#slow burn lol

[angelxd-3303]

Chapter three is finally here! Thank you all for your patience!

More to come!

[critter-of-habit]

Just a lil 'Soka sketch

[sheikfangirl]

A page from my post-Botw Zelink comic. Each chapter covers key moments of my headcanon. I don't think my comic is super revolutionary in terms of story because there is so much fan content out there and im super classic and vanilla... but i dont care. I'm having fun creating my own take on what happened. This project is a time consuming blackhole and I draw it all out of order because I have no discipline whatsoever 😭 😂 It was originally just random black and white pages here and there with no cohesions, like my stand alone illustrations... but the illustrations became pages. The project is basically me fan-servicing my own self. 😂😂

Then it exploded, i've been adding color, cleaning up my panels, pimping the backgrounds.

I still unsure on which platform i will make it available to read. The friends who got my out of my shipping closet are screaming to me to print a fanzine, but i'm lazy hahaha. Might do a patreon eventually, idk.

Oh yeah, this is a panel from the chapter where Zelda and Link go back to Korok forest to put the Master Sword back in it's pedestal... I'm old, i played the old games. One of my BotW nitpics was that it didnt include the classic moment where the sword rests once again, like in ALttP and OoT. I like traditions okay!!!! Cheers!!!

[rayssion]

There's something just so beautiful about a character falling in love with their best friend who is sadly not into them and already had their partner.

[a2zillustration]

Why was everyone SO HORNY RIGHT AWAY I'VE KNOWN Y'ALL FOR 12 HOURS-

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[guardian-angle22]

Tarlos Wedding Celebration Event [Week 5] -> favorite s2 moment(s)-> all the flirty banter

[purposechef]

First time.

[sysig]

Ellen McLain’s commentary from my trivia playthrough

[sp0o0kylights]

Adopt a Jock Part Four  / Part Five P 1 YOU ARE HERE / Part Five P 2 

As always I own my soul to @chalkysgarbagefire and Hayley for helpin out with this one! 

The problem with D&D games was that the drama room was only available on specific days.

As in, the days Hellfire was scheduled as a club for, much to said club’s distress. 

This led directly into the second issue Hellfire faced--finding a place to host them all when they wanted to do something as a group outside of the main campaign they played. 

(At least anything D&D related, with all of the screaming, ranting, and frantic dice rolling that came with it.) 

Gareth knew Eddie had been lying through his teeth when he'd try to pitch Steve's house as a Hellfire hangout. Accepted that they’d never get to use all the sweet, sweet space Steve was known to have as much as he’d accepted Steve himself. 

It was a lot, after all. Particularly when Eddie’s one-shots were known to last a good chunk of the day. 

Once again, Steve had proved them all wrong. 

(“We can use my house.” were five words not a single person at the table had ever expected to hear out of Harrington’s mouth, and it showed in the shocked silence that followed when he actually spoke them. 

“What?” Steve asked, as six pairs of eyes stared at him. “Space is the problem right? So my house is the perfect solution.” 

“Are you sure dude?” Grant asked hesitantly. “You know this one-shot isn’t gonna be a like, two hour thing, right?” 

To their surprise Steve just gave him a flat, almost dead-eyed stare in return. “I’ve hosted the kids at my place before. Believe me, I am well aware.” 

“As long as you’re absolutely sure…” Jeff had added, and could only roll his eyes when he got a sassy response from Steve. 

Gareth of course, caught the way Steve kept seeking out Eddie’s eyes, as if hoping to make their oldest friend smile simply by offering up his house. 

He didn’t even need to look to know it was working.) 

It had taken some creative thinking (and a few wild excuses) to finangle things so that he could show up to Steve's literal castle of a home before anyone else without alerting Eddie but he'd managed it.

It was in fact, looking to be the highlight of Gareth's month. 

Possibly the year, if they managed to pull off the little plot he had cooked up. 

“I still don’t get how this is a prank.” Steve said, as Gareth prepped him before the others arrived.

"Trust me. If Eddie is anything, it's a jealous bitch." Gareth replied, seated on one of the countertops. "We dethrone him and he's gonna make an ass of himself for the next week. It'll be hilarious." 

"I fail to see how that's different than usual." Steve grumbled as he bustled about. 

Upon arrival Gareth had found him elbow deep into making cookies and what appeared to be  themed cocktails, among several other bowls full of snacks of all kinds. 

There was even little finger sandwiches, the kind that absolutely looked homemade, and Gareth would have teased him about that except he’d instantly stuffed two in his mouth.  

("I won't be able to host since I'm playing, so I just want everything done before anyone comes over." Was Steve's explanation, when Gareth did manage to get out a few teasing quips.  

With the proud lack of manners so many teenage boys possessed, Gareth talked right through his mouth of food. "God you’re a dork. How the hell did you get popular?"

"Shut up Emerson, you're wearing two jackets." Steve snipped in response, as if he didn’t look like the poster boy for Nordstrom.) 

"Don't bring logic into this." Gareth continued, as he tried to snag some cookie dough. 

 Steve smacked the back of his hand with a spoon. 

"Get a bowl and a spoon if you're going to eat the dough!" Steve grumbled at him, already bustling to get said bowl and spoon himself. “God you’re worse than Eddie. And the kids!” 

Gareth waited until Steve turned before he stuck his tongue out at him. "Whatever you say, mom." 

He got an over exaggerated eye roll in response. 

 "Anyway, the point is you're gonna witness something we'll get to tease Eddie about for years." Gareth said, as he watched Steve dole out some dough. 

"You get to watch the little hamster on the wheel that powers Eddie's brain lose its shit and cause him to do something really stupid.” He made grabby hands for the bowl and spoon, and tucking in delightfully the second Steve handed them over. 

Steve himself treated the entire exchange like he was feeding a particularly vicious and wild animal, making a show of yanking his hands back like Gareth might just go for his fingers. "I just don't understand why the thing you wanna fight about is cuddling."

"Bragging rights. The jokes we can make. The fact that your thighs look like they were made out of clouds, take your pick man.” Gareth counted off, in-between bites of dough. 

"Clouds?" Steve asked, tilting his head. 

“Big muscley clouds, Harrington. Also Grant’s here.” 

Steve blinked. “How do you-” He asked, right before the sound of a car with an engine far too loud pulled into his driveway. 

“He drives an absolute piece of crap. You ride in that thing one time and you’ll be able to hear it coming for the rest of your life.” Gareth explained, as Steve peered out the kitchen and down to his front doors. 

(Plural, because he had two.

Gareth had never felt more judged by slabs of wood in his life than he had when he’d walked through them.) 

"Last chance to bail, Stevie.” Gareth teased. “I won't hold it against you if you call it off mid-show though." 

Steve didn’t answer for a moment, too busy disrobing from his baking apron—a bright yellow and red garment that practically swallowed him whole, complete with an embroidered ‘Claudia Henderson’ over the right breast. The embroidery gave rise to a few questions but Gareth decided to save them for later. 

"No, something this fucking weird has to have a story behind it and I want to witness the fallout.” Steve finally replied, before rushing out of the kitchen. 

He ripped open his front door, right after a knock echoed loudly throughout the house. 

“Shit! What the hell man, were you just waiting to do that!?” Stewart yelped, prompting Gareth to snicker quietly and Steve to apologize. 

Like the wealthy housewife he’d been no doubt raised by, Steve went through a whole spiel as he ushered Stewart and Grant in, pointing out bathrooms, letting them know where the game was going to take place (the giant fuck off table that looked like it should be hosting some kind of high-stakes negotiation instead of a bunch of nerds) and where they could put their things (into a closet dedicated to just guests.) 

The trio of Eddie, Tiffany and Jeff arrived next, the latter two having been roped into helping Eddie haul his “D&D To Go” bags around. 

Steve started his little host speech over, much to Gareth’s amusement, fluttering about and entirely forgetting about his cookies until the oven dinged, causing him to swear and rush back into the kitchen. 

“Dude, breathe.” Gareth told him, almost done with his bowl. “It’s a D&D game, you don’t gotta go full out for us.” 

“I just want to make sure everyone has a good time.“ Steve said with a shrug. Like none of the effort he’d gone to, was a big deal. 

“Careful Harrington, say stuff like that again and we’re going to start thinking you enjoy hosting us.” 

“Shut up Gary.” Steve said, setting his cookies on a cooling rack. “And put that bowl in the sink!” 

Gareth jumped off the counter, trying his best to remove the shit eating from his face.

He failed entirely. 

xXx 

As far as pranks went, this one required quite the set up. 

They couldn’t do it in the beginning of the D&D game--too obvious, and too easy for Eddie to call bullshit. 

Doing it at the end wouldn’t work either. Eddie would know they were trying to rile him up and would no doubt find a way to ruin it. 

Years of being Munson’s best friend had afforded Gareth the knowledge that this was going to have to be split in two parts, and the first part, the setup, started now. 

Slowly. Methodically. 

In a way that wouldn't spook Steve, or trigger Eddie's sense for trouble. 

Gareth began by selecting a seat as far away from Eddie as possible, knowing his lovestruck idiot friend would be pulling out all the stops tonight in order to impress Steve (and get him to keep playing, of course.) 

Sure enough, as soon as Eddie was done setting up he crooked a finger in Steve's direction.

“Harrington you’re here, next to me.” Eddie flashed him his most award winning grin, the one that said he was up to trouble in that charming, ‘aren’t I just a charming ol’ rogue?” sort of way. 

“I made you a human fighter, just to start you off." He continued, as Steve took the seat next to him. "You can always make your own character later if you don't like playing this class, but I made this set up as straightforward as possible.” 

“Human fighter huh?” Steve said, glancing down the sheet. “Okay.” 

“You have any questions, you just ask. I promise I won���t bite. Not for your first time anyway.” Eddie winked, dipping in and out of Steve's space as he did so. 

“Dude, I am begging you to please stop saying shit like that.” Jeff said with a long suffering sigh. 

“No.” Eddie replied promptly, sticking his tongue out. 

Steve just ducked his head to hide his smile. 

A harsh clap halted any further response, as Eddie settled back into his seat and dipped into his DM narrator voice. 

"Alright my little adventurers! Are we ready to begin?"  He looked around as everyone looked towards him, the energy shifting instantly in the room. 

Eddie grinned gleefully. "Perfect. You all wake up at an Inn, with no memory of how you got there…" 

A story was quickly spun, one of mysterious memory loss and a sense that the group needed to stay together. Introductions were given once everyone came into the tavern of the inn, cut short when they were interrupted by a lone barkeep.

“Is the barkeep a human?” Steve cut in. 

Eddie paused, temporarily thrown, but nodded encouragingly. “Yes, he is actually!” 

Grant and Jeff both went to open their mouths, no doubt to tease, but Harrington beat them to it. 

“Okay, I roll to fight him, or whatever.” Steve said.

“I--what?” Eddie asked. 

“I roll to fight him.” Steve repeated. “Oh and my character screams “Death to humans!” before he attacks.” 

He sat back with a smug little grin, and watched as Eddie froze in surprise, while Grant and Stewart's jaws promptly hit the floor. 

“Harrington, you menace.” Tiff cackled, delighted. 

Eddie just threw his head back and laughed. 

It set the tone quite nicely for the rest of the one-shot. 

xXx 

“Grant, why are you looking at me through a fork?” Steve asked, about thirty minutes into the game. 

“I’m pretending you’re in jail.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Grant, whose character had to physically carry Steve's fighter out of two altercations he started,  just gave him a flat look.  “It’s spiritually healing.”

"Hey Jeff." Gareth asked quietly, as banter was traded. "I'm catching a hell of a draft over here." 

Jeff raised an eyebrow at him. "And what do you want me to do about it?" 

"Switch me seats?" 

Jeff rolled his eyes, but gave in easily enough. 

"Fine."  He said. 

Gareth did his best to keep his grin off his face. 

Step one, complete! 

xxx

"You come upon a door." Eddie said, sitting deep in his seat while steepling his fingers. "It's a normal door, unremarkable in every way except for two things." 

Groans filled the room, startling Steve. 

"Oh god, not again." Stewart moaned, raking his hands through his hair. "I can't do this again!" 

Eddie's grin merely grew. "The first odd thing you notice is that the door has been put into the wall at a tilt." 

"I'm gonna kill him." Tiff snarled, writing something frantically in her notes. "Munson is a dead man walking." 

"What is happening?" Steve asked, glancing around. 

"The second thing is that you recognize this door." Eddie's grin was Cheshire cat-esque, smug in the chaos he was causing among his friends. "It's the same door you saw at the beginning of this adventure, leading into the room the Innkeeper asked you to stay away from." 

"We're boned." Grant announced, throwing himself dramatically back against his chair. 

Gareth made his own dramatic, frustrated noise, banging his fist on the table. 

The full glass of soda next to him wobbled dangerously. 

With a cough, he made another loud "ugh!"  smacking his fist down a second time, closer to the glass. 

As intended, it spilled all over Tiffany. 

"Dude!" She exclaimed, shoving her chair backwards and jumping up. 

"Oh shit Tiff, I'm so sorry!" Gareth gasped. 

It was hard to keep a straight (albeit very sorry, least Tiffany hit him with her papers) face, but he managed. 

Barely. 

"You got my shirt wet you dick!"

"Here, switch it with this."  Gareth stood, unwrapping the red and black checkered sweater from his waist. He offered it up with an apologetic face as Tiff snatched it out of his hands with a glare. 

"I'll switch you seats too!" He called as she stormed off towards the bathroom. 

Jeff and Grant both stared at him with raised eyebrows as Gareth quickly shuffled his and Tiff's stuff around, taking her now sticky chair. 

"Maybe we should take a break?" He suggested, trying to act embarrassed when he was anything but. "This whole area needs to be wiped down."

"Five minutes." Eddie conceded. "I wanted one of Stevie's delicious cookies anyway." He stood, putting his arms up in a lazy stretch. 

Steve stood with him, leaning over to examine the mess Gareth had made. “We can wipe this down but this wood’s kinda funny, it’s gonna be wet for a bit no matter how much we dry it.” 

“Well shit.” Gareth said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about the table man.” 

Steve waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, the kids spill on it constantly. You are probably going to need a different chair though unless you’re fine with your ass getting wet.” 

“Do you have another chair somewhere, Stevie?” Eddie asked, making a show of looking around. “Cause I’m not seeing one. Not that I care if Gary-Berry sits on the floor.” 

Steve had several extra chairs in fact, but he and Gareth had hidden them all away before anyone else had arrived. 

“I used to, but Mike broke two.” Steve said, and Gareth found himself insanely impressed by the improv on display. 

He hadn’t thought Harrington had that level of acting in him. 

“If you’re okay with sharing though, the chair’s are big enough that we can kinda squish together.” Steve continued, completely ignoring the way Eddie’s eyes about bugged out of his head. 

“Only if you’re sure, man. I don’t want to be more of a bother.” Gareth put on his saddest, ‘I dun fucked up’ face, and shuffled his feet a little, just for dramatic effect. 

This was the performance of a lifetime and Gareth wanted his Grammy after it, because he and Steve had planned the entire thing right down to the shared chair bit. 

“You’re not, Dustin does this constantly.” Steve replied easily. 

“Or we could just put down a towel.” Jeff said, with a look on his face that said he thought everyone in the room was a fucking idiot. 

Gareth could’ve strangled him. 

“That’s probably a smarter idea.” Steve agreed, like the traitor he was. “I dunno if that’s gonna work for your papers and shit though, so you can just hedge into my space.” 

Which wasn’t what Gareth wanted, but he had to give Steve props for the quick thinking. 

At least it was just a minor setback. 

“I’ll get a towel.” Jeff continued, and at least they all got to witness the look that graced Eddie’s face upon realizing that Jeff of all people, knew where Steve kept his towels. 

xXx

"What the hell else can we do to try and open the door!?" Jeff snarled a while later, slamming his pencil down. 

They'd tried multiple different approaches and so far nothing had worked to set off whatever trap Eddie had set up. Something that made their DM absolutely delighted, while frustrating everyone else. 

"I still don't get why we can't just try to turn the knob." Steve complained, staring in confusion at the absolute riot Eddie's "completely normal" door had caused among the rest of his party. 

"Do not touch that door Harrington!" Grant bellowed, pointing at him. 

Steve raised his hands in the air placatingly. "Easy, easy, I was just making a suggestion." 

Gareth, wedged as close into Steve's space as he could get, tapped his fingers on the table twice. It was the little code he’d come up with to alert Steve that he was about to do something to piss off Eddie related to the prank (mostly, so Steve had a heads up Gareth was about to touch him, not that Gareth had spun it that way when he’d explained it) before patting Steve’s shoulder, hooking his elbow on it and leaning over. “Not gonna lie man, it’s not a bad idea. We’ve tried right about everything else.” 

He could feel Eddie's eyes burning a hole in his skull from here and he delighted in it. 

“Do not encourage him.” Grant said through gritted teeth. 

Gareth leaned his face on the arm perched on Harrington, his hair tickling Steve’s cheek as he tried to look as angelic as possible. “I couldn’t possibly know what you mean, Grantman.” 

He was flipped off in response. 

xXx

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Stewart howled, and even Gareth’s jaw dropped when Steve finally gave in and tried to turn the knob--only to succeed and swing the door open. 

“Well Munson? What happens to him?” Tiff said, having refused to call Eddie anything but his last name since the door had first appeared. 

“Nothing.” Eddie practically purred. “I told you, it’s a totally normal door, and the only weird thing about it was that you recognized it and that it was put into the wall a little tilted.” 

“Fuck you dude.” Stewart practically growled, balling up the piece of paper he’d been doodling on and flinging it towards their DM. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck. You!” 

“No thank you.” Eddie replied cheekily, twirling a finger in his hair. 

“We spent almost an hour trying to figure out how to open a regular door.” Jeff said, clearly processing. “An hour.” 

Eddie just shrugged, shit eating grin plastered across his face. 

Gareth once again tapped his fingers twice against the table, waited a moment, before banging his head gently against Steve’s shoulder. “I hate him.” He groaned. 

After a long moment, Steve gently, if not a little awkwardly, patted him on the head. 

“There, there, Gary. We defeated the door in the end.” He said calmly. 

Gareth laughed, absolutely delighted. His head jerked up and a grin crossed his face as he immediately looked to see what Eddie made of that. 

Pure murder, going by the face Eddie poorly tried to cover. 

Perfect. 

xXx 

“With his last few moves, Sir Carrington-” 

"I refuse to let that be my character's name.” Steve interjected, as he had every time Eddie brought up the name they’d apparently argued over. “If I have to figure out how to change it legally in your dumb game I fucking will."  

Eddie didn’t even look in his direction. 

“--Sir Carrington leaps into the air, swinging the sword of truth. It cleaves right through the Innkeeper, revealing him to be the dastardly villain you’ve heard so much about, Tareth the Trait. He’s gained an unusual amount of power after stealing the Inn from the former Innkeeper--” 

“Really bro?” Gareth said, sending Eddie a flat look. “Tareth the Trait?” 

“--With this final blow, Tareth collapses to the ground, dead. The Inn returns to its prior form, a safe haven for adventurers, instead of a trap.” 

“Shut up guys, we did it!” Stewart said, throwing his hands up in a victory pose. 

“Not gonna Eddie, I liked the twist.” Tiff complimented, a rare thing from her. 

“Thank you, thank you.” Eddie stood up, sweeping an arm across his chest as he bowed. “Give yourselves a round of applause as well, especially for our dear Steven, who just completed his first D&D game!”

A cheer went up, causing Steve to flush red. 

Gareth pretending to drum, knocking his shoulder into Steve’s much the way he had seen Eddie do as Steve sent an embarrassed smile around the room. 

“We should celebrate.” Jeff said, as the chaos finally died down. 

“I conquer, Jeff the Chef!” Eddie hollered, putting his foot on Steve’s chair. “Stevie-boy, you gotta have some good stuff around here for those big basketball wins!” 

“Get your foot off the chair, Eds.” Steve groaned, but stood up (forcing Gareth to get up as well considering how far he’d been leaning into Steve’s space.) “And yeah we can order like pizza.” 

“Pizza and beer?” Grant suggested.

“Oh my friend. I can do better than that.” Steve replied, a flash of his old, charming self coming through. “Allow me to raid my father’s liquor cabinet.” 

“Hell yes!” Grant yelled, pumping his fist. 

Tiffany rolled her eyes but didn’t protest, and neither Gareth noted, did anyone else. 

Which was exactly what he wanted, because he hadn’t managed to land the perfect ending he and Harrington had planned. 

Gareth would make it into Steve’s lap tonight, even if it killed him.  

(Or worse, even if Eddie got there first, a thing that may very well happen considering Eddie was clearly annoyed with how Gareth had been hogging Steve. 

Just as intended.) 

SOME NOTES: I don't play d&d so writing it always requires a lot of research. Several pieces here (like the human fighter bit) are based off of/stolen from memes, videos or stories I read. If I fucked it up thaaaan idk squint and pretend its right LOL. 

This one doesn’t have a bonus because I had to split Chapter Five into two parts. This is Part One, it’ll be one chapter on A03.  It just kept going.

Also Adopt a Jock is officially going up ON A03 so I will no longer be accepting tags ( Ch. One is already uploaded I’m just struggling with the summary lol. I will make a post and link it to my pinned post when it’s up.) I will still be updating here since I am only updating chapters on A03 as fast as I can edit them, which is not fast at all, so I imagine the next few chaps will be here before there but eventually shits gonna even out, so those who did not get onto the tag list can subscribe to the A03!  

Finally, Sorry this took so long, I have a prior ongoing medical issue and getting laid off fucked up my insurance. Had to cram in some procedures before it ran out. Long story short all I've done is sleep, go to a doctor or rant about one of the two lmao. Legit slept 18 hours yesterday ahaha k i l l m e 

[hollymacycomic]

Holly & Macy and Everyone Else

Chapter 4: Page 34

Start at the Beginning | About the comic | Tip-jar 

🌘 Support the comic & read the next page now on Patreon! 🌘

[lovingapparition]

i’ve got a river running right into you.

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn

Warnings for descriptions of medical gore.

Ghost gets hurt. Ghost is touch starved. You just want to help. It’s awkward. 

NOT COMPLETE / NO BETA

It's loud in the medical bay. The lights overhead buzz, adding their hum to the sound of clinking medical instruments, shouted calls for supplies, and the pained sounds of the injured. No set of hands are still as the wounded are wheeled in on gurneys or dragged in by their fellow soldiers. There's too much iron in the air to really adhere to the stricter medical protocols, and it's a scramble for everyone to assess and treat the damage in front of them. Each doctor's movements are efficient and practiced; stitching a wound just as a soldier would clean a gun. 

Just another day on the job.

You were hustling from one sectioned off bed to another, caught in the flow of all the action in the medical bay. The thin curtains between beds did nothing to muffle the chaos of the situation. Too many bodies were moving in and out of the area, it was almost dizzying. Your section of the unit had been chaotic for the better part of three hours, leaving you no time to stop and breathe. It seems things had gone south on the recent mission. The details of which were lost on you, but they didn’t matter now.

Stepping behind a curtain, you immediately get to work assessing the situation the soldier on the bed has found herself in, and you set about putting her back together. She's only caught minor fragments of shrapnel in her upper arms and chest. Nothing deep and nothing dangerous. It doesn't take you long to patch her up, thankfully. As you work, your brain vaguely registers that your medical team must be shifting focus to the less severely injured of the bunch.

You and the soldier both breathe a shared sigh of relief as you finish up her sutures. She only needs a few, and you tell her to return in about a week to check in before they can be removed. As you fill out her paperwork with a quick hand, you notice that the sounds of the room have hushed. You must be reaching the end of the torrent of injured soldiers.

Though small, your team was incredibly efficient; working like a machine during frenzied moments like these. Every second counted, nothing could go to waste.

You briskly step into another curtained area to see a broad, masked man on the gurney. The poor bed looked like it might strain under the weight of his bulky frame and plethora of equipment. For a moment, you can't even tell what's wrong with him. Stepping closer, the scent of fresh blood hits you just as you notice the dark wetness blooming on the upper right thigh of his gray fatigues. It looks like he’s used his own belt as a tourniquet. Your eyebrows scrunch down as you move to his side, your gloved hands automatically moving to his mask.

"Are you awake? Hey-" you're interrupted with a stiff, gloved hand gripping tightly at your wrist. Looking through the skull mask's eye sockets, you can see the whites of his half-lidded eyes starkly against his eyeblack. He's staring evenly back at you.

"I'm awake," he rumbles, low in his chest as if through water, "leave the mask." The directive is clear, even through the murk of his discomfort. You're not sure who this guy is, but from his tone he clearly expects to be obeyed. You knew there was a special operations unit active out of the base, and you can only guess that he's a part of it. Those types tended to be.. odd. This guy fit the bill.

The exchange doesn't last long though, and you immediately move down to visually assess the rest of his body as you open a new emergency medical kit. "Can you feel anywhere other than your legs that you've been injured? Have you hit your head at all?" you ask, running through regular questions since he seems to be lucid enough to give clear answers. He watches you intently, blinking slowly and almost lazily when you look at him, trauma shears in hand.

He simply shakes his head, grunting what sounds like a negative response. Great, how very helpful. You sigh as you work the shears beneath his pant leg. Without even looking up at him you slide the shears up, cutting half of his pants away to reveal the mess of both fresh and congealing blood on his thigh. Without a second thought, you cut through his briefs, pushing them aside just enough to allow him privacy as you get a better view of his injuries. The belt stays for now, it’s probably the only thing keeping him from passing out. 

It's not great. He definitely needed to be seen sooner, and you're worried about exactly how much blood he's lost. Some of these wounds are deep and still bleeding. Small bits of metal are visible through the clots. You can see bruising already beginning to form on the skin around the lacerations. The hot iron scent of his blood floods your nose, thick in the air between you.

"I need help in here- I've got shrapnel, heavy blood loss and I need extra hands!" you shout to your team without looking up, busy flushing his wounds with saline to clear any loose debris. Your hands are practiced and steady, one hand deftly wiping the blood and saline as you work. The man shifts, a strained breath escaping him. You spare him a sympathetic glance, knowing this part made many uncomfortable. Why had no one tended to him? He should've been among the first.

Evidently, so is the man in the bed. 

Before you can ask, your colleague steps in and immediately gloves up before getting to work with you. Together, you clean and stitch the man's wounds. He remains almost totally silent for all of it, save for the soft grunts as he's sewn back together. Even with the local anesthetic, it's still a bit uncomfortable. Throughout it all, he peers at you, his pale eyes flitting between your hands and your face as you work. At one point his gloved hands twitch at his side like he wants to move them. He doesn’t.

Your colleague quickly removes the man’s vest, knowing just as you do that there could be more injuries beneath it. The vest goes in a chair by the bed for later. The black shirt shirt he's wearing beneath it isn't torn or bloody, but you’re aware of your colleague’s intention to begin feeling for broken ribs as you get his IV drip ready. 

His hands catch your colleague’s wrists with a quickness you wouldn’t have thought possible given the amount of blood he’s already lost. “That’s enough,” he hisses. Your head snaps up, and you can only see the tight narrowing of his eyes through the mask. Before you can react, your colleague jerks from his grip. 

"I need to get these pants the rest of the way off, and then we're done. I'll get you cleaned up and finished for the night," you explain, falling back into your doctor mindset and practiced speech to ease the tension. He makes no response to this, so you take his silence as the go ahead. It's not like his pants were salvageable anyway.

"Are you gonna be okay in here? I have to go check on someone," your colleague asks, clearly annoyed. It wasn’t anything new to have a rude patient, but everyone’s nerves were fried after the hectic shift. You couldn’t blame them at all.

You wave them off, tired. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got him. Shouldn’t be much longer anyway.” They head off, and you turn back to the man, sighing. He’s clearly had a rough night, maybe he could use the benefit of the doubt. You were certain that you’d be a bit pissy after catching some shrapnel. 

"Do you think you can get into a clean bed without ripping those stitches?" you ask tiredly as you remove your gloves. Without looking up, you move to unlace his boot. You swear you can feel him watching your fingers loosen the laces, watching your hand wrap around his ankle as you pull the boot off. His stare holds a weight in it you've never experienced before. When you look up at him, he's ready looking away.

You offer him a fresh towel for privacy as you cut his pants and briefs the rest of the way off and gingerly slide them from beneath him. They go straight in the red trash bin specifically for biohazard waste. You gingerly clean his thigh one last time and apply a thin layer of ointment to his sutures to encourage healing before you wrap his thigh in gauze. He helpfully spreads his legs enough to allow you to securely tape the gauze in place. His skin is warm, even through your gloves.

You blink once, twice, forcing the thought away as you finish up. 

"I can." is all you get out of him. You sigh, it's been a long day. His boots join his vest in the chair, and you roll a clean cot into his room. This one has a thin cotton sheet and a blanket on it. You could almost swear his head is cocked, ever so slightly, with a question, and you answer it without thinking. "You're sleeping here tonight. You've lost a lot of blood and you'll need IV fluids to recover. It's not much, but it's better than that gurney."

He huffs, you can only guess he’s annoyed, but he looks the bed over. The cushioned pad was minimal at best. He would definitely feel it in the morning in addition to whatever pain arose from his stitches. “Look, I’m going to override whatever authority you think you have here. It’s safest for us to be able to watch you, just for tonight.” It’s your turn to leave him without room to argue.

For a long moment, he looks at you indignantly, like he’s not covering himself with a thin towel and your sutures aren't in his thigh. Then the tension slowly eases out of his shoulders, and he nods once.

You don't look away as he slides his legs around to the edge of the gurney, one massive hand still covering himself with the towel for decency. It's nothing you haven't seen before, and you're more concerned with whether or not he's okay to stand without support. You step closer, clearing your throat to cut the silence.

You roll an IV pole to the side of his cot and hand the fluids you’d prepared earlier on it. “Okay, last thing and then I’ll fuck off for the night, I swear,” you tell him dryly. He huffs, a short sound that’s close to a laugh, you think. 

"I'm here, if you need a hand," you tell him, more confidently than you feel. Seeing him standing now you realize he's nearly a full head taller and twice as broad as you. Your hand finds his elbow, and to your surprise he doesn't tell you to back off as you help him ease into the bed.

A low, cut off groan escapes him as he sits tentatively on the edge of the bed. When he eases back to lay down, his shirt rides up just enough to hint at the bloom of a purple bruise draped over his side. His eyes are pinched shut as he slowly settles into bed.

He doesn’t get the chance to try to help himself get comfortable. “Here, just let me. I’ve got it.” You tell him quietly, batting his hands away from the sheets. You gingerly help him maneuver his legs into a comfortable position and tuck the blankets loosely around him. Another stolen glance at him tells you he’s still got that dreamy half lidded look. It’s enough for you to not exactly trust him with getting settled in bed on his own.

“I’m going to give you an IV to replace the fluids you lost and some light pain medication. Then we’re all done,” You tell him as you add more of those shitty military issue pillows to the bed. It’s the least you can do to make him comfortable. The local anesthetic won’t last him the entire night, and you’re certain the rest of his body must be sore from the aftermath of the mission. 

Placing his IV goes without fuss. He's slumped back against the pillows, breathing evenly as you fill out his paperwork for his overnight check in. You'd managed to fill out most of it, but you still didn't know his name or what unit he belonged to. "Hey, what's your name and unit? I need to fill this sheet out for my records,” you ask, not even looking up.

"Ghost. One four one," each rumbling word has you bristling, your face paling. Oh hell. 

"..Thank you sir." Your throat feels like it’s closing up. You don’t even bother asking for his actual name. You’d heard about a Ghost on the base, but you’d never seen him; never thought you would. It was all just rumors, something to shoot the shit about over dinner in the cafeteria. 

You wanted to sink into the floor. How could you have missed the literal skull mask? The hectic rush of the day coupled with your exhaustion must have completely cleared your brain out of any irrelevant gossip, and now it was biting you in the ass. For the last half hour you’d been practically ogling him and talking to him like he was any other soldier on the base. 

The rest of the shift moves by in a blur, it’s mostly paperwork and cleanup since everyone has been seen too. You luckily are not chosen to pass food out, so you’re saved the further embarrassment of having to interact with Ghost even more. With any luck tomorrow morning would be the last you two ever speak, and he could go back to being invisible to you, and you’d be saved from dying of embarrassment.

A low chuckle rolls from his chest, and your head sharply snaps up. You fight the urge to apologize and dig your hole deeper. You can feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you realize he’s laughing at you. You had heard rumors about his particularly efficient methods of combat and data extraction from captured enemies; some of the things you’d heard made your spine chill.

You can only smile nervously back at him and tiredly drag your hand over your eyes. You can only cling to the last vestiges of professionalism that you have left. “You’re all set here. Once things calm down someone will be by with some food for you, if you feel like eating,” you tell him, your mouth dry. He hums softly in response, and you figure the pain medication has started to take effect. “I’ll be back in the morning to check in, have a good night, sir.” 

[constantcrisis19]

Bleeding Out - Part 1

Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN S/O

AN: I personally headcanon that Ghost has sociopathic traits, which is why he's a bit not good in this fic and I kinda see the dynamic between him and the reader being a "I hate everyone except you" type of deal. If that's your cup of tea (pun intended) then enjoy!

Main Page

Warnings: War, violence, bombs, blood and injury, very heavily implied suicidal intent.

Ghost carefully picked his way through the blackened rubble, avoiding the broken glass and tall flames that swayed in the warm breeze as he jogged by, steadily making his way back to where they’d set up base camp. 

The private that he had secured across his shoulders in a fireman's carry remained quiet despite how dizzy Ghost’s every step had to make him feel. The younger man was clearly concussed, the deep gash on his forehead dripping blood into his eyes and leaving a subtle trail behind them as Ghost walked. 

From what Ghost could put together from the private’s garbled attempt to explain what had happened, a chunk of concrete had been thrown by the explosion and had hit him directly in the middle of his forehead, knocking him out, which had probably saved his life. 

There were fairly blatant signs that other people had recently been in the area, as evidenced by the copious boot prints covering the fractured ground, so it was obvious that the enemy had assumed that he was dead during their initial sweep through the destruction for any survivors and had left him alone.

Others hadn’t been so lucky.

Ghost’s breaths were slow and even as his eyes scanned over the substantial damage around him, paying particular attention to the more sizable chunks of debris that were big enough for someone to hide behind.

The bomb that had gone off not twenty minutes ago had leveled almost the entire town, leaving behind only carnage. His gloves creaked as his hands tightened on his rifle, a feeling of dread sinking in his gut as he walked through what was essentially a graveyard.

They’d had two teams in the immediate blast range, one having accidentally come across the bomb, the leader only getting a short warning out over comms before a deafening explosion rocked the city. It wasn’t long after that that the gunfire had started, a frantic voice coming over the radio to warn the rest of the teams about the ambush.

Ghost recognized the voice as Bravo team’s leader, the very same group that you’d been assigned to.

Ghost felt something in his chest tighten when -after one last flurry of gunfire- everything had gone eerily quiet, the sound of static the only answer when he tried to get a hold of someone on Bravo team for a sitrep, the dead silence putting him more on edge than any gunshot or explosion ever could. 

"Bravo team, this is Karma in the blind, how copy?" Your voice suddenly broke through the white noise that had taken over the channel, weary and labored. “I repeat, this is Karma, does anyone copy?”

"I read you Karma, what’s your sitrep." Ghost spoke into the radio, pausing his determined march to let the private he had a hold of rest for a few precious minutes. Ghost didn’t feel relief at hearing your voice, that feeling of foreboding he had becoming stronger at how shaky you sounded.

"I got separated from the rest of Bravo team during the ambush and I'm running low on ammo. What's your position, maybe we could link up?" You asked, your breaths coming out heavy in between bouts of talking. It was abundantly clear that you were running on fumes and Ghost nearly shattered the plastic casing on his radio when his grip tightened.

He couldn’t abandon the injured private that he was carrying, no matter how badly he wanted to come to your aid, it was against protocol and wouldn’t be fair to the private.

“Negative.” He barked into the speaker, his helpless frustration making his tone sharp and angry. “I've got a private with me, WIA.” Ghost replied, and you both knew full well what that meant. 

He was heading out of the town in order to reach base camp, which meant that Ghost was traveling in the opposite direction of your position and wouldn’t be able to come back until the private was secured.

"Shit. How bad? Are they gonna make it?" You cursed over the line, but you didn’t sound angry or accusing, you just sounded worried. But not for yourself, all that concern in your voice being solely reserved for the random soldier that Ghost was hauling around, the very one that kept him from running to your side.

And that was just like you, wasn’t it? Painfully altruistic, even at your own expense.

He felt the inane urge to laugh -an angry, bitter sound- but he swallowed the horrible noise down because he knew that it wouldn’t make the shitty situation suddenly change to something a little more palatable. 

The sound of you loading a new mag into your gun sounded over the line, drawing Ghost’s attention back to you, before you spoke. “Ghost? You still with me?”

“Always.” Ghost replied as he began moving again, being careful not to jostle the private as he went, as if his extra caution could possibly make up for his overwhelming desire to just drop him to the ground and leave him for dead. 

If you were suspicious of Ghost for withholding the exact nature of the private’s injuries, you didn’t say, the only sound on comms for a moment being the subtle shift of clothing as you adjusted your position.

"I'll try to hold out as long as I can. Until then, stay frosty, Lt." You finally sighed through the radio, breaking the loaded silence that had descended over the two of you. 

"I'll keep the radio on me. Don't let your guard down." Ghost ordered grimly before the radio clicked off, allowing him to turn his focus back to his surroundings and the person he was carrying as he picked up his pace, returning to the light jog he was at before you’d contacted him. 

He was about ten minutes out from his intended destination when the familiar sound of distant gunfire rang out, the echoing crack of gunshots continuing on for a few minutes before abruptly cutting out, that knot in his chest seizing until he felt his breathing became labored. 

The image of your bleeding, broken body flitted through his mind's eye, taking inspiration from the various gorey scenes from all of Ghost’s missions that he had filed away in the back of his mind, making each new image his memory conjured up worse than the one before.

He could just begin to make out the perimeter of camp when Ghost's radio came to life, white noise filling the oppressive quiet, the soft static somehow more ominous than the previous silence.

Ghost freed one of his hands and snatched up the radio on his shoulder all without once breaking his stride. “This is Ghost, how copy.” 

"Fuck, Ghost. It’s not looking good.” You breathed shakily over the line and Ghost immediately picked up on your distress, cataloging every tiny scrap of information he could glean from just your voice as he ran across the last few meters separating him from the medical tent.

He wondered if you were aware of the small, almost inaudible sounds of pain you were making with every careful breath.

“Head wound, severe concussion.” Ghost barked at the medic that tried to protest against him depositing his cargo onto one of the first empty cots he came across while aggressively pointing at the barely conscious private, watching as the medic took a step away from him at his curt tone, eyes wide as they warily watched him.

He turned his back on the medic and the private he’d hauled to safety, stalking back out of medical. He ignored the painful-looking double takes that the soldiers milling about shot his way as they scrambled out of his warpath. 

He didn’t care about the looks he was getting or that he was making people nervous; his skin felt too tight -like an ill fitting suit- and it made him feel unstable… inhuman.

“Sitrep, now.” Ghost growled at you as he stalked over to the tent where they had set up a supply cache, loading up on grenades, ammo, knives and anything else that he thought would be useful in case he got cornered at any point during his journey. 

“I got pinned down by enemy fire and had to shoot my way out. A lucky bullet took a fucking chunk out of my thigh. I can’t move and I'm pretty sure our little confrontation signaled my position to everything unfriendly within a five mile radius." There was a moment of silence before you continued with a rueful laugh. “And I've only got eight bullets left. What a fucking shit show." You muttered the last bit to yourself, snapping your mag back into place.

"What other weapons do you have?" Ghost asked, already mentally running through several different strategies and contingencies for every plan he came up with as he double checked his gear before marching back out of the tent. 

"A couple knives and two grenades. Though I was saving the explosives for if I was surrounded with no way out. I figured that I could at least take a number of the enemy with me if push comes to shove." There was a tense pause before you audibly swallowed. “I’m not going to let them take me.” You added with a grim determination, more than prepared to use the grenades to keep that exact thing from happening.

"Give me your location." Ghost demanded, his voice low and dangerous as he passed one of the pairs who were assigned with patrolling the perimeter of camp, neither woman daring to stop him.

“Negative, sir.” You responded without hesitation, your bold refusal to comply with a direct order bringing him up short, his dark eyes narrowing as he glowered into the middle distance, watching the plumes of dark smoke from the destroyed town rise up into the sky.

“Private-” Ghost began, his voice holding a thinly veiled threat, but his warning was cut short when you spoke again.

“I'm in the middle of enemy territory. This place is crawling with hostiles, there’s no way-” 

“That changes nothing.” Ghost shouted to be heard over your useless protests, his chest heaving as the radio in his hand creaked threateningly in his fierce grip. 

“It changes everything, Simon! Coming after me at this point is suicide!” You raised your own voice as much as you dared in response to his outburst, still aware of the danger posed by potential enemies in the area, and the uncontrollable anger wound tighter in his chest at the mere implication that he should leave you, his closest friend -someone he couldn’t bare the thought of losing- behind to die.

“The way I see it, you can either give me your location now or I can wander around the warzone until I find you.” Ghost was forced to stop and focus on his ragged breathing in order to rein in his fury when the darkness roiling just beneath his skin bled into his voice. And, once he felt more in control, he continued, his voice ice cold. “Though I feel inclined to warn you that, if you refuse me again, I’m going to make you regret not following a direct order and, mark my words, I will find you.”

There was a long moment that seemed to stretch on for hours, though it had to have been only a few minutes, where all Ghost heard was your breathing. He closed his eyes for a couple, calming seconds and focused on the rhythmic sound as he stared out at the wreckage, using it to ground him as he waited for your reply. 

Though, it honestly didn’t matter what you decided in the end because he was coming after you either way, a location would just make his trek to you that much faster.

"I'm holed up in what I'm pretty sure used to be a gas station on the south side of the town." You begrudgingly replied, every syllable that dripped from your lips laced with fury at Ghost basically forcing your hand. 

“Copy, hold your position” Ghost ordered, his eyes snapping back open before he impatiently input the coordinates you followed up with into his GPS device, letting it load the map before he spoke into the radio. “I’m twenty mikes out.” He gave you a moment to process the information, standing there until he realized that he was wasting the already very little time he still had to get you to.

"And if anything- if I don’t-" Ghost cut himself off as he began to make his way back into the rubble, various scenarios playing out in his head. You bleeding out all alone or -even worse- being found by the enemy and promptly executed, your precious, beautiful mind splattered all over the uneven ground as you stared sightlessly up at the smog-filled sky.

If he let himself think about it for too long, he began to quickly unravel, so he bottled up every emotion except for the ones that would be useful to him as he gave his rifle and gear one last through check.

"Use your grenades if I don't make it.” He finally settled on, his tone grim.

"Affirmative, sir."

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Part Twenty-Seven

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale Chapter 27

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten]  [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve]  [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] Part Twenty-Seven [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You received some respite from the seemingly endless talking this particular gala is focused on with the first round of dancing, but it didn't last long.

You hope no one noticed that you weren’t actually eating much during the main dinner course, especially your parents. You’ve since managed to edge away from them with this return to finger foods by staying with your siblings instead, the eldest of which were more available now that all children were sent up to bed, no matter how they pleaded. Asher in particular is looking relieved since he’s here without his wife, who is at home managing Portsmith, but even Callalily and her husband seemed less tired at the prospect of a party without children to mind. You are grateful you were not part of the river journey to Connton when they had all been packed together, even though you’re sure your family’s boat had been as spacious as any could be.

Still, even they are beginning to wear on your nerves, as is the volume of the gathering, which seems to only have increased exponentially as the night has worn on. A contradiction since you know multiple groups have gone home—you’ve said goodbye to nearly all of them personally. Shouldn’t it be quieter? Shouldn’t you be used to this by now? 

An increase in chatter in your immediate vicinity causes you to notice a group of artists, including Breighton, have joined your smaller group. They’ve clearly been enjoying the wine and their enthusiasm is grating. The desire for air and space is suddenly overwhelming. Unfortunately, Marigold and Callalily have you boxed in on either side and Asher’ll be no help–he’s looking for his own exit. You watch as he spots a knight his own age he must know and quickly walks off with him. He’ll likely be able to bid good night to him soon enough and without the notice of  your family. He doesn’t even have the courtesy to send an apologetic look your way. 

Where had Dale gotten to? Maybe he’ll be your way out. If you recall, he’d been pulled away by his grandparents to speak with some local nobles. You scan the room, trying to ignore the way Marigold’s emphatic gestures are in danger of spilling wine onto your arm, if not your dress. You know that usually, you’d be pleased she’s enjoying herself as much as she obviously is. Even a few hours ago, you’d be happy with how well this ball is reflecting on you and the Northridges as hosts. A betrothal feast for your wedding, with nearly all of your family present and reveling in a good time. But your tolerance for socializing is used up. You desperately need a breath of fresh air and a moment to yourself. Please.

You finally spot Dale talking with a small group, the rich blue ribbon in his dark hair catching your eye. Abruptly you’re reminded of when you met him for the first time, how intimidating and handsome that stranger had seemed to you. Speaking with that stranger then had not helped matters. Even these days, you still find him intimidating at times, but in the way the future is, not the way an obstacle is. So much possibility. You’re not sure if it is helpful or not, that you only find him more attractive these days. The way he can hold your attention is unlike anyone else you’ve come across.    His bright eyes, the way he styled his hair, the mischievous look he could get when the mood suited him are all so compelling. Is that something demonic? Or merely a reflection of getting to know the new person in his place, even if they by definition looked the same?

Regardless of how struck you are by your soon-to-be husband’s attractiveness, you want to seize the opportunity to utilize him to flee far more than you want to admire him. At least, in this moment. You’re note sure what you say to your siblings, you think you claims he motioned you over to him, but it’s a bit of blur. They easily et you go to your betrothed, already half-swept up in some debate about the large painting they’ve been contemplating. You don’t even spare it glance as you seize this opportunity. 

You head in his direction, hoping it doesn’t look like the escape it is and hoping Dale will go along with the actual plan to take the time away from everyone. You don’t want to be trapped in another, different conversation either, but you know you cannot wander the garden unescorted at such an event.

Luckily, you don’t have to find a way to get Dale’s attention in order to break into the small circle of people he’s speaking with. He seems to sense your approach, turning once you’re within a few feet with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges when they land on you. At least this circle is only three other people and farther from the musicians so no one’s shouting can be heard over more than the general sound of the crowd.

“My lady,” he greets, holding out his left arm. You gratefully loop yours through his, always appreciative how supported it makes you feel. “While I believe you’ve met Lord Nicolo and Lady Elain, I do believe you’ve not met my other companion,” Dale says, naming one of the neighboring fiefs to Northridge. You do recognize the other lord and lady, both a decade older than yourselves, who’s lands border Northridge and Connton respectively. You’ve met them at previous gala’s and find them pleasant enough company under usual circumstances. Tonight, you can’t help but wish they’d suddenly take their leave.

Dale turns to the striking blonde woman in purple to his immediate right that you correctly do not think you’ve ever seen before. “Allow me to introduce Lady Lorraine of Hillibrght.” The first thing that strikes you about her is that she’s beautiful. Her long hair is woven with ribbon in a style you recognize from some of the newest fashion plates from the capital you’d been presented with for your wedding. Her eyes are bright and her figure is shapely in her light blue dress. She holds herself with the sort of effortless confidence that you’d have remembered being envious of. That feeling is a noticeable ache right now, when you already feel so harried and out of place. She looks the exact opposite of how you feel and you can’t help but resent her for it. “Please meet my betrothed.” She murmurs a polite greeting with a curtsy you mirror while Dale explains, “Lady Lorraine has only just returned from abroad.”

“Yes, we were comparing in what manner our journey’s diverged after the Lurean,” she elaborates, her voice low and melodic. The Lurean is an institute in the west, famous for its music. You believe Dale visited there early in his years abroad, but can’t recall anything more than that. “That is when we decided to split. My group went south, while the ones Dale was with went North. A pity, Dale was always the most interesting to debate, though of course we still managed to amuse ourselves without him or the others who went North.”

Lorraine is acting perfectly polite: you appreciate her catching you up to what they were discussing. And yet, you don’t like the way she looks at Dale, nor how she says his name without his title. If she is a neighbor, they must have known each other since childhood, you know many of your peers and siblings who do the same. You still don’t like it. 

“I see,” you say politely because of course she had also been traveling as Dale had. She had even been part of that lucky and worldly group. While you were sat at home, trying to convince your mother that you should be allowed to come with her to the seamstress’ shop in the city. You resist the urge to frown at yourself for such a thought. You truly are not fit for company at the moment. “And you have not seen each other since?”

“No, not since we parted ways nearly two years ago,” Lorraine confirms and you don’t like how she says that either. As if it were more than two acquaintances with differing travel plans. You’re embarrassed when you realize how irrational you’re being, that your first instinct is to try to find a reason to justify the dislike rather than ignore it as the nonsense it is. “We had thought to meet up again, all of us, however the timing nor the location was ever quite right.”

“Terrible luck,” Dale replies with a smirk that makes you think luck had nothing to do with it. There’s an answering shrewd look in her eyes that implies she knows that too. That she knew Dale well enough to be able to read even this Dale. 

“Which reminds me, since we had expected to see each other again, you had loaned Hilary a particular book.” You don’t understand the weight of her gaze on Dale nor the implication in her words. Your eyes dart to Dale and given his frown, you’re not sure he does either. This Dale occasionally needs more time to catch up to certain nuances and you’re petty in your pleasure at that. Lorraine continues, “She bade me to return it to you, since she knew I’d see you again. It's in my carriage.”

“Oh yes.” Some recognition blooms in Dale’s eyes. “I had thought to ask you if she’d returned home so I might send her a missive regarding it, but this is far easier.”

“Would it be an imposition to do so now?” Lorraine asks and you blink at her in surprise. “I would have it sent to you, only I’m afraid it shall get lost in the confusion or that I shall forget. I believe I left if secure in my carriage”

You do not like how Lorraine appears to be trying to get Dale on his own. In an impulsive fit, you tighten your hand on his arm. “I’m afraid Dale promised me one last walk in the garden tonight. We have to leave so early in the morning, we won’t get the chance then. Would it be possible to bring this book to the Northridge estate instead?”

“Of course,” Dale agrees, smiling down at you and not noticing the surprise that flashes across Lorraine’s face. “I was beginning to wonder if we would be able to do so after all.” He looks back at Lorraine with politeness, not noticing or not wanting to acknowledge the confusion on her face at his refusal. “Another time, Lorraine. You shall be attending the festivities in Northridge, yes?”

“Yes, my family is delighted to celebrate with you,” Lorraine replies with a smile, no surprise or annoyance in her expression any longer. If this change of plans disrupts her own, she’s not showing it now. Except her eyes. Her eyes are intense as they study Dale’s face, as they drift over to your own, before back to Dale’s. “Thinking back on matters, I’m not sure if it is in my carriage after all. Perhaps it was packed and brought into my townhouse after all. I can locate it shortly regardless. We can speak further at a later time.”

“Wonderful, until then.” Dale gives her a short bow before leading you out one of the archways which lead towards the garden.

Your focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping your gaze up, but unfocused so as not to catch anyone’s eye and risk being drawn into conversation. You hope Dale is doing the same, but you’ve no energy to check on him. A breeze hits your face as soon as Dale opens the garden doors and you heave a sigh of relief at the sensation. You’re not even particularly hot, but it had begun to feel so stifling in that ballroom, for reasons you still cannot discern when compared to all the other galas. 

“Are you alright, sana?” Dale asks. You look up to see him frowning down at you, worry in his eyes. “Do you need to sit down? Or one of your medicines?”

“I’m fine,” you reply, shaking your head in the face of such undue concern. Heat rises in your cheeks at the thought of how dramatic you’re acting or whatever expression must be on your face to worry Dale so. “I only needed some fresh air. My apologies for pulling you away from your conversation, but I…”

Now Dale mostly looks confused. “I am happy to assist you in gaining the space to breathe,” he replies, leading you down the path. He gestures to a bench, but you hear a burst of sound from inside the hall and shake your head, steering you two further into the garden. “You’ve done so for me in the past. And it was no great hardship. I’m relieved these galas are nearly finished because rather than becoming more accustomed to them, I believe I am merely tiring of them.”

You finally get a good look at Dale, feeling more centered away from the crowd, and frown. He seems worn in a way he had not inside. something in the lines on his face, the shadows cast from the lanterns flickers oddly on him. Perhaps it had been so easy to convince him to take this walk because he needed the fresh air nearly as much as you had. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Dale says somewhat impatiently, but given the half-focus in his eyes, you are fairly certain his annoyance rests with himself rather than you. He heaves a sigh of his own. “As I said, while nothing particularly strenuous has happened today and I was in fine spirits only an hour or so ago, I find myself…” 

He huffs another annoyed breath at both his inability to put his thoughts to words and at the sound of some others who are also walking the garden. Dale steers the two of you down a new path, avoiding the main path which had a giggling couple occupying one of the benches. The shadows flicker with more than the lantern light should account for, but there’s no purpose to it, merely an offloading of stress. Dale’s pace is steady, the rhythmic footfalls and his cane don’t show anger or impatience with you personally, or so you hope. “I desire to be left alone in a manner I am unaccustomed to. This gala is no different than the others, how is it bothering me? I cannot account for it, which is only making me more frustrated.”

You certainly understand the feeling and gently pull to a stop at a bench, tucked a little farther off the path than the others, where there might be some privacy to be found. “Would you like to take a few minutes to yourself?” You don’t want to contribute to Dale feeling stifled, even if you don’t like the idea of being anywhere on this property in the dark alone after what happened. “I can wait here, if you’d like. I would just ask for you to remain within shouting distance.”

Dale looks startled by the idea, as if going off on his own had never occurred to him. “No,” he shakes his head, his voice plain and unadorned in his automatic refusal. “No. I thank you for the offer, but when I mentioned wanting the others to go, you were not included.” He tilts his head to the side, a crooked smile spreading across his lips. “Have we not already established this?”

You smile remembering your conversation from one of the first dances. “We have. More has happened since then. You are free to change your mind.” You swallow and hope he doesn’t hear your worry that he might do so about more than this.

“I haven’t,” Dale replies just as steadily and you feel warm pleasure spread through you at his answer. His eyes widden. “Unless, of course, you have. I would also—”

“No!” Your hand tightens around his arm. “No, getting away from the others was more than enough for me.” You want to do something more to make Dale feel better because there’s still some tight tension in his shoulders. You seek to reassure him you’re on the same page regarding your weariness from public performance. “There are aspects of this gala that are different, or rather, events surrounding the gala which are. Meeting city officials and giving our opinion on wedding details Grandmother has put together is not the same as dealing with…” You hesitate and you’re fairly certain Dale knows what you're going to say regardless, but you continue, “…the investigation into what happened. Or arguing with Grandmother and Grandfather about it.”

Dale sits down heavily on the bench. You follow to sit next to him, but let him maintain the distance he created when he let go of your arm. “I suppose that’s true enough. The affect on my mood seems inconsistent and not… I am not truly under a high amount strain,” he protests, his eyes brighter and not because of how the lamp light tries to catch them. “These early stages are not particularly mentally taxing, merely setting things into motion, and I’ve certainly been under no physical hardship today. Yet I feel threadbare and stretched thin. But there has been nothing taxing my stores of strength until this. All we have done is eat and talk and enjoy ourselves for weeks!”

Dale goes to run his fingers through his hair only to be stopped by his hair tie. He yanks it out with frustration as you try to find the right words to reassure and comfort Dale. “Firstly,” you begin, “while I am aware that it comes easier to you than me, socializing is taxing. It is work. It takes effort and thought and performance. I’m fairly certain I’d be tired of it all even without what else occurred. Secondly,” you continue before he can interrupt, “I am not sure how the investigation can be anything except stressful, given the events that prompted it.” Cautiously, you reached to lay a hand on his arm, “I believe you are being too hard on yourself, Dale. It’s more than reasonable to feel worn out by everything that is happening. I certainly am and I’m not doing nearly as much as you are. I’m the one who sought you out for this chance to take a moment to ourselves after all.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he says sincerely, but still tired. “You’re not wrong, I simply… Well, I suppose it’s rather obvious to say I wish the attack had never happened.”

“A mild understatement,” you say with a smile, “but I agree.” You don’t how you could, but you have to offer, even more plainly than you have before. “If there is anything I might be able to do, to aid you with the investigation, I will.”

“I appreciate that as well,” Dale says, leaning back against the back of the bench. “Truthfully, it’s only a waiting game now. I’ve tapped into my contacts to narrow in on who paid those who attacked us and set them to investigate those we’ve considered for the roles. I have high and low acquaintances who are skilled in such things and we’ve already discussed that you do not.” You reluctantly nod because you’ve no real foot to stand on in this arena. “They responded timely enough. It is not that they were unwilling or that I fear they are not adequately skilled.”

He pauses, but you can tell he has more to say. You wonder if remembering the right people was difficult or if this method of dealing with threats is foreign to him. You assume demons just fight each other directly, no use of proxies or exchange of goods for services, but they also have a reputation for acting in such ways on the surface—of being cunning and secretive. Maybe it was old hat to him after all. You don’t want to pressure him. He’s already such a vice with information and you want him to confide in you so very badly.

“I don’t like how I must act with those I have aiding me in my investigation,” Dale says eventually. You’re surprised such a thing would require acting, and then you’re only surprised that he’s acknowledging how much he must have to do so. Then you furrow your brow, because no, that doesn’t seem to be what he’s saying after all. He must read the confusion on your face because he clarifies, “They expect a certain sort of person, both when I act as Lord Dale or his own agent and I care for neither of them.”

“You are acting as though you are not Lord Dale?” you ask. You had thought there might be some manner of persona to ordering and speaking with the sort of hardened people that would employ such tactics, but you did not think he might take on a new identity for any part of it. The layers of performance are hard to track, but it must be even more confusing to this new Dale who is still learning how to act as the old Dale.

“Some of these…,” Dale searches for the right word before giving, “these people, they would see a Lord as a target or untrustworthy or not one they would work with. I have acted as though I am my own valet, to an extent in order to meet with them more directly.” That’s not too complicated, or so you hope. Can Dale actually change his form? His appearance? Your mind spins with new possibilities. You had thought possession limited the demon to that body, but perhaps… 

“As such as respect Mr. Murray’s service,” Dale continues, “this has never been one he could comfortably or competently provide. I value what he does provide and trust no one well enough for them to fulfill the role. Certainly not with our safety on the line, not to mention Grandmother and Grandfather’s.”

You haven’t considered that. You are pleased at how you were included, and that Grandmother and Grandfather were as well. “I appreciate you taking such care,” you say, because you know he does not need to, he did not have the ties to any of you. He’s known you all of a month or so. You want him to know that you value the effort he is putting into all of this. He could easily have faked Dale’s death with the fight and then slipped away to live his own life here. You complain about his slip ups with his form, but you’ve no notion of how hard it is to control such things. You remember the creature he had been forming into during the fight and wonder how strange it would be to go from a being like that to a mere human body.

You want to acknowledge what he is doing, but he doesn’t want to talk about it outright and the distant sounds of the others in the garden dissuade you from saying anything too straightforward. You lower your voice, just in case, and say carefully, “It’s always challenging to pretend you're someone you are not, even if that is simply a more social version of yourself. I imagine it must be difficult, if my estimation of the types of people who can trace mercenaries back to their patrons is close to accurate. Thank you.”

“I.. Of course,” is all he says in the end, but you hope that it isn’t only your imagination that the lines around his eyes have faded somewhat.

“You mentioned a different version of yourself as well,” you continue, with even more caution and hopefully precision in your words, “I expect for those you are asking to look into the patrons from the higher angle. I can only imagine what type of Lord they expect to meet. Likely ones more similar to the patrons. That too, must be a challenge.”

Dale nods slowly before frowning once more. “It is…distasteful. I do not like how I have to be, when I speak with those involved in the investigation. Necessary people, but rather foul. And they only respect those like them. I must be my own representative and the layers of deception are confusing and wearing.” He pauses, not quite short enough to be a hesitation, but you recognize his own way of deliberating. You wait with bated breath to hear what he says next. “Dale of Northridge’s reputation proceeds myself and, in addition to the mannerisms I find it safest to lean into, do not paint a pleasant picture.”

You try to breathe calmly at the third person, at his admittance, but he looks so wooden sitting there, tension riddling his form once more, that you know you need to speak quickly, but genuinely. “I know,” you reply, “I may not have the means at your disposal, but I am not without any, though they differ greatly from your own.” You had done your own research into Dale while the betrothal talks were occurring.

“I see.” His dark eyes fix on you. “What did you find when you compared the information you gathered with what you now know?”

That is such a hard question to answer because you had gotten what you expected, at first. Now… “I could ask you the same question,” you reply, because he had to have looked into you too.

“You could,” he acknowledges, looking discomforted. “Perhaps we should merely move forward from where we are now.”

You’re not sure you want to know what the original Dale’s thoughts on you had been, for all he’d made them relatively plain. And this Dale… “Perhaps. I will say that I am pleased by my current first hand investigation,” you hope he can understand the meaning in your words. You know you both said as much the other night and yet you want to say it again. You want to hear it again. “I hope the results of your own show even half the promise of mine.”

Dale still looks uncomfortable, but he smiles at that. “I find you very promising indeed.” Heat rushes to your face and rushes through your veins at the look in his eyes. Then he blinks, and the moment ends.

“On the question of my true investigation into the events of the other night, we shall have to wait and see if we can identify the patrons before another event occurs.” Dale’s more solemn as he contemplates the attack and its conspirators and you feel yourself sobering. “The Knight is still the only patron I feel confident about. Grandmother and Grandfather’s advice regarding the Duke is helpful, but still only a guess. It doesn’t even take into account if the group was mistaken about what his exact title was.”

“That is what we have to work with,” you say. “None of the searches for them will be successful if those short names were not based on actual stations.”

“At least from the contacts I have working from that position. I do have some attempting to trace who paid the mercenaries from that angle too. Of course, the hope is that these two groups will arrive at the same confirmed names, but if not…”

“I think with the titles and both angles we have a more than decent chance at cornering them,” you point out. “We even have two out of the three names we are fairly confident on, which is very promising.”

“The Heiress is still a mystery,” Dale replies, obviously still rather determinedly pessimistic. “I spent the most time with those I traveled with, so i suspect it shall be one of that group. However, over half my companions were inheriting and half of those were women. None do I remember a standout offense or other event, such as with the Duke or the Knight, that might lead to one bankrolling something of this nature.”

“You mentioned some of them to me,” you reply, Dale having listed with a brief history those who seemed to have been on good terms with Eastmont in particular. “who were with you during your entire trip, but what of others who split previously?”

“The ones who went South?” Dale blinks and then frowns, “I suppose that’s a possibility, but I haven’t spoken with any in two years, not besides a letter or two. Although, Eastmont met up with that group, so it’s possible the Heiress became involved with him then. But he is not engaged or even rumored to be courting anyone.”

Dale fails to make the connection you were leading him towards and so you must decide to speak candidly or to keep your own counsel. You swallow and continue, “I do not know most of those you journeyed with, however, Lorraine shall be Lady of Hillbright, yes?”

“Yes, in two years time,” Dale confirms, still lost in thought himself. He blinks back to the present and elaborates when you continue to look at him. “On her birthday or when she gives birth to her first child as is their family tradition. Her birthday is most likely as she is not yet betrothed. Why?”

“That makes her an heiress,” you finally say in even clearer terms. “One you parted on poor terms with, who has a great deal of knowledge of Northridge, due to your status as neighbors and childhood friends.”

“I would not say we were ever friends, precisely,” he corrects absently. Then his eyes narrow and he turns to look at you sharply, “You think she might be our missing conspirator.”

Some of your bravado fails in the face of such a fierce look. Still, you don’t retract your suggestion. “It is only a thought. I cannot give any other recommendations as my knowledge of the suspects is limited. However, I do not think that means the suggestion is unwarranted.”

“We have always been at odds, but it used to be…” he seems to search for a word but you can’t think of anything to prompt him with since you don’t understand their relationship. “…different. I’m afraid the falling out we had midway through my years of travel was rather severe and possibly prompted the entire group's split. I don’t think she would escalate our disagreement to such a height. If anything I expected the time to have cooled the argument for both of us. I had thought perhaps she would want to reconcile.”

“Perhaps,” you allow.

“You don’t think so.”

“I don’t know her or the situation,” you admit.

“And yet?”

“And yet you are not speaking of the terms of your disagreement, which implies to me it was no trivial matter.” Dale looks guilty and opens his mouth to say something, but you shake your head. “You do not need to inform me of the matter itself, but obviously it was serious. I will say that and she appeared very cordial so mayhap she does want to reconcile. However, she attempted to have you accompany her alone even this night with paper thin reasoning. It is only a thought, but I do not think she should be ruled out.”

“You’re correct,” Dale agrees, looking thoughtful, “and she was on my long list for the Heiress merely because she fit the minimal criteria. She had not stood out to me then, but I suppose just because I have moved past or argument and consider it history does not mean she does. I shall move her up the list.”

You nod, whatever motivated you to make sure you were heard even though you only have your own instincts to rely on regarding your suspicions has vanished, leaving you feeling rather foolish. Although, not enough to take it back. You wish you could be more consistent with making your opinion heard, but so often you don’t feel the need or know attempting to force an issue will only make things more difficult later on. No matter what Callalily thought.

You lean back against the bench, purposely focusing on your family to avoid thinking about the assassins any longer. Your father had been supportive, but silent as always. You’ve never been more grateful that being in public keeps your mother’s tendency to overmanage your health when it suits her at a minimum. Unfortunately,  she obviously is in the mood for now. Callalily has always told you to make her leave you be more, to somehow stop her fussing and worrying, as if that was in your power and you simply chose not to exercise it.

Asher was better at letting you simply be yourself. You used to seek refuge to his office and quietly occupy yourself while he worked, so as not to be alone. You appreciated it so much at the time, and you still do, only you wish you had talked to him more, wished you’d taken advantage of the opportunity instead of being intimidated or worried the privilege would be revoked. Now it leaves you feeling comfortable around him, but without any idea of what to actually say to him.

Douglas and Marigold, though closer in age to you, were also younger and therefore away at school or other events while you were older enough to remember. They always felt distant from you, only remembering you at holidays and awkward with how to treat you. Marigold now glosses over any such awkwardness, but more than half the time it merely feels as though she forgets you’re even there. That seems different this time at least, for all her and Callalily still talked over you more than they spoke to you.

“Is anything else on your mind?” 

You jump when Dale’s voice interrupts your thoughts. You look over to see Dale looking at you, tentative at the topic change but sincere. You sigh. “My family. It is… surprisingly strange to see them again, even my parents who I saw all of two months ago. I’ve been away at school for longer and yet it feels like a far more significant span of time. Although, I admit that when I returned home after graduating a year ago is when it truly felt strange—this is just an extension of that, I believe. My siblings I only see at holidays when they come home, Asher aside. But he’s so busy taking over the fief and with his own family so it feels like a long time for them too.”

“What part is strange?”

“It’s as though they are trying to help me put on clothes that no longer fit or see me as I was years ago, rather than as I am now. Not that I’ve changed so dramatically,” you hasten to add, “but I am older, I am different. They are different too, but they always treat me as if I do not change as they do. Or so it feels.” You sigh. “Perhaps it’s all in my mind.”

“How so?” Dale frowned, seemingly not displeased with what you were saying, but seemingly just wanting to understand. 

It gave you enough confidence to confess, “I worry that I’m interpreting their actions and words disingenuously. That I am too used to their condescension that I still see it even when it’s no longer there. What if my worries are keeping us in the past, rather than their attitudes? Except for Mother’s fussing,” you can’t help but caveat. “That I am certain is still occurring. And then I am certain all over again that it is them who are holding us back. I suppose the most reasonable explanation is that it is us all.”

“Most likely,” Dale agreed, watching you with a far more serious look on his face than the conversation allowed. “Is there anything I might do?”

“I would appreciate your being at my side?” you ask, tentative but hopeful at the thought of an ally. You’ve always dealt with them on your own. “They will be less obviously overbearing with you around, especially before the wedding.”

“They will?”

“Yes, they wouldn’t want you to change your mind,” you admit with a half smile.

Dale’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “Surely they do not think that is a possibility at this stage of the proceedings.”

“I think it will be a possibility until the wedding is over, as far as they are concerned. I’ve been better for years and they still look at me as though I might—” You cut yourself off before you say something you regret, even if its only Dale. You could have died when you were younger. It was the more likely outcome for half your life. “My apologies. I should not be so frustrated with their concern, I just wish it extended to more than my health. Or so it feels to me. Even my siblings are more likely to tell me to sit down rather than enjoy myself. I do not like being the subject of such worry, when it feels to border paranoia or almost suspicion. It’s strangling.”

Something like recognition blooms in Dale’s eyes as he stares at you, you can almost see the thoughts tumbling around in his mind. Does he find your petty worries relatable in some way? Some way more than just the echoes of the original Dale’s human memories? Once more you feel on the precipice of learning something concrete from him. Something more tangible than the honesty of his actions beneath his veneer of the original.

Dale’s eyes don’t unfocus as your own might when recalling a memory or even his own when recalling something the original Dale has said, they grow more intent. Like a microscope focusing rather than a telescope. It’s fascinating to watch and you feel yourself drawn in closer to him.

“Yes, my parents—I.” Whatever words Dale was going to say, he cuts himself off abruptly and you lean back in surprise. Something in his eyes is hard as he hums to himself. “Hm.” He shakes his head as he seems to grow distant despite continuing to sit next to you. “I suppose they were dead, weren’t they?”

You try not to let your interest in learning anything about Dale’s true history. Perhaps demons truly do have parents after all. When it becomes clear he isn’t going to say anything more, you carefully venture to prompt him, “If you wanted to talk about them, I would be happy to listen.”

There’s another long pause, broken only by the sound of music from the ballroom. Dale shakes his head. He finally looks back at you, but his expression is a blank mask. “What is there to say?” he asks flatly. “I can’t remember them.” You’re taken aback by the shift in his mood, having thought you’d distracted him from his earlier melancholy, and you’re hurt, perhaps irrationally so, that he still won’t confide in you anything real. 

Dale blinks and sighs, running a hand through his hair. He scowls when it gets messy and carefully redoes the tie that had been holding it back. When he looks back at you, he seems tired, but no longer so far away. Cautiously, he offers, “I suppose my grandparents were overprotective for many years. It was a caging feeling.”

You don’t know what to say, what you can say. Should you be insisting he confide in you? Should you try to force this conversation about the truth? Or is he right and this is not the place for such sensitive talks? Or maybe he just doesn’t trust you enough yet? Either way, you resign yourself to accepting his peace offering of a conversational segue. 

“Yes. My parents were similar, my siblings followed their example,” you elaborate, thinking back to tonight and how you felt with them. “I felt as though they treated me like I was far younger than I was for so long. And if not younger, breakable in the very least. It didn’t help that for so many years I was in such a delicate state. I almost can’t blame them for their attitude. I just wish it changed as the years passed and I recovered. I don’t like the reminder.”

“Regardless, while I do not know them well, I do not see them as acting overly condescending,” Dale says. “I have no siblings either, but it wasn’t the impression I received. They probably simply don’t know how to act around you either. Their experience might leave them with presumptions, but I’m sure once they see more of you as you are now, they will be able to overwrite such instinctive reactions in their minds.”

“I want that,” you agree. “I hope it can be done as you say. I too must adjust to interacting with those who know longer know me and must adjust to who I am. Perhaps I need to hold all of us to a more reasonable standard.”

“Perhaps.”

A tentatively comfortable silence fell as you both enjoyed the quiet respite from heat the night brought along with the break from the gala inside. You keep an eye on Dale from the corner of your eye, unable to help it given his more melancholic mood this evening. You want to move closer to him, you want to ask more direct questions. Every time you start to open your mouth you second guess yourself when the sound of the party or the music or another guest walking a nearby path—or the one your bench is on—causes you to feel too exposed to do so. It’d be silly to spend all this time trying to cover up for Dale in public only for him to be revealed because you were indiscreet. 

A dip in music causes you to realize how long you two must have been out here and you catch Dale’s eye to find a mildly sheepish look that tells you he’s likely thinking the same thing. He picks up his cane from where it had been resting nearby, levering himself up to his feet. He holds a hand down to you. “My Lady?”

“Thank you,” you reply as you let him help you to your feet. 

“Do you feel better?” he asks as you begin to make your way back into the hall.

“I do,” you say because ultimately you do feel more centered and less on the edge of frustration than you did before. Even if you are still concerned and not particularly eager at the thought of rejoining the gala. It no longer feels oppressive at least. “Do you?”

“Yes, thank you, sana,” he says, that same boyish smile spreading across his face—the one you never saw until he was this Dale. The one that always makes you want to smile back at him. “This was a good idea.” You hold open the door given his hands are full with you and his cane. He winks. “Back into the fray.”

You can tell it's more of a mask now, similar to the one you wear in most social gatherings, but it doesn’t seem to be causing nearly the strain it had been. And the same can be said for you.

“There you are,” Callalily says when you and Dale get close enough to where your sisters are. “Have a treat so we can ignore Mari in solidarity.” 

You accept the plate of desserts she hands you with surprise but not displeasure. You continue to appreciate your sisters’ easy inclusion of you tonight. Perhaps Dale is right and they do see you better than they used to. Marigold pouts, but you feel confident enough to ask Callalily, “Why are we ignoring Marigold?”

“Because she wishes to continue dancing and I am tired.”

“You are not so old nor is the night so late,” Marigold protests. “I do not see why you are being so stubborn.”

You pick one pastry at random while you try to catch up with the current conversation only for Dale to pluck it from your fingers and pop it into his mouth. You frown at him but then he swallows to clarify, “Strawberry jam, sana.”

“Oh!” You must be disorientated to have forgotten to examine the desserts more closely. “Thank you, Dale.”

Callalily looks stricken as her eyes widen in realization. “I’m so sorry, I forgot!”

You’re surprised she was even able to figure out what Dale was even referring to. Mother simply never had strawberries in the house, similar to sesame seeds for Douglas’ allergy. It’s not as though Callalily is the one who is charged with your health. It was your own fault. “It’s okay,” you say and try to move away from this topic, the guilt in your oldest sister’s eyes making you uncomfortable. You try to push the uncharitable thought aside that of course one of the only things she can remember about your preferences is what causes you a health problem. “What is this debate about?”

Marigold seems to have missed the allergy mistake, but she hears this part of the conversation clearly. “Callalily refuses to join me to dance the octdriel,” Marigold explains, her eyes fixing a mock glare on her older sister. “But you know I can’t join without a partner.”

“Just dance with your husband,” Callalily gestures to the man in question, currently choosing a spun sugar decoration and obvious to his sister-in-law’s volunteering of him. To be honest, he likely wouldn’t mind. He’s always willing to indulge Marigold, even if dancing causes him to loose his breath rather quickly.

Marigold gives Callalily a look. “You are aware that dance is not for couples.”

“I thought you did not care for the rules of polite society,” Callalily says loftily.

“I do not. However I do have only the utmost respect for the rules of dance,” Marigold bats back. “Please.” She pouts at Callalily in a manner you’ve seen her do dozens of times, you’re grateful your time outside has once more rendered your feelings nostalgic rather than annoyed.

Before Callalily answers, Dale turns to you and asks, “Why don’t you join her?”

You blink up at him, surprised and unable to bring yourself to reiterate the obvious that she didn’t ask you.

Marigold blinks at you in surprise, as if not having considered such a possibility. “Surely, you’re too tired,” Marigold says, somewhat unsure.

“I, well, no,” you shake your head, a bit bewildered. “I am not too tired for a dance.”

“My fiance is nearly always ready for a dance,” Dale adds, eyes twinkling with mirth, likely at the calculating look forming in Margold’s eyes. “I regret I cannot join you for this one, given the dance’s stipulations.”

“It’s fine—” you make to reassure him, it not having mattered to you.

“Wonderful,” Marigold proclaims, grinning widely as she links her arm with yours. “We shall dance and have a marvelous time without you, most boring of sisters.” She turns to you still smiling. You’ve always been the boring one, it's strange to hear her declare it to be Callalily this time. “I’m so excited, I’ve never gotten to dance this with you.” She tugs on your arm, somehow more excited than when she had been asking Callalily. Is she actually seeing you as a viable partner in your own right, not just a replacement for Callalily? “Come on, everyone’s lining up.”

You blink back at Callalily, who only raises her glass in a toast at you both, and Dale, who takes the plate of desserts from you. “Enjoy yourself,” he says, his smile soft.

You smile back as your sister whisks you away.

[Part Twenty-Eight]

[differenteagletragedy]

Because it's VALID not to want to immediately get back together with the guy that broke your heart AND was kind of an asshole to you after you ran into each other by chance.

But the way he says he's not ok with a little bitty smile is still very very sad.

[bryhoney]

Recognisance pt. 1

This is literally my first post, please go easy on me lmao - the slowest of slow burns between AdoptedWalker!Reader x Keegan P. Russ. TW: Kidnapping and Torture. Set two years after the events of COD Ghosts.

On AO3! Semi-Regular updates :)

This has barely been proofed - so, sorry in advance!

Pt.2

"NO!"

It's a man's voice, you don't recognise it. He sounds panicked, his voice is ragged and hoarse. His scream grows louder and louder until it's a deafening ring and-

You jolt awake, crying out in pain. Every part of your body hurts and the ringing in your ears is agony. 

Your chest feels tight as you try to orientate yourself, you're in a room you don't recognise. It's sparsely decorated and looks medical, it's not often used. 

It takes you only a second to notice the three silhouettes that stand in the corner of the room, effectively blocking your only exit. You lurch into a sitting position, pushing yourself backwards in the bed. 

Panic floods your system, you don't recognise any of them. You have to get up, get back to-?

Get back to who?

The man standing closest to your bed is older, with greying hair and lines around his eyes. He pushes himself of the wall and you take note of the sheer size of him. He's muscular and clearly disciplined. A threat. 

Your eyes scan rapidly for any sort of weapon, something that could offer some vestige of protection. Nothing. 

He raises his arms in mock surrender as he approaches, "How do you feel?" His voice is deep, gentle and entirely unfamiliar. 

W--g. Wrong. Wrong. 

Your voice wavers, "Stay back!" You're pushing yourself even further away from him as you frantically try to assess the best way to escape these men.

"Hey, hey" he continues, your breathing is rapid and shallow. 

Where's ----? I am - ------ and I am ---. I have been ---------. 

Your hand instinctively reaches to the top of your thigh, your fingers find only the thin medical gown you're wearing. 

Where's my -----? 

What are you looking for?

"Do you know where you are?" He asks, he's at the end of your bed now. You realise that you can't escape this situation in your current state, you try and level your breathing and maintain eye contact. 

"No." You grit the words out, you hate the way your heart sinks. 

The man nods, a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. 

Stop it. Stop it. 

"Do you know who I am?" He continues, his voice still calm as he moves to sit at the foot of the bed. His movement spurs you into action, you carefully swing your legs off the bed, just in case. 

"No" You answer again, your hands fisting the bedsheets as you focus on keeping your breathing level. What the fuck is happening. 

"Control your breathing ----. You're --- ------- when --- -"

Whose voice was that?

"I don't-" your voice falters and cracks. If they didn't know you were scared before, they do now. Stupid. 

"Stop giving them the advantage"

His eyes meet yours and he exhales deeply, "My name is Gabriel. You and I work together, you were part of the Federation. Do you know what the Federation is?" As he speaks you realise he is truly unarmed, dressed in civilian clothing. The other two men are in standardised uniform, armed to the teeth. 

At his words, you almost sigh in relief. It's the first bit of information you recognise. The Federation sounds familiar. It's-? E--m-. What was the Federation?

"Yes, but- I...I thought the Federation where-? I'm not part of the Federation? My house was-?" You're stumbling through scattered memories, trying desperately to assign meaning to abstract thoughts. The more you try to pin something down, the quicker it escapes. 

A sudden wave of nausea washes over you. The man in front of you will hurt you. What?

"Dad! Wait! I'm not as fast as ----" It's your voice. You're young.

Where's my Dad?

The man at the end of your bed reaches towards you, covering the hand that's clutching the sheets, "It'll come back to you in time, Sweetheart". You would have flinched if you hadn't locked up in fear. Your heart thundering in your chest. 

"Why can't I remember", you feel a tear roll down your cheek. You're not sure if it's borne from frustration or fear. 

Safe. You're safe. Calm down. 

He tenses and stands abruptly, "You were taken from us, you-" he cuts himself off, "we will get the men that did this to you- I'm just sorry it took us so long to find you".

His back is turned to you, the men that stand guarding the door seem to stand further to attention under his gaze. 

This man, Gabriel, is important. He said you were someone he worked with. Were you important too? 

He came back for you. He said you were taken and he came back for you. 

"I don't-" you feel overwhelmed, unable to breathe. 

You were taken? Why? Who took you? When? What did they do? How did you get out? Are they coming back? Are-

You shake your head, as though you can physically dispel these thoughts. 

Gabriel turns to you again, "you will remember us, and you will help us get revenge for what they did to us". 

Your eyes snap to his, "Us?" You stop trying to hide your fear. 

He returns to your bedside and clasps your hand before he repeats, "Us". 

3 Weeks Later

The chair is still the same uncomfortable plastic one as last time. You fought every urge to make yet another complaint to the man opposite you. You'd asked him to replace it for you, he'd raised his eyebrow, made some notes and said nothing. 

You can remember everything since you woke up in the hospital room, just not a lot before that. However, the nightmares and flashbacks of your time with the Ghosts were becoming more vivid and frequent with each week. Sam made more notes about that. 

You'd see this man almost every day, his name was Sam and that was about all you knew about him. He was assessing you apparently, monitoring your progress before you could go back to work. He applauded your short-term memory progress in the most unenthused tone you'd ever heard. 

He clearly didn't want to be here any more than you did. 

He'd ask the same questions every time before delving into other recovery topics. 

"What's your name" his voice was monotonous, uninterested. 

You reeled off your first name easily, before meeting his unamused gaze and sighing, "I'm not sure". You slouched in your seat, eyes scanning each crack in the cold concrete walls that surrounded the two of you. 

"----? st-----! Get ----!" A man's voice, deep, urgent. 

You fidget in the seat, "Something with a W in it? I don't know". It's the first time since you regained consciousness that you heard one of the voices. You decide not to tell the man opposite you that fun tidbit of information, you're not crazy.

He looks momentarily surprised at the omission before resuming the blank facade and furiously jotting down notes. 

You knew your first name but Gabriel made it clear he wanted you to recall as much information as possible before he told you anything else. He said it would set a good foundation and allow them to track your progress better. It sounded like bullshit to you at the time but you had agreed to it all the same. 

"What's your mother's name?" he continues. 

You wait for another voice, a scattered memory. Nothing. 

"I don't know," your teeth hurt from clenching them, you have to wriggle your jaw to ease the tension.

"Any brothers or sisters?" he pushes his glasses further up his face. Dickhead. 

You hear laughing. "Got---! Yo--- -- ---o-" your hands are skimming the top of water, throwing it suddenly as ----. You hear a laugh and then your own. The sun is blinding and you can't focus on anything. Ha--y. Yo--- -a---.

"I don't know, maybe?" your eyes are closed as you try to concentrate. The sudden onslaught of shattered, unclear memories hurt to try to piece together. 

"How do you know Rorke?" It's a new question. 

"We worked together," you reply almost instantly. It's the only question you can confidently answer. The only answer you've been told the answer to. 

“Where's —-? You came back witho—--?! —---” This time, you recognise it’s your voice. You’re scared. You’re angry. You’re screaming.

You bring your palms up to rub your eyes at the screaming. A headache is taking root and your eyes sting in frustration. 

"Who is Elias Walker?" Another new question, you don't like this. 

There are no memories, except a heaviness that settles on your chest. You physically shift in the chair to accommodate the weight and hope he doesn't notice. 

"I wish I knew," your head is still in your hands, your elbows resting on the table. 

The name is a whisper. It should mean something. 

"Are you alright to continue?" His voice is absent of any concern that should be present in that question. God, you hated him. 

"Yes, just annoyed" you manage.

Annoyed with you, with my situation. 

Why the Federation believes that this is the most effective way of getting back your memories is beyond you. You make little to no progress with piecing together your life. Your memories are still undecipherable and scattered. 

You're escorted back to your room, which lies opposite Gabriel's. You're aware that everyone on the base calls him Rorke except for you. He introduced himself as Gabriel and so you're hesitant to deviate away from this name. 

He spends most of his time in the control room, meticulously planning the Federation's next move. 

You'd been around him long enough to know that his main objective was the annihilation of the group of men who'd captured you. A particularly tricky group of men known as the Ghosts. An elite task force that managed to use the Federation's own weapons against Rorke. They also had an unnerving ability to kill droves of Federation soldiers without being detected. 

From the limited number of redacted reports you'd been allowed to read, the Ghosts had managed to infiltrate the Federation ranks an embarrassing number of times. 

It was remarkable, there was only a handful of them and yet the threat they posed was severe and entirely warranted. By the time I was retrieved, only the most loyal remained as active members. 

The Ghosts had taken everything. 

Rorke had succeeded in killing two of them, a man named Ajax and their former leader, 'The Scarecrow'. 

It had been the remaining men, that had ripped you apart over two years of continued torture. 

Gabriel had told you that the Ghosts had targeted you to get to him, you didn't ask why. You had ignored the implications of that statement. He also said you had valuable information, so you left it at that. 

"Damn ---, what the ---- you doing on this?" It was a deep voice, a new one. It was almost entirely intact. You could hear the smile in their voice. It wasn't Rorke, it wasn't anyone here. It was someone you knew before.

You exhaled deeply as you crossed over the threshold of your room, closing the door and sprawling face down across your bed, groaning. You had wanted to make some notes on the voices you heard. You didn't want to forget them, but you didn't want to share them with Sam. 

Any rest that you could have had was ripped away from you by two sharp knocks to the door. 

"Just me," Gabriel yelled before opening the door, not waiting for any invitation to do so. He smiled at you as you scrambled off the bed to a presentable, standing position. 

"You alright?" You ask, despite your initial unease about Gabriel, he was the only one to reach out to you and make you feel comfortable at the base. He was the closest thing you had to a friend. 

"Jus' checking in with you, how was this morning?" He keeps his distance, crossing the room before taking a seat at your desk chair, swivelling it to face you. You follow his lead and sit at the foot of your bed. 

You laugh, feeling tension roll off you, "Same as always, delightful" he seems to smile in response but says nothing else for a moment. 

Gabriel doesn't come to just check in with you, he wants something. 

He moves closer to you, grabbing your shoulder heavily and squeezing. It feels so familiar and yet-? 

It shouldn't be him. 

What? 

"I'm proud of you," he says, "I know what you went through wasn't easy". He looks sincere and you feel your throat tighten. 

You shrug him off playfully, smiling, "Alright, alright, what are you actually here for?"

He laughs, sitting back in his seat, "We've got some leads, need you to get on them - might have something for once". He's relaxed, crossing his arms in front of him. 

You're taken aback, you'd essentially been signed off indefinitely, "You think I'm ready to - y'know, come back?". You're so hopeful and you can hear it in your voice. 

Finally. You could get back to doing something you were good at. Something that had made you important once. 

He laughs and you both move to stand, his arm wrapping over your shoulders as he leads you towards the control centre, "never doubted you for a second". 

You're smiling. Actually smiling. 

It's nice having someone believe in you. Someone who can attest to what you used to be capable of. The rest of the soldiers here avoid you, keep their eyes low as you pass them in corridors. As though you were a higher rank than them. As though you really were important. 

Who were you? 

next

[kazuyummy]

fanfic trope tierlist incoming!!

link to make your own: here

i'll explain any of them in the comments if asked (;

p.s. you can customize the number of tiers and what you name them if you want to elaborate more on some!

tagging (no pressure): @heroesfan101 @kailali @meggsngrits @fushigurro @saintokkotsu-main @true-deru @auslanderka @baka-tsuki @ceenthesis @everything-always @giogama08 @prettyiwa

+ anyone else who wants to do it - would love to see your responses and i know i forgot a few!