#i hope you like field recordings sir

[columboscreens]

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Be Alive In Summer

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Betrayal had never been in your cards, and you definitely didn't see yourself being the one responsible for the act. When having to go undercover, first comes the problem of staging your death.

WORDCOUNT: 8.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, betrayal, intense gore, violence, death, allusions to intimacy, weapons, vulgar language, recovery, torture, happy ending, etc.

A/N: The final request is finished, hope you enjoy it @l-inkage! Onto the AUs next.

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

You didn’t want to do it, but in this job, comfort was always an option and never a guarantee. It needed to be done. And that meant sacrifices had to be made to the dark altar of your contract with One-Four-One.

But this one just might break you in the process. 

“Are you sure that,” you pause and think over the instructions that Price had just given you—straight from the top of the line. “Are you sure that this is the best way, Sir?” 

The man’s lips are flat, eyes narrowed, he doesn’t like this either—especially if you don’t. John’s a Captain, he tallies out orders and expects people to listen without hesitation; doesn’t express his worry about their safety because that isn’t what this is about at the end of the day. It’s about keeping the good people outside of bases like these alive and breathing.

And right now that hinged on you being dead.

“Berto needs mercenaries,” Price grunts, “and any record of you needs to be wiped before we send you in.”

Vito Berto—head of a crime family that had been picking up traction in recent years, so much so that One-Four-One had to be put on it for covert reconnaissance before any more people ended up dead.

You would be sent in under the cover of an experienced mercenary; one among the ranks that Berto would need for a hostile takeover planned in three months on the Palace of Westminster in London. The House of Parliament. 

Vito was one cocky son of a bitch if he expected no one to get word of this.

Your job was to uncover the exact date, time, and the mission plan before getting out as quickly as possible. In order to do that, the soldier holding your name needed to be dead so nothing could be traced back to you, your task force, or your loved ones. 

And people needed to believe it.

“Can’t the records just be forged, Sir?” You ask, the meeting room dark and pulsing with the cold air from the vents. “What about Gaz and Soap?” Your throat closes for a moment and you speak slightly lower. “Simon?”

Price sighs and crosses his arms, fixing the stance of his feet.

“They’ll deal with it.” Inside of your pockets, your hands twitch. 

He won't. Not inwardly.  

“I…” your jaw clenched. 

Your relationship with Ghost was…strange. You’d both had your fun, of course, and you had a casual air about that sort of thing—it had happened, but nothing more could ever come of it. There was a modicum of soft care with you two; an acknowledgment of partnership in the field and out of it. 

You didn’t have to explain to people that Ghost was closer to you than others. You’d seen his face; that says enough. 

“It needs to look real,” Price explains, tilting his head down to you. “Not only for Laswell's state of mind but yours. I won’t be putting you in without giving you the best chance.” 

“You can’t tell them?”

“Negative. Security measure.” You frown, biting at your lip.

John closes his eyes and shakes his head. A second later a hand is set on your shoulder and the man leans in slightly to reassure you like a relative. You look up into your Captain’s gruff face, seeing the small amount of care he levels into his cerulean irises for you. 

He squeezes your flesh, watching hard.

“We need you for this, Trick.” The nickname was exactly why you were the only one who could do this. 

You were the first choice. No one was better at undercover work.

“How long would I be gone, Price?” Shifting out of the hold, you cross your arms and level him with a dead stare. “How long do they have to live with this lie?”

John grunts. “Less than three months, yeah? But all of it’s up to how long it takes to gather intel. Full black.” 

“Exfil point?” 

“Town five miles from Berto’s estate. Cafe with a red door near the bookstore. Woman inside’ll be your handler.” You turn away to glare at the far wall, hesitant even when you know you shouldn't be. This was your job. 

Brown eyes keep flashing behind your eyes—a skeletal mask that stares with stained glistening blood, blood you yourself feel reflected on your own visage. A shared damning of two people who would never see those great halls of the afterlife. Neither of you are good.

Simon had to understand. 

The Captain sees the shift in your expression.

“You in?” He asks you with a blank look. 

You take a deep breath, chest heavy and heart hurting. “I don’t like it,” your voice is low, monotone. “But, yeah, Sir, I’m in.”

“Good,” the man nods, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “It’ll happen in three days. Be ready.”

You watch him walk out of the room, patting you on the shoulder one last time before the door shuts behind him with a click of finality that pierces your lungs. You clear your throat and swallow down saliva, turning your face away as if ashamed. 

It’s the quiet that gets to you in that moment—the encompassing nothingness. So often you would have moments like these with Simon. Just sitting; not taking. But this silence was so different. 

This was betrayal. 

After you steady the slight tremor in your hands, you scoff and shake your head backing up a step before leaving the room; turning off the lights. 

You walk down the long hallway, feet heavy as your mind runs, and overhead the lights buzz like flies. Eyes stuck to the floor, your shoulders are hunched in with thought and your lids half-closed in a display of obvious inner turmoil. 

The shadow that waits for you, leaning against the wall, you walk past entirely—missing it and not hearing the confused call of your name behind you because of it.

“Trick!” Your hand comes up to itch at your chin, fingers pushing into your flesh. The aggressive Manchester accent slides off of you until large fingers curl into the back collar of your vest rig. 

You breathe in sharply, blinking in surprise as your feet get pulled back a step or two, pace halting as Ghost curls around your body, staring down at you. His brows are narrowed, that mask still on and the bottom fabric twisted in the obvious downward press of his lips.

“Bloody hell is wrong with you, then?” 

Sighing, you scowl and shake him off of you, moving back to allow yourself some air. Did he really have to show up now? Why was he even here, you had to ask yourself. Was he…waiting for you?

“Nothing,” you don’t look at him, speaking low. “Distracted, is all.” 

Ghost crosses his arms slowly, his brows flinching briefly as he makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Meeting go well?” 

“Fine.” He can tell something’s wrong; you know he can—he’s the best at interrogations for a reason. Ghost knows when someone is lying to him. 

You glance at his chest before you begin to open your mouth. 

What could telling him hurt? Just a hint. He’d get it—I know he would. Berto had the nickname ‘The Tanner,’ given to him by his men. When he found out anyone had double-crossed him, he’d take a large breaking knife and separate the thin layers of skin from his victims. Intel suggests he keeps them awake for all of it, stopping when they pass out only to start again when they wake back up. 

If there was any leak in this base…any at all…you wouldn’t be coming back. 

You wouldn’t be coming back to him. 

Simon’s thighs shift.

“Talk to me.” He always speaks like he doesn’t care about the answer, but you’d be a fool this far into your… relationship? To believe that he didn’t. You’d seen Simon panic over your injured body before—it told you enough. 

The easy moments and the side-eyed looks when he thought you didn’t notice or weren’t doing the same to him. 

Your fingers twitch, forcing a smirk that didn’t convince even you. Your heart was telling you to explain it to him, but your brain was firmly set behind iron doors; tongue held back by iron tongs. 

“Personal matters, Simon. Nothing you need to worry about, Big Guy.” He doesn’t look away from your eyes. Brows set in a line and that mask jeering at you; almost mocking. 

The Lieutenant doesn’t answer and your heart is visible from under your gear.

“J-just,” you stutter, face getting hot as you look away. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s…” 

Trailing off, you rub at the back of your head in a self-soothing motion. 

Simon blinks slowly and you hear a large chest-rattling sigh. He shrugs in that way only he can—a fast jerk of shoulders that looks more like he’s trying to push off a bug than simply trying to move past what you’re saying to him. 

“Doesn’t make a difference,” it does. “Garrick and MacTavish are waitin’ down at the firing range. Best get down there ‘fore one comes looking like a kicked dog.” You can still feel him digging into you. Knives and the suspicion in his tone. 

You don’t want to do this to him. Not after all that you’ve gone through together. 

“Right.” Your feet are moving before he is, planted into the floor and pushing off through the small pinches of electricity in the nerves. Pushing out a hard laugh, you try to send him a light smile. “Did you tell them to be ready to get their arses beat?” 

Simon looks down at you as he walks beside your form in large steps; arms swinging. “Haven’t seen ‘em yet. Waiting for you.” 

If it were possible to shrivel up from guilt, you’d be nothing but bones.

“O-oh,” you huff, but it sounds like all of the air has been expelled from your lungs. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”

Simon grunts, accent grating as he stares ahead. “Wanted to.” 

“Good. That’s nice.” You feel like screaming. “Thank you.”

It’s nearly instantaneous how fast his eyes go dark with concern. “You sure that head of yours is on straight, Trick?”

You push open the doors outside and wonder if you even have the ability to answer him; out of everyone, you can’t lie to Simon.

“No,” your lips admit quietly, self-degrading in its own right. 

A hand grabs you by the wrist and before you can slip out, you’re being pulled back into the building and pushed into a side room. 

“Hey!” You shout, eyes flashing as the door is shut behind you. You’re released and the light is immediately turned on. “Simon, what the hell are you doing?” 

“Enough,” he levels, and your arms are clasped so you’re facing his chest, looking up into his serious and hard gaze. “Fuckin’ speak to me.” 

You’re surprised at how insistent he is about this. 

“I’m not telling you anything,” you speak through stutters and he growls in his throat. His hands are like motel lava even under his gloves and above your skin—burning like a brand.

“What happened in that meeting room, Trick?”

“It’s classified,” you say, harder than intended, spitting the words with a hint of desperation. If not for your own safety, then for his, but you know that if he keeps asking then you’ll tell him the truth. 

They were going to stage your death, and they won’t be making it pretty. 

“Fuck classified,” he leans in closer, curling over you. “You’re acting like someone’s bloody taking you hostage.”

“Simon! It’s not—”

“Cut the bullshit!” You growl and try to shove away from him, struggling with glaring eyes that go sharp with the onset of tears. “Somethings got you worried and I wanna know what it is.”

Simon wasn’t the greatest at articulation, but neither were you. 

You knew he was trying to tell you he was concerned. The man was holding you tight, but not hurting you; his face close and his shoulders wide. Along your face his eyes were darting, as if he could peel back your skin and make you explain what Price had told you. 

The Captain had given the Lieutenant a look as he’d seen him waiting for you but had said nothing. That alone had tipped Ghost off to something being wrong. 

But you weren’t having it.

Yanking out of Simon’s hands, you shake your head and put on your worst glare—meeting muddy brown and huffing. 

“Mind your own business, Riley. It’s for your own good.” The man blinks in mute shock, fingers in the air twitching before they fall to his sides.

You speed-walk out of the room before he can speak, lips slightly parted at your strange behavior. 

For his own good? What in the hell did that mean? 

Simon’s jaw clenches, a grunt in his chest as he aggressively rolls his wrist. He turns to follow after. The both of you don’t talk for the rest of the day.

—

Your body shakes along with the helo as it takes off, carrying you away from the scene of gunfire down below. In your earpiece, you hear the loud calls and yelling from your friends. Gaz is calling out to Price to give him permission to move up; the Captain too busy grappling Soap to the ground. 

Ghost is taking cover behind a wall, but he’s not quiet. 

“Trick’s in the damn building!” 

No, I’m not, you want to flick on the line and tell him. Over the three days before this operation you'd barely spoken—in fact, you’d been avoiding all of them fervently by the mass amount of guilt in your stomach. 

In the nights, you hadn’t even slept, and now you’re sure it’ll take even longer too.

Their forms become tinier, and you grasp the roof’s handle as the helo rises farther and farther. 

“Price!” Simon barks. “We have to get her—”

“There’s no time!” John responds, grunting and forcing Johnny down as he spits curses and tries to call your name over the comms. You flinch violently, looking away for a moment. “We’re surrounded!”

“I can get through!” Bullets wiz through the comms, and you can nearly imagine you are down there—trapped in the house down the way after being shot and injured by hosties. But you’d never been in that house. Never been alone down the way for recon. 

You’d been at the second exfil point. Price knew it. Laswell knew it. 

But Simon had not. 

“Negative, Ghost! Keep where you are, we can get to her later. We need to—” The building you were supposed to be in explodes in a fiery wreck; a great bloom cloud going into the air as the helo shakes from the after-blast. 

You have to turn your face away, shielding your eyes. The pilot calls to see if you’re alright, but you don’t answer. All you can hear is the screams.

“Trick!”

“Simon, get back into bloody cover!” 

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!” It gets too much—the bareness of his panic for you. The panting breath; the running stomp of feet.

You rip the connection from the radio on your vest and place a hand over your mouth, breathing as if you had really been in an inferno like a piece of fodder. 

Simon had already been through so much in his life, and doing this to him as well as the task force was the definition of betrayal of the loyalty you’d cultivated.

Of the love.

Because you did love him—even if you’d never say it to each other. If he found out about what you did, which he would eventually, in one way or another, he’d hate you for the rest of his life. So perhaps you were mourning, as you stare below as the helicopter takes you higher and higher up. Farther away from him. You were mourning what you had, because you knew it would never be the same. 

Simon Riley would never trust you again, and all you had to blame was yourself. 

The tiny tears dribble out of you and fall all the way down to the ground, where the man still screams for you to answer him; John barks orders with a sheen of panic in his eyes from the bare-bones ferality of the Lieutenant. Brown eyes blazed and cities burned in his pupils. 

John had underestimated the bond that the two of you shared. 

And he just might pay the price for it.

—

Getting through selection was far easier than getting through SAS training, Vito Berto seemed to only want mercenaries that had the faintest hint of the ability to hold a smuggled weapon. It made sense because if the people he was planning to send in were well-trained, it would be easier to trace to him—ability equaled a higher level of intelligence. Planning. Resources. 

To fit in, you made sure to miss a few of your shots, even if it made your instinctual perfectionism rise. John would have torn you a new one if you’d missed this many during your selection all those years back. Probably would have asked how a Muppet like you had gotten this far with shite aim like that.

But Berto ate it up like Sunday dinner. Gave you the nickname Cross, actually. Like the crosshair of a scope.

It was safe to say you despised him. 

But the days grew longer and the nights short with all of your running around. You’d found out that your Captain’s timeline was incorrect—the attack wasn’t in three months, it was in two. And while Berto was cocky, he wasn’t reckless. 

He somehow knew there was a breach in the ranks; you could see it by how he looked over the squads in the underground bunker, all of you hidden under rock and stone like prisoners. The man would sneer, eyes filtering back and forth from the perch. 

Sometimes you had to stop yourself from simply taking the shot presented in front of you and deal with the consequences afterward.

Price had been clear: all of the people gathered here needed to be taken care of quickly and quietly—if you snapped, the rest would disappear like roaches. Alive and biding time.

During those two months, the thoughts of Simon wouldn’t leave you. 

Moments that seeped in behind closed eyelids after you’d slunk back into bed, the USBs full of vital intel stashed into the lining of your uniform in a small hidden pocket. His twitching smile and those deep scars along his face; the ones that would never go away. 

In those moments you wondered what it would be like if you had told him how much you cared for his quiet company or his dark humor. The way he would level a hand on the small of your back off duty at the bars as a way to silently shield you from the stares from patrons. 

You’d never be able to tell him now. 

Vito “The Tanner” Berto knew of a leak, and when you came back to the bunker after sending out the multiple USB sticks, the physical files, and the first-hand accounts of what was going on—eager for just a little more to make this betrayal worth it…he was waiting. 

You could only fight off so many others, no matter how subpar the training on their part, before sheer mass overtook ability. Like a house of cards with a bowling ball, you were shoved to the ground surrounded by multiple dead bodies of those you’d taken down with you—writhing and hissing as if a feral animal. 

Restraints were leveled with your wrists; your head pulled back so your nose faced the ceiling. You only stopped struggling when the chilled barrel of a pistol was set under your chin.

Breath stilling, it was hard to understand how, even then, all that was in the front of your mind was Simon. Simon and his brown eyes. Simon and his screams when that building went up in fire and smoke.

“Trick!”

You could still hear the exact pitch and rhythm like it was yesterday.

“Cross,” Berto mutters, gun heavy as it digs into your flesh. Men pant and grapple to keep you back as you sneer and jerk your arms. “I should have known it would be you.” 

“Well,” you growl, teeth bared, “obviously you didn’t.”

A slow smirk runs on his lips. 

“No, but I’ll have to rectify this. I can’t have you getting in the way.” You can only hope that the intel gets out before the end of the second month—if not, then all of this was for nothing. 

Why couldn’t you have left when you had the chance?

“Fucking Hell! Trick, answer me!”

He was why. 

Simon—the source of all of your problems and the only person who could fix them besides yourself. It’s a sick joke really. 

Vito grabs your chin and you huff out a swift breath, heart skipping beats as he burrows his digits tightly into your skin; hard enough to leave marks. He sighs and clicks his tongue and you have to keep back a whimper as his nails create crescents along your jaw. 

“You won’t tell me anything, will you, then?”

“Negative,” you spit, heated. 

He scoffs. “Of course.” 

Berto throws your head back as you try to snap out and bite at his hand, rabid, but the man’s already gone and the mercenaries behind you yank you back like a dog on a leash. Your knees slide along the floor and you rage trying to turn around before the others are forced to shove your face into the ground. There is a distinctive snapping in your nose bridge as the concrete comes up to meet you; the tears come instinctually after—unable to be stopped as you yell in pain. 

Blood floods your nostrils and mouth, making you cough as Vito’s voice echoes in your ringing ears. 

“Let me get my knives.” 

—

They had you chained in some damp back room, the corners riddled with mold spores and the air heavy with condensation. You were tied to the ceiling—feet dangling uselessly below you and the tips of your boots dragging across the floor with a quiet scrape and a creak of metal. 

Above you, on the hook, the chains were tied so ruthlessly that you’d lost circulation to your arms entirely, nothing but an electric buzzing far inside of your bones. Akin to the static of a TV screen in between connections. Your clothes had been shredded by blades—long sections of your flesh underneath, cut away. 

Blood stains most, if not all, of the floor. It drips from your nose; it falls like rain to pool at your feet in rippling crimson. 

Simon had been your partner during required interrogation training and he was far better at it than you. The man could go for hours through the mental strain that was leveled out by other soldiers on him; stoic and silent. It was the way his eyes would blank that told you he could live through far worse—that he already had. You’d had your fair share as well, but never before had you felt as hopeless as this. 

There was a slim chance that anyone would come for you here. Laswell and Price would carry the guilt of it, but you didn’t want them to. 

The blood slips over your lips, and the taste of copper makes you gag; spitting out saliva from your lips. 

It was half your choice, after all. 

You try to slip into a happy memory as the lights fade in and out, the footsteps and mutterings outside the door of little interest anymore.

ironic, that the man with the mask of a dead person brought you comfort when so little could. 

You never got to tell him how much you loved him. A thin smile comes across your lips. 

“Shouldn’t be out here this late,” the man utters as you lay out in the field, arms and legs splayed and twitching when the long grass brushes against them. “Past curfew.”

“Like you aren't out here with me?” You raise an eyebrow, looking up at the stars now that the large base lights have been dimmed. The air is cold, and the breeze makes you shudder through a chill. But you don’t wipe that smile from your lips. “Bit hypocritical, Simon.”

You hear a low grunt. 

“Out ‘ere because you weren’t answering your damn door.” A shadow slips to your side, and the man settles down with a huff on his lips. Simon retired his combat mask for a simple balaclava instead, and he sighed long as he settled his arm on the bent form of his right leg. 

You blink over at him, raising a brow. 

“Looking for me, Ghosty?” 

“Bloody hell, Trick.” You chuckle, shifting your arms to rest on your chest as you look back at the stars far above. 

“Oh, it’s alright, Big Guy.” The man shakes his head. “I won’t tell anyone you’re going soft for me.” 

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“Trick, I’m tellin’ you to—”

“Shh!” You wave a hand in his direction, silencing him and making him blink at you in deep annoyance and confusion. Ghost’s eyes were narrowed, the black of his face paint gone and smelling like standard issue body wash. 

He must have gotten out of the shower and come to see if you were still awake before making his way outside when you never answered the door. Funny how he knew where you would be.

“Fucking what, then?” He growls, shoulders wide.

You place a finger to your ear, shifting so you’re sitting up on one elbow and facing Simon. On your face, a wide smile lingers, but on his, the dark brows narrow with knowledge of a deceitful event incoming. “Listen.” 

A silence falls, Simon’s ears twitching for something in the long grass or across the field. Nothing. Nothing but the breeze and the way your face glowed as you watched him, eyes glinting with amusement. 

After a long minute or two, he looks at you with utter bewilderment. You lean in closer, poking a finger into his bicep.

“Can you hear it, Simon?” You’re one of the few he lets call him that, though never in public.

He glares. “No.”

You flutter your digits in the air, giggles trapped in your mouth. A whisper hits the Lieutenant’s ears. “Silence.”

“Bugger off,” he hisses as you reel back and belt out laughter, holding your sides and lightly curling into yourself. “You’re worse than Johnny. Jesus.”

“Aww, c’mon!” You let your laughter die down to chuckles, sanctity of night broken, but not so between the two individuals who look at each other with brimming affection none will name. 

“You’re the one that came to find me, remember?” Your tease makes Ghost roll his eyes, looking away across the open area with its wave-like grasses.

“You’re right, then, I did,” Simon grunts, his hand coming up to rub his neck. “Mistake on my part.”

“Jerk,” a soft slap is leveled to his arm and he chuckles deeply. “But you can’t fool me, Ghosty. I know you’ll always come lookin’ for me—I’m too important to you to lose.”

“Keep kiddin’ yourself, Trickster.” He doesn’t say how he would agree with the statement, it was true after all. “I won’t be dragged into your bloody messes.”

He wouldn’t leave you behind to drown in them, even if it was as simple as you sneaking out of your bunk to watch the stars. 

You’d both known each other too long for that.

You smile over at him as he sighs before slipping off his mask, itching at his stubble with hard fingers. The air settles. No comment about it entering in on the see-through waves—there didn’t need to be one. 

“Mhm,” you hum, beaming. “You keep thinking that, Big Guy.”

“Trick!” Your memory shifts, and you sit up immediately. You’d thought you’d just heard…

Eyes dart out over the field, jumping back and forth rapidly. You look to the side, but Simon is gone entirely.

“Simon?” Heart beating, you stand fully up and turn in a fast circle, confusion and fear infecting your mind.

“Trick!” Pain sparks in your body, and you hiss and grab at your clothes. You blink so fast that you half-believe the world is ending.

“S-Simon?!” What was happening? What was hurting so bad? Where did Simon go?

“Trick, fucking wake up!”

Your eyes snap open and you instantaneously feel the burning pain inside of your ribs. 

The ground is underneath you, hard and wet from your own blood as you yowl and cough, air entering your lungs in quick bursts. 

Hands encase your cheeks, shaking your head—keeping you present. 

A skeletal mask littered with droplets of human fluid stares down at you, and behind it, panicked brown eyes slash through your psyche in the small moment between agony and confusion. 

Simon?

“Holy hell.” It’s that same Manchester accent. The same scrape of vocal cords. “Alright, Sweetheart. Keep those eyes open—keep ‘em on me, yeah?” 

What was going on? You try to open your mouth to say something but all of it is lead. Were your ribs broken? How? And why was Simon’s bottom covering pushed up to his nose; his lips stained with blood? 

The man frantically goes to press into his radio.

“This is Bravo 0-7,” he breathes, and you whimper as your throat gets clogged with congealed saliva and blood. You cough violently, gagging, and Ghost quickly turns you on your side to help you expel it. His hand is hard on your shoulder. 

“I say again, this is Bravo 0-7!” Those browns never leave you, shocked and serious. “Price, I’ve got ‘er. It’s not good; had to revive but I don’t know how long she’s got.”

Revive? You’re spacing in and out, limp, and trying to breathe. 

Simon tears open his medical pouch and begins wrapping tourniquets—packing the wounds with gauze until you can get proper medical treatment on the helo back to base. 

“Bloody…” he trails, Price barking an order over the connection to bring you out; the firefight was moving to the East to give him an opening to sneak back out. “C’mon, Trick.”

Everything swims; you want to go back to that field—those stars. 

Simon was here? Truly? The thought was hard to understand in your state. 

“S-Sim—” Your voice gurgles, and you can’t feel your legs. You had to tell him. Tell him the good and the bad; all of it.

“Don’t talk,” he growls, moving you as your body seizes in a state of static shock. “I’m getting you out of ‘ere.” You’re lifted up in one grand movement, Simon grunting as he shifts you carefully into a bridal hold. “Then you’re going to explain this to me when you’re squared. Won’t take no for an answer.” 

You could feel the anger sizzling off of him even half-conscious. The mixing emotions that convulsed into a mess of adrenaline and desperation. Forcing your eyes to stay open, you blink up at him as he glances down at you at the same time, just before he exits the door he had broken down. 

The visible skin of his lips and chin tighten; going down with the twitch of with a serious frown. Something flutters behind his eyes as he stares before glancing away and clearing his throat. 

“Eyes on me, Trickster. Don’t you dare close ‘em.” You grimace as he begins jogging, heavy boots echoing along the empty corridor as the sounds of gunfire and pandemonium sound off from the other side of the bunker. 

It was hard to push back the black at the sides of your vision; already it was seeping back in. Ghost holds you tight, unwilling to even let you slip an inch from his grip as the lights above swirl, brightening and dimming. 

“Oi!” You’re jostled, and you snap back to it, tensing as your wounds flex and pull. Simon glares. “What’d I just say?”

Your weakly poisoned grimace makes his lips twitch up. 

“Good.” 

There’s the sudden flick of a safety being clicked off, and the Lieutenant halts in a jerking of feet and a ruffle of canvas.

“I’ve heard about a Ghost making his rounds, hm?” Berto stands at the end of the hall, pistol held in front of him. “I saw an apparition disappearing to find one of its own. No worries. She’ll be a ghost, too, soon enough. Perhaps I’ll have to put you both to rest together.” 

The voice makes you go panicked, remembering the tear of flesh and the sharp blades slicing your skin away, chunks that peeled, and the long stripes of flexible tendons. Your lungs fight for breath, your head weakly slapping into Simon’s neck after an attempt to move your body. Limbs shake and battle nerves; the fabric of your brain.

Your blood stains the man’s gear all the way down the front. It’s dripping to the floor, down his arms and off his elbows. You’re bathing him in it—a full-body baptism of betrayal. 

“Berto,” Ghost says, accent casual despite the gun leveled at him. The name is drawn out. “Apologies, but I’m taking back what’s mine.” He tilts his head. “Scratch that, I’m not apologizing for getting back on a Bastard like you, eh? Pity I can’t hang you up like a hog, I’m proper good with a blade too, but as you can see, I’m on a crunch.” 

Vito’s face goes confused, skin scrunching. “What—”

The bang of a bullet being discharged echoes down the way. The clatter of a great expulsion of air from lungs. Stumbling. Gargles. 

The slam of a body to the ground. 

Smoke spreads up from under the clutch of your knees, where Ghost holds the abyssal body of an M19 forward, his finger lightly on the trigger before he shifts it back in well-practiced discipline. 

“Slag,” he spits. 

Simon hikes you farther into him, lending over his available body heat as you shiver. He presses his face into the top of your head, sighing in relief before starting his pace again. The man’s lips brush your flesh as your lids flutter. 

“Still with me?” You whine into his neck, fingers twitching. “I know it hurts, Love. I know. Easy with it.” 

It didn’t just hurt, it burned. Buried like the nine layers of Hell. 

He keeps whispering to you, slinking around corners and stepping into shadows. By the time he makes it outside with you, the chill of the air on the bottom of his face he didn’t even bother to re-cover, you’re tapering on the edge of oblivion again. 

Teetering like a porcelain doll on the end of the high shelf. 

“Bravo 0-6, leaving the bunker now, I need that MedEvac prepped and ready to go,” Simon speaks quickly, not wasting a single instant. 

John’s voice wafts through. “Copy, 0-7. Helo is comin’ in, be ready it’s going to get hot!” 

“Affirm. Keep it frosty down ‘ere.” There’s a low chuckle and the swift wizz of bullets. 

“Get our Trickster back in one piece, Ghost.” Simon hears the buzzing of helicopter blades in the night, a slick form descending from the dark clouds not moments later. He turns away from the flurry of air, walking hurriedly backward so the air doesn’t aggravate you. 

“Trick,” Ghost calls to you above the noise, hearing the hurried feet of medics coming out to take you from him. Your face is scrunched and you burrow into him. “I’m handing you over!” 

You try to open your eyes enough to convey your unease at that. You have to tell him. You have to explain why you had to do it. The guilt is eating you; gnawing with red teeth and gripping with devil’s claws. You have to explain that you love him even if he hates you now. 

Medics grapple you away, and you are in pain, lips peeling back to gasp sharply, thrashing. 

No!

“Fuck,” Ghost growls, pulling you away from the men as they ask him what in the bloody hell he’s doing. He doesn’t even know—all he knows is that he’s pissed at you for what you did, but never in a million years did that mean he wanted to see you in pain. 

Simon can’t lie, when he was told you were alive, the universe had held its breath. A miracle. A ruse. But alive. Alive and trapped. 

“Stop it!” He yells, caging you into him. “I’m here! I’m right here, Trickster!” 

You’re already too gone for it, not recognizing the metal of the helo as you’re settled on your back, the loud slam of the door. Fingers pull and prob as you hiss and snap, suffocating. 

Ghost holds down your shoulders, his eyes right above yours—but you’re not looking. The helo takes off

“Bloody hell,” Simon yells. “Look at me!” 

You don’t know what compels you to do so, but your eyes open just the slightest bit wider. Brown melts into your pupils, taking you in and reminding you of chilled summer nights. Simon. You pant but stop struggling. 

The medics jump into action, ripping away the remains of your shirt and pants so they can get to the wounds; assess the damage done. 

“That’s it,” Simon sighs long, swallowing. “That’s a girl. There we go, Sunshine.” 

You blink, face peeled as everything swirls far more aggressively this time. 

“Listen to me, Trick. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, you understand. You said I’d always find you, yeah?” Hands grab your cheeks. “Well, I fucking did, eh? I found you. We’re gonna fix you up, Sweetheart. It’ll all be gone by morning.” You stutter down a breath, ragged throat stretching.

“Let ‘em fix you up—”

“I love you.” 

It all fades to black, but all you remember is the sweep of horror that spreads behind the man’s eyes.

—

“You went back,” Price’s arms are crossed, and he stares at you as your fingers play with the sheets of the hospital bed. “Why?”

You sigh and rub at your face.

“Trick.”

“I felt like I needed to,” you give away, twitching your fingers out in an expression of nonchalantness. “I felt…” Your voice trailed off into a growl. “Bad.”

“Feelings aren’t a part of this, Trickster, you bloody know that,” John hisses, leaning his head closer as you glare silently. “If you’d left when you could, none of this would have fucking happened.” 

“I feel bad, Price!” You break, snapping. “I fucking know! But I-I thought if I just got a bit more intel, then this would have been worth it.” Taking a deep breath you shake your head and rub at your face, all of the bandages and stitches pulling tight. “It’s eating at me. I can’t…I can’t just act like what I lied about can be forgotten.” 

You shrug as the man listens silently, monitors beeping and the small buzz of the overhead lights. 

“Soap barely looks at me—Gaz gave me that fucking pity smile and it makes me want to scream.”

“They’ll get over it.” The Captain repeats what he said months prior firmly. “They know the Op was top priority, they’ll grow up and be back to fucking around in days.”

You scoff, muttering in a dejected tone. “He won’t.”

John is still, fixing his feet from under him as he rolls his nose and looks away slowly. 

Simon hadn’t come to visit once in the time you’d been here in the ward—four days. That fact alone makes you restless. You don’t remember what you said to him, if you said anything. But you knew that he wasn’t going to be going out of his way to be near you anymore. 

You’d taken a grenade to the relationship you’d built. Toy building blocks are scattered. 

“Simon’s…Simon,” Price ends on. You groan and itch at the IV in your hand. “He cares about you more than anyone, yeah? He just needs time. Wasn’t himself after the set-up.”

“I’ve been told,” Gaz had informed you about the Lieutenant's self-isolation after your ‘death’. The snappy orders—deathly glares. He’d gone back to the ruthless man he was in the field and instead of being directed at his enemies, it was directed at them.

Kyle explained how he’d argued with Price about how he could have gotten to you, before abruptly falling silent and stalking away as if a flip had been switched. Snake eyes and clenched fists. 

They’d heard him in the gym late at night, reaming on the punching bags. They didn’t think he slept more than three hours per day if the red lines in his eyes were anything to go by.

And then they were told that you were alive but captured, and he’d gotten worse.

You’d nearly started sobbing when the Sergeant had told you all of that.

“I betrayed his trust, Price,” you level. “I…I never wanted to do that to him. Ever. Not Simon.”

A shadow passes by the door just as the Captain grunts. “That’s the job.”

“That’s not the job I signed up for when I got into this. We don’t lie to our own.”

“‘We get dirty, the world—’” You cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘stays clean’.” Your eyes level with his. “I can do the dirty work, John, you know that. Infiltration and undercover work is what I’m good at.” The man nods slightly. “But if you ask me to betray One-Four-One’s trust again, I’m out.”

Blue eyes blink in shock, but you don’t let him speak.

“Find someone else to get fake blown up in a building. I can’t get his fucking screams out of my head.” John watches you silently, eyes narrowed. 

You meet that gaze head-on, not backing down from this.

The Captain shakes his head a minute later. “Bloody made for each other,” he mutters under his breath, grunting. Another shadow slips past going the opposite direction, probably a nurse.

Without another word John turns and exits the room, tossing a hand behind his head casually in a way to say goodbye.

You huff and roll your eyes, heat on your cheeks. 

The day wains, and you let the nurses come in to do their checkups and replace the IV. As the curtains are pulled back into place, supper sits heavy in your stomach. 

You wanted to see Simon. 

You knew it wouldn’t go well, and wouldn’t be the goody-goody outcome you prayed for…but you felt wrong without apologizing in person. It went against your morals, and already those were incredibly skewed. Maybe he’d yell, or even ignore you as if you weren’t there.

Simon wasn’t above not speaking to people he didn’t like.

You had to try.

When all was dark, you shuffled out of the hospital bed and fought the weakness of your legs. Shaking like a leaf, you walked around with only your tied gown, unapologetic of the slit down the back showing flashes of your bra and underwear. 

It wouldn’t be anything the Lieutenant hadn’t seen before.

Walking through the silence, you sigh and stand outside of his door; dread in your heart and seeping from the pulled stitches of your wounds. Your bare feet on the tile make you shiver. 

Lifting up a fist, you hesitate. 

Your hand hovers over the wood, sliding forward before you pull it back to you. Closing your eyes tight, you clench your jaw once and take a deep breath.

Knock-knock-knock. Knock-knock.

The sequence was your call sign. If you knocked like that, he would know it was you—whereas Simon's own was just a single slam of the side of his fist.

The only real problem now was that he wasn’t answering.

You stare dumbly at the barrier, blinking like a fool. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to understand the realization that he wasn’t ignoring you—he just wasn’t in his room. 

Taking a step back, you rub the back of your neck in exasperation and hurry to the nearest exit.

“Of course,” you breathe. You know exactly where he is at a time like this.

The field holds a standing shadow, a ghost of issued fatigues with a thick jacket against the chill that leaves you shivering. Simon stares out over the training grounds with his hands in his pockets, balaclava pulled all the way down to hide him from you. 

You come to a slow halt behind him and stare. 

It’s not long before the man gunts, turning his head back from over his shoulder to look at you blankly. He knew you were there.

The eye contact stays for a long, long while—until you’re hypnotized in the shades of brown and amber and the large build that seems to broaden because of your appearance.

“I’m here to apologize.” You say it breathlessly. “I’m not asking you to hear me out, but I have to let you know I regret doing it. Price said that it was time-sensitive and I—”

Stopping yourself, you look away. It sounded too much like an excuse, you hissed to yourself. At the end of the day, it was still your acceptance that pushed the pawn forward. 

“I’m sorry, Simon,” you breathe. “I betrayed your trust.”

His eyes are piercing you, but you still can’t look at him. The man slightly turns your way. His voice was monotone and grunting out like a dog.

“You think I couldn’t handle it?” Your heart starts, and you’re shaking your head instantly.

“No.” You explain quickly—honestly. “It’s that…I didn’t want you to.” 

You hear his lips take in a quiet breath. Simon rolls his shoulders before looking away from you. Nothing could have prepared you for what came next.

“You said you loved me.” Your body freezes, jaw going slack as your face drops. You don’t speak, mute as if the air in your lungs has been stolen.

You had done…what?

All of your tricks couldn’t get you out of this one.

“I,” you force a fake laugh, hands beginning to shake. “I, what? No, I’m sure that’s not what I said. A-are you sure it wasn’t, like, an ‘I appreciate you’ or maybe a…a,” your voice catches. “A whole ‘I’m fond of you’ sort of thing…? Hm?”

Simon takes a step forward and you take one back. This was worse than torture, you decided. The pain in your pulling stitches and re-set nose was welcome here.

“Trick,” Ghost utters, and you stare hard at his neck, humming. “Stop talking.”

“Copy,” you whisper quickly, shoulders falling. 

He’s so close you can feel his body heat melting into you, and you want nothing more than to touch him. Simon’s hand comes up to your chin, and he angles it up as you stop breathing, lips parted.

“I heard you in the med ward talkin’ to Price. Was outside the door the ‘ole time.” The shadow. 

He tilts your head to the side to stare at the medical tape over the slashes in your skin. The scars won’t bother you—you had plenty of others to show as well. But Simon was…studying you. Assessing. 

His eyes blink slowly with those long pale lashes, and they slide up to you as he leans in close to your ear. Still, you stand comatose.

“You put me through a fucking heap ‘o hurt, Love.” You stare over his shoulder, not speaking, not moving. 

Simon leans back and lets go of your chin, brushing a finger over your nose and the puffy skin there.

“Never do that again.” It’s final, how he says it. But the layers of depth are plain to hear. Simon speaks low and even—gaze trapping yours like a curse. 

You know he won’t talk about the things you’ve heard. The aggression or the late-night gym trips. You’ve known him for years, and know his brain like the back of your hand.

Shivering, you nod once, content with not answering verbally to break the sanctity of the moment. Seeing Simon like this made you ease your fears. You clear your throat to push back the stuffiness.

“Thought you held grudges, Big Guy?” Nearly not heard, you mutter and pick at where the IV needle is supposed to be. 

A hand catches yours and stops you from making it bleed.

“Do,” Ghost grumbles, turning your hand over and moving his face closer until you feel his breath. “Just not with my Bird.” 

His balaclava is suddenly up to his nose, and those lips that had been covered in your blood previously situated themselves perfectly to yours. 

You gasp, arm outstretched beside you in shock. 

You’d kissed him before, but this felt different. More intimate. Simon’s arms slip around your waist, and you retaliate by locking your shaking arms behind his back, feeling the gentle passes of his lips. 

Mouth to mouth, you breathe each other in as if grasping for the other’s soul in desperation. A desperation that tells you how much the beast of a man around you was terrified of your death and the body he had to carry into the helo—of the lengths he would go to stave death from touching your tender flesh. 

No, only he was allowed to do that, and he was a reaper in his own right.

A small death that infected you at every breath puffing into your mouth, every whine and whimper he could draw like water to swallow down as ambrosia. Nectar of the Gods, and it was right there in his arms. Back. Alive. 

To be alive in the summer field of this old military base was to accept that death, and into it, hope that the few moments you had together truly made a difference. 

Simon would hold you there—and when that was done, wrap you in his jacket and carry your battered body back inside; watching your swollen lips and the wide eyes as they gaze back at him. 

Because he could hate you all he wanted for this, for the lies, for the way you made him care…but the both of you would still be alive to do so.

He guessed that was all that mattered.

TAGS:

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[wordsbyrian]

Short: The Call - USWNT x Reader

Summary: Y/N gets the WWC call up facetime from Vlatko while being weird and it devolves from there.

A/n: One of my silly ideas finally completed. That's 3.75 of 7 fics from this poll completed/posted.

One of the biggest moments of your life and you go and fuck it up by being, well yourself.

It's not like you didn't know to be expecting the call. It's just that you weren't expecting it to be a facetime in the middle of the day on your day off.

Which explains your state of… disarray, so to speak, when you fumble to answer the phone, not looking at the caller ID.

“Hello,” you grunt, placing your phone back on your desk at an angle so you can continue your process.

“Hey, Y/N,” the familiar voice of Andonovski rings out in the room. You can hear him pause and take a deep breath before he speaks again, “What in the world is on your head?”

You all but freeze when you hear him and his question makes you slowly raise your hands and remove the over large mask you're wearing.

When you do, you’re unsurprised to see Vlatko staring at you waiting for an answer.

“It’s a Sontaran head, sir,” you say nervously.

“A Sontaran head?”

“It’s a character from one of my favorite shows,” you explain, “there’s a convention coming up and… that’s not important. Is there a reason you're Facetiming me?”

“Well, I wanted to see the look on your face,” he says.

You’re still holding on to the Sontaran head, clutching it to your chest as you begin to realize what this call could possibly be about.

“I just needed to let you know that you’ve been selected for the World Cup roster.”

You’re sure the look on your face resembles that of a fish, mouth wide and gaping while your eyes stare unblinkingly as you try to process the information you’ve just been given.

You’re going to the World Cup.

You.

The World Cup.

You’re so shocked that you have to double check that he really meant to call you.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Vlatko says, “Unless you would rather not come along.”

You answer very quickly, a sharp no shooting it’s way out of your mouth.

“No,” you repeat, “I definitely want to come, thank you.”

“Alright then we’ll see you at camp in a few weeks.”

“I’ll be there.”

Vlatko congratulates you once again before saying goodbye and ending the call, leaving you sitting there holding your Sontaran head with only 2 thoughts on your mind.

The first being that you need to call your older sister and tell her.

And the second is that you really hope the facetime wasn’t being recorded by the social media team for one of their weird projects. It seems like the type of thing they would do and if your teammates saw this you would never hear the end of this.

You weren’t so lucky.

Because just over a week later, you’ve been forced into a meeting room with the rest of the girls to watch videos that you now know are of everyone getting called up.

Kristie, Lindsey and surprisingly Kelley cry and Trin looked like she had been in the middle of a run. But there’s nothing as odd as you answering the phone with a glorified potato head on.

And well the teasing has already started.

“So, Y/N,” Kelley sys, sliding up next to you, “When do you plan on having us take you to our leader?”

Before you even really get a chance to respond, Sonnet appears on your other side pulling you into a headlock.

“Before you answer that we need to know the secret to defeating you,” Emily asks.

Rolling your eyes, you pull the older woman’s hands off you while answering, “I could tell you but you would just use that information to bully me.”

“What?! I have never bullied you a day in either of our lives.”

“Well there was that time you convinced her that the bus had left her behind and let her run all the way to the training field,” Kelley says.

“Or the time that you let me believe that,” Sonny cuts you off.

“Ok so maybe I have in the past been a little mean to you,” Emily groans. “But! But, I do actually want to know more about it. You said it’s from your favorite show, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t know about your favorite show?” “Friends don’t need to know everything about each other,” you tell her walking away.

2 weeks later, the day before you’re set to fly out to New Zealand for the World Cup, your nap is interrupted by someone pounding on your room door.

Opening it up, you’re surprised to see Emily and Kelley standing there, a laptop in hand looking distraught.

Before you even have a chance to ask them what's up, Kelley all but shouts in your face.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Uh, what?”

“Why didn’t you tell us that your nerd show makes you fall in love with the characters only to make them leave in the most heartbreaking ways,” Sonny asks, shoving the laptop into your chest. “Everytime you start to like a character, they get rid of them!”

Still shocked, you can barely stutter out a response.

“I genuinely have no clue what you guys are talking about.”

“It’s not right,” Kelley is shouting again,. “Rose, lost in another universe. Martha, just up and left because she couldn’t take almost dying every day. And the Doctor had to wipe Donna’s mind to save her life! It’s not right and it's not fair.”

It finally clicks.

“Oh man, you guys are in deep huh?”

“And we have so many questions.”

“Come on in, nerds.”

[warping-realities]

Building an Empire Part I

Okay, I know I said I didn't plan on writing anything new, but it seems that just by making the new images for Making

Amends the desire to try something new appeared. In reality, it's not that new because I'm not writing anything different from what I've written before and even the way the transformation occurs is derived from another story, albeit with some twists. And yes, as the title makes clear we are talking about a series, but I have no idea when the next part will be ready. Finally, this one is a little darker than my usual, so be warned. Hope you like it!

The Partner

Javier stared at the prison cell wall with hatred so deep in his eyes that it could burn a hole in the concrete in front of him. He had been very stupid to let himself get caught in something as stupid as tax evasion. The police had been looking for years for a reason to place him in that exact place without ever having come close to him engaging in any of the criminal activities that formed the basis of the small fortune acquired through his life of crime. At almost forty years of age he had acquired a reputation in the criminal underworld, several gangs and cartels hired his services with the guarantee of a quick and effective solution to any possible problem. An arrest would irreparably tarnish that reputation. And in his field, a man's reputation was his greatest asset, even more so when he had another reputation, that of an insatiable man-eater, who had only gotten away with his actions and the blatant homophobia in his midst due to his impeccable record. In fact, if a look could tear down a wall, Javier's cell would have been open to the outside world for a long time.

….

"Javier Ruiz, suspect in several cases of extortion, drug trafficking and possible involvement in homicides that have never been clarified. Raised by his maternal great-aunt Isabela Ruiz, his father was a member of a cartel killed in an exchange of gunfire with a rival gang before his birth and his heroin-addicted mother died with him in her arms at the age of 3 in the small apartment where they lived, where he would be found 4 days after the incident, dehydrated but still resisting.

Since he was a child, he was known for his enormous size, which earned him his nickname, Golias, Goliath, a name he adopted in the criminal underworld. We have had reports of his activities for more than two decades but without ever being able to link the nickname to the person. Until now.

Thanks to a rookie mistake we finally have him in custody, an opportunity. " Explained to the room a young dark haired cop.

"Indeed, he has precious information, but it seems no one in here is capable to get him to say anything." Police Lieutenant Patrick Walsh spoke in response, with a hard look at his subordinates.

"An opportunity we just missed. His bail was just paid, he's free." Interjected one of the police officers present, Sergeant Adams, a portly black man in his fifties.

"Shit, a completely wasted golden opportunity." Exclaimed the young dar haired and fresh out of the academy, Officer Anthony DiAngelo who was present there only because he was the lieutenant's wife's nephew.

"Maybe not. Sir, I have an idea." Said a strong blond man of about 35 years old with a rigid look and posture. And his idea made the lieutenant's eyes shine with excitement.

…

"Enjoying your freedom while you can Goliath?" asked the blonde detective in front of the police station when Javier was released.

"My name is Javier. And my taxes and bail have been paid, there's no need to bother me detective...?"

"Fischer. Michael Fischer. And I didn't want to bother you Golias, just warn you."

"Warn me, of what?"

"Unfortunately, it seems that the information that you spent the night at the police station has leaked . The rumor going around the city is that you handed over very important people to save your skin."

"Save me from what, a stupid accusation of tax evasion?"

"Ah, but they don't know that, do they?"

"Son of a bitch!"

"Goliath, this son of a bitch here is your best friend right now."

"I have no friends, let alone a pig like you. And if you think I'm going to fall for that stupid move and turn someone in, you're sorely mistaken."

"Well, I'm sure a lot of people have seen you talking to me in the last few minutes, friend." Detective Fischer concluded as he placed a card in Javier's pocket. While Javier, being in front of the police station, could not react the way he wanted and risk being arrested again.

"For when you realize the value of my friendship, Goliath."

…..

Javier was foaming at the mouth, with the money he had accumulated he knew he could live reasonably well in some forgotten third world country. Still, he needed to take Tia Isabel with him and that would be a big problem. How would he go out the country with an elderly illegal woman with the police and the city's biggest criminals on his tail?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! You bastards." He shouted at the roof of the car as he headed to the comfortable apartment he had rented for the aunt who had raised him spend the last years of her life.

"Tia sabel, it's Javi, I'm sorry I didn't come to see you yesterday, I had an unforeseen event and we need to talk about... Tia? Tia?" Said Javier, touching the cold corpse of the woman who had created him and feeling a wave of pain, sadness and already the familiar hate and anger invade him."

"They're going to pay, they're going to pay...damn pigs." He said between tears, hugging his aunt's body. And so he continued for a long time. Until a strange buzzing sound caught his attention. Following the source of the sound he came across a shelf full of trinkets. The buzzing came from a small round golden box. He picked it up and felt it vibrate in his huge hand. Opening it he found a coin made of pure gold that when he picked it up dissolved in his hands, and just like that a whole new range of possibilities opened up to him and despite all the sadness of that moment he couldn't help but smile.

……

"Are you sure it's okay to you take care of Jamie, Will?"

"Yes, Mr. Fischer, you know I've been doing this for years."

"Still, I'd imagine you'd want to enjoy your last few days of spring break before returning to college."

"Ah, you know I've never had the most lively social life. And it's a pleasure to spend some time with him, it's like he's a little brother."

"Thank you very much Will, you know I see you as a nephew too. And I'm sorry again, but Lauren is on night shift at the hospital and this urgent appointment came up."

"Like I said, Mr. Fischer. No problem, it's a pleasure." Replied the twenty-year-old boy standing at the door of Detective Fischer's comfortable suburban home, with a smile on his face.

After giving his eight-year-old son a hug and apologizing for his absence, Michael got into his SUV and responded to the message from the unknown number but which belonged to a person he would probably know very well. He just couldn't imagine how much.

….

Michael Fischer was a tough man, with few smiles, shaped by the service to his country, he had served in Afghanistan and seen the horrors of war firsthand. Upon returning he enrolled in the police academy and at the age of 35 he was a detective in one of the busiest police stations in the large metropolis in which he lived. His reputation for being harsh had spread quickly among his colleagues and the criminal population, earning him admirers but also many enemies, even among his colleagues, as everyone knew that he could become ruthless in his endeavor for what he thought was fair.

For him there was no such thing as the spirit of the law, the law was the law and had to be followed, which did not prevent him from using its obscure margins, often bringing him closer to the behavior of the same subjects he sought with so much to penalize. Something that many of his detractors loved to use against him. Mainly old Sergeant Adams, a member of the union and activist for racial equality, who seemed to see some of the positions adopted by him as racist. Which wasn't true, because for him a criminal was a criminal, regardless of social class or color and they all deserved punishment and if Michael was the one to lead them to it, so much the better.

Anyone who knew Michael from work could never imagine that the rigid and tough guy was a loving father and husband, a helpful neighbor and an active member of the Lutheran church where he was loved by everyone and recognized for carrying out social works. The church was indeed a very important place for him, as it had been his home for years and was deeply related to why he acted so stoically.

Michael had been orphaned at a very young age and had known the reality of the streets, he himself had almost been one of the strays he hated so much if it hadn't been for the shelter of religion and maybe that was the reason he persecuted social misfits so much, the notion that he had almost been one of them. And if there was one thing he knew from the bottom of his heart, it was that he would do everything to make sure Jamie didn't have to go through the same thing.

It was this responsibility with his son, the result of his relationship with Lauren, the nurse who had taken care of him after the accident that ended his short military career, that he thought about while looking at the photo that served as the wallpaper on his cell phone, showing him and his son on a summer afternoon.

Michael sighed when he saw his son's face being covered by a message notification on his cell phone screen saying simply: Apartment 416. He knew it was imprudent of him to go alone and talk to Javier, but the criminal represented a great chance of incapacitate several of the city's gangs. An opportunity he couldn't pass up. Resigned, he got out of the car and entered the building, not knowing that the man who entered would be very different from the one who would leave.

….

The first thing Michael felt when entering the apartment was cold, the temperature inside was many degrees lower than expected, as if it were the height of winter. Adjusting his coat to his body, he observed the simple but comfortable living room with attentive eyes, but the room was completely empty. The second thing to hit his senses was the smell of flowers, so intense that it seemed as if he had entered a flower shop. Guided by that aroma, he arrived at one of the apartment's bedrooms and there he found Isabel Ruiz's corpse lying on a bed of flowers.

"Shit..." He exclaimed as he ran out of the room and grabbed his cell phone to call reinforcements, realizing what a mistake it was to go to that place alone. Javier Ruiz was a dangerous man and would certainly be distraught over the death of the only family figure he had ever known, even if he was a total psychopath as Michael was sure he actually was. Which only made things worse, only God knew what that kind of monster would do in that situation, although Michael was about to find out.

Upon returning to the previously empty room he found himself face to face with the man known as Goliath, and at that moment two things became clear to him. The first was that Javier's nickname was justified, sitting in an armchair that could barely contain all of his enormous muscles, he actually resembled the image of the biblical giant. And the second thing was that he had fucked everything up.

Staring at the gargantuan figure in front of him, Michael, without realizing it, let slip the thought that occupied his mind.

"Fuck!"

"Not yet." Was Javier's enigmatic response. As his serious face broke into a terrifying smile.

"Look, Javier, I'm sorry about your aunt, but I had nothing to do with..."

"Spare your words. There is nothing you can say that will change your destiny." Javier interrupted. While Michael faced him while realizing that there would in fact be no chance of dialogue. So Michael tried to take his pistol from his holster, only to realize that he was completely paralyzed. Which led him to be dominated by a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time: fear.

Noticing this, the giant stood up, with the maniacal smile back on his face.

"You're trapped in my net, detective. And because of your own choices. Isn't it curious? How do our choices seal our destinies? My parents' choices brought me to Tia Isabel. My choices led me to your police station and yours choices took her away from me, but they also gave me the opportunity to have everything I ever wanted, to take revenge on everyone who got in my way and finally occupy the place I deserve."

"What are you doing to me, you psychopath?"

"Shut up, I already said you don't need to talk, not yet." Javier replied, while a strip of golden metal closed Michael's mouth, making his eyes widen in surprise.

"Interesting, isn't it? Who would have thought that my poor aunt had in her hands the power to shape the universe at will and never used it. I wonder how many years this power was there on that shelf begging to be used while she resisted. If it weren't for the idiotic work from your team perhaps this power would never have reached me. So for that I am grateful to you... friend. No, no friend, I told you this before, we will never be friends, which doesn't stop us from being other things. " Javier whispered in Michael's ears, who in turn tried desperately to escape, only to realize that his feet were surrounded by the same metallic substance.

"Let's see what you have to offer, Detective." Javier added as the metallic substance liquefied and encompassed Michael's body.

"Interesting." Javier muttered as the substance solidified, forming what looked like a metal statue that vaguely resembled the naked image of the man inside it.

Earlier that day when Javier touched the coin, which was actually much more than that, a wave of information invaded his mind. That simple coin was in reality one of the most powerful artifacts known in the universe, a Reality Warper that transferred into the man's mind everything he needed to know. There were a few more models on our planet, one of the silver ones was even located in a city a few hundred miles away from where they were. But silver mattered little when you had gold. And Javier's gold would allow detective Michael Fischer to be reshaped in any way he wanted, from his personal history, through genetics to the deepest of thoughts. Know that gave Javier the greatest excitement of his life, which was manifested through the immense erection that almost burst his jeans and that would have been very visible to poor Michael if he hadn't been trapped inside his golden cocoon.

"Let's start." Javier said out loud as if Michael could hear him, while he placed his huge hand on the golden figure's chest, causing waves of energy to spread and its face to lose any defining features. At the same time, the figure's body increased in muscle, reacting to one of Goliath's great fetishes, men as big as himself, that he could subdue. and use.

While that transformation was taking place, Michael Fischer's mind and story opened up to Javier like a file that he could alter at will. He saw the orphanhood, the importance of the church, the desire to serve the country, the injury during his time serving abroad, the loving relationship with his wife and the concern for his son. But also the harsh and cruel treatment given to those he considered outcasts and the dubious selectivity with which he treated people of color, although he denied it even to himself. He also saw how the police officer prided himself on rectitude and incorruptibility and did not tolerate colleagues who did not act with the politeness, rectitude and severity that he expected from a police officer. Upon seeing all that, Javier smiled and started working.

He knew that what he was doing would not only alter the man trapped in the cocoon, but all of reality, including his own, and so he took care to create the reality that best benefited him. When he was satisfied with his work he secured another revenge, he will left the police officer consciousness last a few minutes after the work is completed and a completely different person takes that place.

Javier removed his hand from the figure's chest and watched the waves of energy spread through it, reconfiguring it into a very different form. After a few seconds he found himself in front of the image of an enormous man, of clearly Latin descent like his own, of approximately his age and size as large, if not larger.

The smile remained on his face as the golden coating dissolved and revealed the image of the man inside.

"Hello Detective Flores." Javier said, looking at the huge man still disoriented in front of him, but who quickly frowned and looked at him with irritation.

"Ruiz you son of..." Michael started to say only to hear his own deep voice and stop, as he didn't recognize it, just as he didn't recognize the weight of his own body or the hands at which he looked next.

"What did you do to me?"

"Don't worry Miguel, everything will make sense soon."

"Miguel? What?..." Michael began to say until he was invaded by a wave of memories that weren't his but were undoubtedly real.

He saw a Latino boy walking alone through the city streets, until he stopped in front of a church and sat down, only to be chased away by a blond pastor.

"This is no place for people like you!" Said the man.

A new memory, the boy, now around 13 years old, very tall but very thin, wandering down the street and being chased by older boys under the gaze of a police patrol who did nothing to help him.

The boy at 18 enlisting not because he had any patriotic desire within him, but because it was a way to get food and money.

The young man at 21 years old, very different from what he had been until then, now strong and muscular due to finally receiving an adequate diet and military training, not to mention the exorbitant use of anabolic steroids.

The same young man a few months later took advantage of an accident to injure himself and avoid being sent to a mission to the country. After having spent the last few years exchanging sexual favors with superiors to avoid more dangerous missions.

The young man being cared for by a young nurse for whom he pretended to be interested only to guarantee his livelihood. Then a visit of an acquaintance from his orphanage days who sold him the idea of ​​joining the police and acting as an informant in exchange for money.

The man looking at the son he had with the nurse with slightly interest. The intense sexual encounters with random men while he maintained the sham marriage because it guaranteed him a good image.

The man charging the same pastor who had kicked him off the church's sidewalk a monthly fee to ensure that criminals did not vandalize the property. Criminals he had hired himself.

The man being all smiles and jokes, to be seen as a man of warm and pleasant behavior, well-liked by those who didn't know what he was hiding and feared by those who saw what was beneath the facade that hid the selfishness and ambition within him. Climbing the career ladder in the police, demanding favors, blackmailing and cheating. Building an external image of a respectable family man while getting rich with bribes and providing information to his former acquaintance, with whom he had constant and animalistic sexual relations, with both constantly disputing who would dominate the other.

Michael initially observed those images with detachment because they were so foreign to the life he knew and the image he had of himself that there was no possibility of him associating himself with them.

However, he couldn't help but place himself little by little in the moonlight of that other man, in that other life, it was as if an immense force was pushing him in the direction of that life so foreign to him. Little by little he began to feel that boy's pain, loneliness and anger to the point where he was able to justify to himself some of the attitudes of the man he had become, no matter how alien and distant such attitudes were from his way of thinking.

"But were they really that distant?" He thought with the heat of burning anger in his chest, the bitterness of humiliation in his mouth, the joy of victory, of making others feel what it was like to be on the losing side and the pleasure, the immense pleasure in manipulating, conquering, dominating. ...

"No, no... what about Lauren?" A woman to be by his side, support him and meet his needs.

"No, he loved her!" Well, he loved what she had given him, and that was, in a way, a kind of love.

"No, no, no! And Jamie! Jamie!" When he thought of his son, Michael felt that expanding force slow its inexorable advance. But at that moment another thought took hold. It's obvious that he loved the boy, after all he was a continuation of himself and when the time came he would teach the kid everything he needed to do well in life and he would make sure that his son knew his rightful place, above all others. But until then he didn't have much to do for the kid, other than paying the minimum attention to him so that he felt happy until the moment he was ready. With the childhood he had himself, he knew how necessary this was. As well to maintain the appearance of a responsible family father. So if every now and then he had to take the kid to play ball or ride a bike in the park, it would be a small price to pay.

Even more so because those walks had been the perfect excuse for some of the most interesting encounters he had ever had. Last weekend for example, one of the boring afternoons he spent with the boy turned into a memorable day in which he fucked hard a twink in the park bathroom, while Jaime played ball with Will, the neighbors' unbearably annoying son.

It was after the memory of that pleasure start to vanish that a last memory came to his mind: the man kissing his business partner and occasional lover in a familiar living room. And the man's animalistic smile as he undressed in preparation for the usual contest of strength that would culminate in one of the two being brutally fucked by the other.

"Hello Goliath" Detective Miguel Flores said to his long-time partner in crime and in bed at the same time that Michael Fischer's last shred of consciousness disappeared within that corrupted mind.

.....

After the wild sex Miguel watched amazed the dancing golden metal ran through Javier's hand, unable to believe the other man's story. Neither of them seeming the least bit concerned about the fact that they had sex with a corpse in the next room.

"It's impossible for something like this to exist."

"Let me prove it to you then, I'm dying to expand the business, bring me one of your colleagues from the police station and I'll show you."

"It's very risky, Javier."

"You do not trust me."

"Of course not."

"Fine, then let's think of someone. As soon as you arrest some of the smaller members of the Maldonado and Deshaun gangs there will be a drop in the distribution of some places and so I will need people to take over. Let's start small. It would have to be someone whose change doesn't generate too many unforeseen ripples and who has access to potential consumers. A professor? No, perhaps a college student..."

Upon hearing that a wicked smile appeared on Miguel's face, only to be mirrored by the other man when he heard what the detective had to say.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Man vs Machine

Official inquire #37914 Subject: Destruction of military outpost Theta Prime Present: Military Commander Cinth Nevar Imperial Investigator Prim Tud Private Dil Lunk *Recording begins*

Prim: All requested parties are here, so we shall begin with the inquiry.

Cinth: I want this on record that this entire proceeding is pointless.

Prim: The Emperor and senate disagree.

Dil: Excuse me sirs, but why am I here?

Prim: You are the only surviving soldier who was on duty patrolling the perimeter of the base.

Prim: Your report for the night is critical to my investigation.

Dil: I’m not sure how much help I can be; we only patrolled the interior of the base.

*Sound of typing stopping*

Prim: What do you mean by that?

Dil: Well the security system monitored the outside of the base and us live soldiers patrolled the inside.

Prim: That seems like a critical hole in security.

Cinth: Not at all.

Cinth: The system was designed to spot any hostile life forms and either neutralizes them or, in the case of wildlife, drive them away from the base.

Prim: And has this system been used in other bases before your command?

Cinth: It has not.

Prim: Why not?

Cinth: The technology is still in the prototype phase and was implemented on my base as the first field test.

Cinth: I went over the reports myself daily and deemed it effective enough to redeploy my soldiers to inside the base.

Prim: You went over all the reports?

Cinth: I just said that I did.

Prim: And there were no discrepancies at all?

Cinth: None.

Prim: Interesting.

Prim: We recently obtained the bases black box from the wreckage of the base.

Dil: That’s impressive given the explosion that wiped out the base.

Prim: They are built to withstand much worse.

Prim: When we went through the logs we found several entries in the monitoring system we were hoping you could explain to us.

*Sounds of a holographic projector being powered on*

Prim: This is two nights before the explosion at the base from monitor-

Cinth: 39-75N; I can tell from the forest in the background.

Prim: Correct.

Prim: The video is time stamped at roughly midnight for the planet; please watch closely and observe.

*Holographic projections speeds up through time showcasing the area as Cinth and Dil watch until the sun rises.*

Cinth: I see nothing out of the ordinary.

Prim: You don’t?

Prim: What about here?

*Holographic projection rewinds too shortly after midnight and the trio see a shadowy figure slowly walk across the screen.*

Prim: Can you explain that?

Cinth: That is a Wrath Hog, a native animal species in the area.

Dil: We saw a couple dozen of them at a time when the base was being built, then they just stopped coming by when the foot traffic increased.

Prim: *Rubs bridge of long nose*

Prim: That is not a “Wrath Hog”, that is a human soldier hunched over wearing the pelt of one.

Cinth: Impossible!

Cinth: The monitor would have detected that and alerted the base!

Prim: Computer, enhance image in grid 34x67 and increase light levels.

*Computer enhances image and increases brightness to reveal better image*

Dil: By the gods it really is a human.

Prim: Are you sure?

Dil: *Points at back legs* Those are human military boots. A friend of mine once took a pair as a trophy.

Prim: Why then did the machines not alert the base?

Prim: How was a lowly private able to identify an enemy combatant while a state of the art computer system could not?

Cinth: I do not know.

Prim: It couldn’t possibly be that they were programmed only to register the standard appearance of a human; would it?

Cinth: I am not a tech smith.

Prim: But you said that you went over there reports every day?

Cinth: I do not need you to remind me of what I said, bureaucrat.

Prim: *Turns to Dil* You said you had seen these boots before?

Dil: Yes sir.

Prim: And had you been patrolling the exterior of the base do you think you would have seen their footprints?

Dil: They are very distinctive sir, so yes.

Prim: Hmmm.

*More typing*

Prim: This was taken at the same time the following night.

*Darkness outside the base but the three can see a large shadowy figure moving again*

Cinth: That’s no native animal.

Prim: No.

Prim: That is a human holding a pair of leafy branches in their arms and slowly walking across the field.

Cinth: What!?

*Computer enhances image to reveal a human in brown and green war paint holding two large branches and a strange satchel strapped to their back*

Cinth: There must have been a failure in the system!

Cinth: That human is standing upright like any other human.

Prim: But because of the branches the system mistook them for plant life and left them alone.

Cinth: This is all-

Prim: And this was taken the night of the explosion itself, same time of day as the previous videos.

*Video shows a square box slowly inching its way across the open field and making it to the perimeter wall*

Cinth: *groans*

Dil: That looks like a packing container we get supplies in.

Prim: Which is why the system mislabeled it “lost cargo”, sent a report to the quarter master, and ignored it for the rest of the night.

Cinth: *Says nothing*

Dil: I don’t understand why they would sneak into the base like this.

Prim: From our spies in the human league we learned that this tactic was used to further bypass the system.

Prim: The humans operated under the assumption that each encounter would be recorded and used for future reference, and that any discrepancies from the original encounter would trigger an alert.

Prim: By bypassing the system in so many different methods they ensured each subterfuge was logged as the original encounter and would have nothing to reference.

Prim: As to why they did this repeatedly they carried a large amount of explosives across each night and placed them throughout the base.

Cinth: This shows that the prototype system is a complete failure.

Prim: A failure that will cost you millions of credits.

Cinth: I do not follot.

Prim: We know you lobbied for that system to be installed and that you are a controlling shareholder of the technomats who create it.

Cinth: That is just-

Prim: As for you private Dil we have determined that as the sole remaining patroller of the base you will be held accountable for failing to defend it properly.

Dil: But I didn’t know!

Cinth: This will never hold up in the courts!

Prim: Quite right, which is why I was chosen to handle this matter.

*Sound of gun being cocked and fired twice*

*Two loud thuds hit the floor*

Prim: This completes inquire #37914.

Prim: Recommendation is that all perimeter algorithms and software currently being used for security purposes be retrofitted with new configurations or deactivated and replaced for living soldiers.

Prim: End recording. ( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)    

[otaku0411]

A GLASS OF WHISKEY PLEASE: Part Two

‼️Part one ‼️

.

.

It’s been 6 weeks since I met the famous Kenji Sato. After learning about him, I did a little research on him and apparently he is on more on the clock your side and he’s a little bit egotistical to say the least. Which honestly I don’t mind, I kinda like it when a guy is cocky and confident, especially when he know what to do, which he does show on the baseball field because based on his stats and record, he is one hell of a baseball player.

A week after our first encounter, he came and based on where my coworkers told me, he came to the bar every night to see me, but he will not see me back there until Wednesday night and that when I saw him his face lit up and he gave me his classic smile. He ordered his drink and we talked that day since it wasn’t busy.

I eventually gave him my phone number and we begin to text and call each other. We got to know each other more about our personal life and family. He tells me that he’s born in Japan, but his mom moved to but him and his mom moved to America when he was younger. I asked him why his dad didn’t come, he reply with business reasons I didn’t prey on it and we carry along the conversation to something else.

I can’t lie, I’m starting to have a crush on this man. Cause after all of his flirting and cocky persona, he’s genuinely and sweet and sincere man. And that’s kinda sexy!

It’s a Thursday night and it’s not really busy, so Kenji decided to come in and keep me company. “How’s my favorite baseball player?” I greet him as he’s taking a sit. “I’ve been doing great now that I saw you.” I chuckle “Well aren’t you a flirt.” He laughs a little, “No baby that just how I talk. But I can flirt with you if that makes you happy,” He smirks as he analyze me from top to bottom where I was standing “No thank you, but my eyes are up here sir.” He put his hands up in defense mode “My fault, love.” I roll my eyes playfully “Whatever, do you want your usual today?” “Why of course.”

After we’re bantering with each other for like 30 minutes, there’s a long pause between us. After what felt like an hour, Kenji finally speaks. “There’s also something I been meaning to ask you about.” “What is it?” I asked, wiping down the counter. “Would it be weird if I-” RINGG

His watch started to ring and he answered it before he could finish his sentence. “Hey, what is it?” His facial expression went from neutral to being worried. “Okay I’ll be there soon,” he hang up, looking more worried than before. He digs into his pockets and pulls out a fifty, “I’m so sorry, this is an emergency! I’ll text you later when I’m done!” And just like that, he was out the door.

For the rest of the shift, all I could think about was if he was okay and what was the call about. I eventually get home and check any notifications. *ZERO*

It’s okay Y/n, he’ll text you back when he gets a minute.

But that minute never came. Before you knew it, it has been two weeks since he abruptly left the bar that day. You couldn’t understand why he wasn’t responding. You even left a few messages after a couple of days hoping he’s okay. No response. After a week, you decided to not stress about it and just continue your daily life.

Saturday night rolls a round and as always, you were busy. Crowds decided to sit at the bar instead of waiting for a table and it left you drained. But you wasn’t completely mad about it since you made over your goal that night.

It’s 15 minutes before closing, and there’s two people sitting at the bar, but they already paid off so I’m not tripping. I call out “Last Call” to let everyone know that this is their last time ordering drinks for tonight. I begin to wipe down the counter when I heard “A whisky, neat please?” I turn over and load and behold it’s Kenji.

He has a pitiful smile on his face, knowing what he did to me. “Sorry we already did last call sir,” I replied, sounding unbothered by his presence. “Come on baby please?” He asked again pouting his lips. I rolled my eyes and turned my back from him as I scoffed.

“Okay I definitely deserved that,” he commented. I turn to him “You think?!” I snapped “I texted you seeing if something happened and I get radio silence on your end!” The two guests see our interaction and took it as a sign to call it a night. Kenji gave me a half scared/ half sad face. “I’m sorry for not calling or texting you. That was a shitty move on my end.” He explained. “It just…that day I got a call from my dad and I might be moving back to Japan soon.”

My eyes begin to widen. “What happened,” I asked. He look around our area and though there was no customers at this point, a couple of servers was still around doing sidework. “Would it be okay if we talk in private?” I had to think for a minute.

A guy I liked is asking back to his or my place, what could possibly go wrong? EVERYTHING!!! But I known him for a couple months now so it’s not like a stranger. Though he could possibly kill me. If I go, it’d have to be at my place. I know my way around it and I have weapons in case of emergency. Ugh why am I thinking so hard about this?! What if we sleep together?! Pfppp, that’s crazy talk?! That would NEVER happen in a million years!

“Uhhh, Y/n?” Kenji said softly. I snapped back to reality, “Sorry that just caught me off guard.” “If you don’t want to talk it’s ok-” “NO!” I shouted “I do, it just have to be at my place though. If you don’t mind.” He smiles at me, “That’s not a problem.” “Good well I’ll be off in 30 minutes so I’ll send you the address and text you when I’m home.” “Sounds good, I’ll see you then.”

.

.

.

.

I don’t know why but those 30 minutes were the fastest 30 minutes I’ve ever worked since I started working here. Nevertheless, I make it home and try to straighten up the place as much as I can. Before I took a shower, I texted him I’m home. He replied with “I’m on my way.” After getting out of the shower, I put on some loungewear. As soon as I look in the mirror to check myself, the doorbell rings.

I checked the peephole and it was Kenji holding what look like a bottle of champagne. “Heyy” I greeted him moving away from the door, signaling him to come in. He look around my apartment. It wasn’t much just a 1 bed/1 bath place with some outdated appliances, but I made it work.

“I like your place, it’s lovely.” He complement. I smile, “Thank you! Though I expect you seen better places than this.” He look at me a lot dumbfounded. “It’s doesn’t take away the fact that you have a lovely home.” I clear my throat. “Well I got some wine glasses so let’s try to wine down huh,” I nudged him. He laughed at my attempt but obliged.

You and Kenji are now sitting on the couch, with a glass of wine in each other y’all hand. He pours yours in the glass, “Why thank you.” You sip for it. “So, what is you have to tell me in private?” “Doing straight to the point, huh?” “I have to, I know you like to beat around the bush.”

He drink out his glass and begin to talk, “Well my dad got injured back in Japan from his job, and because of that he can no longer work.”

“And let just say, I need to go back and be his replacement to say the least.” “What do you mean by being a replacement?” Kenji straightened up and gives me a serious look “……If I tell you this, you promise me, wholeheartedly that you won’t tell a SOUL?” He made me nervous with the question but I nodded, “You have my word.” I take another sip of my drink

“I’m going to be Ultraman.” He confessed. I nearly choked on the champagne’s. I heard about him from social media times to times but never in a million years would I ever expected this. “What?!” “My family is Ultraman. I know it’s sounds crazy but it’s the truth.”

“How long have you known you were going to be Ultraman?” “Last week, it became official when I got the offer to transfer to the Giants in Tokyo.” He s soaked in the couch feeling defeated and exhausted by the whole situation. I begin to feel bad about the times I cursed him out in my head over not texting or calling him. Who knew he had literally the world on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry for dismissing your texts. You didn’t do anything wrong. I had to take some time to straighten this whole thing out. And it definitely put a damper on my plans.” “What plans may I ask?”

He look at me and our eyes connected each others. Only this time it felt, intimate and a longing for something more, or rather someone.

“That day at the bar, I wanted to ask you Y/n if it would be okay to take you out on a date.” He slides his hand to mine “When I’m with you, I feel comfortable and warmth. I like the way you carry yourself how you can hold yourself together, even when you don’t want to. Your smile and sense of humor is something I would never stop admire about you.”

I never been confessed to like this ever in my life, not even from past relationships. Just by hearing him and looking into his eyes, I can feel myself falling for him. “Kenji, I like you too. I would’ve definitely said yes that day.” I answered. “You bring out my comical side and always there to talk to more annoy whenever I need a break from customers.” We laughed. “But most importantly you’re kind, compassionate, and sensitive despite what the tvs or the world say about you. I know that you are a great person and I would love to take our relationship to the next level.”

He smiles and hold my hand firm. He get closer to my face, yet still hold our eyes contact. “And I promise you, I will prove to you everyday that I am worthy of your love and to never make you feel unappreciated.”

I could feel the tension in the living room that we created, and the wine that’s in my system. I don’t know what I did was the wrong move but I kissed him. His lips felt warm and soft. I quickly back up.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” I apologize profusely.

He grabbed my face and our lips met again. It began slow, but it got deeper and more passionate. I soon straddle him on his lap to embrace him more. I run my fingers through his jet black hair and getting caught in it. He place his hands on my hips to get me closer to him. I caught myself coming out for air every few seconds but always going back in for more. I need him, I want him. Even if we only go on one date, he moves, and I never hear from him again, I just want him to make me feel good.

______________________________________________

A/N: PART TWO is hereee😭 I’m so glad everyone enjoy the first one. I hope part two meet yall expectations. The last part should be here by tomorrow or Thursday.

As always hope everyone have a good day/night🩷

And don’t worry, “It does get steamy”



[mercurygray]

20, theatrics, for Cord? I feel like this could be fun whether the theatrics are hers or if she’s reacting to them. Or a secret third way!

Finally getting to this one, Jamie!! It's kind of sad, but I've been meaning to write this scene for a while.

Fair warning: this is kind of sad.

--

From the other side of the field they could still smell burning.

It was one thing when a plane caught on fire - Bucky knew that smell as well as any other. But Barnhill's fort hadn't stopped in the middle of the field, in the tall grass - the replacement plane had gone into a dive into a grove of trees, and even though the fire was out, the smell of burning deadwood was still in the air like a campfire.

"Colonel, do you have a moment?" Captain Brennan appeared at the tower door with surprising speed, and Harding looked for a moment like he didn't know what to say. Brennan didn't wait for his answer. "I wondered if anyone had spoken to Callaway, sir." The CO stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending what reason he would need to speak to his control officer. "She was on the radio with Barnhill trying to talk him out of the dive."

"Christ." Harding looked around and motioned for Bowman to come with him, and, seeing Bucky in the background, made another gesture with his hand. "You too, Kidd. And you, Egan. You could learn something."

Bucky followed, confused more than anything else, as Harding and Bowman double-timed through the operations room to Red's office and the bottle of whiskey and a single glass Red pulled from his desk drawer. Then up, up, up, through the offices and the observation desk to the top of the tower and the glasshouse, Harding in the lead, Brennan still briskly following, her heels clicking on the metal gratings.

"Ladies." Harding glanced around at Anita Young and Mae Warner, and the two of them, glancing at Brennan on the catwalk behind him, took the hint and cleared the glasshouse, leaving the five officers alone with the commanding view of the airfield, and Cordelia Callaway, her headset on the desk beside her, seemingly fixed to her chair and staring out at the horizon, and the still-visible cloud of smoke.

"Lieutenant Callaway." Harding's voice was soft, but the woman still looked up like she was a deer expecting to see a gun. "I thought you could use something."

She looked at the glass with what was either suspicion or fear. "I'm still on duty, sir."

"I'm giving you the rest of the afternoon off," Harding said with complete authority, again holding out the glass in a way that indicated he wasn't taking no for an answer. "Brennan's calling in third shift."

Callaway looked at the whiskey and finally took it, draining it dry with an ease that surprised Bucky, sitting for a moment as if to let the alcohol wash something away, her breathing intentional and long. When she spoke, she seemed quieter than usual. "Thank you, sir."

"That's not your first crash." It was a statement, not a question. Bucky wondered for a moment how he would have known that before he remembered that personnel files and service records existed.

She dipped her head down, took another breath. "No, sir."

"Doesn't make it any easier, though." A pause. "Brennan said you were trying to talk through it."

Another nod, quicker this time. "He just…needed to adjust his angle." She seemed to be holding on tightly to that fact, the same way she was holding on to the glass in her hands. A thought occurred and she looked up suddenly at the CO, scared and hopeful. "Did you get anyone out, sir?"

"Don't worry about that, Callaway." Harding's face was impossibly calm. "You did what you could."

She read between the lines and her face fell, but she said nothing, her eyes returning to the now empty glass in her hands. "More of that if you want it," Harding said, blandly and without judgement.

Callaway took another deep breath, smoothed her trousers legs down. "No, thank you, sir, I'd better…better not."

"Get out of here for a few hours," Harding counseled, his voice softer than Bucky had ever heard him, a father counseling his daughter after a bad day. "Clear your head."

She rose from her seat and turned towards the door and finally, it seemed, saw Red and Brennan and Kidd and Bucky. Her expression flickering between several stages of grief and embarrassment, afraid to be seen. And Bucky, for his part, was almost afraid to see her. He pressed his lips shut and silently moved away from the door, letting her pass without comment, unsure, in the moment, what he would have said. It was not the place for jokes or laughter, and after that he wasn't sure what he had left.

"Get the squad commanders up here," Harding said, to everyone and no one all at once. "We'll do a briefing in an hour." He nodded silently to Brennan, who returned the nod, and headed back down the stairs at his usual pace, Bowman following at his leisure.

"See you in an hour," Kidd said, following the others downstairs, and Bucky was alone on the tower, still watching the smoke and the ground below. A single walker was making a quick, purposeful line down the tarmac, hands in pockets - Cordelia Callaway, obviously on a mission to somewhere. She looked alone, out there on the airstrip, and Bucky watched her go in silence, wondering, vaguely, if he ought to follow, if there were danger in letting her go alone. No cheap theatrics - just a woman, walking.

She heard a man die today. The realization left him cold.

And she'll do it again, a voice in his head said calmly. And she'll care then, too.

[kirythestitchwitch]

Klaroline WIP Wed - freaky friday time travel fic

my prompt was the future Caroline Mikaelson and Caroline Forbes swap places and I was like, okay, I am going to shoehorn an entire plot in here after prom but before graduation. author is loading canon and firing it into the sun

-------------------------------

The package was sitting innocently enough on the porch swing when Caroline got home from school. After a weird day of fielding concerned questions from her peers about Elena’s whereabouts–Stefan and Damon locking her in the Boarding House all weekend after prom was a last-ditch effort that looked like it wasn’t working–Caroline wasn’t really in the mood for a surprise. 

When a cautious sniff towards the box brought her the acrid smell of oil paint and turpentine, though, she had to bite down on her smile. The smell liked to cling to Klaus after he’d been painting all morning, as she’d discovered two days ago, the morning after prom. She’d been crossing the Square, coming from the Sheriff’s department toward the Mystic Grill to meet Matt for lunch and flashcards, when her name being called pulled her head back to the here and now.

“Caroline!” Klaus’ smile was delighted to see her as he crossed the street to meet her on the grass, dimples brighter on his face than the sunshine, and god wasn’t that cheesy and ironic, just like her agreement to be friends with the nightmare creature that had plagued their lives for months. Even stranger, that she actually wanted to. Okay, maybe he hadn't been plaguing their lives very hard recently. What with the others unleashing Evil Dead and Elena taking home all the queen bitch prizes previously scooped up by Katherine, Klaus had almost seemed like your friendly neighborhood serial killer in comparison. 

She waited until he caught up, swinging a large brown paper bag by string handles. “A word of advice?” she offered. He raised his eyebrows in intrigued curiosity. “Don’t go loudly chatting up the Sheriff's teenage daughter in the middle of town when you look like… that,” She gestured at all of him, including his loose-necked henley and comfortable jeans liberally smeared with paint, “Unless you want to get called a dirty old man behind your back.”

The laugh was practically startled out of him. He looked like an artist grad student at most, the kind that would debauch you on the furniture props, but judging by the slightly judgy looks from a few faces she could see around the square, that was too old for just barely eighteen Caroline. Oh yeah, Liz would be hearing about this before the day was out, and wasn't that just what Caroline needed?

Klaus leaned forward slightly, for all the world looked like he was sharing confidences with her. "Do you find me old, sweetheart?" he asked, dimples on display.

"Ancient, decrepit," she deadpanned.

His voice dropped a little softer, and unconsciously this time she leaned in a little to hear him. “You know our kind don’t measure time in years, sweetheart, it’s more about experiences.”

With a scoff and an eye roll, she leaned back. “Oh my god, you did not just ‘Age is just a number’ me. It’s jail for you, sir.”

“Mmm, they haven’t built a prison that can hold me yet, but if you prefer that sort of role-play, I'm sure I could think of something,” he said cheekily.

“Wow, okay!” She laughed, trying not to think of ‘Klaus’ and ‘role-play’ in the same context, “You are feeling much better than the last time I saw you.”

He seemed to sober, tension pinching his soft mouth. “Silas hasn’t shown himself that I’m aware of. Elijah is refusing to hand over the cure to either Rebekah or myself. Her on the grounds that she failed her trial, and me…” Klaus glanced away.

Caroline tried to dredge up some sympathy, really she did. “Well, we are all very much hoping there will not be an apocalypse hell-on-earth. I never met your parents and I would like to keep that track record going, thanks.” Klaus ducked his head, laugh soft, and Caroline nearly preened. “So, what’s in the bag? Thumb screws? Arsenic? Stolen lollipops?”

“Your imagination is a never-ending delight, love. There’s an art supply shop down the street that orders my paints for me. Which is fortunate, I was getting low on Cadmium Orange.” His fingers fiddled with the bag string.

“That is a very specific color,” she teased gently.

He tilted his head to the side in a self-deprecating sort of way. “Well, I need it for a very specific bit of shading, you see. The fall,” he gestured vaguely with one hand at some unseen painting, “Isn’t quite right. I’ve been working on it all night.”

Wrinkling her nose at him, she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “Is that why you have that ‘freshly bathed in linseed oil’ smell?” Knowing she was about to set the tongues wagging but unable to resist the look it would put on his face, she reached out and snagged his hand, flipped it over backside up. Bright yellow paint was smeared on his skin. “You missed a spot.” she pointed out helpfully.

He rumbled softly in his throat. “So I did.” When Caroline looked up, his hungry blue eyes were on her, quiet, watchful of what she’d do next.

“So,” she said, drawing out the vowel, “I’m supposed to meet Matt for lunch.”

“The human?” Klaus managed to fit a world of disgruntled judgment into two words.

“Ugh.” Caroline dropped his hand with a bit of force. “Matt is failing some of his classes and needs a study buddy. I happen to be queen of the flashcards, thank you very much. Finals are next week, and I just want…” She paused, emotion clawing up her throat and she swallowed. Blinked. The sun that seemed so bright before–but not warm, never warm, never again–seemed a pale imitation of itself. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Klaus’s hand hovering next to her arm as if wondering if his touch was unwelcome.

This wasn’t helpful, this wasn’t what she needed, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the Square, for god’s sake. Her chin raised, she looked Klaus in the eye. He looked solemnly back. “I just want us to make it through graduation. All of us. So.” She pasted a smile on her face. “I do what I can, which means flashcards.”

Something bitter tilted his mouth. “The talents of a general and they have you tutoring the quarterback.”

Caroline scowled at him. “It’s not a waste of my time to care about my friends. You certainly benefited from that.” With a huff, she turned to go, and he stepped sideways into her path.

“Admitting you care, love?” There was something predatory about the glint in his eyes.

Raising her eyebrows loftily, she pushed past him, trying to ignore the heat from his body that seemed to cling to hers. “In your dreams, Klaus,” she shot over her shoulder as she headed toward the Mystic Grill.

While her vampire hearing might have been bogged down by the noise in the Square, she was annoyingly attuned to Klaus’ presence. His parting words reached her easily: “Someday, you will.”

[ansbobcar]

EP 1. Drink your problems away!

WORD COUNT. 1108

Link to the overview

_ _ _ _ _

Orter Madl has had enough, hanging up on the rabbiphone. “008, throw this away,” tossing it towards his tiny beast servant who swiftly caught it and did as he was commanded. He leaned back into his chair with a heavy sigh.

Of all the things his parents had raised him within their power to be: it wasn’t to be married.

‘I already told them to stop setting me up on blind dates after the last one but they don’t listen,’ he cursed to himself as he looked over the last batch of reports. His next meeting with the field officers was tomorrow morning too, massaging his temple for a moment before he continued onto the next paper. The brunette continued this until 9 o’clock in the evening.

“008.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m heading out now, clean the office up before you do anything.”

“Yes, sir,” his servant bowed as he walked out of the room. There was still time to spare so instead of reaching for his wand, he opted to take a brisk walk outside.

The moonlight hid itself amidst clouds as the new lamps, with the new flame retaining technology from the Magical Research Administration, gently illuminated the cobblestone path towards the main road. During the day, it would be bustling with marketing, stalls, and crowds of all demographics but the calm night revealed only the faint lights through curtained windows.

‘Seems like businesses took in the new notice rather well,’ he told himself, taking a left turn into a more secluded alleyway. Burned onto a wooden sign was simply: Joe’s.

Opening the door with a chime, he was greeted by the man himself. “You’re here, Orter!” The old man Joe called out to him amidst the noise. “My favourite regular,” he added, quickly filling up a jug with beer.

The brunette held back his chuckle, “As always.”

Only to be met with a resounding group of reactionary vowels amidst a wicked howl in the background. He scowled in annoyance towards the source yet the thud of the jugs of beer infront of him shoved that priority away. “Seems like they were betting on something important,” Joe whispered. The bar wasn’t connected to a gambling den though but the oldie was at peace. ‘They’re probably kids,’ he commented, their snickers drowned out by the gramophone’s blast of jazz recordings.

The owner cleaned another round of glasses as the Divine Visionary drowned his thoughts with a clean chug. Minutes pass by and the kids had left before the clock had struck midnight, leaving the two men alone in the bar. 

“You really do look forward to these monthly drinking contests, don’t you?” Joe broke the silence as he saw the subtle moping the Desert Cane committed. “Isn’t it obvious?” He shot a glare at the man. “I’ve been doing it for the past 2 years.”

“My bar isn’t a popular one though.”

“Doesn’t matter, pubs irritate my eyes and ears.”

Bored out of his mind, he took off his glasses and tried to rest his head on the counter. However, the door chimed with another push and Joe greeted another customer. He couldn’t hear any words from behind him but the footsteps were quietly approaching him and sat down beside him to his right.

A familiar voice inquired softly. “Is he…”

Immediately, he raises himself back upright in confusion. “What are you doing here?” Adjusting his glasses back onto his face as he addressed his blonde colleague, Rinka Ontarin, without her distinguishing orange robe. 

“The game.”

Immediately, Joe delightfully began to prepare the stage as he was intrigued. “I really hope you can hold your liquor well,” doubtful of her challenge.

She calmly smiled towards him as she rolled up her sleeves revealing her wrists to be bandaged. “I wonder so too.”

“There are 50 rounds to this game, to move onto the next round, all shots must be finished by both parties. If a party is unable to continue or surrenders, the other party wins the game,” Joe explained as he placed down the first round infront of the two prestigious figures.

“Out of 24 matches, 7 of them ended right here,” he added. “3 shots of vodka.” Only the beginning.

“Cheers?” She raised her shot towards him.

“Cheers.”

_ _ _

2 hours pass, it’s now the 42nd round and the intoxication is slowly starting to take a toll on him as his cheeks are completely flushed. He didn’t believe it, reaching beyond Round 27 was already quite the accomplishment.

“I can’t believe it,” he huffed, as he saw her chug down on a beer float with her nonchalant face. “What kind of… spell did you use on yourself?” There wasn’t any rule against using spells but he was on the edge of losing against her.

“No spells.”

“Liar,” he swirled the melting ice cream into the beer with the metal spoon.

She raised up her hands innocently, “It’s true. I left my wand in my robe at the office.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Ugh,” he felt like his head was cracking open under pressure, gripping onto his head much to their worry. “Fine… I surrender.”

“Winner gets a favour from the loser!” The old man interjected, causing him to just grumble.

“Just tell me what’s on your mind,” she stated.

“My parents have been setting me up on these annoying appointments with random women. They’re getting in the way of me doing my job.”

“You’re not interested in that are you?” 

“I’m not.” 

“Haven’t you bothered asking any of them into a marriage of convenience with just a mutually beneficial contract of sorts?” She asked him only to be met by a hopeless response, “The women they pick out are trash.” 

“How so? Describe them.”

He began to recount his dates, one of them was completely spoiled by their father with no sense of patience, another simply wanted the infamy of his position, there was this girl who only cared about looks and wealth, followed by a girl who spouted absurd things for a first meeting.

“The latest one was fucking Molly Armament.”

“Ah,” she reacted rather cumbersomely. “Her. I can see why you couldn’t do that.”

“They all sucked, but it’s so annoying,” he pinched his forehead in irritation, attempting to shake off the depressant’s effect on him. “If only there was someone convenient...”

“How about me?” She points towards herself. “I don’t mind helping out a fellow Divine Visionary.”

He quickly stood up from his seat at the suggestion, “Careful!” just to be met by the uncomfortable loss of control over his legs as silence and numbness enveloped him. He blacked out.

_ _ _ _ _

Yayyy I got to post it! I wanted to make a Joe Mama joke in the story but that's not my specialty-

[otherpeoplesheartachept-2]

day 1: A Record of You and I

A diary from the mid 1700s kept by a man named Simon Snow, a farmhand for the Grimm estate. He records the death and the subsequent vampiric transformation of his close friend, and heir to the Grimm estate, Basilton Grimm.

Rating: M

Length: 4,321

Warnings: main character death/undeath. non-graphic (maybe slightly graphic) depictions of violence/blood, mentions of animal death, implied sex

Read on AO3 or below the cut

September 3rd 1742

I've never had a journal before but Basilton tells me it will help with my reading and writing. He's taught me all my letters and wants me to practice on my own now. He says he’ll continue reading to me if I like. He’ll keep helping me with handwriting too, but Basilton insists that having a personal record will do me good. Even so, I do not know what to record. Though I must not waste this lovely gift. Basilton says to write about my day, my thoughts. He must have more thoughts within him than I, for I am already out of things to say, and Basilton adds to his journal at all hours of the day. 

September 6th 1742

Today I milked the cows and took them out in the field to graze. I ate fresh bread with a lot of butter.  I did some other chores. It is late. I do not wish to write more.

September 7th 1742

Today I had porridge for breakfast, and some tasty stew Ebb made for supper. Charlie, the cattle dog, found a new favorite stick out in the pasture today, he hasn't stopped chewing it since this morning.

September 8th 1742

I hope Basil will forgive me for my short entries. It's not as if he’ll read what I put down here. Personal journals are to be personal, he tells me. So I’m just meant to speak to myself? I will keep at it, if only to gain more surety in my handwriting. 

September 9th 1742

It is Sunday, I went to Mass. Basilton came to the cabin after the service. Brought me some scones Vera made. Sir Grimm does not approve of his son spending so much time with a farmhand, Basilton told me of another scolding he got earlier this week. I do not know why he spends time with me, against his father’s wishes, but I will not stop him. We ate lunch together. I enjoyed the food, and the company more. Basilton would call me a liar if he read that, my love of scones is rarely bested by anything, but Basilton is a good friend to me. 

Everything feels so easy with Basil. He can make me laugh no matter what, even when he's poking fun at me. We talked for hours yesterday, and he listened when I spoke about my days, my observations of the cattle. Basil worries I work too hard, but I don't do much really, and I enjoy the labor. Besides, what else am I to do with my time? We discussed a poem Basil had read to me a few weeks ago. I am not usually one for poetry, but Basilton speaks about poems in a way that makes sense to me. I thought him unbearably arrogant when I first started working for his family, speaking of literature constantly and looking down his big nose at me. He still is arrogant at times, but now that we are friends I know he is also kind and caring and truly intelligent. He speaks of his sisters often, and how he worries he won’t meet his father’s expectations. He remains unmarried and this troubles Sir Grimm. 

But Basilton has land to inherit and good social standing. He has many admirable qualities, and it goes without saying that he is handsome. He should have no trouble finding a wife. I said this to Basilton today but he became uncomfortable. Quickly, he brushed it off and picked up a new topic of conversation. This has happened before, I do not know if it’s the subject of marriage, or if he is too modest a man, but many times I have stated his good qualities, only for Basiton to blush and deny them, or leave the conversation. 

September 20th 1742

I ate Turkey for supper yesterday. One of the bulls charged at me today because I looked at him wrong. Bastard. Gareth made me help him till the field today. Another bastard. He said he couldn’t get it done in time without help, despite the crops being his and his sons’ job, and the cattle being mine. 

Went to the pub with Ebb, the goatherd yesterday. She told me a great joke about goats but I was drunk and can't remember it now. I might ask her to tell me it again.  

September 22nd 1742

Today was an easy day, I fiddled with my carving knife while out in the field. Made a little wooden Charlie but when I showed it to him the blasted dog chewed it up. I tried to stop him but then I just laughed. I suppose I’m glad he found my carving nice enough to devour. 

September 30th 1742

Basilton visited today. He brought me some of his books, said I could keep them, since I mentioned how much I liked the last one he read to me. I thanked him for the books, he is so kind to me. I do not know if I will ever read them though. Perhaps I should not have taken them. It’s not that I am ungrateful, I just didn’t know how to tell Basilton I mostly enjoy hearing his voice read to me, more than I care about the contents of the books. I am sad as this probably means he will not continue reading aloud to me. 

October 1st 1742

I’ve not been writing as much as I feel I should. I fear my life is just not that interesting. Basilton tells me it’s plenty interesting. He’ll listen to my stories about cattle and Charlie without complaint. Gareth tells me my stories are boring though. “Who cares if a calf was born with a spot that looks just like a field mouse?” he said to me when I told that story at the pub last week. As if throwing seeds on the ground makes for great stories. 

October 8th 1742

I found some poppies in the field, the first of the fall. I picked a couple of the red flowers. Gave them to Basil when he came round my cottage in the evening. He tried to resist them but I insisted. I told him it was repayment for the books he left with me. That wasn't all true, I just wanted to share the beauty of those little things with him. Basilton accepted the flowers then, I do hope he likes them. I cannot offer him much more, though I wish I had more to give to my friends. 

October 10th 1742

I tried carving a flower out of wood but I cocked it up. I might try again with a thicker stick.

October 12th 1742

The cattle are well. The sun is shortening our days. I heard a bird song I did not recognize today, while out in the field. It was lovely. I must start saving up for a new winter coat, mine is threadbare and has not been keeping me warm enough as the world gets colder. Basilton tells me he’s going deer stalking with his cousins in a few days. He will be gone for at least a month. It will be their first hunt of the season. 

October 15th 1742

Basilton left today. I tended to the cattle. I tried to brush off the sadness that seemed to hang over the day. Perhaps the cloudy days are affecting my mood, or the cold weather. I might just sleep early today. 

October 30th 1742

He died. On that trip he

November 25th 1742

I went to Mass today. I sat alone. I tried to welcome the Holy Spirit but I feel so alone in this world. I grieve Basil every waking moment. I thought this would pass, it’s been nearly a month and still the wound is as fresh as the day I learned of his death. I’ve never had someone to lose before, like this. I loved him deeply, as if he were my own family I have come to realize. I find myself almost grateful that I did not know my parents, that I will not, one day, have to grieve them as well.

The Lord’s Day is the most painful, God forgive my soul for saying so. I cannot distract myself with work. I try to pray, but my mind wanders ever back to my lost friend. I grow tired of writing, but I will not put down this journal forever, Basilton wouldn't want me to.

November 27th 1742

I woke up this morning to something strange. I found one of the cows dead in the field. I hadn’t noticed any signs of sickness in the herd, but there were also no signs of an animal attack. There was no wound I could find, no blood. She looked strange, I cannot say why, though. It was as if something was missing, from beneath the skin. I told Sir Grimm, and the other farmhands, in case there is sickness in the herd. I’ll be keeping a closer watch on the cattle.

November 29th 1742

I visited Basilton’s grave this evening. It did me no good. I only felt the pain of loss much stronger standing there, reading his gravestone. It was as if there were a stake ran through my chest. I could hardly breathe through the sobs that came out of me. It was so strange, knowing Basilton was so close, only two meters or so below where I stood, and yet he was impossibly far. 

It does me little good to dwell on these negative feelings. 

November 30th 1742

I try to fill my days with actions. I inspect the cows twice, three times over, to check for any signs of decaying health. I pace the perimeter of the field while they graze. I help Gareth work the land when I should be resting. I chop enough firewood for this winter and the next two. I stay too long at the pub and drink more than I can afford. I imagine spots in my cabin that need cleaning, and I scrub and scrub and scrub until the pain in my hands is all that I can feel. And yet, I still ache for the companionship of Bailston. What am I to do with myself?

December 1st 1742

I cannot stop thinking of Basilton. Truly, I never stopped thinking of him, even when he was alive and with me. The Grimm family told us he was trampled by his own horse, fell off it while hunting. In quiet moments my mind creates imaginations of his last terrible moments. When I lay in bed, if I am not drunk as a lord, I cannot sleep for hours. I pray to God for a miracle, but my pleas are left unanswered. I know it to be foolish, but I cannot help myself. I would do anything for Basilton. Anything to see him again. 

December 4th 1742

I do not want to write this, but I feel I must. I saw Basilton last night. I know, I know that he is dead, and God willing, he is at peace in heaven. But I came home from the pub late last night, crawled into bed, then, I saw Basil in my room, as if he were alive. He did not look ghostly, no, he looked as if he had new life coursing through him. His skin flush. His smile wide. There were no signs he had ever been dead. 

I cried out, I could not help it. He came to me, to my bed. I sat up to meet him. And he held me. A hand pressed to my chest, the other wrapped around my back. His dark hair against my chin as he rested his face to my collar bone. We did not speak. I feared I would wake from the dream. And it must have been a dream. 

I woke up this morning half expecting to see Basilton about the grounds, as if his death was a nightmare I could finally wake from. But he was not here, of course not. My mind has been so fixed on Basilton it only makes sense he would creep into my dreams.

December 5th 1742

It happened again, last night, I was not asleep this time. I was changing into my night clothes, when Basil appeared to me. I did not hear him come in. My candle cast his shadow against the wall. He must have been standing there as flesh and bone, not as a ghost or a vision. He wore regular clothes, not the burial shroud–made from his own family’s wool–that he was laid to rest in. He had on his purple vest with yellow embroidered flowers. It was one of his favorites, he told me years ago. Again he did not speak, but he touched my hand. He was so cool. a welcome feeling; I was so hot. I pulled him into an embrace. I whispered his name, I did not know what else I could do. I swear to God, he spoke my name in response.

Suddenly I felt so tired, so drained. Likely the day’s work catching up to me. I tried to fight the urge to sleep, but my eyes closed before I could watch Basilton leave, or say anything more to him.

December 6th 1742

Another cow, and one of the bulls have died, for the same mysterious reason as the first cow. The herd was restless yesterday, as if they could sense misfortune in the air, but I could not do anything to prevent their deaths. I do not even know what I need to be protecting them from.  

I am worried, and unsettled.

December 8th 1742

The night before this last I stayed up, hoping to see my old friend again, though he never came. But last night I saw Basilton again. He spoke this time, only my name. My heart filled with joy to hear my friend’s deep voice call me Simon after I was sure we’d never be able to speak to each other again in this life. He sat beside me on the bed. I told him I had missed him. He placed a cool hand on my cheek, looked into my eyes. His were a familiar light grey, but he wore an expression I couldn't make sense of.

Then, he kissed me. I hesitate to write these words. He must be a sodomite. I have always heard such men are evil, but I could never think of Basilton that way. He's always been so lovely. 

And the worst part is that I kissed him back. The best part is that I kissed him back. I have not kissed anyone before. He was so soft against my lips. So cool. His hand held my jaw, and his tongue pressed against my lips. An elation sprung up within me that I cannot describe. I held him tightly, wanting more than anything for this moment to last forever. I couldn’t help but think he should have done this sooner. We should have done this when Basil was still living. 

Oh God! I weep remembering that he is dead. 

Basilton kissed farther down my neck, across my collar bones, left kisses on my chest so hard they hurt. I did not stop him. He didn't go farther than my bosom, but-

I wanted him to. I felt as if under a spell, wrapped up in a world of pleasure balanced by the slightest pain. I wanted more, wanted all of him , but before I knew it I was awake, and alone, as the morning sun shown through my window. 

I was slow in my work today. Gareth noticed, told me I should not be so lazy. My body betrays me, I feel so weak.

December 13th 1742

Basilton visits me nightly now. I welcome his touches, his hard kisses. I walk through my days now, dreaming of night. 

The cows have begun to distrust me, they put up a fight when I try to milk them, and a few are no longer eating. I do not know why. Sir Grimm, despite having experience with livestock, seemed just as perplexed as I when I brought up the strange deaths and behaviors of his herd. Though, I know his mind is elsewhere, the mourning clothes he and Madam Grimm wear are a constant reminder of their loss.

I hear whispers at the pub of ghost sightings. I hear gossip from the house servants that the Grimm children wake up screaming in the nights now. 

December 19th 1742

The weather gets worse. I feel frozen to the bone. My hands hurt daily. My work gets harder, as more animals under my care drop dead, and my strength seems to dwindle with each moment. The waking world has no joy, no pleasure left. But I go through each day, waiting for night. Only at night can I remember what happiness is. Basilton comes to me. He holds me, and we kiss for hours. Basil leaves marks and bruises on my skin but I welcome it. My hands praise the skin he uncovers for me. We commit sins I never knew could bring such pleasures. 

December 20th 1742

I admit, I have not allowed myself to consider how or why Basilton appears to me alive, when I know he was laid in his grave two months ago. I just cannot think of it, I cannot search for reasons to distrust this gift I have. I may be a fool, or a doomed sodomite, but I cannot find it in me to fight what is happening. I cannot consider this to be anything but good or I might truly lose myself. 

December 24th 1742

Last night was disturbing. Basilton came to my room as usual. We kissed, and lay together, and I felt so joyous, but quickly the tides turned. He pinned my naked body to the bed. He sat over me and tore at my flesh with his bare hands. I cried out but I could not stop him. Some dark part of me did not want to stop him. Basilton lapped up the blood that poured from my chest like a starved dog. The unGodly sight did things to me. As if possessed by something, I craved his bloodshed.

I do not know what is wrong with me. 

I awoke with deep wounds on my chest. A mess of horror and lust arose within me as I touched the raised flesh, the dried blood. I know this is not natural, this is not holy. I should seek out a doctor, or a priest, but I can't stand the thought of losing my dear Basil again. I would open up a vein for him. I would tie our hearts together for eternity if it meant Basilton could be mine. 

December 25th 1742

It is Christmas Day. A holiday that should be full of cheer. Basil once told me it was his favorite holiday, so it holds an extra special meaning for me. I wish he had been here, enjoying the day. I try not to be too sad, he will be here soon, arriving with the stars in the sky.  

Ebb spent the day with me. I gave her a small wooden goat I carved. She does not say it but I know she misses her brother most around this time of year. I tried to be there for her, as I pretended not to notice the tears running down her red cheeks. But I found it hard to care. All my thoughts were consumed by anticipation for my next visit with Basilton. I know that is terrible. I tried to fight it, to focus on the friend I had with me at the moment, but I struggled. My mind, and my heart are trapped in a world with only Basilton and myself. A world no one else could understand. 

December 26th 1742 

Basilton attacked me again last night. My neck, chest, and stomach are covered in signs of his violent affection. Oh my dear God, I try to feel remorse, to summon disgust at our actions, but it is just not there within me. My mind is a haze of painful pleasure, my thoughts, along with my flesh and blood, fully consumed by Basilton. He is a fallen angel. He is a monster, and I must be one as well, but I have no will to change that. 

I love him. I’ll love him no matter what we become. 

I found more cattle dead this morning. Now nearly a third of the herd is gone. This time they have markings to match the wounds on my chest. 

I told Ebb about the deaths, she told me a few goats have passed as well. I will tell the baronet tomorrow. 

December 27th 1742

I went to tell Sir Grimm about the dead cows this morning. 

In the manor I overheard the baronet and baronetess speaking of another attack last night. I stopped myself short of the doorway into Sir Grimm’s study. I stood in the hallway, slowing my breath to hear them through the door. 

“Mordelia saw Basilton again last night. He hurt her, picked her up and left scratches on her back,” Daphne said to Malcolm. Sir Grimm stated he’s seen their son some nights as well. I became jealous upon hearing these words, at learning I was not the only one Basil is giving attention to. A foolish thought, of course he would want to see his family. But they spoke of him in fearful tones. They do not know my sweet Basil is only full of love. 

“He is a vampire,” Sir Grimm said. I had to stop myself from crying out. Madam Grimm gasped, begged him no. Sir Grimm mumbled something comforting. “It must be done. He’s not our son anymore, Daphne, he is an evil creature.” 

A vampire. The livestock dying, the frightened children, and my nightly visits from Basilton, all signs of a vampire. Dear God, Basil did not deserve such a fate!! I know what they will do to him: dig up his grave, stake his heart, cut off his head, and burn him to ashes. 

He will be gone forever. 

I cannot bear the thought! 

I know now what I must do, and I must do it quickly. 

Later on the 27th

Hastily, I have made my preparations. I could not risk Sir Grimm getting to Basilton first. I am prepared to go tonight. 

December 28th 1742

I went to Basilton’s grave late last night. I was the only soul awake besides the owls. I brought along a lantern, a shovel, a small pack with all my coin and what few possessions I care to keep, and a small wheelbarrow I took from the barn. The light of my lantern guided me through the familiar trees and headstones, until I found the name Basilton Grimm carved into stone. 

The rain poured down endlessly. The wet earth offered little resistance to my shovel, but digging was not quick work. The wind put out my lantern thrice. I gave up relighting, nothing would stop me. I had a singular purpose. I felt as if I’d been guided here, to this moment, to save my love. 

After hours of labor, my shovel kissed the wood of a coffin, I nearly collapsed from relief, and exhaustion. Prying the lid from my Basil’s prison was harder than I had expected. Once I had it off, I threw it from the hole. 

I wept. There was my dearest Basilton asleep in his coffin. I relit the lantern. I fell to my knees, sharing the cramped space with him. The light revealed a blood-stained mouth and burial shroud. His hair was a little longer, more lustrous than in life, his skin ruddy and plump. I worried I would find his face smashed, his body mangled from horses’ hooves, but he was unmarked and as beautiful as ever. His hands were free from his shroud, also bloody. 

These are all signs of a vampire, but I could not care. I had to reach out to touch his cold flesh.

I had to kiss him. 

My lips met his, and in that coffin, surrounded by earth, over the sound of the attacking rain, Basil softly moaned. I swear I heard it. I swear his lips moved against mine.  

Elated with indescribable joy I tried to wake him more, desperate for proof he really was living. He did not open his eyes, or speak to me, or move. But when I pressed my ear to his chest I heard the drum of his heart beat steadily. 

My sweet Basilton alive! Now that I have him, I will let no harm come to him. I will keep Basil safe from those who want to kill him again. 

It is early morning now, the sun is just starting to peak over the land in the East. This will be my last entry. I shall leave my journal here, in my Basilton’s empty grave, in case anyone is searching for us. I care not who reads these words, they will not find us. I will be far away, with my love, finally happy. 

(A note placed in the back of the journal)

Dearest Simon, 

I hope this journal will be of use to you. I do believe keeping a journal will help you continue improving your literacy. And perhaps it will aid in other ways. I find it helps to have a private place for one's thoughts and feelings. My journals are a great comfort to me. 

Beyond that, I must admit I do enjoy the thought that there will be a record of you and of I. That people may know who we were, and that we were good friends.

Yours truly, 

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm

[tammyjackson50-blog]

- Picnic with my best friend ___________________

( Gif made by @luna-munson83 !)

Summary: You went on a chill picnic with your best friend Eddie, everything was going just fine until..

1/2

Last part ->

We sat on the mat in the park in the field on the green grass, the weather was pleasant, and the air felt clean and wonderful.

He sat next to me while I had my attention on a group of friends who were not far away from us, they had been singing songs together, it's nice to see people having fun.

I noticed him doing something out of the corner of my eye, and when I looked at what he was doing, I noticed that he had his phone leaning against his water bottle, he clicked on the option to make a video , so I moved away from the camera because I didn't want to be seen, but he suddenly grabbed me back toward him, " You're not going anywhere, I want you to be in the video" he said, not looking at me.

" Why are you recording a video? "

He raised an eyebrow and looked at me.

" Excuse me, are you the only one who can take pictures and record videos and make memories? besides I want you to be part of my memories "

I smiled a little, not wanting to show how much that sentence gave me butterflies in my stomach.

" If you insist dear sir, have fun. " I looked at the camera and stuck my tongue out, he looked at me through the screen of the phone, smiled, and said, " Thank you very much, dear madam. "

-------------------

The sun began to set after a while. He was eating the chips he bought earlier today when he said, " In a few minutes, we will be heading towards the beach."

" No problem ".

The group started packing things up, probably about to leave.

they were still singing, so I kept staring at them, entertained, as they sang some beautiful song.

I started humming the words of the song with them, I must have caught his attention, he looked at me and only after a few moments I felt it, I got goosebumps, I looked at the screen of his phone to see if I was right and yes, I was right, I looked back at him without trying to smile and asked " what are you looking at ? "

"On you of course " He responded, and for a brief moment I wasn't sure how to respond, but I shrugged it off because I knew he was playing. "Oh yeah sure, I'm a superstar, so people are always staring at me." he grinned and said " Nah,it's not like that ,It's just that seeing an alien singing songs is not something you get to see every day." I looked at him with a fake smile "ha ha ha how funny you are today " he didn't stop laughing, he laugh like it was the best joke that he had ever said, maybe for some people it could be annoying, but I really didn't care , because his laugh... he has a funny, idiotic, and cute laugh, and I didn't even start talking about his smile.

He has a smile that can make all of the pain you have disappear, just seeing him smile makes me smile, and those eyes......

I can sink into them...

"I hope that you're not going to cry, I just don't have any toilet paper to wipe your tears." I hit him on the shoulder "shut up idiot" I laughed with him as I turned to face the group that was already leaving while their music was still playing.

" Y/n, I...um " I was waiting for him to finish what he was saying while maintaining my attention on the group. " you are what? Stupid? Yes, I agree " suddenly it became quiet,he didn't say anything after that.

I looked at him, hoping he wasn't offended, even though we tease each other all the time, so there's no reason for that. right?

"Are you all right?" I asked, confused by the silence, he wasn't responding to my question, so I glanced in the direction his gaze was going and noticed that he was playing with his rings.

His curly hair hid his face a little,So I couldn't see him.

" Eddie ? "

Fan fact: I wrote this about someone that I used to like, he drove to my city to meet me, and we went to some beautiful park and we were enjoying our time togther, yeah stuff wern't excactly as I wrote in the ff , but.... lets say that we did had our moments....but heck we are not even talking anymore lol.

anyways I liked the way I wrote this so I changed it a bit and made it a fanfic I guess @-@

[centralperkchenford]

Chenford + Lucy gets ill after being pricked with the needle and Tim takes care of her 🥰🫠

The end just came to me with this one. I have been working on this one for awhile and then it just hit me. So… part 2? 😜

Everything will be alright if you keep me next to you.

Chenford + Lucy gets ill after being pricked with the needle and Tim takes care of her 🥰🫠

It happened so fast that Tim barely had time to react. Lucy was in a battle between two men who decided to get drunk in the middle of the day (the stupidness of people would never fail to astound Tim). And they both got in the middle but Tim got pushed out and before he knew it Lucy was fighting on her own.

Now Tim watched in both worry and amazement as his girlfriend knocked down the guy and held him down. He knew she could do it on her own, he just worried every time he even thought of her getting hurt because he could now. He could now feel worried without the overwhelming feeling of confusion that used to plague his mind.

Tim went over to help her put the cuffs on both men. Lucy was reading them their rights, when Tim noticed the needle. It was slightly stuck to her side and swallowed hard as he remembered the first time this had happened.

He had been worried about her. It was the first time he realized, she wasn’t just his boot, his rookie. She was a human being who could get hurt or stuck with a needle and he had feelings about it. Feelings he couldn’t at the time identify yet.

“Luce.” He managed to say and Lucy looked at him weirdly because even when they started dating, Tim always managed to stay professional in the field. He never really called her by her first name. Officer Chen or Chen would always be his go to.

He nodded toward the needle and Lucy groaned. “Fuck not again.” She mumbled.

Tim wanted to laugh at the obscurity of this but he didn’t. He grabbed gloves from the shop, slipped the needle in a bag and then turned to Lucy who was looking paler than normal.

“I um.. do we need to go to the hospital?” She finally got out her voice barely above a whisper. Tim nodded. He wanted to gather her in his arms and take her right away, demand she get seen right away and then just wait. Hoping for the best, fearing for the worst.

“I’ll call a close available unit and they can take care of these guys.” He glared at the two men on the sidewalk. If they had a fucking needle…

“Tim you don’t have to come with—” Lucy started but Tim shook his head vigorously. There was no way in hell he was leaving her. Not this time.

“ I want to b- Officer Chen.” He said resisting the urge to call her baby. The two men handcuffed reminding them they were still on the job.

Lucy nodded and muttered something about needing to sit down. Tim watched her go to the shop concerned at the way she was shuffling towards it. He called in the request for the closest available unit. Luckily they came pretty quickly and Tim was able to jump in the shop and drive toward the hospital. He called in for a personal, he would deal with the logistics later. He just wanted to get Lucy checked out.

“We don’t even know what the needle was for.” Muttered Lucy. Tim turned his head slightly, concerned at how quiet and sluggish she sounded.

“Luce. How do you feel?” He asked and he knows he sounds desperate. But he doesn’t really care. He just needs her to be okay. She was right it could be nothing, like last time they would take her blood and she would be fine. She had to be.

“I-I’m fine.” She said unconvincingly. Tim gave her a look that said he wasn’t buying it but he didn’t say anything. He knew she didn’t need that right now. She needed comfort. She needed him to just be there.

They got to the hospital in record time, mainly because Tim was going slightly faster than he normally would. Unlike like last time they ushered her in. Tim stood back a little awkwardly not knowing what to do.

“Sir.” Said the nurse looking at him sympathetically. “You can come in. We are just going to take her blood.” Tim nodded and shuffled into the room. He could tell Lucy was nervous so he pushed his feeling aside and went to stand by her.

“What if..?” She began but Tim stopped her. He put his hand on her arm and rubbed it up and down once.

“Lucy you’re going to be fine. Just like last time okay?” He smiled at her and she reached for him and he came immediately. It was hard denying her anything these days. She buried her head in his chest. “Thank you.” She muttered and he pulled her head up his fingers under her chin.

“For what baby? Doing my job?”

She shook her head. “No for being you. I never have to worry about you being there for me because you just are.”

“I will always be there for you Lucy.” He said sincerely. “Always.”

It seemed like hours before the nurse came back in. She was smiling slightly and Tim felt himself relax. She wouldn’t be smiling if it was bad news right?

“Good news Officer Chen your blood work came back normal. You are clear of hepatitis C.”

Lucy grinned up at Tim and he rubbed her back.

“That’s great! C’mon Luce we can—”

“Wait.” The nurse said quickly. “There’s more.”

Tim glanced at the nurse and then at Lucy who suddenly looked nervous again.

“Was there something else I could of—” She started.

“No. No. Nothing like that.” The nurse took a deep breath and then looked at Tim. “Sir this is a private matter if you would—”

“I’m her boyfriend.” He snapped. “What the hell is going on?”

The nurse’s eyes widened at his words and then she grinned. Tim frowned at her a bit, he didn’t understand why she was grinning.

“Officer Chen your hCG levels are high. We will send in a—”

“My hCG levels are what?” Questioned Lucy loudly at the same time Tim asked “What are hCG levels?”

The nurse huffed out a breath looking between the both of them. Tim was getting nervous. Was something else wrong with Lucy? Is that why she was all sluggish and tired? What the hell were hCG levels?

“We will have to run a few more tests but it looks like you could be pregnant.”

Oh. Oh.

Pregnant

Oh my god.

[f0rever15elf]

Lucidity

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x F!Reader Rating: G Word Count: 8,470 Warnings: food mention, no y/n, death mention, no beta

Summary: An enigma of a dreamer is called to Dream’s attention, and she has something to teach him about what it really means to be human. 

A/N: Yes, I’m still alive haha. I know it’s been a long time since I posted, and I’m sorry about that. I had this idea a couple of months ago and finally got it finished. I love this series so much, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing it.

Masterlist |  Ao3 

Humans. Frail, fleeting creatures. Their existence is but a blip, some eighty or so years, on average. Not even a century. And yet, they live. Perhaps it is the fleeting amount of time they have to walk in the Waking World that lets them live as they do, some without fear and regret and others still with desperation to never die. They live and they love and they laugh and they sing and dance and grieve and weep. And it is beautiful.

And Dream of the Endless bears witness to it all.

The whole of existence's unconsciousness is born within him. A swirling maelstrom of emotions ranging from hatred to infatuation, from complacency to unbridled rage. He feels it all in the center of his existence, and he uses it. He uses it to paint the dreams and the nightmares of every creature. He is a teacher, ultimately, revealing the challenges that must be faced for one to grow in this world. Nightmares channel fears, and every creature has them. No living soul goes without a night of terror at some point in their fleeting lives. That is… until her.

“My Lord.” Dream’s hand freezes in midair, his pause indication to speak. The librarian folds her hands behind her back, polite as ever. “I believe you will want to see this.”

His head turns slightly towards Lucien, curiosity piqued. “See what, exactly, Lucien?”

“A dreamer. One who in her three decades of life has never once been successfully visited by a nightmare.”

Dream’s hand twitches, and the partially completed corporialization dissolves. “What do you mean ‘never’? All mortals are visited at one point or another.” His coat swishes behind him as he turns sending embers trailing behind him as he approaches his librarian and friend. “It is impossible that in thirty years time she has yet to face one of my nightmares.”

Lucien lifts her chin and pulls back her shoulders, looking up at her Lord. He’s defensive again, bristled as he usually gets when he feels control slipping, as if he has something to prove. “Perhaps you should see her for yourself, my Lord.” Dark eyes that flicker with the energy of the whole cosmos behind them size her up and down before he nods. The librarian turns on her heel without another word, Dream of the Endless close behind her.

It’s to Fiddler’s Green where she leads him. The breeze is warm and soft as it tickles across his face, caressing through his toussled hair. And with it comes a gentle melody in a voice as soft as satin. Lucien turns to face her master, nodding towards the young woman sitting in the middle of the field. “Several other dreams have told me about her, so I looked for her in our records. She’s been visited by nearly every dream and nightmare in your kingdom, my Lord, but never once has a nightmare completed its tasking.”

“What of her records from the Waking World?” he rumbles, eyes transfixed on the anomaly currently playing with one of his newer dreams. “Fears, trauma, regrets, guilt… Anything at all?”

“Nothing, sir. Nothing as simple as the dark nor as complex as death troubles her. Every decision she has made, she has accepted with grace and not a thread of guilt clouds her heart. There is, plainly speaking, nothing for nightmares to adhere to. There is no need for them in her dreams.” Lucien looks back to the woman now laying in the grass, laughing as she holds up the small, fluffy dream above her. “She’s an anomaly. An enigma. I’ve never seen anything like her in all of my time in the Dreaming.”

“Mmm.” He waits for a moment, watching, before beginning to make his way towards her. But then she sits up, grass and leaves in her hair and he is struck for a moment by how beautiful freedom looks on her that he freezes mid stride. And then she tilts her head as if deep in thought, and turns to look at him. Her face is curious for a moment, eyes wide as she takes him in with all the openness of a child seeing stars falling to earth for the first time. Then, her lips part and she smiles and something deep inside of Morpheus clenches. It feels as though the air has been torn from his lungs and he is overcome, unused to being seen in dreams unless he wills it. And so, with a borderline frantic wave of his hand, he dissolves the dream, the young woman vanishing from his realm to leave only the echo of her melody on Fiddler’s Green’s gentle breeze.

“Forgive my saying so, my Lord, but that seemed a bit of an overreaction.”

Morpheous’ coat flutters softly on the dream’s breeze as he collects himself for a moment, turning back to face his librarian. “I did not allow myself to be seen by her.”

Lucienne’s brow furrows, her head tilting as she brings her hands to fold in front of her. “You were not visible to her? But she looked directly at you.”

“I know.” Dream looks back over his shoulder, the little, newly born dream sniffing the ground where she sat only moments before. “I have no idea how she managed to see me so clearly.”

“Shall I look into her records, my Lord?”

“...Yes. Anything you can find on her. Do not rule out meddling from my siblings.” Morpheous turns, gliding past Lucienne soundlessly. “Desire has already shown their willingness to meddle in my affairs. There is no telling to what lengths they will go to inspire what they see as my downfall.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

~~

Days pass, and the Lord of the Dreaming keeps himself busy, wrapped in his work constructing new dreams and nightmares, sending them off on their maiden visits to the unconsciousness of humanity. He is more productive now than he has been in centuries, churning out his new creations at a borderline frantic pace all whilst Lucienne pours over tome after tome about the young woman in the field. And at the end of nearly a week of constant study she finds… nothing. Nothing outside of the norm, that is. She has a mother and a father, both of whom still walk in the Waking World. No siblings to speak of. She’s had several dogs and a cat through her life, and a gold fish named Blue at one point, which met a fateful end all too soon. She’s had her successes and her failures, has her dreams and desires. But the one thing pointedly missing are her fears. Not that she doesn’t feel fear, no she very clearly feels it, but there is nothing...lingering. Nothing to cause the birth of a nightmare, nothing to promote a change that she is unwilling to face. And that… that is the only oddity the studious librarian can seem to find.

“That’s impossible.”

Lucienne sighs, looking to the ground for a moment before looking back to her Lord, his attention on the animated glass panes of the throne room. “Clearly it isn’t, because she exists and is once again in Fiddler’s Green. It’s where she has gone every time sleep takes her, my Lord, almost as if she is purposefully choosing it.”

“That, too, is impossible.” Morpheus turns, brow pinched and lips parted as he moves towards his second in command. “The only ones able to control the Dreaming are myself and a vortex. And she is neither.”

“Nor is she a child of the Endless. She is just… a human. Plain and simple.”

“If my time among them has taught me anything, Lucienne, it is that humans are far from simple.”

“Then what shall you have us do, my Lord?”

Dream raises his head, looking out towards the entryway as he ponders his next move. “Matthew.”

“Yeah, boss?”

Morpheus turns to face his throne, ebony raven perched on the armrest. “I need you to watch her in the Waking World.”

“Uh, yeah, I can do that. But what am I looking for exactly?” The raven ruffles his feathers, hopping towards the end of the arm rest.

“Anything out of the ordinary.”

“Because that narrows it right down,” Matthew mutters before beating his wings, on his way to follow orders. Morpheus watches him go before turning back towards his thrown, beginning to climb the stone stairs without another word.

Lucienne watches him go for a moment before she speaks again. “My Lord, if I may.” Dream pauses, turning to face the librarian again. “Perhaps it would be better to speak to her directly, in one of her dreams.” A flicker of doubt dances across the brow of the King of Dreams. “Rather than dancing around the matter, perhaps speaking to her directly is the best course of action. After all, she can already see you.”

“Thank you, Lucienne.” It’s final, dismissive, but not unkind. The Librarian sighs with a smile and nods before turning on her heel and taking her exit, leaving Dream alone with his many, many thoughts.

~~~

She’s back again, laying in the gently waving fields of Fiddler’s Green as other dreams flit around her. Her voice dances on the breeze, pleasant in the King of Dream’s ears as he stands on the fringe of the dream, watching. Matthew’s vigil revealed nothing save for a happy woman, content in her life and her relationships, leaving Dream all the more curious of her. In all his centuries, he’d yet to meet someone so utterly… content. Even Hob was occasionally plagued by nightmares and turmoil, though his love of life never diminished. But this woman… she is something else entirely. Something that even with the whole of human unconsciousness within him, he has yet to see.

“Are you just going to linger like a wraith or are you going to join us?” Dream blinks, jolting from his swirling thoughts to see her standing in front of him. Her eyes are bright and her smile warm as she looks up at him and every single thought that bubbles inside of his being freezes. “You don’t have to be a stranger.”

“How is it you can see me?”

Her head tilts in confusion, as if he had just asked her how it is she can breathe. “Should I not be able to?” She sizes him up and down. “Your choice of wardrobe sticks out a bit against the green. If you’re going for camouflage, you’re pretty bad at it.”

“She’s got you there, boss.” Morpheus blinks, looking up at his infuriating raven perched on a branch overheard.

“Enough of this.” With a wave of his hand, the woman before him dissolves, her laughter the only thing lingering on the breeze as he sends her back once more to the Waking World.

“That’s not how you make friends, boss.”

“I have no intention of making friends, Matthew.” He turns, his cloak billowing behind him as he makes his way from the Green. The bird takes flight, coming to land on Morpheus’ shoulder. “My only intention is to know how a member of humanity has managed to escape the grasp of my nightmares.”

“Hard to do that if you keep waking her up before you even ask her anything.” The scathing side-eye Dream of the Endless casts towards his raven would chill the most hardened of men to the bone, and the raven adjusts himself nervously on his perch.

“Continue your watch over her. Bring back anything of interest.”

The raven sighs, dropping his head for just a moment before spreading his wings and taking flight on his way back to the Waking Wold, muttering to himself about his clueless boss.

~~

It’s been weeks since Matthew began his vigil, and Morpheus has not once set foot into the dreams of the young woman. The first day the little bird returned from his watch, he had been in a frenzy. The woman had recognized him and greeted him with a smile as she walked to the grocery store. Truly a feat given that humans have trouble telling crows and ravens apart, not to even begin considering a dream in the shape of a raven. She fed him and talked to him the whole time, not even remotely concerned by the people watching her as if she was crazy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as nice as her.”

Morpheus hums, turning the page of the book resting on his lap. “Anything strange in her conversation that stands out as odd?”

“Can’t you see her too? You know, the whole ‘whatever you see, I see’ shtick you always tell me when you send me on these recon missions?” Morpheus freezes mid page-turn, but doesn’t look up. Yes. Yes, he had seen it all through the raven’s eyes, and the whole day had a strange, heavy stone sitting squarely in his gut. The raven sighs and shakes his head. “No, nothing out of the ordinary for a young woman, boss. Just a happy, nice lady.”

“I see. Thank you Matthew.”

The raven hums, somewhat disgruntled before taking off to go find Lucienne for a better conversational partner.

“Who are you…?” Dream whispers, closing the book on his lap before look up towards the arching ceilings of the throne room, peering off into the swirling expanse of dreams above him.

The days continue on and each day Morpheus does his best to ignore the link between himself and Matthew as the raven dutifully continues his watch. She’s befriended the little bird, opening her bedroom window for him the moment she wakes up. Her voice is lovely in the back of his mind as she chatters away with his companion. Oh the stories she has to tell, always something new. And then the day comes to a close and Matthew returns to recount his favorite parts of the day to the King of Dreams. With every story the raven tells, that stone settles more and more solidly in Morpheus’ gut, and he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand how a mortal has such a hold on him to where the Master of All Dreams himself dreams of being in his raven’s place.

“And where will you be going, My Lord?” Lucienne catches him as he is making his way out the entryway of the throne room. “Finally off to see our little mystery dreamer again?”

“She has been visiting the Dreaming every night. And every night, it is Fiddler’s Green she finds. No human should be able to choose where it is in my realm they appear.”

“Will you speak with her this time, my Lord?” Lucienne folds her hand behind her back, lifting her chin. Matthew had been keeping her in the loop on everything to do with this nightmareless dreamer. And the reactions of the Dream Lord to the stories the newest companion to the Endless would bring back with him. She knew it was only a matter of time before Morpheous’ curiosity won out and he approached the mortal, but he had lasted longer than she had originally anticipated.

“Do you doubt my methods, Lucienne?” There’s an almost playful edge to his tone and Lucienne laughs out one breathy laugh.

“Not at all, sir. Though sometimes I do question your madness.” She nods to her friend before turning to return to the library. “Try not to scare the poor thing.”

Morpheus scoffs as he watches his librarian retreat before leaving the palace, making his way back to the Green. Sure as the day is long, her voice floats on the breeze once more from her leisurely lounging against a giant willow. Gault sits beside her, wings fluttering every so often as she listens to the song. But then her song stops, and those bright eyes open and land directly on him, as if she could sense his presence the moment he arrived. His stomach draws tight at that thought. She speaks to Gault, who looks over to her Lord then nods, standing and helping the dreamer to her feet before nodding in his direction and taking to the sky. He watches her until he can no longer see her in the soft, glowing clouds above the Green.

“It’s been a bit since I’ve seen you here.” Morpheus startles, blue eyes snapping back to the woman in front of him. “Are you going to will me away again?”

“How did you...?”

“Matthew told me.” Of course he did, that blabbermouth bird. “He comes to see me when I’m dreaming here, sometimes.”

“Do you even know where ‘here’ is, human?” He can’t help it, the air around him. This is his home, his domain. It’s a part of him, in all its vastness. And he knows it is heavy and that his presence is more like that of a Nightmare to some than it is a Dream. But the girl in front of him does not flinch or yield under it.

“In the abstract, I guess, but nothing more than that. I know I’m asleep, and that I’m dreaming. Gault has told me that this is where Dreams and Nightmares live.” She folds her arms behind her back. “Care to enlighten me?”

Morpheus tilts his head, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. “You are in the Dreaming. My realm. The place where all living creatures come when they sleep. For I am Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless. I hold within me all of human unconsciousness. Every dream, every nightmare. They all come from me.”

“So you made...are...all of this?” She drops her arms and spins around before smiling back up at him. “You are quite beautiful, you know that?”

All of the collective human unconsciousness within him could not have prepared him for such a reaction. To stand before an Endless as a mortal and not so much as flinch. “Beautiful?”

“Mhm. Beautiful. Greens and golds and blues.” Her eyes linger on his face for a moment, on his eyes as her smile widens. “Dreams are beautiful.”

“And what of nightmares?” he questions, stepping closer, crowding on her space. “Are they as beautiful as you think dreams to be?”

She cranes her neck to look up at him. “Why wouldn’t the be?” Morpheus turns his head, side-eyeing the...anomaly before him. “What makes them less beautiful than a dream?” The edges around the young woman begin to blur and she tilts her head with a smile. “It’s time to get up. I hope to see you again, Lord Morpheus of the Endless.”

Her voice whispers past him on the breeze as she returns to the waking world, leaving the Endless burdened with much to think about, standing at the edge of Fiddler’s Green. Strange does not begin to describe the young woman who seems to so freely enter his domain. He needs to know her more, needs to see what makes her tick. Tonight, he would see her in her own dreams, rather than here among the resting ones.

~~

She’s simple, he concludes. A strange thing for an enigma to be, but she is all the same. Her dreams are not exactly adventurous, rather reflecting her daily life. She helps the people that he knows are her neighbors, she plays with the kids in the park, she walks dogs and feeds the birds. That in and of itself is rather odd. Most people have at least some sort of whimsy to their dreams, but she seems to just… continue living her life when she closes her eyes.

He did well hiding form her, at first. He’d meld with the shadows just out of eyesight when she would turn to look for him. He could tell that she knew she was being watched, but whether or not she knew it was him, he did not know. But to allow her to find out would ruin what he insists on referring to as research. Eventually, though, she caught on to him. She wouldn’t turn to look at him, but would instead hum that same tune she would sing in Fiddler’s Green every time he found her in his realm, just so he knew that she knew he was there.

And then one night while she rested, a nightmare came to visit. Quite a garish one, too, meant to uncover deep seated fears. Morpheus watched from the shadows, keen to see with his own eyes how this woman had eluded his creations for so long. Then, she does something he’s never seen in all his years harboring this collective unconsciousness of the dreamers. She turns and faces the nightmare and she smiles. She smiles and holds out her hand which holds the reddest of apples.

“It’s alright,” she says softly. “You can rest here with me. You have a hard job, scaring people. It must be difficult for you sometimes.” The nightmare halts, confused for a moment before slowly reaching out and taking the apple from her hand. “Your job is an important one, isn’t it? Show people their fears?” And that’s when it clicks in the mind of the King of Nightmares. She is a lucid dreamer. And a very experienced one, at that.

“It is, and it’s a job you’ve been preventing them from doing for years, girl.” Morpheus drifts from the shadows where he watched this little exchange and the nightmare freezes, eyes wide as it looks at its master. “Leave us.”

“It was good to meet you, nightmare,” she smiles, waving as the nightmare dissolves before her eyes, returning to the place it calls home and leaving the King of Dreams with one of the most confounding mortals he has ever met. “Finally decided to talk to me, hm? Instead of creeping around in the edges of my subconsious?”

“How long did you know?” he asks, his voice low and curious. She looks up at him with a smile before bringing another apple to her own lips, taking a bite.

“Since the first time you visited. You make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when you stare at me. I always know you’re there.” She shrugs, turning to walk towards a bench by the park in her dreamworld. “I can tell when I’m in that meadow back in your world, too. You have a very Great and Powerful Oz vibe, about you.”

Morpheus says nothing, hands buried in the pockets of his coat that flutters behind him as he follows the young woman. “How long have you been a lucid dreamer?”

She shrugs, turning around to walk backwards, facing the King of Dreams. “Don’t really know when it started, exactly. It’s been so long that I can’t really remember a time where I couldn’t do this” She smiles, taking a seat as the backs of her legs hit the stone bench. Morpheus watches her as she pats the stone beside her before taking a seat, hands still buried in his pockets as his long legs spread out in front of him.

“And what of your nightmares. I’ve seen many a lucid dreamer, but never one who could turn a nightmare away from herself.” He’s not looking at her, even as she turns to face him more on the bench. He can’t bring himself to.

“Hmm. They’re just another type of dream, aren’t they? If the dreams can be kind, why can’t the nightmares?” She chuckles as he casts a sideways glance her way. “I get that look a lot from people when I’m awake. A lot of people don’t really understand how I think, I guess. Nightmares are meant to scare you, I guess. But I have no reason to be scared. So, why entertain fear when I have no need of it?”

“Everyone needs fear. Fear pushes you to grow, to face what is challenging you. It forces you to face your shortcomings.” He’s not argumentative, it’s just a simple fact. Humans are flawed by design, and the growth this results in is just another, natural part of being human.

She’s quiet for a moment, just long enough for Morpheus to begin to wonder if he’s upset her. He spares her a glance to see her looking off into the distance, apple resting against her lips. “I think… I think there are better ways to grow. Discomfort when you’re awake doesn’t need to bleed into when you’re asleep.” She stands then, with a smile, turning to look back down at him. “If I can choose to be happy and kind and carefree in my dreams, then I will. I don’t need to entertain anything that scares me, here. I can do that somewhere else.”

“But you-”

“This was nice,” she cuts him off, taking a step back. “I’m going to wake up now. I promised my neighbor I’d bake her a nice loaf of bread today, and I need to start on it early to let it rise. But I’m sure I’ll see you again, Morpheus.”

“You may also call me Dream.” Why he felt the need to add that, he’s unsure, but her reaction more than accounts for it.

The smile that dances across her face is stunning, and for a moment it sets him aback. “Fitting. Well, until the next, Dream.” As her form dissolves in front of him, she tosses something to him. An apple, crisp and bright red sits in his palm as the world of the young woman’s dream slowly dissolves around him. An odd one indeed.

Morpheus returns to his work, attempting to spare little thought to the lucid dreamer who seems to be able to come and go from his realm as she pleases. He knows that part of it is that every dream she has encountered has welcomed her here with open arms, reaching for her when she succumbs to sleep. They’ve left the door open, and he cannot blame her from coming through. The corners of his lips tug down in a pensive frown as he works, interweaving fibers of thoughts and hopes, breathing life into a new creation.

“My Lord.” He blinks, breaking from his trance as he realizes that the dream on which he is working bears a striking familiarity to a young woman he has recently met. Turning on his heel with his cloak billowing behind him, he finds his librarian standing there with Matthew perched on their shoulder.

“Is something the matter, Lucienne.”

“Not… explicitly so, my Lord.”

He cocks his head oh so slightly, taking a step towards her. “What, then, to interrupt my work?”

“She’s back. That lucid dreamer.”

“Yes, I can sense her. She’s with Fiddler’s Green. This isn’t the first time, so why have you come to me now, Lucienne?”

Matthew adjusts on her shoulder and she glances at the bird before looking back to her Lord. “She’s asking for you. Specifically, sir.”

Now that was odd. All the times you’ve entered his realm since meeting him in your dream weeks ago, you’ve not once asked for him. A warmth fills him at the thought of you wishing to see him, bubbling up inside for him to quickly push back down. “Thank you, Lucciene. I’ll see to her.”

“My lord, if I may.” The librarian hesitates as she takes a step forward.

“Go on.”

“I am uncertain if allowing a human free reign of the Dreaming is the wisest of choices.”

“And why do you think this?”

“The last time, that human was a vortex with uncontrollable power. She shattered the Dreaming, bridging the walls between us and the Waking World. What should happen should this human learn to do the same?”

“She will not. This human is no vortex, of this I am sure. She is a lucid dreamer, that is all.” Morpheus strides past, the orange glow flickering at the base of his cloak. “I appreciate your concern, Lucienne. I should like you to keep an eye on her, particularly in the Waking World when she is out of my sight. You and Matthew, both.”

“Do you want me making daily trips again, boss?”

“That is not necessary, Matthew. Only as you see fit. I leave this discretion to you.” With that, the King of Dreams makes his way from his workstation to visit the mortal who harkins him. A lucid dreamer… that is all….

She’s under her usual tree when he appears before her, the tails of his coat billowing at his feet before coming to rest in the stillness of the meadow. It has been a long time since he had seen something as brilliant as her smile. How long had it been since someone had smiled at him like that?

“Dreamer,” he greets, terse as always. “I should caution you to not forget who it is you speak to. I am not at your every beck and call.”

She shrugs, twirling a daisy between her fingers as she continues to grin up at him. “I simply asked Matthew if you were around because I wanted to see you. It wasn’t a demand.”

She wanted to see him? He blinks, face yet unreadable hiding his reaction. “What do you need?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to see you, is all. Sit with me for a bit?” She scoots just a bit, giving the Dream Lord space to sit beside her, back against the tree. “I don’t bite,” she adds lightly when he hesitates a few moments too long. He huffs, seemingly unamused before taking a seat besides her, knees folded up  so as to rest his elbows on his knees. With that same, beautiful smile, she hands over the daisy to him, the white of the petals a near match for his alabaster skin. He stares at the flower for a moment before looking up at her, a silent question hanging on the air. “You give flowers to the people you like. Everyone deserves flowers, and something tells me you don’t get them very often.”

“I am not ‘people’, Dreamer.”

“I have a name, you know.”

“Yes.”

Her brow furrows for a moment before she shrugs, flower still extended towards him. “Whatever works for you. Take this, though.” That smile is firmly back in place, and Morpheus feels that warmth again, permeating through his whole being as he reaches out for the flower. His fingers brush lightly against hers, and it feels for a moment as though lightning courses through him, knocking the breath from his lungs. He fights the urge to recoil as he takes the flower from her, a comfortable silence falling over the two of them yet again. That is, until his curiosity gets the best of him.

“Why did you wish to see me again?” He glances to the woman beside him to finder her face turned to the light of the sky, eyes closed as she enjoys the warmth. Still, the soft kiss of her smile dances across her lips.

“Because I like you.”

“You know nothing of me.”

“I know more than you think.” She lolls her head to the side, smiling at him. “I know you’re creative. How else could you have made all of this? I know you care about people like me. Why else would you be concerned that nightmares don’t visit me? Lucienne told me once a while ago that you contain all of human unconsciousness. I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of empathy that means you have. How much you have to work to keep that separate from yourself so you don’t drown in it.” She looks back over the meadow. “You’re kind. Without kindness, you couldn’t have made the gentle dreams that I’ve had. And I think you might be a little lonely, too.”

“Do not forget yourself, human.”

“Oh trust me, I haven’t. I’m intimately aware of my humanity. But I think you might have forgotten how much of us you have with you, given you have all of our unconsciousness.”

Morpheus huffs, indignant as he rolls his eyes and looks away. The daisy rests between his fingers still. “You are nothing if not bold.”

“That’s not the first time I’ve been told that, you know.” She chuckles, the sound one of the more beautiful ones Morpheus has heard.  “It serves me well, usually.”

“I imagine it gets you in to equal amounts of trouble as well.”

She shrugs again, a favored action of hers, evidently. “Nothing I can’t get out of, and nothing that hurts anybody.”

“You are a strange human.”

“Redundant. All humans are strange.” She grins, standing from her spot to move to a spongy patch of moss. She spreads her arms, tipping back to fall onto the moss that seems to cradle her as her back connects with the ground, a joyful giggle bubbling from her lips. She closes her eyes to enjoy the sunlight on her skin until a looming shadow dims the light. She opens one eye, grinning up at the Dream King looming over her like a sliver of the very night itself. “Are you going to join me, or just stand there like a stick in the mud?”

“Does your audacity know no bounds?”

“Some probably think so. Some probably wish I didn’t have ability to speak at all. And that’s okay. C’mon. Lay with me for a bit. It’s so nice here.”

“I have work to do.”

“So do I, but here I am, taking a nap and dreaming of this amazing place. Everyone needs a break. What’s a few minutes?”

Could he argue that? Lucienne had a pretty good handle on things, maintaining the status quo while he worked. The new dreams and nightmares weren’t going anywhere, and there really was no rush on their production. He had no out. Did he want an out?

“Dream? You there still?”

He blinks, broken from his thoughts to see her sitting up, lips down turned in concern. “I’m fine,” he says quietly, sinking to the ground beside her, slowly lying down with his hands at his sides, staring into the open sky. She watches him for a moment before evidently deciding against voicing whatever thought was in her head before laying down herself, her hands folded on her stomach.

“This is nice, isn’t it? Just to be in the quiet for a bit?”

“I’d hardly call your talking quiet, girl.”

“No need to be rude about it,” she chuckles, tapping his leg with the tip of her foot before falling into another silence.

“I am curious,” Morpheus is the first to break the silence. She turns her head to look at him, eyebrows raised in question as he continues to look towards the sky. “I know you helped another nightmare, recently, who had come to your dreams. They told me of your smile when you took their hand to walk with them.” He turns to look at her, stoic face yet unreadable. “How is it that you find such joy in helping others when assuredly you do not receive the same from them?”

“Oh that’s easy.” She rolls onto her side, facing him full on with her head resting on her hand and the vulnerability of the position does not escape the King of Dream’s notice. “I don’t expect anything in return. I’m not looking for kindness back. I’m just looking to help someone as best I can. Some people have bad days, and that’s okay. There isn’t criteria to receive my help, nothing that makes someone undeserving.” She smiles softly, reaching to run her fingers across the moss between then, and Morpheus very nearly jumps when the tips of her fingers brush against the side of his hand, though she seems not to notice. “I help because I want to, not because I want things from the people I’m helping.”

“Do you truly?”

She blinks, looking up at him and he can hear the little hitch in her breathing as they lock eyes. “Do I what?”

“Do you truly expect nothing from those you help? What if my nightmares chose not to quell themselves at the offer of your hand?”

“What about it? I wouldn’t get mad at a snake for biting or a bee for stinging. It’s their nature. Who am I to judge them for that?”

How long had it been? How long had it been since he had met someone so purely and entirely...human?  The next closest was probably Hob Gadling, though even he did not have quite the same heart as this woman. His humanity manifested in more a lust for life than a drive to aid others. But this one… this one is in a league entirely her own. And it’s...refreshing.

“Thank you.” Dream blinks, refocusing on her face as she smiles at him, filling him with that warmth once again. “For lying with me. This was very nice.”

“Do not grow accustomed to it.” He retorts, but the edge of unkindness is no longer there. Instead, it had been replaced with something, softer. Something almost haughtily playful.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she giggles before sitting up, smiling as Dream sits up beside her. “I need to wake up now. I promised the produce stall at the end of my street I’d help out today since his son is sick.”

“Very well. Until we meet again, Dreamer.” This time, she smiles at the title before slowly dissipating as consciousness claims her once again.

Several days pass, and the little dreamer does not again enter the Dreaming. Morpheus finds himself actually missing her presence, constantly chatting away. She is sleeping and dreaming, he can still feel as much, but she does not choose to visit, rather electing to stay in her own worlds that morph and bend to her desires. And for the first time in a long time, a pang of something bitter and sour gnaws at his stomach.

Jealousy.

Jealousy for the creations he has crafted to do exactly as they are; visit her dreams.

So he begins once more to linger, lurking at the edge of her dreams to watch them play out like some private play. He knows she’s aware of his presence, occasionally catching the subtle sideways glance or the lingering smile on her lips as she passes him by or turns in his direction. And he realizes, as he lingers among her dreams day after day, that she is beautiful. Physically, yes, she is attractive, but so much more than that as well. Her kindness, her pure human joy is astounding. A breath of fresh air in the typically dismal human society entrenched in greed and self idolization. And it makes her the most breath taking creature he has seen since Calliope graced him with her smile.

The day his realization strikes is a day seemingly like any other. The Dream Lord works, interweaving threads of pure starlight to forge the core of his newest creation when his attention is pulled away. She’s here, in the Dreaming, for the first time in near a month. But not this time in Fiddler’s Green as she normally waits.

“Bold of you to let yourself into my place of work like this, Dreamer.”

“Just returning the favor for the month of lingering without even saying hi, Dream Lord.” There is a smile in her voice, he can hear it, and his breath hitches at the sound before he turns to face her.

“I make it a point to not interfere with the dreamers.”

“Oh yeah?” She grins, sashaying up to him with her hands clasped behind her back. “I think you just wanted to see me. I think you missed me when I didn’t come to visit for a few days.”

Morpheus is calculated in everything he says. Every word as solid as carved into stone. Never does he rush to respond, every phrase uttered burdened with a pregnant pause. But this time… this time he does not hesitate.

“Yes,” he rasps, taking a step closer to her, gazing down at her with such an intensity in his eyes. “Yes, I have missed you.” Missing her doesn’t begin to cover the gnawing ache her absence left in the pit of his stomach, nor the sourness of the bile the bubbled in the back of his throat when he saw her with those of his own creation. Such a simple phrase could never possible encompass what it means to him for her to be absent from him.

Her eyes widen slightly at that, the response unexpected from him. She had thought that perhaps he thought her a nuisance. Someone thrilled at her absence as so many people seemed to be. After all, he never seemed thrilled to see her. Burdened or annoyed probably better fits his reaction to finding her lounging in the Green. “Did I actually make it to the inner most parts of the Dreaming or did I manage to concoct it in my dreams?”

“You are here with me, I assure you.” His voice is low and deep, and it sends a visible shiver through her. Morpheus has to resist the urge to smirk.

“So I didn’t imagine that you just said you missed me, then?”

Morpheus raises his hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face before dropping it back to his pocket of his cloak. The gesture raises goosebumps across her arms, and her breath catches oh so slight. “I have missed you, little Dreamer, and our conversations.”

“An entire eternity’s wealth of dreams and stories are in Lucienne’s library to keep you entertained, and you still miss our conversations?”

“Is it truly so hard to believe?”

He’s so close to her, she can feel the heat of his body radiating like the fire from a supernova. It would be nothing at all to reach out and touch him… to take his hand and feel the softness of that alabaster skin against her own…. “Years of being told to be quiet leave their mark, no matter how much you work to ignore them.”

“Your voice, my little Dreamer, is one I shall never tire of hearing.” Her heart hammers behind the confines of her ribs, excitement coursing through her. “I doubt their will ever be a time I tell you to quiet yourself in my presence.”

“Your mouth shouldn’t write checks you can’t cash, you know.” She grins, playful and lively and Morpheus feels the corner of his own lips twitch up at the sight, seemingly of their own accord. “I’m a wealth of conversation.”

“Trust me, I am well aware of this fact.”

“I feel like I should be offended at that,” she chuckles, rocking back on her heels. “So, care to show me how the master does his work?”

“Some other time, perhaps,” he answers, the half finished dream seemingly dissolving into nothingness behind him, and that smile on her lips falters just a touch. “I would much rather show you something else, first.”

It is then that he extends to her, his hand, and with adrenaline coursing through her veins, she reaches to take it in her own. The touch of skin is just that; a warm, comforting grasp. No jolt of electricity as so many call it, but rather a feeling of comfort and belonging as if she had be nestled in a thousand warm blankets to be lulled to sleep. The thought then surfaces to her conscious that perhaps this is what it feels like to come home.

Time passes on, as it does for all things, and every night she comes to visit him in his realm. Every night she lives another life at the side of her Dream Lord. And she’s happy there, as is he. But the thing about humans… the tragic, beautiful thing about humans… is their brevity. Lives as a match, both bright and full of life then out all too soon.

Dream can see it, the passing days, etched into the canyons of the lines on her face that every day seem to deepen. The marks of thousands of smiles and thousands more laughs adorn the corners of her eyes and lips. Time takes with it in its passage the color from her hair, replacing it with spun silver. She is aging, as all humans do, and yet still refuses to lose that lust for life and her overwhelming kindness. Grief seems beyond her. And this is just as well, as it seems the Lord of Nightmares grieves well enough for the both of them.

“Brother.”

The Dream Lord prickles as a cat disturbed before turning slowly to face his elder sister. Her face is soft and kind, as it always is, but today he finds no comfort in it. “Sister.”

Her eyes drift from his face to the elderly woman climbing into bed. Her bones creak with the years past, the breath whispering through her lips as a winter breeze through dying leaves as she settles among her sheets. Old eyes see far less now than they once did, but when they fall on the sister of the love of her life, she smiles. A shaking, frail, liver spotted hand reaches out in a silent plea. Death moves past her brother who remains still at the foot of his lover’s bed, praying that if does not move, does not disturb this moment, that perhaps his father would grant him a moment of stolen time, removed from the passings of the universe around them.

She had refused Death’s offer, when the elder Endless learned of her brother’s new love. She had no desire to live past her destined time, like Hob Gadling. No, she was content with the extent of her mortality, reveling in every fleeting day. Know it has an end, she would say to him, makes every day that much more meaningful.

“Hello, my dear sister,” Death whispers, taking the aching and elderly hand in her own. The touch alleviates the years that scream through her nerves as respite washes over her.

“Death. Beautiful, sweet Death. How are you?”

“I am well, sister. And I am here with you now.”

“It’s time, isn’t it?” The words hold no malace nor grief. It’s as simple a question as if a child asked the time. And it shatter’s Dream’s heart enough to spur him to move. He takes his place at her side, opposite his sister and takes her other frail hand in his. Hands he knows so well now, he wonders how there was ever a time he didn’t know them.

“Afraid so, my lovely.”

His Dreamer is quiet for a moment, lips curled in a soft smile. “Can I sleep, first, sister?”

Death’s eyebrows arch in slight surprised before her lips curl in a knowing smile. She flashes a look to her brother before nodding. “You can sleep, dear sister. And when you wake, you will be home.”

“With him?” A strength Dream had not felt from his lover in some years courses through her, her hand tightening around his and it occurs to him… that she is not without fear. So many years without a single nightmare, he had almost forgotten that she was no different than any other mortal. But for his Dreamer, the fear she feels is simply outweighed by her understanding of life. He returns her grasp, pulling her hand up to grace it with a feather light kiss across her knuckles.

“With him,” Death confirms, and his Dreamer relaxes back into the bed, an invisible weight taken from her chest.

“Then everything is fine.” She smiles up at him and his heart races in his chest, his body consumed with with a lightness unlike anything he’s ever felt. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss her forehead with such reverence. “You did, my love. Now, you should sleep. And you shall awaken with me for the first time in your new home.”

“Morpheus,” she rasps, voice hanging on by but a thread. “I love you.”

“And I you, my little Dreamer. Now, rest.” He brushes his nose against hers one final time, her eyes slipping closed. It is only moments later that the rising and falling of her chest stills for the last time. It pains him to see her this way, regardless of knowing where she now waits for him, and when he speaks next, his eyes do not leave his Dreamers face. “I lament not being able to spend more time with you, sister.”

“We have all the time in the universe, Dream. Go be with her.” Death stands from the bed, a radiant smile on her face as she rests a hand on her brother’s shoulder. After so long removed from love after Calliope, he had finally found someone. After so long, he was finally happy. “I quite like my new sister. It would be a shame for you to chase her off so soon because you weren’t there to tell greet her in her new home.”

“Until next time, sister.”

“Until next time, Dream.”

With the sound of beating wings, Death makes her exit. Dream looks down at the body that once held the essence of his lover and grieves for but a moment more before he stands and makes his own exit, homeward to meet her in her new life. And end to inspire a brand new beginning.

~

She wakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. It takes a moment, disorientation and confusion clouding her mind. There is no ache in her joints, no fuzziness to her vision or muffle to her hearing. And it’s… bright out. Blue skies dotted with soft, cotton-like clouds. A warm, familiar breeze tickles her skin. But for all the familiarity, it feels… different. It feels more… real. More corporeal. It feels a part of her.

“I thought I might find you here, my little Dreamer.” She looks up to find her lover the same as ever, standing over her as dark as if cut from the night sky itself. “Fitting I should find you where I found you first.”

“Morpheus,” she whispers, and her voice does not carry with it the frailty of old age, as if dust and cobwebs adorned it. No, it is clear and shining as it was the day she met her Dream Lord.

“Welcome home, lover.” He extends his hand to her, helping her to her feet before pulling her into his arms. She melts against him, eyes closing as for the first time she is able to take him in as he truly is. He a part of her, and she a part of him. Complete.

“Home,” she whispers against his chest. And no word she has spoken before in her mortal life has ever felt so right. “I’m home.”

And she was. And they were. Forever, and for always.

Home.

[herbs-and-poultices]

Once in a while I get the terrible urge to share that my taste in music is even weirder than my taste in fiction. (What's a random American gal with no English/Scottish/Irish heritage doing listening mostly to songs like these? Blame my parents for raising me on murder ballads and ceilidh tunes.) So here is:

A Vaguely Whumptober-Themed Anthology of Folk Songs from the British Isles / Transatlantic Tradition: Part 1

1) "But now this room is spinning while I'm just trying to fill in all the gaps" / Swooning: Plains of Waterloo

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

How to make sure your girl still loves you, according to folklore: tell her you're dead and see if she faints

2) "I'll call out your name, but you won't call back" / Delirium: Battle of Waterloo

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

Jeannie, oh Jeannie, I am surely done Stricken doon in battle at the mooth o' Boney's guns Jeannie, oh Jeannie, aye sae dear tae me Let me hold you in my mind afore I dee

3) "Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon": Anderson's Coast

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

A tale of tragedy upon tragedy during the Transportations

We stole a vessel and all her gear And where are you, my Annie? And from Van Dieman's we north did steer 'Till Bass Strait's wild waves wrecked us here Oh Annie dear, don't wait for meI fear I shall not return to theeThere's not to do but endure my fate, And watch the moon, the lonely moon, light the breakers on wild Bass Strait

4) "I see the danger, it's written there": Sir Patrick Spens

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

A shipwreck song

The king he wrote a broad letter and he sealed it with his hand And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, walking out on the strand: "To Norway, to Norway, to Norway o'er the foam With all my lords and finery, to bring my new bride home" The first line that Sir Patrick read, he gave a weary sigh The next line that Sir Patrick read, the salt tear blinds his eye Oh who is it, oh who is it, who told the king of me To set us out this time of year to sail across the sea...

5) "You better hope I don't get up this time" : El Fusilado

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

Stretching the music genre and the prompt a bit here, but this is a great cover by a band that does a lot of traditional folk, and I feel like surviving a firing squad is 1) folk-song worthy and 2) enough to make anyone think twice about messing with you

6) "Do or die, you'll never make me, because the world will never take my heart": Tam Lin

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

One of the better-known English ballads. The intrepid heroine goes someplace she shouldn't, meets an elfin knight, falls in love with him, learns that he his a changeling held captive by the fae, and braves the wrath of the Faerie Queen to save her love from becoming the faeries' Halloween sacrifice

7) "Can you hear me?": Springhill Mining Disaster

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X (cw: real event still within living memory)

Listen for the shouts of the dark-faced miners Listen through the rubble for the rescue teams Three hundred tons of coal and slag Hope imprisoned in a three-foot seam

8) "I have a soul, but I'm not a soldier" / All for nothing: Green Fields of France

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

Well the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain The killing and dying, were all done in vain For, young Willie McBride, it's all happened again And again, and again, and again, and again

9) Mistaken Identity: Bonnie Banks of Fordie

Listen to my favorite recording here: X (cw: suicide mentioned)

An old ballad that gets darker the more you think about it

Gae tell tae me your brither's name My brither's name it's Babylon... Oh sister, what hae I done tae thee Hae I done this dreadful thing tae thee...

10) Stranded: The Golden Vanity

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

A tale of a tragic hero and a cruel ship's captain

Quickly he swam back, to the cheering of the crew But the captain did not heed him, for his promise he did rue And he scorned his poor entreatings when loudly he did sue And he left him in the Lowland Sea

11) No One Will Find You: Twa Corbies

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

There's mony a ane for him maks mane But nane sall ken whaur he is gane O'er his white banes when they are bare The wind sall blaw forevermair

12) "I haven't slept in days, but who's counting?" / I'm up, I'm up: Off to Sea Once More

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

Whaling was not a fun time

Some times we're catching whales, me lads, some times we're catching none With a twenty-foot oar stuck in your paw, from four o'clock in the morn And as the shades of night roll on and you rest on your weary oar, It was then that I wished that I was dead and could go to sea no more

13) "I don't feel so good": Lord Randall

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X X

One of the better-known English ballads. A tale of deadly betrayal: A young man returning home at the end of the day thinks he just inordinately tired. A more careful accounting of the day's events reveals the terrible truth. Versions vary as to who did the deed, but the young lord's fate is always the same.

14) Just Hold On: Skye Boat Song

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

Some of you may recognize the tune. The traditional lyrics memorialize the aftermath of the Jacobite defeat at Culloden

Burned are their homes, exile and death scatter the loyal men Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath, Charlie will come again

15) Makeshift Bandages: Twa Brithers

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

Now you'll take off your white Holland shirt An' teer it frae gore* tae gore An' you will bind my deadly wounds That they might bleed no more So he's ta'en off his white Holland shirt An' he's torn it frae gore tae gore An' though he's bound his deadly wounds Ah, they bled ten times more *seam

[empressaraceli1992]

Nothing

GhostxSoap

Angst/Hurt/Hurt with eventual Comfort/Crying/Suicidal Thoughts/Gaz is ride or die (Don’t piss off the tiny sergeant!!)/Price is a concerned father

18+ Only!

Soap felt his heart lodge itself in his throat. He stood outside of Ghost’s door feeling worse than the time he had been shot in Las Almas. How could it have come to this?

Soap had knocked so confidently, and presented his true and honest to God feelings for the man. Only for Ghost to –

“I love you.” Soap smiled, looking into those amber eyes with such hope.

“No, you don’t.” Ghost snapped.

“Simon—”.

“Stand down Sergeant.” Ghost growled. “It didn’t mean anything. We are nothing.”

Soap struggled to breathe. He was so stupid. The tension had been so high after the mission. Soap had been injured. It was only natural for Ghost to want to blow off steam. Right…? It was Soap’s own fault for letting his feelings out over a hookup. Soap hadn’t realized he was still standing outside of Ghost’s room until the door swung open again.

“Sergeant.” Ghost growled. Soap flinched. Not Johnny, not Soap, Sergeant. Soap could feel the hot tears welling up along his lash line. In his peripheral he saw Ghost stiffen. No doubt he was disgusted with Soap’s pitiable expression. Falling, stiffly, into parade rest Soap squared his shoulders, but kept his eyes on Ghost’s boots.

“Sorry, sir.” Soap rasped. Spinning on his heel he all, but bolted down the hallway. Rounding the corner to his own barrack he collided with Gaz.

“Whoa, easy Soap.” Gaz laughed. “Where are you—Soap what happened?” Gaz held Soap’s face in between his hands as he noticed the tears running down his fellow Sergeant’s face.

“I told him, Gaz.” Soap sobbed. “I told him and he said w-we…we were nothing.” Soap could feel himself teeter as Gaz pulled him into a hug.

“That fucking wanker.” Gaz spat as he led Soap to his room instead. Locking the door behind them Gaz led Soap to his bed. They didn’t bother getting undressed. Instead they laid down together with Soap in between Gaz’s legs, his face buried in Gaz’s chest as he wept. Soap wept for all he was, all he had hoped, for the love of a man he had come to admire, for the friendship lost. Ghost would never forgive him for this. How could he be so stupid? His old team had told him how annoying he was, always running his mouth, always joking, always being in the way. He was stupid. He had annoyed Ghost countless times with his useless flirting. His idiotic banter. He was nothing. He was a Sergeant, a demolitions expert, but he didn’t mean anything…

“Get out of your head Soap.”Gaz chided gently as he patted his back. “Try to sleep.”

Soap tried, he really did, but Ghost’s words played on repeat in his mind like a vicious record player.

Finally, exhausted Soap crawled out of bed and left a sleeping Gaz behind. He would find no comfort in his friend’s arms. They were not the arms his heart ached for. And oh did his heart ache. Soap had heard of ‘broken heart syndrome’. Soap gave a bitter bark of a laugh as he wove his way through the silent hallways. What a way to die he thought bitterly. The muscle in his chest gave a twisting twinge that nearly knocked the air out him.

How was he going to manage training the recruits with the lieutenant looming over him as his heart continued to break? How was he going to cope when Ghost ignored him for the next month? How was he going to eat at the dinner table with the man he loved knowing he would never know him back? He had to get away. He had to hide until his heart could break entirely and kill him or led him on some stupid way to die in the field…

I can’t… Soap changed directions suddenly heading back down the hallway a single destination in mind.

Thankfully Price was always up before anyone else, so when Soap knocked on his door the Captain was wide awake, and busy preparing folders for a mission.

“Soap?” Price asked curiously, looking up from his paperwork. “What are you doing up this early?”

“I came to ask if there was a solo mission I could take.” Soap was proud of himself. His voice barely wavered. Price leaned forward his elbows on his desk, his fingers laced together.

“Alejandro and Rudy have requested help wiping out some remaining Shadows in Las Almas.” Price began.

“I’ll take it.”

“Son, it’s a three month long mission.” Price searched Soap’s face. “I had been intending to send Ghost—”

“Nae, I’ll go.” Soap shook his head.

“What’s going on son?” Price’s brows furrowed. “You don’t like solo missions.”

“Just need a change of pace.” Soap said quickly. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Very well.” Price sighed, plucking up a folder from the pile he held it out to Soap. “Transport will be ready at 0800.”

“Yes, sir.” Soap took the folder. “Thank ye sir. I’ll be ready.” Soap turned to the door, and paused. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Could we keep this mission between us?”

“I don’t see why not.” Price said slowly. “Is there a reason…?”

“I just…I just want to keep it between us if that’s alright.” Soap sighed. Ghost would have his head when he realized Soap had returned to Almas without him—wouldn’t he? After their last conversation Soap highly doubted it. Ghost had made his feelings clear. Soap was nothing. Soap felt his chest give another painful twinge. He wasn’t going to die of a broken heart. If he was going to die it was going to be on the field. Broken heart syndrome took two months to kill a person. Soap bet he could manage something better for himself before then. Ghost would never have to worry about his stupid feelings again. Forcing himself to smile he turned back to Price.

“Take care son.” Price sighed, dismissing the sergeant.

Soap hurried to his room. He changed quickly: t-shirt, gloves, jeans, boots. He reached for his dog tags sitting on his desk. His heart gave a hard thump against his rib cage. Soap had taken his dog tags off when he and Ghost… shaking his head Soap snatched up his sketch book. Flipping to the very back of the book he found the drawing he was looking for. It was a detailed sketch of Ghost—no Simon—asleep in Soap’s bed, the sun coming down on him from the window. Soap had lovingly sketched every detail from the top of his head to the V of his Adonis belt peaking out from the sheets.

Soap felt his heart break all over again as he—gently—tore the page out of his sketchbook. Folding it into an envelope he carefully slipped his dog tags inside. A single tear escaped as he wrote two words on the outside of the paper. Morbidly satisfied he checked the clock: 7:45a.m—he turned on his heel. Thankfully Gaz’s room was right next door. Slipping inside he caught Gaz getting dressed for the day.

“There you are!” Gaz pulled his shirt down. “Where did you go?”

“I got a mission from Price.” Soap held out the small folded envelope. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure?” Gaz said warily taking the envelope.

“I’m going away for a while.” Soap’s lip twitched. It was a morbid goodbye.

“Okay?” Gaz looked puzzled, but not alarmed. Soap took that as a good sign.

“Could you get this to Gho—Lieutenant Riley for me?”

“Ripping him a new one I hope.” Gaz frowned pocketing the envelope. “You going to be alright?”

“No promises mate.” Soap gave a halfhearted shrug. “I’ll see you later.”

Gaz watched his friend leave, a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Ghost POV:

Three weeks later…

Soap was avoiding him. Ghost knew that the sergeant’s pride had taken a hit when Ghost told him he wouldn’t continue after their… escapade. Ghost had wanted Soap since Las Almas. The sergeant had wormed his way into Ghost’s cold heart.

Johnny was a brilliant man, with a smile that put the sun to shame, and a heart of gold he wore on his sleeve. Ghost had watched those brilliant pale gray eyes fracture into a kaleidoscope of hurt—and something Ghost couldn’t quite place—when he cut off his deceleration of love. Soap—Johnny—couldn’t love Ghost. Ghost wasn’t worth love. He was a memory of a man long since dead. But God did he want him. He wanted to ruin Johnny, claim him, make him his own and damn him to hell with him.

Shaking himself from his own thoughts Ghost longed for Johnny’s warm smile, his laughter… Ghost found himself longing for Johnny’s scent—a strange mix of lemongrass, spearmint, and honey—as he stood outside the sergeant’s door. Ghost knew Soap didn’t lock his door, he never did, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn the handle. So he left. Ghost returned to his room and buried himself in his work.

Over the next several days Ghost found himself haunting Soap’s usual hangouts whenever he was free to think: the wreck room, the large tree to the side of the training field where he liked to sketch, even the gym, but there was no sign of the man. Frustrated Ghost barely noticed the glares he was getting from Gaz. Gaz was Soap’s best friend. Ghost let it slide until he and Gaz were assigned to work together training a group of new recruits.

Ghost was the first to arrive on the field. Gaz arrived shortly before the new recruits began to file out from the barracks.

“Garrick.” Ghost said by way of greeting without looking up from his clipboard.

“Lieutenant.” Gaz growled. Ghost blinked turn to look down at the smaller man. Gaz didn’t meet his gaze. Instead he resolutely stared daggers at the new recruits—barking at them to fall in line. Gaz was never as laid back as Soap, but he was always fair, and (usually) warm to the newbies.

“Problem?” Ghost grunted.

“No, sir.” Gaz said curtly.

Ghost’s brows shot up under his mask. Gaz was never hostile to Ghost. Hell as far Ghost knew the man was scared shitless of him. Not that Ghost intentionally attempted to scare the crap out of the sergeant, but his reputation wasn’t anything to sneeze at. That and his less than social behavior didn’t help, but he had never done anything to make Garrick angry with him. Deciding to open that particular can of worms later Ghost ordered the rookies to separate into pairs to practice hand to hand combat.

Usually he would have Soap for this. Soap was the only one crazy and good enough to spar with the behemoth of a lieutenant. Ghost talked the rookies through the move he wanted them to do, but they all just stared at him in fear. Sighing, Ghost motioned for Gaz to come near.

“Sergeant Garrick lets give these greenies an example to follow.”

“Yes, sir.” Gaz spat.

Okay, now the sergeant was pissing him off. Ghost slid into position on one side of the makeshift ring. Gaz took up position on the other side fists raised. Ghost moved through the first two steps of the move, getting a hold of Garrick by the shoulder, then pressing his knee to the back of Garrick’s leg—Garrick spun swinging for Ghost’s face. Ghost blocked at the last possible second forcing Gaz’s hand down. What the hell? Gaz was turning it into a full blown spar.

Soap was the only one who had ever come close to besting Ghost at hand to hand combat in the 141, but damn if Gaz—Kyle fucking Garrick—wasn’t trying his best to lay Ghost flat. Gaz moved like a mad man: punching, kicking, swinging wildly trying to make contact with Ghost’s weak points.

“You—a punch—fucking—a kick—wanker!” Gaz snarled.

Ghost blocked him easily at first—with his superior skills—but he could only hold him off so long. It took everything in Ghost to not lose his temper and break Gaz in half with the way he was spitting curses at him. Finally, Ghost managed to complete the move he had been intending to show the rookies and pinned Gaz to the mat.

“Now, get to work!” Ghost snapped at the rookies. Shoving himself off of Gaz. “Go clear your head Garrick.” Ghost growled.

“Fuck you.” Gaz grumbled as he climbed to his feet.

“What was that sergeant?”

“I said—” Gaz rose to his full height, chest out. “Fuck you!” Gaze yanked something out of his pocket and threw it at Ghost. Ghost caught it reflexively. “You’re a fucking arse.” Gaz spat, spinning on his heel he stormed back into the building. What the fuck? Ghost looked down at the item—an envelope—but there was some weight to it. Confused, Ghost ordered the rookies to complete their hand to hand exercise, and do twenty laps before heading to lunch.

Going to stand beneath the tree at the corner of the training field—Soap’s favorite tree—Ghost turned the envelope over in his hands. Scrawled in neat handwriting on one side were two words: Sorry, L.T.

Ghost felt his stomach turn to ice. With trembling hands he unfolded the envelope. Something silver slipped out and clinked against the tree trunk. Ghost couldn’t focus on it, because in the inside of the envelope—which he now realized was a piece of sketchbook paper—was a beautiful charcoal drawing of him. There was no other word for it.

Ghost knew Soap could draw, but he didn’t know he could draw like this. Soap had lovingly sketched out every detail of Ghost—Simon’s—face making him look soft in places he had no right to look soft in. Soap—Johnny—made him—made Ghost—look human, loved, soft, gentle… Shaking his head Ghost bent down to retrieve the glint of silver—a necklace? No, dog tags.

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish

Stared up from his palm. Ghost was halfway to Soap’s room before he realized he was moving. Recruits long forgotten. His heart thundered in his ears. Stopping just outside the sergeant’s room he lifted his fist.

“Johnny?” Ghost knocked, hard. “Johnny open up.” Ghost’s fist pounded on the door. “Johnny if you don’t—”

“Soap is gone.”

Ghost spun—Gaz stood in the doorway of his room, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Ghost demanded.

“I mean you ran him off you heartless bastard!” Gaz snapped, his hands balling into fists. “But what do you care? It took you three weeks to even notice that he was gone!”

Three weeks? No, Ghost noticed the first day Johnny didn’t come join him at breakfast. He noticed, but didn’t check, didn’t say, just buried his head in his own pain. Because that’s what Ghost did. He pushed people away and buried himself again, and again, and again.

“Where…?” Ghost croaked.

“Why do you care?” Gaz snapped.

“WHERE?” Ghost slammed Gaz into the wall.

“I don’t know!” Gaz growled. “Price sent him on a mission—”

Ghost shoved Gaz away, but the sergeant wasn’t done.

“You leave him alone!” Gaz roared yanking Ghost back by his shoulder. “You broke him once you don’t get to—”

Ghost slammed his fist into Gaz’s stomach. Leaving the sergeant gasping for air Ghost stormed off. Price was going to have his head. He didn’t care. He needed to know where Johnny was now.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Limelight: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there is any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

Due to Jill's announcement with the press, the police station is crowded with people who claimed they have people missing. Of course, you can't reject anyone, so you're stuck listening to every single person's account of someone who is missing. You're overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people here, but you have to remind yourself that the stress isn't real. You can separate yourself from it, but it takes a lot out of you.

You must have talked to ten people, but none of them had something useful for you to use. You're sad that some of them have people they love who are missing, but none of them match the other victims you're looking for.

You're just about to give up hope when you get a tip from dispatch that someone called in claiming to know where a victim is. Your team is taken to an empty room to listen to the recording since it happened a little bit ago while the local police handle the tips from everyone else.

"Philadelphia Police Department," dispatch says.

"I think I saw something. It might have to do with the killings," a man says in a low voice.

"What did you see?"

"My car broke down on I-76. There was a field off the road. A man was digging a hole."

"What kind of hole?"

"For the body. I saw it. A bleeder stripped of its clothes."

"Can I have your name, sir?"

"Mile marker 115 on the eastbound. They'll find it."

The call ends, and you know that without a doubt, that the caller was the unsub. He is leading you to another body, and you know this has something to do with Jill talking to the press yesterday.

"Does anything strike you?" Jill asks Hotch.

"Stripped of its clothes. That objectifies the victim."

"Exactly. Dehumanizing. This wasn't just any tipster."

"The way that he referred to the body as a bleeder could mean--"

"Visible trauma to the corpse," Jill cuts him off, jumping the gun.

She is too excited, and she is going to get herself hurt... or worse.

"No, not exactly. I noted usage of the same word in the pages from the storage facility. He refers to his targets as bleeders. It's misogynistic. He's referring to menstruation."

"He'd use it as a weakness."

"I think we need to see what's in that field."

Derek and Emily volunteered to see the body with their own eyes, but you wanted to stay at the police station. What they found there shocked not only them but the rest of the team once they found out about it. Not only did they find a victim buried in the ground with enough teeth intact to ID the body, but this woman was buried on top of another woman.

Two victims this unsub gave you, but why? What was the point of it?

"He calls in anonymously and hands us two more victims. Why?" Jill asks, just as confused as you.

"You vowed publicly to bring him in. He may be reacting to that to show you who you're dealing with. He's a narcissist. He's preening."

"Good. I hope he keeps it up."

"No, you don't want that."

"He will drop a breadcrumb every time he tries something like this."

"He'll drop bodies, too."

What the hell is wrong with her? Why is she being like this? She is too cocky, and you don't like that she is on this case.

"If he's making it personal, he'll get sloppy and give himself away."

"Maybe that's what he wants. It never occurred to me that this guy defaulted on that storage unit."

"You think he wanted us to find it?"

"Maybe he's decided it's time for the world to know his name, but if he wanted a coming-out party, then why not just send his victim photos, videos, or something to prove what he is?"

"He wanted us to start at the beginning, to chart his evolution. Bright childhood grows into darkness. He's got us chronicling every step."

"So, if this is his story, what chapter are we on?" Jill wonders.

"The final one. He's writing it as we speak."

Your phone rings, and you put Penelope on speakerphone for all to hear.

"What's up?"

"When I got shot, I kept wondering why God would program our bodies to register that kind of pain. You know what got me through it?"

"No, I don't. What got you through it?"

"Knowing that the pain would eventually end, but these women, they don't even have that. When he's torturing them, there's no end." She takes a pause, and you hear something in the background. "Philly lab matched the IDs of the dental records on the two women from the grave. Mimi Adams and Sara Coswell. You'll find them in the missing person files we've flagged as possible victims."

"Thanks, Pen. We're on it."

"Wait, there's something else. Both women were reported missing four months ago on the same day."

"He's doing doubles. The killer got bored, upped the stakes, and killed two women in one day."

"Gerard Schaefer did it. He took his cue from Bundy. He said it was twice as hard, but twice as much fun. He kills with impunity for years without the slightest bit of heat and he needs a bigger fix, so he starts doing two a day. Four months later, he still can't get off so he opens his storage locker for us."

"Jill. Chronicle holding on 2," an officer notifies Agent Morris.

"Yeah, I'll take that in my office."

"Planning another press conference?" Derek comments, but she doesn't answer.

She leaves for her office, and you watch her leave. She is going to get someone killed if she continues down this road, and it seems like she doesn't want to listen to anyone.

"I heard we got IDs on these two bodies," JJ says walking into the conference room.

"Yeah, Mimi Adams and Sara Coswell. What's up?"

"This woman's husband came in before. She fits the victim type," JJ says about one of the victims that have been dug up.

"If you have her DNA, you might want to check it against the hair."

"What hair?"

"From the storage unit. Agent Morris found it early on. It's the same color, so it might--"

"It won't match," Rossi cuts Spencer off. "She didn't get the hair from the unit."

"She lied? When were you gonna tell us?" Hotch asks angrily.

"Whatever she did to get us here, we're here now."

"It's unacceptable behavior. Why do you keep defending her?"

"Because I know what she is. She's me twenty years ago. I know what people think. Everyone knows their names, but not the victims, right? Somewhere along the line, I put myself first. I admit it. I can't go back and change it, but it's not too late for her."

"Missing persons flagged a report that was just filed," Derek says once the news breaks out.

"A possible victim?"

"The subject's car was found idling at a stop sign, and there was some damage to the back end. It sounds like a bump and grab."

"Did she fit his profile career, age-wise?" Hotch asks.

"Katrina Townsley, thirty-four. She's a reporter at the chronicle."

"The Chronicle?"

Rossi gets up and rushes over to Jill's office in a panic. You realize why when you remember the officer telling her that someone from the Chronicle was calling her. If she did what you think she did, then Jill went out on the prospect of getting this guy, and she probably walked right into a trap.

You rush behind Rossi and see something on her computer that resembles a letter on her email. Upon closer examination, it's a letter that doesn't look like the other ones you've gotten.

"What is it?" Hotch asks.

"Have we gotten this letter?"

"No. I've never seen this before," Spencer says after reading it. "Why would he send agent Morris a letter?"

"She's his final chapter."

Luckily, Jill has a government phone that always has the tracker readily available, so you know her last known location. She was last at a car garage, but when you get there, you find her phone and nothing else. She was here, you can feel her, and someone else was here as well. The unsub must have grabbed two people. If you had to guess, the unsub grabbed Jill's friend at the Chronicle before using her to lure Jill out of hiding.

Katrina Townsley's energy is littered across the garage, making it easy to follow it.

"There's blood here. A couple of drops. Looks like she was dragged. This shouldn't have happened."

"Her guard was down. He tricked her into thinking she was meeting a friend," you try to assure Rossi.

"I told her to slow down, check your ego, and use your team."

"David, there's no way you could have known that she was gonna go off by herself."

"I did know. Sure as I know myself."

"Rossi, I can see Kat and Jill's energy. I know where they went. Right behind you at the entrance of the garage, I can see the vehicle he is driving." Rossi stares at you as if you have three heads, but you don't have time for this. "Okay, you can keep staring at me, or I can help you find them."

You don't wait for his response, and you take out your phone to call Hotch.

"Do you have something?"

"I know where they went. I can see his car. I'll be able to track them down, but I won't know where they are until I get there."

"Good. Follow them."

You hang up on Hotch and walk over to the car you used to travel to the garage.

"Are you going to come?"

Rossi and Spencer have no choice but to follow you no matter if they believe you or not. You get behind the wheel since you can clearly see the van the unsub used. The closer you get to the car, the further away it seems to be. When you move, it moves in the direction it went.

You pull into traffic and follow the van that seems to disappearing between cars, only to reappear.

"What do you see?" Rossi asks you.

"I see this van maneuvering between cars, disappearing and reappearing. It's like it's leading me to where it is because of Kat and Jill. Their energies are making it so that I am able to follow them clearly. It's hard to explain."

After three more minutes on the main road, you make a couple of right turns into a neighborhood where you see the same car parked in front of a house. You quickly sent a message to Hotch about where you are, and it wasn't long for the rest of the team and the police force to arrive at the house.

The second the door was busted down, you followed the energy left behind by Kat and Jill. They are alive, but you hope that the unsub didn't hurt them too much. The unsub is unusually calm when you get down to the basement, and he even lets you handcuff him and take him away without a fight. Kat is lying on the ground, unconscious, but Jill is a crying mess.

With the unsub in custody, your team is able to figure who the hell this guy is. His name is Jeremy Andrus, forty-one. He came from a broken home, poverty, went to trade school, was involved in petty crime and lewd behavior. The entire profile is laid out in his entire life, so it seems obvious now that you know who he is, but it wasn't so obvious when you had the entire state of people to choose from.

The thing that bothers you the most is that when he was shown all the missing people, he kept pointing to certain ones. You know that the ones he is pointing to are his victims.

Seventeen of them he has pointed to, and he hasn't even gotten to the 2006 pile. It breaks your heart. He won't speak or tell you where the remains are, and that's the true revenge knowing he's killed this many people but won't tell you where they are located.

Knowing you caught this guy and can bring justice to other victims, but you can't if he won't talk about it.

The best thing to unwind from a case like this is to spend it with the people you love the most. You and Spencer needed a relaxing night, and what better way to relax than with facials and at-home manicures? Using one of your hair wraps to keep your hair out of the way when you're doing makeup, you place that on Spencer's head to pull his hair away from his face. It's a cute pink one with bunny ears while yours is blue with teddy bear ears.

You slather on a good amount of your facial mixture to Spencer's face, avoiding his eyes and nose. After putting some on yourself, you grab his right hand and begin to fix his nails with your manicure set.

"Would you quit looking at that thing?"

He is holding the facial bottle and inspecting the ingredients as if he will understand what some of them are.

"My face is tingling. I don't think that's supposed to be happening."

"Yes, it is. That means it's working. Now, put down the bottle and relax. Let me take care of you."

Spencer sets the bottle down and leans back, closing his eyes in relaxation. It's not every day where you can be like this with Spencer, but you're going to take it where you can get it. If you can't find happiness in these moments, then why have them at all?

"I love you," you say, blowing on his fingers to get rid of the loose skin.

"I love you," he smiles with his eyes closed.

"For we pay a price for everything we get or take in this world; and although ambitions are well worth having, they are not to be cheaply won." - Lucy Maud Montgomery

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