#The Red Logs: Return to the Temple | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pepperstories · 2 months ago

Text

Under His Eye

the council.

warnings ⚠️: extreme sexual content through out. mdni 18+ eventual smut. violence against women (and men). forced breeding. end of the world, but not cordyceps. dystopian future. handmaids tale plot (possible spoilers if you haven't watched it. various characters from different shows. talks of infertility, abortion, fertility rates. graphic anatomy detail. sexual abuse. forced proximity. forced labour. same sex intercourse. extremely graphic language detailing male and female sex organs. threat to life. murder. suicide. children being married off to much older men (no graphic details, just part of the plot). means to riot. angst. little bit of love sometimes. child birth. medical procedures in graphic details. medical instruments.

a/n: no real warnings just yet, but we're almost there. ceremony is just around the corner.

————————————

Joel’s words settle between you like a final shovelful of earth — not a burial, exactly, but something close.

The greenhouse is quiet. Only the faint hum of insects and the creak of warm glass. You watch as he returns to the planter box, fingers tracing idle circles in the dirt. He’s retreating, the way men do when the ache is too large to carry forward in words.

You give him space, letting the silence breathe.

Then, from behind you, the door creaks.

You turn.

Tess stands in the threshold, her shadow long and sharp against the sunlit floor. She's dressed for the day, collar buttoned high, sleeves rolled with military precision. The woman who once spilled ink across notepads now walks like a ghost through systems she helped build.

She doesn’t speak at first — just watches Joel. Her eyes flick to his hands in the soil, and something flickers behind her stern expression. Not tenderness. Not regret. Something harder to name. Recognition, maybe. Memory.

“I didn’t know you were still coming out here,” she says.

Joel looks up but doesn’t rise. “Figured someone should keep the tomatoes alive.”

A beat. Then Tess steps in fully, door clicking shut behind her. Her boots crunch lightly across gravel. She stops beside a tray of unplanted seedlings and runs a finger over the rim. Dust blooms beneath her touch.

“They were your idea,” she says.

Joel doesn’t reply.

You stay still, unsure if this moment is yours to witness.

“I used to think things could be rebuilt,” Tess continues. “Cities, lives. That you could clear out the rubble and pour something new in the space. But sometimes all you do is bury the rot deeper.”

Joel rises, slow and stiff, wiping his hands again. “Doesn’t mean you stop planting.”

Their eyes meet. And for a second, the air crackles — not with anger, not with love, but with the weight of everything they haven’t said.

Then Tess turns to you.

“There’s a meeting tonight,” she says, voice cool. “The Council wants updates. You’ll come.”

It’s not a question.

You nod.

She’s already walking out before you can respond. The door swings open, then slams shut behind her, the sound echoing through the greenhouse like a final sentence.

Joel exhales, long and low.

“I think,” he says, not looking at you, “she comes out here to check if I’ve left.”

You glance toward the seedlings, the delicate green of things still trying to grow.

“She hasn’t stopped hoping,” you say.

Joel looks at you, eyes tired. “Or she’s just afraid to be the last one standing.”

You don’t know which would be worse.

————————————

The fire was dying low, the logs glowing red beneath thin layers of ash. Joel stood at one end of the room, stiff-backed and quiet, while Commander Isaac prowled the floor like a caged animal with too much to say. Quinn remained seated, unreadable, fingers pressed lightly against his temple.

“She arrived just as her monthly began,” Joel said, voice flat. “You know that. We’re within regulation.”

Isaac stopped pacing. “And what—convenient, isn’t it? A whole week of sanctuary before you’re even expected to touch her.”

“She’s not sanctuary,” Joel said quietly. “She’s lawfully assigned. She’s in the waiting period.”

Isaac’s smile was thin. “Waiting. That’s what you’re calling it.”

“She’s not due for the Ceremony for another eleven days. You know that, and so does Commander Lawrence.”

Quinn shifted slightly at the mention of the name, but didn’t interrupt.

Isaac’s voice lowered. “Joseph says he wants her returned. Claims it was a reassignment error. That she was more effective in his household.”

“She’s not a tool,” Joel said. “She’s not going back.”

“She served well there.”

“Serving well isn’t grounds for keeping a Handmaid like a trophy.”

Isaac stepped closer to the table. “She’s compliant. Receptive. And unspoiled by the usual… influence. Joseph says she showed potential for deeper loyalty. He thinks you’re wasting it.”

“She’s not ready.”

“Ready?” Isaac’s voice flared. “You’ve had her for three days, and already she hasn’t left the house until today. No exposure, no instruction. What are you doing with her, Joel? Hiding her? Or keeping her?”

Joel met his gaze. “I’m following the rules.”

Isaac sneered. “You always did think following the rules made you clean.”

Joel’s tone didn’t shift. “Better than pretending your interest is about procedure when it isn’t.”

That landed.

For a moment, the fire popped, the only sound in the room.

Quinn spoke then, slow and final. “The Ceremony clock starts after the blood. Not before. She stays in the Miller house for now.”

Isaac’s jaw tightened. “And after?”

Quinn glanced at Joel. “That depends on what Joel does next.”

The meeting ended without dismissal, but everyone understood.

————————————

Outside, the wind had picked up. The other Handmaids stood with their eyes cast down, hands folded like petals. But you felt it in the air — a shift. The weight of something forming behind closed doors.

They had spoken of your blood like currency.

Of your body like territory.

Of your future like something traded.

And somewhere between firelight and silence, you had become more than a vessel.

You had become a question.

————————————

The chamber was warmer than usual, the fire stoked high — a subtle attempt to soften what was, in truth, a confrontation.

Commander Joseph Quinn stood just inside the door, coat still on, fingers twitching with restrained impatience. Joel Miller remained by the window, posture unreadable, eyes on the snow-dusted garden outside.

Quinn cleared his throat, but didn’t move further in.

“I’m here out of courtesy,” he said. “Not protocol.”

Joel didn’t turn. “You’re not one for courtesy.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Quinn’s face. He forced a polite smile. “I thought we could discuss the Handmaid.”

Joel said nothing.

“She’s not ready for Ceremony,” he continued. “Arrived just as monthly began. That buys you time, I understand.”

Now Joel turned. “I don’t need to buy anything.”

“Of course not.” Quinn shifted, voice lowering slightly. “But the timing — well, it raised questions.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“Not just mine.” Quinn stepped closer. “Others wonder why a man in your position, whose household has been dormant, would accept a high-ranking Handmaid into his care.”

“She was assigned.”

“She was mine,” Quinn said sharply. Then, correcting himself, “She was under my care. And progressing well.”

“Your reports said otherwise.”

“She required guidance. Structure. She responded to it.” Quinn’s voice tightened. “But now she’s in a house where nothing’s expected of her.”

“She’s safe.”

“She’s not meant to be safe. She’s meant to serve.”

Joel stepped forward, slowly. “You forget your place, Commander.”

Quinn flinched — just slightly. “I’m reminding you of hers.”

Silence stretched. Then Quinn tried a softer tactic.

“She was grateful, in my house. Compliant, yes — but thoughtful. I had begun to reach her. Then she was pulled and placed with a man who hasn’t conducted a Ceremony in over a year.”

Joel didn’t blink. “That’s not your concern.”

“She’s a resource,” Quinn pressed. “And right now, a wasted one.”

Joel’s voice darkened. “If I hear you speak about her like that again, you’ll answer for it.”

Quinn held his gaze. “I’m offering you an option. If the Ceremony isn’t carried out when she’s due — I’ll have support to challenge the assignment. Quietly, of course. Politically. I’m not threatening. I’m advising.”

Joel turned back to the window.

“She stays,” he said.

“You may outrank me,” Quinn said, “but rank means nothing if the Council starts asking why one of our best is locked in a house with no intention to bear fruit.”

Joel didn’t reply. Quinn waited a moment longer, then stepped back toward the door.

“I’ll be watching the calendar.”

Then he was gone — a shadow of ambition wrapped in protocol.

————————————

He found her in the music room.

Not playing — she hadn’t played in months — but seated at the edge of the old bench, one hand resting on the closed keys, like she was trying to remember how it once felt to press something into beauty.

“Tess,” he said softly.

She didn’t look at him.

He crossed the room slowly, the old boards creaking beneath his boots. Outside, the light was fading behind the trees, casting long blue shadows across the carpet.

“He came today,” Joel said. “Joseph Quinn.”

Still no response.

“He wants her back.”

A flicker. Her fingers curled slightly on the edge of the piano.

“He says she’s being wasted. That there’s no purpose for her in this house.”

Tess exhaled — not a sigh, not quite. Just air, leaving her like it had nowhere else to go.

“He’s not wrong,” she said quietly.

Joel’s throat tightened. “Is that what you think too?”

She finally looked up at him. Her eyes were tired, rimmed with the edge of sleep lost and things unsaid.

“I think we’re holding onto things we don’t want to touch. And I think the world notices.

“She just got here,” he said. “She’s barely even spoken. She’s still bleeding. There’s nothing to expect yet.”

“And when she’s not?” Tess asked. “What happens when the calendar flips? When the law expects you to lie down with her — and I’m expected to hold her wrists?”

Joel looked away.

“I don’t want to do this again,” she said, softer now. “Not with someone new. Not with someone who still smells like fear.”

“We don’t have to,” he said. “I can stall it. Delay. We’ve done it before.”

“And you think Quinn will let that go unanswered?”

“He doesn’t control this house.”

“No,” she said. “But he controls the way people talk. And that’s worse.”

The silence stretched between them — heavy and old. Familiar.

Joel moved to sit beside her on the bench. He didn’t reach for her hand, but his shoulder brushed hers.

“She’s not a threat,” he said.

“No,” Tess replied. “She’s a mirror.”

Joel looked at her, unsure.

“She reminds you of who you used to protect,” Tess whispered. “And she reminds me of the woman I used to be. Before I let the rules wrap around my ribs and squeeze until I couldn’t breathe.”

Joel swallowed hard.

“I don’t want to be part of this anymore,” she said.

“You’re not,” he said. “Not really.”

“But I am.” she said. “As long as she’s under this roof. And you know that.”

The clock ticked from the far wall. Outside, the wind scraped against the glass.

“You should send her away,” Tess said finally. “Before we forget who we were trying to save.”

————————————

The house is too quiet again.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the hollow kind — like something’s been removed. A breath held too long. A warning not yet spoken.

You kneel in the hallway outside the sitting room, cloth in hand, pretending to dust the baseboards. Your fingers are cold. The other Marthas move around you like ghosts, heads down, eyes averted. No one looks at you today.

You hear the door close just after midday. Firm. Not angry — just final. A sound with weight behind it.

Later, in the kitchen, you catch a whisper as one of the Marthas leans in toward another: “He was here.” No name. But you know.

Commander Quinn.

You don’t ask questions. That’s a lesson you learned early — the more you ask, the more they see you.

But you feel it.

The tension in Commander Miller’s shoulders when he passes you on the stairs. The way his wife doesn’t speak to anyone that afternoon. The way the light in the house shifts, as if something’s fallen across it.

That night, when you go to your room, the door is already open.

Your bed is neatly made. The window cracked just slightly. And on the small writing desk, a white cloth sits folded in half, clean and deliberate.

You freeze.

It’s a marker. A signal. A reminder.

The Ceremony is coming.

Not now. Not tonight. But soon. The cloth always comes first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands still in your lap.

You’ve been in this house three days. Long enough to stop counting the creaks in the floorboards. Long enough to know who moves when. Not long enough to trust the quiet.

You think of the Commander’s wife — how she hasn’t looked you in the eye once. How her voice is barely there, like a candle burning low.

You think of Commander Miller — kind, almost. Too kind. And that, more than anything, unsettles you.

And then there’s the man whose name is never said out loud in this house — the one who watched you like you were a locked cabinet with something valuable inside.

Quinn.

You don’t know what was said between them. You only know something shifted. You feel it under your skin — like the air before a storm.

You pick up the cloth, fold it again with steady hands, and place it back on the desk.

Then you sit in the dark, alone, and wait for someone else to decide what will happen to you next.

You don’t hear her until she’s already inside the room.

No knock. Just the soft push of the door and the even softer scrape of her slippers across the floor.

You sit up straighter on the bed, the night pressing against the windows like a held breath. The white cloth still sits folded on the desk. You hadn’t touched it again.

Tess doesn’t look at it.

She closes the door behind her, quietly — not like someone hiding, but like someone making sure no one else hears.

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, wrapped in her robe, arms folded like she’s holding herself together.

“I don’t do this,” she says finally. Her voice is hoarse from disuse. Paper-thin.

You say nothing. You’ve learned not to speak first.

Tess looks at the chair near the wall, but doesn’t sit. Her fingers twitch against the silk of her sleeve.

“I don’t know what they told you,” she says. “About this house. About my husband. About the Ceremony.”

Still, you stay quiet. Careful.

She walks slowly to the desk and rests a hand beside the folded cloth. Her fingers hover just above it, not quite touching.

“You’re not safe here,” she says. “Not because of him. Because of them.”

You look at her — really look. Her eyes are sharp now, even in the low light. Not warm. Not cruel. Just honest.

“They’re watching,” she says. “Quinn. Isaac. The others. They’re waiting for a reason to take you. Or to take something from him.”

She finally meets your gaze.

“If you bleed too long, they’ll say you’re defective. If you bleed too short, they’ll say it’s time.”

Your throat feels dry.

Tess lowers her voice further, almost a whisper. “You think silence keeps you safe. But here, silence is just another way to disappear.”

You nod, barely.

“I can’t protect you,” she says. “But I don’t want to see you punished for someone else’s defiance.”

She turns, already halfway back to the door, but then she pauses.

“He was different before,” she says. “Joel. Before all this. He built things. Things that lasted. Not houses like this.”

Then she leaves — and this time, she doesn’t close the door all the way behind her.

————————————

You don’t sleep that night.

The room is too still. The hallway too quiet. Every shadow feels like it’s listening.

The cloth sits where it was, untouched. But now it’s something else. Not just a signal — a boundary line. A test.

You sit on the floor instead of the bed, knees tucked beneath you, facing the door. Waiting. Not for them — for yourself. For the courage to choose what silence won’t give you.

When the sun begins to rise — that pale, cold blue light slipping across the floorboards — you move.

Not with panic. Not with fear. Just with decision.

You go to the desk and open the drawer. Inside, it’s mostly empty — some folded paper, a pen without ink, an old ribbon that’s come loose at the end. You slip the white cloth inside, smooth it down, and close the drawer gently.

Then you turn to the bed.

You strip the sheets. Not completely — just enough. You gather them in your arms, careful, as if you’re preparing for something expected.

Then you carry them down the hall.

The Marthas are already in the kitchen. The fire is being lit. The tea is steeping. No one speaks when you enter — they don’t have to.

You hold out the sheets.

“I need new ones,” you say.

A small lie. But one that matters.

One of the older Marthas — the one with the grey streak in her braid — nods slowly. She doesn’t question it. She takes them from your arms.

And just like that, the cloth is gone. Not burned. Not destroyed. Just… not where they expect it to be.

It buys you nothing, maybe. But maybe it buys you something.

Time.

A delay.

A small, quiet defiance that no one will see — unless they’re looking closely.

You return to your room and sit on the edge of the stripped bed. The sun has risen now, and the birds are beginning to sing.

You press your hands into your lap and wait.

If they ask, you’ll say it was stained.

If they press, you’ll say you bled longer than expected.

And if they force it — well, at least now, you’ve chosen something. Even if it’s just this.

————————————

The door closed behind Commander Isaac with the soft click of someone eager to vanish. The meeting had not gone as expected — at least not for Joseph Quinn.

He stood by the window, one gloved hand resting on the sill, watching the Miller estate’s garden with quiet disdain.

“She’s been there nearly a week.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

Behind him, the aide kept his eyes lowered. “The Ceremony hasn’t been scheduled. Sir.”

Quinn turned slowly.

“Why not?”

The aide hesitated, then spoke carefully. “She arrived… during her monthly. That was reported.”

“And that ended?” he prompted.

“Not yet, sir. I believe she has another two days before it ends, according to one of their Martha's”

A long silence.

Commander Quinn’s jaw flexed. “And yet no summons. No cloth. No preparation.”

He crossed the room, each step deliberate, measured — the gait of a man used to control, and quickly losing patience with its absence.

“Do you know what happens when men like Joel Miller begin to forget the rules?” he said quietly. “Other men start thinking they can do the same.”

The aide didn’t answer.

Quinn’s voice dropped. “I placed her there. Not for safekeeping. Not for delay. For function. For results.”

Still no answer.

“She is not a relic to be protected,” he said. “She is a vessel. And if he won’t use her accordingly, she’ll be reassigned."

His eyes narrowed.

“No more patience. Draft the petition. If the Ceremony doesn’t occur within seven days hours, I want authorisation for transfer.”

He turned back toward the window, voice low.

“She’s wasted in that house. Joel doesn’t want children. His wife barely tolerates the air she breathes. That girl is potential. And he’s letting it rot under his roof.”

The aide moved to leave, but paused at the door.

“Do you want me to notify Commander Miller of the petition, sir?”

Quinn smiled — a thin, mirthless thing.

“No,” he said. “Let him find out with the rest of us. He likes surprises, doesn’t he?”

————————————

The morning was heavy with heat, though the sky had not yet fully broken open. Joel stood in the garden, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pruning back the roses that had grown wild in the spring rains. He preferred the work — the silence of it, the sharp clarity of what must be cut to make something bloom.

He heard the gate before he saw him.

“Commander Miller.”

Joel didn’t turn. “Isaac.”

The other man let the gate shut behind him, his boots crunching the gravel as he crossed the path. He didn’t wait to be invited.

“I thought it best to speak in person,” Isaac said, stopping just short of the rosebush.

Joel set the shears down slowly, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“This about Quinn?” he asked.

A pause. “Not directly.”

Joel raised a brow.

Isaac shifted slightly, just enough to let the badge at his shoulder catch the light. “There’s concern. That protocol hasn’t been observed.”

Joel said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Isaac went on. “Four days. That’s generous, by any measure. And yet no ceremony has been initiated. Every other Commander has their date in well before the Ceremony takes place. You, however, are delaying the inevitable. Are you not?"

Joel’s jaw tensed.

“She arrived mid-cycle,” he said flatly. “There was no call for urgency.”

Isaac studied him. “There is now.”

Joel crossed his arms. “Is that your call to make?”

“No,” Isaac admitted. “But I’ve been instructed to ensure compliance.”

Joel’s voice darkened. “By Quinn.”

Isaac didn’t deny it. “He’s filed a preliminary transfer request. If the Ceremony does not occur within the next seven days, she’ll be reassigned.”

Joel glanced toward the house — toward the window that looked up into her room.

“You know how Quinn handles his handmaids.”

Isaac’s silence said enough.

Then, softly: “He wants her back.”

Joel looked at him. “And you?”

Isaac’s gaze didn’t waver. “I think she’s being wasted here. You’ve had ample time to begin your duty. And if you won’t—”

Joel cut in. “I didn’t ask for her.”

“No. But you kept her.”

A beat of stillness passed between them.

Then Isaac added, almost as an afterthought — but not:

“I’ll be present for the Ceremony.”

Joel stared at him. “Since when do observers attend Ceremonies in private homes?”

Isaac’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Since compliance became a concern.”

Joel took a slow breath. “You think you’ll make me perform better?”

“I think I’ll ensure you perform at all.”

The tension stretched taut in the space between them. Two men. One bound by rank. The other, by something harder to name — memory, regret, maybe even guilt.

Isaac stepped back. “Seven day's, Joel.”

He turned without waiting for dismissal, boots cracking across gravel.

Joel didn’t watch him go. He just stood there in the garden, the thorns biting at his fingertips, the roses bleeding color behind him.

Joel didn’t move. The garden felt smaller now — boxed in by Isaac’s words, by the quiet suggestion that this was no longer just about rules.

Isaac turned back before reaching the gate.

“You always were sentimental,” he said lightly. “That’s the difference between us.”

Joel met his gaze, jaw tight. “You mean you’re not burdened by conscience."

“I mean I don’t confuse ownership with affection.”

Joel’s voice darkened. “She’s not yours."

Isaac stepped closer again, slow and deliberate. His hands clasped behind his back, as if discussing logistics, not flesh and blood.

“She’s not yours either,” he said. “She belongs to the system. Same as any of us. Same as them.”

Joel didn’t answer.

Isaac studied him a moment longer, then added with a faint, cruel smile, “But unlike the rest of us, she’s still useful.”

Joel’s hands flexed at his sides.

“She’s a person,” he said, quietly.

Isaac tilted his head, amused. “Is that what you told yourself when you signed for her transfer? When you accepted the file, opened your doors, watched her kneel in your home? Spare me the righteousness.”

Joel’s voice dropped lower, colder. “You won’t be in the room.”

Isaac arched a brow. “You think you outrank the need for accountability?”

“I know you don’t have the authority.”

Isaac stepped in closer, voice almost a whisper now.

“No. But I have something better. I have leverage. Quinn is impatient. And if he doesn’t get results, he’ll take her back. He’s already petitioning to have you deemed non-compliant.”

Joel's eyes narrowed. “So you’ll come here. Watch. Report.”

“I’ll come,” Isaac said softly, “and ensure she’s not wasted on a man still mourning a woman who won’t look him in the eye.”

Joel stepped forward, voice like gravel. “If you so much as speak to her outside of official summons—”

Isaac cut him off. “You won’t stop me. You can’t. We both know that.”

The silence that followed was razor-sharp.

Isaac stepped back, straightening his coat with a casual sweep of his hand. “Seven days. Make it happen, Joel. Or don’t. Either way, she won’t be yours for long.”

He turned, this time without looking back, the gravel crunching beneath his boots as he left Joel alone among the roses — blood blooming silently on the tips of every thorn.

————————————

You smell the change before you hear it.

Not perfume. Not smoke. Something sharper — ink, leather, and the faint metallic sting of new paper. Paper that hasn’t yet been read aloud. Orders not yet delivered.

The Martha who brings your breakfast won’t meet your eyes.

She sets the tray down more carefully than usual. No clatter of cutlery. No hushed blessing under her breath. Just hands that tremble slightly when she adjusts the cup of tea, and a silence that says more than words ever could.

You wait until she’s gone before you touch anything.

The eggs are dry. The toast is too crisp. The tea is hot enough to burn.

But that’s not what matters.

What matters is the folded slip of paper tucked beneath the tray — not for you, but left where you’d see it.

You don’t reach for it. You don’t need to.

You already know.

They’ve scheduled the Ceremony.

It's real now — no longer just a possibility murmured behind doors. No longer just the weight of eyes following your movements through the house.

You stand slowly and walk to the mirror.

Your reflection doesn’t flinch. It hasn’t in a long time.

You smooth the sleeves of your red dress. The colour has dulled slightly in the wash — not enough for them to notice, but enough that you do.

It was meant to make you visible. It’s made you vanish instead.

You look yourself in the eyes.

There is no way out. Not through pleading. Not through illness. Not through hope.

But you have something still.

You have the power to remember.

You will remember every word. Every touch. Every look. Not because it helps — but because it’s yours. Because even in this, even here, they haven’t taken everything.

Not yet.

There’s a knock on the door.

Soft. Two raps. Measured.

You know who it is before you answer.

You cross the room with steady steps, your hand already curled around the cool brass of the handle before your mind has fully caught up. There’s no use in hesitation now. You open the door.

He stands there, his frame filling the doorway — Commander Miller. No gloves. No coat. Just his shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, and something unreadable in his expression.

His eyes meet yours. And for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

He’s not here with orders. That much is clear. There’s no paper in his hand, no witness at his back. This visit wasn’t scheduled.

“I wanted to see how you were,” he says, low.

You nod. Not as an answer — more like acknowledgment.

“I know you’ve been told,” he says, quieter now. “About what’s coming.”

You say nothing. But your hands fold together in front of you, fingers twisting tightly enough that your knuckles pale.

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops. His jaw tenses. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not this fast.”

You study him. He looks tired. More than tired — like he’s unraveling thread by thread and trying not to show it.

“They’re pushing,” he says. “Quinn. Isaac. They want to use you to prove a point.”

And what do you want? you wonder. But you don’t ask it. Because that’s not a question they let you voice.

He exhales, runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m trying to stall,” he admits. “But I don’t know how much time we have left.”

You watch him carefully. The way his hands flex at his sides. The way he won’t meet your eyes now. Whatever is behind his hesitation, it’s not pity. It’s something else — maybe guilt. Maybe fear.

Finally, he looks at you.

“If you’re afraid,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to be alone in that.”

It’s the closest thing to kindness you’ve been offered since arriving in this house.

You don’t thank him.

But you don’t close the door, either.

He stands there a moment longer, then gives a faint nod and steps back. Not away — just back, giving you space.

“I’ll keep them out as long as I can,” he says.

And then he walks away — without waiting for your permission, or your fear, or your silence.

The door stays open a few more seconds. Just enough to let the air shift.

Then you close it yourself.

Not slammed. Not afraid.

Just… firm.

#fan fiction #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #joel miller #dave york #handmaids tale #the last of us #under his eye #oscar isaac

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tenaciouschronicler · 13 days ago

Text

June 18-21 2025 2010

Gonna backtrack a day because I forgot about this line and I feel it necessary to keep.

It's just that your red chalk is THE MOST DELICIOUS CHALK. You cannot get enough of it. Anyone who says there is a more delicious chalk out there simply reeks of deceit.

Now Terezi has beef with AR and WV.

Anyway, we keep on with Terezi who is on a mission to recruit members for the red team as shes currently the leader unless Kar gets his way. We get to see her interacting with AC whos symbol is the one for Leo. They go for a little more than half of the log role-playing as a dragon and feline respectively when Terezi asks if AC wants to join the team. AC thinks playing sounds fun but need to ask someones permission to avoid some sort of argument. Whoever they are is probably not AC's custodian as 'H3S NOT TH3 BOSS OF YOU' and 'H3 LlV3S NOWH3R3 N34R YOU' unless its like Gam's situation. Either way AC agrees with Terezi but will have to get back to her later.

We skip the convo with Gamzee to avoid rehashing and face Terezi's worst nightmare: Karkat trolling her.

Karkat comes off a lot like a whiny brat; the kind where its their way or no way down to his beliefs on how Terezi actually feels about the title change. Actually nah, at best he opperates on first grader logic. Ya know, that age where they start understanding consequences and rules and they try to "gotcha" about how smart they are? Only to be knocked down by your own better understanding of rules and loopholes then turn around and act like they knew all along and were just testing you. .... Look all my cousins on my ma's side are younger than me, Ive done this song and dance for years.

All that aside, the way Terezi handles the situation works really well. Karkat only wants to play this game because that puts him into a higher level of authority than his peers which is supposedly his god given right. In this conversation we see that Terezi has a better understanding of the game and how it works and paints it in a way that benefits Karkat.

GC: OK TH3 THING YOU N33D TO KNOW 1S TH3 L34D3R ST4RTS OUT BY RUNN1NG THE CL13NT 4PPL1C4T1ON

GC: WH1L3 1 TH3 LOWLY S3COND OFF1C3R CONN3CTS TO YOU W1TH TH3 S3RV3R WH1L3 1 R3M41N G3N3R4LLY 1N 4W3 OF YOUR M4NLY GR4ND3UR

GC: 4ND 1 S1T 4T MY COMPUT3R DOlNG M3N14L CHOR3S IN SUPPORT OF YOUR H3RO1C 3SC4P4D3S WHICH HON3STLY 1 DONT TH1NK YOUR3 R34DY FOR BUT WH4T3V3R

We smash cut to the future where Karkats hive has been graffitied with a multitude of colors and the plumbings been mangled. From their convo we learn Karkat has done zero research om this game because of his disdain for AA and his superiority complex which leaves him as the most uninformed player for the session. He technically got his wish, hes 'leading' the entry but not actually able to do any of the sort of commanding roles he though hed get. Its actually really funny since later he becomes Johns greatest source of information when he starts off blinder than Terezi.

His land is OF PULSE AND HAZE with the title KNIGHT OF BLOOD. Kind of ironic since troll blood colors are very important in the society but he obfuscates and dodges Terezi's question about his. I like the connection with his land though, pulse and blood, and I wonder what his quest involves.

We then see a few other trolls. One with rams horns, the symbol for Aries in red and pure white eyes with power to decapitate the frog temple statue. Perhaps AA if the connection with ruins is anything to go by. Another we only get glimpses of whose found Gamzee's Faygo. They have blue and black striped pants, gold rings with purple gems one of which has the symbol for Aquarius and refers to LAND DWELLERS. A sea dweller perhaps?

With that tease out of the way, we return to Kar in the past as he descends to the lower level of his hive.

You go downstairs and confront your custodian, which is another term for a frightening beast known as a LUSUS NATURAE.

Theres a nice little info dump on Trolls that I shall place here for later review.

Adult trolls supply their genetic material to the FILIAL PAILS carried by mperial drones and offered to the monstrous MOTHER GRUB deep underground in the brooding caverns.

The mother grub then mixes the material, how?, and lays thousands of eggs wherein larva hatch and pupate.

[...] the young troll with his or her newfound limbs undergoes a series of dangerous trials. If they survive, they are chosen by member of the diverse and terrifying subterranean monster population native to Alternia.

Trolls and their custodians have a peculiar arrangement of codependence. The lusus behaves as a lifelong bodyguard, caretaker, and visceral sort of mentor, while the young troll must learn to function as a sort of zookeeper.

The vast majority of adult trolls are off- planet, serving some role in the forces of ongoing imperial conquest, besieging other star systems in the name of Alternian glory.

Riveting lore, I love it.

Karkats lusus is very crab like in nature but with an insectoid sort of shape to make a more upright creature with claws. Adorably, on the fridge is a drawing of Kars lusus that mirrors Johns own drawing kept in place with a crab magnet.

#fallen a bit bihind again #homestuck #homestuck replay #hsrp liveblog #hsrp lore #semi related: we kidnapped one of my cousins at another cousins birthday for the week for a bit of unpaid labor /j #hes 16 and oldest of 6. he is helping with some outdoor work but he gets the house to himself #plus my sis and i took him shopping with us yesterday and we're helping answer questions hes got about his future #his siblings are just a ~tiny~ bit jealous

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needfantasticstories · 3 months ago

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/51058696/chapters/164891833#workskin

Chapter 18: A Cold Dawn

Summary:

The Chain wakes up after one of the hardest days of their journey. Sky enjoys helping Wild cook. Wind and Twi have lots of questions, and Purah, as always, is not the best at social graces. 85% of this is beta read by hotcheetohatred, the magnificent and genuinely SO TALENTED fic writer and one of my favorite humans ever. Please give her all the love and comments. Surprise Wind section for ya! <3

A Cold Dawn

Four woke that morning to the sound of Wild and Purah’s whispered bickering. He wiped sandy grains from his eyes and rubbed his temple. A weak tension headache had yet to decide if it would stay or go. Wild’s voice was low but heated as he faced Purah, pointing a finger at her. Four didn’t hear the words at first, but he caught the gist of Wild’s frustration as their volume grew.

Four gave a resigned sigh, stretched, and shoved Wolfie’s paw off his knees. Within hazy attempts to remember why we has sleeping on an unfamiliar floor, Red pouted with Blue over the loss of soft, warm fur as Four worked the feeling back into his legs—they both hated being alone. The hushed voices continued arguing. He recognized Wild’s expertly quiet whisper.

“She was attacked by a creature we’ve never seen before, how can you say that?”

Purah scoffed. “She handled it just fine, Link, and she even identified it within minutes of getting here. That little reckless mess in red of yours had a book about monsters, and they puzzled it out. Ask him about it when he wakes. I don’t remember the name.”

“You said it ate her,” Wild answered icily. “How can you still insist she doesn’t need—”

“If she truly needed protection, Link, then you would have stayed,” Purah hissed back and pointed a small flute in his face with the threatening force of a rapier.

That seemed to stump him. Wild harrumphed, head bowed, and started for the tent opening.

“She missed you too,” Purah grumbled with the air of one too old for such silliness, yet with the voice of a small girl. Age seemed to be more of a suggestion in Wild’s era, Four thought, based on the few he’d met.

The clattering and slamming of Wild’s cooking pots and pans outside soon rivalled the din of Sheikah. Wolfie stretched and shook himself awake. Only a moment later, Sky sat bolt upright from some starling dream, launching Wind off the bed and onto the unsuspecting Wolfie. He landed with an exaggerated "Oof!" just in time for Old Man and Captain to step inside with armfulls of split wood.

When Four and the others finished laughing, they dressed and packed quickly as Purah presented a list of tasks that would help her team finish the Sheikah [device] faster. As the heroes scurried out with axes and water jars, the researchers traded silence for speed. The grinding, pounding, and whirring increased by magnitudes. Blurry figures in cream and red scurried with the determination of harried ants as the heroes hurried into the cold morning.

Four’s headache decided it would stay.

***

Sky carried the last of the split logs to the outdoor cooking pot. He found the cook in the eye of a storm of raw ingredients and plated food and cooking tools. Wild pulled an entire roasted bird half the size of Epona’s chest and set it on a stool, and then he continued scattering smaller potion vials and plates around him. With a small noise of victory, he slammed a jug of milk on one of the spare stools. “Finally,” Wild grumbled, and poured it into the last empty pot. With a flaming arrow, he lit the fire.

Sky wordlessly took over stirring and let Wild sort himself out. Methodically, Wild returned everything to the slate while the flames caught and settled. Sky only disrupted the cook’s work to calmy hold out a hand when the milk began to boil. Wild sat down at last and summoned a bag of thin, white grains. Rice, Sky recognized. He eased the whispering river of grain into the steaming milk, then sprinkled in the fine sugar Wild handed him.

Wild held out his hand for the spoon, the scars touching the corner of his lips stretched in a subtle smile.

As Sky often did when dreams clung too tightly, he grabbed a few apples Wild had set aside in an Ordon bowl and began a mundane task: peeling apples. Hands occupied, he watched. It was soothing to watch the others work their various trades, how they completed their specialized tasks, especially to discern what they enjoyed, and what they despised. Wild did not enjoy preparing the food half as much as he enjoyed the mundane magic of it transforming in the crucible from raw into a final meal. He’d grin the same way Four did when examining armor in need of repair, or the way Wind enthusiastically leaned out from his grip on the highest branches of a tree to survey their surroundings, or Legend bouncing his attention between two or three books, or casting his elemental spells, or while pushing needle and thread in and out of fabric. The way Hyrule—

The knife in his hand trembled. He loosened his grip and fell back into the steady rhythm of peeling. Apples were easy to cut, and the slow shush felt as satisfying as the murmur of curling wood shavings. Their crisp snap as he cubed the sandy flesh satisfied his hunger to hear the music of the world: it crunched like leaves under his feet on these wild, unpaved roads like nothing he’d ever explored, every step exciting and full of promise and the comfort of divine sunlight on his skin. Chill, crisp apple juice dripped from his little carving blade. He flicked it off.

Time and Twilight with animals always produced a childlike wonder. He’d seen the way Warriors surveyed a camp, and his grin when finding it spotless and undetectable in their wake. He enjoyed discovering these moments of quiet satisfaction.

Sky chuckled to himself as he pondered the reverse, recalling the loathing in Legend’s face when he was stuck with laundry washing, and Warriors’s pout when assigned dishes, Time’s squinting eye as he tackled repairs to his tunic, Wind’s wide-eyed terror when dressing wounds (and who could blame him?) Or Four with even looking at Wild’s brittle, rot-cursed weapons, or his intangible blue-light Sheikah ones. or Hyrule… or Hyrule’s quiet, self-chastising scowl whenever he lost an archery match or fell behind. One day the group travelled for two days on rented horses. Hyrule had looked at him, his companion at the end of the chain of heroes, with wide-eyes and tight knuckles. Sky had never seen Hyrule afraid before.

He was screaming— Sky handed Wild a bowl of sliced apples. The cook had found a grill, and laid them out on it. Juice sizzled in the fire. Entranced by the warm aroma, Sky resisted the urge to lunge and grab one off the heat. Morning sounds permeated the calm around the campfire: horses shifting and sneezing, dogs whining as they stretched and yawned. Sky could hear the exact moment that the aroma of Wild’s cooking reached them, and in a flurry of fur three dogs lay at Wild’s feet, begging, and panting as if they’d run miles to arrive here, their eyes pathetic. Hopeful. Crimson-like, but small enough to carry in his arms. Sky resisted the urge to pick one up to examine closer.

Four, Warrior and Wind stopped by on their way to fetch water in massive clay pots they carried on their backs. Sky slipped each newcomer a few apple slices–they would steal some anyways if he didn’t. Sky watched them trek to the well and back, Time staying back from the stone circle as he always did with wells, and still waters. Sky often wondered what happened to make the Old Man feel the need to be cautious. His alertness proved infectious. Sky scanned the fields and skies for signs of movement, for the faint sound of a voice calling on the wind, for the glare of water reaching beyond the bounds of the little pond. He hated these echoes of the dream. The chimes. The red.

Something big moved on his left. He startled, the knife biting into his thumb. He sucked on the knick as the veteran took the seat to his right. He glanced sleepily at Sky, and let him take care of the nick without comment. Sky was grateful. He could barely look at the vet and not see the bedraggled state he’d returned to them yesterday after escaping the Yiga and clawing his way back to them.

All from his demon.

***

Twilight waited until the others left before leaving the shelter of the screens. He wasn’t sure how the researchers felt about the wolf sleeping with the heroes, but none of them had mentioned anything about it. He decided it was worth the risk to escape chore assignments from Purah so he could escape and tend to Epona. The poor girl still had twigs matted in her hair and a few scrapes to check on after yesterday’s ambush.

The wolf slipped around the curtains, keeping to the scant shadows.

“Wolfie!” called an unfamiliar voice. He turned to see now one but six different Sheikah researchers smiling and holding out hands, begging with wide eyes for him to come closer.

Twilights shrank back, hackles rising subtly. He tried to ignore the clear disappointment on their faces as he scrambled for the freedom of the outdoors.

Purah stood in his way.

“So you’re back too,” Purah huffed and crossed her arms. “Now I’ll have to pick your hair out of this machine too…” And with that concerning sentiment, Twilight scrambled from the room. “Welcome home, Stinkybomb,” she added as he left the dim inn behind.

Twilight had so many questions.

***

Wind carried his oversized jug of water into the stable inn and skedaddled out again before Purah could see and snag him into doing more chores. Or before he succumbed to his urge to break it. The sailor rushed outside and around back to the privy. Ambling back, he found Twilight in the stable.

Twilight’s brush moved slowly through Epona’s mane but he stared in much the same way Wild did when lost in a memory.

“Ranch-hand?” he stepped under the slats, the light instantly dimmed. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh.” The taller man shook his head vigorously. “Yeah, I”m fine. I just… I got a lot of questions lately, since coming to this world.”

“You can say that again! Why isn’t anyone explaining anything!” Relief washed over him. The way the older heroes all talked forever in whispers, leaving out him and Four and Wild and Twi… “Time laughs at us all,” Wind mumbled the words of the Goron merchant to himself. Well, if anyone could wrangle Time into actually talking for a change, it was Twilight. Or Warrior, but he seemed in on whatever secret was being shared between them, why Ghirahim called him a different name and they both went pale as a full mood. Wind narrowed his eyes, suddenly wondering if the hard-to-read rancher might have more answers than he let on too. “Have you ever seen that demon before?”

Twilight shook his head and continued brushing a thoroughly detangled section of Epona’s hair.

“Twi.” Wind urged. “You sure?”

Twilight hummed a noncommittal answer.

Epona swung her head around and nudged the brush. Twilight grunted and came back to the present. Wind snickered. She knew how to keep her hero on course. “Sorry.” Twi rubbed Epona’s back appreciatively and found a new patch to detangle. “I’m just thinkin’ about just how much we can and can’t change when we’re moving so reckless-like through these portals. All our times are… I suspect they’re connected. So coming here, where most of us are dead and gone… does it make any difference what we learn about… about our fates?" He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "What can and can’t change just by knowing about it when we go back?” he looked at Wind as if he had answers.

“Well, that’s dark,” Wind scoffed playfully. He wondered what made the ranch-hand suddenly so melancholy. Not that it was hard; most evenings, Twi got into some deep waters inside his head, and he’d gather anyone near enough to reach and not otherwise occupied to sit and contemplate the sunset with him. Even at midday, he always seemed just a bit lonely. Maybe that was normal for wolves.

“Maybe. Not sure yet,” came the ranch-hands cryptic and completely unhelpful reply. Wind shrugged, and urged the man to hurry up and join them for breakfast—judging by the smell wafting their way, breakfast was almost ready.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------- Series this work belongs to: Part 2 of WildSkyRule

#linked universe #linked universe fanfic #skiprambles #lu sky #lu wild #lu time #lu four #lu legend #lu wind #lu twilight #I'm trying so hard to get Time to reenter the narrative #I think he's still sulking about the prologue #Twilights is goodest boy but does not know the extent of it yet #Hateno lab mascot

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blueintime · 9 months ago

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Abigail still hasn’t stopped crying.

Jack still hasn’t shed a tear.

And when John looks out the window, there are two figures he hasn’t seen in years.

—————

Abigail still hasn’t stopped crying

Jack still hasn’t shed a tear.

It had taken them the better of two hours to bury him and Uncle. And ever since then, they had remained in the sitting room as the sky turned dark and streaked through with scarlet.

Abigail had quit her sobbing a long while ago, but a tear could not stop slipping down her cheek every few minutes, even as she sat simply and stared distantly at the floorboards.

And Jack…

Tears shone often enough in his eyes, but stubbornly, they would not fall. All the more stubborn was the anger etched hot in his boy’s face, furrowed lines darkening it to a place not even shadows could cause.

John knew that look well. Had felt it burn in his own soul many a time. Seen it burn within one too many strangers too.

Nothing was forgotten, and nothing was forgiven.

He hoped it would fade. Prayed to whatever god there could be that Jack would leave it behind. If he could just be there he could…

But he wasn’t. And never could be now.

John stroked a hand again over his son’s hair, pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple, and tried his best to swallow his own bitter anger.

It took another long, horrible hour to pass before they retired to bed.

John had stood to follow the both of them, until a flame caught his eye from a window.

Alarm flared hot in his chest, and he stumbled to the glass. Surely they couldn’t have returned - surely killing him was enough -

John slammed his face to the window, and his alarm was doused by ice.

Two figures, dressed in their familiar blue, sat around a crackling campfire.

Something in his chest skipped hard. He slipped away from the window.

Arthur and Hosea looked up as John stepped out onto the porch floor. For a moment, there was silence.

Then Hosea smiled sadly, while Arthur looked on somberly, and gestured to an empty log that laid between them.

“Hello, John,” Hosea said, his voice a surprise to hear after so many years forgotten. “Come sit?”

Somehow, John numbly did.

When he was safe on the porch, he wanted nothing more than to stare. But now that he was close, with his brother on one side and his father on the other, he could only bear to stare at the fire, twisting at his fingers till they popped.

Arthur sighed, and Hosea said quietly, “Oh, John.”

A pressure suddenly grasped at his elbow, and John flinched away. Immediately Hosea released him, but John snatched his hand before he could withdraw completely.

Oh. John thought. Oh.

Hosea’s hand was solid, real, in John’s own.

“You’re here?” John managed to rasp through a tightening throat, “This is real?”

“We’re here,” Hosea replied, “This is real.”

“Alright,” John said simply. Then he bowed his head, and dark spots appeared in the dirt above his feet.

A shuffle sounded to his left, then warmth pressed against his entire side, another hand clasping at his shoulder.

“We never went far,” Arthur said gruffly.

John wheezed at that. Maybe sobbed.

“Oh yeah?” John snapped. Cried. “‘Cause I sure haven’t fucking seen you around nowhere.”

Hosea slipped his hand out of John’s grasp, then he too was pressed into John’s other side. John dropped his head onto the man’s shoulder, gritted his teeth sharp and hard to force his tears back.

“I’m sorry, John,” Hosea murmured, his own voice sounding thick and rough. A hand carded through his hair, and John could only cry anyway. “You did well, my boy. Damn well.”

“I killed them,” John said hoarsely, and for a second, he was back there, with the bodies dead before him. “I killed them.”

Bill and Javier and…

“You didn’t. We saw.”

“He…” John cleared his throat. “Where’s…?”

“Somewhere,” Arthur sighed, “Neither of us have spoken to him yet. You could, if you want.”

John said nothing. He let himself rest a few minutes longer on Hosea’s shoulder, let his tears run their course, before straightening up. He rubbed at his face, and was only a little surprised to feel scars under his fingers.

“You ready?”

John bit his tongue, shook his head firm and tight. “I ain’t gonna leave them.”

“Don’t got to.” Arthur patted at his shoulder. “We didn’t for you and them and everyone else either. There’s just some other folks who’d like to see you.”

“Like a certain little girl.” Hosea said.

John tried to breathe. “Oh.” He said again.

“Oh,” Arthur said back, not unkindly. He pulled John up with him, and Hosea stood too. “C’mon. We ain’t going far. And not for long.”

John inhaled. Exhaled. Stared hard at the home he had built, the family still left behind inside.

Then he turned, and just for a little while, the night was left dead with the living.

#red dead redemption #rdr1 #rdr2 #john marston #hosea matthews #arthur morgan #my fic #unpictured is john hugging his daughter with all the force in the world #rdr

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voidselfshipp · 4 months ago

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Simpler Times

Cw: none.

Summary: A glimpse into vergil's childhood alongside Jerico.

>Based on this. Only mutuals allowed to reblog.

♡Lovely taglist: @tex-treasures @bloocanary @alexatheris-44 @fightinggamegirlfriend

Jerico jumped over the Fallen log,the stream underneath rushing and taking the reflecting sunlight with it. The child laughs as they held their wooden sword. Sweat beads at their temples from playing all day under the sun,their breath is just a little ragged and adrenaline pumps through their veins.

--Come on Vergil! Stop hiding!--they stand there at the center of the rotting tree with their feet on the moss that had overtaken them.

Silence hung in the air.

The leaves rustle with the wind,the stream sings its little warbly song. With Keen attention,Jer's ears flick at the different sounds...a rock thrown to their left,movement on their right.

But vergil comes swooping from above,jumping from a thick branch down at his friend. He saves the warcry in his throat,Dante usyally announced his attack. Vergil saw it as foolish.

His sword collides with theirs,both dance a deadly tune in their make believe. Wood against wood,shifting feet on a rotting tree. Back and forth,win and lose. Its a conversation in a language only they know.

Vergil tries to swipe at their ribs but they cover his attack and hook his arm in a way that makes the boy stumble Back.

Meanwhile the princess swung her weapon to the boy's Back of the knee. He playfully screams in pain and falls to his knees. He heaves with make believe air and looks up.

--I win!--Jeri declared as the afternoon above changed to sunset.

The boy chuckled and his gaze softens. He smiles with his teeth showing-- youve been practicing!

--I have. Thank you for noticing.

They help him up and he stands there holding their hands. Their gazes meet and both smile awkwardly with this fledgling of a feeling. Love.

Neither know whats the warmth in their chests or the drumming in their ears. But he does step closer,allowing his instinct to step where his mind is. Dante has always been more forward.

But vergil liked to be a little more quiet. Theres something about his friend though that changes him on a deeper level than he can realize at his age. His lips press a shy kiss on their cheek and they smile and do the same. The giggles that leave him are soft as the rustling of petals in the wind.

Just as hes about to say something,both Hear a female voice call out "Children!".

--coming,mom!--Vergil answers,looking over jeris shoulder. Then his attention returns to them,and how pretty they look in the amber light of the now reddish Sky.

He apologizes silently for their moment being cut short but they shrug. He then guides them down the log and back to Paradise Mansion.

Eva was waiting nearby,Clad in her white dress and her red hair flowing in the wind. It had started to get cold and vergil untied his blue jacket from being around his hips and drapes it over his friend who takes his hand again

The angel woman softens her gaze at such sight and says-- Your dads here to pick you up,Jeri.

--o-okay-- they answered,it was only normal for a half demon child to fear an Angel. But they were meek as any human kid was.

Vergil follows his mom to the entrance. But as he walks he talks low,hoping Eva cant hear. But she very well can.

--Must you go?--He asked.

--I dont wanna..--They answer. Leaning their head on his shoulder. He sighs and tugs them closer.

Jerico puts on their shoes,waiting for them at the entrance to the manor with their bags all packed. They look at vergil and then at Alexander,their dad,waiting beside the car.

The nephilim boy smiles a little,they do too and he quickly gives them a kiss to the cheek again before pulling back. He swears Dante is behind him snickering...,the prick.

--Bye...--They say with a shy smile. He nodds and whispers the same.

He watches his friend go to their dad who picks them up and spins them around,asking if they had fun and the such. Vergil watches the car go,only now remebering they still had his jacket.

Its just another excuse to see them again said his mom. And vergil couldnt agree more. Nor could he wait to see them again...

#dmc s/I #vergil

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shirshik72 · 2 years ago

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BiTomas week

Day 6. Seasons

Author's notes: the characters' images are taken from the classic games and supplemented with my headcannons. This is completely unrelated to "Mortal Kombat 1" (2023).

Autumn is coming to the Lin Kuei Temple slowly. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting longer. The frost, so familiar to Bi Han, is getting stronger, and the warmth, so valued by Tomas, is gradually leaving the valleys of the Chinese mountains.

Although, there was never much heat here. Autumn simply takes away its remnants, leaving for the ninja only lifeless trees and heavy rains, increasingly turning into light snowfalls. Of course, the snow has not yet covered the entire earth with a durable sheet, but Tomas knows that this is a matter of time.

― It’s getting colder, ― Smoke notes melancholy, walking in the gardens near the infirmary in the company of Bi Han.

― Are you freezing? ― asked his companion, trying to assess Tomas’s condition with a trained eye.

― No. For now.

Sub-Zero only nods his head affirmatively, continuing his walk. To be honest, this process does not give him much pleasure: withering nature does not at all please the selective eye. Yes, he didn’t like autumn itself. Fickle time, unpredictable, in a word - crappy.

― Somehow you don’t have a face, ― says Bi Han, peering carefully into the so-adored eyes, covered with a veil of unbearable, desperate melancholy. - What happened?

― Nothing, ― Tomas waves it off, making a strange gesture, the meaning of which even Sub-Zero cannot decipher. ― The weather has been bad lately. It's going to rain soon. Cold rain, ― Smoke winces as he pronounces the last word.

― Then maybe we can go home?

Tomas nods in agreement. Something like pleasure flashes in Bi Han's eyes. He probably smiles under the mask ― restrainedly, but very sincerely. This thought warms us as they walk home in complete silence through the frozen streets of the fortress.

It is warm cozy and quiet in the walls of own house. Even if it's a little cold.

Without missing a minute, Smoke goes to the fireplace, throwing a couple of logs into it. A bright orange-red flame instantly engulfs dry logs. Tomas looks at the fire for a long time. A beautiful sight. Fascinating. The wood crackled. A little later, the warmth began to spread through the central hall in dense clouds. Hugging his knees, Tomas sat down on the floor near the fireplace, warming himself.

― And you say you’re not cold... ― in the velvety voice one cannot recognize either reproach or complaint, although Tomas knows well that Bi Han has questions. Otherwise, he would not have been shaking the air in vain.

Tomas again makes some vague gesture, without finding any worthy excuses, to which Sub-Zero only sighs noisily.

Footsteps are heard moving into the kitchen. Smoke doesn’t know exactly what his lover is up to, but he can roughly guess. As if to confirm his theory, about 10 minutes later, Bi Han returns to the room with a ceramic teapot, a chaban board, gaiwans, bowls and all the other paraphernalia that he carries for tea ceremonies.

Bi Han loves tea ceremonies. Perhaps he even loves them too much. Smoke knows that this whole ceremony means much more to Bi Han than just a tribute to tradition. For him, this is akin to meditation, a method of reducing stress and getting rid of excess garbage in his head. At such moments, it is better not to disturb Sub-Zero at all, especially if you want to keep all your teeth until old age. Knowing this, Tomas almost silently moves closer to Bi Han to observe the preparation of tea.

The process is fascinating, to be honest. His movements - so smooth, neat and calm - seem to suit him best, revealing that side of his soul that Sub-Zero is used to hiding under the mask of cold cruelty. Tomas is ready to continuously watch how Bi Han with a smart face pours something insists... There is some special enchanting magic in this, magnificent in its uniqueness.

Time seems to freeze around them, and the whole world narrows to the size of a room with a fireplace. They no longer care about the gloomy autumn, nor the approaching winter, nor the downpour of snow that suddenly fell on the territory of the fortress. For Tomas, the tea ceremony is also something like meditation, cleansing, but he doesn’t understand this at all yet.

Tea is ready. Bi Han tries the drink himself and, making sure that the taste is sufficiently rich and bright, treats Tomas to it too. Smoke likes it. Probably not even the tea itself, but the fact that Bi Han prepared it. For him. A satisfied smile involuntarily appears on his face, which Sub-Zero was ready to admire forever.

— Are you warm?

― It’s always warm next to you. No matter how paradoxical it may be.

Postscript: I am not an English-speaking person and this is my first experience in writing a literary text in a foreign language. I apologize in advance for all my mistakes in this text and ask you to point them out in the comments or personal messages. Thanks a lot in advance to everyone!

Thanks to @bitomas-week for organizing the event and motivating them to work on it.

#noobsmoke #bitomasweek2023 #bitomas #bi han x tomas #mortal kombat #bi han #bi han sub zero #tomas vrbada #mk smoke #smoke mk #fanfic

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annwayne · 2 years ago

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The Red Logs: Return to the Temple Ch. 19

Chapter 19: Divo, Please

Last Chapter <- -> Next Chapter

Fem!OC X Crosshair

Word Count: 2313

Fic Summary:

There are benefits to owning a clone bar. Underworld lords don’t threaten you to pay for protection. Clones are great company. And the drinks taste great. However, there are also risks to owning a clone bar. Like, for example, becoming the fuck buddy of a special clone task force member so your life gets threatened when a Separatist puts out a bounty for your capture in order to use you as blackmail. Also your sleep schedule gets wrecked. But Anya Tougt is a little more capable than an average bar owner.

Ao3 Link Here

Warnings apply to whole fic:

Canon typical violence, descriptions of panic attacks, alcohol, swearing, 18+ themes (eventual smut), trauma, religious trauma parallels, mild gore

Authors Note:

I hope you enjoy this final chapter of TRL:RttT :)

24 BBY. It’s time.

A few hours later we returned to the backdoor of my bar. As usual, I pulled out my keys and pressed them against the reader until the lock clicked open. Jayas was in the hall, talking to another new hire I had yet to meet, a human woman with pink hair. He waved at me. Crosshair earned a raised brow and a knowing grin.

“You working tonight?” Crosshair lingered a few steps below me, looking through the panel that separated the stairs to my loft and the bar’s back area.

“Nah.” I explained as I climbed the stairs. “Jayas noticed how tired I was. Told me to take a few days off.” I pushed open the door to my apartment, having left it unlocked again.

“That’s a bad habit.”

“Hmm?”

Crosshair nodded towards the pocket that held my keys. “You didn’t lock your loft door last night either.”

I chuckled, walking through the threshold of my apartment. “There’s a reason Jayas set up the backdoors to automatically lock.” Inside, Stinky slept in a ball on the couch. I walked to him, squatting down to give the tooka some pets. “I’m not too worried about it. Who’d try to mess with a clone bar?”

The clone said nothing in response, just took up a spot on the couch across from Stinky. He removed his helmet, setting it down carefully on the coffee table. After a few more pets, I plopped down beside the sniper. He lifted the arm closest to me up and pulled me in closer to him. “I’ve got maybe an hour before I need to report in.” Crosshair nuzzled my neck, brushing my loose hair out of his way so his lips could press against bare skin.

Shivers ran up my neck as his lips dragged against me. “You think an hour is enough?” The question was playful, though part of me kicked myself for taking so long to get back home. Considering the morning’s dream…well, I needed this.

Crosshair hummed in response. The vibrations chilled my neck. “We can make do.” He opened his mouth, trailing teeth along the curve of my shoulder.

I shuddered in response, but found my patience thinning as the burning between my legs grew in furiosity. Suddenly, I flipped over Crosshair’s legs, trapping him between my own as I sat on his lap. Our lips crashed together without fanfare. Should there be fanfare? This was our first time together as riduur–did that even mean anything?

My thoughts were quickly brushed away as gloved hands snaked up my side to grope my breasts. Even through the fabric of my top, I felt a spike of pleasure when his thumbs rolled over my nipples. A groan interpreted our lips, prompting Crosshair to push his tongue into my open mouth. Those thumbs worked dutifully teasing my buds.

“Cross.” I whined against him. Aside from his helmet, he was still in full armor. So when my hips started to grind against him, I met hard plastoid. The rigid surface pressed into my pants, offering a tease for my building desire. My mind melted into one focused solely on that repetitive motion of dragging my cunt across his codpiece. A fleeting thought about stripping crossed my mind, but then I caught the way his armor shifted against my body. An hour was enough time to indulge in this, right?

“Yes, doll?” One of his hands drifted from toying with my breast and grabbed at my ass. When I leaned into him, he left more love bites along my shoulder.

“Maker.” I hissed between hitched breaths. He always did this–within minutes my mind was empty and I couldn’t form any coherent thought. I’d never admit it, though. “I want it like this.”

“This?” Crosshair pushed up the fabric of my shirt, exposing my tits. Then, he leaned in and caught one between his lips. His tongue lapped up and over my nipple, sending jolts directly to my clenching pussy. Staying still-relatively speaking since I was still humping him like an anooba in heat-was an exercise in composure the Jedi council could only dream of replicating. Silent shudders left my lips as I tilted my head back to the sensation of his tongue circling my peak.

“Can you remove just the waist piece?” At the question I lightly pushed his head back. A lewd pop followed as Crosshair took the opportunity to suck on my tit. Moans followed as I shuddered from the intense sensation. This was ridiculous. My body was acting like it had gone years without pleasure. I’d gone longer without sex, what made this so different? “Please?” I pleaded.

His eyes met mine and recognition slowly gleaned. “You want to fuck me in my armor?” I wiggled under his gaze, blush overtaking my exposed skin. “Why am I surprised? This is exactly the kind of thing you’d be into.”

Indignation straightened my back. “Please, even you don’t know everything I’m into.” Sitting on his lap like this was one of the few times where I looked down to meet his eye.

“Why?” He leaned forward to feather my chest in kisses. “Because you didn’t know it?” When I didn’t respond, he looked up at me through dark lashes. Crosshair’s smirk turned devious. With my tongue caught, he continued. “So that sexually liberated persona you put on is…?”

“Liberated…compared to my past.” While I spoke, Crosshair dragged his tongue along the curve of my breast–the one that had yet been in his mouth. I took in a sharp breath and shakily continued. “...Not so much if you’re looking at the average sentient on Coruscant.”

He paused, hovering just above my nipple. “I’ve had no complaints.”

“Oh, like you’re a CONnoisseur!” I yelped as he closed his lips around the pink bud and sucked. My head fell forward and I glared at the cheeky grin in his eyes.

Crosshair detached from my tit. “And here I thought your liberated attitude was fueled by plenty of experience. That’s alright,” He caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “We can explore together.”

Shivers pulsed through my body at his words. All I could do to acknowledge him was nod while his hand still held my chin. That was enough though, as he leaned up to meet my lips. This time our kisses were less fevered. Our lips lingered. Passion had never been missing between us–yet somehow this felt new. Like the first passionate kiss we had ever shared. Maybe being riduur did mean something.

“Crosshair?” His lips didn’t leave mine. “Please. I need you.”

With a pant, he pulled back. “Your pants, pull them down.” I obliged, sitting up onto my knees to undo the clasp at the waist. Still straddling him, I pulled the fabric down to my knees. When I shifted my weight to pull them past my knees, Crosshair lended his help. Before I could sit down again, he grabbed my thick thighs. “You’re beautiful.” My heart fluttered, but I didn’t have time to linger on his words. His hands glided up and down my sides, occasionally stopping to grope me. The fabric of his gloves felt soft against my skin. Then, he slid those gloved fingers along the length of my cunt.

I thought his dexterity would be hindered by the fabric. Crosshair proved me wrong. With two fingers, he pressed against the black cotton of my panties and pushed in just enough to earn a whimper. Then, he slid my garment to the side, using his thumb to hold the fabric in place. With delicate movements, Crosshair stroked the length of my wetness with his middle finger. He avoided my clit, which had me reeling and wondering how he could feel so clearly through his gloves. Eventually, he removed his hand and observed the slick covering his fingers. Instead of being absorbed into the fabric, the sticky substance rolled along his gloved fingers as though bare skin.

“Crosshair.” I nearly hissed his name as I sat back on my heels.

He raised a brow. “Just making sure you’re wet enough, Anya.” Another hiss of air. The way he said my name was intoxicating.“Tell me what you want.”

Discontent rumbled in my throat. I leaned forward, trailing kisses up his neck to the base of his ear. “You know what I want.” My lips brushed against his ear as I spoke.

“Do I?” It was a dance. He pushed my buttons and I pulled his hair–sometimes literally.

I leaned back again. His grin was controlled. My pout was pointed. “Aren’t snipers observant?” Hair pulled.

His gaze narrowed. A challenge. “Observant.” Crosshair grabbed my chin, letting his thumb press against my lips as he spoke. “Not a mind reader.” He dropped his hand like a dead weight, letting his fingers drag down my lips and land on my shoulder.

My jaw clenched. Buttons pressed. “No, you’re a proper ass is what you are.” Bark. No bite.

“If I left now I could make it back to the barracks within protocol.” He twisted looking to the door.

I grabbed his shoulders, earning his gaze again. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

He tilted his head, waiting. I looked away, feeling heat crawl up my neck. It didn’t matter how many times the words left my mouth. Each time felt like a confession–a forbidden thrill that offended all that I was before. The heat of excitement and shyness created a desire that led to wiggling hips and a bitten bottom lip. And that was exactly why he relished pulling that sacrament from me.

“Crosshair,” My lips parted. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Good girl, was that so hard?” His praise invigorated me, and damped my underwear further. He lightly pressed my thighs, prompting me to sit up enough that he could reach his codpiece. A few clicks later the plastoid was tossed onto the couch cushion beside us. Now, only his tented blacks remained an obstacle. With practiced ease, Crosshair slid his gloved hand between a hidden seam at his crotch and pulled out his half-hard member.

“I didn’t know your blacks had a seam there.”

“Can’t strip in the field.”

“Righttt.”

With a soft chuckle, Crosshair grabbed my hand and guided it to his cock. Together we pumped him till he was hard enough to enter me. Then I slid forward, lining myself up so that he could slide into my pussy smoothly. His hot breath tickled the crook of my neck. Then, I sat down. Moans fell from our lips as he filled me, stretching my walls comfortably. When my pussy lips reached the hilt of his dick I paused, taking a moment to get used to being so full. My head hung against his cheek and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

His hands snaked up my back, sliding under the fabric of my bunched up shirt. He hummed. “Should I be offended?” Crosshair’s voice hitched as I slowly moved my hips up and down. He glided those gloved hands down along the curve of my back then rounded my sides, settling his strong grip on the soft plush of my hips.

“Worried I’m only with you because of your cock?” My grin turned lopsided as I teased the clone. I nuzzled into his neck, careful to keep a consistent rhythm with my hips. My soft body pressed against his armor, finding the plastoid cool but not unpleasant. “There’s no need.” I whispered into his ear. “You’re why it feels so good.” Crosshair’s breath hitched at my praise, but before I could come up with another tease there was a knock at the door.

I sat up, exchanging glances with the clone beneath me. “Did you-”

Knocks, louder and more rapid, from the front door.

“Are you going to?” He whispered.

“No, no whatever it is, they’ll have to come back later.” Nothing was going to interrupt this. I leaned forward, lifting my hips up and down again at a slower pace than before.

“Coruscant police, open up or we’re coming in!” A nasally voice called out.

“Just a minute!” I yelled back, then in defeat I dropped my head against Cross’s shoulder and groaned.

Tech had been swiping through various articles about senate politics, gossip pages, and the latest fashion craze before an odd notification popped up in the upper left hand corner of his datapad. He sat up from his prone position in his bunk and tapped the message.

Hunter sat on a storage crate, focus flickering between sharpening his vibro-knife and watching the door to the room, brows knitting closer together with every second they remained in place. Before they could crash together, however, the door slid open.

Wrecker walked in, damp and smelling of clean rain. He wore a towel over his shoulder and had a slight wet sheen to his naked body-sans the boxers that kept his modesty. He threw his towel over one of the bars of the top bunk to let it dry before sitting down across from Tech in his own bunk.

A frustrated sigh left the Sergeant. Crosshair was late, yet again.

“Hunter.” Tech’s voice rang out in the small room.

“Yeah.” Hunter answered, eyes still fixed on the doorway before him.

“You will want to see this for yourself.”

With a heavy sigh, Hunter stood and walked the few steps to lean over Tech’s bunk. His brother handed him the data pad, then waited patiently for his reaction.

“What…”

Notice to: Clone Force 99 From: The Coruscant Police Force, Sector 7, Department 381 Subject: Notice of Pending Investigation

CT-9904 will be contained within investigation perimeter until head investigator deems appropriate that CT-9904 can report back to GAR facilities. For further query contact head investigator: Lieutenant Divo of Sector 7, Department 381.

Authors end chapter notes:

Oh no... they got interrupted.. how sad.. >:3 Next chapter is notes only, so this is the end of The Red Logs: Return to the Temple!

Dividers by Djarrex

Tag list: @midnight-sun-0

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb crosshair x oc #tbb crosshair #crosshair x oc #crosshair x anya tougt (oc)#crosshair/oc #oc/crosshair #tbb fanfic #the bad batch fanfiction #star wars fanfic #the clone wars fanfic #sw tcw fanfic #star wars prequels #the red logs: return to the temple

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marmorafarms · 1 year ago

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Does anyone read Gravity Falls fic still? Well I hope so because I'm writing one!

Friday I'm In Love

Ch 1

Rating: Teen+ (PG 13)

Pairing: Stan Pines/OC

Summary: When Elfie comes to Gravity Falls to help her friend propose, she wasn't expecting to experience the wildest summer of her life. With the return of demonic forces imminent, Elfie must band together with the Pines family, and finds love along the way.

You can also find the fic here on ao3!

“This is a stupid plan for butt faces,”

“Mabel, when will you understand that just because you don’t agree with a plan doesn’t make it inherently bad?” Dipper said, shaking his head at his twin sister. She was sitting on a log, glaring at the ground while Dipper fiddled around with a strange gadget. It looked exactly like a smart watch, but the words appearing on screen were odd sigils rimmed with red.

“I just think this could hurt someone if you’re not careful. And you and Grunkle Ford are never careful,” Mabel grumbled.

“That’s not true!” Dipper said. “Look, all it does is summon the last person to touch it. Other than me of course, because I’ve calibrated it to me, therefore I can’t summon myself if I’m holding it. The last person to hold it was Grunkle Ford. So when I press this button, Grunkle Ford will appear.”

“Are you sure that’s who had it last?” Mabel said nervously. “He set it down near the register in the Mystery Shack. What if someone else picked it up? You could be snatching someone from their family!”

“Mabel, just trust me. I know what I’m doing. And a one and a two and a…” the teenage boy pressed a button, and there was a sudden flash of blue light.

“And here we have Grunkle…wait what?!”

—

One second ago, Elfie had been mindlessly chatting with her best friend Melody in the parking lot of a place called The Mystery Shack. And now? Here she was, standing in the middle of the woods with two teenagers goggling at her.

“Do I need to up my meds?” Elfie said, looking around. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

“Dipper what did I tell you?!” the young girl said, turning to the boy next to her. “This lady here touched it last! And she’s freaked out because of your koo-koo-bananas machine doodad! You have to send her back!”

“I don’t know how!” the boy who seemed to be named Dipper said frantically.

“Are either of you Melody?” Elfie asked tentatively.

“You’re okay ma’am,” the girl said, standing up and brushing herself off. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to up your meds! Probably.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dipper said. “Um. Well. Did you happen to be at a place called the Mystery Shack recently?”

The brown haired boy looked very worried, his aviator hat askew. He quickly adjusted it and began to pace back and forth while the girl who must be his sister began to chastise him. Elfie took a moment to look around, before spying a sign shaped like an arrow, with a green question mark sloppily painted on. Okay. That was something she recognized. All she needed to do was ground herself and then—

“You must’ve been at the Mystery Shack, otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now. For some reason, you grabbed this, and now you’re in the woods with us.”

“I was in the parking lot just now,” Elfie finally said. “And then I disconnected from reality because there’s no way I just teleported.”

“Oh no, you totally teleported,” the girl said. “My brother here created a thingy that teleports people! Kinda cool, kinda messed up, but don’t worry! You’re fine. The Mystery Shack is down the road a bit. I’m Mabel, and the guy who messed up your day is Dipper!”

“I didn’t mess up her day!” Dipper said angrily. “Did I?”

“Okay, let’s say this is actually happening,” Elfie said, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “That means that my friend who is about to propose to her boyfriend is now probably freaking out. In the parking lot. Alone. At least she’ll be able to go into the store and find her boyfriend.”

“Why wasn’t he with you?” Dipper asked, frowning. “Was she really going to propose to him in a lame tourist trap?”

Elfie glared at the boy. “It’s not lame!” she said, stamping her foot like a child. “Her boyfriend owns the shack, so you better watch it kid.”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged shocked expressions, and turned to her, wonder in their eyes.

“Is her boyfriend Soos?” Mabel said slowly.

“That’s Jesùs Ramirez to you,” Elfie said with a sniff. “Or Mr. Mystery I suppose.”

“No, we call him Soos all the time!” Mabel said. “You’re friends with Melody? Dipper, how come you didn’t connect the dots?”

“What? Me?” Dipper said, annoyed. “What about you?”

“I’m not good at piecing all the puzzely things together,” Mabel said. “You’re the one who does that.”

“Look,” Dipper said, turning to Elfie. “Soos is one of my—“

“OUR!” Mabel interrupted with a shout.

Dipper sighed. “One of our best friends in town. Yes he’s eighteen years older than us, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is—wait did you say Melody is going to propose?”

Elfie sighed. This day was going to hell in a hand basket very fast. But if these kids were telling the truth, getting back to Melody, and more importantly getting to where she had been trying to go, would be a snap. She really needed to get to her friend and help her with the proposal. They had a whole plan and everything!

“Yeah she is,” Elfie said. “And I need to be there to make sure it goes off without a hitch. But I guess things going perfectly to plan isn’t happening anymore.”

"We have to get you back!” Mabel said, slapping her hands to her face. “Where’s the golf cart? We need to get Soos engaged!”

Before she knew it, Elfie found herself zooming through the underbrush of the forest, ducking her head every few seconds when a branch passed by. She held on for dear life as they flew over stumps and tree roots. When they finally arrived, Elfie saw Melody in the parking lot. A tall heavy set man that could only be Soos stood next to her, along with two men that looked 30 years her senior.

They all had serious expressions on their face. One of the men wore a long trench coat, and everyone was staring at him as spoke at top speed.

“The logical explanation is that your friend touched the device, and Dipper decided to use it. Don’t worry Melody, we will find her very soon.”

“Maybe sooner than we thought. Is that her?” the other man said in a gravely voice, pointing towards Elfie and the two teens. Elfie swore she was seeing double as she looked at the two men. There were a few distinct differences, but she was definitely looking at a set of identical twins. Elfie’s stomach did a flip as she looked at the twin pointing in her direction.

He was a stocky man wearing a brown leather jacket and a deep frown. His five o’clock shadow was really doing it for her, and she had to look away. Damn her thing for older men.

“Dipper my boy!” the man in the trench coat said, spreading his arms wide. “I’m glad to see you!”

"And I’m glad to see you!” Melody said happily, looking at Elfie.

“You said this town was weird but I wasn’t expecting that,” Elfie said, glancing at Dipper, who was staring at the ground.

“Yeah my brother and Grunkle Ford get up to all kinds of crazy wacko shenanigans,” Mabel said with a laugh. “I’m just glad you’re safe um…uh…what was your name?” In their haste to get back to the shack, Elfie hadn’t had the chance to introduce herself.

“Oh, I’m Elfie,” she said with a smile.

“That’s a cool name!” the teenage girl said.

"It’s a nickname,” Elfie said. “You can thank Melody over here for it. She gave it to me in middle school.”

“Why?” Dipper asked. “I’ll tell you why I go by Dipper if you tell me your actual name.”

“Maybe in a second,” Elfie said. “I need to talk to Melody about something,” she said, giving her friend a pointed look. Melody looked nervous at these words and then sighed.

“I was going to tell you earlier, but then you vanished,” Melody said. “Our…plans…have to wait. Stan and Ford here, as well as Dipper and Mabel, are staying here for a few months, and Soos wants to get them settled in.”

No way. This couldn’t be happening! Elfie and Melody had been planning this for months, and two sets of twins were going to ruin it by staying here?

“Plans?” Soos said frowning. “I thought you two dudes were just gonna tour the Mystery Shack and then get going.”

“We kind of wanted to hang out with you,” Elfie said. “We thought we could go to the lake for a bit.”

“Oh,” Soos said, looking surprised. “Sorry guys, I gotta get them settled in. You’re not leaving today are you? I thought Melody said something about you guys staying for a bit.”

“Elfie is staying with a friend, and I’m staying with my grandma like I do every summer,” Melody said.

“Who’s your friend?” the older man with leather jacket said.

“His name is Dan,” Elfie said, thinking about her lumberjack friend. “Real sweet guy. I’ve missed him.”

For some reason, everyone was silent except for Melody, who was covering a grin with her hand.

“What?” Elfie said. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Did you just say your friend is Manly Dan?” Mabel said with a gasp.

“And did you say he was sweet?” Soos said, cocking his head to the side. “That dude is scary!”

“Dan isn’t scary!” Elfie said, frowning. “He’s a really nice guy. What makes you think he’s not?”

“He broke the town clock by punching it over and over again. That weirdo’s got a screw loose,” the man in the leather jacket said, rolling his eyes.

“Stan!” Mabel said, slapping his shoulder. “Don’t say that!”

“I’m just saying it like it is!” Stan said. “He’s nuts!”

“Wait a second,” Elfie said, narrowing her eyes. “I know you. You’re the founder of this place, I saw a picture of you on the wall of the gift shop.”

“Yep!” Stan said proudly. “I’m—“

“The Mystery hack,” Elfie said, and Stan choked on air. Everyone looked at her with wide eyes, and she continued.

“Stan Pines, right? I’ve heard about you from Dan over the years and I know exactly what kind of man you are. Dan has a screw loose? Hello Pot, my friend’s name is Kettle. Are you really calling him black?”

“Well, wait, I wasn’t trying to—“

“He’s probably worried about me,” Elfie said, sticking her nose in the air. “It was good to meet most of you, but I probably won’t be seeing you.”

“Elfie!” Melody said scandalized. “Don’t be like this!”

Elfie whipped out her phone and began dialing. “I’m calling Dan to pick me up,” she said and stalked off.

“I like her,” Mabel said fondly. “She’s fun.”

—

“I really Stan’d that one up, didn’t I?” Stan said with a sigh, plopping down on the chair that Soos had saved just for him.

“Stanley, when people talk fondly about a friend, you shouldn’t start insulting said friend,” his twin Ford said with a sigh, sitting down on the couch and scrawling something down in a notebook.

“What do you know about friendship?” Stan asked. “You can barely stand to be around anyone in town. Why should I take advice from you?”

“I may not like being around other people, but I do know a thing or two about how people work, unlike you apparently. Considering how that situation went down, I’d say I know a lot more than you,” Ford said.

“She shouldn’t’ve talked to him like that though,” Soos said, entering the room with a bag of potato chips. “Melody said she’s going to do damage control. You guys’ll probably bump into each other sooner or later, this town is pretty small. She wants to make sure Elfie doesn’t stay mad for like, the rest of time.”

“I wasn’t trying to make her mad or nothin’,” Stan said. “It’s just that—“

“That your brain and your mouth aren’t connected!” said a voice from the doorway. Everyone jumped and turned. Mabel was leaning against the door frame, tapping away at her phone.

“Don’t worry, I’m like that too!” she said, walking into the living room. “My mouth sometimes says stuff that my brain hears and goes what?! It’s okay, I’m sure everything will be fine. Soos, do you know how long she’ll be staying here for?”

“Sorry dawg, I don’t know,” Soos said with a shrug. “Melody just said she’ll be here for “a bit” and I don’t know what that means.”

“Hopefully for a while!” Mabel said happily, turning the TV on. “She seems cool. Dipper likes her too, don’t you Dip Dop?” Mabel shouted into the hallway.

“Can you not call me that?” Dipper said, emerging from the kitchen with a can of Pitt Cola.

“Only if you tell them what you said about Elfie,” Mabel said with a giggle.

“W-what? I didn’t say anything!” Dipper said quickly, face flushing.

“You said she looks like a super m—“

“A super great person who is not anything more than just a super great person,” Dipper said, clapping a hand over his sister’s mouth. “What are you all looking at?” he asked the group.

“Was Mabel about to say super model?” Soos asked, sitting down next to Ford.

“Ugh, it doesn’t matter!” Dipper said angrily. “Look, okay, maybe I think she’s pretty, but I didn’t say anything else.”

“Yeah he did,” Mabel said smirking.

“Eh, makes sense,” Stan said with a shrug. “She’s a pretty lady. But she’s also an adult so don’t be weird about your new summer crush.”

“I don’t have a summer crush!” Dipper said, voice cracking. “You guys suck!”

“Wait, Stan!” Mabel said, looking at him with big eyes. “You think she’s pretty too?”

“Well. I mean, yeah. She’s objectively good looking. Pretty face, and a nice—“

“Choose your next words very carefully,” Ford said tersely without looking up from his writing. Just as Stan was about to fire back, Soos’ phone buzzed.

“Oh dudes, it’s Melody!” Soos said, reading the message. “She says she managed to convince Elfie not to uh…gouge Stan’s eyes out with a rusty spoon? That’s weirdly specific.”

“Yeesh, this lady is crazy, no wonder she’s friends with Dan,” Stan said shaking his head.

“A beautiful woman who threatens you with violence? Sounds like every woman you flirt with,” Ford said shaking his head. “You like crazy.”

“Yeah, but those were one night—“

“Aaand that’s our cue to leave,” Dipper said, yanking Mabel to her feet.

“Awww…” Mabel said sadly, but let her brother lead her out of the room.

“Look Soos. I’m sorry I got your girl’s friend mad. But she’s fine now, right? All’s well that ends well,” Stan said looking at Soos.

“Mr. Pines, I’m not sure everything went well. Sure she’s not going to like, murder you, but maybe you should apologize.”

A booming laugh sounded from beside the young man. Ford was wiping a tear from his eye as he laughed, journal falling to the floor.

“Stanley apologizing? That’s a good one.”

“I just said sorry to Soos,” Stan grumbled, “It’s not like I’m incapable of it.”

“Your apology amounted to “sorry I did a bad thing but who cares because it’s better now” which is a terrible one,” Ford pointed out. “Sincerely apologizing for hurting the feelings of someone and trying to get that person to be on good terms with you? That won’t happen.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of!” Stanley said, annoyed. “I could apologize to her right now. Gimme the phone Soos.”

“Over the phone? Really Stanley? That’s the easy way out. Apologizing in person is something you could never do.”

“Oh I’ll do it!” Stan said, getting to his feet. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going over to Dan’s house and I’ll give the best apology the world has ever seen!” And with that, Stan stormed out of the living room, presumably going to his room to pout.

“Dude. That was amazing,” Soos said, looking at Ford with wide eyes. “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?” Ford said innocently.

“You were right, Stan never apologizes in a real way. But he’s actually gonna do it now! You got him to!”

“Getting my brother to do things is simple,” Ford said, picking his journal up. “All you have to do is piss him off by saying that he can’t do it, and then he will. I got him to investigate a sea monster near Alaska doing just that. We had to dive into the freezing waters, and he didn’t want to. Not until I told him that of course he couldn’t do it. Why would he? Obviously he didn’t have it in him. And then just like that, he put his gear on, and we got that monster taken care of.”

“Wow,” Soos said, eyes wide. “That’s like, super top secret information. I won’t tell a soul!”

“Eh, it’s probably something people should know,” Ford said. “It’ll make everyone’s life easier.”

“I should let Elfie know that Stan’s coming over in the morning,” Soos said, picking up his phone. “And probably send back up just in case she changes her mind about the rusty spoon.”

—

“Manly Dan, eh?” Elfie said, bustling around the kitchen to help Dan make dinner. Dan looked at her in surprise, eyebrows shooting up.

“Where’d you hear that one from?” he asked.

“Some teenager named Mabel,” Elfie said as she coated some asparagus in olive oil. “If things hadn’t been so strange today, I would’ve laughed.”

“What, you don’t think I’m manly?” Dan said good naturedly. “These muscles ain’t enough to prove it?” the red haired lumberjack said, flexing for his friend.

“Hmm. Not convinced,” Elfie said, and Dan sighed dramatically.

“I’m the manliest in town,” Dan said. “That’s how I got the name. Even manlier than the manotaurs.”

“Than the what?” Elfie asked as she began to close the oven door.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dan said nervously. “Just a joke.”

“No no no,” Elfie said, wagging a finger. “There’s something up with this town. What’s a manotaur?”

“Nothing’s up with this town,” Dan said firmly, putting a steak in a pan. “Why would you think that?”

“That girl Mabel? Well her brother teleported me from the Mystery Shack.” Elfie began to recount her day to Dan, who listened in stony silence. His face was unreadable, but Elfie didn’t seem to be paying attention. She was too busy ranting about Stan.

“Can you believe he said that?” Elfie said. “I wanted to punch him.”

“Elfie, you’re doing it again,” Dan said, putting some rosemary in the pan.

“Doing what?” Elfie asked, hand on her hip.

“Going wild over something small. Was that a big problem, or a little problem?” Dan asked. Elfie looked to the side, and her shoulders sagged.

“A little one,” she grumbled.

“Everyone thinks I’m a bit crazy,” Dan said. “It doesn’t bother me though because everyone in this town is a bit crazy. But Stan is alright. He saved the town once.”

“Really?” Elfie said skeptically.

“Really,” Dan said. “And he gave my daughter a job before she went off to college.”

“How’s Wendy doing by the way?” Elfie asked.

“She’s great,” Dan said with a wide smile. “I’m proud of that kid. She’ll be a sophomore in college come fall term. Gets straight A’s, even in classes she swears she’s gonna fail.”

“Cindy would be proud,” Elfie said. Dan stopped what he was doing for a moment, and then smiled at Elfie.

“I think she would. You know, you two were like peas in a pod. Probably why we all got along so well.” Dan said, a sad smile on his face.

“She used to call me an honorary red head from how firey I am,” Elfie said, playing with a lock of her dark brown hair. “I’m glad everything is going well. Are we going to make the trip to visit her?”

“Of course. The Valentino’s do a good job taking care of her headstone, but I like to clean it myself sometimes. Place some new flowers down.”

There was a comfortable silence before Elfie spoke again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Dan said, flipping the steak.

“Why weren’t you shocked when I said Dipper teleported me?”

“That boy is a friend of Wendy’s,” Dan said. “They met when he was 12. If there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that you should always expect the unexpected with him.”

“Does he know what a manotaur is?” Elfie asked casually.

“I think so,” Dan said. “Look they’re basically a minotaur with the power of toxic masculinity. They have dumb thoughts about what being a man is about. I try and teach the boys that being a man isn’t about being strong or mean or something like that. It’s about what’s inside. Being your own man isn’t about being aggro all the time, and nobody should think like that.”

“True,” Elfie said. “Where are they by the way?”

“They’re staying the night with some friends,” Dan said.

“All three?” Elfie asked surprised. Dan nodded.

“They’ll be back tomorrow. Marcus has been talking my ear off about how great it will be for me to have a friend, and Gus and Kevin have been speculating about gifts.”

Elfie laughed and shook her head. “Your boys know me too well. I did in fact bring them some stuff.”

“I think Marcus is right though,” Dan said casually. “I’m glad to have my best friend back.”

“Aww,” Elfie said, leaning against his shoulder. “You’ve got friends here though, right?”

“I have been getting to know Stan’s brother Ford,” Dan said slowly.

“Oh have you?” Elfie asked, an impish smile on her face.

“Not like that!” Dan said, swatting at her.

“He’s pretty cute, wouldn’t be surprised if you were,” Elfie said.

“I guess so,” Dan said with a shrug. “You must think Stan’s cute too then. They’re twins after all.”

“I mean…he’s not terrible looking,” Elfie said, pulling the asparagus out of the oven. Dan leveled her with a look, and Elfie sighed.

“Alright fine, he’s really hot. But! I’m still mad at him. So that docks him like, 100 hotness points.”

“You’ve always had a thing for the elderly,” Dan said.

“He’s not elderly!” Elfie said, slapping his shoulder. “He’s like, 65, max.”

“Which makes him over 30 years older than you,” Dan said.

“It’s not like I’m trying to date him,” Elfie said.

“Nah, you’d just be trying to fuck him,” Dan said, and Elfie almost dropped the plate of steak and asparagus that Dan had handed to her.

“You are so lucky your kids aren’t home,” Elfie said.

“Am I wrong?” he asked as they sat down at the dining table.

“I’m not answering that,” Elfie said, stabbing a piece of meat.

"That tells me all I need to know,” Dan said, leaning back in his chair. He handed Elfie a soda, and cracked open a can of beer for himself.

“Ooo, you splurged on the name brand stuff,” Elfie said, taking a drink.

“Anything for you, doll,” Dan said.

After dinner, Elfie walked to the spare bedroom and changed into her pajamas. Dan had been right, she had completely overreacted. But she couldn’t stand her friends being made fun of. She knew exactly how that went, and wasn’t going to stand for it. Right as she was about to turn the lamp off, her phone buzzed.

Hey emmy elf!

It was Melody.

Hey! What’s up?

She and Melody chatted about nothing for awhile. Just as Elfie was about to tell her she needed to get some shut eye, Melody sent a long message.

Look, I wanted to talk about earlier. Stan was out of line, but you kinda blew up at him. I think maybe it’d be better if we all just made friends and forgot about what he said. The town is really small, and there really isn’t a lot to do. You’re going to run into him at some point, and I don’t want any bad blood between you guys. Stan is like a father to Soos, and I think it’d be good if we were all friends.

Elfie sighed. Melody had a point.

Yeah okay, I won’t gouge his eyes out with rusty spoon, I promise.

She flipped her phone over and closed her eyes. This town was crazy, but hopefully she could learn to love it. Elfie dreamed of being captured by a giant minotaur who kept saying weird disrespectful things about women. Her dream continued, and Stan showed up to save the day. When Elfie woke up, she was slightly annoyed that the best part of the dream had been interrupted. Oh well. Sliding out of bed, she was about to grab her clothes and go take a shower when there was a knock on the door.

“Hold on!” Elfie said. She opened the door and saw Dan standing in the doorway.

"Someone’s here to see you,” he said with a big yawn.

“Is it Melody?” Elfie asked.

“Soos and…well you’ll see,” Dan said.

A feeling of dread washed over her, and Elfie walked to the front door. She flung it open to find Soos and Stan at the doorstep, both pointedly looking away from her.

Fuck.

She was wearing a tight tank top and mini shorts, both of which left little to the imagination. Slightly embarrassed, but willing to hold her ground, Elfie cleared her throat.

“Do you need something?” she asked.

“Stan wanted to talk to you,” Soos said.

Stan was looking at the ground, seeming to regret his choice to come here.

“I just wanted to talk about yesterday,” Stan said. “But uh, maybe I should come back later.”

“Give me one second,” Elfie said, and quickly rushed back in to her house. She caught the words “…take her to the diner” right before she closed the door. Today was shaping up to be something interesting.

#gravity falls #stan pines #ford pines #dipper pines #mabel pines #oc x canon

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p3rs3pho0n3 · 3 months ago

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Thu 3 Apr 25 20:00

This evening I awoke from a dream, where it was something like a warm and dry summer, with the grass yellowed. I was at a house not dissimilar to this one in its colonial structure, but perhaps more on the older colonial side, and smaller. The wood had blackened over the many years, and there were no real light fixtures, everything was dark despite the intense hazy afternoon sunshine outside. The scene was not dissimilar to the opening of the *rd*r of the Ph**n*x. V*ld*m*rt and perhaps a couple d**th **t*rs were in the house, at least one other, and he had been unleashed, and against his d**th **t*rs I attempted to capture him as he shape-shifted from the form of a young boy's fairly solid apparition - in long tan shorts and a brown jacket and chestnut hair parted down the side like in his schoolboy days, playing around on a fallen log in the dry yellowed grass of the backyard, diagonal to the pine grove assembled on the right - to a large brown bat, with his small and creepy noseless head. I knew how dangerous he was and did not want to get too close or touch him. Someone else, I believe T*yl*r, attempted valiantly to take him on, and got too close - he went from bat to boy, and on the long log playing with a captive or an apparition or one of his servants, in child form, she went and took his outstretched hand - I screamed at her from above, from the window, not to do it. N*ld* appeared, and something needed to be done. He transformed into a bat with his trusty servant transformed also and tailing him by his hand, or something like that, and he flew over us threateningly within the house as we ran from room to room evading his spell attacks, or attempts to capture us. I knew we needed help from the courts and the ministry so I transformed into my aerial disposition and flew across the hilly landscape of yellowed grass, this in the hellenic peninsula, to the Temple of Venus, and as I flew quickly threw the enormous hall under the white marble dome quickly shouted my need, and hoped the message would spread to Athena's court and all the others in the land. Though the landscape seemed empty and I had no idea if anyone would come, there was no time to waste, and I flew right back, in an instant, and returned into the house. As we ran from room to room evading the bat, with L*r*'s room or its equivalent in this old building as a prime battlefield, there were small little animals guarded by silvery blue apparitions - one of them N*ld* found, a bulldog, no larger than a pup, and somewhat of a puppy itself. She raced with it down the stairs to the red stone porch below, like ours, to get it out to supposed safety. Right before she did, in one of the back rooms, one like V*ct*r's room, shrouded in blackness with the windows closed, I came across a small black fawn, or doe, no larger than a puppy, again guarded by this mysterious and silvery blue watery apparition, like ink floating in water. I paused when I saw it, in awe, and terror of what to do next - this creature was mythical, and perhaps the most precious, and needed protection above all, for it would be wanted the most by the d*rk l*rd. I quickly shut the door hoping to protect her, hoping if not believing that her presence was still a secret. After the bulldog was out, though perhaps not in safety other than to be outside the house, N*ld* ran to get the doe, and I said no, not yet, as I had no idea where to take her safely and wanted above all that she not be detected - I did not know if I could yet guarantee that. Unsure of what to do, I woke up.

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smol-feralgremlin · 2 years ago

Note

HI FERAL TRICK OR TREAT TIME 🎃

HI ANDI!

You get...

A treat!!

A scene of Aldon, Sylpha, Cal, and Valda playing around.

Aldon looked down at the small cloth ball in his hand before peering over the old oak log Cal had pulled him behind. "Explain this to me again?"

Cal hummed shortly and Aldon glanced over to see him loosening the thread holding the ball together. Aldon snapped his head around at the slight rustle in the dead leaves around them, trying to catch a scent or glimpse of their respective partners.

"Sylpha and Valda naturally teamed up," Cal said eventually.

"Naturally."

"Which means we're easy pickings if we're alone instead of teaming up. Besides, I like my odds teaming up with you over one of the others." Aldon sent a questioning look in Cal's direction before returning his attention to the branches above them. Sylpha relied on attacking from above. "You've got that sense of smell. You should be able to pick up their scent before they get too close. And you have better hearing than I do."

"Sylpha hears better than I do," Aldon reminded his friend as he moved up from a crouch so he could try and see if the shadows looked abnormal in any possible way.

"True, but I still think that nose of yours means we're at an advantage here."

Grimacing slightly, Aldon quickly studied the rest of the forest roof. Even after months he didn't like people drawing too much attention to that particular change. "Valda and his shadows might mess that up."

"Relax, I've got shadow cover over us as well."

While Aldon had a large store of faith in Cal, there were still all those failed experiments he'd done that he'd been so sure would work. Many of those Sylpha had been involved in as well...

Shaking his head of thoughts that weren't this game and keeping alert for any sign of Sylpha and Valda, Aldon crouched back down. "Let me get this straight. We've left two criminals who've spent most of their lifetimes thwarting mages and guards alike to make a plan on their own."

Cal picked at more thread on another ball of coloured dust before placing it in the pile of other doctored balls. "Right. What's your point?"

Putting the ball he held in the pile of unaltered ones and taking from the altered pile, Aldon looked back up. "My point is that one of them is a spy now, and the other grew up sneaking around Koric and has a lot of experience making improvised weapons."

Cal froze in his work and looked around. "We're fucked, aren't we."

Before he could try to get an answer out a small object impacted his shoulder, followed by a cloud of blue. Aldon shut his eyes against the colourful assault as Cal disappeared in a cloud of red, followed by green and yellow.

A peal of laughter came from the left and Aldon threw his ball in its direction. Just as he reached for another ball, Sylpha's scent filled his nose and the cloth he'd just managed to touch disappeared.

"You were too busy watched the tree tops," Sylpha said before footsteps took off.

Opening his eyes, wiping traces of mingled coloured from them as he did so, he saw Cal emerging from under his shirt. On the ground between them sat empty space.

"We're more than fucked," Aldon said rather unnecessarily to Cal who rubbed at a bare spot on his otherwise colourful temple.

"Damn whoever let those two meet," Cal replied as he laughed a little.

Standing up to shake as much colour from his tunic as he could manage, Aldon could only agree. The game was decided, but he doubted Sylpha and Valda would let them get back to the manor without pelting them with their stolen weapons.

0 notes

badbatchposts · 11 months ago

Text

A list of some of my favorites, selected from my bookmarks and subscriptions! Linking to ao3 but doing my best to tag authors that I know are on tumblr. Most of this is gonna be smut lol.

The Red Logs: Return to the Temple (and the accompanying prequel story, Delayed Fate)

Mutually Assured Destruction

Unscathed and Strung Wires by @sinfulsalutations

Missed a Lot by @faceofpoe (I honestly CANNOT recommend this story enough, every single chapter brings me to tears at least once)

Shadow by @faceofpoe

@kaydear's Modern Batch AU has incredible Crosshair-centric chapters and a great exploration of his character in the first part of the series

Jaded

The Reg and the Medic

The Ghost of Ord Mantell

Roasted, Brewed, and Served with Attitude

Out of Everyone in the Galaxy

Yielding by @wolveria

Shut that Bratty Mouth of Yours

The Dive Bar

Broke

The Cabin by @nahoney22

Dying to be Him by @murdertoothpick

Good Soldiers...

A Tale of Two Snarks: Echo and Crosshair

Five Times Worse

Fool's Game

Stronger Together by @cloneflo99

Stuck on Coruscant With You

Throw all your Cross fics at me. I feel like I‘ve read them all by now.

#the bad batch #the bad batch crosshair #tbb crosshair #the bad batch fan fiction #star wars fan fiction

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preciouslandmermaid · 3 years ago

Text

cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 1/3

I wasn’t going to write more, but then I was like “okay what if…” and then this story was born. I’m splitting it into parts because this bitch lengthy as hell.

This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic. A spiritual part 3, if you will.

Rating: Mature (Explicit Language, violence, blood/injuries)

Fic warnings: hurt/comfort, tending to injuries, touch!starved ghost, mentions of murder/suicide (not related to main characters), unplanned pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, forced proximity (haha bitches u gotta live together), injuries/discussions of lack of mobility, canon-typical violence/consequences, reader goes feral to protect ghost, then he goes feral to protect her, mutual respect, lovers to soulmates.

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used.

Summary: Soap’s been shot. Price makes the call to bring him to a safe house occupied by an old associate. And when Lt. Ghost crashes into your orbit again, your treasured secret is revealed, and the aftermath inspires you to ask him to follow you into the light.

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fuck!” Soap shouts before he collapses into the muddy marsh. Ghost whirls around to provide cover. The ricocheting gunfire and Johnny’s desperate, pained breath in his earpiece fills his head. A migraine pounds behind his eyelids. They’re exposed. They’re sitting fucking ducks out here.

Ghost yells, “get up, Johnny!”

“I’m fucking tryin’” Soap grits out. He crawls through the mud and his leg drags uselessly and heavy behind him. His temples flare. His mud-streaked face flushes red under the hot Noreth sun. A stinging pain slits across Ghosts’ shoulder. He ignores it.

Ghost returns fire, “Price, tell me we’ve got evac!” He shouts brusquely into his comm. His voice crackles like a dry log. “Affirmative, Lieutenant.”

Bloody hell. Ghost crouches into the tall, swaying reeds, his pants are slick with dark earth, and his reflection ripples in the rich, cloudy water before disappearing in a plume of umber. He pulls Johnny’s arm over his shoulders and lifts him from the muck.

“On your feet, soldier.” He barks. The helicopter rains hell from above, covering their exit, as the Humvee’s tires squelch and squeal to a harsh, mud-splattering stop.

He yanks the door open, “Soap’s been hit!”

“How bad?” Price demands.

Soap’s face crumples and he turns his head away from Price’s line of sight. “I can’t feel my leg.”

Fuck.

The tires spin wetly. The truck jolts forward, jostling them, as Price’s boot slams onto the accelerator. Ghost doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. He trusts Price to get them the hell out of here and into safety. The wetland fades into dirt roads and tiny rocks rebound with sharp, tinny pings against the vehicle's undercarriage. Ghost hangs onto the handlebar above and frequently checks behind him.

“You’re bleeding.” Price observes. Shiny wetness glistens across his black sleeve. He doesn’t feel it. His body is thrumming with adrenaline. There is gunfire and grenades in his head.

Ghost glances at his arm. “Superficial.”

“Suit yourself.” The Captain murmurs under his breath. They pass farmland and wetlands. Most of Noreth is contained within these two biomes. It’s flat, and warm, and their winters are mild. Price joked that it wouldn’t be a bad place to retire.

“Still with us, MacTavish?” asks Price while glancing in the rearview toward him.

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Good. We’re here.” The truck crests over a small hill and Ghost stiffens at the sight of a woman approaching their vehicle. She raises a hand. Price slows to a stop. There’s a dilapidated barn behind her, its roof caved in, but he notices the flash of a sniper’s scope in the loft. On the side of the barn, a pickup truck is parked, and an obvious metal ladder juts from the truck bed. It feels like a set up. It feels like a trap. He stiffens. His finger poises over the trigger of his pistol.

“Price…” Ghost injects a note of warning into his voice. Where are they? Who is this woman?

“At ease, Ghost.”

She approaches the driver side window. Her head is wrapped in a navy Shayla and her chestnut brown hair peeks from the scarf. The right side of her face is scarred, her brown skin bumpy and ridged.

His chest aches. A phantom pain, an old memory. He doesn’t have a heart. Not even a cold one. He said goodbye to his heart nearly three years ago in a hospital room. But, if he were to think about it, about you, he’d remember your scars. He crushes the thought. He buries it among the rest.

“You’ve gone the wrong way, traveler.” She says, neither unkindly nor kindly. Her walkie-talkie crackles suddenly at her hip.

A voice slices through the static.

“They’re clear. Over.”

The words blind him. He grips the handlebar and his knuckle joints crackle under the pressure. It can’t be. It’s impossible. He must’ve misheard. But he doesn’t make mistakes. It is your voice. It’s you. It’s you, you, you–come back to haunt him, damn him, torment him with a life he cannot have.

You said goodbye. You both did. That was meant to be the end of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You peer through the scope one last time, seeing Ghost, seeing Price, and your heart threatens to detonate your ribs and send your organs flying. You scramble on your stomach, intending to rise and join her, but Samira’s voice comes through the walkie-talkie.

“Three in the vehicle, one wounded. Over.”

You bite your tongue. Ice slithers through your veins, numbing them, and your teeth chatter in your skull. You stop yourself from asking how badly, or where, or whom. Samira is an ex-army medic, and her knowledge greatly outclasses your own. She’s needed. And you are better suited here.

“Go.” You reply, “send Agathi to cover your shift, over.”

“Copy.”

Through the scope, you watch Samira wave at them, but Ghost clambers out of the passenger side. He looks directly into the loft. You nudge and wiggle yourself deeper into the shadows. It’s pointless. Awareness ruptures across your skin in equal parts euphoria and dread. You’ve dreamed of reunions. But that’s all they ever were, all they ever could be. Dreams. Paltry. Insubstantial. They were akin to the stories you created in the cemetery. A way to cope amidst the madness and subterfuge.

You bring the radio to your lips. Below, you can hear Samira arguing with Ghost that he cannot go into the barn because it’s dangerous.

“I bet it’s dangerous alright.” He grouses. You snicker and roll your eyes.

Samira opens her arms to stop him. If the choice is between keeping you safe and helping strangers, then it is no choice at all for her. She will choose you every single time. You know this.

“It’s alright.” You announce into the walkie-talkie. “Go help the others and don’t make me pull rank. Over.”

Samira glares mutinously at the loft. She replies, “we have no rank. But I will go out of the goodness of my heart. Over and out.”

You stifle another laugh. Samira is pretending to be sarcastic and cold, but you know her better than anyone. She’s warm. She cares. You would not be here–you would not be alive–if not for her.

You set the rifle aside, though you are not unarmed as you climb down the rickety, wooden ladder into the decayed, rotting barn. You hear the truck pull away, gravel and dirt kicking up beneath its tires, and you walk toward the sliver of angelic daylight that pours between the large doors. You don’t use the barn door. It’s likely to fall off its hinges if you did. Instead, you push aside several wooden planks nearby and crawl out of the barn. You return the planks to their rightful place and kick grass with the toe of your boot to hide your tracks.

His shadow is the first thing you see. Big and imposing, stretching in the open sunlight, a dark splotch against the overgrown grass. You inhale slowly and prepare yourself.

You meet his eyes for the first time in nearly a year.

The world stops spinning. Or it spins too fast. It’s hard to say. You feel, somehow, both grounded and completely out of orbit. Your throat is painfully dry, uncooperative, and you swallow around the strange tightness before breathing sharply through your nostrils. Ghost is as you remember. You are both relieved by his consistency and saddened by it. The world will change, regimens will rise and fall, ice caps will melt, but Simon will remain immovable and unchanging.

You observe, “you’re wounded.”

“It’s nothing I can’t manage.”

You roll your eyes. You don’t doubt it, but he should know as well as anyone that an injury can get infected without proper treatment. You walk to the parked truck and open the glovebox to remove the first-aid kit. The truck barely runs, but it’s good cover and makes it seem like someone is trying to repair the barn in case any patrols pass by.

“Who else was in the truck?” You ask, setting the kit on the passenger seat and snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“Soap.”

Your heart freezes. You’re thankful Ghost he cannot read your expression due to your turned back. Your mind flashes with images, with memories of MacTavish. Your time was limited with him, but his kindness and earnestness made a lasting impression.

You cannot stop yourself from asking, “how bad is it?”

“Don’t know.” He replies gruffly.

“Classified?” You venture, glancing over your shoulder to him.

Ghost hooks his thumbs underneath the straps of his tactical vest and shifts his weight. You take his silence as an affirmative. He has no reason to tell you, really. You aren’t part of his task force. You aren’t anything, anymore. Not to him, not to anyone. With that thought firm in mind, you grab the scissors and approach Ghost, your expression calm and neutral.

“May I?”

Ghost nods stiffly. You lift his t-shirt sleeve with your littlest finger and snip away a section of fabric that’s caked and sticky with blood. Thankfully, the wound is little more than a graze. A bullet passed him but did not lodge itself into his skin. You click your tongue and smile archly.

“Lucky.”

“I told you it’d be fine.”

“Not if it gets infected.” You say in a singsong, wiping away blood with an alcohol pad. He doesn’t even wince. You avoid his eyes, focused on the injury, though you can feel Ghosts’ attention burning into the side of your face like an open flame. It doesn’t need stitches. You disinfect the area and tape a piece of gauze. Your touch is careful and practiced and never lingering no matter how badly you want to.

Once finished, you drag your eyes away from the glaring, white square of gauze on his skin and drift toward his skull mask.

He holds your gaze for what feels like a lifetime. You haven’t forgotten the intensity of those dark, mysterious eyes. You recall them in every variation–heavily lidded with lust, intense and serious, suspicious, or dark and narrowed, bright like coffee with sarcastic humor and bad jokes.

Beneath his gaze, Ghost makes you feel as if you are the only object in the universe.

You realize slowly that your fingertips are on his bicep. You tentatively pull your hand away and his muscle jumps reflexively at the absence of your touch.

“It’s good to see you.” You admit softly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. Agathi’s voice comes through your walkie-talkie, informing you that she’ll be there in a minute, and that she’s bringing along Kaja, so you can speak with ‘Mr. Price.’

You laugh when Agathi calls him ‘Mr.’ instead of Captain. Ghost’s breath hitches in his throat.

You respond, biting your lip to stop your smile, “copy that. Over and out.”

Your stolen moments of reunion with Simon beside the barn dwindle like dry tumbleweeds across the desert. You are grateful for whatever little time you have considering you never expected to see him again. Yet, you are selfish and wishing you could have more time.

You organize and store the first-aid supplies, tucking your bloody gloves in your back pocket to throw them away once you’re in the house. Ghost says nothing. He watches you. If it were anyone else–you’d bark at them for leering, for being creepy, but this is Ghost, it’s Simon. You are – intimately - comfortable with his gaze on you. A sudden flush of heat burns your ears.

Agathi rounds the corner with Kaja behind her. Agathi is nearly six feet tall and seeing her next to Ghost is impressive and it puts his massive height into perspective. Her hair is short and blonde, and her striking blue eyes are hidden behind her large, dark aviator sunglasses. Kaja is younger than Agathi and a foot shorter. She is olive-skinned and has dark, ruffled hair that lays across her head like a raven’s nest.

“Whoa.” Kaja says when she sees Ghost, then looks to you quizzically, “he a friend of yours?”

You nod. “Old friend.”

“You said all your friends were dead.” Agathi says. She is less welcoming than Kaja and rightfully distrustful.

You smile at her. “They are.”

Agathi scoffs and pushes her sunglasses up at her nose with two fingers. She doesn’t say anything when she walks away from you, but you can feel suspicion radiating from her. However, the task force is under your protection, and she won’t do anything to anyone beyond sneering. Kaja watches you leave with awe on her youthful face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After ten minutes of silence, you see your haven in the distance.

“Agathi has two boys. Sven and James.” You announce. “Try not to brood so much and scare them.” Ghost’s footsteps are light beside yours and you move like wraiths down the dusty road.

“That’s risky.” He intones, voice deep and scratchy.

You whip your face toward his, frowning. There is risk to everything, you think. But you know Agathi. You trust her. You care for her. You know Ghost isn’t judging her, only taking the intel he has, and drawing a pragmatic conclusion. Noreth is at war and traveling with multiple people–especially children–increases the overall danger. Still, despite knowing this, you cannot help but defend her.

“What? Was she meant to leave them behind?” You shove your curled fists into your pockets. You made a similar decision six months ago. Although, in retrospect, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

“Besides,” you continue, your tone and face hot, the sun beating down on the back of your neck like someone’s gaze. “It’s easier to think of this place as a sanctuary. A temporary place for refugees to recover before they continue onward.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“Since Al-Qunbar then.”

You wince at his steel-trap memory. Nothing slips by Ghost. Six months ago, you fled Al-Qunbar and settled into Noreth with Samira’s help. The recent conflict between East and West Noreth has torn asunder all the comfort and stability your little ragtag family found.

“Thereabouts, yeah.”

“And is this what the agency has you doing?” He motions with his chin toward the house, “running a safe haven?”

You suck your lower lip between your teeth, worrying flesh between your teeth, and shrug noncommittally.

The agency no longer owns you. No one does. You wish you could celebrate this with him, but you don’t know what his reaction will be. Will he call you a coward and say you are abandoning your country? Or will he be grateful that you’re no longer in the line of fire? That you're no longer puppeteering diplomats and manipulating powers beyond your ken? If you explained your reasoning, explained why, would he understand? Or would he hate you for keeping secrets?

He doesn’t press for more information, and you don’t try to fill the silence with idle chatter. You’re reminded of your long, quiet treks through the fresh snow in Russia. Your face tucked in your scarf, the air bright and sharp, the sky a delirious blue like chlorine above your heads. You’d walk for hours without saying anything.

You watch two birds’ flit across a sky of cotton ball shaped clouds. You hope the conflict and fighting will not reach you, but you know it’s a foolish dream. Your lips twist in a chagrined smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your safe haven consists of two buildings. The first is a two-story house with a front porch, bulletproof glass windows, and peeling, chipped green paint. There is laundry strung up on the line and it flaps like an elephant’s ear. The second building is smaller, the size of a studio apartment, the roof is squat and flat, and the brown paint appears baked-on from the distance. Price’s vehicle is parked outside alongside Kaja’s pet project motorcycle—still in pieces. The infirmary is sequestered and guarded from the main house. A necessary precaution for privacy and sustainability.

Despite the soundproofing and the roaring generator for electricity, you hear Price’s voice. You grimace, looking back at Simon briefly, before opening the door.

“And I’m telling you,” Samira exclaims, “I will not move him! He must not be moved!”

“I need him out of this zone in order to extract him.” Price says.

“He cannot go!” Samira’s dark brown eyes meet yours. “Talk sense into your old Captain,” She gestures impatiently with both hands. A bloody blue smock covers her clothes and a surgical mask dangled from one ear.

You ask, “what happened?”

Samira debriefs you. Soap was shot in his lower back. She managed to remove the bullet, but she suspects moderate to severe nerve damage, and he’ll need physical therapy included in his recovery plan if he wants to walk again. Price wants to remove him and return him to Scotland.

However, Samira explains he’ll need to wait a minimum of four weeks before traveling overseas, otherwise he’ll risk blood clotting and other complications. Although Price is willing to honor and uphold the secrecy of your haven and not request a direct evacuation–he wants to drive Soap to a safe zone and have him evacuated from there.

“He stays.” Samira says sternly, “or he dies.”

Price looks at Ghost and you.

“Lt, can I talk to you outside?”

You step aside to let them pass and approach Samira. You expression pinches in worry and you touch her shoulder. Your stomach binds itself into knots. In your mind, you see Soap smiling and crossing his arms after you defeated him in a card game, your heart alive with mirth for the first time in years.

You peel your words free like dried, white crafting glue, “is he going to be alright?”

“That’s mostly up to him right now.” Samira sighs, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. About two months ago, a refugee died on Samira’s operating table from an ill-fated bullet wound. You hope that Soap isn’t as unlucky. Your eyes dart to the window to Soap and Price, talking with their heads bent low, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

“Can we move him to the house?”

Samira nods. “In a few hours, yes.”

“Good. I don’t like it when everyone is spread out.”

You wait until Ghost and Price are finished before offering to take them into the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two blonde boys run out of the front door toward you. One has the gawkish and long-limbed awkwardness of a teenager, his pale face is dotted with pimples, his smile is wide and crinkles the skin around his clear, blue eyes. You open your arms and the smaller, younger one leaps into them. His blonde hair shines golden beneath the sun. You spin him in a circle, and he giggles, delighted. Ghost is momentarily stunned.

When was the last time he heard a child laugh? His expression stiffens. His breath shudders and fans through his mask. You set the boy down. His big, curious blue eyes look past you and toward Price and him.

“James, this is Ghost.” You gesture to him, “and this is Captain Price.”

“Like a boat captain?” asks James.

“Something like that.” Price responds warmly.

You introduce the teenager as Sven. Agathis’ boys clearly and obviously adore you. While walking to the door, James holds your hand and prattles endlessly about a ‘dragon game’ that he and his brother are playing. Your replies are warm, attentive, and genuinely curious about his make-believe game. He wonders if it’s an act. Another layer of subterfuge, to make the residents of this place feel welcome and safe, all part of your role—whatever that may be. But the moment the thought passes his mind, he dismisses it.

There is something to you that didn’t exist before. The light you carried within has changed, it has shifted, and he doesn’t know if anyone else can see it. He doubts Price notices it. The scathing, self-loathing part of him entertains the idea that you’ve fallen in love with someone. That would explain the lightness to your step and the glowing warmth of your smile. He roughly shoulders the dark thoughts to another dusty corner of his mind.

“And you, you’d be a red dragon.” James says knowingly, his voice filled with innocent wisdom.

You laugh. He wants to get drunk on that sound – your laugh. It bubbles inside his veins like dry, expensive champagne. It heats his skin like a good sunburn. He can endure any level of torture as long as he has your laughter playing on a loop within his mind.

“Why red?”

James clarifies, “because red dragons are strong! A-and they have magic fire powers.”

“Ah!” You chuckle, “that makes sense.”

James asks, “will you play with us after dinner?”

You don’t even pause to think about it. “Of course!”

The front door leads into a sitting room with overstuffed, stripey couches and black iron wood stove with a thick column that feeds into the wall. Next to it, a narrow kitchen is painted robin’s egg blue. A small, ancient white fridge is humming in the corner and the oven has several knitted washcloths dangling from its handle.

The light fixtures are barren, their sockets empty or completely removed from the walls their thin wires exposed like intestines. The file on Noreth comes to his mind. Earlier in the conflict, families blacked out their houses with dark, heavy curtains or bedsheets, or removed their lights to hide from the air raids. However, the aerial risk has since vanished now that Noreth’s only airport is smoldering ruins.

He imagines you efficiently pinning up curtains and unscrewing lightbulbs. He wonders if you said anything to the children, offered them explanations, or words of comfort. His tongue tingles like he’s pressed it to a live battery charged with a thousand questions.

Price is engaging you in conversation, and your voice is amicable, but your body language is guarded. He notices you – more than once – avoid a pointed question and maneuver around it like an Olympic figure-skater. Topics like Noreth’s political climate or the safety measures at the house are encouraged, but any personal questions about yourself or the other women living at the haven are swiftly evaded. Ghost stands near the door, watching through the window toward the road and he occasionally looks at you or the two boys building a puzzle on the living room floor.

“You’re confident then?” Price is saying, “Samira can handle Soap’s recovery?”

“I trust Samira with my life.” You say, steadfast and poised. Ghost’s molars gnash and he averts his gaze. Jealousy burns like acid reflux in his gut. “If I had any reservations whatsoever about her abilities then I would argue against her call.”

“You have everything you need for him?” Price prompts. Ghost almost wants to give him shit for being overbearing like an old, nervous mother hen. He checks out the window. All clear. Samira paces outside the infirmary, smoking. He finds that wonderfully ironic. A doctor who smokes. He scowls. Who is Samira to you? Do you trust her because of your circumstance? Or because you’re teammates? Or has something happened between you?

You respond, “yes.”

Price sighs heavily like the air inside his lungs is a physical object that he can lift and carry around.

“Samira says she’ll move him in a few hours. You’re welcome to stay until then.”

Price grins, “and stay for dinner?”

“It gives us a reason to take out the nice, fancy plates.” You smile easily. Ghost greedily traces the lines of your mouth from his peripheral vision. He can savor it when your smile isn’t direct at him. He wishes he could pull you aside, speak privately, but this isn’t a job where something as childish as wishes get granted.

He realizes he can’t stay in this room, listening to Price make small talk, hearing the soft murmuring and excited chatter of the children on the carpet. He needs to be useful otherwise his temper will shorten, and his mood will sour like curdled milk.

He says to Price, “I’m goin’ to check the perimeter.”

“Copy that, Lt.” Price nods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You chop onions for the soup stock and your vision blurs with tears. Through the blinking, wet haze, you see Price regard you with warm familiarity and steady, quiet gentleness.

“It’s good to see you alive, Lux.” He says softly. “Seems like I made the right call.”

Your chest warms. It’s nice to see his face and talk to him again despite the shitty circumstance.

“Getting sentimental in your old age?” You joke to hide how deeply his comment affected you. You’re happy to have the onions as an excuse for the tears strolling down your cheeks.

He laughs. His white teeth flash and his eyes are enfolded by mirthful wrinkles. “At ease, solider.”

You wipe your wet eyes and glance toward the door that Ghost exited through. Price’s eyebrow notches upward and he leans his arms on the countertop. Your scalp prickles. You suddenly feel like a teenager caught passing a note to their crush in class. His perceptive eyes narrow and the unsaid question lingers in the onion-smelling air between you.

“He’s the same.” You explain quietly, shrugging.

“He’s not,” says Price.

You occupy your hands by scooping the chopped onions into a large soup pot and avert your eyes from Price. You aren’t sure if this is a conversation you’re supposed to have or meant to have. Ghost is private. It feels wrong – no – it feels treacherous to talk about him when he’s not in the room.

“You and MacTavish.” Price continues without prompting, “you’ve changed him for the better, I think.”

“Oh,” you say, “that’s good.” You say it like you’re commenting on the weather. You shove as much nonchalance into your tone to make it boring. Ordinary. But your mind spins wildly on its axis. Ghost has changed on some level because of you. And it was noticeable enough to catch the attention of his superior officer, someone who has known him for years. You wonder if it’s the same for you. You wonder if Price can see Ghosts’ fingerprints all over your skin. Wordlessly, you tuck your moth charm necklace inside your shirt.

The necklace isn’t your only secret connection to Ghost. There is a more precious, more sacred secret. And he’s sleeping upstairs. You imagine telling Price about him, but immediately disregard the idea. There’s no guessing what Price’s reaction would be. Or Simon’s. No. It’s safer for everyone if he remains a secret. Your heart aches with foolish, idyllic longing to walk outside and talk to Simon and pour out every feeling you’ve bottled over the past six months.

You redirect the conversation away from Ghost and shelve your deep, complicated feelings aside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he returns hours later, you are peeling potatoes. He admires your skilled, careful hands and the sunset behind you frames you in butterscotch gold and hazy yellow.

A memory hits his skull like a stun grenade. In Russia, you skinned a rabbit in front of him and he called you a ‘proper boy scout’. You laughed, your head thrown back, your hands red and slimy. He thinks that might’ve been the moment his heart started to thaw.

Samira says something to you in her native tongue. You reply with a faux-serious expression but then your eyes crinkle and your smile runs the facade. Is this what you’ve been up to? Making soup and hiding in old barns?

Steam rises and billows from the pot around your face like a cloud. You tap the wooden spoon rhythmically against the rim. His heart squeezes like a fist. Price and Soap talk lowly in the sitting area, Soap in a wheelchair, Price leaning his hip against the arm of the sofa with his muscular arms crossed and his face drawn.

The domesticity of this moment should frighten him, it should fill him with self-loathing, yet all he feels is keening, sharp yearning. This could be any kitchen in the world. It hurts to look at you. It feels like heartburn. He balls his fingers into fists.

Price’s words come unbidden to his mind: “You need to stay here,” he said.

“What d’you mean?” Ghost said, scowling behind his mask.

“Noreth is a war zone. I can’t pull Soap out, so you need to stay here and look after him.”

“You’re kidding.” Ghost deadpans.

“Not counting ourselves, there are only two individuals on this farm that have combat training.” He knew Price was talking about you, so it was either Samira or Agathi who had experience, though he didn’t know which.

Price said, “There are few he’d trust with his life, Simon. But I know you’re one of them.” He couldn’t argue with that. He’d stay. Even if he didn’t have much say in the matter.

Sven shouts from the staircase, “Lukas is awake from his nap! Can I bring him down?”

“Yeah!” You reply, your words followed by an easygoing smile. His gaze flickers back to the staircase at the sound of Sven’s careful, yet loud footfalls.

Sven carries a toddler in his arms that must be his youngest brother. He guesses his age is somewhere around 2 or 3 based on size alone. You mentioned Agathi had boys. Plural. It’s hard to imagine a mother of three crossing hostile territory, but he supposes anything is possible within the right circumstance. When you defended Agathi, your voice was filled with flushed pride and indignation like you were scolding him for being uncouth. His lips press together under his mask. He missed that—your spark. No one has a bite quite like yours.

The boy’s cherubic face is more solemn than bashful Sven or inquisitive, talkative James. And his big, round brown eyes must’ve been inherited from his father (who is likely dead, Ghost assumes, since there’s no one else at the safe house).

Sven settles the child onto the carpet and passes him a red toy truck.

“Beep beep!” He proclaims. His voice deepens to rumble the car across the wooden floorboards.

You ask from the kitchen, “Lukas, what do you want for dinner?”

“Mashed potatoes!” Lukas replies and his smile dimples his chin.

Samira rolls her eyes. Her lips twitch, and her sideways pose, and half-smile remind Ghost of a coyote.

“Naturally,” says Samira.

“He likes what he likes.” You say breezily.

You divide the soup into neutral toned bowls and Samira helps you hand them out. Price accepts the meal with a grateful smile. Soap complains about how little Samira has given him and she primly responds that he’s likely to throw up as a side effect to medication, so he ought to eat in small portions.

The soup bowl is between your hands like a tender, reverent offering.

He declines with a small and curt shake of his head. He ate an MRE during his walk-about of the property. He doesn’t have the stomach for anything else. He never could eat much on missions. He ate enough to keep him coherent, keep him sharp, but that was it.

“My cooking’s not that bad, is it?” You say with a teasing, familiar lilt to your voice.

He shifts his weight. His rifle, a comfortable weight, nudges between his shoulder blades. “Sod off.” He grumbles. Your eyes brighten followed by your smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He glances to the rest of the room. Everyone else is talking or eating. No one is paying attention to this corner. Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes infinitesimally. He feels his jaw unclench, the sensation miniscule yet poignant, as he regards you.

“Quit fishin’ for compliments.”

“Can’t blame a gal for seeking a little praise.” You cover your lips over your spoon, slurping, and mischief illuminates your expression. He watches you. Something low and aching and hardly forgotten comes to life and unfurls in smoldering heat. If you were alone—God help him—if you were alone…

He inclines his head ever-so-slightly, his voice deep and rumbling and dangerous, “consider it noted.”

Samira calls to you in her language. It grates at him. Is Samira trying to hide something? Does Price know what she’s saying? How much can they really trust anyone here? You’re quick to reply and you sidle over to her and Sven, though you switch the conversation to English.

His jaw tightens. You might suddenly come under fire from an ambush. He peers out the window. All clear. The walkie-talkie at your hip is silent. Price looks relaxed. You look relaxed.

However, it doesn’t mollify his sense of paranoia. The flatlands of Noreth are too exposed for his liking.

The property is filled with tall, thin reeds similar to switch or cord grass. It’s massive enough to camouflage his height if he crouches and he suspects the boy—James—can get completely lost in it. But the spongy earth makes it difficult to travel on foot and the lonely safehouse isn’t fenced in.

Thankfully, he did find an all-terrain vehicle covered by a mottled brown and green tarp which meant you had some evacuation plan if things went south. He glances sideways out the window again. All clear.

Johnny pushes on the wheels of his wheelchair toward him and he nearly knocks into Ghost’s heavy combat boots. He balances his empty soup bowl on his thighs. The heat and warm food has flushed Johnny’s neck and cheeks to a soft, dusty pink. It’s good to see some color on him. He was too pale and ashen on the drive to the safehouse.

He’s changed out of his tactical gear. He’s wearing an ill-fitting gray jumper and sweatpants. He assumes the clothes are from Samira because they didn’t bring their full kits. This mission wasn’t supposed to be overnight. Now they’d be stuck for a minimum of four weeks.

“I guess we’ll be here for a bit, Lt.”

“Looks like it.”

Following the abrupt, wheezing sound of your laughter, Soap tilts his head over his shoulder to you, then returns his gaze to Ghost.

“I know Price asked you to stay, but you don’t have to.” Soap begins, “I’ll make a quick recovery. And they need you in the field, running operations, not sitting here playing guard dog.”

Ghost shakes his head slowly.

“Orders came from Price, Johnny.”

“I know.” Soap sighs. He peeks over at you, Samira, and Sven again. Then murmurs quietly to himself, “won’t be all bad, I suppose.”

Ghost pretends like he doesn’t hear and ignores the part of him that agrees.

[ Part Two ]

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley reader insert #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #no use of yn #reader insert #simon ghost riley smut #call of duty fanfic #ghost cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare fanfic #fic: cold hands warm heart

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xsparklingravenx · 2 years ago

Text

daybreak

Title: daybreak

Fandom: Octopath Traveller II

Characters: Temenos, all Travellers, Crick

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,818

Summary: Temenos navigates grief once again, messily, but with friends at his side.

Major spoilers for Temenos’s Stormhail Chapter 3 Route.

AO3

In the gauzy light of a crackling flame, Temenos warmed his hands and tried to direct his thoughts to an avenue worth wasting his time on walking.

The others moved in his periphery; their routines a familiar comfort. Osvald, a worn book in his hands as he read by the low-light, Partitio none-too-subtly stealing glances over his shoulder. Throné and Hikari, both cleaning blades with meticulous care as Agnea danced her steps around them. Ochette, scarfing back food with Mahina while Castti chastised their manners. Nothing had changed. Everything was the same as it had been a night ago, two nights ago, three.

Only, it wasn’t. The sun had set on the memorial service and Temenos had walked away with a promise held in his heart, yet now the night was here and the space at his side felt emptier than ever before. Seven companions to his name, and loneliness still threatened to gnaw a hole inside his chest. Seven friends to share his loss with, and the hollow in his heart grew bigger with every passing beat.

They gave him a wide berth, not because they didn’t care, but because he had deliberately asked them to. He knew that they would come if he called out, but the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it. Agnea had already seen the cracks in his carefully crafted shields the morning she’d come to him and asked why his eyes were red. If those fissures were left unattended, he would break apart entirely.

So, he sat, staff laid across his lap and his mind darting between the evidence he’d obtained. The Book of Night, a scrap of paper held tightly in bloodied fingers, Kaldena. Temenos's hand tightened around the weapon at the thought of her, Crick’s mangled body in his mind’s eye. Aelfric be damned, what he wouldn’t give—

“Revenge is a dangerous game,” Osvald said, not looking up from his book. “Play the board too long, and you’ll find yourself a different man than before.”

Temenos glanced his way, a wry smile dancing at his lips. Anger broiled on his tongue. “And aren’t you a fine one to be speaking of revenge, my dear Professor?”

The camp fell silent around them, every activity grinding to a sudden halt. Osvald cleared his throat, his hand stilling on the page he’d been about to turn. “I’d say I have more authority than most on the matter.”

“Would you, now? Then pray tell, what kind of man would I be, Professor? I’d love to know.”

He was being unfair, and he knew it. His bark had always been worse than his bite; fighting truly was not his forte. Throné let out a soft whistle in the silence that followed, while Partitio hopped up from the log he’d been occupying, coat rustling with the movement. “Now, now, hold your horses there, both of you! Ain’t nothin’ to be gained from a brush now, you hear?”

Osvald, never one to say more than was necessary, needed no further warning. Temenos let go of his staff and pressed his fingers to his temple. “Well said, Partitio. I think I will retire then. Do enjoy your evenings my friends.”

He stood, gathering his things, straightening his robes. In the morning they would carry on, forget this happened, take on the next issue at hand. Ochette had a lead near here too, didn’t she? Out here in the Flame-forsaken snow there was still something to do, and yet they weren’t staying at Stormhail’s inn. Instead, they were out in the open at Temenos’s insistence.

To save our leaves, he’d told them, but they’d all agreed too readily, hadn’t even put up a fight despite the extreme weather. Partito could haggle with anything so long as it had a pulse, and they all knew it. Money was no question. It was Temenos’s conscience that was the problem, how he couldn’t return to the room he’d slept in while Crick was beaten to death only a few streets over.

What had his final words been? Had he called out for someone to help him? Had he fought back? Temenos would never know, and it was that which haunted him most.

“Wait,” Castti’s voice drifted on the wind as he turned his back. “Temenos, don’t do this.”

“Sleep?” he returned. “Why, Castti, I thought you were our biggest advocate for a good night’s rest!”

“No. Withdraw. Grow thorns.” Castti stood, hands fisted in the blue fabric of her uniform dress. “You are hurting, I know, but there is no simple fix for it. I cannot make a salve for this wound, nor can I concoct a vulnerary. I can only offer you my heart or my ear, but I fear you won’t take either. Not when you’re so set on turning your head away.”

How easy it would be to snap back, to drive a wedge between them, to argue that the apothecary knew nothing because her memories were as thin as Temenos’s own faith. But there was no argument to be had, because she was right. He was already balancing so many wounds; the Pontiff still raw and bleeding. Roi was a scar he still scratched at constantly. How was he meant to just add Crick’s death to his growing body of injuries and accept that when it was Temenos's fault that Crick had walked the road that had led to his murder?

“We liked him too,” Ochette piped up, her eyes a little shiny in the glow of the flame, ears flickering when the bitter wind touched them. “I liked giving him jerky. I was gonna give him more, next time…”

“Next time,” Hikari mused quietly. “I, too, had thought of it. His bladework was incredible. I wanted to spar with him, to learn it.”

“Next time,” Throné echoed, her eyes flicking to her blade. “Haven’t we all said that at one time or another, only to realise that it won’t ever come to be?”

Next time. Temenos’s eyes were uncomfortably hot, irritated, like he’d caught sand in them. What had been in his plans, next time? To share the evidence, to tease and laugh and joke, to call out wayward lamb, to see the end of this mystery together. Why hadn’t he doubted that? When it was all he did, why hadn’t he ever considered that there would never be a next time?

A hand touched his. Agnea had crossed the camp while he’d been caught in his thoughts, her delicate fingers cold as she intertwined them with hers. “I’m just—just a dancer,” she said, voice wavering, uncertain as her careful accent slipped. “I don’t know much about death or revenge or anythin’, but I do know that when Mama died, it was the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life. It won’t do to keep all that hurt inside. So…stay a little while. Even if you’re angry, or sad. Even if it hurts so much that all you can do is shout.”

Her eyes were earnest, bright and bold. He opened his mouth to speak, but found the words would not come. What did he want to say, when he could no longer hide behind his jests and barbs? What-ifs danced in their place. What if they’d never met that day in Flamechurch, what if Temenos had just left him be? What if he’d been kinder when Crick’s faith had been shaken, what if they’d gone down into that library together?

“He wanted to protect me,” Temenos said, a little anger leaking into his tone. “I told him—I said I had no need of it, yet still he came running like the fool lamb he is. He should have stayed behind me. He should have let me take charge. He put his faith in me above his god, and now I’m left in his debt.”

“One that you swore you’re gonna repay,” Partitio reminded him. “I ain’t gonna pretend I know what he was thinkin’, but I do know he was a good guy. I’d barter he’d be happy with that, no matter what.”

Agnea took him back to where he’d sat before, gently taking his staff from him as he took his place again at the fire. Osvald looked him in the eye this time. “I won’t promise you this will get better,” he said. “I know from experience it will not. If revenge is the path you want to take, know I will follow you and help you exact your vengeance—just as I know you will help me with mine.”

“And if you need someone to do it for you,” Throné said, wearing a small smile, “well, I’m not exactly free yet. My dagger can still be hired—for a price.”

“You know you have my sword,” Hikari added.

Ochette waved her hands. “Me and Mahina too!”

“A fine group,” Castti nodded. “And I will be there to tend to your wounds afterwards—if my axe is not the bloodiest of the lot. Now, if we’re all in agreement that we will be awake for a little longer, I’ll get to cooking dinner. I do think Ochette caught a wonderful haul earlier, even if she did eat much of it on her own…”

“Aw, c’mon Ma, nagging me again?”

Temenos watched as Castti shot Ochette a withering look before retrieving her cooking utensils. The others returned to their tasks, the uncomfortable tension that had settled over the camp dissipating. Quietly, he wished he’d had the foresight to ask Crick to join them, even if he knew that the answer would have never been yes. He was a Godsblade, newly anointed, but one all the same. His duty came before all else. Temenos would never have convinced him.

No matter how much love he had in his heart for the man he called a friend, no matter how many what-ifs he entertained, it would never change that fact. There would never have been nine of them, despite how he desired it.

Everyone left. It was the lesson he’d learned the day Roi walked out the door to never return, and time only seemed determined to reinforce it—but it couldn’t be a reason to distance himself. These people had reached out to him. It was all he could do to reach back.

So he lowered his head and said, softly, “Thank you.”

The food, when it arrived, was warm and hearty and delicately spiced. Partitio heaved another helping from his own plate onto Temenos’s, while Ochette doled out extras from her personal stash of meat. It was not a night spent with laughter, but it was a night spent with friends, the best of the worst situation. When the sun rose again, it would still be a world wherein someone important was lost—but it would rise nonetheless.

With or without his loved ones, it always did.

#Octopath Traveller II #Octopath 2 #temenos mistral #octopath temenos #crick #My Writing #Spoilers

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