#seeing all his comrades die around him

[marcobodtlives]

Regardless of everything that happened between them, Jean was upset when Floch died.

Jean was Floch’s commanding officer, and Jean never wanted his comrades to be hurt, even if they were Jaegerists in the end.

Jean and Floch had a complicated, strained relationship. But Jean was upset when he died.

Jean is an emotive, sensitive person, who cares when the ‘other side’ die as the war unfolds around them.

He cares.

[criminalamnesia]

everyone’s asking for a part two so here is more angst bc cedar by gracie abrams is perfect for this [ also inspired by what @shotmrmiller said in their reblog :)) ]

part one here

part three (aka version 1 of the ending) here

part three (ending version 2) here

it’s odd coming home to an empty house. unnerving, even. he doesn’t like it— dislikes it even more than he did your celebrations. fuck, he’d kill for those damn streamers right now.

“love?” his voice is soft as he calls out into the dark, once lively little flat. it hasn’t felt this big since before you had moved in.

he takes a few more steps inside, toeing off his boots and letting his backpack fall to the floor. by now, you would’ve been launching yourself into his arms. where were you? you’d never missed the day he came home. ever. you would have it marked on your calendar from the day he left, exclamation points and stars decorating the date.

“love?” he calls again, his voice a little louder. he keeps moving; notices there’s no smell of freshly baked goods or a home-cooked meal.

he rounds the corner, his eyes instantly finding the little note propped up on the dining table. eyebrows furrowed, he approaches. it’s addressed to him, clearly in your handwriting.

he reads it, and he really should’ve seen all of this coming.

he doesn’t cry. doesn’t even feel sad, really. it’s not like he hadn’t loved you— he had, but sometimes you made it really damn difficult to. your constant touches and words, doting on him, talking his ear off about this and that. he’d loved it at first, then came to tolerate it, and eventually he found himself hating it.

it wasn’t fair to you. he didn’t hate you, he hated the naivety. the unconditional love. partners were supposed to show each other that kind of love, were they not? so why did he come to despise it?

perhaps it was some deep rooted self-hatred. something dark and twisted inside of him that had done too much and taken life. killed and killed and killed. watched his comrades die in a number of ways. slowly. quickly. suddenly. brutally.

it hollowed him out, but it was his job. it was his job to do what he could for the damn world— get his hands dirty so people like you would never have to worry about a damn thing.

he should’ve seen it coming. you had been acting a little odd the last time he was home, he realizes now. detached, almost. quieter. he had cherished the quiet then.

now it was weird. he didn’t know how to feel.

he placed the note back down onto the table before making his way into the kitchen. some utensils were missing. some plates and bowls. the colorful dishrags you’d hung from the stove handle. the little plant you’d stationed in front of the window above the sink.

all the pictures of the two of you remained on the fridge. he could see in the photos how he slowly became detached. but you— god, you wore that dazzling smile in every photo.

he turned around and headed towards the bedroom.

——————————————————————

there wasn’t really any defining closure. you’d left the note, sure, but he hadn’t gotten to speak his piece.

would he have begged you to stay? told you to leave?

he didn’t know. all he knew was that it wasn’t fair to you, how he acted. what he did.

he also knew that if you called, or if you showed up and said you forgot something, or hell, if he saw you on the street, he’d say something. apologize at least, because that’s the least you deserved.

but you didn’t, and after a few days, he stopped thinking about you. what you’d be telling him right now if you were there. stopped thinking about how you sang when you cooked dinner. how you would reach for his hand when the two of you were in the grocery store.

how you would throw those damn ‘welcome home!’ parties.

he fell back into who he was, and your memory became nothing but a minuscule dot on a large piece of paper.

but for you? you had been miserable when you’d shown up at your friends apartment. cried into her shoulder as you told her about the note. sobbed as you realized that he didn’t care about you, and how you’d wasted so much time on this man who didn’t give a damn.

but even still, when you stirred in the middle of the night, you expected to feel his hands around your body. expected him to press a kiss to your head as you drifted back to sleep.

you woke up and expected him to be there. you forgot that he wasn’t yours. you found yourself missing him, even though you’d starting doing that far before you actually left.

it took the man you loved days to move on. it took you months— almost a year. he put you in fucking therapy, for god’s sake, because that shit messes with someone.

loving someone so completely, so wholly, only to finally realize it’s one sided? it’s crushing. he crushed you. but you picked up the pieces, and you put yourself back together.

you move on. find someone who actually cares for you— someone who communicates and doesn’t lose interest. someone who appreciates your enthusiasm. someone who returns it.

and when the man that broke your heart several years ago tries to stop you on the street one day,

you keep walking.

[malwaredykes]

well. here she is. miss Leigh Stasik.

trans woman. stubborn, incorrigible, eccentric. communist; she has leftist in-fighting with herself on the regular. a cannibal; she has no moral qualms about this, and its both a bit of a spiritual thing and a bit of a pragmatic thing. medic (not a doctor. no medical license). she knows for sure she had some kind of significant personality change from being shot in the head, but she doesn't remember what she was like exactly before it happened, it all became this kind of distant memory soup. shes originally from west new cali, but she grew very attached to the mojave. and has a lot of contempt for the ncr. She Will Serve Crack Before She Serves This Country. thank god the army discriminates against transsexuals etc. zero tolerance for the legion, obviously.

she firmly believes she is not nice, or kind, or compassionate, but instead her actions and her general sense of justice stem from her simply doing whats the most logical and objectively beneficial. it may be true to some extent, but she might also have a wee bit of ocd of the "i am a horrible person whos at all times like 2 seconds away from committing atrocities" variety.

shes a SCIENTIST. unofficially. she doesnt have a degree nor a chosen field of study. she makes her own hrt and other mysterious concoctions, including designer chems. which she claims she ingests injects etc not for recreational purposes, but to Enhance Her Powers And Possibilities. she reads old world books about psychology so she can manipulate people better. and makes weird contraptions and doohickeys while high. shes a HACKER of course and hacks terminals and systems for fun and just to see if she can.

her stats are out there due to implants and intense training, originally they were rather average. in-game she wears combat armor mk 2, but i see her having spruced it up like this. her main weapon is the ycs/186, the unique gauss rifle, but before that she used a modded plasma pistol. which she very much enjoyed the silly appearance of. because it was so small and with so much shit tacked on and she could just hold it in one hand like a mutated revolver like Hands up motherfucker bang bang bang lol. her melee weapon of choice is the machete gladius, but she's been training to be able to wield a thermic lance.

in my head the trajectory of her actions and the fate of the mojave that follows is different from what you can do with the game, because leigh could only go for The Secret Leftist Route Which Was Supposed To Be In The Game But We Were Robbed Of It.

boone was the first friend she made after leaving goodsprings and their relationship is particularly notable. they are Comrades, Siblings-In-Arms, Worsties (like besties but fucked up). theyve seen each other at their worst. they annoy each other on purpose. theyve had serious ideological clashes with each other and some ways in which boone perceives the world drive leigh absolutely nuts. they're ride or die for each other. theyre the kind of comfortable around each other where she'll be on the toilet and smoking a cig with the door open and talking to him, while he's naked sitting on the floor removing stitches from his leg. she's done surgery without anesthesia on him. he's projectile vomited blood on her from being poisoned by cazadores. she strongly encourages him to become a traitor to the ncr and to take part in the revolution and the formation of the new independent mojave alliance. somehow, it works on him in the end. shamefully they kinda like snuggling... boone bro come to bed man its nighty night man its beddy bye time.

shes in love with lily bowen. i havent decided yet whether she actually makes a move. but she thinks lily is sooooo dreamy. and shes right. if you dont think the enormous 203 year old blue mutant woman is dreamy thats your problem. outta her way

[joemama-2]

nanami kento has always been a patient man. he’s respectful and doesn’t talk to unless spoken to. he doesn’t like most people, might even hate some. but you’re not the type of person he would exactly hate, unlike a certain someone. he thinks you’re kind, polite, you always bow respectfully to your seniors, you diligently complete every task that’s asked of you. there’s also one more thing about you….he just cant put his finger on it. maybe you’re just tolerable, yeah that’s it.

you’re not a sorcerer, at least not a very good one. it’s why you’ve opted to be an auxiliary manager like ijichi and akari. “as long as i get to help the sorcerers in battle, i’m fine with whatever position i’ve been assigned.” you would say with a big and warm smile, innocently, naively. he thinks you’re too good for such a rotten society, something like that will get people killed. and he doesn’t want you on that list.

when he first met you back in high school, he didn’t think much of you. you weren’t a special grade, you didn’t have any awesome technique, you were just simply there. maybe you have connections, he thought. because there’s no way someone like you was admitted into tokyo jujutsu high. to this day, he doesn’t know how you did it. maybe you have some super cool talent that you didn’t like showing, maybe you just won over everyone’s hearts and they felt pity for you, he’ll never be able to find out. that’s one of his many regrets.

his other regrets are letting himself grow attached for no reason. no matter what, his eyes had a mind of his own, searching and scanning any room or environment for your figure. he chalks it up to protectiveness, you weren’t strong like he was and he didn’t want to see another comrade die. because thats all you were, a comrade. a comrade. a comrade. he chants this mantra into his mind every morning.

nanami didn’t know how it happened, but one thing led to another and he was always alone with you. comfortable silence was what he loved the most. you two could sit together for hours in a flower field you came across one day, just watching the sky and clouds form random shapes. you liked when they made hearts and little animals. although he always argued that they’re just clouds.

but, clouds almost reminded him of you. free, soft, floating around from place to place, and residing high in the sky. because he knew, no matter what, you were one of the few people who would go to heaven in this sick world, sick society. you belonged in heaven, you looked like an angel, acted like a goddess.

“let’s go to malaysia together.” you told him randomly one day, seeing an ad pop up about a beautiful vacation spot. kuantan. he didn’t take you too seriously. malaysia? out of all places? he didn’t see the hype.

all these thoughts flood his brain when he sees your body, looking lifeless and bloody, next to ijichi. you two have huge stab wounds in your mid-section. however, you have a bit more than your co-part, clear signs of your fight. even when you know you don’t have the upper hand, you won’t hesitate to fight back.

it’s hard as he carries you two, having to make sure ijichi doesn’t fall off his back while simultaneously holding you close to his chest. his heart twists and turns, stomach churning the entirety of the slow walk he does to bring you two back to ieiri. his mind is running rampant, constantly looking down at you. you can’t be dead, he thinks. neither of you two are dead, he can’t see more comrades die.

it’s almost weird to him how his throat tightens, tears stinging at his eyes. you don’t move, head lolling to the side as barely a sign of a breath is escaping your lips. your skin is pale and bruising. he hates it, hates how you look, hates how hurt you are, hates how he wasn’t there to stop it and protect you.

he sets you down first once he reaches shoko, handing the passed out ijichi to her. finally, he kneels down, taking in your appearance. nanami rarely gets mad, at least not seriously. but this time, he’s absolutely furious. silently seething as he breathing gets heavy. his fists clench by his side, nails drawing blood into the skin.

he gets up, no being able to stand how you look. but, he forgets you’re a fighter, forgets that no matter what, you look out for the sorcerers. out for him.

“kento….” you straggle out, hand weakly clutching onto his. you can barely keep your eyelids open. you mutter out the next few words. “…man….blonde……ponytail……s-sword….”

ah, he thinks. that’s his target.

he gulps, simply nodding. but your hand stays clutched onto his. using all your strength, you open your eyes wider, and he hates the tears that form in them. “….come back to me please…..”

he feels like crying with you. but he can’t, not now at least. he kneels down again, bringing the back of your hand up to his lips to press feather light kisses to each knuckle. his other hand gently uses his thumb to wipe your tears, treating you with utmost care. “kuantan,” he murmurs. “when this is all over, i’ll take you.”

you weakly chuckle, more tears falling at this point. “..p-promise..?”

he hesitates, but you notice. “promise.“ he says back, leaning down to give your forehead a kiss, sealing the promise. he places your hand back to your stomach before getting up to leave, not before sparing you one last glance.

and as you watch him leave, you don’t even know that it’s the last time you’ll ever see him, last time he’ll ever see you. because you trust his word, trusted that he’d come back to you.

nanami leaves with a heavy heart, staring death in the face and yet all he can think about is you. there’s many regrets he has.

he broke your guys’ promise, he hopes you won’t stay mad at him.

he won’t be able to take you to kuantan.

he won’t be able to see you, hold you, talk to you.

and finally, he wasn’t able to confess that he loved the simplicity. that he loved you.

he’ll see you again, in heaven and in another life. until then, he’ll watch over you. because nanami kento has always been a patient man.

[bi-writes]

the lies we tell

how far would you go for the person you love?

type: part one of the time rot collection pairing: simon "ghost" riley x tf141!fem!reader (x johnny "soap" mactavish) word count: 5k

cw: dark!simon, dark!reader, curvy!fem!reader, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence + extortion, mw3 spoilers, unprotected piv, oral (fem!receiving), cumplay (18+)

you don't believe in fate. you don't believe in god. you don't believe in anything at all, maybe, because luck disguises coincidences, and no good deed goes unpunished. everything you are and all that you have are products of a world that never stops spinning--and nothing about what has ended up in your way has ever been the selfish result of some higher power or some kind of entity that holds a grudge against you.

it's simple. in your world, if you don't think, you get your comrades hurt. if you hesitate for a second too long or take a step in the wrong direction, you compromise ops and let targets get away.

and if you're stupid, you die.

it only takes a second. one moment, your hands are steady, following careful instructions by a familiar lilt how to disable the ticking timer that counts dangerously low towards zero. the next, your vision blurs, and your head pounds, and you can feel the trickle of your own blood coming down the side of your face. you try and sit up, and when your eyes are able to focus just a little, you're staring down the barrel of a handgun.

you have never needed a knight in shining armor. the idea offends you, disgusts you, and it rips your heart out when you see johnny coming up behind him and pushing the gun out of your face just in time for the shot to hit the floor beside you.

and it takes only one more second for the next bullet to go through the side of his head.

you scream. it rattles the room, a horrifying sound, but you're too late. it happens so fast, it's ringing in your ears, but there's nothing you can do. you've never felt more incapable, more useless, and you crawl on your hands and knees to get to him. it hurts, your head pounds, but you will yourself to keep moving until you fall over his chest, gripping the edges of his vest, shaking him.

no. no, no, no, no.

"get up!" you cry. "get up, get up, get up!"

he's still warm when you bury your face into his neck. when you feel the scratch of his stubble, the softness of his neck, the dark skin that shows where you kissed him the night before and the scratches along his arms that are from your own blunt fingernails.

"get up!" you hiccup. "you can't--you--you're not..." you drag him into your arms, picking up his head, and your hands shake as you cradle him into your body. you press your lips to the hole in his head, and you will it to disappear, to go away, to close up and spit out the bullet that was meant for you. "johnny--johnny, you have to get up--" your vision goes hazy again. "you...y-you have to get up."

when it's quiet is when you notice the shadows that hover over you. you don't move--you clutch johnny close, your arms tight around him, and when a warm hand touches your shoulder, you cry out, shoving them off.

no. no. no.

"no! no--" they're firm now, kyle gripping one of your arms, your captain taking the other. they drag you off, getting you onto your feet, and you thrash. you kick your legs, scream, anything to get them off of you, so you can pick up johnny's head and show them his eyes, because he has to be alive, he isn't gone--"no! no! get off of me! johnny! johnny!"

reality only sinks when you see him. ghost shifts, until he stands between you and what had been, and when you meet his eyes, you stop moving, shaking your head.

"simon--" your voice breaks. "simon--tell them--" you gasp. "we need a medevac, we need--he needs--"

you fall into his chest, and he catches you. one big arm wraps around your waist, and he grunts, tossing his rifle over his shoulder and cradling the back of your head with his other hand.

"simon--" you sob. "simon, it's not--it's--" you shut your eyes when you feel his gloved hand tangle into your hair. "it's not true, he's still warm, please tell them--!"

he says your name, low and gentle, and you shake your head. you won't say it. you won't believe it. it isn't true, because if it's true, it's all your fault, and you won't accept that, you can't.

you only laughed with him hours ago. shared his bed. woke up tangled between his sheets, pressed skin to skin against his burly chest, whispering against his lips about all the hours you would spend being lazy and unproductive when you finally got home to the bed that was actually big enough to hold the both of you, not the cot in the barracks with no locks on the doors--

you jump when the door shuts behind you. time passes without notice when you are this alone. you look around the flat; it's cold, and it doesn't look lived in, not like before. he always liked to leave it neat and proper, because it felt nice to come home to a clean home, but this isn't home anymore.

you pick up your bag and leave. you weren't even able to make it a few steps inside. you don't have it in you to get your things, to pack your clothes or your shoes or anything that still is in there because it won't feel the same to wear them again if he isn't here to see you.

price's name graces your phone all too often. he calls mornings, he calls evenings, he calls from unknown phone numbers. he says he's worried about you, that you didn't show to an important briefing, that you are welcome to take your leave but you need to tell him that you're alright, but you don't answer. when the call comes, an official one, asking you to gear up because wheels are up in an hour, you don't show up, and there is nothing he can do except scratch your name off his list and declare you dishonorably discharged.

but the world still turns. it doesn't stop just because your own did. you find yourself in need of the things that people use to survive, superficial papers and coins that rattle in everyone's pockets that keep them satiated with roofs over their heads.

at first, you start small. a friend of a friend is crying, hiding her bruised face, and she confesses to you that everything would just be easier if her boyfriend was gone. you're not there to see her face when he never comes back from his gambling night.

it starts as something good. johns threatening their girls disappearing when they take a smoke break. following drunk girls home only to drag their stalkers into dark alleyways. until one day it's a suit sliding you an envelope thick with notes, and you don't even bat an eye when you slip it into your jacket.

this is all you are now. you don't have anything inside. you aren't happy, you aren't good, and despite covering your crimes in the veil of defending those who can't, you know that it is just an excuse to wet your hands in the blood of someone else so you can forget what his own feels like.

because you can't forget. everywhere you turn, you see him. in the blue of someone else's eyes. in the dark curls of someone else's hair. in the shadow of another man's beard, the sound of a scottish accent, the plaid of a kilt that looks like the one he had shown you once that he said would be yours when you married him, because ye will marry me, bonnie, ye will--he always said you would even though you protested that you won't be a military wife, you won't sit at home and cook his dinner and grow his fat babies. and maybe you wouldn't, but he was good at showing you that he would fuck you dumb like a good wife should be, and you never had a problem with that.

he lives in the dark weather. the bricks of the buildings you pass by, the scratch of them almost mimicking the callous of his big palms. when rain touches your lips, you think about the way he would kiss you breathless, the feel of his spit on your tongue and the way he seemed to bare your soul with nothing but his smile.

the silence, it chokes you. you liked arguing; it meant he was alive, it meant he cared. he was charming. outgoing. he exuded fun, and he never ran out of energy, and maybe that's why you hated your superior so much. because johnny's eyes wandered, and you hadn't been around as long, and sometimes you would catch him staring at the back of a big, broad lieutenant only for you to rear him back and stuff his face between your thighs to distract him.

ghost always kept you on your toes. you knew he was a problem as soon as you joined their team. johnny was not subtle; from the first moment you met his eyes, you knew you would end up naked and underneath him in a short while, but it wasn't until weeks later that you noticed how stiff your superior was with you. how short. how mean. how angry. you didn't realize you had stolen something from him, but it was hard to feel guilty because johnny never behaved as if he belonged--he sought you out, he chased after you, he fell to his knees and begged for your attention, a hungry, starved dog that pawed at your pants for just a lick of the sweetness that pooled between your legs.

but that was why. johnny was starved. he wanted to love, he wanted touch and reciprocation and for the person he loved to tell him they loved him back, and that wasn't ghost. ghost held up a wall, even to johnny, and it wasn't enough. you would give what he would not, and maybe that angered ghost to some degree, because you could do what he couldn't, you could give what he didn't possess, and maybe he was jealous of that. jealous of how easy it was for you, and how impossible it seemed for him.

but the world keeps spinning. because it doesn't care about what you can and can't do. it won't stop, and neither would you, and he couldn't prevent what happened to you. he couldn't save the heart he didn't have.

and he couldn't save johnny from the bullet he would take for you.

and you think you hate him for that. you hate yourself for it, but you hate ghost, too. johnny couldn't see what you could see. his attention span was too short, he never looked long enough, but you did, and you noticed, and you saw the way ghost behaved. the subtly, the quiet longing, the eyes that never left him and the way he closed his fists. the twitch of his arm as he fought reaching for him, the way the masked moved as he contemplated saying something to him.

it was pathetic. it was pitiful. but you loved johnny, and you weren't going to try and coddle a traumatized man into taking what you really wanted. he loved johnny, you think, but he didn't love him enough.

not enough to fight for him. and not enough to save his life.

you haven't been paid for this. no one told you to look for him. no one told you that he was your mark, no one told you that he was the next on your list, that he deserved to find the end of the line at the killing side of your chosen weapon.

but he does deserve it. because you hate him. because he loved him, and he hadn't done anything to stop what never should've happened.

when he flicks on the light in his kitchen, he doesn't even react when he sees you standing there.

he's wearing civilian clothes, but you know better than to underestimate him. a hoodie under his rain jacket with the hood pulled up over his head, dark jeans over heavy boots, fading eye-black around the dark of his eyes, the only part of him visible under the balaclava. he could never quite cover up how striking his eyes truly are, or the blonde of his lashes. and he could never hide how big of a man he really is underneath it all.

"knew ya'd come eventually," he says finally. you try not to show any emotion, keeping your face neutral as you stare at him. he takes a step further into the flat, and the click of your handgun sounds as you hold it up. he still doesn't react, making his way towards the fridge and pulling a bottle out. he uses the edge of the counter to pop the cap off, and he grunts as he takes a seat at his table, relaxing into it.

you pull the chamber back, loading a round into the gun, and ghost narrows his eyes. he is still calm, very unbothered for someone about to eat the bullet he should've swallowed all those months ago, and it angers you more, unnerves you.

why isn't he afraid of me?

"wot's the price?" he asks, tilting his head to the side. "how much t'rid y'of me?"

when you don't respond, he laughs, humorlessly. this angers you, too.

"oh, i see..." he sucks on his teeth. "doin' this all on y'r own, eh?"

your lip twitches, and his eyes flicker, as if he's happy to get some sort of reaction out of you.

"i hate you," you whisper finally, and all he does is shrug his shoulders. "don't deserve to be here. to lead that team. to still call yourself a fucking lieutenant when you don't have anyone's back except your own."

he stares, not moving, and you envy how still he can be.

"and i know you're not going to wherever he is," you laugh bitterly. "not you, not someone as fucked up as you. you'll never have him again."

but neither will i.

"tha' wot y'think?" ghost asks. "tha' i don't have y'r back?"

"he's dead, isn't he?"

he leans forward, pushing his mask up slightly, and you watch with a shaky hand as he takes a long sip of his beer. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and you follow the pale lines you see that litter his lower face and neck. drags left behind from dull blades, the pieces of his skin that have been carved out and haphazardly put back together.

he looks like what you imagine you would, if someone looked on the inside of you. if someone pulled back the softness you wear and peeked underneath--they'd see you just like this. carved up, mutilated, picked apart. the anger wanes, just a little. you hate it, because it feels so true, the reflection of yourself that you see in him.

"why didn't you save him?" your voice breaks. your hand is shaking violently, your eyes are blurry with tears, and your legs feel weak. you look at him accusingly, and he stares right back. you can see more of his face, just his lips, but it's enough that you can see the way he snarls slightly. "why weren't you there? why--"

"y' 'ave no fuckin' idea--"

"you didn't love him enough!" you snap. you use two hands now, trying to hold the gun steady. "you didn't love him enough! y-you gave up on him, you fucking--"

"y' 'ave no idea wot i felt," he says, and you quiet, because his voice is dark and deep and a warning for you because he won't be so calm for long. "'ave no idea wot he was t'me."

"he was mine," you whisper, and you taste the tears that are falling down your face.

"wasn't always yours," he growls, and your hand shakes too much for your own good, and when he stands, he's too quick. he knocks the gun out of your hand, and it skids across the floor, and you cry out when he has you up against the wall, one big forearm trapping you there as he presses it firmly against your throat. he towers over you, glaring down at you, and when you try and use your legs, he forces you flat against him as he puts one thigh between your legs and holds you easily.

he's too strong. too big. too much of everything you aren't, and all you can do is gasp for air and thrash as much as he lets you.

"listen 'ere," he mutters, pressing down harder against your throat, and your breath hitches as you stare up at him through your tears. "the fuck y'wanna fight about? want t'kill me? want t'hurt me? wot the fuck are y'gonna do t'me that someone else hasn't, huh?" he spits at you now, angry and unhinged. "been buried alive. gnawed at m'own fuckin' hands t'break free. split apart from the inside-out, so wot the fuck can y'do t'me tha' i'll be afraid of, eh? y'r just a sorry fuckin' git tha' can't fuckin' admit y'weren't lookin'--and he's dead, and tha's a fact, and the sooner y'wrap y'r head around tha', the sooner y'can stop right fuckin' feelin' sorry for y'rself. y'think i don't play it in m'head everyday? thinkin' about wot i could've done t'get t'him?"

you break, crack, the tears spilling free. ghost isn't capable of feeling what you feel. of loving the way you love, of holding onto something so tight that he can't let it go, it isn't in him. he's fucking dead on the inside, you know that much. he wears that skull because he wants everyone to know that death is his friend, not his enemy, and that when he finally succumbs to his mortality, he'll just fucking go home.

"thinkin' about wot i could've done t'get t'you?" he breathes, and you blink up at him, your lips parting, trembling, and you take in the deep breath that he allows, and you aren't angry anymore. you don't understand. it doesn't make sense. "he had ya--" ghost wraps a hand into your hair, tugging on it, bringing you closer. "he almost had ya..."

what?

your eyes flutter shut when he presses his forehead to yours. his grip is firm, he isn't letting you go.

oh.

"almost had ya," he echoes, in a deep whisper, and you nuzzle your face to his, subconsciously.

oh...

maybe you were just naïve. so egotistical, so selfish, that you misinterpreted everything that you saw. was it anger, or was it longing? was it jealousy, or was it lust? was it the shame of the way he felt, or the timidness of revealing the truth of it?

wherever johnny was, there was ghost. right behind him, in the dark, purposefully watching.

or was he just waiting?

you want to feel guilty. you want to feel angry, you want to fight for the gun that escaped you and press it to his chest and pull the trigger, but you don't have it in you. you spent so long hating him, you didn't realize it could've been someone else.

vying for the attention of someone unattainable, someone unavailable, untouchable. someone that can understand the way you feel unlike anyone else in the entire, unforgiving world that keeps fucking spinning--

"b-but--"

"was never jealous," he admits, and you swallow hard. you almost stop breathing when you feel the faint brush of his lips against yours. "y'were out of m'reach." he loosens his grip on your neck, but you don't move. "couldn't 'ave ya, couldn't--"

the kiss is messy. you lean forward just enough to swallow his words. your heart squeezes in your chest, it bursts, and you cradle the back of his head as you slide your tongue between his teeth and taste him hurriedly. you want to know him, you want to understand him, you want to crawl inside the warmth he emanates and pretend the world stopped moving right before it took away the thing you loved more than anything.

you hate him, don't you? you hate all that he is, you hate the man he isn't, you hate him because he loved what you loved, and he didn't do anything to save him, you hate him because he had what you had, and he wasn't selfish enough to not let him go.

you hate him because even though it is all your fault, he doesn't hate you, and you think that's what you hate most of all.

because i am not worthy of anything anymore.

you want him to hate you. you want him to kill you, you want him to blame you for everything you've done. you want him to remind you that you aren't worthy of any kind of affection, of love, because you were stupid, and so was johnny, but he won't do it--he won't. he slides his hands down your sides, he puts them around you, picks you up from under your thighs and carries you until you fall underneath him onto the cushions of his couch that you don't deserve to feel.

he feels too good. he bares his layers. he takes his jacket off, slips the hoodie over his head, and you stare speechless as he kicks his jeans low and strips the mask off of his face.

your hands shake as you cup his cheeks. he's so pretty, unfathomably so, and you think you're crying because you recognize him even though you've never seen his face before. there's something so familiar about the shape of his nose, the way his brow bone feels under your fingertips, and you cry because you loved johnny, but you might love ghost more.

fuck.

you don't know him, and you think you love him more, and it isn't because you love johnny less, it isn't, but while johnny loved unconditionally, ghost loves you because he isn't capable of not loving you. you love him more, and it hurts to love him more, because he sounds grateful that bullet took everything from him except for you.

when you look into his eyes, you wonder if he let it happen. if he saw johnny step in front, if he knew where the bullet would land, and let it happen so that it wouldn't happen to you.

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck.

it's selfish. it's disgusting. it's cruel, he is so cruel, it's frightening to think about him hesitating just to keep you, but it's even more frightening that you are looking up at him, all this time later, and you're letting him have what he abandoned everything to take.

you're letting him slip the shirt over your head. the pants from your legs, steal the lace from between your thighs so he can settle himself there and bury his head in the warmth of all that he wants.

he's cruel about this, too. he eats like he has never eaten before, like he tastes what he has been searching for his whole life and will lose it if he doesn't consume it all. he barely breathes, arms hooked around your thighs as he yanks you close, tongue buried inside as he coats his mouth in everything that you are and swallows it just to take more. you arch your back, bow it tight as he devours. and devour he does, squeezing the thick of your thighs hard as he bobs his head and fucks you with the warm muscle of his mouth. it drags along your insides, slips between the puffy folds, swirls around your clit until he suckles on it viciously, until you are crying for a different reason and letting the terrifying thoughts spill out of your ears until there is nothing to think about but the man between your legs and the love you have for him more than another.

"simon--"

it spurs him on. his name, the one he doesn't use anymore. it clouds his own head, and he groans as he opens his mouth wide and tries to eat you whole, eat you wet, eat you entirely like he will die if he doesn't.

and it isn't enough. never enough. he snarls when you cum, using two fingers to slip inside of you and feel the clench of your walls, and then he slips them out and feeds those fingers to you. you choke on his hand slightly, the girth unfamiliar, and when he smiles, wickedly, you shiver, afraid.

his love is so visceral, he let johnny die. his love is so broken, so jagged-edged and terrible, that he let go of what was his to have it. he smiles because he knows what he wants is now his.

did he know? did he know what would happen to johnny all that time ago and let what we were manifest because he knew how it all would fucking end?

ghost is a sickness. ghost is poison. ghost is what lives under children's beds, he is the black hole that sucks in the glow of anything nearby, that swallows anything in its path because anything other than what he wants is in his fucking way.

was johnny in his way? he must've loved him, he must've. they were lovers, friends, comrades, they stood back to back and faced their makers with nothing but each other--he must've loved him, but now you are so afraid, because if he did love johnny, what do i call what he feels for me?

did he know that johnny's love would kill him? did he know, and he let him love me anyways, because he's so patiently twisted inside?

he grips your jaw tight, and your eyes sparkle, diamonds in the wasteland you must be drowning in, and he shakes his head. it's so dark, night blackening the room, but you can see his own eyes bright as day. there is nowhere else to look. this is the man you have resigned yourself to. this is the thing that feeds on what you have left, and you should run away, he has killed what you truly are, but you won't.

i can't. i'm not capable of it. i'm not strong enough to leave, he has me, he fucking has me--

and he does. he won't even have to tie you up, he knows you won't leave, you can tell that he knows. he kisses you, still holding onto your face, and you just sink more into the cushions as he uses his free hand to find your entrance and sink himself deep.

it takes one smooth grind of his hips to press himself against you. his hips meet yours, and you whine when he lets go of you, gripping you around the thighs and hoisting you underneath him so you're nestled right under him, knees up and pussy fluttering. he seals it, he's infected you, and you should tell him to go away, you should tell him to stop, but it feels so good, it feels so nice, he's so big, he's mine, mine, mine--

"all y'needed," he murmurs, staring down at you. "'s all y'needed, luv. somethin' to shut y'up."

your body betrays what you feel inside. it grips him tight; every time he drags his cock out, it fights to pull him back inside, and the grunt he lets out as he sinks deep again tells him he knows this, too. no matter what atrocities the two of you commit, this is where you will end up. staring each other in the eyes, knowing you are black inside, and fucking each other anyway because that is my reward, this is where i'm meant to be, this is where i'll end up in whatever fucking universe we end up in.

"y'feel me, swee'eart?" he asks, pressing his palm to your stomach. you rock with him as he grinds slow, hitting you deep and powerful every time, and you nod frantically, your lips parting as you rattle every time he hits his hips to yours. "feel me right 'ere...yeah..." he smooths his thumb over the stop his tip hits, and you whimper, sliding your own hand down and over his, keeping his touch there. he fucks so well, every move he makes draws the blood from your head and makes you feel stupidly wonderful, and he knows just when to angle his hips to touch the sensitive little clit that pulses in rhythm with his thrusts.

this is what you are. this is what you always were going to be, even if you fought it, and you want it to hurt that johnny was collateral damage, but it doesn't.

it doesn't.

your eyes meet his, and he has your face in a strong grip now, leaning down as he picks up the pace. he hits a gooey spot inside of you now, a wet squelch sounding out as you drip, as you wet his cock because he is every desire you didn't know you had, and he bares his teeth, smiles down at you, he has me, he fucking has me, he'll never let me go.

"all mine," he slurs, and you aren't coherent enough to read between the lines. you aren't lucid enough to understand what he means, that now that you don't belong to anyone, not even yourself, there is no logical place for you to be except for underneath him. for him to own you, from the light in your eyes to the very breaths that you share with him.

connected, one being, and if i do not obey, i don't know who he will take next from me.

but there isn't anyone left to take. not even yourself, because you think it has already been given.

you cry when he holds you by the throat and fucks you stupid. hips snapping, breathes short and heavy, the spill of your arousal and the need of the very oxygen to breathe. you claw at him, wanting more, your stomach clenching and a feeling catching in your chest because you are climbing a mountain so fucking tall, and please get me there--i'm so close--yes-yes-yes!

your eyes roll back into your head when he cums. he groans into your ear, fucking you through it, gripping your hips tight as he keeps his hips pressed to yours. you feel so full, a kind of euphoria that is beyond you, a hazy place of pleasure that you've never been to before. it clouds your vision and the thoughts you know you should have.

the thoughts that would make you run. the ones that would reach for the knife you see taped under the coffee table and use it to slit his pretty neck.

you blink up at ghost, trying to think, but he bends low to kiss you again. you whine as he settles down between your thighs, his weight heavy and solid above you, and you relax with both of your hands on his face.

he smiles, and it should scare you, but it doesn't. you want it to hurt, but it doesn't. you want him to kill you, but he won't, you want to kill him, but you can't. his eyes all but confess what he's really done. the secret he hides inside but reveals in what he holds in his very hands. the world keeps spinning. it doesn't care. and, you suppose, neither do you.

because all you do is smile back at him.

[mayajadewrites]

clean freak

levi ackerman x fem! reader

synopsis: you're levi's housewife, but your cleaning skills have not been up to his standards lately.

warnings: smut, smut, and more smut. levi is kinda mean in this but oh well

reblogs and comments are always appreciated pls my love language is words of affirmation

His huffs could be heard from a mile away. He's officially off from the Scouts for the weekend, and he's finally visiting his wife after a month.

Day by day, watching his comrades die, slaughtering mindless titans, has gotten to him.

All he wants to do is come home to his good little wife, to have a house that's impeccably clean after a month of fighting for humanity.

Yet when he walks into his home, it's not clean. Well, Levi's version of clean.

The house looks, homey - comfy even. He can see specs of dust on the table.

"Hi, honey." You emerge from the kitchen, wearing a dress that Levi hasn't seen you in yet.

His half-lidded eyes find yours as he takes off his shoes, sucking his teeth. "Tch."

You tilt your head, not knowing why your husband is so... tense. Usually when he comes home, he assaults your face with kisses and ends up on top of you.

"I made your favorite." You bring him a cup of his favorite tea - in his favorite cup. He glances at you, then the cup, before grabbing the top of it with his large hand.

"Are you just going to pretend your wife doesn't exist, Levi?" You say as you sit next to him at the table.

"Why is it that my house is a mess?"

"Your house?" You put down your own cup of tea. "OUR house is not a mess. You're here once a month - so I clean the way I like."

"That's not going to work for me." Levi crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes furrowed. "This is embarrassing."

"Embarrassing for who, exactly?" You mock his pose, mirroring his posture.

"Me. I would never let my house get like this."

"Funny, my boyfriend really likes it." You knew exactly how to push his buttons, and when to push them. His stone cold eyes darted to you - wandering up and down your body. "Oh, that makes you look at me finally?"

"Any man that likes a house like this has no taste." His eyes stay on you as he speaks lowly.

"That's very bold of you to say. You don't know, he could've tasted me."

His knuckles were turning white. Using jealousy against him was not your favorite, but he left you no choice.

"Are you done being an ungrateful dickhead?" You stand up, grabbing his cup to put it in the sink.

As you wash the dishes, you feel his large, calloused hands grip your waist harshly and pull you into his chest. You refuse to acknowledge what he's doing as you continue to wash the teacups.

His mouth found your neck, kissing gently before biting down, sucking on the sensitive spot. "Mm, you want to misbehave some more?"

Your head tilts to the side as he leaves his marks on you, but you're still scrubbing at the porcelain - ignoring him.

Levi hates being ignored.

"You're really gonna ignore your husband after he slaved away saving humanity?" He brought his right hand to your thigh, pushing your dress upwards as he squeezed the plush skin.

You refuse to acknowledge his digs, so you keep scrubbing the dishes to distract yourself from the heat pooling in your tummy.

"What an ungrateful brat I married." His mouth found a sensitive spot on your neck - where he can feel your pulse. His lips sucked, tongue swirling on the skin as he peered over your shoulder. "You can't even wash dishes right."

His hands gripped your hips, this fingers digging into your flesh as if he wanted to carve into you. His left hand stayed in place on your hip as his right hand dipped under your dress.

"Levi, I just cleaned the kitchen. Don't make a mess." You turn your head, slightly looking at him.

"You think this is clean?" His lips found your ear, his breath kissing it. "You think this is what your husband wants to come home to?"

You finally give in and turn around to face him. Even though he's on the shorter side, you're shorter than him. Gazing up into his steel grey, bluish eyes almost makes you forget why you're even arguing.

"I'm sorry I'm not a germaphobe like you who cleans every surface 5 times a day. I'm sure you can forgive your lovely wife, since she's holding your life together while you risk your life to kill titans."

His eyes turn almost predatory as he looks down at you, a smirk forming on one side of his face. You notice a new scar on his face, your hand almost magnetically going to the spot, rubbing your thumb along the skin.

The moment was soft, unlike the argument you have been having. He closed his eyes as you touched him, a deep breath leaving his lips.

Levi isn't one to apologize. Never was, and you were okay with it at this point. You know he's stressed and worried constantly about the future of the world, especially since the most important person to him, you, is in it.

Within a second Levi has you on the counter, his body in-between your legs as his mouth smashes against yours - your dainty hands cupping his face as he takes care of every inch of your mouth.

His hands pressed against the small of your back and your ass as he kissed you, soft moans leaving his mouth. "God, I missed you."

You smile at his words, he doesn't say things like that much, so you savor the moment. You drag your nails across his skin to his undercut, tracing shapes on the hair as your tongue slips into his mouth.

"Baby, I might come right here if we keep kissing." He pulled away, adjusting his pants slightly and you notice the bulge.

"A month without me, one kiss and you're already about to come in your pants?" You say in a teasing tone, pulling away from him.

"Tsch." His hands drag under your thighs, lifting you up and carrying to you to your shared bedroom. Luckily you remembered to make the bed, to which Levi silently appreciates.

His delicately lays you on the bed, making sure none of your hair pulls against your back as it splays across the sheets.

He's on top of you now, his stone eyes following your every move, every breath. Almost like he's studying you, not wanting to forget a single detail.

"Levi?" You interrupt his thoughts, your voice a half whisper.

"Sorry, I just..." His finger drags along your jawline, to your neck and then collarbone. "I missed you."

"I missed you." You lean into his touch, being gentle as you spot more scars on his hands. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Please come home to me. Even if our house isn't clean enough, even if you don't want to see me. Always come home."

Levi takes in your words, seemingly having his own conversation in his head as he watches your expressions.

"Always. I promise." He captures your lips in a searing kiss, his body snaking over you as his tongue invades your mouth.

Your hands find his hair, pulling on his inky locks as his lips move down your skin to your chest, gently removing your dress to reveal your undergarments.

Like a work of art, his hands gently grazed your soft skin, goosebumps forming soon after.

"You are so beautiful." He whispers, studying every inch of your skin as he unclips your bra seamlessly, throwing it to the side. His lips found the supple skin of your breast, leaving heated kisses as his hand made their way to your lace panties, his index finger hooking onto the side and pulling them down.

Your mouth gapes open as you feel his touches, anticipating the next feeling. He takes his large hands as spreads your legs, his thumb caressing your thigh. "Are you ready for me? It's been awhile."

You nod, watching him strip off his uniform, his forest green cloak cascading to the floor, almost poetically.

You're mesmerized by his physique every time - but like always, you notice new bruises and scars that are now a part of him. Which makes them a part of you.

Levi takes his middle digit, sliding it over your slit to feel your slick. His mouth curves into a smile as he feels you, letting his finger envelope in the wetness. "I can just slide right in." He whispers.

Your hands grip the sheets as you feel him align himself with you, his hands gently holding your hips as he angles you upwards. As you feel his fat tip enter you, a moan so loud your neighbors definitely heard it escaped your lips.

Levi's head went back, some of his hairs sticking to his forehead from sweat as he entered you. Just like he said, he slid in, and your body automatically started taking him.

"Such a good girl." He grunts, picking up his pace as he looks at you. "God, I missed this pussy. Thought about it every day."

He's being super vocal today, usually he's all grunts and moans before he reaches his high.

You nod, moaning his name as he hits every spot, your back arching as he pounds into you. Your hands reach for his neck, hoping he can hold you.

"My needy brat." He whispers, obliging to your request as he leans down, letting you wrap your arms around his neck. He starts thrusting into you at a different angle, immediately hitting the spot that makes you crumble.

"Oh, right there Levi." You moan, closing your eyes as you both develop a rhythm.

"Open your eyes. I want to watch you come undone." He looks down at you, his eyes almost menacing.

Your eyes shoot open, capturing his gaze as he continues to thrust into you, the sounds of your slapping skin filling the room. Your mouth gapes open as the coil in your tummy breaks, your climax waving over you.

"L-Levi, holy shit." He continues to pound into you through your high, his eyes still on you. He watched as you came on his cock, but it didn't stop him. Watching you get off, was making him close.

Your nails digged into his skin as he thrusted into you to the hilt, this movements becoming more sloppy - he's close.

You tangle your fingers in his silky hair, the strands wrapping around your fingertips as you kiss his ear - one of his most sensitive spots.

He groaned, his body pressing into you one last time as he moaned your name, pants following soon after.

You both lay on the bed, sweaty and completely satisfied. He rolls next to you, closing his eyes and taking a few breaths.

"Wash these sheets." He looked at you, pinching your nose between his thumb and index finger.

"Why, you don't want to dirty them some more?" You purred, turning onto your side to face him.

You continued to dirty the sheets all night, until Levi forgot what he was mad at in the first place.

[jinwoosungs]

09/13/24; 08:45pm

sung jinwoo x fem.reader

{ i’d wanna hold you just for a while | and die with a smile | if the world was ending | i’d wanna be next to you… }

you felt as though the world was ending when jinwoo left your side and went to fight the monarch of destruction. he had came to you just a mere day ago, keeping you company while in the safety of your apartment as various gates were seen opening all across the world.

whispered promises and vows of forever were exchanged between the two of you, with jinwoo keeping you safely tucked away within the confines of his arms. your anxieties had only managed to shoot through the roof when jinwoo told you how he had a plan to stop this war-

and bring everyone back.

but deep down, you knew that you were selfish-

that you would much rather keep jinwoo and have the whole world burn than to lose him.

yet you knew that jinwoo would never accept such a fate.

you knew that your beloved would always choose to protect others and shoulder the burden on his own.

when you tell him your fears, jinwoo only manages to give you a solemn smile, one that didn’t quite reach his ears, yet was evident of the love he held for you all the same. he allows your tears to stain at his shirt, gently speaking your name in hushed tones while holding you even closer to him. it was so obvious that you were the one he treasured the most, and everything that he did was to ensure your safety and happiness.

as the tears kept streaming down your face, jinwoo presses a searing kiss against your lips, swallowing all of your sadness and dread before whispering against your lips, “i’m happy… despite all my fears and uncertainty, i know that this is something that only i can do.”

you watch as his grey eyes shine with unshed tears from beneath the light of your apartment. feeling the pad of his thumb trace at your bottom lip, he murmurs before leaning down closer to you, “if the world was ending i’d want to be next to you… and die with a smile, because you were and always have been, the one who holds my heart- the one who is most dear to me.”

you allow jinwoo to comfort you for the remainder of the night, falling into a restless slumber as you were jolted awake from the sheer absence of him-

and the world thrown in complete and utter chaos.

surrounding you were casualties that you struggled to keep up with, your healing aura quickly losing its potency from the sheer amount of times you have used it on the other hunters-

yet your heart just wasn’t in it, for you were filled to the brim with anxiety, hoping and praying to catch a glimpse of your beloved once more.

your breathing becomes labored, feeling the blood of your fallen comrades staining at the fabric of your clothes. the losses you bore witness to made your throat clench, heart pounding as it filled you with complete and utter despair.

the tragedy of it all was what ultimately makes you fall to your knees, your powers growing weaker and weaker by the second as you struggled to heal an a-rank hunter. she was young, much too young to be suffering from such an intense amount of blood loss, yet you could see the light quickly beginning to dim from her eyes.

“n-no, w-wait! please, don’t close your eyes! ju-just—-!” you try to summon your mana once more, willing your healing aura to surround her like a shield when something distracts you from your periphery.

your eyes go wide, suddenly seeing an intense, golden light filling the entirety of your vision. all you could see was an almost heavenly hue that seemed to grow even brighter than the sun, engulfing you and the entirety of the world…

…

you wake up with a start, your mind going hazy as you struggled to remember what just happened in your dreams.

had the sunlight always been this painful to look at?

your thoughts, still in a bit of a daze, left you feeling a bit unsteady as you wake up in bed, looking around to see that you were in your room, with the scent of your mother’s cooking lingering in the air as your father’s heavy footsteps were heard throughout your apartment.

knocks were heard at your door before opening, revealing your dad with his crooked tie and kind smile. “hey kiddo, it’s time to wake up and get ready. it’s your first day back at school, and mom made an amazing spread for us both.”

“r-really? okay!” deciding not to dwell on your weird dreams, you hop out of bed with a bounce in your step. brushing out the tangles in your hair, you head inside your bathroom and got ready for the day while doing your usual morning routine. and by the time you had finished using the bathroom and got dressed in your school uniform, you had already forgotten all about the dream.

your appetite seemed to be ravenous, with you filling your plates with copious amounts of eggs, sausages, and pancakes. as your dad read the morning paper between sips of his coffee, he looks back at you and chuckles, “whoa kiddo, what’s the matter? you seem much hungrier than usual.”

“indeed, sweetheart. did you not eat enough last night?” your mom calls back to you while washing the dishes. you give your parents a sheepish smile, taking a bite out of your sausage while shrugging, “s-sorry, i guess i can’t help it.”

“of course! you are a growing girl after all.” your heart fills with warmth, feeling the love grow for your parents as you finished up your breakfast. as you hand your empty plate to your mom, a sudden knock was heard at your door. with your bag in hand, your dad walks with you toward the front door. “ah, as punctual as always, that jinwoo. it feels as though he’s got a bit of a crush on you.”

you blink, somehow feeling your heart lurch within your chest at the sound of the familiar name. “jinwoo?”

“he’s your best friend, remember? ah, perhaps you’ve been sleeping a bit too soundly as of late.” your dad answers the door, and you saw a tall boy standing outside of your apartment. the sight of his seemingly perfect face makes your heart skip beats, making you take him in as you stared incredulously back at him.

with soft, ebony locks of hair that fell across his face coupled along with kind, grey eyes and a jawline that appeared too sharp be real-

jinwoo was certainly a sight to behold.

“hey.” he greets you with that same, lingering smile, and despite how you still felt like you were in a daze-

your heart knew that it belonged to him.

with one final goodbye, your father allows jinwoo to take your hand, walking out of your apartment complex with you as a smile graces his handsome features. “you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

jinwoo teases you while pinching at your cheeks, earning a pout from you. with a sigh of his name, you purposely ran your hips into his, making him lose his balance for a couple of seconds all while scoffing. “hey! that was not funny! i could have face planted against the concrete!”

you giggle, somehow finding comfort within this banter. although you felt… strange… feeling as though you were reliving your adolescent years, you decided to ignore the lingering sense of deja vu and simply bask in this moment. you stick your tongue out at jinwoo, running ahead of him just to see if he would catch you.

you watch as he rolls his eyes, adjusting his hold on his backpack before taking advantage of his long legs, reaching you in a few strides before capturing you within his embrace. your laughter echoes across the city, with jinwoo holding you close his chest. “i’ve caught you now… and you’ll never be able to be free of me.”

your giggles continue to fill at the air, and when you try to free yourself from jinwoo’s grasps, he simply tightens his hold around your form. you blink back at him, your gaze seeming to silently question him as he looks back at you.

his eyes were solemn, but beneath those deep, grey eyes was an emotion that was brimming beneath the surface, the sight of it all managing to make your heart seem to race even faster beneath your chest. you watch as jinwoo leans closer, just to whisper in your ear,

“if the world was ending, i’d want to be next to you.”

as soon as that whisper was heard, he suddenly smiles back at you, finally letting you go, but not before interlocking his fingertips with yours. “come on, let’s go to school.”

jinwoo begins to hum, yet your mind couldn’t stop replaying those words he had just whispered to you just mere seconds ago. as you look down at your interlocked hands, you call out to him, “uhm, jinwoo?”

“hm?” he meets your gaze from his periphery, and you could feel the heat against your cheeks.

“do we- i mean… do you know me from somewhere or sometime in the past?”

his eyes go wide, your question seeming to catch him off guard for a brief moment before he smiles. with a strength you didn’t think jinwoo had, he pulls you even closer to him, placing a kiss against your cheek as you felt your heart soar in response to his next words:

“of course… to me, we are, and always have been, two souls who were always meant to be together.”

end notes: i wanted to write something quick and fluffy for jinwoo, my beloved hubby and favorite boy of all time 😭 so have this quick drabble ♡ 🥹

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[mo-aiki]

Maximillian Black

Summary: The imperial dog, the hero of the Bloody 10 Year War, a prestigious war hero that somehow became your personal guard.

Warning: obsessive behavior, violence, slut shaming

A/N: THIS ART IS NOT MINE, IT'S THE MALE LEAD OF I TAMED MY EX-HUSBAND'S MAD DOG.

Connected to Yandere Isekai M. Characters x F. Reader

A ball.

A stupid one at that.

A ball ran by the royal family for congratulatories.

How stuffy.

The amount of fake people with fake smiles that surrounded him. He hated it. He was used to these fake smiles when he was younger. Working as a stableboy for a prominent polo club before running away and becoming a knight when he was 11. Everyone around him were terrible people.

Nobles who'd kill over a horse and servants who are willing to kill for them. Money is dangerous.

He was always blamed for everything. He was the youngest and the son of a brothel whore, starving for money, in thousands of coins in debt and taken in by an old man who was a stable man himself.

If a horse wasn't as fast as one servant claimed, the servant would blame it on him.

If a horse wasn't available, he would be blamed.

If a beloved horse died, he was blamed for letting it die.

He didn't want to be stuck as a stable boy. He hated everything. To live only to be thrown under the carriage by savages, from both the poor and the rich.

But when he was 10 years old, he saw something, or more like someone. A girl. Her face, lighting up when looking at the horse. It spooked him when he was surprised by her. "I'm sorry, but I really wanted to see the horse!"

Her eyes sparkled in delight when looking at the horses. "Could I pet one, or is that not okay with you?"

He was speechless with her beauty. Her nice voice, her (e/c) eyes with glitter in them, and her kindness and asking him, even though he was a lowly stable boy. The old man spoke for him. "You can pet the horses young lady. I'm sure people you understand."

Her eyes lighted up. "Thank you Mister..."

The old man took off his hat and held it. "My name is Otto, my lady..."

She smiled, a beautiful sight for his eyes. "Thank you Mr. Otto!"

She petted the horses as he watched in awe. The laughter and the smiling face of that young girl, stuck with him as a beautiful sight.

When he ran away, Mr. Otto was on his deathbed. The only one to take him in. He had told him to run, as far as he can before he becomes like one of them.

He ran, and ran, and ran. He wanted to run away from those looking for the money from his mother. He ended up at a mercenary camp, where he learned about how to protect himself.

He spent a lot of time with them. He had a gist on how to use a sword, but it definitely improved from the mercenaries. They were kind guys but were reckless and a tad bit unhinged at times.

But something all of them brought up were women. How their dream woman would be, what they liked about women, and even the nasty parts, he all heard.

But all of it brought him back to the girl he met at the polo stables with the most beautiful smile and personality. He couldn't help but think of her often.

She had appeared and disappeared in his life, leaving him in regret of not talking to her, the first time. He can only imagine her growing up, as he grew up. He trained for days with a new goal in mind, to meet her at any cost.

The mercenary group he was apart of were sent off to war against the rivaling empire over territorial disputes 6 years after the war had started. He was, as described by his comrades, a monster on the battlefield. He was recognized by the higher ups as someone who could lead troop morale and someone who could monstrously deal with the many soldiers and the creatures that came. He had dealt with the dragon the enemy empire managed to tame with a single hit from his sword, Glamdring.

All of this came from his motivation to survive and to see her once again. He had planned on leaving to find her, but the war dragged him in. He had originally wanted to run, but he overheard the talk about the prestige it would bring to him. If that girl was a noble, maybe he would impress her with his title and newfound fame.

And thus it led him to be the monster that he was, on the battlefield.

And now back at the ball. He held onto his wine glass, dressed in something he had never worn before. A white, heavily embroidered suit with a cape and a sash of all the medals for his accomplishments in the battlefield.

He only looked in disdain as all the noble ladies around him were drooling at his fit.

He went outside for a breath of fresh air. Walking along the garden until, he got to a fountain. He then saw a woman. Her (h/c) hair, perfectly laid, her dress, well thought out, and her hand holding the wine glass of half drunken champagne. He didn't know why, but somehow he was attracted to the woman sitting on the fountain edge.

He walked closer, to be bewitched by her looks, but somehow she felt familiar. Like someone he has been longing for. He was right next to her when she got spooked and almost fell into the fountain, while he caught her before she got wet.

Guiding her up and letting go of her waist, she looked at him. "Hello, thank you for catching me at that moment. May I ask for your name? I would like to repay you..."

He smiled. "My name is Maximillian Black, what is your's my lady?"

She smiled. "My name is (y/n) (l/n). Maximillian Black..."

She seemed to ponder for a few seconds. "Ah! You're the star of the ball tonight!"

He raised his eyebrow out of sarcasm. "Am I? Really?"

She laughed. Her laugh was beautiful to his ears. It almost reminded him of the little girl he met as a stable boy.

They walked and talked. He had never had a more enjoyable time then learning about you. But all of it was interrupted when a man's voice came in. "There you are (y/n)."

He looked directly at him as the woman turned her head towards him. "I have been looking for you since you said you needed to powder your face."

The woman blushed out of embarrassment. "Oh...I seemed to have spent too long out here, Duk-"

"I told you, you can call me Augustus, (y/n)"

The man held her hand as he pushed her towards his body. "I'm your fiancé after all...", he said, looking directly at him with a cold glare.

He had never felt so pissed after that interaction.

"Maximillian Black....MAXIMILLIAN BLACK?!"

Your voice, shocked as he stood right in front of you. A couple days later after the ball, the Emperor asked him a wish he could grant. He said, "To become a guard for the (l/n) family."

"Oh? Why my boy? Wouldn't you want riches?"

To Maximillian, riches were small in comparison to her. The Emperor granted his wish, and thus he became (y/n)'s personal guard.

He is always near her or at least 5 feet away. He always enjoyed the interactions he had with you more than anything. His favorite words were always your nickname for him. "Maxi! Could you please help me pick this orange? It's a bit too high for me to reach!"

"Maxi, could you sit down with me. I'll ask Anna to come as well."

"Maxi, I can deal with it myself. Do not fret. I will be careful!"

"Maxi, have you ever read this romance book? It is so sweet!"

Your kind and tender personality, melted his cold, stoic heart. But he soon saw how there were pest around you.

First was the stupid fiancé who never let you leave his sight, but always shooed him away like he was a pest. Giving you gifts of jewels, ribbons, dresses, bows, and books, he would beat him by a long shot just from his wealth alone. He did overhear that he was a Duke after all.

Second was the childhood best friend. The son of an Earl. Nobody was closer to you both physically and mentally than him. He would cuddle with you, get lap pillows, and be cared for. He wanted nothing more than to break him in half and tear him to shreds, but couldn't from his lineage alone. He was stage extreme of clinger.

And finally, third were all the men trying to flirt with you on a daily basis. He would shoo them, glare, threaten, and maybe if kill them if they didn't listen. Didn't matter if they were a noble or a peasant, someone filthy stained your ears.

He had to get rid of them.

He was in love after all, but at the end of the day, you were still going to get married to your fiancé, that arrogant duke.

He had overheard about your plans of annulment. He felt ecstatic, but his face looked the same.

Now all he had to do was to kidnap you and take you away to a forest to live out each other lives in peace, away from those pests. Easy enough, right?

"Night time would be safer to travel with a sleeping girl in my arms. Everyone is asleep after all..."

A/N: FINALLY DONE. NOW I CAN DO COMMISSION WORK OR IF YOU WANT TO REQUEST ANOTHER TYPE OF YANDERE, I'M ALL EARS!!!!

[clare-875]

Come Home (Ace x Reader)

_____ Pairing: Ace x Reader Summary: What if coming home to you was more important? Warnings: Angst/Fluff, SPOILERS for Marineford War Arc, descriptions of pregnancy Notes: The above gif does NOT belong to me, Female Reader [One Piece Masterlist] _____

"He said something bad about pops."

Despite others fleeing the sight of Whitebeard and the final form of him standing in his strength and safety, eyes turn to Ace who stands unmoving amid Akainu's provocative words. "Whitebeard will die a loser! A fitting death for the admiral of a mountain of garbage!" Ace feels the harsh grit of his teeth as he remains rooted and stubborn. He mocked the man who saved him. The man who gave him purpose when he felt unworthy of love or life. The man who gifted days upon the sea with a crew that truly accepted him. The man who sacrifices himself now for his beloved sons and their safety. However, Ace, lost in his rage at Akainu's words also ignores those of his comrades around him who fought tooth and nail to retrieve him safe and sound. Luffy looks questioningly at Ace's rigid form, tired after the poison that had invaded his skin and the countless battles he had faced for his brother. As he takes the bait, Ace does not see the glint in Akainu's eyes.

"Don't listen to him Ace, come on!"

"Ace?!"

"Ace don't stop, keep running!"

"Ace!!"

Among the crew is Marco and he witnesses the second division commander stop; his closest crewmate stop. But all he feels is burning rage. However, his anger is not directed at Akainu and the words he places so purposefully and alluringly towards them, but at the sight of his friend giving up on a promise he had made several months ago. He hates that Ace now hesitates, when all Marco thinks about is you; you waiting for him to come home. For once Marco hopes Ace's tenacious nature will not betray him because he was there; he witnessed his promise to you. "I will return to you [y/n], no matter what, I promise." Did those words mean nothing to him now as he is lured by the words of the enemy, insults that are obviously made so there is reason to attack? The sight of him makes fury evident in his figure. "Ace!!" And the man hears his name called but he doesn't budge. "So, your promise to her means nothing?" Ace feels his mind waver and his grip tighten against the etches of his hands, as though winded by his words. "What about [y/n]?! She's waiting for you!"

Ace stays entrenched and motionless, but in his mind, he remembers you.

"Ace!" You had smiled up at him, enveloping him instantly in a warm embrace that he had missed more than you could ever know. He remembers how he lifted you from the ground so easily and spun you within your hold, lost in burning love and ecstasy. He hears your gleeful laugh and returns it with a muffled chuckle as he lets you down and breathes you in. He missed you. You weren't a pirate, but you were an owner of a restaurant on an island that the Whitebeard pirates visited regularly. It was their favourite spot and they knew you well. You grinned as you saw the crew saunter in from behind him laughing and patting Ace on the back teasingly at the sight of him so lost in his adoration of you. Marco grinned as he looked at you and gave you a quick hug in greeting before smirking at the sight of Ace's burning eyes. "This guy couldn't stop talking about you. Thought we'd have to come back sooner 'cause it looked like he was about to start swimming to you-yoi." You let out a laugh as Ace starts yelling at him incoherently when he lets his words slip. But the crew laughs along with you; it wasn't too far from reality.

They had never seen Ace sulk so much, or light up as much as the times he spoke your name wistfully to the sky. "I wonder what [y/n]'s doing today." Your name was uttered when they arrived on islands, passing through stalls as they stocked up for the journeys ahead. "I bet [y/n] would like this." Your name was heard in the depths of drunken evenings as Ace woke up from a fit of sleep mumbling loudly. "[y-y/n], where is she?" They even heard your name spoken in the most dire circumstances amid threats of powerful enemies. "There's no way I'll lose, I promised [y/n] I'd return; no exceptions." And it was true. Before he left he would leave you with a lingering kiss and an oath with devotion etched in his eyes. "I will return to you [y/n], no matter what, I promise." This time was no different, but for you who kept a secret, everything was about to change. As the crew settled into your restaurant and were served beer and as much food as they could devour, you had pulled Ace beyond your kitchen to a more quiet space. Ace had looked confused at your abrupt hope to get him alone but he did not complain; he would follow you anywhere.

When you looked up to him in silence he saw nervousness rage in your eyes and your fidgeting hands as they pulled against your skin. It made him perplexed, and concerned. Why did you look like you were going to be sick? Why did you look so nervous; it was just him. He cupped your face gently as you breathed in steadily readying the sentence that would transform your lives. He had looked down at you, words muttered in his confusion. "[y/n], what's wrong?" You returned his gaze with a shaky smile as you tried to ignore the raging thoughts of doubt in the back of your mind; You were pregnant. You had learnt of it two months ago, just after the crew had left. You were glad their journey had been brief as they returned to you so much sooner than they usually would, but now you were scared; terrified. You knew of Ace's past and his experience with fatherhood as a child. But you also knew you owed him the truth; he deserved it. So, you spoke shakily as you returned his willful gaze. "I have something to tell you, something important." Ace's mind whirls as you look at him so unusually serious and it makes him almost fear the worst; were you leaving him?

But he nods slowly at your hesitance though his touch falters on your skin. "You can tell me anything [y/n], you know that." You nodded to him slowly, an anxious grimace dancing on the corners of your face. "Please don't be mad." Ace feels his heart thrum faster at that as he tries and fails to control the emotions that threaten him. Please; you wouldn't leave him now, right? He loved you too much to let you go. But your next words are so contradictory to his thoughts they made him stand still and frozen in shock. "Ace, I'm pregnant." For a moment everything in his world comes to a halt and he swears he stops breathing. You witness the blankness of his stare as his mind tries and fails to process your words. Your heart is pounding and your eyebrows are furrowed in worry as you look at him, taking his reaction for the worst. But unbeknownst to you Ace is lost between the inklings of fear but also utter joy. "Ace, I- I'm sorry but-" He interrupts you as his eyes look to you with sudden fierceness you almost take a step back. "I- I'm going to be a father?" He turns to you then, hands firm but gentle around your shoulders as you look at his resolve in shock. "I-I am the father right?" You feel it then, the bubbling laughter that you let free at his tentative words. You roll your eyes. "Of course, you're the father; who else would there be?"

It is all the reassurance he needs.

Ace has you bundled in his warm embrace, tears of joy seeping from his eyes as you let your own happiness fall to your face. You hear his laughter grow and see the utter bliss that envelops him. "You're happy?" You ask hopefully looking at his reaction as though it wasn't enough. Ace nods as he breathes out in disbelief looking at you like you are an angel on Earth. The ecstasy stills into lingering comfort as he grips your hand in his tightly. "I won’t lie, I’m scared… but the two of you are all I need; I’m with you every step of the way." You could almost cry at his sentimental words free of teasing and his usual lightheartedness. You grin so brightly and Ace's heart is full. He pulls you into a passionate kiss, one that can almost convey the depth of feeling you gifted within him. “I’m going to be a father…” That evening was one of pure contentment. The crew yell out in their joy for their crewmate and for you. There is a call for a feast and even Whitebeard laughs out deep and fulfilled; he had always wanted a daughter and grandchildren. The whole night Ace doesn't let go of you in his hold. Kisses planted on your face, hands that caress soft skin, the smile that doesn't leave his face.

It all passes so soon; the days leave too quickly.

The goodbye comes.

You wave to the crew as they board the ship that takes them far across the seas; takes him far away from you. Ace had looked down at you as the waves signalled his departure from your warm embrace. Ace wants desperately to stay by your side, to stay with you forever. Being apart from you was torture but now he thinks it might end him, but you know him better than he knows himself; he will be with you for eternity after he fulfils his dreams upon the sea. "Come home to me." You mutter as he faces you just inches away. He pulls you in for a fervrous kiss and his warmth is all that you know; it is all that holds you together. His hands cradle your waist before he finally parts looking at you with such devotion there can be no doubt of it. "I will return to you [y/n], no matter what, I promise..." He then traces your form gently before planting a kiss on the top of your head. "I'll return to you both." He is then gone beyond the horizon but he watches you until you are too far for the eye to see. Marco watches his eyes turn solemn when they turn away from the direction of you.

It had been many months since then, and Ace missed you so much his heart ached just by the mention of your name. He had meant to come to you so much sooner; now so much time had passed he is almost terrified to see you again. You would surely be angry he had not been there; he had not been there for you. He thinks of the child you bear, how you would've looked swollen, the burdens you would have had to face alone. All because he couldn't let Blackbeard go; he had to hold him accountable for Thatch's death. In the midst of it, he had forgotten the promise he had vowed to keep. He had gotten himself captured and torn from any way to return to you. His pride had become his undoing as he ignored his friends, Whitebeard and everyone around him because he couldn't see reason. Was he so willing to risk leaving his child without a father now, when he knew what it was like to be left wondering and alone? How it was like to have a father not present but lingering; to be told stories of the man that should've been beside him growing up, protecting his mother and protecting himself.

It hurts.

It hurts to be torn between his nature to stay and fight, but it hurts more to know the pain and suffering he may bestow on you; the worry he knows you already bear. He knows you know; news of his capture has spread worldwide. So, in the silence and his stillness, there is finally movement. He moves; one foot forward. Then the other... then the other... Akainu watches eyes widening slightly and betraying surprise. But Ace grasps Luffy's arm tightly urging him forward too. "A-Ace?" The Whitebeard Crew all stare completely in shock, completely wide-eyed and gaping as Ace, their stubborn comrade walks away from a battle; Ace, walking away from an enemy he faced. Tears pour heavily over his cheeks as sharp words leave his mouth at the sight of his crew silent and now still. "What are you doing?! Move! For pops!" They shake themselves of their surprise and run with Ace, they run with Luffy, away from Akainu's burning rage as he witnesses it. They leave the sight of their beloved Captain and father left to deal with the blows as he protects his crew one last time. As they barge themselves to the safety of the open seas, Ace finally realises the depths of the decision he has made. There is no regret but there is also no retribution, but he would seek that out later. As the sight of Marineford disappears within smoke and debris, he lets out a mutter so low not even Luffy heard it from beside him.

"I'm sorry pops."

.....

The room is silent where you sit and you cradle your child against your chest to ease the pain in your heart. You have waited so long; so many months. You have had the unbearable pain of losing your beloved to the clutches of marines; to the clutches of his execution. There was silence in the news that travelled, no one on your island knew of what had happened, but you felt the worst had come true; that you had lost your darling Ace. You are so lost in thoughts of grief you do not hear it at first, but then you do, instincts flaring at the sound of your door opening. As you look up you are frozen in your shock, but he is too.

It's him; it's Ace.

You sit still in the quiet that encapsulates you as you feel the beginning of tears fall from your lash line. Your hands tremble but you are speechless. He moves forward to you, freckled face brimming with heartache, as Marco smiles grimly from your doorway as though in silent confirmation; he is actually here, alive. You stand quickly, your child still in your arms. He moves to you like his life depends on it and you are within his warm embrace as sobs rake your body in relief. "You're home." You're voice is shaking and soft but it is all you need to say. He looks into your eyes and in utter fondness turns to his child in your arms. "I'm home."

[loaksky]

— 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴

the lowdown — the one where neteyam is shackled by appearances, but you couldn’t care less. 

the who — neteyam x fem omatikaya!reader

the word count — 2.2k

the tags & warnings — language ,, misunderstandings (i love this trope and this is a hill i’ll die on i’m SORRY) ,, neteyam’s friends can be shitty, but mean well ,, reader just wants to love up on her boy :(

the notes — based off of this request! this is another addition to my neteyam content, but ik some of you guys are itching for some other characters, so i'm probably gonna steer in another direction & write for kiri & tsireya so if that interests you, stay tuned! <3

(not proofread well lmao)

masterlist

Neteyam is many things; a kind spirit, a fierce warrior, a loving brother, a diligent son. But Neteyam is also new to love. Not quite new to being in love, but learning the act of loving you. 

He’d found so many ways to express his heart’s desire; written notes on scraps, gentle smiles, searing eyes. It was one thing in particular, though, that made his mouth dry, made his brain nearly short circuit, and it was your need to be in his space. 

Even after many days that bleed into weeks and meld into months, you make his cheeks warm with every lingering pass of your fingertips, make his stomach knot with every fluttering kiss to his skin. 

It’d been a pleasant surprise at first, but now it was a need, an absolute necessity to have you fused to him like a second skin. Your touch was a tacit word and he was learning to speak your language. 

The two of you together was normalcy and the clan members were more than delighted to know that the olo’eyktan’s son was lucky in love. But there were teasing whispers, lilting voices in the background that made something uncomfortable pinch the back of his brain. 

His skin would light up with equal parts want and embarrassment when you’d hang loosely around him during evening meals and the villagers his age would giggle and murmur behind their palms about the two of you. Didn’t help that you were an oblivious thing, or maybe you didn’t care, when you’d hold his hand in your own, occasionally bringing his fingertips to your lips during casual conversation. 

And he didn’t mind loving you endlessly when you were just two souls enjoying each other, but he can’t help but tense when his eyes wander and he sees watchful gazes. 

“Mighty warrior is a needy one, huh?” 

His friends, comrades since childhood, surround him on a sunny afternoon. Neteyam pauses his actions, arrow in the midst of a sharpening. 

His spine goes rigid and his eyes narrow. 

“What are you on about?” he asks, jaw locking. 

“Even in the moments you aren’t with her, you’re thinking about her,” his friend Marin says with a shiteating grin. 

“Don’t even,” Neteyam warns, eyes rolling as he continues with sharpening his arrows. 

“Oh, come on,” another one of his friends guffaws, twining a new bow string. “You haven’t said a word since we sat down.” 

And he wishes he could form a solid argument, but you are on his mind, all-consuming as always. Can’t help it when he’s pined after you for years and only recently found the courage to act on his heart. 

“Maybe I just don’t want to engage with you assholes,” Neteyam bites, fist tightening around his dagger. 

“Yeah, because if you open your mouth, all you’ll be able to talk about is my girl this and my girl that,” Marin teases. “Who knew future olo’eyktan was so clingy.” 

“Yeah, like it’s me who’s clingy,” he grunts, resuming the task at hand with much more fervor. 

“Is it not?” Marin challenges. “Oh, ________, my love, look at these flowers I picked for you.” 

The blood is rushing to his ears as his friends howl with laughter. 

“Syulang, I wrote you twelve pages declaring my love even though we’ve seen each other thrice since last eclipse.” The taunting makes him seethe, makes the feeling of discomfort surface all over again and the words are spilling before he can plug the dam. 

“Of course it’s not me,” Neteyam scoffs. “I keep my composure, but it’s her that insists on constantly reminding the village that we’re together. If I had it my way, nothing would have changed from when we were friends.”

It’s a lie and he knows it, his friends know it. But you, you who staggers outside of the training circle at the sound of multiple voices don’t know it. 

It’s like a swift strike to the gut, one that squashes every butterfly that tickled the lining of your stomach on your way to fetch the very man who’d held your heart and crushed it all the same. 

Your satchel, heavy with fruits and snacks for after your evening swim with Neteyam, weighs heavy across your front as you debate whether or not you should be listening to a conversation that is obviously not meant for your ear. But it’s like you’re rooted to the soil beneath you. 

“Yeah, okay,” Marin chuffs, obviously not convinced. “If you’re so bothered by your dynamic now, there isn’t any reason why you wouldn’t say anything. She’s your second skin and you love it.” 

He does, he thinks to himself. 

Of course he doesn’t, you realize, horrified, the thousand and one times your hands would find his body and he’d tense or shy away replaying like a horror reel in your brain. 

“I potentially hold the future of this clan in my hands,” Neteyam says. “It is my duty to endure all things whether or not I enjoy it.”

It’s like you’re doused with water so cold at the violent shiver that shakes your spine. 

Just another thing to endure, you mull over in your brain as the barge of emotions brims dangerously near the surface. 

You break from the edge of the clearing and you’re off. 

Something is off. 

And Neteyam is ashamed to admit that it takes him obnoxiously long to notice. Maybe it’s because he’s caught up in his duties, or maybe for once in his life, he isn’t worrying about meddlesome gazing, but the shift is imperceptible. 

You’re still you, so aching beautiful and devastatingly radiant, but something is different. He doesn’t pinpoint it until he’s bidding you a farewell, leaning into your space to plant a kiss on your lips when you ease away to beam at him nervously instead. 

His brows furrow when you wave, breaking away from him to scurry home. 

He thinks it’s a one off, something he shouldn’t read too much into, but he can’t help it. Not when he’s so used to your touch, so used to feeling the pads of your fingers denting his skin and the scald of your lips. 

He tries again a few nights later, after finally getting you alone. He’d been busy assisting his father in planning a raid at the end of the month and you were busy trying to put as much distance between the two of you.

“You’re awfully quiet, bug,” Neteyam observes softly, chin dipping under the water as he swims closer to where you float on the surface, eyes closed. 

You only hum, pleading silently that he’ll let it pass. But when his fingers skim your navel, you’re jerking away from him, settling so that a berth of glittering blue separates the two of you. 

He forces a laugh, wading closer to you as you seemingly shrink. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks when he sees something like discomfort flitting over your expression, concern eclipsing his features as he reaches forward to grab you by your arm. 

“Nothing…” you swallow, staring at the rounded stones beaded through the necklace you made him early on in your budding relationship.

He doesn’t buy it, tilting your chin up with deft fingers. 

“Hey, hey,” he says softly, searching your face for a tell. “Talk to me.” 

“Nothing,” you breathe, peeling away from him to wade back towards the embankment. “It’s nothing.” 

He watches as you hoist yourself up from the river, heart in his throat. 

He cracks when the others seem to notice, slowly catching onto the fact that the usually doting and loving partner of the olo’eyktan’s son is surprisingly distant. It’s during an evening meal, villagers surrounding the multiple fires, when it comes to a head. 

There’s an unusual space between your bodies as you chat with Kiri and a few others and he can’t help but close the gap as something akin to desperation washes over him. His fingers brush the span of your shoulders to pull you into his chest, lips a hairsbreadth from your temple before your palm snakes between your bodies and plants on his chest to nudge him away. 

He bites the inside of his cheek in annoyance as Marin and his other friends share knowing glances. 

While he boils silently, you ache to tell him that you don’t mean it, that there’s nothing more you’d want than to spend every waking moment in his arms, but that day in the clearing is a humiliating reminder that Neteyam is shackled to his honor and if it means making you happy despite his discomfort, he’d endure it all. 

You hate it, hate that he’d let you feel like things were alright leading up to this moment, that he’d suffer at the expense of mocking and badgering from his friends. Makes you feel embarrassed, sorry, that you’d read the two of you all wrong. 

You feel his fingers inching towards yours, pinkie overlapping with yours. Your hands involuntarily close into fists and that’s all it takes for Neteyam to shoot up from his perch on the log and take you by the elbow. 

There’s a hush as his friends and yours watch the two of you part ways with the group, the nearly feral look in their leader’s son suggestively mistaken. 

“Why won’t you touch me?” Neteyam asks fiercely, once enough distance lies between the two of you and the rest of the clan. 

His words make your cheeks warm, but he looks troubled, hurt. 

“I-” 

“Did I do something to disgust you? Did I…” 

His words melt into the background as you watch him with teary eyes. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Teyam,” you whisper. “You can tell me the truth. I’m a big girl.” 

“What are you talking about?” he asks, frustrated. “You’re the one hiding something. These past few weeks I’ve been trying to be with you, trying to love you and you keep pushing me away.” 

A twinge of annoyance erupts in the pit of your belly as you frown. 

“That’s rich coming from you,” you murmur hoarsely. 

“I’m so lost right now, ________,” he admits desperately. “We were fine, everything was great, and suddenly I feel like I’m losing you. Did I do something? Are you–” 

“Just be honest with me!” you cry out. “Why do you have to put on this front all the time? It’s just me, Neteyam! If I overwhelm you, if I embarrass you, just say it! It hurts worse when you act like it’s nothing.” 

And Christ, his friends were right. He is needy. Because you’re not a want but a lifeline. A dire necessity that he feels the need to cling to in this moment. This feels a lot like you two are splintering, and he’s about to open his mouth to ask what would compel you to say such a thing, but then it clicks. 

The final piece of the puzzle that he’d been agonizing over falls into place and his eyes are widening. 

“No,” he says vehemently. “That wasn’t–” 

“Is it not?” you cut him off as you dash the threatening tears away. 

“God, no,” he breathes. “I was– They were…”

You watch him with wet lashes and his heart aches as he takes the leap and pulls you into his chest with a shuddering breath. 

“I’m so stupid.” His chest rumbles as your ear presses to his heart, arms winding tightly around your figure to buoy you to place. “Fuck.” 

You hiccup and his hand cradles your head, peppering kisses against your hair as he sways your bodies like it’ll disorient the miscommunication and send it spiraling away. 

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. “I didn’t mean to be embarrassing. I–” 

“No, no, bug,” he swallows, hugging you so tight, you struggle to suck a breath into your lungs. “You’re not, I promise. I could never be embarrassed by you.” 

You shudder so hard his grip loosens, parting with you to cup your flushed cheeks in his hands. 

“They were ripping me a new one,” he says shakily. “Told me I was needy, clingy, and I was embarrassed because they’re right.” 

Your throat bobs and Neteyam’s thumb brushes over the apple of your cheeks. 

“You make me so weak, you don’t even understand,” he laughs humorlessly, body wracked with nerves, with want, with need. “I said it to save face because I never know what to do with myself around you.”

“You—”

“And I know it was wrong, talking out of my ass to get them to shut the fuck up,” his language is a crass reminder that he’s a former marine’s son, “but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being yours.” 

Yours. 

It’s a sound declaration, one that makes you crumple like a baby because you’ve missed your person, and Neteyam hugs you close again. 

“I’m sorry I’m so clueless sometimes, bug,” he whispers, cheek nuzzling the top of your head. “Love you more than anything, I mean it.”

You hiccup again. 

“Love you, too, stupid” you mumble, arms wrapping around the narrow of his waist. 

It’s your first meaningful touch in weeks and Neteyam melts under the heat of your body, under the heat of your warm hands. 

neng © 2023

taglist; @nao-cchi , @jkiminpark , @philiasoul @amart-e , @s-u-t , @netesbby , @tayswiftlovebot , @dumb-fawkin-bitch , @ewackmn , @fanboyluvr , @neteyamoa , @itssiaaax , @girlpostingsposts , @athenachu

[cherubfae]

better keep quiet || {l. kennedy x reader ft. ghostface}

what better way to test if your boyfriend can stay silent by sucking him off in the middle of a trial with a killer on the prowl? things do not go as planned.

tags: nsfw, smut, gn!afab! Resident Evil verse!reader, dubcon (just in case!!), descriptions of afab anatomy, degradation/namecalling (ghostie), forced blowjobs (ghostie), public acts of indecency, voyeurism (ghostie likes to watch), dry humping (Ghostie x reader), established relationship, slight ghostface x reader x leon, brief mentions of anal play, allusions to puppyboy!Leon, leon is a bit of a freak lmao he's def a closet perv, breeding kink (previous mentions about potentially having kids), Leon and reader are not good teammates x3, this got vulgar aaaaa

The Macmillan estate was vast, cluttered in useless machinery, old rusted tools, and many nooks and crannies for you and Leon to find a temporary safe haven in. The Ghostface had already successfully hooked an injured Meg, who had struggled enough to summon the Entity early, unfortunately, everyone knew they wouldn't make it in time to unhook her. Her sacrifice would soon be claimed by spindly inky spider-like legs. With one practically in the bag, the killer continued on his vicious pursuit of both Vittorio and Sable.

Crouched down into a squat with his back to the silent generator, Leon winces at the jingle of his belt, quickly unfastening the buckle and tugging down the zip. "Are you sure you can keep quiet?" The rookie teased. He looked smug, one dark brow raised, and his thumbs hooked into the loops of his uniform pants. The waistband of said pants sag around his hips, a sliver of skin revealed above his blue plaid boxers, looking oh so tantalizing.

Scoffing, you shoot him an incredulous look, unimpressed. "Leon, baby, every time one of the killers strikes you it sounds like you're practicing for a porno, you little masochist. This was your idea. Don't make me gag you." He knew full well you'd find whatever you could to shove in his mouth-- and he secretly hoped it would be the underwear you're currently wearing.

Whining, Leon's head dully thuds back against the generator. "Fuck, that doesn't sound half bad. Wanna try without first, baby, please. Promise I'll be your good boy." Giving you that signature grin you love so much, Leon easily swayed your opinion. He really was just like a puppy, always begging to be praised, and you were more than happy to oblige your boyfriend.

You missed all the toys you liked to use on him back home in Raccoon City. The way his ass stretched around the silver plug you oh so kindly fucked into him. Leon would just about die if any of his comrades ever found out that almost every night after his shift his partner was fucking his ass with a wolf-like tail butt plug or a pretty, glittery blue strap-on. He would never mention he had the ears, the studded collar, and the paw print gloves to match. All in an adoringly cute silvery-grey.

And when you weren't pounding into him? He had you folded in half beneath his strong body, ever so eager to prove just how much he's physically improved, humping into you in the deepest mating press possible. Never fully satisfied, much less satiated, unless you were dripping in his seed. He loveeeeed watching your hole clench with the absence of his dick, cum staining the sheets below. Like a doting, caring boyfriend, he'd push back all of his cum inside. You'd talked about it before. Maybe he wanted it to take this time.

You two were insatiable, like rabbits.

Now, trapped in this eternal purgatory, things were certainly no different. You two continued on as normal as you could in this hellscape. You thanked whatever god, probably the Entity, thank you were sent here with your boyfriend. True hell would be to never get to see one another again.

Deciding he is taking too long; you yank them down yourself. A gust of wind ripples across the ground, making the two of you shudder and huddle in even closer.

His erection is hard and hot, flushed red and thicker than your wrist, and visibly twitching in your grasp. You've barely touched him yet and already Leon gasps like he's close to cumming.

"Fuck, baby, need you. I need you, please." Leon begs, shuffling closer. He claims your mouth in a passionate kiss, parting with a heavy whine. Gently lowering you to rest between his legs, he parts your lips gently; always so sweet and kind to you. Tapping his cock against your lips, you open wide, tongue lolling out to lap at his tip. His moans are delicious and it's clear there was never any intention of him staying quiet. He'd already failed.

You take him in as far as you can go, swallowing around his head once he hits the back of your throat. His fingers curl around the back of your neck to keep you in place, idly toying with the ends of your hair. Too deep in your element, you fail to hear a rustling noise several feet away from you.

Leon, drunk on pleasure, snapped his head up. Through ashen blonde bangs he makes out the unmistakable shadowy outline of the Ghostface's shroud billowing in the wind. Although straining, he can hear the muffled, heavy breathing rasp from behind the killer's mask. Yet, the cloaked murderer makes no move to stop for the couple.

Narrowing his eyes, he watches Ghostface with confusion. Watches as the killer sheaths his knife into the ground with a dull thud. Despite the distance, Leon doesn't miss the jerking motion Ghostface does with his hand now between his crouched legs.

Leon's hand cards through your hair, stroking the silken strands lovingly. A gasp catches in his throat when your eyes tilt up, peering at him through your lashes, with your mouth full of his thick cock.

Smirking, he caressed your cheek. "We've got an audience, love. The Ghostface," he hummed. "But he's not trying to attack us. Guess he likes watching my pretty baby suck their boyfriend's dick." He gently taps your cheek, a signal to continue. "Whaddya say, wanna give him a better look? Want him to touch you? Yeah? Atta baby." Leon waves his hand. "Go ahead then, Mr. Ghostface. Do what you will."

Now you hear it. The uneven, raspy breathing. The crunching of heavy boots on dead grass, the cracking of twigs as the predator creeped ever closer. There was the undeniable scent of steel, of faint cologne, and the tang of copper. Blood.

Heat pools in your abdomen at the lewdness of this whole scenario. There was something undeniably sexy that both your boyfriend and some masked stranger, a serial killer, were getting off to such a display of indecency.

A gloved hand, sleek against your soft hair, roughly pushes your head down forcing you to take Leon to the back of your throat; Leon crying out in ecstasy. You gasp and gag, sputtering and coughing around the length, your nose buried in Leon's pubic hair. Unable to look to see what's happening, you do what you can to focus on pleasing your boyfriend. The strong hand on your hand is a heavy reminder that the roles have now been switched.

Something warm and hard pressed at your ass. It didn't take you too long to guess as to what it may be. A second later, you're being pushed tightly into Leon's chest, your hips harshly gripped between gloved hands as Ghostface drags his bare, flushed cock along the seam of your jean shorts. He's long and thick, that much is evident, with every drag of his cock along your clothed cunt. Precum clings to the light blue fabric, staining it.

Ghostface humps his cock at your backside like a mutt breeding a bitch. His larger frame has you caged between the two males, thighs pinning yours in place and gloved hands groping any skin he can touch. You yelp as Leon's cock falls out of your mouth with a wet pop. Spit and saliva connect the two. You wrap your hand around him, sticking out your tongue to lap at his head moaning low.

Slipping his hand beneath your waistband he alternates from grinding his gloved fingers along your slit and grabbing a handful of your tits. The texture was rough. It rubbed your skin raw, massaging your velvet walls in such a way that you saw stars. You didn't care how fucked out you looked anymore, you rode Danny's fingers eagerly.

"Suck his dick like a good little whore," came the raw, deep voice of the Ghostface. "You like your mouth being used as his little fuck hole, don't you, sweetheart?" Feigning sweetness, the killer cards his fingers through your hair. Tears prick your eyes, but fuck, it was so hot. It felt so fucking sexy to be used like this.

Gripping you at the scalp, Ghostface roughly forces you to bob your head up and down on Leon's cock. Your boyfriend frantically tries to give you some semblance of peace and security by gripping and massaging your shoulders with his warm hands. His eyes squeeze tight, rapidly inhaling and exhaling.

"F-fuck! I'm gonna cum!" Leon yelps, hips gyrating. Borderline fucking your throat with every hump of his hips to your face. He hoped you would forgive him. It felt too damn good to stop now.

Ghostface cackled, forcing you back down. His large hand greatly obscures the back of your neck. He holds you in place, all the while laughing at your tear-stained face desperately trying to swallow down all of the rookie's cum; white essence spilling out of your mouth as you're overfilled.

"Such a slutty, slutty little mess, hmm?" Ghostface grumbled. He yanks you off Leon's dick, forcing you to face him. Leon instinctively wraps his strong arms around your tummy. Ghostface kicks your legs apart to crouch between them. His leaking, bare cock now visible with his shroud hiked up to his waist. Long, hard and visibly throbbing for attention. He cups at your sex, mocking your pathetic whine. "Think you can fit two dicks in there, sweetheart? Whaddya say, rookie cop? Feel like sharing?" As if Leon had any choice.

Collecting the cum trickling down your chin, Ghostface pushes two leather-clad fingers into your mouth. The digits press down on your tongue, noisily slurping on them. Red eyes, as red as blood, stare down at your wanton expression with faux kindness. There is only sadistic mockery in his tone. "Show us your hole, then, sweets. I think it's time I deserved a treat. I'll go easy on ya. I'd hate to make Kennedy pissy." He hissed, his hand going to his cock, jerking himself directly over you. "Unless you'd rather be hooked?"

|| please don't repost, reuse, or edit my works in any way! I do not give permission. Tumblr is the only site where I post. All characters belong to their rightful owner and the story belongs to me © CHERUBFAE 2024 ||

[fallingskiesandrisingseas]

One thing I feel like we don't talk about enough is the fact that Haymitch was 16 when he won the Second Quarter Quell, against 47 other children, 12 Careers among them.

We often see him portrayed as a drunk and a lazy bastard, but the amount of skill and cunning it takes to survive THE HARDEST HUNGER GAMES IN HISTORY. No one understands how he's managed to survive an arena with twice the tributes, or even figure out how the poison works. But Haymitch just doesn't trust the excess, the berries, the green. And he's lived with hunger before. He can take it for a while. When he finds his first body in the arena, the perfectly brown nuts still in his hands, he decides not to eat anything but what's in his backpack. Then, after killing two Careers and being saved from death by Maysilee, they team up and figure out a system to safely drink the rainwater and kill other tributes and scavenge from their backpacks, to make sure that they don't die from poisoning. And being skilled enough at fighting to pressure the Career into throwing her ax at him. Even with half his guts hanging out she apperently wanted none of the smoke. And not only understanding from previous Games, apperently, that the arena ends somewhere, but using it to his advantage. It is astounding.

Then he comes back and the Capitol kills everyone he cares about. This 16 year old boy is surviving the most brutal onslaught in the history of the Games and comes home, traumatized, hurt beyond belief, both mentally and physically - seeing an ally and friend die in his arms, almost dying from taking an axe to the stomach, having to kill no less than 3 Careers - only to see his family and girlfriend murdered.

And as if that isn't enough, he has to spend the next 24 years watching his tributes, all of them the same age he was or younger, die in the arena, all alone. There is no one else to help him shoulder that grief. He has the worst district, where no one ever wins, so he sees 2 children he mentors die every year, and the mother of the girl who saved his life in the arena is still around.

But wait! It gets worse! After Peeta and Katniss show fighting spirit and a desire to come back home alive, he has to choose which tribute he will try to help. He puts his money on Katniss, which is understandable, but still heartbreaking.

Then, they somehow both make it out alive. Notwithstanding the roller coaster of emotions Haymitch must have been on when they pulled that last stunt with the berries - getting them both back, then maybe getting neither back- he has no time to grieve for the 23 children who died, but must immediately go to Katniss to try and save her from the same fate he encountered for his own stunt with the force field.

Then he hears about the Third Quarter Quell, which involves Katniss and either him Peeta or having to fight all his friends. And with Katniss begging him to take Peeta's place when they reap him, all the trauma must've come flooding back.

He is also set to lose the two people he cares about - Peeta and Katniss - to the regime, after snatching them from the jaws of death. When he finally has someone else to share the burden of being a mentor, the Capitol immediately takes that from him, forcing him to watch his comrades die one by one trying to protect Katniss and Peeta to keep them alive, all to give Haymitch a chance to pull them out.

We sort of forget about him a little in the third book, but Haymitch loses absolutely everything he has to the regime. Everything. His innocence, his family, his home, and Katniss and Peeta. He has to topple an entire regime and is a member of a far-reaching conspiracy while he can barely function from all the ( additional ) trauma.

I feel like Susanne Collins used him as a mirror to reflect just how gruesome the Games are, and how this spectacle ultimately damages people so badly they become a shell of themselves. Anyone else thinking about celeberty culture?

When looking at him differently, one cannot escape the notion that he resembles a war veteran, too, forced to kill people to come back and then being lauded, but not helped. Especially him saying "there are no victors, only survivors" and the mind numbing substance abuse in order to avoid dealing with the death of two innocent children every year and everything he went through in the arena.

But not only that; he still has the strenght to fight back, organize a coup, be a mentor. Presented with the first real chance he gets to pull someone through the hell of the Games and come back out, he jumps. Even though that means reliving the horrible games again.

Haymitch deserves a lot more praise, and I think Collins presented him really well as an idea of just how evil the Capitol really is. And how wickedly smart Haymitch Albernathy can be, if he chooses to.

I am honestly suprised that he's still alive and in generally okay condition, despite being a raging alcoholic. Him raising geese and looking after Katniss after they come back from District 13 gives me a little peace.

[vxnuslogy]

𐙚 the poets department.

— or in which i associate certain ttpd songs with (some) honkai star rail men.

— warnings: angst if you squint

— author's notes: notice how jing yuan is the only one who had a happy part? banner credits to @cafekitsune please check them out they make very pretty banners <3

𐙚  BLADE    ;    THE PROPHECY

blade has never known peace ever since his betrayal with an old friend. 

he yearns and yearns for his time to finally come. howling like a crazed wolf at the moon whenever the mara trapped in his body strikes and every time he’d gaze longingly, wishing to be taken back to time where he and his old friends would sit under the moon drinking their sorrows away. blade didn’t care if the graying hairs on his head spoke of his eventual departure; so long as his friends would remember him fondly then he’d die in peace with no complaints.

but now, every waking hour, he waits for destiny’s slave to write down his death on his script.

he was a monster, cursed to eternal loneliness,  and yet that didn’t stop you from treating him with kindness. little old you who frets over him like a nagging but loving mother. greeting him with a smile that made feelings he buried deep within his chest start to resurface.

maybe this was the “death” he’s been hoping for; blade would die from all the yearning he has for you.

all the times you would keep him company after tiring missions did his cracking heart no good. the urge to throw himself into danger just so you could patch him up; yearning for the arms that reminded him of a home that’s long gone. how he wouldn’t be ashamed to stare at you or your hands, wanting to hold them in his own calloused ones. he doesn’t shrug off the thoughts of you from his mind but he’d cut off his own arm before they could ever reach you.

in blade’s mind, you were too good for him. something he’ll come to destroy one day and he didn’t even dare to imagine how that would affect him. now, instead of waiting for destiny’s slave to write out his death, he hopes that he finds a few more reasons to stay longer, for your sake.

𐙚  DAN FENG   ;    IMGONNAGETYOUBACK

what petty rivalry you and the high elder had. always trying your best to one-up him at anything and everything but ultimately failing while dan feng laughed in amusement in your seething bitterness. but the high elder couldn’t deny the feelings of endearment whenever you show up with jing yuan and others to drink, or how you show him the new weapon yingxing had crafted for you. challenging him to another sparring session while the others watched in the sidelines with amusement.

oh how you wanted to wrap your hands around his neck when you caught wind of his plans to try and resurrect his fallen comrade, making yingxing his accomplice in the process.

the way his eyes started to crack with panic as you pulled your bowstring back and aimed an arrow straight to his heart. but dan feng knew, you knew as well, that you wouldn’t actually let the arrow go and kill him even if you say otherwise. in the end, you lowered your weapon as the high elder was escorted to the shackling prison.

before he was forced to be reborn into a new reincarnation, you visited him and how you wished to punch that knowing smile off his face. you exchange brief pleasantries before you ultimately get fed up with his nonsense. all the while you ignore the shouts of his promise in his next life.

sneak him out of the prison, run away somewhere far from the luofu or to turn your back on your first love, it didn’t matter. both choices were poison either way.

𐙚  DAN HENG   ;    PETER

how many years have passed since you thought of him? better yet, why do you still think of him? why do you feel a wave of ambivalent emotions when you see his new incarnation?

 when your eyes met for a brief moment, you had turned away quickly. muttering a soft apology to the merchant you were speaking to a moment ago as you sped walked your way back home. oh how you wish your feelings for the previous high elder would die just like him.

how you hate the way your heart replayed the days spent with him under the sun as he argued that he’d recognize you in every lifetime; the ocean deep promises to find you in every life. you wonder if he remembers you now.

by the time the sun had risen again, he was right there. just a few feet away from you while you carry documents for the master diviner. you hated the way your feet refused to move as he strides towards you, a smile you remember all too well on his face as he offered you a hairpin.

“i remembered, like i promised.”

oh how pitiful was it of you as you dropped the papers in your arms to wrap them around his neck, pulling him a tight embrace. you didn't want to admit that you had been waiting for his return, but truly, love is never lost when perspective is earned.

𐙚  JING YUAN   ;    THE ALCHEMY

it was quite a sight to behold really. the great apprentice of the luofu’s sword champion, on the ground with you pointing a wooden sword at his throat with a victorious smile.

you reveled in the compliments your peers gave you but eventually grew tired of how jing yuan would annoy to no end. you were this close to asking his master to cut him from the training sessions. but you don’t deny the way your cheeks flush after every sparring session jing yuan would win, he’d come running to you, asking if you were watching.

you’d hope that when he grew older he’d at least grow a mature bone in his body, oh how wrong you were. how was it possible that the same kid you’d beaten to a pulp would grow to be taller than you and even more annoying. 

his relentless teasing when you couldn’t land as much hits as you did when the two of you were just kids nearly sent you spiraling over the edge. poor yingxing had to listen to your rants for hours on end, sometimes even kicking you out of his workshop so he could actually get some work done.

but despite all of his annoyingness and your wishes for him to mature, you will never grow tired of him running straight towards you after every victory he’s won under his belt. jing yuan has made it known to everyone that your name was etched into his heart, and really, who were you to fight the alchemy?

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[lets-try-some-writing]

In your professional opinion: what would be some Cybertronian Superstitions? Like do the miners hit the entrance of mines after someone dies inside it to help free their sparks from their tomb? Do people not say Unicron’s name after dark for fear it’ll summon him? Is there a name(s) that you can’t say inside the Iacon Hall Of Records or else you’ll be cursed with bad luck????

Please feel free to go hog wild with this.

Oh boy I LOVE the idea of that sort of thing. Honestly, I can see all sorts of little superstitions existing due to mythos and history.

Miners make it a point to never leave their tools unattended. They take them everywhere. To recharge, to fuel, even to get repairs. As for why they do this? There is a certain belief that the tools carry a bit of the luck and wisdom of those who held them previously. And since most tools are handed down from one fallen miner to the next, miners treat their tools with reverence. Many have carried the same pick, and each has left their mark. It cannot be disregarded.

Additionally, miners refuse to enter a deep tunnel system without whistling down it first. The habit has been long since made null and void by tunneling improvements, but there are stories of miners getting lost in the dark, before they adapted to it. Many died before their optics were augmented to the low light conditions. Great swaths of miners still believe that the wandering sparks of those lost in the dark linger there, scared and alone. Whistling down the tunnel before entering gives the lost spirits of the dead something to cling to, a guide to the afterlife in a sense.

Gladiators have a particular set of beliefs revolving entirely around the concept of honor. They know that their work is bloody and often cruel, and so they have developed a strange set of beliefs. Every gladiator, before combat, will take a stick or something equally useless, and snap it in half. They will give half of their broken instrument to a trusted comrade and march off to fight. If they return alive, the two pieces are to be put back together and promptly crushed into powder to be cast out upon whichever mech or beast died so that the gladiator could live. A sign of respect. However, if the gladiator were to die, their comrade is obliged to gather up the fallen's half of the instrument and have them run through their funeral rites with the joined object. This is done out of a belief that the dead must be honored, lest they linger in the living realm to haunt those who killed them (in the case of the gladiator surviving) or to stay with the other piece of their spark (in the event the gladiator dies).

Gladiators also have a firm belief that going into battle without paint will inevitably lead to bad luck coming upon them. They take meticulous care of their accenting paint, tracing swirls and jagged lines with delicate touches meant for those of higher castes. Some believe the marks distract enemies. Others say that the marks ward off attacks, letting otherwise lethal combat situations turn in their favor. No one really knows what they do. It is just something that must be done. Failure to go into battle without paint has led to more than a few gladiators meeting their end. Seeing such things has left the rest preferring to not take chances. Megatron himself went into battle without paint one time, and he quickly learned never to do that again when he returned with a brand new scar on his shoulder.

Amongst dock workers, there are various superstitions revolving around cargo in particular. It's bad luck to look at someone's cargo if it has a written letter attached. It doesn't matter what is in the box, it is considered a stain on one's spark to witness the usually rather sappy interactions between those who bother with sending hardcomms. Additionally, dock workers have long since grown to fear any box that comes in solid black. There was exactly one incident where a black box appeared amidst the cargo and disappeared without a trace, taking several other cargo pieces with it. Since then, any black boxes are either thrown right off the truck with a collective agreement that the loss will be signed off as an accident, or said boxes are loaded up with one unfortunate spark to transfer alone. Black boxes being delivered by one mech are often found missing, the driver and the box itself having vanished without a trace. Black boxes are terrifying, and not one dock worker is willing to risk it.

It is also notoriously bad luck among dock workers to deny the youngling with golden optics a ride. They will appear anywhere and at any time without rhyme or reason. When they appear, they never say a word, instead coming up to dock workers and pointing toward whatever transport they are loading up. Dock workers have long since learned to quietly nod and promptly ignore the youngling as they load up alongside the cargo. Interacting with the youngling results in the worker in question befalling some unfortunate end. Ignoring the youngling entirely leads to a similar situation. This superstition began long ago, and many younglings have abused it relentlessly since no one knows what the mysterious youngling from the myth actually looks like aside from their optics.

Low caste mecha as a whole have a strange superstition revolving around the concept of truth. They are notorious for keeping information to themselves, but low caste mecha never ever outwardly or blatantly lie. They are very careful to leave even the smallest grain of truth in their words. Why? Because telling lies brings the whispers of Liege Maximo. What are the whispers? No one is exactly sure. It is an evil omen, one that has led the low castes to develop odd honesty. They don't want to risk Liege's touch, not when he was stated to have been torn apart during the first age for his manipulations.

Low level soldiers hold the belief that giving away their names to one another is bad luck. Since they can all die at any given moment, they find it easier to remain nameless around one another. To them, remaining without a name in the optics of those around them ensures that survivors of battle can move on without fear. Giving a name means binding oneself to another. Their sparks might linger if they are attached, and that could lead to pain for both themselves and their comrades. So to get around this, soldiers don't do the name thing. Instead, every soldier refers to each other through characteristics or words of endearment. "Yellow" for a mech with yellow plating. "Comrade" or "Brother" for a mech they have served with frequently. Anything except a name. It would be cruel to bind the dead to living and the living to the dead.

Soldiers also have a belief that leaving a corpse to rot is incredibly bad luck. It doesn't matter whose corpse it is. It can't be left out. If nothing is salvageable, the spark chamber must be removed and taken to be given proper funeral rites. Not a spark wants to risk and angry spirit lingering because the body was not tended to properly. This belief extends to the point where soldiers will actively tear out their own spark chambers if they know they are going to die (or request others to do it for them). They don't want to linger and haunt those around them, so its best that the core of their frame is guaranteed proper rites.

Flyers of all kinds simply refuse to fly when Luna 1 and 2 are fully aligned. There are a thousand stories telling tales of fliers crashing, being killed, hit by rogue shots, and everything else. They won't risk it, and instead of flying, flyers will instead actively hide from the moons on such occasions. Usually unwilling to be locked in tight spaces, such cycles are the exception. To be seen by the moons is to be hunted. They won't risk it. Additionally, flyers have one particular stretch of Cybertronian landscape they all avoid like the plague. Mecha have been known to go in and never come back out, or if they do return, they are changed. They don't want to mess with that place, not for anything.

Flyers also hold the firm belief that one must keep their optics in perfect condition. They run tests all the time to ensure that their optics function without issue. Some even go so far as to get goggles or visors built into their frames just to protect them. Most chalk this up to a simple desire to not go blind. But flyers think differently. They won't get their optics replaced even if its an option. Why? Because they hold the belief that they carry the optics of a mech who didn't get to soar. Every flyer who has ever lived has had the optics of a grounder who will never get to grace the skies. For flyers, they see their optics as something sacred. They fly not just for themselves, but also for whoever their counterpart is, living or dead. They honor another through their sight, and so they must maintain their vision at all costs. Some call the phenomenon something akin to soulmates. The flyers state that it is the price they pay for their gift of flight.

(Note: Starscream and many of his people do not subscribe to the above thought process. Thundercracker is the only notable exception. Most chalk this up to his love of romance novels.)

Enforcers have many little quirks depending on city, but one they all share is the universal habit of naming their weapon of choice. It is a strange not quite religious belief for them. Whatever the thought process actual is, Enforcers rely heavily on their weapons, and as such, they must appease the weapon itself. They have to bond to it, make it an extension of themselves so that they can move it just as easily as a limb. They go about this through naming, and once named, they never get rid of the weapon in question. Even if its outdated, old, or broken. The weapon stays. If it is obliterated or lost, the Enforcer is obliged to get a copy of their prior weapon for the sake of their continued success. For this reason, most Enforcers fight with inbuilt weapons until they settle on something, and then they buy several copies just in case.

Enforcers will also never actively say "goodbye" to one another. Doing so would imply that there is a possibility of not coming back from the next patrol. So Enforcers simply don't use such language. "Good luck" or "Get those slaggers" are common supplements. Surprisingly, Enforcers only dodge around "goodbye" while on duty. They will casually wave off companions when not on the clock without a care in the world. However, if an Enforcer really does not like someone while on the clock, they will say "goodbye" as their polite version of a middle finger.

It is not exactly a rule, but Archivist as a whole simply do not refer to the Primes by name most of the time. There is a belief that uttering their designations aloud will bring their gaze upon whoever spoke. That can either be good or bad depending on the context, but since Primus's chosen can never really be predicted, most Archivists won't risk it. Instead, if they must say a Prime's name, they will tap a nearby surface a few times to supposedly draw attention away from themselves and hopefully keep the Prime in question from seeing them. It makes no sense, but even Orion Pax kept to the habit. Although some, like Orion, usually worked around this by coming up with slightly different pronunciations of the designations of Primes to hopefully avert their gazes.

Archivists also refuse to read anything relating to relics after a certain time. There is a longstanding belief that doing so can drive a mech mad. Hidden knowledge comes at Primus's chosen joor. Sometimes Archivists will reach grand discoveries at this specific time after delving into records of relics. But more often than not, Archivists have been noted having mental breakdowns, crying, losing their minds, or otherwise going haywire. Medical professionals chalk it up to exhaustion and mania. The Archivists believe it is a warning. They refuse to read about relics during Primus's joor. Obviously, there are some thing between the veil they are not meant to know.

Medics won't come within a ten mile radius of the smelting pits where most of the dead are dealt with. They believe it is a bad omen to linger in places of death, and that the wrath of the deceased can stick to their frames, making other patients lose their lives. This has led medics to make it a habit to remove dead mecha from hospitals as fast as physically possible, handing them off to medical students to carry to the pits. Medical students hardly ever do anything of note with the patients, so the professionals don't feel bad dumping all the potential bad luck on them. The only medics who actively hang around smelting pits are morticians and mecha focused on autopsies. They think lingering around the dead will help them understand the dead. That way, they can better diagnose just what killed a mech. Such medics are usually avoided by the rest who work with the living.

Medics have very sensitive servos. There is a longstanding belief that if a medic is to retire or happens to die, he or she must give up their servos to a younger medic in training. This is to pass on skill, at least in theory. It is also a sign that a medic in training is skilled and worthy of note. To take the servos of an old medic is to take on their legacy. Similarly to the miners, medics take honoring those who came before them very seriously. They will go above and beyond to keep their servos in perfect condition so that whoever comes after them can have the vital sensors that come with a medic's servos. Ratchet is one of the few mecha to not have inherited his servos from anyone. He has also never signed up to have anyone get them after he dies. Most take this to mean he never will die. And considering how long Ratchet has lived, a good chunk of the population firmly believe that Ratchet is eternal.

[lucidfallacy]

Shame (Stalker Ghost x Reader 18+)

You have always been the type to let curiosity get the best of you. A certified button pusher as your comrades would say. You thrive in gossip and high tensions. But little do they really know about your dire urge to consume their dark secrets. That urge quickly ate away at you, evolving until nothing was off-limits. You want access to their social media accounts, camera rolls, and most of all: their search history. Over time, you acquired the means to do so with simple spyware. And the best part is that there's absolutely no paper trail.

Your hobby originally started with a seemingly harmless prank. Still, they granted you no mercy. Months ago, your fellow soldiers took it upon themselves to drunkenly raid your room one night, stringing up your lacy underwear and bras flag-style along the boot camp's pole. The colorful fabrics waved around in the wind as you rubbed your eyes in disbelief.

Lieutenant Ghost wouldn't even give you the chance to take them down before training. So, the already cold morning run that followed was tainted by occasional snickers and vulgar comments. Your least favorite emotion is embarrassment, and they had no problem wringing it out of you. Embarrassment leaves a mental scar you'll lie awake cringing about into the wee hours of the night. It's a memory that'll haunt you until you die, and surely won't live down as long as you're enlisted.

The men on base love fronting with these indomitable personas. But oh, the humiliating shit you've seen. You remember that very first adrenaline high you got after snooping through a colleague's emails. The average person could never guess that he's secretly a pay pig. Thousands of dollars had been routed to random camgirls, demanding him to address them as mistresses. And he gladly obliged. You contemplated forwarding the exchanges to the man's girlfriend back home, but you decided to save it for a special occasion. 'Maybe, right before Christmas', you thought. Instead, you uttered just one random girl's username in his ear on an early morning before training, making his eyes go wide and lips pale. And so, your barracks chores have been spotlessly completed for you ever since.

Usually, the victims you choose from consist of the men on your task force, but sometimes other people are dumb enough to air themselves out anyway. However, there's one man you haven't quite figured out yet and he has done a proper job of pissing you off today. His nitpicking seems endless like making you run extra laps or having to stay late and help him complete paperwork. Needless bullshit basically. When you first joined the force, you hated to admit it but you had an unwelcome attraction to him. Your ranks would never allow that sort of relationship anyway, and you consider him to be more of a cocky prick now. Even if you still find yourself giving into your pitiful desires when you turn in almost every night. So what? Never will you forget how amused he looked as your very specific black lingerie set saluted him on the flagpole. For all you know, the whole charade could've been his idea. That's why you've just been waiting for Ghost to fuck up for a while now.

After finishing an early dinner at the mess hall, intuition sparked your senses as you see the man himself rushing into the Corporal's office and slamming the doors behind him. Perfect timing. You decide to take a scenic route back to our room, sauntering over to Ghost's neck of the woods. The hall is long, coated in a hospital-like dim blue flickering light. The far-off conversations of the other diners fizzle out until there's only a deafening silence accompanying you. Reaching the end of the hall you glance around, a light sweat glistening on your temple. You wrap your hand in your shirt, slightly pulling on his door handle. Creak. Bingo. Your fingers slip in between the Lieutenant's ajar dorm door, a very rare occurrence for him to leave something unlocked. Whatever the circumstance, it's your lucky day.

So you slink in, sliding your back against the door to close it gently. You swallow hard, having trouble focusing because of the admittedly mouthwatering musk of his room. Like cedar and rain. And just as you thought, 3 monitors glow from across the room on his cluttered desk. Each one is unlocked and just sitting on the desktop's homepage. Dumbass. A sea of yellow file boxes line the screens making you itch in anticipation. The light illuminates a path, urging you to explore his uncharted territory. Sitting in his gaming chair of a throne, you contemplate what to do first. 'I wonder what kind of vanilla shit this guy watches... Or maybe not,' you unabashedly thought, smirking as your hand finds the mouse.

You scan around each file, joking to yourself about finding some top-secret folder for the nuclear launch codes. But your wrist seems to freeze over a file, smack dab in the middle of the first monitor. (First initial/Last Initial Cameras) is spelled out in small bolded letters. Your brows furrow in confusion. 'Maybe that's short for...' *double click* Your thoughts escape you as all three screens cut to black. You didn't know quite what to expect out of this man, but shit... The nausea sets in as you realize precisely why curious cats always end up dead. 6 boxes stretch across each of the screens. The first is your room, a direct shot of your perfectly tucked-in sheets and not-so-secret plushie laid across your pillows. A perfect view of your pajamas from this morning is still pooled on the floor.

The next box is a shot of your closet door, hung wide open and... Oh my God. A tall dark figure wades at the opening, hand outstretched and filtering through your abundance of non-military clothes. Their hand settles on the backend of the rack, thumbing over the fabric of your skimpy silk nightdresses. Every passing moment sends you into a deeper spiral of second guesses and excuses. 'Everyone must have cameras in their room. Yeah. Random bed checks must be happening now and...' your thoughts trail off, other shaking hand covering your mouth as the figure pulls out a buzzing phone from their back pocket. As they turn to face you, the cell's white light exposes the intruder's identity.

Ghost's unmistakable dark eyes meet yours through the screen, the half skull masking his face already being a dead enough giveaway. He's always been hard to read, but in this moment, he dawns the expression of a panther who has just locked onto its prey. 'It's like he knows-' you think to yourself as the Lieutenant's finger smashes against his phone screen. The cameras cut out, leaving an eerie TV static across the monitors. Panicked is too calm of a descriptor to explain what you are feeling right now. You're fucked. But you have to try and hide at least. You look around frantically for an answer. 'Okay, this hall is a dead end, the room has no windows... what about under the bed?' Boots begin to echo from down the hall. Each step is like the ticking countdown of a clock, building onto your already heightened anxiety.

Well, it's a long shot, but it's all you can think of. You rush behind the door, attempting to calm your labored breathing while sucking in your body to fit flush against the wall. 'I'm dead, I'm fucking dead. My last meal was potato soup and I didn't even get to call my mom like I said-' The heavy boots come to a halt, your eyes clench so tightly that colors begin to dance around behind your lids. In a sudden motion, the handle twists. With a light kick, Ghost opens the door. It swings just short of your turned head, body still desperately trying to fit. You could hear a pin drop in the next continent over from how devastatingly quiet it is. Your core is on fire from keeping your body stiff and barely having any air support. But still, Ghost remains on the other side, scanning the room as he once again wrestles his phone from his pocket. You hear the clicking of his passcode, the screen light hugging the around doorframe as if it's trying to give you away. Then it goes blue... just like the screens were before. You hear something like a recording. It mimics the way you clamored out of the rolling chair, how it screeched to slide across the linoleum flooring.

The phone turns off with a click, just before he tosses it, landing with a loud thud on his desk. You avert your eyes for just a moment flinching at the noise, so startled you didn't notice the way his gloved fingers slowly wrapped around the door just above your unknowing head. Ghost slams the door shut, the impact sounding like a gunshot was fired right by your head. You yelp, ducking to dodge his grasp and run away, but you aren't quite quick enough. No matter where you run, or how hard you fight back, his grip on your wrists as you're pinned against the concrete wall is a reminder that he will always be one step ahead. His shadow envelops you as your jaw cranes upward to meet his intense gaze. And there is no denying how different the atmosphere is between you two. Your jugular beats faster and his pupils dilate as they study yours fervently. You've been caught, finally ensnared by the consequences of your dumb little hobby.

"Oh? Not gonna run that loose fuckin' mouth, huh?" he teases, his voice a delicious gravelly whisper.

"N- No sir, Lieutenant sir!" you stammer out, high-pitched and attempting to stand at attention. But he has complete control of your every movement, every sinful thought. Your brows knit together as you try and regain your sense of self, putting together the serrated pieces connecting who this man is and what he's capable of. But your rationality is quickly depleting as you squirm in his embrace.

"I'll-" you begin.

Ghost hooks a thumb into your cheek like a fish, exploring your cavity and cutting your opposing thoughts short.

"You'll what? Kill me, love? Go on, fight me then," Ghost taunts. Without hesitation, you bite the meat of his palm, making him hiss out. But he only presses into you further, his hard cock stretching across the length of your hip and begging to be released. "Just a love bite, yeah? Gonna give up and let me fuck you? Just like that?"

"You're fucking insane," you spit, trying your damnedest to seem menacing.

"And who's fault is that?" he cuts, forcing your hands higher in a single crushing fist. "Cut the shit- You think yer so cute, trampsin' 'round 'ere in those tight ass fatigues. Bitchin' at me every chance you get." He leans closer into the crook of your neck, taking in the scent. "Comin' undone with yer fingers every single god damned night," he says frustratingly through gritted teeth.

You suck in a sharp breath.

"I wasn't- how was I-" you whine, skin flushed a peony pink.

"You've been so good to me (Y/N)," he praises. His other arm locks around your waist, thigh pushing up under your already throbbing pussy. You groan from the contact. "Remind me, who's name has been rolling off that pretty little tongue of yours?" he questions.

"I'm sorry-" you apologize, almost tearful.

"Say it love- just like you did when I was fistin' my cock to ya last night," he urges, grinding up against your clothed clit and eliciting a moan.

"Ghost!" you whimper hoarsely. You're in a feverish dream state, unsure of when or how your relationship took such a deviant turn. But hell, somehow within all of the secrets you've uncovered in the past couple of months the biggest one was under your nose all along. His obsession. He catches you off guard, pinching your nipple through the material that separates you.

"No, no" he laughs. "Not that one, you little fuckin' creep."

'Oh, I'm the creep?,' your thought simmers. It may be true that you did some digging to find his real name. Why? You couldn't explain it. But it felt so good in your mouth, that it's made itself at home in your nightly vocabulary. And now your pussy clenches as he twists harder. 'Maybe we are both fuckin' creeps.'

"Simon..." you quiver with shame and arousal.

Ghost hoists you over his shoulder without warning, letting you kick your legs about in defense as he squeezes you close. He throws you into his unmade sheets, not giving you a single moment to catch your bearings. In a flash, his gloved hands are wrapped around your ankles flipping you every which way. He rips and tears at the fabrics that clothe you. Your black tank top, and the khaki camouflaged pants, both laying in tatters on the floor. Now you lay only two garments away from naked, nipples already perked up under your bra from the chilled temperature of his dark room. And what do you know, it's that pretty little black set he's been dying to catch you in. The faint grey of the monitors cast a sultry backlight on his imposing stature.

"Holy shit love'," he groans as he guides your ankles to his shoulders, nuzzling against them. Ghost palms over the soaked center of your panties, admiring how hopeless you've become. "I'll buy ya' lots more, promise," he claims, wanting to support the pretty little secrets hiding under your uniforms.

Your body stiffens when his fingers dip into your panty line. He toys with you, rubbing back and forth with his knuckles underneath your navel. Your abs tremble, back arching into his gentle but suggestive touch.

"Pick a number," he finally says, filling in the silence.

But you think you know this game. You think you know what he's playing at. But you don't.

"One...I- just one," you say swallowing nervously. But your nerves aren't settled as a grumbling laugh builds in his chest.

"How sweet- givin' me a whole hour to do whatever I want," he tells you, grabbing the fat of your hips and flipping you onto your stomach.

You swear you can hear the inflection in his voice as he bears a shit-eating grin under that fucking mask. But your thoughts about his face are whisked away when he yanks your ass up into a high arch. He slides your laced panties to the side and parts your folds, sliding your slick around to flick over your sensitive bud. And the friction of his gloves is driving you insane. Insane enough that you're a slack-jawed pathetic moaning mess, wobbly legs pressing back against his hold. And then just as you become a bit comfortable, Ghost plants a stinging slap across your pussy, making you rigid.

"I've seen how you like it doll," he says laying another firm slap across your ass and dripping cunt. "Like a fuckin' whore." Hot tears well up in your eyes as your face is pressed into the mattress, muffling your cries. "Don' cry, you still have 3 more, 'kay?" he reassures. His hand travels from the side of your ass cheek and begins to fumble with his belt. He exhales a strained breath as he frees himself, his silky hot cock slapping against the back of your thigh. Ghost's precum is already smeared around his head, painting across your bare skin.

His next hit is personal, surely strong enough to leave a slight bruise as his fingers dig into your cheek to hold you in place. But this kind of twisted intimacy is what makes you feel alive.

"That's fer goin' through my shit," he barks, wasting no time delivering an equally intense strike across your opposite cheek. "That's for torturin' me for months, slut," Ghost admits.

As you brace yourself, you arch further, legs spread to accept it. But instead, Ghost lines up his head with your entrance. Violently splitting you open with a grunt, so forcefully that your body goes lax into the mattress from his weight. He gathers a fistful of your hair as if they are reigns. His lips graze the cartilage of your ear as he wrenches back, making you shudder.

"And that's for makin' me fuckin' crazy."

He's relentless. Ghost holds you up with one veiny forearm underneath your stomach, reaching around to find your clit and rub you in rhythm with his brutal fucking. Ghost's cock stretches and fills, it dominates and complicates. You'll forever remember how it curves, how the veins pulse inside you. His hips collide into the flesh of your ass like another form of a brutal spanking. It's the only sound you can hear other than the rush of blood ringing in your ears.

Ghost pinches your bud, rolling it around before rubbing small circles with two gloved fingers. Your voice has trouble escaping you as you lay contorted at his will on the verge of orgasm. He sounds heavenly deranged, blessing you with filthy curses and compliments on how tight you squeeze around him. He begins panting even louder as he ruts into you, like a desperate dying man.

"I should take you out- fuck you on the dining table," he grunts out between thrusts. "Yeah. You'd like that, huh? Making them watch you cum on my cock."

All you can do is scream into his fingers as his other hand clamps around your nose and mouth, stealing your oxygen. The truth is, now that he has you, he'll ruin you. He's planning on fucking you day in and day out, making it almost impossible to sit or walk. Hell, you won't even look at another man the same way after the way he's altered your chemistry.

You get an unfamiliar sensation in your core, but it's no use trying to stop it. Ghost applies just enough kneading pressure, like he's carefully studied the way your body responds when you touched yourself all those times before. Your mind goes numb as you drench each other, knees buckling in a full-body burnout. As you scream into the mattress, your cunt chaotically spasms. You grip around him tighter, making each of his ragged thrusts more difficult.

Ghost suddenly pulls out, leaving you empty and needy for his warmth. He just snickers as you whine, your pussy desperately trying to guide its way back onto him. You need him to flood your cervix, to deeply take his cock as it convulses. You want to revel in the mess as the cum drips out of you, uncaring of the oncoming consequences. He strategically flips over your limp sweat sweat-covered body, flicking his index finger across your oversensitive bundle of nerves. Your eyes go wide as you cry out, excited from the shock and fear of what he plans to do next. Ghost's chest heaves up and down, a sinister look glittering in his void-like pupils. He turns his wrist, tongue clicking as he registers the time on his watch.

"Would you look at that... Still got thirty more minutes~"

[mistyresolve]

| RTB - Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Pilot Reader

Word Count - 3.4k

Summary - The reader is the pilot, AKA Stitch, of an apache helicopter, one the most dangerous, advanced killers in the sky. She’s been the 141′s go-to when they need aerial support for a year. After their latest mission, Ghost seeks out Stitch to offer a special thank you.

Warnings/Tags - 18+ ONLY, swearing, dry humping, switch, unprotected sex, creampie 

A/N - If you haven't already, I would suggest you read Incident Report before this one

Masterlist  ❤︎

Soot and smoke coated Ghost’s tongue and every breath felt like an attack on his lungs. The smell of burning flesh and gunpowder made his head spin. All that combined with adrenaline and anger, it was his life support. He clung to his senses with a feverish need. Rubble and bullet shells littered the ground around them. His once-black uniform took on a greyish hue from all the dust. Sweat rolled down his back and he had to blink it from his eyes. 

Beside him, Price was on the radio, his outrage tangible as he called for aerial backup for a third time, “I’ve got my men pinned here! Where the fuck is my support!”.   

Ghost felt a bullet's heat as it raced past the exposed skin of his neck, leaving behind the ghost of a burn. He ducked down behind the concrete barrier, cursing at himself, “We won’t be able to hold this position for much longer, Price. We need a plan to get us the fuck out of here,” Simon repositioned himself for a better vantage point. Ghost had long since run out of ammo and had resorted to picking up magazines from his dead comrades. He silently thanked every one of them, ripping off the dog tags from the few he could to take back to base with him. 

Price gave him a curt nod, “Chopper is five minutes out. They were diverted from another mission.” his face was grim and every muscle in his body was taut, readying to run for new cover or the bite of a bullet. Five minutes was a lot of time in situations like this, a lot could happen in a matter of seconds. He could die in half that. 

The team was forced into a corner of the compound, and they were getting hammered.  There was nowhere left to go. He kept one eye on the darkening sky beyond the compound's wall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the incoming heli. He figured the pilots on board would have reached out by now, but the radio remained utterly and eerily silent. 

He craned his neck, hearing the distant sound of its propellors, but with the ruckus around them, it was difficult to determine exactly how far out it was. Something in his soul urged him to bring his radio to his mouth, “We’re in the southwest corner,” he was speaking to the pilots, who were most likely biding their time before revealing their presence to the enemy. If that were the case they were probably dark, using minimal instruments to keep their profile as discreet as possible. 

Then he saw it. The slightly darker patch of sky. 

Then it was firing, and screams followed. 

And just like that, this fight was shifted in their favour. 

Bursts of orange and red as fire erupted from the helicopter's guns in erratic intervals, and in between they would shift positions, making it nearly impossible to predict where they would shoot from next.           

Then a very familiar voice came across the radio, “Hello boys.”

An involuntary smile split across Ghost’s face.

“You’re fashionably late,” Price quipped back. 

“And here I thought you’d be excited to see us,” you replied as you dipped the heli back behind the walls, using it as cover as you moved closer to the closed gates keeping them from their escape, “Should I knock?”

They didn’t bother with a reply before Dutch let loose, blasting open the gates. You could nearly hear his smile, “Ladies first.”  

Being diverted from a different mission meant you didn’t have nearly enough firepower or fuel to do any real damage, but you could do enough so the soldier below would be able to breathe a little and regain their footing.   

You glanced down at your fuel gauge, cursing, “We’ve got five minutes of fuel before we’re RTB. Give me some targets,” You couldn’t stop yourself from searching the ground below in hopes of seeing a familiar figure.

Someone pointed a laser at one of the watchtowers, marking it and the people within as prey. You angled the aircraft, giving Dutch a clear view of the tower. With the help of the last HELLFIRE missile you had, it was desecrated in a matter of seconds. 

The floodlights that were pointed to the outside of the compound turned on, momentarily blinding you. The enemy used the distraction to shoot back at you. Bullets dinged off the sides of the Apache.

“Smoke!” someone called from over the radio.

“Flares,” your muscle memories kicked in, your thumb finding the appropriate buttons as your eyes still had yet to adjust. Somewhere beyond the cockpit, you heard as your flares interrupt your death. You gritted your teeth, you weren’t sure you had the firepower left to fight this fight, but the thought of leaving those guys down there helpless wasn’t one you were willing to have. 

Your attention snagged on the fuel. 

You didn’t have a choice. You were already cutting it close. 

Dutch listed off what he had left to throw at him. The list was devastatingly short.     

“I have one more good run before I have to turn back.” 

Another laser pointed to a truck on the other side of the now blown open door, a mounted machine gun giving suppressant fire to the ground crew. With that truck, even with the gate opened, they weren’t going anywhere. 

“Copy,” Dutch replied, his head already turned and locking in on the target. He unloaded the last of his rounds into the truck and the surrounding area. 

Reluctantly, you pulled back from the fight, “We’re RTB,” again you search for Ghost amongst the group. Finally catching the flash of white of his skull mask. The nerves that gripped your chest loosened, “And as much as I love these play dates with you guys try and stay out of trouble will you?” 

You’d arrived back to base a few hours ago but still had yet to change out of your jumpsuit. You were immediately dragged into a debrief. You checked your watch for what seemed like the hundredth time since this meeting began.

Task Force 141 has yet to return, and you were beginning to ruminate. While in the sky it was easier to ignore your feelings, having to focus on not being struck by an anti-air and falling out of the sky didn’t allow for such mundane activities. Now that you were on the ground, you had all the time and safety in the world to just think. 

You could say that’s why you loved flying so much. You’d never be able to say it out loud under the fear that you’d be grounded for a month under the mental health act; but, you’d sooner die than give up flying. 

Suppressing a yawn you sat next to Dutch in the room, arms crossed and legs stretched out in front of you. Your eyes grew heavy as you blinked up at the screen before you. You leaned closer to Dutch, “You think they’d notice if I just left?” 

A mischievous smile tugged at his mouth, “Not if you crawled.”

You pinched his thigh, scowling, “You’re a pervert.” 

There were probably twenty other people in this room right now. You could undoubtedly sneak out. 

A shiver raced down your spine, and your instinct told you that someone was looking at you. You peeked over your shoulder and locked eyes with the tall ominous figure standing at the back of the room. His hand still hovering over the doorknob. He jerked his chin to the hallway. A silent invitation to join him. 

Dutch was already rolling his eyes in pretend irritation, “You’re boyfriend beckons you.”

You made a face at him, “He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Tell him that.”

You bit your lip to keep from grinning at the idea. You two were by no means together. Not to say that there wasn’t something there that could potentially foster such as relationship, but now wasn’t the right time. Neither of you had the time or the means for it. It would only compromise both of your work. 

And relationships between two soldiers were frowned upon by the higher-ups.  

You stood up silently, kicking Dutches ankles on your way by.   

Ghost slipped out of the room all too silently. You met him just down the hall.

His eyes dipped to your chest and heated. You removed the top of your jumpsuit and tied it around your waist, revealing the plain black tank underneath that did everything right to show off your curves. 

Then he was looking everywhere but you, his shoulders tensing, before he started to walk down the hallway. You fell into pace beside him. 

You check over him, looking for any signs of injury. Once satisfied that you couldn’t find anything you tilted your face up to his, “You guys should've had an aircraft on standby for that mission,” you reprimanded, half annoyed with him for getting into danger. 

He shrugged, “It was supposed to be covert.”

You analyzed his dark uniform, perfect for blending into the night and the shadows. He didn’t have his gun, and he carried his tactical vest in his hand. 

“You guys were lucky we had enough fuel to divert our route. What if we weren’t there?” you bit out, anger flushing your skin. 

He opened a door for you. The door to his accommodations, you realized. You couldn’t help but notice the space still smelled like you. Or your signature scene of eucalyptus and lavender. You’ve been spending a condemning amount of time here, and with him.  

“Good thing we’re lucky,” he pulled at the words with his tongue before turning back to you, eyes flashing to your figure again. His hands reached down to the know that kept your jumpsuit tied to your waist and tugged you closer to him, his other hand wrapping around the back of your neck. You could still smell the fight on him. Dirt and smoke. A now familiar smell. 

Your fingers hooked around his belt loops. Heat radiated off of him and warmed your front. Already you were breathless. 

He shook his head, “It’s a damn good thing you were there.”

A question formed and you tilted your head at him, lips parting, “How did you know to tell us where you were? How did you know we were already there?” You had made sure your ETA was skewed to disorientate the enemy if they had access to your guys’ comms.  

“I figured there was a reason you guys were dark,” his hand traced the lines of your body, memorizing the feel of you under his fingers. They twitched impatiently against you. He slowly walked you backwards to the door to his bedroom, taking his time in watching you stumble over your weakening knees. “How can I thank you?” 

If he could read your mind and all the filthy thoughts that popped into your mind, he hid it well. Your ears burned in chagrin. You tugged his shirt out from his pants, diving underneath to touch his skin, “Let me touch you.” 

Ghost bit back a hiss when you dug your nails into his abdomen. He kicked the door closed behind him, reaching back only to lock it. Within seconds, his shirt was discarded somewhere on the floor, his muscles on full display as he did so. Your mouth went dry and the sight and the heat that was just at the tips of your ears shot down between your legs. No amount of time would ever tire you of seeing this man undress. 

Next was his mask, revealing the devilishly beautiful man underneath. The only way you could describe him was as “sinful”. Black still smeared across his features but it only accentuated his features.   

Fuck, you would eat out of the palm of his hand if he told you to. 

Whatever he saw on your face made him look away from you with a shy smile, a breath of a laugh escaping him. 

You brought his face back to yours, and you had to stand on your toes to reach his mouth. You’d be a fool to think that the kiss was anything but greedy. His mouth immediately opened to yours and he tilted your head with a hand to deepen it. You pressed yourself into him, needing to feel him against every inch of you. A calloused hand reached to touch the bare skin under your tank and traced the line of your spine. Your tongue brushed against him, and you turned to liquid.   

He undid the knot of your jumpsuit, and you stepped out of it. Leaving you bare apart from the tank top, a bra, and underwear.

This time, it was your turn to guide him. You took him to his bed, “Lay down.”

He didn’t waste a second and pulled you down with him. You were a tangle of limbs before you planted your knees on either side of his hips. With shaking fingers, you shamelessly outlined the lines and curves of his abs and chest.    

Not once did either of you break the kiss, which had become a mess of breath and lips and teeth.

You pressed your hips into his, finding his own arousal there. He groaned at the pressure, hands flying to your waist, and pulling you harder to him. Already a carnal heat that only showed up when you were with him was building somewhere low in your womb. And even lower still.

God, he felt good.   

He was going to be the death of you. You were going to burn up in his arms until there was nothing left of you but your need for him. 

He paused for a second, his hand disappearing under the waistband of his pants to readjust himself to better align with your strides. You tested, feeling the full length of him pressed to your core, “Carry on,” before his smile could take form it fell away to a hiss when you began a languid pace.  

You rolled yourself down on him, your mouth finding the pulse at his throat and licked a stripe it. 

Simon liked to pride himself on his control over his needs. He wasn’t a teenage boy after all. He was a man who was more than capable of asserting some sort of rule over his body. 

Until just now. 

Right then, his entire mind went blank.

He wasn’t sure if he had inhaled too much smoke or if he over-exerted himself today, but that control was nowhere to be seen. His hands fell to your thighs, allowing you full reign on the speed and intensity. 

You felt a knot at the apex of your tights tighten, and the liquid arousal that accompanied your desire. You hadn’t even cum yet and you were already soaking through your panties and his pants.

Your kisses to his skin turn into hot desperate breaths, and it sent tingles throughout his body. Your moans were like fuel to a flame and it was driving him insane.    

You clung to him, his skin slick with yours and his sweat, as you chased after your climax. He let you use him however you needed. Some ludicrous and giddy part of him revelled at the fact that he wasn’t even inside you and you were still half-wild for him. 

Suddenly, your pace stuttered and became erratic. That knot finally loosened and you melted onto him, your body twitching, but you maintained some form of a rhythm.   

You pulled back to look at him, his eyes squeezed shut and his bottom lips pulled between his teeth.   

You felt him jerk under you, pressing himself impossibly closer to you, his mouth falling open into a downright filthy moan. 

You welcomed the wet warmth between him and you that followed. 

You chased after his release with him. 

You also came back down with him, slowing down to a purr on top of him. 

He was breathless, his body jolting with every change of direction.

He would have been a little embarrassed for cumming in his pants if it hadn’t felt so fucking good. 

“So sensitive,” you crooned, drawing a line from his heart to the line of hair that faded into the cover of his pants. At first, you weren’t sure he heard you, but then he was growling and flipping you off him. You were face down on the bad, trapped underneath him, his knees moving to spread your legs apart. 

“Shouldn’ve said that,” he snarled, his voice dangerous. 

He pressed himself into your backside. 

He was still devastatingly hard. 

You whimpered into his bed, arching your back.

A hand slapped your clothes pussy and you mewled at him in understanding. 

Do. Not. Move.

Then the fingers of the same hand outlined your folds over the already damp fabric, focusing on your clit. With his weight on top of you giving your lungs little room to expand and the fact that your brain was short-circuiting your breaths become shallow and unproductive.

He pressed his fingers into your cunt, the only thing keeping him from actually entering you was your panties. 

You writhed, desperate for friction. A second slap against your heat stilled you. 

“Ohmygod,” you breathed, your legs trembling.

He pushed the cursed fabric down your legs, stopping at your knees. His fingers delved into the slickness there. He swore, almost impressed with how wet you actually were. 

Spread your arousal everywhere, across your folds, the sides of your thighs, up to the rounds of your ass. He wanted you a mess in his bed. And you were. You weren’t sure if you were drooling or not, but there was a high chance you were. 

Then his attention was back at your core, finger sliding into you without so much as a warning. Your greedy pussy tightened around his fingers, milking them as if they were his cock. His approving groan was nearly enough to send you over the edge. He was whispering naughty, impish things into your ear. Your name rolled off his tongue in a way that made to want to scream.  

Still sensitive from before, it didn’t take much from him to entice another orgasm from you. Time wrapped but it couldn’t have been less than a minute before you were spasming around his fingers, and your mind was momentarily fried. 

He was whispering in your ear. Your comprehension went out the window so didn’t know what he was saying but from the tone of his voice, he was mocking you. 

You felt him shift so he was behind you. He attempted to knock your legs further apart but your panties were still locked around your knees, tying them together. 

You felt something warm and velvety soft tap at your entrance. Once, twice. He slid his cock between his fld, coating himself in you. 

He asked you a question, probably for permission. The thought that you could string together a coherent sentence right now was laughable. You weren’t even sure you could be trusted to provide your own name. 

You could only nod and with your last dregs of will, lift your hips to his.     

There was no amount the sex or foreplay that could prepare you for the sheer fucking size of him. He wasn’t just long, not that his eight inches was something to roll your eyes at, but he was thick. Thick enough that when you took him into your mouth, your jaw would ache for days afterward. He was always gentle and never shoved himself inside you like an animal, but you still needed a few seconds to catch your breath each time.  

The broken sound that same out of you was naughty, and Simon had to bite his lip to keep from cumming from the sound alone. You were also impossibly tight, but he’d be damned if he got bested by you a second time tonight. 

He cruised into a fast pace, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The tip of his dick hit your cervix with every thrust. And with every retreat, he brushed against your g spot.  

In these moments, there was only him. Only the sounds of his breath, and the feel of his skin. It made him addicting. When with him, especially like this, it was like a moment of reprieve from worries and stresses in life. 

The world could be ending and you wouldn’t care. There could be air raids and a fire outside your door and you would still feel completely safe with him. Death and hurt couldn’t reach you when you were in his arms.  

His rhythm faltered when you squeezed around him, and he cursed, his arms moved from your ass to brace around you. He just arms shook to keep from crushing you.  

He could feel you quivering, both around him and beneath him as your third orgasm approached. 

You were going to be the death of him, and he didn’t mind one bit. 

You writhed under him as you reached your undoeing, unsure if you wanted him further in or out of you.  

You could feel his seed spurt out of him, and coat your inner walls. You could feel his cock twitch with every spray. 

He started to slow, letting you reel yourself back into your body. You were spooled out across his bed, onto the floor, floating in the air. 

He slid off the bed, carefully tucking himself back into his pants. Which, only now did you realize he didn’t have the patient to remove. He was all wandering eyes and a rueful grin. He was slightly out of breath when he spoke, “So sensitive.” 

A/N: You like that?