#Double Mountain Brewing

[wroteclassicaly]

Warnings: Just some cute and domestic fluff.

Hearing the beeping smoke alarm just regulating. The quiet of the trailer. Even the occasional chirp of the bird Wayne got as a gift from you. He loves birds and bird watching, nowadays. When you wake up, Eddie is asleep, his scarred, bare back at your disposal, sheets pulled around his trim waistline, barely covering his unclothed ass. He’s not the lightest sleeper, so you simply slide out of bed, working your panties back on from last night, a discarded baggy shirt with holes you’d left here, and grab your bath robe off his corner chair. One last look at the messy haired boy in your shared bed, you can’t believe that you’re in this moment with him - so lucky, so happy.

The realization that you’re still a little unsteady on your feet from previous activities, it has you gripping the panel walls. The soft hum of the set has you smiling as you approach the kitchen, Wayne bent over the couch trying to pack a few things in his camp duffel. There’s freshly brewed coffee that you inhale, and Shiner (the bird) makes note of your presence. Your tap a finger at his cage.

“Good mornin’, kiddo. Did I wake you guys?” Wayne manages a smile, and you shake your head.

“Good morning. And no, you didn’t.” You motion towards his bag. “You leaving for a bit?”

It’s so cute how bashful he is. He motions towards the weather report through a haze of colors on the little set. You nod. “Gonna be a stormy day, so thought I’d take my lady fishin’ for a bit. Stay at hers, get some rest before the drive out. She’s makin’ us a picnic.”

You really wanna bottle this man up and keep him safe, because he’s practically glowing right now.

“Did you get breakfast? I can have an omelet and some bacon for in a few minutes.” You place your mug down after several passing moments.

He zips up his bag and shakes his head at you fondly. “Actually, I did. Picked up some McDonald’s after my shift. Left your’s and Ed’s shares in the oven to keep warm. Should be all right still.”

You marvel, thanking him, moving to swiftly kiss his cheek as he zips his bag closed, patting his pockets for a double check. You’re retrieving the food by the time he’s stepping out the door.

“Love ya, sweetheart. Tell my boy I said love him too. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“Love you, Wayne. Be safe, okay? Tell Ms. Henderson we say hello. Let Dustin know Eds will call him a little later for tonight’s match, if you don’t mind?”

~*~

He has woken up, scratching his belly and rubbing his massive, curly bed head, clad in his sweats and a shirt by the time you have the food plated. You pretend you don’t hear him, distracted by task. His soft, spicy scent and the smell of you clings to his skin as he approaches your backside, sliding his arms around you, chin pressing into your shoulder. “You left me in a mountain of sheets. I was lost without you, empress.”

“I think you faired well on your corridor travels, my King.” You turn in his arms to see that cheeky grin.

Both of you automatically lean in to meet mouths, that fresh desperation and desire never failing to excel its presence. “Hey, baby.” You greet in between kisses, his hands squeezing your waist through the fluffy fabric.

On the noisy breakaway, he leaves a few more clicks to your lips, accepting the plate you offer him and the coffee, making a move towards the couch as you join. “Did Wayne have an over?” He tucks a sweat clad length beneath him, one of your borrowed shirts hanging from his slender form.

“Overnight date with Dustin’s momma.”

Eddie just grins, but then he does that face (the one where he knows he’s forgotten something, and attempts to tackle the misplaced thought). You catch on quickly. “Told him to tell Dustin to call later for your meeting details. It’s supposed to storm all day.”

He takes a bit of his sausage breakfast roll, wiggling his brows. “Good. Mother Nature providing the master with her sound effects.”

“And…” he starts with another add on. “Gives us a lot of time to ourselves, sweetheart.”

You simply bury yourself into his neck, listening to his raspy chuckle, and finish your breakfast after Eddie has changed the weather to an old movie channel. You shower first whilst Eddie tidies up the place and puts on clean bedclothes, and he showers after, giving you time to put away the rest of the laundry. He doesn’t waste a second after coming out, not even a towel on. He finds you, already waiting, that sensed, shared energy — encouraged by a summer storm. He lays you down in his bed and you don’t leave until evening… reluctantly.

[hcdragonwrites]

Tangled Love

(A @semisolidmind Drabble)

Ok! I ran this by Semi before I posted just because I know absolutely nothing about LMK (except the animation can be so pretty!) just so I could get their characters down. I hope you all like it !

She just wanted to escape- both from this place and from her own mind tonight.

The ghosts of memories were walking and she had no distractions to chase them away.

Peaches walked the cool cavern halls of Water- Curtain Cave, her feet echoing in the depths. The sandals she wore and the ornamental clothing she had been thrown into made her scalp prickle and her skin itch. It was too much- but the attendants wouldn’t hear a thing about it.

She had to look the part of Queen.

Peaches, in the absence of the Lord of the mountain and his right hand and sword, was the remaining voice of authority.

To a point.

Finishing with courtly duties and listening in on behalf of her husbands wasn't a huge chore. The two of them rarely left at the same time however. If one was called away the other would remain. Or Peaches herself would be brought along.

This time however she hadn’t been.

It was the first time in ten years.

She had just this night- just this moment of reprieve and she would make the most of it. Or so she thought. Instead, she was fighting something that reared its head and struck her nerves like a asp.

However she wasn’t alone quite yet. As she rounded the corner and came to golden lacquered doors of her bedchamber - their bedchamber- she paused.

“Will that be all my queen?” One of the attending retinue of her guard asked. It was a guard her husbands insisted upon whenever both were away from home- a set of seven of the most battle scarred simians Peaches had ever seen.

They were tasked and sworn with following her everywhere - to the dining hall, to the throne room. If she wished to go and sit among the apple trees and listen to the wind play over the mountain grasses her guard would double in size. Peaches tried to not cause the denizens of Flower fruit mountain any more problems or stressors by going outside when both the King and his Brother in arms were away on a war path.

Her husbands.

It’s what they titled themselves now, after a decade of the terrible start they had on their relationship with her. When she had met the two, they had been just tiny monkeys. A sly looking ginger and gold monkey who had loved to cling to her arms and a dark black furred monkey that brought her fruits and almonds from the wild.

My sweet boys.

They had been her monkeys back then- the little prankster angels she had thought were just simple beasts, trying to survive out in the world.

She had been wrong.

The decision to upend her life, she guessed, had been floated around for months between the two disguised demons as they ate her fruit and enjoyed her touches. It was a mutual one that both had decided was the best option for her.

She took a steadying breath, coming back to the present. Peaches wanted a chance to be alone. Something so rare she craved it like a man in a desert craved water.

“Yes, general. I think I’ll retire early for the day.” She smiled at the monkey who dipped his body into a bow. The gleam of his armor set the flickers of a memory brewing. Fire in the trees, the smell of iron on the wind and a figure among the debris. She shook her head to dislodge it. The rest of them weren’t awful to her. Her husbands weren’t awful to her. They had just ….

Taken away her decisions.

“Very well Queen.” Peaches flinched, unable to quite stomach the title and what that truly meant. If I am queen then why am I without choices? “If you need us call us.”

She turned the handle in the door and slipped in side with as much grace as she could muster.

Peaches closed the ornamental doors to the bedroom, resting her head against the door. Steady. Deep breaths. In through her nose out through her mouth.

The illusion of a paradise that Wukong had built and Macaque helped facilitate always lost its color and believability when they were away. They couldn’t feed her the sugared lies and candied perceptions to tamp back the memories of that night.

It had been just another night on the small farm - a June night of heat and singing cicadas- of windows wide open and Peaches trying to escape that heat. There wasn’t much she could do to escape it. The moisture clung to her and made her bedding stick and clog her nose. So on these nights she stayed up, usually with a candle or the moon to illuminate her night, and read.

The knock on the door was not something typical.

The memory was rising and she couldn’t hold it back. I have to ride it out. Survive it.

Like she had survived that night. Getting visitors in the dead of the night had been unconventional- and she remembered the feeling of being perturbed. Don’t answer it, she told the memory. But this was the past and ghosts of the past didn’t change their course.

She had closed her book, had stepped down the hall to the door and had opened it.

I should have called through- told him to stay away! I should have never left my bed or my book.

It was a drunk man. A fellow farm hand called in for one of the families to help bring in a harvest that had proved too bountiful for the immediate family to handle. Peaches could see the man before her eyes, smell the reek of him.

A drunk.

“Well ain’t it the village spinster! Whaaa da pretty thing you are!” He was a cloud of bitter rice wine, of too much sake on his breath. The intensity of it had a physical effect on her memory and in the present, Peaches wrinkled her nose.

“You should go home Sir.” She had told him- tried to close the door.

His foot moved faster and his hands had caught the door.

A wild set of emotions swept through her. She had to sit her body down, thankful she had been able to get away from the other monkeys before the memory seized her like a vice. They would have been in a panic over her and she couldn’t let their little hearts worry so. There was nothing they could do to stop the remembering.

It was his fault this all happened. It was His. He didn’t have to be drunk and show up at my home- he didn’t have to shove his way into my house and try and grab me.

But he was just a single man. Did his actions warrant the destruction that happened next ?

“Get out!” Her memory self cried. The wooden table she danced behind as the drunk stumbled and moved towards her, was her only shield.

“The Boys Said you prefer the company of wild animals …” his speech was hard to hear. The wine had made him bold, stupid, and aroused it seemed. “I thought I would give you mtaste of what a real man was, since the villagers are al’ ‘fraid of your Witchery with monkeys.”

She had run- she had thrown her things at him. It was probably the commotion of her breaking a pitcher over his head that had alerted her monkeys. The loud clatter of the pottery across the floor had sounded so sharp and final. It had only made the man more determined.

The drunk when he did get his hands on her was furious. He swung a fist and sent stars into her eyes. Peaches had clung like a wildcat to her conscious, kicking out with legs and swinging with fists. Her nose was full of the sour smell of him- had felt his hands and fought them. A kick to his groin had sent him wheezing. Another fist to her head had Peaches crying. She had stared that drunk in his mean little eyes as he whispered the terrible things he wanted to do to her.

She had been staring in those eyes when he died.

He never got to touch more than her arms that night.

Peaches heard something step through the door that had been left open to the night. She had heard the creak of her house as something walked within it. And the sound of something- like a water skin being popped and a splash of warm liquid against her belly had shocked her.

The Drunks eyes went wide with confusion, rolling horselike in his head. His bruising grip on her wrist had let go. In the present, She rubbed those wrists, the phantom pains hard.

“..mah… belly.” The drunk had mumbled then belched a bucket of blood onto the floor. Peaches could see something protruding from his middle- something long and thin like a stick. Or a staff.

Clawed hands pulled the head back and twisted with a fury. The sound of bones breaking was loud, as if a fire was consuming dry wood. The drunk crumbled in those hands like a puppet cut free of its strings.

A new stranger stood in her home, his frame large and broad and most assuredly not human. He tossed the body like someone would toss a rag across the floor. The glowing eyes in the sudden dark were all she could see. Her mind, even in its heightened adrenaline drenched state, recognized the face pattern, saw a familiarity in the fur. There was, in fact, still a little flower tucked against this demonic creatures ear. The same flower she had interwoven in her forest friend's fur that afternoon.

“Your… your my…”

Nerves and the come down from the adrenaline high we’re making speech hard. The monkey demon before her, who’s eyes seemed to spit fire, softened. Just a bit.

“You are my Peaches.” Wukong said, touching her hair, her face, her hands. Taking stock. Then he had taken those limp hands and threaded them through his fur, trying to get them to grip. It would help his own rage and calm her fear. It was thick in the air, ruining the natural sweet smell she had. That and the slab of flesh on the floors own fetid death scent.

Wukong was not the best at this - this comfort thing. But he would rise to the occasion. He would try for her.

Fury and rage made his tail lash and the fur along his neck to stand on end.

At first she had just been a simple human that would leave little offerings to him and his brother in arms. An oddity here in the shadow of his mountain. Most humans around here feared the monkeys and kept away from all of them, having a legend that if one was harmed a great calamity would befall them.

Wukong didn’t mind being that calamity. These were his people, his subjects. So hearing the chatter from some of his kind that a women had begun to leave out gifts had of course spiked the Kings curiosity. The humans beneath Flower Fruit Mountain were his lesser subjects. So he had come down from the mountain, disguising himself as a smaller and more approachable sized monkey, to see the fuss his subjects had started gossiping about at groomings. Only to see his brother, Macaque, already being petted and tended and kissed on each of his six ears.

Of course first impressions had been terrible and Wukong, used to getting the first pick of everything, had come screeching into the clearing and demanding his own pets. It had set off a very small and very mock little battle between the two brothers in arms. One that had Peaches separating them and scolding them as she patched up the little scratches they had taken from eachother. They could have each resisted her pull but both decided that play acting a fight, even if it had started as a bit of one, was the best way to get attention divided between the both of them.

Wukong hadn’t expected to become infatuated. Her name didn’t matter to him- he had rebranded her almost the instant she came to him and offered a smile and held out a handful of sugar and dates. Peaches. After the Kings own favorite fruit, the sweetest thing the mountain produced.

His Peaches.

Of course also Macaques. He shared everything with his brother, the dark furred and six eared demon who had faced battles and won wars besides Wukong. While Wukong had been more leery, Peaches won him over faster than Flower Wine loosened his rigid posture. They had both fallen for this mortal women. And, in the traditional way she belonged to them. She just didn’t know it yet. They had touched and groomed and cuddled and tangled limbs and tails. They were practically married without the marriage bit.

Wukong rubbed small circles into Peaches back, trying to keep himself from bearing his teeth in rage.

I should have taken her home the moment she kissed me.

They had been kisses of the kind one gives to a friend or pet. It had left the warlord craving more burning with more.

Of wanting to feel her give him more than just a chaste kiss on the side of his face.

She wouldn’t have been hurt if he had just taken her home.

Wukong and Macaque had taken to one or both spending the night in Peaches trees, to keep an eye on her. Wukongs obsession had grown into a fascination and warm buttery love. A love that was becoming a wild inferno as he fought to stay still and not leap upon the corpse he had made and turn it into nothing but bits of flesh and gore the crows could carry away.

His Peaches fingers finally grasped his fur and shook. It brought Wukong back from his montage of rage to the present. If only Mac was here — but he wasn’t. He was back at home on Flower Fruit mountain , giving his brother the night to enjoy and keep lookout at Peaches den.

“That’s my girl.” The demon tried to soothe. He really wished he could set Peaches down and finish off what he had started. This place had been bad. This village terrible. He hated every thing and one here that had dared to let a drunken fool up to his Peaches doorstep and allowed this to happen. In reality Wukong was mad it had been Mac’s own sense of importance on taking it slow and letting a little thing like a life outside of Flower Fruit Mountain stop him from from revealing who he was and taking her home.

I am done trying to woo her over slowly. They could have lost her this night if Wukong hadn’t been in earshot, hadn’t heard the crash of something breaking. His clawed hands wrapped around her back and beneath her legs. Before he could realize it, Wukong had her up and in his arms, already stepping on and across the corpse and out into the June air. Mine.

“Let’s get you home, lovely.” Wukongs voice was thick with emotion. Relief to finally, finally, finally have an excuse to take his wife home, to see her sleep in a real bed and eat real food made his heart swell. No more pretending. No more longing. It was happening now. Simmering beneath that emotion was the sweet bubble, the red misting rage, of violence. Once he got her home, got her safe, got her tangled within some of his and Macaques blankets to where the sour smell of fear would be lost within the scent of them- he could come back. He would come back.

He would destroy the village for being the obstacle it was in his conquest for this mortal girls heart. It was in itself, a relief to know he was justified in its destruction.

Look what this place did to bruise my sweet fruit.

Peaches was shaking. Clinging to him. I would have her cling to me always. He pressed his nose into her neck, breathing in as he walked off. She smelled so good. He rubbed his face to hers, affectionately smothering her fear scent. Wukong felt a smile curl his face. Finally. We can go home and put the charade to bed. Finally you are mine.

Peaches' memory of that night was mostly of clinging to Wukong as they flew through the air, of his voice a rumble of soft words and comforts. He was holding her close, pressing her in. Smothering her in a sense. But she needed it. She clung to it in a way to stop herself from being sick from fright. It was strange but familiar to hold this fur, to cling. Then she briefly remembered another voice, another set of hands. When she looked up and saw that her sweet dark monkey was also here, had also been a demon in disguise, something broke in her. Maybe hysteria. Maybe disbelief. Or maybe she knew, somewhere in her mind, that no matter what she said now wouldn’t save the people- the innocents- in her village.

Peaches had been transferred into the dark arms and THATS where she finally began to cry. The shock was fading and leaving behind ragged holes of emotion.

“Safe, you're safe now.” She was reassured. Hands had lifted her chin, her sweet little monkey- now a demonic one- was gently beginning to sponge away the blood from the cuts on her face. Her cheek swelled, her eye with it.

“Please don’t kill them.” She begged. “He already took care of the one who hurt me don’t kill my village.”

“Hush love…”

“Please!”

Silence. Something cold pressed to her face- a bit of snow from far up the mountain wrapped in cloth. Macaques ears twitched like flower petals in the night air.

“It’s already done. The village is already gone.”

The memory rode itself out in the present and faded slowly.

Guilt washed over her and she cried all for a new reason. She had been the catalyst for Sun Wukongs fury. She had been the decider to his want of destruction. Peaches may not have killed them, may have had a decade to realize that what had happened wasn’t her fault, but Wukong had done it in her name. He had erased that village and all its people like a cartographer reshapes a map. To all the rest of the world, their had never been a village in the shadow of Flower fruit mountain. Not a foundation, not a brick, not even a spare hair, was left of humanity there. Instead it had been cleared as if a fire had swept through. Peaches had seen it on one occasion when Wukong had been persuaded to show her. She had needed closure. Needed the peace.

Once she had healed she had been told her village was gone. She had been given a sweet lie- that Wukong had gone back and the villagers related to the drunk had been ransacking her house to see where she kept the money or any spare wine.

When Wukong had shown up demanding they answer to the crime committed in her home, they had attacked. Wukong had enacted a king's justice as was his right. He had told the remaining villagers to leave- to never set foot upon his domain again for the lawlessness that had been enacted upon their neighbor.

It had taken two years for her to be able to relax whenever he came in smelling of fire and iron. It had taken a few years more for her to remember what Macaque had said when he had pressed snow to her face.

They were the same little monkeys they had been before. But now they had less innocence when they pressed into her face for kisses, when they asked to tangle and cuddle limbs. They insisted she stay in the bedchamber and not move to her own separate room.

It had taken getting used to movement beside her as a hand tugged her hair, or a tale twined her waist. Or a leg curled with hers or hands holding her face. Sometimes in the dark Mac would press his head to her back, using her as a pillow. Wukong would yank her in when he thought her too sleepy to remember and whisper all the things he loved about her.

It would have been sweet. It was touching in a way. If not for the way they revealed themselves. If not for that memory and what she knew now had come after.

It had not taken too long after that for her to start realizing that, though Wukong had saved her, neither of them had any regret of what happened. Neither of them was going to let her go.

When she asked about it or started talking of missing her home- the simple living, the ability to really on herself and choose for herself- Wukong would laugh and launch into one of his tales. He would brush her hair with his claws, run his face against hers and try and deflect her attention to new things.

Macaque, if Wukong was absent, would let her talk. Usually it happened when he asked her to brush his fur or he in turn asked to brush her hair. Peaches thought, just a bit, that the reason Mac was better at listening was for all the ears he had. Each time however, when she got to the part about how this had been her fault, he would stop mid way through a braid or pin and pull her in. Macaque would kiss the tears from her eyes, would press himself close to her chest.

“It was Never your fault Peaches.”

“I remember. I remember he went back- you said he—“

“Hush love you’ll grow hysterical. What Wukong did was justified- he defended you.”

“He killed.”

“I have killed.” He kissed her temple, gentle in his reprimands. He wouldn’t try and brush her words beneath a rug like Wukong. Instead he gave her a smile as wide as the crescent moon. “Let’s finish your hair and get you dressed. We can go see the baby’s, I know how you love the baby’s.” Baby monkeys were her weakness. They had been what led to her loving Mac before she had known he was a demonic warlord.

Peaches rubbed at her eyes and stood, the sorrow in her heart heavy still but the tears at least had stopped. Now she was just tired. Tired and cold and wanting to escape the feeling of it all. So she shed her courtly attire. All the clips and jewels and baubles and bits felt heavy. She placed them within the box at her armoire, then loosened her hair from its bindings. Jade pins, pearl necklaces, golden bracelets with bells of silver (Wukong loved this the best of all) all glimmered back in the firelight.

A pretty price.

She snapped the box closed.

On nights like this, she wanted to wear nothing but her smock, her simple clothing, and bury herself as far as she could go into the bed she shared with her husbands.

It was more of a pit set into the ground, circular in nature. Silken pillows, red sheets and a hoard of anything plush and furred had been thrown into the pit. It was also a snug place to bury herself within and one of the few things she didn’t feel resentment too right away. When the outside felt too bright and she couldn’t go about the mountain to her usual quiet places, she would retire here. To burrow, to bury, to hide.

Peach fell back into the pit of blankets and pillows and pulled herself beneath a fur of some striped monster Macaque had skinned and gifted to her. Tonight the bitter truth was hard to swallow and did circles in her head.

You did this. You caused this. You killed them. This is your fault.

She closed her eyes and hoped … hoped for what might be the worst thing yet. Her husband's return.

A time later she stirred. Something was in her room- was walking to the bed. Peaches felt a flutter of fear before hands reached into her hiding place and simply slid her out.

“Hello darling.” The silken voice belonged to none other than Macaque. His clawed hands entwined around her waist, his teeth nipping at her ear. “You are up late.”

“Does that mean it will be a late morning?” Wukongs voice came from the other side of the room. Peaches could see the ginger monkey removing armor from his shoulders and stretching. As the darker brother kept making a snack of her shoulder, Peaches noticed that the shine of Wukongs paldrom was dimmed. Something black coated the golden imprint of sunbursts across its armored surface. “I love late mornings! Means more time together.”

Blood?

“Peaches?” She turned her head, trying to see Mac. He had left off nipping her skin. A hand came away from her wrist and tipped her chin, forcing her to stare directly into his violet eyes. “What has upset you?”

Everything. Myself. Wukong. You. It was that simple question that set her sorrow to flowing again. She was confused, upset, and she wanted comfort. The only ones who could give her comfort were the very ones who caused her distress.

A vicious cycle.

The pillows behind her sagged. Wukongs hands were more aggressive in their touches, turning her about to stare into her face. He noted the tears, the bruising beneath her eyes. His lip curled in anger.

“Has someone upset you?” Wukong asked. He seemed ready to stand again, to grab his armor and step out into the night. “I will drag them here to give an apology. You name them and I will fetch them.”

Peaches shook her head.

“Just ….” You killing the villagers, Macaque telling me plainly that it was for the best, and my own head making me relive that night of events. Over and over and over.

“…. Myself.”

His face softened as he chirped a reassurance, pressing his nose to hers. Macaque peppered her in gentle and butterfly soft kisses to the back of her neck. The three fell back into the nest, limbs entwined and hands holding. Macaque had Peaches face buried in his chest as she sobbed silently. He cooed. He whispered how everything would be right as rain in the morning. His hands ran through her hair and messaged her scalp. Wukong held his Peaches, pressing her back to his chest in a solid wall against the world outside. He lavished her in praises and compliments, sometimes getting carried away and talking about himself until his brother would remind him with a flick to his forehead that it was their Peaches he should be reassuring.

And through it all, through this twisted and tangled weave of limbs and fur and warmth and sorrow, Peaches felt love. It grew in this dark place still, wanting to thrive. But how could it?

Still she fell asleep, lashes sparkled with tears and her heart lighter. One could only be sad so long in the wake of such waves of attention. Wukongs and Macaques love was the only solution to this ailment they had inflicted upon her, and she, the addict, swallowing the medicine that would give her release.

[chvoswxtch]

invasion of privacy

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: frank catches you with something you shouldn't have, and your world gets turned upside down in more ways than one.

warnings: swearing, lots of angst, brief mention of bomb violence

word count: 2.1k

a/n: I hope y'all enjoyed the nice & light hearted last chapter, because we are kicking up the drama from here on out. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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“What’s this?”

“Hm?”

You were in the process of proofreading through your latest article one more time before submitting it to Ellison, and your attention was focused solely on the mountainous layers of black text on the screen in front of you. 

“This.”

Frank’s voice rang harshly in your ears, and the shift from his previous gentle inquisitive tone jarred you to the point of whiplash and broke your concentration completely. Turning to face him in puzzlement, your breath hitched in your throat when you realized what he was holding.

The file with his name on it.

Your eyes nearly doubled in size, and they hesitantly raised to meet Frank’s. The warm melted chocolate of his irises had darkened considerably with anger, and you could see a ring of betrayal burning around his pupils.

“I don’t know.”

Frank let out a dry scoff when you blurted your words out, his jaw clenching so tight you swore you could hear the way his teeth ground together from across the room. There was a chaotic frenzy disrupting his usual calm demeanor as he looked through the contents of the file. Every single page he furiously flipped through was another drop of gasoline trickling towards an unavoidable explosion.

Whatever was inside that file, it turned Frank into a man you didn’t recognize. 

You quickly rose from your chair to take the stand in your own defense, hands outstretched in an olive branch towards him.

“Frank, I swear. I haven’t looked at it-”

“Bullshit!”

The catastrophic boom of Frank’s voice echoing around your office startled you, and the four walls suddenly felt a lot thinner with his massive fuming frame taking up a majority of the space. His reaction had anxiety racing through your bloodstream, but your anger always managed to come out on top.

“I haven’t. I didn’t go looking for that, Frank. Someone left it on my desk-”

“When.”

A sudden wash of guilt doused the unjustified irritation you felt. Frank stared you down from across the room, the flimsy material of the file succumbing to the strength of his hand, his features a concoction of fury and treachery. You had to avert your iniquitous gaze to confess.

“After the gala.”

Frank blew out a deep exhale through his nose, incredulity blowing his eyes wide open as he chuckled humorlessly.

“That was a fuckin’ month ago.”

“I never opened it. I forgot I even had it-”

“You expect me to believe that? You been carryin’ this goddamn thing in your purse every fuckin’ day for a month now, and you ain’t read it? You just forgot it was there? Just cause I don’t have a fancy ass degree don’t make me fuckin’ stupid. You fuckin’ reporters, you’ll do fuckin’ anythin’, yeah?”

Frank’s voice got louder and louder with each word, like warning claps of thunder that signaled how close you were to an inevitable downpour. He was nearly yelling by the time his heavy boots brought him right in front of you, and you found yourself staring down the eye of a violent hurricane. 

For the first time since you had met Frank, you were afraid of him. 

Even though you felt frozen in place, your fingers shook violently with trepidation at your sides. You couldn’t look away from the storm brewing hastily in his eyes. You just hoped he could see past his own wrath to find the truth in yours.

“I didn’t read it because I thought it would be an invasion of privacy.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed into accusatory slits, his nostrils flaring to accommodate his furious exhales. His voice had a sharp edge to it that cut deeper than any blade ever could.

“Invasion of privacy. That’s real goddamn rich.”

There was nothing you could do. He had all the evidence for a conviction. You had been caught at the scene of the crime, and all you could do was beg for a lenient sentence.

“Frank-”

At that moment, your door swung open to reveal a very distressed looking Billy Russo. When his lips parted to speak, he suddenly paused, as if the tension lingering thick in the room was as visible as a dense fog, and his eyes flickered between you and Frank before settling on you almost in an expression of concern.

“Sorry if this is a bad time, but we gotta talk.”

A sense of relief immediately rushed through you at Billy’s intrusion, grateful to not be alone in your small office with an incredibly pissed off Frank Castle. Billy didn’t miss the way you practically sprinted towards him without another look at Frank.

“We can talk in the conference room if you-”

“Actually, I need to talk to both of you.”

Billy looked directly over your head to stare at Frank. There was a look on his face that you didn’t know him well enough to read, but as you glanced over your shoulder at Frank, you noticed that his face was void of any anger and instead had morphed into confusion. When you looked back in Billy’s direction, he was staring down at you with clear remorse carved onto his sharp features.

“There ain’t no easy way to say this, so I’m just gonna get right to it. Homeland is pullin’ your detail.”

All of the oxygen in your lungs felt like it had been knocked completely out with that one sentence. You gaped at Billy, and his lips tugged downwards in a pitiful frown.

“I’m sorry-”

“What?”

You could hear Frank stalking over towards the both of you, and the evident skepticism and irritation that layered his gruff voice. But his and Billy’s voices sounded muffled in your ears, as if your head was submerged underwater.

“Look, I wasn’t happy about it, alright? They don’t think she’s a prime target anymore-”

“The hell she ain’t. Those assholes-”

“Found a new target. More high profile. Cause of that and the fact that they ain’t threatened her in over a month, they’re pullin’ her detail and it’s gettin’ reassigned.”

“To who, Bill?”

Billy’s eyes flickered to meet yours, and you could see the apprehension shining in them along with a sliver of guilt.

“Who is it, Billy?”

The clear defeat in your quiet voice made him sigh, and his lips parted as he stared down at you in contrite-ridden sympathy, as if he was trying to figure out how to soften the blow of whatever was about to come next. 

“Steven Price.”

Everything seemed to come to a screeching halt at that moment. While you were navigating your disbelief and confusion, Frank was battling to control his already unraveling vexation.

“What?”

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin' me.”

Billy glanced between you and Frank when you spoke at the same time. He completely ignored Frank’s outburst as he brought his hand up to gently place on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze in a gesture of comfort. He let out another sigh of exasperation while he gazed down at you.

“Homeland wants to keep this under wraps, they ain’t even lettin’ it hit the media, but you deserve an explanation. This is off the record. Price’s office got a threat letter with demands forty eight hours ago, and yesterday a vehicle that was supposed to be takin’ him to a debate was blown up. Lucky for him, he wasn’t in it. Local news was told to report that it wasn’t a terrorist attack, just a faulty engine or somethin’. They’re tryin’ to avoid more mass panic. But, Homeland is takin’ it extra seriously-”

“Because of his family name and position.”

There was complete detachment in your voice as the reality of the situation sank in. Steven was more valuable to them. He was the one they thought was worth protecting. No one would bat an eye if a lowly journalist was murdered by a terrorist group that she antagonized. But a man that came from one of the oldest wealthy families in New York that had connections all over the world and was currently running a political campaign? That would be front page news.

“You really wanna protect that asshole?”

Billy dropped his hand from your shoulder to turn and face Frank, clearly annoyed by his inquisition.

“Of course I don’t. But Homeland-”

“Fuck Homeland. It’s your company, Bill. You can say no.”

Frank’s voice had an eerie calmness to it, but it was convoluted with reminiscent indignation and the faintest sting of an allegation.

“You think I didn’t try? I don’t think you understand the situation I’m bein’ put in right now, Frank.”

Billy and Frank appeared to be in some kind of silent standoff as they stared each other down. Billy wore his mixed emotions of annoyance and dubiety clearly on his face, and it translated into the way his fingers twitched at his sides. The slight furrow of his brows showed that he was upset by Frank’s unspoken challenge that he wasn’t fully utilizing his power like he had said. 

Frank on the other hand was completely stoic. The only giveaway he had about this whole situation at all was the glow of rage still burning in his eyes. 

“When’s this happenin’?”

The placation in Frank��s gruff voice bothered you. It sounded like he was routinely asking Billy about the weather, not when you were gonna be thrown to the wolves to fend for yourself.

Billy straightened his shoulders as he stared at Frank for a moment, pursing his lips into a thin line.

“Already has. I came to collect you and the others.”

You suddenly felt lightheaded and nauseous with the way your heart had plummeted into the pit of your stomach. 

This was really happening. 

“Listen, darlin’-”

“It’s not your fault, Billy.”

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at either of them. Not that Frank probably would even look at you. He hadn’t so much as glanced at you in the slightest since Billy walked through that door. A deep sigh sounded beside you as an expensive sterling silver tie clip came into view. Billy braced his hands on your shoulders and dipped his head to catch your eye line. There was an expression of severity on his face, like you had seen when he held you in this exact same way in front of the elevators the night of the gala.

“I’m gonna figure somethin’ out for you, alright? I’m not gonna leave you hangin’. Just…sit tight. Try not to cause any trouble.”

Billy attempted to flash you a charming smile, but it didn’t even meet the edges of his lips. After giving him a small nod, he stared at you for another minute with an unreadable expression this time before giving your shoulders one final squeeze and taking a step back. He momentarily glanced over at Frank.

“I’ll be waitin’ out front.”

Billy granted you one final look of condolence before leaving you alone with Frank.

When you turned to face him, he wasn’t even looking at you. He was staring at your office door that Billy had just left through with a look on his face that you couldn’t decipher. He almost looked completely indifferent, but there was an aura of suspicion staining that callousness. You swore you heard every tick of the clock snapping clearly in your ears for the next sixty seconds before he finally shifted his attention to you.

Frank’s face was completely blank. There wasn’t a shade of an emotion that you could detect. His features weren’t twisted up in any kind of clues. He looked just as impassive as he had the first day that you had met him. Seeing him revert to that state after months of progression in your complicated relationship hurt worse than any heartbreak you had ever experienced. 

He was staring at you like you were a stranger on the street.

Frank wordlessly folded up the file and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, his vacant eyes staring into your pleading gaze. At this point, you wished he would go back to yelling at you. You would take something, anything other than this tortuous silent treatment.

He wouldn’t actually leave you like that, would he? He said he wouldn’t. He swore he wouldn’t. Frank would always be there for you, to keep you safe. That’s what he had promised. 

Right?

You waited for him to say something. You stared at him in desperate expectancy for him to do something to fix this nightmare. You held your breath for him to make the same promise that Billy had, to figure something out.

But as quietly as Frank had come into your life, he was now slipping out silently.

And just like that, he was gone.

tags: @hopeful-evermore @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @ferns-fics @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed@fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @yeah3459 @collaps3r @polskiperson @imperihoe

[darth-mortem]

This is a fifth chapter of my COD fic "At the Crossroads of the Worlds" translated by @g8se.

Task force "141" was sent to clean up a secret laboratory, the research of which was financed by states recognized as sponsors of terrorism. The soldiers broke into a bunker located in the Caucasus Mountains on the Russian-Georgian border. At first, everything went according to plan, but after the fighters split up, Ghost came across a strange room, the door of which locked automatically the moment he was inside. Without knowing it, Simon Riley had set off an experiment that had been brewing here for years, and now he would have to be very strong to finally return home.

First chapter | Second chapter | Third chapter | Fourth chapter

Chapter 5 of 6. 826 words (it's small, but important)

Past character death, angst, action, secret lab, experiment, parallel worlds

August 18, 2016. Temporary base of TF 141. Iran. Zagros Range. Coordinates classified. Experiment status: concluded. Subject has completed reverse transportation. Reality LW414/2016.

“So, when you woke up, he was already gone," Captain Price summed up, glancing at Lieutenant Riley, who nodded. "Well, I hope he made it home in one piece. Although I can't help but admit, I was somewhat hoping he'd stay. A soldier like him would be a nice addition to the 141.”

"And I never properly thanked him," Sergeant Sanderson shook his head. "He saved my life."

"I'm sure he knows everything you could say or do," Captain MacTavish spoke, his tone also tinged with sadness.

All four fell silent, sipping their coffee and puffing on cigarettes and cigars. Then Johnny got up, extinguished his cigarette, and left the room. Simon watched him go, stayed for a minute or so, then got up and followed suit, determined.

Roach glanced at the door, then turned back to Captain Price and tilted his head slightly to the side. The captain only shook his head, as if to say he had no idea what was going on, then got up, collected the cups, and carried them to the kitchen.

Simon found Johnny just where he had been talking to Ghost yesterday. MacTavish was hiding from the sun in the shadow of a shabby building, casually twirling a lighter in his hand, not in a hurry to light up. The lieutenant approached as quietly as ever but intentionally stepped on some debris to announce his presence.

"Oh, it's ye, Simon," Soap turned at the sound and smiled. "Well, I can ca' ye Ghost again. Ye dinnae like it when people use yer real name."

"I want to talk to you," the lieutenant said, ignoring MacTavish's remark. "There's something I need to tell you."

"I'm listening," Soap dropped the playful tone and looked at Ghost with some concern. "Is something wrong?"

The lieutenant took a deep breath and clenched Captain Riley's tags in his hand through his clothes. His resolve wavered, but he gathered his courage quickly, not wanting to back out completely, and blurted out:

"I like you!" Then, after a moment's thought, he added more softly, "Not as a commander or a fellow soldier, but... differently."

"I like ye too," Johnny replied calmly, and a smile returned tae his lips. "Actually, I've liked ye for quite a while. I just dinnae want tae say anythin' because, well, ye know... ye're a bit... no yersel' lately. I dinnae want tae upset ye, ken?"

"Yeah," Simon nodded, then stepped closer.

MacTavish cautiously placed his hands on his waist and pulled him closer, ready to let go at any moment. Riley, however, didn't try to break free or resist. Quite the opposite, he wrapped his arms around Johnny's neck and looked into his eyes.

"Lift yer balaclava," Soap requested. "No all the way, if ye dinnae want tae. Jist a wee bit."

Ghost remembered his older double’s tale of struggling to trust and how much time he lost with his Johnny because of it; he remembered Captain Riley calling him beautiful. Anxiety clenched in his chest, his heart quickened its pace, but the lieutenant overcame himself once more, took hold of the edge of his balaclava, and pulled it up completely, tucking the piece of fabric into his pocket.

Johnny's eyes widened in surprise. Then he raised his hand and gently stroked Simon's scarred cheek before tenderly and passionately kissing him.

They didn't have time to savour this newfound connection between them. Captain Price received the information they had all been waiting for, and 141 began preparing for departure. The pilot double-checked all helicopter systems for the last time, the soldiers gathered and donned their gear, as well as what the mysterious visitor from another world had given them, who had managed to become a good friend to all of them. Sitting in the cargo hold and heading towards a new objective, which might lead them to Makarov and allow the soldiers to redeem their names, Gary brought up Captain Riley again. They exchanged a few words, and then Simon, holding the MX25 on his knees, spoke with sorrow in his voice:

“He helped all of us. It's just a shame we won't be able to do anything for him.”

“Hold on, Ghost," Captain Price objected. "We know that certain people and events in our world and his are identical. We know when his MacTavish died. We know where and when in his world that lab was built. So what if we can still help him, just not now, but later?”

“Later for us, but not for him!" Johnny caught on to the thought, rubbing his palms.

“2030?" Roach smiled. "Well, that's not too far off. We'll make it.”

“We have to make it," Riley said seriously and reached his hand downwards.

MacTavish covered it with his own, then Price and Sanderson joined in. Having sealed their promise, they settled in more comfortably and switched to discussing current affairs. A new battle awaited them, one they simply couldn't afford to lose.

[chaosbarelycontained]

I Don’t Care For Your Attitude

North Country Boy Chapter 7

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x AFAB!OC

TW: Swearing, fighting

Words: 3.1k

Synopsis: Jules and Ghost butt heads over an upcoming mission and young Jules fights for Simon’s honour.

Scribbling some notes down on her virtual notepad, Jules used a hand gesture to continue her flyover of the northern reaches of Dushikistan, a tiny country in the Pamir Mountains. The terrain was harsh and yet beautiful, with rolling steppes giving way to towering peaks crowned white with snow.

Sandy-coloured yurts and small brick buildings were well camouflaged against the rocky ground but, as Jules focussed in on one particular valley, more and more became visible. She hovered over the area for a few more minutes before her view changed and the camera panned between two cliff faces and across to an ancient fortress that, to the untrained eye, seemed ruined and abandoned. Jules double-tapped her thumb and middle finger together and the image enlarged. Staring at the ground around the fortress she finally saw the confirmation she needed in the subtle tyre marks that surrounded the structure.

“Gotcha,” she muttered, making a few screenshots and altering the contrast so that the tracks were more visible.

Checking the time in the bottom left of her viewscreen she was relieved to see she still had fifteen minutes until Price’s briefing so she pinged the information she’d collated across to her tablet and stashed her headset on its charger dock. Her emerald grey beret found its place back on her head and she tucked her tablet into her trouser pocket. She meticulously checked that every piece of equipment was logged off and shut down before exiting the room and locking the door.

On her way back over to the small barracks building she’d come to call home, Jules heard a whistle. She turned to find Roach jogging to catch up with her and she slowed her pace so that he could fall into step beside her.

“Alright, Tiger?” he asked genially, “whatcha been up to?”

“Just finalising some intel for the briefing. You?”

“Watching Ghost beast the rookies,” he snickered. “I would have helped but it was too entertaining. I think one of ‘em might have actually shit his pants.”

Jules gave a derisive snort. “The SAS selection process must be seriously lackin’ if they’re findin’ the Hallowe'en Drama Queen that terrifyin’.”

Roach faced her with an expression of concerned bemusement. “What the fuck do they feed you in Manchester? You’re all fucking bonkers. Just make sure you don’t say that to his face.”

“I would if he’d ever show it, an’ if he tried somethin’ again I’d knock his fuckin’ block off,” she tutted, rolling her eyes.

The smile that had been brewing on Roach’s face rapidly vanished as he glanced behind Jules. He blanched, swallowing thickly, and cast his eyes to the ground. Jules’ stomach threatened to drop out of her arse as she sensed the hulking presence behind them draw ever closer but it was caught by the net of her fury and she managed to maintain her poise, raising her chin arrogantly as the Lieutenant stalked past them.

“Ya could try, Sergeant, but yer too short to reach,” he rumbled, without a backward glance.

“That was…tame,” Roach muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Just make sure you don’t go anywhere alone for the next few days.”

Jules sucked in a breath, ready to respond, but then caught the teasing glint in Roach’s eye and the smirk that grew in the corner of his mouth.

“Dickhead,” she chuckled, nudging his shoulder.

They weren’t the last to reach the briefing room, Soap followed along close behind them, and the entirety of Bravo Company was seated before the briefing was due to start. Price gave a run down of what they already knew and then gestured to Jules with an upturned palm.

“Our resident recon specialist has been working on locations. What’ve you got for us, Tiger?”

Jules stood and pressed the remote that turned on the large screen fixed to one of the walls, making sure it mirrored her tablet. She projected the flyover of the valleys that she’d been searching earlier, and then made the video freeze on an image of the fortress.

“There’s an old fortress just outside this village. Looks abandoned but there’s vehicle marks around it. Too many for somethin’ so far away from tourist trails. That’s where they’re hidin’.”

“Sounds promising,” Price nodded his approval. “Ghost, what d’you reckon?”

The Lieutenant dragged his eyes away from the screen to face his Captain.

“Looks like a fairly simple op to me. In and out. Get Delta Company in to clean up.” He jerked his chin upward, already expecting everyone to concur.

“Agreed,” Price said. “Soap, you’re…sorry Sergeant Kelsall, you got something to add?” he raised his eyebrow at the sound of Jules clearing her throat.

“Yeah, it’s the locals, Sir,” she said, mentally steeling herself against the Captain’s laser-sharp scrutiny. “It’s too much of a risk to them if we go mob-handed an’ all guns blazin’.”

“Negative, Captain.” Ghost interjected as he planted his feet more firmly on the floor and folded his arms across his chest. “The intel we’d gain is worth the potential casualties.”

Jules planted her hands on her hips and shook her head. “I have to disagree. These people aren’t involved with this organisation. They need to be protected as much as possible.”

Ghost let out a derive scoff and rolled his eyes. “Just what we needed,” he tutted. “A bleedin’ heart sympathist. We’ve got a job to do.”

Jules turned her head slowly and glared at Ghost with thinly veiled contempt.

“If ye weren’t my Lieutenant I’d call you a cunt,” she snapped, ignoring the snorts of amused disbelief from the rest of the squad. “It’s nothin’ to do wi’ that. If I thought the juice was worth the squeeze I’d say go for it, but it's not.”

She tapped on her tablet a few times and the display on the large screen behind the Captain changed to a view of the settlement. “These villagers have been feeding us intel for months. They don’t trust easily. If we put them in harm’s way then they’ll never let us back in and we’ll have lost a valuable source.”

“You’ve got a fair point there Tiger,” Price admitted, ponderously. “What do you suggest?”

“We need to be subtle about it,” Jules pressed. “There’s an abandoned settlement in the next valley. I can contact our guys closest to the area, get a base set up, an’ then we can recce from there.” She went to tap on her tablet again but paused and looked at Price. “If you don’t mind, Sir, I took the liberty of writin’ up a plan.”

“Go for it,” he nodded.

Jules pinged the mission overview onto the large screen so that everyone could read the details. There were mutterings of agreement from the rest of Bravo Company, and even Ghost raised his eyebrow in surprise at the detail in Jules’ work.

“Alright Tiger, you’ve got me convinced,” Price said, stroking his hand across his beard. “Get in touch with your contact and get the ops base sorted. I’ll have a look over this in more detail and we’ll reconvene at 1600hrs to finalise. Johnny, Roach, you’re the kit men. Gaz, get onto transport. I want to be in the air by 0800 tomorrow.

There was a chorus of “affirmitive”, “aye, Sir,” and “on it,” from the squad.

With a nod from Price, the three teammates were dismissed to their various tasks, leaving the Captain with his Lieutenant and Jules, who had returned to her tablet and was tapping away distractedly.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any way of seeing inside that fortress, Kelsall? A floor plan or something?” Price asked.

“Just sent you over the schematics, Sir,” she said, the corner of her mouth twisting up into a smile as glanced up from her screen.

“Do I want to know how you managed to get your hands on those?”

“Prob’ly not,” she admitted, “but if y’get a call from the Dushiki Government archives just act natural.”

Price snickered and appraised the Sergeant with growing affection, the glow from her tablet picking out the frown of concentration on her face. He looked across at Ghost then, who had been characteristically silent since his earlier snarky comments to Jules, and was surprised to see an expression of outright admiration on the face of the usually stoic soldier.

Speaking aloud, as if he hadn’t seen a thing, Price walked around the table to his own tablet, picking it up and scanning the information displayed there.

“Gonna put Johnny and Roach on perimeter, Gaz can take the East side with me so that leaves you two on the West.”

Jules looked up sharply, barely managing to school her face into something resembling blandess.

“Is that gonna be a problem?” Price asked, looking at Jules but addressing both of them.

“Not fer me, Sir,” she gritted.

“Ghost?” Price tried, but his second in command was still lost in his reverie. “Hey…Lieutenant.”

Ghost almost jumped, his eyes flying to Price as his brain registered the question.

“Negative,” he finally replied. “No problems here.”

“Good, get on with it then,” Price dismissed them and turned his attention back to his tablet as he rubbed his fingers over his moustache and muttered under his breath.

Jules nodded her acknowledgement and made her way through the door, her pace slower than normal as she continued to read her screen, but she stiffened as she heard Ghost’s voice calling to her.

“Hold up Ju-Sergeant,” he corrected himself.

“What?” She said abruptly, barely sparing him a glance.

“Bit out of your pay grade, to come up with a deployment plan, innit? Then again, once a swot…” There was a teasing tone to his words that Jules immediately interpreted as mockery.

“Maybe in this squad,” she replied, her face growing flush, “but in the SRR we were expected to contribute.”

“We’re not the SRR.”

“That’s painfully obvious,” she snarked back, one hand resting on her hip as she pointedly looked him up and down.

Ghost huffed out a sigh and scratched at the back of his neck. “Look, do you need me to check-”

“Check my work?” Jules said incredulously. “Nice t’know y’ve got confidence in your team, Lieutenant. Would y’ve asked Gaz that? Or Soap? Didn’t think so.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” he tried.

“Yeah ye did. Is it because you think you know me? ‘Cause if it is then you thought wrong. I’ve been doin’ this shit for nearly ten years an’ I ain’t had any complaints about ma deployment prep so far.”

“No, just about yer ability to follow orders. Yer file said as much.” He couldn’t help but push her just that little bit further.

“Oh, ya can read? Clever lad. For a while there y’had me wonderin’. Now I know you just ignored ma letters an’ messages on purpose,” she seethed with her jaw set.

She was furious once more and the act of trying to keep it bottled up inside made her chin tremble and her eyes began to water even as they flashed with anger. Not wanting him to think he’d made her cry, Jules turned on her heel and stalked off down the corridor towards the mess.

“I read ‘em all,” he muttered quietly, but she’d already retreated too far away to hear him.

Slipping into the seemingly empty mess, Jules rested her back against the wall and sniffled loudly. Frustrated with herself for letting her emotions get the better of her, she wiped away an errant tear with the back of her hand and took a shaky breath. The door beside opened once more and Jules steeled herself for another confrontation with the Lieutenant but it was Gaz who entered. He started at the sight of her, clearly not expecting anyone to be there, but then his expression changed into one of concern as he noticed her red-rimmed eyes.

“What’s happened?” he asked gently, which only served to encourage another tear to slip down Jules’s cheek.

“Nothin’ really,” she shrugged, swiping away the evidence of her emotions. “I’m not upset, I’m-” She let out a dry chuckle at Gaz’s obvious disbelief. “I’m not! I’m actually fumin’. This is just anger leakin’ out of my eyes,” she gestured to her face.

“Let me guess…” Gaz began, folding his arms across his chest and tilting his now-frowning face cockily towards her in a passable impression of Ghost.

His tactic worked and Jules began to laugh in earnest.

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “Can’t ever let ‘em see you cry though. They might think you actually care.”

“Come here,” Gaz said, slinging his arm around her shoulder and squeezing tightly. “Chin up, you’ve got this. Just try not to deck him again, yeah?”

* * * * *

It was almost dark by the time Jules made it out of the computer rooms at college but Rachel still waited for her by the entrance. A cold wind whipped around her legs and she pulled her coat tighter across her chest, her head bowed down as she hooked her arm through Rachel’s and tugged her friend towards the bus stop.

“You comin’ to mine?” she asked but Rachel replied in the negative.

“Nah, I can’t tonight. I gotta pick our Gary up from the childminder’s.”

“Fair enough,” Jules said, pulling a face.

“Oi, Kelsall,” a harsh voice squawked and Jules turned to find a small gaggle of girls stalking towards them.

Squinting her eyes against the wind she realised all too soon who had called her name.

“Givin’ me dirties now too eh? Cheeky bitch,” Debbie snapped, coming to stand before Jules, her hip popped and her head tilted to the side as she crossed her arms under her chest.

“Alright Debbie? What’s up?” Jules tried warily.

“What’s up? I’ll tell yeh what’s up, yeh little slag…” Her head bobbed aggressively as she gesticulated wildly.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Jules interrupted, holding up her hands. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on but yer not talkin’ to me like that.”

“I’ll talk to yeh however I want seein’ as yeh think it’s ok to shag mi fella behind mi back.”

“Hang on a minute,” Rachel interjected. “What fella? You don’t mean Simon do yeh?”

“Who else would I mean? This little tart’s been ‘anging after ‘im fer ages. It’s pathetic,” Debbie sneered.

“You shagged Simon Riley?!” Rachel exclaimed, turning to Jules with a look of excitement and surprise.

“No, I didn’t,” Jules hissed, “we just…messed around a bit after the taxi dropped us off last week.”

“Get in,” Rachel grinned, giving Jules a high five.

“That’s not what I heard,” Debbie snapped, stepping closer to Jules. “You were all over ‘im like a rash. You need tuh find yer own fella an’ leave mine alone, fuckin’ slag.”

“Alright, that’s enough.’ Jules said, her voice low and even as she squared up to Debbie, staring her straight in the eye. “Number one, I’m not shaggin’ Simon bloody Riley, and number two, even if I were it wouldn’t matter coz he ain’t your fella anyway. He sacked you off coz you let Skinny Mike get in your knickers round the back of the chippy. Everyone knows so there’s no point in tryin’ to say it didn’t ‘appen. Just fuck off and leave me alone.”

With one last, angry glare, Jules turned her back to Debbie and, grabbing Rachel’s arm again, began to stride away.

“You know what?” Debbie called after her, her voice laced with malice. “Yer welcome to ‘im, he’s a scrubber anyway with his cheap shit clothes and fake trainers. He’s got that many bruises, I bet he’s a skag-head.”

Jules froze for a split second, just long enough for Rachel to tighten her hold on her elbow before she was turning once more. Ripping her arm out of her friend’s grip, Jules tore across the pavement and launched herself at the grinning girl, whose eyes widened in surprise at the ferocity of Jules’ attack.

“Say that again.” Jules screeched. “Say it again, I fuckin’ DARE you.”

The two girls scrabbled on the floor in a mess of flying fists and clawed fingers. Blood was smeared across both their faces by the time their mates managed to tear them apart and Debbie was dragged away surrounded by her gaggle. Jules tried to go after her but Rachel’s arm around her heaving shoulders was enough to cause her to halt. She spat after Debbie’s retreating back and then raised a hand to probe at a tender spot on her temple.

“She didn’t get any of mi hair, did she?” Jules asked sheepishly.

“Nah, mate,” but yer gonna have a few decent bruises tomorrow.”

“I’m not cryin’, you know,” Jules sniffled, wiping the back of her hand gingerly across her eyes.

“I know,” Rachel nodded.

“I’m just fumin’.”

“I know,” Rachel said again, a broad grin slowly creeping across her face. “You know what else though?”

“What?”

“You snogged Simon Riley.”

“Yeah I did,” Jules began to giggle, which turned into a laugh and, by the time the bus arrived the two girls were crying together, arms wrapped so tightly around their bellies they could barely put their clipper cards into the machine.

Rachel had been right. By the next morning Jules’ eye had developed a deep purple bruise beneath it and there were some angry-looking claw marks across the side of her jaw. Thankful that it was Saturday and she wouldn’t have to brave the questions at college, Jules had stuck around in her room until her Mum had left for work and then trudged downstairs to make herself some breakfast and a brew. Of course it was just her luck that there was a tap on the back door and it opened to reveal the one person she really didn’t want to see.

A faint blush crept its way up Simon’s neck when he realised Jules was standing in the kitchen. They hadn’t seen each other since that night out and neither of them really knew how to react around the other. As his eyes finally found their way to her face he hissed in a breath at the state of her.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell Jules, what happened?”

“Nothin’,” she mumbled, dipping her head.

“That don’t look like nothin’,” he pressed, closing the door behind him and moving further into the kitchen.

“She had a fight with that Debbie,” Rob said from the hallway. “Apparently Debbie took the worst of it. Dunno why she’d wanna cause trouble wi’ you tho, eh Jules?”

Jules’ eyes whipped up to meet Simon’s and they shared a look of panic but Rob remained oblivious.

“She’ll know better than to pick on a Kellsall, won’t she,” Rob said, slipping his arm around Jules’ shoulder and squeezing her tight.

“Yeah well,” Jules muttered, staring at Simon over the rim of her mug, “I ain’t havin’ anyone slaggin’ off me or mine.”

Taglist: @aykxz98 @spicyspicyliving

[long-live-evie]

[Midas made his way up to the Weather Station Evie directed him to on foot, leaving his car at the bottom to continue with his pattern of keeping a lower profile by leaving his car further away from anywhere he was going. He sent a text to her after locking his doors.]

'Evie, I'm on my way to drop off that care package for you. Should be up shortly, see you in a moment. 👑' 

[The emoji felt unnatural, but she used them in her messages. When in Rome, as they say.]

[The cold and snow on the way up the mountain made him think of Helios, and about Grand Glacier. A curious thing to feel the sting of nostalgia for, given that it hadn't been long since the change, and that *this* island was his home once upon a time. Or at least, a version of it was.]

[He could see the Agency from here. The Doggpound, rather. The far-away glint of the sun against it's tacky, outdoor decor made him roll his eyes while he walked to the outpost building, a medium sized black box with gold latches tucked under his arm.]

@king-midas-fortnite

*Evie jumped a little at the unexpected text buzz, but grinned when she read it. The king using emojis? Now that was funny. She slipped on her autographed dualies and shot off a quick reply.*

'Okay! See you when you get here! ❤️💙'

*With actual royalty on the way, she set about cleaning. The place was spotless already, but she couldn't help nitpicking her work and setting a new coffeepot on to brew. Vengeance seemed to be asleep, so she double checked that his door was closed. After a while she finally heard a knock on the front door, and she ran to answer it.*

Greetings, your majesty! ✨ Come on in, stars, it's so cold out there! I've got coffee on if you need something hot! ☕

[thetravellerssnotebook]

TBB Coffee Orders-

Hunter would probably drink black coffee as his usual, (#DivorcedDad) but every once in a while he will up and order a large vanilla iced latte with a mountain of whipped cream and sugar and cinnamon on top and an extra shot of sweetener and you know what he deserves it-

Tech's alternating between a large hot Cappuccino and large iced Chai. At least three different kinds a day. He definitely orders it with oat or almond milk because "it is by far much easier for humans to digest compared to normal milk-" and he definitely gets teased for it by his brothers. He gets a shot of coconut or cinnamon syrup in his Cappuccino and churro or pumpkin in his Chai <3

Crosshair likes iced Macchiatos, but he refuses to stir it all together. He likes the different layers of milk, espresso and vanilla, and he drinks them separately -much to his brothers disgust - and will inconspicuously suck the foam and caramel off the top all at once when no one's looking.

He also once caught a whiff of Techs churro-Chai and his jaw nearly dropped - now he gets a hot version of those whenever he's by himself (<3)

Wrecker likes lattes, except he orders them with extra sweetener and flavor and barely any espresso - at this point they're just essence-of-coffeed chocolate milks. His usually gets a mocha, but he once tried a blue raspberry-white chocolate-coconut latte (??) and nearly died in euphoria (his brothers gagged at the thought of it) . He calls it his "special one" and saves it for times of celebration

Echo gets a straight double-shot of espresso or a black coffee filled to the brim with cream, which most people don't understand at all. He doesn't bother with any sort of sugar, grumbling about how he hates sweet things, but if it's available he will get an unsweetened shot of raspberry or dark chocolate. He definitely has his own nice espresso machine and is an absolute connoisseur when it comes to coffee. One of his favorite hobbies is collecting and trying out all sorts of fancy coffee brewing equipment

Omega likes lattes like Wrecker, but she hates espresso and very sweet things so her drinks are essentially just flavored iced milk. She also likes milk tea and Chai because they're easier on her stomach but she definitely gets whipped cream and wants to try every single flavor possible - her favorites are the bright fruity ones like raspberry, blueberry and lavender, and some unusual ones like iced donut, cinnabon and lemon bar

[officerwhitmore]

Tender is the Night for a Broken Heart

Vincent liked to pretend that he covered fellow officers’ night shifts out of some occasional streak of benevolence, but people saw through it like polished glass. On his bad weeks—or days or months—anyone who halfway knew him could smell the reek of melancholy that was bound to him like a poltergeist, thick and black and malevolent. The jokes and laughter outright stopped; the radiant, electric grins wilted into forced toothpick-thin smiles that didn’t reach his eyes, not even close. He didn’t touch the food in the breakroom, didn’t attend the optional meetings, blew off good mornings and goodnights, and sometimes didn’t eat at all. People knew to avoid him; knew to let him take every double-shift he wanted and to keep the interactions sparse, lest their question or comment be met with bland, empty eyes and heavy silence.

Coworkers met his bad weeks with space and maybe a bit of unease; Stella, his wife, his ostensible life partner, met them with pure disgust. For all the thinly veiled distaste she showed towards his hobby of choice—video games, especially when he played them without June for his own personal enjoyment—she despised the opposite even more. On the days he felt like cement—glued to the mattress with the curtains drawn, body buried in blankets as his brain tortured him in the dark—she would glare and demean him; enter the bedroom just to turn on the lights so the suffering would be even less bearable.

There had been a time, far in the past, where she would lay with him; curl up against his chest in the dark and listen to his heartbeat until his misery felt less lonely. She’d coax him out of bed with food he wouldn’t have bothered to eat on his own; drag him along for nature walks and force him to watch shitty comedies until he finally managed to laugh, his arms wrapped tightly around her under a mountain of couch blankets. She hadn’t anticipated the diagnosis, but she had supported him through it; even promised him once as he sobbed into his hands that she’d never, ever leave him for it. ‘I love you, Vincent,’ she’d told him, holding his cheek as he tried to hide his face. ‘That means all of you. All the time.’

The fact that he’d believed her remained a source of shame. Only a fool could’ve been stupid enough to think that someone would tolerate his illness indefinitely. God knew if the tables were turned, he wouldn’t be sure he could do it. The weeping, the despair, the fatigue of depression; the euphoria, impulsivity, and sleeplessness of mania. So volatile, so inconvenient, so exhausting. Stella had come to despise his brokenness, and somehow she’d come to blame him for it, like he didn’t have a cabinet full of pills and a shelf full of books he’d highlighted and dogeared and willed to cure him.

Sometimes, when he wasn’t manic or depressive, he believed he could tolerate the illness. Other times, bad times, he wished for death. That was one of the downsides to taking double-shifts. Late at night, parked in the pitch-darkness with only the radio to distract him from his misery, the sidearm on his hip began to resemble an escape. The first time, it frightened him. By the second time, he was already used to it.

7:00 PM, and Vince’s hands trembled as he turned the key in the front door, the quiet click of the lock barely registering in his ears, his brain so numb it felt like static. His first shift, the day shift, had passed as slowly and blurrily as a dense fog, every step like lifting a pound of cement, every road bleak and endless. He only had an hour until his next one. One hour to force down a plate of leftovers, brew himself a thermos of coffee, and ask June about her day, forcing his face into an expression that wouldn’t make her worry about him. If he was honest with himself, that was exactly why he took double-shifts on bad days. June didn’t deserve to see him at his lowest, and Stella would only make it worse.

When Vince pushed the door open and stepped inside, he was so blinded by exhaustion that the scene took him thirty entire seconds to register. The open door spilled a river of light across the living room, illuminating Stella sprawled across the couch, an empty bottle of wine tipped over on the coffee table in front of her. It stopped him cold. His breath caught in his throat, the exhaustion suddenly replaced by a sharp, burning anger that cut through the fog like a knife.

She was passed out. Again. Drunk. Again. Vince clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. He’d just spent nine hours on the job, and this—this—was what he came home to. Not peace. Not rest. But this.

He crossed the room in three quick strides, his boots thudding heavily against the floor, and stopped in front of her. “Stella.” His voice was sharp, louder than he intended, but he didn’t care. “Wake up.”

She stirred, groaning as her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and bleary. It took her a moment to register his presence, and when she did, her expression quickly twisted into a scowl.

“What the hell, Vince?” she slurred. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” Vince could feel the heat rising in his chest, his anger bubbling dangerously close to the surface. He snatched the empty wine bottle from the coffee table and held it up in front of her. “This is my problem, Stella. You’re drunk, again, on a weeknight, while our daughter is in the next room! Do you even care anymore?”

Stella’s face flushed red with indignation, and she sat up unsteadily, nearly toppling over as she tried to steady herself. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Vince. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Like what?” Vince snapped, his voice rising. “Like a husband who’s fed up with watching his wife destroy herself? With watching you waste away while I’m out there every day trying to hold this family together?”

“Hold this family together?” Stella’s laugh was bitter, hollow. She swayed as she got to her feet, glaring at him with glassy eyes. “You think you’re holding this family together? You’re barely here, Vince! You’re either at work or moping around or playing video games like some pathetic—”

“Pathetic?” The word stung more than he expected, cutting deep into the fragile armor he’d tried to build around himself. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “You want to talk about pathetic, Stella? Look at yourself. You’re a mess. You’ve been drinking yourself into a stupor every week, and for what? What’s your excuse this time?”

“My excuse?” Stella spat, stumbling back as she tried to steady herself against the couch. “Maybe my excuse is that I’m married to a fucking maniac. Maybe my excuse is that I’m sick of being alone all the time, raising our daughter by myself while you’re off doing whatever the hell you want!”

Vincent scoffed, so taken aback that he hadn’t the mental capacity to register what she’d called him. “I’m doing my job, Stella. I’m trying to make sure we have a roof over our heads, food on the table—”

“Oh, spare me the martyr act!” she shouted, cutting him off. Her voice was shrill, venomous, and the sound of it grated on his already frayed nerves. “You think you’re so noble, don’t you? So self-sacrificing. But the truth is, you’re a coward, Vince. You’re a fucking coward who hides behind that badge because you can’t face your own failures. You can’t face the fact that you’re a shitty husband, an even shittier father, and a college dropout who couldn't even finish school!”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All he could feel was the overwhelming weight of her words, the truth they carried, the guilt that had been festering inside him for years.

“Fuck you,” Vince whispered, his voice shaking with a mix of rage and festering hurt. His words hung in the air like poison, filling the room with an almost suffocating tension.

Stella’s eyes widened in shock, but instead of retreating, she leaned into the rage. Her lips curled into a cruel, mocking smile. “Oh, poor Vince,” she sneered, voice dripping with venom. “Poor, pathetic Vince, always the victim. You want to blame me for everything, don’t you? For all your fucking problems. But guess what? It’s not my fault you’re broken. You’ve been broken long before I ever touched you.”

Something inside Vince snapped. Her words pierced through the numbness, igniting a blazing fire in his chest.

“Broken, huh? Maybe I should’ve taken lessons from you on how to keep it all together. Maybe if I start drinking at noon, everything will magically get better. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally understand why you care more about booze than your own fucking family.”

Stella’s face twisted with fury. “Fuck you, Vince! You’re never here! You’re always off pretending to be the hero while I’m stuck holding everything together!”

“Pretending to be the hero?” Vince barked out a harsh laugh. “You mean working a job that actually keeps the lights on while you drown yourself in Merlot? Yeah, that’s me, the asshole pretending to be the hero.”

“You are an asshole!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “You stand there and judge me like you’re better than me, but you’re just as fucked up as I am! You pretend you’re some kind of saint, but you’re nothing more than a crazy, manic loser who can’t even deal with his own mental illness!”

“You want to talk about crazy, Stella?” Vince’s voice grew louder. “How about hiding behind a bottle every goddamn night instead of facing your problems? How about running away from reality because you can’t stand to look at what your life’s become? Who’s really the crazy one here?”

Stella’s eyes flared with hurt and anger, her hands trembling with rage. “You think I wanted this life? You think I wanted to be married to some depressed fucking cop who’d rather take cheap shots at me than admit he’s failing as a father? Newsflash, Vince, you’re no hero! You’re just a fucking manchild who can’t stay serious long enough to admit how much he hates his own life!”

“Ahh, right. You want me to be serious? You want me to be real fucking serious, Stella?” Vincent shouted, his voice raw. “I do hate it! I hate coming home every day to this mess! To you! To this—” he gestured around them, his eyes wild with frustration. “To this pathetic excuse for a marriage!”

Stella’s face contorted with rage, and she stepped closer, jabbing her finger at his chest. “You’re a fucking bastard, Vince. A mediocre, immature bastard who’d rather tear me down than admit his own failures!”

“Yeah?” Vince huffed a laugh, dark and bitter. “Well, maybe you’re just a cruel bitch who can’t handle the truth.”

In one swift motion, Stella slapped him across the face with a force that startled them both. The sound echoed in the room, and for a moment, everything went still. It was the sixth time she’d done it in the years they’d spent together, but it was never any less shocking. As the heat of her palm lingered on Vince’s cheek, it occurred to him with slow, pulsing horror that the very same hand had spoon-fed and cradled their infant daughter. Fingers rasping against a too-long beard he’d neglected, he stared at her, breathing heavily, his mouth agape.

Stella’s chest heaved as she glared at him, eyes filled with a mix of fury and something else—something broken. “Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married at all,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

The words hit Vince like a punch to the gut, his heart pounding in his chest, sick and slow like the beat of a war drum. “You know what, honey?” he growled through his teeth, the pet name all mockery. “I don’t think you’ve ever been more right in your entire goddamn life.”

The words felt powerful, sharp, electric. Then Stella’s face crumpled, the fury in her eyes giving way to something wounded and vulnerable, and he instantly regretted it. But it was too late. The damage was done.

“You bastard,” Stella whispered, voice dark and dangerous as she stumbled backward and grabbed the empty wine bottle from the coffee table. “You fucking bastard!”

Before Vince could react, she swung the bottle at him. Her coordination was so off, so sluggish, that she barely managed to toss it in his direction. It hit his chest with a weak thud, and he caught it easily, staring down at the bottle in disbelief.

Watching the wine label shimmer in the flagging light, he couldn’t believe it had come to this. That she would actually try to hurt him.

“Stella…” His voice wavered, the anger suddenly draining out of him, replaced by a deep, hollow sadness. “What are we doing?”

But Stella wasn’t listening. She took a stumbling step forward, and for one horrifying moment, Vince saw her trajectory—saw the sharp edge of the table corner looming just behind her.

“Stella, stop!” He lunged forward instinctively, catching her just as her knees buckled. She collapsed into his arms, her body limp and heavy and smelling of the booze she’d binged on. The close call left his heart pounding, and for a second, all he could think about was how easily she could have been seriously hurt—or worse. He held her there for a moment, cradling her against his chest, his mind reeling.

Despite everything, she was still the mother of his child. And he didn’t want her dead. He didn’t want June to grow up without a mother, no matter how broken their family had become.

As if sensing his shift in emotions, Stella’s body slackened further, and she started to cry. Soft, broken sobs that shook her shoulders as she clung to him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his uniform.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Vince.”

Vince closed his eyes, the weight of her words pressing down on him, deep and thick and heavy as stone. He didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if there was anything left to say at all.

Slowly, he lifted her into his arms and carried her down the hallway to their bedroom, trying and failing to ignore the memory of the first time he’d done this. Their ‘honeymoon’ in their first apartment. She’d been naked and he’d been shirtless and the couch had been too small to maneuver the way they’d wanted, so he’d hefted her into his arms just like this and thrown her onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes just to make her laugh.

Neither of them were laughing. Vincent felt like he might never laugh again.

He set her on the bed gently, laying her atop the comforter, unable to bring himself to tuck her in. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her. The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in on him.

All he wanted was to escape, to run from the mess his life had become.

But before he could, he heard something—a quiet, muffled sound from down the hall.

His blood ran cold.

No.

He recognized that sound. He would recognize it anywhere.

June.

His heart turned cold, and he stood frozen for a moment, dreading what he would find. When he finally managed to move, he forced himself to walk down the hallway, his footsteps slow and measured. He didn’t want to frighten her any more than she already was.

When he pushed open her bedroom door, he saw her—sitting up against the headboard, clutching a blue Squishmallow to her chest, her face buried in its plush fabric as she quietly sobbed.

Vince’s heart shattered, his gut twisting hard. He crossed the room carefully, sinking down onto the bed beside her. June looked up at him, her tear-streaked face filled with a mix of fear and sadness that tore at his soul.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap. She was warm, soft, her hair smelling of blueberry shampoo. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here.”

June buried her face in his chest, her small body trembling as she cried into his uniform. Vince held her tightly, rocking her gently back and forth, his own emotions swirling in a chaotic storm that he could barely contain.

“What did you hear?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

June sniffled, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I heard everything, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice small. Fragile. “You and Mommy… you were fighting.”

Vince closed his eyes, the guilt crashing over him in waves. He hated that she had to hear it—hated that she had to witness the worst parts of their lives. She was too young for this. Too innocent. And yet, she was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I’m so sorry, Junie,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She didn’t say anything; just clung to him tighter, her small hands gripping his shirt as if she were afraid he might disappear.

For a long time, they sat there like that, Vince holding her close, rocking her gently as her sobs gradually quieted. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but eventually, her breathing slowed, and she fell asleep in his arms, her face still pressed against his chest. Vince kissed her forehead, his heart aching with a deep, indescribable pain. She was his world. She was the only thing that kept him going, the only reason he hadn’t ended it all.

But even as he held her, he couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of failure. He was leaving her again. Leaving her alone with a drunk.

When he finally managed to tuck her into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin, he stood there for a moment, staring down at her. His beautiful, innocent girl, caught in the middle of a war she didn’t deserve to fight.

Tears burned in his eyes, and he quickly wiped them away. He couldn’t fall apart. Not now. He turned away, closing the door softly behind him, and made his way to the hallway bathroom. His hands were shaking as he flicked on the light, the harsh fluorescent glow illuminating his exhausted face in the mirror. He looked at himself for a long moment, staring at the man in the reflection—the man who had failed at everything. The man who couldn’t keep his wife sober. The man who couldn’t protect his daughter from the chaos that surrounded them. The terrible father. The terrible husband. The manic depressive.

He didn’t deserve the badge on his chest.

Finally, finally, like fragile glass, he broke.

The sobs came suddenly, wracking his body with a force that left him gasping for breath. Tears and snot ran freely down his face as he leaned over the sink, his reflection blurring as he wept. Every heaving sob felt like a punch to the gut, his diaphragm clenching painfully with each one. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t hold it back anymore.

He hated the man in the mirror. Hated him with every fiber of his being. He shivered, trembled, white-knuckling the counter because if he didn’t keep his hands completely still, he might reel back his fist and shatter it.

It felt like ages before the worst of the tears subsided. He was exhausted, his body shaking from the intensity of the breakdown. He checked his watch through blurry eyes and realized with a jolt that he was nearly late for his night shift.

He rinsed his face quickly, washing away the worst of the evidence, and reached into the medicine cabinet for his pills—three bottles lined up neatly on the shelf: a mood stabilizer, an anti-anxiety pill, and a pill for depression. He took them all with a quick swallow of water, leaving the fourth pill—the one that helped him sleep—untouched. He had eight more hours ahead of him, and he was already wrung dry.

9:00 PM found Vincent parked on the side of a desolate road, alone in the darkness. The blue and red lights of his squad car were off, the engine idle, and the silence in the car felt as heavy as lead. The day had crawled by in a blur of monotony, and the night shift promised to be no different. But now, here, in the quiet, there was nothing to distract him from the crushing weight of his thoughts.

His service pistol rested heavily in his lap, cold metal pressing against his thigh. His fingers traced the grip absentmindedly, the weight of it both familiar and foreign at the same time. The thought had crept into his mind slowly at first, like a whisper in the back of his head that grew louder with every passing hour, every shift, every fight at home. It was a thought he had tried to push away before, but tonight, in the silence, it screamed at him.

He stared out the windshield, his eyes unfocused, the road ahead swallowed by darkness. The distant hum of traffic on the highway sounded miles away, and the occasional gust of wind against the car did nothing to break the stillness inside his mind.

‘Maybe it would be easier,’ he thought, the idea forming in the silence. Easier for everyone. For Stella, who could finally be rid of him and his brokenness. For June, who wouldn’t have to grow up watching her father deteriorate. For him—god, for him, who was so tired of fighting a battle that never seemed to end.

Tears began to well up in his eyes, blurring his vision. He didn’t wipe them away. They spilled over, running down his cheeks as his chest tightened with the weight of everything he carried. The anger, the guilt, the helplessness—all of it pressing down on him until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

His hand trembled as he reached for his personal phone, fingers brushing against the familiar plastic case. When he turned on the screen, June’s smiling face greeted him. The photo was a candid one, taken just a few weeks ago when they had baked cookies together. She had frosting smeared all over her mouth, her braces gleaming in the sunlight, and she was laughing—laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Vince stared at the photo, a weak smile tugging at the corner of his lips. For just an instant, the darkness receded, replaced by the warmth of that memory. But then the tears came harder, spilling onto the screen, distorting June’s face. He tried to hold onto the smile, but it slipped away. Slowly, he lifted the gun and stared at it, the cold metal gleaming in the dim light of the car’s dashboard. His heart pounded in his chest as he contemplated the finality of it, the escape it promised.

But then he thought of June again—her laughter, her smile, the way she looked at him with those bright, trusting eyes.

With a shaky breath, he lowered the gun and slid it back into its holster. His head fell back against the headrest, eyes closed as he tried to steady his breathing. The tears kept coming, but he let them. He needed to feel something—anything—other than the numbness that had taken root inside him.

It didn’t last long, that solace, that silence. A car zoomed past him on the road, its headlights cutting through the night and setting off Vince’s speedometer with a sharp beep. He blinked, momentarily startled. He didn’t particularly want to follow the car—didn’t want to do anything but sit there in his misery—but the distraction was almost welcome. Anything, anything to stifle the misery—even if for a moment. A bitter laugh escaped his lips—dry and joyless, a compulsive habit—and he turned on his police lights and pulled onto the road, the red and blue flashing against the asphalt as he followed the speeding car.

@tex-mex-tony

[emeritus-fuckers]

Okay, indulge me. A S/O who’s into fear and dangerous situations with the Papas, all except older Nihil.

S/O who’s into fear and dangerous situations...

Hope this is what you were after :D - Nyx

Primo

He's very chilled about it. He is happy to just sit back and watch you as he is getting a little too old to join in. He'll brew a pot of tea and just wave enjoy seeing you so happy/scared.

But if it's something he can join in on he will.

You told him you were going to do a skydive and he agreed to join you.

You both went with an instructur. You jumped out one after the other so you could hold hands on the freefall.

He's also more than happy to watch scary horror movies with you.

He also set up a scary halloween trail in the garden one year.

He asked you to try it out and when you came out looking terrified he knew his work was done.

He then gave you a tight cuddle.

Secondo

Very wild parties... like properly wild.

He doesn't normally take his S/O to them, he would normally just take them to the slightly less wild ones.

He is more than happy to take this into the bedroom. Fear and danger mixed with a lot of pleasure.

He can give you whatever you need or like.

He makes sure it’s always safe, that he will stop whatever he is doing if you use the safe word. But to you it will feel like he hasn’t.

He'll pay for whatever dangerous situation you want...

You wanna go and learn to ride a motorbike go for it. He'll pay for the best lessons and buy you the fastest bike.

But he also wants to make sure you are safe. Especially with say a motorbike, they are properly dangerous and he buys you the best safety gear and mainly arranges for you to ride it on a track.

Terzo

He joins in whenever he can, in a very flamboyant way.

One time he chartered a private yatch for you both to have a holiday together.

You went out on jet skis together, jumped off the highest part of the boat and went scuba diving.

Terzo is also very careful about your safety. More behind the scenes however, he makes sure his Ghouls check everything over and that they are there incase something goes wrong.

Terzo also likes to jump out on you a lot and then he bursts into a fit of giggles.

If you complain at all he'll just shrug and say "I thought you liked being scared cara?"

Then he'll pull you close to him "or is it because I am so good looking you can't contain your shock at being so lucky to have me hmm?" He'll brush his lips against yours and smile. "That's what it is I know amore, I can't quite get over it myself..."

Copia

He's constantly trying to make sure you are safe. He'll double check all the knots and ropes when you go climbing.

He'll then spend the entire climb asking if you are okay, checking on everything.

A rat is hiding in his pocket and peaks out at the long drop below, they make little sqeaking noises.

Copia himself then looks down and similiar noises start escpaing him.

You have to talk the poor man through it all.

He still comes with you on things as he wants to be able to look after you.

He worries a lot.

He did try to take his tricycle mountain biking... it went interestingly.

Young Nihil

He often gets people confronting him for stealing their partners. He will calmly point out that those people he slept with are not anyone's property... It tends to escalate pretty quickly into a fight.

Nihil is a bit useless when it comes to actually throwing fists so it looks kinda funny.

But then whole bar then nromally erupts into chaos. Which brings the biggest smile to Nihil's face. He'll have his Ghoul's deal with the person who attacked him in the first place, before pouring you both a shot of Tequilla. You then lean back against the bar and enjoy the view together.

That might not be the danger you were looking for... but still there it is!

He also has a really fun side, whatever daft thing you want to do he's up for it. He normally takes it one step further...

He'll party, drink, take whatever and do whatever. In his own way he will try and make sure you are okay. He means well, he wants to keep you safe he just isn't always the best at that.

I can guess you two would probably end up in the hospital at some point, but it would be one hell of a story that put you two there.

~

Written by Nyx

Taglist:

@ivyanddaisies @copias-fluffy-asscheeks @lunarsromantichomicide @randodummy @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @calliedion-dungeon @dio-niisio @firefirevampire @mybotanicaldemise @emo-mess @natoncesaid @sirlsplayland @ouijaboardemo @lightbluuestars @igodownjustlikeholymary @thatoddboy @strawberriiblossoms @dark-angel-is-back

[slimearchon]

Artem x Gn Reader Paper cuts and tea cups

You sighed as you flicked through the massive mountain of papers on your desk. You had taken on a case that came with a lot of technical details and it was also heavy on a topic you had no knowledge of so your paper work was doubled due to the research you were also doing to fully understand the case.

You settled into your office chair, thanking the executives that provided the whole floor with an office chair each. You had loved the chair since it was pulled out of the box and researched the brand in hopes of buying your little desk at home a new chair.

The two thousand dollar price tag had sent you running to click the exit on the tab. Way out of your budget. So you settled for simply appreciating the one you had at work that got you through the long hours.

You shuffled through your desk to look for the finger grips that helped you flip through the page’s easier. You only spotted a hygiene balm that replaced the need to lick your finger tip to flick through the pile of pages. You used it a few times before you grew tired of the waxy feel on your fingers.

You closed the drawer closed with more force than needed but the soft close mechanism on the drawer prevented your fellow coworkers from hearing it slam in anger.

There was an office thief around and they had taken your finger grips.

You trudge on through the paper work bare handed. The clock on the wall ticking away, making your last hour of work seem to last longer.

You were unaware of Artem peeking at you from the office kitchen. He had seen how you were diligently working away and wanted to brew you a cup of your favorite tea to help you through the later half of the workday.

His hands were warmed by the mug, his hands somehow transferring the warmth to his face as he gazed at you from afar.

You truly put him under a love spell.

He took a deep breath before making his way over to you, nearing closer he said your name. “I made you some tea.”

He picked up a pile of papers and moved them to the side to be able to set the mug down onto the desk. He peered at the vast amount of papers.

“Let’s hope this court case is over with soon. I can’t have my employees overwork themselves.” He commented, his voice soft and warm.

“Thanks for the tea.” You smiled, reaching to take a sip from the cup.

He didn’t have anything more to add so while he wanted to linger around you and your bright presence he slipped away from the desk and walked back to his office, he left his door open in case you wanted to come to him for some questions you might have.

He was curious when he heard a knock on his door not even a minute later, you two were the last employees on the floor. Even without the workplace being vacant he would be able to recognize your unique knock anywhere.

“Do you know where the bandaids are?” You leaned your head over the doorway, half your body behind the doorway.

He stood up, pushing his office chair back with force. “What happened? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His blue eyes darted around your form, frantic.

You smiled and lifted a finger, “Just a silly paper cut.”

“An injury isn’t silly. Let me see.” He rushes over to your side and lifts your hand to his eye level.

Beads of crimson pebble on your fingertip. He tutted his lips, his brow pinching. He leads you to the communal kitchen and opens a draw along the way.

Quickly grabbing a bandaid from the box and closing it shut with his hip. He led you to the sink and held your hand under the faucet.

He turned it on and watched as the blood washed down the drain. He gave you a half grimace and smile when you hissed that it hurt a bit.

He had also plucked up some healing ointment from the drawer. He got a napkin and spread the cream onto your cut before carefully wrapping it in the bandaid.

You would think he was performing surgery with the way he was so focused on wrapping the bandage so delicately around your finger.

“You can’t wrap it too tight or else you can cut off the blood flow in your finger.” He said, as he smoothed down the bandaid.

You just nodded at his words, trying to stop the warmth from his body heat and the breath that fanned your hand from sending warmth across your chest and cheeks.

Artem seemed like a stern man but he was always so gentle and kind with you.

“Thanks.” You finally found your words, your hand still clasped in his even after he was done helping you.

He looked down at your intertwined hands and abruptly dropped your hands. “No problem, anything to help out a fellow employee. I have a few papers to look over. Let me know if you need anything.”

He skirted past you and down the hall into his office. Just as he was out of your sight he instantly grabbed at his chest.

His face boiling hot. His feelings for you were just getting stronger, he only hopes you might return his feelings one day.

[coldalbion]

The Nest of Snakes

So:

What if I told you

That the blind

Might sense more

Than the sharpest

Eyes of Eagles?

The deaf more

Than the keenest

Ear - Infinite Angels

Toppling

From their pins - dropping like

A cacophony of Wings and Eyes?

Serpent-wreathed bulls more

Animate than animal:

Would you believe?

Me: told as I am (more)

As we are,

Never-the-Less

Make lies into truth

And Truth into Lies.

Hence, twixt, thus

Play host:

Ghost-with-the most -

Lord of Strangers

For flesh is

Wyrm-ridden and

Seething

I: a strait-jacketing inside,

A ward of madness;

Listen to howling griefsong

Psyche cries there for Eros -

Blót, blood poured out,

Swelling, blossoming - a blooming rose

Iron-thorn sacrifice

Bark makes a door

Of skin.

Host-lord

Ever between (inter) betwixt

Faces

Masked, hatted, hooded

So the sibilant-prophet

Reveals via concealment:

Mouth of Ash

Roarer

Hanged-jaw juddering

In freezing, starry silence

Deepest night and richest

Twilight

Shapeshifting thief of always -

Matter's of Matrix - ever-fugitive

And fork-tongued:

Sing of rivers risng

Lame

From their beds

Asleep no more;

They never-were

The doubled, tripled ones

Pouring forth

From the Mount of Venus

Mother i' the Mountain

Pads with feline grace

Bloody muzzle, gleaming teeth

Gold-gleam brewing

Honey of ancestral bees

The grave drones

Of kosmic sporulation

I cannot tell you of

One single thing

But the more

Such as I ken

So must I lie

Would you know yet more?

[sadiebelle]

i saw the light this morning

(exaggerated but true events of my morning on the 16th of december.)

“good morning!” is what i would say if the morning was good. but it wasn’t. woke up feeling not so refreshed. rough sleep. i had that uncomfortable feeling in my leg that made it seem like i was cooped up in a small space, that i needed a good old streeeeeeeeetch. quite restless! not in the bestest of moods from the get-go.

got out of the warmth of my ditsy floral yellow duvet and my bright pink quilt that my mama got me for Christmas last year. made my way towards my bedroom door, which is always left open in hopes that my cat will join me for a snuggle (she never does…), and stepped over the mountain of clothes i left on my floor. december homework leaves one feeling disorganized sometimes. no time to fold my laundry and make my bed!

anywho. i’m now walking in the hallway, headed towards the bathroom. oh! nevermind. my brother is taking a steaming hot, forty minute shower. great. i’m even grumpier now. i turn to head back to my room (i may as well be productive for the next twenty minutes of his shower, or else i’ll be late for school), and, rather unfortunately, stub my toe really hard on the corner of the hallway banister.

holy moly!!! pain pain pain. oh my gosh. i say some rather colourful words (opposite intention as the word “huzzah!”, but with the same verbal enthusiasm). groooooan. today sucks already. my poor toe hurts so bad. gasp! it’s all red! are you kidding me, how hard did i kick that stupid wooden post? crap! ow ow ow. (oh my gosh, what’s that light at the end of the hallway!? no, stupid, not the sunrise! i think i’m dying! i can see the other end!)

okay… i need a pick-me-up, or else i will be emo for the rest of the day. eureka! i’ll make myself a cappuccino! ugh, i’m so grateful my mom realised that getting rid of our espresso machine was a mistake. her crusty and old french press was just not cutting it. i put my white Nike socks on (my poor toe…), head downstairs, and realize that i’m not wearing my glasses. i can already feel the headache brewing.

i retrieve them: problem kinda solved (i can see, head still hurts). i reach the kitchen to prepare my lunch, neatly packing some cabbage casserole in a glass container (unironically yum i don’t care what you think!), as well as an apple, a chocolate-peanut granola bar (hopefully no one dies upon smelling this, i think mournfully), a spoon, and a dismembered gingerbread man – no frosting. i put some bakery bread in the toaster, though the slices are too long so they stick out awkwardly like a tall person’s feet under a hotel blanket. can’t relate.

i spot the glistening espresso machine, ready for use. oh, you better not disappoint me, girl; i’m holding on by a thread! ok, fast forward to my double shot being poured in my mug, i open the fridge so that i can froth some milk, and guess what? (“what?”, you say out loud) THERE’S NO MILK! are you joshing me right now? %$%&*$, i say. “what’s wrong?” my mom asks from my dining table.

everything, i say melodramatically, facepalming and shaking my head (she laughs at me). my toast pops. i choose to just spread butter on it because i can’t be bothered to fight with the solid block of organic peanut butter my mom insists on buying over the oily stuff. (don’t tell her i said this, because she’ll never let me hear the end of it, but she is right; the organic stuff tastes better) anyways. the rest of the morning is bad. my bangs look clapped. i’m post-period breaking out HELLAAAA. i just remembered that i have work tonight. my sweatpants are sitting wet and cold in the washing machine, no time for them to dry in time. shucks, i guess i’ll just have to wear jeans!

jeff buckley, please give me strength! Yard Of Blonde Girls, bring me to life! (ooh girl, you bet your cheeks it did.) i feel rejuvenated, rejoiced, and reconciled. i will not succumb to my sour mood, nuh uh. goodbye!

[fruit-salad-ship]

Got canon nonsense stuck brewing in my head. (read ramblings below)

Notably a big storm rolling in, staff have the place on lockdown, plenty of people have gone home before the boats stopped running between Dotaku and the mainland, its just the skeleton crew while this thing passes, enough to wrangle the pokemon and keep things safe. Peach hasnt been found most of the day, spotted darting between jobs, tying things down, securing windows, tripple checking the more dangerous mons in their areas, soothing those who struggle with the weather, feeding things, making sure the vulnerable types are safe, a list as long as her arm to tick through. Greys got his Gyarados pod on watch for those caught up in strong stormy waters, dragged too far out. Theres a whole host of cautions in place, sea defences, security to stop any pokemon getting lost. He's double checking the backup generators for the labs so the lights stay on and the sick mons have what they need. Plums out herding, the barns being filled with pokemon of all kinds, helping staff with gear, with saftey protocol, the tricky escape artists not getting past her tactical mind, working closely with a few who she's borrowed to speed the work up, Saxon the houndoom, one of Greys mons has kept her and her little rockruff company through this all as rain starts to hammer down.

Things seem fine, Plum and Grey get in, soaked through but from what they can tell, the place is going to hold just fine as the wind batters, throws branches at speed, rain pounding the mountains causing the odd mudslide. All pokemon safe, all staff accounted for...bar one. It gets late, dark, impossible for sound to travel outside, thunder and lightening frequent and harsh, Greys at the window with a hot drink, watching, waiting. Plum calms him, a gentle hand on his arm, assuring him she'll be fine. Peach is...well, she's tough. She's probably out sitting with a pokemon who's scared, they both know she'd do that without a second thought. Even Val is nervous however, a rare moment where she's not with her trainer, she'd been asked to help others in their jobs and lost track of her sometime around sunset.

Midnight. No chatter on the radios, no other staff have seen her, the weathers as bad as ever, serious storm, and by this point even Plums starting to pace a little. They cave, Grey gets Boa's dad, a large and old Garchomp, while the ranger calls for Missy, both given the task to go find the professor. They can handle the weather, dragons manage just fine, and so they both go out into the rain and think about where to start, just about to take off. Its that moment they all, humans included, val too, spot blue light between lightening strikes, Boa's dragonfire, way above in the coulds, her big dragon dad knows that anywhere and takes off towards it.

Above in the impossible weather they watch the blurred Orange of the charizard hybrid fall, catch itself, dodge and roll in air, trying to shake something, somethign so fast not even she can get away. Through the rain it was hard to see, Grey squints, Plums quick to rsh and grab some binoculars, both trying to track the impossibly fast moevement. On Boa's back is their idiot, in her arms a pokemon tucked up under her jacket, one arm holding it protectivley, the other holding onto the riding gear tightly. For a while they cant work out whats around, but Val sees, she's not looking close like the humans, she's spotting the bigger picture. What felt originally like a dark cloud is lit up by another flash of lightening, the sillouette of a legend, something so big and dangerous, it makes all the fur on the back of her neck stand on end instantly. Peach is attempting to outrun a Zapdos, something that had been spotted close a few months ago way out at sea, and seemed to be attracted to or even causing the storm they were currently experiencing.

The dont know what to do, but both spring into action to try to cause some commotion, distract it.

Peach had been working hard, riding back home to buckle down and wait the weather out. The huge form of this bird pokemon cut her route off, flew past without even acknowledging her or Boa, hovering as they both looked to it, watched it swoop, go to grab a tauros, miss and instead settle for the little Combusken with it. So small in its huge grip. Of course they had to do something, it was a trainers partner, it had loved ones and a family, it wasnt just some wild mon who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Every fiber in their beings said 'dont chase this down' but they had to. Peach had to convince Boa to fly at it, they had to help. The zapdos was coasting casually, unbothered by the strong winds, be it because of size or power, the charizard having to work extra hard to catch up, stay the course, rain battering them both. A stealthy and tactical swoop from above it to below, one solid blast of dragon fire, and its grip loosneed. The Combusken fell, caught by the professor, and the attention was on them very quickly as it was tucked away under her jacket safely. The feeling of static as they flew away faster than ever before was enough to keep both trainer and rider on edge, hardly able to dodge the electrical blasts in time, a tail, an arm, caught now and then putting the fear of the gods in them both, a direct hit from that would be the end. They fell to try to double back fast, a big bird like that too large to make sharp turns, able to get a couple more hits in to try to deterr it. It was on the dive, cold stinging skin, near blinded from the rain that they squinted over, saw something coming in fast, and then another, and several more, at the very front of the pack Boa's dad, a whole pack of pokemon behind it, some charizard, skarmory, other garchomp, salamance, Missy, the gyarados pod. Enough fire power to push the legend back a moment, a barrage of attacks striking in various places. The rain however was making all parties vulnerable to electric attacks, and it was travelling well to connect to targets. It was a brutal fight, Peach didnt land, Boa's blood boiled with the sheer need to be part of the dragon assault, so they stayed up there, drove the damn thing away, defended the island. You can only imagine the worry Grey and Plum went through, watching from the ground with breath hitched in their lungs over the danger of the situation, they'd not seen one of these pokemon close like this, the island proxiity to the orange islands had its draw backs. When they all finally returned alive, it was heal-up time for the pokemon, Peach thanked them all, they worked so hard, didnt expect that kind of an incident, but they kept the island safe. If it wasnt for her loved ones, you know peach would have helped all the pokemon first, even though her damage was quite substantial.

She ignored the flood of memories she associated with the feeling of static, pushed them away, focused on the Combusken in her jacket who was crying like a baby, thinking it was a snack for sure. both Plum and Grey shed a few tears of worry, plum way more. The pokemon got rest, medicine, care and food, they did amazing. and finally she was able to hobble home and sit down. the severity of the situation hit, she struggled to sleep, needing to be held, between her two beloved people she for a second thought she may not see again at points. honestly I wanna draw some of this so bad, epic storm flights and cool lighting is a hook for me haha

[best-of-basslines]

Round 1 - Part 1

Hysteria - Silly Love Songs

Dear Prudence - Disorder

Kick in the Eye - Good Times

Dancing Shoes - Double Dare

Everybody Dance - My Girl

Aces High - Better Strangers

Tank! - Killing in the Name

Transmissions - Achilles Come Down

King of Sex - Walk on the Wild Side

Koufukuron (Etsuraku-hen) - Orion

Never Say Never - The Chain

For Your Love - The Distance

A Certain Romance - I Will

Fake Tales of San Francisco - Plug in Baby

Superstition - The Hollow Men

Ain’t it Fun - Caught in a Mosh

I Will Survive - Ramble On

The Lovecats - Got the Life

Lovesong - Dazed and Confused

Bulls on Parade - Neat Neat Neat

Barbarism Begins at Home - Sober Up

Dragon Attack - Baba O’Riley

Under Pressure - I Want You (She’s so Heavy)

Seven Nation Army - Rio

Peace Sells - Don’t Tell Dave

Another One Bites the Dust - I Feel Voxish

Swan Lake (Death Disco) - Psycho Killer

Feel Good Inc. - Cowboys from Hell

Don’t Leave Me This Way - Bitches Brew

It’s My Life - Age of Consent

Lady Madonna - Getting in Tune

Roundabout - Hey Bulldog

Round 1 - Part 2

Too Shy - Nothing to Say

Message in a Bottle - Lovely Day

Lacquer Head - Space Truckin’

Dead Man’s Party - Give Up the Funk

I Want You Back - What Becomes of the Brokenhearted

Go it Alone - I’m Coming Out

Money - La Grase de las Capitales

That’s the Bag I’m In - Deantown

Motorbike - Low Rider

Secret Message - Midnight Lady

Girls and Boys - Spoonful

College Girls - Cavern

Express Yourself - Good Vibrations

Ando Meio Desligado - Material Girl

Paranoid Android - Rock On

Chameleon - Dirty Little Girl

Billie Jean - (I’m a) Road Runner

Have You Ever Seen the Rain? - Town Called Malice

Meltdown - Snow (Hey Oh)

My Name is Mud - Give it Away {Tie}

I Got The… - Thank You (Falettinme be Mice Elf Again)

Hair - Daughter

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough - New World Man

Noudouteki - Walk the Dinosaur

You Can’t Hurry Love - Jaws

Thriller - Cannonball

I Heard it through the Grapevine - White Lines (Don’t Do It)

The Joker - Cupid’s Victim

Rooster - Nookie

Higher Ground - Blister in the Sun

Let’s Groove - Black Sunshine

15 Step - Is it Luck?

[darth-mortem]

This is a fourth chapter of my COD fic "At the Crossroads of the Worlds" translated by @g8se.

Task force "141" was sent to clean up a secret laboratory, the research of which was financed by states recognized as sponsors of terrorism. The soldiers broke into a bunker located in the Caucasus Mountains on the Russian-Georgian border. At first, everything went according to plan, but after the fighters split up, Ghost came across a strange room, the door of which locked automatically the moment he was inside. Without knowing it, Simon Riley had set off an experiment that had been brewing here for years, and now he would have to be very strong to finally return home.

First chapter | Second chapter | Third chapter

Chapter 4 of 6. 3157 words.

Past character death, angst, action, secret lab, experiment, parallel worlds, 18+

August 17, 2016. Temporary base of TF 141. Iran. Zagros Range. Coordinates classified. Experiment status: Forty-five hours after successful equipment launch. Vital signs of the subject: Noted spikes in breathing and heart rate; reasons undetermined. Reality LW414/2016.

Ghost stood, leaning against the wall of one of the abandoned buildings of the former terrorist base, smoking a bitter cigarette from local supplies. He had run out of his own earlier this morning, so Soap had shown him where they kept several boxes of cigarettes left from the former owners of this place. There, they found not only Iranian but also Russian cigarettes, which didn't surprise Riley at all.

The orange sun was setting behind the mountains. Over Ghost's head, the sky was already dark, revealing the first stars, yet on the horizon, light still glimmered. The building housing the soldiers of the 141 stood at the farthest end of the base, so the captain didn't hear any sounds except for distant gunfire. It was Lieutenant Riley had taken ammunition from the storage this morning and ventured beyond the territory to test his new rifle. Ghost wanted to go with him, but Johnny called him to help bandage Rouch, and when they were done, Simon was already gone.

“Dinnae worry, he knows this area better than a’ o’ us,” MacTavish said. “Come on, let's gi’ it a go, throw a few punches. A strapping lad like yersel’ likely knows how tae scuffle, aye?”

And Ghost agreed. All he had been doing with this 141 what he hadn't done with his own for seven years - communicating, training, participating in solving everyday problems, and so on. With this 141 he engaged in the activities he couldn’t do with his own team for seven years – communicating, training, tackling everyday issues, and the like. Lieutenant Riley, on the other hand, was absent throughout the day, even skipping lunch altogether. However, Price mentioned that he had brought snacks along, putting Captain Riley's concerns at ease. In the end, his younger double behaved the same way as he did in his own world.

Ghost felt strange. Defining feelings was never his strong suit, whether his own or others’. Nevertheless, he recognized a distinct sense of unreality in the unfolding events. Riley understood that the wall he was leaning on was tangible, that the cigarette was indeed bitter, that if he got hit by a bullet, he would be truly injured or even killed. The captain also had no doubts that all these people around him were no less real than he was. They were simultaneously similar and different to their counterparts in Ghost's world. Having talked to them, he noticed both identical events and completely different ones. But he didn't think too deeply about all this because he was a soldier, not a scientist, and he probably wouldn't be able to draw the right conclusions from the experiment, in which he became an involuntary participant.

“Hey, Ghost!” Simon heard Soap's cheerful voice and involuntarily shuddered at the strong sense of déjà vu that washed over him. “Ah, blast it! I’ve been searching the whole base for ye! Ye doin’ alright?”

MacTavish approached and probably noticed something in Ghost's posture or the exposed lower part of his face because the last sentence was spoken quieter and more anxiously than cheerfully.

“Yeah, I'm okay,” Captain Riley replied and sighed heavily. “I just feel really weird. All of you, your Ghost... I don't know what to make of it. I clearly wasn't ready for this experiment. But enough about me. Did you want something?”

“Aye,” MacTavish rubbed his temple, collecting his thoughts. "I wanted tae thank ye, ken? For savin' Simon. An' Gary, o' course. But ye... dinnae fix yer gaze on me. Is it hard for ye, considerin' in yer world, I met me end?"

“No,” Ghost sighed and forced himself to turn back to Soap. “Well, maybe a little.”

MacTavish nodded and looked in towards the mountains where the sun had completely hidden behind the peaks. Riley was silent, but Johnny wasn't surprised. Both Ghosts were similar in character, but this older one was even more melancholic, though calmer and more self-assured. Maybe his age could account for this, or perhaps it was due to the trials in his life being less daunting than those faced by Lieutenant Riley, or even by the fact that he had already lost everything he loved, leaving him unafraid and devoid of emotions.

“Listen,” Johnny cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, “our Simon would never let me dae whit I'm aboot tae dae, but the twa o' ye arenae completely identical, so...”

Soap approached closer and hugged Ghost tightly. At first he stood still in astonishment for a few moments, but then gently placed his hands on the waist of this strange, and yet so similar Johnny. Riley bowed his head, resting it on MacTavish's shoulder, and closed his eyes, imagining that it was his Soap. That he survived; that they fought and grew older side by side; that there was no bullet; that Johnny wasn't lying on the cold floor of the underground, bleeding out; that Ghost didn't watch as his living and shining eyes glazed over and became empty, frightening, dead.

“You,” Riley coughed, as he felt his voice becoming hoarse and slightly trembling, “you should try.”

“Try wha’?” Johnny felt Ghost's fingers in his hair and gently stroked his back.

“To do this with Simon,” Riley slowly raised his head, stepped back, and lowered the edge of his mask, covering his face completely. “I think he wouldn’t mind it.”

“Well,” a smile appeared on Johnny's face, "maybe I will. Now, let's go, it's time fer supper. Simon likely has made his way back by now."

Ghost listened and realized that he no longer heard gunfire. Nodding, he slapped Soap on the shoulder and headed towards the building that 141 had arranged as their safe place.

During dinner, Captain Riley was silent. He barely participated in the conversations, just discreetly observed his younger double and Captain MacTavish. Then he volunteered to wash the dishes, and after that, he went straight to the room he shared with Lieutenant Riley. Ghost wanted to be alone, but his younger double was already there, sitting at the table and cleaning the MX25.

“So, how is it?” Captain Riley asked, closing the door, and approaching, then sitting on the bunk.

“Very cool!” The lieutenant responded with enthusiasm, not stopping his work; he had just finished cleaning and started assembling the rifle. “Thank you, Simon.”

“You're welcome,” Ghost smiled under his mask, and from his pockets, he pulled out his phone and then cigarettes.

The mobile phone was working, but there was no signal. However, it could be because he was in a remote area where there is no signal at all. In his world in 2030, there were few such zones left, but in 2016, everything was different, and Ghost remembered those times well.

“Do you have any photos there?” Lieutenant Riley asked.

The captain looked up at him and saw that Simon had already assembled the rifle and cleared the table, and his cigarette had burned down, and the ash had scattered on the floor.

“Damn,” Ghost sighed and threw the stub into a canned jar serving as an ashtray, “do you have any kind of broom here?”

His younger double somehow looked gloomier, and Riley, looking at the ash again, swept it under the bed with his foot.

“Of course,” he answered the previous question, and Simon's gaze brightened. “Do you want to see my 141? Sit down; I'll show you.”

Older Ghost opened the gallery and began showing his younger double numerous pictures. Captain Riley didn't spend much time with the soldiers, but he liked to secretly take photos of them, usually so they wouldn't notice.

Simon enjoyed looking at these photos. He asked about the surroundings, marvelled that Roach was so old, and that Gaz in the older Ghost's world had a completely different skin colour. Lieutenant has never met Kyle Garrick in person, but Captain MacTavish's, who had been friends with him, had his photos in his collection.

Captain Riley relaxed, continuing to flip through the photos, and on the screen of his phone appeared a picture of himself, next to the cheerful and forever young Sergeant MacTavish with his unchanged funny mohawk, radiant smile, and amazing blue eyes.

“This is his last photo,” Ghost said and touched Johnny's face on the screen with his fingers. “The next day, on November 21, 2023, he died.”

“They are so similar,” Simon quietly spoke, looking at his older double, and then reached out cautiously and uncertainly, putting his arm around his shoulders.

Ghost sighed, put away the phone, and huddled, lowering his head. He lost Johnny seven years ago, but the pain did not weaken even a bit. The only difference was that over all this time, Riley had learned to live with it, so in a minute, he managed to compose himself and even smile under his mask.

“Simon,” the lieutenant spoke quietly, “I want to give you something. Wait a second, I...”

He jumped up, went to the lockers, and began to rummage through them until he pulled out a rectangular photo. In the picture was the entire 141: Captain MacTavish, Captain Price, Sergeant Sanderson, and Lieutenant Riley in his already iconic skull balaclavas. In the upper left corner was the date - October 8, 2013.

“Thank you, Simon,” Ghost said, looking at the photo, then stood up and put it in one of the pockets of his vest. “I don't know when I'll be back and how my life will turn out, but I will never forget you guys.”

“We won't forget you either,” younger Ghost smiled, and his eyes narrowed in the slit his the balaclava.

For a few minutes, both were silent, sitting side by side on the bunk, and then Captain Riley glanced at the lieutenant and asked:

“What about your Johnny?”

“Nothing,” the lieutenant answered and lowered his eyes. “I like him, but it's not mutual, so...”

“Nonsense,” Ghost interrupted. “Haven't you noticed how he looks at you? He likes you too.”

“Even if that's true,” Simon sighed heavily, “I'm not the one he needs. A lot of the shit that’s happened to me, it destroyed me, broke me. I'll never be the same as before, never be normal again. And the way I look now... No. It won't be good for him to be with me.”

“You're wrong,” Captain Riley spoke quietly. “I think we had similar fates, you and I. You were in Mexico too, right? Roba's destroyed you, your family, and then you came back and got your revenge. But all that doesn't make you worse than others.”

Simon was silent, staring at his older double with eyes wide-open, while Ghost spoke, no longer having the strength to stop.

“I saw that some of your scars are identical to mine,” he continued. “Here, and here.”

He reached out and lightly ran his fingers over the fabric of his younger double's balaclava, outlining the scars that cut through his lips and cheek. Then he touched his temple, forehead, and moved to Simon; slid his fingers lower and circled his neck. When his fingers began to trace a large letter Y on the lieutenant's chest, he flinched, grabbed Ghost's hand, and squeezed it with his own, finally looking into Captain Riley's eyes.

“It doesn't mean anything,” Ghost shook his head. “Not for Johnny.”

“What should I do then?” Simon asked quietly, not letting go of his older counterpart's hand.

“Talk to him,” Ghost replied, “confess your feelings. I know it's scary. You know, I was afraid too, so I didn't say and do a lot of what I wanted. I thought I would have more time, but... So don't repeat my mistakes. We can't know how much time we're given. Our job is dangerous, and death is always nearby. So if you have something to tell Johnny, do it now before it's too late. Otherwise, you'll be punishing yourself for not doing so for the rest of your life.”

“I'll try,” the lieutenant spoke. “But I'm not like you. You're confident, brave, and strong, and I... Well, I can only dream of becoming like you when I grow up.”

“We are the same, Simon,” the captain nodded. “You're strong and brave too, and as for confidence... Show me your face?”

“And you?” younger Ghost responded with a question.

Older Ghost thought for just a second before pulling off his mask. The lieutenant looked at him, reached out, hesitantly touching the scar on his cheek with the tips of his fingers, and then slowly took off his balaclava.

Captain Riley saw that his double was still very young. He had dark, short hair, blue eyes, and thin lips, chapped, dry lips because the lieutenant was clearly nervous. The scars looked fresher but were indeed arranged in the same way as Ghost's.

“Well,” the captain spoke gently, “now I see that I was not mistaken. You truly are handsome.”

The lieutenant, though timid and having a light blush covering his cheeks, didn't pull away when Ghost touched his face again, now unhindered by the dense fabric of the balaclava. Simon closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against his older double's large hand, feeling surprisingly calm and even comfortable with an exposed face, something that hadn't happened to him in quite a while. Ghost smiled sincerely and warmly, something he hadn't done in seven years, then lowered his head and gently touched Simon's lips with his own. The lieutenant froze for a moment, then closed his eyes, and leaned forward, pressing against the broad chest of his older double.

“This is so strange,” the lieutenant exhaled, slipping his hand under Ghost's hoodie and feeling the scars on his back with his fingertips.

“But it's not bad, is it?” Ghost slowly unzipped the grey fleece on Simon.

“No,” he immediately pulled his hands away to take off his own shirt and pressed against Ghost again, “no, not bad at all, quite the opposite - very good.”

They kissed again, this time more boldly, confidently, and passionately. Younger Ghost pressed against the older one, and the latter eagerly caressed his back, sliding his hands under his shirt. When they ran out of breath, they paused for a few seconds to remove each other's upper garments, and the lieutenant, seeing the captain's tattoo, breathed in with amazement, running his fingers over the drawings on his skin.

“Do you like it?” Ghost asked.

“Yes,” his younger double responded. “Maybe if we survive all this, I'll get a tattoo myself. I'll ask Johnny to draw a sketch.”

“You'll survive,” the captain said confidently and slightly stepped back, looking into the lieutenant's eyes. “Do you want to continue?”

Ghost remembered what he was like after Mexico. How hard it was for him to trust; how he was afraid to show his scarred body and face; how long Johnny had to persuade him into something more than quick ‘help’ with clothes still on, and often with equipment as well.

Now, with Simon, everything was different. They were two identical people, so the lieutenant wasn't afraid or ashamed, and Ghost had a chance to show him that it wasn't worth it. That the scars didn't deform him, and the terrible torture and grief didn't really break him. That he deserved happiness, pleasure, and care just like anyone else in this world or any other.

Probably, the lieutenant was thinking something similar because an uncertain smile appeared on his scarred lips, and then he took Ghost's hand and put it on his thigh. This gesture and Simon's red cheeks were more expressive than any words, so Ghost gently pushed him onto the bed and continued to undress.

Soon, they both found themselves naked on the narrow bunk. The lieutenant enjoyed the feeling of the sturdy captain pressing him with all his weight. He embraced Ghost, feeling his hands and lips on his body. Simon felt incredibly good, just as he thought he never would again. It seemed like Ghost had known him for many years - knew where and how to touch, stroke, and kiss. Though, why ‘seemed’? Weren't they the same, though not very similar on the outside?

Simon let out a quiet moan, and Ghost, leaning in, touched his lips with his own.

“Quiet, my dear,” he whispered hoarsely, “be quiet.”

The lieutenant himself understood the need for silence, so he pulled the captain closer, pressed his face into his shoulder, and with absolute trust gave in to the control of his older double's large and gentle hands, which were doing incredible things to him.

Ghost also felt that everything that was happening was right. It had been a long time since he felt so good and easy, as if the heavy burden of sorrow and loss had fallen off his shoulders, freeing him from pain. Soon, Simon gathered his courage and reached for him, responding with care to care and tenderness to tenderness.

“So good, Simon,” the lieutenant whispered, feeling that he could no longer hold back, and pleasure was about to overwhelm him, like a powerful explosive wave.

Instead of an answer, Ghost covered his lips with his own. He began to move his hand even faster, and then pulled the slender body of his younger double closer, feeling him tremble and cling to his shoulders, finally getting the long-awaited release.

They allowed themselves a few minutes to relax in each other's arms, and then, without speaking, they stood up, straightened themselves, and dressed. Lighting bitter local cigarettes, they sat on the bunk. The captain warmly smiled at the lieutenant, and a smile appeared on Simon's lips in response.

“Thank you,” he said and touched his older double's shoulder. “You know, I'll talk to Johnny tomorrow. I hope I'll have enough courage.”

“You will,” Ghost replied, “and if not, let this give you strength.”

He took off his dog tags. Understanding what he was about to do, Simon took off his own, and they exchanged them. The lieutenant thought that the captain would remove the rings from his chain, but he just shook his head with a sad smile on his scarred lips.

“I won't need them anymore,” he said, putting the lieutenant's dog tags around his neck, “but here - you might. So take them and remember me.”

Finishing his cigarette, Simon hugged Ghost, pulled his balaclava back on, and climbed onto the upper bunk. He fell asleep quickly and soundly and didn't see how the captain put on his mask, sat for a few minutes, and then, yielding to some unknown foreboding, quickly geared up and tucked his feet into boots before lying down too.

When Lieutenant Riley woke up in the morning, the captain was already gone. Simon jumped to the floor and wanted to run and search for, but, touching his bunk, he realized that it would be in vain. Captain Riley disappeared from this world, and all that was left was to hope that he had returned home.

[kimberly40]

Mountain Man

If you traveled the foothills of the Blue Ridge in the 1930s, you may have met him; he was corn-fed, creek-baptized, lean as a fence rail, wore bib-overalls, a black hat, a big black beard and was “mean as a snake when messed with.”

He lived close to the land, knew when fish would bite best, what kind and where. He was a man of faith and never doubted that spring would come again to the land, the rains would come at the right time to save the crops and in the end, all would be well with the world.

His handshake was his bond and he brewed the best moonshine on God’s Green Earth. ”Them revenoors” were the enemy and he liked nothing better than matching wits with “them cussed devils.” Should they drop by his still place, he was long-gone and already cooking in another holler.

He was King of his Castle, (such as it was) kept his kids on the straight and narrow with a hickory switch, chopped firewood with a double-bladed axe, hunted, fished and dug a living from the same fields his ancestors dug out of the woods at the beginning of time.

His “huntin’ dawgs” were his pride and joy and many were the nights, he listened to Ol’ Blue chase a fox in the mountain side; the best music known to mankind. Ol’ Betsy was his shot-gun and his best friend; he hunted with it and when Mama went on the warpath, he slept with it.

If ever there was any doubts about him being a tough old bird, they were proven wrong on the last day of the year. He and his pals took on a bait of moonshine, climbed out of their clothes and went “skinny-dipping” in the ice-cold creek at the stroke of midnight to greet the New Year.

Should you wonder who this legend might be, he was what Flatlanders called a “Mountain Man.” He was someone’s Pa, Grandpa or maybe even someone’s Great Grandpa and could have been yours or mine. He was a rough tough character from the hills who was afraid of nothing but his wife. Even so, he had a heart of gold and would give you the shirt off his back if you were “in need.”

He spent his entire life within sight of the place he was born and no desire to see the outside world, because he already lived in Paradise, as far as he was concerned. Let us hope and pray that maybe, just maybe some of his traits rubbed off on us and let’s never forget those who came before us; to whom we owe so much.

-Wayne Easter