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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 8 months

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Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 9: I Don't Know If I Can Do It

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Chapter 8 // Masterlist // AO3 Version // Gif Credit // Chapter 10

“Well done,” You said as you handed Chance two twenty pound notes and sent them on their way.

Čiernik neutralised and Shepherd’s fate in the wind, the debrief was long over. Both teams had waited for you and Price, but only Price would be joining them. Part of you wanted to hear the war stories from the 141, really catch up. Then your stomach flared up and your eyes threatened to steam up and you remembered how fragile you’d let yourself get over this calendar month.

Bronze - still conked out on meds - demanded that someone have his drink for him, so you weren’t the only one missing out. Tonight, you’d spend your time numbing your ribs and hidden away.

A naughty mood plagued your mind, a naughty and self-destructive mood that cranked open a trunk of memories concerning the good old days that Price might’ve brought up via his reappearance in his life. You groaned over being at a point in your life where your twenties were “the old days”.

That naughty mood consumed your thoughts with flashbacks you hadn’t considered for years, even since realising Price was alive. Routine for your training years was what was currently playing. Two pints into a night out, you and John used to arm wrestle – an excuse to hold his hand on your part as well as an excuse to display how much you’d been working out – over a sticky table and damp bevy napkins. If the place had a karaoke machine (like your first local did), you’d always sing “Losing My Religion” like you were trying to convince each other of your perspective. Not once did you look at the screen for the words. You would put it on the jukebox if there was no karaoke, create your own jam session that would result in a warning about getting barred.

First time John convinced you to sing with him, he had his hand on your shoulder and stared intensely at you with his forehead to yours as he sang matter-of-factly, if a little unclear due to the cider. You, on the other hand, giggled through each lyric at how overwhelmed by how his steadfast cornflower eyes held you on that stage, losing yourself in the final chorus and getting cut off by your colleague, dragged home by the collar of your shirt and insisting you weren’t that bad, John egging you on all the while.

Difficult emotions bubbled like the beer you used to drink, forming a cathartic yet strangled cry in your throat as you opened the door to your temporary room. You were too injured to wear yourself out with some exercise. That was your usual cure for avoiding uncomfortable thoughts, the energy expelled causing you to pass out without any struggle of tossing and turning – or of nightmares. Even though you were absent of any gear, or your weighted blanket back at your base, to ground you into a mattress, your ribs would’ve complained the entire night. So today you were forced to recognise that the cork on your anxiety was coming loose, and the presence of Price – paired with your lovestruck Sergeants – was the equivalent of shaking the bottle.

“Fuck,” you muttered to yourself with a hard sniff.

The expletive offered a mild release of emotion, staving off the crying for a little longer. Long enough to raid the medical wing for some more disposable ice packs, long enough to get caught red-handed and by none other than the main cause of your pain.

“You’re back early,” You remarked as if you weren’t using your shirt as a makeshift basket for icepacks.

Price pushed a hand through his hair, smoothing it out whilst stuffing his beanie into his coat pocket, “Had my fill. The boys were insisting it was because I was getting old.”

“You’re not old. ‘Cus if you are, then I am too, and I’m not old.”

“Course not,” Price said wryly. Then he gestured to your haul, “Need a hand?”

Already, he was approaching you and – against your better judgement – you let him scoop a couple out before you both headed back to your room.

Holding your nerve, you made an attempt to be blasé: “Don’t suppose you had a sing-song at the pub?”

“No. Haven’t since I lost my duet partner.”

You winced around the corner, hoping Price would take it in response to your injuries. He must’ve done, for he didn’t allow any silence to linger on his remark:

“Played a few sessions of Shithead to determine whose round it was. You got any other plans for tonight?”

You crushed and placed a pack onto your ribs whilst John opened your door, letting you in first as you replied, “Just lie in a pile of these.”

Price’s hum with approval was masked beneath the bed creak as you carefully placed yourself on the edge of it, your chin in your hand, whilst you awkwardly iced your back. Your eyes closed without considering the extra person in the room, yet you took note of the mattress waning beneath their weight and refused to be shocked by the calloused fingertips that touched over the condensation on your hand.

“Here,” Price said, his voice low in volume and tone.

Fingers slipping out of his gentle hold, you let Price take over holding the icepack against your side. His other hand squeezed your corresponding shoulder, thumbing out the knots on that side of your spine – and there were a lot of knots. Needless to say, you were not expecting this, nor were you expecting to crave this kind of treatment until you found yourself sitting up straighter, following Price’s hand whenever it adjusted its grip on your taut muscles.

Clearing your throat, you opened your eyes, “You always made fun of me for my spa days.”

“Well, I’ve matured now,” John said quietly, his thumb digging around the edge of your left shoulder blade, “Enough to understand the value of a back rub – maybe a good bath bomb too.”

Laughter that coughed and clogged up your throat erupted from you. A tear splashed between your spread legs, leaving a little mark on the thin rug. Another ran through the same track and slipped down your face faster. That laughter slipped into sniffles fairly quickly after that.

Price’s hands stilled, “Did I hurt you?”

You sniffed and shook your head. You massive liar.

Very easily, John could’ve just offered you a tissue from the box on the bedside table. Instead, he moved to kneel in front of you, and he went to cup your face. Tilting your head away, you pushed his hands down.Temptation was enticing you to rest your forehead against his for just a second, how it would heal all torment he’d caused you – inadvertently and otherwise. You knew this was beyond a slippery slope. It was a straight drop down a crevasse with the bottom masked by fog. Shaking your head, you looked to your bedside lamp instead of him.

Without forcing you to look at him, John spoke, “I know I’ve got no right to ask you. But I’m a selfish man.”

Stubborn, yes. Ruthless, agreed. Cold. At times. But you’d never describe Jonathan Price as selfish. Not until now, at least. You realised you were still holding his hands away, a light grip he could’ve escaped from easily but hadn’t. Your face crumpled on itself and more tears fell, your head knocking against John’s as he lowered himself to his knees between your own

“Even just a scrap of that time to apologise, properly – now I know you’ve said you’re okay with what happened, but I’m not-”

His hands curved around your wrists. There, his thumb traced over your wrist where your pulse jumped under your Viking helmet tattoo – the one he argued wasn’t accurate because it didn’t have horns.

That night you got it, he’d jeered with a beer in his hand, “I should know; it’s my damn call-sign!”

You had been so drunk on his company but so jilted by his accusation that you were prepared to cross the country with him there and then to retrieve your GCSE History certificate and wave it in his face as you declared that Vikings never actually had horns on their helmets. But then you would’ve lost your spot at the parlour, and you really liked that tattoo artist’s style so you had a juvenile John sat beside you, mumbling under his breath how wrong you were to wind him up.

Your brimming tears shocked you back to the present day, having ignored most of John’s apology in favour of reminiscing of when things felt easier.

You tuned in to the end of his speech: “I kept you in the dark and lost you. I’m sorry for that and the pain I’ve caused you. I don’t expect anything. But we’re on borrowed time already. I don’t wanna waste any more of it.”

At that, you snatched your wrists back, for his words had breathed new life into the anger you convinced yourself was dormant. “We could’ve had all the time in the world, but you left me! Why did you leave me? Don’t patronise me with the “I wanted to protect you” shit. Why didn’t you come back for me?”

And you broke down sobbing, gasping for breath as your head lolled in shame, your neck and gut rife with rile. You’d never felt so pathetic, weeping over him like this after saying it was all okay. Nothing was okay. You wanted all the years of your mourning back. You wanted them back and your John back too.

He was looking upon you with pain pinching in his brow, and his voice was as gentle as he could be: “Because I’d pick you over everything.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to leave for me!”

“You wouldn’t have to. You never did.”

God, you wanted Chance or Ghost to use you as a punching bag to block out this agony that wracked your entire body with the vines of grief. Worse still, John’s honesty struck worse than any condescending comment he could’ve conjured. It told you all you needed to know about him, and it asked you something new about yourself: if he asked you to leave team Banshee, would you? Your hesitance frightened you to your core, and you know it did the same to John and his commitment to the 141.

“I’m so sorry I took you for granted, that I never came back for you. I’ll spend my life and the next making it up to you. And at the moment all I can offer you is when our leave aligns, a flat by the Mersey, and a bottle of bourbon. But I’ll give you all I am, all of it.” John sealed his promise with a kiss to your forehead,“I’ll be behind whatever you want to do about this.”

The vines were wrapping around John now, constricting you two together, interlocking your bodies together until your anguished lips found his. He tasted like the mint he’d sucked on during his walk back to base.John’s stubbled chin grated as if your face wasn’t melting with tears, desperate to print onto him. Your irreverent fingers ploughed through his cropped hair, too short to hold onto. Teeth pressed uncomfortably together. You couldn’t picture any of the romantic whirlwinds you’d conjured on lonely nights in times gone by; your mind only allowed you to take in how you and John clawed at each other, as if a loose enough grip would lose him to you forever.

As your tears blurred your sights, the truth came clear in your mind. Through an exhale that tremoured like a needle on a gauge, you pushed away from him and heaved out, “I can’t take the trying to get on without you again, I can’t. I can’t go to your funeral again. Don’t make me.”

And how you begged him, when you knew he couldn’t guarantee you a damn thing.

John’s misty eyes clung to your form without breaking contact once as he swore, “I won’t.” He renewed the vow to every plea you made, each one a plate of glass placed around you two until you were surrounded by the fragile promises that would shatter as soon as one of you left the room.

He kissed you again, simple and sweet like nothing else in your lives. You finally touched him with those hands you’d killed with, cradling his jaws as your noses slanted together, chests levitating both your bodies up and down in asynchronous panting.

But even as you felt his touch prickle across your goose-pimpled skin, the rest of your truth pushed out of your mouth and into his:

“I wanted to forgive you, I really did. But I can’t.”

Your sobbing ceased the second you finished speaking, nothing but your wrecked breathing and tears left behind in the shock that you’d finally said it. In its wake, you were faced with John’s broken expression as he stared unmoving at you. His lips parted with a shuddering and short exhale. In that moment, you knew then that he thought you would forgive him. All you could respond with was a touch of your hand to his cheek in an offer of little comfort when you repeated yourself:

“I can’t.”

John’s eyes flickered but still did not blink, as if you would vanish the second he dared not to keep you in his sights. Nowhere in those eyes did you see him imploring you to change your mind. He simply reeled in the agony of reality crashing into dreams, splintering them beyond repair. You looked, really looked, past the youths you used to be. Borrowed time indeed, in your line of work, the flecks of grey in John’s beard and minute scars in his skin hinted at what remained of his life.

You decided to let yourself yearn for your history one more time.

“But can we…” You wiped your nose and sniffed, “Can we pretend, for the next few hours, that I have forgiven you?”

John swallowed and nodded. His eyes were wet, but he released nothing until you kissed him again, and you felt the first splash from where his cheek bumped yours, salt soaking together.

Trembling and keeping your lips to his, you removed John’s watch and touched over the nerve diagram, your not-so-matching tattoos. Your fingertips treaded along where his pulse ran on tracks through thick hairs and collected the sleeves as they went. Forming fists, you tugged at the bunched-up fabric, gently at first, then growing rapidly impatient, soon grappling with his shirt just as his tongue made an intrepid entrance in your mouth. An intrusive hand beside your injured ribs spun you around and into his lap, John now perched beside where you’d been, his shirt somewhere else. He was holding on tightly, and you were scratching his furred chest too harshly, the kiss clunky and incoherent.

Grief was forcing its way back up your throat, rejecting this attempt to compel reconciliation. Your last ditch effort to keep it at bay made you press your lips hard against hard down his neck until your broken cries were bleated against his collarbones.

John’s agitated chest kept you trapped with his arms warped around you. His trembling tongue whispered over and over “I’m sorry” beside your ear, his intentions clear but muddied by the impact of his words, stabbing you in your heart with every repetition.

Mustering enough energy to hold yourself together, you shut him up with your mouth on his, determined to make this easier for you both. Smoothing out his sticking-up hair did precious little to conjure the comfort you were seeking. Your face slid away from his in the rush of tears pouring down John’s face like rain on a car window. Resigned, you slumped against his chest, letting your breathing hiccup in your aching chest. John drew you back into his arms, applying an icepack to your side as he somehow manoeuvred you both under the blankets. At least he wasn’t apologising anymore.

You began phasing between light sleep and wake. Though you were roused from sleep by your ribs, each time the vines’ grip he held you in squeezed intermittently and kept you safe in a bubble whilst acting as if you weren’t in these impersonal quarters, maybe even in that apartment he mentioned. A few times, both of you were awake, having moved away to the far edges of the bed in your soporific turmoil. He returned to you every time and did just as you asked: pretended that this you could have each other like this, every night past the sunrise.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“When I next wake up, I want you gone.”

Silence for a minute. And then:

“Ok.”

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AN: Black Viking was an access code for Captain Price, so I reworked it as a callsign for this fic - though it's more like "Viking" as the callsign.

Thank you for your patience with the uploads! Only two chapters more to go! Thank you also @bunnyreaper for being a Beta on this chapter <3

Tag-list: @mockerycrow and @algor-babe

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price #john price fanfic #cod fanfic #cod x reader #mw2 fanfic #mw2 #my writing #series #r: gn

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lordstumpy · 10 months

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Kia ora this is mcfrostee as you can tell because my name is at the top of the post. People don’t make many Goron OC’s and that makes me sad, so I did what any self-respecting Goron fan would do and created this guy.

I present to you: Iggy/Ziggy, (he/they) short for Igneous. He’s in a rag-tag *rock* band with some other Hyrulean folks I am yet to design. He plays the drums probably (at the moment) and secretly (not secret any more) has a really angelic singing voice but doesn’t put it to use that often.

He’s quite eccentric for a Goron, despite this he’s actually pretty humble and kinda shy, but he really comes out of his shell when he’s jamming with his crew. He has various zig-zag tattoos hence the nickname - Ziggy. He dyes his hair with some char/coal based substance. I love him, I hope you do too! Off to work on the rest of the band…

#goron #loz #totk #botw #oc #art #legend of zelda #fanart #goron oc #goron city #where is the love?#goron appreciation #totk oc #botw oc #my art #kia ora

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larissaligus · 7 months

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Setlist Kia Forum (02/03/24)

01. Intro Jam

02. Can't Stop

03. Scar Tissue

04. Aquatic Mouth Dance

05. Snow ((Hey Oh))

06. My Lovely Man (tease)

07. Otherside

08. Danny's Song

09. Eddie

10. Right On Me

11. Don't Forget Me

12. Californication

13. Black Summer

14. By The Way

Encore

15. Under The Bridge

16. Give It Away

#red hot chili peppers #john frusciante #anthony kiedis #michael flea balzary #chad smith #john ❤️#rhcp

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obsessedwithtoomanythings · 1 year

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The Terrifying Ordeal of Falling in Love with Leon Kennedy

CHAPTER 6

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader (female reader)

Series Warnings: Minor injuries, Leon teases reader a lot, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Drinking, Drinking followed by driving, DO NOT DO THAT THIS IS FICTION, Anxiety, Leon S. Kennedy has PTSD, Leon has an anxiety attack, Anxiety Attacks, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nightmares, Leon S. Kennedy has Nightmares, Cuddling & Snuggling, Probably incorrect medical talk, Strangulation in one tiny little scene, Reader's brother was a cop who was KIA, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Grief/Mourning, Christmas Fluff, Mistletoe, Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, Arguing, Love Confessions, Looking for Alaska is mentioned, Inconvenient Love Confessions, Penis In Vagina Sex, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Leon loves eating Pussy change my mind, Shower Makeout, romantic smut, Desperate Leon S. Kennedy, They are both desperate for each other tbh, They say I love you as they come, Scar Kissing, Enthusiastic Consent, Always pee after sex, UTI PREVENTION, POV First Person, No use of Y/N

Words: 1.8K

Masterlist

June 2004

The smile on your face lets me know that you need me

There's a truth in your eyes sayin' you'll never leave me

The touch of our hands says you'll catch me if ever I fall

You say it best when you say nothin' at all

-When You Say Nothing At All, Alison Krauss

The door unlocking pulls my nose from my book and I lurch forward, eyes trained on the door in anticipation. As soon he steps inside, I spring into action.

“Leon!” I give him a fair warning before I launch myself into his arms, and with a huff of breath as I make contact, his arms wrap around my middle, returning the hug gratefully.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He sounds exhausted, words almost slurring together as he sways in his spot. “What are you still doing up?” I pull back, hands on either side of his shoulders to steady him.

“I was caught up in a book,” I admit shyly, and he huffs a laugh. “Are you hungry?” He nods. “I can make you something while you go take a shower if you’d like.”

“Would you?” I’m surprised by his responsiveness to the offer, his normal behavior to turn me down, telling me to go to bed and that he can handle it.

“Sure. What are you in the mood for?” As if he has the brain power to formulate that thought.

“Whatever. Nothing crazy though, please.”

“Got it. Just a simple lobster thermidor, then.” A laugh. A smile. Just enough to remind me that he’s here. He’s home. He’s alive. “Go. I got it.” He practically stumbles his way into the bathroom and for a brief second, I genuinely worry he’ll pass out in the shower. It’s easy enough to whip up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, taking care to use the strawberry jam, since he mentioned his distaste for grape in passing on the one occasion that I bought it. I set it down on a paper towel, carrying it into the living room, and setting it down on the coffee table before cracking my book back open. I get through about 2 pages before I hear the bathroom door open, and I tilt my head back to watch as Leon emerges.

Oh fuck. He’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, skin still damp and it catches on the lamplight, and I swear, my heart stops. He doesn’t need to look like THAT. I curse any God that’s listening for making him so damn attractive. His hair is a scattered mess, evident that he just ran a towel over it to stop the dripping.

He turns down the hall and that’s when I see it. The slightly bleeding wound that cuts from the top of his left shoulder diagonally, across his spine, ending at the bottom corner of his ribcage on his right side.

“Leon, what the fuck is that?” I’m standing now, fingers twitching, thinking of exactly the best way to take care of this. Why didn’t he tell me he was hurt?

“I was hoping you were still in the kitchen,” he mumbles, turning to face me before I notice the plethora of bruises and scrapes that litter his chest and arms, along with a burn that runs covers the top of his right hand, which he is using the hold the towel against his nethers.

“Dr. Dalton wouldn’t have let you leave like that.”

“He didn’t. I didn’t go in. Figured it would scab over pretty quickly and be done,” he spoke nonchalantly as if the gash on his back would just heal magically overnight.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Go put some pants on then get your ass back out here.” I head into the bathroom to grab my first aid kit as Leon clearly knows he’s been beaten, following instructions as to not incur further wrath. I sit down on the couch, setting the kit down next to me and opening it quickly, removing anything I think I might need. The injured man stumbles back out into the living room wearing a comfortable pair of gray sweats, obviously devoid of a shirt considering he knows exactly where this is headed.

“Where do you want me?” While still rifling through the kit, I reach over and grab a throw pillow, dropping unceremoniously onto the floor directly in front of me. Taking the silent cue, Leon drops to the floor, back leaning against my bare legs for a minute, until I part them to reach his injury better, the side of my knees resting against each of his shoulders. I grab the disinfectant spray before gently threading my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing his head forward carefully before spraying. His shoulders tense painfully and I softly run my fingernails along his neck, tracing his spine. Leon’s shoulders drop almost immediately, relaxing.

“Okay, I’m gonna put some gauze on this and wrap it.” Informing him before I move has proven to be the most effective way to keep him calm in these situations, knowing that if he tenses up, it’ll be 10x harder to finish this.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go in.” The apology takes me by surprise, given his apparent lack of care for his injuries any other time I’ve patched him up. My hands freeze in place, pressing soft gauze to his back.

“Why?” I find myself asking, as if having him apologize wasn’t enough.

“Well if it isn’t the return of Nurse Nosy,” he mutters, and I scoff, ruffling his hair with my hand that isn’t busy holding the damp gauze in place. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Don’t make me give you another injury that needs treating.” He snorts, his shoulders rising with the huff of laughter. “Pink or blue?” I ask and he turns his head, trying to see what I’m referring to. I hold up the two different shades of compression tape for him.

“Blue.” I nod although he can’t see it. I begin tenderly securing the gauze with the tape. I gesture to the coffee table in front of him mutely.

“Made you a PB & J. Strawberry jam.” I give him some leeway so he can reach forward and grab it, despite having to raise and lower his arms while I wrap.

“There is a comment that could be made about you making me a sandwich,” he mutters, mouth clearly full by the way his voice sounds.

“I wouldn’t say that to the person who has access to the painkillers,” I giggle, tucking the last strand underneath more wrapping, finishing up. “Can I see your burnt hand?” He raises the hand up above his shoulder, allowing me to dab it with a healing ointment as he clicks the TV on, flipping to a news station. I grab the remote out of his hands, changing it to something else before handing it back.

“I was gonna watch that,” he complains, but I know, deep down, he’s grateful. He watches that, all he’s gonna do is torture himself.

“I’m sure there are better things on. I bet I can find an episode of ‘Jeopardy’ if I look hard enough.” I feel his chest shift in a silent laugh before he takes the final bite of his super late dinner. “You’re really tense in your neck muscles, you’re gonna give yourself a headache.” I can feel his shrug against my knees, before he does, in fact, find an episode of Jeopardy. Leon leans back against the couch, and I rest my hands gently against the sides of his neck. He tenses immediately.

“Sorry,” I mumble, pulling my hands away before I feel his palms cover them, pushing them back to their previous resting place.

“I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s okay.” An apology and now permission to touch his neck?

“Who are you and what have you done with Leon?”

“Shut up.” There’s no malice behind the words, the only tone that’s evident is his exhaustion. I press my fingers to the backsides of his jaw before applying a light pressure to the sides of his neck, and the resounding groan I receive almost makes me stop in my tracks.

“I didn’t hurt you ri-”

“Please don’t stop.” Well now I’m thinking about THAT in a very different context. I resume the motion, repeating it until I feel his muscles begin to relax, moving to rubbing gently against his hairline. More groans, gasps, and straight up moans leave his mouth, and I wish I could say my thoughts were innocent by this point. Turning my attention to the TV, I focus on that as much as possible to distract me from the uncomfortable moisture in my panties.

After I’ve loosened most of the muscles, I take to just carding my fingers through his damp hair, his head lolling to the side to rest against the skin of my thigh, exposed due to my shorts riding up a bit. By the time the credits roll, I realize that there is a light snoring coming from the agent in front of me, and while I don’t want to wake him, sleeping with his neck at that angle will completely reknot every muscle I just loosened.

“Leon,” I whisper, running a hand gently down the side of his face. His face is serene, devoid of the worry lines I’ve practically watched attach themselves to the tender skin. With his eyes closed, I can’t help but wonder what he was like before Raccoon City. Before STRATCOM. Before everything. “Leon.” A bit louder this time, and he stirs, sitting up with a jolt. “Hey, it’s just me. You fell asleep on me and I didn’t want you to mess up your neck.”

“Okay.” It’s obvious he’s still mostly asleep, struggling to rise to his feet thanks to his unsteady limbs. “Thanks, baby.” Baby? Leon drops back down onto the couch, hands resting on the fabric beside his thighs for a moment before he speaks.

“Will you do that for a little longer?”

“What?” He gestures to his head.

“Your fingers in my hair.” Don’t.

“Of course. Come here.” I scoot back, grabbing the pillow from the floor and placing it behind me so I can rest against it, flipping the lamp off before laying down completely. Leon finds the blanket draped over the back of the couch, tugging it over his back and my legs before resting his head on the middle of my chest, and while I knew this was coming, it still took me by surprise. I settle with his head there, his face turned toward the TV I know he’s not actually watching.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” he slurs, already on the brink of sleep as I thread my fingers through his blonde locks once more, finger combing the strands until I feel him start to snore again, a light sound that could almost be mistaken for breathing if you weren’t listening. But of course, I was listening. I’m always listening when it comes to him.

I fall asleep like this as well, his head on my chest, the smell of his citrusy shampoo in my nose, his breath warming the fabric of my thin sleep shirt, and my fingers in his hair.

Leon: @house-of-kolchek @bonnibuckets @athanasia-day @muffimtv Everything: @chaosandbubbles @kassiekolchek22 @akiramoon8088

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy smut

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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 8 months

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Nice To Meet You, Brother

Warnings and Information: Not a new story, just a more masterlist and reader-friendly format since I'm unable to make the edits I want to the original. What was written with the idea of being a one-off became the establishing story for the main bulk of my Clone OCs, so this was written at a time not much had been planned in advance. Reference/allusion to canon-typical violence, injury, death and loss. Several characters are not explicitly named as of this installment. Narrative and stylistic use of italics, capitalization, and colored text. No Mando'a here. Minor language. My takes on Clone culture and their brotherly bonds have more thematic and narrative elements than how it's shown in the series, perhaps, as a heads up.

Word-count: 3,264

"Get a load of these plastoid puppies…"

They're getting new Shinnies to bolster their forces, and Maker, these boys just look younger and younger every time they get more Seppy blaster fodder reinforcements… It makes the hearts of the commanding officers hurt seeing how fresh-faced and bright these boys are.

The armor looks fresh off the assembly line and fitted onto little children fresh out of their growth jars. But they're all children. These are babies in the eyes of the Commanding Officers.

And they know the numbers of these plastoid puppies who are almost afraid of getting their armor scuffed, but no names. So young. Too young, General, please, send them back for more training...

They were never Named by their batchmates or their brothers under the rains of Kamino. They'll have to find their names out here in the galaxy.

That will have to come later. But first it's the unofficial marring ceremony a Captain came up with before they were KIA.

Scuff the armor before they even see their first Seppy encounter.

If they get it over with now, or if they allow themselves to be scuffed by their COs, the sequential scuffs will be easier to accept. Take a knife, a wad of steel-wool used for weapon cleaning/care, or just a little rock and scratch your armor.

No really, you heard me. It's for, uh… good luck! Each deployment has their own traditions, in-jokes and superstitions. We scuff our armor for good luck. (Thank the Maker, they bought it.)

That's okay, rookie, you take all the time you need to scuff your plastoid. I can wait nearby if you need me to. (We want you to steal that first scuff for yourself so the Separatists do not have the satisfaction, brother.)

They worry about the young brother who takes an hour to decide where to scuff his chest plate. He might be the first of the Shinies they lose. One of the Captains wants to keep an eye on him, close under his command in place of the Marshal Commander's ranks. The effort is probably as good as a Separatist's credit out in Republic space, but brother looks out for brother. They're all glad most of the Generals understand that.

Sure, Captain. Take the Shiny. Show him the ropes. Keep him safe.

Took-an-hour survives their first encounter since the bolster of reinforcements; the Captain kept him safe. He's shaken. He's lost his closest neighbor-batchmate (the batch that was below his, in this case) and he's mourning. He's dropped his blaster in the mud of the trenches and he's having a hard time cleaning it now that they've pulled back their forces. His weapon is no good to him if it's jammed up with the thick, sandy mixture.

The Captain has to tell him to stop attempting to clean the DC-17.

"Forget it. Throw it in the dirty bucket next to the graffitied helmet on the gunship. Take a fresh blaster. Take a breath."

(Take yourself back to Kamino, please… You're just a kriffing kid. We're all just kriffing kids.)

There's a kid who's gonna get his paint design out of this inevitable ambush and he doesn't even know it. He's a plastoid puppy with two left feet when he's nervous and keeps following the General and the Captain like a second shadow. They keep pulling this kid out of the naturally formed pits of the planet by the "scruff" of his armor. They're impossibly patient with this Shiny. The Captain has given the kid his Name when he pulls this brother out of the seventh pit and says "It's like scruffing a rowdy Tooka kitten!" with a mighty heave.

(Heh, any guess what that kid's about to get from the Captain, General?)

(You mean other than "on my nerves", Commander?!)

The kid likes the sound of the word, but he wants to change it a bit, first…

Welcome to the galaxy, Scruffy. It's nice to meet you, brother. The whole unit celebrates Scruffy and his name and his new paint and his identity. He's no longer just a number. (The General takes the time and tells him he is and feels unique in the Force, like all his brothers the General has served with, to make the moment all the more memorable.)

Scruffy is still falling into pits and still getting pulled up by the scruff of his armor by his COs and his brothers, but he's no longer a Shiny. He's no longer scared to get his armor scuffed. He's actually helping others, much later on, get their armor scuffed when they step off the gunships, and the COs see that he's got the same 'oh by the stars these boys are just plastoid puppies' look in his eyes now too. He'll show these Shinnies his deliberate, superficial damage he's so proud of and carry on the new tradition of it's for good luck!

The kid the COs have been secretly referring to as Took-an-hour is struggling. He's the last of his batch now. His last batch brother was alive just last night and never woke up. Something about the food. Something spoiled. He won't eat anything out of fear. You can't have a hungry brother out on the battlefield. You have to do something. The appetite stims just make him sick. This is hardly the right set of conditions to cook food. The only thing that placates him is the General's rations that they themselves are in charge of.

They're different and better suited for the General's metabolism and nutritional needs, but it has to be better than nothing. The General takes the rations in field supplies marked with the CT's number.

It takes an hour for the man to take his first bite. He's almost sick immediately after because the anxiety is paralyzing. But he's assured again and again by the General that the rations will be safe, he needs his strength, eat.

Scruffy (of a different batch out of the bolster of Shinnies) just sits with this brother and fellow soldier until the food is gone. It takes an hour. It's one hour less of sleep for both of them. But Scruffy doesn't complain once. He's also now keeping an eye on this nameless brother, along with the Captain, the Commander, the General. He's falling into a few more pits than usual the following day, but he just blames it half-jokingly on something flying overhead distracting him.

This brother refuses Naming. He doesn't want to Be Named. He's certain he's not long for this galaxy. He's convinced he'll join the rest of his batch soon enough and Being Named will give him hope.

"I'm a string of two letters and four numbers and I'll never be anything else."

Not on Scruffy's watch.

Not on the watch of the COs.

Not on the watch of the General.

You will Be Named is not a threat. It is a promise. You are an individual, brother. Our paints, our tattoos, our haircuts are all signifiers: We've found our Name. We will help you find yours, brother.

More scuff marks are added to the plastoid. The scuff marks of his fallen batchmates. He won't add them in paint. He'll add them in the same ways that they did. It takes the expected amount of time to complete the task.

Welcome to the galaxy, Carver. It's nice to meet you, brother. He was inspired by the nameless brother who bares his batchmates scuffs in his own armor, and carved little etchings into his helmet with a vibroknife he picked up somewhere. He's quite good at it.

(Scruffy thinks it would be funny to ask Carver to add GRAB HERE in Aurebesh lettering in the ring of paint on the back-plating of his armor up near the neck, but the COs don't share the sentiment.)

Lots of troops ask Carver to, well, carve little pictures in strips of thick bark that have shed from the trees indigenous to the planet. Flowers they found pretty. That scary hellcat with four eyes they heard about once. The General cutting a clanker in half. No wait! The General cutting a TANK in half, that would be so cool! (Hey, Commander, here's the coordinates to rendezvous with the General. Once you've memorized them we can add it to the fire.) Do you think you can whittle? Guys check it out, Carver figured out how to whittle!

Oh the General is gonna love that little Mudhorn, Carver!

The General does in fact. They keep their little Mudhorn in their pocket at all times and regard it with love. When the sour tang of the loss of life feels too heavy in the Force around them, the General holds Carver's little Mudhorn and feels the deliberate shape of the gifted token as they meditate to clear their mind. This campaign has been hard for the peace-keeper, but the little things, like this whittled Mudhorn, are cherished when things seem bleakest.

Scruffy asks Carver to make him something he thinks might help the nameless brother (and others). He's not sleeping well because he's having bad dreams. Dreams about the brothers he lost. Heard about them on the Holonet somewhere, they're called worry stones. They look like this, they're small and discreet and will be easy to carry on his utility belt. They'll be easy to replace if they get lost and misplaced.

"Whaddya think? You'll do it? You're the best, Carver, thank you."

Carver makes several, enough to give all the COs and General a worry stone, and slips the last worry stone into the nameless brother's things in the middle of the night. It's found in the morning and almost discarded, thinking it's debris in his drowsy stupor that he was about to toss without looking, but the smooth divot in the wood catches his attention. It… feels strangely nice to roll his thumb back and forth in this little space.

Okay. He'll keep the thing. He'll get rid of it if a CO tells him to. Except he later notices the COs also have one. So if they have "non-GAR contraband", he's not about to get into trouble for having it himself, right? Well then again they're COs and they'll be allowed more "luxuries".

He almost gets rid of it again after that thought. But the Captain catches it before it's kicked into the fire that night when they made camp and says it "was a close one, kid nearly lost the gift a brother gave him. That would have been a shame". Oh. Oh kriff. He nearly burned a gift? Carver made this?

Carver wouldn't have been mad if the nameless brother had burned it. He's made so many at this point. The nameless brother was always a little tighter on the rules than most other brothers, he'd probably have been reluctant to keep "contraband".

He and Scruffy had seen him using it on a few separate occasions. The tension seemed to melt right out of him, even just for a moment. He'd grabbed it at least once when he woke up from a nightmare. Carver wondered if he would be able to find the material to make a really small one and put it on some string so this poor not-a-Shiny would have a way to keep one on him, maybe under the armor, under the bodyglove, so he'd never have to worry about not having a worry stone on him if he really needed it. Sometimes just holding his worry stone was enough for the brother.

One not-a-Shiny claims the name Cairn finally. (He'd been given many nicknames, open to Being Named, but none had spoken to him until someone said the word "cairn" in front of him.) He's ended up with so many of his friends' worry stones one way or another that he'll build the little or big towers of wooden 'rocks' for the fun of it.

Sometimes the General uses gentle nudgings of the Force to make the towers take impossible, gravity defying formations. It boosts morale. It makes the men wonder if Cairn can find a way to replicate the upside down formations the General sometimes does with the right sized worry stones. Welcome to the galaxy, Cairn. It's nice to meet you, brother.

It takes an hour to get this not-a-Shiny to get out of one of the towering trees after a Separatist ambush. He made for an excellent sniper, to the surprise of the Captain who'd taken care of this nameless brother since he'd gotten there nearly a month ago. He's on the comms channel, voice high and tight with fear that if he comes down he's going to knock this bird's nest out of the crown on a branch he'd need to use to get down.

They're endangered. They can't fly yet, Captain. I don't want them to get hurt if I climb down. One already fell from the nest and-

Oh the General found it? Did it… survive the fall? Why is the General scaling the other tree with only one hand; did they get hurt in the Seppie ambush?

Oh the General is okay? Thank Kamino's rains. They… found the bird alive?

The bird is returned to the nest with the Force, and his General uses the Force to pluck him out of that tree and lift him over to the other one so he can crawl down, finally. He's sorry for getting worked up about some blasted birds but they just… He got kinda attached to them because he had imagined he was protecting not just his brothers and the General from the Seppies, but those birds too. He's sorry, General. It was silly.

The General assures the trooper that the compassion and empathy he had for the birds was not "silly". In fact, they were unaware that these birds they'd been seeing for so long on this planet were endangered. They thank the nameless man who takes a long time to do certain things for teaching them something that day. Maybe one day that thinking will make him a brilliant strategist, too.

(Yeah, the Jedi are a little weird. But that's okay, brother. Apparently when you come up in conversation now, the General hears the fluttering of these birds through the Force… Good question, don't know if they hear anything when our other brothers are brought up in conversation with the General…)

The nameless brother is just beginning to feel better, hopeful, the longer they've been taken care of by the likes of the COs, General, and Scruffy. Mostly Scruffy. Maker, Scruffy nearly cries when this brother, bearing all the scuffs of his batch additional to his own on his chest plate, asks the General if they want their rations, because he thinks he's ready to start eating his again.

He's not afraid to eat the rations meant for himself anymore, he thinks. That's a step in the right direction.

There's a few survivors from the first bolster who still don't have names, but only because they don't know what to decide on just like Cairn did. There's another bolster scheduled to arrive soon. They've decided on their paint patterns, at least.

The brother who takes an hour to do things when time allows is the only unpainted man of the unit. He looks like a Shiny, so out of place. Everyone aside from him is vying to find a Name except for him.

But it feels like hours or days after the COs welcome their new brothers who now have Names… they get picked off by Separatist forces. Hello, and goodbye, brothers.

"If I find my Name now, I'm cursed" is the new sentiment. The new anxiety that replaces my rations are spoiled and I'll get sick, I'll die if I eat them.

"I'm just two letters and four numbers and nothing else. Please don't name me. Please don't doom me, brothers…"

Maybe it's best that when the second bolster of Shinnies and other, more seasoned troops arrive, this brother is… sent back to the Jedi cruiser. We can't have him sent back to Kamino by now, there's no telling what the long-necks will do to him.

Wipe him clean with reconditioning? Decommission him? No chance in the galaxy they'll let their brother go through that. They'll turn him into a spacer instead before they'll let the Kaminoans decide.

So the COs are trying to find someone to go with this brother. Scruffy is willing, he's already done so much to take care of this brother, this will be a piece of meiloorun cake to accompany his anxious brother. If it wasn't a result of mistreatment at the hands of the… bounty hunters hired to be "Trainers", then it wasn't his fault something probably went wrong with his growth jar. It wasn't the fault of a brother who had a leak in his acceleration chamber that made him hyperactive and impulsive if the rumor mills are to be believed. They, all brothers, blame that on the Kaminoans. Or the Trainers. They do their best not to blame their brothers.

Brother looks out for brother.

"Took-an-hour" is used less and eventually abandoned. The COs call him the Unpainted Brother as a nickname, now. U-Brother, or just Brother, for short. It's easy enough to pass off as a general term of addressal.

He's far from a Shiny, he's not open to Being Named, he's clearly not finding his Name out here.

"General… please, send Brother back to the Jedi cruiser when the next reinforcements come." We're… scared for him that he's just getting worse out here and he'll get himself killed the next time the Separatists attack us.

"Another General will take him? And Scruffy? Thank you."

Brother, before you leave with Another General, we want you to take some of Our color. You may have been "unexpectedly" reassigned to another unit, but you'll always be one of Us.

Don't forget us, we won't forget you.

Carver and Cairn have a few little presents for you to remember us by. (A whittled nest of those endangered birds.) You take care of yourself, our painted Brother. Maybe your painted scuff marks will bring you good luck.

Maybe your brothers, Gunnar, Faro, Cryfar, Fluke, will bring you good luck. You, heh… kinda look like a paint canvas, now! All your batchmates scuffs glazed over in Our color. Your scuff on your chest plate is still naked, but that's okay. Maybe you can pick up the color of the unit of Another General and paint your scuff in that color, really make yourself look like a canvas.

…

What's that?

Oh.

(Oh, brother. Now? When he's about to leave with Another General?)

You kinda like that, eh?

Well…

"Canvas: it's very nice to meet you, brother."

Do you want to go, still, or do you… want to stay?

Will you stay? You know our brothers are going to want to celebrate you and your name. It'd break their damn hearts if you left now, Canvas. After all that's happened up to now, the experiences that shaped up to finding a Name for yourself and have marked your armor…

Of course, Canvas. You're welcome to stay with us longer. You're always going to be Our brother. I'll let the General know so they can let Another General know there's been a change of plans. They'll get it sorted out. Now, go grab Scruffy and let him know we'll need his skills with a brush. Need to add a little more paint to our Canvas.

Wouldn't ya think, brother?

[Clone OC Masterlist]

[Next installment]

#frostfics #Nice To Meet You Brother #star wars #*cleaned up version #tcw headcanons #tcw fanfiction #tcw ocs #clone oc: scruffy #clone oc: carver #clone oc: cairn #clone oc: canvas #clone oc: gunnar/faro/cryfar/fluke #clone oc: commander juke #clone oc: captain law #jedi oc: caelen #there's a reference to Hardcase because we love him here #*kept much of the same format but cleaned it up a bit to make it more readable than just a mess of bullet points and lack of punctuation

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loverockawaitsyou · 2 years

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More potato quality but Pearl Jam when I sew them in May! They played to the people behind them for a song.

#pearl jam #eddie vedder #stone gossard #mike mccready #jeff ament #matt cameron #los angeles #kia forum

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ausetkmt · 7 months

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AL.com: Legendary R&B singer retiring after 54 years: ‘It’s been a great ride through the decades’

Frankie Beverly, the charismatic frontman of Maze, has announced that he’ll retire this year, after a farewell tour with the R&B band that made him famous.

Six shows were announced this week for Beverly’s “I Wanna Thank You Farewell Tour,” including an April 6 concert at the Mobile Fairgrounds, also known as The Grounds. The dates start on March 22 at the State Farm Arena in Atlanta, and end on May 12 at the Kia Forum in Los Angeles. More tour stops will be announced in the weeks and months to come, according to a press release.

Beverly, 77, is a favorite in Alabama, playing to cheering crowds at concert venues and festivals throughout the state. His signature tunes with Maze range from electric funk to romantic jams to classic R&B, and include “Southern Girl,” “Back in Stride,” “We Are One,” “Golden Time of Day,” “Can’t Get Over You,” “The Morning After,” “Joy and Pain” and “Happy Feelin’s.”

Fans needn’t worry, however, that the band will be defunct when Beverly makes his exit. He plans to hand the microphone to Tony Lindsay, best known as the lead singer for Santana. The band name will change when Beverly leaves, transitioning from Maze Featuring Frankie Beverly to Maze Honoring Frankie Beverly.

“I want to share with my lifelong fans and associates that I’ll be going out on the road one last time, then retire,” Beverly said in a statement to Billboard magazine. “Thank you so much for the support given to me for over 50 years as I pass on the lead vocalist torch to Tony Lindsay. The band will continue on as Maze Honoring Frankie Beverly. It’s been a great ride through the decades. Let the music of my legacy continue.”

Beverly founded Maze in 1970 in his hometown of Philadelphia, initially calling the group Raw Soul. The band changed its name in the mid-’70s, released several albums, 1977-1993, and developed a loyal following throughout the country. Beverly’s all-white attire on stage is one of his trademarks, along with his smooth baritone voice and ability to connect with the crowd.

Frankie Beverly performed with Maze on the Coca-Cola Classic Stage at the 2008 City Stages festival in Birmingham.(AL.com file photo/Frank Couch)

Beverly and Maze have performed many times in Birmingham over the years, at venues that range from Boutwell Auditorium to the Alabama Theatre to the former City Stages festival. A concert typically becomes a big ol’ dance party when Beverly and Maze take the stage; in fact, some ticketholders have been known to bring maracas and use them for appreciative percussion.

Beverly’s farewell tour is produced by the Black Promoters Collective. “Beverly is embarking in this farewell tour before slowing down to enjoy life in his California Bay Area home,” a press release says. The artist plans to “complete the tour with several major city stops. He’ll then make his way to Philadelphia for a street renaming ceremony in the city where he and his group launched their phenomenal musical legacy.”

Here are the shows announced thus far for the tour:

March 22, State Farm Arena, Atlanta, Georgia.

April 6. Mobile County Fairgrounds, Mobile, Alabama.

April 13, Toyota Arena, Houston, Texas.

April 27, United Center, Chicago, Illinois.

May 12, KIA Forum, Los Angeles, California.

July 6, Dell Music Center, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

ENJOY THE MEMORIES -

youtube

#Maze #Frankie Beverly #Legendary R&B singer retiring after 54 years #Black Music Matters #Black Music History #Frankie Beverly and Maze #Frankie Beverly Farewell Tour #Frankie Beverly Retiring #2024 #Youtube

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ne-krokodilanta-larmaro · 9 months

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flickr

Moskvo 5.1.29

Kara amiko!

Jam dum tri monatoj mi tute vane atendas Vian respondon al mia lasta letero. Mi ĝin sendis rekomendite kaj tial ne povas kompreni, kia maniere klarigi Vian silenton. Ĉu Vi ne ricevis ĝin? Aŭ povas esti ke Vi decidis ĉesigi, pro iuj malhelpoj, la

#Esperanto #poŝtkarto

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kayugadang · 1 month

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