#they’re never on time to appointments because an hour used to take days

[letitbehurt]

Whumpers who make Whumpee believe very little time has passed—less than what actually has. It could have been two years since Whumpee was taken, but Whumper swears up and down it’s only been 9 months.

Alternatively, Whumpers who make Whumpee believe more time has passed. It’s only been a few months since Whumper took them, they’re sure they’ve been keeping track, but then Whumper surprises them with a one-year anniversary dinner.

[ivymarquis]

A Little Death

Pairing| Ghost x F!Reader Rating| M Word Count| 7k Kinks/Content/Warnings| The author has decided she can't be assed to edit this, Chubby!Reader, Kidnapping, nondescript mentions of torture. Ambiguous mentions of S/A (vague enough you can chose to ignore that part if you want tbh), Reader is traumatized from her ordeal but working through it. Fingering, PiV, riding, squirting, Simon has a moment where he's worried he triggered reader after sex but that is an incorrect assumption on his part.

On days like this Simon can almost pretend he’s normal. 

The game’s on, a beer in one hand while the other has been commandeered by his girlfriend with a simple “Gimmie.”

Simon has never been one to worry about his nails beyond clipping them for practicality’s sake.

Having a SAS lieutenant for a boyfriend means she deals with what she insists is Simon’s paranoia and he insists is a healthy level of suspicion about the outside world. Having a nail technician for a girlfriend means every so often she’ll commandeer his hands to ensure they’re up to her standards. As it turned out, adhering to regulations wasn’t up to par for her. 

His neighbor is a popular woman.

It sets him on edge, all the traffic. One or two people at a time, usually other women- sometimes with a man in tow, other times not. They show up, they stay for maybe an hour or maybe 4, and they leave. Within 30 minutes someone else is knocking on her door.

Normal men humor their partners about things they don’t particularly give a fuck about when left to their own devices, as an acknowledgment of its importance to them. 

And so he sits, beer in one hand as she works on the other. Once she’s finished she gathers up the towel that acts as a catch for the various clips and trimmings before making her move to switch sides, Simon easily acquiescing to her whim.

“I’m not keeping you up, am I?” She asks one night. Music plays lowly from a laptop on her patio as he steps onto his for a smoke break. Just because he’s got his vice doesn’t mean he wants the whole flat smelling like it.

“Don’t sleep much anyway, pet. Bit of music won’t change that one way or another.”

Despite his insistence that he’s merely humoring her, he soaks up the attention she readily gives him. When she’s done and tidied after herself she returns with a small bottle of lotion.

He’s got one arm wrapped around her shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head as she massages his hand. If he plays his cards right tonight he can probably get her to soothe some of the aches and stiff muscles that always plague him. For now he melts as she seems to know exactly what points to hit in his palm and forearm. 

It’s domestic and normal and Simon can almost ignore the burner phone he keeps on him at all times.

It goes off at 5am on a Sunday, Simon already awake and having been watching the ceiling fan since 4:30. He can’t fall back asleep but can’t bring himself to separate from her. 

She burrows further into his chest as his shifting disrupts her. He’s fairly certain she would crawl inside his ribcage if she could, curl up right next to his heart and never leave. 

Simon would gladly let her. 

She’s a nail technician, he comes to learn. Sure as shit, he eventually memorizes the traffic that comes and goes on a roughly two week interval. Some of them are steadfast in their appointments. 2 o clock every other Thursday. 4 o clock every other Friday. Others not so much- they come around frequently but the days and times are random after the 14 day mark. 

The familiarity of some of the faces takes him slightly less on edge. He will never relax, not truly, but it settles him down now that he knows the pattern. 

It also explains why her hands have two completely different designs on each one. Color, pattern, the shape of the nails. Her left and right hand look like they belong to two different people. 

Simon doesn’t use social media, for obvious reasons. His little neighbor has formed an entire career for herself based off of it. 

But the phone buzzes on the nightstand, an omniscient presence that always hovers heavy in the air.

“Price?” Is all he gives for a greeting. Trying to keep his words short and concise. He doesn’t want to wake her, still under the lull she draws him into without trying. 

He keeps his work and his personal life separate with no intention of ever melding the two. 

“Laswell’s got intel. We meet in 2 days, back on base at 06:00.”

He is about to respond, both an acknowledgment and a hopeful end to the conversation, when she stretches next to him with a groan of protest at being awoken so early. 

“Tell your other girlfriend I said hi,” she grumbles, already knowing it’s Price on the phone and that the clock is officially counting down on the time they have left together. 

“You know at a certain point I'm going to just decide you’ve got a whole secret life with a wife and kids and a picket fence.”

He doesn’t want his work to ever follow him home. Not to her. He keeps them strictly separate. She knows he’s military- specifically SAS- and that he works in counter terrorism and that’s about all he’s willing to tell. She doesn’t need to know details. And more importantly the details don’t ever need to know about her. 

His past missions have haunted him in the worst way possible. He’s finally rebuilt something for himself as the ghost of a dead man, and doesn’t want anything to ever tarnish what he’s found. 

He can’t entirely blame her. It takes a leap of faith to accept the little he offers her. What does he have? A dead man’s name and most likely a violent end waiting for him. 

Eventually he does offer a small peace offering. Price is enough to settle the concerns that she hides as jokes. Provides enough credibility that she can let go of the concern that he’s living a double life.

Well, he is. But not the kind that nags at her. 

Price knows her; Gaz and Soap know that he’s got someone waiting for him at home, but Simon is already at his limit of how much intermingling he can handle. They’re both compromising, both making allowances for their comfort levels for the sake of the other. But he has to draw the line somewhere. 

If Simon had his way Gaz and Soap would be none the wiser, but a night of frantic coupling before he’d left had Simon bearing marks that are incredibly obvious in the changing room. 

“Steamin’ Jesus L.T.! You get jumped by a wildcat?” The chortle from the Scot makes it obvious that Johnny is yet again not afraid to push Simon’s buttons. 

There’s no denying what they are, nor how he got them. Neither Soap nor Gaz are stupid. 

Long, red scratch marks criss cross the broad expanse of his scarred back. He certainly hadn’t complained when his lovely girl had left her mark on him- those nails dragging across his skin had only encouraged him as his hips clapped wetly against hers, hands gripping her knees as he pressed them to her shoulders.

Most nights he is soft and gentle and strokes her skin while his lips press either in her hair or the soft expanse of her neck. He doesn’t roughhouse her tonight, but the knowledge he’ll be gone for weeks and tonight is their last together for the foreseeable future?

Well, the pair of them are a bit amped about the impending separation. It’s a good thing neither of them are particularly known for their good sleeping habits, because there’s not a lot of that usually happening on the nights before Simon leaves. 

Leaving without waking her up is an impossible task but he tries anyway.

Whereas Simon finds sleep difficult to achieve and eventually sleeps like the dead once he finds it, she drifts readily enough but will wake at the drop of a hat.

Usually she’ll settle soon after. Eyes following his form in the dark, waiting expectantly for him to come back after he dresses to kiss her goodbye. 

They carve out a routine for themselves. One for when Simon is home, and one for when he’s preparing to walk out the door until eventually coming back through it.

His therapist is equal parts shocked and pleased to hear that Simon is taking the leap and opening himself up emotionally to someone. 

His therapist is less pleased about the way he simply buries himself in her life when he’s on leave.

Simon is nothing- has nothing- when he is not acting in the line of duty. He is a dead man with nothing to his name and no one who gives a fuck if he ever walks back through the door that isn’t tied to his military career. 

He thrives on the stability and schedule on base. On the simplicity of nights spent out on the field. Wake up, piss, dont die, go to sleep. Wake up, repeat. 

Some days the only thing keeping him from trying to end it all (again, he bitterly acknowledges) when he’s gotten too far into a bottle of bourbon is his therapist and the thought of his team’s face at the news. 

Until, at least, he meets her. 

The mission is brief but successful. Simon is pleased. 

The deepest of the scratch marks has just finished healing and he’s already missing the sensation of her nails dragging against his skin- and he’s not picky about the context, either. 

There have been plenty of nights he’s fallen asleep with his face buried in her chest with one of her hands scratching gently at his scalp and the other tracing in broad strokes across his back.

Of course those nails also feel divine scratching at his abdomen while she is on her knees for him.

There’s a process he goes through when he gets home. It lets him shed the mantle of Ghost- to calm down as much as he’s able and be better equipped to deal with civilian life. Helps him give her the illusion that she is with a normal man who’s not holding onto himself with a death grip, desperately trying to keep the pieces together.

He feels fine when he leaves base and heads home. Everything is normal. 

Until he turns the corner and sees the door ajar.

Fear runs ice cold in his veins, hackles raised and on guard. 

I’m just being paranoid, he tries to self soothe as he steps towards the door. She tells me all the time.

Course, it was one thing when he gripes about how she answers the door without looking to see who it is. She doesn’t leave the fucking door open.

“Wish you’d at least look at the peep hole before just opening the bloody door,” he grouses into her hair, pulling her in so she’s tucked up to his side. 

“If I’m expecting someone to come at 3 and there’s a knock at 3, I already know who it is, Si.”

There are times when he is grateful that she has, by comparison, lived a life where she thinks he is paranoid and needlessly worries. She hasn’t had the experiences he has, and he doesn’t wish that upon her. He’s grateful with the knowledge that every time he’s sent out, thus far, that she’s been tucked away safe and sound until he returns. 

But of course the other shoe was always going to drop eventually. 

“Price?” Simon doesn’t know who else to call. 

He’s standing in the middle of his flat, evidence of an altercation scattered around the living room. 

She put up a fight if the state of the flat is anything to go by. He wants to be proud of that at least, use it as hope-

He just feels hollow. 

A group the 141 has dealt with prior are the ones all the signs point to. They wanted the team’s attention and by God they fucking got it. 

Simon doesn’t understand how they found she has any ties to him. He’s so careful- keeps her tucked away and hidden from any potential cross over with his work.

The next few days are a blur and Simon’s mental health has seen better days. 

He resigns himself, even when Laswell gets a hit and the 141 are loaded into a helo, to the fact that at best this will be a body retrieval mission. 

Even as Soap gives a reassuring knock into his shoulder- we’ll get her back, LT- as confident as ever. 

His sweet girl is dead, just like every other person Simon has ever cared about. 

He doesn’t understand what he’s done to deserve losing them all. The only ones he has left are his team, and that’s a tenuous state at best. His family was good. They were normal people with normal lives. She is good and a normal person. 

Her only sin is being foolish enough to love him. 

Some time between getting on the bird and offloading, Simon forces the thoughts in a corner and blocks them off. 

Simon, the terrified boyfriend, gives way to Ghost so he can get through this in one piece. He just wants to find her, bring her home and bury her body. He’s numb to anything beyond the scope of the plan he’s formed in his mind. 

It’s laughably easy. A fringe group the 141 has had altercations with- she’s not exactly a high profile prisoner. They just wanted to fuck with Simon.

There’s no satisfaction or vindication as they clear the building floor by floor. 

He feels nothing.

The further they venture into the building with no sign of her, the pit in his stomach sinks just as far. There’s no sign of anything concrete or anywhere they’d keep a prisoner. 

And then there, in a corner of a hallway, Ghost spots it-

An acrylic nail lying broken on the ground, dried blood clotted on the tips. 

For the first time in days, Simon feels something. 

It’s not hope. He doesn’t dare hope. 

But it’s confirmation that she has, at some point, been in the building. 

It’s also confirmation that she gave it a fighting chance. 

She’s a civilian- nothing much she can do against professional criminals. But she tried and Simon has to find something in that.

They split into pairs down a hallway clearing rooms. Every door that opens only to not have her in it is like a knife that keeps twisting in his abdomen. 

Just let him have this one thing. 

It’s just as Ghost and Soap have called out clear on another room that he hears Price’s voice call to him down the hall. 

There’s only one reason Price would be calling for him specifically.

As he approaches he can hear the captain again, softer this time. Can’t make out what he’s saying but everything feels slow; like he’s moving under water. 

As his mind prepares him for every horrific potential image waiting for him beyond the threshold of the door- there’s nothing that prepares him for what he sees. 

She’s alive. 

Wide eyed and panicked, which is to be expected all things considered, but she’s here and she’s breathing.

Simon forgets himself entirely. He swings wildly from feeling nothing to feeling everything and it bubbles up all at once as he barrels towards her. 

He forgets that while she knows Simon is SAS she knows nothing of Ghost. Simon works in counter terrorism, yes, but she knows nothing about the mask.

So after being kidnapped and going through God-knows-what in her absence, she’s got no fucking clue the 6’4 fucker with the skull mask gunning for her is her boyfriend. 

The sharp, croaked “Stay the fuck away from me!” doesn’t cut but it does jog his memory enough to know she’s absolutely terrified.

Again there’s that part of him that is proud of her. After everything she’s been through even if she wouldn’t stand a chance in an actual altercation- She’s not huddled in the corner. She looks willing to fight him, until Simon rips the mask off his face. “It’s me, love! It’s me.”

“Simon? What the fuck is that?!”

Rather than scrambling to get away she turns to launch herself at him, a tangle of limbs as they cling to each other and reassure themselves that yes this is real and yes the other is there. That this fucking nightmare is over.

Simon buries his nose in her hair- was so certain he’d be bringing her home in a body bag he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. She’s shaking in his grip, sobs ripping through her as he shushes her gently and murmurs “It’s alright, love. I’ve got you now.”

“As much as I love a good reunion- we need to get going, Ghost.” Price is ever the voice of reason, because Simon’s head is not in the game right now. 

He wants to cling to her and never let her go- he needs to pull his head out of his ass. 

Price isn’t wrong. As much as he has to fight off the impulse to tuck her against his side and keep her there, they have shit to do. 

He won’t truly be able to relax until she’s safely stowed on the helo and they’re on their way back.

It’s a bit easier once he puts the mask on. His brain is trained to focus on work and not let his personal life muddy the waters. Where Simon can’t help but falter, Ghost is dauntless. 

Simon can barely string a thought together now that he has her back in his arms. Simon still cannot believe she’s alive and breathing even after touching, smelling and hearing her. 

But Ghost can focus on getting her to the helo. 

Everything is a blur as Price and Gaz lead with Soap bringing up the rear. 

Ghost can’t quite decide where he wants her- keeps alternating between keeping her behind him in the event they get blindsided, that he’ll take any hits that go past Price or Gaz, or getting her in front of him so he can keep an eye on her, and there’s two SAS soldiers in front of her and two behind.

The hostiles in the building wanted the 141’s attention. Mission fucking accomplished.

The ones they chance across are dropped with ease. Simon is no stranger to returning to a location and making his point. Right now he’s got bigger concerns to be worried about. 

A knot of anxiety lodges itself on his ribcage as they move through the building that doesn’t unwind until he’s got her strapped to her seat in the helo. 

For the first time in days he can breathe. The knot slowly untangles as they ascend.

It finally settles in for both of them that she is out and she is safe. She’s been quiet the whole trek to the helo but Price, Soap, and Gaz have been on enough hostage recovery missions to not be caught off guard as she bursts into tears and buries her face in Ghost’s vest. 

It’s finally safe for her to do so, the adrenaline wearing off as she sobs. 

For the most part the other three men try to avert their eyes and not intrude.

Simon’s always been reserved about his life off base and watching him soothe his partner is bordering too personal for the others to witness.

It comes and goes in waves; Simon will settle her down, crooning quietly in her ear too low for the others to hear. She’ll stifle her tears for a bit as he soothes her. They go straight to medical after landing to have her looked at. She starts up again while waiting for the nurse to come back, trying to apologize to Simon through choked sobs. 

He won’t hear it, softly but firmly brushing her apologies to the side and assuring her everything’s fine now, love. No need to apologize.

He feels physically ill when the nurse delicately asks if she needs a rape kit or screenings done.

The rest of the 141 gives them a wide berth- which is a marked accomplishment because all too often Soap and Gaz are trailing behind him and finding some sort of shenanigans to get up to. Simon is perfectly content with the arrangement. He wants to focus his attention on her and that’s easier to do without the sergeants under foot.

His room on base is much like his entire apartment was before she moved in.

It’s 3am, Simon needs to take a piss and as he’s doing so, he’s not-quite eye level with a sign that says

“★★★★★ -

Would poop here again”

He’s got no idea when or where she found that, let alone put it up, but rolls his eyes good naturedly as he tucks himself away.

Normal people have bathroom decor.

Simon can appreciate a bit or a joke as much as the next person- but while this space is his it’s not something he’s ever felt the need to decorate. It’s a bed for him to crash on in between missions or if he’s too bloody exhausted to safely make the trek home.

There’s only one piece of any sort of personal touch to the room- a framed photo of her.

Simon intends to see her through the next few days- they’ll head home in the morning and realistically there’s only so long John can hold off on calling the boys in again. But the captain says he’ll do what he can to keep Simon home while they settle back in. He’s been due for some leave anyway.

He doesn’t sleep the first night. She swings drastically between being knocked out and jolting awake screaming and crying. Even once she’s gotten over the initial shock of her rescue it still takes time for her nervous system to calm down.

“I’ve got you, love- you’re safe here” he murmurs into her ear as she trembles like a leaf. “We’ll be home soon, yeah? You’ll feel better once you’re in our bed.”

The question is twofold- it is to soothe her, and also to gauge her reaction to the prospect of going home. Simon won’t hesitate to set the flat ablaze if it makes her feel better. 

Start fresh.

For now she seems to sleep better if he’s got her pinned up against the wall- the bulk of him a physical barrier to anything that might enter the room.

He’s always slept between her and the door so that’s no hardship- it just takes time to realize she feels safer trapped between him and the wall.

They make it through the first night in one piece, although the next morning she will not stop chewing on her nails. With someone else, he wouldn’t necessarily be surprised- but she’s never been a nail biter.

It dawns on him, as she sits on the couch and bursts into tears, that she wants the nails (or at least the ones that survived the ordeal) off, and is winding herself up too much to take them off the way she knows she should.

Simon goes to her office; he’s watched her enough that he knows the steps and the materials she’ll need, gathering them up before coaxing her to the table.

There’s no interest in redoing them but Simon manages to get the current sets off of her so she doesn’t damage her nail beds- assuming she stops chewing on them (which she does).

Over the next few days he lets her set the pace. She’s jumpy at home and calmer when he takes her out to run errands or just to stretch their legs. 

Maybe he will propose moving sooner rather than later. Their building is a shithole anyway.

He puts her in therapy after a week. It’s the only time he’s away from her. Realistically he knows it’s not good to have her so used to always being within arms length or eyesight of him- it’s not sustainable when eventually he will be called back in. But he has no qualms for the coddling he subjects her to while he’s able to. She’s quiet and comfortable with his hovering in a way she’d never tolerate before she was abducted- he figures he’ll know when she’s feeling a bit like herself again when she starts complaining about him not giving her any space.

Knowing she’s got the therapist gives him some security on how she’ll mentally cope when eventually he needs to leave again.

Her bursting into tears occurs less frequently. If Simon has to pry himself away from her to take a piss in the middle of the night she’s not up, back ramrod straight and waiting for him to come back with wet, teary eyes.

As the days tick on, bleeding into months later, Simon idly acknowledges that-short of when he’s on deployment- this is the longest they’ve gone without having sex. There’s nothing else that goes with that acknowledgement- he’s far more concerned with her well being than he is getting his kicks. He’s just taking stock of all their ‘normals’ and prior to her abduction they’d had quite the active sex life.

It’s one day as they’re watching a movie that it’s apparent Simon isn’t the only one aware of their dry spell.

They’re laying on the couch, her back pressed against his front with one of his heavy arms draped across her rib cage to keep her snuggled up against him as they watch the screen in front.

At first he thinks that she’s repositioning- thinks nothing of it and lifts his arm just enough to allow her the freedom to wiggle to a more comfortable spot. She keeps wiggling though and Simon is trying to keep his mind off the sensation of her arse grinding into his groin. Trying to ignore the way his dick twitches in interest, because- God help him- he's not dead and the love of his life is grinding her arse on him. Bodies are going to do what bodies do, and he can feel himself stiffening in response.

“Sweetheart, you need to sit still,” he whispers the plea into her ear. 

Her head tilts back towards him and lust jolts through his body at the look in her eyes while she still continues to grind against him.

“I miss you, Simon,” and given how he is rarely further than grabbing distance from her, there’s very few other ways to interpret what exactly it is that she is missing.

He’s a goner when she gives him that wide, doe eyed expression paired with the prettiest “Please?” he’s ever heard in his life.

One moment they’re quiet and content laying on their sides on the couch- the next Simon’s gripping her arm and pulling her on top of him as he settles onto his back. She follows his lead and moves so her weight is settled on his hips as his hands grip hers.

It is no hardship on his end to wait for her- the patience never truly even registered in his brain. She can have as much time as she needs and Simon will give it to her gladly.

But his pretty girl batting her eyes at him and pleading softly for him? His patience isn’t the only thing he’s willing to give her.

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t mean to second guess her or make her question herself but he does want to make sure that she’s not acting on obligation.

“Yes, Simon- Please,” and who is he to deny her?

His hands are on her immediately- pulling her towards him and encouraging her to grind, knowing her sweet clit will light up at the friction of her soft panties dragging across the rough material of his jeans.

His lips find hers, separating only briefly as he hauls her dress up and over her head, happily discarding the material in a heap on the floor.

His hands grip her hips, Simon relaxing into the couch while his fingers dug into the pillow soft skin perching above him. He’s straining against the fabric of his jeans- knows the tip of his erection is leaking clear pre and it’s not just going to be her being the reason the fabric has a wet spot.

The couch is certainly not the worst place to be, his beautiful girlfriend’s tits in his face as she grinds down in his lap with little hitching breaths.

“Just like that, pretty,” he encourages, kissing down her jawbone, the length of her neck and across her collar bone before happily mouthing at her breasts which are blessedly right in his face.

Simon groans in pleasure as he teases one nipple, her sweet mewls and the grip on his hair only spurring him on.

Grabbing a handful of her plush arse, he groans in anticipation while switching from one breast to the other.

It’s been a fair while since his back has been shredded by her nails and he can’t wait to feel the bite of them dragging down the length of his spine.

“Lift up, sweetheart,” he instructs, somewhat loath to release her plump bottom but eager to get her dripping for him.

She pulls up enough for him to slip one hand between her legs. Exploring fingers are quick to spread her wetness, dipping between her folds and dragging back up to circle her clit softly.

“Fuck- Simon!” she whines in his ear.

He knows enough by now what makes her tick. Once she’s all warmed up and ready to roll, that sweet cunt of hers could take a thrashing. But warming up involves feather-light touches to get her squirming and squealing for him.

“Feels good, pretty?” he asks despite knowing the answer in the way her arms wrap around his neck and she sags against him, hips twitching as she lets him tease her.

“Ye-yeah,” she murmurs, and presses her lips against his neck as he takes another pass- finger pulling away from her clit just to draw shivers from her as he traces back down her folds and presses ever so lightly against the entrance on her- just to the first knuckle- and making his way back to tease her clit.

Each pass has her rocking her hips more as he slips more of his finger inside, eventually adding a second that has her mewling and squirming in his lap.

He’s going to have one hell of a hickey from how she’s sucking on his neck, but Simon can’t bring himself to care. Not when his ears are graced with the delightful little noises she makes- whimpers of protest as he pulls his fingers out of her, the shaky inhales as he circles her clit and the trembling moan when he once again slides his fingers inside of her to give a few pointed strokes to her g-spot just to get her shivering and blinking up at him with lust-blown eyes.

“Fuck you’re wet,” there’s absolutely zero resistance now, even when he slides a third finger inside her. 

“Please,” she mewls into his skin, hips rocking in time with the thrust of his fingers into her.

“What do you want, sweetheart? Use your words.” He’s always found her an absolute delight to tease- she gets so flustered and stares at him with that doe eyed, betrayed look- how dare he make her ask for anything when it’s obvious what she wants.

“Please let me cum,” she pants as her eyes screw up in pleasure while his fingers trace and circle her clit for several passes.

“You wanna cum, love?” His tone is just a bit too soft to be a mocking tease despite the way she glares at him. Spoiled little thing so easily sliding back into her old habits.

“I’m going to bite you,” she grumbles in bemused annoyance, brows furrowing as she tries to follow his hand while teasing her.

He doesn’t doubt his little viper for a second, mollifying her displeasure with three fingers digging for that spot that makes her see stars.

“Oh~,” she mewls against him as he stokes the fires of her orgasm with a vengeance. He doesn’t stop, angling his hand so his thumb can stroke against her clit and enjoying the way she trembles against him like a leaf caught in a windstorm.

“That the spot, hm? Right there, innit?” He rumbles low in her ear, a satisfied smirk on his face as she nods in a big sweeping motion against his neck. “Come on, pretty. You wanna cum so badly? Do it.” he baits.

Mission accomplished.

Fuck he’ll remember the vision of her crying and cumming and trembling in his hold, soaking his forearm and abdomen as she squirts, for the rest of his days. His free hand runs soothingly down her back for a few passes before pulling both hands away from her.

She’s immediately whining against him, upset at having his touch taken away. “Simon, please-”

He shushes her with a kiss to her temple, “I know what you need, sweetheart,” he murmurs while deftly undoing his pants and freeing his cock.

It only takes a few strokes, already straining and ready to perform, before they’re shuffling as he pulls and maneuvers her so she’s hovering above him and Oh fuck has Simon missed this as she sinks down on him.

It always takes a couple attempts- he’s not a small man, and doesn’t want to risk injury. Not to mention there’s just something fucking delicious about only giving her a few inches, pulling back and feeding her just a few more. Slow, short, steady thrusts that get deeper bit by bit, having Simon ready to melt into the couch at the bliss of being buried in her by the time she sinks all of her weight onto him, her groin pressing against his.

She’s so fucking warm and wet, clinging to him as she shuffles to get good leverage on top of him to bounce.

Bloody fucking hell does she feel good. “That’s it, pretty. Take it all,” he encourages her while she whimpers above him- if he angles himself just right he can grind her clit against him in a way that has her sucking down air and shivering.

She’s so good for him but he knows there’s only so long she can bounce in his lap- even resting on one knee on the couch and her other foot on the floor so she can shift her weight and give leg a break every now and then, Simon throwing his head back and groaning loudly.

It’s one of the only times he’s particularly verbose- Usually content to be silent and broody unless he has a specific question in mind, the bedroom (or in this case the living room) is the one place where he is a chatterbox. The mouth on him is surreal at times, and while one would think his sweet girl would be use to the filth every now and then he’ll catch her off guard with some particularly out of pocket comment.

For now though, he’s a bit reserved- doesn’t want to go from zero to a hundred out of nowhere.

No, for now his attention is focused on the goddess bouncing on his cock, wondering if he can get her to squirt a second time if he just- he shifts underneath her, changing the angle and fucking hell does that seem to do the trick for her. Swiping one of his thumbs across his tongue before pressing it to her clit and circling again, Simon can’t help the smug look on his face when she squeals. “Just like that, sweetheart. Fuck,” he grunts as he thrusts up into her. From how those pretty thighs are trembling, her legs are about to give out as he fucks into her. 

“Simon!” She’s yelping his name with glassy eyes and a clenching cunt “Fuck- Simon! Please-”

She doesn’t have the energy to get herself back up again- poor thing, her thighs must be burning, and he can’t help but be a cocky fuck about the fact that she loves riding his dick to the point that she physically can’t keep going.

“On your back, sweetheart,” he instructs with a light swat to her ass- appreciating the way her body jiggles at the impact.

His sweet girl has done so well and worked so hard, it’s only right that he rewards her. Once she’s on her back he grips her under her knees and folds her legs back- gives himself room between those gorgeous thighs.

“Fuck, baby- please don’t stop,” she pants underneath him, back arching in pleasure as his mouth drops to her breasts again. Her arms wrap loosely around his neck, and he twitches in anticipation at the feel of her nails tracing ever so lightly against his back.

“Not gonna stop, pretty girl.” he groans against her skin, alternating between which nipple he has between his teeth.

Fuck she’s clenching down on him like a vice. He knows she’s getting close; squirming in his grip, keeping her legs nice and spread for him. The feel of her nails reaching down his back and dragging up his spine pulls a groan that would be embarrassing if Simon could find it within himself to care in the slightest. The slight pain encourages him as he cants against her.

“Simon!” The sound of his hips knocking into the back of her thighs is loud and messy. Fuck he’s such a goner when she looks up at him with that sweet expression on her face- pure adoration and wonder in her eyes.

“Just like that, sweetheart. Fucking hell, love,” he grunts out, a second wind reinvigorating him when she starts shaking. Those plush thighs shaking in his hold as he knocks the sense out of her pretty head, he’s so fucking close he can taste it but is determined to get her across the finish line first.

“Such a good fucking girl,” he purrs in her ear, “You feel fucking perfect taking my cock. This wet cunt’s all mine, innit?”

All she can do is chant “Yes! Yes! Yes!” over and over again- Simon’s not sure if even she is certain if she’s repeating the word to answer him, or if she’s just babbling because he’s making her feel good and she’s getting close.

“You gonna cum again love? Gonna soak me, hm?” He’s just running his mouth now- knows the shit she likes to hear, reaffirmed by the way she’s shivering in his hold and crying for it with a glassy eyed gaze.

Whatever she is going to respond with is cut off with a squeal. Simon rears back, enjoying the show as she makes a mess all over his cock with her eyes rolled back. He lets go of one of her legs in favor of teasing her clit just shy of overstimulation to prolong her orgasm- she lets him for a time before her hands abandon shredding his back in favor of wrapping around his wrist in a plea for mercy. 

“Simon it’s too much,” she laments with teary eyes as he pulls his hand away with a chuckle and a chaste kiss. 

He stays curled over her, hips driving into hers. “Tell me where you want it,” he instructs.

“Inside! Please, I want it inside!” Her answer is sharp and immediate, the leg not pinned to her chest wrapping around his waist like she is daring him to even try to pull out.

And fuck there is something cathartic about his orgasm when it hits. Burying his face in her soft body while his hips snapped into hers a few times, Simon groans as his vision damn near whites out for a second.

Simon knows better than most that there’s good days and bad days- and a presumed good day can become a bad day quicker than one can blink. But overall he feels like consistently she’s doing better all around. They take their time calming down, Simon showering her in attention and getting a feel for where her head is at. Praising her for how well she did and making sure she feels stable.

He lets out a breath, feeling confident that she’s settled, having a good day, and everything is fine for now. 

And it is. Until about two hours later.

One moment they’re finishing the movie they’d initially started before the impromptu romp on the couch, and then Simon has a 3 second warning of her sniffling as she obviously tries to fight back the tears and then she’s sobbing harder than she has in weeks.

Simon goes from content to concerned in a second, his blood turning to ice in his veins. His immediate assumption is that their prior activities finally caught up with her mentally and now that she’s had time to think it over it wasn’t good. It was too fucking soon to have sex. He should have told her no, should have been gentler, should have-

“Sweetheart? Talk to me,” his voice is tinged with a thinly controlled concern (not panic he convinces himself) and while he means to comfort her, she can hear his tone and that just sets her off anew.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she blubbers, turning to face him. “I don’t know why I’m crying!”

That settles Simon’s nerves somewhat, stroking her back and pulling her close to comfort her. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” he soothes her, listening to her sniffle against his shirt after shoving her into the crook of his neck.

“I just want to feel normal again,” she sobs into his collar.

“You will, love,” he assures her- never mind that ‘normal’ is something that even he struggles with on a near daily basis. “It’ll take time but you’ll get there. I promise.”

He’s a bastard for making a promise to her that he can’t guarantee to keep. There’s a part of him that knows that- hell, he’s been working on his shit for years and he still doesn’t feel normal most days.

But while he can’t promise that she’ll ever get back to feeling exactly the same as she did before all of this happened, he can promise that he’ll be by her side and ensure she’s adjusting. It will take time, and work, but Simon will make sure she gets there one step at a time.

[sant-riley]

is it ok to request some headcannons with the team? if so, could you do a reader that’s covered in tattoos? like heavily tattooed. even their fingers. right? anyways, the reader is always covered during missions (like ghost level covered) and the team have subconsciously created this image of them under it all but haven’t really seen them until one day reader is wearing normal clothes and they’re like 🧍‍♀️ what? you have tattoos and like barely any skin 🧍‍♀️ IDK I JUST THOUGHT IT WOULD BE CUTE NVM THOUGH IF U DONT WANNA WRITE ❤️ NO ISSUE IF YOU DONT!

[Task force 141 and Laswell with reader who has a lot of tattoos)

A/N: I am not heavily tattooed yet but I did love this request sm soooo here this is :) Ty for the suggestion and I hope you enjoy!

They can’t really be blamed for not knowing about the tattoos, y’all are all covered typically in heavy gear and clothing and weapons most of the time. And they don’t question it when you’re covered up even more than usual bc yk, Ghost exists walking around in a Halloween costume 365 days a year. They’re used to it so they won’t prod.

Most task force members have tattoos of their own, it’s not a strange concept but they just assume you have none, they see you covered up and that’s that.

But then one day, let’s say there’s a mission and you guys get fucking d r e n c h e d in water, and you’re in a cold climate so leaving your clothes on is not an option. They need to dry by the fire and you cannot catch hypothermia.

Whatever reason you cover up, you know it’s only logical so you shyly take off your gear, quickly going by the fire while the guys quietly stare at your figure, staring at the ink decorating your body. Yes you’re beautiful and yes it’s their first time seeing so much of your skin but is that a fucking narwhal on your arm-

You have to snap at them to quit their staring bc you think they’re only staring at your chest or at your underwear but soap just blurts out “YOU ‘AVE TATTOOS?” And everyone else nods.

~

Individual reactions:

Ghost:

Ghost fucking loves it so much, he could stare at your tattoos for hours on end. He rolls up his sleeves to show you the ones decorating his forearms, letting you trace your fingers over the skull and withholding a shudder.

He immediately brings his hand up and traces yours back, asking questions about them and how long they took with you sitting in the chair, grunting in response as he zones out.

Asks why you cover them up as often as you do but when you send him that look he quickly says never mind.

Soap:

He immediately asks you about the meaning (if you have any for them). He admires them and thinks they make you look beautiful and badass.

He also will take a marker and draw ones on your empty bits of skin and color any grayscale tattoos you have.

If you were to ever get one of his doodles or drawings tattooed he would probably tear up on the spot. Also maybe kiss you stupid bc wow you have something from him on your skin forever and he loves you sm.

Would design y’all matching pieces, in your line of work tomorrow isn’t guaranteed so if you’re down, he’ll make the appointment for you both.

Price:

I personally don’t think Price has tattoos or would ever get any bc he doesn't care for them but he has an appreciation for yours.

Everyone would think he would be the type to talk down on them but all he said to you was “do you like ‘em? You do? Then why the fuck would I care?”

In between breaks, he’ll casually ask if you got any new ones and that he’d like to see them.

Gaz:

Gaz doesn’t have any but that’s just because he can’t fully decide on what he’d get, he’s young like you and cannot handle the commitment.

Therefore he lives by you and eagerly encourages all your ink and will always go with you to your tattoo session if he’s free.

He’s the best kind of person to have come along esp for long sessions bc he’ll go get you food, drinks, etc while he sits with you.

He always says he’s gonna get one when he goes with but always said never mind lmao.

Bonus <3 Laswell:

Now she's no stranger to ink, she's not covered up but she does have a matching tattoos with her wife and a few small patches of her wedding flowers on her.

She absolutely adores your ink and will not hesitate to defend you and it if someone were to disrespect you bc of what you've done with YOUR body.

She's a mom what can I say, she knows her authority and won't be shy to use it.

Taglist:

@devilsfoodcake22 @simon-rileys-princess

@stupid-ninja @milkmily

@lune-la-chanson @tamayakii

@teacupcollector @sweet-as-an-angel

@perilous-pasta @ihatethisappsomuchitpains

@marsbar127xx @baddump

@xncasi @king-cookiex

@palomaxaxaxa @amatchasky @wolfyland07 @diejager

@hailstrum18 @pretty-little-bunny382728 @mzfandom @solarslushee @areislol

@cluelessyasmin @sesshomaruwaifu @chaos-unchecked @kalamataolivesssss @arunasmisfortune @tbrfic

[ofsappho]

Summertime Sadness (part 2)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader

Second chance romance, heavy angst, hurt/very little comfort

Ten years ago: the first time you met Simon

Today: the first time Ghost meets you

Tags: mental illness, therapeutic boarding school, self harm, suicide attempt/suicidality, self harm, abuse, parental abandonment, much the same as last chapter. This fic is unedited because I don’t feel like editing it lol. If you see spelling/grammar issues, no you didn’t.

TEN YEARS AGO

Reader POV

-

It’s intake day.

Intake day happens once a week, always on Wednesday.

You don’t know why they pick Wednesday. It seems pretty arbitrary, doesn’t it?

On intake day, the nurses and counselors make all the current residents of the inpatient program line up to greet the newbies. You actually look forward to intake day. Everyone here is so boring and routine; your roommate never speaks unless spoken to and she always keeps her earbuds in. On intake day, the hope that someone nice will be admitted survives for the few hours of the intake itself.

It usually dies right after. There was one polite girl who smiled when you waved last week, but she was transferred to a different facility that night before you could learn her name.

You’ve been here for three weeks, so that’s three intake days.

You’re not sure why you’ve been here so long. It seems a little excessive; you’d think by now they’d realize your stuff isn’t so bad and maybe you could transition to outpatient appointments?

It’s a little dissociation and some minor depression. Not bad at all.

But your doctors agree, albeit gently, that you should stay for the full five month course.

The program isn’t so bad. The facility sits on a sprawling multi-acre property in the British countryside, where everything is beautiful and verdant and always chilly. It’s lovely. The tea is good. You’re getting used to how they take it here. It’s nothing like the sweet tea you drink back home.

You suppose that’s another reason why they won’t let you go home even though you’re okay; there isn’t a home to go back to. Your dad hasn’t looked you in the eye since Mom left. At least the orderlies here greet you in the morning.

(What Dad doesn’t know is that before she left, she told you she loved you and to wait for her. Soon, she’ll take you away from this place and you’ll never have to see your dad again.)

Before you head to the foyer, you check your hair in the mirror of your room’s suicide-proofed bathroom. A young teenage face stares back at you with cheeks flushed red from the sun. You trace your deep smile lines with the tip of your finger, then practice smiling. You would have feel better about moving to a therapeutic boarding school if you’d been greeted with a smile.

At first, you think the newest crop of poor souls will be uninteresting at best. Listless rich kids detoxing off Mommy’s coke, frightened preteens who’ve never been away from their parents for an extended period of time, and a few teenagers straight from an ER, IV bags and all.

And then you see him get off the bus last.

He’s tall, towering over everyone else. A lanky, almost skeletal build, with a bored, aloof expression on his face. He hides the Zippo lighter he was playing with in his sleeve before the nurses catch and confiscate it.

There’s something horrifically severe about him. He can’t be more than a couple of years older than you, but he carries himself like he’s a blade and the world is filled with monsters.

His eyes are large and dark, rich brown irises rimmed with pale blonde eyelashes. And they’re kind, even though he would probably hate having that pointed out.

You decide then and there that you’ll befriend him. He could use a friend; everyone here does. He’s beautiful in his sharpness and elegant in his abrasiveness. Maybe you can coax more of that hidden kindness out, show him that it’s worth more than his anger. You wouldn’t be able to stay away if you tried.

You both like playing with fire, though you prefer less literal ones.

-

TODAY

Ghost POV

-

Your smile fades swiftly as if it was never there to begin with.

There are two ghosts in this room. That’s what you are; a ghost of the girl he knew.

He watches and waits for you to shift uncomfortably and start blabbering to fill the silence like you used to. “Why’d you make them call me?” Ghost asks when it’s clear that you won’t.

As soon as you explain, he’s out of here. Ghost meant it when he said he never wanted to see you again.

You’re the last living reminder of the past he’s tried so hard to kill. The beeping sounds of your heart monitor spell out his mistakes in a grating, irritating rhythm.

Your answer disappoints his expectations. “I didn’t actually think you’d show.” Ghost doesn’t hear any wistfulness or longing in your voice, anything that would tell him that you’re clinging on to the boy you thought he was. Only a bone-dry and hollow statement of facts.

“What do you want?”

You ignore his question. At fifteen, you were good at that. At twenty-five, you’re better. “You got any cigarettes I could bum? You look like you still smoke them,” You say as you fiddle with your torn, bleeding nail beds with the classic anxiety of nicotine withdrawal.

He does that too when a mission stretches too long without a resupply and he finishes his cigarettes early to stave off hunger.

Ghost remembers fighting with you over the pack of smokes he smuggled into the program. He would hold it way above your head and laugh as you struggled to reach them. But you never gave up - they were bad for him, and you liked him too much to see him die of lung cancer.

He remembers the determination in your eyes and your unwavering faith that he could be saved.

“They’re bad for you,” Ghost echoes.

If you remember that moment, you don’t show it. “You know what else is fucking bad for you?” Your tone is so acerbic that it gives him whiplash.

He can’t resist taking a shot. “What, being a prick?” You just… bring out the worst in him. You make him feel as unhinged and unmoored as he was when you first met.

You roll your bloodshot eyes.

“I wasn’t going to call you out on that. I was going to say benzos and vodka. Also throwing yourself headfirst off a bridge.”

“Oh.”

What is he supposed to say to that?

“Why did you come?” You ask after a long moment of quiet interspersed by that fucking heart monitor.

Ghost grinds his teeth into each other as he reflects. He hates doing that; the inside of his skull is a bad place. “…I don’t know,” He admits. Coming here was a mistake; Ghost understands that now.

The foul taste on the back of his tongue is guilt. But why? You did this to yourself. You brought him here to play games and fuck him up, so why is he the one who feels… bad?

You sigh. “Simon-“

“Ghost. It’s Ghost now,” He cuts you off with more violence than necessary.

Your mouth settles into a tight, pained line. “Ghost. Go away.”

“But you called me here.”

That provokes a reaction.

Ghost sees it and immediately wishes it hadn’t.

You stare him straight in the eye, your dilated pupils peel back his mask and see the face underneath. Your skin is tinged gray and your bottom lip blooms red with blood from where you’ve bitten through it.

He wants back the child sobbing for his forgiveness on her knees, who looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“And it was a mistake, and I should never have done it, and I just wanted the satisfaction of knowing you weren’t going to pick up the phone. That I was truly alone.”

So the memory of him is a knife you’re using on yourself. Fucking disturbing.

“Oh.”

You raise an eyebrow as you wave. “Bye.”

Right.

That’s it.

Though your dismissal rankles, Ghost does as you ordered and takes his leave of you.

His work phone vibrates a few times.

Only one person calls that it. “Captain,” Ghost greets.

Captain Price clears his throat on the other side of the line. “Lieutenant. When can we expect you back?”

‘Tomorrow’ is on the tip of Ghost’s tongue.

He’s never taken a day off in his career, which means he’s got at least a year or two in built up vacation time. “I’ll be gone for a while longer, sir. Not sure yet how long,” Ghost answers promptly.

It’s only for a few more days, a week at most. Long enough to make sure you won’t try to kill yourself again, long enough for the guilt freezing his blood and choking his lungs to fade.

“Alright, Lieutenant. Keep us posted.”

“Yes, sir.”

TAGGING: @devcica @igotmajordaddyissues @almightywdm @copiasratscheese @nerdyreaderpapi @schmelscorner

[ilyuan]

.. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT I’M A GOOD GIRL, OFFICER !

◟⪩⪨ summary ! after finally capturing you and visiting your dorm for what seemed like eternity now, he’s realizing that he’s in love with you ; basically just a short fic of wrio being a sweetheart ^^

◟⪩⪨ warnings ! gn! reader, the title is just a reference to a song dw, wriothesley being confusing, he changes your clothes lol, fluff, no use of y/n except for once, very self indulgent, i think that’s all lmk if i missed anything <3

minutes turned into hours and hours turned into days, days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months.

that was the absurd amount of time that took wriothesley to finally lock you up.

but here he was, oblivious to your moves and acts, hiding your facade with a gentle smile, which is the reason why almost everyone in the fortress claimed that you were one of the nicest criminals here.

it was almost as if you didn’t do anything wrong at all.

tonight, the dark vibrancy of the clouds near its nightly leave, the stars beginning to take over the sky’s surface.

here he was, sitting next to you on the rough surface of the so-called “bed” that you were sleeping in, when in reality this “bed” was made of full on metal!

“how do you manage to sleep like this?” he suddenly begins.

hmm… maybe because you can’t sleep anywhere else?

“i don’t know, i used to be known for being a heavy sleeper, no matter the area.”

“so you can just flat out sleep on the grass?”

“okay, maybe not.”

he chuckled.

so that’s why everyone’s so fond of you, your gentle facade and your beautiful laughter that could be the number one thing that would top a movie off if you were in it.

as the days passed by into more interesting days that suddenly had you more motivation to even do things in the fortress, wriothesley began to notice how less awkward you were being with him, and how you weren’t as shy and hesitant as you used to be.

as soon as fun things start, they end too quickly, as well.

furthermore, some things can go bad, just like how fruits can go rotten as soon as they’re not taken care of as much.

because knowing wriothesley, he was practically the top one procrastinator in the world.

in this situation, wriothesley wasn’t really doing his job on checking up on you unless he hasn’t been seeing you in sight almost every where. sometimes, as much as he didn’t want to, every time you were not in sight near your dorm, he usually got nervous and began to scold you.

…and he instantly did what he had to do.

“where were you?” he asked in a what seemed like an aggravated tone.

“relax, i was playing in the pankration ring earlier after i grabbed food.” you replied, there you were again, acting as if everything was okay when you almost gagged and vomited at the purple appearance of the food you were served, which you practically had to gulp down in one go, if you were that hungry atleast.

and of course, there were times when wriothesley just randomly decided to be the confusing man he is and instantly switch up just to flirt with you.

he was one to make sure that you believed that he had a little something in his slightly cold heart for you.

“you still do that?” he chuckles “that’s cute.”

“what?”

…

“wanna go out today?”

…confusing guy.

you never even hesitated to say yes to him whenever he offered to take you somewhere out of the rancid mess of the fortress.

he only ever rarely did this, though.

after your little “appointment” that you had with him, you felt like you were rejuvenated once again.

but why does it still feel like wriothesley’s eyes were on you the entire time rather than just paying attention to what you two were buying in this absurdly small shop?

don’t think too much of it, though. all he wants to do is commit for his wrongdoings for you, after all.

as much as he knows how confusing he can be, he knows who you are.

he knows that you prefer cream cheese over butter, he knows that you don’t like matcha flavored tea, and he almost knows that your whole gentle facade is just an act for him to like you.

and it’s all just an act to be one of the nicest criminals in the fortress, too.

but who was he to care, when all he wanted to do was take care of you?

…and he only ever took you out to show you his empathy for you.

why can’t you just realize he’s in love with you?

on the final day, your release.

“wriothesley!” you yelp out, feeling his frozen hands pull off your dirty prison uniform’s shirt.

“what? i do this with everyone, you’re not special, sweetheart.”

now that was clearly a lie. you were the only one he had fully taken care of like this. after all, he cared for you like you weren’t even a criminal in the first place, that you didn’t even do anything wrong in the first place.

…

sigh.

“wrio.”

“i don’t wanna leave this place if it means i’m leaving you here, without me!” you frowned.

he fully knows who you are now.

that whole gentle facade you always put on quickly faded away as soon as your ego went soaring through the roof when you implied that he couldn’t live without you.

that’s the y/n he wants to see.

he chuckles.

finally.

his fingers shaking in anticipation as he clothed you into the outfit he bought for you last night when you were sleeping, he leans up to place his lips on yours.

“you won’t. i won’t leave you.”

~

@sugarmouchie - do not copy/translate/repost my works on other platforms. 🤍

[superlarva]

They're totally paying attention! :)

Welp, I'm starting to think I don't know what day Sunday is...

Regardless, here's Chapter 9 - School Visit of Raising Dominoes.

Prologue: 00 Previous chapter: 08 Next chapter: 10

Summary: Rex and Fives visit the local elementary school.

CW: Implied/referenced child abuse, a very minor curse (I wouldn't really consider it a curse, but just to be careful... also, it's said in narration, not dialogue)

Chapter 9 – School Visit

“I want to see Echo.”

“I know, bud,” Rex sighed, trying not to let the exasperation show in his voice.

Fives had been at it since he woke, refusing to move, eat, or say anything that did not express his want for his twin. Now they sat in the elementary school parking lot, two hours late for their appointment with the principal.

“Fives?”

The boy did not stir from his position curled up in his car seat.

“Fives, look at me,” Rex said, exhaustion allowing some of his usual sternness to slip into his tone.

The kid’s shoulders tensed and his eyes reluctantly wandered over to Rex’s.

“We are going to go see Echo as soon as his doctor tells me it’s safe to see him, okay?”

“Want Echo n-now,” Fives whispered.

His words lacked the high-pitched whiney quality Rex had been expecting and he blinked dumbly, taken aback. The last thing Rex wanted to do was keep the brothers apart. He knew the feeling that accompanied the separation from one you admire, trust, need. He knew the feeling well, and he would not wish it on his worst enemy, let alone his child.

Rex slumped back into the seat and began unconsciously picking at the sleeve of his jacket, mind whirring and leg bouncing erratically, “When- when I was your age, me and your Uncle Cody—er, Cody and I—we, uh, didn’t really have a mom or dad to take care of us.”

Rex paused to take a breath, still unsure where exactly he was going with this story. He could feel Fives’s eyes boring into him and he squirmed, unable to meet the boy’s gaze, “We got sent to a lot of different homes where different people would, uh, take care of us, but sometimes… sometimes they would split us up. Sometimes we wouldn’t go together.”

Rex stole a quick glance at Fives. The boy was staring, waiting for him to continue. Rex attempted a smile, but could not help but feel like it more resembled a grimace. He sighed, hands moving to fidget with the zipper of his jacket, “Every time they separated us, I felt so lost and powerless. There was nothing- nothing I could do, and I never knew when I would be able to see Cody again. And- and I hated it. It was the worst feeling.”

Rex turned to meet Fives’s eyes, “So, I get it. I really do. I know you want to see Echo. I want to see him too. If I could do anything I wanted, I’d bring you to him right now.”

“…you would?” Fives asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I would.”

“I-I don’t want to go without Echo,” Fives mumbled, turning his attention towards the elementary school.

“We have to go take a look at the school because I told them we were coming and they are all super excited to meet you,” Rex said, starting to regret his decision to not include Fives when he and Cody called the school to set up a meeting and tour. “It’s going to be really fun. They’re going to show you around and tell you about all the cool things you’re going to learn.”

Fives made a face, “Echo should be here. Not me.”

Rex felt as if he had just been stabbed in the heart, “No. No, you should be here.”

Fives scoffed and turned his head so his face was obscured from Rex’s view.

“No, Fives, listen to me. You should be here. Echo should be here too, but you should be here. I- you-” Rex sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. He wished Cody were here. He would know what to say.

Cut would know what to say too. He had kids. Little rascals, if Rex remembered correctly. He had to make everything into a game for those kids to do anything. Putting away dishes: who can stack them the neatest? Time to get in the car: who can get there the fastest?

A game.

Of course.

Rex lifted his head out of his hands, “If we go in and take the tour and you remember what they tell you, then when we go see Echo this weekend, you can tell him all about it. Think he would like that?”

Fives turned to face Rex again and hesitated, eyes searching Rex’s for something, before nodding seriously.

Rex smiled, “Sounds like a deal.”

The secretary had them wait on a bench outside the principal’s office until he was ready for them. Given the fact that they had arrived later than expected, Rex had thought the principal would leave them waiting, but almost as soon as they sat, the door opened.

“Good afternoon, young one. I am Mr. Plo Koon,” A tall man that Rex recognized as the principal of the school greeted, smiling down fondly at Fives.

The boy jumped to his feet and stood stiff as a board, almost as if he were standing at attention, “G-good afternoon, Mr. Plo Koon, s-sir.”

The principal’s smile deepened, “My, what lovely manners. You must be Fives?”

Fives nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“Many of the students here call me Mr. Plo, but ‘Mr. Plo Koon’ or ‘sir’ is alright too if that’s what you’re comfortable with.”

“Oh-Okay Mr.- Mr.-” Fives looked up at Rex uncertainly.

Rex nodded and smiled encouragingly.

Fives turned back to the principal, “Okay, Mr. Plo.”

“Very good,” Plo said, beaming down at Fives and clasping his hands together. He then shut the door to his office and began leading them down the hall, “Shall we begin our tour?”

The school was nice. It had clearly been remodeled a few years ago as it had a very modern interior design and was relatively free from wear and tear that would denote that it was the home of tiny grade schoolers for eight hours a day.

They were shown the cafeteria, auditorium, gym, library, and the rooms for the various different extracurricular activities like art and music, all of which Fives marveled at for their large open spaces, walls and walls of books, or amenities.

Mr. Plo was clearly taking pleasure in Fives’s wonder and Rex could not help but enjoy the boy’s delight as well. He was glad that the tour had allowed his mind to wander from Echo, even if just for the good part of an hour.

At the end of the tour, they circled back around and stopped outside of one of the classrooms they had passed on the way to the library. Plo turned to address Rex and Fives, “This one of our second-grade classrooms. If you want, the teacher of this class volunteered to let us sit in on a few minutes so that you could see what it would be like to go here. Would you like that?”

Fives nodded eagerly.

The principal smiled and opened the door. Fives bounded in after him and Rex followed quickly, pulling the door shut behind them.

When Rex looked up he found a class full of 7 year old twisting around in their desks trying to get a good look at him and Fives. The class was eerily quiet and Rex was thankful when the teacher standing at the front broke the silence, “Good afternoon, Principal Plo.”

Mr. Plo nodded, “Good afternoon, 99. Good afternoon, second grade.”

The teacher—99—led the class in a chorus of “Good afternoon, Principal Plo” as Plo ushered them to an empty table in the corner of the class.

Once they were seated, 99 resumed his lesson and Rex scanned the classroom. It was as well put together as the rest of the school. It was bright and colorful, and there was plenty of stimulus for young children.

Rex also got a better look at 99. At first from his voice, stature, and the wrinkles lining his face, Rex had thought the man old like his name, but as he looked closer, he realized the man was not elderly, just had some sort of facial deformity. Perhaps a muscle one as well, as he looked awfully thin and hunched over oddly as he walked.

The children in the class appeared to be engaged and attentive, save for a group of similar-looking boys in the other back corner.

The big bald boy was playing with a toy half hidden under his desk, his face lighting up with joy occasionally from his own, internal musings. His stature was intimidating for a seven-year-old, but such an innocence played out in his eyes that Rex had to believe the kid would not hurt a fly. At least, not on purpose.

The second boy had long wavy hair, pushed back by a red bandana. He was staring out the window, boredom etched across his features. Rex thought he looked a little like Cody when he was fed up someone’s bullshit.

The scrawny one with glasses appeared to be scribbling notes in the margins of a book. He might have been taking notes on 99’s instructions, but Rex doubted it, as no other children had books out to take notes in and the boy was hunched over it like it was the only thing that existed.

The fourth boy was sleeping. Wispy white hair sticking out in all directions as his head rested on his folded arms across the desk. Even through the oversized hoodie Rex could tell by the boy’s pointy elbows that he practically had Fives and Echo beat for the “most emaciated kid of the week” award.

Mr. Plo noticed the direction of Rex’s gaze and gave him a small nudge, “Those are the quadruplets. They transferred here this year. Bit of a special case, those boys. Not so different from yours, perhaps.”

Rex took one last look at the brothers before turning his attention back to 99’s mini lecture. He hoped Fives and Echo would behave differently from those boys at school. He hoped they would at least try to pay attention.

After sitting in on 99’s lesson, Mr. Plo lead them back to his office and had them sit across the desk from him. He laced his fingers together and leaned his elbows on the desk, smiling warmly at Fives, “Did you enjoy the tour?”

The boy nodded, “Mm-hmm!”

“I’m glad,” Plo glanced quickly over at Rex, then turned his attention back to Fives, “Now, your father told me that you’ve never been to school before, is that true?”

Fives looked to Rex before cautiously letting out a small “uh-huh.”

“Okay, that’s alright. Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?”

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, your dad told me you were really good at math, so I wanted to ask you some math questions. Then we might play a couple games. Is that alright?”

Fives’s brow crinkled and his eyes darted between Mr. Plo and Rex. From the look Rex didn’t doubt Fives knew this was a test, but the boy eventually shrugged and muttered a quiet affirmative.

Fives made it all the way through to multiplication before he started having problems answering the principal’s questions. He clearly did not know his times tables, but from what Rex could remember, that still meant he was on track for second grade.

After the math questions Mr. Plo pulled out a few logic puzzles and had Fives complete them. Fives seemed to do so without difficulty, filling in the picture with the correct puzzle pieces and picking the right color to finish the pattern.

The principal seemed quite pleased with the boy as he put the puzzles away, “You did a very good job, Fives. I just have one more question for you if that’s okay.”

Fives nodded, though Rex could not help but notice that the kid looked tired.

Mr. Plo slid a piece of paper and a pencil across the table, “Could you write your name for me?”

The boy visibly deflated a bit, but he said nothing and reached out, gripping the pencil awkwardly. At first Rex had no clue what Fives was writing; the lines were large and wobbly, curving in places they should not. By the time the boy got to the second vaguely “s” shaped letter, Rex realized what “name” he had been writing and reached out gently to still Fives’s arm.

Large brown eyes looked up at Rex in confusion.

“Fives…” Rex started softly, “That’s your other name. Could you spell ‘Fives’ for us?”

Fives squirmed in his seat, looking down at the paper for a long moment before meeting Rex’s eyes, “This is the only one I’ve seen before.”

“Okay, that’s okay,” Rex whispered, and he honestly was not sure if that was for his son’s benefit or his own. He reached out and flipped the paper over, “Do you know what letter ‘Fives’ starts with?”

The boy opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. The room was so quiet Rex could practically hear the tears welling in Fives’s eyes before he saw them. He sprung into action, scooping up the already shaking boy and shushing him softly, hoping to stay the torrent of “I’m sorry”s that were sure to follow.

“It’s okay,” Rex soothed, shooting an apologetic look to Plo before turning his attention back to Fives. “It’s alright if you don’t know. Nobody’s mad. I’m not mad. Mr. Plo’s not mad. It’s okay.”

Fives sniffled against Rex, but Rex could tell the boy was already calming down, his breathing slowing to his usual rhythm.

Rex set Fives back down in his seat, but kept his hand on the boy's shoulder, “Today was a tough day, but you did a really good job, okay? A really good job. I’m proud of you.”

Fives wiped at his eyes, his ears turning a bit red as he mumbled a shy thanks.

Mr. Plo cleared his throat, “Thank you so much for answering my questions, Fives.”

The boy nodded.

Plo continued, “I would like to place you in the class that we sat in on today, if that sounds good to you. The other children will be your age and will be on similar levels in most subjects.”

The principal paused and studied Fives, “Now, Fives, you’re a smart boy and you’re probably going to notice that the other kids in your class are better at reading than you, but can I tell you a secret?”

Fives frowned and looked from Rex to Mr. Plo.

Plo leaned over the desk and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Your intuition and logic skills are beyond those of many children twice your age.”

Fives shifted in his seat, “R-really?”

The principal nodded, “It’s quite impressive. You'll be reading in no time.”

Fives left the school with higher spirits than when he had entered and that was enough to convince Rex it was the right place to send the twins. As he was setting up for Fives to start the next week and for Echo to start after the holiday break his phone rang.

It was Kix.

"What?" Fives asked after Rex hung up.

Rex smiled, "Go get in the car, we're going to go see your brother."

@marierg @stressed-cherry @ffdemon @renton6echo @bambambunny @tearfulsolace @rndmpeep @brokenphoenix99 @nerdy-valkyrie @xylionet @tazmbc1 @eyayah123 @the-bad-batch-baroness @sarcastic-nebula @ihaventpickedausername @sexysmeagolshitposting @emma-1409 @marcadamia

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter 16.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin)

Word Count: 5.4K

Summary: flashback six - also known as the day of the heist

Warnings: this chapter heavily explores and discusses themes of peril, thoughts of self harm and self destruction, hopelessness, death, violence, and torture. if you are triggered by these topics, i would suggest skipping this chapter.

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 16 - FLASHBACK: SIX

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. they are my interpretations of the material. please watch those episode first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.

The silence of the Underground City spoke volumes.

At this rate, you’ve gone over the plan — and the potential ways it can go horribly wrong — at least a dozen times. 

Only so many distress signals can be sent from three people outrunning an entire Military Police unit, so you've employed all of them.

First, there’s the stolen flares.

They’re sparingly used, if ever, when it’s the four of you on a job. Two teams of two has easily been your best formation tactic.

A slight change to a single team of three should not cause much difficulty, especially when it involves veterans like Church, Ackerman, and Magnolia.

(You've already waited a half hour. No flare ever ignites.)

Next, if someone loses their grip on a flare canister, then the pursued team resorts to high-altitude flying.

At the height you’re perched upon — the rooftop of a dilapidated apartment complex overlooking the northern half of the Underground — you’d be able to see at least one person flipping and weaving through even the tallest buildings.

(Another half hour passes. No one ever breaches the skyline.)

The last option, should any ODM gear jam and fail, is more human: eyesight. 

With the B-team units ordered to be stationed around the Underground City, your three friends should be covered. If it looks like the Military Police have the upper hand, then you can quickly get the rest of the gang to safety.

You told Levi you wouldn't run after him, that you would keep your promise and stick to the plan, but now that it's been over an hour of radio silence?

You're not so sure.

Because there are no clouds in the Underground, your sightline is clear. Idly your ODM gear sits on either hips, hands occupied by the mechanism's handles that will boost you at a moment’s notice. Below you on the street stand your appointed security, both gang veterans, looking for any stray MPs roaming the area.

Every second waiting for Levi, Isabel, and Furlan to return from their heist route spans to eternity.

Over and over your eyes scan, checking between rooftops — nothing.

Your attention drops to the streets — nothing.

Silence creeps to a ninety-minute drag.

No flares sound.

No bodies fly.

“C’mon, Ackerman,” you mumble under your breath, flexing your left hand to give your body something to do — to avoid pulling the trigger too fast on a rescue operation.

He was explicit about not coming for him.

He was explicit and he was stupid to think you’d never come for him.

He was stupid to think—

“James!”

A panicked, shrill voice, however, sounds from the street.

You whip your attention to the east, taking your eyes off of the skyline for a belated beat.

The rogue voice screeches with urgency a second time.

“James!”

It's young and feminine and terrified.

You shift a boot towards the sound, squeezing the metal handles in your palms with your index fingers at the ready.

“Hey! Where is she? Please, tell me James is here.”

She seems out of breath, like she ran a great distance to get here.

You draw a line with your sight from where her footsteps originated: she came from the south.

Most of your units are pushed towards the north, where Levi stated the job would take place.

One of the seasoned lackeys, a younger man, grunts to her in response. “Who’s askin’?”

“I need to speak with James,” she urges, ignoring his question with a wavering tone. “Please—”

“She’s busy, kid,” the second man replies. “Spit it out if somethin’—”

“They caught Levi!”

Her shriek almost makes your foot slip, causing a roof shingle to dislodge.

Time ceases to exist.

Levi.

Below you hear the young men argue with her and the exchange of pleas that follow, but there is no distinction of sound to you. Their words are muddied as if your head has been dunked underwater.

You can't run to her. Anxiety grabs you by the scruff of your neck to hold you in place.

What's wrong with Levi?

Move.

Did something happen to Levi?

Move.

Without thinking, your hand ignites the ODM switch in your left hand to propel a spear into the stone wall from across the street. 

You swiftly swing down from your perch, finally catching a glimpse of the girl in question:

The girl — you remember her first name being Lucy — is as pale as a ghost. Her entire body trembles like a decaying leaf, as though she’s witnessed something horrific that she can’t scrub from her line of sight.

(What the hell did she see?)

Her shoulders relax once she spies your face, but not enough to quell your concern when tears well into her eyes.

“James! Oh my god, you’re here,” Lucy breathes, taking a step forward like you’re willing to console her with a comforting arm. "I tried to get here as fast as I—"

“Repeat what you just said about Ackerman,” you demand without solace. “Now.”

You take one pace back, ignoring the spike in your heart rate as the scenario snowballs in your mind’s eye.

From your peripheral vision, you see several others from the gang join the fray.

The two other lookouts on Lucy’s team run down the tiny guarded street, equally out of breath and panicked.

“We saw it happen in the southeast corner!” one of the running girls exclaim.

You — and the rest of the gang — turn in that direction. You can feel your throat seize.

He said the job was going to be in the northern half of the city.

How the fuck did they end up in the south quadrant?

"We followed them when the job changed course," Lucy explains as if she can read your mind. "Levi ordered Furlan and Isabel to cut south. Too many MPs were waiting in the north."

"But the job was in the north," you numbly reason.

“It might have been a trap, we don't know!" she desperately chirps. "A bunch of MPs went after them on ODM gear so we followed by foot. They were chasing Furlan through the streets. A few of them fell back and we thought maybe they gave up, but then a bunch of new people came out of nowhere and they all had green cloaks with wings—”

“Wings?” you snap, unable to stop your eyes from widening.

You whip your attention back to the young girl. Lucy cowers at your unyielding gaze.

“...yeah,” she answers, meek and uncertain. “They didn’t have the same jackets as the MPs. They had wings on their backs, on the cloaks and the jackets.”

A cloud of fearful whispers spreads like wildfire through the small crowd, infecting the minds of the reconnaissance team under your command.

It isn’t uncommon anymore for the Military Police patrolling the Underground to show up with ODM gear. It used to be a rarity, but now? They know better than to show up empty-handed.

Years of embarrassment have taught the thick-headed MPs a valuable lesson.

But green cloaks — and wings?

You can’t be mistaken by their meaning:

The Scout Regiment.

The military branch where suckers with death wishes band together to expire. They seek to explore the unknown, taking off on brainless expeditions past the city walls and into whatever Hell awaits on the other side.

(Why the fuck would they send the goddamn suicide squad to the Underground?)

You don’t need to live on the surface to know the stories: a third of Scout recruits barely make it past their first mission. And by the end of their first service year, the death toll rises to half. 

The only dumbasses left standing with the Wings of Freedom on their back are those who desperately want to die but can never find the right titan to eat them.

And, according to the stories, their missions beyond Wall Maria always come up empty-handed.

A thought passes through your mind like a papercut, stinging your blood cells with the very real possibility that they’ve turned their efforts inward — whether at the demand of the king or the disappointment of the people paying their salaries is unclear.

(Is the Underground City their new playground?)

If so, then Levi — this gang — could very well be their first dedicated target.

“Where?” 

The word spills out of your mouth, starting in your mind as a demand but dissolving to a murmur.

Going, running, to wherever the Military Police — or God forbid, the Scout Regiment — have your friends is the only plan of action you can think of. 

You’re supposed to make sure the people here are fine.

The need to run — go, go, go — far outweighs your logic.

“I…” The girl falters.

You hate how your voice erupts in the wake of your fear. “Where, Lucy?!”

“I don’t know! I lost track of them!” she yelps, squeezing her amber eyes shut. The hands at her sides are balled into tight, painful fists. “Isabel and Furlan got taken down by some MPs, but Levi kept going on ODM gear. He outran most of the MPs, but there was a man, a tall blonde guy, who—”

“Was he a Scout?” you press on, gritting your teeth. “Did you see the Wings of Freedom?”

“The fucking Scouts are here?” someone yelps behind you. “Oh, shit, dude. Oh, man…”

“What the hell are they doing down here?” another asks next to him. “They don’t fuck with the Underground!”

“Did the Wall missions fail?” an older girl asks under her breath. “Are they coming to wipe all of the Underground City out now?”

“Quiet,” you order, holding up a hand. It takes tensing your arm to keep the limb from shaking. “Lucy: where did you last see Levi?”

“The blonde man chased him out of the sky and into the streets. No one knows. We couldn’t see where they went, but it… I’m so sorry, James.”

Lucy’s voice is so small that you barely hear her.

All you can focus on is his voice ringing in your head, a whisper against the thin line of white noise filling your body.

Protect them.

You’re ready.

You’re so ready to fire up your ODM gear to chase after him, to fight off every single bastard who thinks about laying a finger on your friends.

We won’t get arrested. We’re too fast on ODM gear.

“What do we do, James?”

The MPs won’t stand a chance.

“Can she hear us? Is she freaking out?”

You want me to be the last person standing.

“James!”

Lucy shrieks in your face, breaking your delusion.

You blink back into your body to see a dozen faces staring back at you in various stages of grief.

Fear.

You focus on the way a tear streams down Lucy’s youthful face. It brings you back to when you picked her up off the streets. A kid, just like you, looking for food scraps and shelter — her mother had passed away at a young age, leaving her to fend for herself.

You knew what that was like, so you promised protection. A roof over her head. Food in her belly.

A chance at life.

Just like he once gave to you.

Now you’re the only leader left standing. The other three are either arrested — or worse.

You’re all that stands between dragging her back to the streets or pushing her to the gallows.

(You’re all anyone in this gang has.) 

I need you to be safe.

Levi’s voice tickles the outer shell of your ear, whispering past despite the dead wind.

You want to hate him. You really do.

But you promised.

Lucy’s lower lip trembles as she takes a step forward. 

This time you stay put, too frozen from the numbness in your body. 

“James… please, tell us: what do we do?”

You don’t know.

You wish you did, but you don’t know.

You want to tell them to run, to run as fast as they can and never look back.

You want to tell them that you don’t know how to do this without Isabel or Furlan.

You want to tell them you’d rather die than know a life without Levi.

But you promised.

I’ll keep them safe.

I know you will. Echoing in your mind like an omen. I trust you.

“If they’re arrested, then the MPs will be storming the apartment at any minute.”

You finally answer without an ounce of emotion. You can’t stomach thinking past protocol.

“We don’t have time to get our stuff. Organize yourselves into teams of three. Find the safe houses and don't come out until you hear from me. Take a single runner out to Roxy’s. They owe me a few favors, so they should give you table scraps until this blows over.”

“Are you getting Ackerman?” An older girl holding onto her brother’s small shoulders pipes up from your right.

“And Church?” Another person asks. “Magnolia?”

Refusing to think further than the present crisis, you shake your head.

“They all knew the risks of this heist. Right now, my priority is keeping everyone here safe. So go — and avoid detection the best you can. Leave the rest to me, alright?"

You pause, making eye contact with those staring at you. In front of you is a gradient of nerves.

(Everyone knows the risks of running with a gang in the Underground, no matter the price.)

"I said go, goddamnit!”

At your shouted order, most don’t hesitate to run.

The crowd forms into smaller clusters of refugees as they run towards the emergency routes you’ve mapped a hundred times before.

You don’t have time to panic.

You don’t have time to mourn about what could have been.

(A house gleaming in the sunlight with its windows open. The scent of a fresh meal being cooked. The soft meow overlapping over pleasant conversation about nothing at all.)

After all, you made a promise — 

And if three of the Underground’s most notorious gang leaders have been caught, then it’s only a matter of time until the manhunt ends with you.

.

.

.

.

  Week after week, your numbers dwindle. 

Day in and day out, houses are raided for anyone associated with Ackerman, Church, and Magnolia.

Bars, brothels, and drug dens are scoured for that missing puzzle piece.

Military Police, emboldened by their victory, are adamant to find anyone involved in their gang.

Most found are arrested.

Some offer information for a chance at immunity.

By the fourth week, the gang dissolves into half of its original number.

However, the rampant pursuit slows after the sixth week, and by the seventh, the Military Police stop searching.

The city becomes boisterous again for an entirely different reason, falling back to its routes of debauchery and strife.

Panic of those still in hiding twists into remorse, remorse into doubt, and soon the doubt creeps into what was once an impenetrable fortress.

And somewhere you failed.

Maybe it was because you kept your promise and never went after Levi, Isabel, and Furlan the day they disappeared.

Maybe it was because no one ever saw them again, creating a shroud of mystery in their disappearances. Most people assumed they were arrested and tortured for information. Others hoped they were able to at least die in a merciful way.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because you gave up.

The longer you fought without your three friends, the longer you ran around the Underground City hiding from authority, the harder it became to remember why you were trying so hard to be the last person standing. 

Hiding with nothing to go back to — that was what waited for you at the end of all of this.

To make new headquarters on mere piles of rubble, alone.

People continue to get caught. 

People continue to lose their lives.

You were ready—

Ready to give up.

Ready to join the fate of so many others.

Ready to lose.

(All things considered, you had a good run.)

.

.

.

.

  Eight weeks.

It takes eight whole weeks for someone to finally rat you out.

In exchange for immunity, a scared newcomer snitched to the Military Police about the location of your hideout — and you can’t blame them.

The Underground City has always been a dog-eat-dog pit.

That, however, doesn’t mean you don’t still run.

The crisp, metallic zip of the pulley cuts the air every time you push through the alleyways, leaving the Military Police unit in the dust. Wind frays your hair, whipping pieces of it into your face as you run along brick walls and push for the a momentous swing.

It has been weeks of these chases, all evaded in the dust, but something feels different about this pursuit.

The officers feel confident this time.

Ready.

Another unit of MPs pursue on foot, shouting and taunting for your surrender, but they're no match for your swift escape.

The two officers following with ODM gear cannot match the sharpness of your turns.

You don’t know why you keep running.

Why can’t you just stop running?

In your lingering rage you almost want to turn back, take a knife, and attack.

To earn the heaviness of a murder charge on your shoulders. 

You want to lash out—

To make someone hurt— 

But you just keep running.

In your time of solitude, you've wondered how the end of all things went that day. Did those pigs take turns kicking Furlan with his hands tied behind his back? Did they drag Isabel through the street? Did they cut out Levi's tongue for back talk?

You hope they gave the MPs hell.

The imaginative injustices — the cruelty — fuels your fantasy of revenge.

Through another alleyway and into the streets, you latch onto another building and swing to your left to continue through the streets of— 

Wait.

Skirting around a corner, you see something briefly whip around a corner in a cloud of exhaust.

(Was that emerald?)

Your attention turns to the distinct color that entered your line of sight before it disappears.

Your eyes widen with recognition, but it's too late.

You failed again.

One look to your side is all it takes for a solid, heavy object to slam straight into you from the opposite direction, knocking a spear clean out of the neighboring wall.

The ODM gear jolts, causing you to jerk and drop abruptly to the dirt beneath. Your forearms shield your face from the dirt and debris as your body skids across the dirt path.

Before you even realize what's happening, you're scrambling to your feet. Metal clangs from the jostled handles in your palms as you push yourself up.

Your right arm reels back, fist clenched, and flies in an attempt to connect — and it does.

The punch lands directly in someone's face. The bone crunches under you knuckles.

A person yells in pain and grabs their nose, giving you ample opportunity to attack further. Your leg swings, kicking your boot square into their abdomen. You recognize the way their breath squelches: the wind rips right out of their lungs.

You want them to feel pain, just as you’ve felt pain.

You want them to suffer, just as you've suffered.

It doesn't matter who they are.

When the attacker is incapacitated, you make a choice: you turn the opposite direction, taking off into a sprint.

And you run, if only for a few seconds.

Because that very same emerald flash appears in your peripheral vision.

In just one breath, your feet get tangled up and send you flying to the ground you'd just found yourself lying upon.

A pair of hands suddenly tug at the back of your shirt, pushing you further into the muddied street. A forceful forearm presses down harder, pinning you to the ground. A pebble digs into your cheekbone, its jagged edge slicing into your skin. 

Trapped.

You grit your teeth, fighting the painful hold with everything you have. You shout and yell like a woman possessed, kicking your boots deeper into the Earth to propel forward, but you can't move.

(Give up — why can’t you just give up?)

Then a deep baritone voice pulls you from your erratic defenses, smooth like honey.

“James.”

Your last name on a stranger's tongue makes your stomach churn.

You continue fighting, digging the toe of your boot further for purchase.

Suddenly pain explodes in your scalp. Something pulls your chin high from the crown on your head, forcing your attention to the sky. What greets you is a tall, built figure above.

From the street lamp, you see it’s a man — early thirties, broad shouldered, with piercing blue eyes and neatly-combed blonde hair.

This mysterious man stares down at you, standing at full height. He doesn't acknowledge the person holding you down, knotting your hair in their balled fist.

One after the other, two more emerald cloaks drop down from the sky, their faces obscured by their hoods.

Blinking away from his face, you see it: his tan, cropped jacket, with white and blue wings outstretched against one another, pointing high with dignity.

The Wings of Freedom.

It's the Survey Corps, in the flesh.

“Four whole Scouts for little old me?” you chide.

The person holding you down rips your torso up higher, causing an immense strain in your spine.

You wince at the sensation of nearly being broken in half but refuse to make noise.

They don't get that satisfaction, not yet.

(You've felt worse.)

The blonde man above you does not react. He continues to stare, however, when he addresses another in his squadron.

“Get her up on her knees, Miche.”

The man behind you — presumably Miche — yanks you from the dirt to settle you on your calves. Without your arms to support you, you’re left floundering at his will.

“What?” you ask through clenched teeth. "Are the Scouts so bored of getting eaten alive that they've come to the Underground on a field trip?”

The man makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. His crystal blue eyes slide slowly from the crown of your head, past your face, then rest at your chest.

“Surface made?” he comments in a languid, baritone voice.

When you jostle against Miche's grip on your back, a feather-esque sensation brushes across your sternum.

Then you realize:

He’s staring at your necklace.

“Stolen?” the blonde man asks again, and venom poisons your tongue at his slander. Somehow you manage to hold a response.

You sneer instead, turning your attention to the side of a building.

A painful beat passes.

You hear the man’s boots near, crunching under packed dirt.

“My name is Commander Erwin Smith, of the Survey Corps," he introduces, not fazed by your lack of cooperation. "I was informed that you’re not only the muscle of this operation, but one of its four founding leaders. Is this true?”

He’s met with another stretch of silence.

“Handling operations for seven weeks without the help of your comrades is impressive.”

Another step.

“Or has it been closer to eight?”

“What do you want, surface scum?” you finally murmur, eyes locked on a particular patch of moss growing at the foundation of the building.

He exhales through his nose, contemplating. You continue to look away.

“Your protection is gone, James," Erwin begins. "Your gang, eradicated. Your people have fled — abandoned you, to save themselves.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tell him.

Erwin evades your feigned ignorance. “A bounty has been on your head for two months. You’ve done all you can to avoid detection, but from where I stand, I see someone out of options.”

Your nostrils flare, unwilling to betray yourself in the face of the truth.

He isn’t wrong — it’s been the end of the line for weeks now.

You’ve run on borrowed time and a promise you barely believe in anymore.

You’re so tired.

“The Military Police would be glad to round out their gallows with someone responsible for embarrassing them so thoroughly.”

Is that where Levi ended up, in the gallows next to Isabel and Furlan?

(Are they no longer alive, just as everyone suspected?)

When you continue to stare at the adjacent wall, the man behind you tugs at your mangled hair and rips your focus back to the man in front of you.

The toe of the Commander’s boot is in line with your muddied knee.

From this angle, he's practically on top of you.

“However, I believe the finality of a noose is a great waste of potential talent.”

His eyes bore into yours when he slowly, carefully, drops to your height. His ivory-white knee plants gently into the dirt.

You blink up to his face, unable to suppress your confusion.

“Potential talent?” you hiss back, ignoring the searing pain in your scalp. “What is this, a pitch?”

The Commander hums. “I don’t pretend to know how extensive your crimes are, James. What I do know, however, is that you have an out.”

“Yeah?” you ask. “And what’s that, O' Golden One?”

Erwin’s eyes drop to the ground, so you follow suit without moving your head. From the edge of your vision you see it — the ODM gear still hooked around your hips.

“How long did it take you to properly handle ODM gear?” he asks with a genuine intrigue.

“Barely took me a week,” you lie under your breath.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he agrees. “Most of our recruits take months, sometimes even years, to masterfully scale the way you can.”

“Sounds shitty to me.”

“In a way.” A beat passes. Commander Erwin’s jaw sets. “Which is why I’m asking you to join the Scout Regiment under my command.”

You can’t help it — the anger disappears in a bark of a laugh.

It’s a request you never see coming, not a million years or a thousand lifetimes.

You’ve avoided the Military Police for weeks, only for a Scout to offer you… what? A twisted version of salvation in his army? 

The words blurt out of your mouth faster than you can help it.

“Join the Scouts?” He nods once to your yelp of a question. “Are you fucking insane?”

“Are you?” Erwin challenges. “Both options lead to your death. The only difference is choosing to make your death matter.”

“A noose or being eaten alive,” you snidely respond. “Gosh, Commander, which sounds less painful?”

“What do you think your friends would have selected, if given a choice?”

The swiftly-timed question is a punch straight to your gut.

Unable to stop your eyes from widening, you hate how your blood chills with panic.

How you can see that glint in the commander’s eyes when he’s finally, finally, caught your weak spot.

Seeing the visceral reaction, he continues. "Before they expired, would they have chosen to die here? Or would they have chosen a new life."

Was he saying…?

Was he saying they were already dead?

Isabel. Furlan.

Le…

Your lower lip trembles as you hold back from thinking about that final name.

You barely recognize your own voice when you speak, low and dangerous.

“How dare you…”

Erwin’s gaze is unwavering. “I’m asking you—”

“Don’t talk about them.”

“—what would they have chosen.”

“I said don’t talk about them!” you shout in his face, losing your cool.

His chin tilts a fraction of an inch, expression stoic.

“Then what about your fellow comrades, the people who laid down their lives for your safety — would they have wanted a chance?”

Despite yourself, you push with your boot to propel towards the blonde. “You disgusting piece of sh— fuck!”  

Miche rips your head back impossibly further, exposing your neck to the Commander. Erwin stands tall, pulling out a long sword from its metal sheath. The cool, sharp end of the blade rests against your throat.

If he wanted to, he could end your life right here in the streets.

If he wanted to, he could make this so much easier on you.

But he won’t.

This isn’t about ease.

It’s about power, control — total submission.

A part of you wants to push against the blade to make it easier.

No noose. No titans.

Just here.

But you promised.

Last one standing.

“...what happened to them?” you ask, unable to stop the crack in your voice.

If this is it, then you might as well know.

Commander Erwin keeps his blade held towards you. “I don’t know.”

“But it was you that day, wasn’t it?” You ease down to your knees again. Miche loosens his hold on your body. “You're the one that went after them two months ago. When there was a heist, it wasn’t just MPs chasing them. There were Scouts—”

“I don’t have all day, James.”

He interrupts the beginning of your emotional spiral with cutthroat apathy. His arm lowers when you do not retaliate. 

“Your hand-to-hand combat expertise is needed within our regiment. Combine that with your unique ODM handling, and I see a formidable redemption in your future—”

He continues to speak, detailing your servitude should you accept his terms.

You can feel the fight, the fire, ebbing to dying ember.

You’re so tired.

You’re so done with running.

(I’m so sorry, Levi.)

“—and you would presume a title under my command, the rank of a Lieutenant—”

“Wait.”

He pauses when you speak up, catching the oddity of his words. Your lifeless vision connects with his.

“Lieutenants don’t exist in your shitty Scout Corps.”

Erwin nods. “That’s correct. Lieutenants do not."

"Then why..."

"A title will deter animosity. Those who look down at you cannot question your authority."

"Because I'm not from the surface," you reason.

"Yes," he says.

"You're willing to give me an edge on the rest of your people. Why?" You watch him, trying to figure him out before he tells you for himself. “Why not just make me regular front-line titan fodder?”

Erwin seems to consider this, if only for a beat.

Then he speaks with an unshakable certainty:

“Because you know what it means to survive. That, in itself, is vital.”

Your shoulders slump as your body shuts down from the eternal fight.

So this is a choice, but it’s no choice at all.

Your life will not matter in the Scouts. The commander is right: you will die, perhaps not today, but at least choosing the Scouts guarantees the sunrise one single time.

Just like you once promised you'd see with the three of your friends.

And in the moment you mourn — the loss of your friends, the loss of your life, what could have been if that job really had worked out.

(What does it matter when you die, so long as it's soon?)

You grip onto a sense of hopelessness like a vice.

Grief.

Then—

Rage.

As swift as a sudden earthquake, you feel it tremble from your shins to your knees, up your torso and through your heart, filling every red hot blood cell in your body.

It was him.

You’re so sure of it.

Commander Erwin would have been the one responsible for turning Levi, Furlan, and Isabel into the Military Police. He was the one who would have sent your friends to their deaths — or did he kill them himself?

And if he was the one to kill them, then why would he offer you a choice to escape?

(Was this the same choice he gave the others?)

Levi would have never agreed to the Scouts. Furlan, Isabel — they would have followed whatever he chose.

They must have died the very day the heist went wrong eight weeks ago.

It’s why Erwin won’t confirm or deny their fates.

Sickness floods your body, but you hold onto the one thing that will keep their spark with you.

That rage.

They really think you’ll comply.

They really think you won’t burn and take the Scout Regiment down with you.

You’ll kill him.

You’ll kill Commander Erwin Smith, then Miche, then every single Scout that steps into your path until someone’s smart enough to take you down themselves.

“Fine, then.”

You speak, knowing your word is as doomed as the fire in your veins.

“I’ll do it."

You meet Erwin's intense gaze, signing your fate with blood on the dotted line.

"I’ll join the Scouts.”

.

author's note: I'm glad we collectively giggled and screamed and kicked our feet in the last few chapters. It was a marvelous time. Now I'm out here ruining everything.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @vigilancio @nomi98 @urfavcelestialangel @milkersonmac @blossomedfloweroflove @carries-blenders-and-stuff @hurtcomfortwhore

[ladykailitha]

All My Roads Lead Back to You Part 2

We get to see a little bit more about the work Dustin and Steve do and Steve gets the shock of his life.

Part 1

***

Steve loved his job and getting to work with his best friend made it all the more awesome. Thankfully his Platonic soulmate wasn’t around to hear him say that.

But she was coming to visit this weekend and that was always made for a great time.

He stopped by the development team to say hi.

“Dusty!” he greeted warmly. “Hey, man! What’s up?”

Dustin gave him a hug. “Hey! I didn’t know you’d be in today. How’s my favorite god daughter?”

Steve laughed. “Don’t let Lily Byers hear you say that.”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Well considering she’s in China with her badass parents at the moment, she’ll never know.”

Steve batted his eyelashes at innocently.

“Right, Steve?” Dustin asked. “She’ll never know, because you won’t tell her, right?”

Steve held out for two seconds longer. “Of course not. Her mother still carries that Russian pistol of hers. I’m not about to start beef between the two girls.”

Dustin just shook his head. “I always thought it was interesting that the only ones of our Party to have girls was you and Nancy and Jonathan.”

“As Max would say, ‘too many boys’,” Steve agreed. “Like she didn’t have three of her own.”

“All tall with red hair and freckles,” Dustin said.

“My daughter is doing just fine,” Steve murmured. “She’s finally found a replacement for Lauren in her band.”

Dustin smiled. “That’s great. They come up with a name yet?”

Steve shook his head. “Nope. I think right now they’ve been calling themselves The Band.”

“Ouch.”

“So the real reason for this visit is...” Steve said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously, “I was wondering if you had ear plugs I could use for their practice. I know I can just turn off my aid, but that does jack shit for my right ear.”

Dustin laughed. “Yeah, man. I’ve got you covered.” He went over to the design table and picked up a small grey box. He turned and handed it to Steve.

“They’re smooth with a flared base so they’ll slot gently into the canal,” Dustin explained. “You’d have to take out your aid or you just use the one. It’s up to you.”

Steve weighed them appreciatively. “Thanks, Dusty.”

“No problem,” he said with a grin. “I can’t imagine having to listen to a bunch of teenagers playing their instruments badly for a couple of hours.”

Steve grimaced. “What’s worse is that they haven’t figured out their style yet, so it’s a discordant mess of genres.”

Dustin made a face. “That’s rough, man.”

“How are you and Suzie getting along these days?” Steve asked gently.

Dustin sighed. “It’s official, she can’t have kids.”

Steve winced. “Even with in vitro?

“Yeah,” he replied mournfully. “We’re thinking adopting next.”

Steve nodded. “Let me know if you guys need anything right?” He squeezed Dustin’s arm in sympathy.

Dustin nodded.

Steve said goodbye and got back to work. He put the ear plugs in his briefcase so he wouldn’t forget to take them home. He shook his head. All his life he fought hard against being a business man like his dad. But it turns out that he’s good at it. Damn good at it.

He signed good morning to his receptionist, Vanessa.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, her voice a little off, the way it can some times get when you can’t hear yourself. “You have your ten o’clock appointment in fifteen minutes, but your lunch meeting canceled. Death in the family.”

Steve sighed. He signed back, “Send flowers and condolences and see if they want to reschedule. We need their micro chips.”

Vanessa saluted smartly and Steve flipped her off. He walked into his office and flopped into his chair with a sigh. He loved Vanessa. She had been with him since he went public with his hearing loss.

They had a great professional relationship and her husband, Nick loved Steve, too. He would tease her that he love Steve more than her and swore that he got Steve if they ever divorced.

Nick was hearing but his parents weren’t and that’s why Nick was Steve’s personal sign interpreter for his clients. Because Steve couldn’t be everywhere and he employed a lot of HOH and deaf people. Which he had gotten flak for when they first started. How would a deaf person be valuable to an audio company? And that was one of the reasons, Steve had come out as hard of hearing.

Because Steve was the reason S&D existed at all. As at the time he found out about his hearing loss, even the best hearing aids at the time were bulky, had a tinny quality to them, and were prohibitively expensive.

So of course big brained Dustin Henderson looked at them and said, “I could do better than that with a box of scraps in my mom’s basement.” And did. But the other thing Dustin was and still is, was mouthy. He couldn’t get investors to pay attention because he would end up getting mad and storm out.

Which is where Steve came in. He could sweet talk anyone. Was kinda famous for it, in fact.

There was a knock on his door and he looked over at the phone on his desk. It was flashing red. His appointment was here.

Steve stood up and greeted them with his most charming Harrington smile.

“Thank you for coming in today,” he said brightly. “Shall we get started?”

*

Steve got home from work to find Edith already home and doing her school work.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said kissing the top of her head. “How was school?”

“Hey, Dad,” she greeted. “It was okay. Algebra should be banned from schools forever.”

Steve got out a pitcher of water from the fridge and poured himself a glass. “Still having trouble with it?”

Edith sighed. “Yeah. It’s such a pain in the ass.”

“What did I tell you about swearing?” Steve asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Not until I’m an adult and not until I’ve moved out,” she grumbled. “Which ever comes last.”

Steve grinned. “Good girl. It’s more about trying to teach you that there are some places that won’t let you swear, like at certain places of business. And getting used to curbing your language will help with that.”

She sighed dramatically. “I know.”

He ruffled her hair and kissed the top of her head again. “Your band coming over tonight?”

“Yeah,” she said. “If that’s alright? I know you said only once a week but we need to make sure that garage will be okay to practice in.”

Steve laughed. “I’m aware.”

Edith rolled her eyes. “Like you know what being in a band is like.”

He swatted at her. “I know you think I live under a rock but I had friend that was in a band before I married your mother.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Are they famous?”

“No,” Steve said solemnly. “Their bus rolled over and killed their bassist before they got the chance.”

Edith’s eyes went wide. “You mean like Metallica?!”

That startled Steve out of his funk. “Yeah, like Metallica, only not. Because they decided that they couldn’t continue without their friend and hung it all up.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “I’m not sure I would have been able to go on playing if Mandy or Kenny died.”

He nodded. “Just let me know if you guys need anything.”

“Will do!”

*

Steve could hear the band tuning their instruments and smiled. He paused. His face felt tight around his eyes and that wasn’t a good sign. He didn’t want a migraine at his little girl’s first band practice here at the house. That would be bad.

He took some Ibuprofen and hoped that would stave it off long enough until practice was over.

He then went out to the garage to say hi to everyone. He stopped at the bottom of the steps and his heart plummeted to his stomach. Standing there tuning a guitar Steve knew better than his own god damn name was a young man of about sixteen or seventeen with dark curly brown hair that fell about to his chin, big brown eyes and dimples in his cheeks.

“Dad!” Edith cried out. “Hey I want you to meet someone.”

Steve somehow managed to walk over to Edith’s friend. “Hey,” he greeted lamely.

He couldn’t remember if Dustin had said if Eddie had a kid. But this boy couldn’t be anyone else’s.

“H-man,” she said excitedly. “This is my dad, Steve Harrington.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said and Steve stomach dropped out further. His voice was almost the same, too.

“Dad, this is Harri Munson,” Edith said. “Mostly we call him H-man.”

Munson. There it was. There was no doubt now. This was Eddie Munson’s boy. The swooping feeling in his stomach became a roar.

“I met him in art class about a month ago,” she continued happily. “I learned he played guitar and I told him about our band and he was super excited to join. Which was great because after Lauren’s backstabbing–”

“Migraine,” he managed to croak to Edith before he dashed off.

Edith grimaced. “Sorry you had to see that. My dad gets migraines sometimes and I guess today is one of them. Poor bastard.”

Harri winced. “My papa used to get migraines, too. That sucks. Are we going to be able to still practice?”

Edith nodded. “Yeah, he said it would be fine. We just can’t turn up the sound to eleven.”

Harri laughed. “Gotcha.”

“You gonna need a ride home after?” Edith asked, not seeing a car.

“Nah,” Harri said. “My dad wants to meet your dad. Make sure I’m not going to get murdered or kidnapped or whatever.”

Edith rolled her eyes. “I know how that is. My dad is super protective too. Like I swear he went through major trauma he refuses to tell me about.”

Harri nodded. “Stupid NDAs is all Dad will say when I ask.”

“Yes! My dad, too!”

They both laughed.

The band started playing and about half way through they decided to stop and take a break.

Just then a car pulled up. It was slick black muscle car that made Mandy, the band’s resident gearhead whistle long and low.

“Who’s honey child is that?” she asked appreciatively.

Harri raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s my dad’s car.”

Edith frowned. “He’s not here to pick you up yet, right?”

Harri shook his head. “No, like I said he wanted to meet your dad.”

She nodded.

***

Part 3  Part 4 Part 5  Part 6 Part 7  Part 8  Part 9  Part 10 Part 11  Part 12  Part 13 Part 14  Part 15  Part 16  Part 17  Part 18  Epilogue

@spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk​ @trashpocket @goodolefashionedloverboi @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @plyerice27 @mightbeasleep @thedragonsaunt @chaoticlovingdreamer @sapphirecobalt-1 @a-little-unsteddie @i-must-potato @danili666  @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @itsall-taken @steddie-as-they-go @lillemilly @callas-shitshow @bisexualdisastersworld @renaissan-vvitch

[rollinouttahere-writes]

Idea you know that Crocodile is a trans man theory? Well if hes Lizard's maternal father and her parental father is Doflamingo?

( drunken one night stand)

I mean it would explain why we never hear anything about her mother

So, funny thing about that. I have a whole doc with lore about Lizard and Doll's mothers, I just never shared it because I assumed no one would be interested.

I personally think that Crocodile made the switch shortly after Luffy's birth if that theory is true, so he is Lizard's biological father.

I'll post the information down below. They're just vague notes, nothing super in-depth.

Warnings for descriptions of childbirth, death, and alcoholism

Lizard’s mother - Akila

Starts out as a housekeeper

Very chatty when Crocodile is around; he picks up on how witty and intelligent she is and thinks it’s a waste to just have her working as a maid

He doesn’t involve her in Baroque Works or any other illegal activity, she is purely managing the casino so that Crocodile can handle his other “business ventures”

To this day, the casino has never operated better than when under her care

She was the whole package: charming, charismatic, intelligent, funny the works

Eventually, they started sleeping together in a no-strings-attached agreement

She gets pregnant

Crocodile isn’t necessarily happy about it, but he entertains the idea and keeps his negative feelings to himself; he decides to let this ride out to see how he’ll feel once the baby is here

Fully intends to quietly dispose of them both if he isn’t attached by the time the baby is born

He gets Akila everything she could need and lets her take time off work whenever she needs to without question, but he never goes to the doctor’s appointments or spends any real quality time with her

Akila does have feelings for him, but she can tell that it’s one sided; she stays anyways because she believes it’s in her baby’s best interest

She goes into labor two weeks early, and it is a very hard labor

Crocodile is there for the birth and stays by her side for all 18 hours of it; assuming the crocomom theory is true even he isn’t enough of a monster to let her suffer this alone like he did with Luffy

Plus, since he doesn’t feel anything for her, he figures he might as well play nice before he kills her

The baby is born, but since Akila is in rough shape and desperately needing medical attention, she is shoved into Crocodile’s arms

For the first time, he looks down at his daughter and everything changes; she stares up into his eyes and Crocodile knows that he won’t be able to kill her

While they’re having this bonding moment, Akila suffers a fatal postpartum hemorrhage

The doctors are terrified that they’re about to be murdered for letting the mother of Crocodile’s child die, but to their surprise he is very understanding 

Akila dying of natural causes here makes everything much easier for him after all 

To keep up appearances, he acts like he’s upset about the loss and has an elegant gravesite built in her memory 

Doll’s mother - Kailani

A distiller who specializes in making rum, owns the business herself

A major introvert who focuses on making the booze and leaving her employees to handle customer interactions

Shanks stops at the island to restock their supplies, and naturally that means acquiring an absurd amount of alcohol

The locals point him to Kailani’s distillery, and he places a massive order

The person taking the order decides to go and get Kailani’s approval first, and she comes out to see who the hell would need that much rum

Shanks thinks she is adorable and is smitten, so he lays it on thick with the flirting; Kailani isn’t used to this treatment since she’s a bit of a hermit and is flustered but charmed

One thing leads to another, and they sleep together before he leaves

11 months later, they’re passing by the island again and decide to stop by, both for the booze and because Shanks wouldn’t mind seeing Kailani again

He strolls right into the back of the store without a care in the world only to stop dead in his tracks when he spots Kailani nursing a suspiciously red-haired baby

Doll is two months old and Shanks is obsessed the second he lays eyes on her, he immediately starts talking about her and Kailani joining him on the Red Force

Kailani shoots this down; both because she doesn’t want to leave her home behind and because she doesn’t feel comfortable raising a baby on board a pirate ship

Shanks tries to convince her but she stands her ground; he seems sad but accepting, he asks to spend the night so he can get some quality time with the baby before he leaves again

Kailani agrees because the promise of a full night’s rest is very enticing

As soon as she’s out cold, Shanks packs up some essentials, takes the baby, and leaves in the middle of the night

There is some pushback from his crew who rightfully point out how fucked up this is, but Shanks is the captain so there isn’t much they can do about it

Kailani never fully bounces back from this and develops a severe drinking problem to cope

[codfanficedits]

One fucking mistake - Part Six

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader - She/her pronouns being used

Summary: Simon lost you after making a mistake on a mission.

Wordcount: 2164 | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: DEPRESSION (and not the uwu am a little sad kind) ,cussing, swearing, grieving, angst with no comfort, conversation, blaming, therapist, mentioning of flashbacks

A/N: Part six! I would like to mention that the portrayal of the depression is the way I have experienced mine, the therapist appointment is also one that I have experienced myself. I understand that this might not be the same for everyone, but please be kind.

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ AO3 Link

The days are starting to look the same, they melt together in a blur of grief.

He lays in bed, unless he really has to get out. A quick visit to the bathroom and back to bed he goes. When he is unable to ignore his rumbling stomach, he orders some takeaway, just to eat it on the couch, the empty cartons starting to flood the place. But he doesn’t care, not in the slightest, he doesn’t care when he can see the mold on the little pieces of food left in the pizza box.

He doesn’t care when he can smell himself whenever he gets into the bedroom again, he doesn’t care when he rewatches the same show for the fifth time, not a care in the world when his screentime is over sixteen hours a day. He doesn’t care when he stops answering texts, he doesn’t care when calls are met with a loud sigh, annoyed that they’re interrupting the game he was playing.

Simon despises the days he has to go to therapy, it is the only day in the week where he has to get up, shower, wash his hair and brush his teeth. It is the only day of the week where the rotten air from home is replaced by fresh outside air, and he hates it, the comfort of his home being ripped away, just like you got ripped away.

His legs bounces while he sits in the waiting room, he still feels as if he doesn’t belong to therapy, while he knows that there is something wrong, he doesn’t want to admit it, he doesn’t want to accept the help.

He frowns when he gets called in by someone else than his usual therapist, but he goes in anyway.

“Where is she?” He asks bluntly as he goes to sit down in the same comfortable chair he always sit in.

“Who?”

“My usual therapist.”

The woman in front of him frowns. “She didn’t feel as if she was booking process with you, so she asked me to take over. Didn’t she tell you?”

Simon can only shrug, truth be told, he never paid enough attention to even remember anything from those sessions. “Could be.”

Her lips press together until they are a faint line and Simon can tell he doesn’t like her one bit.

“Let me introduce myself.” She continues. “My name is Sarah, and I’m…” He zones out within seconds, pushing her voice to the background.

“Simon!” She has a fucking sharp voice.

“What.”

“I’m talking to you.”

Simon raises an eyebrow, this is the first time a therapist has been this direct to him. “Right.” He mumbles. “Continue.”

“Did you get anything I just said?” Sarah asks him.

“Well, your name is Sarah, and..” His voice dies out. “That’s all.” He adds with a sheepish tone.

“Why are you here, Simon?” She asks him, as she holds the clipboard to her chest.

Because my captain asked me to.

But he stays silent, just shrugging as she asks him that question.

“Do you even want to be here?”

Simon frowns at the second question, of course he doesn’t want to be here. “No.”

“Then why bother coming anyway?”

Because you would’ve been so disappointed in him if he didn’t at least try. But Simon knows that what he is doing isn’t even close to trying at all. It is just easier to lie to himself that he is trying.

“Because..” His voice his hoarse.

Because he wants to get rid of that feeling of guilt, that is weighing him down on his chest, the feeling that keeps him up at night, being so heavy that he worries that he’ll suffocate in the matrass if he acknowledges it. Because he wants to deal with the grief that came with losing you, because every little thing outside of the routine that he has created for himself reminds him of you. Because he wants to be happy again, but just the mere thought of it feels like a betrayal to you.

Because, because, because.

But the words leave him, just like he left you there to die by yourself, and the thought of that tightens his chest, his ribs suffocating his lungs and it feels like he can’t breathe. Short burst of air leaving his nose when he tries to wipe away the image. That familiar feeling again, a panic attack waiting in the shadows of his mind.

God not here, not now.

But Sarah doesn’t react, she doesn’t try to talk him out of it, instead she just lets it happen, observing how he handles it.

His hands pressing against his temples. He doesn’t want to think about you, about leaving you, he doesn’t want to be confronted by his mistake.

Deep breath in through your mouth, exhaling out your nose.

He remembers the advice you gave him, you’d walked in on him having one as he sat down on the shower floor. He tries to remember your voice, your face when you said it to him. But he can’t. Fuck. He can’t.

He loves you, so why is he forgetting it? Why is your face becoming a blur. Why is your voice different in every memory.

Deep breath in through your mouth, exhaling out your nose.

The panic dies out after a few deep breaths, guilt popping up like the mushrooms do around autumn.

“Why are you here, Simon?” Sarah repeats the question.

“Because I can’t live like this anymore.”

“Like what?”

A scowl forms on his face, he hates feeling this vulnerable, it makes him feel weak and he still feels as if he should overcome this with ease. “Living in my own filth because I can’t be bothered to actually live.”

“Why can’t you be bothered to actually live, Simon?”

For fuck sakes, he hates how many questions she is asking, he hates how it forces him to think about things he doesn’t want to think about, things he has crammed away in the shadows of his mind.

“Because I don’t deserve it!” His voice is louder than he wanted it to be, but part of him hopes it scares her off, that it makes her stop asking questions.

But it doesn’t, Sarah doesn’t bat an eye.

“Why do you feel as if you don’t deserve to live?”

Because you didn’t get to live.

“Because I killed her, I begged her to come with me on a mission that killed her. I am the reason she is no longer walking on this earth. She said no the first time and I’m a selfish asshole for taking her with me!” God it feels good to get that off his chest.

Sarah stays silent, and the silence causes his words to float in the air.

“She said yes herself, right?” Sarah eventually says. “Why are you holding yourself accountable for that?”

“Because she said no the first time. And I bribed her with doing the dishes.” He spat out.

God he hated how Sarah would let his answers linger in the air, it meant he had to think, think about what happened, think about his answers, think about how actions, how it affected everything.

How he would never give himself peace.

“Because I keep wondering how life would’ve been if I had accepted her first no, I wonder how I would be if she wouldn’t have gone with me. Because. I. I. I.” Simon starts to stutter, the words flooding out him, things he had kept hidden to rot inside of him.

“Because I know that she would’ve been alive if it wasn’t for me.” A tiny voice for a big soldier.

“You can’t change what happened, Simon.”

Of course he can’t! Fuck, it annoys him. “I know.” He grits his teeth.

“Do you think she would want you to live like this?”

Fuck, a cold sensation running over him, his stomach feels as if it is doing summersaults.

“No, no, I don’t think so.” He eventually admits. Of course not, you would only want the best for him, you would’ve wanted him to move on, to make something out of his life. Oh God, you were always so sweet, so innocent, and he, he took you away from this world.

That same feeling in his chest again, he presses his eyes shut.

The image of that fucking flash grenade sticking out of the debris again. Haunting him, taunting him.

As the tightness in his chest gets worse, he can’t stop the hot tears falling down.

Fucking weak.

“Simon.”

“Simon?”

“Simon!”

Sarah’s voice brings him back to reality, but not just enough, flashbacks running through his mind while he tries to feel the fabric of the chair under his fingertips.

“Tell me what is happening, Simon.”

Short, quick breaths, the tightening in his chest becoming worse, and worse.

“Simon? Tell me what you’re seeing, right now.”

He wants to open his eyes, he wants it to stop, but this is the clearest he has seen you in weeks. He doesn’t want to lose this, even though it hurt like something he has never felt before. He wants it to stop, but he doesn’t want it to end.

“The mission.” He mutters.

Silence again. He hates how Sarah lets him struggle with his emotions, his feelings, and he wants his old therapist back, whatshername, who would fill up the silence so he wouldn’t have to.

“I keep replaying the mission in my head.” Simon adds.

“Tell me.” Sarah commands. “Walk me through what is happening.”

“It always starts the same.” He begins. “Always.”

“How does it start?”

“We’re waiting for the chopper. We’re both wearing a bulletproof vest, and I make sure hers is safe. I tug on it a little, a few times actually. I would brush the skin of her cheeks with my knuckles.” It is a whisper, but it is a start.

“And then we move to the chopper, she is sitting next to me, and all I see is her beauty. It was supposed to be an easy mission and she is talking, talking about how she will let me do all the dishes she can find, she is teasing me about having to wear an apron while I’m doing the dishes.” His breathing is starting to get more controlled.

“It was supposed to be an abandoned area.” Simon continues, his hands gripping the armrest of the chair. “I let my guard down, we were joking too much, laughing too hard. The enemy must’ve heard us. And then, then, then.”

“Stop.” Sarah says. “Put the film on hold, and tell me what you see.”

“I see her, the sun high on the sky, a smile on her face, not a worry in her eyes. And then I spot the flash grenade. And I want to warn her, but it’s too late.” Simons starts.

“Okay.” No it’s not okay.

“Can you put yourself in the image?”

“What?”

“Put yourself in the situation, standing alongside yourself and her.”

Silence again.

“Can you do it, Simon?”

“Yeah.” He mutters, feeling awkward, but he can, standing next to himself and next to you.

“Is there anything you’d like to say to her?”

His heart starts to race again. Yes, yes, yes! There are so many things he would like to say to you, so many things that he wants you to hear, but that will never reach you.

“I. I. I want to tell that I’m so, so sorry.” He begins. “I want to say that I should’ve listened to her, that if I could do it all over again, I would do it differently.”

He holds back a sob.

“I want to tell her that I will always love her, that she will always be a part of me, no matter what happens, no matter how old I grow, no matter who comes in to my life, she will always matter.” The raw words leave his lips, dragging the heavy feeling from his heart with them, leaving him able to breathe for the first time in months.

“Can you hug her?”

What a stupid question. But he can, and he does, he presses his eyes shut and hugs you, and although it is in his imagination, it feels real, for him it is real. The version of you that got one more hug, tells him that he is forgiven, and it brings a little bit of peace to him.

Simon finally opens his eyes again. “God.” He breathes.

“How does that feel?” Sarah asks.

“Better.” He admits.

“Good.” Is that a smile on her lips?

“Are you going to be able to handle being alone?” Sarah breaks the silence.

“Yeah.” And for the first time it does feel like he is able to handle being alone. For the first time he wants to go outside, to breathe the fresh air. Hell, he even wants to grab the bin and clean the house.

He wants to live again.

[insxghtt]

omg babe please write hcs of bella x reader with borderline because they really would be so comforting 😭

bella ramsey x bpd!reader

They would be so patient when it came to your dissociation episodes. Sometimes, in the middle of conversations you would just disconnect from the moment, and they would always pay attention to that and, if necessary, they would repeat everything they just said all over again, slowly, to bring you back to reality. 

Would always stand up for you when someone called you “crazy” or tried to be disrespectful towards you. Always reminding you that you are not the borderline, you’re just you and there’s nothing you should be ashamed of. 

Forgot to take your medicine? NO, you did not, because they’ve already set an alarm on your phone to remind you. 

Need a drive to one of your appointments with the doctor? He’s there. Damn, they'll even wait for you on the waiting room just because they knew how sensible you’d get after talking about your problems. 

She knew how hard it was for you to deal with anything that’s too intense. After a sad movie, she would be right there drying your tears. After a scary movie, she would hug you so tight until you finally felt safe. 

When you watched The Joker the first time with her, the trigger was so strong that you dissociated for an entire day. So, she made sure to always hold your hand while crossing the streets on the way back to your place and she stayed with you. After you were feeling better, you’d talk for hours and hours about mental health. 

When you went to parties with them, they would just look at you and immediately understand if you wanted to go home. No words, just one single look and they’re already making up an excuse to go to your place and cuddle. 

Would send you messages through the day reminding you that they loved you very much. 

Would always read about BPD to understand your side but would never be an asshole about it or use that to make you feel like you’re less than anyone just because you have a personality disorder. 

When you talked about your BPD in public for the first time, they would be so supportive. If anyone tried to send you any kind of hate, she would be right there to fight them and, of course, to hug you after. 

Most importantly, they would treat you like a normal person, because that’s what you are. They would never treat you differently because of this and would always believe in your potential because they just know that you’re strong and that you are capable of everything you want. 

[moosemonstrous]

Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU - night classes

“It’s so cool,” Gabe pulls his face down to get a better look at his eye. “You’re like Dr Luo! Is it like that forever now?”

Robbie wracks his brain for an image of Dr Luo – he’s pretty sure that’s one of the bad guys in Ninja Wolf. Wait, this hurts your feelings? That’s hilarious. It’s nothing. He’s just glad Gabe isn’t freaked out by the way his pupil is still misshapen, the surrounding iris cloudy-brown from the broken blood vessels. Dr Montesi said the damage is mostly cosmetic, but seemed a little taken aback that he could see without much trouble. She spent the majority of their appointment frowning and making notes while Cho rattled off incomprehensible test results. They clearly arrived at some sort of a reluctant conclusion, but didn’t translate it into non-PhD, so all he knows is that he needs to go into the resonance machine again, this time for a full-body scan. MRI became MRS, which will apparently make all the difference.

He’s been prescribed extra rations. He’s already struggling to finish what the mess hall considers regular ones – but Gabe is always hungry after finishing his, so it’s hardly a problem.

“It should go back to normal in a couple of weeks,” he says as Gabe pulls his lower eyelid down. “How was school, anyway? Did you meet anyone new?”

While school-prep was essentially quarantine, proper ‘school’ turns out to be something of a misnomer – it’s a classroom attached to the unattended minors centre where the whole base dumps their kids when their guardians are at work, or otherwise occupied. Sometimes, after a demon attack, some of the children find themselves permanent residents until alternative care can be arranged. It’s good for them to be used to the environment.

“We’ve been notified you will be joining the academy,” the teacher told Robbie while Gabe was saying goodbye to his new classmates. He didn’t offer congratulations. “You don’t need to worry about the schedule. I know Major Brooks likes to run his sessions long.”

Major Brooks can like his sessions on the moon for all Robbie cares. He’s not letting Gabe live out of a temp bunk full of abandoned and orphaned children. The nightmare he had, the one about dying in The Charger – Didn’t die. – still makes him uneasy, and he has no plans on joining any strike teams. Besides, it seems a little unfair – as in any other childcare facility he’s ever seen, the staff are stretched thin and never paid enough for all they’re asked to do. Robbie can’t imagine preparing for a shift with sixty kids and ending up with a hundred, because someone up in the dome ran an exercise for an extra two hours.

That’s because you’ve never been in a Kwoon ring. Trust me, it’s better than hanging around a cripple all day.

He freezes. Was that–

“...and Lin said her dad can make me elbow pads like hers,” Gabe finishes recounting. Crap, Robbie didn’t mean to space out like that. “I want to draw her a picture from her story. Can we get the book?”

Gabe has a school-issued tablet that came complete with a stern warning about selling Shatterdome property. It takes Robbie longer than he’d like to figure out how to access the online library. Every piece of technology they get is second-hand or renovated, and still years ahead of what he could afford back in L.A.

The e-reader has adjustable text size and screen contrast, and a read-aloud option. Damn, you’re easy to impress. The book Gabe requested seems to be some sort of a video game novelisation.

This is all too good to be true, he thinks when Gabe is busy finishing his second helping of noodle soup while following the text along to the narrator in his earphones. The stipend he’s getting from medical is slightly less than what he’d make as a mechanic, and nowhere near enough to save up and leave, but so much on the base is provided for free it’s not really a concern. It feels not unlike the first few weeks in their own flat back in Hillrock Heights – a to-date unprecedented amount of comfort. That lasted only seven months before the demon attack. According to the countdown display, the next one is due in three weeks.

“Robbie-Robbie,” Gabe sing-songs without looking away from the screen. “Your soup is getting cold.”

“You’re holding it wrong. Extend your thumb,” Robbie says to his dad, grabbing his staff to demonstrate.

Dad is only a couple of inches taller than him. He rolls his eyes. He looks… fond.

“I can still knock the snot out of you, soldier boy.”

Robbie laughs. It sounds forced. “Yeah? That a threat?”

“Hell yeah.” Dad looks a little unsure for a moment. “Seriously, Juliana is watching. Go easy on me, huh?”

Robbie doesn’t remember having dreams like that before. Normal stuff, sometimes nightmares, but never these… these weird whole-scene narratives. He lies in his cot for a good ten minutes, trying to level his breathing; it felt so real. His arms ache.

Four in. Hold four. Four out. It’s being in the Shatterdome. Back in the Shatterdome. It’s messing with whatever… block he’s got in his head. There are records – classified, but maybe if he asked–

Or you could just plug back into The Charger. It’s got what you need.

Is it weird that Gabe doesn’t seem interested? Then again, he was too little to remember dad at all. He stopped asking after mom fairly quickly too. It used to be a point of pride for Robbie – he could do it by himself. They didn’t need anyone else.

He presses his knuckles into his eyes until he sees sparks. Jesus, pull yourself together. Right. He swings down from his bunk and goes to wake Gabe up – he’s been sleeping like a log with all the noise suppression in the crew quarters. They have morning routine down to the minute – roll out the kinks from Gabe’s legs and lower back, make sure he doesn’t try to spit out the one pill that doesn’t come in a sugar shell, decant the rest of the day’s meds plus emergency supply into the plastic container, check the medical info sheet is still in his backpack where it’s supposed to be. Gabe showers in the evenings, and Robbie in the mornings while he gets dressed. Back in L.A., the harried social worker he used to harass for advice mentioned that now Gabe is a teenager, Robbie needs to occasionally leave him alone behind a closed door, and this is the best he can offer – other than never, ever thinking about it any further in any detail.

All the kids get meals at the beginning of each shift, so he drops Gabe off first before looping back to the mess hall for his prescription food. Most of everything on offer is vegetarian, but with his new academy assignment Robbie can technically access the pork. It’s half eight in the morning – he has to solemnly promise the old lady behind the counter that he won’t starve to death on just rice and beans.

It turns out to be the wrong choice.

*

Tony waves Amadeus over to the edge of the viewing platform and points to the mat to the far side of the gym, where Robbie Reyes is getting his ass handed to him for the fifteenth time in a row. He’s probably counting, too. He looks the type.

“Ouch,” Amadeus hisses in sympathy. “Wasn’t he supposed to just run laps?”

“Yep,” Tony pops the ‘p’. He wishes he’d brought popcorn. “Don’t ask me, they were already at it when I got here.”

They watch the sixteenth match end, once again, with Reyes flat on his back on the mat. Tony waits until Eric gets him up again to nod his head to the other side of the platform. “Watch the Colonel.”

Ivanov doesn’t make a habit of observing the recruits. He shows up in the Kwoon Combat Room for pair ups, because that’s always good fun, but the cadets are pretty pitiful until Eric whips them into shape, and the brass tends to train when the impressionable young people can’t hear their backs creak from the effort. He’s been watching Reyes like a hawk, though, and according to Tony’s quick dig into base surveillance, arrived just in time to potentially instruct their Fightmaster to change up his training program. Eric doesn’t sway from his routines unless directly threatened with public speaking. Or unless Carol asks nicely enough, and she’s on duty this morning.

“His orthodontist will have some work to do,” Amadeus comments. He produces a pack of jelly beans from his coat pocket and offers some to Tony. “Are we being anti-establishment again?”

“Please, we’re always anti-establishment. Say, I know nothing about martial arts. Is Reyes any good?”

Only the rangers stand any chance of winning against Eric, and usually only after several years of learning his every move. That the kid hasn’t tapped out yet is already pretty impressive, but Tony has been known to mistake stubbornness for skill before. Amadeus crunches on the jelly beans for a long moment before replying.

“It’s like he’s been studying from old movies,” he says, thoughtful. “Knows what to do, but can’t back it up.”

“Did he mention getting any lessons?”

“Two boxing classes at fifteen.” Amadeus has the good sense to appear slightly red-faced at how quickly he pulled that information out of his giant brain. Tony magnanimously lets it slide. “What are you saying?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. But something smells funny here, doesn’t it?”

“Wait till you see what Montesi pulled out of his MEG scan.”

“Oooh, do tell.”

One level below, Reyes begins losing his cool. He puts enough strength into his next hit that when the wooden staff hits the mat instead of Eric’s leg, it bounces back and nearly hits him square in the face. Tony really doesn’t know much about fighting – he’s more of a lover type – but he knows Eric Brooks, and under three hundred layers of repression and self-esteem issues no therapist in the universe could crack, the big guy appears to be surprised.

“Not here,” Amadeus pockets his jelly beans. “Patient confidentiality and all that.”

That’s even more curious. “That good?” Amadeus has that look on his face. It’s been a while since Tony had last seen it, and he can’t say he enjoyed the resulting mayhem. “Alright, boy wonder. Lead the way.”

[gingerel]

matchablossom | reunion

“Aren’t you nervous?”

The question surprises Kaoru.

“What am I supposed to be nervous about?” Kaoru asks, ducking his mother’s hand where she reaches out to fuss with his hair.

Her mouth purses, a disapproving flat line to which Kaoru is all too familiar a witness.

“Kojiro comes home in a few days.”

“I’m aware,” Kaoru says flatly. He is the one that told her, let her know he wouldn’t be able to make their usual lunch because he and Kojiro would be…something.

“You haven’t seen each other for a while now,” she reminds him.

Over a year. Between Kojiro’s work and training, and Kaoru setting up the studio. Around clients and applications, certifications and business loans; there simply hasn’t been enough time.

“We talk almost every day,” Kaoru says. A little. Some days more than others.

Time zones make it difficult, so more and more often their back and forth is via email. Maybe—occasionally—the responses are day after day. It’s fine. They’re adults, with responsibilities and places to be every day.

Doesn’t mean Kaoru particularly likes it though.

“What time does his plane land?” mothers asks.

Kaoru blinks. “I don’t—I’m not sure.”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

Kaoru shakes his head.

No, he didn’t.

Kaoru hadn’t thought about it before now. When Kojiro let him know his return date—a static filled message on Kaoru’s answering machine he still hasn’t deleted—Kaoru simply blocked out the day in his calendar and made sure Carla didn’t auto-fill any of that day with appointments.

“Well,” mother says. “I’m sure you’ll run into each other eventually.”

— — —

Kaoru leaves his schedule open, but he goes to the studio anyway. Better that, than lazing around his apartment wondering what moment exactly he and Kojiro start sharing a time zone again. It’s not like he doesn’t have any work to be getting on with, his day may be free, but his commissions list is currently full and using the day to get ahead will only benefit him in the long run.

The digital clock built into Carla’s dock ticks forward to 10:41 and Carla lights up, silently alerting him to a new email. Kaoru clicks onto it on autopilot but it’s not what he’s hoping for, and he simply flags it to be dealt with later and Carla takes over to move it into the right place.

10:42

10:43

10:44

Kaoru blinks away from the clock. He hates wasting time, but he just can’t settle into anything—

The door to his studio pops open, sticking slightly as it always does and Kaoru doesn’t have any appointments, but he reflexively stands anyway, so he can make a good impression.

His jeans don’t quite fit right, too loose around the thighs, but his shirt is so eye-wateringly bright Kaoru almost laughs out loud.

“Kojiro.”

He’s gotten so broad, and his hair is longer, curling up where it hangs just over the collar. Maybe Kaoru’s just forgotten what Kojiro looks like, but he seems different to the Kojiro that’s only existed in his mind.

“Hey,” Kojiro says, grinning, though he barely comes into the room, hovering near the door.

“You—when did your plane get in?” Kaoru asks.

“About an hour ago,” Kojiro says, words coming fast. “I dropped stuff at home then realised I didn’t know where you were, so I went to see your mom—” Kaoru winces and Kojiro’s next words are tinged with laughter. “—and she told me where to find you.”

“You—”

“The place looks great,” Kojiro rambles on. “It’s—really great.”

Kaoru swallows, from the corner of his eye he sees Carla light up again but ignores her.

“Thank you.”

For a long moment, they just stare at each other, and Kaoru has never been good at talking, or thinking of things to say to fill awkward silences. He’s never needed to be good, because Kojiro has always taken care of it on his behalf. Kaoru doesn’t know they’ve ever had an awkward silence with just the two of them before.

“Are you busy?” Kojiro asks. “I mean—I know you’re busy. But today—do you maybe have some time?”

Kaoru left his entire day free on the off chance he might get to see Kojiro, yet he makes himself tilt his head and pretend to think.

“I might be able to make some time,” Kaoru allows.

“Oh good,” Kojiro says, and his exhales adjust his posture into something much more familiar. “I’d offer to make you dinner tonight but, you know, I don’t have a kitchen right now.”

Kojiro fumbles in his pocket for his phone and Kaoru, without thinking, pads towards him, stepping out from behind his desk.

“We can go to S after,” Kojiro goes on and his excitement is palpable, his eagerness brighter and more engaging than the sun. “Is it tonight?”

“I—I don’t know,” Kaoru admits.

“You don’t know,” Kojiro echoes.

“I haven’t been for a while,” Kaoru admits. Kojiro’s face falls. “I’ve been busy,” Kaoru defends. “It’s not—I went without you.”

Wasn’t the same. Wasn’t much fun, but he did it. Every so often.

Kaoru doesn’t know when it happened but they’re close now. Kaoru is halfway to the door and Kojiro is all the way inside, his stature and his warmth filling up the place, making it seem more alive than it ever has been since Kaoru signed his name on the paperwork.

Kaoru swallows down another wave of awkwardness. It has no place here. Kojiro’s acting like they’ve never been apart, surely Kaoru can manage too. It’s what he wants.

“After what?” Kaoru asks.

“Huh?”

“We can go to S after: after what?” Kaoru clarifies.

“Oh,” Kojiro says laughing. “I think I’ve found the restaurant space I want to buy, but I can’t do it without your approval.”

“Yes, you can,” Kaoru blurts. It’s not like Kaoru has any financial stake in the business, he hasn’t signed over part of his inheritance to Kojiro as a loan or a gift.

Because Kojiro hasn’t asked.

Kojiro rolls his eyes. “Okay, I don’t want to.”

Kaoru doesn’t flinch, because he has more self-control than that but he’s almost thankful for the way Kojiro yanks him right in, hiding Kaoru’s face against his chest for covering what must be obvious surprise on his face. They’ve hugged a thousand times in their life and for all the differences—Kojiro is taller and broader, he smells different—Kojiro holds him exactly the same as he always did. Warm and strong, hand ruffling the back of Kaoru’s hair because he’s the only one whose ever been able to get away with that.

The suggestion Kojiro is about to pull back is minute, maybe no one but Kaoru would pick up on it, and it’s only that brief thought which gives Kaoru the courage to bring up his arms and hug back, to twist his fingers into striped linen of Kojiro’s shirt and prevent him pulling away.

“I’m back,” Kojiro whispers—a promise. His hand finds the back of Kaoru’s head again, fingers teasing amongst the strands but not ruffling of musing, just holding.

It’s a relief, more than Kaoru ever anticipated. He’s been alone, with Kojiro gone, his only friend—the only one he can trust—halfway around the world chasing a dream Kaoru can’t help fulfil.

Kaoru didn’t mind, or didn’t think he minded being alone, but now Kojiro is here, Kaoru can tell he’s hated it, that he’s been lonely, stressed, and anxious and everything that goes along with it.

“You’re back,” Kaoru echoes, clinging so tightly for a few seconds his fingers hurt. When he does step back Kojiro lets him go at once, eyes a little soft at the edges.

“Well come on then,” Kaoru sighs, lying through his teeth when he snaps, “We don’t have all day.”

[theworldoffostering]

Raising kids is not for the weak.

The good:

DS took his road test and passed it! It felt so nice to do a normal kid/parent thing and see him be successful.

The anniversary of his adoption day was this month. It’s been 15 years.

Ms. 6 was accepted into a university.

Ms. 6 is going to graduate high school next month!

We are progressing in attachment therapy with Baby.

School is almost done for the year.

The mediocre:

DD broke up with her fiancé and is already seeing someone else. I did not care for her fiancé, but already seeing someone else is a red flag.

I talked with the students with disabilities center on Ms. 6’s campus this week to try to get her some services. In turn, I had to request her IEP. Her IEP from fall was a train wreck so I reconvened the team this week and told them to rewrite it appropriately. Apparently the guidance counselor quit in the fall and no one has taken his place. For real, without a parent, most kids are completely lost.

I signed Ms. 6 up for college registration and orientation. Students have to bring a parent. I offered but she wants her mom to go which is fine. However, we don’t know if her mom will go. She was too hungover to take Ms. 6 to the hospital when she had knee surgery scheduled a couple of months back. Last week she didn’t get out of bed to take Ms. 6 to a somewhat major dental appointment. I told her I would go, but her mom insisted that she was going so I could not attend. I stood down and then she didn’t show up. Same thing happened with the knee surgery.

The challenging:

So much drama with Ms. 6’s family of origin. Ms. 6 lives over three hours away from us but is enrolled in a high school near us and her graduation will be where we live. I offered to throw her a graduation party and invite her mom. Ms. 6 was thrilled. Her mom told her to cut DH and I off and that she could no longer talk to us or receive mail from us. Now her mom is threatening to take away Ms. 6 attending her own graduation altogether.

Ms. 6 insisted she completed her FASFA. She did, but it was for the 23-24 year, not the 24-25 year. I straightened it out two weeks ago and filled it out for her (she’s an independent so parent income doesn’t count). Financial aid packagers don’t go out until next month so I’m hoping she will still get enough to be able to go to school.

Ms. 6 told me this week that she never obtained a new birth certificate or social security card despite me directing her in how to do both things multiple times in the fall after she left here unexpectedly. I finally just ordered (and paid) for a new birth certificate for her this week.

I feel incredibly burned out. Like maybe I need meds? My endocrin called and told me I need to start doing B12 injections because after taking oral supplements for three months, my b12 levels actually went down. I don’t know if it’s that, or wading through all of the drama, or both. Some days, I don’t feel like I can even put one foot in front of the other. It’s too much. How do you ever get a break from everything?

Tomorrow we are meeting with DD to try to work out getting her a $4k car from a friend of mine. It’s a 2006 Odyssey with almost 200k miles on it. The insurance (collision only) would be $2k for the year. She’s bouncing from one hourly job to another and not saving anything. She desperately needs a vehicle to get to and from work. Currently she’s relying on her fiancé and her vehicle, but now that they’re no longer together, it seems more important that she have her own. She has zero money saved, but I have a college fund set aside for her with about $10k in it. Clearly she’s not going to college right now so I think we are going to pivot with that money and pay for the car and the insurance for a year.

I was planning to drive 6.5 hours this weekend to meet up with Ms. 6 and her BF who she met online. Ms. 6 has really been pushing for this. I asked for his address so I could locate a nearby hotel. She said he didn’t want me to have it. Then I asked for his name. He apparently did not want to disclose that to me either. I did tell her that was super sketch, and now I do think he’s like a really scary person who no one has vetted. Ms. 6 has already stayed with him several times so maybe not a serial killer, but anything else is possible in my brain. He’s definitely older because he has his own apartment.

It’s so much, you guys.

[inlovewithaspiderguy]

Vent

I am so angry at myself for this whole shtick I just had to go to class that’s the only thing that was asked of me and I lasted what four weeks? Four weeks before starting to skip school! And since the beginning of April it’s ten times worse because I used to just not go on Thursdays because that’s where we had the hardest classes but now im skipping ever day and it’s gonna make my results drop so fucking low. i swear to god the Monday to Friday were fine! I haven’t gone to uni in two weeks. I never come out of my apartment and this week especially I fucked up my sleep schedule so bad I can only sleep from 1am to 5 am and then three hours more during the day. Hell of my own making for the third time cause yea this is the third time I do shit like that. First time was exactly a year ago and I tried to kill myself. Not exactly feeling peachy rn either. Second time in December and we had me change what degree I studied under the promise that I would go to class. My mother said if she found out I skipped school one more time she would pull me out of college and I would have to start working a real job. I’m not ready for that! Uni isn’t working out either! At this point I only see two solutions: getting medication (my parents are very opposed to that) or being sent to an institution; because I can’t manage life unmedicated so it’s taking a pill or escaping it. But to get those I’d have to confess to having lied and having skipped school and that would be the nail in the coffin of my relationship with my parents. God knows I used them for a long time but I can see this as something that would break us. They’re the only thing I have cause I block my friends like every year and don’t know how to make some. And just the shame of confessing, saying “i lied to you AGAIN I’m skipping school AGAIN I want to die AGAIN”… that would just kill me. If I don’t do it myself. It’s currently 5:45am. I have a FaceTime appointment with my therapist at 9. I’m going to lie and say I’m done it’s all going well yada yada . Then I’m gonna go to my classes today and next week because this is the last week of school before vacation and the exams. I’ll do my best on the exams end will act surprised when I’ll get some zeroes to classes I wasn’t there. Hope I pass on the first try but I don’t believe it. Oh yeah there’s that thing since I changed degrees abruptly I don’t have access to the college website with all the documents that could help me save this shitshow! Fucking hell.

[bionicdogs]

Booker developed a little seroma at his knee and the surgeon decided to have him come in to have it looked at. She thought it may have been the pin backing out. Since today marks seven weeks post op, she decided to lump it all together and count today as his 8 week recheck.

We get there for our 8:30 appointment, they take him back at 9. They tell me they probably won’t get to him until around 11, and they’ll call me once they get the sedated rads. I say cool, my boss gave me the day off so I’ll stay in the area. I drive a few minutes down the road to get breakfast. I finish eating and they call me asking if I can come back to sit with him because he is extremely nervous and upset.

Booker has never liked the vet. Ever. But he’s never been so nervous that I have to come back for him. Talked to the tech about it and she agrees the culprit is the trazodone. Absolutely required to keep him calm in the house, but it turns him into a nervous wreck when we leave the house. Always has. He’s on trazodone 2-3 times a day depending on if I’m home to give it to him in the middle of the day.

So I pick him back up at 9:50ish and told to be back around 11 or so. We drive around the corner and down the street to a little park and we sit there for about 20 minutes but Booker just cannot settle down so I load him back into his kennel and we drive back to the vet and sit in the parking lot for almost an hour. Booker takes a nap in the AC. He’s happier in his kennel. Finally take him back in and his tech takes him at 11:20ish. Thirty minutes later, he’s been sedated, rads taken, and yup, the pin is the culprit. Surgeon already has him on the table to pull it.

I kip on down to the used bookstore and grab a few books I’ve been meaning to get and come back to sit in the parking lot with my AC running, making sure his kennel stays cool. 12:39, he’s awake and ready to be checked out. He has a tiny incision and two staples on his knee. They’re happy with how his TPLO is healing. He doesn’t need any future rads unless something goes wrong. Staples out October 1st. After that he can start a slow return to normal.

Oh also he wore his Friday the 13th collar and tag set because tis the season.

TLDR: The pin in Booker’s knee was bothering him so it was pulled after Booker was diagnosed with Big Baby Syndrome, he’s just about healed and the end is in sight.