#AND THR HAPPY TRAIL! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!

I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!

I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.

I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!

'Til it Hurts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...

A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!

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

You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag.

It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had.

God, you’d never have friends like that again.

Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen.

They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up.

Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.

Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.

At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment.

A city now filled with killers.

“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”

The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil.

Not good.

Shit. Karver, where did you go!?

Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US.

If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.

You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air.

But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed.

Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy.

This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.

“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.”

Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been.

So that was where you came in.

God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.

Mostly because of situations like this.

“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.”

Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty.

None of this was going to plan.

You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.

Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back.

The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips.

3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…

Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple.

A man, then.

“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”

You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses.

With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing.

Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured.

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper.

A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same.

“You’ll never get it out of me-”

“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”

“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”

There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come.

You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?

Have they seen murder?

But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.

You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.

“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.

Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death.

Your mark has been met.

The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow.

“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze.

You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman.

The Reaper.

Oh, what would they think of you now?

You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times.

In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all.

Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries.

—

The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete.

“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling.

Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.

“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set.

Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”

Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group.

“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”

“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”

“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”

“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”

“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”

An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play.

Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.

Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.

“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching.

“Hm,” their command affirms.

Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.

Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–

“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–”

The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different.

Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances.

“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.

Brows furrow.

Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit.

“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.

“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys.

Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant.

An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.

Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”

“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat.

“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate.

Price grunts under his breath.

“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask.

Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?

“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?”

Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over.

Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.

Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves.

“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion.

“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.

“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’.

Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand.

“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.

“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”

“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”

“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”

“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”

The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all.

But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.

“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.”

A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell.

“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.

The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate.

“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”

“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.”

Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer.

“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?”

“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.

Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book.

You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit.

Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over.

Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted.

The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm.

Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before.

“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”

“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows.

Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture.

“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head.

Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant.

The room is more silent than Ghost is.

“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.”

The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow.

“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.

“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”

The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.”

Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time.

He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered.

But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague.

Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.

Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim.

You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes.

He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal.

His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.

“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.”

Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.

‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.

Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.

—

You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders.

Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now!

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.”

In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do.

Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping.

Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself.

The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission.

And Ghost.

Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks.

But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt.

Mutt was the worst of them.

Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work?

The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky.

You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.

What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?

Your ears twitch.

“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”

“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens. He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.

“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.”

“Sir!”

After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been.

Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back.

Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself.

You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest.

Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly.

Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.

—

It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.

Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily.

There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time.

Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen.

But there were ups to this constant downward slope.

It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.

“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.

Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market.

You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.”

Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks.

The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters.

You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky.

Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull.

“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”

Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean.

Your eyebrows furrow.

He was never mean to me.

There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…

You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.

Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.

No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt.

You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant.

A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.

Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!

“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”

By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.

“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”

But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.

You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.

“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice.

You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked.

A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point.

If I had known…you frown.

Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.

“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.”

The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it.

Like blood lining the street.

You force yourself to run faster.

—

You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you.

Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you.

The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.

But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.

Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?

Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver.

But you didn’t look away.

“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins.

Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch.

“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days.

Your Captain scurries after.

“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.

At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type.

But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude.

You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.

The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle.

The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case.

‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth.

And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement.

You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?

“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?”

Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.

“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.”

You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.

“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms.

Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.

“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.

“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?”

“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.

‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’

Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?

Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.

“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.

“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat.

‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’

You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves.

The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.

And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.

—

When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report.

Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued.

I need new intel. Badly.

About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom.

On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.

Your cheeks heat.

He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?

As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.

Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.

Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.

Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race?

Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute.

What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted?

The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.

Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound.

A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?

When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.

“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”

“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.”

Hadn’t he changed even a little bit?

“Now that’s dark.”

“Never said it wasn’t.”

Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights.

There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore.

They had died a long time ago.

“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you.

Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.

Stop that.

“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?”

“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”

“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.

“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”

“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.

What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?

The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.

He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how.

She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left.

But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely.

Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath.

Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.

When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets.

His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.

“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles.

He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare.

You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.

What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious.

But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.

“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.

“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.”

Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”

He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.

“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”

“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh.

“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”

“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”

“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.

“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow.

He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way.

Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around.

Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.

At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.

Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you.

You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.

Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around.

You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led.

Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.

“Well, where are we–”

“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it.

Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after.

Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you.

Boxed in.

Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it.

One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you.

You don’t bother watching him drop.

Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it.

But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you.

Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps.

You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.

“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.

Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious.

Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah!

“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”

“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!”

“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”

“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs.

Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement.

A wide grin is stuck on you.

Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.

Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…

“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.”

He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant.

Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that.

A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?

“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow.

Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee.

Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.

“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”

Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.

Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time.

Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter.

How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant.

All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now.

“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.

“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip?

His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side.

There were few people worthy of that.

You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate.

You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years.

Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated.

You’d never had sex before.

And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.

He sighs heavily and follows in silence.

—

When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks.

They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet.

You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.

You could forget about it. You should.

But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.

If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors.

Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!

You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth.

Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.

But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong.

It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.

But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…

“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”

Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.

Why did they do this to you?

TAGLIST SIGN-UP || Here

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(sorry that some of these don't work! I have no idea why!)

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inevitably-johnlocked · 24 days ago

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Reunion / Post-TRF Pt. 4

meetinginsamarra said: I'm very curious about "Reunion Part 4" 🙂

As I mentioned on this post, I needed a list for this weekend, and this was the only response I got, so I hope you guys enjoy this list! <3 As usual, if you have a fic to add, please do!!

=====

Tea by Art and Soul (K, 693 w., 1 Ch. || Angst & Friendship, Reunion) – John’s habit of making tea for two has little use, considering his flat-mate has been dead for three years. But he keeps on making that second cup, hoping he’d wake up and it’d be gone. But it never was… (FFNet)

Black Cars by johnsarmylady (T, 1,186 w., 5 Ch. || Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF) – John is getting on with his life...if only he didn't see black cars everywhere! A short Post Reichenbach tale in 221B style in 5 parts. (FFNet)

Hallucinations can't open doors by Bespectacled dreamer (K+, 1,330 w., 1 Ch. || Reunion, Hurt / Comfort, Friendship, Hallucinations, John’s Wedding, Light Humour) – In which John gets married and Sherlock gets a broken nose. (FFNet)

Here to Stay by MockJayPhoenix12 (K, 1,574 w., 1 Ch. || Post Reunion, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Headache, Bed Sharing, Care Taker Sherlock, Hand Holding, Fluff) – On Sherlock's first day home, John wakes with a migraine. (FFNet)

Given In Evidence by verityburns (M, 5,034 w., 19 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Angst, Drama, Case Fic, Romance, BAMF!John, Submissive Sherlock, First Kiss, Humour) – Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing... rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same...

This Year by DiscordantWords (T, 6,283 w., 2 Ch. || TEH Divergence / No Mary, New Year’s Eve, John’s A Mess, Jealous John, Awkward Conversations, Trapped in a Closet, Estranged After Return, John POV, Semi-Reunion, Angry John, First Kiss, Reconciliation, Clueless Sherlock, Happy Ending) – Last year, Sherlock Holmes showed up at the Landmark with a fake moustache and a bad French accent and threw John's entire life into disarray with two words: "Not dead." This year, there are more surprises in store.

The Skin Over My Heart by standbygo (E, 8,849 w., 1 Ch. || Post-Hiatus, Fake Relationship, Case Fic, Dog Tags, Military, Homophobia, Gay Bashing, POV First Person Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Undercover, Haircuts, Flashbacks, Touching, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Metaphors, Introspection, Hand Jobs, On the Couch, John’s Past, Angst with Happy Ending) – Sherlock and John are still trying to adjust to Sherlock's return from his hiatus when John's friend Bill Murray brings them a case. Someone is targeting the LGBTQA+ members of Bill's unit. John and Sherlock go undercover at the unit, but when they end up having to flirt to flush out the suspect, Sherlock realizes he's in over his head.

There's So Much Labour Just in Breathing Lately by Susan (E, 12,708 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF / Mentions of S3 Events, Romance, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Mutual Pining, Meddling Mycroft, Therapy, Ambiguous Hopeful Ending, Infidelity) – The dreams he hated most – the ones that left him a sweating, shaking mess when he woke – were the ones in which Sherlock was just Sherlock. Laughing or drinking tea. Sitting across the table from him at Angelo’s eating pasta. Trailing his open hand behind him on the way to the bedroom. “C’mon, John. I’m about to have my way with you.”

Sunday Evening 6 p.m. by Silvergirl (E, 30,712 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF / TEH Divergence, Grief / Mourning / Stages of Grief, Mutual Pining, Dreams, Reunion, Love Confessions, First Kiss / Time, Alternating First Person POV, Smart John, BAMF Boys, Emotional Love Making, Song Fic, Referenced Suicide, First Kiss / Time, Touching, Sleepy Sherlock, Blow Job, Villain Mary) – Six months after Sherlock jumped, he learns that John is dedicating songs to him on a requests-only radio programme. Is John just working through grief? Or is he—communicating? Fixes the hell out of S3 by pre-empting it altogether. Remember, as TAB told us, John is Pretty Damn Smart.

Inscrutable to the Last by DiscordantWords (M, 48,842 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF, Alternate S3, John’s Blog/S3 is a Story By John, Divorce, Marital Difficulties, John is a Mess, Emotional Reunion, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Grief / Mourning, Pining John, First Kiss, Adorably Clueless Sherlock, Nostalgia, Love Confessions, Eventual Happy Ending) – He wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't work miracles. All he'd ever been able to do was write about them.

The Hollow Woman by ScopesMonkey (M, 51,335 w., 22 Ch. || Post-TRF, Major Character Death, Mystery, Romance, Friendship, Family, Angst, Crime, Reunion, First Kiss / Time, Nightmares, Doctor John, Jealous Sherlock, Jealous John, BAMF John, Angry John, Dub-Con, Rough Sex, Bottomlock, Possessive John, Villain Mary, Open Ending) – Forced to return to London sooner than expected, Sherlock falls into a case too close to home. Part 1 of the Hollowverse series

Spare Parts by Raina_at (E, 63,497 w., 10 Ch. || 24th Century / Futurism AU || Post TRF, Pre-TRF Relationship, Case Fic, Mutual Pining, Estrangement, Reconciliation, Science Fiction, Reunion, Nightmares, Angry John, Cybernetic John, Emotional Discussions / Heart to Heart, POV John, Scars, Past Drug Use, Forehead Touching, Emotional Lovemaking, Kissing, Apologies, Kidnapping, Rescue Mission, BAMF John, Bed Sharing, Top Sherlock) – Two years ago, Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of New London Hospital. Two months ago, he walked into John's clinic as if no time had passed at all. John hasn't seen him since. But then Sherlock knocks on John's door with a case he can't say no to, and while figuring out why the biggest manufacturer or synthetic limbs in the System is going after veterans, they also need to find out whether there's a way to fix what's broken between them. Part 1 of Realigning Gravity

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

MARKED FOR LATER

Out of the Shadow of Missed Chances by MargueriteSomebodyoranother (T, 1,132 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post TRF, Reunion, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining) – He’d had eighteen months - it seemed like a goddamned eternity at the time - and he never uttered a word.

Sound of Silence by SailorChibi (G, 1,554 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, Emotional Trauma, Implied Past Torture, Mutism, Reunion, Protective John, BAMF John) – Sherlock returns from the dead but nothing is like it was. He doesn't speak and John doesn't understand, not until an encounter with the Yard explains the depths of Sherlock's trauma.

English as a Foreign Language by standbygo (G, 1,739 w., 2 Ch. || Post-TRF, PTSD Sherlock, Reunion) – Sherlock is not quite right after Mycroft pulls him out of Serbia.

Dear Sherlock by by Tara Laurel (T, 7,729 w., 3 Ch. || Post-TRF, Reunion, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Christmas) – "John was happy. Too happy. Of course Sherlock preferred to see his friend in good spirits, especially after the cloud of depression that had hung over him the past weeks, but this was simply maddening." John's got a serious case of Christmas spirit, but is there something serious hidden behind it - something that surprises & saddens a self-proclaimed sociopath? (FFNet)

Nothing to Celebrate by DiscordantWords (M, 30,066 w., 23 Ch. || Post TRF / S3 Rewrite, Not Nice Mary, Secrets, Lies, Pining, Angst with Happy Ending) – Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. Things only get worse from there.

Ride On by Silvergirl (M, 34,342 w., 9 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || TEH Divergence, Reunion, First Kiss / Time, Mutual Pining, Alternating POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Music, Original Characters, Happy Ending) – After the disastrous reveal at the Landmark, John tells Sherlock there can be no excuse for what he’s done, and no forgiveness. Sherlock leaves London and starts a new life, and not even the British Government knows where. It’s up to John to track him down and make things right, with a trip around the world and a clue only John would recognize.

Full Mount by ArwaMachine (E, 54,887 w., 10 Ch. || Post-TRF, Fighting, John Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Bed Sharing, Mixed Martial Arts, Angry John, Sherlock and No Boundaries, Masturbation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fighting, Toplock, Reunion) – After Sherlock unceremoniously returns from the dead, John finds himself inexplicably angry all the time. So he does what any emotionally-constipated British man does: he joins a Mixed Martial Arts gym. As John throws himself into the sport and joins in on underground no-holds-barred brawls, situations arise that just might force John to face what is really going on underneath all the rage.

Over/Under Series by khorazir (M, 319,561 w. across 5 works || Cabin Pressure Crossover || Post-S2 / Reichenbach, ReunionFriendship, Angst, Humour, Pining, Cycling, Mountains, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dev. Rel., Case Fic, First Kiss, Pining, Family Issues, Inexperienced Sherlock) – After his Fall, Sherlock travels the world to destroy what remains of James Moriarty's criminal empire. When things don't go according to plan and he finds himself in desperate need of a discreet means of travel, cue MJN Air ...

#johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #reunion fics #post trf fics #teh fics

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s41l0rm00nz · 2 years ago

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Birthday Cake

pairing: wolfstar x fem!reader

sypnosis: it’s harrys 3rd birthday and you and your boyfriends are on cake duty :)

warnings: no one is dead, voldy doesn’t exist, happy lifetime, harry is three

making a cake should’ve been easy. it was a simple chocolate cake with the message 'Happy Birthday Harry!!' written on it in red frosting. it shouldve been easy. yet, there was currently frosting on the ceiling.

remus left to take a shower shower, trusting y/n and sirius with frosting duty. after the shower, remus came back into the kitchen to check on them. there was a few swipes of frosting on their noses but nothing too serious so he rushed back to the bedroom to grab something really quick.

when he trekked down the stairs again he heard things clattering around, booming laughter, and a few ‘fuck you!’s. he smiled, enjoying the laughter of his lovely boyfriend and girlfriend. when he walked through the kitchen though? the view and his face were looking not so lovely.

“godric i leave you both alone for two minutes! two minutess!” remus can feel his migraine forming when he walks into the kitchen, brown and red frosting smeared on the counter and all over y/n and sirius. and when he looked up? frosting was on the ceiling as well.

sirius and y/n were both holding the same cheeky grin, giggling profusely at remus’ stressed look when he noticed that the frosting hasn’t even touched the cake.

“it was her fault.” sirius points over to y/n, causing her to scoff.

“oh piss off.” y/n rolled her eyes, shoving sirius and smearing more frosting on him. “i didn’t do shit, you tosser.” she said in a strained voice, trying to push sirius away so he wont smear more frosting on her but ultimately failing. sirius beamed, enjoying the way she gasped in suprise.

remus’ smirk never faltered as he let out a few chuckles when y/n trailed a streak of red down sirius' face.

“hey! whats so funny, lupin?” sirius’ crossed his arms. to answer, all remus did was shrug his shoulders which made sirius scoff. “c’mere you, wanker.” sirius sped walk over to remus. opening his arms to engulf remus in not only his arms but frosting.

remus started sprinting away, he had just gotten out the shower and truly did not want frosting all over himself.

sirius sped up his movements and y/n was following behind them, practically bent over laughing when remus let out a shriek as sirius swiped a little frosting on his shoulder.

sirius ushered y/n to come help. both of them trying to corner remus before getting outsmarted.

the three ran practically everywhere, occasionally bumping into things causing a little ‘are you okay, babe?’ to slip through every now and then before getting back into the mood. after a long fight in the living room they rounded back to the kitchen, remus on one side of the counter while y/n and sirius were on other.

all you could hear was heavy breathing and small giggles. “y’not getting that frosting all over me.” remus’ brows furrowed but you could tell he was having fun. “you may have bested me once but not again!” he had a huge smile on his face, laughing at the tired expressions on his lovers faces.

sirius and y/n knew they were defeated. remus was a genius even in a 2 v 1. so when y/n looked up and saw red frosting slowly dripping from the ceiling perfectly over remus, she couldn’t help but get a *little* cocky.

“don’t get too smart, moony.” she laughed, sirius and remus giving her a confused expression. when she pointed upwards, all she could do was laugh harder. sirius joined in with her and when remus finally looked up—

‘SPLAT!’

a nice goop of red frosting made a home on remus’ face. the other two were hunched over, giggling like mad man at not only the view, but remus’ face prior to the face planting.

remus couldn’t help but laugh, wiping a huge glop off the frosting off of his face and onto the floor.

“guess i’ll have to shower again later.” he grinned.

Harry’s cake could wait till later. Yes, the party was in an hour, and yes the three of them were still giggling ten minutes later. But the atmosphere is nice. And is it really that selfish to enjoy the domestic life?

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lovemydarkestsecrets-blog · 6 months ago

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Summer love

Weecest

In the small, sleepy town of Lawrence, Kansas, the Winchester brothers, found themselves often left to their own devices now that school was out. Sam, already taller at 15 years old than his older brother Dean; who decided to drop out and just get his GED.

Their father, John, was a relentless hunter, always on the trail of supernatural creatures that lurked in the shadows. His long absences meant that Sam and Dean had to grow up fast, learning to take care of each other in a world filled with danger and uncertainty.

One warm summer afternoon, the brothers decided to escape the confines of their motel room and head to the park. They found a secluded spot under an ancient oak tree, its branches stretching wide and providing a cool respite from the blaring sun. They lay on the grass, their legs intertwined, staring up at the sky. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze, casting playful shadows over their faces. It was one of those rare moments of tranquility, where the world seemed to pause just for them. Dean pulled off his Led Zeppelin t-shirt to reveal a white tank top underneath.

"Remember that time we snuck out to the drive-in?" Dean asked, a smirk playing on his lips, balling up his shirt to throw at Sam.

Sam chuckled, "Yeah, and you got us caught because you insisted on honking the horn during the jump scares."

Dean laughed, the sound rich and warm, "Worth it. That was a great night."

Their laughter faded into comfortable silence, each lost in their thoughts. It was in these moments that they found solace, a brief escape from the relentless hunt.

———

As the days passed, they shared everything—secrets, fears, and the burdens of their family legacy. Sam had finally opened up to his brother about wanting to go to college, and Dean decided at that point that he would secretly do whatever it took to get Sammy there.

Dean decided to take Sam out after eating the same thing for the last three nights, they walked down the dirt path towards the diner.

As the pair walked into the slightly run down building, a soft chime introduced them to the rest of the patrons. Sam picked the booth all the way in the back, still not totally comfortable with how tall and standoutish we was.

A cheerful waitress with a beehive hairstyle approached their table, her name tag reading “Betty.” She greeted them with a warm smile. “What can I get for you boys today?”

Dean grinned, his eyes lighting up. “We’ll take a large vanilla milkshake, two straws, please.”

Betty winked and jotted down their order. “Coming right up.”

The brothers settled into a comfortable silence, the low hum of conversation and clinking dishes around them creating a soothing backdrop. A few minutes later, Betty returned, balancing a tall glass filled with creamy vanilla goodness, topped with a generous swirl of whipped cream and a cherry on top. She placed it in the center of the table, sliding two straws into the thick shake.

“Enjoy, boys,” she said with a smile before bustling off to tend to other customers.

Dean leaned forward, taking a long sip from his straw. His eyes closed in bliss as the cold, sweet flavor washed over his tongue. “Man, that’s good. Just what we needed.”

Sam followed suit, savoring the nostalgic taste of their shared treat. He couldn’t help but smile, a genuine expression of happiness that had become rare in their line of work. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this,” he admitted, his voice soft.

Dean’s eyes met his brother’s, a glint of warmth and understanding in his gaze. “Yeah, too long.”

They sat there, sipping their milkshake and sharing quiet conversation, reminiscing about simpler times and laughing at old memories. The weight of their responsibilities and the darkness they faced daily seemed to lift, if only for a moment. The milkshake, a simple indulgence, became a symbol of their bond—an unspoken promise that no matter what, they would always find their way back to each other.

As the last of the milkshake disappeared through their straws, Dean leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “We should do this more often, Sammy.”

Sam nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, we should.”

In that moment, surrounded by the comforting hum of the diner and the fading light of day, the Winchester brothers found a rare sense of peace. It was a fleeting respite, but it was enough to remind them that no matter how dark their path became, they would always have each other. And sometimes, that was all they needed.

——

One night, after a particularly grueling hunt, they returned to their motel room. The air was thick with unspoken words, the silence between them heavy with emotion. Dean could see the exhaustion and pain in Sam's eyes, and he felt a fierce protectiveness surge within him. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, he took a long drag, the smoke curling around him before handing it to Sam.

Sam hesitated for a moment before taking the cigarette, inhaling deeply. The nicotine hit his system, providing a momentary escape from the stress. They sat on the edge of the bed, passing the cigarette back and forth in silence. Dean reached for a couple of beers they had snagged from a local convince store earlier. He popped the caps off and handed one to Sam.

"To surviving another day," Dean toasted, clinking his bottle against Sam's.

Sam smiled faintly, taking a swig, "To us."

They drank in silence, the beer a bitter but welcome relief. The cigarettes and alcohol created a hazy cloud that momentarily shielded them from their harsh reality. As they finished their drinks, Dean put his arm around Sam, pulling him close.

"Dean," Sam whispered, his voice raw with emotion, "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Dean tightened his grip, his thumb gently caressing the nape of Sam's neck, "We'll get through it, Sammy. We always do."

Their bond was unlike anything else. It was deeper than friendship, stronger than blood. In the quiet moments, when the world faded away, it was just the two of them. They knew their relationship was unconventional, a secret they kept fiercely guarded. But in those stolen moments, they found a love that transcended the boundaries of brotherhood.

The nights were often the hardest. The weight of their father's expectations, the endless hunt, and the constant threat of danger took its toll. But in the darkness, they found light in each other. They would lie in bed, tangled in each other's arms, finding solace in the warmth of their bodies. Dean would press soft kisses to Sam's forehead, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance.

Their love was a refuge, a sanctuary from the chaos of their lives. It was in those quiet, intimate moments that they found the strength to keep going. They knew that no matter what, they would always have each other—two souls intertwined, forever bound by love and destiny.

———

The day had been perfect, one of those rare summer days when the sun was warm but not too hot, and the sky was a clear, endless blue. Sam and Dean had decided to take a break from their relentless hunting to enjoy a bit of normalcy, something that had been missing from their lives for far too long.

They found a secluded lake, hidden away from the main road and surrounded by thick, lush forest. The water was crystal clear, reflecting the sky and the trees like a mirror. It was the kind of place that seemed almost too perfect to be real, a hidden paradise just for them.

Dean parked the Impala under the shade of a large oak tree, and they both got out, feeling the soft grass under their boots. Sam was the first to break the silence, a rare, genuine smile lighting up his face.

"Come on, Dean. Last one in is a rotten egg," he called out, already pulling off his shirt and kicking off his boots.

Dean laughed, shaking his head as he watched his brother sprint towards the water. "Oh, you're on, little brother."

In moments, both of them were stripped down to their boxers, racing towards the edge of the lake. Sam reached the water first, diving in with a splash that sent ripples across the surface. Dean followed close behind, his own entry just as enthusiastic. The water was cool and refreshing, a welcome relief from the summer heat.

They swam and splashed around, their laughter echoing through the trees. It was a carefree, joyous moment, a rare escape from their usual lives filled with danger and darkness. After a while, they floated on their backs, side by side, looking up at the sky.

"This is perfect," Sam said softly, his voice filled with contentment.

Dean turned his head to look at his brother, a smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, it really is."

After a few more moments of floating, they swam back to the shallower part of the lake where they could stand. Dean splashed Sam playfully, grinning as his brother retaliated with a laugh.

"Come on, let's see if you can catch me," Dean teased, swimming a bit further out.

Sam, determined, chased after him, the two of them moving through the water with ease. When he finally caught up, he grabbed Dean by the arm, pulling him close. They were both breathless from laughing, their faces inches apart.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The laughter faded, replaced by a different kind of intensity. Sam's hand still held Dean's arm, their wet skin slick against each other. Dean's eyes searched Sam's face, and what he saw there made his heart race.

With a soft smile, staring into his eyes, Sam leaned in, his lips brushing against Dean's in a soft, gentle kiss. Dean didn't pull away; instead, he kissed back, his arms wrapping around Sam's waist to pull him even closer. The kiss deepened as Sam wrapped just arms around Dean’s neck.

When they finally broke apart, Dean rested his forehead against Sam’s forehead. “Holy shit, Sammy.” Dean murmured, his voice filled with a mix of awe and affection.

Sam’s face turned a deep shade of red, his usual confidence momentarily giving way to shyness. He hid his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, his voice a soft whine. “Dean…”

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through both of them. He tilted Sam’s chin up gently with his hand, forcing his brother to meet his gaze. “Give me another kiss,” Dean whispered, his eyes dark with desire and affection.

Sam blushed madly, but he couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at his lips. He leaned in again, closing the distance between them. This time, their kiss was deeper, more certain. Dean’s hands found their way to the back of Sam’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair.

The world around them seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of them in their own little universe. The water lapped gently at their bodies, the coolness a stark contrast to the heat building between them.

Dean broke the kiss just enough to murmur against Sam’s lips, “I love you, Sammy.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He pulled back and smiled widely at his bother. “I love you, Dean.”

They swam back to shore, ready to go back to the motel and kiss more.

#dean winchester #sam winchester #wincest #samdean #supernatural #sam and dean #winchester brothers #deansam #weecest #weechesters

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lardguz · 1 year ago

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A Samurai's Hunger for Justice

This was originally longer, but I wasn't happy with the last part of it at all, and decided to just delete it entirely. But, I have returned with more gay fat lawyers! This time, featuring a certain samurai prosecutor and loud defense attorney! I never used to ship these two but uh, this dynamic is kind of super hot and gave me intense brainrot for months. Sooooooo I hope you all enjoy!

It was a rather nice spring day in Los Angeles, as Apollo Justice looked down at his phone’s screen. He looked back up at the restaurant in front of him, scratching the back of his head with worry. Prosecutor Simon Blackquill, the Twisted Samurai himself, had invited the young defense attorney out to lunch after their courtroom battle earlier that day, baffling Apollo. He had thought the stern former convict hated him, so being invited to eat with him was unexpected at the very least. As he walked up to the glass door of the restaurant, Apollo caught sight of his own reflection staring back at him. The anxiety plastered on his chubby face was quite apparent, so he took a deep breath and clapped either side of his face with his hands. He straightened his tie and walked in, spotting Prosecutor Blackquill immediately. The thick-haired black and white clad man was pretty hard to miss, sipping on a cup of hot tea as he shot a look at the chubby defense attorney as he entered. Apollo hesitantly made his way over to the table, pulling out the chair across from Blackquill and taking a seat.

Apollo awkwardly coughed before speaking. “So, uh, Prosecutor Blackquill! What’s, um… Why did you want to meet me?” he asked hesitantly.

The intimidating man chuckled mirthlessly. “I see you truly do assume the worst in me, Justice-dono. Why is it that acquaintances cannot just invite each other to a meal after a long battle?” Apollo snorted quietly at Simon’s ever-present dramatic and overly-traditional way of speaking, grabbing the menu in front of him and scanning it while he mulled over the prosecutor’s question. He had never really realized that Prosecutor Blackquill qualified as an acquaintance of his, mostly just thinking of knowing him as his coworker Athena Cykes’s older brother figure. Contrary to his thoughts, Apollo realized that he had fought against Simon in court a number of times now, almost as much as he’d gone against Klavier, who he saw as a close friend.

Apollo decided on ordering a sandwich platter and a large soda, and looked up at Prosecutor Blackquill to respond to him after he placed his order as well. “I guess I just never realized we were ‘acquaintances’, Prosecutor Blackquill. I kind of just thought you preferred hanging out with Athena since, well, you know…” Apollo trailed off as he saw the look on Simon’s face shift abruptly, and sensing danger, decided to drop that line of conversation. They sat in silence until their food arrived, Apollo blushing and staring at his lap while avoiding the gaze of the dark-eyed man opposite to him. While looking down, Apollo noted that the lowest button on his red waistcoat was starting to strain around his chubby gut a little. Apollo had never been a skinny man, especially during his law school days, when the stress of studying had him balloon up to 450 pounds at one point. After he got fired from his first law firm after finding his mentor guilty of murder on his first trial ever, Apollo had briefly gained some of his college weight back but he’d been working on trying to lose it again, though the strained button on his vest told him he wasn’t doing a very good job.

Apollo snapped out of his line of thought as their food arrived, and immediately he grabbed for half of his sandwich, not looking up until he had taken one huge bite. What he saw in front of him shocked him momentarily: Simon Blackquill had an entire party platter in front of him, and he was picking away at it diligently with a speed that surprised the much heavier defense attorney. “Wow,” Apollo mumbled through his mouthful of sandwich, “you must be pretty hungry Prosecutor Blackquill!”

The long-haired wannabe samurai stopped his strategic attack on his food to snap his head up and glare at the chubby man across from him. “What is that supposed to imply, Justice-dono?” he growled through gritted teeth, causing Apollo to immediately backpedal.

“W-well, what I uh, meant, was that, um…” the chubby lawyer stammered, his eyes wide as he worried that Blackquill might be hiding any number of weapons on his person at any time. He took a deep breath to compose himself before finishing his thought. “I’m sorry, I guess I just was surprised that you were intending to eat so much food.”

Simon glared at his dining partner again. “What’s wrong with how much I choose to eat to refuel after a long battle of wits?”

“Oh, nothing!” Apollo grinned awkwardly. “That’s just a lot more food than even I can eat, and I was thinking if you keep eating like that…” Simon growled again, causing Apollo to cut his thought short.

“I can eat TWICE this much, and my diligent samurai training regimen allows me to not gain a single ounce of weight from it, Justice-dono!” He slammed his fist onto the table fiercely, rattling the dishes and silverware, and sending their waiter scrambling over to see what was wrong. “Bring me another of these platters, on the double.” The waiter nodded and walked away quickly, while Simon continued tearing into his party platter with a much less methodical and calculated approach, instead just going for speed and ferocity. Apollo sat there dumbfounded, completely taken aback by the normally-stoic prosecutor’s competitive outburst. His own lunch lay completely forgotten as he sat there, transfixed by Simon’s frenzied eating.

When the second party platter arrived at their table, Simon merely gave a curt nod to the waiter, mouth too stuffed with bite-sized foods to verbalize anything. He finished his original platter and chugged the large soda he had ordered with it, draining it in less than a minute. Then he proceeded to begin attacking the new plate piled high with the tiny party sized foods, but this time noticeably slower. Simon was clearly wincing occasionally, trying to resist the urge to rub his overstuffed gut, which was just starting to look the slightest bit distended under his tailored waistcoat.

Apollo jolted out of his stunned silence. He saw Prosecutor Blackquill flagging in his consumption, his normally dark-circled eyes dropping even more underneath his thick, salt and pepper bangs. “Aw, come on, Prosecutor Blackquill!” Apollo grinned mischievously, “You’re not giving up that easily, are you?” Simon grunted through a stuffed mouth, shooting an exhausted and painted glare at the brown haired man. Apollo leaned back in his chair, and patted his tubby gut. “I was going to be so impressed if you managed to eat that much food in one sitting!” The young man sighed dramatically as he put his arms behind his head. “Oh well, I guess we’ll both just have to go home disappointed that you couldn’t keep your word.”

Simon snapped back up, ignoring the jolt of pain from his overstuffed gut. His honor had been challenged, and he would not let himself be defeated here. The black-and-white-clad prosecutor began stuffing his face with even more speed than at the start of his challenge, occasionally groaning in discomfort around mouthfuls of food. Apollo sat in his chair, grinning like a child in a candy store. It was so good to finally find a weakness in the stern Prosecutor Blackquill, and one that could be so easily exploited! Wait, Apollo thought with alarm, why do I care that I know Prosecutor Blackquill’s weak spot? I’m not fighting him or anything! We’re just legal rivals! The awkward defense attorney suddenly blushed furiously. Unless… maybe I want to see him do this more often?

Simon slammed his fists loudly onto the table, causing Apollo to leap up and yelp in surprise. The man’s thick ponytail was just slightly damp with sweat, his bangs sticking just a bit to his brow. He was panting heavily, and his face looked pained, but a smug expression was plastered all over his flushed face. “I… haah… win, Justice-dono.” Apollo looked down at the monochrome-themed outfit Blackquill always wore, his tight waistcoat straining around a soccer ball sized gut. Simon clasped both sides of said gut, running it to try and reduce the pain. Apollo coughed awkwardly. “You, uh, you sure did, Prosecutor Blackquill! I’m impressed you, um, managed it…” He trailed off once more as thoughts flooded his mind. Maybe… maybe he should start spending more time with Prosecutor Blackquill. He certainly seemed entertaining at the very least.

Apollo and Simon had been regularly meeting up for meals and conversation after their courtroom battles for about a month. Apollo found the former death row inmate absolutely fascinating, from his love of all things samurai, to his dedication and kindness towards his pet hawk, Taka. Most of all, however, Apollo loved how he reacted to being taunted when he was eating. Something about the way Simon got defensive over how much he ate, or could eat, delighted Apollo, and he thought he was finally figuring out why. He noticed that more and more often, even in court, he was able to get a reaction out of the ordinarily stoic prosecutor. Apollo would make a jab about Blackquill’s arguments in court, or his body in public, and Simon would get this look on his face that the defense attorney just loved. His brooding expression would break for just a moment, his eyes would look overcome with some strong emotion Apollo couldn’t quite identify, and suddenly it was gone again, hidden behind a burning glare of determination. He wanted to see that look every chance he could get.

The young defense attorney currently sat across from his new rival, watching him tearing into a triple cheeseburger with stunning speed. The amount of greasy meat being bitten off and swallowed so rapidly was staggering. Apollo smirked and said, “Wow, Prosecutor Blackquill, I think you might finally be wider than me now! Maybe you should cut back a little.” The defense attorney had spoken loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, causing some other tables nearby to start muttering about the display of gluttonous depravity taking place at their table. Simon swallowed his crammed mouthful of beef and cheese, eyes narrowed, as he growled back at Apollo, “You know as well as I that I can lose weight whenever I want. I am a proud samurai, descendant of proud samurais, and I am not even that large, Justice-dono.”

Apollo laughed uproariously in response. “Hahahaha, you can’t actually be serious, Prosecutor Blackquill! Have you looked in any mirrors lately? Or, better yet, try looking down at yourself! You’re clearly almost too big for that little chair, and I’m not even close to being that big yet!” Apollo felt a jolt of satisfaction as he saw the cold expression on Simon’s face melt for a second, realizing that even if he outwardly pretended to hate it, Prosecutor Blackquill enjoyed his teasing as much as he did. The portly man had recently upsized most of his wardrobe, but his steady weight gain made it very apparent that he wouldn’t be able to keep that up sustainably. His new waistcoat already strained around his new moobs at the top, and around his ever softer abdomen, his gut sitting in his lap every time he sat down. His signature long black and white coat, which was a custom piece, was the one part of his wardrobe that hadn’t been upsized because it couldn’t be modified, so it now strained around his fattening arms and shoulders, the fabric clinging to them like it was painted on. His soft fat rolls on his sides and back pooled over his belted pants, forming a pronounced muffin top. His thighs and ass cheeks pressed gently into the arms of his chair, threatening to get him stuck in it if he kept eating. The once-muscular prosecutor had undeniably let himself go, and Apollo could tell that behind all the stoic attempts to deny it, Simon was enjoying it just as much as he was. Maybe even more.

The defense attorney grinned smugly, resting his chin on one of his hands. “Well, I guess if you can lose this weight whenever you want to,” Apollo said, his tone dismissive, “you can just give up on our lunch right now…”

Simon’s head shot up, a mouthful of burger hanging from between his overstuffed cheeks, shooting a glare full of anger and something else at the pudgy attorney. He flagged down their waiter, hastily swallowing his food before speaking. “I want you to bring me three—no, four—more of these triple burger combos, and I want them on the table before I’ve finished this one. Understood?” The waiter nodded, visibly shaken by his murderous tone, and ran back to the kitchen while Simon resumed tearing into his burger with renewed vigor. Apollo watched in amused silence. There was no way Simon would be able to finish five triple decker combos in one sitting, not even at his size. He couldn’t wait to see the sinking look of defeat on his rival’s face when he realized he couldn’t do it.

Simon stuffed his face with his current burger as fully as possible, cheeks bulging as he chewed and swallowed the massive amounts of greasy beef, cheese, and buns that he loaded into his mouth. He took fistfuls of fries and shoved them into his greedy maw as well, his double chin flecked with crumbs fallen from his overfilled mouth. The waiter scrambled up with the four other plates of food, overflowing with fries, and placed them on the table before running back to the kitchen again. The portly prosecutor smirked around his final mouthful of his first combo meal, looking Apollo in the eye cockily. The brunette smiled back dismissively, silently mouthing the words Four more to go! at his dining partner. Simon glared once more before picking up his second burger and ripping an enormous bite off of it, then a second and a third. Apollo’s confidence began to waver as Blackquill finished the second plate in record time and moved onto the third without slowing down at all, though his face was covered in grease and crumbs, as was the front of his vest, whose buttons were straining ominously.

Simon finally started to slow down after the fourth platter, his movements visibly slowing down. His round gut strained the buttons of his vest to their very limit, and pressed firmly against the edge of the table in front of him. The surly prosecutor was sweating, pale face flushed around his round food-stained cheeks and his black and white bangs plastered to his forehead. He winced as he lifted the final three-tiered burger to his greasy lips, breathing heavily as he opened his mouth for another massive bite. Apollo could only look on in stunned silence, watching the obese prosecutor exhaustedly swallow the final plate of food. When Simon stuffed the last of the fries into his mouth and swallowed them, he leaned back in his chair and let out a groan of triumph, his hands immediately rubbing his straining gut.

Apollo blinked in shock, then rose from his chair to offer Blackquill his hand. “All right, fair is fair, you win this time.” Apollo smiled. Simon looked up at him, his exhausted face giving nothing away as his grease-slicked hand grabbed Apollo’s. They both strained and tugged to try and get the stuffed man out of his chair, and eventually he popped free. Prosecutor Blackquill stood up, and Apollo finally got a good look at the damage his challenge had done to his rival. The seams of Simon’s pants had started to split from the thunderous thighs straining them, his pale flab poking through like bubbles of lard, but most notable was his finely tailored vest, whose buttons looked like they were going to shoot off of his distended abdomen at any moment. Simon’s pronounced dome of a gut stuck out at least a foot from his body, and looked firm to the touch.

Realizing he might have gone a bit too far this time, Apollo offered his shoulder to the obese man. “C’mon, big guy,” he grunted as Simon leaned his considerable weight onto the presented shoulder, “Let’s get you back to my apartment to sleep this off, okay?” The chubby defense attorney and rotund prosecutor made quite a pair as Apollo helped Simon painstakingly waddle his way to the train station, the overstuffed taller man huffing and panting the entire trek. He immediately flopped onto one of the seats on the train up on entering, his thighs and love handles overflowing just slightly into the seats next to him. The pale prosecutor’s face was flushed and sweaty from the walk to the train station. When they reached their stop, Apollo helped hoist the exhausted man from his seat and once again supported him with his shoulder to help him up the stairs to his apartment. The two men were panting for breath by the time they reached the apartment door, Apollo fumbling for his keys while Simon leaned his bulk against the wall, his taut orb of a gut still straining the buttons of his vest nearly to bursting.

Apollo finally unlocked his door and led his tired rival inside his sparsely decorated apartment. Simon spotted a loveseat sofa and immediately waddled over to it, collapsing onto it gratefully. He laid down on his back and immediately began massaging his painfully stuffed stomach, groaning in discomfort. Apollo made his way to the kitchen, humming a little song as he opened the fridge. Simon was too exhausted to notice what the defense attorney was doing until he was standing next to him, holding a large white box in his hands and grinning mischievously.

“What… what do you want, Justice-dono?” Simon grunted, “Can’t you see I’m a little preoccupied?”

“Oh, I noticed, don’t worry.” Apollo responded cheerily. “I was just bringing you your dessert!”

Blackquill winced. “D-dessert?! But I… I don’t have any room left for anymore—”

The box was placed firmly on Simon’s distended abdomen, Apollo opened the top and grabbed a slice of the chocolate confection inside with his bare hands. “Don’t be silly, Simon,” he said in a soothing tone, “you can’t just ignore dessert! How else are you supposed to finish a proper meal? Plus…” Apollo chuckled. “You can’t really consider me impressed by your eating capabilities until you’ve broken out of that tight vest of yours.”

Simon narrowed his eyes. “Is that another challenge, Justice-dono?”

Apollo nodded, and silently lifted the cake slice to the obese man’s lips. Simon immediately snapped forward and took a huge bite of it, then another. In three bites it was gone, and Apollo promptly lifted another slice to his mouth. With his other hand, he rubbed Blackquill’s straining gut, trying to relieve some of the pressure inside and make more room for the rest of the cake. The sounds of straining seams and ripping fabric was slightly overshadowed by the loud chewing and heavy breathing. Halfway through the cake, the bottommost button of Simon’s struggling vest finally gave up the fight, pinging off and flying across the room at top speeds. The rest of the buttons straining around his bulging gut snapped off in quick succession, but the buttons holding back his huge moobs continued to hold on. With three slices left, one of the buttons finally broke off, with another flying off after the second to last slice. Simon’s face was covered in sweat, crumbs, and smears of frosting, his eyes glazed over from the oncoming food coma. Apollo gently guided the last cake slice into his mouth, and as he swallowed, the last button flew off. Simon was breathing heavily, his panting mouth leaving his cheeks and double chin jiggling with every breath. His chubby cheeks were suddenly grabbed by a hand on either side as Apollo straddled his enormous gut and planted his lips against Simon’s, passionately kissing his rival for the first time. Simon froze at first, but then melted into the kiss, realizing that this was all he had wanted all along: Apollo Justice‘s love and approval.

Just a few months after their first kiss, Apollo and Simon were once again back in the courtroom against each other. The red-clad defense attorney threw back his arm and pointed, letting out one of his law firm’s famously-yelled “Objection!” cries. The entire court was stunned into silence by the force behind his self-proclaimed Chords of Steel, so he had a quiet moment to piece together his argument before proceeding.

“Your Honor,” Apollo began, his voice uncharacteristically confident, “the prosecution is drawing a lot of assumptions about my client without any evidence. I would like to present my own evidence that contradicts everything Prosecutor Blackquill has been arguing so far!” He slammed his hands onto the desk for emphasis. “My client could not have cooked the seafood stew that was used to kill the victim, as he is also deathly allergic to shellfish, like the victim was!”

“Silence!” The growling shout echoed from the opposite side of the courtroom. Simon Blackquill banged his fists onto the desk in front of him, chuckling darkly before speaking. “Justice-dono, is that really your argument? Couldn’t the defendant merely have worn gloves to prepare the deadly meal for the victim?”

Apollo smirked. “Well, Prosecutor Blackquill, if you had been paying more attention to the case instead of stuffing your face with all those snacks you have hidden behind your bench, you would know that that’s not possible.” The defense attorney’s voice was smug, but in a teasing manner, like a parent chiding a child for getting into the cookie jar. Simon’s chubby cheeks flushed, embarrassed that Apollo would tease him in front of the entire courtroom. “Or,” the defense attorney continued, “perhaps your stomach might be covering up some of the files on your desk?” He grinned. “It does seem to be pressing into the desk pretty hard these days, Prosecutor Blackquill. Maybe you should consider getting a specially modified prosecution bench for someone as… ample as you.”

Simon bit his chubby lower lip to cover up the whine he almost let out in response to Apollo’s public teasing. The courtroom gallery murmured, Blackquill able to catch snippets of some of the onlookers commenting on his skyrocketing weight. It truly was undeniable now how much the once-muscular Simon Blackquill had let himself go in recent months. The former death row inmate had lost all of his once intimidating facial features, his chubby chipmunk cheeks and prominent double chin softening his usually dark expression. He had just gotten a new suit tailored to his current measurements yesterday, but his obese body was highlighted more than ever by it. His biceps were covered in jiggling, saggy fat, hiding any muscle he once had and even beginning to fold over his elbows just slightly. His wrists and hands were even getting fat now, his fingers almost akin to little sausages. His chest was already starting to strain the buttons of his tailored waistcoat slightly, his enormous moobs resting comfortably on either side of his gut, the clothes preventing them from sagging under their own weight for now. His monstrous gut, when tucked into his waistband like it had to be for court, sat like a dome sticking out almost 2 feet from his body, pressing firmly around the prosecutor’s bench in front of him and even resting on top of it in places. His love handles and side rolls bulged out over his waistband, forming a pronounced muffin top and preventing his fat arms from resting flat at his sides. His suit pants looked like they had been painted onto his legs, so form-fitting across his thighs and ass cheeks that you could practically see every roll, fold, dimple, and stretch mark under the tight fabric. His thigh fat, much like his biceps, was starting to collapse over his knees and melt into his calves, which, combined with how much he had to spread his legs apart to keep his thighs from rubbing together painfully, meant he had to walk in a pronounced waddle whenever he needed to get somewhere now. The jab Apollo had made about the snacks behind his bench was also true, Simon now notorious for “sneaking” a bite or three during his opponents’ arguments. This was, however, detrimental to his own formation of counterarguments, the once-whip smart prosecutor now more frequently stumbling through trials because he was too distracted by food to notice a contradiction. Many people were making fun of Blackquill for what they perceived as his degradation into becoming a useless fat slob, but little did they know, it was all what he most fervently desired.

After the case wrapped up with Apollo victorious, Simon sat in the prosecution lobby ravenously devouring the rest of his pile of snacks while waiting for Apollo to meet him. Just as he was pouring the last crumbs from a potato chip bag into his greedy mouth, the doors opened, and the chubby defense attorney walked in. He silently offered his hand to the obese prosecutor, helping him up off the groaning antique sofa beneath his corpulent rear. Apollo planted a kiss right on Simon’s chubby lips, still covered in snack crumbs, and began helping his rotund boyfriend waddle to the train station. The courthouse was only a block away, but that was still one block of agonized waddling for the out of shape prosecutor. Huffing and wheezing the entire way, his face flushed and his body sweating profusely, Simon had to stop to catch his breath no less than 5 times in such a short distance. Apollo teased him the entire time, calling him a pig and commenting on how far he’d let himself go since they started talking more often. Simon loved every second of it, whining between breaths as he tightened his grip around Apollo’s hand.

When they finally got on the train, Simon immediately sat down, his enormous behind requiring two seats, one for each cheek. Apollo laughed. “Oh, gosh, Simon, you’re so huge! How selfish of you, taking up two whole seats on the train! What if someone else needs one?”

Simon blushed. His breathing was still heavy from the trek to the train station, so he had to speak between wheezes. “I… h-hope… haah… that I-I… hhhh… t-t-take u-up… haah, haah… an entire… row… s-someday… haah…” He squirmed a little in anticipation for that day, making his flabby body jiggle and wobble. This made Apollo blush in return, imagining his boyfriend so desperate to please him that he became too fat to even move. He leaned forward and kissed Simon’s sweaty blushing cheek, whispering in his ear, “I’ll make sure you get that big and even bigger, you greedy hog.” The lardball of a prosecutor couldn’t stop himself from moaning when he heard that come out of his boyfriend’s mouth. Apollo loved seeing that pleading look in Simon’s eyes, that desire to eat and become as fat as he could, just to impress him. He wanted to see that look every day of the rest of their lives.

When the train arrived at their stop, Apollo once again helped hoist his boyfriend off his prodigious rear, and held his fat hand to help guide him to their apartment. Once they arrived at the building, Simon made for the elevator, but Apollo stopped him. “We’re not doing that today,” he whispered deviously. “You’re much too fat now, Simon. What would the other tenants think if they found out some landwhale broke the elevator with his fat ass?”

Simon whined, but then readapted his surly demeanor. “What are you suggesting, Justice-dono? How am I supposed to get to our home if not for the elevator?”

Apollo took his chubby hand again and guided him to the staircase. “It’s either these, or no dinner for you, Simon.” The defense attorney grinned mischievously as Blackquill stared up at the stairs, his initial worried expression morphing to determination when food was mentioned. The rotund man grabbed the railings on either side of the staircase with his soft, round fingers, and began slowly and painfully lifting his bulk up the stairs, one lard-coated leg at a time. After just one step he was wheezing and coated in sweat, and he had to take a break after three steps up the stairs. Apollo stood behind him, ready to catch his bulk in case he lost his footing or if his overburdened legs gave out on him. Thankfully that wasn’t necessary, but it did take over half an hour for Simon to get to the second floor where their apartment was.

Once Apollo unlocked the door and they were both inside, Simon immediately grabbed his boyfriend and held him against the nearest wall, his plush gut enveloping Apollo in a warm embrace as they made out passionately in the dark. Apollo found his hands roaming his boyfriend’s folds and rolls, pinching and shaking them, delighting in how soft and flabby he has become because of his encouragement. Simon, being much taller than Apollo, loved seeing his boyfriend’s body buried between his flab and the wall, his face just barely poking up between his moobs. He bit his boyfriend’s lips a bit between kisses, pressing his own bulk harder and harder against the wall. Suddenly, his stomach gurgled, and the lovestruck pair realized that Simon hadn’t eaten since court. Apollo ran to the kitchen to grab snacks, while Simon sat down on the couch to order himself delivery from a couple restaurants nearby. Apollo returned from the kitchen with his arms full of bags of snacks, dumping them on the table in front of his morbidly obese boyfriend, who immediately began ripping open the packaging and devouring the snacks in a frenzy. About 20 minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and Apollo got up to grab the stacks of take out containers, leaving Simon to continue stuffing his fat face on the couch. Gently placing the towers of boxes on the table, Apollo opened one and straddled his boyfriend’s flabby gut. “Here’s tonight’s challenge,” he whispered, his voice husky with desire. “You rip all those clothes off you just by eating all this food, and I’ll feed you dessert in our bed.” Simon moaned, nodding frantically, reaching for the greasy quadruple decker burger in the box that Apollo offered him. His boyfriend smiled and let him take it. “Guess that’s a yes, then. All right, I’ll keep the food coming.” Apollo pulled out his phone, ordering even more food just to make sure that finely tailored suit was reduced to shreds by the time the night was done.

It didn’t take long for some of the tighter seams of Simon’s suit to start straining and ripping. After just a few of the greasy towering burgers from the nearby burger restaurant, little diamonds of soft, pale flab were poking through on the outer seams of his pants, and the shoulders of his dress shirt were starting to suffer the same fate. His fat face was covered in grease, his cheeks wobbling and his double chin budding into a triple chin when he chewed. The button on his dress pants, which his massive gut was still stuffed into, pinged off after an alarmingly short period, allowing the surge of stomach rolls to begin billowing forth onto his lap. Simon moaned in delight, the sound muffled by a mouthful of juicy bacon cheeseburger. His fat hands began stuffing his mouth at an even faster pace, the chubby sausage fingers greedily grabbing at anything Apollo held out within reach. After about an hour, all the buttons of his waistcoat had burst off, revealing the straining buttons of his dress shirt, complete with rips around his impressive moobs. The seams of his sleeves were almost completely torn apart, his flabby shoulders nearly ripping the sleeves right off the shirt entirely. Suddenly, after eating a party size tray of deep fried cheese sticks, the buttons of his shirt gave out one after the other, starting from the bottom of his sagging gut and working all the way up to his trifecta of wobbling chins. With the demise of his shirt buttons, his cascading stomach rolls surged forward with no barrier, with the largest lower roll almost flowing to the edge of where his knees once were.

Apollo chuckled, withholding the next box of greasy fast food from his hopelessly obese boyfriend, waiting until he finished his current batch to see if he noticed the food had stopped. Sure enough, Simon immediately noticed as soon as he swallowed the last of his fried chicken wings, his flabby hands grasping around desperately for any nearby food. His gray eyes suddenly locked with Apollo’s, as he saw the bag of delivery boxes dangling from his hand. “Justice-dono,” he growled, “give me that, now “

Apollo smirked. “Not until you beg for it, Simon.” He waggled the overflowing sack of food back and forth, watching his corpulent boyfriend’s glare soften into a look of desperation, his pudgy lips quivering as he unconsciously whimpered. The voracious overstuffed man raised his jiggly arms, his fat sausage fingers grasping desperately towards the delicious fattening treats he so badly craved. Apollo felt a surge of pride, mingled with desire, at seeing the once-proud samurai prosecutor reduced to a pitiful blob of adipose, too addicted to being fed to even put up a fight anymore. The chubby defense attorney never thought he could be so attracted to someone so pathetic, but something about finally being the one in control gave him such a thrill.

Apollo finally relented after watching his barely-clothed partner struggle to reach for the food for a good few minutes, placing the bag of food directly on top of Simon’s overstuffed gut. The greedy hog of a man eagerly began ripping open the takeout containers, desperately stuffing the food within into his mouth to sate his hungry stomach. The more he devoured, the more the sounds of ripping fabric and busting seams began to fill the apartment. His flabby arms and pancake stacks of love handles and side rolls reduced the remains of his shirt to shreds, and his enormous couch-filling ass cheeks and jiggling thigh rolls quickly burst out of the restraining dress pants, immediately pooling out beneath him and spreading across the cushions being crushed underneath his bulk.

As the final death knell of his tailored suit ripped through the air, Simon swallowed the last of his dinner, his entire chest jiggling from how hard he was panting. His flabby face was flushed and sweaty, but his gray eyes glowed with pride. The morbidly obese prosecutor looked over at his boyfriend Apollo, who was walking into the kitchen. The red-suited man returned with a bag filled with bakery boxes, a soft smile on his chubby face. “Well, a promise is a promise. You did great, Simon.” Apollo grabbed his boyfriend’s chubby wrists, hoisting the enormous man off of his flabby ass and helping him waddle his way into their bedroom. The lowest roll of his overfed gut loudly slapped against his thunderous thighs with every slow step he took, and Apollo kept glancing back to look at Simon’s shapeless ass cheeks jiggling and wobbling constantly the entire time. When they arrived in the bedroom, Simon gratefully collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving from the effort to walking just a few feet. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, an exercise in futility at his size, the obese man shifted his flabby physique so he could lay on his back. Apollo straddled his boyfriend’s lap-covering gut, laying himself between his pillowy moobs, and opened the first of the white boxes. Inside was a decadent chocolate cake, with lots of gooey frosting and ganache. Grabbing a big slice with his bare hand, Apollo lifted it to Simon’s waiting mouth. “Open wide, babe. You’ve earned this.” In between stuffing pieces of the sticky sweet cake into his boyfriend’s chubby mouth, Apollo also took breaks to make out with him, caressing his jiggling jowls and chins while licking the frosting off his lips between kisses. He relished in hearing Simon’s labored breathing up close and personal, feeling his panting breaths against his own mouth as their lips met. Apollo thought about how lucky he was to have met Simon, and how much luckier he was to have discovered his softer side, as he heard his flabby boyfriend moan softly, his hunger for more cake eclipsing his lust for more kisses.

#bhm weight gain #ssbhm #male weight gain #weight gain #feeder feedee

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jewishcissiekj · 1 year ago

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asgcgsakfjhgfa ok. Star Wars The High Republic phase I comics reading the fall of Starlight edition. picking up directly from where I dropped last time (2 minutes ago) with the end of THR Adventures #13

Lula makes me so happy but girly you might die in a sec pls get yourself knighted

Beautiful panel. Beautiful Daniel José Older (the comic writer) in the bottom right corner. great ending. certainly a choice not to show the fall of Starlight here

I understand Emerick on a spiritual level that's all I'm gonna say (Loooove the vibe of this outfit, such an early-development ANH fit with the lightsaber and all)

scratch that I am not sure I want to

Beautiful cover you've got there does it panifull parallel the first issue's cover oh it does ok fuck you man

I support women's wrongs

HOLDING THE BEACON TOGETHER. SAME AS ALWAYS. oh jesus

I'm so not emotionally prepared for phase III so gonna take a months long break with Phase II that would go so well for me

THR variant covers Deekriss my beloved

For Light and Life... For Light and life man

from THR Adventures #13 and the FCBD issue I'm gonna be sick I love them so much

Trail of Shadows covers are so pretty I love Emerick and Sian

Emerick killing one of The Nameless is like probably the most badass thing anyone has ever done in phase I tbh

Lourna don't freak out but there's a bug next to you. It's short and blue and it's gonna kill Asgar plssss kill it. please.

Is this a dance party. what are you doing. (Contrary to everything I said I do not hate Marchion Ro I just think it's funny to dunk on him)

First of all fuck you second

Just remembered I didn't source my last THR reading post brb gonna do it to cope

The High Republic Adventures (2021) #13 | The High Republic - Trail of Shadows #4 | The High Republic (2021) #15 | Free Comic Book Day 2023: Star Wars - The High Republic Adventures & Avatar: The Last Airbender | The High Republic - Eye of the Storm #1-2

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omkookie · 2 years ago

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⚠️•⟨WARNING⟩•⚠️ 16+ A little suggestive, Fluff, Fem!Reader

Keith feels Jealous when you gush about him while looking at your wedding photos. Why are you thinking about him when he's the one right next to you?

You showed Keith your wedding photos, Even your wedding photos with him. (Other Keith)

He doesn't like you thinking of him when he's the one in front of you. You should be giving your attention to the husband in front of you and no other man, no? He decides to grab your attention by pulling you in for a kiss. The kiss is sensual, His tongue mingling with yours while his hands rub your back and gradually trail lower down your body. When the kiss ends, both of you are left panting. Keith's head snuggles against your neck, "Our photos look better," He mutters.

Oh, He's mean... Very, very mean.

You push him away and huff at how touchy-feely he gets whenever you even glance at the other Keith's photos.

He can't help it though, he wants all of your attention for himself.

He picks up a wedding photo of you with him, one where he's carrying you bridal style in the gardens. Your smile in it is so beautiful, He nearly forgets all about his jealousy. He hasn't seen these photos of you yet, and he doesn't know the cute expressions you were making that night.

While you're browsing your wedding photos together, He'll press numerous kisses against your face.

That night he showers your whole body with kisses and worships you like you're the most precious thing to him. (You are)

Keith brews your tea to perfection, brings you cookies, and sets the table for your tea party. It's a lovely sunny day outside with a gentle cool breeze wafting through the garden, So he hoped to spend some sweet time with you after his work and your studies.

Sooo, how did things end up like this?

Everything was going well until you brought him up and ugly feelings of jealousy spiked through Keith's heart as he observed just how happy the other Keith had made you when he proposed to you first.

How could you look so giddy and bashful as you talk about him? Don't you know he doesn't want you to talk about him when he's the one before you? It's pretty, Childish perhaps, But, He doesn't want to hear anything about the other Keith. He wants your mind, your time, and your attention solely on him.. Not the other Keith.

He sulks for a good 20 minutes, Dark clouds surrounding his head as he listens to your story and doesn't interrupt you

it takes you a while to notice Keith looks like he's turned into a sad mushroom getting rained on, The realization of you talking about other Keith throughout the whole tea party abruptly hitting you like a punch in the face, and then you apologize to him for bringing thr other Keith up.

He doesn't accept your apology, still feeling sulky because of how happy you were when talking about him, So he kisses you deeply and demands more than kisses as compensation.

It's bad to talk about another man when your husband is right here, and has arranged a tea party for you, isn't it? Some more kisses from you might make his gloomy feelings disappear but not entirely, so you better show him you like spending time with him too! <3

#ikemen prince #ikepri #keith howell #requested #ikemen prince fanfiction #ikemen prince x reader #ikepri keith #ikemen prince keith #keith 2.0 howell #f!mc #fluff #fem!reader

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pokentomology · 2 years ago

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the idea that Applin is the easiest dragon type & best beginner dragon to take care of is not true imo? the 2 I've always found easiest are goomy (albeit slimy) and dratini. when we have applins we constantly have to stop them from fighting over apples, they are ALWAYS hungry, and Arc forbid something happens to their apple or they'll just straight up die. meanwhile goomy is just happy to be there, albeit that their slime trails are a bit hard to clean, and dratini is just. a fuckin fish. we find them in the magikarp pond sometimes

thr fact that I am a bug type owner and applin primarily eat bugs is irrelevant and does not bias me at all

#pokentomology #pkmn irl

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mazerunnerfanatic · 3 months ago

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You Were Supposed to Be My Dad

Pairings: Aris × Rachel / Janson & Rachel

Universe: Movies

Series: Part 4/?

TW// Topics of Death & Torture

**start, **end

The trip down the hall is silent, save for the clacking of the business-dressed lady's heels as she and Rachel walk down the hallway. Concrete walls and more fluorescent lights, though thankfully the stench of disinfectant has lessened enough to where Rachel can breathe without her chest feeling like it's burning.

The walk feels like forever, an eternity of awaiting the inevitable conversation with Assistant Director Janson that was coming. The closer she gets to his office, the more Rachel dreads the next few hours of her life. All of her memories of him were less than happy, especially after...

"Here," the lady said, pulling Rachel from her thoughts.

Rachel stops and looks at the plain door in front of her face. Her eyes trail to the placard to the right of it.

Assistant Director Janson, Head of the Maze Trials Operation.

Rachel shivers. The Maze Trials. A simple reminder that all the pain and suffering her friends had experienced for the last three years was almost entirely orchestrated and just another variable in a project.

The lady walks over to open the door, the clacking of her heels suddenly deafening to Rachel. The slab of metal slowly swings open, and Rachel is met with the sight of who was likely her least favorite person on this planet full of criminals and Cranks:

Janson.

He was reading a book, one without a cover, so Rachel couldn't tell what. He looks up from the pages of whatever story he has open right in front of him, staring directly at Rachel.

After a moment of silence, the air thick with tension, the lady gestures to the entrance.

"In you go."

Rachel looks over at her, staying put. She turns back to Janson with a clenched jaw, her blue-gray eyes narrowing.

Finally, she steps through into the bright, concrete room.

It's only a heartbeat before the door is shut behind her, making her force back a flinch. She can't show any kind of weakness in front of him. He's like a hound dog, sniffing out even the slightest hint of uncertainty.

Janson sits back in his seat, closing his book. His eyes are cold and calculated, assessing the state of the newcomer just a few feet away. Rachel meets his eyes and tries to mirror his, reaching for the still-returning memories of masking tactics that she learned.

That she learned from him.

Neither speak for a few minutes, staring in silence as they meet again for the first time in only a week. It feels like a lifetime ago that she was back at WCKD, but it truly was only a week.

Janson is the first one speak.

"Rachel."

Rachel takes a quiet breath.

"A.D. Janson."

He blinks a few times, silence falling between them again. He stands from his seat and leans against his well-organized desk.

"There's no need for formalities," he says, as if a suggestion. But Rachel knows it's not a suggestion; she knows that his 'asking nicely' is a front to make her more inclined to call him what he wants her to call him. The name Rachel swore he didn't deserve, not after everything he's done to her and her friends.

"...Dad."

Janson smiles, not even bothering to hide the cruelty it was laced with. Rachel feels ill saying that. She feels ashamed admitting the fact that this monster in front of her created her, put her on this earth.

Janson steps around the desk and takes slow strides up to the girl, clasping his hands behind his back. He stops in front of her, looking down due to their height difference. Rachel just stares up at him with blue-gray eyes to match his.

Janson takes a breath. "...You look like your mother."

Rachel can't help the way her eyes narrow, and her next words slip out of her mouth before she can think.

"Oh, how wonderful. Maybe you'll have WCKD shoot me for speaking out, too."

She knows immediately that she shouldn't have said anything, not only because of the anger that flashes across Janson's face, but the pain that flashes through Rachel.

She's flooded with the memories of her mother's dead body on the floor of her dorm. She remembers the shock and the anguish her nine-year-old self felt at the sight and loss of her mother. She couldn't ever forget.

But she has to push that away when Janson grips her shoulder, pushing her back half a step.

"You know nothing about what happened to your mother," he hisses, eyes narrowed. "Don't act like you know what you're talking about."

Rachel has to bite back a retort, knowing it would only cause further trouble. She just stares silently up a him, jaw clenched in defiance. Janson glares down at her.

"I would have thought that a simple week in the Maze would have contributed to your maturity. Seems as though I was mistaken," he says disdainfully.

Rachel bites her tongue. No amount of anger could ever surmount to how she felt in that exact moment, how much she wanted to punch or hit or scratch or claw at him. Maybe all of it. She hated this man.

Rachel knew he had something to do with her mother's death. Her murder. He could deny it until the second he died, but she knew. She would always know.

Janson lets her go and steps back. "I had faith in you, Rachel."

Rachel breathes in through her nose. "Sorry to disappoint."

Janson just continues to glare down at her. The resentment is mirrored in their matching eyes, a dynamic that shouldn't be shared between father and daughter.

Janson finally sighs.

"...I don't want this to be how it goes, Rachel." His voice is stern, but there's something in his eyes. Something that makes Rachel swallows, makes a part of her feel like a small child wanting affection from her father.

"I'm going to give you a chance. Prove to me that you are on our side, the side of the future, and we can forget about the scuffles," he says calmly. "I raised you with morals, Rachel. I pray you still hold onto them, even after your temporary memory loss."

That fleeting feeling of seeing the father he was supposed to be vanishes, replaced with more anger. Rachel wants to spit in his face, but she takes the more professional way.

"You did raise me with morals,” she replies cooly, stepping just a bit closer. “Those morals consist of me rather fucking dying than being on your side. WCKD is a bunch of child-murderers. I will never be a kiss-ass like Teresa."

Janson is silent for a moment, staring at his daughter.

"...Suit yourself."

He walks over to his desk and picks up his walkie-talkie. He stares Rachel directly in the eyes as he speaks into it.

**(implied)

"Subject B-2 is refusing to comply. Prepare the extraction for two days from now and the interrogation for seven o'clock on the dot," he orders, voice cold and calculated.

Despite herself, fear washes over Rachel. She knows what he means by extraction, what he means by interrogation.

He's going to extract her immunity from the Flare. That's where these kids have been going. They're not leaving the facility, they're dying. All of her friends have a death sentence.

Aris has a death sentence.

And he's going to torture her. Force her to give up insider information about what she learned during the Trials in Maze B with the girls. Information on the Right Arm from when they took Sonya and Harriet.

Rachel is going to die. She's going to be tortured and killed.

All by her own father.

#tmr #the maze runner #tmr rachel #tmr janson #rachel & janson #janson & rachel #tmr movie #part 4/?

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pinkhairandpokemon · 8 months ago

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didn’t have any luck finding August last night but I think we’re at least still on their trail. don’t know how they’ve managed to outrun us for so long on a fucking Unfeazant, but- sigh whatever

I’m. so sick of this. they’re just a KID. fuck, they’re younger than I was when I helped stop the Darkest Day. only by a year but STILL. they should be worrying about- I don’t know fucking,, normal things high school aged kids should be worrying about whatever that is, not getting possessed by a- a fucking vengeance-crazy dragon from the ancient past, taking out its anger on them for something that happened THOUSANDS OF YEARS before they were born

I jjust. I don’t fucking get it. August’s only crime for beating kyurem back then was what, wanting to protect their fucking home?? they don’t deserve this none of us have ever deserved this you save thr world once and you get punished for it and you just have to DEAL with it because you’re the hero now and it’s your duty to put up with it and if you can’t fix it you’re a fuckking failure but you’ll feel worse if you don’t try and it’s never fucking ending why can’t wanting to hhelp be as simple as that why does it have to turn into a relentless and painful cycle you can never crawl out of bbecause you either get dragged baack in by force or yyou throw yourself back in because of this fucking sense of “obligation” or whhatwver that you can never shake

they’re a KID god fucking damn it I was a kid all of the others were just kids whyy can’t we just live our lives now why can’t we get our happy endings already I’m so tired I’m so tired of seeing the people I csre about get hurt I hate this I hate being a chosen I just want everything to be normal again pleasse

-Blake

#tw breakdown #frozen over arc #pokeblogging #pokemon irl #pokeblog rp #pokemon #pokemon oc #pokemon rp #trainer blake

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hefelllaughing · 7 months ago

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Love and War

Previously • Next

||• TWO •||

⊱Past⊰

Hugo Herb Shop, Kyoto, Japan

》 Hugo Homare 's Point of View 《

A week, it has been a month since Adan, Ame, Arana and Dale, stayed in our home. Kida-jiisan, a father figure to me even for a short time, passed away a week since Amie, Dale, Arana and Adan stayed here for the night. Even I can't have any power against Fate and he told me that even for the short time they took me in as their daughter, he was happy and that he loved me.

“Any advice, Homare-chan?” An older woman who was frequent in our small tea shop asked me.

“I suggest don't put too much salt your cooking, from what you're saying, your husband has Kidney Strain. ” I say.

“How'd you know?” She asked me as she sips her Ollong Tea. There are a few customers who ask things and I usually answer... with pay of course.

“From the very list of things your husband feels... The Fatigue, Changes in Urination, Swelling in the hands and ankles, Side Pain, Loss of appetite Nausea and Vomiting, Shortness of Breath, Rashes, Muscle Cramps.” I ranted. “But I suggest getting checked by a doctor but still it will be nice to lessen your salt intake.”

“Of course, of course.” The woman nodded.

“Since our bodies are no longer that strong compared to our youths, we should take proper care of it.” I wisely said. “Oh and lessen the sake as well.”

“I will do anything for that idiot to stay healthy! Thanks Homare-chan.” The woman payed me about 800 yen, not too shabby seeing for small talk.

“Homare-neesan, Ayume-baasan needs you.”

| • ❤ • |

⊱Present⊰

Somewhere in the America, Men of Letters' Bunker

» Third Person's Point of View «

Two brothers were pacing as their friend wasn't answering. The taller brother with brown long hair was looking at the blank piece of paper that they got from the mail.

“Come on, kid, pick up.” The shorter but older brother was the one pacing and worriedly calling their friend.

[This is Delayne Giselle, leave a message after thr beep. But if this is your nth time calling and I don't pick up, I'm out Whispering] His call went to voicemail.

“Dean, why don't we... Ugh...” The taller brother shake his head at the bad idea that he just got.

“Do what, Sammy?” The older brother, Dean, frustratedly asked his younger brother, Sam. “That perhaps the only lead we got is not answering her phone?”

“Since... Cas has his Grace now, why don't he you know, pop up at her place?” Sam asked.

“Or...” Dean trailed. “We call Cas has his grace now, why don't he pop US at her place?” Dean suggested.

“Are you suggesting we pop up in Japan?” Sam looked at his brother who looked like it was the greatest idea he got in a while, a very long while.

“I'm calling it!” Dean immediately called their angel friend, Castiel.

[Hello Dean.] From the otherend of the call, Castiel was in a Slip n' Drink when he received Dean's call.

“Look, Cas, we need a favor man.” Dean said. “Remember Giselle? The kid surgeon? Well she's not answering and we're worried... ”

“Uhm, Dean... I think I know why she's not answering.” Sam said as he just searched a news article in Japan. “I mean, my Japanese is a little wonky but... the only call that Giselle can answer is from a sèance.” He said, turning his laptop around where the article showed a memorial for the young doctor.

[What? Miss Delaney is dead?] Cas asked.

“Change of plans buddy, can you pop us up in Japan and make sure she's actually...dead.” The thrill that Dean felt was washed away. The article showed blurred body and he was pretty sure on the label is that it read Giselle's name and dead on it.

[Are you sure, Dean? You and Sam can handle...] Castiel trailed as he knew how the brothers valued their small but distant family and friends that they meet.

“Pronto, buddy. ” Dean stood up and got up, opening his wallet and fished out a picture of the three, it was when 18 years old Giselle helped them with a case during her and her grandparents' vacation in New York, years prior.

[I'm on my way...Ugh is it a right time for pie?] Castiel already paid for the things he pick up.

“Just... take it and get over here.” Dean said. “Thanks buddy.” With that he hung up, knowing that Castiel was about to say something.

“Let's pack up then.” Sam closed his laptop.

“She better not be dead.” Dean shook his head as he too, began packing.

“I mean, like us, she's some legacy right?” Sam asked, referring to them being descendants of a Men of Letter member. They managed to find a rather old scroll that dated back in the 1800s in Japan. About a case between the Judah Initiatives, Men of Letters and the Keepers of the Whispers, a huge alliance.

“Well it's that or her Gramps taught her to throw scapels when she's 5 years old and her Grandma teaching her how to hunt succubi at their age of 70s-ish.” Dean sarcastically said.

“Dean, I was 4 when you taught me how to pick a lock.” Sam gave him a look. “Well, other than the auto-magicked checklist of members that the scroll has is just something else.” Sam said.

“Sam, Dean, you guys ready?” Castiel had to drive to the bunker due to it being protected from anything really. With a serious nod, Castiel handed Dean the pie and touched the two brothers' shoulders.

| • ❤ • |

In front of Toshiki Residence, Tokyo, Japan

“Huh, I was joking about the mansion-ish house.” Dean gave a small whistle at the modernized Japanese mansion. There were a few people wandering about and they didn't noticed the trio so they didn't startled anyone.

“The funeral was yesterday. Everyone are preparing to put some of their things in a storage room.” Castiel translated a few words that the housekeepers were saying.

“Uhm, hey!” Dean called out to a man who was visibly disrespected but the foreigners' yell.

“Can I help you?” The man asked.

“We are friends of Miss Delaney.” Castiel said in Japanese, making the two brothers look at him in disbelief.

“From America, we heard that she passed and uhm we are here to convey our condolences.” Sam said in broken Japanese but the man understood and he earned an eyeroll from his brother.

“I am Castiel, this is Sam and Dean Winchester.” Castiel introduced himself and his companions. Two of them bowed in respect, the other reluctantly bowed with a small thug of his sleeves.

“I am Nura Yamito, I am a guard. Please, come inside while I fetch Toshiki-sama.” He showed the three inside, adviced them to wear indoor slipper and remove their shoes.

“Dean, it's a sign of respect, okay?” Sam told his brother. The living room has tatami mats and floor chairs where there instead of the usual couches and sofas. “They cremated her then?” There was a small shrine on a display cabinet with two urns and pictures on them.

“That's not Miss Delaney.” Castiel's eyes furrowed when they looked at the pictures. One was a woman who looked similar to Giselle but older and has black hair. The other picture was a picture of a baby, new born to be precise.

“Dean-san, Sam-san, Castiel-sama.” Two old figures walked in the living room and motioned them to seat. Despite pushing through their 80s, they looked like they never aged from the 3 years they haven't seen each other.

“Hello.” Dean awkwardly waved at the old couple. The two motioned them to seat down and gave a maid who was trailing behind them to place down the food and tea and coffee.

“We are happy to see you three again, not the reason that we are meeting because of our granddaughter's funeral but a joy to see you three again.” Toshiki Hiroko, silvered and wrinkly now due to old age, gave them a small smile. Thankfully for Dean, the couple knew how to speak English. As well as Korean, Greek, Latin, Spanish, French, Italian and many more languages. It was from them Giselle learned how to speak multiple languages.

“We offer you our condolences.” Dean said, immediately taking the cup of coffee and taking out the pie that Castiel bought and placing it down on the coffee table.

“Giselle would've loved to see you or know you are here.” Yuro said.

“Uhm, we know that it hasn't been long since her death but can we ask what happened?” Sam asked, curiously watching Castiel who has yet to sit down. He was still staring at the baby picture.

“Ah, Castiel-sama, did Juno's picture intrigued you?” Hiroko also noticed the man's attention on the picture.

“Juno? Like the Roman Goddess?” Sam asked, elbowing his brother who was stuffing his face with pie.

“Uhm, yeah, the Goddess of Marriage and Jupiter's wife?” Dean continued.

“Ah, I see why Giselle liked the three of you.” Yuro smiled. “You are Anthropologist, yes?” Yuro didn't know about the case, nor about the three knowing of the supernatural. “She spoke highly of your the lores that you share.”

“Uhm, yes.” Dean just agreed. It was common knowledge in the Toshiki Residence that Giselle wanted to be one but chose to become a doctor instead.

“This is Miss Delaney's twin then?” Castiel asked.

“Yes, despite being born first, Juno was stillborn. Giselle on the otherhand was a healthy baby, silent but healthy.” Yuro nodded. Tears begin to fill both of the couples' eyes.

“Our daughter, you see, she was rebellious... Her actions lead to consequences but she got the blessings of her life.” Hiroko was crying now. “Then not aftet a few days after giving birth, she died due to hemorrhaging.”

“We are so sorry to hear that.” Sam sadly said but then he cleared his throat. “We are sorry for your losses, Yuro-san, Hiroko-san but it it's alright with the two of you, we would like to hear of what happened.”

“You see, like most of the people we meet... we care deeply for them, we value them despite being away from them.” Dean said, metaphorically and physically true.

“Of course, it was just a few days ago. Giselle has this patient that is at the countryside, she checks up on her twice a month and the day of the tragedy was her one of her checkups with her.” Yuro explained, his voice raspy and strained.

“Oh, it was horrible, she was checking up on patient when her car swiveled on a stormy night and crashed it on a lake, thankfully she managed to escape... Her burnt body was found near the lake you see.” Hiroko explained.

“Burnt? Why was her body burnt?” Sam asked, curious.

“She was struck by lightning, she was wet due to the rain or perhaps she swam to the lake's shore but like meat that escaped the pan, fell into the fire.” Hiroko was wailing now. The three gave the couple a chance to mourn, albeit mourn again but one can't simply just move on with a snap of a finger.

“Dean, Sam, I don't think Miss Delaney is dead.” Castiel said. “I don't know how but I think they brought in the wrong body.” Castiel said, making Sam and Dean to look around to see if anyone was in ears' length.

“Then where is she?” Dean asked. Castiel then went completely still, not blinking or not even moving.

“Cas?” Sam worriedly looked at his friend. With three calls, the angel snapped back to reality.

“Angel Radio.” Castiel said. “I managed to hear. A few things.” He said.

“Well, what is it?” Dean impatiently asked.

“I don't think the call will pull through if she's in the past.” Castiel said.

“What?” The two brothers knew that journeying in the past wasn't impossible but the fact that not knowing how and why she got there was shocking.

“One of the angels saw her, well, not sure if it was her but an angel's storm was the one that caused the car crash. ” Castiel said. “She's famous too, you know, human miracles you know.”

“We know buddy.” Dean said, knowing how Castiel was awestruck by Giselle when they first met.

“Did you heard why and how?” Sam asked.

“No, angel's storm happens when some angels can't control their you know graces in their human hosts. Euria, Nadine and a few angels can control the weather. Some in seasons.” Castiel rambled.

“And the reason why?” Dean asked.

“Nothing either. No angel can pop to and from the past, not when the fall drained us.” Castiel said as a matter of fact.

“So she's stuck in the past?” Dean asked. “Then that's where the letter came from then? Samuel Colt managed to FedEx phoenix ashes to the future.” Dean concluded.

“But it's blank.” Sam pulled out the letter and to see the blank paper only to see it now no longer blank.

“It's a painting.” Dean had to stretch his neck to see the painting that was in Sam's hands.

“No way, is that the Shinsengumi?” Sam asked, shocked that the painting was a group of men wearing the same haori with the same kanji on it and there in the middle was a familiar face.

“The what?” Dean asked.

“Then she's in Edo Period then.” Sam concluded and walked back to the couple. “Yuro-san, Hiroko-san, do you recognize the girl in the middle?” He showed them the picture.

“Huh, I didn't know that any of our ancestors were affiliated with the Shinsengumi.” Yuro snickered.

“Our ancestors came from the South you know, we were far from the battle that was happening in Kyoto, and the few who were near didn't exactly like the Wolves of Mibu.” Hiroko explained, internally laughing at Dean's face. She liked the three, how they seemed so familiar despite not being actually close to them, it was Giselle who were in contact with the three.

“Werewolves?” Dean mouthed to Castiel and Sam, on which the latter shook his head in disbelief.

“Shinsengumi or the Wolves of Mibu.” Sam pointed out. “Perhaps a cousin many times removed?” He asked again.

“Oh no.” Yuro shook his head. “Most of our ancestors were men, to be clear my daughter and granddaughters are the only females in the last 7 generations.” He was looking intently on the painting.

“But it looks so much like our Giselle.” Hiroko smiled. “Where did you get this anyway?” She asked.

“Uhm, it was something Giselle found.” sent. Sam wanted to say. “We only received it not too long ago.”

“Unless doppelgangers or shapeshifters exists, I doubt there would be someone who will look like Giselle, now or then.” Yuro said, giving the painting back. The three inwardly winced at his statement.

“Another thing that we need to ask, is that, was Giselle acting weird before the accident?” Dean asked.

“Weird no, exhausted yes. Our granddaughter works hard in the hospital you know?” Hiroko said. “But she did received a small necklace from an unknown person, she even wears it.” She continued. Her statement caught the trio's interest.

“She wore it? Like without any hesitation?” Dean asked. He knew Giselle and that she was cautious and careful to let a little jewelry pass.

“Yes she did. We thought of a possible suitor or a lover but she didn't confirmed anything.” Yuro said.

“What did it look like?” Dean asked. He had a feeling he knew what necklace they were talking about.

“With my eyesight, don't hold it against me but it looked old, like some eagle or was it a deer head?” Hiroko said.

“Like a wide V?” Dean asked.

“Yes. Did you know of it?” Yuro asked. Everyone in the room looked at Dean in curiosity.

“She spoke of a clue in finding her father. She showed me a picture of a brass necklace that looked like a very wide V, before we all parted ways years ago.” Dean said.

“So she found her father then?” Yuro didn't know who Giselle's father was but he sure as hell hate the bloke to death.

“Maybe or maybe not.” Sam said. Gears turning in his head and an idea popped up. “Do you guys have it or is it in her things?”

“I'll go have someone get it.” Hiroko called for a maid and asked her to take out Giselle's jewelry box. “What's with the questions?” She was curious on why the three are adamant in asking such questions.

“We feel like there's something wrong with Giselle's death.” Sam stated. “It could be tied to the painting or her necklace or her father.”

“Don't care about that bastard is what I say.” Yuro was fuming.

“We understand but your granddaughter left us somethings, some questionable things but we really need to know.” Dean said. Then a maid handed a wooden box to Hiroko and left.

“It's this one yes?” Yuro asked, pulling out a deep V brass necklace which made Castiel's eyes to widen which didn't go unnoticed by the two brothers.

“Can Cas take a good look of it?” Dean asked.

“He's the expert in jewelry and artifacts.” Sam explained. The couple began to tell them stories of Giselle, small and normal stories that somehow made them a little reluctant of their theory of her being a legacy.

“Here you go.” Castiel gave the necklace a few minutes later.

“It's night, and I assume you three don't have any place to stay at?” Yuro asked.

“Stay, for the night, please.” Hiroko nodded and ordered a maid to prepare three guest rooms and asked the same maid to tell the chef to cook something American this time.

“Ugh, thanks.” Dean agreed.

“Why don't you three freshen up while dinner is being readied?” With that the three were ushered to their rooms by Yamito.

#Shinsengumi #hakuouki #Supernatural #love and war #harada sanosuke #hijikata toshizo #oc #saito hajime #souji okita #todo heisuke #yukimura chizuru #transmigration #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #crowley

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