#Tweaks ~ Heavy cloud but no rain

[eilidh-eternal]

You don't like silence

Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist |

| SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Johnny’s accent is thicker when he’s tired/talks to his family | CW grief, depression spiral, feelings of inadequacy, loss of appetite | Everyone has big feelings |

The house is silent, but inside your head a brumous storm swirls, wispy tendrils of fog curling around delicate gray matter.

Your routine—watching Johnny walk Isobel to school, going to work and coming home, just in time to glimpse Johnny leaving to retrieve her—has changed.

You still watch from the window, mug bleeding warmth into cold, stiff joints from between your palms. Peer around the curtains every morning as the pair amble down the pavement together. 

A new month brings a steady influx of meetings and end of quarter reporting, projected sales and last minute production tweaks, but your days are no busier than normal. Rarely miss a lunch break. Leave no later than three each afternoon. 

Dinner, if you have any, is ready by five.

Even so, restlessness lingers in the midnight moons hanging beneath your eyes, darkens the air around you with somnolent clouds, and you list in the torpid deluge that rains down. 

Sleep evades you altogether most nights, and you’ve made a game of picking out patterns in the knockdown. Faces, animals; nebulous, nameless things. 

Some nights, when the faces of strangers, burned into your retinas, find their way into the patterns of textured drywall, you listen.

Isobels room must be on the other side of yours, beds sharing a wall. On the nights you manage to make it upstairs, you can hear them both. Isobel’s slow and measured pronunciations. The lilt of Johnny’s voice, filling in the blanks where she pauses on a word she doesn’t yet know. 

They’ve finished all of her animal books, which means the imitated roars of big cats and bleats of farmyard animals have morphed into exaggerated accents. Sing-song rhymes about the importance of kindness, accepting differences, and other life lessons told through colorful illustrations and whimsical narratives.

Every now and then, if you’re lucky, she falls asleep within a few pages, and you can pretend that the low, pillowy rumble of Johnny reading is just for you. A gentle coaxing made of velvety words, swaddling your mind, heavy with exhaustion, and cradling it to his chest against the maelstrom you’re spiraling in.

Sometimes she stirs, woken hours later in the placid, milky hours before dawn, just as your eyes begin to droop. Tiny feet patter across the hardwood like rain, muffled in uneven intervals by what must be a rug or runner in the hall, on her way to Johnny’s room or the washroom maybe.

You wonder if it’s full of frilly, feminine things, her room. Pinks and purples, dolls and plushies. Does she have princesses or ballerinas on her bedding? Do posters and drawings line her walls or does floral, pasted wallpaper? 

She likes Mulan, you remember. A warrior. Fighter. Soldier. Like Johnny. 

Probably not so frilly, then.

Perhaps they could make a fighter out of you. Press you into the mold of their little family–strengthened by loss and galvanized with love–and breathe life into clay limbs. Carve a soldier from the malleable earth. Shape you into something useful.

Now, most of your nights are spent huddled in the living room, listening to the droning of the television. Throw blankets suck you down into the sofa like quicksand and each breath draws them tighter and tighter around you, filling pockets of air with crushed velvet and fleece. Tonight, you let them swallow you whole. Sink willingly into a latibule of plaid and warm cashmere.

The cold and quiet of your empty home isn’t so bad when you can hear Johnny moving about on the other side of the wall. Isn’t so unbearable when the warm timbre of his voice chases away the numbing fog that muddles your head.

There are nights that he calls you, like he knows. Knows that you're drowning in the silence.

He does that now, after he puts Isobel to bed for the night. Calls to ask about your week. Casts a lifeline into the churning ocean between you, procellous waves lofting you on spuming peaks, and calls your name from the battered, broken shore.

A lighthouse calling to a ship, lost in the mist on a perilous sea.

Last Thursday he asked about the cookies you made with Isobel. Asked if you would be willing to share the recipe with him–teach him–so that he could make them with her for a school event coming up in the spring. 

The tenderness with which he speaks of her is a balmy breeze for your gelid heart. Soothes the burn of ice floes in your veins. Melts weeks of tension from aching muscles.

Now, his voice is somber, pensive, as it filters through the lack of insulation between you. “Friday. No, ah havnae told ‘er yet. Jus’ got the call.” He pauses, and you think you hear a muffled sigh. He sounds tired, too, accent thicker than honeyed whiskey rolling off his tongue, dropping consonants in favor of deep, throaty vowels. “Aye, ah ken. She’ll be happy tae see ye though.”

He’s on the phone, talking about Isobel. They must have family visiting soon, or a family friend if Isobel knows them well enough to be excited.

You wonder what the MacTavish family is like, if they’re a rowdy bunch. If they’re a large, extended family. Johnny seems like the kind of man who comes from a close knit community, one where you grow up down the street from your cousins and spend summers terrorizing small towns together.

“I’ll talk tae ‘er in the mornin’. Ah- No.” There’s a pause again, and even with layers of sheetrock separating you, you can feel the weight of his silence. “No, Mam. She’s… ah worry. Leavin’ ‘er like this. Piss poor timin’.” 

He’s leaving? Without Isobel?

It’s muffled through the wall, and you feel like you can’t have heard that correctly. He mentioned the army, but you had thought, with a child at home, that his work wouldn't be the sort that requires travel. 

Ice floes turn to glaciers in your chest, frozen spikes threatening to pierce brittle, fragile muscle, and the clouds swirling overhead descend upon you.

Lost in the mist, and he’s leaving. 

He’s leaving, and he’s taking the sun with him. 

“Ye cannae keep it from the lassie forever, John. Ye havnae even told 'er what ye do?” 

Christ, this woman…

“She knows ‘bout the army,” he defends. “Cannae say much more.”

Fenella MacTavish clucks her disapproval. “Ye’re heids full of mince.” Dishes clatter and a cupboard closes a bit too forcefully on the other end of the line. 

Johnny runs a hand through the disheveled strands of his hair, overdue for a trim, well outside of regulation length. “Mam—”

“Dinnae ‘Mam’ me,” she cuts in. “John Alexander MacTavish, ye tell that lass what she’s gettin’ herself intae—or I will.”

“Mam,” he tries again, voice pitched low, “Not yet. Cannae send ‘er off, naw like I do wi’ Bell. It’s safe enough here.” You’re safe with him here. “Dinnae like knowin’ she’s alone—Christ, I can hardly stand tae have the wall between us when I ken she’s hurtin’—but there isnae anythin’ I can do that’s naw already been done. Kate’s made sure of that.”

Fenella huffs and he can’t quite make out the garbled muttering on his end, but he has a fair idea of what his mother is blathering about beneath her breath. “Kirsten—have ye gone tae see 'er?” she finally asks, mercifully shifting the conversation out of your direction. “Has Isobel?”

“No,” he admits, and guilt twists in barbed coils through his chest.

He’s been meaning to, to drive up for the weekend and take her to visit her mothers grave, now that she’s older. Stay with her gran and look through the old albums. She's only ever seen the few photos they have at home, hanging in the hall near the kitchen.

Sometimes she asks about her. If she liked the things she likes. The way rain freezes on the tall grasses and tree branches in the winter, making glass gardens of trellises and window boxes. Extra whipped cream and blueberries for her pancakes. 

If she would have walked with them to school in the mornings. Take her to the park down the block in the summer. Hiking in the fall, looking for wisps darting about beneath the fallen abscission.

Isobel is so much like her mother there are days Johnny swears it’s her refusing to eat the dinner he’s made. That it’s her complaining about cold weather and overcast skies in the heart of winter, bemoaning how long they have until spring revives the land. Swears it’s her voice that wakes him in the middle of the night. Her ghost, standing in the dimly lit doorway of his bedroom, a blanket pulled ‘round her shoulders and a teddy dangling from her hand.

“I’ll take ‘er, then.” Johnny can hear the grief that tempers his mothers voice, turning anguish to steely resolve. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening, let ‘er have a few hours with ye at home before ye say yer goodbyes.”

“Thank ye, Mam,” he says on a strained exhale, lungs rattling with fragments of his own grief. It slices into old wounds until pockets of air become sanguineous aquifers, bubbling up in his throat and leaving a sour, metallic taste on his tongue.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she reminds him. “Ye tell yer lass. Dinnae leave ‘er in the dark like ye did Kirsten.”

The line goes silent and Johnny sinks back into the old corduroy sofa, pushed up against the wall beside a shelf overflowing with picture books in the living room, and a ragged sigh unfurls from his chest. 

The television across from him is dark, turned off when he took Isobel upstairs for bed, but he can hear an old rerun of Taskmaster playing softly behind him.

He listens, every night, for you. For the sound of your fridge, opening and closing. The soft ‘clink’ of porcelain against granite. The oven timer or the microwave. 

He prefers the former. Knows, after these last few weeks, that you cook when you’re in a good mood. Usually go to bed soon after. The sound of the microwave precedes long, muted evenings and little sound from your side of the wall. He won’t hear the stairs creak beneath your sluggish feet until the wee hours of the morning. If at all.

He listens in the mornings, too, while he makes Isobel’s breakfast. Makes sure he can hear you doing the same. Smiles to himself when he glimpses movement in the window beside your door, a miniscule swaying of the curtain, and he holds Isobel’s hand a little tighter as they navigate lingering ice patches on the pavement. 

The phone call with his mother, making arrangements for Isobel, masked the sound of your movements earlier, and his fingers twitch against his leather phone case.

When your side of the wall is quiet, he knows a storm is brewing; that you’re sitting in the eye of it, waiting for the walls to close in around you.

He doesn’t know if you’ve eaten tonight. Can’t hear anything beyond the muffled television and occasional creak of the sofa beneath your shifting weight. 

So he calls.

One… two… three… four… “Hi, Johnny.” Soft and breathy. Like the air the words are spoken on has borrowed from the softness of your lips as it spills into the receiver.

This is the way you sound when you’re tired, he’s learned, all soft and rounded syllables. Too exhausted, even for your own nervous habits. You don’t have the bandwidth to explain every little thing like you normally would; don’t bother with rationalizing your actions aloud.

“Hi, bonnie. What’s cookin’?” It’s cheesy as hell, but it earns a huff of a laugh from you and it tempers the jagged edge of his worry—a knife, lodged between his ribs.

“I, uh… I had leftovers. Takeaway, from a work thing.” He’s never seen you with takeaway. Always canvas bags full of groceries and the occasional frozen box dinner. 

How empty is your fridge? When was the last time you went to the grocer?

“Didnae take ye for the ‘easy’ type. Ye always make me work for it.”

“Work for it?” He can picture the pinch of your brows. The way your lips quirk to the side when you’re confused.

“Aye, got me makin’ puppy eyes an’ beggin’ for yer scraps.” You laugh again, more of a scoff, but it eases some of his worry all the same.

“When have I ever made you beg, Johnny?” He’s been begging any higher power that will listen to see you smile again, and he’d give anything to see the smirk he knows is dancing at the corner of your mouth right now.

“Could do it tomorrow,” he blurts before he can think better of it. “Come over. Show me that recipe again.” 

Don’t make him tell you he’s leaving over the phone. 

“I thought… you said the charity event is at the end of March, right?”

“Aye, but I think I’ll need a few lessons ‘fore my bakin’s fit for auction.” 

He needs to know—needs to see—that you’re well before he goes.

“And you want to start tomorrow?” 

“Why not?” He’d have you baking in his kitchen now if it weren’t for the late hour.

There’s a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the faint crackling of static and the sound of your breathing. “Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything to bake with?” you ask, and he answers with a proud ‘yes’. “Okay… okay. I can come over after work tomorrow.”

“I’ll ‘ave Bell home early then. She’ll want tae help.” Your amused sigh echoes across the line, followed by the faint rustling of fabric and then the soft pattering of stocking-clad feet over hardwood, fourth and fifth step creaking softly as you climb the stairs. “Off tae bed?”

Another sigh–on the tail-end of a yawn, he realizes. “Yeah. Well, trying. Don’t get a lot of sleep these days,” you admit, and though he’s successfully abated the storm of your thoughts, he wishes he could disperse it entirely. 

Be the shelter you seek, at the very least.

He’d nestle you in the warmth of his bed, tucked close and sleeping soundly in the cage of his arms. Anchor you to him with a leg hooked between yours, whispering adulation against the howling, taunting winds. 

He would make himself a rock to let your tempestuous thoughts batter and besiege. Weathered and whittled down to pebbles on a beach, he’d roll in the undertow alongside you. And when he is but sand on the ocean floor, still, he would drift and settle wherever the storm of you takes him.

“I used tae read for my sister when we were weans. She’d wake, spooked from a dream, and come tae my room in the middle of the night.”

“You have a sister?” A door clicks closed and blankets whisper over sheets as you settle in for the night. “What’s she like?”

“A lot like our Mam. Headstrong. Stubborn.”

“Are you the oldest?” You sound further away. Muffled. Like you’ve got the blankets pulled up to your nose and the phone beside you on the pillow.

“I am,” he lilts.

“She gets it from you, then,” you murmur, and his chest tightens.

“She got a fair number of things from me, I’d wager.”

He continues on, speaking just above a low, gravelly whisper. Reminiscing his early years and the trouble the two of them got up to. Thick as thieves and wild as the kellas cats roaming the highlands.

Your interjections dwindle, turn to soft hums and slow, even breaths. Sleeping.

He listens for a few more minutes to the soft, sweet sounds you make, little chuffs and sleepy hums, the susurrations of shifting sheets and nightclothes, and he whispers into the darkness, “Goodnight, sweet girl.”

Work passes you by in a blur, meeting after meeting chipping away at the hours and minutes ticking by on the analog clock perched on your desk. 

The drive home is uneventful and it feels as though you’ve passed through a wormhole somewhere along the way. Can’t quite remember making the turn into your neighborhood from the main road.

Normally, Johnny would be leaving to retrieve Isobel from school right now, but as you gather your things and step out of the car you hear your name being called from several houses down. 

Braids bounce and red wellies squeak as Isobel darts ahead of Johnny, weaving around patches of ice to get to you, and you step up onto the pavement just in time to keep her from running into the road. 

She barrels into you, wrapping her arms around your leg and smooshing her face against your slacks. “Ye’re back!” she squeals, fingers curling into the fabric. 

She’s leaving.

Your hand settles atop her head, soft wisps of curls tickling the pads of your fingers where they’ve escaped their plaits. “Where did I go?” you ask, and she tips her head back to look up at you.

“Bubby said ye were busy with work. Sometimes he gets busy too, and I have to stay with my gran.”

They’re both leaving.

Johnny’s caught up with her, lingering a few steps away near the walkway leading to your door. When you look to where he stands, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, windbreaker bunched up around his forearms where a tattoo peeks out, the corners of his eyes glimmer.

A smile curves the corners of his mouth, and it’s an odd mixture of grief and happiness that flickers there in the crook of his lips and set of his brow, sloped upwards and creased in the middle. His hair is longer than you remember, scruffy sides and tufts of mohawk curling at the ends, loose strands tousled around his face.

Wind blows at your back and a single tear tracks down the sharp plane of his cheek, disappearing in the dark shadow of stubble that lines his jaw.

“I have been busy with work,” you confirm, peering down at Isobel once more. “But I didn’t leave.” 

You’re staying, and they’re leaving.

The wind picks up and she presses closer, shielding herself from the cold behind your frame. “Let’s get ye inside and put yer book bag away. Then we can catch up over cookies an’ milk,” Johnny says as he closes the distance between you.

“Cookies?!” Her excitement carries on the wind, and his smile sharpens, bright and hopeful, but the whetted edge of sorrow undercuts the warmth.

“Aye, but we’ll have to make ‘em ourselves.” He brushes a stray lock from her eyes, fingers brushing against yours where his hand settles beside it on her crown, and dread blooms low in your stomach where warmth should.

She ducks away from you both, bolting towards their front stoop, and you’re left with both of your hands hovering in the air, his half curled over yours, staring after her.

You pull away first, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I just need to sort this–” You gesture to the tote full of binders and your laptop. “–and I'll be right over.” 

He fishes his keys from his pocket and takes a step back, towards Isobel. “We’ll be waitin’,” he says with a wink, and turns to take her inside.

There's flour in your hair and matching handprints on your slacks, and neither Johnny nor Isobel have fared much better. You’re all a mess, and the cookies you’ve made are tantamount to your disheveled state–lumpy, dry masses of something more closely resembling a biscuit.

“Dunno what ah did wrong,” Johnny muses, breaking one in half and inspecting the crumbly texture.

You sit beside him at the kitchen table, watching Isobel dunk half a cookie into a glass of milk. “It’s the butter and flour. The ratio is imbalanced–not enough fat.” She doesn’t seem to mind, stuffing the entire piece in her mouth and readying the next, fingers covered in crumbs that fall in her milk.

Johnny shifts beside you, sliding out of his chair and taking a bite out of his cookie as he moves towards the fridge. “Still tastes good,” he says around a mouthful and pours two more glasses, placing one down in front of you when he returns. “But I’ll need another demonstration when I’m back, I think.”

You take a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table, breaking off a chunk to dunk in your milk, and ignore the mirrored sensation in your chest. You knew this was coming. You know he’s leaving.

“When you’re back? From where?” you probe. No need to dance around the subject.

He shifts again, uncharacteristically nervous, and speaks softly. “Have to leave for a little while, for work,” he explains. Your cookie turns pliant between your fingers and you bite off the softened corner, chewing slowly while you listen. “Willnae know where they’re sendin’ me to until the briefin’.”

“When are you leaving?” You stare down at the crumbs swirling in your glass.

“Tomorrow morning.” 

The foreknowledge of his impending departure doesn’t make the break any cleaner. The fracturing feeling in your chest widens into fissures and chasms, jagged edges crumbling, tumbling down into the festering darkness.

When you lift your gaze you find that he’s been watching you–studying you–and his hand has crept across the table, close enough you can feel the warmth of him. “How long?” It comes out wobbly. Unsteady. 

You’re drifting out to sea again.

“Few weeks. Maybe a month.” Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

There’s a knock at the door. A canary in a coal mine, warning come too late.

“Gran!” Isobel’s chair nearly topples as she pushes back from the table, racing from the kitchen to the front door.

Johnny’s hand covers yours, long, callused fingers curling around your clenched fist and squeezing. “I’ll be back before ye know it,” he murmurs, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face and tracing the curve of your jaw as he stands.

He only goes as far as the kitchen doorway. Your heart’s already somewhere in the North Sea. 

“Hi, Mam.” He’s greeted by an older female voice and pulled into a hug by a woman a whole head shorter than him. Isobel hovers nearby, bouncing excitedly from foot to foot, and tugs at the older woman’s–her grandmother’s–cable knit sweater.

“Gran, come meet our friend!” she says, and tugs again until she lets go of Johnny.

You stand from the table on wobbly legs, fighting to balance your listing emotions and put on a warm smile as Johnny’s mother slides past him into the kitchen.

The resemblance between the three of them is uncanny. Johnny shares his mothers dark coloring, rich hair and warm skinned, and they all have the same eyes–steely hues of grey-blue, spiraling outwards from inky pupils like storm cells.

“So, this is the lassie next door ye willnae stop glaverin’ on about?” she asks no one in particular as she openly appraises you.

“Mam–” Johnny begins, a simmering warning, but she holds up a hand to silence him.

They carry themselves in a similar manner, in the set of their shoulders and broad stance. She may not stand as tall as he does but she’s no less imposing, and it’s an effort not to squirm under her scrutiny.

Seconds feel like hours as she looks you up and down, cataloging the flour on your pants and in your hair, glancing to her left where Johnny stands in a state of equal disarray, and a knowing look flickers like lightning in her storm cloud eyes. 

“It’s good tae finally put a face wi’ a name,” she says, smiling, and pulls you into a hug, too. “Call me Fenella, or Fen, whichever ye like.”

You return the gesture hesitantly, looking over her shoulder to Johnny for guidance and finding none. He simply smiles back at you from where he leans against the doorway, something unreadable in his expression lingering beneath it.

“It’s nice to meet you too… I- I’d love to stay, but should probably be heading home. I have an early morning and wouldn’t want to intrude on your visit,” you say by way of excuse.

“Ah’m naw stayin’ long, dear,” she explains, finally pulling away. Isobel returns to her side, pressing her shoulder to her thigh, and Fenella’s hand settles on the crown of her head. “Here tae take the wean for a stay wi’ her gran.”

“Is yer bag ready, leannan? D’ya have all yer books for school?” Johnny asks from where he stands, hands having found their way into his pockets again. His shoulders droop, broad frame deflating before your eyes. Leaving her behind, even with his mother, takes a toll on him.

Isobel leans around her gran to say, “I’ave all my books. And Mr. Ghost.”

“Goan an’ get yer things then, Bell,” Fenella ushers her out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs behind her to her room.

You watch until they disappear above the half open staircase, but Johnny has been watching you. Watching you navigate the shoal of your emotions, razor sharp rock scraping against a flimsy hull.

“C’mere, lass,” he entreats, one arm outstretched towards you, and your feet move of their own accord, carrying you forward until his hand settles on your shoulder, momentarily moored in the eddy of a tide pool. “Didnae mean to tell ye in the middle of… this.” He gestures above him to the sound of footsteps overhead. “Only got the call yesterday.”

With your hands folded at your front, you stare down at them, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s okay. I understand—”

“No, lass, it isnae okay,” he interrupts, hand gliding up your shoulder, your neck, and coming to rest on your cheek. He lifts your gaze back up to his and he’s wearing that nameless emotion, staring down at you with a pained expression. 

This hurts him as much as it hurts you.

“The job I do, it isnae always… predictable. Dinnae get much warning when I’m called in for assignments. I should have warned ye…” his thumb traces soothing arcs over your cheek, but it does nothing for the gaping hole in your chest. “I’m sorry… I should have—”

“It’s okay, Johnny. Really.” The lie feels like rubbing salt into a wound, burns the back of your throat like you’re speaking around a lump made of sandpaper, and your voice comes out scratchy and raw.

His hand lingers on your cheek, eyes darting from yours to your nose, lips, cheeks, brow. Memorizing.

“Let me walk ye home?” You nod, unsure if you can speak around the cordolium lodged in your throat, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, guiding you through the razor rock and churning tide to the front door.

His arm remains firmly around you, fingers digging into your softness as he escorts you across the meager expanse of your lawn. 

There’s an SUV, still running, parked in front of both houses and left to keep warm while Isobel gathers her things. She and Fenella step out into the brisk evening air just as you and Johnny reach the top of your stairs, and Isobel waves to you as they descend. Your arm feels leaden as you lift your hand into the air, waving back to her.

“She‘ll miss ye. Talks about ye all the time,” Johnny says beside you, unwilling to let you go just yet. “I’ll be missin’ ye too,” he admits, and you thought you’d found the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Thought you were already lying at the bottom of it.

You were wrong.

The well of your affection for them feels bottomless. The floor crumbles, residual tremors of the quaking in your chest, and you’re falling, falling, falling…Even with his arm around your waist.

You fell in love with the man in front of you. Fell in love with the darling little girl climbing into her grandmother's car. You’re already in love with Fenella and her dedication to her family.

You’ve been falling this whole time, no safety net in sight.

“I- …” Your voice cracks, and you try again. “I’ll miss you, too. Both of you.”

You’re falling, and they’re leaving.

There’s little warning, just a tug of your blouse, before you’re being folded into his arms. A wide palm cradles your head to his chest, fingers threading through your hair, and he presses his cheek to your crown. 

“Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.” He murmurs his promise into your hair. “If… if I’m not here an’ somethin’ happens… I gave my Mum yer number. Saved hers in yer phone when I gave ye mine.” He pauses. Sucks in a shuddering breath before he continues. “Whatever it is, she’ll help.” 

You nod your understanding and he pulls back just enough to see your face, guides your head to look up at him and says, “Promise me. Promise that ye’ll go to her if ye need anythin’,” with a desperation you’ve never heard from him.

So you make another promise. Let your eyes flutter closed as he presses his forehead to yours and ghosts his lips across the chilled skin of your brow.

And then he leaves.

Isobel is sorted, buckled into her car seat and saying her goodbye’s to Johnny, and Fenella MacTavish stands beside the driver’s side door, watching.

She’s said this goodbye a hundred times. Sent him off to god knows where to fight a war she’s never heard of. It never gets easier.

Isobel’s door closes, and her son turns to her with pain in his eyes. “I hate leaving ‘er.”

“Which one?” she intones, and Johnny leans his hip against the B pillar.

“Both of them. The three of ye.”

“Then make sure ye come back tae ‘er–tae all of us,” she advises, and pulls him into one last hug. “I cannae bury another child.”

Next>>>

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

[strawberrystepmom]

a trick, a treat, a few tweaks later and i am proud to present...angel choso kamo for @antique-remains! happy halloween and thank you for participating!

contains: NSFW, MDNI. angel!choso x afab!reader. cw dubcon, cw sacrilege. dacryphilia (reader is turned on by crying), public sex, handjob, cum eating, choso has a big dick and his wings are sensitive enough to get sexual gratification.

Nighttime in the city is hardly your favorite time to be out and about, traversing the streets alone despite how bright or dimly lit they may be, yet here you are. Your heavy boots smack against the sidewalk with each step you take, puddles leftover from the torrential autumn downpour that made it impossible to find a taxi splashing and making you mutter in further frustration now that the hems of your pants are wet.

Sirens and the bells indicating that doors are opening and closing mingle into a song that drives your irritation even higher as you trudge toward the bus stop, the rain finally letting up enough that you can slow down and make your way toward the covered bench slowly but a groan catches your attention.

Looking around, you immediately grow suspicious it’s another man following you and making noises in hopes of getting your attention but you see no one. Another pained moan infiltrates your mind, quiet enough that it’s barely audible but loud enough you wonder how far away the source of it is. You search around the bus stop, your eyes darting to a tiny alley between two high rise buildings. It’s hardly wide enough for one person but you wonder, walking toward the alley.

Your suspicions are confirmed when you hear another groan and what sounds like sniffling, your brow raising. It would be the best idea to ignore the sad sounds you keep hearing and mind your own business, city life making everyone a little rough around the edges but whoever this is just sounds so sad that you can’t ignore it.

Stepping quietly into the alley, the sniffling grows louder as you step deeper into the darkness and you fish your phone out of your jacket pocket to turn on the flashlight, squinting to make out what appears to be a shaking mass of a…fully grown man. 

Dumped amongst black trash bags and loose litter, you wonder how he ended up on the cold hard street but it could not have been good. You wonder if you shouldn’t just walk away, there’s obviously trouble afoot, but he catches the gleam of your flashlight and whimpers, looking up at you with the biggest, brownest eyes you’ve ever seen.

“Can you help me? I’m lost.”

His brows bunch together and tears spill from those pretty eyes. Your flashlight illuminates his face as each one leaves a track down his cheeks and the slope of his nose. Simultaneously, empathy blooms between your ribs and heat rises in your cheeks because you are caught off guard by the sheer beauty of this man with a black scar across his nose. Maybe it’s a tattoo, actually? You don’t know but you sigh, deep and exhausted, and hold your hand out to help him up. 

Gazing at your hand as if he’s fearful of it, still crying, you decide to come down to his level and squat in front of him. The flashlight on your phone shines in his direction and you spot what appears to be feathers on the ground around him, your jaw dropping as you angle your light a little further to the left and you realize the feathers are from wings attached to him. Reaching out, you pinch one of the fallen feathers between your fingers. It’s dingy thanks to the puddles below the two of you, wet and matted together, but it’s as white as a cloud otherwise. 

“Who are you?” 

He sniffles again, shaking his head. The crying has subsided but his eyes still shine with additional unshed tears and you hate that he looks so pretty just like this, eyes red and puffy. Again, you groan. It’s a frustrated sound although he doesn’t seem all that affected by it.

“Okay, let’s try a different question and see if you can answer this one. How did you end up here?”

“I don’t know!”

He shouts, arms thrown above his head in exasperation. The light shines over his body and you can vaguely make out the robes he wears, your eyes traveling from his wings to his chest to his face and his hair and the way it sticks up in twin tails on top of his head. You have no idea who this man is and apparently he doesn’t know either and immediately you rush to start planning your next move because you clearly cannot leave him unattended.

It’s close enough to Halloween that it’s unlikely anyone would question a man with wings taking the bus so you stand up and hold out your hand.

“Grab it, I’m trying to help you up.”

The man, if you can even call him that, sniffles and reaches up for your hand. You heave, groaning in surprise at how strong he is despite his current state of being strewn amongst litter and wet city sidewalks. He rises to his feet and you bounce back from him, appraising his full height.

He’s larger than you expected, tall with broad shoulders. Another sniffle pierces the noisy night air and you frown, hoping he’d be done with the hysterics by this point. Shining your flashlight toward his face, you catch the puffy red rimming his eyes and your own face heats.

Why is now the time your mind has decided to find the shimmer of his tears alluring? You grunt in frustration again, folding your arms over your chest. 

“Do you have a name?”

He nods.

“Choso.”

You hum sarcastically but you’re sure it’s lost on him.

“At least we know that much now.” Another sigh and you lift your hand to your face, scrubbing it over your nose and mouth. “I can’t just leave you here so follow me, we’re going back to my place.”

Choso takes a few steps forward and you reach out for his hand like a bad child and drag him out of the alleyway with you. The two of you stomp toward the bus stop, taking shelter from the rain on the dry bench beneath the metal awning.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

Despite the October chill and the soggy hems of your pants, you warm at the trace of humility in his voice. Nothing that has happened up until this point is his fault and perhaps you’ve been a bit harsh to someone who is clearly scared and in an unfamiliar place.

“It’s okay, let’s just get you somewhere dry so we can figure out what to do next.”

As if you summoned it, the next bus to your part of the city arrives mere moments later. It’s off schedule but you don’t think much of it, assuming the rain is causing drivers to shift their schedules. You look to Choso before rising to make sure he’s alright and he appears to be, eyes still rimmed with red but no more sniffling.

Stepping onto the bus, you’re shocked to find it empty. Two sets of boots squeak down the aisle as the two of you settle into a seat at the back, wide enough to accommodate his wings and you by his side. The bright overhead light hurts your eyes but it allows you a gracious and better look at the man and you’re stricken by how handsome he is.

The dim light of your phone did nothing to highlight him and you’re honestly a little grateful for it, knowing you probably would’ve just ignored this very handsome man otherwise. You press your thighs together and settle into your seat, still looking at him as if you’re trying to make sense of the entire situation.

“Do you really not know how you ended up here?”

The man next to you shakes his head and his white wings that are covered in the grime he was laying in flutter slightly with the motion. You giggle, watching his body react and his cheeks redden and you shift until your thigh presses against his robes.

The attraction you felt in the alleyway listening to him sniffle has become undeniable, your wetness seeping through your underwear, your pussy as wet as the rest of you. Perhaps you should be ashamed of your own desires, embarrassed that seeing a pretty boy cry is enough to turn you into someone so shameless, but you just can’t find the will to care as the city passes by in a blur outside of the windows.

Placing your hand on his thigh, he gasps and his dark eyes flick down toward where it lies. His muscles tense beneath your palm and you eye him curiously, letting your fingers rest in the soft robes covering him. 

Your mind wanders to what could possibly be beneath the white fabric pooling between his slightly spread thighs and you bite your lip, drawing your hand back and making ready to put it in your lap. Choso stops you though, grabbing your wrist and placing your palm back on his thigh.

“Your touch is comforting.” 

His voice quivers a bit and you nod, trying to bite back the satisfied smirk crawling across your face. Maybe he feels the tension between the two of you, less naive then he’s putting on, and your hand travels from the flat of his thigh inward. Your fingers brush along his inner thigh and you gasp feeling a lump beneath the robes covering him, certain it’s his slowly hardening cock.

“I can make you feel even better.”

He lucks his lip between his teeth and looks at you with uncertainty but spreads his legs wider, the bulge you just felt thickening substantially as your fingers drag across it. You make a show of looking around the empty bus to ensure you’re truly alone and when you’re satisfied with your inspection, you lift your hand from his thigh long enough to make him gasp.

Choso watches you raptly, eyes still rimmed with red, and gasps when you lift your palm to your mouth and spit into it. He has never witnessed something so lewd but he enjoys it, his cock jumping and dragging through the fabric covering it enough that it makes him hiss. You reach back down toward his thigh, lifting the fabric away from his hips and gasp when you are met with his leaking cock.

He’s thicker than any you’ve ever seen and you feel greedy, licking your lips and keeping your eyes fixed on his drooling head. Your spit lubricated palm reaches for the engorged tip and his precum feels like silk in your hands, mixing with your spit and giving you all the lubrication you need to close your fist around his length. Your fingers and thumb do not touch and you press your thighs together again.

With one fluid flick of your wrist, his eyes fill with tears again. Biting your lip, you make another pass, your thumb brushing over his leaking slit and he moans in his throat. You glance around the bus again but continue flicking your wrist, the steady slick noise of your motions filling the space where the two of you sit.

“That feels…” he trails off, sniffling and another tear trails down his cheek. He doesn’t have to finish because you can tell by every noise that echoes in his throat that he’s enjoying himself, his wings fluttering and flicking with each pass of your hand over his length. 

At first you believed his wings were for show, perhaps an elaborate costume, but the way they flutter at your back and around your legs tells you otherwise. You wonder if you haven’t stumbled upon an angel - lost and away from home, one you’re happily corrupting in the back of a dirty city bus.

May God have mercy on my soul, you reason while increasing the speed of your wrist and making his entire body tense in response. Choso shudders, his wings flexing again, and you bite your lip while watching every sticky pass of your hand, the persistent schlick, and his falling tears making you almost believe you could cum yourself.

“How does it feel?”

He meets your eyes and you see them glisten with unshed tears, the vision making you increase your pace wordlessly. His thighs tense again and you know immediately that he’s about to cum, his hand coming to your wrist to still you while he spills his hot release all over your fingers. You groan alongside him, bottom lip jutting out while he sniffles and rushes to cover himself. 

Letting go of your grip on his cock, you bring your fingers to your mouth and stick them between your lips. Your eyes roll back into your head at the salty taste of him and your neglected cunt clenches, the bus slowing down at the stop nearest your apartment. 

“Come on,” you stand up and offer your still sticky hand to the man who takes it gingerly. He waits by your side while the bus comes to a stop and you drag him behind you, nodding politely to the bus driver that didn’t seem to notice what was going on right behind his back. 

“I can make you feel even better than that if you want to come upstairs.”

Choso follows your footsteps wordlessly all the way to your front door.

[brideofdiscord-rewritten]

Bride of Discord Rewritten, Chapter 7: The Arrangement

Discord was still laughing huskily when they arrived at their destination. On the outside it looked as if it were a quaint little maroon cottage on a floating patch of earth, surrounded by fences and stone paths. Below the floating land was bridges that lead nowhere, other land plots housing trees, which melted as if they were molten. The grass had patterns unnatural and almost sickly. Some were upside-down. Coral floated in places it shouldn't. Surrounding it all, was a view of the Everfree Forest, desaturated and piercing. Jutting out at every angle was rot and mustard yellow.

Fluttershy gazed up at what seemed to be a dark floating castle to her. dark Cotton candy clouds surrounded it, raining chocolate milk.

"Like what I've done with the place?" the draconequus asked her.

"It's…" she stammered, "lovely."

"Wait until you see the inside!"

He carried her to the door and opened it up. Fluttershy's eyes widened at the interior. It was like looking at a drawing by M.C. Escher, with stairs leading to nowhere and doors hanging sideways. It looked like he collaborated with Jackson Pollock.

"Welcome to my humble abode!" Discord said proudly. "Or should I say our humble abode? What do you think?"

Something drained her entire head. Her vision was fuzzy, as if her eyelashes stuck to her eyes. God, her head felt like the inside was expanding, pressuring the skull like a hydraulic press. Her hooves were sore, and unbearably hot. Her balance was gone and she felt her mouth go to mush.

He chuckled. "You'll get used to it, my dear. After all, this is your new home."

"My…my…"

Fluttershy fainted in his arms. He summoned a daybed and set her down gently. He gazed in triumph at his prize. how easy it would be to simply not give her anything? It'd work just as well if I tweaked the plan just a bit. The thought sent a shudder down his back. One that was known when somepony sees something terrifying. How disturbing, though? Is she not a living thing like me?

"She sacrificed herself for us?" Cadence asked in wonder.

"She thought she was the only one who could do it," Applejack explained solemnly.

"He told us what our freedom would have cost, but I never would have thought Fluttershy…"

She buried her face in her husband's shoulder

"That creature hath gone too far!" Luna bellowed, using her traditional Canterlot voice. "We motion that we go to that castle and demand he return the pegasus at once!"

Celestia put a wing around her. "No, sister. If the agreement made is broken, Discord could have the right and power to unleash his chaos again."

Her head hung heavy next to her sister's. "Thou canst not expect us to allow such an innocent soul to be tied to that monster! We know not of his intentions!

"This is all my fault," Twilight whimpered. "I'm sorry, Princess Celestia. I've failed you."

Celestia raised an eyebrow. "How have you failed me?

"You left me in charge of Equestria, and it was put in danger because I didn't take precaution. And…I let one of my best friends accept a fate worse than death!" She hid her face in her hooves. "I'm a terrible ruler!"

She stopped crying as her mentor lifted her chin. "To be a ruler means one has to make difficult decisions for the good of her subjects. There was nothing else to be done."

"It should have been me then! I could have handled him, I could have…"

"I am as distressed as you are, but this was her choice. Discord may do terrible things, but believe me when I say he won't bring Fluttershy any physical harm."

"How do you know that?"

"His nature is to corrupt that which is orderly, not to inflict pain. Some creatures…are not as evil as they seem. In the meantime, you made as best of a princess as you could. Now, your duty is to be duchess once more."

"So," Pinkie Pie sniffed, "what do we do now?"

"what we may do now is contact her as much as we can while we live out our days. To keep her as a part of our lives is as important to her as it is to us."

When Fluttershy had gained consciousness, she was lying on a couch. She glanced at her surroundings and the ring around her neck, realizing that the events of the day hadn't been a dream, sighing heavily. I've accepted Discord's proposal, saved the princesses, lost my friends and freedom all in one day. Now I'm engaged to the Lord of Chaos with no escape. Speaking of which, where was Discord?

Her answer came sooner than expected as the creature materialized above her. She squeaked and jumped to the back of the couch in surprise.

"Have a nice rest, my dear?" he asked.

She struggled to get her words out. "H-how long was I out?"

"About an hour or so. I took the time to decorate your room. You like green, right?"

"S-sure?"

"Of course, we could always share the room after the wedding..." He said, before laughing. "Just jokes, just jokes!" He began to walk off.

Fluttershy shivered at the thought. "Hey hey hey, don't go away!"

He turned his head 180 degrees, like an owl. All before turning his body to match.

"Um, w-when i-is this w-wedding exactly?"

"Oh, it could be next month, next week, or even tomorrow, if you like!"

"T-tomorrow?!"

"That reminds me. We need to pick out your dress! I know it's bad luck for me to see it and all, but given the circumstances…"

"Um, don't you think…?"

She found herself standing on a pedestal facing three mirrors. Discord was dressed as a tailor and taking her measurements.

"Now, let's see. I'd say you're a size four. Am I right?"

"Aren't you going…?"

She watched in shock as Discord made several wedding gowns appear on her body.

"Too frilly. Too casual. Too flowery. Not flowery enough. Too white. Too blue. Ooh, do you like an alternative wedding? I sure do! How's about a scene dress? Or what if we didn't go for the western wedding at all!"

He stopped at an ivory colored gown with green trimming. A thin veil draped over her head from a crown of blue daisies.

"Why, darling," he purred, gesturing towards her reflection. "You look beautiful. Your fiancé's very lucky to have you. Oh wait. That's me!

She couldn't take it anymore and shouted, "DISCORD YOU LISTEN!"

"Yes, my dear?"

She turned to face him. "Don't you think tomorrow's a bit…soon?"

He pretended to think about it. "No."

"B-but…I hardly know you as it is…"

"Do I need to remind you of the terms of our agreement?"

"I'll still marry you, just…not yet."

"Care to explain your reasons behind this?"

"Well…I…you see…"

"Oh, come now, dear. Let's not be strangers. Tell me."

She fiddled with her mane. "I'd wanna fall in love before I get married."

"Oh, there will be plenty of time for that."

Fluttershy swallowed her fear and narrowed her eyes at him. "You said you would give me whatever I desired, right?"

Discord fiddled with his hands. "I did say that, didn't I?"

"Well, I desire that we postpone our wedding. you said you wanted a willing bride, right?"

"I did, but…"

"I would be even more willing if we got to know each other first!"

A faint sense of tension cut through the air briefly. "Alrighty, okay!" He snapped his fingers, making the gown and mirrors disappear. "We'll postpone the wedding for now."

"Until…when?" she could not help but ask.

An idea struck him. "I'll tell you what." He continued as he circled her. "Every night, I will ask you a teensy question. If you don't give me the answer I want, I will keep asking until you do."

"And…when I do?"

"Well," he smirked, "let's just say that'll be our wedding day."

Fluttershy was confused, although less frightened. "W-what's the question?"

"I'll tell you later. Right now, you look hungry."

As if on cue, her stomach grumbled. "I did skip breakfast…"

"Say no more!"

An oddly shaped table appeared between them and they were seated on either end. Discord summoned a candelabrum as a last minute touch.

"What will it be, my dear? Chicken à la king? Lobster? Does it need to be kosher?"

As he listed each dish, it appeared before her.

"Um," Fluttershy uttered. "I'm a vegetarian."

"Oh, right. My bad. Hay? Oats? Baked Alaska?"

"oh!" She beamed! "May i have cold carrots and oats? It's been a while!"

Sure enough, a bowl of perfectly large oats and cold wet, crisp carrots materialized before her. Discord then summoned a bowl of what appeared to be…

"Um…is that…paper?"

"Is it?" he said, taking bite of it. "Hmm, crunchy. Want some?" It was vintage pages of an old mystery series, Nancy Croup.

She raised an eyebrow. It was tempting, but it probably wasn't good paper. It had ink on it, and was likely parchment. "I'll…pass."

Well, he is part goat after all. Fluttershy glanced down at the dish in front of her, shaking as she lifted her fork. Discord was confused at her hesitation.

"It's not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking."

She smiled nervously and took a bite of the oats and carrots. The flavors practically popped on her tongue. It was refreshing!

"Delicious," she gulped.

"Perhaps you would like some dressing! Thousand-island or ranch?"

"Um, ranch? On the side for the carrots."

A bottle appeared in the air and squirted the substance into a small plate. One of them played that are only used by fancied ponies.

"T-thanks." Fluttershy uttered once the bottle had vanished.

"Anything for my fiancé!" He stared at her as she shivered in her seat. "You find me terrifying, don't you?"

She looked down at her hooves. "I…well… I'm not quite terrified. You're not as scary as a bear, Or dragon, or manticore. You just look like that, don't think I'm surprised by much anymore..."

He shrugged. "Perfectly understandable. After all, my appearance is quite…unique." He grinned slyly at her. "Yours, on the other hand… well, its unique in the other direction!"

He put his paw in the direction of her face, never quite touching it, as if to ask beforehand. She backed away, slowly as possible before her chair fell. Fluttershy forgot she was sitting. He caught her with his tail before she could hit the ground and lifted her to meet his eyes.

"What? Ravishing not a good enough word? How about stunning? Beautiful? Gorgeous?"

"Stop!" she squeaked.

"Stop what?" he asked as he teasingly.

Fluttershy wriggled out of his hold. "L-look, I…appreciate the compliment, but…"

She forced a smile as she returned to her seat. She tried to finish her food, but her stomach turned. It was nice to be complimented, but golly, it was uncomfortable. Maybe because it meant nothing after all those stallions said it to her. They didn't know real love, they just wanted her because... She had money? She had looks? Was beauty even real? To her there was no such thing, because nothing in the world is ugly.

"What?" Discord said. "Not used to some pony calling you beautiful?" He chuckled. "Well, you should get used to it, because I'm going to keep calling you that."

He made a gold crown appear on her head. Fluttershy relaxed, but it was rather heavy.

"You know what?" she said quickly. "I'm really tired!"

"Imagine! Our own little chaos corner of the world! No pony to tell us what to do! You can have whatever you want, be whatever you want, and do whatever you want! And I'll be by your side, doing all the heavy lifting!"

Discord scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous! It's hardly even noon yet!"

"Oh, but I didn't get much sleep last night!" She faked a stretch. "Oh yes, I'm very tired! I should really get to bed!"

"Oh, very well! But first, my question…"

Fluttershy shrunk. "Yes?"

He cupped her chin in his paw. "Do you love me?"

Her eyes widened. "W-what?!"

"I asked: do you love me?"

She was silent for a long while, about ready to faint again. Would he get mad if she gave her honest answer? But if she said yes, then they would be married immediately.

"N-no."

Discord shrugged. "Fair enough. Though here's a heads up, my dear. I'm going to keep asking you until you say yes."

"W-why do you…want to…?"

"You said you wanted to fall in love before you got married, so…" He gave her a wink. "Now, let's get you to bed, shall we?"

He picked her up bridal style and carried her to a door that was thankfully right-side-up. He opened it to reveal a room with wavy green walls. It felt like a perfect cottage with fairy lights and... Nordic weapons. For whatever reason.

"I know how you ponies are about gravity," Discord said, "though it is quite boring." He opened a white oddly shaped wardrobe. "Here are some clothes for you, in case you're in a fancy mood. If you don't like them, I can make a few alterations."

He carefully set her down on a canopy bed and gestured towards the chandelier hanging above. "Watch this."

He clapped his hands and the candles went out. Another clap illuminated them again.

"Neat, huh? Ooh!" He pointed to a record player. "In case it gets too quiet for you…" He moved the rod and the record played Fluttershy's favorite lullaby. How did he know?

"Oh, and if you get hungry in the middle of the night," he showed her a microwave sitting on a counter in the corner, "simply press one of these buttons: hay, oats, honey melon, pineapple, whatever you'd like! Except honeydew. That sucks. Oh!" He flew over to the windows. "And I made sure you got a great view!"

He flung open the green curtains, revealing the foggy, dreary forest outside. "Well, maybe not a great view, but hey, any view's better than no view!"

He waited excitedly for her reaction. Fluttershy was struck dumb as she glanced around the room. He had really put a lot of effort into this, and he seemed so eager to please her. She was starting to think Zecora was right, but it was all so much to take in.

Discord frowned at her silence. "Is it not to your liking?"

"N-no it's…" she stammered, "it's…fine."

"Was the microwave too much?"

"probably…"

"Would you prefer pink instead of green?"

"Um…"

"The bed not comfy enough?"

"It's fine!" she snapped. "Really, it's fine! Lovely, even! It's…nice. But..."

Discord accepted her answer and drifted to the door. "Now if there's anything else you need, just holler! Sleep tight!"

"Sly?" his reflection scoffed. "You're acting like a big softy, kissing up to that wimpy pegasus!"

Once he had closed the door, Fluttershy waited until she was sure he was gone. Then she buried her face in a lace pillow. It felt like a distant and tragic ballroom song echoed in her head. Like it was being slowly forgotten.

"Oh, Discord, you sly devil!" the draconequus mused as he admired himself in the mirror.

"Don't you understand? This is better than we could have hoped for! Listen, the ponies can't turn us to stone without the Element of Kindness, right?"

"Right. But what does that matter? They already promised not to use the Elements against us."

"Only because they didn't have a choice, but if any of our deals were to be broken, then we could be free to do whatever we want!"

"And where does the pegasus fall into this?"

He cackled. "I'll bet you by the end of the month, that pegasus will be so hopelessly in love with me, she'll do just about anything for me! She won't be able to use her Element against me, which means there will be nothing stopping me from taking over Equestria! And just think! I'll even gain a queen in the process!"

His reflection burst into laughter. "Really?! That's your plan?! Do you honestly think that little pony would fall in love with you?!"

Discord put his hands on his hips. "And why not?"

"Well, have you looked at yourself lately?"

"Hey, I have my charms!"

"Are you talking about the magic kind of charms or the wooing kind of charms? Because the latter is just hopeless!"

He grabbed the mirror. "How would you like to be smashed into millions of pieces?!"

"Hey, hey! Seven years bad luck!"

"Don't talk to me about bad luck! I invented bad luck!"

He lifted the glass, ready to destroy it. Then he paused and slapped himself in the face.

"What am I doing?"

He set the mirror down and stared at his reflection, which had returned to normal. He studied his distorted face and thought of Fluttershy's beauty. How could he win her heart? She had already agreed to marry him, but not because she wanted to. She only wanted to save her friends. Why would she ever want him?

He shook these thoughts out of his head. "Oh, what does it matter? There are other ways to impress a lady." He studied his reflection again. "Though maybe I should trim my beard."

Oh Discord, still talking to yourself.

[whispermask]

gasoline in your heart ch.1/10 | ghost/soap/könig

@bluegiragi this is your fault

read on ao3 | next | ch wc: 1.4k, total: 34k | completed

tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost

dead dove time: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)

summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)

preview: Ghost finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the heel of his boot, and considers lighting another one when he hears Soap’s hissed whisper cut through the night like a blade.

“We have to be quick about it, I want to get some shut eye before wheels up at oh six hundred.” For all that Soap is whispering, he’s being rather conspicuous, Ghost thinks.

-

Ghost dreams. 

The kitchen isn’t one he can wholly place, it’s some hybrid his subconscious has painted in powder blue dawn with softened edges and anachronisms. Ghost sits at the kitchen table, a perfect replica of the military issued foldouts complete with matching, nondescript chairs. There’s even a still-smoking cigarette in a dirty ashtray and an abandoned game of blackjack on the table. 

But the kitchen is undoubtedly his childhood home, or one of them at least. He tracks a line of decorative blue tiles in the kitchen floor from beneath the foldout table to the cupboards, the countertops, the stove, the boiling pot. Steam plumes with a vengeance up, up, up into a rolling thunder cloud that overtakes the whole room. Cold, fat drops splatter onto Ghost’s face. He reaches to wipe the rain from his cheek and realizes as he stares at his own small hand that he is a child in this dream. 

The shadows grow sharp, and long. The boiling pot on the stove clatters and burns, and still the cloud keeps growing. In an instant, the gentle sanctuary of early mornings becomes something cruel with dreadful hands. Ghost shivers, tries to shield himself from the rain but finds he cannot move. He hears the sound of a lock clicking, the stumbling, drink-heavy boots clumsy in the entryway, in the living room, in the hall, right outside of the kitchen door. A perfect lightning storm of terror. 

He wakes, shaking, sweaty and his chest tight with panic. His balaclava is under his pillow; he pulls it on without thinking. It’s not often that he has these nightmares since joining SAS—there’s not much dreaming going on when you’ve been awake for over 72 hours, tweaked out on stims, body driven past the point of physical exhaustion. He sleeps like the dead, when he sleeps. 

Ghost doesn’t feel afraid, but his body does. He takes his heart rate, tries to breathe through it and wills the adrenaline away. The threat is neutralized. The threat has been neutralized for decades. Still, he rises from bed and grabs his pistol, his camels, and pulls on his boots, already in tomorrow’s tactical clothes. The clock reads oh two hundred. 

Outside, the air is cooler. He’s on base in the UK, a rare thing, staying the night in the BOQs for what will be an early departure for Turkey to clean up a handful of loose ends that Graves and Shephard left in the wake of their cover up. Makarov’s looming not far behind, likely has connections to more smuggled missiles somewhere in the Anatolian Peninsula. The road ahead of us is a long one, Price had said as he told them about Makarov. 

Behind the mess, in the quiet dark, Ghost lifts his mask over his nose and lights a cigarette. He crouches over the dusty concrete with his pistol and performs a basic reload drill, cigarette dangling from his lips while he puffs, his only source of light a dull yellow streetlamp on the road beside him. 

Ghost finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on the heel of his boot, and considers lighting another one when he hears Soap’s hissed whisper cut through the night like a blade. 

“We have to be quick about it, I want to get some shut eye before wheels up at oh six hundred.” For all that Soap is whispering, he’s being rather conspicuous, Ghost thinks.

Ghost draws back from the light of the streetlamp until he’s obscured in the shadows. Soap emerges, boots crunching on the asphalt, from the other side of the street with König not far behind, an operator Ghost had worked with in the past Laswell had contracted through KorTac. 

“But it is so rare that we are anywhere, together,” König whispers, and comes to a stop under the streetlamp in front of Ghost. “I don’t wish to rush.” 

His face is obscured by the helmet and veil, a tactical tablecloth Ghost once called it, but his eyes gleam in the lowlight as his gaze shifts restlessly from one side of the street to the other. Ghost steps further into the shadows, soundless. 

Soap turns to lay a hand on König’s forearm and has to look up, even craning his neck a bit, to meet König’s eyes.

“We won’t rush,” Soap says, a promise Ghost knows he can’t keep. 

Soap’s hand brushes palm down and firm to find König’s. He threads their fingers together and squeezes. König’s gaze is drawn to their joined hands and his back straightens as he stands at full attention, shoulders drawing back, a full head and a half taller than Soap now. 

“There he is,” Soap whispers. He releases König’s hand and continues walking. Towards the motor pool, Ghost realizes. 

König follows, still staring at the hand that Soap had grasped in an unspoken plea. 

Unnoticed, Ghost holds his breath as they pass. 

 -

Ghost knows what this is. 

Back in his quarters, he recalls his and Soap’s frantic life-affirming fumblings with a hand around his cock. The first time was after Las Almas, after Graves was dead. If Ghost had had it his way, it would have been at Alejandro’s safehouse, Rodolfo be damned. 

That first time had been frenzied, a tidal wave crashing against a breakwater. They were on the transport to Chicago, in the cargo hold. Soap had asked to speak with him privately, had practically dragged him into a secluded cubby behind a flimsy curtain, had reached for him and said, “Tell me you want this too.” Ghost could only nod once, dumbly. What followed was an intense handjob with a lot of eye contact while Soap rubbed off against his still clothed thigh.  

The second time was after Chicago, after the pub, in Soap’s hotel room. Ghost had removed his mask and watched as Soap puttered around, limbs loose and knocking against furniture while he prepared for bed.

“Easy Johnny,” Ghost had said after Soap hip checked a table and nearly sent a lamp crashing down. Soap’s eyes snapped up from where he was righting the lamp, as if he had forgotten Ghost was in his room. His eyes had widened then darkened as he took in Ghost’s bare face. Had stalked over to him to take his face between his hands and trailed soft fingertips from brow to cheekbone to lips, tracing scars and looking his fill. 

“Let me blow you,” Soap said as he pressed a finger past Ghost’s lips to press on his tongue and then dragged the spit wet digit down the line of his body to hook into his belt loop. Ghost, four bourbons deep, had said yes, please. Had returned the favor, happily, with Soap’s hands fisted in his hair. 

The memories make his blood sing and pulse in his ears. It had been an unspoken arrangement, born from adrenaline, no strings attached. A means to forget the blood and gore or maybe even relive it a little. They hadn’t discussed what it meant, if anything at all, in the larger scheme of things. What they did behind closed doors (or in secluded corners) to remind themselves that they were alive was their business alone. 

So it makes no bloody sense why Ghost’s teeth ache when he thinks about Soap and König and what they’re getting up to while he desperately strokes his dry cock, gasping into the pillow. 

Would König have Soap pressed up against the side of an ATV, his big hands gripping Soap’s hips while he grinds down against him? Or perhaps, Soap has König kneeling in the dirt at his feet, his cock buried to the hilt in König’s throat, hunched to accommodate their height difference; obedient.

Somehow, it’s worse to imagine it’s König holding Soap down, manhandling Soap into the exact right position to take his pleasure. Does Soap always like it hard and fast? Or would he keep his promise to König? 

Ghost bites down on his free wrist to relieve the ache in his jaw, the urge to draw blood rising in his throat and heating his face. He imagines König’s eyes staring up at Soap from behind the veil, lifted just so to let Soap in. Soap had liked to pull on his hair, that one time. What was he doing with his hands now? 

Ghost comes on his shirt, stripping his cock with the phantom sensation of Soap’s fingers carding through his hair, the feeling of Soap’s softening cock thick and heavy on his tongue. 

He’ll have to change shirts before wheels up.

[sp4rlo]

[mobiused]

Top 10 GWSN songs? :0

Are there even 10... erm

1. Fuck this is so hard

2. Bazooka

3. The simon one

4. The DID YOU WAKE UP CLOTHES HAT SHOES

6. Heavy clouds but no rain Tweaks i need rain

7. Red Sun

8. Runner I'm runner

9. Like it hot

10. Melting point

[a-moth-to-the-light]

quite possibly my favorite gwsn !!

[pinkhairdye]

[a-pretty-nerd]

Choose Me

Viktor x afab!fem!reader

Chapter 8

Summary: Your past tends to haunt you when you die.

Chapter 7

Warnings: VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED! Several discussions of suicide, death, description of a corpse, intense emotions, funerals, etc.

A/N: I am sorry this took so long for me to write, I've got some new hyper fixations and some big life changes. That being said, I didn't want this story to end with the last chapter because let me tell you, I have a bunch more planned. This is the point where canonn is going to be changed and tweaked a little bit, not a crazy amount. This chapter I tried to make it feel like the flashbacks of the character's childhood kinda like how the show does. Here's hoping we get a season 2!

Happy laughter filled the hallways of your family home. Your hands gripped the stuffed dolly you brought with you everywhere. It seemed so much bigger then, when it was half your size. Your small feet dressed in your house shoes padded gently across the carpet. Your smile stretched so far across your cheeks it almost hurt.

Elated, and excited you ran down the hall calling for your mother. Searching in every room, your happy little voice echoing throughout the home. Your bright eyes darted through rooms in search.

"Momma! Where are you? I wanna show you something! Momma!" You called. Your little hand reached for the door, throwing the door open as you had every other. Your mother floated within. "Momma! Look what Dadda brought- me-"

At first all you saw were her feet. Dangling. Her dress started just above her ankles, a bright but muted blue shade you would never forget. Her dress was new. Pressed and perfect, as if she had prepared to go somewhere. Your eyes followed up her floating figure as you came upon her blank and lifeless face. That was not your mother. It was her shell.

"Momma..." you called her in hopes of her springing back to life. Your father saw you from down the hall and slowly approached. Upon seeing his wife he threw the door closed and held you tight. You remember beginning to cry and asking for your mother. Asking where she was, demanding her. You were 8 years old when your mother passed away.

You stood there and watched them slowly lower the casket into the dirt as it began to rain. Your father's heavy hand resting on your shoulder. You didn't cry then. Still in a state of shock. The memory of her, hung over you like a cloud. Her lifeless body dangling there in thr darkness like a phantom. It would never leave you. Night terrors become frequent and relentless. You become compelled to visit her grave, but your father denied your request. He suddenly seemed, uninterested in you.

Being ignored gave you the freedom to sneak out for the first time as a child. Making your way through the dark foggy streets of Piltover till you came to the gates of the Cemetery. You wondered through the headstone like a ghost until you came upon her freshly placed grave. You laid down, and clutching yourself tight, you fell asleep. No night terrors came. Peacefully you slept under the stars in what felt like your mother's familiar embrace.

This became a regular occurrence when you couldn't sleep, you would run to your mother's grave. Like a toddler wanting to sleep in their parent's bed at night. It almost became routine, until a servant found you missing from your bed and a search party was set out for you. Your father found you, and snatched you away. A harsh wakeup prompting ungodly screams from the 8 year old child. You sobbed loudly, screaming for your mother.

Your punishment was a girl's correctional school outside of Piltover. The old brick building towered over you. At first you had it in your head that you would run away, but crushing failure after crushing failure only landed you more time. The teachers were old and bitter. The students were young and angry. You still have a vivid memory of a bully breaking your nose by slamming your head into a desk. You got in trouble for that one.

When father did send for you on holidays, you came home to an idealic paradise he'd prepared. Anything you wanted was yours. On the condition that you behaved and did as you were told. Be polite. Be sweet. Be still.

The years of conditioning peaked when you grew into a teenager. Finally you were allowed to attend school on Piltover, taking etiquette classes alongside your usual. You threw yourself into your studies. Not out of genuine desire but out of expectation. You excelled where you found interest, but generally kept good report all around in a bid to please your easily upset father. It worked. All your work was paying off.

Quickly you were swept into the circus of the media. Where your youth, beauty, and reputation took your position on the pedestal and firmly raised it to absurd proportions. Your father grew comfortable. Grew trusting of you.

Now, you're falling. Falling down, down, down, onto the cold brick road below. Your clothes are ripped and flowing in the wind reaches out alongside your trembling hand. Your father's face, his expression, burns into your eyes so that it is still there when you finally close them. It's true what they say, life flashes before your eyes before you die. You regret to see that Viktor is but a small part of your short story.

But the memory of his smile and the way he looked at you when the two of you were all alone is so sweet it's painful. It hurts, just about as much as hitting the ground does. The abrupt sound of your body making impact, the loud crunch of your bones signals your demise. And like that, the world goes black.

You didn't expect death to be so dark. So endless. So lonely. You feel like you're still falling. Falling deeper and deeper into the darkness. Floating even. Aimless. There are times when you think you hear voices, but it too drifts away as soon as it appeared and you never hear a recognizable word anyhow.

So you float.

Viktor sat at his desk as per usual. His head hanging low, the pain in his bones visibly taking a toll on him. His hand gently shook as he tinkered with a jammed gear, trying desperately to pull them apart. Jayce is nowhere to be found in the lab, it is just Viktor mindlessly tinkering. He can't focus, for once in his god-forsaken life he is wildly distracted. Your face. It flashes between his thoughts. Betrayal and hurt are written all over your face. Your voice, begging, pleading for him to do something. Instead, he just stood there and let Jayce handle it. It makes his stomach turn, and it makes his heart feel heavy. He resolves then and there that he should go to you and apologize. Perhaps, he would buy you something nice for once. A gift. Some flowers maybe?

As he pushes himself away from his desk, he hears the door to the lab open. Heimerdinger peaks in, his brow hanging firmly over his eyes. He looks glum. In his little hands, the morning paper hangs limp in his grasp. His eyes shift from the floor up to Viktor.

"Professor?" Viktor asks, concerened. He doesn't respond, instead, he steps forward and slowly makes his way over to Viktor. Upon closer inspection, Viktor realizes the tears in Heimerdinger's eyes. Viktor becomes confused. The short man offers him the paper in his hand, followed by a sad sniffle.

"My condolences, my boy." He mutters. Viktor takes the paper and looks it over. A picture of your shining face smiles brightly but disturbingly as he reads the article title:

Beloved Airess Commits Suicide

Viktor stares at the title and shakes his head. As he reads the article, his brow slowly scrunches above his eyes. His expression curls in horror and is quickly replaced by denial.

"This can't be right. I just saw her last night, I- This- This can't be true. Y/N wouldn't-" The words catch in his throat as he continues to read. His fingers grip the paper and begin to crush it in his grasp. He brings the paper to his head as tears begin to fall down his cold, pale cheeks. They fall onto the paper as he attempts to cover his face. Heimerdinger reaches a hand to place it on his arm, only for Viktor to swiftly move it, gently shoving him away.

"I'll leave you, then. But please, if there is anything I can do-"

"No. Thank you, professor." His voice was firm. Heimerdinger nodded and saw himself out of the lab. As soon as the door shut behind him, Viktor buckled to his knees. His head hit the floor and he began to sob, holding the picture of you printed all over the paper firmly to his chest. "It can't be true. Please, let this be a dream- please- Y/N-" he hiccuped. He didn't hear the lab door open, he was startled from his sobs when a familiar voice called his name.

"I see you've read the morning paper." Your father's dark eyes met his.

[dahyun]

what's your favourite disbanded group

+ any songs u rec from them

gwsn!!!!! i will never get over it 😔

song recs: red sun, toktok, growing ~ for groo, kind of cool, yolowa, melting point, puzzle moon, pinky star, lullaby, burn, tweaks ~ heavy cloud but no rain

honestly … their whole discography lol

[opanchu]

OMG YES!!!!!! KPOP GIRL GROUP SUPREMACY!!!! also yes the loona boycott is hurting me physically at this point😔

girls generation - gee, i got a boy, the boys, run devil run, show! show! show!, trick, genie

orange caramel - catallena, bubble bath, lipstick, my copycat, shanghai romance, abing abing

gwsn - bazooka!, night aviation (the interpretation of dreams), pinky star (RUN), red-sun (021), tweaks ~ heavy cloud but no rain

wjsn - super yuppers!, hmph!, pantomime, you got, last sequence

aespa - next level, savage, illusion, dreams come true, spicy, lucid dream

fromis_9 - pitapat (dkdk), weather

kara - damaged lady, mamma mia, pandora, step

exid - trouble, no way, good, up&down, lady, hot pink

csr - pop? pop!, toi et moi, euratcha!

pristin - wee woo, get it

9muses - love city, action, dolls, glue, choice

brave girls - rollin, we ride, thank you

ok i realise how long this list was but these are the girl group essentials to me. ill just give u a link to my fav kpop spotify playlist instead LOL here

HII I FORGOT TO REPLY BUT THANK YOU 🫶🫶 out of these ive listened to girls generation (especially obsessed with gee) and aespa, i'll check the other ones out too ^_^

[saturngalore]

#25 for the playlist cas challenge !!

make it rain, make it shine 🌠

tweaks ~ heavy cloud but no rain by gwsn

[neoneun-au]

you are legally obligated to listen to all of these songs before voting, too. informed votes are the best votes.