#I remember having a very similar conversation a few months ago | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

python333 · 11 months ago

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soft spot — python333

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synopsis you've been having a bad day, and ghost feels like being extra nice to you. plot twist you're an age regressor and him being so nice is NOT helping.

relationships platonic agere cg!ghost & gn little!reader.

characters ghost.

word count 6.7k.

warnings a victorious reference, age regressor reader, usage of c/n [call sign/code name], 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself]

note please feel free to attack me as much as you want if this is inaccurate. i don't even care if it's not constructive criticism. i am begging for everyone's thoughts and opinions on this!! this is also the longest oneshot i think i've ever written!

“Having fun there?”

You turn in your seat and find Ghost leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and one eye slightly wider than the other—an indication that his eyebrow is raised.

“Not really,” You answer, setting down your gun. You’d been disassembling it, trying to take your mind off of the slowly growing headache that’s been building up for the past few hours. You don’t think it’s a migraine or anything, but it still bothers you greatly.

“Yeah, no, I can tell,” Ghost chuckles, pushing himself off of the door frame and walking over to you. He eyes your gun for a moment, the magazine already removed as well as any live rounds left in the rifle ejected, and the bolt locked to the rear. You were only maybe a quarter of the way through your disassembly, even though you started around thirty minutes ago.

For some reason, you woke up upset today. You were too tired, you felt awfully sluggish, and there was a throbbing pain clustered in the back of your eyebrows. So, in short—you were reasonably very upset. It showed visibly in the way your eyes twitched every so often, and in the way you felt the need to pinch the bridge of your nose to distract you from the pain that was still building up behind your brows.

“What’s going on?” He asks, leaning on the table.

“I have this headache that won’t go away,” You respond, sighing as you move your gaze from your gun to Ghost. You can barely see it, but from his eyes you can tell that his face scrunches up beneath his mask. He knows a thing or two about bad headaches, being someone who frequently gets migraines himself.

“Have you taken any meds for it?” You shake your head ‘no’. Ghost holds up a single finger in a ‘one moment’ motion and rummages through the pockets on his tactical vest for a moment, before he pulls out a small bottle of ibuprofen no bigger than his palm. He hands it to you.

“Here.” You blink at it for a moment.

“Thanks,” You take the bottle gingerly and Ghost nods, watching you as you struggle with the child-proof lid for a second before getting it open. You shake out a small tablet, one the size of a low-dosage aspirin, and pop it into your mouth. You don’t have much of an issue dry-swallowing it, and it only takes one attempt before you successfully swallow the tablet.

“You’ve been feeling pretty bad this whole week, haven’t you?” Ghost frowns underneath his mask.

You think for a moment before nodding, “Yeah, I guess. I think it’s mostly just stress.”

You know it’s not just stress.

For a while now, you’ve used something called ‘age regression’ as a form of stress relief. You don’t know exactly when it started, but you do know that it was before you were recruited for the 141. And originally, you made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t regress while on base, and you kept that promise for maybe a month before you broke it.

You think it was Ghost that was the trigger, actually. You can vividly remember the first time you regressed while on base; you had just finished talking to Ghost, and he called you something—you think he called you something similar to ‘kid’—that made a flip in your mind switch immediately. You can remember excusing yourself from the conversation quickly, leaving your lieutenant slightly confused but otherwise unbothered by the strange action.

And, worst of all, you can remember being in your quarters and practically burrowing under your blankets. You were curled up into a fetal position, trying to fight the urge to suck on your thumb or at least chew on something, but ultimately lost the fight and succumbed to your urges. You spent maybe a few hours like that, wide awake when you just wanted to try and sleep it away, thinking about that interaction you had with Ghost over and over again.

You’re not stupid. You know that Ghost has some sort of soft spot for you—albeit, you don’t know exactly how soft that soft spot is, but it’s definitely soft. Soft enough that he goes the tiniest bit easier on you compared to other recruits, soft enough that he spares you more time than he does for others, and the most obvious of all—he initiates most of your conversations.

Contrary to popular belief, he’s not the scary super-soldier most people think of him as. Sure, maybe he is kind of scary, and maybe his mask does jumpscare you when you’re doing missions in particularly dark spaces sometimes, but other than that he’s not scary in the slightest. If anything, he’s awkward. Awkward enough that he’s almost never the first person to talk to someone—except for you, of course. You don’t know why he acts so differently around you, but you don’t complain about it.

“That’s rough,” Ghost looks down at you with concerned, empathetic eyes, “Sorry you’re so stressed. Mind me askin’ why?”

“I don’t, but I also don’t know why I’m so stressed,” You huff out, even though you know the answer completely. You stand up, “I think it’s just me being sleep deprived. I’ve been having the tiniest bit of trouble falling asleep lately.”

“You should’ve told me earlier,” Ghost tuts, “I have melatonin.”

You give him a confused look. “You do?”

“‘Course I do.”

You blink at him for a moment before sighing, “Could I have some then?”

“What’s the magic word?” You give him an unimpressed look, ignoring the way the words make your stomach twist, and his eyes crinkle in a way that lets you know that he’s grinning under his mask.

“Could I please have some melatonin?”

“The magic word was lotion, but I’ll let it slide,” Ghost hums, “There’s some in my office. I’ll grab it for you later.”

“M’kay,” You look over at the door, unintentionally zoning out as you do. Your vision goes unfocused as the throbbing pain behind your eyebrows grows and something else grows inside of you.

Jesus. Why can’t you choose any other time to get the urge to slip into a younger mentality? Why does your headache have to make everything worse for you? Why does Ghost have to be so nice and helpful?

“Hey,” Ghost frowns, tapping a finger on your shoulder to snap you out of whatever trance you’re in, “[c/n]?”

Oh God.

Your eyes—that you try desperately to keep neutral—meet Ghost’s, his eyes soft and his eyebrows dipped downwards in a confused manner. His eyes are searching, flitting over you, trying to find something. The way he looks at you makes you want to squirm, and you can’t help but just slightly shuffle in place.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, voice as concerned as his look. That should be the breaking point for you, but you remain as big as you can be, and nod affirmatively.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” You try to assure him, hoping you don’t sound as nervous as you feel, “I think I’m just a little tired.”

Ghost doesn’t look convinced.

He puts a hand on your shoulder, the act like a hammer putting another dent in the wall you had put up. The leather of his glove is warm even through the thick material of your shirt, and it feels like hot metal against your cold skin, the clothing covering your shoulder be damned.

“You can tell me if you’re not okay,” He tells you—what is he doing? Does he know something I don’t?—while his thumb starts rubbing circles into your shoulder, “I feel like you’re more than a little tired.”

You stay silent for a little bit. You don’t know how to explain yourself, the words seeming to liquify and leak right out of you, making you speechless. He seems to notice this, sighing and letting his hand slip down to your hand, holding it and giving it a quick squeeze.

“I think,” He looks around for a moment before turning back to you, “that we should head to my office so that nobody can bother us, and then you can tell me all about how you’re feeling right now. Does that sound okay?”

You nod wordlessly, not trusting yourself to talk with how heavy your tongue feels, and you let Ghost lead you back to his office. It’s only a hallway away, but that’s still enough time to overthink everything that could possibly happen. How does he know something’s wrong? What gave it away? Did I do something bad? What did I do? Wh—

The creak of his office door opening snaps you out of your thoughts, and Ghost steps aside to let you enter his office first. Hesitantly, you take a few steps inside, and you hear the door click shut behind you as Ghost walks in. He takes your hand again, making you look at him as he guides you to a chair.

You sit in the chair that’s in front of his desk, and he quickly drags out the chair that’s behind it so that it’s right next to yours. He sits down.

He’s looking at you expectantly.

“Uh.” You’re not sure what to say. He’s looking at you so reassuringly, it’s hard to keep yourself sitting upright.

“I know something’s wrong,” Ghost says, leaning forward the tiniest bit, “I need you to tell me what’s wrong so I can help you.”

He’s got to have at least some idea of what you’re experiencing, You think, trying to form some sort of explanation, He’s being so… weird?

You swear there’s some other word you could use, but your vocabulary feels so limited, and you would mentally curse if you could because you know that now your explanation is gonna sound weird. You can’t use the words you want, you’re gonna be forced to use simple words, ones that can’t convey exactly how you feel. Words that—and it physically pained you to admit this—were childish.

You can explain your situation. Just, now it would be more… blunt. And short. And also you’d feel like killing yourself afterwards. You won’t, obviously, but you can predict that you’ll come very close to doing so.

Okay, I have to say something because Ghost is looking more and more worried the longer I stay silent.

“I feel…” You trail off for a moment, trying to get your thoughts in order for the next two seconds to actually say something that makes sense, before continuing in a far less confident tone, “… small.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret it. Ew. Ew. Ew. What. Why? Why that word? It leaves a sour taste on your tongue and yet you can’t think of any other word that would better suit how you feel. Still. Ew.

Your thoughts are a jumbled mess ranging from fleeting thoughts of disgust to thoughts lodged in the back of your mind begging you to go anywhere else just so that you can stop having to have this conversation. This conversation requires words bigger than you have access to, and a sort of control over yourself that you can’t grasp. You can feel your hands twitching, wanting something to hold onto, anything to keep you distracted from the overwhelming urge to just regress.

Ghost blinks. He didn’t expect that answer.

“Small?” He repeats in a questioning tone, eyebrows furrowed, “I mean, compared to me, I guess you’re kind of short—”

“No, no, not like short small,” You try to clarify, feeling just slightly discouraged by Ghost’s confused words, “Like…”

You struggle to find the words that properly describe how you feel, only finding words like small and little in your current vocabulary. Your findings are making you increasingly upset, and you can feel your face start to grow hot with frustration and embarrassment.

Oh my God.

“Like…?” Ghost nudges your knee with his, trying to encourage you to talk, “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

There’s still a level of care in his words, no matter how confused he seems, and that adds all the more struggle to your predicament. Not only do you not want to tell him, but you can’t describe how you feel in a way that’s acceptable for someone your age to describe anything. At least, not in a way that you deem acceptable for yourself to describe anything.

You’re far too old to be describing yourself as small.

“[c/n]?” Ghost nudges you again, and you blink at him. Your eyes are flickering all over his mask, going anywhere but his eyes, since eye contact with anyone would make everything significantly worse for you right now.

“It’s just—” You try to take a deep breath but your breath hitches. Everything is starting to make you feel so frustrated, and you’re starting to think that you might just throw a tantrum if you can’t do at least one thing right. You try to find the words you want to use but your throat is disobediently closing on you. Your mind feels like straight mush, and the quickly softening look that Ghost is giving you isn’t helping you at all.

To your horror, in your inexplicable inability to talk in the way you normally do, you let out a small whine. It sounds obnoxious to your ears, and worst of all, sounds like something a little kid would do.

You put your head in your hands, the quickly reddening skin of your cheeks getting cooled by the cold of your palms as you try and hide your face from Ghost. You can picture how he looks right now—somehow more confused than earlier, possibly annoyed, weirded out—and all those mental images make you bite your tongue to prevent another noise.

“What was that?” You don’t answer him.

To your non-answer, Ghost sighs, and you think, This is it, this is where he kicks me out of his office, oh my God I’m gonna get dishonorably discharged and he’s gonna give me a really mean look on my way out—

“Look at me.” You shake your head negatively.

“Why not?” He sounds so confused, it makes you want to cry. There’s still a level of worry in his voice, and it adds to the fog that builds up in your brain.

You move your face just slightly up so that your eyes peek out from above your fingertips, your hands covering the rest of your face. Ghost reaches out both of his hands, and ever so gently removes your hands from your face, uncovering your red cheeks and your lips—the lower of which quivers, like you’re about to cry. He notices this quickly, and you can practically feel the level of his worry shoot up.

He doesn’t say anything, instead just holding your hands in his for a moment, before he sets them down into your lap. He looks at you, concerned, and asks, “Is it hard to talk right now?”

You nod. His gaze shifts to his computer, and then back to you.

“I’m gonna go look a few things up really quick, okay? I’ll just be right over there,” He nods over to the space behind his computer, “and I’ll be right back here in a few seconds.”

You reluctantly nod again, and Ghost gets up from his seat. He grabs the back of the chair and drags it back around behind his desk, sitting down in it and powering on his monitor. It turns on almost immediately, much to his relief, and he goes to his browser and searches up a few things. You can’t tell what he’s searching up, only hearing the clacking of keys and the occasional final click that indicates that he’s hit the enter button.

He stays there for maybe a minute or two. It’s a long few minutes, and you can feel yourself slipping more and more the longer he stays at his computer. And the more you feel yourself slipping into that younger mindset, the more you start to crave Ghost’s attention.

The way his eyes are glued to his computer starts to irritate you. You’re aware that he’s doing something important, he must be, because why would he be so intent on looking something up otherwise, but still—you manage to feel the tiniest bit jealous of the computer. You know you’re too far gone when you can’t find it within yourself to realize that you’re jealous of a computer.

Your eyes linger on him and he must notice this because he looks up from the screen of his monitor and looks over at you. As if he can read your mind, he reassures you, “Just a few more seconds.”

But you said you were gonna be back in a few seconds a few minutes ago.

You don’t voice your thoughts. Instead, you nod, because God forbid you annoy Ghost with your need for attention now when he’s being so patient with you. He looks at you for another moment before going back to his computer and looking something else up, this time with a little more fervor.

Another few seconds pass and, true to his word this time, Ghost stops and gets up from his chair. He walks over to you, and your eyes follow him intently. He kneels down in front of you.

He looks hesitant to say something to you. That’s a first. That adds to the exponentially growing blob of fear that lives inside your mind, one of the only things that’s still prominent in the fog that conquers your brain.

“Are you…” You feel like you know what he’s gonna ask you. You’re bracing yourself for the question, and he looks like he’s bracing himself just to ask it.

“How, uh,” He’s trying to find the right wording, and you’ve never been able to relate to him harder than you do in this moment, “How… do you feel right now? How old?”

How old? You don’t really like that question. As much as you like that you’re now getting attention, you’re starting to remember how little you actually enjoy this type of attention. The question is pretty vague, but at the same time so specific, and you’re almost ashamed to know exactly what the answer is. Or, at least, you would feel ashamed if there was room in your mind to feel so.

“You said you feel small, right? Not like short small, just small?” He sounds more unsure of himself now, and you don’t think you like seeing him so reluctant to say something, “I looked up what it means to feel like that. Took some time, but I got to some person’s… website, and the person who wrote it was talkin’ about feeling like that. Something about regression, feeling a little bit younger than usual?”

He’s being so awkward about it, and while you typically find his awkwardness funny, now it’s anything but that.

“Uhm,” Your voice comes out as a mumble and you see Ghost perk up at it. You don’t know what to say. For a moment, you’re silent again, before you get over your embarrassment for a quick two seconds and force yourself to say, “Four.”

“Four?” Ghost asks, before quickly realizing, “Right. Four. You feel four?”

You nod, and your hands instinctively start moving back up to cover your face. Ghost swiftly grabs them, keeping his grip gentle as he keeps them from reaching your face.

“Hey, don’t try to hide again,” He says, tone softening as he holds your hands, “everything’s fine, okay? Do you— what, uh— do you need me to do anything? Do you want me to leave you alo—”

“No!” You quickly answer, a little surprised by your own volume, before you clear your throat and answer in a much more quiet voice, “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Okay, okay,” Ghost’s thumbs rub across the back of your hands, a soothing gesture that makes you the tiniest bit more relaxed, “what do you need?”

You sniffle, and you can see an immediate look of panic cross Ghost’s eyes. You don’t know how well he is with crying children, and don’t want to impose such a situation on him, but you also can’t stop the tears that begin to well up in the corners of your eyes.

“Hey, don’t cry,” He borderline begs, “everything’s gonna be okay, okay? Please do not cry. Take a deep breath.”

You try to take a deep breath, you really do, but your breath just hitches and gets caught in your throat. It only makes you more distressed, adding to the urge you have to just disappear. Ghost notices your failed deep breathing and lets go of one of your hands, before taking the other and holding it to his chest.

You can just barely feel his heartbeat, his thick tactical vest and gear in the way of it, but you can still feel it. Ghost takes a deep breath, holding it for a second or two before slowly exhaling.

“You copy me, okay?” He tells you, his words an order but his tone suggesting otherwise. He takes another deep breath, this time hoping you’ll follow his lead, and you do.

You try to breathe with him, your hand on his chest helping, but your breath keeps getting caught in your throat. Ghost notices this, but continues his breathing anyway, hoping you’ll catch on soon. You do, thankfully—after a few more attempted breaths, you finally manage one almost identical to Ghost’s. The next few after that go similarly, and that’s when Ghost decides you’re alright to take your hand off of his chest.

“I need you to tell me what to do,” He says, keeping your hand in his hold, “or at least tell me how all of this works. I want to help you.”

You really don’t want to tell him what you need right now, but you also don’t think you have a choice.

Wordlessly, you stand up from your seat, balance just slightly off-center before you quickly get your footing right. Ghost watches you, not moving, before you tug on his hand to try and urge him to get up as well. He obliges, getting up.

“What—” You interrupt him by taking another step forward and letting your head thump right into his chest, ignoring the itchy uncomfortable feeling of his vest against your face. You don’t bother to wrap your arms around him to at least try and form some sort of hug, preferring to just smush yourself into him and hope for the best.

After a moment of stunned silence, he wraps his arms around you.

“You mind if we move behind my desk so I can look up some more stuff on all of this?” He asks, voice quiet, “Unless you want to just tell me?”

“Desk,” You simply mumble into his vest, making him nod.

“Alright, but you’re gonna have to stop hugging me for a second,” Ghost warns you. You reluctantly step away, and Ghost smiles softly down at you, bringing his hands away from your back and instead holding one of yours.

He leads you behind his desk, and lets go of your hand before sitting down in his chair. Pausing, he quickly realizes you have nowhere to sit, and thinks for a moment before getting back up. He drags his chair just slightly to the side and looks back at you.

“Sit down,” He nods to the chair, “It’s only gonna be a minute or two, alright?”

You nod, hesitantly moving to sit in the chair, not really liking how far away from Ghost it is. It's not that far, You try to rationalize, I’m gonna be fine.

Ghost can see your hesitation and tries to work as quickly as he can, grateful that he didn’t turn his computer off earlier, typing away on his keyboard. You don’t care to see what he’s looking up, more focused on looking at the time on his monitor. 21:44. 21:45. The time ticks by and even though it’s only been a few seconds you already want Ghost’s attention again. His attention has actually turned into good attention, and that’s the type of attention you’ve been craving for the past week.

The clock reads 21:47 once Ghost is done, and he powers his monitor off this time, the small whirring the device makes dying down to a low hum before going completely silent. He turns to you, and somehow can sense that you need more attention.

“Am I not paying enough attention to you?” He teases you, making you conflicted on whether you should be annoyed by the teasing or happy you’re finally getting attention. As if he can read your mind, he chuckles, and kneels down to your level.

“I’m gonna give you as much attention as you need, alright?” He promises, “I just need you to stay in this room.”

—

Ghost watches you nod non-verbally, and it only adds to his softening expression.

He’s always had a soft spot for kids. He knows that you aren’t technically a kid, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still see you as one. You’re young for someone in the military, much less someone in this 141, and now that he’s found out that you’re an age regressor, that you’re a little—well, that doesn’t help how he sees you at all.

He thinks that maybe the reason he has such a soft spot for kids is a few encounters he’s had with them in the past. He’s seen far too many in compromising positions while on missions; positions like being held hostage, being held as prisoner, or just generally being mistreated or even just living in bad conditions.

He looks at you, and he just sees another one of those kids.

He sees how you act around him. He’s not stupid. When he talks to you, you’re actually engaged in the conversation, compared to when anyone else tries to talk to you—maybe excluding Price, or Soap, or Gaz, heavy on that maybe—you’re more likely than not brushing them off every chance you get. You’re standoffish with everyone else, but with him, you’ll always accept any conversation he initiates.

He can also see the way you look at him. It’s like you’re looking at your idol, or your savior, the way you look up at him. He can see that curious glint in your eyes when he tells you about a recent mission, or when he tells you anything, really. He can see when you try to mimic how he holds his weapons, and when you try to copy his techniques.

He remembers catching you one day in the shooting range trying to mimic how he aims at the targets—looking through your scope with one eye closed, the other focused only on the dot centered on the scope, taking a deep breath in and out before shooting, and keeping the gun exactly like that even seconds after the shot’s been fired.

In fact, the copying has gone from guns to melee weapons recently. Ghost swings only his forearm when he uses a knife, thumb resting on the very end of the knife’s handle, and entire arm stiff as he does. He does a slow windup when behind someone, a fast one on the off-chance that he’s in front, and buries the weapon to the hilt in whoever’s flesh he’s penetrated. He’s already seen you do the same on a recent mission. Not only that, but he caught you using a knife almost identical to his.

And now, you’re still looking at him like that—except, different. Sort of like how a kid might look up to their parents.

“What do you feel like doing, kiddo?” He asks, hoping the pet name isn’t too much.

From the way your eyes light up, he suspects it isn't.

“Mmm…” You hum, thinking for a moment, before requesting, “Coloring?”

“Coloring, huh?” Ghost looks around for some blank paper and some sort of marker or pen thick enough to act as one, but can only find some highlighters. He turns to you, frowning, “Sorry, but I don’t think I have any paper, kid. Anything else you wanna do?”

You shake your head, and Ghost is just about ready to jump off of a bridge before you point to his arm and repeat, “Coloring.”

He looks at his arm for a second, confused, before he remembers a conversation the two of you had a month or so ago.

“If you ever wanna get tattoos, I know a guy in Brighton,” Ghost said, reclining his chair back so that he can lay down in it. You were sitting across from him in front of his desk, fiddling with one of his pens.

“Good to know,” You hummed, “You have any tattoos?”

“Yeah,” You perked up at his admission, and he sat up for a second to roll up the sleeve of his shirt. He wasn’t wearing his usual gear, only one of those standard issue army-green shirts.

“Here,” He pointed to a large tattoo covering his whole arm like a sleeve, a few designs you could point out to yourself being a skull, a few Roman numerals, and some kind of scythe.

“Very emo,” You commented, making Ghost snort, “I like it.”

“I’m glad,” He rolled his sleeve back down.

There’s a lot of blank space in the tattoo, despite it being a sleeve, and he can already tell that you mean you want to color in that space. He thinks about it for a moment, a fleeting thought of is that even safe? crossing his mind before he ultimately decides that he doesn’t care and would rather kill himself than see you disappointed because he denied your request, his own health be damned.

“Alright,” He hums, grabbing a few highlighters from a mesh cup on his desk in the colors pink, yellow, and blue, “Go for it.”

You give him a small smile and if he cared about if he’d get ink poisoning two seconds ago, he sure as hell doesn’t care now. You gingerly grab the highlighters from his hand, your grabbing not too secure and sort of clumsy but secure enough that the markers stay in your hand.

You hold them with both hands, and it makes Ghost realize how small your hands are—sure, you could hold the highlighters with one hand, but he’s glad you aren’t because now he can admire just how small you are as a whole.

You set the yellow and blue down on his desk, making sure they don’t roll off for a moment before uncapping the pink and hesitantly holding out a hand for Ghost’s arm. He rolls up his sleeve and obediently holds out his arm for you, watching curiously as you press the cold tip of the highlighter to his skin. You’re starting by coloring in the skull a neon pink, much to his amusement, and you’re starting in the dead center of its forehead.

You’re so much more quiet than you usually are when you’re little, and you’re so much more hesitant, it makes Ghost want to just wrap you in a blanket and keep you safe and in his sight forever.

Your tongue slightly pokes out from between your lips as you concentrate on coloring in Ghost’s tattoo, making him grin beneath his mask. The ink of the highlighter doesn’t stay within the black bounds of his tattoos at all, but he doesn’t care one bit, and he doesn’t think you care either. You finish up the skull quickly, and move onto the scythe that’s right next to it, this time capping the pink highlighter and grabbing the yellow.

Ghost is pretty sure this is gonna stain his skin for a day or two, but he couldn’t care less.

He can’t help but notice how much more relaxed you look in your regressed state. More at peace, he should say. There’s no longer a hunch in your shoulders, your eyes aren’t twitching from your headache, and you’re not bouncing your leg like you usually do when you’re sitting down somewhere. It’s like any anxieties you had pre-regression had evaporated, like slipping into a younger mentality had taken away most of your worries, if not all of them.

He also can’t help but wish he could see you like this more often. Not necessarily the regressed part, but the relaxed part. Well, maybe the regressed part too. You’re being such a sweetheart right now, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to live through this experience.

“You having fun there, darling?” Ghost asks, his grin evident in his voice. The corners of your lips quirk up at the pet name and you nod silently, and now Ghost is starting to think you’re actually trying to kill him. You’re being so uncharacteristically shy, and you’re being so quiet, and you’re just being so sweet.

It seems you’ve moved onto the blue highlighter now, coloring in the last bit of his tattoo. He doesn’t think he’ll ever wash it off—or, at least, he wouldn’t if he had a choice. He knows that he has to shower sometime soon, but surely he can put that off for a bit, right?

Once you’re finished with your coloring, you cap the highlighter, and set it down next to the others you’ve discarded. You turn Ghost’s arm the tiniest bit towards him so that he can see your work better.

“‘s it good?” You ask quietly, watching intently for Ghost’s reaction. He looks over your coloring job and hums approvingly.

“It’s amazing, I love it,” He assures you, smiling down softly at you, “You did great.”

You seem to preen at the praise, and you take your hand off of Ghost’s arm, moving to put in your lap. You’re keeping yourself very contained, Ghost notices, Why?

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when he hears you yawn, and you quickly move to cover your mouth as you do. He’s reminded that it’s almost twenty-two hundred, and while that usually wouldn’t be an issue for him, it’s an issue for you. You originally came to the 141 as someone who had a sleep schedule almost as fucked up at Ghost’s, but soon developed a habit of going to sleep somewhat early considering the training you had in the morning. So, now you get tired anywhere from eighteen-hundred to twenty-one hundred. After that, your only goal is to find somewhere to sleep.

“Sleepy?” You nod tiredly, making Ghost coo, Ghost, the man who quite literally haunts some people’s nightmares, coos at you, “Aw, of course you are, sweetheart. Pretty sure it’s way past your bedtime by now.”

“Nuh uh,” You deny, making Ghost chuckle.

“‘Nuh uh’?” He asks, amused, “What d’you mean ‘nuh uh’?”

“No b’dtime,” You shortly elaborate.

“Ohhh, okay,” Ghost feigns realization, “You think you’re too big for a bedtime, huh?”

“Mhm. Way too big.”

“I dunno about ‘way’ too big,” Ghost hums, checking to see if the highlighter on his arm has dried before he pulls his sleeve back down. “You seem pretty little to me.”

“No,” You whine, dragging out the ‘o’, “Not lil’.”

“Hmm… you sure, kiddo?” Ghost asks, “So if I ask you if you need to go to bed, you’re gonna say ‘no’?”

That makes you hesitate, and Ghost almost thinks he’s won, before your own pettiness wins and you nod affirmatively. He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Alright, well, you’ve gotta sleep at some point,” He says, crossing his arms as he leans back in his chair.

You think this over for a second, and he watches as you look over him for a moment before looking down at his lap, then looking back up at him. He can already tell there’s some sort of plan forming in your mind. Wordlessly, you get up, and Ghost does nothing to stop you as you decide to just plop yourself down into his lap. You straddle his thighs, moving until you’re sitting comfortably on him, and then let yourself slump forward so that your face is resting in the crook of his neck. It takes him a moment to process what just happened, before he laughs lightly and wraps both of his arms around you to keep you in place.

“Oh, okay,” He grins, resting his chin on your shoulder, “you just wanna cuddle with me until you fall asleep? Is that what this is?”

He feels you nod against his neck, and his grin grows as he rubs one hand against your back, trying to soothe you to sleep. He doesn’t say anything else, not wanting to distract you from your attempts to sleep anymore, simply letting you stay slumped against him. Your breathing wasn’t too fast-paced to begin with, but as you relax even more in his arms, he can feel your breathing even out.

You’re falling asleep fairly quickly, and the only complaint he has is that he didn’t get to spend nearly as much time as he wanted to with you while you were awake and regressed.

Once he’s sure you’re barely awake, he murmurs, “You’re such a sweetheart, you know that?”

—

You don’t know how long it’s been since you fell asleep, but you’re woken up by the slight rustling of clothes, and then you feel yourself moving up.

Your mind still feels foggy and you can tell you’re still somewhat in that younger mindset of yours, but now you’re significantly less bothered by it than you were before. You’re awake enough to be aware of what’s happening, always having been a light-sleeper, but not awake enough to know exactly what’s happening. You don’t dare open your eyes, and try to keep your breathing even—though that isn’t much of a challenge.

That headache that had been building up earlier has fully disappeared, thank God, and you no longer feel the tension in your shoulder that you’d been unconsciously carrying.

You can sort of feel someone’s arms snaked under your back, and you know that you’re being moved somewhere. Quickly, you remember that it’s Ghost carrying you, and that you had fallen asleep on him, much to your embarrassment. Or, at least, it would be much to your embarrassment if you had the mental capacity to feel embarrassed about that right now. But you feel so comfy and so safe that it really doesn’t matter to you right now.

You can hear the clicking of Ghost’s boots against the concrete floors of the hallway, and he’s carrying you off somewhere; you imagine that somewhere to be your sleeping quarters. He’s walking pretty fast, not hurriedly but still at a somewhat fast pace.

Soon, he reaches a stopping point where he has to awkwardly put one leg up to support your back on his thigh as he quickly reaches one arm out to turn the knob of the door to your sleeping quarters and pulls that arm right back to support your back again. He sighs as he puts his foot back down, kicking open the door and walking in.

He’s quick to reach your bed, and he pauses as he considers what to do. You can practically hear him thinking, wondering how he’s gonna get you under the covers while he’s still carrying you, and for a second you think about showing him you’re awake so that things are easier for him before he sets you down on the bed.

He pulls the covers up and stops when he reaches the part your body covers, and picks you back up, before dropping you right back off where the blankets have been pulled away. He pulls the covers back over you.

After a few moments, you think he’s left the room, before you hear the rustling of fabric and feel him leaning down. He gently presses his lips to your forehead and pulls away after a second or two, before quietly mumbling, “Night, kiddo.”

He stays there for a moment before you hear his footsteps leave the room, and then the door clicking shut behind him as he leaves the room entirely.

You’re quick to fall asleep after that.

#cod #cod hcs #hcs #task force 141 #simon ghost riley #ghost #age regression #caregiver ghost #ghost x reader #platonic ghost x reader #platonic ghost #i find him so lovely #hes my dad guys trust #i was literally meant to be his kid #trust that if i ever get any cod games with him in it i will spend the whole time admiring him #dad pls come back home #i miss u #python333

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cvsmixnaya · 4 months ago

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a lando x desi!reader marriage fic. Omgggv just imagine all the lil functions and tradition it'd be sooo cutee

Mehndi laga ke rakhna

OKAY SO. i did get a request similar to this so im just gonna combine both so i hope yall dont mind!!! the other request i got was basically this but it just mentioned that lando was telling y/n that they’ll get married like this one day and i wanted to include that cause it’s so cute🤭 also the unfortunate truth is that i haven’t been to a lot of weddings. the only wedding i remember very well was my aunt’s wedding from when 10 years ago(i was 9. fuck that’s crazy) but i did my best with this.

Ever since Y/n took Lando to her friend’s wedding. The thought of marrying her never left his mind. All he wanted was to marry her but the way her culture does it. Growing up in India meant a lot of traditions, festivals, wedding events, etc.

When Y/n asked Lando to come with her to her friend’s wedding, he said no at first but after attending all the events, he was mesmerised. He loved every single one of them. The mehndi, the sangeet, the haldi. all of it

The day of the wedding, as both of them watched her friend marry the love of her life, he wrapped his arms around her beautiful lengha whispering

“One day, I’m gonna marry you exactly like this”

She smiled said she couldn’t wait for that day to come. And boy that day came so quickly. With the blessing of her parents, he proposed to her a month or two later and immediately got to work.

Lando basically saw a new side of his fiancée. Full of stress and making sure things were right. Slowly she started to lose her mind cause she had to come up with the guest list, find the venue for all the events and Lando was starting to see how much goes into a desi wedding.

But once all the events took place, it felt magical.

Mehndi

The mehndi event was fine. Y/n was basically sitting in one place for hours getting mehndi (henna) done on her hands and legs. Lando kept coming over to give her company smiling like a child the whole time.

She was wearing a simple kurta that belonged to her mom with a dupata. She saw Lando come up to her and sit next to her careful not to ruin anything

“Hello my lovely bride” He greeted her placing a gentle kiss on her cheek.

“Hi baba. Hogaya tera? (you’re done?)” She asked him and he happily showed off his palm with mehndi on it.

“All done and dried”

She smiled at his little goofy self. They enjoyed each other’s company even though she basically couldn’t move but she leaned into him resting herself as she watched the design come to life on her body.

He loved everything about this. He knew he was gonna love the coming days of this era.

Sangeet

The sangeet was everyone’s favourite cause they get to dance for the couple and her friends had so much planned for them. The drivers invited actually reached out to Y/n’s friends and asked them for help so they could do a dance and that’s exactly what they did.

Everyone was getting drinks, having conversations and when it was time for the performance, they gathered around the floor stage to watch the performances by friends.

Lando and Y/n were sitting at the front while the rest were standing and two of her friends entered with the song “kamariya” playing making her cheer since it was garba dance which she adored so much. The dance was so good and when it was changing to the next song, the rest of her group joined in.

The next dance had the song “kukkad” so the boys and girls were dancing together. The reason they chose this song was cause student of the year was their favourite movie during their childhood (and also because of Sidharth Malhotra).

A few performances later came the best for last. Carlos, Oscar, Max, Charles and George entered the stage making the crowd go crazy. Especially Lando since he gets to see his friends dance to the best item song ever which was “fevicol se”

They boys did great. Y/n was so proud of them she got up with Lando and went to hug them after their dance and everyone joined the floor having the time of their life.

Haldi

Lando and Y/n decided to keep the haldi event small with close friends and family only. The haldi event was basically smearing tumeric/haldi on the bride and groom. It’s normally a day or two before the actual wedding and held it at her house.

Everyone put tumeric all over them. In their hair, skin, clothes. Everywhere. It was a short event but very intimate and fun. So many pictures got taken over the days and many memories were made.

The wedding

the day was finally here. The day Lando and Y/n get married. How were they feeling you ask? nervous as hell. No cold feet. No. They knew they wanted to do this. It just felt too good to be true. They couldn’t believe this was actually happening

Y/n was in the dressing room getting ready for the big day. She wore a beautiful Manish Malhotra Lenhgha and her makeup was stunning. Her mother was helping her get everything together.

“I’m so happy for you baba. Meri bacchi ki shaadi ho rahi hai (my daughter is getting married)”

She said before kissing Y/n’s cheek aggressively making her laugh.

“Love you too mumma. zyada rona matt (don’t cry too much)”

Her mother laughed but just pulled her cheek. After a while, the time came. They entered and Lando was already sitting next to the fire mesmerised by her beauty. She was already so beautiful but seeing her as bride struck something in him.

He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with this woman. As she sat down with him the words immediately left his mouth

“You look so beautiful…”

Y/n blushed. After all these years, he still managed to get her all flustered smiling like a little girl.

“Still know how to make me blush after all these years huh?”

She said teasing him.

The ceremony was beautiful. Both families were crying. Seeing their children get married was something they weren’t ready for but loved it regardless.

The wedding eneded in a few hours and it was magical. It was everything the both of them wanted. Once they headed back, they stepped into the house for the first time as husband and wife.

Lando immediately kissed his wife. Still processing that this woman was now his wife. He pulled away saying

“Welcome home wife” He said booping her nose making her tear up a little out of happiness.

“Welcome home husband” She returned immediately hugging him whispering

“I love you. I can’t wait to spend the remainder of my life with you”

He felt so happy hearing that

“I love you too. I’m so excited to spend my life with you too”

They got the life they wanted and deserved. It was the best time of their life and when all the photos came, they spent a lot of time looking at it and deciding which ones to put up on their wall.

It was a good wedding indeed.

#formula 1 #desi reader #f1 #lando norris #desi tumblr #lando norris x reader #formula one #lando norris x you #lando norris fic #lando imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris fluff

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imagine-darksiders · 6 months ago

Text

Mobsiders, chapter 1.

Timeless Unrest.

So, I'm trying something different here, this is a mafia au in which the Horsemen are mob bosses, and they take an interest in the Reader. This story will be set in the Universe of Darksiders, 2 years post-resurrection.

You are a self-proclaimed reporter, tasking yourself with hunting down a rumour that humans are being sold off-realm as slaves to a certain Demon Prince. At the centre of those rumours is one, particular family who control Haven City, and the Earth at large. You've been found out, and now you're going to have to meet the very beings you've been trying to expose.

--------

You’ve heard it said that a good journalist will face down threats every day in search of the truth, but a great journalist has already skirted so close to the truth that they’ve been privy to the inside of a burlap sack.

‘If there’s one thing to take out of this,’ you muse, panting for breath inside the coarse, stinking bag slung around your head as you’re dragged forwards down an unseen path, ‘At least I can finally say I’ve made it.’

Jesus… You’d only gone out to pick up your ration of milk for the week…

The passage of time seeps by at a disjointed rhythm when you can’t see. It seems only minutes ago you were trekking through the murky fog from your tiny, jerry-built apartment to the community centre near Fifth to collect your weekly rations. A small slip of card had been clutched protectively against your chest. On it, in little black writing was a short, unimaginative list.

'Bacon.'

'Milk.'

'Cheese.'

'Eggs.'

'Water.'

Two years since the Great Waking has seen Humanity still struggling to cobble their lives back together, and although supplies aren't nearly as sparse as they were in those first few months of chaos and disorder, people are still being careful with what little they have.

You'd been fantasising about how soon you'd see the word 'chocolate' appear on the list when, from out of nowhere, there was a loud squeal of tyres on tarmac, and something came careening to a halt behind you.

Strangely, it took you a moment to register what you were hearing.

When it eventually clicked, the first thought that sprang to mind was, ‘Who the Hell has a working car?’ Your second thought came moments later when you wheeled around just in time to see two, suited men plunge a sack down over your head and heave you bodily into an old, rusty car.

In the struggle you dropped your precious ration card.

The jolt of panic that shot up your spine was so potent, you almost managed to lurch right out of their grasp.

They weren’t expecting you to put up a fight, you suppose.

But how could they not? One of the cruellest aspects of the Great Waking was that humanity didn’t come back as new-born souls who had no recollection of their past lives. Instead, in a sick twist of fate, everyone, yourself included, can still recall how they died.

It sure as Hell made you want to avoid meeting a similar fate ever again.

Which is partly why you’d all but exploded into action when you were grabbed, thrashing your limbs, kicking, lurching sideways, gnashing your teeth to try and catch the burlap between them and tear your way out from the inside if you had to.

With all the ceremony of tossing out a bag of rubbish, you were flung, yowling like a terrified bearcat, and the hands left you for all of a blessed second before your back hit a stiff, leathery surface that punched the wind right out of you.

You can still remember the morbid satisfaction of kicking out and striking something solid that went ‘crunch!’ when it connected with the heel of your shoe.

It wasn’t as satisfying moments later when you were slugged so hard in the cheek, your head snapped back and your vision exploded into colourful speckles of light.

An engine had rumbled to life underneath you as car doors slammed shut, and through the ringing in your ears and swimming head, you caught snippets of conversation, mostly revolving around a broken nose and a call for tissues.

You have no idea how long you were in that car for. All you remember is just how peculiar it was to be in one again. Even more peculiar to realise it had been over a century since you sat on a leather seat with an engine purring against your spine.

You still fought, of course.

Borrowing strength from your fear, you struggled furiously against a weight settled on your legs and a pair of hands that kept your flailing wrists in their vice-like grip.

In hindsight, you regret fighting so hard in the car.

Now that you’re on your feet again, stumbling blindly through an unknowable building with half a chance at running away, you’re exhausted, mouth hoarse and dry from shrieking and limbs that tremble with terror and fatigue.

Your throat aches now, thick with emotions, and your cheek isn’t faring any better either, throbbing like it has its own heartbeat.

Even without the tears clinging to your lashes and muddying your view, the path ahead is still obscured from sight by your scratchy, unconventional headgear.

You’re inside a building. You can deduce that much.

And from the sounds of dress shoes clacking hurriedly on the floor below you, it’s either somewhere that’s been newly built, or a place that had remained miraculously untouched during the stretch of time between Humanity’s extinction and their resurrection.

The surface below you is perfectly and unusually smooth from what you can tell as you’re dragged along by two unknown thugs, neither of whom seem hindered by your stubborn efforts to dig the heels of your plimsolls into the floor, hoping to trip on a notch or bump.

It’s only been two years since the Great Waking, and all the buildings in Haven City have one thing in common that this place doesn’t.

Structurally, every single one of them is as rickety and unstable as a two-legged horse.

Yet this place has no creaky floorboards, no potholes left over from where the ground was blasted apart by a falling meteorite, no dip, sag, scoop or pocket to trip yourself up on and shake your kidnappers loose.

You try to focus on the pounding of footsteps, not your heart, nor the abject terror that tries to sink its teeth into you every time those bruising hands clench all the tighter around your arms and heave you upright again when your legs yield underneath you.

Eyes pinched shut, you force a kerosene-drenched breath in through your mouth and choke it out again, blowing droplets of sweat and tears off your upper lip.

You nearly bite your damn tongue off when ahead of you, something unlatches – ‘a door?’ – and you’re readjusted in the men’s grasp, two hands on each arm, keeping you marching forwards.

The toes of your plimsolls squeak against the hard floor as you’re dragged over a small bump and onto a different surface entirely.

Softer. More giving. The footfalls are quieter…

Carpet, you surmise.

“Ah, finally!”

Your hammering heart seizes up at the sound of a booming, unexpected voice that filters in through the fibrous gaps in your burlap prison. You’d almost grown used to the grunts and curses of the men hauling you along, it’s odd to hear actual words for a change.

“Boss,” one of the men at your side speaks up, his clear, nasally tone confirming he isn’t the one you’d kicked in the face, “Got ‘er right here, Boss! Just like you said.”

The breath hitches in your chest and you wrack your brains to place the first voice as it speaks again.

“Oh for- C’mon, guys. The sack? Really?” a distinctly male voice complains.

Your ears catch the sound of metal clinking, heavy footsteps on the carpet as their wearer draws closer to you… He sounds big, weighty, far more so than either of the two who lugged you in here.

‘Shit…’ you think, breathing hard. And when nothing more helpful springs to mind…‘Fuck!’

Stealing an iota of adrenaline from somewhere deep inside your guts, you start to struggle in earnest again, lips stuffed together to stop yourself from letting out any pitiable whimpers of distress. You have an awful, awful suspicion about whose turf you’re on, and it has everything to do with the little, red notebook currently locked in the top drawer of your bedside table.

“Sorry, Boss,” the nasally man to your left responds, shifting on his feet, “Gave us a little more trouble than we was expectin’. Look what she did to poor Dimitri.”

There’s a pause, in which you assume he must finally see the extent of your efforts to escape the car.

“Yeah,” the stranger eventually says, “I noticed that… S’it bad?”

The man to your right – Dimitri, you infer – huffs out an acidic hiss through his teeth and starts to dig blunted fingernails into your sleeve, upping the pressure until you wince beneath the sack.

“Broke my fucken’ nose,” he sneers in a voice that’s thick and wet, as if he’s bunged up with a bad cold, “F’she knocked any teeth out, this little bitch’d be-“

“-HEY.”

It’s alarming how one simple word can crack across the room like a bolt of lightning, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck and causing Dimitri to choke on his tongue in his haste to fall silent. Instinctively, you flinch away from the shout, as far as the hands will allow, though you can’t help but notice that the men on either side of you do the same thing, each taking a quick, aborted step back before they seem to remember themselves and stop in their tracks.

Nobody says a word. You don’t because you’re loathe to draw that kind of wrath down on your own head, and the men don’t for much the same reason.

Another heavy boot falls to the carpet with a dull, metallic ‘clunk,’ far closer to you than it was before, and when its wearer draws in a breath, you can hear the creak and stretch of leather as it expands to compensate a prodigious chest.

… He’s standing directly in front of you…

“… I catch you usin’ that kind of language about this lady again,” the stranger growls, his once casual tone now deep and dark as a mineshaft, likely just as dangerous, “And I might just forget that you humans aren’t bulletproof.”

‘Humans…? Oh, God…’ Gulping audibly, you try to keep your breaths shallow and quiet; a difficult feat when the air around you is disturbed by the terribly familiar ‘click’ of a gun’s hammer locking into position.

From within the muffled pocket of your hood, the sound is almost deafening.

Throat closed around several, trapped sobs, you hold your breath and clench your eyes shut, expecting that at any moment, you’re going to hear a man die.

But then…

“Understood…” Dimitri says, hesitating for a second before he quickly adds, “Sir.”

How he managed to speak without his voice quaking, you’ll never know.

With bated breath, you wait for his Boss’s verdict.

When it comes, the stranger’s voice bounces back to its jocular lilt in a turnaround violent enough to leave you with whiplash.

“Good!” he announces promptly, “Can’t have her thinkin’ we’re a bunch of monsters.”

His tone shifts again as he aims it at you.

“Now then...”

Gentle, amicable, friendliness wrapped in a cloak of deception. You know how loud his voice can be, so this unexpected softness means nothing to you.

“Let’s get you outta there, n’ see that pretty face up close…”

Oh, if only you could will yourself to dematerialise and sink through the floorboards like you’ve seen so many demons do on a whim.

Finding your voice, you shake your head, eyes wild behind the sack as they flit from side to side. “Please,” you croak, fruitlessly trying to peel your arms away from the hands rooting you to the spot, “I-I haven’t seen your face, I don’t know who you are, just-!”

Enormous, unnaturally cool fingers brush against the bottom of the sack, wriggling under the twine and tugging the knot loose. In an instant, you reel backwards, throwing your head as far away from the touch as you can, chest heaving hysterically when the man simply follows your motions.

“Just let me go home!” you sob, realising that maybe you aren’t cut out for this, after all.

A reporter. You could spit at the idea now. What the Hell were you thinking? You could have taken up with the group who left to build farmlands outside the city. You could be relaxing on a maker-built porch right now after a hard day of planting those precious seeds an angel found in Svalbard.

You could have picked up a hammer and set to work patching the holes in a shelter's roof, or jumped in a wagon that trundles around the city, distributing supplies and medical aid.

There are no jobs anymore. People are too busy focusing on the rebuilding effort, trying to restore an entire world and its civilisation to something functional once again. Nearly everyone wants to help, in their own way.

And what did you decide to do, to help? You thought it would be a grand idea to pick up a pen and a notebook and chase down information, scribbling out newsletters from the rickety desk in your apartment and distributing them around the city by hand.

And that foolish decision has led you here, to your doom. You'd grown too cocky, thought nobody would pay attention to one, little human trying to track down the sources of rumours that people are being sold off-world as slaves.

A mellow chuckle rolls from a throat high above your head and resonates inside your ribcage. “Easy, sweetheart,” the stranger coos, gripping the sack and raising it carefully up over your face, adjusting easily to the way you twist your neck from side to side, “You’re all right.”

When the burlap finally pulls free of your eyes, you can’t keep yourself from squinting against the sudden intrusion of light, blinking rapidly to clear your vision.

“There you are,” the voice says, quiet with barely contained wonder.

Keeping your head locked straight ahead of you, you finally manage to peel your eyelids apart and free the tears that were trapped behind them. Little tracks roll down the curves of your cheeks and gather on your chin as the body in front of you comes into focus.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck. And shit.

You’ve been flying too close to the sun, haven’t you, Icarus? Now you’re going to die, and what came of it? What was it all for? Exposing a corrupt family to the world. A world who could do nothing to fight back even if you armed them with knowledge?

There’s nowhere you can look that isn’t absolutely covered by armour. You can't even see the room beyond it.

A vast torso stretches across your field of view, protected entirely by segments of silver armour. Each interlocking part connects with another seamlessly to fit over the swollen muscles of a body built solely for destruction.

Every inch of it is marred with a constellation of scratches, welts, and age-old scorch marks tarnishing the silver black in places, and from waist to chest span three, distinct gouges that have torn through the armour entirely, leaving thin lines through the metal and giving you an uninterrupted glimpse of black, skin-tight leather beneath.

Something big had left those marks, and still he'd come out the victor.

Everything your bulging eyes take in attests to a life lived in battle, and a survivor of all that have made an attempt on his life.

You don’t want to look up. You’ve heard a rumour that to meet his eyes is akin to slapping a hungry bear on its snout. Your eyes can’t see high enough to glimpse the mask you suspect is tilted down at you anyway.

You know what you’ll see if you do. You know the man standing in front of you, perhaps not personally, perhaps more than you should, perhaps not at all. His name is scribbled on almost every page in your notebook.

Gritting your teeth, you swallow thickly and instead, allow your gaze to creep lower, away from the eyes burning a hole into the top of your head.

You regret looking down almost immediately when your stare lands on the butt of an enormous, silver revolver jutting from a holster strapped to his hips, so large that it would make any ordinary man who wields it look like a toddler trying to play with a cannon.

An audible whimper falls through your teeth as you flick your gaze sideways and see the second gun you already knew was there.

You swear you can feel several pints of blood drain from your face.

These guns are about as infamous as their wielder. And you’re standing within spitting distance of all three.

“O-oh, shit,” you stutter through buzzing teeth. And really, what else is there to say?

You’re in the den of one of the most dangerous beings in the Universe. One of four, in fact.

You’ve heard so many names accredited to him.

Endless Spirit of Timeless Unrest is your personal favourite for nothing else but the sheer pageantry of it.

He’s a killer, a monster, spreading desolation and terror everywhere he goes…

Worse still, before the End War and Earth’s downfall, you and everyone else assumed he was nothing more than a fairy-tale written into the pages of an old, allegorical book.

After all, a Horseman of the Apocalypse? It was always such an outlandish idea.

Until it wasn’t. Until he wasn’t.

“Hah…”

You give a start at the soft chuckle rumbling above your head.

“Not the reaction I was hopin’ for, but beggars can’t be choosers…”

You try to keep your tear-blurred vision on the armoured torso in front of you, but the decision to of inaction is stolen from you seconds later when a gargantuan, metal gauntlet rises up in front of your face.

Startling, you buck against the goons pinning you in place as he extends a finger and slips it underneath your chin.

You cram your lips together, fighting to stop that impossibly strong hand from tilting your head back.

Eyes rolling with fright, your face crumples and you let out a wheezing sob that catches in your throat as your gaze is forced up past a monstrous, armoured chest, then over a thick neck until finally, when you can hardly muster up the courage to draw in a rattling breath… there he is, staring down at you with eyes that exude all the qualities of a predator. Bright and yellow like melted gold, illuminating the silver helm that conceals every other feature from view.

Thick spikes of hair jut from the back of it, and you're reminded more of sharp, ebony horns belonging to that of a demon, rather than anything human.

Above you looms the man who holds Haven City and all the world in the palm of his unforgiving hand.

Of their own accord, your quivering lips peel apart and release his name into the air like a curse, uttered in terrified reverence.

“Strife.”

#darksiders #mobsiders #mafia au #Mob boss Strife #Reporter Reader #fear #Kidnapping #whump #World-building

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meanbossart · 7 months ago

Text

Ask Compilation: Advice, influences and Misc.

Apologies for taking so long on some of these, admittedly I'm much more likely to entirely forget about asks that are about me and my interests 💃 Thank you for all the questions regardless! And thank you specially to everyone who just drops nice messages into my inbox out of kindness.

I'm brazillian and a native portuguese speaker!

I'll probably return to twitter eventually, but a) I hate that place and b) It didn't make much sense to me to turn it into a BG3 account out of the blue. I am considering making an Instagram or a new twitter just to have more places where people can follow in case they don't care for tumblr, but it's just been a very busy year so far and so that's kind of low on the list of priorities. If I ever do that I'll be sure to announce it here. Have a nice day yourself!

Sorry to hear that! I've gotten a few messages before about this issue, and the problem is that since I am myself not from the US, my options are also limited :( a lot of patreon alternatives don't work for me because they either don't go through paypal, take insane currency conversion fees, or just straight up block me from signing up.

Speak for yourself, I just assume everyone I speak to online has committed some sort of atrocious crime until proven otherwise. Except for me - of course. I have never done anything bad in my life.

I still have a lot to learn! But I will basically use whatever works for me at the moment, as well as make a sincere effort to learn about musculature and anatomy so I can understand those components and how they move, instead of only knowing what they look like when still - that's how you get better at drawing from memory. Volume mostly comes from coloring and understanding light, which is it's own beast but can very much be learned from similar reference materials and observing it IRL!

My favorite places to get reference are medical diagrams, weird pictures I take of myself, 3D software (often Virt-a-mate) and questionably phrased image google searches.

My favorite artists are Jason Shawn Alexander and Sean Murphy, but I'm not sure how much of it reflects in my art nowadays! I generally seek to pick up techniques from artists rather than to emulate style.

Honestly I love that you guys generally do the thing he would hate the most: take him very non-seriously LOL

I've been in a real Chelsea Wolfe and Amyl And The Sniffers kick lately! But usually you'll also find me listening to stuff like Boy Harsher, Swans, FWF, JK Flesh Lingua Ignota, Nick Cave, David Bowie, and so on. Music for the weird gays, basically.

I went insane and wrote a 23-chapter-long-and-still-ongoing fic in like four months. But also - I'm not that good, I'm just shamelessly pretentious LOL

Hm. That's a good question, but I'm not really sure. Sincerely not trying to be a edgier-than-thou here (in fact, this has made me a little self conscious at one time or another) but a lot of art that I don't mean to be horror-y in nature at all has been associated with the genre. So perhaps I don't know what I'm doing either, LOL.

I think just leaning on making things look slightly "wrong" or "ugly" on purpose is the way, but I also find that if you just seek to depict people as they are instead of idealized versions of themselves, you will arrive at that either way.

Thank you for reading! Honestly, I'm guilty of having not read much at all since I was in my late teens, and the style I'm employing for ANE is very different from the things I would call "influential" for me, or even that I used to enjoy reading at all before. I read a lot of Chuck Palahniuk as a youth (and, no slight to people who do like him still, but nowadays I'm not sure why I ever did. His stories don't speak to me at all anymore) as well a lot of weird experimental lit that I didn't even care to remember the name of. My last book stint from one or two years ago was composed solely of historical and medical literature, and last year I got really into Cormac Mcarthy thanks to the internet.

So, all in all, I'm absolutely all over the place LOL if you put a gun to my head and told me to list my favorite books, I'd say The Indifferent Stars Above and Blood Meridian.

(Consider the reading portion of the question to have been answered above) I really really liked Beau is Afraid and think it's a really great "horror" movie. Sue me.

#ask compilation #ask

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sabi0229 · 2 months ago

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Darius analysis of season 2

So in someone's review for the new season they mentioned that Darius wasn't really active as a character which I sort of agree on and they also said that he's trying to be social which actually got me sort of thinking. In season 1 of chaos theory it started with Darius and it was mostly focused on him grieving about Brooklyn so for season 2 I think they just wanted to move and show into more depth of the other characters and how they are dealing with their emotions with all this chaos happening.

So with Darius in season 1 he was isolated for a very long time I think because Brooklyn's death is probably like months months ago maybe it was like giving a year who knows I don't know the exact time length but given darius's encounter with the bend in episode 1 gave me the idea that he was alone for a while isolated just complete isolated even with the call with his brother it made sense to me that he talked to no one for months so he was away from society not very social and then he had to go on a car ride with Ben and they went all over and started to interact so I think in season 2 with zanya don't know if I'm spelling her name right probably not.

He tries to talk with her more even though he's awkward he is trying I think he is his little social butterfly self again it's very similar to season 1 of camp Cretaceous where he was basically locked up in his room ever since his dad died which was probably also months ago or maybe almost a year soon and his brother mentions that he never leaves his room exactly how he said he never leaves his cabin and he wasn't social and he was very awkward in the first few episodes meaning he was going back to society and trying to be social again so I think this is just another reset for Darius trying to become more social again and becoming more social means just saying anything that comes to his mind which is why I think he started blabbering about dinosaur facts again I'm not complaining I was so happy that he started talking about dinosaur facts again

because I remember on one post I said I really hope he did the dinosaur facts again I predicted it hahaha so happy that he actually started talking about dinosaur facts again. it did kind of annoy me though that Zanya sort of ruined some moments about it but I get it because she's actually also living with dinosaurs and her dad's kind of a little nerd too but when she mentioned about showing off I really don't think that was Darius showing off what he knows I think that was just him being his little social awkward self not knowing what to say and that's what he just says cuz that's what he knows best to start a conversation.

I think the whole experience in this season for him was not making sense to him in some sort of way his eyes kept giving the emotion of unsettling like he just didn't know what was going on it reminded me of season 5 of camp Cretaceous where can Kenji betrayed him and he didn't know what to do and he just shut down this is what it is really reminding me about especially in episode 8 or 9 where he found out about Ben knowing Brooklyn is alive. He just stood there and it really reminded me of when the group was fighting over Kenji who's really at fault was it his dad or him and he just stood there not giving crap but in reality in his mind he is going through all of this stuff but doesn't show it because in his mind he's also telling himself that he has to stay strong and if he breaks down then he knows he cannot help the others if he is weak

Along with the fact when he found out that Brooklyn was alive I also think that in his mind he was possibly thinking he was going crazy because after they got out of the create he started to believe that it was someone looking like her meaning he probably thought he was hallucinating from the adrenaline because it is possible sometimes too hallucinate from adrenaline and reminder he just got chased by the amazing eyeless baryonyx which I think should have more screen time so he is still pumped full of adrenaline and he probably is thinking this is the broker and a girl that looks exactly like Brooklyn and I probably going crazy yes. But later he finds out that she is not a random person that its actually Brooklyn not someone that looks like her so he's like okay I'm not crazy but I'm not okay

I also think that it's really great how they put kenjis and Darius brother relationship back it felt so good to see them being Brothers again that there was just no hatred and they are actually experiencing the most pain probably out of everyone sort of everyone is going through their own thing but I think like Brooklyn's death affected them the most in my opinion of course because they both loved Brooklyn and they both really didn't know what to do I mean they both isolated themselves they literally live in the middle of nowhere have you noticed that

So with the ending they are probably going to be talking about this a lot they are going to be processing a lot and they are going to show different ways of expressing their emotions.

Kenji is the brother that has visible emotions he shows his anger, and when he's upset he lashes out. He shows his emotions well not all emotions for example when he was sad about his father's death he tried to cover it up but I meant more as of it in anger way that he shows his emotions but for Darius he doesn't really show his emotions so one will be suppressing them like he usually does and the other will be just lashing out so for season 3 I think we're just going to possibly get a lot of Kenji outbreaks and Darius just dissociating overthinking everything that is my opinion and my prediction for season 3.

I also want to see more interaction with Darius and yazz because she went immediately to him when she knows something was wrong with Kenji I mean she's a psychology major so she will notice things wrong with people so in season 3 she's probably going to notice how Darius and Kenji were more affected and she will probably try to talk to them. Darius is easy to open up to some people I really think that there's a possibility that he is just going to straight up lie about his feelings and season 3 like I just have like this gut feeling that he's going to be like I'm fine and has a completely different expression on his face

Okay I sort of got sidetracked here but I am going to do the rest of the Nublar 6 analysis reviews

Also when did I become a therapist just analyzing everything I think that's a bit too extreme of me but I just really like to analyze characters and just give out my opinion

so there will be more characters and if there is something you want me to analyze and just talk about and by talk I mean rant I will totally do that because I absolutely love analyzing stuff and ranting about it I absolutely love it

#I should become a therapist #I 100% got sidetracked #jwcc #jurassic world camp cretaceous #jwct #jurassic world chaos theory #camp cretaceous #chaos theory #darius bowman #Chaos theory season 2 #Jurassic world camp Cretaceous #kenji kon

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disconox · 2 months ago

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Why Jean is so important to me

Welcome to my insane ramblings, enjoy your stay (or don't). Most of this is also very self-indulgent, by the way. Warning: Mentions of abuse, alcoholism, mental illness, self-destructive thoughts I'd also like to remind you that this isn't me justifying Jean's behavior in any way, he's a fucking asshole and doesn't know how to handle Harry, or himself. They're both flawed individuals and that's okay. This is just me talking about my own experiences. Now that we got that out of the way, let's get to the actual thing.

I'm not even sure where to start. When I first found out Jean had clinical depression, I immediately felt a connection. It's relatable. Very relatable, in fact. I myself have been depressed for years. It all started at a young age, I was about 13, but due to trauma it could be very much earlier than that. I don't remember much from my childhood because most of it are bad memories. I'm 21 now and still going through a lot of shit, so it's been about 8 years. Jean strikes me as a guy who has been fucked over his entire life, no matter where he goes or what he does. It always comes back to him. After I have finished DE for the first time and looked more into the lore of Jean and Harry, I started to notice the similarities between the relationship with him and Harry, and the relationship with me and my own parents.

I know what alcohol does to people, I've seen it all. And it's not great for either parties. I'm stuck in a repetitive cycle of wanting to help someone to get better, only to realize that they don't want to get better and then I start building hope again. Rinse and repeat. I know I cannot change them. But I keep hoping for a change anyway, and get upset when it never comes. Of course it doesn't. No matter what I've tried. I have tried so many times. I'm a fucking hypocrite because I sometimes drink as well. I don't want to become like them. I drink for fun every once in a while and try to not over-do it, because every time I touch alcohol, something in the back of my mind tells me I'm becoming like my father. I thought about smoking a few times, but I don't want to destroy myself like my mother does. I'm really fucking scared of smoking and its consequences. Which is funny, because I should be as scared when it comes to alcohol, but I'm not. They both drink every day at 3 pm, after work. Every single day.

And it has been like this for years. Nothing has ever changed. A few months ago I had an actual discussion with my parents. We usually never have these sort of conversations (That's the issue, by the way. A very big lack of communication. Does that ring any bells?) and I was actually surprised when they told me they wanted to lay off the alcohol. I tried to approach the topic carefully and even offered them help (therapy etc.) but.. they also didn't want that. They straight up told me they don't need help. Which is really fucking frustrating because I want them to understand that they do, but they don't care.

I know change is really fucking hard and I've been there, but my parents had so many opportunities to change and never took them. Nothing has changed for so many years and I'm tired of it. I'm waiting for a change to happen but I know it's never coming anyway. I'm tired, mad, disappointed. That's how Jean feels about Harry, he just doesn't know how to help him and is an ass about it. And I'm just letting it happen, because there's nothing else I can do. I'm watching them destroy themselves every day and it fucking hurts. Something in me still feels a tiny flame of hope, when in reality that flame is already extinguished. I want people to understand, my father really fucking reminds me of Harry. The emotional abusive, the physical abuse, the alcoholism, the sexist remarks.. It just screams Harry. Especially given with how he had been around people Pre-Martinaise, which I have read in the game inside the damaged ledger. The fact that I love Harry to a certain degree says a lot of things.

The marriage between my parents is like if Dora never left Harry, and it's fucking awful.

That is mostly why I can relate to Jean so much. There's also some smaller things and I'll get to those now.

He fucking sucks at feelings. You can see it with the way he's trying to handle Harry, and it's not working.. Which, yeah. I suck at those too.

He likes to hide his sadness underneath a layer of cynicism and sarcasm as a coping method.. I do this all the fucking time.

Let's face it, this man is a fucking nervous wreck. He picks at his facial hair and displays a lot more habits like that, like him fixing his clothes (even though they look clean, according to one of the skills in the game), running his hand through his hair.. I do this without even realizing it.

He's depressed and fucking empty on the inside. He most likely hasn't felt real love from anyone or for himself in years. He needs therapy (lots of it), anti-depressants and a hug.. And I know what that feels like. I know it too well.

Lastly, he's a fucking mess. Like in every single way imaginable.. Again, very relatable.

Jean is such an amazing character for me to project on, to relate to and to find comfort in. I'm glad they made him fucked up, because that's what I love about him. He has so many flaws and I love every single one of them. He's in the game for like 15 minutes or less, but the impact he's had on me is insane. I've had a fair share of characters I would obsess over, but Jean hits different.

I'm so glad Jean-Heron Vicquemare exists, because I wouldn't know where I would be if I never met him. I want to thank my lovely friend (who is not on here, but I'm still saying it because I care about him a lot) for gifting me this amazing game.

And I want to thank you for reading this mess of a post.

If you have made it this far, I want to show you one last thing.

#jean vicquemare #disco elysium #this. was longer than i expected holy fuck #please be gentle with me thanks #does this count as noxposting? fuck it #noxposting

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chalkrevelations · 1 year ago

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There are things I say to my partner in the privacy of our living room when I’m blowing off steam that I would never in my life say to friends or other family members or bosses or work colleagues or fellow community members. I do this not because I’m two-faced but because I’m human. I get frustrated, but I’m also a grownup who realizes that my frustrations and fears in that moment are not the entirety of who I am. I have a right to express them, but I do not have the right to inflict them on the people who would be hurt by them. That’s why those conversations happen in private, in a safe space of trust, where my relationship allows me to show my partner parts of me that aren’t perfect and allows my partner to show me that I don’t have to be perfect in order to deserve to be cared about. I get support through my petty moments until I can be a better person.

This latest attack on Build is a horrifying violation of privacy and trust that leaves me feeling literally nauseated. I once again reiterate that I don’t trust third-hand amateur fan translation to be accurate and contextual, particularly given the provenance of the material, but Build himself is apparently distressed enough by at least some part of the material to make a public apology. So, that being out there, I will say: This was a private matter that should have stayed private, out of respect for everyone involved. Whatever was actually said is nobody’s business except Build’s and now, unfortunately, any named individuals who this was inflicted on and who may have been hurt by it. Which, rest assured, was the intention - to hurt not only Build with this, but also, particularly, Apo and Bible, both of whom Poi has shown her dislike of and ill-will toward in the past. I suspect some people also don’t know how abuse works, and it shows, given that what was purportedly said is a reflection of Poi’s own views back at her.

Whatever the context, I see that purity cancel culture still insists on freezing people in amber in their worst moments - without recognition of any capacity for change or growth - as long as it provides ammunition for a smug, gleeful Particicution. You’re stuck on some unkind things Build supposedly said more than a year ago? Let me tell you what I’ll remember for the rest of my life: The small, broken sound of Build’s voice just a few months ago as he tried to protect Bible and Bible’s career from a sociopath, in a telephone call that he felt he needed to secretly record as evidence of how he was being manipulated and abused.

Meanwhile, I see that swathes of KP fandom continue to be complicit in Poi’s campaign of public and dehumanizing abuse of him, which now includes not only borderline revenge porn, but separating him from his friends and isolating him. This is what abuse looks like. It’s happening in front of your eyes. Do you even care? Do you actually, legitimately care about abuse, or is it just a tool for you to use to win petty shipwars and make yourself feel righteous? Because here it is. Take a good look. This is a textbook play. And if you’re participating in reposting those screenshots of private conversations and mocking Build’s relationships and spreading vituperative language about him and acting like he deserves to have his life and career destroyed, you’re enabling an abuser. You are aiding and abetting her, as the very scenario she threatened him with - in order to maintain access to him, to keep him under control and compliant - continues to get spun out. YOU are a bully and a hypocrite and an abuser, helping to prove that the most dangerous time for an abuse victim is when they leave.

But I guess some victims do have to be perfect, huh?

(ETA: 7/18/23, 1520 - This post is being linked on Twitter by @cherryluminary with my permission. I'm not over there, but I increasingly feel like it's important to name what's happened, and continues to happen, to Build online as what it is - abuse. Similar to to my last post that breached containment, I'm going to ask people to remember that the behavior of Build's fans reflects on him - however fair that may or may not be - and should remain above reproach. I understand being angry - I'm angry, and at more people than I've discussed publicly, at this point. But if I find out you've been descending anywhere near the level of the ugly little sociopath in my inbox who openly admitted they want Build to kill himself, I'll block you.)

#build jakapan #do NOT show your ass in my inbox or anonymous will be turned off

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aprilclementine · 2 years ago

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Steve and Robin sneaking away every other weekend to a bar in the city, that's very accepting of their lifestyle, plus the drinks are cheap and fruity, there's live music once a month, and they've never felt so free.

One weekend the two go up because a friend they made on one of their many trips is raving about the live music they'll be having on Saturday. Robin begs Steve even though it's only been a week since they were last up there, and Steve agrees reluctantly. The two pile into Steve's car after work, and make the drive.

When they arrive they immediately feel underdressed. The energy in the bar feels different, and it's definitely not the usual crowd. The two share a confused look, not thinking too much of it before, making their way to the bar, shoving past lots of leather and chains. They order their usuals, and fall into easy conversation.

A cute girl approaches Robin, so Steve keeps to himself, listening in on their conversation when he can. Steve isn’t eavesdropping, honestly, he’s making sure the girl will meet his standards for his best friend. "My name's Nancy, I manage for the band that's playing tonight," Steve remembers hearing very clearly. He looked over at the girl, with her shoulder length, head of curls, a few pieces being held out of her face with clips, she wore a leather skirt, with a band tee tucked in. Steve read the name "Corroded Coffin'' across the top of her shirt, and suddenly his interest was piqued.

He leans over Robin, catching the girl's attention. "Did you say you're the manager of the band playing tonight?" Steve asked.

The girl nodded with a proud smile. "Mhm, they pulled out quite the crowd, I scoped this place out a month ago before I booked them, this isn't their normal scene." Steve and Robin nodded in agreement doing another once-over of the crowd gathering near the small stage. "They don't look much like your guys' style either. You guys stuck out like a sore thumb," Nancy had said with a small laugh, looking over Steve and Robin's clothing. "What brought you guys out here? Or did you get caught in the middle of this." She had inquired.

“Word to mouth," Steve had answered simply.

Robin continued, "A friend we made here called and raved about who was playing tonight, didn't tell us the genre, we just like live music. We love a good show."

Nancy nodded, sipping her drink before speaking again, "Well, Eddie sure does put on a show." As if on cue, she nodded towards the stage, Steve looked over, and saw the hottest man he thinks he has ever seen. Long curly hair, a band shirt similar to the girls, but his was cropped, the tightest jeans in the entire club, Steve is sure.

Steve couldn't even think straight as the man approached the mic, a wide smile as he greeted the crowd, and Steve was a goner once he saw that dimpled grin.

Steve got up mindlessly, leaving Robin and Nancy to continue talking, moving with the crowd as the band played through their first song. It was definitely different from the music Steve was used to, he didn't know if it was the music he was captivated by, or just the man performing it.

Steve moved closer and closer to the stage, as if the man on stage had some magnetic pull on him. Before he knew it, Steve was at the front of the crowd, not letting his eyes leave Eddie on stage, by their third song Steve is sure Eddies noticed him, not sure if the heat he feels rushing from his neck to his face is from the alcohol in his system, or the man's intense gaze.

Before their last song, Eddie addressed the crowd, announcing they were doing a cover of an ACDC song. Steve nodded along as if he knew who ABCD or whatever they called were. Eddie was putting his all into this last song, throwing his head back as he belted out some of the lyrics, taking his mic off the stand, and dragging the cord along, as he moved to the edge of the crowd, swinging his electric around to his back. Steve could feel his breathing stop as Eddie was now in front of him, singing to the crowd over Steve, rocking his entire body along to the music.

Steve was frozen in place, not being able to do anything but look up at Eddie from where he stood at the end of the lifted stage. Steve's breath hitched when Eddie looked down at him, Steve could see something in his eyes, asking for something, so Steve nodded pathetically.

Eddie gave him that same smile, before he cupped Steves face with one hand, slotting his fingers through Steve’s hair, pulling roughly so Steve was craning his neck, Eddie leaned down, pressing his forehead against Steve’s, their noses touched and the only thing separating their lips, was the mic as Eddie sang the lyrics into Steves flushed face.

"Let me put my love into you, babe! Let me cut your cake with my knife!" Eddie sang the chorus with a wicked grin, giving Steve's hair another rough tug, as he pulled their faces apart, and finished the rest of the song from the middle of the stage.

Steve's ears were ringing, as his body went into autopilot, moving away from the stage as the song ended, making his way back to Robin at the bar.

Robin had a goofy smile on her face, Nancy still seated next to her. "Enjoy the show, Stevie?" Robin teased. Steve nodded, still trying to bring his mind back to reality.

Nancy laughed from beside Robin, "I did tell you that Eddie is quite the showman."

—

hiii enjoy another short blurb from my drafts because I have so many wip’s rn

(bonus: robin thinks this was a “planned attack.”

"That was a planned attack-" "Robs, what-" "No no Steve listen, she said we stick out like a sore thumb, so we are easy to notice, out of all the people she comes to in the bar its us, normies, and then her band, the one person that gets any attention from the leading man, is literally the only other normie here!"

"I say, they saw us from backstage, we piqued their interest, I mean of all the people sitting by us, she came to talk to me! She-" "Robs, thats ridiculous." "Oh, is it, Stevie? So, tell me why she left to meet with them after the concert? Hmm? Thats right, probably to meet with Eddie and fill him in on the state he left you in-" "Or, and hear me out, she has to, I don't know, manage the band shes in charge of?" "No, too simple." )

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tigers1o1 · 1 year ago

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Sit with me for a moment while I talk about writing, and growth. (And if you're a beginner to any creative hobby, I urge you to listen)

A few years ago, at the start of my fanfiction writing journey, I joined a discord server that was for fans of a specific fairly popular fanfiction. There were many writers in the server, not just the one that created the server. I didn't really write fanfiction upon joining this server, but it only took a month and a half for them to encourage and convince me to start writing. This was almost 4 years ago and I've been writing fic ever since (I've been writing for much longer, though)

One of the things I most vividly remember from my time on this server was when I was talking to the creator about how she was writing this absolutely massive fic (i believe its currently at 500k words, but at the time of this conversation it was still around 80k). And I remember asking her, "How do you write such long fics? No matter how hard I try, I can only barely manage to pass 10k." and she said,

"I don't know. One day I just did it, and now I can't stop writing long fics."

For 2 and a half years, I never really understood. I didn't get how a switch could just flip and suddenly you can do it. That is until November of last year, when I started writing a silly little modern au that suddenly surpassed 10k. And I was 2/5 chapters done. And then the third chapter alone was 12k. And the 4th? 16k on its own. The fic ended up being 47k words total. I have no idea how I did it, and I'm not here to brag, but it's also one of my proudest works.

What I am here to talk about is how it happened just like how my old friend described it. One day, the fucking spirit of little gay boys possessed me and I wrote way more than I ever had previously. And now? I'm currently writing my 4th planned longfic. It just surpassed 10k, but I'm expecting it to be 60k. And after this, I'm going to finish another long fic that's already my favorite thing I've ever written (it's about half finished at the moment). I haven't written anything under 10k in a while.

And something very similar happened with my art. I've been drawing for nearly 10 years. And one day, I drew something that suddenly, after years of what I thought was shit, I was proud of. And sure, I've made shitty drawings since then and my skill has regressed at times, but I woke up one day with the ability to make something I was proud of.

I'm not trying to give you the impression that one day you'll just magically have the ability to do what you're dreaming of. However, if you work at something and you don't stop, even when it sucks and you can only write a few hundred words, one day, you'll be able to look at your work and see something you're proud of. And you'll think, "Now how did that happen?" because at some point you stopped trying to get to your goal, and you just started enjoying the process.

That 47k fic was born of a pairing I loved, and it was written for someone I loved. And I started enjoying the process of creation, rather than thinking about how good I wished I was.

If I leave you with nothing else, I hope that one day you'll wake up and find that you are capable of the things you want to achieve.

#i dont know what her blog is now otherwise id tag her but #i think about that conversation a lot #tigers rambles aimlessly #writing #fanfiction #advice #artist #writer #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #artists on tumblr #fanfic writing #fanfic #ao3 author #ao3

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youremyheaven · 8 months ago

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What are your thoughts on men with prominent Venus nakhatras? Ngl, I feel from personal experience that Purva Phalguni men have an inclination to be more promiscuous compared to other nakshatras 😂 Do you feel Bharani and Uttara Phalguni are similar as well?

my FAV question 😍bc I'm a Venusian men connoisseur, enthusiast and expert 😤🤭

God has given me the exquisite privilege of having known many Venusian men and women and let me tell y'all 😍I love them😍 this is gonna be a bit of a storytime as well so buckle up.

Fair warning, these experiences are a bit of a mixed bag 🤧😤

1. Purvaphalguni Moon guy, super duper sweet, would bring me chocolates, drop me home in his car whenever I asked?? just all around super considerate?? he always did that tall guy thing where they bend forward a little bit to hear you better and idk it always made my heart skip a beat 😌he once saw me argue with a guy and he intervened and then also told me to let him know if this other guy ever gave me trouble (im really into this kind of performative masculinity 😌) he always defended me in front of others?? and always took my side and made me feel comfortable. he asked me out one night and confessed that he had a thing for me for 5 years (i been knowing but I played it cool 😎) but then got all pervy and said he wished I was in bed next to him??? 🤮🤮🤮Imagine waiting 5 years to confess and then u fkn ruin it like that ??? Gave me the ICK big time. I stopped talking to him, 6 months later, he texts me again and says he misses me and wants to ask me out again and I was seeing my ex at that point so I told him I'm seeing someone else and he said ?? it doesn't matter ??? 😭😭 and that he's never ever felt this way ever before and that he wanted me to think this over ??? (I never texted him after that)

2. Purvaphalguni Moon man in his 30s- I worked with him a few years ago. He was super shy and kind of awkward but extremely intelligent and good at what he did. He was married and had a kid. He always gave me mixed signals?? one day I was working with him and it was just us and he said that he's been intrigued by me since the first day and that he usually never initiates conversation with anyone but really wants to talk to me (he seemed genuine and he legit did not speak to anybody there and he had a very warm gentlemanly demeanor so none of this sounded creepy to me) and he told me that I seem very different from everybody else and I was like 😏😏but then he said "you seem to carry a heavy emotional burden" and I was like 😳😳how u know that and I said (we were talking in our mother tongue and I said this using very formal language??) "I don't deny that" and he responded (in similarly formal language) "Even if you do, I won't believe you" and trust me y'all my heart was 😭😭😭he always helped me?? always did little things to make things easier for me?? even when we weren't directly working together, i could always tell he was watching me?? He always indulged me?? I remember how I'd do something stupid and look at him with a 🥺🥹poor me kind of expression and his face would soften and he'd help me out in a very warm genuinely sweet way?? the first guy I mentioned was also like that, the eyes chico, they never lie

3. My ex had Venus atmakaraka so I'm gonna include him 🤪

Y'all the man was obsessed with me. He'd come all the way over to my house, just to see me stand on my balcony 😭 he came all the way over to my house to give me a love letter he wrote for me?? He knew I loved dark chocolate so one day out of the blue, he bought me a big bar for no reason?? along with a book because he knows I love to read 😭😭he loved giving head 🤪i associate being a giver with Venusian men ngl and he always told me he was so fond of it. He always video called me bc he missed seeing me and whenever we went even a little while without talking on call, he'd call me and then say "God I missed your voice, please keep talking, I just want to hear you" 😭😭😭and he'd buy me little gifts 🥺 and we'd do this thing where he kissed me all over my face, even on video?? like I'd point to my forehead and he'd kiss that, then cheek, other cheek until my whole face was covered. I have a lot of moles all over me and he remembered them all and he'd give kisses to them as well 😭😭😭he always told me how pretty I looked and whenever I got shy, he'd do these cute hand gestures that you'd do to coo a baby?? and he'd say "awwww ur sooo cuteee when ur shy" and give me kisses 🥺and he always told me how he wants to see me make art etc and he'd call me after every therapy session to know how it went 🥺🥺 a million things were wrong with our relationship but all the goodness i associate with Venus tbh 😍

4. my Purvashada Moon male friend

he was in a relationship when i was friends with him but again, he was sooooo fond of me 🥺I was chilling with his gf once and he ran up to us with a DSLR and took pics of me and not her?? (I always felt like he didn't enjoy being with her but this moment really cemented that) he always included me in everything and he loved it when I'd make my jokes or tease him or whatever,, I'm the type of person who loves to be taken care of and he was the kind of guy who loved taking care of people,, he was always gentlemanly and sweet and would compliment me randomly?? again, he's never been a creep to me but I always felt awkward about how he seemed to treat me better than he treated his gf (he ended up cheating on her and breaking up with her so 😬😬)

5. Bharani Moon failed talking stage

He was super duper sweet. Extremely gentlemanly and considerate. One thing I've noticed is that all these Venusian men have complimented my voice/said they love to listen to me talk. I used to sing this man to sleep ya'll 🥹and he always said I put him in a trance?? lol? One time I told him that I'm such a boomer and I only know how to use my phone to text and make calls and he said "that's all you need to know cause if you need anything else, you have me" (for context: he was a software engineer) he helped me set up my LinkedIn??? one day we were on call and he asked me "oh the xyz internship you mentioned, can you tell me more about it?" and i thought it was a general question and i started yapping and he did that with my other internships and finally he said, "okay check your WhatsApp" and he had sent me a summarised bullet point list of everything??? and he said "okay now just copy paste this to LinkedIn" and i was so shook?? lol, he stayed on call with me until I was done, i asked him a million dumb questions and he was patient af and literally held my hand through the whole process (setting up a profile is really not that hard at all, it's just filling up a bunch of stuff and he was helping me out with that) after things ended between us, we spoke one more time and he said "I made xyz dish" (a dish that I had told him was my fav and which he didn't know how to make and promised me he would learn) and i was like "why?" and he said "because I was thinking of you and promised you I'd learn to make it" 😩😩😩😩i s2g these Venusian men really know how to get into ur heart bc wtf

6. Bharani Moon, the guy who I think might be my twin flame

First of all, UFFFFF he was obsessed with me. For over a year, he'd just follow me around like a lamb and stare. Even after he asked me out and I said I wasn't interested, he still didn't give up??? he seemed so obsessed with me , it was crazyy, he told me he just wanted to see me and talk to me (I don't know his personality at all but getting those texts kinda creeped me out but maybe he was as genuine as all the other guys?? 😶 Idk) he was always so intense?? like he never shied away from expressing his interest in me, i never expected him to be so forthcoming lol. he came all the way to my uni for no reason than to see me not once but TWICE 🥺🥺wish i could've interacted with him offline to gauge his personality bc based on how he was on text and call, I was put off by his intensity

edit:

7. bc i remembered another guy who was a Purvaphalguni Sun, Purvashada Moon

he was super sweet to me, he always wanted to talk to me, we'd spend hours talking and he always complimented me, he always asked me if he could bring me snacks??? and he lived like half an hour away and he always said "yk you just have to call and ill be at your door" whenever i spoke about wanting to travel, he'd always say "i'll take you" (i had known of him for a long time but we'd only been talking for a few days so i thought it was too much and kinda gave me the ick???) and he was always just doing THE most and then he got super pervy which made me uncomfortable. i told him off for it and he said sorry and then literally in the next conversation when i asked him "what are three things you'd want to do before you die?", he said 2 things and then said "you" and i was like 🙄🙄and he said "dont hold it against me, im a dying man" ICKKKK anyways we stopped talking lol

im actually only now realising that ive had less than positive experiences with Venusian women lol lmk if you want me to talk about that tho 😶

#venus #venusian men

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greenerteacups · 1 year ago

Note

I power read Lionheart months ago and it's been living in my brain ever since. In random moments, I see/think about your characters in the world around me. Like: a couple in the park holding hands? I start musing on your Draco's PDA thoughts. I remember the handholding moment as the Third Task started. I see a threadbare book in the thrift store? I wonder how fired up Hermione would be if someone asked her if wizards had an obligation to fix Muggle goods. If Reparo can fix a roof (and costs a witch nothing), should impoverished Muggles have to fight with their insurance company after a storm? On and on. I love it.

Thanks for opening up your asks for questions! Seriously, that's a badass move. There have been a few stressful moments in my life where--bing!--I check Tumblr and read one of your answers and I'm immersed in your HP world again, carefree and curious. <3

I have about a billion things I could ask/am curious about, but I'll restrain myself to two. This time. ;-)

Draco's mentioned once or twice that Harry & Ron don't understand him and Hermione. I was interested in that moment right before Draco follows Hermione to the Owlery. Harry stopped Ron from saying anything, and Draco recognizes that he's probably just as ignorant about Harry and Ron's friendship. So: 1) Is it too spoilery to ask what Harry (dear, sweet boy that he is) has noticed about Hermione & Draco? Does he think of them as one nerdbrain, or is he like Draco? Hermione? Weren't they married like, ages ago? I'm so fascinated by what others see when they look at Draco and Hermione because good GOD, what a power couple. And 2) Could you speak to Harry and Ron's relationship? Is Harry like, "Ron, you've gotta kill that Hermione pipedream," or is that topic irrelevant in the face of Quidditch gossip and less relationship-driven moments? Their (Harry and Ron) connection just seems so...necessary. It's beautiful.

I hope you're doing well! Thanks again for sharing such an immersive, gripping story with us.

Aw, this is so touching, thank you! I'll try to answer your questions as best I can without spoilers or breaching any rules on author-answer-ethics. Standard disclaimers: anything not in the text doesn't count, if I want you to believe something I have to give you a reason to believe it in the body of the fiction itself, and you're free to disagree with anything I say here. For the purposes of these types of questions, I'm basically just a fan who knows what the author had for breakfast this morning.

Harry knows that Hermione and Draco are... something. I think this comes through most in the arc of Book 4 where Ron separates from the group, and it becomes a tricycle of Draco, Hermione, and Harry. Harry is miserable, and it's not just because Ron leaves (although that's a large part of it); he's now in the position that Hermione occupies for most of the original series, where he understands very clearly that his other two friends, while both loving him very much, are First in each other's minds. He has a number of remarks that start to show his irritation with this, though he tries his best to be understanding — it is a similar dynamic to him and Ron, after all. (Fun story: I didn't realize until late in my drafting how much Hermione and Draco's dynamic echoes Harry and Ron in canon, from meeting on the train, the paying-for-candy moment, the Sorting, the class partnership, etc.)

All this to say that Harry looks at Hermione and Draco and sees a wall, in the same way that Draco looks at Harry and Ron and sees a wall. He doesn't understand it, but he knows that's deep water, and he knows he's usually better off not touching it. (Some of this comes through in Ron's conversation with Draco by the pumpkin patch; there's a blink-and-you-miss-it reference to "whatever the hell you and Hermione have got going on," along with a quick gloss on their weird pseudo-spiritual mind-meld connection, which was meant to give a glimpse into how the rest of Gryffindor sees them: eerily well-suited people with separately terrifying abilities who, when together, sail merrily off into their own universe of intelligence/plots-and-schemery and become a black hole of You Don't Want To Fucking Know. I sometimes amuse myself by thinking of Dean and Seamus giving the first years PSAs on Do Not Approach the Wild Swots In Action.) And he, like most of Gryffindor Tower, would have to be blind not to see how much they favor each other. They're always together. There's really nothing that they can do to hide it.

Which is probably why he pulls Ron back in the Owlery moment. He understands that what Hermione is dealing with is something that Draco, perhaps only Draco, can fix. She needs to hear a very specific kind of reassurance, and she needs to hear it from him. In the same way, when Hermione tried to calm Harry down before the plan to rescue Sirius in the third book, she failed miserably; they love each other intensely (they're siblings! the muggle-born twins!) but they're extremely different, and of all the Quartet dynamics, they're the ones who seem most at peace with that. Harry and Hermione's friendship works because they get what the other needs and they get that sometimes it's not them. (Harry more than Hermione, because she's still working on the concept of "sometimes people do not want my help" in general, but still.) There's a reason basically no one ever speculates about them being involved outside of a joke, because no one who knows them would think they could work romantically. They love each other, but they weird each other out, and they're content with that.

In contrast, Ron and Harry's friendship is more of the soul-bonded, life-partners, "he is more myself than I am" kind of friendship. Catherine and Heathcliff dig-up-the-corpse-to-lie-down-with-it type of shit. When Ron gets a death scare in the finale of Book 3, Harry goes fucking ballistic. Likewise with Harry's portkey fakeout in the end of Book 4 — Ron loses his shit. They are deeply, irrevocably attached to each other in an almost codependent way, which is the product of Harry's "first friend ever, like literally fucking ever, not nobody else, not one" situation meeting Ron's "first person who ever loved me as Ron and not so-and-so's brother" situation. So just as you put it, really: necessary and beautiful (and messy).

#greenteacup asks #lionheart spoilers

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python333 · 1 year ago

Text

déjà vu — python333

— — — —

synopsis you and ghost are more similar than the two of you realized.

relationships platonic!ghost & gn!reader.

characters ghost.

word count 2.88k

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [call sign/code name], ghost's backstory [yes that is a warning within itself], kind of badly written.

note holy shitttttt i'm so sorry i haven't posted in two months. to everyone who is disappointed this isn't a req they submitted—i am very sorry but i have like. no motivation. please take this small fic as a peace offering after being silent for two months. also yes i said alej fic but i only had motivation to write for ghost LMAO

“So…” Ghost can hear Price next to him, creating an echo as he speaks through his earpiece, “Doesn’t it get hot, always wearing that mask?”

“Not when it’s made of the right materials,” Your voice crackles through, the wind blowing by slightly distorting your voice, “It’s also winter, captain, so no, it doesn’t get hot.”

The corners of Ghost’s lips twitch upwards when you answer, but he otherwise doesn’t say or do anything, simply leaning against the wall parallel to Price. For you, maybe your mask doesn’t get hot, but his certainly does—though, he doesn’t voice that, simply listening.

“Oh really?” Price hums, looking around the corner of the wall he’s leaned up against, spotting a few enemy soldiers walking by without a clue of who they’re in the presence of, “What’s yours made of, then?”

“Polyester,” You answer.

From what Ghost understands, you wear a mask for the same reason as him—anonymity. As much as he can respect that and understand the want to remain anonymous, he can’t help but wonder why you would want that. Is it for reasons similar to why he wears his? Have you gone through things similar to what he’s gone through? Did a fellow SAS soldier also murder your entire family and attempt to pin it on you, to which you responded by killing him, stealing his dog tags, and burning your own house down? He had many questions, but didn’t ask any.

He doesn’t think you’d answer them, anyway. He certainly wouldn’t. He’d maybe try to divert the conversation with a bad dad joke, or simply not dignify the question with a response, anything but an actual answer. He strangely expects the same of you.

He vaguely remembers a conversation he had with Price when you first joined maybe two months ago, specifically a comment Price had made about your file; “I had the same conversation with Laswell about their file that I did when I first got yours. She said the same thing when she saw their file, too, word for word.”

It turned out that they had the exact same exchange that they did when they saw Ghost’s file, verbatim. Laswell had pointed out that you had no picture, and Price said, “Never.” Ever since then, Ghost has felt an inexplicable connection to you, despite not having talked to you that much.

He’ll admit, he tried to initiate a conversation with you more often than he did with the others when he first met them. Maybe one or two times a day, he’d find you and make small talk, something that made his skin crawl with discomfort but something he still forced himself to do, just to try and make sense of the invisible line that seemed to tie you both together.

This small talk started off as anything from a question about the weather—yes, Ghost asked about the weather, unfortunately for the both of you considering how awkward and stilted that short conversation was—to asking about training and skills. He didn’t normally initiate conversations with anyone else, he was typically the one that was walked up to and barely even had to carry any conversations he was in.

Every conversation the two of you had always ended the same way, though; with you cutting it short the moment it got anywhere near your personal life, or even just your life outside of being a part of the 141, and walking off elsewhere. Ghost could see the tiniest bit of himself in you everytime you did that, and an annoying voice in the back of his mind always asked, Was I always that much of a hardass? … Am I that much of a hardass?

“Ghost,” Price’s voice snaps Ghost out of his train of thought and he grunts, looking over at Price. The man in question nods his head towards the now clear path to the building they needed to get into, and Ghost nodded back, taking his SMG out of the sling and moving out of the small alleyway they’d camped in, following after Price.

They quickly rush over to the building, the doors thankfully unlocked and the soldiers guarding it stupid enough to not be right beside the front doors, and lock the doors behind them once they’re in.

“Are you guys in?” You ask, the wind no longer distorting your voice, the background of your audio now relatively silent except for your faint breathing.

“Yeah,” Price replies, the darkness of the building making him squint as he scans the walls for some sort of light switch, “Anyone notice we got in?”

“Not that I can see, no,” You answer, your sigh audible through the comms, “They’re pretty far from the building, actually.”

“Perfect,” Price hums, patting his hand along the wall for a moment before finding a large lever. He hesitates to pull it, and ultimately decides against it, deeming it too risky. Instead, he searches his tactical vest and goes through a few large pockets that sit around his lower midriff before finding a relatively small flashlight.

He presses the button on the end of the handle with a small click, and the flashlight flickers for a moment before the light becomes consistent and a small buzz begins to sound. Price looks around for a second, scanning the area for any immediate threats, and motions for Ghost to follow him.

“See anything?” You ask curiously, some rustling heard on your end. Ghost looks around for a second, footsteps echoing eerily through the building.

“Nothing important,” He replies, voice quiet, “Just dust and old furniture.”

“His office is just down there,” Price interjects, nodding towards the hall to their left, making Ghost look in that same direction, “I’ll head down there, you stay here, let me know if anyone’s coming.”

The echo from Price talking to Ghost both through comms and being right beside him, as well as the echo from being in such a large room, starts to irritate Ghost. He rolls his shoulders and puts his gun back in the sling, looking back at Price.

“Turn off your comms,” His suggestion sounds more like a command, but he’s sure Price understands it’s more of a request than anything else, “You’re echoing. If anything happens, I can just talk to you without them.”

Price pauses before nodding, and pressing the small button on his earpiece to turn off his mic, and the piece entirely. He trusts Ghost wholeheartedly, and it shows. He takes one last look around before walking towards the office he pointed out.

The office belonged to the man who had stolen vital intel from the 141—not intelligence on the task force itself, but rather a separate team that had recently allied themselves with the task force. They couldn’t risk that data being taken, as it would not only expose the other team, but several other similar teams and task forces.

Ghost waits until Price is actually in the hall before speaking again, “You still there, [c/n]?”

“Yeah,” You answer almost immediately, “Need something?”

“No,” Ghost hums, leaning against the wall behind him, “Just wanted to talk.”

“Please don’t ask me about the weather again,” You sigh, almost exasperated, “Or about how my training is going, or about how my CO is, or—”

“I’m not,” Ghost interrupts you, not sure whether to laugh or cry at your examples of past conversations.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” He says, before asking, “How long were you apart of the army, before joining here?”

“Before the 141?” You pause, thinking for a moment, “Sounds kind of personal.”

“You don’t have to answer,” Ghost offers, voice almost reassuring, “Just curious.”

“Aren’t you always,” You mutter, a comment Ghost promptly ignores, before you properly answer, “Just a year. Maybe a year and a half.”

“American army, right?”

“Mhm,” You hum, “Would you believe me if I said we sang Yankee Doodle before going on any missions?”

“Oh, sure I would,” Ghost chuckles, before countering, “Would you believe me if I said that song was made to mock Americans?”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended that you believe that,” You say, a lighter lilt to your voice as you do compared to a few moments ago, “But yes, I believe you. I think that almost every American has reclaimed it as one of the most patriotic songs, though.”

“Almost every American?” Ghost questions, growing more amused as the conversation goes on. It confuses him, making him wonder why he’s so easily drawn into conversations with you, no matter how small or dry.

“I’m sure there’s some here and there that don’t like it,” You elaborate, “But I haven’t met any. Not yet.”

“Alright,” Ghost nods even though you can’t see him, before asking another question, “What branch?”

“The Navy,” You answer, now without questioning Ghost which brings him a strange sense of relief, “I flew planes around and stuff. Didn’t really like it, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Ghost sounds more interested now, “Why not?”

“The soldiers there aren’t the best people to be around,” You hum, the sounds of you moving audible, “One mention of any sort of mental issues, even if it’s just something like feeling anxious or being sleep deprived, and suddenly everyone’s on your ass pressuring you to be better or just… being weird about it. It gets draining after a while.”

“I bet,” Ghost murmurs, “Is that why you left?”

“Partially,” You answer honestly, “Half of it was that, the other half was that I just didn’t like flying planes. I was also eighteen and couldn’t really control my impulsive thoughts, so a majority of the time I was fighting myself trying not to crash the plane on purpose.”

“Makes sense,” Ghost considers what you said for a moment, before his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and he asks, “Isn’t the enlistment age for the Navy nineteen?”

“It is,” You assure him, “I was an exception, ‘cause I was a month or two away from turning nineteen.”

“Hm,” Ghost hums, “And you’re twenty now?”

“Twenty, almost twenty-one,” You confirm.

“Did you wear the mask back then?” Ghost asks, praying that the question isn’t too personal to the point where you stop responding. He’s been dying to ask the question, always worrying whether or not it was too personal—it was pretty personal, to be fair, but he wasn’t used to worrying this much over another soldier, much less one he only met two months ago. Sure, you both wore a mask and remained somewhat anonymous, but that didn’t mean you two were automatically best friends who braided each other’s hair.

“...” You don’t respond for a moment, making Ghost’s worry increase, before you reply, “No.”

Your simple answer makes Ghost more curious, and he can’t tell if he should ask why or not. He stays silent for a few seconds, weighing his options, before he ultimately says, “Alright.”

He tries to leave it up to you whether or not you want to tell him about your own story, of if you’re comfortable with that, which you probably aren’t, considering that—again—the two of you only met a couple months ago.

“Did you wear the mask?” You ask quietly a moment later, catching Ghost off-guard, “Before this?”

“Before the 141?” He echoes your question from earlier, nodding to himself, “Yeah. For some time before this, I had a different mask, but it was still a mask.”

“Was the skull always there?”

“Mhm.”

“… For just aesthetic purposes, or?” Ghost feels the corners of his lips tug up in amusement at your question, and at how genuinely curious you sound.

“Eh. Not really,” He answers, taking a deep breath in and out through his nose. He doesn’t say any more than that, not being able to as his mind takes him back to a time a while ago, when he was being held hostage and was in the same room as some kids who heard him spill his entire background to the men holding him hostage.

He remembers one kid in particular, a little girl with blonde hair, who had listened to every detail that he’d said. When he was telling the story of why he has the call sign Ghost, in hopes of distracting the men so that the 141 could rescue him and the kids, she had clung to every detail and later asked him if what he had said was true, her tone of voice eerily similar to yours.

He remembers when he was carrying her out of that room, the questions she’d bombarded him with, and how he answered every one with as neutral of an answer he could muster. He debates doing that now with any questions you ask, but decides against it almost instantly—something that shocks him, even though it was his own thought—considering that he wanted to ask you those same questions. Not about your call sign, only about the mask.

“It’s a long story,” He says after you’ve been silent for a while, your curiosity somehow palpable even through just the comms, “But it has to do with some family members.”

“Yeah?” You hum, “I know a thing or two about that.”

“Do you?” Ghost asks, slightly ashamed at the small jolt of excitement he feels at the opportunity of hearing more about you.

“Mhm,” You pause, staying quiet for a moment, before continuing, “About family members. Dead ones.”

“Ah,” Ghost nods, the discomfort he originally felt sharing some of his own story starting to melt away, “Dead ones. I understand.”

“Can’t tell if I should be glad or not,” You snort, “Like, I’m glad you understand, but also sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ghost grins under his mask, “I was wondering the same thing.”

“So… dead ones,” You think out loud, before asking, “That’s why you have that call sign and mask?”

“Yeah,” Ghost looks around for a moment, reminding himself to keep watch while talking to you, before cautiously asking, “Are yours the reason for your mask?”

“Not really,” You answer honestly, with a little less resistance behind your answer to Ghost’s relief, “Well… I mean, kind of. But they’re not the reason-reason. I didn’t really like them, so I’m not gonna give them all the credit, but I’ll give them… maybe twenty-five percent of it.”

“A quarter’s still a lot,” Ghost points out, “What’d they do to earn that?”

“They died, and…” You’re doing more pausing and hesitating now, making Ghost wonder if he’s going to personal every second that you stay quiet, before you finally answer in a more guarded tone, “I almost got blamed for it. Almost.”

Ghost gets hit with a pang of mixed emotions, like a weird sort of uncomfortable nostalgia. They almost got blamed for it. He lets out a breath that’s slightly shaky, and thinks for a moment before saying, “Almost?”

“Almost,” You confirm, tone a little less guarded, presumably at Ghost’s more calm reaction, “Then I handled it the best I could, and the guy who killed them got what he deserved.”

“Which was?” Ghost feels more of that uncomfortable nostalgia bubble up, giving him an uneasy feeling in his gut, as if he knows where this conversation is going.

“Death,” You answer softly, “And the nameplate on his uniform stolen, which I replaced with mine. I would’ve taken his dog tags, but we didn’t really wear them on missions ‘cause our drill sergeant didn’t care too much.”

Ghost can put a name to the feeling now. Déjà vu. He takes a deep breath and considers your words for a moment.

“And the body?” His lips move before he can think.

“Burnt.” You answer simply, “The whole house. It was mainly drywall, so it took a moment to actually completely catch on fire, but it was quick enough. It also smelled disgusting.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Ghost swallows, vividly remembering the smell of his own house, before continuing, “He was a soldier for the Navy, too?”

“Mhm. He was… a Private, I think,” You reply, “I wasn’t too close with him. I wasn’t with anyone.”

“And so the reason you wear the mask is…?”

“I didn’t really exist anymore after that,” You hum, “At least, not to them. I was dead in a burned down house, my own house, and was far gone. I like wearing the mask; it keeps me as just another soldier, not as the person who died in that house.”

“But you didn’t,” Ghost points out, trying to ignore the eerie feeling that only grows stronger the more you talk, “You’re here.”

“… Yeah, I am,” You say after a moment of thinking, smile evident in your voice, “Doesn’t mean I can take that back, though. ‘s not the best feeling, doing something like that.”

“Trust me, I know,” Ghost chuckles, “If anyone here, I’d be the person to know, kid.”

“Really?” You ask, voice more curious like it was before, “Why’s that?”

“I’ve… weirdly been through almost everything you said,” Ghost admits, “Word for word with the house burning down, actually.”

“… Huh,” You huff out a small laugh before saying, “I’m wondering if I should feel happy or sad again.”

“Me too, again,” Ghost smiles, eyes flickering up at Price’s footsteps sound through the hallway, his silhouette slowly coming into view, “One last question.”

“Shoot.”

“How’s the weather?”

“I’m not answering that, fuck you.”

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hanzajesthanza · 8 months ago

Text

explanation of milva's pregnancy and regis' "poll" (baptism of fire chapter 7)

for those that need it. i made a similar post a few years ago, but it was a little more meandering and "well, it could be this, it could be that." but after rereading this scene a bunch more times since then, i'm now more certain of what i have to say about it.

at the end of the novel, it's revealed that milva has been pregnant for the last two and a half months. since then, she has wanted to abort the pregnancy, but has hesitated.

“I spent too long dragging my feet, meditating, hesitating. Now it won’t be so easy…”

currently, she is in the first term, it’s the tenth week of her pregnancy, as regis… decuded, somehow, him being “something of an expert”. and she later tells geralt that the pregnancy was conceived in mid-to-late june, the sunday after the summer solstice. and it’s late august by the end of the novel, when this conversation takes place.

milva knew she was pregnant, as the dryads could tell, but her procrastination (partially) came from there not being a right time to involve herself with it, as she was busy running intelligence for geralt and leading scoia’tael commandos in july.

then, geralt set off from brokilon in early august (around the 5th/6th), and milva followed, feeling guilt out of wanting to abort her pregnancy. she wanted to save his child, ciri, in exchange for the abortion she was about to have performed.

‘(…) For I would like you to find your Ciri, Witcher. To find her and get her back, with my help.’ ‘So that’s why you rode after me,’ he said, wiping his forehead. ‘That’s why.’ She lowered her head. ‘That’s why you rode after me,’ he repeated. ‘You set off to help rescue someone else’s child. You wanted to pay; to pay off a debt, that you intended to incur even when you set off… Someone else’s child for your own. A life for a life.’

the abortion she was planning to have would have been her debt, and following geralt and saving ciri her “baptism of fire.” these are two of the largest themes of the novel (see eithne speaking of debt in ch. 1 and regis speaking of baptism of fire in ch. 5).

milva had a peasant upbringing, in a village in upper sodden. she was taught the very strict functions and definitions of a woman (why she is so enraged about the peasant clogs insulting her in chapter 4 by insinuating that she's not a virgin, and therefore no use to them to hunt a vampire).

she defines womanhood as this traditional homemaker with children running around the feet. and, not wanting to come into this “mother hen with an egg” womanhood, fled home after she killed her stepfather.

(from chapter 2, after they witness the rape of the peasant girl:)

‘(…) I ran away from home. I didn’t want to sweep the cottage and scrub the floors. I wasn’t going to wait until they arrived and put the cottage to the torch, spread me out on the very same floor and…’

from there, she became a hunter, a killer—not maria, but milva—red kite. she killed men for brokilon, led false dryad scalping expeditions, leading them right into traps. this is “the blood that calls her” now.

‘What kind of Red Kite am I? A mother hen with an egg, not a Kite… Milva laughed with the dryads on the battleground, pulled arrows from bloodied corpses. Waste of a good arrow shaft or a good arrowhead! And if someone was still breathing, a knife across the throat! Milva was treacherous, she led those people to their fate and laughed… Now their blood calls. That blood, like a wasp’s venom, is devouring Maria from the inside. Maria is paying for Milva.’

the blood she spilled is blood she will have spilled—through abortion, or pregnancy (or, miscarriage, as it so tragically happened).

milva was conflicted about her pregnancy because it (a symbol of womanhood, the very traditional womanhood she had fled) conflicted with the identity she had come into since she had escaped that life (as a hunter, as a killer). remember that geralt calls her “half-dryad, half-woman,” when mocking the company as it was formed by the fish soup. milva feels this divide herself, tearing her apart, between hen and kite.

milva wanted to have the abortion because she did not want a child, to have a child conflicted with her identity and, i mean, just generally, her life (hard to hunt toting around a baby on your breast). but she also felt guilt that she planned abortion, because of her culture and social norms.

so she wanted to, but hesitated, wanted to, then hesitated again.

she was planning to head back with dandelion once he balked, but since dandelion never faltered as she had predicted him to, she didn’t have a chance to leave the company.

she didn't want to tell the rest she was pregnant, you can guess why, because she to them was milva and not maria, she didn't want to divulge her vulnerability.

‘I thought I’d drink some ergot or some other decoction, and you wouldn’t even notice, wouldn’t even guess (…) I saw how Dandelion puts on a brave face; but thought him weak, soft, not used to hardship. I was just waiting for him to give up and then we’d have to offload him. I thought if it got hard I’d go back with Dandelion… Now just look: Dandelion’s the hero, and I’m…’

during this time, she also didn't want to have the abortion, because it would have slowed the march and prevented them from travelling. similarly, she felt guilt because if she was to carry it to term, it would slow their company even more.

also, how in hell was she supposed to find someone to perform an abortion in this wilderness, in this warzone, anyhow?

well, by some miracle chance, they happened across a barber-surgeon. in a cemetery of all places. what luck for her, a medical professional makes himself known. (this meeting was on the first night of the full moon, the 18th of august).

The root of the [mandrake], which is a valued ingredient in medicine and herb lore, long ago had great import in superstitions, particularly among the Nordlings; human effigies (called alruniks or alraunes) were carved from it and kept in homes as revered talismans. They were believed to offer protection from illnesses, to bring good fortune during trials, and to ensure fertility and uncomplicated births.

but then, of course, the nilfgaardian stampede in the refugee camp happens (chapter 4, mid-day of august 19th) and said barber-surgeon turns out to be a vampire (chapter 5, dawn of august 20th).

and again, milva having being raised in the forest, and being a smart girl, and a human, fears supernatural things with fangs which sprout from darkness and simply disappear into thin air.

‘Don’t take the piss, Witcher,’ Milva growled. ‘You know more about vampires than we do. You’re mocking Dandelion, so tell me. I was raised in the forest, I didn’t go to school. I’m ignorant. But it’s no fault of mine. It’s not right to mock. I–I’m ashamed to say–am also a bit afraid of… Regis.’

so it takes her some time to get over her fear, until said thing with fangs explains himself and assures his friends (chapter 7, late august) … and that’s where we find ourselves now.

milva finally gets a chance, ten weeks into the pregnancy, to get some medical consult (of course regis knew long before this, actually the day after they met, for when she puked after punching the peasant clogs in the face—but he says nothing and just “smiled strangely”).

I think Regis realised the truth. But he kept quiet. He kept quiet until he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. When we stopped to make camp in a deserted woodmen’s shack, Milva led him into the forest, spoke to him at length and at times in quite a loud voice. The vampire returned from the forest alone. He brewed up and mixed some herbs, and then abruptly summoned us all to the shack. He began rather vaguely, in his annoying patronising manner.

so, what is happening in this “husbands and fathers” scene? why does regis poll the men, and why does milva choose not to have the abortion?

regis polls the “husbands” of the company because he wants to pressure geralt into speaking with milva.

(also, my opinion: i think milva probably asked regis to tell all the rest all about her situation, because regis is eloquent and has no anxieties about these subjects, and milva herself is terrified. i can 💯 believe that she told him, ‘oh hell, i don’t know how to say it, you tell them all…’)

‘She demanded,’ Regis began a short while later, ‘that I prepare and give her a strong and powerful… medicament. She considers it a remedy for the problem. Her mind is made up.’ ‘And have you?’ Regis smiled. ‘Without talking to the other fathers?’

this is a good time to remember that regis can be very coy, and sometimes likes to get to his point “rather vaguely.” (unlike the very direct and action-oriented milva (lady of the lake, ch. 7)!)

for instance, in chapter 5, when revealing himself, regis does not tell all the rest himself that they shouldn’t pity him and view as a wretched creature, that he’s actually very powerful, but rather he gets geralt himself to admit that regis’ value would be “bloody high,” so high that he doesn’t believe that anyone could afford it. it's only when geralt admits this that regis finally smiles and “fucks off,” as it were.

so, as it was then then, regis doesn’t immediately state what he believes or what he wants here—rather, he peppers the others with questions to get them to come to their own conclusions, just as a wonderful philosopher does. much to geralt’s annoyance:

‘Regis, you seem to be conducting something like a poll among us. Why? You’re the physician. The agent she’s asking for… yes, the agent. The word medicament doesn’t suit me somehow… Only you can prepare and give her this agent. And you’ll do it should she ask you for it again. You won’t refuse.’ ‘I’ve already prepared the agent,’ Regis said, showing them all a little bottle made of dark glass. ‘Should she ask again, I shall not refuse. Should she ask again,’ he repeated with force.

regis indeed will provide the abortive substance to milva, he won’t refuse here. as geralt points out, he’s the physician, he’s even already prepared the agent. regis doesn’t truly care about the results of this “poll” if one of the company were to refuse and express their disagreement. it’s milva’s decision.

he’s actually not asking them for their approval, at all. so, what does he want? why does he ask? what is he asking for?

‘What’s this all about then? Unanimity? Total agreement? Is that what you’re expecting?’ ‘You know very well what it’s about,’ the vampire answered. ‘You sense perfectly what ought to be done. But since you ask, I shall tell you. Yes, Geralt, that’s precisely what it’s about. Yes, that’s precisely what ought to be done. And no, it’s not me that’s expecting it.’

ah, more vagueness (which confuses dandelion, and potentially the majority of the fandom).

‘Could you be clearer?’ ‘No, Dandelion,’ the vampire snapped. ‘I can’t be any clearer. Particularly since there’s no need. Right, Geralt?’

what regis wants is for geralt to talk to milva before she decides to go forward the abortion. because her pregnancy and his child are tangled up (her debt, her baptism of fire), which are making it difficult for her to make a decision based on what SHE wants. there's cultural pressure to keep the pregnancy, and quest pressure to drop it.

regis wants geralt to give her his shoulder to cry on, and to tell her something like: "i'm not expecting you to have an abortion just so you can help me out with finding my kid. we'll stick with you as a company, no matter what." and it's not regis that's expecting this, as he says, but milva.

again, if milva keeps the pregnancy, this will mean difficulty imposed upon on the entire company, as she ceases to be a "use" and instead becomes a "millstone" for the company to protect (also this may be why dandelion didn't understand what regis was asking geralt for. because dandelion is also a millstone for the company).

geralt has to tell milva it's okay to be vulnerable. that, uh, being pregnant is #valid? because you see how milva has come to view herself, as a hindrance:

‘You didn’t expect this when we set off, did you? When you let me join the company? You thought: “So what if she’s a peasant; a foolish, country wench?” You let me join. “I won’t be able to talk to her about brainy things on the road,” you thought, “but she might come in useful. She’s a healthy, sturdy lass. She shoots a straight arrow, she won’t get a sore arse from the saddle, and if it gets nasty she won’t shit her britches. She’ll come in useful.” And it turns out she’s no use, just a hindrance. A millstone. A typical bloody woman!’

this talk with milva is hard for geralt, because this means he has to step up and be a leader (which he did not want to be, as he expressed at the start of the novel!)

‘Right,’ the Witcher said, resting his forehead on his clasped hands. ‘Yes, too bloody right. But why are you looking at me? You want me to do it? I don’t know how. I can’t. I’m not suited for this role at all… Not at all, get it?’

so, he's reluctant to speak to her about this, but, well, tough.

It’s now or never, he thought. I can’t run away from it. There’s no point putting it off. It’s got to be done (…)

he speaks to her, providing his support, and offering some significant words about debt and sacrifice:

‘(…) You offered me help in a moment when I needed help very much. There’s no way of paying off a debt like that. It’s impossible to repay something that has no price. Some say everything in the world–everything, with no exception–has a price. It’s not true. There are things with no price, things that are priceless. But you realise it belatedly: when you lose them, you lose them forever and nothing can get them back for you. I have lost many such things. Which is why I can’t help you today.’

‘But you have helped me,’ she replied, very calmly. ‘You don’t even know how you’ve helped me. Now go, please. Leave me alone.’

geralt doesn’t tell her to not have an abortion, but rather provides his support for her no matter her decision. he tells her that he doesn’t expect her to sacrifice her pregnancy for his child, that he cannot repay her if she does. and he reminds her that “some things (…) when you lose them, you lose them forever. i have lost many such things,” he’s talking about the pregnancy, as well as his own child, ciri.

directly following this exchange is the scene of regis throwing the medicament into the bushes, which confirms that milva, no longer feeling the burdens of identity and guilt, decided to keep her pregnancy.

her deciding to keep her pregnancy means something to the company, though: that they will all be extra vulnerable, because soon milva will have to stop riding horseback and will have to rest and deliver. but geralt expresses that he (and the rest) are willing to take on that burden, to slow down the march for milva to carry her pregnancy to term, because they're a company, they're brothers in arms. they sacrifice for each other!

this is reflected in the next scene, the “change of plans” geralt informs regis about, saying that he no longer wants them to go through ysgith as they had previously planned (because it’s too dangrous for milva, which is what regis argues back to him about—“i would say even more than [physically] fit. the hormones…” ... lol, regis).

this is a huge moment for geralt’s character development, as he has come to identify himself as having a company, and then to value his company. in the beginning of the novel, he was willing to sacrifice anything for ciri, and now he has realized that there are some things (some people) which he is unwilling to sacrifice for her.

‘(…) I understood it was urgent. That it was important for you to acquire the information and set off to rescue your Ciri as quickly as possible.’

‘It is,’ Geralt said, looking away. ‘It’s very important to me. I want to rescue Ciri and get her back. Until recently I thought I’d do it at any price. But no. I won’t pay that price, I won’t consent to taking that risk. We won’t go through Ysgith.’

resulting in this reaction from regis, somewhat commending, and intrigued by him:

‘Geralt,’ the vampire said, still not taking his eyes away from the Witcher. ‘You’re a strange man. To make myself clear, I wasn’t being critical. Right, then. We give up on Ysgith, which is dangerous for a woman with child. We cross to the far bank of the Yaruga, which you consider safer.’

their new direction to across the yaruga, however, turned out to be just as dangerous, and with tragic consequences.

#i'll probably make this into a video at some point so don't feel bad if you don't wanna read allll this text lol #the witcher books #c: milva #milva barring #maria barring #book: baptism of fire #analysis

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