#I really wanted her to stand out even against other ghost kids

[chloesimaginationthings]

I ADORE your design for Charlie. It’s so adorable!!!!!!

I’m so glad y’all loved her design!!

[piperlivingdeliberately]

Blushing, Crushing, and Totally F*cked! Part III

Summary: Reader finally gets totally f*cked! Final Part!!!

Part I: https://www.tumblr.com/piperlivingdeliberately/731031070307401728/blushing-crushing-and-totally-fcked?source=share

Part II: https://www.tumblr.com/piperlivingdeliberately/731124314601062400/blushing-crushing-and-totally-fcked-part-ii?source=share

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI! Awkward, giggly, wholesome sex because they’re both cute little losers, fingering (r! receiving), tit play (both receiving), oral (r! receiving), scissoring, top!hazel, swearing, mostly just cute fluffy first time sex!

“Fuck,” was all you could think to say to your reflection in the mirror as you stared at the deep purple hickey on your neck. “Fuck,” you repeated, remembering that you had to be at school in less than forty minutes. “FUCK!” you shouted once more, realizing that all of your friends would also be at school, and being the nosy freaks they are, they would not be stopped until they knew who had marked you up. 

Hazel. Oh, God, Hazel. Every time you touched the bruise, you swore you could still feel the ghost of her lips and teeth against your sensitive skin. You had fallen asleep so quickly the night before, exhausted from just a short makeout session. When you woke up, you had an internal debate about whether or not it had all been a dream. It was too good to be true, right? 

The purple that Hazel had painted on your neck said “wrong”. 

… 

Relief flooded you when you realized that Hazel was the first of your friends to arrive to Mr. G’s class. Her perky smile greeted you as you sat beside her. 

“Hi,” she said awkwardly, the greeting a bit late considering that she had already been staring at you for twenty seconds. 

“Hi,” you returned. Nervous laughter floated between the two of you. 

“So, I was thinking that you could come over tonight after school,” Hazel began, words stumbling out faster than she could properly form them. “I know it’s short notice so it’s cool if you want to go home first and get your stuff. Or it’s totally cool if you don’t want to come anymore! I would totally understand and not care–” 

“Hazel,” you cut her off. “I would be happy to come over tonight. I’ll need to run back to my house to get ready, but I’ll text you when I’m on my way. ” 

“Oh,” she exhaled, eyeing her own hands in her lap. “Great. Perfect.” 

With Hazel’s eyes on her lap, you finally looked away from her. Of course, just your luck, you were met with the wide-eyed stares of Josie and PJ standing above you. 

“Hey, guys,” you said flatly, waiting patiently for PJ’s flagrant comments to begin. 

“Hey to you two, as well,” Josie said formally. Her voice was almost squeaky, like a balloon trying not to let out too much air. 

“PJ, you’re awfully quiet this morning,” you prodded. It was true. You hadn’t even thought she would last a second seeing you and Hazel so blatantly ogling each other. 

“I have nothing to say this morning,” she retorted, jaw clenched in frustration or concentration, you weren’t sure. You flicked your eyes to Hazel, who had started to notice your friends’ obvious self-restraint. She held her ringed hand up to her mouth to hide her smile. 

“How strange,” Hazel joined in on the game. “It’s very, very rare that you have nothing to say, isn’t it PJ?” 

“I suppose,” PJ replied. 

“So you really have nothing on your mind?” you questioned her. “There’s really not a single thing that might be on the tip of your tongue?” You watched her eyes light up like a kid on Christmas when you moved your hair to the side, deliberately exposing your hickey. 

“Oh my fucking God!” PJ pointed at your neck. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! I told you, Josie!” 

Josie simply stared in silent admiration, allowing her best friend to make herself look like an idiot as she jumped up and down. “Yes, PJ. You did tell me. How could you ever have guessed?” Sarcasm coated her voice. 

“So, who’s the top?” PJ asked, and was thankfully cut off by the beginning of Mr. G’s lecture. 

You were nearly able to focus entirely on class until you felt Hazel’s breath as she whispered softly against your ear. “Did I give you that?” She jutted her chin out at your bruise. You almost laughed before you realized that she was genuinely asking. You simply nodded at her, unable to contain your smile when she flushed from her forehead to her neck. 

A sudden flash of bravery came over you as you watched her blush, so you leaned into her. “I wouldn’t want anyone else in the world to give me that.” She shivered at the whisper, eyes locked on yours from the moment you had said it to the moment the bell rang. You blew her a kiss–a painfully chaste gesture compared to your previous actions–and bounded out of the room as if nothing had happened. Hazel was dumbfounded and couldn’t stop staring at the door until PJ clapped her on the shoulder. 

“Good luck with that, champ,” she taunted, prompting Hazel to finally get up from her seat. “Tell us where you put the next hickey after tonight!” Hazel’s middle finger waved goodbye to PJ, because she couldn’t be bothered to think about doing anything else with her hands that didn’t involve you. 

… 

Despite her one-track mind earlier in the day, Hazel could do nothing with her hands but hold them awkwardly behind her back as she welcomed you into her home that night. 

“Hi, Haze,” you started, sensing her nerves. “Cute jammies,” you complimented the baggy blue and black flannel pajamas she wore. You framed it like a joke, but you were just trying to distract yourself from how sexy she looked in the black sports bra that scarcely covered her top half. 

“Shut up,” she laughed, clearly not sensing your thoughts. “You, on the other hand, actually do look cute.” She grew a bit bolder and placed her hand on the small of your back, fiddling with the hem of your bunny-print PJ pants. 

“Why are you acting so surprised that I look cute?” you feigned offense, clutching your hand to your chest. “Is it so shocking that I could look good?” 

“What?” Hazel nearly fell over her own feet. “You always look cute! You are quite literally the cutest, most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I would never–” 

You cut off her rambling with a deep kiss. You hadn’t planned on making your move so early in the evening, but something about those compliments hit a deep spot inside you. “I was just kidding, Haze,” you whispered against her mouth, punctuating the sentence with another quick press to her lips. 

“I like it when you call me that,” she whispered back, pulling away to move a stray piece of hair out of your face. She began turning her head in all directions, taking in the foyer as if she hadn’t seen it thousands of times. “Holy shit. We didn’t even make it past the entryway.” You erupted into laughter, grasping her arms as you caught your breath. She took the opportunity to grab one of your hands and wordlessly led you to her room. 

Hazel closed the door behind her, turning around to see you facing her expectantly. She didn’t waste a second before grabbing your face and kissing you again, so impatient for you. Realizing she should have at least brought you to the bed first, she giggled as she gently pushed you in the right direction. She laid you down softly against her pillows before climbing on top of you. 

Every second that she stared into your eyes, you felt the butterflies in your stomach multiply. You pulled her in by the collar of her shirt, disappointed when she only offered you a short, closed-mouth kiss. Her deep blue eyes bore into yours once again, grinning almost mischievously before she dove into your neck. 

You moaned as her tongue flicked out against the hickey she had already created, whining when she created a friend for it on the other side of your neck. She trailed her kisses down lower until she reached the top of your camisole. 

“Can I?” she asked, breaths already growing heavy. You only nodded, not confident in your ability to speak properly at the moment. 

“Use your words for me,” Hazel said, her voice a low depth that you had never heard before. 

“Yes, Hazel,” you gasped. “Yes.” You were grateful that she didn’t taunt you for your desperation and instead just pulled your shirt down enough for her to kiss down to your nipple. She waved her tongue around the bud, circling it before taking it between her lips. The gentle sucking motions had you arching your back into her. She pressed her face into your cleavage as she made her way to your other tit. She played with the nipple that had just been in her mouth, pulling soft sounds from you as she rolled it between her fingers. 

“You sound so pretty, baby.” You moaned in response and began tugging your shirt over your head. Hazel jerked back in surprise. “Oh, getting impatient, huh?” she teased. You would have laughed, but you were too busy trying not to shrink under her penetrating gaze as she stared at your tits. It felt like minutes before she finally looked back at your eyes, asking, “Do you even know how fucking sexy you are?” Then you did laugh, covering your face with your hands. 

“Stop it.” You blushed behind the blanket of your palms. Your quiet giggles turned into a gasp when you felt Hazel pry your hands away from you. 

“I mean it.” You almost felt like she was scolding you. “You are so unbelievably perfect.” 

“Thank you.” You genuinely meant it, trying to convey your appreciation through your eyes. Feeling needy and nervous again, you distracted yourself by running your hands up and down her back. You eventually felt brave enough to begin pulling at her sports bra. She understood your silent command and removed it, her breasts hanging over your face tantalizingly. 

She must have finally understood how you felt in your earlier position, because she laughed shyly and fell into your shoulder so that you couldn’t stare. 

“Nope,” you said. “Come here, baby.” She climbed up your body further, red-faced and avoiding your gaze. She couldn’t help but look at you again after you took her left nipple into your mouth. 

“God,” she uttered in shock, rolling her hips into yours. You whimpered against her chest, urging her to gyrate even faster. “Fuck.” She pulled her tits away from your mouth, giggling at the pout that had formed on your face. “This okay?” she asked, her finger now playing with your waistband. Your pouty lip quickly transformed into a grin while you helped Hazel remove your shorts and panties. 

You felt yourself grow wetter with every kiss that Hazel placed on her journey down. When she finally reached the spot between your legs, she started planting kisses even lower, sucking into the plush flesh of your thighs. She looked up at you once more, silently confirming that she had your consent. 

“Please,” you whined, and she didn’t hesitate. 

Hazel licked a long, slow stripe from your slit to your clit, refusing to break eye contact as she watched you squirm. When she reached your most sensitive spot, she clamped her lips around it, flicking her tongue out to tease your clit. She reveled in your moans that grew louder with every lick. Every minute that passed, the coil in your stomach tightened more and more. You gasped out praises and shouts of her name when she began fucking you with her tongue. 

You almost dragged her back down by her hair when she emerged from between your thighs, grinning face covered in slick and spit. She hovered over you once more, but this time her finger danced around your entrance. 

“Let me know if it’s too much, okay?” she asked. 

“Mmhmm,” you sighed, pushing your hips downward to try to meet her in the middle. At the same time that she smashed her mouth against yours, she slipped one finger into your soaking pussy, gasping against your lips. 

“Fuck,” she groaned. “You’re so wet for me, baby.” She sat back a bit to watch her fingers as they disappeared inside of you. She was only released from the trance when you pulled her in by the back of her neck and forced your tongue into her mouth. 

The kiss was messy and sticky and tasted overwhelmingly of your own juices. You didn’t care about being reserved or self-conscious about your kissing skills when Hazel’s fingers were so perfectly curling into that spongy spot that made your back arch. You moved your hands from her hair to scratch red streaks down her back with her nails, only stopping when her guttural moan made you realize something. 

She had been grinding against the mattress searching for her own pleasure this whole time. 

“Hazel,” you called to her between kisses. She pressed her forehead to yours and waited for your request. “I want you.” 

“You already have me, beautiful.” She kissed your cheek softly. “I’m all yours.” 

“I want you on me, Haze.” Your pleads finally made sense to her and she began frantically undressing her lower half. She was completely naked on top of you in seconds. The skin-to-skin contact had you reeling for her. She hooked her right leg over your left, tentatively floating above you. Making sure she had your attention, she grabbed you by the chin, forcing you to meet her eyes as she sank herself onto you. 

You moaned in unison as she began grinding her wetness onto yours. You rose slightly, using her thigh to give you leverage to pull yourself against her. It took you a moment to find your rhythm with each other, but once you did, sounds of pleasure bounced around the room. 

That familiar feeling began to reach you again, and Hazel could tell from the way your moans transformed into whimpers and quiet whines of her name. 

“You’re doing so good, pretty girl,” she cooed as she stroked your breast. “So good for me.” 

“Holy– Haze, fuck!” You were so thankful that her mother was away, since you were shamelessly yelling at this point. “I’m so close, babe.” 

“You can do it, sweetheart,” she urged you on, speeding up her hips as she neared her own end. “Cum with me.” Not a minute passed before you were heeding Hazel’s gentle command, moans cut off by the waves of pleasure that coursed through you. Hazel brushed your hair out of your face, uttering praises and giving you a break before she continued to use your slick to ride out her own orgasm. The overstimulation didn’t last long, for Hazel had been close to finishing just from hearing you moan her name. 

Her hips stuttered on top of yours until she collapsed back onto the bed. Her body was folded in half, her legs outstretched awkwardly. 

“Comfy, Haze?” you joked, laughing as she shook her head and repositioned herself beside you. 

“Oh, my god.” She stared at the ceiling, then at you with wide eyes. “I just fucked you.” 

“That you did.” You giggled at her disbelief as you kissed her cheek. “And you did it very well.” 

The praise made her blush. She buried her glistening face in your neck, wrapping her arms around your still naked torso. 

“So,” she began, still hiding her face due to nerves. “Are you my girlfriend now?” 

“I better be after that,” you said. You laughed together for a minute before urging her to look at you. “I would love to be your girlfriend, Hazel Callahan.” 

And so you were. 

[ghouljams]

I am in desperate need of some cowboy fluff, how about y’all?

Somehow Simon's been handed a baby. It's a little funny. It's his own fault for being in baby handing distance with nothing to do. When your cousins had bustled into the house and started making a racket, passing out greetings and bags in equal measure, you were sure your older cousin would hand their newest addition to your dad. He was sort of the baby guy, the one that always seemed to calm down even the most colicky infants at family gatherings. So when you turn to introduce Simon and see your cousin pass her bundle of joy off to him you are almost as shocked as he is. Which is the understatement of the century, because he is pretty shocked.

He’s hardly budged from where he was standing when the baby was handed to him, looking big and unsure and absolutely stiff with nerves. You suppose it helps that no one is really talking to him, most of your cousins have moved to the kitchen to pick your pantry clean. You excuse yourself from catching up to go make fun of him.

“You look comfortable,” You grin. It really is a sight, such a tiny thing being held by such a big man. That baby is in the safest place in the world and it knows it, cooing and grabbing at Simon’s shirt, big wide eyes staring up at him like he’s the whole world. You know the feeling baby.

“Me and babies don’t mix,” He grits out, probably too nervous to even breathe. 

“Maybe if you weren’t holding him like a snapping turtle you’d be more comfortable.” You tell him, moving close to adjust his hold. The baby’s head resting against his chest, nestled nice and cozy in his arms, not just resting on them like a hospital bed. You smile at your newest family member, poking his little nose and letting him grab your finger. When you look up at Simon his expression is… tight, you can’t place it. You sigh, “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“It is that bad.”

“You’ve never thought about kids?” You mean it to be teasing but the look on his face makes you think maybe this is a more serious conversation. 

“Men like me shouldn’t have children,” He mumbles, looking down at the baby chewing on your finger. 

“My dad did a pretty good job.” He goes still again, for all the progress he’s made in being a person again Simon sure has a terrible opinion of himself. You shoot him a half-hearted glare, extracting your finger from its enthusiastic and gummy aggressor. “For the record, I think you’d be a great dad.” You tell him, turning to go back to the kitchen.

“At least take the damn thing with you,” He calls, it’s not as insistent as you would’ve thought. You think he might actually like holding the baby. You wave your hand over your shoulder at him.

“Nope, that’s your punishment. Pass him off to MacTavish when he gets here.” He’s lucky you’re not ratting on him to your dad. Men like him shouldn’t have kids... You’re a delight.

-

“Who’s the wee man?” Soap asks, leaning to wiggle his fingers at the baby in Ghost’s arms. It giggles, reaching with one pudgy hand to grab at him, the other tiny fist wrapped around Ghost’s tags. 

“I want you to be best man at my wedding,” Ghost says, absolutely not answering the question. Soap freezes, his brows raised.

“You’re getting married?”

“When she says yes.”

“This your bairn?” Soap asks, feeling more confused than he already was. Ghost makes a face.

“Johnny how the hell would this be my kid?” Ghost snaps, earning a bug eyed sniffle from the baby in his arms that caught both men’s attention. It’s the last warning before the baby scrunches up his face, building up enough red frustration to let out a sobbing wail. Soap is quick to scoop the fussy infant from Ghost’s arms, shushing him as he cradles him against his shoulder.

“Anno, let’s find your mum wee man, get you away from mean old Ghost.”

“Not a word of this MacTavish,” Ghost calls after him.

“More scared of Goose than her gander, sorry mate.”

[riot-ghost]

So I've started a DP writing prompt and I don't know whether or not to finish it so I'll set my base ideas here and see if it hits.

Danny slammed his locker shut, kicking the metal door so hard that it crumpled like a can of soda, barely hanging on by the top hinge. The school was mostly empty, given that school was out regardless. But the remaining students were in a similar state as him.

The students remaining in the school were all in different stages of grief, really. The whole scene looked like something straight from one of Jazz's textbooks. Paulina was picking up her locker, talking with Star about Phantom. Denial.

Danny was the perfect picture of anger. Pure rage leaked from every pore. Star had only just passed bargaining, the mascara tear-stains from begging with her parents are enough evidence of that.

Dash sat against his locker across the hall, staring into blank space. Mikey sat in the cafeteria, head buried into the phone he'd gotten off of his parents.

All of Casper High was like this. Tucker sat next to Mikey, the vibrant screen glaring at his thick-framed glasses. Sam was trashing the art room, her angry screams heard from where Danny stood in the hallway. He'd gotten into his locker and was currently busy tears apart every picture he had with his parents.

What Danny really wanted to know, what all of the students did, was why. Why was this happening? What led to this?

It had started the Friday before, really. School was going as normal. Danny was on edge. There hadn't been a ghost attack all week. He sat in his seat, ready for English class. Mr. Lancer came in. He set down his book, took off his reading glasses, and stared at his class.

"Our funding has been cut." No one says anything. Mr. Lancer sighs, rubbing his face. "I... Shouldn't be the one to break this to you." He turns to the corner of the room. "I... Have to be." He sighs. "Eighteen years ago, I got hired for an acting job." Still, silence follows his words.

"A government-funded project. Full time, the pay was astronomical. I was suspicious, but I was broke. I was so indebted that I would have joined the military. Or, hell, I would've done anything." Mr. Lancer took a seat. "I was briefed on this... This project. The Amity Project. A fake town, something about the ambient air. Genetically mutated kids. I didn't understand it all."

There's a click from somewhere. Just a background sound, hardly anything. "I didn't understand the sheer size of the project. A whole fake town? I-I was in awe. But then, when you guys got here, to this school, and the project took a turn. No longer was the project raising you guys. It wasn't... It was something twisted and wrong. It was torture." He hangs his head. "No one told me. No one told me until it was too late, and I was too far in, and-"

Mr. Lancer swallows. "I'm sorry." He places his head in his hands. "The Amity Project has come to a head. The portal's been shut down, and you all will be... Dispersed. Rehomed."

"Why?" Danny finds the word falling from his mouth before he can even think.

"They say it's because our benefactors were almost caught. Downsizing. I... I recommend you all stay here. At school. Your parents. They... They are your parents, but they are scientists. This has been a job to them. You'll all be given your housing and guardian's information by Monday. I'm sorry."

Danny had only gotten minimal information from his 'parents'. Just that they'd be busy sorting through years of backlogged data. Just that they were upset that it was all over. No one could stand being around the edge of the town- the sheer number of people just on the other side of the fence was overwhelming.

The juniors of Casper had stayed in Mr. Lancer's English class for hours after the bombshell had been dropped. They'd all had some sort of deep-rooted mutual understanding with each other. And they were all feeling. All feeling anger, depression, they were all feeling grief.

The cards that sat in their back pockets, the creased folders, everything. They all stood in a line, now, all twenty-four students. All of the younger students had been cleared. The older ones had already been gone. But they knew, those 24 students, they knew that it wasn't them that the Amity Project ruled around. It was them.

The students looked less their age as they watched car after car pull up in front of the school. They look like warriors, watching the 'civilians' step out of their cars.

Danny is in the middle of the line, hunched forward a bit as he twists and rips at the flag pole in his hands. He crunches it like it's made of playdough, the metal creaking and grinding in his hands.

Sam is to Danny's left, dripping in blood red paint. Her gothic attire is soaked, her hand color is lost to the red. She looks hellious, like she'd crawled from her own personal pit in hell.

Tucker stands to Danny's right. His posture is firm. His eyes are calculating. His jaw is set. His face is stone. He's tall, looming.

... So. Anyways. I'm thinking from here Sam goes with Diana Prince, Danny goes with Clark Kent, and Tucker goes with Bruce Wayne. The rest of the class goes with assorted civilians (or minor vigilantes). The class remains in contact with each other via letters. The story will follow them coping with not being normal, with the rage and anger, and their evolution into being a new phase of heroes. Heroes without masks or names or anything.

Jazz is living with Barry Allen. She was specifically separated from Danny, and kept that way. Vlad is a halfa, but he's part of the project. Dani is his daughter, and Dan was an unscripted blip in time.

Any feedback would be nice! I just don't know if it'll turn out the way I'm thinking it will.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!

I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!

I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.

I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!

'Til it Hurts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...

A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag. 

It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had. 

God, you’d never have friends like that again. 

Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen. 

They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up. 

Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.

Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.

At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment. 

A city now filled with killers. 

“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”

The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil. 

Not good. 

Shit. Karver, where did you go!? 

Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US. 

If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.

You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air. 

But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed. 

Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy. 

This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.

“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.” 

Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been. 

So that was where you came in. 

God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.  

Mostly because of situations like this.

“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.” 

Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty. 

None of this was going to plan.

You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.

Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back. 

The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips. 

3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…

Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple. 

A man, then.

“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”

You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses. 

With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing. 

Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured. 

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper. 

A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same. 

“You’ll never get it out of me-”

“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”

“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”

There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come. 

You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?

Have they seen murder? 

But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.

You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.

“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.

Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death. 

Your mark has been met. 

The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow. 

“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze. 

You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman. 

The Reaper. 

Oh, what would they think of you now? 

You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times. 

In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all. 

Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries. 

—

The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete. 

“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling. 

Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.

“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set. 

Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”

Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group. 

“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”

“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”

“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”

“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”

“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”

An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play. 

Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.

Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.

“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching. 

“Hm,” their command affirms.  

 Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.

Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–

“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–” 

The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different. 

Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances. 

“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.

Brows furrow. 

Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit. 

“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.

“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys. 

Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant. 

An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.

Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”

“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat. 

“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate. 

Price grunts under his breath. 

“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask. 

Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?

“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?” 

Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over. 

Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.

Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves. 

“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion. 

“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.

“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’. 

Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand. 

“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.

“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”

“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”

“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”

“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”

The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all. 

But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.

“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.” 

A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell. 

“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.

The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate. 

“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”

“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.” 

Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer. 

“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?” 

“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.

Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in  – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book. 

You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit. 

Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over. 

Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted. 

The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm. 

Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before. 

“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”

“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows. 

Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture. 

“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.” 

It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head. 

Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant. 

The room is more silent than Ghost is. 

“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.” 

The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow. 

“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.

“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”

The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.” 

Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time. 

He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered. 

But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague. 

Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.

Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim. 

You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes. 

He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.

“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.” 

Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.

‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.

Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.

—

You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders. 

Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now! 

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.” 

In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do. 

Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping. 

Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself. 

The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission. 

And Ghost. 

Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks. 

But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt. 

Mutt was the worst of them.

Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work? 

The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky. 

You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.  

What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?

Your ears twitch. 

“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”

“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens.  He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.

“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.” 

“Sir!” 

After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been. 

Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back. 

Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself. 

You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest. 

Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly. 

Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.

—

It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.

Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily. 

There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time. 

Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen. 

But there were ups to this constant downward slope. 

It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.

“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.

Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market. 

You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.” 

Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks. 

The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters. 

You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky. 

Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull. 

“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”

Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

He was never mean to me. 

There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…

You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.

 Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.

No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt. 

You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant. 

A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.

Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!

“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”

By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.

“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”

But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.

You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.

“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice. 

You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked. 

A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point. 

If I had known…you frown. 

Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.

“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.” 

The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it. 

Like blood lining the street. 

You force yourself to run faster.

—

You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you. 

Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you. 

The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.

But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.

Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?

Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver. 

But you didn’t look away.

“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins. 

Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch. 

“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days. 

Your Captain scurries after. 

“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.

At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type. 

But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude. 

You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.

The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle. 

The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case. 

‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth. 

And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement. 

You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?

“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?” 

Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.

“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.” 

You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.

“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms. 

Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.

“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.

“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?” 

“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.

‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’ 

Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?

Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.

“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.

“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat. 

‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’ 

You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves. 

The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.

And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.

—

When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report. 

Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued. 

I need new intel. Badly.

About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom. 

On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.

Your cheeks heat. 

He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?

As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.

Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.

Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.

Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race? 

Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute. 

What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted? 

The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.

Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound. 

A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?

When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.

“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”

“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.” 

Hadn’t he changed even a little bit? 

“Now that’s dark.” 

“Never said it wasn’t.”

Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights. 

There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore. 

They had died a long time ago.

“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you. 

Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.

Stop that.

“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?” 

“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”

“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.

“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”

“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.

What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?

The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.

He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how. 

She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left. 

But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely. 

Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath. 

Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.

When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets. 

His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.

“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles. 

He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare. 

You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.

What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious. 

But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.

“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.

“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.” 

Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”

He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.

“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”

“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh. 

“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”

“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”

“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.

“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow. 

He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way. 

Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around. 

Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.

At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.

Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you. 

You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.

Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around. 

You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led. 

Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.

“Well, where are we–” 

“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it. 

Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after. 

Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you. 

Boxed in. 

Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it. 

One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you. 

You don’t bother watching him drop.

Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it. 

But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you. 

Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps. 

You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.

“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.

Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious. 

Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah! 

“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”

“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!” 

“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”

“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs. 

Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement. 

A wide grin is stuck on you.

Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.

Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…

“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.” 

He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant. 

Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that. 

A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?

“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow. 

Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee. 

Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.  

“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”

Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.

Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time. 

Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter. 

How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant. 

All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now. 

“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.

“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip? 

His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side. 

There were few people worthy of that.

You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate. 

You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years. 

Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated. 

You’d never had sex before.

And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.

He sighs heavily and follows in silence.

—

When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks. 

They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet. 

You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.

You could forget about it. You should. 

But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.

If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors. 

Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!

You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth. 

Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.

But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong. 

It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.

But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…

“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”

Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.

Why did they do this to you? 

TAGLIST SIGN-UP || Here

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(sorry that some of these don't work! I have no idea why!)

[normsdaughter]

Yearning. [Pt. 1]

Implied Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary - Simon takes user for a walk. Gets a little grumpy.

Warnings - lil bit of angst I guess?, no relationship no smut just friends who think their crush is unrequited, suggestive towards the end

‘Looking up at him, taking in the side profile of his soft-looking, warm pink lips, you’re practically put into a trance, imagining how soft they’d really be.’

——/——/——/——/——/——/——/——/——/——/

You’re working on finishing up some paperwork for Captain Price, when your thoughts are interrupted by a rapping on your doorframe.

“Kid?” A gruff, British voice mumbles from your open door. Ghost, back from a mission. The mission that should’ve ended almost a week ago.

“Yes, sir?” You respond, spinning your desk chair around to face him.

“Fancy a walk, darl?”

“I’d love that.” You offer him a soft smile, slipping the finished paperwork into the palm of your hand. “Mind if we take a trip to the captains office?”

“Not at all.”

You walk, side by side, in comfortable silence towards Price’s office. Only one or two doors down, Simon halts, one finger sliding into one of your belt loops to stop you with him. Once your footsteps stop echoing, you can hear Price loudly grumbling and grunting, muttering noisily to himself.

“Kid, gi’me that.” Simon mutters, gesturing to the paperwork in your hand.

“What? Why?” You say, getting inexplicably defensive.

“He’s mad. He’ll snap at anyone when he’s mad.” Simon sighs, explaining it to you as if you’re a child.

“So?” You snap, furrowing your brow.

“I don’t want you to get fucking yelled at.”

“Oh.” You murmur, your eyes dropping to the ground. “ ‘m sorry.” You hand over the papers.

“Thank you.” He groans, like he’s tired of you. He’s not, though. He could never get tired of you. “Stay.” He instructs, turning away to step into Price’s office.

“What? Like a dog?” You say indignantly.

“Yes.” Simon says without a moment of thought. You frown at him again, even once he shuts the door of your captains office.

You hear the muffled voices of their discussion.

“The kid had me bring these into you, captain.” Simon says, in his typical, gruff, Simon-y voice.

“She has you doing chores for her, lieutenant?” You can practically hear the raised eyebrow in Captain Price’s tone. “I told you, Riley. You’re damn whipped.”

Simon exhales so loud that you can hear it from outside the room, followed by the captain dropping the stack of papers onto his desk.

“You’re dismissed, lieutenant.”

He doesn’t respond, instead immediately walking back out to you.

“I stayed.” You smile. “Like a dog.”

This draws a chuckle from Simon, as he steps closer and ruffles your hair like he’s patting a dog. “who’s a good girl?” He says, completely deadpan. Quickly, he realises his words, but you don’t seem to have a reaction, other than giggling.

So you keep walking, him leading the way, occasionally looking back to check that you’re still close.

Eventually you round a corner, pushing open the doors that let you out into the fresh and chilly night air. Simon leans back against the wall as soon as the two of you step out of the door, his arm slinking around your waist to stop you from moving ahead. He pushes you back against the wall, forcing you to stand beside him.

Shifting to face him, you raise an eyebrow. The action is pointless, as he’s looking down and rummaging through his pockets. He pulls out a lighter and a box of cigarettes, lifting the hem of his balaclava up over his chin and lips, showing off his sexy, sexy well-kept stubble.

“How was your mission?” You offer blandly, unable to bear the quietness of the night. “Took longer than you said.”

He puffs out a cloud of smoke, tilting his head back “Was alright. My back hurts like a bitch, though.” He inhales on his cigarette before blowing out the smoke. “We got the location wrong at first. Needed t’ relocate. Tha’s why I was gone so long.”

“I missed you, Si..” You say, the emphasis on the emotion in your words a little heavy. Looking up at him, taking in the side profile of his soft-looking, warm pink lips, you’re practically put into a trance, imagining how soft they’d really be.

“I missed you too, darlin’. I know I’m not good with the emotional stuff, but I really did miss you. I need you to know that. I care about you, kid.” He mutters, loosely draping one of his arms around your waist and clumsily pulling you to his chest.

You accept his ungraceful attempt of a hug, gently wrapping your arms around him, like if you move too fast you’ll scare him away. Eventually, he gives you a couple pats on the back and releases you, and you take that as a sign to move back to your position beside him.

Simon stands next to you, sharing a comfortable silence as he breathes in on his cig and breathes out the smoke. Eventually, you kneel down on the ground, and he takes your sign of boredom as a segue to ramble on about the mission, blah blah Soap was annoying blah blah Price is no fun, so on and so fourth.

“It’s freezing out here.” You whine and pout after a while of him going on and on about details you wouldn’t care to listen to if he was talking about them butt naked covered in oil.

Simon looks down at you, taking in the sight of you on the ground, before he pulls off his black ribknit long sleeve and drops it in your lap. You pull it over your head. It was slightly loose on him. it is incredibly baggy on you.

He starts up a one-sided conversation about a night at the bar he had with the task force, occasionally interrupting himself to offer you a cigarette, but each time you just noncommittally shake your head.

As time goes on and it dwindles into the night, you become increasingly aware of your own tiredness and boredom. You miss the times where you and Simon weren’t really that close, and you’d have to carry every conversation.

“Help me up?” You say, looking up at him from where you kneel on the ground, with soft and heavy-lidded eyes.

He looks down at you briefly, before immediately tilting his head back, the further back part of his scalp resting against the wall. “Bloody hell. Don’t look at me like that. Christ.”

“Like what..?” You murmur, in a sad, pathetic tone of voice, as you place a hand on the wall to help yourself up.

“Like y’re about to fuckin’..” Simon groans, interrupting himself. “Suck me off or some shit.” He grunts, his eyes rapidly roaming the area. Focusing on everything but you.

You’re about to pull yourself to your feet, but something stops you. You look back over him, your eyes ending at his face. “Do you want me to?”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath. Yes. He stops himself from shouting out yes. He grits his teeth, still not meeting your eyes, refusing to do so much as look in your direction. “Goodnight.” He grunts, pushing the doors open and walking inside, letting them blow shut behind him.

“Your shirt?” You call out weakly.

“Keep it.” He calls out, his typicalally gravelly voice gravell-ier than usual as he desperately wishes his quarters were closer.

That night, you sleep in nothing but your panties and his shirt, diving into your imagination as you’re smothered by his scent.

——/——/——/——/——/——/——/——/——/——/

tags:

let me know if u wanna be tagged in part 2

published 11/11/23

[pinksugarscrub]

Starstruck

Hobie Brown x fem! reader (high school au)

@rexlroze, @the-kr8tor What better place to stir up drama than high school? ✨️Enemies to lovers✨️

Part(s): Prologue, ???

Visions Academy. Elitist? Yes, but the school of your dreams. An hour trip from Harlem on the subway. But if your mom’s dingy blue bug held up for another year you wouldn’t have to worry about paying for a Metrocard.

It was incredible when you visited on a campus tour. The music program was world renowned. You plan to take every course available but you need to be in that music room. Smell the polish from the guitars and touch the marble of the grand piano. You shiver just thinking about standing in the auditorium. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything your family could ever have dreamed of for their daughter.

So it doesn’t bother you to work until the dead of night with customers that make you want to tear your hair out. Visions makes it all worth it and well, being able to pay for your own gas is nice too.

It’s Friday, the parlor is loud and bustling with families, high schoolers, and disgruntled adults who just want to pay. Life couldn’t be any better than this.

“Manolo where are my damn pizzas?” Yuri screams over the bar separating the kitchen and the cashiers. Stacking empty boxes into her hands before shoving them under the counter.

“What do you expect me to do!?” He yells back. Antonio, his younger brother slipping on what you assume is the ghost pepper Manolo never picked up. “I’ve got six other orders before damn what’s his name. Tell him to wait his fu-”

You tune them out as you smile politely to the little girl in front of you who’s asked for a to-go cup.

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” you chuckle. Watching her run back to her parents. It was sweet, reminding you of your own dad and mom back home.

“(y/n)!’

You don’t react as Yuri spins you around, pushing you towards the kitchen where boxes and boxes of pizza are stacked up. “Go, I expect you back within two hours eh?”

You also don’t react when she glares down at Antonio. Who is usually your delivery boy but is currently nursing a burn on his hand. The poor guy really was as clumsy as a deer.

“Two hours (y/n)!” She repeats.

Then the door slams shut behind you. Your car keys in hand and a bag draped over your shoulder that burns into your side with how many pizzas are stuffed inside. Don’t even ask how that worked, Yuri has her ways.

You sigh as you hop down the steps. Gently setting the bag in the passenger's seat once you reach your car. It takes you a second to set up your phone with directions along with music. The speakers are surprisingly clear as you turn the volume up and drive off. The city becomes a blur and the clock ticks back at you with each and every stop.

The last apartment. A pink building that’s chipping and full of overgrown vines that reminds you of a photo you saw at a pop up show once. You walk up the steps, the last two boxes in your hand.

“O’hara…”You mumble, “O’hara, O’hara- ah ha, there.” The loud buzz of the intercom makes you recoil as it echoes across the street. A minute later a voice rang through, words muffled and unintelligible

You shift nervously on the balls of your feet. Leaning close to the speaker against your better judgment.

“Hi! For Mr. O’hara?”

More words? You’re sweating at this point. You’re almost hitting your two hour mark. A second later another buzz rings through and the door unlocks.

You sigh, muttering under your breath. “Oh thank god.”

You quickly swing the door open. Scaling the steps once you see yellow caution tape and a note stuck to the elevator.

By the time you reach the fourth floor you’re huffing. Holding onto the railing you catch your breath.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,”You huff in exasperation. Eyes wide as you see every door number is faded or falling apart. “These people need a better landlord.”

You almost shriek as you see what time it is when you look down. You have less than fifteen minutes.

Running through the numbers as best you could. You settle on a door with punk themed stickers. You hope this is the apartment or the tenants will at least be nice enough to point you in the right direction.

Before you can even knock the door swings up.

“What do you mean-”

You stand there visibly in awe as you stare into the most beautiful set of eyes you’ve ever seen. Silver piercings and earrings decorating his face. Wicks pulled back into a ponytail.

“Oh hey! Can we help you?” A second face pops out from the side of the door. A kind smile on his face.

You clear your throat as you avert your gaze. “Yes, uhm, I’m looking for 4D?”

“O’hara?”

You melt inside as you hear his accent. British? But not exactly?

“O’hara,”you confirmed. Smile wobbly as you force your butterflies down. You really need to get out of here.

You don’t notice the two exchange a look.

“Oh, that’s us love.” He grins as he stares down at you.

“Great!” You beam. Mentally storing the name in the back of your mind. For what? You don’t know. It’s not like you had the courage to ask for his number.

It takes you less than a minute to hand the boxes over.

“How much do we owe you?”

This confuses you but your smile never wavers. “I’m sorry, I’m pretty sure you prepaid online.”

“Right right!” The second boy nods. Dragging his friend inside by the arm and snatching up the pizza with his free hand. “Thanks!”

The boy with wicks sends you a wink before closing the door behind them.

You wait until you’re out of sight to swoon. It lasts for about five seconds when you realize it’s been exactly two hours.

-

Yuri’s too busy when you come back to scold you. So the rest of your shift goes smoothly. Your mind drifting to the boy every once in a while. A small smile on your lips.

The phone rings and your bliss is broken. You hold your breath as insult after insult hits your ear through the receiver.

You feel like an idiot. The boy’s pretty face fading into obscurity. You blink back tears as you talk with the real Miguel O’hara.

What a shitty night.

[cherri-balms]

popular girl reader x sal? maybe they’re seeing each other secretly and she’s kinda mean lol

OMG!! Thank you so much for sending in your request for me! This is my first request so I'm a little nervous, but I'm excited too! I'm kind of going for a very free-form style for the time being while I get used to getting back into the swing of things! ♥♥♥♥♥♥

I couldn't tell you why but I found this particular request very intriguing, I ended up taking a lot of creative liberty as I went going! I really hope you enjoy it!!! >v<

RAITING: G || EWC: 2K || READER GENDER: F ||

♥𝓢𝓪𝓵 𝓕𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓮𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓹𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓻 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵♥

♥Getting Together♥

♥〉〉 This kind of reserved, mean exterior is nothing new to Sal, at least after having to deal with Travis picking on him for most of his high school life. So needless to say he's gotten a bit of practice in this department! ♥〉〉 The difference between you and Travis that Sal hadn't dealt with yet (and made it just a tad rougher to get to know you), was that Travis was very clearly a confused kid without a healthy way to deal with his problems at home. You, on the other hand, were a bit more complicated to read.

♥〉〉 It seemed like you had everything a teenager would want. Every guy seemed to want to be with you, and every girl wanted to be you. You had lots of friends, good grades, a beautiful figure, and the most envious trait:

♥〉〉 A beautiful face.

♥〉〉 He couldn't understand why someone like you felt the need to be so stand-offish toward everyone. Maybe you really were just as stuck up and entitled as some of his friends Larry say you are?

♥〉〉 All this together should've made him stop, to pull his hand away from the fire before he got burned... but the temptation of the potential warm comfort outweighed that logic.

♥〉〉 He really became a moth in your light. Sal wanted to get to know you with each interaction, but not the intimidating [y/n] everyone had put up on a pedestal. Rather, he found you to be a rather tricky puzzle he couldn't put down until he solved it once and for all.

♥〉〉 Sal wasn't surprised his hardest challenge was just being able to get your attention. This was the other big difference between you and Travis: Where Travis went out of his way to get a rise out of Sal, you either blew off any attempt he made or one of your friends was quick to take your attention back.

♥〉〉 All while giving him that "Who do you think you are talking to someone like her" look he was all too familiar with throughout his life. It was also something that made him envious of your good looks even more...

♥〉〉 After an intervention from his friend group he was all but ready to give up until he finally got his moment alone with you.

♥〉〉 It was late in the afternoon when all the clubs were letting out and the sports teams were finishing up with practice. Typically, Sal wasn't the kind of guy to stay after school preferring instead to continue his ghost investigation in Addison Appartments.

♥〉〉 But, art was his weakest subject. With Larry and Ash busy getting tutoring from Todd for their own academic struggles he had to take it upon himself into putting in more elbow grease to bring his grades up with the teacher. As the sun began to set earlier during daylight savings, the nearby coast's storm clouds had moved in over Nockfell, making their presence known with the loud warnings of thunder before the inevitable wind and rain.

♥〉〉 Before Sal could worry about getting home, his cell vibrated with a text from Larry letting him know he and Lisa were on their way in place of his dad.

♥〉〉 When he headed up to the front entrance to wait for Lisa and Larry, he didn't expect to see you sitting up against the wall alone, looking down at your phone.

♥〉〉 "[Y/N]? I didn't expect to see you here so late.." His start at conversation only got him a quick glance, your appearance illuminated in the spotlight your phone gave in the dim lighting of the school after hours. Alright so far, not so good it seemed...

♥〉〉 Waiting a few moments to see if you would respond, he tries again, "Are you waiting for your ride? I'm waiting on mine right now, can I sit with you?" Same as before, silence. This time though you had scooted over just enough to let him sit next to you. Hey! That's progress!

♥〉〉 "That was what I was waiting on. I only stayed this late because I was going to dinner with my friends after they finished tennis practice, but they cleared out early when the weather got bad and forgot me. Well..." you move a little closer to show Sal the texts you were just having between your friends, and what he read made his stomach churn.

♥〉〉 The messages revealed they hadn't forgotten to come get you at all, rather they left you there on purpose as a sick joke knowing you had no way home. Sal didn't even try to hide his frustration, not even able to read the rest of the texts.

♥〉〉 "Don't make such a big deal out of this Sally Face. They just wanted to inconvenience me a little, we do stuff like this all the time."

♥〉〉 Seeing this happen to you hit especially close to home, as his "friends" back in Jersey had teased and messed with him in similar ways. It wasn't until he met Larry, Todd, and Ashley that he got to see what it was like to have a proper support system.

♥〉〉 He could also see a little further into your attitude now, it was almost like treating others and being treated with cruelty was just an expectation...

♥〉〉 Sal knew he wasn't going to be able to change your entire outlook with one conversation, but the least he could do was show you that same compassion his friends first showed him as bright headlights soon flooded the room from outside.

♥〉〉 "I'm gonna ask Lisa if it's alright to drop you off home too, it's way too dangerous to walk home at night- let alone in a storm like this."

♥〉〉 "The hell you aren't." The sudden blunt rejection was most certainly not what he was expecting, but neither was the light tint of pink your cheeks held. "Like I'm gonna let you of all people put me in a debt, I'll get home just fine. But, here-"

♥〉〉 You took out a pen from your bag and started scribbling something down on his hand, something he couldn't quite read in the lack of proper light. "This is just so I can let you know I got home safe, alright? Don't be a weirdo about this later." You didn't waste a second after that to leave the building (and him dumbfounded)

♥〉〉 Stepping outside himself, Sal finally got a good look at what you had written down on his hand.

♥〉〉 It was a phone number! Your number! An odd, and honestly quite crude way of giving him your number but hey, he wasn't upset.

♥〉〉 Once he finally got home he shot you a text letting you know who he was and that he was safe, finding himself glued to the screen until he got a reply back.

♥〉〉 Eventually his nerves were put to ease when he got the reply, and for some unexplainable reason, it made his heart skip a beat when he read it:

♥〉〉 > Hey Sally, lyk I'm alive. Drenched, but alive. > Sorry for leaving so suddenly, thank you for keeping me company

♥〉〉 Maybe you really were just a normal girl after all ♡

♥Being Together♥

♥〉〉 Getting into a relationship wound up going quicker than expected after your first proper encounter!

♥〉〉 Sal was quick to realize that you were never intentionally trying to be mean to him, not even really as a front for your friends. Rather, none of your snide remarks had any weight to them at all; the definition of hot air.

♥〉〉 Because of this your relationship was never really intended to be a secret in the start, rather you were still getting used to genuine communication and tended to revert to your typical ways in public. While Sal understood, both of your social circles just thought it was business as usual.

♥〉〉 Even when you had started transitioning into more romantic forms of affection, Sal was already not one for PDA so even your social status aside he wasn't really ready to venture into heavy romantics immediately.

♥〉〉 Which was something you found oddly sweet about your growing bond with him, because as one would expect you had been on many, many dates before Sal. You both had a dynamic where you were able to show the other a foreign kind of relationship you weren't used to.

♥〉〉 The problem arises when you do secretly date on purpose...

♥〉〉 See, Sal is wildly known to be an awful liar, and even worse when it came to keeping secrets.

♥〉〉 Between him turning down hangouts with his group, checking his phone a lot more often, and just in general having a different air to him everyone could tell he was hiding something. Larry most of all had been suspecting Sal had a romantic partner behind his back before anyone else though.

♥〉〉 Furthermore, you had slowly begun drifting away from your old friend group. Not only that, but you'd been rejecting date offers a lot more frequently.

♥〉〉 It finally took one specific day of repeated bad luck for Larry to finally get frustrated enough to say something. with a combination of a failed math quiz, a minor argument with his mom earlier in the morning, and the god-awful bologna to eat Larry was especially not in the mood to put up with Sal's distance in the conversation.

♥〉〉 "Sal, with all due respect can you PLEASE just reveal your secret date or pay attention to the conversation."

♥〉〉 Proceed to the dead silent, blank stares from everyone at the table. Yeah everyone suspected it (and had a feeling Larry was going to bring it up first) but no one thought he was going to go nuclear with it.

♥〉〉 "Ugh- haha Larry- what are you talking about I'm not dating-"

♥〉〉 "Don't even try that Sally Face we all know a man in love when we see it."

♥〉〉 For once Sal was kind of glad he had a prosthetic face. It made it very easy to hide embarrassment in times like these. Either way, the cat was out of the bag and he figured he had to introduce you to his friends eventually, so maybe this was an open opportunity for them to get to know you!

♥〉〉 "Hmmm... How about instead of me telling you, I introduce you guys to her. Is that fair?" The promise of actually getting to meet Sal's girlfriend already piqued the group's interest by far, so they didn't fight him when he left to go retrieve you.

♥〉〉 When Sal came back with you, however...

♥〉〉 Jaws were on the floor, Ashley may have gotten milk up her nose preventing a spit take, and Larry...

♥〉〉 "Break up with her." "LARRY-"

♥〉〉 Unfortunately here is where your previous treatment of Sal is going to bite you in the ass. The gang had a difficult time accepting Travis already, as a friend, but you as Sal's girlfriend is going to take a lot of work convincing you aren't just taking advantage of his kindness.

♥〉��� It's actually because of this Travis is the first one you were able to befriend within the group- and actually got pretty close with. While in different contexts, Travis believed your claim of being influenced by toxic people in your life and genuinely meant no ill will to Sal. Hell, even outside of Sal's group you two hung out quite frequently.

♥〉〉 No one by far is surprised, but the hardest member to sway over was Larry, but also obtaining his blessing was something important to both you and Sal.

♥〉〉 Time is the only thing that will get his approval. If you stick with Sal long enough to prove you're serious about dating him then he'll know you're genuinely making an effort. ♥

[laundrybiscuits]

(soulmates AU: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3)

“You never told me your folks were soulmates," he says out of the blue. He'd meant to wait until it came up naturally or something, but they're just standing in awkward silence outside what the kids insist on calling the M&M house, waiting for the stupid dragon game to wrap up on the Munson side. He doesn't even know he's going to say it until it's already out there, sitting between them. 

Nancy says "Fuck," very quietly. Steve can't remember if she used to swear so much. He thinks not, but also, she was sixteen the last time he really felt like he knew her.

Steve’s tenth grade geometry teacher once told them: think about railroad tracks. That’s what parallel means, that there are two lines that never get closer together or farther away. No matter how long the railroad tracks get, there’s always exactly the same amount of space between them.

Now Steve thinks maybe that’s bullshit, that you can’t keep going separate from someone else and stay the same distance apart. If you’re not together, if you don’t cling as hard as you can, then the distance between you is going to grow faster and faster until you can’t even see the other person. 

He thinks maybe he doesn’t know Nancy at all anymore. 

Nancy smooths down her skirt in a nervous gesture he doesn’t recognize. “You’ve met my parents, Steve. Did you really think that’s what I want?”

It’s the kind of question where he knows the right answer from the way she’s saying it, but he doesn’t know why. Yeah, he’s met Ted and Karen. He always thought they seemed happy enough. They’ve got three kids, so they have to be happy, right? 

But he’s starting to think that Nancy—the new Nancy, how she is now—might not want to be happy. Or at least that it might not be the most important thing to her, compared to everything else she always talked about. Now that he’s thinking about it for real, he can’t really see her stepping into her mom’s shoes, never really doing anything but chasing after kids and power-walking around the mall. 

Shit, is he the Ted Wheeler in this scenario? Not that there’s anything wrong with Ted, but—wow, okay, he’s starting to understand Nancy’s reaction. 

He hasn’t said anything for a little while, and Nancy sighs. “Steve, I’m sorry, I can’t…”

“It’s fine, Nance,” he says. He even thinks he means it, this time. 

———

“Do you think she’s going to get a cover-up, like Eddie?”

Robin squints at him. “I think she’s the only one who can answer that.”

“Sure, okay, but I can’t ask her because I’ve decided I’m not gonna bring this shit up around her anymore. It’s called tact, Robin.”

“Fuck off, I’m a million times more tactful than you could ever be.” She chucks a roll of NEW RELEASE stickers at him, which he dodges with a little spin, just to show off.

“Are you kidding me? Who was it that got out of a parking ticket last week just by talking to the cop?”

“Uh, who was it that expertly finessed us both jobs at Family Video just by talking to Keith?”

“You gotta stop bringing that up,” Steve groans. “That was like a whole year ago. Get some new material, Buckley.”

“Get us a new job, Harrington! One that pays more than this shit!”

“Nah, I’m gonna be a trophy husband to some rich old lady. That’s my new plan, now that I’m totally unattached.” It comes out pretty steady, he thinks.

She sidles up to him, awkward in the way she gets sometimes, and bumps their shoulders together. “Hey, you know you could totally find someone else, right? It doesn’t have to be…” She trails off, gesturing helplessly.

He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights leave blurry ghosts on his eyelids when he blinks. 

Robin Buckley is the best friend he’ll ever have and does sometimes actually know what tact is, so she just tips her head against his shoulder and stares at the ceiling with him in silence until the next customer comes in. 

———

“You can never, ever tell Steve this.” Nancy’s voice is just barely audible from the front step, and Steve freezes. He snatches his hand back from where he’d been reaching for the doorbell.

“Cross my heart, et cetera, Wheeler.” Eddie sounds lazy, like he doesn’t even care.

“It’s crazy, but I used to feel really—happy. About the soulmark. I mean, it’s every girl’s dream, right? The cutest guy in school with her name on his wrist.”

“Can’t say I relate.” 

Nancy lets out a strangled laugh and Steve silently shuffles as close as he dares, shutting his eyes like that’ll help him hear better or something.

“I know, Eddie, that’s why I’m…I don’t know what changed. I don’t know why that stopped being enough for me. I second-guess myself all the freaking time now, and I hate that! I remember the way it felt when it turned out Steve was actually really sweet, and sometimes I just want to—to crawl back inside that feeling, except it’s not real. I know it’s not real.”

“You sure about that? Doth the lady not protest too much?”

“I’m sure.”

She hadn’t even hesitated. Steve’s nails are cutting into his palms. He feels dizzy with how quick she’d answered; how calm she’d sounded. 

It hits him, then, that it’s actually over, like for real. Maybe he really is an idiot, because it’s been years, and he thought he’d already known that. Turns out there’d been a stupid little corner of hope in him after all.

He tunes back in to hear Eddie say, “Okay, okay, you don’t gotta convince me, Wheeler. If you end up deciding to, y’know, take the plunge…yeah, I can hook you up. But no rush, okay?”

Steve turns around and walks down the drive, all the way around the corner to where he’s parked. Dustin’s stretched all the way across the seats, head poking out of the driver’s side window, squinting in the afternoon sun.

“Is Eddie coming to the arcade with us?” Dustin yells.

“He’s busy, leave him alone,” says Steve.

[perpetualproductions]

Im not sure if you already wrote this but can we get Jordan taking care of marie

(Am a big fan of your work)

Omg, yes. Say less. I haven't done this yet, so I will gladly write this, lol. (Thanks!!)

--

As You Wish

- Jordan Li takes care of Marie Moreau.

- Marie's not used to that

2k words (;-;)

If there's one thing Marie Moreau hates, it's being sick. The coughing, the body aches, the constantly stuffy/runny nose, all of it. The most annoying part of it all was how much of an inconvenience being sick was. Marie didn't have time to be sick. She had things to do, classes to pass, a superhero to become, and you can't do all of that if you're sick. So to say she was a bit annoyed to wake up feeling like utter death, would be an understatement.

Marie has always been stubbornly independent. Even when she was a kid, she always insisted she could take care of herself, (though she'd always fold when her mother made her favorite soup and cuddled up with her to watch some of her favorite movies). Sure, now she was sort of forced into it, but at this point it was second nature for her. She didn't need help, she could take care of herself just fine and a measly flu wasn't gonna change that. Marie tried to convince Emma (and herself) that she was fine enough to sit in a classroom, but her body betrayed her pretty quickly when she could barely pull herself out of bed. Emma promised to bring her some soup at the end of the day, then bolted out to avoid contamination. Apparently Emma was a bit of a germaphobe. Though Marie couldn't blame her after she'd already gone through a whole box of tissues just that morning.

-

At first Jordan didn't really think much of Marie's absence. Though they definitely noticed it. They were both in a weird, unclear, place in their relationship. Jordan wasn't even sure if they could refer to it as a relationship. Just a few months ago they couldn't stand her presence, then, she somehow wormed her way into their friend group with her big brown eyes and radiant smile. That's when they realized they had a stupid crush on the freshman, and Jordan being Jordan dealt with that by constantly arguing and pushing her buttons, which Marie retaliated with just as much force. Then they kissed her... And then they were kissing some more; in her dorm, in the library, in their dorm. The making out quickly evolved to sex in all those aforementioned places (and more). How that even began, Jordan was still confused about. One moment they're bickering about some pointless things that Jordan can even remember anymore, then they're pushing her up against the wall and taking each other's clothes off. That became sort of a regular thing, along with study sessions either before or after. Marie quickly cleared up Jordan's hold ups, telling them that she doesn't care what form they're in when they are with her (a massive relief to Jordan), but that was basically the extent of it. Not much further than being more than fine with each other's presence, study dates and sex. And after a month or two of that, Jordan became terrifyingly aware that there was so much more that they wanted out of this. The more time they spent with her, the more they really got to know her, they were beginning to realize their real feelings for Marie Moreau weren't purely sexual attraction... They were in love. But, too terrified to break the status quo, they decided to keep that hidden for now.

So by the time classes wrapped up and Marie failed to show to their scheduled study session in the library, they finally folded, shifting to their female form and near sprinting over to her dorm. Jordan had left a few messages already and Marie never answered any texts so they didn't feel bad banging on her dorm door, now half convinced she's either kidnapped or finally ghosting them (they never thought they'd wish so hard for the former option).

"Moreau! You in there?" Jordan shouted, continuing to knock after not getting an answer. Just as they were about to give up and look somewhere else, they heard some shuffling on the other side of the door. It takes a minute for Marie to shuffle her way to the door, slowly pulling it open and looking down at Jordan.

"Wow. You look like shit." Jordan states bluntly, looking Marie up and down in her sickly and disheveled state. She's wearing an oversized grey hoodie and black sweats. She looks miserable, face pale, and a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead.

"Gee, thanks." Her voice was sore as she spoke. The look she's giving Jordan quickly made them aware that she wasn't in the mood for comments. She leaned on the door for support, too exhausted to stand. "what do you want?"

"uh-" Jordan wasn't really sure what they wanted. They were going to tell her off or at least ask why she blew them off today, but the answer to that was clear. And seeing her like this, all sick and miserable, it did things to their heart that they didn't understand. A protective feeling falling over them.

Without saying much else, they let themselves in, throwing their bag aside and reaching out to steady Marie as they close the door. "What the hell are y-"

"Just get in bed, Marie." Jordan interrupts, trying to lead her to the bed, but Marie pulls herself out of their hold, just to walk over herself and get in bed herself.

"what are you doing?" She asks, sitting up in her bed, looking at Jordan confused.

Jordan took off their iconic bomber jacket, leaving them in a black tank top, as they looked around the room. They noted the multitude of used tissues and discarded cough drop wrappers, along with empty water bottles. At least she's staying hydrated - they thought. They eventually registered Marie's question, looking back at her. "You're sick." They stated as if her question was ridiculous.

Marie just shook her head, looking at them, genuinely confused by their actions here. What were they doing? Yes, she was sick, but that was her problem, not Jordan's. So why were they in her dorm trying to, what? Take care of her? Don't get her wrong, she was always happy to see Jordan, be in their company, but it was usually under much different circumstances. Marie still wasn't 100% sure what they were yet, but they didn't think it involved this. "Yeah, okay... And?"

"And?... Being sick sucks. And your roommate's obviously not here to help you and I am, so just lay down, will you?" Jordan tries to reason with her. They decide to get moving, grabbing a trashcan from the corner of the room and scooping the used tissues and wrappers into it.

Marie just watches Jordan move, picking up after her. "Jordan, you don't need to do..." she waves her hands around as she tries to find the right words, "this-"

"-well what if I want to do this?" They argue, but they pause, realizing what they might have admitted. "I mean, you obviously need the help. You're really not looking too hot, have you taken your temperature yet?" They tried to backpedal, but it was hard to hide their worry.

Jordan can't help themselves as they lean forward, placing their hand on Marie's forehead, then moving it down to her cheek, letting it linger there for a second. They get lost in each other's eyes for just a moment, Jordan's words working their way through Marie's mind. Wait- they actually want to be here and help her? , the idea itself wasn't something Marie was used to. It's been a long time since someone actively wanted to be in her company and care for her... She wasn't sure how to feel, but looking into Jordan's eyes sent a flutter through her, and not to the kind that she usually feels when they're about to have sex. This was different... The only thing that pulls her back to reality is an oncoming sneeze, ripping through her as she pushes Jordan's hand away, turning away so she doesn't sneeze in Jordan's face. Marie's head rings as three more sneezes come on, leaving her reaching for some tissues, only to turn and see Jordan (now in male form), holding out the box of tissues for her. She reaches out and grabs some tissues, trying to decipher Jordan's unreadable, yet soft expression. There's an undeniable look of adoration, but a hint of uncertainty or shyness behind those deep brown eyes of theirs.

Jordan clears their throat as they put the tissues back down, moving the trashcan closer to the bed so Marie can throw the tissues away when she's done blowing her nose. "Look Moreau, you're obviously pretty sick, and I know you're too stubborn to admit that you need help. But- God, Marie, just let me take care of you. Cause I do want to help, I- I care about your fucking well-being, believe it or not." They sigh, scratching the back of their head, trying to collect their thoughts. "I- If you really want me to leave, I'll fucking leave, but... Just- If you need anything, seriously, just text me. I'll be right there." They said genuinely, radiating a sort of comfort that Marie hasn't felt in a long time.

All Marie could do was slowly nod her head, lips pressed in a thin line as she thought over Jordan's proposal. "Well... I don't want to get you sick."

Jordan just shrugged. "I'll deal."

Marie couldn't help but laugh at that. "and you say I'm stubborn."

Jordan laughs a bit as well, "Fine. Maybe we're both a bit stubborn."

Marie shakes her head, finally deciding to lie back on the bed, the exhaustion pulling on her bones. Her eyes drift close for a moment, before fluttering back open to meet Jordan's. They're looking down at her, a smile still on their face as they shake their head. "So fucking stubborn." They tease as they get up from the bed, grabbing their jacket and putting it back on. They then grabbed their stuff and began to head to the door.

Marie watches a bit confused. "Wait- we're you going?" She tried not to sound disappointed.

Jordan looked back, a soft smile still resting on their face. "Well, you haven't kicked me out yet, so I'm gonna go get you some medicine, more tissues, and cough drops. I'll be right back." They reassured, walking back over to give a quick peck on her forehead. "Also gonna grab a thermometer so I can properly take your temperature. You feel a bit warm." They said, rubbing her arm a bit before getting back up and heading to the door."

"wait!" Marie called, causing Jordan to stop and look back at her. "Do you think you could get me some soup as well? If it's not too much-"

Marie spoke shyly, really not wanting to ask too much of them, but Jordan swiftly cut her off. "Of course I will. What do you like? Chicken noodle?"

Marie nods, "creamy chicken noodle. From the can."

Jordan smiles, putting those beautiful dimples on display. "Perfect. I'll be back." They said, finally heading out the door.

Marie couldn't help the large smile, tugging at her lips. How did she get so lucky? Sure, her and Jordan weren't "official" by any means, but something told her that after this, things were gonna be different for the better.

Once Jordan came back, they both cuddled up on Marie's bed, eating soup and watching The Princess Bride on Marie's laptop. After that, anytime Marie would ask for something, Jordan would bow their head and say "as you wish," just like Westly would in the movie. They started it off as a joke, but continued, just to see Marie smile and laugh at it.

After a few days, Marie got better, just in time for Jordan to get sick. Which Marie did say "I told you so," only to return the favor and take care of Jordan (making sure to sanitize and wear a mask so she didn't get sick again. She refused to miss more classes). Marie also adopted the "as you wish", just to taunt Jordan back.

After that, there wasn't much question about what they were. They both knew they were more to each other than just casual sex. They loved each other, and would always be there when the other needed it. No matter how stubborn the other was about it.

--

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed. I sort of just wrote this, stream of consciousness, so I hope it makes sense, lol. I wanted to write more, but was losing it a bit, so I just wrapped it up there. But yeah, thanks for the ask!! Love writing about these two so much. Hope you all have a good day.

Much love, 😎👍❤️

-PB

(check out my Masterlist for other fics n one-shots n stuff)

[sim0nril3y]

Second Meeting

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Scenario: Set a few weeks after their first meeting Simon bumps into a familiar face on another night out. Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), mentions of smoking, mentions of alcohol, suggestive conversation, slight mention of smut, canon-typical swearing (I mean, it's Ghost for fuck sake!).

Just how did Simon keep getting dragged onto these nights out? His friends always seemed to talk him around enough, speaking some shit as if he owed them something because he was rarely home these days. They missed him. They wanted to spend some time with him. They wanted him to chase a pretty bird and bed her. Fuckinghell… he was beginning to think that his “friends” really didn’t have his best intentions at heart. A night in watching the football would be ideal, even going down the pub for a quiet one would be preferable to them always dragging him out-out to these dingy little clubs.

It was just a relentless assault on each of his senses. The beer was fucking abysmal. The music was too loud – if you could even call it music. The floor was sticky. It was hot. There were too many people around him. God, these birds must be desperate if they were grinding up against him. It must be because they couldn’t get a good look at him in the light. They couldn’t see the scars and burns that littered him. The tattoos that spread up his arms. Too rigid. Too regimented. Unable to just let loose anymore. Simon simply stood there assessing every little thing about the room.

Once the tension had built too high Simon was quick to excuse himself. Barging unapologetically through the crowd and outside. Fuck, he’d rather be home right now watching the highlights. He knew that Man United won their game, he wanted to watching it, but his mates had insisted that going out-out would be much more fun. Last fucking time that he would listen to them…

“Oh, we’re going to have to stop running into each other like this…” Glancing over his shoulder Simon was somewhat shocked to see you standing angelically under the streetlamps, cigarette burning between your fingers, shuffling from one foot to the other attempting to generate some body heat in another dress that was less that weather appropriate. “You stalking me, kid?” A brow quirked in you direction before you beamed a grin back at him in response, a small silent conversation between you both: so you remembered me... how could I fucking forget?

A musical laugh fell from your lips, daring a few steps closer to him, as if they were more than acquaintances, maybe something closer to friends, or more… “Bet you’d like that.” He saw the way your teeth tugged at your lower lip. Flirting. Tempting. Dangerous. “Been to every club in town just looking for you~” Your tone was teasing and Simon let out a low laugh. “I have to say. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t hear from you.”

“That right?” Simon blew his smoke away from your face as you took a few more daunting steps in his direction. “Fun game, bet you don’t even remember my name.” “Simon~” The name shot from your lips in an instant and fucking hell did he like the way it sounded on your precious, pink lips. “Impressed?” Placing your cigarette between your lips and inhaling sweetly. “There is a really easy way to get rid of me, Simon~” He hated the way his trousers grew a little tighter each time his name rolled off your tongue. “Take me for a drink.” Then shrugging your slight shoulders. “After that, if I don’t interest you, then I’ll disappear and you’ll never hear from me again.”

Those walls he’d built up where beginning to crack and crumble. How did this fuckin’ kid find a way of getting under his skin so effectively? “Fine.” The smile that broke over your face was memorable. “Dog and Duck?” It was a local boozer, one that had a bit of a reputation for being rough. “Or you bit classier than that?”

“I can be whatever you want me to be…” Your playful lilt spoke to him on a level he’d never experienced before. Moving to stand so that he was looming over you, observing that smug little look on your face. “Last chance to go find a boy your own age to play with…” It was more of a plea than it was a suggestion. There was no way that he would be able to resist you if they kept playing this game. He had done such an efficient job to build these walls up to protect other people and to protect himself. He couldn’t just allow you to come in and bulldoze them down. “But the older boys are so much more fun~” Fuck, you were snarky and witty. So much of him loved your attitude but part of it shook him to the very core. Simon knew what he needed to do; humour you. The moment you found out more about him then you would run a mile. He would just be another bad dating story to tell your friends. Until then, he would just humour you.

Masterlist | Ask | 29-08-2023

[nixedsignals]

confession // Captain John Price x reader

summary: a mission gone wrong leaves you in the hospital and Captain Price hasn’t come to see you yet.

warnings: descriptions of torture and injury. language. angsty, fluff at the end

a/n: tbh i just really wanted to write a Price thing <3

“It’s been a month, boss,” Gaz leans in the doorway of the hospital room, his voice pitched low. Next to him, John Price stands with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving your sleeping form under clean, white, hospital linen.

“I know that, sergeant,” he murmurs, glancing for a second at his subordinate before returning his gaze to you. “What’s your point?”

“She thinks you’re pissed, sir,” he pauses, seemingly considering his words before adding; “Are you?”

“Am I what? Pissed?” the captain turns his sapphire gaze on Kyle, who nods. “Yeah, I’m pissed. I’m fuckin’ furious. They could’ve killed her, an’ when I find ‘em-“

“She thinks you’re pissed *at her*,” Gaz clarifies, gesturing to you. “Sir.”

“Christ, ‘m not. How’d she get that into her head?” John returns his focus to you, watching you roll halfway under the covers before wincing and rolling back.

“Well you haven’t come to see her when she’s awake. For all she knows, you haven’t even been here,” John nods along with Kyle’s words. He’s right. A second passes before John speaks, voice almost completely absent of his typical commanding tone.

“I’ll stay, talk to her when she wakes up,” he claps a hand on Gaz’ shoulder, a tight smile on his face. “You should go home, get some rest.”

“Yes, sir. Be careful with her though. She’s been through it already,” Gaz casts a last look over you before nodding at the captain and taking his leave.

John sighs, quietly entering the room and sitting in a very nearly comfortable armchair next to your bed. He knew you deserved better than his last month of treatment. The memory of *that* day was fresher than he’d like to admit.

You’d been infiltrating an enemy base. It was supposed to be an easy op, in and out, low hostile count. Easy.

What a joke.

They’d set up on two buildings: Ghost and Soap on one, Price and Gaz on the other, ensuring overwatch cover. You had been sent into the bulding. Alone.

Christ, John wished he could take that order back.

At the time, it’d been a good move. The target building had open floorplans and cieling high windows. They should’ve had no issue covering you. Until you’d radio’d in:

“Cap, there’s a stairwell going down in the back corner of the first floor. Wasn’t in the floorplan,”

And you’d gone down.

The dead air time alone was enough to make the ever-stoic Captain John Price sweat in his fatigues. And after 20 minutes of incrimental “What’s your status?”-es, he finally received a response.

“Boss, I fucked up,” your voice was hushed over the comms and Price’s heart dropped.

“Status, sergeant?”

“This place is crawling. Fifty hostiles, maybe more. Entrance is blocked and there’s not another way out,”

“Find another way out, now. That’s an order,”

“Can’t. ‘m sorry. Gonna cut comms and strip my fatigues. They won’t know who sent me. Won’t give anything up. Promise,”

Before Price could stop you, the snap of the walkie cord and static filled his ears.

It took a week to get you back. They found you in a back room, ankle chained to the bars of the dog cage around you. Malnourished, dehydrated, sleep deprived.

It took everything he had to look at you long enough to recognize the muzzle flash burns on your temples and telltale scars running aross your chest and legs from cigarettes being put out against your skin.

Now, your muffled voice drags him from his thoughts. You look better, curled into the stark white sheets. Your cheeks are regaining their fullness and color, and the dark circles under your eyes have all but vanished.

Can still see the scars on your temples though. He shoves that thought away, willing his blood to a light simmer instead of the boiling rage that threatens to consume him.

“Sorry, what’d you say, kid?” His eyes find yours, now fully paying attention.

“Water, please?” you rasp, gesturing to the cup on the bedside table. He nods, grabbing the cup, gently pulling you into a half-sitting position and holding the straw to your lips.

You take a few sips, wincing a little before nodding, a gesture that your finished for now. John sets the cup down, eyes on your throat, brows furrowed.

“They waterboard you?” his voice is even. Clinical. He doesn’t miss the flash of disappointment that crosses your face, however.

“Yes,” you mumble, turning to face away from your superior. “Is that why you finally showed up? To get my report?”

“No, no it isn’t,” he closes his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. “I’m sorry, for not being by ‘til now.”

“S’fine. What are you gonna do now?” your voice grows softer and he can hear tears in the back of your throat.

“About what?”

“To punish me,”

John’s gaze snaps to yours, only just catching a tear on your cheek before you wipe it away.

“You—you think you’re in trouble?” he asks, voice dropping to a deadly low tone. You nod, face contorting at the motion for a brief second. John shakes his head. “Bloody hell, you’re not—I’m not mad at you.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me? I’ve been in here a month and I haven’t even seen you,” now your tears flow freely, streaking down your cheeks. “For the first week, I figured you had paperwork to do, but after a month? Even Ghost came by and you know how he is about going out.”

You curled your arms around yourself, bringing your knees up to your chin, sobs ripping from your chest in a hellish attempt to keep you from breathing evenly.

“I’m sorry, lo-“ he stops himself. He can’t say it, the ‘L’ word. Even as a nickname, it could open the floodgates.

“Tell me then,” you whisper, hiccuping through your tears. “Tell me the truth, why would you stay away like that?”

“Christ, I just-I couldn’t. It was too hard,” he drops his gaze the the floor, suddenly finding the linoleoum tile fascinating while waiting for your response.

“Hard? It was too hard? You don’t think it was hard for Soap or Ghost or Kyle? He’s been here every goddamn day!” your tears begin running down your cheeks, hot and fast as anger replaces sorrow. “You don’t think it was hard for me, sitting in this fucking room thinking that my captain was mad at me because I messed up our mission and lost the intel and got tied up and beaten and—“

“I know that, love,” John snaps, standing quickly and turning away. “I know that it’s been hard. And I know I should’ve come sooner. And you want the truth?”

You nod, eyes wide. John drops back into his seat, reaching out to brush some of the tears from your cheeks with calloused fingers.

“You almost died. You’re lucky you didn’t. An’ the whole time you were in surgery I knew that if I saw you, I’d say something stupid,”

“Why?”

“Because-Christ-because I love you. An’ I shouldn’t ‘cause I’m your captain. But I can’t lose you, knowing I never said it, hell. I’m sorry. For all of this. I’ll never bring it up again. An’ if you wanna put in for a transfer, I’ll approve it. Promise,” he slumps back in his seat, looking more defeated than you’ve ever seen him. His hardened outer shell has worn hundreds of missions and storms and losses, and this is what broke him?

You start to laugh, a small giggle, but it grows and John’s head snaps up. You look happier than you have in a while, even before the incident, and warm blue eyes widen in wonder at your sudden change.

“Say somethin’ funny, did I?” he grins, charming and a little bashful and it only makes you laugh harder. After a minute, the sound dies down, leaving you to ask for your water again, throat shredded from the rollercoaster of emotions.

“I’m sorry, just-didn’t expect you to say that,” you quietly start, hand venturing from under the blanket to find Price’s much larger one. “I, um, I love you. Sir.”

“Don’t-have to call me ‘sir’. Not when it’s just us,” then a pause, his eyes find yours and he lets out a slow breath.

“Will we get in trouble?” your voice trembles a little and John winces, knowing you might cry again.

“No, no, I’ll-I’ll talk to Kate, sort something out. Promise,” he gently moves his fingers tighter around yours, thumb brushing over you knuckles. You smile, brighter than the sun and he swears he gains ten years on his life everytime he sees it.

“Can you kiss me now then?” you ask breathlessly, and John laughs, standing and leaning forward. His lips gently press against yours. It’s chaste and soft and short, but it’s perfect.

-—————-———-—-

“They’ve been like that since I got here,” Kyle Garrick stands in the doorway to your hospital room, arms crossed. Soap is leaned against the opposite doorframe, while Ghost sits in a chair a few feet away.

“‘Bout time too, I swear they’ve been makin’ eyes at each other for ages,” Soap shakes his head, gesturing into the hospital room.

The topic of conversation there, you sleeping soundly in the haze of white linen around you, fingers holding the hand of their captain, who’s snoring at a truly ungodly volume from the chair beside your bed.

“Laswell, 10 o’clock,” Ghost mutters, glancing at Gaz.

“I say we let her try to wake up the captain. ‘Cause I’m not gonna,”

[stardust948]

Half Off Chocolate

Prompt: They fight over discounted Valentine's Day chocolate while arguing over who had it worse.

Katara didn’t know why she didn’t just go home.

Her makeup was smeared from crying, dress wrinkled, and hair slipping out of its neat bun. She was a messed and felt even worse inside. Maybe that is why she stopped at the nearest convenient store for some well deserved and frankly overdue, sweets.

The store was a ghost town. Scattered pink and red merchandise laid abandoned on the floor and nearly empty shelves. Of course. Though it was still Valentine’s Day, the hour was late and most of the good stuff was long gone.

Katara wandered to the candy section, feeling like a lost spirit herself; haunting the remains of a once beautiful dwelling now succumbed to ruin. The candy ail was picked clean, as expected. Even the less popular treats were gone. Nothing left except a lone heart shaped red box. An ugly orange sticker slapped hastily on read the box was 50% off due to damage.

‘How fitting. A damaged heart for a damaged heart.’ Katara thought to herself.

A bitter half smile grew on her face as she reached out to pick it up. She did not notice the other hand reaching at the same time until they both grabbed the box. Katara gasped, more out of annoyance than surprise.

The person was a Fire Nation man about her age. He wore a fancy suit with the neck tie partly undone and had long black hair that spilled onto his face. Bits of red peaked under the hair on his left side, probably from a rash or blemish he was trying to hide. Despite this, he was admittedly attractive in his own way.

Katara glared. He must have forgotten what day it was, hastily threw on the fancy outfit and rushed to the store to buy sweets for his disappointed partner. Well too bad! Katara needed it more!

“Excuse you.” Katara said coldly. “I had that first.”

“What? No I did.”

“You’re wrong.” Katara yanked it, but the man held firm. “Let go!”

“I had it first! You let go!”

“No you!”

They yelled and tugged on the chocolate box like a couple of kids fighting on the playground.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?!” Katara spat. “I’ve earned that chocolate!”

“Earned?! I need it more!!!”

“It’s not my fault you forgot Valentines’ Day and had to last minute shopping!”

“I didn’t forget! My girlfriend dumped me today of all days!”

“Oh boohoo! My long term boyfriend proposed today-“

“Well congratulations!” His voice dripped in sarcasm.

“After I caught him cheating, you prick!” Katara snapped. “He didn’t even apologize! Just pulled out a ring and thought that would fix everything!”

“You think that’s bad?! My ex dumped me by bringing the guy she was cheating on me with for the past 2 years!”

“My ex brought his fangirls to the proposal! The very ones who treated me like a maid and constantly threatened me just because I was dating him!”

“My ex threw a glass bottle at my head just for dating another girl while we were on break!”

“My ex threw a lit candle at me because I didn’t want to kiss him right then!”

“My ex did kiss me just to shut me up from talking about confused emotions!”

“My ex purposefully kept me away from my family and constantly belittled my culture!”

“My ex insulted me just for having different opinions from her!”  

“My ex compared my grief of my mom’s murder to losing his pet! Then scolded me for giving a witness report against the murder in trail!!!”

“My ex told my sister where I was knowing she’ll tell my abusive father!!!”

The box ripped in half, sending them flying back and pelting them with chocolate. The two stared at each other in stunned silence before the owner came storming up and kicked them out. The slammed door echoed across the bare parking lot as the two continued to stand there awkwardly.

“Did she really do those things?” Katara asked in a hushed tone.

“Yeah.” The man rasped. There was no hiding the sadness in his voice. “Yours’s?”

Katara nodded. “Yeah…”

“Sounds like a really crappy person.”

“Yours’s too.”

There was another brief silence before he spoke again.

“We’re better off without them.”

“Are we?” Katara asked. “We were just fighting over discounted chocolate 5 minutes ago.”

“Okay, maybe not tonight specifically… But in the long run, we’re better off.”

Katara rubbed her necklace as tears formed. She wanted to agree but a large part of her life was tied to that relationship. Tied to him. Katara shook her head. The stranger was right.

“We are better off.”

“Sorry about…” He gestured to the store behind them. ”That.”

“I’m sorry too.” Katara undid her messy bun, letting her hair fall free, then extended her hand. “I’m Katara.”

He accepted with a firm grip. “Zuko.”

[keysorsomething]

Easing Into it

Chapter two of The Shape :) Thanks so much for all of the support

1 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Cross-posted on Ao3

Nikto had…. changed after your interaction in the armory.

Usually distant, both physically and emotionally, Nikto had started doing… odd things. Like, when you stand next to each other, he slowly shuffles into you until your shoulders meet. Sometimes he’d lower his head down close to your neck until you could feel his hot breath through his mask on your skin as he stood ever-threateningly behind you. You weren’t sure what that one was about, but you’d feel him burning holes in the back of your skull as he studied the back of your head.

You two hadn’t talked about what happened that night, but it was clear to see. He wanted more. You had given him a taste of water after days of walking through the desert. Something sweet after years of having nothing but bland, lifeless mush. He was trying to hold himself together, but each stroke of your fingers against his chest - well, not even really his chest, his chest plate, had driven him insane. He still felt it. At night, in his bed, instead of the memories of the pain he experienced in that room, the feelings ghosting over him were your fingers. Gentle, cautious.

You were yet to tell him you were trying to scare him off. You’re sure you won’t ever. You almost feel bad. Looking at him these past few days, he looked much… better. His eyes were usually red and shiny as if he spent the whole night crying and he was about to start up again at the smallest inconvenience. It was absurd to think of, the strong semi-standoffish stoic man crying so much. At all. He always looked a bit like someone with the firm belief that boys don’t cry.

But that had to be the answer - he was crying. Or maybe not sleeping. Or maybe he sleeps with his eyes open. Anyway, what he was doing before had stopped. Or at least been doing it less (more?). His eyes looked like he was blinking on occasion, which was actually mildly upsetting because there goes your Christmas present for him.

You shake your head to get rid of the train of thought when you feel him press his side further into yours. He’d even started eating in his room and then rushing out just to sit with you while you ate. It was kinda cute. He seemed a little like a puppy. A big, scary puppy that your neighbor insists on putting down because he scares her kids.

You take a sip of your drink, eyes flicking to him and then back to your food. He didn’t talk like this, like how he used to not talk to you when he’d stand there, watching your every move. You guess this was the next phase of his study of you. He was a very curious being, you guessed.

“Nikto,” You address him, placing your drink down.

“Да?” He asks as he says your name. His blue eyes turn down to you. His eyes are downturned, and almost… beautiful when they aren’t all red and puffy. The white is shiny, like fancy pearls on a necklace. And the blue of his irises is only ever more blue. A striking icy lake that you’re daring to step on, hearing as each step causes it to crack.

He was suffocating you. The pressure of his fingers against your jugular notch had never quite left since it first met the squishy flesh. Your lungs stopped fully expanding.

“We have to talk,” He stiffens up at the words, his back straightening so much that his shoulder stops touching yours. “Nothing bad, I just,” You lower your voice. It was loud in the Mess Hall, but you didn’t want anyone to overhear. Did this count at fraternization? Not that you think it really mattered, this being a PMC and all. And you weren’t sure if anyone who was there would actually scold you for it. You decided not to risk it. And even if nobody was gonna clock you and write you up, you’re sure Nikto would not like anyone to overhear. “I wanna know what’s up-” you pause “-man,” you tack it on, but quickly feel like you shouldn’t have. Who the fuck calls a guy like this man?

“What do you mean by that?” He says your name as his eyes narrow down at you. He scoots away from you ever so slightly.

“You… you,” You aren’t sure how to phrase it, so you instead stand, wrap your hand around his bicep, and pull him out of the room. This was not going to look like what it was, but you didn’t care. Well, you did, as you walked past the former Shadow Company table, feeling Roze’s confused eyes on your back and hearing Graves chuckle. But that didn’t matter.

So what if Graves thought you were freaking it in the storage closet you so ungracefully push Nikto into. Nobody listened to him anyway. It was hard to when he was the dude that had the American flag bedsheets.

Nikto was very stiff. He had no clue what to do, and he did not like being forced into the small, dark room. You turn the lights on, step into the closet, and shut the door behind you. You sigh heavily, trying to formulate your words.

“Nikto,” You start, trying to figure it out. “So, you’ve been,” The wording is lost on you more as each one comes out. “You don’t have to sneak contact from me, you know?” You figure it out. “I’m willing to help.”

Nikto still looks scared, eyes flickering around. You bet his first thought was some Russian form of “buy me dinner first”. This looked much, much worse than you meant it to.

“Not like that,” You correct, and he just eyes you more confusedly. “I mean, not yet..? Look,” You sigh, covering your face in your hands. “I mean,” Your hands extend, pulling his face into them. He doesn’t yank back right away, but he sure looks like he’s going to. “Relax,” You whisper to him, gently dragging your thumb across where the fabric of his mask meets the blast plate. The metal is cold on your skin, and the fabric is rough. Very rough. He shivers hearing your whisper.

Huh, you didn’t take him for a guy who would have an autonomous sensory meridian response. His eyes quickly relax, fluttering shut. You just keep stroking with your hand, thumb pad petting the high part of his cheek as your other fingers meet his neck and under his jaw. Your other hand reached up and stroked two fingers over his forehead. Like how you had touched his chest that night. You weren’t sure if he felt anything you did up there, but it felt right.

His head turns to the side, letting you pet him as you please. This is so fucking weird, you think to yourself, but he doesn’t push away. You whisper to him, random reassuring nonsense. Mostly just to watch and feel as he shivers hearing it. He leans forward slowly, inching closer and closer until his head rests on your shoulder. Your hands have to move at that point, down to his shoulders and upper back.

“Okay, Big Guy, stay awake,” You tell him, no longer whispering.

“Feels good,” He grunts out. He takes a moment to figure out the word for it in English, before giving up. “дрожать,” he mumbles, resting his head in the crook of your neck.

“I know, but you gotta stay awake,” You tell him, and he moves back, his spine popping as he does. He rubs his masked face, sighing lowly. You brace your hands on his shoulders, he looks wobbly. He eases back, standing to his full height.

“We… would like to do this again,” He announces, voice a low whisper.

“Well, I can do that for you, Nikto,” You tell him, watching as his eyes dip down to the floor. “I, uhm, I’ll come by your room tonight?” You offer and quickly feel his gaze wash over you.

“Да, tonight,” He nods. You sit in silence for a moment for a while, before he pushes past you. He opens the door, disappearing around the corner as he once more melts off into the walls. You take a few steps to follow him, stopping in the doorway.

You hear a soft sound from behind the door and turn to look behind it. Your eyes quickly settle on a group of your other coworkers, hiding behind the door. They were eavesdropping on you.

Horangi waves at you, trying to hold in a giggle. Roze’s hands are on his shoulders, she was probably leaning over him to hear better. Klaus stands behind the two of them.

“See you tonight,” Klaus mocks. Fucking Santa. You huff, rubbing your forehead as you beg them to not say anything to anyone, especially not König or Nikto. Any form of confrontation was going to get your ass killed.

You ask them to at least let them have tonight. They all agree, willing to let you have one last night of fun before you die. Though you feel it’s going to be more petting and a lot of whispering, and no real fun.

[bendeddicksssss]

The Ghost of Family Video

The first chapter of one of my fanfics on ao3 just to give a little sneak peak.

Summary in the shortest amount of words: Steve died after the events of Starcourt, and Eddie is a psychic who can see ghosts. I think you can guess what the fic is about ;)

Chapter 1: Steve Harrington is Dead

Robin Buckley started working at Scoops Ahoy for the same reason every other teen gets a job; she wanted money. Her parents were never the type to ask her to help with the bills, nor did they ever ask her to get a job, but she enjoyed having money stored up for college and emergencies. It was cushioning for both her and her parents if they ever needed it, and, with her brother at college, they needed all the help they could get. She had a job before–started working the ticket stand at Hawkins old theater when she was 15. She was 17, however, when she started working at Scoops Ahoy—working with Steve Harrington.

Robin never had a job that didn’t include a coworker, but Steve was an entirely different concept. He didn’t feel like a coworker, even if they did work together. He felt like an entity more elusive than Bigfoot. She hated Steve, but she didn’t hate him in a normal sense. She hated him because he made her heart grow heavy with comfort, despite the fact that he was a homophobic, dick-bag of a jock. At least, that’s what Robin assumed when they started working together. Steve proved her assumptions wrong within the first week of working together. He brought back coffee whenever he went on his break. He offered his extra breaks to Robin if she looked tired. He insisted on taking in all the heavy stock, and he never let Robin pay for her own dinner or lunch if she forgot to pack one. Even then, she hated him.

She hated him like the ocean hates the beach. They were stuck in a constant battle of one metaphorically crashing into the other, but, in a strange way, it worked. Each crash of a wave chipped at the other person’s sandy shore, letting out pieces of shells and hidden creatures in the tide pools. Each wave was a new discovery about who the other person really was. They were the ocean against the beach. Waves in the sand. Forever connected. Steve and Robin. 

That feeling within their “friendship” was even before all hell broke loose and before Robin knew Russian spies hid beneath the mall and monsters worse than the ones under her bed were real. Even with their mutual teasing and stormy beaches, no one could deny that Steve and Robin were connected. No one could deny that they were, at least, friends. Robin tried to deny it. If anyone asked, she’d tell them that Steve was just another schmuck she was stuck slinging ice cream with. A rich kid who was forced into a job by his snooty parents. He was nothing to her, but she was only lying when she said that. Steve wasn’t nothing. He wasn’t nothing at all.

Steve was a walking puzzle missing half the pieces and the guiding picture, yet Robin tried her hardest to figure him out. It was impossible. He was a mystery confusing enough to stump Sherlock. He flinched at flickering lights and dissociated in the cold freezer where they stored ice cream. He kept a baseball bat in the trunk of his car that Robin had only ever seen the handle of, which had a small brown stain on it—one that looked suspiciously like blood. In an expected fashion, he teased Robin about still being in high school, calling her “Freshman” with every other sentence despite the fact that she was on her way to her senior year. Strangest of all, he refused to let Robin ride her bike home after the closing shift; she rode with him nearly every day with her bike in the backseat of his car. Eventually, he started picking her up to be taken to work too. It wasn’t even a conversation between them; he just showed up while Robin was dragging her bike down her driveway. She didn’t try to argue, seeing the dark bags under his eyes and the silent begging within them—a look built more of fear than desperation. She couldn’t have said no even if she tried. Besides, who was she to turn down a free ride?

Steve also had a pack of kids who followed him like ducklings to their imprinted mother. “I babysit them.” He always used it as an excuse, but that never made sense to Robin. To start off, she knew for a fact that Scoops was Steve’s first job. He never mentioned being a babysitter until they started showing up. She also knew that most of the kids have older siblings. Growing up with an older brother, Robin knew that older siblings are usually stuck with the babysitting job. Max Mayfield, Will Byers, Mike Wheeler–they all had older siblings. Why would their parents waste the money in hiring Steve? Moreso, why, out of all the high school students in Hawkins, would they choose Steve to babysit? He was a jock known for getting drunk at parties and flirting with everything with boobs. He didn’t exactly scream babysitting material.

Outside of his role as “Mama Duck”, Steve was also friends with Jonathan Byers, even though the man was known around school for stealing ‘King Steve’s’ girlfriend. In fact, Steve’s face lit up like a Christmas tree the few times Jon came into shop, even when the boy was there without his younger brother or any of the other children. 

Despite her initial shock, Robin could handle these discoveries and odd traits. She could handle Steve being friends with a few kids and with Jonathan Byers, but there was a fact about Steve Harrington that stood out above the rest. The most surprising thing about Steve was that he wasn’t, at all, what Robin thought he’d be. He wasn’t a douchebag. He wasn’t a ‘womanizer’, like her friend, Kate, would always call him. Sure, Steve flirted with everything and anyone that breathed, but he was always respectful. He made eye contact and complemented their hair or their smile. He was even nicer with the customers without boobs, complimenting them even if he wasn’t trying to get laid. Steve Harrington wasn’t Steve Harrington. He was just… Steve. Her coworker. Her friend. Her puzzle that she spent the first half of that summer trying to figure out. 

It wasn’t until she saw a monster bigger than her house that she discovered all the missing pieces of Steve. Why he flinched at flickering lights and why the cold always bothered him. She figured why he prefers cats and smaller dogs to bigger ones. She figured out he was smarter than he let on, having intelligence in things besides books and school. She figured out he was selfless. He threw himself headfirst into danger to try and save a couple of kids, one of whom she was pretty sure he hated because Erica Sinclair was an asshole of a child, but he saved them. He tried to save Robin too, but Scoop's captains stick together, right? She wasn’t gonna leave him alone, and that idea scared her more than anything. Just one traumatic experience together and she was already codependent of a man whose head was more hairspray than brains. 

She doesn’t know how long they were in the bunker for. All she knew was that Steve was nice to talk to. He listened, and he asked questions. She would try and urge him to talk, and he would, but she could tell he was holding back. Sure, she had all the pieces to the puzzle of Steve, but she still needed the bigger picture. 

“You think they’d buy it if I pretended I could only speak French?” Robin asked when they were left alone. The guard's voices were muffled just outside the door, so she talked to drown out the few Russian words she understood– “The boy… blue… spies… bleed.”

“What?” Steve asked a few seconds after her statement. 

Robin shrugged, her shoulders brushing against Steve’s, “I don’t know; it could work. I am fluent in French!” she sighed dejectedly, “I’m sorry. I’m just talking to not freak myself out. I’ll shut up.” she cleared her throat and looked to the ground, deciding that it probably wasn’t the best time to make jokes.

“Talk.” Steve suddenly urged. She looked at him. This was before they were tied back-to-back, so she could still look at him. “You don’t have to talk about them. Talk about anything… you’re gonna be a senior, right?” Robin nodded. “You want to go to college?” 

Robin tilted her head. This wasn’t the first time they had talked about college, but it was the first time the focus was on Robin. In past conversations, talks about school was usually Steve making fun of Robin being in high school and Robin making fun about Steve for not going to college. “I want to go to Chicago.” Robin answered. 

“The university?” Robin nodded. 

“I always wanted to live in a big city; Chicago is at the top of my list.” In all honesty, ever since Robin was young, she dreamed about living in a city, but she dreamed about going west to California–Hollywood. She wanted to be a director or a writer, but Chicago seemed like an easier option. A steppingstone to get to her dream. “Honestly, I don’t want to go to college, but I think a degree would be nice to fall back on.”

“What do you want to do?” 

Robin smiled, “I want to write.”

“Books? Articles?”

“Movies.” she corrected. Steve went on to ask about what kind of movies, and she talked about a few ideas she had for a romantic period piece (leaving out the sapphic details) until the door burst open. Robin had almost forgotten she was in a nightmare. She was grateful for his distraction. 

When they got separated, it was like time stood still. It could’ve been hours–days–weeks–minutes–seconds, and all Robin experienced was an empty mind and a racing heart. There were no clocks and no windows. Just her tied to a chair, and Steve… Steve being tortured. Robin heard Steve’s screams from all the way down the hall. She tried humming Blondie or Queen to drown them out but each one was louder than the last. Robin liked horror movies, sure. She watched thrillers with friends and would challenge herself to not chicken out, but the actors in those films never even came close to the screams Steve was making. They were blood curdling and garbling, as he begged for his life. For a break from the pain. Robin wished she could rip her ears off. Worst of all, she felt useless! Robin heard punches and Russian voices shouting at her friend, and all she could do was listen and hope that he was still breathing. Her parents never really forced any specific religion growing up. She wasn’t sure how prayers were supposed to work, but she tried her best: Please, God, let Steve be alive. I know I don’t believe in you. You probably hate me right now, but please let this scream not be his last. Please bring him back. 

Steve came back bruised and bloodied and unconscious, and Robin tried to feel for a pulse, screaming at the guards for answers. What happened? Fuck… She couldn’t find his heartbeat. Robin always sucked in anatomy class—got too grossed out by the dissections, but she knew it was somewhere on his neck… maybe the wrist? She just had to loosen her binds enough to feel for his heartbeat. She tried to reassure herself that she just had to keep looking, but she couldn’t find it! She couldn’t find his pulse and the guards were watching them, and she knew that she would be next in their sadistic crusade. They tied them back-to-back all while Robin was still panicking. When Steve took a gasp of air, she nearly added her own punch into the mix for scaring her, but the Russian guards were already moving on to the next form of torture. But, hey, Steve was alive. She wasn’t alone. 

Later, they sat beside a once-empty toilet. The stench and taste of vomit lingered in Robin’s nose and throat. The Starcourt bathroom tiles were sticky and covered in a thin layer of dirt and dust. The custodians must’ve not cleaned yet, as the theater was still open and, thus, the mall was open. Her heart stopped when she heard silence coming from Steve’s stall, but he was only thinking and resting. They’d been awake for nearly 48 hours now, and Robin was just waiting for the right moment to pass out.

Coming out to Steve was almost as terrifying as the entirety of the Russian base. He had just told her he found someone for himself (implied it was her), and she told him she liked girls. It was the truth, but you can’t just tell people that! Sure, Steve was miraculously not a douchebag, but straight guys don’t always take rejection well, and people, in general, don’t always take queer people well. But she was high and scared, and she wanted someone to know before she died. Robin should’ve learned by that point to not underestimate Steve Harrington. She should’ve figured out that Steve was as far from a bad person as someone could be. Steve Harrington wasn’t a bad person at all, though his Kermit impression was kind of shit.

“I’m like you.” He told her when they had another chance alone. It was when they were driving back to the mall to help their friends, leaving Dustin and Erica on the hill.

“What?” she asked.

“When I said I found someone better for me—better than Nancy; I was talking about…” he swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I was talking about a guy. His name’s Eddie.”

Robin smiled, “Oh…”

Steve’s face regained its color, and he laughed. “Yeah,” he snorted, “oh…”

Yeah, Steve wasn’t a bad person in the slightest…

He held her hand when they were hiding from the guards. He reached his arm out to hold her when he crashed into Billy Hargrove, so she wouldn’t hit the dashboard. He gave her his last firework to throw at the Flayer. He gave her a stick of gum he found hiding in his pocket when she complained about still tasting vomit. He gave her his shock blanket when she was still shaking beneath hers. He denied medical treatment and insisted they check on Robin and Dustin first. He snuck a few Band-Aids and an ice pack from the ambulance to take care of himself; Robin saw him do it, but she just assumed he had already been checked and was just grabbing extra supplies. Afterall, he told everyone that he was already checked on, “Go help someone else; I’m fine.” he insisted anytime a paramedic asked him. Ever the selfless hero… Steve.

After they were all debriefed and lightly threatened by the US government to keep their mouths shut and sign NDAs, Steve asked Jonathan if he’d be willing to drive them. “My head just hurts.” and Jonathan said sure. On the drive home, Steve was fighting off sleep in the backseat, leaning his head against Robin’s. No one could even fathom resting. Their bodies were still in fight or flight mode, ready to fight a monster that was already dead or guards that were buried beneath tons of dirt, ash, and debris. No one really questioned Steve’s exhaustion, though. They didn’t know the full story, but they knew Steve, Robin, Dustin, and Erica were trapped in that bunker for nearly days. No food. No water. No rest. Dustin and Erica passed out, afterall. Steve wasn’t the odd one out. If anything, Robin was, but she didn’t want to sleep. She just let Steve use her as a pillow.

Perhaps, she should’ve known something was wrong by him fighting off sleep so much. Robin’s not an idiot; she knows the signs of head trauma, but she was so tired. Perhaps, if she had been stronger and fought harder against the guards, she wouldn’t have gotten drugged. She would have had the mental clarity to notice one of Steve’s pupils was bigger than the other. She would’ve noticed him squinting and flinching at every light, flickering or not, and limping. Would’ve noticed he had to lean against the wall at every other step. Granted, she didn’t know if any of those things happened, but there must have been something she could’ve noticed! Something Robin could’ve seen, so she would know Steve needed help, but the man’s stubbornness was bigger than his hair, so, of course, she didn’t know.

Steve died not long after they left the mall. They had all gone to his house afterwards. No one wanted to be alone, and he had the most available space for everyone in the party. He also had a stockpile of extra clothes, blankets, pillows, and sleeping bags. Apparently, Steve really was a babysitter, or, at the very least, the kids’ honorary mother. After helping everyone find some supplies to go to sleep and some PJ’s, he went to bed early, saying he had a headache and was just going to take some Tylenol. Robin tried to go with him, but he insisted she stay and hang out with everyone. They were watching The Fox and the Hound because it was the only animated ("comforting") movie Steve had. “I know it’s for kids, but it’s one of my favorites.” He explained with a shrug, leaning against the railing for support. 

“Are you sure you’re, okay?” Robin asked. “Did the paramedics give you all clear?” 

Steve only laughed, “Yeah, Rob. I’ll be fine. Go watch the movie. I’ll see you in the morning.” He insisted, waving a dismissive hand. 

Steve’s voice broke when he said that sentence and, after watching him hopelessly lie to impress girls, Robin knew Steve’s voice broke when he lied. Yet, she didn’t say anything. She just assumed it was because he was tired. Surely, Steve wouldn’t turn down medical help. Surely, he wasn’t that careless about himself. Robin wished she knew this would be their last conversation, so she could think of something better to say.

“Okay. Love you, dingus.” She would’ve said, if she knew he wouldn’t actually see her in the morning.

Steve would’ve rolled his eyes. “Love you too, freshman.” She would punch his arm, making him wince and call her an ass. That’s how she likes to imagine their last conversation, but that’s not at all what they said. He still dismissed her and lied about his own health, but she didn’t tell him she loved him like she wishes she did. No, instead she said, “I’m surprised they could hurt your head so much beneath all that hairspray.” She stuck her tongue out between her teeth teasingly, “It’s like your own helmet, Harrington.” 

“Ha, ha.” Steve blanched while rolling his eyes. “You’re just jealous that I came prepared with protection.” he ran a hand through his hair for emphasis, making the sweat coated streaks fall around his forehead. Robin laughed and sent him off to bed with a promise that they’d spend all of tomorrow together, just to talk and heal. 

Nobody knows the exact time of death, as everyone was asleep, but the doctors believe it was shortly after their conversation—a bit past midnight. As it turns out, Steve went to sleep with one of those head injuries you’re not supposed to sleep with. Something got hit too hard beneath all that hair, and Steve simply stopped breathing. “It can happen in patients who have suffered from concussions or untreated head traumas. It’s common in those who have experienced a hemorrhage or aneurysm of some kind.” Nancy had explained, but, truly, there were a number of other variables that could’ve caused that. A bad reaction to that Russian drug, his concussion, a hole in his lung, internal bleeding, or even a really bad fever. In any case, Robin should’ve never let him go to bed alone. 

Another thing she wishes she could change is something she’ll forever be guilty for. Robin wishes more than anything that it was her who found the body. She wishes she wasn’t dealing with a hangover from that weird drug Steve and her were given and that coffee wasn’t the most important thing in the world. Coffee wasn’t the most important thing, but, at that moment, Robin would’ve traded her soul for a mug. Ms. Byers had made breakfast for everyone, and Steve was thought to be sleeping in, even though he was the first one to go to sleep. “I’ll get him.” Dustin volunteered, rolling his eyes and groaning like it was a chore.

The boy walked up the stairs and went to Steve’s bedroom. The door was open a bit, so Dustin didn’t feel the need to knock before he walked in. The first thing he noticed was that Steve’s bed sheets were messy, like he had moved around a lot in his sleep. The next thing he noticed was a Tylenol bottle on the floor; the cap was off, and the contents were spilled across the carpet. Dustin figured Steve had a nightmare and knocked the bottle and his sheets over, knowing nightmares were common for everyone in the party. Hell, there were quite a few nightmares during that night. Dustin had one. It was about Steve not making it back from the bunker. It was about Steve dead on a concrete floor.

At least, a bed is more comfortable than concrete.

“Hey, Steve, wake up.” Dustin nudged Steve’s foot, which was covered by his blanket. He was still wearing his Scoops uniform, being too tired to take it off, Robin supposed, or he passed out. “Steve, come on.” Dustin spoke louder and nudged him harder. 

Dustin moved forward and clapped his hands above Steve’s body. “Steve!” He nearly shouted. He reached forward to grab Steve’s arm with a roll of his eyes, and gasped when he felt how cold it was. His heart jumped to his throat and choked him like a noose. “S-Steve…?” his voice was shaking. Steve’s house always had great air conditioning. He was just cold from the AC; that was what Dustin told himself. It was cold in the house, and all of Steve's blankets fell off of him in the night, so he was cold. “Steve, this isn’t funny!” Dustin grabbed Steve’s arm and shook it. Steve felt stiff, like he was a mannequin and not a person. “Steve!” Dustin screamed this time. His voice echoed out into the hallway and downstairs, alerting the others. “Steve! Please, you gotta wake up!” He grabbed both shoulders, shaking him vigorously. “Steve!” 

Robin was the first person up the stairs despite her headache and poor coordination. The blinds were closed, and the room was gray, so she flicked on the overheads to find a man just as gray as before the lights were turned on. He was pale and his eyes were shut. His lips looked blue, and his veins were prominent beneath ghostly skin. “Steve…?” Robin didn’t scream like Dustin, but her voice cracked. She didn’t run to his side or shake him. She merely stepped out of the way as Joyce and Jonathan ran into the room. “Steve…” she couldn’t tell if she was breathing. Dreaming or having a nightmare. Awake or asleep. Dead or alive. In that moment, there was no difference. 

“Steve—get off of me!” Dustin elbowed at Jonathan, as the boy tried to pry Dustin away from his friend. “Steve! Wake up!” Robin felt tears streaming down her face, but she was confused why they were flowing. She wasn’t there. Her mind was still at Scoops. She was still watching Steve being a dingus and badly flirting with girls. She was in the backroom with him listening to a Russian code. She was tied to his back, and they were laying on the ground talking about where they would be if they became friends earlier. Steve would be in college, and Robin wouldn’t be in a Russian bunker. She was in the mall bathroom talking with him about Tammy Thompson’s bad singing voice. They were in the “Todd-father” discussing the possibilities of going to gay bars in Indianapolis. They were standing on the stairs wishing each other goodnight. They weren’t… he wasn’t… This couldn’t be happening! Steve… Steve was just here.

Dustin screamed and kicked when Murray entered the scene and picked the boy up from beneath his arms. “Let go of me! — Steve!” Dustin screamed. It was the kind of scream that vibrated the walls and shook Robin to her core. A kind of scream she’s only ever heard come out of movies. The boy was pushing at Murray’s arms, trying his best to escape and return to his friend’s side. Tears were streaming down Dustin’s face, and Robin glanced into the hallway at the sound of a thud. Max had reached the top of the stairs, having had to fight her way through a now sobbing Lucas. She was sitting on her knees with her hands covering her mouth. Robin could tell she was screaming, based on her stretched jaw and narrowed eyes, but she couldn’t hear it. Everything was suddenly muffled. Her headache from that hangover switched into a stabbing pain, and the ringing in her ears drowned everything out. “Steve!” Dustin shouted—barely heard. Murray set the boy down besides Max and blocked them both from the room. Max threw herself into Lucas’s arms. Robin looked on as Jonathan started doing chest compressions. She glanced over the balcony to see Mike with his hands cradling the back of his head, covering his ears. His hands were clenched so tightly, that Robin was sure his nails were digging into his scalp. Will was hugging Jane, who was sobbing and clinging to him, shaking her head in denial.

Joyce suddenly walked out of the room. She was gasping and choking on her own tears. “Ms. Byers…?” Robin didn’t know what she was going to say or ask. She just needed confirmation that this wasn’t real. That this was just a Russian drug-induced dream. That this was all some sick nightmare or cruel joke from the universe, and she was gonna wake up to Steve sitting at the kitchen counter with an ice pack to his swollen eye and a coffee mug in hand. “’Bout time you woke up, Buckley.” He’d say with a smile despite the split in his lip, because Steve had the best smile, and he loved to show it. He smiled in the Russian bunker and smiled through tears. He smiled in every picture no matter the context, and Robin used to say he was too happy. He’d just shrug and say, “Better than being miserable.”

“I’m so sorry, honey.” Joyce whispered instead of disproving reality. She wrapped her arms around Robin’s shoulders. It was then that the younger girl felt her knees buckle, like she was made of broken glass and poorly glued back together, and all it took was Ms. Byer’s touch to make her break once more. A scream wrenched its way from her throat, loud and painful. It vibrated the walls and left her vocal cords burning. Joyce caught her as she fell, but Robin collapsed to the ground anyway. Joyce came with her, never releasing Robin from her arms. 

Downstairs, Nancy had called 911. In Steve’s room, Jonathan was still desperately doing CPR, singing Bee Gees beneath his breath and looking at his friend through a teary, blurred vision. Jonathan didn’t tell anyone what happened until after the autopsy had shown that Steve had a broken sternum and broken ribs. Jonathan explained that he heard and felt the man’s chest crack and cave, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He couldn’t let Steve die. “I can’t get Stayin’ Alive out of my head…” he joked with a wet laugh, but everyone knew it wasn’t a joke. Everyone knew he now hated that song more than anything else.

It was Joyce that had read them the autopsy report. She was friends with the doctor who ran them. It was her that read from the doctor’s note that it was strange Steve died. It was that doctor who predicted that Steve had lied and hadn’t seen any of the paramedics, because even a first-day trainee would’ve seen the obvious head trauma from a mile away.

“That’s ridiculous!” Mike had scoffed, “Why would anyone refuse help from paramedics?”

“Because he didn’t want any.” Max answered. The way they talked about Steve’s death changed after that. No longer was it talking of a friend who died. They were talking about a friend who committed suicide. At least, that’s how Robin interpreted it—the change in everyone’s tone and the anger shown at the funeral. If a friend dies, they get mourned. If a friend kills themselves, especially one as important and relied upon as Steve, they get yelled at.

They had Chief Hopper’s funeral on Tuesday, Billy Hargrove’s was on Thursday, and Steve’s was on Monday. They tried to postpone Steve’s funeral until August for when his parents would be back, but, when Joyce called the Harringtons, they forwarded money and told her to go on with the funeral without them. Joyce ended up breaking that phone after giving Steve’s mother a piece of her mind, which mostly contained curse words and heavy insults. The plastic shattered in her hands after she slammed the phone on the hook repeatedly, cursing Steve’s parents and sobbing about a son that wasn’t really hers.

At Hopper’s funeral, nearly the whole town showed up. There were a lot of funerals the following weeks for a lot of Hawkins citizens, but Hopper was the chief and considered the hero of the fire, so it made sense that he had the biggest crowd to show up. It was so crowded that Robin was forced to stay in the outskirts of the pack with Erica and Lucas beside her. She ended up leaving early. She didn’t know the man that well, anyway.

Billy’s funeral wasn’t as crowded, but a few people from school showed up, including some from the old basketball and swim team. Billy’s dad left early, muttering something about “a waste.” Mrs. Wheeler was there, and she was crying, which Robin found strange. Sure, the woman could’ve been there because Nancy and Mike were, but that didn’t excuse her crying. Max was standing by the lowering casket with her arms crossed, refusing to cry, but she did. Her jaw clenched and her hands turned to fists, as if she was angry at herself for tearing up. Robin was just observant enough to notice these things, and she placed a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. Max leaned into her touch without a word. In fact, they didn’t speak at all that day. Robin wonders if she should’ve said something—anything—to comfort the girl more than a touch could, but Steve’s funeral was coming up. Robin couldn’t be bothered to comfort anyone past a touch. How could she when she, herself, was ripping at the seams?

Steve’s funeral had the least amount of people to show up. Tommy and Carol showed up to the ceremony, but they left before the burial. There was exactly 13 in attendance at the burial once the preacher and the graveyard men left. There was Robin, Dustin, his mom, Lucas and Erica, Mrs. Sinclair, Mike and Nancy, the Byers, Jane, and Max, who caught a ride from Lucas’s mom because her mom was working that day. 

Steve’s gravestone was tall but simple, with little flowers carved into the border and floral vases at the sides. Everyone pitched in to add to the stone what Steve’s parents weren’t willing to pay for.

Steve Harrington

April 12th, 1967 — July 5th, 1985

Beloved Friend, Hero, Babysitter

“Anyone want to say a few words?” Joyce asked once the dirt was place over their friend. The woman’s face was red, and tissues were clenched in her fists. Thinking back, Robin realized that Joyce hadn’t cried at a single funeral, not really. At Hopper’s, she teared up, but she was so busy comforting Jane that she didn’t allow herself the breakdown she probably needed. At Billy’s, she comforted Max, taking over for Robin when the older girl had to leave early. At Steve’s funeral, Joyce Byers didn’t cry, because she had to be there for the kids, but it proved difficult. The tissues in her hand had little splotches of blood from her nails digging into her palms. It took Robin a long time to figure out why Ms. Byers was torturing herself, but the answer hit her like a train. Joyce is a mom; moms can’t cry. Never in front of the kids. They keep themselves together and cry when the lights in the house are off and the work for the day is finally finished. They let their tears build up inside of them until they explode. Robin wonders if any dishes were broken in the Byers’ household that week. No one, not even Joyce Byers, could survive that long with that many bottled tears without breaking some glass.

Robin liked Joyce, but she was too busy staring down at the patch of dirt that was once her friend to really hear Ms. Byer’s question. The small crowd stayed silent when it was asked, save for a few sobs, sniffs, and gasps for air. Max stepped forward, staring down at Steve’s grave with a red face and swollen lips. “Fuck you.” She gasped through a sob. Robin was surprised she didn’t bite her bottom lip clean off when she used it as a method to stop her tears.

Max then leaned down to drop a bracelet on the grave. It’s one of those braided ones, made with string, beads, and yarn. “El and I made you this at our sleepover. We were gonna give it to you, but I didn’t have it with me at Starcourt. I-I guess it’s useless now. What kind of friend are you? Y-you fucking asshole.” She spoke only after her sobs were subsided into small cries. She wiped her eyes and looked at the rest of her friends before walking off. She went and sat at her brother’s grave, and everyone knew it wasn’t because she loved Billy more. It was because she hated people seeing her cry, so they looked away once her shoulders began to shake, and her hand flew to her mouth to deafen the sobs and gasps. Her hair was pulled over her as a curtain to hide her own disgust—her emotions. Robin leaned over to look at the bracelet. “#1 Babysitter” it read in those little lettered beads. The string was blue and yellow–Steve’s favorite colors. The colors were recently poisoned for Robin. 

Mike went up next. “I, uh, still think you’re a dumb jock, but you’re a good person. Y-you saved our lives more times than I can count. You saved my life more times than I can count. Thank you…” Mike stepped back and stared at the sky, anywhere but the ground. “I wish you were still here, so you could tell Dustin to stop being an asshole. You were always the one to keep his ego in check.” Mike laughed wetly, “He’s gonna be awful to deal with now that you’re… now that you’re gone…” Mike took another step back, like Steve’s grave was suddenly a demodog ready to pounce instead of a mound of dirt and stone. “Why’d you have to leave us, man? You were supposed to lead us—teach us about surviving high school and dealing with other dumb jocks. You—you’re a fucking jerk, you know that!?” Nancy grabbed his arm before he could storm forward. Mike leaned against his sister and turned his eyes away from Steve’s grave completely. Perhaps, he believed that, as long as he didn’t see the newly dug dirt, it wouldn’t be real. Nancy wrapped her arms around her brother, as he hid his crying face in her black dress. To Robin’s surprise, the girl owned three, and she wore a different one to each funeral. This dress was Robin’s personal favorite, as it was mostly tool with a tight waistline and a small shawl, like a 50’s prom dress. Steve would’ve liked it.

“He was supposed to teach me basketball.” Lucas spoke so quietly that Robin was sure only she heard it, as she was the only one to look his way. “We were supposed to practice all Summer, man. You still haven’t taught me how to properly do a lay-up.” He laughed until he cried, and then he laughed some more, “I promise you; I’ll get on the team. Hell, I’ll make it to varsity—the big leagues, the NBA. I don’t care if they don’t let freshmen on V; I’ll find a way. I’ll practice every day, and I’m getting your old jersey number, okay? You better come to my games. I’ll be looking out for you, got it?” he was smiling through his tears, and Robin had to look away. Lucas was always the type to put on a brave face, but Robin saw the way his smile cracked his façade. It was too forced; it was disturbing to watch. She could hear the slow transition of his laugh turning into painful sobs. She closed her eyes and waited until she heard a noise other than a sob.

Lucas dropped something on Steve’s grave, and she looked down to see his old jersey folded and placed neatly on the dirt. Lucas wiped at his eyes and glanced around at his friends. He clenched his jaw and tried to stop the tears from falling, but they wouldn’t stop. “I-I’m sorry.” he walked away to join Max, stopping at his mom to grab tissues from her purse. The mothers, besides Joyce, were sitting far away on a bench to give everyone space to say goodbye. Robin realized as she watched Lucas walk over to them, that, technically speaking, only 11 people attended Steve Harrington’s burial. They were just bystanders.

Lucas approached Max like a wild animal, but she merely patted the ground beside her. It made sense. They had matching wounds. Both lost a brother, and Robin is not including Billy in that statement.

“You saved us.” Erica spoke next. “I was so scared, and you protected us, like a knight. You’re an idiot for doing it, but you did it. And now you…” Erica furrowed her brow before reaching into her skirt’s pocket. She pulled out a My Little Pony figurine. Robin didn’t know which one it was, but it must’ve meant a lot to Erica. The girl sobbed as she placed it beside Max’s bracelet. “You better not lose this. It’s my favorite, okay?” she pointed to the grave like she was giving Steve a lecture. Robin couldn’t help but smile at the gesture.

“What pony is that?” It was Will who asked, talking for the first time since they lowered Steve's casket.

“Twilight Sparkle.” Erica answered quietly, embarrassingly. It wouldn’t be for another three months that Erica would explain why she chose Twilight Sparkle. It was when the girl had wandered into Family Video to rent The Last Unicorn. Robin asked why she chose that character, and she told the older teen that it was because Twilight was a leader who valued friendship and loyalty. Robin sobbed after Erica left the store. She sobbed so hard that she nearly threw up her lunch and had to go home early. She doesn’t know why she cried so hard. Steve talked about being forced to watch My Little Pony with Erica, so she knew that Steve knew who Twilight Sparkle is. She laughs at the thought, because he would surely insist, he was a different character, but Erica’s right. Steve was a leader. He loved his friends, and he was as loyal as a dog to its owner.

Erica and Lucas left after that, bringing Max along because she didn’t want to stay, even if she was supposed to ride home with Nancy. Nancy dropped a teddy bear and a rose off at Steve’s grave. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.” She sobbed through a tight mouth. Steve used to say that Nancy would call him an idiot the same way Robin calls him a dingus. “It’s affectionate.” he said, but Nancy’s tone was dripping with venom. The girl walked away, shaking her head and clenching her fists. Mike and she left, and she peeled out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. Anger fueled the vehicle more than gasoline, in that instance.

“When it rains, this will be destroyed, but you’re a real barbarian, Steve. Even if you don’t know what that is.” Will placed a drawing of Steve in a suit of leather armor that looked suspiciously like a Scoops Ahoy uniform. His weapon was a spiked bat, and he was smiling and looking at the sun. The next day, Robin stole that drawing to make a copy at the library’s printer. She returned the drawing the same day, but she had the copy hanging up in her room next to a polaroid Jonathan took of the ‘Scoops Troop’, as Dustin called them: Steve’s bloody yet smiling face, Erica’s tired eyes, Dustin’s bright smile, and Robin in her vomit and blood-stained uniform.

“I forgive you, Steve.” Jonathan said next. “I know I told you that a long time ago, but I don’t think you ever stopped blaming yourself for what you did. You’re not a bad person. You never were. I don’t hate you. I would never hate you. You’re… you’re my best friend.” His voice was shaking with his hands. He had nothing to give but a small photo of him, Steve, and Nancy on the Byers’ couch. Steve’s face was bloody and bruised (not from the Russians—apparently Jonathan throws a powerful punch), but he was smiling the brightest. Always the optimist, Robin supposed.

Joyce didn’t say anything. She was too busy comforting Jane, who kept trying to speak but came up short every time. The Byers and Jane left, leaving Dustin and Robin.

“I thought he was asleep…” Dustin whispered. He removed his ‘Camp Knowhere’ cap and placed it on the corner of Steve’s grave. “Sorry, it’s not Farrah Fawcett, but I don’t think they let hair spray into the afterlife.” Dustin joked. He laughed before he suddenly broke into sobs. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “You…” his voice broke, and he bit his quivering lip. “I hate… I hate you so, so much, Steve.” He shook his head. “Our deal was you die, I die. Not you die, I keep on living without you. What made you think I could do this without you?! Why would you leave me like this?! All you had to do was let them look at you! They were going to get to all of us eventually! They were paramedics Steve. It was their job to help you, and you sent them away! You insisted you were fine, you, fucking asshole. Why was it so hard to let someone else take care of you for once?! Why are you such a “hero” that you couldn’t… you…” his voice cracked, “you may think that was selfless, but this is the worst thing you’ve ever done. You weren’t helping us; you fucking killed yourself, and now I’m alone, Steve! Who’s going to drive me around? Who’s going to teach me how to talk to girls and do my hair? Who–Who’s supposed to be my dad now? Did you hear that? You were my dad, Steve. You weren’t my brother. You weren’t my babysitter or mom, Steve; you were my dad, and now you’ve gone up and left me too. You should’ve—you should’ve let them look at you! How hard was it to get help, you, fucking asshole!” Robin rushed forward to stop Dustin from kicking the dirt, grabbing his arms and yanking him back. “Let go of me!” Dustin shouted, shoving Robin away.

“Dustin, this isn’t what Steve would’ve wanted— “

“Don’t tell me what he wanted!” Dustin snapped. “You knew him, for what? A few months?!” He pushed forward, gesturing to himself. “I’ve known him for years, Buckley. He saved my life more times than I can count. We have been through hell together; you don’t get to tell me what he would or wouldn’t want!” He pointed an accusing finger to Robin, who held her hands up in surrender. “You didn’t even know him.”

“Dustin, I— “

“Just forget it.” He spat. He left before Robin could say another word. She watched him storm past his mom, who offered a comforting hand, but he just ignored her and shoved his way past. He marched to her car and yanked at the door to get in. They drove off with nothing but a sparing, apologetic glance at Robin from Ms. Henderson. She smiled back and waved.  

Robin turned back to Steve’s grave and sighed. “Hey, Dingus…” she greeted with an awkward smile, “I hate wearing dresses, you know.” She looked down at the black dress her mom forced her into, as dad’s suit was just on the side of too big. She looked back up at Steve… Steve’s grave. “I tried to convince them to let me write Dingus on your grave, but they weren’t having it. They said something about insulting the dead, but they don’t understand what it means to us.” She licked her lips. “I’m surprised Tammy Thompson didn’t show up. I bet her singing would have woken you right up.” Robin snapped her fingers and began singing a “Kermit'' rendition of ‘Candle in the Wind’. She laughed and snorted, before she frowned and paused. “I should’ve woken you up. I shouldn't have let you sleep. Fuck, I—I shouldn’t have let you go alone.” She took a shuddering inhale. “I fucking hate The Fox and the Hound, Steve! You call that shit comforting? That movie’s your favorite? It’s depressing as shit, Dingus, and it makes me cry every time I watch it! A-A-And we were both scared. I should’ve forced you to sleep on the couch or-or gone with you. We should’ve been there for each other! I should’ve…” Robin interrupted herself with a gasp, like she was in pain. Then again, she was in pain. The kind of pain where there’s a stab in your chest from a knife that you can’t get out. No matter how much you claw at your skin and rip away your clothing, that knife stays. It’s not heartbreak. It’s not jealousy. It’s not rage. It’s guilt. It starts in your chest, and it spreads to the rest of your body like a slow building wildfire. And similar to a slow wildfire, you don’t notice it until the trees are all burning and there’s more smoke than clouds in the sky. “I should’ve saved you.” she glanced at the word ‘hero’ carved into his stone. “It should’ve been me.”

Robin went home after talking to Steve’s grave for another hour. She talked until the faucets in her eyes went dry and the numbness felt like a lump of burning coal in her throat. “I’m not hungry.” She muttered to her mom on the way to the bathroom. They had one bathroom in the house, but Robin didn’t give a shit. She spent nearly three hours there, staring at the mirror. Staring at her bruises. Staring at the dark circles and large, purple mark on her neck from where they pressed that needle into her skin. Staring at someone living. Someone who didn’t deserve to be.

In movies, it always rains at funerals. It didn’t rain. Of course, it didn’t. Steve hated the rain. “It ruins my hair, and it’s miserable and gray.” Instead, it was a cloudless day and hotter than the fireworks that burned the Mind Flayer. Robin was left sweating in her funeral outfit, so she got into the shower sometime during hour two of crying. She sat down in the tub instead of standing and cried with the water. Turns out, she hadn’t run dry, she just ran out of excuses to cry at Steve’s grave instead of going home where her parents would do nothing but pity her and care for her. She didn’t want pity; she wanted Steve. “I wish you were here, Steve.” She whimpered, calling out to her lost friend.

Her friend, who was sitting outside the bathroom door. Steve, who was still in his Scoops uniform and wishing he changed his clothes before he went to sleep. Steve, who had his elbows resting on either knee as he held his head in his hands. Steve, who was sobbing and crying along with Robin. “I’m right here…” he repeated. He lost how many times he had said the sentiment, but he was sure it was in the thousands by now.

“I’m right here.”

[moonlight-prose]

from the F. Scott prompts, how about Tommy Miller and "in my heart I love her all the time" ? <3

HOW STARS SHINE IN DARKNESS

a/n: i took a small writing break, but before i did i wrote half of this and knew where it was going to wind up. i focused on the angst honestly and it sort of flowed really well with that. but again that's thanks to my angst playlist in the background. i've sort of set this in my upcoming tommy series: first light, but it can be read as a stand alone.

summary: in darkness stars shine. in pain...your love glows. and when all hope feels lost, tommy miller thinks of you.

word count: 0.8k+

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, angsty as fuck, grief, joel miller suffering, painful memories, hope in the bitter darkness of the apocalypse.

He couldn’t see the moon from where he was on the ground. Back pressed to dirt and rocks, head leaning against his bundled up jacket. Summer was always warmer in the middle of nowhere and for the first time Tommy was happy to feel sweat bead along the back of his neck. He didn’t have to worry about the freezing cold temperatures. Or the prospect of dying from fucking pneumonia.

For tonight he could simply relax.

Joel lay on the ground a few feet away, his eyes turned towards the sky too. Only Tommy knew he wasn’t looking at the stars that shone in the distance. He couldn’t care less about seeing the moon when it was full—giving off a light that would help if they needed to move quickly. Joel’s mind was somewhere else as it always was for the past year.

He’d been stuck in a dark hole with no chance of escaping—thoughts of Sarah plaguing him every morning, noon, and night.

More often than not Tommy felt like he was traveling with a ghost. The man beside him…no longer his brother. But merely a figment of what used to be; memories stacked one on top of the other to look convincing enough to pass off as human. Only there was nothing beneath. No sign of a beating heart anywhere, no matter how far deep he looked.

“Moon’s full,” Tommy said, cutting off the silence that threatened to choke him.

He felt selfish for wanting Joel back. What a fucked up thing to feel as his brother went through a grief he’d never experience himself. Losing Sarah hurt. He could remember the numbness that came in the days after, the heart wrenching pain with the memory of her smile or her laugh. But for Joel…it would always be worse. He saw that in the moments after as he contemplated living without his kid.

“Joel?”

A grunt let Tommy know he was still breathing. Which was more than what he got most days.

“‘M sure we’re gonna have a feast waitin’ for us when we get back.”

Tommy could picture you in his mind. Setting up the cabin with the best you could find. You’d gathered what you could before he left, but the promise of something on this hunting trip was what you were waiting for. He wasn’t sure how you fucking did it, but you managed to turn nothing into a meal that kept the both of you going. Tommy hoped that in some way you’d do the same for Joel.

“You love her.”

Joel’s words should have caught him off guard. They should have left him scrambling for something to say. Perhaps an excuse, because that’s what he would have done in the past. But tonight they settled into his chest with ease. No more discomfort at the notion that he might just get that chance to be happy while his brother suffered. No more feeling like he was jumping to conclusions too fast, and that what he had with you was temporary.

Tonight the words finally felt right.

He let out a breath, eyes glancing up at the sky in the hopes that you were doing the same miles away. “In my heart I love her all the time,” he murmured, lips curving up into a smile.

A slight nod was all Joel could offer him. Yet even through that Tommy saw the torment that emanated from his body. The ache that spread from the very top of his head to the tips of his toes. Joel wanted to feel that. He wanted to know what love felt like again. Shit, he just wanted to feel. Anything but that mind numbing hurt that continued to eat away at his fucking soul without mercy.

Tommy knew the feeling well enough. He’d contemplated ending the pain, ceasing the constant torture of living in this god forsaken hell. But then he found you. You and all your light.

The one thing he grasped onto with the assured knowledge that you’d keep him above water. That when it came down to it…you’d pull him free from the darkness all over again.

“Keep that,” Joel finally said. His refusal to even look Tommy’s way told Tommy enough. “Love like that…it’s as rare as the fuckin’ hope for a cure.” He turned, eyes glassy with tears that would never fall. Joel was pretty sure they had dried up years ago. “Take that love and live. You hear me?”

Tommy nodded, breath caught in his tightening chest. “I will.”

He watched as Joel shifted to his side, eyes falling shut. Which left Tommy with nothing else to do but look up at the stars, tracing a familiar constellation. He wondered what you were up to. Hoped that you were thinking of him, and for the first time…thanked his lucky stars that you crossed his path.

“I will,” he whispered, allowing his eyes to shut—the image of you clear in his mind.