Tumgik
#do i need to be luckier than someone else
inkskinned · 1 year
Text
oh you know it's all latestage capitalism but the thing is. how are you supposed to be a person inside of this. a person trying to be a better version of yourself.
oh, you started working young, which was kind of hard, but it's just the way stuff works sometimes. and it was 2008 and your family couldn't afford heat. but it's fine, you grow a spine and get used to the professional world and besides it was the suburbs we're talking about here, like, your life could have been actually hard, so what if your father lost his job and you can't afford to move or turn the lights back on. and once you start making money, it's good. you keep doing that. because now they're relying on you. so you have to do that.
oh you were in thousands of dollars of debt at 17 years old so that you could go to school, because you have to go to school if you want to get a "real" job. you even did it "right", you worked parttime and attended community college before you transferred to a public school. you were under so many merit scholarships.
which is fine. you pick yourself up and you say like, okay. i graduated college. i'm holding down a job. i'm doing the Adult Thing, which looks and acts like this, according to all the books i've read. you start with the shitty job and then you climb that corporate ladder.
but the shitty job doesn't cover rent and you stretch yourself too-thin so you get sick. good luck with that. the shitty job no longer pays for your meals. everyone asks why you don't just move, but there's nowhere to move to. and with what money are you going to be moving? and then the loans come back, because they were never going to forgive them, because you were 17 and trying to do the right thing, which was stupid. people are now saying you shouldn't have even gone to school.
which is fine. but because you have no other option, so you do the shitty job, and you apply every day for like 5 new ones, and despite the fact everyone says "there's no one who wants to work!" it's actually just that nobody is fucking hiring so you can either work for 13 dollars an hour in the shitty place you know (where at least you have a passingly friendly relationship with the manager) or you can start from scratch again with a different 13 dollars an hour without knowing how much abuse from the new job you'll be taking.
and if you quit you lose your insurance. if you quit you lose your housing. if you quit, you'll be another burnout kid. the lazy ones. these assholes, look at them!
and you come home to a family dinner and you hear from your father the same old thing. how he worked hard at his job and yes it sucked for a while but he was able to provide for the family and then the house and the dog and the rest of barbie's dream vacation. how the insurance did cover some of it. how you just really need to start speaking up more in manager conversations so they know you're a go-getter. you want to tell him - did you know we're actually doing more now hourly than any previous generation? - but you can't remember where you heard that statistic, and you're far too tired for the fucking argument. and then he starts in on his usual bit. where's the house? where's your kids? where's your ambition.
the same job the same money the same hours doesn't do it anymore. the same nose-to-the-grindstone now just shreds your face off. there's no such thing as upwards mobility, not really. and as far as you're aware, the money certainly is not trickling. you do the soulless stupid shit you signed up for because you fucking have to or else you literally risk your life (food, the apartment, the insurance), but it's not getting you anything. you download the stupid "save more" app and you budget and you do every right thing and then the price of eggs is 7 dollars and you say - oh great! another thing i have to fucking worry about now!
and you go to your stupid job and everyone in your father's generation just tells you to be better about being an adult. they have their homes and their savings account and their bailout and they say. well have you tried not drinking starbucks. well your generation just spends too much on clothing. well you might just be too addicted to travelling. and you - because you need the job - you bite your tongue and don't say i am being held prisoner and you're suggesting i stop pacing my cell if i don't like the scenery and you don't say what the fuck do you think i've been doing with my money and you don't say i haven't spent a cent on something nice in literally forever much less coffee you arrogant asshole. you open and close your bank app and check your loans and check your credit score and check fucking zillow and ziprecruiter and apartments.com just one time more. and still they give you that demeaning little grin and say - see, what you need is -
what you need is for your meds to stop being so fucking expensive. what you need is for the housing bubble to explode into dust. what you need is for billionaires to choke on their wealth. what you need is actual help. what you will get is more economic advice from people who are older-and-wiser.
and above you, almost in a glimmer, you can see the wedged smile of your debt getting toothier, wider.
5K notes · View notes
Text
Bragging Rights - LN
Summary: Lando and y/n constantly argue over who has the bragging rights. But Lando knows he's got means of silencing his girlfriend.
Wrote some of this while watching the Bahrain GP and I've only got one thing to say...sorry to anyone Team Danny Ric, but RB should've never called for a driver swap. Team Yuki all the way (even if little angry man should not have done that in lap stunt, I low key get the anger but no excuse for dangerous driving he might even have got himself a trip to see the FIA)
No part 2 requests please
Tumblr media
Spending a few extra days in Bahrain between testing and the first race weekend(ish). So most of the drivers have family and friends at the very least with them.
Lando bringing his girlfriend is going to be pretty much full-time, at least if he gets a say in it and usually y/n is hard-pressed to say no. Unless it's about him being the luckier one between the two of them.
After a morning workout with Jon, he returned to the hotel room hoping to grab y/n to go to golf with Zak and the father and son duo of Carlos'.
He's about to call out when y/n steps out of the bathroom, her hair freshly dried, body dressed in a baby pink floral dress that has little yellow flowers on it, bare foot at the moment and her attention fully on her phone as she moves around.
She definitely hasn't realised he's there. So he just sort of takes a moment, enjoying the time of admiring his girlfriend as much as he can.
Y/n is muttering under her breath to herself, too quiet for him to hear from the distance but he can't help but smile in amusement over it. She only mutters to herself when she doesn't know someone else is around, otherwise she'll try to keep her verbalised thoughts silent.
Finally she turns and finds him smirking at her and falls silent, her whole body seeming to drop it's pent up energy as she spots him.
"Hey, how long have you been there?" Y/n frowns moving towards him before a flicker of a smile appears when she pushes onto his toes and kisses him.
"Not too long...long enough." He shrugs then dragging his gaze up and down her body. "I don't know whether to take you out and show you off to every person we see, or rip off that dress and show you how good you look while I fuck you in front of a mirror."
Y/n flusters just at his words, despite her usual eagerness to argue about her not being the one who should be showed off. He can sometimes successfully get her tongue tied and make her fumble a little. He loves every single time he manages it, puts an invisible score under his own name.
"I don't know if Zak would be impressed with you cancelling golf." Y/n finally mumbles before she clears her throat and turns around. "I need to get shoes on."
"God forbid you go bare foot." Lando hums knowing that y/n hates feet, including her own and would do anything to avoid having them out in the fresh air. Lando almost considers it a luxury he's caught her without slippers on or even just with socks on. "I need to change dead quick, not dressed for golf."
Y/n hums waiting, and while he changes, she takes the opportunity to return the gesture of admiring her boyfriend's body. Which in her humble opinion is far more impressive to look at than her own.
"You know, it's moments like this that I realise why other girls hate me so much for dating you." Y/n states hoping to get her own back on him which thankfully works to an extent. He's not quite so prone to getting flustered but she knows an eye roll means she can mark a score under her name.
"Shut up." Lando laughs before he moves over to her. "And you don't deserve hate from anyone."
Y/n hums at that before quickly shoving her feet into her shoes and grabbing her bag. She does play golf, but only so she's not completely bored while watching, it is certainly not a hobby that she'd choose if given the choice.
-
Lando can't stop his grin over capturing and posting a video to his Instagram of y/n just trying to look like she knows what she's doing while she stands with Zak trying to direct her in as helpful a way as he can.
But y/n is pretty shocking at golf, but Lando would be lying if he said she didn't look good doing it.
"Woooh! That's my girlfriend!" Lando exclaims suddenly making the rest of the group around them laugh while y/n grins at him. "Go on baby! Hit the ball!"
He's only being so loud because this is something she does to put him off his game for her own amusement. He'd like to say he hates her for it, but seeing her smile is well worth the momentary loss of concentration.
To his and certainly Zak's surprise she positions herself before swinging the club and managing to make the best hit she's ever made.
"I think you need to hype her up more often, it has the opposite effect on her to what it has on you." Zak chuckles making her look back with a lot of pride then jogging to Lando.
"I'm not terrible!"
"You are never terrible at anything." Lando states softly making her smile at him brightly. "Got new bragging rights."
"Shut up." Y/n laughs before shaking her head.
-
Walking through the paddock for the media day which is oddly on a Wednesday, something y/n has made multiple comments about finding very jarring.
"It's colder than I expected." Y/n comments while Lando looks at her for a moment.
She's certainly not dressed as layered up as himself, still wearing a summer dress though he's now going to ruin her light blue tea dress and Nike air forces on her feet which is better than the sandals she considered.
"We'll get you a jacket." Lando smirks while she sighs knowing that Lando is always so eager to have her dressed up in McLaren team uniform. Another form of him getting to brag to people.
When they get into unit, y/n is bundled in one of the layered rain jackets, the blue being quite reminiscent of the old light blue that McLaren had on the car, there's some traces of it on the uniform but it's slowly being worked off of the team colours.
"You look amazing." Lando grins zipping the jacket up for her a bit.
"Yeah...thanks." Y/n hums a little pouty that her outfit isn't what she wanted it to. "I'm gonna get too hot in this, I can tell already."
"You can unzip it if you get too hot." Lando laughs then pulling her forward against himself. "I love you..."
"Mmm...love you too." Y/n smiles quickly pecking his lips.
"Come on we have the track walk to do." Lando sighs earning a small smile. "Is that a yes?"
"I'm going to beat you to the shouting about you." Y/n smirks while Lando laughs a little at her words. "You know I will."
"Not if I do first." Lando shrugs while she narrows her eyes on him taking the challenge.
"Y/n are so annoying." Y/n laughs before she looks at him for a moment.
The two do get out for the track walk and y/n immediately begins shouting to fans.
"Hey guys! He looks good today, right? I know I'm-" Y/n's words are cut off when Lando's hand comes over her mouth and silences her.
"Y/n is looking good in papaya today right?! I think she looks good!" Lando exclaims as the fans just watching with laughter over the couple's shenanigans. Lando's hand is still over her mouth when he turns back to her. "You going to admit defeat?"
A quick headshake leaves him having to endure leaving his hand there while she pokes her tongue out and licks his hand.
"Yeah, that's not going to work." Lando declares while he continues to walk with his hand over her mouth till she's finally slobbered on his hand till he really can't bear keeping it there. "You are so disgusting."
"Thank you." Y/n grins then grimacing when she has to wipe her face clean and squealing when Lando wipes his wet hand on her jacket. "Lando!"
"It's your drool." Lando laughs managing to still wipe his hand on her jacket. There's a somewhat silent agreement of them not continuing their bragging contest. At least not till they get back to the paddock.
That's where they see Max with Charles and Carlos who all turn to look at the two.
"You, you are in uniform." Carlos comments, always one to point out the obvious.
"She looks good right?" Lando grins earning a eye roll since she knows she can't exactly brag about Lando to the other drivers or they'll just take the piss.
"She always looks good." Charles states making Lando immediately push y/n behind his own body looking the man up and down while Charles surrenders his hands as Carlos and Max laugh at the fact Lando is treating Charles as such a threat. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Are you calling me ugly?" Y/n gasps loving to fuel the drama while Lando tsks and pushes her back behind himself.
"Ignore her." Lando instructs before reaching his hand back to grab her own. "We actually need to get to McLaren but good seeing you guys."
Y/n waves at the three, shooting Charles a warm smile since she thinks that she knows that Lando's protectiveness was taking jokingly but also the know when to take a warning.
By the time they get to the unit, she's removed the jacket and Lando is carrying it by the time they are indoors.
"I think I've got a new brag, my F1 driver boyfriend carries all my stuff for me like the gentleman he is." Y/n grins while Lando smiles at her softly when they get up to his driver's room before he tosses the coat down and manages to pick her up then lie her down on before climbing on top of her. "Yeah, thanks. Love to double as a mattress."
"Not something new to grab about?" Lando questions making her fake a laugh from underneath him. "You can say I'm right, I know you want to brag about it."
"You know I think I might be feeding your ego too much these days. May have to stop bragging so much about you to humble you back down to earth." Y/n hums while Lando just lets his weight weigh heavier down against her. "Dick."
"Yeah, you could brag about that for me too. I wouldn't complain." Lando smiles then finally kissing her lightly.
"You can't stay here forever...you have to go back to media duties."
"I know, I just...wanted time alone with you."
Despite Lando's usual extroverted persona, he does seem to sometimes just want moments of being without people. Not surrounded by cameras or just crowds of people. He really loves having moments alone with y/n really.
"Will you...let me do a curl routine with your hair tonight please?" Y/n asks softly while running her hands through his hair.
"Yes. Only because you brag about them in online when I let you."
Taglist: @namgification @hiireadstuff @jsjcue @geniusalpaca @itsjustkhaos
2K notes · View notes
leclercsainzz · 1 month
Text
ILLICIT AFFAIRS PART 5
PAIRINGS: lando norris ex!gf / tom blyth x reader
TYPE: social media au
WARNING: // cheating implied
part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5
imessage
Tumblr media
lando.jpg
Tumblr media
liked by luisinhaoliveira99, pierregasly and 389,108 others
lando.jpg: 💗
view 3,762 comments
user: oooohhh??? ooohhh???
user: she better be worth the cheating bc????
user: bro didn’t even post her on his main 😭😭
user: still in denial, omg
user: @yourusername YOU BETTER GET WITH TOM, BABE
user: he’s finally freed from yn’s cheating ass 🥳
user: I WANT MOM BACK NOT HER
user: this the same man who texted yn that he misses her??
↳ user: the same one who said lu didn’t mean anything to him
↳ user: when??
↳ user: 🤷🏻‍♀️ yn posted a tweet but then deleted it
user: we all know he’s just using her to make yn jealous 🤣
luisinhaoliveira99: ❤️❤️❤️
↳ user: LMAOOO
user: he doesn’t even like her, i swear
hunterschafer: “she means nothing” 😂 @yourusername
comment has been deleted
user: i miss yn wtf 😭😭😭
user: THIS AINT FUNNY, GET BACK WITH YN
user: glad he’s moving on, he deserves better
↳ user: girllll, he “moved on” with the girl he cheated with
user: no more yn whoop whoop 🙌🏼
user: not him moving on to another cheater 😂
↳ user: they belong together
user: she probably cheating on him
↳ user: wouldn’t be surprised if they both cheat on each other
user: yn deserves better 🥺
user: my ynlando heart bro 😭😭
user: i hope she was worth it
user: time to cleanse my eyes 🤮
user: ooohhh nahhh
user: smiling as if she didn’t take someone else’s man 💀
↳ user: 😭😭 frrr lmaoo
user: home wrecker
user: at least miss cheater is out the picture 🤩
↳ user: LITERALLY! glad he got rid of her
user: i’m living for the drama
user: the audacity he has 😬
↳ user: the audacity THEY BOTH have
user: my girl yn can finally geT her man tom 🤪🤪🤪
user: @tomblyth @yourusername DATE NOW
user: he didn’t post her on his main LMAOOO
yourusername
Tumblr media
liked by maxfewtrell, hunterschafer and 702,017 others
yourusername: previously on *yn’s* life 💘
tagged: @tomblyth @tchalamet
view 6,073 comments
tchalamet: i was wondering what the tag was for 🤣
↳ yourusername: fancy a peach???
↳ tchalamet: 🙄🙄🙄
user: NOT HER TAGGING TIMOTHEE ON THE PEACHES 😭
user: “gorgeous gorgeous girls get flowers” mELTING
user: tom blyth, THE man that you are 😮‍💨
tomblyth: gorgeous gorgeous girl 😍
tomblyth: you’re the epitome of of beauty
↳ yourusername: 😘😘 *besitos*
see translation: kisses
↳ user: that man is her biggest fan 😩😩
user: where do i get myself a man like tom??!?!?
user: this means they’re official right?!?!?????!????
joshandresrivera: who’s got you smiling like that? @tomblyth
hunterschafer: my two favorite people everrrr 😍
user: she’s gonna cheat on tom the way she did it to lando
user: i NEED me a man like tom blyth
user: i said it before a million times and i’ll say it again, she’s literally GLOWINGGGGGGG 😍😍😍✨
user: someone check on lando, please
user: the way he allowed her to place flowers on his hair
user: wait— are the dating???
user: she surely moved on faster than lando
↳ user: GIRL??? WHAT??? 💀
user: CHEATERRRRRRR
↳ user: ya’ll are so obsessed with her, i swear
user: at this point, idk who is luckier 😩 yn or tom
user: the way they have a “spot” 😭😭😭
user: cheated on her ex and got with her costar?? then acts like the victim?? real “classy” bitch
user: babe, you’re glowinggg ✨
user: i need to know what tom’s doing to make her glow
↳ user: she’s getting dicked down
↳ user: people glow differently when they are loved right and treated properly
↳ user: two different type of people ^^^^ 😂😂😂💀
user: moved on from lando real quick
↳ user: he’s the one who moved on quick, wdym???
user: the note 🥺🥺🥺
user: idk why tom and lando fighting over her, it’s not like she’s the queen or something
Tumblr media
imessage
Tumblr media
yourusername
Tumblr media
liked by tomblyth, lewishamilton and 700,985 others
yourusername: ツ
view 5,841 comments
user: face card never declines, oohh god
user: tom’s text alsnslsmsmd
hunterschafer: you did me so dirty in that last post smh
↳ hunterschafer: i’ll let it pass cause you’re cute 😘
user: tHe text message from tom 😩
↳ user: he’s the reason my expectation in man are high atm
luisinhaoliveira99: oooh myyyy 😍
luisinhaoliveira99: beauty
↳ user: LMAOOOO what is she doing here??!?? 😭😭
↳ user: @landonorris come get your girl
↳ user: she’s obsessed just like lando
user: anyone else see lando’s new girl comment?!!? 💀
user: TOM’S BACK THO 😍😍😍😍
user: i see why lando is trying to crawl back in her life
carlossainz55: look at lenny, what a cutie!
lilymhe: HOT HOT HOT HOT 😮‍💨
tomblyth: the prettiest girl ever, i swear
tomblyth: can’t get enough of youuu 😍
↳ yourusername: 😘😘 i loveeeee youuuu
↳ user: i want what they have 😭😭😭😭
↳ user: so ig they’re official???
user: h0e 🙄
↳ user: that’s why lando dumped her ass 🤣
user: why is lando’s chick here???
user: slayyyyyyyyy
user: serving as always 😍
joshandresrivera: tom’s got the hottest back, no? 😏
↳ yourusername: 🙄🙄🙄🙄 OUT!
user: MOTHER
user: lando trying to win yn back is so real of him 😩
↳ user: frrrrr! he knows he lost the baddest bitch
user: the best lucy gray <33
user: tom’s back 😩😩
↳ user: on my knees for that man
user: ur boyfriend’s back is hot
user: 😍😍😍😍
user: his message omg sksnsmms
user: do you and tom need another dog?? does lenny need a sibling?!!?? not to brag or anything but i can BARK
user: did hunter dirty on that last post 🤣
user: SO TOM AND YN ARE OFFICIALLY TOGETHER?!?!
user: cheater 🤮
oscarpiastri: YN, HIIIII 👋🏼
user: gorggg 😍😍
zendaya: pretty girl 😍
user: tom’s text bro 😭😭 man is soo in love with her
user: the text from tom plus his comment 😩😩 MELTING 🫠
Tumblr media
tomblyth
Tumblr media
liked by luisinhaoliveira99, hunterschafer and 708,938 other
tomblyth: life lately
view 5,846 comments
user: he’s from district ATE
user: slide 4 and 8 are making me feeling things 😩
user: mom and dad 😍😍
user: anyone else noticed that luisinha liked???
↳ user: i thought i was the only one 🤣 like stalker much??
user: @yourusername babes, i NEED that t-shirt
joshandresrivera: @yourusername @tomblyth as you can see, lenny prefers me more than you both combined
↳ tomblyth: the only reasons being because you bribe him with treats??? hello??? 🤔
↳ yourusername: um??? not even close
↳ user: tom’s officially lenny’s new dad 😭😭 im so here for it
user: yn living her best life while lando continues on cheating
yourusername: are you entering your model era??
yourusername: look at you, woahhh 😍
↳ tomblyth: you could say i learned from the best;)
yourusername: sirrrr, you’re hot
↳ user: she’s so real for this 😩😩😩
yourusername: i love yaaaaaaa 💘💘💘
↳ tomblyth: right back at you, gorgeous! 💘
user: TOM, GO BACK TO THE BLONDE AND BUZZCUT
↳ yourusername: we need paneminem back
↳ user: YES WE DO! MAKE HIM GO BLONDE
hunterschafer: my loveesssss 😍
user: yn’s soo lucky bruh 😩😩 she gets him everyday
user: my favssss 🥰
user: best couple frrr ❤️❤️
user: meanwhile lando’s currently regretting leaving yn
user: the second slide 😭😭😭😭😭 i love them
user: yntom nation rise! we did it!!!
user: not lando’s ex liking 💀
carlossainz55: tell yn to let me borrow lenny, please 🙏🏼
↳ yourusername: so you and charles can lose him again?
↳ charles_leclerc: it was one time 😭😭😭
↳ tomblyth: i personally don’t see why not 🤷🏻‍♂️
↳ charles_leclerc: thank you, tom
↳ carlossainz55: i take that as a yes then
user: my parents frrrr
user: i wonder how lando is feeling
thehungergames: our snowbaird 😍
oliviarodrigo: cuties!! ❤️
user: I MANIFESTED THIS SHIT
user: MOM AND DAD ❤️❤️❤️❤️
user: someone check on lando
user: yn, respectfully, your man is FINE ASFFF 😮‍💨😮‍💨
user: my comfort cast <33
tchalamet: 🤩🤩🤩🤩
user: lenny’s got a new dad, awwww 🥰
↳ user: can’t wait for yn to post more lenny and tom content
user: them >>>>
user: they’re such a hot couple, idc 😩😩😩😩
user: ONE chance tom! ONE chance, please
user: 4th slide, ohhh god 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😍😮‍💨😍😮‍💨😮‍💨😩
user: them being each others biggest fan >>>
yourusername
Tumblr media
liked by landonorris, luisinhaoliveira99 and 702,047 others
yourusername: my favorite person ever @tomblyth (ft lulu) 💘
view 5,856 comments
user: lulu????? you mean delulu??? babe, she took your man
user: my yntom heart 🥰🥰🥺🥺🥰❤️❤️
carlosainz55: 🤩🤩🤩
user: wait a min— is that luisinha??? 😳
user: 😭😭😭 yn, you’re better than this, omg
user: keep your friends close and your enemies closer
luisinhaoliveira99: you’re hot 😍
↳ yourusername: 😘😘 right back at you;)
luisinhaoliveira99: ❤️❤️
↳ user: when did this happen??!??!?
user: yn and lu both realized they deserved better than la***
↳ user: AS THEY SHOULD!!
user: not lando still lurking omg 😭😭😭😭😭
user: yntom is the superior ship ❤️❤️❤️
user: are we just gonna forget what “lulu” did to her??
↳ user: girl, maybe they talked things out??
↳ user: that bitch took her man, hello?????
↳ user: lando played both of them wdym?
user: yn and luisinha??
user: get you a man who always gets you bouquets of roses
user: literally my favs 🥰🥰🥰❤️
user: lenny!!! 🥺🥺🥺
tomblyth: you’re pretty cute
tomblyth: ❤️❤️❤️❤️ love you, princess
↳ yourusername: 😘😘 love youuuu tooooo
user: lando really fumbled, huh??
↳ user: can you stop bringing that cheater back up
user: she’s so much happier now 🥺🥺🥺
user: lando fumbled two bad bitches
user: yn is such a girls girls bc i wouldn’t forgive her that easily
user: get back with lando 😔
hunterschafer: ❤️❤️
user: two bad bitches 😍😍😍
user: ONE MANS LOST IS ANOTHER MANS GAIN
user: lando lost not one but two hot girls
user: lando??? 😭😭😭 where he at???
user: they’re so cute together ❤️❤️❤️ #yntomnationrise
user: tom’s eyes, bro 😩😩
↳ yourusername: ikr??? i get lost in them all the times
user: sooo no lando??? @yourusername @luisinhaoliveira99
↳ yourusername: does that ring a bell? @luisinhaoliveira99
↳ luisinhaoliveira99: sorry who??? @yourusername
↳ user: QUEEN BEHAVIOR
↳ user: lando’s crying rn
user: parents 🥺🥺🥺❤️
user: anyone else see lando’s like?? he’s pressed
user: at least she got her happy ending 🥰🥰
oscarpiastri: cute
↳ user: oscar, lando ain’t gonna like this
user: yntom endgame? ABSOLUTELY ❤️❤️
user: mom and dad
user: lando liked 🤣🤣🤣
Tumblr media
taglist:
@tomblyth-tsunoda @love4josh @dudde-44 @coconut-dreamz @newlifeforus @loxbbg @dakotali @f1footballluvverr @mountmaason19 @poppyflower-22 @magical-spit @nazm145 @nikolaros22 @sincerlymatakorama @36babyg @bucket-of-fanfiction @gyunheat @millyswife @onlyrealjoy @ocyeanicc @sarah-thatstings-ann @ushygushybaby @shrimpybbq @reyfolks @earth-to-lottie @smugrogerina @jenniferrvsesi @aleidag1rly @charlesswife @sheluvsf1 @omgsuperstarg @krispy-r @lwritesstuff @eutrizbea
682 notes · View notes
boyfhee · 10 months
Text
ALWAYS ⋆ lhs
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
prompt · “this—” [ points at their chest ] “—belongs to you. always,” requested
g · fluff warnings · vegetable mentions lmfao wc · 0.6k
note · i tried something new ( sticking to the point instead of over explaing the scenes )
Tumblr media
“you’re upset,” heeseung finally says after a series of sighs dancing off his lips, walking up from the couch to the kitchen, taking a seat opposite to you by the counter as you start preparing dinner. “what happened?” 
you start putting vegetables in a bowl to wash them, taking an onion from his hand as he passes you one, eyes lost amidst the unreadable expression on your face, looking for answers. “nothing,”
“did i do something?” he asks again, voice softer than before. 
you shrug, “perhaps,”
“you need to be more specific there, love,” 
you pause, wondering if it’s actually worth telling him— the reason is quite embarrassing, honestly. the look on his face resembles hesitation, you can tell he’s thinking if he’s doing something wrong, along with the slightest of guilt with panic that gleam in his eyes. on other days, you would cup his face and discard every second thought intoxicating his mind, but not today. 
“i went to jake’s aunt’s flower shop to see how you and the boys were holding up with volunteering,” so, you get back to your vegetables, letting the words fall off your lips ever so nonchalantly while heeseung listened with extreme care. “and i saw you being all smiley with a certain someone,” 
“oh,” and you understand that he has gotten the hint in the way his lips curl into a smirk, knowing how you are referring to, and the way he gets up and walks next to you, putting his arms around your waist to pull you closer. “do tell me more,” 
“and i wanted to have a little talk with you guys but,” you continue, as per his request, the frown on your face fighting back to morph into a smile at heeseung’s playful gaze that lingered upon you while your own is busy travelling walls and ceilings. 
“but?” the smile on his lips grows wider. 
“but—” 
“but, you got jealous and left,” he finishes your sentence for you with a mocking smile, knowing exactly the direction this conversation was heading in. “is that right?” 
it isn’t wrong to be jealous, neither is it wrong to accept that you’re jealous, but you know better than saying yes and giving him yet another reason to tease you. “no, heeseung, i was not jealous. i was just concerned,” 
“i see. i was too, about the sales,” he explains, pressing his lips into a thin line. “she was getting lilies, and jake’s aunt particularly told us to smile and greet customers to make them feel welcomed so that they visit again,” 
it had become a saturday routine for heeseung to lend jake’s aunt a hand or two at her shop, along with jay and sunghoon. the boys had been hunting for part time jobs and she offered a perfect deal after her previous employees left almost three weeks ago. it was surely difficult to assist everyday due to classes so they settled for tuesdays and saturdays, with sundays if there is ever an influx of customers. 
“and what if she gives those flowers to you tomorrow?” your question makes him look at you with a blank expression as if he was to say, not again, sweetheart. “c’mon, hee, we both know iseul likes you,” 
“well, that might be true but this—” he points at his heart, looking at you with eyes full of all the love present in the universe, as if you hung the stars in his sky. “—this belongs to you, always,” 
“oh, then i must be the luckiest person in the world,”
you laugh at his corny and yet sweet words, getting lost in his gaze as if nothing else is worth looking at, getting caught up in surprise when he leans down to plant a soft peck on your lips. “i think i’m luckier to have you own my heart,”
Tumblr media
880 notes · View notes
yeyinde · 1 year
Text
riptide | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader
Tumblr media
"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it." His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won His touch is featherlight. But his eyes– His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.
(it's like holding a lit cigarette to your pulse.)
part ii of in undertow
Tumblr media
tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; gendered reader; f!reader; female anatomy; near death experiences, MAJOR spoilers for the game (seriously, if you haven’t played it are saving it for later, or you haven’t finished, maybe don’t read this yet); PINING; cigarettes after sex was listened to on repreat during the making of this; also, i had “THAT’LL DO!” and “AHUEVO” on a loop, y’all. blame that.
notes: whenever someone asks what “doing the most” means, feel free to point them to this. it’s 16K. fullstop. it was only supposed to be smut. this ended up more plot than porn. but i so wanted the pining; the ambiguity, the danger, the drama. (i mean, this has none of that, but i wanted it.)
i told my very Welsh dad i was in love with an English man, and he said how could you do this to me? and that is pretty much all you need to know about Welsh culture. 
Tumblr media
Porthmadog hasn't changed much at all since you last washed up on the sandy shores, one hand gripping the strap of your off-duty duffle bag, and the other clenched around your passport. Wound tight. Ready to flee. A constant state of fight or flight. 
The air is heady with the scent of the sea. Algae. Seaweed. Salt. Your lungs burn with the thickness of it. The sulphur sits in your throat, sticking to your larynx. It clicks when you swallow, refusing to budge. It curls behind your teeth when you suck the air in through parted, salt-chapped lips; the taste lingers in that strange microcosm of being both achingly nostalgic, and woefully foreign in the same breath. 
The streets, too, live there: a realm of vague memories flashing by as your feet tap against the cobblestone. Boots heavy with exhaustion, and jet lag. 
You're not ready to face it. Not yet. 
Head bowed, you stare at the quasi-familiar cracks on the sandstone, and wonder how everyone else is fairing right now. An hour after takeoff. Soap would have been dropped off, wouldn't he? Safe and sound in Edinburgh. 
You're both luckier than your American counterparts—the ones who have a full nine hours left to go. 
Bouncing from the Middle East to Europe is a blink. 
Europe to America is a whole ocean. 
You and Soap played rock, paper, scissors for who got to depart first. In the end, you won. Wales was closer, anyway. 
You left them behind with a heaviness that settled in your pericardium, compunction dipping in the valley of your pinched brow. 
A strange feeling leaks from the fissures. 
Ghost didn't depart. 
They didn't stop in England at all. Right to Wales, right to Scotland. America. Mexico. 
You try not to think about your prickly Lieutenant, but he flashes behind your eyelids, anyway. A bonfire in the dead of night. Tendrils of smoke drifting into the midnight blue aether. You're too close to the crackling flame. The heat scorches your skin. 
He, too, sits heavy in your chest. A spooled cluster of questions bereft of answers. An unknown chasm gaping below. What it all means–
You woke up when the interior lights of the jet flickered on a few rows ahead, the jaundiced glow rousing you from your slumber. Your temple rested on something warm. Firm, sturdy. You blinked into existence, the ghost of a breath on your lips; a passing dream now left behind to rot. A world, forever unattainable, dissolving into nothing. Sand on your fingertips.
The world knits back into the cold clutch of reality: you're on a plane, and–
And you find yourself staring at tightly woven black thread. A balaclava. 
Your eyes dart up. 
The pad in his hands bathes him in iridescent light. It casts shadows on his face, in the pocks of his mask, and illuminates the white of the artificial bones. The paint used is tinged blue, brushed with cyan where it meets the black. 
His lidded eyes crest low as he stares at the screen—a profile open on a man named Zyani stares back. Your eyes don't linger too long, pulled, instead, to the man you're leaning against. The coal under his eyes is smudged, nearly eroded away in the inner corners. You wonder if he rubbed them earlier, eyes gritty and heavy, but refusing to close. He won't sleep on the plane. He never does. 
You don't usually, either. 
Why didn't he wake you? Why did he let you stay? 
There is no time for discussion—not on a jet that reeks of testosterone with ears everywhere. It will have to wait; shelved for another time when Gaz isn't snoring a few pews away, and Soap hasn't been glancing at you in intervals since you sat down. 
Bonnie… you can almost hear him say. What are you doin'? 
You can hear the steady breaths he takes, the sound swells through you. 
It's the first time you've seen him so relaxed since–
Where are you going? Loose-limbed, one hand still wrapped around his softening cock, the other settles on the bend where your thigh meets the crease of your hip, fingers ghosting over the knob of your bone. His eyes are half moons. I didn't say I was finished with you yet, pet.
You shudder, a quiet breath leaving your lips. It draws his attention. His shoulder tenses under you. His head tilts just enough for him to slide his gaze from the screen balanced on his thick thighs to your open stare. 
His eyes are liquid. Honeyed words over smouldering charcoal. "Alright?"
Your lungs quiver with your inhale. Outside of the acrid smell of ammunition, ozone, and gunfire, he carries something musky in his scent. Driftwood. Salt—sweat, blood, the sea. It's potent. You breathe him in again, lids lowering. You hold his scent there, nestled in the gummy webbing of your lungs, dripping down your throat. 
Your eyes feel gritty when they slip shut. Anchors pull them down. You nod your head, slow and languid, murmuring your assent in a barely coherent mumble. The drag of his rough fatigues under your cheek, the straps of his tactical vest grinding into your cheekbone. And then—awareness. It startles you back into reality. Your eyes pop open, meeting the black pools above. 
You wish you could chisel open his head, and read whatever it is that might be lingering in those unfathomable depths. His expression is shuddered, hidden by the thick of his mask. Eyes lidded and heavy and narrowed right on you. 
Intense focus. 
Sometimes, the others talk about Ghost like he's a berserker. A wild, untamed beast let loose in the shadows. Even the vilest people pale when they see him—his larger-than-life frame lingering in the background—and it's fear that dances in the cut of their brow, in their shaking glare.
You heard stories, of course. 
Those always paled in comparison to seeing him on the field. 
You got it, then, why no one mocked him. Why even the worst of the worst never bothered with leading him around by the nose. 
He asked a question, and they answered. 
For a long while, you thought it was his heigh. His size. Immense power. Expert precision. 
But no. It's just him. Those eyes. His presence. 
He doesn't just receive attention, he commands it.  
You should move. You're awake, now. There is no reason for such intimacy with your Lieutenant, for a man more distant and unreachable than the sea. 
You should. 
But you don't. 
He's warm milk under your chin. Heat bleeds into your skin from the firm bracket of his body. Ghost smells good—sweat and timbre—and feels even better. You could sleep again like this. Lashes fan down, sleep digs into the back of your eyes. You force them open. 
Your fingers are tucked into the crook of his arm, pressed tight to his chest; there's a note of domesticity in the way he breathes with you, a palpable weight that falls on you like a thick quilt. His muscles jump. Body tense. 
Eyes on you. Always. 
But then they're gone. A flutter. They cut out to the pews, and you follow his gaze. Price wades closer. 
The bubble pops. You're clinging to your Lieutenant like it's a luxury you're allowed. 
Like it's something commonplace. 
There is distance in his eyes when they flicker to you. The molasses hardened into something once again unreachable. A wall now sits between you. 
(Maybe, that conversation will never come, after all.)
You should have known better than to let yourself want.
The air is crisp when you draw it in. The chill hurts your teeth. 
You slip your fingers out from the wedge of his arm and ribs, already mourning the loss of him under your flesh—ticking muscles coiled tight; velvet draped iron. Ghost says nothing when you move, but his gaze is heavy on you when you fold yourself back into your seat. Proper, now. Lieutenant and soldier. You press yourself as far away from him as you can until your arms dig into the plastic around the window, and sit straight—as if you weren't sleeping on his shoulder. 
As if he didn't let you. 
He looks away when Price takes the bench on the opposite side, offers a nod. 
Price echoes it. Flashes a tight smile your way. 
Then his eyes linger. Not on you. Not on Ghost. He rests his pensive gaze on the sliver of space between the two of you. Where Ghost's bulky arm takes several inches of space up on your own seat, flesh glued together, parting only at the elbows. He's too big to get away from. Takes up all the space—
(—in your lungs, in your head, in your—)
Price, mercifully, isn't the type of man to pry. His brows buoy on his head, a fleeting glance sent in Ghost's direction, and then he's all business. Astute leader. Battle-ready even on a sleepy jet.
He clears his throat. "Where are you headed?" 
It's for you. 
Gaz is going to America with the men you'd picked up for this mission. His offer for you to join was swiftly rejected. The invitations from the Mexican operatives, notably Alverez, to come and enjoy the coast were also rejected. 
"Is Soap going home?" You ask, hands fisting into balls on your lap. 
Price's smile is wan. "He is. Not joining Gaz on his American adventure."
"Misadventure, more like." Ghost's dry tone makes your toes curl. 
You can still hear the way he growled out pet.
You huff. "I'm…" 
There is nowhere for you to go. 
—Well. Nowhere else. 
(Your knees ache, chafed and raw. Pebbles dig into your skin.)
"Wales," you murmur. You hear the ruffle of fabric when Ghost dips his head to look at you. "Whatever is easier. I'll take a taxi."
"Right," Price nods. "Get some rest while you're home." 
It sounds like a dismissal. 
Baleen lines fill your periphery when you turn your head. Your gaze sticks to the crease where his chin meets his neck. You can't bring yourself to look up. 
"Better go fight it out with Soap." 
He doesn't stop you when you stand, when you squeeze past him, thighs brushing his knees. 
He says nothing at all when you depart. 
(Don't think about it. Don't get your hopes up—)
The town is silent save your heavy steps on the cobblestone. In the distance, the roar of the ocean crashes along the beige shore. 
Something inside of you begins to crumble. 
(Too late.)
Tumblr media
    The woman by the apartment block greets you warmly, but the words are a strange amalgam of vowels and consonants that do not belong together. Her accent sounds English. The words make no sense to you. 
Your bewilderment must show on your face. Her smile dips, a touch of laughter paints her words when she says, in English: 
Sorry, dove. I thought you were Welsh.
It feels a little bit like a slap to the wrist. Naughty child… mind your manners, and speak your tongue. 
"I'm not…," you murmur, chastised despite having done nothing wrong. 
Wales isn't where you came from. Here is not the place of your birth. It's a paradoxical realm: a land where you were taken to as a child, and told welcome home; all memories erased of the other times they said the exact same thing. A taboo, now. Faux pas. A fresh start (for the nth time). Welcome home. 
It's the place you stayed the longest, though. Your developing years from a child to a teenager, to a spiteful preadolescent with too much to prove, and an ocean to live up to. 
(You wonder if the pavement is still stained red.) 
You know Welsh. Have spoken it for years. You came, fresh-faced and chubby-cheeked, and the ladies cooed while they taught you the words. 
But it's buried. They are covered in dust; a forgotten relic. You remember pieces of the greeting, but your lips are no longer used to forming them. Your tongue is too heavy, too foreign. 
You say nothing at all, trailing off into a stifling silence. 
"Right," her brows knot, rheumy eyes regard you warily. "Do you need a hotel—?"
"I live here." 
You bend down, peeling the pristine welcome mat back, and fish out the key you keep tucked away. Years of training echo in the background; a firm voice rings out, one that sounds suspiciously like Ghost's, barking out how that's trouble. You'll come home to a world of hurt if you keep doin' that, soldier.
(You already do.)
You pull your duffle bag up when it slips, and nod at the bemused woman. 
It's not much of a homecoming. 
It never is. 
The flat you own is barren. A bed that feels too comfortable at night for you to ever truly relax on is shoved into the bedroom, a wardrobe with civilian clothes, a shoe rack in the foyer. A kitchen that's always empty. 
You mostly sleep on the worn, old couch where the springs dig into your shoulder blades, and remind you of that night you spent in Sierra Leone, belly full of yabeh. Ghost a hair's length away from you. His gloved hand brushing yours. 
The duffle bag falls to the tiles with a heavy thud. Your passport will go in the safe along with all of your other belongings—clearance badge, certificates, your guns—until the call comes in for your next mission. 
You hope it's soon. That Shepherd and Laswell trudge up some calamity that will take you far away from this place. A long-haul mission. The kind where you go deep into the trenches, and when you surface, it feels like an aeon has passed. 
It's too quiet at night. 
Your home reeks of dust. Disuse. 
You settle on the couch, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling, and pretend you can't feel his shoulder under your head even now. 
A world away, and you still think of him. 
(Always, always.)
Tumblr media
    Shepherd calls you weeks later. A secret mission with the Shadow Company, he tells you. When you ask about the others, his voice is tight. 
Just you, soldier. Just you. 
Breaking up the Task Force isn't unheard of. Ghost does so many secretive missions on his own that meeting people he worked with in the past on a group venture isn't at all a rarity anymore. Price is the same. Soap, sometimes, too. 
There isn't much else to do. 
(You held your phone in your hand each night for those weeks, finger hovering over the CALL button. Two letters— Lt— on the contact screen. His profile picture is a dune of sand.
It never rang. You never called.)
You give your affirmative, and go to the coordinates where his operatives will be waiting for you. 
"Show me what you got," he says, a challenge in his voice. 
Your grin is sharp. "Always, Actual." 
Tumblr media
    Phillip Graves meets you with a wide grin on his face. The American flag on his fatigues sticks out against the green. So used to the British flag, you can't stop your eyes from sliding down to it, drawn like a beacon. 
(Maybe, in a bygone era, it, too, might have been home.)
"Welcome aboard, soldier." His eyes flash in the setting sun. Eager. Heavy. You echo it in your own smile. "Let's get these son'of'a'bitches."
Tumblr media
    You're back at the bottom. 
The Shadow Operatives stare at you when they think you aren't looking. Low murmurs fill the jet— princess, chick, girl— and you gazed, pointedly, out the window. 
Your hands itch; the phantom scabs prickle. 
It makes you miss 141 more than you thought possible. Gaz, Price, Soap, Ghost. They flicker in your mind, and you wonder what they'd do in this situation. 
How would they prove themselves to everyone around them?
(Answer: they wouldn't.) 
The only one who isn't pushing you in a box is Graves. 
"Heard great things about you," his smile crests over his lips. Eyes hungry. Ready for battle. "Can't wait to see what you can do." 
He worked with Ghost a month ago. You find this out when he mentions it offhand. Secret mission with your Lieutenant. Is he always that much of an asshole—?
Actual is in your ear, stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.
But it's Ghost you think of. 
(Always, always.)
"He's not an asshole," you say, shrugging. "Just a man who cares too much." 
Almost immediately, you want to swallow the words back down. Stupid. Stupid. You force yourself to remain still, nonchalant. 
(How presumptuous of you to think you know him.)
Military likes to gossip. It'll come back to him somehow. The little rookie who stuck up for him. Who said he cared.
Graves' eyes flicker. "That right?"
You blush. English is gone. The only language in your throat is Welsh. 
(Graves' guffaw echoes in the jet.)
Tumblr media
    Graves purses his lips, rolling them from side to side, as you sift through the documents in front of you. He's been pacing the room for the last ten minutes while you meticulously translate each paper in your grasp. Agitation bleeds through the usual warmth in his countenance. 
It's tense. A slaughter. 
His compatriots flank all of the exits; sounds of gunfire resound through the compound. 
The infiltration was easy. 
This—
This is not. 
"So…," he drawls, the thick accent is warm, but his voice is constricted; pinched. "Heard you were the best at sniffing things out. What do you think?"
"It's not—," you pause, eyes skimming the page, squinting at it. 
"What?"
His tone is sharp. Icy. The usual warmth dissipates into a palpable tension; a tight unease. 
The shift is strange. Focus on the mission.
"It's not just Konni in this. They're being backed." 
"That so?" 
You suck in a deep breath. "We should leave. Tell Actual what's going on–"
"Yeah," he intones, crouching down in front of you. His eyes are placid. "We'll do just that."
Tumblr media
    It all happens so fast. A clichè, really, but a fitting one. 
Head turned out the window of the cargo van, deadly missiles being dragged behind. Your mind is full, racing. Nothing makes sense. 
You wish Ghost was here. Price. Soap. They're the ones you use to bounce ideas off of: this is what is happening, this is the missing equation, and this is what I think. 
Good, bonnie. Now, tell us something we don't know. 
And what if the equation is wrong?
Crafty, soldier. How do we prove it? 
And then the world shatters. 
Konni Operates. A gun to your head. Graves yelling in the distance; spitting curses, threats. Actual in your ear— you'll die here, soldier. 
Chaos. Death presses cold metal to your forehead, snapped words in rapid-fire Russian, too fast for you to pick up. 
The only ones that leak through are oozing glee. I'm going to blow your head off.
A dead-end. You think of Gaz—the closest to you in age, passing jokes back and forth; playing Never Have I Ever when the missions lull, the others looking on with amusement. 
Kids these days, they scoff.
Have you seen this video? He asks, dropping into the vacant seat beside you. Ghost looks up. It's a club in London. 
Soap huffing when you ask if he wants to come. Too old for that, bonnie.
You kids have fun, Price says, lips twitching. A rare show of amusement from the man. But I'll have to pass.
What if we went to a pub instead, you geezer? You chuckle. 
Geezer? He nudges Ghost to his left, eyes dry. You've been rubbing off on the kids. 
You meet his stare over the plastic table. Smile turns shy. Wanna come with us, Lt?
He holds it. Halfmoon. Eclipse. Liquid black. Negative, soldier. 
You try not to let the sting of rejection show. It's stupid. Stupid—
Nice one, kid.
Y'did good, bonnie.
Let's show these old boys what us kids can do, yeah?
Their voices echo in your mind. One rings louder than the others. A sharp bark. Gravel shattering. Move, soldier!
You're a dutiful soldier. You never disobey a command from your superior officer. From him.
White-hot pain splits across your temple. The world turns static. You're falling down, down, down—
Waves lap at your body, tugging you out to sea. The briny water fills your throat. 
Stay alert, soldier. The General. Voices. 
"Well, shit." Graves. He sounds distant. Far away. 
You think of Sierra Leone. Your first mission. 
Hiding in a concrete house with no windows, no doors, no cover. Gunfire booming across the landscape, cloaked in the pitch black darkness of night. Flickers of yellow-red light pop in the distance. 
You don't breathe. Don't make a sound. Your hands tremble around your rifle. Eyes wavering. 
Warmth against your back. You startle. A gloved hand over your mouth. The brush of a balaclava against your neck. 
"Easy, soldier. They'll see you if you jump." 
They'll see you—
"They dead?" A boot knocks against your calf. 
You go limp. 
"Yeah," Graves. Companion. Comrade. Be careful who you trust, soldier. All you have right now is yourself. Trust your gut; you're on your own. 
Copper on your tongue. You let it pool between your teeth, keeping it held in the space between your lips. It tastes of pennies. You try not to choke.
Sir… you whisper the words against his tactical vest. Feel the shift of his body when he looks at you from over his shoulder. Let's get yabeh after this. 
We're not on holiday, soldier. 
Really? Feels like one. 
You need to get out more. 
Yeah… maybe…
C'mon, now. Stay with me, pet. 
Always… sir. Always…
Tumblr media
    You drag him to someplace you'd heard of through your new friends–best yabeh in all of Salone; gotta try the Jollof, too, Sesay insists–and he fits in like a sore thumb. 
You both stand out, really. Foreigners in the middle of a place visited only by locals. Him in his denim trousers, and short-sleeved shirt, tactical vest fixed on his chest; his mask stays on. A ball cap low over his brow. He exudes danger. The rippling musculature of a tiger. The stealth of a panther. 
You—nondescript and tiny beside him. 
There is something to be said about seeing your new Lieutenant in denim. In the custom facemask instead of the full balaclava. 
With the baleen lines missing over his chin and neck, he almost feels too exposed to you. Too vulnerable. Too open. 
You can't stop fixing your gaze on the scant flesh, uncovered, above the collar of his shirt. His arms, bulky, and big, fold over his massive chest. 
He barely fits inside the small booth. 
Your eyes dance. Amusement. A roseate veil shudders over you—a novice, a rookie—and high off of the success of a mission. 
"Sesay says this is the best place in town."
"Sesay says a lot of things, don't he?" 
You blink, fingers tapping against the worn wood of the table. It's hot in Sierra Leone. A wet swelter that brands your skin with white-hot intensity. It's different from the dryness of the Sahara. 
Somehow, his tone is drier than the arid desert you crawled out of. Drier than the burning heat of the massive sun. 
"That he does…," you agree, floundering. 
Was this a mistake? Maybe you shouldn't have come here. What were you thinking? Dragging your superior out for dinner. You flush. It's barely discernable from the blistering sunburn over the bridge of your nose. Unfamiliar with the intense sun that scorches the land. 
You're drowning, now. Wallowing in this limbo of uncertainty. Maybe you should have just come later with Sesay and Abdul. They asked you when you pestered for directions, but you met Ghost's stare from over their shoulders, and hadn't heard a thing of what they were saying once you met him in the middle.
He's a whole head taller than everyone he meets. Massive. The locals' baulk at him: this huge, terrifying being with a skull on his face, cutting through the throng of people like a tank. 
There was so much going on once you started the mission. After the Intel was gathered, and the forces were ready, those long nights spent inside a tent that was barely big enough for yourself let alone the behemoth bulk of your Lieutenant came to an end. It was abrupt. Sudden.
It was just you and him. 
And then it was a sea of people. 
You'd spent the better part of a year pouring over documents in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Scorpions and sand, and him. 
The tent was deadly during the day; balmy with a humidity fit for the Amazon. At night, any complaints you might have had about the heat turned into regrets. It was freezing. You could see white clouds of condensation when you breathed out. 
You'd lie next to each other. Grains of sand is the only thing keeping you apart. He was warm—bonfire hot. 
You'll be frustrated, mad. That's normal when you spend so much time with a stranger. You might argue, bicker. But just focus on the mission. This is a test of camaraderie as much as it is endurance. 
It wasn't like that at all. It was—
Seamless. 
His ebb and flow were easy to adjust to. Maybe, it was the fact that you were a neophyte that made it so. Too afraid to let the bundle of frustration rear when this was your first mission. Your first test. 
But—
It wasn't quite like that. You found that you enjoyed his company. His barbed insults spoken in a flat, serious tone often flew over the heads of the men you had to work with, but you grew accustomed to them. Enjoyed them, even. He was—
An enigma. A year later, and you know nothing about Simon Riley, and as much as he'll allow about Ghost. There is distance still, but; 
It wanes. It cracks. Fills with the sharpness of his sarcasm, the stoic dedication to his mission; the grains of sand that stick to his sweat-slicked forehead. The deep hue of red from the mask he refuses to take off. 
You'll suffocate, you quip, eyes glued to the paper in front of you. 
Don't worry about me.
That's a silly thing to say… 
It ain't. You shouldn't. 
Mindless, stupid: well, I do. 
Silence. Brutal and stifling. Then: focus on the mission, Rookie. Not on me. 
You'd hummed noncommittally. It slipped into the back of your head, eyes fixed on the numbers in front of you. 
But it wells, now. When Sesay asks if you want to go with him for dinner, when he tells you how to get there, and what to order. 
Not on me.
Your eyes haven't left his. He holds your stare. 
The chossy wobbles, cracks. Your hand on his arm. C'mon, boss, let's eat. It stays there while you lead him through winding valleys. The heat of his arm—bare, veins ticking under your palm, too burly for you to wrap your whole hand around the thick of him—bleeds into you. You, cold-blooded, leach the warmth from his flesh.
And now—
He doesn't eat when dinner is brought out. Doesn't take his mask off. 
You watch him through the steam that wafts off the Jollof rice, his eyes roaming around the room like clockwork, looking for something that might strike. Hyper-vigilant. Wary. Cold. Distant. 
A puzzle not meant to be put together, but your fingers itch with the urge to try. 
Why did he come, you wonder. Why didn't he say no? 
As if hearing your thoughts, his eyes are on yours. Tendrils of translucent white fog the air between you. His brow pinches. Lids crest. 
It punches the air from your lungs. There is a phantom heat in your palm. Your hands shake around the fufu in your grasp, tightening around the tacky food until it bulges between your fingers. 
The syphoned heat begins to simmer in your belly. 
It bubbles over, blustering through your insides when his head pulls close, chin over the table, and says:
You did good, rookie. Might make a soldier of you, yet. 
You bow your head. "Cachu hwch."
"English, soldier." 
You shake your head. "N-nothing, sir… burnt my tongue."
Tumblr media
    You wake up in an empty hospital room. It was early August when you left for Al Mazrah. The calendar on your wall says it's now late September. 
The space in between is a blur. Left in the mud. Graves was taken. Was he okay–
You don't remember anything after the point of passing out in the mud, and waking up—sick from infection, burning from a fever—and finding yourself strapped down on a jet. Medics surround you. 
You'll be okay, you'll be fine–
You'd passed out again. The world slipping away until you felt the heat on your shoulder blades. The scent of yabeh thick in your nose. 
You move, sluggish and heavy, on the rough hospital bed, fingers gripping the sheets below. 
You still feel the grit of sand against your arm. 
Heat in your belly. 
(Cachu hwch, indeed.)
Tumblr media
    Shepherd calls you a day later on the phone in your private room. Your prison. The men outside say you're not allowed to leave. It's dangerous. 
"Did good out there, rookie."
"Thanks, Actual," you murmur, hands clenched around the receiver. "Couldn't have done it without your help. Without you." 
You want to ask about Graves. About your team. 
You remember the rapid Russian spat in your ear. And this one? You bite your tongue, body pickling with unease. 
"Rest up, now. My boys will be keeping an eye on you. They'll keep you safe."
Tumblr media
      You are discharged at the end of October. 
Hands pressed against the still-healing scar on your temple. They peeled the bandage off yesterday. 
The infection made it worse. It wasn't healing with the sickness you had. You're lucky some local boys found you in the mud when they did. You would have died. 
Laswell finds you outside. Hand against her throat, eyes wide.
She looks like she's seen a ghost. 
You certainly feel like one. 
Tumblr media
    The ride to your safehouse is punctuated by a game of catch-up. She tells you about the mission they went on, the one you were exempt from. 
The phone calls from Soap, Gaz make sense now. Straight to voicemail. 
Hey, you skimpin' out on us, yeah? Skippin' duty? Not like you at all. Kinda worried, y'know? Text me somethin'. You know I don't like callin'. Anyway… we're keepin' it together, yeah? But kinda freakin' out. Uhh… anyway—
Not like you to miss one, bonnie. Call me when you can, aye? Want to make sure you're okay. 
Price calls nine times. Leaves no voicemail. 
A single text from Ghost. Wheels up at 16:00. Expect to see you there. 
You didn't get your phone back until today. These were sent at the end of October. 
The clock on your screen reads 2nd November.
"No one knew…," you murmur, hands clenched around the metal. "Why didn't Shepherd—"
"Shepherd said you were sent on recon. Said something happened. He didn't tell the others—just me and Price. Didn't want to distract them from the job." 
"When did you find out?"
"That you were alive?" Her lips thinned, skin paling. "Yesterday." 
"Where are they now?"
"That's confidential." 
A scoff. "Sure. Now, off the record…"
"Mexico." 
Something doesn't feel right at all. It sits like an anvil in your stomach. 
"Laswell…" 
"Get some rest," she says, even. Her eyes are glossy when she stares at you. "We'll keep you updated. I'm sure everyone will be relieved to know you're alive."
Tumblr media
    Your phone rings two days later. 
The screen flashes. Lt.
Your hands tremble when you answer it. 
Tumblr media
    "It was Shepherd," he admits. 
Your head swims with the admission. Shepherd. Did good out there, rookie. Now, stay good. Stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.
"Is he–?"
"No," he grouses, the word a sliver short of being a growl. "He's alive. Graves is dead."
It hits you in the sternum—a punch unlike any other you'd received. Air knocked from your lungs, chest throbbing in agony, you sink down into your bed, fingers gripping the sheets until your knuckles bleach white. 
This shouldn't have happened. 
This is what you do. It's your purpose. It's your job. Your role. You were selected by Shepherd, by Laswell, Price for that, for your ability to gather information, to weed out the moles, the rats. To sniff them out, and puncture holes in their ship until they sank to the bottom, secrets leaking out. 
The words roll out of your mouth before you stop them. 
"I should have been there." 
The tremulous quiver makes you wince. Weakness. You're not weak. You're not—
Ghost won't see it as such, you know this; he doesn't really react to the harsh emotions of others. He carries an unwavering focus, rapt attention to the overarching mission, the end goal; pragmatic, astute on the battlefield, he doesn't flinch. 
It's a toss-up if he'll ever respond. If he does, it's usually with a dry, biting dismissal. Sarcasm with him often rides the line of being too sincere, and too flat. It's not just murky, but opaque. He'll say something—equal parts scathing and wise: it's already done, no sense dwelling on what you can't change. Do better next time. 
The bite in his words hurt; it was enough to make even the most impassive man irritated by the blunt, almost cruel tinge to his tone. 
But it's later when the message will unravel itself. When you're lying alone in your cot, picking over the things he said, and why he said them, and then—
Oh.
Do better next time. 
Right. 
A soft sound. The rush of air being inhaled through clenched teeth.
Then: "I'm glad you weren't." 
Silence. Your heart thunders. I'm glad you weren't.
It could mean a lot of things. A lot of bad things, but:
He thought you were either dead, or missing, or just—gone. You get it:
The last job didn't kill you—the evidence stacks in your head; one conclusion drawn: 
It should have. It was meant to. 
Your brush with death was a footnote. Nothing at all in the grand scheme of things. 
They wanted you dead. They failed. 
Soap called you last night, voice tight. You good, bonnie?
Getting there, you joked. Actual had my back. Graves, too. I'm alive because of them.
You choke. 
"You alright?"
It's on the tip of your tongue to say yeah. The usual response. Practised. Easy. Distant. But you think of his words, and your ears ring with the deep husk of his voice. He was honest with you. Open. And that's—
Your words are a rush, dipped in vulnerability. "I don't want to be alone right now." 
Too much. Too honest. 
Too open. 
You flinch. Heart thudding in your throat. 
Ghost makes you feel like an exposed wire. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Raw. 
He says your name—a low, brassy rasp that tickles the back of your neck. It's rare for him to call you by your given name. It's much too intimate. Too—
Well. It's just too much. You want to lean into it, to drape yourself in the rich utterance. Have it whispered into your ear late at night, while he fucks into you the same way he bucked into his hand. 
And in the morning when he first wakes. When he rolls over, body folding over your own. Lips against the shell of your ear. A husky rasp; the word dragged over gravel. 
You want it, want him, in ways that are unattainable. 
Domestic. 
You gasp. "I–um. Thanks," you fumble over your words, head roaring with the realisation that there is more than just attraction in the way your heart flutters in your chest; the downy soft wings of a small bird ruffling its fresh plumage. "I'll… talk later." 
Your name is barked through the phone when you pull it away. It's cut off before he can finish. 
Tumblr media
    They video call you from some pub. 
The sight of them together—Gaz, Soap, Price, Laswell, Ghost—makes you smile. 
"Christ, bonnie." Soap's eyes are fixed on the line near your temple. Scabbed. Plum colour. Healing, but not yet there. An inch over, and you'd have been—
You flinch, shrugging. "Could be worse–"
"What happened?" It's a command. You try not to tremble at the bark in Ghost's tone. Perhaps Laswell didn't tell them everything. 
His eyes are wide, the whites cresting over the puddles of black. You can't match his stare. You drop, darting to the clock in the corner. 
It's Laswell who tells them about the mission with the Shadow Company. Graves. Shepherd. 
"...Fuckin', aye." Gaz murmurs. He echoes Ghost's question. "What happened? No one told us anything. We thought— and then Shepherd said you were out for the mission. Not that—that you'd been— " 
It falls silent. They don't know about the mission's end aside from Shepherd's lies. Laswell knows. She was the first face you saw in the hospital. 
Let's talk… 
"We were ambushed," you start, shrugging again. Blasé. Nonchalant. You pretend you can't feel the intensity of Ghost's stare through the screen. "I… they were going to shoot me. I got away. Got a scratch—," a scoff from Soap, a murmur of more than a scratch, aye; you ignore it. "They thought I was dead, so they left me there…"
There is more to it. Graves. The whispers in your head. Them, in your final moments. Agents outside your hospital door. Two inches from death. A day away from rotting. 
You swallow it down. It doesn't matter. It happened and now it's over. 
"Bonnie…," there is something raw in Soap's voice. It pricks your pericardium. 
Left for dead. Abandoned by everyone around you. The ones you trusted the most. Your own team didn't even look. Had no time to mourn, no time to worry. 
You know what they must see; the lines they must be drawing. How they, themselves, currently feel, and what they would do if it were them instead of you. It—
It hurts. 
"I'd have joined you at the pub," you murmur, voice a shaky worble, before he can say anything else. "But–," you lift your head, eyes downcast. A facsimile of a smile flickers. You wonder if it hits the mark. "Maybe next time." 
Price nods in your periphery. "Listen—"
"I'll be ready for Makarov," you interrupt. "I'm… I gotta go, though. Am I — can I be dismissed?" 
"...Yeah, yeah you can."
You hang up without another word. 
In the silence of your flat—in a land more foreign to you than the Sahara—you break. 
Tumblr media
    Your night dissolves into a series of firsts in quick succession:
A knock on your door. No one knows that you live here. No one but Laswell when she dropped you off. The rheumy-eyed lady with knobby knuckles who mutters at you in warm Welsh. Words you pretend you can't understand. 
Shepherd, too, because he needed a location to put down on paper. A place to find you if they couldn't get a hold of you.
You think it might be him—back for vengeance—and you hold your pistol in your hands, back pressed flat against the wall. One hand drops the brass doorknob. 
"Who is it?" 
A beat. 
"It's me." A thick baritone—enough, you think, pulse racing, to rattle the door with his voice alone. "It's Simon." 
Simon. Not Ghost—
Right. Off-duty, now. Until you get a lead on Makarov. 
Your Lieutenant knocking on your door at—gritty eyes flicker to the stovetop in the kitchen—quarter to five in the evening is another first. Almost paradoxical, really. 
Gun shoved into the holster, you turn to face the wood. Through the little window above, covered by a paper-thin curtain, you can see the dark shape of him, unmoving, as he stands on your porch. 
There are a number of reasons why he'd be here, but only one makes you yearn. 
You pull the door open, and the sight of him makes you dizzy. Hypoxia. Seasickness. Homesick. 
He's dressed as casually as Simon is capable of. Black hoodie, wet on the hood from the snow that falls in clumps outside. A black beanie on his head. Skull mask flat against the bridge of his nose. Denim. Black boots. 
The coal around his eyes is smudged. A nebula of pale skin through a black oasis. 
"What—?"
"Shepherd." Right. He could have called. Got the Intel from Laswell. His words leave no room for argument when he lets out an amalgam of a snarl, a growl; it's ground to dust when he says: "we need to talk."
"Not—," you don't want him to see the emptiness inside. The vacancy. Militaristically barren. Lonely. "Not here…" 
Shepherd was here, too. Not him, specifically—maybe. You don't know for certain. But his agents, definitely. Polluting the inside.
It's a flimsy excuse. You hear the threadbare conviction in your tone. 
"Shepherd was here," you say, and then wince. "Not now, I mean—"
The words die on your tongue. Ghost— Simon —is smart. Of course he wouldn't think Shepherd was here now. He'd fled. Went into hiding. You shift on your feet. 
He can read you like no one else. 
(You wonder if anyone at all can read him.)
You flounder. "I don't want…not here…"
"Where do you want to go?"
Somewhere stiflingly hot. "Anywhere." 
Simon doesn't press. He never does. His head rolls, tips toward the street. "C'mon, then. Get your stuff."
He reads it on your face, in the things you don't say. It reminds you of Sierra Leone— eat, rookie, you haven't all day; get some sleep, you're dead on your feet; I'll take the first watch— and the memory clots behind your ribs. 
"Okay," you murmur. 
You feel his gaze on your back when you turn around. The door is left open. He doesn't follow. 
Tumblr media
    There is a chill in the air when you step outside, bundled up in a knit sweater that does little to stem the frigid sea breeze from cutting through the cracks in the threaded cable. 
It's a cold night in Porthmadog. 
Snow falls in clumps from the indigo-smeared sky, sticking to the cobblestone under your feet. 
Simon says nothing as you walk out of the apartment block. He stays close to you, so close you could inch your elbow out and touch him. The heat from his body is a beacon. You're at war with yourself, struggling not to get pulled into his current, and swept out to sea. 
Despite the closeness, there is a distance in the way he paces. Eyes roaming under the hood, taking in the lights strewn overhead, lingering on the alcoves where someone might hide. 
Having him here feels a little surreal. Porthmadog is off-limits to everyone—it's a place where you come to rot. 
His presence shatters the sense that it doesn't really exist outside of those long nights when you stare up at the ceiling, and want. A metaphysical realm that laps at the cracks inside of you, eroding the thick veneer you cobbled together over the years until it withers away, and you have to patch it up when you get called in for another assignment. 
Intact soldier. Whole. Nile. 
It's a place, now. Real. Tangible. 
Seeing Simon—Ghost, Lt—walk beside you down Lombard Street, footfalls echoing through the winding road, makes something churn in your guts. It sits inside, and feels a little like finality. 
How could you possibly come back to a place you pretend doesn't exist? A place that is just en-route to wherever else you have to go? 
A place you come to because you have nowhere else. 
You can't come back here now that the streets are tainted with the nitroglycerin scent of Simon. A bonfire on the beach. The burning logs doused in kerosene. The miasma will suffocate you. 
It clots inside of your lungs, sticking to the gummy lining when you breathe him in. 
He smells of bourbon. Cigarettes. Carries the scent of everyone else with him—Gaz's cologne: thick vetiver; the sickly sweet tang of Price's cigars; thick metallic: ozone and gasoline that Soap wears after a mission—and you greedily take it in. 
You let it sit, red-hot barbed wire, against your chest. 
Your eyes slip. Illegal. Wrong. They find him, always. Bathed in the streetlight above; flushed yellow. It casts shadows on him, and makes his eyes look lighter. 
A peaking shoal in the middle of the midnight blue ocean. 
He's dangerous. Makes your fingers prickle with want; with the urge to touch.
Makes you greedy. 
Stupid. 
Despite not knowing the area, Simon cuts through the supine street like he's familiar with it already. Maybe, he is. He must have looked at the map on his phone before he got here, eyes locked on the space, the landscape. Mentally cataloguing each hiding spot. 
You follow him—a stranger in your own home—and cross your arms over your chest when the thick chatter carries from inside the shops along the street. Heavy Welsh. Warm milk and honey. 
Salt in your wounds. 
You don't belong here.
The familiar green of the carpet and flooring shop nearly makes you trip, but you steady yourself. Ball your hands into fists by your side, and drop your gaze to the cracked ground below. 
You can feel the moment his gaze shifts, sliding over to you. It bores into your temple; abrasive, and grating. 
Goosebumps erupt over your flesh. You blame it all on the cold—the stutter in your chest, the ache in your lungs, the shiver dancing down your spine. The frigid weather. The icy breeze. 
Another shiver rolls through you, different this time, when you catch sight of the park. 
Your chin hits the pavement. Palms sliding through jagged gravel. Knees splitting. 
Your blood puddles on the grey rocks. 
They crack you open. Nothing spills from the gaping hole. 
"You with me?" 
You blink. The reverie shakes, shudders. The little girl with her chin on the ground warbles. 
Simon stands there, his back to the streetlights. His presence makes the image distort, and bend to fit him inside. It doesn't belong. 
"What's a'matter with you?" 
You flinch at his voice, and peer up at him from under clumpy, wet lashes, heavy with melting snow. 
The words are harsh, but his tone is—
He steps forward, a few paces ahead. You didn't realise you stopped. 
He doesn't come to a halt until there is barely an arm's length of space between you, and seeing him this close to you, his face concealed, blank and empty, has that strange feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach again. 
His lashes are blond. It surprises you. You'd always imagined he had black hair. Black hair, black eyes. 
It's blonde. 
You don't know why it matters, why you can't stop staring at the soft wisps around his lids. They flutter shut, fanning across the smudged ink skin under his eyes. The tips are blond. The bottoms are ash. They're nice, you note, a flavour of that same something blistering through you. 
His lids slide open, the corner tightening as his gaze sharpens, focusing on you. "Y'alright?" He asks again, waiting for an answer. 
You swallow, and it tastes of sand. Gritty, and painful when it slips down your throat. Your voice is a rasp, a shiver above a whisper, when you say, "yeah. "
His eyes tighten again, deeper this time. Something flashes in those polychrome depths. Under the hat, his brow pulls taut together. 
The indent makes your fingers itch, the urge to reach out, to soothe it, is nearly overwhelming. 
"You lyin' to me?" He grumbles, an edge to his voice you can't place. 
"No," you mutter, the words dragged out of you by force. "Just a —a headache." 
He has a look in his eyes that makes you think he knows, somehow. That he can chisel inside your head, and rummage through all the secrets you try to keep. 
Your neck aches from having to tip your chin back so much to even look at him, the 90-degree angle making you feel dizzy. The opposite of vertigo where you sometimes look up at the unending sky yawning overhead and feel that tendril of fear curling around you, admixing the awe, until you feel the urge to dig your fingers into the ground, and hold on. You can't fall up, but in those moments, it almost feels like you might. 
Ghost gives you that same feeling. 
His chin dips low, eyes lidded and heavy. You could almost mistake it for bland disinterest had his jaws not been working, gnashing together in a wordless tick. He says nothing. You watch the bones move. The fabric teeth snap. 
All his focus is centred on the blood-red gash near your temple. The black sutures keeping the split skin together. 
Ghost makes a sound, and you almost mistake it for a growl. Inhumane. Animal. It's pulled from his throat, but bitten off by his teeth before it can take shape. 
You blink up at him, wide and owlish, when he reaches for you. 
His hand is warm even through the glove. The rough fabric grazes your skin when he brushes your hair away with his knuckle. His eyes are fixed on your forehead, hardened, all militaristic concentration as he looks you over. 
"It's—it's fine…" 
"It ain't." 
Gritty sandpaper. Harsh, abrading. 
It's hushed, though. 
Speaking above a whisper feels taboo. This whole thing does, honestly. Illicit, wrong. Ghost shouldn't be lasering his glare on your forehead, searching for a reason to do something about the anger that now brims in those dark depths. His knuckles on your skin feel sacrilegious. Touching you is exempt. Illegal. Off-limits. 
But he does it, anyway. Strips the barriers pitched in front of you both like tissue paper, and holds his four knuckles to your temple, his thumb brushing a hair beneath the irritated skin. Gentle. Soft. 
You didn't think these hands knew how to do something so delicate. That they were made, instead, to break. To crush. To ruin. 
He might, yet: the pad of his finger feels like a brand when it ghosts over the soft curve of your forehead, soothing the phantom hurt, and you think you might just shatter if he doesn't stop touching you like this. Gingerly. Calming. A balm over your aching flesh. 
You'd gotten so used to the pain, the constant throb in your head, that this respite from it feels like bliss. Nirvana wrapped in leather. 
His touch is magnetic. It pulls a sound from deep within your chest, something desperate and wanting, and you can't snap your jaws shut quick enough before it's loose in the atmosphere, and cresting over him. 
Ghost's gentle prods go still. With his thumb pressed into a place that makes liquid heat spume in your vein, you can feel it tremble when your tongue snakes out, gliding over your lower lip. 
Your head swims. Phosphenes dance across the back of your lids, and you struggle to remember when you shut your eyes in the first place. 
They flutter open. 
His stare is fixed on your lips in a total eclipse, honed in on the slow roll of your blood-red tongue as it peeks out from the warm cavern of your mouth. The wet trail left behind is swallowed by his gaze. It flickers up, catching the bloom of heat under your cheeks. The darkened flush makes him rumble; the soft rattle of an engine purring. A frisson passes over his expression, lashes fluttering. 
He's close. Closer than he was before. You can feel the molten heat bleeding into your skin with his proximity. Taste the gunpowder, the ash, and the ichor that clings to him; he smells of war when you breathe him in. Gasoline. Copper. A livewire scent that makes your lungs itch. 
Dangerous. Powerful. Deadly. 
Every synapse in your head misfires, sending off warning signs and sirens to run from the man that reeks of gun oil, and fire; napalm-scented demise with blood-soaked hands meant to ruin. But it only makes you lean in closer until the acrid burn of him corrodes your throat. 
His body is warm, and the heat is stifling. 
You're drunk off the fumes he exudes; reckless and wanting, and in the slurried molasses of your mind, you wonder if this is what it feels like for a gazelle to stand so close to a lion. 
Something cold pools at the base of your spine, making you shiver. A warning—distant, ancient—but the calls of your ancestors are dimmed under the bulk of his shadow. The heavy iron in his gaze rests over you, and you imagine that his body pressed into yours would carry the same heft. 
He's somehow bigger up close, you think. Wide shoulders, thick arms, a broad chest and waist; muscular thighs, firm calves. 
He's not Adonis, but you imagine he feels just like marble all the same. 
"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."
We. He says we, now. It's new. You shudder in his hold. 
"I'm here," you whisper the words, afraid of breaking this strange spell between you. It feels like everything else around you has melted away until only you and he exists on this lonely street that makes you ache. 
"You are…" he rasps; a low hush. Maybe he, too, is afraid of shattering it. "You did good, soldier."
His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won. 
His touch is featherlight. But his eyes–
His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.
A million thoughts run through your head, ones that taste like kerosene, and cauterise inside you like a cigarette to your skin. The heat blooms again, but it's not enough—all you can think of is how you wished you had more of him. 
(You wonder if you run your tongue along his skin, kiss that acrid mouth, if he'd taste of napalm.)
Chiselled open, exposed to the air. Ghost takes a deep breath, holding the fumes of your burning need in his lungs. When he exhales, you can taste the smoke in the air. 
His hand drops, fingers sliding down the curve of your face until he meets the plush softness where your chin and cheek meet. The hand he keeps on you is firm. 
His eyes bore into yours. He wants your attention. Demands it. Then, he holds it steady until your mouth drops in a series of short, gasping breaths. 
Your voice is featherlight when you say his name. His real one. Simon. It simmers in the air between you, and the scent of it almost makes his eyes snap shut, shoulders coiling. Tensed. Wanting. His muscles flex, bunching together in tight knots. Clench. Release. Clench. 
It's only when you hear his haggard breath through the nylon, do you realise he's holding himself back from you.
Your belly flutters at the rumble roiling out of his throat. 
Another command falls, deeper, darker, and your spine nearly snaps with how quickly you straighten up when he utters two words. 
"Later, pet." 
It's a promise. A demand. An out. 
His mind made up, decisive and sure, he's now shoving the choice in your hands. Leaving the decision with you for safekeeping.  
Like before, there is only ever one choice. As if you had any other answer for him. 
When you nod, firm and eager, his chest shudders. "Fuckin' Christ–" it's a snarl, full of tension. Excitement.
His hand slides away from your face, and presses into the base of your spine, settling heavily over the curve of your ass. There is pressure, an urgency. 
"C'mon," he rasps, jerking his chin to the end of the park. "Parked over here."
He keeps his hand on you, heavy and hot. A possessive branding as he leads you away from this place. 
When you pass, your eyes drop to the pavement. 
The gravel is clean. Your blood is nowhere to be found. 
Your muscles go lax. You get pulled into his current, shoulder brushing over his chest. 
Simon tightens his hold, and pulls you closer. 
(Dragging you out to open water until you can't see the shoreline anymore.)
Tumblr media
    He leads you to a black jeep with tinted windows, and grounds out that it's rental when you press the heel of your palm into your mouth, futilely trying to hide a smile. 
"It's nice," you quip, light and airy. "Very you."
"Just get your ass inside already," he says, pulling the door open for you. "Got a drive ahead of us." 
His hand settles on your waist when you step up on the first rung, heavy. Firm. You want to lean into him. Have him pressed up against you like this for an eternity. 
"Where are we going?" You breathe, shivering from the molten look in his eye. The heat in his chest. 
He tugs you back into him, chin grazing the space between your neck and shoulder. His voice is white-hot in your ear. "My safe house." 
Your eyes flutter. Heat blooms. "Simon—" his name is a whimper on your lips. 
His fingers dig into your hips. "Fuckin' hell, pretty thing. You keep saying my name like that, and we won't make it to Southport." 
There is no lie in the words that are forced out of his throat; inhumane, a growl. You don't want him here —in this town where you moulder. 
Your fingers trail over his wrist. The coarse hair on his arms tickles your skin. 
"Get me out of here."
His eyes sharpen. "Gladly." 
Tumblr media
    Two hours and a half hours from Porthmadog to Southport. 
A lot of time for him to reconsider. For that coldness he wears like a shield, that unbreakable distance, to pitch itself in front of him once more, locking you out. Perhaps, it'll be for good. Maybe—
Your hands ball into fists. Knuckles dig into the plush seat. 
You know what you want. Know what you've wanted since before you stupidly opened your mouth— keeping my seat warm— and he saw it through. 
But what about him? There was no time on the jet for a grand discussion, not when everyone was on top of each other already; not when Soap kept glancing at you, brow drawn tight, as if to ask really, bonnie?  
Memories of Sierra Leone have you in a chokehold. Your purgatory, your limbo, your afterlife; when you were dying, it was all of him. Of the desert. Of the town that felt so warm, so inviting. The people baulked at his size but still ushered you over, offering snacks, and treats. 
So tiny beside him, a woman laughs. You need to eat more. Your man should make you fat and happy. 
You blushed. He's not—
Yes, yes… A wink. A coy grin. He watches from the dirt path as she presses bundled cassava into your hands. He says nothing at all. Your man. You like the sound of it more than you should. 
You know what you want. What you've wanted. 
It puddles inside of you. Droplets leaking through the fissures that have been splintering for years, now. 
A man stands in front of you. Promise me, you'll get him. 
You: young, naïve, nodded. I promise. 
Ghost pulled you aside. He yells—quite often, in fact—but he's ice cold when he says, we don't make promises, rookie. Deadly. Your heart is in your throat when you apologise.
And then the scent of fire. A mission in Mesaieed left you and Gaz trapped. Helpless. Smoke clogging your lungs. Gaz wheezing under the intense blase; the noxious fumes billowing from the smoulder. 
His voice in your ear. We'll get you out of there, rookie. Hang tight. 
That a promise? You gasp, gagging from the black cloud drenching your lungs. Close to death, and cracking jokes. Confident. Assured. Nile crocodile lurking below the surface. 
He isn't there to see your hands shake. You're thankful for it. Stupid, stupid—you want nothing more to impress your Lieutenant. Match him wit-for-wit. Vile joke for vile joke.
It surprises you when his voice filters through the line, one word slurred into your ear: yes. 
Are you a man who keeps his promises? 
Always. That's why I never make them. Close to a fiery death, and his voice crackles again. Why wasn't Jesus born in Liverpool? 
Gaz coughed. Fuck's sake… Lemme die in peace. 
Why, Lt? 
There are no wise men or virgins. 
Funny. I like that one. 
Knew you would. Cover your heads. 
The window above shattered. They saved you—just like they said they would. 
(You realised then that Ghost cared for you, for all his subordinates, more than he let on.)
And now—
There is no turning back. Later, he said. He promised. A man who keeps his promises. 
You think, then, of the look on his face under the streetlamp. Snowfall trickles between you. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes when he said:
"Thought we—fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."
The words get lodged in his throat. They're ripped out with a harshness that bludgeons through you. 
You turn to him, taking in his profile as he leans back in the seat, looking out the windshield. 
As if he feels your stare, his eyes cut from the window, and find yours. He holds it until you taste smoke in your throat, until your lip trembles. Then it sinks low to your lap. One hand peels off of the steering wheel.
It feels like an anvil when it rests on your thigh. 
"Almost there," it's a strangled rasp. A promise. 
You nod. Your smile feels flushed when it pulls on your lips. Sunkissed. Warm. Expectant.
Your hand unfurls, fingers aching from the strain of your grip, and you curl them over his wrist. His pulse thuds under your thumb. You stroke it, and wonder what he would say if he knew yours beat the same. 
Tumblr media
    The safehouse in Southport is not at all what you were expecting. 
The winding road he drives on leads to a small, modest cabin on the outskirts of the town. Perched away from the rest of civilisation, it sits on its own island. Cut-off from the mainland. 
The distance is something that makes a smile pull on your lips. So fittingly him —your lone wolf leader who only just learned the word we —but the sight of the house makes something gnarl inside of your chest. It's quaint. 
Somehow, you'd expected a flat in the heart of the city. London, perhaps. Somewhere close to the airport, to the UK base used when you needed the closest weapons cache or jet. 
The little abode in the middle of a farm doesn't mesh with the image you'd drawn of your prickly Lieutenant. It's too—
Wholesome. 
"It's temporary," he grouses when he catches your teeth sink into your palm, a wide grin splitting across your face. "I haven't been back here in a long time."
"Is it yours?" You ask, turning to him. The jeep hums, idling. Neither of you makes any move to get out. 
His fingers drum on the wheel. "Grew up here."
"I thought you were from East London."
"No. Moved there, then back here." He offers. 
You nod. You get it. 
"It's nice." You say instead, and it really is. A sprawling farmland with rolling hills in the distance where you know the sun hits in the morning. Where it'll bathe the boscage in ochre. "Peaceful."
"I'd have taken you to London," he grinds the words out from between his molars. "But it's too far." 
Too far. Roughly four hours. 
You've been sitting for nearly three. You shudder, eyes lidded when you turn to him. 
A slow roll of your tongue has his arms flexing, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are stained white. Bleached. 
"Maybe next time." 
A promise. A question. 
The vein in his forearm throbs. "C'mon, let's go." 
Tumblr media
    You barely have enough time to pace a few feet into the foyer before it starts. You turn to look at him from over your shoulder—taking in the chimney, the chaise, the distinct lack of anything personal outside of a safe, a lighter on top of the fireplace—and he's suddenly there. Boots off. Hands curled into fists by his side. Head dipped down, and eyes more dangerous than you'd ever seen them. 
That thrill pools—a warning. Run, run.  
He stalks toward you, eyes burning coal. "Are you hungry?"
"No," you shake your head, swallowing thickly. 
A step back. A step forward. They spark when you run. 
"Thirsty?"
"N—no…"
Two steps bring him closer to you. Your back presses flush to the wall next to the fireplace, and he moulds over you like a liquid shadow. Dark, imposing. He's massive. You can't see anything but him. 
Simon rests his forearm against the wall over your head, bending it at the elbow to bring him closer to you. The rough graze of his mask over your cheek has you panting. 
His hand is a brand on your thigh. It slips down, fingers crooking in the fold of your knee, wrenching it up his hip. You gasp, hands grasping the bulk of his biceps when he drags your centre flush over the growing bulge in his pants. 
Your head swims when he growls in your ear. "Is there anything you need to do before I drag you to my bed?" You shake your head slightly, pulse humming in your chest. "Because once I'm inside this pretty cunt, nothing at all will get me out. Understood?" 
Your brain short circuits. A complete whiteout. 
"A—affirmative." You choke, somehow coherent despite the absolute mess in your head. "Sir."
He rumbles. His chest pushes into yours; the sound reverberating through your bones. "Good girl."
Tumblr media
    He turned his back to you after he let you inside a modest bedroom, pulling the black sweater over his head. His back exposed—rippling muscles, etches of black from the tattoos—all pale skin wrapped in thick sinew. The sound you make has his shoulders coiling tight. 
"Fuck, pet… I haven't even touched you, yet." 
He turns, the mask slightly lopsided, and his beanie missing. His hair without the full balaclava sends a shock to your system. The newness of discovering something; elation bleeds in. His hair is ashen brown. Lighter than chocolate, darker than caramel. 
You want to sink your fingers into the thick of it. 
Thighs pressed tight together, your greedy eyes take him in. The way his hair—moussed from the hat—falls over his forehead; not cropped to the grain like Soap, and barely centimetres longer than Price. 
He gazes at you. Waiting, maybe. 
Your hands fall to your pants, eager to rid yourself of every barrier between your skin and his. You want him on you— in you. It itches like a sickness. Burns like a fever. 
Your trousers fall. Fingers looped into the hem of your panties. He stops you, then, with his words. 
"I took the mask off for the team."
You falter, bent down to push the panties the rest of the way off, and blink up at him. 
The first thought, of course, is that Gaz saw his face before you. Gaz. The rookie rivalry (playful, carrying the flavour of siblings vying for their approval) makes you burn. 
You swallow the jealousy on your tongue. "Oh…" 
He waits, still. 
"You don't have to…" you want to see him. He's a mosaic; an incomplete piece. You have two halves but the middle is murky. You try to fit them in your head, but the image doesn't line up. 
"Lay back," he ordered, hands dropping to his belt buckle. 
The image of him tugging the leather, veins rippling under the black ink of his burly forearms, feels unholy. It douses you with a want so palpable, your belly quivers with need. 
You don't need foreplay, you think. Not when the sight of him pulling off a belt already has you melting. Has your pussy throbbing, your thighs slick.  
"Damn, Lieutenant…" you mewl, dropping down on the bed, knees pressed taut together to stem the ache. "How are you so—" 
"Simon," he rasps. The belt hangs in his hands. You wonder if he'd tie you up one day with it. Leave you quivering below him, completely at his mercy. 
Or, would he let you use it on him? Let you bind this behemoth to the bed for your pleasure. 
Your toes curl. The thoughts alone are enough to get you off, you think. 
But it's the sight of him, then, standing over you, trousers hanging low on his hips, kept in place only by the thick thigh he slots between your knees, that really makes you shudder. 
"Lay back," he orders again, hand dropping—white-hot, rough—to your shaking knee. His chin lowers, eyes staring at your pussy. "I want to taste you again, pet." 
Fuck. Fuck —
He lowers to his knees, still somehow taller than you, and gazes at you between your bent legs. Dark eyes flashing. Goosebumps prickle along your flesh as he trails his gaze down the length of your body, settling, once again, on your cunt. 
He looks as if he's going to devour you. Eyes wide, whites full, when he pries your legs apart, spreading your cunt for him once more. He hadn't seen you bare like this—beneath him for his own pleasure—and you feel the ghost of his breath on your sex when he leans in close, breathing in deeply. 
"Bloody- fuckin' -hell, pet—" it sounds like a curse when he says it. A choked snarl. "So wet for me, and I haven't even touched you."
His hands are on the outside of your thighs, rough skin grazing the sensitive flesh as he trails them down to the soft flesh beneath your knee. With his thumbs hooked in the bend, pressing sharply into the cartilage, he wrenches them apart, opening you wider for him until your pussy is bared to him completely. 
The groan he makes edges on the equinox of being absolutely filthy and wrecked when he drinks you in. 
"Missed this pretty little cunt." His masked cheek rests on your knee, head cocked as he stares down at you. When he tips his chin, gazing at you, his eyes are blacker than midnight. A pool of ink. Desire brims. 
He hooks your thighs over his broad shoulders, finger looping in the gap between his mask and the skin beside his nose. 
You don't have a chance to see it. Fucking tease —
He dips his head before he tugs it down, and you feel the molten heat of his tongue slipping between your folds. 
Your head falls back on the pillow, toes curling as that greedy mouth devours you once more. The stubble around his chin prickles the skin of your thighs. His grip is so tight, you already see blooms of blue pooling beneath the tips of his fingers. 
The first time wasn't a flute. Simon presses his mouth to your cunt like he can't get enough; lips sealing over your throbbing clit, tongue lapping at you in even, thick strokes that make you see white behind your eyelids. It's good, so good —
He's going to ruin you. 
"Simon—"
You remember those filthy groans rumbling against your slit, and your hand lifts, reaching down to tangle in his locks. A tug—sharp, pointed—makes him pant into your pussy, makes his fingers tighten until you can feel capillaries bursting under his firm hold. Until his short nails make indents in your flesh. 
"Yeah, pet," his voice is molten rock; you throb, aching, from the sound alone. "Just like that…" 
His mouth is on you again, devouring you whole. 
You lift your head, staring down at the black eyes that bore into you, the thick locks of hair spilling out between your fingers, and you break. 
You fall back with a groan, arching your cunt into his eager mouth, desperate for more. More of that liquid bliss that spools in your core, that has you leaking a puddle under his chin. 
His hands shift, sliding down the meat of your thighs until they wriggle under your ass. Your flesh spills between his fingers when he grips you tight, lifting your hips, your cunt, to him. 
Simon helps you buck against him, lets you cant your hips into his face, nearly smothering him with the sopping heat of your centre. When you're mewling, panting, with your head tossed back, and rapture in a quiver of his name spilling from your lips, he shifts. 
His hold changes, and one hand falls back. His lips seal around your aching clit as a finger—long, thick—presses against your entrance. His tongue laves over you when he slowly presses it inside, crooking it to stroke against your fluttering walls. 
The choked sob that leaves your throat is a mangled wreck of pleasure, of want. 
"More," you mewl, but the plea barely has a chance to pass your lips before he's dragging his finger out until only the tip keeps you open. "Please, sir—"
He thrusts it into the last knuckle, groaning against you at the slick, wet sound that it makes. "Fuck, pet. Always so wet for me, aren't you?" 
"Always," you gasp, fingers gripping his hair tight. "Simon, I need more—"
He pulls his finger out; another joins it when you whimper. The stretch feels good. Heat blooms in your belly. You won't last long. Your thighs quiver with each roll of his fingers pushing in as deep as they will go; with each stroke of his tongue over your clit. 
You're going to cum— 
"Simon—"
The coil snaps, pussy clenching on the thick fingers wedged inside of you, hips canting into his eager mouth as he rides you through the spasming pleasuring that ripples through your abdomen. 
"That's it… that's a good girl," he slurs against you. 
It's almost too much when he forces another finger into your throbbing cunt. You keen at the stretch, at the too-full feeling of him splitting your walls. 
"Simon, I can't—"
"Yes, you can. You're taking me so well already." 
His voice is liquid sex; the wrecked sound of him makes your toes curl, and your spine arch. You want him inside of you. You want to know if he'd make those same grunts of pleasure with your pussy wrapped around him. 
High of the sudden burst of endorphins, you look down at him—sloppy with your wetness, his face hidden by your cunt—and you tug his hair until he meets your blown-out gaze. 
"Fuck me," you try to demand, but the word comes out as a shaky plea.
"Too tight, pet," he rumbles. "Gotta get you ready for me."
Three fingers buried to the last knuckle, and he says it still isn't enough. 
You'd think him cocky had you not the pleasure of seeing him hard and aching already. Big, fat cock leaking between the seal of his palm. You shiver, head dropping to the pillow. 
It's all you can do but take whatever he gives you—long, thick fingers stretching you out, brushing the gummy walls inside that flutter when his mouth seals over your clit. It feels like an eternity since he pulled you inside the room. 
A tug of your hand makes him groan. You meet his stare, pleading. Breathless. It's too much—
And not enough. 
"I don't care," you slur, drunk and stupid on the way his hot mouth glues to your cunt. "I wanna feel you inside of me for days, sir—"
"Fuck!" 
It's a harsh snarl that makes you whimper. The sound ripped from his chest, and rubbed raw as it was scraped out. His forehead is pressed to your mound, breathing you in once more. 
His head lifts. 
It's dark in the room. You can't really make out the entirety of his features—the familiar long nose, the cut of his jaw. His lips. It's bathed in black, in shadows, but through the glimmer of the washed-out moon that spills inside, you can see the distinct wetness gleaming on his mouth, his chin. 
You whimper, eyes burning with tears of desperation. When he speaks, it's shredded rocks. Gravel. Low and dark.
"You're gonna feel me for weeks, pet." 
It's a dangerous precipice. His voice alone shatters your resolve, and seeing those full, pink lips form the words that will ruin you, it's overwhelming. Your cunt throbs, walls shuddering in pleasure ripped through your being. 
He feels it against his fingers; it makes his eyes flutter. His tongue sweeps out. Eye hooded, half-mast as they take you in. 
He sits back, hands slipping to the crease of your knees. His chin dips. 
"Hold 'em open for me, pet." 
You gasp, belly knotting tight from the command that drips from his drenched, wicked, mouth. Your hand reluctantly falls from the soft locks to do as you're told. The warmth of his skin brushes over your fingers when you take his place, keeping your legs bent, spread, for him. You're on display. Open, wanting. 
His hand, now free, reaches for the bundle of fabric pooled at the base of his neck. The mask is fixed into place again—a needless action, you think, pouting. Gaz saw his face in better lighting. 
(You hope he had the wherewithal to take a picture for you.)
But there is something to be said about how illicit he looks, mouth now concealed from your view until just his eyes are visible. The coal is rubbed off, shadows along the crease, the corner of his nose, under his eyes, but it feels dangerous like this. 
With the mask on, he's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. Fearsome. Men cower from him. His name alone scorches the earth, and makes the underbelly tremble. 
And he's going to be inside of you. Claiming you, taking you. It's a cigarette thrown on a sea of gasoline. Your skin, fervid, begins to blister. 
When you look up, it's ink-blot eyes in a sea of white. Red tendrils in the corners; rivers of ichor.
If he keeps looking at you like that, like you're a feast for him, you might go a little crazy, a little delirious. 
Simon stares for a moment longer, hand dipping below the bed to grasp himself in his hand. A grunt at the touch, a flutter of his lashes, and then he moves. Coiled muscle; rippling flesh. He looms above you like a Cimmerian god—drenched in tenebrose, mask soaked from your slick—his haunting eyes gazing at you like you're an offering meant to be savoured. 
His thighs—thicker than the tree trunks in the distance—slot beneath yours, and the sheer width of them makes you dizzy. The bulk is bigger than your head. Simon must notice the way you're drooling over them, knuckles white as you stare, open and hungry, wanting, as he takes a small amount of mercy on you. He shifts until the bulk of it is pressed taut to your core. 
Your back arches, legs trembling. Fuck—
You want to ride his thighs. Want him to perch you on his massive lap, and have those molten eyes fixed on you as you use him to get yourself off. 
You could do it, you think, mind blanking out; that soporific pleasure slurring all logic from taking root until a gossamer spools inside, filled with want. With greed. 
"Wanna ride you…" you slur, wrecked on the notion alone. "Your thighs. They're so big, Simon, fuck— you're so big—"
"I like that idea, pet," he rasps, thigh notching closer to your throbbing cunt, smearing slick all over the coarse hair that covers his flesh. "Wanna see you desperate for it." 
"I am…" you whine, breathless. "I want you so bad, I can't stand it…"
His hands fall, bracketing his burly arms beside your head until the absurd heft of him fills your vision. The muscles in his core pull taut; veins in his arms pulse. 
He told you to keep your legs spread, but your fingers itch with the need to touch him. To feel him against your palm. 
His cock hangs, daunting and thick, between his legs, head brushing your belly. Prespend smears over your skin; warm, tacky. You want a taste—
When you tell him as much, chin tipped backwards to whisper the words into his neck, he shudders above you. His cock twitches, spits more prespend on you. You want him to cum on your face, you gasp, words liquid, slurred. You're not entirely sure they're in English. You don't think you have the capacity to think beyond want, want, want—
"Yeah?" He rasps, elbow bending as he drops to his forearm. It brings his chest flush to yours. The dark smattering of hair rubs against your nipples. His face is a constellation: white jowls, black eyes. The look alone makes you smoulder. "Don't worry about me, pet." 
You're shaking your head, but the protests die on your tongue when his hips slip between your thighs, prying you further apart. Completely spread beneath the bulk of his body, you crumble.
He knocks your hands away, a low murmur of his approval slipping past those sinful lips for listening to him, as if there was ever a choice, and he notches your knees against his hips, pressing himself closer to your core. 
Finally free, your hands spring down to grab him, gripping his bicep in a vice just to feel the way it jumps under your fingers, and the other flat against his heated chest. His pulse thunders against your palm. 
"Gonna give it to you, now." 
You wanted it— ached for it—but as he feeds his thick cock into your pussy, you wonder if maybe you'd been a little overconfident before. That, perhaps, he was right. 
It's swallowed down, smothered with a whimper. His stupidly fat cock will not break you. 
"That's it, pet," he slurs, mask pressed tight to your ear. "Take it… C'mon, now." 
He pulls back, widening your thighs, and then pushing them up until you're nearly folding in half beneath him. The movement jostles his cock, and it nudges something inside of you that makes you spasm around him. 
"Fuckin' hell…" he groans, sinking in deeper. His eyes are fixed on the spot where he stretches you taut. Skin raw; cunt pushed to the mettle. "Almost there… look'it your pretty cunt take my cock…"
The air is punched from your lungs when he pushes in deeper, when the blunt head batters up behind your belly button. He knocks against your cervix, and the deep ache has tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. 
"Go on, pretty thing," he husks in your ear, words drenched in pleasure. Your fingers dig into the bulk of his body, crescent moons embedded into his skin.
He bludgeons into something inside of you that has you see stars—galaxies burst behind your eyelids, and heat, supernova hot, burns low in your belly. It burns at the place where his cocks ruts into you so deeply that you can feel him in your sternum, almost taste him in your throat. It liquefies your body. You melt into a conduit under him; a receptacle that leaches pleasure from the stretch of his cock inside you. 
Your body slackens. There is a give; something breaks. And he's suddenly deeper than you knew existed, than you ever thought possible. You feel him almost knocking against the cap of your womb. Each persistent jerk has your pussy clenching around him, milking him, trying to get him deeper. 
As if that was possible. As if there was any room left inside of you for him to claim. 
You're stuffed to the brim; overflowing with him. You can't take anymore. 
You sob brokenly when his hips pull back until only the mushroom head of his cock splits your aching, raw cunt open. The seam of you flutters around him, as if begging to be filled again. 
He grunts, a hoarse, low noise dredged from the depths of his chest when he shifts, his cock spearing back into you.
It nearly makes you scream. Your nails rake over his flesh, desperate to find purchase amid a crumbly chossy that threatens to send you plummeting down a precipice, hurtling you toward an unknown abyss. 
"Easy, now," he commands, the bark of his voice bitten between clenched teeth. "You're gonna make me cum before I've gotten my fill of this cunt, pet."
"Want it," you slur, babbling on the liquid bliss roaring through your veins. "Want you to fill me up, Simon."
A snarl of your name is the only warning you get before his cock is battering against your gummy walls, blunt head jarring into that little place inside of you that has phosphenes filling your vision, has your lungs aching with hypoxia. Head dizzy, chest shuddering with each breath. You can't get enough of it. Of the heady scent of him, the sun-drenched heat. 
Simon is normally so controlled, constrained, and you find yourself fracturing into pieces as his ironclad resolve seems to shatter with each squeeze of your cunt. It's a dizzying feeling to reduce your cold-hearted Lieutenant into a rutting beast, spoiling himself with each tight clench of your soft insides against his thick, hard cock. 
Your eyes open, wet lashes flutter and stick to the crease of your eyelid, and you find the way his brow is pinched tight together as he burrows himself deep within you, until the taste of salt is heavy on your tongue, absolutely breathtaking. It's enough to get you hooked. Enough to make such an utter mess of you, that you don't know how you'll recover from this. 
It's an intense feeling having him seated so deeply within you. Edging deliriously along that equinox of unfathomable bliss, and the sharp, distinct too much—too full quiver of pain. It's a pinch within your guts, a deep throb that follows the unending plume of pleasure so blistering as it batters into you, that you almost find yourself getting swept away by the sheer thrill of it all. Mindless, driven stupid by the way he takes, the way he ruins. 
(You don't ever want him to stop.)
It's one thing to have his mouth on you, but another thing entirely to see how he breaks when he's inside of you. It's addicting. A powerful high that renders everything else static. 
Pleasure, red-hot and dizzily intense, lacerates through your core, spooling at the base of your spine. It fills your limbs with molten bliss until nothing remains except the way he pounds inside of you, filling you over and over again with every inch he has to offer. You think you might just go insane if you don't have him. If you don't get to feel the delicious drag of his cockhead rubbing against your pulsating walls. 
Your hands slide over his skin. The muscles clenching under the pads of your fingers as you drag them up, over his arm, his biceps, his broad shoulders. 
The bulk of his back makes your fingers itch. You sink them into the corded muscles, clinging to him as Simon drags you to that hazy place where euphoria clots inside of your veins, and the heat you syphoned from him bubbles, frothing over. 
It's pulled taut—an elastic band that stretches well past the breaking point, and makes your fingers sting when it snaps. You convulse beneath him, sobbing out barely coherent words that sound like a quivering war cry of his name, of how good he feels, and how you're mad with the taste of him nestled so deeply within you. 
Your nails digging into his skin, his name on your lips like a gospel, the molten clench of you around—it all congeals together until he's snarling in your ear, a raspy grunt that makes your toes curl, that has you seeing nirvana once more. It's your name—somewhere in the mess of his growl, his groan—that is pulled out from him, and pierces you deep, makes your core tremble at the ragged sound of it, broken and hoarse. 
He throbs like a heartbeat, cock pulsing as he sputters out a thick pool of cum. It's almost too much; your pussy is overstuffed, forced to take both the heaviness of his cock, and molten spume that fills you to the brim. It leaks out from around the plug of him, pushed to the base until not even an inch remains, and you feel it gathering under you. 
You want a taste of it. It swells inside, fills you deep, and you wonder if he'd let you lick it off of him. 
You murmur it into his drenched chest, more slurred words that only vaguely sound English. Maybe it's the tone of your voice—ruined and raw, and drunk of the taste of him—that punctures through, but it hits the mark. Simon buries his head into your neck with another gravelled rasp of your name that sticks to his throat, breaking over the vowels. His softening cock twitches within you. 
Words, or sentiment, whispered into the crackling atmosphere that smells of sex and kerosene, and goes straight to his groin. 
"Cheeky little—," he starts, a husking grumble, but you squeeze your sore, aching sex around him, fluttering like a soft heartbeat, and it dies with a groan. 
The victory doesn't last long. Your raw, abused cunt aches from overstimulation, a throbbing sting from your tender flesh making you wince. You're too keyed up. A ragdoll against the shoreline, caught in the current that batters your body until you feel like one massive contusion. 
Fucking Simon feels like surviving a war. It feels like clawing your way out of the trenches, tasting the heavy, gunmetal tang of acrid artillery fire in the air, and standing victorious. Brutalised, dazed, and numb from the beating, but full of the banquet of victory. 
He keeps you under him, still buried to the hilt, and pants into your neck. Flushed with exertion, his chest red and drenched in sweat, you slip your hands through the mess of him, and find purchase where the knob of his spine protrudes from his flesh. 
Simon's head rises. His eyes—quivering, glossy ink—lidded and sleepy with pleasure, and that tangible post-sex haze that permeates the air, find yours. 
Sweat drips down his forehead, over his brow, his temple. It's swallowed by the fabric of his mask, lopsided on his cheeks. Red peaks over the black horizon. A deep flush the same bloodied hue as his chest.
(You wonder if it tastes like ichor.)
His eyes shudder, body trembling from the ripple of it. 
"Fuck me, pet…" 
You tip your heavy, mushy head back, and grin. Big, and wide. The smile of elation. Of success. "I already did."
He huffs, heavy and full, through his nose. "Bloody hell—" in response to your tease, he grinds his cock against your aching walls. 
Your breath is sucked in through clenched teeth; a breathy, high-pitched whimper. 
"Mae hi wedi cachi arna i…"
"English, pet."
Your ankles try to link at the base of his spine, body drawn like a bow. "Your cock ruined me." 
His eyes are rapacious, tainted with the fervour of conquest. 
"It was meant to." The smoke in his timbre makes your toes curl. Your lungs smoulder with the heat of it. 
Tumblr media
    Simon has you seeing nirvana again, and again before the light outside crests through the thin curtains.
He rolls you under him, ankles hooked on his shoulders, and makes you watch as his cock spears deep inside of your well-fucked cunt. 
Eyes on us, soldier. Don't you dare look away. 
On your knees, head nearly smothered by the pillow, he covers you with the entirety of his bulk until everything around you is pitch black with the shadow he casts. He looms over you, chest pressed against your back, and fucks you slow, and deep. The position almost has you blacking out from the depths he reaches like this, and the burn of the stretch as your pussy pulls taut against his cock. 
You can take it. This pretty cunt was made for my cock, pet. 
Your favourite is being lowered onto him. Chests pressed together. You bury your hand in his damp hair, your face in his neck, and sink your teeth into the column of his throat until the salt of his skin nearly drowns you. 
Fuckin' hell…
(In response, his hand brands the cheeks of your ass with the perfect impression of his massive palms.)
He lays back with you barely lucid, aching, sprawled on top of him, and runs his hands down your spine, husking in your ear about how good you've been for him, how pretty you look blissed out from his cock. 
His words are mercury in your head. 
"...wanna be good for you, Simon," you murmur into his collarbones. 
He shudders under you. 
Tumblr media
    His chest is slick with sweat when you rest your head on it, pulse thudding under your palm. His arm around your waist is an anchor, locking you tight to his side. 
You'd woken up to the sun bleeding through the window, the room thick with the balmy swelter of sex. Ashes in your throat, salt on your tongue. Simon's heat burrows into your marrow. 
There is a lot to be said, you think. Words that you were too cowardly to admit when in the soft, dazed atmosphere of the plane. 
Only one thing buoys to the forefront. The only things you'd been clutching at this whole time. Life on the line, and all you could think of was the dunes outside of your tent. The searing heat on your back. 
(Not on me.)
(Always, always.)
"...Since Sierra Leone," you confess into his flesh, mouth pressed against the side of his pectoral. His ashen chest hair tickles your nose. 
Simon tenses under you. The soft strokes of his fingers–bare, warm–on your hip still. 
You wonder if you misread things. If you made a mistake. Your mouth parts on his flesh. The briny taste of his skin is sharp on your tongue. 
You won't apologise. The words are there, the confession lingering in the air like opaque tendrils of smoke. It's in his hands now. This little thing that flutters within your chest, tucked away for safekeeping since he turned to you, eyes dark and narrow, and said you did good, rookie. 
His fingers coil over you, tightening against your flesh. 
"Everything…" he rasps. Everything. It's pulled out of him; rolled over barbed wire. 
Confused, you raise your head, brows knitting together. Everything—
A total eclipse. The ocean in the dead of night. Endless, unfathomable pools of black. The current threatens to drag you under to those depths that shudder in front of you. 
The words die on your tongue, ashes in the back of your throat. 
What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? So, what do you have to lose, soldier? 
A smile splits across your face; a sun dawning over the beige spalls that seem to never end. 
It tastes of the sea when you press your lips to his. You feel sand under your fingers, his pulse on your palm. 
Tumblr media
—Price calls it, has known since Mesaieed. He'd bet on Gaz, maybe even Soap. It never crosses his mind to think of Simon. 
—But thinking about it now, it was obvious from the start. 
("Sierra Leone. Wanna take Gaz with you–"
"No. I'll take the rookie.")
3K notes · View notes
littlenightma · 4 months
Text
John Carver/Eric Newlon Relationship Headcanons
Author’s Note: I just finished Thanksgiving (2023) and have now adopted a new killer. Enjoy.
Warnings: Spoilers for the Thanksgiving (2023) movie
Tumblr media
• He’s paranoid that you’ll leave him for someone else. Amanda was going to leave Bobby for him. What would stop you from doing the same? No amount of reassurance will ever ease the doubt. It won’t stop the glances he takes when you smile at a text that isn’t his or when he subtly pulls you back by your belt hoops when another man is closer than he likes. All you can really do is be there by his side no matter what.
• No matter what.
• Forbids you from Black Friday shopping unless you do it online and it must be delivered to the house. You don’t want to know what would happen if he ever came upon you in one of the stores. With so much commotion happening, no one would blink an eye in your direction if he dragged you out the store by your shirt collar and pushed you into the back of his police cruiser.
• He’s also possessive, but he’s never too aggressive with you. He won’t raise his voice unless he needs to (like finding out you disobeyed his order to stay in the house on Black Friday). Won’t ask you to not hang with your friends or get upset when you wear revealing clothing, but expect to be ambushed when you come home. He’s not going to keep his hands off you. You smell too much like other people, like the outside world, when you need to smell like him.
• Pouts. A lot. Like I said, he doesn’t voice his disapproval often. He doesn’t want to dampen your happiness with his sour mood, but it isn’t hard to tell when something is bothering him when he suddenly becomes withdrawn. You’re going to have to pester him until he finally says what’s on his mind and appreciates when you try to find a middle ground for him. He adores your considerate nature so very much.
• Would give up his life for you in a heartbeat. He protects people everyday. It was his job to do so. What is expected of him. But for you? He’d bring the whole world to its knees if it meant keeping you safe. You’ve resurrected the light he thought he’s lost, banished the darkness and hatred he’s held for months. There was an extra umph to his step when he left for work and a new sparkle in his eye when he kissed you before leaving bed to make breakfast.
• He dares anyone to come and disrupt this newfound peace.
• Loves when you stop by the station to drop off a surprise lunch. Loves it even more if you’re both able to enjoy each other’s company while you eat. All the guys say he’s lucky to have someone like you. He couldn’t be any luckier. Couldn’t be more thankful.
• When the time comes when the leaves change color and the air becomes cooler, you carefully bring up Thanksgiving dinner and what you plan to cook. He leans into his hand, smiling softly toward your attentiveness to his reaction and says it sounds wonderful.
• And when you bring up where you would do with any extra food, he chuckles and slyly winks at you, “Don’t worry, baby. There won’t be any leftovers for us to deal with once I’m through.”
240 notes · View notes
sodaskateboard · 2 months
Text
Ganyu NSFW Headcanons
AN: Sigh, thinking about my goat wife,, my precious princess, Gender Neutral Reader/ No Autonomy Given for Reader
Cannot dom to save her life
She will cry if you ask her to because she doesn't want to upset you but still just,, can't do it. Poor girl
Sex is very intimate and private for her, so she can't do hook ups or be with someone she doesn't love
She's also had very few, if any, sexual partners and wasn't very interested in sex before you so she's pretty inexperienced
You get to teach her the joy of "stress relief"
She needs it now regularly or else the stress just builds up again. Please. She physically needs it. Please, please, please
She needs constant reassurance and praise
It has to be romantic and sweet and soft
That said, you can tease her a little, but it has to be nice. Don't insult her even as a joke
"Is my sweet girl needy?" you ask her, already knowing the answer from how she sinks her body into your lap, trying to grind on you, without making it obvious. And maybe it wouldn't be if her breath wasn't so uneven, peaking around her small moans that she couldn't stop from escaping. She lets out a louder moan in response and leans back into your chest. It's clear what she wants, but she's too cute to pass up on. "Sorry sweetheart, you're gonna have to use your words." She whines loudly in protest and hides her red face in your neck, too embarrassed to say anything, only getting out her moan and pants and bucking into your hand.
Gets overstimulated easily
Loves having when you play with her tits. Massage them, kiss them, pinch her nipples, and suck on them
She's cummed just from having them sucked on while riding your thigh
Finds it embarrassing to finish and it takes a lot of energy from her
So it's even more overwhelming
Loves holding your hand while she finishes
She can't cum unless she feels safe
So hold her, pet her hair, whisper to her that's she's the most beautiful creature to ever exist, that you love with your whole soul, that you're going to make her your wife one day, how happy seeing her makes you
Her favourite dirty talk is the kind that if you just read it with no context, it could sound like wedding vows
Once you read her a love poem while fingering her in your lap and now she can't hear the poet's name without being mortified,, and a little excited
Her favourite place is in your or hers teapot. That way she knows no one can see you two
Imagine her surprise when you recreated her office in it. And several streets from Liyue outside,,,
She feels so dirty for imagining getting fucked somewhere like her work place or public, but she likes it so much
The first time you had sex outside in the teapot, she learned she was so sensitive even the wind's gentlest blow on her bare skin made her hot
She tastes very close to water, maybe with a bit of a herbal taste since she eats and drinks very healthy
She needs post sex cuddles more than she needs air. She needs a lot of emotional support during and after, so she knows you still like her after and are staying with her
"You work so hard Ganyu, I think you need at least one more. Just to be sure we got all the stress out of you." The half adeptus has her legs over your shoulder, the waves of her last orgasm still rippling through her body, making her head go back and her hips buck into nothing while her back tenses and all of her shakes. You place a hand her outer hip, gently patting her up and down until she can answer. You hum and watch her writhe.
She may be the divine being, knowing the Archon and adepti of Liyue for centuries and being raised them, but with the sight of her, you know you're the one truly blessed. To have Ganyu in your arms, to love and be her lover, there is not a mortal or immortal luckier than you. With her, you would stand in front of not only the adepti, or all of the Liyue, but all of Teyvat and its' archons and beyond. Even among Celestia, there is none more blessed than you, you're sure of it.
Your lovely girlfriend whines and squirms still. Maybe it was a little mean to make her finish four times. Or maybe what made it mean was that you planned to go for five tonight without telling her your goal. "You ready to go again pretty girl?" She whines loudly, either in protest or agreement. You softly giggle, "what does that mean?". She looks away from you, grabbing a pillow and putting it over her face. Then she starts to hump the air, wanting you to take care of her again. You were sure from the cry she let out when you began licking her heat again that making her cum five times was the meanest thing. Only maybe your cute little workaholic needed someone to be mean to her to get her to relax.
101 notes · View notes
furiousgoldfish · 1 year
Text
As a kid, I used to believe that everyone had it worse than me, and it wasn't a self-imposed point of view. I was informed on a regular basis that I was lucky and had no idea how horrid life was for everyone else. I also was told how nothing good in life can come without the person paying for it dearly, or without the equal amount of suffering for it. So I always assumed, if I saw someone having it better very obviously, that there was a hidden amount of suffering I knew nothing about, and that would break me. And that I was luckier without that thing. And without knowing with what kind of pain it was paid for.
It was a while after escaping, that I started realizing that not only people don't have it worse by a large margin, but also that most people who have something I couldn't imagine, had it without any pain or sacrifice, but as their birthright. Family, for example. Friends. Human rights. Healthy childhood. Pets that are not used against you. Peers that don't bully, use or take advantage of you. Safety. Money they got from their parents as children, without having to work under horrible circumstances, that they weren't made to feel guilty for getting. And later, being able to work, being able to live pain-free, being able to live without having nightmares, flashbacks, and body that doesn't work. Most of what I've believed was a lie. There was a world of people who had things I couldn't dream of, who weren't hurt for it, who sacrificed nothing. Who could take it for granted.
It made me feel dreadful, the knowledge of just how disadvantaged, and naive I was. I didn't want to know that I had all of those things taken from me, that I was lied to and had everything I should have had scammed away, while believing that it was the only way. I didn't want this. I didn't feel strong for surviving without everything. I felt empty, robbed, helpless. Stupid.
And once I started noticing, everything became triggering. Seeing people use resources given to them carelessly, seeing them having people to rely on and people who will defend them, made me hyper aware of everything I don't have. Seeing people gently playing with their children would make me feel at ease for a second, because there was the relief that nobody needed to abuse their kids, and then later, I would break down just thinking how much it would mean to me if I had even a tiny little bit of that. If I had gotten one percent of that assurance, attention and gentleness, how it would have changed my entire life. It became unbearable. People became unbearable once the gap between me and them was visible.
So it became easier to be alone. If I don't see people having it easier, I can pretend that what I'm going thru is normal, and it's calmer that way. It makes socializing difficult, but being aware of how othered and different you are, is also difficult.
None of it was something I did to myself, or a result of any of my actions. I've been put into this situation without any way out of it. I know this when I'm alone, I understand I'm like this because of what was done to me, against my will. When I couldn't fight it, or didn't even know how to. I'm not responsible for this. But I do have to live with the consequences. And some of them are not fixable.
179 notes · View notes
supernaturalscribe67 · 6 months
Text
Lucky
Tumblr media
Words: 4,699
POV: 3rd Person
Pairing: Dean/Sam Winchester x Trans!FTM!Winchester!Reader [Platonic]
Warning(s): Mention of surgery, references to top surgery recovery, slight gore (maybe?), language (also, maybe?), loving and supportive family members, fluff
Summary: Top surgery was never something the reader thought was possible. With the help of Sam, he was able to make his dream come true, and his brothers are there for him to help while he's in recovery.
Request:
I would absolutely love Dean and Sam with a younger trans brother who just got top surgery and is in recovery? Just fluff of like helping him wash his hair or getting things for him and reassuring them? Love your content so much!! It so nice to see some more trans content in the supernatural fandom :)
@cometcreates
A/N: I am so sorry this took a little longer to get out than I planned - work has been extremely hectic and draining recently - but I hope you like it! Let me know what you think! Feedback is greatly appreciated!
Much love!
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
People define luck in many different ways. Some say luck is a dollar bill lying on the ground, some say it’s a passing grade once they get their tests back, and others say it’s their true love. (Y/N), however, would define his luck as waking up every morning in the Men of Letters bunker with his brothers. 
Years ago when he came out to his older brothers as transgender, although they were a little confused at first, they were fully supportive. They did everything in their power to make sure that their little brother was comfortable, not only in their home and out in public but in his skin as well. They purchased a binder for him, got him better clothing, adjusted rather quickly to his name and pronoun change, and got defensive - sometimes a little too much - whenever someone misgendered him. With all that they were doing for him, (Y/N) couldn’t imagine how luckier he could get. He already had an amazing support system, what else could he need? 
At the end of last year, Sam approached him and asked him if he had been wanting to get top surgery, something they had talked about once or twice, but never regularly. When (Y/N) showed his interest in getting the surgery, Sam told him that he had done some research about different places where he could potentially get the procedure done, as well as all the criteria that certain places needed for him to qualify. After they sat and talked for a while, they concluded that, with Sam’s assistance, they would get started on (Y/N)’s journey toward top surgery. 
The months following consisted of semi-monthly visits with a psychologist Sam found in Hays, KS - all of the medical professionals required a steady diagnosis of gender-dysphoria from a registered psychologist to be able to consider the patient for the operation - as well as reading up on the aftermath of the surgery and what was to be expected. Of course, (Y/N) knew he would get all of the information from his surgeon before it was done, but he wanted to make sure he was well-informed and nothing was left out of the consultation. 
The consultation went well, and, after waiting for an eternity in the examination room, the doctor finally came in and set up the date for the surgery. (Y/N) was over the moon, and he immediately began to count down the days. Sam and Dean helped him get all of the necessary items he needed for the surgery recovery; various snacks, scar care creams, a surgical binder, a mastectomy pillow, and an extremely cozy blanket that he had begged them to buy. Even after they had gotten everything on the list, occasionally, they would buy something they thought would be beneficial for the recovery period. 
Then, they waited. Day after day went by and (Y/N) found it difficult to focus on hunting rather than the anxiety and anticipation that bubbled within him, but his brothers kept him grounded in times of distress. They could tell just how excited he was, and they never wanted to dampen the mood by turning his focus back on the job. They wanted him to keep that enthusiasm even after he had the surgery. When the day of the surgery came, they didn’t even try to calm his excitement. Just seeing how happy he was made them feel the same. 
The surgery went well. The recovery was going to be the hard part. The doctor made sure to prescribe him pain medication, which the brothers had picked up before they left the surgical center to head back to the bunker, and gave him a pamphlet describing all of his recovery needs in grave detail. Of course, they had already been well-prepared for the occasion, but it was nice to have it on hand. (Y/N) stayed in the hospital under observation for two days until he was finally released, clad in nothing but a pair of shorts, some slides, his surgical binder, the drainage tubes and bulbs connected to each incision underneath the binder, and one of Sam’s flannels that rested against his shoulders, keeping the front open to allow his chest to breathe. After he was wheeled and loaded into the back of the car, the three brothers made the drive back home. 
By the time the Impala edged its way into the well-lit garage, the sun had gone down, and the night sky was littered with stars. It wasn’t a long way to Lebanon from Kansas City, about five hours depending on traffic, but the trip wasn’t entirely painless. (Y/N) was thankful for the medications he was given after his surgery, but the bumpy backroads in Kansas were ruthless and did little to provide a comfortable drive home. He initially tried to sleep through the journey, but every pothole they hit - accompanied by an apology from his oldest brother - sent another wave of discomfort coursing through his chest. He had never felt more joy in his entire life than when he saw the familiar dirt road as he and his brothers got closer to the bunker. 
Dean parked the car and killed the engine. He turned, arm draped over the back of the front seat. “You feeling okay?” He asked. 
(Y/N) glanced over at him and gave a small nod. He adjusted himself and winced as the pain shot through his arms and chest. “Just sore, hurts like hell. When am I due for my next round of meds, Sammy?” He turned to his older brother in the passenger’s seat. 
Sam looked back at him for a moment and then down at his phone screen. “You should be able to take some more now. Why don’t we get you inside and into your bed first? That way we can get you something to eat and drink with your medicine.” 
“No food,” (Y/N) groaned. “I don’t feel like eating now.” 
“You have to eat something.” 
“Fine, I’ll eat some crackers, or something small, or one of those snack cakes I got, but I really can’t eat anything filling right now. I’ll eat some more in the morning when I’m feeling better.” 
“Alright,” 
“Now, can someone let me out? These doors are surprisingly heavy.” 
“Yeah!” Dean said, quick to jump out of the car and head towards the back passenger’s side. He opened the door and held out a hand. 
(Y/N) smiled weakly as he reached over and grabbed Dean’s hand. He was slow to move out of the seat and plant his feet on the ground. When he stood, his legs shook, but he let out a sigh of relief. His legs were weak. The recovery had consisted of laying in his hospital bed and, occasionally, getting up and taking a few steps inside his room, just to keep the blood flowing in his legs. With the lack of energy he had and the five-hour ride back, his legs felt completely numb, as if they were made of Jell-O. 
Dean held (Y/N)’s hand tightly while his opposite arm wrapped around his waist. He moved him away from the car and shut the door. The two of them made their way to the bunker door. Sam jumped out of the car and caught up with them as they walked inside. When they were greeted with the metal stairs that landed in the War Room, (Y/N) stopped. He let out a sigh of defeat. 
“This is going to hurt like Hell,” he mumbled. He reached a shaky arm over and grasped the railing until his knuckles paled. 
“We’ll take it slow,” Dean nodded softly. 
(Y/N) returned the nod and they began to walk down the stairs, one step at a time. The entire time they walked, Dean held onto him tightly, both of their eyes cast down towards the steps. Each step, despite the snail’s pace they walked at, made a jolt of pain shoot through (Y/N)’s back. A pained expression crossed his face multiple times as he pressed his lips together tightly. 
Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs and another contempt sigh left (Y/N)’s lips. Sam brushed past them. 
“I’m going to grab your crackers and water and meet you in your room, okay?” He placed a gentle hand on (Y/N)’s shoulder. 
“Sounds good,” (Y/N) flashed a thumbs-up towards him before Sam walked down the hallway, toward the kitchen. 
(Y/N) was a little quicker when they walked through the halls, and he was thankful when they reached his room. He wasted no time parting himself from his brother and making his way over to his bed. Despite his shaky legs, he held himself up well. He turned on the lamp on his nightstand, illuminating the room with a faint yellow glow. 
His bed was neatly made with multiple pillows resting at the head - the doctor recommended that he slept elevated for the first week or so and then slept on his back for several months afterward. It would be an adjustment, but (Y/N) knew that he could get used to it. 
He climbed into his bed, careful of the collection bags on his chest, and crawled underneath the layers of blankets. Instantly, he relaxed into the plush mattress, head resting on the stack of pillows behind him. Dean waltzed deeper into the room, eyeing him carefully. 
“You okay?” He asked. 
“Better now that I’m in bed,” (Y/N) looked over at him. “Although it just feels like I’m in another hospital room.” 
“At least you won’t be eating any more hospital food,” 
(Y/N) grimaced. “Don’t remind me of that, I’ll throw up.” 
Sam entered the room, a bottle of water in one hand, the white bag with (Y/N)’s prescription narcotics tucked under his arm, and a small sleeve of saltines in the other. He set the water bottle and saltines down on the bedside table and opened the bag. He took out the orange pill bottle and fished out an oval-shaped white capsule. He handed it to (Y/N), who took it gratefully. He popped the pill into his mouth and drank some water to wash it down. 
“You should probably empty those soon,” Sam said, gesturing towards the bags that rested against (Y/N)’s stomach. 
(Y/N) glanced down at them and shook his head. “The doctor said every twelve hours should be good. They changed them right before I left the hospital, so they should be fine for right now.” 
“Alright, if you say so,” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you need anything? TV? Books? Some snacks?”
“I’m good, thanks. I think I’m going to catch some shuteye for a bit. That car ride took all the energy out of me.” 
Sam nodded and turned to walk towards the door. “If you need anything, let us know.” 
“I will, don’t worry.” 
“Seriously,” Dean piped up. “If you need anything, even if it’s small, just holler or shoot us a text.” 
(Y/N) couldn’t help but chuckle. The overprotective nature of his brothers was something that never changed. “I promise I’ll call if I need anything.” 
Dean and Sam both gave him a small smile before they turned and left the room, closing the door behind them. (Y/N) marveled in the silence. No nurses walking outside of his room, no snoring from his brothers on the pull-out beds, no heart monitors beeping constantly. It was peaceful. He reached over and turned off the lamp light, flooding the room, once again, with darkness. The darkness was something he missed. He would never take his pitch-black room for granted ever again. 
He awoke six hours later, around the time when the medication began to wear off and the pain resurfaced. He had tried to reach over to the nightstand and grab the pill bottle, but his arms were too stiff. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, a grunt falling from his lips. The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been the day after surgery, it was mostly the sore tenderness he felt in his chest and back that bothered him. When his feet touched the floor, he was able to lean over and grab the pill bottle with ease. He uncapped it, took out another capsule, and popped it into his mouth, followed by a drink of water. The medication would start working in twenty minutes or so. 
The ache wasn’t only in his chest and back, however. As he downed the water, he felt it fall into his stomach. A gurgle sounded from his gut and he placed a hand over it. He probably shouldn’t have taken the medication on an empty stomach. He needed some food. For a moment, he considered the saltines on the bedside table but quickly tossed out the idea. They didn’t sound as appetizing as they had before he went to sleep, and even then he had only accepted them to make his brother feel better. He wanted some real food. He wanted some of the snack cakes that he got for the occasion. The real question was; could he get up and walk to the kitchen by himself without bothering his brothers? It was still early, so they were most likely asleep. They had been with him the entire time he was in the hospital, and he wanted to make sure that they got the sleep they deserved. 
(Y/N) placed his hands on his knees and let in a deep breath, his eyes falling closed for a second. With a quick exhale, he hoisted himself off of the bed. His legs quivered, and he had to reach back towards the bed to steady himself. After he stood for a couple of minutes, the blood seemed to flow back through his legs. They were unsteady, but less than they had been before. He shuffled his way towards his door and opened it, glancing up and down the hallways. He then made his way towards the kitchen. The sound of his stomach growling echoed throughout the corridor. 
“Damn, I’m getting you food, calm down,” (Y/N) mumbled to himself. 
It took a lot longer for him to get to the kitchen than it had taken to get to his room the night before. He was slow, uncomfortably so, and he hated it. He felt like an old man. At least I’m an old man without tits, he thought. 
When he got into the kitchen, he walked over to the pantry shelves and glanced up. Sat on the second highest shelf were the cupcakes that he had been craving. Those delicate, chocolatey, packaged goodies. They were teasing him with the pictures on the front of the box. He wanted one so bad, and he couldn’t even reach them. He could barely lift his arms enough to reach the shelf directly in front of him. He tried to scour the shelf in front of him for something that sounded at least a little bit appetizing, but nothing made his mouth water as much as the soft, chocolate cakes near the top of the pantry. 
Curse you, Hostess. 
Just as he was about to give up and pick something from a more accessible shelf, the sound of padded footsteps echoed down the hallway. (Y/N) turned his head towards the door as Sam entered. Sam furrowed his brows. 
“Hey, what’re you doing up?” 
“Oh, the pain medicine wore off, so I took another one. Plus I’m starving,” he then turned his gaze back to the cupcakes. 
“Do you want me to make you something for breakfast? I can make scrambled eggs.” 
“Sure,” (Y/N) shrugged. “But…I really…want a cupcake.” 
“For breakfast?” 
(Y/N) looked back at Sam. His bottom lip was pushed out in a small, child-like pout. His eyes were big and his brows were tilted up slightly. It was his own signature puppy-dog eyes. Sam’s puppy-dog eyes were good, but (Y/N)’s was better. Those eyes were the reason behind him getting to pick a place to eat or what movie they watched most of the time. 
Sam sighed as he walked over, grabbed the box of cupcakes, and ripped it open. He took out a package and handed it to (Y/N). (Y/N) beamed and ripped the plastic open. He took a big bite of the cupcake and hummed happily. 
“Ok, you have your cupcake, but I’m still going to make you some scrambled eggs. You need to have some real food in you.” 
“Cupcakes are real food, Samuel. Maybe you’d be happier if you ate one once in a while.” 
“And maybe you’d be happier if you ate healthier.” 
(Y/N) stuck his tongue out at Sam. Sam rolled his eyes and smirked before he walked over to the fridge. Meanwhile, (Y/N) trudged over to the table and sat down. 
“You should probably change your bags soon,” Sam said. 
(Y/N) glanced down at the bags and noticed that they were halfway full. He cursed under his breath. “Let me enjoy my cupcake and then I’ll empty them.” 
“Do you need help?” 
“Nah, I got it, thanks, though.” 
Sam smiled and nodded. Without hesitation, (Y/N) shoved the rest of the cupcake in his mouth, a hum of pleasure emitting from his throat. Sam grimaced and turned away. (Y/N) glanced over at him. 
“Don’t judge me,” he mumbled with a mouthful of food before he stood up and made his way to the bathroom to drain his bulbs.
Three days had passed, and (Y/N) had already started feeling better. His movement had increased, the pain was starting to diminish, and the fluid that filled the bulbs slowed. His mental health had noticeably improved and every time he looked in the mirror, admiring his newly sculpted chest, the smile would never fail to stick to his face for hours on end. One thing that he didn’t like about the recovery process though, something that stayed a consistent issue, was the lack of personal hygiene. 
When his doctor told him that he wouldn’t be able to shower for a while after the procedure, he didn’t think that it would affect him as much as it was. Granted, he still took whore baths, using a damp washcloth and some soap to clean his body off the best that he could, but he could still feel the grime that coated his skin. Specifically, his hair was what bothered him the most. It was wet with grease to the point where it could stand up without any assistance from haircare products. (Y/N) felt disgusting. He needed to get his hair clean, quickly, and he couldn’t do it by himself. If he leaned over too much, the strain on his chest would cause the pain to flair up. He needed help. Sam had been busy researching and assisting other hunters who had called while the brothers were on a break from hunting themselves, so (Y/N) went to the next best person.  
(Y/N) knocked on Dean’s door rhythmically. A faint ‘come in’ sounded from inside. He opened the door to see his brother on his bed, lying on his stomach, eyes glued to the television screen in front of him. 
“Hey,” Dean said with a smile. “How’re you doing, kiddo?” 
“Pretty good. The pain’s not as bad today. I was wondering if you could help me with something, though.” 
“Sure,” Dean reached over, grabbed the remote, and turned off the television. He shifted himself so that he was sitting down on the edge of the bed. “What do you need?” 
“Can you wash my hair for me?” 
“I thought you weren’t supposed to shower yet.” 
“I can’t get my chest wet, but I can clean the rest of my body. I’ve been taking whore baths for the past couple of days, but I haven’t been able to get my hair cleaned. Could you help me with that?” 
Dean hummed and pursed his lips. “Yeah,” he said as he stood up. “Meet me in the bathroom, I’ll be in there in a bit.” 
(Y/N) didn’t wait in the bathroom for long before Dean rounded the corner, a chair dragging behind him. He placed the chair in front of the sink and gestured to it. 
“Sit,” he said. 
(Y/N) awed. “It’s like a trashy hair salon.” 
Dean rolled his eyes and chuckled. He grabbed the shampoo and conditioner from the bathroom cabinet as (Y/N) sat down in the chair. He leaned his head back so that it rested against the cool basin. Dean walked over to the sink and glanced down at his head. He grimaced. 
“Damn, kid, you definitely need to wash that hair.” he reached down and touched a lock of his hair, wincing as he pulled his hand back, studying the sheen that the hair left on his fingers. “Ew.” 
“Thanks,” (Y/N) deadpanned. 
Dean smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you all cleaned up.” 
Dean turned on the hot water, the spout shooting out the liquid into the sink. Dean began to run his fingers through (Y/N)’s hair. (Y/N) instinctively closed his eyes. Dean wet his hair, pouring the water over the locks with his cupped hands. 
(Y/N) could remember the last time he went to the hair salon. He was young, around the age of six, and Bobby had taken him to get his hair done. Even though Bobby seemed uncomfortable the entire time he was there, he wanted to make sure that (Y/N) had a somewhat normal childhood experience. (Y/N) was ecstatic, and enjoyed every minute of the haircut. His favorite part, however, was when the stylist was washing his hair. It was something about the way her fingers caressed his scalp, massaging the product into the roots of his hair, that brought an overwhelming sense of bliss. Dean’s fingers weren’t as gentle and soft as the stylist’s, but he sure knew how to give a good head massage. 
Two fingers gently tapped against the side of (Y/N)’s head. He opened his eyes and looked up at his brother. He hummed in acknowledgment. 
“I said ‘Do you like it’?” Dean repeated, a smirk curled into the corner of his lips. 
(Y/N) slowly nodded. The suds dripped down from the side of his head and caressed the outside of his ear. “Feels nice. You should have gone to cosmetology school.” 
Dean laughed. “I meant your chest. How do you…feel now?” 
“Oh,” (Y/N) let out a short laugh. “Honestly, I feel great. I don’t have to bind anymore, which means I won’t have to worry about hunts and catching my breath. I no longer have to worry about if clothes will fit me because of my chest. I don’t look in the mirror and hate what I see…” his voice trailed. “I look in the mirror and I see me. The me that I was supposed to be.” 
The two of them were silent for a while as Dean poured water over his hair, washing out the soap. His fingers caressed the back of (Y/N)’s scalp, watching intensely as the conditioner ran down the drain. 
“You know, if it makes you feel any better, Sammy and I always saw you as our little brother. I mean, you never really did all that girly crap - makeup, playing with dolls, stuff like that. You were always interested in playing with the mud. The amount of times that you would get in trouble with Bobby because you would bring mudpies into his house, or whenever you would track mud inside when it was raining. He got so pissed,” he chuckled, and (Y/N) joined him. 
“But then you got older,” he continued. “And it started to seem like you weren’t really my brother. But…something wasn’t right. I knew something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Calling you my sister felt wrong. I started calling you my little brother again whenever I told people about you, and then it felt right. When you told us you were transgender, it all made sense to me. It clicked. You never really were my little sister. You were my little brother, just with a few extra parts. Now that you got your surgery, I can see just how happy you are. How comfortable you are, and that means more to me than anything else.” 
The conditioner was gone. (Y/N)’s freshly washed hair laid against the basin. Dean reached over to the cabinet and grabbed out a small hand towel. He ruffled the towel against (Y/N)’s damp hair, making sure to get all of the water off of the side of his face and his ears. When his face was dry, he helped him sit up. 
“And me seeing you like this, I have never felt more proud of you,” Dean concluded. 
(Y/N) glanced up at Dean, brows raised. His wet hair dripped onto his naked shoulder. “Really?” He asked in a quiet voice. 
Dean smiled softly. “Yeah. I’m proud that you told Sam and me how you felt. I’m proud that you got the courage to go through with the surgery, and,” Dean knelt in front of the chair. “I’m proud to call you my baby brother.” 
A lump had formed in (Y/N)’s throat. His eyes glimmered with tears that pooled in their corners. Without saying anything, (Y/N) reached forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, pulling him into a loose embrace. Dean placed his hands on (Y/N)’s back and smiled into the hug. 
“I owe you and Sam so much,” (Y/N) spoke softly. “You guys take such good care of me.” 
“You don’t owe us anything. That’s just what big brothers are supposed to do.” 
“Not even if I bake you a pie?” 
“Now, if you decide to bake a pie, I won’t turn it down,” Dean pulled away and held his hands up. 
(Y/N) sniffled and wiped the tears away. “I should make Sammy one of those fancy salads he likes.” 
“Oh, he’ll go crazy for that,” Dean mumbled. “Him and his damn rabbit food.” 
“You go crazy for pie, though.” 
“Yeah, but pie is good. Actually good.” 
(Y/N) rolled his eyes, causing Dean to chuckle. Dean stood up and brushed his jeans off, stretching his arms above his head. 
“What do you say we get Sammy and go watch a movie?” Dean asked. 
(Y/N) smiled. “I’d like that.” 
“Great! You go get Sammy and I’ll get the snacks.” 
Dean turned and jogged out of the room. (Y/N) stood and tilted his neck from side to side, noting the small strain in his muscles. (Y/N) grabbed the back of the chair he had been sitting in, but stopped as he saw himself in the reflection of the small mirror. His eyes scraped over his body, from his head down to his exposed hips. He shifted so that he could see his torso from the side.
It was almost as if he was in a dream. Like, at any moment, he would blink and wake up in his bed with his breasts still attached to his chest. For years, he had been wanting to get top surgery, but it never seemed like something he was able to achieve. Never in his wildest imagination did he see himself standing in front of a mirror and feeling proud of the body that he stood in. He no longer saw the body of a woman, the man he was trapped inside and desperately attempting to claw his way out. He saw a man, who he truly was, the real (Y/N) Winchester. 
And as he stared at his chest, a smile appearing on his lips, the words Dean spoke echoed in his head;
I’m proud to call you my baby brother.
Now, (Y/N) Winchester could confidently say that he was the luckiest man alive.
91 notes · View notes
nozomi-akamivt · 1 year
Text
Scalpels and Paintbrushes || Chishiya Shuntarô x Reader
- read ‘til the end for notes -
When a freelance artist travels to Japan to rekindle her passion for art and her life, she finds herself in a whole other predicament. Dangerous games, dangerous people, a dangerous world with dangerous rules. She’s alone, fending for herself, until she meets a disoriented medical student that will bring her comfort but might bring more difficulties and heartbreak aswell.
TW: gore, Niragi being Niragi
Chapter 7: I am not a Woman I'm a God
Tumblr media
The first two weeks of being alone without Chishiya were the worse, I felt disoriented, like I was a ship lost in a turbulent sea without an anchor to keep me in place. I lost an arm and it also felt like I had lost a friend, or more than that... a lover.
I didn't know what we were, everyday, I wrapped my wound and felt the stump left instead of my arm, wanting it to be him helping me lick my wounds. Everyday I fall asleep with my walkie talkie clutched tight in my arms. I was waiting for him, because he was the only one I had left. And unlike Hide or Yumeko, he wasn't dead, I didn't kill him, he was fine....was he? Is he? I still have no news and I am starting to lose my mind. I try to be positive, to tell myself he'll call but then another week passes. Two more games are completed. They are harder when you only have one arm left.
"I should get in better shape, I'm back at letting myself die at this point."
Looking in the mirror I see that the chub that used to be around my hips and waist, and the one around my legs and right arm are gone. My face is looking thinner and my clavicles start to show. It has been hard taking care of myself while lacking an arm and someone to help me in this disorienting situation. I still needed to find ways to make everything easier for myself.
"I need to eat more, and I definitely need to do something about this nest of hair."
"Seriously, I need to put on some muscles, I won't be able to help anyone out if I'm a dead woman standing. C'mon (y/n) he'll call when he can, when he's ready. He said he needed time, and so you will need some too, not thinking about him, but getting better for others and him to see that you are here, alive and well and ready to help."
Because that was my vow to Hide and Yumeko. That I'll help others in this shitshow of a world.
And with a sigh I cover up the mirror and prepare myself to go get the traps I set outside for wild rabbits, hoping for a good catch. Hunting by setting traps was by far the easiest way to get food for me, as I couldnt hunt with only one arm, or at least not yet, I'd adapt sooner or later I hope.
Fortunately, three rabbits were caught in my net. Enough to last me two days, and as I could make broth out of the bones they would last me even more.
That was how my life was since Chishiya left. One armed lass against the cruel world of the borderlands, waiting for her beau to call. Playing games when absolutely needed and hoping they didn't require two arms or else she'd be royally fucked.
And then three weeks turned into four, then five, six, seven, two months, then three, then four.
And as I lost hope of ever seeing him again, whether it be because he died or ghosted me, which would be the same in essence, I decided to take it upon myself to get stronger.
So one might expect a training montage while I say this and honestly it might be better but the reality is more cruel unfortunately.
It started after the one month mark:
In the mornings I'd wake up and run until my legs and lungs gave out, having two arms to catch yourself is easily taken for granted in situations like this one and I most often than not face planted.
Nose bloodied I made my way to the traps, some days luckier and more bountiful than others.
More often than not I'd go to games whenever I could in the evenings, they'd keep my mind sharp and would force me to adapt to my new disability. And as monstrous as it sounds, you easily get adapted to the sight of brain matter and organs on the floor and walls.
My stump hurt like crazy still, it also itched under the bandages. And more often than not, I woke up with the phantom pains, feeling as if my arm got ripped from me, again and again.
I could rarely fall asleep, so I went to take Chishiya's old blouse and used it to cuddle as i curled on myself during the hard nighs, which were most of them.
After the two months mark I got better:
My legs and lungs had a harder time giving out so I ran further and faster until they did.
I also barely managed to cut my hair at this point, it was down to the middle of my back and looked just about ready to be a rat king. So with gardening scissors, a lot of shaking and a lot of patience I managed to look like a little boy who cut his hair with daddy's ball trimmer. It was bad, but more breathable, easier to take care of, and I mean who doesn't like a short haired, one armed wonder?
I didn't but you get used to it when it's all you can have.
I also started hunting bigger catches, like wild boar. And to do so I had to learn by myself, with the help of books I found in the mall book store. My japanese, having gotten much better in the bast two months, helped me enough that I could decypher how to observe and analyse the tell tale signs of the presence of boars. Bite marks on the trees, shape of frictions on the ground, hoof marks...
And that also meant I had to learn how to make spears. You never know how much more useful can your legs get until you use them as a second arm to hold wood down as you sharpen it. And they are definitely of use when trapping a boar down as you pin the beast with all your weight and deliver the killing blow.
That also meant my right arm got much stronger, I mean to compensate for my lacking left one, I had to make it better than it was. So, remembering Yumeko's self defence lessons I started to use them on real people in games.
To train of course.
.
.
.
But also because those people really need to get a grip. The lack of physically present autorities and the permission to commit atrocities really get to some people and they need to get their brains out of their asses before they get got.
Of course if assholes died it isn't much of my fault, I mean I do warn them. But do I go out of my way to save a guy that just groped a middle school girl? Nah. Fuck that. I much prefer saving the pregnant woman from getting killed by a masked kitsune.
And the third month I started to see:
My stump had healed almost fully by this point, it was itchy yes, the phantom pains were killing me, also yes. But there were almost no signs of fresh flesh or almost no risk of infections. That was one less worry to have? But to give me more balance I put a belt around it and gave it some weight, it would help me be better and faster on my feet without fearing that I'll fall every second that I live.
The walkie talkie was loud with silence, it teased me, laughed in my face at my abandonment so I hid it in Yumeko's stuff. And speaking of Yumeko and Hide, I organized their stuff in boxes, but not without crying at the memories and reiterating my vow to them.
I swore once more to them that I'd live once more, but also that as much as I'll help the ones around me I won't trust anyone to be close again. Not if it ends up with death, not if it ends up with them leaving
I left the idea of Chishiya contacting me again, maybe he did die, maybe he really did just leave, or maybe he broke or lost his walkie talkie. But I have to forget him, as good as it was he isn't here anymore so I have to learn to be by myself.
And that had to be the hardest thing.
"Goodbye Shuntarô."
I say as I close the box containing his scrubs, ID and white vest.
And until the summer I thrived:
After the third and fourth months I felt it, how I hardened mentally. The loneliness didn't feel quite as gruelling, the sound of silence not as mean. The pain in my stump stopped and other than my flashes of phantom pain I was, almost back to normal, as normal as I could be lacking a limb.
During a game in Harajuku I also found much better clothes than what I had. And I decided to treat myself, a trench coat, similar to the one from the Kuchisake-Onna game that felt was years ago. But also better, stronger and more comfortable combat boots. The rest was easy enough to find as Harajuku is the fashion district of Tokyo. But looking in the mirror, it was a different me than the one I was when I first came to Japan.
"It pains me to say it, but this batshit insane game really did give me my spark back. Just not in the way I had hoped."
But a win is a win, and I was not about to refuse something alright happening to me.
Hunting was bountiful, once every four to five days I could catch a boar and on the daily would be fish, some rabbit too. I also started to grow chillies, soy, sorghum and wheat as they were easy to conserve and create durable meals out of.
As time passed I saw some sort of faction make itself more and more known, people dressed in bikinis and other swimsuits rolling around in old cars with guns and a strong smell of weed following them. They were loud and participated in a few games with me, seeming more excitable and deranged than the average game player around.
So, I kept an eye on them, danger is common around here but they were trouble.
"Why are you looking at those people like that?"
I turn around to see a tall lanky girl with dreadlocks looking at me curiously.
"It's fine, they just seem way too excited to be here."
"I hear you. I'm Kuina, nice to meet you."
"You're part of their org aren't you Kuina-san?"
"Oh please don't be so formal with me. And yeah, I am. Is that a problem?"
She asks looking a tad bit nervous.
"As long as you don't cause any problem, no. But if your friends do don't expect me to go easy on them."
"You didn't tell me your name?"
"It's (y/n). You've been with them for long?"
"Nah, only a month or so? I had a good card they wanted so they brought me to their boss and boom."
She shows her wrist, showing a locker key bracelet with a number on it.
So, it seems this org was looking for cards, did they want to have every number from every suit? Why would that be?
Could it be their answer to being out here, could it be a way out?
It would be stupid, but maybe not impossible.
All of a sudden a chime is heard.
"Game, Eight of Spades: The Cage. You will have weapons at your disposition and the group will be separated in four smaller player groups, each fighting in one of the four arenas until only one is left alive. The four players left will be granted their visas. Good luck!"
Damn, my fucking arm. I'm fucked, but I need to try.
On the four tables are an array of simple short range weapons, american fists, many types of knives, boxing gloves reinforced with metal, batons, tonfas, bo, kendo swords. All in all, they'd be better for abled people.
All except for one. A long and strudy steel chain whip with its blades looking ready to shred flesh.
I close my hand in a fist, trying to calm my shudders, and take the whip. It was heavy but not too much, the lack of material made it lighter than a two handed sword but the length made it harder to manipulate than a butcher knife. They will do, they have to. and all of a sudden it glows teal, displaying my name on the pommel.
"Players, please separate in even numbers to form the groups"
Kuina and five other people are sent to one side of the room to an arena as she nods good luck to me and I to her. A bald and tattoed man, feeling similar to a snake somehow, lead his group to another arena. A long black haired man with a monochrome patterned shirt and a sadistic smile lead his to the penultimate arena. And I was left walking with my own group to the last one.
Here we were given earphones.
"Welcome to arena four. The rules are simple, the matches are one to one and end only when one of you is dead. The winners will fight each other again one to one until two are left, the winner of this last fight will recieve their visas and be granted the right to keep their weapon. Good luck."
Some look anxious and others look extatic, as for the latter one of them approaches me and grabs me by the stump.
"I'll take you, it'll be an easy win for an easy woman."
"Of course you go for the disabled one, trying to compensate for something big boy?"
The people around us laugh.
"Cause if so c'mere, mommy will put you to sleep so you can think on it. Unless I bashed your brains in enough that I destroyed your last braincells."
I get in the arena and motion for him to come teasingly.
"(y/l/n) (y/n) against Yoshitsuke Kunizaku"
And Kunizaku doesn't waste time, coming at me full speed with his machete. So I drop to the ground and kick his feet from under him, his momentum making him fall harder than he would've normally.
He is like a boar.
He attacks again and again, brashly but with a strength to worry about. So just like a boar I slowly turn around him, I make him lose his breath with unnecessary chases.
He nicks me on the face, under the breasts, on the arm, on the leg. But he breathes herder, and as I evade him I swing my whip, and I cut and lacerate his legs.
And so they give up on him.
And he is left writhing, clawing his way to his machete and when he does he blindly cuts as he tries to get back to his feet.
"You see the sad thing about a bladed whip is that I can't kill you at once, so don't make it harder for yourself little boar."
The whip is lashed at the man, and the arm holding his weapon is cut again and again until only bone and mangled flesh are left. And as he bleeds and screams I swing the whip again and again and again. My rage, my stress, and the pain felt during the past months possessing my senses as I finish by wrapping the whip around his head and cutting it clean off.
.
.
.
"(y/l/n) (y/n) wins"
And I pant as I get off the arena, people looking at me while I pant and wake up from my haze. The rest of the fights are a blur until mine.
She was fast and slippery like a fish. She hit with small cuts, nothing impairing but definitely would make you lose enough blood on the long run so that she could win.
So instead of playing around like with the boar, I take her by her hair and kick her to the ground, then make her a belt out of my whip. I try to shut my brain off as I saw her in half and she screams in agony.
What am I doing with myself. That I what I ask to the inner me who laughs and just say one word that rises bile in my mouth.
"Survive"
Yeah, right, survive.
"(y/l/n) (y/n) wins"
My last oponent is a very tall man, probably ex military. He looks, blank. And I would be scared of him, if I wasn't already of myself. This game was only one of the many after the Eight of Hearts in which I had to kill someone....multiple someones. And I was doing it flawlessly. As I did last time and the time before. And the fact that I didn't feel much while doing it was disgusting me.
But that's how the borderlands are. They change you, and it's never for the best.
"(y/l/n) (y/n) against Hikaru Kazushi"
He waits for me to attack first. He is patient, almost catatonic. It's a game of who will crack first and give the upper hand to the adversary.
So I slowly approach, wating to tease, to tempt him to attack first but he doesn't. So I turn around and prepare my whip, acting as if I was preparing an attack.
And he beats me to it.
Hitting the back of my head with his american fists. He turns me around expertedly and hits just about everything he can.
My eyes start to fade to black.
I need to find an opening
But where?
WHERE?!
I don't want to die, not yet, I need to repent, I need to uphold my promise
I NEED TO LIVE
"Found it."
He was using his left arm more, flinching when using his right. When I heard him move, he limped and seeing as he ended with his right leg he limped from the left.
So as he winds his right arm to hit my face I turn at the last moment, trapping it between my stump and my ribcage in my armpit. I kick his crotch a few times to destabilize him and turn us so I would be on top of him, his arm still in my grasp. And I wind my legs around his left leg and squeeze, hearing a pained yell from him and a crack from the leg. I then take care of the right arm and hit his elbow, hitting it so that it breaks and then bending the limb to an unnatural angle, the arm almost completely cut in two.
"See, now we're twinsies!"
I say as I agitate my stump in his horrified face and then use what is left of my left arm to cut his hair flow. With my right arm I grab my discarded weapon and bring it to the throat of the bleeding man beneath me and slit his throat.
As he gargles with his blood chimes are resonating all around the building.
"Takatora Samura, Suguru Niragi, Hikari Kuina and (y/l/n) (y/n) congratulations!"
I get up and as I do I try not to look beneath me as I fear I will vomit. And I stay here for a while, standing up without moving. My breaths short and rapid, body covered in blood, short hair sticking to me like glue with my sweat and blood.
"Damn woman, that was hot. Do you wanna do the same but in my bed, I'd love for you to draw my blood and use me as a fucking punching ball as I fuck you into my mattress and cut you open."
wha- What the fuck?
"What the hell Niragi, don't you know how to talk to a woman?!"
"As if YOU were a woman Kuina. Plus she isn't just a woman, she's a fucking war machine! A blood Goddess!"
I turn to see that Kuina was arguing with the man that flirted with me...? The psycho himself was the monochrome patterned shirt wearing man from group three.
"Blood Goddess? I'm flattered but refrain from talking to me like that or I'll castrate you kiddo."
The tattoed dobby wannabe snickered at that and full on laughed when Niragi glared at him.
"We've seen you around sexy, you've made quite the impression. Everyone at The Beach knows about you one way or the other, you've killed many of us and always seem to observe. We'd like to recruit you, we're sure you got some good cards, plus we could have some fun you and I. One on one, or if you want more I could always call more friends, fill you up real good with all of us until you're round and satisfied."
I visibly cringe at this, I've seen him around too. Always laughing, always smiling, always with his gun and always sadistic and horrendous towards others if he isn't already gutting them open.
"Listen I get what your org is trying to do and I'm fine on my own, why should I get in?"
"Why not, we have electricity, we have pleanty of food, booze, drugs, anyone you could ever want to have sex with. We have comfortable beds and a shelter that is assured against any type of exterior attack from greedy newbies or other factions."
"Yeah! And (y/n) I could really use a lady friend, shit is pretty much boring for me female wise there, they all act the same and you seem cool! Wouldn't you like a friend?"
"Not really no, you know what happens to people around here, I'm not losing someone else around here Kuina."
She nods, knowing the feeling. And then her head shoots back up with her eyes sparkling. And she starts to talk as we get out of the building and towards their cars.
"Listen I know you don't want to come and I won't force you but if you have enough good cards you could very much become a member of the executive council, and then you'd get infos no one else has and influence!"
"And why why would I care?"
"From what I know you want to protect people right? With those you could very well be the guardian of our people here at The Beach. There will always be a purpose for you there, and you won't be alone!"
That had me interested. Loneliness, I had gotten adapted to it but it was certainly getting to me at times. There I could go to my room or disappear outside if I needed alone time.
I also would have a permanent job. Whether as a card collector or as a "guardian" as Kuina put. It would certainly give me a purpose other than waiting until I get a new game and visa.
And it would certainly beat the emptiness at home.
So I sighed and climbed in the car next to Kuina who beamed at me.
"Niragi, drive before I change my mind."
He snickers and answers with a playful "yes ma'am" as he speeds on the road.
It was quiet surprisingly, the night was black and it was cold enough to stay awake but it was also so comfortable. The wind was blowing on us. And I stood straight, holding the headrest of Last Boss (as I learned he prefers to be called) and let myself relax a bit. The blood caked on me was going to suck ass but I'm finally going to be able to have a bath. From what I've heard they even have a sauna.
"How the fuck do you guys have so much, are you in a hotel?"
"Sorta, yeah. We're in a holiday resort, so there's the hotel but also a shit load more."
"Damn. That's fun."
"Where did you live before?"
"Oh a store in a mall that old friends and I made into a cool living space. We recycled rain water, and lately I even grew my own food for some things. I hunted for my meat in the suburbs, mostly boar and rabbit but also fish. It was calm enough but I had to wack away a few assholes that tried to overrun the place."
Kuina then stands up holding Niragi's headrest to be with me.
"We also recycle rain water, we use the fuel from cars to fuel our generators to make electricity and the old cars are our means of travelling since electronics are not worth much in this world compared to analog."
"Yeah, I can see you guys are self sufficient if The Beach hasn't crumbled yet in the time it has been around, even with the large number you guys seem to be."
And as I finish talking I hear yells from afar, they get louder and louder as we get to the coast where a resort is situated.
They scream at us like the public yells in joy after a gladiator wins his fight against a feral animal, like a country welcoming their war heroes. And I look at Kuina, silently asking her if it was always this way, and by the way she laughs at my face, it seems to be the case.
And after the car was parked Kuina said goodbye to me and Niragi and Last Boss lead me to where I'd be introduced to the "executive council". Overall, I respect the organization of...well, the organization. And so we walked, up many stairs and down many corridors until we arrived at a large double door.
"So uh lady let me tell you, the boss is quit an egotistical asshole so try not to bite his head off, though I'd love to see it."
"Niragi, I'm not interested."
"Hey, but you might be some time!"
"Yeah, no. I like my men less psychotic and my women nicer. Open the door please? I'd rather get this done quickly and be able to shower."
"Sure baby, come to me anytime you want to-"
"Niragi."
And with that he knocked, calling upon the people inside who he contacted previously via walkie talkie, and opened the door with Last Boss. They allowed me to walk first and closed the door behind me.
"Come, come! Please sit! I am Hatter, the boss of this utopia that is The Beach!"
Yeah he's a hatter alright, a mad one for sure. Extravagant and loud but most importantly way too confident.
"And you, who are you sweetie? I gotta know who my future member is after all!"
"(y/n)."
"Not a talker are you?"
"Not really no, I'm efficient in my work, that's all you need to know."
"And that's fine! I love it when we have efficient players! What cards do you have darling?"
I reach into my backpack and pull a packet of a dozen or so cards and Hatter looks extatic. And as he looks excitedly through the cards that he snatched from me I look around the room. There is one man with glasses, he seems tense. A woman with sunglasses who seems to be impatient. A woman with short side bangs and long black hair who seems almost like she is pleased. A tall muscular man, probably ex military. And in the far back someone, in white...
In Hide's old clothes.
He looks at me, face lacking expressions but eyes showing surprise and maybe even fear.
The man that left.
The man who abandonned me.
The man I tried so hard not to think about anymore, not to love anymore.
Shuntarô Chishiya
Tumblr media
<Prev /Next>
M.list
taglist wanters
WELCOME BACK TO S&C EVERYBODY, I never forgot about this story I just had a rapidly declining mental and physical healthy I HAD to take a drastic time off of everything. Writing was the lesser concern so I appologize for continuing this story only nearly two years after last chapter. But due to my now stronger than ever mental fortitude, the new season of AiB and a multitude of projects that I have: I decided to come back and make it count. SO welcome to the new and bettered Arcanox tumblr which will in substance, be the my main hub of influence since it is where I have the most followers!
130 notes · View notes
to-the-stars8 · 9 months
Text
The Worst Attribute to a Lonely Life
Summary; Jason Todd, according to himself, is the worst person alive.
A/N; This chapter doesn't mention self-harm, but it is somewhat alluded to. So, please proceed with caution before you go on reading. A little note to the people who may be able to relate to this, I love you and keep going strong.
Jason’s worst attribute and most remarkable accomplishment was the fact that no one hated him as much as he hated himself, which left little to no room for him to care for others’ opinions. This, mixed with the fact that he was mostly alone in life, left him in what he would usually call the perfect situation. He could do his own thing and figure out life the way he wanted. After spending years with this ingrained thought in his head, he’d grown comfortable with it. There was no one else to disappoint if it was just him and the little tumor of hate. Sometimes, even, he’d grown to be comforted by the fact that no one else disliked himself as much as he already did. 
Then, there were the nights he wanted to be angry at the universe for feeling this way.
It was an odd, calm kind of rage—The kind that couldn’t be satiated with violence or therapy, no matter how much he wanted to scream that it just wasn’t fucking fair. This feeling was something that came out of the yearning to be held by someone who could ward off the world for a few hours while he was reminded that he deserved to be there. 
The nights when he was visited by this feeling, he’d do nothing because that’s all that sounded right. Everything became too much and not enough at the same time as he would lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a sense of emptiness in him. 
He’d wish he wasn’t himself, but someone else—someone luckier. Jason pictured Dick going home to Kori, or Tim having Bernard in his corner whenever he needed him. They had people who looked forward to seeing them and were missed.
Maybe if he believed in that manifestation bullshit Dick talked about, he’d wish for a life where someone would be there in his corner, who looked forward to seeing him, and smiled when his name popped up on their phone. A life that wasn’t embedded in blue isolation but instead with the pink warmth of love. Then again, out of spite, he wouldn’t dare utter those dreams to the universe because the last thing he wanted was to be its’ joke. He’d been laughed into an early grave once, he couldn’t do it again. 
In these moments, Jason would wonder if he was even meant to come back. Yet, if there was a way to find the answer to that question, he wasn’t too sure he’d want to know. 
He’d blink back the tears and draw in a breath, turning to lay on his side as he tried to think about literally anything else. The hate in him would tell him it was for the best, no one could ever love someone as bad as him. As far as Jason was concerned, he was the worst person in the world—Nothing could change that.
Jason would learn to like the cycle of this kind of torture. 
He’d drown himself in work the next day, and forget about his feelings the night before they began to slowly creep back. Eventually, this feeling would find him again on a lonely night and he’d question his existence yet again. Nothing ever came from it other than the deepening emptiness that this hatred left behind. 
Jason would get through it, he told himself he had to, just like he had all the other times before. 
41 notes · View notes
Text
Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years?
Annabeth ended up falling asleep in the same bed with Rachel. She woke up before everyone else. She started twisting her engagement ring and thought that in a few hours she was going to get married to Percy. Damn it, she loved him too much. She pressed her phone screen and saw that it was only 5:30 am. But after sleeping next to Percy who woke at 5 to practise and go to the gym, her body wasn’t used to extra sleep time. She smiled at her lock screen; it was the picture she had taken with Percy after he had finished his first swimming competition in college (in which he had won 7 medals and broke three records).
She also had a picture with them at the Olympics where he had his 4 medals around his neck, but she loved her current lock screen even more. There was something so innocent about the two of them in college that meant too much to her. Just a year after they had defeated Gaea and they were terrified to leave each other. 4 years later, Percy was going back to the Olympics, and she had a well paying job as an architect while she was working on her Doctorate in Columbia. And most importantly they were getting married.
The sound of a text message made her lose her train of thought. She expected a good morning text from Percy, but she was surprised by one coming from Sally.
Sally: I’m sorry about not being able to talk to you last night. I was hoping that you had a few minutes before the ceremony so that the two of us could talk. Also, sorry for texting you this early, but I wanted to make sure you got the message early on.
Annabeth immediately responded to her
Annabeth: Whenever you have the time. If you don’t have anything to do, we can have early walk down the beach.
Sally: I hope I didn’t wake you up.
Sally: I’ll be by your room in 15 minutes.
Annabeth: Alright, I’ll be waiting for you.
Annabeth got out of bed and went quietly to the bathroom. After washing her face and putting her hair in a messy bun, she put some sweats and a t-shirt she was positive was Percy’s before making her way outside. Right on time, Sally showed up with two cups of coffee.
“Again, I’m sorry for texting you so early.” Sally excused herself as they got outside.
“Don’t worry. I was already awake.” Annabeth smiled. “You can text me whenever you want. That’s what families do, isn’t it?”
Annabeth considered Sally Jackson her mother more than Athena despite what Biology had to say. That woman had taken her in her house and taught her what a family was supposed to be like.
“It is, my darling girl.” Sally smiled. “How are you feeling?”
“A bit nervous, but I’m sure everything is going to be fine.”
“Your wedding is going to be exactly as you wished it to be. You and Percy are incredibly lucky.” Sally said.
“Sally-“ Annabeth wanted to deny, but she wouldn’t let her.
“You’re lucky because you managed to survive all the things that were imposed to you and through all this chaos found each other. So, yes. To my eyes you are incredibly lucky. And I’m even luckier to gain a daughter like you.” Sally said and held Annabeth’s hands. Annabeth felt her eyes watering. Her words meant a lot to her, even though she could never fully grasp her feelings about her.
“Sally, thank you for everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything, honey.”
Annabeth was definitely going to cry. “Thank you for taking me in your house and thank you for raising Percy to be the man he is today.”
“Oh, Annabeth!” Sally pulled her in a tight hug, Annabeth didn’t even know she needed. “I love you so much, sweetheart. My son is the lucky one for founding someone so amazing as you.” As she stopped hugging her, she brushed her tears away. “We aren’t going to cry today. Today is a happy day, and we’re going to keep it that way.”
“These are happy tears.” Annabeth laughed as she wiped them away.
“That wasn’t all I wanted to talk to you about. I have a present for you.” Sally said as she presented Annabeth a velvet pouch. “It used to be my mother’s and it’s one of the last things of her that I have. Estelle was named after her.”
Annabeth was so touched by the act, “Sally no, Estelle should have it.”
“I have kept other things for Estelle to have. This one is for you.” Sally reassured her.
She opened the pouch, and she took in her hands a gold chained bracelet with sapphires and emeralds. She felt her eyes watering again. Sally unclasped it and helped her put it on. “They are real, you know. It was my father’s gift to my mother on their wedding. My uncle was positive that it belonged to my father’s mother. And now it’s all yours.” She smiled softly
“It’s beautiful. Sally, I can’t thank you enough. I promise I’m going to look after it.” Annabeth promised.
“We should head back now. Rachel will be looking for you.” Sally said. After they hugged goodbye, Annabeth entered the wedding suite which was filled with her friends as the caterers had brought breakfast.
“Found her!” Piper shouted as she noticed Annabeth entering. “We thought you and Percy ran away to elope.” Then her eyes fell on the bracelet, “The bracelet is beautiful. Where did you find it?”
“Sally gave it to me. It used to be her mother’s.” Annabeth mentioned.
“That’s so sweet and thoughtful. You really have the best mother-in-law.”
“I won the jackpot.” Annabeth smiled.
After they had a quick breakfast, the makeup artist and hair stylist arrived, and everyone started getting ready. “Nico just texted me.” Rachel said as she sat in the chair next to Annabeth’s. “Will is here with one of their wedding gifts. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.” She said. “You should be honoured Will dropped his studying to grace you with his presence.” Rachel joked. It was no secret that after Will started college at 16, he wasn’t going to let anything get in his way. And Annabeth highly appreciated that as she was the same way. It did mean a lot to her that he was willing to sacrifice two days to come to their wedding.
“What does he mean wedding gifts?”
“You’re going to find out.” Rachel said not able to contain her excitement.
“You know what it is, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. And you’re going to lose your shit.” She reassured her.
They were officially an hour away from their wedding. Annabeth couldn’t wait. She had put on her wedding dress. It was a white lace mermaid gown. It was open at the back, and it was filled tiny diamonds. She had kept her make-up minimal and let the hairstylist do whatever she wanted with her hair as she didn’t have any preferences. She ended up doing a half up and down style and curling more her hair.
After she was done getting ready, Grover came inside the room. "You look amazing. I can’t believe you and Percy are getting married" he smiled.
“Me neither.” Annabeth exclaimed. “Thank you for coming today. It means a lot to me and a whole lot more to Percy.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Grover hugged her.
“How is the groom doing?” Rachel asked.
“He is waiting for his bride.”
“Let’s keep him waiting for a few more minutes.” Evelyn said.
“Wow, Annabeth. You’re beautiful.” Frederick said as he saw his daughter all dressed up in her wedding dress.
Annabeth had decided to let Frederick walk her down the aisle as they wanted Chiron to officiate their wedding. She also believed that they were in the phase where he could be there for her as long as she would let him. Her psychologist had encouraged her to open up more to him as he didn’t have any malicious intentions and he was working on their relationship.
“How about we let Annabeth have a moment with her dad, until we all get downstairs?” Piper suggested and Annabeth gave her a grateful look. Soon enough the room was empty.
“I’m proud of you, Annabeth.” Frederick said tenderly. “And I’m thankful that you gave me the chance to be next to you at your wedding. It means the world to me.”
“I’m glad we could work on our differences.” Annabeth replied. “You proved that actions speak louder than words. You made it possible for you to be here today.” She noted.
Frederick held her close, and Annabeth couldn’t deny that it felt good. Her five-year-old self would be sobbing with relief. Her 13-year-old self would be proud for daring to trust this man again. And her 17-year-old self would have a huge relieved from her shoulders as she had healed their relationship. “I’m sorry for everything, sweetheart. I wish I could turn back time and make it right to you.”
“Then, I wouldn’t be who I am today.” She exclaimed. “I wouldn’t change anything, dad. We both needed space and time.”
“I want you to know that by the end of the summer, Helen and I will be divorced. And I’ll move back at the east coast. Probably back to Boston.”
“Dad-“
“I should have done it a long time ago. And now that the boys are old enough I’ll do it.”
“Are you doing it for yourself?” She asked.
“Yes, I need this, Annabeth.”
“Then, I’m 100% on your side.” She smiled.
“Thank you. Now, less talking about me and more about you. We should head downstairs. Percy is waiting for you.”
Percy was waiting for the coordinator or Rachel or anyone really to give him the thumbs up to go at the end of the aisle. He was trying to fix his bow tied which seemed crooked to him. He had kicked everyone outside as he was trying to fully comprehend that in 10 minutes he was going to get married to Annabeth. He was ready to give up on the bow tie when he noticed that Sally was staring at him. “Need any help?” She asked.
“Maybe.” Percy replied smiling. Sally came closer and helped him tie it. He was trying to contain his emotions, but looking at his mum helping him with watery eyes wasn’t doing him any favours.
“Here. You’re all set.” Sally said as she straightened his tux. “I’m so proud of you, Percy. How far you’ve come.” Percy noticed a tear rolling on her cheek.
“Mum, don’t cry, please.”
“I’m sorry.” She sighed trying to compose herself. “It’s just ever since I found out I was pregnant the only thought in my mind was how to make everything right for my sweet baby boy who didn’t do a single thing wrong in his life. And watching you all grown up, ready to get married makes me feel relieved. I wasn’t able to give you the life you deserved and still, you’re standing here and I’m so immensely proud of you.”
“You did an excellent job raising me. You couldn’t have done it any better. You’re a saint, mum. You’re the real hero around here. You’re my hero. And I knew it then and I know it now, that I have the best mum in the world.” Percy said and hugged her. “I can never thank you enough for everything.”
“I’m your mum. You aren’t supposed to thank me.”
“Believe me, I have to.” He reassured her.
Grover cleared his throat. “They’re ready for us.” He smiled.
“Let’s get this wedding started then.” Percy replied and sorted the room with Sally next to him.
"I'm pumped!" Connor said as Percy walked to the garden with his mum. It was filled with their friends and families. He felt extremely grateful about everything that was happening to him.
The bridal party started walking down the aisle. Estelle -being the flower girl- followed them, and then, oh and then he saw Annabeth. Looking so beautiful, so ethereal like a goddess. If love was a person it would be her. “Do you need a tissue?” Travis whispered him, “You’re full sobbing here.”
Frank patted him on the shoulder “Don’t listen to them, you’re doing great. Eyes on her.” Like he could ever stop staring at her.
By the time she reached the end of the aisle, Percy was really sure he had a stupid grin on his face. “Hey, stranger.” Annabeth said as she stood across from him.
Chiron was staring proudly at the two of them. Kudos to Piper for helping him get the officiating licence. "I have the honour to officiate the wedding of two of my favourite students. When they met 12 years ago, bets started around in camp when they would get together. I was the one who guessed the time they would get together." Some of the guests laughed. "Percy and Annabeth are a couple like no other. You complete each other and love and care about each other in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. Plato said that people once had 4 arms, 4 legs, two faces and two minds. Then, the Gods decided to divide humans as they were too powerful together. The half is searching for its pair in order to feel complete. That’s what soulmates meant in Ancient Greece. That’s for me a perfect way to summarize your relationship. Soulmates, two halves that found each other and feel whole again. As I do not want to bore you, I think it is the time for the bride and the groom to turn to speak." Chiron said. He looked like he was ready to cry.
Annabeth gave her bouquet to Piper and turned to Percy. "Since the day I first met you, when I told you, that you drooled in your sleep, I fell in love with you. I didn’t really know what love was back then, but now I know that that was it. You are the best part of my life. You are not only my soulmate but my best friend and my partner in crime in everything. You are amazing and I prefer to die than live in a world without you. I love you Seaweed brain and from the very first moment together I knew that you would be forever mine. The 8 months you were away from me, I felt so empty and that is when I realized that I could never ever in a million years find someone to settle down with, except for you. You give my life a whole different meaning and I want to grow old more than anything else in this life. I need a lifetime of adventures with you."
Percy was again crying, but he did a great job from keeping his tears from coming out. Annabeth had her way with words. But he had to say his vows, so he took a deep breath and tried to concentrate.
"Annabeth from when you found me half dead in the borders of the camp, I thought you were something more than pretty. You are fun and smart and what I am trying to say is that I love you more than life itself. You’re my oxygen and I can’t breathe without you. I hope you will be mine until the end of our lives. I am so happy that a woman like you accepted to spend the rest of her life with someone like me. There is not a lot for me to say about you, because I do not even know where to begin and where to end. The point is that I love you and I will never stop loving you. I don’t believe I could ever be happier, than today, standing here promising to always love and cherish every moment with you. I always knew I was going to marry you. You were so perfect and even when you hated me, I was so stupidly and irrevocably in love with you. Every time I tell myself that there is no way I’ll love you even more, I find out I can. And I will never be able to stop loving you more and more. I love you Annabeth and I’m always going to."
"By the power given to me by the State of New York, I pronounce you Husband and Wife; you may kiss the bride." Chiron said, and Percy kissed Annabeth. With the same passion, they had when they shared their first kiss. With the same passion Percy was planning on kissing her for the rest of their lives.
16 notes · View notes
huggingtentacles · 1 year
Text
Alright!! So. Lucid dreaming. I've been introduced to the concept a few years ago. For those who don't know, lucid dreaming is when you become aware of the fact that you're dreaming, but you don't wake up. It's a pretty neat brain trick which allows you to control your dreams. It's pretty fun. This thing is less of a skill, and more of a habit to me. People do a bunch of different methods to start lucid dreaming (but some are just luckier than others with the way their brain works).
This is not an exact science, I'm just telling you how I do this. There are some conditions for this, some you can control, some you don't.
First and foremost, you need to be less stressed throughout the day. I know it's kinda outside of our control most of the time, but if you happen to he less anxious during a certain day, you can try lucid dreaming. The reason why you need to be less stressed is because of the brain lag that happens when you're falling asleep while being aware of it. Your brain kinda gives you a little shock and snaps you back. This happens because of stress.
Note that when I say stress, I mean not only fear or anxiety. I mean all kinds of stress, even if it's happy stress. If your life is particularly exciting, lucid dreaming is pretty difficult. You need a calm day. Being fed and hydrated also helps.
Another thing is that your sleep schedule has to be relatively consistent. The amount of sleep and when you're going to sleep doesn't matter, what matters is that you're doing it roughly at the same time every day.
I wanna repeat that it's what I figured out myself, and other people on the internet can give you better guides. I am not sure if it's efficient, correct or even healthy. Do this at your own discretion.
Alright, now the method. What you wanna do is wake up during a certain stage of your sleep, for me it comes roughly 1.5-2 hours before waking up. You set an early alarm and go to sleep.
When the alarm goes off, you will be in this half-sleeping state. The one where your bed feels like the best place in the world and you wanna fall back to sleep again. What you wanna do is, in this state, you get out of bed and do something. Go to the bathroom, drink some water, but nothing too difficult or exciting, you don't wanna wake up completely. You need to maintain this half-sleeping state, but also wake up your mind a little bit so you don't just fall back to normal sleep again.
After that (don't spend more than 1-2 minutes doing what you're doing, also being warm helps) you go back to bed. Now you're conscious, but not fully awake. Now you close your eyes and relax your body. Your face it probably tense, your eyebrows, your tongue, your jaw. Then your shoulders. Relax everything, but stay aware. You will feel like your body goes back to sleep without your brain. I want to add that your body can try to snap you awake during this stage, even if you're meeting the conditions. You may feel a little shock or feel like you're falling for a second. It's fine for a first time, you can just try again. Just don't move or tense up your muscles. If you snap awake, take a deep breath and proceed. You're not really *doing* anything, you're just waiting for your body to fall asleep with your consciousness intact. This feeling is specific and unmissable, and when it starts, you start imagining things. Don't imagine nothing too crazy, just some kind of environment.
If it's outside, imagine the grass/pavement you're touching, the sounds you're hearing. If it's a room, try to imagine what being in this room feels like. This place is kinda your hub area, if you imagine the same place every time, it forms a habit. I'll explain what works for me, it's kind of embarrassing but whatever.
I imagine an empty room, with a bed and me on it. I imagine the blanket, the pillow, but what really grounds me in the dream is imagining someone else in the bed with me. Please hear me out it's not weird stfu. I imagine hugging a person. It doesn't have to be anyone specific, I usually don't even give them a face, I just imagine the sensations related to hugging someone. Their warmth, the texture and feel of their skin, their heartbeat, the smell. I do it because it works and not for any other reason!!!
After that I'm already lucid dreaming. The place feels really fuckin real and really weird at the same time. I get out of my dream bed and walk around a little. It's important to not let the lucidity slip, but also not to startle yourself into waking up. Let your movements be fluid and calm. Btw since you're in a dream, the gravity works as much as you need it to be. Float around a little bit if you want. Get comfortable is what I'm saying.
After you feel completely submerged into the dream, you can get out of your "hub" area and do whatever. Your dreams are up to you now. You have a couple hours like this, but honestly the concept of time doesn't really work there, your brain doesn't register it.
There are a couple "hub" areas and things people focus on to ground themselves into their dream. Some people imagine a tunnel, some imagine themselves underwater (you don't need air in a dream) some imagine a room they're familiar with, fictional or otherwise.
So yeah that's it that's my experience with lucid dreaming. I'm probably doing it wrong but it works.
34 notes · View notes
tigereyes45 · 4 months
Note
24. "Unless you ask me not to in the next five seconds, I'm going to hug you." with Kevin/Janice bc I need them and I wanna throw u something completely random 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏
I hope you didn't forget that these were angst prompts. :) This fic can also be read on AO3.
The prompt was #24 - "Unless you ask me not to in the next five seconds, I'm going to hug you." - You can find the full list of prompts here.
Summary:
Kevin finds Janice crying in an empty hall of the enterprise. The two are forced to face the fact that they are replaceable.
Story:
It's hard not to notice the beautiful yeoman, Janice Rand. Kevin isn't the only person who'd admit that, too! It was the honest truth that no other woman on the ship could compare. She wasn't just pretty. No, Janice was tough, even willing to stand up to Captain Kirk. Smart too! Apparently it was her who had figured out what was going on with Charlie first. At least according to Uhura it had been Rand. Kevin could believe it. After all Janice is perfect. He's lucky that his best friend Sulu, was close to Rand's best friend, Uhura. Kevin's even luckier that they all get to work the same shifts.
Confusion and fear mingle together in a dangerous dance within his stomach, like wine and beer.
Why was perfection folded over, rocking back and forth on the floor, sobbing?
Kevin quickly looks around the hall. She was squirreled away in a small indent along the hall. A dead end with nowhere to go, and no easy way to spy her. Unless they had followed the muffled cries. Just like he had.
Not wanting to remain standing still, frozen like a fool, but having no idea what to do Kevin takes a deep breath. He shakes his hands to try and brush off his nerves. Before his courage could falter, Lieutenant Kevin Thomas Riley blurts out, "Unless you ask me not to in the next five seconds, I'm going to hug you."
For the first time Janice lifts her head. Her eyes were red and puffy, and he wasn't entirely sure if she was aware of who he is. Rand gives him a tiny nod. He would've missed it altogether if he hadn't been watching.
Kevin drops to his knees and wraps his arms around her. One along the back of her shoulders, and the other over her arms. They were crossed over her knees, holding her legs close to her chest. Janice leans her head against his shoulder. Her sobs slowly die down. Eventually they were barely more than simple whines and the occasional hiccup. Doubt holds Kevin stock still. His arms held her closer than she's ever been before. Her hair smells of hairspray, and her body's so cold. Should he go get a blanket from his room? Would she still be here? What if someone else finds her?
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Kevin pulls her closer.
When she can finally breathe without summoning a hiccup, Rand spoke. "They're transferring me?"
"What?" Shock and surprise Kevin leans his head away to get a better look at her expression.
Teardrops silently drip down her face. They wet his red shirt. "I got the news this morning."
He thinks back to the start of their shift. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. Uhura had said nothing about this. Even Janice herself was completely composed when she came to the bridge. Though the captain had told her she needn't bring him anything anymore.
Kevin tightens his hold around he finally pieces it together.
"I tried to just go about my day but," her breath hitches. "when we arrive at the station tomorrow I'm to wait there for my new ship to pick me up." A choked sob fills his ears. "I don't even know what I did wrong!" Janice buries her face in his neck. Kevin does his best to ignore the growing wet sensation on his skin.
The captain was sending her away. From her daily routine, her friends, her job, Janice would say goodbye to everything that had made up her life for the last year.
How could anyone do this to her?
A deeper, frightful thought starts to take root.
If they could send her away without explanation, how long before he's thrown out too?
Tumblr media
3 notes · View notes
komilys · 4 months
Note
☕ w/ spencer? :33
tysm for the ask! i really do appreciate it! i’m sorry for the late reply !! i am just not having a good time :( i set this around s2, pre-established relationship bc im a sucker for it so it’s not exactly following the prompt but ahhh i thought it was cute!
Tumblr media
☕ — morning routines! write about a typical morning with f/o and s/i! who wakes up first? do they eat breakfast together?
spencer thinks he might die, actually.
well, not literally of course, he would tell you that. he just feels overwhelmingly self-conscious, so much so it sends his brain into ‘panic mode’, he’ll say.
“you okay, spencer?” and he jumps, almost dropping his book bag on the pavement. “you don’t need to wait out here, i gave you the code, ‘member?”
oh, and he does, very well. he has an eidetic memory, he reminds ki often. he remembers it— nineteen days ago, 10:21 P.M. when he dropped him off at his apartment like he’d done for weeks now and in the most calm, as if it was nothing, voice he asked if spencer just wanted the code for the entrance door.
to come and go as he pleased. (“you can visit me whenever you want, haha…” it was a tease on ki’s end, but spencer was already struggling for a response.)
“i’m okay, good, great!” he says. “we should, uh, go, ki, we should get going…” spencer makes awkwardly points to the gated entrance. and ki smiles and spencer wonders how someone can be so handsome.
“coffee shop, like usual?” ki asks. “do you think we have time?”
of course there’s time. spencer knows he’s a natural early-riser— a habit from school, he assumes— and spencer, by now, has gotten used to waking up early. well… earlier.
“you woke up a little late, spencer, huh?” he sounds so sweet, spencer thinks. he never really liked being teased, it was always associated with something cruel— someone cruel.
ki isn’t cruel, though, he knows that. not with the way ki has his order memorised, ordering it without him even asking he just… wants to— (“i like doing it, spence.”)— and how he asks for spencer about that thing he was talking about earlier and how when spencer looks for even an ounce of annoyance on his face, he never finds it.
“we call them coffee beans, but technically speaking, they’re seeds.”
and ki responds, “oo-oh! ’cause they kinda resemble a bean?” and he hands him his coffee, just the way he likes it.
“yes, yes, actually!” they’re walking out of the shop and ki can’t help but look at spencer in wonder. but he always looks at him like that. morgan pointed it out to him once, but he vehemently denied it.
because ki asks him what else he knows about coffee— though they might’ve had this conversation twice before, (spencer knows and that’s why he searched more on coffee)— he knows he’s being genuine, and spencer can’t fathom himself getting any luckier than this.
3 notes · View notes
reginrokkr · 4 months
Text
...This was the only method to which I could resort in order to preserve him. What if he cannot be restored? I'm scared... This is different from that time with Cater, but... No, I must be calm. Rene needs my help, now more than ever... What is the most reasonable course of action he would take at this time... I need to first keep his condition under wraps so that the Ordo will not collapse... I need to come up with some reasonable pretense, though I'm not sure how long it'll hold... We need to at least ensure the Tower of Gestalt's completion...
...The stark contrast between how he'd always say so much to me and the present is utterly heart-wrenching... There should still be hope. According to our research, if we can further break down and purify... Director Lyris's essence... Perhaps with the principles behind the ancient golems... If all goes well, we should also be able to cure Cater...
...In the end, Ann departed in great sorrow. I should not have lost my temper so, but I did not know how to answer her, and I did not wish to deceive her. Alain is through with us — I do not wish to lose her too... But as long as Rene is restored, surely, she and Alain will...
...I've been interpreting the data in search of a solution and sharing the results with Rene. There has still been no response, but I can already envision his response with perfect clarity: criticizing the Universitas Magistrorum for putting the cart before the horse, neglecting the fundamental principles underlying everything, and diving straight the details of how to put those techniques to use... How they inverted even the alchemical stages for other purposes...
...I have successfully re-extracted that part of the persona and stored it in the Orthants, at least... The connection with the primordial waters... I've penned research notes like a man possessed. Rene will be quite surprised when the time comes...
...It seems that there was an alchemist from Khaenri'ah named "R" who joined a secret order. From what fragmentary records exist, it appears that they made significant headway. But the available materials are scarce... If Rene doesn't recover, the Ordo will slowly dissolve. And if we were all mistaken, and the colossal beasts and apocalypse are false, will there be others who shall research the trail left behind, as I am now...?
...This idea needs to be tested on someone else first. But that means... ...I'm afraid there's no other way. No other way out...
...The conscious creation that arose from this... showed great promise. Perhaps I've finally found the right approach... ...Placed in the silver basin, gleaming. I taught them language and natural philosophy... ...I've decided to teach them how to paint, which could help exercise their newly grown prosthetic limbs... ...Generated a near-identical persona... Dissolved and dispersed. It saddens me somewhat, but I believe...
...The ones that ultimately survived were unstable blobs of water with rudimentary human forms. It seems that relying on the sword and Lyris's nature alone is insufficient... did think of Cater's remains. I have a few ideas...
...With these, along with some of the leftover material from Cater's current state... I'll use the pocketwatch Alain gave me as the cornerstone to construct Rene's form. I've never dared part with it, as it represents all the time Rene and I had shared. We were much luckier than those who dream still in those circular ruins... Reconstruction according to my design should be possible...
...I have named him. All that remains is to implant... He will not remember his two previous failures— these setbacks could obstruct his path to transcendence. He shall become our ideal Narzissenkreuz. He shall take long strides and walk far ahead of me once more, casting his slender shadow in the sun. He shall guide us in shaping a new future, one in which there will be a place for Alain and Ann...
...What remains of them can be used as material for other experiments. For example, we can graft them onto those who have lost their intellect...
                                                                                                           —Log.
2 notes · View notes