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tacticaldiary · 11 months

Note

Can you do a fic where reader and simon are kidnapped and simon has to watch reader be tortured and creeped on by their kidnapper for information.Happy endibg with them being rescued.Ignore if it makes you uncomfortable :)

Captured In Tandem

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Content Warning: Torture, Men being creepy, mentions of sexual assault

"I'll give you a choice." He says, cocking the gun. "Shall I put a bullet through you, or her?"

He's been trained to keep his mouth shut, taught himself from enough pain to span a lifetime, but never did he fathom she'd be dragged into it with him. It's unforgivable.

Masterlist, Part 2

A/N: This is literally one of my favourite tropes-

The first thing he registers is the pounding in his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, Ghost claws his way back to consciousness, sluggish mind attempting to click the pieces swimming in his head together into a cohesive narrative.

He was asleep...no, he was unconscious. Why? Ghost doesn't open his eyes for a moment, gathering his bearings. His senses snap to him quickly. The metallic smell of blood, the scent of gunpowder. The hard wood under him...a wooden chair? He exhales sharply, charting the sharp stinging in his side.

Injured.

He can't move his hands, ropes digging into the skin above his gloves. Once he's grasped back his control, steadied his breathing into something calm and acceptable, he takes a second to listen. There's nothing but the steady dripping of what he assumes is water on the floor. A pipe?

He's cold. His hands are freezing and so is his face-

His face?

Ghost's eyes snap open at the realisation.

His mask was gone, ripped off and on the floor by his feet. He's tied to a chair. He doubts he'd have gotten such a warm welcome if he was back at base right now, so where...?

An RPG, he suddenly remembers, a sour taste in the back of his throat. They had been on an OP with Price, the team had been split into two, sent to clear out a building on the outskirts of the city, tasked to meet in the middle.

An unaccounted armed squad had aimed at them with an RPG. Ghost remembers barking out an order to his partner, shoving her roughly out of the way behind a beat up car. The rocket hit the car, igniting the engine causing it to explode, the both of them thrown back against the brick wall behind them and-

Her.

His blood runs cold at the sound of a small groan from in front of him.

Shit.

Slowly, he raises his head and his stomach drops at the sight of her opposite to him in the same state.

Shit. No, this was all wrong. The RPG must have knocked them both out. They'd been captured.

"Fuck, my head." She groans, blinking herself awake. Like him, he can tell she's charting up the extent of her injuries, piecing together the events leading up to their capture.

Price would find them soon. They can't have hauled them too far away under the threat of them waking up mid transportation.

"Sleep well?" He rasps, watching her still, head snapping up to look at him.

"Best I've ever had." She responds dryly, looking him up and down. Her eyes linger on the dried blood staining his shoulder. It's a miracle the both of them ended up as unscathed as they did. Only bruises and scrapes, miraculously. She yanks on her bindings, scowling when they don't budge. Ghost can see the angry red marks around her wrists, the same as his. "We're in for a treat, huh?" She laughs humourlessly, leaning back in her chair. "Don't suppose you keep any knives hidden in your sleeves, L.T?" Half joking. She wouldn't be surprised if he did.

"Can't feel 'em." He grunts. "Must have searched us."

Of course they did.

She shifts in her seat, hating the idea of hands touching and probing at her when she's not awake to bat them away. Ghost would be just as, if not more uncomfortable with the thought, if the angry furrow in his brow is anything to interpret.

Voices. Footsteps. Both of them go rigid in their chairs, eyes snapping to the other. No words are exchanged, but a slight raise of the chin from her. They would not break.

She knows exactly what's to come for them for the next however long it took for their team to retrieve them. She's been through this before, been trained for it, seen it happen, hell she's even participated on being the one not in the chair.

They wouldn't break. The knowledge they have could compromise more than just their current operations. Ghost acknowledges the shaky exhale she lets out, casts her an unreadable look before the door swings open behind him, his eyes turning cold once more.

If she notes the tension in his shoulders, she doesn't mention it.

Three men walk into the room, mumbling under their breath. Russian. A quick glance to confirm the other caught it.

The thing with the both of them is that they worked better together than anybody else in the team. Working in tandem, information exchanged with just a glance, seemingly in tune with every thought and movement of the other. It's why they were almost always paired together.

"Some of the best your the military has to offer, you are.." He smiles, flicking through the file. "It seems I have struck a goldmine." The file snaps shut, is handed off the someone else.

She hopes the motherfucker gets a nasty papercut.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

They come twice a day. Once for him, once for her.

Ghost keeps his mouth shut, isn't surprised when she does as well. The both of them have been trained for situations like this, have both gone through a lot of shit that renders them capable of handling it.

It's her that he hasn't been trained to account for.

Ghost had only jeered at the men that interrogated him. Drenched after being waterboarded, bloody from being cut and beat, he had not given them a single thing to work with, taking what they threw at him with a calm, strong, cool exterior.

It was when they turned to her that he felt that crack.

Every knife turned against her, every crack of her bones, each small sound of pain that left her had an anger he'd never felt before bubble up inside him. Glaring death into the people who lay their hands on her as they questioned her, he stayed silent, unmoving as they put her through the same routine as him.

"Not long before they find us now." She'd said hoarsely after the second day. They'd just left them after being unsuccessful in loosening their tongues. Again. He takes in how her arm bends at a strange angle (He'd never forget the scream that teared out of her throat when they snapped it in half), the cuts dripping blood onto the floor and on her tattered clothes (Each one he'd pay back tenfold, he swears), and the exhaustion lining her face the same way he's sure he looks.

Being unmasked...it makes him more on edge than usual.

It's nothing she'd never seen before. She'd touched his bare face countless times, mumbled promises and declarations they had no business making against his lips at night. It had always been in private, shielded from the eyes of others. Now, out in the open, he was more aware of his reactions than ever before, refusing to let out any reaction except for the occasional grunt of pain.

"They're sure taking their damn time." He spits out.

"Gonna give them an earful when I get back." She cough, watery. Ghost's eyes widen when blood splatters to the floor. "Shit." She breathes, inhaling shakily.

Internal bleeding. A telltale sign.

He yanks against his bindings for the hundredth time. Nothing changes aside from more blood trickling down his torn open skin.

"Don't think about it." He orders. "Look here." When she doesn't listen, just blinking at the blood she coughed up as if in a trance, he repeats himself roughly, drawing her attention.

"Right here. Keep your eyes on me." He commands, and it's all she can do to let instinct take over and listen to his low voice. "That's it, love. Good."

She opens her mouth. Shuts it. Swallows dryly and tries again. "If I-"

"Shut up."

"Ghost." She says weakly, "It's a possibility, and if-"

"I told you to shut up." He hisses, fixing her with a glare.

She was in a much worse state than him. Far bloodier. They were rougher with her, thinking she'd be the first one to break, to concede under pain and answer their questions.

Safehouses, plans, locations, inner workings. The intel they stole a month ago. They wanted to know answers that neither of them would ever give them.

The door swings open. The man from the first day walks in, in crisp clothes, wrinkling his nose and the sight of them.

The sight makes Ghost pause. He was in charge here, clearly. This kind of work wasn't normally put on people like that, which meant that things were getting serious. Something had sparked urgency in them if they were seeing this guy. Something had changed.

The 141.

As if on cue, there's the distant sound of gunfire, and the building trembles slightly, dust cracking down from the ceiling. It's ignored by the man completely.

"Admirable, you are." He addresses them. "But I'm afraid there's not time for a soldier's pride during war." They stiffen when he pulls out a revolver from his pocket, clicking open the empty chamber. "I require answers. Call it compensation for what was stolen from me. I don't think you understand that I will get my way in the end. By whatever means necessary."

A single bullet. Loaded into the chamber. Ghost follows the movement with his eyes.

"I'll give you a final chance to be cooperative before I give you a choice." The Russian says evenly, looking at them both in turn.

"Go to hell." Ghost drawls. In his bloodied, beaten state, weak from blood loss and in a disarray from being tortured, he seems to look even more intimidating than usual.

The man sighs deeply. He clicks the chamber shut.

He aims at her and fires.

She barely has the chance to tense before a click fills the room. Nothing. It's when he turns the gun to Ghost that her breath catches in her throat, panic clawing it's way up and through her veins.

Ghost does not flinch. Does not wince or react, merely holds her gaze calmly, in that reassuring steady way he always has.

Click. Nothing.

He continues moving back and forth between them until there's only one chamber left. An undeniable bullet inside. The man turns to Ghost, a smile on his face.

"The choice you have, my friend, is which one of you I put this bullet through."

Ghost visibly stiffens in his chair, fixes him with a scathing stare.

"If you refuse to answer, I have no issue shooting you both." He says evenly, weighing the revolver in his hands. "So who will it be? You, or your lady?" He points the gun back and forth, her heart in her throat.

Me. She thinks. Pick me. The thought of him taking that bullet when there's a choice for her to instead makes her sick.

But it's Ghost. And he's selfless in the most annoying of ways.

"Me." He says tightly, the words forced out and full of venom.

The Russian grins, pleased, raising the gun. She's about to yell at him, tell him to shoot her instead-

She doesn't have to.

The gun turns to her, fires, and pain explodes in her right thigh, wrenching out a scream from between her clenched teeth as she doubles over. Her vision goes black for a second and she can't breathe.

Yelling. There's yelling over the ringing in her ears. Ghost shouts profanities at the man, threats and growls as his chair scrapes against the floor at his attempts to get loose.

He breaks.

The Russian simply laughs, tucking his gun away.

Where the fuck were they? Where were the others? The team? They were close, that much was obvious, so why the fuck weren't they here yet, then?

She gasps when her head is wretched back painfully by her hair, pain thrumming through her like sharp needles as she's forced to straighten up. It hurts, fuck, it hurts worse accompanied with every other goddamn thing wrong with her right now.

"You just couldn't seem to stop looking at her. I thought It'd be more of an incentive to loosen your tongue." He chuckles at Ghost's fury.

"They won't find your body." He hisses, low and threatening, eyes wild. "I'll make sure you're in so many pieces you-"

"I understand why, though." He continues on like Ghost isn't threatening great bodily harm on him. "She's quite the beaty isn't she? Even under all that gore...so easy on the eyes."

She had taken beating after beating. Cracked ribs, cuts and bruises, waterboarding and being prodded with a hot poker, but this? The lecherous way he looks her up and down, yanks he head back farther to expose her neck? It makes her blood run cold, her heart stop.

His breath fans across her face, acrid and disgusting. A choked sob tears out of her lips when his hand trails up her body, grabbing and yanking and pulling in places he has no right to touch. Her head spins from the bullet wound and the pain, and it takes a lot to gather her thoughts.

"Motherfucker-" Ghost snarls.

"I know you're bad at sharing but you wouldn't mind if I had a taste, would you?" He croons at Ghost, who jolts in his chair, pulling at his bleeding broken skin to get loose. "Not that you can do much but watch." He laughs.

This, she would not let happen. She would not let him take something that was hers and hers alone to give to whomever she decided. When he leans down farther, she gathers all her remaining strength and rears her head back, smashing it into his nose.

The satisfying crunch of bone and yell of pain makes it all worth it, draws a smile from her, even if his blood splatters the side of her face.

"Bitch." He spits out. A hand cracks across her face so hard black spots float over her vision. She cries out as it jostles her leg, her broken arm, all her cuts and and he ribs. Before she can gather her bearings, a searing pain pierces through her side, the Russian's knife driving straight into her flesh. She can't help the choked scream that leaves her, hears the way Ghost shouts, his struggling intensifying.

He wretches her out of the chair, shoves her to the floor. Tears track down her bloodied cheeks, not out of fear, but out of pure pain and anger. Disgust, pain and rage is what she feels when the Russian straddles her hips, keeping a hand on her broken arm to keep her down. His other one wraps around her neck, squeezing roughly to cut off her air.

"Answer my questions." He seethes at Ghost. "Your safehouses, the intel you fucking stole from us. Where are they!? Tell me or you'll see this pretty thing die." As if to prove his point, he squeezes harder, making her choke.

Ghost spits out threats that would make any normal man quiver. He would rip this man apart. Rip into him slowly with all his knives, prolong it as much as he could. Days, maybe even weeks. He deserved to die by his hands for what he's done to her, for touching someone so wholly and utterly his. Every single cut he'd return tenfold, twice as deep.

Part of her wants to succumb to the darkness edging her vision, but she's afraid if she does she might never wake up. She couldn't die. Not here, not like this. Ghost...Simon would blame himself, she knows it. He'd replay it over and over again, wonder if he could have done anything to prevent it.

"Get the fuck off of her!" He seethes. Seeing her under him, red in the face and bleeding, dying makes panic tear through him, a horrible desperate feeling he can't help but succumb to. She wasn't going to die, he wouldn't allow it.

Not her. Not her. Anyone but her. Take me instead.

The world was fucking cruel.

The past year had been the best of his life. The lightest, the most at peace he'd ever felt. Loving her came easily, naturally. Something he couldn't help even when he tried to push her away.

Her eyes catch Ghost's. His are desperate and frantic in a way she's never seen before. That...that was panic. But that couldn't be right because Ghost? He didn't panic. He planned and adapted, got angry and was calm. Panicking? She'd never seen it before.

Fuck. She wasn't going to die. She...was, wasn't she? Already, her vision was slipping away, her hearing going muffled. No. No, this isn't it. Not here, not like this.

If she died, Simon might, as well, and she loved him to much to leave him in a situation like this.

Clenching her jaw, she blindly reaches her bound hands to her side. When her fingers brush against the hilt of the dagger inside her flesh, she pauses.

It was the only thing keeping her from bleeding out faster than her bullet wound was already doing...

She yanks it out with all the strength she has left, slams it into the throat of the man above her. He's too busy with Ghost to chart her up as a threat. The way his eyes bug out of his head as he releases her throat in favour of clutching his own has a sob ripping through her mangled throat as she gasps in greedy gulps of air.

She shoves the man off her and in movements wild and jerky, climbs on top of him switching their positions. Ripping the knife out of his throat, she yells a broken shout as she brings it down over his chest. Then his shoulder, his neck. His chest. Over and over again, tears blurring her vision, adrenaline making her shaky, she drives the knife into him again and again thinking about nothing but killing him, taking his life so he couldn't take theirs, so she could feel her skin stop itching from the way she was touched.

"-dead, he's dead!" A voice floats to her, far, far away.

A name...her name. Her movements slow down as she recognises Ghost's voice calling out at her. Confused, disorientated, she glances over her shoulder, pausing, chest heaving.

"You're alright, sweetheart." He says, his eyes a fraction wider than usual. "Here, look at me. Right here, love." He waits till she drags her gaze up. "He's dead. It's enough."

Enough.

The word cracks something in her, the knife clattering onto the stone floor and she looks down at the bloody, unrecognisable mess under her. Scrambling off of him, she leans over and vomits up bile; acrid and burning her throat as it comes out. A strangled sob leaves her as she finishes, realising the sheer amount of blood on her. Her hand shakily goes to her side, comes back bloody in a way that makes her head spin.

"Grab the knife." Ghost urges, looking ready to try to snap the chair under him himself to reach her. "Can you do that for me? Pass me that knife." When she doesn't respond the way he wants, Ghost takes in a shaky breath and repeats himself, voice hard.

"Sergeant. The knife." He commands, low and deep and urgent.

Still a soldier despite her trembling, her body reacts to the order automatically, head clearing. Swallowing, she moves slowly, agonisingly to reach the knife.

"You're doing good." Ghost praises when she drops the knife for the second time from her shaky fingers. "Bring it here."

The moment the knife reaches his fingertips, he cuts through his bonds, kneeling in front of her, cutting hers off too. "I've got you." He murmurs, pulling her close, laying her over his lap as gently as he can as he looks over her. He doesn't really need to, it's more instinct to do so. Ghost was watching her the entire time. He knows the location of every single one of her injuries.

Swearing under his breath, he leans over, roughly rips part of the dead man's shirt off, bunching it up and pressing it against each of her two wounds. She whimpers, a strangled sound that makes him clench his jaw in rage and worry.

"I know it hurts." He consoles her while he secures another part of the shirt around the wounds. "You did well, it's over now." Mindless talk. He just needed to keep her awake.

Her hand closes over his, stilling him as he ties the final knot.

"'m sorry." She breaths, shallow and short. "Can't...Just go." She shoves weakly at his shoulder, and the incredulous, angry look Simon gives her would have been funny if everything wasn't on fire inside her.

"I'm not fucking leaving you, you dolt." He snaps, slowly pulling her up so she's sitting. The way she bites her lip hard to keep in the whine of pain doesn't escape him. "Easy." He says, supporting her despite his own screaming ribs. His left leg was mangled up, ankle dislocated so Ghost doubts he'd be walking with her out of here.

It was too risky. They could run into someone armed, and at such a disadvantage...no, it was better to stay here and wait for the others to show up.

Her eyes flutter, panic slams into him.

"None of that." He demands, prodding her forehead to make her focus. "Keep those pretty eyes on me, love."

A small huff from her that might have been a laugh sends her into a harsh coughing fit. "'m trying Simon." She whispers, words slur.

"Try harder." He squeezes her closer to him, keeping an ear out for footsteps.

"So hard to please." Barely a whisper. "You...you're okay?"

"Christ, woman," he huffs, leaning down to press his lips against her bloody forehead. "I'm better off than you."

A slight smile, her eyes fluttering shut. The loose grip she'd had on Ghost's vest slackens. His bloods turns to ice.

"Hey." He tries, calls out her name. "Hey!" He yells it this time, shakes her gently. Then rougher when she doesn't wake up, breath stuck in his throat. No. No, she was still breathing, he chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

This wouldn't work. Ghost steels himself and stands up, gritting his teeth at the pain that radiates up his leg into his whole body. Ignoring it, he hauls her up in his arms, stumbles slightly.

Staying here wasn't an option anymore, not when she was unconscious, not when the small puffs of breath against his neck could stop at any moment, not when he could lose her.

Gripping onto the small bloody knife, he limps towards the door, pushes it open without hesitation.

He'd walk for a mile like this if it meant he'd get to hear her laugh again. Fuck his own injures, her wellbeing was more important. Ghost moves the knife between his teeth, bone clacking against metal, metallic blood on his tongue. Hiking her up more securely, he starts down the hall, intending to find his team before they found him.

He'd die before he ever let her bleed out on his watch.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Her hearing comes to her first. Muffled, but still present. Under the dark haze of sleep, she hears muffled noises. The steady beeping of a machine, the rustling of bedsheets nearby. A voice talking int he distance, something she's unable to make out.

It takes too much out of her. Her mind is sluggish, thinking is hard, so sinking back into the arms of whatever is pulling her down is easier. Painless.

The second time her sense of touch returns.

Someone's holding her hand. Rough, calloused fingers, running up and down her palm, soothing gestures than accompany the beeping that she realises is a heart monitor. The familiar pressure, the roughness of those hands, the soothing movements...it lulls her back to sleep almost immediately.

The third time is quick.

Her sight returns last, One moment she's seeing darkness, the next she's blinking up at white florescent lights, the clean scent of hospital waking her up. What...?

Pushing herself up, a gasp tears out of her throat when she finds herself unable to move. Blinking and looking down, she swallows as she sees herself.

Covered in bandages, a cast around her arm. Heavy wrapping around her thigh and chest. All of her is stiff and achy. It all comes back to her in a rush.

The chair. The ropes. The bullets and beatings.

The blood.

Her stomach lurches at the memories. Simon? Where was Simon? He made it out, right? What if-

Her mind immediately settles down when she spots him. Ghost lays on the hospital bed next to hers, eyes shut, chest steadily rising up and down. Relief slams into her so hard tears prick her eyes. They made it out. Both of them. For a moment she thought...

The need to be near him, to touch him, to make sure he's real wins over her desire to stay put and ward of any discomfort. Her second attempt at moving is successful, only because of the strong pain meds dulling the edge of pain she's feeling.

Slowly, she pulls herself to the edge of the hospital bed, gingerly lowering herself onto the ground. She gasps when her leg protests, the one she was shot in. Testing her weight, she glances desperately at Simon, still sleeping. She needed him, needed to touch him, to feel him under her hands, solid and real.

She uses the walls to support her, shuffling over until she's in front of his bed. After taking a moment to gather herself and breathe, she reaches out with a shaky hand, places it on his cheek. Her throat closes at the feeling of his warm skin.

Ghost being Ghost wakes up instantly at the touch. Eyes snapping open, instantly alert even when just waking up.

Relief fills his face, something so powerful it makes a small sound push past her lips, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. "You're okay." She whispers, hoarse from not talking.

"You shouldn't be up." He responds, propping himself up with a wince she doesn't miss. He frowns at the way she trembles, looking her up and down slowly.

"I just..." She brings a hand up to wipe off her tears. "Sorry if I woke you." A watery chuckle. "Just needed to make sure, you know?"

"I do." He admits. Ghost's hand slips up her uninjured arm, guiding her onto the bed with him until she's laying down. A long, shaky exhale pushes itself out of her as she lays her head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat, quicker than usual but still steady soothes her instantly. He was familiar, the dips in his body, the hard muscle and those arms. It was so achingly familiar she wanted to cry.

Having her here, having her in her arms and holding her...it was almost too much to bear. Ghost had never felt relief like this.

11 days.

11 days she hadn't woken up, each one made him more irritable, restless, snappy. He was ordered to stay in bed, but he got out of it every night to sit next to her, holding her hand, just silently watching over her. 11 days was plenty of time for him to think, to run through everything he did to figure out a way he could have prevented this.

It was plenty of time to realise that he'd never take her for granted, even if there was a gun to his head.

He'd carried her all the way out of the building until he'd spotted Gaz. The poor bloke had done a double take at them, shouted something frantically in his comms and ran at them.

Ghost had forced himself to stay awake as the others arrived, forced himself to make sure she got the care she needed, sat awake with the the entire time on the heli, until they got to the hospital. Only then had he let himself get checked over and crashed hard, exhausted in a way that ran deep into his bones.

"I'm glad you're okay." He says quietly into her hair, strong arms pulling her close, their bodies intertwined.

"Are you sure this is okay?" She asks, though the way she sinks into him says she wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. "Don't want to accidently hurt you or reopen anything."

"You're worse off than me, I think I should be the one worrying about that." He responds, rubbing small circles on her waist. Soothing. Calming.

"I'll always worry." She mumbles against his chest, already feeling sleep pulling her in.

"Your downfall." He huffs, pressing his lips to her forehead for a long moment. "Thought I lost you." The admission is something vulnerable, real. Painful.

"Rather me than you." She responds, eyes slipping shut.

"Say that again and see where it lands you." He grumbles, arms tightening around her. Being as helpless as he was in that situation wasn't something he'd ever forget. Having to sit there, watch those bastards touch her, hurt her, forcing himself to look impassive and cold. Unreacting.

It had been a worse torture than any of their knives.

The second he was cleared to leave the medbay, he was going on a nice little trip back. He'd retrace his steps, get Price to get him the name of every. Single. Motherfucker that had been in the building that day.

Every single one would meet a fate worse than death itself could present them with.

They'd pray for the reaper before Ghost was done with them. He'd make them beg, draw out every single scrape they left on her until they begged to be spared. Only then would Ghost let them bleed out, nice and slow. Maybe he'd even do it one at a time, make the others watch.

They're dark thoughts, but the fury that had been boiling inside him for the past two weeks needed to an outlet, and what better place than the very bastards that had dared to lay their hands on her? The thought pacifies him for now.

He's assured his revenge, but she's more important than anything like that could ever be to him.

"I'm sorry I scared you. You can't get rid of me that easy, though. Thought you knew that by now." Completely unfazed by his threat.

"I wouldn't want to." He assures her, rolling his eyes. "It'd be a bloody shame to lose someone like you, love."

It makes her smile against him, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. Safe. She was safe here.

It doesn't take long before she's drifted off again, securely in his arms.

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Part 2

(09/07/2023)

4K notes · View notes

wordstome · 5 months

Note

könig as the nutcracker 🥹🥹

you just brought some terrible sleeping beast out of me, anon.

nutcracker prince König x fem reader (mostly gender neutral but you're wearing a dressing gown)

tw: mouse murder???

He's a very odd looking nutcracker, all things considered, but you can't take your eyes off of him.

"If it's a nutcracker why does it have that stupid veil over its face?" Your brother asks, noisily crunching candies between his molars. You glare at him, both for the rude remark and for chewing with his mouth open.

"This is a special one," your aunt gushes. "He's based off of a legendary soldier who never showed his face on the battlefield. One of a kind, from a specialty toy shop.”

"How interesting..." You muse, gently rubbing the fabric of the veil between your fingers. It's sturdy fabric, but still soft to the touch.

"He was probably ugly as hell," your brother declares. You swat him, and he only cackles and gets up to graze at some more sweets.

"Maybe you should try covering that ugly mug up once in a while," you call after him. He pelts you with a walnut shell.

Your aunt shakes her head fondly. "This one's not just decorative," she says. "He's a real nutcracker by Steinbach."

You look at her, wide-eyed. "So he can crack nuts?"

She nods and tosses you a hazelnut. "Try it."

You lift the wooden man's veil a little to put the hazelnut in his mouth. You could just pull the whole thing up and out of the way, but that feels almost...forbidden? You're not sure why you feel this way—he's just a piece of wood, after all, and he probably doesn't even have anything painted on underneath the veil other than those vibrant blue eyes. But even so, you're hesitant to unmask him.

Cracking the nut works like a charm, though, and some childish excitement bubbles up inside you as the remnants of the cracked hazelnut spill into your palm. "That's incredible!" you gush, running your thumb over the nutcracker's lacquered uniform.

"What do you mean incredible, that's what nutcrackers are for." Your brother returns, a few walnuts rolling around in his palm. He holds his other hand out. "Give him here."

"No. You called him ugly, so he's mad at you," you say, teasing him by holding the nutcracker out of his reach.

Your brother rolls his eyes. "Give it here, you little shit."

"Crack your own nuts," you shoot back. "This is my nutcracker."

He makes another grab for it, and this time he manages to grab the nutcracker's arm. It's only a lighthearted tussle between siblings as you shove at your brother and he refuses to let go of the nutcracker's arm—until it's not.

A terrible snapping of breaking wood causes you to gasp. The two of you stumble away from each other from the force, your brother holding a tiny wooden arm in his hand. He's just pulled it clean off. On closer inspection, your idiot brother has somehow managed to Hulk-rip the arm piece off of the piece that fits inside the socket. "This is a brand new nutcracker, how did you fuck it up?!" you cry.

"Hey, you should have—" Your brother takes one look at your expression and decides not to give you a hard time. "Look, I'm sorry. I was too rough on it. Sit tight for a second." You sit there, numbly staring at the pieces of your poor nutcracker. Really, it's your fault too—why didn't you just let him have the damn thing?

And why is this upsetting you so much? The nutcracker's just a decoration, albeit one with a little more function than most. You feel a sort of attraction to this little wooden man in your hand, though. Maybe it's because his unique design is interesting, or maybe it's because you're intrigued by the idea of a masked soldier who never shows his face. Either way, he was your gift anyway, so it's not that unusual that you're attached to him...right?

"Here, let me see him." Your brother's back, but to your horror, he's holding a pair of needle-nose pliers. "Absolutely not," you respond, jumping up from where you were sitting on the floor. "You are not getting anywhere near my nutcracker with those things. You're just going to fuck it up even more."

"It'll be fiiine," he insists, clicking the pliers open and closed like some maniacal toy surgeon. You're not sure you like the devious glint in his eye. Your brother's a nice guy for the most part, but sometimes he gets this look in his eye that you imagine Dr Frankenstein must have had when he was assembling his creation.

You hold the nutcracker and his detached arm protectively to your chest. "I'll figure out how to fix him in the morning with glue or something," you insist. "I don't need you poking around with pliers and splintering the wood."

"Are you sure? I am sorry, for what it's worth."

You wave him off. You're still kind of mad at him, but you're both adults. You'll live. "Don't worry about it. I think I'm going to head to bed soon, anyway."

"You should keep his arm with him, dear," you aunt pipes up. She had gone into the kitchen during the whole ordeal, but had probably heard everything go down. "Tape it to his side or something. You wouldn't want to lose it."

That's a good idea, you muse, examining your poor amputated nutcracker. You're just about to take her suggestion when you get an idea.

Your brother checks in with you later, right before he goes to bed as well. "You can't be serious," he says. "You made him an arm sling?"

You tie the knot on the little scrap of cloth around the little wooden man's arm nice and snug. "Oh, I'm dead serious," you say. "Doesn't he look cute?"

Your brother lets out a resigned sigh. "Yeah. Sure."

The rest of the evening is relatively uneventful. You put the nutcracker in your room, right on top of the dresser, while you go about your bedtime routine. It always brings you a bit of joy to walk out of the bathroom and see him there, standing tall and proud.

Well, your evening would have been uneventful...had you not bolted awake in bed an hour or two later.

You're groggy and confused, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when you hear the cacophony of noise. It sounds like footsteps, dozens upon dozens of them, stampeding through your walls. And then the mice show up.

They crawl up from the corners and the floorboards, swarming across your room. You're too terrified to move or even scream out, sure that you must be having some terrible nightmare or hallucination.

And then your nutcracker moves.

You're absolutely positive now that you must be dreaming, watching frozen from your bed as your nutcracker leaps down from your dresser as if he's a living, breathing man and beginning to fight the mice. And he's even...talking?

"Finally, some worthy adversaries!" you hear him cry. You gape at this bloodthirsty little soldier as he beats through mouse after mouse with his tiny sword.

It's an impossible battle, you think. There's no way he can take all those mice alone, and with one injured arm aside...you're usually pretty squeamish when it comes to dubious little animals, but you can't just leave your nutcracker to be overwhelmed. Besides, this is all a dream, so nothing matters, right?

There's one mouse, larger than the others, who's at the back of the pack, squeaking as if giving orders. You're having quite a wild dream, honestly, because the mouse is even wearing a little crown. Like a king, you think with some amusement. You reach over the edge of your bed to pick the mouse up by the scruff.

You're not quite sure what happens next. One moment, the mouse is chattering angrily at you, the next you're on the floor. At first you think you've simply lost your balance and fallen onto the floor, but when you scramble to your feet, you nearly fall over again as you take in your surroundings.

You've shrunk.

Your bedroom is cavernous above your head, your bedposts and furniture as tall as skyscrapers. And worse still, the mice are huge too: the once palm-sized mouse king is now as large as you are, sneering down at you from his snout. You didn't even know mice could sneer.

You yelp and throw yourself to the side to dodge one of the mice lunging at you. "It's time to wake up," you mutter to yourself through clenched teeth. "It would be really really nice to wake up right about now...!"

The mice are unrelenting, a vicious gleam in their eyes as they nip at your heels. They manage to corner you against a piece of furniture, snapping their jaws menacingly. All you can think to do is pray as they draw ever closer, their breath hot as they crowd around you—

A sword neatly lops off the head of one of the mice in front of you.

You gasp and look upwards to see your nutcracker looming above you, his sword gleaming in the low light of your bedroom. He's incredibly menacing at this size, his veil becoming intimidating rather than charming. You're far smaller than him now—if he had been a normal sized man, he would have easily cleared six feet. His eyes are vibrant and intense, staring down at you for a brief moment before they turn back towards his enemy.

You sit there, stock-still in awe as you watch him mow through his adversaries. It takes you a moment to realize you probably shouldn't be hanging around and gawping. Good thing, too, because your knight in shining lacquer is too distracted to notice he's being snuck up on. The larger mouse is creeping up behind him, a wicked glint in its eye.

"No!" you cry. Thinking fast, you pull off your slipper and chuck it at the mouse's head, stunning it. I can't believe that actually worked, you think.

You have to give your nutcracker some credit, his reflexes are wicked-sharp. In a single heartbeat, he's run the mouse king through with his sword. He cuts an imposing figure, his eyes sharp and deadly. But there's a sort of glee in them as well, the kind of thing that should make you uneasy.

It doesn't.

The rest of the mice, seeing their leader fallen, beat a hasty retreat, tugging the corpses of their fallen comrades along with them. You watch them, fascinated, until all that remains of the bloody conflict are a few tiny pools of blood streaked along your floorboards.

"I must thank you," comes the voice of your nutcracker. You look at him, unsure of what to say. You're welcome for throwing a shoe at a giant mouse to keep it from killing you?

"I...of course," is what eventually comes out. You smooth out your dressing gown in a futile effort to look presentable. "I couldn't let him hurt you."

The nutcracker tilts his head curiously. "You don't know me."

"Of course I do. You're my nutcracker," you say, instantly feeling silly once the words leave your mouth. You just received him as a gift, and you only just found out he was sentient anyway. You don't know why you feel so protective...

He shifts his injured arm, the sling still in place. "You bound my arm, as well."

You flush with embarrassment. "I-it was the least I could do," you stammer. "I shouldn't have let my brother do that. Really, it was my own fault—" Your words die in your throat as the nutcracker moves in close to you, so close that you can feel his body heat. Since when did he have body heat?

"Pretty," he murmurs under his breath. You stare at him, dumbfounded. Is your nutcracker...hitting on you?

Suddenly, you snap back to your senses. "Oh my God," you exclaim, staring down at yourself and then back towards your surroundings. "I'm still small. And I haven't woken up yet. Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming. Please tell me I'm dreaming." You pinch your skin, letting out a small exclamation when it hurts. But you still don't wake up.

"Hmm...you won't solve your predicament that easily, little one," the nutcracker muses.

"Wha—do you know how to fix this?"

"I have a hunch," he responds, brow furrowing. You hadn't noticed eyebrows on him when you were examining him earlier in the evening, you note.

"Do tell."

"You've had a curse placed on you, but I don't know how to break it. I do, however, know someone who might know how."

"Well then take me to them!" You stare at him beseechingly. You watch as several indecipherable emotions run through his eyes, then he nods.

You visibly relax. "Thank you."

"You'll have to trust me. You may find the whole process a little...fantastical."

"More fantastical than my nutcracker coming to life and fighting an army of mice on my bedroom floor?" you ask, cocking an eyebrow. His eyes crinkle in a way that must mean he's smiling.

"More fantastical than that," he says. He offers you a hand like a true gentleman, and to your shock, it feels like flesh, not wood. His grip is firm but soothing, his hand so huge it dwarfs your own.

"Let's do this, then."

uhhhhhhh wow this got kinda long I had to cut it short. I'll probably write a part 2? But it's gotta wait because I've got a gazillion other things to write first :P Thank you for the inspiration, anon! 🥺

#yes this König has blue eyes #könig #konig #könig x reader #konig x reader #könig x you #konig x you #könig fanfiction #konig fanfiction #könig cod #konig cod #könig call of duty #cod #call of duty

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eternalsams · 1 year

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Irresistible ➻ Miguel O'Hara

pairing: Miguel O'Hara (Spider-Man 2099) x Black Cat (fem)!reader

warning/content: violence, so much sexual tension, swearing, actual plot, mention of nudity, no mention of y/n (gets called Kitty a couple of times), some heavy make out sess

summary: Miguel is sent in your world where there is no Spider-Hero to help him, you're the only person he knows there and good thing for him, you can help him. Bad thing for him, you won't stop taunting him.

words count: 3.7k

a/n: English isn't my first language, so please take that into your consideration

"We don't need her, Lyla." Miguel groans at her as he walks through the lobby. "No, we don't. But you do." Lyla pops up on Miguel's shoulder with a grin. "Come on, she'll be of a great help, she knows her world better than anyone else here. Better than you." The little lady has a point, he had to admit it. He only visited a couple of times but didn't stay long enough to know his way into the thousands of cities. The only problem is that you were a pain in the ass for Miguel. Even though you were doing your job pretty fine, you were always torturing him with your constent teasing and flirting. It was just in your nature to annoy him. As another door opens before him, Miguel notices Hobie lying on a wooden box, fidgeting with his guitar. "Why don't we send Hobie there? I don't wanna see her and I'm pretty sure they would make a good pair." He grumbled before tapping on a screen for the last details. Lyla pops back up in front of him and crosses her little arms on her chest. "Because, you and I both know that they would make a too good pair. You can still focus when you're around her and you can discipline her as well." She chuckles, her laugh echoing in the lobby. "Is this about your kitty cat again?" Hobie chuckles as he tilts his head back and looks at his boss upside down. "Don't call her that." Miguel growls before setting the right coordinates on his watch and opening a portal. He puts his mask on and turns to Lyla. "You coming with me?" He asks her and she steps back. "Nah, I'm good here. Have fun with her!" She wiggles her little fingers in his direction before disappearing. Miguel sighs and steps through the portal, immediately feeling the rain pouring down on him. "Great..." He sighs and closes the portal behind him before jumping off the rooftop into a dark alley. He checks if anybody saw him and retracts his mask before changing into more casual clothes. That means old sweat pants, a white t-shirt and a sweater. He pulls the hoodie to cover his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets before walking down the streets. The neon lights lighting the dark streets and leading him to the place he knew you'd be.

When he finally recognizes your place he walks up the couple steps of your porch and hesitates knocking on your door. He knew how much you'd tease him for coming for your help. But when he checks his watch and sees the little time before the anomaly in this world would happen, it pushes him to knock on the door. He takes a few steps back and sinks back his hand into his sweater pocket. The door opens and he immediately regrets coming to you when he sees your smirk. "Well, well, well... Spidey." You lean on your door and run a hand in your white hair before crossing your arms on your chest. He says nothing, he doesn't need to, you already know why he's here. But you still ask. "Why can i do to please you?" He visibly grimaces at your choice of words and looks away. "I need your help..." He whispers under his breath. You perfectly hear him but that wouldn't be fun for you. "What was that? I can't hear you with the rain." You say as you cup your ear and lean a bit forward. He groans and looks back at you. "I need your help." He says more distinctively. You grin and steps back into your house. "Come in, then." You wait for him to pass the door and close it behind you. "I don't have the time for your little games." He says as he inspects his surroundings, making sure you won't trap him one way or another. He was used to it by now. "I know. But I'm pretty sure I can't really fight bad guys like this." You point to yourself and he seems to finally notice how you're dressed. Or how undressed you are. You're only wearing some loose shorts and a black tank top. And he didn't need to stand closer to see you didn't wear anything underneath. He quickly looks away as you make your way to your room to change into your suit. He uses this alone time to put back on his spider-suit and when he glances over at your room, he notices you left your door slightly open. On purpose. He can see you taking off your top and revealing your toned back, he could almost see the curve of your breast if you turned slightly to your right. He quickly looks away and clears his throat, checking for the umpteenth time his watch. "We don't have much time." He calls for you and you step out of your room, your combat goggles in hand. You look at him up and down, visibly satisfied by the sight in front of you. "Wow, looking good, Spidey! Have you been working out since the last time I saw you?" You run your fingers along his broad shoulders and down his firm chest. "Not your business. Can we focus on the mission?" You let out a faux-sigh and sit down on the table, rubbing purposely your foot along his thigh. He stares at you and looks down at your foot touching him. "Yes? Am I distracting you?" You ask with that oh so annoying smirk that get on his nerves. He swats your foot away with a grunt and makes appear a screen in front of you from his watch. "Micheal Morbius from Earth-386 decided to get too close to the multiverse doors and spread chaos around him." He informs you. "Any victim yet?" You ask, now focused on the mission. "No, only calls and damages. But I've already encountered one of them. They don't wait too long before shedding blood."

"Alright, where do you think he is now? And the most important question is, why do you need me with this? If it's only Morbius, you can take care of him by yourself. Hobie told me you've dealt with him before and it went great." You frown and jumps down from the table, looking around your living room to find something to tie up your hair. "How do you know Hobie?" He frowns and turns to you. "Wouldn't you like to know, Handsome..." You glance at him and smirk, tying up your hair and maintaining eye contact with him. Miguel bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from cursing and looks away. "Morbius is mostly looking to feed off someone so maybe somewhere with some crowd where he wouldn't be too suspicious. Do you have any idea?" He eventually asks you. "Oh, so that's why you need me. You're like a lost puppy here." You laugh and he stares at you, telling you silently to focus back on the mission. "I have an idea where he might be, but you won't like it." You shrug and grab your keys before dropping them in a little pocket on the inside of your suit. Miguel raise an eyebrow at the action but doesn't say anything. "As much as I like seeing you in that suit, you'll need casual clothes for where we're going. "I already have casual clothes." You look at the pile of clothes he took off a little earlier and look back at him. "My grandma could wear this, this is not casual. Wait here..." You say as you walk back to your room. Miguel sighs and checks another time his watch, seeing the anomaly would soon happen if you didn't hurry up. You come back with a pair of jeans way too big for you and toss it at him before giving him a button down shirt. "Wear this. I'll wear something similar. We won't be recognized." Just as he was about to ask you something, you grab another pair of jeans and put them on over your suit. "Won't be very comfortable but if we need to change quickly, it's better." You grab a shirt and put it on, Miguel still staring at you. "Come on, Handsome! We don't have whatever you're doing." You grin and tap gently on his chest as he puts on his pants. You hear him groan and walk to the door, Miguel on your tracks, buttoning up his shirt. "You look great, honey." You smirk at him as you straighten his collar. "Where did you get those clothes?" He asks you, readjusting himself in the tight pants. "You don't wanna know." You smile up at him and pat his cheek before he fakes a smile when he opens the door to let you out first. "If you needed an excuse to look at my ass, that's a terrible one" You chuckle and pull you fur hood over your head. "So... Where to?" Miguel asks as he closes your door behind him and walks down the steps. You wrap your arm around his and start walking down the street. "I hope you don't have sensitive ears, Spidey. 'Cause you're about to hear some loud music." You look up at him and intertwine your fingers with his.

Miguel winces at the loud music around him, and just like you said, he didn't like it. He looks at you ordering a drink and you turn to him. "I guess you didn't bring your wallet with you. You want something to drink?" You ask him, leaning to his ear so he could hear you. To be honest, he could hear you even if you were standing at the other end of the club if he wanted but you wanted to be that close to him and he hated it. He doesn't respond and just stares at you. You turn back to the bartender and smile at him. "He'll take a water. Thanks." You slide a ten dollars bill on the counter and wink at the guy before turning back to Miguel. "We're supposed to stop Morbius, not get drunk." He scolds you, grabbing you by the arm. "I know, I know. Will you please let me go, people look at us strange." You grit through your teeth, that was the only thing you didn't like about him. He had a stick up his ass. He complies and grabs the glass of water the bartender hands him. You slightly smirk when he empties the glass in one go and sets it back down on the counter before grabbing your wrist and leading you over where the people where dancing. "You wanna dance, Spidey?" You tease him with a chuckle. "No." He simply says and keeps walking to the private tables in the back of the club. You notice a security guy looking at you weird and you trip purposely, holding yourself on Miguel's shoulders and giggling. He turns back at you and frowns, you only had one drink and he made sure it wasn't that strong, there was no way you could be drunk. He grabs you by the waist and makes you straighten up, looking at you in the eyes. "What's wrong?" He asks, worry painted over his face. You smirk a bit and his concern drops immediately. "I'm great, we just have to act normal." You explain but don't let go of his shoulders, holding him even closer. "And acting drunk is normal to you?" He raises an eyebrow. "In a club? Yeah, definitely. Come on, Handsome, take a seat." You pats his cheek because you know how much he hates it and push him a bit. "Wha-" He can't ask you anything and end up sitting down on a couch arm rest, you on his lap. "What are you doing?" He asks through gritted teeth. "Fading in." You smile and brush a few locks away from his face to look into his red eyes. "Use that Spidey sense of yours and find that vamp, will ya?" He clears his throat and wraps awkwardly his arms around you, closing his eyes and trying to focus on anything but the loud music and your ass rubbing on his crotch. He quickly re-opens his eyes and grabs your hand before leading you towards a table where a single guy was accompanied by three women. You tap Miguel's chest, making him understand you got this. You approach the table and untie your hair. "Hi. Is this the party I've been hearing about?" You ask innocently and you lock eyes with the guy. He stands up and you get a proper look at him. He's got long black hair, you can't really see his eyes but can definitely notice how dark they are. He's tall and skinny, but not the attractive way. "You're at the right place, sweetie." He smiles at you and you notice how chapped his lips are. He extends his hand to you and you take it before quickly pulling on it and punching him in the face.

The girls at the table scream and leave but you don't let go of Morbius's hand, not wanting to let him run away. Miguel is quick to join you and as he was about to yell at you for being so reckless, Morbius pulls on your hand, making you trip and you eventually drops his hand to roll on the floor and catch yourself up. You groan and take off your shirt before putting on your mask and shooting your grappling hook to the ceiling. You swing back to Morbius while Miguel make everyone leave the club. Your feet collide violently with the vampire's head and when you look back at Miguel, he's ripping off the shirt you gave him, revealing his spider-suit. He doesn't even care about his mask and stay exposed. He shoots his web to trap Morbius and struggles to keep him still. You grab a little bottle on your belt and remove the pin before jumping towards Miguel and tackling him behind one of the couch. The gas bomb you just set off explodes and you hear Morbius cough a little before he groans. "Fuck! I thought that would stop him." You grumble and roll off of Miguel before standing up. You look at your co-worker and notice his fangs. You've only seen them once and when you asked him about them, he ignored you. So you never asked again. You had your sensitive subjects and he had his. Miguel growls and jumps at Morbius before giving him a punch in the face and sliding his talons over the vampire's shoulder. You take advantage of his weakness to run behind him and wrap your arm around his neck, locking him against you. He struggles in your arms and Miguel approaches. "Move your arm." He says in a deep voice, making you comply. "He grabs Morbius by his hair, making him wince and lean over to his neck before sinking his fangs into his skin. You grimace slightly and you feel Morbius go limp in your arms. Miguel leans back and you look at him, curious. "What did you do to him? Did you kill him?" You let the vampire fall on the floor and notice his still open eyes. "Ew, dude, you're fugly." Your comment makes Miguel slightly smile before he quickly get back serious. "I paralyzed him." He simply says before tapping on his watch. A portal opens before your eyes and your lips part in awe. You knew where he came from but you've never seen where he came from. Miguel leans down and picks up the limp Morbius before throwing him over him shoulder. He was about to step into the portal before he stops and turns back to you. "You wanna come check it out?" He asks and you try to hide your excitement. "After you, I wanna check you out when you walk in front of me." You say and he chuckle, making you smile.

He steps into the portal and gets back into the lobby where Hobie is still playing with his guitar. "Don't you have something better to do?" He asks the younger man as he drops Morbius on the ground. "Oh, you're not dead. How did it go with your kitty cat?" Hobie asks, rolling down to stand up as he slides his guitar in his back. "Hello!" Your voice echoes in the lobby as you step through the portal before it closes and Hobie smirks. "I see it went well since we don't usually accept cats here." He chuckles and walks to you before shaking your hand. "Good to see you, Kitty." You smile at him and look around you, admiring the place Miguel founded all these years ago. "Welcome back!" Lyla pops up in front of Miguel and cocks her head to the side to glance at you. "I see the mission went well." She smiles at him. "It did? And ask Ben to take Morbius back to his world and make sure he stays there." He orders and Lyla nods before disappearing. Miguel turns back at you and quickly glance at Hobie. "I still don't know where you know him from and I'm not sure I wanna know." He pinches the bridge of his nose before he grabs something on a shelf and launches it at you. "Put this on or you won't feel good for long." You look down at the bracelets in your hands and put it on without asking any question. "Alright, come with me now." He leaves the lobby and steps into an elevator. You follow him and the whole way up is spent in complete silence. Neither of you dare to speak. Until you open your mouth. "We make a good team." You slightly smirk as you glance at him. "We do." He simply responds. "We should work together more often." You nudge him with your shoulder. "I don't think that's a good idea, actually." You roll your eyes out, the stick up his ass is back and went even deeper. "You're right, there's some things I do better alone." You look right in front of you and you can see from the corner of your eyes Miguel looking at you but not saying anything. "Some things?" He asks, raising his eyebrows. You hum in response and smirk at him. "Some things." You confirm. You hear him quietly chuckle and he shakes his head. "You're really something else." He murmurs under his breath. "Well, I hope I am. You spend your days with different versions of you, I do hope I'm different form you guys." Your fingers start grazing his and he looks down at your hand before looking back up at you. "Don't." You turn to him and take a step closer. "Why?" Your fingers play with the hem of his suit at his neck. You see his Adam's apple slightly bob and a smile stretches your lips. "Just don't." He repeats. You nod but don't step back.

"Kitty..." He says as a warning. "You've never called me that before." You cock your head to the side and play with his fingers. "Kitty." He says more sternly. "Spidey." You respond and that's the final stroke. He grabs you by the neck and smashes his lips on yours, taking you by surprise. You can feel his fangs nibble at your bottom lip and a mix of a grunt and a moan escapes you. He pushes you against the glass behind you and runs his hands along your body. That body that kept teasing him and he couldn't forget for years. He really did try to control himself as long as he could but you made it so hard for him to focus on the mission when you're constantly teasing him. He feels your fingers runs through his locks and tug at his hair, keeping him close to you. His tongue lick across your lips and you part them, finally tasting him after all those years. And does he taste good! One of your hands runs down his neck and holds onto his shoulder, trying to get him closer. His hands leave your face and go straight to your ass, kneading at the flesh. Your ass was just like he imagined it, you worked hard for your body to look like that and he wanted to feel every defined muscles under his eager fingers. He grabs you behind the knees and taps the back of your thighs. "Jump." He says between kisses and you comply, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your back against the glass wall of the elevator and your chest flush against Miguel's. You could feel all of him against all of you and it was intoxicating. The singular ding of the elevator makes Miguel drop you back on the floor and he rests his forehead against yours, panting. His red eyes looking directly into yours. Your heart beating so fast and hard against your chest it hurts. The doors open and Miguel's body mostly hides yours, so the person stepping in knows he's not alone but can't recognize you. "Having some good company there?" Miguel recognizes Ben's voice and he can practically hear the smirk in his voice. "I don't remember asking you anything." Ben's smirk drops and he clears his throat. "Lyla told me about Morbius, where is he?" He asks. "In the lobby." Miguel responds, still looking deeply into yours eyes and hiding you from the other Spider-Man in the elevator. You can't help but smile and you try to contain it by biting down on your lip. Miguel runs his tongue over his teeth to hide his smile too and drops his head on yours, his breathing finally steady. He looks back up at you and opens his mouth, looking for the right words. "We'll talk." He mouths to you and you nod, grabbing a handful of his suit and kissing him deeply before you heard another ding from the elevator. The doors open and you slip out of there, trying not to make any eye contact with Ben. "Was that that cat girl Hobie talks about?" The other Spider-Man can't help himself but ask his boss. Which earns him a glare from Miguel. "Take care of Morbius." He says before following you.

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undercoverpena · 11 months

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circles and squares

simon ghost riley x f!reader (cod)

an: you should all thank @halfmoth-halfman for this one and our early morning chat. I heart you lots.

an: written on phone, mind any errors.

Ghost is aware he’s not the easiest person to be with.

He's an entanglement of repressed feelings, scars that run deeper than layers of skin and a need for solitude, that you seem to have slid past.

You take it all in your stride, not fazed—not asking too much—the patience of a saint.

It’s not that why he likes you. It’s that you make up rules for the two of them with relative ease. Providing him with ways to express himself without using words.

For someone whose skin is littered with only a handful of marked memories and a heart still soft, you surprise him with how deeply you understand him.

How much you just get him.

In all of his future thinking, Ghost never envisioned such a soul would fall for him—although Simon had always hoped.

Two fragmented parts of him working together, desperate to keep whatever was happening between the two of you intact. Even if he had little to give and not a whole lot to offer, you stuck around.

You say very little when it comes to his past, taking what you can with gratitude. When you’re ticking, turning over thoughts—needing something but unsure how to ask for it—you make up solutions to give him a voice.

Not a physical one, but one just as loud.

“—like this,” you explain, taking the pen from his hand, drawing a circle—small, no bigger than 2cm—onto the plain, crisp page.

The black stands out, all stark against the white paper on the chipped wooden desk. His eyes glancing up from the nib, to your eyes.

He wants to ask for an explanation, folding his arms, sighing as he runs his tongue over his teeth.

You smile.

He suspects it isn’t because you hear his sigh or because of the way he folds his arms—but because you know him.

You know it isn’t to do with impatience or confusion, but rather because you understand that the two of you squirrelled away in a room brings questions. Ones he wants to save you from, as though you’re a damsel and not a lieutenant under him.

You don’t need to protect me.

You’d said that once. Under him, your legs on either side of his thighs as your fingers brush over stubble and blemishes.

But he does.

Not just from the gossip, from the glances. But those who look for him—those who inflicted each defacement he lets you see.

If anything, you’re one of the very things he needs to protect. Keep you safe.

“If we fill it in like this,” you say, shading in the circle. “We’ll know the other person isn’t okay. We don’t have to explain to why, but we’ll know.”

He cocks a brow, not that you can see it. His mask, the one all plain black, more for the base than out in the open, hiding his expressions from you.

Ghost suspects, though, you see right through the fabric. Like you saw through him to begin with. Ignored the snark and the bitterness, saw something—someone—worth getting drenched for when you were both stationed in Europe.

He hadn’t liked the rain before then, not the scent of it—not the way it made his clothes cling to his skin, how it suffocated him. But he likes how you looked in the rain, how your face relaxed even as your hair flattened to your head. How your hand turned palm over, catching droplets like they were blessings and not something which had ruined an entire night of recon.

“Alright, but if we’re OK?” He asks.

Your head nods, drawing another circle next to it. Not filling it, just leaving the outline there.

“Not filled in means we’re okay.”

It doesn’t cross his mind what they’ll do if there’s no paper, if there’s no way in a crowded room to get across that you’re drowning. That it feels too much. That you need him.

You think about it, though. Because you always are. Always thinking of ways to make things easier, better. Ticking it off—always assessing, attempting to better things. Not for you, never for you (your selflessness knows no bounds), but for him.

An answer to his inner thought was answered a month or two later.

It’s a mess, loud voices—arguments brewing in fractions as mutinies begin to build. Price in the centre, chewing his cheek, fingers twitching, likely desperate for a cigar or even a drink as another captain chews his ear off.

The 141 rarely partner with others for this reason.

He doesn’t linger on Price. Knows if he’s needed, he’ll hear his name cutting through the loudness. So he looks for you, eyes searching, finding you pressed into the corner. Alone.

You’ve not been sleeping. Tossing, turning beside him. Fingers reaching for him, finding his side, his arm—even his fingers—as your brows knit and stencils lines into your face.

He never wakes you, just lets you take—and when you don’t take, he just holds. Clutching you close, pressing your ear to his chest, hoping the steady beat of his heart is enough.

Sometimes it is.

He suspects now wouldn’t be.

Your back is pressed against the wall, eyes down on the ground before they flick up, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

Not just because your eyes are stunning, cutting into him from across a room, but because of how you look at him: a silent calling, a beckoning, a help dancing close to your pupils.

Slowly, for confirmation, he watches as you raise your right hand, drawing a circle on your left shoulder. His eyes track it, following it as it meets your starting point. Mind drowning out Johnny, not even listening to the group of idiots next to him—focused instead on how you begin using your finger to fill in the symbolic shape.

He nods.

Feet moving, gloved hands pushing shoulders and bodies, parting the pockets of people as he moves towards you.

Ghost isn’t sure what he can do when he gets there, his pulse just thumping—following only a need to be next to you. He expects murmurs, more suspicious comments about how he’s always close by to you. Smarter soldiers recognise that he always has an eye on you if you’re close—they’re just not smart enough to identify something is already happening, and has been for a while.

As he nears you, he’s thankful he doesn’t need to ask it because you’re already keeping your eyes on him. Seeing as he gets closer that your lips are slightly parted, a little O created, chest rising and falling as you take in shallow breaths.

He wants to offer something, whether it’s his voice, presence, or anything. Which is why he asks:

“Wanna get out of here?”

He’s not sure if you expect it—not sure if you had considered it an option. Your head nodding, furiously, blinking away tears that threaten to spill as your hand brushes his wrist.

Not to take his hand—the two of you don’t do that—but to tap. Once, twice.

Thank you.

He nods. Not able to (or wanting to) stop the way his heart soars at it—at being able to provide you with something.

Give you a fraction of what you give to him: a way out, a safe place.

In time, your things begin to merge with his.

Not just on base, but back in England too. Your socks are washed with his, your back covered in one of his tees that skirts your thighs.

He doesn’t mind, for the most part, only finding he struggles with it at night. When you’re sound asleep, soft snores kissing the darkness as he turns over the many ways you could be taken from him.

Ghost sleeps less when he’s home. Most of his REM is collected in the day, sun shimmering through the blinds, your fingers drawing shapes on his shoulders.

Sometimes they’re squares—which means either I love you, or I miss you—and sometimes their triangles. The latter, he’s not sure if they have a meaning. He just draws them back on your knee, watching your lips slide up into your cheek as you try to read your book.

He likes it—the code.

The one he can say down the radio. The one he can draw on your arm when you’re both pressed together in some place in the Middle East.

Which is why it doesn’t surprise him when you shout his name, the front door being kicked shut behind you—a surprise in a carrier bag.

“I know you’re struggling.”

You say it so plainly. Not a hello or how are you, getting straight into it, watching him as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his joggers.

He says nothing either because there’s little reason to lie. He wears the truth well, the bags under his eyes worse than when he’s sent away on a solo—his need to pin you under him in the morning when sleep hasn’t been wiped from your eyes another tick against your assumption.

Retrieving the item from your bag, you place it on the counter with a tap. His eyes falling from you to them, noticing four magnets.

Nothing impressive, nothing too much. But he knows instantly what they are.

One black circle, one white circle; one green circle, one red circle.

“Naturally, I’m the colourful ones.”

“Naturally,” he snorts.

Moving towards him, you slide a hand over his hip. “They’ll live at the base of the fridge door, and we’ll slide one up—close to the top. When we remember,” you say, looking at him. “Same as the circles. For me, red is—“

“Black.”

Nodding, you try to smile. “Square.”

“Square,” he says back, quickly. Palm cupping your cheek, thumb brushing a line across it.

Wondering, as he always does, how you remain so soft, so kind. How even though you’re haunted too, you still find ways to do things for him—

“Because I love you,” you say, as though reading his mind. “It’s easy because I love you.”

Swallowing, he holds your cheek more firmly, his other hand resting on your hip.

“Y… you don’t have to say it, I’m fine with—“

“I love you. It’s why I worry.”

Rolling your lips, you sigh—soft and small—before you nod. “I know, Simon. But we keep each other safe. Yeah?”

He nods back.

Because you do keep him safe. Not wearing a mark on your skin from him—or asking him to leave one—just in case. Your name on the place the two of you call yours, just in case.

An understanding is known about the future—mainly around rings and names, just in case.

“Which circle are you?”

His lips twitch, a smile wanting to show. “White.”

“Okay, good.” Your finger begins to draw a triangle, his eyes narrowing, your lips rising into a smirk. “Bought something else, too.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, you lick your lips, eyes widening as you continue to draw it on him. “Wanna go upstairs and… see?”

It hits him only then. The deviousness in your eyes showing.

Triangle means—

“I want you,” you whisper.

He snorts, his laugh dying in his throat, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, bringing your lips to his.

Kissing shapes against your lips, unshaded circles, squares, and then triangles.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader #cod x reader #ghost cod #cod ghost x you #ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost cod mw2 #cod ghost #ghost x female reader #ghost riley headcanon

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lilywastaken · 1 year

Text

now hear me out: witch hunter!ghost x witch!reader...

he's visiting a town with the rest of his team to investigate a claim that there might be witches running rampant around the small countryside village, only to fall victim to a resident's charm while they conduct interviews.

she's a sweet woman who insists on curing the scratches that he's gathered across their travels, using tonics and herbs from her cute little garden and letting him pet her pet cat, who seems to have taken liking to the dark and imposing man, rubbing it's little black body against his boots and purring when he leans down to scratch under its chin.

it doesn't even clock in his mind how every single detail about you and your life correlates exactly with the obvious signs of a witch, but he's too spellbound with you to even realise.

he informs the others that none of the people he's talked to seem to have made the infamous deal with the devil, but due to the panicked way the leader of the community had written to them, they decide to stay to investigate further, staying in the small inn near the outskirts of town and luckily for simon, near your cottage.

despite the clear liking he's taken to you, he's still as emotionless and snarky as he would be with anyone else, and his chest tightens every time you laugh or giggle out loud at one of his dark jokes, most unladylike for any other woman, but you don't seem to care to hide your snorts or amusement around him, something he completely adores.

he insists on helping you with your garden, claiming you have no need to get your hands dirty when he's used to doing dirty work (both taking lives and tending to his own garden back home), sitting at your kitchen and watching you make the tonics and medicine you help treating anyone who has fallen ill in the village, standing close by whenever someone comes in with an injury, absolutely in awe at how they're cured almost immediately, thanking you gratefully before leaving. although, he does not miss the dirty glares some of your neighbours send you when they think you're not watching, making him grow confused, not understanding why they would harbour such feelings towards someone as kind and helpful as you.

it's not until he's taking a break at the pub, listening to gaz drawl on about some thing or another, when he catches wind of two women's conversation, frowning beneath the leather mask he wears in distaste has he takes in their poisioned words.

"-making moves on my poor husband. i swear, she's put some type of spell on him, that vile witch."

"oh, i know! my brother told her off last monday and guess what!? the next day, he fell off the roof and broke his leg! bloody bitch probably cursed him!"

"gosh, i cannot wait until those hunters finally get her! i have no idea how she's managed to evade their suspicions, she's done nothing to hide herself!"

"well, by the way that masked man has been loitering around her home, we'll be lucky to have a burning at the end of the week!"

they both laugh, the high pitch shrieks that they let out enough to make the glass in simon's hand shatter, shoving his seat back and leaving a dumfounded gaz in the pub alone as he walked away.

the splintering wooden door slams open as he shoves himself into your cottage, dark eyes landing on your crouched figure and then the second one, body freezing as he makes eye contact with his captain.

"simon." the man grunts, alerting you of your favourite visitor's presence as you pull back from the wound on his leg you were treating, a sweet smile on your lips.

"simon!" you repeat, cleaning your hands with the bucket of water next to you, wiping away the dried blood in the rags as price sends a warning look to his subordinate, the blond furrowing his brows in confusion, before the conversation he'd overheard before came to mind.

no.

no, price didn't know.

and, god, no, you weren't one of them.

you... no. no.

"let's get going. thank you for the help, miss." his whole body went into autopilot as price pushes him out of the cottage, the short wave and caring smile you sent his way the last thing he saw before the door was slammed shut.

neither of the men spoke on their trek back to the inn, and simon did not sleep a wink that night, terrified of what would happen in the coming days.

surprisingly, there was nothing. no finding of stakes, no gathering of firewood, no detainment of you.

so maybe, price hadn't picked up on you. even though simon was still convinced you were not one of those.

until after a few days of pouring rain, simon wakes up to a cold room and the absence of johnny, who he knows for a fact that never woke up before him unless forced to, something he'd learned after years of sharing the same room with the scot.

and as he walks out into the muddy roads, that oh-so familiar smell hits his nose.

the burning of wood, of grass, of cloth, of human.

his heart dropped into his stomach, following the trail of ashes that had blown across the roads until he arrives at the town square, the burning piece of wood in Gaz's hand along with the flames consuming the hay and grass that lay across the ground of the plaza, the fire slowly consuming your beautiful white dress he'd seen you sew barely days ago.

simon barely takes notice of price coming towards him, attempting to hold him back from rushing into the crowd simply staring up at you, your eyes falling down upon his struggling body, your face going from the calm expression it had been in to shock, pulling at your tied up wrists instinctively in a frail attempt to rush towards him.

"simon...!" you breathe out, soot entering your lungs as you inhale, tears filling your eyes from the burn as you watch him wrestle out of his captain's grip, his boots stomping against the rocky ground as he shoved past the gawkers, leather slamming against the kindle, ignoring his team's shouts and the fire burning his clothes and skin, reaching the stake you were tied to, his face out in the open due to the way he'd rushed out of his room, dark eyes reflecting the flames that were taking you both.

his shaky hands come behind you to untie the ropes around your arms, caging you with his body and allowing you to rest your head against his shoulder, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look down at the burns forming across his legs.

"stop." you pleade, trying to push him away with your chest. "stop, simon, stop...!"

"shut up!" he snaps, throwing the ropes into the fire as they came undone, letting you collapse into his arms as you were let free, your hands gripping his dress shirt. "you're going to be okay, we need to-"

his voice broke as he looks down at your sunken eyes, your lips dry and cracked as if you'd just ran a marathon, but looking down at your intact legs and burning dress, he realises where all your energy had gone.

"simon.."

no.

"please, stop-"

no. you....

"you're going to die, simon, please!"

you couldn't be...

"i won't be able to save you, simon, listen to me!"

you were wailing at this point, trying to push his body down the small burning hill, but his body doesn't budge.

"simon!" his captain's grating voice pulls him out of his stupor, his hands growing tighter around your waist as he locks gazes with the furious looking man, your wails becoming static in his ears as he doesn't think twice as his now blistering hands pulled your legs up, letting you grasp onto his neck instinctively as he holds you bridal style, ignoring the searing pain rushing through his body.

"simon, don't, don't you dare!" you scream, the first time he's heard you raise your voice at him. "please, i'm not worth saving, you know what i am! i don't deserve to live!"

liar. you... you were worth everything.

you were worth the burns on his body, the destruction of his ideals and the pain the mere sight of you in tears gave him.

he doesn't care what you are.

you're... a witch. what he swore to destroy and what he has been hunting for over a decade.

but you're not... you're... not evil.

maybe none of them were, maybe if he'd taken the time to get to know the women they'd burnt before he'd have realised sooner, that you were just people.

and he wasn't going to let you get hurt. maybe it was a bit selfish or ironic, but he didn't care. he'd take you away from this town, from his colleagues, from the pain, let you live in peace somewhere were no one would bother you.

and if you let him, he'd come with you too.

he ignores price's shouts about the so called spell you'd put on him and as he looks down at your shivering body in his arms, the way you're curling into him, the way you were wailing for him to save himself moments ago, he couldn't...

even if you had put some type of spell on him, he didn't care. never had he felt like this. and yes, he'd deal with the consequences of this later, but for now, as he runs through the forest with your trembling body in his arms, he couldn't care less.

he isn't going to let anyone hurt you any more than they have.

(brainrot for this idea is open please 🗣️)

#ghost #ghost x fem!reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x fem reader #simon ghost riley angst #ghost angst #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod mwii #witchhunter!ghost #— lily's brainrot ! ☆

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fluffymaxsworld · 7 months

Text

i am so in love with simon riley, so here’s (another) fic<3

“neighbors”

[neighbors, wife material reader, fluff<33]

“morning”

“hello”

the brief interactions you and your next door neighbor, simon, had were so miserable. occasional smiles and pleasantries, but just when your eyes met his. quick hellos and polite waves, something the both of you didn’t care about.

he worked in the military, a cold, stern man, he never took part at the meetings between the neighborhood. he was good looking, no one ever said the opposite, but his mysterious demeanor was something girls didn’t wish of. sometimes he also disappeared for weeks and people swore they had see him with a skull mask.

on the other hand, you were a sweet girl, outgoing and caring, even for your grumpy neighbor.

that’s why you two met.

it was a cold friday, the apartments were silent like always. you decided to prepare cookies to “match the mood” so you left the house to buy the ingredients. on your way back you noticed simon. he was struggling with searching his keys in front of his door.

“you dropped them” you smiled sweetly, breaking the silence and pointing at the couple of keys on the floor.

in response he nodded, picking them up.

well, he wasn’t your best friend, but at least he could’ve said a short “thanks”.

“you’re back from another mission?” you asked him.

“yeah” he quickly replied, almost impatient of locking himself inside his house.

“you’re a great man. bye.” you waved and entered your apartment.

he nodded again and closed his door.

weirdo.

well, whatever, time for cookies!

in a couple of hours you baked at least a dozen of chocolate chips cookies. and what a kind soul like yours would do with half of them?

you packed a basket full of cookies and opened the door. you knocked twice at simon’s and waited for a reply.

“who’s there?” the deep voice asked.

“neighbor!” you replied lively.

he opened his door and looked at you. his big, muscular figure was… something else.

“i baked cookies, want some?” you said, handing him the chest.

“you sure?” he looked quite surprised, “i mean, thanks”

“i just thought you needed them, i mean, you’re in the military!” you said it almost jokingly, but you believe that he deserved to be cared about.

“thank you, really. do you want to grab a coffee?”

he invited you over. simon riley, feared man, skull-masked, military guy, invited you over to drink coffee and eat cookies.

“yeah, sure!” you nodded, how could you decline?

you stepped in, looking around.

his apartment was similar to yours in space terms, but completely the opposite when it comes to the arrangements.

the walls were a soft grey, a white couch filled the living room and a wooden table with a couple of chairs was almost hidden between the entry and a huge library full of books, military books, you guessed.

then you saw it, the famous skull mask everyone talked about. you thought it was a myth, something people invented because they were bored, but here it was, white plastic-like skull and black tissue.

“curious?” he interrupted your thought as he took the mask, “if you wonder if the rumors are true, yeah, it’s mine. i wear it during missions”

“oh, cool” you said, looking at it.

“are you scared of me?” he asked you, a unreadable tone in his dark voice.

“scared? why?” a half giggle escaped your mouth.

“the mask. the military thing. isn’t it scary?”

“i don’t think so. you’re interesting and being in the military should be a boast!” you sat down on the table, handing him one of the cookies.

he took one and bit into it, “tastes good.” he smirked slightly, “and thank you, by the way. i guess im not really liked here…”

“you shouldn’t care about what they think. they’re just idiots” you reassured him.

“well, i don’t have time to care. missions and work are my only priority right now” he sighed, biting on the cookie.

it almost sent you shivers. he doesn’t have nobody to wait him after his missions, his appearance scares away all the neighborhood. he needs a wife.

“do you have a partner?” you asked him, trying to sound nonchalant.

“why? wanna ask me out?” he joked, but you flushed a little, “no, i don’t. i don’t think i need a partner”

you avoided his fulminating gaze and kept talking, “man, you need a girl, believe me.”

“i don’t have time for stupid sloppy things like that. that’s for idiots”

“mmh, i don’t think so.” you said, giggling softly.

he let out a subtle laugh, looking at you, “i haven’t found the right woman yet, then”

“you’ll find someone, trust me”

and that’s how you and simon became close friends. every now and then, when he came back from missions, you were waiting for him with a basket full of cookies, muffins or a whole cake and a bright smile on your face.

and how bad, because he was starting to fall in love. in love with your eyes, hair, smile, oh, your smile. you drove him crazy. he felt cared about. when he was out for a mission he didn’t think only about coming back home alive, but coming back home alive for you. you made him dream in something when he was at his low.

it’s a snowy night, you baked a couple of muffins for simon. it’s been a month since he left for the mission and you really missed him. usually you knock at his door around 7pm, a quietly chosen appointment each time he would’ve come back home.

but not today, no, because you heard a knock.

“simon!” you smiled and opened the door.

“it’s been-” you couldn’t finish the sentence as he pulled you closer into a hug, a warm tight hug.

as you draw close, your bodies press together, creating a feeling of warmth and closeness. in that moment, your hearts synchronize, and the world around you seems to fade away.

“simon? are you okay?” you chuckled softly.

he buried his face deeper into your neck, your smell intoxicating him.

“i’m not great with words, y’know…” he started, “i… well, y’know, i’ve been away for awhile. i’ve risked my life more than once, and all i could think about was you. and i’m scared i could die without admitting what you made me feel”

“simon…” you looked at him, noticing his brown eyes full of worry and confusion.

“i’ve fallen for you, completely, deeply, insanely. you drive me crazy, you’re all i can think about. and i know i’m not the best man you’ll-”

you pulled him closer into a kiss, your lips finding his. you closed your eyes, he closed his, lost in the moment. you could feel your heart race faster, your body tingle in excitement. you shyly brought your hand to his cheeks, exploring his face, tracing the scars that his face was full of.

“i’ve been waiting for you” you whispered between the kisses.

“i love you” he finally said, his voice deeper than the usual and their eyes fixated on yours.

“i love you too, simon riley”

IM SO SORRY ITS SO MESSED UP BUT I NEED A DAMN BREAAAAK!!!

love y’all anyways :))

#ghost x reader #cod simon riley #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod mw2 #fluff #cod fluff #simon riley fluff #neighbors #<3

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bones4thecats · 2 months

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Hello, I would like a request for Ror from Hades x Female Anubis from Hades meeting the parents of Anubis and Seth, his father threatening the god for setting his eyes on his “baby” please

Hades Meets His Anubis! S/O's Parents

Type of Writing: Request Name: Hades Meets His Anubis! S/O's Parents Character: Hades Requester: @anubis-ror

A/N: Apologies for this taking so long to get out, I'm currently undergoing a lot of stuff at once with my classes and whatnot. But, I do hope you guys enjoy this! By the way, the Reader here is Anubis' twin sibling

✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋆⋄✧⋄⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅

💀 You always were committed to your family, from watching over your siblings, Horus and Anubis, to trying to help out your uncles, Set and Khepri, you were always there to help them out

💀 It was because of your willingness to help that lead you to offer your assistance to Anubis, your twin brother, in leading the many dying humans to the underworld and getting them fully settled

💀 It was because of this that you had met your future husband, Hades, the Greek God of the Underworld and the King of Helheim

💀 When you had taken both your brother's and your shifts one day, due to him getting slightly ill from no doubt doing something stupid, you had learned from your helper, and niece, Kebechet, that you had a meeting with the King

💀 During your meeting, Hades thought to himself about how similar you appeared to his ally-in-work, and he learned from your introduction that you were the Deity of the Soul, meaning you would watch over and mold someone's soul correctly before they came to life, and you would take them down alongside your brother

💀 Hades may not inherently like how your brother acts, but whenever you look at him with big puppy-dog eyes, his heart melts

💀 You mainly became close due to your jobs working together and gossiping about your families (the Greek and Egyptian Pantheons), you now know a lot more about Poseidon and Zeus

💀 You and Hades eventually began to court one another a few centuries after your first meet, which in a God's life is like knowing somebody for around a few months, depending on the amount

💀 Due to how close you had gotten, you wanted Hades to meet your parents, Osiris and Nephthys. And he always reacted the same; maybe after you meet mine first

💀 Respecting his wishes, you had met Hades' family on a number of occasions, your most memorable being when Zeus tried hitting on you, but before his sons could pull him back to reality, Hades grabbed his ear and scolded him like a mother would. Though he did also glare at him with nothing in his eyes... maybe that was why he almost pissed his toga...

💀 And over time, your requests began to get more frequent. So, respecting your wishes as well, Hades agreed to meet your family, much to you and your brother's delight

💀 You hopped that this would go perfectly, but hope doesn't always work out...

" You're kidding me. " " Osiris! Be nice. I apologize for my husband's harsh words, Hades. I'm Nephthys, Y/N, Horus, and Anubis' mother, it's so nice to have you here. Oh, by the way, Y/N, the rest of the main family is coming by soon. " " Including Uncle Set and Uncle Khepri? " " Yes. Now come, I must show you how he redesigned your room. "

💀 Hades watched as you walked away with your mother, smiling gently as you groaned and you slide your upper-jackal head mask down to cover your burning cheeks as your mother ranted

" So, what are you planning to do with my youngest, huh? "

💀 Your husband's eyes widened as your father pointed his Shepard's crook at his neck. His green skin clashing with the gold and wooden item

" Apologies, but I do now quite understand what you mean by 'doing with them'. " " Are you gonna hurt them like Zeus hurts Hera? After all, you do have the same genetics. "

💀 Hades had to resist grabbing Osiris' crook and snapping it into splinters with his hands. Instead, he took a deep breath and lightly nudged the item away from his neck and began looking at you across the room with hearts in his eyes as he spilled said organ's love and devotion out to his Father-in-Law

" Osiris, your youngest is by-far the most spectacular person I have ever met in my many centuries of living. In both physical appearance and how their personality and beyond is, they just... they just feel so right to have by my side, you know? I cannot stand the mere thought of laying harm to her, mental of physical. It makes my stomach plummet to the depths of my immortal soul. Seeing them happy and smiling on the other hand? That is one thing I would never change nor rid myself of for the world. "

💀 Looking up and down at Hades and contemplating his words, Osiris sighed deeply and held his crook lighter than before as a smile slightly covered his face before it turned into a teasing yet dangerous scowl

" I shall allow you and my child to prosper in your love for one another longer. But, know this, you hurt them, I will dispose of you like how we do here in Egypt. Understood? " " Completely, Father. " " Don't call me that. "

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callsignvenomcod · 5 months

Text

a soft life

Prompt: Retired! Simon Riley. A slow life in a Manchester farm.

warning: mentions of PTSD, mentions of cartel related violence, mentions of violence, MDNI.

PS: Opening line is from the book "Jarhead" (2001) by Anthony Swofford.

______________________________________________________________

A story.

A man fires a rifle for many years, and he goes to war. And afterwards he returns the rifle in at the armory, and he believes he's finished with the rifle. But no matter what else he might do with his hands, love a woman, build a house, change his son's diaper; his hands remember the rifle.

Sometimes he could still hear the bullets.

For a long time, it was hard to convince himself he deserved to grow old. It might have been a given fact to some other people but not for those in the military, not for Ghost, at least; not after Tommy and Beth, or Las Almas or Johnny. It took him a lot of time to be grateful to be almost 40. For several reasons, he never saw himself living past 20.

And now he was opening up the crates of the chickens he kept in his very own farm, a piece of land he actually owned, without a mask on, very far away from the bullet sounds and a barrack, from the mud and the camo, away from everything and everyone, not sound in the horizon but the chickens and Riley, the border collie dog he got, barking at a three somewhere in the distance.

He retired the summer he turned 40, there was a ceremony and everything, with Laswell and Price and he got more chest candy that would eventually end up in a wooden chest, never to be seen again, under the bed. There wasn't a reason, he just had to. He was in his prime, physically, but his mind was made of glass lately, everything rubbed him the wrong way, couldn't even train recruits without snapping too hard at them, making them quit, yell at them too much, scare them too much, beat them up to a pulp too much.

Every man in the military had a story. A life before, a life after. And in the middle, sand, or mud, or just camo. A war that last years, a mission that lasts hours. Silence and nosie.

He, like other recruits, like other Sergeants, Lieutenants, Colonels, had shadows over them. It took months for him to stop looking over his shoulder while doing the big shop on a sunday, started going to those overnight groceries store to shop alone instead. The butcher's reminded him both of his adolescence and the carnage he had caused, flinched whenever he saw a mohawk kid walking down the street, looked twice sometimes only to find a stranger.

Sometimes he could still hear the bullets, aye.

He turned in his paperwork and retired silently with lots of medals under his name, lots of dead men and probably women under his knife, missing friends, missing nerves and too scarred to be a model now. Ha.

Oh, and Y/N's wanted to get away at some point anyway.

Y/N. The last drink he never should have had, the cut that made him hide his face, and the party that made him feel his age. Pulp's words, not his. All it took was a few nights shopping at the Tesco she was working in as a cashier, late night shift, for them to become acquainted.

A year of mutual pinning, a single night in which Y/N placed the bourbon bottle and the batteries inside of the paper bag and looked up at Simon, change in hand (because he paid in cash always, no traces behind) and smiled at him. COVID had made it easier to transition from the skull balaclava to a medical mask and then to a bare face, so Simon looked at her behind the black medical mask and stared at her while she opened her mouth.

-Why do bees have sticky hair?

Simon blinked, looking down at her. -Pardon?

No line behind him. It was the first time the cashier talked to him other than "Goodnight" and "Drive safe", or "It will be 5.66, please". There was a faraway sound of some sort of 80's American pop music, something to pass time by. Simon had noticed her since the first time he came into this very same Tesco a few months ago, had noticed how she sang along whatever music was on, how her Tesco blue uniform looked too big on her, making her look insanely small and slinky. He noticed how she was always almost without a medical mask and whenever she used it, it was laced around her chin; he noticed short, clean nails, and a heart necklace over her chest, a pair of dazzling dove eyes, full hips, a belly.

He really noticed the full hips.

The girl fucking giggled and repeated. She must had a bit of Irish in her judging by the sound of her accent. Simon felt as awkward as a teenage boy in front of any girl ever -Why do bees have sticky hair?

The man shook his head, still confused, a quid in his hand.

-Because they use a honeycomb.

Ah, a woman after his own heart. Such a lame joke.

He snorted out a laugh.

It simply slipped and he memorized the name tag before grabbing his shopping bag and shaking his head, hearing her giggle behind him as he exited the store, and he came back two days later after convincing himself he needed two jars of red bean jam instead of the usual one.

Sometimes he could still hear the bullets.

And now she sleeps here; and Simon had stared at her sleeping form wondering how much time it would take for her to start hating his way of loving, of being, how many times he would go silent on the phone, a bad texter, a worst caller, how he hated crowded places and loud noises and most of their dates happened in her flat, when her roommate was out, staring silently at a film on TV, her friends thinking she's getting her brains fucked out by an experienced, older, lust thirst Vet when in reality, Ghost was gathering up the courage to wrap his arm around her shoulders.

And now she sleeps here.

In the crook of his neck, his thigh over his hip, wild hair all over the bed, sometimes inside his mouth because he stopped using a mask a while ago.

In the mornings, tangled in their bed, warm sheets, the soft breeze of Riley sleeping under the bed, her sweet sweat and vanilla scented skin under his, it took Simon a few seconds to realize he was sleeping in the company of someone; in the arms of a woman and in his own bed, a king size bed with soft white sheets that were washed and changed every 5 days, not a twin bed in a barrack, that his years of active service were over, not forgotten, as if, but that he could allow himself to become whatever he might end up becoming if the 141 didn't happened.

-Come here, boy. Come here, Riley. Yeah, yeah...- said Simon scrunching down to caress right behind Riley's ear, the dog sticking out his long tongue and barking of joy mixed with the hyper sense of his breed, the soldier being careful not to break the eggs he held in a small basket. Simon had found him a puppy a few months ago, seemed like years really, in a litter box with 6 of his brothers and sisters, a beat-up cardboard sign reading "For adoption." And Simon picked up the only one with a lazy ear. He knew deep down that Y/N would appreciate that and simply put him in the passenger seat of the black Bronco truck he owned and drove all the way back home. -You're up early, eh? You having breakkie with us?

He had fallen into a comfortable routine now. He would wake up, crawl over Y/N's sleeping figure, careful not to wake her with the crack of dawn, 5AM with the BBC on his headphones, a 6'2 shadow jogging through the hills of the outskirts of Manchester, for an hour only the dark of the road, the eventual baby blue of the sky, the warmth of the sun. Sometimes Riley was up for it, sometimes he stood behind cuddled up in their room. And upon his return he would work out in their driveway for another hour, noticing the growing presence of what the media now called a "Dad Bod" (Y/N's words, not him) and eventually hearing soft barefoot steps coming from the room.

There was tea for two before he had to head out, get some tasks done, and a soft kiss hanging from Y/NS plush lips, and he would always try to push it, try his luck. He would smile against it, whispering "Good morning..." with a lazy voice, hands on Y/N's full hips, kneading them, in need of them, and Simon would press up with hard on against her stomach, while deepening the kiss.

It never failed to make her wet. It never failed to make her forget the kettle on the fire for a minute and simply give into his kiss, his embrace; him, overall. Simon would pick her up, easily, laid her on the counter, and her robe would open for him, with or without his help, and she was always so wet for him, so ready to do it.

-Simon...- she will say. - Breakfast...

And he wasted no time into twisting her words, dropping to his knees as if he was in the presence of a saint, of a virgin, of the end of the world, staring at her glistening cunt first thing in the morning, looking up with the adoration she deserved; she would gulp and argue it was not what she meant but she would recoil and whimper when Simon stuck his tongue inside his cunt anyway, overlapping her folds, blissfully eating her out before the sun was completely out.

The dog kept barking all the way down to the house, past the barn and the driveway, the small stable with the one horse they had, the pen he was building to eventually own sheep, and Simon felt the cold breeze of the early morning seeping through his black knit sweater and his jean jacket, as he walked all the way across the grass fields and into his porch, the swinging chair Y/N liked to read in, in a need of a reparation.

-Right...- he whispered to himself seeing the hammer he left outside to remind himself to fix the damn chair, bloody hell. Riley's nose peeked through the front door, opening it with ease and technique allowing themselves in, and the cold of the outside world was quickly gone.

Simon stepped into a cozy home, with a color palette he would have never picked, all warm yellows and oranges, pinks and whites, and soft cushions, warm blankets, a picknick turntable in the coffee table; and music, soft music he didn't recognize coming from it, a spinning record on it with yellow and pink lyrics, a girl signing about a loved one, and another voice, a present one, horribly trying to sing along.

He snorted out a laugh when Riley started barking and the voice was interrupted abruptly.

-Simon?...- Radio silence. -Babe?

Oh, the sound of his name in her mouth.

He crossed his living room, stepping into the kitchen, holding four eggs in a small bowl, one from each hen they owned, and he stood in the door frame, just a tad taller than him, admiring the view. He had endured white missions in the Russian winter, literal months of the gruesome torture and gory tasks and they all suddenly made sense because there was a girl.

Ah, there was a girl, alright.

Today was English breakfast. No peas for him, no sausages for her. It was stereotypical but easy to make and no one was around to judge them anyway. Next house was a few miles down the road, and even the road was far away, the town was a 30-minute ride. It was their little bit of heaven. The man stepped in, handing her the basket like every other day and kissed her temple, as she grilled some tomatoes slice ups leaning back against him. His hands would find her hips again and she would yawn with intimacy, hair still a mess, thighs still sticky. -Teas on the table, love. It's gone get cold.

-Ah, it's alright...- he said, hugging her tightly, as she kept leaning on him. -Slow morning today, eh...

She had been there and stuck around whenever the PTSD started acting up. She was the one that loved him when he started going fucking mental; and stuck around when she found her burning up SAS gear, a lost look in his eyes as he did so. He would throw in a Ghost mask and watch it burn for a moment, before murmuring a shocked sob and reaching out into the flames to retrieve it. She stuck around while he drank too much bourbon sitting on the porch, skull mask on, his dogs' tags held so tightly his knuckles will go white with force. Y/N even stuck around when the nightmares came, and she would wake up to Ghost whimpering on his side of the bed, breaking a cold sweat, his jaw tight and her brows furrowed, screaming out "Johnny! Johnny!" before waking up in tears, in raged hot tears down his cheeks, short of breath, his head a full of bullet noises and sirens wailings, pictures of his team and the blood and the grease paint. A mess. A shaking shadow.

Every October 11, she will make sure to hold him a little tighter, kiss him a little softer, love him, if it was possible, a little louder.

And she was here now, cooking breakfast, no peas for him; now he was living a soft life, with tea every morning, and a dog named Riley, with soft hands that wondered around his chest whenever he thought about Soap too much, about Gaz and that helo. But she was here now, and she had no sausages today, as they sat down on their small chair in their small kitchen in their small farm. He was living a soft life, and he didn't think of himself as worthy of it, but he must have been done something good to have her cooking breakfast and sleeping in their bed and caressing their dog under the table.

Tomorrow, Ghost would ask her to come out to the porch to find her reading swing fixed and a wedding ring.

She's going to say yes.

He didn't heard the bullets anymore.

_____________________________________________________________

Hello! Venom here.

Thank you so much to anyone that's been liking my story.

Happy 2024!

#simon riley #cod headcanons #cod mw2 x reader #call of duty x reader #call of duty smut #cod x reader #cod #simon ghost riley #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #ghost cod #modern warfare #mw2

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crackedpumpkin · 3 months

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𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝟎𝟐 |

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ] | [ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ] | [ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law.”

“It’s a charity auction, not my judgement day.” You point out, smirking at your dad who’s adjusting his wig after sternly pointing a gavel at you. “Besides, I didn’t know that it was themed.”

“Maybe you should be the judge instead,” He says with a sarcastic scoff, handing over the gavel, “Put those skills to use.”

You bang the gavel against the wooden table, shaking your head disapprovingly at him. “I sentence you to a lifetime of being unable to make lame dad jokes.”

“Anything but that!” He gasps, collapsing to his knees in horror. “Give me mercy!”

“You know what to do.” You hold out your hand, gesturing for him to hand it over. He reluctantly takes out a fifty dollar bill from the pocket of his robe, slipping it into your palm discreetly with a handshake. You nod in approval, handing him back the gavel. “You have been pardoned.”

“Are you ready for the event yet?”

“Yeah, I’m going as a Musketeer.” You hold up your sword, lazily uncrossing your legs where they’re placed on the coffee table. “En garde, my good man.” He chuckles at that, pretending to be defeated when you pretend to stab his side. He falls to the couch with a cry, smothering you with his entire body.

You gasp in surprise, only to get the air knocked out of you when he rolls over. “Get off me!” You demand, shoving him off playfully. He obliges with a cheeky smile, sitting next to you with dishevelled hair.

“Right.” His phone chimes with a text. He skims over it quickly, getting up from the sofa and grabbing his gavel from the coffee table. “C’mon, Emily’s waiting for us at the museum. Her autograph session should be ending soon.”

Your fingers close around the sheath of the sword, hooking it onto your waist. Hopefully, no one would question why you had a real sword with you at a formal masquerade. Oh well, go big or go home, you suppose.

The car ride is peaceful enough in the beginning, but tension starts to rise when you approach the entrance of the museum. The majority of the ride was spent on the phone with Melody, texting back and forth about how excited she was to finally get the ninja's autograph, and how her date had gone.

The car slows to a halt, and you spot a plethora of reporters all crowded around a woman in a simple, yet suave black suit and a bejewelled black mask adorned with small crystals. Her hair is done into an impeccable ponytail, and a briefcase is placed on the table where she’s busy signing autographs.

“A judge and a lawyer…?” You turn to your dad who has a sheepish smile on his lips after adorning his identical mask. “Very cute.” You remark sarcastically. The mask you’d taken out moments earlier feels cold in your hands, your thumb stroking the glittering red rubies that line the eye area.

He simply shrugs. “You ready?” He gives you a moment to put on your mask before opening the door and stepping out. You hesitate briefly, glancing down at the sword. Nothing would happen, you decide, closing the car door behind you.

You go up the stairs together, making sure that no one accidentally steps on the hem of your cape. Luckily, you escaped unscathed. Emily spots you approaching, standing up with a bright smile. She holds her hands out to greet you, and you reluctantly let her take yours when your dad shoots you a look, gesturing to the reporters who swarm around you both.

“I’m so happy you could make it! You look stunning. I’m guessing a Musketeer?” She asks though the knowing glance directed at her husband reveals the fact that he’d already informed her of your costume before arriving.

“Thanks. You look…good too.” It’s hard for a compliment to not sound sincere when it’s about her. No one can deny how pretty she is. Maybe that’s one of the factors why your dad had fallen for her in the first place. You retreat your hands after, starting to feel uncomfortable being under the scrutiny of all the cameras.

Emily chuckles, accepting it gracefully. She looks at the line at her table filled with fans, seemingly realising how many more autographs she’ll have to sign. “You must be hungry. I’ll meet you inside after I’m done?”

Your dad wraps an arm around her shoulder, giving her a chaste kiss that makes you roll your eyes. “I’ll stay here. Why don’t you go mingle around? Maybe you’ll meet some new people from your school,” He says encouragingly.

You merely shrug, turning to leave. The entrance of the museum is decorated lavishly with an arch covered in fairy lights. Various guests enter with partners and some without. They’re all dressed to the nines, of course, and you even spot a well-known reporter lounging on the side with a wine glass in hand.

You avoid most of the crowds, choosing to sit down in a space near the back where a bunch of comfortable chairs are. The spread of goodies and pastries does catch your eye, focused on the tantalising pan au chocolates that rest on the left of the table. A chandelier adorns the centre of the room, the light reflecting off of it in glittering beams.

They went all out for this event. After all with such public figures gracing it with their presence, how could they not? You stare curiously at a hallway to your left, intrigued by some of the exhibitions you can see inside. Was that a dinosaur skeleton at the end?

You’d be sure to check it out after you’d gotten ahold of some of those delectable pastries, though. As you approach the table, you become aware of some of the whispers in the room growing louder. Luckily, there’s still some form of security at the doorway, poised to take action just in case anything happens.

As you move for the pan au chocolate, another hand reaches over and grabs the exact one you’ve been eyeing.

What the fu-

Your lips part, about to protest. The words die at the tip of your tongue when you see exactly who’s the person beside you. He looks familiar, well-built and impeccably dressed. You’re not sure exactly where you’ve seen him before, but there’s just something about him you recognise.

Maybe it’s his hair or his outfit? His shoes…?

You watch the stranger dressed as a… actually, you’re not sure what he’s dressed as. Either way, he takes a huge bite from the pastry in his hand, humming in content. He’s wearing a simple suit, but his mask is decorated rather simply. His sigh of satisfaction amuses you, letting a slow smile spread across your lips and all of your shock from his sudden appearance (and taking away the beloved pastry of course), fades away.

He freezes when he registers you staring at the half-eaten pastry in his hands, glancing between it and you. “Were you gonna take this?” He asks sheepishly, gradually lowering it back down onto his plate with a guilty smile.

You wave it off, take another and put it on your empty plate. “It’s fine. It’s just a pastry.”

Doesn’t hurt that he’s kinda cute either.

He chuckles. The melodious sound makes your breath hitch, looking away to take a bite, and chewing thoughtfully. “This is good. I wonder which company they got it from.”

“Oh, I know! It’s Papa’s Cakeria. You see, their butter has a really sweet aftertaste, and their chocolates are sourced organically, which is why it’s so clean and not overly sweet. Their cupcakes are really good too, but that’s in another store-” He cuts off his ramble when he notices the amused grin on your face, clearing his throat and taking another bite of his pastry.

You notice the flush on his cheeks, deciding to do him the favour of remaining oblivious to it. “I take it you’re a fan of their store?”

“I’ve tried a few things here and there.” He polishes off his pastry in a few more quick bites, reaching for a slice of chocolate cake next. “The thing about Papa’s though, is that they make their stuff to order, so you always have to order in advance.”

“Dang, so I can’t just waltz in and grab one?” You frown, disappointed by this piece of news. “Maybe I should find some Tupperware or something…” You mumble, though he seems to overhear. He clears his throat, taking out his phone and showing you the screen.

“This is their website. You should order at least two days in advance though, so you can secure a spot. I know the owners, so I can help you speed up a pastry or two if you ever need it.” He offers. You quickly take a picture with a delighted smile, pocketing your phone happily.

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. I’ll be sure not to abuse the privilege, though.” You say warmly, your joking words drawing a laugh out of him.

He shakes his head in amusement. “Anything for a fellow pastry-lover.”

“So, what’s your name?”

He pauses a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth. “My name’s Cole.”

Oh?

Wasn’t the guy at the comic book store also named Cole? The very guy who coincidentally turned out to be your soulmate? But the man standing in front of you now is completely different from his frigid, cold and angsty demeanour.

However, his eyes glint with the same gold tint when the light reflects off of them, and although his hair is styled a little differently, his wavy strands are still the same. The only thing different is his outfit and his attitude.

“Hold on.” You place the plate down, taking a moment to gather yourself. The complete overturn of his brash attitude toward you yesterday is a stark contrast to his current one. The drastic difference gives you whiplash, even mistaking him for a gentleman. “You’re sure your name is Cole?”

“I’m pretty sure,” He chuckles, nonchalantly continuing to munch on his cake. Your hand subconsciously grips the hilt of your sword, fight or flight instinct creeping up on you. You didn’t want to feel as powerless as you did last time when he’d forcefully dragged you into that alleyway. That’s not how your mother raised you.

His curious eyes signal another unsaid question. Before he can ask it, however, a calm, yet friendly voice interrupts.

“Cole! Where were you? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” A man dressed similarly as Cole asks worriedly, making his way over. He notices you, glancing at Cole who stares back just as cluelessly. “And who is this?”

“She was just about to tell me.” Cole shrugs.

The presence of his relaxed and soothing voice does ease your nerves a little, letting go of the hilt. You take another moment to compose yourself before saying your name. So much for not seeing each other ever again. You’re not sure if it’s fate or luck, but either way, you’d be sure to not let him realise now that you’re his soulmate.

Now that you’ve regained your composure, though, you realise one fundamentally wrong with the picture-perfect scene in front of you of the two boys chatting with each other.

One of them has metal as skin.

You don’t want to be rude, so you decide not to point it out. After all, he seems nice enough. You take a step toward the cake, Cole noticing and helping you take a slice. “Thank you,” You say gratefully, though your gaze flits over to the very person you’re dying to not ask.

Cole spots this, clearing his throat and introducing his friend. “This is Zane.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He takes your hand and places a small kiss on it. You’re too stunned by this sudden move to reply, processing his name. It rings a faint bell, finally placing his face.

“You’re the Ice Ninja,” You state simply. He nods, confirming your words. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” You hurriedly add to not seem impolite. Melody’s reminder nudges a small corner in your mind, the wheels finally turning. You hurriedly take out an album of the ninja from the hidden pocket of your vest, along with a marker.

“I know we just met, but I was wondering if you’d do me a favour. Could you sign this for a friend of mine? Her name’s Melody. She’s a really big fan of the ninja.” Zane takes the marker and signs it with a smile, adding a small message at the end before handing it back to you.

“I hope this will suffice?”

“It’ll more than suffice, thank you!” You say gratefully, putting away the album before noticing Cole’s outstretched hand. “Can I help you…?”

“It’s nothing.” He coughs, retracting it. Zane glances at him curiously, about to say something before he’s silenced by a quick shake of his friend’s head. You watch the whole exchange go down with an oblivious smile, focusing purely on the rest of the buffet spread.

“I have to go check on Master Wu now, but I hope you enjoy the party. It was nice meeting you.” The words are just empty formalities, but there’s a sense of sincerity in Zane’s voice, along with a hint of amusement.

Cole holds up his plate with a different cake now on it, the yellow sponge with buttercream nestled between its layers making your mouth water. “Want another slice?”

You agree with an eager nod, humming happily when the scent of lemon fills your mouth upon taking a bite. “So tell me, fellow cake enthusiast, how does one simply get to know the Ice Ninja enough for him to be so familiar with you?”

“We’ve been friends for a while now.” His words intrigue you, though you can’t help but still feel wary around him. It doesn’t seem like he’s realised who you are yet though, so that’s a relief. “I think it’s been like, what, five years? I can’t remember anymore,” He laughs. “Besides that, it seems like this friend of yours knows her stuff.”

“She does. She became a fan a couple of months ago and every time she rambled about them I’d kinda tune her out,” You admit sheepishly. He raises a brow in interest. “In my defence, it’s almost always the same thing about how Kai’s the strongest or something.”

He takes a break from yet another slice of cake to take a sip of water. “Well, you should never say that around him, that’s for sure,” He muses.

Seriously though, how is this guy downing cakes faster than you can talk?

“I take it he’s another friend of yours?”

“You could say that. He’s more like an annoying brother that needs to be given a good whack every now and then to bring his ego back down to earth.”

“If you’re their friend, could you do me a favour?” He tilts his head.

“Anything for my fellow cake enthusiast,” he replies, cheekily quoting you from earlier.

“Could you help me get his autograph too? I kinda need autographs from all of them, and if I don’t keep my promise to her…There’ll be consequences, that’s for sure.” Your emotionless smile makes him laugh, already resigning yourself to the fate of a hospital bill to be paid for your poor finger.

“What kind of consequences?”

“Broken pinky finger, y’know the usual.” You reply with a shrug, handing him the album and marker. “Pretty please?”

Cole takes it from you with a playful salute. “You have my word.”

He disappears into the crowd, and your shoulders instantly relax in relief. It’s incredible how he hasn’t noticed, considering that you’ve only just met yesterday. Then again, both of you look vastly different and even have masks on. It’s insane how different he is though, to a stranger who shares his clear fondness for cake, compared to his interaction with his actual soulmate.

Your fingers curl into fists, mildly infuriated by this fact.

Are you, his soulmate, not even worthy of civil conversation?

Ridiculous.

With that thought, you suddenly feel much better about your own reaction to him yesterday. Regret fills your chest when you think about how you could’ve given him another punch yesterday. Alas, what’s done is done.

You’re about to gorge yourself on the rest of the buffet when a blaring siren starts to resound through the halls, murmurs and confused whispers filling the air. The sound is familiar. A fire drill, perhaps.

Who’s the idiot that’d set fire to a museum of artefacts?

“Please remain calm everyone, and follow the ninja to evacuate safely.” A staff member announces, flashing their staff ID to reassure everyone that they can be trusted because, y’know, authoritative figures usually have a big badge.

Unfortunately, the presence of said authoritative figure doesn’t calm everyone else’s nerves. The people around you are filled to the brim with panic, and you spot a few trembling hands here and there. What are they so scared of? It’s not like they’ll get hurt with the ninja around, right?

Your mask slips off in the rush of people scrambling to the exit, roughly bumping against you in the process. You’re just about to pick it up when someone’s foot kicks it away. Annoyed, you make your way toward it, pushing past the panic. Again and again, it’s constantly kicked away from you.

Why are you even making so much effort to get it? A small voice whispers in the back of your mind. You push past another person with gritted teeth, finally making your way to where it’s landed in the corner of the atrium.

The answer is simple — because it’s made with actual emeralds.

Or is it because Emily gifted it to you? The same small voice pokes at your patience, trying to get you to admit an answer that doesn’t exist. It’s valuable, that’s all there is to it.

You spot a shadowed figure slipping away into a different hallway. Suspicious, you glance around. Good, no one’s paying attention to a simple musketeer in this panic. You skulk around the corner, keeping close to the walls as your fingers close around the hilt of your sword.

The further you walk away from the main rooms, the fainter the sounds of chaos. The lights are oddly dim, and a few flickers, giving an ominous feel to the room of scrolls that you enter. A hooded figure stands under a painting of an old man, an ancient scroll in their hand. They're engrossed, reading it intently to the point they don’t even notice your presence.

You draw your sword, the light reflecting off of it alerting the suspicious person when it shines on the painting. They turn instantly, rolling up the scroll and stuffing it into their cloak. “Who are you?” You demand.

Upon seeing you, their shoulders relax, a shadowed smirk on their lips almost as if to say ‘Oh look, I’ve been caught by a costumed musketeer’. Unfortunately for them, you’d taken a few lessons in kendo.

Sure, maybe you’ve never bested your master to this day, but whatever skills or muscle memory you have, you’d have to utilise it to the best of your abilities. A sense of unease stirs something uncomfortable in your stomach, eyeing their shapeless figure and trying to figure out what exactly seemed so off about this person.

They watch you, making no move to defend themselves. They’re waiting, you realise, to see what you’re going to do next. “I will use this,” You threaten, though the way you glance around the room draws a muffled laugh out of them.

Are they…amused?

“Over here!” A voice echoes down the hallway, just out of sight. This alerts them, glancing between the skylight and you before seemingly deciding that being caught isn’t worth the entertainment value you provide.

Before you can react, they punch the ground, revealing an arm covered in a strange contraption, reminding you of a gauntlet. The tiled floor caves below you, and you fall into a pit of their making. “Hey!” You shout, scrambling to your feet, watching them easily manoeuvre their way to the skylight and exit without a problem.

“Damn it,” You mumble, sheathing your fallen sword with a frown. They’d taken the scroll with them. So much for being a musketeer and bringing justice. Looking around, you try to climb your way out of the pit. However, your attempts are in vain as the ground easily crumbles beneath your fingers, giving you the honour of letting you fall again and again.

You grumble, sitting down. May as well wait for someone to arrive.

Butt, meet ground.

The light is momentarily blocked by a shadow. You squint, looking up to see someone staring down at you. He jumps down from above, landing with ease. You scan him briefly, taking in his black gi and hood that covers his face. The Earth Ninja. Once his gaze lands on you, however, he does a double take.

Recognition flashes in his eyes for a fleeting moment. He shakes his head, refusing to let it sidetrack him from his duty. "There’s someone down here!" he urgently calls to what you suppose is another person above, before pivoting back to you. You regard him with an air of suspicion, mildly confused about his reaction toward you.

His voice, his piercing gaze, his build…Finally, finally, the puzzle pieces click into place. You stare at him, ignoring his concerned hand reaching out for you. “Come on! We gotta get out of here!”

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

You reluctantly take it, allowing him to tug your body into his arms as he hauls you out of the pit. Landing on solid ground jolts you, and you grumpily hit his arm, sending him a signal to at least make your journey more comfortable.

He accepts it with a muffled huff under his hood, manoeuvring you with care until both of you stand outside. You let go of his arm, taking a step back and brushing yourself off. The weight of his gaze lingered on you, and you met his eyes head-on. A flinch gives him away, and he awkwardly turns, feigning interest in checking on other civilians who had also escaped unharmed, thanks to the rest of the ninjas.

You can’t help the exasperated sigh that brushes past your lips, crossing your arms. “Of course, my soulmate’s the fucking earth ninja.”

#ninjago #lego ninjago #cole brookestone #cole brookstone x reader #cole x reader #ninjago x reader #cole ninjago #lego ninjago x reader

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wannaeatramyeon · 9 months

Note

THANK U FOR THE RECENT SAMUEL SEO im literally so obsessed with him i cant-

but!! he’s not the only one!!

could u try goo with a childhood friends!lover? (im just going through my list of red flags boyfriends with this trope heh)

To my requests. sorry for not answering in order. Btw I've got a school day/teenager long fic with Goo in the Gun + Goo masterlist... but how about this.

Goo Kim x Reader: Childhood 'friends'

G/N. Sorta childhood friends to lovers.

Goo descends into your life like an angel.

"Will you pay me if I beat up these boys?" he shouts over, giving the wooden baseball bat in his hand a few practice swings.

(He takes in your cowering body, cornered against the wall, the group of older boys slinging insults first.

Then your pristine, limited edition trainers and the expensive label on your clothes second.)

You look over at the short figure with the badly bleached blonde hair. He seems small for his age, same as you.

Best case scenario, he makes good on his word. Worst case, they beat both of you up.

You give a nod and all hell breaks loose.

Goo isn't an angel at all. He's a demon that has ascended and strutted into your life.

"Is this enough?" You ask, peeling open your velcro Sanrio wallet and removing a handful of bills.

"Thanks!" Goo swipes it out of your hand, tainting the notes with blood before tucking it away in his pocket with a reassuring pat.

A body at his feet lets out a groan and he gives them a hard kick. You think there’s a crunch of bone breaking. It’s not as sickening as you thought it would be.

"That one's for free." He gives you a gigawatt grin and you return it. In your eyes, not even what you just witnessed this boy doing could tarnish his shine.

"My name is Goo," he signals for your phone and you hand it over without a second thought. He taps in what you assume are his contact details before giving it back.

"Call me if you need any help." You reach out to take it and he leans in, smile taking a dangerous edge, "You'll need to pay though."

For fear of retribution, you ask Goo to walk you back home from school everyday for the next few weeks.

You text him a time and an address, and he texts you back his price. It's enough to drain your allowance, but not enough for you to risk your safety.

He waits for you by your school gates everyday, with his patchy hair and a scruffy jacket three sizes too big, and gives you a wave with both arms whenever he spots you.

He's chatty. Much chattier than you expected. Always just seemingly rattling off whatever is on his mind. Animes he has watched, manhwas he's reading. What he had for lunch, what he's craving for dinner.

You piece together that Goo is only a few months older than you. He should be in 6th grade by now but he never mentions school. You don't think he even attends school.

He also has a terrible sweet tooth, that you pay for of course. Stopping off at a convenience store together as he picks out a snack.

"Get whatever you want." you say the first time you catch him deciding between a drink or a bar of chocolate. "I'll pay for it."

He buys both.

That should have been a mistake. He drains your allowance further everyday. Yet you can't help thinking it's fine as he gives you a toothy grin that reaches his eyes.

The weeks pass by in the blink of an eye. When you reach your front door on the last day, Goo shuffles, fidgets uncharacteristically.

"I can keep walking you home," he says, eyes on the floor and kicking at dirt. "...I can give you a discount."

Goo starts seeing you at the weekend too.

You're the first person that sees him after getting his hair professionally done.

"I'm handsome, aren't I!" his bravado masks his nervousness. He doesn't know why he's nervous in the first place, but when you agree and ruffle his newly coiffed locks, it evaporates completely.

Payment comes in the form of food and drinks, snacks and street food, cinema tickets, small little gifts he has his eye on.

As consolation, at least he always shares.

When you first met you're sure he was shorter than you.

You don't remember when he matched your height, but now you notice you have to tilt your chin up to look at him.

You miss the scruffy jacket he used to have. The one that he rapidly grew out of, body filling out with muscle. It gets replaced by more and more luxurious brands. His hair looks more and more polished. He picks up glasses along the way to complete the look.

He still makes you pay every time you meet. You feel like he lets you off easy with cheap choices because his taste these days seems anything but cheap.

You wish you had more time with the boy you used to know, but you love the man he's growing into.

Goo never lets you sway too far away from him, keeps you by his side most weeks. Reaches out to send you silly memes or calls you just to ramble his thoughts when you're apart.

You're two peas in a pod.

The longest time you spend apart is when Goo is sent away to juvie.

An unknown number texts you, says they're Goo's cousin and breaks the news.

It doesn't come as a surprise, considering how you first met, the person he is. You've spent years together at this point and seen him at his most violent and bloodthirsty.

Still. For you, nothing can tarnish his shine.

On the day Goo is released, you're waiting for him outside the juvenile detention centre.

You're the first person he sees, and he waves at you with both arms before opening them, welcoming you, offering himself.

He’s even taller, more muscular. His features distinguished and jawline cutting. His hair, just like years gone by, is bleached and patchy.

The grin is the same. It’s always the same.

You sprint and throw yourself full force into Goo, knocking the air out of his lungs.

He holds you tight. Clings on harder than he ever has. Missed you more than he will ever admit.

As if you're reading his mind, you murmur into his collar, "I've missed you.'

Goo takes a deep inhale, nose nestled in your hair and breathing in your familiar scent. Relishing your touch, your presence, you.

He doesn't plan on spending this long away from you ever again.

"Me too, Sweetheart."

#lookism #lookism x reader #goo kim #goo kim x reader #lookism fic #kim joongoo #kim joongoo x reader #wannaeatramyeon

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sophswritingthings · 6 months

Note

Mizu x Apothecary fem reader gave me IDEAS, because now I'm thinking of Mizu and her traveling herbalist wife (complete with a large wooden carrier full of herbs) who gets along with Ringo, and separate (or not) idea: mizu's broad-shouldered archer wife who inherited a war bow, who assists in fights from afar 🥰

a/n: I can surely do that for you my friend <3 have both because I love you and you deserve it

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

— mizu x fem!herbalist!reader

• you and mizu had met in the forests of japan, finding the samurai injured limping through the snow.

• let’s say your relationship wasn’t always the best. started off kinda rocky; she was always pissy with you because that is who she is.

• you tried your hardest to help her but she would barley let you. you settled for forking over the herbs and letting her patch herself up

• eventually she caved because she didn’t know what the fuck she was doing, and let you do it for her

• after that you asked where she was headed, to which you got the answer of tanabe island

• you were happened to be headed the same way. she begrudgingly agreed to let you go with her, and that’s when you met ringo! the “apprentice” she was desperately trying to get rid of

• you wondered why she was trying to be rid of him because he was such a sweetheart; but than you looked and her and you figured you knew why. she liked to work alone.

• that didn’t last long though because she got herself fucked up again and you needed to swoop in and help her

• for once, she didn’t protest. instead, she thanked you.

• that took you by surprise but you smiled and said she didn’t need to thank you. it was your job, after all

• this is about when you find out she’s actually a woman- you don’t really care, though, it doesn’t change your opinion on her or how attractive you thought the samurai was

• you decided to just let all your feelings out than, because you had gotten through this hard ass somehow and you didn’t know when that was going to happen again

• you confessed your feelings about her. and too your surprise, she reciprocated but of course begrudgingly because “tough guy”

• you were about to ask if you could kiss her. you had been waiting to. but before you could ask she cut you off and kissed you

• that’s where your relationship kicked off and you’ve been happily married for a few months now! you travel with her and patch her dumbass up when she gets herself recklessly injured because the fucker is so hell bent on revenge

• she loves you, though. and you know that. you know that with all your heart. she may not say it, all the time, but you know it from the way she relentlessly protects you. from the way she would throw herself in front of a sword for you, a gun, even.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

— mizu x fem!archer!reader

— warning(s): nsfw mentions/swearing

• you had been masking as a man as much as she had, actually, you were one of the archers that heiji shindo had collected to um well kill mizu and taigen (aw meet cute <3)

• you couldn’t really bring yourself to do it, though, you had maneuvered down there and helped them get out.

• this was met with anger from the two of them, and they almost killed you by tossing you off that cliff

• yet when you revealed your true self, a woman who was only truly looking for safe keep, they hesitated

• mizu felt sympathy for you, obviously, you and her and similar. taigen probably thought you were hot ngl- but the minute mizu saw you you were practically hers

• they offered you travel, just until they got where they were going. you agreed happily, resuming your mask as a man

• that was until mizu got you alone. you were staying at a bathhouse; and you had been soaking in one of the baths

• you flipped around, covering your chest when you saw her there. you blushed to hell and back, asking defensively what in the hell she was doing there.

• she replied calmly that she was only coming to do the same as you. relax and unwind from their day.

• you nod. she strips down all her clothes, leaving her hair up. your eyes widen when you realize that you are one in the same.

• suddenly you feel a lot more comfortable having her see you like this

• it escalates from normal conversation to heated passion rather quickly. soon enough she’s on top of you, one hand covering your mouth and the other fucking you until you couldn’t walk

• a while later and you two decide to get hitched <3 you’re her eyes in the sky, protecting her from the trees while she’s on the ground. you protect each other lethally, that devotion driving you for the rest of your life together; through her quest and life after.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

word count: 791 words / 4,600 characters

#txt post #txt #fic #fic request #new fic #hedcanons #mizu x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu #ask #asked and answered

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mockerycrow · 1 year

Note

okkk since my last ask went so Amazingly well (I have read it at least 7 to 20 times)

could you do reader with like almost constantly cold hands? like not extremely cold hands, but enough that it's noticeable? I'm just imagining reader (you could use the Cinder callsign again or whatever you feel works best) maybe patching up a wound and whoever (x gaz again??? again, whoever you feel like is best) is surprised by the sudden coldness

anyway no pressure to answer this, I can't wait for whatever you write next <33333 (also this is totally me projecting my cold hands if this feels super random)

Sweater Weather (Gaz x GN!Reader)

gaz masterlist - crow’s mega masterlist

So now, let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater.

A/N: YET ANOTHER BANGER PROMPT FROM YOU!!! AND ITS FOR GAZ I LOVE HIM SO MUCH!! I hope you get my song reference hehe. i’m also happy you enjoyed the last fic you requested <3 feel free to send in more requests! This is also lowkey a part 2 to your previous request, but it could be a standalone. Cinder is your callsign.

[WARNINGS: minor descriptions of minor injuries, medical inaccuracies, humor, fluff!]

By this point in time, you and Gaz were two peas in a pod. You were the latest person to join the task force, the last for now, but surely not the least. Everyone had their own set of gear and clothing, their own ways of getting into the right headspaces for missions, and everyone had their own things that they had with them at all times. Price always had his cigars, Ghost always had his mask, Soap always had his sketchbook, and Gaz always had a baseball cap with him. You? You always had gloves on. Not on your person, but always on your hands. The only times the team likely saw you without them is when you were exiting the bathroom, but then again, you were slipping them back on after you had washed your hands.

It perplexed Gaz. He understood everyone else’s reasons and items—Price is admittedly addicted to cigars, Ghost is just.. Ghost, Soap’s sketchbook helps him calm down and document things, his own hat was a comfort for him in the field.. But your gloves made no sense. To be fair, he didn’t notice right away. Many people wear gloves in the field to protect their hands, even on the hottest days, they’ll wear gloves and sweat in them until their fingertips prune from the moisture. You? You always, always wore them inside. On base. In your room… While eating— The point is, you always wore them. No matter the situation. It has him—and likely the others-wondering why exactly you do this. The few times they’ve seen your hands without gloves, none of them were close enough to see if you were, for some reason, hiding scars, perhaps hand tattoos, just something that would make sense.

Gaz ended up sporting himself a nasty split lip after an enemy managed to bash his head into a door frame, a wound that definitely needed stitches. It was the lower lip, off-center to the right with blood dribbling down his chin. Everyone was split up on the mission— You and Gaz were paired together, while Soap and Price were also paired. Ghost was operating alone for some stealth work. He’s sitting down on an old wooden chair in a house you two have held up in for the night. You open your duffel bag by the south wall, which is front of Gaz. You rummage around for the medical kit you began to bring everywhere after you fell through the floor a few months ago. “I don’t think we have too much further to go.” Gaz commented, glancing at the boarded up window to his left. There was a small sliver between the boards, allowing him to see that the sun is setting.

“Stop talking, you’ll agitate your lip.” You scold softly, grabbing the handle of the medical kit and you pull it out of the stuffed duffel bag. You glance over at him to see him quietly—yet playfully—mocking you under his breath. Sometimes you’re convinced he spends too much time with Soap, but then you always remember in the back of your mind, he’s more-so playful around you than anyone else. You walk over and place it on the table next to Gaz, opening the latches and pushing the top open. You look into the box and blink rapidly when you don’t see any disposable gloves. You then pick up packages of gauze, the small plastic container holding the medical thread, you practically rearrange everything and yet, it seems they were not packed. “Fuck.” You curse under your breath. You let out a sigh as Gaz asks you, “Cinder? What’s wrong?”

You tear the velcro off of the wrist part of your glove and slip it off, repeating the process with your other glove. “Whoever packaged this medical kit didn’t add disposable gloves, and my gloves are dirty as hell.” You mumble, even slightly pouting about it. Gaz raises an eyebrow at your attitude, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. You grab a bottle of antiseptic and you put your finger up as without looking at him, you already know he’s about to say something snarky. “Open your mouth again and I’ll use this tourniquet on your damn neck.”

Gaz bursts out laughing, causing you to roll your eyes and smile yourself. You pop open and cap and pour the antiseptic onto your hands, the extra liquid splattering against the floor and onto your boots. You set the bottle down and grab a needle and take out some thread. Despite the calm mood between you two, Gaz is still on high alert. You can tell by his posture, the way his eyes flicker towards the boarded up windows, the barricaded door.. On one hand, you wish you could reassure him but you’re also still on high alert, especially after witnessing Gaz get his face bashed. You quietly thread the string through the needles hole, turning to Gaz completely. You grab his jaw to turn his head and this man physically flinches, muttering, “Bloody hell, your hands are cold.”

You laugh as you position his head for the best angle that you need, bringing the needle close to his lips. “Why do you think I’m wearing gloves all the time, Gaz?” Your eyebrows furrow inward slightly as you begin to concentrate, hoping to distract him from the pain of the needle piercing his skin. “Even in the hotter areas our missions were in, my hands would be sweating, yet they were cold.”

Gaz blinks in surprise, completely forgetting about the needle that is about to enter his skin. That’s why you wore gloves all the time? It wasn’t because of a big secret you were hiding? No scars? No tattoos?

You were cold?

Gaz stares at your scrunched face he begins to feel a bit stupid, as he never considered that as a possibility.

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hearts4hughes · 1 year

Note

Congratulations on 500!! I’m just spit balling here but can you please write something with jealous/protective jack. Like maybe the reader and the other boys were mucking around at like a lake house or something and maybe picking the reader up and throwing them in the water and jacks not happy about it maybe with the promt"no way.... you're actually jealous."

nora’s 500 celly !!

“put me down, trevor!” you screeched as he picked you up and walked to the edge of the dock. unfortunately, your protests were ignored as he threw you into the water, jumping in right after you.

when you surfaced, you felt trevor’s arms snake around your body. his wheezy laugh filled your ears and you relaxed into his body.

anything between you and trevor was strictly platonic. his personality was outgoing and flirty, and it always has been. when you first met him, you thought he had a crush on you because of the buckets of compliments and flirty remarks you had gotten from him. but after that, you realized that was just his humor, and you never thought of him as anything more than a friend.

however, you do have a huge crush on one of his close friends, jack. jack is a brunette, hockey player, with amazing charm. almost everything about him screamed boyfriend material, and because of that, you were infatuated with him.

jack watched from afar as trevor clung to your body. jealousy ran through his veins. why was he so close to you? we’re you guys more than friends? did you like him? did trevor like you?

with a huff, he raises to his feet, “i’m going to grab a drink.” his voice was sharp and annoyed. you turn around to trevor with furrowed brows. he wears the same expression.

“what was that about?” he asks, causing you to shrug. you untangle yourself from trevor and swim over to the dock.

“i’m going to go see if he’s ok.” you say, placing both arms on the wooden dock and hoisting yourself up. you grab a towel, barely bothering to dry off before racing into the house after jack.

“jack?” you open the glass door to an oddly quiet house. he hums in response and closes the refrigerator door with a beer in hand. “is everything ok?”

he nods in reply.

your eyes can’t help but scan his shirtless body. he’s tense and stiff, but it does wonders for his abs. the slight tan he got made his muscles more defined and your knees nearly buckled at the sight.

he watched as your eyes wandered around his naked torso. a slight smirk took over his lips. “my eyes are up here, baby.” he teases, taking a swig of beer and placing it down.

red paints your cheeks as you quickly change the subject. “you sounded upset outside. are you sure you’re ok?” you ask again, moving closer to him.

he doesn’t say anything but his eyes talk for him. they flutter back and fourth between your lips and your eyes. he blinks rapidly, pulling himself out of whatever trance he was in.

“do you like trevor?” his voice is quiet and his features are soft. “more than a friend, i mean.” he elaborates.

more than a friend? you had thought he had known the relationship dynamic between you and trevor. had he not? why would it matter to him anyway?

then it clicked.

“no way… you’re actually jealous.” you grin.

his eyes enlarge as his breath hitches in his throat. “what- i’m not- i wasn’t-” he sputtered, clearly trying to mask his nerves.

he throws his head back and runs his hands through his hair frustratedly.

“jack, it’s ok. i was just joking.” you reassure. he lets out a sigh of relief in response. “i’ll meet you outside, ok?” you say and turn around to leave the house.

jack wants to confess his feelings for you so bad. he needs to confess everything to you. all these moments and opportunities he’s had, and he continues to chicken out, playing it safe by hiding his true emotions. but not this time.

“y/n, wait.” he grabs your wrist, halting your steps. his touch on your wrist sends sparks shooting up your spine.

slowly, you turn around. once again, being face to face with the love of your life.

“yes?” you reply. you want to guess what he’s about to admit. god, you know exactly what he’s about to admit. however, you push back the storyline created in your head. there’s no way jack hughes was about to confess his feelings to you. that stuff only happens in the movies.

or so you thought.

“i like you a lot.” he admits, removing his hand from your wrist and scratching the back of his neck nervously. “more than friends.”

a weight feels like it’s lifted off of your shoulders when the words leave his lips. you swear you pinched yourself just to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

“you don’t know how long i’ve waited for you to say that.”

#hearts4hughes #nora’s 500 celly!!#new jersey devils #jack hughes #hockey blurb #nhl imagine #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes imagine #nora's writings 💐

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h0rnyauth0r · 2 years

Text

this man has the most massive chokehold on me :) imagine being head over heels for him and someone tells him about your crush so he decides to fuck you while you’re in a tiny room and everyone can hear you <3

if you're under 16 pls dni! thank you :)

word count: 2.1k

tws: unprotected sex, oral sex (m receiving), cumming inside, he shoves his fingers in readers mouth at some point, mild glove kink, reader with a vagina who yes, gets called a good girl

over time, you’d come to enjoy the company of ghost. at first he scared you so much, but he has such a kind personality and hides it behind his large figure.

you’d learned after a while that his harsh exterior was due to his past, making him rough around the edges. despite this, he still showed how good he was in his actions.

it didn’t take long for you to harbor feelings for him, especially with the amount of mystery he held. you wanted him to open up to you, to tell you how he really feels and who he really is inside.

but instead, the majority of your interactions come while on missions. you offer help and he offers you some, but otherwise you feel like he tries avoiding you.

when you’re on base, the most you see of him is during training. if not there, while he’s hanging out with soap and price along with his other friends.

that’s why you decided to befriend soap in the first place. he was one of the few members who tried making you feel truly welcome, and after you saw that the two were close you craved a bond with him.

he was more observant than you thought, and still is. you would always stare at his good friend and you thought you were good at hiding it. until one day he snapped his fingers in your face with a smug look on his face.

“you have a crush on ghost, don’t you?” he’d asked you quite loudly.

he promised you that he wouldn’t tell anyone but that was supposedly a lie. it started with gaz making small quips while you were training, and then price would wiggle his eyebrows at you when ghost would be nearby.

which then, in turn, led to him finding out. obviously he would, everyone would go quiet whenever the two of you were in the same room together. that’s when he asked soap, who cracked and told him everything.

you had been in the room when this happened, embarrassment causing you to drop what you were doing and leave quickly. you’d never wanted him to find out, especially in this manner.

and now you’re locked away in your room, practically panicking instead of reading the book you’d decided to pick up.

he definitely hates me, you’re thinking to yourself, throwing the hardcover book down onto your wooden desk. it lands with a loud thud, and you sigh heavily.

there’s a loud knock on your door which makes you more flustered. “go away.” you say sternly, taking a seat on your small bed. the knocks keep coming, which makes you irritated.

“i said go away!” you shout, walking up to the door and slamming it open. your cheeks turn hot when you notice who it is. of course it’d be him.

he looks down at you through his mask, eyebrows clearly raised. “that’s not a warm welcome.” he sounds just as annoyed as you, arms crossed as he stands so far above your height.

you walk away from the door and sit down on the edge of your bed. “what do you want?” you ask quietly, refusing to look at him as he walks in and shuts the door behind himself.

as he gets ready to speak, both of your radios go off at the same time. “alright, everyone, we need to head out now. we need to get there just before dark, so move quickly.” price’s voice speaks, making your eyes roll.

of course you’d have to wait until later, not that you’re really complaining.

you’re definitely complaining now. hours after the mission started, price has announced that you’ll have to stay on a remote base for the next few days in order to ensure that every obstacle is overcome.

the base is small as fuck. all of the rooms are so small that everyone has to share, with at least three to a room. soap’s brilliant idea was that he wants to share a room with you and ghost!

you had no time to protest his stupid idea either, so now you’re stuck trying to sleep early with these horribly thin walls. you can hear everyone else in the main kitchen area, since your room is right nextdoor to the eating and living quarters.

you’re facing the wall in the dark, trying to act like you’re asleep when the door opens and shuts quietly. when the light turns on, you sigh and flip around to see ghost looking at you already.

you opt to just turn away again, but you hear his heavy footsteps approach your bed. one of his gloved hands reaches out and grips onto your arm, making you tense up from the unexpected gesture.

you turn, sitting up and looking at him without a word. he decides to sit down beside you, and even with him sitting down he still seemingly towers over you.

“we need to talk.” he says, and you shake your head tiredly. you really don’t want to, especially during a time like this. but he grabs onto your arm once more and you find yourself looking into his eyes once more.

he squeezes your arm for a moment, “soap… well, you know what he said to me. i just think i’m a little too old for you, okay?” he says very softly, and you feel even more embarrassed than earlier.

his words make you roll your eyes. “sure. i don’t care.” you say in an annoyed tone, eye falling down to your lap as you sigh. he moves his hand to your chin and lifts your head up.

“no need for that, kid. i just don’t want to take advantage of you.” you don’t want to react in anger, but his words make no sense to you. you’re a grown adult, he wouldn’t be taking advantage of you at all.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean? i’m grown. i know what i want. and what i want is you.” you snap, eyebrows furrowed as you snatch his hand away from your face.

it’s abrupt, the way his hands reach out for your wrists and slam them against the wall. the sound of everyone else in the kitchen falters for a moment, before picking up just a few moments later.

your cheeks feel as if they’re on fire as he leans in towards you, your nose brushing against his (even though it’s clothed). “maybe i just don’t think you can handle me.” his voice sounds sensual as your breathing picks up.

“i-i think i could handle you just fine.” you say, stuttering just the smallest amount. he’s only spoken to you and you’re 100% certain that your panties have soaked through.

he pushes your body with his own, shoving you down beneath him as he stares down at you. “you’re shaking and i’ve hardly done a thing.” he says, a hand slowly moving down your body and causing goosebumps to erupt.

you swallow hard as you look at him, feeling his gloved hand cup your clothed pussy. his stare doesn’t falter for a moment as he pushes your shorts and panties to the side, a finger running up and down your folds.

now you feel yourself shaking, anticipation making your wetness double in seconds. he hums as he removes his finger, looking at how wet it is and raising his eyebrows towards you.

“this wet already?” he’s teasing you, and you decide that you can do the same thing back. but as you force your hand from his control and make your way towards his pants, he smacks your hand away.

“no. if anything, you’re going to suck it.” he says to you, moving away from your figure and pushing his pants down the slightest. your eyes are wide as you look at his cock, not expecting him to be that large.

you’re not sure how well it’ll go, but you find yourself licking the sensitive tip and practically shoving his dick down your throat as you pleasure him.

your eyes lock with his as you move, and he grips onto your hair and pulls on it for a moment before letting his fingers relax. the only sounds in the room are his heavy breathing and the sound of your mouth on his dick, making you feel like you’re in a dream.

you keep moving your head, your tongue running up and down the length and letting your teeth scrape against it the smallest amount. after a few minutes, he’s sucking in a deep breath and pulling your head off quickly.

you look up at him curiously, noticing that his cock is twitching against his abdomen. “sorry, pretty. not just yet.” he says, watching closely as you lift yourself up and sit on his lap.

you can feel the heat of his dick against you, throbbing and rubbing just enough to stimulate the both of you. “please.” you whisper, grinding against him.

he grips onto your hips, “please what?” he asks as he pushes your body down to make more friction. you feel like you could cum just from these movements, helplessly grinding and letting out small moans.

“fuck me..” you say shyly, and he decides to stop holding back after that. he can’t do it anymore, not when you act so innocent and stupid.

he lifts you up and pushes your body into the tiny mattress, towering over you as he forces your shorts and panties off. he stares at you intensely as you stare longingly, eyes lidded.

he grabs onto his cock and rubs it up and down your folds, allowing the tip to rub especially into your clit. it feels so good that you’re rolling your eyes back, bucking your hips and trying to get him to put it in already.

“so wet…” he mutters, accent thick with desire as he finally pushes the tip in. you let out a breathy moan as it slowly moves in. you feel so stretched out and it’s painfully pleasurable.

once he bottoms out you notice the pressure of his cock against your cervix, before he’s pushing back out and smashing back in again.

once he moves, it’s slow and you’re biting your lip roughly. “be sure to stay quiet.” he says, moving faster and causing the metal frame of the bed to creak the slightest amount.

his hands are touching you everywhere as his pace becomes more rough, randomly grabbing at your tits and managing to twist your nipples the slightest amount. you decide to place a hand over your mouth, but it’s not enough to keep quiet.

he realizes that too, your moans have caused the kitchen to quiet down significantly. but all it does is stir him on in the moment, hips making slapping sounds from the force.

in order to quiet you down he improvises, moving your hand out of the way and putting two of his gloved fingers into your mouth. “suck.” he orders, and you obey him immediately.

you feel your orgasm building up, and once his other hand starts stimulating your clit your eyes roll back and you feel your body twitching and spasming. after he keeps moving, you tip over the edge.

your toes curl and you moan loudly against his fingers, gasping and feeling your pussy clench and squelch against his cock. he starts moving rougher and more intensely, the bed making much louder noises and banging off of the wall slightly.

he makes small grunting sounds, finally reaching his high as he leans down slightly against you. you want so badly to kiss him, but his fingers in your mouth is close enough to that feeling for the time being.

his cum fills your walls up, his hips stuttering against you before he slides out and breathes heavily. “mmm, good girl.” he says to you, pulling his fingers from your mouth and wiping them against the bunched fabric of his pants.

“are ya done in there?” you can hear soap ask from behind the door, feeling yourself flush as you look at the older man in front of you. his eyes look at you and he rubs your cheek with his hand, before he pulls his pants up and helps you get as presentable as possible.

you can feel his cum leaking out of you and into your panties, but it just makes you want more of him. that’ll have to wait though, especially since you know how loud you were.

soap eventually comes into the room, and that’s when you know you’re in for an interesting night with the two men. you’ll never hear the end of this, but maybe if ghost gets angry enough you will for at least tonight.

#ghost x reader smut #call of duty #smut #ghost smut #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost #cod smut #cod #call of duty smut #x reader #female reader

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oumaheroes · 2 months

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[8] + fruk? idk, it sounds like something they'd hardly tell each other but I figured it's a challenge you could enjoy solving. :) i love your writing btw. Thank you for sharing it with the world. <3

[8] 'I love you'

Both of these asks are so so old but I enjoy a challenge, Anons! Took me a while but I got there in the end. Hope you like!

Characters: France, England, FrUK

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

Love Is...

'You're not entirely intolerable.'

England says this to him in warm candlelight, yellows and orange hues dancing gently on his cheek and across his nose. On his back, no less, looking up at France with wine soft eyes amongst expensive coverlets and pillows of a borrowed palace bed.

France's hands are busy, one supporting him, one not, and thus he knows there is some bias to England’s words.

If it were darker, less candlelight and more masking cover, maybe they would be more true. England had always been gentler in the shadows, safer when he feels he can't be seen.

'Shame the same cannot be said for you.' France says in reply, and bites him hard on the shoulder.

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

'You can be useful.'

France sounds surprised.

England clenches his jaw. 'Fuck you.'

'I'm serious.' France twirls the pointed end of his share knife into England thick wooden table. 'There may yet be hope in regards to you being anything of value.'

It is France's own knife, at least, that he is blunting. Gilded- overly so, so it's almost more decorative than usable. Almost. France does so like to find those lines and tease them.

The remains of a meal are pushed aside, a map open and curling long between them instead like a dried up sea. England wants to grab the knife out of France’s hand and jab it in his eye but he doesn’t. He needs France, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, needs his help sweet talking the French nobility and keeping his King in check and so refrains from lunging across the table. Swallows bitterness down and looks from the maimed table to the map.

The French coastline looks alien upside-down but England doesn’t ask France to turn it around.

‘So.’ France’s voice is silky and low, ‘Can you deliver on your end?’

England thinks of his own King, thinks of his endless envy that is great enough to engulf his nation’s pride. He nods.

France clicks his tongue, ‘What a surprise.’

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

‘Where have you been?’ A nation who will one day be England pouts and crosses his arms across his chest, ‘I’ve been waiting here for hours’.

‘It wasn’t hours.’ A nation who will one day be France looks about the bank of the tree where England is sat in distain, ‘The ground is wet.’

‘You’re late.’ England insists, ‘You said you would be here by noon. And wet ground is better to write in.’

‘It’s still noon. Couldn’t you have picked somewhere sunnier? The ground hasn’t dried here; where will I sit.’

‘Are you stupid?’ England holds out an arm and gestures to the shadow it makes upon the floor with another. It is slightly longer than noon would provide, ‘Does that look like noon?’

‘Do you want me to help, or not.’

‘No.’

France sighs, ‘Fine. Do you want me to do this the easy way or the hard way.’

England kicks at a small stone and it bumps a little ways down the small pathway along the edge of the wheat field he’s been biding his time in. This France knows, because there’s chaff caught in his hair and dusting amongst the mud of the dampened hem of his cloak.

‘I already know how to write letters,’ England grumbles, ‘Rome made me learn his, and they’re exactly the same as your ones. Why do I have to do this all again.’

‘Because after Rome, you learnt some barbarian ones, and now I want to make you presentable. These are things any decent, proper nation should know.’ France dusts down England’s hair, ‘And it’s very hard to bring you up to par when you keep avoiding my visits and moving from castle to castle.’

England shakes his head and looks away.

‘You should stay with the King,’ France says pointedly, ‘Not move about the strongholds like a vagabond. You shouldn’t show your earls too much favour.’

France sees England hold himself back from speaking. He knows what England wants to say and is relieved when he keeps the several possible and difficult arguments to himself. An improvement, but maybe only because there’s no one else to hear.

‘Move.’ England says suddenly. He picks up a stick that France had failed to notice, propped up ready to go against a thick root, and waves him out of the way and off the flat dirt road. He begins scrawling in the ground in rigid, sharp strokes. ‘If I write “go fuck yourself” in Latin, Norman, and French, will you do so?’

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

‘I don't always hate you.’

France says this so quietly that England almost didn’t hear him. He wouldn’t have done, if he didn’t know France’s voice and his habits so well. He halts, the quiet palace yawning open unseen down the darkened passage ahead.

From the corner of his eye, England sees France shift where he leans in the archway. He was so still that England hadn’t noticed him as he walked, his dark shape held like a statue in shadows. Now that he knows he’s there, England can almost see the glint of silver threads in the moonlight, fine clothes on a man made just as much from the dirt as he.

A shift of fabric as France moves again. England stares ahead and does not look at him.

‘You may not believe that, but it’s true.’ France offers quietly. ‘I don’t like to think that you believe otherwise.’

‘I don’t like that you make me believe so.’

A pause. England can hear the sounds of the evening: distant footsteps on flagstones, the rustle of trees in the orchard beyond the stone courtyard walls. The smells of thousands of past summers on the warm breeze, blurring the edges of the era and turning the night endless.

The moment stretches, full and expectant. Then, a sigh.

It passes.

France does not reply, and England walks away.

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

‘Are you coming with me?’

France snorts. ‘I am offended that you would ever think that I would.’

‘Oh fuck off. Come on.’ England’s eyes are dangerously captivating, ‘You’re just as bored as I am.’

‘Unlike yourself, I am able to find joy in the finer things.’

‘Francis, this is the worst fucking ball we’ve been to in centuries.’

France winces, ‘Yes, but the food is at least good. And the people here are-‘

‘All over fifty.’

‘We are over fifty. And they’re-’

‘Boring.’

‘Important.’ France corrects, ‘They are important, my dear.’

England scoffs and looks across the lacklustre and lethargic dancefloor, couples with outdated clothes and dour expressions stiffly moving in their formations. He swirls his wine in his glass and points with it shamelessly, ‘Important for what, exactly.’

‘To be seen by. To talk politics with. To encourage away from silly decisions that will ruin my skin for the next decade.’

‘And the younger important people? Or heaven forbid, any fun ones? Where are they?’

France shrugs with one shoulder helplessly, ‘The Viscount is... particular.’

England raises and eyebrow and France shrugs, ‘Fine. It is dull. He is dull, and these are all his dull friends. What do you want me to say, the money is here but the life is gone. I’m not blind, Arthur.’

England adjusts the lace of France’s collar, straightening it from where a point has curled under itself, ‘Well, I’m going to the inn on Perry street. That’s where the kitchen boy told me-‘

‘The one with the hair, or the one with the funny leg?’

‘The one with the teeth.’

France shakes his head, ‘Poor boy. Sugar is a terrible thing, I wonder when people will pick up on that.’

England rolls his eyes and downs his wine. France winces, ‘That was expensive.’

‘Good. I’m off.’ England kisses his cheek quickly, the powdered hairs of his wig tickling France’s neck, ‘Have fun somehow being the most interesting thing in the room for a change.’

‘Ha ha.’

France watches England carelessly drop his very expensive glass onto a passing waiter’s tray and tuts at him, ‘You’re too over-dressed for a common inn, you’ll get mugged.’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘I’m sure you will. When I find your naked corpse in a hedge tomorrow, don’t tell me I didn’t tell you so.’

‘I tell you your make-up makes you look like sun bleached fish every day, and yet you still wear it.’

France huffs and turns away. He hears the clip of England’s shoes as he slips behind a curtain until his steps soften, sights fixed on the dancers. The crowds in the edges of the hall, in the dark corners where candles cannot find them, have a low murmuring buzz that heaves itself above the orchestra enough to give life to the odd word of two. None of them give France any hope.

Once he is sure no one noticed England leave, France downs his own wine and pushes himself away from the wall to join him.

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

‘Be careful.’

England blinks, confused.

It is dark, moonlight all they have to go by, and they are watching British soldiers pour out from and over French beaches into hungry, waiting boats. Months of planning, countless sleepless nights and hours held stressed and tense in the wait for scraps of coded information has lead them here, to this. To men running through waves, to home so close and yet so far, and a flight through the dark to get stranded soldiers home before France falls.

England feels hollow. His chest feels concaved, an empty feeling of something like relief rotting and curdling there at the thought that this momentous victory is in the grand scheme of things, nothing at all. A huge success merely only for how difficult any small victory is. And still a failure because... because-

France’s hand brushes his. England swallows and entwines their fingers together.

‘You’re the one who should be careful.’ He says.

France squeezes his fingers. ‘If-‘

‘Don’t.’

‘-If.’ France’s grip tightens, ‘If, Arthur. Just be careful. I’ll be fine. It’s you who-‘

France breaks off.

‘I won’t.’ England says. He takes a deep breath in. ‘Not me. Not yet.’

‘I would be deeply embarrassed for you, if you do. It’s shameful. To a child, and one raised by Gilbert, no less.’

England snorts and smooths his thumb over France’s knuckle before he breaks them apart. He tugs down his uniform, wishing for gold trimming and a deep red coat, and smooth wood of a longbow.

D-Day unfolds in the muddied, darkened shallows of Dunkirk beach, and two empires watch the world turn over and into something new.

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

‘Move over.’

France wakes to a knee in the small of his back. ‘A.. Arthur?’

‘Francis, move.’

Bewildered, France obediently shuffles over and there’s a gasp of cold air as England lifts the covers to climb inside. ‘What are...?’

‘Shh!’

France hears the heavy drapes around his bed being rearranged, then gets another knee in his back as England burrows down next to him.

France turns over. In the darkened room and behind thick curtains, England is nothing more than a source of warmth and the feeling of being watched. ‘What are you doing here.’

‘This is my castle, isn’t it?’

‘It’s one of your King’s castles, yes.’

‘Well then.’

‘But you weren’t here.’ France whispers, When we arrived. ‘He is very upset. He says you shame him.’

‘He shames me.’ England’s cool hands find themselves under France’s back, ‘The grandson of a usurper has nothing to do with me.’

‘Arthur.’ France cautions, but then stops. It is not the time, nor place. Nor, he knows, his place, really, to say anything at all. He places his hand on the cool skin of England’s arm and squeezes it, ‘I’m happy you’re here now. Apart from all the dirt you’ve likely tracked into the bed.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘I can smell it. You smell like outside.’

‘Outside doesn't have a smell.’

It does. Brought in to a human space where it doesn’t belong, the night air that clings to England’s hair and skin is earthy and cool. Fresh and foreign amongst wood fires and the fresh thresh on the floors.

‘I changed.’ England insists, seemingly having taken France’s lack of answer as an argument, ‘I do have nightclothes, you know. I’m not a savage.’

‘Hmm.’

England wriggles his fingers under France’s back to the soft parts of his sides and France can’t help but yelp as they tickle.

‘I was in York but heard you were leaving.’ England says, ‘Did you want to go riding before you go?’

‘We go Tuesday.’ France whispers, conscious of the servants littered about the room asleep. How England crept past them all or even got into the castle so quietly in the first place, he’ll never know. ‘We’re almost ready.’

‘So, do you want to go riding, or not.’

It is Sunday. There will be a lot to do before he goes back to his own lands, lots of packing and planning and then talking to people and France is exhausted just thinking about how much of it he will be needed for, let alone the voyage back across likely windy seas.

‘I don’t want to share. I want my own horse.’

‘Fine.’

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

‘Here.’

England looks up from his laptop to find a cup of what might be soup held aloft before him.

France waggles it, evidently deeming England too slow on the uptake, ‘Take it.’

England does, cautiously, and moves his laptop aside to safety. ‘What’s this for.’

‘You.’

‘I could infer that.’

‘Could you? I never want to assume.’ Before England can tell him not to, France settles himself in the seat opposite. The booth England has hidden himself in has a wide table down the middle which takes up most of the room, but France moves himself into the tight space far more dramatically than is needed.

The soup is hot. England pops the lid off- carrot and coriander. His stomach clenches at the smell, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. ‘Where on earth did you get it? They stopped serving dinner hours ago.’

‘I know. You missed it.’ France shoots him a pointed look, ‘I went to a café down the road.’

England looks down and swirls the soup around the Styrofoam. It’s thick, good quality. ‘I’m not paying you for it.’

‘Ah yes, because that is why I went.’

England glances at his laptop. France shuts it. ‘Now, whilst you’re eating, listen to me. I have a story for you.’

England takes the spoon that France offers and stirs. He wonders if France has any chocolates in his pockets, ‘Is it about the look Antonio gave-‘

‘Yes.’ France leans forwards eagerly, ‘But shut up. Let me talk.’

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

‘It’s... it’s large.’ The scientist at the front of the room looks shrunken, weighed down and wizened. He runs a hand through his hair, glasses glinting in sterile, overheads lights. ‘It’s large.’

France looks up and catches England’s eye. He looks tired, old.

Scared.

Question lights flash on around the room, every national and political delegation with something to say or ask. The scientist seems to freeze, overwhelmed by where or who to turn to first, and then people start shouting all over each other, nations and their politicians alike.

‘What the fuck is this?’ France’s president holds her hands to her mouth and shakes her head slowly from side to side, ‘This cannot be happening.’

‘There is nothing we can do!’ France hears the scientist say over the braying clamour, ‘It’s too late, it’s-‘

‘Francis.’ England is there, at his shoulder. ‘Come on.’

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

‘What the fuck have you done to yourself?’

France sniffs and turns away, ‘That’s none of your business.’

England snorts and hangs his hat and coat on the stand, ‘You look like you’ve fallen off a horse.’

‘You look like an unkempt vagabond.’

England looks down at his finely pressed suit and trousers and then back to France. He is on his sofa, studiously reading a book and not looking at England making himself comfortable in France’s livingroom. His leg is before him on a padded stool, swollen at least twice the size, and there is a purple bruise blossoming upon one cheek.

England comes around the back of him and brushes soft golden hair away from France’s shoulder. ‘I could do better.’ he says, gently thumbing the fragile scabbing of France’s bottom lip.

France swats at him, ‘Go away. I don’t want you here.’

‘Wrong place wrong time? Or did you try to speak sense again to someone who actually has some.’

‘Arthur, stop.’ France catches England’s wrist and kisses the inside, ‘You’re too unsympathetic to understand.’

‘Hmm.’ England kneads at France’s shoulder and then heads to the kitchen, ‘Would it help you to know I’m planning on telling everyone you fell ice skating?’

France lets out a bark of laughter, ‘Oh? And who on earth would you tell.’

‘Anyone who will listen.’ He collects a glass and a bottle of wine, along with some bread and some of the expensive cheese that he knows France always squirrels away in his pantry whenever he can, and takes them back to the living room.

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

‘If you could be anywhere, where would you be.’

Soft music from a Spanish restaurant down the road, warm ocean breeze. Anywhere and everywhere, all at once.

Besides him, England sips warm ale from a can he smuggled through customs and shrugs, ‘Home.’

‘That’s a boring answer.’

‘That’s the truest answer.’

‘And where again would Arthur go, if he could leave England behind.’ Francis watches Arthur from the corner of his eye, sees the fragments of him outside of all else that they always are.

‘I can’t leave England behind.’ England says, ‘So there’s not much point entertaining it.’

‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation.’

‘Then don’t ask a hypothetical question.’

Francis sighs, and retreats. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and watches the smoke drift away into the dark.

‘But if you’re asking time.’ England tilts his head, considering. Behind them on the seafront, students between bright club front lights in loud, drunken clusters, ‘Now, I think. Maybe a hundred years ago, at most.’

‘Really?’ France is surprised, ‘I would have thought-‘

‘Boring answer,’ Arthur says, and the rest remains unfinished.

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

‘Don’t you fucking die on me.’

Of all the places England expected to die, this was actually what he’d considered the least likely. In Calais, oft contested, right by the sea, and entirely calm. No war or battle to take him, no disease or crop failure to push him along. He can see Dover in the distance, his white cliffs so close he can almost feel them in the bones they represent.

But above them, burning and close, the sky roils.

France lies in his lap on the grass of his garden, eyes wet and smiling. ‘That’s not fair, you can’t say that to me. That’s what I was going to say to you.’

‘I’m serious.’ England swallows down something bitter and painful in his throat, and brushes the hair from France’s face, ‘You’re not allowed to go first unless I’m given that honour. Keep yourself awake.’

France freezes, eyes wide, ‘What-‘

‘I know you too well,’ England says, and dips his head to kiss him. There is a golden chain around France’s neck, old and reliable. On it hangs a much-used pendant, once again filled and ready. Still full, he hopes.

England fiddles with it in the hollow of France’s neck and sees the burning heavens reflected in his eyes. ‘We’ll go together.’

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

‘I love you.’

On a nameless bit of a terraformed Earth that might have once been a small kingdom in the northern sea, a man called Francis pauses at the hydro sink, half washed cup in his hands. A man called Arthur stands next to him with a dish cloth and when Francis turns to him, Arthur stares back, face inscrutable.

Arthur does not mince words. He has always spoken his mind frankly, regardless of how offensive or tactless his thoughts may be. He has never tailored himself to a situation, never presented himself as anything he is not. But softness and open vulnerability is not a texture he can wear upon himself. Not because he doesn’t have any, Francis knows, but because he expects that Arthur doesn’t know how. Some core part of his personality that gets lost from his heart to his tongue, or given spikes along the way.

Maybe that was what caught Francis’ attention in the first place, all those years ago on the transport ship to Earth. The parts Arthur kept to himself more than the parts he did not. Arthur spoke kindness and care in actions, not words, and words were what Francis had heard far too much of.

Francis looks away and makes sure to keep his face just as blank, just as unconcerned.

‘I love you too.’

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