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valiantverses · 4 months ago

Text

Tremors

Ghoap X Reader

Summary: A therapist's waiting room wasn't exactly the place to have the most engrossing conversations. People were usually jittery, tense, or straight-up despondent. Somehow, you manage to strike a strange sort of connection with the retired military couple that had the Thursday slot just after you anyway.

Trigger Warning: Angsty. Discussions of Soap's injuries, the reader has mental health struggles and everyone has communication difficulties to some degree.

A/N: Scuttling out of the woodwork after having a pain flare, a breakdown, a career shift and getting some life altering surgery. Here's a new series while I rework all my previous writing!

Comments, questions, requests and constructive criticisms are welcome. Hate is boring and will go unacknowledged.

Maybe therapy wasn't for you.

Baring your soul to a total stranger and unearthing your life to be scrutinised by somebody. Then having that somebody turn around and drop you as a client because you were 'beyond their scope' and recommending you to someone else. It left an acrid sort of burn at the back of your throat as you settled into the sofa in the cheery waiting room of your hastily found counsellor.

Tick.

The leather underneath your fingers was squeaky. Static-y. The kind of leather where the grooves of the well-worn parts of the couch were buttery smooth and a slightly darker shade of black until it reached the bits that weren't quite as worn.

Tock.

The sound of papers shuffling and a low voice calling out a name drew your attention. It wasn't yours. Wordlessly, you watched a woman to your left stand up. The rubber of her cane cracked across the linoleum as she she signed her name on to the clip board at the desk, murmured her greetings to the therapist and made her way inside, the door shutting with a soft click.

Tick.

St. Jude-Thaddeus Hospital's Rehabilitation and Pain Management Clinic had the honour of being the only facility of any sort in your area that offered psycotherapy services. Affordable ones, anyway. Something to do with being integrated into the Ministry of Defense Hospital Units for disabled veterans- but you didn't need to know, so you didn't ask.

You'd take what you could get.

Tock.

You glance up at the clock once more, seeing that you were now close to 10 minutes to your first ever appointment with this therapist. A part of you wanted to fast forward the next 40 minutes of your day. Maybe the next few hours. Get to the point where your obligations were done and the first meeting was over and done with.

Tick.

When the door opens next, you don't look up this time. You try to contain the shake of your hands and focus on that squeaky leather underneath you. The thumps of footsteps don't register before the slight sink of the couch does. When you glance up, it is to the bluest eyes you could imagine.

He was handsome, a part of your brain helpfully informed you. Dark eyelashes framing a sort of azure blue, shards of indigo flecked about like sleet in the rain. His tanned skin had that slight leatheriness that could only come from working under the sun, the hand jutted out towards you littered with callouses-

"-hnny MacTavish, haven't seen you round here before."

Your hand moves mechanically to accept his handshake, mouth producing syllables you knew was supposed to be your name.

Realising the beat of conversation had stretched on longer than it should and it was now your turn to fulfill your part of the social contract that the stranger had looped you into, you broke eye contact and glanced back down at the worn linoleum.

"It's my first time."

There was a snort to the other side of you, from a bulky man sat diagonally from the line of chairs you and Johnny were sat in.

You quickly ammend your statement "-with this therapist. Just moved in."

His bulk seemed to carve away the space of the room, hulking shoulders leading to a thickly corded neck, lower face covered in a black face mask and his eyes a thin ring of deep ocean blue. What little skin you could see of his face looked sallow. Drained.

"Ignore tha' git. Insists on tagging along with me like I'm a wee wain and wreaks havoc of all sorts." The voice from your left supplied as you quickly began reassessing the relationship between the two strangers you found yourself in the middle of.

"You two know each other?"

There was a rumble to your left, a deep bass-y sound you realised was laughter. "Could say that, ma'am. "

"My partner," Johnny supplied, eyeroll evident in his voice as you turned to look at him once more. It was a little overwhelming having to keep turning your head to and fro because of the way the chairs were positioned, and your fingers dug into the leather once more.

Slippery, smooth. Pebbled with some long indentations.

"That's Simon. We've been at this shrink for give or take four months now-"

"Fifteen weeks."

"*-would'a noticed a bonnie lass like you on our weekly, enlightening visits." His quip was cheery, but there was an element of sarcasm you couldn't quite place.

This conversation felt like navigating a field full of landmines. Couldn't ask about his condition, why the weekly visits rather than the gold standard (That is, the national healthcare coverage) of every two weeks, why fifteen weeks- so you asked the only thing you felt you could.

"She any good? The counselor, I mean."

Johnny blinked, head tilting and making eye contact with his partner - Simon - there was a flash of something twisting across his face as the wordless conversation happened in a split second.

It was fascinating. The sort of communication that only happened when two people had an intimate well of knowledge of the other person.

Then dawn broke across Johnny's face and he turned back to you with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Aye, lass. Not afraid to crack into your brain and really dig around. Well good laugh too, great to interact with given I've really only spoken to four people or so since I retired an' all."

You tried not to read between the lines. Tried not to stare at the way he leaned back to rub at the jagged line across his scalp, the puckered edges evident under the peach fuzz of dark hair. He was giving you what he could without dragging a stranger into his own vortex of struggles. You could relate.

"Retired? From military service?"

Regret looked different on people's faces. For some, there was a grimace. Maybe a slight widening of the eyes in realisation, or a hitch in their breath. Self-reproach for bringing it up in the first place. For Johnny, it appeared to be a slight furrowing of his brows and a darkening of his sky blue eyes as he edged backwards.

A cough and the scraping of the chair behind you drew your attention, looking to your right to meet the cold stare of the blond. Briefly, you felt like a cornered animal. Your hands grew still. His gaze was assessing, stony face giving nothing away except the overwhelming vibe of back the fuck off. His eyes flicked over your shoulder and then back to yours.

"Sounds like they're finishing up in there. You should sign in."

It appeared you had clambered out of the field of land mines only to immediately fall into a sinkhole.

Stuttering your goodbyes, you make to stand up, making the same trek the young lady had towards the desk. You fought to control the tremors of your hands. One stayed tucked deeply in a pocket as the other wrote your name down through sheer muscle memory. Sure enough, the door opened and the woman walked out with her mobility aid, a cheery voice calling out your name from inside.

As your shaky palm took hold of the doorknob to twist it so you could enter the room, you caught snippets of the conversation happening behind you.

"Bothering you-"

"-Ost, It would have been fine-"

"Your hands were shaking again-"

"Ach- I had it under control!"

"You don't owe strangers anything. Not after everything you've-"

"Please- I just- I need to have a feckin' conversation about it without breaking down-"

The door shut with a click.

As you sat down in front of your new therapist, you resolved to try and move your appointments to a different day.

#ghost x reader #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #soap x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #COD Fic

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ghouldtime · 2 months ago

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Alone. Truly Alone.

I know I’m not the only one who took one singular, inquisitive glance at the new Alone Operator skin for the upcoming season and went “Would”. I need need need content on him

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

If you had to rank all the terrible decisions you’ve made in your life, this would certainly be in the top ten. Breaking into an abandoned place was a bad idea on its own. Now multiply the magnitude of that by twenty, considering it was supposedly some kind of military facility at one point in time before it was left to rot. Then add in the factors that you were alone, without a map, and no cell service. Yeah, definitely not your smartest decision.

Dozens of garish yellow and red signs marked with a variety of warnings used everything under the sun (and law) telling you not to proceed decorated the corroding chain link fences that lined the property like it was going out of style. The crumbling facade of iron and concrete that made up the walls were made out to match. Everywhere you looked there was yet another warning, another thing telling you to turn back now. That should've been a sign, right?

Well, it wasn't the sign you were listening to. That one, the only sign you cared about right now, you had spotted stapled to a telephone pole as you were waiting to cross the street to go to your favorite grocery store. The crumpled, salmon pink flier hastily crammed in your backpack was your savior and your curse that brought you here.

The reason being a whole whopping $500. Something that would greatly benefit you and cause a whole less of a headache this month - and allow you a chance to breathe. It was a chance you couldn't pass up. And it's not like it was complicated. All you had to do was: get into the desolate fort, get proof of evidence of being inside there (photographic AND physical), and get out. Simple. Easy money. A task that even you could manage in maybe an hour or two, tops. You'd be an idiot not to do it.

Why anyone would pay that kind of money for you to go in there was beyond you. Quite frankly, you didn’t care. Money was money. Everyone had their reasons and if they were paying that much for a task that was that simple, then you weren't going to pry. All they had to do was pay up when the time was done, you'd never think about it again, and you'd be on your merry way a whole lot better off and a little bit richer.

Just to be certain that this wasn't a prank or someone trying to harass their ex with a pathetic attempt to get their number out there, you called the number scrawled hastily on the rain-soaked, faded poster. A harried Scottish accent confirmed without a doubt that this wasn't fake and was real as real could be. Truth be told, you didn’t understand much of what he said aside from “Aye”, which was close enough. He seemed to be talking at a million miles an hour in a near frantic tone. Surely, that was a red flag. But right now you were colorblind to everything except green.

It was enough motivation for you to throw some gear into a backpack and head out late in the night to the address of the once-important fort. The promise of cash and having it soon in your hand was plenty to get you moving.

Against your best instinct, against your gut screaming at you and telling you to turn back, and against all common sense - you went forwards anyways and decided today was the day when you’re going to pretend that you’re illiterate and those warnings meant nothing to you anyways.

Stale, stagnant air filtered through the respirator that hung snug on your face. If you breathed in a lungful of whatever was in here without it, it's likely you would’ve ended up with some new kind of respiratory disease previously unheard of - you're sure of it. Algae and lichen clung to some damp crevices, decorated with splotches of black mold the darkened the corners even more along the outskirts of the inky, lingering shadows.

Each cautious step forward onto the rubble and gravel covered ground ricocheted off the dilapidated walls of the corridor, fading into the abyss of black that stretched on far beyond what you could see. Though you doubted the protective eye ware helped you see better - it was probably more of a hindrance but you didn't want to take any more risks than necessary. The last thing you needed was a hospital bill.

The pathetic beam of warm, yellow light your flashlight provided scarcely illuminated the void that swallowed the hallway whole. What little you could see did nothing to motivate you forward. More disintegrating ceiling and rubble-buried winding halls greeted you with the same unwavering stillness as the rest of the place.

Crumbling, bleak, cold passages decorated with mildew, mold, and umber mystery stains you really didn’t want to think about alike stretched in a winding labyrinth you tried your best to navigate. Sparse nearly-disintegrated warning signs served as place markers to guide you through the otherwise directionless building, offering you the smallest sense of navigation and a sense of knowing where you were going.

One foot in front of the other, step by slow step, you made your way through the place untouched by light and people alike.

It shouldn't be that hard, you mused as you kept on walking. Whether it was just to reassure yourself with a steady mantra or confidence was left up to debate, but the fact remained: it was simple. Get an object that irrefutably proved you were here, take a picture - and that was it. That was all.

Now, that still left the question of what to take and what to get a picture of up for debate. Scouring the building hadn’t turned up anything worthwhile so far, except maybe some signage. But they were all too… generic. They were all something that could easily be faked and pulled from elsewhere. And a picture of them or another dimly lit, basic hallway wouldn’t do you any good. It would get you a door slammed in your face, a laugh if you’re lucky, and certainly no $500 which was the whole reason you were here in the first place.

Maybe you should’ve asked specifically what he wanted you to bring and a picture of….

Who are you kidding? You wouldn’t be able to understand a lick of what he said if you did. Maybe his accent was better in person, maybe he had told you in the hurried, almost anxious tone and you weren't remembering - but trying to talk to him again through the phone was a hopeless endeavor. Unless they were keeping a spare brain in here and translating software, you doubt you'd be able to even begin to try and understand the guy. All you could do was silently curse yourself for not asking, curse him for not being more coherent, and try your best to find something unique, snap a picture, and get out of there before you regretted stepping foot in this place even further.

With grumbled curse, knowing very well that you had to go further in the hopes that something actually substantial would greet you, you kept on going. There was no turning back now, no. You'd come too far. One more step forwards got you closer to that money and being out of here.

Yet lady luck wasn't making this easy, nor was she on your side today. A majority of doors you came across had been locked - barricaded, and certainly not something you could open. Their heavy, unyielding steel frames stood impassive, unmoving, and scarcely caring of your plight or any force used against them. It's almost like they stood there, mocking you silently for even trying. It was a waste of energy to even try with another one when the first twelve hadn't done anything more than groan slightly, giving the tiniest shudder before stilling in their frame.

Rounding what must’ve been the hundredth corner, you braced for yet another blank hallway and another unmovable door, but what greeted you was something different enough to cause you to halt in your tracks. An open door. A single, open door marked with a flickering, old bulb dangling above as if it were on its last legs, trying to stay alight. A wave of relief washed over you as you couldn’t help but to sprint forward, closing in on the hope that you could be done and out of here - and you’d have your money before you knew it! It was almost over. This aimless wandering with a stuffy mask and glasses to match was almost over.

Ignoring all common sense, you chased that feeling - quite literally. Caution was thrown to the wind as you darted into the room, your eyes flickered all over the first true, non-vacant room you’d found in here. Empty hospital beds with yellowed, stained linens haphazardly jumbled across their tops lined the walls. It wasn't a pretty sight but right now, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

Panning your flashlight around, the warm, washed-out beam glinted off the dusty metal IV stands and carts littered about. Cobwebs spidered the corners of the walls and the rest of the surfaces alike, though their inhabitants seem to have left long ago.

Scanning the room, a few seconds ticked by before you finally found just what you needed, dangling off the foot of the bed by a worn hook. There it was, your holy grail: a brown piece of hardboard and rusted metal alike holding down frayed, yellowed pages. It's the only time you can officially say that you've been happy to see a clipboard - much less, elated and overjoyed to see such a simple piece of office ware. You could practically kiss it and taste sweet, sweet money right about now.

Swiping it from its place, your eyes flitted over the blotched, inky text scrawled on it, silently praying that it would have just what you’d need. The smallest corner of a logo stood in the top right corner, while the rest of the patient information seemed to have been rubbed at or swiped away. And your heart nearly sank in short-lived disappointment. Water stains distorted and warped the paper but your saving grace came in the form of a date and the name of the complex, officially signed at the top of the paper.

The warm, giddy feeling that had been so fleeting earlier came back with a vengeance that lit up your heart and face alike. This was it! This was just what you needed. Placing it down, you fumbled with the camera clipped onto your belt, the tremble of excitement in your hands doing little to aid you. Snapping a picture of the clipboard with a quick click and a flash of light, you stuffed your saving grace into the weathered backpack you had donned.

Task one - done. Now to get a good picture of the place and you'd be done. One simple click, one move, and one terribly annoying walk through the forever expansive hallways, and you would be out of here and back in your comfy bed before you knew it. Maybe you'd even get to catch up on a single episode of your favorite show.

Stepping back into a corner where you could find a vantage point, you held onto that flickering flame of hope as you pointed your camera and flashlight alike in the same direction to snap a quick picture of the room. With a simple click and a flash of blinding light, the deed was done. You could finally be out of here.

Or so you thought.

A sparse glint caught your eye as the bright flash ebbed away, the shadows returning full force aside from the gleaming, round lights that turned towards you. Your heart skipped a beat as you froze, your breath hitching as a wave of fear sunk the beginning of its talons into you.

No, no. Not a glint, you realized with horror. Six. Six luminous, reflective lenses glowed in the dark as they turned to look right at you. Staring.

Your heart sank even further into your stomach, your blood running cold, as the corner went dark once again for a fraction of a second before all six glowing dots were back and all were looking right at you.

With a trembling hand, you kept your flashlight lowered. You don’t think you wanted to know what that was. No creature - no living being that big would have six eyes.

You took a step back.

Then another.

Another.

The ice-cold sensation of your blood coursing through your veins, your heart erratically beating against your chest harder and harder, kept you from screaming. A creak of the protest from the old hospital bed sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise too-still room as the thing stood and started moving towards you with footsteps that were all too quiet, all too soft for a thing of that caliber.

Whatever breath you had been holding escaped you as it lumbered out of the shadows. An unearthly, sickening gurgle spewed from its maw as if it were choking on its own saliva.

Even through the respirator, the scent of putrid rot and decay wafted from it as it drew closer and closer, your stomach tensed as you gagged, the bile threatened to rise from your stomach as the urge to puke took you by surprise. If you weren’t wearing the respirator, you’re sure you would have - and maybe you would have noticed it in the room sooner if you could've picked up the stench of death.

The urge to run, all instincts screaming at you, pleading and begging you to run for your life simply didn’t work as you stood rooted to the spot as it finally stepped into the trembling, watery beam of light that cut through the speckles of floating dust. A scream of horror caught in your throat as you finally stared up at the abomination's mangled form with wide eyes.

Three heads, all fused together in a webbing of crimson, sinewy membranes moved in sync. Six eyes - six, now unblinking, cloudy eyes settled on you. Despite the milky, glassy sheen to the eyes settled and sunken deep into the heads (or in the raw membranous flesh in the case of one eye on the head to its left) - it tracked every single movement and breath, focused on you with near predatory ease. Five arms hung loose by its side, with two of them being partially fused together in a sick amalgamation. Bits of pallid skin had long ago sloughed off, exposing muscle that had blackened with exposure but somehow not rotted away.

Skull masks and balaclavas covered most of their faces - and you supposed that was a good thing. If the distended, broken jaws of the heads were indication of how it would look underneath, you’re happy declining on seeing what lay below. Drool spilled onto the fabric, or some mystery liquid, bubbling up as it made yet another noise. The motion caused your have to fly up to your covered mouth, your heart and stomach alike retching.

Torn tactical gear adorned the twisted cerberus, blackened with fluids, almost as if it had once had a purpose - to protect. But your mind wasn't there, it was on its existence. The abomination, the chimera, the thing that shouldn’t exist and went against all aspects of nature stood in front of you unmoving for a moment until you took a single step back.

It took a step forward.

Ever so slowly, as if moving through molasses, it drew three scarred hands up, reaching for you.

That was all you needed to take off. Up and out through the hall where you came, your legs strained as you sprinted. Each footstep echoed louder and louder down the void of black and gray you came from, flooding out the sputtered groan from it but you didn’t care. Consequences be damned, you didn't care how loud you were or how much attention you drew. You were better off getting caught by a guard or hell even the police - at least they’d have guns.

Every inhale scorched your lungs, the fire of fatigue seared deep into every strand of your muscles as you kept on pushing, but you didn’t stop - you couldn’t. Not until you cleared the hallways, skirting through the piles of debris and around the same desolate corridors you had meandered through prior. Not until the crisp, chilled night air finally greeted you as the stars twinkled above, oblivious to the sheer horrors below.

Not until you finally jammed yourself through the cut hole in the chain link fence, any pain of the metal scraping at your skin dulled out by the adrenaline flowing through your veins, empowering each sprinting step forwards until you were far, far away and back in the safety of your car.

Note to self: Don’t ever trust fliers you find on telephone poles.

This guy better be ready as soon as the sun graced the land again to hand over those five Benjamins. Hopefully he likes his mornings started with pounding knocks to his door and a middle finger to the face.

જ⁀➴

The darkness echoed with the patter of fading footsteps as the mystery person sprinted away, completely aghast with a look of sheer primal fear painted on their limited, exposed features.

They didn’t see how his fingers flexed, hands still outstretched in the air, twitching once again at the loss of something warm, something human that he came so close to grasping.

They didn’t see how he stared at where they were, not moving from the spot he stood. Nor did they see his clouded, hazy eyes downturn as he dragged his form back to the bed with great reluctance.

Nor did they hear the drowned out, garbled words that took all his energy to choke out and force his broken jaws to move.

“Don’t…. go….”

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Thinking of maybe making this a series! Any feedback is welcome and appreciated! It's been a while since I've written so forgive any mistakes,,,,

Edit: part two has been posted!

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lunarw0rks · 1 year ago

Note

Angst Drabble where task 141 thinks reader was KIA but they just being held captive and was probably tortured until reader escaped?

☾𓂃❛🍰❜┊ we buried you

warning(s): platonic!141, canon-typical violence, torture mention, blood/injury, medical procedures, hurt/comfort, gn!reader ♡ masterlist // requests // ask box

you already looked dead and felt it even more. bloodied, beaten, and deprived of proper food and water for weeks. but you had your chance to escape; one chance, a slim one.

your captors' facility had been raided — before they could restrict you to a chair again. the man who was in charge had been dropped through one of the windows, and the commotion in the prison's corridors was too chaotic for anyone to hear the faint gunshot.

the ringing, and feeling of water trapped in your ears — it was a blessing given all the overstimulating chaos. no one was looking for you, not while they were defending their compound.

you lifted your head from your blank stare in your lap once you heard the heavy thump of his body. you crawled to the warden's corpse, fingering the speak button on his radio, but your vision was too doubled to focus. on top of it, you weren't sure you could speak. you gave up on that the second day into imprisonment. no words resulted in punishment, but so did the use of them. it was a double-edged sword of anguish.

it was now or never; any longer and you would catch an infection or bleed out from your injuries.

to find his gun, you would have to roll the weight of a grown man onto his stomach. maybe last week, before you sustained a broken rib you would've. but now? you could do nothing except stagger through the empty corridors with his keycard, deadened eyes doing little to observe a threat.

the luminance of the afternoon sun nearly knocked you down, an achy forearm raised to block the sheer brightness of the star. your best course of action was to keep moving towards the sounds of friendlies; now was not the time to be the hero you were trained to be.

it was a desert area, only adding to the dryness in your throat and eyes. the distant voices of soldiers, British ones grew louder as you advanced down the valley, eventually seeing a tank in view. what sounded like an officer or general, his shouts were interrupted by the downright grisly sight you were. a military undershirt matching his and your undergarments — crimson stains in the fabric, your skin, the cuts and gashes, bruises big and tiny, sunken and hopeless features.

❝don't move an inch!❞ he bellows despite you already stopped in your tracks, bare feet blistering against the torrid sand. it was only fair in a land full of terrorism — assuming anyone could be an enemy. his men raised their rifles as the officer approached steadily, the force of his squad as backup.

the keycard smears with your bloody fingertips fell to the sand before you turned your arm to him, flashing your only chance at getting back to your men; an insignia for the 141 across that traveled down your forearm.

his gaze softened as he gripped the tender flesh of your arm, inspecting the ink tattered by injury. he gives it a harsh rub with a wetted finger — but the tattoo is very real.

your legs buckled beneath you once you knew you were safe as if your broken body could only stay upright for minutes under the sizzling sun. you crumpled against the sand, eyes droopy and about to clench shut.

the last of the commotion you heard was the officer speaking frantically into his comms — and most notable, a familiar name. captain price.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

❝bleeding christ...❞ price muttered as you wheeled past him limp on a gurney. you were supposed to be KIA, buried and dead for months now. your comms had been lost, and everyone else in that transport didn't make it. but you were here, and barely breathing.

how you managed to stand, let alone remain lucid enough to identify yourself to British forces, he couldn't comprehend it. however, your captain wasn't surprised — you were tough as nails.

the medics worked tirelessly; wrapping you in cooling blankets, inserting a central line, IVs pumping fluid, and a feeding tube to slow feed you until your gut could handle nutrients again.

for hours; they induced your slumber, some much-needed shuteye as the lines and medications did their work on you. though you hadn't been moving much, your attempts at speaking and panicked looks around the medbay were inhibiting your ability to rest. but right now, your shallow breaths were like a living miracle.

you survived and made your escape out of sheer willpower — no one would forget this.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

soap was the first to sit with you, reading from a sports magazine. his logic? if you're up and bickering with him again, that means you're alright. your eyes would flutter open for seconds at a time, a small frown pointed at your chatty visitor, then they would shut again for hours. anything was better than nothing.

gaz and ghost only visited through the window into the medbay, a few minutes of observing your bruised body before they forced themselves to move along. or the captain did. the world couldn't stop for you, as much as he wanted them all to be there for you when you were lucid.

it was captain price that was. he gave the other three a light assignment, something that would keep the trio occupied for a few hours.

after what seemed like two days of medicated slumber, your eyes finally opened fully. you stared down at the stitches all over you, the soft cast around your wrist. most of all, the achy feeling is still ever-persistent despite the sedatives.

❝captain?❞ you croaked in a weak and emotional tone. you weren't in that prison, you were in the 'comfort' of a medbay. perhaps it was the drugs or the hell you had been through, but you were near tears.

his hand outstretched, a palm resting on one of the few uninjured bits of flesh on your arms. ❝you did it, kid. you... made it.❞ price's tone was soothing and low, like that of a parent consoling their maimed child.

what you had been through, he didn't need to know. he didn't ever want to picture it. what mattered most was that you were here and that you had proved yourself in the most heartbreaking sense.

he finds his pocket, pulling out his cell. ❝i have make a call to laswell. i can ask the others to visit if you'd like?❞ price asks softly, eyes remaining on you as he dials the number.

whether you wanted to see the rest of them right now or not, that was your decision. you earned it.

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luminnara · 2 years ago

Text

the beast inside | wolverine x mutant!reader (18+ ONLY)

Summary: you wake up in a strange, cold military facility...and you aren’t alone.

Warnings: (attempted) breeding, not really ABO but feral man beast vibes, monster fucker adjacent, SEX, fem reader but not super heavily described as such

Your head was throbbing, your brain seemingly attempting to beat its way out of your skull from the inside. That was the first thing you noticed.

The second thing was the cold sterility of your surroundings, the air tasting stale and recycled, the surface beneath your hands smooth and cool like concrete. When you managed to crack your eyes open, you were forced to immediately squint as a harsh, industrial light suddenly made your splitting headache even worse, and when you looked around, you found that your worst fears had been realized.

You had been captured.

The room—if it could even be called a room—was dingy and gray, sparsely furnished with an uncomfortable looking cot and…and that was about it, really. A thin blanket sat folded up on the cot, a luxury you supposed you were meant to be thankful for, and as you crawled to your feet, you felt a shiver run through your body.

That’s when you realized you were completely unclothed, and the threadbare blanket would be your only source of comfort.

You grabbed it with shaky hands, draping it over your shoulders and pulling it close as you turned in a small circle. The walls of your cell looked like plexiglass, or something similar, reinforced with cage-like wiring inside. As you approached one of them, you found yourself staring out into a dim hallway, the light in your cell so bright that you could barely make out anything at all. Despite the glare and the shadows, however, you could see other cells, most of them dim and likely unused...

And one with the light on.

You felt your heart give a hopeful little leap. Maybe you weren’t alone in this place, after all. Maybe this meant you had a chance to escape, or at the very least, socialize and save yourself from spiraling into a lonely sort of delirium. Maybe you could make a friend.

“Hello?” You called out, your mouth feeling dry and your tongue feeling thick. When there was no reply, you realized your cell might be soundproof—but that didn’t stop you from trying again.

“Hello? Is—is there anybody else here?”

This time, you were answered by a roar. A real, honest to god roar, the sort that no regular human could ever hope to make. It sent terror flying up your spine, every single nerve ending on edge as some primal, animal part of your brain recognized it as the roar of a predator.

“S-sorry!” You stammered quickly, stumbling back towards your cot. Was that stupid? Probably, but what else were you supposed to do? There was some sort of monster, just down the hall, and you suddenly regretted making your presence known.

Another angry roar echoed into your cell and you busied yourself with huddling under your blanket. You had definitely pissed the monster off, the roars punctuated with loud, slamming thuds. Oh, fuck, was it trying to get to you now? You curled in on yourself, squeezing your eyes shut as you waited for the sound of shattering glass and then the pain that would come after when this thing ripped you apart.

But there was no shattering glass, only the blunt, muffled thuds of whatever it was trying to get to you. What the hell was this place, that it housed angry-sounding monsters? And why the hell were you trapped there, too?

As you lay curled up on your rickety little cot, you tried to remember everything. You tried to remember anything. You could recall your home, your family, the town you lived in...you could still remember your home phone number, and the job interview you had next Tuesday. Well, for all you knew, it was next Tuesday already, and you had missed it completely...but something told you that you had bigger things to worry about.

Like how you had wound up in this cold, gray cage.

You pulled the thing blanket tighter around yourself as you sniffled. There wasn’t any use in crying, but there wasn’t anything else to do, was there? You knew why you had been brought here. You could guess that it had something to do with those reports in the news, headlines about mutants and think pieces on whether they were a threat to society or not.

No, not they.

You.

Why anybody would want to capture you, you had no idea. You weren’t like the mutants who were always in the news. You didn’t have super strong powers like that Magneto guy, and you couldn’t camouflage yourself in someone else’s skin like the blue lady. You were just...you, just a person, just someone who had always tried to hide and evidently failed. And now, you were trapped in a cell, probably thanks to some kind of government program like the ones you heard rumors and conspiracy theories about, and they hadn’t even given you food.

The thought made you realize how hungry you were, stomach growling pitifully and with impeccable timing.

“Hey!” you barked, wiping away tears and sitting up and letting the blanket fall from your shoulders. “I know someone’s listening right now. I know you’re watching me. What’s it take to get some food around here?”

You weren’t sure what you expected, but you were met with nothing but silence. You craned your neck, looking around at the ceiling, and there you saw it--a small red light, blinking rhythmically, no doubt attached to a camera.

“Come on, what’s your angle here?” you shouted, frustration growing. “Don’t you feed your prisoners?

Still nothing.

You let out a frustrated yell, filled with momentary rage and enough confidence to try to do something--but when you were answered by that roaring monster down the hall, you immediately dove back under the blanket and made yourself as small as possible. If that was some sort of guard dog intended to keep you under control, it was doing a great job of it so far. You were too scared to do any more shouting, and as the hours passed and your hunger grew, you realized you had no choice but to conserve your energy, and you did your best to get some sleep.

----------------------------

The hours stretched into days.

You kept track by etching tally marks into the floor. With nothing in the form of clippers or files, your nails were left unchecked, and they were quickly growing back out into claws. Short, curved, and wickedly sharp, they were the most physically obvious aspect of your mutation--and you had always tried to hide them. Now, you had no way to, and something told you that was intentional.

Your captors fed you twice a day. Two, sometimes three, men in generic, unspecific military uniforms would stroll down the hall, one with a metal tray in his hands while the other held a rifle. They fed you slop, a beige mixture that looked like it should be served in a trough for pigs, and at first, you had refused it. You had turned your nose up and they had laughed, telling you that you’d break eventually, because even he had, and you were nowhere near as tough as him. You hadn’t known who they’d been talking about initially, but when you’d started seeing the third man joining the other two, you’d realized that it meant they’d be stopping at the cell down the hall...and that that was probably who they were referring to.

Him.

For some reason, knowing that the monster was eating the garbage they gave both of you made you feel a little bit better. It obviously wasn’t poisoned, because he was getting louder and louder by the day, roaring and throwing himself against the walls. Once, you almost caught a glimpse of him, as they pulled him out of his cell and forced him to walk away. You had your face smooshed against the plexiglass, desperate for a look, but all you managed to see was a vaguely human shape before he was out of sight entirely.

It only made you wonder about him more.

The days passed, and you started obediently eating your meals. The slop stopped being revolting as you got used to it, and you actually started looking forward to feeding time. When you saw the soldiers approaching with a tray, you knew it was going to be a good day--they were going to throw a few insults your way and then leave you alone. When they showed up empty handed, though, you knew it would be worse...because that meant they were going to be dragging you down the hall, away from your monstrous neighbor and up to a lab where they took your blood and poked and prodded at you.

They ran tests. They tortured you. You felt icy cold water tubs and burning hot coals. You were pumped full of insulin and shocked with electricity. It seemed like the scientists wanted to try every archaic, disproven science experiment ever recorded, and there was no end in sight.

“Wh-why are you doing this?” you managed to groan one day, vision swimming as you were roused from a quick coma.

“Oh, don’t worry yourself too much,” a man answered. “Just know that you’re going to be very, very helpful here. You’ll be playing a very important role in our program.”

And then your vision went black and your head grew light and you passed out, something you had unfortunately grown used to on lab days. When you came to again, you were back in your cell, naked, as always, but clean as if you had been recently scrubbed down. You grabbed your little blanket, wrapped it around yourself, and collapsed onto your cot, as you always did.

The cycle was becoming repetitive.

You slept when you could, usually waking up when your neighbor down the hall decided it was time to throw a tantrum. You never heard him speak, but you heard the military men refer to him as Weapon X, and that was the only name he was given. You started calling him X in your head, and though it still felt impersonal and cold, just like your prison, it was better than nothing. It made you feel closer to him, somehow, more familiar, and you found yourself wondering what he was like.

He was wondering the same thing about you.

He didn’t know his name. Not really. He didn’t know where he was, or who he was. He was pretty sure that he had, at some point, had another life, but that was far behind him. Now, all he knew was the cage he lived and paced in, the men he always tried to cut in half, and the relatively new, absolutely delicious, smell that had begun wafting down the hall.

The animalistic part of him, the beast inside, knew what it was. An adult female, not a human but a mutant just like him. He was drawn to it, and from the very first moment he had been awoken by your voice, he had known how badly he needed to reach its source. So he threw himself against the walls of his cell until he was bloody, slashing at them with his adamantium claws over and over and over again. He would do whatever it took to get to you, he would destroy himself if he had to…and Stryker’s team knew that. Whenever they took him out for testing, they repaired the cell, giving themselves more time to assess the situation and make a decision. It was clear that Weapon X wanted you, and they were running out of ways to keep him contained. He was going to get to you one way or another, it seemed.

So one day, he was allowed to.

You heard him before you saw him. A siren suddenly blared throughout the facility, rousing you from your sleep, and you found yourself bathed in a red light rather than the usual bright white. Panic flooded your system and you immediately jumped to your feet, hoping that something had happened and this was your chance to escape—but you found the walls of your cell firmly intact, and your confusion only mounted.

Then, you heard the snarling, and you knew it was him.

Your cell door slid open and for a moment, you felt relief washing over you. There were no soldiers waiting on the other side with guns and cattle prods, just a long, almost empty hallway. At the sound of heavy footsteps, however, you stepped back towards your cot, suddenly wondering if you would prefer to met by the soldiers rather than X.

When he appeared in front of you, your mouth suddenly went dry.

He was just as naked as you were, covered in a sheen of sweat as his chest rose and fell with heavy, ragged breaths. You could feel your face absolutely burning as you desperately tried to keep your eyes from wandering too far down, gluing them to slightly more respectable areas rather than where they really wanted to roam. Refusing to give in, you focused on his torso, taking in the sight of his broad, well muscled chest as you slowly gathered the courage to make your way up.

When you did, you realized he was handsome, with dark hair and bright, intelligent eyes, and he was lighting some sort of fire inside you that you didn’t know was there.

His nostrils flared, taking in your scent. As he stepped into the cell, the door slid shut behind him, and you were trapped—alone, with this beast of a man, and no way out. Was that a bad thing? …should you be scared? You tried to swallow and expected to feel the usual panic rising in your chest, but you suddenly found yourself feeling incredibly calm, and as X walked towards you, you realized why.

He didn’t want to hurt you. There was nothing overly aggressive in his body language. His movements were cautious, yes, measured and wary, but…he seemed curious above all else, watching you, studying you. He moved like an animal, a predator, trying to decide whether you were friend or foe. Honestly? Judging by those muscles, you didn’t have much of a chance against him, so you were hoping you came off as friendly.

“H-hey,” you managed to choke out, voice rough from disuse. You sounded meeker than you had intended, but you stood your ground, facing him as he drew closer. “Hey.”

X froze, tilting his head as he listened. Thinking. Waiting. He was cautious, learning about you in that intelligent, uncanny way that predators learn about their prey.

You expected a reply of some kind, but when none came, you cleared your throat.

“I-I, uh—whoa,” you reeled back as he suddenly leaned in, nose pressed against your neck.

He inhaled deeply, breathing in your scent, and you felt a chill fly down your spine. His skin was so warm, and there was suddenly so much of him all around you, the musky, masculine smell of his body flooding your senses as he pressed himself against you.

You didn’t know what you should do. You didn’t know what you could do. But what you did know was that as his hands found your waist, his grip was surprisingly gentle, as if X was afraid of breaking you somehow. He was gentler than you thought possible for someone who roared and slammed into the walls of his cell all day long, but as much as you wanted to marvel at his soft, caring behavior, he didn’t seem too keen on giving you the chance.

With his nose still pressed against your neck, he pulled you up against him. You were barely aware of the sound of the door sliding shut somewhere in the distance, trapping you there with this absolute beast of a man who seemed intent on feeling every part of you. And after so many weeks of isolation, you were so touch starved that you were happy to let him run his hands up and down your sides.

They were big and warm, softer than you had imagined. Everything about his appearance suggested that his fingers should be rough and covered in callouses, but as he grasped your lower back, they felt perfectly smooth. When you raised nervous, shaky hands and cautiously placed them on his own back, you found that he was free of scars and blemishes, as well. Who was this wild man, with his thick, dark hair and beard, and his gravelly, throaty growl? Why was he imprisoned there with you, and, more importantly, why were you suddenly together?

Your hands slipped down his sides and he seemed to almost curl around you, nudging at you gently with his nose as if he enjoyed the feeling. As you gave him a small push, though, he withdrew slightly, taking a step back when you repeated the motion and looking down at you in confusion.

“What’s your name?” You asked as you looked at his face. When he was silent, you continued with, “…do you have a name?”

He paused in thought and then nodded slowly, his eyes glued to yours with such intensity you wanted to look away out of instinct.

“Can you tell me what it is?”

He grunted and shook his head, then closed the distance between the two of you and returned to his previous investigation of your body and scent. You held still, though you were becoming significantly less nervous as time passed and you hadn’t been torn to pieces yet. X felt your hips and back and shoulders, holding your head in a clumsy yet gentle grip as he gazed down at you. You felt that it was safe to assume he couldn’t, or simply wouldn’t, speak, but you were finding that his body language was fairly easy to read, and his intentions were clear as day:

He liked you.

He really, really liked you.

He was watching your face carefully, waiting for something. Waiting for you to move or reply, to give him permission or deny him. Honestly, you found him incredibly handsome, and something about his features, something about his eyes was utterly captivating. He had yet to speak, and maybe he never would…but you could see that he wanted to communicate with you, and you somehow knew that he wasn’t going to do anything unless you moved first.

When you placed a hand on his jaw, a low rumble sounded from his chest, and you guessed that he was pleased with your response to his advances. He turned his head and practically nuzzled into your palm, nostrils flaring as he took in your scent. You found that his beard was softer than it looked, and that somehow, he was perfectly healthy, despite his living conditions. Well…physically healthy, at least.

“Why are you here?” You tried asking.

His eyes never left yours, even as his hands slipped away from your hips. He raised a fist in front of you and you watched the muscles in his arm flex, tendons straining as three sharp, silver metal claws slid out from the back of his hand, piercing the skin between his fingers as they elongated.

Your eyes widened as you took in the sight. So he was a mutant, just like you...maybe more like you than you even knew.

“How long have you been here?” You asked, eyeing the claws warily. They were sharp and straight, like knives, and there was no doubt in your mind that a guy like him, wielding weapons like those, could do some serious damage. You preferred not to be on the receiving end of them.

X let out a grunt and dropped his hand to his side, the claws sliding back inside.

“…does that hurt?” You asked.

Another grunt and a shake of his head. Alright, that was a no, then, and you got the feeling that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It was obvious that he was growing impatient, and when both of his hands returned to your waist, he tightened his grip and pulled you up against him. That rumble was back in his chest, seeming to vibrate your entire skeleton as your skin met his.

It sent shivers up your spine. While you had been far too nervous to spend much time looking at any part of him below his waist, you could feel him there, pressed so close, and only a fool wouldn’t know what he wanted.

You were a little surprised to find that you wanted the same thing.

With your face growing incredibly warm, you tried to focus on his eyes. They were glued to you once more, watching your every move. His nostrils twitched. His shoulders rose and fell steadily with his breathing. He was waiting for you, holding himself back despite the straining muscles you felt against your abdomen. As your hand slipped up the side of his neck, you found that you enjoyed the feeling of him there with you, and you couldn’t deny the excitement that you felt building up within yourself.

Maybe it was because you had been so isolated for so long. Maybe you were so incredibly touch starved that you were perfectly willing to fuck the first kind soul you’d encountered in this entire godforsaken facility. Or maybe this was something more akin to fate, an almost cruel joke that you would find a man as enticing as him in a place like that. The reason didn’t really matter to you, not at all; the only thing that mattered was the feeling of his rough hands dipping between your thighs after you gave him a nod, and the heat of his breath against your neck as he nuzzled into you.

His fingers were clumsy. Desperate. There was no softness in his motions, no romance...and yet you still sucked in a shaky, surprised breath when they dipped inside of you. X let out a pleased sound, something close to his grunts from before but so much sexier, and when he withdrew his hand, you watched with wide eyes as he licked it clean. Judging by the growl, he seemed to enjoy the taste of you.

He pulled back and turned you around quickly, pressing you into the wall as he grabbed your hips again, roughly this time. At the feeling of his cock teasing you from behind, you let out a gasp, and when he thrust inside, you almost couldn’t believe how good it felt. The stretch was delicious, the sensation of him pushing deeper making your fingers curl into fists. He fucked you like a starved man, whose only meal was you, and whose very survival depended on fucking you senseless.

You moaned and whined, jumping as his hands moved up to grab at your tits. He squeezed you wherever he could, leaving behind bruises that bloomed just like your building orgasm…and when you came, the snarl he let out had you immediately tipping even further over the edge, eyes squeezed shut as you cried out.

X came inside you, cock pulsing as he filled you. It wasn’t until he stepped back and you felt the cool air of your prison cell that you realized exactly how hot his skin was, and as he stood there, shiny with sweat, chest heaving, dark eyes watching you, you knew that you’d be going for a round two. And three. And as many as you could fit in before someone came to drag him away from you again. Because now, as you approached him on shaky legs and placed a hand on his jaw, you realized exactly how much you liked your wild, terrifying neighbor from down the hall.

#wolverine x reader #Wolverine #the beast inside #X-men #x men x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x y/n

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ghostybaby000 · 6 months ago

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After Hours | Part 1

Part 2

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x reader

Summary: Working has already made you feel exhausted, not to mention an awful manager making it far worse. You find yourself wanting to quit, that is until a tall masked figure gives you a reason to stay.

Word Count: 1.6k Warnings: 18+, violent theme, guns, yelling, future smut

(Not fully edited, apologies for any inconsistencies!)

It was that time again, 7am. You grab your keys and purse, a coffee and a muffin to go making your way out of your home you head to work. You take the same route as always being sure to say hello to the other workers when you pull into the lot. You gather your items and head inside to the same front desk and chair waiting for you, that had been there the past 2 years without fail. You get yourself situated setting up your notepad for any callers and sip on your coffee relaxing into the chair.

You sit up to look more professional watching as two larger men walk in the door holding guns.

‘What can I do for you this morning?’ You smile to them, as they had been frequent customers at this smaller gun range for quite some time. They come over to you, pleased as always to see a smiling face, they were still in their uniforms. The gun range was quite close to a military base, making military personal a regular.

‘Good morning Y/N, the regular please.’ You give them a small nod as you check them out and hand them a golfcart key to get around the facility. They gave thanks and make their way outside, being sure to wave goodbye as they rounded the corner. You had worked here for quite some time, as your father had known many people that came to the range- they reached out needing help and you seemed fit. You went into the interview knowing that you didn’t have much knowledge on weapons or guns hoping they would give you a side job. The manager decided that would be best, and let you work up front with your ‘pretty face’ to attract customers. A small part of you took offense but you let it go, because you were excited to be working somewhere close to home and where you knew a few people.

Working up front you didn’t have to handle any weapons or fix any issues with them either, you simply had to check people out and give them ammunition which you didn’t mind. You began to recognize others and slowly made yourself a good fit in their community, people reaching out with Christmas cards or asking about your wellbeing. One person had never done such a thing, and that was one of the men from the military. He didn’t have a name on his chest and always remained ominously quiet and vigilante, something you noticed quickly. He always came in with 2 or 3 other members in the group but had never showed alone which only making you more curious of him. Today he hadn’t shown, nor had the typical group of other tall strong men.

You continued to check people out until the day had reached its end, and you were plenty tired ready to get some sleep. You made your way back to your car, packed up your belongings and headed back to your home. You got in the door and settled down making dinner and watching a show before getting to bed. You wake again to the small alarm clock on your bedside table, reaching over to gently turn it off, another day had started. You typically woke at 7 everyday as it made getting up for work easier, you started to make some breakfast and put on coffee, taking in some time to relax. A little later into the afternoon you received a text from a coworker asking if you could cover their shift as she was feeling unwell. You groan out as you fall back against the couch cushions, this was your day off and you just wanted to stay at home and relax. You knew though that they were understaffed and needed help whenever they could get it and that you wouldn’t say no. You gathered your things and headed back to the range, and thought to yourself that at least you got to make a good breakfast.

On the drive over it dawns on you that you could be doing more from your job, not just working the front desk. You hadn’t ever been offered a promotion by the snobby manager and was quickly shut down the last time you mentioned it to them. You tried to not hold any sort of grudge against people, yet the way the manager spoke to you and the other workers made you feel as if you would quit on the spot after your interactions, although you never had. You stayed because the other workers needed your help, and you needed the income not to mention getting to see people that were close enough to be considered friends. You shook the thoughts from your head as you pulled onto the gravel pathway and parked. Getting inside and settled in a few minutes, you gaze around the shop and found it to be quiet and calm as the mornings tended to be.

You help customers as the day progresses, making small chit chat being sure to welcome everyone who comes in. The range wasn’t too busy today, only a few people every hour which you enjoyed as it gave you some time to clean the monitors you used and sweep the floor around you.

You were sweeping up the last pile when you heard your manager begin yelling at someone from the office, with a slam of the door just down the hall. You groaned as you quickly picked up the small dirt pile you had accumulated and put it in the bin, moving to your work station swiftly. The manager now almost screaming at points of his argument, your palms begin to get sweaty and everything in you hopes that a customer doesn’t come in. You stand there nervously as people pass by the front door, you look away in hopes they won’t feel the need to come and say hello.

SLAM the phone had been hung up, making you wince as it did. You tried to act normally and as if you didn’t hear anything when you heard his office door open. You didn’t dare to ask him what it was about knowing that it would only blow up in your face, so you decide to start typing away at the computer. His boots came thudding down the small hallway as you tried to take deep breaths, telling yourself to not look his way. He stops right next to you, still huffing from yelling on the phone.

‘Where’s Catherine?’ He glares at you when you stop typing and start to look over at him, he was sweating from yelling and quite red too.

‘Well.. she texted me saying-‘

‘I didn’t ask what she texted you- where is she?’ His tone grew more firm as he leaned in closer to you.

‘She said she wasn’t feeling well so I came in to cover for her shift…’ You now had your hands placed on your lap looking between him and down to the floor, afraid of the man that stood in front of you and how he would react.

‘well that’s just GREAT.’ He slams his hands on the counter and begins to pace the small area in front of the desk, then moving them to cover his face.

‘She should have contacted me. Not you, ME then I could have told her that someone would cover for her- and it wouldn’t of been you.’ He looks at you when he stops pacing. You furrow your brows and look back to the floor.

‘See, you’re going into overtime now- you’re meant to only be part time which means I have to pay more!’ His voice was now booming through the small building while you sat quietly looking down to your hands in your lap or the desk, anything that wasn’t able to yell back at you.

‘You know what, don’t come in next week. I-I cant afford it now thanks to Catherine.’ You look up now, you couldn’t miss work for a week, you had mortgage due soon and electric bills to pay and you had to buy groceries-

‘I cant miss work that long I have mortgage due this next week…could I come in for just a few hours?’ You regretted saying the words as they left your lips, watching as a smile grew over his face as he walked towards you. Your own eyes began to feel hot and watery but you wouldn’t let yourself cry.

‘You can’t pay bills? No, I can’t pay bills! Not with people like you going overtime behind my back-you…you can afford to miss work your job isn’t essential around here! I can manage to ring people out for a while and eat a muffin at the same time- You can’t even use a gun properly and you think your fit to work here!?-‘ His tangent quickly cut off making the room feel a whole lot more quiet. The tears welting in your eyes that he couldn’t see had dropped to your pants. The door had opened and the same group of 3 had walked into the building wearing their uniforms, they must have checked in earlier this morning before you’d arrived. He immediately backs away from the counter to simply tapping his thumbs on the desk attempting to act casually. He was even more red now not that the customers could see, as he stared you down.

‘Alright. You lock up, I’m going home.’ He turns to face the customers now. ‘And you gentlemen, we are closing soon but please just ask Y/N for anything you need, have a good night.’ He walks back the office where the door now gently closed as you heard him gathering his things preparing to leave.

You were sure they had heard the manager through the door, there’s no way they hadn’t. Yet if they had heard, they were acting as if it was the same as any other day- except the one with the mask. He was looking at you for quite some time across the room before the group came up to the desk.

#books #call of duty fanart #cod fanfic #cod ghost #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #simon ghost riley #ghost x you #Ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley x you #cod #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

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anthurak · 4 months ago

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Something in the Helluva Boss fandom that I’ve been finding more and more… silly, is people assuming that D.H.O.R.K.S. are going to be some major threat and in general making a big deal about ‘Humanity finding out about Hell’ ever since Truth Seekers. Because I feel like all those takes are kinda making one BIG assumption:

The assumption that humanity actually stands a chance against the forces of Hell.

I realize much of this is probably due to the last twenty some-odd years of ‘America Humanity, Fuck Yeah!’ stories with humans beating back hordes of demons/aliens/zombies/etc. with grit, moxie and big guns leading some people to assume that the forces of America Humanity MUST be able to pose some major threat to Hell now that they KNOW that Hell exists.

But let’s take a step back and actually consider the track record we’ve seen of the ‘elite’ of humanity against the forces of Hell:

In their first encounter with the forces of Hell, D.H.O.R.K.S. had an entire facility SLAUGHTERED by three imps and a hellhound.

Then in their second appearance, with over a year of preparation and research and the full support and funding of the American government (they weren’t even hiding that one XD) to create THE most advanced and capable anti-demon weaponry human science can devise, which also ended up being wielded by actual ANGELS, just how well did this might of humanity perform?

It got trashed by TWO imps and a hellhound.

Seriously, outside of the one time when they got briefly blindsided by a redneck family thanks to like some inexperience and Moxxie fucking up, I.M.P. have been utterly wasting any humans in their way.

And let’s not forget that the ‘imps and a hellhound’ bit. Sure, Blitzo, Moxxie and Millie have shown themselves to be fairly capable fighters by Hell’s standards, but they aren’t exactly truly exceptional standouts. Plus they’re still, you know, imps. They’re kind of the definition of an ‘everyman’ in Hell.

And ‘the most bleeding edge military advancements’, wielded by angels might you, couldn’t even beat that.

So yeah, I’d say that even if they don’t realize it yet, humanity in the Hellaverse is massively, terrifyingly, HILARIOUSLY outmatched against the forces of Hell.

As in, if the D.H.O.R.K.S. ever manage to get that portal of theirs big enough to send an actual army into Hell, then I think it’s safe to assume that army is going to immediately fucking DIE. Like they portal into Wrath and just get casually ripped to pieces by Millie’s family and their farmhands.

And that’s if they get lucky and don’t manage to annoy any Goetia or one of the Sins.

All in all, I’m pretty confident that D.H.O.R.K.S. plus the cherubs are going to remain firmly in the position of ‘comic-relief villains’. With any actual threat they bring to our heroes being some indirect result of their actions, rather than anything D.H.O.R.K.S. actually does. Such as the fallout of their shenanigans getting I.M.P. in trouble with the higher-up of Hell. Or the messes they’ve caused being used as ammo by Stella and Andrealphus to smear and discredit Stolas.

And personally, I just think that’s more fun and fitting, you know?

Like after a couple decades of those aforementioned ‘America Humanity, Fuck Yeah!’ stories, I think it’s rather refreshing that in a show set in Hell all about demons, we’d see that trope flipped back to humanity not actually standing a fucking chance whatsoever against the denizens of hell.

#helluva boss #hazbin hotel #hellaverse #helluva imp #helluva blitzo #helluva millie #helluva moxxie #helluva loona #helluva dhorks #helluva cherubs #also i was not planning on posting this on this specific date but it's rather funny that it turned out like this XD

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lets-try-some-writing · 5 days ago

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What’s your thoughts visually on how bots habsuites/ quarters look like? And would they differ between frame types ? As prime big lol Wish we got some media on it :0

Hmm well I do imagine things would differ wildly between each continuity. However, some generalizations might be the following:

Autobots as a whole: Generally speaking, I do imagine the Autobots have habs that match their size and their rank. Rank and file soldiers are bunked together in rooms filled with recharging stations crammed shoulder to shoulder. Most don't mind since they are all together and it's not as if they have anything of their own anyway more often than not. Those further up the chain of command get rooms with less people in them until they finally get a roommate or possibly, if they are super duper special, their very own closet sized space. Actual berths are reserved for those with rooms big enough for them. Most just use recharging stations since it's generally more useful to making the most of a space.

Rank and file soldiers: The average soldier is bunked shoulder to shoulder with his or her comrades. They are each given a standing recharge station boxed right up against everyone else's unless they have an injury which warrants the usage of the handful of berths given to soldiers lower on the chain of command. Generally, such soldiers are kept in huge facilities meant to keep everyone safe and secure rather than comfort them. As such, decoration simply does not happen unless the military position a soldier is stationed at is more permanent. In which case, the soldier might paint their station with odd doodles, splotches of color, or if they are lucky enough to find some, they might slap some stickers on it.

Company commanders and the like: Directly above regular soldiers, various commanders of lower rank get bunked together as well, but they are given a tad more room. This is not a privilege as one might expect, but an actual necessity. Commanders can get called on at any time, and each of them need a little more room to work on reports and whatnot since there simply is not enough space to give each of them an office of their own. As such, their stations are a little farther apart, and between them are their personal effects and maybe something to play the part of a makeshift desk if need be. Decoration is the same as regular soldiers, with the possible addition of medallions, the odd set of fairy lights if one gets lucky, or even a poster or two.

Lieutenants and up: Now this is when a bot would start getting their own space, kind of. Bots of this rank are still bunked with a buddy or two, but they are actually issued rooms in order to supply them with the privacy needed to handle sensitive data. They also get actual berths (which can and often do double as desks). Getting a room means a bot can do almost whatever they like to decorate so long as it sort of aligns with military orders. Most often, lieutenants and the like decorate with weapons on the walls, trophies, artwork, or even murals. It depends on his strict the command center is.

Generals and Prime's Inner Circle: Inner circle bots get privileges, and one of those is a private room. A bot can do whatever the heck they want with their space so long as it doesn't disrupt workflow and the like. Decoration depends entirely on whoever owns the hab. In the case of Ultra Magnus, he lives in a mountain of datapads. Ratchet keeps mementos but will die before admitting it. Jazz has what few instruments he's managed to save. Ironhide decked his room with weapons... the list goes on. There are no limits for the most part. Comes with being constantly under threat of being assassinated.

Prime: Technically, he should be living in a high end facility, never to dirty his digits. But because this is Optimus Prime, he tends to wander. He rests wherever there is a free space and will gladly rest with the soldiers without a worry in the world. The only reason he has a hab at all is for the sake of morale amongst the troops. Although more often than not, it doubles as an extra room for injured troops in need of protection.

Not sure if this is what you wanted anon, but these are my thoughts!

#transformers #maccadam #optimus prime #ratchet #ultra magnus #ironhide #jazz #cybertronian culture

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connorsnothereeither · 4 months ago

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Okay yes, Ulysses makes it out of the Telchin facility with Aax AU and it’s relatively happy BUT ALSO CONSIDER: An AU where rather than becoming a doctor Ulysses does go back to the city to become a priest of Lennarius.

Ulysses still joins the army, but treats surviving the drowned attack as a religious experience, showing that Lennarius is still protecting him

Goes back to the main city and studies as an undertaker and priest of Lennarius, quickly rising through the ranks, applying what would have been medical skills to autopsy and mortuary work.

Ulysses becomes somewhat of a controversial figure, as Lennarius becomes more and more hated by the telchin population, but he’s also necessary to ensure proper burial to make sure loved ones won’t come back as drowned.

Vesperae, since Ulysses isn’t on the front lines to heal them, is left with a lasting injury (perhaps even amputation of their arm) and is discharged from the front lines, where they return to the city.

Following in their father’s footsteps, Vesperae turns to politics as the Projects begin to gain traction, moving into Project Argus.

The two reconnect as they begin working with Priestess Syreen and the others to establish refugee camps and combat the Directors of the projects.

Ulysses potential meets Kyr here, when he and other soldiers mutiny against the directors and seek refuge in the remaining temples.

Now having proper medics in Ulysses, proper military and strategic leadership in Vesperae, and more soldiers thanks to Kyr, the refugees actually make their assault on the scientists: not attacking Project Andromeda, but Project Proteus.

During the attacks, Ulysses finds Perseus, rescuing them from the tank after recognising they’re a child. As they’re leaving however, the Directors unleash a non-escaped and harnessed Leviathan for the first time, wiping out a large portion of the refugees (potentially even including Syreen)

Ulysses, Vess and Kyr manage to lead as many of the survivors as they can to safety, now bringing with them the recused toddler Perseus, and moving forward to create a makeshift civilisation on land, where the drowned and Leviathan can’t hurt them.

#I’m just… rotating the idea of priest Ulysses in my brain today #put him in one of those little collars… for flavour #fable smp #fablesmp #fablesmp ulysses

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smytherines · 14 days ago

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Someone made a "what if they both fell" post the other day, and I can't stop thinking about it but also I don't want to swarm someone's post with my own unhinged ranting. So here's my little idk wish fulfillment fantasy--

Owen falls, and Curt catches him. But he isn't anchored to anything, and the force of the fall drags him along as well. They both fall onto the partially-closed safety barricade

Owen lands in a much worse position, he's bleeding and unconscious and has several severe injuries. Curt somehow lands a little bit better, he has a broken leg and a broken arm, but he's still conscious. He drags himself over to Owen, not sure if he's even still alive, desperately feeling for a pulse and trying to get a response out of him. Owen opens his eyes and reaches out for Curt, and they have a brief moment together. They're facing certain death, and with that knowledge of their impending doom they tell each other the things they always meant to say

Curt holds onto Owen as the lab explodes beneath them, and they both lose consciousness

Curt wakes up in a Russian cell, badly injured and unable to walk but alive. In some distant part of the building he can hear someone screaming in agony, and he knows in his heart that it's Owen. But naturally, their captors aren't going to allow the two spies who just blew up their weapons facility to have any contact with each other. They're too valuable as prisoners

Curt thrashes and threatens, and tries and tries and tries to get to Owen. But he can't. His injuries and the guards on his door won't allow it. But he knows Owen is in that building, somewhere, alive

Eventually, the US makes a trade-- Curt for a Russian spy they've been holding. Curt is heavily sedated because he keeps trying to escape and worsening his injuries. He wakes up in a military hospital, with Cynthia standing over him. He asks about Owen, and she changes the subject. But he keeps asking, keeps telling Cynthia that Owen is alive and they have to get him out of there. Eventually, Cynthia tells him-- in the kindest way she can manage-- that according to MI6 Owen died from his injuries

But Curt refuses to believe it. He knows that Owen is alive, and nobody can convince him otherwise. Cynthia tries to reason with him, tells him they aren't going to put any resources towards rescuing a corpse. So Curt quits. And he heals up enough to be able to walk. And then he sets out on his own mission to find his partner

Curt busts down the door of every Russian facility he can find, but there is no trace of Owen. Barb is trying to help him on the side, not because she believes him but because she cares enough about him to not let him take on a suicide mission on his own. She gently tries to convince him that Owen is gone

And Curt starts to think maybe he really is losing his mind. That maybe Owen died months ago, and he just can't accept it because he feels responsible for it. He convinces Barb to support him in one more mission, one more facility, and if he doesn't find a lead on Owen then he will come home

There's nothing. No sign of him.

Curt starts to break down, smashing up the random Russian office he's in, sobbing on the floor, confronted with the reality that maybe Owen really is dead. That this feeling he's been carrying in his gut ever since he was freed was wrong

And then, at his absolute lowest, when he finally has to accept that the man he loves is gone, he sees a piece of paper in that wrecked office with a familiar name on it-- Carvour, O

And another name he doesn't recognize-- Chimera

#honestly I dont know what this is #kind of an interesting premise but I know I'll never have time to write it #but the idea of Curt knowing that Owen is alive and being desperate to find him just speaks to me for whatever reason #idk Im a big mush for the idea that Curt wouldve done anything to save him but in canon just did not believe Owen couldve survived #spies are forever #tin can bros #owen carvour #agent curt mega

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ronearoundblindly · 4 months ago

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The Right Partner (2/3)

Steve Rogers x lab tech!Reader

Take My Whole Life, Too, Part One (see previous or series)

Summary: Your honeymoon with Steve Rogers begins.

Warnings for vague smut (don't worry, I make up for it in pt2), cuteass!Steeb being extra, unrealistic adorable sh*t, and my complete lack of shame about it. MINORS DNI. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist instead, but this one isn't for you! WC 3.1k

It’s bright and loud.

Well, there is light—a pale blue that gnaws at your heavy eyelids—and the song of birds.

The birds are, frankly, irrationally aggressive even for late morning.

You groan and turn over toward the inside of the tent, hoping for an hour more of darkness, maybe two.

Dehydrated. That’s what this heavy, sluggish feeling is. You should have had twice the water you managed to drink yesterday. No one would fault you for having other priorities on your wedding day though.

Your fingers branch out to find the bed empty.

From your exposed shoulder beyond the comforter, you gauge it is quite chilly here wherever you are. You didn’t even ask Steve if he found out what state (or country) you two landed in. Who cares? You burrow deeper, peeking over the thick quilted seam to see—

“What are you doing?”

Steve’s back is to you when you hear a metallic clatter in the utility sink. He whips around in just his boxers, raising a hand to cover his mouth and garble out “nothing.”

You’re prone and below eye level to the countertop, so you sit up to look while Steve poorly hides his sin by leaning over the surface.

He swallows heavily.

“You want some tea,” he rushes to ask in a failingly casual tone. “I’ve got water heating.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” you jump up to stand on the mattress, knocking your head against the springy ceiling, and step down. “Are you eating our wedding cake without me?”

“You wouldn’t even give me some yesterday,” he whines, placing himself protectively between your approach and the confection. His guilty brows raise with sincerity.

“Oh, please! You got cake, and then you—” you poke his bare chest, glancing at the now quarter-demolished top tier “—you complained it wasn’t your flavor!”

“But…” Steve simply points. No other words come to mind based on his still-stunned expression.

“Fine,” you chuckle, relaxing to stretch your large sweater over your chilled hands and thighs, “I won’t tell anyone you’re nothing but a little sweets-thief. Hot tea sounds lovely though.”

“Allow me,” he smiles and leans in for a kiss, tasting of sugar and lemon like the night you got engaged, the night you first…oof. After just one reminder, the sweater is suddenly plenty warm.

“Thank you.”

The flood of mental images rushes from your brain, down your body, to your full bladder.

Next stop: the bathroom.

While he sorts out your morning boost, you chug a bottle of water to help with the rough, sluggish feeling weighing on you. No soreness though, which is good.

Steve returns triumphant with a camping mug and steeping, steaming wakeup juice, and you give him your own soft peck on his cheek.

No doubt he continues his dessert for breakfast the instant you step out to use the facilities aboard the jet. Good, he deserves all the cake, as much as he wants, whenever he wants.

The tiny mirror isn’t as scary as you thought it would be, but you do have to rummage around for a few straggling hairpins. A splash of cool water on your face just before you emerge is more refreshing than expected, too. The day is fresh, you are fresh, and your marriage is fresh.

You cradle the mug in your palms, making to leave, when your gown catches your eye hanging at the locker closest to the ramp, right beside Steve’s uniform.

Yesterday feels like the most wonderful, blinding blur.

All the military men (and women) wore their first uniforms, and you have to admit it created a sharp-looking bunch. Geeta’s uniform was only from nine years ago, Wilson’s just over fifteen, Rhodes’s nearly thirty, and of course, Steve and Bucky’s come in at eighty years old. Not shockingly, their uniforms were replicas, but the boys were very picky about the details.

Gracie, Natasha, Ro, Pepper, Tony and Bruce all kept their fancy dress within the same neutral palette. Morgan and Felicity were flower (leaf) girls. Standing at the alter as a bride, a groom, and their ‘besties,’ you amassed a punk, a jerk, a nerd, and a Booboo.

Your subdued red, white, and blue gown made the boldest statement of the day.

You were so worried yesterday morning. You thought the statement would read as if you were devoting yourself to an ideal, harping that you are in some ways ‘Misses America,’ but it’s more than that. You didn’t want to walk down that aisle and sign over who you are, to belong to someone else, even someone as magnificent as Steve Rogers.

Then you saw his face.

That man belongs to you as much as you belong to him. The look of pure, undiluted, delighted adoration nearly knocked you over. You’re lucky you made it through your vows. You melted inside to help your poor, fumbling Sketch with his own speech. Bucky winked once you finally got his buddy to the important bit.

Then that kiss.

Gosh, all this time you thought maybe the desperate heat of your first kiss in an evacuated AvIn hallway couldn’t be recreated—much less topped—but you were wrong. The boning in your bodice is the real hero, that’s for sure. Girl’s gotta have good support when it counts.

Speaking of being weak for a man, you think, sipping at hot tea, better get back in there. That, plus your legs are freezing.

A polaroid snaps the instant you cross the zip-up threshold, along with praises of your beauty. You blink rapidly but smile.

“What’s that?”

“Your wedding present,” Steve beams. He fakes a frown at your following ‘we weren’t doing presents’ look. “Not big ones. They’re just for fun.”

He picks up another Canon film camera, a hefty black and silver thing from his hard-sided suitcase, and hands it to you.

“Thought they’d be nice for the trip.”

You weigh it in your hands, eye the Polaroid, then switch with Steve.

“That one’s more of an artsy-fartsy Sketch thing,” you say, stepping around him with your new toy, rushing to grab toasty sweatpants from your own bag.

As you bend over to pull out the garment though, you hear a mechanical click and whip around.

Steve still faces away from you, but his head is slightly turned and he softly whistles, so of course, you lift your Polaroid and snap a picture of his ass, too. He wrinkles his nose, looking over his shoulder with an unhidden smile. You shake out the photo card provocatively while he suits up for the fireside in a sweater and jeans.

He glances at the developed shot and, seeming satisfied, plants one more kiss on your forehead.

He hums as he holds up his picture of you entering the tent, thumb tracing the line of your hip exposed like it was on the glossy magazine pages after your bear debacle.

“Yes, ‘m out there distracting all the wild animals,” you joke.

“It’s working,” he mutters. “Hungry, Misses Rogers?”

Yeah, you think, but you’ll need fewer clothes again. Instead, your stomach gurgles in response.

“Why? Do I finally get some cake?”

“Just a taste.” He kisses your lips, which you lick immediately after. “But I was thinking more like eggs. The fire’s ready.”

Your stomach growls louder. “Shhh, peanut gallery.”

Steve puts a hand over your stomach, chuckling. “At least she’s honest.”

The light pressure of his wide palm lingers even when he steps out to the camp ground. It triggers a potent flash of life with him.

You’ve spoken about kids and it will happen (or at least you’ll try) in due course, but he’s come home from missions with doubts about bringing children up in this world. What matters to both of you is having each other, and you know he’d be enough good and love for your lifetime. Even though you can always revisit the issue, that deep flutter ravages your gut while you watch him cook breakfast.

With another hunger pang, you remember how your stomach voicing her opinion is one of the reasons you’re together. One, solitary growl started the first real night of hanging out with Steve. Without it, he wouldn’t have shared a leftover meal (and cake—hint, hint, buddy), he wouldn’t have let you in his apartment, he wouldn’t have driven you and your car home the next morning, and he wouldn’t have given you some of his own clothes to wear.

You pull the sleeves of his sweater over your chilling hands and bury your nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply.

You wonder which one of those incidental, accidental moments was the tipping point, whether removing just one experience of you would have stopped Steve from seeing you, stopped him from loving you.

After a while, you pick up the polaroid. You can see his ease through the lens. Steve is in his element, chatting away while preparing a meal, planning what you two can do together next, complimenting how you look in his sweatpants and meaning it so profusely that his eyes light up whenever he looks your way.

You thought you caught it on camera, all of him, all of his happiness, but the shot isn’t close enough to do it justice. Your heart will just have to remember.

Yes, Steve Rogers on his own is more than enough. He is the gift. He’s your treasure.

You can’t decide what you want to do next, but a strong shiver running through you gives a hint: get warm.

Eggs are a good start.

When the food is done, Steve refills your tea and makes his own.

You snuggle up into the covers of the bed again, leaning your head into the dip of Steve’s sternum, using your furnace husband to full effect. The birds aren’t so annoying now. The air is so crisp and refreshing, laced with the smell of Steve’s skin. The rise and fall of his chest is so soothing as you sip and ponder the future.

Steve fiddles with the dials on the vintage camera above you. That’s the last thing you remember before waking up again, this time wrapped in his warm, toasty arms.

For once, he hasn’t woken up yet. He’s stretched, out-cold and perfectly content, unmoving as you wiggle out of the covers.

He never rests in the middle of the day, so you have to capture his sleepy form, eyes still tucked beneath the comforter, keeping the light out for just a little longer. He’s so beautiful.

Your husband is so beautiful.

Steve desperately wants to take the wedding presents for a spin out in the woods, so the afternoon is entirely consumed by a hike.

The Polaroid makes too much noise for wildlife and can’t focus on the tinier details among the branches and leaves, so you settle for jotting down some fanciful descriptions that come to mind and watch him sneak closer to birds, bugs, and color-changing foliage.

He gets so distracted with excitement that you two walk much farther than intended. Steve insists on carrying you the last few miles of your return, and you spend the entire piggyback ride with your chin tucked over his shoulder, your cheek against his neck, quietly discussing what you’d like to change in your lives now that you’re officially married.

Nothing. The answer is nothing.

Nothing needs to change because you two are the exact same people as forty-eight hours ago. Perhaps the rings on your fingers mean more for your life, but they just transmuted the love already in existence to matter.

Steve’s bright blue eyes go dreamy with philosophizing.

Your husband is beautiful, smelling of fresh air and optimism.

Steve refuses to miss another sunset, so you two lay in the hammock before lighting your evening fire.

You snuggle and chat, teasing each other, telling stories. You watch the Milky Way bloom to life above you.

Something Steve never figured out was how the Team knew about his plan to propose. He’s been going over it and over it, but he can’t see where he gave himself away. Steve says, when he asked Bucky yesterday in the men’s ready room, Bucky smirked.

Apparently, Steve, only once while you two dated, told his friend “there’s an order to these things,” and that was enough. Buck knew Steve’s intentions immediately, watching for the signs, the clues. Everyone understands that for a long time now Steve has resented his birthday is a holiday—not in a disrespectful way, but it annoys him that the day is already a big, loud affair,—and the whole group guessed (correctly) Steve would rather replace the symbolism with his own meaning.

“And hey,” Steve rumbles, faking Tony’s nonchalance as he quotes the billionaire playboy, “if you chickened out, fireworks are fireworks.”

His added shrug for effect shifts you and rocks the dangling net.

“Almost did, didn’t you?” you chuckle. “Chicken out?”

Your husband’s whole body tweaks harshly.

“You know I was scared shitless, Keeps! Almost fainted.”

“Or at least fell off your one knee…”

His hands fly up to scrub at his stubbled face, pinning you. “Oh! It was so bad,” he groans.

You sit up carefully in the wobbly fabric of the hammock, barely suppressing more laughter, and pound a flat palm at his chest. “It’s ok, soldier. You got the job done. We got there in the end.”

Steve’s hand covers yours, his peaceful smile glowing in the soft starlight.

He reaches to cradle your cheek, sweeping a delicately callused thumb over your skin.

“I almost can’t believe it,” Steve says quietly.

“Believe what?”

He could mean the beauty of the sky, or that Tony knocked it out of the park with your escape of a honeymoon, or that he didn’t croak instead of getting through all those mental and physical hurtles to be with you. You’re just not sure. Personally, you’ve ‘almost not believed it’ since the Captain America started talking to you, so it’s hard to judge.

Steve doesn’t answer right away. His voice grows even softer. “Happy. That’s all.”

Your heart breaks and mends in an instant.

“You can’t believe you’re happy?”

He goes shy, ducking then raising his gaze even higher towards the treetops. He clears his throat before admitting, “I lead…an unusual life. Not many would want this.”

“I dunno. Seems pretty nice to me,” you giggle.

“Yes, but—“ he pulls you into his chest and squeezes “—I get no guarantees. Not like others. We couldn’t even set a date. We could have been waiting years to get married.”

It’s your turn to shrug.

“You got something else to do?��

“No,” he sighs, “just more of this.” He nudges your body closer and closer to his, until all your arms and legs are tangled together. “As much as possible. I only meant…I love you.

“I love you, and I don’t think I had any faith left that I would find you.”

You. Not someone like you. Not someone for him.

You.

Even without a fire, even without sunlight, even without shelter surrounding you, Steve provides everything you could ever need: heat, comfort, safety. He provides, and it’s only right that he should have the favor returned.

Happiness. That’s what this is. Happiness that wasn’t guaranteed. Happiness that wasn’t expected. Happiness that was hard-earned.

Your muscles shiver and your skin tingles, all with need of him. “Sweetheart,” you whisper, clawing at his sweater.

He knows. He sees. He feels it, too.

When Steve lunges to kiss you though, the hammock swings with your combined weight and tries to topple you.

You giggle and squeal, flipping out and onto the ground with zero grace, and he follows.

Steve crawls over you, starlight and the glow from the tent painting his face in primary colors.

“Here, Mrs. Rogers?” He fakes shock. “In the dirt?”

“You fucked me on that picnic table just last night,” you joke, a dark, taunting edge to your voice which he matches.

Steve leans in again. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

He holds your gaze, his focus flickering to your lips while the crickets’ song roars around you.

It sounds silly after all you’ve done to get Steve out of his shell, but what you crave most in this moment is the familiar, traditional love-making that he offers best. His tenderness leads you on a merry dance not unlike long wilderness walks. He’s consumed by discovery and attention to how you feel in that very second. To him, you change as frequently as the landscape. He yearns to explore what’s the same, what’s new.

Steve never phones-in sex. He never just goes through the motions. Somehow, he makes an art of reevaluating your body, your pleasure, each and every time. He’s the proof vanilla is an infinite flavor.

But…

That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the chase.

Steve is leaning in to kiss you when your knee raises to his chest, halting his progress. You bite your lip and scramble to the ‘door’ of the tent. Obviously, he lets you win because he could easily have snatched you into his grasp.

Steve’s laugh stays close, but he follows all the way to the bed.

There’s something to be said about a good ol’ fashioned undressing, garment by garment, that dance of who leads and how much they touch the other as each piece of clothing falls away. Steve’s become a very good dancer.

Nothing is rushed. Nothing is missed.

He doesn’t combine the acts of maneuvering you and dragging open mouth kisses along your skin. He moves you, and then he lingers.

Time spent mapping you is time well spent to Steve Rogers.

You’re drunk on him. High on him. It’s an out-of-body experience that has you watching his broad back curve sharply while he thrusts and traces your collarbone with his tongue, noticing your toes seize up from force of your first orgasm, and admiring how fine his ringed finger looks laced in with yours and pinned over your head.

No one leaves the tent. The evening fire never gets started.

After a long and sweaty fuck in the bed, you’re filthy, gathering food for Steve who’s hungry, following you around with wipes. It’s comical how thoroughly you try to take care of each other.

No. Sit still. No. Let me just grab this. No. Fine. Together?

You two finish the top tier of cake after cleaning off…because Steve Rogers is the most stubborn, beautiful, and optimistic husband.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Fools Rush In Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#fools rush in series #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x wife!reader #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fic #steve x reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader smut #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america fluff #captain america fanfiction #steve rogers x you #sketch and keeps

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komsomolka · 1 month ago

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One notable instance of this proxy war occurred in mid-September, when Ukrainian forces, in coordination with militant groups in Syria, including Al-Qaeda offshoot Hay'at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS - formerly known as Al-Nusra Front), launched a series of drone attacks on Russian military facilities in Syria. [...]

The operation involved Ukrainian private mercenaries called "Khimek,” affiliated with the Main Directorate of Ukrainian Intelligence, working alongside Idlib-based militants to target a drone production and testing site in the southeastern suburbs of Aleppo, according to a Kiev Post report on 18 September. The following day, further drone attacks were carried out on ten Syrian military positions in Aleppo, the southern Idlib countryside, and in northeastern Latakia. In early October, two major Russian military sites - the Hmeimim Base and a weapons depot near the coastal city of Jableh — were repeatedly targeted.

But these operations were not the first initiative aided by Ukrainian military and intelligence agents in Syria. On 26 July, in what militant forces described as a “devastating” and “complex” strike, they targeted Kuweires military airport in Aleppo's east, used as an airbase by Russian troops, one day after Russian President Vladimir Putin met with his Syrian counterpart Bashar al-Assad in Moscow.

The alliance between Ukrainian intelligence and Syrian militant groups, with support from NATO, is a relatively new but significant development. It began earlier this year, when a Ukrainian delegation visited Idlib to negotiate with the HTS leadership for the release of several Chechen, Georgian, and Uighur militants being held in HTS prisons — estimated at between 750 and 900 prisoners — to enlist as mercenaries for the Ukrainians. The concluded agreement involved the release of militants detained by HTS in exchange for 250 Ukrainian military experts providing training, particularly in the use of drones. The trainees include Turkmen Salafists tasked to manufacture drones and photograph potential Russian and allied Syrian military targets, particularly the 25th Division special forces and National Defense Forces in Hama, Aleppo, and Latakia. [...]

US military forces occupying northeastern Syria play a connection and transportation role in this setup. It is the main actor in managing these various conflict zones and coordinating the positions and cooperation of its proxies.

In early August 2024, the US facilitated the arrival of Ukrainian experts in areas near Jabal al-Zawiya in Idlib and helped transfer aircraft parts - in exchange for transporting extremist fighters, via US bases in Syria, to areas north of Donetsk Oblast. [...]

The militant groups themselves benefit from this alliance in several key ways. With Turkiye edging toward reconciliation with Syria, and Russian-Iranian military cooperation advancing, these groups are left increasingly vulnerable. Aligning with Ukraine and NATO provides them with new resources and support, ensuring their continued survival in the face of changing regional dynamics. The cooperation also offers Syrian extremists access to advanced technology, particularly in drone warfare, which has become a crucial element in their ongoing fight against Syrian and Russian forces.

#syria

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

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CAIRO—Although Egypt has refused to accept refugees from the Gaza Strip, more than 100,000 Palestinians have crossed the border into Egypt since the start of Israel’s offensive in Gaza following Hamas’s attack on Oct. 7, 2023.

Khaled Shabir, a 29-year-old man, is one of the Palestinians who managed to flee. He entered Egypt in March, four months after the Israeli army bombed his house in the southern Gazan city of Khan Yunis. The attack killed his parents, but he survived with crushed bones in his foot, thigh, and hand, which landed him in a hospital and then a field medical facility.

Some Palestinians are able to get a free medical transfer to Egypt for life-threatening conditions. But Shabir had to go the route of most who have fled: paying Hala Consulting and Tourism, the only company that secures passage from Gaza into Egypt. Hala, whose owner reportedly has close ties with the Egyptian authorities, charges $2,500 to $5,000 per person crossing over—much more than most Palestinians can afford.

Shabir did not have the money. But with a crowdfunding campaign, he was able to raise $5,000 to cross into Egypt. “Doctors at the hospital were sympathetic to my condition and waived their financial fees for my surgeries,” he wrote in a text message from his hospital bed in Cairo on June 4.

Like most Palestinians who have recently arrived in Egypt, Shabir has found himself in a strange position: Because he is not technically a refugee, he isn’t eligible for most international aid for refugees, unlike his counterparts back in Gaza. Eight Palestinians in Egypt interviewed for this story said they hadn’t received any humanitarian relief from international organizations. This has left them dependent on the goodwill of others—and increasingly at risk of being unable to get by.

Palestinians who have fled are reaching Egypt at a time when the country is experiencing its worst economic crisis in decades. In recent years, Egypt’s inflation rates have reached all-time highs, rent and food prices have soared, and millions of people have fallen into poverty.

It is especially difficult for Palestinians to navigate Egypt’s crisis. The majority of recent arrivals do not have official residency documents, so they cannot enroll their children in public school, apply for jobs, or receive health care and other benefits, according to an official from the Palestinian Embassy in Cairo who spoke with Foreign Policy on the condition of anonymity.

The official said on June 30 that just three international organizations have provided assistance to Palestinians who have fled to Egypt, and it has only reached a small portion of them. This aid includes $200 from the Islamic World Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization for 500 students, as well as medical and psychological care from Save the Children and UNICEF for a few injured infants.

Even for those with more resources, life has grown tough as their savings have run low. Nagham, a 23-year-old college student majoring in commerce, left Gaza at the end of January to stay with relatives in Cairo after the Israeli military destroyed her home and her husband’s barber shop. Because she had residency papers and was already enrolled at Cairo University, Nagham—who preferred to use only her first name—did not have to pay for entry. (Before the war, she studied online and only went to Cairo for exams.) But after arriving in Cairo, Nagham had to sell her wedding ring and other jewelry to raise the funds needed to pay transit fees to bring her husband to safety.

Now, she said, “we’re in a really bad financial situation.” As of April, she was being treated for a cervical infection she contracted from contaminated water in the first few months of the war. In May, Nagham sought financial aid from the Palestinian Embassy in Cairo, but it did not provide any help. The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA), meanwhile, included her name in a registry tallying the number of Palestinians in Egypt, but she is not sure whether this implies any forthcoming aid.

“We’re starting over from scratch,” Nagham said. “I feel like we are in a nightmare.”

Kamel Mohamed, a 23-year-old who left Gaza in April, said that the majority of university students he knows from Gaza are running out of money, especially after paying the transit fees. He is currently applying for scholarships to study at a university in Egypt or other Arab countries. But in the meantime, international organizations have not provided any support, leaving him dependent on monthly aid from two local charities in Egypt.

“We are from a region devastated by war, and the people there have lost everything,” Mohamed said. “International organizations need to play a part and provide assistance.”

Jeff Crisp, a visiting research fellow at the University of Oxford’s Refugee Studies Centre, echoed this sentiment. “It should be the responsibility of the UN as a whole (UNHCR, WFP, UNICEF, IOM, etc.) to step in and support the Palestinians,” he wrote via email.

One major problem is that those who have fled Gaza are not considered refugees. This means that the two U.N. refugee agencies—the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), which protects non-Palestinian refugees, and UNRWA, which is solely responsible for Palestinian refugees—can’t support them.

UNRWA spokesperson Tamara Alrifai wrote in an email to Foreign Policy, “UNRWA does not have programs in Egypt, in the way it runs schools, health centers and social support in the areas where it has a mandate to operate.” She added that UNRWA, unlike UNHCR, “does not have a mandate to resettle refugees into new countries.”

The Egyptian government has refused to recognize Palestinians as refugees since 1978, instead referring to them as “our guests” or “our siblings.” It has long opposed both the establishment of a UNRWA operational office in Cairo and the displacement of Gaza’s population into its territory, citing potential threats to regional security and fears that Israel would not allow displaced Palestinians to return to the coastal enclave.

But many experts, including the U.N.’s special rapporteur on torture, argue that Egypt has legal obligations to accept refugees. Crisp stated in his email, “Egypt is a signatory to the UN Refugee Convention and should do what it can to support any that arrive from Gaza.” He added that Palestinians who fled war should be treated as displaced people.

For now, without residency papers, most of the Palestinians who recently arrived from Gaza are at risk of deportation. The Palestinian Embassy in Cairo is urging Egyptian authorities to provide papers as soon as possible so that children who have left Gaza can attend school in the fall, according to the embassy official.

The Egyptian government has, however, supported some Palestinians who have been injured in the war. Health Minister Khaled Abdel Ghaffar said in May that around 5,500 injured people had been evacuated from Gaza for medical care in 160 hospitals across Egypt since the start of the conflict. These individuals are treated at the Egyptian government’s expense.

The process, however, is not easy. “It was a torture journey,” said Um Qusai, who was able to leave Gaza so that her six-year-old daughter, Noor, could get eye surgery. One of Noor’s eyes had fallen out after debris from an Israeli bomb fell onto her bedroom in October.

After six months in the European Hospital in Gaza, Um Qusai finally secured a medical transfer for Noor, making their entry to Egypt free. But because they did not have passports, she had to wait with Noor and her two other children for 12 hours at the Rafah border crossing, while Noor was in agonizing pain, before border authorities let them in.

Once they arrive in Egypt, many Palestinians who received free medical transfers are not allowed to leave the hospital. A number of those patients, along with family members accompanying them, told Foreign Policy that they felt trapped inside hospitals and would only be permitted to leave if they returned to Gaza.

Egyptian volunteers have arranged trips to bring Palestinian patients food, medication, and clothing. However, some volunteers, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said they had to undergo lengthy bureaucratic procedures to obtain authorization from Egyptian officials to visit the patients due to strict hospital security measures.

For now, many Palestinians in Egypt must rely on the support of local charities and grassroots initiatives to get by.

In November, Sherif Mohyeldeen, an Egyptian researcher and nonresident fellow at the Carnegie Middle East Center, launched For the People, a grassroots group with about 60 members, to support injured Palestinians and their families in Cairo and Alexandria, Egypt. So far, he said, the initiative has collected donations to support more than 1,200 Palestinians with food and cash assistance for rent.

“People have come here with only their clothes,” Mohyeldeen said. “There is a huge amount of psychological and physical suffering.” The Palestinian Centre for Policy and Survey Research has reported that more than 60 percent of people in Gaza have lost family members since Israel’s war—which has killed more than 40,000 people in the territory, according to the Gaza Health Ministry—began in October.

Sherif added that his group has yet to find solutions for families who need prosthetic limbs or chemotherapy, both of which are extremely expensive, as well as Palestinian students whose annual university tuition in Egypt exceeds $4,000.

Abdullah Abu al-Aoun, a 26-year-old man from a wealthy family in Gaza, is also trying to help others who have fled. His family owned many buildings and two restaurants in Gaza’s Remal district, all of which were bombed by the Israeli army. After fleeing Gaza with 22 members of his family in February, he opened a Shawarma restaurant in Cairo. His mother’s Egyptian passport and the family’s savings of more than $100,000 helped him establish the business.

Aoun has hired three young men from Gaza in his new restaurant and has been helping other Palestinian families in Cairo with cash assistance. “Although there is still war in Gaza, some aid is getting in,” he said on May 25 while sitting in the restaurant, where four men from Gaza were dining. “Here, the families who left for Egypt are not getting any support.”

But individuals and small charities can only make so much of a difference compared with international organizations—and many Palestinians, including Aoun’s family, know that they may have to stay in Egypt for years to come due to the scale of destruction in Gaza. According to the Palestinian Embassy official, many more Palestinians are expected to arrive in the coming months. With no humanitarian relief on the horizon and Cairo so far refusing to provide residency permits, they sink deeper into uncertainty with each passing day.

“What really scares me is the unknown future,” Naghan said. “When will the crossing open again? If we return, will we live in a tent or on the rubble of our house?”

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awkward-tension-art · 6 months ago

Text

Darkness on Umbara Chp.8 (Rex x Reader)

Chapter 7. Chapter 9.

Moment to Breathe

cw: Rex x Reader, Reader is a medic, incorrect military procedure, graphic descriptions of injuries, blood, swearing, death and battle, Spoilers for the Umbara Arc, Pong Krell is an asshole, reader insert, names of non-canon dead clones, Mentions of breakdowns, transwoman clone, Brief mention of inhibitor chips, reader is gender neutral, no use of (Y/N), if i miss a tag LMK

Minors DNI

In the end, you had to be sedated.

When Rex was called to continue the fight at the airbase with the reinforcements, you panicked so badly Kix had to inject you to calm you down.

Luckily, your mind wasn’t clouded and you still had your wits about you. You were still able to treat the wounded, but you didn’t miss how Jesse opted to ‘guard’ you and Kix as you managed to transfer all the wounded into the airbase’s medical facility.

It was clear he wanted to keep an eye on you since Rex couldn’t. And, truthfully, this was the first time you’d had such a breakdown in front of the men. Kix had his own, when Tup tackled him, so the trooper most likely thought both medics of the 501st were unstable.

Even if you were, you did your jobs.

The fight was chaotic as the Umbarans battled for their facility. Luckily, with both Jesse and Kix, you got every injured trooper into the safety of the medical bay before the fighting was even done.

They didn’t have bacta tanks, but they had much needed supplies you used to save everyone you could. Not nearly enough for everyone if Krell decided to pull another suicide mission, but enough to help those that needed it right now.

Fyre. Vim. Oz. Ringo. North. Gabe. Tro. Tess. Zeb. Sante. Reign. Pheon. Dawn. Nim. Jamie. Hek. Recon. Mav. Zeo. Fisher. Hinge. Trident. Iron. Mesh. Steele. Bruno. Zeke. Jumper. Aura. Dia. Silk.

By the time Krell had joined the soldiers, you and Kix hadn’t lost anyone else. You got the troopers stable, laying on cots, and sleeping as peacefully as they could. Those who didn’t require life sustaining equipment were sent to the barracks of the airbase to rest.

You and Kix stepped outside once you both were done with the wounded. Jesse had been keeping a steady guard by the door, preventing anyone uninjured from coming inside and disturbing you.

The airbase belonged to the 501st.

Umbarans who hadn’t died fighting, were led to prison cells somewhere else within the base. Several squads were already walking around, inspecting the Umbaran weaponry. A few were going through crates of supplies, such as weapons and ammo.

You remained silent as you followed Kix and Jesse through the base. The three of you met up with Rex, Fives and Hardcase. There was pride in your lover’s eyes as he spoke to the heroic pilots, “despite Hardcase’s flying, you two saved us all.”

Hardcase sounded as proud and energized as always, “It wasn’t so tough.”

“You sure?” Jesse took off his helmet with a smirk, “You looked a little green when you came out of that fighter.” He teased the hyperactive trooper. All of them were in a good mood, finding the shred of happiness after such casualties.

You wished you could feel the same pride and happiness. But your mental state, as well as the sedatives in your blood prevented it.

“Mesh’la,” Rex turned to you, “Are you ok?”

“No losses since we took the airbase.” you responded, blatantly ignoring his question about you, “The seriously injured are stable and resting in the med bay.”

“That's not-.”

“Captain,” His words were loudly cut off by Krell. The temporary General stomped towards you all, looking as displeased as ever. Appo was tailing him along with another trooper, “Report, what is our situation?”

The 501st captain stepped forward, “General, we have taken the base and cut off enemy supply lines to the capital.” His back was straight, standing at attention, as did the others.

You…remained behind Fives, staying out of the Jedi’s line of sight. If Krell turned his ire to you, you couldn’t promise you wouldn’t do something to get yourself court-martialed.

The besliska raised a large hand and rubbed his chin, “Luck has smiled on you today, Captain.” His tone sounded smug, “Consider yourself fortunate.”

“It wasn't all luck sir,” Rex kept calm and steady, not letting Krell get to him, “A lot of men died to take this base.”

Too many good men. You thought blankly. A part of you felt hollow and empty as the captain mentioned the lost souls.

The General raised his hands, and looked at the dark sky, “A price for such victory.” He looked back down and crossed two of his four arms, “Perhaps you’ll realize this.”

You didn’t miss Rex’s fist clenching in rage. Your lover’s fury was a rare sight. But dammit, Krell was doing a good job at bringing it out. Instead of lashing out however, he took a breath and lowered his head.

The Jedi turned and began to walk away, “Dismissed.”

You and Fives stepped forward. You placed your hand on Rex’s shoulder as the ARC trooper grumbled, “He’s the one who will never realize.”

You remained silent, only squeezing Rex’s shoulder before letting go. You turned and began to walk back to the medical bay, unable to be around anyone right now.

At least those in the medical facility were unconscious.

Once the doors opened, you were surprised to see a trooper. Hana, had been waiting for you, holding a bloody wrist, “Sorry to bother, Doc. One of the bastards were hiding and jumped me.”

You motioned for the trooper to sit down on an open cot, “Are sutures alright?” You wanted to save bandages and bacta. Just in case Krell tried to kill anyone else.

Hana nodded, resting the injury on one of the small medical cabinets that were placed next to every bed. You pulled a chair, set the suture kit down, and immediately got to work.

During your stitching, you took notice of distinguishable features, since this was the first time you’ve seen the trooper without a helmet. White nail polish, small studs for earrings, hair pulled back into a bun, indicating length longer than ‘military standard’.

You didn’t want to assume, but it wasn’t unheard of for there to be sisters among the troopers.

“Hana.” you spoke softly, “I like your nails. And your earrings.” It was a small push, one to ask the question without assuming.

Hana’s surprised look then relieved smile told you all you needed to know. She responded quietly, “I know it's not regulation, but…”

“Who cares about regulation?” You returned her smile, noticing that she also wore waterproof mascara, “If it's what you want, then no one should stop you.” Your suturing was almost done.

Hana nodded, looking at her nails on the hand you weren’t stitching up. Impressively, they weren’t chipped, “I might go blue, next time.” She murmured, “so I keep matching the 501st.”

“Why not paint one hand blue and the other white?” You suggested, deciding to use a patch to cover the sutures, “Something unique.”

It was nice, having a conversation that wasn’t about Umbara, injuries, the soldiers lost or Krell. It was just…about nail polish. A good distraction. Something to get your mind off your earlier breakdown.

By the time you were done, she settled on a pattern of half blue and half white. She walked out of the clinic, with a stitched up wrist and small smile. Maybe she needed the mental distraction of the doom and death as well.

Despite losing so many…at least you made Hana feel better.

You sighed, putting your face in your hands as soon as the door was closed. You basked in the small clicks and beeps of machines monitoring the men's status, taking just a few minutes to breathe. After a second, you heard a shift.

One of the unconscious troopers turned onto his side to get more comfortable. You inspected the medical equipment next to his bed to check his status. He was alive and healing.

All of them were alive.

The doors opened again, and you looked up. Rex was standing there, helmet off and looking at you with both love and worry in his beautiful eyes, “May I…come in?” He asked quietly, as if not to wake the men.

“You don't have to ask, you know.” you responded, giving him a small, tired smile. It was endearing, how he’d become shy when you two were in private.

He walked over to you and brushed his hand over your cheek, “How’s your arm?” the captain asked, looking at the bandages you still wore. The bacta soaked gauze were doing their job, as the wound pulsed and throbbed in pain, indicating healing. Whether all your muscles would return remains to be seen, but at least the nerves and veins were being repaired.

“It’s getting better.” you answered, reaching up to hold his face in your hand. Your eyes narrowed, “You need rest.”

“We all do.” Rex mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning his face into your palm. He breathed deeply before opening his eyes to look at you, “Mesh’la,” His term of endearment for you slipped from his lips, “You’ve saved so many of my brothers.”

That's why he was here. Because of your earlier breakdown.

“I’m alright now, Rex.” you gently reassured him, “I…was panicked. After the battle with the tanks, and getting Silk killed, I was terrified I’d lose you.”

Rex leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. One of his hands rested at your hip, holding you close, “Silk’s death wasn’t your fault, none of the losses are your fault,” his tone was so soft, so gentle, “You have saved so many of us, not just on Umbara, but on every planet we’ve been to. Every battle, every fight…you’ve done so much. For all of us.”

“I want to do more,” you responded, “I don’t want you to lose any more of your brothers…I know it's war, but…”

He sighed, “We are clones. We were made to fight for the Republic. Die for the Republic, if the situation calls for it.” His eyes held a certain sadness to it, “We are meant to be expendable.”

“Not to me.” your voice was resolute. He wasn’t expendable. No clone was expendable.

Rex looked at you like you were the moon and stars themselves. He pulled you closer, kissing you passionately on the lips. Your chest met his armor, and he leaned into you, “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum…” he murmured when you broke away, “Gar cuyir ner kar'ta bal runi…” His forehead was against yours, holding you so tenderly.

“Bal ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” you whispered back, taking in his warmth and love, “Gar cuyir ner oyay bal narser…”

He kissed you again, only pulling away when one of the unconscious soldiers moved in his sleep.

“I have to find Krell,” he mumbled, looking at you mournfully, “He may have orders…”

“Go, be the 501st captain, cyare.” you gave him a peck on the cheek, “Good luck dealing with him.”

He sighed and stepped back, leaving the medical bay.

You watched him go before checking on all of them men. They were stable still, and luckily, a few were in a good enough state to wake up. A majority of them responded well to your neuro-check. Despite the good response from them, you wanted to keep the soldiers who sustained hits to the head in the med bay.

However, there was an ARF trooper, Rush, who was still slurring his words. It was a terrible blow to the head he had sustained taking the airbase. Putting him back under the effects of sedatives and painkillers, you wanted to move on to everyone else. But…

Well, the Umbarans were technologically advanced. The life support and monitoring systems were intergalactic basics. All from the same base that you were trained with. However, they had systems and machines you had never seen before. You tried to use some of the more heavy duty equipment, but had no luck.

One of them was a scanner, that you could tell. It resembled a datapad, but clearly had the technology and structure of the Umbarans. The screen had values and data that exceeded most medical equipment in the Republic. Your fingers toyed with it, trying to get the thing to work in your favor. Such a small but powerful scanner would be useful.

Your shoulders slumped just as the med bay doors opened again, “Holy fuck you’re still awake!?” Kix’s eyes were wide, staring at you. His helmet was off and he seemed…somewhat refreshed. He probably got something to eat and took a power nap after Krell dismissed everyone.

“Yea, there's still a lot to do.” you looked at him, holding the scanner, “Plus, I’m trying to crack some of this equipment.”

“The hardware and programming isn’t anything we’ve seen before.” The medic looked over your shoulder to see the tablet in your hands, “Oh? What's this?”

“I think it's a hand-held full body scanner. More powerful than anything in the Republic.” you answered, “I want it. But I can’t get the damn program to behave.”

He stepped back, one hand on his hip, “Jesse and Fives are in the east hangar playing with some of their weapons,” Kix gave you a soft smile, “I’ll keep an eye on the guys here, take a break.”

You couldn’t help but return his smile. It was clear the both of you had hit your limits with the losses. But now, after some rest, your spirits were higher.

After you gave an overview of each of the injured troopers, you left the medical bay and went to the hagar. The airbase was more organized now. Supplies were being moved, weapons were being inspected, and patrols were established. The 501st was very efficient.

The hagar wasn't so organized but definitely had more energy. Several soldiers were on floating platforms, inspecting suspended starships. Others were working on the ships themselves, looking at the mechanics and wiring. It didn’t take you long to find Fives and Jesse.

The ARC trooper was with Tup, having pried off a metal sheet from the ship he piloted before. The two of them were discussing something, most likely the controls or mechanics, as they inspected the inner workings of the Umbaran weapon.

Dogma was seated nearby, cleaning his rifle while Jesse was standing at a consol, brow furrowed. He was hard at work attempting to crack the enemy hardware.

You approached, stepping in front of the console, “Hey Jesse,” Your voice was quiet, not wanting to distract the others, or wake up Hardcase who was asleep on the floor, leaning against the ship Tup and Fives worked on, “Are you busy?”

The senior trooper perked up, “Depends,” He leaned forward with a glint in his eye, “I can always make time for you.” you snorted when he winked.

Dogma scoffed, “That is inappropriate.”

You rolled your eyes, but handed Jesse the tablet, “Kix told me you were working on the Umbaran hardware, I was hoping you could help me crack this thing.”

He raised a brow and took it, “What is it?”

“Some kind of scanner, I think.” you answered, sitting down next to Dogma, “But more powerful than anything in the Republic.”

“Might be easier than this fucking thing.” He smacked the console, “Give me a few minutes and I'll-.”

There was a yelp behind you and Fives tumbled off the starship, hitting the ground. The noise woke Hardcase with a jerk, who sat up and looked around confused.

“I told you not to do that,” Tup looked at the ARC trooper's pathetic form on the floor, “I warned you that if you touched the wire, it would shock you.”

“I know, I know.” Fives huffed and got to his feet and dusted himself off, “Fucking Umbarans and their…”

“I cracked the hardware,” Jesse raised the tablet, “It says Fives doesn't have a brain.”

“Son of a-”

You laughed softly alongside Tup who had paused his toying with the machine. Once you stepped up to the console, hand open, Jesse looked at you, “Oh, sorry. I actually didn't. I just saw an opportunity.” He chuckled.

Fives huffed and swiped the Umbara gadget from him, “Give me that. I’ll figure this out.”

“What's going on?” Hardcase slurred from the floor.

“Nothing, go to the barracks and get some sleep.” Dogma mumbled, keeping his eyes down to continue cleaning his weapon.

Hardcase looked around before he silently nodded and stood up, “Sleep well, buddy.” You bid him farewell as he stumbled out of the hangar. A part of you felt jealous at his ability to sleep right now.

You…didn’t think you could. Not until all of this was done.

Tup spoke your name softly, earning your attention, “Are…you and Kix ok?”

Oh, he’s so sweet. Tup reminded you of a shiny fresh off Kamino, overly respectful, overly polite and overly shy. You hoped that with more experience, he’d break out of the shell, learn that you could be a friend, not just his doctor.

You gave him a tired yet genuine smile, “We are, just needed some rest and time to breathe.”

The trooper nodded before looking over at Dogma, “Hey, Dogma, isn’t there something you need to tell our good doctor?”

The other trooper flinched before he nodded, “Listen, Doc…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things on the field.” His dark brown eyes were filled with clear sorrow and regret. His apology surprised you, but you appreciated it nonetheless.

“How’s your jaw?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“Hardcase has a strong right hook.” He mumbled, looking away ashamed, “But it's fine…”

With a sigh you approached and put a hand on his shoulder, “It's not the worst that's been said to me.” you wanted to laugh at his surprised look but remained calm, “Apology accepted.”

He slumped his shoulders and let out a relieved sigh.

“Got it!” Fives practically cheered, causing a trooper on a platform to visibly jump. The ARC trooper gave the scanner to you quickly before he dashed to Jesse’s side to help him with the console.

You looked over the gadget and began to toy with it silently. After a few minutes, the tablet responded to your touch easily. Wordlessly you stood and raised it to Dogma.

After a press on the screen, a fan of light went over the confused trooper. He paused, looking at you, “Doc…?”

The screen blinked, and on it, was an outline of his body. Next to it were values.

Blood pressure. Heart rate. Blood count. Adrenal levels. Liver enzymes. Nerve response time. Bone density. Hours of sleep.

All important values in terms of health and wellbeing. On the outline there were indicators and when you pressed the screen, there was more information. You pressed the area of his jaw, exactly were Hardcase had clocked him.

“Are you sore where Hardcase hit you?” you asked him and he nodded. After his answer, you perked up happily, knowing the scanner worked. However, there was another indicator in his head.

When you pressed it, the information was…off.

To test it, you scanned Fives, only to get the same result. Then Jesse, then Tup. All of them had the same result.

ANOMALY: right orbital floor, parietal and temporal intersection

Huh…weird….

#reader insert #captain rex x you #captain rex x reader #tcw x reader #umbara arc #sw tcw #star wars the clone wars #star wars x reader #captain rex #arc trooper fives #clone trooper jesse #clone trooper tup #clone trooper kix #pong krell

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