#so i had to write about it QUICK

[withlovemark]

hiii hear me out on this since requests are open! there's a bunch of big boob reader stuff out there, but what about reader w smallish boobs and yuta?? like reader is insecure abt them but yuta makes her feel better w lots of boob play and stuff help this wording is awkward but hope u know what im saying thank u!

oooohh i genuinely think yuta is a small boob lover :3 i have no evidence to back this up it’s just a feeling i get

-

the first time yuta! saw your breasts, you hid them under your arms, shying away, cheeks pink from embarrassment as you refused to look at him, “don’t do that, sweetheart,” yuta forcefully pried your hands out of the way, locking them in his and bringing it above your head. your back arching at the stretch while he drank in your appearance, perky nipples sitting perfectly on your chest, “you’re perfect,” he reassures you, one of his hands traveling down your body, softly tracing the small outlines of your breasts in adoration, the warmth of his fingers mixed with the cool metal of his rings leaving goosebumps behind. “yuta, please,” you wanted him to do something, becoming more shy the longer he stares at you. he smirks down at you squirming under his hold before kitten licking your hardening nipples, maintaining eye contact with you as you whine under his touch, back arching even more. his finger finds its way around your tits, squeezing and twisting, making you jump under him, hips raising. his mouth found its way to the other side, sucking, tongue swirling around your nipple. “hmmm,” he moans around your tits, loving the way your petiteness fits entirely in his mouth, sucking and biting harder and harder, making sure he leaves a mark. your eyes flutter shut at his actions, embarrassment fading away, focused only on how he was making you feel. once he was satisfied, he moved on to the other, giving it the same amount of love and adoration, whines of pleasure encouraging him as he left trails of his saliva all over your chest.

[heyimkana]

WC: 1.3K

thinking about guildmaster!Jinwoo who's been stuck in his office room all day, doing one paperwork after another. He's pissed off, silently complaining that he's not built for this, wanting nothing more than to get out of there and do something more... physical. Of course, raiding a dungeon is the first thing that comes to mind, but when you, his secretary, come knocking on his door, well... A different idea pops up.

"Good evening, Mr. Sung. I'm sorry to bother you when you already have so much on your plate, but I need you to sign these papers for me."

He wearily sighs, "Set them down here."

You walk over to his desk, your heart's racing. He looks so handsome today, exceptionally so, with the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, his strands a little messy from how he ran his hand through them earlier. Frustration looks perfect on him. “I need you to sign over here, Mr. Sung.” You lean forward, guiding him.

You get into his space, the smell of your perfume driving him insane. He tries to shake the feelings of attraction away, focusing on the task at hand, but after he signs his name with one swift motion, his gaze shifts to your face, then your figure. You’re wearing a pencil skirt and a thin blouse. You look pretty damn good today, he has to admit.

He casts his gaze away. "Would that be all?"

"Another one over here, Sir."

His body tenses up as you lean in closer, his eyes glued to your body and the way your fingers run across the paper, wondering how pretty they'd look wrapped around his cock. The urge to grab you and bend you over his desk is getting almost too powerful.

He can feel the tension in the air, something that had built up over the past couple of weeks. Every time you’d come in to drop off some files, the two of you would linger in the room together, the air between you growing more and more heated. You’re making it damn near impossible for him to hold back now. Just when he thinks he might have a handle on his feelings, you do something like this, unaware of the effects you have on him.

And now that he's feeling all pent-up...

"Mr. Sung? Is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. Just lost in thought."

He seems to be distraught. You wonder if you can ease his mind. “Mr. Sung, is it... all right if I am honest with you for a second?”

He raises his brow, his curiosity piqued. "Of course. What is it?"

“It’s… I just want to say that your performance during the meeting yesterday was awe-inspiring. I could tell Chairman Go was absolutely taken away by you. I’m… I admire you, Mr. Sung.”

He watches as you speak, his eyes taking in your features. His resolve begins to slip with more words you utter. He tries to keep his voice calm, but he can’t stop the slight huskiness that falls into it. "Thank you," he smiles, a little bit softer than you expected.

You can't stop the heat that crawls up to your face. Hastily, you collect the papers from him. "I will be, umm... right outside if you need me." But before you can walk through the door, his deep voice rings in the air, calling out your name.

"Come here for a moment."

"Sir?"

"I need to talk to you about something. Privately.”

You swallow. Something about the way he says it fills your body with anticipation. You take a few steps closer, standing in front of his desk.

"Closer."

The authority in his tone sends shivers down your spine. Drawing a breath, you take a couple of strides further, now standing before him as he leans back on his swivel chair, his gaze intense with a little smile playing on his lips.

"W-what is it that you need from me, Mr. Sung?"

That same sweet smile grows into a smirk. "Sit on my desk."

"P-pardon?"

"Come over here and sit on my desk. Now."

The command in his voice leaves no room for you to argue. You do as he says, sitting stiffly on the edge of his table, facing him with your legs squeezed together. Your skirt rises to the middle of your thighs, and you cover the exposed skin with shaky hands. "L-Like this, Sir?"

He leans further back in his chair, his legs spread apart, his breathing heavy as he enjoys how flustered you look. His eyes traverse down your body, his lip almost bitten as the thought of you spreading your legs for him enters his mind. "Yes, just like that. You’re doing very well.”

Jinwoo brings his fingers to his lips, masking the smirk that threatens to turn a little bit sadistic. "You seem nervous. I can practically hear your heart racing from here."

You wet your lips nervously. "I don’t think this is... appropriate, Sir."

He chuckles, "Perhaps not, and yet, here you are." As you turn even more abashed, he rises from his chair, eliminating the distance between you. He places one hand on your knee, and another on the table, his gaze heavy and misted with desire. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Always doing the right thing, always doing everything I say."

You throw your stare down to your lap. "I'm just... doing my job."

"Mm. But you know how I feel about you, don't you? You've seen the way I look at you, but you never go past the line, never cross that boundary, no matter how much I wish you to. You’re such a good" —he leans close to your ear, his voice reducing to a whisper— "obedient little secretary. And it makes me want to ruin you."

Your eyes shut close as goosebumps break on your skin.

"You got me all curious, Angel." The tip of his nose brushes against your cheek. "Beneath that sweet, obedient exterior of yours, what is it that you want? Is there something more, something hidden deep down inside you, that only I can bring out?”

"M-Mr. Sung—"

He grabs you by your chin, his grip possessive as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze. "It's Jinwoo. Call me Jinwoo."

His dominance over you excites you, and his scent is so intoxicatingly sweet, leaving your body aching for more. Being in such close proximity to him, you can't help but let your eyes cascade to his lips. He catches it, even if it is only briefly, and his gaze darkens.

"Should we cross the line, Miss Secretary?" he whispers, his thumb gliding across your lips.

Your intense yearning for him takes over the moment you see the chance, and you press your lips against his, just tentatively, just to let him know the answer you're too ashamed to speak out loud. You pull away, meeting his eyes with a sheepish gaze. He seems taken aback for a moment, but the second it sinks in, the thread snaps.

"You're so goddamn adorable," he groans against your mouth, kissing you hungrily, his hands gripping your thighs possessively.

Both thrill and panic rise within you when he pries open your legs, settling himself in between as if you were made to take him. "J-Jin—"

He silences you with another kiss. He's a greedy man, and he wants more, everything you can offer him. His nails dig into your thighs, drawing you even closer to him until you can feel the contour of his hardening cock beneath his trousers. His tongue slides against your bottom lip, demanding entry into your mouth, deepening the kiss as soon you permit him.

Jinwoo pushes you down on his desk, caging you underneath him. His body is pressed flushed against yours, his lips scorching against your neck. As your moans fill the air, he reaches under your skirt, hiking it up to your waist, and suddenly, his hands are everywhere, roaming over your body desperately, his fingers sliding up your thigh, tracing the edge of your lingerie.

"W-wait—" you gasp out as your body slides against the documents on the desk. He was in the middle of doing something important before you came in, wasn't he? "The paperwork—"

His lean fingers circle your throat as he says—

Continue to Part 2

[bbuzz28]

Memories

Old man Fiddlestan, my beloved-and what's this? It could be semi-canon compliant :O ?!?! Woof- this is one of the saddest things I have ever written. I know some of you gremlins (affectionate) love that sort of thing, but I don't. I like really really don't. This is my comfort ship, so I don't even know where this came from other than trying to figure out how they *could* work in canon. Truthfully though, I prefer my Fiddlestan heavy on the comfort when it comes to the "hurt/comfort" genre. This is my only “angsty” (i.e. no immediate happy ending) Notes-app fics, so don't get used to this level of sad from me lol.

“Stan?” an oddly familiar voice called. Mr. Mystery, Stan Pines, glanced up from the flyers he was organizing and found that Old Man McGucket stood in the doorway of his front door. The last tour of the day had just left, it was dinnertime, and he was exhausted. Stan rolled his eyes as he unfurled his tie, wishing Soos was still there to escort the crazy old man off his property. No matter what he did, the old hillbilly always managed to find his way back to the Shack. “Sweet Moses McSuckit, what are you doing in here? Shoo, scat, or whateva will get rid of ya.” Hearing no movement, he looked at the man again and found he was standing erect. His blue eyes were the clearest he had seen them in no less than a decade.

          Wait, what did he call- oh. Oh no.

“Stan…ley? Did I…did I do somethin’ wrong?” the other man asked, his hands twisted in knots in front of him. Memories flashed through Stan’s mind; Ford falling through the portal, Fiddleford finding him passed out in the lab, working together to bring Ford home again…being together. Being happy. They had been happy, if just for a little while, hadn’t they?

Then there was the cult, and his discovery of the damn memory gun that had finally ruined everything they ever built. He took a hesitant step forward, a thousand thoughts roaring in his mind at once. “Fidds? Wha-what do you remember?” A bandaged hand snaked up and rubbed over the faded scar on the side of his head “I…don’t rightly know. Did we…I think we had a fight? I just woke up in the…in the dump. N’ I don’t have any shoes. Do ya know why my arm is in a cast?” Fiddleford looked so lost.

Stan knew in his heart that all of this was fleeting- “clarity” would hit Fiddleford every few years after he had finally wiped his mind of himself. Almost like his brain was trying to jumpstart itself back together. The first time they thought it was a miracle but…it didn’t last. It just started a trend that would follow them both for the next almost thirty years. Fiddleford would seemingly “wake up” and be lucid for a few weeks in the beginning, then eventually only a matter of days. It had been so long since the last time that Stan would wager, they only had maybe a few hours together if he was lucky.

The last time Fiddleford was himself…they had fought. Stanley thought he had figured the only way Fiddleford could stay; he needed to remember. Remember everything he had ever forgotten. At the time, Fiddleford had been unwilling to try. He didn’t think he could handle it; he knew he had forgotten what he had for a reason.

Stanley had gotten as close to begging as he ever had in his life since surviving Tijuanna, and when it had no effect…Stanley had told Fiddleford to leave and never come back. He had left that night, and by the next day he had faded away again. After a while, Stan thought his last words had been the final nail in the coffin that was Fiddleford’s mind. He carried that weight along with every other mistake he had ever made. But here he was. Fiddleford. His Fiddleford.

He took a deep breath before he opened his arms up. “Hey, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I’m right here.” Fiddleford rushed through the doorway, melting into Stanley’s open arms. “I went away again, didn’t I?” Stan could feel Fiddleford’s tears soaking into his chest, his own whispering at the edges of his eyes. Yes, and you will leave again. You will leave me and I will be alone all over again, you fucking asshole. “Hey cowboy, didn’t I just say not t’ worry about any a’ that? You’re here now, n' that’s what matters. You’re…you’re home.” A haggard laugh vibrated through the smaller man’s chest into Stanley’s own. “I know I keep tellin’ ya, tellin’ me not t’ worry is like” “…tellin’ a fish t’ stop swimmin’; I know Fidds, I know.” Fuck was really the only conscious thought that went through his head as he held his one-time lover. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, again.

Fiddleford looked up, eyes wide and searching Stan’s face. “How long do ya think we have?” Stan shook his head, unwilling to lie even if it eventually wouldn’t matter because he wouldn’t remember. You’ve always been the only person I couldn’t lie to. “I dunno, it’s been…a while. Probably not very long.” Fiddleford closed his eyes before he said “I need ya t’ know somethin’, Stanley.” Stan started to shake his head. “Fidds, you don’t have t-” The look on the other man’s face shut Stan right up-he had always had that ability. Stan wished he didn’t miss it as much as he did. “I need ya to know that even when I’m not here…I miss you. The part of me that’s somewhere in here-” A weathered hand tapped the side of his head to emphasize his point “ misses you. I’m just so sorry, Stanley. Sorry that I’m a coward. I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to be here all the time…but I’ll never stop tryin’. I’ll always try n’ come home to ya.”

Stan thought of the thousands of times he had chased Old Man McGucket, the neat little character that Stan had to compartmentalize his Fiddleford into when he wasn’t himself, out of the Shack. How many times he had found him curled up like a cat on the back porch. How every time they “met”, McGucket would say how nice Stan was or how good he felt to be around him “for some reason.” How many odds and ends McGucket would gift Stan from the dump for exhibits at the Mystery Shack with a large smile and nothing substantial behind his eyes.

It would be so much easier if he would stop trying to come back. Maybe the hole in Stan’s heart the size of the sweet, certifiably insane man would scab over. How many times had Stanley mourned him? How many times was he willing to hurt himself? They were now nearing their sixties, how long was he really willing to do this song and dance?

What’s one more time? he softly thought, his hand coming up to tenderly cup the grizzled face of Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Mad scientist, friend, and unfortunately for them both…the love of his life.

“I miss you too, Fidds.”

[ellies-little-gun]

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna walk over there, nice and slow, to that big fucking chair, and I’m gonna bandage my arm and I’m gonna go to sleep. You’re gonna sit as far away from me as you want and you’re gonna keep that gun pointed on me. If I turn, shoot me. But I promise. A lot of the times, I wish this wasn’t true… I’m gonna wake up exactly as I am right now. Me.”

She waits. 

Because what else is she supposed to do. 

Watches as Ellie takes a deep breath. Watches as she walks towards the chair. Keeps the gun on her, but doesn’t pull the trigger. Isn’t sure why. She should, should just do it and get it over with. All this is only delaying what she knows she’s gonna have to do. Wonders if it’s better or worse to shoot Ellie before she turns. Better to do it before so she never has to see it happen or better to do it after so Ellie isn’t aware it’s her pulling the trigger. Hopes she won’t be aware, when she does it. Already knows she’ll wait as long as she can. Knows she’ll have to, eventually. Because she knows how this ends. A bite ends with a bullet, she knows that. 

Remembers joking all those months ago, did you get bit? Am I gonna have to shoot you in the face? Doesn’t find it funny now that she’s faced with the possibility of doing exactly that. Knows Ellie isn’t immune because no one is. But she goes along with it because she really, really doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to be the reason that Ellie dies. Already knows she will be. No matter how she slices it. Whether she puts a bullet in her or not this is her fault. Ellie got bit so she wouldn’t which means her death is her fault. Even if she doesn’t do it, and leaves her in the theater, it’ll still be her fault that the world doesn’t have Ellie Williams in it. Thinks of Ellie’s pained shout when the Infected latched on, knows she’ll never forget that sound as long as she lives. 

So she waits.

Because what else is she supposed to do. 

Watches Ellie sit on the chair. Shrug out of her jacket, dig in her pack. Pulls out a roll of gauze. Watches as she rolls it around the bite on her arm. Wants to tell her not to bother, because it won’t make a difference, in the end, whether it was bandaged or not. Either way Dina will have to put a bullet in her. Why waste the bandage. But she doesn’t, because she can’t bring herself to. 

Knows it isn’t possible but, fuck, she wants it to be. Wants to believe Ellie when she says she’s immune. Wants to hold on to that sliver of a chance that she isn’t about to lose her, isn’t gonna have to shoot her. Doesn’t think she can. Thinks maybe she won’t. Will let Ellie bite her when she turns, at least that way they get to stay together. It was supposed to be Dina anyway, what difference does it make really. Thinks of two pink lines and dismisses the idea. 

So she waits.

Because what else is she supposed to do. 

Watches Ellie bed down for the night. Watches her curl up on the chair, like she’s seen her do on movie nights. Watches her tuck her jacket around herself and hunker down. Like she’s sleeping on the chair in Dina’s room after watching bad 80s horror movies and not on a chair in an abandoned theater while they wait for the bite to take effect. Like she’s gonna wake up tomorrow and still be herself and not the monster Dina knows she’s going to turn into. Hesitates, isn’t sure where to sit. Wants to sit as far from Ellie as possible, because she knows how this ends and she wants to give herself time to get away in case she can’t bring herself to pull the trigger. 

Doesn’t. Sits in the chair across from Ellie instead. Because she’s gonna have to kill her soon, wants to spend the few precious hours she has left committing her face to memory. Doesn’t take her eyes off her, doesn’t think she could even if she wanted to. Thinks a whole horde could come through the door and she still wouldn’t look away. Would just sit there, memorizing the lines of Ellie’s face while she still looks like Ellie. Traces her eyes over her face again and again. Her eyes, closed now, her nose, her lips. Remembers what those lips felt like, tasted like under hers. Wishes they’d had a chance to do it again. Wishes they had more time. They don’t, she knows that, but she wishes they did. 

So she waits.

Because what else is she supposed to do. 

Ellie falls asleep eventually. How she can manage that Dina has no idea but she does. Knows she does because she snores a little. Not enough to be loud, not enough to attract danger. Just enough to be noticable. Has heard it before, on nights Ellie has spent the night at her place or vice versa. Remembers the faint snore in an otherwise quiet room. Wonders how it would sound right next to her. Wonders how loud it would be right in her ear, Ellie curled around her back, arm over her waist. Wonders if it would keep her up or if it’d be the best lullaby ever heard by human ears. Thinks it’s the latter.

Thinks she’d get used to it, the snoring in her ear. It’s quiet enough. Thinks over time she wouldn’t even notice it anymore. Listens to it now, the in and out. Swears she hears another one join in, much softer on account of coming from a smaller body. Thinks it would have been nice, waking up every morning to the sound of Ellie and the baby snoring together. Thinks it’d sound like music, even better than Ellie singing. Imagines her singing to the baby, that soft voice floating through the house. The one they share, one with both their shoes by the door. Can’t think of anything better. 

Ellie twitches in her sleep and the fantasy dissolves in an instant. Dina grips the gun harder, knows this is it. Except it isn’t. Ellie sighs, heavy, wiggles a little. Starts snoring again. Dina lets out the breath she was holding in a sob. Wonders when it’ll happen. Has a moment where she thinks doing it while Ellie’s asleep would be for the best, that way she won’t even know it happened. She just won’t wake up. Better that way, Dina thinks, for both of them. Lifts her gun, takes a deep breath. Puts her finger on the trigger, ready to squeeze. But then Ellie snores, a little louder, and she can’t bring herself to do it. 

Clicks off her flashlight, brings her hand to her mouth to muffle her sobs. She can’t do this. She can’t. She can’t shoot Ellie. Drops her head into her hand, begs anyone who may be listening to not make her do this. Please, not when I just realized, please not now. Thinks of her singing in that music store, remembers thinking clear as day I love her. Wishes she’d told her, why didn’t she tell her, she should have told her. Thinks of two pink lines and Ellie with a baby on her hip. It makes her chest hurt, to think about it. The future they could have had. The two of them together, with a kid. She blinks and Ellie is on the ground with a bullet hole in her forehead. Sobs, blinks, focuses on now and not a future they’ll never get. 

Ellie shifts in her sleep, shuffles until her head sits more fully on the armrest. Lets out a content sound, and Dina swears the noise almost makes her throw up. Because it’s only a matter of time, she knows. But Ellie still sounds like Ellie, still looks like her too. Lets her eyes roam over her features once more. Over and over and over. Fuck, she’s perfect. Beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, about a million other words Dina could come up with to describe her if she wasn’t so high strung from the adrenaline and exhausted from the crash. Ellie snuffles in her sleep, rubs her cheek against the arm of the chair and Dina can’t hold in the smile. 

Still Ellie, even though she knows a few hours have passed and she shouldn’t be anymore. Knows by now that the infection should be spreading, should be making its way up her arm to her brain. Knows it doesn’t take long, not when it’s on the arm. Knows the shaking will be the first sign, it always is. But she still looks like Ellie, still sounds like her too. The snore is still there, nearly silent and unassuming. Looks at her hands, where she has them crossed over her chest. They aren’t shaking. They should be, but they aren’t. 

Holds onto that little sliver of hope that Ellie wasn’t lying. That she wasn’t only trying to delay the inevitable. Because she should be turning by now. Look at her face, still no infection. Has seen enough Infected to know as it spreads it leaves evidence behind, webs of cordyceps under the skin. Sees none of that now, on Ellie. Sees only her eyes darting back and forth as she dreams and smooth skin. No signs of infection. Still looks like Ellie. Just as perfect as she always is.  

Feels that little sliver of hope grow, because she needs it to. Needs Ellie to be right about this. Knows she doesn’t have it in her to put her down, not Ellie. Not now. Not when she’s finally figured out what she wants. Not when she can see a future for the two of them. Knows when, if, Ellie wakes up as herself she’s going to tell her everything. Is gonna tell her she loves her, is gonna tell her about the baby. Is gonna tell her it all and hopes like hell that Ellie wants what she does.

So she waits.

Because what else is she supposed to do.

[elodieunderglass]

What’s Killie’s full name?

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

[karmathehalflander]

Jim did something reckless and Blinky got so mad the English language wasn’t enough. Jim is confused and concerned.

English translation of the trollish because I won’t make you do all that:

By Deya’s grace you could have been killed! Of all the stupid, reckless, irresponsible things to do! Don’t you ever run off like that again!  Actually you’re grounded! I’m not letting you out of my sight!  You are in so much trouble I can’t even-

[phereshift]

it's important for ships to show signs of life [id: A simple sketch on a dark grey background of an empty spaceship corridor. The corridor walls are covered in a vibrant gold mural, with a star in the centre of the wall and wave-like spirals surrounding it. There are some painted words scattered across the door and equipment in the same shade of gold. The mural is the only spot of warmth in the otherwise cool interior. /end id]

[rottenrottweiler]

After Peter graduates and starts visiting the compound on the weekend via quinjet sent by Stark, they sometimes found themselves in vulnerable positions. Such as coincidentally having the living quarters to themselves when everyone else was off doing work in other parts of the world.

One night Peter is lounging on the big ass couch in the living room, watching The Goonies after a 6 hour lab sesh and Tony already had a Ben & Jerry's in his hand when he walked in so it was easy to turn around to grab a second tub. He walked up and offered it to a delighted Peter, "I've never had this flavor!"

Tony settles comfortably beside Peter, half a cushion between them. Peter peered at the ice cream flavor Tony had and said he'd never had that one either.

"Be my guest." Tony extended the tub to Peter, who set his own on his lap. "If you don't mind old man cooties." And Tony was being completely normal about this as he watched Peter go oooo, gimme and very normally scoop some ice cream with the spoon and lick it off like it was a lollipop. He was being as normal as Peter, who was savoring his tongue tasting the same spoon that had been in Tony's mouth.

"Mmmh, I like it." And he wasn't just talking about the icecream. "Have you tried mine?"

"Can't say I have." That was a lie.

"Try it!" Peter made no motion to hand him the tub as he helped himself to another spoonful of Tony's ice cream so the man took that as a cue to grab it himself from Peter's lap. And Peter felt normal, of course, about Tony's hands reaching towards that particular area of his anatomy. Totally.

A thrill surged through Peter as he watched Tony's lips close around the spoon, ice cream disappearing from the metal when it slipped out. "Oh, yeah, that's pretty yummy." Peter had to agree.

"Yeah. Better than yours, so don't even think about sequestering my ice cream." Peter took his tub from Tony's hands and returned Tony's.

They both spent the rest of the movie making comments, laughing, occasionally trading ice cream and thinking about eachothers mouths.

[ruvviks]

'I never meant for things to turn out like they did,' Nick mumbled, burying his face in Vitali's chest. 'Never meant for any of it to go wrong.' 'I know,' Vitali merely said back, eyes absently fixed on the wall as he ran his fingers through Nick's hair. 'I'm sorry.' 'I know.' 'I love you.' 'I know.' They both paused— Vitali hesitant, Nick optimistically expectant; but the reciprocation remained unspoken, emotions and feelings stuck in the back of Vitali's throat and the three words lingering between them like the smoke of his cigarette. He wasn't sure if he would even mean it anyway.

taglist (opt in/out)

@nistarot, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @mojaves;

@shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption, @ncytiri;

@calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm, @strafethesesinners;

@fashionablyfyrdraaca, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian, @estevnys, @devilbrakers;

@aezyrraesh, @carlosoliveiraa, @adelaidedrubman, @fromgotham, @wardenevka;

@samuraifics

[verityasdragon]

I reached season 8 in my rewatch and the episode 'Dear Uncle Abdul' was so bleak I had to go back to season 2 improve my mood and then had the urge to sketch Klinger in one of his most iconic looks

[mistressneo]

mystery of lack, stabbing stars through my back;

forwards, beckon, rebound,

forwards, beckon, rebound.

[quick-catton]

i just want to say that these two have been on my mind literally all of january. the thought of the debauchery they would indulge in. bobby and his pretty boygirlfriend. using him as a decoy in robberies, his cute lil thing an easy distraction while he takes what he needs, allowing them both to easily slip away. getting to show off his pretty baby in clubs, having a sweet little thing as his passenger princess during long drives through the dessert. a doll for him to dress up and have hanging off his arm wherever they go. anyway <3

[qprstobin]

Stobin Different First Meeting AU where they go to prom together. This was meant to be an au post and turned into a mini fic oops (written completely within a tumblr post so sorry for the poor quality)

(edit: realized I should link the fic I was inspired by for those who don't follow me and so didn't see me reblog it earlier)

Steve doesn't necessarily want to go to prom, right? Like yeah, he'd been imagining it for a while, but now that he was very, very single it just didn't have the same shine that it used to. And he really wasn't ready to start dating yet. However, he didn't want to just, not go to prom, and also knew it would seem really weird (and pretty fucking sad) if he didn't go.

Which leaves him in a conundrum.

He thought for a while that maybe he would go with one of the junior cheerleaders. While he didn't have any close friends anymore, he was still friendly with plenty of people. There were girls that wouldn't be going to prom unless they had a senior boyfriend - some he had even gone on dates with in the past who wouldn't think a single prom date meant that he wanted a new girlfriend.

However, he is pretty sure most of those girls would have... other expectations for the night. And honestly? He isn't quite sure that he was ready to get back on that horse either.

... Not that he thought women were horses.

He's pretty sure men are normally the ones called horses in riding metaphors.

Anyway.

That left him stuck. He couldn't just not go to prom, but also didn't want to wind up trapped on an actual date with someone. So who could he ask?

His solution ended up coming from an odd place.

Robin Buckley was... quite honestly, kind of a weirdo.

She was cute, in an alternative sort of way. She never took any of his shit (he wasn't completely sure she even liked him) but also reluctantly laughed at the snarky shit he said under his breath during their Film History class. And not in the fake giggly way girls did when they were flirting, but didn't actually care about what he was saying, just the way he said it. She actually seemed to think he was funny. Even if that revelation seemed to piss her off.

The only reason he was even in Film History that semester - and therefore, knew who she was - was for the easy A. He got to watch movies in class, and watch movies for homework. He was willing to plow through a couple of shitty essays in exchange for a class that he didn't feel like a complete idiot in.

(Well, he was pretty sure Robin thought he was an idiot about movies, but just because he had trouble remembering the names and shit of characters, didn't mean he couldn't analyze the themes, fuck you very much, Buckley.)

They had gotten assigned a project together early on, and it hadn't been completely terrible. She had quickly taken over doing most of the writing portions, but hadn't thought all of his ideas were terrible. By the end of the project he thought they were even sort of having fun together.

He'd always been one to try his luck, take a little more than he was given. So, after that assignment was over, he started sitting next to her in class, not wanting that easy, if sharp, camaraderie to end. Robin rolled her eyes at him and asked him what he thought he was doing the first time he did it, but she never sent him away.

They ended up chatting more and more during down times, passing notes to each other and sharing sly comments under their breaths during the movies. Steve often had trouble paying attention at school, his mind easily wandering away, and it was almost as bad during most movies, but Robin helped keep him on track.

The class turned into one that was done for the easy grade, a last ditch effort to improve his already hopeless GPA, and became one he actually enjoyed.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of going to prom with Robin. It made the night seem a little less unbearable.

He thought about making a big deal out of asking her, because he knows that's what girls (and even Nancy) had enjoyed for past dances. He quickly scrapped that idea, however, because not only did he not want to put pressure on her like that, but also she seemed to hate public spectacles like that.

Or at least when aimed at her, they both enjoyed watching drama unfold in the halls a bit too much to say she hated it completely.

So Steve waits until the end of the day, their film class being their last, to pull her into an empty classroom. She follows him without question in a show of trust he didn't realize she had in him. The notion warms him, and for some reason makes it more difficult to get the question out.

"Why do I feel like you're about to try to sell me drugs or something?" Robin asked, raising an eyebrow at him. He squints at her in offense.

"Why is that your first assumption?!"

"I don't know! Why else are you pulling me out of the hallway all secretive like, making sure no one followed us, into an abandoned classroom," she asks, throwing her arms into the air.

"The classroom isn't abandoned, it's the end of the day! Also, who does drug deals on campus, that's just stupid?" He asks rhetorically, before waving one hand through the air, as if trying to erase the current thread of conversation. "That doesn't matter, you're distracting me."

"Well then, get on with it! Some of us have practice we need to get to."

"It's like talking to the kids," he mutters to himself, "Whatever. I wanted to ask - will you go to prom with me?"

That stops Robin up short. There's panic in her eyes now, though Steve isn't sure what exactly put it there. Was his reputation that bad that even band geeks are terrified of getting asked out by him?

"You want to go on a date? With me?" she asks slowly, disbelief coloring her voice, though it doesn't hide her unease.

"No, I want to go to prom with you," he scoffs, "Not go on a date with you."

"That is a date, dingus! The person you go to prom with is literally called your date!"

"Okay, sure, maybe, but I don't actually want to date you," he said, rolling his eyes at her.

Like, okay, he understood his reputation for being... what did she call him last week? A 'huge effing rake'? But that didn't mean that he was trying to date any girl that looked in his direction. A lot of girls looked in his direction. That was too many women, even for him.

Robin relaxes a little at that.

"Then why are you asking me to prom instead of someone you actually want to date?"

"Because!" he says, resisting the urge to flail his hands back at her. "I don't want to date anyone right now. Most people I ask are going to expect all these things from me - they're going to want dinner, and at the very least a kiss at the end of the night if not more, or another date the very next day. Because Steve Harrington is supposed to want those things!" He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair to calm himself. "But right now? I really don't."

"Well then, what does Steve the Hair Harrington actually want?" She had relaxed fully at this point, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"I want to go to prom with someone I consider a friend, someone who makes me laugh," he says after a moment of silence. "I want to dance badly to really corny pop music and drink just enough spiked punch that I don't remember how much I hate wearing any sort of tie. Then I want to go get milkshakes or go see a really trashy midnight horror flick, just because I'm having so much fun I don't want the night to end."

That small smile has grown into a reluctant grin on Robin's face. It makes her eyes shine and her freckles pop. Steve thought that if he was in a better place, if they had met at a different time, he could have fallen in love with her.

But they had met now instead, in some shitty public school elective course, and she was the closest thing he had to a friend that wasn't a snotty middle schooler.

"That sounds... like a lot of fun, actually," she says, mischief sparking on her face. "Who would've known the hidden depths hidden behind all that hair."

"Hey!" he protests half-heartedly, unable to keep a grin of his own off his face. "So what do you say? Wanna go to prom with me?"

"I guess," she sighs, acting like it was such a trial to go to prom with him. Him! But her next words make up for it. "Since we're friends, and all. However, I still expect you to buy me dinner, though you can keep the kiss goodnight to yourself."

Steve can't help the giddy laugh from spilling out of him. For the first time in weeks, he is actually looking forward to prom.

[wardensantoineandevka]

I feel like, with the season's plot since Kozma's death being so dense and breakneck and with it being the final season and all, it's easy to feel like it's silly or a waste or inefficient to devote an entire episode to just the party with only oblique references to what's happening in the Highest Light via Saskia. It feels like a lot to dedicate to dancing and singing in Stationary Hill, so seemingly (doing heavy lifting, that word) far removed from the rest of the plot.

But, I think it's important to really spend time with Midst. There's the narrative pacing reason (a quick breath before we really start racing) and there's the reasons of setting the stage for our final act (it is to where we are returning to end all this), but crucially: it is important to see all this, for Saskia.

Shindig is for Saskia and her arc and her motivations the way that Fault is for Spahr and all his. Saskia is a major character, and one deeply tied to the narrative of a protagonist and to place and to the thematic structures, so spending time developing what it is that drives her choices at a granular level is important.

When she makes that decision to pull the lever and shred those beads, this is what is at the forefront of her mind. Saskia is very rooted in the community in Midst, in the people that she is doing all this for. She says to them all in Weather: "I am proud to call Stationary Hill my home, no matter what happens next. I'm here for you, and you're here for me, and there's no other group of people I'd rather be with right now. I'm sorry I couldn't do better for you." In Wake, she is full of "almost heartbreaking honor" and pride that everyone wishes to stay to rebuild Stationary Hill. She sets off for the Highest Light in Breakfast because she wants to move actively protect Midst from the Trust.

She is dedicated to the people of Midst, through and through, and it is the root of all her actions. She hopes for and works toward the fall of the Trust, but more than that, she hopes that the people of Midst will thrive and works toward protecting their futures.

She is in the Central Vault in the Highest Light, but she is also halfway across the cosmos, dancing and singing with these this community she loves more than anything. When she looks Weepe in the eye and pulls that lever, to destroy what remains of this Vault and with it the Trust, and at least part of (maybe all of) herself as well, she is hearing the laughter and their joy of the people on Midst. She knows that the Trust, that Weepe, will come to destroy that eventually.

We need to spend all that time at that party because that is what Saskia is experiencing as she moves toward shred. We need to know what she is choosing, to remember very clearly why she is doing this, to see in real-time what it is she has to lose if they fail here. It is all together at that party that is happening right then.

[figureitoutinthemorning]

I would eat this up so hard

WAIT I DIDN’T SEE THIS ASK BEFORE, TUMBLR HID IT FROM ME!!!

But yeah. At some point I will write it!! I have a bunch of little scenes in my head like that.

[reds-skull]

Bringer of Demise - Chapter 2

[FIRST PART] [AO3]

I'll be honest, I wasn't that confident with the first chapter (probably because it's been a while since I sat down to write something) but I like this one much more. The angst is definitely helping lol

Here's chapter 2: Like a House Fire

“Simon-” Soap jumps as the door slams behind him. Ghost grunts, walking further into his room to sit at the desk, reports now laying forgotten. Not that they need them anymore, with Novikov’s arrival.

Soap takes a sit in front of him, the bed creaking when he leans forward to look in Ghost’s dark eyes. “Talk to me, mo chridhe.”

Ghost slides the mask off his face, and throws it on the desk with so much force some papers fly and land behind it. Soap waits as he stares at the wall for a minute or two, lost in whatever dreadful memory the Doctor brought forward.

“Novikov was the one that tested me. When they brought me back from Mexico.” he starts, voice carefully monotone. “Went through regular shit at first. How long I can use Limbo before I have to stop. What happens if someone shoots at it from the outside. See if sound travels, if comms work.”

Soap holds his tongue, ignores the questions that float to his mind about the process. It’s more important for him to listen to Simon.

“Didn’t really have a problem with those. Expected them, really.” Simon shakes his head, bitterness bleeding into his voice, “it started going wrong when Shepherd came into the picture.”

At the mention of that name, Soap’s jaw clenches. General fucking Shepherd, the man behind Graves’ leash. Ran like a coward after his dog died, still off grid even after Laswell got the go-ahead from CIA to start a search for him. Soap remembers the few meetings he was in, how Shepherd would address Ghost. Spoke to him as if Limbo wasn’t tearing itself apart because of his orders.

Ghost never told him much about the bawbag, Soap never asking. Felt wrong, with how little he willingly gives Ghost about his own past.

“What did he do?” he asks, a little hesitant to hear the answer.

“Novikov wasn’t pushing me hard enough, according to him. Because he was afraid of what my powers would do to me or to others, or for a different reason, I didn’t bother finding out. Don’t know if the Doc tried to resist. It doesn’t matter.” Simon lets out a mirthless laugh, “you know the rest.”

Soap nods. “Ye think… he will do it again? Push ye to…”

“I’m not worried about me, Johnny.” He leans closer to Soap, and it dawns on him that Simon’s not as angry as he is terrified, “there’s nothing new Novikov can tell me to use Limbo on that would break it like last time. But you… they never found your limits, have they?”

“... You know they didn’t need to.”

“I don’t think that ever satisfied Novikov, or the higher-ups.” Soap frowns, Simon’s voice lowering to an almost whisper, “I think they were just as tied up in red tape as you.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He doesn’t think he needs to, they both know Simon is right.

Soap’s memories of that time period are… muddy at best. And it wasn’t because of the shot he received to the head, the day he died.

In the weeks following it, Soap felt like everyone that knew what happened there was walking on eggshells around him. Not many knew, they tried to sweep it under the rug immediately to avoid an international incident, but those that did…

When Soap refused to use his powers on field, his Captain was irritated. Said he’d go to the higher-ups, get him written for insubordination.

The very next day, the Captain took him to the side and asked him to tell him. Fuck the higher-ups when it comes to his own personal curiosity, eh?

Soap refused, obviously. The Captain let it go, eventually, but Soap always wondered if he was trying to send him into impossible situations to see just how much destruction he can survive.

“I’m not going to let him do anything to you, love.” Simon’s voice makes him refocus on the present, “Novikov tells you to jump, you ask me how high.”

Soap scoffs fondly, the anger that has bubbled up in his chest subsiding, “they’re gonna write ye up, LT.”

“Don’t care. They won’t boot me out anyway.” he answers smugly, scarred lips quirking up in a way that makes Soap want to explode the rest of the world, if only to keep him safe.

He returns the smile, “sound awfully certain of yerself. Should I ask Price if the power went to yer head?”

Simon huffs, “just the facts, Johnny. Not only I’m legally dead, they wouldn’t want someone like me strolling around civvies in case I go off and send a couple hundred to Limbo.”

“Sometimes I forget just how much off yer heid you are, Simon Riley.”

“Takes one to know one, and all that.” Simon moves to get up, when something pulls at his leg.

A few dark hands started petting at their boots, so gently they didn’t notice. Soap smiles, leaning down to return the favor with his left hand.

“Look, we made yer friends worried.” the hands wrap around his fingers, chasing the little white flames.

Simon shakes his boot, loosening the residents of the void’s hands, “you know that’s not how that works.”

“Well, they react to our emotions, you never know!” he turns back to the hands, “don’t listen to him, he’s just grouchy ‘cause I’m not holdin’ his hand.”

He’s happy to continue playing with Simon’s “friends” until a shrill sound cuts through the air. Soap watches Simon grab his phone from his pocket.

“It’s Rudy.” he taps his phone and sits down next to Soap, “Rodolfo?”

“Fantasma. Is Soap with you?” Rudy greets, voice hurried.

Soap takes Simon’s wrist and brings the phone closer, “aye, what’s wrong?”

“All of our revenants were woken up by our Reapers, I… I assume it happened to yours as well.”

Christ, must be later than midnight in Mexico right now. Getting dragged into your Reaper’s realm in the middle of sleeping… can’t be fun.

“Affirm.” Ghost says, “I assume yours asked about Fate and Lumity?”

“Yes.” there’s someone talking in the background, and Soap realizes it’s Alejandro, giving out orders, “some of our revenants chose Fate. We’re in the process of reprimanding them, but… It’s more important that I tell you what we gathered.”

Simon and Soap share a look. Anything would be helpful at this point.

Rudy continues, “the ones that chose Fate didn’t give us much. Apparently their Reaper just left, only saying they chose right. It is mine that explained the most.”

“You did say your Reaper was chatty…” Simon mutters.

“It is.” Rudy sighs, “my Reaper didn’t get mad when I chose you. It said it was expecting it.”

Rudy’s Reaper… Reaper of Matter… is on Lumity’s side?

“The Reapers are… in a state of disorder.” he pauses, mulling over the words. “... My Reaper said this hasn’t happened since before the age of revenants.”

“Did it say what’s Fate’s goal in all this?” Simon asks.

“No. I don’t think it knows.” Rudy begins talking in Spanish to someone on the other side, far too fast for Soap to understand. “-Jabón y Fantasma?”

They can hear some rustling before Alejandro’s voice comes through, “Hermanos! You landed us in a real shitshow this time around, eh?”

Soap smiles sheepishly, “good teh hear ye, Ale. Sorry about the mess.”

“All good. Well- for now.” Alejandro hums, “I have a feeling that is due to change at any point.”

“Ye said it…”

Rudy turns the phone back to him, as he says, “whatever it is, you can call us. We’ll continue to update you.”

“Appreciated, hermano,” Ghost answers, “same goes for us.”

“Don’t be strangers. We’ll talk later.” Ghost and Soap say their goodbyes as Rudy hangs up.

So the Reapers themselves don’t quite know what Fate is planning… he didn’t think it was possible, but Soap is even more unsettled. Reapers are volatile as it is, though before they could’ve trusted them to not meddle in their “boring human affairs”.

A Reaper even Reapers can’t foresee… how can they prepare against something like that?

Soap eventually returned to his own barrack, long after daylight faded. Sleep evaded him for most of the night, burning moths fluttering around his cot as he tosses and turns, flames occasionally charring his blanket.

When morning finally comes, he finds himself in the revenant training grounds along with Ghost. Anxiousness drips down his spine as they wait for the Doctor and his assistants.

Ghost knocks their boots together, and Soap calms. He’s not going through this alone, unlike any other revenant.

He begins to hope Novikov has simply forgotten about them when the man is late. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. Almost 20 minutes after the tests were supposed to start, the man comes hurrying down the training grounds, the papers in his hands miraculously not flying away in the gentle breeze.

“Sergeant! Lieutenant! I apologize for the delay.” Novikov calls when he gets close enough, somewhat out of breath, “yesterday’s incident had us sifting through reports all night, as you can imagine.”

The Doctor pauses to take another deep breath, and flips through the folder he brought, “as I’m sure you understand, this will not be a standard revenant test. I will not be redoing your basic tests, Lieutenant. As for you, Sergeant…”

Novikov turns his bespectacled grey eyes to him, and gives him a small smile, “I understand that I will not be able to test your limits here, but the records of the Verdansk incident are enough.”

Soap’s back straightens, and he can’t help but growl, “ye know about it?!”

He can count on two hands the amount of living people that know the whole truth behind his Reaping, and about half of them are in the 141.

“Laswell has allowed me access to the files. I’ve known about the incident beforehand, of course, theorized Konchar had-”

“Don’t ye dare say that fuckin’ name.” he snarls, flames flickering within his clenched fists. It doesn’t stop the stream of blurry memories, of melting skin beneath his fingertips-

Soap forcibly exhales, coercing his flames to die down.

Novikov doesn’t seem offended by the interruption. On the contrary, he looks… intrigued.

“I’d like to test the difference between your hands, to start. I have only been made aware of the changes in flame color, and the markings, of course.”

Soap glances at Ghost, who gives him a nod.

“What do ye need me to do, Doctor?”

“This is most intriguing… the flesh of your left hand is cooler than your right, but the flames are considerably warmer…”

Soap feels the ground between his fingers crumble to ash. So far, The tests are quite… boring, if he’s honest.

He’s had his own morbid fascination with his own powers, for a while. Wondering how it compares to other explosive compounds, trying to run the numbers to find the closest approximate. He thought, if he could find an equation, he could control his powers better.

Soap gave up on it soon after. Didn’t have enough data to work with, and generating more meant using his powers, and well…

Novikov lifts his pen, “very good, Sergeant.” steamin’ Jesus, he’s not 5, is he gonna give him a sticker next? “Now, Lieutenant, remove any clothing on your right arm, if you will.”

Ghost, who up until now stood motionless in his best imitation of a statue, stares at Novikov for a long moment, before slowly removing his glove and tucking it into his belt. He steps closer to Soap, rolling his sleeve to reveal pale, scarred skin.

“Now, with your left arm of course, I want you to attempt to explode the Lieutenant’s arm.”

Soap notices the assistant with the heat-sensitive camera aim it at Ghost, “it’s not gonna do anything to him, Doc.”

“Then there shouldn’t be any problem demonstrating it.” Novikov doesn’t look up from his papers. Bawbag.

Ghost offers him his arm silently. Soap knows it won’t do anything to him, they bear marks to prove it.

Soap takes the arm. White flames wrap harmlessly around it. He focuses his powers to his left hand, the air around them distorting.

It feels fundamentally wrong to try and hurt Simon. His breathing picks up, fingers twitching as the flames climb higher and higher.

“-it’s as if they’re trying to reach equilibrium. The flesh cools the flames, the flames heat it in return-”

Ghost doesn’t react, not that Soap can see with his vision tunneling on their joined limbs. The fire burns, searing, scorching, mutilating-

“-You may stop now, Sergeant-”

He can’t hurt him, how could he ever dare hurt him? Why isn’t anyone stopping this?

Like a bystander watching a house fire, Soap is helpless in front of the flames. He can almost smell the bubbling flesh from here, the melting of everything in the face of unending ruin-

“-ohnny. Enough.”

Soap jumps, the world rushing back to his senses. He turns his head shakily, to see Novikov’s gaze boring into him.

“Ah’m not- I can’t-” he mumbles, words barely forming on his lips, “Ghost-”

“You’re alright, Johnny.” Ghost’s smooth voice is steady as ever, but his eyes betray him, “it’s over.”

Novikov affirms, “We got all we needed, Sergeant.”

Ghost lifts his hand towards him, and Soap barely suppresses a flinch as it trails down his bicep. “You’re alright.” he repeats.

Soap nods, feeling like a bampot all at once. Of course Ghost is fine. They already knew this, he told Novikov as much not 10 minutes ago.

Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. Soap grits his teeth, “what’s next, Doctor?”

Novikov takes a while to answer, and Soap avoids Ghost’s perceptive gaze as they wait, “I have received approval for Limbo, Lieutenant. I’d like to see the changes it went through first-hand.”

“... Understood. We will need to put some distance between us.” Ghost grunts.

The Doctor waves his hand, “naturally. You’re familiar with your limits, I’ll leave it to your judgement.”

Soap feels Ghost urge him to move, and they begin walking.

“Johnny-”

“Aye.” Soap huffs, “sorry, LT.”

“What for?” Ghost hums, “you did nothing wrong.”

He doesn’t answer to that. If Ghost didn’t see his fuck-up, he’d rather not bring it up.

“If you need to stop at any point-”

Maybe he’s easier to read than he thought, “Ah’m solid, Simon.”

“You froze there. Don’t think you can hide it.” or maybe Ghost knows him too well by now.

They come to a stop, facing one another. Soap bites the inside of his cheek, “I’m- I’ll be fine as long as Ah don’t have to repeat that.”

“You won’t.” Ghost assures him, “ready for Limbo?”

If there’s a place to find peace of mind, it’s the void, “aye. Been a while since we paid our friends a visit, hm?”

Ghost chuckles, “only you’d call them that.” He raises his voice, shouting to Novikov, “Limbo out in five!”

The Doctor gives them a thumbs-up, so Ghost closes his eyes.

Entering Limbo never got less jarring. Soap gets used to it faster if he expects it, but the shift from the colorful, lively world to the still void is an odd one.

Still, once he gets accustomed to it, he can’t help but smile. As weird as it is to say, he missed this place.

Limbo’s victims are docile, chasing after bright moths with no sense of urgency. Like shooting stars, they paint the dark skies of Limbo with radiant yellows and oranges.

This might be the only good thing Soap’s powers have ever done.

He catches Ghost staring at him, his eyes a glowing white, “what?” he asks with a small grin.

“Better?”

“Aye.”

“Sergeant!” Novikov shouts, though it sounds muffled as it enters Limbo from the other side, “try to explode something!”

Soap frowns, “is he talkin’ about yer friends?”

Ghost mutters, clearly unhappy with the disturbance, “don’t know.”

“What do you want ‘im to test it on?!” Ghost shouts back.

“Any material will do! I assume you’re standing on something, correct?”

Soap looks down, at the solid black ground. “What is this made of, anyway?”

The way Ghost hums back tells him ‘fuck if I know’. He crouches down, placing both hands on it. The texture is almost like a glass pane, except his fingers can’t get a grip on it no matter how much he tries.

Before he can hesitate, Soap flexes his fingers.

Nothing happens.

“Huh.” he tilts his head, “suppose it makes sense.”

“How so?” Ghost kneels beside him, sliding a finger over the undamaged surface.

“My powers have to come into contact with a material to explode.” Soap shrugs, getting back on his feet, “void’s made of nothing, no?”

“Hm.” Ghost casts another look around Limbo, and blinks.

Soap catches himself before his knees buckle from the rush of color and noise back into the world. Ghost hooks an arm under his shoulder as a precaution, but he assures him he’s stable.

“Absolutely outstanding! This is the first time you couldn’t explode something, is that correct, Sergeant?” Novikov half-jogs to them.

“Uh… Aye?”

The Doctor’s eyes gleam with wonder, “Incredible! If only there were more Revenants of Destruction in this base, I would be able to test if this is a result of a relation between your Reapers, or a consequence of your powers mixing… Alas, this is not the purpose of my visit.” 

Novikov’s assistants are absorbed with the testing equipment they brought, some looking like set pieces of a low budget sci-fi movie to Soap. He’d love to nick one to take apart, but the shite’s probably so delicate even his fingertips would burn and destroy them.

“Now, for the next test, I’d like you to-” a shrill noise cuts Novikov off, and Ghost pulls out his phone.

Soap pouts when Ghost answers. Why does no one ever call him?

“Affirm. We’ll be there in fifteen.” Ghost ends the call, “we need to go to a meeting with Laswell.”

Novikov’s eyes dim, “ah, I see… I suppose we can continue this afterwards.”

“You’re invited too, Doctor.” Ghost grunts, making both Soap and Novikov swing around in surprise.

When Laswell finally shows up on screen, she seems different from what Soap remembered.

Dark eye bags, pale, hair more grey in some places. He almost didn’t recognize her, and looking around the room tells him the rest of the team thinks the same.

The rest, except Price, “how are you, Kate?”

Laswell sighs, more hair falling off her tight bun. “Let’s get to work, John.”

As she brings up several images on screen, Price reports in their mind, “someone attacked Laswell and her wife in their home two months ago. She got off with minor injuries, but her wife… her concussion was severe enough that she barely talks most days.”

“Did they catch the fucker that did it?” Soap thinks back. If they didn’t, he’d gladly volunteer to put the bastard six feet under. He owes Laswell that much.

Price stops him from continuing to plan a revenge, “Kate killed him, son. She’s trained for field work, an everyday burglar doesn’t stand a chance against her. Now focus up.”

Soap huffs, “yes sir.”

“-we found signs of Shepherd’s work around Urzikstan. Supposedly, he’s working with one of the resistance groups there.” blurry satellite images pop up on screen, convoys and remote buildings hidden between green hills.

Gaz frowns, “either he suddenly grew a moral compass, or there’s a catch.”

Laswell nods, “it’s possible it’s a false lead, but with recent clashes between Urzik forces and the Russians, I’d like you to personally investigate it.”

“We’ll get it done, Laswell.” Price says, his authoritative voice on full blast.

“No one I trust more than you.” Laswell smiles, in a way Soap has never seen. “Now, obviously as you all are grounded, I wouldn’t just send you on what could potentially lead to nothing…”

She begins talking to Novikov, “we’re working on tracking the missing revenants Graves and Shepherd trafficked.”

The Doctor nods, adjusting the frankly huge glasses on his nose bridge, “many of them belong to rarer kinds of Reapers. If they were to fall into the wrong hands…”

“We can’t allow that to happen.” Ghost finishes sternly.

“Commander Karim has been working to find them, but there’s so much she can do while also fending off Russians.” the screen switches to a compilation of names and passport photos, each listing both a date of birth and Reaping. “This is your official reason to be sent to Urzikstan, boys. Whatever intel Graves has left behind him regarding the revenants’ location, we need it.”

“When are we up?” Price asks.

“1600.”

Gaz whistles, “brass’ knickers are all twisted up, huh.”

“Miss Laswell, if I may.” Novikov pipes up, “I have yet to finish the renewed revenant test of Sergeant MacTavish and Lieutenant Ghost. I will not be able to give you an accurate recommendation before that.”

The fuck’s he talking about?

“I understand, Doctor, but it’s out of my control.” Laswell exhales, “this is why I invited you to this meeting. Based on what you do know, what is your verdict?”

The entire room swivels to stare at the Doctor. Novikov scrambles to flip through the papers in his hands, before speaking with an air of defeat.

“Considering my current understanding of Lumity, and the state of Sergeant MacTavish and Lieutenant Ghost… I recommend that until further testing, they should be separated as much as possible on field, if their powers are to be used.”

… What?