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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!

I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!

I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.

I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!

'Til it Hurts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...

A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag.

It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had.

God, you’d never have friends like that again.

Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen.

They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up.

Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.

Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.

At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment.

A city now filled with killers.

“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”

The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil.

Not good.

Shit. Karver, where did you go!?

Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US.

If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.

You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air.

But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed.

Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy.

This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.

“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.”

Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been.

So that was where you came in.

God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.

Mostly because of situations like this.

“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.”

Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty.

None of this was going to plan.

You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.

Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back.

The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips.

3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…

Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple.

A man, then.

“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”

You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses.

With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing.

Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured.

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper.

A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same.

“You’ll never get it out of me-”

“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”

“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”

There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come.

You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?

Have they seen murder?

But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.

You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.

“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.

Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death.

Your mark has been met.

The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow.

“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze.

You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman.

The Reaper.

Oh, what would they think of you now?

You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times.

In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all.

Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries.

—

The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete.

“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling.

Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.

“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set.

Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”

Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group.

“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”

“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”

“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”

“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”

“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”

An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play.

Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.

Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.

“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching.

“Hm,” their command affirms.

Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.

Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–

“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–”

The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different.

Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances.

“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.

Brows furrow.

Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit.

“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.

“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys.

Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant.

An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.

Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”

“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat.

“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate.

Price grunts under his breath.

“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask.

Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?

“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?”

Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over.

Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.

Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves.

“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion.

“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.

“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’.

Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand.

“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.

“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”

“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”

“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”

“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”

The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all.

But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.

“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.”

A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell.

“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.

The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate.

“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”

“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.”

Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer.

“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?”

“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.

Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book.

You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit.

Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over.

Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted.

The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm.

Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before.

“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”

“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows.

Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture.

“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head.

Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant.

The room is more silent than Ghost is.

“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.”

The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow.

“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.

“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”

The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.”

Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time.

He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered.

But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague.

Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.

Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim.

You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes.

He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal.

His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.

“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.”

Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.

‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.

Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.

—

You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders.

Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now!

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.”

In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do.

Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping.

Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself.

The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission.

And Ghost.

Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks.

But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt.

Mutt was the worst of them.

Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work?

The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky.

You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.

What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?

Your ears twitch.

“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”

“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens. He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.

“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.”

“Sir!”

After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been.

Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back.

Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself.

You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest.

Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly.

Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.

—

It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.

Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily.

There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time.

Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen.

But there were ups to this constant downward slope.

It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.

“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.

Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market.

You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.”

Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks.

The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters.

You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky.

Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull.

“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”

Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean.

Your eyebrows furrow.

He was never mean to me.

There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…

You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.

Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.

No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt.

You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant.

A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.

Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!

“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”

By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.

“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”

But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.

You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.

“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice.

You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked.

A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point.

If I had known…you frown.

Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.

“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.”

The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it.

Like blood lining the street.

You force yourself to run faster.

—

You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you.

Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you.

The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.

But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.

Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?

Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver.

But you didn’t look away.

“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins.

Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch.

“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days.

Your Captain scurries after.

“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.

At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type.

But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude.

You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.

The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle.

The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case.

‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth.

And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement.

You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?

“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?”

Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.

“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.”

You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.

“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms.

Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.

“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.

“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?”

“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.

‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’

Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?

Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.

“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.

“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat.

‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’

You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves.

The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.

And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.

—

When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report.

Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued.

I need new intel. Badly.

About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom.

On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.

Your cheeks heat.

He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?

As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.

Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.

Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.

Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race?

Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute.

What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted?

The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.

Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound.

A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?

When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.

“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”

“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.”

Hadn’t he changed even a little bit?

“Now that’s dark.”

“Never said it wasn’t.��

Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights.

There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore.

They had died a long time ago.

“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you.

Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.

Stop that.

“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?”

“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”

“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.

“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”

“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.

What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?

The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.

He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how.

She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left.

But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely.

Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath.

Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.

When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets.

His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.

“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles.

He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare.

You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.

What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious.

But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.

“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.

“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.”

Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”

He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.

“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”

“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh.

“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”

“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”

“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.

“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow.

He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way.

Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around.

Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.

At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.

Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you.

You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.

Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around.

You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led.

Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.

“Well, where are we–”

“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it.

Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after.

Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you.

Boxed in.

Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it.

One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you.

You don’t bother watching him drop.

Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it.

But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you.

Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps.

You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.

“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.

Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious.

Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah!

“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”

“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!”

“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”

“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs.

Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement.

A wide grin is stuck on you.

Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.

Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…

“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.”

He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant.

Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that.

A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?

“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow.

Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee.

Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.

“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”

Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.

Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time.

Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter.

How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant.

All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now.

“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.

“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip?

His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side.

There were few people worthy of that.

You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate.

You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years.

Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated.

You’d never had sex before.

And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.

He sighs heavily and follows in silence.

—

When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks.

They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet.

You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.

You could forget about it. You should.

But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.

If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors.

Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!

You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth.

Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.

But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong.

It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.

But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…

“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”

Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.

Why did they do this to you?

TAGLIST SIGN-UP || Here

Tags:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @neelehksttr, @shoe1412, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @nanialis, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @serpahic, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9,

@anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @john-pricee, @michirulol, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora217, @bespectacledhuman, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @astronaunt2009, @shmaptin, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce, @ruby-saves, @vynz0ne, @blackstar9005, @faerienotfound, @legallymentallyillfuckers, @audrefleur, @urfavsunkissedleo

(sorry that some of these don't work! I have no idea why!)

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poorlittlegreenie13 · 3 months ago

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Deleted scene from 'Rules For (fake) Dating an Italian' to keep you busy while AO3 is down:

(Sydney & Carmy babysit for Richie, set in between chapters four & five — I wrote it & then decided to scrap it, I don't even know why lol it just wasn't working. & I didn't edit it, so it might have mistakes. But anyway, you guys can have it as a treat.)

Richie runs out the front door, pulling his jacket on.

“Carmen,” he says, walking up to Carmy and, much to Sydney’s surprise, taking Carmy’s face in both hands and pressing a firm kiss to the top of Carmy’s head. “Thank you so much. I owe you, brother.”

“It’s fine,” Carmy mutters.

“Sydney,” Richie says, pulling away from Carmy to look at her.

“I don’t need a kiss,” Sydney says quickly, “just a verbal thank you is more than enough.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Richie says. “Carmy explained the situation, right?”

“I told her what you told me,” Carmy says.

“Because I never miss a weekend with her,” Richie says, “I mean, I have literally never missed a single minute of a weekend with her before, but if I don’t go to the DMV today, it’s like six months till I can get another appointment, and I really need to get my license renewed.”

“It’s fine,” Sydney says, not dwelling too much on the thought of how much Richie has been driving her around with an expired license so far. “We’re happy to look after her.”

“I’ll be back in two hours,” Richie says. “She has her iPod, and all her Barbies. There are Uncrustables in the fridge, or you can cook with whatever’s in there, and she likes watching Unicorn Academy, she can put it on herself.”

“We’ll be fine, cousin. Don’t be late to your appointment,” Carmy says, with a somber expression that looks less like someone taking on babysitting duties, and more like a soldier awaiting command.

Carmy called Syd that morning, saying Richie was freaking out about needing a babysitter. Granted, Carmy was also freaking out about being a babysitter.

"Nat’s busy, Tina’s busy, everyone’s fucking busy, can you please come with me? I’m not good with kids."

Sydney isn’t particularly good with kids either, but she didn’t tell him that.

She would’ve taken any excuse to see Carmy. Because she’s a masochist. And because the fact that he asked her to come not because it would help trick Richie, but because he wanted her help, made her feel kind of hot in the face.

When he picked her up, she slid into his passenger’s seat with an almost-practiced ease, and he just sat there looking at her for a minute.

“Your hair,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, touching the end of one freshly-done braid, “yeah, microbraids, like I told you.”

“They look nice,” he said, and she blushed, despite the stiffness of the complement.

He always seems to rehearse his words to her in his head before he says them; they come out practiced and overly formal, and it frustrates her, how measured they seem, though it shouldn’t.

She’s pretty sure that’s just Carmy’s way. He’s careful with everything, not just compliments. She’s learning that about him.

She’s been learning other things about him, too.

Like the fact that he seems to go quiet in crowds, and gravitate toward walls. He flinches if anybody moves toward him too suddenly. Sometimes, not often, but enough to notice, he stutters when he speaks.

She wants to know everything about him. She wishes his life story was a book she could read, so she could just catch up to where he is now, and understand everything about him. She wants to know the right things to say, to do, how to put him at ease. She wants to know what he’s thinking when he looks at her.

Now, she watches Carmy walk into Richie’s house, stooping to pet Zanzibar as the puppy runs excitedly up to them, letting out high-pitched barks and tapping his little claws against the tiles of Richie’s entrance foyer.

In the doorframe of the kitchen across from them, a tiny girl with blonde hair and Richie’s facial features peeks out at them.

“Hi,” Sydney says, giving her a little wave.

“Uncle Carmy?” the girl asks.

Carmy looks up at her, unmistakable anxiety crossing his face.

“Uh, hi,” he says. “Richie’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

“She doesn’t call her dad Richie, does she?” Sydney whispers.

“She knows who I mean,” Carmy whispers back.

Eva looks between the two of them.

“Dad said you would make me lunch,” she says.

Sydney smiles. “We will,” she says, looking at Carmy expectantly.

He nods seriously, walking ahead into the kitchen and beginning to look through Richie’s cabinets. Sydney follows Eva into the room, watching the little girl take a seat at one of the kitchen chairs, pulling her knees up into her chest and looking at Sydney with huge eyes she hasn’t totally grown into yet.

“Are you Uncle Carmy’s girlfriend?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Sydney says, glancing over at Carm.

He’s holding a box of Mac & Cheese, and holds it up for Eva to see, raising an eyebrow.

“This good?” he asks.

“That’s good,” Eva says, crossing her arms and deepening her voice slightly to mock Carmy as she says it. He cracks a smile, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove.

Michelin starred chef cooking boxed Mac & Cheese in a tee shirt three feet away from Sydney. Her life is a joke.

“Why are you his girlfriend?” Eva asks.

Sydney laughs softly, considering this.

“Well, uh,” she says, with a little shake of her head. Carmy has his back to her, facing the stove, but he’s standing still, like he’s listening. “He’s great at cooking,” Sydney says. “And I really like spending time with him. He’s good company.”

“My dad said Carmy’s never looked this happy before,” Eva says.

Carmy clears his throat. “I am happy,” he says, though there’s an ironic flatness to it.

“Because of her?” Eva asks.

Sydney bites the inside of her cheek.

But Carmy turns around and looks at Sydney, brow furrowing slightly, eyes soft.

“Yeah. Because of her,” he says.

He says it like it’s true.

Michelin star mac and cheese is about as good as it sounds. Carmy is leaning against Richie’s counter, watching Sydney and Eva eat. Eva’s iPod is set on the table in front of her, playing some Taylor Swift deepcut that Sydney doesn’t recognize. As Sydney swallows her third or fourth spoonful of food, she stands up, turning to Carmy. The heat of the stove has put a slight flush in the tops of his cheeks, and there’s a towel slung over one of his shoulders.

“You’re not eating?” she asks him.

The question seems to take him off guard. His eyes flicker to the pot of food, then back to her.

“No, I made it for you two,” he says.

“There’s plenty, Carm,” Sydney says, grabbing a bowl from Richie’s cabinet and filling it for him from the pot still warming on the stove. When she hands it to him, he just looks at it for a second, before taking a small spoonful and putting it in his mouth, chewing like it’s his first time eating a meal.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Sydney asks him, picking her own bowl back up.

“It’s alright,” he says, taking another, bigger spoonful. He does that sometimes; it’s one of the things she’s noticed. He eats like he’s starving, or he doesn’t eat at all. It gives her this weird urge to take care of him. To text him in the mornings, and at night, and ask him if he ate that day. To show up at his apartment unannounced with bags of groceries and make him sit down for twenty minutes while she meal preps for him.

“It’s good, Carm, it’s better than alright,” she says again, tone light, even though she’s willing him to believe her as hard as she can. Trying to get him to take a compliment is like trying to throw a ball through a brick wall.

He averts his eyes, nodding again. “A little flat, but I guess that’s what you get with boxed mix,” he says, pushing the noodles around with his spoon.

“Ever make it from scratch?” Sydney asks. “Or is that too pedestrian for a fancy New York Chef?”

“I'm gonna pretend I know what pedestrian means in that context,” he says, meeting her eyes with an amused smile. “I made it from scratch one Thanksgiving, years ago. Had no idea what I was doing. My mother passed out at like 3:00pm, and we were all scrambling in the kitchen trying to get dinner together for her so she’d, you know, see it and be happy with us when she woke up. But Sugar burned the turkey, so Mikey had to spend hours trying to calm her down; she got these crazy panic attacks when she made mistakes. And I made mac and cheese.”

“How old were you?” Sydney asks.

He seems surprised at the question, and shrugs. “Twelve, I think? Mikey would’ve been seventeen, Sugar would’ve just turned fourteen.”

“You’re the youngest?”

He nods.

“That figures,” Sydney says.

He scoffs. “Why does that figure?”

“I don’t know, just does.”

His bowl is almost empty. Wordlessly, she takes it from his hands, refilling it.

“So, did your mom like the mac and cheese?” she asks.

Something in his face darkens. He gives a quick shake of his head.

“No, she couldn’t get past Nat burning the turkey. We just, uh, took all the food into Mikey’s room and watched The Peanuts until she stopped yelling and fell asleep.”

“Uncle Carmy,” Eva interrupts, getting up from her chair and walking over to where Carmy is standing, looking up at him expectantly.“Daddy said you would play Barbies with me.”

“I will play Barbies with you,” Carmy says, and then, looking over at Sydney: “Syd, would you like to play Barbies?”

There’s a fond, almost relieved smile on his face, like another minute of talking about his family might’ve pushed him off some cliff’s edge that he wasn’t prepared to crawl back over.

“Obviously I want to play Barbies,” Sydney says, letting Eva lead them into the other room.

"You're such a liar," Sydney murmurs, as they walk behind Eva.

"I am?" Carmy asks lightly.

"Yeah," Sydney says, "you told me you weren't good with kids."

He smiles, shaking his head ruefully.

"I'm not," he says.

Sydney rolls her eyes.

And they play Barbies, for an hour. Carmy kneeling on carpet, listening attentively as Eva explains which Barbie is which (she has a Taylor Swift box set, it seems, and a Barbie dream home that looks like it cost more than Sydney’s last paycheck). Sydney sits cross legged across from them, watching Carmy delicately hold a Barbie doll in one tattooed hand as Eva brushes out its hair.

Watching him be a good uncle shouldn't be as fucking attractive as it is. It shouldn't be conjuring up vivid images of Carmy holding sleeping babies and cooking family dinners.

God, Sydney is so fucked.

“Speak Now Taylor Barbie is marrying Jacob from Twilight Barbie,” Eva says. “‘Cept I forgot Jacob at Mommy’s house.”

“I see,” Carmy says. Sydney bites back a smile.

“Are you ever gonna get married?” Eva asks, looking up at Carmy.

Sydney’s smile quickly fades.

Carmy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Me?” he says.

“You and Sydney,” Eva says, looking over at Sydney expectantly.

“Uh, maybe,” Carmy says. He’s looking at Sydney too; an expression she can’t read. “I don’t know. Depends on… lots of things.”

“Like what?” Eva asks.

Carmy clears his throat. “Like… whether Sydney puts up with me for long enough for me to ask her?”

“Oh, shut up,” Sydney says, smiling exasperatedly, shaking her head at him. “He’s kidding, Eva.”

“So you are getting married?”

“No,” Sydney says, “no, not right now.”

“When?”

She looks at them with expectant, innocent eyes. Sydney can’t help but laugh.

“Not for a long time,” Carmy says.

"How long?"

Carmy looks away from Sydney, shaking his head like he doesn't know how to answer.

"I don't know," Sydney says, drawing Eva's attention over to her. "Whenever we decide we want to."

"Don't you want to marry him now?" Eva asks sincerely.

Sydney laughs uncomfortably. When she looks over at Carmy, he's looked back up at her. His brow is furrowed slightly. He should be smiling and laughing. This is funny. Objectively. He's taking it way too seriously.

"Yeah," Sydney says, staring at Carmy, raising a taunting eyebrow at him. "Sure I do. But marriage is really complicated so I think we're probably going to wait and see. Right, Carm?"

"Right," Carmy says, with a stiffness to the word like he's in pain. "Yeah, let's not talk about getting married anymore."

Eva frowns.

"It makes him nervous," Sydney stage-whispers to her.

Eva cheers up at that, smiling and nodding knowingly.

"People get nervous when they love each other," Eva says. "Mommy told me."

Sydney scoffs softly, but when she looks at Carmy he isn't smiling. He's just staring back at her, doing that weird, hyper-focused thing where he gets, like, fixated on her face.

It makes her face feel hot.

It makes her nervous.

Fuck.

#the bear #rules for (fake) dating an italian #sydcarmy

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arcanegifs · 3 months ago

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On Gifmaking:

So season 2's coming soon, and I wanna reflect on making gifs ever since I came back to Tumblr. I can't believe it's been 2 years of making gifs for this show!!!!! Look at how large my folder is lmao

And those are JUST gifs lol

Anyways, over time, my style has changed, especially how I color edit Arcane gifs. I kind of strayed away from a stylized filter color into just something that looks a lot more "natural" and works with the original scene.

Initially, I thought I'd save time, but I ended up not using my old arcane preset PSDs and resulted to coloring almost every scene manually. So in the end, it takes even longer to make them HAHAHA. It takes around an hour and a half for me to make a 10 gif set, basically. It also helps that I have a photography background, so coloring/editing is a lot simpler for me.

Here's a lil before and after of a dark scene (hiiiii viiiiiii <3)

Arcane is a REALLY dark show, but it goes for most of TV shows. Many of them are darker and harder to bring up the lights to make stuff look nice as gifs. Some people don't like to color their gifs, and that's okay. I personally just like color edited gifs more.

I've started learning how to upscale scenes myself, so that I have a better resolution and leeway to make things look "HD" more.

If you're wondering why my stuff look so "crisp", it's a combination of the scene's lighting, my sharpening settings on Photoshop and knowing how to upscale everything into 4k resolution. Of course, doing this needs an extremely beefy pc, which I am very lucky to own one.

Here's another before and after of a nicely lit scene. These are much, MUCH easier to do than all the darkly lit scenes because of shadows and lighting (caitlyn kiramman truly the rizzler <3)

I've been very lucky to be able to essentially take a nice, long break for like a month doing nothing after being so damn busy for the last year and a half, so it's nice that I was able to make a ton of gifs and be chronically online for a short while LMAO.

It's been so fun! But it's time to go back to reality lmao. I closed reqs for a bit because I was just so swamped with them the last few days, and I wanted to gif scenes that I like this time. I've done like 2 weeks worth of gifs. And you will see Vi a lot bc she's on my mind a lot heehee 🥰what can I say, she's such a babe <3

Here's a lil sneak peek, just look at herrrrrrr 🥰🥰🥰 and yeah, 4k upscaled resolution really helps making these tight crops, it's why i never went back to 1080p lol. It's how I’m able to make zoomed in gifs look decent (like the kirammountains gifset lol)

Thank you so much for all the support, likes, reblogs, and the nice tags you guys give. Yes, I can see and read all of them (both the nice and nasty ones lmao). If you have nothing good to say about the characters or my editing style, or anything related to the edit, please I beg you, just write a separate text post about it <3 If you have nothing nice to say, don't say it in my edits.

Lastly, thank you to the people who share my stuff outside the site and credit the blog and link them back here. I see you and appreciate you <3 You guys don't know how much I appreciate shoutouts and link backs, because people stealing my gifs is something that I've dealt with after making them for like a decade.

Tumblr is sadly not what it used to be in the 2013-2015 era. There’s definitely less activity as time goes by, so I appreciate all the people who credit and link back to this sideblog. Unfortunately, there’s more people who just repost them and it gets wayyy much more traction in other soc med sites. Yeah, ofc I get a lil jealous, but eh what can you do 😞 can’t really stop em.

I also don’t like putting watermarks because it personally looks tacky to me, but I understand why other people do it.

Anyways, if you reached at the end of this lil rambling of mine, thank you! I sadly might be busy during November because that's usually busy season, but I'll try to make time for making gifs of Season 2! Thank you and enjoy your stay on this lil sideblog :)

#personal tag #arcane #long post #nothing i just have free time rn and i wanna spend time on it rambling and yes im tagging the public tag lol #goodbye leave hello real life again

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sewerpalette · 4 months ago

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Little rant I might make a video out of:

Edit: disclaimer I wrote this directly after waking up so it’s very awkwardly paced and hard to read I’m so sorry.

AL-AN is not a good person, now I’ll start this off with saying that I looove his character, especially before the rewrite and this certainly isn’t an attack on anyone, just something I’d like to point out because I think the shift of perspective between both games is fascinating.

If anyone remembers the subnautica fandom before Below zero was even remotely announced, there were certain opinions flying around, people believed the architects to be the grand villain(s) in the bigger picture of the game lore for just how messed up they were, they literally hated those guys for being at fault of the sea emperors suffering and there were even theories going around that they made the kharaa to wipe out all other life around them- but it had went wrong.

But now it’s not like that anymore, no AL‘s previous actions are completely ignored because he showed some remorse for being responsible for the deaths of 7 architects specifically, together with messing up before pretty much an audience of billions, it must’ve been embarrassing- but when he apologizes he specifically only mentions the other architects, because he isn’t sorry for the other things he’s done, clearly. I mean dissecting a fetus is one thing, especially with their goal in mind, DISPLAYING it is another, like that’s just purposely gruesome. Together with all the other dissected experimented on animals in the shelves just hung up like prizes (I know the concept itself is not inhumane, but in this case it just wasn’t necessary.) also research specimen THETA anyone? Yeah we know it didn’t die because of the facility collapsing because there’s no injury displayed on its bones that would suggest that, and that part of the facilities insides also didn’t collapse, they just left it there until it either succumbed to the virus or starved to death, same with the sea emperor but they survived, kept alive by unfinished business for the next couple thousand years. Not to mention who the fuck comes up with a quarantine program that includes semi sentient killer machines and a giant gun made to shoot anything down from atmosphere, there were so many better solutions, I get the warper thing, I mean kill anything that’s infected makes sense, but the gun?? Literally why, if they send a signal through the network that this planet is diseased nobody is going to go there (we know that at that point humans weren’t advanced enough to travel space and they knew that so for who was that even for??) it was completely unnecessary to create a giant weapon in wich even more destructive weapons are stored wich let me get into that real quick because there’s also some implied stuff there, appearently AL was so desperate to get rid of his mistake that he attempted to blow up a doomsday device?? (Which would’ve destroyed most of the solar system in an instant.) In the entry it says it malfunctioned so they must’ve tried to use it, and even if they didn’t why would they have it on them anyways? Including all the other weapons. Also let’s talk about the architects in the little sanctuaries in the first game, it’s implied they stored multiple souls in like one of them, literally cramped up all their data whilst AL stored himself in a big ass sanctuary like idk man that’s kind of an asshole move. And those were just the first game events! (And there’s probably even more there.)

In BZ he can’t really do anything except for talk to robin because he doesn’t have a physical form, so there’s less to go off here but even then it didn’t seem like there were other sanctuaries in BZ for the other architects. and sure, you could make the arguement that architects don’t feel at all connected to their physical forms, wich is true, but don’t you think seeing a dead architects body, an architect from his team, a colleague, would illicit some kind of emotion from him beyond “great, now fetch me their skin.” (/j) even if he doesn’t see the attachment to the vessel, if it’s all that’s left from that time and from the crew, there would still be projected attachment onto it realistically. Also he was smart enough to hide himself from alterra because he guessed they didn’t have good intentions- scraping himself off the grid both physically and on any radars they had (presumably with hallucinations), but wasn’t smart enough to distract the critters running around infront of the sanctuary to idk get the help he needed with the failing sanctuary from the mercury, marg, or the alterrans that genuinely wanted to help instead of being eaten by sharks right infront of it.

Like man I love you but that’s just messed up.

And we know he knows he messed up, that’s why he’s so gloomy and does attempt to apologize at the end but like??? He said he wanted to make amends to his people showing that he still doesn’t care about everybody else he hurt, only those he deems as important, not the over 150 people that died on the aurora or the mercury or the degasi or the sunbeam or the research specimens or even the alterrans he’s indirectly caused death to, it is all his fault but he doesn’t see these people as important because he feels they are below him - sure you could make the arguement that he didn’t know about the ships that crashed, fair point. But seemingly he did if he could sense that alterra was there without even seeing alterrans in the first place, especially because Ryley has made contact with the thermal plant and other architect tech before, so he’d definitely know- especially based on the data robin has of the missing sunbeam and aurora incident on her PDA wich he has canonically said he read through.

And I’ll say it again I love AL, next to Bart he’s probably my favorite subnautica character in the whole game series, but I don’t like the portrayel of him suddenly being completely redeemed or being an inherently good person, he still doesn’t understand empathy or morals (you can be a good person without having those, don’t get me wrong.) and acts like a total idiot whilst victimizing himself, like yes, the other architects on the mission died and it’s his fault, they weren’t stored to keep him company and that’s his fault; neither did they like him, wich is very fair in my opinion. He can’t pull all this crap, disobey orders and get everybody killed and then pull the “but I’m sad about it so that erases everything I’ve done” like oh my god. I like him, but I would also like more content showing all this.

Sorry this was a very long kinda pointless rant and I don’t have any images because my phone which has like a whole folder of these is at home and we’re still stuck in England so it’ll have to do without for now.

TLDR: I want more morally dubious AL please and also he killed a fetus (well pretty much borderline newborn at that point) so he’s going into the fictional child murderer category for me.

#long rant #rant post #al an subnautica #subnautica #al an #al-an #video game fandom #subnautica below zero #sbz #video games #video game rant

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janeyseymour · 11 months ago

Note

hiii!! i hope you’re doing well. i was hoping to request a melissa x reader. where the reader is really struggling with mental health and her gf (melissa) is starting to notice it.

one day during work (they school) the reader gets into an argument with one of the other teachers and the teacher says some rude stuff to her which hurts her a lot. the reader leaves the school for the day w/o telling melissa.

(hurt, comfort, some fluff)

Hi! I'm so behind on writing because of my school situation at the moment... but I hope this is what you were looking for! As always, not edited in the slightest

Good Days, Bad Days

wc: ~2.6k

You’ve been struggling lately. You hate to admit it to even just yourself, much less anyone else. But you are struggling. You don’t really know why.

Okay. You do know why.

You’re taking on too much- school is overwhelming between the kids and the extra tasks you’ve decided to take on (why you thought being part of the curriculum development committee is beyond you), things are getting more serious with your girlfriend, and you have to admit you aren’t doing a great job of balancing everything. You’re trying your best, but it’s getting really hard. Your ideas are shot done more and more. You feel like you barely see Melissa, and when you do, the two of you are arguing about God even knows what. It always ends up with the two of you in bed holding each other and promising you aren’t upset with each other and that you love each other, but it’s becoming a sick cycle- and not a cycle the two of you necessarily want to be in.

And the fiery redhead is starting to notice the way that your mental health has been declining. She’s been watching it steadily for the last month or so. The way you haven’t been eating as much, the way you can barely keep your eyes open at times, how you fall asleep almost every time you’re sitting still. You’re constantly irritable, and you burst into tears at least once a day.

“My love,” she whispers as she pulls you closer.

You sob into her shoulder. “I just- I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!” you blubber.

“You aren’t doing anything wrong, honey,” she tries to reassure you, although her words fall upon mostly deaf ears. Your tears are uncontrollable, and at this point, you’ve lost yourself. You don’t even know why you’re crying this time.

“C’mon, amore,” she rocks you gently. “Let’s get you up to bed. You need some rest.”

“I- I can’t!” you whine. “I have to come up with more ideas for the curriculum meeting tomorrow, and I have to grade the kids’ social studies projects, and I- I-” You struggle to catch your breath as you hiccup out a sob.

She takes a few deep breaths, hoping you’ll follow her motions. You do, just barely. She smiles softly and praises you. “Good. Keep breathing, honey. You’re okay,” she mumbles against your head.

After a bit of calming yourself down, you reach for your students’ social studies projects and start to grade them again. Melissa settles on the barstool next to you and grabs her own stack. She helps you grade them, and then the two of you head to bed. She holds you until she falls asleep, and then she reaches for her laptop that’s on the nightstand. She finds a few new ideas for curriculum that might help to benefit the students, emails them to you, and curls up around you again.

You wake up the next morning dreading the day. You have your meeting during your prep, meaning you won’t have time to prep the materials you need to for the science experiment today and will instead be setting everything up during your lunch. You have recess duty today, so you really won’t be able to settle at all today.

“Y/N,” Melissa shakes you awake gently. She’s already ready for school, makeup and all. “It’s time to wake up, hon.”

You whine as you roll over. “Five more minutes, babe.”

“I already let you sleep twenty extra minutes,” she tells you gently. “You gotta get up. You can eat breakfast in the car, but you’re eating breakfast today.”

You sigh and roll out of bed. You get yourself ready for the day before stomping off towards the vehicle. Melissa brings you a bowl of breakfast casserole and gets into the driver’s seat. You only take a few bites before you start to feel nauseous and close your eyes for the rest of the drive. Your girlfriend rests her hand on your thigh as she drives, and she gives it a gentle squeeze once she parks the car.

“We’re here, amore,” she sighs quietly. “I know you’ve been stressed about your meeting today, so I sent you a few curriculum ideas last night. Why don’t you look over them and finish up your breakfast?”

“You did that for me?” You tear up at her thoughtfulness.

“I did,” she smiles at you softly. “But you don’t have time to cry about it right now, hon. You have to prep, and finish breakfast.”

You groan, but you know she’s right. You grab your bags, take the bowl, and head into the school. You settle at your seat in the teachers lounge and start prepping for your meeting at 11, forgetting about your breakfast. The only reason you remember is because Melissa is sitting next to you holding the fork up to your mouth. You blush and take the bite gratefully.

Before you know it, everyone else has filed in, Jacob is playing the news all too loudly, and you pack up your things to work in your classroom. You give the redhead a kiss to the cheek before heading out.

You don’t expect her to follow- you know how much she loves watching Channel 6. But she does with a confused look on her face.

“You okay, hon?” she asks you softly as she pulls up a chair next to your desk.

“Just can’t get distracted today,” you sigh. She doesn’t know how much is riding on this one meeting.

“You can usually work with the news on?” she furrows her brows and purses her lips.

“I- It was just a little overstimulating today, okay?” you tell her, hoping this smooths everything over. “Go watch the news with them. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” she sucks a breath in. Melissa gives you a soft kiss before seeing herself out. She knows when to leave you be at this point, and you clearly need to be alone right now.

The kids come in far before you’re ready for them. But still, you stand from your desk and meet most of them at the door with a bright smile and a hug if they want one. But Melissa can see the tension in your shoulders and your body language.

Your students are genuinely pretty well behaved today. They’re quiet, they get their independent work done, and you continue to prep for your meeting. You silently thank God for that. You don’t know what you would’ve done if you had to handle behaviors on top of your meeting today.

They line up, head down to music, and you head into one of the meeting rooms in the office for curriculum development. The lights are too bright. You can hear them flickering. You don’t feel okay in your own body right now- your clothes are itchy, and you can’t stand the way that the chair feels against you.

None of your ideas are received well, and you struggle to hold back tears at this point. Shaina, One of the older teachers upstairs is just digging into every little bit of your being now. You don’t even know what to do- you aren’t even talking about curriculum anymore.

“Maybe, and hear me out guys,” the woman addresses the group. “Instead of focusing so much on developing a new curriculum, when this one works so well for most of us already, we address the actual issue in the room: the shit teachers we have here.” She looks directly at you. You can feel your cheeks flush red and the tears spring to your eyes.

“Hey,” one of the kinder teachers sighs.

“No, no!” Shaina argues. “I’m being serious! We can get rid of the new teachers who think they know everything and can’t teach for the life of them with better ones!”

“I- I think I teach well,” you mumble. “My kids love my lessons that I do with them.”

“Oh please,” the older teacher laughs in your face. “Your kids only pretend so they don’t hurt your pathetic little feelings, Miss Sensitive.”

“I-If they didn’t like my lessons, I think I would know,” you mutter.

One of the other teachers tries to get back to the focus of this meeting, but Shaina just won’t quit.

“The only reason they kept your lazy, pathetic ass around here is because of that stupid, bitchy girlfriend of yours,” she comments. “No one wants to fuck with Schemmenti, and certainly no one wants to fuck with you. Hm… maybe that’s why the two of you found each-”

You don’t even bother gathering your notes or laptop. You just head out of the meeting. You can’t stop the red, hot tears that begin to pour over as you run down to your classroom to grab your purse. You can’t be here right now. You just can’t.

You head back into the office, and you can hear the committee still in the conference room now going after Shaina for upsetting you, but you don’t care. You head straight into Ava’s office.

“Ava, I- I need to go home.”

“I don’t have time for-” the principal sighs as she doesn’t even bother to look up from her phone.

“Ava,” you say emphatically. “Please.”

Only then does she look up at you, and she takes in your appearance. She has a bit of a soft spot for you. “Oh, Y/N, girl, what happened?”

“It- it doesn’t matter. I just can’t be here right now, please. I need a sub right now, I’ll even take Mr. J.”

“Should I pull Melissa for you?” she asks, clearly concerned.

“N-no. She was excited to teach her math lesson with them today, so just… she’ll figure it out,” you stutter out. “I’ll just take the bus home. I just- fuck. I need to go home.”

The principal nods and starts making the announcement over the intercom that the janitor needs to report to her office immediately. She gives you a sad nod, and you head out.

Melissa, not knowing that you’ve gone home, heads into the staff room for lunch. She pulls your lunch out and sets it at your spot for you. But you never show. You’re already about half a bottle deep in wine and drowning your sorrows. When you don’t show after fifteen minutes, she sighs and heads down to your room, fully expecting to find you asleep at your desk. But your bag is gone, your laptop isn’t there, and your mug of coffee is still sitting on your desk half finished. She raises a brow as she heads back down to the teachers lunch room.

“Anyone seen Y/N?” the second grade teacher asks.

“Not since this morning,” Barbara says. “Was she not in her room?”

“No. Her bags are gone too, and her laptop isn’t there?”

“Maybe check the conference room?”

“She does like to work in there sometimes,” Melissa mulls it over as she leaves again. She makes her way down the hall and towards the main office. She finds your laptop, but you’re still nowhere to be found.

“Oi,” she grumbles. “Woman’s lost her damned mind.”

Ava appears behind her. “Your girl went home.”

“She what? She couldn’t have. I drove us in today?”

“She said something about taking the bus,” Ava shrugs. “I ain’t never seen that girl cry the way she was crying. Must’ve finally snapped.”

“Who has her kids?” your girlfriend asks, and she’s immediately fumbling for her phone to call you.

“Mr. Johnson,” the principal shrugs. “She said she would even take him, and I sure as hell don’t got the time to wrangle a bunch of third graders today.”

You see your phone light up with Melissa’s name and the sweet picture you have of the two of you. You send it to voicemail.

“She’s not picking up,” Melissa grumbles.

“She looked pretty beat, like she could fall asleep standing up,” Ava shrugs.

“She did that the other night,” your girlfriend sighs. “Poor thing.”

“Well, what’re you waiting for? Go save your princess,” the principal chuckles.

“I don’t got no one to cover my class,” she points out.

“I got it,” Ava tells her. “Anything for Y/N.”

The redhead, while shocked, doesn’t have to be told twice. She heads into the teachers lounge to grab the rest of her lunch and your lunch.

“I’m heading home for the day,” Melissa tells the usual crew. When they give her a questioning look, she just shrugs and continues to pack up your things. It’s none of their business why she’s leaving early.

She rolls through most of the stop signs on the drive home, and only once does she run through a red light where she sure a cop isn’t lingering out of sight.

When she pulls in, she notices that all of the lights in the house are off, and your car is still sitting right where you left it last night.

“Amore?” she calls softly as she kicks off her shoes at the front door. She enters the living room, and there you are, eyes rimmed red. Your curled up under your favorite blanket, wearing one of her Flyers sweatshirts, with a glass of wine and a carton of ice cream and an empty Wawa hoagie wrapper at your side. Your comfort movie is playing, and you sigh deeply.

“Why are you home?”

“Because when my girlfriend disappears midday and Ava tells me she has me covered, I come home,” Melissa tells you gently as she drops her bags on the bench. She hands you your lunch and settles in next to you. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

You explain what happens, but only after your girlfriend promises you she won’t murder Shaina for upsetting you. When your finished, she’s fuming.

“Babe, you promised you wouldn’t-”

“Yeah,” she grits out. “I lied. That’s worse than what I thought you were going to say.”

“I-it’s not a big deal,” you sigh, trying to smooth it all over. “Today was just a lot for me in general. I was going to get set off no matter what.”

“No, I’ll show her who the shit teacher is… in a non-threatening way,” she adds on.

“Mel, it just isn’t worth it,” you tell her. “I’ll get over myself, and the other teachers were trying to get her to back off. I’m sure someone will go to Ava about it, but for now… I just want to wallow in my self-loathing and self-pity, okay? I’ll be fine.”

“Can I do anything to help?” she asks softly as she wraps an arm around you and tugs you in. Your head falls on her shoulder, and you sigh.

“Can we have a day in? Just sit with me and let me wallow?” you ask quietly. “I just need today to be sad, and tomorrow I’ll be okay.”

“Let me change, and then I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” she promises you. With a kiss to your head, you let her up. She’s back quickly in a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt- leather pants now gone. Her hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, and you can’t help the small smile that appears on your face.

“What, hun?”

“Just… you,” you tell Melissa as you reach for her. She settles in next to you.

“What about me?”

“I can’t believe I got you by my side,” you mumble as you curl into her side. “Having you makes everything so much better.”

“I’m always here for you, my love.” The redhead kisses your head again as she takes your hand in hers. “Through the good days, through the bad days… all of it.”

#abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfic #abbott elementary fanfiction #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti

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bitethedevil · 7 months ago

Text

The Devil's Dinner Party (Raphael x Tav): Chapter 2

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 (Finished)

Link to the fic on AO3

Warning: Slight smut (just a tiny bit).

Summary: Tav accepts Raphael’s invitation to a dinner party after she had handed him the Crown of Karsus. None of her companions show up, so it is just her, Raphael, and a bunch of Raphael’s favored clients. Raphael is suspiciously kind to her, but everything might not be as perfect as it seems.

(AN: Chapter 2 of my not super edited Raphael x Tav. The first chapter is linked above. Raphael is being possessive and does an A+ job as appearing as the perfect gentleman)

A couple of the guests swarmed around Raphael when they had come back from the archive. Tav saw the opportunity to slip away. She sat herself down in a quiet corner of the room. A servant brought her a drink, which she happily accepted.

“There you areee!” Rolim beamed at her when he spotted her.

She smiled politely back at the handsome half-elf. It seemed that he might have had one drink too many, with the way that he swayed when he approached her.

“I was worried that you had gotten lost somewhere,” he said. “I almost ventured out to find you!”

“Just needed some air,” Tav said and sipped her drink. “I’m afraid that I’m not too good with this many new people at once. It can get a bit overwhelming. All the noise, and the…constant talking.”

“Oh, I know just what you mean…” Rolim said, completely missing the hint. He sat down beside her.

He crossed his legs and smiled brightly at her before starting to talk her ear off again, just as he had done while they were eating. She caught his gaze running up and down her form every now and again while they were talking. The alcohol had made him considerably less shy about his interest than earlier. Had he not been Raphael’s client, she might have flirted back. He might not be the most intelligent man she had ever met, but his overly cheerful demeanor and good looks were certainly attractive to her. Especially after a couple of drinks.

“Can I say something?” Rolim asked after they had been talking for a while.

Tav tried not to laugh at the request, because the man had been ‘saying something’ non-stop for about half an hour now.

“Sure,” she said.

“Do you promise that you won’t get offended, if I say the thing that I want to say?” he asked with an almost innocent expression.

“Well, what do you want to say?” she said with an amused smile.

He looked at her with a shy look on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He took a sip of his drink. Then he took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say something again.

“I think you are very pretty,” he confessed. “And I am obviously not just saying that because of your reputation and all of that. You are very pretty.”

“Thank you, Rolim,” she said with a genuine smile and a slight blush. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“You are very welcome,” Rolim mumbled with a shy smile and took a sip of his drink.

They kept talking. She suddenly noticed Rolim’s eyes widen ever so slightly as he watched something behind her.

“Raphael,” Rolim greeted with a smile that was a bit more forced than the one he had been wearing with her all night.

She looked over her shoulder to see Raphael leisurely walking over to them.

“Rolim,” he greeted back smoothly as he sat down on the other side of Tav. Raphael placed his arm behind Tav on the backrest of the sofa. “Your business is still flourishing, I presume?”

“Yes, yes…” Rolim answered, with a tinge of nervousness in his voice. “Wonderfully, actually. Thanks to you, of course.”

“How wonderful to hear,” Raphael said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“I was actually thinking of expanding the business to other cities soon,” Rolim said slowly regaining his cheerful tone. “Tav and I actually talked about Baldur’s Gate as an option just earlier tonight.”

“Oh, did you now?” Raphael said and looked at her while he moved his arm away from the backrest, so it fully held around her shoulders. He caressed her shoulder gently with his thumb, as he looked back at Rolim with a cruel smile.

“In my humble opinion, I think it would be wiser if you considered somewhere a little closer to home. It is tempting to become impulsive and arrogant when you have tasted success once but be careful that you are not biting over more than you can chew, my friend...There is something to be said for backing off while the going is good and to be grateful for what one still has…”

Tav’s eyes widened at Raphael’s possessive touch and the darker hidden meaning under his words, but she did not make a move to stop it. If anything, his possessiveness did things to her that she would never admit to anyone. It was a blatant threat, that even someone like Rolim could understand.

“Quite right…” Rolim muttered quietly as he went slightly pale. “I’m…going to go get a drink.”

Rolim gave the both of them a forced polite smile and left them. Tav looked at Raphael who was still sitting all too close to her with his arm around her. He smiled at her.

“That wasn’t very nice…” she said.

“Whatever do you mean?” Raphael asked with mock innocence.

“You know what I mean,” she said and glanced to the hand that was still on her shoulder. “What are you up to?”

“Don’t tell me that you were enjoying the attentions of that drooling whelp?” Raphael said with a huff. “He may be pretty, but he is possibly the least intelligent client I’ve dealt with in this century.”

“Why did you invite him then?” she asked.

“I find his foolishness somewhat endearing,” he answered with a shrug. “Besides, he did grant me a rather easy and highly profitable deal.”

“Ah, right,” she said and nodded. “And that’s all we ‘mortals’ are good for, isn’t it? To line your pockets with souls and gods know what else.”

“Some of you, yes,” Raphael said with an amused expression. “But that’s not how I view our relationship, of course.”

“Of course not,” Tav agreed sarcastically. “Because I’m your ‘favorite’, right? I’m sure we would still have been the best of friends even if I hadn’t dropped a very powerful artifact into your lap.”

“But you did,” Raphael countered. “For which I am endlessly grateful. And you are still my favorite.”

Tav noticed that Raphael was watching something across the room. Her eyes followed his gaze and saw Rolim quickly avert his eyes away from them.

“He quite taken with you,” Raphael noted with a hint of a sneer. “No doubt he has been filling your ears with his endless boasting all evening.”

“I don’t know if I would even call it that,” she said. “He just seemed happy about the way his life was going. It wasn’t even done in any arrogant way. Not intentionally at least.”

“That is because he was trying to entice you,” Raphael said. “I can promise you that he is a bumbling idiot when he is not trying to impress a beautiful woman such as yourself.”

“Beautiful, am I?” Tav teased. The drinks were getting to her.

“Very,” Raphael purred with a smirk.

“Well,” she said with a shrug. “I thought he seemed nice at least.”

Raphael hummed and brushed some of her hair over her shoulder.

“We did establish earlier that you do have a rather annoying tendency to choose people who don’t deserve you,” Raphael said and gave her a look that could only be interpreted as flirtatious.

She swallowed hard and her heart sped up slightly. Her sense of self-preservation that would have told her that this seemed dangerous, was quieted by the alcohol.

“And who do you think deserves me then?” she asked boldly.

“A very good question, indeed. One that I will have to think about…” he mused dramatically. “Although, it is so very difficult to think in here with all the noise. Perhaps if we went somewhere quieter…”

Raphael got up and Tav followed, even though she could hear the faint alarm-bells ringing in the back of her mind.

Raphael snapped his fingers before opening the door to the balcony for her.

Tav’s jaw dropped. It was dark when she stepped out on the balcony. A thousand stars brightened up the sky over the hellish landscape. The sight was bizarre but also stunningly beautiful.

“But…” she said with a look of awe on her face. “That…that doesn’t make sense…? It’s never dark in Avernus, is it?”

“It’s an illusion, my dear,” Raphael said and leaned on the railing beside her. “You are quite right. It never is dark in Avernus. Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful…” she said, her mouth still agape. “Why did you…?”

“For you,” Raphael said. “I understand that the lack of night and day must be quite disorienting when you are not used to it.”

While she was still staring at the sky, she felt arms snaking around her waist from behind her. Her breath hitched.

“There is also a certain sense of intimacy and excitement that can only be found in the darkness of night,” he purred in her ear. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

He placed slow, gentle kisses on her shoulder, trailing up to her neck. Her breathing became even shallower. Her body and the alarm-bells in her head were in complete disagreement about they wanted to do.

“Raphael…” she murmured.

“Yes, my dear?” he whispered against her ear. “Do you want me to stop?”

She turned around to look up at him. His arms were still around her.

“You are up to something…” she said in a quiet voice.

Raphael brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

“Is it truly such an unbelievable concept that I simply find you desirable?” he asked, briefly glancing at her lips.

Tav could not help but glance at his lips as well. Alarm-bells be damned. She desired him too.

Raphael smirked as if he had read her mind and leaned in to kiss her. The kiss was soft and intimate. She could taste tobacco and wine on his lips. It was intoxicating. The whole thing was ridiculously romantic, and it had not been what Tav might have expected from a devil.

When they finally broke the kiss, she noticed that Raphael’s breathing had gotten a heavier as well. His brown eyes were dark with desire as he looked at her.

“I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, but the hour is getting late, sweet mouse,” he said in a low voice. “Would you like to stay here for the night?”

She could only nod. Raphael smiled and kissed her again. This time more passionately. She wrapped her arms around his neck. His grip around her waist tightened, as his tongue started exploring her mouth.

She could feel his hardness pressing up against her abdomen. She let one hand slide down his chest and towards his pants. Raphael knew what she was doing immediately. He bit her lip playfully but firmly and caught her exploring hand with his own.

“Patience, my dear,” he purred against her lips with a smirk.

Tav got the hint: he was in control. She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck again, as he continued to kiss her. His hands roamed her body, though never in any sexual manner, despite the passion in his kiss. He was being a gentleman with her.

When he released the kiss, he placed brief and gentle kisses on both her cheeks and then one on her forehead before resting his head against hers. A gesture so sweet that it made Tav melt completely.

“I knew you were special from the moment we met, you know,” Raphael said, while brushing his fingers gently through her hair. “Such a brave and confident little thing…until you discovered my true nature, of course. However, you still recovered rather quickly, much to my frustration at the time.”

“Well, you weren’t the first devil we had encountered that week,” Tav said with a smile. “You were, however, the first to invite us to your house and offer us supper.”

“Mm,” Raphael hummed and placed a kiss on her neck. “So, I was not your first devil. Would you however say that I am your favorite?”

He placed another kiss further up on her neck.

“To be fair, the bar is on the floor…” she teased, her voice had gotten breathy again at his kisses.

He bit her earlobe.

“A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed,” he whispered in her ear, and tightened his grip around her waist. “We might have to work on those manners of yours.”

His endless teasing was getting to her. Especially when she could feel just how hard he was through the fabric of their clothes. It was killing her.

She was getting impatient, so this time she took the initiative. She leaned up to kiss him. When he returned the kiss, it was slightly hungrier than before. She bit his lip and pressed her hips against his, which earned her a grunt from him. When they broke the kiss, he looked down at her with blazing desire in his eyes. He seemed done with the waiting as well and lead her inside with an arm around her waist.

#writing #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael the cambion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

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raindropsyndrome · 2 years ago

Note

I gotta ask (of you're okay with answering of course!!) How do you get your traditional sketches- that are on paper- I'm assuming, so clean?

I'm totally envious of how pretty it is and how vibrant and clear it turns out in pictures!

I was wondering maybe what your process is or simply how you edit your art to look so pretty! 💜💜

Ahhh thank you!! I’m happy to help!

I’ll use Mikey for this demonstration :>

When traditionally sketching, I first start out with really light lines, then after getting a rough sketch down, I come in with darker lines, then I erase the lighter ones

The darker lines may also get partially erased, but because they’re darker and pressed into the paper more, they remain and I can still see them, so I can just go over them again without keeping my rougher light lines I’d done before

I rinse and repeat until I feel satisfied with my drawing!

Now for the editing, I just use my phone’s camera app editing settings

If this went by a bit too fast, (I’m so used to doing this at this point lol)

In short, what I did was turn the contrast up 100%, then brilliance up to 80% (this varies, it depends on the lighting I took the photo in,) and then I adjust the rest from there. With “highlights” being turned up pretty high, and “shadows” turned pretty low.

Then for the coloring I turned the saturation down to 0%, (for a crisper black and white look, I don’t do this all the way if I used color,) and then I put the “dramatic” filter on it, I like how the filter makes darker hues sharper and how it evens out lighter ones.

Also!! The “sharpness” setting is really nice for making your lines less blurry!! I turn that up to around 15-25%

The cropping is just a matter of framing the main subject well, then taking out unwanted space. I usually adjust angles before cropping, otherwise I might crop out something I wanted in

Here’s the before + after

I hope this wasn’t too confusing, lmk if you want any clarification!

#I’m notoriously bad at explaining things #there’s probably better ways of taking and editing photos of traditional art #but this works for me!#oh yeah also having even lighting when taking the photo really helps

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designatedgrape · 1 year ago

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Uncle Wayne, How Do I?

I’ve never done a tumblr ficlet before, but @sullymygoodname mentioned older Steve having his own “Dad, How Do I” YouTube channel, and my brain immediately went off in its own direction.

Steddie modern AU, rated G, 700 words. Written in less than an hour, and not edited.

---

It takes less than a day after Steve moves into his first apartment for him to realize that he’s in over his head. He’d thought the hardest part of moving out of his parents’ house was scraping together enough money for first month, last month, and the security deposit. But apparently, he was sorely mistaken. He looks helplessly between the picture frame in his hands and the large swath of empty wall above his thrift store sofa, and he realizes…he has no idea how to hang this thing.

So of course, he turns to YouTube.

The first suggested video for “how to hang a picture” is from a channel called “Uncle Wayne, How Do I?” Steve snorts. He wonders how many videos it would take to cover all of the knowledge that Richard Harrington failed to impart on his son.

He clicks on the thumbnail—and a man in his late 40s, looking stoic as he stands next to a picture frame on a wall—and turns up the volume on his phone.

“I’m Wayne Munson, and this is how you hang up a picture frame.”

Okay, good start.

Steve is expecting Wayne Munson to walk him through each step, describing what he’s doing as he goes, but…no. Wayne does something with a ruler, and something with a long yellow thing that might be a ruler, but has a bunch of clear tubes with greenish liquid inside? And then he uses a pencil to mark the wall, because he’s somehow figured out where he wants the picture to go. Steve must have missed that part. He’ll have to go back in a minute, but for now he just wants to see what comes next.

Wayne uses a hammer—Steve knows that tool!—and a nail… Wait, no. Not just a nail. There’s also a hook. But the nail goes through the hook? Did Wayne make a hole in it?

And then suddenly, the picture is hanging on the wall, and Wayne faces the camera, unsmiling. It’s the screenshot from the thumbnail. And that’s…it. What the fuck kind of how-to video was that?

Steve is just about to click away in annoyance, when the sound of a shrieking guitar comes through his phone’s speaker, and a black screen with “Eddie Translates for Uncle Wayne” in blood-red letters appears.

“All right, boys, girls and everyone in between, let’s go over that again, shall we?”

The voice is distinctly younger: low and mysterious, melodic and teasing. Steve waits for a face to appear to match it, but one never does. Instead, Eddie just talks over the same video that Steve watched a moment ago. This time, though, there are pauses and replays and slow-motion sections, all while Eddie says things like,

“So when I asked Wayne what he did here, he just grunted and gestured at the screen, which I’m pretty sure means that you need to measure from the top of the frame to the hanging wire or triangle ring or sawtooth hanger or whatever you’ve got.”

and

“Pop quiz from Uncle Wayne, little sheepies: why should you use a picture hanging hook on the wall instead of just a regular nail? If you guessed, ‘because it looks f-ing badass,’ you’re damn right it do— Ow, Wayne! Jesus! I’m getting to it!” Eddie clears his throat. “The correct answer, according to Uncle Wayne, is, quote, ’So that you don’t rip half the damn wallboard off when your picture falls down because you didn’t take ten seconds to find a damn stud.’ Cool. So there you go.”

Steve is grinning so hard that it feels like his cheeks are getting a stretching workout. As soon as the video ends, he immediately clicks on the next one. Wayne—or more accurately, Eddie—is teaching him how to plant grass seed. Steve definitely won’t need this information for the foreseeable future, given that he doesn’t have any yard to speak of, but that’s neither here nor there.

He doesn’t notice how many videos he’s watched until he realizes the arm holding up his phone is starting to ache, he’s desperately thirsty and also has to pee, and the sun is starting to set. And he still hasn’t hung up the picture that started this all.

He might however, be a little bit in love with Eddie.

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #my writing

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my-rose-tinted-glasses · 11 months ago

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Rose Recaps 2023 - Japan

So, because I have a hard time making big lists and choosing favourites, this my version of a superlative post, by country.

The one that had me at the first frame

If It’s With You | Kimi to Nara Koi wo Shite Mite mo

As soon as Amane appeared on screen I was gone. This damaged but confident boy had my heart from the beginning. But it was Ryuji that ended up with a bigger piece by the end. The way he saw Amane’s mask from the beginning and just went – “you don’t need to do that with me”. And the way he considered Amane’s feelings even when he wasn’t sure what to do or how to respond, or how he was feeling about all of it, was just beautiful to witness and at certain points kinda reminded of Ida.

Favourite Moment: Amane confessing and running away. Because visually it's so striking. The way he's running from the light that is Ryuji.

The one that was perfect and I never saw coming.

I Cannot Reach You | Kimi ni wa Todokanai

I think that by now at least some people know how I feel about Japanese BL. I love it so much. And for me it’s always about the characters. Whether they are the embodiment of chaos, like Aoki or they are just incredible complex and empathic humans like Ida. - Yes, I’m using Kieta Hatsukoi every chance I get- I just love the way all these characters are written and portrait.

I loved these 2 boys in equal measure all throughout the show. I might have a soft spot for Yamato, but that’s only because pining boys are my weakness.

Yamato’s back and forth in his own head about what to do would be annoying to me in any other show, but it was so well done, and we were privy to his thought process throughout that it just made me feel for him deeply. And Kakeru learning about Yamato’s feelings right away in the first episode was a great choice, because he gave the show time to make the reciprocity more believable.

Favourite Moment - The exchange of gifts at the door. I love the nervousness that the two of them are feeling in this moment.

The one where I gave in.

My Beautiful Man S2 & Eternal

Confession time. This was not love at first season for me. I don’t argue quality overall and much less the acting of the show, but it just didn’t click for me.

There were some truly great moments in the first season but there was a disconnect between my heart and my brain. This happens to me sometimes. Like I watch something that is objectively good but it doesn’t reach me.

That all changed with the second season and the film. I finally connect with Hira. Don't ask me why, I don't fully understand myself, but it happened right at the beginning of the season. I think perhaps it was because I started seeing more from Kiyoi pov, because before I was absolutely clueless about what he saw in Hira in the first place. Sorry if that sounds harsh.

I don't blame the show for this, as I said, I think all the elements are there, it just didn't connect for me.

Also, the film was gorgeous to watch. Several moments (specially the sequence where the gif is from) were so well shot and edited that I'm happy I went in already with a positive mindset.

Favourite Moment: The one from the gif. I'm a sucker for a drastic visual change when the moment calls for it.

The one that had me question if watching it was good for my mental health.

Tokyo in April is | Shigatsu no Tokyo wa

Ok. I love this show. I love Ren. But this was a hard watch for me. Every week I had a struggle between two sides of me.

- Don’t watch it. It will be sad and you will be sad because of it. - But the last one was sad so I need to watch it to see if there’s happy. - Why not just wait? - Because I started already, so now I can’t wait. - But in this case binging is best. Cause for sure the ending is happy so you won’t be sad for long. - Yeah, but I need to see more now. And there’s a new episode waiting for me. - Fine. Just press play. After the episode. - I really shouldn’t watch this one live. (all this repeats the following week)

It was beautifully acted, there were some outstanding moments, the past was as tastefully done as it could be given the subject matter, and in the end my heart of full, but slightly damaged with the process.

Favourite Moment: Ren finding out Kazuma had been looking for him.

The one with all the magic.

What Did You Eat Yesterday? | Kinou Nani Tabeta? S2

I already wrote how this show made me feel in another post. So I’ll just say this.

EVERYONE NEEDS TO WATCH THIS SHOW. NOW. If you haven’t, stop reading this and go. GO. NOW. Start.

There is magic here and you don’t even know.

Favourite Moment: ALL OF THEM. But really this one.

Shiro. Just Shiro.

Well, I'll try to write the next one in these next couple of days. Wish me luck.

Thanks for reading💜

#Rose Recaps 2023 #kimi ni wa todokanai #kimi to nara koi wo shite mite mo #i cannot reach you #if it's with you #kinou nani tabeta #tokyo in april is...#shigatsu no tokyo wa #utsukushii kare #my beautiful man eternal #rose rambles

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shenenenigans · 1 month ago

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There’s no flower in this world more beautiful than an artificial one. That’s because everything is manufactured by lies.

@4listr @aakaneeee @bluemoonscape @rockwgooglyeyes @apriciticreveries @pwippy @nottoonedin @starry-skiez @paradisedisconcert

CW: sirius talks about the abuse they’ve suffered with guardian noct. this includes SA, and it’s a little bit graphic. but also be warned it’s very uncomfortable because it’s done by noct, who has tentacles for limbs. there is also the normal content warnings with sirius, like experimentation and murder.

NOTE: sirius might contradict himself. that’s on purpose. sirius might lie. that’s on purpose. also, this text won’t be entirely in pink. it’s a lot longer than my other like “character thoughts” posts to be fully pink, and i don’t want to hurt anyone’s eyes... and i barely edited this bare with me please

Getting branded was very painful. I believe this was done on purpose, though I’m not sure of the reason why. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Noct only makes me suffer as a punishment, so I don’t know why he had done this.

Sometimes, when I visit Noct, he’s not in a very good mood. I do try to make our flowers live for as long as possible, but sometimes a few have to die so our materials don’t get wasted. I don’t quite get why wilting flowers directly relates to Noct wanting to hurt me, but I’ve learned not to question him because it only leads to worse punishment.

I remember once, as a child, I accidentally broke one of our preservation tanks. I tripped over a pen Hanno had dropped on the ground, and I fell into the tank. Noct was so angry with me. I can clearly picture slimy tentacles lifting my body off the ground and the jarring electric shock that came shortly after. No matter how hard I tried to wriggle out of his grip, nothing worked. Noct was too strong for me to escape. It disgusted me to feel Noct touching me all over, the wet consistency of his limbs only reaching lower and lower. He even covered my mouth so I couldn’t scream.

That was the first time that Noct had been so infuriated at me that he assaulted me.

I read in a book that when humans ruled the Earth, such assaults were illegal and frowned upon in society. I don’t understand why Noct seems to think this is a normal, suitable punishment for a pet.

It was like I couldn’t wash the filth off my body no matter how hard I tried. I would shower multiple times a day, scrubbing so hard it felt like my skin was burning. And nothing would work. Nothing would ever work. I tried to like everything was normal so he wouldn’t do it again. I didn’t want him to do it again. But it happened, it always happened, and I wasn’t sure how to prevent it.

I’m sure that Noct enjoys seeing me in pain. Or rather, humans in pain. I suppose that’s why he chose to have my brand be on my spine. But he only puts me through pain to punish me, so why not put my brand on a spot that would give me less torment? I didn’t have any anesthetics either. I don’t get it. I really don’t. I didn’t need to be punished. I had been good, so why did he feel the need to torture me in such a way?

I think Noct was beginning to just have fun with me at that point. When he visited shortly after my branding procedure was done, he threw me against the wall and… Well, I’m sure that he had his reasons for it, but it felt so unnecessary. I didn’t attend my classes the next day.

Noct tells me he loves me. He tells me he loves me and he treats me like a doll meant to be cast away. He treats me like a toy. He says I’m his most prized possession, but if being prized means being abused, I don’t want it. I don’t want to be loved, I don’t want to be known, I don’t want to be seen. I wish I were invisible, I wish nobody would look at me ever again. I wish I could be clean, I wish I felt real, I wish to be hated so I never have to be loved again.

I don’t understand the concept of love. If love is sweet, why does it hurt me? Love is a selfish concept made for those in power to look down on the weak. Love is a game that damages the soul.

I despise love. I wish it despised me in return.

I tried to kill love. Multiple times, in fact. My brother Hanno showed me love, and I killed him for it. He used to yell at me through my door, telling me he was going to kill me. He told me that horrible things day after day, but he also used to tell me how my creations were beautiful. I don’t get it. I don’t understand him. One day, he told me I was like a sibling to him. He said he loved me.

He died not long afterward. It was his fault, truly.

Chiara showed me love, I killed her too. I knew I’d never be her first priority. She was only using me for pretty flowers and good food Guardian Kora would never give her. There’s no possible way she really enjoyed my company. I knew this, so I used her as an experiment and told her terrible things as she was dying.

Vera was the first to show me love. In my early years, she acted like a mother. She cared for me, even if I was just some forgettable piece of garbage. She would talk about her love, Ellie, that she killed in the Alien Stage competition. She talked about Ellie’s love for life and love for plants, and she only ever said positive things about Ellie. It never made sense to me why she simply went through with her guardian’s plans to kill her. If her love really was that strong, it would’ve been pure enough to disobey her guardian’s wishes. It would’ve been pure enough to allow Vera to run away with Ellie.

I killed her because she was a fucking liar. Vera loved Ellie, but she killed her. She told me she would never do that to me. She’d never hurt me or abandon me. Lies, all of them, lies. I had already been hurt, I had already been abandoned, so it would be remarkably easy to do it again. She lied to me. I could see it in her eyes, she lied to me. She was planning to hurt me, I just know it.

I am jealous of those with pure love in their hearts. I am jealous of those who share a love with no pain, no suffering, no power imbalance, and no heartache. So, when I see Numa and Xael together, of course I’m bitter.

I worked on Numa before. I remember getting him to trust me, and I eventually convinced him to let me operate on him so I could tamper with his tastebuds. I am the reason he can no longer taste anything but human meat. And yet, he’s still thriving. He’s still caring, and bright. He brought joy to Xael’s life that I have never had in mine. He’s not suffering, not in the slightest.

He treats Xael so kindly, so gently. Numa cradles Xael in his arms at night. He’s so soft and slow when they’re intimate. He cares so much, it’s not overpowering. He isn’t abusive. He doesn’t hold power over Xael.

I wish, just once, someone would direct their kindness to me. True, unconditional kindness. Giving me gifts isn’t true kindness. Telling me I’m smart isn’t true kindness. I need someone to read my soul, to see me for who I am, without wanting to change me or fix me. I don’t want roughness, I don’t want pain, I don’t want torment.

I just want to be perceived.

#alnst oc #alien stage oc #alnst oc: sirius #cw sa mention #this is a lot longer than my other posts #usually when i do lore i make my posts shorter so it’s easier to look for information you want #and i split stuff up most of the time #but i just thought for this it wouldn’t make any sense to split this up #i’ll post a summary of this in case people don’t want to read because of the sa mention

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bangaveragewhitewine · 1 year ago

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Clean Slate

Steve Harrington X Reader

It’s summer in Chicago, 1994. Being single in the city isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You feel less strong single independent woman, and more like the lonely teenager who floated between friend groups. A blind date with a familiar face might just be the clean slate you didn’t know you needed.

Clean Slate playlist

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings/Content: Both you and Steve are in your late-twenties. Some mentions of anxiety and feeling lonely. Other than that, flirting. Steve being dreamy. No use of Y/N and the reader is referenced as a being woman.

Author’s Note: Being in your late twenties sucks, huh? I’m just getting back into writing again, inspired by the amazing authors who have made me fall in love with Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson again and again. I had such fun writing this and fucking around on Canva 💖

Please do not do any AI fuckery with my work or repost on other sites.

(divider by me, that’s why it sucks)

edit: Read Pinch Me a follow up to Clean Slate

This was a bad idea. With every step you took from the subway, your desire to be back on your sofa eating pasta in your pyjamas grew more and more. A blind date? You definitely hadn’t been in your right mind when you agreed to this. Thinking back on it, when had being wine-drunk with your best friend ever cultivated a good decision?

After a steady stream of bad first dates, disappointing situationships and one walking red-flag you had called your boyfriend for eight months, Annie had finally taken pity on you and took charge of setting you up with someone. Over almost room-temperature white wine and an empty pizza box, she had made you pinky-promise to trust her as Mermaids played in the background. She couldn’t stand any longer to see you cry over preppy yuppies and wannabe grungers who only wanted to meet you to hook-up or string you along (alongside several other women who also deserved better). She had seen how deep it cut when you were stood up, left waiting by the phone by some mediocre poser who had already moved on. Slurring her words, Annie had held your tear-stained face and told you that you were wasting the best years of your life on idiots who stamped on your big heart and dimmed your light. Bolstered by her words, and more wine, you ended up dancing and scream-singing in your little studio apartment to a mixtape of songs from your college days and fell asleep on your second-hand sofa with your pinky fingers linked.

A few days later, after the hangover had subsided and you had done your best to forget your tearful confession of just how lonely you felt in the city, Annie called you up to ask if you were free on Friday night. Thinking another girl’s night was on the cards, you said yes.

“Great. I have someone I want you to meet, he works with my brother. Does Hardy’s at 8 work for you?”

The pinky-promise with your best friend since college could categorically not be taken back and so you found yourself reluctantly agreeing. As long as he wasn’t a murderer, or as emotionally unavailable as your last three suitors, how bad could it be?

“Well when you fall in love and have beautiful babies, just remember who set you up, m’kay?” Annie had said when you called her up, considering cancelling. “You’re going!”

After going away to college from your small town upbringing, a move to Chicago was supposed to be the ultimate dream, but inside you still felt like the awkward teenager from Hawkins, Indiana. The outsider at every party, every hang-out at the mall or the arcade. The add-on to every friend group who said ‘you can come with us if you want to’ instead of an actual invitation. When you called your mom on the phone, she insisted that you had it all, that you were a real modern woman. She had been married and was already a mother at your age, and she was proud that you had the opportunity to be the bright independent woman you always wanted to be. It just didn’t seem so shiny now that it was your reality.

With the bar in your sights, you took a deep breath and swiped the tiny beads of sweat that gathered over the bridge of your nose. Summer in the city was heavy with humidity; you could feel the lining of your long slip dress clinging to your thighs, riding up under the delicate black floral. The claw-clip holding up your hair was truly doing the lord's work, keeping your freshly washed blow-dry blind date-ready.

You knew very little about your date - his name was Steve, he was a teacher with great hair. He was going to be wearing a blue shirt and would be on the lookout for the girl with the pink rose embroidered on her bag. Your entire outfit had been put together around the one piece you loved that could be picked out in the Friday night crowd of the bar. Classic first date; Annie was committed to helping you live the rom-com fantasy you deserved.

Des’ree’s words of wisdom, and your best friend’s blunt insistence that you were a hot bitch, echoed in your head as you took a moment to compose yourself and let your hair down over your clammy neck. Inside the bar was barely any cooler as you made your way through the stragglers from after-work drinks mingling with those who were just starting their night out. The desire to go home had never been stronger as you propped yourself by the jukebox and waited, trying not to cringe as you thought about what you looked like to the couples and groups of friends drinking and laughing around you. It felt far too similar to the house parties of your youth. What if he didn’t turn up? Or worse, what if he did and turned on his heel after realising you were his date? What could be best described as an overwhelming feeling of dread crept over you as you fidgeted with the strap of your bag, trying not to look too eager for the mystery that was Steve.

Hearing your name brought you back to reality and out of your doom-spiral. As if. Steve Harrington was making his way over, the crowd parting with ease for him. Surely you had hit your head and this was some sort of dream…

“Hey…” A smile crept onto his face as his eyes darted between you and the beacon that was the rose embroidered on your bag. A city of millions and your blind date was the boy who had defended your honour at the age of five years old after Daniel P. pushed you in the playground; Steve had called him a ‘butthead’ and told Mrs Holland on the other boy.

You hoped that the dim light of the bar hid your pink cheeks as Steve stopped in front of you, looking even more dreamy than he had at junior prom. The blue shirt made him glow golden, fitting just right over the breadth of his shoulders. His hair was coiffed perfectly, defying humidity and gravity and giving him a few more inches of height.

“Steve..” You couldn’t help a shaky laugh as the realisation washed over you both. It was easier to tune out the rest of the bar as he pulled you in for a quick but tight hug. You could have sighed at the feeling of his arms around you; you might have done just that, melted into a puddle of a girl had he not peeled away to get a good look at you. An irritating little pocket of anxiety in your chest could hardly believe he remembered you.

“Nice bag. I think you’re the girl I’ve been looking for.”

You felt like you could swoon. Or moan. Steve Harrington was effortlessly charming, more so than when he reigned in Hawkins High. Losing his crown had humbled him, that and working retail in your dead-end hometown. He looked genuinely pleased to see you, someone familiar in a city of strangers. You feel your teeth sink into the dusty-rose of your lip as you smile.

“Thanks.” You will your voice not to shake as your heart pounds hard. “Annie told me you had great hair. I should’ve known it was going to be you.”

His laugh is soft, but you can still hear it over the music and voices in the bar. With one huge gentle hand on your elbow, he steers you to the bar to order drinks, standing close enough to see the sprinkling of moles and freckles on his neck and cheek and the hair peeking from the unbuttoned top of his shirt. Steve Harrington was a man now, all grown up.

“She did, huh? I think I’ve met her once, I work with her brother,” Steve edges closer so that you could hear him. “How long’ve you been in Chicago?”

“She didn’t even know you were ‘The Hair’.” You smiled and felt the weight of his gaze; you couldn’t ignore the sparkling feeling in your tummy. “Um I left Hawkins in ‘86, went to college in Indy. Moved here in ‘93.” Steve leans in to hear you, nodding as you count up the years in your head. “You’re a teacher? So are you more Scott Clark or Coach Kelly?”

Steve laughs again and shakes his head as he pays for your drinks. “Neither. Maybe a little Clarke, without the sweater vests. I teach third grade so they would definitely roast me if I did.” He runs a hand through his hair, smirking, “But I do coach basketball after school too, you got me.” He spots a seat and steers you to a little high-top table, pulls out the stool for you before sitting opposite, visibly relaxed. There’s something about how you have bypassed the awkward introductions part of the date that makes you feel a little more at ease. But this is Steve Harrington. Any minute now he’ll make a polite excuse to leave after remembering how bookish and weird you were in school.

Except he doesn’t.

“I still can’t believe it’s you. You look great,” he says, not trying to flirt too hard. Steve is looking at you like he’s happy you’re here. Happy you’re his date.

“I can’t believe you remember me. I was.. so boring,” you laugh at your own expense before sipping your drink, looking at the ice clicking against the glass.

“Quiet maybe. Not boring though,” he ducked his head, making you look into his golden brown eyes. “Hey. Clean slate? That’s why we left Hawkins. If you can forget how much of an ass I was in high school, I can forget…” Steve pauses and hums as he thinks back.

Forgettable. Unremarkable. That’s how you felt, blending into the background everywhere you went. You hadn’t been a cheerleader, or even a band-geek. Yeah you went to parties, but usually left early. You didn’t monologue on the lunchroom tables or get detention, and in the one play you auditioned for, they asked you to paint the sets - you couldn’t fade any further into the background if you tried.

And Steve had never been an ass to you; his kingly confidence had burned fast and bright in the school halls until his fall from grace. He had always been polite, kind even; he asked to borrow a pen a few times, scolded Carol Perkins when she pushed past you and made you drop your lunch one time. He did just enough on a group project on Macbeth to keep him on your good side…

“Huh.” Steve frowns, looking a little fond as you snap yourself back to reality. “I can’t remember anything embarrassing about you. All good.”

Your cheeks flamed and you couldn’t stop the nervous giggle that bubbled up from your chest. “Smooth, Harrington. Wow, remind me how you’re single?” He was definitely just being nice. You could remind him about the time you drank way too much peach schnapps and lemonade at Tammy Thompson’s 18th birthday and had to be picked up by your mom, or when you said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism’ in ninth grade - both of which still haunted you when you tried to fall asleep. But Steve just grins back at you.

“I mean it! You had that pink scrunchie permanently attached to your body, and a little snort laugh. Totally cute, not embarrassing at all.” He stays smiling as he sips his beer, seeing how you’re stunned that he remembers. Not smug, totally hot and he’s not even trying. You’re aghast.

“You remember my fucking scrunchie…?” “If you tell me you still have it…” “Steve, it’s literally on my bedside table.”

Steve’s laughter makes you join in, snorting involuntarily as your shoulders shake, which just makes him laugh more. It's been a long time since a date made you laugh like this, let alone feel like you’re floating.

When you both settle, Steve reaches over and takes your hand. You remember how you had wondered how holding his hand might feel when you saw him walk Nancy Wheeler to class way back when. It felt better than you ever dreamed it might.

“Hey. Lemme tell you something, when I saw you over there I wanted to come right up and say hi. And then I saw your bag…it made my week.”

Butterflies soar in your belly and you feel your cheeks heat up again. “Steve..”

“But just know, I thought you were cute in school. I just.. had my own shit going on and I was pretty shitty for a few years. So if you can give a reformed asshole a chance, I’d love to hear about how you’ve been, and actually get to know you.”

Steve squeezes your hand as CeCe Peniston sings Finally to the bar. The song totally sinks in now as you squeeze Steve’s hand in return, making him beam a smile your way.

“Okay, Clean slate. But Steve? I totally had a crush on you. Even when you were doing keg stands and goofing around in math.” You make him smile even brighter, even as he shakes his head.

“So cute. Damn, you’re definitely trouble.”

“Guess you’ll have to find out.” You raise a brow and sip your drink again, feeling less anxious now. The drink helped, but knowing that you could make an impression on Hawkins High royalty was certainly bolstering.

“One question. Very important.” You straighten up before leaning toward him, almost conspiratorially. You don’t miss how his eyes dip to your lips before meeting your gaze.

“Go for it.” “Are you sure about the sweater vests? I think you could really make them work.”

Now it’s your turn to grin into your glass as Steve throws his head back. “Oh I’m so in trouble with you.”

He lifts his glass, meeting you in the middle to clink it against yours with a signature Steve Harrington wink. Maybe something good could come from a wine-soaked pinky promise.

bonus Steve inspo for the girlies who made it to the end - ily💖

#steve harrington x reader #Steve Harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #Steve Harrington x fem!reader #Steve Harrington x y/n #steve harrington is a total dreamboat #my fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x f!reader #bangaveragefics

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senashenta · 3 months ago

Text

Snowflakes And Dragons

Title: Snowflakes And Dragons

Pairing: Hijack

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Language. Like, so much language.

Summary: In the spring after a memorable Christmas break, Hiccup and Jack spend as much time together as possible, now that it’s okay with North. Jack admires Hiccup’s tattoos—and muses that he might, someday, like to get one of his own. But Hiccup jumps on THAT particular idea, and the next thing Jack knows the two of them are at the tattoo parlor Hiccup has been going to for years, Wayfinder Ink.

Notes: Hoooooooooly SHIT my peeps, look at me coming in out of nowhere (by “nowhere” I mean the SPN fandom) with another Biology side-fic. This is one I planned to write YEARS ago and never got around to, and then I was editing some of my old stuff and saw the listing for Snowflakes And Dragons on the Biology Master Post on Tumblr and was like… yes. Yes, I believe I shall. :|

A bit belated but have some more (smut-adjacent) RPNAU! :D Can also be read ON AO3. <3

SNOWFLAKES AND DRAGONS A Biology Side-Fic By Senashenta

It was no secret that Hiccup Haddock had tattoos; he wore sleeveless shirts as often as he could in the warmer months so the ones on his arms were obvious, and his rugby teammates could attest to the other ones, the ones that decorated his torso, all tribal designs or dragons, things that he found meaningful but weren’t particularly scandalous.

Only Jack knew about the one on Hiccup’s upper thigh, leading into his groin—a two-headed dragon spouting clouds of gas and fire. And he only knew about that one for reasons that his father would probably never want to hear about (and he would never tell to anyone else, either.)

“You keep touching me there and you’re gonna get me fuckin’ hard again.” Hiccup murmured, the arm he had around Jack tightening slightly and his hand rubbing up and down the other boy’s unblemished side. Jack didn’t have any tattoos; or the freckles or scars that Hiccup carried, either. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Jack made a soft embarrassed noise. He had been tracing his fingers along the dragon on Hiccup’s thigh, but now he paused and smoothed his hand out before sliding it up to rest by Hiccup’s ribs instead. “Sorry.”

“Don’t gotta apologize for makin’ me feel good.” Hiccup told him, tone amused. “But we don’t have time for a second ‘round. I’ve gotta get you home, soon. I promised your Dad we wouldn’t be too late.”

Jack tucked himself closer into Hiccup’s side and began trailing his fingers along one of the tattoos on the other boy’s chest, the touch almost absent in nature. Hiccup hummed but allowed it, tilting his head to drop a kiss against Jack’s snow-white hair. “How much does it hurt?” Jack asked after a moment, tone contemplative.

“How much does what hurt?”

“Tattoos. A tattoo. Getting one done.”

“Why, Frosty? You thinkin’ about gettin’ one?”

“I—yeah, actually. Maybe.” His little nerd admitted with a little shrug of one shoulder.

“Fuck me, really?” Hiccup glanced down at the boy in his arms, giving him a surprised look before settling again, his hand going back to rubbing along Jack’s side, warm and affectionate. “It’s worse for virgins.” He said after a moment, “the more you get done the less it seems to hurt. Except in certain sensitive areas.” A little smirk and he added, “the dragon one you’re so fond of stung like a son of a bitch, the closer they got to my dick.”

Jack almost winced at the thought, his fingers slowing to a stop again, his palm resting against Hiccup’s chest, feeling his heartbeat under his hand. “Okay, but say, on my shoulder? My abdomen, maybe? I dunno, I just… I was just thinking about it.” Then his voice dropped to a shy whisper, and he murmured softly; “I was thinking maybe a dragon.”

Hiccup was silent for a few breaths before asking quietly, “you mean… for me? Shit, Jack, that’s…”

“I—I know, it’s a stupid idea, really, I was just looking at your tattoos and thinking—” Jack broke off and made another embarrassed noise, then began to pull away and sit up; “but never mind. Forget it. We—we should go.”

But Hiccup grabbed at him quickly and tumbled him back down onto the bed, rolling over so he was laying on top of Jack and Jack was staring up at him with wide eyes—but ones full of complete trust. It hadn’t always been that way. “I don’t want to forget it.” Hiccup told him and leaned down to kiss him firmly. “I think it’s a Goddamn fantastic idea.”

Jack blinked up at him, eyes huge and oh-so-blue, before offering a tentative smile. There was a time, it seemed like ages ago, but it hadn’t actually been that long, when being pinned under Hiccup like this would have been terrifying. Now he was comfortable with Hiccup’s weight holding him down, relaxed. “You do?” He asked.

“Mmhm.” Hiccup kissed him again, grinning now, and then nipped at the tip of his nose teasingly. “Won’t your Dad freak out?”

“Well… yeah, probably.” Jack admitted, but then added, “but not if I don’t tell him.”

A laugh at that, and then Hiccup ducked down to kiss along Jack’s throat, pausing at the crook of his neck to lick there hotly. “If you get it on your shoulder, it’ll probably hurt less than if you get it on your abdomen.” He informed, “but I think it’d look fucking hot on your abdomen…”

Jack considered that while beginning to squirm as Hiccup’s lips trailed along his shoulder, then down across his chest—and the punk bit down on one of his nipples, making him arch with a gasp. And they weren’t supposed to be doing this again, Jack really did have to get home, but apparently Hiccup had changed his mind on that particular fact.

Dragging one hand up, Jack threaded his fingers into Hiccup’s hair, tugging gently, not actually a protest, just a gentle reminder. Hiccup had been licking into his navel, but paused at that and sighed, then sat up and settled on his back beside Jack instead, both of them already half-hard again.

“Look,” Hiccup told him, wrapping an arm around Jack’s shoulders and ducking in to nose by his ear, “come with me to my tattoo place, they’re fantastic. You can look around the shop and decide for sure. Sound like a plan?”

“I know they’re fantastic, I’ve, uh, seen their work.” Jack let his eyes flick down the length of Hiccup’s body and back up again. “But… yeah. I think that sounds good.”

“Great. We can go on the weekend.” The punk grinned sideways at him, “but for now we have to get dressed and get you home.”

Jack reluctantly agreed. It was a school night after all.

The next couple of days passed the same as always for Jack, school routines, lunch with his friends in the cafeteria and watching after-school rugby practices just to cheer Hiccup on. Meals in the morning and the evening with his dad. Hanging out with Hiccup after dinner, at his house or at his boyfriend’s, though if they were at Hiccup’s place they had to be careful because his father still didn’t know about them.

Sometimes they had sex at Hiccup’s house—fucked, as the punk would put it—but when they did, they had to either be particularly careful about their volume, or make sure Stoick was out of the house at the time. Jack particularly liked having sex at Hiccup’s house when his father was away, because his boyfriend’s bed was more comfortable, and they could be as loud as they wanted. (Not that Jack thought he was particularly loud, but sometimes Hiccup disputed that claim.)

He was really looking forward to moving away from home, for that reason and a few others, if he was honest with himself. College the following year was going to be a blessing, though he was a little nervous about it as well.

In any case, the two days before the weekend passed easily enough, and then Saturday came along, and Jack woke up at almost eleven in the morning to the feeling of the mattress dipping and Hiccup climbing into the bed with him, spooning up against his back and tossing an arm over his waist. Still half-asleep, Jack smiled and murmured, “g’mornin’.”

“Morning, Frostbite.” Came Hiccup’s reply, and the punk nuzzled his nose into the nape of Jack’s neck; “I tried calling, but you must have your phone on vibrate or whatever. Your Dad let me in.”

There had been a time, not so long ago, when North would have rather had Hiccup arrested than willingly let him in the front door. Jack’s smile widened a little and he hummed to himself, then carefully turned over in Hiccup’s arms to face him. “Dad likes you now, you know.”

“I know he tolerates me, at least.” Hiccup chuckled.

“Mm-mm.” Jack made a soft negative noise. “You know what he’s like if he disapproves of someone. You’ve won him over. Makes my life way easier, that’s for sure.” And then, “sorry I slept in. Give me a few minutes to have a shower, you can just… hang out in here until I’m back.”

“Fuckin’ tease.”

“Okay, but do you want to go back to Dad hating you?”

“All the sneaking around was half the fun. I miss the janitor’s closet.”

“Hiccup, we were literally in the janitor’s closet yesterday.”

The punk had a childish grin on his face, and Jack just rolled his eyes and pushed one hand against Hiccup’s chest, then rolled over and climbed out of bed, bustling around the room for a fresh t-shirt and pair of boxers and then disappearing out the door and down the hall to the bathroom.

When he got back half an hour later to toss his dirty clothes in the laundry basket, Hiccup was laying on his back in the bed with Jack’s glasses in his hands, holding them up in front of his face and squinting through the lenses. Jack just sighed and walked over to pluck his glasses from Hiccup’s fingers, then leaned down for a kiss.

“I just need to finish getting dressed and then we can go.” The smaller boy informed him.

When he went to straighten back up again, though, Hiccup grabbed at the front of his shirt and pulled him in for another kiss. “What if we went with less clothing, instead?”

“Dad is right downstairs and I really kind of want to go see your tattoo place, though.” Jack protested into the kiss.

Hiccup sighed and kissed him again—but then let go of his shirt and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “So, put some fucking pants on already. Always gotta be such a tease.”

“You’re the one who crawled into my bed while I was still sleeping.”

“Smartass. Like I haven’t done that before.”

“That’s besides the point.” Jack was bustling around, pulling the rest of his clothes on quickly, and paused long enough to consider if he wanted to wear a tie or not before deciding it was a weekend so screw it. He just pulled his sweater vest over his white t-shirt and tugged at it to smooth it out, then wandered over drop a kiss against Hiccup’s hair, placing his glasses on his face and pushing them up his nose at the same time. “You coming? I don’t know where this place is.”

Hiccup pushed himself to his feet and pulled Jack into a hug, wrapping him up in his arms and nuzzling down into his hair with a sigh—and it was little moments like that that no one else got to see. The softer side to his badass punk of a boyfriend that Jack loved just as much as all the other parts—sometimes even more so.

“I brought my bike. Your Dad is gonna give me a dirty look when we head out.”

“Yeah, he’s still not a fan of me being on the motorcycle, is he?”

North was still overprotective at times, but he accepted Jack’s relationship with Hiccup now, and that was the important thing. Even knew they were sleeping together and didn’t say anything about it, which, when he really thought about it, Jack though might be some kind of genuine miracle.

But the one thing North still disapproved of was Hiccup’s motorcycle—or, more specifically, the times that Jack rode on it with Hiccup. Jack knew his Dad was only worried about his safety, and he never expressly forbid it, but every time Hiccup showed up to the house with his bike North gave him little, dirty looks when they were leaving.

Jack usually just ducked his head and shouted “BYE DAD!” before scooting out of the house and closing the door behind them as quickly as possible. He didn’t need yet another lecture on motorbike safety, and neither did Hiccup.

Today went much like any other day with the two of them heading downstairs, Jack hurrying to shove his shoes on, both of them grabbing their jackets from the rack by the door, and then Jack yelling a goodbye to his father before they made their escape. Eventually North would have to come to terms with the bike, too, but just not… today.

Hiccup was parked by the curb out front, and when they reached the bike, Jack took his glasses back off and tucked them in the pocket of his jacket for safe keeping, even as Hiccup dug the spare helmet out from the locker on the back of the bike and handed it over. They had done this more times than they could count. Jack pulled the helmet on and tightened it down, then waited for Hiccup to get on and climbed on behind him, wrapping his arms around the punk’s waist and smiling to himself as he rested his head against his back.

Then they were off, zooming through the streets of Berk at speeds that never failed to get Jack’s heart pumping. He had been nervous around Hiccup’s motorcycle at first, but now he loved it. Not that he wanted one of his own or anything, of course, he much preferred holding onto Hiccup while they zipped around town.

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of a shop with a sign in the window that read “Wayfinder Ink” and Jack released Hiccup to climb off the back of the bike, pulling his helmet off and smoothing at his hair absently while he waited for Hiccup to take it back and lock it up again. The helmet was plucked from under his arm a moment later and Jack flashed Hiccup a smile even as he was pulling his glasses back out and putting them on again.

“This is the place.” Hiccup told him, coming up beside him and giving him a little grin, “they’ve done all my ink. Their artists are really good, and they’re sanitary, which is important, you don’t want infections or any of that shit. Also, they don’t charge out the ass, which is always a plus.”

“Like I said before, I know their artists are good, I’ve seen their work. Like—like a lot.” Jack gave a little laugh, a faint blush tinting his cheeks, “and if you recommend them… I mean, I trust your judgement with this sort of thing. Most things, actually.”

Hiccup gave him a fond sort of look and gestured toward the shop with one hand. “C’mon, let’s go in so you can have a look around.”

There was a little bell above the door that tinkled when they stepped inside, and Jack stayed close to Hiccup’s side at first as he looked around, but slowly drifted away from his boyfriend when he discovered the art wall; framed photos of some of the shop’s better work. He spotted one or two of Hiccup’s tattoos in the bunch, and that made him smile just a bit.

There was another wall that was even more interesting, though, and that was the wall of simple, basic tattoos that they offered every day. Jack poured over all the different designs, ideas running rampant in his head—until blue eyes lit on one design in particular, a black dragon, curled around itself with a bit of red tail peeking through. The design was almost tribal in nature, but just skirted it, not quite there. It looked like a brand or a symbol.

“Find something you like?” Hiccup’s chin came down on his shoulder and the punk’s eyes flitted over the wall. Jack lifted up one hand to tap against the dragon design he was looking at. “Yeah, that one’s cool. I’ve thought about getting it myself, once or twice.”

“I—I think I want it.” Jack told him seriously, but then glanced toward the counter where the receptionist was watching them curiously and a large CASH ONLY sign was sitting. “But I didn’t bring any cash with me.”

A smirk tugged at Hiccup’s lips, and he slid his arms around Jack’s waist, giving him a little squeeze. “I’ll pay for it. First one’s on me. But only if you’re absolutely fuckin’ sure. You can’t take a tattoo back.”

Jack made a surprised noise and turned his head to look at Hiccup as much as he could. “You don’t have to do that, Hiccup, it’s probably expensive…”

“A little,” Hiccup agreed, “but I’m doing okay for money. Don’t bitch, Jack, just let me do this for you.”

He almost protested more, but in the end, there would be no point. Hiccup had made his mind up and there was no changing it after that happened. Jack still shifted, slightly uncomfortably, as he turned his eyes back to the design he had been looking at before. Finally, he leaned back into Hiccup’s chest and asked, “promise this won’t be, like, agony?”

“It’s not nearly as bad as people make it out to be.” The punk assured him, “but it also depends on your pain tolerance. You’ll just be getting a little one, right? So, you’ll probably be okay.” And then; “don’t get me wrong, it’ll hurt, but it won’t feel like you’re being fucking… flayed alive, or some shit.”

Jack was quiet for another moment before finally turning his head and kissing Hiccup’s cheek. “Okay. Let’s do this before I come to my senses.”

Hiccup grinned. “Do you have any idea how Goddamned hot you’re gonna look with a tattoo?”

“Pfft.” Jack turned around in his arms and shoved him away gently.

Hiccup fell back a step, still grinning, then turned around and headed over to the receptionist, who left her seat and disappeared into the back, returning a few minutes later with a hulking man who was just covered in tattoos. There was some back-and-forth between him and Hiccup and then he smiled widely in Jack’s direction and asked, “virgin, huh?”

Jack flushed red because he wasn’t—except, he supposed, with this he absolutely was. “Uh.” He managed, “yeah. Be nice?”

“I’m always nice.” He informed Jack, “my name is Maui, and I’ll be your tattoo artist today. Come on over.”

“Maui’s done most of my ink,” Hiccup told his boyfriend as Jack made his way over and somewhat embarrassedly showed Maui the spot on the right side of his lower abdomen where he wanted the tattoo to go, lifting up his shirt and vest and tugging down the front of his pants just slightly. Hiccup hesitated at that, green eyes pausing on the exposed skin, before swallowing and adding, “getting it there’ll be a little more sensitive, like I said.”

Jack just nodded. He understood. But that was where he wanted it, so that was where he was going to get it, regardless of the added pain. Or at least that was what he was thinking now—he figured he might be cursing himself in a few minutes, if it hurt more than he was anticipating.

“And you just want number twenty-six on the board?” Maui asked, picking up a book and flipping through the pages, then showing the image to Jack. “This one?”

Jack nodded again. “Yes, that one.” He pulled his shirt down again, satisfied that—

“Right, shirt off, time to give Moana a show!”

—or not. The nerd flushed red and glanced over at the receptionist, who grinned at him and wiggled her fingers in his direction. Then she just informed Maui; “you wanna talk about a show, Maui, you were literally tattooing some guy’s dick in here not two hours ago. That was a show. Leave this poor kid alone.”

Jack was still balking, so Hiccup eased up to him and leaned in for a kiss, then gently grasped the edge of his sweater vest and rucked it up, tugging it over Jack’s head and then giving him another kiss. The sweater vest was followed by his t-shirt, which Jack hesitated over before allowing his boyfriend to pull that off, too. Then he just shifted awkwardly as Hiccu’s hands got to work unbuttoning his pants and tugging them open and down the slightest bit.

“There. Much better.” Hiccup grinned and ducked in for another kiss, then pressed one back by Jack’s jaw gently. “You can put your clothes back on when the tattoo is done.”

“If you say so.” Then, a little disparaging and knowing Hiccup would disapprove; “not much of a show, though.”

The punk frowned at that and gave Jack a reproving nip. “Hey, you shut that shit down, Frostbite, you’re hot as fuck.” Then he tugged Jack a little closer and leaned for another proper kiss. “I’ll be glad to show you just how hot you are later, too.”

That was about when Maui cleared his throat. Over by the reception desk, Moana was still grinning. Maui shot her a look and she demanded, “what? They’re cute!”

“Do people really get their… dicks… tattooed?” Jack wondered out loud.

“Yes.” Hiccup and Maui both said simultaneously. Maui added, “all the fucking time.”

Jack winced at just the thought and took a bit of a breath. Hiccup leaned in to kiss his forehead with a grin. “Just don’t think about it, Jack. Yours isn’t gonna be anything like that.”

“Right.” Maui agreed and sat down on a nearby stool that was decked out with wheels, rolling himself over to the tattoo bench: a sort of doctor’s or dentist’s table of sorts, or at least that’s what it looked like to Jack. Maui patted the bench. “Jack, right? Hop on up. Moana, bring the paperwork.”

Moana chirped an agreement and dug out the clipboard with the papers for Jack to sign, bringing it over with a pen and explaining them to him—quickly but without leaving out any detail. This was important, for legal reasons. So, they didn’t get sued when someone regretted their life choices later on.

Jack listened closely and it all made sense, so he quickly signed his name at the bottom of the contract, then climbed up on the table and, when Maui made a motion for him to lay down, hesitated just briefly before doing just that. Hiccup came over and tugged his pants down a little more, making sure there was plenty of space for Maui to work, and making Jack squawk out a protesting noise, flushing red again. Maui just dug out the alcohol swabs and set to sterilizing the area of skin in question.

…it turned out the actual tattooing part of the getting a tattoo wasn’t really all that bad. Jack just grit his teeth through the pain and, at one particularly sensitive spot, flung his arm up over his eyes and bit out a curse, making Hiccup laugh.

It took just over an hour, but only because there was so much black to fill in, and then Maui was setting aside the tattoo gun and wiping down Jack’s new tattoo, then applying a pressure dressing to it. “Looks good, man! Keep the bandage on for forty-eight hours and try not to get it wet for two weeks. Buy some Tattoo Goo from Moana on your way out to apply to it once a day after you’ve removed the bandage, since I assume you don’t already have any. Make sense?”

Jack nodded and levered himself up on his elbows to look down at his abdomen—and then smiled, just small, pleased. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Looks great, Jack.” Hiccup commented, and licked his lips, adjusting his lip piercing absently. Jack was climbing off the table and beginning to fix his clothes—but Hiccup immediately began stripping out of his shirt. “My turn, now!”

“Again, Hiccup? You don’t have enough ink already?” Moana sounded amused.

“I’ve still got lots of skin.” Hiccup replied, and started a little powwow with Maui, whispering between them while Jack pulled his shirt on, followed by his sweater vest. He looked over curiously, but Hiccup seemed determined to keep his secrets.

Finally, the punk was up on the bench being prepped and the next thing Jack knew Maui was working on the side of his upper left bicep, the large man’s form blocking Jack from getting any decent looks at what he was tattooing. He supposed Hiccup wanted it to be a surprise, then. Jack just accepted it and took a seat by the reception area to wait.

Moana was puttering around, filing paperwork, and looked up long enough to smile at Jack, “not so bad, right?”

“No, I guess not.” Jack agreed, “I don’t know if I’ll be getting any more, though.”

“Oooooh, you’d be surprised. Tattoos are addictive.”

“Maybe, but this one was… personal. I don’t really want anymore.”

“Hey, not trying to be a pusher, here.” Moana grinned, “but you know where we are if you ever change your mind.”

Jack gave a smile in return. “Duly noted.”

Just under an hour later, Hiccup was popping up from the tattoo table, grinning down at his shoulder, and finally turned to let Jack see what he’d gotten done: it was a delicate snowflake in blue, intricately designed, obviously freehand, and not at all in keeping with the themes of his other tattoos. Jack just… paused. Swallowed slightly, then stood and headed over to his boyfriend, leaning up to give him a gentle kiss.

“I take it you approve?” Hiccup asked with a smirk, even as Maui gently pushed Jack aside to apply the pressure bandage to Hiccup’s new tattoo. “I figured one for one, it was fair.”

“But what if we… break up, or…?”

“I could ask you the same question about the one you just got.”

That was a fair point. Jack touched over the sore spot where his new tattoo was and then just gave a little, almost shy smile. “Thanks, Hiccup.”

With his own tattoo now properly covered, Hiccup took the clipboard that Moana came over to belatedly shove in his face and signed his name to the papers he needed to, then handed it back. Moana returned to the reception desk, humming softly to herself the entire time.

“Check out with Moana.” Maui was already starting to sterilize the equipment, and called after them when they headed over; “CASH ONLY.”

“I know, Maui.” Hiccup replied, already digging out his wallet.

Moana set a little jar of Tattoo Goo on the counter and glanced between Hiccup and Jack before asking, “one bill or two?”

Hiccup fished a wad of bills out of his wallet while Jack shuffled his feet and felt unnecessarily guilty. “I’m paying for us both.”

The transaction was simple enough and Hiccup handed over the designated amount—plus a tip—then swiped the Tattoo Goo off the counter and turned to hand it to Jack, who looked at it for a moment before tucking it into his pocket. Then Hiccup said his goodbyes to Maui and Moana, and they were out the door, Jack waving to them as he left.

Outside, Jack took a moment to just breathe a little, the vague pain from his new tattoo almost comforting in a weird sort of way. He was smiling to himself when they reached Hiccup’s bike, and Hiccup unlocked the lock box to pull out the spare helmet. When he turned to hand it to Jack, he paused—and just smiled.

“No regrets?” He asked.

“Not yet anyway.” Jack replied, then; “you didn’t need to get one for me, though, that’s…”

“Hey.” Hiccup leaned in to press a kiss against Jack’s forehead and offered, “you’re as permanent as it is.”

Jack just smiled, soft and fond. “Same.”

#hijack #frostcup #rpnau #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #jack frost #hijack fanfiction #shut up sena #sena writes #snowflakes and dragons by senashenta

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