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[ivestas]

your writing is so yummy i need it in my veins

I love you too anon marry me

[ivestas]

Love your batfam fic!!!

Thanks man! ❤️

[ivestas]

underlying bitterness

Summary: You were depressed. The family is quick to notice. 

Tags: platonic!yandere!batfam x fem!reader, reader implied to be mentally ill, depression, coddling, isolation, etc (you know the drill)

Word count: 1.6k

Notes: temporarily back from the dead! decided to finish this since i had it collecting dust in my drafts LMAO---apologies for my lack of writing, i have several projects im combing through and school 😭

The manor never really was quiet; there was always something going on.

The only time the quiet came was when they were out for patrol, or when everyone was asleep—but even then, there always seemed to be a pervasive spirit of noise and life that, on a good day, didn’t bother you.

But today was a bad one. Today, everything was an unbearable stretch of life, a near-constant torment of both mind and soul, leaving you incapacitated by your own head. 

It was these days where the bearable—hell, even the nice—was acidic on your gaunt body. 

A knock on the door had you wearily raising your head. 

A call of your name bounced through the door. The voice was bright and chirpy, downright dripping with honey. “You okay in there? Can I come in?” 

Eleven minutes alone? New record.

You sighed. The question only had one answer. 

“Yes, and yes.” 

The door to your bedroom opened silently, barely a squeak from the hinges. Dick revealed himself with a giant dopey grin, Damian just a step behind him. 

You didn’t bother smiling. “Hey.” 

“Hi!” Bright as always, his movement carried an excitable sway, acting more like a kid than a 20-something bonafide detective/vigilante. There was something predatory about it, an inherent layer of manipulative intent with it that never left you at ease. 

At least Damian was always himself, the deep-set frown never leaving his face in anyone’s presence, including yours. 

You would’ve been inclined to like him had it not been for the palpable softness that eased the furrows of his brows. 

Shifting under the heavy blankets, you pat the other side of the bed, the movement practiced and learned. Routine. 

Damian was the one to take the invitation while Dick sat at the end of your side. He rarely sat there. You didn’t care to decipher his intentions, merely regarding him with the same placidity as you had before. 

“So..?” 

“The family’s noticed you’ve been off lately?” 

Ah.

You shifted some more, feeling the weight of their stares assess every micro-movement made. It wasn’t subtle. This was an interrogation, not their self-indulgent visits that had you puking right after. 

“I’m on my period,” you responded bluntly. 

“Your cycles aren’t during this time of month.” Dick’s voice was deceptively light. 

"Hm, well, the female body works in mysterious ways.” 

“Then I’m gonna go check the washroom garbage.”

The silence of your mind buzzed to life. “What?” 

“I’m gonna go check the washroom garbage.” He repeated, rising from the bed. 

What the fuck.

You could let him go and find out for himself that you were, indeed, lying. However, you weren’t in the mood to deal with the punishments that came with that...

...Though, regardless, you were going to be punished. Lying—especially to Dick of all people—never bode you well. 

Really, maybe you just weren’t in the mood to deal with the drama, the stormy face he’ll don when he walks out the washroom after finding out the lie. 

So you sighed tiredly, back sinking further into the thick pillow. “I lied.” 

Dick’s pleasant expression flickered. Damian’s stare deepened in its calculating weight. 

Dick spoke slowly. “You know what happens when you lie.” 

You sighed again. It bordered a scoff. “Hurry up with it then.” 

The smile turned to a neutral line, though you knew he was feeling anything than neutral. Dick loathed lies, but he kept a calm voice. “Why’ve you been off lately?” 

“I lied, Dick. Aren’t you supposed to do what you usually do? Neglect and all.” You were flippant. This was gonna make it worse, and at this point you knew better, you always tried to avoid this, but something was possessing you. 

A will, or more accurately, a lack thereof. 

“Just tell him,” Damian hissed. 

You glanced at him, unimpressed. “No.” 

Dick breathed slowly. “Why?” 

“Because you’ll make me feel bad for it.” 

He blinked. Surprised. 

Why was he surprised? Is this another manipulation tactic? 

Probably. Why did you even bother trying to decipher his intentions? Their intentions?

“You’ll make it about you guys. How bad you guys feel. How you want the best for me.” You yawned. “I’m not in the mood to humor that. Pull that some other time, I just need to recuperate. Touch bases with my soul and all that hippie shit.” Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Okay?” 

A pause thickened the tension in the air tenfold. 

Then, it was Damian who spoke. “You’re..?” 

“Depressed.” Dick finished, mild disbelief lacing his words. What stood out was the underlying offended tone the word wore. 

You didn’t bother responding, keeping your eyes shut, pulling the covers over your chin. It was only midday, but you were tired. 

“Why are you... ‘depressed’?” Damian was the one to speak, now with incredulity. 

“Why is the sky blue?” You muttered. 

Cold fingers brushed your cheek, a colder voice poking through. “Open your eyes when you talk.” 

You did as told, looking up at him from your curled position. “Why are you depressed?” He repeated with a voice of iron. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you responded. “None of it does. I’ll be better soon. I just need you to give me space.” 

Another pause. 

Then, uncharacteristically, Damian slipped away. He glanced over where Dick was. 

Dick, even more uncharacteristically, nodded and slipped away, walking with Damian out the room. 

In any other circumstance, your blood would run cold. 

But, at that moment, you were thankful for the temporary relief. 

-----

You hadn’t thought you’d sleep, but you did, only to be awaken by Tim. 

“Dinner’s ready.” He said, eyes burning into yours. 

You grunted, tossing the sheets away. The cold raked your body. Getting off the bed, you glanced out the barred window. 

Sunset. 

How long did you sleep? 

And how come they let you sleep for so long, undisturbed? 

You didn’t care to wonder. Blearily nodding to Tim, you tipped your head to the washroom. “I’m gonna clean up a little, give me a—”

“You look fine, just come.” His hand, now wrapped tightly around your wrist, left no room for complaint. 

Faintly sighing, you nodded again. He led you out the room and through the colder corridors of the manor, down several staircases and past various pillars and paintings you’re always surprised to see, as if you hadn’t been housed in the manor for two-something years. 

Two years. 

730 days wasted here. 

730 days, never to be recovered. 

Your chest tightened, but your heart was empty.

Pushing the thought away, you blankly focused on the outstretched dining table you’d eaten countless meals on. 

Tim said your name. 

You look at him, confused. 

“Sit?” 

Oh. Right. 

You slipped onto the chair, vaguely aware of your surroundings. 

“...That’s my seat.” 

“Sorry,” you moved to get up, but his hands pressed down on your shoulders. 

“No, it’s fine, I’m just surprised. That’s all. You’re usually pretty attentive.”

“Sorry,” you repeated. 

Tim didn’t respond, opting to sit beside you. 

You were vaguely aware of the rest of the family settling in their respective positions—Bruce sitting at the head on your left, Dick sitting across you with Damian to his right, and at the end of the table Jason settled with a tired huff.

What you were fully aware of however was how good the food. The aroma was thick and savory, leaving your mouth to water 

Raising a fork, you dug into the food. 

“How was your day?” Bruce was the one to break the silence, and you notice him looking at you. 

“It was good,” you mumbled around the food. 

A silence cradled the room for a moment, the clanks of silverware mute. 

“Was it?”

“Yeah.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“What, is there a right answer to this?” You were daring, careless with your tongue. “Should’ve given me a textbook, woulda studied real hard before coming down.” 

“The right answer is the truth,” Jason spoke up, mouthful of food. “Dickie’s all red and angry you can’t even tell the truth. Honestly? So am I.”

“We all are,” Tim murmured. 

“But you know? We care for you. So just tell us what’s up, yeah?” Although his voice was light, there was an underlying threat to Jason’s words. Tell us or else. 

You set the fork down and looked at Bruce—whose eyes were sweeping all over your face, calculating—the both of you having frowns tugging at your lips. “Okay. I feel like shit. A dumpster fire. Like my very body has been corrupted by dark—I don’t know exactly what that means, but I feel it, so worth mentioning, right?—anyway, all I ask is to be left alone for a bit. That is what will make my mind better. Just a day of quiet. Please?” 

“...Voluntary isolation is a sign of clinical depression,” Bruce began. “And that would do you no good. What you need is the support of family to help you through this illness.” 

“God, no—”

“Listen.” Damian hissed. 

You shut your mouth, eyes downcast. 

“What will happen is every night, you talk to Dick about whatever’s bothering you. Or anyone else. You will talk, and that will help. Anything you need, just tell them; you know this.” 

“Why not get an actual therapist?”

“You can’t trust all therapists,” Dick jumped in. “I’ve trained in psychology, I know all the therapy ins-and-outs. I can help you as well as any licensed one would—if not, better!”

You stifled a sigh but didn’t bother pushing saying anything. 

“You don’t look to happy about that,” Dick commented. “It’s okay. I know its hard to open up when you’ve suffered in silence for so long, but we’re all on your side, okay?”

Jesus. 

You looked down at the food, picking up the fork. It took you everything not to bash your head against the table.  

[ivestas]

the lady of crime alley

Summary: Jason had heard rumors of a woman who ruled Crime Alley and all of its underworld connections, so he pursues her for a favor. 

Tags: jason todd x fem!reader, canon typical violence, unedited

Word count: 1.2k

Notes: i’ve been on a red hood comic binge and i always thought his narration was corny in the best way, so i hope i was able to emulate that through this fic hehejejjejehe (also i use ‘tugging at your pigtails’ as a metaphorical descriptor, not an actual physical attribute of reader!) alsoo, please send some batfam requests! 

Jason had heard murmurs of the woman who was the true ruler of Crime Alley and all of its underworld connections. 

At first, he dubbed it a win for feminism, because women too can be major players in crime worlds! 

But then it got annoying real fast, because for some reason, you were real good at hiding your trail; every turn he went, the moment he thought he caught a glimpse of you, you were gone moments later like ash in the wind. 

It took him five of your men and his a few hours of continuous beating to get the vaguest clue of where exactly you resided; he spent the rest of the week nosing his way through that misty trail, his irritation growing by every second he had to march down Gotham’s shittiest streets, and it didn’t help that his red hood hardly had any breathing holes. 

He was trying to keep his cool—he really was!—but the more you seemed to toss at him your half-starved homeless men at him, the more brutal the remnants of them became. 

“God fuckin’—jesus, just tell me where the lady is!” He spat. “I just have some questions, that’s all, why does she keep sending you guys—“

“We’re telling you nuthin’, that woman’s an angel and you ain’t gettin’ yer dirty mitts on ‘er!” The man—a ragged, gaunt-looking guy—heaved, blood pooling out his mouth. "You’ll never see ‘er—!” 

“You just wanna talk?” 

Jason’s head snapped up, hand still wrapped around the man’s throat. 

In the warehouse which he had 'accidentally’ beat everyone half to death, a woman stood at the entrance. Though it was night, the moon was bright enough for Jason to make out some of her features. 

She’s easy on the eyes.

Suddenly, all the pent up irritation that had been writhing under his skin dissipated. 

He’s a sucker for hot women. 

“Hey,” He rose from the man’s body, standing tall. “You must be the ‘true ruler of Crime Alley’ or whatever—it’s a bit of a dumb name, don’t you think?” 

You were silent, face scrunched. 

“Jeez, tough crowd—”

“What do you want, Red Hood?” You sounded mildly annoyed, as if he’s just some pesky kid tugging at your pigtails or something. 

You took a step forward into the warehouse, arms crossed. “Talk. You have my attention now.” 

“Oooo-kay, great! So, I kind of need help with something—a favor, if you will,” he raised his sword. It was busted and dull, practically just a dented piece of iron than an actual blade. “I need a replacement for this—” he grinned. “—And all the information you have about Black Mask and his connections with Joker.” 

“...are you dumb?” 

“What?” 

“Do you actually think I’m some ruler of Crime Alley? You weren’t joking?” You laughed, eyes wide. 

“You’re not?” 

“No! I’m not the fucking ruler of anything! Come on Red Hood, is critical thinking not your strong suit?!” 

“Hey, hey, c’mon lady, go easy on me—“

“I’m just the woman who gives the people here a place to stay! That’s it! Is this the reason you’ve been up my ass?!” You scowled at him. Were you a model, because you even made pissed look delicious. “Beating up a bunch of homeless guys ’cause you thought I was a fuckin’ mob boss or something?—yeah, mob boss of the homeless? Seriously?"

He raised his hands. “Okay, when you word it like that, I feel dumb.” 

“You are dumb—anyway, do me a favor and stop beating up the guys here? Please!?” You hissed, your hands balled into fists. “Because I’m the one that fixes up their wounds and I don’t have the money to keep buying gauze and shit.” 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’ll lay off—though you coulda just have talked to me earlier?” He muttered the last part but you somehow still heard.

“You think I’m gonna go talk to the ‘Red Hood’? The guy that kills on his free time?” 

He sighed dramatically. “Touche—and it’s for a good cause! I only kill people that—“

“Yeah, yeah, don’t list me your commandments to be on your fuckin’ hit list, God you’re annoying.” 

He laughed. “I have a feeling I’ve pissed you off—”

“You beat a bunch of guys I take care of half dead. Pissed is hardly covering it.”

“—and you know what? I don’t like pissing off pretty women—I said it! I don’t like it. So, I humbly apologize.” He swept his leg and arm in unison into a grandiose bow. 

You scoffed, going to one of the unconscious men and pressing your fingers to his pulse. “I only accept apologies in cash.” 

“Oh, okay, that’s much easier,” making his way to you, he tugged off one of his blood-soaked gloves and rummaged his pocket. A couple hundred dollar bills were in there. 

He extended them to you. “These enough to soothe any hiccups?”

You carefully moved the unconscious man to the ground. From the pockets of your giant jacket came a small bag with a bottle of antiseptic, bandages, and a bunch of other shit. 

You then looked at him, brows furrowed. “That’s... a lot of money.”

“Is it?” 

“Yeah? Do you have enough money for yourself?” 

Jason stared at you for a moment before barking out a harsh laugh. That earned him a frown. “You’re worried? About me?” 

“No, I just don’t want you to beat some person up for their money if this is all you have—“

“Baby, I’m rich, I shit gold bars, just take it.” 

You glared at him for a second before snatching the money, shoving it into your pocket before tending to the man. Pushing up his shirt, Jason saw his body was covered in lacerations and bruises. 

Jason whistled. “Damn, didn’t think I was that strong.” 

“Fuck off.” You sprayed some antiseptic. The man groaned. 

Jason sat. He should be going off and looking for more trails of Black Mask, but he didn’t really want to—not right now, anyway. 

Even if you’re not some mob boss or whatever, you were still intriguing, and he’s a curious guy, he can’t help but want to watch you some more. 

However, he was quick to notice how stiff you were under his gaze.

His head tipped to the side. “Hey, do I scare you?” 

You ignored him, running a rag along the guy’s body. Blood stained the white cloth instantly. You lifted the cloth and looked at Jason. 

“This is the worst you could do. Beat someone. Maybe flay them. Then they die.” 

He hummed. 

“So when you say ‘scare’, I assume you mean the idea of you beating me or whatever—killing me, or torturing, your shit.” Your eyes went back to the beaten guy, continuing with the cleaning. “You don’t.”

“If that’s the case, then why’d you avoid me?” 

“Because I had shit to do, that’s why.” You unraveled a gauze. “Not everything’s about you—eugh, I can’t lift him, hey, since you’re just sitting here, help me a little—yeah, just like that, thank you,” you swept the gauze under the man’s back then brought it back up. You repeated that motion. “But yeah, not really scary. Death is just—well, death.”

Jason nodded along. You were weird. 

He liked weird. 

When you were done, Jason put the man back down.

“Well, I gotta go now, duty calls and all.”

“Okay.” You got up, moving to the next guy. 

“Bye?” 

“Just leave.”

AO3

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[ivestas]

Thank you for writing my request, I loved it!! I have another idea but it's a deeper subject so I understand not everyone is comfortable with writing about it. Could you write about a younger reader and the team see self harm wounds and scars while they were injured or while they were changing? (Something along those lines) and what they would do/ react? Xx

what is most precious to you?

Summary: The 141 discover a part of you that you’d wanted to bury.

Tags: TW s/elf harm scars + sui/cide and talk of it, please read carefully/don't read if this topic triggers you, platonic!141 x medic!fem!reader, reader implied to be mentally ill, younger!reader, descriptions of blood and injury, canon typical violence, soap + ghost focused, unedited

Word count: 1.5k

Notes: im glad u enjoyed the previous req anon! i hope I'm able to do this req justice too 🫡

You’d been a part of the 141 long enough for the others to know and trust you.

An esteemed medic that knew medicine and all things fixing like the back of her hand, despite your age—it was a natural skill, it seemed. Your hands were always so damn fast with a gauze—hell, even a dirty rag you’d make use of in an instant. 

You were just good. Reliable. Consistent. Seemingly just a normal young lady whose only eccentricity was the job she chose to be: a medic for a merc group. 

Soap often liked to joke about that normalcy that clung onto you. 

“Bet when you’re on leave you work a 9 to 5 and sleep right at 8. I’m right, aren’t I?”

You snorted. “No, I’d sleep at 9.” 

“Ohhhhh, daring! Don’t be too crazy! Ya might just lose a leg!” 

Even Ghost would sometimes jump in, adding his own joke occasionally. 

“Should I get you a planner for your birthday? A nice, minimalist one with neutral stickers to match.”

You’d scoff and jab back, whether it be at Ghost’s mask or Soap’s current and past hair-styles.

But they never gave you a tough time about it—they were glad that one of them was able to blend back to civvy life with ease. 

Price even said it was his favorite trait—”sometimes, you need the practicality and mindset of a normal lady to get shit done.”

“Thanks?” 

The guys all had a similar image of what your childhood was like: middle-class, parents all stiff-like and old-timey, your favorite hobbies probably were things like football or reading, things like that. 

However, that image shattered during a post-mission intermission. 

Things went wrong, completely askew—the enemies were clearly prepared for the attack, because landmines were everywhere and the area was crawling with hostiles.

It was a resounding loss—many casualties, wounded, etc. 

You could hardly keep up, trying to patch up as many as possible, even when the sky rained of bullets and the air tasted thickly of gunpowder and death. It was like a place between purgatory and hell, a constant flow of shouts, screams, explosions.

It was too late for you to noticed a bullet grazed your arm; it was deep enough to be visible, but luckily it wasn’t aimed low enough for it to shoot into your arm. 

You had ignored the wound—in your mind, it only made sense to focus on the soldiers who were fighting for their lives and riddled with bullet wounds. 

So you just did that: focus on them. 

But, due to the constant movement and strain, the graze only worsened, almost tearing. The adrenaline numbed the pain, but you knew it was gonna hurt like a bitch soon enough. 

Luckily though, Ghost shouted in your ear through the comms. 

“Bravo-1, retreat!—fuckin’ hell—everyone, retreat!”  

You did just that—retreat. 

Huffing and puffing, you were quick to run to the distant chopper you recognized as the 141′s. A haze of sand was the only saving grace as it covered you from the enemies direct line of sight.

Soap pulled you into the helicopter with a quick grab of your wrist, completely unaware of the graze that arm sustained. You let out a sharp hiss of pain, feeling the skin tear just a little more. 

The entrance of the helicopter shut, and with both of you heaving, the plane finally shot back into the air, rocking back and forth the slightest bit. The sound of bullets slowly melted away into harsh whirring and mechanical buzz. 

You took a moment to collect yourself, inhaling sharply before you got up, arm still bleeding. 

But, strangely, you felt it drip along your arm and into your hand, running along your finger—ah, it should’ve been obvious, the sleeve of your wounded arm had completely torn. 

You lifted the arm, examining the wound. 

Scars of varying sizes, textures, and freshness—some having strange bubbly dots, others consisting of messy lines. Some of the fresher scars had torn a little, causing thin lines or red to rise. 

Your blood ran cold. You glance up, hoping—praying—that Soap didn’t see, or even understand the implications. 

But you could see he was staring, the cogs in his mind slowly snapping together. 

You put your arm away to your side, hiding it from his view. 

“Lass—“

“I need a medkit. We have one on the plane?” 

You loathed the look of sadness, of pity that shone in his eyes, pulled at the muscles of his face. 

Don’t. Stop.

I’m not weak. Don’t—I’m not weak! 

A chorus of words, feelings, of palpable dark was what filled your mind now. Insecurity, self-hatred, all of it—you’d been working on it, trying to regulate, to reason with the miasma that had taken ahold of your consciousness.

But, fuck, you’ve revealed it to Soap of all people—he felt bad, didn’t he? Disgusted? Worried? He was gonna tell Price, wasn’t he? That your unfit for the 141, that—

A hand rested on the top of your shoulder.

“Can I patch you up?” Soap asked softly. 

You grit your teeth. Moving away from his hand, you shook your head, glaring at the floor. A small splatter of blood was there. “I can fix it myself.” 

You expected—wanted—him to berate you. 

But he didn’t. He was kind. 

“Sure, kid. I’ll just get ya the med kit—stay put.” 

Another wave of shame rocked you. You sat on one of the small seats connected to the walls of the heli, rubbing away the small bits of dried blood. 

Consumed by your thoughts, you didn’t hear Soap murmuring to Ghost. 

“The kid—she, ah...” He ran a finger along his wrist. “Catch my drift?” 

“Cutting herself?” Ghost said bluntly. 

“Sometimes I wish you had a little more tact, L.T.” 

Ghost ignored him. “They fresh or old?”

“Both,” he sighed, grabbing a med kit from one of the plane’s various compartments. “What’re we supposed to do? Don’t wanna scare off the kid, but don’t wanna leave her on her own devices hacking away at ‘erself!” 

Ghost grabbed the kit from his hands. “I’ll handle this. You sit down—go near the Captain. Try to leave us some privacy.” 

Hesitantly, Soap nodded. “Work your magic, sir.” 

Ghost made his way to the other end of the helicopter where you were. You were hunched over your wound, a deep frown on your face. It’s uncharacteristic, but he knew it was a part of yourself you’d prefer to be shrouded in dark. Suffering wasn’t a nice look, was it?

But it was human. Denying your own right to feel it—it made Ghost frown too.

He sat beside you, kit in his hand. You had finally looked up then, alarmed. 

“Gimme your arm, kid.” 

You opened your mouth.

“Not leavin’ till I patch your arm up, so don’t even try.” 

Shamefully, you lifted your arm slowly. 

He took it with gentle but firm hands, a thumb running along a faint scar. 

Ghost opened the kit haphazardly with another hand. 

“When I was your age—maybe a little younger—couldn’t find much meaning in everything.”

He lifted his hand from your arm and grabbed alcohol and a small cotton rag. Dampening the rag with alcohol, he drew it to your arm, rubbing away the excess blood and cleaning the wounds. You didn’t make any noise, only breathing raggedly. 

“The suffering was pointless, in my eyes; thought, ‘this isn’t bloody fair’. Born in a shitty house with a shitter father, food hardly ever on the table, my mind deteriorating, and the world cast in deep gray.”

You nodded. 

Ghost grabbed a bandage gauze, unravelling it and wrapping it gently around the graze and the scars. It was calming, watching him work away, even if the wrapping was a little clumsy. 

“The harsh reality came a little while later, and it’s that people like me—us—we gotta work hard for shit to change. That this weight forced upon us, it’s only we that can shed it off. It’s still not fair—frankly, suicide is easier. Thought of doing it for the longest time... But...” 

He shook his head. “In my eyes, it’s a coward’s way out. We should never die by our own hands—there’s always something to live for.”

“What are you living for?” 

“Mmmm.... For tomorrow’s pint.” 

You laughed. 

He grabbed a safety pin and pinned the end of the gauze. “...now, I know it’s ‘silly’ to say, but you know we’re here for you?—the 141′s got your back, kid—how about this, let’s make a deal.”

“Yeah?” 

“You ever have the urge to cut yer arm, you come straight to me, or the others. They’ll listen. They care.”

They care.  

It’s weird, but hearing the words said out loud, it hit you. 

They really care. 

You took in a shaky breath. “Thank... you.” 

“It’s no problem at all, kid. Stay strong.”

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[ivestas]

hot head

Summary: You threaten a renowned colossi of a sniper and challenge him to fight.

Tags: sniper!könig x sniper!fem!reader, canon divergence, power imbalance(?), mentions of medicinal drug usage, unedited, reader implied to be on the younger side

Word count: 1.2k

Notes: I've decided to experiment more with characterization; I believe many character headcanons and depictions I make are often influenced by my own experiences, which is obvious, but it's hard to grasp when the character your writing is not only the opposite of you in many ways, but likely has a mindset much unlike yours (male, strong, a soldier, of a culture I know little of, etc) I feel like due to my own experiences, I unintentionally feminize and soften these hardened (male) characters... all this to say that if I keep jumping between versions of these characters, its due to this LMAO—also, the major parallels this has to one of my previous konig oneshots was intentional! and, as usual, sorry for the dubious quality, i just wanted to get the idea down!

You were nervous.

It was hard not to bounce your leg, glance left and right, fiddle with anything beside or on you (dog tag, straps of your gear, a random coin), just trying to shake away the underlying anxiety that ate away at you.

But this is your first 'high-stake' mission, and not only that, but you've been handed to by veterans way beyond your league. You felt clumsy among them, severely inadequate.

Especially since you've been paired with the master class sniper, König.

The mission, according to Aksel, is 'simple enough' for the two of you: you guys will be planted in opposite areas of the enemy base and shoot down and provide back up if stragglers come out or reinforcements come.

But, again—first fucking mission ever that's something as intense as this, and not only that, again, you were paired with König.

You hadn't said anything though, merely nodding to the instruction with a swift 'understood, sir!'

Though you couldn't deny it: it was eating at you, and with your mind clouded with so much thought, it was difficult determining if your hands were gonna be steady enough to shoot (even though it didn't matter because the mission was taking place next week).

While you were busy mulling and agonizing over the hundreds and thousands of ways you could fuck up, you hadn't noticed a certain man making his way to you.

It was only when he spoke that you realized there was someone near. Head shooting up, you spoke quickly, not quite processing right away who it was.

"Yes?"

And then it hit you:

It's König.

It shouldn't have been much of a surprise—it's only natural for pairs in mission to discuss the details and set some sort of plan beforehand; it's practically protocol, actually.

But still, it surprised you. Still, you were able to shake off the surprise quick enough for his words to properly register when he spoke.

"You're nervous."

König said the words with no ire, no disgust, no nothing. It was an observation, plain and simple.

"I... suppose I am, sir."

A puff of laughter—or was it just a scoff? Snort? "No need to address me as 'sir', I'm not your superior."

"Sorry. It's hard to when, you know," shut up. "you're kind of... legendary? I mean, master sniper and all," please just shut the fuck up. "You're kind of like a superior in a skill sense? You know in those rpgs when like—"

"I get it."

You laughed awkwardly, refusing to look at him directly.

"May I give you a piece of advice?"

You looked at him then. "Yes?"

"Cut the rambling short. Although I don't mind it, many others could and will use it against you—it's better to be blunt and honest rather than shy and all over the place." He lifted a finger. "One presumes and sets dominance," he lifted a second finger. "The other presumes and sets weakness."

You were a little offended by that. "Okay but what if I just stabbed them? Can't call me weak after that, even if I start stuttering like Porky Pig."

"..."

"...sorry."

König laughed, and this time, you could properly identify it as one; it was throaty, almost raspy. "I see now—you're a loose-lipped girl. Either a mumbling mess or a sharp-tongued harpy."

"That a bad thing or a good thing?"

"It depends; say I use it against you, will you commit to your word and stab me?"

"I... won't?"

"Then no longer are your words a threat to me, because I now know you're just bark and no bite—"

"I won't because we're comrades right now, but I'd stab you the moment my contract ends!"

Fuck. Fuck.

You did not just threaten a man nearly twice your height and thrice your muscle mass—

"You'll stab me when your contract ends?" He echoed. Amused.

Amused.

"Yeah, dull knife and all—cut you like butter." You rose from your seat, almost chest-to-chest, staring up at König with a glare.

He met your glare with crinkled eyes.

He was looking at you as though you were nothing but a petulant, whiny kid.

"Foolish girl," his voice was light, chiding. "You're barking at the wrong man. Surely you can see that?"

"You're awfully cocky, aren't you? Why not challenge this 'foolish girl' to a spar and prove your worth?!"

"Hmm... okay. I see why not. Perhaps a good hit or two will set you straight, no?"

It took you everything not to (try to) body-slam that fucker.

World renowned sniper or not, you're gonna kick his ass to the goddamn dirt till he's nothing but a pulp of fabric and blood.

---

The two of you were quick to make your way outside, somewhere far enough where no one would see the unregulated fight, but close enough for the safe-house to be in your line of sight.

Sand whipped and pushed at you, the sun was scorching and degrading, but you held still; you were determined to kick König's ass—even if he's huge, you know how to fight big opponents, you trained rigorously to.

König stood two meters from you. He cast a long shadow, light kissing the top of his metal helmet. "The rules are simple enough; whoever keeps the other pinned down for five seconds win and we only use the military-issued knife. Is this fair?"

"Fair."

"Good," he nodded. "Start."

The sand made your footwork unsteady, but not enough to throw you off; light on your feet, you moved close to König, knife unsheathed.

He didn't pull out his knife—in fact, he hardly moved, merely pivoting from time to time from your swings.

You swung your blade forward, aiming for his vest; again, he easily dodged, and with your outstretched arm he pulled you forward.

You could hardly register the movement; one second you were on your feet, and the next you were flat on your stomach, sand in your mouth, and blade far from your hand.

You couldn't move: your wrists were tight in König's grip, his knee digging into your lower back. You tried wriggling your legs, but his knee dug deeper until you let out a pained wheeze.

Then, a moment later, he continued pushing his knee deeper. The sand burned your skin.

1...

2...

3...

"Okay—fuck, okay, stop—you win! Happy now?!"

4...

5...

He finally moved his knee. The shadow that cast over your body was gone.

"You should be happy, maus." He sighed somewhat dramatically. "Had it been any other man, I'm sure he would've been thrilled to harm a pretty girl. Many have twisted minds."

"I'll jus—eugh..." you spat out sand, flipping over and sitting on your ass, propping yourself up with your hands. "I'll just stab those ones, then—and wait! Why'd you say that? That's super creepy, and what does 'maus' mean—?"

"Enough of the blabbing." König said. "And 'maus' means mouse."

"Mouse?"

"Yes, because you chatter away like a little mouse. I like mice."

"You're..."

"Weird?"

"Weird would be underselling it," you muttered, getting on your feet.

"Hm. At least my severe 'weirdness' cured you of your anxiety."

You were ready to snap out an insult, but... he was right.

Your hands weren't shaking anymore. They were steady. You could trust them.

But you couldn't give him that. "Weird assumption, weirdo. I just had a lot of coffee."

"...it seems I've failed to cured you of your tongue, though.”

Childishly, you stuck out your tongue. "Loser."

He merely huffed a laugh at that. It didn't anger you as much as before.

Actually... it didn't piss you off at all.

He really was a weirdo. Nothing like the image you had conjured of him before. (You liked this version of König better.)

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[ivestas]

bro,,,your last ghost one,,,,head full, big thonks

what if hound!reader never went looking for simon because she thought he was dead?? or better yet, she DID look, so vigorously in fact that her superiors at the time maybe misinformed her of his death, even going as far as planting fake evidence??👁👁

also im thinking about old nicknames..,.,hitting him with the "si-guy" or "'mon-mon the man" or smth 💀

can’t say goodbye to yesterday

PART TWO TO ‘HEARTS ALIGNED’

Summary: You were deceived by the same people you fought for. You discuss it with Ghost. 

Tags: soldier!fem!reader (call sign “hound”) x ghost (2022 version), childhood friends, smoking, canon divergence of both the game and the oneshot, barely edited, death, lowkey konig x reader

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: anon, you're genuinely such a GENIUS!!!! those thonks fr are gold bc now my head is full of thonks too hehe---this post will hopefully extend those clever thonks and added more??? 

You were sitting against the wall while Ghost was laying in his cot. The night had grown old, but you refused to leave him—that won’t happen again, not now, not ever. 

You were on your third cigarette, the smoke having long since coated your mouth in a thick layer of cheap tobacco and newspaper. Ghost didn’t seem to mind, laying on his side, watching you with tired eyes—more so watching the cigarette. 

Extending it forward, your head tipped to the side. “You sure you don’t want one?” 

“No. I should be sleeping.” 

“You’re eyeing my cigarette though.”

“Just lost in thought.”

“About smoking a cigarette?” 

He huffed. “No. Just...” he sat up now, the cot straining under his movement. “You’ve changed. And you also haven’t—and you haven’t told me why you didn’t search for me.”

You frowned.

“Jus’ tell me that. Tell me why. I don’t give a bloody fuck if you were just too lazy too—”

“Smoke with me and I’ll tell you everything.” Your voice was strained. 

Emotions were high, tension was thick, maybe it was foolish to think that would just dissolve by planting yourself in his room. You weren’t kids. This wasn’t just a blow-up about something dumb, and you hated it. Because at least when you were kids, the arguments were insignificant, the worst that could happen is you calling him a ‘booger-brained idiot’. 

This was real. This brought true hurt.

You were thankful when Ghost finally nodded, getting up and sitting across you on the floor. Despite sitting criss-crossed, he was huge. He towered over you. König would often shimmy away, giving you a little space—he’d bend his body downward in a vain attempt to dwarf himself.

But Ghost sat tall. He stared right at you and lifted a hand. 

You gave him the cigarette. 

You watched as he lifted the balaclava a little, setting the end at the bridge of his nose. It was just a small sliver of his face, but fuck did it strike you right at your heart. 

His face was all firm lines—carved and rigid, with the lightest scar running along his lips. 

Simon—smaller, younger Simon—had a round face. Soft cheeks, a crooked smile, unscarred.

You looked away to the side at the hard concrete wall, back pressed against it. 

A waft of smoke hit you, then a finger lightly tapped on your hands. 

You turned. Ghost was lifting the cigarette to you. 

Taking it, you murmured a quick thanks before taking a puff out of it yourself. Ghost tugged down the balaclava once more. 

“Why didn’t you search for me?” 

“I did,” you responded simply. “It was when I was younger. Naive. More trusting. You know, I searched for you every moment I got—thought you still went by ‘Simon Riley’. Even went as far as to go to the superiors and ask all nicely—told them, ‘he’s the son of that piece of shit drunkard, the one who you constantly kissed up to.’” You laugh though it’s devoid of any humor.  

Ghost only watched, listened, eyes flicking between the cigarette and your straying gaze. 

“They—they told me you were dead. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. ‘Simon Riley was killed in action a few years back’ one of them had told me, all sad-like and frowning. ‘He was a good soldier.’” You scoffed. “No fanfare, no tricks, they just—they said you were dead. Showed me a document or two, I hardly fuckin’ remember, I just... I tried to forget. Not to care.”

Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know why. Your heart was silent, so was your mind, but your body—it was moving on its own. As though shedding a deeper feeling your own mind couldn’t process. 

“So can you imagine my surprise when, just a few months ago, a man named ‘Ghost’ happens to be registered as ‘Simon Riley’ in their files? I couldn’t believe it, thought there was another Simon Riley whose from the UK, but I was curious. So... yeah. I ended up in KorTac ‘cause I heard rumors 141 was gonna come along and do some mission together.” Again, you laughed. “Then I saw you—and fuck, did I tell you how much you’ve grown? You look so different—actually can I say something weird?” 

“Yeah.” His eyes met yours. 

An unfamiliar smile formed on your lips. “It... it makes me happy, seeing you with that Scot, all grown, and... it’s hard to put into words, but it makes me feel proud. And it also hurts like a bitch.”

He hummed. “Could say the same.” 

“Then say the same. I want to hear it, Simon.”

“It makes me feel proud, and it hurts like a bitch.” 

You snorted. “Ass.”

He reached for your cigarette. You handed it to him. “So... does that clear things?” 

“Yep,” he tugged his balaclava off this time, pushing the cigarette between his lips. He’s handsome. “Shoulda guessed you’re too much of a gullible dumbass to find me.” 

“You piece of—keep talking shit and I’ll kick your ass!” You reached for the cigarette. He moved away from your reach, a shit-eating grin now plastered on his face.

“You kickin’ my ass? I’d like to see you try, pipsqueak.” 

“Don’t test me mon-mon.” 

He glared. “Mon-mon?”  

“Sorry, wait, mon mon the man—my bad, nearly forgot the whole damn title.” 

“Keep callin’ me that and I’ll be the one kicking your ass.” 

“Not gonna listen to a guy named si-guy.” 

“Shut. Up.” 

You laughed. It was dumb and childish—not even that funny, frankly—but something about Simon frowning all seriously brought it out of you. 

A moment later, the frown disappeared, and Simon handed the cigarette back with a  little smile.  

Bonus headcanons (post oneshot):

When you two were kids, you often took the role of the mature one to reign in any dumb ideas that Simon schemed, though you’d participate in them moments later. 

The roles have reversed now: you are the dumbass and Ghost tries his best to keep it under control. 

The moment you’re near Ghost, a little layer of your cold exterior melts a little and you allow yourself to drop your guard a little and be loose-lipped—though, in public or with the guys, you tone it down a little and still address him as Ghost. 

In private though? The names are everything except for Ghost. 

Si-guy, mon-mon the man, syphilis, Simon says, se-si-so-fum (fe-fi-fo-fum), etc. 

Half the time the names just don’t even correlate with his and he quickly just got used to it. 

No one really notices the change between the two of you except for Soap, who takes note of the small glances the two of you exchange like it’s a secret language that could only be communicated between you guys.

He even noticed the small brush of your hand against Ghost’s shoulder after a particularly difficult mission and he returned it moments later. 

He has no idea if your friends, lovers, or just like?? Related maybe?? even if it would make ZERO sense for that to be the case.

In regards to König, Ghost would be protective. 

He wouldn’t be shy to voice his thoughts against the relationship because he’s seen how monstrous König could be on the battlefield and worries that he’s just hiding that ‘true persona’ of his for whatever reason. 

Also because he’s possessive; he’s convinced himself he’s just looking after you but he doesn’t like the idea of you straying away again but this time for some other guy. 

He also doesn’t know if he likes you romantically or not: he likes you, but he has no idea if the strength comes from a romantic pull or if it’s just platonic. He just wants you close. 

Also, both of you know each other’s tells; old habits die hard, and the tells you both had of discomfort from childhood still exist to this day.

Simon would go quiet and have a very specific stare that just kind of... glazes over. It’s dissociative.

You’d gently pry him out of that state with uncharacteristically soft words, making random observations or jokes. 

Whenever you're in a similar state, he'd just sit beside you and kind of lean in—he might just straight up grab your hand and squeeze if no one is nearby.

Overall, to any outsider, you guys would just appear to be comrades with the same layers of cold and bile, but in reality, you guys have history.

Despite the time that had passed, you'd still call each other the best of friends.

You're satisfied with that, but Ghost is unsure if he wants something more.

Until then, he'll just shoot König glares until he figures out what he really wants.

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[ivestas]

Could I request a könig x reader in which she’s one of the best soldiers/snipers in the world, covered in tattoos, smokes and is a ‘I joined the military out of spite and somehow all that anger turned me into this’, and könig is just smitten with her?

its time you learn to accept yourself

Summary: Through König, you learn love and self-acceptance. 

Tags: sniper!fem!reader x konig, strangers to friends to lovers, headcanon format, reader implied not to speak german, reader implied to be mentally ill, unedited

Word count: 1.7k

Note: im starting to really like this genre of ship-dynamic LMAO

When you joined KorTac, it was clear you didn’t give much of a shit about anyone there. 

You kept to yourself, spoke in monosyllables, and had much more interest in smoking the cigarettes you kept sneaking into the base than talking to any of them. 

He’d heard operators call you several things—none of them flattering to your image—however, one thing stood out clearly to him:

You were a good shot. They all agreed to that. To them, though your personality was shit, you had the eye of a hawk and the hands of a trained and experienced veteran who knew the sniper like the back of their hand. 

He couldn’t help but admire you, regardless of the fact you’ve never acknowledged his presence or even looked at him. 

He also couldn’t help but admire how calm you were, how you were just... yourself. Sleeves always rolled up with your tattoos in full display, a cigarette always nursed between your lips, the fact you never watered down your personality; he wanted that confidence—no, that sureness your character carried. 

König knew you liked to lurk near the shooting range—since you’d joined, he avoided disturbing you and had often gone to the other side of the range to practice his shots. 

However, in a fit of uncharacteristic confidence, he decided to approach you. 

He was prepared for your scathing words, or the silent look of disgust you often wore around the other men.

But, when he approached, you regarded him neutrally. 

“Hey, you’re...” 

“König.”

“Yeah, König, you’re König.” You echoed the accent of the word, looking proud. “I pronounced that well, right? König.” You repeated his name as though it were a flavorful candy.

He was rendered mute; German sounded so nice on your tongue. 

“König?” 

“A-ah, scheiße, I was lost in thought for a second,” he laughed awkwardly. “You said it well, yes.” 

“‘kay, good. Anyway, what’d you want?’

It was a blunt but reasonable question, but with your eyes trained on him, it was suddenly hard to speak or think. 

Bashfully, he spoke. “May I shoot with you?” 

“Uh, of course? This isn’t my shooting range, man. Have fun.” 

“No, with you.” 

“With me?” You echoed, dumbfounded. “How’d that work?” 

“We’ll make it a friendly competition—if you’d like, of course—whoever gets the most bulls-eyes wins.”

You smiled. It was brighter than the sun. “Sure! Sounds like fun—you go first, then.” 

König does. It was an easy shot, anyone could hit it, but he could feel your eyes watching him. 

Trying to steady his hands, he set his sniper on top of the heavy crates and tried to aim, trying to clear his mind.

It was difficult. Again, your eyes—he wondered if he was making any mistakes he didn’t even know of. He was sure he was doing everything right, but... was he? 

“Your hands are shaking, König. Try steadying them like this,” roughly, you took the hand that had been on the trigger and made the weight even. 

His cheeks erupted in warmth. Too close. 

He quickly takes a shot, and it was just about to hit the bullseye. 

“Time to show ya how the pros do it!” You sit right beside him, kneeling in front of the crates and setting your own sniper onto them. He noticed rough engravings on the snout of your gun, a rough shape of a butterfly and snake. 

Before he could ask about them, you shot. You had barely paused to even adjust. 

When he looked up, he couldn’t help the wave of admiration that hit him.

You hit the bullseye perfectly.

“Maybe one day you can be as good as me,” you teased, voice light. “But your ass needs practice. Can I help?” 

He couldn’t trust his voice so he merely nodded. Thank God he had a hood over his head because he was sure he resembled more tomato than a human. 

After that though, the two of you became closer—you saw each other more, interacted more, etc. 

You had taken a swift liking to him; he was eager to learn, polite, and soft-spoken, how could you not? 

König, though? He’s skipped the ‘friend’ part and went straight to crushing; honestly, he was flattered enough that you just acknowledged his presence, being one of the best snipers and all, but the fact you went out of your way to teach him—talk to him—it went all straight to the heart.

Even on missions, you’d talk to him. You’d often favor being quiet, whistling the odd tune or two before taking your shots, but now you’ve come to just take those small pauses to tease him incessantly. 

König was about to maul an enemy before a bullet shot through their head. 

His earphones sparked to life. 

“You should be more careful, I almost couldn’t save you there.” Your voice crackled through. 

He couldn’t help but huff, half amused, half worried. “Didn’t Aksel say for you to clear out the enemies on your end?” 

“Did already. They were like sitting ducks.”

You two are an actual powerhouse in missions; König with his physical prowess, easily overpowering anyone in his way, and you with your sniper, taking any enemies behind him down in an instant. 

You only grew closer to him and vice versa, and eventually, the daily conversations nearly became constant—attached to the hip, understanding each other to the extent that quick glances would equate to hundreds of lines of dialogue. 

It was during this that you realize you’ve grown... attached. 

It worries you—no, it scares you. 

You were, in your eyes, a poison that could do nothing but harm a soul like König’s; despite is outward brutality, you knew inside he was nothing but gentle—or maybe you were blind. Maybe you were in love and refused to see the dark that tainted his inner consciousness. 

Or, maybe, you liked that too about him. 

In any case, it was worrisome; it bit at your insides, at the quiet part of your mind, it lit everything to flame then ash. 

You weren’t the woman you were before the military; fuck, maybe that version of you never existed—you were always so fucked up, so full of incomprehensible anger that set every step you took on fire. 

That worry turned to anxiety, and it only increased when you realized that your stable, steady hands have become a shaking mess. 

It was during a pause between missions that you try to clear your head, to purge those feelings you thought and knew wouldn’t lead to any good. 

However König—oh, König—followed.

You told him not to, but he knew something was wrong, that you weren’t quite as steady as he’d known you to be; it was a weakness, a vulnerability that, right now, could harm you. 

Neither of you had the comfort of being weak, especially in a safe house that could be overridden with hostiles at any moment of the day. If he couldn’t help, he’d at least want to be able to protect you during this time.

So, he followed, through the murky corridors and under the cloak of night, finding you outside with a cigarette between your lips. 

You saw him and you were ready to snap at him, to drive him away, but he spoke so fucking softly. 

“Are you okay?”

You weren’t. He knew you weren’t, and you knew he knew that. 

So you sighed. Gestured for him to come, and he did, leaning against the concrete wall beside you. 

You were particularly loose-lipped, but at that moment, all inhibitions of restraint were gone. 

“It’s all a lie—when people join the military, it’s rarely for that strive of good.” You took a harsh suck of the cigarette. “You think any person with a good head on their shoulders and love for life would want to be in a fuckin’ military? Or a merc group? No amount of money makes this worth it, no... never.” 

König was silent. Listening. Thinking.

“More often than not, people just join to just—run. Die. Cut their losses and just engulf themselves in the worst of the worst because of their own flaws—hamartias. Know that word?”

König nodded.

You laughed airily. It was hardly a laugh, more like a throwaway noise. “I learnt it back in high school in English class—’fatal flaw of a hero’, or something. Flaws... good, bad, right, wrong, villainous, heroic, it’s a mouthful, isn’t it?”

König nodded again. 

“So many labels for those who, in hindsight, or just cogs to a greater machine. A twisted machination—isn’t that the true evil? The machinery?”

“You make it sound difficult,” König breathed. “When everything is so much simpler than that. Personal principles define those beliefs, right and wrong is as broad as it is small.” 

You hummed. “Never struck you for the philosophical type.”

“I’m not. Philosophy is redundant. The answer is always found within our hearts.” 

“Hmmm.” You took another puff of the cigarette. “The answer in my heart was anger. Always anger. Violence, insults, it always seemed most effective... I thought the military would set me straight, make me more controlled, but it did the opposite.” You stared at the ground, smoke spilling out your lips. “I’m worse now, a festering disease. I can feel myself burning out day by day, and, König? I want you to stay away from that—from me.” 

“I won’t.” 

“What?” 

“I refuse. I will stay by your side.” I can’t bear to leave you alone. 

“But... why?” Why, why, why? 

“Because you’re the most beautiful flame I’ve ever seen.” I love you. Accept that. “Don’t cut yourself short, liebe. You can always change and grow. Or remain stagnant. Either way, my eyes will always be on you.”

You, for the first time in your life, couldn’t trust your voice. 

But when you looked up at him, you hoped that the message was there. That he could see. 

And he did, and you couldn’t help the smile when you saw that the corners of his eyes crinkled. 

AO3

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[ivestas]

Hello. I saw your post and would you be up for doing a bit on a reader who cares little about themselves but cares deeply for the team?

love deterrence

Summary: You care about the 141 more than yourself to a worrisome degree. 

Tags: platonic!141 x soldier!fem!reader, mentally ill reader (implied), headcanon format, reader implied to be young, unedited

Word count: 1.3k

Notes: ANON... THE MOMENT I SAW THIS I DROPPED EVERYTHING. the requests I get r always top tier, BUT THIS IS S +. also my bad for this being price/soap/ghost-centric, theyre the characters im most confident in writing---and, also also, SEND REQUESTS. you guys are so slay w reqs its actually insane

You were a soldier—a good one at that. 

Thorough in your assignments, fearless on the field, and reliable. Truly, it’s something any enlister would seek out. 

That was Price’s initial thoughts—everyone else’s, really. You liked to get shit done and you were determined to always, always see through a mission’s completion. 

It was a trait that, at first, wasn’t noticeable, but it intensified the longer you stayed with the 141. 

Many things increased the longer you were with them: you went from formal to friendly, quiet to outspoken, frigid to warm... you grew comfortable. They each took notice in their own way—with Soap being the one to constantly reciprocate and encourage in his own way; despite his loud character, he was subtle in pushing you out of your bubble.

Even Ghost encouraged you... in his own way. 

“You look like you wanna say something, spit it out, kid.” 

It was hard not to warm up to them, and vice versa; the team was as tightly knit as they come, and you could confidently say that you’d trust your life in their hands...

...but, you’d much rather they worry about you last.

And that was when Ghost was the first to notice your recklessness on the field when it came to them; the moment you heard one of them was in danger, you’d be quick to finish the area in such a careless manner and rush to them—and many, many times he’d berate you about it. 

“Kid, when I tell you to stay put, you stay put.”

“But—“

“No fuckin’ ‘buts’, you shut up and listen, understand?!” 

“...yes sir.” 

But you always disobeyed. At one point, Ghost demanded Price to put you on temporary leave because of how worrisome it was getting—you’d listen to every single order and follow through in quick succession, but the moment it came to your safety, you just..?

And that’s when it clicked to Ghost: you didn’t care. It was their lives over yours, and something about that just pissed him off. 

(Maybe it was because he understood the feeling, and he hated knowing that you felt it too. You were young, you shouldn’t feel that way—not now, not ever.)

Price would catch on later around the same time Soap did—although the two certainly weren’t dumb, it’s just the mere fact that they didn’t understand the way Ghost did—they’ve had their mental pitfalls, but not the abject depression that pushes one to feel so little about themselves. 

They’d find out much later—you’ve become sneakier in protecting them, something that Ghost still catches from time to time but can’t butt in since you were so damn clever with it—and it was when an enemy tossed a bomb in your and Soap’s direction that your nature dawned on him. 

You were quick to toss the bomb back, and not only did you do that, but you shielded him from the blast by throwing yourself onto him despite the fact you were smaller than he. 

Luckily, the blast didn’t harm you, only leaving you with a few scrapes and ringing ears. 

But, the moment he got back up on his feet, you were fretting.

“You okay, Soap? You’re not hurt, are you—?!” 

“Lass, worry about yourself, I’m fine!” 

“Are you sure?” 

It was like talking to a brick wall: terribly frustrating.

Price, having been a few feet away and had shielded from the blast, saw the spectacle and almost laughed. 

It was ridiculous to him—you threw yourself, but you’re worrying about the muscle-bound soldier? 

He didn’t like soldiers who tried to play hero—especially soldiers who were hardly grown. Especially soldiers who seemed to lack care for themselves.

So, Price would start sneaking in sentiments of care: complimenting you outside the field, (”You made that, sergeant? Great job, it looks wonderful.”) trying to hear you communicate your own interests, things about you. 

Soap already does that, and Ghost soon follows too, though slowly. He wasn’t good at praising—his compliments were always so awkward, no better than his fucked up jokes that he cracked at the worst times. 

Price always made sure to give you the best cots, Ghost would give you a portion of his food because...

“I’m watching my weight.”

“What?” 

“You heard me, sergeant. I’m watching my weight.” 

“...you’re literally a soldier—“

“Just eat the food kid, don’t make me repeat myself.” 

Soap was the only direct one—the other two didn’t want to make it uncomfortable for you, but Soap was, well... Soap. 

“Look, kid, lass, you need to start lookin’ out for yerself.” 

“I am already, don’t worry—“

“You stood in front of Price when you thought there was an enemy sniper.” 

“He’s the captain! I gotta protect him!” 

“You could’ve just told him—listen, I don’t like using threats, that’s the L.T’s thing, not mine, but if you continue to treat your arse like a meatshield, I’m gonna make sure you’re put on leave again, okay?” 

It becomes a struggle after that: you felt overwhelming guilt for feeling guilt, for being ‘selfish’, or feeling guilty for taking risky actions in order to protect them because you know they’ll feel bad. 

It’s a perpetual struggle that you didn’t know what to do about, and it’s at the worst time you broke down. 

You and Ghost were cleaning up the mess hall since Soap won a bet against him, and when you picked up an extra plate more than Ghost, you began overthinking.

Was this gonna piss off Ghost? Were you going to make him feel bad? Were you doing this for yourself or for him? Why did you do that—should you give him the plate? What should you do? What’s the right thing?

As much as the guys tried to ease your mind, I think they did the opposite: and, at that moment, you couldn’t stop the tears.

That made you even guiltier, especially when Ghost noticed. 

But, all he said was “talk.” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, and with that allowance, you spoke. 

It was incoherent: a babbling mess of “sorrys” and admissions of guilt for shit he didn’t even know one could feel guilty for—you shook, moments would jump where you would collect yourself for a few seconds before bursting once more. 

Taking the dishes from your hands, he set them back on the table and engulfed you in an awkward but strong hug. He didn’t trust himself to say anything right, but he hoped—prayed—that you knew the sentiments. 

And you did—you reciprocated immediately, burying your face into his bulletproof vest; heaving, shaking, breaking. 

He was then at a crossroads: you were unstable. Guilt like that—this faux selflessness that was really something more tragic—it only leads to one thing, a thing he couldn’t bring himself to name. 

So, the same night when he was sure you were asleep, he went straight to Price. 

“Sir.” 

“Yes, Ghost?” 

“The kid—she can’t stay. She needs to see a professional.” 

Price sighed. “You don’t think I’m tryin’? Been trying to reach a psychologist—therapist—whomever. Laswell’s said she’s workin’ on it, so we’ll see.”

“But she can’t stay, this type of job, it’s not good for her mind.” 

“That’s up to her. You can’t just kick someone out—it’s ain’t that simple.” 

Ghost opened his mouth, ready to spit back, but Price cut in, stern. “It’s up to her. I’ll make sure she sees a professional at least bi-weekly, but you can’t force a leave on her.” 

Ghost settled with that, though not completely satisfied. 

When you eventually do see a professional, you get a little better—you recognize the patterns, the triggers, the reasons. It’s easier to dissemble the mess that your mind is and just understand. 

Although you’re a little more careful now, more thoughtful about your own body, there’s always a level of protection you place on them that they know is irremovable: it’s care. 

And they reflect that care right back at you, both in and out of the field. 

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[ivestas]

hearts aligned

PART TWO

Summary: He keeps pretending he doesn’t know you and it’s starting to get on your nerves. 

Tags: soldier!fem!reader (call sign “hound”) x ghost (2010 version), childhood friends, grief, smoking, lowkey reader x konig, canon divergence, hurt/comfort(?), barely edited, suicidal implications

Word count: 1.4k

Note: this is kind of the continuation of the konig fic i made with that reader, though not really? like these oneshots r connected but u can still read this without reading the other, but i recommend reading that one first

He was pretending not to know you. 

He avoided your gaze, full of ire and judgement, favoring the sight of the wall behind you. 

“You’re Captain Price?” You’d asked gruffly, trying to stave away the flame that licked at your nerves. “An honor. Didn’t think KorTac would be able to contact you guys.” 

“Could say the same for you, Hound.” Price responded, lighting a fat cigar. “Though I’m more surprised about how yer still alive.” 

Price’s men—all talking among themselves in the KorTac lounge—didn’t avoid your prying stare, nodding to you before turning back to their comrades. 

Ghost hadn’t. He’s not looked at you once. 

Instead, he’s still staring at the damn wall.

“What can I say? I have the devil’s luck. I’ll share my secrets if you ask nicely.” 

Price chuckled. “Keep ‘em to yourself—in any case, how long’re you plannin’ to stay?” 

You were staring fully at Ghost now. 

He’s turned his head, now talking to the Scotsman—Soap, was it? 

“Dunno. Just gonna stick around till I feel like I’ve done my part.” 

“You always been a vagrant? Why not settle down with KorTac—or, perhaps, with the 141? I wouldn’t mind the extra set of hands.” 

“I wouldn’t mind prying my molars out with my own hands, either.” 

He sighed. “I can’t help but wonder what crawled up your ass and died. Even if you’re opposed to the 141, why not KorTac? You even have your own right-hand man trailin’ after you like a lost pup.” 

It was your turn to sigh. “You’ve noticed König?” 

Price leaned against the wall, taking in a quick puff before snorting. “Hard not to when he’s a fuckin’ giant—you don’t seem to mind, though. Didn’t think you were that type.” 

“What type?” You smiled, extending a hand.

He passed you the cigar. His voice lowered despite the fact no one was listening. “The heartless type. You’re humoring the man when we both know you’d sooner die than settle down like that.” 

You took a long suck. It’s expensive—aromatic with clear punches of spice and earth. 

Too expensive.

You handed the cigar back. “I don’t mind the shadow, the sun’s pretty harsh here and I don’t wanna age like a pig.”

“Wrong thing to worry about,” he hummed, lifting the cigar to his mouth once more.

“Let me be a little vain, Price,” you stretched your arms. “In any case, I’m gonna go ‘hit the hay’. Have fun spending the night slaving away at papers.”

“Don’t remind me...” 

You laughed at that. You shot one last glance at Ghost—whose back was turned to you, prick—before heading out of the lounge. 

It was just after a few seconds of walking you heard footsteps behind you. You recognized the light steps immediately. 

Without bothering to turn, you spoke. “Not tonight, König. I’m busy.”

“...Tomorrow?” 

You hated the power his voice had over you—how fucking soft it was. It made you feel bad. Guilty.

You turned around then, offering him an apologetic smile. Under the dim, flickering lights of the hallway, he looked monstrous, but his eyes were warm. “How about the morning, then? We can shoot at the range on the crack of dawn.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled, just enough for you to know he was smiling. “That sounds good, thank you.”

“Now, go to sleep. It’s late.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“I thought I told you before not to call me—”

He’d turned around already, walking off in the opposite direction, back to his barracks. 

I’ll talk to him about that tomorrow. You continued walking, making your way through the twisting hallways until you finally found it.

His room. 

It was an invasion of privacy in many ways, this could get you in trouble in an instant, but you didn’t give a shit. Not now.

Simon’s gonna answer to you, and he’s not gonna hide behind that shitty mask of his. Not now. Not after the past you’ve shared. 

You opened his door with ease, and inside, it was just as you expected: empty, save for the raggedy cot and personal equipment. 

There was a deep shadow cast in one of the shadows just along the wall where the door was. 

Shutting the door, you went to the corner, back pressed against the hard concrete as you just stared at where the door was. 

You were going to stay here till he comes, and you were only going to leave till he answered you. 

Until he finally looked at you. 

---

You didn’t know how much time has passed, your brain had been filled with nothing but static and air, but when you finally heard footsteps draw close to the door, you snapped out of your stupor. 

Standing tall, you crossed your arms, staring at the door as it swung open. 

He didn’t notice you—not right away, his peripheral gaze not aimed at the side where you were lurking. 

It was only when he shut the door and looked around the room that he finally noticed you. 

He froze, tired eyes sharpening with ice. 

But he wasn’t looking at you, no, he looked at your face, not your eyes. 

“What’re you doing here?” His voice was cold, callous.

“You know why I’m here, you piece of shit.” You took a step forward, lifting your chin. “Why have you been avoiding me?” 

He snorted. “Didn’t know we were in middle school again—”

“We might as well be with how much of a fucking idiot you are.” You took another step forward. 

He narrowed his eyes but remained as still as a stone. Still, not looking at you. “Well, now I’m here. Happy? Leave.”

“You—fuck, Simon—“

“Ghost.” He corrected coldly. 

“Oh, shut up, you’re Simon and you’ll always be Simon.” 

“You haven’t earned the right to say my name—“

“I earned that fuckin’ right the moment I took in your sorry ass back when we were kids.” Now you were right in front of him, looking up, trying to meet his gaze. 

And he did—fuck, he finally did, and what reflected was an incomprehensible mix of emotions you couldn’t decode—you couldn’t care to. 

Because that wasn’t enough, you realize. You didn’t just want his eyes, you wanted him. 

In hindsight, it was obvious, but at that moment, your rage was numbed by confusion. 

You stumbled back. 

Again, he was unmoving, but his hand had twitched forward.

The movement made you scoff. Your heart was on fire. 

You laughed. It was loud, harsh, grating. “You can’t just—you can’t just spend an eternity with me then run off and pretend I don’t exist—” 

“Then imagine how I felt when I found out the girl who’d been up my ass was not only a goddamn soldier, but one that ran around throwing her life away without even bothering to find me.” 

You froze. 

“You act like I’ve wronged you when it’s the other way around—I knew you, you and your little feats on the battlefield, flaunts of strength as though you had no value. As though I wasn’t a thought in your mind.” 

“I—“

“No, don’t ‘I’, shut up. Selfish little shit—so eager to toss your life, because what?—hadn’t you heard me when I said ‘I want you alive’? Back in your room when you were obsessed with video games and art? When you told me that secret, and I told you mine?” His words were straining, as though he were struggling to spit them out—to piece them together and coherently present them.

As if he, too, had been alight with anger. 

“...”

"You told me to cut off frayed links, and I did just that... so don’t be angry. I just did what you told me to—”

Your arms wrapped around him in an instant. 

Your chest was tight. Ragged. You squeezed the words out, though. “I’m... sorry.” 

Ghost—Simon—whoever this version of this man just stood, still and quiet, even when a part of you broke.

Just as when you were kids, except this time, there was no silent hope for the future, no yearning for a better past, but the cold and unyielding weight of reality slowly encompassing the two of you. 

That weight lightened the slightest bit when he reciprocated, arms around you too.

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[ivestas]

könig with a confident/badass reader that knows their shit? 👀 im so hrrrng for this man i want to fluster him so bad

blackened valor

Summary: König admires you, so you expose your humanity to him. 

Tags: soldier!fem!reader (call sign “hound”) x könig, reader implied to be on the older side, smoking, barely edited, mentally ill reader, this might be triggering for those struggling with suicidal thoughts so please be careful/dont read! 

Word count: 1.1k

Notes: anon we are literally on the same wavelength, i was earlier thinking about a reader who has that dorky badassery of snake or raiden or literally any mgs character LMAO

Not much was known about you beyond your feats on the field. 

But those feats defined your personhood within any military—the moment a recruiter knew who you were, they’d be on their knees begging for your presence among theirs. 

It was like being a celebrity, except you got no perks and more targets on your back and eyes on you every second of the day, trying to break down your character and understand—understand what, only God knows. 

You were fine with that, though; you get used to it after a while: the praise, the envy, it all becomes white noise over the howl of the wind. 

So it was a normal occurrence when you noticed a set of eyes on you. 

What was abnormal was the one doing the staring. 

An Austrian giant. 

It piqued your interest; a shallow reason to humor since you’ve been in this situation numerous times before, but you didn’t care. 

From your seat in the empty lounge, you leaned back, regarding him carefully.

He couldn’t meet your stare. 

Cute. 

“You are?” You grabbed a lighter from your pockets, popping out a cheap cigarette at the same time. In a swift motion, the cigarette was alight on your lips, and now it sat between your index and middle finger. 

“König, ma’am.” 

“Ma’am?” You couldn’t help the chuckle that spilled out your lips. “I’m ‘Hound’ to everyone, no need for the formalities, save that for your captain.” 

He nodded jerkily. You noted his scrunched shoulders, his stiff poise, and his foot moving in a rhythmic motion. The chair he sat on seemed to bend at the movement. 

"Hey, c’mere.” 

In an instant, he did as you said, walking to you quickly. 

You pat the spot beside you. “Sit, no need to sit on that shitty chair. Pretty sure it was about to collapse.” 

Nodding again, he sat beside you. 

You lift your cigarette to him. “Wanna?” 

König shook his head. “I don’t.” 

“I’d praise you for making such a good health decision, but it’d make me a hypocrite considering you chose to be a merc.” You sighed, taking another puff of smoke. “Speaking of, what’s a timid guy like you doin’ in a merc group?”

“...”

“Touchy subject, eh?” You shook your head, laughing again. “It’s always like that with soldiers—it’s either to pay college debt or to run away from some fucked past.” 

König glanced at you, finally. He held your gaze. 

“What about you, then?” 

“Me?” You hummed, leaning forward now with your elbows on your knees, one hand propping your head up while the other held the cigarette. Looking up at him, you smiled. “Money. Valor. Suitors. I’m a materialist at heart, I love the attention too. I’m super fucking vain.” 

“That can’t be?” 

The way he gasped those words made you grin. He was quickly becoming a favorite. “Then what do you think is the real reason?” 

“Uhm...” His fingers tapped his knee, and his eyes strayed up, deep in thought. Then, embarrassed, his voice dropped. “...to change the world?”

Despite the clear embarrassment, he said the words with unwavering sureness, and it dawns on you that he probably thought of you as some war hero—a pursuer of all that is good for the world.  

When you look at him—properly this time, not an off-handed glance—you can see it in his eyes, the shine. 

You were right. 

In the past, moments like this would be awkward; you never knew what to say, how to softly break the truth that you were just some woman, and the honest truth wasn’t coated in honor and your drive to be a force of good.

But now? You didn’t care. You never had.

“I wanted to die,” you said casually—and it was a casual admission, you didn’t really care, because that was the truth. 

You saw his eyes widen and it nearly made you laugh. 

“I was gonna, you know, kill myself when I was younger. Had planned it out and everything,” you sighed wistfully. “Then, I thought, ‘why not join the military’? Easier to break to my family that when I inevitably died, it was for a cause rather than the fact I succumbed to my own perpetual weakness.”

“It’s not—” 

“’It’s not weakness’ yeah yeah,” you scoffed. “It’s easy to say that because you feel it. We all feel it—the desire to die.” 

The bottom of his hood shifted again, and you expected to hear his words, but nothing came out. 

“But, yeah, I guess after a while of realizing that I’m cursed with some twisted luck of brushing past the grim reaper, I decided to be a bit of a saint and run around and ‘fix’ things, just to stave the boredom away.”

You took another puff, longer this time. “You grow attached to the idea of bringing peace, I think. My advice? If you want to bring the most change, let go of your fear of death. Suddenly, everything’s not so scary anymore...” you smile. “But I’m guessing you’ve already done that, haven’t you?”

König was silent, but after a moment, he nodded. 

“See? Now you’re just as much of a ‘hero’ as me.” You lifted the cigarette. “You sure you don’t want, by the way?” 

“...I’ll try.” His hands were large, dwarfing the cigarette to a ridiculous degree. 

With his free hand, he lifted the end of his hood, and you caught a bit of his face. 

Pretty. 

He sucked in and began coughing right after, lowering the cigarette for a moment. Clumsy puffs of smoke shot out his lips, and after a few seconds, he tried again. 

Still awkward, but a bit better. 

“Ah, you’re getting there König, now you’re just as much of a hero as me!” You reached for the cigarette and took a puff before handing it back. 

He paused before putting it back between his lips, but you notice a flush of pink dusting his pale skin. Even with just the bottom of his face showing, you could see he was... blushing? 

That made you bark out a laugh. 

He’s so fucking shy.

He seemed to have caught on quickly because he quickly moved the cigarette back to you, refusing to meet your eyes, tugging the hood back over his face.  

“Come on soldier, don’t be shy! We’re all friends here, right?” You leaned back and pat his shoulder. “Unless..?” 

He froze under your hand. 

You laughed again, letting your hand rest there. He didn’t push it away, remaining stiff under your palm, head turned away and fingers fiddling with gloves wrapped around his hands. 

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a good shot

Summary: König had a staring problem, so you confront him about it. 

Tags: sniper!fem!reader x konig, platonic!141 x reader, barely edited, awkward, unintentional confession(?)

Word count: 1.1k

Note: my mw2 obsession is real. been trying to deny it but its all that occupies my brain.... send some reqs?? i have such a bad habit of saying that then not following thru but i promise i will LMFAOOO (nah but fr tho im working on ur guys’ requests, just veryyyy slowly since, again, mw2 brainrot) also sorry if this seems rushed, i just wanted to get this idea out of my head hehe

König had a staring problem. 

You really didn’t know why, but whenever he was near, you could practically feel his gaze burn a hole through your skin. 

You weren’t one to care for stares—you were used to it, especially in your early years as a merc. Most would just be curious why a woman was wearing a bullet vest, especially civilians. 

But... König’s eyes were intense. Nothing like the curious—or even hateful—looks you were used to. 

You were sure you hadn’t done anything wrong; you barely spoke, never really caring too. You kept to yourself. You didn’t particularly stand out next to your flamboyant peers. 

So... why? 

You’d first asked Soap about it: he was a people person, always seemed to know someone’s intentions in an instant. 

However, he was confused. “He stares at you?” 

"You hadn’t noticed?” 

“No? I barely see the lad in general, always skulkin’ in some shadow.” 

“Seriously?” You frowned. “Then you think you’d know why?”

“Hmmm... here, maybe if I get my crystal ball and ponder for a bit I can find out!” 

"Shove the ball up your ass instead.” You snorted. Soap laughed, probably at his own joke than yours. 

Getting up, you headed to your next target: Ghost. 

You found him in the mess hall, taking apart his rifle on one of the cafeteria tables by himself. Without a second thought, you slid beside him. He didn’t acknowledge you.

Propping your head up with a hand, you look at him. Despite it being night, he’s still wearing his balaclava and shades. You decided it’s best not to make a comment about it since you’re trying to pry answers regarding the Austrian Colossus. 

“You’ve noticed König staring at me, right?” 

“Yeah. Why?” 

“Do you think you’d know why? I’m sure I hadn’t done anything to piss him off, but he’s always just... you know...” you widen your eyes, leaning in. “Doing this. I don’t know whether to be unsettled or flattered.” 

Ghost carefully puts two pieces of his rifle together, a satisfying click resonating in the air. “Maybe he’s surprised why the 141 got a clown for a sniper.” He intoned. 

“Says the guy wearing a skeleton balaclava and tinted shades—scared the enemies are gonna find out you’re actually just a loser with nothing to his name?” You said the words too quickly, and when Ghost looked at you, he probably knew the thought was bubbling in your head. 

"...” 

“...” 

You couldn’t help the laugh that crawled out your throat, and you noticed that the corners of Ghost’s eyes crinkled. 

“...So you don’t know?” 

He snorted. “I’m no psychic.” 

Sighing, you rose from your seat, leaving Ghost once more in his own bubble. 

You really didn’t want to, but you realized you were gonna have to ask from the source itself—König.  

Now, you didn’t consider yourself a shy or anxious person, but there was something so imposing about König; maybe it was the fact he literally towers over you like some Goliath, or maybe it’s the fact he only speaks in raspy monosyllables, or, maybe, it was the fact that he just always stares at you, but you couldn’t deny the nervousness that writhed in the pit of your stomach. 

But curiosity shined over it, because just why would he just stare? 

So, you decided to head to the shooting field: it was an open secret that König often lurked there at night, shooting away at the targets from the day. No one really complained since he’d replace the targets with new ones at the end of every session.

The walk was short; just a quick turn through some halls and out through a door and you’re in the range. 

König was some meters away, hunched over a stack of crates and a sniper under his arm. His back was to you. 

You stepped on a stray stick just beside your foot. His head shot up. 

He turned around in an instant, sniper tight in his hand. 

They were right. He’s antsy. 

“Hey, König.” 

“...” 

You slowly approached as though he were a frightful deer... but perhaps a cautious bear would be a more accurate descriptor. He could kill you in seconds. 

Like anyone can. It doesn’t scare you. 

Admittedly, it’s a little exciting.

“Can I talk to you about something?” 

“...yes.” 

 “Your eyes—uh, you stare. A lot.” 

His gaze flickered away. 

“Just wondering why you just... stare. I’m pretty sure we’ve never spoken, either—”

“We’ve spoken,” he cut in. Rough and light, as usual. “Mostly on missions though.” 

“Oh... well, I’m just wondering if I pissed you off, somehow? Earned your ire? I’m dumb, I forget and I can be socially unaware—”

“No, no, no!” His eyes rounded, the sniper loosened in his hands. “No, you didn’t! I just, well...”

“...well?” You echoed, prompting him to continue. 

He did. 

“You’re nice to look at.”

Your brain froze. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

“I’m sorry, is that weird?—it is, isn’t it? I apologize, I—”

“No, wait, I’m really flattered, I just—” you laugh breathlessly. In disbelief. “That’s just really fucking flattering.” You can feel your face light up with heat, and all the neat composure you’ve built wash away completely. 

Now, you’re reduced to a blushing schoolgirl at a complete loss for words. 

What were you supposed to say? What does that even mean? Is that an admission of some crush, or were you just eye candy to him?—and did you like that, like his attention or are you just that deprived of contact? 

You force your eyes to his, and you realize he’s hunched over, rubbing at the metal butt of his sniper with a thumb, eyes everywhere except on yours. 

"So...” you rubbed your wrist. “What now?”

He finally looked at you. “Huh?”

You were this far already, you weren’t gonna back down yet. Even if your heart was slamming against your chest. “You just called me pretty? And I have a feeling you’re easy on the eyes too—maybe this is too quick—but wanna hang out then? Like, talk and stuff... because... I’m pretty?”

König stared for a moment before breaking into a laugh. “It would be an honor.” 

“Then let’s hang out right now! Stay here, I’m gonna grab my sniper and we’re gonna shoot shit till bullets’re covering the ground!!” 

König extended his sniper. “Use mine. I want to see how you shoot.” His eyes fluttered, gaze awkwardly averting yet again. You were beginning to find it endearing. “You’re a good shot. And I’d like to get better.” 

“And watching me will help you?”

“Yes,” he said the word with earnest, eyes bright. 

A crooked smile pulled at your lips. Fuck, you weren’t used to this. 

But you liked it. You liked it a lot. You just hoped you could eventually make him feel the same. 

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[ivestas]

accursed flesh (2/2)

PART ONE

Summary: The intricate side effects of the pact is hard to keep control of. You try to do so anyway.

Tags: Geralt x Witcher!Reader, jealousy, NO yennefer slander, reader kinda implied to have depression (subtext and all), hurt/comfort i think??? also a smidge of a power imbalance if you squint, unedited

Tag list: @abrunettefangirlnerd​

Word count: 2.3k

Note: this fic wont make sense AT ALL if u dont check part one, so i seriously encourage you to do so!! ALSO…. im thinking that this au could possibly be an ongoing thing for some future oneshots?? it’s always fun to see when blogs have a certain like “in joke” thing but instead of a joke it’s a fic au, if that makes sense?? sooooo, as usual, feel free to shoot me a request/dm if u have any ideas, even if it’s unrelated to this au!!

It’s been a few weeks since you had formed that pact with Geralt.

Maybe you were just looking to deep into it—perhaps your mind is running rampant in it’s imagination now that your thoughts aren’t plagued by the perpetual pain that lit your nerves—but there was a strange shift in the relationship you had with the White Wolf. 

Before, he was a very distant figure. Not too distant—he was always within reach, just a few words away, but you were too much of a coward to say those words. 

It’s strange, how your envy of him had quickly shifted to shameful feelings, and you often wondered if the person you were so attached to was just a concept; a figment of what you wanted. 

But now, those ponderings were satisfied with how much closer he’s gotten.

You blame it on the effects of the pact—being tied to someone by soul, it carries weight, no? 

He talks more, a few extra words being passed throughout the day instead of a sentence or two being exchanged at night in the mess hall. 

His eyes were warmer, not so guarded as before. 

And, most strangely, his voice carried a cadence of care. Connection. It was a hard thing to describe. 

You also felt your guard melt away when you’re near, a serenity that you thought you had lost in childhood. (Again, you blamed that on the pact.)

However, not everything was sunshine and rainbows—there was a few intricacies that have left you... reeling, to say the least. 

The pact, it allows for a mental connection between the two parties: a telepathy that can be accessed whenever—and the same applies to emotion. 

Geralt was a natural at navigating this—you hadn’t heard a single thought of his or emotion unless it was intentional. 

You, however? You’ve made a fool of yourself several times already. 

The first time was when Lambert was bugging you about something. Although you feigned calm, your mind was chatty. 

“If he keeps this up I’m gonna hide his swords again.” 

A whispery voice that sounded like Geralt’s echoed in your head. “You were the one to hide his swords?” Amusement colored his words, and you could feel the emotion flutter in your head. 

“Oh, fuck? Wait, sorry, I didn’t admit that—no, I didn’t do that. Sorry. Sorry. How do I stop the connection?” 

“Won’t tell you.” 

“Hey, you even listening?” Lambert’s voice was the thing to snap you out the stupor. 

“Yeah, yeah, I am.” You snapped. “Dumbass.” 

You weren’t. At all.

Another time, Vesemir allowed for you to cook your favorite meal—a fine dish you learned from a maid in Toussaint. 

Usually the Witchers just make their own meals throughout the day when they’re hungry, and it’s only at night when they eat together, so that’s when you cooked. 

So you made the meal and intentionally made a lot. You wanted the others to eat it—which added some pressure, but you knew you could nail it.

And you did! It came out perfectly!

When you plated it and handed it to the others—of course maintaining the act of “mistake in quantity”, they took it and ate. 

It was dumb in your eyes, but watching them eat—it made you happy. As though you were paying a debt you didn’t even know you had. A phantom weight that lightened just by a fraction, but still lightened nonetheless. 

Geralt’s voice spoke in your head. It was light. Soothing. “Didn’t know watching others eat made you so happy.” 

You lowered your head over the bowl, eating a little faster. 

A soft laugh bounced in your mind. It made you warmer than you already were. “Not a bad thing. It’s a good trait to have.”

Then, the same night, you slipped up again when Vesemir and Eskiel complimented the dish—Lambert did so too, in his own... unique way.  

“It wasn’t terrible,” Lambert said, returning from the kitchen with his third serving. “It’s acceptable. Better than the raw meat old man Vesemir had us eat.” 

And this time, instead of talking, Geralt—who was sitting beside you—brushed a hand against your arm. 

No one noticed except you. 

Sneaky bastard. 

But, now, you were a lot more confident in your ability to reign it in despite Geralt having held back the information. 

Well, that was until Yennefer had paid a visit. 

She’d come in order to help Vesemir with the reconstruction of the wall as a return of favor for Geralt. “Her telekinesis could be of use,” he’d said before sending off a carrier pigeon a few weeks back. 

And in all respects, you didn’t mind—not at all! You admired the sorceress deeply—she’s intelligent and she can get work done and get her hands dirty if circumstances demand it. What’s there to hate? 

Nothing at all! 

But, you weren’t blind to the way she looked at Geralt. 

And you couldn’t even blame her—they had a past; a romantic one. You were just a distant friend of his up until recently. 

But jealousy was a searing thing, alongside self-disgust. You weren’t used to them. They burned, as though they were phantom pain of your lulled mutagens. 

However, those feelings were irrational—wrong. Being possessive over a man who wasn’t even yours wasn’t something you wanted to partake in. 

You didn’t ever want to be the thing that removes happiness from someone. And in the end? All you can do is hope that, one day, you can get over your... crush. Even if it hurt. Burned you alive. Colored every passing thought. 

So, you were amicable. No use in being a bitch to someone for no reason beyond your own selfish desire. 

“Hey Yennefer, how’re you holding up in Vizima? Heard working for the emperor is demanding?” 

She sighed, lifting a pack of rubble with magic, just as Vesemir instructed. “It is—but I’m in my element. Plus, the coin is generous, I certainly can’t complain.” 

You smiled. “I’m glad—” you cut yourself off when you felt Geralt’s presence. He was walking towards Yennefer. Nodding to her, you spoke brightly. “Good luck, hopefully we can divulge in deeper conversation later?”

She smiled. “Yes, see you.” 

Withdrawing from her side, you made a beeline to Vesemir who was pouring concrete into one of the holes of the wall with knitted brows.

Carefully, you set a hand under the large tin pale, steadying his grip on it.

He didn’t say anything, but he cast you a grateful look.

Trying to focus the task at hand—that is, steadying the pale since you knew if you tried to fill the walls yourself he’d get mad because you’re not ‘doing it right’ (apparently no one can do it right except him)—you couldn’t seem to block out the pair behind you, who were speaking so fucking softly to each other.

Brazen jealousy seared your skin, and then, a cold, hushing feeling of condemnation followed after.

“Anyway,” Yennefer began softly, “want to do anything after?” Hey words were thick with desire. You desperately wanted to block the words out. You tried focusing on Vesemir muttering about how some of the concrete splattered on his shoes, or the distant shrieks of crows, or the wind—anything!

But you couldn’t.

You expected Geralt to accept, to demand that he’d be able to whisk her away the moment she’s done helping Vesemir—fuck, maybe even cut the visit to Kaer Morhen short and go back to Vizima together to stay with Ciri for the remainder of winter or something.

After all, Yennefer is the obvious choice; superior. Some lowly, scarred female Witcher or the alluring sorceress? You weren’t mad at the fact, because it was that: fact. And you couldn’t reverse roles—and in a way, you didn’t want to. You liked being a Witcher. You liked being you—flaws, memories, hate. It was yours.

Again, you needed to get over him, even if he was the only man to ever reveal the colors that love grants—

“No, I have some things that need to be done,” Geralt responded.

“Ah, I see.” Yennefer didn’t sound angry, though a note of displeasure marked her words.

You expected Geralt to apologize, but he didn’t.

It confused you, but you felt a guilty relief that he declined.

You were blind to Geralt’s gaze, which was firmly planted on you.

---

The holes were patched up and Yennefer sent a swift farewell to everyone, citing “Ciri needing a capable babysitter” as the reason.

You weren’t inclined to assume it was a lie, you’d witnessed first hand how rowdy the girl was.

It was night when she left, and you’d felt tired (probably because you ended up patching up the walls yourself after insisting for Vesemir to take a break) and you decided to going back to your room and occupy yourself with the mountains of books you hadn’t had the time to read, or polish your blades and prepare oils and potions.

As you were ascending the staircase that led to your room, Geralt’s voice emerged from your head like gold found in mist.

“Where are you?”

“I was just about to go to my room, why?”

“Want to talk to you, that’s all.”

“Oh… you wanna meet somewhere or—?”

“Your rooms fine, if you’re okay with that.”

There was a strange tension. It worried you.

But you shot down the anxiety. You were being irrational yet again.

“Yeah, of course!”

You quickly bounded to your room and tried to clean up the small pieces of chaos scattered throughout, straightening everything up until a sharp knock on your door halted you.

“Come in!”

In stepped, as you expected, Geralt. Shed of all armor, all he wore was a simple shirt, pants, and boots. His hair was down, too.

You didn’t know why, but despite the fact that you’ve seen him like that numerous times before, it was weird now. Intimate, almost.

You stood there awkwardly, unsure. “Hey.”

Geralt shut the door behind him and leaned against the wood, arms crossed. His body language was hard to decipher, a mix of comfortable and guarded.

“I don’t like mincing words, so I’ll be blunt: I like you.”

Your brain couldn’t seem to process those words.

“You… do?” you choked out, confused, shocked, and in complete disbelief.

“Yeah, I do. Like you a lot, actually. And I know you feel the same,” he smiled. “Hard not to when your emotions get all sharp when a woman’s near me.”

“You mean Yennefer?—I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“It’s fine, don’t apologize—your heart, it’s a kind thing. Haven’t met much people who’d prioritize others the way you do.” He sighed. “Though, I don’t like how it’s from guilt—or hate.”

“Better than being selfish, right?” You murmured.

“What’s selfish to you, then?”

“Putting myself above others obviously—“

“And you do that by?”

“By wanting something that isn’t mine, by feeling things that’re wrong, by—“

“By feeling emotions? By doubting the capability and maturity of others by assuming that you need to lock your heart away so you wouldn’t offend?”

“…when you word it like that, it sounds dumb.”

“Because it is. Because your worry of being—no, “appearing” selfish hinders you in so many ways.” His voice softens, and he takes a step forward, arms unfolded. “There are times to be restrained, but there are many other times to be open with yourself.”

“Sorry—“

“Don’t apologize, there was never a need to.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, shoulders sagging.

Quietly, Geralt sits beside you. The bed creaks the slightest bit.

“…I’ve liked you for a long time.”

“It’s an honor.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Hm?”

“Whenever I have my down days—you know, can barely get out of bed, horizons were dark, you get it—I’d imagine you.”

You tentatively leaned against his shoulder, hesitant. He pulled you in, confident, arm wrapped around your shoulders.

“I’d think, if you could keep your head up, then I think I can too. Even if it’s hard. Even if I want to test my head clean off my shoulders.” Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and the candle of in your room seemed to flicker, dimming. “I admire you.”

“I’m a wrong person to admire,” his fingers tightened around you the slightest bit. “But I don’t mind.”

“Heh, glad you don’t… but…”

He glanced at you. You realize really liked his eyes.

“What about you?” Your voice strained slightly. “I hope you didn’t develop feelings just ‘cause the pact kinda has us bound now...” 

He shook his head. “No, of course not. It sounds ridiculous, but I’ve always liked you—just never thought anything would come of it... after all, two Witchers? Together?” His eyes strayed to the candle. “It was cowardly, but I tried to snuff those feelings. Thought nothing good would ever come of it.”

“Wouldn’t call it cowardly. I think you’re right, but now? With us being pact-bound, I think we’ve a better chance at this whole... thing.”

“Thing?” 

"I mean, like, this. What are we now? Are we courting? Married?” 

“You want to be married?”

“...wouldn’t be opposed.” 

“Then we’re married.” 

“What?”

“I’ll get you a ring later when—“

“Wait hold on! Look, I don’t think marriage is a good label, because as much as I like the sound of that, it’s too... domestic. Tame.”

Geralt let out a throaty laugh. “Good point. Got any ideas, then?” 

“What about we’re... uh... Pact-mates? Soulmates? There really isn’t a good word for it...”

“Don’t think it needs to be defined then. All that matters is I’m yours, just as you are mine.” 

Your cheeks lit aflame at that. He laughed again. 

You liked that, and you liked it a lot. And this time, you intentionally allowed for the sickly sweet feeling of your warmth poke Geralt. 

He did the same. 

[ivestas]

accursed flesh (1/2)

PART TWO

Summary: You are the only female Witcher in existence, and you are suffering because of it.

Tags: Geralt x Witcher!Reader, headcanon format, blood, death, descriptions of pain, reader implied not to be european/not petite, reader implied to be younger than the others, unedited, etc.

Word count: 2.6k

Note: this idea has been poking me, but can u blame me? the entire concept is so fascinating!! also been craving to write something in a headcanon format since its so fun and easy LMAO; also to quickly add, this takes place BEFORE the events of witcher 3, but not too far before! AND, as usual, sorry for the wonky writing/lowkey ooc-ness of the characters, this is something super self indulgent and i just wanted to get it on paper 

It was a dreary winter in Kaer Morhen. The cold hit you right in the bones, deeper than a basilisk's claws. 

Your body was weakening. The mutagens—they were eating you alive. Writhing under your skin, burning the blood in your body and always leaving you in a state of constant pain. And that winter frost certainly wasn’t helping. 

But you tried your best to stay light—the atmosphere within the stone walls was already quite... unsavory. 

Lambert was still pissy about the facial scar he’s gotten, especially since Vesemir is insistent on using it as a learning lesson.

Vesemir was also pissy because Lambert wouldn’t stop imitating him and taking his vintage hat as a prop. 

Eskiel had wooed a woman—a surprise to everyone—but had then found out that not only was the woman a succubus, but one that had a vendetta against Witchers and had aimed to kill him. 

And Geralt... 

He didn’t divulge in the details—or anything, actually. All he mentioned was that the roads were rockier and coin was thinner and harder to come across.

You tried your best to be a positive force, but it was proving to be difficult. Especially now. 

You’d failed in your quest to find an antidote to your slow degradation, and due to that failure, your body was starting to gray. Patches of skin were starting to rot. 

It sounded—no, is—horrifying. But you’ve given up. And you hadn’t the heart to tell the others that—fuck, you didn’t even know if they were aware of what was happening. 

Only Vesemir knew, probably. You noticed his sad stare. It sickened you. 

However, at night, it was easy to pretend nothing was amiss. That everything was as it should be, because mead was thick in the men’s blood.

Eskiel was beside you, while Lambert and Geralt were sitting across the large log table. Bottles upon bottles of all types of alcohol were strewn. 

You didn’t have the luxury to drink—you found it irritated your already irritated mutagens. So you settled with juice, something that drunken Lambert took note of. 

“Hey... don’t tell me you’re becoming Vesemir...” he slurred before breaking to a grin. Grabbing the vintage hat he’d clearly grown fond of stealing from Vesemir, he put it on with a flick of his wrist. “‘Alcohol is a Witcher’s enemy. It steals your senses, robs you of logic—two things a Witcher needs to survive!’”

Eskiel snorted, the closest to a real laugh you’ve seen him choke out. 

“Yeah, actually haven’t ever seen you drink,” Geralt spoke from Lambert’s side. His eyes were prying. “Not fond of alcohol?” 

A wry smile twisted your lips. “You could say that.” 

“No, wait, Geralt, your right!” Lambert’s words turned loud. “You’re totally right! I’ve never ever seen her drink either! And I’ve never met a Witcher that doesn’t fuckin’ like mead!”

“Don’t get hung up on it, Lambert. Too much thinking’ll make your head hurt.” You scoffed, taking a swing of your raspberry juice. 

Lambert spluttered. Thank God he’s drunk, because if he wasn’t, you’re sure he would’ve insulted you in a way you didn’t think was possible. 

“But anyway, any good things happened to you guys? Aside from cruel succubi—my condolences, Eskiel—and shitty contracts?” 

“My year’s been quiet aside from that,” Eskiel muttered. 

Lambert chimed in, nearly slumped over the table. “Same ‘ere, but I also met some Witchers from another school... they were assholes...”

“It’s a shame every person you meet turns out to be an asshole.” You couldn’t stop the sarcasm that laced your words, but he didn’t seem to notice, instead taking yet another bottle and clumsily pouring it into his mug. 

“What about you, Geralt?—and don’t try to sell me on the ‘quiet roads’ bullshit, you’re always up to something—what king have you been fraternizing with this time?” What sorceress have you been trying to lay with lately?

Geralt paused, his face contemplative. You could imagine snapshots of memories flashing in his head, each one packed with layers of action and tension, and after a few moments of that quiet, he finally spoke. 

“Can’t think of anything. Sorry.” 

Before you could press him further, he turned the tables onto you. 

“What about you though? You didn’t say much.” 

“You didn’t say anything at all, actually.” Eskiel noted, sparing you only a quick glance before being immersed in his drink the same way Lambert was. 

“I...” 

You were a shit liar—the school of Wolves were all shit liars frankly, and the worst part was that they could catch those same lies too in a heartbeat.

 “Well... It’s complicated.” 

“The night is young,” Geralt murmured. “We don’t have much else to do except drink.”

“Yeah... well...” Fuck. 

A part of you wanted them to know, but you knew the moment they were aware of your decline, they’d do anything to try to reverse it, just as you would with them. 

Again, Wolves. The school was a pack, and it would be hypocritical of you not to want them to worry if you would react the exact same.  

Especially Geralt. You’d burn countries if it meant helping him. 

“Been trying to fix a few things.” Were the words you settled with. 

“What things? And were you able to do so?” 

“Personal things, and... unfortunately not.” You stared at the contents of the mug in your hand, your reflection distorted. Uncertain. “It’s too late.” 

Geralt hummed at that. “Need help?” 

The words were so simple, and somehow, it left you silent, as though he asked something grand, something completely philosophical and abstract. It left you stunned, strangely—despite being confident that Geralt has your back, there’s an absurdity to it.

You’d help me?

He didn’t say anything, simply looking at you with what seemed to be a reassuring look. A silent, underlying, muted warmth. Or maybe you were just imagining it—fuck, you didn’t know what to think.

And then, it hit you:

You were going to die anyway.

Doesn’t that allow you to be a little selfish?

“Yeah, I think I need an extra set of hands.” You couldn’t look at him in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all, really.”

“Jeez, get a room—urp!” Lambert nearly keeled over. “Fuck! Is it jus’ me or is the room getting a little wonky..?”

Eskiel sighed, getting up from where he was and walking to Lambert. “Guess I need to be his caretaker again.” He grabbed Lambert, forcing him on his feet. Before he could sway and fall, he threw his arm over his shoulder. “Good night you two.”

“Good night,” you smiled.

Geralt nodded to him. “Night.”

And just like that, they were gone.

Geralt looked to you expectantly.

“I know something’s wrong. My medallion’s been humming ever since you came. Is this something to do with your issue?”

“Yeah, uh… Look, I’m not gonna mince words,” looking at him, your voice was resolute. “I’m dying. I think by the end of the winter, my spirit’ll be long gone.”

The smallest flashes of emotion that appeared on his face died seconds later.

“I thought the complications with the mutagens..?”

“They never went away—they got worse, actually.” You frowned. “I spent the year searching, and there was no antidote. It’s like—you know how your body gets influenced in certain ways by mutagens? Kind of warps your body and tissue, becomes a part of you?”

Geralt nodded.

“Your body, it sustains it—men’s body naturally do, because of muscle mass and shit like that. Biological differences. According to some druids, the only reason I got past the main steps to becoming a Witcher as a kid was just ‘cause I worked in the farm a lot more and gained more muscles due to that and genetics…” A humorless laugh tore from your throat. “Aren’t I special?”

Geralt’s eyes averted to the drink he nursed in his hands.

“But yes, because my body isn’t strong enough to sustain and create harmony with the mutagens I’ve been infused with, the mutagens became embedded in my biological matter and have become a plague that wishes to only eat at my body till there’s nothing left.”

You pulled up your thick sleeve to reveal a thick circle of rot. Your natural complexion abruptly cuts to an unnatural dark miasma of a purplish-black with the smallest veins of a deep green and a blood-red. It resembled the skin of a rotting horse carcass.

You laughed again. “To be honest, now that I say it out loud? I don’t think I need help, It’s just too late—“

“Don’t say that. I’ll help you.”

“Geralt—“

“I refuse to let you die.” His eyes burned. His face, although controlled, betrayed some emotion with how the muscles of his jaw seemed to knot, how his brows furrowed, his lips pushed downward to a bitter frown. “Why did you keep this a secret?”

Suddenly, the ‘not to worry you guys’ explanation didn’t hold water. 

You knew there was a reason—there just had to be, right?—but you couldn’t find one, one that you could confidently say out loud that didn’t betray the part of your mind you’d long since exiled from your consciousness. 

You smiled. “Dunno. Too many reasons, too little will.” 

Geralt’s frown deepened. The look made you anxious—but not in a way that you were fearful of him—no, never, not Geralt. Never Geralt. 

But rather, the anxiousness and guilt that you know you disturbed the little peace of mind he had. The comfort that coming to Kaer Morhen was meant to provide.

“We need to fix this. I’ll tell Vesemir, I’m sure he’d know something—“

“Don’t!”

“What?” 

“Don’t, Geralt. Please.”

“Why?” 

“Because you just can’t. This is why I didn’t want to tell you, you guys get worked up and—“

“You’re dying and you expect us—me—not to get ‘worked up’?” He said the words as though they were nonsense—as if he couldn’t detect a lick of sense behind it. “You’re rotting, and you expect me to just sit down and do nothing?”

“I—I don’t know, listen, Geralt, I don’t mind—“ 

“I’m not listening. This topic is over. I will help you, whether you want that help or not.” 

You chewed on the skin of your lips.

His voice softened. “At dawn, we’ll meet and talk to Vesemir. I’ll make sure the other two don’t know, if you want.” 

“...yeah. Thank you.” 

---

It was right at dawn when you and Geralt met with Vesemir in the training hall. 

Geralt was the one to provide the information of what was happening since you couldn’t seem to find the verbal coherence to do so yourself. 

When he finished, Vesemir sighed deeply. 

“I simply wish you’d come to me sooner, child.” 

Your ears burned but you maintained your poker face. Child. 

“Can you show me the... ‘rot’?” 

You obliged, revealing the festering rot your left arm.

Although it was just a small movement—almost imperceptible—you noticed the way his eyes widened the slightest bit. 

You were completely fucked if it took Vesemir of all people by surprise. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this...” 

“At least I’ll leave a mark on history in my own way: ‘first female Witcher, dies of perpetual rot!’ Hope my name’s the label for this illness.” 

Vesemir ignored you. So did Geralt, but you weren’t blind to the quick glance he gave you. “I can only think of one way that could perhaps cease—or better yet, reverse this, and it’s if we can pry the mutagens out of your body.”

"That’s impossible. Doesn’t the Trial of Grasses make it impossible to do that?”

“Yes, unfortunately... but there’s hope. Perhaps the mutagens you have now could be swapped with a weaker set, letting your body overpower and take control.” 

“And how’d we do that?” 

Vesemir paused. 

Geralt was the one to speak, and he spoke slowly. Quietly. “Another Trial of Grasses..?”

“No, no, no—fuck no.” You stepped back, glaring at Geralt. “I’d rather die than go through that again!”

Geralt crossed his arms, brows furrowed slightly. “I doubt it would work… her body’s grown and the mutagens had long since become ingrained in her, right?”

Vesemir frowned, nodding. “Yes, but it’s the only way.”

“I’m not doing this. You’re not gonna make me do this. There’s no way in any circumstance you’ll make me commit to this. No. Don’t even try.”

“Then you have any ideas?” Geralt glared at you. “Because I’m not just gonna let you die.”

“Fuck if I know! Look, I don’t mind, at all! It’d be nice to die on my bed than in battle—“

“Don’t be selfish!” He snapped. “You’re not gonna die. Not now, not in a hundred years.”

Conviction bled in his words. You fell silent.

He turned to Vesemir once more. “Are you sure there aren’t any alternatives? Something less intensive?”

Vesemir rubbed his chin with a hand. “I can think of something, but it’s requires a lot more time—forming a pact with someone with equal or greater power—someone who has the same or similar mutagens to hers.”

“So I gotta find a basilisk and form a pact with it? To be honest, I don’t want my soul companion to be the same things I’m meant to slay—“

“I’ll do it.”

Your brain froze for a second.

You glanced at Geralt.

“What?”

“I’ll form a pact with you, if you’d like—better than a basilisk, right?”

“You’d do that?” With someone like me?

A small smile pulled at his lips for a second. 

Your heart twisted in deep warmth, and for a second in time, the impenetrable cold and gloom of your mind bathed in that momentary spark. 

Vesemir clasped his hands together. “That’s perfect! If this goes as according to plan, the rot should at least cease the festering—hopefully, it even heals over! But right now, let’s focus on the pact—both of you, draw some blood. 

Geralt took the dagger hung at his waist and drew a quick line of blood on the palm of his hand. 

He offered you the blade. You took it gratefully. 

Drawing a line for yourself on your hand, you nodded to Vesemir. “Done.” 

“Now both of you, hold hands.” 

You did as instructed, taking Geralt’s hand and clutching it tightly. It was warm. You couldn’t look at him in the eyes. 

Though you could’ve sworn you heard a breathless laugh from him. 

“Now, two of you, repeat after me: ‘with time shall it come, chimes of dark bells, synchronous melody that forms two into One. We shall become One.’”  

In tandem, you and Geralt echoed the words. 

A beat later, something strange took over you; an out of body experience, something that seemed to rip you of your senses for a moment and left you breathless—as if your body was robbed, and your spirit was all that was left to exist. 

In that same beat, pieces of your mind seemed to snap into something foreign, something completely unfamiliar—feelings, memories, thoughts, ideas... they changed, eclipsed into a thing both familiar but distant. Icy but full of warmth. 

And, instantaneously, the pains of your body—they ebbed, weakened, and diminished. 

The pain was dead. The ache scrubbed clean from your limbs. You were whole. 

When you regained your bearings, you couldn’t stifle the giddy laugh that jumped out your throat, the newfound energy coursing through you like that of a mountain’s great river. “Fuck that feels good, I actually feel my age!” 

Vesemir pointed to something. “Your arm, child. It’s...”

You look down to your left arm. 

It’s miraculously healed—skin smooth and in full color.

You grin became impossibly bigger. “Oh my God!” You turned to Geralt who had seemed to have regained his senses. “Thank you Geralt, thank you so, so, so much!” 

He smiled. It struck warmth in you, and at that moment, you were sure he felt it too.  

Note: I have some ideas for the part 2 (where the actual romance actually happens LMAO) but if you guys have any, drop by in the ask or dm me 🥳 orrr, if you want to request a geralt fic, DO SO!! wpuld love to get some geralt requests hehehhehehehheeh

[ivestas]

so you know the gus boxcutter scene right? can I request some hurt/comfort of what happens after that? like maybe we help clean the blood off gus's face??

bloodied promise

Summary: Gustavo’s face was splattered with blood, so you clean it off. 

Word count: 0.4k

Warnings: Blood, spoilers for season 4 ep 1 of breaking bad

Note: i didnt do any hurt/comfort cuz i didnt know how to implement it in this scenario :( but thank you for requesting! also, i love the gus requests, keep them coming, but i also do other characters, guys!! check the pinned post for the characters i accept :D 

“Fuck, Gustavo, why’d you do that?” 

It was a rhetorical question really, you were no fool—Gustavo hates liabilities, which is ironic considering Walter White is a walking, talking liability—but still, the brutality of it all, the goddamn spectacle of it, you can’t help but wonder if it was something else. 

Silent warning? A show of anger? Something deeper? 

But Gustavo didn’t answer, opting to ignore you and take off the bloodied hazmat suit in that silence. 

You glance at the open door.

Walter and Jesse were gone, alongside Mike. 

You were alone with him. 

Good, finally. 

Grabbing the kleenex box that was on top of one of the shelves, you snagged several sheets of tissue and waited for him to toss away the suit. 

Still silent, he turned to you. 

He lifted his chin, angling it to the side, staring at you. 

“Wish you were a little more careful, or, I don’t know, de-weeding the source of the problem,” you carefully lifted the tissues, carefully dabbing away the bigger beads of blood that decorated his face. “But do what you want. But, if push comes to shove, and I know he’s to do something to you, I’ll—” 

“Don’t worry,” he cut in with words that held no emotion—almost listless in its nature. “I already have plans arranged. All I need you to do is to watch quietly from a distance.” 

Quietly. Distance. 

Those two words cannot be applied to you, and somehow, you knew he was aware of that—some part of you just fucking knew he recognized what he asked was an impossible request from you, but… you’re always cutting past the impossible, right?

Carelessly tossing the tissues to the ground—an action that made you immediately assure Gustavo that it will be cleaned up—you grabbed another set of tissues and were rougher, dragging it across the smaller lines of blood that lined his strangely warm skin. 

You were absorbed in the action, cleaning his face with inexplicable care, one that made you realize later was strangely… intimate? 

“Okay,” you breathed, taking a step back, now acutely aware of how close you were—closer than you’ve ever been. “I’m done. We’re done. Your face is clean, Gus.” He didn’t say anything. You looked up at him now. “Gus?” 

He was staring at you, and for a moment, you thought something was wrong—did you miss a spot? Is there blood behind his ear, somehow—? 

He grabbed a tissue and with a silent tenderness wiped at your cheek. 

There was blood on it?

“You were too close,” he said quietly. “You’re always too close.” 

“I’m sorry.” You didn’t mean it. 

And again, strangely, you felt like he knew. 

[ivestas]

this might sound dumb but can I request something specific for gus?? maybe with this scenario? : everytime the reader says goodbye to gus they pat his shoulder before leave — but one day when they're saying goodbye to eachother the reader doesn't pat his shoulder and he notices; You can continue up to this point :)

hand in hand

Summary: Gustavo notices something strange about your farewell. 

Word count: 0.3k

Warnings: None

Note: had to think a little to see what would be the most in-character reaction from gus for this LMAO---also not a dumb scenario at all, thanks for the request anon!

You had a habit of brushing your hand against his shoulder as a goodbye. Always so wordless, you express yourself through insignificant, stray actions like that. 

If Gustavo was a different person—a louder one—he perhaps would’ve not been able to understand why, but he wasn’t, and he did understand. He even appreciated the wordlessness of the action, the silence that twisted into warmth, how your hand lingered for just a moment for him to appreciate its warmth. 

All of it, he liked. 

But he never showed it—never cared to acknowledge it, just as you didn’t care for the glance he’d give you when you turn your back.

He knew you knew to some degree—but again, your wordless nature, it shines through you there too, doesn’t it? 

However, today was different. 

Unexpectedly, it bothered him. Like a burr weed that's stuck to perfectly ironed clothes. 

“Bye, boss.” You had said softly, something that could’ve been swept away by the wind outside; your voice was pleasant. You never really said ‘bye’ audibly—again, you’d rest your hand on his shoulder before leaving—and he still expected you to do that, but…

You… didn’t? 

You just nodded to him before turning, heading to the exit. 

Gustavo was quick to act—it was almost instinctual, learned. 

He rested a hand on your shoulder. 

You stopped walking. 

He lifted his hand and turned back to his desk.

But in the corner of his eyes, he saw you glance back, and a wide smile was what swept your lips—it was small, almost demure in nature, but it was enough to satisfy the craving he had for that quick touch of your palm.

...

Strange… 

When did he become so reliant on that goodbye? 

[ivestas]

Can I request some gus fluff or atleast hurt/comfort?? if you could, maybe do a part 2 to this?

the broken hornet nest

Part one: LINK 

Summary: You’re told to drive Fring back to his house. 

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: spoilers for BCS s6 (entirety), very mild canon divergence, yet another mental breakdown(?) 

Note: anon, I propose to you something even better; a hurt/comfort part 2 of that fic??? jhehehehhehe i think thats a good idea 

It was evening time.

“You think they killed him..?” Victor muttered to Tyrus, whose face remained contemplative—then again, he always looked contemplative and calm. “There’s no way they’d believe Hector? Right?” 

Tyrus exhaled, almost bored. “Who knows?” He shook his head. “Probably not, though. Hector doesn’t have anything. Lalo’s buried, and so are the cameras and shit.”

“Mm.” Victor seemed unsatisfied with the answer. He opened his mouth but clamped it the moment a car appeared from a distance. 

Its lights blinked, and it only took you a second longer to realize that wasn’t just any car, but Gustavo’s. 

Suddenly, the silent buzzing of your brain erupted in noise. 

But, you were conscious of how your body presented itself; masking a face of calm, you waited as the car drew forth into the lot of the chicken house.  The same one that his lackeys and he had forced you and Nacho into submission, to join. 

“You took what I wanted, and now, your lives are mine and mine alone.” The venom in Gustavo’s voice was unfamiliar but commanding, and it stuck fear into you—not for death, no. 

But him. 

He had stared at you for a moment too long, and when you looked into his eyes, an abyss of dark and fire reflected back. There was no kindred brush of humanity—this was not a man, but a being bundled together by blood-laden promises. 

Someone called your name.

Your head snapped up, and it was Mike who stood there. 

Mike was looking at you strangely, but his voice betrayed nothing; “Mr. Fring needs you to drive him home. He drank.” 

You saw that the car was neatly parked, and in the passenger seat, you could make out the vague silhouette of Gustavo. 

“Victor’s gonna drive your car back home,” he said. 

Ah. That’s why he and Tyrus were in your car..?

Why’d you not notice that sooner? 

“Just go, kid. He’s waiting.” 

You nod. 

Briskly, you walk past him and pause for only a second to see Victor drive your car off before slipping into the driver’s seat of Gustavo’s car. 

There was a hesitance that dictated your movements, making them a little jerkier than what you wanted, a little obvious. 

When you sat, you acknowledged Gustavo with a nod, quick to secure the seatbelt. “Hello, sir.”

He looked at you. “Hello.” 

And, like a nervous schoolgirl, you averted your gaze and set your hands on the steering wheel. 

You were hyperaware of every move, and you hated it, fuck—your breathing felt too loud, your face too fucking warm, and your heart?—God, he could hear it, couldn’t he?—

A deep chuckle paused your swirl of thoughts. 

“I don’t bite, you know,” Gustavo said. “No need to be so nervous.” 

You breathe, your knuckles whitening as you clutched the steering wheel and carefully turned it. “I’m sorry.” Guilt pressed against the back of your neck like the blade of a guillotine.

“Don’t be. I understand.” Warmth lined his words. 

“I’m forced to work with the man that killed him, just the way you are.”

Your foot pressed a little harder on the gas than you intended, shooting the car into the road. 

God, having him this close was madness—memories of Nacho, and then of Gustavo, they all slam against each other, hurling you farther and farther down an unclimbable pit. 

Self-hatred was what it has evolved to; you did well at pretending everything was normal and well back at home. Back where his presence didn’t burn you. Back where you could shove away memories of that night—

“I’m glad, because I feel the same.”

You nearly choked on the air. 

A part of you begged to turn away and hole out those sinful thoughts, each slathered in feelings of betrayal—Gustavo, Gustavo, Gustavo—

Nacho, forgive me.

Please, forgive me? Please? 

But that was merciful. Forgiveness, for you? You’re too far gone. Atonement came in blood, but you didn’t have the fucking heart.

“Something’s tearing you apart, isn’t it?” 

Again, your brain froze at the sound of his voice, pushing everything to a halt. 

But guilt lingered. 

“I…” Should you be honest? Or lie? Was there a ‘right’ to this? What do you even do?

“Just talk.” His words were gentle. “Say anything.” 

Your breath shakily. “Could we, maybe, park the car somewhere? I can’t—I might—”

“Yes. Just pull over here.” 

‘Here’ being the open desert field with nothing in sight. 

You didn’t care though. You were more than eager to pull over to buy time—time for what, you weren’t sure at all. 

But when you stumbled out of the car, you shut the door and lean against it for a second. Your body was actively working against you, sucking out all energy you possessed and leaving you heaving with unbreakable thoughts—and those thoughts compounding to hit your skull. It almost made you feverish, and the answer to why was there—

—just as that answer is the same antidote to your slow, proverbial destruction. 

The crunch of gravel makes your head turn, and you saw that Gustavo was approaching your side of the car. 

He, however, didn’t say anything, nor seemed irritated at your state; he quietly slid by your side, standing still and staring at the shadowed landscape. 

He only said one word: “Talk.” 

You hated how easy it was to follow that command—and you loathed the underlying flutter of comfort that shot through you, a warmth that washed the guilt away like water over a wound. 

“I… you said that you still worked with the same people that killed your brother.” 

He turned his head to you and nodded. 

It was hard to hold his gaze, but you did so. 

“Then, do you feel guilty? Because you’re working with them?” 

“No,” he smiled. “Because I plan to toss them away like stones.” 

“Oh.” 

You stare at the ground. When you spoke, your voice was small—almost pathetic. “I don’t think I’ll be able to function much longer. I—fuck, it’s hard to put into words, but…”

The words were scary, but you said them anyway. “But I feel as though he’ll never forgive me. As if, the longer I, uh, humor what’s between us, he’ll hate me more and more.”

The words became harder, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but freeze. Speaking so openly—it felt wrong. Especially to Gustavo Fring, of all people. 

But, strangely, it felt right at the same time. As if he were the only person in the world who could properly understand—or, perhaps, the only person you could…

Trust? 

“Sir?” 

“Just call me Gustavo—” 

“Could you tell me something? Please?” 

Now you looked at him, and what you saw was a dilemma. 

Betrayal, or atonement.

“If I trusted you, what would you do?” You fully turned to him. You decide. “If I gave you my complete and undying faith, what would happen?” Would I come to regret it? Or regret not doing so sooner? 

Gustavo regarded you with a strange expression, one you couldn’t decipher at all. 

But you just stood there, watching his face, watching emotion flash like a film reel—each emotion as unreadable as the next. 

And then, he extended an open hand, palm upward. 

“I would cherish that trust,” he said quietly. “As though it were my own soul.” 

In his eyes, at that moment, you knew what he said was no lie. It was truth, illuminated in the moon’s gentle light that cradled Gustavo’s face. 

You set your hand on his. Then, with your other hand, you hesitantly set it on the back of his. You glance at him. 

He smiled warmly, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“You’re mine,” you whispered. 

His smile grew. “I always was.”