#(and the only word I remembered was Anchor from one of their other songs called 'Never Love an Anchor')

[seven-thewanderer]

Yall ever hum a song so intensely cus you know once you stop you'll forget it forever?

[venus-haze]

Sinnerman (Father Paul Hill x Reader)

Summary: You can’t even see your old life from Crockett Island, but nevertheless it weighs on your conscience like an anchor on the ocean floor. Father Paul Hill tries to pull the anchor up, only to sink your whole damn ship.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Reader is a lapsed Catholic for plot reasons. I also played with the show’s timeline a little bit for this fic. Anyway, 10 years of Catholic school later and this is the result. Inspired by the Nina Simone song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and violence. Reader’s morals are all over the place. Obviously a lot of Catholic themes (especially guilt) and imagery. Sexually explicit content between a member of the clergy and a lay person. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Unlike pretty much everywhere else in the country, houses on Crockett Island garnered very little interest. There were no frustrating bidding wars or last minute phone calls made to real estate agents. The available houses barely registered on the listings you scrolled through, some having been on the market for years. When you called about a two bedroom you’d never even stepped foot in, offering to pay upfront in cash, the agent on the other end of the line almost hung up on you, assuming it was a scam. No scam. You just wanted to disappear.

To the world, you were gone, a vapor who abruptly quit her incredibly well-paying job with a generous severance package. Painting was a hobby that got increasingly pushed to the backburner as you focused more on your career until you couldn’t remember the last time you touched a paintbrush. Of course, that wasn’t why you quit your job, but it sounded a lot nicer than the reason that ate you alive. You hoped that if you disappeared, the guilt that made its home in your gut would go away too. On Crockett Island, however, you were far from invisible. 

Despite the unforgiving ocean wind that raged the day you arrived, you were met with nothing short of a welcome party. The mayor, his wife, the sheriff, and the elderly monsignor of the singular church on the island accompanied by a woman who constantly hovered. Nice enough people who greeted you with a mixture of delight and disbelief that you were moving onto the island instead of off. You shot yourself in the foot the second you mentioned you had been raised Catholic, as everyone but the sheriff extended offers to join them at mass that you awkwardly declined.

Sheriff Hassan gave you a sympathetic look when he left your new home, the last of the informal welcoming committee to do so. Get used to it, his eyes said. You almost asked him to stay for coffee if you could dig your pot out of whichever cardboard box you packed it in. You decided against it. On an island so small, coffee could turn into something else quickly enough.

It took a week or so to get into a comfortable routine. Wake up early, make coffee, take your time eating breakfast, then head out to some new part of the island with your art supplies in tow, only to be held up for fifteen to twenty minutes by someone inevitably stopping you to talk. Usually small talk, but you could tell a lot of people were just happy to have someone new to tell old stories to instead of regurgitating them to the same handful of people all the time.

Some days, when the fog made it almost impossible to see your outstretched hand in front of you, you’d find yourself drawn to St. Patrick’s, painting or sketching the church. The fog would inevitably roll away, and in the distance you’d see the monsignor, sometimes with Beverly and other times by himself. He’d always wave at you, though his face betrayed his confusion as to who you were. Poor guy. You thought the parishioners were crazy to send him over to Jerusalem.

The day after he left for his trip was another foggy one.  You made your usual trek out to the church to draw. It was a nice, informal ritual. Spiritual enough for your tastes without the risk of bursting into flames if you stepped foot in the place. With the monsignor gone, mass wasn’t being held, and the area was quieter than usual. Not completely, though.

“You know, you’re always loitering outside of the church, but I never see you in it,” Beverly said while you were sketching the weathered wood building. 

You kept your focus on the page you were working on, not sparing her a glance. “Not my thing.”

“At one point it was, though. You said it yourself on the day you moved in that you were raised in the faith.”

“Not my choice.”

Her lips pressed in a thin line, her voice strained, “Well, you’re always welcome at St. Patrick’s. I’m sure when the monsignor returns, he’d be overjoyed to see you in the pews. We all would.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“Yes, well, have fun doodling.”

Your jaw clenched. Doodling. You shot her a glare over your shoulder when she walked away. 

Luckily, you weren’t the focus of the islanders’ attention for much longer, because the Flynns’ son had returned home from prison on the mainland. A quiet guy who kept to himself despite Annie excitedly introducing you to Riley. You were polite, but didn’t pry. It seemed like he wanted to keep to himself too. Then, the following day, the parish was in a tizzy over the unexpected arrival of a new pastor, a temporary replacement for the aging monsignor. You didn’t know the old guy very long, but he wasn’t quite with it. Doubtful the replacement would be temporary. Maybe he said that to soften the blow of not being able to give their monsignor a formal goodbye.

You had mixed feelings about the new guy. The evening following his first mass on the island, Father Paul had sneaked up on you while you were trying to paint an old fishing bungalow. He startled you so bad that you jumped, arm jerking and leaving a green streak on the paper in its wake. He was nice enough, apologizing profusely for scaring you. Still, you felt the pit in your stomach that’d become somewhat more manageable recently threaten to engulf your psyche again when he said that Beverly mentioned you were a lapsed Catholic, because of course she would, and expressed disappointment at not seeing you at mass.

“You’ll be at the potluck at least?” he asked. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

You laughed. “Yeah, the Crock Pot thing. I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic, maybe we can talk more then. I’ve bothered you enough, nearly ruined your painting.”

“Happy accident. I can make a tree,” you said.

“That’s a nice way to look at it, but really, I’ll be going now.” He smiled. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

You caught his profile as he walked away, handsome in the golden hour. Setting your painting supplies aside, you grabbed your sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing. Maybe the guilt you felt was for finding a priest attractive and not the resurgence of your past sins. The word weighed heavy on your conscience. You could sleep better at night convincing yourself you’d made some mistakes. You could learn and grow from mistakes. Sins held magnitude beyond what you could manage on your own. 

The day of the potluck, you slept in, only rolling out of bed an hour before it was supposed to start. When you walked over to the gathering, you felt that pit in your stomach causing you trouble again. The islanders’ devotion left a sour taste in your mouth, and seeing the physical embodiment of it in the form of ashen crosses on their foreheads didn’t help. 

You made small talk and wandered around with your plate of food, taking a seat on one of the benches. One huge perk of living on the island was the fresh seafood and dozens of people who knew how to cook it all perfectly. Everything on your plate would’ve cost at least sixty dollars in a nice restaurant on the mainland. You got it all for your five dollar donation. 

While tearing apart a piece of bread on your plate, you could hear hushed voices arguing to your left. They were either speaking louder or getting closer to you, but either way, you recognized Beverly and Father Paul’s voices.

“Her? Father, she doesn’t attend mass. The church should not be—“

“I’ve made up my mind, Bev,” Father Paul whispered loudly before waving you over. “Y/N, I have something I’d like to run by you.”

You gave him a hesitant nod as you got up from your seat, leaving your plate to walk closer to where he and Beverly were standing.

“I’d like to commission you to paint a mural on the west-facing wall, where the sun sets. I already discussed the idea with Monsignor Pruitt, and he raved about your talents.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna end up being the next monkey Jesus lady.”

He gave you an amused smile. “I’ve seen your work. You’re more than capable of what I have in mind.”

“As long as it’s not that godless abstract nonsense,” Beverly interjected.

“Tell that to Alfred Manessier,” you said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

You scoffed. “He was one of the most celebrated modernist painters of the past century. He created some of his best works using St. John of the Cross’ Spiritual Canticles as inspiration.”

“See?” Father Paul interjected. “I can’t think of anyone better for the job. I made a mock-up, a crude sketch, really. I can show you when you have time to go over some of the details I have in mind.”

“Sounds good.”

“You haven’t given your price.”

“Why don’t we work that out afterward?” you said, not sure if you were even going to go through with this. “I am going to need supplies, though. Different paint and materials depending on the type of mural you had in mind.”

“Yes, of course, whatever you need, we’ll have Sturge bring it from the mainland.”

Not long after that, the festival ended on a heartbreaking note as Joe Collie’s dog died, was poisoned more like it, but there was no proof. You didn’t get much sleep that night. It didn’t matter. Early the next working, you were pulled from your half-slumber by a rapid knocking at the door.

Without thinking, you shuffled over, opening it to find Beverly standing on your front porch, less than impressed with your wrinkled pajamas and dazed expression at the sunlight in your face. 

“Yeah?”

“Father Paul has time this afternoon to speak with you about the mural.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be there?”

“I guess, what time is it anyway?”

“Seven-thirty, I wanted to come by before the school day began. If you’re not serious about this, don’t waste his time.”

“Alright, I’ll be there around two.” 

You didn’t wait for her to respond, shutting the door in her face and heading back to bed. If you woke up in time to make it to the church, you supposed you’d do it. When you lifted your head from the pillow later on and checked the time on your phone, it was a quarter after one. Damn. You were actually doing this.

The otherwise unassuming church seemed to loom over you as you approached. You sighed. It was just a building. Still, you hesitated outside of St. Patrick’s for a minute or so before building up the courage to walk inside. No hellfire or spontaneous combustion upon your arrival. Though, there should have been, with the way Father Paul was sitting on the steps leading up to the altar, legs splayed out in his jeans. Your mouth almost went dry. Suddenly his eyes were on yours. You panicked, dipping your hand in the font and making a sign of the cross with the holy water. That had to absolve you of thinking a priest looked hot for a split second.

He practically jumped up from where he was sitting, closing the distance between you with an excited smile and a folded up piece of paper that he handed to you. 

He spoke animatedly and used sweeping motions in reference to the wall and what he wanted it to look like. “Call it divine inspiration, but I had a vision of an angel. It’s burned into my mind. It needs to be up here for the parish to see.”

You looked at his sketch, tilting your head as you took in the monstrous creature that resembled Nosferatu rather than an angel. Still, it wasn’t like artists regularly were commissioned to paint elaborate church murals anymore. You supposed the prestige of being able to say you did such outweighed the odd nature of his vision.

“I was thinking just on the wood wall here. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“No, but I think for the best result, I’ll have to strip the existing paint off the wall and then prime it to paint over. That may take up to a week, depending on how much of the wall you want the mural to take up.”

Father Paul chuckled humorlessly. “Bev’s going to have a heart attack when she hears that. Why don’t you write a list of what you need, and I’ll give it to Sturge.”

You would have been surprised at how quickly he agreed if he weren’t so enthusiastic about his vision coming to life. He kept talking, rambling was more like it, about the angel and his vision. There was an air of conspiracy to his voice, almost as if he was telling you something that was meant to be kept between the two of you. His rambling was interrupted by Beverly’s appearance. You took the opportunity to slip out, claiming you promised your mom you’d call her to catch up before dinner.

By the end of the week, you had all of the supplies you needed, and Father Paul gave you free reign of the church when mass wasn’t going on. You hadn’t expected him to be such a big help in the preparations, figuring you’d be scraping the stripped paint off the wall yourself. It made the process go by faster, even though Beverly looked constipated every time she saw the bare wood wall in contrast to the rest of the church. Father Paul had to remind her it was temporary.

The hours spent with him felt almost natural, like you were talking to an old friend. At least, he was nice enough to let you ramble about art and the mural techniques you read about on your phone the past few days. Though, you didn’t miss his offhand comment about how so many great artists were Catholic. You wanted to clarify that you weren’t Catholic, not anymore. Besides, there were great artists of all faiths. The Catholic Church just had the money to bankroll some of the more prominent ones. Deciding it best not to stir up any unnecessary tension before you even started on the project, you let the comments roll off your back, not bothering to acknowledge them. Things were going great, otherwise. At least, they were until it was time for you to actually start painting.

That pit in your stomach started acting up again as soon as Father Paul told you that he went ahead and primed the wall already, so you could start painting the mural. 

“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll work better if I’m not breathing down your neck. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

You smiled, giving him a silent nod as he left. Hesitation overtook you, soon followed by dread as you looked at the wall in front of you. There was no way to back out, at least not without drawing the ire of the growing number of devout islanders. You hadn’t witnessed Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, and as much as the skeptics tried to talk circles around it, you couldn’t think of any other explanation for what had happened. It scared you, how real the faith you were raised in felt here. 

As soon as your brush touched the primed wall, you nearly passed out. It was a holy place, meant to reflect the power and glory of god. You didn’t feel worthy to alter it in such a significant way, as if you were Michaelangelo or DaVinci and not some corporate flunkie who only got such a big severance package because—no, you couldn’t think about it in this church of all places, not one where god seemed suffocatingly present. The brush then fell from your hand with a clatter that seemed to echo through the church, through your ears.

Father Paul spoke your name softly, tentatively, like you were a wounded animal. “Why are you crying?”

You weren’t sure how long you were in your fugue state of despair for him to find you like that. “I don’t think I’m the right person to do this. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s you. It has to be you.”

Shaking your head frantically as he approached you, you threw your hands over your mouth to muffle your sobs. He outstretched his arms, not forcing you to accept his comfort, but you felt inexplicably pulled to him, to the absolution he offered if you’d just accept it.

“Do you know what St. Teresa of Avila said about prayer?” 

“What’s that?”

“She said that prayer is allowing yourself to be loved,” he said. “Pray with me.”

He took your hands in his, bowing his head and closing his eyes. You did the same, though you were unable to focus on his words, not when your mind was racing so much. Too loud, too overwhelming, you couldn’t take it.

In the middle of his prayer, you blurted out, “At my old job, my boss did a lot of illegal stuff, and I helped her cover it up because I knew if I did that I’d be set for life. Except it’s been eating me alive ever since. She offered me this huge severance package if I’d sign an NDA when I quit. I can’t–I feel like it’s gonna drown me one day.”

“What did you—surely it can’t be that bad.”

The cry you let out was akin to a howl. “Father Paul, I can’t—I’m a horrible person—“

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—“ you paused. “I’ve never truly confessed in my life.”

He nodded, understanding and encouragement in his gaze rather than the judgment you expected.

“My boss was one of those cutthroat types. I admired her for it for the longest time, even when she got indicted. I used to work late nights, so I told her if she gave me a raise and a promotion, I’d testify that she was in the office with me on the days the prosecution had her doing some of the stuff she got charged with,” you said. “I thought it wouldn’t bother me. I’d been screwing people over to claw my way up the corporate ladder for years and learned how to shake it off, but this shit—it might as well be in my veins. Some people lost everything because of me, because I lied.”

You were hyperventilating, and all you could focus on was how tightly Father Paul was gripping your shoulders.

“The worst part is, I thought it’d make up for the emptiness. I spent so much time working that I pushed people away, and I wanted something to show for it. I’d give anything to feel that emptiness again,” you choked out. “I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. 

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. I promise it is. The bible shows us time and time again that god can use our past sins to glorify him, to show the power of forgiveness in the blood of Christ. You feel guilt, regret, and sorrow. That’s good. Your penance,” he said, pointing to the blank wall. “God brought you here knowing you needed absolution, while this church is on the verge of a renaissance. I don’t think something like this happened by chance.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “I—I’ll do it.”

You fumbled your way through the Act of Contrition, Father Paul guiding you through the short prayer you’d embarrassingly forgotten most of the words to. In his name, my god, have mercy.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the church may god give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, making a sign of the cross over you.

You nodded, making a sign of the cross. “Amen.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, wiping away the tear tracks that’d begun to dry. He smiled kindly, warmly, and you felt warm too. Taking a deep breath, you brought the paintbrush to the wall, making the first stroke of what would become Angulus autem Crockett Insulus, the Angel of Crockett Island. 

Work on the mural went smoothly after the roadbump the first day, and you felt better than you had in months. The guilt that’d tethered itself to you for so long had vanished. You’d never received so many compliments on your art in your life. Suddenly dozens of people were admiring your work, regarding it with awe as if it were in a cathedral rather than a small fishing town’s wooden church. Erin even had you come to the school and teach an art class for the students. It helped that Father Paul took every opportunity to talk up your skills whenever someone would mention the mural. 

While the lighting in the church was undoubtedly better during the day, you’d work at night sometimes, just to get an idea of how it’d look when no one was around to see it. The shadows that fell over Father Paul’s angel made it appear almost sinister. You wondered if it was something you could fix in the morning, soften it a bit to not be as harsh and imposing.

You almost laughed when you saw Father Paul standing in the door of the sacristy, knocking on the door frame as if it weren’t his church the two of you were standing in. 

“I know it’s late, but do you want coffee? I’m about to brew a pot,” he said.

You smiled. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Door will be open, just let yourself in when you’re finished here.”

“Oh, in the rectory?”

“Yes, but if that makes you uncomfortable–”

“No, of course not. I’ll be there in a few.”

He made his leave, and you grabbed a paintbrush, noticing an odd, shadowy spot on the angel that wasn’t due to the lighting. You winced a bit. Your hand had started cramping recently. Of course carpal tunnel would catch up with you, working almost non-stop on an elaborate mural would do that. 

The last thing you wanted to do was take a break on the progress you’d made. Father Paul’s enthusiasm was infectious, and you didn’t want to lose the inspiration you were running on to bring his vision to life. 

Taking a step back, you frowned. The shadow over the angel almost looked worse. You set your brush down, figuring you’d have a better idea of what to do with a fresh set of eyes in the morning. 

You kept your supplies on a plastic tarp to avoid getting paint elsewhere, and so it could be easily moved out of the way for mass. From what you’d heard, there was a full house every Sunday, and daily mass actually had decent attendance. You could remember seeing only Beverly, Annie, and Leeza making their way into the old church for the early morning services during the week. 

The lights were off in the sacristy, and you took a few tentative steps toward it. You knew there was a door through there that led out back toward the rectory, but something in you hesitated at entering that part of the church. Instead, you walked out the main doors and around the building.

There was an eeriness to the lone house not too far off in the distance. You’d learned from your time on the island that lighthouses were meant to warn incoming ships that they were nearing cliffs or rough waters, not so much welcoming them in as advising them to stay at arms’ length, be aware and alert. The light that shone from the rectory gave you a similar impression. 

You walked up to the small house, finding the door open for you. A staticy oldies station played in the living room, Father Paul leaning against the kitchen counter as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. 

“All of this stuff is so old. Radio barely picks up any reception,” he said bashfully.

“It has its charm. This whole island does. I feel like I’m really starting to be part of things.”

“You are!” he exclaimed. “Our resident artist. Everyone’s wondering when they’ll see you at mass.”

“Maybe next Sunday,” you said unconvincingly.

“I think you’ll be impressed at how different it is from what you remember growing up with. Things are changing—for the better,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”

He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, older and chipped with a faded ‘Crock Pot 2003’ printed on it. He poured the coffee, preparing it to your liking and handing you the mug. You followed him over to the kitchen table, taking the chair next to him rather than on the other side of it.

The radio became the slightest bit clearer a few notes into Dusty Springfield’s version of Son of a Preacher Man. It was one of those songs you grew up hearing, but never truly understood the lyrics until you got older and really listened.

“You know, growing up, I didn’t know Protestant pastors could get married. I thought they were like priests where that wasn’t allowed,” you said. “Do you think it makes that much of a difference? Not being married, or even romantically involved?”

He paused, furrowing his eyebrows before giving you the non-convincing answer of, “It allows me to devote myself to God and focus on my congregation.”

“Yeah, but the Catholic Church is so pro-family, saying all that crap about not using contraception. Why not lead by example? Isn’t it natural to do that?” you asked, stopping yourself before you could go on talking about pregnancy with a priest. “I overstepped, sorry.”

“No, they’re good questions. I’ve thought about them myself.”

“Have you ever wanted to have your Sound of Music moment? Y’know, how Julie Andrews just says ‘Fuck it’ and gives in to her feelings for Christopher Plummer?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe not Christopher Plummer specifically, but in more or less words, yes.”

“Do you ever feel lonely?” you asked softly.

He didn’t speak, only reaching over to squeeze your hand. The suddenness of the tender gesture sent a shock through your system, and you could feel your heart skip a beat. Whoever was the late night DJ at the oldies station must have had it out for you as Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely started to play.

You squeezed his hand in return. “So do I.”

He stood up, murmuring something about refilling his cup. You kept your slight grip on his hand, standing up from your seat at the table. You shouldn’t have even been thinking about it, not when you’d finally rid yourself of a guilty conscience. The corners of his lips quirked up, and he tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry as to what you were going to do next.

You kissed him. You kissed a priest, and it didn’t even feel wrong. Father Paul pulled you closer by your entwined hands, releasing it when your chest was pressed against his. He was a bit clumsy, but you’d have been surprised if he weren’t. You opened your mouth for him the slightest bit, feeling his tongue on your lips, inside your mouth, a hesitancy behind his actions still.

Pulling away from him, you caressed his cheek. You couldn’t absolve any guilt he may feel, but you could keep it at bay, only if for a night.

“I want this, Father,” you assured him. “I want you.”

His eyes searched your face for any indication that your words weren’t sincere, and finding none, he pressed his lips to yours with more confidence than before. Still, you took the lead on deepening the kiss as he became more comfortable with how you felt, his nose brushing against the soft skin of your face. His hands held onto your hips, fingers digging gently into your jeans. Your tongue gently swiped at his lips, and he opened his mouth, allowing you access. 

Your lips curled into a smile when you finally pulled away, but only to divert your attention to his throat. His breath hitched upon feeling your hand on the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the base of his throat. You bit into the crook of his neck, sucking and biting the same spot until he made a pained noise of protest. 

“Don’t worry, Father. I won’t leave a mark,” you whispered, proud of the way he reacted to you, to your touch, feeling his length pressing against you through his pants. 

You kissed his neck again, gentle this time, though you slid your hand from his neck, down his torso, to his crotch. Palming him through his pants, you lifted your gaze to see his eyes hooded, head tilted back a bit. He was still holding back, you could tell that much, so you squeezed a bit, feeling his cock twitch against the fabric, his hips involuntarily thrusting.

“Bedroom,” he choked out to your surprise.

Your hands were still on him, groping his crotch, his ass, the softness of his belly as he clumsily led you to the small, sparsely decorated bedroom. He kissed you again, barely managing to shut the door behind him. He moaned into your mouth as you began unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly and relieving some of the pressure from his hard cock. 

His passivity didn’t last long after that. He pushed you onto his bed, lustful determination in his eyes as he undressed you, hesitating just a moment when he reached your panties. As soon as his fingers hooked beneath the waistband, it was like a switch flipped. You watched as he rid himself of his clothes, your fingers teasing your wet pussy when he pulled off his clerical collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

You laid back as he climbed on top of you, allowing him to take the lead. He fondled your breasts, his thumbs brushing your sensitive nipples, making you gasp.

“You’re so soft, honey,” he murmured.

You smiled. Honey. Too sweet for you, what you were doing. Taking one of his hands, you guided it down to your pussy, making him feel your wetness, velvety between your folds. “Softer,” you whispered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sliding his index and middle fingers inside you.

He pumped them in and out, almost cautiously before you lifted your hips for more. His thumb brushed your clit, rubbing it as he curled his fingers drawing a ragged moan from you. A groan escaped his lips as he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, wet and wanting for something more.

“Father, I need you,” you moaned. “Inside me—I—“

You choked out a gasp as he slid his cock inside you, your pussy clenching around his length as he thrust into you. He pressed your hands into the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours, loving and intimate. You whimpered beneath his intense gaze.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, his voice a bit husky. “Feel good. Take me so well.”

A harsh thrust, and you cried out, throwing your head back on his pillow. He kissed your open mouth, greedy for you. He released your hands, and you immediately grabbed at his forearms, digging your nails into his skin as your body began to tense up before its release.

“I’m close. Father–fuck–I’m gonna—“

“Let go, honey,” he moaned. “I’m there too.”

He came inside you, his cock pumping his cum into your pussy, his thrusts sloppy as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. Your orgasm followed the brief, scandalous realization that you’d let a priest cum in you. Tangling your fingers in his dark hair, you tugged at it as you rode out your orgasm on his cock, not as hard, but still buried inside you. 

After a few moments, he pulled out, lying down next to you. His eyes didn’t show any regret or guilt, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He traced your features with his fingertips, softly, mindlessly, as if he were in a haze until he whispered. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

“Since golden hour.”

“Golden hour,” he repeated softly

“When you first came to see me, I was working on the painting of the fishing hut at sunset. Artists call it golden hour, when the natural light is perfect, like liquid gold.”

“I think I’ve always wanted to, it’s come and gone in waves, but it’s always been there. You—you’re something else.”

“You’ve done this before,” you said, an observation, not in judgment.

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he were about to make a confession to you. “You asked me earlier if I ever wanted to have my Sound of Music moment. I did. I should have. That mural you’re painting, the angel. It’ll make things right.”

The church bell chimed its midnight tune, and you sighed, reminded of where you were, who you were with. “I should go.”

He gave you a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I wish things were different, that you could stay and—“

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You hastily threw on your clothes and gave him one more kiss before cracking open the front door. Glancing around briefly, you didn’t see anyone else around, and slipped away into the night. The overwhelming guilt you expected to feel never manifested. Instead, you felt almost giddy at the thrill of what you and Father Paul had just done. 

When you returned home, you let out a laugh in disbelief. You had no expectations of it becoming a regular thing, that it’d even happen again, you having sex with Father Paul. The subtle intimacy that had coiled around your relationship with him from the start had only magnified with this. Perhaps once was all you needed, but you secretly hoped it’d devolve into something far more torrid. 

Bright and early the next morning, you woke up feeling light, almost wanting to chalk up the past night to an unusually vivid wet dream, if it weren’t for the ache between your legs. You decided to detour from the church for the day, opting to work on something else temporarily while you were in a great mood. A smaller part of you worried things would be awkward with Father Paul. He didn’t seem guilty or regretful when you left, but he still had plenty of time to overthink.

You ran into Father Paul as he was leaving the Gunnings’ house, an odd expression on his face as he looked back at the place briefly.

“Would you mind coming by the church later tonight?” he asked. “I have something—it’ll be easier to explain there.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. “See you later, Father.”

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, you sat at the docks, sketching portraits of the fishermen as they came and went. They were all so expressive, their weathered skin and deep lines in their faces betraying the decades of hard work they did. You’d heard from the islanders how difficult things had become for the fishermen between the oil spill and restrictions on what they could catch. Still, the ones who recognized you from St. Patrick’s smiled, stopped and talked to you despite being busy. Maybe you really would go to mass on Sunday.

Your stomach reminded you that you’d missed lunch, so you headed back to your house to get something to eat and look over your work from the day. Tonight. Father Paul wanted you to meet him at the church, but didn’t give a time, just at night, after dark. You wondered what he was going to tell you. Surely if it were about the two of you having sex, it could be said privately in the light of day.

Around nine o’clock, you left home again, heading for the church. It was dark. The rectory too. Was he even there? You walked up to the building, opening the front door to near pitch black. For some reason, you stood there, not bothering to call out for him.

The only light in the church came from the sacristy. Your eyes were drawn to your mural for a moment. Somehow, the angel looked like it was enrobed in shadows, far more sinister than when you’d started painting it. Your attention was soon returned to the sacristy. You could hear shuffling, low murmuring, and something almost like a strong gust of wind. Your brow furrowed. Maybe some of the local kids sneaking communion wine. 

You took a cautious step toward the illuminated room, and for the first time in years, you truly prayed to god that none of the old wooden floorboards would creak and give you away. Not that you deserved his favor, having repented of your sins and then turning around and sleeping with a priest. The light only grew brighter as you approached, your heart in your throat as you peered into the room where the priest and altar servers would prepare for mass. 

Father Paul stood in front of the communion wine. Your eyes were glued to the creature by his side. It looked like it could hardly fit in the room between its height and the width of its wingspan. Huge, imposing, sickeningly pale. It opened its mouth, razor-sharp teeth in full display.

You nearly gasped at the realization of what it was. The angel from the mural. Monstrous, otherworldly in a way that made you want to vomit. Surely even Beverly would regard something like that as demonic. In either shock or self-preservation, you weren’t screaming, though your brain was howling for you to leave. Get the fuck out of there while you still could.

Father Paul looked inexplicably calm around the thing, comfortable, even. You didn’t know how. There was no way you could ever look at something like that and consider it holy. You held your breath as you retreated, internally begging god for enough mercy to get out of the church alive. A floorboard creaked just as you got to the door. You ran.

The cool night air stung your eyes as you bolted down the unpaved roads, too afraid to look back and see if you were even being followed. Aside from a few porch lights, the island was pitch black. All you needed to do was make it home, and you’d be safe. No. You needed to get the fuck off of Crockett Island. Then you’d be safe.

You may have been a shitty person and an even shittier Catholic, but you knew things like this weren’t acts of god. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing all along, a power-hungry false prophet intent on turning the whole island to fit his corrupted vision of holiness. 

With a final push of adrenaline pumping through your veins, you sprinted to your house in the distance. As soon as you got inside, you locked the door, pushing one of the kitchen chairs in front of it. Realistically, it wouldn’t do much to stop the angel if it were coming after you. At least you could say you’d done something.

Grabbing your suitcases from under your bed, you opened them on top of your comforter, considering what to pack. You wouldn’t be coming back to Crockett Island. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be anything to come back to. You could tell as much. That thing you saw, the monster in the mural, it couldn’t mean anything good for the islanders. They deserved some kind of warning, even if they didn’t believe you. 

You paused for a moment. Your mural was their warning. They could see the grotesque angel materializing for themselves, and they praised it, full of wonder and awe. A voice in the back of your mind said it wasn’t enough, it was a cop-out, another way to shirk responsibility for your actions, falling into old cycles all over again. You drowned out the voice with a bottle of wine you’d kept around for cooking, and shoved clothes and painting supplies in your suitcases in your half-drunk stupor.

Pale, golden light filled your bedroom as the sun rose. With a shaky breath, you looked around your house for the last time. In the weeks you’d been living on Crockett Island, it’d become a home. You should have known it was all too good to be true.

The suitcases in your hands made your fleeing the island appear less conspicuous, going on a short trip with the intention of returning rather than abandoning the community that had taken you in, leaving them at the mercy of the creature that was waiting to pounce.

You bought a round-trip ticket for the Breeze’s morning voyage back to the mainland. Round-trip. As if you’d be coming back.

“Father Paul know you’re headed back to the mainland?” Sturge asked, helping you with your bags.

He’s just a priest. It’s none of his business, you wanted to snap back. Instead, you gave him a small smile. “Yeah, my mom’s come down with pneumonia. I’m gonna help her around the house for a week or two.”

“Late in the season to get pneumonia.”

“Her immune system isn’t great.”

“Maybe bring her on over to the island. Miracles happening here every day.”

You knew your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think she’d really like that.”

As you watched the island shrink on the horizon, the guilt that settled back in your gut felt comfortably familiar. Maybe you weren’t meant for absolution.

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Seven - It's different with Miguel now, and when he suggests a double date, it all gets so much worse.

It’s weird now, with Miguel. It shouldn’t be, it wasn’t his fault the volume on his phone was so loud, that some random woman left him a lewd voicemail. But you can’t help but feel odd around him. Like all your senses are in overdrive, every move he makes, the way his lips quirk, the slight rasp in his voice when he finally speaks after hours of working in almost complete silence. It’s all magnified in your brain, making you hyperaware of him.

Miguel on the other hand seems normal, uninterested, which stings a little, but you tell yourself that he’s probably still embarrassed. Definitely still embarrassed, which is why he barely speaks to you, why he won’t meet your eyes, and why he’s so fidgety.

“Miguel, you good?” You finally ask, standing at the scrub in station, soap covering your hands, unable to stand the silence any longer.

He looks up at you, and his eyes seem to go right through you. Then his gaze solidifies, anchoring on your face, warmth returning to his expression. He dries his hands with a few paper towels before throwing them away, his eyes still on you. “Yeah, doing fine, you?”

“I’m good, just thought you seemed a little quiet, wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He smiles, it’s not as bright as usual but still brilliant. “Dulce chica, were you worried about me?”

You know those words, having picked up at least a bit of Spanish from your time spent around Miguel. He’s calling you sweet girl. Your stomach flips, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. You’re a sucker for cute pet names, what can you say?

“Maybe.” You say, a hint of a teasing smile on your lips.

He looks unfairly gorgeous in the harsh florescent lights of the prep room, and you find your eyes wandering to his exposed forearms.

Miguel flexes his fingers, and your eyes shoot up. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” He admits.

“Oh no, what happened?” You ask, concern overriding the heated thoughts that were threatening to creep up on you.

He shrugs and holds the door open for you, matching your steps as you walk down the hall. “Not sure, just had trouble falling asleep and then I kept waking up.”

You give him a sympathetic look. “When I was a kid, I used to have the worst time falling asleep, and my grandma would give me a glass of warm milk with honey and a handful of silvered almonds.”

Miguel hums thoughtfully. “Did it work?”

“Knocked me right out.” You smile wistfully, remembering when you were just a kid, and you’d sit in the low light of your grandma’s kitchen, clutching the warm glass while she smoothed down your hair. The quiet song of night birds, the soft sounds of the house settling, the scent of honey, the taste of almonds on your tongue.

“I’ll have to try that.” He places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, brief, and platonic, but genuine. “Thanks, y/n. You’re a good friend.”

Friends, right, that’s what you two were. Nothing more, nothing less.

“It’s what I do.” You pat his bicep, friendly, it’s a friendly gesture, and if you admire the tone of his arm, the raw strength you feel while you do it, then he doesn’t need to know that.

Miguel stops in front of your office, “I’m serious, y/n. You’ve been so helpful to me since I started working here, and I really appreciate it. I’m sure my constant questions can get annoying, but you always take them in stride, I’ve never met someone so kind.”

Your cheeks burn and you try to wave away his compliments. “I—it’s nothing, I’m sure anyone would be willing to help you out, not just me.”

He shakes his head, his gaze is burning into you, and you shiver. “No, it’s just you, you’re the only one. I hate to admit it, but I need you, y/n.”

Miguel is so close, when did he get so close? Your back is against the door frame, Miguel towering over you, caging you in, his cologne fills the air, he smells expensive, vanilla, wood smoke, night air, it’s intoxicating.

Your heart is pounding, beating against your chest, trying to escape and fling itself into Miguel’s grip. “You’re a good M.E. Miguel, you don’t need me.”

He chuckles, low, soft, vibrating in your bones. “No tienes idea de lo mucho que te necesito.” Trsl: You have no idea how badly I need you.

“What?” You ask softly, melting into the wall under the heat of his gaze, your eyes flitting from his, to his lips, then back again.

“Can I take you to dinner? As a thank you?” He asks, his voice curling around you, enrapturing, and ensnaring your attention.

Have his eyes always been so…mesmerizing? You can’t look away, they’re a swirling of colors, browns, and oranges, yellows, reds, the season of autumn contained within.

“Yes—I mean when?” You stumble over your words, every inch of you tuned into Miguel, desperate to feel his skin against you.

“Tonight?” He reaches forward and twirls a lock of your hair around his finger.

“Tonight? Shit, I can’t…” You have plans with Todd, unfortunately. No y/n, fortunately, he is your boyfriend who you care very much for, he’s hot, and smart, and nice. You’re happy to have plans with him.

“Why not? Afraid I won’t pick a good restaurant, that you won’t have a good time?” Miguel teases, still twirl, twirl, twirl, twirling your hair, wrapping it further around his finger.

Honestly, nothing could be as bad as last year, when Todd said he’d plan your whole birthday and picked a restaurant that only served food you were either allergic to or didn’t like. Then he complained about how expensive everything was.

“You got me.” You joke, giving Miguel a half-smile. “But no, actually, I have plans with Todd.”

“Skip them, let me take you out instead. We can go to Mama Rosa’s.” He smiles, dangling your favorite restaurant in front of you like bait on a hook.

You have been craving Mexican food lately, and Todd always acted like it was such a burden that you needed to eat after work. But not everybody worked from home, not everyone could just walk away from their job whenever they wanted to go get fast food.

I don’t know…he’ll be upset if I cancel on him the day of.”

Miguel pouts, literally pouts, his full lips soft, inviting, and you find yourself staring at them. “Why don’t we make it a double date, then?”

You jolt back, though there’s really nowhere for you to go. “You’re dating someone?”

“I wouldn’t call it dating, it’s more of a casual situation.” He drawls, bringing his hand up, his eyes fluttering for a split second as the hair wrapped around his finger brushes under his nose.

That shouldn’t make your stomach flip, it’s probably nothing, but you unconsciously squeeze your thighs together, at the way his voice comes out low and eager.

You couldn’t say no if you tried. Not with the way Miguel drops your hair, his hand sliding down your arm, his fingers tangling with yours and pressing your joined hands to his chest. “Please y/n, let me show you my thanks, even if it’s not just us.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Todd.”

It’s fucking embarrassing, sitting next to Todd who chose to sit across from Kasey, Miguel’s date, instead of you.

Kasey is beautiful, dark hair, brown eyes, flawless skin, and a gorgeous figure. One she proudly shows off, and that your boyfriend can’t stop sneaking glances at.

“So, Todd, y/n tells me you work in Finance?” Miguel says, cutting into his food, some weird ultra healthy, vegan mush that both Kasey and Todd insist tastes exactly like lasagna.

“Yeah, it’s great, get paid to sit at home run some calculations then pass the work on.” Todd says, cutting into his tofu.

You poke miserably at your salad; it has some dressing you can’t pronounce and lots of kale. Your stomach churns, eating itself from the inside out. You’re so damn hungry.

“Wow, that sounds amazing, I wish I could do that.” Kasey says her own tofu is half-eaten and looks slightly more appetizing than Todd’s.

“What do you do?” Todd asks, “besides having excellent taste in restaurants, the same as me.”

She giggles, “oh nothing special, just an office job, but I like it. It’s nice to have regular hours.”

“Hey, there you go, babe, you should work at Kasey’s office.” Todd slings an arm over your shoulder, and you bristle.

You’ve found yourself less and less comfortable with Todd’s affection, usually it leads to him demanding something more. “Why? I like my job.”

“Regular hours means you can stop complaining about being tired and kicking me out at night.”

Miguel’s eyes flicker to yours, his phone in his nondominant hand.

You bite the inside of your cheek and gently sit up, causing Todd’s arm to slide off you. “I went to school for my job, I enjoy it.”

Todd huffs, “yeah, but you always comp—”

“I don’t know what we’d do without y/n at the slab.” Miguel interrupts, sliding his phone onto the table face up. “She’s highly skilled and the care she shows for the deceased’s families is above and beyond what’s required of us as city employees.”

You feel your own phone buzz along with a flicker of hope. You casually slide it out, turning it to where Todd can’t see the screen. It doesn’t matter, though, he’s too busy arguing with Miguel.

Miguel: I’m sorry about Mama Rosa’s, near the end of the dinner do you want me to fake a work emergency? We can go get burgers.

Your heart flutters.

Y/N: Please, I’m so hungry.

Miguel’s eyes dart down to his phone, then he nods almost imperceptibly.

“Y/N is great, I’m not saying that, but maybe a more normal job would be better? Might pay more, too.”

“Not everything is about money.” You mumble.

“But isn’t it?” Todd shoots back.

Kasey laughs nervously, breaking the tension. “So, y/n, did Miguel tell you how he and I met?”

You shake your head, digging into your salad.

“Kasey, honey, that’s not a story for tonight.” Miguel says, a slight warning undercutting his neutral tone.

“Ugh you’re no fun, I’m going to get a drink. Todd, you want to do a shot with me?”

Todd stands before you can even react. “Yeah, I’ll have one.”

Then they leave, winding through the crowd, and disappearing from sight.

You push your plate away from you and take a sip of your water. “Kasey seems nice.”

“This food is terrible.” Miguel says at the same time.

You laugh. “It’s so bad, like so, so bad.”

Miguel leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “She’s nice, a bit of a party girl, but nice.”

“You think it’s too early to leave?” You check your phone, it’s only eight o’clock.

“I say give it ten-twenty more minutes, then I’ll fake the call.” He leans forward, planting his elbows on the table, giving you a teasing smile. “Think you can hold out twenty more minutes for me?”

You nod, not trusting your own voice.

“Good girl.” Miguel says, looking back down at his phone as Kasey and Todd come back to the table.

You hate Miguel, hate that he so causally and in such a short time turned you on in this public space with your boyfriend just barely out of earshot. Hate how you want to ditch Todd and beg Miguel to fuck you in the bathroom, or ditch Todd and beg Miguel to take you to get real food. Either way, you want to beg Miguel for something, and you’ve never felt that way with Todd.

“No way, y/n you have to hear this. Kasey is that girl I was telling you about, from the bar. I didn’t recognize her because I was so drunk that night, but now.” He plops back into his seat, hand landing on your thigh. “We have so much to thank her for don’t we, babe?”

You give him a tight smile and remove his hand. “Maybe we don’t talk about this right now.”

“Oh, y/n, don’t be embarrassed, I was more than happy to help.” Kasey smiles at you.

There’s no malice in her smile, and you don’t dislike her, she’s sweet, and she probably doesn’t know that Todd took her advice and royally fucked it all up.

“You two have met before?” Miguel asks, joining the conversation with the subtly of a snake slithering through grass.

Kasey nods. “Yeah, downtown, he wanted some advice on helping his girl get off, so I told him some things that you do.”

Kill me, kill me now, please, death take me, I’m ready to die.

You want to crawl under the table and hide. There’s no way Todd did what Miguel does, Miguel has repeat customers, and unless you were truly broken, Todd had to have fucked up Miguel’s technique.

“Well, that’s nice of you?” Miguel says, patting Kasey’s hand.

“You’re just so good, Miguel, I had to tell someone.”

He laughs, and you can feel Todd tense beside you. “You flatter me.”

“Miggy come on, you’re the best I’ve ever had. Did you even get my voicemail?”

You’re going to scream, this is too much, you’ve got to get out of here.

As if sensing your discomfort, Miguel swipes his phone off the table and gets up, walking a bit away.

You all sit in silence, picking at your food until he returns.

“Sorry, emergency call, a couple of senior citizens died under mysterious circumstances, they need y/n and me to come back in.”

You stand, immediately, grabbing your purse. “Duty calls.”

“But what about—”

“This is why I said you should get a normal—”

You head for the exit, ignoring Kasey and Todd’s cries of protest, Miguel at your heels.

Fun fact, that birthday thing actually happened to me in my last relationship XD

TL: @obi-mom-kenobi, @poutysprouty, @oharasfilipinawife, @laysmt, @cicithemess, @unabashedcroissanttreefan, @lynxslokley, @thedevax, @generalkenobitrash

[lostloveletters]

Big Girls Don't Cry (Bucky Egan x OC)

Summary: After a night out spirals out of control, Holly thinks she's doomed to be a haunted house. Bucky’s brave enough to let the light in.

Note: An angsty first kiss for Holly and Bucky…I’m so overwhelmed by the response to the MotA fics I’ve posted so far, thank you so much🖤 There's going to be a parallel Woody/Brady-centric fic to this, which is why I included a decent ensemble here lol. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Descriptions of a panic attack and related self-inflicted injuries; mentions of death and grief (hurt/comfort). Inevitable historical inaccuracies. Ends on a somewhat suggestive note, but nothing explicit.

Holly was exhausted when Bucky asked her to go to the pub in town with him and some of the other pilots that evening. She initially hesitated, but between his near insisting and her notion that a break from the base would do her good, she accepted the invitation. When she found Woody later on to ask if she was going, Brady had already invited her, a light blush spreading across Woody’s face when she told Holly. The overall group of seven required pushing two tables together and stealing some empty chairs.

“Holly, your drink’s on me. I got $4.50 when you won the last typing contest,” Bucky said.

“You bet on it?” Buck asked.

“I knew she’d win.”

“Beat her own record,” Woody added.

Buck shook his head, smiling a bit. Holly liked Buck a lot, especially the way his face lit up when she asked him about Marge. Seemed to be physically lighter, too, like the weight of being one of the de facto leaders of the 100th was off of his shoulders for that moment in time. He’d get almost flustered if he realized he was rambling, apologizing for taking up so much of her time talking about his girl even though she was the one who asked him.

“Which is why I’m buying my sailor a dark ‘n’ stormy, and the rest of you are on your own.”

She laughed, “Thanks, Bucky.”

‘My sailor.’ He had taken to calling her after they listened to the Nationals-Yankees game together. But she apparently inherited her sailorship from Stan, her preference for rum and penchant for cursing around Bucky (and few others), made him designate her so.

Nevermind she had only been on a boat a handful of times, one of which was the ship that brought her over to England from New York, and no, she didn’t know any sea shanties. He took it upon himself to learn one from a local laborer who worked on schooners at the turn of the century. Of course, Bucky had been drunk when he tried to teach her the song, remembering half of the lyrics and ad-libbing the rest. She left the singing to him.

She still had one secret–an anchor tattoo on her upper arm. An impulsive decision she and Stan made together when she accompanied him to San Francisco the week he shipped out to the Pacific. The same week she met Woody, and the rest of her life started before she could blink.

Being in the pub with everyone was the most normal she’d felt in a while. She hoped could finally shake whatever stormy clouds had made their home in her mind over the past year. 

“Hey Holly, you’re from DC, right?” Curt asked abruptly. “You ever meet the President? See him around the neighborhood or something?”

She laughed. “No, unfortunately I’ve never run into President Roosevelt at the drug store.”

“How would he even do that? He’d get mobbed,” Crank said. 

Woody nodded. “He’s probably got a mean security detail, too.”

“Well he can’t spend all day in the White House!”

“Why not? Heard they got a bowling alley in there,” Buck said.

“Woody, I’ll get you a beer?” Brady asked, his voice low among the clamor of what President Roosevelt did for fun in the nation's capital.

“Thanks, John.”

Holly sneaked a glance at her best friend when Brady stood up and headed over to the bar. She wasn’t sure if Woody had told him that Holly knew about them. There were few, if any secrets between Holly and Woody, and guys were certainly no exception.

“Look, if I were the president, I’d wanna know my neighbors,” Curt said.

“If you were president,” Buck repeated, toothpick between his teeth as he smiled. “Listen to him.”

“Hey, anybody can run,” Curt said. “That’s what it says in the Bill of Rights or something.”

“That doesn’t mean you should,” Crank said.

“You got my vote, Curt,” Bucky announced, setting his and Holly’s drinks on the table.

“Thanks, Bucky. You’ll be my VP.”

Bucky grinned, sitting next to Holly. His arm settled on the back of her seat, his fingers brushing the ends of her curly hair. 

The next few minutes was a game of musical chairs as everyone else came and went with their drinks of choice, Brady taking the seat next to Woody as soon as it was open. 

Holly found herself leaning against Bucky as she drank, nursing her dark ‘n’ stormy with the intent of making it last until it was time to leave. He was the only person she felt comfortable enough to be in such close contact with besides Woody. He felt like sitting next to the radiator in her childhood bedroom, and she nearly nodded off after some time, Buck and Bucky in the middle of some conversation she couldn’t follow. 

Curt returned to the table with what must have been his third or fourth beer of the night.

“Hey Bucky, some of these blokes are lookin’ to play darts,” he said, motioning behind him.

Bucky nodded. “Hope they’re ready to cover my tab.” He threw back his whiskey and gave Holly’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as he got up. “C’mon, doll.”

Holly didn’t remember much of what happened between then and when she heard it. An entire chunk of time morphed into a hazy blur in her mind. Vaguely remembered cheering for Bucky and Curt. Then Curt called an RAF pilot an asshole, and a fight nearly broke out before fizzling down by the grace of god. Or maybe Buck stepped in. Bucky had something to her before his turn, an aside she laughed at, but couldn’t recall.

Different conversations around her jumbled with one another, stringing together in a cruel way only her own mind could conjure up for her. She heard him clear as day. 

“Stan?” she whispered, her voice crazed with illogical hope.

Her heart raced. She looked frantically around the room for a sign—any sign of him.

But Stan was dead. There’d been a funeral with a body. His mother wept over the open casket. Her own mother had written as much. Sent her the funeral program which remained hidden among her belongings. 

She kept the accompanying memorial card on her person at all times. A nice photo of Stan in uniform. His full name. Dates of birth and death. A bible verse and a little mention of his service in the Navy. 

Stan was dead. Had been for over a year.

Her chest tightened, pulling like a rubber band about to snap. As the room closed in on her, she barrelled through the pub patrons, paying no mind to who was in her path, only that they were between her and a door. 

The cool night air shocked her skin, but it wasn’t enough to snuff out the burning in her lungs. Panic overtook her brain. With a strangled shout, she curled her fist, unleashing months of unspoken grief directly onto the brick wall in front of her. Pain struck her hand like a bolt of lightning, but she could breathe again. 

Her knuckles split open, bruises blossoming across her fingers in the darkness. “Fuck!” she shouted, both in pain and disbelief at herself. “Motherfuck–”

The alley door slammed open, chaos from the bar ringing in her ears as she looked wide-eyed at the person who interrupted her. A tense mortification swept over her body. 

She’d been doing so well. Kept the self-destructive thoughts at bay. Used to chew on her bottom lip until it bled, the pain of broken skin and taste of copper strangely grounding when her mind wandered too far. Hadn’t done in it months. But she never exploded. Not quite like this. 

Bucky stumbled forward, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Holly?” he asked, his gaze drifting down to her hand. “Jesus, what happened?”

Of course he would be the one to witness her breakdown. She wished it were Woody, but she sure as hell didn’t want to ruin her best friend’s night out with her boyfriend either. 

Woody was used to it. Holly was always too embarrassed to go to a nurse, so Woody would sit her down and carefully apply petroleum jelly to Holly’s raw lips, eyebrows knit together in concerned concentration as her fingers brushed across the cracked, scabbed over skin. Didn’t care if she had been working for over twelve hours straight or was in the middle of something else.

But Bucky wasn’t Woody, and she never wanted him to see her like this.

Holly stared at him, trembling as he took a tentative step toward her. Tears welled up in her eyes. She frantically rubbed at them with her sleeve. She let out a shaky breath. 

“Holly,” he repeated. “Are you alright?”

“I felt like I was going to explode in there so I came out here and…” She flexed her injured hand and winced. “I heard someone talking. He sounded just like Stan.”  She swallowed a lump in her throat, feeling more pathetic as she explained herself. “I guess my wires got crossed.”

“Hey, it happens,” he tried assuring her. “You think you’re the only one?”

Holly shook her head. “Even when I got the letter last year, I still showed up and did what I had to do. Didn’t miss a day.” She was silent for a moment. “I don’t know why tonight was so different.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He took her bruised hand, whispering an apology when she hissed in pain. Examined it as best as he could in the cover of night. “At least not any more than you already have.”

“I punched a brick wall. I’m not gonna be able to type tomorrow,” she said, quickly adding, “I can’t go to a nurse. They’ll ask what happened, and I’d rather crawl in a hole somewhere.”

He shook his head. “C’mon, I’ll patch up that hand for you. It’s probably not even that bad.”

“Don’t cut your night short because of me.”

Briefly, almost enough to convince her it was just a trick of the moonlight, he looked uncharacteristically sheepish. “It’s the least I can do for making you come out tonight.”

“Bucky, you didn’t make me do anything. I don’t want to be some wilting flower who’s too afraid to keep living. Stan wouldn’t have wanted that for me. I just wish my brain would get the message.”

“Well, I’m sure Stan wouldn’t have wanted you to walk all the way back by yourself if you didn’t have to,” he said.

She smiled weakly. “Yeah, he’d chew me out for that.”

So would Bucky, if this had happened and he hadn’t found her. If she walked back to Thorpe Abbotts alone in the dead of night with nothing but the stars to keep her company. She never cared for them, especially not after Stan. They gave the night glistening teeth that tore her apart far too often for her to be comfortable beneath them.

“Hey, what about darts?” she asked, a good distance away from the pub.

“I pulled Crank in. He can hold his own. Besides, if there’s an angry bartender hunting me down on the base tomorrow, you could probably hold him off for me,” he joked, lightly elbowing her side. “You got one hell of a hook.”

“Stan taught me.”

“He taught you how to fight?”

“Sort of, but he was probably thinking more along the lines of self-defense instead of getting into fights with brick walls.”

“That wall had it coming. If you didn’t punch it, I probably would’ve.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Will you tell that to Chick so he doesn’t kill me tomorrow?”

“He’s not gonna kill you. Might be pissed that his best typist is gonna be out of commission for a few days, though.”

“I can still proofread. Or sort mail. Or—“

“Let me worry about that, alright?”

Holly hesitated. “Alright.”

—————

Bucky had the keys to the Air Exec office, empty for the night, and sat Holly down at her desk. He disappeared for a few minutes, but returned with an armful of peroxide bottles, absorbent cotton, and a roll of gauze. 

“Geez Bucky, don’t waste all of that on me.”

“If I brought you to a nurse, they’d use it on you, anyway.” 

He pulled up a chair, his knees touching hers as he took a closer look at her hand beneath a desk lamp. His eyebrows furrowed as he considered the dried blood, cuts that had already begun to scab over, and a particularly gnarly knuckle that didn’t sit quite right.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but one of your knuckles got dislocated. I’m gonna clean your hand and then pop it back into place.”

“Fuckin’ A,” she said. “I learned that from Stan, too.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“No. Neither did he.”

He snickered, grabbing the peroxide and some cotton. “What was Stan like, anyway? Sounds like an interesting guy from what you told me.”

“Stan was…” She paused. Nobody asked her about Stan. All anyone knew was what little she offered. What was he like? “He cursed like a—well, he was a sailor. Of course he was a Nationals fan. Loved detective novels. We’d have ones we’d read together and see who could figure out the big plot twist first. His front tooth was chipped, but god, he had the best smile. I’m talking serious wattage—“

“Wattage?” Bucky repeated incredulously.

“Okay, I made that up—think electric! He could light up a whole room with just his smile,” she emphasized with a smile of her own. “You know what I mean?”

He glanced up from her hand to her face for a moment. “Yeah, I do.”

“What else…we had this goofy thing going where we’d play tic-tac-toe in our letters to each other. I started doing that because I’m not great at writing letters. I never know what to say, but I wanted him to still look forward to getting them from me.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“I just started secretarial school when he got a job at this fish market up the street from my house. I remember thinking he was so handsome, he almost looked out of place,” Holly said, her voice soft for a moment. “Well, I’d spend so much time there that my mom would complain about how awful I smelled by the time I got home. I asked him out first.”

Bucky laughed. “You’re kidding.”

A wide grin spread across her face. “I wanted to make him mine before he could even think about another girl, so I went in one day and said, ‘When are you gonna take me to see a movie?’ Most guys wouldn’t have liked that, but Stan got a kick out of it. He’d tell the story to anyone who’d listen.” She paused. “I think what really scares me is that at some point, I’ll remember him for longer than I knew him, and I’m always gonna be…like this.”

“I’m gonna set your knuckle back in place now,” Bucky said, his voice low, almost contemplative.

Holly tensed, staring at the ceiling while Bucky pushed against her bruised knuckles. Bone clicked back into place. She groaned. Clenched her good hand into a fist, blinking away tears.

“Barely flinched,” he said. “You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for, doll.” 

She smiled. “Thanks, Bucky.”

They were quiet as he finished bandaging her hand. The room was almost chatty though, buzzing overhead lights, ticking clock on the wall, a leaky pipe somewhere. Among them, a thought broke free from the confines of Bucky’s mind.

“Stan was lucky to have a girl like you waiting for him.”

Glassy brown eyes, wavering with the weight of the world, stared back at him in silence.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Holly. I shouldn’t have—”

She kissed him, her bandaged hand caressing his cheek. Weeks of silently longing, lusting, and wondering, answered in full as she moved her lips against his. Nearly forgot to kiss her back until he felt her pulling away. 

He placed his hand over her bandaged one, still tenderly cupping his face. The gauze was rough against his skin, a contrast to the pads of her fingers. He curled his fingers around hers, her blunt nails lightly scraping against his cheek.

She gasped against his lips. “John.”

A shiver rolled down his spine as he brushed his thumb over the bandage he’d just finished wrapping, her knuckle that he set back in place for her. All for her. And she kissed him first.

‘I wanted to make him mine.’ 

Mine.

Mine. 

Her dulcet tone echoed in his head until he couldn’t think of anything but kissing her again, offering himself to her as the sole object of her affection. 

Mineminemineminemine. “Holly, baby—” He was trying so hard to be coherent, nearly choking on his words until finally uttering, “I’m all yours.”

[ltash]

Damsel In Distress

"You don't love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear." - Oscar Wilde

Angela, you go ahead, we'll cover you, hermana," Alejandro said.

I ran and jumped over the rocks, feeling the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

"Watch for snipers!" Ghost yelled from behind.

Alejandro, Soap, and Ghost came after me. As I climbed a rock, a sniper bullet whizzed past me, grazing the side of my lower belly where my plated vest didn't cover. It felt like a big paper cut, and a blood-curdling scream escaped my lips as blood started to soak my clothes.

I struggled to keep my eyes open, the edges of my vision darkening. Ghost's arm wrapped around me, providing a steadying presence.

"Angela! Look at me," Ghost commanded, his voice cutting through the haze of pain.

My eyes fluttered open, locking onto his. I tried to speak, but the pain was overwhelming, making it hard to form words. The searing intensity of the sniper bullet's graze was far worse than I had imagined, feeling more like a full gunshot wound.

Ghost's expression softened slightly, a rare glimpse of concern breaking through his stoic exterior. "Stay with me, Angela. You're going to be okay," he said, his voice both a reassurance and a command.

As the convoy started moving, the rhythmic hum of the engine provided a strange comfort.

The whole journey, my constant whimpers and groans of pain filled the confined space of the convoy. Despite my best efforts to stay quiet, the agony was too much to bear. Every bump in the road sent fresh waves of torment through my body.

Ghost's arm remained steady around me, providing both physical and emotional support. He kept his voice low and calm, offering reassurances. "You'll be okay, Angela. Just hang in there."Soap glanced over from his seat, his expression a mix of concern and determination.

"We're almost there, just a bit longer," he said, trying to keep my spirits up. Alejandro occasionally looked back from the front seat, his eyes filled with worry. "Stay with us, hermana. We're not leaving you behind."Despite their words, the pain made it hard to focus. I rested my head against Ghost's shoulder, seeking some semblance of comfort.

We reached the base, and the cars pulled inside. Ghost opened the door. By that time, I was nearly passed out, barely holding on to consciousness. The adrenaline that had kept me going was fading, and the pain and exhaustion were taking over.

"Hey, Angela," Ghost tried waking me up.

I barely opened my eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling me under. Ghost's usually stern voice held a hint of concern.

"We need a medic here, now!" he called out urgently.

Alejandro and Soap rushed over as a couple of medics appeared, quickly assessing my injuries.

"She’s lost a lot of blood," one of the medics said, pressing a bandage against my wound.

"We'll get her stabilized," the other medic assured, starting an IV.

"Hang in there, Angela," Soap said, his voice soft but firm. "You're gonna be okay."

As they lifted me onto a stretcher, Ghost stayed close, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos. I felt a hand squeeze mine, and I knew it was his.

"We're right here with you," he said quietly.

They took me to the infirmary, the urgency in their movements making my head spin. When the medic poured alcohol on my wound, I screamed so loudly that the entire base echoed with my cry.

"Hold still, Angela," one of the medics urged, his voice trying to be soothing but strained with urgency.

Ghost, Alejandro, and Soap stood nearby, their faces etched with worry.

"You’re going to be fine," Ghost reassured me, his voice a rare mix of gentleness and command.

The medics worked quickly, their hands moving with practiced efficiency to clean and bandage my wound. The burning pain seared through my lower back, and I couldn't hold back the tears. "Mommy!" I screamed, crying for my mom as I remembered she always took my pain away.

"You're strong, Angela. Just a little longer," Soap said, giving me an encouraging nod.

It felt like an eternity, but finally, the medics finished dressing the wound and started an IV drip to ease the pain.

"She’ll need to rest and recover," one of the medics informed the team.

"We’ll make sure she gets it," Alejandro replied firmly, his eyes meeting mine. "You did good out there."

Exhaustion began to overtake me, and I let my eyes close, comforted by the presence of my team. I knew I was safe and in good hands.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. Someone was holding my hand.

I blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the light. Ghost sat beside me, his grip firm and reassuring.

"Hey," he said softly, noticing I was awake.

I tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in my back made me wince.

"Take it easy," Ghost said. "You're still healing."

I nodded, feeling a mix of gratitude and relief. "What happened?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

"We made it out," he replied. "You were pretty banged up, but the medics took care of you."

Alejandro and Soap walked in, relief washing over their faces when they saw I was awake.

"How are you feeling?" Alejandro asked.

"Sore," I admitted, "but better."

"You gave us quite a scare," Soap said with a smile. "But you did great out there."

I smiled weakly. "Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you guys."

Ghost squeezed my hand gently. "Rest now. We've got everything under control."

"I am hungry," I said, my voice a bit stronger.

Ghost chuckled softly. "That's a good sign."

Alejandro smiled. "I'll get you something to eat. Any preferences?"

"Anything but those chips," I joked weakly, remembering the incident in the car.

Soap grinned. "I'll see what the mess hall has. Be right back."

As he left, Ghost continued to hold my hand. "You scared us out there, Angela. But you’re tough. You’ll be back on your feet in no time."

"Thanks, Ghost," I said, feeling a wave of gratitude. "For everything."

"We're a team," he replied. "We take care of each other."

A few minutes later, Soap returned with a tray of food. "Here you go. Soup and some bread to start."

I took the bowl, my hands trembling slightly, and began to eat. The warmth of the soup soothed me, and I felt a bit of my strength returning.

"Take your time," Alejandro said. "There's no rush."

"We are going to capture Hassan with the help of Shadow Company," Alejandro said. "Let's see how things turn out. Meanwhile, you rest."

I nodded, feeling a mix of concern and determination. "Be careful out there."

"We will," Ghost assured me. "You just focus on getting better."

As they prepared to leave, Soap gave me a reassuring smile. "We’ll bring him in. Don’t worry."

I watched them go, feeling a surge of pride in my team. They were going to continue the mission, and I had to trust them to succeed.

I settled back into the bed, letting the exhaustion take over. As I drifted off, I found comfort in knowing that, despite everything, we were still moving forward together.

I woke up in the evening to Soap's voice.

"Angela, he's here. We're going to interrogate him. Do you want to come?"

I took a moment to gather my thoughts, feeling a mix of curiosity and hesitation. "Yes," I replied finally, pushing myself to sit up. "I want to be there."

Soap nodded, offering me a hand to help me up. "Let's go then. Just take it easy."

They took Hassan outside. I was feeling much better, so I walked with them. For the first time, I saw Philip Graves.

"You must be Angela, right?" he asked. From his accent, I knew he was American.

"Yes," I replied.

Hassan was sitting on his knees, and they pulled the black cloth from his head. Ghost stood beside the jeep, while Soap and Alejandro positioned themselves behind Hassan.

"You speak Arabic? Farsi?" Hassan asked.

"No," Graves replied.

"Then I'll have to speak in your medieval English, you illiterate street dogs," Hassan sneered.

"I speak Farsi and Arabic," I said, stepping in front.

Everyone's eyes turned to me in shock.

"Then you must not be one of them," Hassan said.

"Salaam! And yes, I am one of them," I replied.

"Anha sanhal Ghobrani raakshand wa man inteqam hama anha ra khuwahim giraft," Hassan spat, his eyes filled with fury. (They killed Ghubrani and I will avenge him.)

"Na shama en kar ra nakhwahid kard," I said firmly. (No, you won't do that.)

Everyone watched in silence, the tension in the air palpable. Hassan glared at me, but I stood my ground, unwavering.

I said, my voice steady. (You cannot win against them, and what will be the difference between you and them if you do the same thing they did?)

Hassan looked at me, a mix of confusion and curiosity in his eyes. "How do you know Farsi and Arabic so well?" he asked.

"Because my mother is from Iran and the UAE," I replied. "But I am American by birth and by blood, and I won't take any shit from you. If you try to do anything stupid, Hassan, I will kill you with my own hands. Payan." (The end.)

Everyone around us was silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air. Hassan stared at me, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Ghost, Soap, and Alejandro watched, ready to back me up.

"You cannot keep me without my will. I am Quds Force major," Hassan shouted, his voice echoing with defiance.

Graves stepped forward, his demeanor cold and threatening. "We'll see about that," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I moved to stand silently beside Ghost, observing the tense exchange.

"Extremely impressive," Ghost said, turning his face towards me.

"I am," I replied confidently, leaving no room for doubt.

Ghost's eyes narrowed at me. "Now I know my choice is good," he said.

"Yes, definitely," I replied, rolling my eyes at him.

Shepherd ordered Hassan's release. Soap intervened, but ultimately, Shepherd was right. We couldn't keep Hassan on mere suspicions. His mobile had already been traced by Laswell, leaving us no choice but to let him go.

After Hassan was released, Soap turned towards me. "Angela, you are so talented."

"Shukran, Habibi!" I replied in Arabic, a playful smile on my face.

"Teach me some languages when you get time," he said.

"Sure! When we are back from this mission, I will."

Ghost walked in silence.

"You are full of surprises, Hermana!" Alejandro said as he walked past us, praising me.

"Gracias Hermano." I replied.

We went back to the base, and Soap showed me to my room, which was conveniently next to Ghost's.

I went straight to the shower, taking care not to mess with my stitches. The warm water was a much-needed relief, washing away the dirt and grime from the river. I got dressed in a tight black t-shirt and sweatpants, feeling slightly more human.

My body felt sore, and I started feeling feverish. By the time I went to bed, the fever had spiked. I had zero energy to move, so I tried to sleep, but it was in vain. The pain and the heat from the fever made it impossible to find any comfort.

Fever and chills made me partially unconscious and unaware of my surroundings. The next morning, I heard loud banging on my door.

"Angela! Open the door, it's already noon." Ghost's voice boomed through the door, realizing I hadn't left the room since last night.

I had no energy left to even leave the bed. I tried to speak, but my voice was barely a whisper.

"Open the door. Bloody fucking hell!" he cursed.

Soap and Alejandro joined him. "What happened, hermano?" Alejandro asked.

"She isn't opening the door. Do you have a spare key?" Ghost asked.

I could hear their muffled voices from afar. "Yes, hermano." Alejandro went and came back with a bunch of keys.

The door flung open.

"Angela!" Ghost rushed to check on me, cupping my face. "She is burning," he said, concern evident in his voice.

He carried me and took me to the hospital. My eyes fluttered open as soldiers watched him carry me, with Soap following closely behind.

The doctors checked my stitches and put me on antibiotics. As they worked, I could feel the fever starting to abate slightly, though I was still weak and exhausted.

"You're going to be okay," Ghost said softly, staying by my side. "Just rest now."

"Who told you to leave the hospital when you weren't feeling well?" Ghost said, his tone sharp.

"It was me. I asked her to come to see Hassan," Soap admitted, looking guilty.

"I'll see you later, Soap," Ghost said, glaring at him.

Soap nodded and left the room, leaving Ghost and me alone. Ghost's expression softened as he turned back to me, his concern evident.

"You need to take care of yourself, Angela," he said quietly.

"I know," I replied weakly. "I'm sorry."

"Just focus on getting better," he said, staying by my side as I drifted back to sleep, feeling reassured by his presence .

The whole day, Ghost stayed by my side. He gave me my medicine on time, checked on me regularly, and made sure I was comfortable. God, he was such husband material.

At lunchtime, he brought me a tray of food. "Eat," he ordered, bringing the spoon to my mouth.

"I don't feel like it," I resisted, feeling like a child.

"You need to eat to get your strength back," he insisted, his eyes firm but caring. "Just a few bites."

Reluctantly, I opened my mouth and took a bite, feeling a bit better with each spoonful.

"Should I bring you crisps?" Ghost chuckled, mentioning the chips again.

I couldn't help but laugh. Despite feeling unwell, his lightheartedness brought a smile to my face. "Maybe later," I replied, feeling grateful for his efforts to keep my spirits up.

"There you are, the happy girl I know," Ghost said, pinching my cheek.

"Ouch! Get your hands off me," I replied, playfully slapping his arm.

My hair was a mess, and Ghost took it upon himself to run his gloved fingers through it, causing it to tousle even more.

"Stop it, Simon!" I scolded him, trying to push his hand away, but secretly enjoying the attention.

As he pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me, I playfully hit his chest. But then he kissed my cheek, his lips warm and tender against my skin. Before I could react, he crashed his lips into mine, igniting a spark of passion between us.

Drawing me closer, he sat on the bed and pulled me onto his lap, his hands running gently over my thigh. "I want to eat you up, luvvie," he said with a playful grin, his eyes filled with affection.

"Get better for me love." He whispered.

I heard the door open, and Soap's voice filled the room. "Hey LT!" he called out, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw me sitting on Ghost's lap.

"What are you doing here, Soap?" I said, feeling a twinge of embarrassment. "At least knock before you enter."

I quickly stood up from Ghost's lap and moved to sit on the bed, trying to compose myself.

"What do you want, Soap?" Ghost's voice was stern as he addressed him.

"Alejandro is calling you to his office," Soap replied, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

I felt sorry for Soap as he left the room, clearly embarrassed by the situation. Ghost stood up, giving me a gentle kiss on the forehead before leaving to attend to Alejandro's call.

[thoughtsandbones]

Our fellow hidden humorous

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc (codename: Blue)

WARNINGS: Mention of alcohol, mental health/self harm scars, fluff, just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

(shall we speed up with the fluff? 💀💙)

Song inspo: Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John and

Word count: 5.1K

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

All rights reserved to the rightful owners of Call of Duty Modern Warfare.

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic! :D

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4 and PART 5

Part 6

~A 141 pub outing~

This time last week you had set foot back on this base. 7 days. It has been 7 days and you were slowly making yourself blend back into the military regime.

You feel the joy of routine that was brought with the army. Getting up early, exercise, join in on the occasional drill, practise shooting and then the rest of the day in the infirmary as the 141's in house doctor and as a liaison doctor with the Royal Medical Corps on base. The previous experience you had with the 141 had made you a valued asset again for the team.

The infirmary no longer barren but upon near completion. Semi-operational you had started to compose a list of tasks that needed to completed. Both in your head and in your black journal that had been a staple in your medical career. Tasks written down on each page, occupying each of the minutes that passed each day. 20 minute run. Surgery for 3 hours. Rotations that needed to done. Focusing on the task at hand.

It was exactly 17:05pm today. Thursday. This exact time last week you landed here at base. Your new place of rest. The next chapter of your life.

You now realise how tense you were last week. The first few days you scrunched your shoulders. Contracting the muscles in your back, on edge and rigid. No longer feeling rigid, but you remain stoic and composed.

Soap invited you out this evening to the local pub that the team frequented. You vaguely remember it. It had been a long time, and honestly you were not that much of drinker back then.

Exercise had helped ease the tension. Drills had helped you ease the looming anxiety by focusing. Sinking into the moment.

Price, Soap and even Ghost had been impressed by your eagerness to attend these drills and practise shootings.

"Shame you can't come with us on missions and patch us up there and then." Soap had said after you unloaded your last mag on the L96 sniper rifle and were placing the rifle back in its storage.

You smirked and shook your head.

A deep grunt came from Ghost next to him as he placed his weapons away.

"Come to the Anchor this evening" Soap had suggested as the three of you left the shooting range.

You mulled over the thought a feeble "hmmm" comes out of you

"Lt is coming, Gaz is back today and Price will be there too" Soap continues, adamant in his attempt to join them

You look up over to Ghost, who was a few paces behind you, who was looking at you. You could feel his eyes drilling at the back of your skull. You then turned back to Soap

"Maybe, need a few things to finish up in the infirmary" You say finally

"Lassie you work too hard" Soap says trying swat you. You dodge his attempt and give a small laugh.

Ghost watched on as he saw Soap talk to you. How could he talk to you with such ease was beyond him. The past week he could not keep himself from looking at you whenever you entered the mess hall, passed each other in the hall; you'd always give a smile, not the one he remembered, not the one the one that brightened your eyes and made them crinkle in the corner, but a small one that only used the left corner of your lips, and was quick, as if your lacked the energy to smile properly.

He still hadn't told you who is really was. That the man walking behind you, under the mask was Simon. Simon Riley. But now he was no longer the Simon who was a sergeant under The Captain, not the same Simon you knew. Not the one who you used to tease along with the other four cadets. He was now just Ghost.

The three of you headed back to your rooms, crossing the near empty tarmac of base. The sun setting low in the horizon. Ghost watched as you turned your head to the sunset, he could see the side of your face, a smile creeping across your lips as you gaze at the sun, the rays making your brown skin more radiant.

On the way to your room, situated just two doors down from the infirmary you turn to both Ghost and Soap

"I'll see you guys down at the Archer then" you finally give Soap his much awaited answer as you unlock the door to your room.

Soap turns towards you "Aye lassie knew you'd come" he glees

"See ya later" Ghost says to you, you turn to him and smile nod your head to him and then close the door to your room.

Collapsing on your bed. Briefly recharging your social battery for this evening. You convince yourself that this evening will help you bond with the team and gain their trust.

"A hot shower seems perfect right now" You say to yourself

Price and Soap seem to have taken you in warmly. Yet Ghost... You couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he did not like you...

Later on that evening

It was 20:30pm, you walked down to the pub, hands in the pockets of your leather jacket. A quick google map search showed it was only 10 minutes away outside base.

Your hair was wavy as a result of the braids you put in earlier during the practice shooting session, letting your hair loose this evening. Wearing black skinny jeans and a baggier grey t-shirt covered by a leather jacket. Opting for your trainers this evening.

Once you were near the pub you spot Price, taking a drag of a cigar, and Ghost outside, next to the other smokers as they both conversed with one another.

One stark difference you notice is that Ghost had swapped his hard skull mask for a black balaclava that had a skull print in white on it. He had the hood of his hoodie up. You notice the black paint wearing off around his eyes.

"Evening" you say to them as you approach the both of them

"Hari! Price exclaims before taking another drag of his cigar

You look over to Ghost who gives you a nod hello. Nodding back and giving him a smile, noticing in the street lights above that his eyes. They were blue, surrounded by long blonde eyelashes. Your eyes drew into his like a magnet.

"Soap and Gaz are inside, we'll join you in a bit" Price said, continuing to take a drag.

You nod at him and walk through the door. You see Soap and Gaz in the corner. Walking over to them, they both look up at you, Soap starts grinning

"Alrigh' lassie?" Soap says

"All good, yourself" You reply back smiling as you sit down, Gaz gives you a nod whilst he took a sip of his pint

"Good" Soap responds.

You hold out your hand towards Gaz "Nice to meet you sir, I'm Hari" you say

Gaz nearly chokes on his drink when you call him sir

"Please, call me Gaz, sir is reserved for Price" he says laughing "Nice to meet you Doc"

You smile at him

"Let me get yer a drink Hari? Wine?" Soap presumes

"No thank you, I'm not drinking alcohol this evening, I'm assisting in a surgery tomorrow with the RMC" You reply

Price and Ghost came back inside, Price sitting next to you and Ghost opposite of you, you smile at the both of them.

"Surely you can have one glass of wine? I'll get you one!" Soap says placing his hands on his thighs ready to get up.

"Bold of you to assume I like wine" You quipped at Soap and give him a playful smirk.

Price and Gaz laugh, Soap gaped at you and Ghost smirked under his mask.

"I'm going to grab a drink , anyone want anything?" You say as you get back up, hoping no one will follow you as you look around the four men.

"I'm alright thanks" Gaz says giving you a nod

"Got my pint, cheers Hari" Price says

"Nee' ter fini--s' this -brew" Soap says suppressing an upcoming burp tapping his pint.

"All good 'ere" Ghost says looking at you. You smile back at them and turn to walk to the bar. Ghost's gaze follows you, he noticed you rotate your right shoulder two times as you walked to the bar clenching and then unclenching your fist.

"New doc seems nice" Gaz said as he surveyed you, taking a sip from his pint.

"Aye, lassie is a nice one, a wee bit puzzlin' though" Soap says

"How so?" Gaz asks, confusion taking ahold of his face looking at Soap and then Price

Soap drops his head and brings his hand up to cover his mouth and ~quietly~ burps.

"Soap relax, she is just settling back into military life, and has done extremely well over the past week" Price said, his face brightening. "Infirmary looks amazing, and she's joining in on drills and practice sessions." He adds.

"Wow, considering the shit state it was before, hope it looks good" Gaz says.

"Does look really goo'" Soap says, his words slurring a bit. "Like a hospital" he adds.

Ghost kept his eye on Soap, and then looked down at the two other empty glasses besides his half-finished pint in his hand.

He's part pissed already Ghost thinks and reverts his eyes to you standing at the bar. Your brown hair loose and wavy cascading down your back. You shift between one leg and the other, left hand in your jacket pocket, your fingers on your right hand tapping against your thigh as you wait for the barman to finish serving a group of ladies on the left of you, several of whom kept glancing over to him.

You lift your right arm and flick the shorter strands of hair back and turn around to look behind you and you meet Ghost's gaze, and take a deep inhale through your nose and smile at him. Ghost diverts his gaze down to his drink and swirls the ice in his glass.

You turn back around facing the bar, no longer feeling Ghost's eyes drilling in your back.

"Sorry, I'll be with you in a few moments" the barman says towards

"No worries mate, take your time" you respond, giving him a weak smile.

Thinking back to his eyes. The wearing off the paint had shown his true eye colour. Blue. An enigmatic deep blue that left you bewildered and drew you in like a magnet, somehow, you don't know how, those eyes have looked at you before.

I wonder what kind of person he is you think to yourself. Who are you behind those blue eyes. What thoughts linger along the grey matter enclosed by your cranial bones.

Once you get your drink, pint of Coca Cola, with a lime wedge and ice, you head back over to the table where the rest of the team sat.

Ghost looks back up over to you and sees you looking right back, your drink in hand.

You keep your eyes locked on him as you make your way over to the table; continuing to think about the voice of his inner workings seeping through his spinal fluid

You grab a cardboard coaster that lay near Price, and place your drink on top.

"Wha-t'd yer ge'?" Soap asks, heavy Scottish accent looms

"Pint of coke" You say dryly, bringing up the cold glass up to your mouth and taking a sip, relishing in the sudden rush of the cold coke moistening your tongue that became dry.

"How was leave Gaz?" Price asked Gaz

"It was good, nice to relax a bit" He replied

"Do anything nice?" You ask him. Gaz looks at you and smiles,

"Saw few mates back home and played bit of football" He said

"Thin' we sho-ud' shots" Soap suggests out loud

You and Gaz look up to Soap, he was slightly swaying and wide eyed. Is he pissed? Thinking to yourself.

"Wouldn't mind one" Gaz said, giving Soap a pat with his right hand on his back.

"I'll have one too then Soap" Price says

A few moments later 5 shot glasses appeared on the table as Soap and Gaz place them in the centre of the table

Soap moves each of the shots in front of Gaz, Ghost, Price and you.

"Ah Soap" You say groaning, as he moves the shot towards you.

"C'mon Hari" Soap says noticing your grimaced face.

You take another sip of your coke and look at the shot in front of you. The unknown 25 mL colourless liquid.

Lifting up the shot to your nose, you instantly identify the liquid from the strong anise-flavoured smell. Sambuca.

"Nope" you say and slide the shot back into the middle of the table.

"C'mon" Soap said again

"I don't do sambuca, it's vile!" You explain, giving the shot a disgusted look and pushing it further away

"Okay then" Soap says huffing.

"Right lads" Price says picking up his shot, the other three follow his move "Welcome back to 141 Hari" Price resumed nodding to you as you meet his eyes.

You pick up your coke and join in the cheers, laughing slightly as the big glass towered over the shot glasses.

As you took a sip of your drink you noticed Ghost pull up his balaclava with his left hand whilst holding the shot in the other, and placed the edge of the shot in his mouth tilting his head back. This glance revealed his pale skin, dry lips that moistened with drops of sambuca, you noticed blonde stubble across his jaw. You diverted your eyes back down to your glass as he brought his mask and head down.

Ghost looks at you as you take another sip of your drink, you look back at him, locking him in with those glassy brown eyes, a few strands of your short hair fall, the ends touching the warm brown skin, near the edge of your cheek, he noticed they have pink hue. Another strand touched the corner of your lips, lips that were glossy and a slight pale red. His eyes spanned across those lips, noticing two very small brown moles, on the edge of the top lip on the left, and the other just above.

Soap and Gaz grimace after taking their shot, Gaz chases the shot down with a sip of his pint.

Feeling flushed all of a sudden, you take off your jacket and place it on the back of the chair, bringing your bare right arm on to the table and holding your glass and placing your left arm on your left thigh.

"Who's gonna have the spare shot?" You ask around the table smiling at the guys.

"Not me" Gaz says "Hari you're right, that stuff is vile" he adds

Price chuckles at Gaz and then takes a sip of his pint. You laugh at Gaz's comment.

"Aye, I'll 'ave it" Soap says grabbing the shot and downs it.

Leaning back in the chair and lifting your right arm, you run your fingers through your hair, pushing the shorts strands away from your face.

Ghost notices a black bone tattoo on your upper arm on the back, starting near your elbow and disappeared up your arm covered by your t-shirt. He traced his eyes back down your arm and then back up to your face. His eyes meet yours, locked in as you lower your arm down on the table again.

Soap also took note of your tattoo

"Nice tat'oo" He said slurring his words. You turn your gaze to Soap, you noticed his eyes became super wide. The alcohol was thoroughly coursing his body. "Why a bone?" He adds

"Never knew you had a tattoo" Price said looking at you arm as you lifted it up, pointing your elbow to the sky, your biceps flexed as you lifted the sleeve of your t-shirt down near your underarm, showing your tattoo in its entirety to the team.

"Cor lassie you have some muscles!" Soap blurted out pointing towards your arm. Gaz shakes his head and laughs.

"Johnny's drunk" Ghost said as he looked at him disapprovingly.

You were taken aback by Soap's comment and lowered you arm.

"It's the humerus bone" you say smiling, showing your teeth, looking at the tattoo

Soap was surprised by your smile, the same one who showed briefly on your first day. He felt a warm feeling spread across his chest. To be honest, think that was the alcohol

"Yer real pretty" Soap says gazing at you

Price and Gaz look at Soap with shocked looks and then turn to you. Ghost narrowed his eyes at Soap and then looked at you.

You snorted and then scoffed, shaking your head.

"Soap's off his trolley" you say to Ghost, who nods in agreement.

"Come off it Soap" Price says "Getting you some water" he adds and then gets up from his chair heading to the bar.

"'Onest-ly, yer are" Soap adds "Yer got a fella back home?" Soap asks grinning, his head bobbing.

"Fucks sake Johnny" Ghost gruffs, nudging him slightly in the sides and looks back over to you with cautioned eyes. Why did he have to get this pissed tonight he thought.

He saw how your face changed from that smile to annoyance. Your eyes wide as you come to grasp what Soap said.

"Nope, no one back home" You say say looking at Soap and then back to your half finished pint of coke, and take another sip, you meet Ghosts gaze again, you look back down as you lower the glass.

Soap tried to reach over to you, Ghost pushed him back slightly with his left arm, as Soap nearly knocked an empty glass over. Price walked over with a glass of water to Soap and set it in front of him.

"Drink up sergeant, you'll have a killer hangover tomorrow" Price says to him shaking his shoulder. Soap takes a sip of water. "Doc ain't going to be looking after you tomorrow" He adds looking over at you.

Price took in your face full of concern, your dark thick eyebrows burrowed close together. He suppressed a chuckle when he looked back over to Soap who started to hug the glass of water.

"You alrigh'?" Ghost asks noticing your face still was stern. You look up at Ghost, eyebrows still furrowed and lips pursed.

"All good" You say giving him a smile. "What you drinking lieutenant?" You add, nodding your head towards his glass, where the ice nearly melted

"Bourbon" he said picking it up and swirling the glass.

"A man of corn whiskey eh?" You say back to him, smiling.

"I love Kentucky" He says taking in your warm smile, and then felt the edge of his mouth curve a bit under his mask.

"Speakin' o' love" Soap butts in, sliding closer to Ghost, with his glass of water in hand pointing at you. Ghost turns to him in annoyance whilst you look on, bracing yourself for another drunk comment.

"Here we go" Price huffs, eyeing Soap as he watches the sergeant continue his drunken behaviour he'll surely regret tomorrow. Gaz places a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Ever been in love?" Soap says towards you

You scoff again at his bluntness, shaking your head.

"Long time ago" you reply taking a longer sip of coke, placing the glass back down, continuing to stare at the last remnants of ice in Ghost's drink.

"Awh did he break yer hear'" Soap said eyeing you, leaning across to Ghost who tried to nudge him off his shoulder.

You look up, and smirk at Soap's remark. He takes a sip of his water

"Yeah... she kind of did" You said, looking straight at Soap to take in his reaction.

Ghost's eyes widen at you. Soap chokes and spits out some water, some of it on Ghost who shoved Soap away from him. Price and Gaz laughed.

"Fucks sake Johnny, get a hol' yourself" Ghost grunts. You reach in your jacket pocket for a pack of tissues and hand one to Ghost.

"Thanks" He says grabbing the tissue and wiping his jacket.

"Time for us to head back now Soap" Price said chuckling and checking his watch, getting up from his seat and moving towards Soap who tried to get up by himself but was struggling.

"Gaz gimme a hand" Price says attempting to help Soap stand up and grab his jacket. Gaz gets up and moves towards Soap and Price.

You still sit and grab your drink, taking another sip. You eyes meet Ghost's who was still sitting as well.

"You two coming?" Gaz asks looking at you and Ghost.

"I'm gonna finish my drink" You say, lifting your glass.

"I'll walk back with you" Ghost says, looking at you.

"Don't have to, base isn't far" You say back to him

"Don't min'" Ghost says as he watches Price and Gaz carry a drunk Soap off his seat and put his jacket on. He notices Price staring at him and then mouth "Tell her!" He sighs and looks back at you. Don't want you walking back by yourself this late he thinks to himself as he checks his watch. 11:05pm.

As Price and Gaz steady Soap, their arms wrapped around his shoulders, you hear a small whelp "She broke her hear'?" coming from Soap as they walk off behind you.

Laughing, you turn to Ghost who had his eyes on you. Still watching me are you? You think.

"Do I have something on my face?" You say, moving your left hand up and scratching your cheek.

"No" Ghost says, still looking at you.

"Then why are you staring?" You say back, giving him a smile, as you place you left arm on the table, wrapping your fingers around the glass.

Ghost looks down, trails his eyes on your fingers curved around the glass and moves his eyes up your wrist. His eyes narrow as he notices long white scars spreading from your wrist to the top of your lower arm. White scars in contrast to your brown skin. You followed his eyes, and removed your arm from the table, and placed your arm on your thigh.

You became so used to the scars on your arm that you forgot they were there until other people stare or made comments about them.

"Bad habit of mine" Ghost says finally "Sorry" he says looking up at you. The blue eyes drawing you in.

"Listen, I know you have reasons to be cautious" You begin "Price told me about Shepherd" You add sympathetically.

That fucking traitor you think scowling to yourself.

Ghost takes a deep breathe and leans back in his chair. A chill overtook his body. He grabbed his drink and then lifted his balaclava to take a sip. Liquid courage he thinks hoping it'll help ease the upcoming confession.

You briefly look at the exposed skin, so pale and dull. When was the last time your skin felt the sun you wonder.

"My file is probably a piece of shit" You say, breaking the silence. You couldn't stand a potential mentor hating you. Suddenly, without the alcohol, you found the courage to just blurt your thoughts.

"It's only logical to be suspicious, but I mean no harm. I'm just here to help and want to be values member of the team" You confess.

Ghost looks at you, a feeling of slight guilt overrides him. A lump was forming in his throat. Why is it so hard to tell you he thinks

"I know" He says at last, clearing is throat, yet the lump persists. He leans forward, his blue eyes darting over your now worried face. Eyebrows furrowed, but your eyes have a sad glaze to them.

"Shall we start fresh lieutenant?" You say, offering your right hand towards him and giving him a smile, a smile that made your eyes crinkle. The smile Ghost recognised.

He extends his hand out, and shakes yours, your soft warm hands wrapped and engulfed his calloused cold hand. Ghost noted the firmness of your shake, gripping his hand. You start to let go and Ghost follows your move. Sitting up and leaning a bit closer to you.

You pick up your glass and take the last long sip of coke and remaining ice, crushing it between your teeth and letting it flow through. Lifting your phone out your inner jacket pocket you realise it's nearly midnight.

"Shoot" You say and then look up to Ghost "Is it alright if we go? Have surgery tomorrow morning" you add

"Course" Ghost says leaning back and getting up. You follow through, grabbing your jacket and putting it on.

Ghost comes round the table and stands near you and watches as you slip your arms in your jacket and then look up at him.

"Ready?" You say giving him a smile

"Yeah" Ghost says, placing his hands in his jacket pockets and readjusting the hood of his hoodie, even though nothing else could hide would already hid with the mask of Ghost.

"Thank you!" You say to the barman as you head to the door

"Cheers guys!" He replies looking at both you and Ghost, Ghost nods back and follows you out. He takes a longer stride to reach the door before you to open it, letting you walk through first into the darkness outside.

"Thank you" You say as turn round facing Ghost once outside, waiting for him to close the door. You both start walking side by side on the pavement, under the glow of the orange the street lights.

"You've been good in drills." Ghost says turning to you. The only compliment that was able to come out of his mouth. You grin at him, and then look down at your shoes walking on along side him.

"They're good, tough but good." You say smiling at him, you lift your head up view the night sky. Unable to make out any stars, no moon this late... The orange street lamps did not help at all.

Ghost follows your gaze, curious as to what you were looking at.

"Somethin' wrong?" He asks looking back down at you, you turn to look at him, a puzzled look swept across your face.

"No, just trying to see the stars" You say pointing to the sky

"Oh" Ghost says "Why?" he asks

You turn to look at him, disbelief was the next look that took ahold of you as you scoffed

"Because..." you start motioning towards the dark sky, trying to see any stars, but had no luck due to the street lights. Looking around you try and find an area that wasn't near any artificial lights. Up ahead you see a small wooden area.

"C'mon let me show you" You say turning to Ghost and then walking up ahead, your pace quickening. Ghost follows, taking his long strides that match your slight jog.

As you both reach the wooded area you walk in a bit whilst Ghost watches you continue to look up in the sky.

Away from the lights, your eyes focus on the night sky, you see three dots in a slight bent line. Orion's belt.

"Look here" You say pointing to the stars. Ghost looks up, waiting for his eyes adjust, and tries to navigate them to where you are roughly pointing. He sees the bright white speckles coming out against the deep dark blue of the night. No clouds in view. He sees three dots.

"Those three dots?" He asks keeping his eyes on them

"Yeah, that's Orion's belt" You say, getting a bit close to Ghost, looking at the belt as well "Then if you look up, you'll see two other stars, same as you go down" You add pointing with your finger. Ghost follows your instructions and looks at the additional four stars, two at the top and two at the bottom.

"It's like a body" He whispers and looks down at you, seeing a look of awe transform your face as you look up at him.

"That's the constellation Orion, it's about 2000 light years away" You start, looking back up at the night sky. Ghost looks back, taking in the stars that scatter the night sky. Both of you stand there in silence, taking it in, surrounded by the woods whilst a gentle wind flows through the leaves of the trees.

"What about the other ones?" Ghosts asks turning around and noticing the other stars that have become visible. Never before had he looked at the night sky like this.

"Urm, not sure" You say. "Shit, it's past midnight" you say checking your phone again, you look up at Ghost "Maybe another time, sorry I need sleep" You say

"Course" He adds and starts walking back down out of the woodlands with you. You quicken your pace. "Thank you... Hari" Ghost says, turning to look at you. You smile back at him

"Made you interested in the sky now" You say smirking and turned to look ahead.

Ghost nodded "Yeah" he whispered

The both of you headed back to base, enjoying the silent walk back, the night sky now obscured by the flood lights, making any view of the stars impossible.

Heading to your quarters, Ghost follows you, just a few paces behind, and watches as you take your key out the jacket and unlock the door. You turn towards him.

"Good night lieutenant" You say, Ghost notices your eyes become weary and tired.

"Good night Hari" He says, nodding. You give him a smile and close the door.

Ghost walks down the corridor to his room, unlocking the door and walks. He locks the door and takes his hoodie, top, jeans and balaclava off, heading to the bathroom. He looks at the reflection in the mirror. Looks at the person starring back. Simon Riley. But it wasn't the Simon Riley you knew.

Fuck

How could you bewitch him and make him forget to tell the one important thing that Price kept bringing up to him each day in the past week you had arrived.

Simon splashed cold water on his face, grabbing a bit of soap and washing the remaining black paint off his face. He dried his face with a towel and looked at himself again. The scars running across his nose, his left temple, and his cheek.

You had scars too he said, remembering those white scars scattered on your arm. Did you do it yourself or was it in Siberia? Ghost thought as he shuffled to his bed and collapsed. His mind now full of thoughts and questions of you.

Who was that woman who broke your heart? He thought as he buried his face into the pillow, the remnant feeling of your firm grip of the handshake you gave pulsed through his hand. He remembered how soft your hand was against his rough calloused war torn hand.

He drifted off to sleep, recalling the image of the Orion constellation in the night sky, Simon felt a part of himself open up a bit more...

[whatgaviiformes]

i'm absolutely windswept

I started Thunderteers in May of 2019. I remember very distinctly being out to dinner with Hubs, coordinating the AU concept almost entirely for a long, epic first story. We were at a Chili's and I had my usual indecisive platter of appetizers as my meal. As of today there's only been 3 chapters of what mapped out that day. Some of it made it to paper. I've never been great at those long epics - I love reading them, but my writing brain is most solid with the 1K-6K word length.

So I started building the world with fic. I wrote about Virgil playing the violin, and how he made music. I explored Gordon's accident, and what it could've happened in place of a hydrofoil. I reached for Military!Bros instead of my usual FishTank, and explored the truth behind legends. I forced myself to make and break OCs, spent way too much time researching when songs were created, recipes of the time, if certain animals were classified the same way, and what name a city may have had in 1774.

Other things I decided not to research at all.

Above all that, before I posted a new story or fic, I asked myself if the imagery was there, and was it something I was proud of? Because I knew - the only way I could get others to set sail with me, was to make sure I was taking you on the journey. Not if it was historically accurate, but does this feel like our boys, and are they interacting with the environment in a way that feels like it would still be them? Is it possible to still see Gordon? Still see Scott?

That was my first AU.

Naturally, in asking myself this, I've had different images in my head all this time, and I was lucky enough this month to have the chance to ask the amazing @chenria to bring one of them to life for me. You can find the post below:

Sailor Gordon by Chenria.

Go like it, reblog it, send her support, consider joining her patreon if you can. She knocked it out of the park, and in so doing - inspired me along the way.

If you decide to read Thunderteers, just know - it's not always beautiful.

But this one - it's all love and heart. I've written the snippet for Windswept as a thank you to chenria's amazing work, to everyone who puts up with my reblogging posts for the age of sail (#ships ships ships) or who tag me in things to see, or have Wellerman living rent free in their heads and let me play along. Thanks to those that have read the story, maybe cried along, or sent me words of encouragement.

Thank you for letting me experiment with language and story, and sometimes - when I get really lucky- for the words I've written to matter to you.

*****

Windswept (~500 words)

As far as clouds go, Gordon is among the strangest. The wind tugs at his clothing, hanging loose and informally on his silhouette, and at his hair where he stands aloft amidst the sails. The seabirds close to shore weave their dance between the ropes above, circling him curiously. Even though his form is strange to them, he’s not unwelcome in their home in the air. If anything, he’s just a part of the flying clouds that make up the rigging of their ship.

The gulls’ calls sound like laughter, and he smiles with them. The birds will accompany the ship for a time, darting towards the quick meal at the bow where the front of the ship often disturbs the sea life below. If the voyage is to be a lucky one, they’ll grace the wood of the ship with a gift or two that’ll be left to wash away only with the next rain.

Gordon can feel the sway of the ship stronger from above; though with the Thunderbird still anchored close to shore, the waves are gentle as they lap against her firm hull. The movement is a tease for the voyage ahead, as Gordon has always found himself more comfortable in their journeys out to sea than he’s ever felt in his tentative steps on land. The ship has watched him grow and come of age, from awkward limbs racing up the rigging, to strong shoulders heaving her lines and helming her wheel. She’s given him the freedom to roam, to explore lands and seas unknown, and even with the thrill of adventure, Gordon feels most safe in the comfort of her embrace. If that isn’t a home, he doesn’t know what else is.

He knows her in the early morn - the way the sunrise paints cotton and how the mist tingles at the fuzz on his arms at the start of his shift. He knows the echo of their shanties within her oak beams, and the squeak of her joy when the creatures of the sea ride along with her bow waves upon them really catching the wind and when the tang of citrus remains on his tongue from breaking fast.

He knows her in the rain, the smell of wood and cotton when burdened with wet from above as well as below, the crackle of lightning in its brief and staggered illumination of her flags. He knows her in the cold, when the puff of his breath is visible and the wind cuts into his skin. Among whales, massive and elegant as they groan their song into her hull.

He knows her in the evening – Virgil and John’s cooking and their different nuances for flavor and spice, the vibrato of Virgil’s violin paired with the warm timbre of the Scott’s cello pulsing along her foundations. The way she creaks below Alan’s eager footsteps.  He knows the soft glow around flame-lit lanterns in the darkest of night and the hush of melodies uttered in multiple languages up towards twinkling stars. The way his hammock rocks him to sleep with her movement.

He knows her in both fair winds and motionless skies, in the brightest of sunlit days and the most cloud-covered of nights. Through doldrums, archipelagos, and the far reaches of the seas, and along coastlines, he knows her.  

And his soul trembles just as she does, her unfurled sails shuddering in anticipation of catching the wind.

TBC..?

[mischiefandmedicine]

Very Full - Chapter 8: Beautiful Disaster

Summary: Following their passionate encounter at the end of time, Melara has an emotional performance at a music festival, effectively launching her musical career.

Word Count: 2,523 words.

Chapter Warnings: Lots of angst, anxiety with vomiting.

Soundtrack Link

This Chapter's Music Inspiration:

Beautiful Disaster (Live) by Kelly Clarkson

Very Full MASTERLIST

Previous Chapter

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist!

---

The golden hues of the sunrise crept through the sheer curtains of Melara’s bedroom, casting a mosaic of light and shadow across the walls. The room, usually vibrant with her laughter and song, now held a somber quiet. In the afterglow of her celestial encounter, she sat on the edge of her bed, her mind a tumultuous sea of memories and emotions.

Loki’s projection, once a comforting sentinel, now stood at a respectful distance, his form less substantial, more like a wisp of smoke caught in the evening breeze. He watched her with an aching intensity, the silence between them filled with the broken promises and words recently shouted in this room. It was all an echo of their shared past.

Melara smiled as she brushed her lips, remembering the feel of Loki’s upon hers. Her tousled hair floated around her form, tracing her shoulders lightly as she closed her eyes, trying to feel his embrace about her once more.

There was no universe in which the two of them could be together. Melara could not leave the only life she knew to live at the end of time. For what? To be a shadow? To be an Echo to his Narcissus? Loki’s obligations to the timelines were unyielding, anchoring him to his role as their overseer. His duties left no room for a life among the timelines he protected. Their encounter, while brief, was deeply profound, marking a rare moment of convergence between their worlds. It was a singular instance of joy and connection, destined to be cherished but never repeated.

And then there was his projection. The apparition that she had initially thought was the god she loved. He stood watch over her as she reminisced silently. Knowing that Loki was on the other end, controlling the magic and sensing all that this “fake” Loki experienced did not sit well with her. Remembering his presence, she whispered, not daring to look at the specter, “Give me time,” she said, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to pull at the threads of his being. “I need to find my footing again, in a world where you cannot stay, and I just…cannot be where you are.”

The projection nodded, an ethereal gesture that belied the depth of his agreement. “As you wish, my ‘Lara,” she smiled at the subtle pun he had made with her name. “I will watch over you, unseen, unheard, until you call for me again.” His voice, even as a mere duplication, held the warmth of the stars among which they had danced.

His projection faded with a bright green shimmer as Melara turned away. Instead, her thoughts shifted to that night’s performance. It turned out that Loki was not the only one she had enchanted with her voice on the night she’d met him. As fate would have it, a local booking agent happened into the bar, mesmerized by her voice as well. Days later, she would receive a call offering to have her open for a renowned band at a local outdoor music festival.

She let her fingers drift across the strings of her guitar mindlessly as she found herself distracted by thoughts of Loki. But she would not relent; she would not let the memory of his intoxicating scent or his fingers upon her skin distract her from the performance that was more about her love for music than a love for calling out to the god of stories…her god of stories.

            I am yours, Melara.

The room, still tinged with the echoes of their parting, slowly returned to the mundane rhythm of her world as the day progressed. Melara, embracing the solitude, turned her focus to the strings of her guitar, the familiar weight in her hands grounding her in the present. With each chord struck, her thoughts of Loki began to fade, replaced by the anticipation of the performance ahead.

Evening descended, draping the bustling city in hues of twilight as Melara stepped on the stage to roaring applause as she glowed in the spotlight. The band striking up the first song of the set fired her up as she began. The festival air was electric, pulsating with the energy of eager crowds and distant melodies. A single spotlight carved out her space in the darkness, her silhouette a beacon to the gathering throng as her voice commanded the attention of every attendee.

As the first notes of her second song, this time a fast-paced crowd-pleaser, each lyric spun from her soul, Melara’s voice captured the audience once more, her presence an embodiment of music’s raw power over the human form. Amidst the crowds, she felt alone yet not alone – each word, each melody, a bridge between her and the listeners, a shared journey through the landscape of her artistry.

She scanned the crowd for a familiar face. His face. She had wondered if he would be there, watching over her in silent support once more. Instead, she saw the visages of countless strangers awe-stricken by her powerful voice as she crooned out the final notes of the crowd-charging anthem.

Thoughts of Loki charged her mind as the music stopped and the haze of the crowd’s roar began to fade into the background. It had been mere hours and Melara missed being by his side, the feel of his warm skin, how his eyes reflected the depths of his love for her without a spoken word. The longing for him was agonizing as she panted breathlessly attempting to right herself before the next song of her set.

Sitting at the grand piano that had been wheeled out on the stage, Melara shushed the crowd. “Good evening, folks! How are y’all doin’ tonight?!” Thunderous applause roared from the arena.

“I’m Melara Brandt and I’m here to welcome you to the show!”

The crowd cheered boisterously once more as she began to play twinkling notes on the piano before her, an effort to test the sound balance and hush the throngs of people more as she transitioned into a slower ballad.

“Let’s slow it down a little with a rendition of an amazing song that I have loved for years,” Melara intoned. “I just want to tell you, this song means a lot to me and is a tribute to an admiration of the exquisite chaos that is love. I know each and every one of y’all knows what I mean!”

Screams of agreement came from the crowd. Cheering her on as her enchanting voice hypnotized the people before her.

“I want you to sing with me if you know the words. This is Beautiful Disaster,” Melara’s voice softened as she began playing the subdued arrangement of the song that showcased the range of her voice. But as her fingers struck the notes, she found her mind wandering to Loki again, this time she allowed herself to feel the words and lean into her emotions rather than let them hold her back from this moment.

He drowns in his dreams, An exquisite extreme I know. He’s as damned as he seems, More heaven than a heart could hold. And if I try to save him, My whole world may cave in. It just ain’t right. It just ain’t right.

The crowd lay eerily silent as Melara sang. Her voice echoed the depths of the sentiment she had felt with Loki at the end of time. His emerald eyes wearily pierced her mind, the glow reflected in his crown, and the shimmering gold of his throne etched into every part of her mind as the song took her back to their precious moments intertwined in the bliss of sheer passion.

Oh and I don’t know, I don’t know what he’s after. But he’s so beautiful, He’s such a beautiful disaster. And if I could hold on through the tears and the laughter, Lord, would it be beautiful? Or just a beautiful disaster?

The tears in her eyes threatened to overtake her in this moment, but she held on for the moment. It was her duty to their relationship, the least she could do was honor him in this song, even if he was not present to hear her sing her heart out to a near-packed stadium with throngs of people now adoring fans of her magical voice.

He’s magic and myth, As strong as what I believe. A tragedy with more damage than a soul should see. And do I try to change him? So hard not to blame him. Hold me tight. Baby, hold me tight. Oh, and I don’t know, I don’t know what he’s after. But he’s so beautiful, He’s such a beautiful disaster. And if I could hold on through the tears and the laughter, Lord, would it be beautiful? Or just a beautiful disaster?

A flash of her kissing his tears away on the throne played at the corners of her memories. It had been just a few short hours for her, but she imagined that her departure had seemed like eons had passed for him as he sat dutiful, the strands of time given life by his touch. Her heart ached for the loneliness she knew he must have felt seeing her leave. She pounded the keys harder, taking out her own frustration and pain on the keys as the bridge of the song approached.

I’m longing for love and the logical, But he’s only happy hysterical. I’m searching for some kind of miracle, I’ve waited so long, Waited so long.

He’s soft to the touch, But frayed at the end he breaks. He’s never enough, And still he’s more than I can take.

The song slowed to a near standstill as Melara looked out at the crowd, tears blurring her vision as she reached the climax of the song. Though she felt weak at the knees, her voice called out stronger than it ever had. She found the strength within to push through though the emotional pain tugged at every fiber of her being, threatening to pull her apart. If she could, she would set the whole world on fire at the unfairness of allowing a soul like Loki to sit alone at the end of time when he deserved so much more.

Oh, and I don’t know, I don’t know what he’s after. But he’s so beautiful, He’s such a beautiful disaster. And if I could hold on through the tears and the laughter, Lord, would it be beautiful? Or just a beautiful disaster?

Loki had changed. So had she. The anguish in her voice shone through as she finished the final words of the song in a hushed airy melody.

He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful. He’s beautiful.

It took all the strength Melara could muster to finish the last song of her set before she ran off stage, vomiting in the closest trash can as she hyperventilated in panic. She did not see how she would live the rest of her life without him, but could not even fathom the idea of pantomiming a life with the avatar of him.

What have I done to deserve this? It’s not fair!

Her skin burned with impassioned anger, kicking the walls of the stage and the equipment around her in rage. Just then, a familiar face pulled her back to Earth. It was her mother, a stage pass dangling around her neck as she smiled proudly in the direction of her daughter.

Melara’s eyes blazed wide, relieved to see her mother, but still feeling her blood boil with a heat reminiscent of the last pain episode that had landed her in the hospital. This felt different though. She felt like she would explode into a pile of ashes if she allowed the anger and rage to progress any further.

Melara ran to her mother with a harrowing look on her face, gripping her mother tightly as she sobbed.

“Darling, what’s wrong? Are you ok? Is it the pain again?” Evelyn comforted her daughter, before pulling back. “Love, you’re so warm. You’re burning up! Let’s get you some water and come stay with me tonight. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

She pulled her mother close to her again, trembling fiercely as she managed to eek out a, “Thanks, mom,” just loud enough for her mother to hear.

As the last notes of Melara’s performance echoed into silence, the crowd’s applause continued to thunder like a storm through the festival grounds. She bowed once more in the direction of the people who could still see her, a gesture both of gratitude and a silent plea for respite from the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. It was then that Evelyn’s voice, tinged with disbelief, cut through the din.

 “Honey, isn’t that…?” Her words trailed off, but her gaze pierced the sea of faces, locking onto one that defied reason.

Melara followed her mother’s line of sight, and for a fleeting heartbeat, her world tilted on its axis. There, amongst the nameless faces, stood a hauntingly familiar vision, almost painfully so. It was Loki, or at least the shape of him, half-shrouded in the evening’s shadow, his presence could have been an impossibility, but there he was. Melara refused to contemplate this manifestation further.

“No, mom. It can’t be,” Melara murmured, her voice a mere wisp. “It’s just a trick of the light, a shadow. He’s not…he can’t be here.” Her words were a lifeline thrown to her own reeling senses, a desperate attempt to cling to the realm of reality where gods did not walk amongst mortals. At least the echoes of gods, anyway.

Evelyn, sensing the shift in her daughter, offered a comforting arm. “Let’s get you out of here, sweetie. You’ve done enough for tonight. I wouldn’t want you to overdo it and have another episode.”

Melara nodded, grateful for the escape. “Yea, let’s go.” Her reply was automatic, but her eyes remained fixed on the figure in the audience until the very last moment when the sea of bodies closed around him, swallowing the illusion – or truth – whole.

They retreated from the stage, the clamor of the festival fading into a distant hum as they navigated through the labyrinth of backstage corridors. With every step, Melara’s insistence on the impossibility of Loki’s presence warred with the raw yearning that his supposed sighting had ignited within her. The night air, once a refreshing comfort, now felt heavy, charged with the desires she dared not voice.

As they emerged into the quieter outskirts of the festival, Melara’s gaze lingered on the horizon, where the celestial canvas stretched wide and untouchable. It was a reminder of the distance between her world and his, between the life she must lead and the dreams she held close.

“Melara?” Evelyn’s voice, gentle yet probing, called her back.

“Yes, I’m here,” she said, her voice steady despite the tumult within. “I’m here.” And with a final glance at the night sky, she stepped forward into the unknown paths that lay ahead, the echo of a god’s laughter and the memory of what felt like a dream the only companions to her silent vigil.

---

Taglist: @mischief2sarawr

[deejadabbles]

Echo and Comms (Echo x Reader) Chapter Three

Summary: Who could know that a simple night out with your friend would lead to this? A life of danger and the man of your dreams. Echo x Communications Officer Reader (gender neutral). Friends to lovers/star-crossed lovers. A.N: First off I would like say I'm so sorry (!!!) this took so long to get out to anyone interested in this series! If I'm being blunt, I've been feeling rather discouraged over my Echo content. But, I still adore this man and have so many ideas on where to take this series, so, thank you to everyone who shows interest in this story! I appreciate the reblogs and comments so much! Secondly, the emotions of this chapter got away from me and before I knew it I was 3k words deep, so I'm warning you now that this is a heavy chapter, but I promise the sweet reunion and happy times are coming! I promise Word count: 3,814 Songs for listening: What Hurts the Most and Experience . Warnings: mentions and explorations of grief/loss, mentions of drinking as a coping mechanism, very heavy topics in general.

Part One /// Part Two /// Part Three /// [Part Four coming soon]

There was nothing to mourn.

That’s the reality that hit you hardest.

The clones gave everything to the republic, to the people, to the war, and they got nothing in return. You had always known that, of course. The debate of clone rights and personhood was always a raring topic since the start of the war, not that the question of their rights should be a debate at all. You had always known they were dealt a shitty hand in life, but it was never more apparent than now.

Now that there was nothing of your sweet, brave Echo to mourn.

There was no funeral, no last rites, no medals or flags given in his honor, not even a damn word of thanks for his sacrifice. His brothers would grieve for him, of course, perhaps the Jedi who had led him too, Echo had always spoken fondly of Skywalker, after all, but his brothers had no means to mourn. Not really. And no other family could offer you their shoulder, no mother or father, no one but soldiers who weren’t allowed to wear their sorrows on their sleeves.

There was nothing of Echo’s to mourn, nothing but the messages and pictures he had sent you.

They were the only proof of his existence, of his memory. That he wasn’t another number, that he was sweet and charming and smart, that he was awkward and rule-following and so damn caring. He had worried so much about his brothers, about them being remembered, and now, these communications were the only remembrance of him, of your Echo.

Eventually, you had to force yourself to stop looking them over for hours every night. Stop yourself from hoping that you would get one last comm from him. One last picture of his dorky smile, of him and Fives causing havoc. One last call to tell you he missed you, to tell you he loved you. 

Echo had loved you. 

And you, oh, how you had loved him too. You had fallen for him fast and hard, and now this pain was the unyielding ground at the end of that fall.

Work was your only solace. Work was an escape, a place where your mind couldn’t wander, couldn’t focus on the grief, couldn’t muse over your loss, your work was too important for that.

Mavis was your anchor, she gave you space and distractions in a good balance. Space to be alone so you weren’t just cramming your feelings in a box all day, and distractions when she knew you needed something that wasn’t work or grief. 

You weren’t proud of the way you were careless with your drinks at the bar on those nights, but somehow, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care most of the time.

Days turned into weeks. The war stretched on, and death tolls rolled in every day, just numbers, faceless, dehumanized numbers. Just like your Echo.

Weeks turned into months. Work continued, a decryption there, a few lives saved here, small victories, victories that helped your pain. Each one was for your Echo now.

You had always taken pride in your work, pride in doing your part to ease this war, to win battles, but now this was just an extra layer of it, pride that you could help the brothers he had held so dear. It helped, and those around you started to notice. 

Eventually, it got easier to smile throughout the day, and you started to feel less guilty over that ease. Though, you still couldn’t crack jokes quite like you used to. At some point, your trips to the bar became less about drowning your sorrow and more about spending time with friends. Though, you still recoiled every time someone tried to flirt with you.

You hoped that things could get better.

The trouble was that no one told you that hope was a dangerous thing.

A sigh pushed itself past your teeth as you leaned back, rubbing your eyes to wash away the imprint of data streams behind your lids. Just a few more hours and you could go to that nice dinner Mavis had invited you to. It was a decent day, and you felt like eating.

The break from your work must have caught attention because someone cleared their throat beside you. Moving only one hand, you cracked an eye open toward the noise. It was Taan, a young and brilliant decrypter who had been placed under your care until he learned the ropes enough to work on his own. He was holding his data pad with a question burning in his eyes.

“Yeah, kid?” you asked, fighting a yawn.

“Do you have a minute to look something over?”

Silently, you sat upright again and waved him forward, letting your other hand drop.

He paused for just a moment, thought, then must have decided it was now or never, “Do you remember last week, when we decrypted that resource update?”

“You mean the one from the techno union, advertising their fancy new battle tactic algorithm?”

“Yeah, that one! See, I was taking another look at it, and…something doesn’t fit. It bothered me the first time we looked at it, but we were too busy relaying the new information to command for me to think about at the time, but now I looked it over again and…” Fingers tapped on the underside of the data pad as he bit his lip, then he shoved it towards you, “here just look for yourself, look at the developer signatures.”

You did as asked, eyes going to the bottom of the page where the techno union had listed the people involved with creating the algorithm. If you weren’t so used to decoding the various numeric-heavy code names those tech creeps used, it would have looked like gibberish. Wat Tambor’s was the only code name you had memorized and without your key, you weren’t sure who the others were….expect.

Your chair gave a creak as you jolted forward, a little shocked.

“See it?” Taan was trying to contain his excitement at your reaction, obviously glad he wasn’t going crazy. 

He wasn’t. There, right in the middle of the long list of contributors, was a strange name, not coded like the rest. ‘T1b3r’ It only had two numbers, unlike the others, meaning it had to be using a different cipher. Among the dozen confusing names, it was easy to miss.

Your mind was working overtime and you didn’t answer the kid quite yet as you pulled your chair back to your workstation, fingers dancing away at your desk unit. That didn’t stop Taan from rambling in your silence.

“I ran it through our other keys but it still didn’t make any sense, then I thought, maybe this guy’s using a whole new code we haven’t cracked yet? But in that case, why? Like why sign your contribution and make it harder to recognize your name and-”

“That’s because it’s not encoded at all,” you offered, “or at least, not a complicated code.”

“Huh?”

“You play Alderaan Gambit at all, kid?”

Taan hummed, “You mean that weird, over-complicated version of holochess? No, not really.”

Since your quick search on the net confirmed your suspicions, you leaned back in your chair again, “Well, one of the elements of the game is capturing each other’s pieces and holding them behind your ‘enemy line’ so to speak. The pieces aren’t just removed from play, they stay on the board and there are all kinds of strategies players can use to win the game with them. You know what those captured pieces are called?”

He shook his head.

“Tibers.”

Taan’s eyes went wide, “T1b3r!” he snatched his datapad back from your hands, “So… you don’t think that…?”

You hesitated, pulling your lip between your teeth, “That one of our own is being used behind enemy lines? Yeah…maybe.”

A fist slammed against your desk, nearly hitting your keyboard, and a growl pushed its way through your teeth. It was late, much later than you usually stayed, and well past your shift. You had told Taan to go home hours ago, insisting that you could wait for the response alone. 

After your litter discovery, you sent it up the chain of command and leveraged your reputation to get the report marked as a priority. You knew there was a chance that, even if they did look it over today, that they may not see what the two of you saw.

The response to your report was clear: there wasn’t enough evidence to warrant further investigation.

If you weren’t running on so little sleep and half blind from staring at the screen of your desk unit for 12 hours, you might have been able to see their point. It was, admittedly, a weak connection. There were countless languages and cultures in the galaxy, so even if the code name was meant to spell out ‘Tiber’ there was little reason to think it was in reference to a strategy game and not just a birth-given name.

But still, something just didn’t sit right with you. Something was off, you could feel it in your gut, and after years of trusting your gut to stay alive, you weren’t in the habit of ignoring it.

You rubbed the corners of your tired eyes, hoping to alleviate the pressure growing there. The supervisors weren’t any help to you now, but you weren’t ready to let this go just yet. You just had to think- think of who you could go to for another opinion!

After a moment, your head jerked back up, eyes still stinging as they met your holoscreen again. A quick search in the GAR records would give you your answer, they kept close track of what battalion was where at any given moment. It was serendipitous, or maybe it was fate telling you that you were right to push this further, either way, you practically lept from your chair when you saw that the 501st were currently on Coruscant.

Even if you could let this go until tomorrow (which you couldn’t), you had to go to them tonight, they were shipping out for Ringo Vinda in the morning to aid General’s Tiplee and Tiplar.

You were already clocking out with the Corrie guards on duty before you realized you weren’t even sure who to contact or how. A part of you felt like you knew the men of the 501st, especially Torrent company. 

The number of times Echo had talked about them, all the pictures he sent, the videos he recorded of their antics, they felt like old friends. Echo had wanted you to meet them all, mentioned all the time of plans for you to join his brothers on shore leave the next time they came home. A chance you two never got.

There was a sudden shake of your head as if that could brush the spiraling thoughts away. You had to focus, this wasn’t about your lost chances.

You thought about asking Mavis for Fives’ comm code, but that felt a little trange. So, instead, you checked the time and, when you realized drinking hours were just starting, you headed for your speeder bike.

You hadn’t been back to 79’s since the night you met Echo. When you two were together, it was simply because there were other bars you and your friends preferred more and now that he was gone, no one even dared mention the name of the place.

It wasn’t nearly as hard to walk in as you thought it would be. Though, that was mostly due to the fact that you were avoiding looking at any of the patrons in armor for too long. That wouldn’t last forever, of course, the whole reason you were here was to talk to someone who had the same face as him.

There wasn’t much wandering needed before you spotted a group in blue, downing shots and making a general ruckus at the bar. You recognized the large tattoo on one of them and actually smiled to yourself. A picture came to the surface of your mind, one with three of Echo’s brothers standing in a smoke-filled kitchen. The corner of Echo’s laughing face had been beside the caption: ‘They were betting on who the better cook was. They all lost’.

Again you had to tamp down the feelings welling up inside and once you had, you marched to the bar. You tapped on the armored shoulder, just before he grabbed another shot.

When he looked over his shoulder at you, you said, “Are you Jesse?”

He arched an eyebrow, then turned to face you fully, eyes scanning up and down, “Hey, you aren’t a clone.”

“Observant one, aren’t you?”

That made him smirk, “Just not used to seeing natborns in those uniforms- but yeah, I’m Jesse, what’s your name, hot lips?”

You opened your mouth, but it wasn’t your voice that called your name, instead, a hand gripped your shoulder and you turned to see Fives with concern written on his face. The moment you saw him, something that wasn’t there when you looked at Jesse gripped your heart, but like the other emotions, you swallowed it.

“Fives, is your captain here? I need to speak with Rex.”

His eyes narrowed, “Rex? Why?”

You hesitated, and the moment you did, Fives handed his drink off to someone else and guided you away from the heart of the ruckus (leaving Jesse ignored and a little bewildered).

“I just need to talk to him. Something was brought to my attention at work today and I think he might be able to help me.”

Again, Fives just stared at you, but when you only answered him with a hard stare, he sighed. “Rex is having a drink with Commander Bly,” he jabbed his thumb towards a two-seat table near the corner. Before you could shove past him, however, his grip on your arm tightened a bit. “Hey- just hold on a sec, will you? Can I at least ask how you’re doing?”

You didn’t miss the way he tried to duck into your vision, to lock his gaze with the eyes that were avoiding him. It wasn’t his fault, the emotion welling up inside, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Fives was just too wrapped up in everything that reminded you of him.

But, he still deserved an answer.

“I’m…better. Things aren’t perfect, but,” with a calming breath, you looked up as close to his eyes as possible, focusing on all the little details of his face that distinguished him from Echo. “But they’re better.”

You knew he was staring at you still, maybe searching your face, maybe looking for signs of a lie or cover-up. After a moment, though, he sighed and straightened up. “Alright. Hey, before you leave, tell me, I’ll walk you home, okay?”

A smile flickered across your lips, Fives really was sweet, despite his playboy bravado. After giving his arm a gentle squeeze, you moved past him toward where Rex and his friend sat. As if by fate, the other man, Bly, got up before you closed in, heading for the bar for another round.

Rex’s gaze flicked up from his empty glass when he caught your movement in the corner of his eye.

“Captain Rex?”

“Yes, may I help you?” he asked, looking you over.

You held your hand out, and when you gave your name, his eyes widened. So, he did know of you. That made sense, Echo once said that he ‘bragged’ about you every chance he got, even to his captain. Before Rex could say anything, however, you got to business, “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Captain, but I need your help with something, do you have a moment?”

Rex didn’t hesitate, after casting a eyes to the bar and sharing a look with someone, presumably his friend, he waved for you to take a seat.

“Did you receive the report on the Techno Union’s new battle algorithm?” you asked once settled in the seat. He nodded, and so, you explained your situation, your theory, and what brought you to it, and how the higher-ups didn’t think it important enough to investigate. 

When you finished, Rex continued to stare at you for a moment, then, “Alright, so why have you come to me?”

“Because I-” you paused, mind faltering. You had a reason, of course you did, but how to put it? Your eyes dropped to the table for a moment, you thought, then darted your gaze back up to his with a sign, “Maybe I just want to know if I’m wasting my time. Captain, do you think a trooper would send a message like that? Or am I drawing conclusions where there aren’t any?”

For a moment, all Rex did was stare back at you, maybe mulling over his answer, maybe considering you, personally. Maybe both. “I mean, it’s possible. Anything is, I suppose. It would have to be a clone with advanced training, like a commando, or an ARC, and of course, to even know the reference to a tiber piece, they’d have to be familiar with Alderaan Gambit in the first-”

Rex cut himself off, mouth clapping shut and eyes going wide again.

That’s when it hit you too.

“Echo,” you breathed, mind connecting this line and that rapidly. “Why didn’t I think of it before?” Something warm flickered in your chest, something small but blooming as you thought over the possibility of your beloved. 

Hope. It was a spark of hope. 

Your rambling continued as the blanks filled themselves in, “Echo used to talk about how he played Alderaan Gambit with- with you, Rex! How you used to come up with battle strategies together while playing. If he was captured, maybe they realized his strategic skills, and now-!”

The spark was fanning itself by this point.

“Now he’s trapped, somehow forced to help their own battle strategies. But he’s too smart to let them get away with it.”

“Stop.”

“And not to mention his ARC training would include advanced splicing, which he’d need to hack into their reports to alter them. He would have all the skills to send us a message. And he would-”

“Stop!”

The sharp firmness of Rex’s tone caught you off guard, words fumbling in your mouth as your mind came to a screeching halt. When your eyes snapped up to his, a hard expression that had taken over his features. It softened a little, but his gaze said it all and you felt oddly chastised under it. 

Echo is gone. Echo is dead.

That spark in your chest dimmed.

Then, Rex sighed and placed a hand on your shoulder. “You can’t do that to yourself, little one. Believe me.” He paused for a moment, perhaps thinking, maybe collecting himself. “You can’t… hold on to the dead. It will tear you up inside more than anything. More than the loss, more than the grief, even the memories. Holding on will hurt you most in the end.” 

The hand tightened a little, almost affectionate, almost… paternal. His eyes were soft and full of years of hard-earned experience. Years of his own grief, of his own loss.

“Echo wouldn’t want that for you. He would want you to let him go, so you can heal.” Rex let his hand fall, gaze fixed on his drink again and you found that you were swallowing a sour taste in your throat. “We all have to move on. It’s the only way we can survive.”

The lining of sorrow in his words was the water that doused the remainder of that spark. Hope melted away like snow on skin and it stung just the same.

Again you found yourself choking on something in your throat; the bitterness of rising tears.

The way Rex kept his eyes unfocused on his hands said all that needed to be said, so you stood rather abruptly. “I’m sorry for taking up your time, Captain. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

You thought he might have tilted his head back up to you as you turned to leave, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Besides that, he didn’t say or do anything as you walked away. There was a ringing in your ears as you went, and suddenly, wading through the crowd of patrons made your skin feel like it was on fire.

Everything was too loud now, the music pressing in on your ears, the lights burning your eyes. You felt dizzy as something else stung your eyes, that sour taste thickening in your throat as you burst through the doors. The stale city air did little to calm you, and you found yourself staggering to the side, trying to find any sort of privacy as your chest clawed itself with pain.

You had just ducked behind a row of speeder bikes when the tears broke free, a sob ripping your throat apart from the effort of holding it in. The sound bounced off the side of the building and echoed down the alley, just as the tears soaked into the permacrete without a care. 

The grief that had gotten better rolled over you like a tidal wave. Once again it pulled you under as if you hadn’t made any progress at all.

How could you be so stupid? How could you think that he was alive, that he had defied all odds and sent you some secret message? This wasn’t some romance novel, love and hope couldn’t change reality. Death didn’t just reverse because you begged it to. Stupid stupid stupid-

Once again your mind stalled as arms, warm and gentle, closed around you. Someone guided you to sit, calling your name so softly you almost couldn’t hear it over your own ragging thoughts. A hand tucked you close to an armored chest as they started a slow rocking motion with your bodies.

Stunned, you looked up past the armor and through the tears to find the kindest brown eyes you had seen since your last call with Echo.

“It’s alright, vod’ika,” he whispered, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Fives tucked your head under his chin, still rocking you as he rubbed your back and repeated his assurances.

The waves came again with a vengeance and this time, you let it happen. You curled into his embrace and wept, tears and sobs coming without restraint. It didn’t matter how long you two sat there like that, Fives held you the entire time. It didn’t matter that he was shipping out in the morning, he spent his night comforting you through every moment of the reopening wounds.

Hope was a dangerous thing. It hadn’t been a spark inside you, it had been a fire. 

And you know what they say about fire.

Tag List: @blueink-bluesoul @anxiouspineapple99 @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @commander-sunshine @dystopicjumpsuit @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @arcsimper5 @littlemissmanga @wings-and-beskar @clonemedickix

[graha-stan-account]

Once Bitten, Twice Shy: Day 11

Once bitten, twice shy: idiomatic. A person who has failed or been hurt when trying to do something is careful or fearful about doing it again. 

Present; Napha and Dajhir are on a sibling date in La Noscea. Once they get past bickering, Dajhir finally opens up a bit about his recent past.

FFXIVWrite 2023 Masterlist

--- 

The moon was high over Camp Bronze Lake, the odd raindrop plunking down into the mineralized waters of the hot springs as the distant crickets of late summer renewed their song. 

"I know you think I'm a fool." K'dajhir turned away from the moon, facing his sister. "A harlot." He tilted his head. "As someone so straight-laced, it must be embarrassing for you." 

"I can't tell if you're putting yourself down, or putting me down." J'napha propelled herself along the floor of the spring toward him. 

"Neither. I survived a Calamity. What care should I have for the opinions of others?" He shrugged. "Don't you wonder why I changed my name?" 

"I do. And when I asked you told me to 'nevermind about that.'" 

"Because it's a long story. One that's apt to get my words all tangled and," he sighed heavily, "it's a lot." 

"So is this you telling me now, or," she gestured behind her with a thumb, "shall I towel off?" 

"Full glad am I of your interest." He narrowed his eyes at her. "'Tis a better tale than the one of why you changed your name, though I'm sure Mother would love to hear it." 

Napha rolled her eyes. "Those traditions used to mean something to some of us, Dajhir. Doesn't mean I'm above putting necessity before pride." 

"Oh, yes," he said with a sneer. "A matter of survival, most definitely. Ph." 

"You don't remember what it was like."

"I do," he said, his words heavy as an anchor. "You haven't been back though... have you?" 

Napha looked away, lips tightly pursed, silent. 

"Mm." K'dajhir nodded, having obtained the answer he expected. "Little Napha, slayer of primals, liberator of nations, Warrior of the newly-found Big Mouth, can't bear to show her face at home." 

"You left first."

"I had to. There was no future for me there, and no reason to go back." 

"You said the same of me." 

"I did, but they'd be proud of you." He looked down, adding a flippant slight: "Well, perhaps if you hadn't changed your name, Ja'napha." 

"What of you? Ran off to join a stronger tribe? Ashamed after proclaiming you'd toss it all away? After you swore up and down you'd be a city boy, an adventurer or what have you, only to run back to what's familiar?"

"I did not go back to tribe life. I was serious when I said I didn't want that. I'm just..." he seemed uncomfortable. "Sentimental. I knew you wouldn't understand." 

"Wouldn't understand? How can I even try if you don't explain?" 

K'dajhir sighed heavily. 

Napha insisted with a flare of her eyebrows. 

"His name was Mjrn." K'dajhir bit his lip and turned back to face the moon's soft glow. "I met him in Coerthas, a time after the Calamity. He was a hired guide for a band of adventurers I happened to cross paths with. They were making their way south toward the Rhotano Sea." He peeked at her, placing a hand on his chest. "Me, in the frigid wastes?" He let loose a nervous little laugh "Mjrn knew before I did I was half frost-bitten."

"l'm still not seeing..." 

"His mountain name, as he called it, was Kallvjnd." A smile split his face. "By the time we reached the coast, we chose to be bonded together. Nothing fancy. I adapted his surname to my name, because... I wanted everyone to know he was mine." He paused for a moment, staring into the dark water. "He wanted to do the same. Tribal Viera change their names when they settle somewhere new, did you know? He wanted to use my given name for his surname."

Napha stifled a laugh, unsure if it was appropriate. 

"Oh, trust that I explained that to him." A chuckle escaped. "The fool used it anyway." 

"Dajhir..."

"That's the thing with you adventurers. You're so damn good at leaving an impression, but you don't stick around long, do you? You take too many risks - and trust me I love you for it, I do - but," his ears bent back and his look of determination wavered, "loss either hardens you or softens you. I haven't decided which I am yet." 

"I'm sorry." 

K'dajhir smiled, his eyes sparkling with a glassy sheen. "Do not be. Out of it, there's things I've learned. Life is short, for instance. So have that drink... kiss that boy." He moved forward, grasping her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. "Oh Napha, can't you see? I'm still looking for romance! I'm just not looking for love. That path, I've walked it – it's lovely –but it hurts too much to go bounding down again. Instead, I live for the day now. So I don't let them break my heart when they go. And I don't think Mjrn would begrudge me for that. I still wear his name, after all." 

[marshmallowsqoosh]

[MW2 | Apex]

Fandom: Modern Warfare 2 (2022) Title: Apex (AO3 Link) Rating: Teen CW: Mild depictions of violence and death Lesser Warnings: Merfolk Ghost and Soap, I 2000% don’t belong here oops, not beta’d, super short Summary: Super short and quick thing based on this gorgeous Mermay piece by  @ FanartByFire (Links go to twitter!)

My knowledge of Ghost and Soap is fanart and like three sections of MW2 (Specifically the Escape Scene ... I’ve watched it a shameful number of times), please be gentle orz I am way too tired and depressed to commit energy to playing myself, even though I want to.

Extras: Status: Complete Word Count: 1609

♠

Soap starts to wake up to pressure.

Familiar pressure, at first—being properly submerged instead of folded and squished into the horrific invisible barriers humans used for containment. Too weak to thrash, barely conscious most days. Whatever had kept him drowsy in the too small prison is starting to wear off, he thinks… he hopes.

Something thick in his mouth, wrapped around his head, had kept him from gnashing at the humans the few times he was coherent. It's still there, he realises, as more awareness returns to him; thick like too many kelp blades, when he needed something to bite down on while Ghost treated injuries—

A new sensation of pain makes his eyes dilate and awareness shoot through his body, senses starting to register everything all at once.

A secondary pressure all over his body—bound arms and body. He can kind of see long cords in his peripherals, attached in various locations to the shark body and connected to heavy… anchors, he thinks, they're called. He can feel them pulling on his pectoral fins, as well. Something heavy on his dorsal and tip of his ear, as well.

Something around his neck, as tight as everything else restricting his movement.

But what got his attention, he very quickly realises, is his own blood. A deep cut behind his left pectoral. Trying to dig his liver out—orca hunting? He thinks he remembers one of the humans mentioning a starved orca. They have another thing coming, if this is where they brought him to bait out a "starved orca".

One of the humans putting their hand in the wound confirms they're going for the liver; but, it just makes him thrash against the restraints and he does, briefly, dislodge at least one human. In the midst of the thrashing—he can kind of feel the humans trying to keep him still—he can hear… a song. A very familiar song that should be absolutely terrifying as it echoes off the rocks around him.

Ghost.

He sees the shadow beneath him, briefly. The humans don't notice, still occupied trying to get him still again. He feels the restraints tugging more and only begins to still his thrashing as he realises exactly how much danger he's putting himself in. Ignoring the blood—he isn't worried about the injury, that can be treated later—he can definitely tell some of the anchors are beginning to loosen. His chest heaves as he tries to bite through the thickness in his mouth; the humans make gestures at each other. Excited gestures—more and more animated and frantic whenever Ghost's song echoes around them. When it gets louder. Confusion when it gets softer or the moments it goes completely silent.

They have no idea how terrified they should be when it's so quiet.

Ghost is closer. He knows it. He needs to keep attention on himself—he knows both of them have the horrible weapons that put things to sleep. He wanted to have his own teeth available for this; but, he just needs to make due. Not difficult, when he feels the hand go into the gash on his tail, again.

They want him to thrash and look like a weak meal? He's all too delighted to comply—well. Not delighted. But he will be as soon as he gets his mouth free. For now the thrashing keeps attention on him, right up until Ghost more or less materialises behind the human with their hand in the open gash.

He knows it doesn't take much effort for Ghost to tear the human apart—claws digging into the torso and tearing upwards until it's severed from the lower half and his attention goes to the second human without missing a beat.

The second human tries to escape by swimming under Soap—maybe hoping that Ghost will be distracted by a free dinner. Distracted, yes—but just long enough he can tear at the binding on Soap's back. He sees the restraints fall off his front, the ring and everything attached to it slowly sinking; but, he doesn't let it distract him for long, already tearing at whatever's in his mouth until he finally gets it out—a thick strap, like the rest of the restraints—and immediately turns his attention to trying to twist in on himself to get his own teeth into the human.

"John—Johnny, hold still—!"

He maybe forgot about the rest of the restraints. He may be smaller than Ghost—and, generally, not nearly as strong—but in that moment of pulling his entire body to catch the human, he ends up pulling all of the anchors loose and it's only Ghost getting his claws through most of the connected cords that keeps Soap from being dragged into the depths or having any part of his tail torn off.

He'll be grateful later; right now, the only thing he's focused on is tearing the human apart with his teeth. Until Ghost finally pries the body away from him—well. Calling it a body is probably being generous. Scraps is more accurate. But, as those scraps float away, towards the surface, and Soap struggles to pull his breathing under control—torso heaving with shallow, rapid breaths—as Ghost turns his face, clearly looking for more injuries… everything starts to hit him finally and the anger starts to hit different.

Panic. Relief. He catches Ghost before he can circle to assess the open wound and just latches on as tight as he can. If his claws are digging too hard into Ghost's back, he doesn't say anything. Just closes his arms around Soap, until he's completely enveloped.

"I got ya, Johnny. I got ya. Let's get you home. Get that taken care of and you can have whatever y'want."

"... Wha'ever I want?" He means it as a joke. He means for it to be a lot more light-hearted than it comes out. Not as the quiet, almost stutter, of words that he's fairly sure gets lost against Ghost's chest. But, he's still comforted by the rumble caused from the quiet chuckle. A soothing vibration from deep in the orca's chest.

"Within reason."

Soap doesn't argue or try to fight against Ghost working himself free and ushering Soap along to their grotto. Not a far swim—it makes Soap painfully aware of the fact the humans have at least been tracking Ghost for… who even knows how long. Long enough to know where he preferred to hunt and sleep. Long enough to know where "bait" would be most effective.

The adrenaline is wearing off by the time they get home and it takes a concentrated effort for Soap to hoist himself onto the dried land mass in the center of their grotto. Enough that the gash isn't submerged anymore and his upper body collapses across the ground. The chill of air is already setting in, even as the part of his tail still in the water sways and his caudal fin splashes water up to keep his skin from drying out too horribly.

He's tired. Emotionally exhausted—still working his way through various stages of processing—and just physically exhausted after being in the cramped containment for… however long it's been. He wants to ask. Maybe he'll remember to later—

Of course, that's quickly the last thing on his mind as he feels something extra cold slathered onto his injury and it's only the awareness that it's Ghost that keeps him from turning and getting his teeth around the source of the unwelcome sensation. He still snarls out a curse—lost under his accent—and Ghost simply runs a heavy, albeit gentle, touch up his back.

"Easy. Know it ain't pleasant, but sooner it's done, sooner you're back in the water."

Soap does his best to hold still while Ghost works—a few more irritated growls and his caudal fin slapping the water in equal irritation… it might bring him a little bit of amusement went Ghost warns him to stop splashing him. He listens; but, it was still worth the short burst of pleasure.

He doesn't fight Ghost easing him back into the water, once the salve has a chance to set; easier to wrap his body in long strands of kelp binding, in the water, just to keep the wound covered while it heals. Soap promptly lets himself more or less collapse against Ghost's chest, again, once the binding's set and just stays there. He can still feel the weight on his right ear and something heavy on his dorsal. He saw something on his hip, earlier, but he's too damn tired (and maybe a little scared) to actually look at it.

"... So, what were you sayin' about reasonable, now?"

Ghost chuckles and runs a gentle claw back through Soap's hair, fingers flexing and skrtiching a soothing sensation into his scalp. "Reasonable in that it innit gonna send me too far. Think I'm leavin' you alone in this condition?"

Soap hums and moves up until he can push his face, stubbornly, into Ghost's neck. "Damn right you're not goin' off without me. One of us goes, we both go. … Just wanna rest right now, Si… ain't hit me yet and I know it's gonna. Want you right here where I can find ya and make sure this fuckery actually is over, aye?"

If he sounds like he's trying to convince himself, more than Ghost, neither of them say anything about it. Ghost simply pulls him down until they're laid out on the large, flat rock they use for a bed, and curls himself around Soap in a protective, secure hold.

[liltaz-asatreat]

Ask game! Ask game! Ask game!

"Fire" for the WIP asks please

You can find the ask game here! :D (Feel free to send a word in! I probably won't get to it until tomorrow though lol)

(And don't worry, Noodyl, I saw your other ask too, but I have multiple works with "fire" in it, so I'm gonna do both :D lol)

I don't remember if you've seen the few posts about this wip either, but this is from the new long term wip I'm writing called Double Troubles! If you haven't heard of it before, I can send you a link to where I talked about it more in depth :)

Anyway, here's the exert, and I'm adding a bit more than what I've been sharing with the other asks (like, a lot more, so much that it's the length of most of the Julia exerts I've posted lol) because I haven't shared a lot of this one, and I'm excited about this whole scene (it's gotta go under a readmore though):

(Also, credit to @institute-of-planar-shitposts for letting me use her taz OC, Sunshine, in my story [only in this bit she's only referenced as the half-elf bard Meadow saw in a tavern in the past] and the song Meadow sings is Could Have Been Me by The Struts [which I first learned of this song by watching Sunny's Sunshine tiktok using the song here] And you should totally check out the stuff Sunny's shared about her story she's writing about Sunshine!! I think she has it tagged as "Sunshine" on her blog and I have all the reblogs tagged "Sunshine tag! :D" on mine)

Meadow grabs Magnus' hand, and he helps him out of the well and onto solid ground. He looks around, still trembling, and...

It's just gone.

Everything is... it's just gone.

The only things left where Phandalin once stood are the charred remains of buildings standing at the very edge of a perfect circle of black glass and, in the epicenter of the circle, a burned out dwarven figure standing with his right arm raised in the air and on the end of it is the silvery gauntlet.

This has got to be enough evidence to know that he's cursed, right? Would this still have happened if he hadn't been anywhere near this?

“Meadow, I– I know, but I need help getting the others out,” Magnus says, disrupting his thoughts and delaying the inevitable doom spiral that he surely will go down later.

“Right. Yes, of course.” Meadow mumbles, and he grabs the part of the rope Magnus offers him before Magnus gets behind him with the end of it to act as an anchor.

Together they manage to help the other boys out of the well, and then all four of them work together to pull Killian out too. After they drag her a few feet away from it, they all stop and look at each other in silence.

“So what now?” Taako asks, and Meadow laughs a little hysterically.

“I have no fucking idea.”

“Well, we can't leave the gauntlet here,” Merle says as he looks over at it with his hands on his hips.

At this rate, Meadow's going to become a Pokémon master of super powerful, indestructible artifacts because he has a funny feeling that the gauntlet is going to be just as resistant to everything as the amulet is.

“Killian was looking for it and knew what it was, so she must have some sort of way to contain it,” Magnus says.

“I don't trust her to take it no matter if she has something to contain it or not,” Meadow says immediately.

The others look at him questioningly. “Why not?” Merle asks. “She definitely knows more about it than we do and wanted to avoid this happening.”

Fuck!

“Uh... Because I–” Meadow sighs. “I've seen something like this before.”

“Wait, you have?” Magnus asks incredulously.

“Well, why didn't you tell us what was going to happen then?!” Merle asks angrily.

“Yeah, any information could've helped, Dow!” Taako agrees, and Meadow winces.

“I– I didn't know this was going to happen!” he says defensively. “I didn't even know it was like the– the other artifact I saw once a few years ago until it was too late!”

Taako and Merle scoff, but Magnus' face relaxes slightly. “Do you know anything about it that could help us now?”

Meadow licks his lips nervously and nods slightly. “Yeah, uh... the other artifact like it... It takes over the will of whoever is using it like the gauntlet did with Gundren. And it's really powerful and really hard to beat the temptation to put it on and use it; I... I'm the only person I know of who's been able to handle something like that without using it.”

“Well that's convenient,” Taako says sarcastically.

“I mean, it's true!” Meadow says desperately. “I'll even say it under a Zone of Truth spell if I need to! Look–”

He takes a deep breath, his heart hammering wildly as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the amulet. It's a deep green emerald shaped into a teardrop with silver trim, and it's set on a thin golden chain. He holds it up by the chain to let the boys look at it, and it starts whispering again.

“What the hell?” Merle asks quietly. He reaches out to grab it, but Meadow yanks it away.

“No! You can see it with your eyes, but don't– don't touch it.” he says in a panic.

“What did that do that was just as bad as the gauntlet?” Magnus asks, tearing his eyes away from the necklace to look at him.

He fights the urge to look away from him, mostly because he needs to keep an eye on all of them to make sure they don't lunge for it. “I... I don't want to talk about it,” he says quietly. “Please just... just know that... it was bad, okay? I've been trying to find a way to destroy it for years now, and nothing's worked, so I have to keep it on me. And I guess– I guess also that gauntlet.”

Meadow stuffs the amulet back into his pocket, and Taako eyes him warily.

“Don't you have a spell that identifies what magic objects are?” he asks. “You were buzzing to cast it on the umbrella and the gauntlet before Gundren took it. Do you think you'd be able to figure out anything else about the glove?”

“I can give it the old college try,” Meadow says with relief. “To be honest, I don't know if I'll get any more useful information from it though if it's made by the same person who made the amulet because I tried casting it on that too, but all I got from it was a really intense headache.”

Taako frowns. “Weird. You sure you were casting it correctly?”

Meadow rolls his eyes. “Yes, Taako, I was casting it correctly. It's not like that was my first time casting the damn spell.”

“Well, while you go do that, we'll tie up Killian, so that when we wake her up, we can get more information from her about what she was doing here in the first place,” Magnus says.

“Yeah, good idea!” Merle says. “I can heal her after you do that.”

“Is it alright if I come with you to the gauntlet?” Taako asks, and Meadow's shoulders tense up again before he quickly adds, “I'll give you space, but I figure just because you were able to pick up the necklace without putting it on, that doesn't mean the glove wouldn't be different.”

Meadow relaxes again as much as they can in this situation and nods. “Yeah, if I start to put it on...” they swallow hard. “If I start to put it on, don't hesitate to kill me, okay?”

“Are you sure?” Taako asks slowly, and they immediately nod.

“Positive. I'd rather die than be allowed to use that thing.” Even if it means they'd die in the Plane of Logic too. They still don't know how that works.

The two of them walk toward the gauntlet, and as they do, Meadow looks around the area more carefully. They were convinced while being awake in the other plane that Barry would be okay and able to talk to them after he died, but he's obviously not here anymore. They have no idea what they meant by that or what they should even be looking for, but if Barry was a ghost or something, he should still be here, right?

Taako peels off to the side as Meadow gets within five feet of the glove. They stop walking and look around the empty field of glass one last time.

Just more proof that they don't know what their talking about up in that other plane.

Meadow sighs and focuses back on the gauntlet. They take a few tentative steps forward when it starts speaking in their mind.

“Heeeyyy, buddy! Hey, buddy, put me on! Haven't you ever wanted to control fire? To know how it feels to hold that kind of power? I can help you defeat your enemies and protect the people you love!”

Meadow snorts with scorn. “I don't have anyone left on this plane that I love, not anymore, and I don't have any enemies either,” they say quietly, so that Taako doesn't hear. “You can fuck right off.”

They feel a wave of desire and enchantment magic wash over them, but they resist it with relative ease. After the wave passes, the gauntlet becomes quieter, and they feel more confident walking up and grabbing it.

They look over at Taako who looks tense with his wand out, and they give him a thumbs up. “It's all good!” they call out. “I'm gonna cast the spell now, but it's gonna be about ten minutes.”

Taako looks both a little relieved and a little annoyed. “You're casting it as a ritual? Just use a spell slot on it, we don't have all night!”

“I don't have any spell slots left,” Meadow says helplessly. “I only get mine back after sleeping and resting for about eight hours.”

Taako shakes his head and sits down on the ground. “Well, I can't leave you here by yourself, so start casting I guess.”

Meadow sits down too and holds the gauntlet in one hand as they go for their bag before they stop themself and put their other hand back down on their knee.

They can't play their clarinet one handed, so it looks like they're going to have to sing.

They mentally shuffle the songs that they know that are somewhere close to the forefront of their mind, and they settle on a song they first heard a half-elf bard sing in a tavern close to the Fountain Pens and Silver Ink guild hall. Makes sense that would be the one to come up considering the situation, and gods do they need the pick me up.

“I don't wanna live as an untold story,” they begin singing quietly. “Rather go out in a blaze of glory. I can't hear you, I don't fear you–”

“Are you going to start casting yet?” Taako calls out to them, and they stop singing and sigh in frustration.

“I mean, I already was until you interrupted me!” Meadow calls back, and as they do, the faint glow of golden light that was starting to surround the glove fades away again.

“I thought you cast spells with your clarinet or whatever,” Taako says.

“Yeah, usually! But I can't exactly play it one handed, so I'm singing!”

Taako frowns. “You are? You're not that far away, and I couldn't hear you.”

“I don't like singing in front of people; I told you that already. And I don't need to sing loud for it to work.” Meadow says irritatedly.

“You were singing Bohemian Rhapsody just fine with us in the cave!”

“Because everyone who knows that song sings it at the top of their lungs whether they sound good or not. It's literally impossible to not sing that one quietly!” they say as they roll their eyes.

“You didn't even know everyone knew it until Magnus told you that and Killian recognized it!” Taako says exasperatedly.

Meadow's face heats up in anger and embarrassment. “Do you want me to fucking cast this spell or not?”

“Yeah, fine, do your thing.” Taako waves them off, and they roll their eyes again.

“I don't wanna live as an untold story. Rather go out in a blaze of glory. I can't hear you, I don't fear you! I'll live now 'cause the bad die last. Dodging bullets with your broken past. I can't hear you, I don't fear you now!”

Meadow continues singing as the gauntlet begins to glow gold again, and as they sing, the light gets brighter and brighter until it steadies out at about the brightness of a halogen light bulb. They loop the song a couple of times until the spell is complete, trying to take to heart the fact that they can't hear the gauntlet nor fear it and ignore the fact that they are very much wrapped up in regret, and all at once, they're bombarded with what could only be described as static.

Their vision goes gray, and not in the way where everything turns gray-scale. Literally all they see is the color gray with different shades of it moving around like the static on a TV when they switch to the wrong channel. They can also hear that TV static noise loud in their ears, and they yelp in panic as they drop the glove and cover their ears instinctively. Their brain feels like fuzz, and they get slammed with a massive headache.

They squeeze their eyes shut tight and rock back and forth, still covering their ears and trying not to cry at how overwhelmingly loud, overstimulating, and painful it all is.

After about a minute, everything slowly starts to fade again, and it leaves their ears ringing more than usual and their heart still thumping wildly with anxiety.

“Meadow? Can you hear me?”

They feel someone put a gentle hand on their arm, and they jump in the air so bad as they recoil that they tip over and fall on their side.

Their eyes snap open as they see Taako standing over them looking worried.

“Sorry, it's just, you screamed a little and started... doing that–” He gestures at them helplessly. “–and then you didn't respond.”

“Oh, yeah, um... sorry about that,” they mumble, face heating up a lot as they push themself back up into a sitting position.

“Are– are you okay?” Taako asks. “Did the gauntlet do something to you?”

Meadow shakes their head. “No– I mean, yes, I'm okay, but no, the gauntlet didn't do anything to me exactly. I just... I didn't get anything from the spell except static. A lot of it. And it was painful.”

Taako frowns. “Like how we can't hear Killian static?”

Meadow thinks about that for a second. “Actually, yes. A lot like that.”

[lazuli-writes]

Hell

summary: San has a nightmare about his biggest regret.

pairing: Choi San & Choi Jongho

genre: angst (supposed character death)

estimated word count: 1300 words

a/n: Please take note of how there’s no tag for major character death. in the au, so & so is not dead, just believed to be… Remember folks, copying other people’s works is plagiarism and that’s illegal. Don’t be that kind of person. Anyways, hope you all enjoy it :)

©little-lazuli. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission

“Hyung please….”

He ran. Battling through the wretched canopy of darkness and fog as he fought his way to the voice. San ignored the ache in his feet, the stinging of his eyes and the pain ensnaring his heart. Jongho. He couldn’t lose him. Not his littlest brother. The baby of their group. The only one left in San’s life since this hell had taken their lives by storm.

San didn’t know how long he had been running. It felt like hours. Every second burning away at his soul as Jongho’s fragile voice echoed out. Pained pleas, an incessant song of begging and cries for his help. San wanted to scream back… but his voice was nonexistent.

“San-hyung… please…”

San felt as if he was running through snow. As if he was pacing upon an incline. Foraging through an army of souls… their hands pulling at San. Fingers gripping, grappling, pinching and pulling at San’s advance. 

“San-hyung… I’m scared…”

HOLD ON!!! HYUNG’S ALMOST THERE!!

Tears ripped themselves free as San struggled through the dense forces that separated him from a piece of his family. The utter desperation in the younger’s voice flaying a piece of San’s soul with each cry. 

San didn’t know how long he had been running through the nothing in his attempt to save his brother, but the anchor around his heart almost drowned him completely when he fell face first. Dust and grime invading his senses. A rusty smell slithering its way into his lungs and stinging like that of a wasp. 

“Hyung”

San jolted upward, his senses finding himself in a small storage closet. The door barricaded as a light knocking sounded out from its outside. Cobwebs and dust painted the small room, each graced with the fainted  moonlight from the window. And sitting upright on the ground, leaning back against the wall was Jongho.

San gasped, a culmination of revelations torturing his mind. A smell of rancid rotting meat permeated in the air, and yet no spoiled flesh lingered in sight. San could see the wisps of air leave his mouth as if he stood in the midst of winter, and yet his body remained feeling as if he was on fire. Jongho laid slumped and looked physically strained and tired. But the younger’s eyes held no bags, not a bruise or cut in sight. And the knocking on the door had somehow gotten louder. None of it made sense. 

But none of it mattered because San had found Jongho, and he was here to save his littlest brother and friend.

Bursting forward, San leaned down, still over checking Jongho for any and all potential threats to his well being. 

Are you okay?

San wanted to scream. No sound came about. His lips moving, yet sound silent. No matter what he tried or said, San couldn’t speak his thoughts into existence. The realization infuriated him. He tore away at his thought as he tried to call, yell, cheer, whisper and gasp out a single word to no success. Seeing as his voice was getting him nowhere, San switched tactics.

The elder moved to pick up the younger, hoping that maybe he could pull Jongho out to safety. Yet, it seemed as if the younger was glued to the floor. Chains of stone, weighed down on his brother and San became filled with dread. 

What am I supposed to do?!

“Kill me.”

WHAT!

The pounding on the door had transformed once again. What was once one hand now felt like ten. Each one pounding away, harder and fiercer than the last. 

“Please do it hyung.” 

NO!!!

HOW CAN YOU ASK ME THAT!

“Please San-hyung. I don’t want to be like them.”

LIKE WHO?!

San followed the finger Jongo suddenly raised, eyeing the pounding door. The bangs of the door increasing even louder, with only the frail voice of Jongho to match its presence in San’s conscious. 

I WON’T DO IT!

San’s silent pleas seemed to be heard as Jongho had a reply for each one.

Just come with me.

“There’s no time hyung.”

I can’t do it! Please don’t make me!

“San-hyung… please… I’m scared…”

I’ll get you help! Please let’s just go!

“It’s too late for me hyung.” 

San didn’t notice the tears ripping its way out of his eyes, or recognize the way he was suddenly moving away. Jongho grew smaller in his vision as San’s body wandered away to the window. 

His eyes and mind still latched to the slumped boy. San’s heart imploded at the sight, tears brimming both of the younger’s eyes and yet, here he was putting on a tough face. A facade of strength that San could have never have hoped to match, let alone in a moment as confusing, as painful and as horrifyingly unexplainable as of right now.

“It’s okay hyung. You don’t have to. Just hurry and leave.”

I-I can’t just leave you-

“Go, save the rest of our family.”

I’d never leave you Jjongie!

“Promise me hyung. Promise me.”

Jongho, No! I’ll save you! I will!

And with that last plea, the pounding worsened. The pounding became so horrible. So loud, so vicious and so cruel. Waves upon waves of dread filled San, as he turned away from Jongho for the smallest second to look upon the door. Cracks in the wall began to appear, almost as if the world around San and Jongho were caving in. Collapsing around San as he stood there, unknowing on how to save his little brother. 

San did the only thing he could think of, as control seemed to return to his being. San ran forward, hugging the maknae, hoping to shield him from whatever horror that awaited them.

And as San’s breath caught itself in his throat, one last plea from Jongho sounded out “RUN HYUNG!” The door burst open with a scream so horrible, it sent San flying into a whole new realm of consciousness. 

A whole new realm where he was alone, with no Jongho.

•••

San came to with a scratchy throat, his face scarred with tears and his form embraced by that of another.

“You’re okay. Everything’s all right now. It was just a bad dream hyung.”

Wooyoung’s voice sung itself into San’s mind. Fulfilling him with a fragile pool of peace and content at the horror being over. It took barely a minute for reality and time to return to San, his senses sharpening as the tears returned to San’s face.

“Where’s Jongho?” San couldn’t help but ask the inevitable, his heart skipping a beat as he felt Wooyoung’s embrace tighten ever so slightly. The younger’s breath catching itself for a moment before he began.

“You’re okay San-hyung. Everything is going to be alright.”

Waves of ice swallowed San as he internalized Wooyoung’s deflection.

“W-What… where’s Jong-”

“You’re safe now hyung. You’re okay.”

Woo’s arms suddenly felt suffocating, San’s mind running rampant as reality crept into the heart of consciousness. 

JONGHO!! WHERE IS HE!? I SAVED HIM DIDN’T I!?

“But I s-saved him! W-Where’s Jongho!?”

San didn’t realize his voice had risen several octaves. It was Wooyoung’s arms tightening even more that alerted him to such. The younger’s breath hiccuping as his own tears joined San’s in the cold open air of the night.

San didn’t know what was going on. San was right there. Jongho was right there. He grabbed his hand. He pulled him out of the room. Didn’t he?

“You did save him Sannie… he’s in a much better place now.” 

What! What is he even talking about?! Jongho was right there! I saved him! I saved him from…

Slumber lost its hold on San as he came to the same realization he did every morning since that horrible night.

Jongho was gone.

And with reality back in control, another fragment of this hell San was forced to live continued on.

[activatebutterflyshield]

Worldbuilding nonsense, so if you found this and don’t know what I’m going off about, sorry. Check out my WorldAnvil here if you’re interested in my nonsense

So I am not a poet, not by any means, but I desperately tried to encapsulate the feeling of calling on the supernatural in a way that was comprehensible and pretty sounding and that made sense in-universe so my brain spat these rhyming (?) verses (?) out several months ago. They’re a kind of incantation used to call on the powers of gods, specifically gods of Humanity called Eras. They’re in chronological order, from prehistory (fox) until the World Wars (horse), I haven’t done any past that yet. I just remembered that they exist so they’re going on here now. If you like them or have feedback or are confused or anything say so please. I like feedback. And human interaction.

To the Fox:

Thou art mine muse, mine inspiration and hope. Bell-songs and foot-falls, Spiraling echos and distant calls, Trussed up all neat in rough and tumble string, Every one of mine movements makest thou ring. Bronze and stone, Fire in your bones, Lend me thine strength and endless coiled rope.

To the Bird:

Thou art mine muse, mine guidance and light. Harp-strings and foot-taps, Flute’s notes and rhythmic claps, A tail as trailing as the words of thine epic, Sing through mine mouth with a voice most angelic. Brush and color, A melody for a dollar, Lend me thine skill and unhindered flight.

To the Wolf:

Thou art mine muse, mine trail and lord. Strong-steel and arrow-head, Sunrise and blood red, With circlet of laurel choking thine throat, Thine teeth seize upon the sacrificial goat. Ragged and hungry, Loping cross-country, Lend me thine might and double-edged sword.

To the Insect:

Thou art mine muse, mine mask and other face. Keen-eyes and stained-glass, False light and highest class, Venom as sweet as most flowery honey, Voice as rich as best gilded money. Promise and hope, Searching with wide scope, Lend me thine tricks and uncanny grace.

To the Lion:

Thou art mine muse, mine beauty and shine. Jewel-sight and silver-tongue, Silk coat and royal young, Crowned with the riches of the legendary past, To the ideals of ancients dost thou hold fast. Spices and glory, So goes thine story, Lend me thine nobility and all things fine.

To the Cat:

Thou art mine muse, mine mind and curiosity. Candle-light and inkwell, Strange theorem and magic spell, Thine explanation is shunned by those not so clever, Only the accepting understand thine endeavor. Fossils and hooks, Burned art thine books, Lend me thine knowledge and need for discovery.

To the Shark:

Thou art mine muse, mine voyage and destination. Ship-loads and sails-tacked, Anchor dropped and loot stacked, A load so precious and desired by all, Tempest-tossed yet defiant in the squall. Difficult and fraught, New lands are sought, Lend me thine speed and superb navigation.

To the Dragon: Thou art mine muse, mine driver and blueprint. Metal-gears and coal-thrown, Steam roars and cotton sewn, A line of production rivaled by none, Building from ore the barrel of the gun. Endless and unstopped, On the block they are chopped, Lend me thine spread and steel without glint.

To the Horse:

Thou art mine muse, mine orders and word. Lock-step and over-time, Cannon fodder and death’s chime, Never stopping for wind nor rain, Keep on going until you’re slain. Gold star and purple heart, You are done before we start, Lend me thine will and place in the herd.

[drjameslongjr]

Be Thankful for God's Word and His Grace

"Gratitude in His Grace: A Thanksgiving Reflection"

As the fall leaves turn golden and Thanksgiving approaches, our thoughts turn to being thankful. There are both good and bad things in this world, but the Bible gives us hope and leads us to a position of gratitude. "Oh give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever!" (Psalm 107:1). Let's dig deep into God's Word this Thanksgiving to find the deep ways it encourages us to be thankful.

Recognizing God's Righteousness and Singing His Praises

"I will give to the Lord the thanks due to his righteousness, and I will sing praise to the name of the Lord, the Most High," says Psalm 7:17.

This verse often comes to mind when I am praying. This verse tells us that we should be thankful because we know how righteous God is. During my work, I remember a time when a family who had lost a loved one found comfort and strength in remembering how good God is all the time. Their story shows how powerful it is to praise God, even when things are bad.

Being Thankful, No Matter What

Our challenge comes from 1 Thessalonians 5:18, which says, "Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." At times when things are hard, it can be hard to be grateful, but that's when our faith grows. I've seen people who, even when things were hard, held on to gratitude and found peace and meaning beyond their problems. We are encouraged by their stories to find God's kindness in every part of our lives.

Prayer, Supplication, and Thanksgiving

Philippians 4:6 teaches us, "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." This verse encourages us to live a prayerful and thankful life. Beginning each day with thanksgiving sets the tone for a life tuned into God's presence and support, which is what I try to do every day.

The Peace of Christ and a Thankful Heart

Colossians 3:15 beautifully states, "And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful." This passage from the Bible shows how Christ's peace can change things and make people feel grateful. We are called to be thankful for each other because we are united in Christ. This makes our community and our own faith stronger.

Steadfastness in Prayer and Thanksgiving

"Continue steadfastly in prayer, being watchful in it with thanksgiving" (Colossians 4:2). This exhortation encourages us to remain vigilant in our prayer life, always infused with a spirit of thanksgiving. In my counseling, I often encourage individuals to maintain a prayer journal, noting not only their petitions but also their thanksgivings as a testament to God's faithfulness.

Strength, Trust, and Thanksgiving in the Lord

Psalm 28:7 says, "The Lord is my strength and my shield; in him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to him.” This verse reminds us that God is our strength and safety. Trusting in the Lord has been my personal anchor, providing a foundation of joy and gratitude that permeates all aspects of life.

Being Thankful for Everything in your Life

As we think about these Scriptures, let us develop a heart of gratitude that lasts beyond Thanksgiving. May the truths in these verses come to life in our daily lives as acts of kindness, words of support, and never-ending prayer show how thankful we are. Let's promise that this Thanksgiving, we will not only be thankful but also live in a way that shows our appreciation for God's unwavering love and loyalty. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, and may God's peace and kindness always be with you. Read the full article

[chloeworships]

The other day the LORD showed me a sad dwarf from the movie Snow White. He then showed me a sad Pickachu. He later revealed these are some of your future husbands.

They feel bad 😔 about the spiritual attacks occurring against you. They know it’s because of the actions they took in their lives that caused others to harm and mock you.

This is what God revealed to me last night in scripture…

You will LIVE Daughters of God, I pray for your healing ❤️‍🩹

I’ve been hearing these words from God:

“They Know” and “Triumph”

You will LIVE to be triumphant over the enemy. Watch God do a new thing. Many eyes will witness your resurrection ✝️🩵

SN. I just noticed the definition includes “general” and I was calling you all Generals of God, the other day and this includes WOMEN… think Deborah

While I was writing this, I heard Jesus say “Arise, your faith has made you well” and I remembered for years this was from one of my anchor scriptures…

God told me look up the KJV scripture of Mark 5:35-43 and I shook because it says “damsel”. In fairytales they normally refer to the female protagonist as “a damsel in distress”. Above, God showed me Snow White. Babes I can’t make this stuff up.

No one but God knows the suffering you endured at the hands of the wicked who conspired to kill you but like our beloved Lord Jesus, you will conquer death and YOU WILL have the love you’ve always dreamed of, God WILL HEAL all your afflictions. He sees you are in trouble and JESUS will be the one to save you.

In 2021 I had a vision. I was lying in a dark cave. I was barely breathing. I was weak, worn out, exhausted and aching. I was in so much pain, physically, emotionally and mentally. My dress was torn to shreds and there was dirt all over it, my face and body. I looked homeless and abandoned and I was just laying there in the dirt ready to die. I felt as though someone left me for dead.

I then saw a shadow of an outline of a man with long wavy hair at the mouth of the cave. He walked over to me and scooped me up ever so gently in his arms. At this point I could only see he was wearing a long white robe and I recognized it was Jesus. After he picked me up, he walked out of the cave with me still in his arms.

When I came to, I remembered the poem Footprints 👣

🥲👣

Jesus is coming to save you! Jesus is THEE Prince of Peace ☮️ and this is what he is bringing to you… peace of mind, peace of heart and peace within your relationships.

Perhaps, that little girl in you still needs healing from past experiences and trauma ❤️‍🩹

God has not abandoned nor forgotten you. We will not be afraid but believe in our promise of restoration for we know, in Christ Jesus, we are already triumphant and victorious.

Daughters of God, I pray for your healing ❤️‍🩹

PS. The song Triumph by the Wu-tang Clan might mean something to someone. ALSO this is the third Wu-tang song I’ve received since week and now I’m like 👀 FYI Method Man is my fav clan member from day 1. I just find him HILARIOUS 😂😂 He seems like he’d be a good vibe to be around. https://youtu.be/cPRKsKwEdUQ

I also heard “Where Are Ü Now” by Justin Bieber, Skrillex and Diplo.