and smiled at the boys. "Sorry." Kyle and Johnny couldn’t suppress a wholehearted and relieved laugh at the scenery in front of them and even Simon smiled behind his mask. Every ounce of stress left his body.

"Ya still need rest, Skadi. Were ya even allowed to leave the infirmary? Especially smoking?", Simon scolded you after climbing back in the bed again and you sighed. "How long are yer even awake? Dinnea think yer would run around already." - "Greetings from Captain Price. Why do you even have friends in KorTac?" The boys kept talking nonstop and you could only lean back and enjoy it. You missed them, this chaos, during the long dark silence. You were happy to be back with them. Even when you're still felt like shit, you were relaxed. To feel this familiar warmth again. You didn't dare to label it, because you were too scared that someone could take it away from you, but deep down you already knew.

It took you two more days till the nurse, you found out her name was Helen, let you leave the infirmary for small walks and even let you have lunch with your team in the canteen together. You still had to fight the immense pain and weakness, but it got better every day. The boys made sure that you didn't need to carry everything. You weren't even allowed lifting the plate with food on your own. One of them always staying close to you, like a lost puppy trailing behind and most of the time it was the huge scary dog, Simon Riley. "Guys, please, I'm not fine China. I won't break. What will you do when we're back on the field?", you exhaled while sitting down a slight smile on your lips. They couldn't prevent you from getting hurt again, but they would try, and Simon was overly eager to do so. It was his personal mission to protect you. He would never risk to lose you again.

He enjoyed being with you again. Especially the evening smokes was something he didn't realized he missed that much. They grew to become one if his most cheered routine during the last months. That's how you found each other on a terrace, next to each other in the comforting silence again. Nobody dared to break it, but you had to. You could only guess the internal fight he had. "Simon...", he completely tensed as you approached him with his name, and at the same time he felt his knees go weak. You didn't call him often by his first name, it was rather rare, but he hoped it would become more of a daily basis thing. Especially in those calms before a storm. "I don't remember much... but Johnny told me what happened.", you paused while exhaling a cloud of smoke. He was already finished with his fag. Mask perfectly back in place. You faced him with a look of endearment. "Thanks for dragging me out of there...and for everything else.", your eyes met his and he only nodded. You did want to tell him, that he shouldn't feel guilty, that it wasn't his fault, but you knew it was pointless. Million times you heard those words; empty phrases and they did nothing to ease the pain and feeling of regret in your chest. So, everything you could do, was to thank him in pure honesty, with a genuine smile.

Just as he wanted to say something, to extend his hand forward to you, he was interrupted, and an inaudible sigh left his throat. Maybe it was for the best, the way his heart raced in his chest made him feel uneasy after all. "We brought some bread, the younglings recommended it!", Kyle yelled while approaching both of you with Johnny at his side. It would be a lie to say that Simon didn't cherish those moments. All of you together, sharing some bidhs as Johnny called it, talking about everything under the sun. Hearing all of them laugh, relaxed. In those moments he forgot about the darkness this world had given him and even dared to think that he might deserve some happiness. That he might could bring himself to relax and enjoy. But his peace shouldn't be of duration. Heavy footsteps could be heard over the wooden floor.

Johnny's face slightly fell as he noticed the tall figure approaching you. "Du bist wohlauf!" [You're well], the low but all sweet voice of König reached your ear, and you turned around. A smile appeared on your face while standing up. Without a warning he threw his arms around you and pulled you in a tight bear hug. Bending down to press his face in the crook of your neck to inhale your scent through his mask. "Du hast mir so gefehlt." [I've missed you so much.] , he mumbled amongst your skin.

This hug was different to what Ghost had witnessed before. It was nothing compared to the quick and friendly embrace you shared with Price, or even that one time Johnny hugged you. It felt wrong to watch for him, still he couldn't avert his eyes. "I've missed ya too.", you said calm while parting a bit from him, still he kept his hands on your waist, not letting you pull away too far. "Still smoking Memphis?", he chuckled at you, and you nodded with a smile, your eyes trailing to the box on the floor before looking back up at him. "They’re kinda stuck with me." He didn't avert his eyes from yours.

His huge hands slightly squeezing your waist. You closed your eyes in response, pain piercing through your limbs, "I swear to God, if you keep squeezing my waist, I'm gonna punch you in the balls.", you hissed, and König immediately moved his hands from your waist to your shoulders. "Sorry, mein Spatzl."[German equivalent to dovie but with accent] You exhaled deeply. You missed him, of course you did. One year apart and you pushed him away like he didn't mean anything at all to you. Just like you pushed everyone away. Still, he stood in front of you, embracing you like you didn't hurt him. Treating you, like you never broke his heart. "Don't even think about it.", he squeezed your shoulder that didn't got shot. "I told you, I'm always just a call away. You simply should've called earlier, my queen." His voice could be so soft for his statue. It made you look aside, focusing into nothing as your head started to hang in guilt. He literally read your mind. Your eyes lingered on his wrist, on the bracelet he wore, it sat just over his glove. It wasn't as shiny as you held in your hands back then. Time has demanded its victims. "You still wear it...", it was clearly a fact but somehow also a question. König only chuckled, "Every day, since you gave it to me.", he reassures you. You didn't saw his face due to the mask, but you already knew the smile he wore.

It was Johnny who cleared his throat in one of the most dramatic manners you have ever heard. You turned towards him what made König draw his hands back, a bit confused. "I suppose you already met?", you looked at Johnny. "We keep meeting.", it was Ghost's harsh voice that made you blink in confusion. "How does it come you never mentioned him?", Kyle drew your attention, but your eyes were still pinned on the man next to you, who only stared on the ground in front of him. "We were teammates before parting ways.", you stated simply. König slung his arm around your shoulder again, pulling you in his side. "More than four years of kicking ass’ and taking life’s of the bad guys.", he stated proudly. "Still mad you'd rather accept Price's offer than mine.", he shrugged. "I accepted Laswell's offer." - "Noch schlimmer!" [Even worse] You rolled your eyes at him jokingly.

Ghost didn't dare to look at the scenario next to him anymore. Watching you hug made his blood boil already. His hands were balled to fists, his knuckles turning white beneath the fabric of his gloves. The only thing that kept him sane was the thought that the team could leave this place tomorrow. You did recover enough for the flight, and everything else could be taken care of back at your base. Far away from the Austrian. "Too bad you only returned to find out we're heading back tomorrow.", Ghost couldn't suppress his sarcastic tone, a smug grin behind the mask. König didn't react to Ghost, he just looked back to you, and before he could say something you only nodded. "We still have to catch up." - "I know." - "We can head to my office." - "Helen's gonna kill me when I won't be back in half an hour" - "Yeah, she can be harsh." König's tone became lower and lower with every word.

He didn't want you to leave already and you didn't know if it was good or bad, but it was weird how everything felt so familiar. Like nothing ever had changed, even after all that time. Those thoughts kept your mind busy. After Ghost insisted to guide you back to the infirmary, you lay awake in the sickbed. You didn't deserve all the kindness and affection König was so willingly giving to you. He should be mad at you, he was allowed to yell at you, just like you did at him. And still, he didn't want anything else than to spend time with you, to hold you. Something you couldn't understand.

It was quite early when Simon showed up the next morning, helping you gathering your stuff and picking you up for breakfast. Finally able to leave this room. You longed for your own four walls in back in the base and Ghost did long to be as far away as possible from the intruder. It's almost comical how time can change perspectives. Just some months ago he thought of you as such a thing like an intruder. A threat to the 141, and now? Now he saw people as threat that came too close to you and König was definitely the greatest of them all.

Johnny and Kyle already sat at a table chatting with some of KorTac's rookies they got to know. Kyle had prepared some of the usual breakfast choices of Simon and yours. Simon took the place next to Kyle and you just wanted to sit down next to Johnny as you felt a tall presence hovering over you. König appeared like out of the shadows directly behind you and placed his masked head onto your own. The rookies immediately stopped their talk, and Ghost clenched his fist around the cup in his hand. "Guten Morgen." [Good morning] his voice was still a bit raspy, his hands finding your waist again. "Good morning colonel, sir.", the rookies stated. "Since when you're colonel?", you asked still standing still in place with the weight of König's head onto yours. "Already said we do have a lot to catch up. Eat with me in my office.", he leaned a bit further onto you. Your exhaled deeply. "Please, Mäuschen."[little mouse] Just as Ghost wanted to intervene, his blood run cold. Your words totally cut him short. "Alright, darling. Let’s go." Even Kyle choked on his toast, while Johnny once more looked flabbergasted. König grabbed your plate, before anyone at the table could say something and you moved into the direction of his office. His free hand placed on your lower back, guiding you through the hall.

Did Ghost hear right? Did you just call that bastard darling? Without any joking or even mocking tone. It just sounded so natural. And how good this word sounded out of your mouth. Just aimed at the wrong person. His thoughts were running a marathon and the only thing that snapped him back were the chattering of the rookies. Whispering phrases like, 'that's her', 'didn't thought of her to be that pretty', 'but she still ghosted him'. It made Simons mind running even faster, his thoughts trembling over one another. "Yo, rookies. Shut it!", a dark voice shut them up and they straightened their posture. "Apologies, Sir!" - "Don't dig your filthy noses into the private life of our colonel. Understood?!" - "Yes, Sir!", a masked man stood in front of the table, turning his attention to the 141 men. "Your pickup will be here in four hours."

Those whole four hours were spent behind closed doors with König. His office was like a save zone; he didn't wear his mask. His scars letting you feel immensely more guilt than anyhow. You talked about it. You talked about everything, the way you locked yourself up - metaphorical and literal - not being able to burden anyone with your thoughts, how you joined the 141, the struggle of your current mission (without classified intel of course), what König did in all this time, how he became colonel and of course you talked about the two of you. Things you wanted to apologize for, things you did regret but he hushed you down.

"Are you happy?", he looked at you with his brows raised. You swallowed a thick lump you didn't remember formed in your throat. König sighed and cupped your face with his huge rough palms. Forcing you to look at him. "You deserve happiness, mein Engel. No matter where or ...", he paused for a moment, the words weighted tons on his tongue "... or with whom." You look bewildered at him; his face is relaxed more at your expression and his usual smile formed once more. A smile you knew too well. You stare into the crystal sky his eyes were.

"I see how you look at him. It's in your eyes. The way you looked at me once.", his voice grows soft, but you could sense the fractures of sorrows laying in them. "König...", a thick lump forming again in your throat. That is what you were scared of all the time. The way he could read you like an open book. The way you couldn't hide anything from him, especially something you wanted to hide even from yourself. And here you where, seated next to him so close and calling you shamelessly out. "You don't have to admit it, wirklich."[for real], he caressed your cheek with his thumb. Everything felt so familiar, it nearly hurt.

"Just promise me two things...", you can't help but feel nauseous. The way he looked at you, the way his touch felt onto your skin. You nodded only the slightest, signaling him to go on. "First of all, I want you to accept it, to embrace it and not to push it...him... away.", his voice was calm, steady, and assured. Still, you heard the pain that lies below its surface. His eyes shine at you with adoration, but you saw the pain behind it. Tears did start to prick at the corners of your eyes. He continued, "Second... and I'm begging you, let me be part of your life." You bit your bottom lip, trying to compensate your emotions, but you couldn't suppress them. Hot droplets of salty tears ran down your cheeks. His thumbs carefully stroked them away. There weren't many living people walking this earth with whom you felt save enough to show your weakness to actual cry. König was one of the very few people you could be vulnerable with. But you couldn't promise this to him. A promise is such a big deal, and you would never made one if you couldn’t be sure of keeping your word. You've learnt that the hard way. "Ich versuch’ es." [I’ll try], you said between your silent sobs. His smile grew a bit wider. He gently placed a kiss onto your forehead before leaning his against the spot, his lips just brushed. "Ich weiß. Ich weiß, my queen" [I know]

taglist: open just lmk

@yyiikes @saffronimagines @originaldeerhottub @illuminwtesz @killergoddess97 @kaelaiscool @spiritndrain

#cod mw x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #konig x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #task force 141 #könig x reader #simon riley jealous #death of peace of mind #simon riley #König #john soap mactavish #captain john price

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collapsedglasshouses · 6 months

Text

An Angel For Noah || Noah Sebastian x OC [Part 7]

DIVIDER ART WORK BY @cafekitsune

PAIRING: Noah Sebastian x Jules [she/her]

MASTERPOST

SUMMARY: Right when Noah thought there was no way back to sanity, it got even crazier.

WARNINGS: angst, tiny bit of tension, ...

A/N: Hello my lovely little people... Sometimes I struggle to find words for the authors note and it gives me anxiety so imma just tell you the same thing as always... Thank you for every single notification I get on this series... I love it so much and am glad that you do it too. Enjoy reading the new chapter!

TAGLIST: @trvshdxddy @blackveilomens @crimson-calligraphyx @measuredingold @cncohshit @signs-of-ill-portent @hi-fancy-seeing-you-here @ada-clarence @wild-child-7747

If you wanna be added to the taglist of this story, please DM me or let me know in the comments!

Keep in mind, this takes place in an alternative universe. Even though I write about real people, the way I write them has nothing to do with how they are in real life.

The coffee shop, nestled in a quiet corner of the city the band currently stayed at, radiated a warm and cozy atmosphere. It was a strong contrast to the cool early fall weather outside. The large bay windows were slightly fogged up. Soft music played in the background, setting the perfect ambiance for a quiet and relaxed afternoon coffee.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked pastries. People huddled over steaming cups, their conversations hushed and punctuated by the gentle clinking of porcelain. Each table was decorated with a flickering candle, casting dancing shadows across the room.

In the corner, bathed in the soft glow of a table lamp, sat Noah. His gaze was fixed on the raindrops, from the rain that had just stopped, racing each other down the glass. He was lost in his world of thoughts. The lines on his face hinted at the weight of his concerns, and the gentle sigh that escaped his lips carried the weight of a thousand unsolved mysteries.

Noah's mind was racing. Thoughts swirled like a turbulent storm, and he couldn't find a moment of respite. The constant barrage of worries, doubts, and how he felt when he saw that girl filled every what so little place of his consciousness, leaving him in a state of unrest. Every time he tried to focus on a single idea or find a fleeting moment of peace, it slipped through his grasp like sand running through his fingers.

Noah was so frustrated with himself. He wasn't performing as he wanted to and all because of a ghost hunting his mind. Not even the freshly brewed coffee in front of him made him feel better.

When Noah let his gaze wander off in the café again, he nearly choked on his coffee, his heart racing as he spotted her. At the counter stood a woman, her silhouette graceful and mysterious. Her long, flowing black hair laid perfectly on her shoulders, framing a face that had haunted his dreams for so long. Her deep eyes, held a hidden universe of emotions, mirroring the turmoil in his own heart.

As he observed her from afar, she fidgeted nervously with her fingers, a charming yet anxious gesture that made her seem more real than any dream. He couldn't help but wonder if this was another vivid hallucination. But her presence in the café, her tangible form, left him utterly shocked. How the hell could she be here?

The world around him seemed to blur as she slowly made her way to his table, each step bringing her closer to him. His heart pounded in his chest, and he questioned the reality of the moment. It was as if the boundaries between dream and waking life had become indistinct, and he couldn't be sure if this was a fantasy or a genuine encounter.

Noah's mind raced with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He wanted to reach out, to touch her and make sure she was real, to unravel the mystery that surrounded her. Yet, his uncertainty held him back, as if he feared the moment might shatter like fragile glass.

The woman finally reached his table, her eyes locking onto his with a mix of hesitation and longing. The air between them crackled with unspoken words, with weeks of yearning and unfulfilled desire to know the truth.

Noah's voice trembled as he whispered her name, a mixture of awe and disbelief in his words. "Jules."

She gazed into his eyes, a complex mix of angst and confusion flickering across her face. Her voice was barely more than a breath as she replied, "Noah."

In that moment, they were no longer bound by his dreams. He was sure he wasn't turning insane. He knew he hadn't just imagined her. They were two individuals, sharing the same space and time, their connection more reachable than ever before. Noah couldn't help but feel that their destinies were intertwined in a way he had never imagined or even believed in before.

"We need to talk." Was all Jules needed to say as Noah's words broke out of him. He instantly told her everything, no matter how insane he sounded in that moment.

He told her of his strange feelings, he couldn't shake. He told her about his dreams. He told her about his feeling that even his best friend didn't quite understand how he felt. He told her everything even though he felt like he was crazy, while she set there and listened. She listened like she always did while her heart ached. She couldn't quite comprehend how hard she had messed up Noah's life with her doings.

The atmosphere of the coffee shop had changed as Noah and Jules faced each other, the air thick with tension. Noah had just shared the details of a dream where he saw a glimpse of Jules' past life. Jules looked both curious and bewildered, unsure of how to respond to what Noah was saying. When she was being honest with herself, she didn't even know what she wanted to say to Noah when she first set down.

"You dreamed about me?" Jules asked, her voice filled with uncertainty.

Noah nodded, a mixture of determination and frustration in his tone. "Yes, and it's not just that. I've been dreaming about you even before you saved me from that car. You appear in so many of my dreams, and it's really confusing."

Jules leaned in, her forehead wrinkling in thought. She sighed at the bizarre situation that formed between them. They were talking as if they had known each other for years while she was as dead as it gets and he hadn't known a thing about her just months before.

"Noah, I wish I could help you get the truth you deserve. But- I don't fully understand it myself." She tried to explain.

Noah's frustration grew as he grappled with the mystery surrounding Jules. He needed answers and was beginning to doubt the entire situation. "I need to know, Jules. Who the fuck are you, really? I don't want to think you're some kind of strange stalker or... I don't know, but this is all so weird. I can't explain it."

The words hung in the air as Jules tried to find the right words, and he wished he could take his back. He had no right to be aggressive. It was more than clear that she had no clue either and they needed to get over what ever kind of magic this was.

Jules reached out but last minute decided against grabbing his hand. She cleared her throat before trying to reassure him. "I don't have all the answers, Noah, and this situation is as confusing for me as it is for you. I'm here to protect you, to watch over you, and I promise I'm not a stalker or anything like that and you know that too. Our connection is beyond what you... or we can understand, and I'm still trying to get clarity in this confusing mess myself."

Noah gazed into her eyes, searching for the truth. He knew there was something extraordinary about their bond, something that defied logic known to humans. Even though he felt silly, his heart and instincts told him to trust Jules, even though his rational mind struggled to make sense of it all.

With a sigh, he relented, his voice softer as he admitted, "I may not understand it, Jules, but I can't help that I feel safe with you. It's just... all of this is so overwhelming. I can't concentrated. It's like this whole thing corrupted my mind. You know?"

Jules nodded, her understanding gaze unwavering. "I know it's overwhelming, Noah, and I promise I'll do my best to understand this all. But there is something we both need to do for our own good"

Noah looked confused.

"This." Jules waved between them. "Can never happen again."

Noah's heart instantly started to race when he thought about what her sentence meant. He knew it would be best but he couldn't let this happen. Almost as if she would leave any moment, he grabbed her hand.

As soon as they touched, a powerful yet unexplainable sensation washed over both of them, leaving them momentarily breathless. From Noah's perspective, it felt as if an electric current rushed through him, and he couldn't help but feel drawn to the mysterious woman before him. It was as if their souls had recognized each other, and the connection they shared became even more profound. It felt like in all those corny rom-com movies that he despiced.

Jules, on the other hand, experienced a shock of emotions and memories flooding back to her. She couldn't fully comprehend what was happening, but she felt a profound sense of familiarity and comfort when her hand connected with Noah's. If she didn't know better, she would have said she felt alive. It was as if their souls were intertwined, and the connection felt almost addictive.

Noah and Jules locked eyes, a shared understanding passing between them.

"Don't leave." Noah almost whimpered out, causing Jules to feel another rush through her body. Her mind was hazed with the emotions breathing life in her body. She knew she needed to get away from him. Lurk in his shadow again. Never show herself again. She knew this would end in total chaos. Not a single time was ever reported where a guardian angel just hung out with their person.

Right as she was about to decline his begging words, he squeezed her hand again, making her whole body tingle with sensation she never felt before. "Please, Jules. Just one day. I beg you."

Noah didn't even know what has gotten into him. All he could think about was how good he felt. He hadn't felt this good for months if not years. His mind was hazed with the thought of her. How he instantly got lost in her eyes. How he was intrigued to know everything about this mysterious woman. How he couldn't lose her.

Jules looked in his undeniable beautiful dark eyes as she swallowed hard. She had fucked up bad but when she looked at him like that she knew she couldn't go back. She didn't want to go back. She needed him just as much as he needed her.

"One day. After that we'll never see each other again." Right as the words slipped over her lips, she knew she lied.

She couldn't deny Noah anything, even if she tried.

PART EIGHT COMING SOON

#bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens rpf #noah sebastian fanfic #collapsedglasshouseswrites #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian x ofc #noah sebastian x oc

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nuancedeaths · 2 months

Text

The Anatomy of Starved Dogs (part 2)

First part:

Ao3 link:

Warnings!!

Child abuse/neglect

Drug use/overdose

Mentioned suicide

26 YEARS EARLIER

GHOST

MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

20 APRIL 1993

Many people make the mistake to think children are born blank slates, canvases that the image of personhood must be projected onto. They’re naive to believe that changing the environment that surrounds the child in their formative years will change the person he grows up to be so drastically, that they can change his fate completely.

But they forget the remnant of a blueprint, his DNA.

He is bound, even if not fully, to the downfalls, the sins of his father, and though it is easy to think of the potential such a young thing might have, half his story is already written, inked into the body in the very blood in his veins.

Some are born with the heart to serve, others with one bound to destruction, and it is the job of the parent to recognise the latter and be vigilant not to enable his violent tendencies.

Failure as a parent to recognise these things will lead to death, and sometimes it is a parent’s duty to swallow the bitter pill that is the realisation that some people are just inherently born evil.

You can build them, or break them, but the troubled children of yesterday might grow up to be the pillars society rests on further down the line. With a bit of guidance, that boy hell bent on destruction could build nations, or bring around their demise, and one with a soft heart might lose it completely to whoever he let hold it first…

Simon squeezed his eyes shut tightly, turning his head away as he brought the rock smashing through the exoskeleton of the beetle. He hits it again just to make sure it's properly dead before raising the rock away to look at the damage done with a painful lurch of his heart.

He mutters a futile apology to the poor thing before scooping the crushed body up with a leaf and putting it in the empty pill bottle his mother had given him.

He hates killing the things, but it was one thing Aunt Amelia had not considered about his Christmas gift.

“An ant farm,” she had said proudly as she presented it to him, still standing bleary eyed in the kitchen in his spiderman pyjamas. “Because I know how much you love bugs.” her smile had faltered a little bit into a grimace but quickly reset itself when she noticed the smile on his face.

She stepped aside to admire his excitement as Simon watched the ants crawling over each other in their organised chaos, squealing with excitement as he spotted the queen.

Aunt Amelia laughed at the six year old, now staring at the colony with sparkling eyes.

He couldn’t see the expression on his mothers face then, smiling at her boy in her hazy detached way, avoiding the eye contact her sister kept on trying to initiate with her.

His father stood off a little way with a stinking cigarette in his hand, watching the scene unfold with more than a little disdain.

When the tension between the adults got too much, his mother moved him like a pawn on their chessboard, prompting him into taking the heat off her.

“Now, Simon, what do we say to auntie Amelia for the nice gift?”

“Thank you!” he rushed over and almost knocked her over in a hug. She braces herself against the kitchen counter behind her, knocking into the gathered group of dirty glasses and three day old dishes by the sink. She wiped her hand with a bit of disgust, trying to mask it, but Simon had seen it, so had his mother.

“Calm down, you’re going to break something like that!” his father shouted.

“Oh it's nothing, he’s just excited,” Aunt Amelia could feel Simon go rigid in her hold and quickly came to the boy’s defence, placing her hand on his shoulders in a futile attempt to shield him. She held the man’s gaze until he left the room with a defeated sigh.

She knew his father, and the hem of the boy’s shirt wasn’t able to cover all of the bruises.

“I should get going, still have a Christmas party to get to,” she said awkwardly, reaching for her purse and shuffling out of the kitchen, away from Simon and towards the door. She hesitated by the security gate as Simon tried to reach out to grab her by the wrist.

He doesn’t want her to go. Things are different when she leaves. He feels safer when she’s here.

“Please stay longer, I missed you,” Simon pouts, lower lip jutting out to emphasise how desperately he wants her to stay, but she just shakes her head apologetically.

“Sorry darling, I have some of my friends from work to go visit, they miss me too.”

He felt the resolve shatter as his shoulders sagged, he could barely hide the glint of tears in his eyes and Aunt Amelia cupped his little face in her hands that promised safety, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be back when I can. But for now, enjoy your gift, my boy. I love you.”

Heaven knows he doesn’t hear those words enough, so she tells him every time she sees him.

She puts a hand on his shoulder but promptly lightens her grip when she sees him flinch, almost losing her smile when she notices the fading bruise just visible above the hem of his shirt. She looks him in the eye, “you take good care of your brother too, Simon.”

Regrettably, she leaves him there as his mother walks her out, down the steps to the driveway.

Simon watches the two forlornly from the window and briefly wonders what life would have been like if she was his mother instead.

Later that evening, he was sitting by the kitchen counter, still transfixed by the crawling ants when his father came up behind him, looking displeased.

“You know you’re going to have to feed those things dead bugs, and you’re going to have to kill them yourself.”

He left without another word to sit himself down on their worn out couch in the other room and watch whatever program was on TV, but Simon didn’t mind that now, too invested in his little colony to care.

Distantly, he could hear little Tommy wailing in another room and willed him to stop before his father lost his temper. He always loses his temper when Tommy cries.

Back then, he’d thought dispatching the dispatching of the insects would have gotten easier down the line. It hadn’t.

At first, he thought he might escape the moral dilemma of having to kill the thing by just throwing it to the ants, but watching them tear its writhing, agonised body limb from limb was more frightening than taking care of it himself, so he considers it a mercy.

From the driveway. Simon could hear his brother crying and rushed back inside a minute when no one had gone to check on him.

The house is dark and the curtains are drawn to hide the mess in the cramped kitchen.

Dirty dishes piled up in precariously balanced stacks on the countertops around the sink, the air stank of a sour mix of days old food and soured dairy. He scrunches his nose up and moves into the living room.

Simon finds the TV with the sound just above mute. His mother is passed out on the couch with a magazine splayed open over her chest. Her arm was hanging over the edge of the couch and Simon took a moment to adjust it into a more comfortable position, closing the magazine.

He pushed away some of the clutter on the coffee table to put it down there.

She’ll probably come around in about an hour but be really out of it for the rest of the day. Simon suspects it has something to do with the pills she’s always taking.

She hides them in drawers and under seat cushions because his father gets angry when he sees her taking them. She’s been taking them after that surgery last year, but now her arm is completely healed and she’s still taking them.

Simon finds Tommy in their shared bedroom, sprawled on the floor where he fell trying to climb under his too small cot.

Simon rushed over to him and tried to comfort him to silence his crying, holding the two-year old close to him, but he didn’t know what more would help. He slowly rocked him back and forth.

Simon shushes him quietly, cupping Tommy’s head to his shoulder. He makes good on his promise to Aunt Amelia. He would do his best to keep Tommy safe.

He looks Tommy over to check for any injuries, but aside from older bruises, he sees nothing new.

“Don’t you worry, Tommy. Mommy’s going to be awake later to help you. She will help you,” he makes an empty promise, following it with a truer statement.

“But I promise I’ll be here. I’ll always keep you safe.”

If Tommy knew what that meant, Simon wasn’t sure. He looked his brother in the eye, finding his mother’s cornflower blue where his own were regretfully his father’s dull brown.

He’ll take all of Tommy’s beatings for him if that’s what it took to keep him safe.

When Tommy’s calmed down enough, Simon picks him up, doing his best to prop him up on his hip like he’d seen other mothers do with their children.

Both Simon and Tommy were rather small for their age, so even though it should have been easier, his arm burns with the effort.

Its alright though. He tells himself the same thing he tells himself when he’s pressing a bad bruise to check how much it hurts in the dirty bathroom mirror, or fixing up his own scrapes, because he’s ‘old enough to take care of himself’. He tells himself the pain is only temporary.

With Tommy on his hip, Simon shuffles over to the window where his ant colony stood on their shared dresser.

He watched them for a minute before he reached into his pocket for the pill bottle and knocked the bug out for the swarming colony.

It gives him a sense of pride. He might not be old enough or strong enough to help Tommy on his own, but at least there is something he can provide for.

That night, a long while after Simon had gone to bed, he hears the beginnings of a fight in the kitchen.

He tries his best to ignore it, but after ten minutes of tossing and turning, he decides to see what’s going on.

“We’ve got an infestation in this house,” his father announces. He’s rifling through the cupboards, looking for bug spray with his mother standing deflated by the broom closet, still recovering from her earlier nap.

Simon could do nothing but watch anxiously with his arms crossed across his chest as his father let his wrath out on his half lucid mother.

She rubbed tiredly at the bags under her eyes and fixed her eyes on her husband, both blatantly ignoring their son.

Simon flinches as his father yanks open another drawer filled to bursting point with odds and ends, sandwich bags and old serviettes pinned between the wooden drawer and countertop as he shoves it closed. He curses when it won’t close properly.

“We don’t have anything,” his mother reiterates slowly, still half clocked out by the pills.

Another cupboard door shuts harshly, crockery clattering on the other side.

“Then fucking buy some. There are cockroaches in the cupboards and moths have eaten through the last of my goods shirts.”

He shakes his head in wild disbelief.

“You hoard everything under the sun. you barely clean, dinner’s never ready when I get home.”

Simon felt himself go lightheaded. He’s been a witness to this particular scripted conversation far too many times.

The next thing that she’ll say is–

“I have two children to raise!”

As if she’s ever actually awake to take care of them.

Either you buy some or you're going back to rehab.”

No, they can’t have her go back to rehab. Even though there was always a lot of tension in the house when his parents were fighting, it was worse when she was away. He was never particularly close with his mother, but his father tended to take his anger out on the children when she was away.

She can’t go away again. He still has the pains from the last time she went away.

“I don’t need to go to rehab–”

“Yes you do. I found the pills you hid in the desk drawer.”

“That’s none of your business, you have no right to meddle with my things!”

“You’re an addict!”

“So are you! Half the time you don’t show up sober from work and heaven knows you’re sky high when you crawl back home from whatever shithole you’ve been drinking in.”

Simon’s eyes shot over to his father who raised his hands in anger, sure he was about to bring down his wrath on his mother who was already covered in half healed bruises under her shirt, Simon had seen them.

In a split second panic, he coughs to alert both of them to his presence.

"What do you want, boy?" His father asks, with exasperation.

"Can't sleep," he makes a lame excuse, just for the sake of trying to avoid witnessing another bout of violence. He doesn't like hearing her cry and the last thing he needs now is for her to go back to the hospital or to rehab.

He's been to the hospital before, but he doesn't know what rehab is. He just knows it means she'll go away for a long time and he can't have that.

"Can't you see we're having an adult conversation? Go back to bed."

"But I can't–"

"Then make a fucking plan, do I have to spell everything out for you?"

Fearing what would happen if he didn't leave, Simon walks off wearily to his room and closes the door, trying his best to drown out the screaming match in the kitchen.

There's a shout and something like glass shatters on the floor, followed by more cursing and he presses his palms tightly into his ears, willing the noise to go away.

He crawls back into bed, pulling the blanket over his head and covering his ears with the pillow, but it barely helps. The cursed walls of the house are so thin he can hear them right on the other side, screaming, swearing, mother in tears.

His heart is racing and there's no way he'll be able to fall asleep like this.

He needs something to help him calm down, to sleep.

Then it hits him, a genius idea, really.

He gets out of bed and quietly opens the door, but his parents are too occupied to notice anyway as he tiptoes across the hall to his parents bedroom and pulls open the study drawer, finding the little bottle of clinking pills in his mother's jewellery box.

He can't count very well, not over fifty. His teachers are concerned about his maths skills, but he won't need that much. His mother takes 4 to get her a good long nap. He'll take the same, it should help him quiet down the noise.

He shakily tosses out a handful, throwing back the rest he's not going to drink before looking at the four intimidatingly large looking pills in his hand. He leaves the room before anyone can find him there and goes to the bathroom to swallow them down. He takes the bottle with him as he shuffles back to bed, just in case the four don’t help him get to sleep fast enough.

He sets the little pill bottle on the nightstand and crawls back in under the lukewarm sheets.

The pills were surprisingly strong, brain already feeling fuzzy and clouded as he laid his head on the pillow and tugged the blanket over his head. His movement is barely coordinated enough for him to be able to complete the action and he frowns at his hand, now an image converging and diverging in the darkness as he struggles to grasp the edge of the duvet to pull it up.

But once he’s managed to grab hold of it, it seems as though all the strength has left his body and he cannot grip it tight enough to pull.

The voices in the kitchen blur together and Simon can no longer distinguish one from the other as he is lulled into a void of silence.

He’s only vaguely aware of what is going on around him, but he can hear his parents in the room, still arguing but closer now and he can hear Tommy crying. He doesn’t know how long he’s been crying, all Simon knows is that it's been a while.

He wants to sit up, but he can’t. In his mind’s eye, he pictures himself pushing up off the bed, imagines it only vaguely in a delicate thread he’s still clinging onto consciousness with, but it's as though his body is frozen and his muscles have gone slack, he’s not lucid enough to get them to cooperate, he’s far gone enough that he accepts it as a fact he’s not even bothered by, just a state of being floating in his periphery, he’s the centre of a endless void, weightless and careless.

His ebbing and swelling grasp on reality helps him pick up pieces of the noise. His mother tries to soothe Tommy’s crying, his father over her shoulder. And then there’s something that sounds vaguely concerned.

The barest outline of a shadow as one of the two– he can’t open his eyes to tell– looms over him.

He hears something about pills.

“–breathing?”

Someone might have been touching him but he couldn’t be sure.

“Barely.”

“Shit. He’s taken four.”

Something that distorts too much to make out.

“I’d know, I count my pills–”

The last thing he hears is something about a hospital before he barely registers a change in the weightlessness, like pressure in his brain as he’s lifted out of his bed in a suppressed whirlwind of panic.

Then it all fades to nothingness.

2019

There’s a level of respect that Soap has to give Captain Price for his recruitment methods.

Albeit somewhat unorthodox and having a pinch more coercion involved than he was really comfortable with, Soap knew that this was his angle since the day they met all those years ago at Credenhill for his training.

Since then, Price has been a difficult man to pin down, finding his way into all kinds of international operations, but he’d taken a liking to Soap then, and it was foolish of him to think he’d get away from that without being roped into one of these high stakes things before Price was done with him.

As was the way of the world, you don’t earn the respect of someone like Captain Price and think you’ll walk away with your hands clean.

Soap knows from experience, rumours that had spread through the base at the time like wildfire, that the Captain doesn't make friends, he collects weapons.

He’d gotten that bit of wisdom from a buddy that didn’t make it past selection at the time. Soap had never heard from him again, but he’d always remember that little thing he’d said when he noticed the man staring at Soap from across the room, arms behind his back, chin tilted up like he was breaking down his physique into stats, similar to the words printed into his dog tags.

Height, weight, agility, speed, strength, age, fitness, and maybe, even if he didn’t want to admit it, how willing he was to sacrifice himself in the line of fire.

Turns out martyrdom isn’t a thing easily bred out of a man fixated on his own self destruction. In standard society, such a trait might have been considered reckless or suicidal, but in this line of work, it was far more honourable, one of the reasons the job had appealed so much to him at the time.

Now, as he sits in the faux leather seat of the plane, kneading his hands into his thighs with his headphones in, he thinks that sixteen-year-old John MacTavish was a testosterone loaded, short sighted idiot of a teenager. No child below the legal drinking age should be signing anything legally binding, especially nothing like this.

He promised to keep himself safe, and it had taken less than a month to break that promise. He promised her he would consider her suggestion for him to resign and he really doesn’t want to do that anymore.

Try as he might to deny it, he likes the adrenaline, how important the job makes him feel to be making a difference.

So, no. Soap would not be throwing in the towel at twenty-five.

It had been Price that dragged him into this precarious situation to begin with, so it only made sense that when he touched down in England, Price would be there waiting for him after he’d collected his suitcase.

With a professional exchange of words, Price led him out of the airport, forgoing a much needed meal in favour of going somewhere private. Making filler small talk, Price led him over to a nondescript car in need of a repaint.

The trunk popped open with a chirp of the alarm and Soap hauled his suitcase into the back with a huff and shut the lid again, pretending not to feel Price's eyes on him as he turned to his side of the car.

"How's your mum doing with this?" Price eventually asks when they're leaving the underground parking and out into the bland city air.

It's stale and stinks of office buildings, smog and apathy. Not all that different from Glasgow, if Soap was being honest.

"She's right pissed about it."

"As expected," Price half grimaced as he turned out onto a road feeding deeper into the heart of the city, returning them to the circulatory system of winding roads and potholed asphalt.

The highway promises a dead end at the other side. This job, this once-off thing for Price felt to Soap like there were a lot more strings attached than he was letting on.

"We'll have you right back to Scotland as soon as the job's done."

"What exactly is the job, sir?" Soap asks.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you too much just yet, but we'll get to that soon– you mind if I smoke one?" Price cut himself off and held up a half smoked cigar in Soap's direction.

"Go ahead."

Soap turned his attention to the congestion of the road holding them up. His mind drifted to that morning by the airport, his mother's last words to him.

"You promised me you wouldn't do this to yourself." His mother has said through tears welling in the corner of her eyes.

They were standing by the baggage drop and the tired woman attending his luggage ignored their emotional moment as she unceremoniously loaded his suitcase onto the conveyor belt and sent it off for loading.

"I know, I know. But I'll make it up to you."

"How do you possibly plan on doing that?" She was a combination of angry and defeated.

"I don't know yet," he confessed sheepishly. "But I will find a way."

"You better, John. You promised me you were going to leave this job behind," she reminded him.

"It isn't that simple," he said. "I've built a life for myself there. Its a good job, with good money. Heaven knows we need it after da's passing."

Soap clasped her fingers in his, planting a little apologetic kiss over her knuckles. Her demeanour doesn't soften in the slightest.

"I know it's simple enough for me to know that you can replace a job, but I can't replace my son if anything were to happen to you. There's more to life than just what you want, John."

He lets her hand go at once, averting his gaze to the boarding announcements. His flight wasn't due to leave for another hour.

Met with no answer, she pushed on. "I know you're ambitious, John. Its one of the most admirable traits about you, but you need to learn when to let things go. Things aren't just about you. We worry. I worry, your sisters worry, we're afraid of losing you. You've had your fun, but its time to move on. Before its too late and you end up with permanent damage."

Soap hasn't the heart to tell her he already has permanent damage and instead opts for a consolatory kiss to her forehead.

"I'll be alright. You'll see."

Before his mother can muster the strength for more pushback, the woman from the luggage clears her throat and they turn to meet her impatient expression.

"If you don't mind, there are other people waiting in line."

Reminded of the uncomfortable situation, Soap's mouth pulled into a tight line.

"I don't appreciate being held on a string, Cap."

“I don’t like withholding information either, but I’m afraid it isn’t my call to make here. Once we reach base we'll cover the details, make sure you know what you're getting yourself into.”

Soap nodded but Price’s words did nothing to calm his unease.

“Will the General be joining us?”

“Not for the briefing, but he's given me all the necessary information to relay to you. He'll be with us in Verdansk, though."

Verdansk. That Glasgow coffee shop conversation. The planned attack on the airport. Soap's head was spinning with the urgency of the situation.

“And your other man?”

Price grimaced around the cigar, letting the smoke go before he made any attempt to respond to Soap.

“He’ll be there. And another guy Shepherd trusts enough to be on this. But he’ll be there.”

Frustrated with the lack of information, Soap leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, tucking his hands into the pockets of his grey hoodie. He’s half asleep a couple of minutes later, but it seems he has actually managed to get a minute of sleep in, because the scenery has drastically changed and the sun seems to sit a bit higher in the sky.

By the look of it, they’re not far off now and will be there any minute.

“Okay, so there’s two things you need to know about my guy,” Price begins. The cigar is gone now. Soap had definitely managed a few blessed minutes of sleep.

“Yes?”

“If he tells you to do something, you do it. I know you have a history of authority issues but he is not the kind of man to try any of that with. If he says he knows better than you about a certain thing, it's because he does.”

That doesn’t sit right with Soap, but he’ll take it.

“And the other thing?”

“Don’t ask questions about his appearance. No personal questions, either. It's for your safety, not his.”

Soap laughs uneasily, throwing sarcasm into his response. “You make him sound real nice.”

“He’s alright. Just a bit of an acquired taste.”

Soap scoffed. “ Coffee is an acquired taste, saying that about a person, it just makes him sound like a dick.”

Price gave a small laugh. “He’s really alright, Soap. But just keep in mind what I said.”

Arrival on base proceeded with little fanfare. They stopped at the gate and Price flashed his ID, drove in and parked on his usual spot.

They’ve got a decent bit to walk and Soap picks up on a strange sort of atmosphere as Price led him over to a room towards the back of the building, ducking them into side corridors and keeping their heads down, only briefly acknowledging the men passing them in the hallway.

“How many people really know what’s going on about this situation?” Soap asked as they turned into an empty corridor.

“Not many, so I suggest you think of a lie if someone asks you what you’re doing here.”

Finally, after a good ten minutes of walking, Price stops outside a closed door at the end of a hallway, hand hovering over the door handle.

“Remember what I said, Soap. Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

Price turns the doorknob and motions for Soap to step into the room.

It's a small space. The floors are covered in cheap industrial carpeting and the room is windowless, lit by equidistant cool white fluorescent bulbs and still suffocatingly dark because of the near black paint on the walls. In the centre of the room was a long, white conference table, overlooked by a large monitor.

There’s a poor attempt at making the room feel more homely in the form of a potted plant sitting in the corner under the monitor’s mount, but it's so obviously plastic, the small waste bin on the other end of the room looks like it cost more.

For the moment of stale silence, the low humming of the ventilation sets Soap’s nerves on edge as it filters flavourless circulated air into the room and pushes that strange atmosphere to stand at attention.

He’s here again. He was meant to retire. He was meant to hand in his papers for good just a week from now. A week.

Soap feels as though the room is going to suffocate him by the time Price gestures for him to take a seat at the table opposite two other men, but he makes no move to take a seat himself.

It's not until he looks up that Soap really realises what Price had meant about not saying anything he’d regret.

The man adjacent to him is not much older than himself; hazel eyes and lightish brown hair buzzed short. Normal appearing with a kind demeanour, but the other, much larger man across from Soap had a more foreboding presence.

It was almost surreal, seeing Simon Riley for the first time. Soap didn’t need Price’s confirmation to know that this was his ‘other man’, his presence spoke for itself.

Soap understands gimmickry. He understands anonymity. Hell, he understands feeling insecure about his body, or disfigurement, or scarring. But what the fuck is the man wearing a skullfaced balaclava for?

He’s clad head to toe in black. Dark cargo pants, heavy laced boots and thick black cotton hoodie, and a fucking black skull mask.

Was this what Price meant by not asking questions about his appearance? No one had told him it was because the man they were meeting looked more the part of a criminal than a soldier.

But, Soap supposes he did make a promise, and he keeps his mouth shut.

“Seems you’ve decided to join us, Captain,” the man across from Price says.

“Yes. had to pick this one up from the airport first. But without further ado, we should get this over with. You all make friends while I get this thing booted up.”

Price turns to Soap. “Sergeant MacTavish, Sergeant Burns,” he hurriedly introduces the two to each other and they exchange a stiff handshake. Price makes no move to introduce him to the masked man, moving over to the monitor.

“And you must be Lieutenant Riley,” Soap said with a measured smile, extending his hand across the table towards the black clad figure. From what little Soap could see of the man, he did not look impressed.

Almost cruel seeming brown eyes drag over his form, from the outstretched hand to analyse his face for a moment.

Soap’s smile wavered a bit, hand not quite so sure of its position between them anymore before he felt a rough gloved hand take his.

"I prefer Ghost."

Gimmickry and downright cringe. If Soap didn't know better, he might've thought the man was nothing more than a scene kid from the 2000s that didn't quite outgrow that phase in the nineteen years following.

But maybe, he thinks as he remember's Price's words about being an acquired taste and being a good man, he supposes he shouldn't be so quick to judge.

He can't help it sometimes. His nature is hostile even when he has no reason to be.

"Then call me Soap if we're not on a name basis."

The man huffed out an unimpressed acknowledgement, but the grip on Soap’s hand remained light and unintrusive. He lets it go.

A garbled noise to their left alerts Soap to the screen starting up.

"Let's not beat around the bush, shall we. All of you know why you are here. You are here because General Shepherd and myself trust that you are capable of getting the job done and that you understand that nothing discussed here can leave this room. Do you understand?"

A unanimous agreement echoed across the table and Price was content to turn to the monitor to retrieve the remote.

"Over the last couple of years, there's been a series of incidents."

Price brought up an old file on the screen. Some of the text was redacted but the relevant points highlighted.

"In February of 2017, a large shipment of weapons and resources for explosives manufacture out of Urzikstan was found carrying only two thirds of its intended cargo. The rest remains unaccounted for, but with current Russian occupation in Urzikstan, the blame is tentatively given to General Barkov and the Russian army, but he denies any involvement."

Price moves over to another case.

"In July of 2018, a bomb planted in a market in Urzikstan took out half the street, killing six civilians and injuring fifty. Remains of the explosive pointed to it being made with resources from out of Urzikstan. The attack pushed a tentatively balanced agreement between the Russians and Al Qatala, the terrorist group operating in the area, to breaking point. The following conflict led to a bloodbath with Barkov and his men believing Al Qatala was trying to get the West to take note of the situation and take action against the Russians, and Al Qatala believing the Russians set them up to reestablish their hold on Urzikstan. The bomb was later proved to not have come from either, but from an unidentified outside source with the intention to stir up unrest between the groups. But it had its desired effect: four hundred innocent people lost their lives."

Price moved onto another, this time several headlines covering the news from different angles and images of the gruesome scene.

"Following this situation, in August of the same year, a Russian lawmaker threatening to cease the occupation of Urzikstan and order Russian forces to withdraw, was found dead after he 'fell out of' his third storey bedroom window. His pro occupation counterpart soon stepped up to fill the vacant role. There is no legitimate proof of foul play."

Soap clenched and unclenched his hands under the table, keeping his eyes locked on the screen.

"Further, between this, spanning from October of 2016, September 2018, and what we believe might be an impending attack now, there has been a total of eight seemingly random, untraceable terrorist incidents across Europe, which have been largely downplayed by the media."

"Wait," Soap stops him short. "How do we know of this supposed imminent threat?"

"I've been trying to get to the bottom of this for the last four years. I've managed to get connections and I've somehow got myself an anonymous informant."

"An anonymous informant?" Riley– Ghost asks sceptically. "What's to say this isn't some trap you're walking us into?"

Soap doesn't say anything, but his hand comes up to clutch at the metal over his heart.

He knew this was going to be a mistake and he went ahead with it anyway. He should've know, he should've stayed home, he should have handed in those papers–

"The guy's legit. The information he's given is solid and checks out flawlessly. He's given me names, organisations, information about the Russians no one else would know. I've cross referenced the names he's given and locations they allegedly were in at the time of certain events, and it checks out."

"He's Russian?" Burns asks with an equal tone of scepticism. "Do you think he's one of Barkov's men?"

"I honestly can't say," Price says, shaking his head."But I'd rather take his word for it than choose not to believe him and see Makarov blow up an airport because I didn't know how to take a sign."

Soap's hand clutched around the metal. It soothes him a bit. But not much. Not enough.

What the fuck has he gotten himself into now?

Price clicked a button on the little black remote and a familiar face appeared on the screen. Alongside it was a list of basic personal information that had been in the file Price had shown him in Glasgow.

He stood off to the side of the monitor as he addressed the group.

"Vladimir Makarov has an official record of acting radically. He was observed by his teachers in school to have a very serious and driven mindset, expressing genuine interest in dangerous ideology and sometimes getting himself into physical fights. But mostly, his most worrying observed trait was being able to stir up conflict by manipulating a situation between his classmates just right, that the conflict would come about organically, just exposed by changing circumstances without changing anything about how they actually feel about each other. Just reaching the legal age, he joined the Russian military, working under –you guessed it– General Roman Barkov during his initial incursion into Uriskstan. For reasons unclear, he was dishonourably discharged after that. That said, Vladimir Makarov was born on October 4th, 1980 to a high profile family of which three of his immediate family members –his father being one of them– were outspoken politicians during the 70s and 80s, right up until the fall of the Soviet Union."

Price pressed another button and a few scans of old newspaper headlines, cover images and grainy frames from old news reports cropped onto the screen.

"From the day he was born, he was conditioned into being comfortable in front of a camera. How to act in front of outsiders and how to speak to reporters if it came to it."

All the images were candid photographs taken of a middle aged man on various occasions, but they had something else in common. A young child, varying between the ages of what Soap judged to be five and ten, was tucked almost inconspicuously into each of the images.

If Soap hadn't known any better, he might have thought him to be one of the crowd. But he's too well dressed and appears far too frequently for that to be the case.

In the latest of the photos, he's seen being escorted from the scene by a handful of armed security while his father was making a speech.

"The stress of the job was a lot to handle and word was that Makarov's father abused him and his mother during especially hard times. Whatever he was feeling at the time was only exacerbated by the discovery of his father's suicide, shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union. If he's carrying feelings from that formative time in his life as motivation for his present actions, we know what his angle of approach to his attacks are."

"He's holding a grudge?" Ghost asks.

"Most likely," Price confirmed.

"Against who?" This time, it was Soap's turn to ask.

"If he's angry at the job for making his father violent, he'd be by no doubt pissed about it all being for nothing when the fall drives his old man to suicide," Ghost explains.

"So he's angry at the West for interfering?" Burns asks.

"The Russian government, too, for how they handled the situation," Price adds.

Soap frowned, recalling the information he'd been steadily soaking in over the last half hour.

"But then why join the Russian army?"

Price huffed. "Well, we can't speculate too much, but it could be anything from legit experience to high end connections. After all, Makarov does all his arrangements by proxy. Which is why it's so difficult to pin him down. But we have a chance now," he reminded.

"According to my source, we have the exact time and location where Makarov will be planting the bomb. It's now our job to get there and stop him in the act. It's the only way we'll get to him now without compromising staying one step ahead."

"We'll have to cut it very close then," Soap says, trying to keep the discomfort out of his voice.

"When do we leave?"

"If all goes well and we keep this under the radar, we leave for Verdansk tonight."

It isn't much longer until they're free to leave the room and Price sets them with the parting words, grave and serious,"We can't afford to screw up now. As I've said, Makarov does everything by proxy, so the fact that he wants to be there himself means he wants this to make a statement. He wants to put on a show."

Soap finds himself savouring the fresh air. He finds the nearest door to the outside world and finds himself trying to piece himself back together by the wall behind the toilets.

It probably looks a bit pathetic as he's trying to compartmentalise to make the situation seem less of a dumpster fire than it really was.

Fuck. He knew he was going to be getting his hands dirty, but he wants no part in this.

Trying to keep his light meal of refrigerated aeroplane sandwich down, he leans against the wall of his secluded corner and takes a couple of deep breaths.

To hell with trying to explain this one to his mother. He's damn well fucked now. He squeezes his eyes shut and musters a desperate prayer.

Asking for strength, for success so that he doesn't have to walk away with blood on his hands or be sent home to his mother in an urn.

As he opens his eyes, Soap notices a flask of dark movement to his right, the door opening along the wall and of all people, Ghost stepping out.

He's lighting himself a cigarette with his back turned to Soap. Without a doubt, his mask is pulled up slightly above his mouth and he hears the man mutter a curse when the cigarette won't light in the bitter little breeze that's decided to kick up.

He doesn't know Soap is there and Soap doesn't say anything.

But as he watches Ghost walk off in whichever direction with his cigarette in hand, watching those broad shoulders shift with every motion of his body, the muscles pull the fabric of that hoodie taut over his skin, Soap thinks his long gone companion from training was right.

Captain Price does not make friends, he collects weapons.

#soapghost #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #cod #fanfiction #fanfic #ghostsoap #ao3 fanfic #ghoap #call of duty modern warfare #the anatomy of starved dogs

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underforeversgrace · 11 months

Text

am i dead or alive? (it's such a fine line)

title: am i dead or alive? (it's such a fine line)

words: 2,755

summary: Danny wakes up screaming from a nightmare - a memory he thought he'd long gotten over. When his dad comes running him to check on him, old fears and doubts resurface, and Danny decides that, since he's already told his parents about Phantom, maybe it's time to stop hiding other things, too.

Warnings: None

AU: None/Danny has already told his parents he's Phantom before the story starts

Beta by: @probably-dead

AO3

“Oh dear! What a mess! Are you okay?” She asked, sounding and looking every bit like a concerned grandmother as Danny rolled his shoulder, feeling an ache that his adrenaline fueled mind acknowledged as being a broken left arm.

“Yeah, I think so,” he found himself saying, oddly outside of himself and refusing to truly realize he’d just gotten majorly injured in a ghost fight.

Suddenly the Lunch Lady’s face broke into a snarl, anger and hatred radiating off of her. “Tough! Because you being okay is not part of my balanced diet of doom!”

And then the fight was back on, five minions made of meat surrounding him as they all launched into the air. The pain fell away as he went on the offensive, cleanly slicing through all five of them. Some part of him, some human part, kept telling him how wrong everything was, how he should feel his heart slamming against his chest in fear, should hear the rush of blood in his ears as adrenaline forced all of his senses into overdrive.

But Danny sensed none of that and the internal silence of his stopped heart was now nearly deafening.

The five blobs reformed rapidly. Danny took in a deep breath that he refused to accept he didn’t need as he firmly planted his feet into the ground, dropping into a fighting stance.

Warmth exploded around his body as his heart resumed, straining and panicking within his chest, as he lost his ghost form. Nausea stirred in his stomach as disorientation tried to force him to his knees, his senses roughly shifted from ghost to human and simultaneously overwhelming and underwhelming him.

Then the slimy, greasy beings wrapped themselves around him, lifting him into the air as he tried to fight them. In a matter of seconds, he was being held upside down, hundreds of feet in the air and he was forced to stop struggling - he’d die if he fell from this height.

He was already dead.

Then the hands holding him let go and he was freefalling, screaming as the ground rapidly approached. “Change back!” He pleaded aloud to whatever god would listen to a thing like him, whatever god had already abandoned him when he walked into that portal.

But the ground just grew closer, the little ball of cold in his chest unresponsive, drained of energy. He saw the meat ghost’s smile, twisted into a sadistic grin of victory.

And then the ground was right there, it was right on front of him, his face centimeters away and -

Danny screamed, bolting upright in his bed as sweat rolled down his body. He felt warm tears forming in his eyes, breaking free to slide down his cheeks. He shuddered slightly, pulling his legs to his chest and dropping his head onto his knees as he tried to slow his breathing. He’d thought he was done with that particular nightmare!

“Danny?” His father demanded, slamming open the door to his bedroom and causing Danny to flinch. “What’s wrong? Is it a ghost?”

A lie immediately came to Danny’s tongue but he bit it down. He’d told his parents the truth last month, but the reaction to lie was still the first he had whenever they mentioned ghosts.

Danny lifted his head up, studying his father for a moment. Mom and Jazz weren’t home tonight, on the way to Jazz’s new college - the semester was starting soon and it was time for move in. That had actually been the catalyst for Danny confessing - it was time for Jazz to go to school and she was refusing to leave until she knew Danny told them and was safe here. It’d been a low move - holding her own education over his head - but it had been effective. Danny had enough shame in his life, he wouldn’t keep his sister from going to school.

“Kinda,” he finally admitted, “but there aren’t any here right now.”

Jack crossed the space to Danny’s bed in a few quick paces, sitting down on the foot of the bed. Again, Danny flinched at his father’s rapid approach, a spike of panic up his spine. Jack apparently didn’t miss the reaction, looking at Danny in regret, even as he scooted a little further away to give Danny more space.

“Talk to me, Danny,” Jack asked, almost pleading.

Danny wrapped his arms around his legs, pulling them tighter against him.

His parents had taken the news… not well, but their horrified reactions had been about themselves, not him, like he knew they would be - like he’d seen during Controlfreak’s stunt with the Reality Gauntlet. But they hadn’t really talked - his parents too afraid of pushing Danny away, and Danny still just afraid of them.

“I had a nightmare,” he eventually said.

“What about, son?”

He hesitated. Was this really where he wanted to finally start this conversation? A fight he’d nearly lost and the doubt and pain he’d endured in silence after? Things he’d never even told Sam and Tucker? He glanced at the clock - it was nearly three in the morning. He looked again at his father, the worry and concern in his eyes, in every line of his body.

Yeah. It was time to talk. It was time to let his parents - or at least one of them - in the rest of the way, to all the things his secret contained below the surface.

“The first real ghost fight I had. It… it didn’t go well.”

Jack's face morphed into shock, Danny had been tight lipped about everything he’d done, but it settled back into worry. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny took a deep breath. “Are you ready to hear it? It isn’t… it isn’t good, Dad. Some of it… it might upset you. It involves you.”

His father bit his lip but nodded. It was an open secret they refused to acknowledge - the fact that Danny’s own parents had fueled his fears and his nightmares.

“Her name was the Lunch Lady,” Danny started, setting his chin on his knees. “It was a month after I got my powers. I couldn’t even do an ectoblast yet, had never seen one before. Flight, invisibility, intangibility - that was all I knew how to do. It was all I’d ever seen from the other ghosts I’d faced - wimpy, low level ones, none even humanoid. She was… she was trying to kill Sam because Sam had caused the school to change the menu. She was the strongest ghost I’d ever come across at that point - the only human one, the only one who could talk to me. When we first saw her, she just looked like a lost grandmother and I…” Danny paused to take a deep breath.

“Anyway, she was wicked strong. I… I nearly died again.” Danny ignored the way his father seemed to recoil at that sentence. “She’s about as strong as the Box Ghost. They’re actually married and have a kid now. But that’s how weak I was back then. I was exhausted. I was in the middle of a fight with her and was too tired to keep up being Phantom - it took a lot of energy back then - so I morphed back to human. And back then, my human side and my ghost side didn’t mix as well, I didn’t have my strength.”

“Can I come closer?” Jack asked abruptly.

Trust him, his mind decided and he scooted over to the side of the bed, patting the open spot beside him. Relief flooded his father’s face and he moved so he was sitting behind Danny.

Danny leaned against his father’s side instinctively, comfortable. He wrapped an arm around Danny’s shoulders and tension faded from Danny.

“I was human when she had her minions grab me,” Danny continued. “They grabbed me and flew me up and I was helpless. That’s what the nightmare was about. It was the first time I came close to losing a fight. What happened after that was you tossing the Thermos and it slapping me in the face and then the minions let go of me. I managed to get back to Phantom in time and the Thermos made quick work of all of them, but… the nightmare plays out a little differently.”

“Did you know I’m scared of flying on planes?” Jack asked.

“Huh?” Danny responded, pulled out of the memory that had started to constrict him again.

“I was flying on one when I was around ten, on vacation, when we hit some really bad turbulence halfway through the flight,” he explained. “At the time, I didn’t know that was normal. We were fine, of course, but for years afterwards, I had nightmares about the plane crashing, even though it wasn’t what happened. It’s one reason I built the Fenton Jet - I trust my own inventions more. But nightmares don’t care about reality, do they?”

Danny smiled slightly. He sometimes forgot his father was an intelligent man, just hidden under a lot of layers of fudge and goofiness. “No, they don’t. In the dream they take me higher, I fall further, and I can’t transform back.”

“And you still chose to help, even when the ghosts got stronger?”

Danny nodded. “I had the ability to, I could keep up with them better, and…” he trailed off, unsure about proceeding. The nightmare, the memory, was only half of it.

“And?” Jack prompted.

“And… I was afraid.”

“You helped because you were afraid?”

Suddenly feeling suffocated, Danny slid out from under his father’s arms, getting off the bed and beginning to pace. He could feel Jack’s eyes following him as he did so. “You and mom always said ghosts were evil, they couldn’t feel, they couldn’t remember or understand humanity. Until Lunch Lady, I could convince myself you two were wrong. The ones before her - they didn’t count, they were just wild animals. But she… she wanted to kill Sam for something so simple. I didn’t understand Obsessions at the time, I didn’t know that what she was going through made her feel like her core was cracking in two. As far as I could tell, she was just pure evil for the sake of being evil.”

He couldn’t help it as he began to cry, as the feelings he’d smothered back then reared up their ugly heads, fears about himself he’d come to terms with but which still frightened him sometimes. “If you were right, when would I lose myself? When would I become evil, hurt people because hurting them was fun? I’d half died, but was Danny, was my humanity, going to die more?” Tears made his vision blur and he stopped pacing, pressing his back against the wall and sliding to the floor. “I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to hurt people. But I was so afraid that I was only delaying the inevitable. That I was going to lose my mind and eventually someone would do something so, so minor and I’d decide killing was the right option.”

“Danny…” he said, sounding more lost than Danny had ever heard.

“So I kept fighting. Hoped whatever evil my ghost had given me could be distracted by the violence, would let me channel the desire to kill - that I knew would eventually consume me - into only hurting ghosts.” Danny looked up, making eye contact with his father and saw he was crying too. “I learned every weakness I could. I made lists. Anything and everything someone would need to kill a ghost. I kept notes… and I printed them out for you two to find if I ever went rogue. The secrets to killing me, left somewhere you would find if Fenton ever went missing, with the implication I thought Phantom might hurt me.”

Jack paled and his eyes went wide. “You set it up so we’d think Phantom hurt our son. And then left the information we’d need… to kill you - Phantom you - for killing Fenton you?”

Danny forced himself to nod. “All without ever knowing it was me to begin with.”

“Son…” Jack said, standing and moving over to Danny, squatting in front of him. “I am so sorry.”

Danny shrugged. “I eventually met good ghosts. That’s when I began trying to make it obvious to you that I was good, that I wasn’t bad. I know now there are more good ghosts than bad, but I didn’t know that back then.”

“And now you trust yourself to know you’d never do anything bad? That you have control over what you do?”

“I believe I have control over what I do.” Danny half-answered, glancing at his bedside table.

Jack followed his gaze, apparently realizing what Danny was purposefully not saying, even though he hadn’t been told about Dan yet. He straightened up and crossed the distance to the table while Danny watched silently. Fear crept into Danny’s soul, wondering if he’d misjudged his father as he pulled out a folder from the drawer.

The folder with the secrets of how to end him and any other ghost, how to shatter and destroy a core, specifically cores of ice - information he hadn’t learned until long after the Lunch Lady incident.

He flipped the folder open, shuffling through the pages, panic evident in his eyes as he looked through all the different ways Danny had figured out his parents could kill him, and the instructions he’d left on how to do so.

Information he’d left access to even after telling them the truth with the hope they’d be able to get rid of him if he snapped.

Quicker than Danny realized his father could move, he was kneeling beside him, shoving the folder into Danny’s lap. “Burn these. Now.”

“What?” Danny asked, surprised.

“You are my son, Danny. You are good, always have been and always will be. I will not let you think any differently and I will not tolerate you making notes on how to commit suicide.”

“Dad! It’s not suicide!”

“Are these notes not about different ways to make you dead?”

“It’s… it’s different…” Danny protested but Jack was already shaking his head and Danny knew he’d already lost this argument.

“Daniel Jackson Fenton, you are going to listen to me and you are going to do what I say. You are going to morph into Danny Phantom - my son - and you are going to burn these to ash, now. Do you understand me?”

Danny looked at the folder in his lap and triggered his transformation. Despite the fact he hadn’t shown his parents the morph many times, his father didn’t flinch at all at the bright flash. He stood, still not tearing his eyes away from the folder. “Are you sure?” He asked. “We can’t guarantee I won’t -“

“I know about Dan,” Jack cut him off. “Jazz told us. She said she’d never tell us any of your other secrets, those were up to you, but she knew how much Dan scared you and wanted us to know.”

“What?” Danny squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Then you know why this may be needed!”

“Danny, I promise, you will never become that. Jazz said Dan was a fusion of you and an evil ghost. Just because he kept your name and face, doesn’t make him you! You are good, okay? Besides,” he said, gently placing his hands onto Danny’s shoulders and lowering himself to be eye level, his blue eyes boring into Danny’s electric green ones. “Don’t ask me to kill you, Danny. Please… don’t ask me to kill you,” he pleaded, his voice breaking as he began to cry too.

Danny’s heart broke at his father's sobs and he knew he couldn’t deny him. “Okay,” Danny said, stepping away and setting the papers on fire with ecto energy. He watched as months and years of work disintegrated into ash. Worry and doubt were parasites gnawing his stomach - what if Dan’s evil wasn’t all Vlad? What if Danny himself had that evil within him? - but as his father pulled him into a tight, bone crushing hug, he did his best to let those fears wisp away, too.

He’d start work on another, different kind of list another time - one specialized to restraining him, reducing his powers - because he didn’t think he would ever be fully able to trust himself and he needed the people he loved to be able to fight him back.

For now, though, he was content to just hug his dad as the both of them cried.

#danny phantom #grace writes #danny fenton #jack fenton

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magnoliabutters · 1 year

Text

• TAKE ME •

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x reader (they/them, 18+)

summary: there he goes again, pissing you the fuck off…

warnings: 18+ content, mdni, adult language; cod mw 2 campaign spoilers; reader referred to by rank (lieutenant, "lt") and call sign (aero); weapons, gore, violence; angst to fluff to smut/porn; enemies to lover trope, toxic love dynamic (only to be fantasized in fanfics, not encouraged irl - you deserve better hunty), possibly problematic coping skills, rough sexy time, etc.

word count: ~5.7k

support your author: reblogs for the sexy masked menace, ghostie boy ✨

• ghost stories series • previous part •

note: part two. sorry for the delay! let's live this bad boy fantasy together...

specific warnings: mature/serious topics mentioned - please read over; *trigger warning* small insinuation of sexual assault and questionable interrogation methods (to avoid, begin reading at second red line; skipping will not impact story)

Do you know how unbearably painful it is to just stop - right when it was getting good? As you walk down the hallway, Soap at arm's length away, you attempt to slow your breathing. Anything to get your blood pumping around your body again. Anything to keep your mind off the pulsating feeling in your groin.

Ghost walks ahead, fists clenched. You wonder how he must be feeling. Practically on on the verge of cumming and being made to stop. It's one thing to be edged, but its another to be forced to conceal a raging boner and not knowing the first chance you'll have to address it.

Soap continues down the hallway with heavy steps. His face solely showing determination. Further confirming your hope that he did not see, nor suspect anything. Ghost opens the door to the others' debriefing room and quickly drops it behind him. The heavy door almost slams against Soap's shoulder. "What the hell, Ghost?" he asks with his thick Scottish accent. "Aye, don't take it personal, Soap. Must just have an itchy trigger finger," you suggest as you lug the door open. The room looks exactly like the one you and Ghost explored earlier.

Ghost pounds his fist against the steel door. He waits to hear movement as the door lock pops open. "Perfect, you're going to want to hear this, hombre," Alejandro says as he widens the door. "Qué es?" Ghost asks as he walks in. You can't help the "humph" that leaves your body. He knows some Spanish? It leaves a smile on your face, whether you'd like it to or not.

Alejandro keeps the door open for both you and Soap. "Hermano," Alejandro says with a nod directed towards Soap. "Teniente," he adds as his eyes fall upon you. "Do you want to tell them what you told me or should I get that car battery I promised you?" Gaz says as he points towards the side of the room. Nadia Sidorov blubbers in the chair. Her black mascara smudged down to her chin. She must have been crying since she woke up from her unexpected slumber. You wouldn't blame her. It's not easy waking up in a US black site.

"AQ wants a stealth bomber, okay? They wanted something quick and quiet, to get the job done," Sidorov mumbles between tears. "What job?" Ghost's voice booms from the corner. God, did this man love dark corners. "They-they wanted to take out some gang. I don't know! I don't really ask questions in my line of work. I don't need to know what they're being used for," she yells, exhausted. "You mean, you don't care to know about who your weapons are being used on," you correct her. Her careless and dangerous attitude bubbling up an anger within you. It's a nice distraction.

Sidorov rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Do they have the bomber?" Soap asks as he walks under the light from the overhead lamp. Her eyes squint as she looks his way. They widen as a smile forms across her face. She begins a slow laugh as she leans her head back onto her shoulders. "Oh, Soapy-boy. What do they have you doin' now?" she says with a soothing, yet unsettling tone. Her entire demeanor has now shifted. The blubbering mess is suddenly exuding confidence and happiness.

Ghost's eyes quickly rush towards Soap. Soap returns with a confused, but suspicious look. Several brutal questions rush through your head. How the hell did Soap know the target? And why didn't he mention that before? "Why don't you go discuss in that other room there," Sidorov suggests as she nods towards the locked door. "I'm sure you have plenty to talk about." You quickly walk over to the woman and crouch before her. "Why don't you tell me what there is to talk about, Nadia?" you ask with a tilt to your head.

"Soap tells the story best," Sidorov seethes through her teeth. "Car battery, huh?" you ask as you quickly stand. You turn towards Gaz. "Who taught you that trick?" you scoff. Ghost watches your every move intensely. Almost as though he is trying to memorize your patterns. Maybe just in case you get into another physical altercation.

"Now, Nadia. You're a very smart woman. That's obvious. You're one of the most prominent arm's dealers in all of Europe," you continue as you make your way behind her chair. “I know you’ve done this before and you know what comes next.” The boys still stand barely outside of the shadows in the small sound proofed room. "Show me how smart you are and start talking," you say as you land a tight grip onto her shoulders.

Sidorov shivers at your touch and remains silent. "Alright," you shrug. You quickly pull the woman down by her shoulders. She falls onto her arms as they are tied behind the chair. She releases a heavy breath as the wind is knocked out of her. She now rests onto her back.

"We got your AQ contact in the other room. He gave us names. Las Almas Cartel and Los Vanqueros," you share as you crouch down beside her. Alejandro and Rudy quickly shift their eyes from you to Ghost. Rudy's upper lip is stiff as he continues watching over Sidorov in disgust. Alejandro's nostrils flare as he pops his knuckles.

"See, we already have all the information we need," you whisper. "I really don't care about how you know Soap here." You stand as you stretch at your arms in front of you and walk towards the front door. Her eyes watching you intently with a stern lip. "Boys, do your worst," you mumble. Sidorov quickly shouts in panic, "Wait! Wait!" You turn around slowly. "AQ showed me Soap's picture. They've been passing it around to anyone with a gun. He's got a hit on him," she stutters out. "Clear out," you instruct.

The boys look at you with either dumbfounded or confused looks. They are both in shock regarding what was implied of them, but also the results of your threat. You received vital information about Soap. Going forward, he will be unable to go into the field for a mission. If he was in the restaurant instead of Gaz, you both could have easily been made and ambushed. Now, he will remain protected and protect his squad by staying in overwatch.

"Clear out," you repeat again at a higher volume. The boys quickly walk outside. Ghost waits at the door. He watches you as you grab hold of the back of Sidorov's chair. You lean her up. Reaching back into your pocket, you reveal another knife tucked in your left sock. You quickly cut the restraints that hold Sidorov's wrists. Without looking back, you walk out. Ghost locks the door from the outside, rendering the inside lock useless.

You walk into the debriefing room with your head down. "How'd you know she'd talk?" Rudy asks. You look up and see the two sergeants, colonel, and sergeant major staring at you. Ghost leaning back against the wall. "Nothing scarier then a room full of men," you say with a deep sigh. "Ghost, you move forward with the plan of action. Brief me in the morning." You leave the room behind in a haste, hell bent in making it back to your cot.

Today was rough. It's time to go to sleep and start over.

Despite making it back to your quarters, you couldn't get yourself to sleep. Insomnia always keeps you up. Some nights your body doesn't accept the sleeping meds. You are just forced to stare at a ceiling as your mind begs for sleep and your body continues to deny the request. Counting those damn sheep as they continue to laugh at your attempts at rest.

With a sigh, you quickly sit up from your cot. Your oversized t-shirt falling to your upper thighs. You walk over to your backpack - the same designated backpack that you will be living out of for the remainder of the mission. "How many knives do you have?" you hear. Ghost. He closes the door behind him as he walks in to your private room without hesitation. Not turning around, you reach into your pack for your untraceable modded phone. "If you get to ask a personal question, I should be able to too," you say to the wall as you note the time. Fuck, 3:00am? you think to yourself as you tuck your device back into the pocket.

"I didn't know that was a personal question," Ghost asks with a low-toned voice. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. You turn around to see him in a black long-sleeved shirt. The tight sleeves emphasizing his bulging biceps. He has grey sweatpants that hang loosely at his hips. You note a small sliver of skin between articles of clothing. A thin black inked line flowing up from his hip.

A lighter skulled balaclava mask pulled over his face. Just like you, his eyes rake all over your body. They pay special attention to your bare legs. You enjoy having him watch over you with adoration and temptation. You swear you can hear deep breathing against his clothed mouth. "Do you sleep with that on?" you ask as you point towards his face. You walk over to your bed and lay onto your back in exhaustion, crossing your ankles. "Is that your question?" he mutters from across the room.

You scoff as you rub your eyes. "I don't know, Ghost. I don't know if I care enough to ask a question," you mumble as you rest your head back onto your pillow. Your mind already working as a thinly stretched elastic band ready to pop. "Fine," he says with a hint of frustration as he reaches for the door knob. "Wait," you say involuntarily. This poses as another moment to trust your body over your mind. Unfortunately, you are too tired to hold back any of your body's impulses.

"Can you just lay with me?" you ask. Part of you is deeply uncomfortable with the request. You do not enjoy being vulnerable and holy fuck, were you putting yourself in quite the tricky spot. The fact of the matter is you fall asleep best in someone’s arms. Through trial and error, that has been the best trick to aid your insomnia - if you exclude a good old fashioned orgasm. In an effort to protect yourself, you curl against the wall - putting your back towards Ghost. Maybe it would hurt less if you didn't see him walk out in response to your question? God, being pushed to the edge of exhaustion really does wonders for your decision making.

After a few seconds a silence, you hear Ghost mutter, "I don't do that." You immediately shake your head. Self-deprecating thoughts rush through your brain as you curl tighter and closer towards the wall. You feel his eyes still on you. You mutter disappointed, “Okay, you can leave now.” You are still curled together in a ball, desperate for sleep to take you away from this day. Nevertheless that you are expected to wake in a few short hours to move on your next targets.

Suddenly, you feel a light hand placed upon your upper arm. You quickly turn over, ripping your dagger from under your pillow and hold it to Ghost’s neck. His body tensed as he watches you from the side of his eye. His head tilts up, exposing freshly shaved hair underneath his jaw bone. His hand raises off your skin. “Bloody hell,” he says quietly. “How many fuckin’ knives do you have?”

You roll your eyes and tuck your knife back into its designated spot. “How many fucking masks do you have?” you whisper under you breath. Ghost slowly sits down on the cot, making the cheap mattress squeak. You turn around, feeling his weight shift the bedding. "I thought you don't do this?" you murmur. His big brown eyes turn towards you. Despite their warmth, they still appear dead, a void of human emotion.

"You look like shit. You haven't slept have you?" Ghost asks as he peers down at you. You turn onto your side as you rest your hand upon your pillow. His hand lightly placed in between your stomach and his hips as he twists his torso towards you. “Not all of us can hide behind a mask,” you mumble with your eyes tied to his.

With a huff, Ghost leans back onto the mattress and rests beside you. His face towards the ceiling. His body inches away from you. You try to hold back your expression, completely shocked. When you asked, you were confident that he would never agree. That you messed up by playing your hand too early. But here you are now, reaping the benefits. You slowly raise your hand from your pillow and lower it onto his chest. As your hand meets his warm torso, you feel a growl grumble from his sternum. A warning. You can’t help but smile.

Your hand slowly travels down towards the waistband of his sweatpants. You wanted to feel Ghost again. You wanted that thick girthy cock flooded in your mouth - maybe in other places. Him lying down with you was supposed to put you to sleep, but fuck did it just turn you on more. This small inkling of vulnerability that he’s given you, just by resting beside you. Adrenaline pushes through you, putting you further from rest.

Ghost quickly grabs hold of your wrist, so tight it hurts. You look up to him with your upper lip pulled. "We're here to sleep, Aero," he says sternly. His eyes widened with anger. You smile as this is the first time he says your name. You hate the context, but it felt beautiful heard aloud with his accent. You try to contain your grin as you pull your arm back rather harshly. "You're telling me you came into my room wanting to sleep at 3:00am?" you scoff. A small laugh bursts through his mask. It must have been unexpected for him, seeing as he immediately cleared his throat.

"No, but it's definitely what you need," Ghost says with a low tone. His eyes not daring to move away from the ceiling. "Well, if that's what I need, I sleep best when I cuddle," you murmur as you inch closer towards him. Your hand slowly makes contact with his shoulder. You feel the muscles tighten under your finger tips. Ultimately, you know he would stop you if you did anything that made him uncomfortable. Your fingers continue to travel down to his right peck as you pull yourself closer towards him.

You cannot help but smirk as you are curious how far he will let you go. The man who said "he doesn't do this," but now, you rest your head upon his firm peck. Your arm wrapped towards his hip as you pull him closer into your chest. Your leg over his and tucked between his two. And to perfectly end the night, Ghost tilts his chin down towards you and rests it upon your forehead. As your mind drifts to sleep, you feel his hand gently placed at the base of your spine. You fall asleep, against his warmth, without further trouble.

Your eyes begin to flutter as you are pulled from a restful slumber. You immediately notice the emptied space beside you. However, it does not surprise you. What surprises you is that you aren't hearing your annoying cranked alarm. You quickly shoot out of bed and rush over to your pack. Pulling out your phone, you note the time - 10:06am. Fuck!

Confusion rushes over you as you quickly look for your alarms. You know you put a specific alarm on for 5:00a, for today's mission. You are absolutely confident. Yet, there it rests on your screen toggled off. Quickly, you look around the room - angry as you reach for your clothes. That's when you notice the note resting on your bedside table. A harsh breath pushes from your nostrils as you reach for the paper.

Aero, Thought you needed more rest. Ghost.

Upon reading, you abruptly crumple the paper within your hands. Ghost made sure to go on the mission without you. Your fucking mission! What even made you angrier was that he didn't own up to it in his stupid note. He wants to still pretend the he actually cares about your sleep. You rush to quickly put on your clothes and run out into the hall. You find that your entire squad has gone out on a mission and will be back later in the day.

Fire flushes through your body. All you can see is red. You bite your lip so hard it bleeds. Ghost hijacked your mission and let you behind. He jeopardized your authority as team lead, as lieutenant of the 141. You are fuming. Returning into your room, you slam the door behind you. You grab hold of your phone and rapidly call your mercenary contact. You need to hurt something or someone - bad.

"Johnson, I need a contract," you grumble into the phone. "I'm in France." The man laughs on the other end of the line. "Lucky you, I need some supplies destroyed in Marseille," he shares. "I'll be there in less than two hours," you sternly reply. "I'll text you the details," Johnson says before hanging up the phone. You reach for your pack and grab hold of you rolled up grey mat. Unraveling it upon the mattress you slept on with Ghost, you admire the twinkling dark knives in front of you.

The next time you find yourself at the home base, you are splattered with blood and filled with bumps and bruises. You wanted to take your anger out with that contract, and, holy fuck, did you do just that. You walk past the briefing room as the squad of men sit and stand round a table. Ghost at its head. You continue to walk by, not giving a single glance in their direct. Yet, you feel all their eyes stuck on you.

You hear chairs screech against the floor and a fumbling of two pairs of footsteps. “You okay, LT?” you hear that deep Scottish accent ringing through the hallways. His tone hesitant and concerned. You hear Gaz’s melodic British as he asks, “Should we call medical?” You push down the feeling of disappointment, knowing that Ghost wasn’t the one to rush after you. “I’m good, boys. Thank you,” you say as you raise your hand and continue walking forward.

“We missed you,” Gaz says as he reaches for your elbow. You turn back to see Soap making a “oh shit I shouldn’t be here” face before jogging back to his other Lieutenant. “Yeah, wish I could’ve been there,” you mumble. “He told us you were off doing something for Price,” he shares inquisitively. “I feel like you would’ve told me.” You laugh as you naturally pull done Gaz’s soft hand. “Trust that gut of yours,” you say as you walk towards the showers. Gaz backs off and walks back.

You slowly undress, careful to peel away the dried blood drenched clothes from your skin. You look up in the bathroom’s mirror to see a fresh cut across your eyebrow. A bruise forming across your cheek bone. Your bottom lip busted. All you could do was smile at the sight of yourself. You wanted to cause pain, bring down hell and havoc. You did. You were undeniably successful in your mission.

Pulling down your pants, you see a bruise on your hip. That one is not from your mission, but from last night’s foolish impulse. When Ghost pushed you down onto that desk. When he had your legs spread. When he had you begging for his cock to be inside you. Back when he barely spoke, and didn’t have access to your phone to fuck up your mission. Fuck. You are angry again.

Your shirt comes off in one swift movement. Your shoulders scream at you as you raise your hands above your head. As the pain pounds through your head, you land your hands against the sink’s counter. Another look at yourself. You understood why some wear masks.

Walking away from the stalls, you choose a designated nozzle for your shower - tucked away in the back corner. Of course, home base doesn’t have individualized rooms. You find yourself stuck in a steamy space meant for communal showers. Luckily the water is hot. The warmth truly soothes your sore muscles. You find your first bit of comfort after this morning’s atrocities.

As you rub your soap bar across your skin, you begin to hear movement in that initial stall area. Your eyes open, pulled from their comforting relaxation. The last thing you want is one of your men to see you, and for you to see one of your men. You quicken your lathering so that you may end your shower early if needed.

“Why're you in such a hurry?” Ghost asks. You shudder at his voice. Another shudder once you see his darkened torso behind you. A bright light shining behind him makes his facial features indistinguishable. “Fuck off,” you say as you turn around. He quickly slaps a hand against your ass and takes his other to grab hard against your muscle. You head butt your skull back into his nose. He stumbles back as you turn to face him. The hot water still falling upon your chest.

You watch as his fingers lift his skin-tight mask and reach for his nose. He quickly flings off the blood to the tiled floor. “You’re still upset about this morning?” he asks with a bit of amusement. Your teeth grind together. “How fucking dare you?” you seethe. “You were supposed to brief me in the morning. I’m the fucking Lieutenant!” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Not the only Lieutenant,” he replies softly.

“Riley, get the fuck out of my face,” you shout as you point towards the exit. “What? No more call signs?” he asks with a laugh. “Okay, Lieutenant y/l/n.” In this moment, it doesn’t matter how naked you are. You are pissed. You swear you must have steam rising from your skin.

“You’ve got those eyes again,” Ghost says as he points his gloved finger towards you. “And what fucking eyes are those?” you ask as you drastically turn off the shower head. The warm water quickly pulling away from your body. The cold air hitting you like a truck. “Those ‘I’m going to kill you’ eyes,” he mutters. “I haven’t decided on that just yet. Figured I’d wait ‘till the mission was over as a courtesy to Price,” you say as you move through the man to grab your towel.

Wrapping it around your waist, you continue to walk towards the bathroom exit. You hear Ghost’s wet boot steps behind you. You turn before he makes the horrible mistake of placing his hand atop your shoulder. “I don’t do well with competition,” he quickly mutters as your eyes meet his. His white spray painted skull balaclava staring back at you. “Well, I do especially well with competition but I don’t know how to do things nicely.”

Ghost walks up to you slowly. “You’re competition. Difficult, precise, exceptional,” he says softly. “The kind of competition you sabotage with minimal guilt.” You laugh as you cross your arms around your chest. “Minimal guilt, huh?” you ask. “It might have been a moderate amount,” he says as he inches closer.

“If you jeopardize my position or the mission again, I will have your head,” you say as you welcome his hand on yours. “And my knife will have something else of yours,” you murmur as your fingers tuck under his waistband. He nods as his eyes look down onto you. Those eyes serious and unforgiving.

"Understood," Ghost says without hesitation. "On your knees, soldier," you demand as you tilt your chin high. You peer down at him. His darkened brown eyes stare back at you as he slowly kneels onto the cool tiled floor.

You softly lay your hand upon his cheek, rubbing the fabric of his mask against your thumb. Slowly, your fingers reach the edge of his mask. Your fingers hooked within are met with a stiff grasp around your wrist. “No,” Ghost sternly says. You shoot him a look of dismay. “What you’re about to do cannot be done with your mask on,” you say as you feel his grip loosen.

Finally, his hand drops. You take it as a sign to continue. Lifting his mask, you reveal brown and red stubble to his chin. His lips flushed with pink. The bottom lip slightly larger than the top. You felt your body drawn into him, wanting to feel those perfect lips on yours.

As you pondered how soft his lips must be, you watch as a smile forms at the edges of his mouth. “What I’m about to do cannot be done with your towel on,” Ghost mutters as he softly places a hand at your waist. He untucks the edge of your towel, allowing it to fall at your feet and his knees. His eyes fall upon your naked body. You watch as he licks his lips.

Ghost’s hands immediately press against the tops of your thighs, pushing you back onto the sink counter. A sharp breath escapes your lips as you feel the surface’s chill. He gradually leans in and presses his mouth against your skin. His lips softer than you predicted. You feel your lower back arch as you lean your head back. His lips felt like butterflies, leaving flutters and ripples with every touch. You could feel your skin on fire anytime he pulled away for another kiss.

Your hand involuntarily explores the top of his head. The grooved cloth beneath your fingertips adds to the satisfaction. Ghost's thumbs begin to circle your hip bones. A moan is let out as his tongue trails from your knee to inner thigh. You cannot deny all your blood rushing between your legs. You feel that familiar throbbing as you crave for his touch.

Suddenly, Ghost pulls his mouth from your sensitive skin. You look down in dismay, only to be gifted with those brown eyes staring back at you. You watch as a smile forms on those perfect lips. He slightly opens his mouth as his lashes close upon his eyes. Following his lead, your eyes close as well.

You feel his warm, wet mouth against your skin. Electricity shoots straight through your body, just as intense as any taser. You gasp as you hang your head back off of your shoulders. Your hand travels from his head onto his cheek. Underneath your palm, you can feel his mouth opening and closing as he places sweet kisses upon your nasty bits. His hot breath flushes against your skin, leaving you comforted.

Ghost's tongue presses hard against the most sensitive of your skin. In between moans, you whisper, "Yes, just like that." You hear a chuckle as his hands grip tighter onto your thighs. "Oh, you like that, love? What about this?" Ghost murmurs amusingly. His tongue curls and twists against you. You catch yourself gripping against the tuff of hair of you found on the side of his neck. A moan rips through your body as your hips thrust against his mouth.

"Mmmm, that's good," Ghost whispers. Even his words have direct lines to your pleasure sensors. "I want more," he growls. His tongue pushes firmly against you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. The pleasure is enough to pull you right out of the environment. Do you even know who you are? Who is he? What are you doing here? All these facts that mean nothing - details that mean nothing when his tongue flutters against you like that.

Abruptly, the details return. With a strong force, you push Ghost backwards. He stumbles upon his knees, but quickly readies himself for your next move. You grab hold of his neck and pull him up and onto you. One of his hands now against the back of your neck. The other tightly pressed against your chest. "I want you, Ghost," you murmur against his lips. His waist now between your legs. Your ankles tighten into a lock against his back. His eyes pull from your mouth and finally fall on yours. "Take me," he states.

Without pause, you quickly reach for his belt buckle. You feel the smoothed bumps of his abs as you pull up a bit of his shirt. Ghost's mouth places gentle kisses against your collarbone. They travel down to your chest and sternum. Your hands shake, something that frankly never happens, as you pull against his belt. A smile forms across his face once again as you grip onto his pants' buttons. You cannot help but match his smile.

As you reach for the zipper, you could feel the growing bulge against your hand. You feel the thumping of your blood as it travels to your lower extremities. "Look how hard you are for me, Lieutenant," you taunt as you pull down his heavy pants. "Only for you, Aero," Ghost's voice flutters against your chest. "Good," you state as your finger pulls his chin up to your mouth.

With a bite, your lips meet in an incredulous manner. You have never felt so aggressive in this setting. You push roughly against him, forcing him to stumble once again - this time with his pants gathered at his ankles. One hand holds tightly against his shirt as you push him against the bathroom wall. Your other hand is on the base of his thick cock. You swear you can feel it pulsate in your hand. The bit of precum helps as a lubricant against your palm. You know this part of him well now. Your hand pumps against his hardened tip. You feel his breath heavy against your cheek as you press your body against him.

"Oh, you like that, L.T.?" you taunt. You place a hardened kiss against Ghost's mouth, pulling away with a bit of his bottom lip tied between your teeth. You could see a little red of blood as you catch another glimpse of him. Those brown eyes with black saucer-like pupils. The mask hanging on for dear life at his cupid's bow. His pale mouth now reddened after a multitude of embraces.

"What about this?" he adds before you can finish admiring him. His hand places against your groin. You feel your breath taken away as his fingers and palm move beautifully in between your thighs. "Fuck," you gasp as you crash your forehead against the nape of his neck. As you struggle to maintain your rhythm, you quickly peer down to spit onto your hand. With a bit of lubrication, you can feel him harden beneath you. You cannot help but smile and press yourself firmer against his chest. He feels so. fucking. good.

Ghost's fingers begin to play tricks with you. They quickly change from fast and slow movements. You can feel bit of frustration burn a hole within your body. You know he's doing it on purpose. You squeeze tighter against his cock. He hisses against your cheek with gritted teeth. You smile as you crash your mouth against his once more.

Both of your hands move at a quickened pace. Thank goodness for that soldier stamina. You hear his breathing shift rapidly. "Fuck, Aero," he whispers. He flicks the "ro" of your callsign a bit longer as he rides through his high. He's close, you think to yourself. You maintain your movement as you feel his body move underneath you. Such a strong and firm body. "Cum for me," you mumble against his lips.

Almost as a reaction to your words, Ghost's movements become harder and rougher. How does he know exactly what you need? The abrupt change leaves you gasping - throwing you off your game. You feel a tightness at the pit of your stomach. A tingling sensation boiling over your temples and forehead. "Shit," you whimper as you struggle to hold your grip.

"Cum for me, baby," Ghost demands. You can hear the struggle in his voice as he is determined to last longer than you. As much as you would want to beat him at his own game, you cannot ignore the fluttering feeling in your chest. Your legs begin to tighten as your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your mouth hangs open. He quickly places his lips against you, not wanting any breath to go to waste. "Ghost," you whimper as you feel your knees pull together. Your thighs clench against his wrist and arm. Your entire body feels the overwhelming pleasure that is Ghost.

With a mere mention of his name, Ghost cums alongside you. You feel his hot breath push against your mouth. His hands tense around you. His moans like music to your ears. You feel his hips rut against your palm. His warm cum splashes in your hands and upon both of your stomachs. With a chuckle, you look down to admire the mess you both have made upon each other. Cum everywhere, just how you like it.

Ghost smiles as his hand returns to the back of your neck. His grip hard and pulling at your hair. You watch him with excited eyes and a smile. "Join me for a shower?" he says as he abruptly drops his grasp. He quickly turns and begins to walk towards the showers, where this all began. He takes off his shirt, revealing several pale scars ripped against his back. Scars that peak your curiosity. Scars that match yours.

That's when he takes off the balaclava, turns on the shower head, and stands beneath the falling water.

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yesimwriting · 1 year

Text

What Follows

a/n can (likely) see myself making a part 2 of this, it’s like 4:30 AM and i cannot make that decision rn,, so if you think that’s a good idea or are interest,, lmk, public opinion could make or break my decision once i’m better rested

Summary: If you had to think about the coincidences that brought you to this, you’d realize that it was inevitable. Domino pieces falling into place. Or, to put it simply, it’s the end of the world and yet your biggest concern is your teeny tiny...terrible, life ruining crush.

*cough* sharing bed trope, and some other stuff

also i’ve never played the game i’ve only watched the show but i have some context of the game (i’ve watched some videos),, but timeline wise,, location wise, it’s pretty general as i’m just going with what fits for my intended story line like i do with most fics :)) it’s mainly set in a sort of safe house

warnings: potential timeline errors, mentions of age gap that’s pretty vague, allusions to anxiety and canon angsty-ness

----

Memories of before are tricky. Most of them hybrids, odd mix-matches of true experiences and snippets of other things. Stories from an uneasy rotation of people, bits and pieces from books and magazines and other odds and ends. A collage that makes up an easily swayed perception of the world before.

But you know this one is real. You know it is because it’s so mundane there’s no way someone gave it to you. It’s a quick glimpse, a brief flicker of you in a pair of roller skates with those thick, plastic stoppers attached to the front. The memory isn’t of what they felt like, or how many laps you did up and down your block. All you remember is the stinging. The soft skin of your knee scraped raw by the sidewalk. The particularness of that kind of pain.

That’s what the realization feels like. Knowing that there’s a chance that you might feel something for Joel outside of general gratitude for the unofficial way Ellie and him took you in is speeding down a street just to collapse with no warning against unforgiving concrete.

His fingers brush around broken skin with a delicateness that turns you rigid. These are the same hands that beat a man within an inch of his life the first time he met you. It’s a juxtaposition that twists your nerves tight around your stomach.

It’s quiet now. More so than usual because Ellie’s asleep. If you had to come to your realization at all, you should have done it during the day. With Joel at a safe distance and Ellie awake to distract from the fact that you’ve been staring at his hand in total silence for minutes now. A violently out of character mistake, which is why you’re not surprised when his voice breaks the nothingness with a question: “You alright?”

You sit up a little straighter. “Yeah.” It comes out flat and distant. “Yeah,” you affirm, a little more here, “Just thinking.”

Ugh. Not nearly deflective or subtle enough. It’s the kind of cop out answer that worked in the beginning, before there was any form of attachment. Back then, you thought you’d only be around them for a few days. Until the swelling in your ankle went down enough to let you walk efficiently again. It was the least they could do then, after you jumped in to save Ellie when Joel and her were briefly separated.

Joel’s mouth pulls into a shadow of a frown in the low light. A pang of guilt strikes you in the chest with no warning. Slipping back to that for no real reason goes a step beyond unfair; it’s mean. “I remembered something from before.” Joel says nothing, but his eyes refocus on you in a way that feels attentive. “Nothing big or interesting, just remembered these roller skates from when I was a kid. The one time I went out without knee pads I fell and scraped my knee.”

His hand shifts away from your current injury--a long, yet shallow cut up your foreleg. Joel’s fingertips ghost up the skin, there and not at the same time. He settles his palm near your knee. “Is that how this happened?” There’s a hint of something in his voice, a touch of gentleness that makes you feel like he might be teasing you, at least a little.

That kind of humor is new. Well, not new new anymore, but new enough to still sometimes slip past your perception or take you completely by surprise. Joel’s transition from constantly distant and standoffish to who he is now was equal parts slow as it was all at once. Weeks of tiptoeing, of hesitant flashes of a softer side until it became more and more there. It’s still not the side of him that’s most common, but considering the place where the two of you started from, the difference feels like miles from the sad starting point.

You blink, tilting your head downwards to focus on the skin next to his thumb. A scar that’s little more than a blemish. The kind of mark that’s a result of picking at a scab again and again. “That’s nothing.” It’s such a small thing and Joel pointed it out so quickly. Like he knows your skin better than you do. Dwelling on that thought isn’t an option, so you recover with a question, “How’d you even see that?”

Joel raises his eyebrows as if your surprise is something worth being amused by. “When you get used to seeing, it’s easy.”

Of course it’s that. Considering how Joel is, how he always scouts out areas before letting us settle, it makes sense that he’d notice that. It’d be weirder if he didn’t. You press your foot into the ground, letting the feel of the dirt compacting itself beneath your shoe hold you in place. You’re almost embarrassed that you’ve never noticed the mark on your knee enough to fully register it. “I’ll let you check the rest of me for scars later then.”

What. Did. You. Just. Say. What.

Your entire body becomes as stiff as the trunk you’re leaning against. There are a lot of things you don’t know about attraction and dating, but you’re not so dense you can’t tell that that’s the worst line you’ve ever heard.

Staring at the ground forever feels like the only safe option left, but it’s extremely unviable. After a few seconds, not knowing starts to feel as bad as knowing so you force yourself to look up enough to see him. He’s staring at you, mouth morphing into a subtle smile. He lets out a breathy scoff that’s supposed to cover a laugh, but you know better by now than to fall for that.

“I didn’t say that.” With a sigh, you let your eyes shut. “I mean--I said it as in the words did come out of my mouth--but not like--y’know.”

Joel laughs again, this time more openly. It’s deep and full and makes the burning of your humiliation worth all of it. “I know?”

Squinting your eyes open, you take in his smugness. It’s different and oddly warm. And unfortunately, not unattractive. “You’re not funny.” Indignation makes you want to pull your leg back, and you should. You know you should. If there was any concern about the cut on your leg, Joel wouldn’t be joking. But he relaxes his hand, fingers splaying against your skin. “So what’s the verdict: Keeping the leg or cutting my losses?”

Joel lets out another breath-laugh. This time it’s shorter. “And I’m the unfunny one?” Yeah, that’s the kind of response that guarantees your safety. The kind of comment he’d only ever make if everything is truly fine. “You’re okay.”

“Just like I told you--”

He ignores the comment with an expert’s ease. “Tomorrow I’ll go out, get some penicillin.”

“Shit.” You frown, turning your leg out slightly to get a better look. This is easily one of the most embarrassing injuries of your life. Not inflicted by the monsters that infest your world or a corrupt person. The only thing you’re a victim of is not paying enough attention while panicking and not noticing a jagged rock. It’s nothing life changing, nothing worthy of this much attention or discussion. “It’s infected?”

Joel’s hand relaxes against your lower knee. It’s more of an implication of pressure than an actual change, but your body reacts to it all the same. You ease. “It was a muddy rock.” He pauses, like he’s running through his words. “Better safe.”

Oh. Preventative antibiotics. A kind thought, but it feels unrealistic. “If nothing’s wrong, I don’t think we should risk it.” You blink, eyes struggling to focus on anything other than the hand still on your knee. If Joel feels awkward about it, he gives no indication. Which means it must be normal. Joel’s too him to do anything not normal when it comes to touch. “You’re hurt. More hurt than me, who’s just an idiot.”

“’M fine.” Tell that to the flash of purple you saw when Joel’s shirt briefly rode up this morning. It had only been that way for a second, but that was all it took for you to realize that Joel’s bruising is larger than the size of your hand. You wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he has a cracked rib.

You must let your disbelief show because the corner of his mouth turn upwards. Not quite a smile, but it’s close enough. “Tell that to your probably cracked rib.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, and when you don’t ease, he tacts on something fatal, “Don’t pout.”

The joke is nothing original. Back in the ‘early’ days of your friendship, when things were rockier and less known, Joel had pointed out your expressiveness. He claimed it made it too easy to figure out more or less what you were thinking. It hadn’t been an insult, but it bothered you more than it should have. Which is a fact that Joel used to prove his hypothesis correct, because he then immediately told you that there was no point in pouting about it.

Joel only says it in good humor. You know that, but that doesn’t mean you like it. It all goes back to the same thing. An implication that you’re transparent. You hate it.

Transparency is for the naive, for those who haven’t experienced enough to be hardened. It makes you feel like a child, and maybe that’s intentional. Maybe it’s Joel’s equivalent to patting you on the head and telling you to cheer up, kiddo.

You’ve never understood the way the implication manages to snag itself beneath your skin, but now that you’re examining it under the lens of your new realization, it’s too much. There’s a good chance he sees you like another kid to look after.

“I’m not pouting.” A bad kind of heat rises up your chest. Instinctually, you angle your leg a little closer to yourself. It’s not a full retreat, but Joel’s fingers shift to secure their hold on you.

It’s enough to shock you into stilling. If Joel’s prolonged contact was unexpected, him instinctually fighting to keep it is absolutely unbelievable. He’s not squeezing or forcing you to stay in place, but the gesture is enough to feel like he’s asking you to. “Need to wrap it.”

Another thing you consider over treating a cut of this size. The only thing startling about it is its length. “It’s not that deep.”

“Let me wrap it.” His voice comes out with a gruff annoyance that’s become increasingly familiar. It makes everything sound like some kind of version of don’t give me shit.

You fight down a grin. “Admit your rib’s cracked.”

Joel presses his lips together, lines etching themselves into his skin. “Do you always have to argue?”

Pausing, you pretend to have to think about it. “We all need hobbies.” You give yourself permission to look at him. Really look at him. “When you argue your eyebrows draw together and this line appears between them.”

He laughs once, this time a little more openly. It’s still a little breathy and maybe even a little reluctant, but it feels good. Like sunlight saturating a room during the dead of winter. “I’m old.”

Another reminder of that. You fight against the way it twists at your insides. “I’ve met older.”

“Grandparents don’t count.”

It’s all so weird and ridiculous, so you do the only thing you can think to. You laugh. “I wasn’t thinking about my grandparents.”

It’s meant to be a joke that echoes his own, only it’s not quite that. Not with the way your voice softens and your eyes focus on his.

His fingers take their time parting from your skin. A slow drag that feels dangerously close to intentional. You’re practically holding your breath until he stands. “I’ll grab something for your leg.”

There’s another thing left to point out. Something hanging in between the two of you. The fact that you’re perfectly capable of bandaging it yourself. That there’s a good chance you’d be better at it. “Okay.”

----

When there is no sun and sleep pulls you under only to push you back out, time feels fickle. You don’t know how long it’s been since you all agreed to go to bed.

Things feel different now that you’re all temporarily established in some safe house. Joel’s connection to it is vague to you. He mentioned his brother at some point, though you think details were used intentionally sparingly. It doesn’t feel cagey to you like it used to. Now it just feels like he’s holding off until it’s time to tell you everything.

Maybe he’s waiting for it to come up naturally on some night where there’s nothing but time or maybe he’s waiting for it to feel right. You’re okay with either and any option. His past is his. You know he gives you what he can bare to and it’s only a matter of time until you hear the rest.

You sit up, resting your back against the wall that your mattress is pressed against. Despite the dark, the outline of your roommate is easy to see. You’re not sure how it happened, the division of space that led to you and Joel in the same room and Ellie sleeping on her own.

It’s only been a few nights and you’ve yet to regret going along with it. Ellie deserves the little privacy life can offer her considering the way you and Joel watch the poor girl. And, in all honestly, you’ve never been particularly fond of long hours alone in the dark. Especially since you joined Joel and Ellie on their mission. You’ve gotten more used to being around people than ever and that’s made being alone more noticeable than ever.

Sometimes when you can’t sleep your mind goes there. After. The inevitable separation. It makes your chest hurt and forces memories of what you’ve already lost to the surface. That makes it even harder to sleep, so sometimes you just settle for watching. You’d feel weirder about it if the dark of night didn’t make it little more than a step above staring off into space.

Bending your knees, you adjust your position on the mattress, letting thin blankets fall away. It’s cold; the bite of it is welcomed.

Everyone’s temporary. You’ve learned that already. It’s burned into you the way that normal memories should be.

This is stupid. All of it. Maybe Joel’s right to see you as a child. One bad dream shouldn’t have this much power of you. Quietly, you squeeze your arms around your legs. It’s the same position you were in when it happened. When you lost her.

You don’t realize that you’re breathing heavier than you should be until you hear Joel’s mattress adjust as he moves from his side to his back. Shit. He never gets enough sleep. Guilt and embarrassment swell in you, but it’s not enough to subdue the impending panic.

“You awake?” It’s mumbled through a voice that’s heavy with sleep.

A part of you wants to stay quiet, but that’d be wrong. You already woke him up, the last thing you need to do is stress him out. “Yeah,” you manage, “I’m up.” Your voice comes out so hollow you barely recognize it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I--I’m gonna--” You don’t know what the end of the sentence is supposed to be. Something that implies that you’re stepping out and that everything’s fine. “Go back to sleep.”

There’s a moment of nothing and a small part of you thinks maybe Joel’s listened for once. Your hope is shattered at the sound of rustling sheets. “C’mere.”

It’s said so faintly you can imagine that it’s a figment of your imagination. Likely a mumbled slur that he won’t even remember in the morning. A sleep idled grunt of acknowledgement that just so happened to sound like a word. You know it’s nothing. You know you heard him incorrectly, but you can’t relax. Not yet. You hold yourself there, breath caught in your lungs as a prolonged beat passes.

Joel breaks the silence by moving off of his side and on to his back. His arm stretches forward, pulling his blanket to the side. Are you crazy or is that...some kind of invitation? “I’m not going back to bed until you come here.”

There’s still sleep in his voice, but he’s already managed to snap back into seriousness. A subdued authority. Your body moves on its own accord. You sit up fully, place your feet on the ground, and stand. Walking is a little harder but the distance is short.

You stand in front of his mattress, smaller than you’ve ever been. Joel’s never fully relaxed. He’s close to it now, and you wonder if you’ll be around long enough to be able to see it. The question leaves you too cold, too antsy. Before you know what you’re doing, you’re sitting at the edge of his mattress. “’M here,” you whisper, “And I’m fine.”

A touch at your lower arm nearly makes you jump. It’s just Joel. “You’re shaky.” He sits up so quickly you can barely register it. The back of his palm presses itself against your neck before he reaches for your temple. His fingers feel like ice but you can’t bring yourself to move away. “You’re not warm--”

“No fever.” It leaves you too quietly. “I--I’m fine.” Joel’s hand leaves your forehead and settles against your back. “Just realized some shit.” His fingers drag down your spine and trace their way back to their original resting place. Again and again, a pattern that makes it easy to breathe. “I’ve been around for awhile, with you and Els. Longer than I thought I’d be. Longer than...” Longer than I’ve been with anyone since I lost her. “Just longer.”

His touch nearly falters. “Mhm.”

“And it’s been nice. Really nice.” Your nails softly scratch the inside of your wrist. “And I don’t want to get to that part where something fucked up happens.” Your breath catches itself in your throat. “I know that the fucked up part is normally my fault. Historically, at least, but--” You cut yourself off with a shaky breath, hating yourself for being this pathetic. “I just really don’t want to get there. To the fucked up part that leads to the leaving part.”

Getting things out in the open is supposed to make things feel better. It’s supposed to make things lighter. That’s what people always say. This isn’t that. There’s no epiphany, no healing. It leaves you and it stays that way. Gone.

Hollowness is worse. It’s too revealing. You should leave, mumble a vague comment about dreams and sleepy thoughts before crawling back to your own jumble of cushioning and jumbled blanket or at the very least apologize for waking him over nothing.

You do neither. For a minute there’s only the silence and the cold and the safe assurance of Joel tracing patterns against your back. “There’s not going to be a fucked up part.” Joel destroys the silence. “Not a fucked up part that leads to leaving.”

“You don’t know--” Your cut off is jarring, but it’s better than letting him hear what you were going to say. You don’t know me. Don’t know the kinds of things that happen around me. “That.”

Joel’s hand retreats and your world feels less stable. “There won’t be.” His tone is harsher than before, a tone that leaves no room for argument from the universe let alone you. He shifts, pushing most of himself to one side. “Just lay down.” The lowness of his voice is too assured to be considered understanding. It hints at impatience but undoes a knot in your stomach regardless. “Try to get some sleep.”

You nod your head slowly, the motion overly deliberate despite the fact that he likely can’t see it. There’s nothing else to be said, so you stretch back, placing your legs onto his mattress and carefully easing yourself onto your back.

Now that you’re under the same blanket as him, the thinness of it is hard to ignore. When the three of you divided the bedding supplies found in some closet, Joel had picked last. You asked if he ever felt like trading, but he insisted that he was warm enough and that if he ever wasn’t, he could always use his jacket for extra layering.

The realization that he’s likely been freezing without complaint takes a second to sink in. He likes his walls up and to play detached, but then takes the worst of the blankets without complaint. It’s so stupidly close to being a martyr that you nearly laugh. It’s so him in the worst way, the kind of way he’d never acknowledge.

You’re debating whether or not the additional warmth of your blanket would be worth potentially disturbing his sleep again. If you did that, maybe in the morning you could pretend to get the two blankets mixed up. You think you could get used to being this cold if he’d let you.

“You know what you remind me of.”

His voice is so unexpected you nearly jump out of your skin. With your mind focusing on other things, it was easier to pretend that there was nothing unusual about this.

Blood rushing to your face, you adjust so that you’re more on your side. Facing him. "I thought you wanted me to go to sleep.��

Joel sighs and you can practically feel his lungs filling and deflating. “I didn’t think tonight would be the night you started listening to me.”

At least he’s learning. “First time for everything.” The words feel different once they’re out in the air. It’s meant to be a passing comment, not what the darkness morphs it into.

It’s the second time a realization has come at a terrible time in the last few days. You know that you’ve been lying in his bed, but now you’re feeling the fact. Feeling the little space between you and the dip in the mattress’s fabric where he’s resting. It’d be easy to extend your arm. Dangerously easy.

You feel his head tilt, angling himself even closer to you. “Do you want to know or not?”

It takes a second for your mind to cement a connection. “What I remind you of?” You hum once, several jokes that’d make this easier coming to mind instantly. “I have a few guesses.” It’s too dark to make out the details of his expression, but you can feel his halfhearted glare. “Okay, tell me.”

“There was this story from before. Way before.” You’re patient as he takes his time thinking through what he wants to say. You don’t mind the wait, not when he’s close enough that his casualness is tangible enough to be contagious. “About a kid that saw this white rabbit. She chased the thing down a hole and it took her into this other world, and there were some other things, but she kept chasing that rabbit.”

You would have laugh if he had spoken any less seriously. It’s always been clear that you two aren’t exactly the same age, and some references that are about before the outbreak feel either vague or completely disconnected from you, but not everything. “I know I’m younger than you, but I know about Alice in Wonderland.”

“Excuse me.” The two words are dripping in sarcasm; you beam. “After you didn’t know that--”

“I knew you were going to say that.” You don’t get one reference one time and now he feels the need to explain everything. “It was one time.”

“Even Ellie got it.”

“I was tired.” He raises his eyebrows at that, a gesture of disbelief. You huff once, sitting up a little to shove his shoulder. “I was.” He lets out a sound that’s a little too smug. You move your hand, but before you can push at his arm, his fingers find their way around your wrist. When you try to tug your arm back, his resistance surprises you. “Asshole.”

His hand leaves goosebumps crawling up your arm as he adjusts his hold on you. “You’re the one that shoved me.” Like he’s not the one that instigated it. “And you interrupted me.”

“Fine.” You lay back down. Joel doesn’t let go of your arm and you make no move to get it back. His hands are so cold you find it hard not to worry. Hypothermia’s a thing. “Continue. Alice in Wonderland.”

“The rabbit,” he says, “You’re a lot like that.”

You play around with the thought, scraping together the details you remember about the white rabbit. It’s been awhile since you’ve watched the Disney movie version, and even longer since you’ve heard the actual story. Alice got into some trouble with the queen of hearts and her card deck guards. Every time she wasn’t supposed to be somewhere it was because of that rabbit, wasn’t that the gist of it? She just kept chasing and chasing it.

“So who am I leading astray?”

“No.” He says it so quickly, the silence that follows is unexpected. You accept it. You’ll wait. “You’re...you’re followable.” Oh. The cold makes no difference to the uncontrollable warmth that rushes to your face.

He feels tenser, his touch on your arm a little more hesitant. The meaning of that from Joel isn’t lost on you."You are, too.”

Joel’s fingers brush up your arm. “Not the way you are.”

You like the way he is, like that he’s the kind of person that can be moody and standoffish for days and still take the thinnest blanket. “I disagree.”

“That’s not new.”

“I think it’s good we don’t agree.” He waits for you to continue with little reaction, but you know he’s listening. “I can follow you, you can follow me. Makes it easier.”

He hums once, “Sounds like walking in circles.”

Rolling your eyes, you finally let your attention fall to his hand. “You’re so cold.”

Joel mistakes it for a complaint instead of the show of concern it’s meant to be. His hand moves off you so quickly you barely have a chance to reach for him. He doesn’t resist, not even when you squeeze his one hand between both of yours. You’re careful, gentle as you let your fingers move up and down his skin. When he doesn’t complain, you do something a better rested you would have never done. You let your touch wander further, first to his wrist and then down to his forearm. He’s no warmer there.

“Shit, Joel.” you start pressing your hands against his forearm, your need to make his skin feel like it’s at a stable temperature overriding your survival instincts. “You’re freezing.” You sit up, taking his arm with you. “Are you sick?”

“Sick’s hot.”

“Tell that to someone with early stage hypothermia.” You scoot back, preparing to move over to grab your blanket. “I’ll get my blanket.”

He squeezes your arm. “I’m fine.” You’re seconds away from protest, but Joel stops you. “Just stay put.”

You’re about to insist. It’ll take less than a minute and make things a lot better. The urgency in his hold makes it impossible. Makes the thought of doing anything that doesn’t involve holding on just as intensely outside of the realm of possibility. “Okay.”

If he’s surprised at how quickly you give in, he doesn’t show it, he just lets you lay down again. You’re not sure if you can prove it, but it feels like he’s closer than before. “How are you not cold?”

You almost tell him you do feel cold, he’s just that much colder, but then think he might use that as a reason to move away from you. He’d never understand that you’d rather be cold than know he’s freezing. Or maybe the problem is he’d get it too much, that he’d feel the same way.

“I run a little warm.” You brush your fingers down his arms again. It’s nice in a way you don’t get. “Except my feet.”

He tilts his head. “Your feet?”

You stretch your legs until your feet find his. “They’re cold.”

Joel lets out a disgruntled sound, moving closer to let his legs cover your feet. “Rabbit.”

The giggle that comes out would be embarrassing if that had been any less funny. Your forehead pushes forward, dropping against his shoulder. “Please don’t let that stick.”

“They burrow.” You grin against his skin, deciding that you really like this version of him. A little lighter, a little more candid. “You’re a little jittery, too.”

“Shut up.” He’s not wrong, which only makes you resent him a little more. “‘M not.”

There’s no fight in your reaction so you have no idea how Joel finds a way to take it as a challenge. He must have, though, because you can think of no other explanation for the way he stills. No other motive for the way you can feel his eyes focusing on you or the slow way he moves his hand down your arm.

You will your body to stay still, to not react. It doesn’t listen. You shiver.

Maybe you are a fucking rabbit.

The only thing worse than this reaction is the thought of Joel being right. So you force your lips to part even though you have no idea what to say. “Think we should go to sleep.” Your voice feels awkward, shallow. “...Get a few hours before Els wakes up.”

He’s almost smiling, “She takes up a lot of energy.”

“Yeah,” you agree with an even more open fondness, “Told her I’d teach her how to shoot arrows and french braid hair.” You smile at the thought. It’s good to have someone to teach, to pass something onto. “Feels like summer camp.”

You’re expecting a similar type of joke, or maybe a snarky comment about archery over actual shooting. Instead, his hand settles a little more comfortably against your arm. “You’re good with her.”

“She’s easy to be good with.” It’s true. Beneath the smart ass jokes and swear rate that could make a sailor uncomfortable, Ellie’s just a kid, and a good one, too.

Joel’s one to talk about people that are good with Ellie. When you first met, you genuinely thought they were father and daughter until Joel explained to you what they were doing. “It’s more than that.”

His approval means a lot when it comes to this. “You’re even better with her.”

Ellie’s another factor all together. There’s no way it wouldn’t feel weird for her to know that in the other room, you and Joel are sharing a mattress, holding onto each other because of the cold.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong, it just feels odd when considering her. Like this is some kind of game of house. The realization that you think you might like Joel is still pretty new and something that’s ruined a lot of things. Every time it floats to the front of your mind, everything starts feeling off.

You don’t want to taint this or to overthink. You want to let it all soak in. The two of you sharing a mattress and a too thin blanket. His leg is still resting over your feet and your hands are still on his arm. You’re a slowly tangling web of limbs and you don’t think you’d have it any other way as you drift towards unconsciousness.

#the last of us fanfic #tlou fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #the last of us x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #tlou #tlou hbo max #fluff

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cheerleaderman · 4 months

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Yuya Florence

A magicless human from other world seemingly with no memories or perhaps locked memories.With only a driver license and journal that gives them some identity .Now in this new place Yuya is just trying to survive what NRC throws at them hoping to recover what they lost.

Twst- The shooting star over the castle in the beginning of movies

Personality

Kinda complicated to explain but Yuya honestly doesn’t have a consistent personality in the main story because they change to how to protect themselves or what the situation needs/happening around them it’s in the way of her trying to survive and does it subconsciously . Out of main story when there isn’t a crisis and can somewhat relax Yuya is kinda childish, sassy at times, blunt , more on the quiet side,Petty,chaotic asking the most random questions, intrusive thoughts are likely to win but is deeply hurting on the inside.

Basic info

-Age : 18

He/her/ They

Voice claim: Eng-Veronica-Heathers the musical (OG) Jp-Ibuki mioda-Danganronpa

-height : 172

-Birthday : August 8

-dominant hand : Left

-Nicknames : Srimpy(Floyd) Yu-Yu (Cater, Lilia, Kalim) Trickster (Rook) Herivore or Omnivore if ignored (Leona) Child of man( Malleus) Human/Human perfect (Sebek) Yu(everyone else) Perfect (basically everyone but main after Book 3)

-favorite food: Chili oil noodles, candied lemon, strawberry lemonade

-hobbies/likes : Rhythm games,horror movies, collecting cute bags, scrapbooking/journaling , Photography, crocheting and knitting

-Dislikes: Bland food, Green tea, Fuzzy socks, Ants ,smell of alcohol, feeling sweaty, strong smells

-Pet peeve : Forgetting things

-Favorite subject: Alchemy

-club : hopes between clubs mostly at board game club

-Talent: lock picking, Cooking, Dodging

More info

- Has a bit of an obsession photography because they represent memories and Yuya doesn’t want to and scared to forget again

-Got called a beast tamer and ran with it, can make friends or form some kind of bond with all kinds of creatures, Ghosts etc.

-Yuya sleep walks and it gets worse over time

- trying to keep it together

- Will fight like her life depends on it even outside the overblots

-Yuya was really in denial of being in other world up until the end of book 2. Getting a scar from Leona’s OB was how it really settled in for Yuya that Twisted wonderland was not a dream. Before that his thinking was “I don’t belong here so surely someday I wake up and I’ll be back where I belong “ was how they were trying to rationalize being in an another world.(Didn’t get any scars from Riddle tho)

-Yuya is insecure about the scars they get not even like to look in the mirror

- After OB will get a dream of the full movie. Will have dreams about people outside of the OB like the staff members and will get full context after 3 dreams.

- Yuya doesn’t really good out of his way to talk to people most times it was others who introduce/ be introduced but if Yuya ran into someone they’ll still introduce themselves to be respectful.

- Took a bit for Yuya to warm up going out to talk to others (Ace, Deuce and Grim are bit of the exception given how they’re always around each other tho Yuya was mostly quiet in the beginning)

-Gave up on hope of ever being able to get home after book 4 and focus on trying to get their memories back

- Doesn’t ask for help for themselves but to help others or if Grim asks them to like in book 4

- got a staff weapon after book 2

-Starts to tired being the Perfect and having to help others is all they’re worth and scared to know what happens if they stop helping others,” will I be forced to leave Ramshackle is the only home I know”

- Skips a lot of orientation/assembly stuff. Some tried to scold Yuya “ Your the ramshackle perfect you need to set an example” along those lines but Yuya would just ignore it or respond “ Since when has anyone respected me as a Dorm leader”(Yuya doesn’t like the memory of orientation )

-Human arm rests taller or shorter doesn’t matter (Floyd,Leona,Cater,Ace are the main perpetrators)

-“Where did you get that!?!?” “…don’t worry about it”

Outfits

Backstory

Yuya after their mother passed got sent to live with her Aunt family. It was basically to make them look good and all must make it look like they were the perfect family.

Yuya didn’t really get to be their own person but the mold his aunt and uncle wanted which ties into why he doesn’t have a consistent personality

#twisted wonderland oc #twst yuu #twst oc #oc art #twisted wonderland #artists on tumblr #twisted oc #cheer!Yuya #twst yuu oc #yuu twst #art #cheer!art #oc #original character #oc lore #oc info

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hatters-workshop · 1 year

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Last night I finally watched the finale of His Dark Materials, and of course it made me cry. I've read the final chapters of the Amber Spyglass so many times, and cried at each one. Was it perfect for me? No. But it never could be, because perfect for each individual reader is impossible, and an unfair thing to hope something would achieve. But it was excellent. And Dafne and Amir acted their hearts out with those lines between Lyra and Will when they're raging against the fate they're faced with, and with their promises to each other, and they broke my little heart with it. And finally hearing the "every atom of you and every atom of me..." speech... ooft that kicked me in the gut in all the right ways.

But this morning I happened to read the poem by Clare Harner that goes

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there, I do not sleep

And I was hit suddenly by image after image invoked by each line, of each of them, old now and lying in bed (yes I want peace for them in the end. Some would want them to have a victorious or adventurous end but I think they deserve peace.) Pan pressing his face to Lyra's in a final embrace, and Kirjava pressing hers to Will's, and both humans whispering to their daemons that their atoms will find each other, just as they found each other when they were separated before, and Will telling Kirjava to keep Pan's atoms company while Will and Lyra find each other and look for them, and Lyra saying the same to Pan. They tell them that they know where the opening is, if they want to meet them there, but that they would find them either way. And Pan and Kirjava whisper an unneeded reminder to their humans: tell them stories.

And then a wisp of golden fire and Dust curls around a face in each world. Lyra sees her Death again, and they lead her as true as they did the first time. And Will meets his Death, and recognises them though its the first time they've met, but they lead him true, too.

And maybe Will and Lyra find each other in the land of the dead. I'm a romantic, and think even though they are so far apart and couldn't possibly know that the other was dying, they die in the same moment in their own worlds, whatever their lives have gone on to be. Because the universes kept them from being reunited in life, the least they could do is let them see each other again in death, and even with all the changes of their lives and the years they've lived, they know each other instantly. How could they not? And it's a feeling like finding something precious you have looked for every day of your life (because they have) and finally feeling the relief of finding it, and their ghosts are thin and cold and made of almost nothing. They should pass through each other, except they're made of the same kind of nothing. It doesn't feel like it did when they were in their bodies, but it's enough. Soon they'd be closer than they ever could be naturally in life. And they’re the closest they’ve been in so long. So for now, it's enough to hold each other, hand in thin, cold, ghostly hand.

They are at the jetty and the ferry man greets them, and at first he doesn't know them. He hasn't ferried anyone twice before, and he hasn't been hugged and greeted as an old friend, and Lyra wishes she could jokingly scold him for making her leave Pan last time but even now, decades later that wound is too fresh to come out as a joke, and she misses Pan even though she knows she'll be with him again soon, so she let's the chance for the joke go, and they talk to him the whole journey. They don't know if he's alive, or dead, or some other form that is just his, but he looks so genuinely cheery as they speak to him, in a way that his face looks unfamiliar with being, with so many years of his heavy duty weighing on him until now.

They tell him what happened last time they were here, of how they found their daemons like they said they would, and how the opening would let everyone he ferries back out into the world. He looks genuinely shocked at the news.

"Did no one tell you?" They ask.

"Who would tell me?" He replies.

So they tell him, that his job is not to escort people to a prison, but to deliver them back into the world to rejoin every living thing. That the people he ferries need only tell the harpies their stories: and stories, as long as they’re true, of what they saw in life, no matter how small or boring or painful, and to tell them the good news. And the weight lifted from him further, his back straightened and his face brightened, and as they stepped to the shore, he waved to them rather than regretfully returning to his collections as he had every other time, and they heard the echoes of him whispering the phrase they passed down the line last time they'd been there: "Tell them stories."

And no sooner has the sounds of the lap of his boat been eaten by the mist, but they are replaced by flutter of heavy wings.

Of Gracious Wings.

The voice that greeted them was familiar but different: still loud and bold, but it has lost its strained, cracked and painful sound. Her lips were pink instead of the red of caked, vomited blood, and her hair hung soft around her face. A diet of varied stories, even for just the years of Will and Lyra's life, exchanged for millennia of screeching cruelties in the ears of the dead, has clearly suited her, and the smell of putrefaction had faded entirely. She welcomed them, and other harpies gathered themselves around the little ghosts, as they had all been waiting to hear these tales most of all, and they will pass them on to the others, the ones that are away guiding the ghosts to their freedom, so that they can enjoy the tales too.

So Lyra and Will began at the beginning, though they knew that some of it had already been heard by their audience. They added to each other's stories, filling in details and perspectives. It wasn't a short story, and though they were eager to rejoin the world, they enjoyed the reminiscence of the triumphs, and even the pain of the losses and separations could not be skipped over, as they were all a part of their story and to avoid any part of it would be a disrespect to each other.

But then their story as each other know it finishes: their final clumsy kiss before closing the window between their worlds. Every word from then on is new, and they watch each others lips make the shapes of their tales, food for each other as much as for the harpies. The only shared touch point was every year, their shared moment of peace and closeness each Midsummer. They learned of each other's friends and families, loves and losses. Of Will's life with his mother and Mary, and Lyra's learning in St Sophia's and reconnecting with the alethiometer at long last. Of who they were leaving behind in their own worlds, who would mourn them, despite their promises that they were going to go on to be a part of in every world. And as they reached the end of their stories as they could be told; as they reach that very moment, sitting on the floor of the world of the dead, surrounded by harpies and holding each others hands, their words ran out as they just. Look at each other. And smile. Hand held in cold, thin, ghostly hand.

So they rose, and Gracious Wings escorted them personally to the window they had made so long ago now. They waited their turn, though the queue was constantly moving on eager ghostly feet, desperate to return to the world as were, to feel the sun’s rays on their face once more, before they become part of those rays.

They take a moment, hanging back as other ghosts pass through, to look back out across that other world’s horizon. With delight they find it’s changed for the better: the huge seed pod trees seem to be growing stronger and healthier, and though they only had a small view through the window, there are no signs of them dying off like they were before.

They whispered amongst themselves briefly about doing as Will’s father and Lee Scoresby and all those brave people that held their ghosts together to step out into the world to fight in Asriel’s last stand against Metatron. To hold their particles together long enough to return to the mulefa’s world, revisit the trees they knew, see that spot by the river where they held those little red fruits to each other’s lips.

“No,” says Will at length. “We’ve made Kirjava and Pan wait long enough. We’ve waited long enough, too.”

“Plus,” Lyra says, almost giddy, “Soon enough we’ll be part of that river and those berries and everything else too.”

So they step up to the edge of the window, and smell the air and feel the warmth of the sun with the last time on these faces.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.