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corkadymu · 6 days ago

Note

Continuation to dragon price and chubby reader please 🙏😞

Diluc pfp i love u

Original Post

John Price is not a patient man. Not when it comes to things that are his.

And you, sweetheart, are already his. You just don’t know it yet.

He’s been careful, methodical, weaving his presence into your life like an unshakable constant. He’s a fixture in your mornings, a reliable shadow at your counter, and whether you know it or not, you’ve begun to expect him. Your smile comes easier when you see him, your eyes seeking him out. You chat with him without hesitation, your voice warm and sweet, and he tucks every detail away, hoarding even the very sound of you, the shape of your words like a dragon collects gold.

But it’s not enough.

Not when you’re still here, in this little café, where anyone can walk in and see you, talk to you, try to take what is his. It sets his teeth on edge, his tail twitching, scales bristling beneath his clothes when he catches another man watching you too long. They linger at the counter, pretending they don’t notice the way his gaze darkens, the way his body shifts ever so slightly toward you in silent, possessive warning.

They don’t see it. But you do.

He knows you notice. How could you not? He’s big in ways that command attention, and though he reigns in the more fearsome parts of himself unless needed, there’s an undeniable weight to his presence, something that makes you still for half a second before recovering with that soft smile.

But he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick to him when someone stands too close, or how you visibly relax when he’s near. He doesn’t miss how, even if you don’t understand why, you seem to gravitate toward him.

Good.

His plan is simple; You like him- he knows you do. He can smell it, if he wouldn’t even consider anything else. You trust him, at least enough to lean into his presence when you’re uncertain. And that’s all he needs to start pulling you in.

“You work too much, love.” He comments one morning, leaning on the counter as you prepare his tea. You laugh, shaking your head. Today, you’ve forgobe your usual uniform pants and are wearing a skirt instead. It cups the soft mound of your belly, your love handles, and John has never felt hungrier in all his life.

“Says you.”

He smirks, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “I mean it. You’re always here.”

You hum, shrugging. “It’s my job.”

“I’d wager you don’t take much time for yourself,” he says, and when you look up at him, brow raised, he tilts his head, voice dropping into something lower, warmer, that has you ducking your head and a shy smile blooming on your pretty face. “Let me take you out, love.”

The words settle between you, heavy and inevitable. You blink, momentarily caught off guard, before you offer him a shy nod.

“As a thank you for the tea?” You tease.

“As a thank you for puttin’ up with me, lovie.”

It’s playful, easy, but the way he looks at you makes your breath hitch. You chew your lip, glancing at the line forming behind him.

“I- ”

“I’ll pick you up after your shift,” he cuts in smoothly, already knowing your answer. Already knowing you won’t say no.

And you don’t.

The first outing is simple; desserts at another place, something neutral, something easy. He doesn’t overwhelm, doesn’t push, but he watches. He takes note of how you react to him outside of work, how you lean into his warmth without realizing it, how your eyes soften when he pays for your food without a second thought- and he makes note of which ones are your favorite.

The next time, it’s dinner. And the time after that, it’s a night drive to the hills, where he lets you see a glimpse of him, of the way his eyes gleam in the dark, the way his wings spread beneath the moonlight.

And through it all, he talks about his boys. About Johnny, who would adore your laugh, who would try to make you smile every second of the day. About Kyle, who would charm you effortlessly, but who would love you with a quiet steadiness that would never waver. About Simon, who would linger in your periphery until you beckoned him closer, who would tuck you into his arms and keep you there like a secret only he was meant to hold.

He speaks of them as though they are already yours. As though you are already theirs.

And when he finally invites you to his home, to the place where his hoard waits, it’s not a request.

It’s a confirmation.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing over your wrist, reverent, aching, and hungry. He’s been so patient. His boys have been so patient, even if they pore over ever little slip of you he brings home. He could have been forceful and you’d never would have been able to fight back against him- but he didn’t. You don’t deserve such treatment unwarranted, and John has lived a long life- darlings like you always folded, anyways.

“Come home, love.”

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corkadymu · 6 days ago

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(poly werewolves 141 x female human reader || part one)

The forest had a rhythm to it.

Not one of ticking clocks or hours counted on a calendar, but a living rhythm- crows taking wing at dawn, the hush of deer at the river come twilight, the cicadas sawing the silence into ribbons each dusk.

You had lived long enough in your solitude to learn that rhythm as if it were your own pulse; it told you when the seasons turned, when the rains would come, when the bears would lumber down from the higher ridges.

And now, it told you this: you were no longer alone.

Not alone in the way of creatures and their breath in the dark. That, you had already grown used to. It had been weeks since the night of blood and storm, since four shadows had collapsed on your porch and vanished again like wraiths. Weeks since your quiet life had been rewritten with the subtle signs of guardianship- the gifts left on your steps, the predator tracks cut short by heavier, sharper prints circling yours, the strange hush that fell upon the clearing as though the forest itself bowed to some unspoken command you weren’t privy to learn just yet.

This was different.

It began with smoke: not yours, but a thin, rising thread of it curling from the tree line across the lake. The abandoned cottage there had stood for years, sagging into the earth, its roof bowed, its hearth gone cold. You had passed it once in your first spring here, peered into its hollow frame and decided it was a place ghosts might linger and one you’d not waste time on.

But one crisp morning, you looked up from your own chopping block and saw smoke rising from that chimney, steady and sure. Not ghosts, then. Neighbors.

You almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Neighbors. Out here, where the road gave way to little more than deer tracks, where storms cut power for days and the forest demanded a kind of loyalty from those who dared live in it. Few came this far. Fewer stayed, and the closest civilization was the village more than a few miles away.

And yet, the very next week, you saw them.

Four men, crossing the river path with lumber on their shoulders, voices a low rumble of camaraderie. They moved like soldiers: even in their quiet, you recognized the familiar cadence of it. Broad-shouldered, scarred in places they did not bother to hide, eyes sharper than any civilian’s had right to be. You stood at the edge of your garden with your cane, watching from beneath the brim of your hat as they passed.

They raised hands in greeting. Not intrusive, not prying. Just a neighbor’s courtesy.

“Morning,” the one wearing a cap said, polite and friendly.

You returned the nod, though your throat felt thick. Morning.

And then they were gone, melting into the forest trail with their burden of timber.

It should have ended there; A curiosity, an oddity you would eventually grow used to, the way one grows used to a raven’s nest high in the eaves. But it didn’t end, because you noticed the rhythm shift again.

One night, when the coyotes returned, you woke to find your porch lamp already lit, its flame burning steady in the storm winds. You had not lit it. And in the woods beyond, instead of growls, you thought you heard the heavy tread of boots driving the animals off.

Another morning, your cane slipped from your hand as you struggled with a basket by the river. Before you could stoop to fetch it, one of the new men appeared on the path, his russet-colored sweater catching the light, eyes gleaming. He bent and handed the cane back with a grin quick as a flame, gaze bright and unreadable. “Careful there, Miss. Slippery ground.” His voice was warm and careful as honey, and he vanished again before you could properly thank him.

And yet another time, as dusk bled into the forest, you froze on your porch when a bear lumbered near the treeline. You were reaching for your gun when you saw movement from the corner of your eye.

A pale shape- no, a man this time- standing just beyond your garden’s edge. He didn’t shout, didn’t wave his arms. He only stood, utterly still, eyes fixed on the animal. And somehow, impossibly, the bear huffed, turned, and wandered off, as though cowed by something larger than it could name.

When you blinked, the man was gone before you could thank him.

They eventually introduced themselves to you proper, of course. John Price, Kyle Garrick, Simon (just Simon), and Johnny MacTavish. Normal names. Names no one in the village had, so they couldn’t be related to anyone there. They gave them easily, with the kind of ease soldiers had when lying about where they’d been stationed or what unit they’d served in- it wasn’t so much dishonesty as a well-worn habit of keeping the truth folded deep.

You offered your own name, a little stiffly, though your voice warmed when Johnny tilted his head, smile bright enough to catch in the lamplight.

“Bonnie name for a bonnie lass.” He’d said, syllables lilting. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and you found yourself looking away too quickly, unsettled by how closely he looked when he said it.

John had only given you a slow nod, his pipe stem caught between his teeth, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. Simon- towering, quiet, eyes like bruised steel- didn’t say much at all, only let his gaze sweep across your porch as if assessing its defenses. Kyle had been the first to offer a hand, warm and calloused, his grin kind, his touch gentle and firm.

It should have ended there, polite words shared over a fence-line, the sort of introduction that fades back into distance.

But it didn’t: you began to notice them even in the smallest corners of your life, even after those previous few instances.

Once, when you walked to the cottage after a trip to the village with a pack too heavy for your frame, you found yourself flagging by the first step of your porch. The weight dragged your bad leg nearly to buckling.

Before you could curse the ache in your thigh, the strap lightened- lifted clean from your shoulder. Kyle had taken it without asking, carrying the burden as if it weighed nothing at all.

“You should’ve called for one of us,” he said, his tone almost scolding, though softened by his smile. “Could’ve saved you the trouble.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.” You replied, half defensive, half annoyed by the pack, the fall, and the ache in your leg.

His answering smile was gentle and so pretty you wanted to look away, boyish in a way that contrasted with the scars along his jaw. “Supposed to? Maybe not. But next time, eh? You’ve got four big men around, we’d carry anything you asked for.”

He didn’t give the pack back until you were safely at your door, and even then he dropped it on your table and only then left.

Another evening, you lingered in the garden, tending to the last stubborn shoots of late summer. Your hands were deep in the soil when you realized you weren’t alone: Simon stood just beyond the fence, arms folded, shadow long across the tilled earth, a balaclava on his face.

You startled, dropping the trowel. “Holy shit, I didn’t hear you.”

“You weren’t meant to,” he answered simply, voice deep enough that it seemed to stir the very air. Then he climbed over the fence, and knelt beside you. “Let me help.”

You frowned, brushing dirt from your palms. “…. Why are you here?”

His eyes moved- slow, deliberate- across the treeline, then back to you. “Because you’re out here.”

He didn’t explain further and didn’t step closer. But something in the words lingered in your chest, heavy and oddly steadying. He remained until you finally rose, cane in hand, and went inside.

Only then did his shadow slip away into the dusk.

John was more deliberate in his approach, but quieter too, woven into habits you didn’t notice until later: your woodpile, once dwindling faster than you liked, seemed replenished each week with neat stacks of logs you didn’t recall chopping. Your fence rail, loose and wobbling, had been reinforced with fresh nails one morning before you woke.

You caught him once, pipe smoke curling through the mist as he set down an axe (deliciously bare-chested, though you didn’t let yourself focus on that for now).

“John, you don’t need to-“ you began, bristling at the thought of being pitied like this.

He cut you off with a steady look, his voice calm but edged. “A storm’s coming, and I hate having nothing to do, doll. Let me do this for you.”

There was no mockery in his tone. Just fact and just care wrapped in command.

And when he walked past you to the gate, boots crunching against frost, he paused just long enough to murmur, “You shouldn’t be doing it alone, anyhow.”

Johnny was the opposite of John’s steady gravity. He was the fire you kept roaring in your fireplace during winter- restless, bright, and impossible to ignore. He turned up most often in the in-between hours, whistling as he carried back game from the woods, or lounging on your porch rail as if it were his own.

“Dinnae like the way that trap was sittin’,” he remarked once, nodding toward the line of your snares along the brush. “Let me change ‘em for ye, lass. Or add more.”

“I’ve been setting those for years.” You replied, defensive and unimpressed.

“Aye, and maybe I’ve got sharper eyes.” He winked, grin flashing quick. “Humor me, hen. No harm in letting me take a look.”

And somehow, by the end of it, you’d let him place new snares, his broad hands surprisingly delicate with the wire. You told yourself it was easier than arguing, but the warmth in your chest when he looked up, face flushed with exertion, said otherwise.

There were subtler things too. Things you couldn’t explain: when you once left food cooling on the windowsill overnight, you woke to find no scavengers had touched it, though the forest was full of them.

When you walked the river trail, you sometimes caught the smell of woodsmoke and earth that wasn’t your own, and felt the hair on your arms rise as though someone padded just beyond sight.

And in the coldest nights, when your pain kept you awake and the silence pressed too close, you sometimes swore you heard it: the long, low timbre of a howl rolling down from the ridges. Not threatening and not mournful, but something as deep as the forest itself. Claiming.

It should have frightened you.

You fell asleep without clutching your gun.

Bit by bit, you softened toward them: At first, it was in the way you didn’t chase them off when you found them mending something around your homestead. Later, it was in the way you let Kyle carry heavy things without argument, or let Johnny sit on your porch and chatter until the stars came out, or let Simon stand in the dark corners of your garden without demanding he explain himself.

And with John, it was in the way you eventually set two mugs on the table instead of one when you brewed tea on colder mornings- never asking if he’d stay, but always finding the second cup drained when you returned from the stove and found new chopped wood.

They were men, yes. But they were something else too, something you hadn’t yet named. Their movements were too fluid, too sure-footed, their eyes too sharp when they caught the light. They carried the forest with them, as if it bowed to their passage.

And sometimes, when you looked too closely, you thought you saw it: a shadow of fangs when Johnny grinned too wide; a glimmer like molten gold in Simon’s eyes when the moon was high; the twitch of John’s shoulders, as though his body itched to shake free of its human shackles; the way Kyle sniffed the air, subtle, like scent was as telling as sight, and accirately told you whethere it’d rain or not.

Subtle signs and little truths you kept tucking away, telling yourself they were tricks of light and fancy- but you knew the rhythm of the forest better than anyone.

And the forest whispered back to you, clear as bone and blood:

These men are not just men, and perhaps peace did not shatter.

Perhaps it only changed shape.

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corkadymu · 6 days ago

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(poly werewolves 141 x female human reader)

The forest had always been a cathedral to you.

Not in the way of stained glass and hymnals, but in the hush of pine needles cushioning each step, in the incense of sap and rain, in the way sunlight filtered through green boughs like blessings painted in gold. It was the only place where your body’s brokenness did not feel like a sentence. With your cane and your limp and the ache that gnawed the marrow of your leg on storm-heavy days, the world outside demanded swiftness, strength, perfection.

But here, in your tucked-away cottage on the edge of a wild expanse where no roads reached, you moved at your own pace. The mountains did not mind if you were slow, and the rivers did not scorn when you paused to breathe.

It had been three years since the army sent you home with medals and hollow apologies. The steel pin in your leg sang a different hymn than the one they spoke at the discharge ceremony. You had learned to live with it; You had learned to love quiet mornings steeped in tea and woodsmoke, evenings dappled with deer crossing through your garden as if you, too, belonged to the woods.

But peace is a delicate thing. It always shatters quietly, without warning.

The first sound was not one of peace; it was thunder dragged low across the undergrowth- crashing, breaking and desperate. You nearly dropped the kettle in your hands when you heard it, a ragged cacophony coming closer and closer. Your first thought was bear. Your second- wolves.

You barely had time to step outside before the shadows stumbled into your clearing.

Four of them. Enormous, their coats glistened dark with blood, not rain, their breaths sawing out in great wet gasps. Wolves, your mind supplied, but wrong somehow- shoulders broader, and you thought they might perhaps be wolf dogs… though you’d never seen so many in a pack like this.

And yet, not one of them snarled. Not one lunged.

They collapsed instead.

The first you noticed was a black-furred beast with scars tangled across his muzzle, and it crashed right against your porch steps. Another, the largest, was pale as bone itself, curled protectively near the others though he trembled like a candleflame on torn paws and legs. A mottled, dark-grey one with its back fur raised along its back like a long mohawk staggered in last and his eyes flashing toward you, unreadable, before he fell on his side. The fourth, leaner, russet-streaked, was bleeding badly from his flank; he whimpered once and then stilled, curling near the mottled dark-grey one.

Your breath should have fled with fear. And yet… something in their stillness unraveled the panic in your chest; they did not come with bared teeth. They came like creatures at the edge of breaking, and you’ve always had a soft heart towards animals- even ones who could genuinely tear you apart without a single chance for you to defend yourself.

They are injured, and they need help. And they looked wary of you- clearly only dropped here by sheer circumstance.

“God,” you whispered, cane rattling against the porch rail as you knelt as best you could. “You poor things.”

Your hands shook as you reached out, half-certain they’d tear into you, but the black one- his eyes fathomless, old as winter- only let out a low, warning rumble. Not threat, but something like acceptance, and something like surrender.

They let you touch them. They let you tend their wounds.

You dragged your old army medical kit out from the cupboard. The motions returned like instinct- press, clean, wrap. Gauze soaked through crimson faster than you could lay it down.

You whispered apologies each time they winced, though they bore the pain with an eerie calm. They were too intelligent for beasts, but you told yourself they must be strays, must be dogs twisted by some cruel hand of war or horrible owners clearly unequipped.

And still, your heart broke with every fever-hot breath against your palms.

Hours passed; the storm outside broke with rain, tapping against the roof as though the forest itself prayed for them. One by one, they sank into uneasy sleep on your floor, their hulking bodies curled together in a heap of fur and scar tissue.

You should have been afraid, truthfully- your cane leaned helplessly against the wall, your fragile body too slow to escape if they turned on you. And yet, you sat among them with your hand resting on one blood-matted ear, watching the rise and fall of their ribs, and felt nothing except gladness that they’d stopped here and not somewhere they would have been shot.

And when dawn crept pale through your windows, the black one was the first to stir, lifting his massive head to watch you. His eyes caught yours, unflinchingly sharp. You felt the weight of command in him, the way you once felt it in the battlefield: the quiet authority of someone who had endured too much, survived too long. He lowered his head again, a gesture not of defeat but of… trust, delicate as it might be.

Your throat tightened.

When the bleeding slowed and your trembling hands had done all they could with bandages and warm cloth, you stood in the middle of your little cottage and looked at them- four hulking shadows sprawled on your floor, breath hitching, blood drying into their coats. Wolves, or wolf-adjacent.

And yet… they were quiet, calm as tides, and watching you with eyes far too clever.

You had no words to give them; so you gave them what you could.

You hobbled to your pantry, leaning hard on your cane, gathering what little stores you could spare: the smoked venison you had meant to ration for the month, a loaf of bread baked just yesterday, a day-old chicken, and several clay bowls of water. You set it all down gently near the hearth, as if you were laying an offering at the altar of some ancient god.

“Here,” you murmured, voice almost breaking in the hush. “Eat. You’ll need the strength.”

Their eyes followed your every motion, gleaming in the firelight. There was no snarling and no snapping. Just… watching as though they understood.

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold itself still, as if waiting for you to do more. But exhaustion claimed you then, the ache in your leg cutting sharp, and you turned your back to reach for another roll of gauze. You thought only of finishing the work, of keeping them alive through the night.

When you turned again, the room was empty.

The bread, gone. The meat and chicken, gone. The bowl overturned, licked clean. The pawprints led across the wooden floor and out the open door, fading into the storm-slick earth.

You stood there alone, staring at the space where they had lain, where their breath had rattled heavy and mortal. And the strangest ache welled in your chest, something not relief and not fear, but in between.

The days that followed wore a strange shape.

You told yourself you had imagined it, that no wolves could have survived such wounds. That they had vanished back into the wild, perhaps to die beneath roots and soil. You wanted to believe it- needed to, even. Life had already carved you down to a small, quiet existence; the intrusion of those impossible beasts felt like a dream you could not keep.

But the forest began to change; it started small.

A rabbit, caught neatly in a snare you hadn’t set, left dangling near your garden. A pheasant feather placed cleanly upon your porch, too deliberate to be chance. Pawprints circling your cottage come morning, broad and heavy, pacing like guards at their post.

One afternoon, your cane slipped in the garden, your bad leg folding under you as the ground rushed up. A crackle tore through the brush, a crash of branches snapping, and before you struck the dirt a shape burst from the treeline. Mottled, Dark-grey fur and a snarl sharp enough to curdle marrow- directed not at you, but at the hulking shadow of a boar that had been creeping too near. The animal fled with a squeal, and the wolf lingered only a breath, gaze flicking toward you, before vanishing as though he had never been.

Another night, coyotes prowled too close. You sat frozen at your window, watching their dark shapes slink along the treeline and contemplating pulling out your gun. Then- low thunder; a growl so deep it seemed to shudder in the bones of the cottage. The coyotes yelped, scattering into the dark, and you pressed your hand to the glass, breath fogging it, certain you glimpsed a pale shape, moonlit and spectral, standing sentinel in the shadows.

And then there were the mornings.

Your path to the river always bore new prints- wolf prints, pacing and circling, shadowing your every step in mud. You never saw them, but the silence of the woods began to hum with a presence.

As though the forest itself had chosen you, and lent you its fiercest guardians.

You tried to deny it: tried to tell yourself you were imagining the weight of those eyes at your back, the sudden absence of predators near your clearing, the gifts of fresh-kill left like tithes upon your porch.

You told yourself it was only coincidence, only luck.

And yet, when you limped to the river one dusky evening, cane sinking into the soft loam, and felt the air shiver with the sound of an unseen growl as a bear wandered too close- only to watch the beast veer off suddenly, ears pinned, as though driven away by something far greater- you knew.

They had left your home, yes. But not you.

They haunted the tree line like shadows, like ghosts. You caught only glimpses- eyes blinking from between branches, the swish of a russet tail disappearing into the undergrowth, the heavy impression of a black pawprint pressed into the soil at your porch step.

And though you did not yet understand why, or what they truly were, you found yourself leaning into the protection of the unseen. For the first time since the war had sent you home broken and alone, you slept through the night without fear and without a hand clutching the gun under your pillow.

Because somewhere in the dark, the forest breathed- and you knew you were not alone.

p2 (tba)

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corkadymu · 1 month ago

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Masterlist :] disclaimer none of these are actual fics, mostly just blurbs or random thoughts. dont comment on grammar or spelling, i dont care :P

Series

healer!reader (141 x reader)

soap x reader (bullet wound, pt 1) gaz x reader (plus some mild soap, pt 2) ghost x reader (fever + chronic pain, pt 3) price x reader (migraine + joint pain, pt 4) they talk (no pairings, reader reveal, pt 5) soap dies lol (no pairings, angst, non-canon) blurb 1 (soap x reader)

gator!reader (platonic 141 x reader)

gator!reader (seperate 141) purring (reader feels calm anough to purr) nervous habit (self-grooming from anxiety) uncivilized (reader freaks out abt soap growling) malnourished (reader doesnt eat enough, ED behaviour) malnourished pt 2 (the aftermath) heat regulation (reader warms up) shedding (how reader deals with shedding)

wolf!soap (wolf!soap x human!reader)

two wolves (wolf!soap x human!reader, fluff, humor?) two wolves pt 2 (wolf!soap x human!reader, platonic gaz x reader) belly rubs (wolf!soap x human!reader, smut) scruffed on the mats (wolf!soap x human!reader, suggestive) cycles (wolf!soap x human!reader, reader is AFAB in this one) musk (wolf!soap x human!reader, smut)

abused wolf!reader (no pairings, wolf hybrid!reader)

muzzle (no pairings, angst, no comfort) MUTT (platonic gaz x reader, angst) command (no pairings, angst)

wolf shifter!reader (no pairings, reader is a wolf shifter)

shifter (gaz and reader, angst) shifter pt 2 (soap learns what happened)

character centric masterlists

johnny Soap MacTavish Simon Ghost riley Kyle Gaz Garrick Captain John Price Task Force 141

if you feel like any of the posts are incorrectly tagged lmk!

important tags:

pup reader < pup play with puppy reader

pup 141 < pup play with any of the 141 being the puppy, does not mean all of them

hybrid reader < reader is a hybrid

hybrid 141 < one or more of the 141 are hybrids

rommy answers < i answer asks

rommy rants < i rant

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corkadymu · 1 month ago

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inspired by/continuation of this by @rawme-price

You don’t know what you did to make your pack hate you.

But they do hate you, of that, you’re certain. It’s been weeks of avoidance, of glaring when they see you, of “accidentally” hitting you too hard during spars. Ghost and Gaz seem to hate you the most, but you can’t be sure, because you’ve barely even seen Soap in weeks, and whenever you do, he refuses to make eye contact with you, his tail tucked between his legs. Price is slightly less antagonistic, but there is no more warmth in his interactions with you, all of them coldly professional.

It’s tearing you up inside.

You’re considering putting in for a transfer when the news comes—you’re being loaned out to the Americans for a mission that will take several weeks, maybe months. No one else from the 141 will be coming with you.

You hold off on your transfer request, as a favor to Laswell, who apparently personally recommended you. You know it likely won’t be accepted until after the mission is finished, anyway.

You’re up and on the tarmac at 05:00. None of your pack comes to say goodbye.

As the helo lifts off, you feel the bonds you’d formed with each and every one of them—once so strong and a great source of comfort—break, unable to hold up under the strain of rejection any longer. It’s agony, but it’s freedom, too, in a way.

Johnny wakes up with a pained gasp, clawing at his chest as he shoots up in bed. Beside him, Simon sits up sharply as well, reaching for the gun under his pillow before realizing the room is empty.

“Just a nightmare,” he soothes his sergeant, heart breaking at the horrible whines coming from him. He pulls Johnny close, kissing the crown of his head. “S’olright, Soap. Go back ta sleep.”

And Soap does, the ache in his chest slowly fading, but never quite disappearing entirely. He wonders what he was dreaming of, to have such an intense reaction…

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corkadymu · 2 months ago

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Dragon's Hoard pt. 12

(inspired by Bluegiragi and Docdudo)

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

You woke to the crackle of dying embers and the soft, heavy breathing of creatures too large for silence. But the two most likely strongest were gone.

There was no gentle grumbling of Price's timbre voice. No silent support from Ghost- Simon. To be found. According to Gaz as he draped a large feathery wing around your shoulders, they have gone hunting. Ghost and Price had left with the rising of the dawn, and the cave was emptier for it. Not quieter— as Soap and Gaz remained—but emptier, like something had been pulled out by the root and the hole it left behind gaped wide, like an awaiting maw.

Soap was the first to speak. He always was. With the way sleep wore off of him, it made him seem almost human. The grogginess of his features and the contentedness of which his tail wagged. your lips twitched with disdain as he looked like he had a good night's sleep.

“Morning,” he said, awkwardly gentle, like he was afraid of scaring you again. “Brought you water. And some meat. Caught fresh.”

You didn’t answer. You barely looked at him. Envy curled in your tummy. Either it was envy for how Soap could sleep so well, or the sight of freshly hunted meat.

His ears dipped. “I... also still have that doll. If you want it.”

As if that could placate you.

From where he sat crouched beside you, Gaz watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. Half-wrapped in one wing, with the other draped lazily about your tiny shoulders, he looked more bird of prey than man. A bird protecting his baby chick.

"Leave the chickadee alone Soap, can't you see our chick is still scared?"

Soap's ears drooped, but reluctantly agreeing, he sourly crawled over to Gaz and with a dramatic sigh his head found weary solace against the meat of his thigh.

"Where's...Price..and Ghost?" You find yourself asking. Your lips betraying your desire to stay as close to the "safest" hybrids as possible.

The hurt on Gaz's features was better concealed then Soap's. But he made no move to address it.

"Hunting, they're out hunting my little chick." Gaz's soothing response made guilt twist uncomfortably hot in your tummy.

The hours passed like tar. Soap tried to draw you out with fumbling jokes, small gifts, stories. As did Gaz, his gentle crooning and now much softer preening trying to make you more comfortable. Sometimes he spoke to Soap in low, short phrases, their tones curling and twisting with something intimately private—something that had nothing to do with you. When Soap leaned closer, hand brushing Gaz’s feathers, his cheek still squished against Gaz's quad. In that moment, you saw something unspoken pass between them. Gaz didn’t pull away.

They were distracted.

And they stayed distracted.

Long enough.

You reached the mouth of the cave long before you stepped through it. Fear making your legs come to a standstill.

"They better not be out there..." You whisper to yourself, referring to Ghost and Price. If they even see you near the entrance to the cave unaccompanied, the consequences would be serious.

For a long moment, you only stood there—half-wrapped in the thin dark of the tunnel’s stone throat, blinking into the pale, gray-filtered light beyond. Dusk...the crisp air whisps and curls. Invading your lungs like a shockwave as for the past few weeks you've been in the near suffocating warmth of the cave. The trees outside swayed like the slow-breathing ancient giants of stories, skeletal limbs clawing at the colorless sky. It smelled like damp bark and loam and the ghosts of things long rotted..and freedom.

Cold wind slipped in through the opening and wrapped around your ankles like fingers, beckoning you onwards.

Hesitating, you look on.

"I got this." The sound of your voice almost startles you. as it sounds so foreign when not being echoed by the cave walls.

You moved when the air was thick and heavy with complacency. When the sound of Gaz and Soap's amorous laughter became soft, distant—an echo within the cavern walls.

Your bare toes curled over the uneven stone. The time spent with the hybrids has made your skin softer with how they tried to clean and groom you in accordance with their instincts and culture. The cave behind you stretched like a throat you were crawling out of. And something in you twisted at the thought of truly leaving it.

It should have been easy. You should’ve run the moment their backs turned.

But there was something about the threshold—this place between—that made you pause. Because it wasn’t just leaving them. It was leaving whatever safety came with them. The fire. The food. The weight of eyes always watching, always knowing where you were. Monsters or not, they never let the woods swallow you.

Now? You didn’t know what the woods would do.

You stared out past the treeline, at the pale spindled shapes of trees that grew too close together. They looked like ribs. Like a forest long starved.

You took a breath that didn’t quite reach your lungs.

Then, with one hand trailing the stone wall like a tether, you stepped out.

The cave mouth yawned behind you, silent.

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

The forest groaned beneath the wind as the chill of dusk crept in—long shadows tangling through the trees like a vial of spilled ink. It was the hour when the woods began to rot into silence, when the birds quieted and the nocturnal predators roamed.

Ghost moved without sound, a sliver of shadow slipping between the underbrush. melding from one shadow to the other with surgical precision. His bone white mask caught no light. No puffs of breath clouded the air. Just the twitch of a clawed finger here, the tilt of his head there. He was not a man walking—he was stalking.

Price followed at a distance, his one wing pulled tight against his back, horns brushing low branches. His body was too large to vanish like Ghost, but he knew how to move like something meant to be feared. Where Ghost was absence, Price was presence—heat, weight, and thunder held back by an ancient, unwavering patience.

They had tracked the scent for over an hour now. A buck, if they were lucky maybe two. Fresh trails. Muddied tracks pressed into damp earth, sap licked clean from broken bark. Every so often, Ghost would tilt his head toward the canopy, as if listening for something only he could hear.

Still, neither spoke.

They rarely did while hunting. Words only got in the way.

But then, Price let out a low rumble—not a growl, not a warning, just a thought made sound.

“They’re still shaken.”

Ghost didn’t answer immediately. Immediately knowing whom the subject matter was. His skull mask turned just slightly, a glint of reflection off one hollow socket.

“Still?” Price pressed, quieter. “You’ve been watching, haven’t you?”

A slow nod from the wraith.

“You think they’ll settle?”

Ghost crouched beside a patch of trampled bramble, fingers grazing the torn leaves. He didn’t look at Price as he answered, voice low enough to be mistaken for wind.

“Eventually.”

Price huffed through his nose. “It’s Soap’s fault they’re still this rattled. He’s too rough. Doesn’t know when to stop.”

Ghost stood again, shadows reforming to a solid form from the darkness. “He means well.”

“He means,” Price growled, “but he doesn’t understand.” There was heat there. Not just anger—worry. “the hatchling is not one of us. Not made of scale, or fang, or sinew.”

Ghost tilted his head again. “They are now.”

That made Price pause.

He stepped around a splintered tree, wings brushing the edge of the path. There was tension in his frame that hadn’t been there earlier, like something pulling taut behind his ribs.

“Maybe.”

Ghost didn’t respond.

The shadows deepened. As if they were themselves alive and twisting in accordance with Ghost's mood. Far above, mournful crows cried out, sounding like decrepit old souls. The scent of blood drifted faintly on the wind—old, animal, not human. Something worse.

Still, Price’s gold eyes narrowed, scanning the woods not for prey now—but for something else. Someone else.

“...Do you feel that?” he asked suddenly.

Ghost stopped. His head lifted, the bones of his mask tilted toward the air.

Something was wrong. But not close. Not yet.

Price turned slightly, the anxious flick of his tail lashing against the tall grass. That was the one of many tells that Simon could understand and label. Price was nervous. Not many things usually made him nervous.

“We should head back after this,” the dragon muttered. “Sooner than usual.”

Ghost nodded once, slowly. "Trouble?"

Ghost didn't need to hear the answer as the look Price gave was more than enough to clue him in.

"Bloodsucker." Price spat.

Silently stalking back home, ghost under the cover of darkness and Price trailing not too far behind. Their minds in unison, as they think of how comfortable it would be to sink back into the safety and protection of the nest-their little one cozy at the heart of it all.

Unbeknownst to them, you've left.

The small, soft weight they’d called theirs was already slipping into the dark woods, leaving footprints behind them like quiet apologies.

Had the left to return ten minutes earlier, they would have seen you passing by.

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

oh no...how horrible. Darn kids always are up to something when no one is looking ;) Hopefully the Hoard won't be too upset when they find you.

Enjoy pt 12.

262 notes · View notes

corkadymu · 2 months ago

Text

Master List

This is my first try at making a master list. If anything, doesn't work or if anyone has any tips on how to make everything look cleaner, please don't hesitate to reach out via ask box.

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

TF2 fics

Never Leaving

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/712546844782231552/never-leaving?source=share

TF2 Mercs on their Day Off

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/712628013851918336/tf2-mercs-on-their-day-off?source=share

Lovely Surprise

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/712718661275779072/lovely-surprise?source=share

tf2 Mercs Babysitting Style

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/712892784995106816/tf2-mercs-babysitting-style?source=share

Cuddling With Medic

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/712907808156303360/cuddling-with-medic?source=share

What the Mercs are like when You're Sick

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/712985757266165760/what-the-mercs-are-like-when-youre-sick?source=share

First Impressions

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713086677455945728/first-impressions?source=share

Nightlight

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713178671247228928/nightlight?source=share

Which Mercs Give the Best Hugs

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713254232322605056/which-mercs-give-the-best-hugs?source=share

Heavy Feelings

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713417925359435776/heavy-feelings?source=share

Running on Empty

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713540360841904128/running-on-empty?source=share

Mercs at a pride event

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713626058541416448/tf2-fic-request-someall-the-mercs-first-pride?source=share

Heavy finding a cat

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713641476338384896/i-politely-ask-for-heavy-finding-and-taking-care?source=share

How the Mercs Would Take Care of Their Stressed s/o

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713713483367186432/can-i-have-headcanon-of-how-each-mercs-deals-with?source=share

What Kinds of Drinks the Merc Would Be

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/713994203199307776/what-kinds-of-drinks-the-merc-would-be?source=share

Afraid Of the Dark

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714073364459929601/afraid-of-the-dark?source=share

Mercs with S/O who broke a bone

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714263073390755840/howd-mercs-react-when-their-so-broke-a-bone-in?source=share

Pyro x Spy x Engineer (head in a fridge)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714522666967744512/pyro-x-spy-x-engineer-but-its-blue-spy-and-they?source=share

Boots and bombs (spooky request)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714625992477605888/boots-n-bombs-but-spooky-werewolf-demo?source=share

Engineer Head cannons

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714718739490357248/i-saw-your-requests-were-open-and-i-just-had-to?source=share

Demoman finds a kitty

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714721308955541504/writing-request-demoman-finds-a-kitty?source=share

Soldier x engineer nsfw

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714818601201303552/could-u-possibly-write-a-bit-of-soft?source=share

Heavy x Medic (monsters)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714988490409000960/heavymedic-but-medic-is-frankenstein-while-heavy?source=share

Mercs finding a borzoi dog

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/714990223161016320/writing-requests-any-of-the-mercs-find-a?source=share

Mercs on the internet

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715048610990112768/what-do-you-think-each-of-the-mercs-favorite?source=share

Mercs reacting to a stoned reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715165552119791616/mercs-reacting-to-a-stoned-reader?source=share

Secrets Hurt

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715232998681870336/secrets-hurt?source=share

Cooking with Soldier

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715322351809626112/soldier-walked-into-the-dinning-room-with-an-extra?source=share

Platonic Yandere Mercs x sibling reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715351650087337984/hello-since-request-are-open-may-i-ask-for?source=share

Daddy (engineer x male reader) nsfw

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715364337033822208/hi-hi-i-was-wondering-if-you-could-do-some?source=share

Hide and seek with Pyro (pyro x spy)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715430314295623680/hi-its-platonic-yandere-anom-here-again-im-so?source=share

Mercs on their days off

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715491458487058432/hello-i-apologise-if-this-is-not-written-very?source=share

Emesis blue Demo and Soldier sharing reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715515353720078336/yandere-emesis-blu-demo-and-soldier-sharing-or?source=share

Freedom Fries with tenta-spy x soldier (nsfw)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/715984068565729280/freedom-fries-but-with-tenta-spy-it-being-nsfw-or?source=share

Yandere Emesis Blue Heavy x Fighting Obsessed Reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/716121178693091328/whos-your-favorite-eb-character-i-gotta-say-it?source=share

Platonic Engineer (not a fan of smoking)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/716343252696055808/hello-hello-im-aware-that-you-made-a-platonic?source=share

Yandere engineer x opposite team soldier

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/716770274068004864/i-just-saw-a-video-of-some-cupcakes-and-for-some?source=share

Engineer x Pyro (Maskless)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/716780901323915264/engineer-x-pyro-pyro-showing-engineer-there-face?source=share

Yandere Emesis Blue Medic x Reader (who is inside the Conagher slaughterhouse)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/717142844282945536/yandere-emesis-blue-yandere-blu-medic-finding?source=share

Yandere Mercs

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/717167949652393984/hi-sorry-if-this-is-badly-written-im-not-good?source=share

Engineer angst

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/718167595241652224/hi-saw-ur-reqs-open-3-could-you-persnaps-make?source=share

Centaur Engineer x Fire Demon Pyro reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/719784656128671744/centaur-engineer-x-fire-demon-pyro-3?source=share

Platonic yandere Demoman x Soldier reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/768543927848615936/hello-since-requests-are-open-may-i-ask-for-a?source=share

Platonic Yandere Mercs x Pyro Reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/768714938746306560/ougjsjs-i-beg-of-you-some-platonic-mercsyandere?source=share

Platonic Yandere Dad Spy x opposing team child reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/769123771752890368/i-love-dadmedic-or-dadspy-bc-there-is-so-much?source=share

Pyro Headcannons

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/769262138332233728/can-i-get-literally-any-headcannons-u-have-about?source=share

platonic RED!Scout with a BLU!Scout Reader

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/769312706033483776/hi-hello-how-are-you-good-i-hope-i-was?source=share

Mistaken Identity

Zed Conagher x wife reader (nsfw)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/782135486580916224/i-dont-know-if-youre-still-taking-requests-but?source=share

Only One Left

(gn reader x emesis blue scout)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/784986368481820672/i-dont-know-if-your-still-taking-emesis-blue?source=share

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Dragon's Hoard

(inspired by docduco and bluegiragi)

Dragon's Hoard pt.1

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/771988272401498112/a-dragons-hoard-pt1?source=share

Dragon's Hoard Pt.2

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/772787466315890688/a-dragons-hoard?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt.3

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/773421572854775808/dragons-hoard-pt3?source=share

-What If someone tries to kidnap the baby from dragons hoard how would they react and how would they get the baby back? (ask)

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/773950476141084672/what-if-someone-tries-to-kidnap-the-baby-from?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt 4

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/774524264594456576/a-dragons-hoard-pt-4?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt 5

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/776489994993958912/dragons-hoard-pt-5?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt. 6

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/778303632561029120/dragons-hoard-pt-6?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt. 7

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/779948228101685248/dragons-horde-part-7?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt. 8

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/782036996660002816/dragons-horde-part-8?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt. 9

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/783172245349629952/dragons-hoard-pt-10?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt.10

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/784300165942165504/dragons-hoard-pt-10?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt. 11

https://www.tumblr.com/cluelessatthispoint/784299884572459008/dragons-hoard-ch-10?source=share

Dragon's Hoard pt. 12 (coming soon)

201 notes · View notes

corkadymu · 2 months ago

Text

Dragon's Hoard: ch 11

(inspired by Blugiragi and Docdudo)

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

You sensed him long before you saw him.

Ghost didn’t breathe the way the others did. Didn’t move, didn’t sigh, but he was there. Just at the edge of your vision. A shift in the shadows. A second weight in the silence.

He clung to the shadows and wore it like a second skin. Still and soundless, the kind of stillness that made your bones itch. Something primal in you knew not to look directly at him. But you did.

You turned. And instead of vanishing like a bad thought, he stood at the mouth of one of the side tunnels—half-consumed by flickering dark, half-revealed in the pulse of firelight. Watching.

When you turned, you expected him to vanish. Instead, he stood at the mouth of one of the side tunnels, cloaked in the flickering dark. Watching.

He said nothing.

As if he knew what happened yesterday with Soap still bothered you. It lingered in your mind like a never-ending nightmare. Shuddering at the memory, your eyes meet Ghost's for only the briefest moments. His silence spoke volumes. It screamed. You knew he knew. Knew about what had happened with Soap the day before. Knew how the memory still festered beneath your skin like an old bruise that wouldn’t fade.

Your breath caught. A single glance into the hollows of his mask, and it was like staring into an empty grave. A grave he very well might have crawled out of.

With your back to the cave wall, the feeling of solid rock against your spine almost burns from how cold it is. Your thin arms wrapped around your knees for warmth. The fire in the center crackled quietly, a low murmur of warmth and light against the cooler draft from deeper in the den. You didn’t look at him long. You’d grown used to the others filling every silence with noise, but Ghost never seemed to need sound. And strangely, that made him less unbearable to be around. Almost tolerable.

At least he wasn’t trying to touch you. Or talk. Or pretend to understand.

But that didn’t mean it was easy, either.

It wasn’t long before the quiet of the new day was broken, by Soap. the werewolf came bounding into the room. You heard him before you saw him— always did. His impressive claws clicking on stone, the slap of something soft, maybe a pelt being dragged across the floor.

“There you are!” he chirped, too loudly. His grin was sheepish, his ears pinned back like a dog that knew it had done something wrong but wasn’t sure what. And sure enough, there was a pelt being dragged by his side. But in his arms, he held something, almost tenderly. He was holding something—a little doll, maybe. Squinting, it takes a moment to makes sense of what he's holding. Rather than a doll, it looks more like a bundle of dried grass tied with bits of twine, knotted in places to suggest the shape of limbs and a head. “Made this for you. Look—see, it's even got a wee face on it.”

He crouched, holding the thing out like a peace offering. The smile on his face faltered as you just stared. The longer you stared, the more the hairs of his mohawk started to spike.

You didn’t want the doll. Not because it was ugly (though it was), or because it came from claws that had once curled too tight around your arms. But because it was too late. The damage was done. He didn’t understand what he’d done to upset you, not really. And that made the apology feel wrong. Like a not so well practiced performance.

Soap’s ears flicked nervously. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” you said softly, indignation curling in your stomach.

Soap blinked. You could see the sting in his cerulean eyes even as he tried to laugh it off. “Right. Of course. Just... thought it might help.”

You didn’t answer.

The silence thickened—until Price’s voice cut clean through it.

“Hatchling,” came the gravel-deep rumble, and Price emerged from the far tunnel, his one wing half-spread for balance as he ducked under a low arch of stone. His eyes were narrowed, not in anger, but in that assessing way dragons often looked at things they considered theirs. “Soap love, out of the way.”

Soap hesitated, then stepped aside with a huff, tail flicking. He muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch.

Price settled in front of you with slow, heavy movements, like a mountain deciding to sit. His golden eyes studied you with practiced patience.

“You’ve been quiet.”

You said nothing.

“Can’t blame you,” he said. “What happened yesterday... shouldn’t have. Not like that.”

You stiffened. His tone was calm, but it curled uncomfortably in your gut. You didn’t want to talk about it. You especially didn’t want to understand him.

“I told Soap not to roughhouse with you. He doesn’t know his own strength. Thinks humans are made of bark and bone like he is.”

glaring, you send a steely gaze up at the dragon hybrid. Your expression a little sharper than intended.

Price’s brow lifted. “Fair enough.”

He shifted, then reached out, slow and deliberate, as if you were a skittish animal. His clawed hand didn’t touch you—but hovered just close enough to make your skin prickle.

“Let me show you something,” he said.

You didn’t move, but your silence was enough.

Price nodded once, then turned, gesturing for you to follow. Reluctantly, you did. Brushing off your knees with both hands as you rise to standing.

He led you to the edge of where the mouth of the cave just about opened to the world outside. Ghost lingered behind, silent as breath with Soap who could be heard whining in his thick accent.

“This,” Price said as he stopped beside a stone shelf tucked beneath a low overhang, “is where we teach.”

“Teach?” you echoed.

“Yes, to teach other. How to live in the same den without tearing each other’s throats out. Just far enough into the cave, and shallow enough to take advantage of the outside if needed." The walls etched with tooth marks, talon scratches and burnt marks.

“Ghost, Soap and Gaz, they learned how to deal with me. I learned how not to torch them when I’m pissed,” he said with a dry smile. “Now we’re going to learn how to live with you.”

You stared at the stones. They didn’t mean anything. Not to you. Not yet.

“I’m not part of your pack,” you said, voice low. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” Price agreed, surprisingly gently. “But you’re still here. That makes you part of it—whether or not you think so.”

His words were meant to comfort. Instead, they curled around your ribs like vines, squeezing.

“You can’t just decide that.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “The others did. All of us did.”

He stepped back, giving you space, but his presence lingered like smoke in the lungs.

"I'm your Papa. We're your papa's now."

Then he said it.

The thing you didn’t want to hear. The thing you couldn’t un-hear.

Behind you, Soap shifted again, claws scraping softly on stone. Still holding the grass doll like a promise already broken. And Ghost—

Ghost hadn’t moved at all.

But the white of his mask burned like frost in the dark.

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

here is chapter 11!!!!!!!!!!! I hope that you all enjoy it! With the requests now closed. I'll be getting to work and hopefully posting more regularly.

237 notes · View notes