#Lucky Clover Lady

[chaokao]

รีวิวเกมสล็อต Lucky Clover Lady EP.5 ปั่นยันเช้า By เจ้าเก่า

[lucky-lady-clover]

People are writing fan fiction about villains?? It feels strange but i am curious..

What is an "X reader?"

[alchemicalterror]

You got something big planned, Don't you? Hm, Maybe I should get a gas mask ready..

Could you give us a hint~? Pretty please with sugar on top?

- @lucky-lady-clover

......

Sixty-seven new followers.

[enzo-rambles]

Lady Luck was not on their side

This is probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever drawn

🍀🥄 (I made the fan kid a key because I heard that can used as a symbol for luck sometimes)

[en-esprit-de-corps]

Can’t have shit in Gotham, man.

I put on fuckin’ sandals to go get my mail and @lucky-lady-clover makes it EVERYONES BUSINESS-

[loosesodamarble]

My lovely friend Laura (@thoughtfullyrainynightmare) got a heaping helping of Vermillion from the chapter leaks. And honestly, good for her. Well deserved, darlingLaura~! 💖❤️‍🔥

But I also got myself a crumb of Fausts! Tabata is teasing me with what’s to come… 🥰

[lucky-lady-clover]

[Oh god, Amelia don't drink random things handed to you what the fuck]

TRUTH SERUM - MY MUSE HAS TO ANSWER ANY AND ALL QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY.

[[Preface the question with TRUTH]]

[sensenotsense]

cass is too moe, but gorlfriendssss

[lucky-lady-clover]

He's always so smug..

[rachetmath]

Jaune and Yang Battle

Yang: Jaune.

Jaune: What is it Yang?

Yang: Fight me!

Jaune: Why?

Yang: Just cause.

Jaune: Did someone bet on this? Nora? Weiss? Neon? Emerald?

Yang: No just-

Jaune: Then no I’m not fighting you.

Yang: You scared of me.

Jaune: I mean, yeah, but mainly I don't see a point. Considering your record.

Yang: I have a clean record.

Jaune: Mercury, Haven Academy, you could barely touch him.

Yang: Don’t count.

Jaune: Neo, Atlas and Ever After you barely fought her and she whooped you.

Yang: Don’t count.

Jaune: Salem.

Yang: Okay that ultimately doesn’t count. She’s immortal!

Jaune: Then what counts Yang? Adam, who you tag-teamed with Blake.

Yang: Hey I carried that fight.

Jaune: Neon and Flynt which you got lucky by the way.

Yang: Now hold up Jaune. I beat them fair and square.

Jaune: Look I just don’t see the point.

Yang: So you pussy.

Jaune: Guess so. Unless I have reason then you are out of luck. Ask Ren.

Yang: Okay, if you win I will do whatever you want.

Jaune: Whatever I want?

Yang: Yes.

Jaune: Anything?

Yang: Yes.

Jaune: Okay. Let’s go.

Yang: Oh I'm so going to kick your-

Later on after the fight.

Raven: So he beat your ass?

Yang: Yeah.

Raven: And he didn’t even ask you to do anything sexual?

Yang: No.

Raven: Just spend time with me?

Yang: Yeah.

Raven: Damn. So what if I don’t want to spend time with you?

Yang: *points*

Raven: *sees Jaune*

Jaune: *screams in the distance* Don’t think I forgot about my village bitch! Don’t think because you are a maiden I’m scared to face you! Don’t think that! Don’t think that! I know where your baby daddy lives too. Don’t make me go to him, I will! You know what I’ll kill your brother too. Cause both you Branwens had me f**** up. Don’t believe me? Test me! Come and see if I don’t have that dog in me. Come and try me!

Raven: Okay. He is crazy. Well, my beautiful daughter, let’s at least spend an hour-

Jaune: What?

Raven: Three hours.

Jaune: What?!!

Raven: The whole day together. Come on.

Jaune: That’s what I thought pussy.

Qrow: Aye kid you-

Jaune: *demon voice* DON’T TALK ME QROW! GO SPEND TIME WITH YOUR NIECE BEFORE I MAKE YOU SEE CLOVER AGAIN!

Qrow: Okay. Okay. Calm down. I'm out.

Jaune: F***** bum ass- man I-I miss my family. When can I go home?! Damn. I have no partner. No money. No respect. Damn, I- I got nothing. Shit! I might need make a new friend or something because at this rate I'll be a villain.

In hell.

Adam: Damn.

Roman: Damn.

Hazel: God Damn. I feel sorry for him.

In heaven

Ironwood: Damn. I feel his pain.

Lewis: That is sad.

Alyx: *hiding behind Penny*No. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!

Penny:*trying to defend them both* Friend Pyrrha, please I apologize.

Summer: *holding Pyrrha down* Pyrrha, calm down young lady.

Pyrrha: Let me kill em. Let me kill em!

Marvel

Peter: Come to this side Jaune. I could use some company.

Fandom Universe

Fan made Jaune: I mean I may not be the overpowered character but at least I get something done.

Friend AU Jaune: I know the feeling man. It will get better. Probably.

[lucky-lady-clover]

[I beg you, please, this would be so funny to me]

Send 🧠 + an intrusive thought for my muse to have, and they'll react to having it!

Specify muse!

example: "🧠 + Muse is craving a delicious cold drink!"

[en-esprit-de-corps]

heyyy remember your freaky friend who liked your tea? yeah he's an assassin

Ok? Don’t call Talon a freak, fuckin asshole.

My Mother figure is a criminal, the guy who’s lab I hang out in makes toxin to scare the shit outta people like the nightmare version of a meth dealer, and the other guy I hang out with has mob ties or somethin’ I think. Also there’s the shit I do.

An assassin is nowhere near the most concerning thing here, dude.

[seoulmatez]

𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁

an incident leaves you and boothill closer than ever, and compels you to reconsider what you've thought about him until this point.

• boothill x f!reader ﾉ 2k wc ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ non-canon compliant ﾉ farmhand!boothill ﾉ mentioning of injury ﾉ teasing ﾉ petnames (little lady. darlin', sweetheart, doll)

previous part ♡ masterlist ♡ next part

“That’s it, pretty girl, nice and easy.”

The horse beneath you sighs and you do the same, relaxation and contentment in the breath you let go of. It’s been a while since you’ve gone riding, a few years at least, but being sat on a saddle with reins in your hands feels as natural as it used to when you’d ride nearly every day of the summer. You’re lucky that your favorite mare—clover—is still healthy enough to take out.

You gently squeeze your legs into Clover’s sides in a silent signal for her to move from a trot to a canter. The sequence of her hoof beats effortlessly switches from the two-beat gait to one of three beats and her pace quickens. The wind against your face is stronger now but you welcome the sensation, a small smile making its way to your face.

As a kid, riding was fun and exciting more than anything else but as you’ve grown into an adult, the activity has become something more cathartic—a release of sorts. Your stress slips away when you’re on the saddle, lost in the summery breeze. You don’t allow a second for the thoughts that constantly nag at you to linger. All of your focus is granted to clover and the field ahead, to how you feel here and now and how you wish you could feel like this all the time.

Unfortunately for you, nothing lasts forever.

You hear the dog before you see her, barking discernible in the distance. Clover must, too, her ears pointing back to listen more closely to the sound approaching from behind. As the barking grows louder, the horse’s neck tenses, and it only takes a second more for her to decide that the noise is worth investigating. You’re in alert mode now, too—no, it’s probably closer to panic mode. It’s been a while since you’ve had to worry about the horse getting spooked and even then you had your grandpa or parents to rely on to make sure nothing got out of hand.

You don’t have time to even think about what the right thing to do in this situation is before Clover spots the dog bounding towards the both of you.

“Clove—!” You try to calm her down, to let her know that the dog isn’t a threat that she should be scared of, but it’s far too late. Before you can comprehend what’s happening, Clover is rearing. The motion combined with your loose hold on the reins is enough to send you flying off the horse’s saddle. A scream is ripped from your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut at being in the air, destined to fall.

You hit the ground with an audible thud.

Pain courses through your body—your back, your shoulders, your head. Everything hurts and hot tears spring to the corners of your eyes but they pool there, refusing to stream down your cheeks. Despite all the pain, the growing soreness, you find your mind wandering. Where did clover run off to? What was the dog doing out here alone? She rarely leaves the house by herself. Someone is yelling, they’re calling your name. Is it Boothill?

“Shit, little lady,” he shakily breathes, “you okay?”

Relief washes over you and for a short second. You think that you’ve never been happier to hear the farmhand’s voice. It’s tinged with concern, a characteristic you have yet to see him display—especially for you. It doesn’t stop in his voice either, you can feel it in how he takes a hold of your shoulders, his grip firm but not tight enough to cause you any unnecessary pain.

You take the risk of finally opening your eyes and instead of being met with the sun’s blinding rays, Boothill's face crowds your vision. His eyebrows are pulled together and for once, there’s no smirk or grin playing at his lips. Upon seeing that you’re conscious, the tension in Boothill's forehead lessens. “There she is.”

His voice is soft, like if he speaks too loud he’ll break you. Though it’s unlike him to be so mindful, you appreciate what you imagine is the temporary change. He opens his mouth to continue but before he can get another word out, the border collie, Missy, nudges between the two of you as if she senses something is wrong. Boothill shoos her away before turning his attention back to you. “You okay? What happened?”

You think back on the moments that led to this—you laid out on your back in the grass. “Missy… I think she scared Clover. She threw me off.”

That’s right, you have no idea where she went after being so startled or if she’s okay, at that.

“Where is Clover?” You dart up into a sitting position, palms against the grass. It’s a bad idea and you face the consequences of it immediately, head throbbing and the dull pain throughout your limbs becoming all the more noticeable. You suck in a sharp breath in response to the discomfort but realize that the pain you’re in doesn’t top your concern for the horse. “Is she still around here? I need to go find her.”

“Woah, woah, woah, hold your horses.” Boothill frowns. He stands up and holds both of his hands out to help you do the same. For once, you don’t think about the underlying meaning of having your hands touch his, you just grab a hold and let him pull you up. You turn your head in every direction you can in search of Clover, readying to pick any of them to start walking in. Though, you can’t, not with the way Boothill is holding your hands hostage. His gray eyes bore into yours. “You aren’t going anywhere but to the hospital.”

“What? No.” You shake your head and try to pull away but Boothill doesn’t budge. The longer he holds onto you, the more aware you become of his touch—how warm his hands are and how, even though they’re rough and calloused, his palms are more comforting than you care to admit. “I don’t need a hospital. I’m fine.”

“Listen darlin’, people who have just been thrown off horses ain’t known for their good judgment.” He squeezes your hands but then seems to think better of it, loosening his grip but continuing to hold them. He gets his message across though, with the hand squeeze and the almost desperate look in his eyes. You’ve never seen him so uneasy, heard him speak so seriously. His new demeanor has your feet glued to their spot on the ground and your gaze glued to his. “You’re going to the hospital.”

You’re rarely one to jump at the opportunity to agree with Boothill but maybe he’s right. You’re running on adrenaline right now and your mind isn’t in the best place—you’re worried about the wrong things. And if the topic is important enough to have Boothill practically pleading with you, you should take it just as seriously as he is.

“Fine, I’ll go, but you need to find Clover before we do.” That came off a little more demanding than you meant it to. You add, “Please.”

He clicks his tongue and groans before telling you, “Alright, I’ll find your damn horse.”

● ● ●

Boothill is a man of his word and tracks down Clover, putting her back in the stable before whisking you away to the hospital. The ride there feels like a visit to the doctor itself with the way the farmhand practically interrogates you about your symptoms. He’s concerned but can’t help but laugh when you tell him that he’s exacerbating any head trauma you may have sustained by making you think so hard.

Despite your initial resistance to Boothill’s insistence on going to the hospital, you’re thankful for his urging. Turns out he was right to be worried—you got a concussion.

Your helmet helped soften the blow but the physician who explained your diagnosis still recommended a few days off work to rest and recover. It’s not the best news to receive but considering things could have been much worse, you’re grateful to walk away with a relatively minor injury.

And if your doctor had any anxiety about you ignoring his advice, it was misplaced. Because Boothill has personally made it his responsibility to be sure you get better.

As soon as the two of you arrived back at the house, he steered you into the living room, sat you on the couch, and disappeared into the kitchen with a demand for you to stay put. You’re tempted to argue but your head hurts too much so you cross your arms instead, closing your eyes and resting your head on the couch cushion.

It doesn’t take long for him to return and his hands are full when he does—a glass of water in one, an orange precariously rolling on a plate in the other, and a bottle of pain medication tucked under one of his arms. He sets the drink and pills on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch beside you, the dip in the cushion enough to make you open your eyes.

Upon grabbing your attention, Boothill jerks his head in that direction. “Take a couple of those.”

You sit up and unscrew the bottle, shaking out two of the pills and popping them in your mouth before taking a few sips of the water he grabbed for you. A beat of silence passes before you speak up. “You know, I could have done all this myself.”

“I’m sure you could have,” he tells you with a grin, hands busy peeling the skin from the orange. It’s still all in one piece. Impressive, you think, but you aren’t surprised. It seems like Boothill is good at everything he does. “Just thought you might enjoy having me at your beck and call.”

You frown. What does he think you are? Some princess who needs a servant? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’, darlin’.” He slides the plate of peeled orange slices across the coffee table so you can eat them when you’re ready. He wipes his hands on his jeans before standing up and stuffing them in his pockets.

The farmhand is on his way to the door when he says, “I’m off, but holler for me if you need anything, sweetheart.” 

You never thought you’d see the day you would stop Boothill from leaving.

“Wait, before you go…” He stops and turns around, eyebrows slightly raised in silent question, urging you to go on. You had more courage to say what was on your mind when he wasn’t looking at you. Though, you know it’s only right to let him know that you appreciate all he’s done for you today. So, you turn your gaze to the floor and let it spill out. “Thank you for finding Clover. And for taking me to the hospital. And for this.” You gesture to the fruit.

There’s a flash of sincerity that passes over his features before that annoying smile makes its way back to his lips. “So you can say thank you.”

You don’t know what kind of response you were expecting, but you should have seen this coming. It’s like he’s hardwired to tease you, even when you’re being genuine. “You can leave now, Boothill.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get out of your hair.” In contradiction to his words, he stays put. And you can’t find it in you to be upset that he does because the humor has left his face, replaced by earnestness. “But you’re welcome, doll. It was really no trouble.”

He finally takes his leave and when you hear the door close, you let out a frustrated groan and lay your head back on the cushion. That nasty fall must have done more damage than you thought. Why else would your heart be working overtime over a simple change of expression?

You shake your head to get rid of the unwelcome thoughts—thoughts of how generous and caring he actually might be—before you think better of the motion. It hurts your head and makes you wonder how long it’ll take before the pain pills kick in. They’ll probably work better if you have something on your stomach.

Your eyes fall to the plate Boothill left for you.

Orange slices should do.

manon here ( ≧ᗜ≦) thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[lucky-lady-clover]

As fascinating as it is unfortunate, truly.. such brilliant minds being ignored when they could create incredible leaps in science, only to be taken advantage of when some reside in arkham.

I wish I could have read your Thesis, Spooky. I always adore hearing about your work.

Oh well.

One of the biggest questions faced to the academic world today is the role of professional ethics in research.

Yesterday, a joint scientific conference in Gotham on the future of cryogenic technology was unceremoniously interrupted by the presence of Dr. Fries, a man who first robbed everyone present then, in doing so, proved the operating theory the lecturer had spent five years of their life trying to prove.

Two weeks before, three luxury cars belonging to a visiting oil tycoon were thrown through the wall of the Gotham Police Department by one Dr. Isley. If the power of what she can do could be harnessed appropriately the hole in the ozone layer could be patched within the century.

The best neurosurgeon on the eastern seaboard (and possibly farther if not for the limited access he has to modern medical developments) currently sits in Arkham Asylum where he could be perfecting new life-saving techniques.

What do all these have in common? They can't get published. Since the rise of masked villainy many decades ago, as it is called in certain circles, universities have been quick to reject the academic degrees and qualifications of anyone deemed likely to use their proficiencies for less moral experiments. Our fields of study have become academic black marks on anyone who would look upon them, whilst the more toothless of our findings are quickly taken by those who would claim credit.

Most will likely die with the vast majority of their research hidden from the world. This is nothing short of a travesty.

The best thing to do here, then, is a platform to document my areas of research. Luckily, as I cannot get published anyway, the burden of actual proof is lower and I do not have to go searching for research papers to cite. A little unfortunate as I actually did enjoy writing my (now removed) thesis, but I do not have much time to go searching anyway.

Some of the dictation will be less than formal, due to time constraints and personal preference.

[b1rds3ye]

Radio Silence

The mission required you to separate from the rest of Task Force 141 but when the operation is compromised, all he can do is listen to the panic through the comms until everything goes silent.

Pairings: Captain John Price x GN!Reader, Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader Reader Aliases: Breeze (Callsign), Bravo 1-5 (Squad-Member Code) Genre: Angst (open-ended), Drama Warning: Descriptions of violence/crashes, blasphemy/religious references, (probably) inaccurate military terms Word Count: 3k (~1.5k each)

Captain John Price

The captain was not a superstitious man, but when you’re on the battlefield, you take all the good fortune you can get. With age he’s picked up a range of small habits and lucky paraphernalia to get him through the mission; an aged penny in his left breast pocket, a four leaf clover stored in another, he finds himself reciting the lord’s prayer even though he’s not particularly religious (and if there is a god he’d like to personally go up and sock them across the face).

When you noticed his little rituals, you added on a good luck charm of your own - his favourite by far. A quick peck on the cheek followed by a teasing little “good luck, captain” in his ear. Price swears there’s something divine in your affection, it does wonders for his morale and efficiency. He thought nothing of it the first few times, but when he realised that this little gift of yours was here to stay, he started to reciprocate in kind when the others weren’t looking. His soul has become tainted over the years - if anything a kiss from him should be a bad omen - but your beaming smile in response convinces him that maybe he’s given you some luck your way.

And perhaps that’s why, after your ritual good luck kiss, he feels a little more than bothered when Laswell calls you away before he can reciprocate. You notice the slight furrow of his eyebrows and laugh, telling him not to worry and that you’ll see him on the other side. The hold you had on his arm disappears as you pull away, bidding him and the rest of the Task Force good luck as you join your own squadron. Price then returns to commandeering his own men, but the thought lingers in the back of his mind. Perhaps you need that extra little bit of luck today.

Price hates how good his intuition can be.

“Bravo 0-6, do you copy?”

With his squadron grounded and on the perimeter of the site, he stiffens at the tone of your voice. That’s not how you usually sound like over comms, that hint of uncertainty didn’t suit you.

“Loud and clear, in position of Site A.”

“Copy, we’re at the compound but… we’ve got company.”

“Al-Qatala?”

“No, looks like Al-Qatala is buddy-buddy with some mercs and- shit.”

“Breeze, what are you seeing?”

“How’d they get us surrounded…?” You mutter more to yourself than to Price but his blood runs cold regardless.

“Bravo 1-5 you are to fall back and wait for backup-”

He’s cut off by various layers of static but he’s learnt to decipher them. The deeper base of the rustle of fabric as you manoeuvre, the sharp trill of gunshots all overlaying the white noise of distant shouting.

“Price, our exits are blocked, they knew we’d be here, how’d they- Corporal! Fuck, stay with me! We’re dropping like flies here. Bravo-1, we’ve got no choice, we have to push through, full offensive!”

He hears the screams of nearby soldiers. While he’s grateful none of them are yours, he knows that the ride back to base will be a rough one regardless. He feels the eyes of his subordinates burn holes into him and the walkie talkie. Gaz, who was beside him, was the only one moving, animatedly talking to Laswell and filling her in on the situation.

“Bravo 1-5-”

There’s an audible sigh on your end that shuts him up.

Through the time it has taken for Price to become captain, he’s learned a lot the hard way. One of the most important things he’s learned is that earning Lady Luck’s favour is more crucial than any skill for the battlefield. Some of the best he’s ever seen has fallen because they pissed her off somehow, but he still never expected her to shun you.

“Just my luck…” your voice starts off quiet as you curse to yourself. A gulp breaks up your panting as you stabilise your breathing. Your next words are far too calm.

“I’m sorry, Price.”

“Sergeant.” Price’s voice was low, cautious. A warning. He knows how you fight, he knows you don’t do anything extreme unless the situation he calls for it, and once again he’s praying to the unknown that it hasn’t come to that.

“I said next time we hit the pub with the 141 that the first round will be on me but I don’t think I can make that.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Breeze.”

“The merc company goes by Order of Ashes.”

Your words are becoming harder to hear as the explosions seem to be getting closer and closer. Gaz is becoming louder, literally screaming into his comms as he near begs for an evac for your squadron. The rest of his team is becoming restless. Price’s grip tightens impossibly tight on the walkie talkie, any tighter and he could probably crush the metal.

“Rain hell on them for me, yeah?”

Price starts calling for your name, only to be interrupted by a deafening static that has him reeling from his own technology. Inexperienced privates that surrounded him flinched at the sound while Gaz fell silent. Soon Price’s walkie talkie falls silent too.

He brings his hand up to activate communications again, a tentative check in.

“Bravo 1-5, do you copy?”

He waits for a moment.

“Fuck. Breeze? Do you copy?”

The next time he calls out to you is the first time he’s hesitant, to the untrained ear he sounded as strong as ever but to him he recognises how his own voice wavers. A gentle call of your actual name, the last resort.

Silence.

Price gives you a few more seconds to answer, each moment more damning than the last. Gaz sends a concerned look his way but words fail him. He’s a good sergeant but his inexperience is showing. He hasn’t fully mastered the poker face, not like Price has. 

Eventually he lets out a heavy exhale through his nose, counting each racing heartbeat it takes until it has marginally slowed.

Gaz instinctively straightened up, he didn’t need to see Price’s face to know his captain was transforming before his very eyes. Price adjusts his hat, looking at the rest of his team under the brim.

“Alright, we’ve got double the work and half the manpower. No time to lose, I want this site cleared within the hour, and then we're finding our other half."

With affirmatives all round, the soldiers get to work and so does Price. To the untrained eye, he’s calm, eerily so. As captain, Price can’t afford to lose his cool, it’ll bleed over and smother his team, blanket them in a tense atmosphere of panic and uncertainty. So he stays resolute, acting as the team’s anchor as he guides them towards the objective with precision.

The only emotion that breaks his facade is anger. Pure, unbridled rage that casts a frightening glaze over his eyes. His allies can see it as Price stomps towards the entrance of the site. Al-Qatala most certainly feel it as their lackeys are pummeled to the ground, bones cracking against stone and tiles. They’re not gifted the mercy of a quick bullet, but the pain of slowly bleeding out with broken bones, bruised bodies and limbs jutting out in all the ways they should not. Every bruising punch, every bullet delivered does little to quell the raging storm within him. It brings him closer to the mission objective but it doesn’t bring him closer to you, and that’s the only thing that matters right now. There’s no hostages, no chance of salvation for his enemies. Any form of good will in Price was taken away when you were taken away from him. He hopes whatever god that sees the carnage he’s inflicted knows that it is only a taste of what to come if he ever meets that poor sod.

When his side of the operation is done and the squadron is now leaving the site, Price returns to his comms. He needs to address the other half of the mission, you. Suddenly his tongue feels thick in his mouth as his throat tightens. His collar is suffocating.

“Bravo 0-6 to Watcher-1 do you copy?”

Laswell’s voice rings out.

“Affirmative. We’ve already dispatched birds to Bravo-1’s location, we’ll do what we can and sort out that compound.”

“Do me one more thing. Find me everything you can on the ‘Order of Ashes’. I want names, locations, families, the whole fucking mile.”

“Can do. … Is this for Breeze?”

“Breeze wanted me to rain hell on them…”

Price’s voice is low as he puts a cigar in his mouth. He lights it up, even when the cigar smokes he keeps the lighter on. His eyes narrow at the flickering flame, fixated on it for a moment longer. He’s never been a particularly superstitious man, but he’s asking for Lady Luck to be on his side once again. For the slim chance that you’re somewhere out there, breathing. He’s never been worthy of her favour, but you damn well are so surely she’ll put that into account. She’ll consider that you still have a lot to do, you still have a good luck kiss that Price needs to return. He puts his lighter away.

“... and I intend to deliver.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost preferred his quieter missions. Others feel safer when in a team but more people mean more variables, and more variables mean more fuck ups, and heavens know he’s had enough of those. For Ghost, the less, the better. And yet, when it came to 141, and in particular to you, he’d pick company over going solo in a heartbeat.

Reconnaissance missions were a personal favourite, they were quiet, less violent if done right and often required only a few people. Of course his first person of choice is you, even if you’d always call these missions an “impromptu date” and then chastise him for not planning something more extravagant just to rile him up.

Even now, when you two were starting on opposite sides of the target site a good few kilometres apart, you were connected through communications. He’d listen as you ramble about anything and everything on your mind when the mission gets quiet. It was endearing, it was soothing. Ghost never thought he’d find someone like you with the power to give him a respite even when on duty - or if he ever deserved such a thing. And yet here he was, sitting against a wall, waiting for further instructions from Laswell as you started the purely hypothetical debate on who in the 141 would best survive the zombie apocalypse.

“Honestly, with a mask like yours you could probably blend in with the horde. 10 out of 10 you’d last your entire life like that.”

“Surrounded by brain dead morons? Already have that.”

He heard your laugh that you tried to mask as an exaggerated scoff.

“How long do you think I’d last?”

“One hour at most.”

“Oh come on Ghost, have a bit more faith in me.”

“All Bravo to Watcher-1, we’re awaiting further action, copy.”

As Laswell replies, Simon can already imagine your offended expression as he changes the topic.

“Bravo-1 this is Watcher-1, you are all clear to close in on the perimeter. Do not engage, just tell us what you see.”

“Watcher-1 this is Bravo 1-5, I’m already seeing hostiles.”

Ghost stills, his hand reaching back up to the comms. You’ve always managed to keep it cool but he heard how your sentence ended with a slight waver. It was too early for speculation, but the alarm bells were already going off in his head. The enemy should be clustered within the site, nowhere near where you currently are.

“I’m counting a dozen men, a couple of trucks and- that’s looking like some impressive cargo.”

There’s some extra static as Ghost finds his pace increasing. He won’t be able to reach you soon, but it doesn’t stop his legs from moving towards the site.

“They’re moving quickly, they’ve got an agenda.”

“Stay frosty, Breeze.”

“Got it, Simon.”

Your voice is more of a whisper now, almost blending in with the static. Was the enemy that close to you already?  Usually, he loved when you used his actual name. Everyone calls him ‘Ghost’ even off-duty, but you were proper enough to at least always call him by his callsign in battle. You were getting spooked and he was too far away to even try and comfort you.

It was a strain to unclench his balled fists. He wasn’t going to have a mission go wrong, at least not one that involved you. He’d be damned if something took you out before him, because he refused to return to a life where you weren’t yapping his ear off.

“Breeze, head back to exfil.”

“Fuck, they’re heading this way.”

If you found a good place to hide, Ghost could reach you before any enemy did. He had to.

“I’m heading towards your position. E.T.A 20 minutes.”

“Ghost, my spot is now crawling with hostiles. I know you’re a one man army but I think you’re pushing it this time.”

Your laugh was different this time. It wasn’t as hearty as the one he heard before, it was a weak wheeze. Half-hearted, the sound of a bitter and quiet defeat. He could hear your rugged breathing against the end of the mic. If he was actually with you, he’d stand beside you in moments like this, letting you put your body weight on him discreetly as he anchored you to the world. His gloved hand instinctively curls as he imagines himself holding onto your arm.

“Breeze, stay with me. Focus on the objective.”

“You owe me a proper date after this, Ghost.”

“Then make sure you get back in one piece-”

The comms are disrupted with a voice that Ghost can’t recognise, with you returning an indistinguishable shout and a curse. He can’t help calling your name into the comms, only to hear the static of indescribable commotion, bodies shuffling and the harrowing crack of broken bones and limbs. It escalates into a deafening crescendo spanning only a few seconds before the grand finale of a thump of a fallen body. The transmission ends with a damning click. He stops in his tracks before he returns to the comms.

“Breeze? How copy?”

The line has gone dead. Ghost slams his fist into the nearest wall, but it does little to quell the pain from within.

“Bravo this is Watcher-1, what’s your status?”

Ghost pauses at Laswell’s request, he wants you to be the one who replies on his behalf, you usually do. Never did a moment feel so heavy, outweighing his military gear and weapons, almost bringing the hulking man to his knees. His hand reluctantly comes up to activate his walkie talkie. He takes his sweet time, giving you the chance to interrupt. When he finally speaks, his voice is slow as he draws out every syllable, every pause a desperate invitation for you to speak up.

“Bravo 1-5 is M.I.A.”

Laswell is silent on the other side. Ghost lets his head tilt back until it rests on the wall beside him, the guilt made his skull too heavy. With that sentence alone he felt like your executioner, as if he just brought the possibility of you being gone into reality. The only thing he can hear now is the slight rustle of grass against the wind, a backdrop to the rhythmic bass of his pounding heartbeat. This was a typical ambience for solo missions, and Ghost was used to being alone.

But lonely? He had forgotten how it felt ever since you barged into his life. And now that the feeling has returned, he forgot just how utter shit it feels.

“We’re sending immediate backup to their position. We’ll meet you there.”

But by the time he and the squadron make it to your position, there are only the remnants of a battle left in your wake. A few unrecognised bodies are slumped against the walls, furniture is overturned, and dried blood paints the floor as a macabre dye. Most - if not all - of this must have been your handiwork, and if it was any other circumstance Ghost would feel proud, but you’re not beside him for him to praise you. That being said, there is no sign of you, and that leaves him optimistic, but the other soldiers seemed to think differently.

“You know, they say Al-Qatala never takes prisoners,” one jittery private said to another.

“What’re you trying to say? I've seen the Sergeant. Breeze is tough.”

“I’m just saying, even if we can’t find their body they’re probably d-”

“That’s enough,” Ghost snaps his head to them, eyes alight with a rage usually reserved only for his worst enemies. His voice is near unrecognisable, more akin to a growl than any human sound. He will not tolerate anyone speaking ill of you or doubting your capabilities as a soldier. He tells himself he does it for your honour, nothing more, nothing less. He disregards the selfish need for you to return to him as it wittles him down to the bone and contorts his face to a scowl concealed under his mask.

The soldiers hurriedly salute before exiting the room, leaving the lieutenant alone, shoulders and chest heaving before he moves to continue the search.

The team returns empty handed, but that means nothing to Ghost. Even as he’s issued new missions he does not falter. He fights with the same brutality, killing his enemy before they can kill him because he needs to return home. Return home so he can organise a covert mission of his own - retrieving you. No matter the rank or squadron that separates you, no matter if you’re shipped out to the other side of this godforsaken earth, you two are a team. Combat has hardened Ghost into a brutally honest man, many would call him a pessimist, but a stubborn voice in the back of his mind refuses to believe that you’re gone. You’ve always been a tough nut to crack, if you weren’t you wouldn’t be dating him. He’s seen you stare death in the eyes only for you to stand back up beside him. And so he faces forward and doesn’t look back. Because until he has to rip off the freezing metal of a dog tag from your neck, he swears on his stone cold heart that you’re still out there. Maybe a little tattered, perhaps even broken, but living.

Call of Duty Masterlist

[lucky-lady-clover]

Hm, What to do for Valentines day at the casino.. hm, would a contest be fitting? A lottery raffle? Goodness, I miss being the one treated to things on Valentines day and not being busy planning.

The most obvious thing to do would be to inflate a large amount of heart balloons, set the lights to pinks and reds.. anyone have ideas for events?