#but i also miss having my friends beside me

[pedropascallme]

Deny Me

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader

Summary: “'I’m fine,' you squared your shoulders, as if adjusting your posture was all it would take to convince the men around you that you were sturdy. 'I could understand a couple weeks—I could understand a month. But six weeks is—that’s appalling. It's not fair.'”

Warnings: Allusions to smut (masturbation) (minors DNI!!!!), canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of wounds, hospital imagery, allusions to PTSD, reader experiences panic attacks and a bout of depersonalization, smoking, implied age gap (ages not mentioned), enemies to frenemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, I know little to nothing about how the military works, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: So. Um. Never played COD. Barely understand the various plot lines it follows. But I DO understand that a man in a mask is inherently sexy. And that is my truth! Part two up soon <3

You hated Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.

With every fiber of your being, you hated him.

You hated how he was so quick to pull rank; how swiftly his friends became his subordinates.

You hated the way he always spoke with such a cold, calculated indifference.

You hated the way he squared his shoulders to remind everybody of his stature; his status.

You hated his Britishisms, the way the pet names rolled off his tongue in your direction. And from anybody else, you might be fine with it, but when he called you sweetheart it made your stomach roll over itself.

You couldn’t tell why.

You hated how rookies acted as if he were some semi-legendary Adonis beneath his stupid fucking mask—which you’d also grown to hate.

You knew what he looked like under the balaclava; under the skull faceplate that made his eyes look so sunken and so attentive.

And who cares that his features matched so nicely? Who cares that his profile was just as carved as the rest of him? Who cares that the deep scars that crisscrossed over his left cheek looked almost silver under the fluorescent lighting of the barracks?

It didn’t matter that he was handsome. It didn’t matter that it was his face you thought about late at night, alone in your bed.

Certainly, he was no Adonis.

You hated the smirk in his voice, and the crease between his eyes, and the piercing edge of his gaze.

You hated that you knew, deep down, that your dislike of him was born out of convenience; that you loathed him for all the reasons that, in another life, you would’ve thrown yourself at him with open arms.

You hated that you knew you had become dead set on despising him because it was easier than the alternative.

He was an acquaintance, at best—a coworker you’d grab a beer with, under different circumstances. Mostly, though, he was a pain in the ass, and a detriment to your sanity.

You hated Ghost more by the second.

So why was it that, as you came to, bleeding out on the hard ground, he was the only thing you could think about.

You heard voices above you, a droning cacophony of accents and alarm that overlapped with each other, dissolving as they mingled with the ringing in your ears.

“Took a beating—”

“—fucking exploded before we—"

“—man down, but she’s—”

“—was beyond fucked.”

“She’s breathing,” you recognized Kyle’s voice above the panicked yelling. “Soap—she’s up.”

The first thing you noticed was how dry your mouth was, and a viscidness that clung to your side.

You tried to sit up, pushing back on your elbows against the dirt beneath you, and were met with a sharpness that ran up your lungs. You winced, coughing dry pain.

Your vision was blurry—almost watery, as if you were trapped beneath a sheet of ice and looking up through it. Still, you managed to track Gaz’s movements as he approached at a cautious speed to kneel beside you.

“Don’t move—” He held his hands out in front of him, trying to encourage you to lie still without having to touch you. “Where’s the worst of it?”

You stared at him blankly, only half registering his words.

“Everywhere,” you wheezed, and there was that same pain shooting up your lungs again, back with a vengeance. You squeezed your eyes shut, “Ribs. Left side.”

“Johnny!” Gaz’s voice carried in a way that made your skull vibrate, and you shuddered.

“C’mere, lass,” even in your sorry state, Soap’s accent was hard to miss. He gave Gaz a pat on the shoulder, encouraging him to stand and replacing him by your side. “Take yer kit off.”

“Buy me—me a fucking…” you heaved, “Drink…first…”

“Aye, she’s fine!” Johnny laughed, throwing a smile over his shoulder, though the wrinkles near his eyes weren’t deep enough for it to be sincere. “Yer bleedin’. Need t'let me dress the wound, Sergeant.”

You stared up at him, possibly concussed; definitely shell-shocked.

You swallowed the bile that rose in the back of your throat, trying to remember how you’d gotten here.

There had been open fire; there had been movement, and a tense argument between yourself and Ghost about who should lead the charge; there had been a brief period of satisfaction after you’d convinced him to let you stay up front.

There had been landmines.

“Nae, look here, lass—stay awake,” Soap snapped his fingers in front of your face. You must have begun to fade out when you tried to recall the details. He reached to unclip your chest rig, “Yer kit—”

“No.” you shook your head, and it made you feel like vomiting, but you didn’t stop. You felt a deep-seated dread pulse down your spine, and you needed answers.

You needed one answer.

“LT?” You looked at Soap, who stared back at you with a sympathetic frown, confused. “Where’s—where’s Ghost?”

“Oi,” a heavy boot stomped the dirt a few inches above your head, “Look up.”

And there he was—seemingly unscathed. It made your stomach burn, a sloppy mixture of frustration and something else. Maybe disappointment, maybe embarrassment.

Maybe.

If he had done things his way, it would probably be him on the ground right now. And if you could just hurry up and die, you wouldn’t have to eat your words about being able to front the line.

How long had he been standing there, anyway?

Your voice was shaky as you addressed him.

“Want—” you rasped, “Want you to do it.”

Soap exhaled audibly through his nose, glancing up at Simon with sharp eyes through a furrowed brow.

If words were exchanged, you didn’t hear them; and when Ghost took Johnny’s spot on the ground next to you, you didn’t see it happen, once again fading out.

“Gotta open your fuckin’ eyes, sweetheart.” Ghost’s words snapped you back to attention. He said it as if he were chastising you for forcing your way to the front of the line and, successively, getting yourself blown up.

You wanted to argue, tell him it was his fault for yielding to your demands, but all you could do was look up at him while he stripped you of your chest rig and pressed down hard around the sticky spot on your side. The action made your muscles flex, and you clenched your jaw through the unbearable pain that ran through you.

You might’ve grabbed at his forearm, but your body was numbing itself too quickly to register your own movements.

The last thing you saw were his eyes, almost frantic as he scanned your body.

But it couldn’t have been real fear—likely a figment of your imagination. Something to focus on as your body grew colder. Probably just a trick of the mask.

You wanted to rip it off.

~~~

You woke hesitantly.

You felt cold, but it was only skin deep; nothing like the chill that had infiltrated your bones when you’d started losing blood.

With a shallow sigh, you opened your eyes.

The infirmary.

You felt a level of reassurance in knowing that, if you died now, at least it would be in the comfort of a medical cot and not on the ground in the middle of nowhere.

There was an IV stuck into the crook of your elbow, padded with cotton and medical tape to keep it in place. You couldn’t feel it, but you winced at the thought of the needle in your arm, and the bruises that were scattered around it.

“Morning.” You registered Gaz sitting on a chair next to the cot.

You breathed, happy to see him. He didn’t look tired, didn’t look concerned—you wondered if you had even been here for more than a few hours.

You shifted, propping yourself up with your pillow. The pain that had been plaguing your side seemed to have been reduced to a dull pulse, but you still huffed at the feeling as you resituated yourself.

There was a piece of fabric—a shirt—draped over your stomach that you didn’t recognize. You tugged at a loose string on the hem, noticing the blood stains that had crusted over the material.

It didn’t bother you; it was probably your blood.

“Hi.” You smiled halfheartedly at Kyle, who watched on as you made yourself comfortable.

“How ya feelin’?” He tilted his head forward, smiling back at you.

Gaz was one of the few people you had bothered to get close to.

It wasn’t on purpose, and it wasn’t as if you put effort into shutting everybody else out—Gaz was just easier.

As much as you appreciated Soap’s friendship, and Price’s guidance, Gaz had the innate ability to listen. He knew when to shut up, and when to keep himself scarce; he knew when to add his two cents, and when to make himself available. He managed to be kind and collected, even in the most outrageous of scenarios, and you found him to be a tranquil presence in an otherwise stressful line of work.

Maybe it was because he was closest in age to you; maybe it was because he knew where to get cigarettes; maybe it was just the urge you had to form a bond, to experience the type of friendship that was always depicted in old Vietnam War movies.

Whatever it was, Kyle was the closest friend you’d ever had in any platoon. And you appreciated him immensely.

“Like I got blown up.” Your smile morphed into something more sincere, and Gaz laughed quietly.

“Happens.”

“Sucks,” you responded pointedly. “But I feel better than I did.”

Gaz just nodded, his lips still curled into a soft smile.

The doors to the infirmary opened with a loud scrape against the linoleum of the floor, and Soap walked in carrying a tray of paper coffee cups. He tsked at the sound of the doors, cringing slightly as they swung shut and produced the same grating sound.

“Christ, haud yer wheesht.” Soap muttered, toeing the scratch on the floor before squaring his shoulders and making his way to your bedside.

“Come bearing gifts, Johnny?” You watched him put the tray down on your cot’s side table.

“Bottoms up, lass.” Soap handed you one of the cups, and you popped the lid off to hasten the cooling process of the coffee.

The aroma of the drink on its own was enough to perk you up, and you smiled at the men who sat beside you.

“You Irish it up?” You quirked a brow, smiling at Johnny as he sipped his own coffee.

“Scots have a bit more, eh, practicality than that.” He smirked.

“And I wouldn’t let him.” Gaz chuckled, blowing gently on his own coffee.

The three of you drank in silence. The coffee was black, bitter, but it warmed you up and helped you relocate your senses.

“So,” you popped the lid back onto your cup, putting it onto the tray that Soap had left on the side table. “How’d I end up here?”

“Passed out before evac,” Gaz sighed into his coffee, clearly not too keen on having you relive the series of events. “Got you here without much trouble.”

“Aye, y’were fine,” Soap finished the rest of his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trashcan nearest to your bed. “Wound was shallower than we thought. Fucked up yer ankle, mild burns, couple cracked ribs, but—” He gestured to your chest, which was mostly bandaged. “Fixed ye up nice.”

You looked down at your body, really taking it in for a moment.

Your chest felt heavy, constricted by the bandages that covered your ribs and side, and your ankle was wrapped, but looked much less serious. There was something sticky on the irritated portions of your skin, probably bacitracin.

“What’s this?” You finally brought attention to the shirt that still rested on your lap.

“Ghost’s.” Soap didn’t explain.

“Couldn’t find anything to wrap ya up with—fucking disaster out there,” Gaz picked up Johnny’s slack, “Used his shirt instead. Couldn’t let you bleed out, though I doubt you would’ve, either way.”

The image of Simon removing so much of his kit just to get to the t-shirt beneath it in the middle of an evac zone made you smile. You tried not to dwell on the heat that crept into your abdomen.

That explained why it was covered in blood, at least.

You nodded, sighing. “I wasn’t out long, then?”

Soap pursed his lips, almost smiling. You looked at Kyle for a straight answer.

“How long have I been here?”

“Day and a half…maybe—little more like two,” Gaz smiled sheepishly. “They’ve had you pumped full of everything. Morphine, the works.”

“Knocked ye out good.” Soap laughed.

“Better than dying.” You sighed, shaking your head. You reached out for your coffee again, finishing it in a gulp before passing the cup off to Soap to toss it for you.

“Chest feels alright?” Gaz took the lull in conversation to ask again about your state of being.

“Tight, but…” The ache was still there, and the bandages were a bit snug, but you could manage. “Yeah. Feels ok…”

“Just rest.” Gaz still didn’t look worried, and that made you feel more at ease with the situation.

“Haven’t a thing goin’ on, next few days.” Soap nodded, doubling down on Kyle’s suggestion that you commit to relaxing.

The doors to the infirmary scraped against the floor again, but you didn’t bother looking at who had opened them, assuming it was a nurse coming in to check your IV or replace your bandages.

Soap and Gaz briefly made eye contact, glancing at each other in their peripheral after watching the doors open, but you ignored it as reflexive; a nod to each other in support of their insistence that you rest.

“And after that?” You knew you were looking too far ahead—you didn’t even know how long it took ribs to heal—but a little taste of optimism from your friends would be encouraging.

“You’re out of commission.”

The deep Manchester growl rattled your train of thought, and you turned to look at Simon, who stood in front of the doors.

“What?” You looked at him incredulously—surely he couldn’t be trying to punish you for nearly getting killed; surely you had misheard.

“You’re not goin’ back out there.” Simon’s eyes flickered over your body before he let his razor-edged gaze land on your face.

“Just—with the state yer in, lass—” Soap tried to soften the blow, brows furrowing into a gentle expression.

“Not in any state.” Ghost finally moved from his spot by the doors, and in several brisk strides he was by your bedside.

You tried to chalk it up to the fact that you were lying down, but you couldn’t help but feel as though he was looming.

“You were out o’line.” You could practically see his sneer beneath the balaclava, lip curling into an ugly, twisted shape as he lay into you.

And for what?

For the first time since waking up, there was a shock running down your body; not out of any physical discomfort, but out of pure rage.

“I was doing what I enlisted to do.” You huffed, folding your arms over your chest and trying to ignore the twinge of your muscles as bruised flesh rested on bruised flesh.

He stared at you for a moment; unmoving, unblinking.

“You join the army to get y'self killed?” He said it like he thought it was funny, and that’s what really did it for you.

He could’ve excluded you from any ops in the near future. He could’ve yelled until he was red in the face about how your stubbornness and lack of awareness consistently and unnecessarily put you in harm’s way.

That much you could’ve understood. Respectively, it made sense; it was true.

But the edge of mirth in his voice as he mocked you whilst you lay drugged-up in the infirmary made your blood boil, and the morphine could do nothing to stop that.

“You can’t do that.”

In an effort to save face, you turned your attention back to Soap and Gaz, trying to shut Simon out.

“He can’t do that,” you searched their eyes for signs of support, something you could leverage, “We have a pecking order. Price has to—to...”

Your sentence fell off when you saw Soap giving Ghost a pointed look, Gaz staring at the floor, frowning.

“It’s only six weeks,” Kyle tried to highlight the silver lining, looking back up at you and giving you a timespan to consider, “Just till we can be absolutely sure you’re okay.”

“We…” Soap sighed, still looking at Simon with a subtle glare, “It’s just to make sure yer in the best shape possible, lass—nothin’ personal.” He chanced a glance at you, smiling, and you scoffed.

Taking a deep breath, you turned to stare straight ahead at the foot of the cot. “Your idea, Lieutenant?”

Simon stared down at you, saying nothing, but when you side-eyed him you could see a glint of something in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know: It had definitely been his idea.

Even if you had only been bruised, you were certain that he would've suggested the same timeframe for you to stay on bed rest, under the guise of healthcare. A sadistic form of punishment that saw you wasting away while your friends continued business as usual.

“You’re being irrational,” you scowled at him, letting your arms drop down to your stomach to give your chest a break from supporting them. “And—not for nothing—kind of a dick.”

“Easy, Sergeant.” He glared down at you.

“I’m fine,” you squared your shoulders, as if adjusting your posture was all it would take to convince the men around you that you were sturdy. “I could understand a couple weeks—I could understand a month. But six weeks is—that’s appalling. It's not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, sweetheart.” Ghost, too, squared his shoulders, and it had the effect he surely desired; you shrunk into yourself slightly. “You wanna talk about appalling? You let me know when you ‘ave to dig shrapnel out of a subordinate.”

He turned on his heel without so much as a nod towards Soap and Gaz, and you felt just as upset about his disregard of them as his vitriol towards you.

“Lieutenant!” You called after him, “Ghost!” You were aware that the conversation was over, but you were still keen to argue. “Simon!”

The doors swung open and shut again with the same piercing scrape against the floor.

You glared at the doors, your disgust at Simon heightened in your state of exhaustion.

“Johnny?” You didn’t look back at Soap, still focusing your anger on the doors.

“Aye.”

“More coffee.”

~~~

A week later, you were back on your feet.

The nurses had given you enough ibuprofen to last a lifetime, maybe two, and then they sent you on your way.

The hurt was still there; every time you coughed; every time you stretched your left arm too suddenly, but it was fading.

It wasn’t really the pain that bothered you now. It was more so the waking worries, the shakiness of your breath, and the way you jerked awake each night in a frenzy of twisted blankets and sweat and nausea.

You tried to suck it up; you were hardly the first soldier to have an experience like this. You tucked your head between your knees when you had to, but never your tail between your legs.

You refused your need for help. You refused to acknowledge any weakness.

You hated the notion that this stretch of forced bed rest was only proving a dismal point; you weren’t cut out for the task force. The people that whispered in the halls about you being nothing more than something for the men to look at were likely finding their evidence in this extreme shortcoming of yours.

You kept your distance from Simon in order to avoid any further conflict. But he always did a good job of making himself unavailable, even at the best of times, so you hadn’t had to tiptoe around the barracks.

You walked into the mess hall on a whim. Your appetite was still mostly touch-and-go, but you knew the least you could do for yourself after everything was eat.

Gaz waved you over to the usual table, and you set your tray down across from Johnny.

“Need a new callsign.”

“Don’t like Bravo-Nine?” Gaz looked at you over a spoonful of applesauce.

“No, not—you know what I mean. Soap; Gaz; Ghost; Berserker.”

You’d been doing a lot of thinking over the course of the week; maybe Berserker wasn’t you.

And you’d laughed at the thought initially—of course she wasn’t you. That was the whole point. She was a projection, symbolic of you. It’s not like Simon was Ghost.

You had rolled your eyes at the comparison, trying to stifle any more thoughts of him.

Eventually, you’d decided that the ritualistic version of yourself was inadequate—or perhaps you were inadequate to call her a representative.

You were no Berserker. You were the Sergeant who cracked three ribs in one go after going in blind and setting off a landmine.

"Hard thing to change," Gaz quirked a brow, "Sticks with you."

“It’s a good name.” Soap picked at his fingers.

“Feels wrong now,” you tried to explain, “A berserker would’ve been able to handle some scrapes.”

“A berserker would jump’t the chance to run onto a landmine.” Johnny countered with a smirk.

“Thought about your other options?” Gaz spoke up again, stopping an argument before it had the chance to begin.

He was always good at that.

“What about, uh…” He tilted his head back, squinting at the ceiling as he tried to come up with something.

“Tits McGee?” Soap laughed at his own suggestion.

You flicked a pea from your tray at him, but it veered off track and hit Gaz in the cheek.

“Oi!” Gaz wiped the moist spot it had left on his face with his hand, cringing. “No friendly fire at the lunch table.”

Soap barked a laugh, and you kicked him under the table as you stifled your own laughter.

“What’re you lot on about?”

And there was Simon.

Always when you least expected him; ready and willing to ruin a good time.

Ghost sat down next to you like it was nothing; like he hadn’t just chewed you out a few days earlier for nearly dying.

He was taking up too much space—at the table and in your head. You tried to ignore him, but your smile wavered.

“She’s changing her callsign.” Soap gestured to you with his chin.

“Doesn’t feel like a true berserker,” Gaz smiled, eyes darting between you and Ghost. “Tell him.”

Kyle knew how upset you were, and he had said he wouldn’t get in the middle of it. But it was clear that he was now attempting to take on the role of peacekeeper, if only to keep mealtime pleasant.

You shot Simon a sidelong glance, nodding in response to Gaz’s prompt. You didn’t want to grace the Lieutenant with a verbal reply. He didn’t deserve one.

“I suggested Tits McGee.” Johnny smirked into his drinking glass, and this time you stomped on his foot under the table. He winced through a chuckle.

“Fair idea.” Ghost huffed out what could’ve been mistaken as a laugh.

You grit your teeth.

“What about something…scarier…?” Gaz spoke as the thought came to him, looking at you again. “Give Ghost a run for his money.”

Soap swallowed the water in his mouth, eager to toss out suggestions.

“Reaper.” He let his voice drop an octave for emphasis.

“Spirit.” Gaz quirked a brow at you, expectantly, as he silently asked for your input.

“She wouldn’t wear it right.” Simon shook his head, crossing his arms.

Your nails bit against your palms. It seemed like you couldn’t do anything right, as far as he was concerned.

“Shut up.” It came out muttered and withdrawn, but it felt good to get it out all the same.

“You ‘ave something t’say, love?” Simon looked down his shoulder at you, and the moment you looked back up at him, you knew you’d made a mistake in thinking you could keep it together.

“Yeah,” you glared, standing from the table. “Fuck you.”

You left without clearing your tray.

~~~

You never thought you’d find a barracks bed so spacious, but your own bed felt huge compared to the medical cot you’d recuperated in.

You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyelids, appreciating the silence and warring with yourself about why you always let Ghost get under your skin the way you did.

You heaved a sigh, stretching your arms out. You made sure to rest your left arm at a more practical angle even when you extended it.

Relief for the rest of your body wasn’t worth the jolt in your side.

After the incident at lunch, you fell into a repetitive pattern; mind wandering to Simon, chastising yourself for letting him live so comfortably in your head, then trying to focus on something—anything—else.

And you didn’t appreciate the way your body reacted to the thoughts of him, warmth swelling in your stomach and fingertips grazing your waistband.

It was a losing battle.

He had the ability to be kind, and it was a rarity, but a welcome one.

When you’d started as a rookie, you understood why people worshipped him; he was strong, capable, and, for the most part, managed to stay humble.

He was competent. And that was nice.

For a while, even you had fallen victim to the cult of personality that trailed him—it was hard not to.

He was just a person, a soldier like any other, but he could seem like so much more than that at times. You admired him, his drive, his passion.

He was merciless in his work ethic, unforgiving in his reproach, but he had his moments.

You’d knocked on his door early on into your time at the base.

It was nothing more than a work-related rendezvous, impromptu but necessary; you had reports he needed, and that was all. But you still felt a sort of buzz, a sense of pride nipping at your heels for being trusted enough to take on a task as menial as paperwork.

He’d opened the door, and you’d been left to stare up at him.

“What’s'is?” He nodded his chin down at your hands.

“I—the reports you needed,” you handed them to him, “They’re all in proper order.” You hesitated, “I think.”

He had stared down at you.

“You think?”

“No, I…I know. They are.” You didn’t want to be overly confident, but you did feel as though the reports looked good—better than good, even.

“Good to be certain.” He’d folded the reports, almost fidgeting with the paper.

“Yeah,” you nodded, unsure of what to say now. “It’s...all there.”

There was another pause. He let your words hang in the air, leaving you to stand awkwardly in the threshold of his room.

“But, uh—that’s all,” you nodded again, trying not to squirm in the silence he created. You looked at the ground. “Thanks for…trusting me, Simon.”

You turned to walk back to your own room, but he cleared his throat.

“Simon?” He seemed confused, and for a moment you wondered if you had gotten his name wrong, “We on a first name basis, love?”

“I just—that’s your name…” You'd probably gone pale at that point, but you tried to recover. “I figured, I mean, in your own room…do you want to be Lieutenant?” You stuttered through an explanation.

He had narrowed his eyes at you then, but there was no malice in his gaze; if anything, he just seemed more confused than he had been.

“Ghost is fine…” He spoke as if he were questioning himself.

“But you’re not Ghost,” you doubled down, smiling sheepishly, “I mean—not here, you’re not. Not to me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really think of you as Ghost unless we’re…out, somewhere,” you tried to sound nonchalant, but the words spilled out as you tried to avoid the repercussions of disrespecting a superior officer. “And—I dunno. You’re kinda scary when you’re Ghost. Your name…suits you…”

You searched his eyes, still trying to read whether his bewilderment would morph into anger.

“It humanizes you. And I…I like that.” 

“You like Simon.”

“Yeah.”

He shifted his weight. “A’right.”

You waited for more, but it never came.

“Yeah,” you repeated, finally finding the willpower to walk away. “Goodnight, Simon.”

“G’night.” He watched you leave before shutting the door.

You couldn’t help but smile at the memory, despite yourself. So you tried to remember what had made you hate him in the first place, just to torment yourself further.

It had been the day following that conversation.

He had been brusque, finding you in a common area with Gaz, playing a watered-down version of blackjack—no bets, just yelling and laughing as you continued to fall short.

“Redo them.”

“What?” You’d looked up from your hand.

“Redo them.” He repeated as he dropped the stack of reports onto the table in front of you.  

The reports you had been so excited to hand over to him.

“But what’s—”

“Fix. Them.” He’d gritted out, and you didn’t have the strength to look him in the eyes. “And be fucking certain they’re in order this time, sweetheart.”

“O—ok…” You conceded to his demand and rested your palm on the stack of paper in a gesture of submission.

He walked out without another word, leaving you to stare down at the reports he’d returned to you, feeling well and truly insufficient.

You had decided, in that moment, that you hated Ghost. And you hated Simon Riley just as much.

You had never been able to figure out why exactly he had switched up the way he had; if you had done something to get on his bad side, if it was delayed payback for calling him by his name. No matter how curious you got, you never asked, simply putting him on your bad side, too, just to keep things fair.

You heaved a sigh, sitting up in bed and staring at your room.

It was messy in a very minute way. You had clothes that needed washing, and a stray sock on the floor; your bed wasn’t made and there were reports on your desk that needed filing.

Clean to an onlooker; filthy to a soldier.

Your eyes wandered to Ghost’s shirt where it hung on your door.

You still hadn’t given it back to him, too dead set on eluding him at all costs after the ordeal in the infirmary, but it was casting a dreary shadow in your room. You didn’t want it near you, despite the way you’d clung to it when you’d woken up, and despite the way you’d managed to avoid returning it even when you’d had ample time to do something as simple as hanging it on his doorknob.

You didn’t know whether you should treat it as if it were a talisman or an omen, but given that it was stained in your blood, you leaned towards the latter. 

You stared at it for a few moments before finding the motivation to get up and grab it off the hook it had been dangling from.

Maybe you could treat it like an olive branch, even if it was only for this particular occasion.

He’d have to offer you a whole tree to make you consider allowing him on your good side for anything else he’d put you through.

~~~

It was relatively quiet in the barracks, and you felt like you were missing out on something. But you knew it got like this sometimes; weeks of high energy often resulted in a lull.

Simon’s room was at the end of the hallway, shrouded in shadows where one of the hall lights had gone out. His door had the same menacing energy that he did, and you felt insane for comparing the man to a door.

But were you really that far off?

Rigid, unfeeling; Ghost was essentially just another fixture—in the barracks, on the force, in the quiet corners of your mind.

You quickened your pace in an effort to get this over with. The sooner you gave him his shirt back, the sooner you could quell the feelings of frailty and lousiness, the sooner you could rid him from your thoughts—at least for a little while.

You stood in front of his door, and before you could question your true intentions, you knocked.

He opened the door in a huff, and you found yourself taking a step back. He didn’t say anything, fixing his unforgiving gaze on you.

“This is yours,” you held up the shirt, “Figured you might want it back.”

You watched his eyes scan the shirt in your hand before flicking back up to your face.

“Covered in your blood.” He looked like he was quirking a brow beneath the balaclava, and you suddenly felt irate—why wear the mask in his own room?

“Well, I haven’t really had time to wash it, considering…” You motioned up and down in front of your chest with your free hand. “But, um…Johnny said it was yours, and I felt bad holding onto it, given that I don’t really have any…need for it now.”

“Why would I want it back?” His tone was flat.

“It’s your fucking shirt.” You heaved a sigh, realizing that your attempt at diplomacy was going unheeded.  

“Don’t want it.”

Nothing else. Not a word—not a ‘thank you’ or a ‘happy to see you out of bed.’

Nothing to suggest he even cared about what had happened, or that he had any inkling of what was still going on in your head. He didn’t even question you about your outburst in the mess hall. He was completely cold, fully detached.

Typical.

“Well,” you swallowed the urge to push him, to see his feet slip out from under him and watch him stumble. “Fuck me for trying, Simon.”

You turned to make quick work of walking away, fidgeting angrily with the shirt in your hands. But he was clearly in the mood to argue.

“Oi—” You heard his footsteps behind you, “You mad?”

You scoffed. “Shut up.”

“Are you mad at me?” He clarified, catching up to you as you stormed down the hallway.

You didn’t answer him until you got back to the door of your room, opening it, and standing in the doorframe.

It gave you a sense of power, being in your own space.

“Am I mad at you?” You swiveled to stare up at him, your tone venomous. “Fuck you, Ghost.” You could no longer deny yourself the satisfaction of shoving him, and you pushed against his chest hard enough that he swayed back slightly.

“Watch it.” He glared down at you like he was trying to burn a hole through your head.

“Please—or what?” You challenged, “You’ll make me sit on the sidelines for an extra week? You gonna snap my neck in my own fucking room?”

Once you started, you couldn’t stop, and every single issue you had with him was coming to the surface.

“You won’t do shit. You never do shit—not unless it’s in the job description. You ignore everything so dutifully, Simon, like it’ll just disappear if you don’t give it the time of day,” you were yelling now. “Cause that’s what you think, right? That problems and people will vanish when they realize they’re not good enough for Lieutenant Riley?”

“Wasn’t personal, sweetheart—you’re in no shape to be out there.” He sighed, and it just fueled your rage.

“I don’t take anything you do personally,” you pressed a finger into his chest for emphasis. “You walk around here like you own the place, Lieutenant, and you don’t. You don’t get to call all the shots—I don’t care what kind of hard-on you get for the authority you have in one-four-one.”

“Sergeant—” You could tell it was taking effort on his part to stay stoic as he stood in your line of fire, and a vicious part of you wanted to see him break and fight back.

You wanted him to give you a good reason to hate him. Something that might finally stick. 

“I’m not fucking finished,” you cut him off, eager to express every single detail about him that made you feel so incensed. “You are the epitome of ego, you are indisputably one of the most self aggrandizing people I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. All you are is a fucking killer, just like the rest of us, but you seem to think you’re God’s gift to SAS—because what would one-four-one be without you, right, Simon? What would any of this be without you!”

You took a deep breath, and it made your ribs settle over your lungs uncomfortably, but you were nowhere near done.

“You act like you don’t care about the praise, the commendation—but you fucking do, and that’s why you turn your nose up at it. Cause you think you deserve it. And why the fuck should you acknowledge any compliment to your skill? Why should you acknowledge something that you already know to be true?”

Suddenly, you were cackling; manic with hatred, confused by your hostility towards him.

Ghost stood silent, and you wished he wasn’t wearing the mask so you could see his face and analyze how your words were hitting him.

You wanted to see the upset on his features—never mind how pretty he might look, carved in agitation.

“You don’t pay attention to the way people shy away from you, or the way the rookies worship you, or the—fuck, Simon, the women! You don’t care about how girls look at you! Because it’s what you think you deserve!” You couldn’t stop yourself from throwing that detail in, but you quickly recovered from your thinly veiled barb of jealousy.

You lowered your voice, wanting to hammer home how deeply, truly repulsed by him you were.

“You are so fucking aloof, it’s insane,” you hissed, “Ignore me all you want, Lieutenant, but I’m not fucking going anywhere. Am I mad at you? Fuck you, Simon.” You focused now on catching your breath, but you wanted to make sure he knew you meant it: “Fuck. You.”

He hadn’t moved the whole time, staying in the same spot in front of you throughout your rant.

Maybe he was thinking about the situation at hand. You wondered if he had actually listened to anything you said, or if he was too baffled by the fact that he was being screamed at by a subordinate to even hear you.

Maybe he’d hit you. You would, in his position.

“S‘at all?” His tone was casual, maybe a bit gruffer than normal, but that did nothing to subdue your rage.

All you’d really wanted was a reaction, and he wouldn’t even give you that.

“Get the fuck out.” You took a step back, slamming the door in his face.

You leaned against the door, breathing. Your side felt like it was splitting—maybe the stitches were under pressure, or your ribs had been held too taut against your lungs when you yelled.

You’d take an ibuprofen later. Now, you clutched his shirt in your fists, and tears slid off your cheeks to mingle with the bloodstains.

~~~

An hour or two later, you felt somewhat more under control.

You tried to shrug off your emotions, burying them somewhere to keep them guarded and stop them from getting to you.

You shoved Simon’s shirt under your bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

You saw no point in wallowing—you’d had a week to do that in the infirmary. Now you just wanted some semblance of peace, a good night of sleep.

Distracting yourself with paperwork seemed just as good. But your hands were shaky, and you quickly grew frustrated.

Be fucking certain they’re in order. You heard the words in Simon’s voice, clear as day, as the memory bounced around in your head.

You shoved yourself up from your desk chair at the same moment you heard a knock on your door.

You hesitated.

“Yeah?” You called out, walking slowly towards the sound.

“Got you something.”

Gaz’s voice was cheery, and you let out a brief sigh of relief upon hearing him—initially worried that Ghost had come back for retribution.

Relief may not have been the proper word. Still, you opened the door.

“Didn’t even ask who it was.” Gaz smiled when you ushered him in.

“What’d you bring me?” You ignored his teasing with a grin.

“First," he made himself comfortable on the edge of your bed, "Tell me if you’ve got a light.”

You quirked a brow at him, taking the hint. You rummaged through your nightstand to locate a lighter, finding one and handing it to him.

“Solid,” he took the lighter, reaching into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Go ’head.”

You smiled, shaking your head with an amused huff. “Inside?”

“You deserve it.”

“With my…” You tried to appeal to your better judgement, the stitches in your side a reminder of the turmoil your body had only just experienced.

Kyle looked at you expectantly, holding out the pack, and you let your sentence trail off as you fished a cigarette from the box.

“Terrible influence, Garrick.” You perched the cigarette between your lips, waiting for him to light it for you.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he smiled, watching you puff smoke as he lit your cigarette. “You need a vice. Heard you tore LT a new one.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. You moved from the bed to open the small window in your room, resting your hand on the sill and watching the smoke trail up into the night air.

“Word travels fast,” you almost smirked at the knowledge that people had heard about your row with Ghost. “He had it coming.”

Gaz got up from your bed and walked over to lean opposite you against the window.

“Only person that’s ever done it,” he wedged the window up a bit more when the smoke blew back into his face. “Long as I've been here, at least. When Soap’s mad at him, he just listens to songs about stickin’ it to the English.”

“I know,” you ashed the cigarette, smiling, “I have his playlist.”

Gaz laughed, and you stamped the cigarette out on the outer part of the sill, walking back to your bed and taking a seat. Gaz watched you, analyzing your movements before he pulled the chair from your desk and sat.

“You, uh…” He chewed the inside of his cheek, “He was glued to you, Ghost was. Wouldn’t leave your side.”

You furrowed your brow, looking up at him in confusion. You didn’t know where this was coming from—or why Kyle would bother to tell you right now, rather than while you were still in the infirmary. Or why he'd tell you at all, for that matter.

“He wasn’t there when I woke up.” You scoffed halfheartedly, unsure of what point you were trying to argue, or why you were trying to argue it.

The thing is, you had questions—but it was easier to inquire with a reserved disbelief than it was to ask anything up front. 

“He was there before that, though,” Gaz fiddled with the lighter, flicking it on and off. “We—y’know, Johnny and Price and I—we made him leave.”

“Just because?” You tried to sound amused, but the curiosity gnawed at you.

“Needed a shower, hadn’t eaten.” Gaz put the lighter down on the desk. He rolled his shoulders back, pressing his palms to his thighs with a sigh.

“So?” You prompted when Gaz had stayed silent for longer than you anticipated.

“So, just…” He cracked his neck before looking back at you, “Maybe try not to take it all out on him.”

“Take what out on him?” Your tone went sharp, and Kyle made a face.

“You know what I mean,” he backed down slightly, but continued with his effort. “I think he’s…unhappy.”

“I get blown to smithereens and we all throw Simon a pity party?” You felt your skin growing hot, unnerved by the notion that you were supposed to go about business as usual after such an event, while everybody around you seemed to have more sympathy for Ghost and the grave he’d dug for himself.

“You cracked three ribs!” Gaz smiled, trying to ease the sudden tension.

“It was enough for LT to throw a hissy fit over!” You snapped back, perhaps a bit too harshly, and Gaz let his smile fade, ready to concede to you.

You continued to seethe for a moment longer, staring at Gaz’s feet. He dipped his head down, trying to get you to listen.

“I think he’s unhappy because he wasn’t there when you woke up.” He said simply, his voice gentle. He wasn’t trying to upset you, just attempting to share his opinion and see whether or not it improved anything.

“Hardly my fault…” You frowned, finding his gaze again and crossing your arms.

“Yeah, no, I know—believe me, I know,” Gaz rubbed a hand over his face, “But he was…so…He was fucking besides himself with worry—or, I mean, it seemed like it. Didn’t leave the infirmary til we pushed him out a few hours before you came to. And I think he was really set on being there to see you through it.”

Gaz looked at you. You looked back, tilting your head in silent encouragement; you were listening.

“It’s like he…built up this idea in his head about…” he trailed off, “And then it didn’t happen. And he doesn’t want to feel stupid, so he’s just angry instead.”

You nodded, taking in the revelation that maybe Ghost wasn’t mad at you, but at himself; that he was facing a similar struggle from you as you were from him.

It didn’t make you feel better. If anything, it made you want to knock sense into him all the more.

You’d laid out your cards—it was his turn now. If he had such big feelings, he could either suck it up and ignore them, or he could come out with them. And nothing Gaz said or suggested could make you change your mind.

You scoffed, shaking your head. But you smiled a little, subconsciously reassured.

“That’s my hypothesis, anyway.” Gaz shrugged, returning your smile ten-fold, and you felt yourself relax a bit, feeling the tension dissipate.

“Big word.” You laughed softly.

Gaz grinned. “Read a book or two.”

You reached out to snatch the pack of cigarettes from him, fishing another out for yourself before pushing the box back into his hands. He put them away, handing you your lighter.

“Not joining me?” You nodded towards the pocket he’d shoved the pack into, speaking through your hands as you lit the cigarette.

“Nah,” he shook his head, sighing. “There’s…mm—I didn’t come to see you just so we could talk about Ghost.”

“You talked about him,” you mumbled, “I listened.” You moved to the window again. “What else?”

“We’re shipping out,” Gaz sighed, “Next week.”

You went quiet, picking at one of your fingernails and watching your cigarette burn.

“…Without me.” Your words came out small, disappointed.

“Yeah,” Gaz’s voice went soft around the edges. “First time in—”

“Yeah.” You cut him off.

You knew how long you’d been in 141; and it felt like eons to you, despite the fact that it had been only a tiny fraction of the time everybody else had been on the task force. You didn’t need the reminder now—not when you already felt like an outsider.

“All of you, then?”

You looked back over your shoulder at Kyle, and he nodded.

“Price too?”

He nodded again. You took a long drag of your cigarette.

“In and out,” he tried to make it sound like fun—and really, it was, to an extent, but your thoughts were elsewhere. “Won’t even be a full forty-eight hours, way we’ve got it planned.”

You smiled—he always downplayed it, but you wanted to believe him.

Without Gaz and Soap around, you’d be bored out of your mind. You could handle a couple days, but anything longer than that seemed dreadful.

You didn’t let yourself fall into the vortex of thoughts that opened up relating to Simon; you refused to acknowledge the way your stomach tensed at the idea of him on a mission without you, the way sweat beaded on the skin of your back at the notion that you wouldn’t be there to watch him—you didn’t know what the feeling was, but you knew you didn’t like it.

“I believe you.” You flicked the cigarette out the window.

“Good.” He said simply.

It was another hour of banter before Gaz decided to call it a night, by which time the strange feeling in your stomach had begun to feel more akin to a hunger pain.

“Hey,” he nudged you with his shoulder as you walked him out of your room, “Don’t think too hard about it, yeah?”

“About what?”

“Ghost—and him being…”

“Being Ghost.” You offered sardonically with a smile to match, but Gaz took it in stride.

“Mm,” he nodded, “Ghost being Ghost.” He added, “You were the one that wanted his help, remember.”

He didn’t clarify, but you knew he was talking about how you’d pleaded for Ghost to be the one to treat your wounds as you lay bleeding.

You nodded, sighing an affirmative.

When you shut the door behind Gaz, you found yourself standing frozen in the same spot you had been in after shouting at Simon.

It was significantly more tranquil now, but it still made you feel a sense of unease.

Did you feel bad? And if the answer was yes—did you feel sorry for yourself, or for him?

You got in bed and curled into yourself, suddenly feeling like it was too big and almost wishing you could be back in the infirmary.

At least you could sleep in that cot; the morphine drip kept you in a steady, sleepy haze and removed all of the anxiety induced by your near-death experience.

Against your better judgement, you threw your hand over the edge of your bed, contorting yourself as comfortably as you could to lean down and grab Simon’s shirt from the spot you’d chucked it beneath the bedframe.

If he was so adamant that you keep it, you felt as though it was only fair for you to use it.

You draped his shirt over the foot of your mattress, and you instantly felt as though the bed had shrunk down to fit you exactly; it was cozy, it was made for you, and not hundreds of recruits just like you.

He took up too much space at the table and in your mind, so what was a little space in your bed?

It’s not like this changed anything. You were still upset, still frustrated, still completely and utterly confused. Simon’s shirt was simply an added presence that helped quell the shakiness in your hands as you moved to switch off the light.

And it added a bit of fuel to the thoughts you’d deemed taboo.

~~~

You hadn’t been trying to count down the days until the force left, but it was hard not to. You knew that them leaving base would mean radio silence and a consuming sense of loneliness.

You couldn’t tell if the feeling in your gut was a product of the unfortunate event you’d just lived through, your intense dosage of Advil, or just the crushing fear of being left behind.

So, you’d tried to make the most of things as the week went by; and maybe you sat at the dinner table a little longer than you needed to, even when Simon cared to join; maybe you didn’t say anything when Soap tried to look at Gaz’s cards over his shoulder.

You wandered into the transport bay on the morning they were set to leave, and they were all standing at the ready.

It almost had you laughing; little toy soldiers, all lined up.

“Where you off to?” You sidled up next to Soap as he fiddled with his chest rig.

“Need to know basis.” He grunted, pulling at the strap around his shoulder. He looked up at you with a grin. 

You rolled your eyes, returning the smile.

“Then tell me all about it if you come back in one piece.”

“Always do, lassie.”

You cringed. “Don’t tempt the fates, Johnny.”

Gaz appeared in your peripheral, and you turned to him.

You couldn’t decipher his gaze; if he was nervous or if he felt sorry for you.

“Gonna miss ya out there, Sergeant.” He smiled softly at you.

“Yeah,” you walked over to him, slinging an arm over his shoulder, “I know.”

“Always the picture of humility, you are.” He smirked, and you punched him in the arm.

“Take care of yourselves.” You knew they would—they always did. And it wasn’t like you had anything to worry about; it was one operation, a brief mission to wherever the hell, and you’d see them in a few days’ time.

As cocky as Soap could be, he was right: they always came back in one piece.

Unlike you.

Price cleared his throat, cutting short the banter between you and the Sergeants that flanked you.

“Captain.” You looked up, offering him a nod.

“Sorry to see you sitting this one out.” He was being sincere—that was something you appreciated about Price; he didn’t say anything he didn’t mean. “Won’t feel the same without you.”

“Yeah, well,” you still didn’t know how to take a compliment from him, “I’ll be good as new, soon enough.” You added; “Only a month left, and then I’ll be back at it.”

He nodded, and you saw his cheeks broaden, offering you a small smile.

“Don’t let that arm go stiff, Sergeant.”

“Roger that.” You responded with a similarly minute smile.

You turned your attention back to Gaz and Soap, hoping that getting enough face time with them now might hold you over while they were gone.

Ghost stood in the corner, checking guns for loose ammo and saying nothing. He barely looked your way, and when he did, you tried to hold eye contact.

Maybe you were trying to scare him, wear him down a bit and make him nervous. Realistically, though, the man that stood a few yards away from you would never consider you a threat.

And you knew that. But you couldn’t admit that you were looking at him just to look.

You wanted him to squirm under your gaze now the way that you always did under his.

The door to the bay opened and you knew it was best to see them off before they loaded—you were a soldier, not a would-be widow; you couldn’t bear the feeling of being left behind, but the idea of watching them leave was even worse.

“Alright,” you rolled your neck, trying to appear indifferent to their departure. “Be good.” You looked pointedly at Soap, who nodded, saluting.

“Aye.”

“You too.” Gaz pressed a finger to your chest, feigning menace, and you rolled your eyes as you watched the Sergeants gear up to go.

Ghost still hadn’t said a word, but you found yourself being pulled into his orbit as you turned to leave.

It was no big deal. He was standing by the exit, anyway.

Still, you stared at him as you walked out, waiting for him to say something. Or not.

He gave you a curt nod in an effort to catch your attention.

“See you in a few days, sweetheart.” He kept his voice low—maybe out of habit, maybe because he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to hear him.

You huffed at him, frowning at him but refusing to respond.

His eyes shifted beneath his mask, but he didn't speak anymore. And you didn’t care.

But when you walked out of the transport bay, you could feel your heart racing, challenging your mind.

~~~

Admittedly, it was calmer with them gone. But you were bored, and feeling more outcast and alone than you’d care to confess.

It gave you time to work on the reports that had started to pile up, and even more time to debate where exactly you stood with Simon.

And then you debated whether that was something even worth debating.

He was an asshole. He was your superior. But he was also, in a twisted sort of way, your friend.

And you’d never heard him call Soap or Gaz sweetheart.

He was an ally in dark times, who used his own clothes to stem your bleeding—something he’d only done because you, in your weakest state, had begged for his help.

And you still didn’t really know why you had asked. And you didn’t like the fact that the time you spent alone with your thoughts was bringing you closer and closer to figuring it out.

You thought a lot about Gaz's words, his explanation for Ghost’s behavior: he’s unhappy, he wanted to see you through it, he built up this idea.

You still couldn’t fully wrap your head around what the idea Gaz had mentioned was, and you had been too proud to ask for any clarification.

Simon’s shirt was still unceremoniously draped over your bed, and despite the comfort it brought you, you tried to ignore it.

Two days came and went, and by the third day you had allowed the initial drops of worry to seep in.

It didn’t last long before the whole dam exploded.

And then it all started to blur together, like you were lying on your back in the dirt again, feeling like your head was being held underwater.

In the early hours of day four, commotion in the hall roused you. It wasn’t as if you had been asleep, but facing such loud noise after midnight still made you grumble as you padded to the door and flung it open. Walking down the hall, you didn’t care that you were barefoot, too intent on giving into the curiosity that was tying your stomach in knots.

You heard Price’s voice first, the sharp pinch of his words as he demanded everybody move out.

That was your first tip off that something was wrong.

And then Soap rushed past you without so much as a first glance, let alone a second, as he booked it in the direction of the infirmary. There was a hand on your shoulder, then, and Gaz offered a look of sympathy, but his eyes were glazed over and intense in a manner that didn’t suit him at all.

He tripped over himself as he followed Soap.

“Gaz?” You called after him, suddenly frantic and in need of answers.

One answer.

“Garrick?” You started to follow him, but it didn’t feel real; you felt like you were looking down at yourself as an outsider, your legs moving on their own as you sped barefoot down the hall, floating. “Kyle!”

That finally got him to snap to attention, but he kept walking as he spoke to you over his shoulder.

“Ghost—” his voice was shaky, and you had to wonder what had happened—what he had seen, “Direct shot.”

You felt a final tug at the knot in your stomach, and you thought you were going to be sick.

You stopped following Gaz, standing still in the middle of the hall. You felt directionless.

You drifted through the barracks in an unstable haze, almost numb but still all too capable of feeling the anger that had started to bubble within the uneasiness of your stomach.

He was supposed to be untouchable, unstoppable—invincible.

But he was bleeding out in the infirmary just like you had.

He was merciless, yes, and he was unforgiving—but he had his moments.

You wouldn’t have taken a bullet for him. Would you? Certainly, you would’ve done something.

You would’ve tried.

If you had been there, you would have forced him to do things the way you wanted to, the way you always did. Forced him to see it your way and come to an agreement in your favor; forced him to walk in the direction you chose; forced him to follow your pace, stayed in front of him like you always did; forced him to follow your trail.

And he would’ve listened, just like he always did. Because he, in his own way, seemed to approve of your drive.

And then maybe he would have walked back into base on his own two feet. And it could’ve been you lying on a cot in the infirmary.

As it was meant to be.

Somehow, you found your way back to your own room, some guiding force helping you shut the door, pushing you towards your bed.

The numb and the melancholy made way for a stronger sense of fury the moment your eyes fell onto his shirt, wrinkled and pushed to the foot of the bed.

In a fit of blind rage, you grabbed it and began whipping it against the bed; a toddler throwing a tantrum. You smacked it against your mattress as hard as you could, trying to strike fabric with fabric until the fear dissipated.

Because that’s what it was. Fear.

Because without Ghost, what was 141 worth?

Without Simon, what was any of this worth?

There was a knock on the door, and Gaz pushed himself into your room without waiting for a response.

“He’s—”

“Get out.” You were panting, still clutching the shirt in a white-knuckled fist.

“Listen, Ghost is—” Kyle looked exhausted.

“Get the fuck out!” You screamed, burning your lungs in the process and letting the pain in your ribs punish you from the inside out.

You didn’t care. You couldn’t care.

Gaz closed the door in a hurry, and you continued to watch on. He cast a vague shadow beneath the door, and you waited to see if he’d venture back into your room.

“He’s going to be fine,” you heard him sigh behind the door, “He’s up. He—bloody hell—he tried to tell them how to do the stitches.”

You breathed.

You hadn’t realized you had been holding your breath.

You heard Gaz’s footsteps echo through the hall as he walked away, and you crumpled over your mattress. The anger and fear didn’t vanish with this new revelation; it all worked together to create an anxious giddiness.

He tried to tell them how to do his stitches.

You knew he was a good nurse in a pinch, but you were fairly certain that he didn’t know how to do stitches. You didn’t even think he knew how to sew.

Cocky motherfucker.

Maybe it was the adrenaline that lingered from your outburst, or the sense of relief that flooded your senses, but when you pushed yourself up against the headboard of your bed, your hand found its way beneath your waistband.

You had to get this energy out somehow.

So you circled your fingers around your clit, thinking about him—not for the first time, not for the last—and tried to find some kind of relief to distract yourself from the rollercoaster of emotion you’d just been on.

You reached for the shirt that you’d left in a heap on the bed, straining your fingers to curl against the spongy spot on your front wall. But the effort you put into stretching for the shirt where it lay on the edge of the bed made your side split at the exact moment you began to call his name.

And you started sobbing.

It was pained, not at all reluctant—an all at once reboot for your body, shedding itself of all the intensity you’d just put your mind and heart through; finally accepting that you yourself had been hurt, and that you had no idea how to bear this cross.

You stopped trying to make yourself cum, planting yourself face down on your pillow and biting into it to silence your wails. But the tears kept coming, and soon you were pressing your face into nothing but a sopping wet piece of bedding, stained with your tears and your drool and your snot.

You clung to the shirt, subconsciously bringing it up to your face.

It smelled like the iron in your blood, crusted over and lingering in the woven material. And beneath that, his scent still clung to it. You breathed deep, huffing the smell of him.

You must have looked absolutely insane. And you felt like you were; choking on your cries, burying your face in fabric that had been soaked in your own blood.

But it was ok.

He was ok.

And you were in love with him.

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[foodtruckery]

I've been having crazy Stancest brain rot thinking about an AU where they don't have the portal incident and instead have crazy marathon hate sex instead (Inspired by some amazing art by @CoreArde on Twitter) and I thought it'd be fun to share that with you.

They start off arguing in the lab and then oops they're fucking on the lab floor, and they really should be thinking this through but nope now they're upstairs fucking on the kitchen table and okay maybe now they'll finally talk about it nah, they're fucking in Ford's bed now.

It starts off as rough hate sex getting out years of frustration, but by the time they make it to the kitchen its become insanely desperate and cloying because they missed each other, and their bodies fit so well together, and GOD how could they have not been doing this all time? They're going at it so long that they basically end up passed out in Ford's bed by the end, and Stan's not going to be sitting down for a while after this. He's probably just happy to be sleeping in a bed, but Ford is trying to figure out how he got so far from the initial plan.

Even better if the two of them have been harboring feelings for years and never acted on it, because they get the one-two punch of all the weight of their time apart and processing the fact that OH GOD I JUST FUCKED MY BROTHER (which of course they both wanted to do but still).

I have no idea what would happen after that, but both of them waking up sore, sweat soaked, sticky with cum (some still inside Stan because of course Ford didn't use a condom this wasn't supposed to happen) after having gone at each other like rabbits in heat despite never having expressed their attraction to each other before is a hilarious and hot idea to me. What do you think?

HI THERE ANON. i am so fucking sorry that i left you waiting for so long about this, but i need you to know it's because i was FUCKING OBSESSED with this. like just absolutely beside myself over it, and i refused to respond until i had a chance to sit down and respond PROPERLY.

cause uh YEAH FRIEND i know the exact fucking piece of art (explicit) you're talking about, because it's INCREDIBLE. and in case you didn't know, the artist is over here too and shares some fucking fantastic writing and headcanons also! (seriously, go check out @/cartoonsinthemorning if you haven't. and cart, i hope you don't mind that anon and i both kinda lost our minds about your art over here! i genuinely have no idea what tag etiquette is on this site and didn't wanna bombard you, but you did this. again.)

i'll be honest, anon, this kinda got away from me (fucking shocker) and i am too tired to do any legit editing of it right now, so please forgive any typos or weirdness! i'll try and clean it up before it eventually goes up on ao3. but thank you for such a LOVELY ask because this was so hot, and so inspiring, and i hope i did a little justice to your idea and cart's gorgeous art!

--- Ford isn't entirely sure how it had started. His memory, his perception of time, his ability to follow a linear order of events -- all if it is less than reliable at the moment, so he can't entirely blame himself for losing track of things here and there. But the jump between trying to wrestle his journal out of Stan's hands to trying to wrestle Stan out of his dingey jeans is a jarring transition to lose in the dull static that's been edging around his awareness for weeks now. 

Not jarring enough to stop him, though. 

He thinks, vaguely, while he's blindly tugging at Stan's denim, that there's a concerningly high likelihood that he's hallucinating. His head is swimming in so much caffeine and adrenaline that he doesn't even feel the rough concrete of the lab floor under his knees -- maybe that isn't where he is? Maybe he'd nodded off without realizing. Maybe he's going to come to with another lapful of polaroids and a new humiliating tattoo. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe -- he can reckon with a probability model later. For the first time in what feels like months, the stability of his perceived reality is not actually at the forefront of Ford's mind.

Pressing in on him harder than the doubt, harder than the disassociation from his physical body, and harder than the threat of the creature lingering in the depths of his subconscious is anger. It feels like a beacon in the muddled, fuzzy mess inside his head, something bright and real and his. It's searing through him, slicing away all the frayed edges of his paranoia and doubt like a hot blade through so much butter. 

Ford clings to the sharp edges of that anger and feels more alert than he has in weeks. 

He can't remember how their bickering had taken this particular turn, but if he's liable to lose his eyes and his life in the next few days, Ford will be fucking damned if he squanders the opportunity. He knows he's made a mess of things, that he's made the sorts of mistakes that can't and frankly shouldn't be forgiven. 

But he also knows with blinding, white hot certainty that he's only here, now, because of Stan's mistakes.

Ford may not deserve absolution, but he does deserves this. 

Laughter cuts through the lab, rough and mocking, and Ford's attention finally falls, properly, on Stan. He has a bruise blooming on his cheek and a snide smirk twisting his lips. He's also on his back, his jeans and a threadbare pair of boxers bunched in Ford's fists and pulled so low he can see the tight curls of his pubic hair and the root of his cock. 

"What's wrong, Poindexter?" Stan asks, mocking, and it's only then that Ford realizes he's paused halfway through stripping his twin's lower half. The bite of the cold concrete under his knees still feels far away, but the rough material in his palms, and the heat of Stan's body so close to him are sharp, clear details. "No hands on experience with a dick that ain't your own? Afraid you might actually be bad at somethin' for once?" 

Ford narrows his eyes, feeling the hot point of anger cutting through him, steadying him, and he jerks Stan's clothes hard enough that he gets the material past his knees in one tug. Stan laughs at him again, but it stutters into a little 'oof!' when Ford flips him onto his stomach. 

He doesn't care that Stan's pants are still caught around his calves and his boots. He doesn't care that Stan hisses something that sounds like pain when he's yanked onto his knees and dragged backwards several inches across the concrete. He doesn't even care that, once upon a time, he'd dreamed of this, of crossing this line with the only person he'd ever really loved in any way that mattered, and it's nothing like the softer, sweeter picture he used to imagine. 

Stan's hips are soft, and the skin gives easily under the iron grip Ford has on them, holding him in place as he grinds against his ass. Even through his slacks, the heat of Stan's body is intense, addictive, and he grinds forward again, harder, watching the friction rub a pink  patch against his skin. 

Stan, shameless and selfish as always, pushes eagerly back against him. Ford has barely done anything beyond rocking the outline of his cock against his hole, but he can hear Stan panting against the ground, can see his hands curling into fists. He remembers how many times Stan had called Carla McCorkle "easy" in high school and thinks, now, that the easy one had been his brother. 

"You gonna keep humpin' me, or are you gonna fuck me?" Stan demands, rocking as firmly back as he can with the bruising grip Ford has on him. 

"What makes you think you deserve that?" Ford bites out. It would serve Stan right, he thinks, if he got himself off exactly like this, no different than grinding against a particularly firm couch pillow. Just a conveniently warm object for Ford to release some tension with. 

Stan looks back over his shoulder and flashes teeth at him. It isn't a smile. "Oh, I get it. Cold feet? Well, we can just chalk it up to one more thing ya promised and then backed out of as soon as you actually had to make a choice. Good to know some things never change, Stanford."

He's being goaded, and Ford knows that. But the anger boils in his chest, and he thinks, why should he care about what Stan does or doesn't deserve from him? This is about what Ford deserves.

And what Ford deserves is to have his dick so far up Stan's ass he'll be able to feel it in the back of his throat. 

"Do you ever shut up?" he snaps while he releases one of Stan's hips to yank his slacks open. The bruise of his fingerprints already forming against Stan's skin thrills him, almost to distraction, if it weren't for Stan laughing again. 

"'Course not," he says, shifting his center of balance to dig into the pocket of his dirty red coat. The little packet he tosses over his shoulder bounces off his own ass to land by Ford's knee, the word LUBE printed in large, bold letters across the front. He should be surprised to see it, and part of him is. The word "easy" comes to mind again. 

Ford rips the packet open with his teeth. 

"F-Fuck!" Stan curses, turning his forehead against the ground when Ford presses his slick cock into him a moment later without warning. 

Ford grabs him roughly by the waist when he twitches forward and yanks Stan back until his ass hits the open fly of his slacks. He makes a choked sound at that and turns his face into the crook of his own arm when Ford pulls back and rocks hard back into him. 

"What's wrong, Stanley?" he parrots. He pistons his hips at a punishing pace, watching his cock pumping in and out of the greedy, grasping ring of Stan's hole. "Nothing to say?" 

Stan makes a noise that's too muffled by the sleeve of his coat to understand, so Ford reaches down to take a fistful of his stupid mullet instead. The hitching gasp that escapes his twin when his head is forcefully jerked up makes him groan. "What was that? Come on, Stanley, use your words." 

"F-Fuck off," Stan says, his voice strained, almost whining. 

"I see you haven't gotten anymore eloquent since you left," Ford scoffs around the breathlessness in his own voice, feeling the anger and pleasure coiling harder in his gut. "What was it you said? Good to know some things never change." 

When he pulls Stan's hair again, just because he can, Stan moans. And when he shifts his hips, driving in just as hard at the new angle, Stan shouts. With his own knees bracketed on either side of his, Ford can feel the way his thighs tremble when he clenches around his cock, and he can feel the sweat beading up under his palm where he's digging darker bruises into Stan's side. 

Ford feels like he's on the edge of delirium again, consumed by every sound Stan makes, every twitch of his hips, every ounce of his heat. He thinks, a bit wildly, that Stan may have been made for this, made to take his cock, for how well he does. 

It isn't until Stan jerks under him, going hot and tight around his cock and making a strangled noise in the back of his throat, that Ford realizes he may have said part of that out loud. That Stan came over it. 

He groans low in his throat and thrusts half a dozen more times into Stan's clenching hole before he comes as well. 

It's quiet for a few minutes other than their ragged panting, but it's Stan who eventually reaches back and swats at Ford's hand until he lets go of his hair. He takes the hint and pulls out, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as his come trickles down Stan's thighs. It strikes him suddenly that he wants to follow the wet trail back up with his tongue. It's enough to make his cock give a feeble, appreciative twitch. 

He isn't sure if he's just terribly distracted or if he loses time again, because when Ford next lifts his head, Stan is on his feet, pants pulled up around his waist but still open, and he has his journal in hand. This might be more jarring than the last transition he'd lost. 

"What are you doing?" he demands, shoving himself back onto his own feet. He doesn't bother to tuck his cock back in, and he spots the moment Stan's eyes flick down. It's brief, but he'd seen it. 

"What does it fucking look like I'm doing? I'm taking your stupid diary and disappearing like you begged me to," Stan says. His voice is still a little raw, and Ford has a moment to realize how much he likes that, before the words catch up. 

He scoffs. "Oh! So now you want to actually help?! Is it always this easy to fuck the sense into you?" 

Stan's expression does a few things Ford doesn't understand before his brows ultimately slam down and he turns his back, storming towards the door with Ford's journal still in hand, and Ford himself hot on his heels. "You're fucking unbelievable, Stanford, you know that?!" 

"Me?! You're the one who came all over my lab floor and then decided he was ready to be reasonable!" 

Stan jams his thumb against the call button for the elevator several times in quick succession, despite the car already being on their floor and the gate sliding open. "Most people would just say thank you when someone agreed to help them out, but not you! What does Stanford Pines have to be grateful for? We're all just fucking lucky to get a task from ya, huh?" 

Ford crowds into the elevator with him before Stan can try to pull the gate or call the doors shut behind him. He punches the button to take them up himself, before making a grab for the journal, snarling when Stan leans back and holds it up above his head. 

"You're the one who threatened to destroy my work twenty minutes ago, Stanley! Why would I trust you with it now? Hell, I can't figure out why I trusted you enough to bring you here in the first place!" 

"Oh really? You can't?" Stan sneers, leaning in close. And when Ford takes a step back, Stan follows, backing him into a corner of the car. "I don't think you fuckin' trusted me to do shit, Stanford. I think you were all outta options cause nobody else could stand to put up with you anymore." 

Stan doesn't so much as hit a nerve as he takes a sledgehammer to it, and as soon as the elevator dings, Ford shoves him as hard as he can out into the study. Stan yelps when he stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and it's only knocking into a cluttered desk that keeps him from falling on his ass. 

Ford doesn't give him any time to right himself, storming in after him and grabbing him by the front of his jacket. Stan flinches, like he'ex expecting a punch, but Ford yanks him in and crushes his mouth against his instead. 

There's a dull thump that Ford only realizes was the journal being dropped when he feels both of Stan's hands on his shoulders. They curl briefly, grasping at him, and Ford feels his mouth starting to go soft and slack. But as soon as he presses in, runs his tongue along that loosening seam, he's suddenly being shoved backwards. 

If he weren't so damn confused, Ford would probably appreciate the picture Stan makes, lips slick and pants open, leaning back against one of Ford's desks. 

"What are you doing?!" Stan demands, like he's the one who doesn't know what day it is, and keeps losing track of events. 

"I would think even you could figure that out after what happened downstairs, Stanley."

Stan flushes, visible even in the low light of the study, though Ford isn't sure if it's embarrassment or anger. The scowl on his face doesn't help clear things up, either, though the fact that he isn't actually looking at Ford is...telling.  

"That ain't happening again," Stan states, and there isn't anything convincing about the way he says it at all. But when Ford steps forward, Stan sidesteps him and the desk. He makes a wrong turn in the dark, in a house he isn't familiar with, and flinches when Ford flips on the light in the kitchen he's walked into.

"I don't know how you expect to leave and hide my journal after leaving it in the study," he points out, frowning at the back of Stan's head. 

He isn't surprised when Stan whirls on him. He is, however, stunned still when he realizes Stan's eyes are wet. 

"What the fuck do you want from me, Stanford?!" Stan shouts, his voice cracking over his name, and it makes something feel like it's cracking inside his chest. 

Ford has to wet his lips when he finds them and his throat dry. "...I told you what I wanted," he says.

"Yeah, you did! And when I finally agreed to do it, you threw a fucking fit about it! And now you're pissy because I'm not?! What do you want?" 

The anger sparks sharply inside him again, and Ford grasps at it like a lifeline, willing to bloody his hands for that bite of stability. 

"You tried to burn it! My life's work! And you only decided you would help me after we--"

Stan cuts him off, looking towards the cabinets while he raises his voice and waves his hands. "Jesus Christ, I'm sorry about the fucking lighter, all right?!"

Ford frowns. He takes a step forward and, still without looking at him, Stan takes a step back. It's the elevator all over again, but this time Ford is pressing in, backing Stan into the cabinets. He grabs the counter on either side of his hips when he tries to side step him again. 

"Stanley, look at me," he demands, frowning harder when Stan sets his jaw and stars determinedly at his shoulder. "Stanley--"

"What do you want, Ford? Just...just fucking tell me and I'll leave, all right?" Stan says, his voice tired and soft as he reaches up to rub a hand over his own face.

He wants a lot, honestly. And hasn't that always been the problem? He's always wanted -- to be normal, to be respected, to be the best, to be special. 

To be wanted. 

To be enough.

To fix things. 

"You," he realizes, watching Stan jerk his head up. His lashes are still wet, and Ford can't stop himself from reaching up and pressing his palm to Stan's cheek, skimming his thumb gently under one of his eyes. 

When he leans in to kiss him again, Stan makes a small, wounded little noise under his mouth, but he parts his lips for Ford's tongue this time. Stan's lips are chapped and he tastes vaguely of stale cigarettes, but Ford is still struck by how soft and sweet he is. 

More than anything else that had happened that evening, this is the moment that Ford knows he should suspect most of all. The way Stan relaxes between him and the counter, the almost tentative way he lifts his tongue to meet his, the careful fingertips touching the edge of Ford's coat and brushing against his loose tie. It's tender in a way Ford didn't think either of them were capable of, and it should be setting off warning bells and red flags in every part of his mind. 

It isn't. 

Ford is more certain of  the reality of this single moment, the gentle slip of Stan's lips against his own, than he's been of anything in a long time. 

And then Stan sighs between them and murmurs, warm and hopeful, "Ford," against his lips, and he's done for. 

It doesn't matter that they just fucked, that Ford's come is probably still drying between Stan's thighs -- he can't keep his hands off of him. Ford is suddenly frantic and desperate in a way that he hadn't been downstairs. He needs to relearn the new, wider shape of Stan's shoulders and pecs. He needs to feel out every new scar and take stock of all the old ones he remembers Stan collecting for him as kids. He needs to be surrounded by him again, soaking in the warmth of him. 

Ford doesn't deserve absolution, but he thinks he may be able to find something close to it in the low, shaky way Stan moans his name. 

And there's familiarity in the way Stan grabs at him in turn, tugging at his jacket and tie and surging into another, harder kiss. Ford thinks he may not be the only one looking for expiation. 

Then Stan drops to his knees between him and the cabinet, and Ford stops thinking so much. His cock is still out, and Stan wastes no time in getting his fist around the shaft and his lips around the head. He suckles and swirls his tongue, and Ford shoves the beanie off of his head to get his hands in his hair. 

"Stanley," he gasps, stroking his fingers along his scalp and fisting the strands between them. 

Stan moans around him and shuffles closer, sliding the seal of his lips further down the length of Ford's cock. All he can do is groan and try to keep from rocking his hips as more of him is greeted by the warmth of his mouth and the wickedness of his tongue. 

He keeps waiting for Stan to reach his limit, to back off and give himself room to breathe. He doesn't. He keeps leaning in, keeps taking him, and then Ford feels his cockhead slip into Stan's throat, sees his lashes are wet again, and he has to put one hand on the counter to keep himself steady. "Fuck, Stanley, you're so good at this."

Stan makes a horribly sweet sound around the girth of Ford's cock and reaches up to hold his hips as he swallows, and Ford is suddenly afraid he's going to embarass himself.  His hips twitch despite his best efforts to keep them still, but Stan simply relaxes his jaw and his throat and tugs a little to encourage him to do it again. He does, of course, how could he not? 

Despite the heat clawing its way through him and the pleasure mounting dangerously high, Ford almost feels outside of himself again. The picture Stan makes, with his eyes damp and heavy lidded, his lips wet and stretched around Ford's cock, his hair fisted in Ford's fingers and his own clinging to Ford's hips -- it's lewd, debauched, and so horribly sweet that it makes Ford's chest hurt. 

Stan gasps raggedly when Ford pulls him off. "I was go-gonna...I mean you can--"

Ford kneels down to kiss him, tasting stale cigarettes and himself, cock throbbing over the rough state of Stan's voice. "Not done yet," he manages, before tugging Stan onto his feet. 

They lose clothes and time on the journey upstairs, tripping over the steps and Ford's discarded pants, and stumbling into his wreck of a room. If Stan notices the state of things, he doesn't comment, mouth latched onto Ford's shoulder and hands all over his back and hips. 

The back of Ford's legs hit the bed and he sits hard on the mattress. Stan doesn't hesitate to crawl up into his lap. He'd lost his boots in the kitchen and his jeans and boxers somewhere on the way to the stairs, giving him ample opportunity to rub his bare cock against Ford's. 

Cursing, Ford rolls his hips and only belatedly remembers to reach up and tug the hideous red coat off of Stan's shoulders. 

"Oh, fuck, hold on. I think I have another one," Stan says, panting softly as he digs into the pockets of his coat. Ford takes the opportunity to run his hands across Stan's thighs and ass, squeezing whatever skin he can until Stan makes a triumphant sound and pulls another little packet of lube free. 

Only then does he let Ford toss his jacket aside and tug him further up the bed with him. He doesn't protest when Ford takes the packet from him, lowering his head to work open mouth kisses up Ford's throat instead, and he rolls his hips distractingly while Ford fights to get the damnable thing open. He ignores the snickering against his skin in the process. 

It stops anyway, hitching into something warm and startled when Ford sinks two slick fingers into him. 

"Oh, fuck," Stan breaths, reaching up to grab Ford by the shoulder, holding himself steady. "Y-You know you don't have to do that, right? Pretty loosened up already."

He is, to be fair. His hole is still soft and loose and fucked open. But Ford enjoys petting his fingers against the tender muscle and stroking them inside anyway. He likes watching Stan bite his lip and push himself back onto his hand. When he slides a third in after the first two, Stan's thighs tremble on either side of his own, and he makes a low, throaty sound. 

When Ford curls his fingers just right, Stan yells and grips his shoulder hard enough to hurt, and it makes warm satisfaction curl in his middle. So he does it a few more times, alternating between spreading his fingers and rubbing the tips against Stan's prostate until he's squirming in his lap. 

"I-I'm gonna come if you don't knock that sh-shit off," he gasps, slumping a bit when Ford chuckles and slides his fingers out. 

"I think I'd like that," Ford says, squeezing his slick fingers against Stan's thigh. 

He snorts and straightens back up, finding the discarded lube packet to squirt the remainder onto Ford's cock. "Yeah, I bet you fucking would," Stan agrees, but there's no malice in his voice, just warm amusement. 

His fist is warm and wonderful when it curls around Ford's cock, spreading lube, and then Ford is being held steady, Stan adjusts himself on his scuffed knees, and there's nothing else to do but hold on as Stan lowers himself into his lap. 

It feels as good as it had earlier to be inside of him, and Ford squeezes the thigh under his hand tightly, fighting against the need to buck his hips. Stan is panting softly, his head tilted back and a pretty, pink color is crawling up from under his t-shirt to flood his neck and face. 

Ford groans and leans forward, finding a nipple through his thin shirt to get his teeth and tongue against.

"F-Ford!" Stan gasps, fumbling the hand not clawing at his shoulder up into his hair, and Ford sucks hard on the firm nub,  rubbing spit-soaked cotton against it with his tongue until Stan rocks in his lap. 

Fuck, he likes that, the way his name sounds in Stan's voice, especially warm and rough after fucking his throat earlier. 

He squeezes Stan's thigh and his hip, giving him a little tug, and that's all the encouragement Stan needs before he's bouncing on his cock. Ford has that thought again -- that Stan was meant to be filled by him, that they're a perfectly matched set. But it isn't just feeling good and hot while Stan fucks himself in his lap. It's feeling like he's been missing something and he finally has it, like he's finally complete again. 

He's missed this, Ford realizes. 

Not the fucking his brother part. He'd fantasized about that for years but it still feels like a dream that it's happening, like something that's too good to be true. 

But being able to put his arms around him? To be this close to him again? 

Ford rocks his hips up, hard, and Stan says his name. He wraps his fingers around Stan's cock, and he gasps his name. He bites the same swollen, pink nipple through his shirt, and Stan shouts his name. 

He snaps his hips up to meet him a few more times and rubs the sensitive glans under the head of Stan's cock, and then there are teeth digging into his other shoulder and his fist and stomach are being striped in Stan's come while he shudders and jerks overtop of him. 

Stan goes easily when Ford rolls them over and pins one of his wrists to the bed. And despite the way he squirms and how his spent cock twitches and leaks, blatantly overstimulated, he hooks his ankles behind Ford's back and urges him on. 

"C-C'mon, give it to me. Fuck, just like that, Sixer!" 

The nickname hits him with all the subtlety of a truck and all the heat of a volcanic eruption. 

He doesn't even remember coming so much as he remembers every synapses in his brain trying to fire at once. Coming back down to reality is a little clearer, with his head spinning and pulse racing as he flops onto his back, but it still takes several long minutes before he feels fully cognizant again. 

Something makes the bed shift, and he looks over to see that Stan has rolled onto his stomach. Ford wonders if he looks half as fucked out as Stan does, with bruises blossoming across his body, his shirt rucked halfway up his stomach, and come staining his ass and thighs. Ford realizes Stan still has his socks on, and he can't figure out why that makes something twinge, hot but exhausted and halfhearted, in his gut. 

"Gonna...gonna get up in a minute," Stan says, his voice slurring and his eyes already closed. Ford watches him rub his cheek against one of Ford's pillows, and the soft sound of snoring follows soon after. 

The reality of the situation starts to settle in shortly after that, and Ford stares wide eyed up at the ceiling as if he'll find some sort of answers there. Unsurprisingly, there are no secrets etched overhead for how to reckon with the fact that he had just fucked his brother, twice, while the fate of the world was still very much hanging in the balance between his fraying sanity and Bill's looming threat. 

".....Fuck," Ford murmurs.

When the adrenaline finishes seeping out of his system, Ford expects to crash. The exhaustion certainly climbs back into his bones, but he's surprised to find himself still clear headed. Focused. 

The sound of Stan sleeping soundly beside him is as soothing as it is mocking, but he doesn't want to separate himself from it even though he knows he needs to get up. There's soft, gray light starting to creep in through the windows, and distant birdsong calling for the start of the day. He needs to readjust, to come up with a new plan, find some way to explain to Stan what's going on so they can buy themselves a little more time. 

Against all odds and his better judgment, there's a tiny, optimistic voice in the back of his head reminding him that there's strength in numbers. He isn't surprised that it sounds like Stan.

[hogwartsstudentconfidential]

Dear Students,

Miss me? It's been awhile hasn't it. I've been building up the gossip as well as the announcements, thanks to all of the messages I've received from you all. Suck it Quibbler, bet nobody dms you.

Anywho let's get into our announcements for the week as well as congratulate Gryffindor on their win in quidditch this past weekend, as well as a big good luck to Ravenclaw when they go against Slytherin next week.

Of course in good Hogwarts fashion, Gryffindor will be hosting a celebratory party in the common room this weekend, all are invited so make sure to dress up and let the drama unfold ;).

On another note I have been alerted about a surprise exam professor Sprout is planning on assigning her students so make sure to study, but only after the party of course.

As everyone knows winter season is approaching quickly which means Madame Pomfrey will be packed with sick students. The woman is already stressed enough with you reckless gits so please wash your hands and cover your mouths this year.

Now onto everybody's favorite part of this newspaper, the gossip:

Onto relationships, Congratulations to Pandora Rosier and Lucius Malfoy on their new relationship, the two are very cute together. However, has anyone else noticed the amount of flirting Lucius Malfoy does with other girls? If I were Pandora I’d keep an eye on my man.

Now the amount of messages I've received about Emmeline and Mary being, and I quite “SO gay for each other” is honestly insane. I mean, it's so obvious to everyone but them they're in love. Did you see the way they were whispering and giggling to each other at the firework show? Mary couldn't keep her eyes off the girl.

Now onto James Potter. The star quidditch player and prankster is well known around Hogwarts of course as well as his beautiful girlfriend Hestia. However a little Birdy has told me the loving boyfriend might not be so loyal. A lot of people have been suspecting the boy is in love with another. He disappeared the night of the fireworks to go get “snacks” by himself, refusing company and the only other person missing besides himself was none other than Regulus Black.

I have even received an interesting direct message for Mr Potter I will send out after this of course.

I've also been alerted of a possible tension growing between Marlene and Hestia, my supplier lacked on what type of tension so you take your pick. Do you think it's romantic or are the two girls about to give Hogwarts the best fight of the century? Let me know what you think.

Now back to Pandora, it seems as though she's made an enemy? The girl was recently questioned about a kiss between her and Xenophilus Lovegood. The girl immediately denied the rumor, her own boyfriend standing up for her, but he wasn't the only one. Xenophilus Lovegood also stood up for the girl, I suppose he is her friend but could there be something more? Lucius himself has even spoken of concern for where the girl's heart lies. Could a love triangle be brewing?

Onto some more exciting news, James Potter is handing out invitations for his mother's Christmas ball. This wonderful event is sure to be nothing but magical so if you receive an invite consider yourself lucky.

Oh and Remus Lupin's middle name is John.

Now before I sign out I’d like to say a little something. The Quibbler may be fun for little facts about creatures but it's hardly anything if the spelling is incorrect. Xenophilus Lovegood, it's best if you check your spelling and check it twice.

Thank you for reading this week's copy of Hogwarts Confidential and I will see you all next time. 💋

@emmelineandhervans @wormy-loves-ch33se @james-the-amazing-potter @marls-mckinn0n @andromedashoax @little-king-official @severusprince-snape @the-queen-bellatrix @thehotteststarr @lifeofthe-barty @mary-mcdeal @looneymoonyy @lilyevansoffical @xeno-graphical @pandoras-nox @oxxen--free @cas-not-the-band @flowers-of-narcissus @alicethekindone @malfoy-lu @mystical-magical-me @hjonesworld

[gamarancianne]

Azriel x reader - In Between, part IV

Summary: waking up, you realise Lucien was completely right: the man sleeping beside you is an abuser. But how will you escape him and why does this shadow seem to be belonging with you ?

Warning: angst, lots of angst, mention of SA attempt, fight, mention of blood, kinda fluff if you squint, so much sweet Azzy you could die, but also threatening scary Azzy, nightmares, not proofread sorry, my English of course.

Note: again I wholeheartedly apologise for the late posting. I’m so so so happy to get back !!! Here I met 4 there surely will be a part 5 and maybe a part 6 or an epilogue. But for this one, I’m not really sure I like about how it turned out. Let me know in the comments I love when you have something to say ! Just remember to be nice and polite please ! 🙏🏻 love you all ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Part I, part II, part III

The morning came quickly. Too quick for your liking. The second you opened your eyes, Aaron’s mouth was on you. You tried to push him back but seeing his face you understood that you were in a very bad position : his eyes were full of lust and hunger and they didn’t seem to have anything stopping them.

Panic flooded in your veins and grabbing the sheets to have something covering you, you ran away from your bedroom. He followed you closely, screaming, and yelling that you were such an ungrateful slut, whom he had been too nice to wait for and that if you wanted it or not, he would take you anyway.

Fear had paralysed you and he caught you quickly before pining you roughly to the wall. His hands were on every inch of your skin. It felt disgusting, his mouth leaving saliva behind on the column of your neck, on your collarbone, your chest.

His hands were now dangerously closed to your core, and in a last moment of desperation you kicked him in the balls, pushed him off and ran in your bathroom.

Closing the door, he was already banging against it, screaming like a mad man. He was so strong that the door almost gave in twice. Fear had gripped you and you curled yourself in the corner of your bathtub, crying desperately for a different ending of your life than this.

You didn’t want it to end now : you hadn’t met your mate, your friendship with lucien was on thin ice because of you and you haven’t even apologised. You regretted lots and lots of moments in your possibly missed life : you regretted not being able to see Nyx grow up, to continue your friendship with Feyre and last but not least you regretted not having kissed those beautiful lips that belonged to Azriel… Lucien was so right about you. How could he know you so much when you sign even yourself ? Of course you didn’t want this psycho of male threatening to abuse you, as he exactly said the other day, you still weren’t over Azriel. You still wanted Azriel, you needed him with every bit of your body and soul. They aches for the beautiful male. And now it was too late. The mere thought made you crying even more that you didn’t sense the comforting and cold presence caressing your skin.

Not even minutes later the shoutings suddenly stopped and they transformed into pain, even agony screams.

Big steps were heard behind your door and you didn’t even want to know who they belonged to : you had already accepted your fate. So you closed your eyes and waited for death to come like an old friend. But it never arrived, darkness and emptiness never found you. Strong arms wrapped around your shivering frame with care and attention, and your eyes bursted open when you sensed the familiar feeling of burn scars on your bare skin. Hazel sought for your eye colour with so much more worry than you could ever imagine. His mesmerising and deep eyes went down on your chest and shot up immediately with some light pink crawling under them : the sheet had managed to slide off your shoulder and it didn’t cover you enough anymore. Ashamed you quickly out your hands to cover yourself a bit and draped the fabric better on your skin.

As Azriel walked out of your bathroom, you saw Aaron, hurt and unconscious lying on the floor of your apartment. He was in a bad state : blood coated his bruising face and you caught sight of two teeth or three inches away.

No words came out from Azriel’s mouth as he took off for the House of Winds and when he arrived. Even when Cassian and Rhysand came to him completely confused and panicked at your appearance. But he seemed to throw some orders at Rhys in his mind and definitely sent a warning glare to the long-haired man newt to him.

He brought to a room, a big dark one but still full of light. You were delicately put on a silky enormous mattress and given a fresh glass of water. Still no one spoke a word and you didn’t even register when you started to fall in Morpheus arms.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Sweat covered your body and a deep frown adorned your face when Azriel came back in his room to check on you. You were moving and kicking in your sleep letting fearful pleas and whines out of your presses mouth. Azriel ran to you trying to wake you up. He knew better than to let you in the horrible trap that can be your own fears all grouped in nightmares.

Tears stained your cheeks as your body went still and as your worst scenario faded away to leave room to the reality happening before you. Azriel was watching you closely, his hand caressing your still trembling frame and his voice shushing you. The sobs couldn’t stop and you wrapped tightly your arms around his broad shoulders. Azriel never stopped your embrace and whispered :

“I’m here now, everything’s fine. You’re not in danger anymore, you are here with me and everything will be alright”

Rocking back and forth you calmed down a bit before responding.

“I thought.. I thought I was going to- to…

-I know. But nothing will happen now, he will never be able to even lay a finger on you.”

With a shaky and raspy from all the crying, voice, you asked :

“You promise ? You’re sure ?

-I am and I promise.”

A strange tingling behind your ear and behind his as well marked your promise now forever engraved on your skins.

Since it was the middle of the night, you rapidly fell asleep again, in the comfort and security of Azriel’s arms. He tried not to sleep, but ended up doing so with the exhaustion from the panic and fear he had felt deep in his bones for hours today. You probably wouldn’t even realise, but he had been so scared for you when the shadow came to warn him about what was happening to you. He had run and flown the fastest he could to come find you, knocking off some furniture in his trail. He couldn’t possibly imagine another man laying forcefully his hands on you without your consent : no that was not going to happen, never, not when he was still breathing and his heart still beating.

Sound asleep, you were woken up by the sounds of dishes in the kitchen. What had happened last night slams back into you full force : Aaron and his attempt to … no you didn’t want nor need to think about it. You observed your environment, the dark room of Azriel, minimalist like him : a bed, a closet and some armoires but not much more. Except a mirror, a big mirror, standing in front of the enormous bed you were in. Your mind started to wander to the use of the said mirror just in front of a king-size bed costumed to big Illyrian wings, full of silky sheets so sweet at the touch…No no no ! You couldn’t go there stop that ! Your cheeks and neck heat up instantly. Shaking your head to make these obnoxious thoughts go away, you made your way outside the room and into the kitchen. There he was, beauty and charm both standing before you, making you both breakfast you assumed. He stiffened and turned to look at you when he sensed you. His hazel eyes trailed down your body to your thighs not covered by anything and quickly tuned back to continue what he was doing. You hadn’t noticed but you were wearing a big and loose tee shirt that arrived to the middle of your thighs and a pair of boxers that were far from belonging to you. ‘Oh shoot!’ Embarrassment ran through your whole body of the situation : how could you have not seen that you were wearing his clothes ? But wait… how did you even get into his clothes ? Last time you remembered you were… oh cauldron boil you ! Your cheeks and hid behind your hand at some search of reassurance.

“I tried not to look if that’s what you’re wondering about.

-Thanks, I guess. For that and the rescue and everything actually.

-It’s okay really. About that, how are you doing, do you want to maybe talk about it or not, it’s up to you. I- I don’t want you to think I’m forcing you into something.

-Don’t worry Azriel, I’m okay, at least I guess I am.”

Silence returned and he placed two plates full of eggs, bacon, pancakes and fruits in them, on the counter, which you were seated to on a stool.

You ate in silence, enjoying a good meal after a whole day being asleep without eating.

“Who was he ? Azriel asked at of nowhere.

-What ?

-Who was he ? And why was he in your apartment ?

-His name is Aaron, I’ve seen him a lot these past few weeks. He slept at mine the night before.

-Like a date ?

-Yes like a date. And no I’m not going to tell you details of our night. But the morning came and just as I woke he was on me and I couldn’t do anything. And by the way, how did you even know I was in danger ?

-One of my shadow stayed with you after babysitting Nyx, despite me trying to get it back, and it came to me to warn me when you were in your bathroom.

-Where is he now ?”

Azriel’s look darkened and he didn’t answer you.

“Az, where is he now ? You repeated your question, articulating each word.

-You don’t want to know. He’s being dealt dont worry if that’s what is your concern.

-Oh..-“

As you were about to continue Cassian, followed quickly by Feyre barged in the kitchen. Feyre was the first hugging you.

“I am so so so sorry you had to live that, and I am so sorry I wasn’t there to help you.”

She had tears in her eyes and still hoped that this was all a bad joke, that it never happened to you. Cassian was a close second to swim you in his arms for a big bear hug.

“Don’t worry, with Rhys and Az we’re examining all the possibilities to make the bastard regret what he’s done to you.

-Thanks to you both.

-Yn, are you alright ? Feyre asked.

-Yeah I am, just feeling a bit empty but I am.”

You smiled at he worried face to prove what you were saying.

“Don’t hesitate to ask any of us, if you need anything.

-Yes I promise, but I don’t need anything for now… Actually, do you know where Lucien is ? And if he-…

-Yes he’s aware, and feeling guilty about it but didn’t want to tell me why. He’s in his room here in the House of Wind because he didn’t to be too far from you in case you needed him.”

You silently thanked her and sent a last thankful look to Azriel as you walked away to find your dear friend.

You don’t even know how much time you spent in front of his door not knowing if you really had the guts to open it. As you put your hand on the doorknob, it opened and a sleep deprived red haired man appeared in front of you, shock adorning his features from seeing you. In a second you were in his arms and booths of you were crying so much that you were soaking each other’s shirt.

“I’m sorry”

You said at the same time.

“No Lu, I am really I am. I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve understood your point of view and should not have treated you the way that I did. You’ve always been so good to me and all I have done is be such a brat to the bestest friend I’ve ever had. I am so so sorry.

-As I am. You are completely forgiven for what you’ve said, even if I can’t say that it didn’t affect me.

-Yes I completely understand and I promis I will make up to you.

-I really am sorry too. I should have stayed and not yelled at you to tell you what I saw. I am sorry about that. I knew this guy was bad. I knew it !

-Yes, you were completely right. Again I apologise.

-Everything is forgotten now. And fortunately because I missed you braiding my hair.”

Cries transformed in laughs and hugs s and kisses from happiness of having finally found again your platonic soulmate.

You spent all day in Lucien’s room telling him about your babysitting week with Nyx and Azriel, about Aaron and what had happened. You avoided the parts where Azriel and you had slept tangled with each other or where you had made a bargain in the middle of the night, curling against him.

You left the House of Wind in the late afternoon with a pained Azriel, whose touch lingered on you a few seconds when he flew you down. The same shadow wrapped around your wrist and another one around your ankle.

You and Lucien has strolled around Velaris for the evening, you had tested out a little pastry shop near the Rainbow and had joked and laughed on the bridge of the Sidra.

You both walked to his flat, a mutual understanding that you didn’t have the strength to go back to yours tonight. Before opening the door, you looked at the night sky, two stars caught your attention, one brighter than the other, that seemed a bit off tonight. Your hand felt drawn to your new tattoo behind your ear and gasped when your fingers made out the pattern now engraved on your skin : two shining stars that seemed orbiting around each others until they reached the other and became one.

“Lu ?

-mmmh yes ?

-I think he’s my mate.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Taglist:

@mirandasidefics @63angel @leeknows-wife @thehighlordishere @annaaaaa88 @starsinyourseyes @oucereeng @wallacewillow0773638 @kalulakunundrum @lilah-asteria @samuelseoswife

[shieldofiron]

Vibe Check

Part 14: Strike First, Strike Hard, No Mercy

Also on Ao3 here and tumblr here

Steve can feel Robin getting bored with him. She’s been braiding some of her bangs together at the center of her forehead like a little tail.

The trouble is Steve just doesn’t know how to stop.

“And obviously, I can’t say anything! Billy’s dad was super awful to him and he’s only out to like three people. I don’t wanna break the gay guy bro code-”

“Gay guy bro code is so the name of a porn,” Robin says, tugging at the little useless thing until it came undone.

“Because I broke the whole like… circle of his trust by kissing him and turning into a creep!” Steve doesn’t even break stride in his pacing for her interruption, and Robin’s dorm was small, so pacing wasn’t easy.

“You’re not a creep, he already said that,” She mumbles.

He flops down next to her on the bed. “But like… even though I know I don’t have a shot. I keep thinking… do I have a shot?”

Robin opens her mouth.

“Because Billy’s really and honestly my best-” Steve cut out when Robin put her hand over his mouth. At least it smelled pleasantly of her shampoo not nasty, like Billy’s hand normally did.

Christ, Steve had missed him.

“There. Jeez. I can finally hear myself think,” Robin says. “Will you please chill out just a little?”

Steve has to think about it but he eventually nods.

“I am loathe to admit it because we did so much work in your ‘get over a straight crush’ twelve step program but…” she sighs, “this could mean you have a shot.”

“You think?”

“I mean, he’s gay. And you’re best friends. Weirdly touchy best friends. Clearly the kiss didn’t completely repulse him.” She nods once, decisively. “I don’t know about this Jason guy but he confided in you and came out to you. That’s huge.”

Steve nods eagerly, opening his mouth again. She quickly clamps her hand down over his mouth again.

“Now what we need to be thinking is not is this possible but how do we make this possible,” Robin shook her head.

Steve pries Robin’s hand free, “ok. How do we do that?”

She stands up with energy, pacing a little, her hair bouncing. Steve is really glad at this moment that Robin’s roommate was always at her boyfrien’s. He sits on Robin’s pink ruffled bedspread, toying nervously with one of the worn edges. Robin hated the thing, because it was a hand-me-down from her big sister, but Steve likes playing with it. Besides, it formed a contrast with the rest of Robin’s decor, and Robin herself. And there was something kind of charming about it. She turns to him, heavily lined eyes widening.

“Yeah?” He sits up straighter.

She slumps. “I’ve got nothing. This is uncharted territory. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I get a vibe from Billy. But I assumed it was latent bisexuality he was going to repress until he developed an ulcer in middle age after you two went on a bros fishing trip.”

Steve’s somach sinks and he deflates into the bed. “Oddly specific.”

“What I mean is this never happens. Normally straight crushes only end in heartbrak.” She shakes her head. “Do you have any idea how rare this is?”

“Obviously not, I only realized about myself like a few weeks ago.”

“Well, it’s a big deal. It also means I have no idea what to do.” She huffs. “I’ve failed you as a gay sensai.”

“No, no, you haven’t. I mean without you I probably would have developed that ulcer.” Steve stands and takes her hands. “You will always be my gay sensai.”

“You’re right. How could I have doubted myself?” She closes her eyes and then opens them, staring into Steve’s very soul. “Sorry, I got lost in the magnitude of it. He’s gay!”

Steve breaks into a giddy grin. “I know.”

“You have a shot.”

“You really think so?”

“Steve, for like two years I thought you and him were all shacked up. What can this Jason guy have that you don’t?” Robin’s blue gaze is so sincere it almost makes Steve want to cry.

“I dunno. He’s pretty hot. He’s like super buff with a great ass, and he’s kind of mouthy, like Billy, so…”

“How did you not know you were bi. It boggles the mind. But anyway, you’re hot stuff too, Mr. Thigh Kappa-”

“Theta Pi-”

“Whatever. Billy just needs a little nudge. You’re gonna be like Brittany and Santana.” Robin’s nodding with herself like she’s agreeing with something.

“Who?”

“Oh my sweet summer child. It’s like… friends to lovers, ok? We just have to show you in a new light,” She waves a hand over Steve’s t-shirt and sweatshorts. “Make him see you as more than a friend.”

“I did kiss him,” Steve reminds her, stepping back a little because the eye contact was getting a bit too much.

“Exactly. We’re off to a great start. Now he knows you’re bi, he’s already seeing you in a new way. The time to strike is now!”

“Okay,” Steve nods, then shakes his head then nods again. “But what if Jason likes him back?”

“Then we hope you’ve already gotten Billy’s attention,” She claps her hands together. “That’s why we need to move fast. Strike while the iron is hot. Billy said he wanted to break Jason and his boyfriend up, right?”

“Right.”

“So I say, you try and get them all out together so you can gague how Jason feels about Billy.” Robin says.

“And the boyfriend too. Maybe it’ll actually work in my favor.”

Robin grins. “Yes, exactly. Phase 1: scope out the enemy. After that we move on to, Phase 2-”

“Seduction.” Steve looks down at his shoes. “Damn, you really are the sensai.”

“I know, I’m like cobra kai over here. What is it? Punch fast, no breaks, no mercy.” Robin’s head is bobbing like a bobblehead. “This can work.”

Steve beams, “this can work.

“Totally. And besides I’m pretty sure making moves on your friends is like actually the gay guy bro code.”

“Wait, really?”

Robin sighs, rolling her eyes dramatically. “This is why I wanted you to go to a gay bar. Hookup culture. You’re basing all your gay knowledge on like… homoerotic moments on Friday Night Lights.”

“But I don’t want to just hook up with him. I wanna like… date him.” Steve looked at his hands. “Like I wanna take him out and bring him flowers.”

She squints at him, “ok, well, you do that to a closeted guy at your own risk, ok?”

“What do you mean?”

She looks at her poster of 1971’s Klute like she’s praying to Jane Fonda to help her though this. “Like you are right that you have to step a little careful. Billy just came out to you and it sounds like you can’t exactly show up with flowers to the frat house without him probably punching you.”

Steve makes a stifled sound. “I wou- the flowers are more of a metaphor. I mean I don’t just want to be a hookup.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve heard many times about how you want to stand in the thunderstorm and let it drown you. And so had everyone else in editing 102.” She nods, pacing a few steps and rubbing her fuzzy green socks into the flat dorm carpet.

Steve squirms a little, turning away and looking sightlessly at the things on Robin’s desk. “No, that wasn’t about Billy-”

“Shh… a plan is forming.” He looks, and she’s holding a hand up. “How did you and Nancy start dating?”

“I flirted with her at a few parties, and we hooked up. And then I put on my charm,” Steve starts, jolting when Robin grabs his arm.

“And Heidi from Winter’s lecture? Didn’t you say you dated?”

Steve scratches his temple. “We hooked up when a couple of us went to see In the Mood for Love. And then we started texting, and I put on the charm… but, I-”

“Exactly. Ok. Ok. Here’s the plan.” Robin tugs on his arm until they’re both flopped on the bed. “You agree to help with the Jason thing, scope everything out. And then while we’re there, just… like make out with someone. With Jason if you can.”

“What? In front of Billy?”

“Yes, Grandma. Listen. I’ll be there, I’ll watch Billy’s reaction. But it will do two things. First, Billy’s gonna see that you’re open to hooking up. So the kiss won’t seem so much like a repressed love confession.”

Steve can only shrug, because it totally was.

“And then you can start hooking up with Billy,” She smiles, even as she’s digging her blue fingernails into his arm.

Steve’s face is getting hot and his stomach flip flops. “But I don’t want him to get the-”

“Wrong idea, I know. But if you start with the lovey dovey confession and Jason’s around he’ll fully freak and think you both have to like come out to the house and be together right away. How do you think he’s gonna react to that?”

“Ok, that’s fair.” Steve wasn’t sure if he wanted to hope but his heart rose in his chest regardless.

“Once you’re hooking up you can just slowwwwly put on the charm. Ease him into it,” Robin circles a hand in the air. “And then you can find out the best ways to sneak around, and figure it out and then oopsie it’s been months and Jason? Who’s that?”

Steve bites his lip, nodding slightly.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Just nervous. What if Billy doesn’t fall for my charm? He knows what it looks like.”

“Duh. You dazzle him with your dick, Steve.”

“But I’ve never hooked up with a guy!” Steve cries.

“That’s why a friend would be a perfect first hook up. Trust me. He won’t know what’s happening. You’ll be like I dunno how teach me how to give a blowjob. We’ll distract him with your wiles,” She flings her arm towards Steve’s body with all the enthusiasm as if she was pointing at a dead spider.

Steve kneeded his lip between his teeth. He should take more time to think it through. But his head swirled with ‘what if’s,’ while his heart was storming with wild runaway wishes and hopes. He could turn hooking up into a relationship. He knew he could.

But the stakes had just never been so high before.

Robin nods like she can read his mind. It always feels like she can. “Ask him to go out. Baby steps. And don’t worry, your gay sensai will be with you every step of the way.”

[skzficstapes]

track 01: ghost of you by 5sos

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the floorboards. You sat on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders, staring blankly at the cup of tea in your hands. It had gone cold long ago, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Chan’s absence was a weight that never lifted, a ghost that lingered in every corner of the life you once shared. The apartment still smelled faintly of him—his cologne, the detergent he insisted on using because it "smelled like home." Even months later, you couldn’t bring yourself to change much. His jacket still hung by the door. His favorite mug sat untouched in the kitchen.

And yet, despite your efforts to preserve his memory, you knew it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever bring him back.

A knock at the door broke the silence, startling you. For a moment, you didn’t move, as if ignoring it would make the world leave you alone. But the knocking came again, more insistent this time.

You sighed, setting the tea down and shuffling to the door. When you opened it, Jisung stood there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, snowflakes dusting his dark hair.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft.

“Hey,” you replied, stepping aside to let him in.

He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, shaking the snow off his coat and toeing off his boots. He’d been coming around a lot lately—bringing groceries, fixing little things around the apartment, keeping you company even when you didn’t ask for it. He was Chan’s best friend, and now, in his absence, he seemed determined to fill the void.

You appreciated it. You did. But it also made things more complicated.

“You didn’t have to come,” you said, closing the door behind him.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said simply, his tone more matter-of-fact than accusatory. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the rack beside Chan’s. The sight of them together, one belonging to the past and one to the present, made your chest tighten.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I just... wanted to check on you.”

You nodded, retreating to the couch. He followed, sitting down beside you but keeping a careful distance.

“How are you holding up?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, though the crack in your voice betrayed the lie.

Jisung sighed, leaning back against the couch. “You don’t have to say that, you know. Not with me.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on the cold tea on the table.

“It’s okay to not be okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You closed your eyes, willing the tears to stay at bay. “I miss him,” you admitted, your voice shaking.

“I know,” Jisung said.

You looked at him then, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undid you. He missed Chan too, you knew that. They’d been inseparable, practically brothers. Losing him had shattered Jisung in his own way, and yet he was here, trying to hold you together when he was still piecing himself back.

“Sometimes I feel like he’s still here,” you said, your voice barely audible. “Like if I turn around, I’ll see him standing there, smiling like nothing’s wrong.”

Jisung swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I feel that way too,” he admitted. “It’s like... he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.”

Silence settled between you, heavy with the weight of shared grief.

“I don’t know how to move on,” you said after a while, your voice trembling. “I don’t even know if I want to.”

Jisung shifted closer, his hand hovering near yours before he pulled it back. “You don’t have to move on,” he said softly. “Not in the way people think. You can carry him with you. It doesn’t mean you’re letting go. It just means... you’re finding a way to keep living.”

His words hit something deep inside you, something you’d been avoiding. You turned to look at him, and for the first time, you really saw him—not just as Chan’s best friend, but as someone who was trying to navigate this loss just like you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking.

“I know,” he said. And then, after a beat, “Me too.”

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air charged with something you couldn’t quite name. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fleeting second before he quickly looked away, guilt flashing across his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling back.

“Jisung...” you began, but you didn’t know what to say.

He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “I should go,” he said, his voice tight.

“Wait,” you said, standing as well.

He paused, his back to you, his shoulders tense.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

He turned slowly, his eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice laced with both hope and hesitation.

You nodded, though your chest felt like it might cave in. “Stay.”

He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, his hand reaching out to brush against yours. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a brief, reckless moment, you wondered what it would feel like to close the distance completely.

But then the guilt hit you like a tidal wave, and you pulled your hand away.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears welling up again. “I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, his own eyes glistening. “I get it. I do.”

The tension between you was unbearable, a mix of longing and guilt and something you couldn’t name.

“I’ll stay,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his eyes. “But only as long as you need me to.”

You nodded, the tears spilling over as he pulled you into a hug. You clung to him, the warmth of his embrace both a comfort and a reminder of what you’d lost.

And as the night stretched on, you stayed there, tangled in a web of grief and love and the haunting presence of the one who was no longer there. The ghost of Chan lingered between you, a silent witness to the connection you and Jisung were too afraid to fully acknowledge.

For now, it was enough. But you both knew it couldn’t stay that way forever.

[aruanimess]

Once again, I make my grand return.. somewhat? Anyway - hi, again! I've got more to ramble about silly concepts for the Reverse AU. (I have multiple random points, which are more or less just.. cool segments that I have painted into my head, but hard to describe properly.) ALSO THIS IS GOING TO BE LONGER THAN USUAL, SO I AM SO SORRY!

Firstly, I wanted to discuss how during S4 of AOT, we see the previous Titan Shifters watching the Warriors train, talking with them and participating in some battles. Which made me ponder on the possibility of the current Marley Shifters that we know, if they possibly had interactions, discussions, (or even went to war) - with the previous inheritors? I say this, because I really do like the thought of Armin talking to one of these Warriors - (Let's call her, Nadia), and she walks with Armin on certain days around the port, to observe the ocean peacefully, despite the horrific world they both live in. (Could also be another reason while he enjoys viewing the ocean and misses the sight of it once stuck behind those Walls. Plus, I also see Nadia being a big part of his life, taking the role of a Guardian, assuming if his Family had been sent to Paradis). So, once he inherits the Titan within Evangeline, he'll visit the ocean on small occasions, holding onto the hope that Evangeline is still somehow with him, guiding him.

Next, is to do with Armin & Reiner's friendship, because it'll get somewhat wild! If we lean into the concept of the Warriors in wars before they got the chance to list who'd inherit what Titan, then I do believe their trust and friendship would blossom from there, despite Reiner being a nuisance at times to Armin. Throughout the story, we can say that Reiner does really care about Armin, helping him throughout training on Paradis, protecting him from the dangers and so on. Some may not quite agree with me on this, but I stand with the idea that I can totally see Armin taking multiple thunder-spears to the face, protecting Reiner in S3. (It's the same way of how Eren couldn't bring himself to turn into a Titan and fight Annie, because they were friends, etc.) Armin cares so much about Reiner, no matter what side they may stand on now, he wants Reiner to stand down and join them, seeing the possibility of change and freedom, seeing with how much had now changed once they arrived here, seeing how much Reiner himself, had changed. Though, what I think might seal the deal that there is no more between them, is with Reiner letting go off Armin. (For a more visual look, I strongly recommend watching Transformers One - But, here's the scene which stuck to me personally and I see both of them in it >> Video >> 1:25 - 2:25)

Now, to finally end it off, with some AruAni! (Only if it is some small crumbs of it.) In S1-EP2 of the show, with how citizens are getting food handed to the people who had to evacuate. I can see Armin sitting up against a wall, all alone, curled up and shaking from what he had just done. He doesn't want to look at the people who's home he had stolen from to serve Marley. During this, he hears footsteps of people coming and going, the murmurs and yelling of others whilst he hugs himself tighter, before hearing quiet footsteps stop beside him. Then a small tap to his shoulder, to which he raises his head to see Annie, for the first time, holding two pieces of bread in her hands. He's unable to speak, admiring the person in front of him through watered eyes, as she crouches down with a blank expression, handing him a piece of bread to which he hesitantly takes it. No words are spoken, only action. As Annie stands up, making her way away from Armin, to which he is still very confused, yet appreciative of the small gesture of kindness of someone who he had most likely ruined the life of.

AND I AM DONE!

All of these rambles, exploring more dynamics, stories and diving deeper into the character's REALLY tempts me to pick up the document with most drafts and finally start writing. But, aha.. what is free time?

Anyway, thank you for sitting down and reading through these long piles of text that I spat out. That's all, for now! - Have a lovely day!

Hello, Rux!! And welcome back!

1. Okay, first of all, I LOVE THIS! Previous titan shifters, and Female Titans in particular, are in general one of my favorite topics ever since I watched s4. 

Now, for Armin specifically, I think it would be very interesting if his relationship with the previous shifter was part of the reason he was chosen. Much like Zeke and Tom Ksaver, maybe they had a bit of a surrogate mother/son dynamic. Only, unlike with Zeke and Ksaver, Armin had no idea he was being groomed for the FT, because it’s usually given to women, so after he gets the titan he has all these conflicting feelings like: “Did you really appreciate me as a person or was it all because I’d be the next in line?” 

Too dramatic? Maybe… but well I’m a drama gremlin so…

2. Haha, I haven’t watched this movie, but I agree that Armin and Reiner would be good friends in this AU. Starting from their years as the “underdog” titan shifters, I think they’d sort of get used to protecting and supporting each other, which is a hard habit to break even if your former bestie is currently your enemy. 

The Reiner/Bertolt/Armin dynamic would probably look like a very different version of RBA than the one in canon. Which really makes me wonder if Bert and Reiner’s feelings for each other could be realized more quickly now that Annie isn’t in the mix. Also, where would Armin be in all this? Would these three have a weird homoerotic codependent friendship?

I’m inclined to say… probably, and it wouldn’t be healthy at all.

3. Damn, this last bit was fire! I honestly have no notes. This is exactly what would have happened! 

Ugh, I love the idea of an Annie, who has known friendship and support in this universe, taking care of her community through direct action 🥹

You should do it!!! Write that thang!!! 

I know how a packed schedule can impact your writing time, but hey no one says write a novel or write it fast, if you actually open this document then you do it for yourself and your enjoyment. There’s no pressure in fun! 

It’s been an absolute joy as always! Have a wonderful [timezone], Rux!!

[choccorin]

oh yeah my class ends at 7 pm tmrw but i might get home at like 8 ... bcus i live two miles away ... and the jeepneys for balic-balic is ALWAYS packed ....

[inkskinned]

one of the things about being an educator is that you hear what parents want their kids to be able to do a lot. they want their kid to be an astronaut or a ballerina or a politician. they want them to get off that damn phone. be better about socializing. stop spending so much time indoors. learn to control their own temper. to just "fucking listen", which means to be obedient.

one of the things i learned in my pedagogy classes is that it's almost always easier to roleplay how you want someone to act. it's almost always easier to explain why a rule exists, rather than simply setting the rule and demanding adherence.

i want my kids to be kind. i want them to ask me what book they should read next, and i want to read that book with them so we can discuss it. i want my kid to be able to tell me hey that hurt my feelings without worrying i'll punish them. i want my kid to be proud of small things and come running up to me to tell me about them. i want them to say "nah, i get why this rule exists, but i get to hate it" and know that i don't need them to be grateful-for-the-roof-overhead while washing the dishes. i want them to teach me things. i want them to say - this isn't safe. i'm calling my mom and getting out of this. i want them to hear me apologize when i do fuck up; and i want them to want to come home.

the other day a parent was telling me she didn't understand why her kid "just got so angry." this woman had flown off the handle at me.

my dad - traditional catholic that he is - resents my sentiment of "gentle parenting". he says they'll grow up spoiled, horrible, pretentious. granola, he spits.

i am going to be kind to them. i am going to set the example, i think. and whatever they choose become in the meantime - i'm going to love them for it.

[grzybjek]

A collage I made for one of the characters from my newest story. His name is Kundel by the way hes an absolute manfail and a menace

[bylrndgm]

JULIE AND THE PHANTOMS (2020) // JULIE E OS FANTASMAS (2011) 1.01 - Wake Up // 1.01 - Enfrentando Fantasmas -> Julie meets the Band.

[robotsandramblings]

me: ok so i've finally finished my rewatch of The Bad Batch Season 3 my brain: ok me: i've literally had nothing else but Bad Batch on my mind and tv screen for the past 5-6 months my brain: yeah me: i have a LONG list of other shows i've been wanting to watch my brain: yeah me: [deep inhale] it's time to take a break from Star Wars and watch other shows! non Star Wars shows! my brain: ok yeah my brain: ...... but what if instead me: no my brain: you rewatched me: nooo my brain: STAR WARS REBELS me: okyesbutnooooooooooooo my brain: dew it

[lesbiantrish]

it genuinely feels like every time im having a major breakdown i am fully invisible to everyone

[kuromi-hoemie]

i had a fun day 2 day ૮˶• ﻌ •˶ა everyone has been so nicey 2 me all day from the minute i left my house earlier ૮ ᴖﻌᴖა ♡⁠

i went to a Retreat for the first time for work earlier 0: and I did SO good for being up since 2am it didn't even feel like it 💀

it was so chill i drove like an hour away but Away from the city so there wasn't rly traffic and the mountains r so pretty 2 drive thru (❁´◡`❁) got some rain n v low clouds and since it's autumn there's all these pretty colors. i took an edible on the way n was just jammin out n enjoying the scenery among the many safe opportunities 2 look

and then at the thing we got 2 do different ice breakers n go on decently long breaks; i got 2 hang in different groups n actually Talk w a bunch of ppl which i never have time for omg. it's nice working at a legal nonprofit, i would NOT want to do this with corporate mfs !! 😹

went around n said hii to the enbies and i ran up a hill that looked a lot smaller than it was, i made it like 80% of the way before my legs were immediately like no girl we're done !! but my brain was like but it's Right There, and i struggled 2 finish the climb but I Did !! ૮ ᴖﻌᴖა and i was so so tired i do not remember ever being that winded before 💀 getting down was so much slower n worse bc my legs were Done and when i finally made it to the bottom i laid flat on my back for like 15m, and when when i made it back to sit n chill i still need like 10 more minutes akskska. i do not b exercising !! i just wanted 2 play it looked fun and i got excited (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠)

in between things i was working on my sister's choker n kept winding up w a group of ppl around me 2 talk to about it and just talk 2 in general n the company was rly nice (❁´◡`❁) ♡ had a lot of different kinda talks 2day!! everyone is a sweetie!! some ppl r so funny n chill and i rly hope 2 get 2 talk more casually w people perhaps As Friends when i go in 👉👈

there's one girl in particular who is rly cute n sweet and i want 2 see her again ૮˶• ﻌ •˶ა when I got home finally i had 2 hop on my work laptop real quick 2 look up her name again 2 make sure i didn't forget ☝️😌 we do not work at the same office but hii i am visiting next week 🐇

yippee!!!! ૮ ᴖﻌᴖა !!!

[clarabowmp3]

in other words its my ex-bsf's birthday today and I am in no mood to wish her and idc how petty or immature that makes me

[no-one-hears-me]

I feel sad about a lot of different things rn and it feels kinda helpless