#goodnight (its noon)
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lycorid · 4 months ago
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Sometimes venturing onto the For You side of Twitter sparks joy.
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Based take. Shoujo and Josei are fucking top notch, both in characters and art style (how can you not think they’re beautiful?)
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“Ruined the JJK and MHA fandoms” is WILD. I avoid fandoms for the most part (except perusing tumblr for the occasional fucking thesis women write about character motivations i love you women <3) because they usually suck. Seriously, I kept up with OPM for a bit because it was entertaining but holy shit the subreddit (very much full of men) is literally just… sexy woman. More sexy woman. Memes about artist constantly drawing sexy woman. Memes. Occasional power scaling arguments. Low quality page colorings of the exact same page. There is NOTHING. How the hell can women ruin the fandom when the fandom IS the women?!
It’s the women creating in depth analyses on characters; it’s the women writing fanfiction, creating doujinshis; it’s the women creating fandom centered accounts; it’s the women buying every new merch piece that comes out AND giving free advertising by posting about it online. And then men will go on and rag on women for doing all these things. It’s infuriating.
Longevity of a series is also something these idiots ignore. Seriously, look at Katekyo Hitman Reborn. The manga ended in 2012 and the creator is working on a different series. Katekyo Hitman Reborn still gets regular merch releases. This is a series that ended over a decade ago and still has an incredibly dedicated fanbase of, I wonder who, that regularly spends enough money to keep it consistent. You cannot look me in the eyes and tell me that series is supported mainly by men. I do not care how hard Amano Akira tried to alienate her female fans with her treatment of the female characters you know exactly whos spending the money based on who is constantly getting merch (minus the titular character, because of course he has to be there.)
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Honestly I don’t give a damn that fandom can often be absolute insanity; you get a group of people together and it’s always going to be a shitshow, that isn’t unique to fandom, people just like to pretend it is because as always, there’s an undercurrent of misogyny because people know women carry that shit but they only want to acknowledge it when they can use it to criticize them.
I love that she came for the JJK fandom as well. I’ve been following the series because honestly it is really fucking funny because it is the epitome of shounen tropes. The author literally baked them into the world. Explaining your abilities to the opponent makes them stronger. So this entire series you get giant pages of just white with text explaining every little fucking thing like theres a narrator standing over your shoulder making sure you can’t possibly miss anything on the first read. Fuck dude, I don’t mind exorbitant amounts of text in my manga, but you cannot be serious in pretending that is good writing. There’s a deus ex machina that every character can pull out of their ass called a binding vow. Black flash also falls into this category.
Hell, the latest arc has literally just been flashback after flashback playing during the battle of the characters forming a bunch of plans in preparation for the fight we currently are following. This is genuinely one of my most hated tropes. The characters just get off screen power ups that then get handwaved as “well we showed you the flashback right?” there is NO anticipation, any excitement you feel for the battle is purely manufactured rather than genuine. It’s not “I can’t wait to see how the growth I followed of these characters affects the battle” it’s “wow, what cool ability will they pull out of their ass next?” I hate it I loathe it and it’s even worse with emotional moments. Why couldn’t you write this into the story in the first place? Why are you giving it to me in a shitty flashback?
Maybe I didn’t explain it well enough because I launched into a rant. The reason I hated it so much is because it forced the reader to be an observer rather than an active participant in the manga. Everything is spoonfed to you. You don’t need to reread the chapters over and over to put together the pieces on how, where, and why each action took place, the author does that for you. You don’t see everything from a new perspective when you read it a second time, catching lots of things you may have missed because you’re not allowed to miss anything the author deems important.
I enjoy this manga. There is good things about it. But it is nowhere near the god manga (“kamige” would be the term if it was a visual novel; I don’t know a manga equivalent) men like to pretend it is. It genuinely seems like they think everything being explained every page is good writing.
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Based and succinct.
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Anyway, you shouldn’t restrict yourself from experiencing specific genres because they’re for “the lessers” because that’s actually fucking cringe and maybe you should touch a Josei manga, or even a Shoujo manga. Maybe it’ll open your eyes and you’ll realize, hey, women’s media is actually- oh who the fuck am I kidding just pull the trigger.
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sugar-omi · 6 months ago
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i.... i did it???? i jus fuckin. chose a date n hit register n that was jus... IT??? PLEASE I PROCRASTIONATED FOR NO REASON
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broke-on-books · 17 days ago
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Days since last cried in class: 0
#my bilingualism class is fine and good and great and easy whatever until we get to exams in which case it is hell on earth and the most#stressful thing ever and i break down#its not even that i do bad i got a 100 on the last exam and have a 100 in the class but it is just the most stressful experience ever#this time was less bad then before bc i didnt have a girl coughing in my ear and everyone talking DURING THE EXAM but it was still hell#she brought in earplugs and i took a pair of those but jesus christ#i just hate the way she writes them its confusing and shell ask for small details from fucking forever ago#like literally “what does this word mean” in a language i dont fucking speak. ok it was a spanish creole language and that was one of the#examples when we learned abt it but i got my dates mixed up and didnt study that unit and FUCK!!!!!#just supreme talent to make me feel stressed and terrible. and i think she thinks im a stressed test taker now which is not true lol im#great at tests. i only start crying when i dont know the answer lol or feel stupid#which is crazy bc i do good on her tests. just think she has the unconscious talent of writing a test that makes you feel like youre#not doing it right and are going to do horribly as you do incredibly well#or maybe im just crazy#or maybe she needs to stop fucking scheduling her exams the same day as my fucking portuguese exams theres literally 2 of them how did she#go 2 for 2 because it turns my entire morning into a study craze with pockets of exam taking and crying#and once i start im raw all day so i end up crying like 3 times before noon#anyways need to get off tumblr im burning time to cram for my port exam in 2hrs hate you all goodnight
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starphobe · 8 months ago
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fh fandom back to wishing death on a fictional teenager for being mentally ill and not learning how to cope with that in a healthy way. what else is new
#do i think klck is correct? no#do i think a fandom full of grown adults should stop holding this (manipulated) (not sound of mind) teenager to wack standards? ya#like.... some of you are... how do i say this.... ~projecting~#and dont get me wrong this isnt me trying to say shes some kind of innocent misunderstood blorbo 🥺🥺🥺#i think shes a freak and a cunt. but im going to be normal about it and NOT say that she deserves to be killed (????)#pre-overtaking she was clearly aware that her behavior wasn't healthy#the fact she even went to jawbone at all (and was honest with him!) proves that imo#personally i feel like she might be neurodivergent -> struggling with knowing which rules to break and which ones to not#we literally JUST had an episode where the principal of AAA told students to their face that studying and working hard is dumb#i think kipperlilly came to aguefort. couldn't get a grip on what they Actually wanted from her#(parents went to mumple. she couldnt have been prepared for aguefort)#and out of frustration she fixated on people who were doing well and compared herself to them#and the only major surface difference she could find? tragic backstories#it only makes sense that she'd assume that THAT is what was missing. her inability to adapt to AAA was out of her control#so instead of blaming smth abstract (neurodivergence/other mental illness)#this single. concrete. and obvious difference is way easier to latch on to#but yeah. imo she just reads as someone super neurodivergent who received No Help because she 'made do'#and when thrown into a situation that required a skillset she wasn't born with. she shut down and got defensive#noone is born wanting to die yadda yadda#i think it's very interesting that when jawbone turned the question around on her (asking what SHE could do to get better)#she got quiet and awkward#its almost like she was trying her best? and just couldn't figure out where to go next?#and OH would you look at that. jace offering her a trip to the mountains of chaos. for a ~super dangerous adventure~#🙄#anyway.#awfully convenient. isn't it.#this has been me. having takes on ms goldendoodle shibainu#goodnight everyone (its noon)#not tagging this out of fear of the *** stans out there who will not stop taking things personally
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yeba · 1 year ago
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just wanted to say I'm sorry for minimally maintaining this blog (and the others), I want to but my energy has been nonexistent
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lazaruspiss · 1 year ago
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gk caregiver/little au... hm... ignoring tim for now. will figure that out later. jason: little, babs: caregiver, dick: switches. thank u and goodnight
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talkorsomething · 3 months ago
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Auditions went soooooo much better than last year & i probably only Minorly embarrased myself (so i say before i get to thinking......)
Dues went up, albiet not by too much. Or, i don't think by too much... i forgot how much it was last year. All in all, still pretty affordable! And our show *song* if not the theme (i do have my reserves about the proposed props) absolutely fucks. It's SO good & i'm so excited for it already
............ welllllll,
not without some reserves, obviously. I still feel like.... unconsciously excluded from the rest of the group. It's partially because of who i hang out with (why do they not talk to the others???? I love All the group :( ) and partially because .... idk i guess i give others too much personal space. And, obviously, new people! That's part of the guard ecperience that no two years are the same, but the amount we had laat year was like .... sooooo much already. Impossible to hang out with Everybody. But maybe i'll be more integrated this year, we'll see.
All i have to worry about now is my consult. I think if this time I can find people (???) to do the fundraisers, then i can pull off my crazy-stupid top surgery AND guard While Closeted (!) plan. So long as the consult doesn't mean i need to pay anything day-of.... eep. Things have been a bit TOO smooth sailing* so far, so i think there might be something. Or maybe we won't be able to park anywhere idk.
*aside from the Incident
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terminallyapologetic · 8 months ago
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I have got NO ENERGY RN I am a SLEEPY BOY atm
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hatefruit · 1 year ago
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okay … okay 😃
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valentinaagarcia · 4 months ago
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twisted wonderland characters as things i've heard in the locker room.. pt.2
(bet yall werent expecting this😈 anyways yes i am on the boys team because there was no girls team and it is NOT like k drama)
("yuu" is what i responded to what i heard)
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floyd: back up against the wall and bend over
jamil: WHAT
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(for context they were doing tigress poses from kung fu panda🔥)
kalim: ching li chong lang
riddle: okay that's just racist, you can't say that when there are people of color in the room man
yuu: why are you all looking at me im not chinese???
ace: why are you assuming it's chinese? racist.
yuu: oh so that's how it's gonna be? kill yourself.
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jack: okay guys we actually need a strategy to win this match
floyd: coach send me a dick pic
everyone: HE WHAT?!?
(coach meant to send that to his wife and we had an assistant coach for the entire week because he couldn't face any of us😭)
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jamil: you all go assault eachother with balls, i'm out.
ace: lowkey bet, deuce come over here buddy
deuce: in public??
epel: for free??
jack: why is nobody questioning that they've done this before?
leona: how do you know they've done this before huh?
jack: hm.
ruggie: .... HOW DO YOU KNOW???
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kalim: yuu..so you know that girl that i was talking about?
yuu: yeah whats up?
kalim: so last weekend i saw her at a gathering...
yuu: ohhkaayy.??? so did you talk to her
kalim: ask me what type of gathering it was.
yuu: ...????what type of gathering was it?
kalim: a family gathering.
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yuu: yo whats going on i really gotta piss why are you all hogging the toilet?
lilia: they all shared ace's pocket pussy but noone cleaned it
yuu: okay what the fuck.
lilia: yeah, they used eachothers semen as natural lube
yuu: i didnt ask you to continue.
lilia: they might have some sort of penis disease
yuu: why didn't i become a cheerleader.
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jack: okay guys cant we just be a normal football team PLEASE
jamil: i am tired of trying to play footbal only to get fingers shoved up my ass.
vil: you've gotten fingers shoved up your ass?
jamil: look i know your new to the team but.. you haven't? ace, floyd.. are you going easy on the rookies
floyd: nah i broke into his house yesterday
ace: yeah and i hit up his girlfriend
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cater: yo i heard rumors that yuu used to be a man
trey: no way? YUU
yuu: what?
trey: did you have a penis before?
yuu: no but if i did it would for sure be bigger than yours
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ace: bruh sometimes i forget that yuu has a coinslot
jack: ace shut up.
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yuu: bruh sometimes i forget that ace has a penis
ace: i said i'm sorry, your just so masc..
yuu: i will hit you.
jack: yeah its not her fault that she's buff! its okay to have insecurities yuu-
yuu: die
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floyd: i mightve just snorted fiberglass guys
jade: oh
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rook: people with homophobia are so pretty
epel: isn't it heterophobia?
vil: its fucking heterochromia
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deuce: yuu.. this might be shocking but your the only girl that i can talk to without stuttering with
yuu: not shocking at all.
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jamil: what the? WHY THE HELL IS THE WATER FROZEN?! FLOYD
floyd: wasnt me!
jamil: ACE??
ace: dont look at me
jack: jamil calm down i froze them so the water after training could be colder but it didnt melt fast, sorry
jamil: oh no worries man
floyd & ace: THE FAVORITISM???
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lilia: look at malleus.. poor guy, cant believe hes goalie
leona: YO malleus!
malleus: hm? *gets fucking knocked out by the ball*
sebek: OH MY GOD.
lilia: goodnight malleus
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throwaway-settings · 2 years ago
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reread "Back" by Anthony Clark and KC Green. it's good, you should check it out
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midnighvtm4ss · 4 months ago
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Omg i absolutely loved rosemary!!! Also the fact it’s based on a Sierra Ferrell song is amazing. That brings me to my request to maybe an Arthur fic based on her song “I Could Drive You Crazy” 🤭🤭🤭 I feel like that song is so Arthur and his darling girl coded
I COULD DRIVE YOU CRAZY
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cw: fluff, hunting, pre-canon, two idiots in love, arthur is crushing so hard it’s actually embarrassing
wc: 3,3k
a/n: the way I SCREAMED when I saw your request anon !! i loove Sierra Ferrell she’s one of the few artists i have constantly on repeat. Sorry I took my sweet time replying but I had to make this piece good. This is a little insight on Arthur and his darling girl pre-relationship dynamic ! Thank you for requesting and I hope you like it <3
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The late noon sun bathed the camp in a cold, bright light, casting the long shadows of the nearby douglas fir trees stretching all around you as it began its slow but steady descent behind the rolling hills of the Tall Trees region as afternoon approached. The smell of woodsmoke and simmering stew filled the air, mixing with the earthy scent of pine and the faint aroma of freshly turned earth. You stood beside Pearson, by the cooking wagon. Your hands busy chopping vegetables while the man stirred the stew pot, his gruff voice occasionally muttering to himself as he adjusted the few seasonings Miss Grimshaw desperately requested to add into his infamous venison stew. Abigail stood nearby, cleaning the dishes used in the morning. Her laughter light as she shared stories about young Jack with you.
“Jack’s been askin’ after you,” Abigail said with a fond smile. “Ever since he learned how to say your name he’s been saying it non stop. Makes me miss the time when the only things he could say was ‘mama’ and random bubbling noises”
“He’s a sweet kid,”
“Yes, and a spoiled one too. No matter how much I try, he refuses to go to sleep until he hears your voice telling him a goodnight story”
You chuckled, feeling a warmth in your chest at the thought of the boy’s eager face. ��I’ll have to think up a good one for him tonight, then.”
The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew your attention away from the conversation. You glanced up just in time to see the men returning from their latest job. Dust and sweat clung to them, their faces weary but carrying the unmistakable look of men who had just succeeded at their mission. Among them, a particular figure caught your eyes. Arthur Morgan dismounted with practiced ease, his broad shoulders slumped slightly by the fatigue of the day’s event. Even from a distance, his presence was commanding, a strong aura following him as he led a tired Boadicea toward the hitching post.
Even from a distance, there was something about Arthur that drew your eye—his quiet strength, the way he moved with precise purpose, his steady presence that always seemed to bring a sense of security to the camp. You watched as he handled the reins, hitching Boadicea and patting her dark brown mane, undoubtedly praising her for a job well done.
Was it possible to be jealous of a horse ?
His gaze briefly scanned the camp before it landed on you. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met, and you felt a flutter in your chest. You quickly returned your attention to a particular interesting piece of tomato you had cut, wishing for your burning cheeks to calm.
“Mister Morgan!” Pearson’s booming voice cut through the air, making you wish the earth would swallow you whole. “We’re runnin’ low on meat. Reckon we’ll last two more days with what little I have.” Pearson’s voice lowering to a more quiet tone as Arthur inched closer to the wagon. “Can you head out and bring somethin’ back before it gets dark?”
Arthur looked over at the stew pot, his face churning with an unreadable expression, then back to Pearson with a nod. “Sure, Pearson. I’ll head out now.”
As he turned to leave, something inside you stirred. You weren’t sure if it was the desire to escape the mundane tasks of camp, to immerse yourself in the unknown beauty of the wilderness or, more than that, the desire for a chance to spend time with Arthur, to learn from him, to be close to him. Nonetheless, before you could second guess your action you placed down your knife, stepping forward, the words hurriedly leaving your lips as in fear you might stop them if they took a second longer to pronounce.
“Mister Morgan,” you called out, your voice a little hesitant. “May I come with you?”
He paused, turning to face you fully. A faint hint of surprise washed over his face. His aqua eyes, always so full of depth and intensity, softened slightly as he considered your request. “You sure ‘bout that? Huntin’ ain’t exactly a walk in the woods.”
“I’d like to learn,” you insisted, your heart beating faster as you met his gaze under his worn gambler’s hat. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a gesture that seemed almost shy. He nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s get goin’.”
It took an immeasurable amount of strength to refrain yourself from smiling brightly at the man in front of you. You promptly returned to your cutting station, untying your apron in quick movements. Abigail came closer to you, taking the apron from your hands and putting it on ready to replace you in your work. As you two locked eyes, a knowing smile adorned the brunette’s face, making you flush.
Your steps were quick as you followed Arthur to the hitching post, your Hungarian half-bred just a few feet away from Boadicea. You gently pat her, giving her a stalk of celery you stole from Pearson. Circling around to tighten the strap of your saddle you felt the heavy gaze of the outlaw follow your every move. His muscular form already mounted on his horse. You mounted your horse, not wanting to trouble Arthur and make him reconsider his decision. He cleared his throat before speaking,
“We’ll go through the woods on the left near the lake,” he stated, tutting at his horse to move forward “Mac told me he found a few deer tracks down there.”
You simply nodded, not trusting your voice to give away your feelings.
The air was cooler than the already crisp air in camp. Beneath the canopy of trees, the sun’s rays filtering through the needles of the pine trees in dappled patterns on the forest floor. The smell of pine and earth was much stronger here, mingling with the fresh scent of moss and the faint musk of animals that had passed through earlier. Arthur led the way, silent and sure, while you followed close behind, too occupied by taking in the view to initiate a conversation.
Passing through a particularly steep path Arthur signaled you to stop. He hopped down from his horse, walking a few feet forward before stopping. You copied his action. The ground beneath your boots was soft, a carpet of moss and pine needles that muted your footsteps.
“First rule of huntin’,” Arthur began, his voice low and steady as he crouched down to examine a set of tracks in the soft dirt, “is patience. Animals can sense when somethin’ ain’t right, so you gotta move slow and stay quiet.”
You nodded, kneeling beside him as you peered at the tracks. They were faint, just a few indentations in the earth, but Arthur pointed them out to you with practiced ease. The proximity of him, the way his voice dropped down on to a near whisper, sent a thrill through you that had little to do with the hunt and everything to do with the outlaw beside you.
“There,” he said, his hand brushing against yours as he pointed. “That’s a deer track. See how the hooves dig in? Means it was here not too long ago. We follow these, and we might just catch up to it.”
His touch was fleeting, but it left a warmth on your skin that lingered long after he pulled his hand away. You nodded again, trying to focus on the task at hand, reprimanding your mind for wandering to such thoughts. But it was difficult with Arthur so close, his presence almost overwhelming in its quiet intensity.
Together, you moved through the woods, following the tracks with Arthur’s guidance. You moved in silence. The woods offered you the calm noises of the rustling of leaves, the distant call of a bird, and the soft crunch of your boots on the forest floor. Every now and then, Arthur would pause, his head tilting slightly as he listened for any signs of movement, his sharp eyes scanning the space surrounding you.
Finally, after what felt like hours to you but was probably only a few minutes, you spotted the deer—a lone buck grazing in a small clearing, its head down, completely unaware of your presence. Arthur’s hand came up in front of you, motioning you to stop and you both knelt down behind a fallen mossy log, using it for cover.
He handed you his rifle, his hands steady as they helped you position it against your shoulder. His touch on you gentle, guiding you with the same care and precision he used in everything he did. You could feel his breath on your neck, making the small hairs on your nape stand up. The brim of his hat grazing your hair as the heat of his body so close to yours made your heart beat so violently that you were sure Arthur could hear it.
“Alright,” Arthur whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in even close. “Here’s where it gets tricky. You gotta stay calm, keep your breathin’ steady, and line up your shot. Don’t rush it. As long as we don’t make a sound the deer will be there. Let the moment come to you.”
“Steady now,” Arthur murmured, his voice low and soothing. You took a deep breath, the crisp air filling your lungs. “Just like that. Breathe in… and out. Always pull the trigger on empty lungs”
You tried to focus, tried to steady your breath as he instructed, but the closeness of him, the deep rumble of his voice in your ear, made it difficult to concentrate. You aimed at the deer, your finger brushing the trigger, but your hands were trembling ever so slightly.
“Breathe,” Arthur reminded you, his hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder grounding you, steadying you from the imminent recoil of the rifle. “You’ve got this.”
You took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest, and then you squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing through the trees.
A second passed where it was deadly silent, you opened your eyes to check on your target but your aim had been off. The bullet whizzed past the deer, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby tree. The deer’s head shot up, and in an instant, it bolted, disappearing into the underbrush before you even had time to lower the rifle.
Your shoulders slumped in disappointment, and you let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Mister Morgan,” you muttered, gloomily handing the rifle back to him.
But Arthur wasn’t upset. Instead, he gave you a reassuring smile, his eyes warm as he shook his head with a strange myrth. “Don’t be sorry. You did good for your first try. Takes time to get the hang of it. Deer’s easy to track but a damn tricky target, especially when you’re just startin’ out.”
His words were kind, but you couldn’t help the sense of failure that settled in your chest. You had wanted to impress him, to show him that you could be just as capable as any of the men in the gang, but instead, you had let the moment slip away making a fool of yourself in front of him. You lowered your gaze to your lap, playing with a stray cotton strand of your blouse.
“Come on,” Arthur said, standing and offering you his hand. “Let’s see if we can track somethin’ else. We’ve still got some daylight left.”
You took his hand, feeling the roughness of his warm calloused palm against yours as he pulled you to your feet. The warmth of his touch, the easy way he smiled at you, made it hard to stay upset for long. There was something about Arthur—something steady and reassuring—that made you feel like everything was going to be alright, even when things didn’t go as planned.
You dusted off your skirt, it definitely wasn’t the best clothing choice for hunting but you had little to no time changing into a more comfortable outfit. You thanked whoever was above that this week wasn’t your turn to wash the camp’s clothes. Karen sure had a great load of work ahead of her.
The two of you mounted back up on your horses and continued deeper into the forest, the trees growing denser as the light began to fade. Arthur was patient, showing you how to look for signs of wildlife, teaching you how to move quietly through the underbrush without making yourself known to the animals you were tracking. His calm demeanor, his quiet confidence, made you feel more at ease, and slowly, you found yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the hunt.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the forest in a soft, amber glow, you spotted something moving in the distance—a wild boar, its dark shape partially hidden by the underbrush as it ate the roots of a bush near a fallen log. You felt a surge of excitement, your heart beating faster as you pointed it out to Arthur.
“There,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you hopped down from your horse. “There’s a boar!”
Arthur followed you down his horse. His eyes followed your gaze as he nodded, his gaze narrowing as he assessed the situation. “That’s a good target. Boar’s got tough skin, but he’s not too fast. You ready to give it another try?”
You nodded, your grip tightening on the rifle as Arthur handed it to you once more. This time, you felt more confident, more focused. Arthur had shown you what to do, had taught you how to read the signs, how to stay calm and patient. You could do this. You needed to do this.
You crouched down behind a bush making sure you had a clear view of the target. Arthur stayed close, his presence a steadying force as you lined up your shot. “Remember,” he said softly, his voice just above a whisper, “breathe slowly, keep your hands steady, and don’t rush it. You’ve got this.”
You took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill your lungs as you focused on the boar. It was still rooting around, completely unaware of you and Arthur watching from the shadows. You steadied the rifle, your finger brushing the trigger, and then, with a calmness you hadn’t felt before, you squeezed.
The shot rang out, sharp and clear in the evening air. This time, your aim was true. The boar let out a sharp squeal, its body jerking as the bullet hit its mark. It staggered for a moment, and then it collapsed, its movements ceasing as it fell to the ground.
For a moment, you just stood there, staring in disbelief. You had done it. You had actually done it.
“I did it,” you whispered, a smile slowly spreading across your face as the realization sank in. “Arthur, I did it!” you said turning to face Arthur. You couldn’t believe yourself. You actually hunted down some game. A laughter came up to you, heartily and genuine.
Arthur’s face lit up with a grin, his eyes shining with pride as he clapped you on the back. “Good girl. Nice work. That’s some fine shootin’.”
His praise warmed you more than the fading sunlight ever could, and you felt a surge of joy and accomplishment. But it wasn’t just about the hunt—it was about the way Arthur was looking at you now, with a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if he was seeing you in a new light.
The two of you approached the poor boar, and Arthur knelt beside it, inspecting your handiwork with a nod of approval. “Perfect shot,” he said, glancing up at you from under his hat with a smile. “Damn, you’re a natural.”
Your heart swelled with pride at his words, and you couldn’t help but brightly beam at him, feeling a warmth in your chest that had little to do with the successful hunt and everything to do with the man beside you.
As Arthur worked skinning the animal and preparing the boar to transport it back to camp, you found yourself stealing glances at him. Although he was now covered in blood you couldn’t help but find him even more attractive. You watched the way the fading light played across his features, highlighting the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his plump lips, the intensity in his eyes that seemed to soften whenever he looked your way. There was something different about the way he was acting around you now, a quiet affection in his gaze, a tenderness in his touch that hadn’t been there before.
Once the boar was ready, the two of you began to head back to camp, the weight of the animal stowed on the back of Boadicea as you carried its pelt. The forest was quiet now, the sun nearly gone, leaving the trees bathed in the soft, dusky indigo light of twilight. As you rode, side by side, you could feel the connection between you and Arthur growing stronger with each step, an unspoken bond that neither of you had to put into words growing evermore.
“Thank you for teaching me, Mister Morgan” you said softly, stopping your horse just a few feet away as the camp came into view, the warm glow of the firelight welcoming you back. The distance giving you both one last moment of privacy. “I’ve always wanted to learn, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at it.”
Arthur glanced over at you, his expression thoughtful. “You don’t need to be so formal with me now, you can call me Arthur,” he started. “Besides, you’ve got a good eye,” he said, his voice sincere. “And you listen, which is more than I can say for most people in this godforsaken gang. You did real good out there.”
The praise made your cheeks warm, and you ducked your head slightly, feeling a little shy under his gaze. “I had a good teacher.”
Arthur shook his head at that, hiding his face under the brim of his hat as he mumbled to himself something you didn’t quite catch.
“Maybe we’ll do this again sometime,” he said, his tone casual but with an underlying amusement that betrayed his carefree tone
“I’d like that,” you replied, your voice soft as the two of you approached camp, the sounds of the gang's usual chatter welcoming you back. “I’d like that a lot.”
As you helped Arthur carry the boar to Pearson, who greeted you with his usual gruffness but a nod of approval, you couldn’t help but feel that something had changed between you and Arthur. There was a new understanding, a deeper connection, something that went beyond the simple companionship you had shared before when you occasionally chatted while you worked on the camp’s chores.
As the evening wore on and the camp settled into its usual rhythm, you found yourself glancing over at Arthur, who was seated by the campfire, his gaze occasionally drifting your way. And each time your eyes met, there was a spark—a shared smile, a lingering look—that hinted at something more.
And in that moment, you knew that this was just the beginning. The beginning of something special, something that neither of you could quite put into words, but that you both felt growing with every passing moment you spent together.
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troublesomesnitch · 6 months ago
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The Devil You Know
Aemond x Septa!Reader - Pt. 2
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Little follow-up to this, but hopefully works OK on its own! There might be a third and final part also.
Contents: Book!Aemond, filth and depravity. Coercion, manipulation, power imbalance, dubious consent, medieval fuckboy Aemond. Just the tip...
Words: 3200
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Full disclosure - possibly a bit unpolished because I wanted to get it done before S2.
-
You left the grand sept just days after your investiture. 
At noon on the first day of the new month, a royal courier came to fetch you, loading your meagre belongings onto a cart to bring both that and yourself to the castle. To your new home and abode: a chamber with one bed, one table and one little chair, one sconce and one seven-pointed star on the wall. Naturally in the servant’s quarters, but on the highest floor, along with the ladies’ maids, far away from the damp cellars and busy kitchens.
The queen’s household is large, and you are somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy; expected to follow orders, but able to give them, too. You are a septa now, a woman grown, and for the first time in all of your life you have no Mother Superior to answer to, no Septon Alester, and no other girls sharing your bedchamber - which is both a blessing and a curse. It is nice and quiet to be by yourself, free of prying eyes and Sister Sybella’s snoring. But no one pays notice when you slip out at night, and if you run into a maid or steward, they naturally assume that you are headed towards Her Grace or Princess Helaena’s chambers. 
Luckily, Prince Aemond’s rooms are in roughly the same direction. 
When others are near, he is perfectly honourable. Really, his performance is quite impressive. Not too eager, not too distant, perfectly measured when he greets you in the halls, or sits with his mother in her solar. But at night, at night he is different. When the hour grows late and the royal family say their goodnights, he will find a chance to strike, to brush past you and squeeze your wrist, or run his fingers over the small of your back to let you know that he wishes to see you. That he wants you to come to him tonight. 
To his chamber, to his bed, to his arms. 
It is a humiliating plight, and you climb the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast with all the enthusiasm of a convict walking to the scaffold. Weighed down by the guilt of your actions, terrified that someone should know. And resentful, of the prince for making you dishonour your vows, and of the gods for cursing you with beauty - had they made you ugly, Prince Aemond would never have spared you a glance, and you would not be in this predicament. You would not be forced to indulge his lusts and endure the liberties he takes with your body. 
But most of all, worst of all, you feel ashamed. Of all the things you do together, and of the fact that you cannot deny it does sometimes bring you pleasure, too. 
You have permitted him to kiss your mouth, your throat, your chest. Wrapped your hands  around his member and stroked it while he fondled your breasts. Let him lie on top of you and rut against you, still fully clothed, pressing hard between your legs until both of you were sweaty and panting. And once, only once, you let him slip his hand up under your skirts and touch you there, and it felt more wonderful than anything else you have ever experienced. So wonderful that you have not allowed him to do it again, for fear that it should corrupt your soul and spirit. That you will always crave it, the warm press of his fingers, and the way your body suddenly shook and tightened with a pleasure so exquisite you could not help but cry out in ecstasy. 
But he has never had you. Never put any part of himself inside you, never even seen your naked body. It is the strangest thing - there are surely many ladies who would give themselves to him, wholly and fully, yet for some reason, he wants only you.
And he does not waste time with any sort of pleasantries. The joys of night are short, and he can only keep you for so long - you must be back in time to rest, and at the very least before the scullions and kitchen maids rise. You have hardly latched the door before he wraps you in his longing arms, laying you on his bed and parting your legs. The sheets are soft against your back, and his leathers are smooth and cool, and you do not protest when he lays on top of you. You have grown used to the feel of his chest against yours, the heaviness of him, and the hard and lean lines of his body, so different from your own. You have grown used to his kisses too. You like it when he pecks gently at your lips, and when he slides his tongue into your mouth and curls it around your own. When he strokes your body in all sorts of ways, to see what darling little noises he can coax from you this time. 
“Have you ever been touched like this before?” he breathes - a silly question, since he knows the answer well enough already. 
“No,” you whisper. “Never.”
“Say it again,” he commands, closing his eye and breathing in deeply, pressing his nose to your sweet-smelling hair. 
“No other man has ever touched me - only you.” 
It arouses him very much, hearing those words, and he groans softly when he takes your hand and guides it down between your bodies. Knowing what he wants you to do, you hike your skirts up, just enough to run your own fingers along the folds of your womanhood and hold them up for him to taste. Which he does with the most fervent passion, sighing as he licks them clean of any trace of you. He has asked many times to be allowed to taste your sweetness from its source, but you have staunchly refused, appalled at the mere suggestion. He should not press his mouth to such a dirty place. He should not lick something that serves only the body’s most revolting and shameful functions. 
Usually, once he has kissed you like this for a while, and pressed and rubbed against you, he will either reach his end from that alone, or he will make you pleasure him with your hands. But not tonight. 
“Let me feel you,” he pants. “Just this once let me put it inside - ”
“It is a sin,” you gasp, mortified, but nonetheless shivering when he pulls at your sleeve, exposing your shoulder to cover it with kisses. 
“As is this,” he whispers. “And this, and this - ”
His mouth is lovely and warm on your skin, and his teeth are gentle when they scrape along your throat, nibbling softly above your neckline, and biting down hard below it. Making your breathing uneven as you struggle to string your words together. 
“But it is different - you know that it is, please don’t make me do it…”
The prince lifts his head to look at you, propped up on his elbow. 
“It is the movements that are the most sinful part of the act - is it not?” he says, cupping your face and stroking your cheek in the tenderest of ways. When you nod, he adds, “and if I were to not perform them, would that not be a lesser sin?”
His tone is innocent enough, but you know that wicked look in his eyes, the self-assured draw of his mouth. He knows that he is right - it is the movements, not the insertion itself that makes the act of coupling so sinful. And if he showed restraint and did not move in any such manner, then you suppose it would be a lesser sin. Although they did not mention such possible circumventions in your training, naturally. And there are other issues, still. 
“But my maidenhead…” you mutter, looking bashfully to the side when the prince touches his nose to yours. 
“I will be gentle,” he breathes. “I will be so very gentle - my angel, my love - let me at least have you this way… ”
It never really is your choice to make. To be alone with the prince is to balance on a precarious ledge - you can deny him some things, but only so long as you can offer something else that might appease him. And though he never makes overt threats, you are painfully aware that displeasing him could have dire consequences. That he could hurt you in a multitude of ways if he so wished. 
You squirm under his gaze, riddled with so many conflicting emotions; fearful of his intentions, yet blushing at the terms of endearment. Who would not want to hear such lovely words from a prince?
“Just this once,” he whispers, his voice soft and amorous. Just this once…
All you give him is the faintest nod, a slight incline of your head, and his hands are already pushing at your skirts, bunching them up over your parted knees. His breath hitches at the sight of your womanhood, your most intimate parts that you have never bared to him before; wet and inviting, framed by soft curls. Lovelier than he had ever even imagined, that rosy colour of your innermost lips, that little pearl you will not let him touch. And most of all your maidenhead, the delicate tissue that partially covers your entrance, and that he will earnestly try not to damage beyond what is necessary. 
For reasons he could not say, you have quite enchanted him. So much so that he has lavished more patience and tenderness on you than ever before on a woman, and that despite seeing so little return on the investment. For weeks he has contented himself with just your hand and your reluctant kisses, the mere feel of your body beneath him. Many times, he could have taken you by force, and many times he wanted to, yet somehow he could not bring himself to do it, could not bear the thought that you should hate him for it. That your delicate limbs should be hurt in trying to fight him off. 
He has waited long for this, and he does not want to give you time to change your mind, so he only quickly shrugs off his doublet and unbuttons his breeches to free his manhood. Which is painfully hard and in dire need of relief.
It still looks so strange to you, that unholy appendage, with its swollen shaft and its fat, fleshy head. Like the poisonous mushrooms that grow in the Kingswood, though you always keep that thought to yourself - you doubt the prince would appreciate such a childish comparison. He strokes it slowly while his other hand disappears between your legs, brushing over your womanhood and spreading your folds to reveal your little opening. Untried, uncharted by anything or anyone. 
You grit your teeth when the tips of his fingers are replaced by - something else. 
Slowly, steadily, he begins to ease himself inside of you, and you feel your muscles instantly and unwittingly tensing up, startled at the sensation. At the pressure, and at the sound the prince makes when the tip of his member is enveloped by your body, the tight rim of your entrance squeezing its sensitive head. The rest of him will not fit, but he spits into his palm and strokes it along his shaft, and that makes things glide a little better, as do your slow, deliberate breaths. 
It hurts, it really does, only not in the way you expected. You do not so much feel like anything is being torn or ripped - rather, you feel stretched, forcibly split apart and opened far beyond what should be possible. Your insides burn from it, and you wince with pain when he adjusts his position, spreading your thighs wider and driving his hips forward. Pressing in until he is fully seated. 
And he moans from how perfect you feel around him. So soft, so tight. His seeing eye closes and his breathing is hoarse, strained from how badly he needs to move, needs to thrust; his arms trembling by the sides of your head as he struggles to hold himself still. It is a bizarre thing to do, you think, just laying together like this, one on top of the other, completely motionless. Your legs raised over his hips, his chin resting against your forehead. His manhood swelling within you, throbbing with need. You can only hope it means that he will finish quickly and release you from this chore, from the searing pain that scorches your core, and the feeling of being so trapped, so tethered. Much like one of the many-legged creatures on Princess Helaena’s wall; splayed out and nailed down, held in place by a foreign object piercing your body. 
But the prince likes it. You have never heard such heavy sighs from him as just now, never seen such utter bliss on his face. His forehead is damp with sweat, his brows drawn together, his upper lip subtly twitching. One of his hands trails up the back of your naked thigh, lifting your leg to curl it around his back, and he moans from that too, as the slight shift gives him a brief feeling of movement. It is not at all comfortable for you, but you are distracted when he seeks your lips, claiming your mouth with slow, deep kisses. His tongue rolls over yours, pulling back to lick along your lip before plunging into your mouth again, over and over, in a strangely repetitive way. A rhythmic way. As if he is making love to your mouth, since he cannot make love to your body. 
It feels lovely, so lovely that it makes your insides twitch. Which in turn makes the prince curse, and a violent shudder run through his body. 
“Do it again,” he moans, and like always you do your best to please him. Clenching your muscles, squeezing tight around him, then releasing again. Very slowly, and each time feeling his breathy gasp against your face, and the thrum of a heartbeat inside of you - whether his or yours, you cannot say. It is painful with your already sore muscles, and it must be a poor excuse for what it is supposed to mimic, but it is still better than nothing, judging by how the prince moans. How he bites his lip and furrows his brow as your insides twitch and contract, so tight and slick and warm. 
How strange to think that now you have become one. Now you are as close as two people can ever be. Closer still when the prince slithers his arm underneath your body, pressing you hard against him and cradling your head. Your fingers are clenched in the damp material of his shirt, and he unfurls them gently to wrap your arms around his neck, around his shoulders; wanting you to hold him, to embrace him as a woman should her lover. 
It makes your discomfort somewhat more bearable, having something to cling and anchor yourself to. The closeness, and the intimacy of it, how his face is right above yours, your noses touching and breaths mingling. He drags his mouth against your own, from side to side, his lips brushing over yours, then over the rest of your face; your chin, your cheekbones, your temples. So, so gently, and like often before, you are stunned that he can be both so cruel and so tender with you. So selfish, and so soft. 
He has had countless chances to force himself on you, yet he never did. Even now he is keeping his promise, holding back, fighting hard to not succumb to that most powerful and natural instinct of a man, this urge to thrust, to copulate. You can feel that he is shivering with the force of his need, gritting his teeth, unable to keep completely still - there is a gentle, almost imperceptible swaying of his body that he cannot help, an impossibly slow rocking with each of his ragged breaths. 
He really is beautiful, you think, with his striking eyes and thick, silvery hair; pink lips parted in a breathy sigh. You could not say what possessed you to be so bold, but you find yourself reaching up to place a wet, lingering kiss underneath his jaw, right on top of the constellation of freckles that adorns his neck, swiping your tongue across it and tasting the sweat of his skin. To an almost immediate effect - at the feeling of your timid caresses, the prince curses loudly, clenching his fingers in the sheets, arching his back - 
“No!” you exclaim, “not inside me, not inside - ”
But it is too late; he has already shuddered once, and his manhood is already pulsing and spurting when he manages to withdraw from you. So stiff that it flops up against his stomach, a grotesque thing to look upon, the way it just hangs there, squirting out semen as he groans and gasps. At the very end of his rapture he grasps it with one hand, stroking it hard all the way from the base to the tip, as though wanting to squeeze out every last bit of fluid. And once he is spent, he rolls off of you and onto his back, completely unceremoniously. Leaving you raw and hurting inside, and with the sticky feeling of his semen trickling out between your thighs. 
“If it catches,” you whisper, afraid to even speak the words. “If I should be with child…”
The prince runs a hand over his face, panting and still too lightheaded to be thinking clearly, because he stupidly tells you that needn’t worry, he will have a tea brought to you -
“No! please no,” you shriek, panicked. “They would know I broke my vows - ”
“Then I will bring it myself,” he snaps, but rather than reassure you, his harsh tone only makes you tear up.
At the sigh of your quivering mouth, his face softens, and he reaches out to pull you into his arms, hold you against his chest, stroke your hair and rock you gently. Say forgive me, forgive me, I quite forgot myself, you mustn’t cry, my love -
“Why must you torment me,” you sob. “Sooner or later someone will know, they will shame me and ruin me - “
“They wouldn’t dare,” he says. “I would not let them - I will cut off any hand that hurts you - “
You press your ear to his chest to drown out the sound of his voice, for he has said these same words many times before, and with the same fervour and poignancy. He adores you, he reveres you, he will cut off any hand that hurts you, any eye that ogles you, any tongue that slanders your name. 
You haven’t the courage to tell him - the only hand that hurts you is his own. 
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Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.
Tags. @ladythornofrivia, @blackswxnn, @hightpwer, @toodlesxcuddles, @arcielee
@targaryen-madness, @qyburnsghost
And thank you @aemondsbabygirl for being a great one-woman focus group!
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reds-skull · 9 months ago
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There’s Something Odd About Sergeant MacTavish
[AO3]
This monster of an oneshot got me in a chokehold the moment I started writing. Had a lot to say about this version of Soap and Ghost, apparently.
Friendship is not on the field manual, he told Johnny a long time ago. No protocols for personal relationships between soldiers, no set procedures for what he asked for, so many months ago.
Despite that, what Ghost and Soap have can’t not be friendship - not with the way they practically spend all their free time glued to each other. Morning, sipping tea and coffee together. Noon, checking in before splitting for their respective duties. Afternoon, lunch and paperwork in Ghost’s office. Evening, relaxing in the 141 common room. Bid each other goodnight, go to sleep, rinse and repeat, ad infinitum.
His routine used to numb him. Same shite, day in, day out, only finding excitement on missions. 
Johnny, in his own annoyingly endearing way, ‘blew it all teh high hell’, as he would gleefully shout after shaking the earth to its very core with an explosion.
And Simon, as much as he puts on a front and complains, wouldn’t have it any other way. Or… no.
Better not be greedy.
His schedule was clear for the rest of the day, something that in the past would’ve irritated him to no end (nothing worse than wasting time). Now, however, it just gives him a chance to trail behind Johnny.
His blue eyes flicker over the training recruits, sharp as ever as they search for weaknesses to correct. Ghost can pinpoint the exact moment he zeroed in on a soldier, his jaw working before he shouts, “Rogers! Put yer arms higher, don’t give ‘em easy access teh yer throat!”.
Soap stomps over to the pair, forcing Rogers’ hands to the right position. His Sergeant makes another round, tapping a boot at the back of another recruit’s knees. Ghost narrows his eyes when he sees the man open his mouth to retort, but the soldier thinks better of it. It may not be his lesson to teach, but Ghost wouldn’t pass an opportunity to put an idiot in his rightful place.
The second half of the recruits, who have been watching and learning from their peers’ mistakes, start talking in hushed voiced among themselves. Ghost doesn’t pay them any mind until Soap’s name comes up.
“There’s something… odd about Sergeant MacTavish.”
“Right?? He’s not this annoying usually.”
Ghost’s lips pull back in a sneer.
“Lieutenant Ghost must be rubbin’ off on him, the bloody bastard”
“Oh, you know they’re doing a whole lot more than just ‘rubbing’-”
Ghost places a hand on both the recruits’ shoulders, making them jump. They both turn their head comically slow to stare up at him, “s-sir, we… we just-” 
“I don’t think you two are training hard enough, if you’re sitting ‘ere chatting like old ladies.” Ghost squeezes their shoulders, a gesture that would almost be comforting if not for his ice-cold tone, “think two weeks at the latrines will really make you appreciate the Sergeant.”
The recruits don’t dare talk back to the Ghost, so they’re left with gaping mouths. Ghost gives them a shove forward, making the two stumble, “go on then, bathroom’s not gonna clean itself.”
The rest of them are deathly quiet after the interaction. As they should’ve been from the start. Ghost internally sighs, refocusing back on Johnny. Who has noticed the commotion, and is now gazing at the retreating backs of the misbehaving recruits.
Ghost watches the muscles of his neck twitch, and Soap rolling his shoulders with a face of mild discomfort. It goes away quickly enough, and his Sergeant goes back to screaming at the soldiers, but he still makes a mental note to investigate that at a later point in time.
He keeps to the sidelines until the recruits are dismissed. The hungry soldiers practically run to mess, and while Ghost does his best to walk around them towards Johnny, when they finally fuck off Soap is nowhere to be found. 
Ghost stands alone on the training mats, uselessly swiveling his head.
Friendship is not on the field manual, and blasted schoolboy crushes on your subordinates most certainly aren’t.
Ghost wishes he could say he knew when it started. Maybe, knowing the root of the cause would’ve allowed him to chop down the entire tree. Somewhere between Chicago, Soap’s life almost slipping between his fingers, and now, he fell in love.
Even thinking about it makes him want to scoff. Those words don’t fit someone like him, someone with enough blood on their hands to fill several swimming pools, someone that keeps everyone at arm’s length, so mistrusting of his surroundings he wears a literal skull mask everywhere he goes.
But how else would he describe it? That warm feeling that spreads through his chest every time Johnny smiles up at him? The urge to let a brief touch linger, the need to stay near him at all times? That desperate part of him, that wishes for more?
Love is a disgustingly soft concept, not made for men like Ghost. But it’s what Johnny means to him. Johnny is love, simple as.
If only it was simple as.
Ghost has been looking for him the entire day, since the incident on the mats. For someone as loud and bright as Soap is, he sure can just fuckin’ disappear with no trace. He’s about to give up for the day, a bitterness weighing heavy on his tongue, when he spots a familiar shadow walking around the edge of the base.
It’s a more wild area, a small bit of thick forest, a place usually reserved for sniping drills. The figure appears between trees, slowly walking deeper.
Ghost quickly catches up, trailing the man. Only when he’s in reach, he notifies Soap of his presence.
“Didn’t know you could physically be this quiet, Johnny.”
Soap doesn’t startle, nor does he turn to acknowledge him. They both stop walking.
Ghost tried to lean over to see his face, but his Sergeant turns away. “Ah know when Ah need to shut it, LT.”
“Never stopped you from going loud anyway.”
Soap huffs, “aye, guess no’”.
Ghost waits for him to elaborate like he usually does, the growing silence unsettling him more and more. Did those recruits really bother him that much?
“I sent those tossers to the latrines, you know.”
Johnny glances at him, before returning to watch over the quiet forest, “I know.”
Soap knows their opinion is worth fuck all, young wankers still wet behind the ears. He should know, he’s worth a hundred of them, on the field and off.
Johnny eventually breaks the silence, “think it will just make things-” he exhales heavily, passing a hand through his hair, “let’s jus’ go back to base, LT. Sorry I disappeared on ye.”
“Don’t worry about that…” Ghost lets his words trail when Soap starts walking without him, head seemingly drowning in thoughts. He follows him, overcast by his shadow.
He thinks the dark is playing tricks on him when he sees the muscles of Johnny’s back convulse weirdly.
Ghost tries to fight it. That all encompassing want, need, to have Soap. And while he’s no stranger to war, this enemy is one tough fucker.
The Ghost, most feared soldier in the SAS, survivor of the worst of the worst. Bested by fucking emotions. He felt like he was winning, for a while there. That no one could tell, just what’s going on behind the mask.
As the days go on, though, it is clear people are catching on.
“I haven’t seen Sergeant MacTavish around Lieutenant Ghost as often anymore…”
And people love to fucking gossip. 
“Think they had a fight?”
“A love quarrel, perhaps”
The resounding laughs make him grasp his fork tighter. Couldn’t they at least wait long enough to be out of earshot of the person they’re talking about?
“No wonder the Sergeant has been this pent-up. Just heard Christopher got yelled at again, for being late by two minutes. Two minutes!”
Ghost is about to show them what yelling really is, when another Lieutenant comes by and shuts the bastards right up. He turns his eyes to Johnny, who is sitting in front of him, like every morning.
Unlike every morning, he doesn’t drink his coffee. Or speaks. Just stares at his breakfast.
“Johnny? Alright?”
Soap snaps his eyes to his, the blue in them looking almost… red? No… must be the light.
He blinks rapidly, and they return to their usual blue-grey, “aye, LT.”
“Not hungry?”
Soap smiles, or at least tries to, ending up with more of a grimace than anything, “think I’m catching something, not feeling up to it today.”
Ghost hums. Could explain his demeanor as of late, “get to medical after mess, I’ll take care of your assignments for the day.”
“Ye really don’t have teh do that-”
“Soap.” Ghost uses his commanding voice, “...let me take care of it.” he adds in a softer tone.
Let me take care of you.
Johnny smiles, a small but genuine thing, “...thanks.” he gets up, not before patting his bicep, “next time we’re in a pub, I’ll get ye a drink.”
Ghost basks in the brief contact, “it better not be the shite you like.”
Soap laughs as he walks away, “no promises!” 
He can’t help the smile spreading on his lips. Love is a dumb concept, not made for him, but…
But fuck if it doesn’t make him feel elated, to hear that voice happy and laughing.
It used to scare Ghost, how colossal those emotions he felt for Johnny were, at first. Would keep him awake at night, spiraling into haunting himself with lines of thought.
‘What would I do if he died? How would I go on?’
It used to scare him, how at those moments, he knew he’d give anything to make sure Soap lived. Fuck his life, fuck the SAS, fuck the world, if Johnny MacTavish wasn’t a part of it.
Soap is damn lucky he loves him so much, if only because he wouldn’t go train these fucking daft idiots instead of him otherwise. Ghost is starting to understand why Soap is getting more agitated these days.
He ended their exercise early, when one of them managed to break a finger by misplacing it when shooting a rifle. It’s like they never held a damn firearm in their whole life.
Fucking hell. He needs to punch something, before he punches someone.
As he gets closer to the gym, Ghost starts hearing shouts. Sounds more like a damn fight ring than a military workout. The recruits are doing something stupid again, he can already tell.
Looks like he might end up having to punch someone instead today. That’s fine by him. He cracks his knuckles.
At least he’ll get to release all this energy somewhere.
The doors smack loudly into the wall behind them when he opens them, and very quickly his theory is proven right. In the center of the room, a large crowd formed a ring around two fighters, the grunts and cracks of punches thrown drowning in the circle of soldiers.
He starts making his way through, recruits snapping their head to shout at him before closing their mouth with a click when they realize who they’re talking to. The crowd begins dispersing, some attempt to run off before they could feel the wrath of their superiors. All the while, Ghost lets his anger build, ready to crash it all down on the unfortunate bastards that decided today is a good day to re-enact Fight Club on base.
When he reaches the center, that rage comes crashing down, alright.
The view of Soap’s bloody form, nose running red and knuckles redder, makes it all fizzle out. His opponent staggers away, clearly the loser of the match, but Ghost doesn’t give a fuck about him.
“What the fuck are you doing, MacTavish?!”
His Sergeant heaves a breath, spitting out a bit of blood, “what does it look like, LT?” he answers, an edge of sarcasm underlining his words. Ghost is well versed in Soap’s insubordination, but it was never directed towards him. Not like that.
He doesn’t look away from Soap’s eyes when he growls to the group, “out.”
The soldiers falter for a moment, so Ghost turns to them, snarling, “OUT! Before I make you all do ten more laps around base!”
They all practically sprint out, leaving Soap and him alone. Johnny holds himself up shakily, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, searching for another face to punch. Ghost grabs his bicep, and wordlessly drags him to the showers.
Trains of thought rush through his mind, trying to find reason in Soap’s actions. Anger and worry mix, most of all the frustration that comes with being unable to help.
Something’s clearly bothering Johnny, and Ghost doesn’t know where to start fixing it.
He sets the Sergeant down on a bench, and goes to search for a first aid kit, when Soap huffs, “yer overreacting. We were just sparring.”
Ghost slams the kit next to Johnny’s thigh, the man not flinching even a bit, “what was going on out there was not ‘sparring’, and we both know it.”
Soap’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t retort. Ghost takes his bruised hands in his, examining the torn skin on his knuckles.
“Johnny-”
Soap groans, “aye, I know, I fucked up.” he scrubs his free hand over his face, wincing as Ghost sanitized the wounds, “I’m sorry ye had to go and deal with the recruits. Guess it was all fer nothin’-”
“The fuck’s up with you?” the words come out not as gently as Ghost hoped they would.
Johnny glares at him, “oh, don’t you start as well! We all know what’s wrong with me, don’t we? Everyone’s got somethin’ teh say about MacTavish, about how Ah’m too loud, too annoying, too distracted.” he pulls his hands away from Ghost’s, when the muscles under his skin strain against the tension lining his form, “Ah know! Ah’m fuckin’- Ah’m tryin’, alright?! Don’t need ye teh start tellin’ me that as well!”
Ghost leans back, knowing full well shock must be written all over his features, but Johnny’s too far deep in his own head to recognize it. 
“Johnny-”
“Ah’ll do better, sir, Ah just- they were talkin’ shit, and Ah had teh-”
“You’re enough, Soap.”
Johnny’s brows fly up, “...huh?”
Ghost sighs, “you’re good enough already. You’re the only one that comes close to beating me in sparring, excluding Gaz. You can make bloody bombs on the go with generic kitchen appliances. Your shots land, even when you’re tired and broken. You keep going, even if everyone else gave up.”
Soap’s eyes soften, and Ghost takes his other hand, starting to treat it as well, “the recruits can’t tell their asses from their mouths, Johnny. They don’t know what it truly means to be a good soldier, a good man.”
He lets his fingers gently graze Soap’s, “you’re… important to all of us.”
You’re important to me.
Johnny looks down at their hands, “I… I could be better, though.”
“You could”, Ghost agrees, and Soap’s eyes gaze up, “we all could. Won’t come from destroying yourself, though, Sergeant.”
Soap nods slowly. He breaks the contact, raising to his feet and rolling his shoulders, “aye. Thanks, LT.”
Ghost follows him when he chucks off his shirt, eyes trailing on the bruises littering his back. The thickly corded muscles (that Ghost will refuse to drool over, even if they are undoubtably impressive) twist as Johnny takes out his towel for the shower.
Ghost is about to turn around, let his Sergeant have his privacy, when those muscles start convulsing, like he thought he saw back in the forest. He hears Johnny hiss, and decides to voice his concern, “you seem tense.”
Soap turns around, a sheepish smile on his lips, “uh, aye, probably all the… ‘sparring’.”
He nods, back straightening in determination. Finally, something Ghost can fix. “Give it ‘ere, then.”
Soap blinks, “huh?”
“Come ‘ere, Johnny. Can help with that.” he guides Soap back on the bench, walking around and settling behind him. 
Ghost takes off his gloves. He hasn’t given a massage to someone else in… years, probably. But he’s sure he remembers enough to help Johnny, even a little bit.
The moment he rests his hand on his Sergeant’s shoulders, he has to hold back his surprise. The muscles are so tense, they feel more like rocks than damn flesh and bone. He pushes away the shock, and begins slowly kneading them. By Johnny’s appreciative hum, Ghost reckons he must be doing something right.
He tries digging in a little into the solid muscles, but soon enough his fingers ache from the resistance. “You feel tenser than Price when he runs out of cigars.”
Soap gives him a half-laugh, “can’t say Ah had anyone teh give me back massages, LT.”
“No bird back home?”
That makes Johnny fully laugh, “no, Ah’m not… not the type teh keep someone fer that long.” he groans at a particular twist of Ghost’s hands, “where did ye even learn teh do this? Ye should consider changing jobs.”
He trails his hands down, mildly concerned that the muscles don’t get any less tense, “had a sister-in-law, she had muscle cramps when she was pregnant…”
Johnny turns his head to stare at him, “ye got a sister-in-law??”
“Had.”
He didn’t elaborate, but from Soap’s silence, he knows the other understood it wasn’t divorce that took her away.
“Ah’m sure she appreciated it.” Johnny sighed, “Ah know I am.”
Ghost smiled, patting his Sergeant’s shoulder, “feeling better?” he flexes his sore hands. Soap’s muscles certainly don’t feel any less tense. At least he seems cheerier.
“Aye, now I owe ye two drinks.”
Ghost goes to leave the showers, “just stay out of trouble next time.”
He hears a small, “...yes, sir.” before the door closes.
If someone were to look inside his head, it will very quickly be clear just how much he’s infatuated with his Sergeant. They might ask, ‘why not tell him?’.
Ghost could never. His vocal cords weren’t built for such soft confessions, his fingers not shaped for holding. And even if they were, Ghost is not one to ask more than he can receive. Being around Johnny as much as humanly possible is enough.
It has to be enough.
Still, he can’t help that ache in his heart, deep in his rib cage, that wishes it could hold Johnny, and never let go. It’s one he can ignore, like most of his aches, on the daily, but…
Soap isn’t around now to distract him. They were sent on separate missions, Johnny on an intel run, and himself on lookout duty, over this slimy bastard or another. Ghost doesn’t give a fuck, mounting his aches on the man behind his crosshairs. Can’t even fuckin’ shoot the bloody man, because he’s ‘too valuable’ or some shite.
He returned a couple of days ago. Soap’s squad is still out there, had some delay in their exfil. When he asked Price about it, apparently he didn’t have clearance to know more.
The Captain barely managed to kick him out of his office before Ghost went on a rampage.
Only after a long, painful, empty week later, does he finally hear some good news - Soap’s team will arrive in a few hours.
Ghost’s feet take him to the tarmac, and only once he sees the distant shape of the helo, does that ache subsides. He impatiently walks to the doors before they open, making sure to be the very first to see Johnny.
And when he, at last, sees him - those blue eyes were not all that blue.
Bloodshot, darkened by the shadows of the helo that seemingly wrap around his figure, Johnny didn’t spare him a glance before stomping off. The rest of the squad trickled out of the chopper, and Ghost saw 3 body bags in the back.
“You heard what happened on Soap’s mission?”
“He fucked it, right?”
“Well, it was more of Rogers’ fault, the idiot got caught and cornered. Sergeant just had to save him.”
“‘Had’. Should’ve left him for after the intel. Should’ve known it was rigged to blow. Isn’t he a damn expert at that?”
Ghost barely listens after that. They all filtered into the briefing room, generals looking furious. Soap didn’t even have time to change, still in full gear and absolutely covered in grime and blood. He has his arms crossed, and to Ghost it almost looks like he’s holding himself together.
It takes hours for them to finally leave, Ghost’s team dismissed before Soap’s. He stays behind, listening to the muted screams of the COs, before the doors slam open, his Sergeant walking away with unexpected speed.
Ghost, as he always does, silently follows.
He catches up to Soap while he’s struggling to remove his gear, movements uncoordinated, agitated, tense.
“Johnny.” his Sergeant ignores him. Ghost gently takes his hand, and lifts it off the straps of his vest. “I’ll get it.”
Soap, for his part, turns his head away. Ghost’s heart squeezes horribly when he feels the shakiness of him. It takes every cell in his body to not give in to the urge to wrap his arms around Johnny, a feeble attempt to shield him from it all.
“Ah’m…” Ghost slowly takes the vest off, and starts working on the various tools strapped to his hips, “ye told me Ah’m good enough.” Johnny whispers.
“You are.” the shaking in Soap’s limbs worsens. 
He’s still not looking at him. “The… the mission failed. Because of me. Three recruits are dead. Because of me.”
The lights in the armory flicker. Soap crosses his arms again, forcibly. 
Ghost risks crouching down, catching Soap’s eyes, “you didn’t know-”
“I SHOULD HAVE!” Soap’s voice quivers, the flickering light casting a shadow over his eyes. Yet, Ghost can still tell how much he’s hurting.
Ghost gives in.
He pulls Johnny into a hug, ignores his thumping fists, “let go- Ghost, let go of me!” Soap growls. He can almost feel Johnny’s heart thump hard against his chest as well, and he presses closer.
“Making a mistake doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done before.” he murmurs to his warhawk. Johnny’s hands stop trying to push him away.
“You’re a good man, Johnny.”
Soap grasps tightly at the back of his hoodie, “stop-”
Ghost softens his tone, “I’m serious. I…”
I love you. I love you as you are. I love you because of what you are. I love you I love you I love you-
Ghost swallows thickly around the words clawing their way up his throat, “let's go back to the common room, hm? I’m sure Garrick and Price will be happy to see you.”
Soap lets his head rest on Ghost’s shoulder, “at least someone is…”
Ghost delicately raises his head, “I’m happy to see you as well, Sergeant.”
Johnny’s answering smile may be only a shadow of its usual brightness, but it eases the ache. They leave the armory behind, the lights instantly stopping their flickering.
It hurts, sometimes, to love someone so wholly, Ghost discovers. Love makes you want, and for Ghost, that never panned out well.
And yet, he wouldn’t see a world where Johnny didn’t mean so much to him.
Soap knocks his knee to his, the action negligible in the eyes of others, but for his heart it means everything.
They haven’t moved an inch away from the other since their talk in the armory. Ghost was about to leave, let his Sergeant catch some well needed rest, when they were called back to action.
Less than 24 hours since the failed mission, Ghost and Soap are on their way back, accompanied by a fresh batch of recruits. He can tell Soap is determined to fix his mistakes, finish the objective, and get everyone out alive.
Johnny’s knee starts bouncing, his fingers dig into the flesh of his forearms, teeth ravaging his lower lip. Leaving dark red behind.
Ghost watches him for a moment, before intervening.
“What’s on your mind, Sergeant?” he lowers his head to privately whisper in Soap’s ear.
Johnny stops his movements for a second, “the mission, sir.”
“What about the mission?” Ghost lets a hand rest on his shaking leg.
Soap sighs, finally letting some tension bleed away, “Ah need… I can’t fuck this up.”
“You won’t.” Soap opens his mouth to argue, but Ghost continues, “you won’t. If something goes bad, it’s on me. I’m your superior, I’ll take the blame.”
Displeasure paint’s Johnny’s features, “ye shouldn’t do that fer my mistakes.”
I would take on each and every sin you committed, if only to lessen your burden a tad, if I could.
“It’s my job, Johnny.” he takes his hand away, “stay focused, now. Landing in 5.”
Soap frowns, the thoughts passing through his mind almost visible through those turbulent eyes, “...aye.”
The compound reminds Ghost of his time working as a butcher. Walls stripped to their foundations, rooms gutted and wiped clean. Dark gunpowder mixes with dried, flaking blood. The carcass of an animal, a bloody maw for them to pass through.
The farther in they walk, the more signs of life appear - makeshift covers, forgotten MREs, recently discarded ammo magazines. Hostiles that need to be dealt with.
In the brief he received on the helo, Ghost learned that the compound splits into two sections here: a research facility, where the intel was supposed to be, and a base for the soldiers protecting the sensitive information the former building contains.
“Soap”, his Sergeant turns to face him, previous anxiousness hidden away behind his professional facade, “take Alpha 1-3, 1-5 and 1-6, go clear the research facility. Might still have intel to salvage from there.”
Johnny recognizes the opportunity Ghost is giving him, “aye sir!”
“The rest of you, on me!”
He can’t waste time watching Soap’s form disappearing behind the corner. As much as he hates separating from him, if they do find intel, Ghost knows it will ease the guilt gnawing at Johnny.
Ghost clears hallway after hallway, finding only a handful of hostiles. The soldiers are obviously unprepared for another attack at this scale, still licking at the wounds Soap left on them. It all goes smoothly, far too smoothly for Ghost’s liking.
He learned to not trust his luck far back, in rooms with smoke-stained, peeling wallpapers, and broken beer bottles.
Static from his comms makes the hair on his nape raise, the crunching unnatural and disturbing. “Soap? Alpha 1-3? How copy?” he attempts to decipher the white noise, straining his ears to hear the almost-there words.
A shrill scream cuts through the buzzing, “-NO! GET AWAY-!!!”
“Johnny?! Answer me, now!” fear, a chilling venom, spreads through his veins.
The other recruits look back at him with a similar terror. Bits and pieces pass through their radios, “I DIDN’T MEAN IT, PLEASE-!”, “-I’M SORRY, I’M SOR-”, “-HELP!!!-”
“S-sir?” 1-4 wobbly asks, “what do we-”
Ghost bursts into a sprint, holding his radio tightly, “Soap! This is 0-7, we’re on our way to back you up!” he addresses the recruits, “keep yourselves sharp, and stay together! This could be a trap!”
A chorus of “yes sir!” sounds behind him, lost in the winding halls of the compound. His boots thump the tile floor with the beat of his heart, his fear carved into the burning in his lungs.
A deep rumbling takes over the static, the recruits wincing and pulling the comms away from their ears. A primal fear, one Ghost hasn’t felt since digging himself out of the grave, spreads through him.
“...LEAVE….. ME………”
Yet, something else rises within him. That voice… the words leave an ache in his heart.
“Sir… whatever the fuck that thing is… We can’t just go there, right?” Alpha 1-2 asks him, the rest nodding in agreement.
Ghost wastes a moment to tower over him, “your teammates are stuck with that thing. Are you going to leave them to die?”
“N-no sir.”
“Louder!”
“NO SIR!” the dread washes away from the recruit’s face, determination replacing it.
Ghost sharply nods, “then let’s move!”
He’s not leaving any man behind today. No matter what’s waiting on the side - a deranged hostile or a damn fairy tale monster. They go out as a team.
Ghost tries to push away the voice he didn’t hear yet, the glaring silence a hole burrowing into his chest. Nothing could distract him enough, the ache growing and growing. But he can’t sink just yet.
Soap still could be out there, incapacitated in some way, or without comms. Possibly having to go dark, in light of the thing that rumbled through their radios.
He’s not optimistic, never tries to be.
But he can’t accept defeat.
Only Johnny’s body would be the final nail in his coffin.
The first recruit their group encounters is alive. Covered in blood, catatonic, and deep in shock, but alive. Ghost attempts to question him, but it becomes clear the man doesn’t even hear him.
He leaves one soldier with him, ordering him to call for a med evac. The rest continue with Ghost, disturbed by the state of their teammate but obedient to his commands. He doesn’t voice the questions that keep rising in his mind. Ghost needs them as sharp as they could be about now.
The winding hallways open wider in the next turn, and the scene in front of them only confuses him further.
The first thing Ghost registers is red. His first instinct is to call it blood, but the webs covering the walls are very much not blood. They’re… unlike anything he has ever seen.
The recruits are the second. Alpha 1-3 and 1-6… the rest of the missing team. Except…
Don’t think about it. There’s no body.
Yet-
“Rogers”, he calls for 1-3, who’s crouching over 1-6’s still form, “give me sitrep, now!”
Rogers’ eyes are wide, akin to a prey animal cornered by its hunter. He looks anywhere but at Ghost, mumbling lowly. In frustration, Ghost twists a fist in his collar, and drags him up, “answer me! Where is Sergeant MacTavish?!”
“He’s not- not him- n-not him-”
Ghost grits his teeth, growling, “speak clearly.”
“There’s something wrong about Sergeant MacTavish!” Rogers finally spits out, tears springing from his frantic eyes, “that’s not- he did this- he did this!” his breath hitches on sobs, arm weakly pointing to the crimson tendrils hanging from the ceiling around them.
Fucking hell. Bastard lost his mind.
Ghost lets go of him, vitriol evident in his voice when he grounds, “stay here. All of you.”
He takes a step towards the red mess, when a hand grasps at his pant leg.
“Y-y-you can’t go there! Don’t go there! It hurts!!!” Rogers cries, the other recruits trying to gently pull him back.
Ghost gives him a cold stare, “stand down.”
Rogers, in the recesses of his mind, understands the threat for what it is, and lets his shaking fingers fall away from his leg.
The recruits look up at him, all expressions lost, and they don’t dare follow when Ghost leaves them behind, steps dead silent.
Whatever this shite is, he’s getting Soap out.
Whether it’s alive or dead, it doesn’t matter. He won’t let him rot in this literal hell.
Johnny deserves so much more than that.
The red webs become thicker, the deeper he traverses. They now cover the walls, the floors, every single inch of the compound’s structure.
Deeper into the beast’s belly Ghost goes.
The rumbling they heard on comms now echoes among these walls, a heavy breathing of a thing he dreads to identify. Every instinct in his body tells him to run, every step a monumental task to reject the need to turn back.
But he can’t. Not without Johnny.
Even the light is covered now, red beams barely peeking among the webs. Ghost attempts ignoring his current reality, if only to try and submerge the fear clawing at his very cells.
What he imagines instead, is him.
“Creeping Jesus, sir. Yer seeing this shite? Right out o’ a horror movie.”
Ghost can almost hear his lilting Scottish accent, the rough way it sounds the words.
“Ye fit right in, already got the outfit an’ all. Guess that makes me the helpless lass runnin’ awa’ from ye.”
His eyelids flutter, at the memory of Soap’s cheery tone, when he’s trying to joke but failing at holding his laughter back.
It sends a stab of pain through his heart, but Ghost would prefer that to the all encompassing terror. A distraction he welcomes, perhaps too openly.
It makes him lose his focus, and his boot crunches loudly on the red floor.
Ghost freezes, breath caught in his lungs.
“....LEAVE….!!!!!!”
The webs pulsate, winding tighter around the concrete walls. It shakes the entire building, threatening to collapse on everyone. 
Ghost’s hands shake, even as he strengthens the grip on his rifle.
The world doesn’t matter, things both understood and incomprehensible, if Johnny isn’t by his side.
He rounds the corner, the lights flickering, the world blinking in and out of existence.
In front of him, is a figure.
As red as fresh blood, as twisted as corded muscles, as imposing as a knife to the throat.
The origin of the crimson strings.
His legs refuse to move, and Ghost is left helpless for the first time since he donned on the mask. His eyes drag down the imitation of a man.
Beneath him, a chest cavity is cracked open. The body is laid crumpled on the floor, a dark warhawk popping against the bright reds.
“......WHY….. ARE YOU HERE……..?”
Ghost understands the source of his ache, why his heart twists at every word of the bloodied man.
“...Johnny?”
The red man quivers, veins pulsating.
“......GET OUT……..”
Ghost inhales sharply, using every drop of willpower to make his legs unstick and move.
“I’m not leaving without you.”
The red tries to catch on Ghost’s boots, try to pull him away from the bodies.
“.........I TRIED… TO KEEP IT IN…… BUT THEY HURT ME… THEY HURT THEM…….”
He recognizes the rumbling sounds for what they are now.
Soap is crying.
“Who?”
“.....IT WAS A TRAP…..THEY BLAMED ME…AND THEY WERE RIGHT…I WASN’T ENOUGH…….NEVER ENOUGH……….”
The webs pull strongly at his right leg, and Ghost falls to the ground with a grunt.
“You’re enough, Soap. I told you, this time I take the blame-”
“IT WAS ME, GHOST! IT WAS ALL ME!!!”
The walls shake with the force of his voice, Ghost hastily covering his ears with a wince.
He crawls forward, inch by inch.
“Johnny-”
“I KILLED EVERYONE! LEFT THEM DEAD…. THEY TRUSTED ME! THEY TRUSTED ME!!!”
Ghost strains his muscles against the tendrils, belatedly realizing the contact is burning through his clothes.
“Who? Who did you kill?”
He can almost reach him… Just a little more…
“OUR TEAM, GHOST! I- I KILLED THEM!”
Ghost frowns, “they’re not dead, Johnny.”
The red man halts, his exposed heart thumping. His face is a mangled form of muscles and veins, eyes dark red and glassy.
“....DON’T……..DON’T LIE…………..” the man heaves, heart stuttering, “.....THE AMBUSH……I COULDN’T HOLD IT TOGETHER……….”
Ghost is close enough to see Johnny’s face, red splattering his pale cheeks, face twisted in pure anguish.
Hands around his chest, as if he tried to physically push the man back in and failed.
“I saw them. Alpha 1-3, 1-5, 1-6. They were scared shitless, but they’re fucking alive.”
Red tears drip down the crimson man’s cheeks, some falling on Ghost and burning his palms.
“......DON’T LIE-”
“Johnny.”
The red man closes his mouth, tilting his head and finally looking at him.
“Do you trust me?”
Ghost reaches a hand, but the man flinches away.
“......I TRUST YOU…….”
It hurts. Every touch of that crimson substance shoots pain throughout his system.
But more than that, the tone of his voice, the defeat. Ghost’s heart hurts with his.
“Let me help you, Johnny.”
The man shakes his head minutely, leaning back as far as he can.
“.....I’LL HURT YOU……”
Ghost lays a hand on the crimson man’s hand. It does hurt, it hurts a lot.
“Then we will be in pain together.”
Ghost uses the last of his strength to shoot up, wrapping his arms around the man.
The muscles convulse, red enveloping him. It feels like hugging thorns.
He squeezes harder.
“......WHY…?”
The heart, beating so hard it shakes Ghost to his core, feels so fragile between them. He pulls one hand away to gently cup it.
“I… I kept things from you as well, Johnny.” Ghost confesses, “I was afraid, you’d see the bloody mess inside of me, and run away.”
The heart in his hand beats louder.
“It doesn’t matter how ugly the things you hide from me are.”
He looks at the red eyes.
“I’d love you in any form you take.”
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The crimson heart melts, taking with it the man, and the webs that twisted around them. Ghost falls to his knees, body curling in on itself in pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing harshly.
A hand on his cheek lifts his head carefully. He cracks his eyes open.
Blue greets him.
“Simon…” Johnny whispers, eyes filling with tears, crystalline drops.
Ghost lifts his hand, ignores the aching. It holds nothing compared to the balm over his heart.
He doesn’t know who pulled the other first.
All that mattered at that moment, is the hesitant touch of their lips.
It tasted like a vow.
‘You may hold my heart
If I can hold yours.’
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tzuyuscloud · 2 years ago
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Iced Americano please Kim Minji x fem reader
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Everyday on your way to the bookstore you walk pass the neighborhood skatepark where she is often found. She has long brown hair that stays tied up, big brown eyes and is always flooding in her clothes. You like to take extra time when passing the park just to admire her beauty from afar because god forbid you ever speaking to her in fear of embarrassing yourself.
The bookstore was always quiet and was nicely decorated by the owner who happened to be your boss. The same old customers came by checking out mangas and renting other books, nothing exciting ever happened. Until the bell rang indicating that someone walked in,
“Hello.” you softly spoke and a soft voice responded with a, “hi” causing you to look up and see skater girl. You physically felt your heart skip a few beats as your jaw hit the floor. Clearing your throat and rubbing your eyes you focused your view on the girl who was in the romance mangas section looking through a few books.
With a book in her hands, she made her way to the counter where you stood. “is this all for today?” you asked nervously.
“could I also get your number?” The girl asked with a smile that lit up the room. You felt like you were gonna pass out if she looked at you any more.
“I-Um y-yeah sure” you stuttered as you rung up the book. “that’s a great series by the way” you nervously laughed.
The girl smiled, “really? I heard it was good so I had to see for myself” she said. “Ill call you” she winked before exiting the store with her skateboard rested under her pit.
At the end she left with your number and heart.
You couldn’t believe the last twenty minutes, pinching you arm constantly in hopes that the universe was just playing mind games but no, pretty girl was in fact in the store and asked for your number. When you realized she never gave you her name…
After your shift you closed up store just to see the same pretty girl leaning up against the building with her skateboard leaning next to her. “Gosh I was scared that you slept there too, you get off so late” she said with her brows furrowed slightly showing concern for you walking home late.
The fact that she asked for your number and then waited for you had you doing summersaults in your head. “Oh yeah I work closing shift on the weekends.” You nervously laughed.
“where do you live?” The girl asked as she walked beside you.
You pointed down the long street, “i live at the end of the block over there.”
“Oh really!? I live on the same street! That’s why I like to come skate a lot because its just down the street. Oh by the way my name is Minji. I forgot to introduce myself, Kim Minji”
Kim Minji. The name suits her so well. You felt yourself staring at the girl for a while until she finally got you out of your trance. “what’s your name, pretty girl?” she smirked causing heat to rush to your face.
“Ahem..y/n” you tried to hide your blush but Minji saw it and couldn’t help but tease you.
“Your blush is as cute as your name” Curse this woman being so smooth with her compliments, your face was never gonna feel the cool evening breeze again with how heated its getting.
The both of you emerged in deep conversation, topic after topic outside of y/n’s house until 1am hit. “its getting late and you need your sleep. How about we get some coffee tomorrow?” Minji smiled as she helped you stand up.
“Ill be waiting” you responded before saying your goodbyes. Not long after did you receive a message from what seemed to be Minji.
Unknown: ill pick you up at noon
Unknown: Save my number as ‘Minji 💜’
Minji 💜: goodnight cutie ^3^
Next day
As promised, Minji was at your door step exactly at Noon in baggy streetwear and skateboard tucked under her arm. This time she wore her hair in two buns with strands of hair falling into her face making her look cuter than before, if that was even possible.
“I know a great coffee shop nearby” Minji said, “they have great Iced Americanos”
On the way there she tried to get you to ride her skateboard which just ended up being you standing on the board while she held you up. Her laughter was the best thing you’ve heard in a long while.
“What do you want?” Minji asked you at the counter. “um I don’t know, I don’t drink a lot of coffee” you answered leaving her faced distorted in judgement.
“How do you survive with no coffee? Oh you poor soul” She joked. “Here you should try-“
“I’ll try your drink” You decided catching her off guard. “Oh well, two iced americanos please!” she smiled to the cashier who looked done with their shit.
Minji happily drank the coffee while watching you chug the drink in front of you. “Bro this is good” you gasped.
“you’re already using my slang thats cute” Minji teased you. The rest of your date went smooth ending with her dropping you back off at your porch, but this time she leaned in leaving a kiss on your cheek.
“Goodnight pretty girl” she winked before dropping her skateboard on the ground and skating down the street.
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the-0ther-mother · 6 months ago
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10/100 days of productivity
Wednesday, 10 July, 2024
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Another day that went by quickly because i actually accomplished things but didn't eat well so i was only half there.
🪐 finished notes for the other six signs of the zodiac
🪐 finished notes for the first six houses of the chart
I really want to finish all twelve houses but my wifi has shut down or something so i don't have internet connection which is really fucking annoying but i guess its 3 am and i should really sleep.
Tomorrow I have a meeting about my final project in economic history at noon and then after that i have to finish notes on all the houses and then write out the planets and aspects (maybe.. still not sure if I'll include them). AND translate all of these notes into my native language and create the whole course and probably make a power point to keep everything orderly. Kinda losing my shit over this. I hope I'll be fine.
Did my Duolingo but was very distracted. Can't wait for this month to be over so i can breathe out freely.
Went to see The Boy And The Heron yesterday and spent the whole night crying over all the analysis i read of it. It's gonna stay with me for a while.
Have a break, love. Eat something.
Goodnight.
Arrivederci <3
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