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hyperesthesias · 2 months ago

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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Character

summary: Simon "Ghost" Riley makes the mistake of intervening on the behalf of a woman stuck in an abusive relationship. The only reason it's a mistake -- he has six months of leave, and he's falling for her. When he ships out, he promises that if she's ever in danger again, to call him and he'll come running. Ten years later, he receives that call -- only to find it's her daughter who's asking for his help.

author's note: this idea came to me while i was falling asleep, and it bothered me all night until i could write it today. i apologize for the chicken scratch. it's really just three ideas in a trench coat. i love this idea so much i might turn it into a book at some point. if that happens, i will probably delete this. but for now -- enjoy!

content: unformatted & not proof-read; references to past sexual assault; references to torture; abusive relationship (not perpetuated by Ghost); graphic sex; kidnapping; canon-typical violence; PTSD.

words: 10,692.

if you'd like music while you read, these songs are what i wrote this to: whiskey sunrise by chris stapleton // just pretend by bad omens // vore by sleep token.

He is on leave. He is attempting to assimilate into the usual crowd of a parking lot, but no matter how aware he is of his gait, or how many times he looks over his shoulder, he can't shake the feeling that he is inherently out of place. He's been home three weeks, back on English land, where the sea and river air feel damp on his skin, and he realizes home is an idea, not a place. He'll never feel the way he did all those years ago, when he was once a person he no longer recognizes.

He is content to stock up on the regular supplies: alcohol and caffeine -- caught in the perpetual sedative-stimulant cycle. He can make do with whatever else he has at his flat; it's sparse and barely furnished, but he's certainly had worse. He doesn't want to think of worse right now. He wants to think about getting a couple of six packs, and sitting in that in the living room chair that's too soft, and that's too difficult to get out of, he wants to think about putting his feet up, and pretending to watch football. He wants to pretend to be normal, if only for a few hours, until night falls and sleep waits in the corner for him.

But he's too observant for his own good -- it's always saved his ass, but sometimes, like today, it's a curse.

He sees a man in the far end of the parking lot, with the distinctive glint of a blade in his hand. He's growling behind grit teeth something Simon can't hear clearly. The man has gotten out of his car, and is slashing the tires of another man, who's trying to stay as far away from the sharp end of the knife as possible; there's a woman seated in the passenger's side of the aggressor's car, she's still as stone, terrified to move.

Simon swears under his breath, knowing he's not obligated to do a damn thing while on leave -- and knowing he's more than obligated, despite. His appearance is still obscured, he's wearing a black surgical mask, with a black aviators, and a cap; he looks like someone pretending to be tougher than they are. But no one needs to know otherwise.

He intervenes in the situation, trying to deescalate as quickly and as quietly as possible. Using a light pole and the position of the two cars as cover from the security cameras in the parking lot, he places himself between the aggressor and the victim -- who is now taking photos of the tires for insurance. Simon has one eye on the girl inside the man's car, and the other on the shaking hands of the coward in front of him. After his attempts to talk him off the ledge fail, Simon easily disarms the man and sprains his wrist as he twists the hilt of the knife out of his palm. He lands a punch into the man's gut, and tells him to stay down as he doubles over onto the pavement. When he doesn't obey, Simon kicks him in the head to make sure he doesn't wake up for a while. He briefly glances at the man whose tires were slashed, but he only turns a blind eye, still preoccupying himself with his insurance photos.

Simon makes his way to the passenger side, still avoiding the cameras, where the woman remains paralyzed from the violence that has occurred in front of her. He leans one arm on the roof of the car as he peers into the window, and ushers her out.

"You could do a lot better than him, you know," he says.

She looks her behind her to the man on the ground, then to the one who is standing above her. She doesn't say anything, but follows the instruction to exit the car.

"My advice --" Simon says, without prompting, "take this as a win. Leave him behind. A man like that will only bring you down."

It takes her a moment to register what he's said, but ultimately she agrees. She half expects him to be gone by the time she looks back at him -- like a vanishing stranger clad in all black -- but to her surprise, he's still there. He's standing beside her, looking at his smartphone. "Th--Thank you," she says.

He gives her half a look as he continues to fiddle with his phone. "Don't mention it."

She takes it as a command, rather than a pleasantry.

"I can call you a ride," he tells her, and hands her his phone -- a burner. "Put your address in, and I'll make sure the bastard doesn't start coming to."

She shakes her head. "I live just down the block. I'll just...walk home."

"He know where you live?"

"Yes," she answers, a cling of shame to her voice -- for a reason she can't quite discern.

Simon deviates from his plan, and instead puts in an anonymous tip to the police about a man causing a disturbance at the grocery’s address. The victim with the slashed tires isn't going anywhere any time soon, and would still be there to give a statement. "He won't be bothering you for a few days, at least. Long enough for you to get somewhere he doesn't know about." He walks her home.

She introduces herself as Cecelia, and all he replies is: "Simon".

He never got that beer. The next day, he goes to a different store, hoping he doesn't run into another moment of conscience.

The next week, he makes the misguided attempt to check on her. He debates for a while on whether or not it would come across as predatory that he remembered where she lived. He never vacillates in the field, but every time he remembers he's not in the field, he questions whether his decisions are appropriate for 'normal' life. He's made peace with never being 'normal', but for a moment, he'd like to not feel so unfit for human society.

Cecelia answers the door, and a part of him is disappointed -- disappointed that she wasn't far away from her ex-boyfriend, and disappointed that now he has to actually speak to someone.

"Simon," she welcomes him, to his surprise.

At her bidding, he steps inside her flat; he checks the corners around the door and the foyer, a habit of which he's painfully aware. "You always invite masked strangers in?"

She chuckles at the oddity, and closes and locks the front door. "You would be the first. But I don't consider us strangers -- not after your help last week. I am grateful."

"You able to find somewhere safe?" he asks.

"They're keeping him for now. He can't afford bail."

He nods and looks around at her apartment, that prickly feeling of being out of place starting to get worse, and more intense at the forefront of his skin. She has houseplants, a warm, well-used couch, paintings hanging from the wall. There's an electric tea kettle on a breakfast bar, with a lipstick stained mug sitting next to it. Her home looks like something out of a dream he had on occasion as a child -- after watching too many sitcoms on television. Everything always looked happy, everyone always laughed and got along. It was just as well it was on television, nothing like that could be real. Until it is, and until he's standing in the middle of it -- ill-fitted.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he says, hoping for a quick and quiet exit. "Just wanted to make sure he hadn't come back to give you trouble."

"Please -- can't I offer you tea?"

She had the good kind in a glass jar on that breakfast bar, and his well-engrained comforts gave him a moment of pause. It was just enough of a pause to let her move from him to the kettle, where she was already making him a cup. She tells him it's the least she can do for him. He waits until she takes a drink of hers first. It is damn good tea.

She tells him her ex's hearing will be in a couple of weeks. Simon tells her he'll check on her then.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps in regular contact with Cecelia. Every time he comes over, she makes him a cup of tea, updates him about the case against her ex, and then they sit in silence. It's become a routine. After two months, he starts coming to her house even without cause from her ex's case. He starts to feel like those feral cats she feeds on her patio. But the silence is nice. Sitting in the warmth of her living room, instead of his own -- cold and rigid -- it was a pleasant change. There's a subtle, subconscious thought that he's afraid to let come to the surface -- that in a way, she has saved him as much as he helped her that day.

"When do you go back?" she asks one afternoon, breaking the silence between them.

Immediate suspicion grows within him, and he doesn't answer for a while, he only stares at her.

"It's not a difficult assumption that you're military," she explains. "I had a brother in the Navy." She pulls out a gold pendant necklace from beneath her sweater and shows it to him, hoping the display of vulnerability might help him feel more comfortable to answer. "This was the last thing he gave me. He sent it to me while he was overseas. He never stopped worrying about me, even while he was in active duty," she smiles, but it's a sad smile.

The stiffness in his shoulders softens only mildly, and he breaks his gaze from her. "I ship out in four months."

She only nods. A part of her was hoping that it'd be longer, that they'd have more time to get to know one another. The mystique was enticing, but the comfort she felt sitting in his company was something she hadn't felt in a long time. She would miss it when he was gone.

"What happened to your brother?"

"He was killed," she answers. "In a training exercise. That never sat right with me, though. I always felt they weren't tell me the whole truth."

"Probably weren't," he says.

"I don't know whether or not that's a comfort or if it just makes it worse."

"Whatever the truth is, probably worse. Better to take what they give you."

"You always take what they give you?"

He looks at her again. This time, not with suspicion, but with guilt. Guilt of following orders, guilt of not. The weight of betrayal. The heaviness of killing the people who were meant to have his back -- the people he was meant to trust. The anger and despair that he keeps caged somewhere just below the surface of being double crossed by those meant to guide him. It's a long time before he answers: "No."

They don't speak again for the rest of the afternoon. He leaves, as he always does, but this time he washes the mugs before he goes.

Another week passes, and in the middle of the night, he's startled by his phone ringing. It doesn’t wake him, but it disrupts the cycle of blended thoughts and memories that blanket him at night. He has half the mind to let it go to voicemail; it's just his burner phone, no one important has that number -- besides Cecelia. The static of worry crawls beneath his skin, and he looks at the caller ID. It's her.

"You alright?" he answers.

"Simon --" panic is set into her voice. "I think someone's trying to break in."

"Lock yourself in the closet. I'm on my way."

He's armed to the teeth when he gets to her flat. The glass patio door has been jimmied open, and her apartment has been tossed. The paintings are broken and hanging crooked on the wall, the soil from the plants is spilled and pressed into the carpet by footprints. Simon stalks from room to room, until he hears Cecelia scream from her bedroom. He raises his weapon and pushes open her bedroom door -- the ex is pulling her out of her closet by her hair, with a baseball bat in his other hand.

"Drop it!" Simon demands. It surprises her attacker, that his grip lightly loosens from her -- she's trying to wriggle free from his hand beneath him. "Drop it, or I drop you."

"You! -- You bastard!" he yells back. "This is your fault! Look what you've done, huh! Look at it!"

Simon doesn't take his eyes off her attacker, but he can see Cecelia clawing at the man with every might of strength she has -- she's pulling blood from his arm. "Let her go. I'm not telling you again."

The man releases Cecelia's hair, and grips the bat with both of his hands. He lunges at Simon with full force. Simon deflects the bat with one arm, feeling the impact of the wood absent of any armor. He follows his hand around the bat and grabs its handle, flipping it out of the attacker's grasp. He holsters the gun -- wanting to draw as little attention to himself as possible; and in that same sentiment, he refrains from hitting the man in the head with his own bludgeon -- regardless of how much he wants to. With a powerful swing, Simon cracks the bat against the man's tibia. The bone snaps audibly and the man collapses to the floor, wailing in agony. Whether out of the assurance of safety, or out of the flame of revenge, Simon takes one more pass with the bat and breaks both of the man's kneecaps.

He once more calls the police, and her attacker is taken to the hospital for his injuries under police escort. Simon encourages Cecelia to be seen by the paramedics, even though she insists she's fine. But no matter how many times she refuses, Simon tells her she needs to. They take her to the hospital for a concussion. He makes himself scarce.

He debates visiting her the next day. Much to his chagrin, and no matter how much he tries to deny it, he's grown attached to her. He knows it's not inherently a negative thing, but it is a liability. Regardless of how much of an asshole her ex was, Simon couldn't help but feel there was some truth to what he said: that if he hadn't intervened that day, nearly three months ago, that none of this would've happened. He tries not to think about the long term consequences of his actions.

He visits her in the hospital anyway.

He brings her flowers in an awkward gesture -- though it’s no less heartfelt.

"You have someone you need me to call?" he asks.

She's lying in her hospital bed, scraped and bruised, still mildly concussed, but grateful her injuries weren't worse. "No. It's just me."

"No friends?"

She sighs. "Not anymore. He made sure of that."

He nods, knowingly. His own father isolated his mother, Margot, as much as he could, until she'd had no one left. "I heard the doc say he’s gonna release you later today."

"I wish I was happier to go home."

"You don't have to be happy," he says.

As cynical as it sounded, it relieves the pressure from her shoulders of having to put on a front. "I could use some clothes, though."

"I'll get 'em for you," he tells her.

He returns to her flat and packs her an overnight bag. Her flat is a wreck, and the doors are still compromised. When she is discharged, he brings her to his place instead.

"You take the bed," he tells her when they step through his door. "I'll have the couch. I'd offer you tea, but it isn't any good." Even when he's joking he never sounds like it.

She's gotten accustomed to this timbre, and looks at him with a smirk. "I guess I'll have to settle for a beer, then."

She can't see it, but he's returning the smirk. At his place -- which he doesn't call a 'home' -- he takes off the black surgical mask, and the cap; he takes off his gloves, and puts them all by the front door. It's one of the rare times she's seen him so bare.

He helps her get settled, and gets her the beer. She's seated on his couch and he joins her. "It's as cold as it's gonna get."

She stays with him for a week; the patio door is being repaired by the insurance and the landlord. She doesn't mind, she feels safer at his place anyway -- even if it is lacking warmth. He's always awake before her, and every morning, she's woken by the scent of coffee. When she comes out of the bedroom and into the living area, there's always a cup waiting for her on the table.

Simon adds reinforcement to her front and patio doors. "Don't tell anyone where you got this," he tells her as he installs the locks and alarms for her. He helps rehang her paintings, and scrub the carpet. It takes his mind off of other things that try to come to the surface. His mind is emptier of its evils than it has been in a long time, and he's acutely aware that this is temporary.

When Cecelia is settled in her place again, she asks him to stay. He doesn't want to say no.

So he doesn't.

It's a whirlwind romance -- one they both know will end in only a few months' time. Despite the fact that he's only known her for a brief period, he can't recall feeling so comfortable. He won't say safe. He'll never say safe. Because he never is. He won't say at peace. And he won't say happy. But he is comfortable. It's a foreign feeling, one that he distrusts if he thinks about it too long. But when he's lying next to her at night, the brutal images in his head are less vivid, the screaming voices are quieter, sometimes he even sleeps.

They haven't had sex. It's not a subject he's even broached, and neither has she. When she lies beside him, the most contact they have is her hand on his chest, and her face nestled into his side.

She kisses him on the cheek once, and it takes him a moment to process it. He's still and quiet, his eyes are downcast as he's contemplating it. She asks if she's done something wrong. He tells her no -- not at all.

One evening, when he's staying at her place — as he often does — they're on her couch after a couple of drinks. They were at one point watching television, but they've since been ignoring it -- talking, and in between whispered words, soft kisses. One thing leads to another, and she's sitting on his lap, his arms are around her, and he's kissing her deeply. He forgot how to kiss like this -- he didn't think it was still possible within him. That there was still some form of passion and intimacy that was in his spirit. He's hungry -- and with every kiss he's getting hungrier. She's laughing and enjoying herself. The way she feels on top of him feels good, it's just enough movement and pressure to turn him on. It feels good -- until suddenly it doesn't.

Simon immediately pulls away and stops. The passion in him is walled up, shut up, and where there was once heat beneath his skin, it's now cold, concrete.

Cecelia stops and looks for his eyes. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He tries to get himself to talk. But nothing comes out. He's not supposed to talk. He's not supposed to say anything. He's trying to squirm away from her now, and she takes the signal quickly. She gets off his lap, and sits beside him, still trying to figure out what happened. She gets them ice water instead of asking any more questions. He looks like he's still dissociating by the time she comes back, and she has to prompt him to take the water.

Simon goes back to his place that night. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, until the nightmares come.

He's startled awake the next morning by a sound that doesn't exist. It takes several minutes for him to catch his breath -- his heart is in his throat, and he can't focus on anything in front of him. Eventually, he's able to discern his own sheets, he's able to tell he's in England, that he's nowhere near Mexico — his captors. He's still shaking by the time he finally reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

There's a text from Cecelia. He opens it, expecting the worst: that she never wants to talk to him again after what happened last night. That his rejection of her was insulting, and that he was less of a man for it. It was for the better, he thinks. It saves him a messy departure later.

But the text is very different than what he thought:

She apologizes. She thinks his reaction had something to do with her.

It couldn't be further from the truth.

Cecelia was indescribably incapable of the evil done to him. He just doesn't know how to explain that to her.

Well, how to explain it to her and still maintain some kind of dignity and confidence.

It would be easier if he doesn't reply, he thinks. Again, it would save him a messy ending with her. If he ghosts her -- no pun intended, he thinks to himself, but fitting regardless -- he never has to explain himself. He never has to tell the truth. Even to himself.

But that would be cowardly.

He's a lot of things. But a coward isn't one of them.

He doesn't reply.

Instead, he's on her doorstep later that evening. Just like one of those feral cats.

Cecelia answers the door, and he can't look her in the eye. "I come in?" he asks, his head still on a swivel, both out of instinct, and also to provide an excuse as to why he won't look at her.

She agrees, and closes and locks the door behind him. She doesn't say anything for a minute, waiting for him to make the first move, but instead he's standing in the middle of her living room, awkwardly -- like a video game character in the loading lobby.

"I didn't think I'd hear from you," she says. "I hope I didn't --"

"It's not you." He cuts her off. "You didn't do anything." He takes his hat off, and runs a gloved hand through his hair as he tries to figure out what to do with himself. He still won't remove the mask. He needs something -- some kind of barrier.

"I'll put the kettle on," she says. It's going to be a long night, she can feel it.

It's been years, it's been a lifetime ago. But some things don't stay dead. Like memories. All those weeks under Roba's influence of torment, retreating into ugly corners of his mind to escape the evil being done to him at the drug lord's hand, and all those under Roba's command -- viscerally having his body and mind being used and crushed in the attempt to break him. He hasn't talked about it, except in veiled mutters under his breath -- only once -- to Price. Even then, he wasn't entirely sure he understood, Simon made no effort to clarify.

He doesn't go into detail with Cecelia. She doesn't deserve to hear about the gore, the blood and violence. But he gives her clear implications, with bullet points of what transpired after he clawed his way out of Roba’s torture, out of Vernon's grave: the deaths of his mother, his brother and sister-in-law, his nephew.

Hours have passed since he showed up without warning, and yet their time together has been mostly silence. His words few and far between, he said most of what he meant without speaking. She didn't interrupt him.

At last she asks: "Did you get them?"

He looks at her, for the first time since he arrived. But he can't hold her eyes long, and he nods. "I got 'em."

"Good."

The next week, they're on her couch again -- two drinks in, with the television mindlessly on mute -- and this time, he lowers her onto the cushions, where he settles on top of her.

Foreplay last for several days. He gets to a point where he can be shirtless, or have his pants unzipped, until he backs down. He lies on her chest instead, and falls asleep as she runs her hands through his hair. She tells him more than once he doesn't have anything to prove. He knows, he tells her, it's something he wants to do; his mind and body need to do some catching up, is all. She waits.

It's the weekend, and she's invited him to stay over the next few days. She'll make them dinner. He comes by with a six pack and some fresh bread. There's a box of condoms in his back pocket, but he's not going to tell her that -- he doesn't want to promise anything and then not deliver.

But it happens. And it happens because they're not trying to make it happen.

They move to the bedroom; he has half his clothes off by the time she follows him. She's in her bra and panties as she gets on the bed -- she regrets it's not the matching pair, but it doesn't even look like he notices. At his request, she doesn't sit on top of him, she sits beside him as she rubs her palms into his chest, down his abdomen, trailing every outline of his body with a single finger.

She has a cute nose, he thinks -- it scrunches as she smiles, and she hasn't stopped smiling since they ran to the room like teenagers trying not to get caught. He cups a hand on her face, tracing her nose and the lines of her smile. He leans to put a kiss on her mouth, her hands taking his jaw gently. Every movement is gentle and deliberate. She moves her lips from his, down his neck, where they follow his sternum, his stomach, to the trail of soft hair that leads beneath his briefs. With his help, she removes them, and puts them with the pile of clothes on the floor.

He's already getting hard, and she wraps her hand around his cock, gently pumping him to help him along. She feels him twitch as he takes a deep breath, and when she looks at him to see if he's alright, he brushes a lock of her hair behind her ear. She dots gentle kisses along his tip and frenulum, and his hand moves from her hair to twist into the sheets beneath him. She laughs as she takes him into her mouth, and the vibration of her laughter onto his cock makes him swear.

Simon takes another breath and watches as she bobs up and down his length, now fully erect. As she feels his body tense, she stops and returns to putting kisses along his shaft.

"You're teasing me," he says.

"I'm warming you up," she laughs again.

He reaches for the box of condoms on the floor, and rips open the package to use one. He sits up and pulls her close, onto his lap. He buries his face into her the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent.

Cecelia takes him, inch by inch, as she sits on his lap, and the moan that escapes her sets his mind on fire. He pulls her closer to his chest, and grabs the pile of her hip as she starts to rock back and forth against him. She's whining as he tenderly bites into the soft skin of her neck -- leaving a pleasant mark behind in his wake.

He starts to feel unsure of himself, unsure of the position they're in, when Cecelia stops and nestles her nose into his hair. She puts another kiss on the top of his head, and they sit there for a moment -- barely moving, except for the rising and falling of their breathing.

Simon initiates the next movement, where he begins to thrust into her. One hand behind him among the pillows to balance him, the other holding her hip to keep her steady, he's looking into her face as she puts her hands on his shoulders. She begins to rock back and forth again, finding a rhythm with him, and as she does, she puts her hands behind her head, fanning out her hair as she seems to dance on top of him.

He has a brief moment of feeling foolish -- in believing she looks like some ethereal spirit, or a nymph. Like one of those paintings that he's seen on the walls of great leaders. But his doubts are drowned out by her leaning on him and putting her mouth on his.

They stay in this rhythm for some few moments, until he gently turns her on her back, and settles himself between her legs. He takes one of her feet and kisses it, before he wraps her legs around his waist.

He keeps a steady pace into her, the feeling of pleasure wafting through his body with unfamiliar electricity, his appetite suddenly whetted, and his thrusts become harder. Her moans and whimpers getting louder, more intense, as she touches herself. Simon reaches his hand to massage her sex, and her whole body tenses -- her core grips around him in soft waves. He comes -- intensely, and at the feeling of her, at the sight of her lost in the pleasure of him. A gasp sputters from him at the sensation of satisfaction that takes hold of his mind and body.

She reaches up to him and takes his face in her hands again as she puts her brow to his. His breathing is heavy, and it washes over her damp skin, sending a shiver of cold throughout her.

He lies beside her again that night, as she puts her hand on his chest, and her face into his side. Except this time, he turns to her, to see her -- face on. He usually tries to obscure himself as much as possible, but just for this moment -- just for the time he has left with her, he wants to be seen. Just for now.

Simon lives at her flat for the remaining weeks he has left of leave. He tries not to lean into the fantasy as hard as he wants to -- but when she invites him to the market to get ingredients for dinner, he can't refuse her. He's on edge the entire time -- searching the crowd for anyone who might become a threat, the sinking feeling of waiting for a detonation to occur when there isn't one keeps his eyes fixed on the periphery of the farmer's market. He briefly loses track of her, and he's ready to pry her from the arms of an enemy that isn't present -- he finds her picking fruit from a basket at a vendor's stall. It's the moment he knows he can't ever have a normal life. It's something he's always known, but the image of its reality is materialized as he watches her smell peaches from a distance.

His recall date is approaching faster than he wants it to. As strong as he is, he can't slow Time. Every night when he lies awake in bed, he watches her sleep. With the images of her bedroom, and of her living room, and the breakfast bar with the kettle and well-worn mugs upon it, with the image of her sleeping peacefully, cuddled beneath her blankets beside him, he builds a new place in the dark corners of his mind. Somewhere into which he can retreat when the night gets ugly. When the job gets uglier.

The night before he's recalled, they make love again. He adds the blissful memory to that place in his mind. He holds her tighter, fucks her with an intensity and a desperation he couldn't speak in words; he keeps her as close as he can until the moment he has to give her up.

Cecelia wakes up early the next morning, before dawn, to see him off. His bag is already packed, the coffee is already made, with her mug, full on the counter, just as it always is.

"Will I ever see you again?" she asks.

He stops. He heard her get up, heard her come out of the bedroom, but even still, he was hoping to leave unseen. He doesn't have an answer for her.

"No," he says. He still doesn't look at her.

She stays quiet, but sits at the breakfast bar, where her cup of coffee is waiting for her. He's still in the kitchen, washing the dishes he used to make her breakfast. She sees him put his head down, thoughts flooding themselves behind his brown eyes. But still, he says nothing.

After he finishes leaving no trace of himself in her home, as he readies himself to leave, his duffle bag in hand, his mask and gloves fitted against his skin, he stops before he opens her front door.

"Come here," he tells her.

A part of her hopes that he'll change his mind -- that he'll say he'll be back whenever he gets leave again. But she doubts they will let him go for a very, very long time.

"Look at me."

Her eyes are wet, but she tries to hide it. She does as he says nonetheless.

"If you are ever -- ever -- in trouble..." he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, "...you send this to this address." On it is written a word: 'MAYFLOWER', along with an encrypted email address. "I will come running." He hands her the paper and she takes it with a trembling hand. "Memorize this. Then burn it. Do you understand?"

She nods as she studies the paper. She tries to hold back her crying, but the harder she tries, the louder she sniffles.

Cecelia wraps her arms around his waist and holds him, just for a moment. Her tears stain his jacket, but she can't bring herself to care. When she lets go, she kisses his mask. She feels him return it, despite the barrier between them.

She watches him leave, before the sun is up. He vanishes from her life as quickly as he entered it.

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

TEN YEARS LATER

Ghost is preparing to ship out on an assignment to Eastern Europe with the rest of the 141 in two weeks. He and MacTavish are paired together to arrive first before the rest of the crew. They are currently both in England, going over the plans for the next assignment.

He sold his flat a long time ago, he no longer has permanent residence in England. He rents out places in cash when he needs a temporary place to stay. Simon and Soap are staying together while they prepare, then they will fly out to the drop zone.

As Simon prepares for the next assignment, he receives a transmission on an encrypted email. It is reserved only for emergent scenarios, usually used by his other teammates or superiors when an assignment goes sideways. As he opens the encrypted message, he anticipates that he and Soap will have to ship out sooner than expected.

The message reads:

'MAYFLOWER'

He gave this specific code only to Cecelia. No others have it. He remembers his promise.

In the ten years since their separation, he has not heard from Cecelia, nor has he sought her out in the time he is on homeland. But he thinks about her in moments when the dark begins to suffocate him. He thinks about her during the springtime, and when the world comes alive again. He shares this with no one. Not even Soap. Now, he might have to.

MacTavish sees Simon gearing up, as if he were ready to leave for the hanger at any moment. "You goin' somewhere without me, Lt.?"

Simon stops, and deliberates. A gnawing feeling tells him not to confide in a teammate again -- to not make the same mistake he did with Sparks and Washington. But when he turns and looks Soap in the eye, he knows that honesty -- even obfuscated honesty -- is what will help Cecelia in that moment. "You trust me?"

He tells Soap to pack as they talk, and he debriefs his partner with as little information he can get away with: he promised a woman a decade ago that if she ever needed help, he'd come running. She was calling in the favor.

"What's so special about this woman, then?" Soap asks.

They're driving to the location from which the message was sent -- a house in Manchester, that was bought under her name. She moved, then, he thinks -- from a flat to a house, he hopes she's doing well enough for herself. And whatever family she might have. It would be foolish to think she wasn't married with kids by now. It was just statistics.

"Lt.?"

Ghost takes a breath, as silently as he can, before he answers: "She helped me out. Just returning the favor." It's as close to honesty as MacTavish was going to get for now -- if ever.

The house is visibly disturbed by the time they get there -- the front door is broken, there are signs of a struggle in the living room. There are no police on the scene, neighbors seem to mind their own business. Simon takes the front of the house, while Soap takes the rear. Every room he enters is clear, the house is empty.

"You seeing anything, Lt.?"

"Negative," Ghost answers. "The house is clear."

"I'm doing a perimeter sweep," Soap says.

"Report back."

"Copy."

Ghost tries to piece together what happened as he steps through the chaos that transpired -- they entered through the front door, and tossed the entire place. Desks and dressers tossed; a file cabinet thrown on its side and emptied. The nightstand in the master bedroom rifled through, the closets emptied. There's a child's room adjacent to the master bedroom -- also tossed and empty. A child’s bedroom…It was just the statistical probability that she'd moved on, he reminds himself.

A noise comes from the secondary bathroom in the hallway, and Ghost raises his weapon. He pushes the door to the bathroom open and sees nothing. He prods at the shower curtain — nothing.

There's a linen closet. He raises the rifle, stands to the side of the door, and opens it -- waiting to hear a barrage of gunfire. But there was nothing. He sees the interior of the linen closet in the bathroom mirror:

A child is hiding inside of it, huddled with her hands over her head.

"Perimeter check," he radios Soap.

"Clear, Lt.. Converging on you now."

He checks her for weapons before he continues. "What happened here?" Ghost asks the child.

She's shaking and looks up at him with terror.

"Your mother called me to help."

"She -- She told me to c-call you."

"You sent the message?"

She nods.

"Do you know who did this?"

She shakes her head.

Ghost lets a silent breath, as he looks around the bathroom again -- even the medicine cabinet was tossed. "Whoever they were, they were looking for something." He lets his rifle fall to his side, and he helps the girl out of the closet. "Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"Was there anyone else in the house?"

"No. Just me and mum."

"Is anyone supposed to come home?"

"No. It's just us."

Soap arrives at Ghost's side, surprised to see the girl. "Casualty?"

"Just shellshocked. Get ‘er a blanket."

MacTavish does as he says, and pulls one from the girl's room. "We're the good guys," he tells her. "Give it a minute, an' when you've had a breath, tell us what you remember." He leads her from the bathroom, to somewhere warmer in the house, careful that she shouldn't step on anything broken on the floor. "D'ye have someone we can call, then? Gram? Da? A friend from school?"

"I -- I don't know."

"Alright, it’s alright. Let's start with somethin' easier, then." He adjusts her blanket and helps her put on a pair of shoes that was left by the doorway. "How 'bout we start with your name? How 'bout that? What's your name, love?"

"My name is Margot."

Simon stops. He looks at the girl, he studies her. She looks much like her mother, yet a part of him thinks he saw a resemblance of himself. But it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he insists. It makes no difference anyway.

"Margot. Pretty name, lass, very classy," Soap tells her.

"Call child welfare," Simon says.

"No!" Margot turns and stops him.

"It's only temporary -- 'til we find your mother," Soap tells her.

"No --"

“This isn’t a discussion," Simon snaps.

Soap looks at the Lieutenant, knowing him well enough to hear something other than the weight of the mission beneath the surface of his voice. He looks back at the girl, who keeps trying to take off her blanket, and ties it around her. "Like a cape," he tells her. "We're very good at what we do, lass. You'll be back with your mother in no time."

"You're not listening!" the girl finally says, she stands, facing Simon. "I don't know who they were," she tells him, still trembling, "but I know what they were looking for."

The girl doesn't seem to be intimidated by either him or Soap, and he finds it unusual. That sinking suspicion settles itself at the forefront of his mind, and he keeps it in check. "What were they looking for?"

"They said -- they said they were looking for something my uncle gave my mum." Tears are coming back to her, and she cowers at the feeling of guilt.

"The necklace?" Simon asks.

"But she doesn't have it. She gave it to me." She pulls out the gold pendant from beneath her shirt.

"Sir, can we have a word?" It's more of a demand from Soap, rather than a request and he turns to Margot. "Don't take off the cape." He pulls Ghost to the side, and speaks as quietly as he can, hoping not to scare the girl: "They're gonna find her eventually. I don't think child welfare is the best option for her."

Simon still hasn't taken his eyes off of Margot, he's still studying her -- her features, her nose, her eyes. She has brown eyes, but so does her mother. Even if his suspicion is true, it still doesn't mean anything, he convinces himself. He wouldn’t be able to be there for her in any way that matters, he tells himself.

"We can offer her better protection. We track the bastards, neutralize the threat, and get her mother back. We send her into foster care, she's a sitting target once they realize her mother doesn't have what they want."

He hates it when Soap is right.

Finally, he looks at his partner, and they mobilize. Soap helps Margot pack a bag out of what remnants of clothes and necessities are strewn all over the house. Simon is standing in the master bedroom, he tells himself he's looking for any sign of what the attackers were after, but he knows it's a lie. He wants to see what has become of Cecelia. But he knows he shouldn't linger.

They regroup at the house Soap and Ghost are renting. Simon asks Margot to hand over the necklace; she does, although she hesitates for a moment, a thought crossing her mind that it might be the only thing of her mother's she'll have left when this is all over.

"I'll give it back," he tells her.

She looks up at him, into his eyes -- he's still wearing that balaclava and all his gear. The greasepaint obscures the depth of his eyes, but she can see their glint in the low light of the living room. She's trusting him as much as he's trusting her. She gives him the necklace.

Simon holds it in the center of his gloved hand -- it looks no different than any other pendant one might find at a jewellry store. It was a plain circle, with no ornamentation, except for an asymmetrical raised texture in the center. He turns it over, there's no stamp indicating the carat or quality.

"All that trouble o'er a necklace?" Soap asks, looking over Simon's shoulder at the small thing.

"She said it was the last thing she ever got from her brother," Simon tells him. "She tell you anything else about him?" he asks Margot.

She shrugs somewhat, still clinging to the blanket around her shoulders. "He was in the Navy. But he died, though. I never met him."

Simon shakes his head once. "No, you wouldn't've. He died overseas, she said. Training mission gone wrong. MacTavish, check records," he tells Soap. "We find out what he was doing when he died, we might find out who's after this little bugger."

The adrenaline finally wears off, and Margot crashes. She's asleep in the master bedroom, curled underneath the blankets, still terrified, even in her sleep. Simon can see it -- her shoulders are tense, her head is tucked, her breathing is rapid. He wonders if every Riley is cursed with poor sleep.

Soap isn't having any more of his bullshit. They're talking in the other bedroom, while combing through personnel records and calling in favors to find out more about the 'training exercise' Cecelia's brother was involved in.

They haven't spoken in a while, which is unusual for Soap -- the air almost feels absent without his gabbing. But Simon knows he isn't being silent for courtesy's sake, Soap is irritated with him.

"Is she yours?" he finally asks, without looking up.

But Simon looks at him, unsure how to reply. Unsure of the answer -- but certain all the same. He doesn't reply for a long time, and Soap doesn't push him; even no answer is an answer.

Simon looks back at his laptop. "She's the right age."

They don't say anything for a while more. Simon is finding it difficult to concentrate, but he compartmentalizes, until Soap interrupts his thoughts again.

"You know I've got your back."

His other teammates, Sparks and Washington, said the same thing. Until they were taken, and turned. Until his family was all murdered in cold blood during Christmastime. He tries to tell himself it's not the same -- the present isn't the past. Yet, the past has a funny way of repeating itself.

He wasn't turned by the torture inflicted upon him, he tells himself. He'd like to think MacTavish wouldn't be, either, whether or not it's true.

"I know, Johnny," he says.

"You need your rest," Soap tells him. "I'll take watch and keep looking. You get some shut eye." He leaves the bedroom and sets up in the living room.

He tries to sleep -- he falls into a restless slumber. It feels like he's closed his eyes for only a moment, when Soap comes back into the room to tell him his watch is over.

It's still dark outside. Simon gets up. He checks on Margot.

She's still lying in bed, curled into a ball. But her breathing has changed -- he thinks she might've fallen into a deeper sleep, but he realizes she's awake, she's crying. He's tempted to turn and leave, to give her space, or to absolve himself of vulnerability. But he knows it's not the right thing to do.

"You should be sleeping," he says.

He hears her sniffle. She doesn't move for a while, until she sits up and looks at him. "I tried. I can't."

He sighs and enters the room, closing the door halfway behind him. "What's keeping you awake?" He sits on the edge of her bed.

"I keep...thinking." She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

"About what?"

She's trying not to look weak in front of him, but she can't help it -- she starts crying again. "All I did was hide. Mum told me to hide. But I didn't want to -- But I was scared..."

He doesn't think less of her. He sees a lot of himself in her, from when he was a boy. "Sometimes the best strategy is to hide. You're no good to anyone dead. Especially not to your mother."

Margot settles, taking hiccupped breaths until she can breathe again. "She said you'd come."

"I told her I would."

The crying has passed for now, she doesn't feel like she can anymore. But she likes sitting beside him. She wonders what he looks like -- he's still wearing that balaclava. "Do you sleep with that on?"

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"So people don't know what I look like. To protect myself."

"That must be annoying."

He scoffs. "Sometimes."

"Mum told me you wear a mask all the time. She told me a lot about you."

Immediate suspicion rises in Simon, and his mind interprets her words as a threat at first. But he proceeds with tempered rationality. "What'd she say?"

"You both loved each other, she said. You have a job that's really dangerous. She talks about you all the time."

It would've been better if Cecelia had forgotten all about him, it would've been easier for him. But to know that she kept him alive, in memory, somehow hurt worse than being forgotten. "She tell you anything else?" he's fishing, and he hopes Margot takes the bait.

She hesitates, she's thinking, debating -- unsure of herself, unsure of what he'll say. "She said...she tells me that you're my dad. Is that really true?"

He's never one to believe something without concrete proof, he's distrustful by nature. But he knows it's true. It's more than conscious, it's something visceral inside of him that knows something better than the doubt at the forefront of his mind. He only nods. "It's true."

Margot sits in silence, thinking.

"I'm going to find your mother," he promises her. "I’m going to make sure both of you are alright." He speaks to her, but also to the family he lost all those years ago: to his mother, to his brother. He has the chance to right the wrongs of the past. To change the future. "Get some sleep."

"What if I can't?"

He takes a deep breath, trying to find some kind of parental guidance to give her. "I don’t sleep good, either. A long time ago, I saw a shrink. He told me to relax your body -- from head to toe. And imagine you're floating in a canoe on a lake, with nothing else around. Don't think about anything else. Just you...in the lake, breathing deeply. Can you do that?"

She nods.

"I'll wake you when it's morning."

He leaves Margot to her rest and continues to search for reasons why Cecelia's brother may have been a target.

He wakes up Soap at dawn. "We've got a lead."

Simon explains that Cecelia's brother, Gabriel, was involved in a classified assignment to infiltrate a weapons dealer syndicate. He was supposed to eliminate the head of the syndicate, and destroy his compound. Gabriel completed his assignment, and eliminated the syndicate head, and burned the compound to the ground. However, the official report states that Gabriel was killed during the raid -- he was killed by his other teammates, for treason, and for turning on his superiors. Simon managed to find a buried statement from another teammate who had been on the mission, which said Gabriel was killed days after the raid, and his body was dumped at the compound after it was destroyed. Gabriel found that the officer in charge of his assignment was supplying a portion of the weapons being sold. The officer was using his team to clean up evidence of his involvement in the syndicate.

The officer buried anyone else who knew the truth.

Simon and Soap conclude the necklace must have something else to it, that Gabriel had to have sent it to for a reason. Simon examines the ridge in the center; he finds that the circular pendant is made with two pendants flat pieces soldered together. He halves it with a knife, jimmying the pendant open like an oyster. Inside, is a micro-SD card.

"That's what they were after."

"Obair mhór, Gabriel," Soap mutters.

"Mum's necklace..." Margot stares at its pieces in Simon's hand as she comes out of the bedroom.

"It was for a good cause," Simon says.

"But why --" Soap asks. "Why after all this time? Why go after it now?"

"The good Admiral is up for a political promotion. He's trying to clean house."

"So the Admiral finds out that Gabriel had a contingency, and he knows that the last contact Gabriel had was with his sister. So he puts the pieces together, figuring she knows more than she's saying."

"We need to find her. Now."

They're holding Cecelia at an abandoned farmhouse. It takes them thirty-six hours to track her down, by nightfall Ghost and Soap are converging on the target. Margot is left behind, locked inside their safehouse, with the doors and windows fortified.

They're outnumbered, but they have the element of surprise. Quietly, they close in on the farmhouse from opposite directions, using blades to wound and eliminate the men in their way, utilizing the ignorance of their presence to its maximum capability. Until an enemy fires his rifle, and the secrecy is over.

Ghost breaches the front of the house, firing two shots into the guard at the other side of the door -- chest and throat. He pushes the body to the side, and crouches, hearing more men on their way. He takes cover against the corner of a hallway, and fires two shots into the face of the next assailant who charges him. He uses the bleeding body as a shield, and moves into the line of fire, feeling the impact of the bullets pierce the corpse in his arms. He fires around the body propped against him, and lands three bullets into the torso of the man in front of him.

He throws the corpse to the floor, and moves into the center of the house. There's a locked bedroom door, and he pushes his blade into the jamb to free the lock. He can hear Soap's bullets from the opposite side of the house.

The lock breaks, and Ghost stands to the side of the door as he opens it -- he enters with his rifle raised. There are no men inside the room.

Cecelia is tied to a chair in the center.

"I've got eyes on the target," he radios Soap.

"Copy, Lt.. Three more guards inbound on the east of the complex."

"Copy." Simon cuts her bonds, and helps her stand. "We need to move. Can you walk?"

"Yes," she says, panting.

Ghost has one arm around her, practically pulling her out of the house as he rendezvous with Soap.

Soap covers them as the two limp off the complex -- into the cover of a copse in the distance. Their vehicle is waiting for them there, and Ghost puts Cecelia in the back, pushing her head down beneath the seats. Bullets collide with the metal sides of the doors, and Ghost returns fire as Soap jumps into the driver's seat and finds cover in the trees.

"They won't follow us," Ghost says.

"You'd better be right."

"Margot -- Where's Margot?"

"I got her -- She's alright."

"I'm sorry --" Cecelia says, out of breath.

Simon shakes his head. "Don't be."

They get back to their safehouse, and Margot is holed up in the bedroom until she hears the door. Simon gave her a pocket knife, and she's ready to use it -- when she hears her mother's voice.

"Mum!" she runs out of the bedroom, into her mother's arms.

Cecelia holds her tight. Simon only watches, and glances to Johnny when he puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels that out-of-place sensation once more, seeing mother and daughter embrace. Cecelia is checking Margot over, holding her small face in her hands, wiping away her tears. Simon doesn't know what to do with himself. He leaves them to their reunion. He hides -- in the other bedroom.

Later, he's triaging Cecelia's wounds. She's scraped up, she's got a black eye. The sight of it sends a rage through him that he can't put into words.

"I wanted to tell you," she says.

"I know."

He's bandaging her wrist, but he can't look at her. It's the same dance between them as it was a decade ago. Somehow, it feels like home.

"I don't know what they wanted from me," she tells him.

"I do. Your brother was a smart man. He knew he couldn't trust anyone above him. So he sent the intel he gathered to the one person he could trust. You." He looks up at her.

"What are you going to do with it?"

He gently puts her hand in her lap. "I'm going to do...what I wish I could've done many years ago." He grinds his teeth, and swallows. "I'm going to expose the bloody bastard for what he is: a traitor."

Simon arrives at the Admiral's office the next day. The Admiral is not expecting him, but he is aware of Ghost's reputation, and it precedes him. The Admiral has no reason to suspect Ghost is behind the attack on his off-books operation the previous night. As far as he's concerned, Ghost is scheduled to ship out in less than a fortnight, and he believes his visit has something to do with the upcoming mission.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

Simon chooses his words carefully. Everything he wants to say -- everything he's endured at the hands of men without honor -- floods to the surface of his stomach, to the surface of his face, and he holds the man's eyesight with a sharp edge of hatred.

He's kneading his fists open and closed as he stands there, still trying to get himself to speak. "I want to know if it was worth it."

"I'm sorry?" the Admiral scoffs, bemused and insulted.

"You're not sorry now. But you will be. Before that -- I want to know if it was worth it. The money. The job. The commendations. How many lives was it worth to you?"

The Admiral now realizes it was him who attacked the farmhouse the night before. His face grows hard, and he narrows his eyes. "I'd tread carefully if I were you, Lieutenant. Your reputation can only protect you so far, before enemies in high places turn on you."

"Was it! Worth it!" Simon yells. "You pricks -- who decide who lives and dies, who decide who turns on who -- you pricks, who let the job lead you to believe that you're God," he points. His face burns, his throat hurts. Memories claw their way to the front of his mind, just like he clawed his way out of Vernon's grave.

"If you kill me, you will be hunted for the rest of your life."

Simon shakes his head. "I'm not gonna kill you. You're not worth my bullets. I'm going to watch...as the world tears you apart. As you lose...everything."

The Admiral scoffs again, and moves towards his desk, where his service weapon lies locked in a drawer. "I doubt that. Surely, you didn't think you could come here and threaten me, and get away unscathed." He loads the chamber, and aims the barrel at Ghost's chest.

Simon doesn't flinch.

"Where is the SD card?" the Admiral asks.

"I've already given it to the press."

Military police storm the office, and take the Admiral into custody.

Ghost and Soap are taken off their upcoming assignment, they're needed for debriefing on the scandal that is unfolding regarding the Admiral. Cecelia and Margot are also asked to give account of what happened. The doors of their home are repaired, and they're left to pick up the pieces -- figuratively and literally.

Three weeks have passed; the trial is still in preparation stages; Margot is back at school, and Cecelia has set up therapy for her. Simon encourages her to be seen by a shrink, herself. She refuses, and he pushes her, telling her he'll take her himself if he has to.

"This feels familiar," Simon says, as he helps rehang a painting in her living room.

"Let's hope it never feels familiar again."

He wants to laugh, but he can't. He just shakes his head, and straightens the frame. "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow."

"Wait -- can't I make you a cup of tea?"

It's the offer that got his heart into trouble in the first place. But he still can't say no -- the pause he gives, gives her enough time to head to the kitchen, where she boils some water, and hands him a well-worn mug of tea. The good kind.

He stays with them for several weeks. Weeks turn to months. He tries not to give into the fantasy. Cecelia knows as well as he does, that he can't stay. Even if he wants to.

He wants to.

He has too many enemies. If he retires, if he gives into the dream, it will only put targets on their backs. Cecelia knows. She doesn't fight him on it.

"Just...don't let another decade go by...before I see you again," she tells him.

"I won't." He has her hands in his, pressed to his mouth. He's getting ready to leave, a new assignment is waiting for him on the other side of the door, and for the first time -- ever -- he feels human enough to wish there was nothing waiting for him. No assignment. No dossier. He feels human enough to wish — for anything at all. Even a family.

He takes a deep breath, and lets go of her hands. He pulls from his pocket an envelope filled to the brim with money, an accumulation of many years' worth of combat pay. "Use this. For her. Anything she needs -- anything at all. You get it for her, with this. Get her into a good school, get her an education -- don't let her do what I do. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kisses her, and turns to Margot's bedroom to say goodbye. She's holed up there -- she doesn't understand why he has to leave. He doesn't think she ever will. He doesn't understand it fully, himself.

Simon sits on the edge of her bed. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Will we ever see you again?" she asks.

"You can't get rid of me that easy, love."

She crawls to him, and embraces him.

Something flips inside of him, feeling her arms around him. His own child -- the bone of his bone, the flesh of his flesh. A weight sinks into his heart, and he takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling like it's the first and only breath he's ever taken. He puts a kiss on the top of her head, and they linger there for a long while.

When he, at last, pulls away to leave, she follows him. "Goodbye, Dad."

It's a searing knife wound to the center of him. But he turns and touches her face. "Goodbye, love."

Simon leaves, seen off by the two at their doorstep.

It's a home he can return to. Over, and over again. A feeling, and a place -- people who welcome him. Where his bed is always warm, where arms wrap around him and the blood washes down the drain. And where December never hurts as much.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 months ago

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This is kinda silly but any ideas on why Idia’s last name is Shroud? I only have one idea that connects to the Greek mythology aspect, and it’s that it is a reference to the Odyssey and how Penelope weaves a shroud to stall the suitors, but I would love to hear your thoughts on it!

The shroud Penelope wears is an interesting theory considering Idia’s own social anxiety 🤔 He has trouble in face-to-face communication and appears remotely via his tablet. Idia also cannot speak comfortably in-person without obscuring his face with a helmet or mask (in the case of his Halloween and Masquerade costumes), sometimes even opting to use his own inventions just to get out of public speaking. For example, he has to give a presentation on his research in book 5, but ends up making a device that allows him to simulate his speaking voice by typing in what he wants to say.

"Shroud" may also refer to the cloth that cover the face of the deceased in ancient Greek funeral rites. This helps to prepare the body and the spirit to pass into the Underworld, which is, of course, ruled over by the God of the Dead, Hades--the same character that Idia is twisted from.

Someone else proposed that the Shroud surname is potentially a reference to The Shroud, a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm. In some versions, the title is The Burial Shirt or The Little Shroud, the latter of which is exactly how Malleus refers to Ortho.

The Shroud tells the tale of a mother who loses her 7-year old child (an age which is close to when Ortho died). She is so taken by her grief that she weeps every day. Then one day the ghost of her deceased child visits her and asks her to please stop crying, for her tears weigh down his shroud and prevents him from sleeping peacefully. Only when the mother dries her tears does the story come to its conclusion. The Shroud reads like an extended metaphor for coming to accept the passing of a loved one, which has obvious parallels with Idia coming to terms with his own family member’s death.

#disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland #book 6 spoilers #Malleus Draconia #Idia Shroud #Hades #Ortho Shroud #Ignihyde #book 5 spoilers #penelope #the odyssey #question #notes from the writing raven #the shroud #brothers grimm

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boowritess · 11 months ago

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Babe I’m begging you to imagine the newest batch of rookies talking about not so badass reader and they’re just passing these legendary war stories back and forth.

There’s a rumor that the reader once killed a man with only a lemon wedge and a shoelace. One newbie says they saw footage of reader taking down a dozen enemy soldiers in the same amount of time it takes to peel a banana. Another said reader was raised by assassins and took down their first mark at age 10.

Nearly 10 feet away the 141 boys are listening to this and collectively thinking back to that morning when they watched the reader spread peanut butter onto bread with a butter knife, drop both the bread (which lands face down) and the knife which they accidentally kick under the refrigerator.

There’s a beat of silence and then a long tortured sigh, and in an accent they had never heard the reader use before they say

“Life is short but also like terribly and insufferably long at the same time.” (Jenna Marbles).

No one but Gaz has any idea what that means but Price thinks it might be some obscure internet reference.

There’s a silent understanding between the boys that if the reader ever kills someone it will be completely by accident.

not my queen and god jenna fucking marbles getting mentioned !!! and also how tf did you know i like peanut butter ?? you is a psychic fr.

i see the headcanons that ghost is this cryptic being around base with strange stories but i am LIVING for reader being one instead.

and i love the idea of reader who overhears the rookies talking and are quick to assume they're talking about ghost.

like reader just suddenly speaks up, leaning against the wall, eating bread, (nothings on it, it's just bread - which only unknowingly adds to readers supposed origin story -)

"one time it was just nothing but teeth-"

"teeth?" *rookie*.

"yeah teeth." reader says with a nod, biting into the plain bread. reader shrugs so casually. "tearing into people's neck. blood, and flesh everyone."

and maybe it's because the main source of light coming from the hallway is behind reader. It makes reader engulfed in black. their shadow filling the room. the rookies staring in what could be horror or disgust, maybe both...

"y'know it just... makes you think. doesn’t it?" readers head turns to the group of rookies. who can feel your eyes digging into them, looking at their exposed flesh.

they suddenly make up excuses and leave the room. making reader let out a thoughtful hum, slowly nodding their head and quietly whispering to themselves, "They get it... I should check out ghost's teeth..." reader mumbles before turning and nearly running into the doorframe.

what i also like about this hc, is that the 141 are totally in on it. spreading stories to the recruits because they think it's the funniest thing.

soap's just casually chatting with a rookie who sees a tiny peeble. he picks it up, holding it to the rookie. "ye know, reader threw one of these so hard and fast that it went right through the scalp of a target we had to take out." soap drawls, then tosses it over his shoulder with a smile on his face while the rookie is just awestruck.

or ghost and gaz are playing poker with some rookies for once.

gaz picks up his newly dealt cards, "Oh ghost, doesn't this remind you of when reader slit the throats of those mafia guys with playing cards." gaz chimes, meeting ghost's eyes across from him. a silent agreement that only they could understand.

ghost nods his head, "yup, then reader used ice on the last guy because the cards got too wet from the blood."

one rookie manages to speak up, "...ice...? but how-?"

ghost and gaz in unison, "you don't want to know."

later that evening, they go into the 141 common room- where reader has managed to find an old wii console and is making price play with them. only to catch reader ready to swing the remote, only to let go on accident and hit the tv square in the middle making the whole screen glitch then go black. and you also fall flat on your ass.

price looks so dissapointed but not surprised.

but gaz, ghost and soap look thoughtful. they could totally spin this into your supposed 'badass backstory.'

#boowrites #bootalks #notsobaddass!reader #notsobaddasssoldier!reader #notsobaddasssoldier!reader x 141 #notsobaddass!reader x 141

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darkpetal16 · 11 months ago

Note

Quick question for all the boys: what nickname would they give to their partner?

ALL?? OK BABE I GOT YOU. but like I can't do an "all" post again there's just too many now lol.

Underfell!Sans (Red): Babe (all), sweetheart (for the shy or introverted babes), doll/dollface (for the feisty babes)

Underfell!Papyrus (Edge): Love (but very sparingly, he’s not fond of nicknames):

Underfell!Wingding (Fell): My dear / My love / My other half / My heart (all emphasis on the my)

Underfell!Asriel (Prince): doesn’t use nicknames unless explicitly asked to. Might refer to you as partner / mate / spouse however.

Underfell!Grillby (Fellby): Sweet girl/boy/pup & Little firecracker.

Underswap!Sans (Blue): Not fond of nicknames but will occasionally call you his puzzle piece. If you ask him to call you something specific, he will.

Underswap!Papyrus (Stretch): Honey, honey bear, honey pie, spicy honey, and if he wants to be ornery / annoy others in public. . .honey bunny wunny.

Underswap!Wingding (Thread): My dear, my little patchwork, darling, marshmallow / cinnamon spice / pumpkin pie.

Underswap!Asriel (Buttercup): Dummy (affectionately). He gets embarrassed by nicknames.

Mafiafell!Sans (Hit): for feminine presenting partner: doll face, sweetheart, lil lady, cookie. For masculine presenting partner: pal, buzz, lil gent, dish. For neutral, mixture of both depending on his mood.

Mafiafell!Papyrus (Boss): He doesn’t do nicknames, per se, but instead waxes poetry for you about you in private. He’d also prefer it if you didn’t give him nicknames in public. Reputation is very important to him and his family and he expects you respect that.

Mafiafell!Wingding (Don): Muse, my dear, darling, puppet, marionette, toy

Mafiafell!Asriel (Heir): Meadow, my haven, my sunshine (if early riser) / my nightfall (if late sleeper)

Slumbertale!Sans (Slumber): Buddy, chum, pal, bucko, friend, fella who naps with me, pillow, blanket, kitten (if you nap often) / puppy (if you do not take naps often), the one who makes plans, my worser half (jokingly), my alarm clock, etc. He’ll come up with obscure and odd nicknames depending on your routine together.

Slumbertale!Papyrus (Mayor): MY RIGHT HAND! There is no bigger compliment because this fella HATES to rely on anyone so if you’re his right hand then you’re someone as invaluable to him as his own right hand.

Slumbertale!Wingding (Abyss): Dewdrop.

Slumbertale!Asriel (Unending): My dream come true, dreamer, buttercup, butterscotch, butter biscuit

Slumbertale!Grillby (Sleeby): His nickname will be dependent on your favorite drink. For example if you like pina coladas he’d call you his sweet coconut, and if you like soda he’d call you his pop-heart.

Horrortale!Sans (Axe): No nicknames unless you specifically tell him to. He just doesn’t think about it.

Horrortale!Papyrus (Sugar): My little meatball, Strawberry jam, rhubarb pie, my berry, love, heart, SOUL

Horrortale!Wingding (Ghost): my heart / our hope

Horrortale!Asriel (Yarrow): butterscotch, cinnamon bun, and sun drop

Horrortale!Grillby (Calcifer): no nicknames!

Reapertale!Sans (Reaper): Nothing set in stone. He'll come up with one time nicknames for puns. Like if you were burned alive & died to met him, he'd call you hot stuff. If you drowned he'd call you a mermaid with lungs. Things along those lines.

Sciencetale!Sans (Doc): he tried nicknames. It came out awkward because he kept stuttering and he was deeply embarrassed so he never did it again.

Sciencetale!Wingding (Professor): Treasure

Siren!Sans (Siren): That’s a human concept, so he wouldn’t choose any. You can tell him what you want him to call you and he’ll accommodate.

Siren!Wingding (Apex): Same as above.

Dustttale!Sans (Dust): Idiot, fool, daydreamer, dreamer, (and very rarely when he thinks you aren’t listening) my miracle

MASTERLIST (HCS & REQUESTED SCENARIOS)

#undertale #undertale au #underfell #underswap #mafiafell #slumbertale #siren sans #siren wingdings #horrortale #reapertale #dusttale #dust sans #sciencetale #hc #interactive fiction #jelly donut #iykyk

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espressohhh · 2 months ago

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Three Sisters (2003) at the National Theatre, dir. Katie Mitchell

I was recently at the National Theatre Archive to see a couple of Chekhov productions, and my mind is now overflowing with thoughts

Three Sisters is a play I approach with a kind of reverence, much like Mourning Becomes Electra. Originally I wanted to see that play instead of Chekhov plays, but my grandmother did her PhD on Mourning and that has given me sky-high expectations for stagings of it. I really do like Three Sisters better than The Cherry Orchard, mostly because of the dynamic between the sisters, the disillusionment, and the yearning (yes, the cliché of yearning). It is often subject to a funereal tone in performance with three pale women in a somber house, their lives shrinking, their hopes crushed. Obviously, it is about time leaking away, entropy, if you will, but there’s also humor, hope, and desire in the play. This production, directed by Katie Mitchell, felt aware of that expanded emotional range. It didn’t wallow.

The translation For starters, I was initially wary of Nicholas Wright’s translation. Before reading it, I had heard that one critic called it “bastardly” to translate Three Sisters the way Wright did. There are moments where the text veers into sharp colloquialism, what my professor would have called vulgarization. The “low-class bitch” is an obvious example. It could easily have veered into tonal dissonance, but in context, it somehow worked. The translation wasn’t trying to mimic the period in some tame, brittle register. Instead, it gave the emotional stakes real teeth. Some will say that it’s unfaithful to Chekhov’s sparse language and Russian style, and it is, but it’s a choice that enabled the play to work for its audience. To me, it cuts through the gauze that can sometimes obscure emotional immediacy.

I wouldn’t be surprised if some people preferred that the translation used English literary allusions like Byron and Hamlet instead of the original Russian references, e.g., Gogol. According to the production bible, Masha was literally reading Hamlet on stage in Act I, which made a lot of sense considering the intertextuality of this translation. Her saying “The rest is silence” at the end of her love confession was just brilliant. The Shakespeare nerd in me loved this.

One of the highlights of Wright’s translation was the “conjunctive, consumptive” scene, which resonated both sonically and thematically. The repetition gnaws at itself, just like the characters caught in recursive longings.

Still, there were moments of sharp comedy, which directors often hesitate to let free in Chekhov, as if fearing it will take away from the tragedy. One moment that cracked through: “You’d think it was her that started the fire.” It was a reminder that despair and absurdity are closely connected and supported Mullarkey's choice to mention Beckett in the preface to his translation.

Set and sound Sound in general was used with precision. The ticking clock during the photography scenes was a simple but haunting device that underlined the obsession with time as a tormentor and ghost.

Less successful, for me, were the slow-motion sequences. They seemed to gesture toward metatheatricality, and I found them a little too on the nose. In Chekhov’s plays, I think the weight of time tends to settle more effectively when it creeps in unnoticed. The slow-mo risked aestheticizing what should have felt mundane.

What also struck me was the spatial clarity of the set. Sometimes designers struggle with the play’s physical dramaturgy (hallways, the dining room, the offstage). This production struck a balance. The rooms bled into one another, and the birches and rain toward the end of the play were so aesthetically pleasing. The space felt porous and allowed for those great moments in Chekhov, like when characters overhear things they shouldn’t or walk in at precisely the wrong (or right) time.

The acting: Masha Eve Best as Masha — my god!! I’ve never seen such an intense performance in any Chekhov play I’ve seen. She did spectacularly well and was by far the most eye-catching actor on that stage. Her breakdowns were not prettified, not tragic in the operatic sense, but real and consuming. It was a relief to see a Masha that was so intensely emotional, because she is. In Shakespeare’s Globe’s production, Masha (Shannon Tarbet) literally failed to cry when Vershinin left her, and it was baffling and disappointing. It harmonized with Tarbet’s portrayal of Masha as colder and more distanced than Best’s. In the NT’s version, it was just totally heartbreaking when Masha kissed Vershinin while sobbing violently, only to collapse as Olga (a very good Lorraine Ashbourne) pulled her off of him. I cried while sitting at the desk watching the recording. Shoutout to Nadia for coming over with tissues and reassuring me that “this happens weekly.”

One particularly vivid detail is when Masha reacts to the news that Andrey has pawned the house. She holds on to her waist like it hurts to breathe, like something inside her is boiling. “I don’t want any more than we’ve got, I just hate the unfairness of it” is such a compact line, almost banal when you’re reading it, but it worked.

That confession scene, the one where Masha admits her love for Vershinin to her sisters, has the potential to be one of the tonal fulcrums of the play. There is definitely a risk of it tipping too far into melodrama, or into straight depression. Here, it was bright and nuanced. Each sister brought a distinct perspective to the exchange. Olga was troubled, ambivalent, and maternal. Irina shifted between hopeful and frustrated, wanting something to believe in but lacking experience. Masha was intense, developed, and so alive. The moment didn’t resolve anything, which felt appropriate. The emotions had nowhere to go and were constrained by the three sisters yet again.

Masha says “I love a man” as if the phrase is foreign to her tongue, something alien and untested for her. She mutters “This is ridiculous,” before looking up, taking a deep breath, and steadying herself. When Olga protests, “I don’t want to hear it,” you can hear the repression in her voice. Masha continues, needing to speak these words and needing her sisters to understand. Masha says “I thought he was strange at first” while grabbing the sides of her head, continues by saying “Then I fell in love” and places her hands on her chest. “In love, with his voice, the things he says, the difficulties he’s had to face, with his two little girls,” and her voice lifts into a higher register. It is eager, desperate, teetering. When Olga rebukes her again, Masha responds, “You’re the silly one, Olga. I’m in love.” And then, in a movement that echoes religious prayer, she holds her hands in front of her, palms tilted up toward her face, and proclaims: “It feels right. It’s how it’s meant to be. And he loves me…” in that high register which conveyed her insistence and immersion in her experience. Masha then continues: “It’s frightening, isn’t it? But what’s wrong with that?” The tremble in her voice on “wrong” and “that” is so delicately emotional as she calms down from the aria of “it feels right. It’s how it’s meant to be.” It is a sequence that could collapse under its own weight, but here it’s saved by the pure elation, desperation, and almost divine intensity of her confession. And Masha finishes the interaction this way: “My darling sisters, I’ve told you everything… I won’t say anything more. The rest is silence.” She raises her arms, grabs her head again, and turns around, marking the end of her emotional rollercoaster with a line from Hamlet. I was speechless.

Masha in general is similar to Hedda in Hedda Gabler, but these characters can absolutely be made to be more different, depending on the translations of the two plays, the directors, and the actresses. (If anyone ever wants to discuss HG, or theater in general, my inbox is open. I did my BA on Hedda but will never tire of this character.) The boredom, the husbands who don’t truly see them, the (intellectual) restlessness, the yearning for something more - like aesthetic and emotional grandeur. Masha’s “I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored” mirrors Hedda’s “I’m bored.” Interestingly, in this year’s Globe production of Three Sisters, Rory Mullarkey’s translation rendered the same line “I’m done, I’m done, I’m done.” It shifts the mood significantly, from the existential to the emotional. Similarly, Kuligin in the Wright version says he’s “happy,” whereas in Mullarkey’s, he’s “satisfied.” These micro-shifts produce vastly different emotional impressions across productions. It’s super fascinating to observe how translation can reshape the dramaturgical terrain.

To me, the most successful part of this portrayal was the intensity of her emotions and the intricacy of her behavior. Best's Masha starts as depressed and evolves into a woman discovering something/-one that stirs her mind and soul. In acts I and II, Best acts with precision, it feels refined and intelligent. Then, she finds security in that emotion, and while vulnerability could have been her Achilles heel, it becomes a strength. It's like watching apotheosis. It's radiant, powerful, and riveting. Best played this as something bright, and you see her body language becoming more fluid and sensual as Masha and Vershinin are together - as if she's thawing. When he leaves, she is heartbroken, and she releases her emotion in a gut-wrenching way before withdrawing back into the persona we see when the play begins. It was raw, haunting, and tempestuous.

The acting: other characters The ensemble did very well. Chebutykin is troubled, Kuligin is mellow and potent. And then there was Natasha. Oddly enough, the portrayal in the 2003 production by Lucy Whybrow mirrored the one I saw the next day at the Globe by Natalie Klamar: shrill, hypermobile, with the same whining, frantic voice. Is there a performance genealogy forming around Natasha? The character is codified physicality that stands in for social climbing, vulgarity, and otherness. I’ve been wondering if we’ve reduced her too much... She is one of the few characters who acts and makes something.

For now, one final moment is worth mentioning. At the very end of the play, it looks for a second like Irina might actually leave. She picks up her suitcases and walks toward the door, and it reminds me a lot of Ibsen’s Nora. But then, she sits down. Defeatedly, quietly. No door slams. No success. The possibility of action disappears again. It’s another bluff, such a small gesture, but it crystallizes everything. She realizes that she can’t go to Moscow as an unmarried woman, and there is nothing there for her anyway. Except for the idea. It was slightly disappointing that the final image on stage wasn’t the well-known one of the three sisters clutching each other desperately, but it was almost equally sad.

By the way, the portrayal of Irina by Ruby Thompson in the Globe production was brilliant. I believe this actress has not yet graduated from drama school, but you’d never know. She was as close to the perfect Irina as any mortal being can be, at least in my opinion. If this production is ever put on Globe Player, it’s definitely worth watching!

Final thoughts Critically, Three Sisters is often framed in terms of stasis vs. motion and illusion vs. reality. Katie Mitchell’s production reminded me that the play is not just about the tragedy of inaction, but about the potential violence of change. Perhaps the most striking thing is how Mitchell has managed to use the full potential of the monumental emotions in this play, which, in typical Chekhovian manner, are boiling underneath the surface. The sisters fail to get to Moscow, and they’re also changed by their not-getting. What’s left by the end is not resignation, but a kind of burned clarity. They are disillusioned and out of both laughter and tears. Everything is just dry. And tragic.

To anyone who might be going to see that production, I have a few more thoughts. Firstly, the quality is not great, but you see the most important parts like facial expressions and the entire stage. The only exception is in Act II when the lights are off and they rely on candlelight for a little while.

The production bible is very interesting, especially the rehearsal notes. Not only do they say that Best actually reads Hamlet on stage, but apparently, she needed “wheat-free nibbles” for Irina’s birthday dinner. You will also find great information about Mitchell’s rehearsal process, like how immersive it is, or the amount of improv the actors had to endure. The costume bible is also great, and you’re allowed to physically touch samples of the fabric used in productions.

The play is just over 3 hours long, so I booked two time slots for the same day to get through both the recording, the prompt script, and the bibles. I was thankful I showed up prepared, though. While I was very familiar with the play beforehand and approached the recording from an academic standpoint, it was useful for me to have notes of the most important parts of the play, where the language differs the most between translations, et cetera.

Thanks for reading! If anyone got through this never-ending text:)

#three sisters #chekhov #theater #national theatre #national theatre archive #three sisters 2003 #katie mitchell #eve best #anton chekhov #literature #drama #theatre #emotionally reborn by theater again

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woundedsoul12 · 3 months ago

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I get by with a little help from my friends

Going to be loud on main for this one. I have met tons of wonderful people since my return to writing, AO3, and Tumblr. But going to introduce you to the 5 people that I speak to daily that keep me going. The reason I haven't given up yet and just crawled back into my obscure hole. And know if you aren't mentioned I still adore you. This is just my Crew

So now you get to learn a little about them and what makes them so special.

1. @tarasmom - Like the only person I get to beta for me (the few times I use a beta). Tara is my hyper fixation deep dive sister from another mister. Want to lore plunge into some obscure reference? Want to talk through the history of the Tevinter Empire? Tara got you. Tara just... gets me. Like look across the room lock eyes and have a whole conversation. Standing in the middle of jellyfish fields with our nets screaming with excitement like SpongeBob and Patrick. And tbh one of the first people I found when I returned to fandom. Her Rook is Mina Aldwir and she's the queen of expose style writing and complex plots

2. @captastra - yet another I found early in my return. I think she more found me. Like a feral kitten outside her door. She is my adventure buddy. My 'hey Beasty I want to do this get out your shell and come with me'. Multi fandom bestie! Dragging me along for a good time. Not letting me be a loser. Inspiration for so many things I put into the universe. Her Rook is Nesiri Ingellvar and I love her so much. And Feylis her Avowed is just... everything to me

3. @lustaniasaxon - the only person I will cowrite with. My resident Illario lover. My muse. The person who keeps me going when I'm tired. A fellow gender bender. The only one I have found who can channel the ADHD into something useful. Her Rook is Lustania de Riva. Lover to my boys Sam and Brick.

4. @julie-spirit-finn - My fellow Healthcare bitch. Keeping people alive one idiot at a time. Listening to me bitch constantly about real life and fandom. Reading every single thing I write and leaving the best damn comments. Ultimate cheerleader and hopeless romantic. The most positive person I know in the most non annoying way. Helping me sort my complex silly plotlines no matter how dumb. Introducing me to Dread Rook. Turning me into a Solas lover. I might have never shipped him with Lavellan (she goes with Cullen) but I definitely like him with Rook.

5. And last but not least @thebarghestiest - fellow transmasc extraordinare. No one else can understand like we can huh? Again reading everything I write. Always commenting. Always supporting me. Listening to my stupid ideas and being like 'look bro I love it' even when you should probably tell me to stfu. Being cool with Julie and I just inviting ourselves to the Sleep Token concert. Putting up with all my dumb shit and depression. And screaming about Davrook, AUs, and dead doves with me. His Rook is Titus Ingellvar. Oh and the Durge Ghost who loves my Halsin bear daddy

And I guess I will finish up with I'm Beasty. I write entirely too much and the restlessness is strong. I'm also an antisocial loner but these people? We just vibe

Also if you have time, go read their works. They are all fucking amazing writers.

#beasty speaks #personal #friends #whatever this is #love you guys

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ckret2 · 9 months ago

Note

i’m admittedly obsessed with music/have music as a special interest so this question has been on my mind for quite some time now - if Bill (from your goldilocks fanfic) were to listen to any music, or have any particular music taste, what would it be? Any particular songs in mind that he likes? ( <—totally not looking for more/new songs to listen to hahahahaha…sweats)

half of me thinks he’d like 40s/50’s/60’s music (thanks to the vera lynn reference in the fic, but also bc he sings it in-show), but the other half of me wants him to like musicals (heathers, in particular) - i can’t explain why lol

alternatively, if you’ve answered smth like this already, i’d love to know what songs you enjoy/listen to!

Have a post about his tastes and a hideous-sounding playlist! And it even held up in the face of TBOB.

The only difference in my headcanons is that I said the peak of his his tastes centers on the 60s and I subsequently found an interview where Alex confirms Bill's tastes do indeed range from about 40s~60s; but I just got out of another fandom where everyone headcanoned a character is into 40s music ranging into the 50s and I'm pretty burnt out on The Most Popular 40s Jazz That Everybody And Their Grandma Knows so I still personally prefer to focus on the 60s for him lmao.

In fic he makes a reference to a band called Mysterious Mo's Average Joes; I imagine them as an in universe equivalent to Question Mark & the Mysterians, except more obscure.

Specific to my headcanoned music tastes of Bill from my fic rather than just Bill in general: coming in his tastes are all the same, but hanging around Mabel has given him an expanded palate for boy band music and kids music, although on the boy band front he prefers dance-y songs over ballad-y songs and on the kids music front he has to steer through a minefield of cheaply-produced 80s cartoons that use synthesized music to save cost on an orchestra.

So far, nothing else has happened to change his tastes.

Although eventually Robbie's introducing him to emo.

I listen to too much music for the question "what songs do you listen to," it's like asking "what words do you use" lmao, lemme look at my recent activity. Lately I've been getting into She Hates Emotion and the new albums by Zeal & Ardor and Fleshgod Apocalypse; I've been slacking in my metal education on learning the difference between black metal and death metal (I usually focus on symphonic metal & neighboring genres) so I'm looping back to the basics to learn more there; big fan of Saltatio Mortis's new album; I've been listening to the deeper cuts & newer material of mainstream early 00s alt rock & nu metal bands (Shinedown, Stone Sour, Staind) to see what I've been missing out on beyond their radio hits; and in general the past few months I've been trawling through playlists of classic 80s goth, dark wave, synth pop, & aggrotech to expand my library there. Very excited for the new Linkin Park lineup, love their new vocalist so far and it's heartening to see them releasing new material. Not so excited by the new Nightwish album, it has the nightwish sound but not the spark. This isn't even an accurate representation of my full musical tastes, I've just been really into metal recently. Current favorite bands of the last few years are Alt-J and Ghost. I listed some of my favorite albums on this post. It's too bad you can't just link your Spotify liked songs without sticking them all in a separate playlist—oh hold on I have a songs I can sing playlist, it's perpetually incomplete on top of being 3-4 years out of date but it's a starting point.

#knotsoangelic #ask #bill goldilocks cipher #music

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b0tsbby · 6 months ago

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Signifying Meaning in Tristamp’s Vash and Knives S1 Designs and Visual Cues: Part 2

TLDR: How Everything but Stamp’s dialogue supports it’s characters

Trigun Stampede spoilers and potential Max/98 spoilers. TW for fucking episode 11 and 12 of this show I hate it.

I wrote this so that the order doesn’t matter and you can read part 2 or 1 first, though I ask of not reading just one part cause the two kinda work together? Sort of???

If you want a fun drinking game, take a shot everytime I mention the other twin (I’m sorry).

Vash the Stampede

Despite my overt support and gravitation to a certain twin in Stampede and Trigun as a whole, I actually started out Trigun like many, and empathised with Vash more. While not my favourite character at first, ( Wolfwood holds that title), the sadness I felt for Mr Vash after that finale was insurmountable, and now he’s like…guy no.3 I like. With that outta the way, let’s get started.

Ep.1 Ghost of the Man

It shouldn’t be a surprise that I started Trigun with Stampede, and later delved into 98 and Max, so my outrage at Stampede Vash’s design wasn’t so genuine. A google search later and I could tell that the difference however, was jarring.

We first get introduced to Vash laughing hysterically, upside down with his hair mimicking his original look and glasses obscuring his eyes (hold on to that, it’s important). Not the most charming of introductions, but a fun reference to sir Diablo nonetheless.

Meryl gets him down, and his attitude changes slightly. This mysterious man turns out to be somewhat approachable if a little looney.

This sequence already introduces a visual cue Orange loves to use in Stampede, the obstruction of eyes, the window to the soul. This is particularly significant for Vash’s character. His words and gestures suggest an open, friendlier nature, but we as an audience are kept at an arms length through this obstruction. Vash definitely makes no effort to separate himself or keep a distance, a good facade, as Vash still keeps his deepest thoughts and feelings to himself.

This changes after a bit, we see Vash’s eyes for the first time at the bar. Vash here has calculated the type of people Meryl and Roberto. This doesn’t mean he lets his guard down, but rather has decided on the best way to now approach them. Like a mask, Vash has now decided the best one to wear for this social charade.

Ep 1 is littered with moments like this. Another significant one is his encounter and our first introduction to the plants. We're shut out of Vash’s psych once again as Vash looks at both the dying and healthy plant, one lens red and the other blue, a visual of Vash’s internal conflict before we ever really get to figure him out.( And yes that is a Matrix reference, red pill, blue pill. Oh my god.)

Contextually we can link these colours to certain themes and characters, but we’ll sum that up later.

With the psychology of his glasses out the way, we can move on to his style.

Vash wears a big red coat, with a turquoise interior, a black turtleneck, black trousers and swept forward, spiky hair. He still has his signature prosthetic arm, however in this iteration, it’s made of turquoise translucent like metal. And of course, Orange kept his very important mole and left earring.

The bright red is undoubtedly pretty flashy in this drab, brown landscape. If you didn’t know he was the main character before, now you do! On its own, his look is, okay, not exactly groundbreaking but visually distinct enough for you to care.

The disappointment really lies in the comparison of this design and his 98/ Max look. It’s jarringly underwhelming, uncharacteristically new age (ew, new things!). They even swept his anti-gravity needle hair forward! This isn’t so much Vash THE Stampede as it is some shoddy pretty boy imitation of him!

Ring the bell though cause that is where the magic is.

EP 8-9, A Whole Lotta Red (and other colours)

(He’s so tiny here stooooop😭)

Our Home and Millions Knives is littered with the use of red. We’re able to finally give meaning to the colour that defines Vash.

Starting off with his teenage design, Vash is not much different from his brother. He’s wearing scrap cloth he found on this downtrodden planet, painfully human and painfully bland. To reiterate, like his brother, he doesn’t know who he is at this point. He hasn’t decided whether to embrace his past, as his childhood plant suit is nowhere in sight, or embrace his future, whatever that may be. A blank canvas with no solid attachments or motivations yet.

We’ll start off with the psychology of blue;

At this stage, both brothers are blank canvases, barely coping with, well, still being alive. Vash is unlucky enough to be taken in by brad and Luida at first. While some sympathy is garnered from Luida, Vash is still very much othered, until he does something for the wellbeing of Ship 3. It’s here we see again that blue from Ship 5, a plant! But blue doesn’t just represent the sole plant existence, it also signifies their safety and vitality. The blue of his healthy plant sister is the marker for some decency earned from the humans on this ship.

It’s here Vash is walking a fine line to be accepted. He may be a ‘monster’, but he did good, so he’s safe, he’s welcome. It’s here Vash sees what he needs to do to stay on with them in the hopes maybe they’ll forgive him for the Big Fall and being who he is.

It’s then he’s gifted, his signature red coat that doesn’t even fit him yet (awwww). A gift from the humans that took him in despite labelling him as a monster, something other. We learn, red now signifies the love he’s received from humans. This red coat is a living symbol of their ability to change. It’s all figured out.

Then he meets his brother, who naturally, is there just to keep us on our toes. (They called the ship Seeds specifically after Knives impeccable ability to plant the seeds of doubt into almost every 20-something year old watching this show for the first time btw)

The psychology of red takes on a whole new form. Everything is red. The dying plants, the warning lights, the pools of blood on the floor, (from Vash too might I add). Red takes on this meaning of violence, corruption, sickness, pain and death. Most importantly the death of Vash’s plant sisters.

With extra trauma to spare, Vash goes home to ship 3 with a red coat and a red bleeding heart for his sisters and very ambitious brother. Both the bad and good of the psychology of red are displayed, the overarching qualities of humanity.

Ep 1-10, Where Vash Goes Back and Forth

As our main character, we have the privilege of watching Vash’s internal struggle for a sense of purpose and value in real time! In the events of Stampede, we get to pick up a few pieces.

Now that meaning has been attributed to both colours red and blue, destructing the colours of his design becomes a lot more fun.

Thank you Silversora for actually bringing this to my attention specifically.

Overall, Vash’s design communicates a want to blend in, not stand out and well, belong! He’s not an idiot. He knows just as much as his brother the dangers he could put himself in if he fully embraced his plant being. He knows the dangers he could put humans in if he just, fully embraced what he is. In that regard, he’s a little bit ashamed of it.

Vash yearns so badly to be a part of humanity, to be accepted by the same humanity his mother believed in, even if it means suppressing who he is, even if it means being humanity’s showdog.

The tragedy of Vash’s existence lies in an overtness in both sides of the plant and humanity spectrum. Vash is painfully human, and would have easliy passed for one, if he wasn’t such an immensely powerful plant. His existence is dizzying in that its constantly oscillating between two extremes, I’d like to think, too human to be a perfect plant, too plant to be a perfect human. At the end of the day, it is not humans in water tanks. At the end of the day, it is not plants that raised him.

Vash’s coat communicates this tragedy pretty clear, its red with inner blue lining. Outside, Vash is as human-presenting as he can possibly be, it’s what he wants people to see. Internally, his planthood will never leave him, it's the shame, insecurity, he keeps behind this exterior.

And no I haven’t forgotten his black turtleneck and black slacks. There’s no better way than to compare that whole setup with looking into void. Fitting, and very similar to his glasses convention, it’s too obscure his body, his build and yes his scars. A terrible indication of his ever cascading self worth and bodily shame. (If you’re wondering where he got all this shame from, he’s holding on to Knives shame too so his brother can come back one day and collect it with 45% interest.)

Ep 11, The danger of indecision

Okay so we’re at arguably the worst episode ever now, but it’s still littered with visual cues so sit down and just trust me.

Ep 11 is jarringly blue.

I hate to bring the other guy into this, (I’ve done that 5 times in this essay already) but the blue representation in this episode doesn’t fall short on me, considering this is when “The Memory World of Knives” plays from the OST. Back to character design though, this is the unfortunate moment Vash is robbed of his autonomy, and his ability to choose who he is and wants to be. This is where a new colour is brought into the mix, purple.

But this purple is not particularly bright, being more of an accent to black with only his glasses being purple, (I’m going to reiterate here how his glasses are a visual embodiment of the window to the soul). It shouldn’t be missed that the geraniums that grow out of him in this mental warp, are a drowned out purple.

While all this could genuinely mean nothing and I’m wasting your time, I believe it’s expressing the danger of Vash’s foot-in foot-out fawning response. If he doesn’t decide who he is and what he stands for, perpetually living in a state of reaction and guilt, someone else will just figure it out for him and he’ll end up being nothing at all, hence the lack of colour and subtle purple (a muddy middle point between blue and red).

Hope is not lost though, and a second meaning is given to this particularly traumatic hue in the finale.

Ep 12, Where Vash Makes a Choice for himself

Despite holding an unfair amount of empathy for Stampede’s Knives, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than when I watched his ass get kicked. The actualisation, reclaiming of autonomy and defining moment of Vash was incredibly therapeutic.

Vash’s forming of identity was definitely met with more resistance than his twin, but characteristically Vash supersedes Knives again in the transformation of his personal identity and purpose. Vash reaches a level of self awareness, confidence and acceptance that even his brother doesn’t get to until he chooses to ultimately off himself. The exceptional defining moment of Vash the Stampede starts here.

Now that we have defined what blue and red mean in terms of theme, Vash’s purple and black final form gains so much significance. The inner lining of his coat takes on a bright purple colour. As well, red and blue mixed creates a purple hue, this design choice symbolises Vash’s acceptance of his dual identity; he’s too much of a human, he’s too much of a plant. This is just the bittersweet nature of his existence and he’s learned to embrace it.

The outer lining and main composition consisting of black is just as important. While being a very clear reference to Vash’s black coat in his last fight in Max, the black again, obscures his form in this nighttime setting. While we know much more now, Vash is still and will always be a mystery to humanity and the audience; the chameleon in a crowd.

And yes there is Yin and Yang symbolism consistently in this fight. The black passive, female principle associated with sustainability and things earthly, dark and cold (yin code for Vash) and the white aggressive male principle associated with creation and things heavenly, light and warm (yang, code for Knives).

Phew…(Don’t make it weird though, I find the imagery genuinely heartbreaking thank you.)

The more obvious references and ties to Vash finally defining himself remain in his hairstyle, being in the style we know so well. It took a whole season, but the Vash we know is finally coming to be! He’s powerful, he’s agile and he’s determined to live for an active cause, not to simply erase the steps of his own existence.

In the end, Vash doesn’t really change much goal wise, and he ironically sticks to the initial coding of the plant’s existence; to be of service to humanity. But what matters is it’s now his choice and his choice alone. No more (entirely) motivated by shame, guilt and seeking repentance, Vash is now fueled by the love and hope he holds for humanity. He is Vash the Stampede!

And that’s all folks. To end off, I wanna mention something I learnt about broadway that is somewhat related to this analysis. Never listen to the lyrics, listen to the music. I think Stamp’s dialogue is genuinely ass and there’s so much to be missed if you kinda take everything at a surface level. From the character design to visual cues to the INCREDIBLE OST, you find that a lot is not what it seems and a parallel narrative is constantly taking place. While I hope but doubt this was intentional, I fucking love meta stuff like that. With the insinuation of warped memory, an unreliable narrator and fraudulent identities, the possible number of paths this show could take for S2 are almost overwhelmingly endless.

Hopefully in the future I can write an essay solely on identity and adolescence in Stampede cause honestly this is only half of it. I might make an extra part 3 on not exclusively character design facts and things I picked up about the brothers. Otherwise thanks for reading. If you didn’t read this whole thing in Philomena Cunk’s voice though, then I take that back sorry.

Part 1 - Millions Knives

#very last part was a joke #trigun #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #essay #character analysis #Trigun analysis

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life-in-the-monster-haus · 9 months ago

Note

I am so so so sorry for just popping in here and bringing back bible talk because I know you got flack for it but I wanted your opinion on this.

Fontana was doing a Q&A on Instagram for September and she answered a question about why Clawdeen and Howleen weren’t related anymore:

But the leaked bible (which I don’t believe you read) said Clawdeen and Howleen were secret cousins and it would be revealed at the end of season 1, which contradicts the show and what Fontana is saying here.

I guess I just want to know what you think cause I value your opinion but I also see fans refer to the Bible leak a lot and I know you were one of the people that didn’t believe it. (You can ignore me too I kinda just stormed in here)

I'll never ignore a well thought out question or a fellow fan who wants to exchange ideas! bring them on!

No need to apologize! The thing with the show bible got quite out of hand, now that the season is over we can clearly see it was a bunch of circumstantial nonsense. I can talk about it now, enough time and fan fare has passed.

I read it and personally? it sounded like it was mostly assumptions and educated guesses based off the direction Nickolodeon / Mattel are going in matters like diversity & inclusion. Not really something that a show staff would write.

I think everyone was HOPING Clawdeen and Howleen would still be related (I was too) but honestly? after the secret dimensional crap they pulled with Clawd & then finding out her mom was still alive, the likelihood of Clawdeen having a 3rd surprise relative she wasn't aware of became more and more unlikely.

I don't really care for the cultural consultant they hired to over-see this season. While the concern of "all monsters of a certain ethnicity assuming to be related" IS a valid concern, I don't think it applies to the wolf pack. In fact I think it brings up way more and weirder questions / implications than the one they are trying to fix.

So now that we know Howleen is not related to Clawd & Clawdeen what does this mean for Howleen? is she no longer black now? they said Hexican heritage so I'm assuming Howleen is no longer black and she is now only Mexican. I take bigger issue with them erasing Howleen's blackness than encouraging this obscure & ancient stereotype that "people of the same ethnicity would all be related" or is she ALSO mexcian and black? it's POSSIBLE for 2 different interracial families to have kids in the same area / school / grade. it's just not very likely. As a mixed person myself I take issue with this... I know lots of half Puerto Ricans in my state but I'm one of three who's Puerto Rican AND Irish and none of us are in the same age range. I don't think the wolf pack encouraged any negative stereotypes because we saw other black kids and other werewolves. it's not a problem to view them all as related IF they are in fact related. There's nothing wrong with having a big family either. Harry Potter did it with the Weasley's there's 7 children in the family but no one said it was encouraging negative stereotypes about redheads.

I love G3 I really do, it's mostly done positive things for the brand and the characters we love. But every once in awhile they kinda shoot themselves in the foot while trying to avoid something they do something way, way worse. for example in this generation they're trying to "tone down" mentions of death because they said it's too depressing for modern kids and Shea has also gone on record saying that monsters like Zombies and Ghosts aren't the remnants of dead humans, they were born monsters. Which is all well and good but then they still do things that only dead creatures do - like Vampires drinking blood - the reason they do it is because their blood cannot sustain life or Zombies eating brains, why do they still need brains if they're a complete being? and where are the brains coming from? Ghoulia made an entire loaf of Whole Brain Bread in the first season of the Nickolodeon show, brains came from someone. So someone somewhere died to provide those brains and if they're not real brains they why are we calling them brains? why not just have it be pink nutrient mush!?

Because THAT would ruin Ghoulia's cool flesh eating aesthetic, no more Brain Puffs or Cup-O-Brains. (which I personally love & I hope they never stop doing this)

See the logistical nightmare that one change created!? If no one has ever died, where is all the dead stuff coming from!? Frankie is literally made out of corpses, why is that okay!? Because their donor parts died a long time ago!? What is the cut off for how long someone has to be dead before we can joke about using their body parts to create a new person!? They have Frida Kahlo's arm and Frida died 70 years ago.

Making Howleen not related to our main wolf pack did something similar. it's created a logical nightmare that I am confident Shea and her crew do not want to answer for because "it's not plot relevant" but it's relevant to us, the fans, we're the only ones who care.

I don't like it and I think their cultural consultant is needlessly walking on egg shells. I don't feel this concern was all that much of a prominent issue with Clawdeen's family during the previous generations - if anything the fans spent WAY more time denying her being black than anything else and Mattel's flat out refusal to give her natural textured hair supported this theory. But at least G3 is trying to correct this... they need to try harder though, a few braids and baby hairs aren't going to cut it I NEED Clawdeen to have some puffs, corn rows or a whole head of braids. (stop putting blonde in her hair mixture while you're at it!) I do not like that Hoween is no longer part of our wolf pack but I guess it's better than her being written out of the series completely.

Sorry I kinda went on a tangent there, but I assume these in depth thoughts are why you guys ask me these kinds of questions to begin with.

#monster high #clawdeen wolf #mattel #monster high nickelodeon

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onlyyyariii · 2 months ago

Text

In honor of Sammy’s birthday, here’s a little something that’s been finished just sitting in my drafts.

*****

Let’s do a Selena deep dive… this is including modern artists that are currently big in 2025. This may contain spoilers for future writings. You have been warned.

Selena Katherine Singer, daughter of Bobby and Karen Singer was born on November 2nd, 1983 putting her exactly six months younger than Sam and four years, ten months younger than Dean.

Some of Lena’s favorites include; color, blue. food, pancakes. fruit, strawberries. animal, giraffes. dessert, ice cream; specifically chocolate chip cookie dough.

Less obscure favorites of hers would be; number, 5. curse word, shit. season, autumn. alcoholic beverage, long island iced tea.

Some of her favorite music artists include Billy Joel, Elvis, Ariana Grande, Lana Del Rey etc.

People with an ESFJ personality type tend to be outgoing, loyal, organized, and tender-hearted, which is why they are sometimes known as "The Caregiver" or "The Consul." Because they are extroverts, ESFJs love spending time with others. In fact, they gain a lot of energy by interacting with other people.

Her favorite song is Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard (a personal favorite of mine). Her favorite movie is The Breakfast Club.

When Lena was nineteen, Bobby found out that she’d been hunting and told her to stop. He said that if she didn’t stop she wouldn’t be able to stay with him. She didn’t stop and they got into a terrible argument about it. She decided to shack up with Ellen at the roadhouse to get a little separation from her father. While living with Ellen, Lena was given a job at the roadhouse and learned to enjoy her freedom as an adult. She was still hunting but only local things in the surrounding neighborhoods. She met a lot of hunters during her time there and learned to hone some of her skills.

In her personal life, she's had three boyfriends. Of course we already know about Sam. Before the boys brought Lena back from the roadhouse, where she'd been living with Ellen and Jo for a bit, she was seeing this guy named Greyson. Greyson was a hunter's son, someone who prided himself on following in his fathers footsteps. They started dating when she was twenty-one, after meeting at the roadhouse. He was twenty four. Her first ever boyfriend, his name was Noah. They'd met in high school when she was sixteen. They dated for two years before breaking up. He was her first. Well sex wise that is. Her first kiss was with Sam, they were 14.

He and Dean stopped coming around to Bobby's shortly after that. The next time she'd seen the Winchesters, it was just John and Dean. Apparently Sam had abandoned them and went to Stanford. She couldn't help but feel happy for him, knowing how much he'd hated the hunting life.

After finding out Sam got out, it just made her want to get into the hunting life deeper than she had been. Her first hunt had been a simple salt and burn ghost. She'd done the research and hunted the ghost all by herself. It was exhilarating. When she'd rid the ghost from the family that it was terrorizing, they'd felt such gratitude that they'd asked her to come back and visit them any time she'd wanted. She'd never forget that hunt but she'd also never go back. She had used an alias and that alias is dead. It was her first alias she'd ever used, Marilyn Darby. As far as she'd known about that family she helped, they'd moved out of the country shortly after word got around about her supposed death.

Selena and Castiel’s relationship is complicated. It’s kind of like a father/daughter relationship. He’s referred to as her ‘favorite angel’ in Little Angel. His nickname for her is Little Angel.

I felt like maybe I should dive into the whole concept I used surrounding Selena so people could better understand. To make sure that Karen still dies and Lena can still be a possibility in the supernatural world canonically, I had Karen have a miscarriage. When she miscarried the baby, it was sent up to heaven and placed in Castiels care. She had been dead for a different amount of time between heaven and earth. For earth time, she was dead/miscarried for about three months. During these three months Karen did everything in her power to find a way to bring the baby back. Eventually, she’d come across a thing such as a crossroad demon. It offered to bring her baby back in return for her soul. A life for a life. She agreed immediately. The baby was brought back and Karen became whatever it was that Bobby killed. Now because Selena had been sent to heaven, she had some angelic grace in her. In heavens time she had aged up to seventeen before being cast down back to earth as a baby. She had no recollection of these memories, Castiel had known her when he’d found them. She had become part angel but was still human. Him being around awakened the angel side of her and she was able to hear angel radio. She was also able to telecommunicate with entities. She was practicing and learning how to do this before she died (for the only time) and had the angelic grave sucked out of her by Rowena. Canonically this doesn’t make sense but the story is half canon and half my brain.

Her father had told her what really happened to her mother when she was sixteen. She'd always known that she wanted to get into hunting to avenge her mother. She didn't know if crossroad demons, well let's be realistic here, she didn't know if any demons were real. Demons seem to be a bit hard to believe. The occasional ghost, vampire, werewolf, sure she'd give you that, but demons? Surely that was going too far. She isn't able to avenge her mother until she's twenty-nine. (<< that's included in my story Little Angel, this scene is yet to be written.)

After a nice time enjoying Sam and Lena's third anniversary (their three year mark is set somewhere between season 6/7), the trio (Lena, Sam, and Dean) encounter a certain previous engagement that Lena had had. Greyson. Only he'd hadn't gotten the memo about Sam and Lena. I imagine it would've gone a little something like this. (Sorry to include a short one shot into this already long ass deep dive into Lena's character)

****

"How do ghosts stay in shape?"

"Oh my god Dean, please just shut up." Lena groaned.

He'd been annoying her and Sam all day with these stupid dad jokes. First at the motel, then he'd continued the whole car ride to the library, and now even at the diner he wouldn't shut up. Sam and Lena had been together for three years now. Their anniversary had come and passed this past weekend and Dean had allowed them to take a little vacation for it. She didn't know why they'd chosen to come back to Nebraska. Perhaps it was because the first time that they'd met each other as grown ups, not being burdened by their parents looming over their shoulders, was in Nebraska. Dean had come to pick them up, informing them about their upcoming hunt.

"They get exorcized."

"Ha ha ha. You're hilarious." Lena says, taking a sip of her drink while rolling her eyes.

"Selena, is that you?"

Her head turns at the sound of her name. You've got to be joking. She never thought she'd run into him again, at least she was hoping she wouldn't.

"Greyson? Hey!"

She stands, hugging the man. Sam and Dean are looking at her with questioning gazes. She just shakes her head, she'd tell them about him later. She lets go of Greyson and takes a step back. His hands slide down her arms as she pulls away from him. Sam catches the action with a glare.

"You mind if I join you guys?" Greyson asked, a smile on his face.

"Uh no by all means." Dean replies, motioning to the booth with his hand.

Greyson grins and takes a seat beside Lena. She was across from Sam, who was still glaring at Greyson. His eyes shifted to her only to find her already looking at him with a stern expression. His eyes widen slightly before faking a cough.

"So Greyson, I take it, how do you know Lena?"

Greyson eyes Sam and Dean before casting a glance towards the girl next to him, "Well if you don't mind, I'd like to get to know the men that she's with before telling private stories."

Dean's face scrunches up. Private stories? What the hell was he going on about?

"Well, this is Sam and Dean Winchester. I'm sure you've heard of the Winchesters." Lena motioned to each one when introducing them.

"Yeah, the Winchesters. Of course I've heard of you guys. John's kids, sorry about your Pop."

"Thanks. How do you know Lena?" Sam asks.

Greyson smiles at Lena before wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him. Sam has to hold back his sneer.

"We go way back. How long has it been, four or five years since we've seen each other? How old are you now Lena?"

She rolls her eyes and twists away from his arm uncomfortably, "Twenty-seven, which makes you thirty, old man."

Greyson releases a deep chuckle, "Yeah, just hit thirty this past weekend."

Lena's eyes widen, she had completely forgotten. Greyson's birthday was the same day as their anniversary. She'd spent one of his birthdays with him, his twenty-fifth to be exact. She could kind of remember what they'd done during that time, if she thought on it hard enough. She was drunk, out of her mind drunk. All she remembered was alcohol, music, and sex. Lots of sex. A shudder ran through her just thinking about it. She wished to have one of those days with Sam.

"That's great! I hope you had a great time. Was your dad there?" Lena inquired.

"No. He couldn't make it. Would've fun if you were there though." He replied, winking at her.

She could see Sam was starting to get really angry, she needed to fix this fast.

"Sam and I were here celebrating our third anniversary."

She could see the shock on the brothers faces. They hadn't expected her to tell him that her and Sam were together.

Greyson shifts uncomfortably next to her, "Oh you two are together?" he points between the two of them.

Sam grabs Lena's hand across the table, rubbing her knuckles, "Yeah. Three years, but it feels like just yesterday she walked into my life. We were each other’s first kiss. We've known each other our whole lives, it was only a matter of time til we got together. Don't you think, Greyson?"

Everyone could hear the lift in his tone. If he was trying to make Greyson leave, it was working.

“Uh sure yeah of course. I’m happy for you guys. I didn’t realize you went back that far. No wonder she rejected my proposal you know. I gotta get going though.”

He begins to stand but turns back towards Lena with a close lipped smile. He leans down and kisses her cheek before she could move. He pulls away from her slowly, pointedly avoiding Sam’s eyes.

“You’ve got yourself a keeper here, Sam. Make sure you take good care of her so she doesn’t have to go looking somewhere else. Anyone would be lucky to have her.”

He stands from the table abruptly, leaving without them getting a chance to say goodbye. Dean and Sam turn their eyes towards Selena.

“Greyson? You go way back?”

Selena rolls her eyes, “He’s an old boyfriend of mine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about? He was pretty fucking happy to see you Lena.”

She gasps, how was Sam still this angry?

“I don’t know Sam! It wasn’t ever that serious with him.”

He eyes her up and down, “Never that serious? He said you rejected his proposal! He wanted to marry you, but it wasn’t that serious?”

“Babe that’s not important. We’re together now, can we just focus on us?”

Dean interjects himself into the conversation feeling the tension rising between his brother and his girlfriend.

“You guys just celebrated your three years. Sam if she’d wanted to be with Greyson, she would be. Suck it up champ, you got the trophy, no need to make second place feel like shit.”

Hearing that Sam seemed to perk up throughout the rest of their dinner.

****

Okay that’s it lol, did you guys enjoy reading about Lena? I’m currently making a Lexi one as well. If there’s anything I missed about her, just let me know and I can update this as much as I want lol.

It's later in the day and work conversation got weird. It reminded me that maybe I should list Lena's kinks as well. This might get weird, you don't have to read if you don't want to. I will be including the same thing for Lexi.

****

This is a lot of fucking kinks, but they're split into sections. I will be putting the section and then the number of the kink that she has. These can be things that she likes or just things that her and Sam get up to when they have time.

GSA: 4, 5, 6, 7 (A hand in her mouth whilst being fucked), 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 19, 21, 22, 24, 25

GSTL: All except 3 and 4

BFE: 4, 16, 17, 18, 20

BBM: 4 (Sam to Lena), 5, 7, 8, 9, 12, 17, 18, 21, 22, 24

Clothing: 4, 14, 16, 18

BDSM: 1, 4, 9, 13, 20, 24, 25, 27, 44, 48, 59, 67

MISC: 3, 5, 6, 7, 10, 11, 13, 15, 22, 31, 35, 42, 43, 46, 53, 67

Please, I swear to Chuck, I think I counted right or at least I hope I did. Selena and Lexi have different lists seeing as Selena is more vanilla than Lexi, however there are some overlaps.

****

As for Sam and Lena's future, they get engaged in season 11. Now seeing as I haven't watched past a few episodes in season 12, I'm going to assume as of right now that they get married in season 14. Since Little Angel is half canon half my brain, Dean is probably still going to suffer the same fate. I haven't decided yet. But Lena and Sam do end up having kids and living long happy lives together. She does end up dying before Sam and being reunited with their family in heaven.

#ari’s fic recs #ari’s masterlist #oc #dean winchester #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #selenakatherinesinger #oc story #castiel #lexiflynn

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