#Canna River

[1stopvapor]

Website : https://1stopvapor.com/

Address : 4610 S May Ave, Oklahoma City, OK 73119

online vape shop, vape wholesale, SMOK Coils, Suorin Air, Canna River, MoonWLKR Delta 8

[filmmovement]

River Rock (Miami)

[solliciiti]

Miami River Rock

[youryanderedaddy]

Summary: An unlikely encounter brings you and Cassian together, resulting in a decade - long obsession born out of lust and hatred. tw: female reader, hinted non-con, abuse/violence, obsession, jealousy, misogyny, degradation, slut-shaming, bullying, threats, choking, religious trauma, religious imagery, religious inaccuracy My ko - fi <3

Cassian still remembered the day you first met, the one he dreaded the most - the early spring warmth mixing with the smell of frost-hidden snowdrops. The earth being cleansed and reborn after a long, sluggish winter filled with challenges for the sinners' burning souls. Back then he was still working at the altar, freshly out of high school - barely nineteen, somewhere between a confused boy and a man of Christ.

He was called to fetch water from the well - it was nothing out of the ordinary, this was the sole reason he was part of the church, to help the elders with baptising and burying the dead. He was coming back with a rushed step when he saw you - bumped into you, to be exact. You were wearing a light white dress that covered just above the middle of your thighs, your ankles and feet fully exposed with just a pair of brown flowery sandals to go along with. You looked a bit older than the boy - maybe two or three years, he decided, as there was something mature in your beauty, an air of influence most girls his age didn't possess yet.

It all happened so fast - Cassian gasped in surprise as the water spilt all over you, sticking to each and every little crack and hem of your thin cotton dress. The wet fabric hugged all your curves, as if damp just to tempt him. He immediately looked down, covering his face with one hand as he tried to collect the fallen jug with the other, cheeks beet red. You, in turn, smiled playfully, reaching for the small pot before the man could grab it. You wiggled it in the air, laughing with your teeth out - glowing in the soft sunlight. He mumbled something incoherent, perhaps begging you to return it - but you were quick on your feet, running towards the river with the tool in hand, your soft giggles bursting like bubbles.

The boy hesitated for a second before eventually following after you, innocent brown eyes widening with a mix of fear and surprise, heart beating violently against his chest - this was the first time he was so close to a woman. After chasing you around the forest for a while, he stopped to catch his breath just to realise he had lost you somewhere along the way. He looked around, already panicking - too frightened to even begin imagining how the elders would react once they knew he had lost the ceremonial canna. 

“Looking for this?” You suddenly called out to him, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your pink lips. He quickly turned to face you, blushing once again as he spotted you sitting among the rocks surrounding the stream with the sun caught in your loosened locks - and his jug in your soft palms. You looked just like the nymphs his mentor had warned him about - cruel, whimsical creatures, yet painfully, breathtakingly beautiful. They liked to trick lost travellers and lonely shepherds, taking their soul for all eternity. 

Cassian took a deep breath and mouthed a quick prayer to his patron, bringing his hands together. He could do this. He wouldn’t be swayed by you no matter how cunning you may be - for his soul belonged to Christ and Christ alone.

“Stealing is a g-grave sin, Miss.” The boy exclaimed, voice shaky yet unrelenting as he took a step towards you. “So please return the can to me at once!” This time he sounded almost breathless, whiny like a mere child. You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped your parted lips. “Aww, no need to get mad. I am simply borrowing it.” You cooed at the disciple with slight mockery, pretending to eye the item in your hands with great interest. 

“I am n-not mad!” Cassian swiftly contested, crossing his arms to appear more intimidating, if that was even possible. “I am just frustrated - righteously so, since y-you took something that belongs to me, and refuse to give it back.” He continued, puffing his chest out towards you in annoyance. You found his attempts to convince you utterly adorable - but the only thing they accomplished was making you want to pick on him even more. “If you want it so bad, come and get it!” You egged him on, dingling it just above his head once again.

Then suddenly, just for a split second, something in his eyes changed. The brown turned dark and muddy, almost glowing with fury, his teeth grazing his cheek until he could taste the blood on his tongue - and next thing you knew, he had pushed you into the stream, soaked up to your chin. You started coughing, desperate to keep the water out of your lungs, but his hand pressed heavy against your chest, shoving you towards the very bottom of the river.

It was your turn to panic, cheeks heating up with uncertainty. You looked up at Cassian with soft, pleading eyes - begging him to let go. It was all too much for the sheltered boy - your prior teasing, your pitiful gaze, your warm skin shivering against the drenched, transparent clothing, leaving little to the imagination… He subconsciously began tugging at his tight golden collar, feeling the cold sweat creep upon his neck - then he slowly released you, letting your body rise up to the top without any added weight on it.

The disciple stared at your trembling form for what felt like eternity, unable to look away. Soon enough you came to your senses, scurrying to cover your breasts - but despite your best attempts at hiding, his fervent gaze kept threatening to burn a hole into your flesh. You opened your mouth to say something, perhaps an apology of sorts, or even an accusation - yet no sound came out. 

And just like that the boy was gone.

***

Cassian cried the whole night, he cried his little heart out, hugging the Mary Magdalen icon close to his chest - hoping, praying that he could be redeemed. He was sick, utterly sick. The way he had felt, the way his body had reacted to you - it was sinister, devilish, unholy. Something completely unbecoming of the sacred figure he aspired to become once his altar duties were finished. He was supposed to be different, a beam of light in a crowd of darkness and misery, and now he was filthy, reeking of sin - of you.

His racing thoughts left him restless, unable to close his eyes. He had no other option left - he had to confide in his mentor, it was the right thing to do. It was going to be alright, he tried to rationalise. Repent, and you will be saved. A sin admitted is a sin resolved and punished from within, from your very core. That’s what the elders always said - sin was human, but deceit was intentional, it meant that your soul was purposely straying away from God’s love and protection. The ones who were truthful and eager to accept their faults could still ascend to Heaven.

And Cassian was lucky - so, so lucky, because his mentor proved understanding to the troubles of his soul. He reassured him, taking him into his arms, the smell of incense and wax and home enough to soothe any heartache. The old man smiled gently, petting his hair - telling him that beauty was a Godly virtue, and there was nothing wrong with admiring it for his body itself was a fruit of desire and love. Then once the boy had stopped sobbing, his breathing finally even, the priest pulled him to the side and reminded him that he was one of his best students, and as such he simply could not be tempted and swayed by the weakness of the flesh. The deacon had seen him - had felt the cleaness in his eyes, and that’s precisely why he had chosen him; for his unyielding chastity and goodness. And he was never wrong about his pupils - so it was obviously the woman’s fault. 

Cassian could understand it now, clear as day. You had tempted him. You had stolen his sleep and his tears like a siren, like a Jezebel. But that was fine, completely fine. It was all part of the big plan. Temptation was good - faith always had its challenges, and he’d be damned if he let someone as wretched as you lure him into severing his ties to God. This was his future. This church was his home, and so it would remain. He would become the next deacon of Holy Agnes, and you would be no obstacle. Just an underwater stone - a bug he had to crush so he could be free and whole again.

***

Several years passed by with a snap of a finger. Cassian slowly matured, soft cheeks and bright eyes turning sharp and mundane with his newfound restraint. He had adapted some level of unconscious stoicism, set on raising above the lowly human needs. And yet he kept seeing you everywhere he went, like a ghost of the past.

Sometimes you were in the garden by his church, laughing and smiling with avid colours covering your body. Countless dingley pearly bracelets stacked one on top of the other heaving on your little wrists like a fire circle. You were loud, never one to suppress your silvery ringing voice. Other times you were sitting by the nearby lake, sewing or knitting, writing in a worn out notebook with fleeting papers all over your lap. You were in the bakery he walked by after Mass, on the opposite side of the farmer alley he frequented on the Sabbath. Always just a breath away, but never quite close enough. 

He wanted to touch you. He wanted to drag you in by your hair and yell in your ear until it bled - you, who so innocently strolled left and right with your pretty twirly dresses and skirts that never covered your knees, you with your naked hands parading around the park with nothing on your mind, but rainbows and sunshine. As if you didn’t know you had ruined his youth with aching sickness over you - as if you didn’t care he had spent countless hours agonising, wondering whether he’d see you again. Wondering whether he’ll be able to hold back from reaching out and completely devouring you. 

Were you looking for attention, looking so bubbly and careless, bright shouting colours on display? Were you hoping to tempt him again by showing all this vulnerable, ripe skin? Had you completely forgotten about that unlikely encounter that was permanently engraved into his memory with the burning mark of hellfire itself? 

Because it certainly seemed so when the whole village was whispering about you and your countless misdeeds. People were saying that you were pursuing a crafting clerkship in the nearby town - that you were travelling alone, or in the company of strange men, sleeping in unknown taverns on the road for days. Drinking and drowning in debauchery. Rumours had it that you would give yourself away to the highest bidder, thus being able to fund all those adventurous trips across the land. 

Cassian didn’t want to believe them, and he refused to partake in the tired, painfully repetitive conversations of the common folk who flocked to the church for warmth and food like a herd of sheep to a master. To him tattle was a sin of itself, a needless effort to drop the Lord’s name in vain just to curse a harlot or to mock an innocent, unsuspecting widow - but from day to day their words became harsher, crueller, ungodly. You were made to look like Lilith herself, and he couldn’t help believing what he could feel with his own heart.

It was a simple fact, really. You were just a whore, and nothing more - because he could clearly see you clinging to another man’s shoulder through the small glazed window of his, pushing your chest towards the dark stranger - laughing unabashedly at his jokes, gazing into his eyes, prompting him to claim your sweet lips. You were a whore, because you let them all have you, yet you belonged to neither. Not even to him - not even when you appeared in his dreams, tormenting him even in the comfort of his own psyche. 

You would share your warmth with him then, caressing him - letting him rest against your soft breasts, letting him inhale your tantalising aroma. Teasing him endlessly, just to disappear at dawn, just before he had his final fill of you. And just like that the cycle repeated, driving him crazy.

***

It was another warm spring day when you two met again face to face. When he saw you, hair dishevelled and clothes torn apart, he thought he was still dreaming - but you were even more beautiful, even more radiant now. That’s how he knew you were real. He could finally touch you, he could smell the salt and morning dew on your skin, could lick the tears off your puffy, swollen eyes.

You had been dragged to the church early in the morning by the wife of the mayor, kicking and screaming. The older woman had been furiously gripping your wrist, forcing you to trip after her in a desperate attempt to keep up. Once inside the ceremonial hall, she had pushed you down at the deacon’s feet like a sacrificial lamb before a pagan god’s altar.

“Martha, dear, what’s wrong?” Cassian was quick to intervene before the woman could mess you up even more. “You know it’s unbecoming of a lady of such wise age to engage in this ungodly behaviour.” He explained calmly - it was obvious that he held no wrath for her, and this was all just a performance. The mayoress was very influential in the village, so he had to be careful with his words, lest you’d both be in trouble.

“Oh, Cassian, Cassian!” The wife all but crumbled against the man, heavy, accusatory sobs strangling her speech. “This harlot has done it again! She tried to destroy another family.” Martha kept wailing in a theatrical way, hanging off the deacon’s white collar. “My family, Reverend! I saw her talking to my husband, oh, it was utterly despicable! I might faint just thinking about it.” She rambled on and on, cheeks turning comically red. “She must be possessed by the Devil - I see no other explanation behind her constant sinful endeavours.” She fluttered her lashes as if attempting to persuade the deacon, going as far as to use the title only given to priests. “I beg you, Father, do something. Teach her the right way, make her repent. Our village can’t keep tolerating these… these outrageous conducts!”

You looked up at him just as he lowered his head to you, your eyes meeting. Your orbs were wide and filled with fright just like that day in the forest when he had pushed you into the river. You were gripping the end of his robes pitifully, tearfully shaking your head as if trying to deny all those ugly lies, mouthing off little sounds he couldn’t quite understand - and just like that he was nineteen again, sweating and mad all over you, lost in your sweet pleas for help. And help you’d receive.

“Calm your senses, Martha. I will deal with this.” Cassian patted the wife’s shoulder reassuringly, nodding at the big gate leading to the garden. “You must not worry anymore, you know you have a weak heart. Just - just go home for the day.” He looked at you one last time, and the sheer black burning intensity of his gaze made you shiver. “I know what to do from here.” He made an airy gesture at the older woman, smiling benevolently. “You’re right. Enough is enough.” 

With that she finally left, satisfied that some order would be restored ultimately. The hall remained silent for a while; massive, dim-lit, over-decorated with various gorgons, demons and monsters - designed specifically to scare those who wouldn’t give in to salvation. “Leave us alone.” The man mumbled at last, snapping his fingers at the altar servants and nuns, who in turn hurriedly flocked to the back rooms, nowhere to be seen. You could feel the tears drying on your skin from the freezing cold air, leaving trails all over your scorching hot cheeks. He was observing you carefully, scared to miss even the slightest of reactions - your pain was so expressive he wanted to seal the memory forever in his brain. After all, he had dreamt of this for years. The day when he finally has you at his mercy with nowhere to go. 

“I see that you’ve decided to succumb to a life of sin.” Cassian started off haughtily, moving just a bit closer - you were still kneeling on the floor as if you had assumed an eternal repenting pose. His fingertips grazed against your chin, his touch radiating pure ice - cold frost as his head tilted down in rehearsed condescension. “It’s quite unfortunate to see someone so beautiful give up on Christ.” He continued, eyes practically glued to your quivering form from above. It was intoxicating to have you in this position, quivering below him. He wanted to see you like this all the time, he decided. It suited you to be underneath him - you were a filthy, wicked adulterer and he was your saviour. He deserved your worship. He deserved your pain, and everything that would come with it. 

“But then again, you’ve always been a temptress.” The man crouched next to you, quick as a snake - gripping your chin between his two fingers. “It must be oh-so difficult for you to act like an honest woman.” His grip got tighter. “Especially when you possess such a dirty, sinful bod–

“S-shut up!” You cried out, pushing yourself to stand on your knees. “Shut up, you know nothing of me, Reverend. You look at me with those eyes… Don’t think I don’t remember.” You hissed, suddenly gaining back the courage the woman had knocked out of you earlier, adrenaline pumping through your veins. “I’ve seen you follow me, I’ve seen you in my nightmares… You want me! You want me, and it’s driving you insane.” You gave him the cruellest look you could muster.

“The dirty one, the sinful one is you - you, and every single bastard in this goddamn village that seems to think they own me.” You spat it out, everything that had been building up over the past few months. The hurtful rumours, the nasty remarks on the streets, the way everyone was measuring you up, touching you without permission… This was your breaking point. “You don’t own me. You never will.”

Cassian was seeing red. Before he could even begin to summon any reason, his hands had tangled into your hair, pulling on it with malice he had never experienced before in his life. He was a being of love and kindness - yet any time he faced you, he turned to this gruesome, unholy beast of a man. It was all your fault. You had ruined him, since the moment you first met him you had been ruining him. You made him like this and there was no going back now. No amount of tears or pretty pleads could save you from the horrors that inevitably awaited you in Hell - the one on Earth. The one he was going to create just for you. Anything for you.

“Do not sully me with this blasphemous tongue of yours, wench. Don’t you dare utter a single word to me, lest you want to lose it.” The man hissed, venom dripping off every over pronounced syllable. His whole body was shaking with fury, skin red and painful as if on fire. One wrong movement could set him off into a flame that would kill you both. “I don’t want to hear a sound from those tainted lips of yours. Who knows how many have kissed them, hmm?” His face got dangerously close to yours - so close you could feel his warm breath across your cheek. Your heart was pounding violently against your chest in a fruitless attempt to escape the rib cage. You tried to push the deacon off you, but he didn’t bulge an inch. 

“Aww, you’re going to hurt me with the same hands you caress your lovers with?” He grinned manically - you had never seen a man so unhinged. You had always known he was dangerously unstable as the forest incident had proven - which was the reason you kept your distance over the years, but you could never imagine he’d be so… bloodthirsty. “Have you got no shame?” Cassian was spiralling, going in mental circles. 

He finally had you in his arms again, your skin warm and malleable against his - yet the only thing he could think of was all those men you had allowed by your side over the years. It was like he could see their fingerprints all over you, red and scorching on your body as if to mock him. As if to laugh at him for ever trying to fight the temptation in the first place. Your lips were wet and pink, so perfect and vulnerable trembling before him, just begging to be bitten. He reached in to kiss you - just like he had done so many times in his dreams, but he was met with your equally wet, cold cheek instead. You had turned your head away.

“Anyone, but me, huh?” The man screamed at the top of his lungs, beyond wild as he shoved you to the ground, crawling over your body in quick succession. You felt the blood drain from your face - could this be your final moment? “You are willing to give yourself to anyone, but the one who actually deserves you…” His hands travelled to your neck as if they had a mind of their own, voice suddenly dropping to a desperate, shaky whisper. “The one who craves you more than anything.” His fingers danced over your throat, holding your life in one tight grasp.

“What do you mea–”

“All my life I’ve been a good man.” Cassian interrupted you once again, tone back to its initial biting spite. “An honest man, goddammit! And I am not going to lose everything because of… because of some fucking whore!” His words aimed at your heart just like daggers, and your eyes watered. You squirmed like an injured animal, praying to whoever was up in the sky that he would release you, but God wasn’t so merciful to sinners, apparently. “So you’re going to kiss me, right here, right now.” He was holding your wrists over your chest as he positioned himself between your legs. This couldn’t be happening right now, but it was. You were doomed, you had been doomed from the start. 

“You’re going to kiss me like you kiss your lovers.” The deacon paused to lick the tear running down your chin, groaning at the heavenly taste. You wanted to drop dead. “Like you love me.” He pressed down on your neck, squeezing tighter just so your eyes would fill up with hundreds of tiny little tears - it made you look so glossy and cute. “Did you hear me? You are going to kiss me like you fucking love me, you damned slut.” Your face was turning blue from the lack of oxygen. 

“And then I am going to fuck the Devil out of you.”

[machveil]

out of tf141 who do you think would like swimming the most (and or know how to swim)

I feel like all the TF141 boys can swim - I’d imagine they’d have to know how to swim to a degree for their job. that said, if we’re talking about swimming by choice (pools, waterparks, a lake, etc)…

Johnny is loves water - the biggest water lover in the group, he’s all about taking a dip on a warm summer day. he’s the type to start a whirlpool and then float around while getting spun around - bonus points if someone throws him a pool floaty he can bob along with. if he stays at a hotel that has a pool? he’ll skip going on morning runs and trade it in for doing laps at the pool

Gaz strikes me as the type who really only swims for the athleticism of it - like, he’d join Johnny for laps around a pool to work out. methinks he’d be into water aerobics, maybe joins a water zumba class with some older women at his local pool? otherwise, he doesn’t really go in the water to relax, not that he wouldn’t go in if someone asked him to

Johnny and Gaz definitely do water gun fights when they get together - who can stay dry for the longest? who can snipe who? loser gets picked up and tossed into the deep end

Price is more mellowed out when it comes to water. he likes waterparks for the lazy river (and those bars you can swim up to). he’s content to float on an inflatable instead of actually swimming. rather than seeking out water to swim in, Price would rather fish on a river or lake - he’ll watch the others tire themselves out

Price and Gaz definitely have had, and will continue to have, fishing weekends… well, Johnny and Simon are there too, they just don’t have the patience for fishing, “C’mon, L.T! You’ve got ‘em—“, “Damnit— bloody hell! it took the fuckin’ hook!”. Simon’s snapped a fishing rod before after losing one too many hooks and lures, Price put him in a loose fishing ban

Simon likes the ocean, but he really only enjoys secluded beaches - minimal to no people around. he likes sitting around in a shaded spot and just listening to nature, the waves really soothe him. he doesn’t go into water unless other people want him to… he’s not great at it though. he really only learned how to swim for his job in the case he’s submerged under water. for a long time he was doggy paddling, he finally sucked it up and learned to actually swim when Johnny made fun of him

Simon and Johnny will have a pissing contest over who the better swimmer is. Johnny has to beg Price to time them because, “It has to be official! Ain’t worth doing it if I cannae rub it in his face when I win by a landslide!”

Johnny loves using diving boards. he’ll run up to the boys like a kid and tell them to watch as he jumps off. backfired when he asked Gaz to record him doing a flip… he slipped and fell face first into the water. that video is still floating around between the team Johnny begs them to delete it

[on-a-lucky-tide]

John Price is a snarling beast. Until Nikolai calls his name. cw: werewolf AU, Nikprice. Work In Progress. Snippet of "Like A River".

As Price stepped out of the Hercules, six rifles braced in his direction; Ghost and Soap stepped in front of him instinctively, their hands dropping to their sidearms. “Stand down, lieutenant, sergeant,” a familiar voice called from behind the line of troopers. “We’re takin’ th’ captain intae custody.”

It was unusual for Major Macmillan to leave his office, even if it was his own airfield, but he had made an exception for his former protegé. Ghost tensed, rooted to the spot, as he stared down each of the soldiers before him, and Soap snarled. “Ye cannae do this, cap’s done nothin’ wrong. Ye should have a feckin’ medic doon here, no’--”

“It’s fine,” Price said quietly, lifting his arm from where it draped over Gaz’s shoulder so that he could stand on his own two feet. He walked forward slowly, patting Soap’s shoulder and knocking his knuckles against Ghost’s carrier vest as he stepped by. “Stand down.” 

Price glanced over the covered faces of the troopers in front of him before his gaze settled on Macmillan. The Major looked concerned; his face pinched with sadness and regret. “Ye look like shit, John,” Macmillan said, his voice far softer than when he had barked at his two junior officers. 

“Strange, ‘cause I feel a million quid,” Price murmured back, offering a wry smirk. He knew he looked bad; unshaven, hair long, bruises and cuts covering his arms, limping and broken. “M not gonna cause you any trouble.”

“Aye, ah know. It's just a precaution, ye understand.” Macmillan nodded to the trooper on his left who pushed his M4 behind his back and pulled the handcuffs from his belt. Price offered his wrists without protest, and lifted his elbows when they wrapped the shock belt around his waist, the cuffs connected to it in a reinforced chain. He recognised it from interrogation training and it stung his pride more than the cuffs.

“Cap, we’ll…” Soap lurched forward, and the troopers got twitchy, but Macmillan stilled them with a raised palm, “...we’ll visit ye, we’ll tell Nik, we’ll get ye oot, aye?”

Price nodded slowly, but he couldn't meet Soap's eyes. “Behave yerself while ‘m gone.” 

“You're not goin’ anywhere that we’re not,” Ghost rumbled. “Be seein’ you.” 

Price walked with the troopers to the waiting jeep and climbed inside the back with their assistance. Everything hurt. Wherever they were gonna stash him for observation, the poor sod would be spending the first day watching him sleep. Adrenalin and fear had kept him going until now, but resignation and exhaustion were all he had left.

To Price's surprise, Macmillan sat down opposite in the back rather than upfront, a risk given what he knew Price was now, but then he had always been one of the good ones. An officer who led from the front and never left a soldier behind. He reached out to place his hand over the sides of Price's chained fists. “We’ll ge’ this sor’ed, John. Ye have my word.” 

Price wished he could believe him.

[catilinas]

everything is about the battle of pharsalus except the battle of pharsalus which is about the battles of cremera and the river allia and satricum and cannae and arausio and pistoria and munda and forum gallorum and mutina and philippi and

[whisperthatruns]

Reality Demands

Reality demands that we also mention this: Life goes on. It continues at Cannae and Borodino, at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.

There’s a gas station on a little square in Jericho, and wet paint on park benches in Bila Hora. Letters fly back and forth between Pearl Harbor and Hastings, a moving van passes beneath the eye of the lion at Chaeronea, and the blooming orchards near Verdun cannot escape the approaching atmospheric front.

There is so much Everything that Nothing is hidden quite nicely. Music pours from the yachts moored at Actium and couples dance on the sunlit decks.

So much is always going on, that it must be going on all over. Where not a stone still stands, you see the Ice Cream Man besieged by children. Where Hiroshima had been Hiroshima is again, producing many products for everyday use. This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

The grass is green on Maciejowice’s fields, and it is studded with dew, as is normal grass.

Perhaps all fields are battlefields, those we remember and those that are forgotten: the birch forests and the cedar forests, the snow and the sand, the iridescent swamps and the canyons of black defeat, where now, when the need strikes, you don’t cower under a bush but squat behind it.

What moral flows from this? Probably none. Only that blood flows, drying quickly, and, as always, a few rivers, a few clouds.

On tragic mountain passes the wind rips hats from unwitting heads and we can’t help laughing at that.

Wisława Szymborska, tr. from the Polish by��Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh (The New Yorker, 1993)

[stirringwinds]

Do u have any headcanons about Rome or the other ancients

i do! here are some of them:

Rome is the Italybros' father, not their grandfather. Children are sometimes bittersweet omens for nations; your beginning is a harbinger of someone else's end.

When he was still a republic, the Battle of Cannae during the Punic Wars against Carthage was the moment Rome most feared dying for real. As the Carthaginian general Hannibal proclaimed; "I swear to arrest the destiny of Rome with fire and steel"—that put some real fear into young Rome's heart.

Persia (aka the Achaemenid Empire) is at least 3,000 years old—they and modern Iran are the same person. Another ye olde helltalia, like China.

Germania's real name is not Germania: he is one of the many Germanic nations that existed; as historically, Tacitus' concept of "Germania" is more of a Roman construction—they didn't see themselves as a single unified "Germanic" cultural or political entity. So, Tacitus' Germania? Much like Herodotus: father of history, father of lies, perhaps...

Yao's earliest memory is of walking along the Yellow River. It's one thing he has in common with many other ancient nations; rivers feature heavily in their earliest sense of being: Rome (the Tiber), Sumer (the Tigris and the Euphrates), Ancient Egypt (the Nile) and Olmec (the Coatzacoalcos, in modern Mexico) being some examples. Yao thinks of the Yellow River as being both life and death; the fertile silt on the banks that would be the lifeblood of his civilisation, but also the source of devastating floods throughout his history.

Yao rather respected Rome, Persia/Iran and India a lot more than his other neighbours; Rome being called da qin（大秦）or "great qin". Almost a sort of "oh, there's another empire at the opposite end of the (then) known world just like me." Bit of a difference from how at various points, Yong-soo and Kiku got much less flattering names. Today, many things have crumbled under the sword of time, but there's still Roman glassware he has from that long-gone time of the Silk Road that linked Rome and China—as well as all the other cultures in between—together.

[queermentaldisaster]

The Dancing And The Dreaming

A HTTYD x COD fic, crossposted on Tumblr and AO3.

Taglist: @myriadblvck @thegreyjoyed @forestshadow-wolf @im-here-and-im-confused (if you wanna be added to or removed from the taglist, please let me know!)

No warnings for this chapter. Enjoy!

He was perched atop one of the pillars on Melody Island, his wings folded back behind him. The sun reflected off the water below, and he chirped softly. He finished picking the last of the meat off of the chicken bones, and devoured it. Not filling, but better than what the rest of his kind did. Soap let out a trill, his tail curling around himself.

“Hm. Ah’m kinda bored.” He mumbled, standing up so he could go for a flight, when he spotted something on the beach. He glided over there, folding his wings back as he landed on the sand. He tilted his head when he saw a Skrill. The Skrill’s face reminded him of a skull, with a thick ring of black around his closed eyes. He looked over the rest of his body, spotting scars. He noticed an arrow embedded in the poor dragon's leg, and he picked him up in his back claws as he took off flying.

He landed in his den, a cave on the far side of the island. He set the Skrill down on his pile of moss he called a bed, and managed to get the arrow out of his leg. He hummed, cleaning the wound with water from the nearby river. He then laid down next to the Skrill, draping his wing over the smaller dragon. He let out another trill, nudging the dragon to see if he'd wake. The Skrill shot awake with a snarl, and Soap quickly shot up and backed the fuck up. “Woah, easy there! Yer safe!” He said. The Skrill snarled again. “Who are you and where am I?”

Soap sat down, with a slight trill. “Ah’m Soap. A Death Song. And yer in ma den, on Melody Island.” The Skrill blinked. “Melody Island…then I need to go.” He spread his wings to fly out, but Soap moved in front of the entrance. “Why do you need to go?” The Skrill growled. “I’m being hunted. It's not safe for me to be here. I can lead them away if I'm quick, and keep your species safe.” Soap let out a melodic laugh. “if yer bein’ hunted, yer nae goin’ anywhere by yerself,” he paused, waiting for the Skrill to introduce himself.

The Skrill huffed, his spines crackling with lightning. “Ghost. I'm Ghost.” he muttered. Soap nodded. “Ghost. It's nice to meet ye. Now, am ah gonna have to follow ye without yer permission or are ye gonna let me take care of ye?” Soap asked, not really giving Ghost a choice. Ghost snarled. “I don't drag others into my messes.” he snapped, and Soap laughed again. “Then it's a good thing ah'm jumpin’ in of ma own will, aye?”

Ghost rolled his brown eyes. “You’re a right pain in my ass.” he spat, as he walked past Soap and took to the sky, Soap following close behind. “Aye, ah'm quite aware of that, Ghost!” Ghost looked back at Soap, his eyes narrowing. “Can you fuck off?” he demanded. Soap grinned, picking up speed. “Ah cannae! Ye washed up on ma home island, wounded and talking ‘bout being hunted, so ah'm gonna worry ‘bout ye! Welcome to empathy.”

He laughed as he did a little loop in the air. “Are ye scared, Ghost?” Ghost huffed. “I don't get scared, Soap.” He responded.

“Ah beg tae differ, sir.”

“Shut up.”

“Nae.”

[fallout4-reacts]

if you dont mind doing reacts based off other posts, how would companions react to a low int but max luck sole?

hoping links work in asks 😭

I sincerely believe that as long as I don't plagiarise another author's work, there should be no problem. However, if I have a writer who is upset because I've been asked the same request, I hope we can clarify it Unfortunately, it appears that there is an issue with the link, but I believe that it's better that way so I can react without being influenced by what has previously been done

So there! How companions react to a very stupid yet extremely fortunate Sole (It makes me think of Gontran from Picsou). I write them a little clumsy to add effect, hope you'll like it  PS : Yeah, I know, I have forget Cait... but it's fix

Cait : She wasn't really paying attention as Tommy wooed the stranger on her behalf. As long as she has her psycho, she doesn't give a hoot about anything else. Now, Sole and Cait were prowling an ancient factory in search of salvageable equipment and materials. They had hardly gotten a few steps ahead when they heard someone else's feet approaching.

Cait reached for her weapon and signalled for Sole to keep silent. They peered over the bend and saw a band of raiders coming at them with weapons blazing.

“Methinks we have some guests," Cait whispered. "We must find a way to flee with haste."

After agreeing, Sole turned to run, but their foot became hooked on a stray part.

A loose piece of metal grabbed Sole's foot as they turned to run, and they lurched forward, toppling a pile of crates with a loud crash.

As soon as the raiders noticed them, they opened fire, sending bullets flying past their heads. While Sole and Cait were running through the factory, dodging gunfire and looking for an exit, a stray bullet hit a gas tank, causing a massive explosion that sent debris flying in every direction.

Miraculously, neither Sole nor Cait were hurt as they were tossed to the ground. However, the factory was completely destroyed, and all of the raiders were wiped out in the explosion.

"I cannae believe it," Cait exclaimed. " Ye almost killed us, but we made it oot alive."

Sole smiled awkwardly. "I already told you. I seem to attract unusual luck."

Cait shook her head, but a grin spread across her face anyhow. She remarked, "Well, I dinnae ken how ya do it. Verily, I am relieved to have ya by ma side.”

Codsworth : From day one, when Nate activated him, he could see the extent of the damage… and somehow understand why they made his purchase in the first place. On that first day, he was able to count thirteen accidents. From something as stupid as stepping on the carpet to failing to set the house on fire for a cup of coffee, Sole is a walking disaster. That’s why Codsworth goes way beyond being Butler to make sure Sole doesn’t touch anything in the house. Since the bombs, the poor robot has been having anxiety attacks. How could someone barely able to survive in a relatively safe world do so in an extremely dangerous one? But ironically, it does. Like when Sturge asked Sole to install a suitable water line for Sanctuary and the city wall collapsed in the river, sparing the purifier. Since then, they have a clean pool free of any radiation, to the delight of all who can go wading and unclog a little at the end of the day without risking becoming a ghoul. Sturges has learned a lesson, and Sole is forbidden to touch anything that could be crucial for the colony since. Anyway, it’s not like the poor bastard can distinguish a battery from a switch.

Curie : Before she realised there was a living being on the other side of the door, the said door literally collapsed on itself. Curie never left the chamber where she had been kept for so long. She doesn't need to be asked to accompany Sole inside the vault. Unfortunately, one of the molerats carrying the infection bit Sole. To be honest, they fell on the corpse and stuck the teeth in their buttocks, even though the man in Sole's company had taken care to exterminate them all to ensure Sole was not worried. However, Sole refuses the treatment. Instead, they want that Curie cures a child. Curie is concerned about the virus's repercussions. But, once again, she has no idea what God Luck the Klutz must pray for, but the virus does not appear to be suitable for development in Sole's system. They will have to deal with some repercussions, but Curie has seen influenza cause more harm.

Danse : As he was about to give up after seeing the ferals rush waves after waves, he heard a voice behind him.

"Don't be afraid! I'm here to assist—oops!"

And Danse sees all of the security fences around the police station collapsing one after the other. How is that even possible? He has no idea. These barriers are built to withstand violent attacks. They are now sure they are dominoes. As panic gripped the Brotherhood, he realised that, by an incredible chance, the barriers had collapsed on the ghouls, flattening them like pancakes. When the last one has passed, the soldier turns to face the newcomer and a companion who appears to be in exasperation.

"Good…work…I guess. You have just spared us from terrible death." "Good job?" Rhys, the knight, becomes irritated. "That jerk almost got us all killed in less than a few seconds!"

"Keep calm," Haylen said as she shaved him on the train. "In the end, we are saved."

The paladin looks at his officers, then at the newcomer, who is attempting to untangle a chewing gum caught under his sole. When he loses his balance, the man beside him advances almost instinctively to receive him, almost as if he had the strength of habit.

"So, uh... listen, I have a mission for you if you're interested."

The man in the Minutemen's hat looks up, surprised, and drops his friend to make large hand movements, but it's too late. Sole, sitting on their hindquarters, nods their head.

"With great pleasure!"

Deacon : To put it simply, he hasn't laughed this hard in... ever. He was having problems laughing despite his attempts to drown his misery in humor, and he now goes to bed every night with a stomach ache so severe as he bends in half all day. He has seen them evolve in the world from the day they left the vault and has only one regret: not having popcorn. He has no idea how the individual made it this far. First, the Concord raiders: Sole fell down a well when the hatch that concealed it crumbled beneath their feet, unleashing a deathclaw in all his rage. While Sole ran like crazy up the street to avoid the huge beast's claws, the monster literally shredded all of the raiders present. When the deathclaw followed Sole into the museum, they collapsed the platforms on which the raiders were standing... raiders that the deathclaw has now shred in pieces. Finally, as Sole climbed four to four floors to escape their pursuers, the monster slipped and fell two floors on his head and died. Deacon almost roasted himself at the time, an intense chuckle escaping him despite himself. The adventure did not come to an end there. A completely taken aback Minuteman also arrived at the scene, but instead of making him laugh, it seemed to make him believe in the possibility of fate. So he began by worshipping Sole... for a few moments. Everything went to hell when Sole opened their mouths. This person isn't simply clumsy; they're plain dumb. But Preston appears to have a good heart in the face of bad luck; he takes Sole under his wing, and their adventures that begin then give Deacon so much pleasure that he is eager to go and tell everything at HQ.

Dogmeat : Dogmeat is delighted with his new master. But they can be strange at times. His new master seemed to disregard everything that people normally know. Instead of bang bang bang, they threw their weapon at a molerat. Dogmeat is unfazed; he shreds the molerats. Then there are the men-who-kill. Sole appears to believe that they can be their friend and greets them enthusiastically. When the men-who-kill turn towards them by raising their weapons, Dogmeat grabs Sole by the bottom of their trousers to make them get back. The metal plate on which they stand then falls beneath their feet, revealing a furious deathclaw. When the monster chases Sole and Dogmeat, they run belly-dn ahead. Sole does not accompany Dogmeat forks into a place where he knows they will be safe. They kept running straight forward, as if they could outrun a deathclaw. Dogmeat lets out a whine and dashes behind the deathclaw. It has been stated that Dogmeat was a bright dog, but the canine never imagined that he would one day be more intelligent than a person.

Elder Maxson : Danse stands behind the new recruit, completely uneasy. The Elder addresses him first.

"I'm having difficulty comprehending your report. You appear to be saying that Sole is the element that helped your missions work in your benefit, but you also appear to have some concerns. Why beg for their promotion and support them while expressing uncertainty?"

"I recommend that you make up your own mind."

The Elder then turns to the recruit and begins his lengthy speech. Sole maintains a straight posture and attentive listening throughout. Maxson is animated and takes his time explaining himself. When he has finished his long speech, he turns to Sole, waiting for their decision.

"So... I can get a Power Armor?"

Arthur is shocked. He frowns and glances at Danse, who appears to be trying to hold back a grin.

"Indeed, yes. But, more importantly, do you understand what is being asked of you?"

"Oh, to put on your uniform and go about doing your errands. When will I receive my armor?"

"Our… errands?"

"Yes. Go there, Sole, and bring that back. I'm not upset. But I'm looking for my armor."

Maxson's eyes widen in astonishment He again catches Danse's eyes, and he is certain now that the paladin keeps his cool not to chuckle. He instructs Sole to await them on the bridge.

"What's the backstory?"

"This... this recruit is a very interesting element. He fulfils all our requests. But to be honest, it's a miracle more than anything else."

"Do they... do they appear uh... capable of thinking?"

"I have my doubts. The Minutemen who accompanied them were equally sceptical. Furthermore, I do not recommend accompanying them on a mission or entrusting them with anyone. But they do the job... in their own way."

Arthur pauses for a moment before sighing.

"I must admit that the hopelessness of our situation compels me to grant your request. As a result, as you suggested, I raise them to Knight. I have a first task for both of you."

"Us two, sir?"

"You brought them to me; now you will manage them."

Danse lets out a sigh. That was his greatest fear. But, hey, Sole isn't a bad guy. He's only had concerns after nearly being roasted alive in Arcjet.

Hancock : "Wow! Insurance! You're such a kind man!"

The mayor of Goodneighbor looks at the newcomers with a snigger. Finn is defrauding them. Then he encounters the irritated, perhaps tired, look of Diamond City detective Nick Valentine. He doesn't want his drifter to play games with someone he likes, so he approaches Finn and instructs him to comply.

"Nick Valentine makes a rare visit to town, and you’re hassling his friend here with that extortion crap?"

"No problem here," the newcomer hurriedly stated. "This gentleman was just selling me insurance."

Nick seems to open his mouth in protest, but Hancock take it in hand.

"You’re soft, Hancock. If you continue to allow strangers walk all over us, there will be a new mayor."

"Come on, man. This is me we’re talking about. Let me tell you something."

Sole seemed to be aware that something is about to occur. They approach towards the mayor, opening their mouth to speak, but their foot become caught in a slab on the ground.

"Oops!"

However, they cling to the dagger that Finn hid to cut Sole's throat at the first move, and the little scoundrel turns impaled on his own blade. Hancock, for his part, didn't have time to pull his own, which he had hidden behind his back, ready to impale Finn as well. He seems perplexed, Sole apologising repeatedly to Finn's body, which is now stiff on the ground.

"I'm very sorry, man. I didn't want to murder him... Mr. Ghoul, are you listening? I didn't want to murder your citizens. Please do not hurt me."

Nick shakes his head in disbelief, and the mayor cracks a faint smile.

"It's not the sharpest pencil in the box, is it?" He then explains "This guy was going to cut your throat. You had an amazing chance."

"Wait, no, I think you're wrong; he just wanted to sell me insurance."

Nick raises his hand as Hancock prepares to explain again in simple terms.

"Lost time, pal. Take this buddy as they come. I don't think they've realised I'm a synth yet."

"I'm not that stupid!" Sole objected. "But I know you don't make music. So, if you want to pretend to be something you're not, go ahead; but stop wanting—

"Synthetic! Not synthesizer!"

Hancock busts out laughing, and someone else behind his back does as well. He recognises Deacon's voice, but as he looks about among the street drifters, he doesn't see the Railroad agent.

Gage : Weeks of effort. It took weeks of miracles to get the stiff hands on a common project. The entire Gauntlet has now collapsed. Gage sighs and shakes his head. This new player is not playing. They are, nonetheless, intriguing. They will now have to handle Colter at the arena's door. Porter uses his intercom to confront the newcomer.

"Who's the one talking?"

"Porter, please answer the intercom. Approach, we’ll talk."

"Porter? That's... God's new name?"

Gage pauses, frowning. But dammit, he's met the stupidest guy he's ever encountered, and yet he evolves above the raiders.

"It's the intercom! It's on the wall! Near the lockers."

"Ah! Eheh. Yeah. I see. So, what do you desire?"

"If you play it right, we'll work together."

Porter then has a second thought. He can't possibly appeal to this person's brains. He shrugs his shoulders and decides to improvise.

"Look, you're going to find a water gun in a locker...hello?"

"Oops! Sorry. I was... looking around..."

"Huh? Power to the Arena's down by 30%. You do that? Not bad. You're still gonna need the gun, but... that oughta help."

Sole finally found the water gun after numerous clues. Porter began to question if his strategy was really that good...

MacCready : Hancock ushers a newcomer into the VIP room. Poor timing. Those idiots Winlock and Barnes have tracked him down and are attempting to intimidate him. It's going to get ugly fast...

"Wow, this is a true family reunion! Wow, you've got a lot of guns!"

MacCready was still astonished after Hancock struck his forehead. Giggles escaped the gunners. Mac rushes to return them to their home.

"Are you the mercenary I can employ?" It's Hancock, he stated I need God's help and don't know who I can afford to stay alive."

Mac casts a glance at the mayor, who shrugs and walks out of the room, unable to keep back his laughter.

"Yeah, I do offer my rifle services to those who can afford them."

"Oh, yes, caps!"

The new person slings a bag over their shoulder, but in a clumsy action, all of the contents and the container fall to the ground. They see something under the table as they bend down to pick up their mess.

They reach out their hand and pull out a plasma grenade. MacCready rushes to take the toy from their grasp as they prepare to engage it accidently.

"Obviously, you're going to need all the help you can get to survive, but if you really want to pay for my services, it'll be...500 caps."

Sole takes out a purse containing their belongings.

"There must be at least five or six hundred. It's difficult to count that many. Okay, maybe ten or twenty capsules. But more than a hundred? You're insane; I don't have all day."

Perplexed, the mercenary scratches the back of his head and sighs. He didn't expect the new would accept such a high price, so he's not going to start recounting behind them. There are clearly several hundred caps by weight.

"Well, you've just paid for Robert Joseph MacCready's services!" he attempts cheerfully.

"Great!" exclaims the other. "I'm Sole. That's how they refer to me."

Nick Valentine : After only a few minutes, he begins to question if it might not be preferable to remain trapped in the vault. Dyno died literally laughing. He fell over the railing and into the atrium at the bottom after seeing the other get entangled in wires while attempting to draw their rifle. Nick has been waiting impatiently for the other to figure out how the terminal works since then.

"Listen, uh... detective, I'll be right back."

Nick hears the other one come down the stairs, then return after a long time. Dyno appears to have had a piece of paper with the password in his pocket, and Sole can finally open the cage, which is not gilded at all.

"Ah, my knight-in-shining-armor. But the question is, why does he come all this way, risk life and limb, for an old private eye?"

"Who! Is that a robot? I'm sorry, Mr. Robot, but I'm searching for a detective. Did you happen to see him?"

"I believe I'm the detective you're looking for."

"No, I mean a private investigator. I was told he went to look into Malone's side of the vault and that we haven't heard from him since."

"I am the private detective."

"Nick Valentine! That's his given name. Nick Valentine, I recall."

"I AM NICK VALENTINE."

"Okay. Is this some sort of a game? You've been programmed to deceive others? What happened to Nick Valentine?"

Nick takes a deep breath.

"I’m a synthetic man. I’m a synthetic detective."

"You’re a synthesiser? So, you're a musician? Wow. When the detective’s going to figure it out... But I don't have time to listen to music; I need to save the detective."

"Lord…"

Piper : "Play along!"

"Are you playing a game? Great!"

Piper casts a sidelong peek at the new one, but she's not going to pass up this opportunity. She eventually persuaded Danny to open it up to her with a lot of luck. However, the person in blue almost blew it. She rushes into Diamond City as soon as the gate opens, and the new follows her, but she will worry about them later, as MacDonough awaits her around the corner.

"Piper! Who you let you back inside? I told Sullivan to keep that gate shut!"

"Hey!" interrupts the newcomer right away. "How could Quincy's surplus have been sold to...crazy Mirna... if you had left this gate closed?"

«It was a lie to go home," Piper says as she passes past.

"Do you mean I'm not a Quincy trader? Oh, how I would have liked that."

The mayor, by some miracle, appears to believe that the newcomer is important and ends up leaving them alone, tail between their legs, after the other voices two or three well-placed remarks. Piper is impressed, because in fact, they appear to have only two cells, one to keep them from peeing everywhere and the other to...

"So, Blue, do you want to tell me a little bit about your backstory?"

"Blue? Why do you call me Blue?"

"The vaultsuit."

"Oh, yes, it's true that it's blue."

Piper lets out a sigh. She hasn't even left the inn yet.

"Please join me at the Publick Occurency (if you can find it) and we can talk. Okay?"

The new one says, "Agreed." Piper rushes away, wondering who she has just met, when she catches the smile of a guard she does not remember.

Preston : Oh my fucking goodness! Preston isn't the sort to curse, but as half the museum collapses on the gunners and deathclaw, the notion flashes through his mind as vividly as if he'd said it aloud. He, on the other hand, cannot believe their good fortune. It's amazing! To accomplish such a feat, this individual must be a genius. But as he watches them emerge from the rubble, he begins to wonder if...

"Wow, that's impressive. But a couple of shots could have done the same thing without... destroying everything."

The blue person simply steps over the balcony and approaches Preston.

"Hello there! What exactly are you doing here? Isn't this a really depressing place to be?"

Preston looks at the refugees before returning his gaze to the vaultie.

"The raiders threatened us, so we took refuge here. But now that we've done that, we must decide what to do next. Sturges?"

Preston notices that Sturges is entirely frozen in place, detailing the new one as if it appeared out of nowhere.

"They did... they destroyed the museum!"

"Yes, Sturges. I was present. But, at the very least, the city has been cleaned up. We can proceed safely."

"Safe? With…that?!"

"That's referred to as Sole. Pleased. You are?"

"The survivors of Quincy."

"And we'd like to be able to survive," Sturges continued. "There will be no more williboumbatpouf! Okay?"

So, the survivors of Quincy and Sole set out for the location seen by Mama Murphy: Sanctuary Hill. When they arrive in one piece, Preston has the brilliant idea of inviting Sole to assist Sturges in establishing them. And that results in a lot… a lot of problems. 

Strong : Strong doesn’t see the problem. Strong finds the puny humans very lucky. Other humans seem to think the puny human is stupid. Strong think the puny humans is very smart.

X6-88 : He cannot conceive of this individual being able to conceive Father. Probably the other parent was a genius outside of their field, and Father got the best of both worlds. There is literally no other option. And their chance! Surely, wherever they go, this extraordinary chance rescues them from the direst situations.

"Wow, X6! I stumbled onto a honey storage tank. It's incredible!"

X6 heaves a murmur of exasperation as he leans over the edge of the rusted tank, whose metal has yielded under Sole's weight. It is indeed honey that has been partially solidified but is still viable.

Truly an incredible chance.

[skinnyazn]

The Masks We Wear

Ch.3 Takes place after In the Bleak Midwinter Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader (Jaguar) Chapters: 3/? Notes: Happy Monday! Guess who finally makes his debut?!, a lot of SoapGhost banter, Ghost finally reveals who the mystery woman in red is at the end, next chapter will be smuuuty

Part One | Part Two | Part Four | AO3 | MASTERLIST

“It’s feckin’ mind-boggling, L.T..”

Simon adjusted the speed of the wooden cigar boat, slowing it as they approached San Marco.

“First time in Venice?”

“Aye. Cannae believe how it’s all just floating on the water like that.”

Simon looked at the Scott. His green and black cape fluttered in the wind; the setting sun’s golden light framed his silhouette. 

“Mask, Johnny.”

“Right.” He slipped it over his face, brining up the hood of his cape to cover his mohawk. “Always wanted to be like you when I grew up.”

Simon shook his head. “You wanna be better than me, Johnny.”

“I will be.”

“Good man.” Simon tossed him the ropes. “Tie us up.”

“Aye.” His gloved hands secured the boat.

“Right,” Simon stepped onto the mossing concrete. “I’ll scout across the river. See if you can get eyes on Ludovico. Bloke’s probably preening around the palace already.”

“Copy.”

Simon nodded and turned east, heading across the small bridge over the canal. His colossal frame naturally parted the crowd. Even in full carnival attire the man still posed an intimidating figure. On his face, a golden skull gleamed over solid black; a beautiful, walking memento mori.

The historic buildings were scalable, but there were too many people out to be inconspicuous. Simon cut a left down a narrow street. Calle degli Albanesi was nearly as broad as his shoulders; the edges of his cape licked the walls with each step. The bricks stretched high above him, obscuring most of the fading light. He wondered how many other unsavory characters had taken this same road throughout history. The noise of the night dissipated down the street.

There was an old gated door that lead to a medieval-styled courtyard along one of the walls. It was empty. Simon picked the lock quickly and slipped inside.

"Eyes on Ludovico. Gloating on the balcony, like you said." Soap's voice filter through the earpiece.

“Good. Think I found a good vantage point for tonight,” he replied. “If I scale here, it should place me right in front of the ducal apartments.”

“You sure that’s where the deal will go down?”

“Pretty damn sure. Ludovico’s a shady bastard, inn’he?”

Soap huffed into his mic. “Yosef’s no better. They’re like a match made in hell, eh?”

Simon grunted in agreement.

“So what, I just slip the tracker on Yosef and then wait for the deal to happen?” 

“Affirmative.” Simon tugged on the protruding brick of the courtyard. Hopefully it would support his weight for later. “We’ll grab him when he’s leaving the party.”

“Never liked the whole sit and wait part.”

Giving the yard one last look-over, Simon slipped back through the iron gate and closed it. He feigned flattery. “A man after my own heart.”

“You have a heart, chief?”

Flashbacks of San Francisco grey and your warm skin gave him pause. The way you fisted his blonde hair and pressed your forehead against his as you cried out his name, clenching so sweetly around him in the dark. Simon headed further down the narrow street.

“A cold one.”

______ 

The lavender sky gave way to striking hues of blues, before settling to a velvety black. Thankfully, the old bricks held under Simon’s weight as he scaled the courtyard in the darkness. He arranged his kit on the terra-cotta shingles. Moonbeams outlined his bulk.

Soap’s hushed whistle interrupted the relative quietness of the roof. “Pure dead brilliant inside. Jus’ look at those ceilings!”

“Focus, Soap.” It was low and gruff.

“I am. I’m observing the location.”

Simon shook his head. He pulled up the tracker on his phone. Soap’s location blinked on the small screen.

“Think I need to move to Italy. The lassies here…” His whisper turned into a louder, “Ciao, bella.”

Ghost heard a female voice in the background of the comms. “Makin’ a fool of yourself, Johnny.”

The Scott chuckled.

“See Yosef yet?” Simon surveyed the palace in front of him. He took out his binoculars.

“Not yet. Hopefully he trickles in soon.”

A few of the windows on the second floor were illuminated; their heavy curtains drawn open for the night. Simon looked through them.

“There’s a couple guards in front of the apartments.”

“Yeah? Looks like you were right about Ludovico, then.”

Simon hummed in response. A light breeze blew across the roof. He took in a deep inhale. The location was a serene respite from the chaos of the night below. Stars sparkled overhead amid the light pollution.

“Dinnae how do you do it,” Soap interjected after some time.

“Do what.”

“The mask. Feckin’ sweltering under this,” he let out a sigh. “Ever take it off?”

Your thumb tracing the scar on his lip. Up his cheekbones and thick brows. The way you kissed across his face.

“Negative.”

“Are you ugly?”

So fucking beautiful. Let me make you feel good, baby.

“Quite the opposite.”

Soap hummed. “I doubt that.”

Simon shivered alone on the roof. Lost in the memory he replayed often. There hadn’t been anyone since you.

“Think I see Yosef.” Soap’s whisper brought him back to the present.

“Positive?” Simon felt his pulse quicken slightly. He waited for a response.

“Affirmative. Moving in now.”

Soap’s mic picked up ambient sound of the event. A few expletives exchanged as he bumped into Yosef, before patting the small spill of prosecco off his jacket. The Israeli’s voice dimmed as Soap moved away.

“It’s done.”

Simon checked his phone. The screen now had two blinking dots. One for Soap and one for Yosef.

“Good man,” he replied into the comms. “Spot Ludovico yet?”

“Negative.” Soap let out an exhale. “Place is filling up.”

Simon continued his survey of the palace, looking for any activity on the second floor. So far, it was still quiet.

“Keep an eye out.”

“Copy.”

The night was getting louder as more people came out to enjoy the festivities. Directly below Simon, the canal reflected the rising moon; its calm waters like ink. He adjusted his position. The metal of his knife dug into his ribs underneath his cloak.

“Hey Ghost?” Soap broke the silence again.

“What.”

“What looks like the phantom of the opera tonight on steroids?”

Simon released a long exhale.

Soap snickered into the mic. “You.”

“Hey Johnny?”

“Aye, chief?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Fair enough,” Soap replied, voice still filled with humor.

Simon shook his head.

“Eyes on Ludovico,” Soap said suddenly, in a more serious tone.

Simon shifted. “Right. What’s he doing?”

“Having a grand time havrin' away.”

“English, Johnny.”

“He’s. Shootin’. The Shit.”

The Brit sighed, staring intensely at the palace—like he could see through it if he tried hard enough. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Hold on. Some lass in red just waltzed up to him.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Simon’s consciously tried to calm his pulse. He didn't like unknowns.

“And?”

“Shit, they’re on the move together. Want me to follow them?”

Simon glanced at his phone. Yosef was still in the ballroom; Soap had some time before they would make the deal. “Affirmative. But be discreet.”

Soap scoffed on the other end of the comms.

Simon tapped into his patience as he waited to hear from the sergeant. Sitting alone on the roof, he kept monitoring the second floor as if that would speed time. The guards were in their same position, looking bored. He took a deep breath in and glanced at the sky. At least it was a clear night.

“Alright,” Soap chimed in after some time. “They exited the ballroom, but I lost them after they went into the East Wing. They just vanished like.”

Simon let out a low groan. “Hold position.”

“Copy.”

He brought his binoculars back up and studied through the open windows. After a few minutes, a wall panel open. Sure enough, Ludovico and the woman in red stepped outside. Her black mask obscured her face, but the way she carried herself sent a spike of adrenaline through Simon.

“Spotted them on the second floor.” He continued to observe.

The couple moved down the hall, her arm wrapped around his. Now at full attention, the two guards spoke to Ludovico as the woman in red waited patiently. They opened the doors to the apartment room.

“What’s the situation, Ghost?” Soap’s voice broke through the comm.

Simon shook his head. “They’re in his room.”

Soap paused. “We’re sure Yosef’s the buyer tonight? Him having that drive is the only way we can get him.”

Growing irritated, Simon ran through the possibility that maybe their intel was wrong. If that was the case, this whole mission was pointless and it was another one of their fruitless chases after the man. Yosef had to be the buyer.

“This’s what we’re here for. Intel said he was so we have to trust it.”

The woman was at the window now, staring at the canal below. Light from the waxing moon washed her toned chest in a soft glow. She was pretty, in spite of the mask. Under scrutiny of the binoculars, Simon watched her gloved hand slip into her outfit.

“Hold on…” he spoke into the mic.

“What is it, Ghost?”

He watched her pour the vial into her wine and swirl it around. Ludovico prowled behind her. She angled her head up, staring directly at him through the window. Simon’s heart was hammering in his chest now. He held his breath, completely still on the roof—her eyes seemed to pierce right through him. Then Ludovico’s hands were on her waist and his lips on her neck. Her look was vacant as the man caressed her. She turned around.

“Ghost, how copy?”

Simon followed her with the binoculars. “Wait,” he gruffed.

The woman raised the glass to her lips, then was kissing Ludovico. The Italian’s hands were frantic at her hips. Simon watched. It felt like he was intruding, but he didn’t look away. There was more to be seen. The vixen sat down on the bed; the chords in her neck were visible even through the binoculars. Simon waited.

It all happened very quickly. First, Ludovico fell, then the woman in red was reaching inside his jacket. She grabbed the drive from inside and tucked it away into her costume.

“Fucking ‘ell.” Simon breathed. He glanced at his phone. Yosef was starting to move toward the exit of the ballroom. “Soap, Yosef’s on the move.”

“I have eyes on him,” Soap responded. “Went back to the ballroom while you were taking your sweet time getting back—”

“Bitch has the fuckin’ hard-drive,” Simon cut in.

“Wait, what? She’s the buyer?”

“No,” he ground out. “Drugged Ludovico and is fucking fumblin' around for an exit now.”

Simon watched her pull back the tapestry and enter the wall. He cursed under his breath, quickly packing up his gear.

“Keep your eyes on our target. I’m going after the drive.”

“Feck!” Soap spat the expletive quietly. No exchange, no Yosef. “Can’t we just bring him in and plant it on him?”

It wasn’t a bad idea, except for one small problem: the transfer hadn’t been made. As it was, nothing illegal had actually happened yet.

“Negative.” Simon quietly jumped across the small gap the to the next roof. Here he could better make out the front of the palace. “Yosef needs to actually make the purchase.”

Soap cussed on the other end of the comms. The sea of costumes in the square below was dizzying. Simon focused intensely. His large chest heaved with each tense breath. Then, after a few minutes, he saw the crimson dress stumbling into the crowd.

“She’s headed north. In pursuit.”

Simon descended the roof top and hurried along the canal to the other side. His height was to his advantage as he scanned over the endless masks. A flash of red in the crowd ahead and he was on her again. She was only a few buildings in front of him now. He stalked her as she drunkenly walked on.

He quickly dipped behind the cover of a column, melding into the shadows. Only the contours of his golden skull were illuminated by the rising moon. She collected her breath on the bridge in front of him, glittering chest heaving against her binding. Her eyes darted around the street. Again, she looked directly at him—this time with apprehension. Simon held his breath, waiting. Then she moved her head and pushed away from the railing of the bridge. He silently followed.

Despite her efforts to lose him—ducking between side streets and down tight alleyways—Simon still found the door to the building she escaped to. The lock was easy to pick. He cautiously opened the door. The stairway inside was dark. It didn’t matter. Darkness was where he excelled.

Silent-footed, Simon ascended the stairs. The door at the end was ajar. He knew she’d be waiting for him. Even though most of her was covered, he could tell she was fit; he didn’t want to underestimate the woman, but he also didn’t want to kill her—not until he secured the data anyway. He edged slowly to her door. 

In a flash, the glint of a knife struck at him. He quickly grabbed her arm and smashed it across the door frame, loosening the weapon and tossing it further into her room. She let out a strangled cry, but then she was kicking him. The blow landed against his ribs and he let out a deep sound. She could kick like a mule. Simon released her arm and grabbed her thigh with the next kick. He spun her around and slammed her heavily into the wooden floor. She groaned, eyes squeezing shut as the wind was knocked out of her. She slowly turned, crawling after the large tactical knife. The duffle bag slipped off her shoulder. 

Simon calmly stalked after the woman, looming over her small frame like Death himself. He yanked her up in a reverse chokehold. Her feet scrabbled across the floor. The heels of her shoes left marks on the wood. He leant to her ear.

“Where’s the hard-drive.” It was steel against concrete. 

She kicked hard at his shin. He exhaled sharply and released her, before pushing her back against the wall. A picture frame crashed onto the floor. His large hand fit so easily around her throat. Her eyes widened at the sight of his skull mask; his fell gelid on her.

“Where. Is. It.” He bent half his body down to reach her bag, dumping its contents across the floor. She clung to his hand around her neck.

“S-Si—” her scarlet lips moved. She was on her tiptoes now. Her face was turning a darker shade.

“Point to it.”

Her grip started to loosen against the hand on her throat. She opened her mouth again but no sound came out. Simon didn’t let up the pressure. In one last effort,  her hand groped the side of her mask, yanking it and the wig off at the same time. Simon immediately let go, eyes wide with panic.

You crumpled to the floor, gasping for air.

_______

eee hope y'all like it!

For those who asked to be tagged on In the Bleak Midwinter! Let me know if you want to be untagged for this story at all.

@deadbranch @k4marina @solidly-indulgent @embers-of-alluring @shuttlelauncher81 @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @tomhardy41

[scapegrace74-blog]

The Man from Black Water, Chapter 11

A/N  This is the scene from the movie I was most excited to put into words (and into Scotland), and I’m really happy with how it turned out.  In it, Claire learns just how inhospitable the Highlands can be.

Also, I belatedly noticed that I’d left Rollo out of the action in Chapter 10.  I’ll be going back to fix that oversight, but only on the AO3 version of the story.

“I don’t understand,” Henry Beauchamp said plaintively, mostly to himself.  “She’s never done anything like this before.”

Netherton Estate had been in an uproar since breakfast time when Claire’s absence was discovered.   A search of the outbuildings yielded no sign of the young woman save for an empty stall where her riding horse was usually found.

“I want the men saddled up and ready to ride in twenty minutes,” Henry demanded of Dougal Mackenzie.

“They’ll be nae use tae us,” Dougal explained with a shake of his head.

“The weather is starting to turn,” Henry muttered, continuing to stride towards the stables.  When Dougal didn’t immediately follow, he wheeled on him.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?”

“The men arenna any use tae us.  They’ve been drinking since they got back from the muster.”

Furious, the landowner stalked into the bunkhouse.  As predicted, the stockhands were in various stages of unconsciousness.  Henry lifted Angus from his bunk by his waistcoat and shook him hard, but the small man showed no signs of life beyond a noxious belch.

Black Jack snored loudly in his bunk, but the fact he was beneath his blankets showed some promise.

“Wake up, Auld Man,” Dougal shouted as he grasped the worker by the shoulder.

Coming to wakefulness in one startled gasp, Black Jack had his knife against the overseer’s throat before his eyes were fully open.

“It wasna me!” he asserted.

Dougal coolly brushed the knife away.

“Ye best be careful what ye say in yer sleep,” he advised. “Claire has gone an’ got herself lost. I need a tracker, and ye’re it.”

“I canna see tae find my boots,” Black Jack protested as he stumbled to his feet.

“Then go without them!”

***

As the morning wore on, Claire frequently glanced back down the long glen, trying to determine if she was being followed.   While Jamie had described his farm as “up the Black Water”, she had no idea just how great that distance might be.  She was riding along the side of the old military road, which in turn followed the western bank of the swiftly flowing River Shee.  Stopping at noontime to eat some bread and cheese pilfered from the Netherton kitchen, Claire considered her plight.

There was no way to know where Jamie had gone to search for her father’s cattle.  In the absence of a fixed destination, she’d been navigating blindly in the direction of his croft, hoping by some miracle to run across him, or at least another Highlander who might know his whereabouts.

Instead, the valley stretched endless and empty.  The mountains on either side of the road grew in height until they obscured the rapidly setting sun, and the lowland housed only herds of sheep and the occasional stone ruin, the hollow remnants of a community long since scattered. To make matters worse, it was getting steadily colder, with a sharp wind that sliced straight through her fur-trimmed winter cloak.  An occasional snowflake melted as it met her cheek.

After countless miles, the military road veered sharply north, fording the river on an elegant stone bridge before rising into a steep-sided vale.  A narrow track followed the river as it continued westward, and it was on this that Claire turned, certain that Jamie hadn’t mentioned crossing a mountain pass to reach his home.  The track forked, then forked again.  With each split it grew fainter, the heather and gorse on either side rising above Kip’s knees.

A sudden gust of icy wind blew back the hood of Claire’s cloak. Lifting her eyes from the futile search for a clear path, she realized with dismay that it was nearly dark, and that it had begun to snow heavily.  Eerie howls came out of the dark, scaring Kip, who began to toss her head and whicker in fear.

“Come on, Kip” Claire called into the wind, trying to urge the terrified horse forward.  Normally docile as a lamb, the grey mare locked her knees, refusing to budge another step.

Now truly alarmed, Claire dismounted and tried to drag her mount forward by the reins.  The storm had descended with incredible ferocity, submerging the pair in constant eddies of white.  Claire thought she could make out a solid black shadow just off the path, its outlines reminiscent of a house.

“Jamie!” she cried, even though no light emerged from the structure.  Only the shriek of the wind answered back.

“Kip, we have to go!”   Claire leaned into the wind, desperately trying to drag her horse forwards. The mare reared, rolling her eyes in terror.  The reins gave way, and Claire fell backwards.   Instead of solid earth, she descended through space, arms windmilling wildly and a truncated scream frozen in her throat.

The ground rose up from the dark abyss.  She landed hard against her back, knocking the air from her lungs.  All around was a vast emptiness that she knew instinctively signified death.  Clinging to the rock face beneath her body with every ounce of strength she possessed, Claire Beauchamp began to pray.

***

His plaid was covered with four inches of fresh snow when Jamie and Rollo woke the following morning, but the sky was iridescent blue.  The storm had blown itself out and the Highlands were adorned in their finest silver raiment.

After a hasty cup of coffee and a bannock for breakfast, the young man saddled Donas and began the slow descent into the valley below, letting Rollo driving the cows before them.  The snow would slow their progress, but Jamie couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

If he hadn’t been looking about him at the majesty of his birthplace, he might have missed the footprints, obscured as they were by windblown drifts. A single horse passing over the mountain during the night was an oddity, but these tracks indicated an animal moving at great speed along the edge of a steep corrie.  Unable to quell a chill of dread, Jamie abandoned the cows to Rollo’s care and followed the mysterious trail.

A quarter mile later, he came across the body of a dead horse at the base of a small cliff.  As he approached, horror rose in his throat as he recognized the familiar saddle and dapple-grey markings of Claire Beauchamp’s favourite mare.

“Claire?” he wheezed, spinning around in circles as though she might suddenly materialize from the rock.

“Claire!” he cried out, heart racing so quickly he could feel his pulse hammering in his neck.

Spurring Donas uphill, he retraced his steps, galloping heedless through the herd of cattle and scattering them like thistle down.  Rollo barked madly and chased after him.  

Kip’s hoofprints followed the contour of the plateau, softly rounded to the east but falling away sharply away to a steep north facing cliff.

“Claire!” he screamed repeatedly, wame churning with utter devastation as he thought of her being lost, injured, or worse.

“Claire!” he bellowed from the ridgetop.  “Sassenach!”   Rollo sniffed the air and whined.

“Help,” a gust of air replied, so faint he thought he might have imagined it.  “Help me,” the air pled, slightly louder.

Jamie rushed towards the sound, struggling not to slip and fall over the cliff himself.  Louder and louder the cries for aid grew until at last they rose from directly beneath his feet.   Lying on his belly in the snow, Jamie peered over the edge and was met by the most glorious sight of his young life.  Golden eyes, framed by wild knots of brown hair, stared back up at him from a narrow ledge some ten feet down.  Beyond the ledge lay emptiness, the valley floor far below.

“Sassenach!  Dinna move. I’ll pull ye up.”

Running on numb legs, Jamie fetched his stock whip from his saddle and returned to the cliff.  Wrapping the thong several times around his wrist, he lowered the butt end carefully until it was within reach of Claire’s icy hands.  Using every ounce of his strength, he steadily pulled backwards until her body lay beside him the snow, both gasping and crying by turns.

“Are ye alright, Sassenach?” he asked frantically.  “Ye’re no’ hurt?”

Claire shook her head where it lay on his outstretched arm, but her lips were an alarming shade of blue against the parchment white of her skin. Her pupils were so large they almost obscured the golden rim, and she stared at him with disbelief, as though he might be a ghost.

“Come, lass,” he urged.  “We must get ye someplace warm.”

Lifting the young Englishwoman onto Donas’ back, Jamie steered his horse down the long ridge and towards the glen floor, his ever-loyal dog in tow. He spoke constantly, in Gaelic, English and Latin; anything to tether the frozen woman to consciousness.  For her part, Claire mumbled indistinctly and shivered so hard it made his teeth rattle.  Occasionally she would jolt as though stung and call out his name.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked in a rare moment of lucidity.

“Back home,” Jamie replied.  “I’m takin’ ye tae Lallybroch.”

[lopsided-whiskey-grin]

I Knew Him - chapter 3

Ghost x Soap Winter Soldier AU

Summary: Soap was never the same after he lost Ghost all those years ago. He still has nightmares about it. But when he learns Makarov is back after taking Ghost from him, he'll do anything to exact his revenge. Until he discovers Ghost was never really gone.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | AO3 link

With a pounding heart, Soap burst through the door to the tenth floor without even checking his six. He was far too desperate to finish this to even give second thought to his own safety.

The area was eerily clear of enemies. It was little more than a roughed-out construction site with bare concrete floors, exposed wiring hanging from the high ceilings, and scaffolding and building supplies stacked all around him. He knew Ghost was here somewhere and the stark realization tightened a tangle of emotion deep in his gut, making him queasy. He understood that he was on a knife's edge in this moment—wanting to see Ghost again and knowing if he did it surely meant a fight to the death if he couldn’t get through to him. Ghost, please, remember me.

A quick glance around the long, massive room revealed the bomb in the center. This whole level of the art museum was the skybridge floor that Laswell’s intel had indicated and it stretched 25 meters above the wide swath of Rock Creek below. The menacingly sophisticated block of wires and blinking lights of the weapon was nestled against a metal railing that overlooked a glass floor five meters below, giving a vertigo-inducing look at the river. Soap's hand instinctively went to the card in a pocket on his tac vest near his heart. A nervous rush of adrenaline pounded through him. He was so fucking close to finishing this…as long as Ghost didn’t try to stop him.  

You know what you have to do. Gaz's words echoed in his brain, sobering him like a slap to the face as he advanced toward the bomb. He knew in his heart of hearts he would take Ghost out—to save the people of this city, he would. But the man he knew, the man he loved, was not much more than a machine now, and Soap didn't know if he was physically strong enough to bring him down if it came to that; their fight on the bridge more or less proved it. And so he hoped with everything inside him that he could instead get through to Ghost, that he could somehow make him remember who he was and what they had shared. Because if he failed, there was no doubt in his mind this would end in bloodshed. 

Steeling himself, Soap rolled his shoulders back and brought up his AK. Then he carefully began making his way to the center of the room. He was nearly to the bomb when Ghost finally made his appearance. 

Soap’s heart jumped up into his throat when he saw him step out from behind a tall stack of concrete blocks fifteen feet before him. Ghost came to a stop directly in his line of sight, placing himself right between Soap and Makarov’s weapon. 

Ghost was dressed in the same black gear that he had been wearing on the bridge, but without the hood and mask obscuring his face. His dark blond hair was long, hanging almost all the way to his shoulders, and he had a few more scars marring his skin than the last time Soap had seen him… before the fall. But it was still Ghost, still Simon. Soap knew he was in there, somewhere. 

“People will die, Ghost,” he said, lowering his gun marginally. “I cannae let that happen.”

Ghost stared at him, his pistol held tensely at his side. There was no hint of recollection in his eyes. Only thinly veiled murderous intent. Soap swallowed down the painful lump in his throat, trying not to remember how those dark eyes had looked at him with such love just five years before. 

Soap pulled in a shaky breath, praying Ghost would surrender before this went any further. “Please, don’t make me do this.” 

Ghost narrowed his eyes and pressed his mouth into a tight, determined line. And Soap knew, heartbreakingly, that the time for talking was over. 

Without a second thought, Soap lunged forward and popped off a couple rounds, which Ghost easily blocked with his metal arm, then picked up a round garbage can lid as he closed the distance between them. He was determined to use anything in his path to fight his way to the bomb. It was the only hope he had. 

Snarling, Ghost raised his gun as Soap closed the distance between them. And just as he was about to pull the trigger, Soap banked to the left and chucked the garbage can lid right at Ghost’s chest, effectively catching him off guard. Ghost’s shot was thrown off target, but still managed to graze Soap’s hip. Soap hissed at the pain that shot up his side, but he did not stop. 

Soap fired at him again, but neither of his shots landed. As he was running by to get behind Ghost to the bomb, Ghost reached out and grabbed Soap by the back of his tac vest, pulling him off his feet and sending his AK sliding across the floor. Soap landed with a grunt, but rolled away just as Ghost tried landing a kick to his ribs. 

He grabbed the garbage can lid up from the ground, right as Ghost leveled his pistol at him again, and with all the strength inside him, he surged to his feet and swung the aluminum lid at Ghost’s hand. It connected with a teeth rattling clang that knocked the gun straight from his grasp. A cold sweat broke out on the nape of Soap’s neck when he saw Ghost pull a knife from his vest—he knew exactly how good Ghost was with a blade and it did not bode well for him at all. 

Not taking any time to dwell on it, Soap punched Ghost as hard as he could in the jaw, narrowly missing a swipe from his knife. It knocked Ghost back a couple steps, far enough for Soap to haul ass the last few meters to the bomb. 

He had just enough time to open the compartment on the front panel and pull out the original chip. But right as he was taking Laswell’s replacement chip from his pocket, Ghost caught up to him, and with a heart-stopping growl, threw him up against the railing overlooking the river. Soap hissed in pain and dropped the chip down onto the glass floor of the skybridge. Shit shit shit. 

Ghost grabbed him by the front of his vest and was about to slam him into the railing again, but Soap was able to get his feet under him just in time to knee Ghost in the balls. Ghost released Soap’s vest and doubled over immediately. So he’s not all machine, then, Soap thought smugly to himself. 

Casting a quick glance down to where the chip had landed, Soap climbed over the railing and carefully dropped down onto the thick glass floor. Adrenaline was pumping through him, staving off the pain of his injuries somewhat, but he could still feel the throb from the bullet wound on his hip with each inhale. 

A rush of relief crested through him when he scooped up the precious chip and saw it was still intact. That relief was quickly doused, though, when Soap turned around to look for a way back up to the bomb just in time to see Ghost jumping down from the upper deck. He landed on his feet with a heavy thud. Soap’s heart knocked heavily in his chest.

Unchecked rage was etched across Ghost’s face as he flipped the knife in his hand a couple times. The memory of Ghost, Soap’s Ghost, doing that trick with the blade, rose unbidden in Soap’s mind and he was immediately transported back to the kitchen in their flat where Ghost was chopping vegetables and flipping his knife around and Soap was teasing him about chopping his own damn finger off if he wasn’t careful. The clarity of the memory punched the air straight out of Soap’s lungs and he gasped in a breath. 

Ghost looked at him with no recognition whatsoever. And it damn near broke Soap’s heart. It was like losing Simon all over again. Swallowing thickly, Soap closed his fingers around the chip and braced himself for the fight to come.  

Heavy silence hung between them until Ghost tilted his head to the side, then snarled. He rushed forward, swinging his knife in precise, deadly arcs. Soap blocked the first attack, but when Ghost pressed in close, trying to drive his knife into Soap’s chest, the strength behind it was almost more than Soap could fend off. He pushed back against the knife with everything he had but still saw it inching closer. His last resort was to head-butt Ghost and so he did—twice. It left him momentarily dazed and it knocked Ghost back a step, but not before he sliced a deep gash to Soap’s shoulder. 

Soap’s fingers spasmed involuntarily and he dropped the chip. He was not fast enough to pick it up this time. Ghost scrambled across the floor, blood trickling down his forehead, and grabbed it. 

Soap, still reeling from cracking his skull against Ghost’s, didn’t think twice about jumping on top of him. They tussled for a moment, and Soap was somehow able to roll behind him and put Ghost in a headlock, with his non-metal arm up above his head. 

“Drop it, Ghost!” he shouted, squeezing his elbow around Ghost’s neck. 

Ghost struggled against him, but Soap only held on tighter. He squeezed tight enough to dislocate Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost howled in pain, but he still did not release the chip. 

“Fucking drop it!” Soap cried desperately. 

A pang of sadness swept through him. He had dreamt of nothing more these last five years than having Simon back. It was all he'd wanted. But not like this. This was like some hideous fucking cosmic joke. Whatever Makarov had done to him had taken away everything Soap had ever loved. Having him back, alive, but having to go through with this? Having to lose him all over again? It made him sick with grief.

Ghost let out an enraged growl and tried swiping back at Soap with his metal arm. Soap moved his head to the side to dodge it and wrapped his legs around Ghost’s middle for more leverage. It was like when they used to spar during training sessions—Soap was always better at pinning Ghost back then, too, even though Ghost had a height advantage over him. But this wasn’t a training session…this was life or death.

After what felt like an eternity of holding on, Ghost finally went slack. His hand went limp and he released the chip onto the glass floor. Soap sucked in a ragged breath and shimmied out from under him. Scooping the chip up once more, he took off for a scaffolding tower that led back up to the main level with only one look over his shoulder at Ghost. He still had a chance to get through to him. Once he disabled this bomb, once the people of this city were safe, he would try again. He wasn’t ready to give up on Simon just yet. 

Ghost jolted back to consciousness with a broken gasp. He didn’t know where he was for a moment and his whole body hurt. But then he looked up and saw the man with the blue eyes climbing up to the bomb and Makarov’s orders took over everything: protect the счисление пути, no matter the cost. Sergeant John MacTavish will try to stop you. You are to take him out. 

Stumbling to his feet, Ghost looked around for a weapon. His right arm was hanging uselessly at his side and he knew he would not be able to climb up after the man, not in enough time to stop him. Ghost suddenly spotted his pistol on the ground a few meters away and picked it up with his functional arm. A warm rivulet of blood tracked down his forehead and over the bridge of his nose but he blinked it out of his eye as he leveled the gun at the man. 

The numb rage that was Ghost’s constant companion helped to blot out some of the pain coursing through him, but not all of it. It didn’t really matter though. All that mattered was the mission and the objective. That was all. 

The man was at the bomb now and he was opening the control compartment. Ghost tried aiming but it was hard to focus. A whisper of a memory called to him and, for a moment, Ghost thought he might have met the man standing at Makarov’s weapon before. Before today? He couldn’t remember. Everything in his mind was so tangled up he couldn’t think straight. Laying in bed. Smiling. Blue eyes.

A white hot flash of pain lanced through Ghost’s skull and he pressed the heel of his hand, still holding his gun, to his temple. He felt like he was being torn in two from memories he couldn’t quite grasp, memories that might not even be real. But his objective was all-powerful and it ultimately won out again. He aimed the gun once more. He aimed it straight at his target’s head. 

And right as he was about to pull the trigger, that confusing knot of memories resurfaced. He couldn’t do it. Don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it please don’t. The shot that should have finished this instead grazed his target’s shoulder. It knocked the man back a step but it did not stop him. 

Ghost grit his teeth, on the very verge of losing his mind. TAKE HIM OUT. He could not disobey Makarov’s direct order and yet another part of him was begging him to defy it. A whimper filtered up in Ghost’s throat as he brought the gun up again. His hand shook and it startled him. His hand never shook. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger. When he opened them he saw the man looking at him. His shot had not even come close to the target this time. 

Panic mixed fluidly with rage-driven fear. Ghost didn’t know what to do. He’d never felt this way before. Yes, you have, a small voice at the back of his mind said. When you fell. Don’t you remember? The man with the blue eyes, he was reaching for you. Ghost shook his head and took an unsteady step forward. 

When he looked up again, he saw the man running away from Makarov’s weapon. He was yelling at Ghost to get to cover. But Ghost, in his utter confusion, did not understand until the bomb went off. 

The very next second an ear piercing squeal assaulted Ghost’s ears and he was blown backward. Part of the ceiling began raining down huge scraps of metal and concrete and Ghost suddenly found himself trapped under a heavy steel beam. The explosion that he knew Makarov’s bomb was capable of would have leveled half of this city, so Ghost realized the man with the blue eyes must have disabled it only part way before it went off.  

He didn't have time to dwell on it. The glass floor beneath him was beginning to crack under the weight of the debris falling from the ceiling. It groaned and shuddered like a massive sheet of ice about to give way. Ghost squirmed desperately, trying to get out from under the beam, but with only one functional arm, it was impossible. 

The man with the blue eyes was suddenly at his side. Ghost looked up at him, bewildered. Why had he come back? To finish him off, most likely. He had to get out from under this beam, he had to complete his objective. With his last reserve of strength left in him, Ghost pushed back on the beam while the man lifted. It was just enough space for him to slide out. And as soon as he did, he was up on his feet, ready to fight again. 

“You know me,” the man said, panting. He looked as wrecked as Ghost felt. 

A fury Ghost had never known boiled over inside him. His mind had been so broken for so long, he didn’t have the energy to try to piece it back together anymore. 

“No, I don’t!” he shouted, bringing up his fist to punch him. 

He struck the man’s face and watched as he went down on one knee. Ghost’s chest heaved as the man stood up again slowly. A bruise was already beginning to form on his cheek. Seeing it made Ghost’s heart clench painfully under his ribs, but he couldn’t say why. 

“Ghost, you’ve known me for years.”

Conflicting memories tore at Ghost, confusing him more than ever. Laying in bed with the man, holding his face, smiling, laughing, falling, falling, falling. None of it made sense. He lashed out, hitting the man again, this time with a backhand. The man went down once more, but got up again after a moment. Ghost felt hot, angry tears well up in his eyes and he quickly dashed them away with the palm of his metal hand. 

The man with the dark hair was unsteady on his feet. His bottom lip was swollen and split. Blood was tracking down his chin in a thin red line. “Your name is Simon Riley,” he rasped. 

That name. It tugged at something deep in Ghost’s brain. It hurt to think about. Raw indignation quickly replaced the pain. “Shut up!” 

Ghost pushed him back but they both stumbled when the skybridge trembled. The whole thing would be in the river below soon. Ghost didn’t particularly care. As long as he fulfilled his duty to Makarov, that was enough. 

“I’m not going to fight you, Simon,” the man said, voice cracking. His hands fell to his sides and his lip quivered. “You’re the love of my life.”

Incandescent rage consumed him. There were too many things warring inside him that he didn’t understand. And so he did the only thing he knew left to do. He tackled him. If he made him stop talking, then maybe the agony in his mind would finally end. 

“You’re my mission!” Ghost roared, knocking him to the ground and straddling him on one of the cracking glass panels. He grabbed the man’s vest and shook him hard. The man didn’t fight back—didn’t try to escape Ghost’s grasp. He laid his hand over Ghost’s where it was gripping his shoulder strap.

Ghost raised his fist, ready to lay another punch to the man’s face.

The man only looked up at him with those blue eyes, crushing Ghost with an indescribable sincerity when he said, “Then finish it. ‘Cause we’re a team, Simon. No one fights alone.”

Ghost froze, eyes wide and mouth slack. He drug air into his lungs in heavy gasps with his fist still poised to strike. With those words it all came flooding back. Everything. 

Johnny.

Falling from the helo, Johnny screaming for him, Makarov’s experiments. There were still so many fractured pieces that wouldn’t fit together the right way, but the whole picture was clearer now than it had ever been. Chest heaving, Ghost slowly lowered his fist. 

“Johnny?” He breathed his name like he was waking from a long slumber full of nightmares. 

Johnny’s brows drew together and a palpable wave of relief washed over his face as Ghost looked down at him. Ghost’s heart thundered in his ears when Johnny brought a hand up to cup his cheek.

 “Simon,” he said, voice thick with emotion and eyes shimmering. “I thought I’d lost ya.” 

Ghost wanted to nuzzle into the touch, but he was still battling against the deeply ingrained and unrelenting drive to follow Makarov’s orders. Sergeant John MacTavish will try to stop you. You are to take him out. Understood? He couldn’t stop his fist from tightening over the strap of Johnny’s vest. The memories he’d just gathered began slipping away again along with his control over his own mind. Gritting his teeth and fighting with every last reserve of strength, Ghost loosened his grasp and let go of the strap. The fingers of his metal hand trembled as he drew them back. 

Ghost was about to stand, to pull Johnny to his feet and shove him toward the stairwell, fully intending to force him as far away as possible. He didn’t trust himself not to hurt him. 

He needed to find Makarov, needed to make him pay for what he’d done. And then, when Ghost was certain that bastard couldn’t come after him again, he’d find Johnny once more. It tore his heart to shreds, but it was the only way he could make sure Johnny was safe…from Ghost himself, most especially. 

But just as he'd made up his mind and was pushing to his feet, the glass floor gave way and he and Johnny were suddenly falling into the river below. 

Soap only had a few moments of looking into Simon’s eyes, his Simon’s eyes, before he found himself plunging down into Rock Creek far below the collapsing skybridge. It was such an unexpected jolt, he barely had time to hold his breath as he was crashing into the freezing water. He tried kicking to the surface, but the amount of debris falling down around him disoriented him and made it hard to catch his bearings. 

Vision fading at the edges, Soap looked up through the murky depths to see Simon’s metal arm reaching out for him. He latched onto his hand. And then everything went dark.

The next thing Soap knew, he was on his back on the rough sandy shore, coughing up river water. He opened his eyes slowly. Simon was standing above him, dripping wet and holding his injured arm against his side with his metal arm. Soap tried sitting up, but felt like he’d been hit by a Mack truck. He sunk back down with a grunt.  

“Simon,” he croaked, throat raw from inhaling water.  

But Ghost began turning away. Soap reached for him. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. How could Simon leave now that Soap had just found him? He saw that recognition in Simon’s eyes up there on the skybridge. He knew he did .  

“Please, don’t go.” Tears stung his eyes. 

“I have to stop him.” Ghost paused and turned back to look at Soap. ” I’ll come back to you, Johnny. I swear it.” 

Soap tried reaching for him again, but everything went fuzzy and dark. 

When he opened his eyes this time, Soap found himself in a hospital bed. Various machines were beeping softly and warm sunlight was shining in through a large window on the other side of the room. Soap felt pain-free, but in the numb, medically induced way. It couldn’t touch the pain of the ache deep in his chest, though, of losing Simon all over again. If he would have just waited, Soap would have willingly gone with him, to fight beside him. Once he was out of this hospital, he’d hunt Makarov down himself, whether Price gave him the order to or not…It was the only way he’d find Simon again. 

Blinking back tears, Soap looked around. There was another bed in the room. With Gaz dozing away in it. His leg was bandaged up and he was sporting a few more cuts and scrapes, but he was otherwise intact. 

Soap smiled and pulled a pen off his bedside table. He tossed it at Gaz, waking him up. He knew he could count on Gaz to come with him, too, if he asked. The 141 stuck together, no matter what. No one fights alone. 

“On your left, Sergeant.”  

[katsigian]

𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕂𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕄𝕖

Tagged by @devilbrakers thank you! I'm also going to tag some people but only if you'd like to and there's no pressure to share if you'd rather not @rindemption @noirapocalypto @uldwynsovs @aartyom @nuclearstorms @reaperkiller @halsin @noonfaerie @aelyosos @swanfey @bunfey @spicyraeman @breezypunk @elvenbeard @miss--river @kharonion @jaymber @f001onthehill @hydrasshole @pinkydude @a-pirate @saevus-brutalis @st-rx @sammysilverdyne also I'm sorry if anyone has already done this, feel free to ignore!

1. are you named after anyone? 

A character from a book but I cannae remember which now.

2. when was the last time you cried?

About a week ago. Got overwhelmed and had to have a sob about it.

3. do you have kids? 

None at all and I intend to keep it that way.

4. do you use sarcasm a lot? 

No, never, not once in my life before.

5. what sports do you play/have you played? 

Softball, volleyball, track and field. I do kinda miss them sometimes, especially softball.

6. what's the first thing you notice about other people? 

How they make me feel. My gut intuition is the first thing I pay attention to and if someone makes me feel weird, I walk the other direction.

7. eye color? 

Light-ish brown.

8. scary movies or happy endings? 

I'm not a big fan of horror movies, I can really only handle ghost ones because the gore in most just squick me out 😅 so I'll say happy endings.

9. any special talents? 

I function really well in high stress situations??? Is that a special talent

10. where were you born? 

Western Canada, cowboy country.

11. what are your hobbies? 

Creating art in many different forms; writing, virtual photography, drawing, painting, digital art, tattoo design. Plus video games, hiking, camping, etc etc.

12. do you have any pets? 

Three whole cats.

13. how tall are you? 

5'11"/180cm

14. fave subject in school? 

Art and English.

15. dream job? 

I do not dream of labour ghehdhs I would say it's any job that allows me the time to enjoy my life still and also the money to buy a coffee everyday/to buy gifts for my loved ones whenever I feel like it. I just want a job that lets me live.

[a-luran]

So, England hates the air France breathes but also they're probably soulmates or at least each the other's closest friend, and Scotland and France were basically, if not literally, married. What about Wales, Ireland, and N.Ireland though? Francis is their closest neighbor so I imagine they've all known him a long time but that's about all I've got head cannon wise, and I'd love to hear your opinion. 💕💕💕

hello! aye I think that as their close neighbour (rendered closer by virtue of his ahem, association with Scot and England) they know him fairly well.

If you ask them, probably too well.

On the surface, France is probably the most comfortable around Wales. They are both well read and charming in polite company. In histo-political terms, France is Wales' second largest export destination (literally a relationship forged in iron and steel), Breton and Welsh have a few words in common, for all that they are starkly different language. The modern cultural exchange between Wales and France is notable. That being said, I think that Wales on a personal level cannae fucking stand the fella. I think he makes his blood boil for no particular reason (or that's what he'll claim, he will say it is nothing personal, only it absolutely is, it is deeply sorely personal). Francis to this day is not sure what tipped the scale and Daffyd is never anything but polite and welcoming, but his eyes betray him. He would (and probably has) tip piping hot tea straight on Francis' lap and say oh dear! how clumsy, me, like didn't do it on purpose. He would smile the entire time. Francis is deeply unnerved and feels like he is going crazy because Arthur and Alasdair both swear that Dai has never so much as breathed an ill word about him. Maybe to the point where it becomes a bit of a sore subject, they are staunch in their defence that dear, lovely Wales would never, and how dare Francis imply (hypocrites, the both of them, it's like they are feigning amnesia because they know damn well what Wales is capable of). But no! they seem to be blind to the underhanded warfare that Wales is waging against him. To this day, no one could say what Francis did that was so grievous except for maybe Ireland but he finds it hilarious so his lips are sealed on the matter.

Ireland is easy to love and like and Francis' only witness to the horreurs he must face, but he is also unsympathetic (Wale steeped a mug of tea and brought everyone biscuits except him, cry me a river) so he is really no use in that regard. I imagine that they would be on amiable terms, and have a decent relationship on independent terms, especially given that Ireland lives a ways away and on his own. When he's mixed in with the rest of the Isles though, I imagine that him laughing at Francis' misery would bruise his pride and lose him some points of favour. Comparatively their histories might not be so deeply entwined but they have developed close links over the centuries. Overall decent, I would say of their relationship. Shame that Ireland always seems to be there to catch Francis at his lowest and most embarrassing moments and, being the good-humoured fella that he is, can you really blame it for finding it hilarious?

In short, I think that where most others get to see the finer side of Francis, because this lot gets him at his most human, a lot of the shine and mystique of him has worn thin over the centuries. He's family, one way or another.

And family is fair game (that is a threat).